Probation

‘What ails thee, Myles?’ asked his sister, as he came into the kitchen.

‘Me? Nothing, lass. Here’s your straps. The new one has had a kind of inauguration, but I reckon it will have done it good more likely than harm.’

‘What dost mean?’ she asked, staring at him.

‘Oh, nothing!’ said he, with a slight laugh, as he leaned against the mantelpiece with his arms folded behind him, his favourite attitude.

‘Hast changed my book, Myles?’ inquired Edmund.

‘Eh, I clean forgot it,’ replied Myles, with a start. ‘I’m very sorry. Fact is, I was called off, and I never thought of the book again.’

‘Well, it doesn’t matter,’ answered Edmund, who was in high good humour at his mother’s absence.

Mary also seemed less constrained, though nothing would have induced her to own that she was glad her mother had left them. She moved about more freely, and as she passed to and fro, ‘putting things to rights,’ she was heard to sing snatches of no less a song of praise than the ‘Old Hundredth.’ And when her household work was done (for Myles’s adventure had not taken long, and it was now barely eight o’clock) she brought her work, and sat down with her brothers; and though there were shadows brooding over them all—darker shadows, and deeper, than they imagined—they formed a very happy trio.

Mary especially felt happy and contented. She was devoted to her brothers—loved Edmund with a mother’s and a sister’s love combined, while she looked upon Myles as her ideal of all that was good and manly. He had given her no cause to think otherwise. With regard to her own merits, she was humble; but let any one impeach in the slightest degree those of Myles or Edmund, and she became fierce, proud, and resentful. Something in Myles’s mien to-night disturbed her, she knew not why.

‘Wilt have thi pipe, lad? It’s theer; I’st get it in a minute.’

‘No, thank you, Molly. I don’t care about smoking to-night.’

‘Did iver ony one see sich a chap?’ said Mary, secretly filled with pride in him. ‘He ne’er drinks, and he ne’er hardly smokes, and he ne’er does nowt disagreeable.’

‘He hasn’t a redeeming vice,’ said Myles, ironically, watching her fingers as she plied her needle, and forcing himself to speak, though he did it half mechanically. What was she making? he asked.

‘A shirt.’

‘For whom?’

‘Why, for thee, lad!’ said Mary, with a laugh and a look at him; and Myles returned the look with a smile, and instantly became lost in a long train of reflection.

Edmund and Mary loved him, and looked up to him as to a superior being, as the centre figure in their lives, and the person around whom clustered their hopes, fears, and loves. Beyond them, out of their circle, was Adrienne Blisset; was it in the nature of things that she could ever behold him with eyes like theirs? No, never; because she was instructed, and they were ignorant. Well, was adoration the best thing for a man? Was it not better to adore? Could there be any shame in the worship of a woman like Adrienne? He decided, no. It was not the giving up of independence—it was the bending to a superior being, which, when that attitude was self-elected, was the highest independence. Here all was secure, safe, assured. Nothing would ever change the love of these two for him: outside there, where Adrienne was, all was storm, cloudy, feverish, uncertain: he knew not what she thought of him—what feelings or no-feelings her gracious manner might cover.

He had defended her—from the first moment of their intercourse his attitude had been made by circumstances a protecting one: he felt at once an inferiority and a superiority to her, which two things do surely form part of the primal basis of pure and holy love. He stood still, leaning against the chimney-piece, thinking of what he had this night done for her sake, and his face flushed at the remembrance.

‘Can she ever be like another woman to me?’ he thought. ‘It is impossible. If it were possible I should be a clod.’ For what he had done counted for something with Myles: he was not one of those heroes who will thrash you half a dozen fellows, twice as big as themselves, and then require to be reminded of such a trifle.

He was not quite sure, even now, that he felt unmixed satisfaction in the deed. To thrash a cowardly bully, who seemed unable to express himself without the assistance of copious volleys of oaths, was one thing, and Myles contemplated with some complacency the fact that he had done it. But if any evil consequences should ensue to Adrienne!

After a moment he reassured himself. He did not believe that Spenceley knew her name. He had not mentioned it. Myles would have died rather than utter it himself in that company—that would indeed have been a casting of pearls before swine, of which he was naturally incapable.

If Mr. Spenceley chose to prosecute him he would own himself guilty, and take his punishment—anything rather than drag her name into the discussion; but he doubted much whether Spenceley would wish to draw public attention so pointedly to the fact that he had been flogged by a workman in the billiard-room of his own club. That would have been to expose his own brutal insolence and violence, and to hint, moreover, at some discreditable deed in the background which had called forth the attack. Myles began to wonder how that beautiful sister of his, whom he had spoken to that morning—could it be that morning?—would receive her brother. Then his thoughts wandered off again to Adrienne.

‘At any rate, I can’t face her yet. I must stay quiet awhile until it has blown over. Perhaps, as she’s so very quiet, and goes out so little, she’ll not hear about it; and then I could call, and not mention it, and it would all pass over.’

A knock at the back door roused him.

Mary lifted her head, and cried ‘Come in!’ but after a pause the knock was renewed.

‘It’s Harry,’ observed Edmund. ‘Thou mun open to him, Myles, or he’ll go on knocking for half an hour.’

‘Ay, poor lad, I suppose he will,’ said Myles, going towards the door, while Mary maintained absolute silence, continuing her work.

Myles soon returned, accompanied by a young man, slight and somewhat delicate-looking, pale-faced and fair-complexioned, whose calm, open countenance was pleasant to look upon, despite a certain vagueness in its expression—not a want of intelligence, or anything approaching vacancy, but rather as if something escaped him and left him apart from other people.

‘Good evenin’, Mary—evenin’, Ned,’ he said, in the very softest and gentlest of voices.

‘Sit down, Harry, and have supper with us,’ said Myles; and when he spoke, Harry Ashworth’s infirmity became apparent.

Myles had to go close up to him and speak, not very loudly, but very slowly and clearly. He was almost deaf, in consequence of a fever he had had when a boy of twelve. He was twenty-five now, and the weakness increased each year: it was probable that in a few more years he would be stone-deaf. He was a frequent visitor at the Heywoods’, and a great friend of Myles and Edmund; Mary and he had little to say to each other beyond the words of greeting and farewell.

There was a certain constraint this evening immediately after his entrance, on account of what had happened in regard to Mrs. Heywood, but this constraint was dissipated by Harry himself.

‘I hear your mother has gone,’ he remarked.

Myles assented in a grave sort of way.

Mary’s cheeks flushed, and she did not raise her eyes from her work.

‘She thinks of being married soon, then?’

‘I expect so,’ said Myles.

‘Ah,’ said Harry; and then, without any embarrassment, changed the subject.

‘We may expect changes soon, Myles, I reckon.’

‘What changes?’ asked Myles, who had come close to Harry, while the latter had placed his chair beside Edmund’s sofa.

‘The master’s coming back—so I hear.’

‘Oh, him!’ said Myles, again trying to turn up his nose, and again failing to do so.

Harry laughed, and Mary remarked,

‘Eh, but I could like to seen yon chap. He mun be some and clever.’

‘Molly thinks he must be clever,’ said Myles to Harry, who nodded.

‘I don’t see why he shouldn’t be, choose how. I think you’re a bit hard on him, Myles. We know no harm on him.’

‘Yes, we do. We know he’s neglected his business and his property. He’s six-and-twenty if he’s a day, and he’s never looked in upon us since he came into possession. He’s a gawmless chap—he must be.’

‘Well, we’st see that when he comes. Have you heard as Mr. Lippincott, his health’s failin’, and he’s ordered abroad? They say he can’t live.’

Mr. Lippincott was the sitting member for Thanshope.

‘Nay, I heard nothing of that,’ said Myles, reflectively. ‘Then, suppose he dies, we shall have a fresh election.’

‘Ay; and I have heard,’ pursued Harry, not without a twinkle of humour in his eyes, ‘as it’s possible Mr. Mallory may stand, if Mr. Lippincott resigns or dies.’

‘What!’ ejaculated Myles. ‘And who is to oppose him?’

‘Spenceley—Bargaining Jack.’

‘Why, Myles, thou’d be hard set to know who to vote for,’ said Mary, innocently.

Myles suddenly recovered his presence of mind, and shouted to Harry,

‘You’ve heard wrong, lad. Mallorys are all Tories, and always have been—it’s bred in the bone; and Bargaining Jack reckons to be a Conservative too, so far as he’s anything. Conservatives manage better than us. They would never run two candidates in Thanshope—in fact, they only run one for the look of the thing. They can’t get the wedge in here.’

‘Well, I have heard too,’ continued Harry, ‘as how Mallory is a Radical—a Liberal, choose how.’

‘That I’ll never believe till I hear him say it himself,’ said Myles, decidedly. ‘And from all I’ve heard, I think you’ve been misinformed, Harry.’

‘Well, perhaps I have,’ said Harry, peaceably. ‘It doesn’t matter to me which way it is.’

Nor did the others appear to take much interest in the subject, for it dropped, and Mary began to get supper ready.

At that meal the conversation was carried on almost entirely between Harry and Myles. Harry was a spinner, in receipt of a large wage. He was, as has been said, a pleasant, comely-looking young man, and if not very robust, did not look unhealthy. Many of his friends wondered why he did not marry; for he was turned twenty-five. He and Myles and Mary Heywood were beginning to be looked upon as drifting into the old maid and bachelor ranks.

At all times, early—terribly early—marriages are the rule in Lancashire; but in those halcyon years of plenty and golden prosperity preceding the American Civil War, they had been more numerous than ever.

After supper Edmund, stretching out his arms, said in a muffled kind of voice,

‘Eh, I say, it is some and hot here. I wonder what it’s like outside.’

‘Why, the air’s pleasant enough on the Townfield,’ said Harry.

‘I could like to feel it,’ remarked Edmund. ‘I’ve not been out these three days.’

‘Well, come along and take a turn,’ said Myles, good-naturedly, well knowing that Edmund’s motive for suggesting such a thing at that time was that the dusk was rapidly gathering: there were fewer people about, and he was less likely to be observed.

Edmund jumped at the offer, and Myles, giving him his cap, and taking his own, drew his brother’s arm through his, shouting to Harry,

‘Wilt come with us, or wilt stay with Molly?’

‘I’st stay and have a pipe till you come in, if Mary’s no objection,’ said Harry; and Mary, by way of answer, pointed to a china basket on the mantelpiece, in which stood half a dozen neatly made ‘spills.’

These spills were a mystery to the household. Mary gave it out that she liked to have them. They looked tidy like, and did for lighting the pipes; but it was a well-known fact that Edmund did not smoke at all, that Myles preferred to light his pipe with a coal or a match, and that the only visitor who enjoyed the privilege of smoking in that kitchen was Harry Ashworth. Yet no one ever suggested that the lighters were kept in stock for Harry’s benefit, though Edmund had been perilously near doing so once or twice. Had he or any one else uttered that theory, it is impossible to imagine what Mary would have said—possibly nothing at all, for she was, in practice at least, a strong upholder of the theory that ‘silence is golden.’

The two brothers went out, leaving the door open, and a waft of the somewhat cooler outside air penetrated to the kitchen. The gas was not lighted; the fire had burnt low; the room was almost dark. Mary could no longer see to work, and sat, with her head thrown a little backwards, in the high-backed, red-cushioned rocking-chair. The clock ticked: everything was very still. It was Harry who spoke first, in his soft voice.

‘Warm and close, this here weather, Mary.’

‘Ay,’ said Mary, ‘’tis.’

‘How does Ned get on?’ he asked; for though she did not speak very loudly, she spoke deliberately, and he appeared to hear her easily.

‘He feels th’ heat aboon a bit,’ replied Mary.

‘Ay! I dare say.’

A pause, while Harry puffed away at his pipe, and Mary offered no further observations on men or things.

‘I took a long walk o’ Sunday—yesterday,’ observed Harry at last.

‘Did you? Where to?’

‘Reet o’er th’ moors to th’ top o’ Blackrigg.’

‘It’s to’ far. Thou’rt none strong eno’ for sich like walks.’

‘Yea, but I am. I set me down on the heather, and listened wi’ all my might, and I thowt I heard a bird singing.’

‘Happen a lark?’ said Mary, after a perceptible pause.

‘Happen. I should ha’ gone to church in th’ evenin’, but I can’t hear—nowt distinct, that’s to say—and I’m a’most inclined to think that I didn’t hear yon lark, but only thowt I did, from memory, thou known.’

‘Ay,’ assented Mary.

‘And when I go into church, and hear the organ buzzin’ and th’ voices all mixed up wi’ it, and can’t make out what it is, it fair moithers me; same as when I look up, and see th’ parson speakin’, and don’t know what it’s about.’

‘Ay,’ said Mary, laconically as ever, but this time there was the faintest possible vibration in her voice.

And there was another long pause, while Mary’s eyelids drooped. He did not see that—it was too dark; and had he seen it, he could not have known that those eyelids were sore with repressed tears, which burnt them, and which she would not allow to flow.

‘Sometimes,’ his voice broke in again, ‘I get discontented. I’m main fond o’ music, as you know, Mary.’

‘Ay, I know thou art.’

‘And it troubles me above a bit sometimes as I should be deaf, for it just takes away my greatest pleasure. Sometimes I wish I’d been blind instead.’

No answer from Mary, till Harry, in a hesitating voice, said,

‘What dost think, Mary? Is it very wrong to have such thoughts?’

‘No, I dunnot,’ replied Mary. ’ I call it very nateral. If I was deaf, I reckon I should make more noise about it than you do. I wonder what them chaps is doin.’ It’s time they was comin’ in.’

‘Don’t thou go out. I’ll find ’em, and tell ’em, for I mun be goin’ too,’ said Harry, rising.

Mary had begun to poke the fire violently, and now let the poker fall with a loud rattle, as Harry, without her knowing it, had advanced close to her, so that her elbow struck against his outstretched hand.

‘Dule tak’ th’ fire-irons!’ said she, impatiently. ‘I conna think what ails ’em. Good neet to you, if you mun be going,’ she added, shaking hands with him, and, as soon as he was gone, lighting the gas.

Presently her brothers came in. The house was locked up. Mary went to bed, followed by Edmund. Myles was left by the dying-out kitchen fire, with a book on the table, which he never opened, but sat till far into the night, living through some of those strange hours of still, silent, yet vivid, rushing, mental life which come to all of us sometimes in our youth, and which are like no other hours in our experience.