THE OLD COUNTRY
It was a still, clear evening of spring when Wyllard, unstrapping the
rücksack from his shoulders, sat down beside a frothing stream in a
dale of Northern England. On his arrival in London a week or two earlier
he had found awaiting him a letter from Mrs. Hastings, who was then in
Paris, in which she said that she could not at the moment say when she
would go home again, but that she expected to advise him shortly.
After answering the letter Wyllard started North, and, obtaining
Agatha's address from Miss Rawlinson, went on again to a certain little
town, which, encircled by towering fells, stands beside a lake in the
North Country. He had already recognized that his mission was rather a
delicate one, and he decided that it would be advisable to wait until he
heard from Mrs. Hastings before calling upon Miss Ismay. There remained
the question, what to do with the next few days. A conversation with
several pedestrian tourists whom he met at his hotel, and a glance at a
map of the hill-tracks decided him. Remembering that he had on several
occasions kept the trail in Canada for close on forty miles, he bought a
Swiss pattern rücksack, and set out on foot through the fells.
Incidentally, he saw scenery that gave him a new conception of the Old
Country. He astonished his new friends, the tourists, who volunteered to
show him the way over what they considered a difficult pass. To their
great astonishment the brown-faced stranger, who wore ordinary
tight-fitting American attire and rather pointed American shoes, went up
the mountainside apparently without an effort, and for the credit of the
clubs to which they belonged it was incumbent on them to keep pace with
him. They did not know that he had carried bags of flour and mining
tools over very much higher passes, close up to the limit of eternal
snow, but they did know that he set them a difficult pace, and after two
days' climbing they were relieved to part company with him.
A professional guide who overtook them recognized the capabilities of
the man when he noticed the way in which he lifted his feet and how he
set them down. This, the guide decided, was a man accustomed to walking
among the heather, but he was wrong; for it was the trick the bushman
learns when he plods through leagues of undergrowth and fallen branches,
or the tall grass of the swamps; and it is a memorable experience to
make a day's journey with such a man. For the first hour the thing seems
easy, as the pace is never forced, but the speed never slackens; and as
the hours go by the novice, who flounders and stumbles, grows horribly
weary of trying to keep up with the steady, persistent swing.
Wyllard had traveled since morning along a ridge of fells when he sat
down beside the water and contentedly filled his pipe. On the one hand,
a wall of crags high above was growing black against the evening light,
and the stream, clear as crystal, came boiling down among great
boulders. But the young man had wandered through many a grander and more
savage scene of rocky desolation, and it impressed him less than the
green valley in front of him. He had never seen anything like that
either on the Pacific slope or in Western Canada.
Early as it was in the season, the meadows between rock and water were
green as emerald, and the hedge-rows, just flushed with verdure, were
clipped and trimmed as if their owner loved them. There was not a dead
tree in the larch copse which dipped to the stream, and all its feathery
tassels were sprinkled with tiny flecks of crimson and wondrous green.
Great oaks dotted the meadows, each one perfect in symmetry. It seemed
that the men who held this land cared for single trees. The sleek, tame
cattle that rubbed their necks on the level hedge-top and gazed at him
ruminatively were very different from the wild, long-horned creatures
whose furious stampede he had now and then headed off, riding hard while
the roar of hoofs rang through the dust-cloud that floated like a sea
fog across the sun-scorched prairie. Here, in the quiet vale, all was
peace and tranquillity.
Wyllard noticed the pale primroses that pushed their yellow flowers up
among the withered leaves, and he took account of the faint blue sheen
beneath the beech trunks not far away. There was a vein of artistic
feeling in him, and the elusive beauty of these things curiously
appealed to him. He had seen the riotous, sensuous blaze of flowers
kissed by Pacific breezes, and the burnished gold of wheat that rolled
in mile-long waves; but it seemed to him that the wild things of the
English North were, after all, more wonderful. They harmonized with the
country's deep peacefulness; their beauty was chaste, fairy-like and
ethereal.
By and by a wood pigeon cooed softly somewhere in the shadows, and a
brown thrush perched on a bare oak bough began to sing. The broken,
repeated melody went curiously well with the rippling murmur of sliding
water, and Wyllard, though he could not remember ever having done
anything of that sort before, leaned back with a smile to listen. His
life had been a strenuous one, passed for the most part in the
driving-seat of great plows that rent their ample furrows through virgin
prairie, guiding the clinking binders through the wheat under a blazing
sun, or driving the plunging dories through the clammy fog over short,
slopping seas. Now, however, the tranquillity of the English valley
stole in on him, and he began to understand how the love of that
well-trimmed land clung to the men out West, who spoke of it tenderly as
the "Old Country."
Then, for he was in an unusually susceptible mood, he took from his
pocket a little deerhide case, artistically made by a Blackfoot Indian,
and removed from it the faded photograph of an English girl. He had
obtained the photograph from the lad who had died among the ranges of
the Pacific slope, and it had been his companion in many a desolate camp
and on many a weary journey. The face was delicately modeled, and there
was a freshness in it which is seldom seen outside the Old Country; but
what pleased him most was the serenity in the clear, innocent eyes.
He was not in love with the picture--he would probably have smiled at
the notion--but he had a curious feeling that he would meet the girl
some day, and that it would then be a privilege merely to speak to her.
This was, after all, not so extravagant a fancy as it might appear, for
romance, the mother of chivalry and many graces, still finds shelter in
the hearts of men who dwell in the wide spaces of the newer lands.
Shrewd and practical as these men are, they see visions now and then,
and, what is more, with bleeding hands and toil incredible prove them to
be realities.
By and by Wyllard put the photograph back into his pocket, and filled
his pipe again. It was almost dark before he had smoked it out. The
thrush had gone, and only the ripple of the water broke the silence,
until he heard footsteps on the stones behind him. Looking around, he
saw a young woman moving towards the river. He watched her with a quiet
interest, for his perceptions were sharper than usual, and it seemed to
him that she was very much in harmony with what he thought of as the
key-tone of the place. She was tall and shapely, and she moved with
grace. When, poised upon a shelf of rock as if considering the easiest
way to the water, she stopped for a moment, her figure fell into
reposeful lines, but that was after all only what he had expected, for
he had half-consciously studied the Englishwomen whom he had met in the
West.
The Western women usually moved, and certainly spoke, with an almost
superfluous vivacity and alertness. There was in them a feverish
activity, which contrasted with the English deliberation, which had
sometimes exasperated him. Now he felt that this slowness of movement
was born of the tranquillity of the well-trimmed land, and he realized
that it would have troubled his sense of fitness if this girl had
clattered down across the stones hurriedly and noisily.
At first he could not see her face, but when she went on a little
further it became evident that she desired to cross the river, and was
regarding the row of stepping stones somewhat dubiously. One or two had
fallen over, or had been washed away by a flood, for there were several
wide gaps between them, through which the stream frothed whitely. As
soon as Wyllard noticed her hesitation, he rose and moved towards her.
"You want to get across?" he asked.
She was still glancing at the water, and although he was sure that she
had not seen him or heard his approach, she turned towards him quietly.
Then a momentary sense of astonishment held him in an embarrassed
scrutiny, for it was her picture at which he had gazed scarcely half an
hour before, and he would have recognized the face anywhere.
"Yes," she answered. "It is rather a long way around by the bridge, but
some of the stones seem to have disappeared since I last came this way."
She spoke, as Wyllard had expected, softly and quietly. Because he was
first of all a man of action, Wyllard forthwith waded into the river.
Then he turned and held out his hand to her.
"It isn't a very long step. You ought to manage it," he said.
The girl favored him with a swift glance of uncertainty. At first she
had supposed him to be one of the walking tourists or climbers who
usually invaded the valleys at Easter; but they were, for the most part,
young men from the cities, and this stranger's face was darkened by the
sun. There was also an indefinite suggestion of strength in the poise of
his lean, symmetrical figure, which could only have come from strenuous
labor in the open air. She noticed that while the average Englishman
would have asked permission to help her, or would have deprecated the
offer, this stranger did nothing of the kind. He stood with the water
frothing about his ankles, holding out his hand.
She had no hesitation about accepting Wyllard's aid, and, while he waded
through the river, she stepped lightly from stone to stone until she
came to a wide gap, where the stream was deep. She stopped a moment,
gazing at the foaming water, until the man's hand tightened on her
fingers, and she felt his other hand rest upon her waist.
"Now," he assured her, "I won't let you fall."
She was on the other side of the gap in another moment. Wondering
uneasily why she had obeyed the compelling pressure, but glad to see
that the stranger's face was perfectly unmoved, and that he was
evidently quite unconscious of having done anything unusual, she crossed
without mishap. When they stood on the shingle he dropped her hand.
"Thank you," she said. "I'm afraid you got rather wet."
The man laughed, and he had a pleasant laugh. "Oh," he replied, "I'm
used to it." There was a little silence and he asked: "Isn't there a
village with a hotel in it, a mile or two from here?"
"Yes," the girl answered, "this is the way. The path goes up to the
highroad through the larch wood."
She turned into the path, and, though she had not expected him to
accompany her, the man walked beside her. Still she did not resent it.
His manner was deferential, and she liked his face, while there was,
after all, no reason why he should stay behind when he was going the
same way. He walked beside her silently for several minutes as they went
on through the gloom of the larches, where a sweet, resinous odor crept
into the still evening air, and then he looked up as they came to a
towering pine.
"Have you many of those trees over here?" he asked.
A light dawned upon the girl, for, though he had spoken without a
perceptible accent, she had been slightly puzzled by something in his
speech and appearance.
"I believe they're not uncommon. You are an American?"
Wyllard laughed. "No," he replied. "I was born in Western Canada, but I
think I'm as English as you are, in some respects, though I never quite
realized it until to-night. It isn't exactly because my father came from
this country, either."
The girl was astonished at this answer, and still more at the indefinite
something in his manner which seemed to indicate that he expected her to
understand, as, indeed, she did. Her only dowry had been an expensive
education and she remembered that the influence of the isle she lived in
had in turn fastened on Saxons, Norsemen, Normans, and made them
Englishmen. What was more, so far as she had read, those who had gone
out South or Westwards had carried that influence with them, and, under
all their surface changes, and sometimes their grievances against the
Motherland, were, in the great essentials, wholly English still.
"But," she remarked at random, "how can you be sure that I'm English?"
It was quite dark in among the trees, but she fancied there was a smile
in her companion's eyes.
"Oh," he answered simply, "you couldn't be anything else!"
She accepted this as a compliment, though she knew that it had not been
his intention to flatter her. His general attitude since she had met him
scarcely suggested such, a lack of good taste. She was becoming mildly
interested in the stranger, but she possessed several essentially
English characteristics, and it did not appear advisable to encourage
him too much. She said nothing further, and it was he who spoke first.
"I wonder," he said, "if you knew a young lad who went out to Canada a
few years ago. His name was Pattinson--Henry Pattinson."
"No," the girl answered quickly. "I certainly did not. But the name is
not an uncommon one. There are a good many Pattinsons in the North."
Wyllard was not surprised by this answer. He had reasons for believing
that the name under which the lad he had befriended had enrolled himself
was not the correct one. It would, of course, have been easy to describe
the boy, but Wyllard was shrewd, and noticing that there was now a
restraint in the girl's manner he could not speak prematurely. He was
aware that most of the English are characterized by a certain reserve,
and apt to retire into their shells if pressed too hard. He did not,
however, mean to let this girl elude him altogether.
"It really doesn't matter," he responded. "I shall no doubt get upon his
trail in due time."
They reached the highroad a minute or two later, and the girl turned to
him.
"Thank you again," she said. "If you go straight on you will come to the
village in about a quarter of an hour."
She turned away and left him standing with his soft hat in his hand. He
stood quite still for almost a minute after she had gone. When he
reached the inn its old-world simplicity delighted him. It was built
with thick walls of slate, and roofed with ponderous flags. In Canada,
where the frost was Arctic, they used thin cedar shingles. The room in
which his meal was spread was paneled with oak that had turned black
with age. Great rough-hewn beams of four times the size that anybody
would have used for the purpose in the West supported the low ceiling.
There was a fire in the wide hearth and the ruddy gleam of burnished
copper utensils pierced the shadows. The room was large, but there was
only a single candle upon the table. He liked the gloomy interior, and
he felt that a garish light would somehow be out of harmony.
By and by his hostess appeared to clear the things away. She was a
little, withered old woman, with shrewd, kindly eyes, and a russet tinge
in her cheeks.
"There's a good light, and company in the sitting-room," she said.
"We've three young men staying with us. They've been up the Pike."
"I'd sooner stay here, if I may," replied Wyllard. "I don't quite know
yet if I'll go on to-morrow. One can get through to Langley Dale by the
Hause, as I think you call it?"
The wrinkled dame said that pedestrians often went that way.
"There are some prosperous folks--people of station--living round here?"
Wyllard asked casually.
"There's the vicar. I don't know that he's what you'd call prosperous.
Then there's Mr. Martindale, of Rushyholme, and Little, of the Ghyll."
"Has any of them a daughter of about twenty-four years of age?" Wyllard
described the girl he had met to the best of his ability.
It was evident that the landlady did not recognize the description, but
she thought a moment.
"No," she answered, "there's nobody like that; but I did hear that
they'd a young lady staying at the vicarage."
She changed the subject abruptly, and Wyllard once more decided that the
English did not like questions.
"You're a stranger, sir?" she inquired.
"I am," said Wyllard. "I've some business to attend to further on, but I
came along on foot, to see the fells, and I'm glad I did. It's a great
and wonderful country you're living in. That is," he added gravely,
"when you get outside the towns. There are things in some of the cities
that most make one ill."
He stood up. "That tray's too heavy for you. Won't you let me carry it?"
The landlady was plainly amazed at his words, but she made it clear that
she desired no assistance. When she went out Wyllard, who sat down
again, took out the photograph. He gazed at it steadfastly.
"There's rather more than mere prettiness there, but I don't know that I
want to keep it now," he reflected. "It's way behind the original. She
has grown since it was taken--just as one would expect that girl to
grow."
He lighted his pipe and smoked thoughtfully until he arrived at a
decision.
"One can't force the running in this country. They don't like it," he
said. "I'll lie by a day or two, and keep an eye on that vicarage."
In the meanwhile his hostess was discussing him with a niece.
"I'm sure I don't know what that man is," she informed the younger
woman. "He has got the manners of a gentleman, but he walks like a fell
shepherd, and his hands are like a navvy's. A man's hands now and then
tell you a good deal about him. Besides, of all things, he wanted to
carry his tray away. Said it was too heavy for me."
"Oh," replied her niece, "he's an American. There's no accounting for
them."