She had scarcely had time to recover breath before Burton, the
horse-breeder, came into the room--a big-bearded man, of heavy build,
with a familiar loudness and fussiness which would have been better in
the open air, than even in the new vulgarity of his drawing-room. His
weight was the first thing one thought of. It would have taken a
powerful horse to carry him. He always wore his hat, whether indoors or
out, and bright tan leggings, with riding-breeches. Among his men and
the neighbours he passed as a good master, and free with his money,
standing for local purposes (as, indeed, he himself considered), in
place of the lord of the manor who owned a more interesting house in
another shire of the country. Like the rest of mankind he earned a
reputation for generosity by being liberal with those things by which he
set little store. He was neither avaricious nor surly, and, being in
full health and vigour himself, was able to spare a rough chivalry to
women which made allowance for their weaker bodies and greater
difficulty in coping with existence. It was probably this
soft-heartedness which, in the first place, had stirred a vague pity for
the pretty blonde dressmaker, and this quality which the pliable girl
had interpreted into the hope that he'd do her justice. He had, indeed,
often stood up for Anne Hilton herself when her peculiarities had been
discussed, and it was with the warm feeling of being rather a friend of
hers, and not being the man to hear a single woman abused, that he came
into the room and shook hands noisily.
"Well, Miss Hilton! I am very pleased to see you. You've come a long way
in the wet. You must have a glass of something hot. Jane! Jane!" he
shouted, stamping to the door and looking up the staircase. There was a
sudden clatter, and Jane appeared in the doorway laughing, because she
had run downstairs so quickly that she had almost fallen.
"That's smart work," said Burton.
"These stairs is so steep it's the easiest way of coming down 'em," said
Jane with an air of proprietorship, with the familiarity and importance
also of one who knows she is welcome, and, whatever other people may
think, has a power which no one else present has with the only man in
the room.
"Well, you have chosen a wet day to pay us a visit, Miss Hilton," she
said, with a hospitality too effusive to be spontaneous.
She was a very attractive girl, with fair hair and pretty eyes, made for
affection and to take a spoiling prettily. At present she had no
misgiving about her lover's good intentions, and this gave her the
confidence which naturally she lacked. Besides, she had never thought
Anne Hilton important. Anne, seeing the handsome room, the gaiety of
Jane, and affection of Burton, found herself wishing that there were no
reason why it should not continue so, to all appearance a happy home of
newly-married people. She saw none of the signs of shame in Jane which
she herself had suffered.
"I've not just come to pay you a visit, Jane, my dear," she said. "I've
come in the place of your grandmother who's dead, to take you away with
me."
"Whatever for?" exclaimed Burton, loudly. "Do you think I can't make her
comfortable? She's never been so happy in her life, have you, Jane?"
"No!" returned Jane, very red. "And I don't see what Miss Hilton's got
to do with it anyway."
"No more don't I," returned Burton, with a laugh. "But let's hear what
she's got to say about it. So you want Jane to go back to starving at
dressmaking, Miss Hilton? She's a lot more comfortable here, I can tell
you. She's got a servant, and she can have her dresses made out. She's
no need to do anything but fancy work."
"It's the sin of a good, respectable girl taking such things for a
price," interrupted Anne, "and of you, Mr Burton, to entice her to it,
and keep her like this. It's not on _you_ the judgment'll fall, but on
_her_. How's she to face the neighbours and everybody she's known from a
child when you've done with her?"
"I've not done with her yet by a good way," said Burton. "Don't you
worry yourself, Miss Hilton."
"You're a man of money and position, and a newcomer in the
neighbourhood," went on Anne, "and the neighbours are afraid to say
anything before you. But they say plenty about Jane, whom they've known
all their life. Young people she used to play with talk of her with
shame, and when you've finished with her she'll not have a friend to go
to."
"But I tell you I've not done with her yet, and shan't for many a good
while," repeated Burton. "I dare say she'll be tired first if it comes
to that."
"Can you ever give her back what you've taken from her?" asked Anne
breathlessly, trying to pierce the self-confidence she did not
understand.
"Well, it was something like slaving all one day and then starving the
next before," said Burton, "and she lives like a lady now. You should
just see the fancy-work she gets through--no dressmaking now!"
Anne turned to Jane, who was sitting flushed and resentfully embarrassed
in the satin armchair, looking expectantly to Richard to see her
through, shocked, too, and ready to cry at this first contact and
opinion of her neighbours upon her doings.
"Where's your sister Lizzie, Jane?" she asked.
"Out at service," replied Jane, unwillingly, fidgetting with her hands
and feet.
"So your coming here has meant that _she's_ got no home," said Anne.
"She could have had one if she'd liked," said Burton. "The house is big
enough for us all."
"Thank God for His protecting grace!" said Anne, "she was able to resist
the temptation."
"She'd have had to go out to service in any case," said Jane,
spitefully; "the neighbours was so very kind to two girls."
"Jane, I knew your grandmother," said Anne, "and I know how hard she had
to work to keep you two girls respectably dressed and cared for. I know
you think I'm an interfering, peculiar woman and an old maid, but your
grandmother was no old maid. She lost your mother who'd have worked and
kept her when she was old, and instead of having an arm to lean on,
she'd to work morning, noon, and night, to give you two girls a home.
She was working when other people was sleeping. It's better even to go
to the Union than to do as you've done."
Jane, after twisting her fingers together, pulled out her handkerchief
with a jerk and began to cry, thus rousing the indolent anger of Richard
Burton, who, with a blustering tone, as though he wanted to shout down
an opponent, burst out--
"Well, she's here now and she's not going away. And you can tell the
kind neighbours that we can look after ourselves without their
assistance. And as for them good girls that used to play with Jane, I
know several who wouldn't have been slow to take the place. _I'll_ look
after Jane all right. And we're much obliged for your visit, Miss
Hilton," he continued, ironically. "We can spare you for quite a long
time now. You can save yourself the walk another time. If you want to be
home for dinner-time, you'd better be starting, don't you think?"
Anne rose stiffly, limping with rheumatism.
"Jane love, come with me," she said; "I can shelter you for a time, I
can give you--"
"No I won't," retorted Jane, petulantly, turning her back.
Anne went slowly out of the room. Richard Burton accompanied her with
offensive heartiness.
"Well, good morning, Miss Hilton," he said, opening the door with the
stained glass window, and stepping into the red-tiled porch, he looked
up at the sky. "I believe it's stopped raining--all the better for your
rheumatism, eh? Well! give my love to the neighbours you think so much
of," he shouted with a laugh, and shut the door. Anne opened the wooden
gate with brass nails, and shutting it behind her stood again in the
dripping lane.