"Day's work, says you! It's little we sees o' such goings on in the

Girdlestone, saving the mating o' wind and rain, the birth o'

snow-storm, and the death o' summer on the fells. Be canny now and tell

us o' the news. Whose married? whose been kirsened? and whose dead

down-by?"

"Well," replied Red Geordie, sipping his mulled ale with satisfaction,

"there's triplets in Troutbeck, and they's been called Shadrach, Meshach

and Abednego."

"Sakes alive! it's enough to make Anabaptists o' them; they'll be

wanting to be rekirstened when they're grown up. Whatever was their

mother thinking o' to lay such a saddle on the lad-bairns's backs?"

Red Geordie tossed off his ale and handed the mug back to be filled

again.

"Pack horses, pack horses," he cried, "hey, mistress, we're all pack

horses on the road. Some on us carries one thing, some on us carries

another; some has his mother's follies, and some his dadda's sins,

forbye the sins and follies of his own getting."

"Aye, it's a wonder when you come to think o' it--the cross-bred sheep

we be!" said the good-wife.

Red Geordie again handed back his mug.

"I'll have another glass, mistress, with a dash more nutmeg in it to

warm the thrapple. Now, Master Camomile, what kind o' fate would you

foretell for the three lad bairns, born at a birth? They ought to turn

out something by-ordinary."

Timothy shook his head.

"Doubtless they will suffer the common lot of man," he replied, "and

pass through the fiery furnace of tribulation like other folks. Happy

will they be if they can sing with the Hebrew children, 'Oh, ye fire and

heat, bless ye the Lord, praise Him and magnify Him for ever.'"

Joel looked up quickly.

"I never believed the story," he said, "men don't praise God in the

midst of the fiery furnace. They're more likely to curse Him."

Ever since the pack-master's rollicking personality had entered the inn

kitchen, Joel had kept a moody silence. He disliked the quizzical glance

of the man; and the bald head, with its upstanding fringe of red hair,

raised an unreasonable antipathy in his mind. If the weather had not

been so cold and damp, he would have left his seat in the ingle-nook and

gone out, preferring the mist to becoming the target for Red Geordie's

eyes.

His sudden outburst caused an uneasy pause, not so much because of the

words, but the intensity with which they were spoken. They seemed to

have been thrown off from the man's mind as smoke is thrown up from a

volcano. They were the sign of the fires burning within him.

"Heigh-ho," exclaimed Red Geordie, who felt it his duty to restore the

conversation to a more natural tone, "I'll have to be taking the road

again. It's a dree day for a body to be riding through the Girdlestone,

a dree day, but less dree than it used to be before the Shepherd's Rest

was built. I mind well, when the snow lay on the fells, and wind swept

down them like a beast, trying to snap off your fingers and toes, and

there was neither inn nor cot for twenty miles! Those were days! I've

seen me riding with a match-lock over my shoulder and a brace of pistols

in my belt, like any rumbustical cateran. What with robbers and winds

and thunderstorms, the frights I got bristled up my hair so that it's

never laid down since."

"The first time I rode through the pass," said Timothy, "I thought I had

come to the Delectable Mountains. It was a summer morning. I rode on

and on in a kind of a dream till suddenly I came to a gibbet with a dead

man swinging upon it. It distressed me." The little silver-headed man

looked as though the memory of it still distressed him. "For the rest of

my journey, I meditated upon our nature and the divine justice that is

above our justice, for it sees with the eyes of mercy."

"I know who he was," said Red Geordie. "You can spare your sympathy for

him, master. He murdered his wife and flung her body into Quaking Hag,

and that minds me, by the by, I saw the last time I passed that Devil's

pot that the fence is broken."

The good wife busied herself about preparing a meal. She made the fire

burn brighter, and put the kettle on to boil; all the time she talked.

"They say he walks round Quaking Hag at nights, carrying a light to lead

witless folk into the peat holes. If the fence is down I wonder you let

your horses go on their lone. They might wander from the track and you'd

never see them no more."

"Oh," laughed the man, "Black Geordie kens the road as well as me. With

a Black Geordie in front, and a Red Geordie behind, it's not many spooks

will trouble us. I'll go and whisper a word in the old fellow's lug, and

send him on. He'll be past the Hag before I catch him up. He should have

been a general in the army--that old fellow--for he comes clean out o'

all messes."

He went to the door, and soon there was the sound of hoofs upon the

road. Joel saw the string of beasts disappear into the mist as they went

on up the pass. Their master came back to the kitchen, and with him

entered Peter Fleming.

"Another glass, mistress," cried Red Geordie. "One for each of us;

glasses all round; a stirrup cup for me, and a happy union for you. Your

health, Master Joel Hart! and school-master Peter, here's to you!"

At Peter's entrance Joel's haughtiness vanished, and with it went the

white whisht-look that had caused the dame anxiety. His eyes began to

burn, and his lips twitched. Colour mounted to his brow, and

concentrated into two red patches upon his cheek-bones. He got up from

his seat, in the furthest corner of the ingle-nook, and moved nearer to

Peter, looking at him with a gaze that roused suspicions in Red

Geordie's mind.

He thought of the rumours that were flying about, concerning these two

men. Rumours were never to be relied upon--twenty years following the

pack-horses had shown him their inconsequence. He had an intimate

knowledge of the manner in which they grew, as they rolled from village

to village, himself being an active agent in starting them upon their

mad careers.

He watched Joel intently, and scrubbed his upstanding whiskers with a

rasping sound. Peter might not know it, but hate was the fire that

glittered in Hart's eyes, hate was the colour that painted his wan

cheeks, hate made his lips twitch, and drew him from his corner to the

other end of the bench, for like love it finds satisfaction in being

near the object of its passion.

"Good Lord!" he said to himself. "Here's enough gunpowder to blow us all

up."

Then he turned to Peter.

"And how's your bonny wife, school-master?" said he. "You should have

brought her with you to make a little sunshine in the Girdlestone, such

a dim, dark day as this is! A bonny face is always a bonny face, and

worth looking at, even when it does belong to another man."

Joel scowled.

"When Fleming's here I want no bonny faces," he replied. "Peter's a good

friend, and an old one. We're the best of friends, even though we did

wrestle in such a manner that it brought me to death's door. But we'll

have another wrestling yet, eh? Come, we'll drink to the next wrestling.

Mistress, wine, and the best you've got."

"I'm glad to see you in such good spirits," said Peter kindly, but he

thought that Joel had already had more wine than was good for him.

"Spirits! Yes, I'm looking forward to the next time we try a fall

together."

"I've given up wrestling," said Peter.

"Man, will you not try another fall with me?"

"No. I'm going to let my muscles run to fat--as the good folk predict.

You gave me such a taste of it at the Shepherds' Meet, that my appetite

is satisfied for ever."

"Satisfied, no! You'll not be able to stand still, when you see other

men in the ring. Besides we haven't finished the bout. You didn't throw

me, you know. We'll finish it some fine day when I go back to Forest

Hall."

"Let me ken the hour," said Red Geordie, picking up his whip, "I'll come

and umpire. Hoo! but I'd like fine to see the end o' that wrestling.

Well, I must be off or Black Geordie will bring the whole lot back to

look for me. Good-bye, to you Master Hart. Good-bye, Peter Fleming. A

word with you, Master Timothy."

The old man accompanied Red Geordie to the door.

"He's mad," said the pack-master, indicating the kitchen with his whip.

The kind old face looked distressed.

"A hint in your ear, master," and the man bent down and whispered,

"murder."

"No, no, you're mistaken. He's just excited and has been drinking too

much."

"It's murder! I saw it in his face. If School-master Peter is a wise man

he'll go school-mastering to another place, and take his wife with him."

Red Geordie mounted his horse, and rode off saying:

"I ken what's what in the man's face. I don't ride the pack roads for

nowt, master."

CHAPTER XX

THE SPELL OF THUNDERGAY

The winter was one of storms. They rose suddenly towards evening, and

continued intermittently throughout the night, with long, strange pauses

between each, until the dawn of the next morning, when the sun got up

amid bars of yellow and purple cloud. But the glory of sunrise was

brief. The days were cold, short, and grey, and when darkness fell the

wind howled as though nature were in a fury bordering upon madness. The

silences, too, which fell so suddenly, when the storm was at its

highest, seemed to indicate periods of exhaustion, like those which

follow upon the unbridled passions of human beings.

In the bleak and solitary dale, where the farm of Greystones stood,

there was little light till noon, for the mountain-wall surrounding it,

kept out the rays of the sun; and Thundergay, at its head, poured a

current of raw air into the hollow filling it with mist, through which

the wild geese called mournfully, and the sheep wandered, too depressed

to bleat, but seeking always for sustenance among the loose rocks and

beds of scree. Once a day their scanty meal was supplemented by a feast

of holly twigs which Barbara or the hind cut for them. They knew the

time by instinct, and, half an hour before, might be seen travelling

along the dale from all directions, and gathering round the thicket

where the hollies grew.

This winter Mistress Annas Lynn began to feel the cold, and another

woollen rug was put on the bed. She spent most of the day in keeping

herself warm, and her usual occupation of knitting ceased. She did not

sleep much, and often Barbara would tip-toe to the bedside to see if her

great-grandmother were awake, and would find the bright eyes open, and

raised to her face in an instant, with a keen searching look. But she

spoke little, and appeared to find plenty of interest in her own

thoughts. Strange thoughts they must have been, which passed through a

mind so strong, individual, and so old.

But at night when the door was shut, the curtains drawn, the fire

bright, she would sit up in bed and talk of the days long past, and

times that were rude, but full of a spirit that kept the brain alive and

made the flesh glow.

When she was young, men and women lived upon the strong meat of exertion

and adventure. She said that they were giants compared to their sons and

daughters, who could not digest anything more solid than pap. The old

woman had a great contempt for the rising generation that she saw around

her. She flung many a gibe at them, when they gathered in the kitchen,

as they sometimes did of a winter evening, to hear her recount stories

that made their hair stand on end and their flesh creep.

But in the midst of her quips and quiddities, she would sometimes break

off to talk of Barbara. As her own energies began to fail, she drew

vitality from the robust nature of her great-granddaughter. The girl was

true kin to the strenuous souls of old. She had in her veins the blood

of shepherd princes, her spirit was the spirit of kings--stern perhaps,

silent perhaps, but tempered as steel, unflinching before lightning

flash, or whirlwind, ready as her forefathers had been to face the

moss-troopers should they ever come again to rob the sheep-fold. But

Barbara was born three generations too late. She was like an eagle with

clipped wings, and had never a chance to show the mettle of her make.

Sometimes Barbara was present at these story-tellings. She would sit

with her cheek resting on her hand, watching the flames, and seeing in

them pictures which her great-grandmother's words painted. She, too,

often longed for a life of adventure. Now that she had cut herself off

from her books and intercourse with Peter--she saw him as little as was

compatible with their relationship--now that she had clipped her own

wings, she found life stale, lacking in all enterprise and interest.

She would not allow herself to meditate upon the past. She swept her

mind clear of it, no regrets, no longings, no phantoms or shadows must

find a lodging there. But an individuality such as hers could not become

thus permanently dwarfed. She might clip her own wings, but they would

grow again, and bear her upwards to cleave other air, and find other

climes than those to which she had been borne away in the past.

Through the grey winter days and the wild winter nights, she flung a

part of herself to the winds, and as it fluttered upon the blast like an

autumn leaf, she thought of the trees in Cringel Forest, and pitied

their nakedness. But they would grow green again, and spread their glory

to the summer. So, perhaps for her, there would come a renewal, and her

soul would blossom like the may--nay--not like the may, sweet and

beautiful as it was, but like the corn of wheat, which unless it fall

into the ground and die, cannot bring forth fruit. She felt

compassionate towards the wheat which went so patiently into the tomb,

and came forth, like a shriven almoner of old, to give itself without

reserve to the service of others.

Often when the wind shrieked about the old house, and the sycamores

groaned under the lash, Mistress Lynn would listen with eager ears for

the sound of Barbara's footsteps on the threshold. She knew by instinct,

and understood by experience, that her great-granddaughter was going

through some travail of soul. But she said nothing, only watched and

waited, noting with her keen old brain the change of Barbara from a

dreamy girl to a woman, whose will was becoming fixed in an inflexible

mould, and whose mind was changing to something more mature but less

comprehensible. As the winter deepened, the change grew more marked.

Often in the pauses of the storm Barbara would enter with a slight

smile, and a look as though she had been talking with someone, and was

still full of that which she had heard.

"Where hast been?" the old woman would ask her.

"At Ketel's Parlour."

"Alone?"

Barbara laughed, and there was a new inflection in her voice.

"I'm never alone. I have the sheep and the heather and the birds.

Besides, there's Thundergay. Thundergay is father and brother and sister

and lover all in one. You know that, great-granny. You sent me to

Thundergay when I was only a bairn, and you said he'd teach me the way

we Lynns must walk in the world. Thundergay has opened his heart to me,

and I'm never lonely with him."

At other times, in the midst of the battering of the wind, the girl

would come in, her eyes shining, and her hair in wild disorder. She

would go about her work with an energy never seen before in her

movements. The hinds and Jess looked afraid of her, and kept their eyes

fixed on their work.

Lucy was surprised, she wondered what had come over her sister. But the

old woman said never a word to enlighten her. She was seeing, as it

were, a picture of herself eighty years ago. Lucy did not often get

speech with her sister at this time. Since the night at Ketel's Parlour,

when she had gone back to the mill-house instead of fulfilling her plan

of going to see Joel at the Shepherd's Rest, they had never opened their

lips upon the subject. Lucy felt aggrieved, though why she hardly knew.

She had expected to have Barbara's constant sympathy, after she had bent

to her wishes; she had relied upon having a strong arm to uphold her in

the path in which she had agreed to walk. Instead she was left to

herself: she had to pick her own way without encouragement and without

pity for her sufferings.

She thought Barbara cold and without understanding. Lucy was miserable.

She was miserable because she was half-hearted; she still hankered after

forbidden things, instead of turning away from them, and determining to

draw out of her duty sustenance to enable her to fulfil it.

Peter, too, seemed to be preoccupied and weary. He was smitten by the

blight of failure, by remorse, and stirred to a most righteous anger.

"You have cast an Evil Eye on Barbara," said his self-condemning

spirit. Reason murmured against the assertion; conscious of his

integrity he would not be condemned unheard. Fate had laid a snare,

covering it with pleasant things, so that he had stepped in without

warning. "You sat down in the Siege Perilous, who were not strong enough

to fill it," said the same condemning self, "and now you are learning

what the consequences are."

But Peter saw one thing clearly and it was this: he must go away, and

take Lucy with him. He dared not leave her behind; for he was under no

misconception about the attitude of Joel towards himself or his wife.

Then, amid other scenes, he would beg her to help him, as he would help

her, to bring order and happiness out of the disorder of their lives.

Barbara he could not aid, save by going away.

Barbara was working out her own salvation. As in all severe discipline

of either body or soul, some of the grace of her nature was sacrificed

to the attainment of strength. A stern light began to shine in the soft

eyes, and made their expression difficult to fathom. Folk with mean

spirits could no longer sustain their gaze with equanimity. She was not

so silent as she used to be, but her words were more enigmatical, and

seemed to spring from a current of thought flowing deeper than ordinary

mortals could probe. Like an underground river, it passed through scenes

of wonder and mystery that would have astonished them beyond measure

could they have followed its course.

Barbara had diverted the flow of her passion for Peter out of the usual

channels in which such feelings run. Had she been free to love him in

the way that men and women are meant to love, she would have become the

most devoted of creatures, excelling others by a greater degree of

intensity in her affection, and not by an unique difference in its

nature. As a wife and mother she would have been calm, self-sacrificing,

supremely happy, viewing the larger world with a placid generosity, the

overflow of her own abundance.

But in this direction her love could not flow. And as a subverted river

will change the face of the country through which it runs, so her nature

was changed.

She loved Peter still, not passionately, but none the less strongly; not

despairingly, for she hoped for nothing; not with reservation, for no

human barrier blocked the way; neither sorrowfully, nor ashamed. All

that can be said is that she loved him as a human being, who has shaken

off the flesh and all its bonds, might love one who is still under its

dominion.

The intensity of her love quickened the manifold energies of her nature.

As a wife and mother she would have awakened to a realization of the

riches of life's common things. Now that she must turn away from so

well-trodden a path, she came into a world none the less real, none the

less stirring with forces both spiritual and material, though

undemonstrated to the ordinary mind and eye of man.

Life is seen through many windows. As time passes new ones are opened,

and old ones blocked up, sometimes by our own hands, often by the hands

of others. Barbara had deliberately shuttered one of her windows when

she burnt her books; but now a new one was to be opened for her. The

revelation came suddenly. The mountain Thundergay, the beloved nurse of

her youth, and her well-tried companion, drew back the curtains, and she

looked out, at first with blinking eyelids as though unaccustomed to the

strange light. What did she see? A wonderful world, a land of mystery,

a country inhabited by immortals.

Nature was no longer dumb. It spoke to her in a language that she could

understand. It took the place of her books, and human friends; it came

into the circle of her love--that love which surrounded Peter with so

white a light, and emanated from her in never dimming radiance.

She felt herself to be a part of a great order. There was a bond between

the golden clouds of dawn and herself, between the winds and her. She

had a common bond, too, with all living things, sheep, birds, and also

the foxes and the ravens. All were in their place, and she was in her

place. This gave to her life a sense of repose.

But such a sense of security alone could not have built up the character

of Barbara Lynn. Mere freedom from fear is a negative quality, unless

the emancipated soul makes use of its privileges to flow out in search

of worthier objects to stimulate its energies.

Had Barbara been placed in the midst of a crowded city, to humanity she

would have turned and would have spent her life in its service. But none

required her at High Fold: there was no one upon whom she could bestow

the riches of her nature save her great-grandmother, who desired and

asked for little. So to Thundergay she turned, to its dales and steeps,

its fountains and ravines. She drew inspiration to be strong from its

strength, and power to suffer from its endurance. She subjected her body

to severe discipline so that no crag defied her, while cold and

discomfort counted for nought.

Only by such physical and mental training could she steel herself to

bear her sorrow without flagging steps. Some day a command might come to

her to climb higher, and she desired to be ready, prepared in her

threefold nature of body, soul, and spirit.

CHAPTER XXI

THE CALL

"Good-bye, Lucy," said Peter. He was standing at the mill-house door,

while a man held his horse at the gate. "I wish you hadn't changed your

mind," he continued, "and were coming with me. I thought that we were

going to have a jolly time together. Won't you come? Are you sure you

don't care to come? There's still time."

It was early morning, although darkness and night vapours hung among the

trees on the other side of the beck, and the village had not yet

awakened to the day's work. Lucy listened to the rushing of the water

and shivered.

"How like a man," she exclaimed. "Still time when your horse is ready

saddled, and I haven't even a petticoat packed. No, no, I'd rather stay

at home, thank you. But I hope you'll have a pleasant journey."

"I'm awfully loath to leave you," he said.

"Why? I shall not run away. I'll be waiting for you on the doorstep when

you come home, ever so pleased to see you. They say absence makes the

heart grow fonder, you know. There, don't look so gloomy. You make me

wish I'd never said I'd go with you; for then you wouldn't have been

disappointed."

"If you'd only say yes now, Lucy, you could make shift to do without the

petticoats. I'd buy you new ones when we got to London. Put on your

bonnet and cloak, there's a bonny wife, and come away."

"Are you afraid I'll vanish?"

"I've never left you alone before. I don't like leaving you here. The

mill-house is a dreary place when you've nothing to listen to but the

sound of running water. Will you go up to Greystones?"

"And be scolded all day long by great-granny! Well, if it will set your

mind at rest I'll go. But don't worry about me."

He was silent for a moment.

"Good-bye, Peter," said Lucy, "it's too cold to stand here any longer.

Good-bye."

He hesitated, seemed as though he would say something more, then turned

to go down the path, but she called him back.

"Here, lad," she said, "give me another kiss. Don't stay away too long;

I'll be counting the days till you come back."

When he had ridden off, in spite of her assertion that it was too cold

to stand on the doorstep, she did not enter the house at once, but stood

staring along the dark village street down which he had disappeared. Her

eyes seemed to entreat him to return, but she controlled her impulse to

call him back. Again she shivered. The sense of protection which her

husband's presence always gave her, was withdrawn. Yet what had she to

fear? The sound of the rushing beck was melancholy.

She withdrew hastily and shut the door. A bright fire was burning in the

parlour, and the remains of breakfast lay on the table. She sat down in

Peter's chair, and looked at a little heap of bread which his restless

fingers had crumbled. She knew that he would not have left her just now

if he could have helped it, and she guessed the reason. A flush mounted

to her brow as she thought that he did not trust her, his wife. He need

have no qualms. She had only seen Joel Hart once since his return; she

had had nothing to do with the fierce wrestling at the Shepherds' Meet.

Since then she had walked as prudently as any demure matron could do.

What could he suspect? What right had he to suspect anything? Yet the

knowledge that he did not trust her stung.

She wished, now, that she had gone with him as she had at first

promised. Why had she not gone? She had tried to persuade herself that

she could not endure the long ride over the pack-horse track; then the

cold, uncomfortable journey in a crowded coach; and lastly a strange

lodging in a strange city where she knew no one. If it had been the

summer time she would not have hesitated for a moment. She had wanted

all her life to see London--the Tower, St. James's, Westminster. Peter

had promised to take her, but something had always come in the way to

prevent him. It was too aggravating that he should have chosen this time

to go, when the snow might fall any day, making travelling not only

disagreeable but dangerous.

A week ago, Peter had told her that the friend, who had offered him the

post in India, had written about an opening in London; and that if he

thought it would suit him, he must come up at once to meet certain

influential gentlemen who were deliberating upon it.

Lucy had shilly-shallied, saying first that she would go too, then that

she would not go, and again that she would. The reason which lay at the

back of her indecision was the hope of meeting Joel. She had heard that

he meant to go away as soon as he was well enough, and she wanted, at

least, to bid him good-bye.

For some unaccountable reason, she now felt afraid, and would have

given--what would she not have given?--to hear the sound of hoofs in the

street and then her husband's voice at the door. The room was still full

of the impression of his presence, though he had gone. His slippers by

the fire; his book on the sill, with the marker in it which she had

worked for him before they were married; the bright walls; the cushions

and hangings, the pictures--all the pretty things with which he had

surrounded her, rose up like witnesses to plead for him and condemn her.

How she wished that Joel had not written the letter which had upset her

peace of mind! She wished that he had never come back to Forest Hall,

looking handsomer than ever. Peter and she might then have found

happiness. She thought, when she married him, that she loved him truly.

So she did, but she did not love him best. Why could she not love him

best?

If Joel were to call her now would she spring to meet him, and claim him

as her soul's true mate? A numbness crept over her. Was it of this she

felt apprehensive--the coming of a call--and that she would not be

strong enough to resist?

She longed for her husband's return, yet she feared him. She was afraid

of Joel, yet she loved him. She wondered whether there was another woman

in the world in such sore straits as she.

Tears did not relieve her; they only spoiled the colour of her cheeks,

made her eyes red, and her head ache. So she dried them and looked up.

Daylight was streaming through the window and turning the lamp's flame

to a sickly yellow hue that paled and dwindled, like the changeling

children who are said to dwindle in the cradle when morning dawns. There

was something so unpleasant and unwholesome in its light that Lucy rose

and turned it out. Then she called the servant-lass to come and clear

away the breakfast dishes.

She wandered in and out from parlour to kitchen, and kitchen to parlour.

She lifted up first this thing, then that; started to mend her frills,

but pricked her finger and tossed the work aside; took up a book but

dropped it listlessly; sat first in one chair, then in another; and at

last sank down on a three-legged stool before the hearth.

The hours dragged. She glanced out, but the prospect was not inviting.

Bare and brown stood the trees; the beck rushed along as brown as they;

the road in Cringel Forest would be inches deep in mud; not a bird

chirruped. She wondered if she should go up to Greystones. She had

promised Peter that she would go, yet why should she? She liked

her own home best. She preferred its present dreariness to her

great-grandmother's tongue. Besides, up there, every movement would be

watched and criticised. And she might--she did not think it

likely--still she might want to go out without being asked where she was

going.

This was the day that the Need Fire was to be lit in Boar Dale. Lucy had

no wish to come into the midst of a bellowing herd of cattle, so she

found in it another reason for deferring her visit.

Towards noon a lad knocked at the door and left a small package for her.

She untied it with trembling fingers, for she knew that it was from

Joel. Out of it fell a little lump of gold, and a note asking her for

the sake of old times to come over the Robber's Rake to see him. He gave

no reasons, but she was not surprised. He had been ill; he was not yet

well enough to return to Forest Hall, and he had been longing to see

her, as she to see him. Perhaps he knew that Peter was away, and that it

would be easier for them to meet now than ever again.

She dropped the gold and the scrap of paper as though they had been

red-hot cinders, and stood looking at them as if she expected them to

speak. And they did speak. No tongue could have been more eloquent than

that little bit of metal, no voice more full of entreaty than the

scrawled characters of Joel's handwriting. They were urgent. With them

she could not expostulate, excuse herself, or maintain a virtuous

reserve.

Her dead hopes, dreams, promises came again to life and seemed to stand

about her, looking into her face with blinkless eyes. They entreated

her, for old sake's sake, to grant his wish.

She knit her brows in perplexity. Should she go? Would it be wise to go?

Why should she not go? Wherein lay the unwisdom? She wanted to see Joel

for the last time, to tell him that they must never meet again; that he

must forget her, as she would endeavour to forget him. He need not leave

High Fold in order to escape her; for she and Peter were going away; but

he must not follow or attempt to renew their friendship. So plausible,

so self-controlled, so wise appeared her reasons to her own mind that

she could find no serious objection to complying with his request.

She forgot, or would not allow herself to remember, that this was the

call which she had feared. But a thing far off looks so different to the

same thing at hand that she did not recognise them as one and the same.

Musing thus, and undecided still, with her eyes flitting about the room

as though in fear of seeing something which would turn her from the

purpose she wanted to form, it seemed to her that she saw the grey-clad

figures of the miller and his wife come in at the door and sit down in

their vacant chairs. They did not look at her, they were but shadows,

but Lucy fled. She was afraid of Peter's dead father and mother. They

had loved him so, his honour was their honour, and they had died

heart-broken thinking her unworthy to be his wife. She had bitterly

resented their reproachful eyes, she bitterly resented that they should

cross her vision now, as though they had come to guard their son's good

name when he was away.

Lucy put on her cloak and went out.

In order to escape any undesirable questions or inquisitive eyes she did

not follow the road through the forest, but took one of the innumerable

paths that led along the fells, opposite to Greystones, on the other

side of the beck.

Heavy clouds, that were purple underneath, but stained with a murky

brown along their upper edges, lay motionless upon the higher hills,

levelling their rugged peaks as with a knife. No gleam of sunlight or

patch of blue lit the savage landscape. It was made of iron and bronze,

a hard menacing corner of the world, whose scars and gashes, dealt by an

earlier age, kindly Time had not yet managed to rub out or smooth into

pleasant lines. The weather had been fine for several days, and a high

wind had dried the dead bracken and benty grass, but there was every

appearance of coming rain.

From a field in the bottom of the dale, near Greystones, smoke was

rolling as though a subterranean fire had broken through the earth's

crust, and begun to belch forth its pent up energies in fountains of

acrid vapour. Now and then a red tongue leaped among it, only to be

smothered by a denser cloud.

The Need Fire[1] was an ancient institution to which the dalesfolk had

formerly resorted in times of disaster. All the household fires were

extinguished, and it was lit by rubbing together two pieces of wood,

which had never been inside a human habitation. Peter had smiled when he

had heard that it was to be lighted in Boar Dale, and passed on from

farm to farm through that district. But Timothy Hadwin believed in it,

and Barbara was strongly in its favour.

[Footnote 1: The last "Need Fire" was set going near Kendal in 1840. At

Crosthwaite its "smoke" was in the Kirk Lane on Sunday, November 15th of

that year.]

Lucy looked down as she hurried along.

A loud bellowing and bleating rose from the field. Little could be seen

for the drifting smoke, but she thought of Barbara in the midst of it,

helping to drive through the cattle, blackened--she did not doubt--by

the fire, blear-eyed, probably, with its stinging vapour, but in her

proper element. Barbara had been born into her true sphere--the bleak

mountains, the grey crags, the eagle, beating its wings as it were

against the overhanging clouds, were her fitting companions. But she,

Lucy, had never been at her ease with them. She had always felt forlorn

in this land of the dales and fells. It was not her spirit's country,

although her native land. Perhaps London would be more to her mind.

She had not gone far when her thoughts came back with a start to the

object of her journey over the fells. The colour left her face and her

eyes were filled with alarm. The temporary wandering of her mind, though

it had only been for a moment, had again unsettled her. She hesitated,

wondered whether to go or return. Her heart was tossed about like

drift-weed upon unquiet waters. She felt that she was out upon a stormy

sea. If she retreated, would she regret her action when she got back

again into the safe harbour? She was afraid to go on, for she did not

know with what sunken perils the way was strewn.

She came to the end of the sheep-track, where it joined the Robber's

Rake on the far side of the tarn from Ketel's Parlour. She halted by a

post that pointed the way, when the ground lay covered with snow. She

looked up and down. Just as the sign-post pointed in two directions, so

her mind was drawn in two directions. To go one way was right, to go the

other wrong. But which was right and which wrong? First she decided

this, then that, but as hastily reversed her ideas again. She arranged

them to suit her wishes, or her sense of justice, or expediency. She

could not decide.

She walked on a little further.

Then she saw a figure rise up from a rock upon which it had been

sitting, and come to meet her. It was Joel.

CHAPTER XXII

THE TRYST AT GIRDLESTONE PASS

"Shall we go to the Shepherd's Rest?" Lucy timidly suggested.

Joel would not hear of it. The good-wife was in the house, he said, and

she had a tongue for babbling that would challenge any mountain beck.

But in that wild and rock-strewn pass was many a sheltered nook, where

two people could meet unnoticed, and undisturbed, save by wandering

sheep or screaming curlews. He guided Lucy to the stone, which gave its

name to the place, and there they sat down.

A more secluded spot they could not have found. It was wild beyond

expression. Before them the fellside shelved away, strewn with slatey

scree, at the foot of which a stream tumbled, and sent its thunders

reverberating along the pass. The pack-horse track marched with the

stream in the direction of the inn, which stood below them to the left,

hidden by the unevenness of the ground. To the right the road still went

on up a steep ascent, then, dipping over a brow, ran through low and

marshy moorland for many miles, until it reached the great North Road.

In the midst of this boggy part lay Quaking Hag. Overhead was poised the

girdle stone, a massive fragment fallen from the crags above, and

supported by rocks, that the storms of centuries had rough-hewn into the

shape of pillars. Underneath it the ground was dry and sheltered from

the raw air. Behind rose the mountain Thundergay, as rugged on this side

as upon that which looked into Boar Dale.

Joel regarded Lucy with an intent gaze, and she stole many a glance at

him. He was not as altered as she had expected to find him. Indeed, save

for a restless light in his eyes, lines about his mouth, and the pallor

of his face there was little change to be seen. She wondered why he had

not returned to Forest Hall; for he had recovered from his illness

sufficiently to have walked the few miles between the Shepherd's Rest

and High Fold.

"So you've come to see me at last, Lucy," he said, fondling her fingers

and looking into her face.

"Did you expect me before?" she asked, wishing to withdraw her hand from

his, yet not liking to do so for fear it would seem unkind.

"No, but I wondered if you would manage to give Peter the slip some day,

and get away. I used to buoy myself up through the long nights when I

couldn't sleep, with the hope of hearing your voice in the morning."

"I'm sorry you have been so ill, Joel."

"Don't be sorry, Lucy, at least don't cry, for it clouds your eyes,

which are just like two bits of blue sky, and there's not much blue sky

to be seen to-day. Do you know, my dear, when I lay sick in the inn

yonder, I often comforted myself by thinking that you were sitting by

the bedside, hidden behind the curtains, and that I could, if I liked,

pull them back and look at you. Fortunately I had sense enough not to

try the experiment. So I got the pleasure without the disappointment."

"I wanted to come," she began hurriedly, "I would have come, but

Barbara wouldn't let me. I longed and longed and longed----"

She broke off abruptly for his glance disturbed her. What was the

meaning of the light in his eyes? She had seen them grow radiant in the

past as lamps lit by some inner fire, but never seen them shine as now,

so fierce and glowing that they frightened her. She cast a look in the

direction of the Shepherd's Rest.

"Isn't it too cold for you out here?" she said. "I don't mind being seen

by the woman at the inn. We are doing nothing we need hide. It is quite

natural that I should come to see how you are when Peter is away."

"Is it?" he asked with a strange laugh. "I doubt if the good-wife would

think so."

"Well, if it isn't," she replied, colouring and feeling more and more

reluctant to stay alone with him, "I'd better go home."

He controlled his feelings, whatever they were, and laid a detaining

hand upon her arm.

"Let's talk calmly like two sensible folk," he said.

"I'm sure you oughtn't to be out. Don't forget how ill you've been, and

that this isn't a summer's day."

"It's been a summer's day since you came, Lucy. But sit down. I haven't

spent five years in a land covered with snow for half the time without

becoming inured to some discomfort. Be good and kind. I've seen so

little of you, and thought so much that you shouldn't grudge me this bit

of pleasure."

She sat down again, drawing her cloak closer about her. She thought that

the Girdlestone was not a fitting spot to talk with a man who had once

been her lover. She was perplexed at his manner. She felt instinctively

that a change had taken place in him. She could not have defined it; but

the deterioration which had been going on in his character for the last

few weeks showed through his words and actions, though they were as

affectionate as they had always been.

For some moments he leaned back against the rock, letting his eyes rove

over her face.

"I've carried your picture here," he said, tapping his breast, "all the

years I've been away; I'm now comparing it with the original."

"Well," she inquired at last, "am I like it or have I changed?"

"The same, the same, yet not the same. There's a firmer line about your

mouth than you could draw round it in the old days."

"Age should bring wisdom, should it not?" She sighed and then continued.

"But I'm afraid I don't learn and grow wise."

"I know who put that line there," he said sharply.

She looked up, surprised.

"It was Barbara, Barbara, damn her, the night she prevented you coming

to see me."

She winced and rose to her feet. He saw that he had made a mistake, and

drew her gently to his side.

"Oh, Lucy, Lucy," he cried suddenly, "I'm beside myself. I can't live

without you any longer. I'm mad I know; but I want you, I want you as a

man never wanted a woman before. We were born for each other, you can't

deny it. Come away with me. We'll go and make happiness for ourselves in

a corner of the earth, where no one will ever seek us."

He put his arms round her, and she only half resisted, though she said:

"But, oh, Joel, you forget that I'm another man's wife."

"I don't forget it. The fact's there; but we'll disregard it. We'll go

away, now, at once...."

She tore herself suddenly from him as though his embrace stung her.

"What am I doing? What are you saying? Oh, Joel, we cannot...."

* * * * *

It was not till then that she realised her position. She loved this man,

and, though she had married Peter Fleming, his image had floated before

her mind through all the years of his absence, and she had often

regretted that she had not waited for him. His return had excited her;

she liked his admiration and his caresses, and, at their last meeting,

she had let her feelings have their way. She had been full of thoughts

of that which might have been. But she had never intended being

seriously disloyal to her husband. She had come to see Joel, so she told

herself, merely to bid him good-bye; to tell him that they must not meet

again; and to say that she hoped he would be happy. Now she was aghast

at the place where her actions had brought her. Go off with Joel? She

could not dream of such a thing! He was an honourable man, only

over-wrought by his love for her. He could never really think of taking

her away.

"Be brave, Lucy," he said.

"I must leave you. We must part."

"Be true to yourself, Lucy."

"I should loathe myself if I did as you asked."

"You love me, my dear."

"But I'm Peter's wife."

"Peter can get another, and you shall have me for a husband."

"It can't be, Joel. We must say good-bye. I only came to say good-bye."

"We'll both say good-bye--to High Fold and Boar Dale--we'll say it

together, and go away."

She drew back to the furthest corner of their retreat, and stared at

him.

"Do you know what you are asking me to do?" she said, scarcely above a

whisper.

"I've thought it all out; I've planned it."

"But I cannot go away with you."

"You love me," he repeated triumphantly.

"I did once," she cried, "but I'm afraid of you now. Peter would never

ask a woman to do what you are asking me, no matter how much he cared

for her."

Joel moved to the entrance, and stood with his back to her for a moment.

The clouds were darker, the fellside more stern, the foam of the beck

whiter in the waning light. But the outlook was not so wild as the

picture which he saw within himself, when he turned the eye of his mind

upon it.

Man never grasps the significance of his own thoughts. They cross and

recross, and deal with each other often apart from his direct

consciousness, and that which he has to accept is their conclusion.

Hope and despair, hate and honour--all these had filled Joel's brain,

had joined forces or fought--as the case might be--and now he saw it

strewn with the remains of war, where one figure stalked, and its name

was hate. Then a faint light glimmered down, and he was aware of the

star of love still shining overhead. There was commotion in his mind.

Hate menaced the star but could not put it out.

Turning to Lucy, he said:

"Must it be good-bye?"

Her lips quivered and she nodded.

"It's a little word," he replied, "and very ill to say. I'll not say it.

If you go ... but you'll not go. Think of me, Lucy. Give a thought to

the loneliness of my life. Remember how I worked to get rich for your

sake. That bit of gold--have you got it?" She made a movement of assent.

"We'll still have it made into a ring, and you shall wear it. You're

mine in heart. Why should you be afraid to trust yourself to me? I'll

take care of you, Lucy. You shall be happy, you shall be rich. You shall

have everything you want, if you'll only put yourself into my keeping."

"You might give me all these things," she whispered, "but you don't

understand, Joel. I should have the mind of a ... I should be like a

toad. Barbara said so."

"I knew it was Barbara, who had changed your feelings towards me," he

bitterly replied.

"I do think of you," she said, "I know you will be sad and lonely. So

shall I be. You do not think of me, Joel."

He looked moodily through the gathering gloom.

"The day is nearly over," he muttered, "and we have made little use of

it. For days I've been wanting to see you, wondering how I could bring

you to the Girdlestone. Now you bid us part, and forever. Well, let us

go. The sooner good-bye is said the better ... if it must be said."

They went down the brae to the stream, which they crossed by a bridge.

The long, withered branches of a wild rose draggled in the rushing

water, catching hold of the flotsam that the swift current brought down,

and tangling it into a mat of twigs, leaves and sheepswool.

The roar of the beck seemed to give Lucy confidence. She wiped her

tears, tried to smile bravely into the gloomy face of the man by her

side, and gently touched his arm.

"You'll find someone much handsomer and better than me, Joel, to be your

wife."

He shrugged his shoulders, and made no reply.

"I've been like yon briar," she said in an undertone, "letting myself

draggle in a torrent, and holding on to all the regrets and

disappointments it's brought me. But now I'll shake them off. From

to-day, this hour, I'll lift myself up and hope that a green and

blooming time will come for you as well as me."

"A green and blooming time will surely come," he replied quickly. "It's

coming now. I can't let you go, Lucy. It's no use pretending that I mean

to let you go. We must twine together...." His looks began to get wild

and his voice shook as though he were losing control of himself again.

"You know the song:

'Out of her bosom there grew a red rose

And out of her lover's a briar, a briar....'

But I'm talking nonsense, and frightening you."

A scared look came into her eyes. The afternoon was darkening, and it

was high time that she should be getting home, if she did not want to be

benighted upon the fells. She might lose her way unless she reached the

Robber's Rake before dusk.

"Good-bye, Joel," she said, her voice trembling, not only with the

emotion that the words called up--for she knew that whatever more was

said, good-bye must be the last word uttered between them--but she was

startled by the fierce face turned upon her.

"I told you we could not say it," he muttered.

"But we must: we can't do anything else."

"Speak the truth, Lucy, do you love Peter or me best?" He took her by

the shoulders, so that she must face him. "I loved you first," he cried,

"long before he did. You promised yourself to me. He has no right to

you."

Joel's pent up hatred burst forth. It flowed from his lips like a

venomous flood upon the shrinking head of the woman. Deeper than his

love for her, so it seemed, ran his hate.

"Let me go," said Lucy, "you don't know what you are saying."

"Which of us do you love best?" he continued, taking no notice of her

attempts to free herself. "If you say Peter, I'll throw you into the

beck--its deep enough to drown you. But you love me best. I know it,

I've always known it. Be brave, be strong, Lucy. I've got a horse

waiting just beyond the dip in the road to take us away. We'll go away

now, and before anyone can follow us we shall be on the seas."

He drew her along the pack-horse track in the direction that he

indicated.

She struggled to free herself. She felt all the love which she had for

him ooze out of her. His attitude opened her eyes, and she realized,

with renewed dread, in what a dangerous position she had placed herself.

Her thoughts turned with a frantic rush towards her husband. Oh, if only

his face would appear through the gloom.... If only she could hear his

kindly voice calling to her.... But Peter was far away by now on the

road to London. She was alone. There was no one near, no one who could

help her. Joel's handsome countenance was like a nightmare: his fond

words, his embraces--the idea of ever having received such expressions

of love from him became suddenly repulsive.

"Let me be, Joel," she said, "or I'll call out."

He did not heed her.

"Where shall we go, Lucy," he said, "there's all the world to choose

from?"

"Go where you like," she replied, "only take your hand off my shoulder."

She noticed that twilight was drawing swiftly down. In half an hour it

would be night, and the clouds were already settling lower on the fells,

so that the horrors of loneliness and darkness would be doubled by the

bewildering presence of the mist. But she had not time to think just now

of how she would get home. She must flee anywhere; she must escape from

Joel, who was acting and speaking as though he had gone suddenly mad.

Girdlestone Pass provided plenty of hiding places if she could only

succeed in baffling him. She cast her eyes swiftly over the landscape.

She must not take to the hillside--it was too steep and rough for her to

hope to elude him there; she would betray herself by falling, if she did

not come to a crag that she could not climb. The moorland on the left,

with it brown hummocks, scrub, and mossy stones, would provide her with

a surer means of escape. She never thought of Quaking Hag, she did not

know where it lay, for she had rarely been in the pass before.

She wondered once if she should scream, but it was unlikely that anyone

would hear her. The Shepherd's Rest was too far off, and travellers

rarely passed that way.

Every minute the dusk deepened, Joel had shifted his hand to her arm,

when he found that she ceased to resist him. He was peering forward,

trying to see the horse which he had tied to a tree so that it might be

in readiness.

Then Lucy bent down, and set her teeth in his hand. He gave a sharp

exclamation, loosened his grasp, and she fled from him into the

shadows.

CHAPTER XXIII

A PATHWAY OF FIRE

The night was dark, no star shone, and, though the moon had risen, it

could not penetrate the clouds, which hung over the sky, and rested on

the mountain tops. There was just enough light to show how wild and

lonely was the pack-horse track through Girdlestone Pass.

About nine o'clock Barbara came along it. She walked as a shepherd

walks, who has many miles to travel, and must not grow weary. She did

not hurry, neither did she dally nor halt, but kept up an even pace,

regardless of the dips and rises in the road.

She was returning from a distant farm, whither she had carried the Need

Fire, and where the good folk had waited all the afternoon, the cattle

folded near the house, and a pile, like a haystack, of green wood ready

to be lit, when the sacred element--for such they regarded it--should be

brought from Boar Dale. They had given up all hope of receiving it that

night, when, about seven o'clock, a loud knock came to the door, and

Barbara Lynn stood there, with the smouldering embers in a cauldron.

Now she was returning, but not by the way she had come, over a shoulder

of Thundergay, for there was no track to guide her, and the mist and

darkness hid the familiar landmarks; so she struck the road through

Girdlestone Pass instead, meaning to reach Greystones by the round-about

way of the Robber's Rake.

She kept with her still some of the exalted feeling, which had thrilled

her, when she had carried the Need Fire over the mountains. In her own

eyes she had been raised from her humble office of hewer of wood and

drawer of water to the rank of a priestess.

No Druidess, administering the rites of her religion, could have had a

greater sense of the mystery of life, and the debt it owed to symbolism

to make it intelligible, than Barbara at this time. Her character,

founded upon Christian principles, was yet bathed in a pagan glow of awe

and wonderment. Natural forces drew forth her reverence. Fire, Wind and

Water became personified: they bore an analogy to Life, Soul, and

Spirit. And her love of the old Greek tales filled her imagination with

so rich a store of treasure--much that was strange, fair and exalted in

ancient thought--that she had an inexhaustible wealth to draw upon for

her delight and nourishment.

She had watched Timothy Hadwin kindle the Need Fire with a keen sense of

its inner significance. Fire was the symbol of purification and smoke

the symbol of prayer. It seemed to her fitting that man should make this

outward show of his repentance, for she believed--as most of the

fell-folk did--that the pestilence threatening the cattle was the sign

of an aggrieved heavenly power. When the Greeks sinned had not the god

of the Silver Bow sent his deadly arrows hissing among them, killing

first their dogs and mules, and then their men, until they heeded the

warning and made their peace with sacrifices and restitution? For what

transgression the black bane had been sent into the dales and fells

Barbara did not ask. Was it a question worth asking, when no heart was

pure? Let every man amend his ways, and the appeal to heaven would not

go up in vain.

Filled with some such thoughts as these, she threaded her lonely path

through the dim land. Upon her body were still the marks of fire, her

cheeks were flushed, her eyes were scorched, and her clothes were so

well thurified, that they shook out a pungent odour of smoke at every

movement. Neither weariness, nor pain--she had been on her feet since

long before day-break--could rob her figure of its lofty carriage.

The silence suited her mood; and the darkness, blotting out the well

known features of the landscape, allowed her brain to paint its own

picture of the country through which she was journeying. She was, in

fact, carried by her imagination far away from the Girdlestone. But no

earthly land received her spiritual body. She had come to a place where

there is neither marrying nor giving in marriage, having passed through

the Need Fire which purifies from all dross. There she walked in a clear

light, holding sweet fellowship with one from whom she must be forever

separated on earth.

More and more of late Barbara had begun to fix her thoughts upon that

which lay beyond mortal existence. Her life was empty: instincts,

desires, hopes--the birthright of the human soul--were spilled like

water upon the ground. She had nothing to expect here: but there--what

glorious prospects opened out!

Timothy Hadwin often talked to her about the next world, and she had

imbibed much of his philosophy, colouring it to satisfy her own desires.

She believed in a Great Spirit. She believed that every living creature

had a living soul. She believed that behind every material thing there

was a spiritual force. She believed that her desire for knowledge would,

hereafter, be fulfilled. All that she knew from the outside now, would

there be revealed in its inmost reality.

But it was not an immaterial world that her faith painted. Trees,

streams, mountain gorge and starry peak made it beautiful. She loved the

trees, their leaves pleased her eyes, their chiming her ears; but when

she became a spirit, she would enjoy their very life in a deeper sense;

for she would be able to pass into their being like the Hamadryads of

Greece, only she would not die with the trees, for death would no longer

exist. In the same way she would be able to become one with the streams,

the dales and fells. But above all and beneath all--for it was both the

foundation and summit of her hopes--human fellowship would then present

no barriers to a perfect communion. She would need no eyes to see and

recognise the loved one, no hands to draw his attention, no feet with

which to come nigh him, no voice to tell him her thoughts. Spirit would

pass into Spirit, would live and move and understand, without bodily

aids, which are also the instruments of misunderstanding and separation.

She was wakened from her dream by hearing a voice speak from the

wayside. Now that her attention was drawn to it, she could dimly make

out a huddled figure, whose limbs seemed to melt and become one with the

rock upon which it sat.

"Angel or devil!" said a hoarse voice. "Who are you?"

She came nearer and peered into the man's face.

"Why, Joel," she exclaimed in surprise. "I didn't expect to see you

here."

He staggered to his feet and she felt sure that he had been drinking.

"It's always the unexpected that happens," he replied.

When Lucy had run away from him, he had been so overtaken by surprise,

that for a few seconds he had not been able to grasp the reality of the

fact. Then passion had swept away his senses, and he had rushed hither

and thither like a mad man, calling, cursing, but seeing nothing, so

swiftly had her grey-cloaked figure been swept up into the gathering

darkness. His wild scheme of carrying her off defeated, and knowing that

his desires and hopes could never now be realized, he had so far

recovered himself as to lay hold of a shred of reason, and stifle his

anger. He had taken the horse back to the inn, and then had sat down in

his corner by the fire, silent and sullen, heedless of the dame's

chatter, and only wishful to be left alone. He had demanded wine, and

had tried to drown his wrath and bitter sense of failure. But he could

not endure the good-wife's tongue, and at length had got up and gone

out. He had told himself that he would go back to Forest Hall to-morrow,

settle his affairs with all speed and never set foot in Boar Dale again.

He was sick of the Shepherd's Rest, and would not have stayed so long

only the place had been convenient for his purpose. There he had hoped

to decoy Lucy and take her away. In the light of their last meeting, he

had felt sure that she would go with him.

And now, having walked aimlessly along the pack-horse track, the mist

chilling him to the bone, he would have returned again to the inn, but

that he was afraid of the inquisitive eyes of the woman there, who

looked at him as though she were suspicious that some wild adventure

was in the air. He was not able to lash himself into his former fury,

his heart seemed to be dead. The hand of the woman he loved had killed

it. Even the thought of Peter did not rouse him. Hate, for the time

being, was burning low.

In this mood he had come again to the spot where Lucy had fled from him.

He had begun to wonder in which direction she had really gone. How was

it that she had eluded him so quickly? He looked round him. Then there

had been light enough to distinguish the nearer objects--a stunted

thorn, the flash of the beck, the overhanging crags, but now all was

undefined, and bleak. A little glitter, just beyond the left bank of the

road, had caught his eye, and held him spell-bound. He had stared with

growing understanding. On that side lay marshy ground, stretching away

to the opposite fells, and yonder was Quaking Hag, shunned by all

travellers, and forsaken of God. He had sunk on a stone, sobered by that

which he saw, for the glittering mark was followed by another and yet

another, until the misty nature of the night prevented further sight.

They were the froth o' the marsh, a kind of putrified earth, which, when

it has been trodden upon, shines like fire in the darkness.

He had just realised what the _igneum lutum_ meant, when Barbara had

come along the pass and he had accosted her.

"Barbara Lynn," he muttered, a note of suspicion creeping into his

voice. "What the devil are you doing here?"

"I'm going home."

"Going home to Greystones! Have you seen Lucy?"

"No. Why do you ask?"

He did not reply for a moment, then said:

"Are you sure you haven't passed her?"

Barbara's blood began to quicken with vague doubts.

"Have you seen her?" she demanded. "Has my sister been here?"

"Yes, I sent for her."

"And where is she now?"

"Gone home long ago."

"Thank God."

Barbara uttered the words with profound gratitude, then she turned

sharply on the man. "You're doing wrong, Joel. Neither you nor Lucy have

any right to meet in this way."

"It will never happen again," he said.

She started uneasily. Into her mind crept a fear that all was not well.

She tried to read his face: the night was too dark and his manner

baffled her.

But he rose suddenly, took her roughly by the arm, and turning her

round, pointed to the shining marks.

"Do you know what they are?" he cried.

"I've seen them before," she said, "on such a night as this. They're

footprints. Someone has been crossing the marsh." Horror crept over her,

but before she could frame a question, he had jerked his hand in the

direction of Quaking Hag.

"The fence is broken," he said, "there are gaps in it. Does Lucy know

the place?"

"What do you mean, Joel? What has happened? You said Lucy had gone

home."

"She ran away and left me. I don't know where she went: I don't know

what's become of her. No doubt she's safe at home."

Barbara uttered no cry, no word of anguish or condemnation. She stood

for a moment as though frozen, then turned to the man beside her.

"God forgive you! Some ill may have happened to Lucy! Go to the inn,"

she said. "Go at once. Tell every one to follow me to Quaking Hag."

He hesitated.

"Go," she cried. "Why do you stand there as if you hadn't heard? You're

sober enough to know what may have happened."

"I'll help you to look for her," he doggedly replied.

"That's as you please. But you'll go to the inn first."

There was such a note of authority in her voice that he had to obey. He

dared not do otherwise.

Barbara left the road, and followed the glittering prints that led away

over the marsh. As she got nearer to it, the will o' the wisp shone here

and there; the ground got softer, and she knew that slimy pools were

opening out on every side. Now and again she called Lucy's name, but

there was no answer. Utter silence closed round her. She went on, not

daring to hope that she might find a trace of her sister. Quaking Hag

kept whatsoever it took, and told no secrets.

Her mind seemed to be stiff with horror. She could think of nothing save

that she must go on, until she could go no further.

* * * * *

The footprints were Lucy's. She had run, in her blind fear, some way

across the mire before she became aware of its nature. Her one idea had

been to escape from Joel, and, when she was safe, steer, by any

landmarks she could recognise, for Thundergay. She would not dare seek

the Robber's Rake in case her pursuer laid in wait for her there. Now

she realised that she was running in the direction of Quaking Hag, and

stricken with horror, she would have given expression to it in a call

for help, had not dread of Joel's finding her, controlled her tongue.

She paused in her flight and listened. But she could only hear the

breaking of bubbles at her feet. Bewildered by the twilight, and the

unfamiliar place, she lost herself among a maze of peat-pots. With every

step she sank deeper in the ground.

Then afraid to go this way or that she stood still. Should she call? No

one would hear her but Joel, and she would rather spend the night here

than see his face appearing through the darkness. She looked round. A

light shone and flickered like a candle. Could the pack-horse track be

so near, and was some one passing along it with a lantern?

She started forward again, but only to feel water ooze round her ankles.

Another light shone for a moment to her right, then went out; one rose

almost at her feet.

"The witch lights, the witch lights," she muttered, and sinking down

upon the damp ground, she covered her eyes with her hand.

There was nothing for it but to wait till morning. She knew that by some

mischance she had wandered right in among the quagmire and, as she saw

the will-o'-the-wisps burn here and there, she wondered that she had not

been sucked down to death. She saw the glitter of her own footsteps as

the night darkened, but thought they were more witch-lights shining to

lure her to her doom.

Numbed with cold, frightened to move, her teeth began to chatter, and

her limbs shook until they became even too cold for that sign of life.

She sank into a kind of stupor, from which she started at times,

thinking that she heard footsteps creeping nearer. But it was only the

marsh gas escaping with a sound like a low chuckle. She had no means of

guessing the time. Often she thought that the night must be nearly past;

it had lasted so long already. When the faintest light crept over the

blackness of the sky, she hailed it as the coming of day, but it was

only the moon rising behind the clouds.

After that followed a period of utter prostration, in which she saw and

heard nothing. She was only conscious of an ever-present horror, which

did not seem to have any outward source--she had lost all knowledge of

the witch-lights and the marsh.

In this state of stupor Barbara found her.

"Lucy, Lucy," she said, lifting the girl in her arms, and though tears

came hardly to her, she sobbed with thankfulness.

Lucy was roused at the sound.

"Save me, save me," she cried.

"You're all right," Barbara replied. "See, I'll carry you through the

mire, and then we'll jog along home. Great-granny will think we're both

lost, so long out at this time o' year."

"It's nearly morning, isn't it?" asked the girl, clinging to her sister

with both hands.

"Bless the bairn, no; not more than ten, at the latest."

She carried the light form as easily as if it had been a child, and

retraced her steps. By the time she had reached firmer ground, she was

met by the inn-keeper and two men with lanterns. She saw Joel hovering

behind them; when she looked for him again he was gone.

She took the fainting girl to the Shepherd's Rest, and there spent the

night, while a message was sent to Mistress Lynn to reassure her of

their safety.

CHAPTER XXIV

WINTER

Some days passed before Lucy was well enough to leave the Shepherd's

Rest. She had got a severe chill from her exposure to the night air and

the vapours of the marsh, but her nature was naturally buoyant, and the

relief she experienced from a quiet conscience, now that she had cut

herself off from Joel, enabled her to throw off that which might have

been a serious illness.

She did not see Joel again. Mally Ray was not communicative, and as no

one ever met him in Cringel Forest or upon the fellside, rumour said

that he had gone away.

Peter came back in less than a fortnight. He had accepted the post in

London--an important one that would use all his abilities--and from this

time, until the end of the year, the days were filled with the making of

arrangements for their removal. The mill-house was handed over to an

uncle of Peter's, who had been born there, and Lucy and her husband came

to Greystones to spend the last few days with Barbara and the

great-grandmother.

A thin fall of snow covered the ground, and, frost having set in with

blue skies, a north wind blowing straight out of Thundergay, and clear

sunlight, the eyes were dazzled by the whiteness of the dale. The beck

was not yet frozen over, but it seemed to sing less clearly as it ran

between its banks, where the grass blades were encased in crystal, and

the bracken stalks, pricking through the snow, glittered with jewels.

But the craggy edges of the fells were black as ebony, and dark patches

showed here and there upon the pastures, where the sheep had been

scraping for a precarious living.

At sunset a gorgeous display of light illuminated the clear, cold world.

Night lit up the intense blue of the northern sky with stars, while the

west was filled with gold-dust, and the snow slopes were stained with

red and saffron. Shadows lay in the hollows and clefts, and the long

ridges looked violet; their savage outlines were never so noticeable as

at this time of the year towards sundown.

A ruddy beam fell through the windows at Greystones and made a pool of

light upon the floor. In the midst of it Lucy sat with her chin resting

upon her hands. Mistress Lynn was propped against her pillows, and,

though her face had begun to wear the almost unearthly look of extreme

old age, and the eye-sockets were far sunken in her head, the eyes

themselves burnt with their old sharp light.

"It's likely I shall never see you again, great-granddaughter," she

said, "unless the Lord has forgotten me, lying here so long in the big

bed. A hundred years is a great span for one human body to take to

herself. Life grows tedisome at times. Still, I've known most things

worth knowing, seen most things worth seeing, aye, and had most things

worth having, though you'll not believe that, my lass."

Lucy looked up from her day-dreaming for a moment, and remarked:

"You've been very kind to me lately, great-granny."

"Oh, I's smit with a sickness that takes the old folk whiles--a kind of

softening of the vitals; with some it's the brain, with others it's the

heart."

"You mustn't talk of leaving us, great-granny. Peter's promised to bring

me to see you in the summer-time."

"I doubt you'll find Barbara mistress of Greystones, then."

"I wish Barbara would marry."

"She'll never marry. She sends the lads trotting before they get their

noses through the door."

"I used to think, when I was a bairn, that a lord would one day ride by

and carry her off. Timothy said she should have a crown."

"Timothy's brain is all froth, like a beat-up egg. He wanted me to take

some of his magic messes last winter, when I had yon bad cough, but I

said, 'No, no, my man, none of your pesky stuff has ever found it's way

down my throat, nor ever will.' 'It'll ease your kist, Mistress Lynn,'

said he. 'Thank you kindly,' said I, 'but my kist is a hundred years

old, and if it's a bit stiff in the hinges we needn't wonder. Cranky

bits of furniture are none the better for tinkering at.'"

"Barbara always laughed at Timothy's sooth-saying," replied Lucy; "all

the same, she often thought about it, I'm sure of that."

"You'll never get to the bed-rock of Barbara's mind," answered the old

woman; "your spade's too short, my lass, for digging there. Though the

good God made you both out of the same clay, he filled you with

beck-water and Barbara with red wine. Havering! havering! An old woman's

tongue sometimes runs away. Light the candles, lass; its getting dark,

and Peter will soon be coming in."

The candles, in their tall iron sconces, filled the kitchen with a

mellow light. The colour had vanished from the fells, but the stars

glittered, and the wide snowfields gave a moonlight glimmer to the

landscape. Lucy stood at the window for a moment, before putting up the

shutters, thinking about her great-grandmother's words. Glancing at

Thundergay, she thought how far and cold it looked against the

star-fringed edges of the sky. There was her sister's throne, there on

the highest peak with an outlook wide but wild, where she breathed an

air too clear and sharp for common mortals.

She turned to the warm kitchen, recognising, with a glow of comfort,

that such was her fitting place. She did not desire a large

perspective--her eyes could not have taken it in. She did not crave for

communion with nature, she did not want to dip herself into the

mysterious pools that lay about the path of life. A common round,

enclosed within four walls, satisfied her needs. Yet she knew that her

husband's mind would sometimes escape from the warm nest that she would

make for him. Now and again he would leave her to climb such high places

as Barbara knew. There she would not be able to follow him. Yet she

would not murmur. She would make his home such that he would always

return to it for rest and sympathy. Ah, yes, if she were but a vessel

full of beck-water, as her great-grandmother had said, she would be able

to quench his human thirst. Barbara might stir and exalt as wine did,

but hers would be the more womanly office of attending to common needs.

Peter had gone to the mill-house, Barbara was in the byre, Jess's shrill

voice could be heard in the yard, and the hinds were out. Mistress Lynn

seemed inclined to sleep, so Lucy returned to her seat, and stared into

the fire, looking like a child making pictures there.

She was, in fact, seeing again the witch-lights and Girdlestone Pass.

The place had been so impressed upon her mind, that it returned with

startling vividness to haunt her, whenever her mind was unoccupied. In

the warmest corner of the chimney-nook it would make her shiver; in the

brightest flood of fire and candlelight she would see the rolling

darkness about her feet, and then the will-o'-the-wisp gleam with its

alluring, fitful flame. The horror of that time would remain with her

all her life. It had killed anything that was left of her love for Joel,

made her appreciate her position as Peter's wife, filled her with

gratitude towards him, for he had forgiven her with the utmost

gentleness. Had Joel stood before her now she would have turned from him

without a tremor save that of shame.

Mistress Lynn was not asleep; like Lucy, she was thinking of the past.

The years that were gone came back to her in a long, long train. From

childhood, from her earliest memory, she followed events up through

girlhood to wifehood and widowhood, and here at last she had come from

the cradle to the four-poster, from having been a golden-haired bairn to

be a bedridden old woman. It seemed hardly believable the way in which

the years had gone. Yet the old clock, ticking in the corner, had marked

off the moments of her existence with a relentless hand. Often it had

been her solitary companion through long and wakeful nights, and she had

listened to it, and watched its white face flicker with the firelight,

never thinking that it was a stern angel, telling out the passing of

her years.

As she passed her life in review, she thought that she had few regrets.

The last one--the failure of Joel Hart to fulfil her hopes for him--soon

fell away from her mind. She was too old to trouble any more about the

cross-purposes of other people's lives. Still, she would like to have

seen him again. Though she would have bitterly resented had any stain

been put upon her name, perhaps, at the back of her old brain, she felt

that, had his grandfather asked her to flee with him, she would have

gone, so great was her love--and made herself strong enough, and brave

enough, to take the consequences, and never cast a look behind.

Joel Hart had not gone away. He had meant to go, day after day, but had

not had the resolution to carry out his intentions. He spent the dreary

time at Forest Hall in vain longings, and in reviving his hate for

Peter. He did not go out, but did his best to empty his wine-cellar. At

last, however, he made up his mind, and told Mally Ray that he would

ride off, as he had come home, in the dusk of early morning. The night

before, a restless spirit took him into the dale. He thought that he

would look at it for the last time.

He wandered along, keeping to the same track as that which Lucy had

taken when she went to meet him in Girdlestone Pass. He came across no

one: those whose business took them to the hills managed to get it done

before twilight fell, and sensible folk sat by their fires, having no

inclination to wander about in the snow unless they must.

From the other side of the beck he looked at Greystones. He saw the

light suddenly shine out when Lucy lit the candles, then as suddenly

disappear when she put up the shutters.

The vision roused the devil in him. Yonder was the woman he had loved,

surrounded by light and warmth, while he stood out in the cold. There

did not exist for him a single smiling face in the whole bleak world.

Instead of bread, life had given him a stone to break his teeth upon.

Did he care for her still? He did not know, but he once did, and another

man had stolen her from him. That passion had become swallowed up in

another. Always more or less unbalanced, he had put himself, the whole

of himself, into one scale, and it went down. He had flung reason away,

so had nothing left to readjust the poise. He hated Peter with all his

powers.

He turned his back on Greystones, and went towards home, hugging his

hate. Was he out in the cold? Passion kept him warm. It kept him more

than warm--it scorched him. His very soul was on fire with the maddening

flame.

The track which he was following joined the forest road just at the

bridge above the falls. He paused to knock the snow from his heels, and

saw, coming towards him, the figure of a man. It was Peter Fleming

returning to Greystones.

Joel straightened himself. He was in no mood to weigh his actions, or

control that which he felt. He had no time to consider consequences. He

was like a man who, in a sudden fury, takes all that he has and flings

it away, not caring, at the moment, whether it is irrevocably lost or

not. Joel saw, as in a flash, what he meant to do. He meant to hurl

himself upon Peter, and finish that wrestling bout, which had had so

disastrous an ending before. One or other of them should fall, and fall

for ever. He would pitch Peter over the parapet of the bridge down the

falls; even if they had to go together to their death he would do it. He

had told Lucy that he would drown her if she loved this man best; that

had been bluff to frighten her. Now he was in deadly earnest.

But as he drew himself together, and made ready to spring, Peter,

unconscious of the implacable foe awaiting him in the shadow, paused and

turned. There was a muffled sound on the forest road of some heavy

creature coming quickly along.

"I do believe it's Big Ben," he said to himself, and laughed.

The bear loped up, sniffing and whimpering with pleasure. It rose to its

full height, laid a paw on its master's shoulder, and licked his face

like a great dog.

"Run away from Jake, have you?" said Peter, pushing the beast down.

"Well, old fellow, I'm afraid you can't come to Greystones. The cows

won't give any milk when they see you about the place. What the deuce

are you growling at?"

This exclamation was uttered in a different tone of voice. Big Ben had

scented Joel. As Jake said, the bear was a creature who had memories.

With every expression of fury, it went towards him, stalking on its hind

legs, showing its teeth, and waving its great hairy arms in preparation

for dealing a blow such as only a bear can give.

Peter caught the chain that was dangling from its collar, and called it

back, as a dusky figure dashed past him. He did not see the man's face,

but he knew the form.

In a few minutes Jake the rat-catcher came up.

"I saw Joel Hart just now," he said; "he seemed to be in a mighty hurry.

Feared o' Ben, I should think. Ben doesn't like him. What in the world

is he doing here still? I thought he'd gone away."

Peter, too, wondered, but he said nothing.

He gave the bear back into Jake's charge and went on, much perplexed and

troubled. He was glad that Lucy and he were going away so soon, for he

could not help being suspicious that Joel had lain in wait for him with

no good purpose in his mind, and, save for the arrival of Big Ben, would

have made an attempt to carry it out.

But he said nothing of this to anyone.

The next morning Jake told him that Joel Hart had ridden away at dawn.

The remaining days passed quickly. Barbara was in a gentle mood. The

sternness of her face relaxed, the fire in her large blue eyes was

subdued to a steady glow, which fell upon her sister and Peter with the

softness of serene skies. No shadow should darken these final scenes of

Lucy's life in the dales. Peter and she should depart, unsaddened by

that which they were leaving behind them. Sorrow at bidding good-bye to

the old woman there must be, for they were not likely to see her again,

but such tears would soon be dried. Her own sorrow, her own loneliness,

must be hidden.

On Christmas Eve they all gathered in the kitchen to welcome in the

Christmas morning. Fresh bedding had been shaken down in the cow-house,

after the good old custom of those days, so that the cattle might have

clean straw to kneel on when midnight struck. Barbara had put a wisp,

with an apple, a jug of water, and a platter of oat-cake in an empty

stall, and, coming out, had bolted the door, for no eye might see that

scene, when the Christ-child came to bless the beasts, that had shared

with Him their shelter and their bed.

The beck was now frozen over and nothing could be heard outside, till

from far down the dale came the voices of the waits, singing:

"As I sat under a green-wood tree

On Christmas Day, on Christmas Day

I saw three ships come sailing in

On Christmas Day in the morning."

Their voices drew nearer, and Barbara went out to the garden-gate,

followed by Peter.

"I've got a shepherd's privilege," she exclaimed, with a light laugh. "I

can see angels on Thundergay."

"I fear they don't bring you much good tidings, Barbara," he said,

letting some of the bitterness which he felt creep into his voice.

"Hush," she replied, "listen." They could hear the words clearly.

"She washed his face in a silver bowl

On Christmas Day, on Christmas Day,

She combed his hair with an ivory comb

On Christmas Day in the morning.

"She sent him up to heaven to school,

On Christmas Day, on Christmas Day,

She sent him up to heaven to school

On Christmas Day in the morning."

"I would not have it otherwise, Peter," said Barbara, laying her hand on

his. "You and I--we must go up to heaven to school."

He said no more, and they went in, knowing that the first and last word,

which would ever pass between them upon that which lay deepest in their

hearts, had been spoken.

CHAPTER XXV

BARBARA COUNTS THE GOLD

After many weeks of silence, the beck sang once more at the door of

Greystones. The sound stole upon the ear so imperceptibly, with the

slackening of the frost, that Barbara was unconscious of it, until its

clear voice again filled the kitchen with its familiar song.

The hour was midnight; a watery moon sent a faint light into the room,

for the shutters were not up. A single candle burnt near the

four-poster, and the fire had not been covered down for the night, after

the usual custom of good housewives. The place had a waiting look as

though someone was expected.

Barbara lay on the settle, covered with a sheepskin, her long limbs sunk

in an attitude of repose, but her eyes were open and her ears alert.

The expected guest was death.

In spite of the moon, fire, and candlelight, shadows lurked everywhere.

Barbara's recumbent figure had the uniform greyness of an effigy in

stone; the bridewain and the clock were vague; only the bed, with its

curtains undrawn, retained any semblance of reality. Old Mistress Lynn

lay high upon her pillows, her sharp, stern features lit by the candle

burning beside her. She was asleep.

For some time Barbara had spent her nights upon the settle. There had

come no sudden change in her great-grandmother's condition; she sank

slowly, getting weaker and weaker as the winter passed; and now, at the

approach of spring, was slipping quietly away. Several of the village

folk offered to share the girl's vigil, but their presence in the

kitchen seemed to trouble the old woman, so Barbara kept watch alone.

It was a quiet time. Neither pains of body nor distresses of mind

disturbed the fleeting hours of that long and imperious life. She slept

much and, when she was not asleep, watched her great-granddaughter with

dreamy eyes. But she rarely spoke, and though no foreshadowing of death

had laid a finger upon her lips, she seemed to be too weary to utter any

more of the sayings, which she had been so fond of uttering in the past.

To-night she breathed regularly, although deeply.

So the moonlight and the firelight, mingling with each other into an

unearthly glimmer, the shadows, and the singing beck, held the silence

of the death-chamber undisturbed.

Barbara listened to the voice of the running water with varied feelings.

It spoke to her of life; of the hopes and ambitions and renunciations

that had sounded such strange notes in her own soul. For its clear

ripple was accompanied by sad murmurs, and sudden splashes, as it ran

over pebbles, or flowed in a deep torrent, or fell from the rocks. It

played upon the whole gamut of sounds, just as life had played upon the

whole gamut of her emotions, and out of them made music, halting and

discordant, perhaps, at times, but always striving after more perfect

harmony.

Barbara had real affection for the beck. When she and Lucy were

children, afraid of the dark, they used to lie awake at night,

shivering at the thought of the crags overhanging the house, but its

voice reassured them. The stream was a living thing, so free, and

light-hearted, and friendly. It never hid from the sun or the moon, it

gathered their light into its foam. Barbara used to call it the Milky

Way, and let it flow through her imagination like a galaxy of millions

upon millions of stars. And it was her and her sister's delight to fly

out of the house at the first peep of day, in the hot summer weather,

and bathe in the clear pools above the farm, bathe naked under the green

banks, with no eye but that of a distant shepherd to spy upon them.

The beck was a true friend. It piped when they danced, leaped when they

sang, and mourned when they were sorrowful. To Barbara, as to her

great-grandmother, it told stories of the days of old. For it had seen

the midnight raids of the moss-troopers, had baffled the hounds when

they came on a man-hunt up the dale, and had, more than once, had its

clear waters stained with blood. But to-night it wakened more intimate

memories in Barbara's mind.

She lay, soothed into drowsiness, while the events of her life passed

before her like pictures upon a screen, light and dark, monotonous, or

many-coloured, they came and went, and she looked at them as a painter

may look at the early work of his hands, and trace in it those ideas

which experience has since matured. She had not allowed herself to

meditate in this way for a long time. Some of her memories had still the

power to cast her weeping upon the ground. But now, whether lulled into

semi-consciousness by the beck, or subdued by the near approach of

death, she saw and handled, with unimpassioned feelings, that which had

been painted out of her heart's blood. It was as though she had been

lifted to a higher sphere, where the inner significance of life was

understood and where the crude pattern it had been worked into here, was

there transformed into a thing of perfect beauty.

So the night wore away. The moon vanished, and rain came down with the

rushing sound of steady pouring.

Barbara put more turf on the fire, stole across the floor, and stood

looking down upon the yellow, parchment-like face, lying high upon the

piled-up pillows. Then she went back to her couch. She had a feeling

to-night, which she could not explain to herself, that the tale of her

own days was written. Her life was becoming like the fly-leaf in a book,

which lies between the end of the story and the cover--a blank, white

page, where nothing more would be transcribed, no further adventure;

neither new phase of thought, nor struggle of flesh and spirit. The

excitements and turmoils were ended, the passions had been fought and,

when that page was turned, the book would be shut. Barbara's life had

been bound up with her great-grandmother's, and she could not imagine it

apart from her. So blank did it appear that she had not made any plans

for her future, when the masterful old woman should lie no longer in the

four-poster, but have exchanged it for a narrower, colder bed.

Lucy had written to say that her sister must come and live with her, or,

if she would not consent to such a plan, come for a long visit. Barbara

knew that she would do neither; Peter would not expect her to, and he

would understand her refusal. He and Lucy were happy at their new home,

but she must never darken it. As she had lived, a lonely shepherd lass

upon the mountains, so she would continue to live, a lonelier woman,

finding solace among the stern grandeur of her native land.

Worn out by her long watch, Barbara fell into a light sleep. She slept

as tranquilly as a child, and, for an hour or more, the deep breathing

of Mistress Lynn and her great-granddaughter was the only sound of life

in the room.

Shadows moved about with the flickering firelight, and, when the candle

guttered to its socket, they came and stood round the bed, like

noiseless spirits, watching the figure there, which lay so still, that

it looked as if it had already sunk into the quiet composure of death.

Towards morning, in that cold hour before the dawn, Barbara was wakened

by a voice calling her.

She flung off the sheepskin and came to the old woman's side.

"Did you speak, great-granny?" she asked.

"Aye; light the candle, Barbara."

Mistress Lynn had raised herself on her elbow, and was looking round the

room with some of her former craftiness in her eyes. She noticed that

the shutters were not up, and bid the girl close them.

"Come here, lass," she said.

Barbara saw that she held the key of the bridewain, as though she were

afraid it might be snatched from her; she had never given up her habit

of hiding it in the bed.

"Are we alone?" she asked.

"Yes. Jess is asleep upstairs."

"Who's yon sitting by the fire?"

Barbara turned round with a start.

"It's only the empty arm-chair, great-granny," she replied.

"David Lynn died in that chair!" said the old woman. "I thought I saw

him just now warming his feet. He always had cold feet. 'David,' I used

to say to him, 'we'll never ken when you're dead, you that's already so

cold about the legs.'"

"You've had a nice sleep, great-granny. Do you feel better?"

"Better! I's well." She stretched out a lean hand, and drew the girl

nearer to her. "Someone's watching us from the corner," she whispered.

"That's the clock."

"Oh, aye, the clock, the moony-faced critter! Many's the time it's given

me the creeps. What time is it?"

"Four."

"Four in the morning! I hear a queer sound in the room, lass."

"It's only the rain coming down and the beck running. There's been a

thaw through the night."

"Ah, that's the reason I slept so long! I's been wondering for weeks

back what it was I missed. When I wakened whiles I thought I was dead,

the place felt so quiet-like."

She listened with a smile on her drawn face. Then she asked once more if

they were alone.

"Not a soul is near," Barbara reassured her.

Mistress Lynn leaned over the edge of the bed, and tried to insert the

key in the lock of the bridewain. But she could not manage it, and fell

back.

"Open it," she said.

The girl took the key, and opened the cupboard. She knew what the old

woman wanted and, bringing out the money-bags, she laid them in her lap.

The trembling hands closed over them, and for a while she lay and did

not speak.

Barbara stood silently by, till a sudden suspicious look from the sunken

eyes made her move away to tidy up her own disordered couch. She shook

the rug, hung it over the back of the settle, and smoothed the cushion

upon which her head had lain. Then a call brought her back to the

four-poster. The old woman was plucking at the leather thongs to untie

them.

Barbara was stirred at this strange action of the dying woman, whose

thoughts should have been elsewhere than lingering round the earthly

treasures which moth and rust corrupt. Yet the action did not surprise

her. For she could understand the heart, which would cling to its idol

to the end. She had inherited the same intensity of character. And to

save herself from becoming worse than a miser gloating over his gold,

she had had to cut off her right hand, and pluck out her right eye. For

a lawless heart was worse than a gluttonous one, however gorgeously it

might array itself in the garments of love.

Barbara untied the bags, which the useless old fingers were fumbling at,

and poured out their contents upon the bed, where they lay--a heap of

silver and gold coins, glistening in the light of the candle.

Mistress Lynn handled the pile lingeringly, loath to let a coin go when

she had grasped it, and she seemed to draw energy out of its cold touch.

"Count it," she said, "but count it slow, so that I can follow you. It's

a bonny sight, a bonny sight, lass, and worth an old woman's gathering,

eh? It shall be yours some day, yours and Lucy's. You'll divide it

equally, Barbara, between yourself and Lucy when I'm gone. Joel Hart

doesn't need his share now. I never loved Lucy much; still, she's blood

of my blood, and bone of my bone. I'll deal fair by her. How much was

that, Barbara? One hundred pounds! One hundred pounds! Put it in this

bag and tie it up tightly."

Barbara counted the money. She was not able to repress a feeling of

regret when she thought of the difference it would have made to her

sister's life and her own, if it had been used, instead of hoarded up in

the bridewain, and only taken out at night for a bedridden old woman to

gloat over. Now Lucy did not want it, and Barbara had no desire to

possess more than her needs demanded.

The tinkle of the coins was heard in the kitchen for some time. When

they were all counted they were restored to their bags, and put away.

The bridewain was locked, and Mistress Lynn again hid the key in the bed

beside her.

"You'll find it when I's gone, Barbara," she said, and, with a satisfied

smile, shut her eyes. The exertion had tired her, but her mind was at

rest, for she was dying a rich woman.

It was nearly dawn, and, though it was wet and cold, there was a feeling

of spring in the air. The uplands were still white with snow, but it had

begun to vanish from the dale, and green grass showed here and there, a

welcome sight after the weary weeks of winter. A few venturesome birds

sang in the copse.

Jess came stealing into the kitchen, wondering if death had yet snatched

away the imperious spirit from its withered body. But Mistress Lynn was

asleep or unconscious, Barbara was not sure which. So the work of the

day begun, which must continue, come life or death. The cows were

milked, the fowls fed, and the hinds went out to look after the sheep.

But Barbara did not leave the kitchen.

The grey day passed monotonously. The song of the beck grew louder, as

it was fed by the melting snows, and the cliffs behind the house ran

with water. Rain poured steadily down, washing bare the fells, and

streaking them with thin white lines, where the waking cataracts began

to leap. Barbara brought a chair to the bedside, and sat down, her hands

clasped idly on her knee. Mistress Lynn did not stir.

Barbara was alone at Greystones. Jess had gone to the village, but the

girl was not afraid, although she was becoming conscious of another

presence there. The personality of the old house awoke, and took form.

She had often seen it before, a gaunt, grim figure--older far than the

great-grandmother--whose eyes were haunted by memories, whose features

were stricken by sorrow, whose cheeks were lined with the marks of a

wild yet lonely life. Such was the grey spirit of Greystones. This

afternoon it seemed to rise out of the flags at her feet, and stand

waiting, waiting as it had waited again and again through the centuries

while a Lynn died.

From each soul that passed under its roof it took the memories, the

tragedies, the passions, and made them its own. There was no sorrow

known to human beings that it had not suffered, no joy it had not

tasted, but it tasted sparingly, for joy was not the common lot of those

who slept in its shelter. No Lynn was a stranger to it or unconscious of

its reality; it lived with each one intimately, was present at both bed

and board, and linked the generations together with its worn hands,

giving to the new the blessing or curse of the old.

Some had fled from it, afraid as of a ghost. Lucy had been afraid.

Others, like Barbara, might shiver in its shadow, yet felt for it

something which they could not justify, nor explain. But the ghost of

Greystones--call it what you will--was not immortal. It must die with

the fabric that was its body, and already there were signs that that

body was sinking into ruin. Barbara thought of the doom which had been

spoken over it long ago, spoken, no one knew by whom, but perhaps by a

Lynn, who had feared its personality, that some day it would fall, and

then would end the race of strenuous souls, who had inhabited it for

three hundred years.

Thus these two--Barbara and the old house--watched and waited while the

spirit of the great-grandmother struggled to be free, and leave for ever

the place it had known for generations, which it had upheld by its own

force of will, because it was determined to live there to the end.

Otherwise, Greystones would have been deserted long ago, have become the

home of bats and owls, till the fall of its roof-tree buried all its

memories in a ruinous heap.

The day was drawing to its close, the fire had died down, and the room

was dim. Dim looked the clock, dim the empty arm-chair, and the

four-poster was already vanishing into night. Barbara heard a rattle on

the roof, but did not heed it. She thought that the weather had changed

again, and hail was falling instead of rain. The short shower died away

as abruptly as it had begun.

The girl stood looking down at her great-grandmother with tears in her

eyes. The loneliness of her own lot suddenly appalled her. Soon she

would be left solitary in a vast, overwhelming world, with the dominant

factor gone from her life, and all the ties which bound her to her

fellows broken. For what had she in common with any woman in the dale

but her sex? And what had she in common with the men but her height and

strength? They did not understand her. The only soul which had been able

to enter into her mind was slowly vanishing away from her sight.

Mixed up with her thoughts and her grief was the consciousness of a

louder hail on the roof. Then earth and stones poured down the chimney,

and she ran to the door.

A fear, which she had not time to put into words, got hold of her. She

thought of the crags behind the house. The winter had been severe; for

weeks the ground had been held in the grip of an iron frost, and, now

that the thaw had come, there was likely to be some landslips in the

neighbourhood. When she opened the door, she saw the hind running down

the opposite fellside, waving his arms to her, but she could not hear

what he was shouting for the growling, crackling noises overhead. Then a

rock crashed past the house and plunged into the beck.

Barbara ran into the garden and looked up. A sound like distant thunder

began to roll. She saw, as it were, the whole mountain move. Horror, for

a moment, robbed her of understanding, but she recovered herself. The

vast mass of Mickle Crags was heaving, and splitting apart, sending

before it showers of stones and soil, while around stood the grey

hills, looking on with calm features. She must flee if she would save

her life. But she could not flee, for her great-grandmother was still

living.

She went back to the house, knowing that she was going to destruction.

Fear did not rob her step of its firmness, nor her eyes of their steady

glow. In a few seconds more, she, and the old woman, and the older

house, would go down to a common grave. They who had dwelt together so

long could not be separated in death. She bent over her

great-grandmother and slipped her arm under the worn head.

The crash and tumble of falling rocks roused Mistress Lynn. She opened

her eyes and smiled.

"Thee's a good lass, Barbara," she said.

And thus they died.

EPILOGUE

In the kirk-garth of High Fold, among the mouldering head-stones, there

lies, half hidden by the matted grasses, a fallen pillar.

It is hewn out of native granite, polished to so fine a grain that even

yet it looks like a piece of marble. But it has lain there for many

years, and will continue to lie, unless some kindly soul, knowing its

history, sets it again upon its pedestal, to defy the storms of that

wild region.

The church is rarely used now, for the village has sunk into ruins.

Among the roofless cottages the stonechats may be seen flitting in and

out all through the long spring and summer days, and they build their

nests in the whin-bushes that grow in the old house-places. The sheep

come there to crop the grass, for it has a greener tinge, and tastes

sweeter than that but a few steps away on the fellside; and a great grey

mountain fox once made its home in a chimney. But the Brownriggs, the

Yewdales, the Idles, the Flemings--those worthy families who had lived

there for many grandfathers back, as they used to say, are all gone from

the old homesteads, allured by that will-o'-the-wisp which shines so

brightly and persistently in the streets of our great cities, and yet

rarely brings the traveller to anything better than the peat-pots, and

marsh mosses of Quaking Hag.

The change had come quickly, within two generations. It came with the

power loom and the whirling of wheels, with the dying down of the old

industries, and the introduction of the new, which screamed out, like a

mad midwife, that they were bringing in the Golden Age.

Forty years ago, smoke could still be seen issuing from the chimneys of

High Fold. The old folk left behind, used to meet at the well of a

summer's morning, and gossip about the days gone by. At that time the

pillar was still standing in the kirk-garth--a tall, finely-formed

column resting upon a Greek pedestal, but broken off roughly across the

top to show that it commemorated a life untimely ended. Travellers

rarely came that way, but those who did would stop to read the words

engraved upon it, and enquire further about Barbara Lynn, and ask who

Peter and Lucy Fleming were, that had raised the monument to her memory.

Now moss, and the action of the weather, have partly obliterated the

lettering, yet a careful hand and a sharp eye may still lay it bare.

Kneeling on the grass beside it you can read this inscription:

"Barbara Lynn died with her great-grandmother at the fall of Mickle

Crags in Boar Dale. Their bodies lie buried in the Great Barrow

erected over them by Nature; their souls are free and immortal."

Then follow the date and their ages. Barbara was only twenty-six; her

great-grandmother was one hundred years old. Below that, Peter had

caused to be engraved these words:

"Nothing is here for tears, nothing to wail,

Or knock the breast; no weakness, no contempt,

Dispraise or blame, nothing but well and fair

And what may quiet us in a death so noble."

Often the traveller heard enough of the story to fire his mind, and he

would go some little way out of his path to visit the scene of the

disaster, and meditate by the Great Barrow that covered the bodies of

Annas and Barbara Lynn, and hid the old house of Greystones under

thousands of tons of earth and rocks. No attempt has ever been made to

clear it away, the landslip had been complete and overwhelming, and even

the tale of treasure buried there roused no ephemeral hopes in the minds

of covetous persons.

This part of the dale is greatly changed since Barbara's day. Above the

landslip the beck has widened out into a small lake, from which it

issues in a leaping cataract, that plunges down a hundred feet into a

deep pool below. This waterfall, whose thunder can be heard in Cringel

Forest, has since received the name of the Lynn's Force. The copse has

disappeared, not a tree now grows in the dale, save the twisted hollies,

which Barbara used to clip for winter fodder for the sheep. But, if you

stand on the top of the Great Barrow, you can get a more extensive view

of Cringel Forest than was possible in the old days. The rising sun no

longer lights up the windows of Forest Hall; for it, too, has crumbled

before the hand of time, and stands, now a gaunt ruin, open to the winds

and rains. But the beech trees still spread a sweet shade over the cart

road, though every winter their ranks are thinned by the storms.

Joel Hart came home to his old house shortly before his death. He had

grown rich, and returned to leave his wealth to found an orphanage for

fatherless children in his native land. He had never married and, in his

will, gave instructions that he was to be buried in a deal coffin, no

mourners were to follow it, no stone was to be erected over his grave,

but it was to be made level with the ground. So, although it is well

known that he lies in the kirk-garth, there is no trace of his

resting-place.

The story of Barbara Lynn's life, outwardly so uneventful, but inwardly

so full of passion, is still a tale often told by the winter fire in the

lonely farmhouses and shepherds' cots of her own land. It has gained in

incident with its passage down the century; many things that she did not

do are reported of her; yet, although she thought she was not understood

by her fellows, so significant and full of meaning are these additions,

that her character lives again for those who have a meditative mind, a

comprehending soul, and a tender heart.

Often--so it is said--the figure of a tall woman, with golden hair and

blue eyes, has been seen on the hills by solitary watchers. She comes

and goes with a wind in her skirts, and a lark singing over her head.

These apparitions never bring trouble or sickness to the countryside,

but sweet summer weather, an increase to the flocks, and abundance to

the harvest.

For many years after her death Peter Fleming came to High Fold, spent a

few days there, and then went away again. He lived in London and was

happy, well-off, and full of honours. Sometimes alone, and sometimes

with the little old man Timothy Hadwin, he visited the Great Barrow.

There, with heads uncovered, the two men who loved her best talked in

low tones, or talked not at all. Once Lucy accompanied them, but she

could not restrain her grief, and after that she let her husband go

alone, while she remained behind contentedly with her children, keeping

his home merry and bright against his return.

As time passed she came to understand Peter better, and even got an

inkling of the nature of his love for her sister. But upon that subject

her lips remained for ever sealed. She had everything in her life to

make her happy, and she was happy. Peter and she had memories, hopes,

and sorrows which no one else shared, and so they were drawn nearer

together, till the tie of husband and wife was as close as it could be,

and held as sacredly. So the lives of all these men and women faded

away.

If ever you go to the dales and fells, reader, spare a day to visit Boar

Dale, stand by Barbara Lynn's Great Barrow, and think of her. You will

hear the thunder of the force beside you, and see a buzzard floating in

the blue. Look at the same grey fells, whose immobile features saw the

death of one of the grandest souls that ever lived. Above all, look up

to Thundergay, to Barbara's rugged nurse, friend and teacher, who helped

her to be strong when she might have been weak. If you go at night you

will see the Northern Crown shine, and you will remember that she wore

her crown and wore it royally, though it bowed her head to sorrow and to

death.

But Barbara is not dead; the good and the great never die. As Timothy

Hadwin said to Peter the last time that he came to Boar Dale:

"Her spirit is here, in the wind, in the song of the beck, in the blades

of grass. But most of all, she is here in our hearts, in your heart and

mine, living in them, communing with them more closely than she did in

life. The souls of the righteous are in the hand of God, and there shall

no torment touch them."

THE END

* * * * *

_By the same Author_

THE SOUL OF UNREST

By EMILY JENKINSON

_PALL MALL GAZETTE_

"There is a fine quality in this story, and as rare as it is fine, the

magic of the natural and of the spiritual worlds."

_THE TIMES_

"'Inis Glora and Angel Meadow! These were the teachers who were the

making of Bride Kilbride a splendid soul'--Inis Glora, the wild island

in the North Sea where Bride (or Bridget) grew up in the ruined castle

of the Macdonalds; and Angel Meadow, the overcrowded slums of a

provincial city crushed by a hungry winter and seething with social

unrest, which stirred her to service and love. Homes both of them of

dream for an imaginative nature; and the two worlds, so far apart yet

linked so closely by human ties, shine with the glow of enthusiasm and

of striving and suffering humanity through the pages of this finely

imaginative novel."

_GLOBE_

"A remarkable and highly imaginative novel."

_MANCHESTER COURIER_

"It is, indeed, a fine novel which betokens nothing of a skimpy nature

either in conception or relation."

_DAILY NEWS_

"Characters touched with glow and wonder, seances that are always

informed with a sort of symbolism, give Miss Jenkinson's second novel an

imaginative power that lifts it well above the ordinary sort of fiction.

Her book has the rather unusual quality of beauty that never gushes into

rhapsody."

* * * * *

Mr. EDWARD ARNOLD'S Latest Novels

SOMETHING AFAR

By MAXWELL GRAY, Author of "The Silence of Dean Maitland." Second

Impression.

_TATLER._--"'Something Afar' is, from the readable point of view, as

good a story as any which has been published this season. Personally I

don't think that Maxwell Gray has given us anything so good since 'The

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THE GENTLE LOVER

By FORREST REID, Author of "The Bracknels."

_SPECTATOR._--"A delightful comedy of middle age. Mr. Forrest Reid never

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THE VILLAGE IN THE JUNGLE.

By LEONARD WOOLF. Second Edition.

"The Village in the Jungle" is a story which gives a vivid and realistic

picture of life in a remote jungle village in Ceylon. The author was in

the Ceylon Civil Service.

_MORNING POST._--"It is an admirable piece of work, which calls for

unqualified praise. We have met here with a new type of humanity drawn

from life, and we at once respect and pity it."

TINKER'S HOLLOW

By Mrs. F. E. CRICHTON, Author of "The Soundless Tide," etc. Second

Impression.

_MORNING POST._--"Mrs. Crichton is to be warmly congratulated on the

appearance of this truthful and entrancing story of Ulster village

life."

_BRITISH WEEKLY._--"This is a most vital book, and full of the true

Ulster atmosphere. Mrs. Crichton moves us sometimes to laughter and

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BRIDE ELECT. By A. M. CHAMPNEYS.

_SPECTATOR._--"The book has passion, eloquence, and intensity. It is

full of vivid moments."

_MORNING POST._--"'Bride Elect' is excellent reading."