AT two o'clock in the morning the freckled boy from Creston stopped his
sleepy horse at the door of the red house, and Charity got out. Harney
had taken leave of her at Creston River, charging the boy to drive her
home. Her mind was still in a fog of misery, and she did not remember
very clearly what had happened, or what they said to each other, during
the interminable interval since their departure from Nettleton; but the
secretive instinct of the animal in pain was so strong in her that she
had a sense of relief when Harney got out and she drove on alone.
The full moon hung over North Dormer, whitening the mist that filled the
hollows between the hills and floated transparently above the fields.
Charity stood a moment at the gate, looking out into the waning night.
She watched the boy drive off, his horse's head wagging heavily to and
fro; then she went around to the kitchen door and felt under the mat for
the key. She found it, unlocked the door and went in. The kitchen
was dark, but she discovered a box of matches, lit a candle and went
upstairs. Mr. Royall's door, opposite hers, stood open on his unlit
room; evidently he had not come back. She went into her room, bolted her
door and began slowly to untie the ribbon about her waist, and to take
off her dress. Under the bed she saw the paper bag in which she had
hidden her new hat from inquisitive eyes....
She lay for a long time sleepless on her bed, staring up at the
moonlight on the low ceiling; dawn was in the sky when she fell asleep,
and when she woke the sun was on her face.
She dressed and went down to the kitchen. Verena was there alone: she
glanced at Charity tranquilly, with her old deaf-looking eyes. There was
no sign of Mr. Royall about the house and the hours passed without his
reappearing. Charity had gone up to her room, and sat there listlessly,
her hands on her lap. Puffs of sultry air fanned her dimity window
curtains and flies buzzed stiflingly against the bluish panes.
At one o'clock Verena hobbled up to see if she were not coming down to
dinner; but she shook her head, and the old woman went away, saying:
“I'll cover up, then.”
The sun turned and left her room, and Charity seated herself in the
window, gazing down the village street through the half-opened shutters.
Not a thought was in her mind; it was just a dark whirlpool of crowding
images; and she watched the people passing along the street, Dan
Targatt's team hauling a load of pine-trunks down to Hepburn, the
sexton's old white horse grazing on the bank across the way, as if she
looked at these familiar sights from the other side of the grave.
She was roused from her apathy by seeing Ally Hawes come out of the
Frys' gate and walk slowly toward the red house with her uneven limping
step. At the sight Charity recovered her severed contact with reality.
She divined that Ally was coming to hear about her day: no one else
was in the secret of the trip to Nettleton, and it had flattered Ally
profoundly to be allowed to know of it.
At the thought of having to see her, of having to meet her eyes and
answer or evade her questions, the whole horror of the previous night's
adventure rushed back upon Charity. What had been a feverish nightmare
became a cold and unescapable fact. Poor Ally, at that moment,
represented North Dormer, with all its mean curiosities, its furtive
malice, its sham unconsciousness of evil. Charity knew that, although
all relations with Julia were supposed to be severed, the tender-hearted
Ally still secretly communicated with her; and no doubt Julia would
exult in the chance of retailing the scandal of the wharf. The story,
exaggerated and distorted, was probably already on its way to North
Dormer.
Ally's dragging pace had not carried her far from the Frys' gate when
she was stopped by old Mrs. Sollas, who was a great talker, and spoke
very slowly because she had never been able to get used to her new teeth
from Hepburn. Still, even this respite would not last long; in another
ten minutes Ally would be at the door, and Charity would hear her
greeting Verena in the kitchen, and then calling up from the foot of the
stairs.
Suddenly it became clear that flight, and instant flight, was the only
thing conceivable. The longing to escape, to get away from familiar
faces, from places where she was known, had always been strong in her in
moments of distress. She had a childish belief in the miraculous power
of strange scenes and new faces to transform her life and wipe out
bitter memories. But such impulses were mere fleeting whims compared to
the cold resolve which now possessed her. She felt she could not remain
an hour longer under the roof of the man who had publicly dishonoured
her, and face to face with the people who would presently be gloating
over all the details of her humiliation.
Her passing pity for Mr. Royall had been swallowed up in loathing:
everything in her recoiled from the disgraceful spectacle of the drunken
old man apostrophizing her in the presence of a band of loafers and
street-walkers. Suddenly, vividly, she relived again the horrible moment
when he had tried to force himself into her room, and what she had
before supposed to be a mad aberration now appeared to her as a vulgar
incident in a debauched and degraded life.
While these thoughts were hurrying through her she had dragged out
her old canvas school-bag, and was thrusting into it a few articles of
clothing and the little packet of letters she had received from Harney.
From under her pincushion she took the library key, and laid it in full
view; then she felt at the back of a drawer for the blue brooch that
Harney had given her. She would not have dared to wear it openly at
North Dormer, but now she fastened it on her bosom as if it were a
talisman to protect her in her flight. These preparations had taken but
a few minutes, and when they were finished Ally Hawes was still at the
Frys' corner talking to old Mrs. Sollas....
She had said to herself, as she always said in moments of revolt: “I'll
go to the Mountain--I'll go back to my own folks.” She had never really
meant it before; but now, as she considered her case, no other course
seemed open. She had never learned any trade that would have given her
independence in a strange place, and she knew no one in the big towns of
the valley, where she might have hoped to find employment. Miss Hatchard
was still away; but even had she been at North Dormer she was the last
person to whom Charity would have turned, since one of the motives
urging her to flight was the wish not to see Lucius Harney. Travelling
back from Nettleton, in the crowded brightly-lit train, all exchange of
confidence between them had been impossible; but during their drive
from Hepburn to Creston River she had gathered from Harney's snatches of
consolatory talk--again hampered by the freckled boy's presence--that
he intended to see her the next day. At the moment she had found a vague
comfort in the assurance; but in the desolate lucidity of the hours that
followed she had come to see the impossibility of meeting him again.
Her dream of comradeship was over; and the scene on the wharf--vile and
disgraceful as it had been--had after all shed the light of truth on her
minute of madness. It was as if her guardian's words had stripped her
bare in the face of the grinning crowd and proclaimed to the world the
secret admonitions of her conscience.
She did not think these things out clearly; she simply followed the
blind propulsion of her wretchedness. She did not want, ever again, to
see anyone she had known; above all, she did not want to see Harney....
She climbed the hill-path behind the house and struck through the woods
by a short-cut leading to the Creston road. A lead-coloured sky hung
heavily over the fields, and in the forest the motionless air was
stifling; but she pushed on, impatient to reach the road which was the
shortest way to the Mountain.
To do so, she had to follow the Creston road for a mile or two, and go
within half a mile of the village; and she walked quickly, fearing to
meet Harney. But there was no sign of him, and she had almost reached
the branch road when she saw the flanks of a large white tent projecting
through the trees by the roadside. She supposed that it sheltered a
travelling circus which had come there for the Fourth; but as she drew
nearer she saw, over the folded-back flap, a large sign bearing the
inscription, “Gospel Tent.” The interior seemed to be empty; but a young
man in a black alpaca coat, his lank hair parted over a round white
face, stepped from under the flap and advanced toward her with a smile.
“Sister, your Saviour knows everything. Won't you come in and lay your
guilt before Him?” he asked insinuatingly, putting his hand on her arm.
Charity started back and flushed. For a moment she thought the
evangelist must have heard a report of the scene at Nettleton; then she
saw the absurdity of the supposition.
“I on'y wish't I had any to lay!” she retorted, with one of her fierce
flashes of self-derision; and the young man murmured, aghast: “Oh,
Sister, don't speak blasphemy....”
But she had jerked her arm out of his hold, and was running up the
branch road, trembling with the fear of meeting a familiar face.
Presently she was out of sight of the village, and climbing into the
heart of the forest. She could not hope to do the fifteen miles to the
Mountain that afternoon; but she knew of a place half-way to Hamblin
where she could sleep, and where no one would think of looking for her.
It was a little deserted house on a slope in one of the lonely rifts of
the hills. She had seen it once, years before, when she had gone on a
nutting expedition to the grove of walnuts below it. The party had taken
refuge in the house from a sudden mountain storm, and she remembered
that Ben Sollas, who liked frightening girls, had told them that it was
said to be haunted.
She was growing faint and tired, for she had eaten nothing since
morning, and was not used to walking so far. Her head felt light and she
sat down for a moment by the roadside. As she sat there she heard the
click of a bicycle-bell, and started up to plunge back into the forest;
but before she could move the bicycle had swept around the curve of the
road, and Harney, jumping off, was approaching her with outstretched
arms.
“Charity! What on earth are you doing here?”
She stared as if he were a vision, so startled by the unexpectedness of
his being there that no words came to her.
“Where were you going? Had you forgotten that I was coming?” he
continued, trying to draw her to him; but she shrank from his embrace.
“I was going away--I don't want to see you--I want you should leave me
alone,” she broke out wildly.
He looked at her and his face grew grave, as though the shadow of a
premonition brushed it.
“Going away--from me, Charity?”
“From everybody. I want you should leave me.”
He stood glancing doubtfully up and down the lonely forest road that
stretched away into sun-flecked distances.
“Where were you going?'
“Home.”
“Home--this way?”
She threw her head back defiantly. “To my home--up yonder: to the
Mountain.”
As she spoke she became aware of a change in his face. He was no longer
listening to her, he was only looking at her, with the passionate
absorbed expression she had seen in his eyes after they had kissed on
the stand at Nettleton. He was the new Harney again, the Harney abruptly
revealed in that embrace, who seemed so penetrated with the joy of
her presence that he was utterly careless of what she was thinking or
feeling.
He caught her hands with a laugh. “How do you suppose I found you?” he
said gaily. He drew out the little packet of his letters and flourished
them before her bewildered eyes.
“You dropped them, you imprudent young person--dropped them in the
middle of the road, not far from here; and the young man who is running
the Gospel tent picked them up just as I was riding by.” He drew back,
holding her at arm's length, and scrutinizing her troubled face with the
minute searching gaze of his short-sighted eyes.
“Did you really think you could run away from me? You see you weren't
meant to,” he said; and before she could answer he had kissed her again,
not vehemently, but tenderly, almost fraternally, as if he had guessed
her confused pain, and wanted her to know he understood it. He wound his
fingers through hers.
“Come let's walk a little. I want to talk to you. There's so much to
say.”
He spoke with a boy's gaiety, carelessly and confidently, as if nothing
had happened that could shame or embarrass them; and for a moment, in
the sudden relief of her release from lonely pain, she felt herself
yielding to his mood. But he had turned, and was drawing her back along
the road by which she had come. She stiffened herself and stopped short.
“I won't go back,” she said.
They looked at each other a moment in silence; then he answered gently:
“Very well: let's go the other way, then.”
She remained motionless, gazing silently at the ground, and he went on:
“Isn't there a house up here somewhere--a little abandoned house--you
meant to show me some day?” Still she made no answer, and he continued,
in the same tone of tender reassurance: “Let us go there now and sit
down and talk quietly.” He took one of the hands that hung by her side
and pressed his lips to the palm. “Do you suppose I'm going to let you
send me away? Do you suppose I don't understand?”
The little old house--its wooden walls sun-bleached to a ghostly
gray--stood in an orchard above the road. The garden palings had fallen,
but the broken gate dangled between its posts, and the path to the house
was marked by rose-bushes run wild and hanging their small pale blossoms
above the crowding grasses. Slender pilasters and an intricate fan-light
framed the opening where the door had hung; and the door itself lay
rotting in the grass, with an old apple-tree fallen across it.
Inside, also, wind and weather had blanched everything to the same
wan silvery tint; the house was as dry and pure as the interior of a
long-empty shell. But it must have been exceptionally well built, for
the little rooms had kept something of their human aspect: the wooden
mantels with their neat classic ornaments were in place, and the corners
of one ceiling retained a light film of plaster tracery.
Harney had found an old bench at the back door and dragged it into the
house. Charity sat on it, leaning her head against the wall in a state
of drowsy lassitude. He had guessed that she was hungry and thirsty,
and had brought her some tablets of chocolate from his bicycle-bag, and
filled his drinking-cup from a spring in the orchard; and now he sat at
her feet, smoking a cigarette, and looking up at her without speaking.
Outside, the afternoon shadows were lengthening across the grass, and
through the empty window-frame that faced her she saw the Mountain
thrusting its dark mass against a sultry sunset. It was time to go.
She stood up, and he sprang to his feet also, and passed his arm through
hers with an air of authority. “Now, Charity, you're coming back with
me.”
She looked at him and shook her head. “I ain't ever going back. You
don't know.”
“What don't I know?” She was silent, and he continued: “What happened on
the wharf was horrible--it's natural you should feel as you do. But it
doesn't make any real difference: you can't be hurt by such things.
You must try to forget. And you must try to understand that men... men
sometimes...”
“I know about men. That's why.”
He coloured a little at the retort, as though it had touched him in a
way she did not suspect.
“Well, then... you must know one has to make allowances.... He'd been
drinking....”
“I know all that, too. I've seen him so before. But he wouldn't have
dared speak to me that way if he hadn't...”
“Hadn't what? What do you mean?”
“Hadn't wanted me to be like those other girls....” She lowered her
voice and looked away from him. “So's 't he wouldn't have to go out....”
Harney stared at her. For a moment he did not seem to seize her meaning;
then his face grew dark. “The damned hound! The villainous low
hound!” His wrath blazed up, crimsoning him to the temples. “I never
dreamed--good God, it's too vile,” he broke off, as if his thoughts
recoiled from the discovery.
“I won't never go back there,” she repeated doggedly.
“No----” he assented.
There was a long interval of silence, during which she imagined that he
was searching her face for more light on what she had revealed to him;
and a flush of shame swept over her.
“I know the way you must feel about me,” she broke out, “...telling you
such things....”
But once more, as she spoke, she became aware that he was no longer
listening. He came close and caught her to him as if he were snatching
her from some imminent peril: his impetuous eyes were in hers, and she
could feel the hard beat of his heart as he held her against it.
“Kiss me again--like last night,” he said, pushing her hair back as if
to draw her whole face up into his kiss.