Probation

After that evening Myles found himself in a position which he at least found full of difficulties. Two things happened, both of which he had looked upon as probable; the news of what had happened spread, and Frederick Spenceley did not prosecute. The waiter who had allowed Myles to go into the billiard-room was dismissed; the billiard-marker who had stood by shared the same fate.

It would be difficult to guess what object, real or supposed, was gained by this measure; but it seemed to afford great satisfaction to many minds. Spenceley found it convenient to leave home for some weeks, and Myles heard no more of his share in the transaction.

There were endless tales in circulation—the facts, the names, the causes of the affair, all got mixed up in the wildest and most inextricable confusion, as in such cases they always do. The principals maintained absolute silence, and let report work what wonders it would or could.

They adhered to the precept, and the result was that they and their grievances were soon completely obscured in the buzz of talk, conjecture, wrong guesses, and wild surmises which gathered about them like a thick cloud. One thing soon became apparent; and, once secure of that, Myles cared nothing for the rest. Adrienne’s name was not known. The cause of the fracas was generally supposed to be a woman; but the tale which gained the greatest favour was one taking the side of the workman—that mysterious ‘workman’ whose name had somehow disappeared in the midst of contradictory reports, and whom no one could distinctly specify, because there were so many workmen in Thanshope. How was a genteel person to know one linen jacket, or its wearer, from another? This report, which preserved a kind of likeness amidst all its variations, was to the effect that Frederick Spenceley had deserved his thrashing; for that he had been taking undue liberties with the young man’s sweetheart—and her name was Sally Rogers, was Frances Alice Kershaw, and she was a dressmaker, was a mill hand, and lived in half a dozen places, and worked in as many factories, quite certainly and positively; she was very pretty, and he was very jealous; or, she was not a particularly good-looking girl, but Fred Spenceley had had words with the young man before, and had wished to insult him.

Myles maintained a rigid silence upon the subject, even when Mary came in one day in a state of unusual excitement, exclaiming,

‘Eh! Ned, Myles, have ye heerd tell o’ what’s happened?’

‘What?’

‘Jack Spenceley’s lad has had such a leathering,’ said Mary; and told the rest of it with much excitement and volubility, for her.

Edmund manifested a lively interest in the story, and Myles admitted indifferently that he had heard something about it.

They were, however, not much given to gossiping at that house, and the subject soon dropped.

Then came Myles’s other difficulty. He did not know whether boldly to go and call at Mr. Blisset’s, as he longed and desired to do, or whether to remain away. He plagued himself with wondering what she thought about it, and then tried to believe that she had perhaps not even heard of it—her life was so very retired, she saw and heard so little of what was going on outside. Then he might go? But suppose she did know, and he appeared as if he came to be thanked and made a hero of? He contradicted himself ten times a day; decided to go—to stay—to go—and stayed because he absolutely could not decide which was best.

So the days went on until Saturday, and he had not had a glimpse of her—only the remembrance of her grateful eyes and the pressure of her hand, as she bade him good-bye at her uncle’s gate before it had all happened. When Saturday afternoon came, his longing to see her was growing almost unbearable, and he had the sensation that if he went out of the house, his feet would turn mechanically towards Blake Street.

It was Saturday afternoon; the clockhands pointed to five; Mary’s ‘cleaning’ was over, and the house was quiet. Edmund lay upon his sofa with a headache, and Myles was softly reading to him, glad of some monotonous occupation which should divert his thoughts somewhat from the topic which at present tyrannised over them.

Edmund had been reading in a magazine about the works of the Brontë sisters, and Myles had procured him ‘Jane Eyre’ and ‘Wuthering Heights’ from the free library. ‘Wuthering Heights’ lay as yet untouched; it had not yet laid its strong and dreadful spell on the boy’s spirit. They were deep in ‘Jane Eyre.’ It proved a spell which caused Edmund to forget his headache, and enchained the attention of Myles himself, with its passionate expression of the equality of soul and soul, and its eager conviction of the supremacy of mind over the differences of rank or place. Its burning radicalism went straight to Myles’s soul, while its deep poetry touched Edmund’s inmost heart.

At this moment they were wandering with ‘Jane’ over the summer moors, homeless, friendless, foodless, penniless; and they had forgotten all outside things with her, as she reposed herself beneath the broad sky, on the friendly bosom of her mother—Nature.

‘Hist!’ said Edmund, suddenly, ‘there’s a knock.’

Myles paused. Some one knocked at the front door. Mary had heard it, and rose from her rocking-chair.

‘Thee go on wi’ thi’ readin’,’ said she, going out; and they heard her open the door, and a low voice—a woman’s voice—ask her some question.

With an inarticulate exclamation, Myles half rose, the book open in his hand, and as Edmund was in the act of inquiring what was the matter, Mary came in again, looking rather bewildered, and saying, as she turned to some one who followed her,

‘Myles, here’s a lady wants to speak to thee.’

‘Why did you not come?’ said Adrienne, going straight up to Myles. ‘Why have you never been to see me? I have waited and waited, until I could wait no longer.’

He stood, crimson, unable to speak a word, but looking at her with eyes that must have told their tale—which must have warned her had she been less excited and earnest.

‘How could you go and do a thing like that, and then never take any further notice of me?’ she continued. ‘I have thought of nothing else since I heard of it. It was most wonderfully foolish—oh, very foolish; but oh, I do thank you, and honour you for it, with all my heart. It is exactly what such canaille deserve, and it was nobly done—it was indeed!’

‘Miss Blisset ... you ... you—it was nothing. Any one would have done it. I couldn’t have rested or slept till I had punished him. I was obliged to do it.’

‘Ah, that is how you put it, no doubt—but any one would not have felt so—only you would. I can never thank you—never.’

‘Well, don’t then! I—it makes me ashamed of myself—it does indeed,’ said he, earnestly.

‘But whativer is it o’ about, miss?’ said Mary, putting into words her own and Edmund’s boundless astonishment.

‘Is it possible,’ said Adrienne, turning with wide-open eyes to Myles—‘is it possible that you have never told them? Did he not tell you?’

‘Nay, he’s ne’er told us nowt,’ said Mary.

‘I never heard of anything so extraordinary,’ said Adrienne, with still a vibration in her voice, which showed how much she was moved. ‘You must have heard about that man—Spenceley—who insulted me, and ...’

‘Thank heaven, your name has never been uttered,’ interposed Myles, hastily.

‘And your brother, who had once before sent him away when he tried to annoy me at the library, went to make him promise to behave himself, and he would not. Was not that it? So he flogged him.’

‘Eh—Myles!’ said Mary, with a long-drawn intonation, compounded of incredulity, pride, and pleasure. ‘Eh—h—Myles! I niver did—no niver!’

‘So it were you, Myles,’ said Edmund. ‘Thou hast kept some and quiet about it. But I’m glad thou did it.’

‘And he has never come near my home—never given me a chance of thanking him,’ pursued Adrienne. ‘You must understand, now, why I have come.’

‘Ay, I can so,’ said Mary, regarding her with great favour and cordiality, for this praise of Myles touched her to the very heart. ‘Won’t you sit down?’ she added.

‘I don’t wish to disturb you,’ said Adrienne, hesitating.

‘Eh, no sich thing. Sit you down,’ said Mary, drawing up the rocking-chair, in which Adrienne sat down, and Myles stood leaning against one end of the mantelpiece, feeling the need of a support of some kind; for he felt a sort of intoxication and a bewilderment, and a strange, subtle, new life in the very fact of Adrienne’s presence.

‘I had to inquire where you lived,’ she said, looking up at him. ‘You did not even tell me that. You once mentioned that you lived on the Townfield, and I thought I should never find your house; but the first person I met told me where you lived. But would you never have come?’

‘I—I hardly liked to come. I did not know whether you might have been—displeased, perhaps,’ he said, with some embarrassment.

‘My uncle has often asked when you were coming. He wants to see you again. But now you will come soon—yes?’

‘I—yes. I should like to,’ said he.

‘I hope you don’t mind my coming here,’ said Adrienne to Mary.

‘Eh, no! Lord, no!’ said Mary, earnestly. ‘I’m reet glad to see you. Yon chap would ne’er ha’ told us what he’d been doin’. He’s so—stupid.’

‘Yes—so I should think,’ said Adrienne, meeting Mary’s eyes with a smile.

And then, looking at Edmund, she said, ‘I’ve heard of you, too. You are not strong.’

‘No,’ said Mary, answering for him. ‘He’s ne’er one o’ th’ strongest, and to-day he’s getten a headache.’

‘Don’t you do anything for your headaches?’

‘Nay, I jist bide ’em out.’

‘That is a pity. I could do something for them—if I come again, I will bring you something that will do them good.’

She went on talking to Mary and Edmund, who seemed to feel no embarrassment in the intercourse. Adrienne certainly possessed in a high degree the art of putting people at their ease in her company. Mary and Edmund were not usually communicative in first interviews with strangers; but this stranger appeared to take their hearts by storm, and quickly succeeded in making them forget that there was any difference in station between them. She apologised for her intrusion much more particularly than she would have done to a woman whose servant had opened the door, taken her card, and announced her with a flourish. This demeanour was not put on—it was her natural, spontaneous manner, springing from instinctive politeness and geniality of nature. Everything about her was true and pure—what Myles was accustomed to call in the vernacular ‘jannock.’ Mary, also, was nothing if not jannock; and the two girls—the lady and the factory-worker—seemed instinctively to get on.

‘I must not detain you any longer now,’ said Adrienne, at last. ‘I see you are going to have your tea. But I should like to know you. Would you mind if I came again, now and then?’

‘Eh, I’st be vary glad,’ said Mary, ‘if so be we’re not too simple and plain like for you. Yo’ seen we’re nobbut working folk ...’

‘Well, I am a working person too, and like seeks like,’ said Adrienne.

‘I reckon you’re a different mak’ o’ worker fro’ us,’ said Mary.

‘I am sure I work as hard as you at least, and am as tired and as glad of rest as you, when my work is done.’

‘You look tired now,’ said Mary, fixing her large, clear eyes upon Adrienne’s pale and somewhat weary face, from which the glow had faded. ‘Where do you live?’

‘Up at Stonegate, in Blake Street.’

‘My certy! But that’s a good step!’ said Mary, who, like many of her class, was nothing of a walker. ‘We’re just goin’ to have our tay—won’t you draw up and have a sup, and a bit o’ summat to eyt?’

That homely, cordial Lancashire invitation, ‘Come and have a sup, and a bit o’ summat to eat’—what Lancashire ears are there that do not know it and love it for the kind thoughts it arouses? It went straight home to our lonely Adrienne: a mist rushed over her eyes; she said somewhat hesitatingly,

‘Oh, I should like it. You are very kind, but I fear——’ she half turned to Myles.

‘Myles, coom out o’ yon corner, and behave thisel’, mon! Thou can when thou’s a mind to,’ said Mary, briskly. ‘Now draw up,’ she added to Adrienne. ‘Tak’ off your hat, and I’st hang it up, so! And Myles’ll see you home. He’s got nowt to do to-neet.’

Mary must have been inspired when she made this suggestion.

‘Oh, I need not trouble him now,’ said Adrienne, with a radiant smile upon the approaching Myles—‘unless he has forgotten the way to my uncle’s house, as I begin to think.’

‘It’s much better I should go with you. It’s Saturday evening,’ said Myles, seating himself beside her, and throwing a fleeting glance towards her face.

She was content, pleased, even flattered at the friendly way in which she had been received. Her expression said that as plainly as words could do. Myles began to lose some of his bewilderment, and to gain somewhat more confidence.

‘Eh, I’ve forgotten th’ mowffins!’ said Mary, suddenly, a shade crossing her face. ‘We mun really wait while I toast the mowffins.’

She jumped up and produced tea-cakes out of a cupboard, and Myles suggested that perhaps it did not matter about the muffins. Mary was, however, firm, and bade him cut some bread-and-butter while she toasted.

‘And mind thou cuts it nice and thin, and not all i’ lumps,’ she added in admonitory tones.

Myles, much too simple-minded to see anything derogatory in cutting bread-and-butter, began, but in half a minute Adrienne had jumped up and laid hold of the knife.

‘Stop! That is clearly not your sphere,’ said she, laughing into his embarrassed, yet ever-attractive face. ‘It is not stern enough—not commanding enough. Let me do it.’

Unaware of the distinguished example set by the Wetzlar heroine in the bread-and-butter cutting line, Myles watched the deft fingers of his enchantress as if no woman had ever been known to cut bread-and-butter properly before.

Mary, who grew visibly and every moment more satisfied with her guest, toasted the ‘mowffins,’ buttered them, and tea was proclaimed ready with acclamation.

Then Edmund came to the table; they all sat there, and Mary made tea in state, apologising for not having the best tea-things because of the impromptu nature of the visit.

‘I am sure these seem delightful tea-things,’ said Adrienne, smiling.

The festivity was altogether successful as regarded Adrienne, Mary, and Edmund. But Miss Blisset cast every now and then fleeting glances at Myles, and was not quite at her ease about him, for he alone of all the party was silent and grave. It was the deep intensity of the delight within him that caused this, but Adrienne could not be supposed to know that—in very truth, as yet she honestly believed the greater admiration and liking to be on her side. That delusion was soon to be ended, but at present she was under its influence.

The meal was not long over when she said she must go, and promising Mary to come again, she went away, accompanied by Myles.

Their way lay through what was called ‘the Park.’ They turned in at the large iron gates of a town pleasure-ground, laid out in gravel walks, grass plots, seats, and flower-beds. They were on a height. The town lay below, with the gilded spire of the town-hall cleaving the air, and the hazy-looking blue wall of Blackrigg to the north and north-west.

As they walked slowly along a broad terrace, unoccupied save by themselves, Adrienne asked, in her quick foreign way,

‘Say to me, Mr. Heywood—you are vexed that I came?’

‘I—vexed—nay!’ was all that he could say.

The current which for the last week had ever been hurrying more and more quickly forward had now arrived at the verge. It leapt over it in a bound, and carried everything before. He was madly in love, and all he could do was to say as little, be as brief as possible, for fear of showing her, startling her, perhaps repelling her; for he was intensely conscious of the difference; all his dearly loved, passionately cherished theories of equality could not blind him to the fact that they were not equals—that while he loved her with a strength that shook his nature with its power, yet the bare thought of touching her, holding her hand, speaking to her on easy and familiar terms, came to him with a sense of impropriety—brought him the conviction, non sum dignus.

‘You were so quiet,’ said she. ‘You would hardly speak to me. I was afraid I had offended you.’

‘Not at all,’ said poor Myles, unable to say more lest he should say too much.

‘I am sure,’ pursued Adrienne, stopping in her walk and looking earnestly at him—‘I am sure you know that I did not mean to offend you; and you could not be so hard as to wish me to keep silence. You behaved splendidly. I felt that I must thank you for it.’

It was growing too much for him to stand there quiescent, and hear that voice, which contained all melody for him, and to see that face, those eyes, looking at him so. The eagerness of desperate love came storming down upon prudence, and hurrying words of devotion to his lips. Mastering himself by a strong effort, and clasping, or rather clenching his hands behind him, he said, in what seemed to Adrienne a singularly calm, colourless voice,

‘You make too much of it. I would rather not be thanked for it.’

‘You are hard upon me to say that. It gives me such pleasure to thank you, but you deserve at my hands that I should comply with your wishes—after what you have done for me. But you cannot guess what a delightful feeling it is to one so lonely as I, to suddenly discover that there is some one who has been not afraid to stand up for her—and to some purpose.’

‘I should have thought you would have many friends,’ remarked Myles, endeavouring to change the too-fascinating subject.

‘I—no indeed. I don’t think any one with fewer friends ever lived.’

‘But you may have left friends behind you on the Continent?’

A momentary pause while he looked at her. It was as though some sudden blow had struck the words back from her lips to her heart—then she said steadily,

‘Some few; but chiefly benefactors rather than friends—benefactors who befriended and helped me in my loneliness and destitution, for my father and I were sometimes almost destitute.’

‘Destitute?’ echoed Myles, shocked.

‘Oh yes! I have not always lived in Lancashire, you know. No one seems to be poor here. I have known what it is to look at a piece of money worth sixpence, and know that if I spent that upon my supper I should not have a penny in the morning to buy breakfast with.’

‘But not seriously?’

‘I assure you it seemed very serious to me. I have sunk lower. I have known what it was to go supperless to bed, wondering what poor little trinket or book I could spare in order to get a breakfast next morning.’

Myles was silent, and Adrienne continued,

‘That, you know, is what is not considered respectable for a young lady.’

‘Hang respectability!’ was all he said.

‘Not at all! I like it. After all the fever and the turmoils, and the ups and downs, and dreadful uncertainties of that life, my present one is like Paradise. Oh, rest is a very sweet thing—rest and security, and a strong arm to help you.’ (Myles turned to her with parted lips.) ‘Your home is beautiful. That sister of yours is so calm and good. I love her already. She must be very dear to you.’

‘Ay, I love Mary dearly.’

‘Yes. Both she and you, and all of you, look as if you had had a home all your lives. Do you think I might go to see them again?’

‘They’ll only be too glad. I never thought you could sympathise so much—with our sort,’ said Myles, constrainedly.

‘To-morrow you will come to Stonegate, will you not? and then I will tell you my story, and you will perhaps understand how it is that I sympathise with “your sort,” as you call it, and why I think so much of what you have done for me.’

‘I will come with pleasure.’

‘To-morrow afternoon, then, I shall expect you.’

They walked the rest of the way in silence, and Myles left her at the gate.