The champaign, with its endless fleece
Of feathery grasses everywhere!
Silence and passion, joy and peace,
An everlasting wash of air.
BROWNING.
Elaine Brabourne's feelings, as she went up the Combe, along the path
which Allonby had trod before her, were about as different from his as
anything that could possibly be imagined. She was not thinking much of
anything in particular, but her predominant sensation was annoyance and
resentment that her aunt should send her all the way to Poole on such a
hot afternoon.
It was about a quarter-past four, and the sunbeams were beginning to
take that rich golden tinge which tells that the middle day--the "white
light" so worshipped by Constable--is past. Tea at six and light supper
at nine was the rule at Edge Willoughby, and so Elaine always went for a
walk at four o'clock in the summer-time--at which hour her aunts
affirmed "the great heat of the day to be past."
The girl had never in her life been for a walk by herself. Jane had been
her companion for the last fifteen years, and Jane's legs preferred an
equable and leisurely method of progression along a good road, with, if
possible, some such goal as Mrs. Battishill's farm, and a prospect of
new milk, or perhaps junket. Consequently, country-bred though she was,
Elaine was almost a stranger to rambles and scrambles up the cliff, to
running races, scaling precipices, bird's-nesting, or any of those
pursuits which usually come as naturally to the girl as to the boy who
is reared "far from the maddening crowd."
Had she had a companion to suggest such sports, they would have been
delightful to her; but hers was eminently an imitative and not an
original mind, so she walked along passively at Jane's side, letting the
parasol, which had been given her to protect her complexion, drag behind
her, its point making a continuous trail in the white dust.
She was walking through a scene of beauty such as might have moved a far
less emotional temperament than Allonby's. Behind her back were the
waters of the bay, one sheet of flame in the vivid light, while here and
there gleamed the sails of some proud ship steaming slowly down the
Channel. The road she was treading ran along the western side of the
valley; to her right all was deep, mysterious shadow, and beyond it the
lofty swell of the more easterly of the two hills which bounded Edge
Combe. High on the side of the Copping, as this eastern hill was called,
was the long white front of Edge Willoughby, and a full view of the
terrace glowing with its crimson and scarlet glory of climbing
geraniums.
Every gateway that they passed disclosed a wealth of luxuriant grass,
almost as tall as Elaine herself, ready and waiting for the mower's
hand. The white butterflies flew here and there, dancing with glee. The
sunshine, striking through the larch plantation on the left, flung bars
of light and shadow across the road; and under the trees the fern-fronds
were rearing their lovely heads, uncurling in crown-like grace and
beauty.
All so still; nothing but the sleepy, hushed murmur which comes from
nowhere and yet fills the air of a summer's day. In the silence the call
of the chough on the terrace could be distinctly heard right across the
combe.
"Hark at Jacky!" said Elaine, with a little laugh. She rested her arms
on the stile, and gazed away over the laughing meadow at the terrace. "I
can see Aunt Ellen's head at the window," said she, "and here comes Aunt
Char with a watering-pot. I hope she won't forget to water my
nasturtiums just around the corner. Do you know I've got one of those
new coral-colored ones, Jane?"
"If we don't push on, miss, we'll not get to Poole and back before tea,"
was Jane's remark.
"I do think it's a shame to send me all the way to Poole such a day as
this," sighed the girl, as she reluctantly rose and continued her way.
She did not care in the least for the beautiful landscape. Its monotony
was thoroughly distasteful to her. What mattered it whether beautiful or
not, so long as it never changed? Variety was the need of her young
life: something fresh--something different. Had she come upon a cargo of
bricks and mortar, and workmen hacking down the finest trees in order
to erect a villa, the sight would have afforded her the liveliest
relief.
Presently they left the high-road, and crossed a bit of furzy
common--just a small piece of waste ground, with the water lying in
picturesque pools and clumps of starry yellow blossoms brightening the
sandy soil.
As they passed along this marshy tract, Elaine raised her eyes to the
road they had just quitted, which now ran along to their left, rather
above the level on which they were walking; and she saw something which
made her stop stone still and gaze round-eyed up at the road in a
fashion which Jane could not understand till her own eyes followed the
direction of her young mistress'. Then she beheld what was sufficiently
unusual amply to justify the girl's surprise.
A broad back, covered with a light tweed coat, a soft, shapeless felt
hat, two unmistakably masculine legs appearing on the further side of a
camp stool:--a folding easel, bearing a canvas of fair dimensions, and a
palette splotched thickly with color. The painter's back was towards
them. His point of view lay inland, up the valley, and took in a corner
of Poole farmhouse, and the grove of ash-trees behind it.
It may at first sound somewhat contradictory that an artist should be
such a _rara avis_ in so beautiful a spot as Edge Combe. But it is,
nevertheless, true, and this for two good reasons. Firstly, the place is
quite out of the beat of the usual Devonshire tourist. It is nowhere
near Lynton, nor Clovelly, nor the Dart, nor Kingsbridge. No railway
comes within five miles of it, and very few people have ever heard its
name. Secondly, many landscape artists are dispirited by the cruel
difficulty of getting a foreground. It is embarrassing to paint with the
ground descending sheer away from your very feet, so as merely to
present to you the summits of several trees, and the tip of a church
spire in violent perspective. Equally inconvenient is it to take your
seat at the foot of a steep hill, with intention to paint the side
thereof. And so, as level ground there is none, the artists at Edge
Combe are limited to those who, like Allonby, fall so headlong in love
with the place that they make up their minds to paint somewhere,
regardless of difficulties. Again it may be added that there is no bold
coast-line at Edge Combe, no precipitous granite rocks, with white
breakers foaming at their base, no mysterious chasms or sea-caves,--all
is gentle and smiling. The cliffs are white chalk, riddled with gulls'
nests, or warm red-brown crumbling sand-stone. The blackberries ripen at
their sunny summits, the park-like trees curve over almost to the
water's brim; and the only danger attaching to these cliffs is their
habit of now and again quietly subsiding, breaking away and falling into
the sea without the slightest warning.
Allonby had chosen his painting-ground with rare felicity, and had, as
was his wont, gently congratulated himself on the pleasing fact. Elaine
longed, with a longing which was quite a novel emotion, to be near
enough to see what he was doing.
He was not painting, at this moment, but sitting idly, leaning his head
on his hand.
Oh, if he would but turn round and look at her! The usually dull grey
eyes gathered a strange intensity; even Jane, as she looked at the girl,
noticed her odd expression, and was rendered vaguely uneasy by it.
"Come on, miss," said she.
"Oh, but, Jane--he is painting--see! He looks like a gentleman. I wonder
who he is!"
"I heard Hutchins say there was a gentleman staying at the Fountain
Head. That might be him," said Jane.
"I daresay. Most likely. I wonder what his name is?"
"I don't see it matters to you, miss. You don't know him, nor your aunts
don't know him, and if we loiter like this we'll not get home afore the
dumpsie" (twilight).
Elaine reluctantly tore away her feet, which seemed rooted to that
charmed spot. Her thoughts were not coherent--they were hardly thoughts
at all, but there was a sudden passionate wish that she were a man, and
free. It was no good to grow up if you were only a girl. She was
nineteen, and had no more liberty than when she was nine. Oh, to be able
to travel about alone, to stay at an inn, to go from one part of England
to another, with no one to ask the why and wherefore of your actions!
She looked almost with hatred at Jane's homely, well-known features. Why
must she always have a Jane at her elbow?
The evil hour to which Miss Ellen looked forward with mournful prophecy
was hard at hand.
"Well, now, I du say that it's nice to see you, Miss Ullin," said Mrs.
Battishill, with delight. "And Jane tu! Come along in out of the
heat--come into the rhume. Is all the ladies well? How du they like this
weatherr, and how du like it yourself, Miss Ullin, my dearr?"
The Devonshire dialect was one of Allonby's keenest sources of delight,
particularly the soft liquid French sound of the _u_, contrasting with
the rough burr of the _r_. On Elaine it produced absolutely no effect
whatever; she had heard it all her life. Her idea of bliss would be to
hear something completely different. She went mechanically into Mrs.
Battishill's best parlor, neat and clean as a new pin, but with the
strange stuffiness which comes of never opening the windows.
She ate the cakes provided, and drank the milk with healthy girlish
appetite; but her thoughts were centred on the artist in the lane, and
she did not hear a word that Jane and the farmer's wife were saying.
Jane was admiring a large fine silver cup gained by Mr. Battishill at
the last agricultural show for the best cultivated farm of more than a
hundred acres. This prize was offered every year to his tenantry by Sir
Matthew Scone, who owned nearly all the surrounding country.
"Yes, it's a fine coop," said Mrs. Battishill, with pride. "I shown it
yesterrday to a young fellow who's making a picturre out there in the
lane, and coom oop to the farrm for a drink o' milk."
These words suddenly fixed Elaine's attention.
"He's painting out there now," said Jane, with interest; "we see him as
we came threw the waste."
"I dessay you will have," returned Mrs. Battishill, benevolently. "I
showed him all over the hoose, and he was that taken oop with it. He
said he never see such a queer place in his life. He didn't seem half a
bad chap, to me," she was kind enough to add.
Poole Farm had never before presented itself to Elaine in such a
pleasant light. It was most certainly a very queer house, for it was
built right against the side of a hill, so that you could walk in at the
front door, ascend two or three flights of stairs, and then walk out of
a door at the back, and find yourself unexpectedly on _terra firma_. It
had never occurred, to the girl till to-day that this eccentricity was
attractive; but now the house, the farmer's wife, the whole surrounding
landscape seemed to borrow new dignity from the potent fact of this
unknown artist having admired them.
She did not join in the conversation, but listened with feverish
interest as Jane asked if Mrs. Battishill knew his name.
No, she had not asked it. He had said he was staying at the "Fountain
Head," and, when she asked him how long he meant to stay in these parts,
he laughed and answered "as long as the fine weather lasts."
"Eh, well, we'll hope the rain'll hold off till he's done his picture,"
said Jane, as she rose to take her leave.
The farmer's wife protested against such a short visit, but Jane
reminded her that tea at Edge was at six o'clock, and that they were
bound to be home in good time; and so they started out again into the
golden evening, where a circle of rose-color was just beginning to rim
the intense blue of the pure sky.
When they had shut the wicket-gate, and crossed the brook by the
miniature bridge of three crazy planks, Elaine took her courage in both
hands and ventured a petition.
"Jane," said she, "don't go across the waste. Let us go home by the
road; it will be--a change."
As she spoke, she turned crimson, and almost despaired, for it was a
longer way to go home by the road.
Jane guessed with perfect accuracy the thoughts which were busy in her
young mistress' mind; but she herself was a true daughter of Eve, and
she wished to go home by the road as much as ever Elaine could do. She
just sent one keen look at the girl's flushed face, and then said:
"It was more than a bit boggy across the waste; you'll get home dry-shod
if we go the other way."
So these two dissemblers, neither of whom would own her secret motive,
turned into the road, and walked along until a sudden bend in it brought
them in sight of the artist's easel, and then Elaine's heart seemed to
spring up to her throat and choke her, and she cried out, regardless of
whom might hear,
"Oh, Jane! He's gone!"