Trayton Harrod did not leave Knellestone. I think we had to thank the
squire for that. Father and he being so proud and obstinate, they would
never have come to an understanding alone, nor would either certainly
have accepted me for a mediator.
I don't know whether Mr. Broderick persuaded father to ask his bailiff
to remain, or how the matter was arranged. I only know that a few days
after the squire's return I met Harrod down at the haymaking on the
eastern marsh, and that he told me he was not going to leave us. I
remember very well how he told it me with a smile; not that quick flash
which I have sometimes noticed before as being characteristic of him
when moved to sudden mirth, but a kind of half-smile that had something
triumphant in it.
"Yes," he said, looking round on the meadows that were ready for the
scythe, "we shall have a mowing-machine on them before the week's out."
That was all; but the words told me he was going to remain. I know I
looked up with an answering smile of satisfaction, but it faded as I
saw Jack Barnstaple's gloomy eye fixed on me. The very silence of a
faithful servant reproved me for my disloyalty. For in my first content
I had forgotten that satisfaction to such a speech _was_ disloyalty to
father, to the horror of machines that had always been my creed till
now.
"I'm sorry--" I began, but then I stopped, confused. I was too honest
to tell a lie. How could I say that I was sorry he had triumphed? He
turned and said some word to the laborer, and I had time to lose my
sudden blushes. Had he noticed them? I think I scarcely cared. I was
strangely happy.
All that day I was happy. In the eventide we followed the last wagon up
the hill. Tired horses, teased to madness by the ox-fly in the heat,
tired men shouldering their forks, tired women in curious sun-bonnets,
and girls not too tired yet to laugh with the lads, went before, and we
two followed afterwards, not at all tired of anything--at least I speak
for myself.
A long line of flame marked the horizon behind the hill and upon the
red sky, the houses of the village, the three roofs and the square
tower of the old church, the ivied grayness of the ancient gate-way,
and the solitary pines that marked the ridge here and there, all lay
dark upon the brightness, their shapes defined and single. Close
behind us the sea was cool and fragrant. Upon the hem of the wide soft
sands that shone in sunset reflections, a regal old heron had fetched
his evening meal from out of the little pools that the sea had left,
and unfolding his huge pinions, sailed away in a queer oblique and
apparently leisurely flight to the tall trees that were his inland
home. We left the haymakers to take the road, and followed the heron
across the marsh.
A wheat-ear's nest that I found in a furrow and carried home with its
five little dainty blue eggs gave rise to a discussion about the rarity
of these pretty little structures compared with the numbers of the
tiny builders who are so plentiful in harvesting that the shepherds
make quite a perquisite from the sale of them; an old hare that the
bailiff started from its form on the unbeaten track made him wonder at
the unusual size of these marsh inhabitants, and as we came along the
dike where the purple reeds were already growing tall, I remember his
noticing how changing was their color on the surface as they swayed in
great waves beneath the breeze, how blue one way, how silver-gray the
other; I recollect every word that we spoke.
It was commonplace talk enough, but it was the talk that had first
begun to bind us together, and now there was beginning to be something
in it that made every word very much the reverse of commonplace to me.
What was it?
I did not ask myself, but I knew very well that since that night when
Trayton Harrod had promised to try and remain on Knellestone, because
I had asked him to do so, that something had grown very fast, so fast
that I was conscious of a happy state of guilt, and wondered whether
old Deborah knew anything about it as she watched me bid the bailiff
good-bye at the gate while she was picking marjoram on the cliff-garden
above our heads.
I know that at first I was angry because of her keen little dark eyes
and her short little laugh, and I loftily refused to discuss either
with her or with Reuben the advantages of Mr. Harrod's remaining on
the farm, or the indignity of having machinery at Knellestone and
Southdowns on the marsh. There was no delay about either of these
matters. Mr. Harrod was a prompt man. I recollect the very day he
bought the sheep--yes, I recollect it very well. It was a very hot
day, one of the first days of July. He had had the mare--my restive
mare--put into the gig, and had started off very early in the morning
to Ashford market. It was a long way to Ashford market, but you could
just do it and get back in the day if you started very early, and if
you had a horse like my mare to go. There was a haze over the sea and
even over the marsh; down in the hayfield, where I had been all the
morning, the heat was almost unbearable. When five o'clock came I went
in to mother in the parlor.
"It's such a nice evening for a ride, mother," said I. "I think I'll
just take that pot of jelly over to Broadlands to old Mrs. Winter.
She'd be pleased to see me."
Mother looked up, surprised. "I thought you didn't care for riding that
old horse," said she.
"Well, I _can't_ have the mare, so it's no use thinking of it," I
answered.
"You can't have her to-day, because the bailiff has got her, but you
can have her to-morrow," said mother. "And it's full late to start off
so far."
I walked to the window and looked out. "I think I'll go to-day," said
I. "It may blow up for rain to-morrow. As likely as not we shall have a
storm. It's light now till after nine."
"Very well," said mother; "you can please yourself. You'd better take
some of that stuff for the old body's rheumatism as well."
So I put on my habit and set out. It was quite true that the old black
horse did not go so well as the mare, but for some reason best known to
myself I had a particular desire to ride to Broadlands that particular
afternoon.
I let the poor beast go at his own pace, however, for the heat was
still very great; the plain was opal-tinted with it, and the long,
soft, purple clouds above the sea horizon had a thundery look. I jogged
along dreamily until I was close beneath the old market-town upon the
hill. Somehow the memory of that winter drive with Joyce, when we had
first met Captain Forrester, came back to me vividly. I don't know how
it was, but I began to think of how he had looked at her, of how he
had bent towards her hand just a moment longer than was necessary in
parting from her. I wondered if those were always the signs of love. I
wondered if a man might possibly be in love and yet give none of those
signs.
I rode on slowly, watching the rising breeze sweep across the meadows,
swaying the long grass in a rhythmic motion like the waves of a gentle
sea. I had passed the town by this time, and had come down the little
street paved with cobble-stones, and through the grim old gate onto
the marsh again. The river ran turbidly by, between its mud banks and
across its flat pastures to the sea a mile beyond. Above the river the
houses of the town stood, in steps, up the hill, flanked by the dark
gray stone of the old prison-house, and crowned by the church with its
quaint flying-buttresses; the wall of the battlements hemmed the town;
beneath it lay the marsh and then the sea.
This was all behind me; around and in front was the faint, gray flat
land, scarcely green under the creeping haze of heat, with the breeze
undulating over the long grass, and the light-house, the brightest spot
on the scene as it shone white through the mist, on the distant point
of beach.
I took the shortest way, avoiding the regular road, and was soon lost
upon the grassy sea. The soft, bright monotony of the landscape was
scarcely broken by a single incident, save for the Martello towers that
stood at regular intervals along the coast, or the sheep and cows that
were strewn over the pasture-land lazily cropping and chewing the cud;
there was not a house within sight, and even the low line of the downs
had dipped here into the flatness of the marsh.
I tried to whip the horse into a canter, but the poor beast felt the
heat as I did, and I soon let him fall again into his own jog-trot.
It was not at all my usual method of riding, but that day I did not
mind it so much; I had my thoughts to keep me busy. They were pleasant
thoughts--if so vague a dream was a thought at all--and kept me good
company. The dream was a dream of love, but I am not sure whether that
time Joyce was the heroine. I think, if I had been asked, that I should
have said that there was no heroine to my dream--that it was far too
vague, too entirely a dream to have one.
I rode on for another hour across the hot plain before I came to the
village of Broadlands. It lay there sleepily upon the bosom of the
marsh, with scarce a tree to shelter it from the fierce midsummer sun
or the wild sea winds, and until my horse's hoofs were clattering up
the little street I scarcely saw man, woman, or child to tell me that
the place was alive. But around the Woolsacks some half-dozen men
lounged, smoking, and a fat farmer in a cart had stopped in the middle
of the road to exchange a few observations on agricultural news. It was
the inn at which Trayton Harrod must have put up in the middle of the
day for dinner.
This farmer had evidently returned from market. I wondered how long it
would be before Trayton Harrod would also come along the same road and
stop at the Woolsacks for a drink. I don't think I deceived myself as
to there being a little hope within me that I might meet him somewhere
on the road. But I reckoned that he could not possibly be as far on
his homeward route yet a while, for he probably had had much farther
to come than the farmer in the cart, and had not reached the market so
early.
I trotted on up the street to Mrs. Winter's cottage, which stood at
the extreme end of the village, looking out along the Ashford road. I
am afraid that all the time I was in the cottage--although I gave all
mother's messages, and inquired with due attention after every one of
the old lady's distinct pains--my eyes were ever wandering along that
dusty road and listening for horse's hoofs in the distance.
But Mrs. Winter noticed no remissness on my part--she was too pleased
to see me, too glad to have news of mother, who had been her friend
and benefactress these many years past. I took her a pair of stockings
that I had knit for her in the long winter evenings, and I can remember
now the matter-of-fact way in which she received the gift, and how,
when I said that I hoped they would fit, she answered, with happy
trustfulness, "Oh yes, miss; the Lord he knows my size."
We drank tea out of the white-and-gold cups that had been best ever
since I could remember, and then she kissed me and bade me be going
lest the darkness should overtake me.
I laughed, and declared that the long twilight would more than last me
home; for I did not want to be going until I was sure that Mr. Harrod
was on my road; the vague hope that I had had of meeting him had grown
into a settled determination to wait for him if I could. But the old
lady would not be pacified by any assurances that I was not afraid of
darkness; and to be sure there was a strange shade in the air as I got
outside and mounted the black horse again.
When I got beyond the village again I saw what it was--there was a
sea-fog creeping up the plain. Such fogs were common enough in the hot
weather, and gave me no concern at all; but I saw with some dismay that
the sun must have set some time, for the twilight was falling in the
clear space that still existed above the mist.
I looked back upon the road. Surely he could not have passed. I could
not bear to give up the hope of this ride home with him, and yet I
scarcely dared loiter lest mother should grow anxious. I put the beast
to a gentle trot and rode forward slowly. I knew of no other way that
Harrod could have taken, and I felt sure that he had not passed that
cottage without my knowledge.
But the mist thickened. I could not see before me or behind; it was not
until I was close upon it that I could tell where the path branched
off that led across the meadows to the town. It did not strike me at
the time that I was foolish to take it; I only wondered whether Harrod
would be sure to come that way. I only thought of whether I should
recognize the sound of the mare's trot, for that was the only means by
which I could be sure of his approach before he was close upon me.
I rode on slowly, listening always. I rode on for what seemed to me to
be a very long time. The mist was chill after the hot day, and I had no
covering but my old, thin, blue serge habit, which had seen many a long
day's wear.
The fog gathered in thickness, and darkened with the darkness of the
coming night. I began to think that, after all, I had made a mistake in
taking the short-cut. Perhaps Mr. Harrod had kept to the high-road, as
safer on such a night; perhaps thus I should miss him. I was not at all
afraid of the fog, but I was very much afraid of missing the companion
for whose sake I had come this long ride on a hot day. And with the
fear in my mind that I might miss him, I did a very foolish thing--I
turned back upon my steps. I put the horse to a canter, and turned back
to regain the high-road. I rode as fast as I could now, urging the
beast forward; but though I rode for a much longer distance than I had
ridden already since I left Mrs. Winter's cottage, I saw no trace of
the road.
I stood still at last and tried to determine where I was. My heart was
beating a little. Presently--through the stillness, for the air was
absolutely lifeless--I heard the sound of voices. I listened eagerly.
But, alas! there was no sound of horse's hoofs: the wayfarers, whoever
they were, were on their feet. Mr. Harrod could scarcely be one of
them. I stopped, waiting for them to come up. They were tramps. Their
figures looked wavering and uncertain as they came towards me through
the mist. They walked with a heavy lounging gait, smoking their clay
pipes.
"Can you tell me if I'm in the right way for the high-road?" said I, as
they came within ear-shot.
They stopped, and one of them burst into a laugh and said something
afterwards in an undertone to his companion.
"You're a long way from wherever it is you're bound for," said he; and
as he spoke he came up to me and took hold of the horse's bridle.
Something in his face displeased me. I gave him a sharp cut across
it with my whip. He yelled with rage, but he let go the bridle;
and another cut across the horse's neck sent him forward with his
hind-hoofs in the air. I had never known him answer like that to the
whip before. I think he can have liked the look of the men no better
than I did.
Before I knew that there was a dike before me, I found myself safely
landed on the other side of it; and it was only then that I pulled the
poor old beast up and looked round. Of course I could see nothing: the
mist would have been too thick, even had the growing darkness not been
sufficient to obscure any object not close at hand. But I could hear no
voices, and I felt that I was safe.
How a girl, with nothing but a little whip in her hand, had prevailed
against two strong men--even though she was on a horse and they on
foot--I did not pause to consider. I was safe; but the little adventure
had frightened me, and I thought I would try to get home as fast as I
could.
But how? I was absolutely uncertain where I was. I had crossed a dike,
which I should not have done; but one dike was much like another, and
that was no guide. I could see nothing, and I could hear nothing.
Nothing? Yes; as I listened I did hear something. It was the sound of
distant waves lapping gently upon the beach. I must indeed have strayed
far from the high-road if I had come near enough to the sea to hear
the sound of its waves. I stopped and waited again. I thought I would
wait until those men had got well ahead. Then, after a while, I put the
horse across the dike again, and went forward slowly, straining every
nerve to determine whether the sound of the sea was growing louder or
less in my ears.
I felt sure after a while that it was growing less, and yet I could not
be absolutely certain, for there was a strange feeling in my head; and
I was soon obliged to acknowledge to myself that I was getting very
sleepy. The mist, I knew, was apt to make people sleepy if they were
out long in it; but I had often been out in a sea-fog before, and I had
never felt so sleepy. I wondered what o'clock it was. I struggled on
a little longer, but I felt that unless I were to walk I should fall
off the horse, so I got down and led him on by the bridle. For another
reason it was better to walk--I was chilled to the bone.
I turned the end of my habit up over my shoulders, and although it was
wringing wet, it served as a kind of poultice; but I cannot say that I
was either cheerful or comfortable. The night was perfectly still, the
mist perfectly dense. Once a hare, startled I suppose by the sound of
the horse's hoofs, ran across in front of me, and retreated into his
form; but I think that that was the only time I saw a living thing.
I got so used to the silence and loneliness that when at last another
sound began to mingle with the monotonous tread of the weary beast, I
scarcely noticed it. Perhaps it was because it was only an increase of
the same sound: it was the tread of another weary beast. But whether
that was the reason, or whether it was that I was gradually growing
more and more sleepy, certain it is that the sound grew to a point, and
then began slowly to fade away again before I was quite conscious of
its existence. Then suddenly I realized what it might be, and with all
the strength of my being I shouted through the mist.
Once--twice I shouted, and then I stood still and listened. The sound
of the hoofs and the wheels--yes, the wheels--still went on faintly. My
heart grew sick, and again I shouted into the night; this time it was
almost a cry. The wheels stopped. I shouted again, and there came back
a faint holloa that told me how much fainter still must have been my
own voice through the fog.
I leaped onto the horse, and urged him forward as near as I could tell
in the direction of the voice. And all the time I continued shouting.
Thank Heaven! I heard the answering cry clearer and clearer each time.
At last--at last I saw a horse and gig just discernible through the
steaming darkness.
"Who is there?" cried a voice; and--how can I describe my
happiness?--it was the voice of Trayton Harrod.
I don't think I answered. I think there was something in my throat
which prevented me from answering; but he must have recognized me at
once, for he gave vent to an exclamation which I had never heard him
use before--he said, "Great heavens!" Then he got down out of the gig,
and came towards me quickly.
"Miss Margaret!" he exclaimed. "How did you ever get here?"
I had recovered my usual voice by this time, and I replied, quietly
enough, to the effect that I had been on an errand to Broadlands, and
had lost myself coming home in the fog.
"Lost yourself! I should think you had lost yourself," ejaculated he,
half angrily. "I was uncertain of my own road before you called, but I
know well enough that you are entirely out of the beaten track here."
"Oh, then I'm afraid I shall have made you miss your way too," said I,
apologetically.
I don't know what had come to me, but I was so glad to see him that I
could not bear he should be angry with me.
"That doesn't signify in the least," said he. "It's you of whom I am
thinking. I am afraid you must be cold and tired, and I fear we shall
be a long while getting home yet." He was close to me now. "You had
better get into the gig," said he; "I'll tie the horse to it."
He held out his hands to help me down, and I put mine in his.
"Why, you are chilled to the bone," murmured he. "You'll take your
death of cold."
He lifted me from the horse, for indeed I was numb with the penetrating
damp, and led me to the gig. Then he took the horse-cloth which lay
across the seat and wrapped it round me as tightly as he could.
"Haven't you a pin?" he asked.
I tried to laugh but I could not; something stuck in my throat.
"I thought women always had pins," he added.
Then I did laugh a little; but I must have been very much tired and
overwrought, for the laugh turned into a sort of sob. I could only
hope he did not notice it. He made no remark, at all events; he only
wrapped the rug as closely as he could around me, and took hold of my
hands again, as though to feel if they were any warmer. He held them in
his own a long time; he held them very fast. The blood seemed to ebb
away from my heart as I stood there with my hands in his. My face was
turned away, but I felt that his keen dark eyes were fixed upon mine,
concernedly, tenderly. A strange, new happiness filled my whole being;
I did not know what it meant, but I knew that I wanted to keep on
standing there like that, in spite of the cold and the dampness and the
dark; I knew that what I felt was sweeter than any joy that had come to
me before in my life.
But Trayton Harrod took away his hands. He passed his arm round my
waist, and holding me by my elbows so as not to displace the plaid
which he had wrapped so carefully around me, he helped me up into the
gig. I let him do just what he liked. I, who had been so defiant and
proud before, and who thought that I scorned such a thing as a beau, I
was letting this man behave to me just as Captain Forrester might have
behaved to Joyce; I was as wax in his hands. I did not think of that at
the time; I do not know that I ever thought of it. It only strikes me
now as I write it down.
I sat there without saying a word while Harrod fetched the horse and
tied him to the back of the gig. I was not conscious of anything, save
that I was perfectly contented, and waiting for him to come up and sit
beside me. All my fatigue had disappeared, all my desire to be home,
all my remembrance of mother's anxiety.
But why should I dwell further upon all this? If any one ever reads
what I have written, they will understand what I felt far better than
I can describe it. Every one knows that love is self-absorbed, and,
save towards the one being for whom it would sacrifice all the world,
utterly selfish. And what I was slowly beginning to feel was love.
We moved away into the misty night. Mr. Harrod did not speak for some
time. He was busy enough trying to find out which was the right way. We
had no clew. The sound of the sea, it is true, had grown faint in our
ears, so that we were farther inland; but, excepting for the dike which
I had crossed after my meeting with the tramps, we had no landmark to
tell us where we were.
Harrod thought he remembered the dike; but how far it was from the
high-road that we wished to reach, we could neither of us exactly
determine. The tract of country was a little beyond our usual beat, or
we should have been less at a loss. But there was no sign or sound yet
of the market-town through or by which we must pass before we reached
our own piece of marsh-land.
There was no doubt about it that we were lost on the marsh, and all
that we could do was to jolt slowly along, avoiding dikes and unseen
pitfalls, and waiting quietly for the day to show us our whereabouts.
Luckily, in these midsummer nights the hours betwixt dusk and dawn are
but short. Only Harrod seemed to be concerned about it; he kept asking
me whether I was warm; he kept begging me not to give up and go to
sleep. I suppose he was afraid of the fever for me. But for my own part
I felt no inconvenience; I was not cold, and I had no more inclination
to go to sleep.
I do not remember that we talked of anything in particular; I do not
remember that we talked much at all. I think I was afraid to speak;
I think I was afraid that even he should speak; the silence was too
wonderful, and the vague sense of something unspoken, unguessed, was
sweeter than any words. It was the deepest silence I have ever felt;
there wasn't so much as the sound of a bird, or of a stirring leaf, or
of the breath of the sleeping cattle; even the gentle moaning of the
sea was hushed now in the distance; it was as though we two were alone
in the world.
Sometimes I could see that smile of Mr. Harrod's flash out even in the
darkness as he would turn and ask if I was quite warm, and sometimes he
would merely bend over me and wrap the rug--tenderly, I fancied--more
closely around me. Ah, it was a midsummer-night's dream! But at last
nature was stronger than inclination--I was young and healthy--and I
dropped asleep. When I awoke, a promise of coming light was in the
east, the sea was tremulous with it, and long purple streaks lined the
horizon. Overhead the sky was fair, although the thick, white fog still
lay in one vast sheet all around us. Out of it rose the market-town
straight before us, dark and sombre, out of the shining sea of mist.
We were trotting now along the beaten track towards it, and Mr. Harrod
was urging on the weary mare with one hand, while the other was round
my waist. The gig was narrow for two persons, and I suppose I should
have risked being thrown out in my unconscious state if he had not done
so. He took away his arm as soon as I stirred, and I shook myself and
looked at him. Had my head been resting on his shoulder? and if it had,
why was I so little disturbed?
"I am afraid I have been asleep," said I.
"Yes," answered Mr. Harrod, "you have been asleep. I hadn't the heart
to rouse you again, you were so tired. But we shall soon be at home
now."
"Why, we've got back into the track!" I exclaimed.
"Yes," laughed he. "When the town began to appear through the mist it
was a landmark to me, though I believe I tumbled over the path at last
by a mere chance."
He said no more. We were soon out into the high-road again, and
climbing the street of the town. We were the only stirring people in
it, and this made me feel more conscious of my strange adventure than
all the hours that I had spent alone on the marsh with my companion.
For the first time I began to wonder what mother would say. Once out of
the town, we sped silently along the straight, familiar road that led
towards our own village. The mist was beginning slowly, very slowly,
to clear away, and the hills upon which our farm stood loomed out of
it in the distance. In the marsh, on either side of us, the cattle
began to stir like their own ghosts in the white vapor, and gazed at us
across the dikes with wondering, sleepy eyes.
The stars were all dead, and above the mist the quiet sky spread a
panoply of steely blue, while out above the sea the purple streaks
had turned to silver and sent rays upward into the great dome. Hung
like a curtain across the gates of some wonderful world unseen, a rosy
radiance spread from the bosom of the ocean far into the downy clouds
above that so tenderly covered the naked blue--a radiance that every
moment was more and more marvellously illumined by that mysterious
inward fire, whose even distant being could tip every hill and mountain
of cloudland with a lining of molten gold. Unconsciously my gaze clung
to the spot where a warmth so far-reaching sprung from so dainty a
border-land of opal coloring; and when at last the great flame was born
of the sea's gray breast, I felt the tears come into my eyes, I don't
know why, and a little sigh of content rose from my heart. I was tired,
for the sunrise had never brought tears to my eyes before.
"I hope you'll be none the worse," said Harrod, glancing at me
uneasily, and urging the horse with voice and hand; "but I'm afraid
your parents will have been sadly anxious anyhow."
Alas! I had not thought of it again. I sat silent, watching where the
familiar solid curves of the fortress upon the marsh began to take
shape out of the fog.
"If I hadn't met you I should have been out on yonder marsh now," I
said.
I thought he would have said something about being glad he had met me,
but he did not. He only answered, "I ought not to have allowed you to
fall asleep."
I laughed at that. "If it had not been for you I should be asleep now
on that bank where I first heard you," I declared. "And I should have
got my death of ague by this time, I suppose."
Still he said nothing. There was some misgiving on his mind which no
words of mine removed. I felt it instinctively. Even when I said--and
as I write it down now I marvel how I _could_ have said it--even when I
said, softly, "Well, I regret nothing. I have enjoyed myself," he did
not reply.
I wondered at it just for a moment, but no mood of his could damp my
complete content. Even though, as I neared home, I began to be more
and more uneasy about my parents' anxiety, no cloud could rest on the
horizon of this fair, sweet dawn of day. I could not see beyond the
barrier of that ever-widening, ever-brightening curtain of glorious
light; but there it was, making glad for the coming of the blessed
sun that would soon fill the whole space of heaven's free and perfect
purity.
The coldness of the sky and of all the world was slowly throbbing with
the wakening warmth. What was there beyond that burning edge of the
world, beyond that sea of strange, exultant brightness?
We began to climb the hill, and on the garden terrace stood my father.
He was waiting for me just as he had waited for me on that night in May
when he had told me to be friends with Trayton Harrod.