CHAPTER II

Produced by Al Haines

WINDYRIDGE

BY

W. RILEY

HERBERT JENKINS LIMITED

YORK STREET, ST. JAMES'S

LONDON S.W.1.

1915

_POPULAR EDITION._

_Printed in Great Britain by Love & Malcomson, Ltd.,

London and Redhill._

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I. THE CALL OF THE HEATHER

II. FARMER GOODENOUGH STATES HIS TERMS

III. GRACE MEETS THE SQUIRE

IV. THE STUDIO

V. FARMER BROWN IS PHOTOGRAPHED

VI. OVER THE MOOR TO ROMANTON

VII. THE CYNIC DISCOURSES ON WOMAN

VIII. CHRISTMAS DAY AT WINDYRIDGE

IX. MRS. BROWN EXPLAINS

X. INTRODUCES WIDOW ROBERTSHAW

XI. GINTY RUNS AWAY

XII. THE CYNIC EXAGGERATES

XIII. WHITSUNTIDE EXPERIENCES

XIV. BARJONA FALLS INTO THE TRAP

XV. ROSE ARRIVES

XVI. THE CYNIC SPEAKS IN PARABLES

XVII. GRACE BECOMES DEJECTED

XVIII. CARRIER TED RECEIVES NOTICE TO QUIT

XIX. BARJONA'S DOWNFALL

XX. THE CYNIC'S RENUNCIATION

XXI. AT ZERMATT

XXII. THE HEATHER PULLS

XXIII. THE PARABLE OF THE HEATHER

XXIV. ROGER TREFFIT INTRODUCES "MISS TERRY"

XXV. THE RETURN OF THE PRODIGAL

XXVI. THE CYNIC BRINGS NEWS OF GINTY

XXVII. MOTHER HUBBARD HEARS THE CALL

XXVIII. IN THE CRUCIBLE

XXIX. THE GREAT STORM

XXX. CALM AFTER STORM

WINDYRIDGE

CHAPTER I

THE CALL OF THE HEATHER

I am beginning to-day a new volume in the book of my life. I wrote the

Prologue to it yesterday when I chanced upon this hamlet, and my Inner

Self peremptorily bade me take up my abode here. My Inner Self often

insists upon a course which has neither rhyme nor reason to recommend

it, but as I am a woman I can plead instinct as the explanation--or

shall I say the excuse?--of my eccentric conduct. Yet I don't think I

have ever been quite so mad before as I fully realise that I am now,

and the delight of it all is that I don't care and I don't repent,

although twenty-four hours have passed since I impulsively asked the

price of my cottage, and found that I could have it, studio and all,

for a yearly rental of ten pounds. I have never been a tenant "on my

own" before, and the knowledge that I am not going back to the attic

bedroom and the hard "easy" chairs of the Chelsea lodging-house which

has been my home for the last three years fills me with a great joy. I

feel as if I should suffocate if I were to go back, but it is my soul

which would be smothered. Subconsciously I have been panting for

Windyridge for months, and my soul recognised the place and leaped to

the discovery instantaneously.

Yet how strange it all seems: how ridiculously fantastic! I cannot get

away from that thought, and I am constantly asking myself whether

Providence or Fate, or any other power with a capital letter at the

beginning, is directing the move for my good, or whether it is just

whimsicalness on my part, self-originated and self-explanatory--the

explanation being that I am mad, as I said before.

When I look back on the events of the last three days and realise that

I have crossed my Rubicon and burned my boats behind me, and that I had

no conscious intention of doing anything of the kind when I set out, I

just gasp. If I had stayed to reason with myself I should never have

had the courage to pack a few things into a bag and take a third-class

ticket for Airlee at King's Cross, with the avowed intention of hearing

a Yorkshire choir sing in a summer festival. Yet it seems almost

prophetic as I recall the incident that I declined to take a return

ticket, though, to be sure, there was no advantage in doing so: no

reduction, I mean. Whether there was an advantage remains to be seen;

I verily believe I should have returned rather than have wasted that

return half. I dislike waste.

That was on Tuesday; on Wednesday I went to the Town Hall and entered a

new world. It cost me a good deal in coin of the realm--much more than

I had dreamed of--but I got it all back in the currency of heaven

before I came away. It may have been my excitable temperament--for my

mother, I remember, used to condone my faults by explaining that I was

"highly-strung," whatever that may mean--or it may have been the

Yorkshire blood in my veins which turned to fever heat as the vast

volume of sweet sound rose and fell; one thing is certain, I lost

myself completely, and did not find myself again until I discovered

that the room was almost bare of people, and realised by the

good-humoured glances of the few who remained that I appeared to be

more vacant than the room, and was making myself foolishly conspicuous

by remaining seated with my head in my hands and that far-away look in

my eyes which tells of "yonderliness."

To be quite candid, I am not quite sure that I _did_ find myself; I

suspect some tenant moved out and another moved in that afternoon, and

I am disposed to think that Airlee explains Windyridge. If I were to

attempt to put down in cold words what I heard or what I felt I should

fail, and it would seem very ordinary and uninspiring, so I shall not

make the attempt. But when I got outside, the noise of the busy city

grated on my senses, and the atmosphere--which was really not bad, for

the day was bright and sunny--seemed heavy and stifling. I longed for

something which I had not previously cared about; I did not understand

my yearnings--I do not yet--but I wanted to get away from the wooden

pavements, and the granite banks, and the brick warehouses, and the

huge hotels, and the smoke and bustle and din, and lay my head in the

lap of Nature, and think.

I slept a little, I am sure, but I tossed about a good deal in the cosy

little bed of the modest hotel where I took lodging, and when morning

came I found my Inner Self still harping on the same string, and more

vigorously than ever. Perhaps, if I had been sensible, I should have

gone straight to the station, and by this time have been going through

the old routine in Bloomsbury and Chelsea, instead of which I made my

way into the street after breakfast, and asked a kind-faced clergyman

which tramcar would take me farthest away from the turmoil. He was a

fatherly man, but his answers were so vague, and he seemed in so much

doubt of their reliability, that I disregarded them and accosted a

bright young workman who crossed the square a moment later. "A good

long ride?" he repeated; "right into the country, eh? Take this car

and go to the far end." With this he led me to one which bore the

fateful sign "Fawkshill."

It was a lovely day even in the city, warm but not muggy. When I had

found an outside seat at the extreme front of the upper deck of the

car, the greater part of which was covered, and redolent of tobacco

fumes, I made up my mind to enjoy the breeze and the experience. So

far as I knew it was just a parenthesis in a chapter of my life, not

the beginning of a new volume. In the background of my thoughts there

was always Chelsea, though I affected to forget it. Meantime, in the

foreground, there was a good deal to make even Chelsea attractive by

comparison.

We made our way slowly along the grimy road, with its rows of

monotonously uninteresting warehouses, and its endless drays filled

with the city's merchandise. When the warehouses ended the grime

remained. We passed street after street of brick-built cottages, over

which spread a canopy of smoke from a hundred factory chimneys. When

the country was reached--if the bleak and sad-looking fields could be

called country--the mill chimneys were just as evident. They were

everywhere, even on the horizon, and my spirits sank. The villages

through which we passed were just suburbs, with the thumb-print of the

city on them all. Every cottage, every villa, spoke of the mill or the

shop. As we neared the terminus I found to my dismay that so far from

leaving these things behind we were entering a prosperous-looking

little town which was just Airlee on a smaller scale, with its full

quota of smoke-producing factories. How I blamed myself for following

the advice of the young workman and regretted that I had not trusted

the parson!

I had an early lunch at a confectioner's and then wandered, aimlessly

enough, up a quiet road which led away from the town and the

tram-lines. It was not very promising at first, but when I had passed

the last row of houses and found myself hemmed in by green, moss-grown

walls, my spirits rose. By and by I reached cross-roads and a broad,

white highway, which was manifestly one of the great arteries of this

thriving district. It had no attractions for me and I crossed it, and

continued my upward path. A sign-post told me that I was on my way to

Windyridge.

I was now in a rather pleasant country road, but one which certainly

could boast few attractions. Yet I was attracted, perhaps because I

could see so little in front of me, perhaps because I could not see a

single factory chimney, look where I would.

Fifteen minutes after leaving Fawkshill I had reached the brow of the

hill, and my spirits rose with a bound. Just in front of me, on a

rising knoll, some fine sycamores and beeches clustered together,

guarding the approach to a grey, ivy-coated hall. The rooks cawed

dismally in the highest branches of the sycamores, the leaves of which

were already beginning to fall. Autumn, apparently, lays her hand in

good time upon the foliage in these northern regions, for some of the

trees had already grown ruddy at her touch.

When I came to the bend of the road I think my heart stood still for a

second or two. There in front of me and to my left--almost, as it

seemed, at my feet--were the heather-covered moors, gloriously purple,

and the tears came into my eyes. I could not help it; it was so

unexpected, and it unlocked too suddenly the chamber where a memory was

preserved--a hallowed, never-to-be-forgotten memory.

Years ago, and long before his sufferings ended, my father was leaning

back in his chair one day, his hand clasping its arms, as his custom

was, when there came into his eyes a look of inexpressible longing,

almost of pain. I went and knelt by his side, and passed my hand

gently through his hair, and asked, "What is it, dad dear?" He drew my

face to his and answered sadly--it was little more than a whisper, for

he was very weak,--"It was the heather calling me, lassie; I felt its

sweet breath upon my cheek for a moment, and longed to fall upon its

comfortable breast. But it cannot be; it cannot be!"

That was ten years ago, and now the heather was to call me and I was to

respond to the call. How long I stood there, with the tear-drops

dimming my vision, I do not know, but presently I became conscious of a

village street, if the few houses which straggled back from the roadway

could with any propriety be termed a village. I walked along the path

and drank in every sight and sound, and thirsted for more. I thought,

in the intoxication of that hour, that peace and contentment must be

the portion of every dweller in that quiet spot. I know it will not be

so, of course. I suppose sorrow and heartache may inhabit that quaint

one-storeyed cottage from which the wreath of blue smoke curls so

lazily; that the seeds of greed and falsehood and discontent may thrive

and grow here, and be just as hateful and hideous as the flowers which

fill the gardens around me are bright and beautiful. But for the

moment I did not realise this.

A woman was washing the flags at her cottage door, and she smiled upon

me as I passed. It was my first human welcome to the moors. At the

sound of my footsteps a whole regiment of hens flew from the hilly

field which was their pasture, and perched in line upon the wall to

give me greeting.

I saw no sign of church or inn; no shop save a blacksmith's, and that

was closed. The cottage windows and the little white curtains behind

them were spotlessly clean. Within, I caught a glimpse here and there

of shining steel and polished brass which sparkled in the firelight;

and the comfort and cosiness of it all appealed to me strongly.

I do not think there are more than a score houses in the village, but

before I had come to the end of the street my soul had made the

discovery I referred to just now. "Surely," I said to myself, "it is

good to be here; this people shall be my people."

It was doubtless a mad thing to say, but I was prospered in my madness.

At the extreme end of the village, just past the little Methodist

chapel which by its newness struck a jarring note in the otherwise

perfect harmony, I saw a long, low building, of one storey like most of

its fellows, roofed with stone, and fronted by a large garden. It was

separated by a field-length from its nearest neighbour, and the field

was just the side of a hill, nothing more. Two doors gave access to

the building, which was apparently unevenly divided into two cottages,

for a couple of windows appertained to the one door and one only to the

other. A board at the bottom of the garden and abutting upon the road

conveyed the information that this "Desirable cottage" was "to let,

furnished."

Then and there I gave hostages to fortune. If that cottage was to be

had for a sum which came within the limits of my slender purse, it

should be mine from that hour. For I saw at a glance that it faced the

moors and the sunset; and I vowed that the windows should be always

open, so that the breath of the heather might have free entrance.

I pushed aside the little green gate and walked up the tiny path amid a

profusion of flowers whose names are as yet unknown to me. I promise

myself to know them all ere long: to know their habits and their

humours: to learn their secrets and the story of their lives; but that

is for the future. Something almost as sweet and dainty as the flowers

claimed my attention first.

At the sound of the creaking gate, a dear old lady appeared at the door

of the doll's house which was joined to my cottage and advanced to meet

me. She had the pleasantest of faces, and was pink and pretty in spite

of her sixty odd years. She wore a cap with strings, in the style of

long ago: it was a rather jaunty cap and not devoid of colour. A faded

shawl hung loosely around her shoulders, and a white apron protected

her neat black frock. I saw at once that she was a nervous little

body, yet there was dignity as well as deference in the face which

looked smilingly into mine. But the manner of her address took my

heart by storm. I had never been accosted in this way before, and I

nearly took the old lady in my arms and kissed her. I have done since!

"Yes, love!" she said. It was not an inquiry exactly, though there may

have been the faintest note of interrogation in her voice. It was as

though I had told her of my desire to rent the cottage, and she was

expressing a gratified assent.

"I see this little house is to let," I began; "may I look at it, and

will you tell me all about it?"

"To be sure, love," was the reply. "Now, just come inside my cottage

and rest yourself, and I'll pour you out a cup of tea if you're in no

hurry, for there's sure to be someone passing who will tell Reuben

Goodenough to come hither."

"How sweet of you!" I replied. "A cup of tea will be like the nectar

of the gods. I will drink it thankfully."

The inside of that room was a revelation to me. It was, oh, so very,

very small--the smallest living-room I am sure that I ever set eyes

upon--but so marvellously clean, and so comfortably homelike that I

uttered an exclamation of surprise and delight as I crossed the

threshold.

The ceiling was of oak, with deep, broad, uneven beams of the same

material, all dark and glossy with age. The stone floor was covered

for the most part with druggeting, whilst a thick rug composed of small

cuttings of black cloth with a design in scarlet was laid before the

ample hearth. An old oak sideboard, or dresser, nearly filled the wall

facing the window, and on its open shelves was an array of china which

would make some people I know break the tenth commandment. A

magnificent grandfather's clock, also in oak, with wonderful carving,

ticked importantly in one corner, and a capacious cupboard filled

another.

The wall decorations consisted of a bright but battered copper

warming-pan, which hung perpendicularly from the ceiling, looking like

the immense pendulum of some giant clock; and three "pictures" which

aroused my interest. Two of them were framed examples of their owner's

skill in needlework, as evidenced by the inscription, carefully worked

in coloured wool--"Mary Jackson, her work, aged 13." The letters of

the alphabet, and the numerals from 1 to 20, with certain enigmatical

figures which I took to represent flowers, completed the one effort,

whilst familiar texts of Scripture, after the style of "Thou God Seest

Me," made up the other.

The third frame was of mahogany like the others, and contained a

collection of deep, black-edged funeral cards of ancient date.

But the fireplace! My father's description of a real, old-fashioned

Yorkshire range was understood now for the first time, as I saw the

high mantelpiece, the deep oven and the wide-mouthed grate and chimney,

in which the yellow flames were dancing merrily, covering the whole

room with the amber glow which made it so warm and enticing. Through

an open door I caught sight of a white counterpane, and found that

there was, after all, a wee bedroom built out at the back.

Drawn quite close to the hearthrug was a round deal table covered with

a snowy cloth. Two minutes later I was seated there, sipping tea and

eating toast, deliciously crisp and hot, and taking my new friend into

my confidence.

I confess it pleased me to find that my mad proposal was all as natural

as the sunshine to her. The dear old soul never uttered one word of

warning or suggestion. She was delighted with the scheme I rapidly

evolved and ready to be my willing helper. I won her affection at once

when I told her that I was a "Yorkshireman," and she took me to her

heart and begged me to let her "mother" me. I lost my own mother

before I had learned to value her, and I think I shall like to be

"mothered," though I shall be thirty-five in April.

God bless Mother Hubbard! I must tell how I took the cottage to-morrow.

CHAPTER II

FARMER GOODENOUGH STATES HIS TERMS

A fee of one penny, paid in advance, lent wings to the feet of the

small boy who was pressed into my service, and before many minutes had

passed Farmer Goodenough appeared upon the scene.

He shook hands with me, after Mother Hubbard had performed the ceremony

of introduction, and I can feel the warmth of his greeting in my right

hand yet. I shall be careful in future when I get to close grips with

big, horny-handed Yorkshire farmers.

I almost regretted that I had felt it necessary to explain the

situation to him when I heard his hearty and somewhat patronising

laugh, but Mother Hubbard's previous treatment had emboldened me.

"Well, I do declare, Miss..." he hesitated and looked at me

inquiringly, for my hostess had not mentioned my name.

"Grace Holden is my name, and I am unmarried," I said in reply.

"Oh!" he answered--only he pronounced it "Aw!"

"Well now, miss, you must excuse _me_, for I mostly speaks straight and

no offence meant, and I hope none taken; but isn't this just a little

bit daft-like? 'Marry in 'aste an' repent at leisure,' as t' Owd Book

says. I'm thinkin' this'll be summat o' t' same sort. Hadn't you

better sleep on it, think ye? It'll happen be a mucky day to-morrow,

an' Windyridge 'll hev t' polish ta'en off it."

I have written this down with Mother Hubbard's assistance, and I

required a little help from her at the time in the interpretation of

it. But the farmer's candour pleased me.

"If the rent is more than I can afford to pay I shall return to London

early to-morrow," I said; "but if it is within my means I shall

certainly stay--at any rate for twelve months," I added guardedly.

"Now look you here, miss," returned the farmer; "I've got this cottage

to let, an' if you take it for three months, _or_ for six months, _or_

for twelve months--for three months _or_ for six months _or_ for twelve

months you'll hev it to pay for. Right's right, an' a bargain's a

bargain all the world over. Frenchman, Scotchman _or_ Yorkshireman, a

bargain's a bargain. But nob'dy shall say 'at Reuben Goodenough took

advantage of a woman. I won't let you this cottage, if you like it so

as never, an' whether you can afford it or no, not until to-morrow I

won't. An' I'll tell you why.

"You've just come an' seen Windyridge when all t' glory o' t'

sunshine's on it, an' t' birds is singin' an' t' flowers is bloomin';

but it isn't allus like that. Not 'at I'm runnin' Windyridge down.

_I_'m content here, but then I were born here, an' my work's here, an'

t' missus an' t' youngsters were brought up here. But when you've

slept on it you'll happen see different. Now you've no 'casion to

speak"--as I was about to protest--"I've made up my mind, an' I'm as

stupid as a mule when I set myself, an' there can be no harm done by

waiting a toathree hours. Come, I'll show you what I can let you have

for a ten-pun' note a year, if so be as you decide to take it at t'

finish."

He unlocked the door and stepped aside to let us enter. The kitchen

was almost a duplicate of Mother Hubbard's, but longer. There were the

same oak rafters, the same oak sideboard, the same huge fireplace, the

same cupboard. A horrible contrivance of cocoa-matting covered the

floor, and a hearthrug, neatly folded, was conspicuous in one corner.

A bedroom, of ample size for one woman of modest requirements, opened

out of the kitchen, and I saw at a glance that I might have as cosy a

home as Mother Hubbard herself. My mind was made up; but then so was

Farmer Goodenough's, and as I looked at the square jaw and the thin

lips I was convinced that this man with the good-natured face was not

to be moved from his resolution.

"I shall take the cottage for twelve months," I said; "but I recognise

the force of your objection, and I will not ask you to make out an

agreement until to-morrow--to-morrow morning.

"But I claim to be a Yorkshirewoman, and so can be just a wee bit

stupid myself, and you know the proverb says, 'When a woman says she

will, she _will_, you may depend on 't.' Tell me, though, is not ten

pounds per annum a very low rental, seeing that the cottage is

furnished?"

"Low enough," he answered, "sadly too low; but it's as much as I can

get. I charge fifteen shillin' a week in summer time, but then it

never lets for more'n three months at t' outside, an' for t' rest o' t'

year it 'ud go to rack an' ruin if I didn't put fires in it now an'

then, an' get Mrs. 'Ubbard here to look after it. So I reckon it'll

pay me as well to have someone in for a twelvemonth, even if I make no

more money. But, miss"--he hesitated a moment, and thrust his hands

deep into his trousers' pockets, whilst his eyes, as I thought, became

tender and fatherly--"you must excuse _me_; I'm a deal older nor you,

an' though I haven't knocked about t' world much, I've learned a thing

or two i' my time, an' I have it on my mind to warn you. What t' Owd

Book says is true: 'As you make your bed, so you must lie on 't,' an'

it's uncommon hard an' lumpy at times. You know your own business

best, an' I will say 'at I like t' look on you, an' it 'ud be a good

thing for Mrs. 'Ubbard here to have you for a neighbour, but--think it

well over, an' don't do nowt daft."

I suppose some people would not have liked it, but I did, and I told

him so. And really it had the opposite effect from that he intended,

for it showed me that I might have at least two friends in Windyridge,

and that one of them would not be wanting in candour.

These preliminaries settled, the farmer handed the key to Mother

Hubbard, so that it would be handy for me, as he explained, IF I should

turn up again in the morning, and prepared to take his departure. Just

as he reached the gate, however, he turned back.

"I should ha' said 'at you're welcome to t' use o' t' paddock. If so

be as you care to keep a few hens there's pasture enough for 'em an'

nob'dy hurt. An' if you want a greenhouse"--he laughed heartily--"why,

here you are!"

He motioned that I should follow him, and I stepped through a gate in

the wall into the hilly field which he called the paddock. There,

firmly secured to the end of the house, was a structure of wood and

glass which seemed out of all proportion to the size of the cottage.

"What in the world is this?" I exclaimed, but my landlord only laughed

the louder.

"Now then, what d'ye think of that, eh? Kind o' Crystal Palace, that

is. Strikes me I should ha' put this cottage in t' _Airlee

Mercury_--'Desirable country residence with conservatory. Apply,

Goodenough, Windyridge.' Them 'at takes t' cottage gets t'

conserva_tory_ thrown in at t' same rent. It was put up by t' last

tenant wi' my consent, an' he was as daft as----"

"As I am?" I suggested.

"Well, he _proved_ hisself daft. He kep' hens i' one part an' flowers

in t' other, but he neither fed t' hens nor t' flowers, bein' one o'

them menseless creatures 'at gets their heads buried i' books, an'

forgets their own meals, let alone t' meals o' them 'at can't sing out

for 'em. T' upshot of it all was he left t' cottage an' made me a

present of all t' bag o' tricks."

Then and there the idea of my studio had its birth. With a very little

alteration I saw that I could easily adapt it to photographic purposes;

and I was more determined than before--if that were possible--to take

possession of my Yorkshire home. I know people will laugh and call me

madder than ever. It does seem rather ridiculous to fit up a studio in

a village of perhaps a hundred inhabitants, but my Inner Self urges it,

and I am going to live by faith and not by sight. I am irrational, I

know, but I just don't care. I have got a theory of life--not a very

definite one just now, though it is getting clearer--and I am sure I am

taking a right step, though I could not explain it if I wished, and I

don't wish.

Mother Hubbard was tearful when I wished her good-night, and it was as

an antidote to pessimism that I took the dear old soul into my arms and

bade her stifle her tears and look confidently for my return. Farmer

Goodenough's worldly wisdom had convinced her that the anticipations of

a quarter-hour ago had been ill-founded. She had counted only too

prematurely on my companionship, but the farmer's words had led her to

see how unreasonable it was. She was stricken with remorse, too, at

the selfishness of her conduct.

"You see, love," she explained, as we sought her cottage again and drew

our chairs up to the fire--she had turned back her skirt lest the heat

should scorch it--"I was just thinking about myself. I'm a lonely old

woman, love, and it's only natural I should like the company of a nice,

friendly young lady like yourself; but that's just selfishness. You

must think over what Reuben has said, and don't do anything rash,

but----"

"Mother Hubbard," I said, "you need not crumple your apron by turning

it into a handkerchief, nor wet it by shedding useless tears. And I'm

not a hair-brained young lady, fresh from school, but a sensible woman

of thirty-five. Mark my word! At twelve o'clock to-morrow I shall be

with you again, and I shall have lunch with you; and you'll oblige me

by airing my bed for me, and getting things ship-shape, for to-morrow

night I shall be your next-door neighbour."

I went back to Airlee by train from Fawkshill. I had noticed the

railway as I came in the morning, and I felt that the tram would be too

slow. As a matter of fact it took nearly as long and cost me more

money. But my mind was full of Windyridge and I was oblivious to

everything else. When I reached the coffee-room of the hotel I was

calmer, for somehow the old familiar sights and sounds of the city

threw my cottage into the background, and I was able to view the

situation dispassionately.

Had I been a fool? Was not Farmer Goodenough right, after all; and had

not his sound common sense saved me from committing myself to a rash

and quixotic adventure?

"Grace Holden," I said, "you have got to face this question, and not

make an ass of yourself. Weigh up the pros and cons. Get pencil and

paper and make your calculations and strike your balance, and don't for

goodness' sake be emotional."

Then my Inner Self said with great distinctness, "Grace Holden, the

heather has called you! Listen to it!" And I went to bed and slept

the sleep of the just.

My first sensation on awaking was one of exhilaration. Not a single

cloud of doubt or apprehension appeared upon the sky of my hopes; on

the contrary, it was rosy bright with the promise of success. I like

to trust my intuitions, for it seems to me you treat them unfairly and

do not give them a chance of developing upon really strong lines if you

don't do so. Intuitions are bound to become weak and flabby if you are

always coddling them and hesitating whether to let them feel their

feet. An intuition that comes to you deprecatingly, and hints that it

does not expect to be trusted, is a useless thing that is dying of

starvation. _My_ intuitions are healthy and reliable because I believe

in them and treat them as advisers, and am becomingly deferential.

It's nice to feel that your Inner Self likes you too well to lead you

astray.

I wrote several letters and chuckled to myself when I thought of the

effect they would produce in certain quarters. I am just a nonentity,

of course, in the city of London, and nobody outside of it ever heard

of me so far as I know, and I am my own mistress, without a relative of

any kind to lay a restraining hand upon my actions; yet there are just

two or three people who will be interested in this new phase of madness.

I can see Madam Rusty adjust her pince-nez and scan the postmark

carefully before unfolding my note. And I dare bet anything that the

glasses will fly the full length of the chain when she finds she has to

pack up my belongings and despatch them to Windyridge. I always carry

my cheque book with me in case of emergencies, so I have sent her a

blank cheque "under five pounds" to cover her charges. I guess there

won't be much change out of that when madam has filled it in.

And Rose! I wonder what Rose will say. I think she will be rather

sorry, but she has many other friends and will soon console herself.

And, after all, she _did_ say I was "_swanky_"; but I daresay I shall

ask her down some day, and I am sure she will attend to the little

matters I have mentioned.

I paid my bill, and by ten o'clock was once more in the Fawkshill car;

but I went inside this time, and closed my eyes and dreamed dreams. I

got rid of the factory chimneys that way.

It was approaching twelve when I walked up the garden path to my new

abode, and heard the joyful "Yes, love!" of my new mother. She could

not forbear giving me one peep into my own cottage as we passed the

door. A cheerful fire was blazing in the grate, the rug was in its

place, the mattress and all its belongings were heaped around the

hearth, and the clock upon the wall was ticking away in homeliest

fashion and preparing to strike the noontide hour. There was not a

speck of dust anywhere. Evidently Mother Hubbard had been up early and

had worked with a will, and I was touched by this evidence of her

faith, and glad that I had proved worthy of it.

"But what will Farmer Goodenough say?" I asked jocularly, as we

discussed the appetising ham and eggs which she had prepared in her own

kitchen.

"Reuben? Oh, I take no notice of him, love. He called out as he

passed, whilst I was in the garden this morning, that I was to remember

that he had not yet let you the house, and that we might never see your

face again; but I said, 'For shame! Reuben Goodenough,' though I will

admit I was glad to see you, love. And now we'll just go in together

and get everything made tidy. Bless you! I'm glad you've come. I

think the Lord must have sent you to cheer a lonely old woman."

CHAPTER II

GRACE MEETS THE SQUIRE

I have spent my first Sunday in Windyridge, and have made a new

acquaintance. I believe I shall soon feel at home here, for the

villagers do not appear to resent the presence of a stranger, and there

is no sign of the Cranford spirit, perhaps because there is an entire

lack of the Cranford society.

My adventure befell me as I walked back from church in the morning. It

was too far for Mother Hubbard to accompany me to Fawkshill if she had

wished to do so, but she has no leanings in the direction of the

Establishment, being, as I have discovered, a staunch dissenter. She

has asked me to go with her to the little Methodist chapel one day, but

I put her off with a caress.

I was as full of the joy of life as a healthy woman can be, whose

church-going garments are two hundred miles away, and I filled my lungs

again and again with the sweet moorland air as I sauntered leisurely up

the village street. A delightful breeze was blowing from the west, and

I knew that my hair would be all about my ears before I reached the

church; but that was a small matter, for who was there to care or

criticise? The village rested in the calm of the Sabbath: no sound of

human voice or human feet disturbed its quiet. But the cocks crowed

proudly from their elevated perches by the roadside, and the rooks

cawed noisily in the sycamores as they saw their lofty homes rocked to

and fro in the swell of the wind. I stood for a moment or two to watch

the behaviour of the trees when Boreas, rude as ever, flung himself

upon them. How irritable and angry they became! How they shook their

branches and shrieked their defiance, trembling all the time through

every stem and leaf!

As I passed the entrance gate at the farther end of the Hall grounds a

carriage was leaving it, and I caught sight of an old gentleman sitting

alone within. I guessed him to be the owner of the place and dubbed

him the Squire, and I was right, except as to the title, which I find

he disavows.

I must have dawdled away more time than I realised, for they were well

on with the prayers when I entered the church, but I will guard against

that in future, for I pride myself on my methodical and punctual

habits. But hurrying makes one hot, and churches are often chilly, as

this one was! I was glad when the service was over and I could get out

into the sunshine again.

The squire's carriage passed me on its homeward way soon after I had

left the church, but when I reached the cross-roads I saw that its

owner must have sent it forward and decided to continue the journey on

foot, for he was standing at the bend of the lane in conversation with

Farmer Goodenough.

The latter smiled as I approached and half raised his cap; and the

squire turned and saluted me with grave politeness.

"Mornin', Miss 'Olden, mornin'," said my landlord. "So you've

exchanged the 'eath for the 'assock, in a manner o' speakin'," and he

laughed loudly at his alliterative success. "Well, well, some must

pray an' some must work. 'There's a time for everything,' as t' Owd

Book says; that's it, isn't it, sir, eh?" and without waiting for an

answer Farmer Goodenough strode off. In a few seconds, however, he was

back.

"Excuse me, miss, but I should ha' made you two known to each other.

Miss 'Olden, this is Mr. Evans of the 'All, an' this is my new tenant,

sir; a lady from London, Miss 'Olden, who's taken the cottage for

twelve months for a sort of a whim, as far as I can make out." He

touched his cap, and turned on his heel once more.

The situation was amusing and a little embarrassing, but I was left in

no suspense. The old gentleman smiled and looked down into my eyes.

He is a fine old man, something over seventy years of age, I should

say, but very erect, with deep, rather cold eyes, surmounted by bushy

eyebrows, and a head of thick, steely-grey hair. One glance at his

face told me that he was a man of intellect and culture.

"We may as well be companions, Miss Holden, if you do not object," he

said smilingly. "I should like to ascertain for myself whether the

village report is true, for I may inform you that I have heard all that

my butler can tell me, which means all that he can ascertain by shrewd

and persistent inquiry."

"I am flattered by the attention of my neighbours," I replied, "and I

can quite understand that in a little place like this the advent of a

stranger will create a mild sensation, but I was not aware that there

was anything so dreadful as a 'report' in circulation. The knowledge

makes me uneasy; can you relieve my anxiety?"

He was walking along with his hands holding the lapels of his jacket,

his light overcoat blowing about behind him, and he looked quizzically

at me for a moment or two before he replied:

"I think you are able to take it in good part, for--if you will permit

me to say so--I judge that you have too much common sense to be easily

offended, and therefore I will admit that the villagers are prepared to

look upon you as slightly 'daft,' to use their own expression. They

cannot understand how, on any other supposition, you should act on a

momentary impulse and leave the excitements of the metropolis for the

simple life of a tiny village. I need hardly say that I realise that

this is distinctly your own affair, and I am not asking you to give me

your confidence, but you will not mind my telling you in what light the

village regards this somewhat--unusual conduct."

I laughed. Goodness knows I am not touchy, and the opinion of my

neighbours only amused me. But somehow I felt that I must justify my

action to the squire, and my Inner Self put on her defensive armour in

readiness for the battle. I seemed to know that this rather stern old

man would regard my action as childish,--and indeed the scheme could

not be regarded as reasonable; it was simply intuitive, and who can

defend an intuition? I therefore replied:

"You have certainly relieved my disquietude. I thought the villagers

might have conceived the notion that I was a fugitive from justice, and

had a good reason for hiding myself in an out-of-the-way place. If

they consider me inoffensive in my daftness I am quite content; for,

after all, there are hundreds of people of much wider experience who

would be not a whit more lenient in their judgment. In fact, I suspect

that you yourself would endorse it emphatically, especially when I

admit that the premise is correct from which the conclusion is drawn."

"You invite my interest," he returned, "but your silence will be a

sufficient rebuke if my inquiries over-step the bounds of your

indulgence. You tell me that the premise is correct. I understand,

therefore, that you admit that you have acted on mere impulse; that, in

fact, our friend Goodenough was speaking truly when he called it

bluntly a 'whim.'"

"I am not skilled in dialectics," I said, feeling rather proud of the

word all the same, and mightily astonished at my coolness; "but I

should not call it a whim, but rather an intuition. I suppose there is

a difference?"

He bent his brows together and paused in his walk; then he replied:

"Yes: there is a distinct difference. I cannot deny or disregard the

power of the mind to discern truth without reasoning, but the two have

so much in common that I think a whim may sometimes be mistaken for an

intuition. Can you prove to me that this was an intuition?"

"No," I said, and I think it was a wise answer; at any rate it seemed

to please him; "nobody could do that. Time alone can justify my action

even to myself. I am going to be on the lookout for the proof daily."

He smiled again. "You know what would have been said if a man had done

this?" he said deliberately; "it would be asked, Who is the woman?"

I blushed furiously, and hated myself for it, though he was nearly old

enough to have been my grandfather. "I always feel glad that Eve did

not blame the other sex," I replied, "and, in spite of the annoying

colour in my face, I can say with a clear conscience that there is no

man in the case at all."

"Do not be grieved with me," he said, just as calmly as ever. "I

realised that I was taking a big risk, but I wished to clear the ground

at the outset. I have done so, but I hesitate to venture further."

His tone was so very kindly that I, too, determined to take a big risk,

though I half feared he would not understand, or understanding would be

amused. So I told him something of my life in London, and how its

problems had perplexed and depressed me, and I told him of the heather

and how it had called me; and I think something of the passion of life

shook my voice as I spoke, and I expressed more than I had realised

myself until then.

He listened with grave and fixed attention, and did not reply at once.

Then, halting again in his walk, though only for a second, he said:

"Miss Holden, subconscious influences have been at work upon you for

some time past. You have experienced the loneliness which is never so

hard to bear as when one is jostled by the crowd. I gather that the

wickedness of London--its injustice and inequalities--have been

weighing upon your spirits, and you feel for the moment like some

escaped bird which has gained the freedom of the woods after beating

its wings for many weary months against the bars of its city cage. You

may have done well to escape, but beware of false ideals, and beware of

the inevitable reaction when you discover the wickedness of the

village, and learn that injustice and vice and slander, and a hundred

other hateful things, are not peculiar to city life."

"But surely," I Interposed, "the overcrowding, and the sweating and the

awful, awful wretchedness of the poor are wanting here."

"My dear young lady," he said, "I suppose you think that the devil is a

city gentleman whose attention is so much occupied with great concerns

that he has had no time to discover so insignificant a place as

Windyridge. You will find out your mistake. There are times when he

is very active here, but he has wit enough to vary his methods as

occasion requires.

"Sometimes, as Scripture and experience have shown you, he goes about

as a roaring lion, and there is no mistaking his presence; but at other

times he masquerades as an angel of light. You speak of the evils you

know, and it may be admitted that most of these are absent from

Windyridge, at any rate in their aggravated forms. But analyse these

various evils which have caused you to chafe against your environment,

and you will find that selfishness is at the root of them all, and

selfishness flourishes even in the soil which breeds the moorland

heather.

"Don't let this discourage you, however," he continued, as he held out

his hand, for we had now reached the gateway of the Hall; "the devil

has not undisputed possession here or elsewhere, and Windyridge may

help you to strike the eternal balance.

"Come to see me sometimes; I am an unconventional old man, and you need

not hesitate. I can at least lend you good books, and give you advice

from an experience dearly bought."

He grasped the collar of his coat again and walked slowly up the drive.

Dinner had been waiting quite ten minutes when I reached home, and I

found Mother Hubbard in a state of apprehension, partly lest some evil

should have befallen me, and partly lest the Yorkshire pudding, whose

acquaintance I was to make for the first time, should be so spoiled as

to prejudice my appreciation of its excellences from the beginning.

But no such untoward event occurred, and my appetite enabled me to do

full justice to Mother Hubbard's preparations. We have come to a

convenient and economical arrangement by which we are to share

supplies, Mother Hubbard being appointed cook, and I housemaid to the

two establishments. In her delight at the prospect of my companionship

the dear old lady was prepared to unite the two offices in her one

person, but this was an impossible proposition, as I promptly pointed

out. She might be prime minister, but not the entire Cabinet.

So we shall take our meals together in her cottage or in mine, as may

be most convenient, and I think I shall be able to spare her some of

the delightful drudgery which is harming her body whilst it leaves her

spirit untouched. Not that I shall ever be able to maintain the

spotless cleanliness which she guards as jealously as a reputation; and

I cannot help thinking that her unwillingness to consent to this part

of the bargain was due in some degree to doubts of my competency. But

I am willing to be taught and corrected, and I will encourage her not

to spare the rod.