THE OLD COUNTRY.
It was a still, clear evening of spring when Wyllard, unstrapping the
ruchsack from his shoulders, sat down beside a frothing stream in a
dale of Northern England. On arriving in London a week or two earlier
he had found a letter from Mrs. Hastings, who was then in Paris,
awaiting him, in which she stated that she could not at the moment say
when she would go home again, but that she expected to advise him
shortly. After answering it he started North, and, obtaining Agatha's
address from Miss Rawlinson, went on again to a certain little town
which stands encircled by towering fells beside a lake in the North
Country.
He had, however, already recognised that his mission was rather a
delicate one, and he decided that it would be advisable to wait until
he heard from Mrs. Hastings before calling upon Miss Ismay. There then
remained the question, what to do with the next few days. A
conversation with some pedestrian tourists whom he met at his hotel,
and a glance at a map of the hill-tracks decided him, and remembering
that he had on several occasions kept the trail in Canada for close on
forty miles on end, he bought a Swiss pattern ruchsack, and set out on
foot through the fells.
Incidentally, he saw such scenery as gave him a new conception of the
Old Country, and nearly broke the hearts of his new friends the
tourists, who volunteered to show him the way over what they evidently
considered to be a rather difficult pass. To their great astonishment
the brown-faced stranger, who wore ordinary tight-fitting American
attire and rather pointed American shoes, went up it apparently without
an effort, and for the credit of the clubs they belonged to, it seemed
incumbent on them to keep pace with him. They naturally did not know
that he had carried bags of flour and mining tools over very much
higher passes close up to the limit of eternal snow, but after two
days' climbing they were, on the whole, relieved to part company with
him.
A professional guide who overtook them, however, recognised the
capabilities of the man when he noticed the way he lifted his feet and
how he set them down. This, he decided, was one accustomed to walking
among the heather, but he was wrong; for it was the trick the bushman
learns when he plods through leagues of undergrowth and fallen
branches, or the tall grass of the swamps; and it is a memorable
experience to make a day's journey with such a man. For the first hour
the thing seems easy, for the pace is never forced, but it also never
slackens down; and as the hours go by the novice, who flounders and
stumbles, grows horribly weary of trying to keep up with that steady,
persistent swing.
Wyllard had travelled since morning along a ridge of fells when he sat
down beside the water and contentedly filled his pipe. On the one
hand, a wall of crags high above was growing black against the evening
light, and the stream came boiling down clear as crystal among great
boulder stones; but he had wandered through many a grander and more
savage scene of rocky desolation, and it impressed him less than the
green valley in front of him. He had, at least, never seen anything
like that either on the Pacific slope or in Western Canada.
Early as it was in the season, the meadows between rock and water were
green as emerald, and the hedge-rows, just flushed with verdure, were
clipped and trimmed as though their owner loved them. There was not a
dead tree in the larch copse which dipped to the stream, and all its
feathery tassels were sprinkled with tiny flecks of crimson and
wondrous green. Great oaks dotted the meadows, each one perfect in
symmetry. It seemed that the men who held this land cared for single
trees. The sleek, tame cattle that rubbed their necks on the level
hedge-top and gazed at him ruminatively were very different from the
wild, long-horned creatures whose furious stampede he had now and then
headed off, riding hard while the roar of hoofs rang through the
dust-cloud that floated like a sea fog across the sun-scorched prairie.
Here, it seemed, all went smoothly; the whole vale was steeped in peace
and tranquillity.
Then he noticed the pale primroses that pushed their yellow flowers up
among the withered leaves, and the faint blue sheen beneath the beech
trunks not far away. There was a vein of artistic daintiness in this
man, and the elusive beauty of these things curiously appealed to him.
He had seen the riotous, sensuous blaze of flowers kissed by Pacific
breezes, and the burnished gold of wheat that rolled in mile-long
waves; but it seemed to him that the wild things of the English North
were, after all, more wonderful. They matched its deep peacefulness;
their beauty was chaste, fairy-like, and ethereal.
By and bye a wood pigeon cooed softly somewhere in the shadows, and a
brown thrush perched on a bare oak bough began to sing. The broken,
repeated melody went curiously well with the rippling murmur of sliding
water, and Wyllard leaned back with a smile to listen, though he could
not remember ever having done anything of that kind before. His life
had been a strenuous one, spent for the most part in the driving-seat
of great ploughs that rent their ample furrows through virgin prairie,
guiding the clinking binders through the wheat under a blazing sun, or
driving the plunging dories through the clammy fog over short, slopping
seas. Now, however, the tranquillity of the English valley stole in on
him, and he began to understand how the love of that well-trimmed land
clung to the men out West, who spoke of it tenderly as the Old Country.
Then, for he was in an unusually susceptible mood, he took a little
deerhide case, artistically made by a Blackfoot Indian, from his
pocket, and extracted from it the somewhat faded photograph of an
English girl. He had got it from the lad he had buried among the
ranges of the Pacific slope, and it had been his companion in many a
desolate camp and on many a weary journey. The face was delicately
modelled, and there was a freshness in it which is, perhaps, seldom
seen outside the Old Country; but what pleased him more was the
serenity in the clear, innocent eyes.
He was not in love with the picture--he would probably have smiled at
the notion--but he had a curious feeling that he would meet the girl
some day, and that it would then be a privilege only to speak to her.
This was, after all, not so extravagant a fancy as it might appear, for
romance, the mother of chivalry and many graces, still finds shelter in
the hearts of such men as him from the wide spaces of the newer lands.
Shrewd as they are, and practical, they see visions now and then, and,
what is more, prove them to be realities with bleeding hands and toil
incredible.
By and bye he put the photograph back in his pocket, and filled his
pipe again, while it was almost dark before he had smoked it out. The
thrush had gone, and only the ripple of the water broke the silence,
until he heard footsteps on the stones behind him. Then, looking
round, he saw a young woman moving towards the river, and he watched
her with a quiet interest, for his perceptions were a little sharper
than usual then, and it seemed to him that she was very much in harmony
with what he thought of as the key-tone of the place. She was tall and
shapely, and she moved with a quiet grace. When she stopped a moment,
poised upon a shelf of rock as though considering the easiest way to
the water, her figure fell into reposeful lines, but that was after all
only what he had expected, for he now remembered that he had
half-consciously studied the Englishwomen he had met in the West.
The Western women usually moved, and certainly spoke, with an almost
superfluous vivacity and alertness. There was in them a feverish
activity, which contrasted with the English deliberation. The latter
had sometimes exasperated him, but it was becoming comprehensible, and
taking on a more favourable aspect now. It was, he felt, born of the
tranquillity of this well-trimmed land, a steadfastness that progressed
slowly by system and rule, and he recognised that it would have
troubled his sense of fitness if this girl had clattered down across
the stones hurriedly and noisily.
As yet he could not see her face, but when she went on a little further
it became evident that she desired to cross the river, and was
regarding the row of stepping stones that stretched across it somewhat
dubiously. One or two had apparently fallen over, or been washed away
by a flood, for there were several rather wide gaps between them,
through which the stream frothed whitely. As soon as Wyllard noticed
that, he rose and moved towards her.
"You want to get across?" he said.
She was still glancing at the water, but although he did not think she
had seen him or heard his approach, she turned towards him quietly.
Then a momentary sense of astonishment held him almost embarrassed, for
it was her picture he had gazed at scarcely half an hour ago, and he
would have recognised her anywhere.
"Yes," she said. "It is rather a long way round by the bridge, but
some of the stones seem to have disappeared since I last came this way."
She spoke, as Wyllard had expected, softly and quietly, but he was
first of all a man of action, and, somewhat to her astonishment, he
forthwith waded into the river. Then he turned and held out his hand
to her.
"It isn't a very long step. You ought to manage it," he said.
The girl favoured him with a swift glance of scrutiny. At first she
had supposed him to be one of the walking tourists or climbers who
invaded those valleys at Easter; but they were, for the most part,
young men from the cities, and this stranger's face was darkened by the
sun. There was also an indefinite suggestion of strength in the pose
of his lean, symmetrical figure, which, though she did not recognise
that fact, could only have come from strenuous labour in the open air.
She, however, noticed that while the average Englishman would have
asked permission to help her, or have deprecated the offer, this
stranger did nothing of the kind. He stood with the water frothing
about his ankles, holding out his hand.
She had no hesitation about taking it, and while he waded through the
river she stepped lightly from stone to stone until she came to a
rather wider gap, where the stream was deeper. Then she stopped a
moment, gazing at the sliding froth, until the man's grasp tightened on
her fingers, and she felt his other hand rest upon her waist.
"Now," he said, "I won't let you fall."
[Illustration: "'Now,' he said, 'I won't let you fall.'"]
She was across the gap in another moment, wondering somewhat uneasily
why she had obeyed the compelling pressure, but glad to see that his
face was perfectly unmoved, and that he was evidently quite unconscious
of having done anything unusual. She crossed without mishap, and when
they stood on the shingle he dropped her hand.
"Thank you," she said. "I'm afraid you got rather wet."
The man laughed, and he had a pleasant laugh. "Oh," he said, "I'm used
to it. Isn't there a village with a hotel in it, a mile or two from
here?"
"Yes," said the girl, "this is the way. The path goes up to the high
road through the larch wood."
She turned into it, and, though she had not expected this, the man
walked beside her. Still, she did not resent it. His manner was
deferential, and she liked his face, while there was, after all, no
reason why he should stay behind when he was going the same way. He
accompanied her silently for several minutes as they went on through
the gloom of the larches, where a sweet, resinous odour crept into the
still, evening air, and then he looked up as they came to a towering
pine.
"Have you got many of those trees over here?" he asked.
Then a light dawned upon the girl, for, though he had spoken without
perceptible accent, she had been slightly puzzled by something in his
speech and appearance.
"I believe they're not uncommon. You are an American?" she said.
Wyllard laughed. "No," he said. "I was born in Western Canada, but I
think I'm as English as you are, in some respects, though I never quite
realised it until to-night. It isn't exactly because my father came
from this country, either."
The girl was a trifle astonished at this answer, and still more at the
indefinite something in his manner which seemed to indicate that he
expected her to understand, as, indeed, she did. Her only dowry had
been an expensive education, and she remembered that the influence of
the isle she lived in had in turn fastened on Saxons, Norsemen,
Normans, and made them Englishmen. What was more, so far as she had
read, those who had gone out South or Westwards had carried that
influence with them and, under all their surface changes, and sometimes
their grievances against the Motherland, were, in the great essentials,
wholly English still.
"But," she said at random, "how can you be sure that I'm English?"
It was quite dark in among the trees, but she fancied there was a smile
in her companion's eyes.
"Oh," he answered simply, "you couldn't be anything else!"
She accepted this as a compliment, though she fancied that it had not
been his direct intention to pay her one. His general attitude since
she had met him scarcely suggested such a lack of sense. She was
becoming mildly interested in this stranger, but she possessed several
essentially English characteristics, and it did not appear advisable to
encourage him too much. She said nothing further, and it was he who
spoke first.
"I wonder," he said, "if you knew a young lad who went out to Canada
some few years ago. His name was Pattinson--Henry Pattinson."
"No," said his companion, "I certainly did not. Besides, the name is
not an uncommon one. There are a good many Pattinsons in the North."
Wyllard was not astonished at this answer. He had reasons for
believing that the name the lad he had befriended had enrolled himself
under was not his correct one. It would, of course, have been easy to
describe him, but Wyllard was shrewd, and noticing that there was now a
restraint in his companion's manner he was not prepared to do that yet.
He was aware that most of the English are characterised by a certain
reserve, and apt to retire into their shells if pressed too hard. He
did not, however, mean to let this girl elude him altogether.
"It really doesn't matter," he said, "I shall no doubt get upon his
trail in due time."
They reached the high road a minute or two later, and the girl turned
to him.
"Thank you again," she said. "If you go straight on you will come to
the village in about a quarter of an hour."
Then she turned away and left him standing with his soft hat in his
hand, and, as it happened, he stood quite still for almost a minute
after she had gone. In due time, however, he reached the inn he had
inquired about, and its old-world simplicity delighted him. It was
built, feet thick, of slate stone, against the foot of the fell, and
roofed, as he noticed, with ponderous flags. In Canada, where the
frost was Arctic, they used thin cedar shingles. The room his meal was
brought him in was panelled with oak that had turned black with age.
Great rough-hewn beams of four times the size that anybody would have
used for the purpose in the West supported the low ceiling, and--for
there was a fire on the wide hearth--the ruddy gleam of burnished
copper utensils pierced the shadows. The room was large, and there was
only a single candle upon the table, but he felt that a garish light
would somehow be out of harmony with the atmosphere of that interior.
By and bye his hostess appeared to clear the things away, and she was a
little, withered old woman, immaculately neat, with shrewd, kindly
eyes, and a russet tinge in her cheeks.
"There's a good light, and company in the sitting-room," she said.
"We've three young men staying with us. They've been up the Pike."
"I'd sooner stay here, if I may," said Wyllard. "I don't quite know
yet if I'll go on to-morrow. One can get through to Langley Dale by
the Hause, as I think you call it?"
The wrinkled dame said that pedestrians often went that way, and
Wyllard asked a question casually.
"There are some prosperous folks--people of station living round here?
"There's the vicar. I don't know that he's what you'd call prosperous.
Then there's Mr. Martindale, of Rushyholme, and Little, of the Ghyll."
"Has any of them a daughter of about twenty-four years of age?" and
Wyllard described the girl he had met to the best of his ability.
It was evident that the landlady did not recognise the description, but
she seemed to consider.
"No," she said, "there's nobody like that; but I did hear that they'd a
young lady staying at the vicarage."
Then she changed the subject abruptly, and Wyllard once more decided
that the English did not like questions.
"You're a stranger, sir?" she said.
"I am," said Wyllard. "I've some business to attend to further on, but
I came along on foot, to see the fells, and I'm glad I did. It's a
great and wonderful country you're living in. That is," he added
gravely, "when you get outside the towns. There are things in some of
them that most make one ill."
Then he stood up. "That tray's too heavy for you. Won't you let me
carry it?"
The landlady seemed astonished, but she made it clear that she desired
no assistance, and when she went out Wyllard, who sat down again, took
out the photograph. He gazed at it steadfastly, and then put it back
into his pocket.
"There's rather more than mere prettiness there, but I don't know that
I want to keep it now," he said. "It's way behind the original. She
has grown in the meanwhile--just as one would expect that girl to grow."
Then he lighted his pipe, and smoked thoughtfully until he appeared to
arrive at a decision.
"One can't force the running in this country. They don't like it," he
said. "I'll lie by a day or two, and keep an eye on that vicarage."
In the meanwhile his hostess was discussing him with a niece.
"I'm sure I don't know what that man is," she informed the younger
woman. "He has got the manners of a gentleman, but he walks like a
fell shepherd, and his hands are like a navvy's. A man's hands now and
then tell you a good deal about him. Besides, of all things, he wanted
to carry his tray away. Said it was too heavy for me."
"Oh," said her niece, "he's an American. There's no accounting for
them."