The stirring of anger at Richard Burton's callousness gave way almost at
once to a feeling of fatigue and defeat as she started on her return
home, and a persistent image of Jane, a little girl playing
skipping-ropes in red stockings, kept coming before her eyes. One or two
gigs passed her, splashing among the pools of the road. The birds began
to sing with a clarity as sweet as that of the purified air. There was
still a tinkling of running water from every side, but the clouds were
in shreds, and patches of blue sky were uncovered here and there.
Three-quarters of the way to her home she passed a fair sized cottage,
in front of which a tall grey-haired woman was sweeping the standing
water from the path with a yard brush. She stopped brushing as she heard
footsteps and looked over the gate.
"Why, it's Miss Hilton," she exclaimed. "What a wet walk you've had.
Come in and stop a bit before you go further," she said, with the
eagerness of an active, talkative woman, who had seen no one to speak to
all day. She took the drenched umbrella and set it on its end in the
doorway, and Anne, tired, hot, and discouraged, sat down gladly on the
chair she offered her.
It was a comfortable kitchen, full of furniture, and bearing evident
signs of men in the house. There were hats hanging behind the door and
two guns over the fireplace. Such furniture as was placed there must
have been long ago settled in its position. No one could mistake the
room for that of young people. There was something in the multitude of
worn objects, their solidity, their position in the room, each
accommodating the other so that one could think of no other place for
any of them, in the polish which had worn into the heart of the wood by
constant rubbing which betrayed the presence and passage of many people
through the room for many years; a used, comfortable, taken-care-of
appearance, very pleasant to feel around one, a room from which one
would not easily take oneself away at night and which seemed to Anne
Hilton to set around her the company of many cheerful people.
Mrs Crowther was too much occupied with her own affairs, and too eager
to talk to enquire what had brought Anne Hilton that way. She was a
tall, spare, robust woman, the mother of nine children, all grown up and
well placed. She was a "worker." She had considered the bearing and
rearing of her children as a piece of work to be done, in the same way
in which she looked upon the spring-cleaning of her house. It had been
done to her satisfaction, and done well. She had had little time for
sentiment in her married life, but now, still active, strong, and with
only the work of her house and garden, the meals for her four sons who
still lived at home, and their mending and washing, she had leisure to
express her opinions, and always having been obliged to hold her
imagination within the visible realities of life and death, with which
all her life had been concerned, she had arrived at a definiteness of
judgment, and an honesty of speech which one frequently finds among
women of her class out of reach of poverty, but not beyond the necessity
of work. Her husband was not a country man, but had come from a town
florist's to work with a nurseryman about two miles distant. She began
to tell Anne Hilton how they had first come to the country.
"There was _my_ mother first and then _his_, both at us. First _one_
said, 'You don't know what it is to live in the country, you that have
been used to going about under the gas-lamps at night'; and then the
_other_, 'You don't know what it is to be shut in to the lamp at night
and have no one but your two selves to look at.' It was always the same.
'You don't know what it is,' or 'You'll be lonely.' And Thomas and I
always said the same thing back. 'Well,' we said, 'we can but try.'
Well, we _did_ try, and we found that cottage up Somer's Lane, and when
I came with him the first day I began to think, what if my mother was
right. It was so silent as if something was going to happen. I kept
looking out of the window to see if it was, but nothing did, and the
next morning his mother came down with the bedding and the five children
we had then, and I've never felt lonely since. Nine children, all
living, keep you on your feet."
"Be thankful they've all turned out well," said Anne, with a sigh,
thinking of the house she had left.
"Trust 'em! that's what _I_ say," returned Mrs Crowther. "Plenty of
good, plain food, and plenty of good, warm, woollen underclothing, and
there'll not go much wrong with their bodies, and trust 'em for their
characters. I was talking to Mrs Hankworth the other day--she's done
better than me, she's had twelve--'I never was one for much whipping,'
she said. 'I never found you did much good by it. You can break the
spirit of a horse by whipping, but you can't change its character. Give
'em all plenty of occupation at home, and they'll not want to go out in
the evenings.' I was glad to hear her say so, for I've always felt like
that myself. There was Ted had his fret-saw, and William was always one
for making collections of butterflies or birds' eggs, and John was
always one for politics. He'd sit reading any newspaper he could get
hold of, and arguing with his father. I always knew he'd not stop in the
country. He was always for the things that was doing in the town at
meetings and unions, and he took no interest in farming or country work.
It was always railways or politics with him. He was the first to go,"
said Mrs Crowther, her face taking that fixed serious expression,
betraying the inward attitude which in another woman would have meant
tears. "You've a lot of work to do when they're little, but you can shut
the door at night and know they're all inside with you; but there's a
day comes to gentle as well as simple, when you shut the door at night
and some of them's outside. Sometimes you wake in the night and you
wonder if there's anything more you could have done for 'em, and you vex
yourself a lot more over them when they've gone from you than you ever
do when they're with you. You have a feeling when they're at home, that
if they want you you're there. But it's another matter when they can't
get at you for all their wanting or yours either for that matter."
"Be thankful you've been spared the sorrow of one going astray," said
Anne. "It's a proud thing to have a lot of sons all honest, good men."
As if she had divined Anne's thoughts, or something in her words had
suggested it to her, Mrs Crowther said suddenly--
"You've heard about that Burton getting hold of Jane Evans, have you?"
"I've just come back from there now," said Anne. "I only heard of it the
other day, and I went to see if I could get her away. I blame myself
sadly for its having happened."
"He's a bad effect in the country, that Burton, with his horses and
money," said Mrs Crowther decidedly. "It's bad for young men to see
money got so easily. He doesn't drink, I fancy. At least I said to
Matthew, 'What's wrong with that Burton, does he drink?' 'No,' he says.
'At least, I don't think so,' he says; 'but he takes it out in eating.
He's an easy liver,' he says. And what a foolish girl that is to give
away her character for a man like him. If she was in trouble she might
have come to any of us, and we'd have done anything in reason."
"I suppose that was just it," said Anne. "He was there before we were
ready, and the poor girl thought he was her only friend."
"Well! she's a foolish girl," repeated Mrs Crowther, in the tone of one
who having young people to protect could take no part in excuses. "Why,
there's that young Wilkinson, that's booking-clerk at the station, said
to our John, 'I was a bit sweet on that girl myself,' he said, 'but if
that's the sort she is, I'm not having any.' He's a bit conceited, and
thinks a lot of his clothes, but he's steady enough. Had she the face to
come and see you when you went?" she added with curiosity.
"I saw them both," said Anne, sadly. "She's quite under his influence. I
can't do much for her now. Perhaps she'll come of her own accord if we
show her we're her friends."
"Well, I don't know as you can ever do much for people that will have
their own way."
"If she isn't driven any further--" began Anne.
"I don't know," said Mrs Crowther, with emphasis; "you _must_ make a
difference. There's plenty of girls kept themselves decent who were just
as poor, and if everybody's to be treated the same, no matter how they
behave, it's very hard on _them_. I don't believe in that sort o' thing.
If you do wrong you must bear the consequences, or what's the good of
keeping honest. It's confusing to young people to get such ideas, and it
does a lot of harm, Miss Hilton. You never had any young people to bring
up. It's _that_ that alters your mind about those things. There's our
William. He's not one for saying much. He's one of the old-fashioned
kind. He's a kind of serious way of talking. Many a time we laugh at
him, and say, 'For goodness sake, do stir up and laugh a bit.' I says to
him privately, 'What do you think of it, William?' 'I've no respect for
her whatever,' he says. 'If a sister of mine was to go that way, she'd
have seen the last of her brother.' That's how they think you see, Miss
Hilton, and you can't say they shouldn't."
"I suppose not," replied Anne, wearily. "Nobody seems to get any nearer
not judging their neighbours after all this time."
"Well, you can't make the world over again, however you try," said Mrs
Crowther. "You've to take things as you find 'em, and make the best of
'em. It's hard enough for them that's kept straight without petting them
that's weak and foolish enough to go wrong. You'll never be able to
alter it, Miss Hilton, so you better take it so."
"I can't do anything more at present," said Anne; "but I must be getting
home again. The pony'll be wondering what's become of me. I'm very much
obliged to you for the rest, Mrs Crowther. You don't think it's raining
now, do you?"
"No! I don't think so!" said Mrs Crowther. "How's Mary, Miss Hilton?
She'll have been sadly hindered with all this rain. They put off two
cricket-matches this week. They're not playing football yet, or else the
weather wouldn't matter so much. They say the wet weather keeps their
joints supple. It's the dry weather and frost that's so hard to play in.
Ted's always one for a lot of sport, specially football. Such a mess as
he comes home sometimes. 'You must clean your own clothes,' I always
says to him. We have a joke at him, that when he wins one of these
competitions (he's always one for going in for these guessing
competitions that promises such a lot of money if you put in an odd word
somewhere). He's always bound to win every time he goes in, and we tell
him that when he wins it, he can keep a servant to clean his trousers
after every football match. 'I shan't let any of you have any of it you
don't take care,' he says; 'I'll be laughing at you before long, see if
I'm not. Wait till you all come asking for rides on my motor-bike;
what'll you say then?' he says. 'Eh!' says his father, 'I shall say
there's more fools in the world than one!' Well Miss Hilton, good
morning; I'm very glad to see you any time. I'm alone a good lot now,
you know. It's not like it was once with children all round the kitchen.
I'm glad of a bit of company now sometimes. Why, it's beautiful now!"
she concluded, opening the door and stepping out in front of Anne,
looking round the sky with eyes which blinked a little under the strong
light.