THE BEGINNING
GEORGE WILLIAMS' education had been a very elementary and spasmodic
thing. In days of comparative prosperity, when he was a small boy, he
had learned to read and write and add up a little, but his mother's
widowhood had sent him out to field-work at an age when the village
urchins of the present day are still wrestling with the fourth
"standard."
That most irksome of all tools, the pen, was lying before him on the
box which served as a table, and he stared sorrowfully at it and the
cheap ink-pot beside it; now and then he took himself sternly by the
front hair as though to compel his brain to come to the assistance of
his hand.
The cottage was very quiet, and the door stood open to let in what
remained of the afternoon light. Below Rhys, who had spent the whole
of the preceding night out of doors, was making up for lost sleep upon
his pile of sheepskins, for, since his recovery, Williams' bedding had
been restored to its rightful place. The brook gurgled outside. He
shoved the paper away impatiently and sat back in his chair. All his
efforts had only resulted in two words which faced him on the
otherwise blank sheet. He laid his unlighted pipe down on them, for he
heard Rhys' footsteps upon the ladder below the flooring, and he did
not want him to see what he had written. The two words were "Dere
Mary."
The composition of this letter had hung over him for some days, for,
besides his poor scholarship, he was one of those people whose powers
of expression are quite inadequate to their need of expressing. He
knew this very well, and it depressed him a good deal. He had made up
his mind to ask Mary Vaughan to be his wife.
It is doubtful whether five people out of every ten who contemplate
marrying do so from devotion pure and absolute, so in this George was
no worse than many of his neighbours. He certainly was not in love
with Mary, for he could hardly tell whether he would be glad or sorry
if she refused him, but he was inclined to think, sorry. His main
reason, which swallowed up any other, was pity--pity and the longing
to protect a stricken creature. The type of theorist perfect in all
points except discrimination in human nature would have smiled
deprecatingly and assured him that he was a fool, that what had
happened once must inevitably happen twice, and that he would be like
the man in Æsop's fable who had warmed a frozen viper on his hearth
and been bitten for his pains. But he knew better. That Mary was not a
light woman he could see easily--so easily indeed that he had never
given the matter the consideration of a moment. He merely knew it.
Also there lurked in him an odd feeling which one might almost call an
economical one; they had both made a terrible muddle of their lives
and gone the wrong ways to their own undoing, and if they could but
convert their two mistakes into one success, it would be a distinct
gain. He was a lonely man too, and the presence of a young and comely
woman in his home would be very pleasant to him. He wondered whether
she liked him much--he did not for an instant fancy that she loved
him, for he knew that her heart was dead inside her, and he was quite
unconscious that one thing that drew him to her was his complete
understanding of her. It is a kindness we do when we really understand
another human being--given a not ignoble one--and the doing of a
kindness produces affection more surely than the receiving of one. The
chief drawback to his plan was his bondage to the Pig-driver, for
until that was over he could not marry; but he was putting by little
sums earned with his hedging and ditching and other journeyman work,
and on these he hoped they might start their married life when he had
served his time with Bumpett. Could he make money enough to pay his
debts to his taskmaster he would break with him at once, knowing that
the old man in exposing his thefts would have to expose his own also.
But his earnings were so small that all these were only forlorn hopes.
Rhys came up through the trap-door under the sacks. As he appeared in
the doorway of the partition George saw that he had a stick in his
hand.
"You're not thinking to go out, surely?" he remarked.
"I am," was the short reply.
"But the light's not gone yet; you'll be collared one of these days,"
said Williams, more as a sop to his own conscience than from any
interest.
"If I don't care, you needn't."
"I don't--not a damn," replied Williams; "you can get clapped into
prison any day you like."
Walters left the house in so reckless a humour that he scarce bestowed
a precautionary glance on his surroundings when he crossed the plank,
and as the old cart-road led only to the most carefully avoided place
within, possibly, a hundred miles, he was the less inclined to thwart
his mood. Though the dusk had barely begun to confuse distant
outlines, he strolled carelessly up the hillside, his mind full of
irritated contempt for George. It was hard to him that a man of his
intelligence and standing should have to tolerate the society of a
clown, one whose sole merit of brute strength was unillumined by any
ray of good feeling or geniality. When he arrived at the bit of
scrubby ground by the Pedlar's Stone, he turned and looked down the
track he had ascended towards the valley.
On either side lay the slope, unbroken except by ragged bushes and
briers; out of one of these which clothed a bank stuck the Pedlar's
Stone. It looked sinister enough thrusting its black form through the
thorns. A little way beyond was the rock under which the Pig-driver
had made so snug a larder, and two or three slabs not unlike it were
scattered round. He sat down upon one of them; there were limits to
his imprudence, and he did not mean to venture farther away until the
light had completely gone. Night outside had of late become as
familiar to him as day, the sleeping world as important as the waking
one; he felt almost like a man endued with an extra sense, for that
half of life which for the healthy sleepers of the earth is simply cut
out, was a living reality to him. The gulf of oblivion which divides
one day from another for most people was ceasing to exist, and in its
place was a time with its own aspects and divisions, its own set of
active living creatures whose spheres of work belonged properly to the
darkness and stillness. He had a feeling of double life. Eastern
ascetics whose existences are spent in lonely places, in vigils, in
silence, in the fastnesses of strange hills, know this. To the Western
mind, so curiously incapable of understanding anything which does not
assail it through its body, and which has such a strange pride in its
own limitations, such things are folly. But the double life is there,
the pulsations of knowledge which can be dimly heard through that
receptiveness of mind born of long silence, and though Rhys knew it as
little as do most of his nation, he had a dim consciousness of change.
That the quietness of night soothed him was all he understood or ever
would understand; he longed for it to come as he sat looking over the
fading landscape. And it was coming--coming as surely as that other
influence of which he did not dream, but which even then stood behind
him.
A sound aroused him; he turned with dismay and saw that he was not
alone. He sprang up and found himself face to face with a woman. A
glance showed him that she was a stranger, and though he was dismayed
at the consequences of his rashness, it was reassuring to see from her
manner that she was entirely occupied with her own affairs.
"I beg your pardon," she began, "I am sorry to interrupt you, but I am
in trouble. I have wandered about for I cannot tell how long--hours, I
think--and I have lost myself. I am _so_ tired." There was almost a
sob in her voice as she sank upon the stone on which Rhys had been
sitting. "I beg of you, sir, to show me the way back to Crishowell."
She was stooping down and holding her ankle in her hand as though it
hurt her; her boots were thin and cut in places, and the mud had
almost turned them from their original black to brown. She was
evidently young, though her thick veil hid her features, and her
clothes were absurdly unsuited to her surroundings.
"Oh, my foot!" she exclaimed, "I have hurt my foot. Something ran into
it as I came through those bushes."
Rhys looked down.
"It is bleeding," he said, noticing a reddish spot which was soaking
through the mud. "Your boots are not strong enough for such places."
"I did not mean to come up here. I went for a walk from my uncle's
house in Crishowell. I only intended to go a little distance up the
hill, but I could not find my way back, and there was no one to direct
me after I had passed the village. Does nobody live about here?"
"Not near here, certainly," he replied.
"And how far do you think I am from Crishowell?"
"About three miles."
"Three miles!" exclaimed the girl, hardly restraining her tears. "How
can I ever get home? And with this foot, too."
"Perhaps a thorn has gone into it," he suggested. "If you will take
off your boot I'll look and see what is wrong."
She bent down and began to unfasten it. Rhys looked anxiously about
them and saw with satisfaction that the dusk had increased and would
soon have fallen completely. He knelt down in front of her, and she
straightened herself wearily, glad for her gloved fingers to escape
the mud. When he pulled off the boot she gave a little cry of pain,
and he looked up at her. She had put back her veil, and for the first
time he saw her face. A look of admiration came into his own. She read
the expression behind his eyes as she might have read the story in a
picture, and it affected her like a draught of wine. Her fatigue was
almost forgotten; she only felt that she was confronted by one of the
most attractive and uncommon-looking of men, and that he admired her.
"Can you see anything in my foot?" she inquired, lowering her eyes.
He examined it carefully.
"There's a very long thick thorn; it has run in nearly half-an-inch.
I'm likely to hurt you pulling it out, but out it must come."
"Very well," she said.
He took out his knife.
"Oh, what are you going to do?" she cried in alarm.
"There's a small pair of pincers in it. It will be best to use that."
Isoline shut her eyes and drew her breath quickly; as the thorn came
out she shuddered and put out her hand.
"I am afraid you must think me a great coward," she faltered. "You
would not behave like that, I am sure."
"I am not so delicate as you. You ought never to trust yourself in
these rough places alone."
"And now I have all these three miles to go alone in the dark, and I
am so afraid. I may meet cows or animals of some kind. Look how dark
it has become."
"If you will rest a little I will go with you part of the way. I can't
come as far as Crishowell, but I'll take you till we can see a
farm-house where they'll give you a lantern and a man to carry it
before you to the village."
"Oh, thank you. How very kind you are."
He laughed. "Am I?" he said. "'Tis a mighty disagreeable piece of
business for me, isn't it?"
There are many ways of conveying admiration, and Rhys' voice was
expressive.
Isoline was engaged with her boot, and he sat down beside her on the
rock. It was almost dark.
Like all who saw Rhys Walters for the first time she was considerably
puzzled to know who and what he might be, and his surroundings gave no
clue to his position. His clothes were good, being his own, for though
Bumpett had counselled him to borrow from George, he would never
condescend to wear anything belonging to him. He spoke well when he
gave himself the trouble, and Isoline, who was not as discriminating
as she might have been, admired his assurance.
Since the young man had been in hiding he had heard little of what was
going on in the neighbourhood, George being uncommunicative, and it
was only occasionally that he saw the Pig-driver. His beautiful
companion puzzled him as much as he puzzled her, for he knew that, had
he seen her face before, he could never have forgotten it.
His safety now lay in the possibility of her not describing him to any
one, and he would have to secure her promise of silence, a precarious
barrier indeed between him and detection. It had been the thousand
chances to one against his meeting any one at that hour and place, but
the one chance had turned up and confounded him. He was running
perilously near the rocks.
"I think I ought to be starting for home," said Isoline's voice at
his side after some time. "I am rested, and my foot is hardly painful
since you have taken the thorn out. You have been very kind to me,"
she added softly.
"Well, be grateful to me."
"Oh, I am indeed."
"Then stay a little longer to show it," he said boldly, "it's such a
treat to look at a face like yours."
"Why, you cannot see me in this darkness," replied Isoline, tossing
her head, but apparently regarding his remark as perfectly natural.
"But I know you are there, and when you are gone, who can tell when I
shall see you again? You don't know how terribly I'd like to."
There was real feeling in his voice.
She was rather taken aback. "Who are you?" she said suddenly.
"If you will tell me your name I will tell you mine."
"I am Miss Isoline Ridge way, and my uncle is Mr. Lewis, the Vicar of
Crishowell."
"I don't know him," said Rhys. "I am a stranger."
"You have not told me who you are," said the girl, after a silence in
which he was preparing his answer.
"I'm called Kent--Robert Kent," he replied, giving the name of a boy
who had been at school with him.
"That sounds very romantic," observed Isoline; "like an outlaw or a
murderer in a tale."
Rhys winced in the darkness.
"I must go now," she said, rising. "You will come with me?"
"That I will--as far as I can. Tell me, am I never to see you any
more?"
"I am sure I don't know," she replied, turning away.
"Would you ever care to set eyes on me again?" He took her hand, and
she did not draw it away from him.
"Yes, I think I should."
"Then promise never to tell any one I met you here."
"Oh, I will not say anything."
"It's a promise, then. Give me your two hands on it."
She held out the other, and he kissed them both.
"Will you come back here some day soon?" he asked, almost in a
whisper.
"Oh, I couldn't. And I should never find my way."
"You could if I told you how to. You could ask for the farm I am going
to take you to, and then 'twould be only a little bit further; and
none can see you these dark evenings."
"I must go," she said; "don't ask me such things."
The night was, by this time, lying on the hillsides like a black
cloth, and they crossed the rough turf, Isoline tripping and knocking
her unaccustomed feet against the stones. A thrill went through Rhys
as she took his arm at his suggestion; she could feel his heart
beating against her hand. It was very interesting, she thought, and
she hardly regretted having lost herself, though she had been
frightened enough at the time.
They walked along the high ground until the lighted windows of a farm
were visible on a slope below them, and then began to descend; at the
outer side of a wall they stopped. "I can't come any further," he
said, "but I'll help you over this. There's the house, straight in
front of us. Tell them you've missed your road, and ask them to send a
man with a light."
He took her by the waist, and lifted her on to the top of the wall,
then swung himself over and stood before her on the inside of the
enclosure. "If you come back," he said, "and keep straight on above
this along the hillside, you'll get to the place where I met you
to-night. Do you see?"
She made no answer. She would not slip down from her seat for fear of
falling into his arms.
"I shall wait there every evening at dusk," said Rhys, looking up at
her through the blackness.
"Let me go, please let me go!"
He put up his arms and lifted her down.
"Good-bye," she said.
"But you will think of it," he begged, detaining her.
She shook herself free and flitted like a shadow into the night. The
word "Perhaps" floated back to him through the dark.
He stood for some time looking at the twinkling light of the farm;
soon a large steady one emerged from it, moving forward slowly, and he
guessed that Isoline's lantern-bearer was piloting her home. The light
wound along, leaving a shine behind it, against which he could see the
dark outline of some moving thing, turned, wavered at the place where
he knew there was a gate, and finally disappeared. He climbed to the
high ground and set his face in the direction of the Pedlar's Stone.
Though pitch dark, it was still early, which made him anxious to get
back to the shelter of its ill-omened presence, for his feeling of
security had been shaken.
In spite of this he went along with the tread of a man who is light of
heart, his head full of the fascinating personality whose existence
had been unknown to him a few hours before, but whose appearing had
let loose a whole flock of new possibilities. He thought of her voice,
of her little slender feet, of the brilliant face that had dawned upon
him through the dusk with the turning back of her veil, of her pretty
gesture of terror as she saw him draw out his knife; he went over in
his mind each word she had said to him since the instant he had sprung
up from the rock and found her standing behind him. Even her very name
was a revelation of delicacy and ornament;
Isoline--Isoline--Isoline--he said it over to himself again and again;
it was to the Janes and Annes of his experience as a hothouse flower
is to cottage herbs, a nightingale's song to the homely chatter of
starlings, a floating breath from the refinements which exist apart
from the rough utilities of the world. He sighed impatiently as
another face thrust itself between him and his new ideal. To think
that he had ever supposed himself dominated by it! Mary's eyes had
once illumined him, Mary's personality held his senses and feelings,
but he laughed at himself for his blindness in having picked up a
wayside pebble and imagined it a jewel.
Rhys had a certain amount of imagination, and femininity in one shape
or another had been a necessity to him all his life; part of the
repulsion he had often felt for his mother was due to the systematic
way in which she had divested herself of every shred of feminine
attraction in domestic life. This had not come to her as the result of
Puritanic sympathies. Before religion had taken hold upon her the
romance of all womanhood, of love, of marriage, of motherhood, had
been an offence. She approved of people who led happy married lives,
but it was an approval of the conventionality of the relationship;
that the husband should remain the lover, the wife the mistress, was
an idea to be dismissed with scorn. Marriage was a duty, and woman's
personal attraction a quality to be reduced to the level of handsome
domestic furniture, a credit to the home which contained it. That a
married man and woman of more than a year's standing should be in love
with each other was more than an absurdity, it was almost an
indecency. Since he had been able to think at all, Rhys had dimly felt
this, for it is a frame of mind of whose existence in a woman no
masculine human being is ever quite unconscious. When he had grown old
enough to understand it, it had given him a violent push in the
opposite direction, and set his adolescent brain in a flame.
It was so dark when he reached the Pedlar's Stone that he had to grope
about among the bushes to find it, and he traced his way from it with
difficulty to the rock on which he and Isoline had sat. He would come
there the next evening and the evening after--every day until the
early rising moon should make it impossible. He began to reckon up the
calendar on his fingers, trying to make out how many light nights
there would be in the following month; February had begun, and the
days were lengthening slowly, but by the middle of March there would
be no more chances of meeting. Though she had only said "Perhaps," his
hopes were rampant, for he had not been accustomed to neglect where
women were concerned. He did not undervalue the risk he was running by
putting himself in the power of a girl's idle tongue, yet he never
hesitated; he was like the miner who will not be deterred from
lighting his pipe in the danger-laden atmosphere of the mine. He was a
cautious man in ordinary things; it had taken him some time to make up
his mind to join Rebecca, and, when he had done so, he had arranged an
elaborate scheme for his own security instead of trusting to luck with
his companions. But the life of successful hiding which he now lived
was making him reckless, and where a woman was in the question he had
always been ready to throw common-sense to the winds. He did not
trouble himself to think what the end of this unexpected interest
might be; in any case it would put a zest into the constrained life he
led just as sheep-stealing had done. Would she forget him or refuse to
return to the Pedlar's Stone? That was the only anxiety he had, but it
was a very half-hearted one, for he felt sure she would not. A future
of pleasant dallying lay indefinitely before him, he hoped, with the
prospect of a voyage, when the Pig-driver should assure him that all
was quiet, and a new life begun in a new country.
His regret for Mary had vanished utterly. As he had been to Crishowell
church once or twice, he knew Mr. Lewis perfectly by sight, and the
irony of things made him smile as he realized that, in his own former
respectable personality of Mr. Walters of Great Masterhouse, he could
never have hoped to speak to the Vicar's lovely niece. He was a
farmer, he reflected, she a lady, not knowing that no circumstances in
this world could have made Isoline Ridgeway a gentlewoman. It pleased
him to find that, as he had slipped from his original and obvious
surroundings, she had evidently taken him for a man of her own class.
His feeling of exhilaration made him wish for some one to whom he
might pour out the praises of Isoline; in presence of a companion the
thought of her would have loosened his tongue like wine mounting to
his brain. He longed to shout, to cry her beauty aloud, to flaunt it
and her condescension to him in the faces of other men, but there was
no one he could speak to except a dull yokel, to whom the very name of
love would convey nothing but the most ordinary instincts. It was
hard; but he felt that, in spite of all his misfortunes, he was in the
better case of the two. He could at least appreciate the high
pleasures open to humanity, for his soul was not bounded by the petty
fence of commonplace which enclosed George and shut out his view of
life's loftier things.
He comforted himself with that; yet, as he sat on the rock, his mind
filled with the radiance left by Isoline, the picture of the
sheep-stealer's unemotional face, set in the ugly framing of the
cottage walls, seemed to him like the shadow of some sordid implement
of labour against a moonlit landscape.
One must pay for everything in this world; even high-mindedness costs
its owner something.