There was no covered market even in so considerable a town as Haybarn.
From end to end of the rectangular market-place were set wooden tables
on movable trestles, and over these were stretched frames of canvas, the
whole assembly looking like a fantastic toy village set in the middle of
the substantial brick houses, banks, and inns of the square, or like a
child's erections amid the solid furniture on a nursery floor.
On each side of the square, with their backs to the stalls and facing
the shops whose goods and attractions overflowed to the pavement as if
offering themselves at the feet of the passers-by, stood a row of
countrywomen and girls with market baskets of butter and eggs, plucked
fowls, red currants, plums, curds, tight nosegays of pinks, stocks,
wall-flowers, or anything else saleable or in season which a cottage
garden produces. In and about among these, pushed women of all degrees
and ages, tasting butter, holding eggs to the light, or placing them
against their lips to test their freshness, stopping now and then to
feel the wearing quality of some piece of dress-stuff or flannel, draped
and ticketed alluringly at a shop door; all moving with the slow,
ungainly pace of those unaccustomed to walking and impeded by bundles
and purchases in both arms. Here and there a younger woman, dressed in
the fashion of the best shop in the town, with a basket of rather more
elegant shape, went about her marketing with equal decision, if more
fashion: the wife of some tradesman who lived in one of the numerous new
villas with small gardens increasing every year on the fringe of the old
town, who still liked the stir of the market and a bargain, but whose
chief reason for marketing herself would be given to a friend as, "you
can't trust those girls. They'll take anything that's given 'em and pay
double."
Farmers with that curious planted-and-not-to-be-up-rooted air which
distinguishes a man brought up to farming everywhere stood about the
corners of the market in groups, or greeted friends on the steps and in
the passages of the inns. The cattle-market was on the outskirts of the
town, and the business there was over early in the day. For the rest of
the day they exchanged and completed their bargains, or, supported by a
friend and with an air of determination not to be cheated, entered the
shops of hatters and tailors, or examined the bundles of canes and
walking-sticks hanging by their heads at the shop door, fingering stuffs
in the same manner as the women, but with a more helpless air, as if
hoping that some good fortune beyond their own fingers would make clear
to them the difference and wearing quality of each.
Older men, with the solidity of girth which successful farming produces,
stood planted on the pavements with the air of spectators who enjoyed
everything, being free from the embarrassment of the younger men, who
found themselves after a week of solitude in the midst of a crowd of
their fellow-creatures, who, all and any, might happen to look at one
critically, giving rise to a red flush which in its turn might provoke
the jokes of one's companions; ordeals which made for many a young
countryman a day of adventure and perspiring, but one to be recalled
during the remainder of the week as a day about town spent suitably by a
man of spirit.
In the market Anne was a woman reputed for the excellence of her butter.
She had even taken prizes at local cattle-shows. She had an established
stand at one of the covered stalls, and her regular customers appeared
one by one as they were at liberty. It was largely a matter of waiting
through the morning till all had been supplied. To-day she had placed
mechanically in the cart a basket of Victoria plums, which had been
ordered by the wife of a neighbouring farmer, and as she found her
butter and chickens sold, and was about to collect her baskets together,
she saw this, and remembered that one of the servants at that farm had
sprained her wrist in lifting a cheese, so that the mistress, not having
appeared earlier in the day, might be safely assumed not to be coming to
the market. Anne stowed her empty baskets under the stall of a woman who
sold smallwares, and began to make her meagre purchases for the week.
Then she took her baskets and made for the yard of the inn behind the
market-square, where she had left the pony and cart.
The farmer's wife to whom Anne had arranged to carry the plums was known
among her acquaintances as a "worry." She had two daughters, one of whom
was delicate, and the farm was neither large nor productive. Her husband
also was reputed to be stingy.
Anne found her sitting sewing with the two girls, who were making a rag
hearthrug. With the nervousness of women of anxious temperaments she
began to explain their occupation, talking quickly in a voice with a
shrill recurring note.
"There's no waste in this house you see, Anne, and no drones in the
'ive. This bit of stuff was my grandmother's." She took up a fragment of
striped linsey, which one of the girls had just laid her hands upon. The
girl's sulky expression did not escape her.
"_Now_ then, what's the matter? _You're_ too proud, Miss. Keep a thing
seven years and it's sure to come in, _I_ say, and keep girls working,
and then they'll not get into trouble. Did you ever hear of anything so
disgraceful as that Jane Evans? She ought to be sent out of the place
with her servant and all. If it was a daughter o' mine, she'd travel far
enough before she saw her home again."
"It's very sad," replied Anne, "She's been led astray;" but the woman
interrupted, full of her virtue.
"Astray! She didn't want much leading I should think, sly thing! I know
those quiet ones. They're generally pretty deep. No! I've no
consideration whatever for a girl who gets herself into trouble. She's
nearly always to blame somewhere. You just take notice of _that_," she
added, turning to her daughters who were listening eagerly for details.
"I wonder she's the face to go about," said the elder girl, a very
pretty young woman of twenty, who, being engaged to a young carpenter,
assumed the virtue of a girl who'd no need to seek about for lovers, and
of a class whose sensibilities were shocked by this lapse. Her mother
looked mollified, and gazed at the girl's pretty face with satisfaction
in its comeliness for a few moments in silence. She was a delicate
woman, fretted by her nerves and the difficulty of making ends meet, but
she had real pleasure in her two girls, whose good looks and clever
taste in their clothes, made them always presentable.
"Some one ought to go and tell her what people think of her," said the
younger girl, who already showed her mother's nervous expression.
"Do it yourself," said her sister with a careless laugh.
"Nay, _I_ shan't interfere," replied the girl.
"You'd better not," said the mother. "You keep out of such things and
it'll be better for you. Well, here's Anne sitting with her plums.
You're very lucky to have a good tree like that," she added, as she
uncovered the basket. "We haven't a single good tree in the orchard. I
often say to James that we shouldn't have much less fruit, if they was
all cut down to-morrow."
Anne emptied the basket of plums into a basin the elder girl brought,
and received the money mechanically. She was thinking all the time of
Jane Evans and the careless laugh of the elder girl. Some one should
tell her. That was quite plain. But it was nobody's business. She shook
hands with the fortunate girl and her delicate sister, and, accompanied
by the mother, made her way through the yard to the gate, where the pony
had been eating as much of the hedge as he could manage with the bit in
his mouth. Before she had taken her seat Anne was aware of the weight on
her mind, which told her that she was "appointed" to go and reason with
Jane Evans, and, if possible, to persuade her to leave the man.
She was discouraged by the unstinting condemnation of the mother and
girls, and began to be sore that she had not received a word of sympathy
for the girl.
"There'll be a good many to throw stones," she said, as she drove into
her own yard and set about feeding the pony. When she had finished, her
mind was so overcharged that she had recourse to her usual outlet. She
began to pray aloud, not removing her bonnet or necktie, and seated as
always on the stool at the fireplace.
"O God, my heavenly Father, I thank Thee that I may come to Thee however
full of sin, and find Thee always ready. And I come to Thee again
to-night, repenting of my sin of omission in Thy sight. For, O God my
Father, I have not prayed for souls as I ought, and one soul who had
little earthly guidance has gone astray from the flock. If Thou hadst
left _me_, O my Saviour, in what a state of misery I should be found
to-night. Yet I have been over-anxious about my own salvation, and
forgotten those who are in temptation. Have mercy upon me, and save
them. Give me, O loving Father, a mouth and wisdom. Help me to point out
to this soul the error of her ways. Help me, more than all, to 'hate the
sin with all my heart, but still the sinner love,' and grant that there
may be joy in the presence of the angels of God over a returning and
repenting soul, for Thy mercy's sake. Amen."