THE BACK END
Lucy sat on the bridge that spanned the beck just above the farm. The
water had diminished to a thin stream, trickling between the stones; the
pools were nearly empty; the moss on the rocks was yellow instead of
green. All things looked parched; even the marshes were dry. The summer
had been as nearly rainless as a summer can be among the dales and
fells.
Lucy's eyes were fixed upon the low grey house before her. The weeds,
which grew between its rough slates, were dead; the feathery grasses,
that found congenial crannies in the walls, drooped; the garden--a
narrow patch between the door and the beck--was already seared by the
hand of autumn.
But that which Lucy's eyes beheld was not the Greystones of to-day,
gilded by the westering sun, but the Greystones of the days to come,
swept by the rain, beaten by winds, or wreathed round and round by the
whirling white sheets of a snow-storm.
In a few weeks' time winter would be here; long, wild nights would
follow short, wild days; the sun would be blotted out, or rise above the
mountain rampart for a few hours, roll across the dale like a red wheel,
and plunge down behind another mountain rampart amid lurid mists, or
smoky clouds.
Her mind dwelt upon this picture with dread. She told herself that she
could not pass another winter at Greystones, cooped up with the fearsome
old woman, her great-grandmother. She would lose her wits if she did, or
die; at any rate, lose her youth. Youth was not so much a matter of a
few years as of happiness--the happy were always young, the sad old long
before their time.
As Lucy sat on the bridge this fair autumn evening, herself as fair as a
little rosy cloud floating overhead, although she was outwardly calm and
unoccupied, she was listening, not with the best of grace, to two voices
talking in her own soul. One had been trying to make itself heard for
days, nay, weeks; but she would pay no heed to it. Now it refused to be
stifled any longer.
"You are doing wrong," said this better self, but the other part of her
vehemently protested innocence.
Ever since Peter Fleming had returned to High Fold Lucy's attitude
towards life had changed. She had not been happier, but she had been
less willing to suffer with resignation. She had looked facts in the
face. She considered Joel's departure and the possibility of his ever
returning; would she not be grey-haired by then? Fortunes were not made
in a day. She weighed her own chances of escape from a life that she
detested. There was only one. So she made up her mind that sorrow should
not fall upon her like a blighting sickness, take the roses out of her
cheeks, the light from her eyes, the hope from her heart. She refused to
be thrust into darkness. If happiness was not bestowed upon her as a
gift, she would go out and seek it.
Yet she was ill at ease--beset by fears, troubled by conscience.
She rose from her seat upon the bridge and looked down the dale to
Forest Hall. Her eyes had lost their sweetness and were hard, her lips
were compressed.
She was passionately wishing that Joel had not gone away, but stayed at
home and made the best of his luck. But as he had gone, why had he not
been kinder? The summer was nearly over, winter was at hand, and he had
only written once--a letter so cold that it might have been read from
the housetops, and even the rooks flying home would have got as much
satisfaction out of it as she. A loving word from him would have brought
summer back to her. She would have made shift to put up with her present
existence. She would have waited till fortune had smiled upon him. If it
had kept a sullen face, she would have given him cheer and hope. But he
had forgotten her. She told herself this again and again making a reason
out of it for her own actions. She would forget, too, and find someone
else to spend her affection upon.
She had determined one thing--she would remain no longer than she must
at Greystones. She hated it. She hated the loneliness, the crags that
overhung the house, the snow, and the winds, and the rain. She hated her
great-grandmother. So hardened had she become by that which she had
suffered that she was not afraid to express her real feelings to
herself. She would cease to fetch and carry for the old woman, she would
refuse to be a drudge. She would be happy before she was too old to
enjoy happiness.
She turned away from gazing down the dale as though she had fixed her
determination, but her better self would not let her be. It insisted
that happiness was a state of the soul and she could not win it until
hers was at rest.
"I am doing no wrong," she argued, "nothing that hundreds of women do
not do. I am lonely, I seek companionship. I am sad, I seek happiness. I
want sympathy, so I give it."
But, in spite of her protestations, her endeavour to throw a cloak over
the real meaning of her actions, she was conscious of a certain lowering
of her ideals. She was no longer the innocent girl she had been a few
months ago.
"You are playing a game to win a man's heart," said her better self.
"You are wiling him by arts and ways that only a woman can use. You know
that men are attracted, like children, by that which is beautiful and
looks good, so you lay yourself out to please his eyes, and win his
love."
Lucy moved restlessly from one side of the bridge to the other, as
though by such means she could get away from the troublesome voice.
Was it true? she asked herself. Was she acting a part? She liked Peter
very much; she felt safe with him; she meant to marry him if it lay in
her power to do so; but did she love him? Was she not still in love with
Joel? In spite of all that had happened his features and form were
constantly in her mind's eye. He influenced her still; she could not
shake off the fascination that he had exerted over her from the
beginning of their courtship. Lucy rose. The communion of herself with
herself had brought her no satisfaction.
Listlessly she wandered down the dale. She wanted to do that which was
right, but many conflicting emotions swayed her. Hurt affection, fear
of the future, wish for change, out-weighed other and better desires.
She strolled on. The sun had set, but a mellow light filled the aisles
of Cringel Forest. Without conscious direction her feet took her to the
dell, where Joel and she had spent many a twilight hour. She peered in,
standing on the banks above. How cool and green it looked! The holly
screen was coralled with berries, the mosses were luxuriant, the pool
gleamed like a dark jewel. Then the past rushed back upon her--the
months of separation shrivelled up; it seemed to be but yesterday that
she had met Joel there.
Life came to a standstill. She did not cry out, or fling herself upon
the ground, or flee from the haunted spot. She remained peering through
the bushes, her eyes set wide, and her lids rigid. She was seeing a
vision of Joel Hart in her mind's eye. The place was full of him. The
pool had many a time reflected his features, he used to sit upon that
stone, lean against yonder tree. The harebells were in bloom when he and
she were last here--still two or three frail flowers hung fading upon
their stems.
A footstep started her. So vivid was her impression of his presence,
that she half expected to hear him call, or see him rise up out of the
shadows. The blood surged through her veins, her heart beat loudly, her
breath came hurriedly.
But it was only Peter Fleming that burst through the haunted
silence--plain-featured Peter Fleming and his big brown bear. She drew
further among the bushes, not wishing to be seen. The beast lumbered
down to the pool, splashed about in it, greatly to the delight of its
master; and, having churned up the mud, robbed the place of its magic,
and exorcised the vision, man and brute went away.
Lucy returned to Greystones as troubled as she had left it.
The first few weeks after Peter's return home had been spent by him in
schooling his heart to accept his present life cheerfully. He never
showed a desponding frame of mind to any one but Lucy, and only to her,
because she had--as it were--enticed him into unusual confidences by her
fair face and gentle sympathy. But his was not a nature to whine over
that which it could not have, and before long he got back--outwardly, at
any rate--his jovial temper. The villagers found him the same gay
fellow, ready to wrestle with them on the green when the day's work was
done; the lads and lasses teased him about his lap dog, Big Ben, the
bear; the children were more certain than ever that lollipops would be
their daily fare, when school began after the harvest was over.
Peter passed a few days cutting down the trees round the school-cottage.
He made a clearing where the sun could look through, and he dug a
flower-bed under the window. Soon after day-break each morning, he left
the mill, swung up the village street past the church and entered the
forest. He spent many hours there, his eyes and ears alert to all the
wondrous life going on in the sweet green shade. Hares and rabbits,
water-rats and weasels scurried away before his approaching footsteps,
then stopped to look at him from a fern, or a tree-trunk, or a
moss-grown stone. Squirrels leaped among the boughs overhead, and threw
empty nuts down, and birds, less shy, and more mercenary, scavenged in
the drifts of last year's leaves, not heeding him at all. Often he
passed many hours with Timothy Hadwin, discoursing of things, that lie
at the roots of human development. He laughingly said that he was always
ready for an excuse to fling himself upon the warm, sweet-smelling
earth, and look at the sky, which hung over the tree-tops like a blue
china cup. But he was not idle. He read books of Theology and books on
Philosophy in the little white-washed parlour of the school-house. He
read sincerely, even with ardour, but ever came to the same conclusion
that the priesthood was not his vocation.
Made restless and impatient by unavailing study, he at length flung his
books aside, turned to the free breezy life of the fells, and went
fishing. Swirtle Tarn, and all the mountain streams, saw his grey clad
figure through the dusks of early morning and night. Neither rain nor
heat could keep him at home. He was out from sunrise to sunset, his skin
burnt brown as an Autumn leaf, and his hair bleached to the colour of
wind-blown bent.
Sometimes he saw Barbara, her figure outlined against the sky; or he
spied her climbing like a goat up the gaunt face of Thundergay; or he
caught the light glancing from her reaping hook as she cut bracken for
the cows' winter bedding; and once, when the sun was level with the
hills, a giant shadow of horse and woman fell upon him, and she passed
close by, leading home the peats.
Peter did not often have speech with Barbara. He did not seek her, for
his mind was preoccupied with his own concerns, and she did not cross
his path. He saw Lucy much oftener, but he was too open and honest to
imagine that their frequent meetings were planned by the brain that lay
behind such blue and innocent eyes.
Thus the summer died upon the hills.
Harvesting, stacking turf, and bringing sheep from the highest pastures
made the "back end" busy for the fell folk. A spirit of good fellowship
inspired them, and they helped each other, gathering first at this farm,
then at that, toiling through the heat of the day and feasting at night;
dancing the harvest moon up into the sky, or out of it--as the case
might be. No lack of willing workers came to Greystones, and Mistress
Lynn indulged her pent-up generosity on this occasion, providing liberal
ale, bread, and cheese for her guests.
On the night of the kern supper, the harvesters brought home the kern
baby in triumph to Greystones. The kern baby was made of the last cut of
corn, platted into some semblance of the human figure, its head stuffed
with a red apple. They hung it up on the kitchen wall, near the
four-poster, where it would remain until the end of the year, when the
best cow would get the corn and Jan Straw the apple.
For half a century the kern apple had been Jan's meed on Christmas
morning. He took it to the kirk-garth, and laid it on the grave of "her
o' the white fingers." During the night some wild creature came out of
the forest and ate it up, but he never knew, for the churchyard was too
holy a place to be disturbed by many pilgrimages. He had an idea that
the apples were all garnered up somewhere, watched over by an angel, and
that he would find them again, hereafter, in a golden heap.
The weather continued summerlike; the bracken grew taller and taller in
the moister places of the dale until it stood as high as Lucy's
shoulder.
"We'll have to pay for this by and by," said Mistress Lynn.
One morning a cloud hung over Thundergay. The next day the sky was
overcast, the air oppressive, and faint thunder rolled, like the booming
of great waves on a distant shore.
"Didst ever have weather like this before?" asked Barbara.
"Aye, long ago." The old woman laid down her knitting needles and told
the story of that time, with the awe of one who had heard the flocks
calling upon the hills night and day for water--a sound which lingers in
human ears for ever.
"The ground cracked like an overbaked pot," she said. "The becks ran dry
and Swirtle Tarn shrank till it was little better than a farm-yard
puddle."
Barbara went out. She took the cattle track to the cave where she and
the hind gathered the sheep from Thundergay. All through the hot
oppressive hours they toiled, and by the afternoon the flocks were
huddled upon the slopes above Swirtle Tarn, watching with frightened
eyes the flashes of light, that lit up the gathering darkness. Then the
hind left her to drive in the cattle.
Barbara was the only human being in that gloomy place. And she was the
only living thing that was not afraid. The moor fowl called restlessly
to each other, flew hither and thither, or hid themselves among the
ling. A hare, crossing a strip of fern-clad slope, raised its head to
sniff suspiciously, when it shot away, swift as an arrow.
At Greystones Lucy sat by the open door spinning. She dreaded a
thunderstorm as something supernatural. She would rather have been with
Barbara at Ketel's Parlour, than alone, here, with the old woman.
She lifted her eyes again and again to look at the mountain round which
the blackest clouds were gathered. It seemed to draw nearer, until it
stood like a black blot just beyond the barn. Then she got up and shut
the door.
Mistress Lynn watched the girl with keen eyes. She had noticed that
Lucy's face of late had regained its colour. But there was a hard
expression upon it, and her speech came slower and less gaily than of
old. The old woman knew the meaning of it. She could see into Lucy's
mind almost as easily as if it were laid open for her inspection.
The daylight struggled and died; a grey unearthly gloom came on all
things, a stillness as of death.
"Are you frightened, Lucy?" asked Mistress Lynn.
"Maybe it's the last day," replied the girl.
The old woman's face was ghastly as the face of a corpse in the strange
light which filtered through the windows. The kitchen seemed to be
swallowed up by a weird sepulchral vapour.
She laughed.
"Get down on thy knees, Lucy Lynn," she said ironically, "get to thy
knees and pray for a sinful old woman and an innocent lass. Don't forget
Peter Fleming forbye. I misgive me he'll come in for a wetting if he
doesn't tie wings to his heels. He went up the fells a few hours ago."
"Peter! when? I didn't see him."
"Why shouldsta? He came to see me, and you were in the dairy."
Lucy seized the poker to stir the peats; it was heavy bar of iron and
clanged like a bell when she knocked it in her nervousness and
irritation against the stone jambs of the fireplace. Then she jumped up
and looked in at the cow-house, where the hind was just stalling the
cattle. There she saw Jan Straw, sitting with his hands on his knees,
staring into vacancy. He did not seem to see her, but he laughed like a
mindless creature at every rumble of distant thunder.
"It's going to be a fearful storm, Tom," she said to the hind.
"A regular smasher!" he replied.
"You didn't see anyone coming down the fellside, did you, when you were
gathering the kye?"
"Nay, never a soul. Every man o' sense has got his flocks into shelter
by now."
Lucy returned to the kitchen.
"Jan Straw's by with himself," she said.
Her great-grandmother continued to knit composedly.
"Look up the dale, and see if you can spy Peter," she said with a wicked
gleam in her eyes.
"He's old enough to look after himself," replied the girl tartly.
"Then look up the dale and see if the storm has broken on Thundergay.
I'm wondering about Barbara."
Lucy did as she was bid. The sky was shrouded by a heavy pall, through
which the sun still shone as through smoked glass. But the mountain had
disappeared. Now and then it flashed into sight as the lightning played
round it, then darkness swallowed it up.
Meanwhile Barbara was standing at the mouth of the cave. She looked a
very solitary being in the midst of that tremendous gathering of the
tempest. The forces which nature had wakened were so overpowering and
mysterious, they could have swept her away, if she had exposed herself
to them, like a withered leaf. Everything around her was magnified by
the lightning--the cliffs were towers, the bushes distorted creatures,
the rocks--fragments from the heights above, which former storms had
thrown about like pebbles--loomed in the darkness as big as elephants or
those prehistoric beasts, the mammoths that Timothy Hadwin had told her
about. Behind her the mouth of the cave yawned like a black mouth
waiting to swallow her up. The dogs crept close to her side, the sheep,
too, seemed to be reassured by her presence. Could they have spoken they
might have uttered the words said by the Red-skins to Montcalm:
"_It is when we look into your eyes that we see the greatness of the
pinetree and the fire of the eagle._"
The lightning played off its fire-works against the inky clouds; the
thunder crashed like the wheels of a great car hurtling down Thundergay.
The dales and ravines rolled and reverberated. Every pinnacle spat fire,
every cliff gave back the sound in twofold, threefold, even sevenfold
echoes.
Still Barbara stood at the mouth of the cave and watched. She had not
seen a storm like this before--though thunderstorms were common
occurrences among the fells. She thought it was like the convulsion
which must have attended the making of the earth. She could imagine that
a god was moving within the cloud, striking upon his anvil with a great
hammer, and forging bands for a new world.
The lightning and thunder ceased. The quietness was more oppressive
than the noise had been. A waterfall rang startlingly clear like a call.
The darkness increased with the silence. All the nearer objects sank
into a thick atmosphere.
Then came the rain. It did not fall in drops, but in a flood. It drummed
upon the grass and rocks; it sounded like an army coming down the
mountain side and passing along the dale. Every well-head, that had been
dry for weeks, broke into clamouring; Thundergay gushed with fountains;
the fountains gathered; they rushed along like mad horses.