Coming back, the wind almost forced them into a run, and they yielded,
racing along the road, impelled as by a strong hand. They could not
speak to one another in the midst of the turmoil, but they smiled from
time to time in happy understanding. As they neared the village Nan
checked herself, and, leaning breathless against one of the
telegraph-posts that bordered the road, tried to re-order her hair, but
the wind took her shawl and blew it streaming from her hand, also the
strands of her hair in little wild fluttering pennons. Nevertheless, she
was in such high good humour that she only laughed at what might have
been an annoyance, turning herself this way and that to gain the best
advantage over the wind. Morgan stood by, laughing himself, and watching
her. She wore a dark red shirt, and the wind had blown two patches on to
her cheeks, which were usually so pale they looked fragile and
transparent. They continued more soberly towards the village, still
without speaking, even when they reached the shelter of the street,
because it seemed unnecessary.
They saw Silas standing on his own doorstep, hatless, in a strange
attitude, holding his hands stretched out before him, the fingers wide
apart. Nan ran up and caught one of his hands; Morgan was surprised, for
she never treated Silas with levity. She seemed to have shaken off the
years of repression, to have forgotten totally the conscientious lesson.
“What are you doing standing there, Silas?” She was very gay.
“Letting the wind whistle in my fingers. Hark! Bend down your head.”
“I can’t hear it, Silas.”
“No, you’ve coarse ears; eyes! eyes! yes! but coarse ears. Where have
you been?”
“Along the dyke....”
“Seen the accident?”
“Hush, Silas; you shan’t dwell on that.” Morgan had never seen her so
brave, so radiant, with the blind man. She took his arm now, leading him
back into his cottage. “Sit down by the fire, Silas; it’s warm and
sheltered in here. The kettle’s singing.”
“I’d sooner stay in the wind,” he said, striving against the light
pressure of her hands on his shoulders as she held him down.
“The wind’s too rough; I’ve had enough of it.”
“Then let me stay on the doorstep alone. You stop in the shelter with
Linnet.”
“No, Silas, we’ll all three stop in here together. I’ll sing to you a
bit, shall I?” Morgan observed her firmness with a surprised admiration.
She got her zither from the cupboard where she kept it, laid it on the
table, and tried the chords with a little tortoiseshell clip that she
slipped over her thumb. The thin notes quivered through the bluster of
the wind and the harshness of Silas’s voice. She bent intently over her
tuning, trying the notes with her voice, adjusting the wires with the
key she held between her fingers.
“Now!” she said, looking up and smiling.
She sang her little sentimental songs, “Annie Laurie,” and “My boy Jo,”
her voice as clear and natural as the accompaniment was painstaking. She
struck the wires bravely with her tortoiseshell clip. Morgan applauded.
“It’s grand, Mrs. Dene.”
“Why do you choose to-day for your zither?” Silas asked in his most
rasping tone.
“It’s Sunday, Silas,—a home day.”
“But you’re not home; you’re in my cottage; your home is with Gregory,
next door. You’re here with me and Linnet.”
“Gregory can’t hear me sing,” she said pitifully.
“Then why don’t you dance? he could see you dance.”
“I asked him to come for a walk,” she said, her brightness dimmed by
tears.
“And he wouldn’t go? with you and Linnet?”
“No, he was drawing.”
“Ah?” said Silas. “But Linnet went with you? Linnet wasn’t busy?”
“What’ll I sing that pleases you?” she said, maintaining her endeavour;
“‘Loch Lomond?’ You used to like ‘Loch Lomond.’”
“Ask Linnet; he’s Scotch; no doubt that’s what put a Scotch song into
your mind.”
“Silas!” she said in despair, dropping her hands on to her zither, which
gave forth a jangle of sounds.
“If you want home, as you say, stop here with Linnet; I’ll lend you my
cottage,” said Silas, rising and groping for his cap. “Play at home for
a bit. Draw the curtains, light the lamp, make tea for yourselves, put
the kettle back to sing on the hob, and you, Nan, sing to your zither to
your heart’s content. It’s a pleasant, warm room, for pleasant, warm
people. Home of a Sunday, with the wind shut out! Oh yes, I’ll lend you
my cottage. Gregory’s lost in his drawings till supper-time. Stay here
and talk and smoke and sing, while the room grows warmer, and you forget
the wind and the two dead horses and spoilt fodder lying down the road.
Spend your evenings in forgetfulness. Ask no questions of sorrow. Kill
darkness with your little candle of content.”
“You’re crazy; where are you going?” cried Morgan.
“Only to the Abbey,—not into the floods,” Silas replied with a laugh.
“To the Abbey? alone?”
“One of my haunts, you know.”