In the summer of 1916, a dark and miserable June, all chilly showers and
lowering clouds, followed on the short-lived joys of May. But all
through it, still more through the early weeks of July, the spiritual
heaven for English hearts was brightening. In June, two months before
she was expected to move, Russia flung herself on the Eastern front of
the enemy. Brussiloff's victorious advance drove great wedges into the
German line, and the effect on that marvellous six months' battle, which
we foolishly call the Siege of Verdun, was soon to be seen. Hard pressed
they were, those heroes of Verdun!--how hard pressed no one in England
knew outside the War Office and the Cabinet, till the worst was over,
and the Crown Prince, 'with his dead and his shame,' had recoiled in
sullen defeat from the prey that need fear him no more.
Then on the first of July, the British army, after a bombardment the
like of which had never yet been seen in war, leapt from its trenches on
the Somme front, and England held her breath while her new Armies proved
of what stuff they were made. In those great days 'there were no
stragglers--none!' said an eye-witness in amazement. The incredible
became everywhere the common and the achieved. Life was laid down as at
a festival. 'From your happy son'--wrote a boy, as a heading to his last
letter on this earth.
And by the end of July the sun was ablaze again on the English fields
and harvests. Days of amazing beauty followed each other amid the
Westmorland fells; with nights of moonlight on sleeping lakes, and
murmuring becks; or nights of starlit dark, with that mysterious glow in
the north-west which in the northern valleys so often links the evening
with the dawn.
How often through these nights Nelly Sarratt lay awake, in her new white
room in Mountain Ash Farm!--the broad low window beside her open to the
night, to that 'Venus's Looking Glass' of Loughrigg Tarn below her, and
to the great heights beyond, now dissolving under the moon-magic, now
rosy with dawn, and now wreathed in the floating cloud which crept in
light and silver along the purple of the crags. To have been lifted to
this height above valley and stream, had raised and strengthened her,
soul and body, as Farrell and Hester had hoped. Her soul, perhaps,
rather than her body; for she was still the frailest of creatures,
without visible ill, and yet awakening in every quick-eyed spectator the
same misgiving as in the Manchester doctor. But she was calmer, less
apparently absorbed in her own grief; though only, perhaps, the more
accessible to the world misery of the war. In these restless nights,
her remarkable visualising power, which had only thriven, it seemed,
upon the flagging of youth and health, carried her through a series of
waking dreams, almost always concerned with the war. Under the stimulus
of Farrell's intelligence, she had become a close student of the war.
She read much, and what she read, his living contact with men and
affairs--with that endless stream of wounded in particular, which passed
through the Carton hospital--and his graphic talk illumined for her.
Then in the night arose the train of visions; the trenches--always the
trenches; those hideous broken woods of the Somme front, where the
blasted soil has sucked the best life-blood of England; those
labyrinthine diggings and delvings in a tortured earth, made for the
Huntings of Death--'Death that lays man at his length'--for panting
pursuit, and breathless flight, and the last crashing horror of the
bomb, in some hell-darkness at the end of all:--these haunted her. Or
she saw visions of men swinging from peak to peak above fathomless
depths of ice and snow on the Italian front; climbing precipices where
the foot holds by miracle, and where not only men but guns must go; or
vanishing, whole lines of them, awfully forgotten in the winter snows,
to reappear a frozen and ghastly host, with the melting of the spring.
And always, mingled with everything, in the tense night hours--that
slender khaki figure, tearing the leaf from his sketch-book, leaping
over the parados,--falling--in the No Man's Land. But, by day, the
obsession of it now often left her.
It was impossible not to enjoy her new home. Farrell had taken an old
Westmorland farm, with its white-washed porch, its small-paned windows
outlined in white on the grey walls, its low raftered rooms, and with a
few washes of colour--pure blue, white, daffodil yellow--had made all
bright within, to match the bright spaces of air and light without.
There was some Westmorland oak, some low chairs, a sofa and a piano from
the old Manchester house, some etchings and drawings, hung on the plain
walls by Farrell himself, with the most fastidious care; and a few--a
very few things--from his own best stores, which Hester allowed him to
'house' with Nelly from time to time--picture, or pot, or tapestry. She
played watch-dog steadily, not resented by Farrell, and unsuspected by
Nelly. Her one aim was that the stream of Nelly's frail life should not
be muddied by any vile gossip; and she achieved it. The few neighbours
who had made acquaintance with 'little Mrs. Sarratt' had, all of them
been tacitly, nay eagerly willing, to take their cue from Hester. To be
vouched for by Hester Martin, the 'wise woman' and saint of a
country-side, was enough. It was understood that the poor little widow
had been commended to the care of William Farrell and his sister, by the
young husband whose gallant death was officially presumed by the War
Office. Of course, Mrs. Sarratt, poor child, believed that he was still
alive--that was so natural! But that hope would die down in time. And
then--anything might happen!
Meanwhile, elderly husbands--the sole male inhabitants left in the
gentry houses of the district--who possessed any legal knowledge,
informed their wives that no one could legally presume the death of a
vanished husband, under seven years, unless indeed they happen to have a
Scotch domicile, in which case two years was enough. _Seven
years_!--preposterous!--in time of war, said the wives. To which the
husbands would easily reply that, in such cases as Mrs. Sarratt's, the
law indeed might be 'an ass,' but there were ways round it. Mrs. Sarratt
might re-marry, and no one could object, or would object. Only--if
Sarratt did rise from the dead, the second marriage would be _ipso
facto_ null and void. But as Sarratt was clearly dead, what did that
matter?
So that the situation, though an observed one--for how could the Farrell
comings and goings, the Farrell courtesies and benefactions, possibly be
hid?--was watched only by friendly and discreet eyes, thanks always to
Hester. Most people liked William Farrell; even that stricter sect, who
before the war had regarded him as a pleasure loving dilettante, and had
been often scandalised by his careless levity in the matter of his
duties as a landlord and county magnate. 'Bill Farrell' had never indeed
evicted or dealt hardly with any mortal tenant. He had merely neglected
and ignored them; had cared not a brass farthing about the rates which
he or they, paid--why should he indeed, when he was so abominably rich
from other sources than land?--nothing about improving their cows, or
sheep or pigs; nothing about 'intensive culture,' or jam or poultry, or
any of the other fads with which the persons who don't farm plague the
persons who do; while the very mention of a public meeting, or any sort
of public duty, put him to instant flight. Yet even the faddists met him
with pleasure, and parted from him with regret. He took himself 'so
jolly lightly'; you couldn't expect him to take other people seriously.
Meanwhile, his genial cheery manner made him a general favourite, and
his splendid presence, combined with his possessions and his descent,
was universally accepted as a kind of Cumberland asset, to which other
counties could hardly lay claim. If he wanted the little widow, why
certainly, let him have her! It was magnificent what he had done for his
hospital; when nobody before the war had thought him capable of a stroke
of practical work. Real good fellow, Farrell! Let him go in and win. His
devotion, and poor Nelly's beauty, only infused a welcome local element
of romance into the ever-darkening scene of war.
* * * * *
The first anniversary of Sarratt's disappearance was over. Nelly had
gone through it quite alone. Bridget was in London, and Nelly had said
to Cicely--'Don't come for a few days--nor Sir William--please! I
shall be all right.'
They obeyed her, and she spent her few days partly on the fells, and
partly in endless knitting and sewing for a war-workroom recently
started in her immediate neighbourhood. The emotion to which she
surrendered herself would soon reduce her to a dull vacancy; and then
she would sit passive, not forcing herself to think, alone in the old
raftered room, or in the bit of garden outside, with its phloxes and
golden rods; her small fingers working endlessly--till the wave of
feeling and memory returned upon her. Those few days were a kind of
'retreat,' during which she lived absorbed in the recollections of her
short, married life, and, above all, in which she tried piteously and
bravely to make clear to herself what she believed; what sort of faith
was in her for the present and the future. It often seemed to her that
during the year since George's death, her mind had been wrenched and
hammered into another shape. It had grown so much older, she scarcely
knew it herself. Doubts she had never known before had come to her; but
also, intermittently, a much keener faith. Oh, yes, she believed in God.
She must; not only because George had believed in Him, but also because
she, her very self, had been conscious, again and again, in the night
hours, or on the mountains, of ineffable upliftings and communings, of
flashes through the veil of things. And so there must be another world;
because the God she guessed at thus, with sudden adoring insight, could
not have made her George, only to destroy him; only to give her to him
for a month, and then strike him from her for ever. The books she learnt
to know through Farrell, belonging to that central modern literature,
which is so wholly sceptical that the 'great argument' itself has almost
lost interest for those who are producing it, often bewildered her, but
did not really affect her. Religion--a vague, but deeply-felt
religion--soothed and sheltered her. But she did not want to talk about
it.
After these days were over, she emerged conscious of some radical
change. She seemed to have been walking with George 'on the other side,'
and to have left him there--for a while. She now really believed him
dead, and that she had got to live her life without him. This first full
and sincere admission of her loss tranquillised her. All the more reason
now that she should turn to the dear friendships that life still held,
should live in and for them, and follow where they led, through the
years before her. Farrell, Cicely, Hester--they stood between her
weakness--oh how conscious, how scornfully conscious, she was of
it!--and sheer desolation. Cicely, 'Willy,'--for somehow she and he had
slipped almost without knowing it into Christian names--had become to
her as brother and sister. And Hester too--so strong!--so kind!--was
part of her life; severe sometimes, but bracing. Nelly was conscious,
indeed, occasionally, that something in Hester disapproved something in
her. 'But it would be all right,' she thought, wearily, 'if only I were
stronger.' Did she mean physically or morally? The girl's thought did
not distinguish.
'I believe you want me "hatched over again and hatched different"!' she
said one evening to Hester, as she laid her volume of 'Adam Bede' aside.
'Do I ever say so?'
'No--but--if you were me--you wouldn't stop here moping!' said Nelly,
with sudden passion. 'You'd strike out--do something!'
'With these hands?' said Hester, raising one of them, and looking at it
pitifully. 'My dear--does Bridget feed you properly?'
'I don't know. I never think about it. She settles it.'
'Why do you let her settle it?'
'She will!' cried Nelly, sitting upright in her chair, her eyes bright
and cheeks flushing, as though something in Hester's words accused her.
'I couldn't stop her!'
'Well, but when she's away?'
'Then Mrs. Rowe settles it,' said Nelly, half laughing. 'I never
enquire. What does it matter?'
She put down her knitting, and her wide, sad eyes followed the clouds as
they covered the purple breast of the Langdales, which rose in
threatening, thunder light, beyond the steely tarn in front. Hester
watched her anxiously. How lovely was the brown head, with its short
curls enclosing the delicate oval of the face! But Nelly's lack of grip
on life, of any personal demand, of any healthy natural egotism, whether
towards Bridget, or anybody else, was very disquieting to Hester. In
view of the situation which the older woman saw steadily approaching,
how welcome would have been some signs of a greater fighting strength in
the girl's nature!
* * * * *
But Nelly had made two friends since the migration to the farm with whom
at any rate she laughed; and that, as Hester admitted, was something.
One was a neighbouring farmer, an old man, with splendid eyes, under
dark bushy brows, fine ascetic features, grizzled hair, and a habit of
carrying a scythe over his shoulder which gave him the look of 'Old
Father Time,' out for the mowing of men. The other was the little son of
a neighbouring parson, an urchin of eight, who had succumbed to an
innocent passion for the pretty lady at the farm.
One radiant October afternoon, Nelly carried out a chair and some
sketching things into the garden. But the scheme Farrell had suggested
to her, of making a profession of her drawing, had not come to much.
Whether it was the dying down of hope, and therewith of physical energy,
or whether she had been brought up sharp against the limits of her small
and graceful talent, and comparing herself with Farrell, thought it no
use to go on--in any case, she had lately given it up, except as an
amusement. But there are days when the humblest artist feels the
creative stir; and on this particular afternoon there were colours and
lights abroad on the fells, now dyed red with withering fern, and
overtopped by sunny cloud, that could not be resisted. She put away the
splints she was covering, and spread out her easel.
And presently, through every bruised and tired sense, as she worked and
worked, the 'Eternal Fountain of that Heavenly Beauty' distilled His
constant balm. She worked on, soothed and happy.
In a few minutes there was a sound at the gate. A child looked in--black
tumbled hair, dark eyes, a plain but most engaging countenance.
'I'm tomin in,' he announced, and without any more ado, came in. Nelly
held out a hand and kissed him.
'You must be very good.'
'I is good,' said the child, radiantly.
Nelly spread a rug for him to lie on, and provided him with a piece of
paper, some coloured chalks and a piece of mill board. He turned over on
his front and plunged into drawing--
Silence--till Nelly asked--
'What are you drawing, Tommy?'
'Haggans and Hoons,' said a dreamy voice, the voice of one absorbed.
'I forget'--said Nelly gravely--'which are the good ones?'
'The Hoons are good. The Haggans are awfully wicked!' said the child,
slashing away at his drawing with bold vindictive strokes.
'Are you drawing a Haggan, Tommy?'
'Yes.'
He held up a monster, half griffin, half crocodile, for her to see, and
she heartily admired it.
'Where do the Haggans live, Tommy?'
'In Jupe,' said the child, again drawing busily.
'You mean Jupiter?'
'I _don't_!' said Tommy reproachfully, 'I said Jupe, and I mean Jupe.
Perhaps'--he conceded, courteously--'I may have got the idea from that
other place. But it's quite different. You do believe it's quite
different--don't you?'
'Certainly,' said Nelly.
'I'm glad of that--because--well, because I can't be friends with people
that say it isn't different. You do see that, don't you?'
Nelly assured him she perfectly understood, and then Tommy rolled over
on his back, and staring at the sky, began to talk in mysterious tones
of 'Jupe,' and the beings that lived in it, Haggans, and Hoons, lions
and bears, and white mice. His voice grew dreamier and dreamier. Nelly
thought he was asleep, and she suddenly found herself looking at the
little figure on the grass with a passionate hunger. If such a living
creature belonged to her--to call her its very own--to cling to her with
its dear chubby hands!
She bent forward, her eyes wet, above the unconscious Tommy. But a step
on the road startled her, and raising her head she saw 'Old Father
Time,' with scythe on shoulder, leaning on the little gate which led
from the strip of garden to the road, and looking at her with the
expression which implied a sarcastic view of things in general, and
especially of 'gentlefolk.' But he was favourably inclined to Mrs.
Sarratt, and when Nelly invited him in, he obeyed her, and grounding his
scythe, as though it had been a gun, he stood leaning upon it,
indulgently listening while she congratulated him on a strange incident
which, as she knew from Hester, had lately occurred to him.
A fortnight before, the old man had received a letter from the captain
of his son's company in France sympathetically announcing to him the
death in hospital of his eldest son, from severe wounds received in a
raid, and assuring him he might feel complete confidence 'that
everything that could be done for your poor boy has been done.'
The news had brought woe to the cottage where the old man and his wife
lived alone, since the fledging of their sturdy brood, under a spur of
Loughrigg. The wife, being now a feeble body, had taken to her bed under
the shock of grief; the old man had gone to his work as usual, 'nobbut a
bit queerer in his wits,' according to the farmer who employed him. Then
after three days came a hurried letter of apology from the captain, and
a letter from the chaplain, to say there had been a most deplorable
mistake, and 'your son, I am glad to say, was only slightly wounded,
and is doing well!'
Under so much contradictory emotion, old Backhouse's balance had wavered
a good deal. He received Nelly's remarks with a furtive smile, as though
he were only waiting for her to have done, and when they ceased, he drew
a letter slowly from his pocket.
'D'ye see that, Mum?'
Nelly nodded.
'I'se juist gotten it from t' Post Office. They woant gie ye noothin'
till it's forced oot on 'em. But I goa regular, an to-day owd
Jacob--'at's him as keps t' Post Office--handed it ower. It's from
Donald, sure enoof.'
He held it up triumphantly. Nelly's heart leapt--and sank. How often in
the first months of her grief had she seen--in visions--that blessed
symbolic letter held up by some ministering hand!--only to fall from the
ecstasy of the dream into blacker depths of pain.
'Oh, Mr. Backhouse, I'm so glad!' was all she could find to say. But her
sweet trembling face spoke for her. After a pause, she added--'Does he
write with his own hand?'
'You mun see for yorsel'.' He held it out to her. She looked at it
mystified.
'But it's not opened!'
'I hadna juist me spectacles,' said Father Time, cautiously. 'Mebbee
yo'll read it to me.'
'But it's to his mother!' cried Nelly. 'I can't open your wife's
letter!'
'You needn't trooble aboot that. You read it, Mum. There'll be noothin'
in it.'
He made her read it. There was nothing in it. It was just a nice letter
from a good boy, saying that he had been knocked over in 'a bit of a
scrap,' but was nearly all right, and hoped his father and mother were
well, 'as it leaves me at present.' But when it was done, Father Time
took off his hat, bent his grey head, and solemnly thanked his God, in
broad Westmorland. Nelly's eyes swam, as she too bowed the head,
thinking of another who would never come back; and Tommy, thumb in
mouth, leant against her, listening attentively.
At the end of the thanksgiving however, Backhouse raised his head
briskly.
'Not that I iver believed that foolish yoong mon as wrote me that Dick
wor dead,' he said, contemptuously. 'Bit it's as weel to git things
clear.'
Nelly heartily agreed, adding--
'I may be going to London next week, Mr. Backhouse. You say your son
will be in the London Hospital. Shall I go and see him?'
Backhouse looked at her cautiously.
'I doan't know, Mum. His moother will be goin', likely.'
'Oh, I don't want to intrude, Mr. Backhouse. But if she doesn't go?'
'Well, Mum; I will say you've a pleasant coontenance, though yo're not
juist sich a thrivin' body as a'd like to see yer. But theer's mony
people as du more harm nor good by goin' to sit wi' sick foak.'
Nelly meekly admitted it; and then she suggested that she might be the
bearer of anything Mrs. Backhouse would like to send her son--clothes,
for instance? The old man thawed rapidly, and the three, Nelly, Tommy,
and Father Time, were soon sincerely enjoying each other's society, when
a woman in a grey tweed costume, and black sailor hat, arrived at the
top of a little hill in the road outside the garden, from which the farm
and its surroundings could be seen.
At the sight of the group in front of the farm, she came to an abrupt
pause, and hidden from them by a projecting corner of wall she surveyed
the scene--Nelly, with Tommy on her knee, and the old labourer who had
just shouldered his scythe again, and was about to go on his way.
It was Bridget Cookson, who had been to Kendal for the day, and had
walked over from Grasmere, where the char-à-banc, alias the 'Yellow
Peril,' had deposited her. She had passed the Post Office on her way,
and had brought thence a letter which she held in her hand. Her face was
pale and excited. She stood thinking; her eyes on Nelly, her lips moving
as though she were rehearsing some speech or argument.
Then when she had watched old Backkhouse make his farewell, and turn
towards the gate, she hastily opened a black silk bag hanging from her
wrist, and thrust the letter into it.
After which she walked on, meeting the old man in the lane, and run into
by Tommy, who, head foremost, was rushing home to shew his glorious
Haggan to his 'mummy.'
Nelly's face at sight of her sister stiffened insensibly.
'Aren't you very tired, Bridget? Have you walked all the way? Yes, you
_do_ look tired! Have you had tea?'
'Yes, at Windermere.'
Bridget cleared the chair on which Nelly had placed her paint-box, and
sat down. She was silent a little and then said abruptly--
'It's a horrid bore, I shall have to go to London again.'
'Again?' Nelly's look of surprise was natural. Bridget had returned from
another long stay in the Bloomsbury boarding-house early in October, and
it was now only the middle of the month. But Bridget's doings were
always a great mystery to Nelly. She was translating something from the
Spanish--that was all Nelly knew--and also, that when an offer had been
made to her through a friend, of some translating work for the Foreign
Office, she had angrily refused it. She would not, she said, be a slave
to any public office.
'Won't it be awfully expensive?' said Nelly after a pause, as Bridget
did not answer. The younger sister was putting her painting things
away, and making ready to go in. For though the day had been wonderfully
warm for October, the sun had just set over Bowfell, and the air had
grown suddenly chilly.
'Well, I can't help it,' said Bridget, rather roughly. 'I shall have to
go.'
Something in her voice made Nelly look at her.
'I say you _are_ tired! Come in and lie down a little. That walk from
Grasmere's too much for you!'
Bridget submitted with most unusual docility.
The sisters entered the house together.
'I'll go upstairs for a little,' said Bridget. 'I shall be all right by
supper.' Then, as she slowly mounted the stairs, a rather gaunt and
dragged figure in her dress of grey alpaca, she turned to say--
'I met Sir William on the road just now. He passed me in the car, and
waved his hand. He called out something--I couldn't hear it.'
'Perhaps to say he would come to supper,' said Nelly, her face
brightening. 'I'll go and see what there is.'
Bridget went upstairs. Her small raftered room was invaded by the last
stormy light of the autumn evening. The open casement window admitted a
cold wind. Bridget shut it, with a shiver. But instead of lying down,
she took a chair by the window, absently removed her hat, and sat there
thinking. The coppery light from the west illumined her face with its
strong discontented lines, and her hands, which were large, but white
and shapely--a source indeed of personal pride to their owner.
Presently, in the midst of her reverie, she heard a step outside, and
saw Sir William Farrell approaching the gate. Nelly, wrapped in a white
shawl, was still strolling about the garden, and Bridget watched their
meeting--Nelly's soft and smiling welcome, and Farrell's eagerness, his
evident joy in finding her alone.
'And she just wilfully blinds herself!' thought Bridget
contemptuously--'talks about his being a brother to her, and that sort
of nonsense. He's in love with her!--of course he's in love with her.
And as for Nelly--she's not in love with him. But she's getting used to
him; she depends on him. When he's not there she misses him. She's
awfully glad to see him when he comes. Perhaps, it'll take a month or
two. I give it a month or two--perhaps six months--perhaps a year. And
then she'll marry him--and--'
Here her thoughts became rather more vague and confused. They were
compounded of a fierce impatience with the war, and of certain urgent
wishes and ambitions, which had taken possession of a strong and
unscrupulous character. She wanted to travel. She wanted to see the
world, and not to be bothered by having to think of money. Contact with
very rich people, like the Farrells, and the constant spectacle of what
an added range and power is given to the human will by money, had
turned the dull discontent of her youth into an active fever of desire.
She had no illusions about herself at all. She was already a plain and
unattractive old maid. Nobody would want to marry her; and she did not
want to marry anybody. But she wanted to _do_ things and to _see_
things, when the hateful war was over. She was full of curiosities about
life and the world, that were rather masculine than feminine. Her
education, though it was still patchy and shallow, had been advancing
since Nelly's marriage, and her intelligence was hungry. The
satisfaction of it seemed too to promise her the only real pleasures to
which she could look forward in life. On the wall of her bedroom were
hanging photographs of Rome, Athens, the East. She dreamt of a wandering
existence; she felt that she would be insatiable of movement, of
experience, if the chance were given her.
But how could one travel, or buy books, or make new acquaintances,
without money?--something more at any rate than the pittance on which
she and Nelly subsisted.
What was it Sir William was supposed to have, by way of income?--thirty
thousand a year? Well, he wouldn't always be spending it on his
hospital, and War income tax, and all the other horrible burdens of the
time. If Nelly married him, she would have an ample margin to play with;
and to do Nelly justice, she was always open-handed, always ready to
give away. She would hand over her own small portion to her sister, and
add something to it. With six or seven hundred a year, Bridget would be
mistress of her own fate, and of the future. Often, lately, in waking
moments of the night, she had felt a sudden glow of exultation, thinking
what she could do with such a sum. The world seemed to open out on all
sides--offering her new excitements, new paths to tread in. She wanted
no companion, to hamper her with differing tastes and wishes. She would
be quite sufficient to herself.
The garden outside grew dark. She heard Farrell say 'It's too cold for
you--you must come in,' and she watched Nelly enter the house in front
of him--turning her head back to answer something he said to her. Even
through the dusk Bridget was conscious of her sister's beauty. She did
not envy it in the least. It was Nelly's capital--Nelly's opportunity.
Let her use it for them both. Bridget would be well satisfied to gather
up the crumbs from her rich sister's table.
Then from the dream, she came back with chill and desperation--to
reality. The letter in her pocket--the journey before her--she pondered
alternatives. What was she to do in this case--or in that? Everything
might be at stake--everything was at stake--her life and Nelly's--
The voices from the parlour below came up to her. She heard the
crackling of a newly lighted fire--Farrell reading aloud--and Nelly's
gentle laughter. She pictured the scene; the two on either side of the
fire, with Nelly's mourning, her plain widow's dress, as the symbol--in
Nelly's eyes--of what divided her from Farrell, or any other suitor, and
made it possible to be his friend without fear. Bridget knew that Nelly
so regarded it. But that of course was just Nelly's foolish way of
looking at things. It was only a question of time.
And meanwhile the widow's dress had quite other meanings for Bridget.
She pondered long in the dark, till the supper bell rang.
At supper, her silence embarrassed and infected her companions, and
Farrell, finding it impossible to get another tête-à-tête with Nelly,
took his leave early. He must be up almost with the dawn so as to get to
Carton by nine o'clock.
* * * * *
Out of a stormy heaven the moon was breaking as he walked back to his
cottage. The solitude of the mountain ways, the freshness of the
rain-washed air, and the sweetness of his hour with Nelly, after the
bustle of the week, the arrivals and departures, the endless business,
of a great hospital:--he was conscious of them all, intensely conscious,
as parts of a single, delightful whole to which he had looked forward
for days. And yet he was restless and far from happy. He wandered about
the mountain roads for a long time--watching the moon as it rose above
the sharp steep of Loughrigg and sent long streamers of light down the
Elterwater valley, and up the great knees of the Pikes. The owls hooted
in the oak-woods, and the sound of water--the Brathay rushing over the
Skelwith rocks, and all the little becks in fell and field, near and
far--murmured through the night air, and made earth-music to the fells.
Farrell had much of the poet in him; and the mountains and their life
were dear to him. But he was rapidly passing into the stage when a man
over-mastered by his personal desires is no longer open to the soothing
of nature. He had recently had a long and confidential talk with his
lawyer at Carlisle, who was also his friend, and had informed himself
minutely about the state of the law. Seven years!--unless, of her own
free will, she took the infinitesimal risk of marriage before the period
was up.
But he despaired of her doing any such thing. He recognised fully that
the intimacy she allowed him, her sweet openness and confidingness, were
all conditioned by what she regarded as the fixed points in her life; by
her widowhood, legal and spiritual, and by her tacit reliance on his
recognition of the fact that she was set apart, bound as other widows
were not bound, protected by the very mystery of Sarratt's fate, from
any thought of re-marriage.
And he!--all the time the strength of a man's maturest passion was
mounting in his veins. And with it a foreboding--coming he knew not
whence--like the sudden shadow that, as he looked, blotted out the
moonlight on the shining bends and loops of the Brathay, where it
wandered through the Elterwater fields.