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Copyright © 2011 by Mary Karlin
Foreword copyright © 2011 by Peter Reinhart
Photographs copyright © 2011 by Ed Anderson

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by Ten Speed Press, an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, a
division of Random House, Inc., New York.
www.crownpublishing.com
www.tenspeed.com

Ten Speed Press and the Ten Speed Press colophon are registered trademarks of Random House,
Inc.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Karlin, Mary.
Artisan cheese making at home : techniques and recipes for mastering world-class cheeses /
Mary Karlin ; photography by Ed Anderson.
p. cm.
Summary: “A contemporary guide to making 100 artisan cheeses at home, with an extensive
primer on ingredients, equipment, and techniques”—Provided by publisher.
Includes bibliographical references and index.
1. Cheesemaking. 2. Cookbooks. I. Title.
SF271.K37 2011
641.3’73—dc22
2011004548

eISBN: 978-1-60774044-5

v3.1_r1
Farmhouse Chive Cheddar
Reblochon at 2 months
 CONTENTS

Foreword
Introduction

CHAPTER 1
Cheese Making Basics:
Equipment, Ingredients, Processes, and Techniques

Building Your Skills: The Habits of Successful Cheese Making

Equipment and Supplies
Ingredients: The Building Blocks of Cheese
Processes and Techniques

CHAPTER 2
Beginning Cheese Making:
Fresh Direct-Acidification Cheeses, Cultured Dairy Products, Fresh Culture-Ripened Cheeses, and
Salt-Rubbed and Brined Cheeses

Mascarpone
Low-Fat Panir
Queso Blanco
Whole Milk Ricotta
Whey Ricotta
Cultured Butter
Crème Fraîche
Buttermilk Sour Cream
Cultured Sour Cream
Yogurt
Yogurt Cheese with Mint
Greek-Style Yogurt
Cabécou
Real Cream Cheese
 Crème Fraîche Cottage Cheese
Crescenza
Basic Chèvre
O’banon
Fromage Blanc
Queso Fresco
Quark
Cotija
Ricotta Salata
Feta
Halloumi

CHAPTER 3
Intermediate Cheese Making:
Stretched-Curd and Semisoft, Firm, and Hard Cheeses

Traditional Mozzarella
Burrata
Queso Oaxaca
Bocconcini
Junket Mozzarella
Braided String Cheese
Bread Cheese
Kasseri
Provolone
Smoked Scamorza
Dill Havarti
Edam Boule
Fontina
Gouda
Jack Cheese
Just Jack
Alpine-Style Tomme
Gruyère
Tea-Smoked Gruyère
 Jarlsberg
Saffron-Infused Manchego
Parmesan
Romano
Asiago Pepato
American Brick
Caerphilly
Colby
Brew-Curds Cheddar
Cheddar-Jalapeño Cheese Curds
Farmhouse Chive Cheddar
Irish-Style Cheddar
Double-Milled Cheddar
Brin d’Amour
Cocoa-Rubbed Dry Jack Cheese
Lavender Mist Chèvre
Honey-Rubbed Montasio
Rustico Foglie di Noce

CHAPTER 4
More Advanced Cheese Making:
Bloomy-Rind and Surface-Ripened Cheeses, Washed-Rind and Smeared-Rind Cheeses, and Blue
Cheeses

Crème Fraîche Brie

American-Style Brie
Bucheron
Camembert
Coulommiers
Craggy Cloaked Cabra
Crottin
Fromage à l’Huile
The Goat Experience
Mushroom-Infused Camembert
Bloomy Robiola
 Saint-Marcellin
Valençay
Ale-Washed Coriander Trappist Cheese
Cabra Al Vino
Desert Sunset Pavé
Washed-Rind Teleme-Style
Lemon Vodka Spirited Goat
Époisses
Morbier
Wood-Fired Morbier
Mixed-Milk Morbier
Port Salut
Reblochon
Taleggio
Bloomy Blue Log Chèvre
Blue Gouda
Buttermilk Blue
Cambozola
Coastal Blue
Gorgonzola
Smoked Brandy-Pecan Gorgonzola
Roquefort
Stilton

CHAPTER 5
Cooking with Artisan Cheeses
Maple-Planked Brie with Mushroom-Walnut Ragout
Smoked Mozzarella–Eggplant Fritters with Roasted Tomato–Herb Sauce
Grilled Grape Leaf Goat Cheese Toasts with Citrus Tapenade
Taleggio Fonduta
Grilled Cumin Flatbreads with Tomato-Ginger Chutney and Crème
Fraîche Cottage Cheese
Goat Cheese and Chive Fallen Soufflés with Herb-Citrus Vinaigrette
 Manchego and Saffron Flan
Herb Salad with Chèvre-and Bacon-Stuffed Figs
Bocconcini and Roasted Tomato Pasta Salad
Spinach Salad with Charred Ricotta Salata and Caramelized Oranges
Cobb Salad with Buttermilk Blue Dressing
Moroccan Chickpea Soup with Harissa and Yogurt Cheese
Tortilla Soup with Grilled Shrimp, Cotija, and Avocado-Tomatillo Salsa
Curried Saag Panir
Grilled Chiles Rellenos Stuffed with Queso Oaxaca, Mushrooms, and
Sweet Potato
Blue Cheese, Bacon, and Pear Galette
Grilled Apple, Jack, and Curry Sandwich
Yogurt and Dill No-Knead Bread
Cheddar and Chive Scones
Blue Cheese and Toasted Walnut Fudge Brownies
Caramelized Apple Tart with Cheddar Crust
Vanilla Bean Fontainebleau with Pistachio Brittle
Ricotta-Filled Chocolate Crepes with Nutella and Sour Cherry Preserves
Stone Fruit Phyllo Tarts with Mascarpone-Cardamom Ice Cream

Acknowledgments
Glossary
Resources
Bibliography
Index
Leaf-Wrapped Goat Cheeses. Clockwise from bottom: peach, maple,
persimmon, fig
 FOREWORD

M ost people know me as a bread guy, but some who knew me back
when remember me also as a cheese guy. Yes, before embarking on
the baking career that has defined my professional life, I thought I might
instead be a cheese maker, fermenting milk rather than grain. I had
studied a small book on making cheese at home and worked out a deal
with a local raw milk dairy to buy all their unsold milk for one dollar a
gallon, about thirty gallons a week. I borrowed a stainless steel, double-
jacketed cheese maker on wheels from the same dairy, and every week I
rolled it out into the driveway of the ranch where I lived with thirty
other people in a Christian community (I was known as Brother Peter
back then), and transformed that milk into six small wheels of cheddar-
style cheese that, after some aging, was pretty tasty. We called it Abbey
Jack even though it wasn’t anything like other Jack cheeses, because we
liked the sound of the name.
Soon I was looking at a space in a converted wine building (I lived in
Sonoma County in the heart of wine country, so old wine buildings were
abundant) to set up what I intended to call the Forestville Creamery.
After we measured the one stall in the building that was still available
amidst the other businesses—the existing winery, a gem and crystal
seller, a silk screen T-shirt shop, a comic book collector, and scattered
offices—I studied the board of health requirements for cheese making
operations. I looked, too, at the requirements for bread bakeries, since I
also was a serious amateur baker at the time. It was a no-brainer—the
rules governing a cheese operation were far more stringent and costly
than those for bread, and so I took the path of least resistance. Had I
chosen the creamery path, who knows: perhaps I’d have written a few
books like the one you are now holding instead of bread books. But, as
we all know, there are no coincidences, and this is why I am so grateful
to Mary Karlin, whom I have known for several years and who I consider
one of the godmothers of the artisan food movement in Sonoma County,
with her popular classes on cheese making and wood-fired cooking and
her many years of studying and working side by side with the finest
chefs and cheese makers in America (even I had the honor of working
numerous times with Mary at the award-winning Ramekins Culinary
School in Sonoma). Here, she demystifies essential processes for a new
generation of artisans in this, the most comprehensive book ever written
for home cheese makers.
There are two key words in the previous sentence that I’d like to
revisit: “demystifies” and “artisan.” The category of fermented foods
includes bread, wine, beer, spirit beverages, cheese, pickles, cured
meats, sauerkraut, kimchi, and more. They all evoke an ancient lineage
of mystery that, until modern science grabbed hold, had an aura of
alchemy and magic. This is because, in my opinion, each of these
foodstuffs represents a type of transformation of one thing into
something totally new and different. And the artisans who knew how to
perform those transformations attained a vital, honored, and almost
shamanistic role in their communities. They had, or so it seemed, a
mysterious power. But as science and technology deconstructed the
transformational steps into very non-magical, mechanical processes, an
important trade-off occurred: volume production supplanted small-scale
artistry.
However, as anyone interested in this book probably knows, we are
now in the midst of an artisanal renewal. We saw it happen with bread,
wine, and beer in the 1980s, followed by a flowering of amazing
domestic farmstead cheeses in the 1990s. Lately it’s showing up in salumi
and charcuterie. And where the professionals dare to go, home cooks
soon follow. This book celebrates these artisan mysteries, if I can be so
bold as to resurrect that mystical image. I think it’s allowable, because
things exist on many levels, and while alchemy is no longer the rulebook
of the day, the yearning for the transformations that it symbolically
points to never has and never will depart from us. And so I believe that
all of us, whether professional or home cooks, long for the kind of
empowerment that comes with the ability to transform one thing into
something else.
In my cheese making days I marveled at how milk could become so
many different other things and how, if I learned how to properly
control the environment in which I performed my transformations, I
could tease out flavors and textures that weren’t there in the original
source product; I could effect a radical change in the elements, bringing
joy to others. I viewed my stainless steel cheese vat as a kind of altar,
and my aging room as a sacred, veiled chamber. I believe it is in making
connections like this—in seeing the implications embedded in fermented
and thus transformational foods (and in all things, for that matter, but
it’s so much easier to grasp with fermented foods)—that we do attain a
type of veil-splitting empowerment and thus begin to scratch the itch of
our deeper yearnings.
So a book like this one, which demystifies and simplifies, also leads us
deeper into mystery, because it gives us the tools to effect
transformations and to experience the joy of such creation, and also the
joy of giving joy. Every now and then I get the urge to track down some
rennet and make another batch of Abbey Jack, and with this book in
hand, I’ve already begun designating my aging cellar. But more
important, because I have the privilege of traveling frequently, I look
forward to tasting the cheeses made by you, of sharing in your joy by
being the recipient of it.
One final anecdote: During the height of my Abbey Jack days I
decided to make small, twelve-ounce wheels to give as Christmas gifts. I
even dipped them in beeswax and tied them up with twine, with a little
nub of string dangling off the top to facilitate untying them, and happily
gave them to my friends to send to their families across the country. I
couldn’t wait to hear how everyone liked it (this was in the early 1980s
when many people had never eaten homemade, aged cheese). A few
days after Christmas I heard one of my friends, who was talking on the
telephone, laughing hysterically. He kept looking at me and laughing
again. When he got off the phone he said, “My folks wanted me to tell
you thank you for all your hard work, but to also let you know that it
was smelliest candle they’d ever burned.”
Over the next few days I heard this same response from three other
people. Of course, those who figured out that it was cheese raved about
it, but, frankly, I still get notes from old friends reminding me of my
days as the smelly candle maker.
So as you dive into the world that Mary Karlin describes in the
following pages, I leave you with this thought: Know that you are
entering a long tradition of multidimensional artisanship, with all that
the term implies. As you become adept in your transformations of milk
into curds and whey, and thus into cheeses of many types, and as you
learn how to evoke every subtle nuance of flavor trapped in those curds
through proper temperature control, acid balancing, and aging, and as
you begin spreading the joy you have created by sharing the cheese you
create, remember, above all else, to always label your cheese.

Peter Reinhart
Charlotte, North Carolina
September 2010
Double-Milled Stout Cheddar at 2 weeks
 INTRODUCTION

I am thrilled to invite you on a rewarding journey, one that starts with

a simple ingredient, milk, which is transformed through a few
fundamental practices into glorious cheese. Whether you are a curious
novice or an experienced hobbyist, you are part of a culture with a
seemingly insatiable appetite for hand-crafted cheese, always yearning to
discover yet another treasure at the local cheese shop or as part of a
restaurant’s cheese plate. Maybe you are like me: when I encounter a
new, remarkable artisan cheese, it makes an indelible mark, and I think
to myself, “I want to make a cheese like that!” The enthusiasm comes
easy when there are so many cheeses to be inspired by and so many
excellent reasons to make your own. Perhaps you are motivated by the
guaranteed freshness of homemade cheese or want to save money
through DIY production, or maybe you are lured by the age-old tradition
of homestead cheese making as a means to feed your family.
I’ve worked with some of the most influential cheese makers and
authorities in the field, and now, in this comprehensive book, I share
with you the collective expertise and knowledge of the American cheese
making community—a dedicated segment of the burgeoning artisan food
movement. As a passionate cook, educator, and hobbyist cheese maker, I
adore both making hand-crafted cheeses and cooking with the results,
and I’m very keen to pass on what I know. This book is my offering,
filled with formulas for making more than eighty cheeses, including
longtime favorites, and more than two dozen newer contemporary
cheeses.
We are lucky that the appreciation for hand-crafted cheeses, in the
recent past a rather rarefied interest, is now part of mainstream culture.
There is growing and widespread interest in hand-crafted foods and the
do-it-yourself experience—all part of what Peter Reinhart calls the
artisan renewal. But it is also worth noting that a mere century ago
cheese was still a relatively regional—and European—phenomenon and
that cheese making techniques were limited by climate, geography, and
technology in a way that modernity has rendered obsolete. For example,
bloomy-rind cheeses like Camembert and Brie were first created in
northwestern France because cows were prevalent, cheese was made for
home or village consumption, and a specific acid-tolerant mold
flourished in that region. High in the mountains, fewer cows were
grazed and their milk was pooled cooperatively. Therefore, large wheels
of low-moisture cheeses like Comté and Emmental were created to be
shared and to last through the winter months. In the United States,
cheese production first emulated regional European cheeses, made by
and for specific immigrant audiences. Hard Italian-style cheeses were
crafted in California, Germanic washed-rind cheeses like Limburger were
produced in Wisconsin, and cheddar was produced in New York.
Yet today, cheese makers have nearly unfettered access to the
specialized equipment and molds and cultures needed to produce any
type of cheese; the boundaries that once kept cheeses regionalized no
longer exist. This has resulted in what cheese authority Liz Thorpe notes
is a significant blurring of and riffing on tradition where Old World
meets New. And though technology has increased our access to supplies,
one of the most enjoyable parts of cheese making is decidedly
unmodern: you still can’t rush cheese. It slows down the pace of daily
life by requiring our attention and patience; waiting is essential to its
success.
Knowing this, I should not be surprised that my joyful journey to
writing this book has taken fifteen years in the cheese world, organizing
culinary tours to various farms and creameries, teaching cooking classes
using artisan cheeses, and sharing the hand-crafted babies of passionate
artisan producers in Northern California. These award-winning
craftspeople inspire me, and their dedication has shaped my career and
provided motivation for writing this book.
But maybe the most generous educator is cheese itself. Each time I
make cheese, the process teaches me something valuable. I can also say
to you, with certainty, expect the unexpected. Cheese making is an
unending learning process, even for those who do it daily. My job in this
book is to demystify and simplify that process enough that you can
confidently venture forth into this exciting, mystical world. Once your
hands are on the wheel, the road to proficiency is simple: keep making
more cheese and joyfully share it!
In addition to the more than eighty tested cheese making formulas, I
have included two dozen savory and sweet recipes inspired by the ethnic
or cultural origins of the featured cheeses—the Mediterranean, Northern
Africa, India, and Latin and North America. Helpful at-a-glance charts,
worksheets, guides for aging, and steps for making your own versions of
new artisan cheeses can be found on this book’s companion website,
www.artisancheesemakingathome.com.
I encourage you to visit my blog, Artisan Cheese Making at Home
(http://homecraftedcheese.com), so that together we may share updates,
discussions, recipes, new developments, and discoveries. Now, let’s get
started on this magical journey!

A note on the photography: All of the cheeses photographed for this

book by the gifted Ed Anderson were made either by me or by my team
of skilled hobbyist cheese heads. Additional photos were taken by me on
field trips to cheese makers and in my home cheese making kitchen.
Most of the cheeses are perfectly beautiful; some are less so. I hope
showing them to you warts and all proves a valuable tool for gaining
knowledge of what transpires (even unexpectedly) in the cheese making
process. Trust me, even the ugly ducklings can be delicious! The breads
in the photographs are courtesy of Della Fattoria, Petaluma, California.
Young Buttermilk Blue at 4 weeks
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
head grew quieter, and it became more possible to see, he could
look down upon the gloom that lay in front of him, and two station-
lamps shining like eyes through the night. He was trembling with
pain, but he could not make any pause, he would go on quickly until
it all was done.
Oh, how would it have been possible for him to go back to his
mother, the mother who despised him, who had never cared for
him? She would be sorry now that she had not loved him like his
sister. He was glad that he would vex her, that she would be grieved
for him at last. All sorts of strange sounds were floating through his
brain, but he had not time to attend to them, not time. If only no
one appeared on the road to interrupt him, he felt that he would be
driven to madness if there were any obstacle.
No! the night was dark, there was no one on the road, the trees
and the roofs of the village were confused into gloom; only, far to
the left, beyond long miles of darkness, the lights of the city shone
upon the hill. He would not go round by the pathway to the station,
for fear lest he might still meet some passer-by, but climbed into the
wide field, shadowy in the night-time, and ran across it with
footsteps that were noiseless on the grass. By the station he climbed
into the road again; the station-lights were bright on the lines and
the canal, and he was almost afraid to cross the railway, for fear lest
he should be seen and recognised. But in the station there was no
visible human being; he crossed the lines quickly, and was not
stopped or disturbed; and, going through the little white gate upon
the path, he stood in front of the river, flowing onwards through the
night. The sight was a shock, and brought his heart into his throat,
but he had made up his mind, and he would not be frightened now.
He stood on the path, and thought—before him were many lights,
the lights of the distant city, and the signal-lights on the way, whilst
a steady glow from the station signal-box cast the shadows of
window-bars along the path. He could not help being afraid that he
might be seen by the signal-man; and, in any case, the path to the
town was too public a place for him; so he found his way round to
the rougher path and grass on the other side of the signal-box, and
crept along beneath the platform of the station, which was raised to
some height above the river-bank. All was dim and confused; but
lights shone from the station, and he wished to get quite away from
any light, so he went creeping onwards till he was beyond the
platform, and the distant country lay in gloom and stillness. There
again he paused; behind him were brilliant lights, but he looked only
once at them, and then turned his face away; he preferred the dark
country with confused outlines of trees, and the wan river flowing
between banks shadowy in the night. He must make preparations—
he took comforter and handkerchief, in order that he might bind with
them his ankles and hands; he could not swim, but he thought it
possible that he might struggle, and he wished to render it certain
that no struggles could save his life. Ah! the sound of footsteps! with
his ankles bound together, he lay down on the grass that he might
not be seen. Some men must be passing upon the railway-bank
above; they would go by directly, and then his task would soon be
done. But the men did not pass, they lingered to end their
conversation, and through the darkness their voices reached to him.

* * * * *
‘I say, Jim,’ it was the voice of our old acquaintance, Bill, ‘I can go
on tellin’ ’ee now as there’s no one near to hear. I wish as I’d not got
this bit job to do, or I’d ’a followed Mrs Salter to the town. It did
make me skeared to see her white an’ bruised, an’ not a man near
her to give help to her.’
After a while; ‘I says to her, says I, “Mrs Salter, an’ where be ye
goin’ upon this stormy night?” an’ she says, “Don’t stop me, I’m
goin’ on to t’ town, to see ’em as has harmed my chil’en, that they
may give account to me. I’ll help my chil’en,” she cried, an’ she
bursted out in tears. (I can’t bear t’ wimmin’s cryin’,’ added Bill, in
parenthesis). ‘“He may push me agen t’ wall an’ say he’ll kill me, but
I’ll foller him to t’ town, an’ see him there.”’
 Again after a while, ‘I says to her, “Mrs Salter, an’ aren’t ye a bit
afraid o’ being kilt?” but she cries out to me, “Oh, you’ve not had no
children, or ye wouldn’t know what it was to be afraid. They’re as
dear to me one as the t’other,” she says, all a-cryin’ still, “they’ve lain
in my arms, an’ I’ve fed ’em from my breast; they’re my lad an’ my
girl, though t’ world cries shame on ’em; an’ I’d sooner be kilt mysel’
than do nought to help ’em now.” An’ I says to her, “Go, then, Mrs
Salter, though I don’t understan’ what ye mean; go then, if ye must,
an’ t’ Lord be wid’ ye as ye go!” an’ she seemed to rush past me, she
was in such a takin’; an’ she went down t’ river path, an’ away into t’
night. I hope as she’ll come to no harm, though I be skeared, for
she seem so alone i’ t’ darkness, wi’ no one near to help. She be a
good mother, she be, poor Jenny Salter, though t’ lass an’ t’ lad have
not done well by her.’

* * * * *
The voices had died away along the path, and the sound of the
footsteps too had died away, when the boy, who had been prostrate
upon the grass beneath, rose up in the darkness, and sat upon the
ground. There was no light by which his features could be seen, or
that light might have shone upon an altered face. He only knew that
his eyes were full of tears, and that through that blindness there
shone a newer life. With steady hands he undid the bandage he had
tied, and arranged his comforter once more round his neck—his life
should have steadier purposes in future than that of obeying and
following his own insanity. With tearful eyes, but without any
articulate confession, he let himself kneel for an instant on the
grass; and, then, with a heart full of the strength that turns remorse
to penitence, he prepared to follow his mother to the town. It should
not be in vain—oh! it should not be in vain—that he had heard those
words which he felt were meant for him. It might yet be possible to
find his mother in the darkness; and when he had found her he
would stay with her.
 No doubt it would have been better if poor Jenny could have had
her son by her side during her lonely walk in the night-time, but
nearly an hour had passed now since her light footsteps made soft
echoes on the path between the river and the town. She had gone
on through darkness, looking straight in front of her, as if her glance
could embrace the distant city, with a far more definite purpose than
might have been imagined from her slight figure, and fixed, straining
eyes. The darkness was nothing, pain and weariness were nothing,
the throbbing of the bruise on her head, or the loneliness of night,
she might remember these things when they were over, but at
present they were scarcely able to touch her consciousness. In one
way or another she would save her children; after that it would not
matter what became of her.
 CHAPTER XXXI
DRESSING FOR DINNER

AND, whilst poor Jenny was pursuing her lonely way through the
darkness, one whom she deemed her enemy was in a very different
case—Miss Tina Gillan, at that moment dressing for the evening, in
an apartment of Mr Lee’s house at the top of Lindum Hill. It was a
large room that had been prepared for her, the darkness and lights
of the valley were hidden by closed blinds, there was a blazing fire
which made cheerful, dancing radiance, and her dress for the
evening was laid out upon the bed. After the cold, dark drive in an
open carriage from the village, this seemed a haven of warmth, and
rest, and peace. Only Tina was not quite pleased that no maid had
been provided—it would have been so luxurious to have a lady’s
maid!
She stood now in the centre of the large, lighted room, with a
crimson wrapper beneath her rippling hair, and surveyed all the
place with her bright, glancing eyes, and then threw herself in the
armchair to make trial of it. Everything was complete, and of the
best and softest—armchair, bed, sofa—there was no fault to be
found. And she had been admitted to her uncle’s house at last, and
this was the beginning of luxury. Only she was glad that the closed
blinds shut out the valley, its lights and its blackness displeased her,
though she did not know why they should.
And yet—oh! was it not natural that she should wish to turn from
the wide-reaching blackness pierced by many points of light, now
that she was at last in the shelter she had longed for, far removed
from old hardships and wanderings? Every glance at the room told
of comfort and riches—and comfort and riches meant everything
else as well—they meant ease, safety, soft living, daintiness, rich
dresses, fine lovers, theatres, music, all the rest! All sorts of
possibilities were between her hands. It would be at length of some
use to be beautiful! The old life of shabbiness, hardships, shifts, and
recklessness might be cast on one side—it could be discarded now.
Who was that woman who had asked to see her brother, as they
started, and for the sake of whom James had left her with the
carriage, and had gone back into the yard, returning to her with a
face so dark and terrible that she had not dared even to speak to
him until they reached the town. It could not be that one, because
he had already seen her, and had come to some understanding with
her—so he said—but it might be some relation, indignant and
suspicious, some reptile who knew they were going and who wished
to have a bribe! James always made a pretence of being soft and
kind, but she did not believe he could be outwitted easily; in all that
she knew of his dealings, especially with women, she had found him
to be still more unscrupulous than herself. He had indulged himself
from his childhood onwards, and it is impossible to do so without
being unscrupulous. This most recent, most wretched entanglement
might have been easily avoided, if during their time of probation he
had possessed the slightest self-restraint.
Indeed the habitual recklessness of the brother and the sister had
never been more displayed than during those few months of village
life—that short time of waiting upon the pleasure of their uncle,
during which they had every inducement to be cautious and self-
restrained. Ah, bah! that was true, thought Tina; but those village
months were over, they had left that ‘detestable hamlet, that pest-
house of the Fens’—and now that they found themselves in the
midst of pleasures it would be more natural to be self-controlled. At
length they were really in the house of Mr Lee; it would not be easy
for them to be removed; every day would make it more difficult as
each day would make less anxious the dangers that their
imprudence had gathered round their feet. Mr Lee once charmed!
that was the whole brunt of the matter, and Tina had never been
without skill in charming men!
She rose to her feet, and stood upright, pretty Tina! her arms
clasped behind her back, and her face very slightly raised, whilst her
eyes appeared to be flooded with eager light and hope, in which
there was only the least trace of terror left. Upon the bed lay her
new black evening dress, her black silk slippers, and her great,
embroidered fan—her cheeks were so brilliant and burning that they
would need no touch of rouge, nor her dark eyes the slightest
assistance to make them bright enough. Was that the drawing-room
door? there were sounds of footsteps, voices!—how strange that the
least noise was enough to make her start! She would be quick, and
dress, and go downstairs for the evening, it would be better for her
brother to have her woman’s wit by his side. This evening once over,
this dear, nervous, terrible evening, their position would be more
certain, and they could feel secure.
So she thought, but whilst she hastened to get ready, and whilst
downstairs James Gillan sat by Mr Lee, and whilst he was making
apologies for the lateness of their arrival the door of the drawing-
room opened unexpectedly. It was the servant who entered, but
before she could make any explanation, she was preceded by an
intruder who had followed behind her unperceived—a poor woman,
poorly dressed, quiet, and shabby, who stood in the midst of the
room and courtseyed there. Mr Lee rose to receive her with
annoyance on his face; and behind him, unperceived by him, James
Gillan also rose—with a pang at his heart that smote, that stabbed
his breath, and for the moment took away the power of speech. The
sword had fallen!—he felt that it had fallen—he had not time to
consider how ruin might be averted even then.
 CHAPTER XXXII
IN THE DRAWING-ROOM OF MR LEE

‘IF you please, sir,’ said Jenny, and, as she spoke, she courtseyed
again, ‘if it’s so as ye are Mr Lee I have come to speak with ye. I’ve
been speakin’ to this gentleman as they say is your nephy, an’ he
won’t listen to me nor make answer to what I say. But I’ve followed
him to the town, so as I may see him in your presence, and tell
before ye all I’ve to say to him.’
There was silence. The hearts of both men—even of the uncle—
must have been beating quickly, for both were panting, and did not
reply. Jenny stood in the midst of the room, very pale, and perfectly
quiet, but with a self-possession that would have been impossible in
her shrinking girlhood—the self-possession that comes with years
and trials. Her dress showed signs of her long walk, but it could not
conceal that her figure was slight; and her close black bonnet was
no unfitting setting for her Madonna-like, worn, troubled face. For
years and wretchedness had left her still a lovely woman, and it is
possible that Mr Lee may have been aware of it. He did not speak;
he had flung himself back in his arm-chair, and, with his chin upon
his clenched hand kept his harsh face turned to her. Through the
moments that followed the most intense silence reigned; but Jenny
was gathering her strength, and after a while she spoke again.
‘It’s a few months ago, sir,’ she said, still addressing Mr Lee, ‘it
was just before harvest time that my daughter Annie, my only
daughter, went away from her home one night. And then, on the
next night, very late, almost on to mornin’, she was lyin’ on my door-
step as if she’d not no strength to move. And I took her in, an’ she’d
not tell me what had chanced. But on one of her fingers there was a
wedding-ring. And the neighbours they talked; they said strange
things of her an’ me. But I couldn’t get her to confess, although I
tried ever so. It was only to-night, sir, as I’ve been given cause to
know who the man might be as took my child from her home.’
After another minute, ‘It’s perhaps I wouldn’t have courage to
come to your house, sir, an’ say these things to you, if your niece
and nephy had left one o’ my two children to stay in my home an’
comfort me for the t’ other one. But your niece she got hold o’ my
boy—I didn’t know that till to-night—an’ she’s got him to give her a
letter as you wrote to t’ Squire. An’ t’ Squire’s sent for him. An’ they
say he’ll be disgraced. He’s my only son, sir, the only one I have. The
father’s a bad one, an’ has been a bad husband; an’ t’ boy an’ t’ girl
are all that I have left.’
Again after a pause; ‘I’ve been speakin’ to your nephy. An’ he
pushed me agen t’ wall. Ye may see t’ bruise upon my face. An’ he
said he’d kill me. But I don’t care for that. I’d be killed a hunderd
times over to save t’ girl an’ boy. He ought to tell me if he’s t’
husband of my daughter. An’ he oughter do something to save t’ boy
from harm. I’ve come to ye, sir, as I may speak to him before ye. He
can’t hurt ye so easy, sir, as he hurts me.’
Her low voice appeared to thrill through the room, in which the
most breathless, the most intense silence reigned. Jenny had used
all her strength in order to get through her speech, as one who upon
his last venture pours all the wealth he has. But she was upright still,
and composed, though very pallid, and through her pale lips her
breath came quietly. The servant was gone, although the door stood
open, and in the room were only the two men she had addressed;
Mr Lee, who sat in his armchair with his face turned away; and
James Gillan, with rigid features, fixed lips, and glaring eyes. He
seemed to have been swept from his usual self-possession, appalled
by this spectre which stood in front of him; and now through the
silence there came words stern and terrible as the formal questions
that precede the uttering of doom. It was Mr Lee who spoke, but he
did not rise from his seat, and even as he spoke he kept his face
turned away.
‘Do you know this woman?’
The question had been asked, and as it compelled an answer the
unhappy young man made some stammering reply—he faltered that
on the woman’s own showing he was a stranger to her; and that it
was hard to be obliged to reply to the lies a stranger told. His
answer was immediately succeeded by a question, more stern, more
relentless even than the first.
‘You have not known this woman. I will take your word for it.
Have you been also a stranger to this woman’s daughter?’
If James Gillan had been allowed a minute, a few moments, in
which to make up his mind whether to lie or tell the truth, his skill in
deception, always greater than his courage, might have risen to the
occasion even then. Appalled as he was, overwhelmed by this
unexpected accusation, he could not decide immediately what
course would be best; and, having opened his mouth as if he were
forming some reply, he let it drop helplessly, and remained without a
word. Mr Lee went on speaking as if he had received an answer;
perhaps he thought that the silence might be accounted a reply.
‘And since we’re in the midst of discussions, Nephy Gillan, what is
this tale of a letter that we’ve heard?’ He spoke the words sternly,
but they came as a relief. His nephew seized on the diversion
eagerly.
‘Oh, that! .... I don’t know .... it may have been some mischief of
my sister’s .... my sister is a wild girl and is sometimes fond of tricks
.... I will answer for it, sir, that there is nothing serious in the matter
as in this other accusation that has reference to myself .... In any
case, my sister will be able to reply, if she were here now I have no
doubt she would answer you.’
He had scarcely spoken when the door, which had been left partly
open, was suddenly flung forwards as far as it would go; and Tina,
who had been standing at the entrance with the housekeeper,
appeared at the threshold, and swept into the room. Her rich black
silk dress rustled after her as she advanced; she seemed to be
beside herself with rage, or fear, or shame; she advanced at once on
her brother and on Jenny, as if with her little hands she would seize
them both. But Mr Lee interposed with the manner of the master of
a house, and laying a hand on her arm, turned her round to him. His
manner, his voice, were very quiet and stern, as those of one who is
in no doubt what to say.
‘My niece,’ he said, ‘ye will go back to your room. I haven’t the
time to speak to ye just now. My housekeeper, I see, has been
listening at the door, and I’ve not the least doubt she’ll show the
way to ye. You, sir, I will trouble ye to come with me to my study
that I may confer with ye on these matters that we’ve heard.
Madam, I must ask ye to wait here a few minutes, before very long
I’ll come to ye again.’
With a hand on the arm of each, and a manner not to be
disputed, he turned with his niece and nephew from the room—
Jenny following them with her eyes, but remaining perfectly passive,
standing there in her worn, black dress like some image of despair.
Outside the door he released the arm of Tina, and paused to lock
the door, and then to take out the key; and then, without paying any
further attention to his niece, he turned to the young man, and
addressed a few words to him.
‘I must ask you, sir, to come with me to my study, that I may
confer with ye on these matters. I can’t make no decision that I can
tell ye, till ye’ve said your say, and I’ve heard ye to the end!’
 CHAPTER XXXIII
ANNIE SEES A CATASTROPHE

IF James Gillan had possessed an amount of courage equal to the

skill for which we have given him credit more than once, he might
have been able to make some resistance to calamity, even now
when he beheld before him the uttermost of ruin. He could not. He
had been weakened, physically and morally, by the self-indulgence in
which he had lived all his life; he was shattered by the prospect of
the ruin of his hopes, was visibly trembling, and scarcely fit to walk.
Wild, whirling visions scattered each other in his mind as he followed
his uncle through the dark passages, remembrances of the fatal
marriage-night that had resulted in his separation from his bride. He
cursed the violence, the impatience of her conduct, the contempt
she had poured on his proposal of years of secrecy, as before now
he had cursed the beauty which had so fatally enchained him that it
had even induced him to deal honourably. For he had considered his
marriage to be an act of supremest virtue, an atoning action for
other actions in his life; and not the price that a man who has
uncontrolled desires flings down to obtain a wish not otherwise
attainable. It was that sensation of having been honourable that
made him so little disposed to be honourable now.
And yet, as he followed his uncle through the passages he did ask
himself whether it might not be better for him to tell the truth, and,
if he had nerved himself to that nobler course, he might even then
have averted a tragedy. He could not!—it was not in his nature to
take so straight a path, and at the moment the risk appeared too
great; he would deal rather in faltering words and half-confessions
until he could make out on which side safety lay. For the sake of
Annie!... but he need not consider Annie; he had already done far
too well to her!
Thus, tempest-tossed, shaken, with no definite resolution, he
found himself once more in his uncle’s library; dark now, except for
the candle that Mr Lee held in his hand, and which he set down on
the table as he threw himself into a seat. The question that was to
be expected came immediately and sternly, as James Gillan also
sank into a chair. Oh, if he had been allowed a moment’s breathing-
time, it might have been possible for him to decide!
‘Well, sir, I’ve no minutes to waste; I must ask ye for your answer.
I’ve heard the woman. What have ye to tell me for yourself?’
Oh, how was it possible, thus taken unprepared, to know in what
direction an answer should be framed, to be certain of anything,
except that denial was dangerous and that equal danger attended
the disclosure of the truth? The nephew murmured with pale,
trembling lips that a man must not be judged too severely for the
follies of his youth, that he had been brought up to a wandering life,
an unsettled education, but that he was willing to repair any harm
that he had done. His uncle caught up the words, almost before he
had completed them, with another question that came faster than
the first.
‘Oh! ah! Follies. Follies. I’ve not a doubt of it. But folly is a word
that may mean an inch or may mean an ell. I have to ask you, sir,
and I charge you to tell me honestly, to what extent has your folly,
as you call it, gone?’ And then, as no answer came, he proceeded
very slowly, with eyes and lips that were fixed and resolute.
‘There’s some folly, sir, that is easily bought and paid for. It can be
forgotten, and no harm is done. There is other folly that clings to a
man through life, and takes away from him every chance of raising
himself. A low match, sir, that’s what can’t ever be got over. I’ve had
reason to know for myself that marriage is a serious thing. I should
like to ask ye, nephy Gillan, if you’re inclined to tell the truth, if the
folly ye speak of has gone as far as that? For if it has, I consider ye
a ruined man. I tell ye candidly before ye answer me!’
It was too much. James Gillan sprang suddenly to his feet, with a
mind no longer in doubt, nor a manner that was wavering, and
poured out his words on each other, fast and faster, as if he were
striving to thrust inward shame aside. ‘Why, sir,’ he cried out. ‘I hope
you don’t suspect me of binding myself so seriously without any
reference to yourself, at the very time when I had come down to this
neighbourhood with the intention of knowing you and being close to
you! I have only to tell you of some foolish trifling which perhaps
went further than I had intended it to do, but for which I am willing
to pay any sum that may be demanded in order to satisfy the
woman and the girl.... And now, sir, that I have, as I hope, explained
myself, I must ask for the decision that you have promised me.
These events may, I hope, be explained and cleared away. But what
must I do meanwhile? Where shall I go?’
‘If you ask me the question,’ said Mr Lee, in a low voice and very
slowly, ‘I think I shall be able to tell you, sir, where you may go!’
He spoke with composure, but he kept pushing back his chair so
as to be further from that on which his nephew sat—the young man,
who sat looking at him, with his eyelids more raised than usual—the
charming glance few were able to resist. Mr Lee kept his eyes on his
face as if he were fascinated, with the same slow, steady movement
still pushing back his chair, till the side of it grated against the corner
of the table, and, as if the jar roused him, he sprang up to his feet.
In another instant his words burst forth with vehemence, the rush of
a torrent that could no longer be restrained.
‘Ah, scoundrel, hypocrite, I have let ye have your tongue that ye
might have leave eno’ to convict yourself! So ye call it a foolish trifle
to ’tice a young girl from her home, and then to desert her, and
leave her to misery! Why, sir, I married when I didn’t want to marry,
because the lass believed as I’d made love to her, and ye come and
boast to my face of the girl as ye have ruined, and ask me what
ye’re to do and where to go. By the Lord that looks down upon ye
and such like vermin, I think that I’m able to tell ye where to go. Ye
may go to the devil, sir, your most fit companion, and his home,
which is surely the fittest place for ye!’
He spoke, and at the same instant he advanced upon his nephew,
with clenched hands, a vein-swollen forehead, and eyes darting from
his head; and, as if pressed back by force, though no hand was laid
upon him, James Gillan found himself retreating from the room.
Shattered, overwhelmed, as one suffocated by nightmare, he heard
his uncle roar to the servants to bring him his hat and coat, and,
with that vision of fury still pressing on behind him, he was forced
from the front-door, and out into the streets. It was all a dream ....
there before him lay the valley .... a heavy pall of darkness, with
innumerable points of light .... the night-wind was rushing, his brain
rushed in its company, he could not remember what he should have
said or done. Oh! he could not go back, there was no use in
confession, he could never redeem his reputation now!
Wild sensations tossed, surged in him, as he staggered along
without knowing where he went, as if all that was evil in him had
risen, overpowered him, and was holding carousal, and high festival.
He would go down to Annie, the siren who had ruined him, and
seize her in her beauty, and tear her limb from limb—he could have
laughed and sung at the prospect of his vengeance, and felt inclined
to rush or to dance along the streets. He would go down to the river
—ah! to the river-side—and drink with some old companions before
he went on to her; he would be merry, would be warm and bright
enough before he started on his dark walk through the night. The
streets were strange .... the red sky on his left hand, on which were
the darkness, the innumerable points of light .... the few lamps at
intervals on the other side of the way .... the black dog whom he
pushed with his feet, and who started off into the road. He went
down the hill .... he would get to the river-side, though his brain was
whirling as in delirium ... he could see Annie, hear her, could grasp
her with his hands, although he was certain that she was miles
away. He went always onwards .... no one saw him in the darkness
.... the red lights were dancing, as if they laughed at him.
Is it possible that there are mysterious communications of which
we in our ignorance are not aware, electric forces that can reach
from distant places, and summon us by unconscious magnetism?
Annie did not know, never realised what happened; but she
remembered afterwards that she found herself forced to leave her
bed, that she rose from where they had laid her, slipped by her
sleeping watchers, and passed through the cottage, and out into the
night. It seemed to her that her lover’s voice was calling, that his
arms were stretching out to her from far away, that she was
summoned to protect him from some immediate danger, from which
only her presence could save him. She passed through the sleeping
village, and crossed the railway lines, and found herself by the river,
on the path leading to the town, with the lights of the city before her
on the hill and in the valley, and the river flowing in pale course
through the night. She could remember these things afterwards, but
not what she had thought, except that her mind was delirious,
feverish, that she was haunted by some agony that she would be
too late, and kept crying out that the distance was long, and that
she was too weak to run. And yet the lights became closer by
degrees—she could see them burning beneath the bridge that
crossed the water—could see the lamps at intervals on the other
side of the river, and the quivering streams of light that ran down
into the depths. At her side were the foundry-buildings .... and
there, beneath the foundry arch, and the lamp that hung in it, was a
black, strange swarm of men .... she could hear their voices, which
came confusedly through the noise of the rush of the lock, and the
silence of the night .... She drew close, closer, could hear the words
they said .... that ‘he must have been drinking, by what some folk
had seen’ .... could see them bend over something that lay upon the
ground .... could distinguish the countenance of a villager, and by
him her brother’s face. And then, all at once, as the crowd made
way for her, her senses came back with a rush, and she understood
it all .... the night-time, the staring eyes, her own loose dress,
streaming hair, the amazement of the by-standers .... on the ground,
her husband’s face .... For one instant she saw, and then everything
forsook her, she could hear herself scream .... then her limbs gave
way, and she fell.
And, as she fell, sinking, as it seemed, in unfathomable darkness,
scarcely conscious of the arms put out for her support, she could
hear a voice at her ear, speaking low and clearly, with a sound as of
words that we hear even through our dreams. It seemed to be
speaking of her, to be explaining who she was, to tear from her
misery the last poor veil away. She heard the words; and then, as if
nothing further could be borne, her consciousness deserted her and
she knew no more. ‘This is Annie, Jenny Salter’s daughter, who lives
by the Thackbusk!’
 CHAPTER XXXIV
A PARTING IN THE STREET

THE words which rang in Annie’s ears were heard also by her
brother, who stood almost unrecognised amidst the crowd of men,
bewildered, gasping, scarcely knowing where he was, or that all was
not some confusion of a dream. The terrible sight of the body taken
from the river which had encountered him as soon as he reached the
town, the more terrible recognition of its face, the realisation of a
death that had nearly been his own—these things were
overwhelming enough without the appearance of his sister,
inexplicable as that was, unlooked for by any one, and yet affording,
to other eyes besides his own, a clue that might serve to unravel a
tragedy. He wished to help her, but he could not move his limbs, he
appeared to be rooted to the ground on which he stood; but strong
arms were round her, and the workmen who supported her seemed
disposed to treat her with pity and tenderness. He saw her carried
past him, pallid as a corpse, with the lamplight on her white face
and streaming hair. He heard them say she was ‘only in a
swounding; that in a little while she would be right again.’ And
then, when he would have followed her he found that he could not
stir; he could only watch, as if fascinated, all the preparations that
surrounded one who would not wake and be ‘right.’ There were
doctors present who had been summoned hastily; there were
workmen eager to be relating all they knew; he could hear their
voices, and the sound of women’s murmurs, and the tale that the
better informed poured out upon the rest—this tale of the man who
had been his sister’s lover, who was the brother of one whom he had
loved. They said he had been drinking in a public-house like a
madman, that he had risen suddenly and rushed out into the night,
and that some, following him, had heard a sound in the water, and
hastened, terrified, to the river’s edge. The catastrophe might have
been an accident—none could be sure that it was not—they could
only say that in the darkness it had been impossible to discover him
at first, and that, when he was found and dragged up from the river,
the light on his face showed at once that he was dead. The doctors
talked of some injury which his head had received, but the time he
had been in the water was long enough to account for death—and
Nat realised, with feelings which cannot be described, that another
had gained the fate he had desired. For an instant he saw the dead
form on a shutter, and then, in its turn, it was carried past him and
away. And then, as the crowd of people hastened after it, he knew
that Tina Gillan was standing by his side. He had felt her touch
on his arm, and recognised it; and, as he turned his head, he saw
her face.
She was strangely attired, in a black silk evening dress, with
necklace and bracelets upon her neck and arms, and over these
things a black cloak lined with fur, which hung loose except where it
was fastened at her throat; whilst an old black hat had been flung
upon her hair, which was elaborately arranged, and glistening with
pins of golden filigree. It did not seem strange to Nat that he should
find her at his side—he was too much bewildered to be surprised
that night—nor, considering the sight on which she had been
looking, could he be amazed at the expression of her face—her eyes
wide and wild, her cheeks and forehead twitching, whilst her limbs
shook so that she could scarcely keep upon her feet. She clung to
his arm, and kept muttering to him to ‘take her away from the river,
to take her away from it,’ and, himself in such a condition that he
was scarcely able to obey her, he half clung to her, half supported
her to the streets. At the bridge he stood still, but fresh restlessness
seized on her, and her low voice began muttering in his ear again.
‘Take me away from the river. I cannot bear to see it. I am going
mad. Take me away from it.’
 Yielding to her impulse, he went with her down a street, not
knowing where to take her, or where to go himself, save that she
kept muttering that he was to ‘take her from the water,’ and that the
horror of the water seemed to accompany them—the river with its
darkness, and streams of quivering light, its black foundry arch, and
dark, strange swarm of men. He paused at length, however, in a
dimly-lighted street, and attempted to gather his strength and speak
to her; his voice sounded hoarse and horrible to himself, he had
never imagined it could have such a sound. But, although he was
almost unnerved by the tightening clutch of her fingers, he was able
at least to say a few words audibly. ‘Tell me what I am to do, Miss
Tina, tell me what I am to do. I will take you wherever you like.
Where must I go.’
Tina only muttered, ‘Take me away from the river-side. I cannot
bear it. Take me right away from it.’
He saw that she was not in a condition to be still, and moving
again, went with her down the street, the horrible throbbings of his
heart and limbs becoming in some degree less overpowering as he
moved. The street was dimly lighted; there were not many people;
no one seemed to pay any attention to them. They crossed it, and
turned into another that was smaller, darker, with a long dark line of
wall on one side of it; it was close to the railway, and he could hear
the rush of some distant train going onwards through the night. He
made for the wall, scarcely knowing why he did so, and leant against
it, whilst she clung by his side. It was dark there, and silent, and no
light shone upon them; the street was deserted, there were no
passers-by.
‘Well, are you satisfied?’ cried Tina, springing from him, and yet
clutching the front of his jacket with her hands. ‘You have killed my
brother. I have seen it. He is dead. Are you satisfied now? Have you
had your will with us?’
He could feel the clutch of her fingers on his jacket, as he had
been feeling their grasp upon his arm; the thrill seemed to stir him
from his head to his feet, and to take away from him all power to
answer her. But she wished for no answer, her voice went on
speaking rapidly, its wild tone quivering like a cry that is suppressed.
‘Do you know what has happened to me?’ she said quickly, with a
laugh. ‘I’ve been turned off this evening from my uncle’s house.
Dismissed like a beggar! He would not even see me. He says I may
go to London, and amuse myself there again. Ha! ha! I’ll shame
him,’ cried Tina, as she ground her teeth together. ‘I’ll let no one
forget that I am his sister’s child.’
Her terrible passion, her wild eyes, grinding teeth, would have
been dreadful enough under any circumstances—they were
unspeakably horrible with her brother’s death so recent, uttered with
such vehemence in the dark, silent night. Nat tried to speak, but his
faltered words, ‘Miss Tina,’ were swept away almost before he had
uttered them. And still she kept clinging and clutching at his jacket,
as if but for its support she would have fallen on the ground.
‘Ha! ha! I’ll shame him, see if I don’t,’ cried Tina. ‘I’ll do harm to
him, and I’ll do injury to you! It was your mother came to the house
this evening, and was clever enough to bring us all to ruin. You
haven’t spared me. You have told about the letter. I couldn’t expect
that you would be good to me. I’ll hurt you. I will. You have brought
us to destruction. My brother is dead .... he is dead .... and you shall
die!’
‘Miss Tina,’ cried Nat, and his breath was lost in sobs. That
seemed to startle her; for a moment she was quiet. Seizing on that
instant, he wrestled with his agitation so as just to be able to speak
—he could do no more than that.
‘Before God, Miss Tina, I’ve done no harm to thee. I’ve not said a
word o’ ye, not to t’ Squire. If my mother knew anything as she’ve
told to your uncle, I don’t know who she knew it from—it’s not from
me. I’ve been beaten and shamed. I’ve been turned out from my
place. They say I’ve stole money. I don’t know the rights of it. I
went down to t’ river to-night to drown mysel’. There isn’t no hope in
all t’ world for me. But I can’t bear to see ye .... so alone .... so left
alone ....’ the sobs caught his breath, so that he could scarcely speak
.... ‘I’ve got three shillen .... if ye will take ’em from me ... it’ll be the
last thing as I can do for ye.’
He took out the money, and she took it in her hand, and then let
it drop through her fingers to the ground. The clink of the money
sounded strange in the night. They did not speak to each other.
They scarcely seemed to breathe. And then, with a passionate
movement, she threw her arms round him, and broke out into
weeping, with her head upon his breast.
‘Poor Nat!’ she cried out to him, ‘Nat, Nat—poor Nat!—and so you
would be giving your last poor coins to me. I don’t want them, dear.
I can get work to do in London. I won’t do more hurt to you, who
are the only friend I have. Nat, I will confess to you. I opened the
Squire’s letter, although I knew it was wrong—I did, I did!—And the
bank note dropped out, and I never noticed it, until I had fastened
the letter and given it to you. I’m a wicked girl. I didn’t care if I did
you harm—I wanted to see what Mr Lee wrote of James and me ....
and now James is .... dead .... and I’m a wanderer again, and I must
go to London, and live by my singing there .... I must stay here to-
night .... though I know that James is dead .... I knew it from the
first .... he is dead .... oh, he is dead .... and then I will get away
from this place and the river—and you will never see me, or hear of
me again.’
After a while, still clinging to him, ‘I will write to the Squire, and
send him the note. It doesn’t hurt now if I do harm to myself, and if
I tell him the truth I hope it will do you good .... And you mustn’t
think hardly of me, poor, foolish .... though I have been naughty,
and have led you into wrong .... I must kiss your hand .... oh, I
cannot help my crying .... I want to tell you that you have been kind
to me .... Oh, don’t tremble so much, dear, I cannot bear to feel it
.... I have no other friend in the world .... good-bye, good-bye ....’
Blind, suffocated, almost past all consciousness, he felt that she
slipped from his arms, and then she was gone.
 An hour later, in intensest midnight blackness, through which the
lights in the streets shone at intervals, Nat found his way through
the night-time, with faltering footsteps, as one scarce waked from a
dream. He must find his sister, his mother, and give them what help
he could; in time he might be able to think how to help himself. The
great bell had tolled, and now every bell was ringing .... he must get
back to the river .... he went on through the night.
 CHAPTER XXXV
THE GENERAL CONFESSION AND THE CONCLUSION OF THE WHOLE

SO down into darkness sank that New Year’s Eve, with its half-
revealed story, its completed tragedy, leaving town and country
provided with surmises, and stirred with much talk, and a store of
opinions. The history of the nephew and niece of Mr Lee, their flight
in the darkness, the river-side tragedy, the appearance of the
wretched girl by the body of her lover, her story and that of her
brother, the conduct of Mr Lee to both—the tidings of all these
things spread far and wide, and made the talk of the whole of the
neighbourhood. There were thrilling statements about a secret
marriage, and a separation said to have taken place upon a
wedding-night; there was a story also about an opened letter, which,
in its turn, could cause excitement. The village of Warton was
naturally triumphant, because it knew the parties, and could give its
own opinions; it was only by degrees that its triumph became
mingled with a sense of dissatisfaction that was certainly natural.
For, although it was evident that there had been wrong-doers, it
appeared that all the wrong-doers would not meet with
punishment—there were some, on the contrary, who would even be
rewarded, as if they had behaved themselves like honest folk. Poor
village! it is hard when tales have not a moral, and where Nemesis
does not attend where she is due—although we may always console
ourselves by reflecting that the stones of vengeance grind after
secret laws, and that it is probable that by some means or other all
wrong-doers do arrive at punishment. We would be more contented,
no doubt, if we saw that sight visibly; our sense of justice is not
satisfied with less; but then, in this world where so much is always
hidden, we must take the actions of vengeance, as we take other
things, on trust. With these few words, offered humbly, as an excuse
for the good fortune that fell to the share of some culprits we have
known, let us leave the village to virtue and indignation, and visit
those culprits for the last time in their home. That home had been
saved from destruction—it had reason to be thankful—but we will
not be certain that it was triumphant. For, although it is doubtless a
good thing to be rescued from a battle, there are pale ghosts that
wait even on our victories.

* * * * *
On the last night of the May of that year whose commencement
we have seen, Nat and Annie were sitting together in their home—in
the yellow-raftered room which had echoed to the clamour of the
Rantan less than a year before. It is true that Annie ought not to
have been sitting up so late, but Nat was with her, and in a few
hours he was going away, and some silent impulse on one side and
on the other, made the brother and sister desire to spend that
evening side by side. Annie also was leaving; she had no excuse for
remaining now; she had only asked to be allowed to remain in her
old home until her child was born.
They sat together silently; the lamp was on the table; now and
then the young mother rocked the cradle with her foot. It was
perhaps the same impulse which made them wish to be together
that held their lips, and kept them quiet, although side by side. For it
was impossible that old memories should not be stirred to-night,
connected with others as well as with themselves. The next day,
which would witness the departure of Nat for new employment,
would be the wedding-day of Alice Robson and of Tim.
‘They’ll have a fine day,’ said Annie, very softly—she had not
spoken on the subject before, but she knew she would be
understood—these were the first words that had passed between
the brother and sister since their mother had left them and they had
been alone. ‘I’m glad to think so, they’ve been so good and kind,
such kind friends to us, though it will be different now. Tim came to
see me last night. I was very glad to see him. He thought me
altered, I know, for he looked so hard at me.’
Nat did not answer—it may be that he remembered why, on his
part, he could not go to see the bride; it must have been shame that
brought the colour to his face, for he had been pale and heavy-eyed
before. But the feeling that his sister had been communicative,
although she had always previously been more than reserved to him,
stirred him with a sense of answering sympathy. He spoke with an
effort, he had not spoken much that evening since he had come
back from his visit to the Squire. Both his mother and sister had
understood without difficulty why he should be silent with regard to
that experience.
‘I’ve seen t’ Squire, Annie,’ he said now, with an effort. ‘It’s been
very cutting. Ye know that I went to him? I’ve never seen him sin’
that last night o’ the year. He seems to be older, even in that little
time. He said he was glad Mr Lee had given me learning, that Mr Lee
had told him I should be a good business lad. And he wasn’t angry.
He talked as if he was sorry—as he’d been more hasty nor he should
ha’ been wi’ me. But I couldn’t answer him a bit, I was so afeard o’
crying—I think I’ve not felt so bad in all my life.’
Annie moved her chair in the least degree closer to him, whilst the
glance of her dark eyes rested on his face, her eyes which had
grown so large, and sad, and gentle, during all these months that
she had been an invalid. He understood the movement, and after a
while he went on speaking, with the manner of one who is relieved
to be able to speak.
‘It seems to make a differ—my going away to London, although
I’ve not been much at home all these months. I was so close at
Lindum, an’ I could think of home, even when I was at office-work
or classes, or the rest. It won’t be the same when I’m at
Westminster, in that big place o’ business where there’s so much to
do—now that t’ home ’ll be gone, an’ mother’s weak an’ poorly, an’
ye’ll be livin’ wi’ her an’ Mr Lee. It’s cut me a deal too, to be thinkin’
about father—they say he’s real silly sin’ his illness, an’ll not be
himsel’ again—he’ll have to be allays in some kind o’ keepin’,
although they don’t think as he’ll be dangerous. I’m thinkin’—I’m his
son—I felt desperate last winter—it wouldn’t ha’ ta’en much to make
me drink like him. It makes me afraid to go away to London—afraid
like and sorry when I think what last year has been.’
‘Nat,’ said Annie suddenly, ‘I mind me of a day when Alice took me
to be with her at a class—it’s been on my mind sin’, the confessin’
an’ t’ prayin’, an’ then t’ hymn-singin’ an’ all t’ rest of it. You an’ me’s
both sorry .... I think that we are sorry .... shall we kneel down
together an’ say a prayer to-night?’
‘I’d like to,’ he answered, readily enough, ‘only I don’t understan’
what sort o’ prayer to say. We can’t make up prayers like as t’
preachers do. An’ t’ prayer-books is all together at t’ church. There’s
the General Confession,’ he added, as a new idea struck him; ‘we’ve
heard that often, I should think we remember it. It’s all about being
sorry, an’ doin’ better, an’ t’ like. I should think it’s possible that it
might do for us.’
‘Then we’ll have it,’ said Annie, agreeing readily, ‘we’ll kneel down
together side by side upon the rug. You may say the words first as if
you was t’ preacher, an’ I’ll be repeatin’ them as t’ people do. It’ll do
me good .... I’m sure I’ve been bad eno’ .... it’ll maybe make my
heart a bit lighter that’s such a weight to me.’
They arranged a chair, and knelt by it side by side, the brother
and sister, still so young in years, and yet with such evident traces of
recent trouble that their young faces had assumed an older look.
Nat’s features were already in the transition-time, and some of the
charm of his boyish grace was gone; but Annie was yet more lovely
than before, though her illness had left her pale and delicate; and
the black dress that hung so loosely on her figure set off the bright
hair which had not yet a widow’s cap. They knelt together with their
clasped hands almost touching, and after a pause of a minute Nat
began; the simple gravity of his boyish earnestness breathing as
with new meaning the familiar words:
 ‘Almighty and most merciful Father; we have erred, and strayed
from Thy ways like lost sheep. We have followed too much the
devices and desires of our own hearts. We have offended against
Thy holy laws....’
So far he proceeded, and then a great sob caught his breath, the
familiar words had become all too painful. Annie waited an instant to
see if he would recover; then her soft voice took up the words, and
he followed her:
‘We have left undone those things which we ought to have done;
And we have done those things which we ought not to have done;
and there is no health in us;’
‘But Thou, O Lord,’ proceeded Nat, to whom she left the
precedence, ‘have mercy upon us, miserable offenders. Spare Thou
them, O God, which confess their faults. Restore Thou them that are
penitent; According ... According ... Annie,’ cried out Nat, in the
greatest agitation, ‘I don’t remember how it goes! I don’t remember
how it goes!’
He remembered well enough, but he had become unnerved; and
in his emotion the familiar words were lost. Annie quieted him with a
touch upon his arm; and went on speaking as if there had not been
a pause.
‘According to Thy promises declared unto mankind in Christ Jesus
our Lord. And grant, O most merciful Father, for His sake; That we
may hereafter live a godly, righteous, and sober life, To the glory of
Thy holy Name. Amen.’
And Nat repeated after her, ‘Amen.’
For a minute they waited, and then rose up from their knees; and
Nat took his sister into a close embrace; it was not possible for
words to pass between them in that moment when their kisses met,
and each face was wet with tears. Then they separated; and,
moving quietly about the room, he began to put together some
things that he would need.
 ‘Nat,’ cried Annie, with a sudden impulse, ‘you shall be the baby’s
godfather.’
He stood still, looking at her, and she went on, speaking rapidly;
‘I’ll get some one in the village here to stand for you. An’ when you
come home .... you can tell me about t’ boy .... if I don’t bring him
up right you can let me know. Mr Lee’ll be the t’other, I daresay; but
that won’t be the same; I shall be glad to think as you will be near
the child!’
Was that like Annie, so proud and self-sufficient, so scornful of the
brother with whom she had shared her youth? Nat was very much
touched, so much moved he could not speak; he went to the baby
and kissed it, and then turned to her again. For a while he stood by
her, and held her in his arms—his grasp had already the strong clasp
of a man.
‘We’ll be better children,’ said Annie, as soon as she could speak.
‘An’ we’ll do better by mother as has been so good to us. The
doctor’s feared she won’t be so strong again; but we’ll try to do well
by her, we owe her that! Oh, I must be going; I am too tired
already; but I’m glad to have seen you this once, Nat, good-night.’
They kissed and separated; and the next day, in the morning, Nat
said farewell to his relations, and set off for the town; not again,
perhaps, to be brought so close to his sister as in the white heat of
penitence which for a while had made them one. Yet never in vain is
it for two human souls to be brought thus near together before the
throne of God; that evening must have remained as a sanctifying
influence in the minds and the lives of Annie and of Nat. They were
not soon to meet; he went to work in London; and Annie was to
share with her mother the home of Mr Lee.
That morning passed on, and before the strokes of noon the
whole air was full of the sound of wedding-bells. Alice Robson and
Tim Nicol had a bright day for their marriage; and many were the
friends who came to see the sight. Neither Jenny nor her daughter
were present at the wedding—there were reasons why their absence
was not astonishing; but they had sent their warmest good-will to
the bridegroom and the bride, and with that a tea-service; and they
received some wedding-cake. This marriage might not perhaps make
old friendship closer, but their friends had been faithful to them all
the same, and no tenderer memories cling about our days than
those of the friends who have stood near our distress. Such
faithfulness merits the best that earth can give, and even on earth it
gains a sure reward.

And so our story draws to its close at length—the story of an

episode in village-life, not of occurrences altogether ordinary, and
yet not unlike much that passes day by day. In Warton the memory
of the Salters was enduring, and the remembrance also of the
events with which we have concerned ourselves—mingled, as I have
said, with some natural dissatisfaction at a certain incompleteness of
justice to be discovered in the tale. I have said that such discontent
was natural—but, for my own part, I am not strictly just, and,
however certain of the necessity of traps and cats, am liable to
inclinations in favour of the safety of the mouse. And, for such
reasons, I cannot bring myself to be sorry that the children of Jenny,
though not always wise or right, had their feet restored to the paths
of peace and comfort, and even to higher hopes than their birth
warranted. I think the possession of these new-found relations did
much to bring happiness to Mr Lee, shaken by the tragic event of his
nephew’s death, and by the uncertainty in which his niece’s life was
lost. The old man made efforts to discover Tina Gillan, but they
proved fruitless, and at length he sought no more.
Poor Jenny! It seems to me I see her now, in the position of Mr
Lee’s house-mistress and friend, a gentle creature, with a timid,
patient manner, with quiet movements, and soft hair streaked with
grey. Her memory had never entirely recovered from the physical
strain of one dreadful New Year’s Eve; for her health had been
broken before by many troubles, and it was not possible for her to
regain her former strength. But she understood that her children
were honoured and were happy, under the friendship and patronage