Half an hour later she was on the rugged mountain road that led to
her mother's house in the north of the island. Her first fear was
the fear of being overtaken and carried back. At Silverburn, where a
deep river gurgles under the shadow of a dark bridge, she heard the
crack of whips, the clatter of horses' hoofs and the whoop of loud
voices.
It was nothing. Only two farm shandries, the first containing a
couple of full-blooded farm girls, and the second a couple of lusty
farm lads, racing home after market, laughing wildly and shouting to
each in the free language of the countryside. It was like something
out of her former life--one of the outbreaks of animal instinct that
had brought her to where she was.
But no matter! She would be a proud and happy woman yet--the _Sheean
ny Feaynid_ had said so.
After the fear of being pursued came the fear of being lost--becoming
an outcast and a wanderer. She had toiled up to the Black Fort on
the breast of the hill. The morning haze had vanished by this time,
the sun had come out, the larks were singing in the cloudless sky,
the smell of spring was rising from the young grass in the fields,
the roadsides were yellow with primroses and daffodils, and the whole
world was looking glad with the promise of the beautiful new year
that was already on the wing. It was heart-breaking.
Feeling hot and tired after her climb, she sat on a stone. The sea
was open from that point, and on the farthest rim of it she could see
a red-funnelled steamer and two black shafts of smoke. Stowell!
Never before had she thought bitterly of him. But he was there,
going up to London in comfort, in luxury, while she....
It was cruel. But crueller than her bitter thoughts of Stowell were
her tender thoughts of Gell. He would be at Derby Haven now, reading
(with that twitching of the lower lip which she knew so well) the
letter she had left behind for him, while she was here, running away
from the arms of the man who loved her. But no matter about that,
either! One day, two days, three days, a week perhaps, and she would
return to him. She was to be a proud and happy woman yet--the
_Sheean ny Feaynid_ had said so.
Hours passed. The road stretched out and out, became steeper and
steeper. Bessie felt more and more tired. She was often compelled
to sit by the wayside, and sometimes, being worn out by the want of
sleep, she fell into a doze. The sky darkened and dropped; the sun
went down behind the mountains to the west with a straight black bar
across its face that was like a heavy lid over a sullen eye. Would
she be able to reach home that night? She would! She must! Alick
was waiting for her to come back. She dare not keep him long.
Evening had closed in before she reached the top of the hill. It was
a long waste of bracken and black rock, with no farms anywhere, and
only a few thatched cottages that crouched in the sheltered places
like frightened cattle in a storm. Feeling weak and faint from long
climbing and want of food, she was about to sit down again and cry,
having lost hope of reaching her mother's house that night, when she
came upon a little lamb, scarcely a month old, which had strayed away
from the flock and was too tired to go farther.
The poor creature bleated piteously into her face, and she lifted it
up in her arms and carried it a long half mile (the lost carrying the
lost, the desolate comforting the desolate) until she came to a high
gate at which a mother sheep was plunging furiously in her efforts to
get out to them. Bessie put the lamb to its feet, and it clambered
through the bars, plucked at the teat, and then there was peace and
silence.
This strengthened her and she went on for some time longer with a
cheerful heart. Yes, she must reach home that night. And if it was
as late as midnight before she got there, so much the better! Nobody
must see her come, and then her mother would be able to conceal
everything.
Night fell. It began to rain and the wind to rise. She had never
been afraid of darkness or bad weather, but now she took a wild
delight in them. Remembering what other women had done, she took off
her shoes and walked on the wet roads in her stockings. It was risky
but she cared nothing about that. It might bring on a fever, but she
was strong--she would soon get over it.
Farmers returning empty from market offered her a lift, but she
declined and toiled on. The lighted windows of the farmhouses,
gleaming through the darkness, called her into warmth and shelter,
but she struggled along. The soles of her stockings were soon worn
to shreds and the stones of the roads were beginning to cut her feet,
but she would not put on her shoes. In her frenzy she hardly felt
the pain. And besides, what she was suffering for Alick was as
nothing compared to what Alick had suffered for her. Only one night!
It would soon be over.
She had walked at her slow pace down a deep descent and through a
long valley when she came upon an inn and a big barn that was a scene
of great festivity. She knew what it was. It was one of the
"Bachelors' Balls" which, beginning with _Oiel Thomase Dhoo_ (the Eve
of Black Thomas) and going on through the spring of the year, the
unmarried men in remote places gave to the unmarried girls of the
parish.
The rain was now falling in torrents and the wind had risen to the
strength of a gale, but it must have been close and hot inside the
barn, for as Bessie passed on the other side of the way, the doors
were thrown open. The rude place was densely crowded. Stable lamps
hung from the rough-hewn rafters. At one end the musicians sat on a
platform raised on barrels; at the other end girls in white blouses
were serving tea from a long plank covered with a table-cloth and
resting on trestles. In the space between, a dense group of young
men and women were dancing with furious energy.
This, too, was like something out of her own life. Ah, if somebody
had only told her ....
But what matter! She would be a proud and happy woman yet--the
_Sheean ny Feaynid_ had said so.
It was now midnight by the wrist-watch that Alick had given her, and
she had still another hill to climb, steeper than the last if
shorter. While she was going up the rain flogged her face as with
whipcord, and, when she reached the top, the wind, sweeping across
the low-lying lands from the sea, tore at her skirts as if it were
trying to strip her naked. At one moment it brought her to her
knees, and she thought she would never be able to rise to her feet
again. It was very dark. She was feeling weak and helpless.
Once more she remembered Stowell. He would be on his way to London
now. She could see him (Alick had often painted such pictures)
sitting in a brightly-lit first-class railway carriage, smoking
cigarettes and sipping coffee.
At this thought her whole soul rose in revolt. Why was he there
while she was here? She had never loved him; he had never loved her;
they had both done wrong. But why for the same fault should there be
such different punishment?
People who went to churches and chapels talked of nature and God.
They said God was good and He was the God of nature. It was a lie--a
deception! If God was good He was not the God of nature. If He was
the God of nature He was not good. Nature was cruel and pitiless.
Only to a man was it kind. If you were a woman it had no mercy on
you. It never forgot you; it never forgave you. Therefore a woman
had a right to fight it, and when it threatened to destroy her
happiness, and the happiness of those who loved her, she had a right
to kill it.
That was what she was doing now. Perhaps she had done it already.
The heavy burden that had been lying so long under her heart had
given no sign of life for hours. So much the better! That passage
in her life must be dead and buried. Victor Stowell must be wiped
out for ever. Then she could marry Alick Gell with a clean heart and
conscience.
Therefore, courage, courage! She would be a proud and happy woman
yet--the _Sheean ny Feaynid_ had said so.
Only the great thing was to get home before daybreak, so that nobody
might see her until all was over.
Somewhere in the dead and vacant dawn a pale, forlorn-looking woman,
whom nobody could have known for Bessie Collister, was approaching
the village of the glen. She had been eighteen hours on her journey,
most of the time on her feet. Her fur-lined cloak was sodden and
heavy. Her black hair had been torn from its knot and was hanging
dank over her neck and shoulders. Her feet, in her dry boots, were
cold and bleeding. A silk scarf which had been tied over her
closely-fitting fur cap was dripping, and a little bag on her arms
was wet through with all that was contained in it.
She had expected to arrive before break of day, but nobody in the
village was yet stirring. In the long street of whitewashed houses
all the window blinds were still down and looking like closed
eye-lids.
She tied up her hair, removed the scarf and put on a veil from her
handbag, drew it closely over her face, and then walked with head
down and a step as light as she could make it, through the sleeping
village.
She met nobody. Not a door was opened; not a blind was drawn aside;
she had not been seen. She drew a long breath of relief. But
suddenly, with the first sight of the mill, came a stab of memory,
Dan Baldromma!
Since the witch-doctor had told her that though Dan might rage and
tear he could do no harm to her or to Alick she had ceased to think
of him. But why had she not thought of the harm he might do to her
mother? All the way up since she was a child she had seen the
tyrannies he had inflicted upon her mother through her. What fresh
tyranny would he inflict on her now?--now that she was coming home
like this to be a burden to....
For a moment Bessie told herself she must go back even yet. But she
was too weak and too ill to go one step farther. All the same she
could not face her step-father in her present condition. If she
could only get upstairs to her bedroom and sleep--sleep, sleep!
She listened for the mill-wheel--it was not working. She looked at
the mill-door--it had not yet been opened. It was impossible that
Dan could be in bed--he was such an early riser. He must have gone
up the brews to look at the heifers in the top fields.
With a slow step she went over to the dwelling-house. The door was
shut, but she could hear sounds from the kitchen. There was the
shuffling of slow feet, accompanied by the tap of a walking-stick;
then the blowing and coughing of bellows and the crackling of burning
gorse; and then the measured beating of a foot on the hearthstone,
keeping time to a husky and tremulous voice that was singing--
"_Safe in the arms of Jesus,
Safe in His tender care._"
With a palpitating heart Bessie lifted the latch, pushed the door
open and took one step into the kitchen. Her mother, who was still
wearing her night-cap, was sitting on the three-legged stool in the
choillagh, stirring porridge in the oven-pot that hung from the
slowrie. She had heard the click of the latch and was looking round.
There was silence for a moment. Bessie tried to speak and could not.
The old woman rose on rigid limbs and her hand on the handle of her
stick was trembling. It was just as if the spirit of someone she had
been thinking about had suddenly appeared before her.
"Is it thyself, girl?" she said, in a breathless whisper.
"Mother!" cried Bessie, and she took another step forward.
Again there was a moment of silence. With her heart at her lips
Bessie saw that her mother's eyes were wandering over her figure.
Then the stick dropped from the old woman's hand to the floor and she
stretched out her arms, and her thin hands shook like withered leaves.
"Bolla veen! bolla veen!" she cried, in a low voice that was a sob.
"It's my own case over again."
And then the girl fell into her mother's arms and buried her head in
her breast and cried, as only a suffering child can cry, helplessly,
piteously.
A moment later, there was a heavy footstep outside, and the ring of
an iron tool thrown down on the "street." The old woman raised her
face with a look of fear.
"It's thy father," she whispered.