THE PATH THROUGH THE WILDERNESS
Frances slept badly that night. There were a good many things to trouble
her and keep her brain at work. The thought of Maggie’s clandestine love
affair worried her most, though why this should have been so she could
not have said. There seemed to be a league among the sisters against
their brother’s authority, and she felt that against her will she had
been drawn into it. She would have given anything not to have overheard
that talk in the kitchen, but she found it impossible to forget it. And
yet to interfere in any way seemed to her impossible. Maggie was of an
age to direct her own affair, as surely Arthur ought to recognize. Her
love for young Oliver was evidently of long standing, and, however
unsuitable it might appear, no third person had the right to attempt to
frustrate it. To Frances, who had guarded her own independence so
jealously for so long, such a course was inexcusable. But the secret
worried her. There seemed to be forces at work at Tetherstones of which
she had no knowledge—sinister forces with which Maggie obviously felt
unable to cope. And Arthur was so strange, so headlong, so impossible to
manage.
Arthur! The thought of Arthur held her in a kind of breathless wonder.
The man amazed her at every turn, but he never awaked in her that
palpitating doubt with which she had always regarded Rotherby. He might
possess violent impulses, but he was upright, he was honourable. What he
said, he meant. There was even something terrible in his simplicity. He
was a man who would suffer the utmost torture sooner than betray a
friend. He was also a man who might inflict it without scruple upon an
enemy who had incurred his vengeance.
His attitude towards herself had a curious effect upon her. She was
aware of a strong bond of sympathy between them. They were rebels
together. They had eaten stones for bread. They could not remain as
strangers. There was that about him that made her wonder if he had ever
had a friend before. He stood out above and beyond the rest with a kind
of solitary grandeur that strangely moved her—a man who should have
made his mark in the world of men, but condemned to till the soil to
give them bread—a slave who had been fashioned for a conqueror. The
irony of it stirred her strangely. She wondered if anyone else saw in
him aught but a tiller of the ground. The old man, his father, perhaps?
But no! He had spoken of him with contempt. She had been aware of a
hostility scarcely veiled between them. The old man evidently despised
him for the very servitude that so plainly galled his soul. Did no one
understand him, she wondered? And then the memory of the mother,
white-haired and patient, came to her, and by a flash of intuition she
realized that here lay the explanation of many things. He had harnessed
himself to the plough for her sake. She could not doubt it. Though she
had never seen them together, she knew that she had discovered the
truth, and she was conscious, poignantly conscious, of a feeling akin to
indignation. How could any woman accept such a sacrifice?
Of her own affairs, of Montague Rotherby, she thought but little that
night. The inner voice that had so urgently warned her no longer spoke
within her soul. The need was past. Inexplicably, the attraction of the
man had gone with it. The loss of her letter had vexed her temporarily,
but now she had almost forgotten it. By her silence she would sever all
connection with him. She judged him as not ardent enough to follow up
the quest. The madness was over and would never return. Once again, and
this time with a sense of comfort, she reflected that she was not the
type of woman to appeal to such a man for long. That last letter of his
had probably been one of farewell. On the whole she was not sorry that
she had not read it. She wanted to forget him as soon as possible and
with him the bitter humiliation he had made her suffer. It was better to
forget than to hate. No; decidedly it was not on his account that
Frances passed a restless night.
With the early morning came sleep that lasted till the sun was high, and
Ruth came in to perch on her bed while she breakfasted. She had been out
in the cornfields, she said. They were cutting the corn in the field
below the Stones. Next week, when Frances was strong enough, they would
go and sit among the sheaves. Or perhaps they might go to-day if Uncle
Arthur would take them in the dog-cart. The idea attracted Frances
though she only smiled. The day was hot, and she was feeling better. She
had a desire to go out into the sunshine, away from the old grey house
and its secrets, of which already she felt she knew too much.
She did not know that the child had read acquiescence in her silence
till later, when Dolly suddenly announced that the cart would be round
in half-an-hour, and they must hurry.
“It would do you good to spend the whole day out to-day,” said the
practical Dolly, whom Frances suspected of being secretly a little tired
of a job that had ceased to be interesting. “Elsie and Lucy and Nell
will all be to and fro if you should want anything. And no one could
possibly catch cold on a day like this. Milly and I are going to
Wearmouth to do some shopping, but I shall be back in good time to get
you to bed. Dr. Square said he might not come to-day. If he does, it
won’t hurt him to ride as far as the cornfield to see you.”
It had evidently been all talked over and arranged beforehand, and
Frances had no objection to raise. In fact, the prospect delighted her.
“I should like to take my sketching-block,” she said. “And I shall be
quite happy.”
So, armed with her beloved box of paints and brushes, she presently
descended to find Arthur waiting somewhat moodily at the door with a
pie-bald cob harnessed to a light dog-cart. His dark face brightened at
the sight of her. He took the pipe from between his teeth and knocked
out its contents on the heel of his boot.
“Better this morning?” he asked, as she came out.
She smiled at him, panting from her descent of the stairs, but
resolutely ignoring her weakness. “Yes, I am much better. I am as strong
as a horse to-day. Are you really going to drive me to the cornfields?
How kind of you!”
“Jump up!” said Arthur. “You go to his head, Dolly! I’ll help Miss
Thorold.”
He issued his orders with characteristic decision, and they were obeyed.
Almost before she knew it, Frances found herself lifted on to the high
seat where he wrapped a rug about her knees and pushed a cushion behind
her.
The next moment he mounted beside her and took the reins. Dolly stepped
back. The horse leaped forward.
“Hold on!” said Arthur.
They were out in the winding lane before Frances found breath to ask for
Ruth. “Won’t she come with us? Have you forgotten her?”
“We never trouble about Ruth,” he replied. “She finds her own way
everywhere. She will probably go across the stepping stones and get
there first.”
“Are you never afraid of her coming to harm?” she asked.
“She never does,” said Arthur. He spoke briefly, and immediately turned
from the subject. “Do you mind if we go for a stretch first? The horse
is fresh.”
“Mind!” said Frances. “I’d love it!”
He laughed, and she knew in a moment that the plan was by no means an
impromptu one. “It will do you good,” he said, and turned the horse’s
head towards the moors.
They came out upon an open road and went like the wind. The day was
glorious, the distant tors all blue and purple in the sunshine. They
followed a direction she had never explored, and presently turned off up
a wide track that seemed to wind into the very heart of the hills.
“Afraid it’s rather bumpy,” said Arthur. “Do you mind?”
“I mind nothing,” she answered simply.
He glanced at her. “You are not disliking it?”
She drew a long breath. “I don’t believe I ever knew what life could be
before to-day.”
He said no more. The guiding of the horse took up all his attention.
They came presently to a track crossing the one they were following.
He reined in as if he had reached his destination. Frances looked about
her. The place was lonely beyond description. Here and there vast
boulders pushed through the short grass, surrounded by tufts of heather
that seemed to be trying to hide their nakedness. They were closely
surrounded by hills, and the gurgle of an invisible stream filled the
air with music.
“Have you ever been here before?” said Arthur.
“Never,” she said.
“Yes, you have,” he returned bluntly.
She started a little, and looked about her more attentively. Was the
place familiar?
He pointed suddenly with his whip along the track they faced. “You and
Roger!” he said. “Don’t you remember?”
She uttered a gasp of surprise. “Why—yes! But was it here?”
“It was round the curve of that hill,” he said. “Afterwards, you came on
here alone, and lost your way, took the wrong turning. Remember?”
“I wanted to get to Fordestown,” she said. “But I was tired. I fell
asleep.”
He nodded. “And then you wandered up to the Stones.”
She felt herself colour. With an effort she answered him. “It wasn’t
quite like that. I met—a friend, or rather—he found me here. We got
lost in the fog. That was how it happened.”
“Yes,” said Arthur.
He turned the horse up the wild track to the left without further words,
and they went on in silence at a walk.
A great stillness brooded about their path. A certain awe had taken
possession of Frances. The ruggedness of the place, its austerity, held
her like a spell. The high hills shut them in, and the music of many
streams was the only sound.
“You are taking me to the Stones?” she said at length, and unconsciously
her voice was sunk almost to a whisper.
“Yes,” he said.
They went on up the lonely track. She tried to picture her walk with
Montague through the blinding fog. Here she had slipped into bog, there
she had stumbled among stones. Then as now, the vague sounds of running
water had filled the desolation as with eerie, chanting voices. The
smell of bog-myrtle came to her suddenly, and in a moment very vividly
the terror of that night was back upon her. The thud of the horse’s
hoofs on the wet track fell with a fateful, remorseless beat. She
experienced a swift, almost overwhelming desire to turn back.
It must have communicated itself to the man beside her, for he checked
the animal with a curt word and brought the swaying cart to a
standstill.
“Miss Thorold, what is it? Have I brought you too far?”
The concern in his voice reassured her. She met his look with a smile.
“No! I am quite all right. It is only my foolish imagination—playing
tricks with me. Shall we go on?”
“Do you wish to go on?” he said.
“Yes. I am longing to see the Stones. I think this is rather a dreadful
place, don’t you? It makes one think of”—she stumbled a little—“of
human sacrifice. Do you hold your father’s theory about the Stones?”
“I seldom agree with my father about anything,” he returned sombrely.
“Yes, you are right. This is a dreadful place. It has a bad name, as I
told you before.”
They went on up the grassy track, mounting steadily. The rocky nature of
the ground became more and more pronounced as they proceeded. The grass
grew more sparsely though the tufts of heather continued.
“Are you frightened?” Arthur asked abruptly.
“No,” said Frances.
He looked at her. “You are sure?”
“What is there to frighten me?” she said.
“You were frightened the last time you came,” he said.
“Oh, that was different. It was foggy. I was lost.” She spoke quickly,
with a touch of confusion, aware of the old embarrassment stirring
within her.
He turned his eyes deliberately away and stared at the horse’s ears.
“Would you be frightened now,” he said, “if a fog came up and you didn’t
know the way?”
“Not with you to guide me,” she said.
“Thank you,” he said quietly.
The hills closed gradually in upon the track till it was little more
than a narrow passage, winding among boulders. The horse’s feet
clattered upon stones. Quite suddenly the path mounted steeply between
two large rocks and disappeared.
“Can we possibly get up there?” said Frances.
The man beside her made no reply. He merely struck the animal with the
whip, so that he plunged at the steep ascent, and in a few moments was
clambering up it with desperate effort. The cart rocked and jolted, and
Frances clung to the rail. They reached the two grey rocks at the summit
and passed between them on to a flat open space that shone green in the
sunshine.
“This is the place,” said Arthur.
Frances looked all about her and drew a long, deep breath. “Ah!
How—wonderful!” she said. “What a wilderness!”