Old Lady Harbinger dying in the early February of the following year,
the marriage of Barbara with her son was postponed till June.
Much of the wild sweetness of Spring still clung to the high moor
borders of Monkland on the early morning of the wedding day.
Barbara was already up and dressed for riding when her maid came to call
her; and noting Stacey's astonished eyes fix themselves on her boots,
she said:
“Well, Stacey?”
“It'll tire you.”
“Nonsense; I'm not going to be hung.”
Refusing the company of a groom, she made her way towards the stretch of
high moor where she had ridden with Courtier a year ago. Here over the
short, as yet unflowering, heather, there was a mile or more of level
galloping ground. She mounted steadily, and her spirit rode, as it were,
before her, longing to get up there among the peewits and curlew, to
feel the crisp, peaty earth slip away under her, and the wind drive
in her face, under that deep blue sky. Carried by this warm-blooded
sweetheart of hers, ready to jump out of his smooth hide with pleasure,
snuffling and sneezing in sheer joy, whose eye she could see straying
round to catch a glimpse of her intentions, from whose lips she could
hear issuing the sweet bitt-music, whose vagaries even seemed designed
to startle from her a closer embracing—she was filled with a sort of
delicious impatience with everything that was not this perfect communing
with vigour.
Reaching the top, she put him into a gallop. With the wind furiously
assailing her face and throat, every muscle crisped; and all her blood
tingling—this was a very ecstasy of motion!
She reined in at the cairn whence she and Courtier had looked down at
the herds of ponies. It was the merest memory now, vague and a little
sweet, like the remembrance of some exceptional Spring day, when trees
seem to flower before your eyes, and in sheer wantonness exhale a scent
of lemons. The ponies were there still, and in distance the shining
sea. She sat thinking of nothing, but how good it was to be alive. The
fullness and sweetness of it all, the freedom and strength! Away to the
West over a lonely farm she could see two buzzard hawks hunting in
wide circles. She did not envy them—so happy was she, as happy as the
morning. And there came to her suddenly the true, the overmastering
longing of mountain tops.
“I must,” she thought; “I simply must!”
Slipping off her horse she lay down on her back, and at once everything
was lost except the sky. Over her body, supported above solid earth by
the warm, soft heather, the wind skimmed without sound or touch. Her
spirit became one with that calm unimaginable freedom. Transported
beyond her own contentment, she no longer even knew whether she was
joyful.
The horse Hal, attempting to eat her sleeve, aroused her. She mounted
him, and rode down. Near home she took a short cut across a meadow,
through which flowed two thin bright streams, forming a delta full of
lingering 'milkmaids,' mauve marsh orchis, and yellow flags. From end to
end of this long meadow, so varied, so pied with trees and stones, and
flowers, and water, the last of the Spring was passing.
Some ponies, shyly curious of Barbara and her horse, stole up, and stood
at a safe distance, with their noses dubiously stretched out, swishing
their lean tails. And suddenly, far up, following their own music, two
cuckoos flew across, seeking the thorn-trees out on the moor. While
she was watching the arrowy birds, she caught sight of someone coming
towards her from a clump of beech-trees, and suddenly saw that it was
Mrs. Noel!
She rode forward, flushing. What dared she say? Could she speak of her
wedding, and betray Miltoun's presence? Could she open her mouth at
all without rousing painful feeling of some sort? Then, impatient of
indecision, she began:
“I'm so glad to see you again. I didn't know you were still down here.”
“I only came back to England yesterday, and I'm just here to see to the
packing of my things.”
“Oh!” murmured Barbara. “You know what's happening to me, I suppose?”
Mrs. Noel smiled, looked up, and said: “I heard last night. All joy to
you!”
A lump rose in Barbara's throat.
“I'm so glad to have seen you,” she murmured once more; “I expect I
ought to be getting on,” and with the word “Good-bye,” gently echoed,
she rode away.
But her mood of delight was gone; even the horse Hal seemed to tread
unevenly, for all that he was going back to that stable which ever
appeared to him desirable ten minutes after he had left it.
Except that her eyes seemed darker, Mrs. Noel had not changed. If she
had shown the faintest sign of self-pity, the girl would never have
felt, as she did now, so sorry and upset.
Leaving the stables, she saw that the wind was driving up a huge, white,
shining cloud. “Isn't it going to be fine after all!” she thought.
Re-entering the house by an old and so-called secret stairway that
led straight to the library, she had to traverse that great dark room.
There, buried in an armchair in front of the hearth she saw Miltoun with
a book on his knee, not reading, but looking up at the picture of the
old Cardinal. She hurried on, tiptoeing over the soft carpet, holding
her breath, fearful of disturbing the queer interview, feeling guilty,
too, of her new knowledge, which she did not mean to impart. She had
burnt her fingers once at the flame between them; she would not do so a
second time!
Through the window at the far end she saw that the cloud had burst; it
was raining furiously. She regained her bedroom unseen. In spite of her
joy out there on the moor, this last adventure of her girlhood had not
been all success; she had again the old sensations, the old doubts, the
dissatisfaction which she had thought dead. Those two! To shut one's
eyes, and be happy—was it possible! A great rainbow, the nearest she
had ever seen, had sprung up in the park, and was come to earth again
in some fields close by. The sun was shining out already through the
wind-driven bright rain. Jewels of blue had begun to star the black and
white and golden clouds. A strange white light-ghost of Spring passing
in this last violent outburst-painted the leaves of every tree; and a
hundred savage hues had come down like a motley of bright birds on moor
and fields.
The moment of desperate beauty caught Barbara by the throat. Its spirit
of galloping wildness flew straight into her heart. She clasped her
hands across her breast to try and keep that moment. Far out, a cuckoo
hooted-and the immortal call passed on the wind. In that call all the
beauty, and colour, and rapture of life seemed to be flying by. If she
could only seize and evermore have it in her heart, as the buttercups
out there imprisoned the sun, or the fallen raindrops on the sweetbriars
round the windows enclosed all changing light! If only there were no
chains, no walls, and finality were dead!
Her clock struck ten. At this time to-morrow! Her cheeks turned hot;
in a mirror she could see them burning, her lips scornfully curved, her
eyes strange. Standing there, she looked long at herself, till, little
by little, her face lost every vestige of that disturbance, became solid
and resolute again. She ceased to have the galloping wild feeling in her
heart, and instead felt cold. Detached from herself she watched, with
contentment, her own calm and radiant beauty resume the armour it had
for that moment put off.
After dinner that night, when the men left the dining-hall, Miltoun
slipped away to his den. Of all those present in the little church he
had seemed most unemotional, and had been most moved. Though it had
been so quiet and private a wedding, he had resented all cheap festivity
accompanying the passing of his young sister. He would have had that
ceremony in the little dark disused chapel at the Court; those two,
and the priest alone. Here, in this half-pagan little country church
smothered hastily in flowers, with the raw singing of the half-pagan
choir, and all the village curiosity and homage-everything had jarred,
and the stale aftermath sickened him. Changing his swallow-tail to an
old smoking jacket, he went out on to the lawn. In the wide darkness he
could rid himself of his exasperation.
Since the day of his election he had not once been at Monkland; since
Mrs. Noel's flight he had never left London. In London and work he had
buried himself; by London and work he had saved himself! He had gone
down into the battle.
Dew had not yet fallen, and he took the path across the fields. There
was no moon, no stars, no wind; the cattle were noiseless under
the trees; there were no owls calling, no night-jars churring, the
fly-by-night chafers were not abroad. The stream alone was alive in
the quiet darkness. And as Miltoun followed the wispy line of grey path
cleaving the dim glamour of daisies and buttercups, there came to him
the feeling that he was in the presence, not of sleep, but of eternal
waiting. The sound of his footfalls seemed desecration. So devotional
was that hush, burning the spicy incense of millions of leaves and
blades of grass.
Crossing the last stile he came out, close to her deserted cottage,
under her lime-tree, which on the night of Courtier's adventure had hung
blue-black round the moon. On that side, only a rail, and a few shrubs
confined her garden.
The house was all dark, but the many tall white flowers, like a bright
vapour rising from earth, clung to the air above the beds. Leaning
against the tree Miltoun gave himself to memory.
From the silent boughs which drooped round his dark figure, a little
sleepy bird uttered a faint cheep; a hedgehog, or some small beast of
night, rustled away in the grass close by; a moth flew past, seeking
its candle flame. And something in Miltoun's heart took wings after it,
searching for the warmth and light of his blown candle of love. Then,
in the hush he heard a sound as of a branch ceaselessly trailed through
long grass, fainter and fainter, more and more distinct; again fainter;
but nothing could he see that should make that homeless sound. And the
sense of some near but unseen presence crept on him, till the hair moved
on his scalp. If God would light the moon or stars, and let him see! If
God would end the expectation of this night, let one wan glimmer down
into her garden, and one wan glimmer into his breast! But it stayed
dark, and the homeless noise never ceased. The weird thought came to
Miltoun that it was made by his own heart, wandering out there, trying
to feel warm again. He closed his eyes and at once knew that it was not
his heart, but indeed some external presence, unconsoled. And stretching
his hands out he moved forward to arrest that sound. As he reached the
railing, it ceased. And he saw a flame leap up, a pale broad pathway of
light blanching the grass.
And, realizing that she was there, within, he gasped. His fingernails
bent and broke against the iron railing without his knowing. It was not
as on that night when the red flowers on her windowsill had wafted their
scent to him; it was no sheer overpowering rush of passion. Profounder,
more terrible, was this rising up within him of yearning for love—as if,
now defeated, it would nevermore stir, but lie dead on that dark grass
beneath those dark boughs. And if victorious—what then? He stole back
under the tree.
He could see little white moths travelling down that path of lamplight;
he could see the white flowers quite plainly now, a pale watch of
blossoms guarding the dark sleepy ones; and he stood, not reasoning,
hardly any longer feeling; stunned, battered by struggle. His face and
hands were sticky with the honey-dew, slowly, invisibly distilling from
the lime-tree. He bent down and felt the grass. And suddenly there came
over him the certainty of her presence. Yes, she was there—out on the
verandah! He could see her white figure from head to foot; and, not
realizing that she could not see him, he expected her to utter some cry.
But no sound came from her, no gesture; she turned back into the
house. Miltoun ran forward to the railing. But there, once more,
he stopped—unable to think, unable to feel; as it were abandoned by
himself. And he suddenly found his hand up at his mouth, as though there
were blood there to be staunched that had escaped from his heart.
Still holding that hand before his mouth, and smothering the sound of
his feet in the long grass, he crept away.