MISS HALLET IN THE DUST.
Miss Hallet stood in the parlour of her pretty cottage on the cliff.
For a wonder, she was doing nothing--being usually a most industrious
body. As she stood upright in deep thought, her spare, straight,
up-and-down figure motionless, her pale face still, it might be seen
that some matter was troubling her mind. The matter was this: Jane
(as she phrased it to herself) was getting beyond her.
A week or more had elapsed since the night Jane had made the accident
to Polly Gleeson an excuse for staying out late. Children could not be
burnt every night,--and yet the fault continued. Each night, since
then, had she been out, and stayed later than she ought to stay: a
great deal later than her aunt considered was at all proper or
expedient. On the previous night, Miss Hallet had essayed to stop it.
When Jane put on her cloak to take what she called her run down the
cliff, Miss Hallet in her stern, quiet way, had said, "You are not
going this evening, Jane." Jane's answer had been, "I must go, aunt; I
have something to do"--and went.
"What's to be done if she won't mind me?" deliberated Miss Hallet. "I
can't lock her up: she's too old for it. What she can possibly want,
flying down the cliff night after night, passes my comprehension. As
to sitting with Goody Dance or any other old fish-wife, as Jane
sometimes tells me she has been doing, I don't believe a word of it.
Its not in the nature of young girls to shut themselves up so much
with the aged. Why, I have heard Jane call me old behind my
back--and I want a good twenty or thirty years of old Dame Dance's
age."
Miss Hand stopped a minute, to listen to sounds overhead. Jane was up
there making the beds. She soon resumed her reflections.
"No, it's not Mother Dance, or any other old mother. It's her love of
tattle and gossip. When young girls can get together, they'd talk of
the moon if there was no other subject at hand--chattering geese!
But that there's not a young chap in all the village that Jane would
condescend to look at, I might think she had picked up a sweetheart.
She holds herself too high for any of them. And quite right too: she
is above them. They are but a parcel of poor fishers: and as to that
young Pike, who serves in his father's shop, he has no more sense in
him, and Jane knows it, than a kite's tail. No, it's not sweethearts!
it's dawdling and gossip along with Susan Pike and the rest of the
foolish girls. But oh, how things have changed!--to think that Jane
Hallet should consort with such!"
Miss Hallet lifted her eyes to the ceiling, as though she could see
through it what Jane was about. By the sound it seemed that she was
sweeping the carpet.
"She is a good girl on the whole; I own that," went on Miss Hallet.
"Up betimes in a morning, and keeping steady to whatever she has to
do, whether it may be housework or sewing: and never gadding in the
day-time. The run in the evening does her good, she says: perhaps so:
but the staying late doesn't. I don't like to be harsh with her,"
continued Miss Hallet, after a pause. "She stands alone, save for me,
now her brother's gone--and she grieves after him still. Moreover, I
am not sure that Jane would stand any harsh authority, if I did put it
forth. Poor George would not--though I am sure I only wanted to
control him for his good: he went off and made a home for himself down
in the village: and Jane has a touch of her brother's spirit. There's
the difficulty."
At this moment Jane ran down the stairs with a broom and
dust-pan, and went into the kitchen. Presently she came forth in her
bonnet and shawl, a small basket in her hand.
"Where are you off to?" asked Miss Hallet snappishly. For if she did
acknowledge to herself that Jane was a good girl, there was no
necessity to let Jane know it. And Miss Hallet was one of those rigid,
well-meaning people who can hardly ever speak to friend or foe without
appearing cross. All for their good, of course: as this tart tone was
for Jane's.
"To buy the eggs, aunt. You told me I was to go for them when I had
done the rooms."
"I'll go for the eggs myself," said Miss Hallet, "I'll not be beholden
to you to do my errands. Take your bonnet off and get to your work.
Those handkerchiefs of Mrs. Castlemaine's don't seem to progress very
quickly."
"They are all finished but one, aunt. There have been the initial
letters to work--which Mrs. Castlemaine decided afterwards to have
done; and the letters take time."
"Put off your things, I say."
Jane went away with her bonnet and shawl, came back, and sat down to
her sewing. She did not say, Why are you so angry with me? she knew
quite well why it was, and preferred to avoid unsatisfactory topics.
Miss Hallet deliberately attired herself, and went out for the eggs.
They kept no servant: the ordinary work of the house was light: and
when rougher labour was required, washing and cleaning, a woman came
in from the village to do it. The Hallets were originally of fairly
good descent. Miss Hallet had been well reared, and her instincts were
undoubtedly those of a gentlewoman: but when in early life she found
that she would have to turn out in the world and work for her living,
it was a blow that she never could get over. A feeling of blight took
possession of her even now when she looked back at that time. In the
course of years she retired on the money bequeathed to her, and on
some savings of her own. Her brother (who had never risen higher than
to be the captain of a small schooner) had then become a widower with
two children. He died: and these children were left to the mercy of
the world, very much as he and his sister had been left some twenty
years before. Miss Hallet took to them. George was drowned: it has
been already stated: Jane was with her still; and, as the reader sees,
was not altogether giving satisfaction. In Miss Hallet's opinion,
Jane's destiny was already fixed: she would lead a single life, and
grow gradually into an old maid, as she herself had done. Miss Hallet
considered it the best destiny Jane could invoke: whether it was or
not, there seemed to be no help for it. Men whom she would have deemed
Jane's equals, were above them in position: and she believed Jane
would not look at an inferior. So Miss Hallet had continued to live on
in her somewhat isolated life; civil to the people around her but
associating with none; and always conscious that her fortunes and her
just merits were at variance.
She attired herself in a rather handsome shawl and close straw bonnet,
and went down the cliff after the required eggs. Jane sat at the open
parlour window, busy over the last of Mrs. Castlemaine's
handkerchiefs. She wore her neat morning print gown, with its small
white collar and bow of fresh lilac ribbon, and looked cool and
pretty. Miss Hallet grumbled frightfully at anything like extravagance
in dress; but at the same time would have rated Jane soundly had she
seen her untidy or anything but nice in any one particular. When the
echo of her aunt's footsteps had fully died away, Jane laid the
handkerchief on the table, and took from her pocket some other
material, which she began to work at stealthily.
That's the right word for it--stealthily. For she glanced cautiously
around as if the very moss on the cliff side would take note of it,
and she kept her ears well on the alert, to guard against surprise.
Miss Hallet had told her she did not get on very quickly with the
handkerchiefs: but Miss Hallet did not know, or suspect, that when
times were propitious--namely, when she herself was away from
observation, or Jane safely shut up in her own room--the handkerchiefs
were discarded for this other work. And yet, the work regarded
casually, presented no private or ugly features. It looked like a
strip of fine lawn, and was just as nice-looking and snowy as the
cambric on the table.
Jane's fingers plied quickly their needle and thread. Presently she
slipped a pattern of thin paper out of her pocket, unfolded it, and
began to cut the lawn according to its fashion. While thus occupied,
her attentive ear caught the sound of approaching footsteps: in a
trice, pattern and work were in her pocket again out of sight, and she
was diligently pursuing the hem-stitching of the handkerchief.
A tall, plain girl, with straggling curls of a deep red darkened the
window: Miss Susan Pike, daughter of Pike, the well-to-do grocer and
general dealer. Deep down in Jane Hallet's heart there had always lain
an instinctive consciousness, warning her that she was superior to
this girl, as well as to Matty Nettleby, of quite a different order
altogether: but the young crave companionship, and will have it,
suitable or unsuitable, where it is to be had. The only young lady
in the place was Ethel Reene, and Jane Hallet's good sense told her
that that companionship would be just as unsuitable the other way: she
might as well aspire to covet an intimacy with a duchess's daughter as
with Miss Reene.
"Weil, you are hard at work this morning, Jane!" was Miss Susan
Pike's unceremonious and somewhat resentful salutation, as she put her
hands upon the window-sill and, her head inside. For she did not at
all favour work herself.
"Will you come in, Susan?" returned Jane, rising and unslipping the
bolt of the door: which she had slipped after the departure of her
aunt.
"Them are Mrs. Castlemaine's handkerchiefs, I suppose," observed
Susan, responding to the invitation and taking a chair. "Grand fine
cambric, ain't it! Well, Jane, you do hem-stitch well, I must say."
"I have to work her initials on them also," remarked Jane. "S.C."
"S.C.," repeated Miss Pike. "What do the S. stand for? What's her
Chris'en name?"
"Sophia."
"Sophia!--that is a smart name. Do you work the letters in satin
stitch?"
"Yes. With the dots on each side it."
"You learnt all that fine hem-stitching and braider-work at the
Nunnery, Jane--and your aunt knows how to do it too, I suppose. I
shouldn't have patience for it. I'd rather lade out treacle all day:
and of all precious disagreeable articles our shop serves, treacle's
the worst. I hate it--sticking one's hands, and messing the scales. I
broke a basin yesterday morning, lading it out," continued Miss Susan:
"let it slip through my fingers. Sister Phoebe came in for a pound of
it, to make the ladies a pudding for dinner, she said; and I let her
basin drop. Didn't mother rate me!"
"Did Sister Phoebe say how the child was getting on?--Polly Gleeson."
"Polly's three parts well, I think. Old Parker does not go across
there any more. I say, Jane, I came up to ask if you'd come along with
me to Stilborough this afternoon."
"I can't," said Jane. "My aunt has been very angry with me this
morning. I should no more dare to ask her to let me go to Stilborough
to-day than I should dare to fly."
"What has she been angry about?"
"Oh, about my not getting on with my work, and one thing or other,"
replied Jane carelessly. "She would not let me fetch some eggs just
now; she's gone herself. And she knows that in a few days' time I
shall have to go to Stilborough on my own account."
"She's a nice article for an aunt!" grumbled Miss Susan. "I've got to
order in some things for the shop, and I thought it would be pleasant
for us two to walk there together. You are sure you can't come Jane?"
"Quite sure. It is of no use talking of it."
"I must ask Matty Nettleby, then. But I'd rather have had you."
Miss Susan, who was somewhat younger than Jane, and wore dirty pink
bonnet strings, which did not contrast well with the red curls, and a
tumbled, untidy frock (but who would no doubt go off on her expedition
to Stilborough finer than an African queen) fingered discontentedly,
one by one, the scissors, cotton, and other articles in Jane's
work-box. She was not of good temper.
"Well, it's a bother! I can't think what right aunts have to domineer
over folks! And I must be off to keep shop, or I shall have mother
about me. Father's got one of his liver bouts, and is lying abed till
dinner-time."
"I wish you'd bring me a pound of wool from Stilborough, Susan? You
know where I buy it."
"Let's have the number, then."
Jane gave her a skein of the size and colour wanted, and the money for
the purchase. "I'll come down for it this evening," she said. "You'll
be back then."
"All right. Good-bye, Jane."
"Good-bye," returned Jane. And as the damsel's fleet steps betook her
down the cliff, Jane bolted the door again, put the cambric
handkerchief aside, and took the private work out of her pocket.
Meanwhile Miss Hallet had reached the village. Not very speedily. When
she went out--which was but seldom--she liked to take her leisure over
it. She turned aside to Tim Gleeson's cottage, to inquire after Polly;
she halted at the door of two or three more poor fishermen's huts to
give the good morrow, or ask after the little ones. Miss Hallet's face
was cold, her manner harsh: but she could feel for the troubles of the
world, and she gave what help she could to the poor folks around her.
The old woman from whom she bought her eggs, lived in a small cottage
past the Dolphin Inn. Miss Hallet got her basket filled--she and Jane
often had eggs and bread and butter for dinner to save cooking--paid,
and talked a bit with the woman. In returning, Mrs. Bent was at the inn
door, in her chintz gown and cherry cap ribbons.
"Is it you, Miss Hallet! How are you this morning?"
"Quite well, thank you," replied Miss Hallet in her prim way.
"Been getting some eggs, I see," ran on Mrs. Bent, unceremoniously.
"It's not often you come down to do your own errands. Where's
Jane?"
"I left her at work," was the answer. "Jane does not get through her
sewing as quickly as she might, and I have been telling her of it."
"You can't put old heads upon young shoulders," cried Mrs. Bent.
"Girls like to be idle; and that's the truth. What do you suppose I
caught that Molly of mine at, last night? Stuck down at the kitchen
table, writing a love-letter."
Miss Hallet had her eyes bent on her eggs, as though she were counting
them.
"Writing a letter, if you'll believe me! And, a fine thing of a letter
it was! Smudged with ink and the writing like nothing on earth but
spiders' legs in a fit. I ordered it put on the fire. She's not going
to waste her time in scribbling to sweethearts while she stays with
me."
"Did she rebel?" quickly asked Miss Hallet.
"Rebel! Molly! I should like to see her attempt it. She was just as
sheepish as a calf at being found out, and sent the paper into the
fire quicker than I could order it in."
Gossip about Mrs. Bent's Molly, or any other Molly, was never
satisfactory to Miss Hallet. She broke the subject by inquiring after
John Bent's health, preparatory to pursuing her way.
"Oh, he's well enough," was Mrs. Bent's answer. "It's not often men
get anything the matter with them. If they were possessed of as much
common sense as they are of health, I'd say it was a blessing. That
weak-souled husband of mine, seeing Molly piping and sniffing last
night, told me privately that he saw no harm in love-letters. He'd see
no harm in a score of donkeys prancing over his young plants and other
garden stuff next, leave him alone."
"I am glad Mr. Bent is well," said Miss Hallet, taking a step onwards.
"Jane told me last week he was ill."
"He had a bilious attack. Jane came in the same night and saw him with
his head on a cushion. By the way--look here, Miss Hallet--talking
about Jane--I'd not let her be out quite so much after dark, if I were
you."
No words could have been more unwelcome to Miss Hallet than these. She
was a very proud woman, never brooking advice of any kind. In her
heart she regarded Jane as being so infinitely superior to all
Greylands, the Greylands' Rest family and the doctor's excepted, that
any reproach cast on her seemed nothing less than a presumption. It
might please herself to reflect upon her niece for gadding about, but
it did not please her that others should.
"Young girls like their fling; I know that," went on Mrs. Bent, who
never stayed her tongue for anybody. "To coop 'em up in a pen, like a
parcel of old hens, doesn't do. But there's reason in all things: and
it seems to me that Jane's out night after night.'
"My niece comes down the cliff for a run at dusk, when it is too dark
for her to see to sew," stiffly responded Miss Hallet. "I have yet to
learn, Mrs. Bent, what harm the run can do to her or to you."
"None to me, for certain; I hope none to her. I see her in Mr. Harry
Castlemaine's company a little oftener than I should choose a girl of
mine to be in it. I do not say it is for any harm; don't take up that
notion, Miss Hallet; but Mr. Harry's not the right sort of man, being
a gentleman, for Jane to make a companion of."
"And who says Jane does make him her companion?"
"I do. She is with him more than's suitable. And--look here, Miss
Hallet, if I'm saying this to you, it is with a good motive and
because I have a true regard for Jane, so I hope you will take it in
the friendly spirit it's meant. If they walked together by daylight,
I'd not think so much of it, though in my opinion that would not be
the proper thing, considering the difference between them, who he is
and who she is: but it is not by daylight, it is after dark."
Miss Hallet felt a sudden chill--as though somebody were pouring cold
water down her back. But she was bitterly resentful, and very hard of
belief. Mrs. Bent saw the proud lines of the cold face.
"Look here, Miss Hallet. I don't say there's any harm come of it, or
likely to come: if I'd thought that, I'd have told you before. Girls
are more heedless than the wind, and when they are as pretty as Jane
is young men like to talk to them. Mr. Harry is in and about the
village at night--he often says to me how dull his own home is--and he
and Jane chance to meet somewhere or other, and they talk and laugh
together, roaming about while they do it. That's the worst of it, I
hope: but it is not a prudent thing for Jane to do."
"Jane stays down here with her friends; she is never at a loss for
companions," resentfully spoke Miss Hallet. "She sits with old Goody
Dance: and she is a good deal with Miss Nettleby and with Pike's
daughter; sometimes staying in one place, sometimes in another. Why,
one evening last week--Thursday was it? yes, Thursday--she said she
was here, helping you."
"So she was here. We had a party in the best room that night. Jane ran
in; and, seeing how busy I was, she helped me to wash up the glass:
she's always good-natured and ready to forward a body. She stayed here
till half-past eight o'clock."
Miss Hallet's face looked doubly grim. It was nearer half-past ten
than half-past eight when Miss Jane made her appearance at home--as
she well remembered.
"And now don't you go blowing up Jane through what I've said,"
enjoined Mrs. Bent. "We were young ourselves once, and liked our
liberty. She's thoughtless; that's all; if she were a few years older,
she would have the sense to know that folks might get talking about
her. Just give her a caution, Miss Hallet: and remind her that Mr.
Harry Castlemaine is just about as far above her and us, as the moon's
higher than that old weather-cock a-top of the Nunnery."
Miss Hallet went homewards with her eggs. She had perfect confidence
in Jane, in her conduct and principles. Jane, as she believed, would
never make a habit of walking with Mr. Harry Castlemaine, or he with
her: they had both too much common sense. Unless--and a flush
illumined Miss Hallet's face at the sudden thought--unless they had
fallen into some foolish, fancied love affair with one another.
"Such things have happened before now, of course," reasoned Miss
Hallet to herself as she began her ascent of the cliff but her tone
was dubious, almost as though she would have liked to be able to tell
herself that they never had happened. "But they would know better;
both of them; remembering that nothing could come of it. As to the
walking together--I believe that's three parts Mrs. Bent's
imagination. It is not likely to be true. Good morning, Darke!"
A fisherman in a red cap, jolting down the cliff, had saluted Miss
Hallet in passing. She went on with her thoughts.
"Suppose I watch Jane a bit? There's nothing I should so much hate as
to speak to her upon a topic such as this, and then find I had spoken
without cause. It would be derogatory to her and to me. Yes," added
Miss Hallet with decision, "that will be the best plan. The next time
Jane goes out at dusk, I'll follow her."
The next time happened to be that same evening. Miss Hallet gave not a
word of scolding to Jane all day: and the latter kept diligently to
her work at Mrs. Castlemaine's handkerchief. At dusk Jane put her warm
dark cloak on, and the soft quilted bonnet.
"Where are you going to-night?" questioned Miss Hallet then, with a
stress of emphasis on the to-night.
"Just down the cliff, aunt. I want to get the wool Susan Pike was to
buy for me at Stilborough."
"Always an excuse for gadding out!" exclaimed Miss Hallet.
"Well, aunt, I must have the wool. I may be wanting it
to-morrow."
"You'll toast me two thin bits of toast before you go," said the aunt
snappishly.
Jane put off her cloak and proceeded to cut the slices of bread and
toast them. But the fire was very low, and they took some considerable
time to brown properly.
"Do you wish the toast buttered, aunt?"
"No. Cut it in strips. And now go and draw me my ale."
"It is early for supper, aunt."
"You do as you are bid, Jane. If I feel cold, I suppose I am at
liberty to drink my ale a trifle earlier than usual, to warm me."
Jane drew the ale in a china mug that held exactly half-a-pint, and
brought it in. It was Miss Hallet's evening allowance: one she never
exceeded. Her supper frequently consisted of what she was about to
take now: the strips of toast soaked in the ale, and eaten. It was
much favoured by elderly people in those days, and was called
Toast-and-ale.
Jane resumed her cloak, and was allowed to depart without farther
hindrance. But during the detention, the dusk of the evening had
become nearly dark. Perhaps Miss Hallet had intended this.
She ate a small portion of the toast very quickly, drank some of the
ale, leaving the rest for her return, and had her own bonnet and dark
shawl on in no time. Then, locking her house door for safety, she
followed in the wake of Jane.
She saw Jane before she reached the foot of the cliff: for the
latter's light steps had been detained by encountering Tim and Nancy
Gleeson, who could not be immediately got rid of. Miss Hallet halted
as a matter of precaution: it would not answer to overtake her. Jane
went onwards, and darted across the road to Pike's shop. Miss Hallet
stood in a shady angle underneath the cliff, and waited.
Waited for a good half hour. At the end of that time Jane came out
again, a paper parcel in her hand. "The wool," thought Miss Hallet,
moving her feet about, for they were getting cramped. "And now
where's she going? On to the beach, I shouldn't wonder!"
Not to the beach. Jane came back by the side of the shops, the
butcher's and the baker's and the little humble draper's, and turned
the corner that led to the Grey Nunnery. Miss Hallet cautiously
crossed the road to follow her. When Miss Hallet had her in view
again, Jane had halted, and seemed to be doing something to her cloak.
The aunt managed to make out that Jane was drawing its hood over her
quilted bonnet, so as to shade her face. With the loose cloak hiding
her figure, and the hood the best part of her face, Jane's worst enemy
would not have known her speedily.
Away she sped again with a swift foot; not running, but walking
lightly and quickly. The stars were very bright: night reigned. Miss
Hallet, spare of form, could walk almost as quickly as Jane and she
kept her in view. Onwards, past the gate of the Nunnery, went Jane to
the exceeding surprise of Miss Hallet. What could her business be, in
that lonely road?--a road that she herself, who had more than double
the years and courage of Jane, would not have especially chosen as a
promenade at night. Could Jane be going dancing up to the coastguard
station, to inquire after Henry Mann's sick wife? What simpletons
young girls were! They had no sense at all: and thought no more of
appearances than----
A shrill noise, right over Miss Hallet's head, cut her reflections
suddenly short, and sent her with a start against the Nunnery palings.
It was a bird flying across, from seaward, which had chosen to make
known his presence. The incident did not divert her attention from the
pursuit for more than an instant: but in that instant she lost sight
of Jane.
What an extraordinary thing! Where was she? How had she vanished? Miss
Hallet strained her eyes as she asked the questions. When the bird
suddenly diverted her attention, Jane had nearly gained the gate that
led into the chapel ruins; might perhaps have been quite abreast of
it. That Jane would not go in there, Miss Hallet felt quite
convinced of; nobody would go in. She had not crossed the road to
Chapel Lane or Miss Hallet could not have failed to see her cross it:
it was equally certain that she was not anywhere in the road now.
Miss Hallet turned herself about like a bewildered woman. It was an
occurrence so strangely mysterious as to savour of unreality. The
highway had no trap-doors in it: Jane could not have been caught up
into the air.
Miss Hallet walked slowly onwards, marvelling, and gazing about in all
directions. When opposite the chapel gate, she took courage to look
through the palings at that ghost-reputed place: but all there seemed
lonely and silent as the grave. She raised her voice in call--just as
John Bent had once raised his voice in the silent night after the
ill-fated Anthony Castlemaine.
"Jane! Jane Hallet!"
"What on earth can have become of her?" debated Miss Hallet, as no
response was made to the call. "She can't have gone up Chapel Lane!"
With a view to see (in spite of her conviction) whether Jane was in
the lane, Miss Hallet betook herself to cross over towards it. She
went slowly; glancing around and about her; and had got to the middle
of the road when a faint light appeared in one of the windows of the
Friar's Keep. Miss Hallet had heard that this same kind of faint light
generally heralded the apparition of the Grey Monk; and she stood
transfixed with horror.
Sure enough! A moment later, and the figure in his grey cowl and habit
glided slowly past the window, lamp in hand. The unhappy lady gave one
terror-stricken, piercing scream, and dropped down flat in the dusty
highway.