DAWN.

When Geoffrey felt certain that she was sleeping, his next care was to

examine the exterior of the Cave, thinking that there might probably be

openings between the stones that would admit a draught. The hurdle at

the doorway, full of minute interstices, and purposely placed loosely,

allowed sufficient air to enter for breathing; what he wished to prevent

was a current crossing the chamber, for though warm then, towards the

morning the atmosphere is usually cooler. He found that in the course

of the centuries the ground had risen materially, so that the floor

inside the cave was below the level of the sward without. This

partially closed the crevices between the rude slabs, and from the

raised turf grasses had grown thickly, and filled the remaining space

except in one spot. There the boulder wall, settling under the weight

of the capstone, leaned somewhat from the perpendicular and left a wide

chink. With his knife he cut a broad sod of turf, and placed it against

the aperture, grass side inwards, filling it up completely. Then,

stepping lightly that he might not wake her, he sought the horses, and

relieved them of their bridles, feeling certain that they would not

wander far. A few yards from the copse there was a slight incline of

the ground; there he sat down on the sward near enough to hear Margaret

in a moment should she call.

Now that his labour was over and the excitement had subsided, even his

powerful frame felt the effect of unusual exertion--besides riding, he

had run and walked many miles that night. Presently he involuntarily

reclined almost at full length, leaning on one arm; his weight crushed a

thick bunch of wild thyme that emitted a delicious scent. Tall dry

bennets and some low bushy heath grew at his side. On the left hand--

eastwards--stood a hawthorn bush; in front--southwards--was a deep

coombe, and beyond that a steep Down, towards the top of which grew a

few gaunt and scattered firs. As the moon swept slowly higher the pale

light fell upon the boulders and the dolmen as it had fallen for so many

ages past. The darkness in the deep valley became more intense as the

shadow of the hill grew more defined; where the moonlight fell upon the

slopes they shone with a greenish-grey reflection, which, when looked at

intently, vanished.

His dreamy eyes gazed far away over vale and hill, and watched a star

low down that, little dimmed by the dull moon, still scintillated; for

moonbeams check those bright flashes that sparkle over the sky. The

pointed top of a fir upon the ridge hid the star a moment, then passing

onward with the firmament it again looked down upon him. With the

everlasting hills around, his drowsy mind ran back into the Past, when

not only men but gods _and_ men played out their passions on those other

distant hills that looked on windy Troy. The star, still calmly

pursuing its way, seemed a link between then and now, but the hearts

that had throbbed with the warm hope of love, where were they? Oenone

wandering disconsolate because of Paris in the shady groves of Ida; the

zoned Helen with the face--

That launch'd a thousand ships,

And burnt the topless towers of Ilium.

The nameless graceful maidens with the many-twinkling feet weaving with

their steps, as the ears of corn in the breeze weave mystic measures

under the summer sun--whose limbs still seem to move in joyful

procession, winding round many an antique vase. Where, too, were they?

Where the hope and joy of the early days? And Margaret, beautiful

Margaret, slumbering--but living--in the massive tomb, where should she

be, and _his_ love? His weary head drooped on the pillow of thyme; with

a deep-drawn sigh he slept.

The star went on. In the meadows of the vale far away doubtless there

were sounds of the night. On the hills it was absolute silence--

profound rest. They slept peacefully, and the moon rose to the

meridian. The pale white glow on the northern horizon slipped towards

the east. After awhile a change came over the night. The hills and

coombes became grey and more distinct, the sky lighter, the stars faint,

the moon that had been ruddy became yellow, and then almost white.

Yet a little while, and one by one the larks arose from the grass, and

first twittering and vibrating their brown wings just above the hawthorn

bushes, presently breasted the aerial ascent, and sang at "Heaven's

Gate."

Geoffrey awoke and leaned upon his arm; his first thought was of

Margaret, and he looked towards the copse. All was still; then in the

dawn the strangeness of that hoary relic of the past sheltering so

lovely a form came home to him. Next he gazed eastwards.

There a great low bank, a black wall of cloud, was rising rapidly,

extending on either hand, growing momentarily broader, darker,

threatening to cover the sky. He watched it come up swiftly, and saw

that as it neared it became lighter in colour, first grey, then white.

It was the morning mist driven along before the breeze, whose breath had

not reached him yet. In a few minutes the wall of vapour passed over

him as the waters rolled over Pharaoh. A puff of wind blew his hair

back from his forehead, then another and another; presently a steady

breeze, cool and refreshing. The mist drove rapidly along; after awhile

gaps appeared overhead, and through these he saw broad spaces of blue

sky, the colour growing and deepening. The gaps widened, the mist

became thinner; then this, the first wave of vapour, was gone, creeping

up the hillside behind him like the rearguard of an army.

Out from the last fringe of mist shone a great white globe. Like molten

silver, glowing with a lusciousness of light, soft and yet brilliant, so

large and bright and seemingly so near--but just above the ridge

yonder-shining with heavenly splendour in the very dayspring. He knew

Eosphoros, the Light-Bringer, the morning star of hope and joy and love,

and his heart went out towards the beauty and the glory of it. Under

him the broad bosom of the earth seemed to breathe instinct with life,

bearing him up, and from the azure ether came the wind, filling his

chest with the vigour of the young day.

The azure ether--yes, and more than that! Who that has seen it can

forget the wondrous beauty of the summer morning's sky? It is blue--it

is sapphire--it is like the eye of a lovely woman. A rich purple shines

through it; no painter ever approached the colour of it, no Titian or

other, none from the beginning. Not even the golden flesh of Rubens'

women, through the veins in whose limbs a sunlight pulses in lieu of

blood shining behind the tissues, can equal the hues that glow behind

the blue.

The East flamed out at last. Pencilled streaks of cloud high in the

dome shone red. An orange light rose up and spread about the horizon,

then turned crimson, and the upper edge of the sun's disk lifted itself

over the hill. A swift beam of light shot like an arrow towards him,

and the hawthorn bush obeyed with instant shadow: it passed beyond him

over the green plain, up the ridge and away. The great orb, quivering

with golden flames, looked forth upon the world.

He arose and involuntarily walked a few steps towards it, his heart

swelling, the inner voice lifted. The larks sang with all their might,

the swallows played high overhead. When he turned, Margaret had risen

and came to meet him, blushing, and trying in vain to push back her

hair, that had become slightly loosened. The breeze revelled in it.

"Is it not beautiful?" she said, as they shook hands, looking round. He

gazed into her eyes till the fringes drooped and hid them: then he

kissed her hand. Her cheeks burned; she withdrew it quickly. "We must

go," she said, all confused. He would gladly have prolonged that

moment, but went loyally to do her bidding. He had no difficulty with

the horses, they had wandered but a short distance; the grey's lameness

had nearly gone off, probably it would quite when he warmed to his work.

They were soon mounted; but then came the old question, which way to

ride? Margaret could not recognise any of the hills. Geoffrey decided

to ride direct east, towards the sun, thinking that if they kept in one

direction they must cross a road presently. They started along the

ridge with a deep valley on the right hand, and keeping a sharp look-out

in the expectation of seeing a shepherd soon, for Margaret was naturally

anxious to get into a civilised locality.

"There is a cloud coming towards us," she said presently.

Another great wave of vapour was sweeping up, and had already hidden the

sun. It crept up the slope of the hill on which they rode like a rising

tide--the edge clearly marked--and enveloped them. They went slowly,

thinking of flint-pits, and not able to see many yards. Presently the

breeze opened a gap overhead, and they were between two huge walls of

mist. They drew rein, and in a few minutes the dense white vapour

insensibly melted and the sun shone. But then as it rolled away and the

ridges of the hills appeared the cloud-like mist visibly undulated about

their summits, now rising, now falling, like the vast low waves of the

ocean after the wind has sunk. Here and there the mist caught and held

the sunlight, and seemed lit up from within; then it disappeared, and

the bright spot transferred itself to a distant range. A few more

minutes and the breeze carried the vapour away, and they rode forward,

and after some distance passed through a forest of furze. A rabbit now

and then scampered away, and the stone-chats flew from bush to bush and

repeated their short note. Suddenly, in following the narrow winding

opening between the furze, the grey snorted and stopped short. Geoffrey

looked and saw a labouring man asleep upon the sward, his head pillowed

on a small boulder stone, or sarsen. He called to him, and the man

moved and sat up.

"Why!" said Margaret in amazement; "why, it is our shepherd, Jabez!"

"Eez, miss, it be I," rubbing his eyes; "and main stiff I be."

"How ever did you come here?"

"Where are we?" said Geoffrey. "What part of the Down is this? Where

are Moonlight Firs?"

"Aw, doan'tee caddie me zo, measter."

"But we want to get home," said Margaret. "Now tell us quickly."

"Be you lost too, miss?" The shepherd to save his life could not have

answered a question direct.

"You don't mean that you have been lost, Jabez?"

"I wur last night. I twisted thuck leg."

"But where are we?"

"Aw, you bean't very fur from th' Warren."

"Only think," said Margaret, "all the while we were close where I

started from. If May had known we were on the hills! We had better go

to Mr Fisher's. No one will be about, and I can go home later in the

day."

"Show me the way to the Warren," said Geoffrey. "Why don't you get up?"

"I tell ee my leg be twisted. I fell in a vlint-pit."

"Well, point out the road, and I will return and fetch you."

"Aw, you must go away on your left, toward thuck Folly--a' be about a

mile. It bean't six chain from he to th' waggon ruts as goes to Warren.

But if you goes up the hill by the nut copse that'll be sharter.

Doan't forget I. Zend Bill wi' the cart."

By following these directions they found Warren House in about half an

hour. Margaret's chief idea in returning there was because at so lonely

a place their appearance at that early hour would attract less

attention, and because she was hungry and thirsty, and the distance was

much less than the ride to Greene Ferne. They could hear the clack of

the mill as they approached; at the house, in front the shutters were

not yet down, but Margaret, who knew the ways of the place, rode into

the courtyard at the back, where was the dairy.

"Good morning, Jenny," she said. A stout florid woman, who was carrying

a bucket of water, looked up, started, and dropped it.

"Lor, miss, how you did froughten I! I be all of a jimmy-swiver," and

she visibly trembled, which was what she meant. Then seeing Geoffrey,

she dropped a curtsey and began to wipe her naked arms and hands with

her apron.

"I suppose Mr Fisher is in the barn?" said Margaret, not wishing the

inquisitive old man to know the manner of their arrival.

"No, a' bean't up yet, miss. He be mostly about by four or ha'past; but

he freggled [fidgeted] hisself auver thuck paason as come a bit ago, and

a' be a'bed to marning."

"Lucky," said Margaret, dismounting. "I'll go and wake May."

She went indoors, knowing the house well. "I'll put your 'osses in,"

said Jenny. "Our volk be in th' pens, a' reckon."

"I thought your master was a very aged man," said Geoffrey, as he went

with her to the stable.

"He be nigh handy on a hunderd."

"Surely he does not rise at four o'clock?"

"Aw, eez a' do though. He be as hardy as a wood-pile toad!"

"Can you tell me where to find a cart? I must go myself and fetch the

shepherd," and he told her briefly how matters stood, trusting in her

honest open countenance to keep silence as far as possible. Obviously

it was undesirable that the events of the night should be generally

known.

"What, Jabez lost!" said she. "'Tis amazin' sure--ly. He said as he

could find his way athwert them downs with his head in a sack bag.

Wull, to be zure!"

With her aid Geoffrey soon had a cart and cart-horse, and taking with

him a bottle of brandy, which May sent down, her kindly heart thinking

poor Jabez, with his sprained ankle, would require something, set forth

to fetch the shepherd, who was indeed in a "parlous case." He found him

without difficulty, for Jabez saw him coming, and shouted directions in

a voice famous for its power. But getting him into the cart was another

thing, and many applications to the bottle were necessary before he was

safely up. As they jogged over the hill, Geoffrey inquired how so

experienced a man, who could cross the downs with his head in a bag,

ever came to get lost.

"Why," said the shepherd, solemnly shaking his head, "it wur the Ould Un

hisself, it wur. He led I by th' nause round and round--a' bides in

thuck place wur them gurt stwoanes be. Mebbe a' caddled [bothered] you

and miss too?"

"Why do you think it was the Dev--, what you call the Old One?"

"Cos 'twur he," dogmatically. "Cos Job, he run away, and nothing but

the Ould Un would a' froughtened he."

"Job?"

"He's my dog. I be as dry as a gicks,"--the withered stem of a plant.

He took another swig at the bottle, and, much encouraged thereby, lifted

up his ditty in praise of shepherding:

"The shepherd he stood on the side of the hill,

And he looked main cold and peaked;

Says, `If it wurn't for the sheep and the pore shepherd

The warld would be starved and naked!'"

"You seem tolerably philosophic," said Geoffrey, "for a man with a

sprained ankle; but you have not told me yet how you got lost."

"Aw, bailee, thuck thur 'Gustus, sent me to Ilsley market wi' dree-score

yeows and lambs, zum on en wur doubles as vine as ever you seed--and I

wur a coming whoam at night, doan'tee zee? I never had but one quart

anyhow and mebbe a nip a' summat else. It wur th' Ould Un and no

mistake. But then he goes off--drat th' varmint, I'll warm his jacket

when a' shows his face agen. I looks about for he, and misses the path,

and then I wur took by the nause and drawed round and round!" (With his

finger he described circles in the air to illustrate his meaning.)

"Bime-by--whop! I falls into a vlint-pit. The nettles did bite my face

terrable! I bided there a main bit and then crawls up to the vuzz

[furze]. My droat wur zo thick I couldn't holler; and Lor! how the

stars did go spinning round! I seed a fire arter a bit by them stwoanes

at th' Cave, and thenks I thuck be He this time, you--"

"So you took us for the Ould Un?"

"Wull, I axes your pardin. A'wuver I couldn't crawl no furder, zo I

lays down in the vuzz and thenks a' Jacob and puts my head on a sarsen

stwoan--"

"And slept till we found you?"

"Eez; this be featish tackle," meaning the liquor was good.

"It strikes me," said Geoffrey, "the demon that led you astray dwelt in

a stone jar, with a wicker-work casing." After which he suggested to

the shepherd the desirability of his remaining silent about the affairs

of the night, so far as regarded Margaret and himself, and enforced his

argument with the present of half a sovereign. The shepherd's eye

glistened at the coin.

"Bless'ee," said he, "I worked for hur feyther. I sha'n't know nothing,

you med be sure." Shortly after, they arrived at Warren House. There

Geoffrey found that May had got breakfast ready in the parlour, and was

made welcome. Jenny brought in a jug of cream for their tea.

"You can't swing it on your finger," said Margaret, laughing.

"Our housekeeper," explained May to Geoffrey, "I mean Jane, not Jenny,

is rather fond of gin, dreadful creature. To get it she has to cross

the room in front of grandpa's chair; so to deceive him and make believe

there's nothing in it, she swings the jug slowly on her finger, when

it's half full all the while. One day, however, he insisted on smelling

the jug."

They discussed and laughed over Margaret and Geoffrey's adventure on the

hills, and it was agreed that every effort should be made to conceal it

from all but Mrs Estcourt. Margaret had lost one of her earrings, but

May said the labourers should be told to look for it, and one or other

would very likely find it, if it had been dropped in or near the Cave.

After breakfast, between six and seven o'clock, when folks in town were

just settling into slumber, May sat down to the ancient piano and began

to play. It was one of those antique instruments, found in old houses,

which shut up and look like a sideboard, of five octaves only, and small

keys, yellow from age, upon which they say our grandmothers played with

the backs of their hands level with the keyboard, and without dropping a

guinea if one was placed on their white knuckles. Through the open

window the warm sunlight entered, tinting Margaret's brown hair with

gold. There came the odour of many flowers, the hum of bees, and the

distant sound of rushing water. It was a joyous hour of youth. May and

Margaret sang alternately the beautiful old ballad of which they say Sir

Walter Raleigh wrote the antistrophe--the reply to the Passionate

Shepherd's desire, "Come live with me, and be my love!"