Read Ebook: Jenny: A Village Idyl by Curtois M A Margaret Anne

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ch circumstances it is barely possible that a young nature should not be overwhelmed--it is not surprising therefore that Tim sank into despair, and for more than two years lived on in hopelessness. But the irresistible strength that was in the boy refused to be crushed even by such circumstances; a purpose grew in him like a revelation, and inspired him with hope to mend his lot. One Saturday evening Tim returned without his money, and announced that he intended to keep his wages for himself.

The scene that followed need not be described. Tim lay on his bed through the whole of Sunday to recover from it. On Monday morning he returned to his work, under strict orders, seasoned with many oaths, to bring back at night the money he had withheld. He returned without it. This time there was no Sunday rest for him--but bruised as he was, he rose with the dawn on Tuesday and went to his work again. To a similar scene he returned on every evening of that week, but the close of the week found him unconquered; and on Saturday he came back to his family without his wages, as before.

This was too much. On the following Monday the father of Tim went to his master, and desired that his son's wages should be given into his own hands in future--he added that his son was 'a wicked boy who spent his money bad.' Tim's master, who took an interest in his farm-boy, replied to this request with a flat denial--he declared that the boy deserved to have some money, and that, no doubt, on his side also there might be 'tales to tell.' This last observation was too true to be disputed, the father left him in a rage, and at once sought out his son, and informed him that he 'would have no more of this fooling--he must bring the money that night, or he might look to be killed.' In the nature of Tim there was not that instinct of running away which belongs to some natures in an eminent degree--with the fear of being murdered heavy on his heart, he returned, as usual, to his home that night. A terrible scuffle ensued, with regard to which I only know that a hot poker was the instrument employed; and that burnt, scarred for life, believing himself to be dying, poor Tim was just able to crawl to a neighbour's door at last. The outbreak proved his salvation, his injuries excited sympathy, and the village rose in his defence--his father, uncle, and aunt, were driven from it, work was offered to the lad from all sides; and at the age of fourteen he found himself able to begin his life again. From that time forth he prospered; he advanced from one situation to another, he met with kindness and assistance; at the age of twenty he was a skilful workman, and able without difficulty to maintain himself. Of his past life, the life of his childhood, he never spoke; and indeed such stories are only useful when they remind us that our land has still dark corners into which we must carry candles when we can. It is true indeed that Tim had emerged from the darkness--but there are those whom the darkness overwhelms.

This then was the workman, lean, and lithe, and active, with an anxious brow, and 'poor Annie' on his lips, who parted from Nat in the grey light of the morning, and turned his footsteps towards the village streets. Some hours later, with a face that was still anxious, and yet with something like eagerness in his tread, he left the Farm where he had been breakfasting, and went down the hill towards Jenny Salter's home.

A MORNING CALL

THAT home was in order although it was the morning, and daintily ready for the business of the day--an appearance that was always conspicuous wherever the hands of Jenny moved and worked. She had risen before the dawn to get her son's breakfast ready, and she had not been idle since the dawn had passed; already all things were 'straight,' and she was able to get out her stitching and to sit down to it. If the echoes of the 'Rantan' of the night before were lingering stormily about the place, no signs of that hidden tempest could be seen in the room in which she and her daughter sat and worked. And yet it may be that the clamour of the night was sounding in the hearts of both women as they sewed.

Their room had a raftered ceiling, which was painted yellow, whilst paper, woodwork and fire-place were a sober, greyish green, the quaint colouring being contrasted round the window with dimity hangings, exquisitely white. In the corner was an old clock which reached from floor to ceiling, whose face of brass made a familiar brightness there, and the sober walls were everywhere ornamented with numbers of little photographs in frames. Annie sat in an easy chair upon one side of the hearth, and her mother was opposite, each with work on her knee, for the master here had no reason to complain of any want of industry in the women of his home. The echoes of the 'Rantan' were in those women's ears, and, as they sat silent, their thoughts were turned to him.

'When'll father be comin' back,' Annie cried at last, and fiercely; 'comin' back in his shame to disgrace us all agen? I wish he'd come back to-night so as he might hear the sound o' that clamour ringin' in his ears. I'll not stay here to be made a laughin' stock, to hear the village rejoicin' over us, I'll go and wander away, for miles away, so as no one may see me, or know whose child I am.' She had never before spoken in that manner of her father, but her mother had not the heart to rebuke her now.

'I have tried to be good and to be respectable,' Annie cried, with a feverish movement of her hands; 'I've liked for to think as men should think well on us, and shouldn't not breathe a word agen our name. I won't try so hard now, I'll have some fun mysel'; it isn't no good whate'er I think or do; I'll not shut mysel' so close as I ha' done; they may answer for it as drives one past one's hope.' She relapsed into silence, but her lips were working as if the thoughts she had spoken were wrestling in her mind. Ah! Annie, a dangerous thought and a dangerous resolve, however natural to despair as young as yours. Her mother heard the words, and in some degree felt the danger; but, herself sad at heart, she had no power to speak.

The sound of a footstep--Annie raised herself suddenly, whilst a brilliant flush crimsoned both her face and neck, and her breath began to come and go hastily, though her dark eyes sparkled as if with sudden hope. In another instant, as the young workman knocked and entered, she lay back wearily, with her face pale again. Her change of expression caught her mother's passing notice, but poor Jenny was not learned in such signals. Ah! was there some hope, not confided to her mother, working in the girl's mind in spite of her passionate despair?

It was Tim who entered, appearing taller than usual, as he descended the step into the low, yellow-raftered room, taking off his blue cap with civility, and advancing with more timidity than was usual with him. He was still in his blue working jacket and in his corduroys, but his dark hair had been brushed and he looked spruce and fresh, and there was a red rose in the buttonhole of his jacket, although he was not accustomed to wear a flower. A lean, lithe figure, he advanced into the room, his bright eyes seeming to take in the whole of it as he came, and with it the delicate mother with her sewing in her hand, and the bright-haired girl on whom his gaze lingered last.

'I wonder as you come to see us, in this quiet way, Tim,' she said, 'now we're so public as all the village knows; I'm thinkin' it 'ud be more fun for you to come wi' the rest o' the lads an' shout at us. It isn't surprisin' if we get strange an' proud, now as we've all this notice taken of our ways.'

Annie knew very well that of all the moods she owned there was none Tim liked less than this one of passionate bitterness; his own steadfast nature, trained in self-restraint, had little sympathy with such outbursts. But this morning, although she was willing to offend him, he seemed unusually disposed to be merciful, softened perhaps by the sight of the face still pale from illness, which rested against the white pillow in her chair. And indeed it is true that she was looking very pretty, the languor of illness gave her face another charm, her mouth had drooped into soft, weary lines, and her dark eyes had a young, and appealing look. Then, although her fair hair had been carefully arranged, there were still loose hairs that would ripple as they pleased, and behind this bright framework the whiteness of the pillow made a distinct background. Tim's eyes saw these things, and then wandered thoughtfully amongst the red bricks of the cottage floor; when he raised his face and spoke, it was with something of tenderness that could not often be heard in his voice. It had not been in this manner that he had spoken to her brother; but it is so easy for a young man to be tender to a girl!

'Don't be troubled, Annie, don't think on 'em,' he said; 'they isn't worth as ye should give thoughts to 'em. They ought to be thrashed, these lads as do the mischief; but, there, they're past schoolin', so we must let 'em be. I've often wished there was a school for bigger boys, as could give 'em a lickin' sometimes, an' help to keep 'em straight.'

'I wish Nat could be licked then,' cried the sister, fiercely, 'a-givin' us trouble when we're not in need of it! He went an' he looked at t' Rantan yester-e'en.--Mother was sore an' angered'-- 'an' then when she spoke to him he turned up sulky, and ran off in t' night, an' didn't get back home till late. I wouldn't ha' given him breakfast, that I wouldn't, until as he'd told me what he'd been an' done, but mother's that soft as she won't ask no questions, so there's no knowing what he'll be up to next. It's all along o' what the Squire says to him; he don't ought to have no favour, that he don't.'

'He wasn't i' mischief last night, as I can make out, Annie;' 'he told me as he'd been up to t' Manor Farm to take back a basket o' Miss Gillan's as had been left by mistake. It was that as made me uneasy like for him, for Alice had told me as he'd been to t' house, an' I was afeard as he might ha' fallen in wi' that Jim Gillan as is a-lodgin' there.'

A sudden movement like a quiver in his companion arrested his voice, and brought a cloud on his face, but Annie had turned herself towards the fireplace, and from where he sat he could not see how she looked. For a while he was silent, as if he were meditating, with his eyes fixed again on the red bricks of the floor.

'Alice she don't like 'em, these Gillans,' he said at last with an effort; 'she wishes they'd take 'emselves off and leave t' place; she says as we donno what they done in London, or what's the reason as have brought 'em here. They say as they've come to see Mr Lee i' Lindum, but if they're his nephy an' niece he don't take no heed to 'em; he's good an' respectable, and's got a deal o' money, an' it's happen he doesn't like 'em or their ways. They call 'emselves lady and genelman, but they're not a piece o' that; the girl's like a play-actor, wi' her eyes an' tricks; an' as for t' lad, he's not no good at all, he goes to t' town most evenings, as I hear. I don't like no strangers here, nor never did; t' village is best wi'out such folk as them.'

Again there was silence, whilst Annie leant on her pillow, with her work on her lap, and her face turned to the fire; whilst Tim, without trying to catch a sight of her face, looked hard at the bricks as if he were counting them. The storm which had been slowly rising all the morning, was beginning to beat in slow drops on the panes; from the room overhead could be heard some gentle movements, the footsteps of Jenny at her work. The increasing gloom may have served as encouragement, for Annie turned her face slowly towards her companion at length.

'Do you know--Mr Gillan?' she asked below her breath; and even as she spoke there rose in her pale cheeks the slow burning flush that tells of hidden fire. Tim's eyes were on her face, he appeared to be uneasy; it was only after a while that he could compel himself to speak.

'I--know him?--I've seen him oftens'--he muttered, brokenly; 'I'm likely to see him sin' I lodge in t' house; but I've never not gone to speak no word to him; he goes upon his way, and I go on mine.' He paused for a moment as if he had something on his mind whose utterance was almost more than he could compass.

'What dost mean?' she cried to him, with her eyes bright and sparkling, and her voice indescribably sharp in utterance, a tone and a manner that might have been sufficient to crush the courage of any questioner. But Tim was confident in his good intentions; and, moreover, he was not easily overwhelmed.

'I mean, Annie,' he replied, low and gravely,--with a gravity indeed that seemed beyond his years--'I mean as there's things as I don't much like to tell, an' yet as make me feel anxious over thee. It's only a night or two agone, as Alice says, as she were stannin' i' t' passage in t' dark, an' Jim Gillan come in fro' an evenin' in t' town, a-staggerin' an' a-talkin' as if he couldn't mind hissel'.... An' his words they was all upo' "Jenny Salter's daughter"--"he'd have Jenny Salter's pretty girl," he said--he called her "t' handsomest lass in all t' parish," an' said as he'd "get a sight o' her agen." I don't like to think, Annie, as thy mother's name an' thee should be made free like that upon such lips as his'n--I would as he hadn't got thee upon his mind, as thinks he's a gentleman's rights, a plague on him! Alice thinks he pays Molly to do what things he will, to sneak out wi' letters an' messages for him.'

'Ye think I write to him,' cried Annie in a frenzy, 'ye think as I meet him an' let him talk to me!--me as hasn't spoke with him sin' he came with his sister, an' lodged at t' Farm to be spied upon by all. What is it to me if he does think me pretty, I reckon as I can take care of mysel'? An' if he do write to me at all, what's that, so as I don't take it on mysel' to answer him? I tell thee, Tim Nicol, thee think'st a deal o' thysel'; thee'dst best keep thy hands from off thy neighbour's ways.'

'Well, good-day, Annie, I must be off,' he said; 'I'm thankful to hear what thou hast told to me--thou knowest it is a bad world, this of ours, and we've got to be careful and to mind our steps. Look after thyself, I can't think thou art strong, thou used not to have a face as pale as that!'

Annie raised for an instant a softened countenance, whose dark eyes glistened as if tears were not far. Her passionate anger had been like her brother's--the brother to whom she would not own resemblance--it would be inquiring too curiously to ask if it had not, like his, concealed a suppression of the truth. Tim did not go near her, or even take her hand, for out of his admiration for her sprang a certain reverence; he just gave for farewell a little, awkward nod, and put his blue cap on his head and turned away. Annie did not stay to look after him as he went; she turned her face to the pillow, and hid it there, and cried. Upstairs, poor Jenny, who had been settling drawers, with a delicate care that performed the task well, heard the door of the cottage shut, and at once determined that she would come down to her daughter's side again. 'I'm glad for her to have had a bit chat wi' Tim, it'll happen amuse her a bit, and do her good; I'm so dull always, and I'm not like to be better, whilst I'm still feelin' the bruise Rob gave to me. But if only the childer can do well, an' be happy, I'm sure it's no matter what becomes o' me.'

'If only the childer'--ah! anxious mother's longing, that stirred with her pulses as she went down the stairs, with a step as light, one might almost say as timid, as in the past days when she had been herself a girl. Annie heard the footsteps and raised herself from the pillow, removing with haste the trace of recent tears, for her nature, proud and impatient of sympathy, was accustomed to keep its sorrow to itself. Far away Nat was toiling wearily amongst wet vegetables, with resentful feelings against his mother and his home, and a conscious throbbing of excitement in his heart at the thought of an interview to which he had pledged himself. The guardian angel in blue cap and corduroys had delivered his warning to both lass and lad; but, that warning delivered, he could not stay for further guidance, but was compelled to turn back to the Manor Farm again.

AT THE FARM

THE Farm was now lying in the full sunlight of noon, for the storm had swept by, and again the sky was clear, although grass was dripping and branches shone with moisture, which the sunlight had not yet had time to dry. Above it the sky was of deepest, clearest blue, and the yard at the back appeared to be bathed in light, which shone on the grey and white pigeons sunning themselves on the roofs, and consoling themselves now the rain was over. Beyond the yard was the kitchen-garden, and behind that rose the heads of some trees belonging to the Squire--a row of trees which Alice Robson did not favour, because they shut out the view of the sunset from her room. On the right, the yard-door opened upon the road near the school, down which were running the children, just released; whilst the smoke from the school-house, where dinner was no doubt being prepared, was intensely blue against the dark trees of the Hall. A pleasant yard! with its noontide lights and shadows, its roofs of house, outhouses, stables on each side of the square, with its whirr of pigeons, soon startled by a footstep, and its great black dog, stretching himself on the ground. In the noontide sunlight all seemed lazy and at peace, the more so since there was little business to be done.

For though Mr Robson had been a skilful farmer in his day, and indeed owned much land as a tenant of the Squire, he had been incapacitated some years before by an accident, which had nearly cost him his life. The land he still tenanted was farmed by his eldest son, who lived in a smaller farm-house near at hand; and to this lesser place most signs of business had retreated, leaving the Manor Farm to be quiet and at peace. Mr Robson lived there, as he had lived all his life, and with him his wife, and his pretty daughter Alice; and, since his sons had grown up and left the place, Mrs Robson had taken lodgers as an occupation for herself--Tim Nicol at first, and, that experiment proving successful, the two young strangers who had come from 'Lon'on town.' Whether that experiment would also be successful remained to be proved--there seemed some cause for doubt.

The Manor Farm, as a house, was of no very great extent, though larger than farm-houses generally are, and much improved by the alterations and additions which successive tenants had thought fit to make. In front it had gables and square windows which made recesses within, and an old green porch which was now gay with geraniums; and, standing as it did on the summit of the hill, it looked down over a wide extent of Fen. From the upper windows, if you awoke early in the morning, you could see white mists beneath a glow of sunrise; or, possibly, at a later period of the year, miles of water, the unfortunate result of autumn floods. These front bedrooms were the best and the largest in the house, and for some time had been left untenanted; but, just now, they had been recently given over to the use of the lady and gentleman from 'Lon'on.' That lady and gentleman had now inhabited them for a week, and had been the cause of much speculation, as may be supposed. It was not imagined that they would stay there long, for Lon'on people do not like country ways.

And yet even Lon'on people might have found themselves content with the brilliant flowers that were the garden's pride, with the sweep of green field beyond, vivid in the sunlight, with the corn-fields, and the wide-stretching distance, blue against the sky. In Lon'on there is no such distance or such silence, such clearness of atmosphere without the breath of smoke, such sudden gleams upon grass and golden corn, such songs of blackbird or of thrush to break the stillness. The people of Lon'on have to content themselves with Lanes in which there is not the smallest blade of grass, with the tramp of men, and with music bought with shillings, with the glare of footlights, and the rush of cabs and trains. It is well if these pleasures do not leave them blind, deaf, and senseless to the earth and sky, so that when they are in the midst of the beauty of the country, the beauty of the country has no voice or charm for them.

It is to be supposed that it had little voice or charm for one discontented wanderer from the great city's streets--Miss Tina Gillan, retired to her apartment, and leaning against the window of her room. Before her the sunlight shone on flowers and grass, on meadows, corn-fields, and wide blue distance. She let her glance wander over the extent of country before she turned away to express her thought to herself. 'To think,' she cried, petulantly, as she flung up her arms, 'that I should have sunk as low as a village in the Fens!'

But even to a lady who has lived in London and who has been brought down to the level of the Fen, there are some consolations and alleviations that persist in haunting the most dismal paths in life. Tina almost smiled as, on turning round her head, her eyes caught sight of the litter in her room, the half-emptied trunk whose miscellaneous contents were lying strewn in disorder on the floor. For mixed with various translations of French novels, and hairpins, and combs, and curling pins, and even rouge, there were ribbons and feathers, flowers, gloves and fans, whilst the bed was covered with dresses and hats. From out of this varied assortment of articles a beautiful toilette was to be compounded--an attire so elegant and complete in all its details that it should even soften the heart of Mr Lee. For Tina was going with her brother to visit her relation--the uncle whom she had never yet beheld.

'I do love London,' cried Tina, with little dances--she was a small, light creature, who could dance easily--'I love the streets, and the theatres, and the lights, and all the nice boys who fall in love with me! If I was to do what Mr Markham says I would be able to be a London girl--he would bring out my voice and make a fortune of it; and then I'd be on the boards for all my life. But then he keeps saying that I must work, and work, and I hate work, I can't bear to do with it! With Mr Lee's money I should be a lady, and could dress up in silk, and do all things that I like!'

Yes--'be a lady--' this was the sole ambition that had sunk deeply into the wild girl's heart, the solitary longing that had worked in her since she had been able to choose things for herself. Brought up in the midst of the lives of adventurers, it had been impossible that she should not be aware of all the hardships, the possible wretchedness that attend too often on professional careers. Brought up by a father, adventurer and vagabond, who had been artist, musician, actor, as inclination prompted him; by a mother who had left a safe home to share his lot, and had ever afterwards regretted her choice openly, she had early learned to set an unspeakable value on the money that does not ask for years of labour, but is freely and graciously inherited. Ever since, in her early youth, she had heard of her uncle's wealth, it had represented a means of obtaining that graciousness; since, if he left his money to her brother and herself, they would be able to be a lady and a gentleman and would not be obliged to work. The years, as they passed, increased this confidence--her uncle was a man, and all men were good to her.

So, now that her father and mother had both been dead a year--the father and mother who had not shared her hope, who, judging from their own hardly-earned experiences, had refused to appeal to her uncle for money or for help--now that she had been left with her brother to struggle as they could, and their money was almost spent, and themselves almost destitute, it was natural that they should at length resolve on one grand effort on which to stake their lives. They had come down from London to the village next to Lindum, in which town Mr Lee had lived all his life, and from thence had addressed to him a touching letter, describing their poverty and their orphanhood. To that letter they had not as yet received an answer--although they had felt that it was beautifully expressed--and so, undaunted, they had agreed in council, in person to storm the breach and win the day. Which is to say, they were about, that afternoon, to call at Mr Lee's house, and at least leave cards on him.

One does not live in London poverty without gaining some knowledge of the world and its ways; one has not haunted back streets and theatre dressing-rooms without possessing at least some experience of life. Tina's head was empty of solid furniture, but it could be shrewd enough in spite of that emptiness; and she had begun to perceive that it was needful to make some decided move, in order to avert various dangers of which she was aware. It was not only that both her brother and herself were short of money, and that they had not yet paid for their board or their rooms; or that it would be well to reply to the suspicions of the village by exhibiting Mr Lee as an affectionate relative--there was another peril of which she was vaguely conscious, although even its outline had not been shown to her. For some few months she had suspected that her brother had become involved in some secret attachment of whose nature she was ignorant, but which she imagined to have considerable influence upon him--she had been therefore much relieved when he had willingly consented to assist her in her scheme, and to accompany her into the country, and had himself proposed Warton, the next village to Lindum, as their place of residence. No suspicion of any secrecy on his part had crossed her mind; she had been only too glad to accept his escort, and to imagine him delivered from any adverse influence. And now .... now .... she scarcely knew what she suspected, but there was an uneasy suspicion in her heart, a lurking doubt from which she could not free herself, and yet which she could take no means to satisfy. The altered manner of her brother to herself, the conversations with Molly in which she had detected him, the confusion of the servant when she had questioned her--these things, if not amounting to absolute conviction, afforded at least most ample room for thought. In one of the conversations to which she listened secretly--for no shame restrained her from acting as a spy--the name of Salter had reached her ears more than once, and she had stored it in her mind for future use. The unexpected appearance of the handsome village lad connected itself with her doubts and fears; she imagined him to be her brother's messenger, and was not surprised that he owned the remembered name. And although the ingenuous manner and indignation of the boy compelled her to believe that his denial was true, she considered him to be a chance thread in her hands by which she might unravel a tangled skein at last. 'I'll get it all out of him,' she cried, 'see if I don't; I'm not unskilful in making fools of boys!'

As, saying these words, Tina pauses for a moment, with the novels and hair-pins in disorder at her feet, with her pretty hands twisted behind her back, her face uplifted, and her dark eyes bright with thoughts--in that instant's repose let us seize the opportunity to claim for our own the picture that she makes. A dainty creature! small, slim, lithe, and dark, with a foreign grace, and a southern colouring, with full lips, whose redness relieves the darkness of her face, and with glowing eyes that have sparks and glints of light! Seeing her in this moment one might fancy her to be some wild-spirited, capricious, playful child, full of possible passion, and love of reckless daring, not easily guided, and still less easily restrained. But Tina had other moods--alas! poor girl--which could also find their expression in her face, a weary bitterness that could make her lips cold and hard, could rob her cheek of its freshness and her features of their youth. And then, besides, if she ever found herself alone with any member of the sex that was not her own, there was yet another expression to be observed in her eyes, which could impart to them the most attractive charm--a look of the softest, tenderest sympathy, which held as by magic the male glance bent on hers. If you, being a woman, not a man to be fascinated, could have seen those soft eyes and those sympathising lips, something like a doubt must have risen in your mind as to what the meaning of that tender glance could be. It meant mischief.

Reckless, capricious, improvident, with no education in the laws of right and wrong, with a love of amusement which had never been restrained by any fear for another besides herself--Tina might have been held, in spite of comparative youth and innocence, to represent one part of the darker side of life, the type of woman who through all succeeding ages has been able to be the danger, if not the ruin, of man. For though such a character presents an open snare, it is yet a snare into which feet fall easily.

But still let us think for a moment of Tina as, at length attired, she turns to leave her room, with one sidelong glance just thrown backwards at the looking-glass, as brightly and quickly as if it had come from a bird. Above her hair, which was very short, and tied behind in a knot which rippled out in curls, she had placed a little black hat with its outline softened by a black ostrich feather that curled all round the crown. Her dress was also black, an old figured silk, for she thought it best to seem in some sort of mourning; and a silver bangle was clasped upon her wrist above the long, black, embroidered glove she wore. One more thing we must notice, the daintiest black umbrella, which had at the top of its handle a pretty silver knob. Thus attired, Tina's dress could not be accused of brightness, or of any attempt at unwarrantable display--yet it must be owned that there was still in her appearance that look of an adventuress which seemed to belong to her. If she was conscious of this fact, I do not know that she regretted it, for she liked people to turn and look at her in the street, and if you have nothing more than an ordinary appearance, it is at least possible that you may not be seen.

So, thus attired, and moving daintily, with a face more thoughtful than usual, and her great dark eyes shining beneath the shadow of her hat, little Tina was able to leave her room at last. She went slowly down the stairs, meditating as she went, for there were consequences of serious importance depending on the interview she was about to dare to-day. At the foot of the stairs her brother stood waiting for her--a young man whose appearance was not as much like that of a foreigner as her own; well-dressed, supple-figured, with delicate hands and features, and languid eyelids that were scarcely raised as she joined him. They did not exchange a single word or glance, but, moving together, went out into the yard.

AN AFTERNOON VISITOR

SOME hours afterwards occurred an extraordinary event; a visitor appeared at the front-door of the Farm.

To explain why this was a wonder it is necessary to state that the front rooms of the house were for the most part unoccupied; the family, especially since Mr Robson's illness, inhabiting only a few apartments at the back, so that the village visitors, being well aware of this fact, were accustomed to approach by the great doors of the yard. To-day, however, the sound of the crunch of wheels drew all the household with one consent to the front--Mrs Robson, her daughter, and Molly, the man-of-all-work, and the boy. These five comprised the whole household that afternoon, for Tim had gone to the town, and Mr Robson was away.

The sound of hoofs and wheels came steadily round the drive--they belonged to a powerful horse and high dog-cart, within which were seated an elderly man, who was driving, and a companion who appeared to be a servant, though he was not in livery. The attention of the driver seemed to be occupied with every detail of the country round the house, with the brilliant flowers in the garden, and the geraniums in the porch. For the afternoon sunlight shone upon the flowers, the pink and white stocks, the roses, the red poppies, the tall white lilies that stood above the rest, and drooped fragrant heads of stainless purity--whilst this fore-ground of flowers was intensified by the wide country fields that stretched away into blue. The eyes of the driver were occupied with these things, whilst the wheels of his dog-cart went crunching round the drive; and then, with a sudden movement of a wrist that still was strong, he pulled up his powerful horse before the door.

He was an elderly man, as has been said, and there was no great appearance of refinement in his face, nor had the look of his vehicle and horse the assumption of any outward show or pride. But his features at any rate, if harsh and strong, had something in them to impress a gazer's eyes; and he raised his hat with deferential courtesy, as Alice Robson came out into the porch. The slender girl in her neat, quiet working-dress was a figure not inharmonious with the flowers.

'I am afraid, sir,' said Alice, after an instant of the confusion with which her modesty received an unexpected compliment, 'as you're askin' after Mr Gillan an' his sister, as have left us to-day to drive into the town. You'll perhaps know the gentleman, sir, they're going to see--he's Mr Lee, at the top o' Lindum Hill.'

Alice had stepped out to give directions to the man, so Mrs Robson in her turn came forward, not offended by these observations on her house, which she considered to be jests befitting 'quality.' Mrs Robson was a big woman, firm and solid, with every capacity ripe for self-defence, but she had old-fashioned ideas on social questions, which imparted to her conduct some inconsistency. At the present moment she was so far from indignation that she was only anxious to improve the occasion.

'Ah, Miss,' said Miss Gillan's visitor, turning round to Alice, with the freedom of manner of one who does not fear to give offence, 'I'm willing enough to see Miss Gillan's room when I've such a quiet maid to show the way. You make me mind of the days when I went courting--I don't want to tell ye how long that was ago--I'd set my eyes on just such another girl, an' I made up my mind I'd have her or I'd die. Ye see I'd not spoken to her in my life, I saw her with old Mr Long, an' made sure she belonged to him, so what do I do but write to him one mornin' and offer his girl all the folly that I had. An' then did I dress myself right down smart and beautiful, and go out a-courting like any fool of them all.'

He paused to laugh with his loud guffaw, his two entertainers remaining silent at his side.

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