Women of the Country Part 4

"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 b.u.t.terflies 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 att.i.tude 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-fas.h.i.+oned 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. "n.o.body 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 compet.i.tions (he's always one for going in for these guessing compet.i.tions 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.

CHAPTER XI

Next day at daybreak the country was whitened by a light mist. The birds sang incessantly with long ecstatic calling from throats which had drunk the air of the dawn and retained something of its quality. Coolness refreshed the day and strengthened the eyes, and one's ears were opened to hear from every side the chorus which in a more varied landscape one took as a part of the glittering moving world outside the house.

Anne unbolted the house-door. The dog rose from the hearth and stretched itself slowly, yawning and shutting its mouth with a snap. Then it walked to the door, waiting until it was dragged open grating on the sand of the floor. The cool morning air came in like a visitor. The old dog pushed against Anne as she stepped outside, sneezed, yawned again, and lay down in the suns.h.i.+ne to finish his nap.

"Haven't you had enough sleep yet, Lion?" said Anne. "Look, what a beautiful day it is! Why, there's Mary on the road already," she added, looking over the low gate.

Mary was coming straight down the middle of the road, her black-and-white terrier sniffing on all sides and pulling the cord by which she held him. When he perceived the presence of the other dog he began to advance by leaps, uttering little yelps between each like a child's jumping toy. Lion, with the superiority of a larger dog, raised himself without hurry and advanced to meet the terrier, who excitedly whined and sniffed about him.

"Good morning," said Anne, "you're out early."

"Yes," replied Mary, standing quite still in the position in which she had halted. "I came over the fields. The gra.s.s is very wet though.

There's a mist, surely."

"Yes, a thick one," said Anne, "but the sun's coming through. Listen to the birds. Did you ever hear anything like them?"

"I was out collecting the eggs at five o'clock this morning," returned Mary, "and I think I never heard them so busy. The earth was all a-hum with them. They seemed as though they _must_ be listened to, whatever happened."

Both women stood listening.

"I came this way because I was going to leave my s.h.i.+lling for Lord Axton's wedding present," said Mary, after a moment's silence.

"Did they come and ask _you_ for one?" said Anne. "I think they ought to be ashamed of themselves."

"There's been some grumbling about it," said Mary. "I think myself the agent should have left it to those who wanted. I suppose we could have said No, but n.o.body likes to. It isn't as if people like them want any wedding presents we can give them, and a s.h.i.+lling means a lot to some people."

"It's the agent that wants to make a show," said Anne. "I think sometimes that if those rich people knew how their wedding presents were procured," she went on in the stilted manner habitual to her when wis.h.i.+ng to express a formal thought, "they would find little pleasure in them."

"Mr Burton's given 10," said Mary. "They'll have a good sum." She paused, distrustful.

Mary, who was known to all the country side, and who could do nothing secretly, seldom spoke of the affairs of her neighbours. Whether she was by nature a little taciturn, or whether her blindness, before which so much pa.s.sed un.o.bserved, which cut her off from the possibility of forming a judgment, had increased her natural modesty and diffidence, she drew back into silence where others were discussed. But the actual difficulties of living, which she daily and silently surmounted, brought her so closely into touch with reality that she invariably saw, not the fault or its circ.u.mstances, but the practical difficulties issuing from it. But she had unthinkingly stumbled upon the scandal, and she went on, "I was sorry to hear of Jane Evans forgetting herself like she has."

"Poor girl," said Anne; "she seems so certain that it'll last. What was so sad to me, was that a girl brought up as she was by her grandmother should have so little sense of her position."

"She's happy, I suppose," said Mary, "and there's no need to look further. She'll find it hard to earn a living if he gets tired of her."

"He's not an ill-natured man," said Anne. "You feel as though if he'd been brought up to have a respect for good behaviour he wouldn't have got loose so easily. He thinks he's doing a generous thing, and giving Jane a good time, without thinking what the result must be to her good character. He doesn't like to see people unhappy, as he calls unhappiness. He hasn't learnt the results of sin in his own experience, and won't look at them in others. He kept on telling me she'd got a servant of her own, and needn't do anything but fancy-work. They'd neither of them hear anything I could say. I can't understand how they came to know one another at the beginning. It seems to have come about without anyone's knowing till it was too late."

"He seems a joking sort of man," said Mary. "Once he came up to buy a paper, and gave me half a sovereign instead of sixpence to change, and when I told him he'd made a mistake he laughed a lot, and said he wanted to know if I could tell the difference. He never sees me now without speaking of it and laughing."

"Yes," said Anne; "he's fond of rough jokes of his own making, and thinks that giving people material things makes them happy," she continued in her bookish manner. "I remember just such another man as him, a boisterous sort of man, whose old father was dying, who took the old man out to look at a new grand-stand they were making. Poor old man!

It was pitiful to see him in the presence of eternity, looking at a new grand-stand."

"I suppose, being as I am," said Mary, "there's a lot of temptations been spared to me."

"I wish we were all as kind and charitable as you," said Anne. "I never heard you say a hard thing of anybody all the years I've known you."