DOWN HILL.
The afternoon was on the wane by the time they set out. The afternoon of
a fair day in October. For Rotha's present mood it was almost too fair.
The country around Tanfield is level for a mile or two, and well
cultivated; the hues of the forest at the change of tire leaf are not
seen here. Yet October was not left without witnesses. Here and there a
warm stubble field told of summer gone and harvests gathered; her and
there the yellowing green of a weeping willow proclaimed that autumn was
passing away. Hay ricks carefully covered; wood sheds carefully filled;
now and then a plough upturning the rich soil, and leaving furrows of
ruddy brown creeping over the field; they all told the time of year; and
so did at intervals a great maple tree in its livery of red and green, or
a hickory all in gold, or a great red oak in its dark splendour. There
was no mistaking October; even without the genial, gracious sun which
shed over all the landscape such mellow and mellowing rays. Mr. Southwode
had obtained an easy-going phaeton, with a pair of lively ponies; and
through this level, quiet, rich, farm country they bowled along smoothly
and fast. The pleasure, to Rotha, was so keen that it almost took on the
semblance of pain. "This once," she was saying to herself; "and if only
this once, then why this once?" And then she chid herself, and bade
herself enjoy thoroughly and thankfully what was given her. She tried,
and did not perfectly succeed.
Mr. Southwode was silent on his part, more than usual. Certainly his
reflections were in no sort like Rotha's, as they had no need; yet he was
not clear in his own mind as to the best, or even the possible, issues of
things. He found that he was not willing to entertain for a moment
Rotha's proposition about striking off from his protection and making a
livelihood for herself. Yet it was good sense. In fact, what else could
be done? If Mr. Southwode had had a mother, and so a home, to which he
could have introduced her; that would have been simple enough. She might
have taken the place of a young sister. Failing that, what plan could be
substituted, short of the one Mrs. Purcell had rudely proposed? He had no
idea that Rotha was ready for that. Yes, undoubtedly she loved him, after
another fashion; he was her childhood's friend and guardian and tutor;
and as a child, no doubt, she still paid him reverence and affection. Mr.
Southwode would never take advantage of the power this fact gave him, to
draw Rotha into an alliance which her free mind would not have chosen.
Some men would; many men might; it did not suit him. He could never take
a wife on such doubtful terms. He was not clear that he wanted her on any
terms. Yet oddly, and inconsistently, when he looked at the fine, honest,
thoughtful, sensitive face beside him, something within him said, "I
shall never let you go." It was very inconsistent. How he was to keep
her, he could not see. He did not look at her often, for every look
perplexed him. And Mr. Southwode was not in the least used to being
perplexed. That perplexed him. Meanwhile he kept his horses well in hand
and drove admirably. Over the level roads, through the still air, they
went with the steadiness and almost the swiftness, of a locomotive. It
was glorious driving. Rotha caught her breath with delight.
At this rate of progress however the small ex-tent of level country was
soon passed over. They began to get among broken ground and low hills;
hills and round heights covered with tufts of wood growth, now in all the
colours of the gay time of year. Hickories all gold, ashes in sad purple,
bronzed chestnut oaks, yellow birches, and sometimes sober green savins;
and maples in abundance and in brilliant variegation. There were risings
and fallings of ground now, and turning of angles; and as they went the
hills grew higher and set closer upon the road, and the road was often
too steep for the pace the horses had hitherto kept up. Now they must
walk up a hill, and sometimes walk down again.
"Do you know where you are, Mr. Digby?" said Rotha, one of these times.
"Not perfectly."
"Is not that a very favourable statement of the case?"
"Let us take an observation," said he, pulling up at the top of the hill.
"There is the west, by the sun. We have kept our backs upon Tanfield
generally; it must lie well to the south, and a little to the east of us.
I am going to take the first turning that promises to bring us round, and
back by another road. There is the railway!--do you see, yonder, its
straight level line? Now I know where we are. That is the Tanfield
railway, running on to the north. We must come about and meet it,
somewhere."
The coming about, however, proved to be a long and gradual process. The
first turning they took did not lead immediately in the desired
direction, only as it were inclined towards it; the second turning was
not more satisfactory. Meanwhile they got deeper among the hills; the
ground was more and more rough; farming land disappeared; rocks and
woodland filled the eye, look where it would; the roads were less
travelled and by no means smooth going any longer. Even so, they were
prettier; the changes of hill and valley, sudden and varied as they were,
gave interest to every foot of the way. All this took time; but nobody
was in a hurry. Rotha was thinking that perhaps it was her last drive
with Mr. Southwode; and Mr. Southwode was thinking, I do not know what;
nor perhaps did he.
The point was found at last where they could turn their faces towards
Tanfield; they were sure of their way when they reached the top of a hill
and saw, spread out before them for many a square mile, the plain country
in which the town stood, and far away in the midst of it could discern
the glinting of the light upon its spires and houses. The sun was very
low; its level rays gave an exquisite illumination to the whole scene,
lighting every rise of ground and every tuft of woodland, and even coming
back from scattered single trees with beautiful defining effect. Mr.
Southwode drew up his horses; and for a few minutes he and Rotha fed
their eyes with what was before them. The sun was just kissing the
horizon.
"That is worth coming all the way for!" he said.
"And we shall not have it but just half a minute longer," said Rotha.
"There--the light is going now. O what a sight it is!--There! now it is
all gone. How far are we from home, do you suppose?"
"By the roads, I do not know; but once at the bottom of this hill we
shall have nothing but level travelling, and the horses go pretty well."
"_Pretty_ well!" said Rotha laughing. "I am wondering then what you would
call very well? We have got to cross the railway, Mr. Southwode. It runs
by the foot of the hill."
"There is no train near," he answered as he put his horses in motion.
They went slowly down the hill, which was rough and steep. The horses
behaved well, setting down their feet carefully, and holding back the
carnage with the instinct or training which seems to be aware what would
be the consequence of letting themselves and it go. But then happened one
of those things against which instinct is no protection and training
cannot provide. Just as a sharp turn in the road was reached, from which
it went on turning round a shoulder of the hill till it reached the lower
ground, this thing happened. It was the worst possible place for an
accident; the descent was steep and rough and winding, the road
disappearing from view behind the turn; and crossed evidently, just a
little further below, by the railway track. The horses at this point came
to a sudden stop. Mr. Southwode alone saw why. Some buckle or pin or
strap, which had to do with the secure holding of the end of the carriage
pole to the harness, was broken or had given way, and the pole had fallen
to the ground. The horses had made an astonished pause, but he knew this
pause would be followed the next instant by a mad headlong rush down the
hill and a swallowing of the plain with their hoofs, if they ever reached
it; which was in u high degree unlikely for them and impossible for the
carriage. Rotha only knew that the horses quietly stopped, and that Mr.
Southwode said quietly,
"Jump, Rotha!"
Yes, he said it quietly; and yet there was something in tone or accent
which left no room for disobedience or even hesitation. That something
was very much the matter, Rotha at once knew; and if there was danger she
did not at all wish to get out of it and leave him to face it alone. She
would rather have sat still and taken what came, so she took it with him.
Moreover she had always been told that in case of a runaway the last
thing to be done is to try to get out of the carriage. All this was full
in her mind; and yet when Mr. Southwode said "Jump," she knew she must
mind him. He offered her no help; but light and active as she was she did
not need it; a step on the wheel and a spring to the ground, and she was
safe. Just for that instant the horses stood still; then followed what
their driver had known would follow. Almost as Rotha's foot touched the
ground they dashed forward, and with one confused rush and whirl she saw
them, phaeton and all, disappear round the turn of the hill.
And there was the railway track to cross! Rotha stood still, feeling
stunned and sick. It was all so sudden. One minute in happy safety and
quiet, beside the person she liked best in the world; only the next
minute alone and desolate, with the sight of him before her eyes hurled
to danger and probable death. Danger? how could anything live to get to
the bottom of that hill at the rate the horses took?
Of the fallen carnage pole Rotha knew nothing, and needed not that to be
assured that the chance of her ever hearing Mr. Southwode speak again was
a very, very slender one. She did not think; she merely knew all this,
with a dumb, blank consciousness; she stood still, mechanically pressing
her hands upon her heart. The noise of the horses' hoofs and the rushing
wheels had been swallowed up by the intervening hill, and the stillness
was simply mocking in its tranquil peacefulness. The sunlight at the
glory of which they had both been looking, had hardly died away from the
landscape; and one of them, most likely, was beyond seeing the light of
earth forevermore. Rotha stood as still as death herself, listening for a
sound that came not, and gradually growing white and whiter. Yet she
never was in any danger of fainting; no sealing of her senses served as a
release to her pain; in full, clear consciousness she stood there, and
heard the silence and saw the sweet fall of the evening light upon the
plain. Only stunned; with a consciousness that was but partially alive to
suffering. I suppose the mind cannot fully take in such a change at once.
She was so stunned, that several minutes passed before she could act, or
move; and it seemed that the silence and peace had long been reigning
over hill and plain, when she roused herself to go down the road.
She went then with dreadful haste, yet so trembling that she could not go
as fast as she would. The horror of what might be at the bottom of the
hill might have kept her for ever upon it; but the need to know was
greater still; and so with an awful fear of what every step might bring
her to, she sped down the hill. She heard no noise; she saw no wreck;
following the winding of the road, which wound fearfully down such a
steep, she came to the railway crossing and passed it, and followed on
still further down; the curve of the road always hiding from her what
might be beyond. Her feet got wings at last; she was shaking in every
joint, yet fairly flew along, being unable to endure the fear and
uncertainty. No trace of any disaster met her eyes; no call for help or
cry to the horses came to her ears; what did the silence portend?
Just at the bottom the road made another sharp turn around a clump of
woodland. Rounding this turn, Rotha came suddenly upon what she sought.
The first glance shewed her that Mr. Southwode was upon his feet; the
second that the horses were standing still. Rotha hardly saw anything
more. She made her way, still running, till she got to Mr. Southwode's
side, and there stopped and looked at him; with white lips apart and eyes
that put an intense question. For though she saw him standing and
apparently well able to stand, the passion of fear could not so
immediately be driven out by the evidence of one sense alone. He met the
urgency of her eyes and smiled.
"I am all right," he said.
"Not hurt?"
"Not in the least."
Looking at her still, for her face had startled him, he saw a change come
over it which was beyond the demands of mere friendly solicitude, even
when very warm. He saw the flash of intense joy in her eyes, and what was
yet more, a quiver in the unbent lovely lines about the mouth. One does
not stop to reason out conclusions at such a time. Mr. Southwode was
still holding the reins of the panting horses, the carriage was a wreck a
few yards off, they were miles away from home; he forgot it all, and
acting upon one of those subtle instincts which give no account of
themselves, he laid one arm lightly around Rotha and bent down and kissed
the unsteady lips.
A sudden flood of scarlet, so intense that it was almost pain, shot over
Rotha's face, and her eyes drooped and failed utterly to meet his. She
had been very near bursting into tears, woman's natural relief from
overstrained nerves; but his kiss turned the current of feeling into
another channel, and the sting of delight and pain was met by an
overwhelming consciousness. Had she betrayed herself? What made him do
that? It was good for Rotha just then that she was no practised woman of
the world, not skilled in any manner of evasion or trick of deceptive
art. If she had been; if she had answered his demonstration with a little
cold, careless laugh, and turned it off with a word of derision; as I
suppose she would if she had not been so utterly true and honest,
according to a woman's terrible instinct of self-preservation, or
preservation of her secret; he would have thought as he had thought
before--she loves me as a child does. But the extreme confusion, and the
lovely abasement of the lowered brow, went to his heart with their
unmistakeable revelation. Instead of releasing her, he put both arms
round her now and gently drew her up to him. But Rotha was by no means so
clear in her mind as by this time he was. She did not understand his
action, and so misinterpreted it. She made a brave effort to relieve him
from what she thought overwrought gratitude.
"That is nothing to thank me for, Mr. Southwode," she said. "Any friend
would have been anxious, in my place."
"True. Were you anxious simply as a friend, Rotha?"
Rotha hesitated, and the hesitation lasted till it amounted to an
eloquent answer; and the arms that held her drew her a little closer.
"But I do not understand--" she managed to say.
"Do you not? I do. I think I can make you understand too."
But his explanations were wordless, and if convincing were exceedingly
confusing to Rotha.
"But Mr. Southwode!--what _do_ you mean?" she managed at last to say,
trying to release herself.
"I mean, that you belong to me, and I belong to you, for the rest of our
lives. That is what I mean."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes," said he with a low laugh; "and so are you. When you and I mean a
thing, we mean it."
Rotha wondered that he could mean it, and she wondered how he could know
that she meant it. Had she somehow betrayed herself? and how? She felt
very humble, and very proud at the same time; in one way esteeming at its
full value the woman's heart and life she had to give, as every woman
should; in another way thinking it not half good enough. Shamefaced,
because her secret was found out, yet too honest and noble of nature to
attempt any poor effort at deceit, she stood with lights and shadows
flying over her face in a lovely and most womanly manner; yet mostly
lights, of shy modesty and half veiled gladness and humble
content. Fifty things came to her lips to say, and she could speak none
of them; and she began to wish the silence would be broken.
"How did you know, Mr. Southwode?" she burst forth at last, that question
pressing too hard to be satisfied.
"Know what?" said he.
"I mean--you know what I mean! I mean,--now came you--what made you--
speak as you did? I mean! _that_ isn't it. I mean, what justification did
you think you had?"
Mr. Southwode laughed his low laugh again.
"Do I need justification?"
"Yes, for jumping at conclusions."
"That is the way they say women always do."
"Not in such things!"
"Perhaps not. Certainly _you_ have not done it in this case."
"How came you to do it? Please answer me! Mr. Southwode, are you sure you
know what you mean? You did not think of any such thing when we set out
upon our drive this afternoon?" Rotha spoke with great and painful
difficulty, but she felt she must speak.
"I had thought of it. But Rotha, I was not sure of you."
"In what way?"
"I knew you cared for me, a good deal; but I fancied it was merely a
child's devotion, which would vanish fast away as soon as the right claim
was made to your heart."
"And why do you not think so still?" said Rotha, the flames of
consciousness flashing up to her very brow. But Mr. Southwode only
laughed softly and kissed, both lips and brow, tenderly and reverently,
if very assuredly.
"I have not done anything--" said Rotha, trembling and a little
distressed.
"Nothing, but to be true and pure and natural; and so has come the answer
to my question, which I might not have ventured to ask. Mrs. Purcell
asked me to-day whether I was going to marry you, and I said no; for I
never could have let you marry me with a child's transient passion and
find out afterwards that your woman's heart was not given me. But now I
will correct my answer to Mrs. Purcell, if I have opportunity."
"But," said Rotha hesitating,--"I think in one thing you are mistaken. I
do not think my feeling has really changed, since long ago."
"Did you give me your woman's heart _then?_"
"You think I had it not to give; but I think, I gave you all I had. And
though I have changed, _that_ has not changed."
"I take it," he said. "And what I have to give you, I will let my life
tell you. Now we must try to get home."
Released from the arm that had held her all this while, Rotha for the
first time surveyed the ground. There were the horses, standing quietly
enough after their mad rush down the hill; panting yet, and feeling
nervous, as might be seen by the movement of ears and air of head. And a
few rods behind lay what had been the phaeton; now a thorough and utter
wreck.
"How did it happen?" exclaimed Rotha, in a sudden spasm of dread catching
hold of Mr. Southwode's arm. He told her what had been the beginning of
the trouble.
"What carelessness! But how have you escaped? And how came the carriage
to be such a smash?"
"I knew what was before me, when on the hill the horses made that sudden
pause and I saw the pole on the ground. I knew they would be still only
that one instant. Then I told you to jump. You behaved very well."
"I did nothing," said Rotha. "The tone of your voice, when you said
'Jump!' was something, or had something in it, which I could not possibly
disobey. I did not want to jump, at all; but I had no choice. Then?--"
"Then followed what I knew must come. You saw how we went down the hill;
but happily the road turned and you could not see us long. I do not know
how we went scathless so far as we did; but at last the end of the pole
of the phaeton lodged against some obstacle in the road, stuck fast, and
the carriage simply turned a somersault over it, throwing me out into
safety, and itself getting presently broken almost to shivers."
"Throwing you out into safety!" Rotha exclaimed, turning pale.
"Don't I look safe?" said he smiling.
"And you are as cool as if nothing had happened."
"Am I? On the contrary, I feel very warm about the region of my heart,
and as if a good deal had happened. Now Rotha, we have got to walk home.
How many miles it is, I do not know."
"And I do not care!" said Rotha. "But how came you to keep hold of the
reins all the time? Or did you catch them afterwards?"
"No, I held on to them. It was the only way to save the horses."
"But they were running! How could you?"
"I do not know; only what has to be done, generally can be done. We will
take the rest of the way gently."
But I am not sure that they did; and I am sure that they did not much
think how they took it. Rather briskly, I fancy, following the horses,
which were restless yet; and with a certain apprehension that there was a
long way to go. On the roads they had travelled at first coming out there
had been frequently a farmhouse to be seen; now they came to none. The
road was solitary, stretching away between tracts of rocky and stony
soil, left to its natural condition, and with patches of wood. But what a
walk that was after all! The mild, mellow October light beautified even
the barren spots of earth, and made the woodland tufts of foliage into
clusters of beauty. As the light faded, the hues of things grew softer; a
spicier fragrance came from leaf and stem; the gently gathering dusk
seemed to fold the two who were walking through it into a more reserved
world of their own. And then, above in the dark bright sky lights began
to look forth, so quiet, so peaceful, as if they were blinking their
sympathy with the wanderers. These did not talk very much, and about
nothing but trifling matters by the way; yet it came over Rotha's mind
that perhaps in all future time she would never have a pleasanter walk
than this. Could life have anything better? And she might have been
right, if she had been like many, who know nothing more precious than the
earthly love which for her was just in its blossoming time. But she was
wrong; for to people given over, as these two were, to the service of
Christ, the joys of life are on an ascending scale; experience brings
more than time takes away; affection, having a joint object beyond and
above each other, does never grow weary or stale, and never knows
disappointment or satiety; and the work of life brings in delicious
fruits as they go, and the light of heaven shines brighter and brighter
upon their footsteps. It can be only owing to their own fault, if to-
morrow is not steadily better than to-day.
But from what I have said it will appear that Rotha was presently in a
contented state of mind; and she went revolving all sorts of things in
her thoughts as she walked, laying up stores of material for future
conversations, which however she was glad Mr. Southwode did not begin
now.
As for Mr. Southwode, he minded his horses, and also minded her; but if
he spoke at all it was merely to remark on some rough bit of ground, or
some wonderful bit of colour in the evening sky.
"Well, hollo, mister!" cried a hotel hostler as they approached near
enough to have the manner of their travelling discernible,--"what ha'
you done wi' your waggin?"
"I was unable to do anything with it."
"Where is it then?"
"About five miles off, I judge, lying at the foot of a hill."
"Spilled, hey?"
"It will never hold anything again."
"What's that? what's this?" cried the landlord now, issuing from the
lower door of the house; "what's wrong here, sir?"
"I do not know," said Mr. Southwode; "but there has been carelessness
somewhere. Either the hostler did his work with his eyes shut, or the
leather of the harness gave way, or the iron work of something. The pole
fell, as we were going down a steep hill; of course the phaeton is a
wreck. I could only save the horses."
The landlord was in a great fume.
"Sir, sir," he stammered and blustered,--"this is _your_ account of it."
"Precisely," said Mr. Southwode. "That is my account of it."
"How in thunder did it happen? It was bad driving, I expect."
"It was nothing of the kind. It was a steep hill, a dropped carriage
pole, and a run. You could not expect the horses not to run. And of
course the carriage went to pieces."
"Who was in it?"
"I was in it. The lady jumped out, just before the run began."
"Didn't you know enough to jump too?"
"I knew enough not to jump," said Mr. Southwode, laughing a little. "By
that means I saved your horses."
"And I expect you want me to take that as pay for the carriage! and take
your story too. But it was at your risk, sir--at your risk. When I sends
out a team, without I sends a man with it, it's at the driver's risk,
whoever he is. I expect you to make it good, sir. I can't afford no
otherwise. The phaeton was in good order when it went out o' this yard;
and I expect you to bring it back in good order, or stand the loss. My
business wouldn't keep me, sir, on no other principles. You must make the
damage good, if you're a gentleman or no gentleman."
"Take the best supposition, and let me have supper. If you will make
_that_ good, Mr. Landlord, you may add the phaeton to my bill."
"You'll pay it, I s'pose?" cried the anxious landlord, as his guest
turned away.
"I always pay my bills," said Mr. Southwode, mounting the steps to the
piazza. "Now Rotha, come and have something to eat."
Supper was long since over for the family; the two had the great dining
hall to themselves. It was the room in which Rotha had taken her solitary
breakfast the morning of her arrival. Now as she and her companion took
their seats at one of the small tables, it seemed to the girl that she
had got into an enchanted country. Aladdin's vaults of jewels were not a
pleasanter place in his eyes, than this room to her to-night. And she had
not to take care even of her supper; care of every sort was gone. One
thing however was on Rotha's mind.
"Mr. Southwode," she said as soon as they had placed themselves,--"it was
not your fault, all that about the phaeton."
"No."
"Then you ought not to pay for it."
"It would be more loss to this poor man, than to me, Rotha, I fancy."
"Yes, but right is right. Making a present is one thing; paying an unjust
charge is another. It is allowing that you were to blame."
"I do not know that it is unjust. And peace is worth paying for, if the
phaeton is not."
"How much do you suppose it will be?"
"I do not know," he said laughing a little. "Are you anxious, about it?"
Rotha coloured up brightly. "It seems like allowing that you were in the
wrong," she said. "And the man was very impertinent."
"I recognize your old fierce logic of justice. Haven't you learned yet
that one must give and take a good deal in this world, to get along
smoothly? No charge the man can ever make will equal what the broken
phaeton is worth to me, Rotha."