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diff --git a/old/66737-h/66737-h.htm b/old/66737-h/66737-h.htm deleted file mode 100644 index edd9c87..0000000 --- a/old/66737-h/66737-h.htm +++ /dev/null @@ -1,15489 +0,0 @@ -<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" - "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> -<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> - <head> - <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" /> - <meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> - <title> - Priscilla of the Good Intent, by Halliwell Sutcliffe—A Project Gutenberg eBook - </title> - <link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" /> - <style type="text/css"> - -body { - margin-left: 10%; - margin-right: 10%; -} - - h1,h2 { - text-align: center; - clear: both; -} - -p { - margin-top: .51em; - text-align: justify; - margin-bottom: .49em; -} - -div.titlepage {text-align: center; page-break-before: always; page-break-after: always;} -div.titlepage p {text-align: center; font-weight: bold; line-height: 1.5; margin-top: 2em;} - -hr { - width: 33%; - margin-top: 2em; - margin-bottom: 2em; - margin-left: 33.5%; - margin-right: 33.5%; - clear: both; -} - - -hr.chap {width: 65%; margin-left: 17.5%; margin-right: 17.5%;} -@media print { hr.chap {display: none; visibility: hidden;} } - -div.chapter {page-break-before: always;} -h2.nobreak {page-break-before: avoid;} - -.pagenum { - position: absolute; - left: 92%; - font-size: smaller; - text-align: right; - font-style: normal; - font-weight: normal; - font-variant: normal; -} - -.center {text-align: center;} - -.smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} - -.xlarge {font-size: 150%;} -.large {font-size: 125%;} - -.antiqua { - font-family: Blackletter, Fraktur, Textur, "Old English Text MT", "Olde English Mt", "Olde English", Gothic, serif, sans-serif;} - -.ph1 {text-align: center; font-size: large; font-weight: bold;} -.ph2 {text-align: center; font-size: xx-large; font-weight: bold;} - -p.drop-cap { - text-indent: -0.35em; -} -p.drop-cap2 { - text-indent: -0.75em; -} -p.drop-cap:first-letter, p.drop-cap2:first-letter -{ - float: left; - margin: 0em 0.15em 0em 0em; - font-size: 250%; - line-height:0.85em; - text-indent: 0em; -} -.x-ebookmaker p.drop-cap, .x-ebookmaker p.drop-cap2 { - text-indent: 0em; -} -.x-ebookmaker p.drop-cap:first-letter, .x-ebookmaker p.drop-cap2:first-letter -{ - float: none; - margin: 0; - font-size: 100%; -} - -.figcenter { - margin: auto; - text-align: center; - page-break-inside: avoid; - max-width: 100%; -} - -.transnote {background-color: #E6E6FA; - color: black; - font-size:smaller; - margin-left: 17.5%; - margin-right: 17.5%; - padding: 1em; - margin-bottom: 1em; - font-family:sans-serif, serif; } - - </style> - </head> -<body> -<p style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Priscilla of the Good Intent, by Halliwell Sutcliffe</p> -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online -at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you -are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this eBook. -</div> - -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Priscilla of the Good Intent</p> -<p style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:0; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:1em;'>A Romance of the Grey Fells</p> - <p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Halliwell Sutcliffe</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: November 14, 2021 [eBook #66737]</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</p> - <p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; text-align:left'>Produced by: D A Alexander, David E. Brown, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)</p> -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PRISCILLA OF THE GOOD INTENT ***</div> - -<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/cover.jpg" width="40%" alt="" /></div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<h1>PRISCILLA OF THE GOOD INTENT</h1> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="titlepage"> - -<p><span class="xlarge">PRISCILLA OF THE<br /> -GOOD INTENT</span><br /> -<br /> -<span class="large">A ROMANCE OF THE GREY FELLS</span></p> - -<p>BY<br /> -<span class="large">HALLIWELL SUTCLIFFE</span><br /> -Author of “Mistress Barbara,” “Benedick in Arcady,” etc.</p> - -<p>BOSTON<br /> -LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY<br /> -1909</p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p class="center"> -<i>Copyright, 1908</i>,<br /> -<span class="smcap">By Halliwell Sutcliffe</span>.<br /> -<br /> -<i>Copyright, 1909</i>,<br /> -<span class="smcap">By Little, Brown, and Company</span>.<br /> -<br /> -<i>All rights reserved</i><br /> -<br /> -<br /> -<span class="antiqua">Printers</span><br /> -<span class="smcap">S. J. Parkhill</span> & <span class="smcap">Co., Boston, U.S.A.</span></p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_1">[1]</span> - -<p class="ph2">PRISCILLA<br /> - - -OF<br /> - -THE GOOD INTENT</p> - - - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER I</h2> -</div> - - -<p class="drop-cap">THE blacksmith’s forge stood just this side of the village -as you entered it from Shepston, and David -Blake, the smith, was blowing lustily at his bellows, while -the sweat dripped down his face. The cool of a spring -morning came through the doorway, against which leaned -a heavy, slouching lad.</p> - -<p>“Te-he, David the Smith! Sparks do go scrambling up -chimney,” said Billy the Fool, with a fat and empty laugh.</p> - -<p>They called him Billy the Fool, for old affection’s sake, -with no sense of reproach; for the old ways of thought had -a fast hold on Garth village, and a natural was held -in a certain awe, as being something midway between a -prophet and a child.</p> - -<p>“Ay, sparks are scrambling up. ’Tis a way they have, -Billy,” answered the other cheerily. “What’s your -news?”</p> - -<p>Again Billy laughed, but cunningly this time. “Grand -news—all about myself. Was up at sunrise, and been -<i>doing naught</i> ever since. I’m main fond of doing naught,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_2">[2]</span> -David. Seems to trickle down your body, does idleness, -like good ale.”</p> - -<p>The blacksmith loosed his hold on the bellows’ handles -and turned about, while he passed a hand across his forehead.</p> - -<p>“Is there nought ye like better than idleness?” he -asked. “Think now, Billy—just ponder over it.”</p> - -<p>“Well, now,” answered the other, after a silence, -“there’s playing—what ye might call playing at a right -good game. Could ye think of some likely pastime, -David?”</p> - -<p>“Ay, could I. Blowing bellows is the grandest frolic -ever I came across.”</p> - -<p>Billy was wary, after his own fashion, and he looked -at the blacksmith hard, his child’s eyes—blue and unclouded -by the storms of life—showing big beneath their -heavy brows of reddish-brown.</p> - -<p>“I doubt ’tis work, David,” he said dispassionately.</p> - -<p>“Nay, now! Would I ask <i>thee</i> to work, lad? Fond o’ -thee as I am, and knowing labour’s harmful to thee?”</p> - -<p>“I shouldn’t like to be trapped into work. ’Twould -scare me when I woke o’ nights and thought of it.”</p> - -<p>“See ye, then, Billy”—blowing the bellows gently—“is -it work to make yon sparks go, blue and green and red, -as fast as ever ye like to drive ’em? Play, I call it, and -I’ve a mind, now I come to think on’t, just to keep ye out -o’ the game, and go on playing it myself.”</p> - -<p>Billy drew nearer, with an anxious look. “Ye wouldn’t -do that, or ye’d not be blacksmith David,” he said, with -unerring knowledge of the other’s kindliness. “Te-he! -’Tis just a bit o’ sporting—I hadn’t thought of it i’ that -light.”</p> - -<p>And soon he was blowing steadily; for the lad’s frame -was a giant’s, when he chose to use it, and no fatigue had<span class="pagenum" id="Page_3">[3]</span> -ever greatly touched him. From time to time, as the -blacksmith paused to take a red-hot bar from the furnace -or to put a cold one in, he would nod cheerfully at Billy -the Fool and emphasize the frolicsome side of his employment.</p> - -<p>“Ye’ve an easy time, Billy,” he would say. “See me -sweating here at beating iron into horseshoe shape—and -ye playing at chasing sparks all up the chimley!”</p> - -<p>The sweat was pouring from Billy, too, by this time, -but he did not heed. Plump and soft his laugh came, as -he forced the sparks more swiftly from the coals.</p> - -<p>“Was born for playtimes, I, David,” he cried in great -delight. “I’ve heard tell of silver spoons, popped unbeknownst-like -into babbies’ cradles. <i>I</i> war a babby o’ -that make, I reckon, for sure ’tis I’m always playing, -when I’m not always idling in between times.”</p> - -<p>“Ye were lucky fro’ birth,” David answered, driving -the hole for the last nail. “Some folk is, while other-some -must work.”</p> - -<p>“Why <i>do</i> ye work, David?” asked the other, with entire -simplicity.</p> - -<p>“Oh, just a fancy, lad. Seems as I have to, somehow. -There were no silver spoons dropped into <i>my</i> cradle. -Hive o’ bees swarmed there, I fancy, for I’ve had a few -in my bonnet ever since.”</p> - -<p>There was another silence, while Billy the Fool, working -hard at the bellows, looked long and meditatively at David -Blake.</p> - -<p>“I wouldn’t like to hurt ye, David,” he said at -last, “but I reckon ye’re just a bit daft-witted like. -Why don’t ye play or idle all your time, same as I -do?”</p> - -<p>David threw the finished horseshoe on the heap at his -left hand, and was about to answer when a shadow came<span class="pagenum" id="Page_4">[4]</span> -between the reeking smithy and the fresh and open sunshine -beyond the door.</p> - -<p>“Oh, ’tis ye, Priscilla?” he said, looking up. “Ye’ve -got the spring-look in your face.”</p> - -<p>As she stood half in, half out of the smithy door, Priscilla -was radiant in her young and pliant beauty. To David -Blake’s fancy—rough, kindly, not far wide of the mark -at any time—she “made the day new-washed and happier”; -yet it was Billy who next found his tongue.</p> - -<p>“Te-he! Ye look as if life was playtime for ye, too,” -said he, still blowing at his bellows, but looking at her -slily over his shoulder.</p> - -<p>“Maybe,” she laughed—and the kind, wise music -of the thrush was in her laughter. “’Tis very true, Billy. -Life’s playtime for me.”</p> - -<p>David Blake looked at her, and liked her a little the -better; for he knew that Priscilla worked hard, worked -long and with a blithe face, each day of her life. To the -blacksmith it seemed, in between doing odd jobs that -brought him in a livelihood, that his prime work in life -was to love Priscilla ever and ever a little more—and -each day to find himself more tongue-tied in her presence.</p> - -<p>Again it was Billy who took up the talk, though Blake -would think to-morrow of twenty things he might have -said, and curse himself in a quiet way for having failed -to say them.</p> - -<p>“I’m always playing, as a man might say, myself,” -chuckled the Fool. “Playing at bellows-blowing now. -See the lile sparks go up, Miss Priscilla—’tis I that send -them, right enough.”</p> - -<p>“Why, yes,” she said, nodding pleasantly at his wide -and gaping face. “We’re playing, Billy, you and I. Only -the blacksmith works.”</p> - -<p>“He’s a bit of a fool, by that token,” hazarded Billy.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_5">[5]</span>The blacksmith, when he laughed at all, laughed from -his lungs outward. “Always guessed it, Priscilla,” said -he, making his anvil ring. “Billy’s a child, but old in -wisdom. Bit of a fool I’ll be to the end, I reckon.”</p> - -<p>“I’m playing, David,” said Billy, while the blacksmith -halted in his work to steal a glance at Priscilla. “Get -ye on with your work o’ making horseshoes, if I’m playing -the tune to ye.”</p> - -<p>Again David laughed. “Keeps me at it, Priscilla,” he -said. “Never met a taskmaster so hard to drive a man -as Billy.”</p> - -<p>“We want ye at Good Intent,” said Priscilla, laughing -too—and her laughter was a pleasant thing to hear, -reminding David again of throstles when the spring comes -in.</p> - -<p>“You can ease your hold of the bellows, Billy,” said -David, with an alacrity that was patent to the girl, modest -and proud as she was. “When I am called to Good Intent -Farm—well, I go, most times, and ne’er ask what’s -wanted, and leave smithy-work behind.”</p> - -<p>“Robbing me o’ my playtime,” panted Billy the Fool, -as he mopped his forehead.</p> - -<p>He looked up at David, and his blue eyes were wistful -as a dog’s asking for commands.</p> - -<p>“Ye’ll be idle now,” said the blacksmith. “Play -first, laddie, and idleness after.”</p> - -<p>“Ay, you’re right,—you’re always right, saving odd -times, when you’re a Fool Billy like myself. Miss Priscilla -has a trick o’ making ye daft-witted, I’ve noticed.”</p> - -<p>The village natural, with his huge body and his big, -child’s eyes, had a way of finding out his neighbours’ -secrets, and had no shame at all in telling folk what each -wanted to hide from the other. Priscilla turned her face -away, and David reddened like a lovesick lad.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_6">[6]</span>“Keep the forge-fire going quietly,” said the blacksmith. -“That’s idleness for ye—just to lie dreaming -this side of it, and time and time to put the fuel on.”</p> - -<p>“Ay, that’s idleness,” said Billy, as he stretched himself—again -like a shaggy, trusty dog—along the smithy floor. -“Get ye to work, David, and leave me to my play-work.”</p> - -<p>They went out into the springtime, David and Priscilla, -and the breeze was cool and sweet about them as if -it blew from beds of primroses. The lass wished that -David Blake had more to say, wished that the quickness -of the spring would run off his tongue’s end; she did not -know that he felt it—more than she, maybe—but had -no words in which to tell her of it.</p> - -<p>“You make a body thoughtless-like, Priscilla,” he said -at last. “Never asked ye what the job was I was wanted -for; and here I am without a tool to my back.”</p> - -<p>David was able to do so many jobs, and do them handily, -that it might be one of twenty that was asked of him to-day, -and he looked anxiously at Priscilla, to ask if he -should go back for his tools.</p> - -<p>“I was watching the water-wagtails,” she answered, -scarcely hearing him. “They’re home to the old stream -again, David, and that means the spring is here, or hereabouts.”</p> - -<p>He watched the pair of mating birds sit, first on the low -stone wall that guarded the stream, then flicker to the road, -their white tails moving like a lady’s fan.</p> - -<p>“Mating-time, Priscilla,” said he.</p> - -<p>Something in his voice, something in the true, quiet -ring of it moved Priscilla strangely.</p> - -<p>“They’re bonnie birds, David,” she said. “Winter’s -out, and springtime’s coming in, when they wag their -trim, white tails.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_7">[7]</span>“Ay, true. But what tools ought I to have brought, -like?”</p> - -<p>Priscilla sighed, for dull-wittedness did not commend -itself to-day. “No tools at all, David. The roan cow -I’m so fond of has lodged a slice of turnip in her throat, -and father cannot move it.”</p> - -<p>“Easy as falling out of a tree, Priscilla. Lord, I thought -you farmer-folk knew somewhat—but when it comes to -a cow, ye’ve got to whistle for David the Smith!”</p> - -<p>Priscilla glanced at him with a roguery as dainty and -secure as that of the spring itself. “They say ye can talk -to the four-footed things, David, and make them understand -ye. Pity ye can’t spare more words for us poor -two-footed folk.”</p> - -<p>“Ay, but the beasts are sensible, somehow, lass. They -don’t maze ye up with words and what ye might call the -frills and furbelows o’ life—they just look at ye, and feel -your hands going smooth and quiet down their flanks, -<i>and they know</i>.”</p> - -<p>“Billy has that sort of instinct, I have noticed,” said -Priscilla demurely. “There’s not a dog in the countryside -that won’t come and fawn on him—though some -of our dogs are not just gentle.”</p> - -<p>David gave another of his great, hearty laughs. “My -father always said, when he was alive, that I’d been -intended for a natural, and missed it only by good luck. -I’m fond of Billy the Fool myself; simple and slow is -Billy, and what he lacks in wit he makes up for in heart-room.”</p> - -<p>“That’s true, David,” said the girl, a little daunted, -as she often was, by David’s settled outlook upon things.</p> - -<p>For herself, there were times when she longed to cross -the limits of this life at Garth, longed for the romance of -the beyond; but when David talked as he was talking<span class="pagenum" id="Page_8">[8]</span> -now she felt shamefacedly that he was in the right to be -content within the boundaries of the fields and the blithe, -raking hills, the village smithy and the village farmsteads.</p> - -<p>David Blake did not belie his reputation when, after -following the wood-path through the Ghyll, they came -to Good Intent—a grey and well-found homestead—and -sought the mistals. What with surgeon’s skill and -the skill that comes from utter friendship with all cattle, -he did what neither Priscilla nor her father could have -done.</p> - -<p>“Give you thanks, David,” said Farmer Hirst, a broad, -well-timbered man, with a voice like thunder on the distant -hills. “She’s the pick of the lot, this roan ye’ve -saved, and saving’s saving, whether it is your child or -your cow that’s ailing.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, now!” murmured the blacksmith, “there’s joy -in saving beasties, and no thanks needed.”</p> - -<p>“Well, thanks are waiting for ye when ye care to pick -’em up—which ye seldom do, David—and meanwhile -I’ve to see if my men are cutting the thorn-hedge to my -liking. Priscilla, there’s cake and ale within doors; there’s -one in Garth can look better to David’s needs than ever -I could do.”</p> - -<p>Now David’s laugh was hearty; but it was a child’s -whisper when compared with Farmer Hirst’s, especially -when the older man fancied that he was using rare diplomacy. -A true yeoman of the north was this master of -Good Intent—owned his own house and land, his own -quiet, wholesome pride, his line of goodly forbears. And -so, because he had learned to know a man when he saw -him, he had long ago chosen David as the favoured suitor.</p> - -<p>“Lasses must wed, leaving their fathers lonely,” the -farmer would say to himself as he sat o’ nights—Priscilla -gone to bed—and drank his nightcap of hot rum.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_9">[9]</span> -“I’d have felt less lonesome-like if Priscilla’s mother wasn’t -lying green under sod, and me alone save for Cilla. But -lasses must wed, and I’ve seen o’ late the mating look in -Priscilla’s face. Well, her mother wore that look, once on -a day, and I’ve seen no better in my long life, and never -shall. It must be David—oh, ay, it must be David!”</p> - -<p>So he left them together this morning, and his big voice -seemed to echo up and down the grey, stone hills long -after he had left.</p> - -<p>Farmer Hirst had given the blacksmith many chances -of this kind; and always it had been, as now, the signal -for David to grow tongue-tied, for Priscilla to show the -wild-rose flag of maidenly rebellion in her cheeks.</p> - -<p>“’Tis kindly, this smell of a mistal,” ventured David -by and by. “Sweet o’ the kine, I call it—’tis so lusty and -so big to smell.”</p> - -<p>Priscilla answered nothing. There’s something in the -fragrance at a cattle-byre that makes for wooing, no man -can tell you why; and the lass was young and was feeling -two spring seasons meet in her—spring of her untried -youth, and spring of the tried old world that knows its -faith.</p> - -<p>“Cilla, the throstles are singing out-of-doors,” said he, -bending an ear toward the open fields.</p> - -<p>His meaning should have been clear; for, when a -throstle sings across the reek of an open mistal-door, the -human oddities of speech should be altogether lost, and -the world’s tongue interpret all. Yet Priscilla missed it, -and disdained the thrush’s clarion note.</p> - -<p>“Ay, David, and the world is turning round about the -sun, and the stars come out o’ nights, and I’ve to do my -churning by and by. David, is there naught beyond your -throstles and your stars and the sun that guides the -world?”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_10">[10]</span>“Naught,” answered David stolidly. “They’re life, -Priscilla, and maybe when we’re hid beneath the sward -we’ll know of bonnier things—but not just yet, I’m -thinking.”</p> - -<p>It was David’s moment, had he known it. It needed -a touch, a glance, a right word spoken that should ring in -tune with the spring; and while he halted there came a -sound of whistling all across the mistal-yard. It was not -like Farmer Hirst to turn back when once he had set off, -and Priscilla wondered whose the footstep could be—the -step that was quicker and lighter than her father’s.</p> - -<p>“One of the farm-men, maybe,” muttered David, remembering, -now that the opportunity was like to be lost, -the one right speech he should have whispered into Priscilla’s -ear.</p> - -<p>“No—nor yet father’s. ’Tis a town-bred step, David. -Cannot you hear the mincing tread, as if he thought the -sweet yard-litter could hurt a body’s feet?”</p> - -<p>“Ay, now you name it, so I can. Treads nipperty-like, -as a cat does. Mistrust that sort of going, I. Who can he -be, Priscilla?”</p> - -<p>“Some stranger likely. Some one that’s never smelled -the warmth of a cattle-byre, so I should say.”</p> - -<p>The footsteps sounded near and hurried now, but still -there was that delicate, lady-like treading across what -Priscilla had named the sweet yard-litter. David and the -girl, looking from the shadows of the mistal into the open -sunlight, saw a well-dressed figure of a man—a man -neither short nor tall, neither dark nor fair—a man -no way remarkable, unless the sun was full upon him, -and, seeing him from a shadowed place, you noted the -uncertain eyes which long ago had been a puzzle to his -mother when he stood beside her knee.</p> - -<p>“There was no one at Good Intent, except old Martha,”<span class="pagenum" id="Page_11">[11]</span> -said the newcomer, lifting his hat with an air which David -Blake could not have copied had Priscilla’s love depended -on it. “She told me you were here—‘likely,’ she added, -in the queer speech I used to know, ‘seeing the roan cow -was sick, and you were tending her.’ Priscilla, surely -you’ve not forgotten me?”</p> - -<p>David Blake was the best-tempered man in all the long -vale of Strathgarth, so folk said; but there were times -when he was as ill to meet, as ill to look at, as if he had -been a north-born dog, guarding a north-built threshold -from a stranger he distrusted. And David listened to -this prit-a-prat man who tried to mimick old Martha’s -wholesome speech; and Priscilla, glancing sideways -at the man who should have wooed her in the mistal—as -women will glance toward a known lover from a rival -known by instinct—Priscilla saw David Blake in a new -guise, and one not pleasant to her on this peaceful day -of spring.</p> - -<p>She smiled at the newcomer, inclining her head a little -in the pretty, willowy fashion that Garth village loved. -“You’ve the better of me,” she said. “I do not remember -you at all. Stay, though,” she added, seeing the sunlight -on his face, with its inscrutable, wild eyes, “I seem now -to have known you long ago.”</p> - -<p>“Five years ago, Priscilla,” he answered, with a laugh -which David swore was false to the note of throstles and -all wholesome things.</p> - -<p>“You ask me to remember some one I knew at fourteen,” -said Priscilla quietly. “It seems long ago to -me.”</p> - -<p>David went to smooth the flanks of the roan cow, who -turned her head and licked his waistcoat tranquilly from -the topmost to the lowest button.</p> - -<p>“I know him now,” growled the smith. “Garth has<span class="pagenum" id="Page_12">[12]</span> -been well rid of him these five years, to my thinking. -Pity’s he’s come back.”</p> - -<p>He glanced again at the other man, and was overtaken -by an impulse to throw his adversary bodily out of the -mistal-yard; so he pulled himself together, as one who -was accustomed to follow kindly instincts only.</p> - -<p>“Well, I’ll be jogging, Priscilla,” he said, making for -the door. “The cow is ailing naught so much, and ’tis -time I got to smithy-work again.”</p> - -<p>“So you’ve forgotten me too, David?” said the -stranger airily, as Blake was pushing past him.</p> - -<p>“Nay,” answered David, not seeing the proffered hand. -“I remember you well, Gaunt of Marshlands—and I’ll -bid you good day, as I was ever glad to do.”</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_13">[13]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER II</h2> -</div> - - -<p class="drop-cap">“THAT’S a pleasant sort of welcome, eh?” said -Reuben Gaunt, as he watched David’s broad back -disappear round the corner of the stables.</p> - -<p>Priscilla’s interest was awakened already, and the smith -had done an ill turn to his own cause by arousing her -sympathy as well.</p> - -<p>“You’ll find pleasanter welcomes here in Garth,” the -girl answered, with that candour of thought and expression -which in itself was dignity. “It was stupid of me -to forget you, Mr. Gaunt, but I was so little, when you -used to play big brother to me and show me all the wonders -of the Dene.”</p> - -<p>“I think it must not be Mr. Gaunt. The folk who like -me call me Reuben, as you did once.”</p> - -<p>Priscilla was vaguely disturbed. Softness of speech -and manner she understood, for she had ever been a favourite -with the landed gentlefolk of Strathgarth; and, because -she understood them, she detected the false note -in Gaunt’s would-be correctness. Yet she pushed the -distrust aside; for this man had been away from Garth -for five long years, had seen the mysteries hidden in the -beyond, and doubtless he could tell her of them.</p> - -<p>“We are older now,” she answered, a little smile belying -her rebuke. “It must be Mr. Gaunt, or naught at -all.”</p> - -<p>“Well, then, it must be Miss Priscilla, too?”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_14">[14]</span>“’Twould be fitting, I think. Five years are not -bridged in a moment, and father tells me I’m a woman -grown, though I feel a child when the spring comes in as -it is coming now.”</p> - -<p>An older and more constant playmate than Gaunt of -Marshlands sang to her—sang blithe and high—through -the mistal-door; but she scarcely heard the throstle, for -Gaunt brought news from the beyond.</p> - -<p>“Where have you been these years past?” she asked, -moving restlessly from foot to foot.</p> - -<p>“Everywhere, I fancy,” laughed the other. “I’ve -seen the world, as I always meant to do; and a queer -world I’ve found it.”</p> - -<p>As a child wipes the school-day’s sums from its slate, -Priscilla lost the record of her working and her playtime -hours. The grey serenity of Garth, the sweetness of its -roadside gardens, the slow, rich gossip of its folk—these -things went by her. She forgot the low, musical humming -of the churn, the look of the butter as it lay, round and -golden as a kingcup, on the stone tables of the dairy. She -heard no longer the splash of milk into the foamy pail, -the lowing of the kine as they gave their evensong of -praise.</p> - -<p>Not restless now, she leaned against the stall, her eyes -wandering now and then to Gaunt’s, then returning to -the mistal-yard and the croft beyond. She was listening -to this man who had spent five years beyond the limits of -Garth village, and his tales enthralled her. In an absent -way she wondered that those well-known fields, the familiar -yard, had never seemed so small as now.</p> - -<p>Reuben Gaunt was talking well. The picture of the -girl, her lissome outline framed by the oaken stall, her -hands clasped above her head, the lights and shadows -of the mistal playing constantly about her eager eyes—these<span class="pagenum" id="Page_15">[15]</span> -might well have moved a duller wit than Gaunt’s -to make the most of itself. And, when he stopped, Priscilla -was silent, her head thrown further back and her -glance going out and out, over the grey field-walls -of Strathgarth, over its dingles and its hills—out to the -borderland, and across into the unknown.</p> - -<p>“You have come back suddenly,” she said at last. -“None knew in Garth that you were coming home, or -we must have heard of it.”</p> - -<p>“I chose to return unawares, and see what sort of welcome -Garth would give me without preparation.—And, -gad, I learned from David Blake quite soon enough,” he -finished, with an easy laugh.</p> - -<p>“And shall you stay among us?”</p> - -<p>He had been watching her during that long silence. -Faults in plenty the man had, but in his way he could -understand the finer lines of beauty; and now, as he met -Priscilla’s eyes, he found her exquisite—something as faultless, -and yet as natural, as a harebell swaying to the wind.</p> - -<p>“Yes, I shall stay,” he answered.</p> - -<p>Her eyes fell, in answer, not to the words, but to the -tone. And, because she had been wont to look all folk -bravely in the eyes, she grew impatient of her shame-facedness.</p> - -<p>“I cannot idle all the morning through,” she said. -“I’ll give you good day, Mr. Gaunt, and get to my housework.”</p> - -<p>David Blake, meanwhile, had turned aside before he -reached his smithy, and had crossed, by the stile at the -road-corner, into the field where Farmer Hirst was busy -hedge-cutting with his men.</p> - -<p>“Hallo, David! Followed me up, like, have ye?” -roared Hirst, as he chanced to turn his head while the -smith was still half a field away.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_16">[16]</span>“Ay, I like the sound and the look of cutting a thorn-hedge,” -answered David, as he drew nearer. “Thought -I’d come and set ye straight if ye were showing faulty -hedge-craft.”</p> - -<p>The two farm-men turned with their bill-hooks in their -hands. They nodded at David and grinned at his simple -pleasantry. Lithe, clean-built fellows they were, both of -them, such as they breed within the boundaries of Strathgarth, -and they were friends and, save in the matter of -wage-earning, they were roughly the equals of their -master.</p> - -<p>“Come ye, then,” chuckled the farmer. “See what -we’ve done a’ready, David! See how trim and snug the -whole line lies of it! Nay, not that way, lad!” he broke -off, as one of the hands began to lay a stout hawthorn -stem, sawn half-way through, all out of line with its fellow -on the left.</p> - -<p>He bent the branch as he would have it lie, then stepped -aside—for a heavy man, Hirst was oddly active in his -movements—and set to work to pluck a root of dog-briar -from its deep bed. Twist and turn the root in his -hands as he might, it would not budge.</p> - -<p>“’Tis all these durned leather gloves,” he said, throwing -his gauntlets off. “They keep the prickles out, David—or -reckon to—but when a body wants his naked hands—well, -let him wear them naked.”</p> - -<p>Again he tugged, but the old root would not give; so -David grasped Priscilla’s father by the middle, and -“<i>Yoick!</i>” he cried, and they pulled together. The root -left its hold, more suddenly than they had counted on, -and David, being the hinder of the two, bore the full -brunt of the farmer’s fall.</p> - -<p>David got to his feet by and by, and coaxed the wind -back into his lungs. Farmer Hirst was laughing till the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_17">[17]</span> -tears ran down his ruddy face; the men were laughing, -too; so David, soon as he found breath, fetched out that -slow, deep body-merriment of his.</p> - -<p>“We got him out o’ground! Oh, ay, we daunted yond -old briar-root!” said he.</p> - -<p>Whereat the four laughed so heartily that a pair of -curlews—just returned, like Reuben Gaunt, from sojourning -God knew where—got up from the further side -of the fence, and went crying toward the moor.</p> - -<p>“Briar-roots are the devil and all,” said Hirst, “when -ye come to clean a hedge-bottom.”</p> - -<p>“Bear bonnie roses all the same, when June comes in,” -ventured the blacksmith, not telling Hirst that wild roses -reminded him, too often for his peace of mind, of Priscilla. -“Pity to stump ’em up, say I, and pity came of my lending -my hand to the job just now.”</p> - -<p>He made pretence to rub himself, as if the farmer’s -bulk had raised painful sores on him. It is easy to laugh -when the spring’s a-coming in, and the four workers -startled a black-faced ewe that was near to her first lambing -season.</p> - -<p>“Get away wi’ your jests, David,” answered Farmer -Hirst. “D’ye think I want to have my lambs dropped -hasty-like in the ditch down yonder?”</p> - -<p>Yet by and by, when they had worked their fill at the -hedge-cutting, and it was dinner-time, David drew the -farmer aside. He had not known till now what had brought -him to the fields here, instead of to the smithy where he -had urgent work to do. For the blacksmith’s brain was -like an eight-day clock that stands in the kitchen corner; -it moved slowly—<i>tick-tack, tick-tack</i>, with sober repetition—but, -when the moment came to strike the hour, there -was never any doubt as to the time he had in mind.</p> - -<p>“John Hirst,” he said, “ne’er mind your dinner yet<span class="pagenum" id="Page_18">[18]</span> -awhile. I’ve somewhat lies on my chest, as a body might -say.”</p> - -<p>“Well, I lay there not a long while since, a trifle sudden -and a trifle hard,” laughed Hirst.</p> - -<p>“Ah, now, will ye be quiet? I’m like Fool Billy, as -Priscilla said just now, and ye think I’m jesting when I’m -trying to talk sober sense.”</p> - -<p>“Dinner-time is sober sense, David, judging by my -itch to get at cheese and bread and good brown ale. What -then, lad? What ails ye?”</p> - -<p>“I’m slow of speech, unlike my smithy-bellows,” went -on the other doggedly. “I find the right word always -the day after to-morrow, instead of the day’s minute that -I want it.”</p> - -<p>“I’ve a trick of the same kind myself, David. What -then? Speech is speech, but trimming a thorn-hedge, or -ploughing for your turnip-crop, is a sight better than -hunting words. Tuts, David! Ye’re yellow about the -gills, and some trouble’s sitting on ye, by that token.”</p> - -<p>“Ay, some trouble is,” said David.</p> - -<p>“Priscilla gave ye cake and ale?” put in the other anxiously.</p> - -<p>“She forgot to offer it, and I forgot to lack it.” David’s -eyes followed the neat line of the hedge, and he nodded -gravely at it. “Wish men were more like thorn-bushes, -John—wish you could lop their unruliness, and twist -their ill-grown branches into shape, and make a clean, -useful hedge at the end of all.”</p> - -<p>Farmer Hirst was thinking of his dinner with gaining -tenderness. “What is in your mind, David, lad?” he -asked. “’Tis like watching the kettle boil, this getting -at your meaning.”</p> - -<p>“Reuben Gaunt is back again in Garth,” the smith -blurted out. “That’s my meaning, John, and I tell you<span class="pagenum" id="Page_19">[19]</span> -we could well have let him stay t’ other side of the world, -and ne’er have missed him.”</p> - -<p>The farmer’s face clouded for a moment. “We could -have spared him—ay. But what of it? Because a fool -chooses to come home again, are we to go pulling fiddle-faces -on a blithesome day like this? Hark ye, David, I’ll -not bide a minute longer; there’s cheese and ale all waiting -in the hedge-bottom yonder, and you’re going to share it -with us.”</p> - -<p>So David laid his trouble aside for the moment, and -the four of them sat on the sunny hedge-bank, and said -little until for the second or third time they took more -cheese to help the butter out, or more bread to help the -cheese out, or another pull of ale “to settle the lot trimly -into place.”</p> - -<p>“Wonderful March weather,” said the farmer, draining -a last draught. “Near to April, and not a lamb-storm -yet. ’Twill be twelve year since I remember such a -spring.”</p> - -<p>“Found a primrose fair in bloom this morn,” said one -of the farm-men. “Wonderful weather, I’ll own, farmer—but -what’s to come with April? Mistrust these easiful, -quiet March-times myself.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, get ye along!” cried Hirst. “Believe the best o’ -the weather, I, and always did. They laugh at me in -Shepston market—say I’m no true farmer, because I’ll -not speak o’ the weather as if she were a jade for any man -to mock at.”</p> - -<p>There was a silence, while the men lay tranquilly against -the bank and watched the blue sky trail her draperies of -cool, white fleece across the west wind’s track.</p> - -<p>“Reuben Gaunt is back, I’ve heard,” said one of the -farm-hands presently. “Came last night, all unbeknownst-like, -same fashion as he left, five years since.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_20">[20]</span>“There’ll be brisk times for the lasses, then,” put in -his fellow drily.</p> - -<p>Again the farmer’s face darkened for a moment. “’Tis -work-time, lads, not gossip-time, and many a yard of -hedge to fettle up before we get our suppers.”</p> - -<p>“I’ll be getting to my own work, too,” said David, -nodding his farewells and moving down the field.</p> - -<p>At another time he would have put his own work off, -would have taken a hand till nightfall with the hedge-trimmers, -would have given them jest for jest and laugh -for laugh, while he trimmed, and cut, and bent the hawthorn -boughs into their place. But to-day he could not.</p> - -<p>“There’ll be a brisk time for the lasses, then,” he muttered, -echoing the farm-hand’s idle speech. “Ay, there’s -always trouble o’ that sort when Reuben Gaunt’s at -hand.”</p> - -<p>Through the quiet fields he went, but they brought little -benediction to him. He remembered Gaunt and all his -ways, remembered how, when he left Garth, there had -been no sadness in the men’s faces, but grief and bitterness -in many women’s.</p> - -<p>“What the dangment do they see in him, these lasses?” -growled David, as he climbed the wall and dropped into -the highroad. “Littlish in the build—face as good to look -at as a mangold-wurzel’s—must be those devil’s eyes of -his, that never lie still for a moment, but go hunting like -a dog that sniffs a fresh scent every yard.”</p> - -<p>David had summed up his man with unerring judgment -in that last thought—so far, that is, as we can judge of -any man. Had Gaunt been downright evil, it would have -been easier for the men of Garth to have thrashed him -long ago into a likelier and more wholesome habit. But -even to-day, when he was in a mood that, for him, was -bitter, the blacksmith knew that his enemy was neither<span class="pagenum" id="Page_21">[21]</span> -good nor bad, but purposeless. He had watched him grow -from childhood; and year by year his name of Reuben -seemed more and more a prophecy of days to come.</p> - -<p>“Unstable as water—ay, just that,” thought David, -as he reached the smithy.</p> - -<p>Billy the Fool, after dusting the smithy fire with coke -and smudge, had settled himself to sleep again; but he -was awake on the instant when David’s footsteps sounded -on the roadway. He rose, and shook himself with a big, -heedless satisfaction.</p> - -<p>“I’ve been a-dreaming, David,” was his greeting. -“Dreamed I was wise, like ye are at most times—saving -when Miss Priscilla comes.”</p> - -<p>“Ay?” said the other, patting Billy on the shoulder.</p> - -<p>“I didn’t like it, David! Glad to waken is Billy the -Fool. There wasn’t no frolic in’t.”</p> - -<p>“I can believe you, lad. What news, Billy, since I went -up street?”</p> - -<p>It was the habit in Garth village to ask Billy for news, -however many times a day you met him, though none -could say how the idle custom had first come into use.</p> - -<p>“Ay, there’s news. I’ve been at my games again, David -the Smith.” A smile broadened slowly across the placid -face, while the blacksmith listened good-humouredly.</p> - -<p>“Never met your like for games, Billy,” he said, fingering -his tools after the fashion of a man who means to begin -work by and by, but not just yet.</p> - -<p>David, indeed, was thinking less of work, and less of -Billy, than of the encounter in the mistal. Reuben Gaunt -had come like a shadow between the springtime and himself, -had blurred the sun for him: keen to foresee, as slow -men often are, the blacksmith felt as if a blight had fallen -on Garth village, checking the warmth, holding the green -buds in their sheaths.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_22">[22]</span>Yet Billy soon claimed his ear. “I’d looked to your -fire,” went on the natural, “and stepped out into the -road, to see what time o’ day it was. Perhaps a half-hour -since it was—and what d’ye think, David?”</p> - -<p>“Couldn’t guess, lad, couldn’t guess.”</p> - -<p>“Well, there was a littlish man, all dressed up as if -’twere Sunday; and he came down the road, and I knew -he’d been to Good Intent.”</p> - -<p>David glanced sharply up. “How did you know -that?”</p> - -<p>“Miss Priscilla lives there. All the younger men—and -happen a few o’ the old uns too—will always be wending -Good Intent way when the spring comes in. Habit o’ -theirs, David—habit o’ theirs! I go that way myself -sometimes.”</p> - -<p>The blacksmith, not for the first time, was puzzled -by Billy the Fool. The natural’s unerring instinct for all -that made for the primitive in bird or beast or human-folk, -when coupled with his child’s disdain of everyday good -sense, would have troubled keener wits than David’s. -He recognized Reuben Gaunt, moreover, from the other’s -description, and he fingered his tools no longer, but followed -Billy’s story.</p> - -<p>“Came whistling down the road, did the littlish chap. -I wondered, like, at what, for ye or me could have outsized -him two or three times over.”</p> - -<p>David laughed, though he was little in the mood for it. -At every turn of his path to-day—whether he were talking -to Priscilla, or dining in the hedge-bottom with Farmer -Hirst, or talking to Billy—Gaunt’s shadow crossed his -path. Yet he laughed, for he was simple, too, and big, and -there was something that tickled his fancy in this quiet -assumption that little men had little right to whistle on the -Queen’s highway.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_23">[23]</span>“Came whistling down, did he?” asked the blacksmith, -strangely eager for the story.</p> - -<p>“Ay, and stopped when he saw me. ‘Flick-a-moroo!’ -says he, and twitched my chin, and seemed to think he’d -played a jest on me.”</p> - -<p>Again David chuckled; for there was none in the Dale -of Strathgarth that could mimic a man as faithfully as -Billy, and he had caught Gaunt’s mincing accent to the -life.</p> - -<p>“‘<i>Flick-a-moroo</i>,’ says I, easy as answering a blackbird -when he calls. I didn’t like having my chin tickled, David, -but I bided like, as one might say. And then he says—’tis -queer and strange how little a grown man can be, yet -can strut like a turkey-cock—‘Ye seem to know what’s -the meaning of <i>flick-a-moroo</i>’ says he, ‘though it’s more -than I do.’ ‘Ay, I know the meaning of <i>flick-a-moroo</i>,’ I -says.”</p> - -<p>“Well, lad?” asked David, waiting till he had finished -a laugh that came before the end of the story.</p> - -<p>“Ye see, David”—a happy, cunning look was in the -natural’s face—“ye see, we were near t’ other side o’ -the road yonder, and I minded there was a snug, far drop -over th’ wall, and some young nettles growing soft as a -feather-bed. So I says again, ‘Oh, ay,’ says I, ‘I know -the meaning o’ <i>flick-a-moroo</i>,’ says I; and I catches him, -heels and head—’twould have made ye crack wi’ laughter, -David, to see it—and I holds him over the wall awhile, -and drops him soft as a babby into th’ nettles.”</p> - -<p>Again David laughed. He could not help it. “And -then, Fool Billy?” he asked.</p> - -<p>“Why, I went and looked at him, and I says, ‘Oh, ay, -I know what’s the meaning o’ <i>flick-a-moroo</i>,’ says I—‘and -so do ye, I’m thinking.’”</p> - -<p>David felt a joy in this daft enterprise as keen as Billy’s.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_24">[24]</span> -Was it not the expression of feelings which he had himself -only checked with an effort up yonder in the mistal-yard?</p> - -<p>“’Twas outrageous, and not like ye, Billy,” the smith -observed, his whole face twinkling. “Should’st be more -civil when strangers come to Garth.”</p> - -<p>Billy looked apprehensive for a moment; of all things, -after work, he hated the reproof of those whom, in his -innocence, he fancied to be wiser than himself. A glance -at David’s face, however, reassured him.</p> - -<p>“Civil when strangers are civil, David,” he chuckled. -For Billy, vague as his outlook upon morals was, showed -himself persistently on the side of the Old Testament. -“I’d bested him, ye see! Owned he didn’t know what -<i>flick-a-moroo</i> meant. Billy the Fool did.”</p> - -<p>“We’ll have a change of play, Billy,” said the smith. -“Just make the bonnie sparks go scummering up again, -and I’ll to my work o’ making horseshoes.”</p> - -<p>David stole many a look at the other’s face as they -went forward with their labour. He was realizing that -there were possibilities of tragedy about this lad with the -big frame and the dangerous strength. It was a jest to -drop a man gently into a bed of nettles—but what if -Billy’s passion were roused in earnest? What if some one -pierced through that slothful outer crust of his, and -touched some deeper instinct in him?</p> - -<p>“Might be a sort of earthquake hidden in poor Billy,” -he muttered. “’Tis hard to guess what he’s thinking of, -right at the beating heart of the chap.”</p> - -<p>The smith would have been astonished, had he been -able to sound these heart-beats of his comrade’s. It was -Priscilla he was thinking of—Priscilla of the Good Intent—Priscilla, -who brought the sunshine into Garth for -one poor fool whenever she crossed his path.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_25">[25]</span>“She’ll be fettling up the house-place now, I reckon,” -said Billy suddenly.</p> - -<p>“Who, lad?”</p> - -<p>“Why, Miss Priscilla. ’Tis her time of day for doing -on’t. Te-he, David! I hoicked yon chap fair grandly -over th’ wall—Sunday clothes, and <i>pritty-prat</i> speech, -and all. Nettles don’t sting i’ March, they say—but I’ve -known ’em do that same.”</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_26">[26]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER III</h2> -</div> - - -<p class="drop-cap">SPRING was abroad indeed these days. Garth village, -good to see even in grey winter-time, grew to the -likeness of a well-kept garden. The winding street—white -at one time, then glistening-grey when the sun shone -on it through April rain—moved lazily between the cottages -and the yeomen’s square, substantial houses. And -always, between the house-front and the highway, there -was a garden, big or little. Sometimes—when the cottage -was so small in itself that there seemed no room for -a garden-space—there would be a strip, no more than -two feet wide, fenced round to guard it from the wandering -ducks and geese and dogs of Garth. Sometimes a bigger -house would shrink, with disdainful pride, from too close -a rubbing of shoulders with the street; and its garden -would be wide and guarded by a grey stone wall, with a -white-painted gate in the middle of the wall.</p> - -<p>But always, right and left of the good street of Garth, -there were gardens, and, whatever their size or shape -might be, the same flowers bloomed in all. Crocuses still -glowed yellow when the sun came out to waken them; -but these were of the older generation, and daffodils -were nodding already high above them with the effrontery -of youth. Auriculas were showing the white miller’s-dust -about their buds; the ladslove bushes pushed out green, -fragrant spikes into this unexpected weather; primroses -caught the laughter of the spring, and celandines looked -humbly at the sunlight.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_27">[27]</span>Priscilla of the Good Intent, as she came down the -street, was no way out of keeping—so the kindly gossips -said, standing each at her sunlit door—with the gardens -and the weather. For it was true that not men only, but -women, were reminded always of a flower when their eyes -fell on Priscilla; and each was apt to choose his own -favourite flower as Cilla’s namesake.</p> - -<p>The village parliament, made up of men and women -both, is seldom wrong when it passes judgment on a -neighbour; and there was none in Garth who would deny -off-hand that Priscilla of the Good Intent was rightly -named, thanks to the title of the farm on which her father, -and his fathers before him, had laboured thankfully.</p> - -<p>“There goes slim Miss Good Intent,” said one cottager -to another, across the quickset hedge that parted -them.</p> - -<p>“Ay! Sunshine all along the street,” the other answered. -“Trust she’ll fall into a good man’s hands; -for into some hands she’ll fall soon, or else a lad will just -reach up and pluck her.”</p> - -<p>Priscilla had smiled and nodded to them as she passed—nodded -and smiled, indeed, the length of Garth Street, -as if she were the lady of the village. She was no less, -indeed, for she had that simple pride which knows its -station and disdains no greeting on life’s highroad. Unspoiled -as a primrose, opening to the warmth of spring, -was Priscilla; and it seemed the pity of life that she should -ever have to meet contrary winds.</p> - -<p>Billy the Fool, at the extreme end of Garth, was passing -the time of day with David the Smith, as his wont was; -for the two were rather like an elder and a younger brother, -and sought each other out by instinct. It was two weeks -and a day since Billy had dropped his victim into a bed -of growing nettles, and neither he nor David had spoken of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_28">[28]</span> -the matter since—the blacksmith, because he was too -fastidious, in a rough fashion, when a rival was in -case; the natural, because he forgot such trifles until -the season for remembrance came. Reuben Gaunt, for -his part, had kept silence, and had thanked heaven, in -his own random way, that the jest of his sitting down -among the nettles was not common gossip now in Garth. -For Reuben hated to be laughed at, as the half and between -men of this world always shrink from the laughter -of their neighbours.</p> - -<p>“The birds are all a-mating and a-building, David the -Smith,” said Billy. “Cannot ye hear the throstles calling -to the hen-birds?”</p> - -<p>“Ay,” growled David, a sudden anger coming to him; -“but ye and me are no way mated, Billy the Fool. What -ails us, lad?”</p> - -<p>“Life ails us,” said Billy unexpectedly. “We’re over -slow and overpleasant, David. Chase ’em and have ’em, -David the Smith—that’s how I’ve seen the bird-folk -go a-wooing. Te-he, there’s Miss Priscilla!” he broke -off, and seemed about to run and greet her, in his friendly, -dog-like way, when a second figure came into the street -from the bridle-track that led to Thorlburn.</p> - -<p>The natural stopped, suddenly as if he had been indeed -a dog and his master had whistled him down.</p> - -<p>“Garth Street is not what it used to be, David,” he -observed, dispassionately. “More muckiness about the -roads, though why I know not, seeing they’re smooth and -silver at this moment.”</p> - -<p>David said nothing for awhile; but he saw Reuben -Gaunt lift his cap to Priscilla, with that indescribable -air of overdoing the matter which roused the blacksmith’s -temper. He saw, too, that they stayed and chatted—Priscilla -laughing—and afterwards went up the Thorlburn<span class="pagenum" id="Page_29">[29]</span> -bridle-way, which led to a field-track winding at -long last to Good Intent.</p> - -<p>“Come in, Billy,” said the smith—his voice came suddenly, -and was half-brother to a sob—“come away in -and play at blowing the bellows, while I fire the ends of -those posts that Farmer Hirst is wanting.”</p> - -<p>“What does he want ’em for, like?” asked the natural, -curious at all times.</p> - -<p>“To make a pen for yon rambling turkeys. The hens -will go wandering after the cock-bird, and they’re laying -in the hedge-bottoms, and over t’ other side the beck, -and Lord knows where. ’Tisn’t the hens I blame, Billy; -’tis the ruffling master-bird, with his tail spread like a silly -peacock’s. Pen him in we will, Billy—and, if he breaks -his neck in the wire-netting, so much the better for all -sides.”</p> - -<p>It was rarely that David allowed himself so stormy an -outbreak. Had he taken his wooing in this fashion two -weeks and a day ago in the farmyard of Good Intent, -breaking down the barriers of diffidence—Priscilla’s -and his own—there might have been a different life-tale -for David the Smith.</p> - -<p>“Te-he!” chuckled Billy the Fool, shambling toward -the smithy. “’Twould be a rare game to pen in the turkey-cock. -<i>Gobble-gobble di-gobble</i>, he goes, whenever he comes -across the likes o’ me, and his wattle goes red as the floor, -David, when a man’s been killing a cow. Ay, I’ll blow -the bellows for ye, if so ye’re going to prison up yond old, -prideful devil.”</p> - -<p>“Soothes a body’s temper,” muttered David, after he -had been at work for half an hour—thrusting the pine-posts -into the blaze, turning them about, taking them -away when the pointed ends were charred sufficiently, -while Billy played contentedly and hard with the bellows.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_30">[30]</span> -“God knows I’d like to see Priscilla happy, with me or -another man; but Reuben Gaunt sticks in my gizzard -like a fish-bone.” He laughed quietly, for he always -sought from humour an antidote against the storm-winds -of life. “Suits me, seemingly,” he said to himself, “to -be fair mad with a man; for work takes the tetchy humours -out of ye, and work pays ye afterwards.”</p> - -<p>Could David have left his forge more often, in order -to seek Priscilla’s company—and he was well-found -already in the bread and cheese of life, and knew that -there were savings of the years behind him—could David -have understood that a maid, if you love her and she -chances to love you, needs wooing with a desperate seriousness -and a desperate gaiety—he would have been less -interested to-day in the making of charred posts wherewith -to furnish forth John Hirst’s turkey-pen.</p> - -<p>Priscilla, meanwhile, was wandering up the bridle-track -with Reuben Gaunt, and the little, plain-featured man -with the wild eyes was talking to her—talk being his -prime work in life—and telling her of the countries he -had seen, the busy streets, the things remote from Garth’s -quiet highroad, and Garth’s quiet hill-slopes where the -work of farming life was done.</p> - -<p>Like cloud-land drifting before a merry wind, the old -life went receding from Priscilla of the Good Intent. The -street of Garth grew dull; the singing of a farm-hand, as -he strode up the hilly field in front of them, was so much -noise in a rustic bauble-shop. Reuben Gaunt’s plain face, -his little body, receded too, and only his wild eyes were -left—the eyes that looked into hers and reflected, so she -thought, the world beyond Garth village.</p> - -<p>Billy the Fool, had he been in this quiet lane, would -have been finding the first wild-strawberry bloom, or -another blackbird’s nest; but Priscilla, who had loved<span class="pagenum" id="Page_31">[31]</span> -such things aforetime, was looking far beyond them -now.</p> - -<p>“You had seen so many countries, and there were more -to see. Yet you return to Garth,” said Priscilla suddenly.</p> - -<p>They had halted at the gate that opened on the field-track -to Good Intent, and the girl was leaning with her -arms upon the topmost bar. The long and quiet glance -she gave her companion was childish in its wonderment.</p> - -<p>“Yes—to stay, I doubt. ’Tis free and pleasant to go -roaming; but a man grows tired of earning his bread as -best he can. I’ve been a jockey, a trainer, a gold-miner—a -publican, Lord help me, for one whole year—and all -seemed to leave me as poor as it found me, Priscilla.”</p> - -<p>It was a little sign of the new days, but a clear one, that -the girl’s pride was content with his half-tender, half-easy -use of her name. She did not call him Mr. Gaunt, but -avoided any name when speaking to him.</p> - -<p>“But you had the life—the life.” Her voice was almost -passionate. “You did not see the same hills every -day, and churn the butter whenever Thursday came, and -milk the cattle o’ nights and mornings, from spring’s -beginning to winter’s end.”</p> - -<p>“No, Cilla—yet, somehow, when the old folk died and -left me Marshlands, and word came to me that the snug -property was mine, I longed for the home-fields—longed -to settle down.”</p> - -<p>Reuben was sincere in this, so far as his way of life -allowed him to be sincere in anything. He was glad to -be home again, glad to revisit nooks and corners which -he had known in boyhood. Even the wanderers need their -rest sometimes, and this man with the queer, wild eyes -was fonder of Garth village than he had ever known.</p> - -<p>“I must take a wife, Priscilla, now that I have something<span class="pagenum" id="Page_32">[32]</span> -to keep her on,” he went on, leaning against the -gate-post and stroking his upper lip. “Marshlands will -never thrive unless it has a mistress.”</p> - -<p>Priscilla looked straight in front of her, with a heedlessness -that angered Gaunt. Keen-witted as he was, he -should have known that Yeoman Hirst’s daughter was -not one to be wooed at the end of two weeks and a day.</p> - -<p>“Yes, ’twill need a mistress,” she said, indifferently.</p> - -<p>Her thoughts were all of the new lands that Gaunt had -opened to her fancy, and she would have answered, had -she been asked the reason of her interest in Reuben, that -he was the bringer of stirring news, and heartsome news, -into the round of her life at Garth.</p> - -<p>Gaunt was silent for awhile; wooing had sped so easily -with him in times past that contempt or opposition ruffled -him.</p> - -<p>“Suppose you choose my wife for me, Cilla?” he said -at last, with would-be playfulness. “Fair or dark is she, -and can she manage a dairy and a roomy house?”</p> - -<p>“I had not thought of it,” said Priscilla, turning her -candid eyes on him again. “’Tis for you to settle such -grave questions, I should think.”</p> - -<p>Her laughter hurt him afresh; and, while he was seeking -for a way to meet rebuffs he little liked, John Hirst came up -the road. Hirst was not one to scowl at any time; but -his thick brows came together when he reached the top -of the rise and saw these two together.</p> - -<p>“Crossing homeward by the fields, Priscilla?” he cried, -in a voice that startled them like thunder out of a tranquil -sky. “Well, so am I, and we’ll just gang together, lassie.”</p> - -<p>“Morning, Mr. Hirst,” said Gaunt, soon as he had -recovered from his surprise.</p> - -<p>“Morning, Mr. Gaunt,” answered the other gruffly, -opening the gate. “Come, Priscilla—we’ll go arm in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_33">[33]</span> -arm, as your mother came from kirk with me more -years ago than I remember.”</p> - -<p>Priscilla felt a big hand grasp her arm, and found herself, -with no time for a good-by to Reuben, moving quickly -up the field-path at her father’s side.</p> - -<p>“Well?” said the farmer, presently.</p> - -<p>Priscilla did not answer, but released her arm, and set -a little distance between them as they crossed the fields. -She was angered that her father had shown discourtesy—a -thing uncommon with him—to the man who had -laid strange, vivid colours on the palette of her fancy.</p> - -<p>“Oh, you’re out of temper with your dad,” said Hirst, -a big laugh forcing its way, willy-nilly, through all his -disquiet. “So was your mother, over and over again, -before I brought her safely to kirk. Hearken to me, little -lass. Oldish men are foolish men, they say, and forget -their youth; but Billy the Fool talks wonderful sense, just -time and time, so I may do it with safety, eh?”</p> - -<p>He halted to stroke the flanks of the roan cow which -David had lately saved, then stole a look at his daughter’s -face, and found rebellion there.</p> - -<p>“’Tis as old as the hills, lass, this tale of what to do, -and what not to do,” he went on, his voice quite gentle on -the sudden. “Two folk leaning over a gate—a lad and a -lass—and no harm done, maybe. Did it myself, when -your mother was slim as you and I was courting her. But -ye want the right lad and the right lass, Priscilla, for that -sort of gate-over-leaning.”</p> - -<p>Priscilla was no want wit, and the years had taught her -that Yeoman Hirst could never so subdue his voice unless -he were deeply moved.</p> - -<p>“Father, ’tis so perplexing,” she said, taking his arm -again in obedience to a friendship that was like no other -in Garth village, save that between the blacksmith and his<span class="pagenum" id="Page_34">[34]</span> -crony. “I do not like to see you disdain Reuben -Gaunt.”</p> - -<p>“And why, if I might ask?”</p> - -<p>“Because there’s something bigger than Garth and its -grey street.”</p> - -<p>“Something lesser, too, I reckon. Go on, lassie. I -felt the same myself once, and tried t’ other thing, and -came back in great content to Garth. I once—”</p> - -<p>“The world beyond, father!” she broke in, with one -of those passionate gusts that were apt to surprise folk -who thought her even-tempered and reserved.</p> - -<p>“Ay—a small world, Priscilla,” chuckled John Hirst.</p> - -<p>“Yet <i>you</i> longed for it once—father, you know how -we have sat on Sabbath evenings in the brink-fields, and -watched the sun go down, and played at seeing lakes and -rivers and steep mountains in the clouds. ’Tis the same -with me now. Reuben Gaunt has talked of strange cities, -strange countries, lying out beyond the cloud-line yonder—and, -oh, I want to get to them!”</p> - -<p>“Reuben Gaunt <i>would</i> talk that sort of trash!” said -Hirst, the strength and the stubbornness of the man showing -plainly. “A here to-day and gone to-morrow man, is -Reuben, lass, whether ye like to hear me say it or no. -Cities and countries are there, over beyond where Sharprise -cuts the sky? Well, then, they’re men and women -in them, and men and women have been much the same -since Adam’s time, I take it, save for tricks of speech -and wearing-gear. You’d find naught different to Garth, -Priscilla—but ye’d miss the homely hills, and the clover-fields, -and the look of Eller Brook when spring is painting -both banks yellow.”</p> - -<p>Priscilla, because in her heart of hearts she was disposed -to think her father right, was bent all the more, in her -present mood, on being out of sympathy with him.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_35">[35]</span>“I should like to see them—should like to judge for -myself, father, as you and Reuben Gaunt have done.”</p> - -<p>John Hirst had had his say, and now was minded to -smooth the rough edges, as good-tempered men are apt -to be when they have hurt a woman.</p> - -<p>“And shall do, then,” he said, drawing her to him. -“Only choose a likelier comrade for the journey, lass, -when the time comes for leaving Good Intent.”</p> - -<p>They had reached the hedge which Hirst and his men -had been laying on the morning when Reuben Gaunt had -come afresh into Priscilla’s life. Trim and low it stretched, -the strokes of the bill-hook showing yellow between the -green, primal budding of the thorns.</p> - -<p>“Good work, yond, though I say it myself,” muttered -Farmer Hirst.</p> - -<p>“Yes, good work, father,” the girl answered absently.</p> - -<p>She was not thinking of the thorn-hedge. Her father’s -“Choose a likelier comrade for the journey,” meant in -all kindliness and desire to warn her, had cleared her -outlook suddenly. Reuben Gaunt had looked love enough -in these two weeks to have lasted another man a year, but -she had disdained to acknowledge the meaning of his -glances. Priscilla—even to herself—seldom lost that -habit of drawing maiden skirts away from men when they -showed a disposition to intrude; but this morning she was -forced to see the matter in its true perspective. Words -dropped by Reuben, as if haphazard, recurred to her. -He was no longer the scarcely-seen interpreter of worlds -beyond her reach; he grew on the sudden to be the man -who had seen these lands beyond, and she wondered if that -wild look in his eyes were the mirror of something gallant -and good to look upon.</p> - -<p>The girl was so silent and so grave that her father -twitted her good-naturedly. “Day-dreams, eh, lassie?<span class="pagenum" id="Page_36">[36]</span> -They come in spring, I’ve noticed—ay, even to grizzled -elders like myself.”</p> - -<p>“Day-dreams, or day-realities—I scarce know which, -father,” she answered.</p> - -<p>Reuben Gaunt, meanwhile, was smarting under a sense -of foolishness. Priscilla had laughed at him. The farmer -had sent him about his business as if he were a hind.</p> - -<p>“I get queer welcomes in this Garth,” he said, watching -father and daughter move up the fields. “’Twould -seem it’s naught at all to own Garth’s biggest house and -richest lands. Garth is a bit like Billy the Fool—likes -or dislikes at sight, and always did, however good a man’s -coat is.”</p> - -<p>Reuben was admitting unconsciously that his experience -of the bigger world had led him to expect a welcome -according to his station. He turned fretfully to return -across the fields—in all his movements and his way of -taking life he suggested something of a child’s perverseness, -as if his body had aged and left his soul behind in the race -of life.</p> - -<p>He halted when he came to the first stile. His pride -was smarting; his love for Priscilla—which touched -already the random good in him—was rendered barren -for the moment by that one girl’s laugh of hers. Small -wonder that this man—who, after all, was as God made -him, and therefore to be pitied somewhat—had never -caught the fancy of the forthright villagers of Garth. He -was too big in his own eyes, too eager to see insult where -only friendly raillery was meant; too heedless of the truth -that the right word at the one right moment is more than -lands and raiment. Reuben could not stand against a real -insult, such as Farmer Hirst had given him just now; and -he sat on the stile and nursed his wrath, and, like his namesake, -he was unstable as the wind.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_37">[37]</span>He watched the patient fields, where the sunlight glistened -on the clean, new blades of grass. Far up the pastures, -a glint of limestone caught the sun and showed a -track which, years ago, before he left Garth village, had -been a wooing-trail for him.</p> - -<p>“I’ll go and see Ghyll Farm again,” he said, getting -down from the stile.</p> - -<p>It was one of the big moments of Gaunt’s life, had he -but known it. Yet he seemed to guess as little of it as the -wind which, like himself, was turned by any hill that met -it in its passage. He crossed the highroad, and climbed -the further stile, and went up the track that led him to -Ghyll Farm; and he whistled as he went, and moved with -an eager step which folk, less versed in the ways of Reuben -than the villagers of Garth, would have thought full of -purpose.</p> - -<p>The farm stood high up on the rise where the pasture-fields -ran into the moor and lost themselves, and Reuben, -seeing the rough, black outline of it a half-mile ahead, -began to think of other days.</p> - -<p>As if in answer to his thoughts, a big, strapping lass -came up from the shallow dingle that cut the moor in two. -She carried a basket of eggs on her arm, and she moved -with a lithe, free swing that was almost insolent in its -strength.</p> - -<p>Gaunt forgot Priscilla, forgot her father’s insult. The -worse man in him stepped forth, triumphant and uncaring -as the girl who came to meet him.</p> - -<p>“Why, ’tis you, Peggy?” said Gaunt, touching his -cap, but not lifting it with the flourish which exasperated -David the Smith.</p> - -<p>“Seems so, Reuben,” she answered, setting down her -basket and standing with a hand on either shapely hip.</p> - -<p>It was not easy to read the look in Peggy’s face. There<span class="pagenum" id="Page_38">[38]</span> -was derision, and rosy pleasure at the meeting, and defiance; -and Reuben was daunted a little, for he liked women -to go easily upon the rein.</p> - -<p>“I’m home again, you see,” he said, awkwardly.</p> - -<p>“Seems so. I heard you were back two weeks ago, and -fancied you were overproud these days to visit Peggy -Mathewson. Got a fine house of your own, and what not, -now your folk are dead?”</p> - -<p>“I used not to be overproud to visit you,” said Reuben, -his eyes catching fire at hers.</p> - -<p>“Well, no. But that was years ago, and you were -always light to come and go, Reuben. D’ye remember -that you left without a good-by said?” she went on, the -grievance of five years coming out with sudden bitterness. -“Mother talked to ye, Reuben Gaunt—would have -thrashed you, I believe, but for your luck—mother is -strong as a man to this day, and that’s more than you will -ever be.”</p> - -<p>Reuben’s face was like a dog’s when he has done -amiss, and knows it, and tries to make you understand -that he is innocent. Of all the welcomes he had found in -Garth, this was the sharpest and most tantalizing.</p> - -<p>“Had my folk to think of, Peggy. ’Twould have -broken father’s heart—”</p> - -<p>“Oh, ay!” The girl was fine in the strength with -which she treated Reuben Gaunt. “You always had -somebody’s heart to think of, Reuben, when you wanted -to run wide and free from trouble. What of me, lad, left -here to think of things?”</p> - -<p>“You’re looking bonnier for the trouble, Peggy, left here -or not.”</p> - -<p>“Old trick o’ yours, Reuben. Your arm was ever lithe -to slip about a lass’s waist, and your tongue to grasp a -lie.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_39">[39]</span>They looked at each other, and Priscilla of the Good -Intent was far away from Reuben.</p> - -<p>“Could slip an arm about your waist this minute, -Peggy.”</p> - -<p>“Doubtless—if I’d let you.”</p> - -<p>She stood away from him, alert, secure, yet with a careless -touch of invitation in her glance.</p> - -<p>“What is your errand, Peggy?” he asked after a -pause.</p> - -<p>“I’m taking a sitting of eggs to Hill End Farm. Folk -fight rather shy of mother and me, Reuben, but they seem -to know where to come when they want a clutch of Black -Minorca eggs.”</p> - -<p>He fell into step beside her, and Peggy only shrugged -her shoulders. It was natural, and like old times, that -Gaunt should ask no leave.</p> - -<p>“Carrying my eggs all in one basket,” she said, by and -by, after he had helped her over a clumsy stile. “Always -did, Reuben, if ye call to mind. ’Tis a failing of the Mathewsons, -I’ve heard tell. They don’t look to see if the basket -is strong and well-found—they just take a daft fancy -to the look on’t, and pop the whole clutch in.”</p> - -<p>“I’m here in Garth to be sneered at,” said Gaunt, with -sudden passion. “I knew it after the first day or two, -Peggy, but I’d looked for something different from -you.”</p> - -<p>“You’re always like yourself, Reuben.” The girl -looked at him with a quiet, impersonal surprise that was -almost pity. “You’d pour honey into one ear and trust -it to run out safely at the other. I’m the only lass in the -world to ye, eh? Those will-o’-wispish eyes of yours are -saying it. Yet honey stays sometimes; and a lass goes -on eating it, and finds the taste on’t sweet.”</p> - -<p>Reuben Gaunt took the basket from her arm and set<span class="pagenum" id="Page_40">[40]</span> -it down; and then he grasped her hands and stood facing -her. There was a suddenness and fire about him that -the girl liked to see—as she would have liked to find -the withes of her egg-basket not quite so slender as they -seemed.</p> - -<p>“Peggy, I’d thought to find a welcome here at Garth. -There’s a damned conspiracy against me, and yet I came -home again with soft and quiet thoughts enough, God -knows. You’ve failed me, too.”</p> - -<p>“You did not seek me out, Reuben, till you were tired -of better folk.”</p> - -<p>“More fool I, then, Peggy.”</p> - -<p>“It takes you a fortnight to tire, I remember, and two -weeks chasing other game, and then you’re back again.”</p> - -<p>The girl laughed suddenly. To know a man to the core -of him and find him wanting, and yet to be weak in his -hands when he returns—it is a plight which brings women -to the borderland where tears meet laughter. And tears -are apt to conquer in such a case, though laughter is the -safe, abiding road.</p> - -<p>Across the ages came the call to the girl’s heart—“As -a hen gathers her chickens under her wing.” She heard -the voice. She was stronger than Reuben Gaunt, and -knew it, and her pity lay about him like a mother-wing.</p> - -<p>“Come close and hither, Reuben. There’s naught else -will do for ye, ’twould seem,” she said.</p> - -<p>“’Tis five years since I kissed ye, Peggy,” he said by -and by.</p> - -<p>“Ay,” she answered, with a weariness that shamed her -big, straight body. “Ay, Reuben. We’re as we are made, -I reckon, and ye and me are equal fools, each in our own -way.”</p> - -<p>She picked up her basket, and they went along the quiet -fields together. The grass was growing under their feet,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_41">[41]</span> -and a lark was singing to the sun. There was no hint, -from lark or greening pastures, that this narrow sheep-track -which they followed was leading two folk into idleness.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_42">[42]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER IV</h2> -</div> - - -<p class="drop-cap">THOUGH spring blew warm and soft from the west -and Garth village saw its trim, quiet gardens blossom -out to welcome the young summer, there was unrest -about, as if an east wind blew.</p> - -<p>Neighbours passed the time of day together, and farmers -from the hills came down and stayed to ask if this God’s -weather-time would last.</p> - -<p>“Likely not,” was the answer always.</p> - -<p>“Ay, likely not,” the farmers would agree, though their -wholesome, wind-blown faces suggested a more friendly -outlook even on the weather.</p> - -<p>“Ye’re looking glum-like, misters,” said Billy, stepping -up one morning to a group of them who stood chatting -in Garth. It was a week after Reuben Gaunt had walked -across the fields with Peggy Mathewson.</p> - -<p>They were not aware of any special gloom, but began -to think it must be true if Billy said so.</p> - -<p>“And I’ll tell ye why,” went on the Fool imperturbably. -“Te-he! I’ll tell ye why, ye wise farm-folk. Simple and -fain to play am I; but I think a lot, just whiles and whiles, -and Billy can answer riddles when more sensible-like -folk seem bothered.”</p> - -<p>These farmer-folk, who could guide a plough, turned all -to Billy the Fool, who could not guide his own reason. -They waited for him to tell the cause of their ailment—an -ailment of his own discovering, not of theirs—as if<span class="pagenum" id="Page_43">[43]</span> -he had been the village doctor or the village parson, or -something more practical than either; and Billy, finding -himself the hero of this springtime gathering in Garth -village, laughed vacantly.</p> - -<p>“Tell ye the answer to yond riddle in a brace of shakes, -farmers all. Easy as tumbling off a wall; but ye wise folk -look downwards when ye see a stone fence, and wonder -how ye’ll light. Shameful poor thing to wonder how -you’re going to fall off a wall. Never did think o’ the -matter myself. Just climbs up, and drops soft-like down, -does Billy, and finds himself on t’ other side somehow.”</p> - -<p>“Ay, ye’re plump enough to fall soft, Billy,” laughed a -red-cheeked farmer.</p> - -<p>It was curious to see his brethren check the unruly -speaker with nods and murmurs; they were men, for the -most part, who had seen the frosts of April come to nip -the April buds, and therefore they were superstitious. -It boded ill to laugh at Billy the Fool when he wore the -look he did just now, for to them all naturals were “wise.”</p> - -<p>“Tell us, Billy,” said a grey old man coaxingly, as if -he held a baby in his arms.</p> - -<p>“Well, now, I will, seeing ye put it that way.” The -natural’s placid smile roved from one to another of the -group. “Could tell ye in a twinkling, farmer-folk, if I -were minded to.”</p> - -<p>“Tuts, thou’rt minded to,” said the grey old man, -coaxing still. “Ye can tell us how the weather sits, and -where the first nest goes a-building—surely ye can tell us -what’s the matter with Garth village?”</p> - -<p>“Ay, I could tell ye,” said Billy the Fool, his slow smile -spreading like quiet sunshine on them all. “’Tis Reuben -Gaunt ails Garth. Don’t need the likes o’ he, misters; -he’s, as ye might say, a cuckoo in the wrong nest.”</p> - -<p>The men looked at one another. Billy the interpreter<span class="pagenum" id="Page_44">[44]</span> -had put into words for them a vague unrest that had been -with them during these past weeks. It was not that they -bore Gaunt of Marshlands ill will; they were too forthright -and too clean of habit to harbour malice. It was -rather that they all felt as if the grey village was itself -no longer; they had remembered Gaunt’s record before -he left them, and the peace that followed his long wanderings -abroad. And now, at a word from Billy, they understood -these matters.</p> - -<p>“Hadn’t ye thought of it afore?” asked Billy, his lazy -eyes as full of laughter as a moorland pool when April -breezes sport across it. “Knew it myself the first -day I clapped een on Reuben Gaunt Te-he! Ye’re -fearful wise and terrible hard in the head-piece, misters, -but ’tis soft Billy has to guide ye time and time.”</p> - -<p>“We’ll give you credit for it too,” muttered the grey old -man.</p> - -<p>“Never had money myself—not to speak of,” he said, -with a tranquil chuckle. “Spoils folk’s lives and bothers -’em, does money, so I’ve heard tell. Cannot lie under a -hedgerow on June nights and hear the birds a-twittering -them to sleep. Must be prisoned in a great big bed, must -folks wi’ money, and have a great big roof sitting down on -them. Not for Billy the Fool, thank ye, that sort o’ smothered -life! But there’s summat else, misters. Ye who’ve -got money, like, might do a service to Garth village.”</p> - -<p>“Ay, and how, if a body might ask?” said a kindly -farmer.</p> - -<p>“Well now, ye might take your shovels and a big sack, -each of ye, and ye might spade your money into ’t -sack.”</p> - -<p>A friendly smile passed from one to another of the -farmers. Billy the Dreamer had stepped in front of Billy -the Wise Fool, and they waited for a jest. There was a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_45">[45]</span> -fine, free suggestion of untold wealth about the lad’s talk -of a shovel and a sack that appealed to their humour. For -they had tended, all of them, the niggard fields.</p> - -<p>“Then ye’d bring your sacks o’ gold,” went on the -natural—his face was so solemn and so sly that none -could guess whether or not he knew that he was jesting—“and -ye’d pour your gold out right along the roadway -here, and Reuben Gaunt would never see that the daffy-down-dillies -were fuller of sunshine than the gold that -strewed Garth Street.”</p> - -<p>“To be sure he wouldn’t,” said the grey old man. His -tone suggested the quietness of a man who sees a moorland -trout spreading dark fins in a pool, and moves warily to -tickle him out on to the bank.</p> - -<p>“Ye see,” went on Billy, with his inscrutable, large -air, “ye see, ye might put it to him this way. ‘Reuben -Gaunt,’ ye’d say—or ‘Mister Reuben Gaunt,’ seeing he -owns land—‘silly boy Gaunt,’ ye’d say, ‘just look ye -at all this shovelled gold that lines Garth Street.’ And he’d -answer, ‘What o’ that?’ And ye’d answer back, ‘Silly -boy Gaunt,’ ye’d say, ‘there’s a line of gold from here -to Elm Tree Inn. ’Tis yours for asking,’ ye’d say, ‘granted -ye do one thing. Oh, ay, ’tis yours for sure, granted ye do -one thing.’”</p> - -<p>“And what’s that one thing, Billy?” rapped out the -grey-haired farmer.</p> - -<p>“Why, that he’d quit Garth and take the gold along -with him. Never would miss gold and Reuben Gaunt -myself. What say ye, misters? Billy the Fool’s a child, -but somehow, as a chap might say, his head is screwed -on right foremost way. Give him your gold, say I, and -shift him out o’ Garth.”</p> - -<p>A great laugh went up. These farmers, not greedy of -money by nature, but fond of it, as most north-born people<span class="pagenum" id="Page_46">[46]</span> -are, saw the slow humour of that trail of gold which ended -at the Elm Tree Inn.</p> - -<p>“And what when Reuben Gaunt had quitted, Billy?” -asked one.</p> - -<p>Billy the Fool took out a black and antique pipe before -replying. There were half-a-dozen pouches waiting for -him on the instant, and he filled from the first offered—Priscilla’s -father’s, as it chanced—and borrowed a match. -Billy was always borrowing from his neighbours, and -thrived on it.</p> - -<p>“Well, look ye here, neighbour-folk,” he said, puffing -long trails of smoke into the sunlit quiet of Garth. “I -reckon there’d be ease of heart, and spring a-coming in, -when Reuben Gaunt had left us. Don’t know myself, -misters, but that’s what Billy the Fool has to say to ye wise -folk.”</p> - -<p>They left him by and by, one or two of them patting -him affectionately on the shoulder, and went down the -street in twos and threes. It chanced to be market-day -in Shepston, as any dweller on the fells could have told, -seeing so many farmers in Garth Street at this hour of a -busy springtime morning.</p> - -<p>“Slow and wise is Billy,” said one to the other as they -walked between the limestone wall on one hand, the budding -hedgerow on the other.</p> - -<p>“Ay, knows a lot. Only lacks the trick o’ letting out -all he knows, or we’d be wiser, Daniel, us folk in Garth.”</p> - -<p>Billy meanwhile leaned placidly against the grindstone -which stood at the road-edge just this side of Widow -Lister’s cottage. The grindstone had been out of work -these many years, and the lichens gave it a mellow dignity -such as sits on old men after their labour is done, and well -done, and the resting-time has come. Perhaps, if you -had asked the lovers of Garth village to name their friendliest<span class="pagenum" id="Page_47">[47]</span> -landmark, they would have said at once, “Why, th’ -old grindstone. Have leaned against it many a time, and -talked right good sense the while on summer’s evenings.”</p> - -<p>Billy was not talking now. One could not have said -whether he were thinking even, so imperturbably he -watched the smoke from his pipe curl up into the blue and -tranquil air. Yet, just as he had been the interpreter of -Garth’s unrest not long ago, he was the interpreter of -spring just now. Like some primeval dweller in the green -forests of a younger world, Billy the Fool looked out at -nature, and watched the seasons pass him, and knew that -weather and fresh air were relatives of his. They pitied -him in Garth, as having no kin; but Billy, had he found -words at any time in which to speak of it, could have told -them, with that sudden, easy laugh of his, that he had a -mother and sister-folk and brothers.</p> - -<p>“Might as well be wending down-street way,” he said at -last, shaking himself as he stood upright and knocking -out the ashes from his pipe. “Terrible lad to smoke is -Billy, and I feel the need of another pipeful, as a chap -might say. Will go and sit on the seat, under the old elm -tree, and happen a body’s body might come along and -offer me a fill.”</p> - -<p>The big tree in the roadway, fronting the inn to which -it gave its name, was browning fast, in token of green leaves -to come. The wide circle of the street here, where three -roads met, was shimmering in the sunshine as if new-washed -and wholesome.</p> - -<p>“Terrible fond of a seat is this plump lad,” murmured -Billy, sinking carefully into the oaken bench that circled -the great elm.</p> - -<p>He sat there, empty pipe in mouth, and he watched -young April glow upon the inn-front and the further hills<span class="pagenum" id="Page_48">[48]</span> -behind. Great faith had Billy, and therefore great tranquillity; -and, though he hungered for another pipe, he -sat beneath the elm tree, as if tobacco fell, as dew falls, -from the skies of eventide.</p> - -<p>As he waited, noting lazily for the twentieth time that -the wagtails had returned to Garth and were dusting -themselves in the roadway, Reuben Gaunt came down the -street. The natural saw him—scented him rather, so -it seemed—a hundred yards away; and he shifted the -empty pipe from one corner of his mouth to the other, -and gripped it with his teeth.</p> - -<p>“Hallo, Billy, give you good day!” said Gaunt, as -he came nearer. It was Reuben’s way at all times to -conciliate a fool, if he were strong and liable to play Fool’s-Day -jests with a man by dropping him into a nettle-bed. -“Give you good day, Billy. An empty pipe, eh? Well, -I’ve a full pouch at your service.”</p> - -<p>Billy yearned for another fill and another borrowed -match wherewith to light it; and they thought him weak -of will in Garth, but now he looked over and beyond the -tempter.</p> - -<p>“Thank ye, no. I’ve smoked enough for a daft boy’s -head-piece to withstand that same,” he said, with the -courtesy which seldom failed him. “I be looking at the -springtime gathering over Garth, Mr. Gaunt, and I do -seem, as a witless chap might say, to have scant thought -for baccy.”</p> - -<p>“But a right good brew of ale?” suggested Gaunt, -nodding at the grey and newly pointed front of the Elm -Tree Inn. Like a child, Reuben was always most eager -to have his way when he was thwarted. “A right good -brew of ale, Billy? You like it, so they say, and have a -head to stand it, too.”</p> - -<p>A second and an equal temptation came to Billy the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_49">[49]</span> -Fool. He was silent for awhile, and turned the matter -round about in that queer mind of his.</p> - -<p>“Thank ye, no, Mr. Gaunt,” he said at last, with desperate -sobriety. “I’m busy as can be with thinking o’ -Miss Good Intent. She wouldn’t like to see either of -us drinking ale at this hour of a spring morning.”</p> - -<p>“Give you good day again, Billy,” said Gaunt, his little -sense of humour leaving him.</p> - -<p>“Ay, glad to give ye good day,” answered Billy, and -watched Gaunt follow the line of the grey street.</p> - -<p>Billy sat on beneath the elm tree and hoped for better -things than Reuben Gaunt could ever bring him. Yet -he looked wistfully from time to time, first at the inn-front, -then at his pipe.</p> - -<p>“They’re heartsome matters, now, are a half-pint of -beer and a pipe o’ baccy. Ye’d own to yourself, Billy—now, -wouldn’t ye?—that they were heartsome matters,” -he murmured.</p> - -<p>Reuben Gaunt, meanwhile, had turned up the lane that -led to Good Intent. He knew that John Hirst would be -at Shepston market, and was sure therefore of his welcome -at the farm. He did not get as far as the house, however, -for Priscilla was standing in the home-croft as he came -through the stile. From sheer frolic she had donned a -sun-bonnet, pretending that this April sunshine was overwarm -to bear uncovered. The bonnet was pink, and her -simple gown was lavender-blue, and she looked, to Gaunt’s -eyes, the trimmest and the bonniest maid that he had seen -in all his travels.</p> - -<p>She was feeding a noisy multitude of hens and turkeys, -and it was pleasant to see how carefully the bigger birds -refrained from stealing from the fowls—nay, left the -tit-bits to them often, and showed altogether the behaviour -of a big, good-tempered dog towards a small and fussy one.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_50">[50]</span>It was the turkey-cock that first warned Priscilla of -Gaunt’s approach. The “prideful devil,” as Billy the -Fool had called him, was proving his right to the title in -good earnest. His tail was spread, his wattle grew and -grew until the head of him was crimson as a wild-rose -berry when autumn’s sunshine lights the hedgerows. -He made towards Gaunt, moreover, with little steps that -in their fretfulness and self-importance suggested comedy.</p> - -<p>Priscilla turned to learn the reason of this outbreak, -and her eyes met Reuben’s. A delicate flush and a look -of pleasure in the girl’s candid face was Gaunt’s welcome—a -greeting which John Hirst would have understood -had he been there.</p> - -<p>“Good day,” she said sedately, and turned to feed -her birds again.</p> - -<p>Gaunt laughed bitterly.</p> - -<p>“Do you see the turkey-cock’s welcome, Cilla? All -the male folk of Garth seem out of humour with me somehow.”</p> - -<p>It was another sign of the new days which Reuben had -ushered into Garth—one of those signs which are no -bigger than a cloud the size of a man’s hand—that Priscilla -of the Good Intent did not resent the shortened name -which few but her father had been privileged to use till -now.</p> - -<p>“You are out of heart with life,” she said, scattering -the last of the food abroad and turning to meet his glance -again.</p> - -<p>“Nay, life’s out of heart with me, Cilla. They seem -to think I’m lying, these Garth folk, when I tell them I’d -be glad to be here again among the old home-fields, if only -they would let me.”</p> - -<p>The man was sincere. It was a dangerous gift of his, -this habit of speaking what was truth for the moment,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_51">[51]</span> -though it had no quality of strength and purpose behind -it.</p> - -<p>It was a dangerous gift of his, too, that women were -compelled, when near him, to feel an odd, protective instinct. -Peggy Mathewson had felt the motherhood of life -rise up and cloud her judgment as she walked with Reuben -a week ago through the sunlit fields; and now Priscilla -of the Good Intent felt pity’s strength awake.</p> - -<p>“’Tis a bad habit,” she said, moving a little closer to -him, “this being out of heart with life, Reuben”—forgetting -that she had vowed to call him Mr. Gaunt perpetually. -“There’s enough and to spare of gladness, and -we must just search for it when times fare ill. Shame on -you, to go whimpering like a child when spring is flooding -all the countryside!”</p> - -<p>She was not thinking for the moment of those fairy seas -and lands which Gaunt had painted for her. In this quiet -field, with the turkeys and the fowls about her, she was -answering the prime instinct of all human life—to better -a sad man’s outlook on the world by spoken word, and, if -need were, by that touch of hand on hand which she had -disdained.</p> - -<p>“Cilla,” said Gaunt, his face a man’s at last, because -for his little moment he had gripped hold of love. “Cilla, -you’re the sunlight and the joy of life to me. Have you -never thought of wedlock?”</p> - -<p>The girl withdrew and put a hand to her skirt of lavender-blue -as if by instinct, and looked at the distant -hills.</p> - -<p>“I seldom think of it,” she answered crisply. “The -spring and the needs of the feathered flock are enough -for me.”</p> - -<p>“Are they, Cilla? What of the beyond lands—or -was I dreaming when you said you’d like to see them?”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_52">[52]</span>Priscilla only smiled with the dainty aloofness which -angered Reuben and enticed him.</p> - -<p>“’Tis April,” she said, “and I’m entitled to my whimsies, -like the weather. Besides, I met Billy the Fool in -the lane yestreen, and he was showing other pictures -to me. Nay, do not frown, Reuben,” she broke off, not -guessing that Billy’s name was unwelcome to the other -on more counts than one. “He knows the hedgerows -and the fields so well, and he showed me things as old -as the hills—things new and wonderful each spring—things -that come to you again each year, Reuben, with a -surprise that seems each year to grow fresher and more -eager.”</p> - -<p>“And what did he show you, Cilla?” asked the other -jealously, turning to cry “<i>Gobble-di-gobble-di-gobble</i>” to -the turkey-cock, and provoking a hot answer.</p> - -<p>“The first wild-strawberry bloom, the first throstle’s -nest, the first April look of Sharprise Hill when the sun -slants on it through the clouds that mean no harm. Your -foreign lands grow misty, Reuben, somehow, and I love -Garth village once again. Billy had ever that trick—to -make you wise in spite of yourself.”</p> - -<p>Reuben paced up and down in a restless way he had; -then he stopped and looked at Priscilla of the Good Intent, -and in his eyes there was the mischief of a partial truth.</p> - -<p>“Those beyond-places will haunt you, Cilla, all the -same, and I could take you to them.”</p> - -<p>The girl was silent for awhile, and then she drew her -lavender-blue skirt more closely round her.</p> - -<p>“Ay, so you could; but, Reuben, I prefer to stay at -Garth with father. I’ve enough to do in a day, and am -happy in it. Hark, ye! The throstle yonder is singing -his throat dry. Did ye ever hear sweeter music, Reuben?”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_53">[53]</span>On the bench that fronted Elm Tree Inn sat Billy the -Fool meanwhile. He had waited, with his inimitable -faith and patience, for a fill of tobacco and a half-pint -of ale to drop from the skies; and his faith had been fulfilled, -for down the road from his forge came David the -Smith.</p> - -<p>“Looking sulky-like,” said David, laying his bag of -tools beside his crony and sitting near to him.</p> - -<p>“Nay, not I. I never look sulky, David. ’Tis not good -for this right wholesome world to look sulky,” said Billy. -“I was thinking, David, and thinking makes a daft-witted -chap have fearsome aches and pains in his inward parts, -as a daft-witted chap might say.”</p> - -<p>David gave out his big, rolling laugh as he clapped Billy -on the back.</p> - -<p>“Guess what’s a-going wrong with thee, laddikins. -Empty pipe, I see.”</p> - -<p>“Ay. And I’m empty o’ matches too,” said Billy, his -face like Sharprise Hill with the April look on it.</p> - -<p>“Empty in the low-ward parts, moreover,” he added, -after he had filled his rakish pipe and lit it. “I’m terrible -in need of a sup o’ summat, David. Reuben Gaunt came -by this way awhile since and offered me what ye might -call body-warmth, and I couldn’t seem to stomach it—nay, -I couldn’t, David, not how he’d tried to pour it down -my windpipe.”</p> - -<p>“Gaunt been down to the village to-day?” snapped -David. “Pretends to be a farmer, yet doesn’t go on -farmward shanks to Shepston market come Thursday -every week.”</p> - -<p>“No, he wouldn’t,” said the other slowly, as he pulled -eagerly at his pipe. “Mister Reuben Gaunt is not by -way of farming, as I look on and see ye busy folk a-farming, -like. Does it for play, like Billy.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_54">[54]</span>David rarely lost his temper, and still more rarely did -he seek expression for his feelings in strong language; but -now he was silent for a moment, thinking of his love for -Priscilla, fearing Gaunt’s love of her; and a sudden cry -escaped him.</p> - -<p>“Damn Reuben Gaunt, and the first day he set eyes -on Garth again!” he said.</p> - -<p>“Shouldn’t swear, David,” put in the other slyly. -“Parson do say, whenever he stoops to talk to the likes o’ -me, that folk who swear go to a fearful dry and overwarm -spot. He’s wiser than ye or me, is parson, David, and -we should listen to him, we.”</p> - -<p>“Then he should tell us,” responded David grimly, -“why deep-set troubles come to a man, Billy, without his -earning them, and why a man must swear at times, or -else do something worse.”</p> - -<p>“Ay, ’tis a terrible makeshift sort of a world—terrible -makeshift, David; but yet, in a manner of speaking and -as a body might say, ye understand, it suits Billy right -well. There’s always fields and hedgerows, eh?”</p> - -<p>It was not till late, as Billy and he moved up the street -toward his forge, that a strange fancy came to David Blake. -He remembered, as a lad, the stir and gossip there had been -in Garth nigh twenty years ago. A company of strolling -players had come to Garth, had played there to wondering -rustics in the barn at the end of the village, and had gone -their way—all save one, who stayed behind and found her -way, late on a mirk and windy night, as far as Marshlands. -She was found dead at the gate of the homestead -on the morrow, and a four-year-old child was crying at her -side. None ever knew the rights of the tale; but old -Gaunt of Marshlands was known as the wildest roysterer -in the dale, and, though some disbelieved the story that -the woman had come to him for help and that he had<span class="pagenum" id="Page_55">[55]</span> -deliberately turned her back, to die in the rain and cold, -yet all believed that Gaunt was father to the child.</p> - -<p>The child was Billy the Fool, adopted and well cared -for by all Garth—a village bairn, the plaything and the -property of all kindly folk. And Reuben Gaunt was the -acknowledged son and heir to Marshlands.</p> - -<p>“’Tis odd,” muttered David often and often, as he -worked at the anvil and glanced at Billy. For he remembered -the consistent hatred shown by the natural toward -Reuben Gaunt.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_56">[56]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER V</h2> -</div> - - -<p class="drop-cap">GHYLL FARM was in the parish of Garth, but it -lay so high on the moor-edge, and so far away from -the sheltered village, that it was reckoned out of bounds. -Moreover, Widow Mathewson, who lived there with her -daughter Peggy, was accounted something of a heathen -even in the charitable judgment of Garth folk.</p> - -<p>These two, mother and daughter, lived alone at Ghyll, -doing their own farm work—even to scything of the one -small meadow when haytime came. They went never -at all to church or chapel; they were distant in their -greetings when they chanced at rare intervals to meet their -neighbours; they were pagan, self-reliant and alone, -and it was said that Peggy was wild as the widow, and -never a stiver to choose between them.</p> - -<p>Widow Mathewson was at her door this morning, -watching the lambs play antics with their mothers in -the fields below. Big-boned she was, and tall, and her -face wore that lined, hard look of weather which women -rarely show.</p> - -<p>She ceased to watch the lambs by and by, and her eyes -wandered to the track that led to Garth—the track that -glistened like a living thing beneath the April sun. Far -down the slope of the path a slight, dark speck appeared, -growing each moment till it showed itself as a man’s figure. -The man was walking fast, steep as the field-track was, -and Widow Mathewson laughed quietly when he came -near enough to show the eagerness of his every movement.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_57">[57]</span>She left the doorway, and went and rested her arms on -the rail that guarded the potato-patch from the fields. -And she waited, with a look on her face such as David -Blake had worn, three days ago, when he swore outright -in the presence of daft-witted Billy.</p> - -<p>The man was so full of his own thoughts that he did -not see Widow Mathewson until the path had brought -him to within a score of yards of her garden railing; and -then, for shame’s sake, he had to come forward with a -jauntiness that was obviously ill-assumed.</p> - -<p>“I’m here to give you good day,” he said. “After -five years, ’tis only neighbourly to call.”</p> - -<p>“You’re here to see Peggy, and know it, Reuben -Gaunt. We didn’t part such friends five years since that -you need come trying to smooth me down with lies.”</p> - -<p>Gaunt reddened, and flicked a hazel-switch uneasily -against his riding-breeches.</p> - -<p>“Lies go terrible smooth into a woman’s ear when she -loves ye,” went on the other; “but they’re puffs o’ wind -when she loathes the sight of a man.”</p> - -<p>“I find a deal of pleasant home-coming welcomes,” -said Gaunt, stung into bitterness.</p> - -<p>“We’re not pleasant, ye see. Have to meet the weather, -we, and rear the crops. You may be Mr. Reuben Gaunt -of Marshlands, or you may be son to the devil that fathered -ye—’tis all one to me. I like a man, or I don’t, and I -never set eyes on one I liked less than ye.”</p> - -<p>“I’ll be saying good morning, then,” said Reuben, -with an uneasy laugh.</p> - -<p>“Nay, but ye won’t—not just yet awhile. Ye came -here to daften my lass Peggy again, so ye thought. Well, -ye’re here, as it chances, to listen to sense from Peggy’s -mother. It runs in our family, Reuben Gaunt, for the -women to love undersized and weakly men. We’re overstrong,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_58">[58]</span> -maybe, and must have some fretful babby or other -to dandle, same as big men like to do. Peggy’s father was -just such a one as you in his time, and I loved him. Ay, -I cried when I buried him, and I cry still o’ nights sometimes -when I wake and find an empty bed. Yet I looked -down on him in life, Reuben Gaunt, as I look down on -you. Queer oddments go to make up a woman.”</p> - -<p>“That’s true, mother,” came Peggy’s low, rich voice. -She had returned from a haphazard scramble on the moor, -and had listened to half the talk with a simplicity that -came of pagan habits.</p> - -<p>“Go within doors, Peggy!” snapped her mother, turning -sharply. “D’ye want to catch the plague, or what, -that ye go breathing the same air as Reuben Gaunt?”</p> - -<p>But Peggy did not move. Perhaps the closest bond between -these two, strong mother and strong daughter, was -the knowledge that they feared each other not at -all.</p> - -<p>“We’re made up of oddments, ye and me, mother. Ay, -’tis a good word, that. I happen to love Reuben Gaunt, -as you loved father once—and ye’d better just leave us -to it.”</p> - -<p>Widow Mathewson smiled on them both—a smile -that was bitter in its avowal of defeat, in its hapless faith -that what would be, would be, and that the would-be -must be bad.</p> - -<p>“Sorrow along, Peggy,” she said. “If ye choose to -strew your way with tears, ’tis not I that ought to blame -you. Good night, Reuben Gaunt.”</p> - -<p>The quiet dignity of her farewell troubled Gaunt more -than all her previous outspokenness had done. He felt -like a country clown in the presence of a lady, and he -hated Widow Mathewson.</p> - -<p>“Ah, well, now, mother’s hard on ye, and always was,”<span class="pagenum" id="Page_59">[59]</span> -said Peggy, touching the man’s arm with a certain fierce -tenderness.</p> - -<p>He answered nothing, and Peggy went through the -wicket, and moved slowly across the field, knowing that he -would follow.</p> - -<p>“You seem to think the same, from what you said just -now,” he muttered, falling into step with her. He was -minded to return in dudgeon by the path which had -brought him up to Ghyll, but the girl’s pliable, trim look -disarmed him.</p> - -<p>“I said that I loved you, Reuben Gaunt. Whether I -trust ye or not and am a fool for all my pains to love -where I can’t place trust, is not for me to ask. Oh, pity -of me!” Her shoulders opened to the wind, and she -laughed at herself and him. “To have a mind to think -with, Reuben, and to live near to the fresh air and the -wind, and yet to let your heart go loving, spite of all. -I’ve trained a few dogs in my time, Reuben. Wish I could -give myself some wholesome thrashings, and be quit of -you for good and all!”</p> - -<p>Gaunt was no fool, just as he was no wise man. It -seemed the wind had blown from the four quarters at one -time when he was born into a usually steady world. -He was no fool; and, though he smarted still from Widow -Mathewson’s contempt, he was quick enough to see that -Peggy had some special grievance of her own.</p> - -<p>“What’s amiss, lass?” he asked.</p> - -<p>“This much is amiss—that now and then I find myself -in Garth, and now and then I hear gossip of Miss Good -Intent. She’s bonnie and slim to look at, I own, and worth -perhaps a score or two of you, Reuben; but I’m not concerned -with what she is or what she’s not—I’ve no -mind to share you with another.”</p> - -<p>“What are they saying, then, in Garth?” He stooped<span class="pagenum" id="Page_60">[60]</span> -to pluck an early daisy, and Peggy’s mouth twitched with -a sort of scornful humour. Reuben Gaunt was not wont -to take a tender interest in wild flowers.</p> - -<p>“They are saying,” she went on, “that you’re seen -over-often with Priscilla Hirst; they say that you’ve a -look on your face, when with her, that they remember -from old days. <i>I</i> remember it, for that matter.”</p> - -<p>They had come to the little wood where water ran -between the budding hazels, where catkins yielded to the -fluttering wind. Reuben stopped, and put an arm about -her waist, and the remembered look was in his eyes.</p> - -<p>“Look ye, lass, and see if I am true or not,” he said.</p> - -<p>Peggy laughed openly—it was her protest against this -renewed, yet long discarded, half-belief in him. “Miss -Good Intent has said no to you, eh?” she murmured, -with that bewildering frankness which attached to her -mother and herself. “Shame to come begging crumbs, -when you wanted something better.”</p> - -<p>She knew by his eyes that her guess was a true one, that -he had come, inconstant as the wind, to find one playground -when another was denied him. He was the same -Reuben Gaunt who five years since had all but broken -her courage and her heart. And, because he was the same, -she felt the old love return, and let her reason go.</p> - -<p>“Mother is vastly right at times, Reuben,” she said. -“’Tis in our family to love a man o’er keenly, and to listen -to his lies, and to go on caring all the more. There’s one -thing puzzles me, all the same.”</p> - -<p>He waited, perplexed as he often was by women’s moods, -though by this time he ought to have known their every -turn.</p> - -<p>“Nay, only this, Reuben”—there was pathos in the -quietness of the deep, strong voice—“I was young and -unused to heartache when I found it first. I’m five years<span class="pagenum" id="Page_61">[61]</span> -older, lad, and I’ve suffered and come through it. Seems -it has taught me little. Seems I might as well be weaker -than ye, instead of stronger. ’Tis a bit of a muddle, -Reuben, this life o’ wind and sun and turmoil.”</p> - -<p>David the Smith, meanwhile, was walking up the lane -to Good Intent. He did not need to watch Yeoman Hirst -well out of Garth before he stole into the fold, for he was -welcome there at all times.</p> - -<p>A desperate business David had on hand. He had -thought much of Priscilla of the Good Intent during these -last days; and this meant only that he had halted more -often in his work of smithying or what not to wonder how -the lass would best be made happy.</p> - -<p>It was while he was sharpening a bill-hook on the grindstone -in his smithy-yard that David had got his adventure -well in hand.</p> - -<p>“Never thought of that before,” he said, running his -thumb along the blade. “I’m a rum chap enough, God -knows; but, if it comes to a tussle ’twixt me and Reuben -Gaunt—well, I’m stronger in the thews than he, and -maybe I’m what ye call steadier-like.”</p> - -<p>So David, with plain faith in plain strength of stronger -thews and steadier morals, laid down the bill-hook, and -bade his faithful comrade, Billy, to sleep on guard; and -he strode along the quiet street of Garth, and turned into -the lane that led to Good Intent.</p> - -<p>He found Priscilla in the kitchen, her arms bared above -her elbows. She was making a pigeon pie for Farmer -Hirst, and David thought, as he saw her in the sunlight, -that no man need ask for a bonnier sight than Garth -could give him.</p> - -<p>“I’ve something to say to ye, Priscilla,” was his greeting.</p> - -<p>David could never do any business save in his own way.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_62">[62]</span> -If he were driving a stake into the ground, he took up his -mallet and hit it plumb; if he were asked to shoe a horse, -he did not stay for talk, but brought the nag to reason -soon as he could and clapped the shoe on it. So now he -proposed, in great simplicity, to deal with this more desperate -business.</p> - -<p>“Something to say?” laughed Cilla of the Good Intent. -“’Tis not often you have that, David.”</p> - -<p>He did not heed. If he had spoken out like this at that -gloaming tide when Priscilla had first waited for him to -speak, when Gaunt had shadowed the mistal-door, it -might have been better, or worse, for David; but now it -was too late. “The time of day was behind him,” as -they say in Garth, but he did not heed.</p> - -<p>“Yes, I’ve something to say,” he went on doggedly. -“When you were a lile slip of a lass, and when you were -maiden-grown and proud, Priscilla, I loved you just the -same. I’m busy to-day, Cilla, but I broke off to ask if -you would wed me. Could aught be plainer, now?”</p> - -<p>The girl rested her hands on the table, and looked at -David Blake. She was silent, for surprise had given way -to deeper feelings. It had been easy to disdain Reuben -Gaunt, when he came wooing at a few weeks’ end; but -David’s love was a thing to be reckoned with, a big, protecting -force which had been about her for so long that -it seemed fixed and righteous as Sharprise Hill—a part -of this gracious world of Garth, a part of the comeliness -and peace which brooded over its grey old fells, its grey -and fragrant street.</p> - -<p>Priscilla of the Good Intent had little in common with -Peggy Mathewson; but they were alike in this, that each -looked out at life with candour and with little coquetry.</p> - -<p>Cilla glanced with troubled eyes at David—glanced -wistfully and anxiously.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_63">[63]</span>“It cannot be, David; yet, if you asked me why, I -could not tell you. I know you love me. I know that -Garth would seem lone and empty if you were not in it. -What ails me, David? Tell me, and I’ll right it if I can.”</p> - -<p>But David the Smith knew nothing of such matters. He -had made his last effort—a hard one—and looked for a -plain answer, yes or no. Even yet, had he known how to -come nearer to the girl, instead of standing, very big -and very bashful as he swung from one foot to the other—even -yet he might have scattered those fantastic mists -which Reuben Gaunt had woven about Priscilla’s life.</p> - -<p>“There’s no two ways, Priscilla,” he said slowly. -“Either ye’ll have me and make life a different matter; -or ye won’t, and I’ll trust ye to find a likelier mate.”</p> - -<p>“I’m not for mating—father has need of me—oh, -David, David, I’m so fond of you, so loth to hurt you. -Cannot you understand? I’m fond of you, but ’tis not -just love—’tis not just love, David!”</p> - -<p>Her voice was trembling, and she fingered restlessly the -loose scraps of dough that littered the baking-board.</p> - -<p>David stood motionless. The boy’s look, that is in -every lover’s face, was gone. Not till now—now, when -he had greatly dared and greatly lost—did he fully know -what stake he had in Cilla’s love; and his face was hard -and stern.</p> - -<p>“You were kind to hear me out, little lass,” he said -at last. “Ay, ye were always kind and comely. And -I’ve lost ye. Perhaps I may go on keeping watch and ward -about ye, as I always did? ’Tis little I can do in that way, -but I’ve always liked to think I was watch-dog, like, ever -since as a child ye <i>would</i> loiter round about the pool in -Eller Beck, and I feared ye’d tumble in.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, hush, David! You’ve been too good, and I am -not strong enough for Garth. I dream too many dreams”—with<span class="pagenum" id="Page_64">[64]</span> -a pitiful attempt to smile—“and I’ve lost the -way of the love I might have had for you.”</p> - -<p>“So you’re at Good Intent, David—and welcome!” -shouted Yeoman Hirst, tramping in from the fields across -the threshold of the sunlit doorway.</p> - -<p>It was a jest in Garth that John Hirst, though no way -deaf himself, fancied all other folk were so.</p> - -<p>Priscilla dropped her eyes and took up the rolling-pin -again.</p> - -<p>“Thank ye,” said David, with a quietness that contrasted -oddly with the other’s roar. “Ay, I’m here passing -the time of day with Priscilla. I must be off by that token, -for there’s work crying out for me at the forge yonder.”</p> - -<p>“Always was, so long as I remember. Outrageous -man to be doing somewhat, is David—fair outrageous. -Tuts! Ye’ll stay for a bite and sup with us? Cilla has a -pigeon pie in the making, I see. Always said, I, that a -pigeon pie served two good usages—keeps a lile lass out -of mischief while she’s making it, and keeps her men-folk -strong to work for her after they have eaten it.”</p> - -<p>David shook his head. “I’ve too much on hand, and -thank ye, farmer. Will come another day, if ye’re so -good as to think of naming it again. Good day, Priscilla.”</p> - -<p>With a nod to them both he was off, and John Hirst -chuckled weightily. “Fair gluttonous for labour, eh, -Cilla?” he said. “David would do better if he took more -while-times o’ rest, say I.”</p> - -<p>Priscilla was busier with her task than the time of day -demanded; and her father, getting no answer, came round -to her side of the table, and pinched her cheek, and -watched the dough of the pie-crust as she rolled it into -shape—watched with the eye of faith, and trusted it<span class="pagenum" id="Page_65">[65]</span> -would be brown and wholesome by half-past twelve -o’clock, or thereby.</p> - -<p>“The lile lass is busy, too,” he laughed, in what was -meant to be a gentle tone of raillery. “Busy with your -hands, Cilla—and busy awhile since with your eyes, I -reckon, when David came a-courting.”</p> - -<p>She glanced up sharply, and again the farmer laughed, -as if a half-gale had got into his throat. “Nay, I overheard -nothing, Cilla,” he said. “I only looked at David’s -face, and I gathered ye’d said no. Second thoughts are -best, lile lass, second thoughts are best. Never saw a -properer man than David myself, and I’m reckoned a -judge of cattle.”</p> - -<p>“Can you measure human-folk by the ways of the kine, -father?” she said, fitting the dough to the edge of the -pie-bowl.</p> - -<p>“Mostly—ay, mostly, Cilla. Chips of the old gnarled -tree o’ life, are all us living folk, two legged or four. -Choose a likely lad, Cilla—and, for the Lord’s sake, get -that pie into the oven. Have been up the fields since -seven of the clock, and hunger’s timepiece says ’tis dinner-hour, -or ought to be.”</p> - -<p>John Hirst went out again, for he had a virile wisdom -and a knowledge of the time to leave a woman when he -had spoken truth to her.</p> - -<p>David the Smith, meanwhile, had gone down the lane. -He could never wed Priscilla now—for Yea and Nay -seemed always absolute to him—but at least he had concealed -his heart-sickness from Yeoman Hirst. So do the -younger men think always, not understanding that with -age there comes a clearer understanding of the passions -which greybeards view as onlookers.</p> - -<p>David was of the men who snatch their courage from -the thick of despair, ride out with it, and count it the more<span class="pagenum" id="Page_66">[66]</span> -precious because it is riddled through and through, like -a banner well baptized by fire. So he held his head high, -and swung staunchly down the lane.</p> - -<p>Three usual folk he met as he came into Garth Street -and crossed to his smithy. They noted nothing out of the -common in his cheery greeting; but Billy, rousing himself -from sleep beside the smithy fire, knew by instinct -what his comrade’s humour was.</p> - -<p>“You’re terrible gloomy, David the Smith,” he said, -as he stretched his idle shoulders. “What’s amiss with -us all, now spring’s come into Garth?”</p> - -<p>“Life,” snapped David, and picked up his tools, -abandoned for Priscilla’s sake. “Just life, Fool Billy, and -I’d no real quarrel with life, that I know of, before to-day.”</p> - -<p>“Comes of being wise,” said the other tranquilly. -“Try being a Fool Billy—just try it, David, and lie -in a hedge-bottom when ’tis seasonable, and hear the -chirrup o’ the throstle. Begins to try his whistle, does -throstle-boy, before the dawn comes rightly in.”</p> - -<p>David fingered his tools. They steadied him at all -times, and his patient love for them was returned in full, -at this moment of his direst sorrow. He felt his heart -grow lighter—less heavy, rather—as he handled them.</p> - -<p>“Humming a tune, are you?” said Billy presently, -with an approving nod. “Terrible fool’s trick, that, and -comforting. Shows ye’re getting upsides wi’ yourself, as -a body might say.”</p> - -<p>“Getting upsides with myself?” growled David the -Smith. “Have got to do, or what’s the use o’ life?”</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_67">[67]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER VI</h2> -</div> - - -<p class="drop-cap">RUMOUR was not less busy in Garth than elsewhere -where folk congregate, and Reuben Gaunt gave -food for it these days. His rules of conduct, or the lack -of them, were a constant puzzle; his wish to play the -gentleman, when by rights he should have been a yeoman, -and proud of the same, perplexed them; moreover, he -could be brave and generous on occasion, and this fitted -ill with their notions of a scamp.</p> - -<p>Ne’er-do-wells, pure and simple, they could understand. -There were two or three of the breed in Garth, but these -consistently were idle at the best, and in dire mischief at -the worst.</p> - -<p>Gaunt was a puzzle to them, and therefore a whetstone -for their tongues. Then, too, he was fond of horses, -and master of them; fond of dogs, and knowledgeable -as regards their ways; and these were qualities that Garth -village liked to see in any man.</p> - -<p>Just now, indeed, it was his love of horseflesh that was -talked of most in Garth. They said that his patrimony -was rich, as a farming yeoman counted riches, but not -enough to let him hand over the direction of his lands to -a bailiff—as he had already done—while he himself -rode idly up and down the countryside, or followed race-meetings.</p> - -<p>“Galloping to the devil, eh, as many a lad has done -before him,” one would say to the other.</p> - -<p>“Ay. Seems like as a horse is the best thing God ever<span class="pagenum" id="Page_68">[68]</span> -made—barring a good human-chap at his best,” the other -would answer; “yet a horse is the devil and all when ye -get a man o’er-fond of him.”</p> - -<p>Another whisper was abroad in Garth, one remote -altogether from bankruptcy or horseflesh. They said -that Priscilla of the Good Intent was not herself of late, that -Reuben Gaunt was seen too often in her company.</p> - -<p>“Too good for the likes of you—eh, Silas Faweather?” -one would say.</p> - -<p>“Aye, a mile and a half too good; but what’s to come -has got to come, and lasses are mostly fools i’ the springtime -of their life. Not just such fools, I take it, come later -times, when the fairies’ pranks are over with, and bairns -arrive, like, and a sackless husband still runs daft-wit, -following what he calls his pleasure.”</p> - -<p>Cilla of the Good Intent knew her own mind as little, -this mid April time, as Gaunt himself. The man’s plausible, -deft homage when he met her; his seeming forgetfulness -of the day when he had wanted her to marry him, and -she had answered with a laugh; his low, quiet voice as he -talked of glamoured countries far away—all these were -fast making Reuben the centre of her thoughts. She -missed him if he failed to come, though she might draw -aloof and set a barrier between them when he did approach -her.</p> - -<p>Yet David the Smith was about Garth Street each day, -and his nearness, though she did not guess as much, -steadied Priscilla. Beneath all else there was an assured -and pleasant liking for David, a dependence on his judgment, -a looking-out for him, as if her eyes needed shading -against the glare of life, when troubles came too thickly -on her. For this reason she seemed nowadays to play with -Reuben Gaunt, though she was wondering only what -her own heart had to say to her.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_69">[69]</span>News seldom travelled from Ghyll Farm to Garth. -The house lay so far up on the border of the moor, and -Widow Mathewson had discouraged intercourse so long, -that you might have travelled through the village, and -asked by the way for news of those at Ghyll, and yet have -learned no tidings at the end of all. Had the widow been -ill, or Peggy dying, days might well have passed before -they knew in Garth what had chanced at the lone and -churlish farmstead. So they guessed nothing nowadays -of Reuben’s new infatuation for Peggy Mathewson; had -they guessed it, Cilla of the Good Intent would have had a -whisper, kindly and wholesome, dropped into her ear.</p> - -<p>She heard no rumour, would have disdained rumour had -she heard it. Clean of thought and heart, Priscilla wondered -if she loved Reuben Gaunt just well enough to marry -him. She never questioned his good faith. It was hers to -say no or yes—spoiled little queen of the little village -as she was—and she asked herself, over and over again, -with Puritan self-question, if this light of the glamoured -lands were not a will-o’-the-wisp such as danced across -the upland marshes. When she saw David, and spoke -with him, it was sure that marshlights flickered about her -fancied love for Gaunt. Then Reuben would come, soft -of speech and pliable, and David would seem a big and -country lad upon the sudden.</p> - -<p>Spring, meanwhile, flushed into splendour round about -the gardens of Garth Street, and in the woods, and along -the length of mossy lane-banks. A foam of green-stuff -feathered the larches and the rowans, the dog-rose bushes -and the blackthorns. The low, sequestered dingle hiding -Eller Beck was banked so thick with primroses on either -side that it seemed a thousand golden eyes looked up, -winking the dew away, when farm-folk went through the -dene at blithe of the dawning-time.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_70">[70]</span>The weather held, with playful showers that were like -a child’s tears, gusty and soon over. Seldom in the memory -of Garth had the pomp and circumstance of the young -summer proceeded with so few mischances. There had -been no sudden snow to hinder the lambs new-dropped -about the pastures; there had been no frost o’ nights; and -the throstles sang their clarion note as if no winter’s wind -had ever piped a harsher tune about the grey fell-village.</p> - -<p>At eight of one of these spring mornings—the wind -light from the south, and the sun playing bo-peep with -fleecy clouds—Priscilla of the Good Intent stood waiting -under the elm tree which long ago had given its name to the -village inn. She had been fitful lately in her temper, and -Yeoman Hirst, thinking a day’s holiday would be “good -for the lile lass,” had asked her to carry out some farming -business for him at Keta’s Well, high up the valley.</p> - -<p>So Cilla waited, a trim and slender figure, near the old -elm tree. The public vehicle by which the Dales folk -went from Shepston to Keta’s Well—a vehicle half coach, -half omnibus—halted here to take up passengers. The -coach was overdue, as it happened, and while she waited, -Priscilla saw Reuben Gaunt ride down the street.</p> - -<p>Reuben saw her, too, but pretended that his mare was -fidgeting upon the rein. He pulled her sharply back at the -entry to the stable-yard, plucked her forward again, and -disappeared.</p> - -<p>“He does not see me,” murmured Priscilla of the Good -Intent. “Light to come and light to go, is Reuben Gaunt, -they say—but surely—”</p> - -<p>Gaunt had found the ostler in the inn-yard. “Dick,” -he said, “has the coach gone by?”</p> - -<p>“Not yet, sir. She’s late this morning, like, and that’s -rare for Will the Driver.”</p> - -<p>“Put the nag in the stable, Dick, and look well after<span class="pagenum" id="Page_71">[71]</span> -her. I had forgotten that the coach went up this hour -to Keta’s Well. Better drive than ride, eh, when there’s -a long way to travel?”</p> - -<p>“Well, that’s true. Better be carried than suit your -knee-grip to a horse’s whimsies,” laughed the other, turning -his straw from the left to the right side of his -mouth.</p> - -<p>Reuben strolled out into the highway. Not slow at -any time, he had guessed, seeing Priscilla standing under -the old elm with a basket in her hands, that she was waiting -for the coach; and, though awhile since he had been -sure that he meant to ride to a pigeon-match three miles -away, he was certain now that he must go to Keta’s Well.</p> - -<p>“Good day, Priscilla,” he said, with quiet surprise.</p> - -<p>“Good day,” she answered, the wild-rose coming to -her cheeks. “You did not see me, Mr. Gaunt, when you -rode into the inn-yard.”</p> - -<p>The ready lie came to Reuben’s tongue. Like water -slipping down between the ferny streamways of the hills, -he sought only the quiet pools—sought them at any -hazard of the rocks that met his course.</p> - -<p>“I feared I had lost the coach, Priscilla, and was riding -hard to catch it.”</p> - -<p>The wild-rose crimsoned into June in Cilla’s face. “Are -you going, too, to Keta’s Well?” she asked.</p> - -<p>“I’ve business there. And you?”</p> - -<p>“I’ve business, too. Father is busy in the fields, and has -asked me to do some bargaining for him up yonder.”</p> - -<p>“You’re too bonnie and slim-to-see for bargaining, -Cilla,” said Reuben.</p> - -<p>“Am I?” she laughed, with frank disdain of flattery. -“I can bargain well, Mr. Gaunt, when needs must. Ask -father.”</p> - -<p>The irony of life rose up and laughed at her, in the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_72">[72]</span> -midst of this hearty springtime weather. If ever she had -needed a hard heart and a clear knowledge of what barter -meant, she needed them now. She had a great gift to -bestow, or to withhold—the gift which lies in the hand -of every woman once in a lifetime—and yet the spring, -and Gaunt’s whimsical, gay air, bewildered all her judgment.</p> - -<p>“You always flout me nowadays, Cilla,” he said.</p> - -<p>Gaunt was strangely like the dogs he loved so well. -Careless of the past, careless of the future, he longed always -for the instant pleasure, and, if he were thwarted, -assumed a helpless face of innocence. It seemed that the -sense of guilt was left out of him at birth; thwartings by -the way surprised him, when another man would have -admitted that he got no more than his deserts.</p> - -<p>Priscilla of the Good Intent, also, was strangely like -herself this morning. She remembered that her father, -and all the men-folk of Garth, were hard on Reuben. -She looked at his devil-may-care and pleading face, and -decided impulsively that they were wrong.</p> - -<p>“I do not flout you willingly,” she answered, her candid -eyes looking straight into Reuben’s own. “They are -not fair to you in Garth here, and I am sorry.”</p> - -<p>Across their talk came the patter of horse-hoofs, and -the coach swung merrily round the corner and stopped -with a flourish at the inn-door.</p> - -<p>“Good morning, Miss Priscilla!” said Will the Driver, -lifting his whip with a brave salute. Cilla of the Good -Intent was his favourite passenger, and he had seen her, -with the quick eye of friendship, as soon as he had turned -the corner.</p> - -<p>He got down to help the ostler with the buckets; for his -team of three were mettled horses, and Garth was the -baiting-stage on their journey up to Keta’s Well, and Will<span class="pagenum" id="Page_73">[73]</span> -would never admit that the business could be rightly done -unless he bore a hand in it himself.</p> - -<p>There were seats for eight at the top of the coach, but -Reuben Gaunt, though all were empty this morning, did -not choose to sit beside the driver. He handed Priscilla, -by way of the yellow-painted wheel, into the rearmost -seat and clambered up beside her.</p> - -<p>“Not on horseback this morning, Mr. Gaunt?” said -the driver, who had a word for every one and knew each -dalesman’s habits.</p> - -<p>“No, there’s good in changing, Will,” laughed the -other, “if ’tis only out of one coat into another. A fine -spring morning, this, for sitting on a seat instead of on -the top of a horse’s temper.”</p> - -<p>“Ay, my cattle, too, are feeling young Spring come -back into their bones. Terrible wild to handle this morning, -Mr. Gaunt. You’ll soon be up at Keta’s Well, I -fancy.” He gathered the reins into his hands, looked -round with a cheery nod to the knot of idlers gathered -about the inn, and was starting forward when Widow -Lister ran crying down the highroad.</p> - -<p>“Here, Will! Nay, lad, you surely wouldn’t have gone -and left my bit of a basket behind?”</p> - -<p>“How was I to know you were coming?” said Will, -pulling up and surveying the woman’s apple-red face—a -face brimming over just now with jollity.</p> - -<p>“Should’st have guessed,” she went on briskly. “And -me a lone widow, too—and to have run myself all out o’ -breath at my age, just to catch a young man who does -naught for his living save sit on a seat and let himself -be carried.”</p> - -<p>A placid titter went up from the onlookers.</p> - -<p>“Right!” cried Will the Driver. “Hand up your basket, -Widow! Where must I set it down?”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_74">[74]</span>“There! Not to guess a simple matter like that! Ye’ve -to leave it at the first stile on your right after you’ve passed -through Rakesgill. Mrs. Fletcher it’s for, and she’s wiser -than you were a minute since, Will, for she knows it’s -coming. Oh, and Will,” she added, her red cheeks -dimpling with roguery, “it goes from one poor body to -another, does this bit of a basket, and happen ye wouldn’t -charge for it at either end.”</p> - -<p>“Wouldn’t I?” said Will. “Want me to take it as -my own private baggage, eh?”</p> - -<p>“There’s only some roots of double-daisy in it, and a -few plants of auricula, and a little, round Garth cheese. -Mrs. Fletcher’s fond, as you might say, of flowers and -cheese; ’tis all by way of a present to another lone widow -woman—and she my own sister.”</p> - -<p>“Some folk thrive on loneliness, ’twould seem,” laughed -Will, putting the basket under the seat. “All right, -Widow! I’ll leave it on the stile, and we’ll trust to Robin -Goodfellow to pay.”</p> - -<p>He started forward, got his team into the straight, then -turned round to Cilla. “By your leave, Miss Priscilla, -there’s some of your sex have longish tongues. I’m proud -of being to time, and here we’ve wasted five whole minutes. -No man likes bringing cattle home in a lather, but these -beauties will have to go.”</p> - -<p>“They’ll stand it, Will,” said Gaunt. “Never met a -man myself who could better get a horse into shape and -keep it so.”</p> - -<p>Will the Driver showed what his team could do. Like -a true dalesman, he was proud of his own trade, and Gaunt -had found a sure way to his ear. Between the white and -sunlit limestone walls they swung, and between hedgerows -where the bird-cherry showed its glossy leaves. Little, -tinkling streams flew by them; and, up above the roadway<span class="pagenum" id="Page_75">[75]</span> -hedges or the roadway walls, the clean, sweet fells raked -forward to the blue and fleecy sky.</p> - -<p>To Priscilla it was a journey into the outskirts of that -Beyond which tempted and enthralled her. The sunshine, -the quick going of the coach, the deft, quiet interest -which her companion aroused—all helped to round off -this adventure into the heart of spring. They stopped -at Rakesgill, to set down the scanty mail and a few odd -packages, and to take up a passenger on the box seat. -As at Garth, the villagers had met to see the mail-coach -in, and Cilla watched the group, and listened to their -banter, with a sense that the freshness of the growing -year was blowing round their old-time jests.</p> - -<p>Widow Fletcher was waiting at the stile—the first on -their right hand as they trotted out of Rakesgill—and it -was plain, from her red, plump cheeks and her cheery -air, that she was own sister to Widow Lister of Garth.</p> - -<p>“Nothing to pay?” she asked, as she took the basket -into her hands.</p> - -<p>“No. Widows thrive well in these parts, and wear the -luck of the rowan-berry in their cheeks,” said Will, flicking -his whip.</p> - -<p>“Comes of losing men-folk’s company, Will—though -thank ye for the basket.”</p> - -<p>“Men-folk are always wrong, ’twould seem, Widow -Fletcher. Came of listening to a woman in those far-off -Bible-times.”</p> - -<p>“Ay, Adam blamed Eve, and Eve’s been blaming -Adam ever since. So we’re quits, Driver Will.”</p> - -<p>“Tongues are longer than time,” said Will, with a happy -laugh. “I’ve naught to do with Eve and Adam, Widow, -but I have to be at Keta’s Well come twelve o’clock.”</p> - -<p>“Like a man,” said the widow to herself, as she watched -the coach go swiftly in the van of the light, smooth April<span class="pagenum" id="Page_76">[76]</span> -dust. “Like a man, to be worsted by a lone widow’s -tongue, and then to flick his horses up and drive away.”</p> - -<p>The driver checked his team again, a mile further up -the road, to take another parcel from underneath the roomy -driving-seat. This he laid on the top of a gate that opened -on a farm-track.</p> - -<p>“Only a ham for farmer Joyce, Miss Priscilla,” he -said, with the trick he had of laughing over his shoulder -at passengers behind. “Seems he’s not just hungry, yet, -or he’d be here for it.”</p> - -<p>“Mr. Gaunt,” said Cilla, as they rattled forward, “it -is odd that you should be going to Keta’s Well to-day. -I go so seldom, and you would be riding, surely, if you -were not lazy?”</p> - -<p>“You want to know my business there?”</p> - -<p>“No. Why should I need to know it? Perhaps you -are going to buy another horse.”</p> - -<p>“I’ll tell you my business on the way home, Cilla, -because then I’ll know whether it is speeding well or -not.”</p> - -<p>Cilla’s eyes rested lightly on his, then danced away to -the grey, far hills. The girl was a madcap this morning, -and deserved to be; for she had many working days, but -enjoyed few spendthrift days of holiday, with a green world -and warm spring winds about her.</p> - -<p>“As you will,” she answered. “For my part, I have -father’s work to do.”</p> - -<p>With a flourish, as if he carried great personages—Will -was never so happy as when driving Cilla of the Good -Intent—the coach drew up at Keta’s Well. There was -an inn on the left hand of the grey, wide roadway, another -on the right, and the two were so friendly, as it chanced, -that Will baited and took his dinner at either hostelry -upon alternate days.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_77">[77]</span>Priscilla took Gaunt’s hand daintily, and clambered -down into the roadway.</p> - -<p>“We say good-by here?” she murmured, with a -shy flush.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” he answered, “until Will is ready to drive -us home again.”</p> - -<p>“Yet ’tis only a good walk to Garth for one as strong -as you.”</p> - -<p>“I am lazy to-day, Cilla, as you told me. You go on -your business, I on mine. Remember that the mail goes -back at five o’clock.”</p> - -<p>The men all said it was a devil’s trick of Gaunt’s to -know just when to stay and when to leave; the women, -most of them, found the trick praiseworthy; and Reuben, -had you asked him, would have laughed, like the man-child -he was, and have said that he deserved neither praise nor -blame, since he was as the good God had made him. At -any rate, he had judged wisely now in guessing that Priscilla -would shrink from sharing a meal with him.</p> - -<p>Priscilla of the Good Intent dined sparingly at the inn -on the left hand of the road, where the landlady mothered -her always after a brisk, impersonal fashion. Reuben -dined at leisure in the right-hand inn, and sauntered out -a half-hour after Cilla—punctilious always, even in the -midst of a holiday, when business was to be done—had -crossed the street and walked up into the grey bridle-way -that sought the fell-top farms.</p> - -<p>When Gaunt came out at last, he wandered up the -fields. He had found business here at Keta’s Well, and -his business was to think of Priscilla and to long for her. -He saw the rathe-ripe primroses shine out at him from -sheltered dingles, and he gathered a likely bunch. They -were cool and fragrant, and he thought again of Cilla. -The larks sang overhead, and the sad, wild curlews shrilled<span class="pagenum" id="Page_78">[78]</span> -wide about the fields their song of destiny. And now from -a watered hollow, as he passed it, a heron clattered noisily -from among the trees; and again, as he looked up some -dancing streamway, a kingfisher would dart, with a flash -of blue that startled him, across the sunlight; and everywhere -upon the hills the sheep were bleating happily, -calling the lambs to the udders.</p> - -<p>Few dalesmen could have withstood a day which seemed -to hold, in the hollow of the quiet sky’s arch, all that was -lusty, and good to hear and see, and sweet to smell. This -was the land’s answer to those who said that her winter-time -was bleak and bitter; and out from some forgotten -Eden the west wind seemed to blow.</p> - -<p>Reuben Gaunt withstood few pleasures at any time, and -now he swung completely into friendship with this land -which no remembrance of other countries could ever -belittle to him. He felt again the throb of boyhood, of -boyhood’s keen, unspoiled delights. Good impulses rose -and carried healing with them. For this one day he was a -good man in his own eyes, and that boded ill for Priscilla, -who was going sedately about her business, moving -from farm to farm with a lightness and a happy zest in -holidaying which suggested something of the kingfisher.</p> - -<p>Gaunt roved the fells, the primitive, strong motherhood -of nature crying constantly to him from the pastured -slopes, where big and little dots of white against the green -showed fine sheep-harvests for the farmer-folk. His -heart was big and clean—for this one day—and he -thought of Cilla, and she seemed the brave, sweet symbol -of this vale of Garth.</p> - -<p>He thought, too, of Peggy Mathewson, living wide -yonder of Garth village and likely wanting him beside her -at this moment. He shook the thought away, and prided<span class="pagenum" id="Page_79">[79]</span> -himself, God help him, on finding the better man in himself -to-day.</p> - -<p>Another thought he had—repentance for his sins—and -this boded ill again for Cilla of the Good Intent. Repentance -heretofore, with Reuben, had been a bird that -laid her eggs in another’s nest, and left her young to turn -out the foster-mother’s offspring.</p> - -<p>The larks were shrilling about him. A peewit circled, -dropped, and fell, not five yards from him as he stood -motionless in dreamland; the bird looked shyly once at -him, then dropped her plumed head and went on feeding -placidly. So still the man was that a lamb, new-born and -guileless, came bleating to inquire what manner of thing -he was; and the old ewe-mother ran, forgetting that by -nature she was timid, and butted Reuben with a quiet, -yet warlike pressure.</p> - -<p>He woke from his dream, and gave the ewe a playful -kick. “Look to your own married life,” he laughed, “as -I am hoping to look to mine before the year is out.”</p> - -<p>He glanced at the sun, and guessed that it was after -four. Repentance and memory of Peggy Mathewson -slipped from him. He strode down the fields; and, short-statured -as he was, and slight of build, he carried a look -of bigness with him. It was Reuben’s holiday, as it was -Priscilla’s. The sun shone on him, just or unjust, and -he stood apart from himself and his past, and felt that -the good love and the strong love were his to ask and -take.</p> - -<p>Priscilla, waiting for the coach, and just five minutes -before her time, as her wont was, was surprised by Gaunt’s -straight, forthright air as he crossed the street of Keta’s -Well. She had never seen him in the light with which this -witching day of April glamoured all the land. Every man -was better than he guessed to-day, and every woman<span class="pagenum" id="Page_80">[80]</span> -comelier; and down the breeze played Puck the Sprite, -laughing at all wayfarers as he laid the cobwebs on their -eyes.</p> - -<p>“How has your business sped, Cilla?” asked Reuben, -lucky as he always was in being five minutes before his -time, instead of five minutes after.</p> - -<p>“Well,” she answered, lifting the eyes of truth to his. -“And yours?”</p> - -<p>“Well, also, Cilla. I have found what I came to Keta’s -Well to seek.”</p> - -<p>They plighted their troth—neither altogether understanding -the long glance—there in the grey road of -Keta’s Well. Reuben’s eyes caught honesty from Cilla’s, -and she thought the mirror truthful; and, by and by, Will -the Driver came thundering down the road.</p> - -<p>“Up to time, in spite of women’s tongues,” he laughed, -pulling up his team. “Lord help us drivers, Miss Priscilla, -for we suffer much from women’s tongues. Widow -Fletcher will be waiting for me, too, on the homeward road, -if I know her, for ’tis her twice-a-day time to crack talk -with Will the Driver.”</p> - -<p>Gaunt spoke little on the homeward journey, and Priscilla -was strangely silent, too. Passengers climbed up -into the coach, or scrambled down, but these two heeded -little of what went on about them. There were stoppages, -at this hamlet and at that, to take up the mails which Will -stuffed into the sack that grew bulkier and bulkier as -they went along. From hill-top farmsteads lasses ran -down, bareheaded and cleanly outlined against the background -of the fells, to give Will another letter for his sack, -or another parcel to be hidden underneath the box seat. -All was life and movement on the Garth highroad, but -two who travelled on it were thinking altogether of each -other.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_81">[81]</span>“I gathered these primrose blooms for you, Cilla,” said -Reuben, breaking one of their long silences.</p> - -<p>“Was that your business, then, in Keta’s Well?” The -girl’s laugh was low and happy.</p> - -<p>“Yes.”</p> - -<p>She glanced at him with that wild-bird look which her -father had noted and distrusted weeks ago. Then she -looked out again at the fell-tops and the pastures, which -swung past on either hand in wide half-circles. The magical, -blue sunset-time was spreading light fingers already -about the hills and dimpled fields.</p> - -<p>Gaunt did not know himself. Good thoughts came to -him like a mystery as deep as this veil of evening that was -clothing all the land. For this one day he loved Priscilla -as a better man might do; he lacked only the courage to -be true to another, at any hazard of his present happiness. -For Reuben Gaunt had never learned, or had never cared -to learn, that honesty is ever and ever like the tight, grey -walls of Garth valley—foundationed well, well built, and -proof against the winds of winter-tide. He loved Priscilla; -that was all; and good love, for the moment, was -his pleasure.</p> - -<p>“Ah, I guessed I should see you here, Widow Fletcher,” -the driver’s voice broke in. “What can I do for you this -time, in a littlish way?”</p> - -<p>The plump-cheeked woman was standing at the gate -as if she had never left it since the morning. She was -laughing, too, as if her face had kept its dimples all the -day—a guess that came near to truth.</p> - -<p>“Nay, I only want you to take the basket back. Lone -widows are lone widows, aren’t they, Will?”</p> - -<p>“Aye, and there’s a plague of them about, ’twould -seem. They swarm like bees in June about this -road to Garth. Terrible pranksome cattle, widows and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_82">[82]</span> -horses, and terrible hard to deal with,” retorted the -driver.</p> - -<p>“We’re lonely, Will, though. Widows are always -sorrowful and lonely. You’re thinking of charging for the -carry of this basket home to Garth? Men-folk were always -selfish.”</p> - -<p>Will laughed, as Priscilla’s father might have laughed, -giving innocent villagers the notion that thunder was -springing from a clear and fleecy sky.</p> - -<p>“I’m selfish this way, Widow Fletcher—that I’ve -only a minute more to waste in talk. Hand up your basket. -’Tis just another trifle to the load.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Fletcher let the team start forward, after giving -the basket into safe keeping; then ran down the road with -an agility surprising for her years.</p> - -<p>“Will! Will the Driver!” she called.</p> - -<p>He pulled up with a sort of weary haste. “Ay?” he -asked over his shoulder.</p> - -<p>“You’ll be passing here to-morrow? Well, you might -just call at Mason’s little shop in Garth and bring me a -half-pound of tea. There’s number three painted on the -canister, Will—but Mason will know the number, if you -say ’tis for me. Poor widows need their comforts in this -life, and tea soothes a body, like.”</p> - -<p>Will started forward in earnest this time, and addressed -the empty road in front of him, where the leafing hedge -on the right hand was casting plumper shadows than it -had thrown since last its twigs were bare.</p> - -<p>“Runs in the family,” he said, flicking an early fly from -the leader’s back. “Widow Fletcher here, and Widow -Lister yonder at Garth—they always want you to do -something for them, and always ask you to do it after -you’ve fairly started. There’s a trade in widowdom up -hereabouts, I fancy. Gee-up, Captain, will ye?” he broke<span class="pagenum" id="Page_83">[83]</span> -off, touching the leader more sharply with his whip. -“You were born of the male kind, Captain, and so was I, -and we’ve got to make up for lost time ’twixt here and -Garth.”</p> - -<p>“Cilla, shall we get down this side of the village?” -said Gaunt suddenly. “We’re nearing Willow Beck Bar, -and ’tis summerlike for a saunter home by the fields.”</p> - -<p>Priscilla looked again at the fells, and smelt the sweet of -the breeze as it passed her. It was three miles from the -grey little toll-house to Good Intent, and there was a -suggestion of mystery and adventure in this finish to a -holiday.</p> - -<p>“Why, yes,” she answered simply, “I’ve seven packages -with me, but Will will see that they get safe to Good -Intent.”</p> - -<p>They got down at the squat, quiet toll-bar, with its -windows fronting, like a bee’s eyes, on all sides of its face. -They went through the gate together, and Will the Driver -watched them for a moment as they turned into the path -that followed the slight stream’s course.</p> - -<p>“See her parcels safely ’livered at Good Intent?” he -said to himself. “Would do more for the lile lass, I. Pity -she seems so friendly-like with Mr. Gaunt. Should keep -to dogs and horses, Mr. Gaunt—he understands ’em. -Now, Captain, <i>will</i> you know I’m late on the road, and -trust to you to make the whole team work?”</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_84">[84]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER VII</h2> -</div> - - -<p class="drop-cap">THEY followed the winding stream-track, Gaunt and -Cilla of the Good Intent. And now it was that the -day, receding in the west, grew beautiful as it had never -been at height of noon. Strange purples shadowed all the -distant fells, while near at hand the pasture-fields moved -in green, tranquil softness to the heath above.</p> - -<p>“You are quiet, Cilla,” said the other by and by.</p> - -<p>“Quiet? I was listening to the curlews.”</p> - -<p>Not the words, but the girl’s low, passionate voice told -what the curlews meant to her. Now, when the silences -crept, dumb of feet, all down the furrows of the land, it -was the curlews only that were loud. Wide about Sharprise -Hill they called, and along the raking backs of Hilda Fell, -and across and over the ordered lines of grey walls, green -fields, and scanty woods that were Garth Valley. They -would not let folks rest, but went crying, crying, fretting, -fretting, while Sharprise wore his ruddy sunset-mantle, -and Garth Crag, away to the east, was donning her grey -night-cap.</p> - -<p>Garth folk, when they are compelled to be far away -from home, remember always how the curlews fret and cry -about the fells. The sob in the bird’s call—the sadness -that begins so quietly, and afterwards goes shuddering -out across the gloaming’s stillness—they are the interpreters -of music, sad enough, but understood and loved. -In the daytime, complaining of the sheep; near dusk, the -curlew’s melancholy; folk who have known and heard<span class="pagenum" id="Page_85">[85]</span> -these things will lie o’ nights amid the welter of the tropics, -and call the clear sounds back to mind. Reuben Gaunt, -random as he was, had done the same, and Cilla’s earnestness -came home to him to-night.</p> - -<p>“They’re sad birds, though, when all is said,” he answered.</p> - -<p>“Sad? Ay, and so is life, or was meant to be, if we -could only see it so.”</p> - -<p>Priscilla—whether the curlews had caused her this -dismay, or not—felt restless, ill at ease, as if the light -of some great truth were coming to her, and her eyes were -unprepared for it.</p> - -<p>“Now, listen, lile lass!” said Gaunt. He was helping -her to cross a strip of marshy field, and his grasp tightened -on her arm. “Suppose life was meant just otherwise? -Suppose there was love of a man for a maid, and the lark -singing up to the sun?”</p> - -<p>The candour in her eyes bewildered Reuben for a moment, -as she freed herself and sprang lightly to the drier -ground, and stood facing him, her hands clasped in front -of her.</p> - -<p>“Yes, if it <i>were</i> love, Reuben.” She was no longer -proud, or self-secure. It was rather as if she reached out -in search of guidance, feeling the throb of new, quick -impulses, as if she asked Gaunt to tell her, out of his riper -wisdom, whether it were good or ill to follow these same -impulses.</p> - -<p>There was flattery in this to Reuben. He felt big, protective, -and again he yielded to a half-truth—that Cilla -had shown him the good way of love.</p> - -<p>“Lile lass,” he said—and Garth Valley knows no -softer endearment than those words—“lile lass, must I -be asking you again and again to marry me? Cilla, I love -you, and I could house you well.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_86">[86]</span>She thrust her clasped hands outward, as if to ward off an -evil thought. “What does the house matter, Reuben?” -she said, with another gust of that passion which few -suspected in Cilla of the Good Intent. “D’ye think I -would wed for house and gear? I’m asking, Reuben, -whether love is going to sit on the hearthstone and keep -it warm—if love is going to sit at meat with us—”</p> - -<p>“Try, and see, Cilla,” he broke in quietly.</p> - -<p>More magical, and still more magical, the gloaming -deepened over the patient fields. Sharprise Hill was a -clear-cut wedge of purple now, pointing up into an amber -sky, and Hilda Fell showed as a dark blue, jagged line, -with a tuft of crimson cloud lying over it like the tattered -banner of day’s defeated armies. Low and roving wide, -deep and tremulous, the curlew’s voice went round and -about the pastures, telling, it seemed to-night, that two -human-folk were drifting on life’s glamour-tide, telling, -too, of the mysteries, the tumult, and the pains which -lay ahead.</p> - -<p>They had been silent, awed by the kindred silence of -the eventide, the subtle uproar of the curlews, awed by the -gift that had come to each of them. On the sudden -Reuben Gaunt set his arms about the girl, and drew her -to him; and Cilla of the Good Intent, not knowing why, -lay there and did not heed. And then again, not knowing -why, she stood away, and her face was pitiful to see, because -she tried to check her sobs.</p> - -<p>“Why, lile lass, you’re crying!” cried Gaunt, awakening -from his happiness.</p> - -<p>At all times brave, at all times candid as the sky, Priscilla -checked her tears, but not the sobs just yet. “I was -never kissed before—and, Reuben—all my pride is -gone.”</p> - -<p>Gaunt laughed openly. He would never learn how like<span class="pagenum" id="Page_87">[87]</span> -a child was Cilla, how like a braver woman, too, than he -deserved.</p> - -<p>“Because I ask to wed you, Cilla?”</p> - -<p>“Because the old life is gone, and I fear the new one. -I was never one to fear—yet now—Reuben, you’ll be -kind and true? I can never give my heart at twice.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t ask you to, lile lass,” he answered cheerily. -“Once is good enough for me, seeing you’ve chosen -Reuben Gaunt.”</p> - -<p>Another silence fell on them, broken only by the low -complaining of the curlews. Then Cilla, smiling and -sobbing both, looked Reuben in the face again.</p> - -<p>“It should be no time to be afraid? Tell me again ’tis -happiness.”</p> - -<p>“To our lives’ end,” said Gaunt, and meant it at the -moment.</p> - -<p>They were nearing the track to Good Intent, and their -footsteps lagged. The Beyond, which Cilla had thought -to lie out and away behind the fells, had come to Garth, -it seemed, to-night; for each detail of this homely land she -knew from childhood took on a warm, new aspect. This -was her first love-time, and life held unsuspected melodies.</p> - -<p>“Cilla,” whispered Gaunt, “you’re making a new -man of me. You—”</p> - -<p>He halted in his speech, and the girl, had she glanced -at him, would have seen perplexity and helpless anger in -his face; but she was looking ahead with dreamy eyes—looking -so far ahead that she scarcely saw the strapping -lass, limber and well-featured, who was coming up the -stream-track.</p> - -<p>Gaunt had seen her, though, and was asking himself -why Peggy Mathewson had chosen this one hour for a -saunter up the waterside. As they drew near his anger -changed to fear; for Peggy was apt to be outspoken, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_88">[88]</span> -might ruin with a word this new and better life which, -to his fancy, opened out before him.</p> - -<p>Banned by Garth village as she was, there was no man -in it who could say that this lass from Dene Farm was -anything but comely; more than one, indeed, had sought -her company, in a diffident and non-committal way, to -the anger of their womenfolk. Yet Peggy had never shown -her beauty to the full, as she did now in the moment of -her tribulation. She had seen Gaunt before he was aware -that she was near, and had needed no second glance -to convince her that a lover and his lass came wandering -down the stream; and, having lived a country life, she -knew that there was no way of dealing with a nettle save -to grasp it. For that reason she straightened her firm, -tall body—which had drooped a little because, until -she turned the bend of the stream, she had been thinking -kindly thoughts of Reuben—and she moved up the -stream as if she were over-lady of Garth Valley.</p> - -<p>To Gaunt’s surprise she took no heed of him, but -stayed to pass the time of day with Cilla.</p> - -<p>“Spring’s here at last, after the long winter,” she said, -in the rich voice that even now moved Reuben.</p> - -<p>“Here at last, Peggy,” answered Priscilla, who banned -no one, child or man or woman, whatever folk might say -of them. “You’ve chosen the best time of day for your -saunter, too.”</p> - -<p>“Likely I have,” laughed the other. “I’m courtship-high, -Miss Priscilla, as they say in Garth, and my lad -waits me somewhere up the stream.”</p> - -<p>“Well, then, I wish you happiness,” said Cilla, out of -the warmth of her own glamour-tide. “’Twill be no -secret soon, Peggy, that Mr. Gaunt here wants me to -marry him some day.”</p> - -<p>Cilla rarely stayed to measure the wisdom of her words,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_89">[89]</span> -and never when her heart was glad, because then, of all -times, it was right to give sunshine out.</p> - -<p>Peggy Mathewson winced, recovered as from a blow, -and turned to Gaunt with an impassive face.</p> - -<p>“Did not see you before, Mr. Gaunt. Miss Priscilla -here wears such a look of spring about her that a plain -body seems to want to see no farther, like. You might -have chosen worse.”</p> - -<p>With a nod to Priscilla she went her way, and Cilla -turned to look after her and to admire the bold, free swing -of limbs and body.</p> - -<p>“There’s something whimsical about her, Reuben. -Yet why they give the Mathewsons so bad a name, I could -never guess.”</p> - -<p>“Nor I,” said the other lamely.</p> - -<p>“’Tis not as though they did aught amiss, save live -outlandishly away from Garth and show little care for -company. They’re an odd couple, mother and daughter -both; but they carry themselves as if they had a pride in -life, and even father owns that they know how to treat -their cattle and how to rake the hay-crop in. That’s much -for father to say, who thinks that women’s place is in the -dairy and the house-place.”</p> - -<p>“I was thinking of you, Cilla,” broke in Reuben desperately. -“Why spoil the night with talk of Peggy Mathewson?”</p> - -<p>“Nay, I know not. The girl has always puzzled me. I -could have liked her, and been friendly, Reuben, but she -seems always like the east wind, that will be friends with -none.”</p> - -<p>Peggy herself, meanwhile, had carried her aching heart -till she was sure of being out of sight. Then she stumbled -to the nearest gate, and looked out at the grey, soft darkening -of the hills. Sharprise was an ill-defined, blue-purple<span class="pagenum" id="Page_90">[90]</span> -splash across the fell-scape now, and the curlew’s -note waned softer and more soft.</p> - -<p>“’Twas to be,” murmured Peggy. “Oh, ay, ’twas -like as it was to be. The queer thing is, that I bear no -malice to slim Miss Good Intent. Should hate her, I—yet, -if ’twere not she, ’twould be another.”</p> - -<p>She spoke as if half stunned; for, though her judgment -had foreseen such trouble long ago, her heart had covered -up its doubts. She, too, heard the wailing farewell of the -curlews to the twilight; but it reminded her only of sad -weather on the moor—of wet east winds, with snow behind -them, just when the lambing season seemed like to -prosper—of frosty labour in the fields of barren harvests.</p> - -<p>“He’ll break my life in two. Tried hard to, once, did -Reuben Gaunt; and now he’s home-returned to finish -off the brave job, ’twould seem.”</p> - -<p>She gathered the remnants of her courage together. -With a pitiful defiance she laughed, though a sob broke -half-way through the laugh.</p> - -<p>“Kept my pride to the end. Told Miss Good Intent -I went to meet my lad. Oh, I know Reuben! He’ll think -of that in a while, and grow jealous.—Pity o’ life!” she -broke off, straightening herself with sudden passion and -flinging out her capable, strong arms with a gesture that -was tragic in its impotence. “Women keep crying, crying -out to God—if there is one—and asking why men were -sent into the world for mischief. And no answer comes, -not if you mucky your knees with going down in the peat -to pray for ’t. And women go on saying there’s no such -thing as heart-break; and men believe ’em, because they -daren’t do otherwise; and graves keep being dug, and -good lives shovelled under ’em, with a word or two from -parson to smooth the sods down. Lord, I wish a few o’<span class="pagenum" id="Page_91">[91]</span> -the surpliced folk would come to Peggy Mathewson for -guidance!”</p> - -<p>The last silence of the fells came down about the girl. -Yet she stood there, not thinking much, but feeling more -than weaker folk could have borne. So quiet it grew that -the busy travels of the field mice could be heard, as they -pattered through the grass, and the nestling of the lambs -against their mother’s fleece was a call, almost, across the -stillness of the night.</p> - -<p>“I knew all along, and I wouldn’t heed,” she whispered -to the night. “I wouldn’t heed again, if all were to be -done afresh. Yet what he’s missed! God, what the lad -has missed!”</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_92">[92]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER VIII</h2> -</div> - - -<p class="drop-cap">PRISCILLA had forgotten Peggy Mathewson soon -after they had passed her by. She was thinking -of Reuben, sauntering step by step beside her, and of -the new elusive joy there was in these April gloaming-tides -which she remembered from her childhood.</p> - -<p>As in all joy, there was a corner somewhere, unswept -by the cool evening breeze, which harboured distrust of -happiness. It was not Reuben she distrusted—for she -was one of the brave, simple kind who, once loving, are -hard to move from faith; it was belief in God’s ulterior -harshness, which is the cold refuge of the weak: it was -a doubt of the reality of what she felt, a looking out toward -something steadier and more calm.</p> - -<p>“Troubled still?” asked Gaunt, recovering quickly -from the shock of meeting Peggy, now the danger of it -was over for the present.</p> - -<p>“It seems too good, that is all,” she answered.</p> - -<p>And then he talked to her, as they moved through the -quiet after-light and neared the stile that brought them to -the croft of Good Intent. He put his love, his hopes -of a finer life, his resolutions for the future days, into -words that would have moved a harder and more clear-sighted -maid than Cilla. He talked once more of foreign -lands, and again of this sweet Garth that lay about them, -and he twined his love of Cilla throughout it all like a -golden thread.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_93">[93]</span>Priscilla forgot that dark corner where vague distrust -span webs like a spider in a dusky room. Out of her heart -she gave her love to Gaunt; and, because her heart was -full, she needs must laugh.</p> - -<p>“Reuben, we’ve not told father yet.”</p> - -<p>“No, but will do soon. What’s the thought in your -bonnie head, Cilla?”</p> - -<p>“Why, that I must wash my face, for I’ve been crying. -Father is never so tired o’ nights but he looks at me at -home-coming, and he seems to know if an eyelash lies out -of its own proper place.”</p> - -<p>This side the stile, where they had halted, there was a -well-spring for the cattle—a trough of stone, all but -hidden long since by the mosses and the ferns that fed -greedily upon the water. Priscilla dipped her kerchief -in, and washed her face, and dipped the kerchief in again.</p> - -<p>“Good night,” she said demurely, when she was satisfied -that all the stains of the night’s tumult were removed.</p> - -<p>“Ah, but not so quietly, if you please.”</p> - -<p>So she reached up her face to him; and then he said -he would wait till she was safely home, for even the home-croft -held dangers when you loved a maid. And Priscilla -tripped happily across the grey-dark grass, and, because -she was happy, she turned at the bend of the mistal-yard -and hooted like a barn-owl, to let Reuben know that she -was safe.</p> - -<p>Gaunt laughed as he turned home about. He did not -follow the wandering line of the stream this time, but took -a straight course across the fields—a course that led him, -as it chanced, to the gate over which Peggy Mathewson -was leaning, still fighting despair as best she might. Her -back was turned to him, but even in the dim light Gaunt -could not mistake the figure; he bit his lip impatiently,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_94">[94]</span> -and wondered if he should pass on and climb the wall -a little further up.</p> - -<p>“Nay, she would know, though she won’t seem to see -me now,” he muttered. “Best have it out, and have done -with it.”</p> - -<p>He moved quietly to the gate, and laid a hand on her -arm. “Peggy—” he began.</p> - -<p>She swept his hand away, and turned on him, and -Reuben Gaunt, who had seen mainly the softer side of -women until now, was awed by the storm that broke about -him. She said little; but in her voice, in every movement -of her body, there was contempt and loathing.</p> - -<p>“Get you home!” she cried, pointing across the grey -haze of the fields. “Get home to your kennel, Reuben -Gaunt. D’ye think I want such as you to come touching -me?”</p> - -<p>“But, lass—”</p> - -<p>“Ay, and <i>but, lass</i> and <i>but, lass</i>—and you want to -explain, and explain—fool Reuben, haven’t I learned -your tricks and your wheedlesome ways by this time? -Little Miss Good Intent is younger to ’em. Come out -of your kennel to-morn, and talk to her; <i>she’ll</i> believe ye, -maybe.”</p> - -<p>“We’d best not part in anger,” he stammered.</p> - -<p>“Hadn’t we? ’Tis the only way we are like to part. -I’m waiting for my lad, as I told Miss Priscilla just now. -He’ll <i>explain</i> to ye, Reuben Gaunt, if that’s what lies in -your mind.”</p> - -<p>The suggestion of physical cowardice—not true of -him at any time—stung Gaunt as much as anything -the girl had said or left unsaid.</p> - -<p>“If that’s so, I’ll wait for him here with you, Peggy,” -he said, holding his ground.</p> - -<p>For a moment she relented. Gaunt was always showing<span class="pagenum" id="Page_95">[95]</span> -her glimpses of a certain hardihood of courage which she -liked to see in man or woman. Then she remembered -Cilla, and saw again the look those two had worn as they -came down the fields to meet her—came whispering, -hand in hand, as if they robbed no woman of her -birthright.</p> - -<p>“Will you go?” she cried. “I’ve done with you, Reuben -Gaunt, and you with me, and ’twill be a far day and -an ill day that brings me within speaking length of you -again.”</p> - -<p>“As you like,” he said doggedly. “I only wanted -to—”</p> - -<p>“Ay, to explain! Reuben, I’m too old to your tricks.”</p> - -<p>The tiredness and the scorn of those last words left -Gaunt no choice. Without a word, he set a hand on the -top bar of the gate, vaulted it, and passed out into the -greyness of the night.</p> - -<p>“He should end that way,” said Peggy, looking after -him. “Sometimes he’ll take a three-barred gate too many, -all in his easy style, and light on his head the further -side.”</p> - -<p>Tired out with passion, wearied of scorn, she turned to -wander up the stream. And she met her lad, and walked -with him; and he was known by the name of heart-break -to the few who believe in such old-world superstitions.</p> - -<p>Cilla of the Good Intent, meanwhile, after crossing the -croft in safely and giving her owl’s call to Reuben, had -gone indoors. Yeoman Hirst was sitting by the fire—it -was rarely so warm in Garth, but what a fire o’ nights was -pleasant—and he was nursing a long clay pipe in his -hand. He had been counting his gains in live stock during -this wonderful propitious lambing-time; but he looked -up quickly as Priscilla entered, and in his glance there was -that close-seated affection which proved Cilla right when<span class="pagenum" id="Page_96">[96]</span> -she had said that “father would know if an eyelash lay -out of its own proper place.”</p> - -<p>“Look’st brave and well, Cilla!” was his greeting. -“Got the wind to your cheeks, eh? Now, I do begin to -think, spite o’ being your father, that you’ve some claim -to winsomeness.”</p> - -<p>Priscilla was not so happy as she had been a moment -since. This steady warmth of greeting seemed out of -keeping with the quick, random happiness she had seized -by stealth to-night. It had in it something of the security -she had missed in Reuben’s wooing.</p> - -<p>“Ah, shame to go spoiling your own lass, father!” she -answered. “And see, you have no horn of ale beside you.”</p> - -<p>“Not like to have till you come to fill it. I must be -getting old and daft, Cilla, for I cannot rightly taste the -wholesome bitter in my evening draught, unless you come -and fill it.”</p> - -<p>She busied herself to fill the horn from the cask of October -ale which stood in the outer kitchen. In outward -seeming she was the same Cilla as of old—capable and -gentle, wholesome to look at, and careful of a good -man’s wants; yet until now she had never known what it -meant to hold any but a trifling secret from her father.</p> - -<p>“Now, sit ye down, Cilla,” said Hirst, after a quiet pull -at his ale. “Sit ye down, and tell me all about your day -at Keta’s Well. I’m in good humour, lass. Been thinking, -lass, while you tarried shamefully, that never was such -a lambing-time in Garth. These Scotch ewes are bonnie -to see—like ’em best of all, for my part—but they seldom -drop two lambs. Seems there’s a fairy-wand about, -Cilla. I go to bed o’ night, and hear the lark whistle me -up next morning, and go up the pastures, like—and there’s -another ewe twinned lambs. The lan’s fair white wi’ -the wee beasties.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_97">[97]</span>It was Priscilla’s unrest that answered, and the words -slipped from her unawares. “You’re boasting in April, -father, and I’ve heard that wise folk never boast till May -is out—and seldom then.”</p> - -<p>The farmer ran his hand along the arm of his high-backed -chair, in token of his faith that touching wood -was a sure antidote to pride. “There, you’re a lile, trim -farmer’s wife already, Cilla!” he cried. “Wouldn’t you -trust even such a weather-time as this?”</p> - -<p>Cilla thought of to-night’s wooing weather, of how -little, after all, she trusted it. “I’ve seen a foot of snow -in May, father,” she answered.</p> - -<p>Hirst gave out that thunder laugh of his that rattled -the pewter on the shelves. “Oh, and have you, maid? -How many, then, has your father seen? Never get older -that way myself, Cilla—sure as heartsome weather comes, -I believe in ’t like a brother. There may come a storm -in May enough to ding the house-walls in, but, come the -next soft May, ye’ll find me like a lad again, thinking the -sweetstuffs will never end.”</p> - -<p>He filled his pipe afresh, then kindled it with one of -the paper spills which Cilla took from the mantel-shelf -and lit for him at the wide hearth.</p> - -<p>“David is late,” he said. “Promised to be here by -now, to talk over a matter of some wheel-axles I want from -him, and to join me in a pipe.”</p> - -<p>“David? Is David coming to-night?”</p> - -<p>The girl was surprised by her own terror of David’s coming. -To hold a secret from her father was ill enough, but -to meet David, just to-night—she could not bear it.</p> - -<p>“Well, no, it seems he’s not,” the other answered drily, -“or he’d have been here by now, surely. So you’ve had -your frolic, lass, at Keta’s Well. And your packages all -came up before you, with a message from Will the Driver<span class="pagenum" id="Page_98">[98]</span> -that you were following on. Likely pranks, these—you -finished the day with a gossip, eh? Your mother was the -best soul that ever lived, but she aye relished a gossip, -I remember.”</p> - -<p>Cilla had taken up some knitting, and bent her head -under the pretence that she had dropped a stitch. Her -father’s trust in her, his kindly banter, the old home -look of everything, were each a separate reproach.</p> - -<p>“I walked from Willow Beck Bar, father. The evening -was so still, and the look of the quiet fields tempted me.”</p> - -<p>“Would have tempted me, too. So long as you picked -up no gallant on the road—but there, that’s not your -way, lile lass.”</p> - -<p>David, meanwhile, had not forgotten his promise to -Hirst; but on his way to keep it he found himself a half-hour -before his time, and, meeting Billy in the fields, had -good-humouredly joined him in a saunter.</p> - -<p>David, as he went up and down the fields with his boon -comrade, had a feigned interest at first in the nests which -Billy showed him; for he was thinking of Priscilla. But -by and by his interest awoke; he saw the blackbird’s -dappled clutch of five, and the wise throstle looking at him -as she sat brooding, and the hedge-sparrow’s ragged nest, -built in the kink of a grey limestone wall and bottomed -with blue eggs; and he felt his boyhood return to him.</p> - -<p>“Now, there’s a wren a-sitting over across yond field,” -said Billy. “Wouldn’t ye come with a body, David, and -see yon same?”</p> - -<p>“Another day, Billy, another day. I’m due with Farmer -Hirst, and must be getting back.”</p> - -<p>“Well, then, a body must turn when he must turn. -There’s no denying that, David. I’m going to see the -little shy bird a-sitting myself, so I’ll bid ye good e’en.”</p> - -<p>Billy the Fool was moving away, after the loose easy<span class="pagenum" id="Page_99">[99]</span> -way he had of carrying his great body, when he felt a lack -of something, and stopped and turned about.</p> - -<p>“Haven’t a fill o’ baccy on ye, David?”</p> - -<p>“Ay, lad—three, if ye’ll take them.”</p> - -<p>“Nay, I’m only wanting one,” said the other, briskly -filling his pipe. “And a match, as a body’s body might -say.”</p> - -<p>He lit his pipe, nodded tranquilly at David, then went -up the fields. David watched his unhurried stride, the -unhurried trail of smoke that drifted in his wake.</p> - -<p>“A born smoker, is the lad. Puffs none too fast and -none too slow, but fair as if he had ’twixt this and Judgment -to finish a pipeful in. No wonder Billy needs only -a match at a time; yond pipeful will burn its way till -there isn’t a strand o’ baccy left in ’t.”</p> - -<p>In some dim way, David Blake was awakening nowadays -from that bluntness and reserve which, even toward -himself, it had been his habit to maintain. In part he -was vastly diffident, and in part his days were filled with -earnest labour, so that all his life he had feared to indulge -in what he named “fancy feelings.” Yet to-night, as he -saw the utter content of Billy the Fool, he was moved to a -speculation which, before the spring came in, he would -have counted dreaminess.</p> - -<p>“Will die a lad, yond Fool Billy,” he muttered, as the -summing up of all his thoughts. “He’s the only man of -his age in Garth that’s what ye might call rightly happy. -Has no worries, he, and can make a wise fool like myself -see ladhood pictured all afresh in a clutch of blackbird -eggs. Would swop places with Billy, I rather fancy, if -the chance were gi’en me.”</p> - -<p>He gave a last look at the evening hills, the evening -fields, behind him; and for the first time he wondered -if Priscilla’s refusal of his suit were final. Greatly brave<span class="pagenum" id="Page_100">[100]</span> -in speculation was David to-night, and the mere hope -that Cilla might find second thoughts—a hope slender as a -reed, but real for all that—set a new light in his eyes -and a brisker movement in his feet as he stepped out -toward Good Intent.</p> - -<p>He went on the high ground overlooking Willow Beck, -and as he walked he kept looking constantly into the -valley. So gently the gloaming filtered down the valley’s -length like a wide stream of silver-grey—so prayerful -and so still the evening was—that a man of harder heart -than David might well have found his eyes go seeking -peace and finding it.</p> - -<p>“She’s bonnie, when all’s said, is Garth Valley,” was -his thought; “and here am I, all late for Farmer Hirst.”</p> - -<p>Suddenly he halted, though wishing to get forward. -Through the silver-grey of Garth Valley two figures came; -as yet they were no more than outlined against the grey, -but David was held by some unhappy intuition, and he -needs must stay and watch them at a nearer distance.</p> - -<p>Slow, but pitiably sure for David, their progress was; -and soon, though it was too far to know their faces, he -knew them by their carriage and their walk. Spring was -over in a moment for David, but boyhood was not altogether -past, it seemed, for he felt his throat grow big, -and his eyes were smarting.</p> - -<p>Once, as he watched them, they stopped, came closer -still together, and went on again; and over David—whom -folk thought slow and cheery, not given to feeling -overmuch—there passed the bitterness of death.</p> - -<p>It was no selfish love he had for Cilla. To see any man -so close to the lile lass, whom he had watched over so long, -would have been a grief, because he frankly sought her for -himself these days; but had the man been honest, clean -of his hands, David would have felt no bitterness, only<span class="pagenum" id="Page_101">[101]</span> -a self-sorrow that he would not have nursed for long, -because such sickliness was foreign to him.</p> - -<p>“If’t had been any one but Gaunt,” he said, “any one -in all Garth village save Reuben Gaunt! Lord knows -I hate the willowy slim way of the man, and he’ll send -Priscilla’s happiness abroad—ay, will he, like any ladkin -blowing bubbles for a frolic on his mother’s doorstep.”</p> - -<p>He turned away, and he thought that he could not bear -to go to Good Intent to-night. Yet he had promised, and -David’s word, till now, had been good as Queen’s coin -in Garth village.</p> - -<p>Up and down the fields he wandered. If Cilla were not -sure to meet him at Good Intent, he could have gone at -once, and covered up his bitterness from Farmer Hirst -as best he might; but it was nearing dark, and he knew -that she would return before the last of nightfall came.</p> - -<p>“I cannot bear to see the lile good lass, and never speak -a warning word!” he cried.</p> - -<p>Out of the silence presently there came a cry—Priscilla’s -call to Gaunt, in token that she had crossed the -home-croft in safety—and David bent an ear and listened.</p> - -<p>“Only a daft old barn-owl,” he muttered. “Birds -and their ways, and maids and their ways—I’m weary -of ’em.”</p> - -<p>David was unlike himself, and knew it. It was well -for growing lads to be peevish at these times, but he was -old enough, he had fancied, to have learned some common -sense. So he squared his shoulders; and his face, in the -gathering dusk, wore the look he had when he was driving -a stake into the ground or was hammering a horseshoe -on the anvil.</p> - -<p>“I’ll go,” he said. “Promises run down the wind, they -say, and catch in any hedgerow—but not David’s promises<span class="pagenum" id="Page_102">[102]</span> -to Farmer Hirst. Bless me, and there’s a letter in -my pocket all the while, and I’d forgotten it!”</p> - -<p>He set out in earnest this time for Good Intent, not -heeding the beauty of the grey night; and he came to the -wicket-gate that opened on the garden at the rear of the -farmstead, and went down the five steps leading to the -door, and knocked.</p> - -<p>“Step in, David!” sounded Hirst’s big voice. “I -knew you’d come, lad, though I said you wouldn’t.”</p> - -<p>David the Smith opened and went in; and he felt himself -forlorn, seeing the look of things within doors. On -one side the hearth, with its back to him, was the hooded -chair in which the farmer took his ease at nights; and a -rough-coated elbow showing round the corner of the -oak, a haze of blue smoke curling up toward the rafters, -witnessed to Hirst’s presence. On the other side, facing -David, as he entered, sat Priscilla, her work on her lap, -her eyes on the fire that threw quiet, homely patches of -ruddy light and sombre shadow round about the room. -The farm-dog, Fanny, stretched at full length beside the -fender, was too full of dreams to do aught save wag her -tail in a feeble way, though she knew that one of her oldest -friends had come.</p> - -<p>It was home, thought David; no subtle detail was wanting -to complete this picture of fair prosperity and honest -ease and fellowship—no detail lacking to save David an -added pang. He had been content, till lately, with his -work, his freedom, his trim little house with its garden -sloping down to the stream; to-night he saw only the -warm look of Good Intent, and by contrast his life seemed -barren and unprofitable. He longed for a lass of his own, -and a dog stretched half the length of the ingle-nook, and -maybe the cry of a bairn as it waked in its mother’s arms -and fell asleep again.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_103">[103]</span>“Come forrard, lad!” cried the farmer, getting himself -out of his chair with a cheerful groan—for he was stiff -after the long day’s work. “None so welcome at Good -Intent, come late or early. Fanny,” he broke off, stirring -the dog with his foot, “wilt get thy great body under settle, -thou jade, and let a better than thee draw up a chair?”</p> - -<p>The dog stretched herself, gave a low “yeow-ow” of -protest, looked up at Yeoman Hirst to learn if he were in -earnest. Seeing he was, she turned to David, and put her -fore paws on his chest and licked his face.</p> - -<p>“Nay, nay!” said he. “What sort of guest would -David be, lass, if he let thee wheedle him after the master -had said <i>under</i>?”</p> - -<p>Fanny had liquid eyes, of a shade and lustre that any -woman might have owned to the shaming of her sisters; -she lifted them now to David’s, in between the patient -licking of his face, with surprise that he should turn the -cold shoulder to a friend in this way. So it ended—seeing -the man’s heart was soft and foolish toward all dumb -things—in David’s bringing a chair up to the hearth, in -his taking the dog’s brown-black, wistful head into his -hands and stroking her muzzle softly.</p> - -<p>“Shame on thee, David!” laughed Hirst. “She’ll -be all spoiled by to-morn, when I want her to drive up -the sheep into the moor.”</p> - -<p>“We’ll chance it, Farmer! Ay, we’ll chance it. Like -to feel a dog’s head in my hands, I—seems to hearten -a man.”</p> - -<p>Now that he had met his trouble, had seen Priscilla -face to face and conquered the outward signs of heartache, -David was almost merry. It had been a desperate venture, -this of meeting Cilla so soon; and, now that he was -in the thick of it, he felt something of the glow and mad-wit -gaiety which attends on great adventures.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_104">[104]</span>Never had Cilla guessed till now that David Blake -could be so light of talk. The sobriety, nearing dulness, -which she associated with him was gone. Keen, quick -lights of humour played about his face. He had stories -at command—droll tales which Will the Driver had told -him of the road, sly anecdotes concerning the foibles of -his neighbour-folk. He was guarding a heartache bravely, -was David.</p> - -<p>Once, in the pause of talk, he looked at Cilla, and found -her eyes resting on him with strange intentness. She was -thinking that the helping hand-grip she had sought not -long ago, when she resisted and yet longed for Gaunt’s caresses, -was David’s own. And, when she saw that he had -caught the glance, and was trying to read it, she took up -her sewing, and hoped the colour in her cheeks would be -counted to the firelight’s credit.</p> - -<p>“Why, Cilla, I’ve a horn of ale beside me, and David -here has none!” said the farmer abruptly. “Where are -your manners, lass?”</p> - -<p>“Nay, now, take no trouble,” protested David. “I’ve -a pipe betwixt my teeth, Farmer, and what more should -a man want?”</p> - -<p>“Trouble is as it’s taken, David. If ye go forth from -Good Intent without a something good and mellow in your -inwards—why, bless me, there’s no cheer left in Garth.”</p> - -<p>Priscilla was glad of the excuse to put her sewing down -and busy herself with David’s comfort.</p> - -<p>“I’ll leave you to your talk, father,” she said, after -making sure that the farm’s hospitality—cherished for -three centuries or more—was no way shamed to-night.</p> - -<p>“Ay, but come back to lay a trifle of cheese, and cake, -and oat-bread on the table. Have supped once already, -I, and so has David, likely; but strong work comes strong -to victuals, Cilla, at the second asking.”</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_105">[105]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER IX</h2> -</div> - - -<p class="drop-cap">PRISCILLA gave some fleeting answer, and was gone. -Up the stone stairway she went, and into the chamber -beside the apple-tree, which, grown sturdy, was putting -out green springtime leaves. A slim, white sickle moon -lay helpless on her back—lighting in a softened fashion -Garth’s fragrant valley. Through the opened casement -the tempered April wind was fretting, as it blew the muslin -blind aside. It was a night when fairies played about the -land, when human ears, not deaf to all romance, heard -music fluting through the dull world’s uproar.</p> - -<p>Priscilla of the Good Intent leaned her two arms on -the window-seat, and looked out upon the vagueness of -the landscape lit by the young moon. She was thinking -of her surrender to Reuben Gaunt, and wondering if -she were happy in her choice; and always as she asked -the question—pretending to herself that she asked it -not at all—David’s shadow stole in between herself and -happiness.</p> - -<p>Gaunt himself about the same hour was standing on the -threshold of his own house of Marshlands. He had turned -the loose silver in his pocket on seeing the new moon, as -superstition bade him, and had prayed for luck. He had -tried, moreover, to think constantly of Cilla, but had -thought instead of Peggy Mathewson, and of the lad she -hoped to meet by the winding-path of Willow Beck.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_106">[106]</span> -Peggy, when she had planted that retreating arrow in -Reuben Gaunt, had judged wisely.</p> - -<p>“Must see her once more to-morrow,” murmured Gaunt. -“Must tell Peggy that new times have come in, and -old ones gone—but who, in the deuce’s name, is the lad -she means to take to nowadays?”</p> - -<p>“Reuben is true at heart,” murmured Cilla, as she -watched Garth Valley, grey under the sickle moon. “They -wrong him, these Garth folk; he only wants love and a -helping hand, and I have promised to give both.”</p> - -<p>David, below stairs, was talking with John Hirst, while -both sent up clouds of smoke toward the rafter-beams. -They had settled the matter of the axles, and Hirst was -chuckling.</p> - -<p>“Wish ye’d come up to-morrow’s evening, David. Yond -turkeys of mine are not penned up yet, and ’t has grown -to be a jest in Garth. What with being throng with the -lambs, and cutting a new ditch in Marshy Field bottom, -and all the spring work coming faster than I can deal -with, I’ve no time to think o’ turkeys. The stakes ye -made for me are lying just where ye left ’em, and they -say in Garth—ay, pretty well every time I go down -street—that the pen will be nice and ready for next -year’s breeding-season.”</p> - -<p>“’Tis time they were penned, Farmer, I own.”</p> - -<p>“Time? I should think it was. Look ye, David, be -up at five o’ the afternoon or so. There’ll be myself and -my two men, and with you to help we should get the durned -thing up in no time.”</p> - -<p>“Right! Yond red-wattled dandy ’ull be fair uproarious, -I reckon, when once his wings are clipped. -Wakes the whole village as ’tis.”</p> - -<p>They were silent, puffing quietly at their pipes, till -David remembered the letter lying in his pocket and began<span class="pagenum" id="Page_107">[107]</span> -to fumble for it among the odds and ends—nails and -screws, a clasp-knife and a two-foot rule—which bulged -his pocket out.</p> - -<p>“Want your knowledgeable sort of head to help me, -Farmer,” he said, handing the letter across Fanny’s curly -hide. “Will the Driver brought the mails this morning, -but I little fancied he carried aught for me, till the postman -dropped a letter for me at the smithy. Write few letters -myself, and get few; life’s over-short for such thankless -waste o’ time.”</p> - -<p>Hirst read the letter through. “Come all the way from -Canada, ’twould seem,” he muttered. “And I should -know the writer’s name, though I’m puzzled to guess -where and when I last saw Joanna West.”</p> - -<p>“Forgotten my mother’s sister, have ye, who wedded -Joshua West of High Lands? So had I, or nearly, seeing -’tis twenty year since they left Garth.”</p> - -<p>“Why, I must be getting past my memory, David! A -bonnie lass she was, and spirited. I remember looking -her way as a lad, till Cilla’s mother put all such fool’s -nonsense out of my head for good and all! She was over-good -for Joshua West, all the same. Bird of a feather, he, -with Reuben Gaunt—settled to naught, liked spending -money better than the earning of it; wanted to be pretty-boy-rover -over all the countryside.”</p> - -<p>David was silent for awhile. Mention of Gaunt brought -sharply to him the remembrance of what he had seen to-night, -when looking down from the higher fields on the -grey of the valley’s gloaming. He wanted to warn Cilla’s -father, as he had wanted to warn the girl herself; but, -for the like reason, he held his peace; for Gaunt was his -rival, and David was sensitive almost to absurdity when -honour was in case.</p> - -<p>“Ay,” he answered at last. “He was feather-bird<span class="pagenum" id="Page_108">[108]</span> -to Gaunt. Lost his money and his lands, Farmer, ye -remember, and went overseas to see if he could frame -better, like? Framed well, too, as it proved.”</p> - -<p>“They sometimes do. I remember you told me, years -ago, that he was farming to some purpose at last, and was -earning gear and gold.”</p> - -<p>“Puzzles me, too, why that should be. Is’t that Joshua -West’s sort o’ breed cannot rightly stand against Garth -weather, with its ups and downs, and its east wind in -May, and its heartsome, daft contrariness? Or is it that -there’s fewer wayside drinks to be had in foreign parts?”</p> - -<p>“Bit o’ both, I reckon. Well, then, he’s dead, by what -the letter says.”</p> - -<p>“Ay. Slipped under a timber-waggon, he—Joshua -was always fond o’ slipping one way or another—and -they picked him up with his back cut in two. My Aunt -Joanna has not favoured me overmuch with letters, but -she’s in trouble now. Life’s always playing that queer game -with me, Farmer; when folk are up and about, damned -if they care a stiver for David the Smith—but when -they’re down, ’tis always I’m their best friend, and must -hurry off at once.”</p> - -<p>“Up or down, folk look to ye, David,” said the other, -with unabashed and honest praise. “Ye’re a bit like -Sharprise Hill, ye—Garth folk <i>will</i> turn for a look at ye, -come evil times or good, before they step indoors o’ night. -So Joanna West, having no sons of her own, is lonely over -yonder, now her good man’s gone, and she wants ye to -go out and set things straight?”</p> - -<p>“That’s about it. Yet Garth Village is good enough -for me, and always was. What make of moonshine would -it be to go marlaking in overseas parts?”</p> - -<p>“Now, I’m thinking,” said Hirst slowly. “We’re -talking no secrets, David, when I tell ye that ye want my<span class="pagenum" id="Page_109">[109]</span> -Cilla, and that I want ye to have the lass, though I can ill -spare her. Well, now, maids are pranksome.”</p> - -<p>“Maybe,” assented David, his face ruddier than its -wont. “No news that, Farmer. Perhaps, in a littlish way, -ye’d let me ask what bearing the matter has on Aunt -Jane?”</p> - -<p>Hirst took his pipe-stem in his hand and waved it to -and fro, with a chuckle intended to be low. “Like ye! -Always like yourself, David. Hit life on the head with a -hammer, ye, and never stop to dither round about the -nail-top. What has Cilla to do with this letter coming -overseas? Well, ’tis this way, David. When I was -courting Cilla’s mother, there were ups and downs—more -downs than ups, so far as I remember. The bonniest -lass in the world, David, but I couldn’t get near her -anyway; like a mare she was, when you try and catch her -in the paddock, and she looks at you out of the corner -of her bonnie brown een, and says, ‘Catch me if you can.’ -What, short of baccy, David?”</p> - -<p>“Nay, and thank ye; but I’m listening, Farmer, and -my pipe may rest awhile.”</p> - -<p>“Well, there came a day when I couldn’t bide it any -longer. She was not for John Hirst, I fancied, and the -devil came gripping the reins of me. ‘Priscilla,’ said -I, going up to her father’s farmstead one summer’s gloaming -and chancing to find her in the garden—‘Priscilla,’ -says I, ‘I’m going forth from Garth.’ And she looked at -me. I can see the look yet, David, though the poor lass -is lying under Garth kirkyard to-night. ‘How far are -you going, John, from Garth?’ said she. ‘Oh, a world -and a half away,’ says I, as jaunty as may be.”</p> - -<p>“Go on,” said David.</p> - -<p>“Well, I meant all I said, for I couldn’t bide to live -in Garth unless I got Priscilla for wife—mother and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_110">[110]</span> -daughter of the one name, ye’ll notice, David, for ’tis -a name I love, and smells of double stocks and pansies. -‘A world and a half away,’ says I. And Cilla’s mother -fell to crying, same as her heart would break; and I -cuddled her to me, David, and I mind to this day that a -yellow-legged bumble-bee got up from the arabis flowers -and boomed across our faces as we kissed one the other.”</p> - -<p>“I’m beginning to catch your drift, Farmer,” said -David.</p> - -<p>“Time you did, David! Mind ye, there’s no two women -like each other in this world. Men-folk are plain this and -that, more oft than not, and easy ’tis to reckon up their -substance and their shape; but women are teasy-like, -and I’m no way for advising ye, David the Smith.”</p> - -<p>“Ye think I’d better go overseas?” said David slowly.</p> - -<p>“Well, ye’d better tell Cilla ye’re going, anyhow, and -see how the lile lass takes it.”</p> - -<p>Had David not halted to-night to look down from the -hills into the grey valley, he might have welcomed Yeoman -Hirst’s advice; but, so far as his leaving Garth affected -his chances with Priscilla, he harboured no false -hopes. Cilla was not one to walk lightly in the fields with -any man, and it was sure that her choice had fallen, once -for all, on Reuben Gaunt.</p> - -<p>“She’s not for me,” said the smith, looking straight -and bravely into Hirst’s face.</p> - -<p>“Tuts! Where’s your pluck, David? Put a bit of the -devil into that honesty of thine, lad, for all women like -a touch of keen sauce to their victuals.”</p> - -<p>“There’s devil enough in me nowadays, and thank ye—rather -too much for my liking. Truth is, my temper’s -breaking, Farmer, and breaking badly. Like an ill-forged -bit of metal it is—breaks if ye hit it gently.”</p> - -<p>“Ay, I know—I know, David, lad!” put in the other,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_111">[111]</span> -with the wise, tolerant smile of age. “Bless me, ’tis a few -odd years since the first man went daft-wit over the first -woman, and there’s been other-some in your place, David, -in the in-between years.”</p> - -<p>“I’ll go, anyway,” said David by and by. “Can’t -bide still in Garth as things are. Yet how I’m going to -live without Garth street, and the forge, and the fields -running up to the moor—I cannot guess. ’Twill be a -wrench when it comes, for sure.”</p> - -<p>“Well, now, ’tis not for a lifetime, supposing Cilla lets -ye go—which, mind ye, I don’t believe.”</p> - -<p>The door at the stairway foot was opened suddenly. -Priscilla had left her watching of the moonlight and her -thoughts of Reuben Gaunt to come down and spread the -supper-board. Her tread was light at all times, and the -two men were so intent on their talk that they heard nothing -until the rattle of the door-sneck warned them.</p> - -<p>Yeoman Hirst prided himself on taking any situation -by the horns at a moment’s notice. So now he laughed, -setting the roof quivering again, and, “David,” said he, -“you’re full of droll tales to-night. Pity that Cilla did -not come before to hear yond last.”</p> - -<p>Cilla knew her father’s diplomacy, and guessed at once -that they had been talking of her. Her self-command had -in it some of David’s quality; perplexed as she was by -her constant wish to ask David’s help, bewildered by -the glamour-web that Gaunt had spun about her, she -gave no sign of trouble.</p> - -<p>“David is merry to-night, father,” she answered quietly, -and went into the outer kitchen to fetch the supper things.</p> - -<p>“Ay, my word, he’s merry!” muttered David ruefully.</p> - -<p>“Mustn’t let her guess that ye and me are as thick as -thieves,” said Hirst, subduing his voice with hardship. -“Love’s as good as lost, David, when a lass knows her<span class="pagenum" id="Page_112">[112]</span> -father wants the lad as much as she. Must run contrary, -these maids, or else there’s no frolic in’t. I’d have their -fathers choose their lasses’ mates, for my part; but they’d -rather seek counsel from the first beggar coming to the door -to ask for scraps.”</p> - -<p>After supper—a quiet, unrestful meal to-night—David -got up to say farewell.</p> - -<p>“Thou’lt open to him, Cilla?” cried the farmer, feigning -to be stiffer in the joints than the day’s work warranted. -“Old bones are old bones, choose how you try to prove -them young.”</p> - -<p>Priscilla rose gravely, and opened the inner door; then -went out into the porch, and stood looking at the crisp, -clean night.</p> - -<p>“I wouldn’t have troubled you,” said David awkwardly.</p> - -<p>“’Tis no trouble, David; and yet, in other ways, you -make great trouble for me.”</p> - -<p>“Now, how’s that?” he asked, surprised into putting -his hand on hers and drawing her into the roadway. “David -make trouble for the lile lass? ’Twas not wont to be, -Priscilla, before new times came in.”</p> - -<p>“It is this way, David. You ask too much, and I cannot -make a friend of you.”</p> - -<p>“Seems a pity, lass, for a better friend you never had.”</p> - -<p>“Well, then, but wilt be just a friend, David? One I -could come to, and ask for help?”</p> - -<p>David looked at her. The moon and the stars were -tender with her face, and with her slim and upright body. -Cilla had always been the one maid for him, but to-night -there was magic in her eyes and in her touch. He remembered, -suddenly and with hardship, how he had looked -from the hilly fields not long ago, and had seen her in -Gaunt’s arms. It was true that his temper was brittle -nowadays—the temper of David the Smith, which Garth<span class="pagenum" id="Page_113">[113]</span> -folk spoke of reverently as they spoke of steadfast summer -weather—and he had been over-brave to-night.</p> - -<p>“Friendship be damned!” he said. “I’ll take more -or less, Priscilla, and good night to you.”</p> - -<p>He was gone, and Priscilla of the Good Intent was left -in the starlit road. And first she laughed, because she -could not help it, hearing David break away from his -quiet, Puritan mother tongue. And then she sighed, and -wished him back again. And afterwards she glanced at -Charley’s Wain, overlooking the trim farmstead, and wondered -if she had a heart at all, or whether it had only gone -astray. Certain it was that she had never liked David as -she did to-night, had never seen the real man peep out so -clearly. Still wanting help from him—help against herself, -or against Gaunt, she knew not which—she had -called to him before she could check the words.</p> - -<p>“David, come back!” she cried.</p> - -<p>But David was striding down Garth Street, and was -blaming himself for the odd language he had used toward -Priscilla.</p> - -<p>“Quiet of tongue, am I?” he muttered. “Why break -out when the lile lass comes to bid good night to me? -Nay, David, nay! Thou’rt a clumsy lad, when all’s said, -and deserved to lose her.”</p> - -<p>Quiet and still was Garth village, as David walked down -its moonlit length. The gentle noises of the day were -gone; no voice passed gossip up and down the road, no -footfall, save David’s, lifted the light April dust; the grey -fronts of the houses seemed full of ripe and mellow thought, -and from their gardens came a warm faint smell of flowers -and green-stuff.</p> - -<p>Now that he was to leave it, the sense of home rushed -in on David with new-found force. He had felt the more -in times past, maybe, because he rarely found an outlet<span class="pagenum" id="Page_114">[114]</span> -for his affections in words or ordered thoughts; and to-night -he knew, keenly and with pain, how much he cared -for Cilla, how much he cared for this grey street and the -grey circling hills.</p> - -<p>“I’ve got to leave ye, Garth,” he muttered huskily. -“Ay, that’s about the size of it.”</p> - -<p>As he neared the grindstone—standing by the wall-side -like some old pensioner who knows his working past -secure and thrives upon the after ease—he saw a light -go shining out across the road from Widow Lister’s -cottage. He saw, too, a plump, small figure of a woman -standing at the door. Nanny Lister, it was said in Garth, -would never go to bed till the last chance of a gossip had -gone down the night, and she was holding to her reputation, -so it seemed.</p> - -<p>“Ah, ’tis ye, David!” she said, after peering out to -learn who this late comer might be. “Well, ye’re just in -time, for I’ve a grievance, and you’re the best-tempered -man i’ Garth—”</p> - -<p>“Am I?” laughed David, not sorry for this interruption -to his thoughts.</p> - -<p>“Well they say so, though I trust no man’s temper -myself. Men have a trick of crazying about some lile slip -of a lass or other, and I should know their tempers by -this time, having lived with a husband and buried -him.”</p> - -<p>“Lister lies snug, Widow,” said David, with a touch -of that lightness which Cilla had noticed in him throughout -the evening. “Turfed over, he, and resting from the -<i>clack-clack</i> of a tongue, eh?”</p> - -<p>It was odd that the widow, old and ripish in experience, -felt just as Cilla had done—that David showed comelier -when he got a bright edge to his tongue. She bridled a -little, to be sure; but that was only a return of youth,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_115">[115]</span> -an instinct to stand off from and thwart a man when -most she liked him.</p> - -<p>“Unwedded folk should never talk to wedded ones, -David. Maids and bachelors, I always did say, are like -children playing wi’ dandelion-fluff, blowing to ask if ’tis -this day, or next day, sometime, never, that the right lad’s -going to come a-wooing. Well, he comes, and he isn’t -so bright, after all, when ye’ve lived with him a year or -two—but ye’re sort of fond of him and his foolishness—and -ye put up with him, and bake his bread for him, and -hearken to his whimsies when he comes home tired o’ -nights and hugs the chimney-corner. That’s all a side -o’ life ye’re deaf to, David, and I go pitying all ye stark, -unwedded folk.”</p> - -<p>David would have winced at another time; but to-night -he had fought his battle, had decided once for all to give -up Cilla and the grey village which she queened, and he -was perilously gay.</p> - -<p>“Give pity where ’tis asked, Widow,” he answered -blithely. “I have the forge, for my part, and a quiet -cottage to go home to, and a power o’ freedom ye wedded -folk seem always to be missing. Did ye ever hear of -the fox that got caught in a gin in Sharprise Wood and -lost his tail, and went prating afterwards that he looked -bonnier for the loss?”</p> - -<p>“Ye’re very full of heart to-night, David. Pranksome, -I should call ye.”</p> - -<p>“Have need to be. Just once a year the springtime -comes, Widow, and it behoves folk to be pranksome -then.”</p> - -<p>“Well, now, listen to me, for I said you were sound -of temper, and I’m in one of my angry fits just now.”</p> - -<p>David looked at her plump, wholesome cheeks, and -laughed. “Ye carry it well, I must say, Widow.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_116">[116]</span>“Ay, women—’specially lone widows—were born -just to try and hold up their heads and pretend, like, -naught matters anyway. What I want ye to look at, -David—the moon, young as she is, is better than a candle -to see by—what I want ye to look at is my bit of a garden -here. ’Tis no way big, David, and a plumpish cow could -lie along it, and ye’d never know there was a garden -there; but ’tis all I’ve got, and it rears a good few blooms -from March time on to winter.”</p> - -<p>“Bonniest slip o’ garden in all Garth. Well, then, -Widow?”</p> - -<p>“’Tisn’t well at all. Stoop down, David, and see where -the auriculas were when I slipped, yesternight, to bed. See -where the tulips were, and where the daffy-down-dillies -were blowing all their trumpets.”</p> - -<p>“Ay, they’re gone, for sure,” said David, with real -concern.</p> - -<p>“Gone? Should think they were. I came out this -morning—feeling as cheerful as a lone widow ever does—and -thought to water my bit of a garden. Found every -single bloom picked off, David, and laid along the ground.”</p> - -<p>“Now, then, I’m sorry! Pride ourselves, we in Garth, -that our gardens neighbour the road, and yet no hand -comes picking flowers by stealth.”</p> - -<p>“’Twasn’t a hand. ’Twas greedy bird-beaks, David. -Ye’re friends with John Hirst, up yonder at Good Intent? -Well, ye can tell him from Widow Lister that ’tis time he -penned his turkeys up.”</p> - -<p>“We’ve settled to do that to-morrow, as it chances.”</p> - -<p>“Should have done it a two-week ago,” went on the -other briskly. “Fussy, ill-conditioned fowls, I call ’em. -Every morn they come gobble-di-gobble down street, -waking honest folk before ’tis time to wake. Heard ’em -this morn, louder than ever, right under my up-stairs<span class="pagenum" id="Page_117">[117]</span> -window, but I didn’t guess they were picking off my flower-heads -for a bit o’ frolic. Wish I had. Would have been -after them wi’ the thick end of a besom.”</p> - -<p>“What’s done can’t be mended, Widow. There’s a -lot of comfort in that. Good night to ye; and, if you’re -civil-like to David the Smith to-morn, he’ll likely bring -a fresh lot o’ flowering stuff to fashion up your garden -with.”</p> - -<p>The widow bade him good night in return, and let him -go some twenty yards along the street. Then, with the -trick that ran in her family, she followed him and called -him back.</p> - -<p>“’Tis not only John Hirst’s turkeys,” she panted, coming -close to David. “His daughter went roving, too, -to-day. Got up on the coach for Keta’s Well, and Reuben -Gaunt beside her. They didn’t return to Garth by coach, -I noticed, and if I had John Hirst’s ear—”</p> - -<p>“Ye’d talk a lot of nonsense into it,” broke in David, -sharply. “Miss Priscilla came home along the fields -with Mr. Gaunt, for I met them. And why shouldn’t -she, say I, if she’s a mind to?”</p> - -<p>It was not just truth that David spoke; but it was true -to the hilt in this—that the good name of Cilla was to be -kept sacred in Garth village at any hazard.</p> - -<p>As he neared the forge, a shadow got out from the wall-side -and approached him.</p> - -<p>“Going to work, like?” said Fool Billy, stretching -himself with easy unconcern. “Knew you would, though -ye’re longer in coming than I looked for.”</p> - -<p>“Knew I would?” echoed David. “How’s that, -lad?”</p> - -<p>“Ay. Ye said ye were going to Good Intent, and Fool -Billy knew ye’d come home by soon, or sooner, and work -it off. Ye always do, David, after Good Intent. I’m<span class="pagenum" id="Page_118">[118]</span> -ready for my playtime, too. Have slept awhile, I, since -watching the lile trim wren-bird sitting on her eggs as -snug as clover to the ground. Ready to play, David, -is this same Billy.”</p> - -<p>They went into the forge, and got the fire alight and -glowing, and David worked till the sweat ran down him, -because only in the friendly feel of iron and tools could -he find ease.</p> - -<p>“Billy,” he said, looking up suddenly, “I’m leaving -Garth—leaving grey Garth, Billy, and going overseas.”</p> - -<p>“Why, then, I’m coming with ye,” said the other instantly. -“Me to play and ye to work—how would this -Fool Billy of a world do without us two?”</p> - -<p>David took up his hammer again, and made the anvil -ring. “Stay and see to Miss Good Intent—stay and -watch over her, Billy,” he said.</p> - -<p>Billy looked steadfastly at his comrade; and, though the -fire-glow shone on his face, showing each smooth, unwrinkled -curve, David could not understand what was -in the natural’s thoughts. It was a half-hour before Billy -explained himself.</p> - -<p>“Best take her with us, David,” he said.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_119">[119]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER X</h2> -</div> - - -<p class="drop-cap">REUBEN GAUNT, on the morrow of his holiday at -Keta’s Well, woke early. A thrush was piping -from the lilac-trees outside his window, and the clean -smell of the morning came through the casement. He -remembered the magic of that evening walk across the -fields, and found resolution come easily to him.</p> - -<p>His resolution did not fail him when he had breakfasted -and ordered the black cob to be saddled. He would -ride across to Good Intent, find Cilla’s father, and tell -his errand.</p> - -<p>Yet, while his horse was being saddled, another thought -came to him; he was pacing up and down the trim, smooth -lawn which, newly-mown, stretched to the low wall -bordering the highroad. The house behind him showed -big for a yeoman’s, prosperous and well built, and the -garden-spaces about the lawn were trimly kept. It looked -a good home for a bride to come to.</p> - -<p>“John Hirst will be busy, likely, about the fields,” he -thought, “before I get to Good Intent. Well, then, I’ll -ride round by the moor, and take my time about it, and -trust to finding him nearer the dinner-hour.”</p> - -<p>He was not sorry for the respite, as he mounted and -turned the cob’s head, not down the broad, white highway -to Garth, but up the winding track that led him to the -moor. This meeting with Cilla’s father had to be, but -he liked it none the better on that account, and he guessed -what sort of welcome he would get.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_120">[120]</span>Gaunt seldom probed into other folks’ motives, or his -own; and he did not know that there was more behind -this roundabout journey to Good Intent than was explained -either by mistrust of his welcome, or by liking -for a long ride up the open lands. His project was so -dimly formed that, even when he reached the moor, he -turned again to the left, and not along the right-hand -track that led him to Hirst’s farm.</p> - -<p>He crossed the stream that, just below, ran brown and -sparkling into the walled pool used in time of sheep-washing. -The track now was only a narrow, lumpy lane, -winding between sloping moor above and sharply falling -moor beneath, such as was plied in October by the bracken-sledges. -Presently it narrowed again into a foot-trail of -the sheep; but Gaunt, keeping his eyes on the pitfalls -by the way, went forward and up towards the waving line -of grey-black which marked the topmost ridge of heath. -His cob moved daintily, not liking the rude menace of -the ground, until at last they gained the higher lands, went -quietly over a level stretch of peat, and halted at the edge -of Water Ghyll.</p> - -<p>He looked down upon the steep descent—rocks, and -heather-clumps, and tufts of fern new-greening in among -the rusty last year’s fronds—then glanced across at -Clifford’s Peel, where its battered remnants stood four-square -still to the winds, and prated of old days when the -Scotch came raiding sheep and cattle from off the pastured -slopes of Garth. It was here that Cilla and he had -wandered as boy and girl, here that they had sought great -mysteries in among the beetling rocks, the rowans, the -deep, thick clumps of ling and cranberry. Water Ghyll -had been a forbidden, happy land to them in those days, -and they had always reached Garth again with tired feet -and glowing cheeks, feeling that they had come safely<span class="pagenum" id="Page_121">[121]</span> -through hazardous adventures, and trusting soon to tempt -again the frowns of peril.</p> - -<p>Gaunt thought tenderly of Cilla, as he recalled those -far-off scampers. Wisdom in action came harder to him -always than tenderness of thought; and by that token -more women’s tears had been shed on his account than -he deserved.</p> - -<p>He had won her at long last, he told himself; and this -wild trough of the moors, filled all with peat and rocks -and silver music of the stream below, seemed to hold some -special greeting for him.</p> - -<p>As he looked about him, and across the Ghyll, and down -into the haunted streamway, his horse began to fidget, -then reared suddenly.</p> - -<p>“What’s amiss, old lad?” laughed Reuben, all but -unseated. “Was in a brown study, I, and thou’st spoilt -it all.”</p> - -<p>A moment later a woman, climbing the steep face of the -Ghyll, showed her head above the ling. Gaunt had been -too lost in his own dreams to hear the rattle of loose stones -that witnessed to her climb, though his horse had not.</p> - -<p>The woman’s face was beaten hard by toil and weather, -yet she carried it straight on her broad shoulders.</p> - -<p>“Ay, ye, Reuben Gaunt?” she said, without surprise.</p> - -<p>Reuben, scarce recovered from the first shock of the -cob’s uprearing, was met by a sharper one. Yet again he -laughed, for the crisp of the morning’s vigour was in him, -as in all things that moved on two legs or on four.</p> - -<p>“Give you good day, Mrs. Mathewson! Scarce looked -to see you here in these lone parts.”</p> - -<p>“Same to ye! Least looked for, surest found, is Mr. -Gaunt of Marshlands.” Her eyes—hazel and big and -clear, the one youthful relic that Widow Mathewson<span class="pagenum" id="Page_122">[122]</span> -possessed—rested quietly on Gaunt’s own until he -flinched. She was so sure of his frailty; so acquiescent, -in a bitter, stifled way, under the trouble he had caused -her aforetime, and now was causing her; so sure of -her own honesty, and of his lack of it. “As usual, -’twould seem, I am busy, and ye are idle.”</p> - -<p>“’Tis a day to be idle on, if ever there was one.”</p> - -<p>“Maybe, for those born to addle no bite and sup. -For my part, I’ve been seeking strayed sheep all across -the moor, and not found them yet.”</p> - -<p>“Then ye’ve done no more work than I since sunrise,” -said Gaunt.</p> - -<p>Widow Mathewson rested both hands on her hips, and -drew herself yet straighter. Standing there in the sunlight, -framed by the swart moor and the dappled sky, -she seemed to Gaunt like a carven likeness of her -daughter Peggy—of Peggy, grown older, harder, disillusioned -altogether. The straight glance that rested on -him was Peggy’s, too, and the mouth curved into a disdain -that despised itself; only the daughter’s comely youth -was lacking, and the flood of passion in her cheeks.</p> - -<p>“Looking for sheep would seem to be my trade in life -from cradle-time,” she said. Her voice was grimly playful, -lest the tragic note should sound too clearly and beat down -the reserve she cherished. “Ay, I’ve been all my life -looking for sheep and not finding ’em, Reuben Gaunt. A -man’s love, and bairns, and profit from farming lean, -intaken land—I’ve sought ’em all in my time, and found -’em go bo-peeping like the ewes I’m following now. Life’s -like that, till ye’ve done with it—and maybe then we’ll -find no softer bed to lie on.”</p> - -<p>“You’re cheery, Mrs. Mathewson,” put in Reuben -drily. “Nice neighbour-body to fall in with, when a man’s -spirits are running high.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_123">[123]</span>“Oh, I’ve done with cheeriness—done with overmuch -grief, too, by that token. Sometimes, when I look at ye, -Reuben Gaunt, a touch of the old fire comes to me, and -I long to throttle ye, stark where ye stand. Then I laugh -to myself, knowing I’d fail at the job, somehow, though -I brought all the will in the world to it. Peggy will have -to thole her misery, as I did mine at her age; and, by that -token, I’m keeping ye from riding out to see her.”</p> - -<p>Gaunt knew at last the hidden motive for his journey. -He had not confessed it to himself; but this woman, -with the hard, clear eyes and clear, hard insight into life, -had found the truth for him.</p> - -<p>“I’m riding in the contrary direction, as it chances,” -he said.</p> - -<p>“Ah, that proves the matter. There’s other birds like -ye, prettyish and small of build, that fly zig-zag to their -nests.”</p> - -<p>Gaunt was nettled in earnest now. “As you want a plain -tale, you shall have it,” he said quietly. “I’m going to -marry John Hirst’s daughter.”</p> - -<p>Widow Mathewson knew no surprises nowadays; she -had outlived them. “Guessed as much yesternight,” -she said, speaking only half the truth for once, like Reuben -himself. Yet it was only the name of her daughter’s rival -that she had lacked. “Peggy went to bed with tears in -her een, and in the middle of the night she wakened me -with her sobbing in the next-door room. Queer that such -as ye can keep such as Peggy wetting blankets with her -tears; but I did the same in my time for as poor a dandy-tuft -of a man as ye.”</p> - -<p>“We are good friends, seemingly,” said Gaunt impatiently.</p> - -<p>“Ay, close as bee and flower, Reuben Gaunt. Ride -down to Peggy—she’s throng with churning—and tell<span class="pagenum" id="Page_124">[124]</span> -her the same lies that I hearkened to when I was ripe and -young. God plants the like garden for all women, I take -it, with the like apples in it; and, whether the man be -half a man or a tenth part, ’tis all one. Reuben Gaunt,” -she broke off, with the passion she had denied not long ago, -“why did ye keep your saddle just now when I frightened -that horse of yours? There’s a sharp rock on either hand -of ye, and two or three in front; whichever way your horse -had thrown ye, ye’d not have lighted soft—and it might -have been on your head.”</p> - -<p>“I learned young to keep the saddle, though I’m loth -to disappoint you, Mrs. Mathewson,” said Gaunt, recovering -his air of unconcern.</p> - -<p>“Should have been glad, I, to see ye with your head -smashed in,” went on the other dispassionately; “glad, -too, to think ’twas I that started your horse. But it was -not like to be; for ye always had the luck. Luck doesn’t -run in my family, and never did.”</p> - -<p>There was a silence between them, as they faced each -other, the only human-folk in this lonely stretch of heath. -In a place more busy, with others near at hand to temper -the reality of what he saw in the woman’s face, of what -he heard in her voice, Reuben Gaunt might have carried -the matter off with more success; but they were alone -with the rugged moor. He saw, during this time of silence, -his past life stretching behind him like a miry, ill-found -road. He knew himself dishonest, though he tried to find -again his old, easy outlook upon life. A naked man, facing -the naked truth, was Reuben Gaunt this once; and there -was no Cilla here, sitting beside him as they travelled down -the road to Garth and bringing to him thoughts of tranquil -betterment.</p> - -<p>“I’ll be going up the moor,” he said at last, fumbling -with the reins.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_125">[125]</span>“Ay, I would. Then turn to the right, and down to the -right again—ye know your way to Peggy.”</p> - -<p>There was something in the woman’s bitter jest that -struck deeper than any curse would have done. Gaunt -looked over his shoulder once, as he rode up the slope, and -saw her standing, at once the victim of destiny and its -symbol; and the breeze felt chilly to him on the sudden, as -if there were snow behind it.</p> - -<p>“’Twas she that put the notion into my head,” he -thought. “Well, then, I’ll ride to Ghyll, as she bids me, -and I’ll see Peggy for the last time. We should part -friends, and last night’s parting was no friendly -one.”</p> - -<p>He came to the marshy flats on the moor-top where the -stream had birth that ran through Water Ghyll. Wide -to the north and south, wide to the east and west, swept -the hills and moors and fields; here a broken ridge, and -there a soft-descending, rolling spur of hills, showed like -a rude girdle to the comely Vale of Garth. Beneath his -horse’s feet the grouse got up and whirred, crying, crying -over the desolate land; and the sky seemed near, as if a -man, by reaching up, could touch it almost.</p> - -<p>In amongst the marshes Gaunt saw the sheep which -Widow Mathewson was seeking. They were feeding on -the rich butter-grass that grew in treacherous places, and -he knew them by the branded <i>M</i>, red-painted on their -fleeces. Good-naturedly he turned shepherd for awhile, -drew round them—the cob showing frankly his distaste -for the wet ground—and, by dint of whistling, as if he -had a farm-dog with him, and by skill of horsemanship, -he gathered the ewes into a flock before him. And so he -rode down the moor again, forgetting his mistrust of -Widow Mathewson in the sly pleasure of succouring her -at need.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_126">[126]</span>She was standing where he left her, looking up the moor. -Indeed, the big heath held only one figure and one thought -for her; strong and weak herself, she loved the weakness -and the strength of her daughter, the one link in her life -that no storm had been powerful enough to break. She -was past the stress of youth; but she remembered, and in -her heart she was praying—she, who never went to kirk -or chapel—that Reuben Gaunt might die.</p> - -<p>Gaunt whistled low and clear again, and sent down -the sheep—a huddled, scampering flock—toward the -woman. He was no fool in matters of the farm, but at -usual times he was too indolent to use his gifts in that -direction.</p> - -<p>“Coals of fire!” he shouted, putting a hand to his mouth -to carry the sound up-wind. “Here are your sheep—gather -them in and drive ’em home, Widow.”</p> - -<p>“Like him,” said Mrs. Mathewson, with patient wonder. -“Kills the heart in a woman one minute, and the -next goes out of his home-bee road to do her a good turn. -Would God I knew what sort o’ clay this Reuben Gaunt -is made of!”</p> - -<p>She gathered her flock together, and started to drive them -home; but Gaunt was riding straight across the moor, -and riding fast, for Ghyll.</p> - -<p>It was easy, seeing the farm to-day, with the mellow -spring light dwarfed and sundered by its blackened walls—it -was easy to understand the gospel in which Widow -Mathewson and her daughter had been reared. It was -chary of spring, this farm; it had received more kicks -than halfpence from the weather; it looked askance at -gifts o’ grace, and would not listen to the larks on this -blithe morning.</p> - -<p>Peggy had just finished churning, when she heard the -sound of horse-hoofs. She stood and listened, and there<span class="pagenum" id="Page_127">[127]</span> -was expectation in every line of her strong figure—and in -her face a wild self-pity and derision.</p> - -<p>“So you’ve come?” was her greeting, as Gaunt stepped -inside the dairy, after slipping the cob’s bridle about the -top bar of the outer gate. “Knew you would, soon -or late—but ’tis full soon, Reuben, seeing that only last -night—”</p> - -<p>“I want us to part friends. That’s why I’m here,” broke -in the other, tapping his riding-breeches restlessly with his -crop.</p> - -<p>The girl laughed. Gaunt had never heard disaster so -assured in any voice. It was as if the farmstead, and the -weather it had seen, and the tumults that had scarred its -walls, took human shape and utterance.</p> - -<p>“That’s how ye want us to part?” she said. “Will -ye be a fool to the end, Reuben Gaunt, or are ye thinking -life’s a game for bairns to sport with? Ride back through -the ling to lile Miss Good Intent, and tell her I’ve returned -ye with all the will in the world. Tell her that lasses catch -ye, like the plague, and lose what little looks they’ve got -through fretting for your tom-fool ways. Tell her—”</p> - -<p>She broke down suddenly, for the strain of the past -night, of the day’s labour at the churn, had told on -her. She had no tears left; but her eyes were full of a -soft mist, such as a warm gloaming draws from Garth -Valley in the spring. Peggy was beautiful to-day; her -tragedy was that of the ages, but her pathos was her own, -single and direct in its appeal.</p> - -<p>The cool, whitewashed dairy framed her; the warm, -rich smell of milk and butter was about her.</p> - -<p>“Peggy,” said Reuben Gaunt, “God knows ’tis hard -to part from ye.”</p> - -<p>“Ay, and God knows that Peggy Mathewson knows -your lies—knows them within and without—as she<span class="pagenum" id="Page_128">[128]</span> -knows her own face—her face, Reuben, that was bonnie -enough to catch ye, but not bonnie enough to hold ye -afterwards. See ye, lad, ye’re bent on killing me one way -or another. Why not take some handy stave and do it -now? Better soon than late, Reuben, if a body’s got to -die.”</p> - -<p>“I’m marrying Priscilla of the Good Intent,” said Gaunt -doggedly.</p> - -<p>“Oh, I know so much since yestere’en. D’ye think -to give her happiness, Reuben? I could never tell, myself, -what was in your mind, or out of it, at any moment.”</p> - -<p>“Come for a walk in the fields, Peggy,” he said, after -a restless silence.</p> - -<p>“Can as well talk here, and thank ye. As I was saying, -ye puzzle me. A bit like thunder-weather, ye—the wind -blows one way and the clouds drive forrard t’ other way. -Reuben, <i>do</i> ye think to make a happy wife of Miss Good -Intent?”</p> - -<p>It was characteristic of this upland lass that she bore no -malice toward Cilla. Her quarrel was with Reuben here, -with her own weakness, with life itself; Priscilla was a -harmless and unmeaning bit of flesh to her, counting for -little either way, save that she chanced to be the one to -come between herself and Gaunt.</p> - -<p>“I’m going to make her happy—yes. May a man -never begin the good life, Peggy?”</p> - -<p>“Ay,” answered the other quietly. “A <i>man</i> may always—but -I cannot see ye doing it, Reuben, somehow.”</p> - -<p>“I had so much to tell you,” he said, after another -silence. “I wanted—”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I dare say, Reuben. Wanted to patch up the -road ye’ve fouled behind ye, afore taking to the smooth -road ready-made in front? Eh, but you must be a fool to -the marrow, after all! Dress all in your good clothes, if<span class="pagenum" id="Page_129">[129]</span> -it pleases ye, and put on a Sabbath face for other folk—but, -for mercy’s sake, don’t come to Peggy Mathewson -after that fashion. Going to lead the good life, are ye? -Well, what of me?”</p> - -<p>There was no soft wind blowing here at Ghyll Farm, -as it had blown last night all down Garth Valley. For the -second time this morning Gaunt saw the simple, candid -picture of himself.</p> - -<p>“You were crying last night, Peggy. I looked for a -softer welcome,” he said, blurting out his thoughts as a -child might have done.</p> - -<p>“Oh, and was I? Who told ye that?”</p> - -<p>“I fell in with Mrs. Mathewson as I rode up here. -Besides, I can see it in your eyes.”</p> - -<p>“Has she found the sheep?” said Peggy, with desperate -pretence to ward off the graver issue.</p> - -<p>“I found them for her. Say, Peggy, what were you crying -for?”</p> - -<p>Peggy thought of the heart-break that had been her -mate last night “Crying for a lad ye’ll never know, -Reuben,” she answered.</p> - -<p>He was quiet for awhile. Then suddenly his eyes caught -fire at hers. “Oh, come away to the fields,” he said. -“We could aye talk better out o’ doors, Peggy.”</p> - -<p>An hour later Mrs. Mathewson returned, driving her -sheep, and found Gaunt’s horse tethered to the gateway. -The house was empty.</p> - -<p>“I’ll thole a lot,” she muttered, “but I’m no way going -to let Reuben Gaunt stable his horse in my paddock while -he goes knocking nails in Peggy’s coffin.”</p> - -<p>She unfastened the cob’s bridle, opened the gate, and -sent him up in the moor. But first she took the bit from -his mouth, and laid it with the reins upon the ground; -for she had no wish to let the beast break his knees through<span class="pagenum" id="Page_130">[130]</span> -getting the reins across his legs. The horse, glad of his -freedom, turned his head once or twice in search of Reuben, -then galloped off. And Widow Mathewson, who -seldom smiled, laughed grimly as she saw him breast the -moor-top, then disappear.</p> - -<p>“Gaunt has galloped as free in his time,” she thought. -“Let him find his horse if he can, and catch it.”</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_131">[131]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER XI</h2> -</div> - - -<p class="drop-cap">PRISCILLA of the Good Intent had been restless -when she bade good night to David the Smith -and provoked from him a discourteous farewell. She -was more restless still when the birds awoke her soon after -dawn of the next day and would not let her get to sleep -again. So she got up, and lingered often at the open -window, listening to the bird-calls and all the fret of newly-wakened -life about the fields, while she washed, and -dressed herself, and went through the simple rites that -accompanied the beginning of the day in Garth.</p> - -<p>She wondered if Reuben would like the blue print -gown better than the lilac one. Her head a little on one -side, a shy, quick splash of colour in her cheeks, she looked -from one dress to the other, and could not make her choice. -Cilla of the Good Intent was a changed lassie since that -glamoured walk across the fields with Reuben; wearing-gear -had troubled her little until yesterday, and she had -chosen her gowns by instinct, without conscious thought -about the matter.</p> - -<p>“I was wearing the lilac one when he liked me first,” -she said, with a low, happy laugh. “Perhaps, when he -comes to-day, he will like to see me wearing it.”</p> - -<p>Beyond the open window, where the fields sloped in -green hollows to the edge of Garth village, the birds could -not be quiet. Ousel-cocks were calling to their mates. -Throstles were whistling, piping, singing, the full flood<span class="pagenum" id="Page_132">[132]</span> -of their melody let loose; and, like practised singers, they -could afford to play strange antics with their voices. Up -and down the scale the speckled songsters ran; and now -they whistled “come out”; and again they called, with -pretence of great sobriety, “There’s love a-waiting, love’s -a-waiting; love and his lile lass.” On the roof-tops starlings -cheeped, until they could bear the thrushes’ rivalry -no longer, and began to mimic them in cracked and foolish -notes.</p> - -<p>First love was harbouring with Priscilla. She was in -tune with the birds and the leafing land, and she had to -put a hand on the bosom of her lilac gown, because the -gladness of the day went almost beyond bearing.</p> - -<p>For once, she was earlier abroad than her father, who -had allowed himself another hour of bed after yesterday’s -hardship in the fields. Before it was time to set his breakfast -on the board and pour out his tea for him, she had -done a score of little things about the house, and in the -dairy, and in the croft above the house where the fowls -were up betimes.</p> - -<p>“Am going up the fields, father,” she said, as she cleared -the table after breakfast.</p> - -<p>“Right, lile lass! Maids must saunter time and time i’ -spring. Wholesome, too, I say—and I warrant ye’ve -your day’s work trimly in your hands already.”</p> - -<p>“Was down an hour before you, father,” she put in -playfully.</p> - -<p>“Ay, old bones are lazy bones. Shame on me, Cilla, -lass, to break my fast at half after seven in the morning. -Ye’ll not tell David?” he added, with the boisterous -slyness that his daughter understood so well.</p> - -<p>“I’m not likely to,” she said demurely, and went up-stairs -to doff her apron and to don a hat.</p> - -<p>Here, again, the earlier trouble beset her. What head-gear<span class="pagenum" id="Page_133">[133]</span> -should she choose? To be sure, she did not look to -meet Reuben in the fields; but he might ride in for a talk -with her father—might be in the croft among the hens -and turkeys, or in the paddock, or in the house-place when -she returned. She wanted Reuben to approve her when -they met.</p> - -<p>She made her choice at last, and Yeoman Hirst, just -going out to see that his men were at their work, turned -for a look at her as she came down the stair.</p> - -<p>“Bless me, ye grow bonnier, Cilla!” he cried, with a -muffled roar of true affection. “Tuts! ’Twill be a blithe -lad that tempts ye to share house with him.”</p> - -<p>Cilla answered nothing, but nodded gravely at Yeoman -Hirst and went out by the door that opened on the garden. -Up the young, green pastures she went, carrying first -love with her. All things to-day were big with self-importance; -and she, who had thought but little of herself till -now, wondered if she would be always fair in Reuben’s -eyes. She trusted so; for Gaunt seemed worth the best -that she could bring him.</p> - -<p>One deep regret she had, to temper the new gladness. -She was holding a secret from her father, and the knowledge, -just as it had done last night, brought a sense of -shame to her from time to time. In the background, too, -was another shadow—that of David the Smith, with his -abiding care for her. But the day was not one for shadow -except such as the sun and the breeze between them -chased across the pastures. The world would not let -Priscilla be out of mood with it; the reek of the drying -grass, on which late dewdrops lingered still, the clamour -of the birds, the restless pushing up toward the light of -winter’s hidden shoots—all was a conspiracy against -repinings or backward glances.</p> - -<p>By the mossy lane past Brow-Top Ings she went, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_134">[134]</span> -wild-strawberry blooms, white and starry, peeped out at -her from hidden nooks. Sometimes loitering, sometimes -moving quickly, as if her thoughts outpaced her, she found -the highest fields at last and saw the dark face of the moor -above her. Not caring where she went, and obeying any -whim, she climbed a fence or two and was free of the open -heath. Here, too, spring’s advance was plainly marked, -though it needs a subtler study to perceive it here than in -the lower lands.</p> - -<p>Priscilla had no thought of foreign countries now. -Garth, whose face she knew—Garth, the familiar and -well-tried—was full of mysteries, delights, surprises. -Could she have ever thought, she wondered, that Reuben -Gaunt had painted fairer lands for her than this in which -she lived?</p> - -<p>She lifted her head on the sudden, hearing a pad of -hoofs across the peaty ground. Gaunt’s horse, weary of -his freedom already and finding himself lost on the edge -of an alien moor, was searching for his master. Cilla -was the first human being he had seen since Widow Mathewson -loosed his bridle and sent him wide across the heath; -so now he came, with mincing steps across the broken -ground, and laid his muzzle in her hand, and asked for -guidance.</p> - -<p>Cilla knew the horse; it was the best in Garth, indeed, -and known to folk less interested than she in Reuben. -Out from the blue sky and the sunshine fear came suddenly -to Priscilla of the Good Intent. Apart from love -of his master, there is always something of portent and -foreboding when a riderless horse comes fawning at one’s -hand.</p> - -<p>“Where is the master?” cried Priscilla, soothing his -muzzle with a hand that trembled.</p> - -<p>The cob tossed his head. That was the question he<span class="pagenum" id="Page_135">[135]</span> -had brought to Cilla, trusting that in her wisdom she would -give him a plain answer. She had none, it seemed, and -presently, growing restless again, he shook his head free -and cantered off.</p> - -<p>Cilla watched him take wide circuits, slacken to a trot, -then to a walk. He was snuffing the ground like a hound -on trail, and last of all he seemed to find a clue, for he -turned down the moor along a narrow track, found the -gate open at the bottom and trotted out of sight. The girl -turned, and wandered as aimlessly about the moor as the -horse had done; she was sure that Reuben was lying -somewhere in the heather, thrown and badly hurt, and -unable to help himself.</p> - -<p>What had she said to her father not long ago? That -snow might follow all this April weather. And now she -recalled the words, recalled the cold sense of foreboding -that had accompanied them.</p> - -<p>Tired and out of breath she halted to look about her. -Again, like the horse, she sought for help—sought -dumbly for it—when her own instincts were at fault.</p> - -<p>“Good day to ye now. Te-he! Rare weather for the -time o’ year,” came a voice at her elbow.</p> - -<p>“Why, Billy, Billy, you startled me!”</p> - -<p>“Wouldn’t do that—nay, not for a pipeful o’ baccy,” -said Billy the Fool. “’Tis this way, as a body’s body -might strive to put that same into plainish speech. I’d been -peeping into a nest here, and a lile nest there, right up the -pastures; and Fool Billy got to the moor, he did, and -fancied he’d see if the peewits were a-laying on yond -ancient ground o’ theirs up by Butter-grass Bogs. Then -I sees ye—and, durn th’ odd button that’s left on my -coat, Miss Priscilla, if I thought twice again o’ the -peewits.”</p> - -<p>Billy was always the courtier with Miss Good Intent;<span class="pagenum" id="Page_136">[136]</span> -but she was too tired, too anxious, to give him more than -a wan smile.</p> - -<p>“Help me to find Mr. Gaunt,” she said. “His horse -came to me just now, Billy, with no one in the saddle. -He’s lying somewhere on the moor, and I cannot find him. -You’re quick to find missing folk, they say, when they’re -four-footed—well, find Mr. Gaunt for me.”</p> - -<p>Cilla did not know her own voice; it was so eager, so -impetuous. And she relied—and knew it, she who -had been self-dependent until now—upon Billy the -Fool.</p> - -<p>The lad’s face altered. Across the plump and childish -flesh stray wrinkles crept, as circles widen on a pool when -a stone is thrown into its waters. But Cilla, though she -looked at him with frank, steadfast gaze, could not guess -what was passing through his mind. So it would be with -Billy until the mould lay heavy on his coffin; a love greater -than Yeoman Hirst’s he had for Cilla, a love greater than -David the Smith’s; but his thoughts were prisoned up -in an unwieldy bulk of flesh, and to the end he would be -Billy the Fool, Billy the Well-Beloved, just as the moor -about Cilla and himself to-day would always be the moor, -telling her secrets to none.</p> - -<p>“Well, now,” said Billy patiently, “I can find Mr. -Reuben Gaunt for ye.”</p> - -<p>“Is he—is he hurt?”</p> - -<p>“Sound as ye or me. Hurt? Not the sort o’ man, he, -to get into hurt. Slips through and about matters that -might hurt him, like a snod trout when ye’re a-tickling of -his underward parts in Eller Beck.”</p> - -<p>Cilla did not heed the lad’s veiled dislike of Gaunt. -She was too glad to know that he was safe to care for -aught else.</p> - -<p>“Tell me where to find him,” she said impatiently.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_137">[137]</span>“I’ll take ye straight to where he is,” answered Billy -promptly, and set off down the slope.</p> - -<p>He led her into the fields below, then to a little dingle, -all wooded in with thorns and slim, low hazel-shrubs. -Not a word would he speak, though Priscilla asked him -many questions by the way.</p> - -<p>Gaunt might be safe; but to the girl there was something -uncanny in the natural’s silence. The wrinkles -were graven deeper now in his face, and Cilla, glancing -at him now and then, was awed by the look—fixed, inscrutable—in -the lad’s eyes.</p> - -<p>“Chanced on him through coming to see a blackbird’s -nest o’ mine,” he said at last, when they were nearing the -dingle. “Had just pushed the twigs from together, and -peered in, to find the hen-bird off her nest—and I happened, -as Billy the Fool might say, to look beyond that -same old tree o’ thorn, and down below I saw—”</p> - -<p>“Yes?” asked the girl, fretting under all this needless -mystery.</p> - -<p>“What I’ll show ye, if so Mr. Reuben Gaunt be still -there or thereabouts. Now, step ye pratly, Miss Priscilla, -and keep your voice as low as any sparrow chirp; for the -mother-bird may well be sitting again, and ’tis ill disturbing -mated folk.”</p> - -<p>Whether it were guile or instinct on Billy’s part, none -would ever know. He might have taken Cilla to twenty -equal vantage grounds from which to look into the hollow; -but he made for the thorn-bush, saw the bright eyes of the -bird watching him, took infinite pains to part the branches -a little to the right without disturbing her, then turned to -Cilla.</p> - -<p>The girl, humouring what she fancied now must be -some delusion of the lad’s, crept under his outstretched -arm and looked down. A strip of broken turf, charred<span class="pagenum" id="Page_138">[138]</span> -with primroses, sloped to the bubbling stream, and at the -water’s edge, Peggy was sitting with Gaunt’s arm about -her waist.</p> - -<p>Priscilla gave no cry. The stream, the two figures sitting -by its rim, quivered and rocked, then circled round about -her. The primroses made thin, waving lines of yellow -across this evil, daytime vision. Then all was clear again—mercilessly -clear—and Gaunt’s head was near to -Peggy Mathewson’s, as last night it had been near to -Cilla’s.</p> - -<p>Priscilla of the Good Intent stepped back. She was -pale, but willowy and upright still; out of the generations -of the Hirsts that had fathered her, help came to her in -the hour of need.</p> - -<p>She walked slowly back into the field, Billy following -close behind her. Whatever the natural had hoped to do -by this exploit, it was plain that, to his own thinking, he -had failed. He kept trying to find words, and, finding -none, reached out his hands toward Priscilla, with a -gesture piteous and helpless.</p> - -<p>“Billy, I am troubled,” said Cilla, halting suddenly. -“No, you are not to come with me this once! I am -troubled—and, Billy, I must be alone.”</p> - -<p>Grave and sweet her voice was, sweet and grave her -consideration for the poor fool’s feelings when she had -need to think only of her own.</p> - -<p>The natural watched her cross the pastures; then his -face twitched, and the lines came out on it afresh; and, -after that, he threw himself on the ground and dug his -fingers deep into the turf and cried like a three-year babe. -Afterwards he sat up, his face vacant as of old.</p> - -<p>“Seems as if Billy the Fool were shut up tight in a -prison,” he muttered. “Wears what ye might call a -band of iron all round his head-piece, like, and he thinks,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_139">[139]</span> -and he thinks, and naught comes on’t. Miss Good Intent’s -going to cry—and ’tis Fool Billy made her.”</p> - -<p>Down yonder in the little dingle, Gaunt and Peggy -Mathewson were saying good-by. For an hour they -had sat by the stream, helpless in each other’s hands, -as they had always been. Gaunt had once more told her -frankly—he had found courage for that—that at all -hazards he meant to wed Priscilla.</p> - -<p>“Suppose I went and told her what ye’d said to me, and -what ye’d looked at me, and all the sorry tale?” cried -Peggy, roused from her desperate acquiescence in the -gospel that what would be, would be. “Would you fare -well, Reuben, with lile Miss Good Intent?”</p> - -<p>“Well or ill, I should let you go with your tale. I’ll not -stand between Priscilla and the truth, if she must have it—but -I’ll not tell her it myself.”</p> - -<p>“There again, you’re a puzzle, just a puzzle,” she said, -with a quick return to her old manner. “Spoke like a -man just then, ye. Other times ye’ll be half a man, or -none at all. I’ve asked ye fifty times, Reuben, but could -find myself no nearer an answer yet—what was left out -of ye at birth?”</p> - -<p>“Seems power to guide myself was left out of me,” -he answered sharply. “Listen to me, Peggy! I’ve nothing -much behind me to boast of—but I love Hirst’s lile -lass.”</p> - -<p>“Ay, so ye said,” put in the other drily. “It scarce -helps me, Reuben, to hear it twice. For there’s my own -life, as it happens, as well as yours to reckon with.”</p> - -<p>Gaunt felt like a man whose feet are caught by the bog. -The clean, dry land was near to him; but his feet were -chained, and it was hard to pluck them out.</p> - -<p>As for Peggy, she was ready to drift into any mood, -and past days returned to her with sudden clearness.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_140">[140]</span>“Do ye mind the day we went to Linsall Fair? ’Twas -years ago, Reuben, but I mind it still. You bought a ring -off a pedlar, and you set it on my finger. Lord, how it -all comes back!” she broke off, looking softly at him, so -that her likeness to her mother was altogether lost. -“There was a young moon over the fell-top, and folk were -dancing on the green; and you put the ring on my finger, -and my heart went all soft and shameless. Reuben, you -told me—”</p> - -<p>“Told you we were wedded; and we laughed. Ay, I -remember, Peggy!”</p> - -<p>And so they fell to quiet talk of bygone times. Peggy -wondered at her weakness, and Gaunt could not fathom -the meaning of his newly-wakened liking to be with this -lass when he should have been at Good Intent.</p> - -<p>It was then that Billy the Fool guided Cilla to the thorn-bush -where the mother-blackbird sat upon her nest; but -neither Gaunt nor Peggy saw the stricken face that -watched them for a moment between the twigs, then -disappeared.</p> - -<p>“Fine-weather days don’t last, somehow,” went on the -girl. “We thought the world held no two folk, Reuben, -save ye and me? Well, we were fools for our pains.”</p> - -<p>“They’re good to look back on now and then, all the -same, those days.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, where’s the use in your looking back? You feel -no warmer in winter-time by thinking of last summer’s -heat. <i>Good to look back on?</i> ’Tis easy for ye to talk, -Reuben!”</p> - -<p>Gaunt got to his feet, and helped her up. “Time we -were moving, Peggy,” he said curtly—for he was fearing -the girl’s despair and tenderness. “Yond horse of mine -will be tearing the reins to bits, for I’ve kept him longer -tied to a gate-post than he ever was before.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_141">[141]</span>“So ’tis good-by?” she said, moving beside him up -the stream.</p> - -<p>“Ay, for it must be. Bygones are bygones, Peggy.”</p> - -<p>“True—if ye let ’em be. Never fear, Reuben! I’m as -proud as Miss Good Intent, or maybe more so, and I’ll -not trouble ye. Begin with your good life, lad, and see -if ye can carry it! And for all reward I’ll ask to see Miss -Priscilla’s face when a year’s gone by and the first bairn -has come.”</p> - -<p>Reuben winced. None in Garth would have given him -credit for it; but, weak of purpose as he was, his love for -Cilla touched clean, wholesome thoughts that had been -stifled long ago. He resented Peggy’s easy speech touching -his marriage and what might, or might not, come afterwards. -The girl knew what was passing in his mind, and -laughed—not carelessly, but with the sadness that was -rooted deep in all her moods.</p> - -<p>“Sorry to hurt ye, Reuben,” she said. “You’re a -delicate sort o’ plant, and need a wall ’twixt ye and the -wind.”</p> - -<p>They were silent until Intake Farm was well in sight. -Peggy halted in the dip of the fields where the ragged -thorn-trees grew. She looked long and hard at Gaunt, -and again there was a strange beauty in her face.</p> - -<p>“Was going to ask ye for a last kiss, but I’m past that, -Reuben. Lad, I wonder will ye ever know the kisses we -might have had! I think ye’ll waken sometimes in the -night, and hunger for what’s past your getting any longer. -Fratch as we may, we were made each for the other, if -your een were open wide enough to see it.”</p> - -<p>“Peggy, lass,” he began, moving nearer to her.</p> - -<p>“Nay, Reuben! Over and done with, like a last year’s -nest. Yond’s your way; I’m going wide into the moor, -to cool a touch of some daft fever that’s come over me.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_142">[142]</span>Irresolute, and glancing backward often, Reuben went -up toward Ghyll Farm. Life, that had seemed so plain -last night upon the Garth highroad, was tangled now. The -fierce, low passion of the girl—her certainty of heart-break, -with little complaining—a shrewd guess that she -was right in saying he would wake at night and think of her—these -were out of keeping with the primrose lanes of -yesterday.</p> - -<p>“’Tis hard to go straight,” said Gaunt at last, with a -shrug of his shoulders, as he reached the paddock of Ghyll -Farm.</p> - -<p>No horse was tethered to the gate; but over the top bar -leaned Widow Mathewson, her brown arms naked to the -sunlight and a look of grim derision on her face.</p> - -<p>“Seeking a horse, Mr. Gaunt?” she asked, with studied -courtesy.</p> - -<p>“Yes, I tethered him to the gate here.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, ’twill be the one I loosened an hour or so agone. -Found him here, when I came from driving sheep across -the moorland; and I hadn’t a use for him myself.”</p> - -<p>“Thank you,” said Reuben, falling in with the widow’s -own quiet tone. “Sensible thing, Mrs. Mathewson, to -loose a cob whenever ye find him tied to a gate-post by the -bridle.”</p> - -<p>“So I thought myself—and, by that token, I slipped -the bridle from his mouth and laid it under the wall here. -Will ye take it with ye, Mr. Gaunt, or shall Peggy bring -it over to Marshlands? We’re simple, and ye’re reckoning -to be one o’ the gentry-born nowadays; so I fancy ye’d -think it ill demeaned ye, like, to go carrying a horse’s -bridle in your hands.”</p> - -<p>Gaunt took the bridle, keeping his temper as best he -could. Quiet or stormy, Widow Mathewson always cut -like hail against his face.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_143">[143]</span>“Perhaps you’ll tell me where the cob went, the last -you saw of him?”</p> - -<p>“Up the moor, and seemed to relish his liberty. He -may be at Linsall by this time—though I doubt the -marshes on that side o’ the heather would stop him—or -happen he’s taken t’ other road, and got to Keta’s Well—or—”</p> - -<p>“Then where the devil am I to look for him?” snapped -Reuben.</p> - -<p>“God knows—which, as I’ve seen life, means always -that human-folk can’t guess. Where are Peggy’s wits, -Mr. Gaunt? God knows again—for bless me if her -mother does.”</p> - -<p>Reuben went off, the bridle dangling from his arm; and -Widow Mathewson turned across the paddock.</p> - -<p>“Reckon he’ll have a longish walk before him, any -way,” she said. “Beggars don’t ride most times—and -neither does Reuben Gaunt to-day.”</p> - -<p>Gaunt himself abandoned all thought of seeking the -cob. It would reach home, or he would hear of its whereabouts -to-morrow. Meanwhile, he was glad of this further -respite from his talk with Yeoman Hirst.</p> - -<p>“It would be too late, by the time I walked to Good -Intent,” he thought. “I’ll ride up about supper-time, -and catch John Hirst in his ripe, evening humour.”</p> - -<p>When he reached home, his cob was waiting for him -on his own lawn. It had jumped the round, grey wall -that guarded the highroad, and now, after a morning’s -tribulation, was seeking for grass-stalks on the shaven -lawn.</p> - -<p>Horses and dogs were no harsh judges of Reuben Gaunt; -and now, as the cob came whinnying to him, he said to -himself with a laugh that it was the first friendly welcome -he had had since riding up to Ghyll.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_144">[144]</span>Priscilla had gone across the fields, carrying first disillusionment -now in place of first love—the love that she -had buried yonder in the wooded dingle. She felt no -anger toward Reuben; it was as if she had seen him die -suddenly and without warning, had seen him pass into -a dim land of which she had no ken; and the stupor of -her grief for him was on her.</p> - -<p>For herself, the silver thread was loosened that had bound -her to the spring. Sunlight and shadow on the pastures, -the rising skynote of the lark, the fretting of the curlews -and the plover; she saw and heard them, but could no -longer understand their beauty. Between herself and life -there was a dead, grey wall; and cowslips nodded vainly -to her as she passed, and, when the lambs came frisking -toward her, she did not heed them.</p> - -<p>She was glad, on reaching Good Intent, to find that her -father had finished his early dinner and was out in the -fields. Mechanically she set about her duties, forgetting -to take food herself; and, like David, she found a certain -ease, a certain deadening of pain, in moving forward with -her work. When Hirst came in about half after four, she -was pale, and her eyes were listless, but she was mistress -of herself and ready with a greeting.</p> - -<p>“Thou’st overtired thyself, lile lass,” said the farmer, -patting her shoulder as he crossed to the big hearth-chair. -“Eh, well! Maids will roam i’ the spring, and forget -their victuals; and maybe, after all, it does them no great -harm.”</p> - -<p>A gleam of comfort came to Cilla. She had no secret -now from this big-voiced, big-hearted father, who looked for -each passing change across her face as a lover might have -done. Sad she might be, but she could look at Yeoman -Hirst again and feel no shame.</p> - -<p>“The spring tires one, father,” she answered quietly.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_145">[145]</span>“Should think it did!” cried the other, settling himself -with a pleasant uproar into his chair. “Blanketed in -snow one week, and blanketed the next in sunshine. Ne’er -heed, lassie; I’m no way for quarrelling myself with all -this warmth that’s bringing up the clover fair like a fairy’s -trick. Cilla, there’s David coming at five of the clock to -help wi’ yond durned turkey-pen. I’m dry, lass, and I -won’t deny a measure of ale would hearten up my innards. -Let it be the light ale, though; light ale, light hearts, they -say in Garth—and, bless me, ye need a lightish heart -and a clearish head when it comes to netting off a -pen.”</p> - -<p>David the Smith, punctual to five—by his favourite -clock, the sun—was waiting in the croft when Hirst came -out.</p> - -<p>“’Evening, David!”</p> - -<p>“’Evening, Farmer! And as likely a one as we’ll see -this side o’ Michaelmas.”</p> - -<p>“Ay—oh, ay. Wind a thought shrewder than it was -but nought to matter.”</p> - -<p>David pointed to the upper corner of the croft. -“Thought ye told me all my stakes were lying where I -laid ’em? Why, they’re tight in their places, Farmer, and -the skirting-boards all nailed trim and level.”</p> - -<p>The other scratched his shaven chin and laughed. -“Between you and me, David,” he said, lowering his -voice to a confidential bellow, “I didn’t speak quite the -truth. Can drive a stake as true as any man, and can -nail the boards on trim enough; but, when it comes to -netting, my men and me are done, and ’twas that we -wanted ye for to-day. It all comes o’ listening to new-fangled -notions.”</p> - -<p>“Well, now, as for that, I know naught o’ netting myself,” -said David, glancing at the plump, white rolls of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_146">[146]</span> -wire. “Always fenced the run with boarding, I. Who -brought the notion into Garth?”</p> - -<p>“Reuben Gaunt, I fancy; though, if I’d known at first -that the notion came from that quarter, there’s never a -yard o’ netting would have come into my lile croft. Well, -we’ve got the job on hand, David, and here my two men -are, and we’d best get agate with it, liking it or no.”</p> - -<p>The farm-hands nodded cheerily to David. “Rum -goings on i’ Garth,” said one. “Would as soon handle -a bunch o’ thorn-prickles as yond lump o’ wire. But -Farmer Hirst knows best—oh, ay, he’s for knowing -what is best.”</p> - -<p>“And if he doesn’t, ye’ve got to think so,” put in the -farmer drily. “Here, lads, buckle to.”</p> - -<p>The men handled the wire gingerly at first, then with -the carelessness begotten of a great despair. The uprights—seven -feet high—were standing like so many fingers, -pointing to the dappled sky; and, because the ground rose -sharply toward the further limit of the pen, the upper -poles looked down upon their neighbours in the valley.</p> - -<p>“We’ll begin on the level, like,” said Hirst, setting a -box of nails on the turf at his feet, and holding his hammer, -so David said, “as if he were going to fell a -bullock.”</p> - -<p>The beginning of the work was simple. The three -unrolled the wire and got one end of it into its place, while -Hirst nailed it fast against the upright. Then they -stretched it to the next upright, and so went forward -blithely.</p> - -<p>“There’s naught so much to be feared, after all,” cried -John Hirst, his voice rousing a sentry-rook that was -watching them from the elm tree in the corner.</p> - -<p>“Naught, save sore hands,” assented David. “Though -I’ll own, Farmer, I never met stuff so maidish, and so<span class="pagenum" id="Page_147">[147]</span> -crinkly-like to handle, as this same netting. Now, stretch -it, lads! There, ’tis all in place for ye, Farmer.”</p> - -<p>They finished netting the low end of the pen, and turned -the corner; but soon the level of the ground grew higher, -and, though the poles about them were stationed true in -height, the netting would go lower and lower, till it threatened -to be merged altogether in the rising ground above. -They twisted it, and pulled it out of shape, and talked to -it as if it were a bairn to be coaxed into a good temper. -Naught served; the upper line of the wire descended -constantly, and the look of this late-builded turkey-pen -was a thing for the soberest man to laugh at.</p> - -<p>John Hirst threw down his hammer at last, and kicked -the box of nails against the wall, and stood off from his -handiwork and looked at it.</p> - -<p>“I’m not one to swear at any time,” he said, slowly, -“but <i>dang</i> yond netting. Dang Reuben Gaunt, moreover, -who brought new-fangled notions into Garth.”</p> - -<p>The four men retreated to the wall, and sat thereon, -glowering at the turkey-pen.</p> - -<p>“Daren’t trust myself with speech, I,” said David. -“Should say terrible things o’ yond wire-stuff, once I gave -leave to my tongue.”</p> - -<p>“I tell ye what,” said Hirst—his farm-men laughed -to see his temper go by the board for once—“I tell ye -what, David. We’ll rive the whole lot down, and build -up the pen with good, honest lathes like your father did, -and mine. And if any man speaks o’ wire-netting in my -hearing for a year to come—why, I’ll ding him on the -lugs.”</p> - -<p>“Garth’s right, after all,” murmured one farm-man -to the other behind his hand. “Them turkeys will be -penned afore, or a lile while after, the next breeding-time.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_148">[148]</span>“What’s that ye’re saying?” roared Hirst, turning -on the whispering pair.</p> - -<p>“Nay, naught—just naught at all.”</p> - -<p>“Well, ye’d better not say it just now, all the same. -David, I fair hate to be beaten by a job! Let’s rive it down, -and bundle it into a corner, and have done wi’ it. Garth -notions will be good enough for me in future, I warrant -ye.”</p> - -<p>David, too, was nettled, for it was seldom he went -wrong in anything concerned with handicraft. “Comes -o’ bringing foreign truck into Garth Valley,” he growled. -“Why ye and me should take to handling such outlandish -stuff at our time o’ life, Farmer, is more than I can tell.”</p> - -<p>The gate of the croft was opened quietly, and Billy the -Fool sauntered idly towards them. The natural gave no -hint, in look or bearing, of the woful trouble he had caused -himself and Cilla up yonder on the brink of the wooded -hollow.</p> - -<p>“Now, good day, misters all!” was his greeting, as he -slouched up, his hands thrust listlessly into the pockets -of his ancient trousers. “’Tis what Billy the Fool would -call a fine evening for the time o’ year; and yet there’s -somewhat cold, and wet, and sharp, blowing up from -Easterby Hill.”</p> - -<p>“Tuts!” said Yeoman Hirst. “Ye’re as wise as a fox -when it’s scenting a hen-house, Billy; but this weather -is nailed to the sky, I tell ye, and won’t shift for a brace -o’ weeks.”</p> - -<p>“Te-he,” answered Billy amicably. “I’m just telling -ye what I think myself—what I smell i’ my nostrils, like—but -I was never one to guess what my betters were -thinking. Now, masters. I’ve been wondering.”</p> - -<p>“Tell us, then,” said Hirst.</p> - -<p>It was odd that he and David—the two most good-humoured<span class="pagenum" id="Page_149">[149]</span> -men in Garth—had lost their tempers utterly -to-night, and that it needed Billy’s advent to show them -the droll side of life again.</p> - -<p>“I’m wondering if there is a fill o’ baccy among the -four o’ ye—and maybe a match to kindle a light with. -Have been in terrible lonesome parts all day, and nigh -forgotten what a pipeful tastes like.”</p> - -<p>The sun was getting down toward Sharprise Hill now, -and the smoke of Billy’s pipe rose so that the slanting sunbeams -caught it tranquilly, and the gnats, playing in this -warmth of spring new-found after the long winter, drifted -away in cloudy streams from a scent which they abhorred.</p> - -<p>“Ye look terrible low in spirits, all of ye,” said Billy, -after he was sure that his pipe was drawing well. “I -fancied, when I came by just now, I’d never seen four men -sitting on a fence and looking so empty, like, of what they -lacked.”</p> - -<p>He had not seemed to look at them until he neared the -fence; yet twenty yards away he had known what their -mood was.</p> - -<p>“Did ye ever handle wire-netting, Billy?” asked Hirst.</p> - -<p>“Nay, not that I can call to mind.”</p> - -<p>“Well, go up to yond turkey-pen, and see the way the -netting runs into the hillock, choose what a body does with -it; and, if ye can tell us wise folk how to set the durned -thing straight, there’s another fill o’ baccy for you, -Billy, and a fill of ale, and another match to light your -pipe with.”</p> - -<p>Billy strolled up to the pen—the rents in his breeches -showed the brown flesh through—and seemed not to -look at it at all. Then he came back.</p> - -<p>“Misters, might a Fool Billy say somewhat to wise -folk?” he asked.</p> - -<p>“Say on, Billy, lad! Say on.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_150">[150]</span>“Well, now, if Fool Billy were going to climb a hill, -like, after what ye might call a stretch o’ level walking, he’d -sit him down first, would Billy, at th’ hill-foot, and think -a deal about it.”</p> - -<p>“Ay, warrant he would!” chuckled David.</p> - -<p>“Then he’d start fair again for yond up-hill climb. Do -the like wi’ your netting, misters? Cut ’un off, says Billy, -where he begins to go up-hill—cut ’un off as clean as a -whistle, and start him fair again.”</p> - -<p>David’s practical mind grasped at once that this was -the right solution of the difficulty, and he laughed nearly -as loud as Yeoman Hirst.</p> - -<p>“Seems there’s only one wise man in Garth! To think -of us, Farmer, fuming and fretting, and wasting our time; -and Billy strolls up, and looks about him, and sets us -straight in a minute. How d’ye do it, Billy, lad?”</p> - -<p>“Nay, I do naught. I’d be feared to, David! A fearsome -thing ’twould be if I’d to work like other-some of -ye.”</p> - -<p>Like a great general Billy stood by, and watched the -progress of the work, when the four men set about their -task again. His advice proved sound, and the netting -began to climb the hill in an orderly, straight line.</p> - -<p>As they worked—the sun lying now, a ball of softened -fire, upon the edge of Sharprise Hill—the gate of the -croft was opened again, impatiently this time, and Reuben -Gaunt came through on horseback. Billy had seen and -heard him long before the others had; but he was the -only one who did not turn his head about as Gaunt approached.</p> - -<p>“Good day, Mr. Hirst,” said Reuben, not pleased to -find David and Billy here, yet striving to cover up his -uneasiness.</p> - -<p>“Good day, Mr. Gaunt,” answered Hirst, his face<span class="pagenum" id="Page_151">[151]</span> -grown hard as a bit of limestone grit. “I’ll thank ye to -close that gate behind ye.”</p> - -<p>“Why? There are no beasts in the croft.”</p> - -<p>“I’m not here to argufy. When you find a gate shut, -shut it behind ye—that’s what I was taught as a -lad.”</p> - -<p>It had been a day of insults for Gaunt, and he longed to -snap some hasty answer out and ride away; but his errand -robbed him of this slight consolation, and he made the -best of an awkward matter.</p> - -<p>“Billy, just run and shut that gate,” he said.</p> - -<p>The natural turned at last, puffing gently at his pipe. -“Would oblige ye, I, but ’tis one o’ my playtime-days, -Mr. Reuben Gaunt. I’d have bad dreams to-night if I -did any work.”</p> - -<p>One of Hirst’s men ran to shut the gate, and Reuben -looked the farmer in the eyes.</p> - -<p>“I want a word with you.”</p> - -<p>“Say it here, then, for I’m throng with work, and this -job has to be finished off to-night.”</p> - -<p>“It can’t be said here. ’Tis a matter of private business, -Mr. Hirst.”</p> - -<p>“Well, I can spare ten minutes. David, see that these -idle rogues get forrard wi’ their work,” he added, nodding -toward his farm-men as he moved off.</p> - -<p>Gaunt dismounted and slipped the bridle through his -arm, and the two were half across the croft before Billy -found speech.</p> - -<p>“Is yond turkey-cock o’ yours abroad yet, Farmer, as a -body’s body might say?” he called.</p> - -<p>“Ay,” answered Hirst, without turning his head.</p> - -<p>“Well, pen the devil up, says Fool Billy. Pen ’un up, -Farmer!”</p> - -<p>When he had watched Hirst and Reuben Gaunt go<span class="pagenum" id="Page_152">[152]</span> -slowly through the gate at the far end of the croft and up -into the pastures, the natural relapsed into his former attitude. -“Get forrard, ye three wise folk!” he said, with -inscrutable gravity of mien. “We’ll have th’ old devil -wired and boarded in, come to-morrow’s morn.”</p> - -<p>Gaunt found no easy task before him, now that he was -alone with Hirst in the upper field. The yeoman, hearty -and courteous to gentle and simple alike, could rarely -bring himself to be civil toward Reuben. As he put it -to himself, John Hirst had a “feeling as if a rat was crawling -over his chest when Gaunt of Marshlands was about.” -The younger man’s courage was chilled, moreover, by -the open insult Hirst had given him in face of the farm-men.</p> - -<p>“Well?” said the farmer, after a long silence.</p> - -<p>Reuben Gaunt took the fence, as he had taken many -another on hunting-days. “Cilla has said she’ll marry -me, and I rode down to tell you.”</p> - -<p>Hirst gasped, then rubbed his eyes, as if he woke from -an evil dream and strove to shake it off.</p> - -<p>“Say that again,” he muttered.</p> - -<p>“Cilla has promised to marry me, and I’m going to -be better than the Reuben Gaunt you’ve known.”</p> - -<p>It was seldom that the yeoman could find a low voice -or a harsh one; but now he did, and his big, clean-cut -face had in it the look of a man when he meets an enemy -in righteous battle and lusts to kill him.</p> - -<p>“You’re a liar, Gaunt of Marshlands,” he said quietly.</p> - -<p>Gaunt flushed. “Will you come down to the house, -then, and ask Cilla with me there, whether or no I’m a -liar?”</p> - -<p>“Ay, by God I will! Seems you’re a fool, as well as a -liar, or you’d never put it to the test. What, my Cilla -mate wi’ the likes o’ ye? Ye’ve been drinking overmuch<span class="pagenum" id="Page_153">[153]</span> -at race-meetings, or somewhat of that sort, to fancy such -outlandish nonsense.”</p> - -<p>“Come to the house with me, and ask Cilla,” said the -other, obstinately crushing down his spleen. “Is that -fair, or isn’t it, Mr. Hirst?”</p> - -<p>“Fair? There’s naught fair when you come by with -your slippery ways. But I’ll take ye into my house, all the -same—for the last time—and I’ll set ye face to face with -my lass, and we’ll shame ye out of Garth, she and me -between us.”</p> - -<p>The wind, that had been quietly veering all day to -north of west, blew shrewdly as they went across the croft, -at the far end of which Billy was overlooking the work of -his three comrades. Hirst did not heed the change of -wind; he was warm with faith of his little lass, and hot -with anger against Gaunt.</p> - -<p>“Come ye in,” said Hirst, leading Reuben round to the -front door, whereas he would have ushered David in with -little ceremony through the outer kitchen. “Come ye in, -Mr. Gaunt, and I shall offer ye neither bite nor sup, -though that would seem a shameful thing for Good Intent.”</p> - -<p>“Am needing none,” said Reuben. “Seems a queer -thing, all the same, that when I come to you with a straight -tale—”</p> - -<p>“A straight tale?” snapped Hirst “What about my -lass? Lad, ye’re crazy to think I don’t know your doings -five years agone all up and down the countryside. Step -in, however, and we’ll thrash this business out for good -and all.”</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_154">[154]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER XII</h2> -</div> - - -<p class="drop-cap">CILLA was leaning on the window-ledge when she -heard her father’s footstep in the porch. The -house-place was unlit and dim, save for the flickering -of a fire that was dying hard in the wide grate; but at -the window here there was a soft and tranquil light, half -from the gloaming and half from the clouded moon. -The geraniums, lined all along the ledge, showed a more -chastened red than in the sunlight. Outside, among the -lilacs and the hawthorns and the late-leafing copper -beeches, the birds were twittering restlessly, and now -and then were giving a last, clear challenge to the -night.</p> - -<p>Priscilla of the Good Intent had been crying quietly. -She was stunned no longer, and had gone through a fire -of anguish in amongst her usual household business; -and now the tears had come, as dew falls on the parched, -tired fields. She was glad, when she heard her father’s -step, that it was dark indoors.</p> - -<p>“Why, Cilla, ye’re all in darkness here!” cried Hirst, -seeing her outlined by the half-light that filtered through -the window-space.</p> - -<p>“I was idling, father. The day’s so sorry to go down -the hills, and I was sorry, too, to watch it go.”</p> - -<p>From a brave stock came Cilla, and her voice was clear -and even.</p> - -<p>“Ay, but I’ve brought company, lile lass. I’ve promised<span class="pagenum" id="Page_155">[155]</span> -him neither bite nor sup, but at the least he must have -a candle lit here and there about the house-place.”</p> - -<p>The girl raised her head quickly, and stood back a -step or two. It was hard enough to meet her father, but -she was not prepared to welcome “company” of any -sort. She tried, in the dusk of the room, to see who it -was that came, but the guest was hidden by Hirst’s bulk.</p> - -<p>Not once did she guess that it could be Reuben Gaunt. -Had Billy the Fool not led her to the thorn-bush this -morning, such a visit would have been natural and looked-for; -but Cilla, single-hearted and understanding little -of concealment, could not realize that Gaunt, trusting in -her ignorance of all concerning Peggy Mathewson, -might still come asking Yeoman Hirst for his daughter.</p> - -<p>“Will you light the candles, father?” she said hurriedly. -“I—I am all in my workaday frock, and I must -tidy myself if you bring company.”</p> - -<p>Hirst would have had the matter settled at once; but, -before he could protest, the girl had run lightly up the -stair, and her footfall sounded crisply overhead. So he -lit the candles, standing in their handsome sticks of -Sheffield ware; and he took his place in front of the dying -fire, and stood very straight, thrusting his hands under -the lapels at his coat.</p> - -<p>“Stand where ye like, Mr. Gaunt,” he said. “Will -not ask ye to sit, for some matters are best settled standing -up.”</p> - -<p>Gaunt moved restlessly about the room, and the silence—broken -by the little noise of Cilla’s movements overhead—did -not help him to a more even frame of mind. -But at least, he told himself, he had one ally here—Cilla -herself. When she came down, and Yeoman -Hirst heard from her own lips that she had plighted troth -last night, he could talk to better advantage.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_156">[156]</span>Cilla did not keep them waiting overlong. She had -no need to change her gown, but only to pour water into -the ewer, and bathe her face, and bathe it over and over -again; for she knew that her father hated all signs of -tears, because they weakened him and loosed his steady -grip on life.</p> - -<p>They heard her at the stair-head, the two men waiting -below in enmity and silence; and then they heard the -door-sneck rattle, and Cilla stood for a moment, looking -across the candle-light to see who the guest might be.</p> - -<p>She faltered for a moment, seeing Reuben’s eyes fixed -eagerly on hers; then she moved to the dresser and leaned -against it, one hand pressed tight against the bosom of -her dress, as her wont was always when she was troubled.</p> - -<p>“<i>You?</i>” she said faintly.</p> - -<p>That was all; but Hirst, blind in his faith that Priscilla -could never stoop to such as Gaunt, interpreted -her trouble as sheer disdain.</p> - -<p>“Best come to what we’ve got to say at once, Cilla,” -he began. “Mr. Gaunt here said just now that you were -going to wed him, and I said he was a liar. Which of -us was right, lile lass?”</p> - -<p>Again Gaunt’s spirits fell. He had looked for silence—yes; -but for silence of the happy, maidish sort that is -afraid to tell its secrets. Priscilla of the Good Intent -wore no such look; grave, and delicate, and soft her -face was, but her eyes were full of misery.</p> - -<p>“You were right, both of you, father,” she said at last, -“and both wrong. I am not going to marry Mr. Gaunt, -but I promised to, yestre’en.”</p> - -<p>It was hard to say which of the men was more non-plussed. -This slim maid, standing with the candle-light -upon her face, had robbed them both of sure yet separate -faiths.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_157">[157]</span>“Ye promised, Cilla?” said Hirst, reaching for the -snuff-box on the mantel, and taking a pinch for habit’s -sake.</p> - -<p>“Yes, I promised, father. But this morning I walked -up by Little Beck Hollow, and I took my promise back.”</p> - -<p>Gaunt understood at last; and in his heart he cursed -Peggy Mathewson, who had led him into this.</p> - -<p>The yeoman was hard hit, and hit in his weakest spot; -yet he gathered his strength up somehow, and found a -weakened echo of his usual laugh.</p> - -<p>“Second thoughts run safest, lass. Ye may have -been a lile, daft fool yestre’en, but ye are wise to-day. -Mr. Gaunt, is there aught more to be said?”</p> - -<p>“I fancy not. Good even to you,” said Reuben, with -a desperate quiet.</p> - -<p>“I would like to see Mr. Gaunt to the door, father, and -talk with him,” said Cilla unexpectedly.</p> - -<p>Hirst looked at her, and saw the strong simplicity -that hedged her sorrow round from prying eyes. He did -not know whether he were wise or foolish—all old landmarks -to-night were sundered from him—but he nodded -grimly.</p> - -<p>“Ye may, Cilla. ’Tis the last time he will come here,” -he said, forgetting to touch wood when boasting openly.</p> - -<p>Gaunt opened the door, and waited for her to pass -through into the grey moon-dusk of the porch.</p> - -<p>“Cilla,” he began, “Cilla, ’twas kind of you—”</p> - -<p>“Yes, ’twas kind of me—kind toward the lass I saw -you with to-day in Little Beck Hollow. Yestre’en was so -much fancy, was it not? Nay, you need not interrupt me. -The drive from Keta’s Well—the curlews dipping up and -down the fields—the smell of violets in the wind that blew -about Garth valley—they made us fairy-kist, I think, and -we fancied—what did we not fancy, Reuben?”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_158">[158]</span>Priscilla was self-possessed. The old reserve, half -pride, half modesty, had come to her again. She fenced -herself about, and Reuben Gaunt knew that the wall was -strong.</p> - -<p>“I loved you, Cilla, and I told you so.”</p> - -<p>She strove to read his face, here by the light of the -clouded moon that shone upon the highway. Women -had done as much before Cilla’s time, in daylight and in -dusk, and had found no answer.</p> - -<p>“Loved me? I do not understand, Reuben. Love -is for one and for always, surely; ’tis not a game to play -at hop-scotch with, as the children do about Garth street. -Reuben!” she went on, pain and sincerity between them -getting the better of her. “Reuben, I had heard stray -talk of you and Peggy Mathewson, and had passed it by, -because I do not care for gossip; but I saw to-day that -what I’d heard was true—and, Reuben—you needn’t -fear our last night’s fairy-time.”</p> - -<p>“Fear it, Cilla? ’Twas the love-time o’ my life. See -ye, that other was a tale old and done with, and—”</p> - -<p>“Old and done with?” she echoed piteously. “If -the cobwebs had not been blown away, up yonder by the -Hollow, <i>I</i> should have been old and done with, to-morrow, -or the next day afterwards.”</p> - -<p>Since grey old Garth was in the making, it had heard -such women’s cries; and to-night it listened sleepily, not -stirring from its quiet.</p> - -<p>“What d’ye want of me, Cilla?” he asked, drawing -nearer with a caress which she avoided.</p> - -<p>“I want to see you wedded. ’Twas plain to be seen -this morning that you were promised to her, Reuben, -and last night’s forgotten altogether.”</p> - -<p>“Promised to her—what, to Peggy Mathewson?”</p> - -<p>Priscilla would, or could not, realize all that was meant<span class="pagenum" id="Page_159">[159]</span> -by Gaunt’s hasty words—the surprise that he should be -thought to have meant at any time to marry Widow -Mathewson’s daughter—the touch of chill contempt in -his voice—the acknowledgment that all was “over and -done with,” and that his wooing up at Intake Farm had -been so much idle devilry.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” the girl answered simply. “What else, Reuben?”</p> - -<p>Gaunt knew that he had lost her. Her simplicity, the -return of that gentle aloofness which from the first had -thwarted and enticed him, the lack of all upbraiding—these, -and her trust in his good faith towards Peggy convinced -him. Random, full of odd weaknesses and hidden -corners where the better man in him took refuge, he was -surprised to-night to find how vital Cilla’s good opinion -was.</p> - -<p>Before he could answer, footsteps sounded down the -road, and Priscilla turned quickly. “Good night, Reuben,” -she said. “All was glamour and fairy-webs yestre’en. -Forget it, soon or late.”</p> - -<p>She was gone before he could find a last word to say. -He watched her go, slim, willowy, the clouded moonlight -on her trim, bared head; and then he turned, sick at -heart, and went round to the croft to find his horse, and -afterwards rode up the highway.</p> - -<p>David the Smith and Billy passed him twenty yards -or so away from Good Intent. David greeted his enemy -coldly, but Billy seemed unaware that anybody shared -the highroad with himself and David.</p> - -<p>“Surly fools, the two of them!” muttered Gaunt. -“Could give any man a greeting, I, at this hour of a -warm night.”</p> - -<p>Priscilla of the Good Intent had reached the porch, -and stood there, half in the inner dusk and half in the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_160">[160]</span> -moonlight. She was thinking, not of Reuben Gaunt, -but of the night when she had seen David to the door, -had bidden farewell to him, and afterwards had called -“David—David, come back!” to unheeding ears. She -was reaching out again for David’s hand-grip, as she -always did in time of need.</p> - -<p>David himself, as it chanced, had refrained from stepping -in at the back door of Good Intent, as his wont -had been. He had feared to meet Cilla, lest his resolution -to leave Garth should once again grow weak. Yet -now, as he glanced at the grey porch in passing, for old -affection’s sake, he saw Priscilla leaning against one of -the two round, limestone pillars that buttressed the -porch.</p> - -<p>“A fair night for the time o’ year, Priscilla,” he said, -with would-be cheeriness.</p> - -<p>“Ay, fair, David. But the wind blows shrewd at -times, for all that.”</p> - -<p>“Tuts! We wouldn’t be living, if there weren’t a shrewd -wind to blow all our time o’ warmth away,” growled -David, viewing life darkly, almost tragically, for once. -“We’d be dead, Priscilla, and in a bonnier world.”</p> - -<p>Billy the Fool had gone forward, with a quiet nod -toward Cilla and an easy slouch, as if he remembered -nothing of the morning; but David halted. In sun or -rain, Priscilla was good to look at; to-night, with the -moon-glamour on her face and the fret of new-found -understanding in her voice, she was something up and -above this world, to such as simple David, like the moon -in the grey, still sky.</p> - -<p>“David, is it true that you are leaving Garth, as father -hinted?”</p> - -<p>“Ay, ’tis true. Not yet awhile, for a week or two; for -my roots are here, ye see, Priscilla, and I’m frightened-like<span class="pagenum" id="Page_161">[161]</span> -to tear ’em out. So I’m telling myself I’ve a job -here and a job there that must be done; and I’m making -a few bits o’ business that weren’t there before; but I’m -going from Garth, soon as I’ve settled my heart into its -place.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I shall miss you, David!” she said unthinkingly.</p> - -<p>David the Smith laughed sadly. “Well, that’s somewhat -to the good, at any rate. Would be a poor business, -eh, if a man could fare out to heathen parts, and -never be missed in the old home-place?”</p> - -<p>The night, with its clouded moon, its restless wind -that rose uncertainly and fell again, was like a mirror -to Priscilla’s humour. She was impatient of David’s -quiet acceptance of matters; perhaps, had he stolen now -into the porch and lost his diffidence, he would have had -no further right, or leave, to go away from Garth. But -David had seen what he had seen, and his faith that Cilla -meant to marry Reuben Gaunt was as sure as hers had -been as regarded Peggy Mathewson.</p> - -<p>And so, because guile was far from both of them, -David said good night and went his way, while Cilla -could scarcely check the impulse to cry once again: -“David—David, come back.”</p> - -<p>She gave a last glance at the street, wondering what -her life would be in coming days; then went indoors, to -meet her father and go through with all the talk and explanation -which she knew awaited her.</p> - -<p>The look of the house-place chilled her as she entered. -The fire was out. No friendly horn of ale rested at her -father’s elbow; he was not smoking even, but was sitting -with his hands upon his knees, his head a little bent, his -shoulders not so square as she was wont to see them. -The two candles threw no cheerful light, and they were<span class="pagenum" id="Page_162">[162]</span> -guttering now in the sudden draught that came through -the open doorway.</p> - -<p>“I’ll light the lamp, father,” said Cilla, with faint-hearted -bustle. “Shame on me—the lamp unlit, and -none to draw your ale for you—and—daddy, won’t -you fill your pipe?”</p> - -<p>“Was dreaming, lile Cilla—just dreaming, I. Fill -my pipe? To be sure, I’d quite forgotten it. Ay, light -the lamp, lile lass; I miss ye, somehow, when ye’re not -about.”</p> - -<p>She brought his pipe, his tobacco-box; she lit the lamp, -and fetched a measure of ale and set it at his elbow; it -took the keen edge from her dreariness to minister to the -wants of Yeoman Hirst.</p> - -<p>“See ye now, Cilla,” he began, puffing fiercely at his -pipe, “I want to know a few odd whys and wherefores. -Ye know my view of Reuben Gaunt? Is’t sober truth -that ye were foolish with him yesternight?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, father.” She was sitting opposite him across -the hearth, and her troubled eyes met his without fear -or secrecy. “I thought we loved each other, and I -promised myself to him.”</p> - -<p>“God, ye rate yourself cheaper than I do, Cilla! There, -lile lass, there! I didn’t mean to be harsh! Well, then, -what chanced to alter you?”</p> - -<p>“I walked up the fields this morning,” she said, with -hesitation now.</p> - -<p>“Ay, I know! What did ye find there? Not one to -shift round like a windle-straw, ye.”</p> - -<p>“What I found is not for you to ask, or me to tell, -father,” she answered, meeting his glance again. “I can -tell you this much—that the gloaming and the moon between -them were overstrong for me last night, and the -morning’s sunlight cured me of my fairy-madness.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_163">[163]</span>“Cured altogether, lile Cilla?” asked the farmer, after -a silence and a shrewd, long look at her.</p> - -<p>“Cured altogether—yes,” she answered gravely.</p> - -<p>“That’s good hearing. To tell the truth—and I’m no -way hurting ye by saying it now—if Garth Valley were -islanded by water, and ye and me and Gaunt were stranded -on it—as folk <i>are</i> stranded time and time in those outlandish, -heathen parts that David is going to, or says he -is—why, me and ye, lile lass, would keep to one quarter -o’ the dry land, and I’d ram my fist into Gaunt’s face if -he came spying over to our end o’ the safe, high country. -Couldn’t bide him, I, if there weren’t another man to talk -to in the land.”</p> - -<p>Priscilla scarcely heard him. Her glamour-tide was -over, or seemed to be; David was unrepentant of his -forthrightness, and would not see how she was hungering -for the word, or the look, or the touch which only he -could give.</p> - -<p>“Come here to my knee, lass,” said Hirst by and by.</p> - -<p>She knelt on the patch-work rug, and put her hands -on his knee and rested her head on them, looking into the -fireless grate. So she had knelt in childhood’s days—and -afterwards at rare intervals when she and Yeoman -Hirst were moved to special tenderness.</p> - -<p>“I won’t deny my pride’s had a fall, and a steepish -one,” he went on, thinking that his touch upon her hair -was gentle.</p> - -<p>“So has mine, father; but life must go on, pride in one’s -way or not.”</p> - -<p>“Art going to be a lile wise-woman before thy time? -Ay, pride tumbles and gets muckied, and ye’ve to clean -it up again wi’ patience, as ye clean harness gear. Still, -I’m sticking to my pride, Cilla, till they coffin me up, -and so are ye; the Hirsts all do, by nature.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_164">[164]</span>They said nothing for awhile, but between them was -the speech of trust and understanding.</p> - -<p>“Cilla, lass?” said the yeoman presently.</p> - -<p>“Yes, daddy?”</p> - -<p>“Wish I knew more about this daft business. Wish -ye could tell me, like, just what ye saw up yond green pasture-lands -to-day.”</p> - -<p>“I wish so, too,” she answered simply; “but I cannot -tell you, father.”</p> - -<p>John Hirst took a pull at his ale—the first one. “D’ye -know what I’ve been thinking, Cilla?” he said, wiping -the froth away from his lips with a kerchief patterned -all in blue and white.</p> - -<p>“Nay, I could not guess.”</p> - -<p>“That, if it came to a tussle ’twixt ye and me, I’d fare -hard. Ye’re so slim to look at, and I could lift ye wi’ -one hand and think naught on’t—but your will is made -out of a piece o’ hickory wood, I do believe. Like ye -the better for ’t, I—though ye mustn’t let yourself hear -me say as much.”</p> - -<p>“There’s likely to be no quarrel, father—now,” said -she.</p> - -<p>John Hirst sat brooding by the fire, long after Cilla had -gone up to bed.</p> - -<p>He stepped out-of-doors, before locking up for the -night, and looked at the shrouded moon, and tasted the -cold of the whimpering breeze.</p> - -<p>“Cilla said somewhat of snow coming, a day -or two gone by,” he muttered, “and Billy the Fool -turned weather prophet, too, to-night. They’re apt -to be right Billy and lile Cilla, and there’s a snarl -and a tremor i’ the wind that I should know by -now.”</p> - -<p>He did not confess so much to himself, but the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_165">[165]</span> -superstition of those cradled by the weather was with -him, and in the wind’s contrariness and spite he heard -quiet omens of disaster to himself and those he -loved.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_166">[166]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER XIII</h2> -</div> - - -<p class="drop-cap">PRISCILLA was not apt to lie awake nights for long. -The keen air of the fells, the round of her daily -work about the farm, forbade it. Yet, after she had -talked with David Blake in the moon-dusk of Garth -Street, had talked with her father afterwards beside the -hearth, she could not sleep, for shame of the kiss that -she had given to Reuben Gaunt, as they walked through -fairy-land last night—bitter shame of the scene that Billy -the Fool had shown her between the parted twigs of a bush -wherein a nesting blackbird sat. She felt a great loneliness, -an impulsive longing for the hand of David; she -seemed to stand in a wood where all the trees were thick -and heavy, and all the wonted tracks were lost.</p> - -<p>When at last she fell to sleep, dreams chased her. -First David was laughing at her as he said farewell, -and got aboard a ship with big, white sails. Then Reuben -Gaunt was sinking in a moorland bog, and lifted -his two hands in appeal to her, and she was crossing some -stubborn waste of ling to reach him. Cilla of the Good Intent -was little used to nightmares, and she was glad when -at last the dawn stepped boldly into her room and roused -her. Her first thought was of the farm, her second of -the silence that lay about the house. The light which -came through the casement seemed brighter, colder than -a usual April dawn. There was no early challenge of -the throstle, no sleepy call of a linnet, and such sounds<span class="pagenum" id="Page_167">[167]</span> -of human life as came from the roadway were strangely -muffled.</p> - -<p>With a sense of trouble and foreboding Priscilla went -to the window, which she had left open to the soft night -wind not many hours ago. The low sill was an inch -deep in snow. She looked out, and in the white, strong -dawn-light saw nothing but whitened branches, whitened -mistal-roofs, and flakes that fell persistently. She stood -there awhile, watching the storm increase, listening to the -wind which, quiet till now, began to whisper round the -gables overhead. It was no playful shower, such as -often came in late April, waiting only for the midday -sun to banish it; yet, knowing the signs of weather as she -did, hearing that note in the rising wind whose meaning -was plain enough to all country folk, Priscilla felt no surprise. -It was fitting. Spring, with its make-believe of -primrose banks, and birds that litanied the sunshine, was -a dream she had dreamed in company with Reuben -Gaunt. That had passed, and hard winter had set in -again. She was glad that it was so. Winter was a time -of stress and hardship, that left no leisure for dreams. -Better the snow than the soft air of an April gloaming, -when all the tribes of furred and feathered things went -wooing and set the like key-note for more sober human-folk.</p> - -<p>Priscilla turned to the ewer, with quick change of -mood. She blamed herself for those few moments at -the window. There would be real work ready to her -hand below stairs before this storm was ended. The -chill of the water heartened her, and afterwards she did -not halt to choose between the blue gown and the lilac. -She donned instead a rough, short-skirted gown of homespun, -and went down to the house-place. Her father -was standing in front of the fire, which Susan, the farm<span class="pagenum" id="Page_168">[168]</span> -maid, had newly lit, and the yeoman’s face was -grave.</p> - -<p>“Thought thou wert never coming, lass,” he growled, -trying to find his usual good temper. “You know -there’s a lamb-storm blowing up behind all this bonnie -snow?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, father—yes, I know, I’m ready.”</p> - -<p>“Ay, but is breakfast? Susan is young, and late—and -you are young and late, lile Cilla—you’d do without -your breakfasts, both of you, but old folk don’t start the -day on an empty stomach, lass.”</p> - -<p>Susan came in at the moment with a dish of steaming -bacon, set round about with eggs, and the farmer sat -down to it with the impatience of a man who is thinking -only of his work and of the need to find sustenance for -the day’s battle. Cilla poured out the tea for him, brought -it to his elbow, ruffled her hand across his thick, grey -hair.</p> - -<p>“The lambs are needing you, father. Let me come -up with you into the fields.”</p> - -<p>“You? You’ve work enough, lile lass, when we bring -the lamblings down into the fold.”</p> - -<p>“But not till then, father. Let me go with you. I -shall be restless, else.”</p> - -<p>Hirst had all but finished half the dish of bacon, and -three eggs to go with it. He felt ready for the day’s -work, and, as the way of a true man is, his temper gained -in cheeriness.</p> - -<p>“I’m like a lover to your whims, lile Cilla. If you’re -set on coming—well, I’ve a sort o’ fondness for the tread -o’ your heels beside me. Hark ye! The wind’s rising -fast, and there’s a snarl at the tail on’t. ’Tis a bitterish -end to spring warmth, this. Don your high boots, -lass, and don ’em quickly.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_169">[169]</span>Cilla went, with the pleasant, quiet obedience which -smoothed many a rough road for Yeoman Hirst. She was -back again before he had time to grow impatient.</p> - -<p>“Now, though I say it, Cilla, ye look workmanlike and -trim,” roared her father. And he laughed, as good -fathers will, with some surprise that he should have -reared a bairn so full of comeliness.</p> - -<p>“Father, there’s work up yonder in the snow,” she -answered, with a gentle laugh. “You can praise me -afterwards.”</p> - -<p>“That’s true,” said Hirst soberly. “Praise can always -bide like money in a safe-sure bank. Work willun’t bide; -it never did and it never will, lile Cilla.”</p> - -<p>The road in front of Good Intent was thick with -snow when they went out, for the wind was harrying -it as farm dogs chase the roving sheep. Hirst’s own -dogs, when he whistled them from their shelter under -the windward side of a mistal, came trudging to him -through a lake of velvety, soft stuff that hindered -them.</p> - -<p>They went up into the pastures, father and daughter, -and it was hard to tell where the ewes lay with their -lambs, or where the white hummocks of the snow were -lifted by the wind. Hirst’s farm-hands, cursing the -weather as they followed him, were puzzled to know snow -from fleece, and the dogs were full of petulance. The -snow came down in wet, big flakes. The wind sobbed -and wailed, and rose now and then in sudden gusts, -driving the snow-dust savagely across their eyes. And -through the wind-gusts, and the sharp, impatient barking -of the dogs, there came the wild crying of the sheep, -the pitiful and weakling cry of lambs half frozen.</p> - -<p>One by one they found the ewes, and it was odd to see -how the mothers, not valiant at usual times, daft-wits<span class="pagenum" id="Page_170">[170]</span> -bleating to the empty sky for wits denied them—grew -brave and full of strange resource.</p> - -<p>If a farm-lad gathered a couple of lambs into his arms—twins, -which Farmer Hirst had boasted of last night—the -mother would grow manlike for the moment, -would seek for a point of vantage and charge him down. -When Priscilla—loved by all four-footed folk, and by -most of the two-footed kind—when Priscilla gathered a -lamb into her arms, to carry it down to the fold, it was -the same. There was panic among these bleak-witted -ewes; and, like all dreads, it brought out some hidden -source of courage.</p> - -<p>David the Smith, scenting trouble, came trudging -through the snow to help his neighbour. He passed -Cilla with a quiet greeting—thinking overmuch of last -night’s farewell to her in Garth Street—and busied -himself at once with rescue of the flock. Simple of -mind, strong of body, he set to his task at once, shouldered -a ewe that was sick with the cold, and carried her down -the pastures and along Garth Street, until he came to the -turn of the road that led up to Good Intent. Widow -Lister was at her door, as usual, walking up and down -in front of her garden-strip, her feet protected from the -snow by huge pattens, her eyes opened wide for any -chance of gossip. She set her arms akimbo on seeing -David, and her tongue was stilled for a moment. Indeed, -David, swinging steadily forward under the burden that -hung limp across his shoulders, his face full of great -purpose and the tranquillity of strength, seemed to fill -the snow-set canvas of Garth village.</p> - -<p>“Why, David,” said the widow, in an awed voice, -“you’re marrow to yond print o’ the Good Shepherd -that’s hanging ower my chimbley-piece.”</p> - -<p>David halted. The roots of his religion lay deep, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_171">[171]</span> -maybe for that reason he seldom spoke of it. “Oh, -whisht, woman!” he said, with a shy, odd air of rebuke. -“I’m a plain man o’ my hands, with a day’s -work to do. I’ll thank ye not to name me in company -with my betters.”</p> - -<p>“There, now!” put in the widow plaintively. “You’re -the first man I’ve come across who fought shy o’ praise. -You <i>are</i> like, David, all the same—the ninety-and-nine -you’ve left to bring the lost odd ’un in, just the same as -in the pictur.”</p> - -<p>“Ay,” answered David, as he moved forward, “but -some o’ the ninety-and-nine are needing me, too, soon as -I’ve gotten this lile ewe into shelter.”</p> - -<p>The widow let him make ten paces forward; then, -heedless as a child that every halt was so much added -to the dead weight on his shoulders, she tripped after -him, her pattens moving nimbly through the snow.</p> - -<p>“Oh, David! I knew there was summat on my mind.”</p> - -<p>David turned with weary good nature. “Well, if -’tis as heavy as what I carry on my back, Widow, I’m -sorry for ye. What is ’t?”</p> - -<p>“Nay, ’tis nobbut a bit of a window-fastener that willun’t -catch. ’Tis such a little job, like, I thought you could slip -in, any odd moment you had to spare and mend it for -a poor, lone body. When the wind rises o’ nights, David, -it wakes me fro’ my sleep, rattling the window so.”</p> - -<p>“You and your loneliness!” grumbled David. “Well, -I may think of it by and by.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, and, David—”</p> - -<p>But the smith went forward, and laid the ewe in warm -quarters, and struck up again into the snow by a track -that avoided Widow Lister. Priscilla, meanwhile, had -gone far up the brink-fields, in search of any roving sheep -that might have been overblown before they could reach<span class="pagenum" id="Page_172">[172]</span> -the lower pastures. It was Cilla’s way to seek always -after the folk who had strayed.</p> - -<p>She found no sheep; but, at the top of the highest -brink-field she halted for a moment to look out and up -to the face of the bleak high moors. The snow came sparingly -now, the wind was falling, and far behind Sharprise -Hill a yellow light crept softly through the snow-clouds.</p> - -<p>At the wall-corner where Priscilla stood, three long -pasture-fields met at the common drinking-trough—a -round, deep pool, fed by a spring which bubbled up from -the limestone at the bottom. One field of the three was -owned by Gaunt, and he, too, was seeking strayed ewes -this morning. They met face to face, he on one side of -the pool, Cilla on the other, and they were silent for -awhile, embarrassed by their memories of yesterday.</p> - -<p>“A fit ending, eh, to sunshine and spring weather?” -said Gaunt at last, with bitterness and something near -to self-contempt.</p> - -<p>Cilla’s pride had come to her aid. The wild-rose -colour was in her cheeks, but her head was held high, and -there was delicate scorn in the frank glance with which -she answered Reuben’s.</p> - -<p>“You are not used to weather, as we stay-at-homes are. -It is all in the year’s work, Mr. Gaunt. To-morrow, or -the next day after, we shall have forgotten there was snow -at all—unless we lose any of the lambs.”</p> - -<p>Gaunt was not slow-witted, and he understood that -Cilla had taken firmer ground than he, and meant to -stand on it hereafter. There was to be no hint between -them, such as he had implied just now, that they had -shared a day whose magic both regretted. He began -to wonder if her heart had been in the matter at all, and -a wayward impulse came to him to piece their broken -love-tale together all afresh. Billy the Fool came up the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_173">[173]</span> -field behind them. David, as he carried a couple of lambs -to Good Intent, had met him in the roadway, and had suggested -that there was rare play-work to be done in helping -Farmer Hirst with the sheep.</p> - -<p>“Never found such a game, I,” David had said, with -his laugh that shook the hills, “as setting a daft ewe over -your shoulders, or carrying a couple o’ lambkins i’ your -arms. The sport might have been made for ye, lad -Billy.”</p> - -<p>So Billy had sought the pastures; and he chuckled -soberly, as he scrunched through the snow, to think “what -a terrible, queer notion David had for lighting on a bit -of frolic.”</p> - -<p>It was only when he topped the last rise of the field, -and saw Gaunt talking to Priscilla across the pool, that -his face changed. At times the clouds and the content that -sheltered Billy from the realities of life were riven asunder, -and it was always the one picture that he saw—a way-worn -woman coming with her child to the gate of Marshlands, -the harsh refusal at the door. Now, as he went up -through the snow, he could recall the bitter cold of that -long ago night when his mother and he had sought shelter -in the porchway of a barn. Gaunt’s voice, which was -his father’s over again, so Garth folk said, had recalled -the past to Billy when earlier in the year he dropped -Reuben into a bed of growing nettles. The sight of him -now, his closeness to Priscilla, roused, not Billy’s strength, -but his will to use it blindly. Before Cilla knew that he -was near, he had passed her, had climbed the wall, had -put his arms about Gaunt and carried him to the edge -of the pool. Hirst himself, or big David, could not have -resisted the village fool when his quietness turned to fury; -and Gaunt was slight of build.</p> - -<p>Priscilla was bewildered by the suddenness of the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_174">[174]</span> -attack; but her habit was to meet emergencies—such as -Reuben’s disloyalty and the change in April’s weather—with -the reliance that came from clean living under the -clean, steady hills. She saw that Billy was swinging -his burden lightly over the pool; and in Billy’s face she -saw a tumult.</p> - -<p>“Billy,” she said quietly. “Billy, what are you -doing?”</p> - -<p>He turned as a dog does when his master whistles, and -the evil left him—left him Fool Billy once again, with -surprise in his helpless face that he should ever have done -amiss. He set Gaunt gently down upon his feet, and -Reuben, sick at heart, went through the snow, and round -the bend of Little Beck Wood, and out of sight.</p> - -<p>Billy climbed the wall, and stood a little behind Cilla, -waiting for chastisement.</p> - -<p>“What made you do it?” asked Cilla of the Good -Intent.</p> - -<p>“Well, now, I could no way rightly tell ye.” His blue -eyes were fixed on hers, with the look which few who -cared for dogs or horses could resist. “Seems a sort o’ -blindness comes on a body when he sees Reuben Gaunt, -and I put my head down like a bull and made for him. -Terrible weak in the head Billy is.”</p> - -<p>“But it was all—all so unlike you, Billy. What did -you mean to do with—with the man you held in your -arms?”</p> - -<p>“Do?” he answered, with quiet surprise. “Why, -drown him, Miss Cilla, as ye do wi’ kittens when they’re -not wanted, like. Am fond o’ kittens, I, but they do get -terrible cumbersome at times.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, lad, go down to David at the forge,” said Cilla, -with a sudden laugh that was made up of pity and of -helplessness. “Go down to David, and tell him I sent<span class="pagenum" id="Page_175">[175]</span> -you to him for guidance. And, Billy, promise me that—lad -Billy, for my sake, promise you’ll not play with -life and death again.”</p> - -<p>His muddled wits caught the one right appeal. “For -your sake, eh?” he asked. There was surrender and -question in his blue eyes.</p> - -<p>“For my sake—yes, of course. Always for my sake, -Billy.”</p> - -<p>“Te-he!” chuckled Billy. “Will keep that notion -right in the middle of my daft head-piece, so I will. -Give ye good day, Miss Cilla.”</p> - -<p>He turned and went down the slope with great cheeriness, -taking a bee-line through the snow and breasting -the drifts with the strong, unhurried ease that marked his -days. Cilla did not know it, but her plea that he should -do all things for her sake had made for Billy’s happiness. -To please her was frolic of the sort he enjoyed at David’s -forge, but a rarer and more pleasant frolic.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Mathewson rented the third of the pastures that -clustered round the drinking-pool, and she was leaning -over her wall, a still, passionless figure. She had been a -looker-on at the struggle between Gaunt and the fool; -she was always a looker-on these days, grave, hard of -face, a little disdainful of the tumults that beset younger -folk. If swayed either way by feeling, she was pleased -that Gaunt should be belittled in Priscilla’s eyes; in no -case could it do him harm to meet with a tumble or -two in his erratic course. And yet, in some odd way -of her own, she “had a silly weakness, like” for this -will-o’-the-wisp who had caused her heartache in the -past, and would cause her heartache, doubtless, many -times again.</p> - -<p>“I’ve lost no lambs, Miss Priscilla,” said the widow, -enjoying Cilla’s startled backward glance. “Hope ye’ve<span class="pagenum" id="Page_176">[176]</span> -had the same good luck yourselves down at Good Intent. -Oh, to be sure, there’s weather, and weather again, and -naught but weather, up here on the heights. We’ve got -to put up wi’ ’t, like ye put up wi’ a silly, daft bairn.”</p> - -<p>“You startled me,” said Cilla, meeting Mrs. Mathewson’s -quiet glance. “Yes—oh, yes, our lambs are all -ingathered, or nearly all. I came up here to seek the last -two that are missing.”</p> - -<p>“And found Reuben Gaunt, instead, and a big lad -holding him over the pool? Well, they’re neither on ’em -lambs, an’ neither on ’em lions; but are just what ye -might call a mixture ’twixt the two.”</p> - -<p>Harsh this woman might be, but to Cilla she stood just -now as something strong and honest, something that had -suffered, and stood firm, and been beaten by the weather -out of all comely shape.</p> - -<p>“I care so little for gossip,” she began, moved by a -sudden impulse to confide in this woman who was grey -and hard as the wall on which she leaned. “Yet it -seems to meet you at every turn, and leaves its mark like -the fever. Mrs. Mathewson, why should Billy go past -himself like this? He’s so quiet at usual times—and then -he loses himself in fury at sight of Mr. Gaunt. They say, -of course—”</p> - -<p>“Oh, ay,” put in the widow drily; “and they say right -once i’ a way. They’re half-brothers. I should know, -for I kept house for Gaunt’s father before I was fool -enough to marry Mathewson o’ Ghyll.”</p> - -<p>Cilla did not wish to hear the tale, and yet she stood -there, irresolute, her face half turned to Mrs. Mathewson’s.</p> - -<p>“You heard tell o’ the night when a stranger-woman -came knocking at the door o’ Marshlands?” The -widow was still regarding Cilla with hard, keen eyes, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_177">[177]</span> -it seemed that she, who kept silence with her neighbours -usually, had some purpose behind all this talk. “Well, -I was cooking supper for Reuben Gaunt’s father at the -time, and I mind saying to young Reuben, who was larking -i’ the kitchen and nigh teasing the life out o’ me—he -was fourteen or so then, was Reuben—I mind saying -to him that it war a night ye couldn’t find heart to turn a -dog out in. Th’ wind war blowing sleet an’ hail in -sheets agen the window-panes, an’ it war crying down the -chimbleys till ye could hardly see across th’ floor for peat-smoke.”</p> - -<p>Cilla was listening. She had lost all desire to escape. -The widow’s gaunt, tall figure, the impassive hardness -of her voice as she brought the bygone scene before -Priscilla’s eyes, were part of the snow and the white -stone fences, part of the falling wind that sobbed through -every cranny of the walls and ruffled the water of the -drinking-pool that divided the two women.</p> - -<p>“Th’ smoke was making me sneeze and cough, but it -warn’t that made me so mad wi’ ’t. It war spoiling th’ -master’s supper, an’ his temper war fearful when aught -went wrang i’ th’ house. Well, I needn’t hev bothered my -head about that, for at that minute there came a rapping -at th’ front door, an’ I ran out into th’ hall to see who it -war. There war a woman standing there, an’ th’ wind -blew her fair indoors, without a by-your-leave, soon as I -lifted th’ sneck. She war nigh as bonnie an’ slim as ye, -Miss Cilla,” she went on, after a long glance at the other. -“The master was a fairish judge o’ women i’ that way, -I’ll own, like his son ’at followed him. She had a bairn -wi’ her—may be four-year-old—an’ she wanted the -master; so I called him, after shutting th’ door to keep -all yond mak’ o’ wind out.”</p> - -<p>She paused and looked across the shrouded fields, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_178">[178]</span> -shivered. Hard as she was, the misery of that night -returned to her. Cilla stood waiting silently.</p> - -<p>“The master came, an’ looked once at th’ stranger-woman, -an’ a sort o’ devil came into his face. Then I -knew that one of his black moods was on him; for I -was used to the look o’ them. The woman was very pitiful -to look at an’ to listen to, an’ she said she war his wife—married -by stealth a year after the first mistress died. -I believed her, for my part, an’ a woman can tell most -times when another woman’s lying. She was plain of her -speech, though, and Reuben’s father always had a queer -mak o’ pride about him,—must have a ladyish wife at -Marshlands, or else hide her i’ the haymow out o’ folk’s -sight. That’s Reuben’s way, too.”</p> - -<p>Priscilla wondered at the sudden bitterness in her -voice, then remembered that this was Peggy’s mother; -and the widow knew, it was plain, that she was her daughter’s -rival. Tears of pride and humiliation started to the -girl’s eyes. It was easier to conquer a secret trouble than -an open one.</p> - -<p>“Well, to shorten a sad tale,” went on the older woman, -after seeing that her taunt had struck home, “Mr. Gaunt -turned both mother an’ th’ little lad out into th’ cold; -an’ I could have throttled him for ’t, if he’d been a thought -less strong. The rest o’ the tale ye know, Miss Cilla. -They found the mother dead on the door-stone, an’ Billy -the Fool war strong enough to weather the cold—else -he’d not have been here at the drinking-pool to-day.”</p> - -<p>Cilla gathered her strength again. “Why do you tell -me this?” she asked. “I say, with father, that one -day’s trouble is enough as it comes, without going back -to the old sorrows.”</p> - -<p>“Why, lile baby? Because I’ve watched ye an’ Gaunt -go lover-like along the pastures, afore this daft snow came.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_179">[179]</span> -Because I want to warn ye that Gaunt comes of a bad -breed, an’ never i’ this world could be aught but a will-o’-wispie. -Oh, my lass, I’ve seen a few springs come—but -I’ve seen the end o’ such-like nonsense, and I know.”</p> - -<p>Cilla laughed, and Widow Mathewson, whose outlook -on the world was impersonal and cold—save when human -weakness broke down the barriers—approved this slim -lass in her workaday dress of homespun.</p> - -<p>“It was only yesterday that I bade Mr. Gaunt marry -where his heart lay,” said the girl quietly. “If I had -cared for him—after that fashion—should I have been -glad when he told me he was marrying Peggy?”</p> - -<p>“You were glad?” asked the widow, with suspicion.</p> - -<p>“Why not? He is fond of Peggy, and I think that—that -he will settle down, as a farmer should—”</p> - -<p>“Ay, so I think, too,” broke in the widow with sudden -feeling. “I made the worst o’ that bygone tale, I own, -and never told ye that Reuben, on that night when he’d -been plaguing me i’ the kitchen, crept round into t’ hall, -listening to the stranger-woman’s tale and seeing her -driven out into the wind. Well, he waited for his father -to go, and then he crept to my side, did th’ lad, an’ we -listened to her as she ligged, crying, just outside th’ door. -Then he pulled up th’ sneck, an’ he war lifting her in when -old Gaunt came, all thunder and lightning down th’ passage. -Gaunt locked th’ stranger-woman and the lad -out o’ doors; an’ he locked Reuben an’ me i’ th’ big, -up-stairs room. ’Twas so we passed the night, Miss -Cilla, but I’ve a soft spot i’ my heart for th’ lad ever -since, spite of his cantrips.”</p> - -<p>They looked across the pool at each other. They were -set about by snow, and moaning of the wind, and white -hills shrouded under mists that made their summits -level with the sky.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_180">[180]</span>“What chance had he?” said Cilla. “With such a -father—oh, he did well that night! He did well.”</p> - -<p>Widow Mathewson turned. “Seems I misjudged ye, -Miss Cilla. I niver can trust a bonnie, lile face like yours -these days. Oh, ay, he may do well enough for Peggy. -Anyway, she’s set her heart on him.”</p> - -<p>When Cilla got down to the croft, and reached the -mistal, she found David sitting on an upturned box. He -had a lamb on his knees, and he was feeding it with milk -from a bottle. Billy was standing near, and his face was -wide as a rift in the clouds when the sun breaks through.</p> - -<p>“I’ve been laughing, Miss Good Intent,” said Billy. -“Near cracked my sides, I have. Here’s strong David -feeding a babby as if ’twere his own. Te-he! Ye’d -never think he was strong at the forge.”</p> - -<p>David was shy. This business of saving lambs from -the snow had seemed natural and easy until Cilla came. -Now he felt clumsy.</p> - -<p>“Billy is right,” he said, as he handed the lamb and -the bottle to Cilla. “’Tis a woman’s work, this. I was -only waiting till ye came.”</p> - -<p>Late that night when her work was done and the moon -was up above the fells, Cilla unbarred the porch-door and -went out into the raised path that protected the strip of -garden from the highway. The wind had long since -shifted to the south, and quiet Garth looked all like fairy-land. -From the green, young twigs of the beeches, -across the road, the soft snow fell away, showing leaves -half-opened. There was everywhere the sound of gentle -splashing—wet snow falling on wet snow—and the -fells beyond were clear of mist. The air was full of -warmth and scent of violets; for it was Garth’s way to -remedy her spring storms with daintiest blandishments.</p> - -<p>Cilla was full of her trouble still. It had been easy<span class="pagenum" id="Page_181">[181]</span> -to give up her man in the heat of pride and sacrifice; -but she was lonely now. She remembered, as lasses will -when they have good fathers, how often Yeoman Hirst -had cheered her in bad weather with a hearty, “Oh, -’twill lift, lass, by and by. Be sure ’twill lift. ’Tis only -nature for the sun to pop out fro’ behind a cloud and take -a body by surprise, like.”</p> - -<p>“Why, yes,” she said, with a long glance at the hills. -“Father is right. It always lifts—but the waiting-time -is hard, just time and time.”</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_182">[182]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER XIV</h2> -</div> - - -<p class="drop-cap">WHEN the sun began to warm the land again, and the -sheep were crying up and down the pastures, their -lambs beside them, full summer came with a swiftness -rarely known in these grey highlands. The lilacs bloomed -two weeks before their time. The birds let loose their -litanies as if the blue sky and thrust of the green-stuff forward -had not been known till now. Folk moved abroad -with keen sunlight in their eyes, and in their voices a cheery -welcome for their fellows. Even Widow Lister forgot -to fidget, forgot her love of gossip with a spice in it, and -turned instead to tranquil tending of the garden-strip -that fronted her cottage. From the hedgerows and the -fields, from the moors that raked up into the blue arch of -sky, there rose a quiet, insistent song of peace.</p> - -<p>Cilla of the Good Intent met Gaunt by chance these -days on the highway, or in half-forgotten bridle-paths that -were young when grey old Garth was in the building—and -they passed a greeting one to the other, and went their -ways. She was puzzled—and so was he, had she -guessed the truth—to note the change in him. He was -less assured than of old; there was shame and appeal in -his eyes when he met her; he seemed to Priscilla like -some big, helpless dog that had lost its way and went -seeking for its home.</p> - -<p>Cilla was true daughter to Yeoman Hirst. She might -suffer, but malice went by her like a peevish wind-gust<span class="pagenum" id="Page_183">[183]</span> -that is over and done with as soon as it is past. She -wished no ill to Gaunt, though he had spoiled her first -dream o’ love. She wondered, simply and without overmuch -repining, that her life had grown so empty, that -she no longer cared for the flower-scents and the wood-reek -that guarded Garth village like a benediction.</p> - -<p>The year wore on to July, and there had been no rain -since a light April shower that had followed the snowstorm. -The pastures, striding stony limestone hills, -grew parched and brown. With August, and no rain -from the pitiless blue sky, even the brown of the grass was -burnt, and the lightest of warm breezes carried the dust -of the brown way. Far up the crests of the hills there -was no green to soften the white glare of the limestone. -All was pitiless and bare, and lacking any gift of charity. -The sun, at usual times a rare and welcome guest, had -overstepped his welcome now.</p> - -<p>A rumour came to Garth these days, and the farmers, -as they rode down the street to market, grew less cheery -in their greetings one to another. They knew, each one -of them, the danger that lay near to their wives and bairns; -and, knowing it, they kept silence, as the way of the hills -is when a tempest shakes them.</p> - -<p>Their wives heard the rumour, by and by, and there -was clatter of tongues along the dust of Garth’s grey -street. Widow Lister, by gift of nature, talked more -shrilly than her sisters, just as she had been the first to -bring the news which no folk cared to hear.</p> - -<p>“I telled ye so,” she whispered, running out to meet -Hirst one day as he passed down the street. “The -Black Fever has come nigh to Garth, and ye wouldn’t -take no heed. I’m a lone widow myself, with no one to -care for—”</p> - -<p>“Oh, ay, but you have!” Hirst’s voice was cheery<span class="pagenum" id="Page_184">[184]</span> -still, though it was less boisterous than usual, and behind -it there was a hint of sharp reproof. “You’ve yourself -to care for, Widow. That means a lot to ye.”</p> - -<p>“Now, what do ye mean?”</p> - -<p>“I mean this. That folk who have only theirselves -to think on, they forget to think for others. See you -here, Widow, the fever’s not reached Garth yet. ’Twill -reach it sooner, I warrant ye, if you go scaring timid -women as you’re scaring ’em each minute o’ the day.”</p> - -<p>“Eh, now, I’m to be scolded, am I?” The widow -brushed a few tears away, and looked up into Hirst’s face -with the timidity which had always served her well. -“To be sure, I’ve no man-body to speak up for me. I -mun bear my crosses meekly, for nobody heeds you much -once you’re lone and widowed.”</p> - -<p>Hirst’s face, with all its jollity and kindliness, was lined -deep by hardship, by fight in life’s open with such plain -foes as weather, peevish soil, and foot-rot that attacked -his sheep. The widow’s was rosy, plump, unmarked save -by such little wrinkles as a baby carries; she had sat -by the hearth all her days, sheltered by four walls, and -death, when it had come to force her from the fireside -warmth to the churchyard and her husband’s grave, had -been no more than a worry which spoilt her own comfort -for awhile. Yet the round, shining face, looking up into -his, made Yeoman Hirst uneasy this morning; it put him -in the wrong; it made him feel as if he had rebuked a -kitten for playing with a ball of wool.</p> - -<p>“Well, we’re made as we’re made, Widow!” he -cried, preparing to move on. “I only ask you to listen -when I tell ye what a power o’ harm ye can do by scaring -folk when the fever’s close at our doors.”</p> - -<p>“Yet you’re going to Shepston market, same as if -Shepston hadn’t got fever in every other house.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_185">[185]</span>“True,” said Hirst, his jaw set firm. “There’s need -to go to Shepston, fever or no, if I’m to do right by the -farm. There’s no need for stay-at-homes to chatter -and wake a sleeping dog.”</p> - -<p>Widow Lister watched him go through the white, -breathless sunlight, and for once she did not call him -back.</p> - -<p>“They’re strange, is men,” she thought. “My own -man was like Hirst—would run into any sort of danger if -he’d a whim for it—yet he’d grow outrageous as a turkey-cock -if I set my tongue round a lile, soft bit o’ gossip. -Men, they never seem to understand life, poor bodies. -Ah, there’s David coming up street. He’s a soft heart, -he. I’ll just get him to see what ails yond canary bird -o’ mine while he’s passing.”</p> - -<p>David, however, was impatient. He listened to the -story of the bird’s ailments, but his air was brisk and -downright, just as Yeoman Hirst’s had been. A man is -apt to carry that air when he knows how close a danger -lies to his womenfolk.</p> - -<p>“Starve him a bit, Widow. Cosset him less by the -hearth, and he’ll come round, same as other men birds. -I’ve a bigger job than canaries to see to.”</p> - -<p>Again the widow did not pursue him as he strode fiercely -up toward Good Intent.</p> - -<p>“The fever’s come to Garth a’ready, I’m thinking,” -she murmured dolefully. “If David’s lost half o’ the -little wits he had, we’ve come to a fine pass.”</p> - -<p>David halted when he came to the gate of Good Intent. -His face was full of suffering, and for that reason it showed -a greater dignity. He unfastened the latch with sudden -decision, as if ashamed of his cowardice, and stepped into -the cool, grey porch, and stood at the door of the house-place.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_186">[186]</span>Cilla was standing at the table in the full light of the sun -that streamed through the narrow windows, and she was -ironing a lilac frock. She had not heard his step.</p> - -<p>“Cilla!” he said, in a low voice.</p> - -<p>She started, and let the iron fall, and did not heed that -it was burning the lilac frock—the gown which, so short -a while since as this year’s spring, had pleased Reuben -Gaunt. They stood there—David on the threshold, -Cilla at the table—and they looked at each other in -silence, asking some big question.</p> - -<p>“You may come in, David,” she said at last.</p> - -<p>He came and stood beside her, took up the iron and set -it on its stand, with the instinct of a good workman.</p> - -<p>“The lilac gown is burned, Priscilla.”</p> - -<p>“It has served its time, David. Did you come to -Good Intent just to tell me I was careless with my ironing?”</p> - -<p>“No, I didn’t, Cilla.” The smith had grown resolute -again. “I came to tell you that I’m sailing Tuesday o’ -next week for Canada.”</p> - -<p>She was stunned for the moment. David had seen her -bonnie since he knew her first, but never bonnie as she was -just now, with the sunlight on her drooping head, her -fingers plucking at the scissors in her girdle.</p> - -<p>“I’ve ta’en time to make up my mind, I own,” he went -on stubbornly, “but ’tis made up now. My aunt Joanna, -overseas yonder, is a lile bit like Widow Lister—she’s -helpless without the good man she nagged into his grave, -and she willun’t take no fro’ me. She’s fonder o’ nephew -David these days than ever she was when she had him -close under her hand. She wants somewhat done for her, -ye see.”</p> - -<p>Cilla glanced up at him, then down again. “What—what -has made you in such haste to leave, David?”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_187">[187]</span>“Haste, ye call it? I’ve been for going ever since April -came in, and putting off makes no job easier.”</p> - -<p>“You’ll be glad to leave Garth, and see bigger countries?”</p> - -<p>Priscilla could not understand herself. It seemed to -her that she wished to hurt David in some way; she was -surprised, ashamed, that news of his going should have -such power to move her.</p> - -<p>“Glad to leave Garth?” echoed David, his blue eyes -wide with question. “Never that, lile Cilla. As ’tis, I -should never have dreamed o’ going, if there’d been you -to keep me here.”</p> - -<p>“Could I keep you, David?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, lass, don’t play wi’ me. I cannot bear it. I’ll -go easier, all the same, for knowing all is finished between -you and Gaunt o’ Marshlands.”</p> - -<p>The iron was cold by this time, but Cilla passed it idly -to and fro across the lilac gown. “Yes, all is finished—and—and -I’m, oh, so glad, David! So very glad.”</p> - -<p>In token of it she burst into tears, and David put an -arm about her. “Lile lass, lile lass, let me bide i’ Garth. -See the love I’ll give ye—asking so little, Cilla, and giving -so much—giving so much, my lass.”</p> - -<p>Priscilla looked up slowly, and regarded him with a long, -steady glance. Life was so great a matter, and she was -so weak to cope with it. If David would only give little -to her, and ask her to give much in return—if he would -be less patient, and more masterful—if he would find -some way of taking her perplexities into his hands and -riving them to pieces—if he would be devil-may-care -for once, as Gaunt had been in the spring—the girl felt, -in a helpless way, that then she might bid him stay in -Garth.</p> - -<p>It was their moment, and they let it pass. David was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_188">[188]</span> -too diffident, seeing the girl here in the sunlight, to brush -aside the cobwebs that hindered her true vision. It -needed a rude hand to do it, and David’s hand was gentle, -as the hands of good men are when they are free of smithy-work. -Cilla was too unsure of everything to yield to a -touch less sure than downright mastery. She waited for -him to speak, and found that he was only looking at her—a -more honest dog than Gaunt, maybe, but with the -same waiting look in his eyes that Gaunt had carried -since the jaunty days of spring.</p> - -<p>“You are so—so dumb, David,” she said impatiently.</p> - -<p>“Ay, I was never one to talk much, Cilla. I’m one to -feel, for all that. Time and time I fancy I’m a bit like -Billy the Fool—loving the dust o’ Garth Street when you -walk along it, because ’tis you that passes by, yet never -finding a word to put to ’t.”</p> - -<p>Cilla’s strength was nearly spent. The heat of the -pitiless summer, her loneliness since Gaunt had chosen -otherwise, the constant peril of the Black Fever brooding -round about Garth Village, had sapped her courage. -For a moment she was tempted to yield to David’s entreaties. -He was so sure of himself, so clean of his heart -and his hands. She liked and needed him.</p> - -<p>She remembered Gaunt, recalled each trivial detail of -the day when she had gone by coach to Keta’s Well, -wearing a maiden heart. She thought of the homeward -walk, of the throstle-calls and the keen, young vigour -of the spring, while Gaunt stepped beside her, and talked -and took her unawares. She shrank in fancy from the -kiss that he had given her at the gate.</p> - -<p>“No, David, no!” she said. Her eyes were wet, but -she did not fear to look him in the face. “I’m not proud -of Reuben Gaunt—not proud of him at all—but I’m<span class="pagenum" id="Page_189">[189]</span> -glad o’ the love I gave him—though—though it died, -David.”</p> - -<p>David the Smith took a long glance at the room—at -the plants in the window-sill, at the settle which had found -him on many a bygone night passing slow talk and quiet -pipe-reek with Yeoman Hirst across the hearth. Then he -looked at Cilla, and stood there—strong and good to see, -and diffident—and his air was that of a man who steps -into a church. It had always been his way when Cilla -was in sight.</p> - -<p>“Why, then, good-by, lile Cilla,” he said abruptly. -“There’s much to be done, if I’m setting off by Tuesday.”</p> - -<p>“David! David, you must not go like this—thinking -me unfriendly. David, I could never bear to be unfriendly -to you.”</p> - -<p>She had moved to his side, and in perplexity had laid -both hands upon his arm.</p> - -<p>“You’ll not understand,” she went on hurriedly. “I -shall miss you from Garth. I shall look for you three -times a day. The homeland will be emptier, David.”</p> - -<p>“Then, lass, why willun’t ye wed me?”</p> - -<p>“I cannot tell. Only—women have no second love -to give. Why it should be so, God knows. But so it is, -David. I could never feel for you—what I felt for -another when we walked by the field-ways home to Garth.”</p> - -<p>It seemed strange to Cilla that she felt no shame in the -confession. She would have shrunk from it at another -time; but now it was only of David she thought—of -David, who asked for more than she could give him—of -David, who asked for honesty, though she longed to -keep him here in Garth.</p> - -<p>“That’s true,” he answered quietly. “Neither man -nor woman has second love to give. But there’s this to -say, Cilla. Time and time, when you’re alone on the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_190">[190]</span> -moor-top, a will-o’-the-wisp comes ’ticing ye into the -marshes. True love is true love, lass, and ’tis steady-like; -it doesn’t dance like a light-heeled clown at the fair.”</p> - -<p>Priscilla of the Good Intent was tired, and saw life -hidden, as the street of Garth was hidden by the sick, -grey dust that cried to the skies for wholesome rain.</p> - -<p>“You’re thinking of Reuben Gaunt?” she asked -wearily.</p> - -<p>“Ay, just of Reuben Gaunt—no more, no less.” -David was watching her eagerly, not as a lover now, but -with a dog’s look when he sees his mistress running into -danger.</p> - -<p>Cilla thought again of that spring journey out to Keta’s -Well and home again. It called to her still, like the song -of a laverock up above the pastures when spring is wild -about the land. Gaunt’s words were in her ear. The -kiss she had given him at the gate—the sweet of the -growing grass—the surrender, and the glamour of it, -and the big lands stretching out before her—Priscilla -remembered every moment of that day. She knew that -David the Smith was right when he named the glamour -a will-o’-the-wisp; but she did not wish to know it; she -resisted the knowledge with a curious, headstrong passion -that she rarely showed.</p> - -<p>“We are to part friends?” she said, in a low, unsteady -voice. “You choose a queer way of saying good-by. -There was no need to speak of Mr. Gaunt at all, still less -to speak ill of him.”</p> - -<p>“That is not like you, Cilla,” David answered quietly.</p> - -<p>She was repentant at once, as her way was always. -“No, ’tis not like me. You meant it well—but, David, -you are clumsy.”</p> - -<p>Again the longing came to her to keep him here in -Garth. The shadow of a great helplessness lay over her,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_191">[191]</span> -and from one moment to the next she did not know her -mind.</p> - -<p>“David,” she said, by and by, “do you guess what they -will say if you leave Garth now, with the fever all about -us?”</p> - -<p>“I never try to guess what they’ll say, lass. What I do -is enough for me.”</p> - -<p>Cilla, still hating this random mood of hers, could not -hold back the words. “They’ll say you choose your -time for leaving carefully, after thinking about it all these -months. They’ll say you are as frightened of the fever -as other folk. They’ll say—that you’re a coward, -David.”</p> - -<p>“They’ll be liars, then, Cilla. I’m a man o’ my hands, -lile lass, and I’ve learned a little here and there fro’ my -tools. Iron’s stubborn, and needs patience, but there’s -luck, somehow, when ye’ve hammered the horseshoe into -shape. As for the fever—well, it finds ye, or it doesn’t, -and that’s i’ God’s hands. I’m a bit daft, like Billy the -Fool. The day’s work is enough for me—Billy calls it -play.”</p> - -<p>Priscilla looked at him for a moment, as a child looks -for a guiding hand. “I—I was wrong to say that, -David. No one dare say that you were frightened. -David, what ails me that I want to quarrel with my oldest -friend?”</p> - -<p>“’Tis the heat, Cilla. We’re all wearied out, I -reckon. Quarrel wi’ me? You could as well quarrel wi’ -yond grandfather’s clock i’ the corner, while ’tis saying -<i>tick-tack</i> to ye all day long and never changes tune.”</p> - -<p>Cilla laughed uneasily. “That is the reason, maybe. -I love the old clock, but sometimes—oh, David, I’m -weary of its notes sometimes—and yet I should cry my -heart out if—if the clock was not ticking in the corner.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_192">[192]</span>He should have seen her need of guidance, should have -taken her random hint that he might try a change of note—even -if his voice were unaccustomed to it and sounded -out of tune. But David had made up his mind that -morning, after long indecision, and his face was set -toward the lonely lands.</p> - -<p>“Best listen to the old clock, for all that, Cilla. It -doesn’t go fast, but it goes for a long while. Well, there’s -a deal to be done, if I’m to get off by Tuesday o’ next -week.”</p> - -<p>He took a last glance at Cilla, at the house-place, at -the lilac frock that lay on the ironing-board; and without -a word he stepped out into the dusty street. And, after -he had gone, Priscilla of the Good Intent sat down at the -table, and laid her head on it, and sobbed bitterly; but -whether the tears were for David, or for herself, she did not -know.</p> - -<p>David went down the street. He carried a big air; -and his face, if sad at all, wore only the dignity of grief, -none of its meanness or self-pity.</p> - -<p>He found Billy leaning against the door of the forge. -Billy, thinking the more because he said so little, had -watched the smith go up the street, had divined his errand -by the same instinct which befriended him in his comradeship -with birds and beasts; and now he knew from -one glance at David’s face what was in the doing.</p> - -<p>“You’ll be leaving this right pleasant spot, David the -Smith?”</p> - -<p>David was too accustomed to the other’s intuition to -feel surprise. “Ay, I’m leaving Garth. And, lad, I’ve -something to say to ye.”</p> - -<p>“Well, then, have ye a fill o’ baccy, an’ may be a lile -match or so to light yond same? Smoke’s a fearful help -to a daft body’s head-piece.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_193">[193]</span>The smith waited till Billy was drawing tranquil puffs—and -indeed no man in Garth knew better how to smoke -a pipe with true respect—then put a hand against the -smithy wall, and leaned there, a figure of strength and of -self-reliance.</p> - -<p>“I shouldn’t like the forge to pass into other hands, -Billy. There’s been one o’ my name here since the Year -One, or nigh about, and ’twouldn’t be seemly-like, to see -another name above the door. Now, see ye, lad, suppose -we called it play, ye and me, to set ye here as master-smith? -’Tis ever so much more play-work than blowing -bellows, come to think on’t.”</p> - -<p>“Te-he!” laughed Billy. “Am I to play wi’ all your -big, fine tools, David?”</p> - -<p>“Ay, just that I’ve taught ye the way o’ them, and -Dan Foster’s lad from Brow Farm shall come and blow -the bellows for you.”</p> - -<p>“Will that be work for Dan Foster’s lad, or play?”</p> - -<p>David caught the other’s meaning, with a quickness that -he might well have shown when saying good-by to Cilla. -“Hard work, Billy—grievous hard work, while you’re -just playing at making horseshoes, fence-railings, and -what not.”</p> - -<p>“And I’m to play at making horseshoes?” went on -Fool Billy, smoking quietly into the face of the stark, -blue sky and the heat of the midday sun. “I’m to play -at smithy-work, while Dan Foster’s lad’s sweating hard -at bellows-blowing?”</p> - -<p>David nodded as he filled his own pipe and lit it, leaning -against the smithy wall. “It will be rare fun for ye, -Billy—the lad working hard as ever he can sweat at the -blowing, and ye just pleasuring wi’ making good horseshoes.”</p> - -<p>“It will that!” said Billy. “Fancied bellows-blowing<span class="pagenum" id="Page_194">[194]</span> -was pastime, I, but now I see it quite contrary-like. Dan -Foster’s lad will be Fool Billy, sweating at the bellows, -and I shall be master-man. Te-he, David!”</p> - -<p>“Ay, te-he!” growled David. “Get the bellows -a-blowing, Billy, for there’s work needs doing if I’m to get -off by Tuesday o’ next week.”</p> - -<p>Billy obeyed. He had little gift of speech, but had the -rarer quality of sympathy; and he knew, in his own odd -way, how matters stood with the master of the forge.</p> - -<p>The smith did not move from his place against the wall -until his pipe was smoked out. Then he gave a glance -along the dust of Garth in the direction of Good Intent, -and went into the forge.</p> - -<p>“I’ve met odd folk and queer happenings i’ my time,” -he said to Billy, who was making the bellows roar; “but -the queerest o’ the lot is life itself—just life as we’re -living it, Billy.”</p> - -<p>Billy answered nothing, but played gently with the -bellows. And David worked fiercely at the anvil. And -the sick, dusty afternoon wore on, bidding all who had -time for idle thoughts to remember how near the Black -Fever lay to Garth.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_195">[195]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER XV</h2> -</div> - - -<p class="drop-cap">DAVID the Smith caught the morning coach on the -Tuesday, though he had all but missed it through -remembering a bit of smithy-work that must be finished -off before he left for Canada. That was David’s way; -he would not leave Garth owing the smallest debt to any -man, and promises of work to be finished to the hour -were always counted debts of honour by David.</p> - -<p>There was a little crowd about the Elm Tree Inn, and -up above the folks’ heads he could see Will, the mail-driver, -sitting high on the box seat of the coach, and showing -signs of good-humoured impatience to be off.</p> - -<p>“Hi, David!” called the driver, catching sight of the -other a hundred yards away. “Ye be i’ no hurry to -leave Garth, but Will the Driver is. I carry the Queen’s -letters, and Her Majesty—God bless her—will want -to know why I’m late wi’ her post-bag.”</p> - -<p>David was sorrowful enough, but he did not mean to -let Garth know it. He held his head high, and did not -quicken his steady forward stride.</p> - -<p>“Oh, the Queen willun’t mind, Will,” he answered. -“Just tell her it was David the Smith who kept her waiting, -and she’ll understand.”</p> - -<p>A shade of perplexity crossed his face as he neared the -knot of folk who pressed round the coach. There were -apt to be idlers about the inn-front at this hour, since the -passing of the mail was the big adventure of each day’s<span class="pagenum" id="Page_196">[196]</span> -tranquil round; but this morning there was clearly something -unusual on foot.</p> - -<p>“What is it?” asked David. “Is there a wedding -or a fairing Shepston way, and me not heard of it?”</p> - -<p>And then it was brought home to him that he was the -centre of the crowd, and he flushed like a great, shy lad -to find himself a hero. Their welcome was so spontaneous, -their affection so simple and so boisterous, that -David’s modesty was shocked. David had been accustomed -to do his work in Garth, to walk up and down its -street with the proud and ready courtesy of a man whose -hands are strong and whose heart is clean; and the village -had accepted his presence as it accepted the sun when it -shone, or the rain when it watered their growing crops. -It was only now, at the parting of the ways, that Garth -fully understood what it was losing.</p> - -<p>Will the Driver gave the folk little time to show their -feelings. He had kept the seat beside him on the box for -David—if seat it could be called, seeing that most of it -was littered by mail-bags picked up from half-a-dozen -scattered villages—and he motioned to David to clamber -up by the fore-wheel. The crowd would not allow it, -though, and lifted him with a “Heave ho! All together, -lads!” And David was thankful that the mail-bags -broke his fall a little as he was hoisted into his seat.</p> - -<p>The hampers were passed up, and small, round butter-baskets, -and parcels wrapped clumsily in thick brown -paper. Each was a tribute from some one among the -villagers who had felt no need till now to express his regard -for the smith; and each had a dozen eggs in it, or a -spice-loaf, or some other farewell gift of viands, until -David broke into a laugh.</p> - -<p>“Nay, lads, nay!” he protested. “’Twill take another -horse to help pull all these parcels to Shepston—let<span class="pagenum" id="Page_197">[197]</span> -alone a few odd men to help me get through wi’ what’s -inside them.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, tuts!” roared Farmer Hirst, striving to cover -his grief that David had insisted on leaving Garth. “’Tis -a long step and a far step fro’ Garth to Canada. Ye may -varry weel be hungry ’twixt this and there.”</p> - -<p>“The Queen’s waiting,” said Will the Driver, as he -flicked the mail-bags with the end of his whip.</p> - -<p>Cilla slipped from the shelter of her father’s shoulders, -and came and reached up a hand to David. He could -make nothing of the girl’s face, for it was both gay and -downcast. He felt something slipped into his palm, -he heard her bid him a quiet farewell, and she was gone. -The team of three started forward, and a shrill cry came -to them from behind.</p> - -<p>Will the Driver pulled up, as if by instinct—an instinct -he despised—and Widow Lister ran panting to -the coach. She brought no gift, but then no one would -expect such from a widow-body.</p> - -<p>“I couldn’t let ye go without saying good-by, David,” -she said, out of breath. “Besides, I want ye to take a -message to your aunt Joanna yonder i’ Canada. ’Tis -fifteen years and a day since she borrowed a saucepan fro’ -me, and went off at her marriage, and forgot to return it.”</p> - -<p>“Widow, we’re late,” said Will, his good temper near -to the breaking point.</p> - -<p>“Ay, but—David—tell Joanna it isn’t as I want -the saucepan back—’tis burned through t’ bottom by -now, no doubt—but I’m not one to like bearing a grudge -all these years. If she’d only say she war sorry, -now—”</p> - -<p>The driver flicked his team, and the white road slipped -behind them, and David had started on the track to -Canada.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_198">[198]</span>For a half-mile Will was silent. Then he spoke, looking -steadily at his horses’ ears.</p> - -<p>“Seems to me that one o’ two things is bound to happen,” -he said. “Either Widow Lister is going to leave -the road, or I am. There’s not room for the two of us.”</p> - -<p>He waited for David’s answer; and, getting none, went -forward with his grievance, not troubling to turn his head.</p> - -<p>“A woman that can carry a saucepan grudge for fifteen -years—gee up, lass Polly, we’ve time to make up!—is -a woman that cannot help scaring a man. ’Tis not -just that,” he broke off, still flicking the ears of his team -with a gentle, contemplative whip, as if he were casting -for trout, “’tis not just that bothers me. ’Tis her durned, -queer way o’ being out o’ breath, and growing plumper on -’t every day, an’ holding up the mail three days out o’ -the seven, year in, year out. And the widow allus chooses -her three days—days when we chance to be late, I -mean.”</p> - -<p>The dust went by them faster and faster; for Will -prided himself on reaching Shepston to the minute, -though he hated this overdriving of good cattle.</p> - -<p>“The widow’s never grown up,” he went on, cheerful -and happy-go-lucky again, now that he had vented his -grievance. “She’ll be a bairn o’ six years old till she dies. -That’s her ailment, and that’s why we humour her, -I reckon. Yet she married a fairish sensible man, and -ought to have learned summat by now. Gee-up, lass -Polly. We’ve time to make up, I say. She was left a -widow too young, maybe.”</p> - -<p>Another mile went by, broken only by a farm lass who -held up the coach like a gentle highwayman, handed a -letter and a penny to the driver, and smiled at him. The -outlying farmsteads posted their letters in this haphazard -way, and neither the driver nor the maid said a word to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_199">[199]</span> -each other; they were too friendly to need words, as it -chanced, for Will was pledged to marry her within a -month or two.</p> - -<p>The next mile passed them, dusty and white. The sun -beat down, and there was not a friendly cloud to hide the -pitiless blue of the sky. It was no friendly blue, such as -pansies wear, when times go hard and the cool, quiet -flowers look at a man with eyes of pity; it was a cold light -and a hard light, for all its warmth, this never-ending sky -that kept the Black Fever close to Garth’s borders.</p> - -<p>“There’s no good news fro’ Shepston, David,” said -Will, by and by. “Every day there’s the same tale when -I drive in—more folk down wi’ fever, and bodies waiting -to be buried because the coffiners are feared to go nigh -them. I’m tough myself, but I’m getting a lile bit nervous. -They never stop talking on’t, ye see, i’stead o’ -letting it be, and a man can’t help thinking o’ what’s being -dinned into his ears by every body he meets. Bless me,” -he broke off, with a quiet laugh, “I’ve got that bad I’m -finding myself looking at Shepston passengers when they -get aboard the mail—looking to see if there’s any sure -mark of the fever on their faces.”</p> - -<p>His companion was still silent, and at last it struck -Will that something was amiss. He turned his head, -and checked his flow of gossip suddenly; he had not seen -steady David in this mood before.</p> - -<p>A half-mile out from Garth, the smith had opened his -right hand, had glanced eagerly to see what parting gift -Cilla had left there when she said good-by. He found -a sprig of rosemary, and, because he had held it so long -in his hot palm, half fearing to look at it, the scent of the -herb stole up to him.</p> - -<p>It was the scent that drove David’s wits astray, that -rendered him deaf to Will’s chatter, blind to the garish<span class="pagenum" id="Page_200">[200]</span> -road in front of him. It meant so much, now that Garth -was left behind; it brought each corner of the old, grey -street to mind. He could scent again the wood-reek curling -sleepily from chimney-stacks of twenty shapes and -sizes, the wallflowers blooming in Widow Lister’s strip -of garden, the strong, lusty smell of the forge when his -hammer rang on red-hot iron. A sickness to return laid -hold of him; the rosemary had given its message, and -David was fighting with his impulse to get down from -the coach and tramp home again to Garth.</p> - -<p>Then another thought came to him. Who did not -know that rosemary stood for remembrance? There was -not a child in Garth but could have told him what the -herb’s meaning was. In some special way, rosemary had -been, time out of mind, the guardian herb of Garth; -it grew in every garden; it grew along the street front, -wherever a strip of soil had been rescued from the highway. -Without rosemary, the village would not know its -own face; and Garth folk, when they wished to praise -Cilla overmuch behind her back, said that she was just -like rosemary.</p> - -<p>Did she wish him to return? Had she chosen this -maidenly token of a change of mind? Little wonder that -David could find no answer; for Cilla herself, in these -days of trouble and indecision, could have given him -none. Will had talked of the widow, of the fever, and -what not; but David had sat with folded arms, watching -the road slip by and trying to grasp his purpose, one way -or the other.</p> - -<p>It was the turning-point of Cilla’s life and his; and -once again modesty played him an ill turn. He was a big -fool, he told himself, to go thinking Cilla would marry -a dull, workaday fellow; she was made for daintier wooing -than he could give. Oh, ay, to be sure she liked him<span class="pagenum" id="Page_201">[201]</span> -well enough, and remembrance meant just that—no -more.</p> - -<p>“Seems to me ye’re in t’ middle of a day-dream, -David,” said the driver, after a long look at him.</p> - -<p>David pulled himself together, and his slow, patient -smile broke across the firmness of his lips. “I was,” he -answered. “And now I’m out o’ the dream, Will. -They want no wool-gatherers out in Canada yonder, so -they tell me.”</p> - -<p>“And ye never heard a word o’ what I said about the -Black Fever? ’Tis all varry weel for ye who’re leaving -it, but I tell ye I’m glad to get out o’ Shepston every morn, -and see the fells looking clean and wholesome-like—though, -bless me, I’ve nigh begun to look at their faces, -too, to see if there be any mulberry patches on ’em. Mulberry -patches, David—Shepston folk won’t let ye forget -the fever-signs. Gee-up, mare Polly! We’re late, -and the Queen’s waiting for us.”</p> - -<p>“As for me,” said David, “I look on the fever this -way. Ye get it, an’ ye die, or ye don’t get it, and ye live; -either way, what’s bound to happen is going to come, and -crying won’t mend it.”</p> - -<p>“That’s true,” assented the driver cheerily, after due -consideration of the point. “Be durned, David, ye’ve -a gift o’ common sense. Thought I had the gift, too, -till I took to looking for mulberry patches i’ honest people’s -faces.”</p> - -<p>When they neared Shepston, the smith turned for a last -look at the hills raking up into the white-hot limestone -glare that beat upon the dale he loved.</p> - -<p>“’Tis good-by, I reckon, lile lass Cilla,” was his -thought.</p> - -<p>Reuben Gaunt had not joined the company that met -to give David a farewell at the inn. With all his fickleness,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_202">[202]</span> -he was not a liar, and he disdained to make a show -of friendship, when he knew that there was open enmity. -Instead, he remembered that it was Linsall Fair-day, -and he walked up the moor to Ghyll Farm.</p> - -<p>Gaunt found the farm-door open, and stepped in. -Peggy Mathewson was busy baking bread, and she looked -hot and tired. The heat of the kitchen, the smell of the -loaves, drove Gaunt into the shelter of the porch again.</p> - -<p>“Phew! I thought ’twould be cooler indoors than out, -Peggy.”</p> - -<p>“Did ye? My temper’s not cool, to begin with, Reuben—or -should I say ‘Mr. Gaunt’ these days?”</p> - -<p>“Reuben, I fancy.”</p> - -<p>“I like to know. Ye change so often, and your station -varies so—now marrying proud little Good Intent, and -then again bending down to take notice o’ Peggy Mathewson—”</p> - -<p>“I’ve a cure for your temper, Peggy,” he said, with an -easy laugh. “We’ll go to Linsall, and your loaves can -wait.”</p> - -<p>“Why to Linsall?” she asked, with a longing glance -at the moor. “Oh, ay, ’tis Fair-day. I’ve nigh forgotten -fairs, and ribbons, and sich-like idleness, since -you came home again. What wi’ work, an’ what wi’ -trying to keep up wi’ your cantrips, Reuben, I’m a busy -lass.”</p> - -<p>He only laughed and switched his leggings with the -riding-crop, which from sheer habit he was carrying. -The girl’s tongue might be bitter, but her eyes told another -tale. “Let’s away, Peggy. A scamper always does -you good. As for the baking—”</p> - -<p>“It’s finished,” she broke in, setting down the last -batch of loaves from the oven; “and if it weren’t—why, -I fancy I shouldn’t heed.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_203">[203]</span>The old recklessness was in her voice, the old longing -for light-heartedness, though under it all she knew that -there was grief and heaviness. She went up-stairs and -was down again before Gaunt had time to grow impatient.</p> - -<p>“Shall I shame ye at the Fair?” she demanded, -standing frankly for his inspection, her colour heightened, -her hands resting on her hips.</p> - -<p>Reuben noted the red scarf, the touches of colour which -she had added deftly here and there to a dress which had -seen many fairs and many weathers. No other lass could -have worn such colours. They were gypsyish, bold, -reckless, like Peggy herself, and they seemed to add to her -beauty and her self-assurance.</p> - -<p>“Shame me?” laughed Reuben. “There’ll be eyes -for none but ye at Linsall!”</p> - -<p>She closed the porch-door behind her and stepped out -into the sunlight. “’Twill be enough for me if I keep -<i>your</i> eyes fro’ roaming for a whole day at a stretch. Eh, -well, I’m a fool to go wi’ ye, and mother ’ull wonder -what’s getten me when she comes back fro’ selling eggs -i’ Garth. But then she’s used to wondering, is mother,” -the girl added, with a sudden, hard wistfulness in -her voice; “it seems to come natural to us Mathewsons.”</p> - -<p>As they breasted the moor, however, Peggy’s spirits -rose. She had a day’s freedom before her—and Reuben’s -company—and there was no need to vex herself -with the question why he, and he alone, had power to -take her natural good sense away.</p> - -<p>They followed one of those winding moor-roads, set -between low banks of bilberry and ling and wild thyme, -which seem ever to hide some swift adventure at the next -turning. Peggy, bred in the midst of these wide, sweeping<span class="pagenum" id="Page_204">[204]</span> -uplands, had found all her childish fairy-tales, all her -make-believe of battle and romance, among the moors. -The gypsy wildness in her needed colour, warmth, the -speed of strange adventures; as a child, and later as a -woman, she had peopled the heath with voices other than -the curlew’s and the plover’s. The countless hollows, -bottomed by rank mosses and deep bracken, hid ambushed -men; behind each hillock that concealed the track from -her, she would look for some figure to come riding down -to meet her, and no toil about the farm, no harshness of -the workaday life which hemmed her in at Ghyll, had -killed this glamour of the heath. It was this need of glamour, -maybe, which had bidden her long ago to set her -heart on Gaunt; the man’s queer eyes, with the look in -them of devilry and yet of boyish surprise at life, his -irresolution, the very uncertainty from one day to the next -whether he would come tame to her hand, or would be -wooing elsewhere, all enticed Peggy, as the winding hill-tracks -did, that promised some gallant meeting at the -next corner—always at the next corner.</p> - -<p>To-day she looked neither forward nor behind. She -crossed the moor with feet as light as Gaunt’s, and he -laughed when they reached the top and halted to take -breath.</p> - -<p>“You’re just a wild moor-bird, Peggy.”</p> - -<p>“And why not, Reuben; I was hatched in a moor-nest.”</p> - -<p>The day’s heat had brought its own recompense in -a measure, for a haze was creeping up from the heath, -softening the glare. The breeze was quick up here, and -almost cool. Far down below them they could see Linsall -village and its bridge, resting like a small, grey Paradise -in the cup of the tall hills.</p> - -<p>“You were hatched in the pastures,” went on Widow<span class="pagenum" id="Page_205">[205]</span> -Mathewson’s lass, after a silence. “There’s a difference -always ’twixt moor nestlings and pasture birds.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I don’t know! I’m fond o’ the moor, myself—”</p> - -<p>“Ay, fond—fondish, as ye are o’ women—but—eh, -lad, ye’ve no love o’ the heather, and the smell of a -marsh when it yields to your foot and all but gets ye -under. ’Tisn’t the same to ye, Reuben. Ye’ve always -a back-thought for the pastures, green i’ winter an’ green -i’ spring, and never a change. They’re snugger, Reuben, -and snugness was always to your liking.”</p> - -<p>Gaunt only laughed, and they ran down the track, hand -in hand, till they reached the wall that guarded the intaken -fields. Linsall village was bigger to them now, -and they could see that it was thick with folk.</p> - -<p>“They’ll be dancing on the green to-night?” said -Peggy, after they had climbed the wall and were walking -soberly down the long, raking field that led them to the -Linsall road. “Well, I feel like dancing, Reuben. My -feet were never so light under me—”</p> - -<p>“Oh, now, be quiet!” muttered Reuben, with a touch -of superstition and a passing sense of disquiet. “We’re -not near a rowan-tree, Peggy, to touch it for luck when we -boast.”</p> - -<p>“We’ll risk it, Reuben! I seem to have no wish at all, -save just to dance and dance wi’ ye on Linsall Green. -’Tis my head, maybe, that’s light and not my heels.”</p> - -<p>They were on the road now, and Peggy’s mood grew -lighter still as she saw the booths, the tents, the knots -of chattering country folk that covered Linsall Green. -She relished the open admiration shown her as she passed; -she welcomed the sly gibes of a few ill-natured and -plainer women; for she knew that Reuben would like her -better if she were the admitted beauty of the day. This -strapping lass with the clear judgment and the capable<span class="pagenum" id="Page_206">[206]</span> -hands whenever life’s work had to be done, was in playtime -as simple as a child. Gaunt was her good fairy to-day; -she loved him with a passionate devotion that surprised -her in quieter moments; in all things to-day she -wished to please him.</p> - -<p>They went into the tavern whose front stretched orderly, -and long, and grey, the whole width of the green. Gaunt -made her drink red wine with their meal; the taste of it -was thin and reedy to Peggy, but she understood vaguely -that Reuben thought it a fine thing he was doing. The -glass from which she drank it, was shapelier, too, than any -she had seen, and she praised the wine, and the meal, -and the sunlight that lay white on the white street outside -the window.</p> - -<p>Peggy laughed quietly as they went out into the glare -again. “If I never enjoy a day again,” she said, “I -mean to take my fill o’ this one.”</p> - -<p>Again Gaunt felt a touch of uneasiness but shrugged -his shoulders, as his way was, and thought no more of it. -If he had been bred nearer to the Border, he would have -said that Peggy o’ Mathewson’s was fey; as it was, he -wondered that he had played yes-and-no with this girl. -Her beauty, her high spirits, the disregard she showed -for all admiration but his own, were pleasant to the man. -For months he had been playing with his promise to -Cilla of the Good Intent that he would marry Peggy. -Well, who knew what might happen on this fine day in -Linsall?</p> - -<p>“Peggy,” he said, as they threaded their way across the -green, “you need a string of corals round your neck, -to set off all the bonnie rest o’ you. I saw a necklace as -we came past the far booth yonder.”</p> - -<p>And a wonderful booth it was, this wooden counter set -on trestles, with a span of canvas overhead to keep sun<span class="pagenum" id="Page_207">[207]</span> -or rain away. There were toys on it, and flat-irons, -and housewives’ “find-alls;” there were wooden pipes -and clay pipes, and snuff boxes. Betrothal rings, and -wedding rings, and teething rings, lay neighbours to -packets of simples warranted to remedy many ailments. -The whole sum of life—its hopes, its absurdities, its -random search after pleasure or after ease from pain—seemed -to lie within the narrow confines of the booth.</p> - -<p>Gaunt took down one of the coral necklaces, and the -woman standing behind the counter gave the pair of them -a keen glance.</p> - -<p>“How much?” asked Gaunt.</p> - -<p>The woman’s thoughts were rapid. Were they brother -and sister? No! It would have been sixpence in that -case. Had he just met with the girl, and was he playing -with a fancy? She thought not. That would have meant -a shilling. Were they newly-pledged to each other?</p> - -<p>“Half a crown,” said the woman quietly. “They’re -the best coral money can buy, and I can only sell ’em -so cheap as that because—”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes,” put in Gaunt drily. “Here’s the money. -Now, Peggy, let me fasten it on for you—there! I told -you ’twas all that was needed to set off the rest o’ you.”</p> - -<p>Peggy felt a touch on her arm, and turned to find a -plump rascal, with a pedlar’s tray in front of him. His -face, a dusky red at all times—what between weather -outside inn-walls and warmer cheer within them—was -a deeper colour than its wont this morning, though his -eyes were quick and roguish, and his spirits gay as ever.</p> - -<p>“Ah, now, Peggy o’ Mathewson’s, come away from -the booth,” he said. “Mother Lambert there has to pay -for her stall, and the keep of a horse to drag it about fro’ -place to place. Stands to reason her wares are dear to -buy. Now, Pedlar Joe is his own pony—carries his<span class="pagenum" id="Page_208">[208]</span> -booth in front of him, i’ a manner o’ speaking—and -can afford to sell things cheap.”</p> - -<p>“Ay,” put in Mother Lambert tartly from behind her -booth, “cheap to buy, and dear when ye’ve got ’em. We -all know <i>your</i> wares, Pedlar Joe.”</p> - -<p>The pedlar sighed, and mutely called the high fells -to witness that he needed no defence. “Women are -that jealous,” he observed. Then, with a whimsical -glance at Reuben, “Mr. Gaunt, ’tis ye that’s brought -the Pride o’ the Fair to Linsall. Ye’ll have to buy her -one of these lile scarfs. Peggy’s fond o’ bright colours, as -she’s a right to be.”</p> - -<p>Gaunt laughed as he put his hand in his pocket, for -the pedlar was as well-known for twenty miles around as -Kilnhope Crag, and he came and went like the wind, a -chartered libertine. “Fond of bright colours, is she? -Like your face, Joe, I take it. And, by that token, -you’ve been polishing your face a little more than the -ordinary.”</p> - -<p>“Ay, I’ve been out i’ the sun more nor usual,” said -the other shamelessly. “Wonderful chap, the sun is, -for giving good colour to a body’s face. Now, Peggy, -see this crimson scarf here; for old times’ sake, Mr. -Gaunt, ye shall have it cheap for three-and-six.”</p> - -<p>“Say one-and-six,” suggested Gaunt lazily.</p> - -<p>“Nay,” said Joe with dignity. “I may be poor, sir, -but I don’t go bargaining when there’s a lady nigh. -Three-and-six I said, and <i>two</i>-and-six I stick to.”</p> - -<p>Peggy and Gaunt moved away, as soon as the bargain -was completed, and Pedlar Joe strolled up to the booth. -Mother Lambert and he were good friends enough, despite -professional rivalry.</p> - -<p>“Looks as if Gaunt and wild-bird Peggy might make a -match of it, after all?” he hazarded.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_209">[209]</span>“So that’s Peggy o’ Mathewson’s?” answered the -booth-woman. “I’ve not been nigh Linsall for four or -five years, as ye know, and the lass was a little ’un then. -I’d forgotten her. But Gaunt—there’s no forgetting -him. Maybe he’s caught at last. I had the same fancy -when I saw ’em step over the green.”</p> - -<p>“Maybe,” chuckled the pedlar. “There’s allus a -‘maybe’ when folk mention Reuben Gaunt. Reuben—it -means summat like water, if I call to mind—water -that’s aye running under the brigg i’stead o’ crossing it -to find a bit o’ safe-sure ground?”</p> - -<p>Widow Lambert began to arrange her wares afresh. -“Ay, like yourself, Joe—just like yourself. A caravan -and a horse are steady matters, but a man wi’ a naked -pack on his back should go by the name o’ Reuben.”</p> - -<p>So then these two, vagrants both, fell into argument. -Mother Lambert held the landed view of life, as befitted -one who had a caravan and the right to fix her booth on -the green for this one day. Pedlar Joe argued nimbly -for the honour of his calling, and his views were those -of the unlanded folk, coloured through and through by -talk of freedom, of leisure in which to snare game—as -being no man’s property in special—and of the joys attending -one who, day in day out, had only his pack and -himself to think of.</p> - -<p>The dispute was ended only when Joe caught sight -of a country lass, with a pretty face and an air of foolish -vanity about her.</p> - -<p>“I’ve to sell a scarf to Nancy Wood,” he said, with a -confidential wink at the booth-woman. “She’s prattlesome -now, and will buy; but she’ll have no heart for ’t -once she’s seen Peggy o’ Mathewson’s.”</p> - -<p>The pedlar sold his scarf; and the sun got down, half -between noon and setting; and still the folk came pouring<span class="pagenum" id="Page_210">[210]</span> -into Linsall. There was little news of the fever on this -side of the moor-ridge; and, if there had been news, it -would have been disregarded on this day when all the -countryside was pledged to merriment.</p> - -<p>“You’re blithe, Peggy!” said Gaunt, as they moved -about the green together.</p> - -<p>“I should be,” she answered, with a heedless laugh. -“I’m free for a day—and I’m holding both hands out -to catch whatever frolic comes.”</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_211">[211]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER XVI</h2> -</div> - - -<p class="drop-cap2">LINSALL was staid enough throughout the year; -but, like Peggy Mathewson, she made the most of -her big holiday. The cobbled inn-front, wide as it was, -could hold no more farmers’ gigs; the stable-yard was -full of traps; and those who rode in late on sturdy horses -were forced to seek billets for their nags wherever a -friendly farmstead offered hospitality.</p> - -<p>The bridge, arched like a delicate, grey eyebrow above -the peat-brown river, was white with faces which looked -constantly toward the inn, as if watching for some spectacle. -The Squire was there, and his womenfolk, rubbing -shoulders with yeomen and their wives; farm-hands -pressed close against the stonework of the bridge, and -held their bairns to see what was going forward. The -Green below was crowded, too, and men were running up -the pastures that stepped briskly from the roadway to -the moor. Only the road itself, from the fields right -down to the inn-front, was clear of onlookers; and the -dust of the highway showed hot and white as it made a -lane between the folk.</p> - -<p>It was time for the fell-race, and there were few dwellers -in this land of climbing fields and overtopping hills -whose hearts did not beat faster at prospect of the race. -Of all their sports it was most in keeping with their daily -lives. Each farmer, when he went to call the cattle into -mistal, when he ploughed or won the hay-crop, was compelled<span class="pagenum" id="Page_212">[212]</span> -to do his share of climbing; for all the fields at -Linsall, save a few that lay along the river’s level, strode -straight up-hill, straight down and up again. This fell-race -indeed, was not so much a pastime as a test of endurance -which has grown naturally out of their daily occupation, -and the winner of it was counted the great man -of the year.</p> - -<p>“Reuben,” said Peggy o’ Mathewson’s, slipping a -hand through his arm as they stood on the green, “the -race is to start i’ less than a half-hour, and I’ve a fancy.”</p> - -<p>“Let’s know it, lass. ’Tis not to-day I’m saying no -to you, I reckon.”</p> - -<p>“You must run, Reuben—and you must win.”</p> - -<p>“You’re jesting? Why, I’m all out of practice—”</p> - -<p>“Oh, you’re tough and hard! I’ve only to look at you -to see you’re in condition. You used to win it easy -enough i’ the old days, Reuben—try, just to please me.”</p> - -<p>Gaunt laughed good-naturedly, and began to push -a way through the crowd. “I’ll do my best, Peggy; but -I sha’n’t be best pleased if I come home second, after -being reckoned an easy first so long.”</p> - -<p>He borrowed running-gear from the landlord of the -inn, and a low hum went up from the crowd when they -saw him step out again into the sunlight. For it was known -that one of the big fell-racers from the Lake Country had -entered for to-day’s struggle, and until now there had -seemed no chance that Linsall could keep the honour -within its own borders. At a meeting less happy-go-lucky -and more set about with rules than this, there -might have been trouble touching Gaunt’s late entry. -But Linsall’s rule was that, till the moment when the -starter shouted “Go,” any man was free to take his -place along the line of combatants.</p> - -<p>As Gaunt moved quietly to his place, he was stopped<span class="pagenum" id="Page_213">[213]</span> -by a shabby-genteel man, whose appearance seemed oddly -out of keeping with the ruddy farmer-folk about him.</p> - -<p>“Beg pardon, Mr. Gaunt, but you mean to run to-day?” -whispered the stranger.</p> - -<p>Gaunt nodded; he had followed horse-racing too long -to have any doubt as to what was coming.</p> - -<p>“You’ll upset all our bets, then, and poor men have -to make their living. See, now, Mr. Gaunt, you’re well -off, I know, but the richest need more, and if you’d a -mind to fall out o’ the race—”</p> - -<p>Reuben Gaunt, if by force of nature a crooked man -when his affections were in case, was scrupulously straight -in other matters; he had a plentiful lack of self-guidance, -but no meanness; and the suggestion of the shabby-genteel -man touched his temper to the quick.</p> - -<p>“Here, lads,” he broke in, turning to the group of -strapping lads who stood nearest to him. “Here’s one -who wants me to run crooked for sake of a five pound -note. Just cool his heels for him in the river.”</p> - -<p>It was all over before the crowd had time to realize -the meaning of the uproar. The intruder into Linsall’s -peace was carried at a running pace to the pool under the -bridge, was thrown in and seen to clamber up the further -bank and seek cover like a fox. The farm-lads laughed -and shrugged their shoulders, and went back to -see the start of the race. They had upheld Linsall’s -reputation for a race run fairly and with keenness, and -there was little chance that other out-at-elbows gentry -would try to-day to disturb that reputation.</p> - -<p>Gaunt took his place on the starting line. There were -nine of them—lean and wiry fellows all, since upland -farming seldom makes for too much flesh—and next to -Reuben was the Lake Country runner, Bownas by name. -Long in limb, lithe and spare in the body, he dwarfed<span class="pagenum" id="Page_214">[214]</span> -Gaunt by a good four inches, and seemed built for this -business of capturing the race.</p> - -<p>There were five minutes to go before the signal for the -start, and Bownas looked Gaunt up and down. Finally, -he put out a hand.</p> - -<p>“You’re Mr. Gaunt? Pleased to run against ye. I’ve -heard o’ ye. Better a tough race than a slack one any -day.”</p> - -<p>Gaunt’s spirits were rising every moment. He laughed -as he took the other’s hand. “By the Lord, we’ll show -them what running means, if they’ve never known it -before.”</p> - -<p>He was heartened by the murmurs of the crowd behind -him. “Gaunt’s running to-day,” said one, with a hint -of hero-worship in his voice. “We’ll keep the winner -i’ our own country yet,” said another. The shabby-genteel -man’s assumption that his bets were in danger -had been in itself a tribute to his skill. Sympathy was a -spur to Gaunt always, and he felt that the crowd was with -him.</p> - -<p>“You’ve to win, Reuben! Make no mistake o’ that,” -murmured Peggy from behind. “I wouldn’t have ’ticed -ye to run at all, if I hadn’t been sure o’ your winning.”</p> - -<p>He turned and looked her in the eyes. “I begin to -fancy I shall, Peggy,” he said; “but ’tis long odds to -put me up at a minute’s notice against Bownas of Shap.”</p> - -<p>“Ready, are ye?” cried the starter. “Ready? -Go!”</p> - -<p>There was no excitement at the beginning of the race; -and this, too, was in keeping with the dales-folk, who -liked their pleasures to be long drawn out. It was only -the raw youngsters who showed signs of their paces along -the dusty line of road; Gaunt and Bownas trotted quietly -at the rear, remembering that a good deal of ground had<span class="pagenum" id="Page_215">[215]</span> -to slip under their feet before the last swift struggle -home.</p> - -<p>The haze had lifted now, and the sunlight lay so keen -on moor and pasture that those on the bridge, the remotest -point of vantage, could see each figure as it climbed the -pastures, could follow the men when they gained the -darker background of the moor.</p> - -<p>Not one of the nine was running now, and three at -least were creeping painfully up the breast of the moor.</p> - -<p>“Gaunt’s at his old game,” said one of the crowd.</p> - -<p>“Ay, he takes it straight as it comes. Sakes, how he -sticks to his business!”</p> - -<p>It was not then that eagerness began to show itself -among the onlookers. Much depended on the down-hill -scamper, but more on that stubborn climb up the hill-face -which, from below and in the sun-glare, showed -steep as a house-wall.</p> - -<p>Bownas of Shap was playing his old game, too. They -could see him turning warily along the dingles, instead -of facing the high bluffs. He counted on saving wind -and gaining speed, as he had done in other struggles of -the kind; but he had not run against Reuben Gaunt -before.</p> - -<p>The onlookers—and every face now was turned to the -moor with fine expectancy—could see Gaunt keeping -a straight line for the summit, though now and then he -seemed to be pulling himself forward by sheer grip of -the tough heather that hindered his feet no less than -did the steepness of the moor.</p> - -<p>They were lost for awhile, Bownas and Gaunt, in the -shadow of the highest ridge. At the ridge-top, pencilled -clear against the hard blue of the sky, stood the turning-post -and the man who guarded it. Then, out of the -shadowed space, Gaunt’s figure showed; he had gone<span class="pagenum" id="Page_216">[216]</span> -straight as a gunshot, and, without turn or halt, had -reached the flag.</p> - -<p>Peggy could not rest quiet in the road below. She had -climbed to the brink of the moor by now, and three or -four of the crowd had followed her. It was Peggy’s day, -and she wished it to be full. Gaunt might be this and -that, she told herself, her eyes fixed on the moor above; -but she would forgive him fickleness and all if she could -dance on the green to-night, and know that he was the -winner of the race.</p> - -<p>“Gaunt climbs like a wildcat,” said a tough, old yeoman, -standing at Peggy’s side.</p> - -<p>“Climbs like a man,” answered Peggy, and kept her -eyes on the hill-top.</p> - -<p>Bownas had reached the flag by now, and had turned -to follow Gaunt down the moor. From below, Peggy o’ -Mathewson’s could hear the eager uproar of the crowd. -None thought of the seven stragglers who followed; it -was a race between the homelander and the “foreigner,” -and Gaunt himself, though the blood was surging in -his ears, could hear a stifled echo of the roar that meant -good-will to him.</p> - -<p>Gaunt had been used to say that he won his races -because his wind was a special gift, in token that his legs -were short. He needed the gift now; for, out of practice -as he was, the straight, unswerving climb had punished -him.</p> - -<p>Bownas was still following his bent, down-hill as up-hill. -He chose the gentler slopes, while Gaunt ran helter-skelter -down, straight for the wall that guarded the -pastures from the moor.</p> - -<p>“The wildcat’s won!” shouted the old yeoman at -Peggy’s ear. “He’s a furlong forrarder, and all easy-going -now.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_217">[217]</span>A long, brown line of shale lay in Gaunt’s path. He -would not turn aside, but trusted to his old trick of sliding -down it, feet foremost, with the shingle scattering round -his knees.</p> - -<p>“Oh, be durned!” muttered the yeoman. “’Tis all -over wi’ Gaunt! Just when he had the race i’ his hands, -an’ all.”</p> - -<p>Peggy’s face was white; for she had seen the runner -trip against a stone which did not yield to his foot, as the -shale had done. So great was Gaunt’s speed that he -could not think of checking himself; head over heels he -went, and landed on his feet again as if by a miracle. -For a second or two he stood dazed by the shock, and -Bownas got to within fifty yards of him. Then, shaking -himself together and setting his face as hard as a flint, -Gaunt started down the moor again.</p> - -<p>“He’ll break his neck one day at yond job,” said the -yeoman to Peggy. “Glad he hasn’t done as much to-day. -Want to see him win, I.”</p> - -<p>The runners were scaling the wall between moor and -pasture now, and Gaunt was a trifle the quicker in getting -over. He passed so close to Peggy that she could have -touched him.</p> - -<p>“Run!” she panted. “Reuben, you have it! You -have it, lad!”</p> - -<p>He heard her, and so did Bownas o’ Shap; and both -men raced forward with a quickened sense of rivalry.</p> - -<p>It was now that the crowd lost all restraint, save just -as was needed to keep a clear path to the inn. From the -bridge, and from the green, and from the inn-front—where -men were standing on tiptoe in the gigs to get a -clearer view—a deafening clamour rose. It was no -spasmodic cheering, broken by silences, but a steady, -ever-growing roar, like the thunder of a stream when snow<span class="pagenum" id="Page_218">[218]</span> -is loosened from the hills. Never since this yearly battle -of the fells first took its place in Linsall’s story had such -a race been watched. The time between out and home -was shorter by five minutes than the fastest record -known; but, more than this, there were two men left -to fight it out to the end—two men who came with swift, -loping strides through the dust of the roadway—two -men whose faces at another time would have been terrible -to see, so contorted were they with weariness, and desperation, -and fierce effort to keep up.</p> - -<p>Bownas led by a few feet now, and the onlookers were -making frenzied calls to Gaunt to make a last spurt for -it. The uproar rose to the hills that hemmed in Linsall -village, and it broke against the fells with muffled echo. -It was a moment when a man might well prove stronger -than himself, and a strange gaiety caught Reuben unawares. -There were still two hundred yards to go, and -he saw that Bownas was content to keep his lead and was -waiting for his last big effort until nearer home. Gaunt -could not wait; he gathered all his strength, and glanced -past Bownas with sudden speed and crossed the winning-line -with an impetus he could not check. The inn doorway -was in front of him—otherwise he would have -crashed against the wall in his blind rush—and he ran -down the long passage, and checked himself when he -reached the settle at the far end, and sat with his head -between his hands. A darkness and great sickness -closed about him for awhile; then he lifted his head, and -saw the landlord standing near him with an air of much -good-will and some anxiety.</p> - -<p>“Bring me something—something in a mug, Jonas,” -said Gaunt, with a feeble smile.</p> - -<p>Jonas laughed, as he patted the other on the back. -“Not just sure whether ye’ve any inward parts left at all,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_219">[219]</span> -Mr. Gaunt? Want to cure that durned, queer feel of -emptiness? Oh, bless ye, I know it. I’ve run i’ fell-races -before, but niver as ye ran to-day! God bless me, -ye’ve the legs of a deer!”</p> - -<p>Peggy had seen from the pasture-fields how Gaunt -came home far down below; and, when she reached the -village, it was to find the hero of the year being carried -shoulder-height by six of the Linsall men. No leader -of old, returning from victory through a crowded capital, -could have claimed more honour than Reuben Gaunt. -Unprepared, to gratify a lass’s whim, he had won a contest -that would go down in Garth’s history so long as -there were folk to sit beside the hearth o’ nights and tell -of it.</p> - -<p>Peggy o’ Mathewson’s had had her wish. A buoyancy, -an exultation like Gaunt’s own as he covered those last -ten score yards, possessed her. It was the woman’s -pride, unalterable through changing generations, that -“her man” had won his battle.</p> - -<p>When the evening came, and the sun dropped low over -Linsall Moor, and the moon climbed big and round over -the shoulder of Harts Fell, the green was full of couples -dancing to the tunes of three fiddlers perched on Mother -Lambert’s empty counter. And Peggy, though the men -pressed round her like a swarm of bees, would dance with -few but Gaunt.</p> - -<p>The scene was fairy-like in its remoteness from the -humdrum round of work. The fells on the one side were -white and magical; the moor on the other showed a dark -jagged line of mystery; and between moor and fell, -Linsall village lay steeped in fleecy moonlight, her bridge -a slender arch of gossamer that spanned a stream of -pearl and blue. There was no sound, save the gentle -thud of feet on the grass, the squeak of the fiddles, the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_220">[220]</span> -low tranquil laugh of some country lass as she heard what -her lover stooped to tell her in the pauses of the dance.</p> - -<p>When Gaunt and Peggy left the green at last, and struck -up the pastures toward home, they were followed by much -nodding of heads and wagging of tongues.</p> - -<p>“Gaunt’s not content wi’ winning the race, ’twould -seem,” said one.</p> - -<p>“Nay,” said another, “he seems like as he’s set on -winning Peggy o’ Mathewson’s as well. There’ll be lile -trouble i’ that, if the look in her face be aught to go by.”</p> - -<p>Peggy and her man moved steadily up the field-track, -then more quietly when they reached the heath.</p> - -<p>“’Twas here you ran so well,” said Peggy, her eyes -shining with some great, unreasoning happiness.</p> - -<p>“’Twas because you asked it,” answered Gaunt, -slipping her arm through his own as they turned to look -down on moonlit Linsall. The faint screech of fiddles -reached them, reedy as the breeze that blew fitfully about -the heather-stems. She was silent, and Gaunt felt that -she was trembling. “Why, what’s amiss? Surely -you’re not cold on such a night?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, it is naught, Reuben! I’ve had my day—as full -a one as ever I could wish for—and I’m frightened, somehow, -to go back, and begin to churn, and bake, and wash, -and tend the fowls.”</p> - -<p>“I can ease you of all that.”</p> - -<p>Her eyes were soft, and full of the tenderness which life -had tried its best to kill. She seemed about to speak, -but checked herself.</p> - -<p>“Will you listen, Peggy?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, we must hurry, Reuben. Come away over the -moor; there’s mother wondering all this while whatever -can have come to me.”</p> - -<p>He did not understand her mood, did not understand<span class="pagenum" id="Page_221">[221]</span> -the withdrawal which was at once proud and full of mute -appeal. They crossed the moor in a silence broken only -by the scuffle of a sheep as they awakened it in passing, -by the sudden whirr of a cock grouse as he rose from the -ling and went barking <i>to-bac, to-bac, to-bac</i> across the -moor.</p> - -<p>It was Peggy who broke the silence. They had reached -the deep glen above Ghyll Farm, and she paused at the -rowan-tree which branched across the dancing stream. -She had spent long hours under shadow of the rowan -before and after she had learned her love for Gaunt; the -place was friendly to her, for it was haunted by familiar -years.</p> - -<p>She stood straight in the moonlight, facing him. The -rowan-leaves threw feathery shadows on her face. “Reuben,” -she said, “what’s amiss with us both?”</p> - -<p>“Why, naught, lile lass. You want to be free of the -churning and the rest? Well, there’s Marshlands waiting -for ye, if you choose to come as mistress.”</p> - -<p>“Reuben!”</p> - -<p>He could not tell whether sorrow or keen gladness lay -underneath the cry. He knew Peggy o’ Mathewson’s -had never moved him as she did to-night.</p> - -<p>“Reuben, I’m all lost on the moor,” she went on -quickly. “I love the peat that ye tread on, and yet I -doubt ye. I’ve seen ye a man to-day, Reuben, and yet -I’m wondering whether it can last. The mood’s on ye -to make me mistress yonder. Ay, but to-morrow? Love -goes and comes wi’ some folk, but it stays wi’ women -such as me—make no doubt o’ that.”</p> - -<p>“It will stay with me. Are ye going with the rest o’ -the flock, lile one—bleating me down, when I try to get -my feet on a straight road?”</p> - -<p>Peggy o’ Mathewson’s stood silent. The moonlight,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_222">[222]</span> -dappled by the swaying rowan-leaves, showed a beauty -that was scarcely of this world. Like the weather-stained -mother who waited for her coming, down yonder at the -farm, Peggy had peeped into a bigger life than this.</p> - -<p>Suddenly she lost her straightness, and was sobbing -in Gaunt’s arms. “You’ll be good to me, Reuben? -’Tis all or naught wi’ me, and you can break my heart, -or mend it, just as you please. Oh, I should take shame -to talk to ye like this—but I’ll come to Marshlands wi’ -no half-love fro’ ye.”</p> - -<p>Gaunt felt a new warmth, a generous impulse, not only -to take this passionate, headstrong lass to Marshlands, -but to make her happy there. He told her as much in -few words, and the answer touch of her hands as he held -them roused something manlier, more robust, in the man’s -contrary nature.</p> - -<p>They stayed awhile under the rowan, and Peggy -touched its smooth trunk from time to time.</p> - -<p>“I’m happy to-day,” she laughed, “just happy, -Reuben. And I’m touching rowan-wood while I say -it.”</p> - -<p>There was a light in the kitchen of Ghyll Farm when -they came across the croft, and at the porch-door they -could see Widow Mathewson, her gaunt figure softened -by the moonlight.</p> - -<p>“So ye’ve been wi’ Gaunt? I guessed as mich,” was -the mother’s greeting. There was little complaint in -her tone, but her usual half-sad, half-bitter acceptance -of the day’s troubles as they came.</p> - -<p>Peggy was not contrite. “I’d finished the baking, -mother, and I knew ye’d guess I was off to Linsall Fair. -Mother, I never had such a day—and Reuben won the -fell-race.”</p> - -<p>“Ay, he would. Give him a bit o’ straight running<span class="pagenum" id="Page_223">[223]</span> -for foolishness’ sake, an’ he’s clever; ’tis when ye want -him to do summat wi’ sense at th’ back on’t that Gaunt -fails ye—fails ye ivery time.”</p> - -<p>“I want you to ask me indoors for once,” put in Reuben.</p> - -<p>The widow looked at him curiously. Without emotion, -as if she were counting up her egg money and finding -the total right, she realized that there was a change for -the better in him. His tone was grave, and he had lost -his light, come-and-go air altogether.</p> - -<p>“As ye please,” she answered, stepping aside to let -him pass. “’Tis so late now for us early-to-bed folk -that a bit later willun’t signify.”</p> - -<p>In grim silence she brought cake and elderberry wine -from the corner cupboard and set them on the table. -Whether a guest was a welcome one or no, he must not -leave without a show of hospitality.</p> - -<p>“Just help yourself, Mr. Gaunt,” she said, with a certain -stateliness that was no way out of keeping with her rough -gown and weather-stained, tired face.</p> - -<p>“Oh, by and by,” he said. Peggy and he were standing -on either side the hearth, and Widow Mathewson saw -the confident, warm glances that passed between them. -“We’ve something to tell you, Mrs. Mathewson. Peggy -was pleased with my running, maybe—or perhaps she -saw I was fondish of her—anyway, she has promised -to come down to Marshlands as mistress there.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Mathewson began to stride up and down the -floor. It was her way—the man’s way—when deeply -moved. Folly, disaster, she had looked for whenever -Gaunt had crossed their path; she was not prepared for -honesty.</p> - -<p>“See ye,” she cried fiercely, turning to meet Gaunt’s -eyes, “are ye meaning this? I tell ye, we’re proud,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_224">[224]</span> -bitter-proud, up here at Ghyll. I’ve no man to look -after Peggy—th’ one I lost would have been littlish use -even if he’d lived—but I was not built after a gentle -pattern, Reuben Gaunt. If ye’re planning some fresh -bit o’ devilry, I’ll bid ye keep clear o’ my hands. They’re -strong hands—when I care to use ’em.”</p> - -<p>Reuben was at his ease for once in the widow’s presence. -This new sense of honesty was a gentler, and yet -a stronger feeling than he had known since childhood.</p> - -<p>“’Tis this way,” he said quietly. “We happen to -want one another, and we’re bent on getting one another.”</p> - -<p>“Ay, ye’re bent on it,” said the widow drily, not taking -her eyes from Reuben’s face. “You’re bent on it to-night. -The full moon glamours folk, so they say. Will -ye be bent on it to-morrow?”</p> - -<p>“Mother, you’re hard on Reuben!” broke in Peggy.</p> - -<p>“No harder than he’s been on me, these years and -years past. Are ye playing wi’ my lass, or are ye not? -She’s all I have, mind.”</p> - -<p>Gaunt would take no offence. His spirits were high, -and that curious sense of well-doing was with him still. -“I shall be getting things to rights at Marshlands to-morrow. -A house that has had no mistress all these years -will need setting straight. After that, Peggy has only -to choose the day when she’ll come to it.”</p> - -<p>The widow’s face softened a little, but she did not spare -him. “Very well,” she said, her fine, keen eyes reading -every line of his face. “Ay, very well indeed, Reuben -Gaunt, if ye can hold to th’ same mind two days running. -When I see Peggy wedded I shall believe ’at Peggy’s -wedded. Good night to ye. I’m fair clemmed wi’ all -th’ day’s work, while ye two were gadding ower to Linsall -Fair.”</p> - -<p>Peggy went with Gaunt to the gate of the croft. “Ne’er<span class="pagenum" id="Page_225">[225]</span> -heed mother,” she whispered. “’Tis her way, Reuben. -She’ll soften to ye by and by.”</p> - -<p>“I heed naught, lass, so long as ye’re lying lile and soft -i’ my two arms. What a fool I’ve been all these years—what -a fool!”</p> - -<p>He was swept away by his passion, by the girl’s free, -reckless beauty and reckless tenderness. He pictured -her down yonder in the lonely house at Marshlands. -The liberty he had cherished—liberty to come and go as -he listed, like the wind—was shorn of all attraction. -There would be warmth and well-doing about his house, -and ties to keep him safe from wandering.</p> - -<p>They stood looking down the moor. The moon outlined -each smooth ridge; her light was nestled in the -misty vagueness of the hollows; away and away to the -grey-blue of the silent sky she touched the land with -witchery. And Peggy sighed.</p> - -<p>“Why, lass, you’re shivering,” said Gaunt, roused -from his dreams of what might be.</p> - -<p>“Oh, a goose walked over my grave,” she answered -lightly. “A silly goose, Reuben, to choose just to-day -for wandering.”</p> - -<p>She did not tell him that she feared the day’s happiness, -feared lest all should be changed when she woke -on the morrow. Hardship was more easy to believe in, -after all, and in her experience it followed pleasure always.</p> - -<p>They watched the moor; and the tenderness, the mute, -uncomplaining sorrow of the land, came close to Peggy, -as to one who had known the heath from childhood.</p> - -<p>“Reuben,” she sobbed, “if only ye had one mind in -a day, instead of fifty—or if only I could care for ye -less—”</p> - -<p>“Best care for me more instead of less,” laughed<span class="pagenum" id="Page_226">[226]</span> -Reuben. “I’ve no heed, myself, for geese walking over a -grave.”</p> - -<p>“It was silly, I own. There, ye’ve had kisses enough -and to last—”</p> - -<p>“Until to-morrow?”</p> - -<p>“Well—maybe—if ye come not too early, while -I’m milking the cows—or not overlate, when the house -will need looking to, after all the work I’ve given mother -to-day. There, Reuben—oh, there and there, if ye -must better one good kiss. Good night, Reuben.”</p> - -<p>Gaunt swung down the moor. The moon stood silver-gold -in the middle of the blue sky. A sheep got up -beneath his feet. He startled a grouse from its bed among -the heather. Far down below him he could see a light -set like a little star above the porch of Marshlands.</p> - -<p>“They’re used to late home-comings o’ nights,” he -laughed. “There’ll be fewer such when Peggy comes -to Marshlands.”</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_227">[227]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER XVII</h2> -</div> - - -<p class="drop-cap">WHATEVER doubt Widow Mathewson might have -of Gaunt’s constancy, he himself felt none. On the -morning after Linsall Fair he summoned his housekeeper, -told her that Marshlands was to have a mistress at last, -and gave orders that the disused parlour, full of faded -hangings and rusty furniture unrenewed since his mother -came here as a bride, should be turned out in readiness -for the purchases he meant to make this week in Shepston. -The best bedroom, disused, too, was to be treated -in like fashion. Now that his mind had found an anchorage, -Reuben was eager, businesslike, impatient of -delays.</p> - -<p>His housekeeper said little; but she smiled often when -his back was turned, and shook her head with the foreboding -that was her only luxury.</p> - -<p>“He’s like a lad going off to buy a gun, or a rod, or -some such make o’ toy,” was her thought “Oh, ay, -he’s keen-set on t’ notion, but it winnun’t last no more -than a week. Niver met a man to tire as soon as the -master.”</p> - -<p>Gaunt did not tire, however. He was to and fro between -Ghyll Farm and Marshlands every other day, -and in between was journeying to Shepston, with Peggy -beside him in the smart, high-wheeled gig which was -known by sight to all the dales-folk.</p> - -<p>Widow Mathewson said little these days, save to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_228">[228]</span> -grumble that Peggy left her three parts of the work to do; -but at last she was losing her distrust of Gaunt. His -gaiety appealed to her, for she had known little of it -in her time; his forgetfulness of all past differences between -them was generous, though she only half admitted -it; above all, her headstrong lass showed likely to settle -down at last with a decent roof above her and the right -to show that pride which was ingrained in her.</p> - -<p>“Maybe he’s as well as another man,” she would -mutter, as she nursed her pipe by the hearth and waited -for Peggy to return, “though that’s saying little enough. -Come to think on’t there’s so few worth choosing that -a lass is a’most bound to make a lile fool of herseln when -it comes to marriage.”</p> - -<p>They were to be married at the end of two months. -That was the utmost Mrs. Mathewson would grant when -Reuben pressed for an earlier day.</p> - -<p>“If your fancy lasts for two months, it’ll maybe last -longer,” she said drily, in answer to Gaunt’s pleading. -“My lass shall be thrown at no man’s head, Reuben, -least of all at yours.”</p> - -<p>To Peggy the waiting-time seemed short. Her child’s -dreams up among the winding peat-ways of the moor, -her woman’s yielding to the glamour of this first and -last romance which Gaunt embodied, were of the same -fibre.</p> - -<p>One day—it was a week after Linsall Fair—he did -not take her with him to Shepston. He had a fancy -to buy a chestnut mare he knew of, and keep it as a wedding-gift -for her, letting her find it unexpectedly in the stable -when he brought her home to Marshlands. She could -ride bareback already; he would teach her afterwards to -sit a side-saddle.</p> - -<p>Between Garth and Shepston he came face to face<span class="pagenum" id="Page_229">[229]</span> -with Cilla round a bend of the dusty road, and pulled his -horse up.</p> - -<p>“You have heard the news?” he asked, feeling oddly -ill at ease.</p> - -<p>“I hear so little. It is not father’s way nor mine.” -Cilla’s glance rested quietly on him, and she stood a little -straighter than her wont, with an air of withdrawal. -“If ’tis the fever you mean, of course we’ve heard of it. -They talk of nothing else these days in Garth.”</p> - -<p>“It was not the fever I meant. Do you remember that -you asked me months ago to do something? We were -standing at the porch-door at Good Intent.”</p> - -<p>Cilla flushed, and moved a pace or two away. “Yes, -I remember. It was you, Mr. Gaunt who seemed to -have forgotten.”</p> - -<p>“We’re to be married in October,” he said bluntly.</p> - -<p>For a moment she hesitated, then held out her hand. -“I wish you well—indeed, I wish you both well. Though -we hear so little gossip, they told me Peggy was queen -o’ the fair at Linsall. She deserved to be, I think.”</p> - -<p>With a smile and a bend of the head in token of farewell, -she had left him. He turned in the saddle to watch -her go down the road, with her light, easy step, then -plucked his horse into a trot. He was out of temper -with the day, though he had begun it light-heartedly -enough. His old infirmity had returned to him at sight -of Priscilla; with the best will in the world to be loyal, -he was bewildered by the grace and fragrance which Cilla -had brought along this dusty road. His vanity was hurt, -moreover; there had been no sign of regret or sorrow in -Cilla’s voice; her friendliness and her unconcern were -harder to bear than any of Widow Mathewson’s downright -attacks had been.</p> - -<p>Priscilla moved more slowly once she was out of sight.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_230">[230]</span> -She was lingering in fancy through that day of spring -when she and Gaunt had gone to Keta’s Well. And she -laughed at herself because the tears in her eyes were very -near falling. Why should she grieve because he had done -what she asked of him? Since Keta’s Well and all the -folly of the spring there had been the merciless heat, the -ruined hay-crop, the fever that had not entered Garth -as yet, though the shadow of it lay constantly about the -village.</p> - -<p>“Ah, now, there’s enough that is real to be thought -of,” was Cilla’s way of meeting the fresh heartache. -“Father would tell me, I’m sure, that ’tis no time at all -to be playing with dreams and fancies.”</p> - -<p>Billy the Fool stood at the forge door as she passed—Billy, -with the air of great business and importance which -had come to him since David left him in sole charge of -the forge.</p> - -<p>“Morning, Miss Good Intent!” he said, saluting -gravely. “Terrible days for pleasuring, now that David’s -left me master-smith.” He nodded toward the inside -of the smithy, and a tranquil grin broke across his face. -“Dan Foster’s lad is blowing bellows in yonder. Te-he! -I just told him to get the fire all a-glowing an’ a-crackling, -an’ the lile chap’s doing on’t! ’Tis wonderful how some -folk do sweat while others go playing.”</p> - -<p>“Then what will you play at to-day?” asked Cilla, -her smile made up of rue and rosemary.</p> - -<p>“Well, there’s two score iron palings waiting to be -hammered into shape, like, and Fool Billy reckons he’ll -make a start at yond same, he will. Niver knew before -what ’twas to have all this wonderful lot of play to get -through with. David will laugh when he comes back. -He always did say I was a queerish terrible chap when I -settled to my play.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_231">[231]</span>Priscilla was apt to search deeper into life since the -troubled days arrived. She looked now at Billy, and -remembered the scene last April at time of rescuing the -lambs; she recalled the struggle at the edge of the pool, -and Widow Mathewson’s tale of what had happened long -ago at Marshlands; she sought in Billy’s face, as older -folk had done, for some answer to the riddle of his character. -She found no answer. Unhurried, skilled at his -work so long as a comrade named it play, his blue, trusting -eyes looked into hers, and, if they held a secret, kept -it well.</p> - -<p>He looked again to see if Dan Foster’s lad were plying -the bellows within doors; then, by force of habit, he drew -out a blackened pipe, and as quietly replaced it.</p> - -<p>“There now!” he chuckled. “What wi’ all this -play about, I forgot my manners. Fancied ye had a fill -o’ baccy on ye, and maybe a match to go wi’ that same -baccy. Te-he, but Billy’s a fool!”</p> - -<p>“Not so big i’ that way as he looks,” came a voice -that went roaming down Garth street like pleasant thunder. -“What, ye’re keeping Billy from his playtime? -Shame on ye, Cilla.”</p> - -<p>“Nay, she’s not keeping me,” said Billy, taking Hirst’s -open pouch. “Dan Foster’s lad is doing all the work -these days, ye understand, and ’twould make your sides -split to see him working at th’ old bellows.”</p> - -<p>“We’re not all as lucky as you,” said the yeoman, as -he handed a match to Billy. “Most of us have no play—and, -by that token, I’m bringing a horse to be shod -to-morrow.”</p> - -<p>Billy lit his pipe, and drew quiet puffs before he answered. -“Well now, Mr. Hirst, I’m right set on shoeing -a horse to-morrow. After I’ve done wi’ yond iron palings, -and after I’ve slept for a night in green-field’s bed, as a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_232">[232]</span> -body might say, I’ll be ready for ye. ’Tis rare fun shoeing -a lile horse, wi’ a daft lad doing all the bellows’ work -for ye.”</p> - -<p>Hirst passed on with a cheery laugh, and linked his -arm in Cilla’s as they went up to Good Intent.</p> - -<p>“Billy is like good pasture-land,” he said, with a backward -glance at the forge. “Soft on the crust, and firm -underneath. Oh, ay, David did well to leave Fool Billy -in his place.”</p> - -<p>But Cilla did not answer. Her thoughts were half -with David, who had left Garth when she needed him, -and half with Reuben Gaunt, who hoped to keep a promise -made to her.</p> - -<p>Reuben himself drove to Shepston; and he tried to get -rid of the wish that Cilla had not crossed his path to-day—Cilla, -with her witchcraft of dainty thoughts and comely -living—Cilla, whose gift in life was to make folk see -glamour in unexpected corners.</p> - -<p>Shepston was busy when he reached the town. He -stabled his horse at the Norton Cross tavern, and walked -down the High Street in search of the mare he meant to -get for Peggy. Half down the street he heard himself -hailed by name, and turned. He saw Mother Lambert’s -weather-beaten face, standing behind her stall as she had -stood on the green at Linsall Fair.</p> - -<p>“Morning,” said Gaunt, with the heedless nod of old -acquaintance.</p> - -<p>He was passing on, but she checked him. “I saw ye -last at Linsall, Mr. Gaunt. D’ye mind the pedlar there?”</p> - -<p>“Why, yes.” He was impatient and anxious to move -forward. “I bought a fairing from him, and his face, -I fancied, was more fiery with drink than usual.”</p> - -<p>Mother Lambert looked gravely at him across the -trumpery wares that covered her stall.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_233">[233]</span>“Best speak no ill o’ the dead, sir. The pedlar’s -dead—dead o’ the fever three days ago. It was fever -that mottled his face, an’ he said to me as he stood on the -green after ye’d bought your fairing for Peggy o’ Mathewson’s—he -owned, he did, that he couldn’t feel just -hisseln, like, though he meant to plod on and be -merry.”</p> - -<p>Gaunt’s face was white. He had no thought of Cilla -now, but remembered only the lass who had watched him -win a race, the lass who had been tender to his failings -and buoyant in her love for him.</p> - -<p>“Are you speaking truth?” he asked.</p> - -<p>“Well, yes. I mostly do, save when I’ve wares to sell; -and business, Mr. Gaunt, is another basket of eggs, as -the saying goes.”</p> - -<p>“I’ve laughed at the fever-dread till now,” he said, -after a troubled silence. “For myself, I take chances of -that sort of thing as they come; but ’tis different when -there’s a doubt that Peggy may have caught it. Surely -you’ve to come closer to it, and stay longer with it, than -we did that day at Linsall?”</p> - -<p>“What, for harm to come on’t? Nay! I’ve seen -plenty o’ fever i’ my time, an’ I tell ye that kerchief ye -bought for Peggy o’ Mathewson’s was enough in itself -to gi’e it to her. Poor Peggy! They allus said—those -’at were jealous—that her liking for bright colours -would bring her to grief one day.”</p> - -<p>Mother Lambert nodded sagely after Gaunt had left -her. She had lived a hard, roving life, had long since -learned to look at her neighbours with eyes unclouded -by overmuch feeling; and she told herself now, with a -quiet, impersonal wonder, that there was a real change -in the man.</p> - -<p>“Did ye see Reuben Gaunt go down street just<span class="pagenum" id="Page_234">[234]</span> -now?” she asked a crony, who came from a neighbouring -stall for gossip.</p> - -<p>“Ay. Straight-set-up, as usual, and a bonnie lile figure -to catch a lass’s fancy. There’s never much change in -Gaunt.”</p> - -<p>“Well, now, there is a change, and that’s th’ odd part -on’t. He’s learned to think for another first, ’stead of -himself, and that means a deal. Eh, but men are bothersome -cattle! Ye think ye know ’em, right to th’ back o’ -their minds, an’ all of a sudden they turn just contrary-like.”</p> - -<p>Gaunt bought the mare for Peggy, and gave orders that -it should be sent that day to Marshlands; but he had -little heart either in the bargaining or the purchase. As he -walked up the High Street toward the inn again, a hearse -was moving slowly to the churchyard which fronted and -looked down upon the road. They told him that only -one day of the last fifteen had passed without a burial, -and some days there had been three or four. It was -brought home to him at last that the Black Fever was no -boggart invented by mothers to frighten wayward bairns; -he saw the scourge now as it really was, as a pestilence -unlike all others, save the plague which many hundred -years ago, folk said, had destroyed whole villages, and had -made thriving townships into wasted hamlets.</p> - -<p>Indeed, the fever, in a less degree, had that power to -weaken men by terror which the plague had had long since. -It was market-day, and a busy day, along the High Street; -but uneasiness and gloom showed plainly on all but the -most reckless faces, and farmer-men, ashamed of a weakness -they could not control, would glance at farmer-men, -seeking for the telltale patches of mulberry-red which -spelled infection.</p> - -<p>Gaunt opened his lungs to the breeze when he was clear<span class="pagenum" id="Page_235">[235]</span> -of Shepston. He knew that there was danger to himself, -but had dismissed the thought; his cowardice was all for -Peggy. He was glad to be out among clean fields again, -with the open road in front of him, and none to talk of the -fever.</p> - -<p>He walked straight up to Ghyll Farm after reaching -home, and Peggy was standing at the gate of the croft, -looking down the moor. She half looked for him, and -for that reason had fastened the crimson handkerchief -round her throat; she had tied and untied it before her -cracked mirror, with the honest coquetry which a woman -finds when she knows that one man only has a claim on it.</p> - -<p>Reuben saw the scarf, as soon almost as he caught sight -of the waiting figure. The sunlight, stark and dry as the -fields it had scorched, caught the warm colour of the -kerchief.</p> - -<p>“You look tired, Reuben,” said Peggy o’ Mathewson’s, -after a quiet glance at his face.</p> - -<p>“Well, yes,” he answered carelessly. “It was a hot -drive into Shepston, and the fools would talk of nothing -but their fever. I begin to think they’re proud of it, -Peggy.”</p> - -<p>“They’ve got used to it, you see,” said the girl, with -something of her mother’s tart knowledge of the world. -“’Tis queer, Reuben, how soon ye get used to a thing, -even if ’tis bad, and seem to miss it when it goes.”</p> - -<p>He scarcely heard her. His eyes were fixed on the -crimson scarf, and she smiled happily as she followed his -glance.</p> - -<p>“Yes, I’m wearing your gift, lad. Mother chided me -just now—said ’twas no sort o’ fancy-stuff to wear, when -there were cattle needed milking by and by. I said -you’d given it me at Linsall Fair and the lile, soft beasts -would milk no worse because I wore it.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_236">[236]</span>Gaunt, though he did not know it, had caught something -of the panic that troubled all the folk of Shepston. -“At the back of his mind,” as he put it to himself, he -was sure that Peggy would catch no harm from the scarf -at this late day; the harm was done already, or not done; -yet he could not rest so long as she was wearing it.</p> - -<p>“Peggy,” he said, “I want that kerchief you’re wearing.”</p> - -<p>Peggy o’ Mathewson’s laughed, though her eyes were -full of disquiet. “Best buy another, Reuben, if you’re -fooling me again. I’ll not let this one go to some lile -fool who’s turned her blue eyes on ye and made geese -seem swans.”</p> - -<p>So then he told her—the sun lay low down to Windover -Crag by this time—that Pedlar Joe had the fever -on him when he sold the kerchief; and again she -laughed.</p> - -<p>“Is that all, Reuben? I thought ’twas worse.” She -looked down the moor, and into his face again; and her -voice was soft with trouble. “Reuben, ’tis ill when ye -doubt the man ye care for. I never cared, save for you; -but you—”</p> - -<p>Gaunt forgot the scarf, forgot the sickness and the -hearse and the great distrust that had peopled the High -Street at Shepston.</p> - -<p>“Well?” he asked. “What is amiss, then, if we’re -both of the same mind? Peggy, I’ve been fearing for you -all the way home from market; I ought to take shame that -a parcel of Shepston folk can scare me.”</p> - -<p>Down below in Garth, Billy had done with his day’s -play at the forge, and had wandered out into what he -named his green-field’s bed. He made up the pastures -and out into the open moor; and here, in a little hollow -deep with heather, he lay down, turned twice or thrice<span class="pagenum" id="Page_237">[237]</span> -till he had made a lair for himself, and breathed a sigh -of sheer content.</p> - -<p>“’Tis a right queer matter to be born daft-witted,” he -said to himself. “There’s folk sleeping in Garth yonder -at this minute ’twixt four hot walls, and no breath o’ air -to help them. Only Fool Billy knows, ’twould seem, -what a terrible soft bed a body’s body can find right up -at the top o’ the world.”</p> - -<p>He lay there on his back, and watched the stars, the -waning moon whose colour was ivory tinged with saffron, -the quiet blue of the sky. The wise folk spoke of the -moor as a lonely place, where none could sleep without -fear of the ghosts that were known to haunt it. To Billy -it was home. If grouse were lying near him in the heather, -they were friends; if the old dog-fox from Sharprise -Wood chose this track for purposes connected with his -larder, Billy was well acquainted with him; as for ghosts, -there was only one that troubled him, and this had no -dwelling among the marshes and the ling.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_238">[238]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER XVIII</h2> -</div> - - -<p class="drop-cap">PEGGY’S high spirits did not forsake her as the time -for her wedding drew near. Gaunt was eager, -with a dash of haste and recklessness about the matter -that appealed to her gipsy temper.</p> - -<p>She knew that poor fools down in the valley were sick -with the heat and the fever-dread; for herself, she lived -on the cooler moor, and a glance at its clean acres, a touch -of its heather-wind, were enough to banish all thought of -fever like an unclean ghost that had no place here on -the hill-tops. She did not know that a part at least of -Gaunt’s haste was due to Priscilla of the Good Intent. -Since the day when Cilla had met him on the Shepston -Road, Reuben had found the old disquiet return. Like -his father before him, he had an instinct toward a wife -who was comely of speech and manner; he needed, as -Mrs. Mathewson had said bitterly in time of April snow, -“a ladyish mistress for Marshlands.” Do as he would -these days, Gaunt saw constantly the picture of Cilla in -her lilac frock. She would fit the old house as the well-ordered -ivy which grew along its front. Her voice would -sound cool and low under the dark rafter-beams. There -would be flowers about the house again, and the spinet -would awaken to life under Cilla’s fingers.</p> - -<p>Reuben was tormented by that picture, and each detail -of it grew clearer as the days went by. The man was to -be pitied, maybe, for he had the gift of fancy, and at times<span class="pagenum" id="Page_239">[239]</span> -it bred in him a strange irresolution. The one instinct -in him longed for an orderly home, a settled purpose in -life; the other took him to the open lands, where such as -Peggy Mathewson, and the pedlar-folk, and the poachers, -lived free from all convention. Each attracted him, and -he had not once been taught, during his heedless and ungoverned -boyhood, that it was idle to pursue two whims -at once.</p> - -<p>Peggy, keen-sighted as she was, had no inkling of -Gaunt’s weakness. He was eager, lover-like, full of -plans for doing this and that about the house to make it -ready for her. Even Widow Mathewson, though she -looked for it, saw no hesitancy, no sign of withdrawal as -the weeks drew on; and, in her own wry fashion, she was -proud of Reuben, as a mother is proud of a weakling -son when he shows stray glimpses of true manhood. It -was little satisfaction to her, or none at all, that Peggy -would be mistress of the biggest farm in Garth, would be -wife to one of a yeoman breed so old that the Gaunts were -counted as a sort of gentry among their farm-neighbours. -The widow had her own pride of station, and not for a -moment would she admit that her lass “was bettering -herself” by marriage; she was simply glad that the -girl, if she must needs set her heart on Reuben, was likely -to be treated well.</p> - -<p>For Peggy there was no shadow lying over these weeks. -She had prayed, in her haphazard way, that there should -be no break following the glamoured day at Linsall Fair; -and her prayer was granted. It seemed strange to her -that she had ever found hard words for Reuben. He was -strong, and tender, and considerate; he asked only for -a speedy wedding, and Peggy chided her mother because -the widow was obstinate in her resolve.</p> - -<p>“Nay, lass,” Mrs. Mathewson would say. “Ye’ve<span class="pagenum" id="Page_240">[240]</span> -bided long for Reuben, and ’tis a lile biding-time enough -I’ve set him, surely. There’s no daughter o’ mine going -to come pretty-come-quick to his call, just at the minute -he cares to whistle.”</p> - -<p>And Peggy would laugh, and tell herself that she was in -no great haste for wedlock, after all. She asked for -nothing beyond the present happiness. Strong at the -churn, clear of vision, quick to see shortcomings in her -neighbours, Peggy o’ Mathewson’s had yielded altogether -to her love for Gaunt. He had put cobwebs over -her eyes, as the Garth folk said; for she heard the fairies -sing, when at nights she went up to the beck that trickled -under the rowans, and looked down at the lights of Marshlands, -and pictured Reuben there.</p> - -<p>Towards the end of the waiting-time, Gaunt rode up to -Ghyll and told them that he had to be away in the Midlands -for a week. His father, in one of the buying fits -that came on him at times, had bought property down -there, and he had to look to it.</p> - -<p>“’Twill be a wedding-gift for you, Peggy,” he said at -parting.</p> - -<p>“My lad, I want no wedding-gifts. If ye must go, -ye must go, an’ good luck to ye; but, Reuben, never talk -o’ gifts. The red kerchief ye bought me at the Fair -was enough for me—that, and what ye whispered on the -home-way walk.”</p> - -<p>They were standing at the moor’s edge, and peace was -stealing up from the hollows. After the sun’s heat and -the weariness, the dusk had laid gentle fingers on the -land. There was no limit to the heath, seen by this -magical, soft light. Sharprise, crimson and gold and -purple where the last of the sunset caught his crest, -seemed to bound it on one side; but Peggy, looking out -with practised eyes, could see further hills, and hills<span class="pagenum" id="Page_241">[241]</span> -beyond, each putting on its nightcap of saffron haze. -Light scents, stifled by the sun, began to creep abroad. -It was a gloaming such as few could see without a quickened -sense of the big life behind all frets and worries of -the long day’s business.</p> - -<p>For Peggy o’ Mathewson’s it was home. These -darkening hollows, the rough, winding ridges reaching -out to the spaces where, in some heathen way of worship, -she always sought her God, the cool, faint smell of the -bracken, and the ling, were all that spelled life and freedom -for Peggy. The gloaming’s quiet, Gaunt’s nearness, -softened her reckless spirits, but could not check her -laughter.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Reuben, I am daft!” she said, putting both -hands into his. “Thought I could hold my own, I, and -I’m thinking only o’ ye. Will ye come back, or will ye -not—and are ye true, or are ye not—and all such -moonshine nonsense. Reuben, I’ve been happy these -last days. Ye wouldn’t spoil it all?”</p> - -<p>“Not lightly,” said Reuben, as he kissed her good-by, -and went down the moor.</p> - -<p>The next day Peggy was listless and out of heart. -She fancied the heat ailed her, though until now she had -been careless of all extremes of weather. Widow Mathewson -noticed the change, as she smoked her pipe by the -hearth that night.</p> - -<p>“Lile lass,” she said, “ye’re fretting for Reuben.”</p> - -<p>Peggy shivered, and crept nearer the peat-fire. -“Oh, I’m thinking all o’ ghosts, mother. He has -to be away, and the fool I am to be needing him so, -and there’s many a mile ’twixt this and his home-coming.”</p> - -<p>The widow smiled, but her face was full of compassion. -“I loved your father i’ that way, Peggy. He was niver<span class="pagenum" id="Page_242">[242]</span> -much to lean on, but I missed him sorely when he went -down kirkyard lane.”</p> - -<p>“You’re sneering at Reuben again, mother.” The -girl’s temper was frayed to-day and broken at the edges.</p> - -<p>“Nay, nay. I begin to think Reuben’s stauncher than -your father iver war. Happen ye’ve come to your own, -Peggy, for a man as can win a fell-race o’ the Linsall sort -has summat behind it all. Ye’ll shape him by and by. -Oh, ay, ye’ll shape him. Men are all like a blunt bit o’ -millstone grit; they need a chisel, they.”</p> - -<p>Peggy o’ Mathewson’s crept nearer still to the peats. -The light of the one lamp shone on the pewter and the -delftware that was Ghyll’s special pride, and the fire-glow -played bo-peep in corners of the living-room.</p> - -<p>“I scarce feel like a bride, mother,” said Peggy, after -a long silence.</p> - -<p>“Tuts!” answered Widow Mathewson. “Few maidens -do. Ye talk as if there were no modesty left i’ the -world.”</p> - -<p>“I’m so cold. All day it has been like a goose walking -ower my grave—just as I said to Reuben when we walked -fro’ Linsall Fair.”</p> - -<p>The widow was easy in her mind to-night. Her hidden -liking for Gaunt need not be checked so much in future; -only she knew how bitterly she would miss Peggy in and -about the house; but she knew, too, that it was idle or -worse, to keep her lass from a home of her own. A glance -at the girl’s face, white and pinched, might have startled -Widow Mathewson; but she smoked her pipe, and looked -into the grate, and hugged her self-content as a luxury -seldom found at Ghyll.</p> - -<p>“Fiddle-me-ree,” she answered, with pleasant tartness. -“Th’ only geese as are walking abroad, to my -knowledge, are ye an’ Reuben—an’ he’s a gander.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_243">[243]</span> -Oh, lass, Peggy, I’ve it all by heart! Niver sich a one i’ -the world as your man; an’ ye know his shortcomings plain -as your own face in a pool; an’ ye throw bits o’ pebble -into th’ pool, just to stir his proper likeness into pleasanter -shape; an’ ye call it loving the lad. Lord o’ mercy, -there’s been many a woman at yond pool-edge afore your -time, and will be after. I war there myseln once. ’Tis -only nature.”</p> - -<p>Peggy got up and went out through the porch, and -stood looking out and away across the moor.</p> - -<p>“I war there myseln once,” repeated Widow Mathewson, -with a tolerant smile. “I munnot forget what ’twas -like—just the wee, lile fairies dancing, an’ witchcraft -ower the moor.”</p> - -<p>She knocked her pipe out on the grate, and youth -touched her brown, scarred face for a moment.</p> - -<p>“Good sakes,” she murmured, “I’d like to be young -again like that—cobwebs about my eyes or no. Better -be a blithesome fool at two-and-twenty than a wiser one -at sixty.”</p> - -<p>Five days later Gaunt returned to Garth. He came -by the morning mail-coach, and sat by Will the Driver’s -side, and asked as many questions regarding the health -of Garth folk as if he had been absent for a year.</p> - -<p>“Oh, they’ve ’scaped fever right enough,” said Will, -trying to answer all his questions at once. “They’re a -bit scared still, but forgetting all such rubbish. Widow -Lister’s hale and hearty—ay, just a shade too hale and -hearty. Billy is laking at the forge, an’ doing as much -real work as David did, an’ willun’t take a penny for ’t. -Has made a box, he, an’ tells all folk to put their silly -money in through the slit and let it bide there till David -comes again. He has no use for money, he—lile, wise -lad as he is.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_244">[244]</span>“And Widow Mathewson?” asked Gaunt.</p> - -<p>Driver Will knew well enough what news the other -was seeking; it was common knowledge now that Peggy -o’ Mathewson’s and Gaunt had been “asked” three -times at church. For that reason Will concealed his -knowledge, as if it were a crime, and affected a fine ignorance -as he flicked his team with the whip.</p> - -<p>“Oh, she’s well enough, or was a few days since. -Have not seen Peggy or th’ widow since Monday last. -Terrible home-bird folk, both on ’em. I liken ’em always -i’ my mind to a brace o’ nesting grouse, so shy an’ fierce -an’ prideful as they are.”</p> - -<p>Gaunt asked for no more news until the coach rounded -the curve that brought him within two miles of Garth.</p> - -<p>“And Miss Priscilla?”</p> - -<p>The driver gave him a shrewd, hasty glance. “Oh, well -enough. She never alters—a breath o’ rosemary along -the dusty road. Wish I’d been born a lile thought higher -in station, and could cast my eyes that way. There -never were two made like Miss Good Intent. And there -she is, by that token, walking just ahead.”</p> - -<p>“You can put me down,” said Gaunt.</p> - -<p>Driver Will wasted little time in stopping and in starting -off again. He greeted Priscilla with a friendly, -courteous salute when a moment later he passed her on -the road; and then he touched his horses’ ears with a -gentle whip that spoke of deep reflection on his part. Will -had leisure for reflection during those long drives between -Shepston and the remote hamlet that ended his twenty-mile -journey, and it was second nature to him now to -piece together the life stories of those who dwelt along -the road.</p> - -<p>“It must feel odd to be one o’ Mr. Gaunt’s sort,” he -was thinking. “I mind yond day i’ spring when they<span class="pagenum" id="Page_245">[245]</span> -drove out wi’ me, sweet as kiss-me-quicks, to Keta’s -Well. I mind the way they came home again—she -with the clover-pink in her cheeks, and Gaunt with a -queer look in his eyes I’d not seen there before. Get -along, Captain, or they’ll take ye for a tramp. Gee-up! -And now he’s come home to wed Peggy o’ Mathewson’s; -and I fancied, when he was seeking news just now, ’twar -Peggy he war asking for, until—well, until he named -Miss Good Intent. Eh, well—get along, Captain! -The Queen doesn’t wait for her mails while such as ye -catch a sleep along the road.”</p> - -<p>Gaunt had overtaken Cilla long ago, and she had turned -to meet his greeting with the clover-pink in her cheeks -that Will the Driver had thought of.</p> - -<p>“Will you come to my wedding?” he asked, ill at -ease after his journey south, and all the brave thoughts -that had kept him company on the northward road.</p> - -<p>Priscilla laughed. It was the Garth way, when trouble -must be met. “You have asked me, Reuben—and -father, too; of course we shall be at the kirk.”</p> - -<p>They walked side by side in silence until the grey gable -of Good Intent showed near at hand. Reuben could not -take his eyes from the girl’s face, and presently she looked -up, embarrassed by a feeling of shame and unrest for -which she could find no reason.</p> - -<p>“I wish you both well,” she said, halting at the gate.</p> - -<p>The voice was not Cilla’s; it was hesitating, cold. -A random impulse took Gaunt unawares.</p> - -<p>“Cilla,” he began eagerly.</p> - -<p>She withdrew, and her coldness disappeared. She was -self-reliant again, full of a dainty, half-mocking rebuke -that would not stoop to anger.</p> - -<p>“Good-by,” she said. “They call you running-water, -Reuben, but I’ve better hopes of you.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_246">[246]</span>Reuben stayed a moment, watching her, until the -house-porch hid her. For once he was troubled by the -knowledge of his own weakness. An hour ago he had -been full of his wedding plans, full of his early scamper out -to Garth by the mail. Peggy did not expect him until -late afternoon, and he had looked forward, with a boy’s -zest, to the surprise of a morning visit to Ghyll. It was -Thursday, and Peggy would be busy at the churn; he -would help her at the work; Widow Mathewson would -have her gibe, half tart, half friendly, when she put her -head round the door of the dairy and found him “doing -real work for once in a long journey.” That was the -picture he had seen—until he overtook Priscilla on the -road.</p> - -<p>Gaunt set his face toward the moor and made his way -up to Ghyll; but the brightness of the picture had gone. -He blamed himself for that moment’s treason with Cilla; -it seemed an ill beginning for his wedding. The day -was hot and garish, too, and the fierce summer had set -its mark on the pastures and the hedgerows. Such leaves -as were left unshrivelled showed lifeless and drab, and -never a bird sang. Thirst was walking like a spectre -through the land, side by side with the heat. The fields -were gaping wide, entreating rain. Even the yarrow flowers -liking a lean and scanty soil, carried drooping heads. The -sheep stood staring up into the sky, for they were tired -of cropping grass that was tough and lifeless as ill-won -hay.</p> - -<p>When he reached the moor, Gaunt looked for Ghyll -Farm. Its roof was set in the middle of waving lines -of heat-haze, and no life stirred about the house. Fancy -had played Reuben many a surly trick, but it helped him -now to brace himself for coming trouble. Dalliance -in sheltered Garth was forgotten; he knew that ill news<span class="pagenum" id="Page_247">[247]</span> -awaited him, and went forward, preparing himself to -meet it. With all his faults, Gaunt was apt to meet an -open danger in the face.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Mathewson, from the window of Peggy’s bedroom, -had seen him come up the moor, and ran down -and out into the croft. She found him opening the gate.</p> - -<p>“Don’t come nigh, Reuben,” she cried. “I tell you, -don’t come nigh.”</p> - -<p>Her strong, lean arms were stretched towards him, -motioning him away; there was trouble in her face, and -her eyes had the look which tired folk wear when they -have been awake throughout the night.</p> - -<p>He thought at first that her old distrust of him had -returned and laughed. “I’m not to be kept away from -Ghyll these days, mother. Peggy is pledged to marry me -next week, and ’tis overlate for you to say no to that.”</p> - -<p>As he came nearer Widow Mathewson withdrew. -Gaunt could make nothing of the look she gave him—tragical, -and full of pity, and weary beyond all belief.</p> - -<p>“Ye’ll not come in,” she said sharply.</p> - -<p>“And why shouldn’t I?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Reuben, Reuben, the fever’s come to Ghyll. -Peggy ligs yonder i’ her bed, and her face is ill to look at. -Ye’ll catch it, too, if ye come nigh the house—for me -’tis no matter—I’m ower-old to care.”</p> - -<p>Gaunt paused for a moment, shocked by the news. -Then he crossed the garden-strip, and stood beside her -in the porch.</p> - -<p>“Mother,” he said quietly, “it seems we’ve to know -one another better. D’ye think I’m feared o’ the fever, -if Peggy has caught it?”</p> - -<p>She stood away from him. In the hour of fear she -could not rid herself of this habit of denying all courage -in a man.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_248">[248]</span>“Fever means little to me,” she said drily. “I’m -over and done with, Reuben, and care niver at all whether -I lig me down or no. But ye’re young, lad—”</p> - -<p>“And a coward,” broke in Reuben.</p> - -<p>She glanced again at his face. “Well, no,” she said. -“I was wrong there, and I own it. But, Reuben—there’s -one i’ five lives on to tell on’t if they catch the -fever.”</p> - -<p>“Then Peggy must be the one, that’s all, mother. -We’ll save her yet between us.”</p> - -<p>He had no thought of himself. His face, after he had -heard her news, was softened, yet full of quiet strength. -The widow felt a grudging admiration for this man, -with whom she had fought so bitterly in days gone by; -she looked again at his trim, healthy body, at the young -health in his face, and she was filled with pity.</p> - -<p>“Reuben, lad, go back ower th’ moor,” she said, peremptorily. -“If one’s to die, there’s lile use killing two. -I tell ye,” she broke off, with a touch of her old bitterness, -“the fever takes no more count o’ Mr. Gaunt o’ Marshlands -than it does o’ plain Peggy Mathewson. ’Tis -not just a risk ye’re taking; ’tis as near to certain as -aught i’ this life can be that ye’ll catch it, an’ die on’t, -an’ no more o’ Gaunt o’ Marshlands.”</p> - -<p>“Well, there’s not much to boast of as it is. If you -put it that way, I’m risking little.”</p> - -<p>Widow Mathewson, though she and Peggy had lived -high up above the peopled villages, had a sure instinct -for truth or meanness in her fellows. She could detect -no sign of cowardice under Gaunt’s quiet acceptance of -his destiny. There was no bluster, covering a weak -purpose. He meant to share Peggy’s trouble.</p> - -<p>“Reuben, there’s few i’ Garth would be so daft,” she -said, still guarding the porch. “Think while! I’ve<span class="pagenum" id="Page_249">[249]</span> -known what the fever means longer than ye could know -it. Thirty year back it came to Garth, an’ good men o’ -their hands—good men o’ their lives, too, an’ honest—dared -not come nigh a house that had the white cross on -it.”</p> - -<p>“My father used to tell of it.” Reuben was indifferent, -as if it were no time to listen to bygone tales. He was -thinking of Peggy, lying helpless in the up-stairs room.</p> - -<p>“Did he tell you that the coffiners were found missing, -when they were needed to see bodies buried decently -fro’ end to end o’ Garth? Did he tell ye that men who’d -faced storm on th’ moor, an’ danger o’ most sorts, sat -shivering by their fires, an’ dursn’t stir a finger to help -stricken folk? Oh, Reuben, lad, ’tis no game o’ kiss me by -the stream, this, and naught to bother ye after.”</p> - -<p>“Never said it was, mother,” said Gaunt drily. “I’m -here to see we do our best for Peggy.”</p> - -<p>The widow understood, somehow, that Reuben the -despised was her master in this time of stress. Weak -as running water he might be afterwards, when better -days arrived; but now he had the strength of many a -likelier man. Her good man had been weak in all days, -fair or foul, and memory of him had hindered her outlook -upon Gaunt.</p> - -<p>She stood in silence for awhile, her spare height framed -against the entry to this house of sickness. Far down the -reaches of the moor, a tired haze lay, and prayed for -rain; from the blue of the weary sky the sun shone fiercely. -Again the mother-pity came to Widow Mathewson. For -herself, it did not matter; she could tend Peggy, and could -die if her time had come, and no tears wasted; but Gaunt -had no need to die just yet. She guarded the grey old -porch as men, in the lawless times, had fought for their -wives and bairns at this same door.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_250">[250]</span>“’Tis the waiting-time will trouble ye, Reuben,” she -said, in a matter of fact, quiet voice. “Th’ men are -cowards when th’ fever comes, for that reason. If they -could know i’ a day or so whether they’d caught it or no, -they’d niver heed the danger, like. Women are used to -waiting, and they’re bolder at these times.”</p> - -<p>“I’m coming in, mother.”</p> - -<p>“Nay, think ower it, lad! Think ower it! There’ll be -six weeks o’ waiting afore iver ye know whether ye’ve -caught th’ fever. Six weeks, Reuben! Plenty o’ men -wouldn’t wait as long for a maid that was bonnie and -well.”</p> - -<p>Reuben took her by the arms, and made a way for himself. -“There, mother, ’tis done now, I take it. Lucky -I told them down at Marshlands that I might or might -not be home to-day. They’ll not sit up for me to-night, -and to-morrow I must get a message down somehow.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Mathewson and Gaunt stood facing each other -in the living-room. If there had been enmity between -them, they did not remember it; a grave silence held -between them, for each knew that death lay very near, -not to Peggy only, but to themselves.</p> - -<p>“There’s still a chance to go back, Reuben,” she said -at last. “Ye may or may not have caught it by stepping -into t’ house, and ye need say naught to nobody; but, -if ye once go up into th’ chamber—an’ I see your eyes -on th’ stair-door—there’ll be no return for ye.”</p> - -<p>A troubled moaning sounded from the room above, and -Gaunt laid a hand on the sneck of the staircase door. -“Maybe ’twould ease the lass if she knew I was near,” -he said gently.</p> - -<p>“She willun’t know, she’s ower far gone, I tell ye! -Reuben, my lad, have just a thought for yourseln.”</p> - -<p>He glanced at her, with his curious, new look of gravity<span class="pagenum" id="Page_251">[251]</span> -and self-effacement, and went up the stair. The widow -heard his step on the boards overhead, then a startled -cry. She knew what the cry meant. The Peggy who -had watched him win the fell-race, who had danced on -Linsall Green, was not the lass who lay on the bed up -there; for the fever laid ugly hands on the faces of its -victims, and on their minds its hold was still more cruel. -There were no wild outbursts of delirium, followed by -intervals of sanity and hope; there was only the low, helpless -muttering, the sluggish apathy, the denial of all power -or will to find healing from any human ministry.</p> - -<p>Widow Mathewson paced up and down the living-room -with her manlike strides; and by and by she heard Gaunt -pacing up and down the floor above. It was Gaunt’s -hour of bitterness, the first hour of his heedless life that -had found him ready to hearken to his lesson. If he had -dealt ill with Peggy o’ Mathewson’s in times past, he was -paying something of the penalty now. It was not so -much the bodily change in her that shocked and terrified -him; it was the knowledge, brought suddenly home to -him, that she did not care whether he stood at her bedside -or not, that likely she would never care again in this -world. The incessant moaning maddened him; it -seemed to tell of an anguish that was beyond reach of his -help. He could not believe that Peggy herself felt nothing, -knew nothing—that it was he, in full vigour of mind -and body, who suffered for her, just by looking on.</p> - -<p>He came down the stone stairway at last, and the widow -ceased her restless walk. She looked at his face. It -was white and stern, but there was no trace of personal -fear on it.</p> - -<p>“It was as well I came,” he said.</p> - -<p>“As well you came,” she echoed. “You say that -after—after going in yond up-stairs room?”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_252">[252]</span>“Yes, mother. You may be tough, but ’twould drive -ye mad to live alone with what’s in the house here. Mother, -is there naught at all we can do to ease her?” he broke off.</p> - -<p>“Ay, but not mich. I’m skilled enough i’ nursing-work, -so far as that goes. But t’ fever shoves a body -aside, an’ willun’t let nursing have its say.”</p> - -<p>For the first time she let weakness overcome her. Her -tears were few, but full of passionate relief; and they were -a tribute to the sense that, for once in her stormy life, -she had a man about her in time of need.</p> - -<p>Gaunt patted her gently on the shoulder. All the -hidden liking between the oddly-assorted pair was patent -to them both.</p> - -<p>“That’s better!” he said. “Wish Peggy up yonder -could cry like that. ’Twould do her a power o’ good.”</p> - -<p>Toward gloaming of that day, as Reuben stood at the -window after one of his fruitless visits to the room above, -he saw a lad come up the slope of the moor. He ran -out across the croft, and shouted to the lad. Already he -had learned the instinct of all who had seen the fever -close—the instinct to cry, like a leper of old, that none -must come too near.</p> - -<p>The lad ceased whistling, and halted in surprise; -for Reuben, though he did not know it, was waving his -arms like one far gone in drink or madness.</p> - -<p>“I war nobbut stepping up for a sitting of eggs fro’ -th’ widow. Miss Cilla o’ Good Intent telled me to -come,” he said, half blubbering. “’Twas promised, -yond clutch of eggs, an’ Miss Good Intent wants t’ -chickens reared i’ good time for the winter.”</p> - -<p>Gaunt saw now that it was Dan Foster’s lad, whose -delight, like that of bigger men-folk, was to run errands -for Priscilla when he was not blowing the bellows for -Fool Billy at the forge.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_253">[253]</span>“Bide where ye are!” he called sharply. “I want -you to go back to Marshlands, and tell them I shall not -be home for weeks. Have you got that message into -your head, Dan?”</p> - -<p>“Ay,” said the lad, recovering from his bewilderment.</p> - -<p>“And then go to Good Intent, and tell Miss Cilla that -for God’s sake she is not to come nor send to Ghyll here.” -Gaunt, with a backward thought of Peggy lying in the -up-stairs room, was ashamed of his eagerness that Cilla -should be saved. “You’ll not forget, Dan?”</p> - -<p>“No,” said the boy, his native curiosity conquering the -last trace of fear. “No, I’ll not forget, Mr. Gaunt; -but what mun I say is t’ reason, like, that Miss Good -Intent can’t get her eggs? She’s main set on getting that -clutch, she is, an’ she’ll fancy it war me as disappointed -her.”</p> - -<p>Gaunt laughed harshly. “The reason? Tell her that -the fever’s come to Ghyll.”</p> - -<p>Like a wounded rabbit the lad sought cover. To him -the fever meant all that was terrible, mysterious; he had -heard his elders talk of it these months past beside the -hearth; he feared that, even at this distance and with the -clean breath of the heath between himself and Ghyll, he -might be overtaken by the pestilence. Gaunt watched -him run far down the moor, and turn the shoulder of a -hillock, and then he went indoors again. Mrs. Mathewson -was sitting by the hearth.</p> - -<p>“I’ve sent word to Marshlands,” he said, taking a seat -in the settle-corner, as if the widow and he were friends -of long standing. “They’ll not look for me till I come -home again; and meanwhile the farm and all that will be -cared for.”</p> - -<p>The widow lifted her head and looked at Gaunt with -the keen glance which, until to-day, he had found disconcerting.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_254">[254]</span> -No anxiety, no brooding instinct of disaster, -could check the tongue of this woman who had seen life’s -soft illusions leave her one by one.</p> - -<p>“You’re not likely to reach home again, Reuben.”</p> - -<p>“Likely not,” he answered, feeling for his pipe and -filling it with careful fingers. “There’s few would miss -me, come to think of it, save you and Peggy.”</p> - -<p>“I’d miss ye, Reuben Gaunt?” she snapped, with a -tired effort to resist her new outlook on the man.</p> - -<p>“Yes, you, mother. D’ye hear Peggy moaning up above -us? ’Twas time that I, or another, came to help ye to -bear it.”</p> - -<p>Widow Mathewson reached out for her black clay -pipe, and took a bit of live peat from the fire, and lit the -half-filled bowl. “We mun as weel smoke in company, -Reuben,” she said.</p> - -<p>They smoked in friendship for awhile.</p> - -<p>“Gaunt,” said the widow suddenly, “d’ye know what -fear means or what death means, or are ye a likelier lad -than I thought ye?”</p> - -<p>“I know what death means, mother,” said Reuben, as -he moved from the settle-corner to stir the peat-fire into -life. “I’ve learned to-day.”</p> - -<p>Again a silence fell between them. Then the widow -lit her pipe afresh, and her voice was gentler than Gaunt -had known it hitherto.</p> - -<p>“You’ve fooled a good few women i’ your time, Reuben; -but I fancy ye’re not by way o’ fooling now.”</p> - -<p>“No,” said Gaunt, “I’m not by way of fooling now.”</p> - -<p>Outside there was no breath of ease to hint that rain -might come to-morrow, or the next day after that. In the -red of a stagnant sunset the day had ceased, and night -brought only a sultry heat that taxed man’s endurance -to the breaking point.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_255">[255]</span>“Reuben,” said Widow Mathewson, “I wish th’ wind -would ding the house-door down, if only to stifle yond -moaning up above us. She’s all I’ve got, an’ I can do -naught at all.”</p> - -<p>“Bide and see, mother. All’s not over yet. There, -let me fill your pipe again for you, mother. ’Twill never -do to let you go handling an empty bowl.”</p> - -<p>Their vigil had begun. Widow Mathewson stole quiet -glances now and then at the other’s face. She was wondering -if the fever had been sent, after all, to make a man -of Gaunt of Marshlands.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_256">[256]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER XIX</h2> -</div> - - -<p class="drop-cap">DAN FOSTER’S lad lost no time in delivering Gaunt’s -message at Marshlands. Fright lent speed to his -legs, and he was glad to pass on his terror to older folk, -with a boy’s faith that they would be able, in their wisdom, -to relieve him of it.</p> - -<p>He got little comfort, however, from Gaunt’s housekeeper. -Her face was scared as his own, and she half-closed -the door against him.</p> - -<p>“’Tis just like a trick o’ yond Mathewsons,” she -snapped. “Keep themselves apart, they, and reckon -to wear a mucky sort o’ pride o’ their own. Contrairy -folk, I allus did say; and now they’ve brought fever into -Garth. Oh, ay, ’tis like ’em.”</p> - -<p>With that she closed the door outright on Dan Foster’s -lad, just as her master had done upon the stranger-woman -long ago. She and old Gaunt suffered from terror of -different kinds, but the result in action was the same.</p> - -<p>The lad whimpered afresh, just as Billy the Fool had -done in that same long ago, as he found himself lonely -in the cutting wind. Then he set off again for Good -Intent. Miss Cilla would be there; and there was healing -wherever Miss Cilla was.</p> - -<p>He found her throwing corn to her pigeons.</p> - -<p>“Where is your clutch of eggs, Dan?” she asked, looking -at the empty basket on his arm.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_257">[257]</span>A boy who has had one rebuff fears twenty afterwards -to follow, and Dan kept his distance.</p> - -<p>“Please, Mr. Gaunt wouldn’t let me come nigh.”</p> - -<p>“Why, Dan?”</p> - -<p>“I dursn’t tell.”</p> - -<p>Cilla came to the gate of the croft. “You’re no coward, -Dan. Never say ‘daren’t’ again in my hearing.”</p> - -<p>“They’ve fever up at Ghyll,” he said, and turned half -about, as if expecting to be driven away.</p> - -<p>Priscilla lost her courage, as Dan Foster’s lad had done, -but her excuse was cowardice for another. Personal fear -she had none; and throughout the long reign of terror, -whenever her father had gone in dread of fever at times, -Cilla had never yielded to panic. She had met the danger -as she had faced the heart-sickness which Gaunt had -caused her in the spring; for Cilla’s slimness, the charm -which all acknowledged, were made up of strength, not -weakness.</p> - -<p>“Tell me, Dan—tell me quickly—is it at Ghyll -the fever is? It is not Mr. Gaunt who has it? That cannot -be, for I saw him only a few hours since.”</p> - -<p>“Nay,” the lad answered bluntly. “Mr. Gaunt he -hasn’t got it yet, but he’ll have it soon, I reckon. Seems -he’s helping up yonder at Ghyll. Said he wouldn’t -be home for weeks, he did, and bade me carry a message -for him to Marshlands.”</p> - -<p>“Lord help us!” broke in Widow Lister’s soft, kittenish -voice. “I said ’twould come, an’ what’s a poor -widow-body to do if she catches it, and her living all by -her lone without chick nor child to help her.”</p> - -<p>The widow had a keen scent for disaster. She had seen -Dan come down the road with a look of fright, had followed -him, and now was standing close to Cilla’s elbow. -As of old, her first thought was for herself; that was why,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_258">[258]</span> -as she stood in the sunlight, no line or wrinkle showed on -her babyish face, though other women of her age would -have earned such marks of righteousness long since.</p> - -<p>Cilla turned, and her smile was quick and eager. She -was glad just now for a respite from her thoughts. “Lord -help other folk, Mrs. Lister,” she answered briskly. -“Have you ever tried that medicine?”</p> - -<p>The widow sighed and her eyes sought the ground -meekly. “Chit of a girl,” she was thinking, “to go lecturing -me. As if I didn’t spend all my days i’ worriting -about other folks’ troubles. Am always the first, I, to -find troubles out. But, then, she doesn’t know what the -fever means, the lile, daft lass.”</p> - -<p>Dan had taken a look at the sun, his only timepiece, -and had grown alert on the sudden.</p> - -<p>“Will bid you good day, Miss Cilla,” he said, touching -his cap. “’Tis five of the clock, or thereabouts, an’ I -promised Billy the Fool to bellows-blow for him. He gets -terrible short i’ the temper, does Billy, if I’m not there -to a minute.”</p> - -<p>Widow Lister followed him down the road. “Oh, -Dan, my lad!” she called after him. “Tell Billy he’s -never mended my bit of a window-fastener yet. David -promised to do it, an’ went overseas; then Billy said he’d -do the job; but men are all of a pattern, so ’twould -seem.”</p> - -<p>Cilla watched the two of them out of sight. Well as she -knew the widow, there was something unexpected, -ludicrous almost, in her remembrance of the window-fastener. -The fever had come to Ghyll, it might steal -down to Garth before the month was out; yet Widow -Lister, in the midst of childish fright, could remember -that David had left one job undone when he set sail for -Canada.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_259">[259]</span>“What’s amiss, lile lass?” asked her father, coming -down the highway and seeing the troubled look on her -face.</p> - -<p>“Oh, nothing, father. The day has been overwarm, -and I’m feeling it, maybe—”</p> - -<p>“Now, don’t go blaming the weather,” roared Yeoman -Hirst, admitting all the parish into his confidence. “Weather -comes, and it goes. There needs be more than that -to shake you, Cilla.”</p> - -<p>She told her news and Yeoman Hirst stood very still -for a moment. He was afraid, and he was conquering -his fear.</p> - -<p>“’Twas bound to reach us soon or late,” he said, in a -steady voice. “Fancied it might leave bonnie Garth -alone, but ’twas not to be. We mun just look it straight -i’ the face, lass, an’ get on with our day’s work as if naught -had happened.”</p> - -<p>Cilla put an arm through her father’s. There was -something vastly clean, and strong, and childlike in the -yeoman’s faith; he was a man to lean upon, as Widow -Mathewson would have put it.</p> - -<p>“It’s at Ghyll, you say?” went on the farmer, after -a pause. “Which of the two has caught it—the mother, -or Peggy?”</p> - -<p>“Dan didn’t say. He was so scared, poor lad, that -he seemed glad to be rid of his message and away. But -Reuben Gaunt is there and means to bide.”</p> - -<p>Hirst’s temper was ruffled by his fear and the need to -check it, as a strong man’s way is. “Can understand -his being there—but, as for biding, Gaunt was never one -to bide two minutes i’ one place, ’specially if there happened -to be danger to his durned, soft body.”</p> - -<p>“You’re wrong, father.” Cilla’s voice was warm in -defence of the man who had slighted her. “He may be<span class="pagenum" id="Page_260">[260]</span> -this and that, but not a coward. If he’d found all well at -Ghyll, he might have roamed abroad; as it was, he -stayed.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, the snod ways o’ reasoning ye women have!” -growled Hirst. “Dan brought false news, if he said -Gaunt stayed in a fever-house. I wouldn’t do it myself, -lass, and I should reckon myself a prudent man for taking -to my heels. There, there! I never could bear to wrangle, -least of all wi’ ye, Cilla. Come away in, and get my tea -ready. I’m droughty and dry, like the roads that clem ye -up wi’ dust these days.”</p> - -<p>At Ghyll, up on the lonely moor, the hot day ended in -weariness and hardship. Widow Mathewson had crept -often up the stair, to see if she could help her lass. Now -she and Reuben were smoking together beside the hearth. -If courage needed proof, these two were finding the best -gift of life—bravery won from fear. The fever was no -fanciful scourge, to be tempted by encouragement into -building foul nests about a house. It came like a sword -that did not kill with a clean blade at once, but hacked -its victims with a blunt rusty edge until the end came; -and strength or weakness of the folk who met it mattered -little, as with other plagues.</p> - -<p>The widow and Reuben Gaunt smoked tranquilly by -the hearth; and the quiet, hot silence lay about two folk -who were learning to approve each other. The woman, -after the moorland fashion, was passing the time with -tales of the last visitation. It seemed to give her some -relief, just as the sleepy fire of peats served, in some odd -way, to cheer the sultriness which it intensified.</p> - -<p>“Ye were in your cradle then,” she said, “an’ knew -naught on’t, though it carried your mother off. Reuben, -if ye ever want to know what flimsy stuff we’re made of, -high and low, good ’uns an’ bad—ye’ve got to look on at<span class="pagenum" id="Page_261">[261]</span> -a fever-time. Th’ fear seems more catching than th’ -fever itseln, an’ always th’ big, hearty men catches it -worst. Oh, the sights that come back to mind! -Thirty-and-four year ago it war, and all comes -back as plain as Peggy’s moanings up aboon us -yonder.”</p> - -<p>Gaunt saw that it eased her to talk of olden days. The -man had grown gentle, considerate. He was full of this -new experience of thinking for others, rather than himself.</p> - -<p>“Tell me about them, mother,” he said.</p> - -<p>“Oh, there’s no use i’ telling. Ye need to have seen -it—as ye will do, happen, if ye’re spared—to know the -muckiness o’ fright. Ivery house war a island to itseln. -Men who’d faced bulls run mad at Shepston market-day, -men who’d risked crossing the bogland at dark o’ -neet, to bring comfort to a friend,—where were they, -Reuben? Hugging their own firesides. Not a drop o’ -milk could the poorer sort get—and milk was needed, ye’ll -be sure, i’ the stricken cottages—for a watch was kept -at th’ farm-gate, an’ they were fended off afore they could -bring their pitchers nigh.”</p> - -<p>The widow talked of things she had seen long ago with -clear unfrightened eyes. She would pause to light her -pipe, and then would fall into a friendly silence, taking -up the tale again at leisure. For she knew that, however -it went with Peggy, there would be time and to spare for -talk with Reuben.</p> - -<p>“I’ve heard young folks shiver an’ shake when small-pox -was so much as named. Bless ye, I’ve seen worse -nor small-pox. It may spoil your face—an’ what day of -a hard life doesn’t help to spoil your looks?—but there’s -a chance of living on. There’s the rub, lad! ’Tis when -ye set folk face to face wi’ what’s all but certain death,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_262">[262]</span> -that ye know what they’re made of. There’s rum i’ the -cupboard, Reuben. I’m forgetting what manners I iver -had.”</p> - -<p>“No, and thank you, mother. Not just to-night.”</p> - -<p>The widow got up and set glasses and a bottle on the -table, and took down the kettle from the crane hanging -over the peat-fire.</p> - -<p>“Don’t you go too far wi’ godliness all at once, Reuben,” -she said, with a flash of her old tartness. “Ye’re -not going to save Peggy by keeping a drop o’ liquor out -o’ ye, but happen ye’ll let the fever in by playing the -miser that way.”</p> - -<p>Gaunt had been right when he said that the widow -could never have borne her loneliness without a man -to help her. Already she was gentler than he had known -her. She jested about the measure of rum she shared with -him, saying that he led her into bad ways. She had found -that interval of peace which sometimes comes to folk in -the bitterest of their trouble; and those who have lived -long, and suffered long, say that it is God’s breathing-space, -granted to brave folk lest their courage fail them at the -pinch.</p> - -<p>Down at Garth, the stars lay tranquil over David’s forge. -Dan Foster’s lad was sweating at the bellows, while Billy -the Fool played at getting the day’s work done. Billy -had finished the last of the job, when soon afterwards -Yeoman Hirst came by, and, seeing the fire-glow across -the road, stepped in to ask if his fence-rails were ready for -the morrow.</p> - -<p>“Te-he!” chuckled Billy. “Said they’d be done right -fair in time, I did, and Billy keeps his word. Ye’d have -nigh split your sides, Yeoman, to see Dan yonder a-blowing -and a-blowing till I fancied he was going to burst -his lile self and the bellows, too. You’re stepping up to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_263">[263]</span> -Good Intent? Well, now, I’ll stretch my legs a bit, I will, -after all this marlaking.”</p> - -<p>He walked in silence beside Hirst, after accepting his -customary match and pipeful of tobacco. It was not till -they had reached Good Intent that the workings of the -natural’s mind showed plainly.</p> - -<p>“Dan tells me fever’s come to Ghyll,” he said, in the -low, dispassionate voice which was always a sign, to those -who knew him, of some troubled reaching-out to his -blurred past.</p> - -<p>“Ay, but don’t you go fearing it, lad Billy. ’Twould -never hurt such as ye.”</p> - -<p>“Was thinking of Mr. Gaunt, I. Dan says he’s up -yonder. Now, ’twould be terrible pranksome if he happened -to die on’t himself. There’d be such a clearing -o’ the air, as a body might say.”</p> - -<p>Hirst little as he cared for Reuben Gaunt was shocked -by the quietness with which Billy uttered the wish. This -lad, who was peaceable and kindly of face as Garth street -itself, was asking a terrible punishment for his one enemy.</p> - -<p>“Oh, tuts, lad!” said the yeoman, patting him roughly -on the shoulder. “We don’t pray fever on any man, -surely, whether we like him or no.”</p> - -<p>“Well, now, I don’t pray fever. Couldn’t if I were -minded to. I just think long o’ what I want—as hard as -my daft-wits can be driven, Yeoman—and then I bide -till it comes.”</p> - -<p>Yeoman Hirst had no insight into the by-ways of -prayer; he said his own on Sabbaths, while Billy was -roaming wide across the moors, and he said them with the -simple faith that was a part of his dealings with this and -with the next world. He was non-plussed, for the natural -at these times was self-possessed, and his quiet statements, -as of fact, unsettled wiser men.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_264">[264]</span>“Come in, lad,” said Hirst, pushing the other into the -porchway. “I’ll tell Cilla to draw ye a sup of home-brewed -ale, and we’ll talk o’ likelier things than fever.”</p> - -<p>“Thank ye, but nay,” said Billy, after a pause. “I’ve -a mind to shut down the forge, and then get home to bed -among the heather. Terrible chap is Billy for playing -all day, like. Then he needs his snug bed under sky-blankets, -Yeoman. I’ll be bidding ye good night, I. -There’s a laverock calls me up with the dawn, and he’ll -miss me if I oversleep myself.”</p> - -<p>“Cilla, is Billy a fool, or are ye and me?” asked Hirst, -coming into the living-room and finding Priscilla tending -the geraniums that lined the window-sill.</p> - -<p>“Ye and me, father,” answered Cilla, with a queer little -laugh. “I was thinking o’ Reuben Gaunt when you came -in, and that was foolishness, you’ve always told me.”</p> - -<p>Hirst settled himself in the hooded chair and stirred -the peat-fire into a warmth that was no way needed. -“So was Fool Billy. He wished the fever might take him -up yonder at Ghyll.”</p> - -<p>Cilla had been thinking her own thoughts; and she -came and stood by the hearth, one hand on the mantel -with its tea canisters and its china dogs. Through the -heat, and the work of the farm, and the fever-dread, -Priscilla was still the coolest and the bravest thing in -Garth. She had something about her at all times of that -starlight strength and constancy which Fool Billy courted -as he slept among the heather-beds.</p> - -<p>“I’ve wished better things for Reuben,” she said. -“I was thinking, when you stepped in, father, that he’s -done what few in Garth would do.”</p> - -<p>“Won a fell-race, eh? To be sure, there’s summat i’ -doing that; but, Cilla, there’s harder races i’ this life, -and ye’re daft to think o’ Reuben.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_265">[265]</span>“Oh, father no! It was more than the fell-race I was -thinking of. From what Dan said, he is staying at Ghyll. -You need have no doubt of that, as you had this morning. -How many would have done as much—how many, of -all the folk we know? To run a race, father, and hear -them clapping hands, and know your feet are going nimble -underneath ye—that seems easy, and soon over, win it or -lose it—but to wait beside a fever-bed—”</p> - -<p>Hirst stirred uneasily in his chair. “Now, Cilla, you’re -letting fancy play the dangment with you, same as Gaunt -always did. Fancies are well enough, lass, but I’m for -the day’s work, and beef and ale in between to prop up -all the chancy-come-quick notions.”</p> - -<p>“Reuben is for the day’s work,” said Cilla quietly. -“A harder working day than I’ve had yet.”</p> - -<p>Hirst reached for his pipe and sat in silence. Priscilla -rested both hands lightly on the mantel, and stooped -to the smouldering peats, and saw fire-pictures there. -All her love for Gaunt had found resurrection. The shame -that had followed the green, soft ways of spring went out -and away from her. If he could run with the best of those -who ran at Linsall Fair, if afterwards he could face the -quietness of that dread which few met bravely, he had -shown courage of two kinds. His faults—were they not -all on the surface? He had found little chance as yet to -show his strength.</p> - -<p>It was so that Cilla went excusing him; and presently, -as she looked deeper into the peats, she grew angry with -herself for thinking that excuse of any kind was needed. -She remembered Widow Mathewson’s tale, her picture -of Reuben’s motherless, untended boyhood. Her heart -went out to him; and suddenly she flushed with keen -dismay. Under all other thoughts was the question -whether it were Peggy who had caught the fever. She had<span class="pagenum" id="Page_266">[266]</span> -come near to making a dream picture of what might -follow if Gaunt were free—if Gaunt were free—</p> - -<p>She checked herself. “Father, there’s nothing so idle -as thoughts,” she said, standing straight to her comely -height, and seeking wisdom from the other’s bigness and -look of well-being. “’Tis time I got to bed, if I’m to be -fit for any work in the morning. Good night, father.”</p> - -<p>She lingered on the last words, and Hirst, who was no -fool so far as observation went, laughed quietly over his -pipe when she had gone.</p> - -<p>“She’s tender, she, with the old man,” he muttered. -“Bless me, if the lile fool hasn’t been thinking o’ Gaunt -again. I know that note i’ her voice. She had it i’ spring, -and it put me in mind of a blackbird’s when she’s all -about building her nest. Well, I’ve known queer cattle -i’ my time, but the queerest of all is women. I like ’em, -for all that.”</p> - -<p>He tried to banish Gaunt from his thoughts, as a man -of no account, and could not. Like Cilla, he was just—and -for that reason was laughed at now and then by his -neighbours—and he knew that Gaunt, if it were true -that he had stayed by choice at Ghyll, was a better man -to-day than he.</p> - -<p>“Mind ye, I don’t believe the tale,” he said stubbornly, -stirring the peats with needless vigour. “Dan Foster’s -lad is like others—light o’ feet, and light o’ thought. -He brought a wrong tale down to Garth; but we shall -know, I reckon, by the morning.”</p> - -<p>Cilla, in her room above, was less anxious to get to bed -betimes than she had seemed. She leaned at the open casement, -and watched the half moon ride the sky. Not a -breath of air came from the steaming night; it was cooler -within doors than without. The apple-tree whose branches -had lit the window-panes with tender green in spring,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_267">[267]</span> -showed dry and drooping leaves; its sickly fruit lay shrivelled, -asking only for a breeze to come and snap the withered -stalks. Even the hills, ranging out and out across -the clearness of the night, suggested weariness instead of -strength. It was weather to help no man’s crops; but -the fever throve on it.</p> - -<p>Cilla had no thought of heat. She had returned to the -cool days of spring, when Gaunt had made her feel the -beauty of this land which she had known from childhood. -She cared less for the man, maybe, than for the glamour -he had brought her; and each proof that he was strong, -was proof, too, that the glamour had not lied to her.</p> - -<p>When at last she got to bed, it was only to fall asleep and -dream of Keta’s Well, and of saunters by the stream, and -softer golds and deeper crimsons than she had ever seen -in the skies at Garth, until Reuben came to teach her what -the homeland meant.</p> - -<p>Once she stirred in her sleep. “David, dreams cannot -last,” she murmured. “You know they cannot. David, -come home again to Garth!”</p> - -<p>Then afterwards she dreamed quiet thoughts of Reuben; -and they were wandering up the streamway that led -to Keta’s Well.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_268">[268]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER XX</h2> -</div> - - -<p class="drop-cap2">AT ten of the next morning Widow Mathewson crept -down the stairway at Ghyll Farm. Gaunt had -snatched what sleep he could on the settle in the living-room.</p> - -<p>“You’re needed, Reuben,” she said, touching him on -the shoulder.</p> - -<p>He was on his feet at once; and to the widow it was -restful to find a man who answered so quickly to the call -of need.</p> - -<p>“Well?” he asked, rubbing his eyes.</p> - -<p>“She’s all but gone. I thought, like, ye might care—”</p> - -<p>He went up the stair and she followed him. Gaunt, in -days past, had needed the whip across his back; he found -it now. There was no lifting of Peggy’s eyes to his, no -word to bridge the passage. He took her hands in his, -but they were dumb. There was a stifled breath, as of -one who seeks for air in an overcrowded room and that -was all. Peggy o’ Mathewson’s had gone out along the -black, hot fever-road.</p> - -<p>The widow looked at Gaunt, and pushed him gently -from the room. “Poor lad,” was all she said. “’Tis one -more trouble added to the peck for me—but ye’re not -used to it.”</p> - -<p>Gaunt went out through the porch, and across to the -gate of the croft, and stood there, leaning over the top<span class="pagenum" id="Page_269">[269]</span> -bar, just as Peggy had when she said good-by to him. A -great stillness lay over the lands; there was no movement -of bird, or sheep, or cattle; no breeze stirred, and the sun, -stark in the everlasting blue, seemed the one unwearied -thing in nature.</p> - -<p>A stillness lay, too, over Reuben Gaunt. He was -groping toward the future. A few days since, Peggy had -kissed him at the gate here, had bidden him return as -quickly as he could. After that there was silence. Though -he had seen her, watched beside her bed, no word had -passed between them. Not a sign of recognition had come -to soften the blow. He could only recall the girl’s vigour, -her glowing health, and contrast them with what lay behind -him at the farm.</p> - -<p>Gradually the numbness left him, and the first sharp -sense of grief intruded. He dwelt unduly on the ugliness -and horror of Peggy’s death, as though they mattered, -now that the soul had passed. He thought, in a vague, -haphazard fashion, of many ways in which he might have -dealt better with her. He had a senseless longing to have -back that day at Linsall Fair, when he had tempted her -to meet the fever. They might have chosen twenty other -roads than that to Linsall. Mrs. Mathewson, with her -creed that was old and pagan as the moor itself, would -have told him that he was not to blame in this—that the -road to Linsall Fair was planned out before ever Peggy -lay in her cradle.</p> - -<p>Gaunt had known pain of body; but this anguish that -grew keener every moment was new to him. He had no -knowledge of the way to meet it, and such ignorance -makes all men cowardly.</p> - -<p>He had lost all sense of time, until a glance at the sun -showed that it was lying over Dingle Nook. He had spent -two hours here at the gate, it seemed. Again he blamed<span class="pagenum" id="Page_270">[270]</span> -himself, and thought of Widow Mathewson, and went -back to the farm.</p> - -<p>She met him at the door. “’Twas kind o’ ye, Reuben, -to leave me to my work; but, then, ye’re always kind these -days.”</p> - -<p>“Thought I had left you in the lurch, mother.”</p> - -<p>“Nay! There was summat to be done, and ye’d have -been i’ the way.”</p> - -<p>They looked at each other, the man who had suffered -and the woman who had suffered much. On their faces -was that light, steady, quiet and full of wonder, which -touches those who have just stood near to death.</p> - -<p>“Have you been—” he began, with quick intuition, -and could not put his question into words.</p> - -<p>“Ay, getting th’ poor lass ready.” The widow’s lips -trembled. She reached out for Gaunt’s hand impulsively. -“I should have been readying her for her wedding instead, -Reuben! Oh, my lad, ’tis a queer make o’ business, -this o’ living and dying—but ’specially the living.”</p> - -<p>Gaunt knew that he was needed, and answered the -call. “There, mother, you’re not left alone.”</p> - -<p>The words were few, but the tone of them gave new -strength to Mrs. Mathewson. “You can call me mother -often—never too often; it’s only fro’ your lips I shall iver -hear the name again.”</p> - -<p>Throughout the watch which these two had shared, -no moment had been so full of unexpected tenderness. -The widow was leaning on Reuben as on a trusted son, -and he was standing to her—not in promise, but in -deed—as a stay-by in her latter years. The grip of his -hands helped her to face what had to come; the steady -ring of his voice relieved a solitude whose silence might -otherwise have broken down her spirit.</p> - -<p>“I must get word down to the coffiner at Garth,” said<span class="pagenum" id="Page_271">[271]</span> -Reuben, knowing how the thought of work to be done -would steady Mrs. Mathewson. “I’ll look for a farm-lad -to pass up the fields, and shout to him.”</p> - -<p>“Nay, but ye willun’t! I’ve planned it all out i’ my -mind these last two hours. Nathan, the coffiner, wouldn’t -come within a mile o’ Ghyll; I know Nathan, an’ he’s -frightened o’ smaller things nor fever. See ye, Reuben! -She was always full o’ fancies, an’ often she’d say to me, -sitting beside the hearth o’ nights, ‘Mother,’ she’d say, -‘if ever I happen to die, like, I’d like to be buried clean i’ -the peat, not down i’ a wet churchyard.’ She lived lonely, -ye see, like myseln, an’ I fancy she’d no liking for many -neighbours, even i’ th’ kirkyard.”</p> - -<p>Reuben was ill at ease. He had made no pretence of -godliness in years past, but at a time such as this old -memories revived.</p> - -<p>“Mother, you’d have the parson—you’ll laugh at me, -maybe—but surely you’d have the parson say a prayer -above her?”</p> - -<p>Widow Mathewson had always been fearless in her -outlook, whether it were true or false, and she did not -yield. “I don’t laugh at ye, lad, but such softnesses were -never meant for Peggy and me. ’Tis all very weel i’ the -tamer lands, but not up here. She lived as she lived, an’ -she died as she died, and naught alters that. God rest -her soul, say I—but that’s as she made her bed i’ this -life. Reuben,” she went on, abandoning all her hardness -again, “I’ve done a deal o’ thinking about religion i’ my -time, an’ never come much nearer aught. Ye might tell -me that Peggy did as weel i’ this life as could be expected -of a body? Now, there, I’m growing old, or I’d not give -way to whimsies. Reach down my pipe for me, Reuben; -’baccy alwus helps me to get right sides up wi’ the world -again.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_272">[272]</span>Gaunt, the ne’er-do-weel, felt an odd thrill of comfort -in ministering to this hard-faced woman who depended -on him. He filled her pipe for her, and he lit a spill at the -fire.</p> - -<p>“That’s better,” she said, drawing long puffs of smoke. -“There’s a deal to be done, and there was never use i’ -blinking work. For myseln, it matters naught either way; -but for ye, Reuben—well, ’tis best to get fever out of a -house as quick as may be. It wouldn’t help a living soul -if silly Nathan stepped up and caught th’ fever, or if -parson came, and he’s one o’ the few i’ Garth who would. -Parson is staunch, for all he thinks me heathenish. Ye’ve -faced a good deal, Reuben; surely, ye’ll help me to keep -fever out o’ Garth?”</p> - -<p>Gaunt moved uneasily about the room. He would -have had another kind of burial, but there was no gainsaying -the other’s wisdom. The village, so far, had escaped -contagion; his own feelings must stand aside, -surely, when measured by the terrible price which Garth -might have to pay for them.</p> - -<p>“We have no right to do aught else,” he said, turning -to meet the widow’s glance. “See, mother, she always -had a liking for the spot where the rowan hangs over the -stream. I’ve been thinking she might wish to be laid -there.”</p> - -<p>The widow nodded. “Get to your work, Reuben,” -was all she said. “It doesn’t do to sit idle at such-like -times.”</p> - -<p>Something near to peace came to Gaunt when he reached -the little ghyll and stood watching the stream, all but dry -now, trickle down the rocky slope under the rowan. It -seemed that, after all, Peggy would sleep more soundly -in her own homeland than in another place.</p> - -<p>The peat lay soft and deep almost down to the edge of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_273">[273]</span> -the stream, and there was little trouble in the digging. With -a touch of that fugitive poetry which was part of the man, -he conquered his horror of the work. He told himself -that she would like to have the stream-song close beside her, -day and night. Death would not be a sleep and a forgetting, -but a sleep that remembered all the pleasant -moorland haunts. And the rowan-leaves would shelter -her from heat in summer, and in winter-time the peat -would lie between Peggy and the wildest storms that -blew.</p> - -<p>Fancies crowded round Reuben, as he worked in the -pitiless heat. It was well that they came to his relief, for -stauncher men than he might have yielded, without shame, -to the misery of this task.</p> - -<p>He looked up at last, and dashed the sweat from his -eyes. The grave was ready. The heat-waves, running -from end to end of the open moor, danced giddily before -him; he felt the body-sickness which had caught him at -the end of the fell-race which had ended with an over-moor -walk home, and a halt under the rowan here while Peggy -and he talked of their coming marriage.</p> - -<p>When he recovered, and could see the moor again in -proper outline, he saw Billy the Fool standing on the spur -of rising ground behind. Billy’s face showed no trace of -feeling; he stood motionless as some stone landmark -reared to guide travellers across the heath.</p> - -<p>“Digging a grave, Mr. Gaunt?” he said quietly.</p> - -<p>Reuben was too deep in sorrow to be startled. He had -not known that there was a looker-on while he worked, -and Billy was the last of all Garth folk he would have -wished to see just now; but it mattered little.</p> - -<p>“Yes, digging a grave, Billy.” His voice was tired. “I -would not come overnear, if I were you, for there’s fever -come to Ghyll.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_274">[274]</span>“Te-he!” answered Billy gravely. “Fever doesn’t -take lile fools such as me. ’Tis the sensible, wise folk, -such as ye, Mr. Gaunt, that it takes a fancy to.”</p> - -<p>He was not afraid. So much was sure. But he turned, -and went down the moor with his easy, loping strides; -and Reuben wondered for a moment, in the midst of his -weariness, what Billy was doing here.</p> - -<p>Billy could have given him no answer. He had heard -of the trouble at Ghyll, and instinct had brought him up -the moor to learn if it were Gaunt who was likely to die. -Instinct took him, now that he had seen Reuben alive -and well, down to the forge where much work awaited -him.</p> - -<p>Gaunt forgot that he had come. He went heavily across -the strip of moor to Ghyll, leaving his spade at the graveside.</p> - -<p>They were strong of body, Widow Mathewson and he, -and it was only a little way from the farm to the rowan-tree. -When all was done, and the kindly peat lay -smooth above Gaunt’s first dream of wedlock, a curlew -came flapping down the moor, and paused above the -rowan-tree, and wheeled about it in wide circles. Sometimes -it drew nearer, and sometimes it roamed wide; -but it did not leave them, and its wail was piteous.</p> - -<p>The widow’s face was drawn and lined, as Gaunt’s was, -but she held herself bravely, and her voice was quiet.</p> - -<p>“Happen the curlew’s her parson, Reuben. Would -she be happier, think ye, down yonder i’ Garth kirkyard?”</p> - -<p>“’Tis strange, mother. I’ve heard few birds call since -I came to Ghyll, and now—”</p> - -<p>“Strange? There’s naught stranger than life, Reuben—than -life, and what we’ve put to bed under th’ rowan-tree. -Folk get mazed wi’ chatter, seems to me, down i’ the valleys;<span class="pagenum" id="Page_275">[275]</span> -they fancy life’s made up o’ gossip, an’ borrowing tin -kettles one fro’ t’ other, an’ quarrelling when one here -an’ there has burned th’ bottom through.”</p> - -<p>The curlew drew nearer to them, wheeled above their -heads. Its cry was Ishmael’s, and the undernote of it was -loneliness.</p> - -<p>“Yond’s Peggy’s mate,” said the widow. “She was -allus a wild bird, she, and she never would have settled -down at Marshlands. Reuben, lad, cannot ye comfort -yourself wi’ that thought?”</p> - -<p>He smiled gravely. “Had I no wildness, then?” he -asked. “That used to be your trouble, surely, in the old -days.”</p> - -<p>“Ay, but ’twas a different sort o’ wildness. See yond -curlew. ’Twill go down to th’ lowlands to feed, Reuben, -an’ to have a frolic, like; but tell it that it’s got to bide -there for life, and ’twould die o’ homesickness. Oh, it’s -hard to say it, an’ harder to believe it, but maybe all’s -for the best.”</p> - -<p>She turned for a last look at the grave; then, with a -firmer tread than Gaunt’s, she moved down the moor. -As they reached the croft, they saw a burly horseman -unfastening the gate with his crop.</p> - -<p>“Nay, doctor, if ye please!” cried the widow, lifting -a warning hand.</p> - -<p>“Oh, I know you’ve fever in the house,” he said impatiently. -“That’s why I came. I only heard of it an -hour since, as I passed through Garth. How’s the patient?”</p> - -<p>“Past your caring for—but thank ye all th’ same, -doctor.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, bless me—Peggy dead? I can’t believe it. Mrs. -Mathewson, I wish to God I’d heard the news sooner. I -might have saved her.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_276">[276]</span>“I fancy not. She niver had th’ look o’ one as war going -to mend, an’ I’ve seen many a case i’ my time. Now, -doctor, turn about. There’s the rest o’ the dale to think of, -an’ ye’ll not better aught by seeking risks.”</p> - -<p>She told him of the burial, of Reuben’s help, of their -resolve to save Garth, so far as their own endurance went, -from the scourge that lay so close about it. She spoke of -these matters as of such usual tasks as cattle-milking or -taking corn to the poultry-yard; there was no sense of -heroism behind her quiet statement of the facts.</p> - -<p>The doctor ceased fumbling with the rusty gate-catch. -“I always thought you had sense enough for three, and -now I know it. Of course, I should be a fool—a bit of a -knave, too—to go in when there’s nothing to be done.”</p> - -<p>Widow Mathewson could not restrain the pride—grim -enough, but clean and honest—which had given -her strength to meet the years of trouble. There was no -malice in her tone, no unfriendliness. “They allus said i’ -Garth that we kept ourselves to ourselves up here. Well, -we did while we were i’ health, doctor; tell them we’ll -do no less, now we’re i’ trouble.”</p> - -<p>The doctor nodded, gave a quick inquiring glance at -Reuben from under his shaggy eyebrows, and rode forward -along the ridge of the moor.</p> - -<p>“I must notify the death for them,” he thought, as he -jogged along. “They’ll never think of the need for it, -so I must. Well, I’ve not seen the lass, and it will be irregular, -to be sure; but Lord knows they ask few questions -when it’s a fever case. Soonest hidden away out of sight, -the better folk are pleased these days.”</p> - -<p>Then he fell to thinking of Reuben Gaunt. Mrs. -Mathewson had made it plain that Reuben entered the -farm with knowledge of the danger, and that he chose -to stay rather than leave her friendless. The doctor,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_277">[277]</span> -during his years of rough intercourse with many people, -had found less courage in the face of death than he cared -to admit; he himself was as hardened against fear, as he -was against exposure and fatigue, and he grew impatient -when weaker men showed signs of panic.</p> - -<p>“He knew what it meant when he stepped into Ghyll,” -he muttered. “Well, well, I’ve been mistaken in Gaunt, -it seems.”</p> - -<p>At the end of his day’s round he was riding slowly down -the village—his stout nag as wearied with the heat as -himself—when he met Cilla of the Good Intent, and -reined up.</p> - -<p>“You’re the only cool thing I’ve seen to-day,” he declared, -with bluff gallantry. “Bless me, Cilla, how d’ye -contrive it? I was never one to flatter, but you put me -in mind of a spring flower peeping out of a hedgerow. It -is not spring, child, and primroses are over for this year, -and the heat, I tell you, is appalling.”</p> - -<p>He wagged his head fiercely, but Cilla only laughed; and -the laugh was cool and dainty as her person. Then suddenly -her face clouded.</p> - -<p>“We ought not to be jesting, doctor. Indeed we ought -not. I cannot keep my thoughts away from those poor -folk up at Ghyll.”</p> - -<p>The doctor halted, irresolute for once. He knew more -of the history of the countryside than even Will the Driver -did, and now he remembered many rumours, earlier in the -year, that Gaunt would carry off Priscilla after all the -rest of Garth had failed. He had been sorry to hear the -news then; but his feelings had changed since morning.</p> - -<p>“Best tell you at once,” he said, “for you’re bound to -hear it soon or late. Peggy o’ Mathewson’s died this -morning.”</p> - -<p>He regretted his impulsiveness, when he saw Cilla move<span class="pagenum" id="Page_278">[278]</span> -unsteadily across the road, and rest her hand on his saddle, -as if she could not stand without support. He should -have let another break the news that Gaunt was free, so he -told himself.</p> - -<p>Cilla’s pride was of different texture from Widow -Mathewson’s; but it was as strong in its own way, and it -did not fail her when need came. She was pale, and her -eyes were overbright, but she stood upright again and -looked the doctor in the face.</p> - -<p>“Tell me,” she said, “did Mr. Gaunt go there—and -did he stay in the house—of his own free will?”</p> - -<p>“What else should have kept him, lassie? I had all the -tale from Mrs. Mathewson, and I tell you she’s lucky -to have such a man about her. Pride may be fine enough, -Cilla, but not when you’re alone in a house, with one death -to cry over and another—your own—to look forward -to.”</p> - -<p>Cilla’s face clouded again. “Is—is the risk so great -as they would have us believe?”</p> - -<p>“Well, maybe not; there’s always hope—always -hope, Cilla. And there are two of them to help keep the -boggarts away.”</p> - -<p>Yet Cilla knew that the old doctor took a grave view -of the matter; his praise of Gaunt, praise such as he rarely -gave, was proof that he thought Reuben guilty of foolhardiness. -All Garth would learn now that its judgment -of Gaunt had been wrong; but there would be little use -in that, if he died in proving it.</p> - -<p>Then suddenly she thought of Peggy, and pity drove -away her selfishness. She recalled the fine, careless swing -of the gipsy figure, as “Mathewson’s lass” had passed -her on the moors or going to market. There seemed something -harsh, uncalled-for, in the passing of so brave a -soul. And it was she who had persuaded Reuben to be<span class="pagenum" id="Page_279">[279]</span> -true to a promise earlier than she could claim, in those -near yet far-off days of spring.</p> - -<p>Priscilla returned, tired out, to Good Intent. The world -of Garth might be small, but the girl’s heart was big as -the limits of human compassion and human searching -after happiness. The two instincts were so mingled, since -hearing the doctor’s news, that Cilla could not disentangle -them.</p> - -<p>“Come ye in, now,” said her father, who was smoking -the after-work pipe of evening, which was the sweetest -of the day to him.</p> - -<p>“Ye’re looking bothered, like. It all comes o’ gadding -about i’ this heat overmuch. Grown men can bear it, -but not lile hazel saplings such as ye.”</p> - -<p>Cilla only smiled, and went up to her own room. She -could not bear to talk just now even with Yeoman Hirst, -the best of all her friends.</p> - -<p>“Let a maid alone when she wears that look,” Hirst -muttered sagely. “I was never much of a hand at tackling -whimsies. I’d liefer have a thorn-hedge any day.”</p> - -<p>The doctor, meanwhile, had passed down Garth street. -He was thinking mainly of the good meal and the ease -that he had earned, and he frowned as he saw Widow -Lister watering her strip of garden-front. He knew the -little woman by heart, and indeed reined up before she -had darted into the roadway.</p> - -<p>“Oh, doctor, I’ve been trying to catch ye these two -days back,” she said.</p> - -<p>“Well? D’ye want to consult me? Shouldn’t say -much ailed you, by the plump look o’ your cheeks.”</p> - -<p>The widow simpered a little, and cast down her eyes. -“’Tisn’t what ails me, doctor; ’tis what might ail me.”</p> - -<p>“Now, now!” The other was impatient but like all -men he was weak in face of the little body’s helplessness.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_280">[280]</span> -“I’ll be getting home, Mrs. Lister. What might ail you, -only heaven in its wisdom knows. Let me get supper and -an hour’s smoke until the ailment reaches you; then call -me in. I’ve had nothing since a bite of bread and -cheese at noon.”</p> - -<p>“Ay, but ’tis th’ fever; ye munnot jest about it. Bide -a wee while, doctor. A few minutes more will mak’ lile -difference to ye.”</p> - -<p>“Won’t they?” growled the doctor to himself. “It’s -just those odd wasted minutes at the day’s end, little fool, -that break a man up, come to reckon the total at a year’s -end.”</p> - -<p>But he waited with some show of patience, and listened -to this woman who had scarcely had an ache, or done a -day’s hard work in all her life.</p> - -<p>“’Tis this way, ye see, doctor. I’m not like folk who -have cheerful company about me all my time. When I -sit by my lone self o’ nights, I’ve allus the dread o’ fever -for company, and I take it to my lone bed wi’ me. What -I want to know is this—suppose I passed a tramping-man -i’ the road, as I did awhile since, an’ suppose he -looked as if he was sickening, like, an’ suppose—”</p> - -<p>The doctor cut her short “Now I catch your drift. -You want to know how long ’twill be before the mulberry -spots come out,” he said, with a cheerfulness that shocked -Widow Lister. “Something between a week and a fortnight; -but I shouldn’t be troubled, Widow. Fever doesn’t -take the plump little women; it has overmuch respect -for ’em.”</p> - -<p>“Is that truth, doctor?”</p> - -<p>“Ay, as true as that I’m due home for supper. Good -night to you. She’ll have another worrit before to-morrow’s -ended,” he added, as he jogged down the street. -“There’s a use for the widow of course—there’s a use<span class="pagenum" id="Page_281">[281]</span> -for everything created—but it puzzles a man at times to -find out what ’tis.”</p> - -<p>At Ghyll the sleepy dusk had settled into slumber. -The day had been tired with its own heat, and the night -was wearier still. Gaunt had stretched himself on the -long settle, after seeing the widow go up to bed. He slept -with that death-in-life which comes from sheer exhaustion, -and did not hear Mrs. Mathewson creep, like a thief, down -her own stair, did not know that the sneck of the door was -lifted quietly.</p> - -<p>The widow passed up through the croft and into the -moor. The new moon, a sickle of silver-grey, lay over -the rowan-tree. Mrs. Mathewson, from old habit, curtseyed -to it seven times, not knowing that she did so. Then -she sought the ghyll, and the stream that was too little -and too dry to be heard at all if the faintest breeze had -stirred about the heath.</p> - -<p>Gaunt had wondered at the widow’s strength throughout -the day. It was well that he did not see her in her -weakness now. All restraint was gone, as she knelt by the -grave that was not a day old as yet.</p> - -<p>“Peggy, my lass! Peggy, ye’re all I have i’ this world. -Reuben’s staunch, I know, an’ I’m fond o’ the lad, but -’tis ye I want—’tis ye.”</p> - -<p>The weakness of the strong, when at last they are compelled -to yield to it takes its own revenge. Mrs. Mathewson -was bewildered, helpless. Then a blind fury seized -her, and she cried out on God because He had robbed her, -who had so little, of the one thing she prized. And then -there came a darkness, a reaching-out for help, such as -Gaunt had known not long ago at the gate of the -croft.</p> - -<p>After that a counterfeit of peace stole over her. She -was on the borderland between this world and another,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_282">[282]</span> -and she seemed to reach across and take the girl’s hands -in her own.</p> - -<p>“Ye’ve strayed, lile lass. Come away back wi’ me to -Ghyll,” she said, grasping the new hope. “Ah, now, -ye’d come—surely ye’d come if your old mother asked -ye.”</p> - -<p>Throughout the night she lay beside the grave, sleeping -fitfully at times, but oftener lying awake, listening to the -trickle of the stream and watching the Milky Way that -streaked the sky with jewelled dust. For these few hours -she had let weakness have its way with her; but, when the -pink fingers of the dawn began to touch the hills, she rose. -Old habit taught her that the day was meant for work. -She was dizzy; her limbs trembled under her; grief had -left her stricken in soul and body. She must conquer the -trouble, that was all, as she had done at many a long-past -dawn.</p> - -<p>There had been no freshness, no movement of the breeze, -through the night hours; but now the moor seemed to -breathe at last, as a little wind got up and rustled lightly -among the heather. Not the fingers only, but the broad -hands of the dawn were on the hills. The pink lights had -deepened into crimson, and stretched like beacon fires -across the eastern moor. The grey darkness receded from -the dingles. Out to the west, a sky of tenderest sapphire -brushed the rough edges of the heath.</p> - -<p>Widow Mathewson, again from habit, halted to look at -the glory of her homeland. She scarcely knew that the -well-known pageant was spread out before her; but she -gathered heart again, and went bravely down to Ghyll. -She walked with a man’s stride, a man’s straight back, -and none would have guessed that she was a broken -woman, asking no more than to keep her pride until the -end.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_283">[283]</span>Gaunt, too, was astir soon after dawn. He stepped out -on tiptoe, glad that the widow slept so long, and fearing -to awaken her. They met in the mistal-yard.</p> - -<p>“Why, mother, I fancied you were sleeping,” said -Reuben.</p> - -<p>“Fancies are well enough for night-time, Reuben, but -they don’t last long after dawn. I stretched i’ my sleep, -I did, an’ I saw th’ light twinkling on the panes, an’ I bethought -me like, that th’ farm work needed looking to. -So I stepped down an’ out.”</p> - -<p>“You might have waked me.”</p> - -<p>“Nay, ye were sleeping oversound. Mathewson was -niver much of a man, but even he was snappish when I -wakened him from his sleep.”</p> - -<p>It was in this way that she chose to meet the future. -There would be no more stolen vigils under the rowan-tree, -no undermining of her courage. With a sudden gust -of feeling, she understood that Gaunt was the only living -hope she had to rest upon—and there was danger to -him.</p> - -<p>“Reuben,” she said gravely, “th’ long watch has begun. -The days will seem long i’ passing afore we know -we’re safe.”</p> - -<p>“We’ll weather them, never fear. Best not think of -to-morrow at all, but get on with our work.”</p> - -<p>The widow glanced at him with keen scrutiny. “There’s -a deal o’ sense hidden somewhere about ye, Reuben. -Seems ye’ve been feared to let it peep out till now.”</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_284">[284]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER XXI</h2> -</div> - - -<p class="drop-cap">NEITHER Gaunt nor Widow Mathewson was -prepared for the quiet and temperate beauty that -crept into their waiting-time at Ghyll. If Gaunt had -neglected his farm work in old days, it was through idleness, -not from lack of knowledge. Acquaintance with -all details of field and stable had been bred in him, and -the widow watched him go about the usual round of work -with growing wonder.</p> - -<p>“A hired man would have done half as much i’ the -day, and done it badly,” she said, finding him milking the -cows one evening.</p> - -<p>“Oh, ’tis only the old proverb, mother, the master-man -always works the better if he has the will. ’Tis not -often that he has the will, ye see.”</p> - -<p>She watched him persuade the last of the cows to be -friendly with the milking pail, listened awhile to the -pleasant splash-splash of the milk. “Reuben,” she said, -with a touch of jealousy, “yond’s the sauciest beast o’ them -all, and ye seem to have her at a word. She wouldn’t -let any but me milk her—not even Peggy, though she’d -deft hands at the udders. And, Reuben, ye’re doing too -much. Leave some bit o’ work for me to do, lest I get -thinking o’ what’s past and done with.”</p> - -<p>“We’ll share and share alike,” said Gaunt, looking -over shoulder from his seat on the milking-stool.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_285">[285]</span>“Some folk have queer notions o’ sharing. I tell ye, -I’ve not been so idle o’ my hands sin’ I war a girl.”</p> - -<p>“All the better, mother. You’ve earned a rest by this -time, while I—perhaps I’ve earned a spell of work,” he -broke off, with something of the widow’s own grim humour.</p> - -<p>The busy needs of the farm were already helping these -two to forget their burden. To Gaunt it seemed strange, -profane almost, that sorrow for the dead should give place -to workaday anxieties; to the widow, who was older in -experience, it was plain that such work brought with it -the gift of healing.</p> - -<p>All the routine at Ghyll was interrupted. It had thrived -on its trade in milk, and cheeses, and butter. Now Widow -Mathewson, and Gaunt, and the three pigs fattening in -the stye at the far side of the mistal, were left to drink -what they could of milk that once had supplied half -Garth’s needs; the rest, save what was needed for their -own week’s butter-making, had to be poured out into the -parched and thirsty croft.</p> - -<p>“It seems a waste,” said Gaunt at night, after they had -filled the bowl in the dairy, and fed the pigs, and stood -watching the rest of the milk run down the croft in a -narrow stream.</p> - -<p>“That’s the good farmer cropping out again in ye, -Reuben. Of course ’tis wasteful, but there’s a deal of -waste i’ life, as I’ve found it. ’Tis one o’ the things we -hev to put up with, like. Was never good at a riddle, I; -parson down yonder, maybe, could tell us why bairns -are crying out i’ Garth for this milk we’re spilling—milk -their mothers willun’t fetch, or send for, though I’d no -way risk letting them have it, if they came.”</p> - -<p>Reuben watched the streamlet die down, a dirty white -across the sun-scorched brown of the grass. Then he -linked his arm in hers, and drew her toward the farm, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_286">[286]</span> -set her down in the hooded chair by the hearth while he -found her pipe for her.</p> - -<p>“Good sakes!” said the widow softly. “To be waited -on at my time o’ life, and by ye of all men, Reuben.”</p> - -<p>“That’s the queerness of things again,” he answered, -lighting his own pipe.</p> - -<p>In other days there had been between them the silence -of would-be enmity; now there was that lack of speech -which friends use when they wish to talk together. Once -Gaunt stirred the peats with his foot, and glanced at the -widow’s face when the fire-glow lit it.</p> - -<p>“Seeking for signs o’ fever, Reuben?” she asked drily, -turning her sharp old eyes to his.</p> - -<p>“Well, yes, I was, as you’ve caught me at it. I should -miss you, if—if aught happened, mother.”</p> - -<p>“Naught happens to me, Reuben lad, save wear and -tear. Would ye say that again—that ye’d miss me, if -I went out along Peggy’s road?”</p> - -<p>“There’s none else to care for me since Peggy died. -I’d had little care, and little love, i’ my short life, mother; -that’s why they call me ‘running-water’ maybe.”</p> - -<p>Her memory went back to the days when she had been -housekeeper to Reuben’s father. She recalled the hard-riding, -hard-drinking master who had reared his son to -the like gospel. She remembered the night when Billy -the Fool was brought to Marshlands, and was afterwards -turned out into the cold to answer for the sins of other -folk. Many a bygone incident of Reuben’s boyhood stole -out from those corners of the mind, which hide things -half forgotten. And again she told herself, as she had told -Priscilla on a day of April snow, that Reuben Gaunt had -his father to thank for Marshlands and the money, but -for no other chance in life.</p> - -<p>“Reuben,” she said, blowing quiet puffs of smoke<span class="pagenum" id="Page_287">[287]</span> -across the hearth, “have ye no thought for yourself these -days? Naught matters much for me either way, but fear -o’ death comes natural to younger folk.”</p> - -<p>“There’s you and the farm to think of, mother. That’s -enough to carry me forward.”</p> - -<p>Then he led her on to talk of olden times, for he had -learned already that this was her surest road to peace. -He mixed her rum and milk, and set it down on the ledge -at the right hand of the hooded chair, and coaxed a smile -from her and a crisp assurance, that “living wi’ ne’er-do-weels -was sure to bring ye into loosish ways.” She talked -of Peggy’s childhood, recounted a score of escapades, with -a mother’s pitiful and tender regard for detail. She spoke -of her husband, and laughed slily at his weaknesses. It is -in this way that bereaved folk find shelter sometimes, -for their little hour, from the bleak face of death.</p> - -<p>“Mathewson war as he war made,” she finished, “an’ -I munnot say naught agen them as has gone—but he -war shammocky, Reuben. If it war no bigger job than -sticking a row o’ peas, he war shammocky still. He’d -start th’ job after breakfast, and put in happen a dozen -sticks; then he’s sit on th’ wall, an’ light his pipe, an’ -look at what he’d done till I came out, an’ flicked him off -o’ th’ wall-top; and somewhere about nightfall, if I war -lucky and could get away fro’ my work often enough to -stir him up, he’d have finished yond row o’ peas. Then -he’d step indoors, an’ draw hisseln a mug of ale, an’ say -he’d allus known there was naught like good, honest work -for making a body enjoy his sup o’ beer. Poor Mathewson! -He war made as he war made, an’ he niver varied mich. -Now, Peggy was a different breed—”</p> - -<p>And Gaunt listened to her praise of Peggy, putting in -a word here, or a question there, till it was bedtime. The -widow rose at last, and took a rush candle from the mantel.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_288">[288]</span>“Well, we’d best be getting to sleep, Reuben. Ye’ll lig -on th’ settle, as on other nights? I’ve had many a watch-dog -i’ my time, lad, but ye’re th’ best o’ th’ lot, I fancy. -I sleep sounder when I know that you’re below stairs.”</p> - -<p>There was affection in the glance she gave him; and -Reuben, when he lay down to sleep an hour later, found -no ill dreams to trouble him.</p> - -<p>Yet these two had not been open the one with the other. -The widow had concealed her visit to the grave, three -nights ago. Gaunt had concealed the dread that beset -him through the daytime.</p> - -<p>The dread awoke with him the next morning, and -dogged his footsteps as he went across the croft. It kept -close beside him until noon, when he came home across -the burned-up fields in search of dinner. He had known -no fear until Peggy died. There had been the hope that -she would recover, the need of constant listening for a -call to the bedside. Hope and the urgent need were gone, -and life for its own sake was sweet again to Gaunt. Fever, -and the all but certain death, had grown to the shape of -Barguest, the brown dog.</p> - -<p>He halted now at the gate where Peggy had kissed him -for the last time. He looked at the sun, set high in a sky -of blue that had no soul behind it—a sky as hard as -beaten metal that seemed to press upon the earth and keep -in the suffocating heat. If ever a man prayed for rain, -Gaunt prayed for it now with a whole heart. He sought -for one wisp of cloud to break the fierce monotony of blue; -there was none. Each undulation of the hill-tops showed -strangely clear, as if cut by a keen-edged knife. The -silence was unbearable.</p> - -<p>Gaunt’s courage, when he chose to enter Ghyll and -share its dangers, was child’s play to the pluck that now -was asked of him. There was no longer any warmth of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_289">[289]</span> -impulse, of zest in sacrifice for its own fine sake; fear had -reached him, and the shelterless heat weakened every -effort at resistance, till there were times when dread -merged into outright panic and set him trembling like a -child. He would recover, win back his manhood with the -dogged perseverance that had won him the fell-race; -then, and not before, he would seek out the widow, and -day by day she found him stronger, more considerate, -more bent on naming her “mother” and on proving -himself a real son.</p> - -<p>This morning, as he leaned over the gate and searched -for rain-clouds, he went through one of these battles with -despair. When it was nearly ended, and the colour was -returning to his face, the doctor’s big, fiddle-head nag -came up the slope, and Gaunt started when the rider’s -voice broke the silence.</p> - -<p>“What news, Mr. Gaunt?” he asked, reining in and -giving Reuben a quick, professional glance.</p> - -<p>“No news,” Gaunt answered, with a touch of dry -humour. “We’re penned like birds in a cage, doctor, -and have nothing to listen to, save this cursed stillness. -If you could give us a promise of rain, now—”</p> - -<p>“Well, I can help you there,” put in the other briskly. -“I ought to have learned something from the weather by -this time, for I’ve been plagued enough by it. The hot -spell is nearly done with; and now you may call me a fool -for prophesying in face of such a sky as that.”</p> - -<p>It was curious to see how eagerly Reuben caught at the -hope. This conspiracy of sun and stark, blue sky against -him had grown to be in sober fact a menace; a few more -days of the strain, and fear might give an easy inroad to -the fever.</p> - -<p>“There’s not a sign of it,” he said, anxious to have his -word disproved.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_290">[290]</span>“Wait till you’ve had twenty years more of this queer -climate, Mr. Gaunt, and then you may be just beginning -to know it. I’ve seen a dozen little signs of rain as I came -up the moor, but I trust more to what old Lamach of -High Farm calls a feeling in his bones.”</p> - -<p>Gaunt remembered the doctor’s reputation as a weather -seer. “I hope to God you’re in the right, doctor.”</p> - -<p>“Of course I’m in the right! ’Tis a habit of mine. -Only a fool puts himself in the wrong. I’m right, too—under -Providence, of course, d’ye understand—in saying -that you and the widow will win through. Tough, both -of you—not cowards—plenty of fresh air inside your -bodies. Oh, ye’ll weather it. Well, good day, Mr. Gaunt. -I’ve a long round before me.”</p> - -<p>Gaunt would not let him go just yet. It was a relief -to exchange any sort of talk with another man. “We’ve -noticed that you ride past the gate once every day, doctor, -since you knew fever had come.”</p> - -<p>“What of that?” said the other testily.</p> - -<p>“Only that ’tis kindly of you. We’re a bit lonesome, I -own, though we make the best of it.”</p> - -<p>“Never heard such nonsense! Doctoring is my trade, -Mr. Gaunt, not riding up and down the country doing -good works. I leave those and the credit of ’em to the -Parson. I’m no poacher. I’ve a bothersome case two -miles further on, and this is my shortest cut.”</p> - -<p>Gaunt knew that there was no short cut in this direction, -except to the empty moor. He knew that the doctor -lengthened his round each day to halt for a word at the -gate, and to learn if his services were needed. “Which -farm are you bound for, then?” he asked, with gentle -banter.</p> - -<p>“Which farm? Good day, Mr. Gaunt, good day. I’m -too busy a man to answer idle questions.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_291">[291]</span>Gaunt went slowly up to the house, feeling more at -peace with this world of heat and toil, and martyrdom. -The doctor’s boast had not been idly made, for instinct -was apt to lead him right. He had been right in thinking -that they needed physic here at Ghyll. It was no physic -carried in his pocket, to be taken three times a day and -put on the shelf after a dose or two had been swallowed; -it was the medicine carried by all men who have faced -life in the open, that of forward hope and a call to -look up to the hill-tops rather than down to the misty -valleys.</p> - -<p>“The doctor has ridden by again,” said Reuben, as he -stepped into the living-room to find dinner waiting for -him. “I had a talk with him.”</p> - -<p>“Ay, ’tis his way,” answered the widow. “If aught -happens, like to ye or me, he’ll not ride by. He’ll walk in, -Reuben, same as ye did when Peggy war ta’en wi’ th’ -fever. Men are terrible folk for pranks, an’ so I allus -said. Now, ye’ll sit down, an’ eat what I set before -ye. A roast o’ mutton, Reuben, done to a turn. It’s -fool’s policy to keep your body underfed at these -times.”</p> - -<p>Of all the details that hampered Widow Mathewson and -Gaunt, none pressed on them more heavily than this need -to sit at meat together. The reek of the hot joint, the loss -of appetite engendered by the long, persistent drought, -made such a meal seem loathsome. Each ate for the -other’s sake, and maybe the meat, for that reason, helped -them to go forward.</p> - -<p>“Niver smoked so mich i’ my life,” said the widow, -reaching up for her pipe after dinner. “I’ve no knowledge -o’ the lad that first brought ’baccy into Garth, but -he did a service to us weak, human-folk. Fill up your -mug, Reuben, and come and sit i’ th’ front o’ th’ fire,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_292">[292]</span> -an’ talk to a body, like. I’m fair clemmed wi’ weariness.”</p> - -<p>At dusk of the same day the doctor finished his round -and rode into Garth. It happened, as it had happened -for three days past, that Priscilla was loitering in the roadway -fronting Good Intent; it was a habit of hers, and the -doctor guessed her motive, and responded to it, with the -quiet, charitable humour that marked all his dealings -with the dales-folk.</p> - -<p>“I’m in rare good humour, Miss Cilla,” he said, drawing -rein. “D’ye see those bits of fleecy clouds coming up -across the moon?”</p> - -<p>“I had not looked at the sky,” she answered absently. -“It is ever the same these days, and one grows tired of -it.”</p> - -<p>“Ay, but ’twill not be the same when you wake to-morrow. -I was up at Ghyll this morning—”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” put in Cilla, with sudden interest.</p> - -<p>“And I pitted my weather lore against Gaunt’s. He -said it couldn’t rain if it tried, and I said it was bound to.”</p> - -<p>He saw Cilla’s hand go to her heart for a moment, saw -the brightness creep into her face. He had known all -along that she needed to be told that Gaunt, so far, was -well, and it had pleased him to wrap up the news in this -talk about the weather.</p> - -<p>“They—they are both well at Ghyll?” she asked.</p> - -<p>“As sound as can be. I’ve an interest in those two, -Miss Cilla. They deserve to come through it all, and -somehow I fancy that they will.”</p> - -<p>“They say the chances are against it—”</p> - -<p>“Oh, they say a good deal of nonsense, time and time. -There’s naught like pluck for winning a fight. Good -night to ye, and pray that I miss Widow Lister as I ride -by. Three days ago she was afraid of fever; this morning<span class="pagenum" id="Page_293">[293]</span> -she caught me on the outward journey and, ‘Doctor,’ she -said, ‘I’ve caught a chill that may well bring me to my -grave.’ I laughed—as I do, Miss Cilla, in season or out, -and ‘you’re lucky,’ I said. ‘If I could find a touch o’ -chill under this brazen sky, I’d be glad of the relief, and -so would my sweating horse.’ Good night again, little -Cilla. Gaunt’s not going to die just yet, and I begin to -think he might be worth your taking one day.”</p> - -<p>Cilla listened to the pitapat of hoofs as it grew fainter -and fainter down the dusty road. The doctor had earned -his right-of-way to folk’s hearts after many an up-hill -climb, and his power to help his neighbours was not -limited to their bodies’ needs. Whenever he felt that death -was certain, he told his patient bluntly that the next world, -not this, was his concern. While there was doubt, he -thrust down his throat, willy-nilly, the physic of hope and -sweetened the draught, so far as he could, with some racy, -village jest.</p> - -<p>“There’s a good man goes down Garth Street,” thought -Cilla, following the other’s sturdy figure as it disappeared -among the shadows.</p> - -<p>The moon lay young, slender as a sickle, over the -parched lands of Garth. Cilla herself, as she stood in the -roadway, looked cool and slender, too, in her white gown, -though she was full of strange disquiet. Her modesty -had taken fright. It was well enough to be anxious for -Reuben’s safety, well enough to seek news of him as often -as she could; but she knew that it was more than friendship, -this restless eagerness for news. And Peggy o’ -Mathewson’s should have been a bride by now; and the -peat was scarcely smoothed above her grave.</p> - -<p>Cilla, for all her daintiness, her love of clean thinking -and clean doing, was human as her neighbours, and subject -to those gusts of warm and reckless feeling which are<span class="pagenum" id="Page_294">[294]</span> -apt to scatter the habits of a lifetime. If she had been -told of another who waited, as she had done, for news -of a bridegroom widowed before his wedding-day, she -would have thought lightly of her. Yet she could only -picture Reuben up at the lonely, hill-top farm; could only -pray for his safety and know that her prayers came from -a warmer heart than she ought to carry.</p> - -<p>She turned instinctively to Good Intent. Her father -would be sitting by the hearth, big of his body, big in -charity. She would step in, and have a talk with him.</p> - -<p>The yeoman was sitting in his chair, as she had pictured -him. But his pipe lay cold in his hand, and he -motioned her to a seat in the settle-corner opposite.</p> - -<p>“Cilla, I’ve had a talk or two with the doctor,” he -began.</p> - -<p>She waited, suppressing a quiet laugh that he, too, had -gone out for stolen interviews with the lay priest at -Garth.</p> - -<p>“It seems Gaunt chose to go in to Ghyll Farm and to -stay there. He knew what it meant before he crossed the -door-stone. I wouldn’t believe it, until the doctor told -me it was so.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, father.”</p> - -<p>“Well, be durned if I’d have done it.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes; oh, indeed, you would have done it, father; -’tis the sort of call you’d have answered, but it was not -asked of you.”</p> - -<p>“Fiddle-de-dee,” said the yeoman. “Black Fever -would always scare me. Give me a runaway horse, and -I’ll handle the reins—but the fever—’tis a waiting game, -lile Cilla, and I could never play such. I’ve a sort of envy, -like, for men who can.”</p> - -<p>Priscilla lit a spill for his pipe. She filled his glass for -him, and set it by his side. And then she waited.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_295">[295]</span>“Seems I’ve treated Gaunt amiss,” said her father by -and by.</p> - -<p>“All folk do in Garth.”</p> - -<p>“Ay, they did; but I was down i’ Shepston to-day, -and they had the news, and folk were puzzled. They -fancied that Gaunt was better nor like—in fact, Cilla, -they seemed minded to turn their faces about and overdo -their praising of him.”</p> - -<p>Cilla spread her hands to the peat-glow, and her face -was full of tenderness. “I told you so i’ the spring, father, -but you would not listen.”</p> - -<p>The yeoman was uneasy. Praise was due to Gaunt, and -yet he distrusted the man. “He comes of a bad breed, -Cilla, and I’m farmer enough to know that ye don’t rear -good stock from such.”</p> - -<p>Cilla was quiet, but eager. “We all know his father’s -story—but what of his mother? Has she no say in the -matter?”</p> - -<p>“Why, yes, she was well enough, and a long way too good -for old Gaunt; but she died when Reuben was a bairn. -She never had a chance to better his wild upbringing.”</p> - -<p>And then, at last, after an uneasy silence, the yeoman -got to the heart of the matter. His fondness for Cilla was -embarrassing at times; it gave him too keen an insight -into any change of mood in her, and he had guessed the -secret of this restlessness which had fallen on her since -the news of fever came from Ghyll.</p> - -<p>“Lile lass,” he said, “I’ve been thinking a deal to-night, -and I wish more than ever that ye’d persuaded -David the Smith to stay on i’ Garth. Whether ye wouldn’t -have him, or whether his big hulking shyness stood up -between the two o’ ye and wouldn’t let him ask ye, ’tis -not for me to say; but I’m more than ever sorry, lass, as -things have turned out.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_296">[296]</span>“Why, father?” A delicate colour had crept into -Cilla’s face, but there was that steady light in her eyes -which the yeoman feared.</p> - -<p>“Well, Reuben is free to go wandering again—”</p> - -<p>“No, no!” Her treason to the dead seemed baser than -it had in the silence of the road outside. This outspoken -hint of it from another showed all its meanness to the girl’s -sensitive fancy. “No, father! We must not talk of such—of -such foolishness. Reuben may be dead before the -month is out.”</p> - -<p>“Well, yes,” said Hirst, soberly. “Maybe I spoke -out o’ season, Cilla. There, lass! Gaunt has done what -I dursn’t, and I’m shamed to own to it, and I’m hoping -he’ll come through it, as he deserves.”</p> - -<p>So then Cilla came and sat at his knee, for the intimacy -between these two was full of understanding. Her father -was quick to blame himself for the few ungenerous thoughts -that came his way, and she knew how hard it was for him -at any time to speak well of Reuben Gaunt.</p> - -<p>“And not only that,” she went on. “Reuben may be -this or that, father—but he has seen Peggy o’ Mathewson’s -die, and he has helped to bury her, so the doctor tells -me, and—and, father, I think we ought to leave him -with his thoughts; they’ll be sad ones.”</p> - -<p>Cilla was diffident, as a good woman is when she must -run counter to a well-loved father. The yeoman looked -at her for a moment, then laid down his pipe and lifted -her to the arm of his big chair.</p> - -<p>“Seems to me I’m a child i’ your hands at times, Cilla. -Oh, ye’re right, lile lass. There were better and bigger -men than Gaunt i’ Shepston to-day, but not one o’ them -has done what he did—not to my knowledge.”</p> - -<p>The sickle moon climbed up that night till it lay over -Ghyll Farm, that sheltered tired folk who slept. It lay,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_297">[297]</span> -too, over the rowan that sheltered one whose weariness -was over and done with. On the moor, where the thin -stream trickled down, whispering a prayer of peace to -Peggy as it passed her grave, there was the keen -breath of life again. First, the moon was shrouded; then -clouds as grey and slight as gossamer came drifting up -the breeze; and after that a little wind got up, piping -thin and high like a plover tired with the long day’s flight.</p> - -<p>It was very still on the moor, save for the soft, insistent -crying of the wind. A wayfarer, had he been crossing the -untilled acres, might have heard God walking in this -sweet and untamed wilderness. The wind, slight as it was, -was full of perseverance, and it began now to shepherd -running vanguards of the mist across the heath.</p> - -<p>At three of the morning there was neither moon nor -sky to be seen. A wide sheet of mist, wet to the touch, -hid every landmark of the moor, which, until an hour -ago, had shown plainly all its jagged hillocks, its raking -hill-top lines. And dawn, when it came, could do no more -than thread the mist-banks through with tints of silver-grey.</p> - -<p>Gaunt, soon after daybreak, woke from his sleep on the -long settle, with instinctive knowledge that another day’s -glare had to be faced, and crossed to the window. At -first he thought himself mistaken in the hour, so dark -the room was. Then he unbarred the door, and went -out into the mist. He felt its fingers wet about his face -and hands; he drew deep breaths of it as men drink in -the first spring warmth after a hard winter. Then he -laughed, not knowing why, and leaned against the house-wall, -and was glad to rest awhile, with this sense of peace -and freedom sheltering him closely as the mist itself.</p> - -<p>The physical relief, the sense of damp and freshness -after long heat, were part only of a deeper change. His<span class="pagenum" id="Page_298">[298]</span> -fever-dread had left him; he no longer felt the wearing -need to hold his courage tightly, step by step through the -day’s up-hill climb, lest it fail him at the pinch.</p> - -<p>“Oh, God be thanked,” he murmured, and went indoors, -and called up the stone stairway: “Mother, I’ve -news for you!”</p> - -<p>The widow had slept later than her wont, but she was -awake in a moment. “What is it, Reuben?” she answered, -fearing disaster always when an urgent summons -came.</p> - -<p>“The blessed rain is coming. We’ll have cloudy skies -again.”</p> - -<p>“Now, there’s a ha-porth o’ nonsense to fetch a -body out of her bed with,” grumbled the other. “’Tisn’t -dawn, Reuben, surely; winter-dark, I call it.”</p> - -<p>“Come down and see, mother.”</p> - -<p>She was soon at the porch-door beside him, and Gaunt, -watching her face, could see the lines of strain grow softer, -as if the moist air had filled their hollows in with kindly -fingers. They stood there, the two of them, as if they -could never have too much of the grey, cool air; and the -heat of the past weeks, as they looked back upon it from -this sanctuary, seemed like that of the burning, fiery -furnace which both remembered from teachings of a far-off -childhood.</p> - -<p>There was nothing fanciful about this change of theirs -from fear to strength. Bred in a country which knows -more of cloudy skies than blue, they needed rain after -long abstention from it; and the mist was a sure herald -of grace to come.</p> - -<p>“’Tis queer how the weather has ye at a word, Reuben,” -said the widow presently. “I’m keen-set already -for my breakfast, an’ that’s more nor I could say honestly -for a week o’ days.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_299">[299]</span>She would not have the door closed while they fried -the rashers and the eggs, though the mist stole in and lay -like smoke about the room.</p> - -<p>“Now, don’t ye go shutting the door against a friend,” -she said, when Reuben made a movement to close it. “I’m -only too thankful, lad, to have the right smell o’ food i’ -my nostrils once again.”</p> - -<p>Later that day—a little past noon—the mist found -its proper shape and fell in drops as quiet and as persistent -as the breeze that pushed it forward. By sundown -it was raining steadily, and, for the first time since their -watch began, these two slept with no dreams to trouble -them.</p> - -<p>When Gaunt woke late the next morning, the rain was -lapping at the windows still, with a gentle, greedy patience -that promised more to come. The clouds were lifting -when he went out into the croft, and there was a blur of -sunshine through the rain. The thirsty ground sucked -in the moisture, and asked for more, and still showed -riven cracks as dry as the molten heaven of two days ago; -and from the pastures a ground-mist rose, as thick and -smoky as the reek from the smithy down at Garth when -Fool Billy’s fire was being coaxed into a blaze.</p> - -<p>Out of the rain, and the under moisture that reached up -above his horse’s hocks, the doctor came to Ghyll.</p> - -<p>“All well, Mr. Gaunt?” he asked, with a note of strict -routine in his voice.</p> - -<p>“Better for this God-sent weather, doctor.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, that’s your view, is it? I’m wet to the skin, and -am like to be wetter before I’ve done. This quiet sort -of rain goes deeper than your quick-come, quick-go -storms. Still, it will clear the air, maybe, and you’ll remember -that I prophesied it? Mr. Gaunt,” he broke -off, with one of his sudden glances, as if he were probing<span class="pagenum" id="Page_300">[300]</span> -a patient with the knife, “d’ye feel any lassitude; well, -to put it plainly, d’ye feel the world is slipping from under -you, like a crazy, limestone wall when you try to climb it?”</p> - -<p>“Well, no,” said Gaunt, the new hope and the fresh -colour showing in his cheeks. “I did, till the rain came; -and I was as near to fright as ever I’ve been in my life; -but that’s all gone. Mrs. Mathewson has taken heart, -too.”</p> - -<p>The doctor looked him over once more. “I’m not here -to play Providence,” he said, with an air of quiet relief. -“This horse of mine, with his fiddle-head, could never -carry so heavy a burden as Providence; but I think, Mr. -Gaunt, you may let me take word to Marshlands that they -can begin to get ready for you, air the sheets and dust the -rooms, and all the nonsense women like.”</p> - -<p>“I shall be needed here for awhile,” said Reuben.</p> - -<p>“That’s as you please.”</p> - -<p>The two men stood looking at each other with great -friendliness, though in years past their intercourse, on the -doctor’s side at least, had had more than a touch of chill -in it. Gaunt had not given that side of the matter a -thought; yet these weeks at Ghyll had divided, like a deep -gulf, the old days and the new; whatever lightness he -showed in future, his neighbours would look behind it, -and would see a stricken farmstead instead, and a man -entering it of his own free will to succour others. The folk -of Garth were slow, maybe, to form new opinions of men, -or crops, or weather; but in the long run they were just, -and they did not forget.</p> - -<p>The doctor read a good deal in Reuben’s face just now. -There was a light of happiness in it—unquestioning, -childlike happiness, dimmed just a little by awe and some -bewilderment. He had seen the look often when one or -other of his patients had lain near to death and had lived<span class="pagenum" id="Page_301">[301]</span> -on to watch another spring spread magic fingers over a -world that now was doubly sweet to them.</p> - -<p>“’Tis not so easy to die as I thought,” said Reuben, -breaking the silence unexpectedly. “You never know -how fond you are of being chained to this daft world, until—well, -till you begin to listen for the snapping of the -chains.”</p> - -<p>“I’d be sorry to leave it myself,” said the doctor, with -his big, heathen laugh. “They work me to death, and -I’ve seldom an hour to call my own, and first I’m baked -with sun-heat, and then I’m chilled by this mist-rain ye’re -so fond of, till I scarce know whether I’m dead or alive, -but, bless ye, Mr. Gaunt, there’s some queer sort of joy -in life, after all. Besides,” he added, with his own grim -pleasantry, “there’s a certain doubt as to what comes -after.”</p> - -<p>“There is,” murmured Gaunt, though he would have -been slow to confess as much at another time. “I fancy -’twas the doubt troubled me, when I looked up at the sky, -and felt the brazen heat.”</p> - -<p>“Just my feeling,” said the other cheerily. “It might -be hotter out Beyond—or again it might be damper—I -never liked extremes.”</p> - -<p>Again there fell a silence between them, and still the -doctor lingered for the sake of lingering, and because he -knew that Gaunt was weak after long strain and needed -a man’s chatter in his ears.</p> - -<p>“Undoubtedly I’m a lost soul,” he went on. “Widow -Lister told me as much last night, when she caught me -riding home, and got me to poultice a boil the size of a -pin-head, and then gave me a sermon because I hadn’t -the fear o’ the Lord in me. ‘If I’d as much fear of the -Lord, Widow, as you have of your body,’ I said, ‘they’d -count me righteous in Garth.’”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_302">[302]</span>Reuben laughed. He knew Widow Lister, and the -doctor’s racy tongue had brought the picture clearly to -his mind. And somehow neither wished to get on with -the business of the day, for each knew at last that, in their -separate ways, they had faced adversity with some show -of courage.</p> - -<p>“I’ve a weakness for Widow Mathewson myself; I’d -the same feeling for poor Peggy,” said the doctor presently. -“I begin to have the like feeling for you, Mr. -Gaunt.”</p> - -<p>“What sort of feeling, doctor?”</p> - -<p>“Well, a ‘birds-of-a-feather’ feeling. We’re up on the -same moor-top, we. There’s little of the heathen in me, -I’ve seen too much of human sorrow to feel aught but -fear o’ God. But my God’s different—yours is, and the -widow’s is, and poor Peggy’s was—and I catch a sight -of Him when I’m riding over the moor, Mr. Gaunt, at -the end of a long day’s work, and the hills get up in front -of my fiddle-headed horse, and the wind blows low through -the heather, and I listen to the fairies. Oh, we doctor-folk -learn a thing or two, when we ride with tired bodies -and clear eyes, over the moor-top home to supper.”</p> - -<p>Gaunt had not been permitted to see this side of the -man before; and his surprise showed in his face, perhaps, -for the doctor gathered up his reins and laughed shamefacedly.</p> - -<p>“No, no, Mr. Gaunt,” he said in his gruffest voice, -“I’m not going to enter any ministry. Foolish thoughts -<i>will</i> slip out at times. Now, you mean to stay here awhile -longer? I think I’ll ride home by way of Marshlands, -all the same. Scared as they are, they’ll be glad of -my news. I shall tell that hulking hind of yours, Peter -Wood, to bring you up a change of clothes and linen. -It was useless before, but now you can burn all you stand<span class="pagenum" id="Page_303">[303]</span> -up in, and put on something that doesn’t carry any memory -of the fever with it. You’ve burned all the sick-room -things, by the way—bedding, and hangings, and what -not?”</p> - -<p>Gaunt nodded. “And whitewashed every corner afterwards. -Mrs. Mathewson would have it so.”</p> - -<p>“Bless me, a couple of sensible folk seem to be living -up at Ghyll Farm! All as practical and trim as if I’d had -the overlooking of it myself.”</p> - -<p>“Well, you see, doctor,” said the other, with a smile -that had no mirth in it, “it was a big job we’d undertaken, -and big jobs are worth doing thoroughly, once you take -them up. There was no need for us to help Ghyll become -a plague spot for the whole of Garth.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, the world’s standing on her head, Mr. Gaunt! -The tough old doctor suspected of leanings towards the -ministry, and you preaching thoroughness. There, there, -I must have my jest. There’s no offence, I hope?”</p> - -<p>With a cheery nod and a jerk of the reins, the doctor -was trotting up the moor, leaving the wholesome crispness -of a northwest wind behind him.</p> - -<p>At ten of the next morning Reuben heard a shout as he -crossed from the mistal-yard. Peter Wood, the hind at -Marshlands, stood midway up the croft. He carried a -bundle in his arms, and his knees were shaking.</p> - -<p>“I dursn’t come no farther, sir, I dursn’t.” The big, -ungainly lad was almost blubbering as he stood, a figure -of woe, in the drenching sheets of rain. “Doctor said -I’d to bring these, an’ I’ve brought ’em, but niver a stride -nearer Ghyll will I come. Couldn’t, sir, if I tried; my -feet willun’t let me.”</p> - -<p>“Nobody asked you to. Set your bundle down, Peter, -and I’ll fetch it when you’ve taken your precious body -out of harm’s way. Is all right with the farm, Peter?”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_304">[304]</span>“Ay, the farm’s all right, an’ th’ folk in it are all right -so far; but—”</p> - -<p>“Oh, knock all that nonsense out of your head, lad! -You’ll not take fever, if that is what’s troubling you. Tell -them I may be home in a week, to stir you all out o’ your -laziness, or it may be a fortnight; it depends on whether -I’m needed here.”</p> - -<p>Peter’s wits were never overstrong, and terror had not -sharpened them; yet even he was conscious of a new note -in the master’s voice—a note less easy-going than of old, -and fuller of authority. The lad glanced down the croft, -then up at Reuben, but still held his ground; it was plain -that he wished to get as far away from Ghyll as possible, -and yet that he was held by some counter fear.</p> - -<p>“Is’t true what they say, sir,” he blurted out, “that a -body can catch th’ fever by looking at another body as has -been nigh it?”</p> - -<p>“No,” said Reuben, with a laugh that heartened -Peter a little, “it’s a lie. Most fears are lies, my lad, -and you can tell them so from me down at Marshlands -yonder.”</p> - -<p>“Thank ye, sir,” said Peter, laying down his bundle -in the wet, and making off with a speed that recalled the -haste of Dan Foster’s lad not long ago.</p> - -<p>When Gaunt stepped into the farm, carrying his dripping -bundle, Widow Mathewson looked up from her -baking board.</p> - -<p>“What have ye there, Reuben?”</p> - -<p>“Clean linen and a change of clothes. It sounds -naught much, mother, but, Lord, how I need to get into -them! Seems the doctor knew how I’d needed them, for -’twas his thought to send them up.”</p> - -<p>The widow laid down her rolling-pin, rubbed some of -the flour from her arms, then looked at Gaunt with her<span class="pagenum" id="Page_305">[305]</span> -steady, hazel eyes. “That means ye’re ready for flitting. -Well, I mustn’t grumble, though I’ll miss you sorely. -Life’s made up of settlings in an’ flittings out, as the throstle -said when she watched her fledged brood fly.”</p> - -<p>“But I’m not flitting, mother, not for a week or two -yet.” He was touched by the loneliness, the independence -and the pride of her appeal. “I’m needed here, ye see—you -alone in the house and farm work to be seen to—and, -besides, they’d be scared to death at Marshlands -if I gave them no time to get used to the notion of my -coming back. They’d all be down with fever the next -day, or think they were.”</p> - -<p>“You’re a good lad, Reuben,” she said, after a pause. -“Give me your bundle, and let me set your things to the -fire. ’Twill be rheumatiz ye’ll catch if ye put them on as -they are.”</p> - -<p>In the afternoon the sun got out for an hour, for the rain -was tired of its own vehemence. Gaunt put the clothes, -warm and with the peat-smell of the fire on them, under -his arm, and went up into the moor, past Peggy’s grave, -past the little, grey bridge where the harebells were reviving -from the drought. Just above the bridge was a loop known -to him of old; it had dwindled during the hot months, -and the rains had scarcely helped it yet. The land, for -all the steady downpour, had not slaked its thirst; and had -let only the shallowest of streamlets run off its surface -to feed the larger brooks. For all that, the pool was deep -enough for a bath, and Gaunt stripped, and plunged into -the water.</p> - -<p>The glare and misery of the past weeks seemed to -yield to this gentle lapping of the peat-brown water. He -had done his work rightly, for once in his heedless life, -and knew it; and the way of Peggy’s death, the squalor -and the terror of it, were washed clean by the stream that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_306">[306]</span> -sucked, and laughed, and gurgled round the edges of the -pool.</p> - -<p>A curlew came and looked at him, as he splashed in the -brown water. A burn-trout finned its way upstream in -fright when it found a four-limbed monster in its favourite -pool. For the rest, he had no company and needed none.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_307">[307]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER XXII</h2> -</div> - - -<p class="drop-cap">REUBEN was home again at Marshlands. His housekeeper -still watched him carefully when she brought -in his meals, and Peter, the farm-lad, stood at least ten -feet away when the master came out into the yard to give -his orders. Only Michael, the head man about the farm, -showed common sense.</p> - -<p>“Fever’s like a turnip lanthorn,” said Michael, a few -days after the master’s return. “Ye’ve only to light the -bogie, an’ set it up i’ a dark corner, an’ watch ’em running -for dear life. Oh, by th’ Heart, sir, I’d liefer face it any -day as ye did, than go running into my burrow like a rabbit -every time a kitty-call sounded over the pastures.”</p> - -<p>Little by little, however, memory of the panic grew -dulled. Ten days of rain, with scarcely an hour’s cessation -now and then, were followed by exquisite, crisp -sunshine, till Yeoman Hirst declared that the face of the -land “looked as clean-washed as a babby’s.” The breeze -was sweet and nutty to the smell. Flowers, checked till -now by the drought, began to show out of their proper -season, while September’s natural brood stirred into -blossom in every field and hedgerow. It was a season such -as puts new heart into men, whether they admit the -weather’s influence or make pretence of denial.</p> - -<p>The fever, too, had spent itself. In Shepston there was -a case here and there, at longer and longer intervals, but -none further up the dale.</p> - -<p>“Oh, I don’t want to boast,” said Hirst to Cilla, on<span class="pagenum" id="Page_308">[308]</span> -one of these clean autumn evenings, as they watched the -sun go down, “but it seems like as if th’ fever couldn’t -bid to touch bonnie Garth. ’Twas afraid to spoil her face, -I reckon.”</p> - -<p>“There, father!” laughed Cilla, with that pleasant -linking of her arm in his which was full of comradeship. -“I believe ye love Garth village better than any soul that -lives in it.”</p> - -<p>“Well, no,” answered the yeoman, his voice rising to -a roar of affectionate good-will. “There’s ye, Cilla, lass—but -Garth runs a good second, I should say.”</p> - -<p>Cilla was quietly happy these days, though she would -admit no reason for it. On every side she heard guarded -praise of Reuben; for the doctor, who seldom spoke ill of -a man, was fond of spreading good reports abroad when -honesty allowed it. It was known now in Garth, not only -that Reuben had chosen to go into Ghyll and share its -troubles, but that afterwards they had done all they could, -he and the widow, to keep the plague from spreading -down to the valley.</p> - -<p>Priscilla did not ask herself why praise of Reuben was -so welcome. She simply let the gold, September days -drift by, and sometimes cried o’ nights when she thought -of Peggy o’ Mathewson, sleeping beside the moorland burn. -It was Cilla’s way to cry for others when her own happiness -took shape.</p> - -<p>At Marshlands, maybe, the servants, all save Michael, -the head man, relished the changed outlook upon Gaunt -less than their neighbours did. They found the master -more intent on details of the farm and house than he -had been; he went roaming, for a day or two, or a week, -less often, and they were not free to drive Michael wild -with their taunt of: “Well, th’ master idles all his time; -why shouldn’t such as us?”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_309">[309]</span>“The fever’s gone to his head, though he thought he’d -’scaped it,” said the housekeeper sagely to Rachel, the -dairymaid, as she watched the butter-making. “I was -allus telled it left its marks on a man, did fever.”</p> - -<p>She was right. The fever had gone, not only to Reuben’s -head, but to the heart of the man. He had never been -trusted before, as Widow Mathewson had trusted him. -He had not been asked—save when he ran the Linsall -fell-races so gallantly—whether his courage were sound -as his wind. No one had taught him the way of his manhood -until the time of stress at Ghyll; but now he was -moving with uncertain steps, like a child first finding its -feet, along his proper road.</p> - -<p>Cilla met him one forenoon on the bridle-path that ran -through Raindrift Wood. For once in a way he was on -foot, like herself, and not on horseback; and they stood -looking at each other, startled by the sudden meeting.</p> - -<p>“We—we have heard pleasant things about you, Mr. -Gaunt,” said the girl, trying to break down their disquiet, -“and—and, indeed, we are glad that—that nothing -happened to you up at Ghyll.”</p> - -<p>“I did what was needed, and was glad to be needed,” -he answered simply. “There was nothing at all to talk -about, though you know how folk build up a mole-hill -and swear ’tis a mountain.”</p> - -<p>Cilla glanced quietly at him. He had come out a -changed man from the furnace of those weeks at Ghyll. -The easy, self-assertive jauntiness was gone; his small -affectations of speech and manner were lost; and he spoke -and carried himself as a yeoman should. The restless -glitter, too, had gone from his grey eyes, and the look -in them was of a man who had lately met life face to face. -He was thin and haggard; yet Cilla was conscious only of -some new strength in him.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_310">[310]</span>“Tell me of—of Peggy,” she said softly. “I was -grieved when the news came down to Garth.”</p> - -<p>“She died without a good-by. That was the hardest -thing to bear. If there’d been a half-hour given to us for -talk before she went, it would have seemed easier. I was -in need of forgiveness, maybe—”</p> - -<p>He stopped, and his eyes sought hers gravely. Cilla -could feel nothing but a great tenderness, a sudden rush -of pity. He was so quiet under punishment, so ready to -admit that it was well-deserved.</p> - -<p>“You were always fond of seeing fresh places,” she -said. “Leave Garth for awhile, will you not, until—until -the memory of it all grows softened?”</p> - -<p>For the first time Gaunt smiled. “I’ve taken just the -opposite notion into my head. Marshlands is a biggish -place, and needs a master over it. They will tell you in -Garth that it has not known much of a master these last -years.”</p> - -<p>Generous always in compassion, she could not check -herself, but laid her hand on his arm impulsively. “Never -think that again! They tell different stories of you now -in Garth.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, yes,” put in Reuben, with a touch of the weariness -that would keep him company for many a day. -“They’re full of praise I haven’t a need for. By and by -they’ll forget, and I shall be ‘Mr. Running-Water’ to -them once again. ’Tis well to know one’s by-name.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, you must not be bitter! I tell you, they have -changed—”</p> - -<p>“Just so.” His pride was touched in some unexpected -way. “They call a fresh fiddle-tune, but are they sure -I’ll dance to it?”</p> - -<p>Cilla liked his stubbornness, liked the gravity which -was so far remote from her earlier knowledge of him. They<span class="pagenum" id="Page_311">[311]</span> -said good-by in Raindrift Wood, and Gaunt went slowly -home, wondering that Cilla and he could meet, not like -lovers who had walked the field-ways when spring was -warm and urgent, but like friends who were old and tranquil -as this month of gold September.</p> - -<p>At Marshlands, only Michael had faith in the master’s -purpose; the others said that he would tire of farming in -a week or two more, because it stood to reason that running -water must be gadding off somewhere or another.</p> - -<p>Michael’s face grew cheerier as the days went on. He -saw the master keeping close at home; he saw the dairy-work -grow cleanlier, the maids and the farm-lads doing -a day’s work in a day, instead of taking two to it. Michael -felt no jealousy. He had always had the farm’s interests -at heart, and had known that he could not rule the house -until the master set his own back to the work of supervision -and ceased from wandering.</p> - -<p>Reuben went his own way, as he had always done; but -the new way, he admitted to himself, rang more crisply underfoot -than the old had done. Folk were anxious in Garth -village to show him that they knew and understood what -he had done at Ghyll; they were met by an easy courtesy -that was cold as an east wind, a courtesy that halted for a -moment to talk of the weather, and then passed by without -a wish for friendship. Reuben was plainly minded not -to dance to their new tune as yet, and they liked him the -better for it.</p> - -<p>He had found self-confidence. His father’s history, -remembrance of that bitter night, when, a lad of fifteen, -he had seen Billy and his mother driven out into the wind, -had haunted him persistently, had lain always in the background -of his thoughts. He had grown used to the belief -that his by-name fitted him well enough, that he was -infirm of will and must be so to the end. There was no<span class="pagenum" id="Page_312">[312]</span> -claim upon him, save the farm’s; and that claim had -been too abstract and impersonal until now to move his -fancy.</p> - -<p>“’Twill not last,” he would think, coming home at -nightfall from some journey over the pastures. “But at -the worst, it can do no harm, and keeps me busy.”</p> - -<p>As the days went by, he grew more full of wonder at the -change in himself. Little by little the lands, and the smaller -of the farms, and his own big house of Marshlands, crept -into his heart, as a child might creep to the knee of a lonely -man and bring him soft companionship. He had neither -wife nor child of his own; and, lacking these, a man’s -best solace is love of the acres left him by many generations.</p> - -<p>It was no ’prentice hand he turned to farming matters, -after all. The routine of it he knew by training; but the -instinct toward it lay deeper than one man’s life could ever -sound. And the faces of the lazy hinds grew longer day -by day, and Michael went whistling about his work.</p> - -<p>It was soon after Cilla’s meeting with him in Raindrift -Wood that she was caught by Widow Lister, passing down -Garth’s highway.</p> - -<p>“Oh, good day, Miss Cilla,” she said briskly. “Ye -look lile an’ bonnie, if a plain cottage-body might say -so without offence. See my bit of a garden here, an’ -how the rain has watered it.”</p> - -<p>Cilla halted, as all good-natured people did who accepted -Widow Lister as a load added by habit to the day’s -work. She praised the snapdragons, the asters, the marigolds, -which, thanks to constant watering through the -drought, reared gallant heads to the quiet September sunlight. -Then she waited, knowing that this was the prelude -to some plea for help, or to some need for gossip.</p> - -<p>“I hear queer news o’ Mr. Gaunt these days,” said the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_313">[313]</span> -widow, with a stolen glance at Cilla. “They tell me he’s -a changed man, since he was daft enough to step into Ghyll -when he hadn’t any need to.”</p> - -<p>“Man enough, you meant?” put in Cilla quietly.</p> - -<p>“Ay, well, ’twas like him, anyway, to go seeking a spot -where trouble was, an’ then to run his head straight into ’t—though, -of course,” she added with a sigh of demure -resignation, “’tis not for me to judge my betters.”</p> - -<p>Cilla smiled impatiently, for it was useless to be angry -with this woman who eluded censure as she had eluded -all life’s sharp edges. “Then why judge them, Mrs. -Lister?” she asked briskly.</p> - -<p>“Oh, I only say what I hear, and I niver have no faith -myseln i’ sudden conversions. When my man war alive, -I war most frightened when he had his serious, sober fits -on him. I knew he’d break out worse nor iver when he -made a fresh start for th’ Elm Tree Inn. Mr. Gaunt, ye -see, is as God made him—an’ his father’s training no -way bettered a poor job—an’ that’s where ’tis.”</p> - -<p>Cilla turned after a farewell that was colder than her -wont, and saw the widow stooping tranquilly over her -flower-beds. Mrs. Lister, indeed, seemed the incarnation -of peaceful Garth—a trim, little figure tending a trim, -little garden-patch that fronted the roadway, with the sun -finding auburn streaks in the smooth, well-ordered hair -that should have shown a grey patch or two by now. And, -in spite of herself, Priscilla smiled; the widow was so -gentle a wasp to look at, and yet her sting was always -at Garth’s service.</p> - -<p>Fever and the dread which had made strong farmer-men -ashamed, grew half-forgotten by the village as September -neared its end. Gaunt still overlooked the work -at Marshlands, still wondered that this love o’ land grew -dearer to him day by day. And sometimes he met Cilla in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_314">[314]</span> -the fields, or on the roadway; and their friendship was -quiet and sunny as the light that lay about the hazel -copses.</p> - -<p>He was often up at Ghyll these days, and Widow -Mathewson’s smile, when she met him in the doorway, -or saw him coming across the croft, was his reward. She -was doing the farm work alone, stubborn in her pride of -isolation. Reuben helped her so far as he could, but he -had bigger lands to see to; and one quiet noontide he -walked up, with a strapping farm-lad at his side.</p> - -<p>“Who’s this ye’ve brought, Reuben?” said the widow, -standing stiff at her own porch.</p> - -<p>“Only a lazy hound I can’t lick into shape, mother. -Teach him to help you about the farm, and send him back -as soon as you’ve trained him. He can be spared from -Marshlands, now there’s less to be done about the fields.”</p> - -<p>“Nay, now, Reuben—I’m not one to go borrowing—I -war niver that sort—an’ I’m used to work.”</p> - -<p>“The lad has his orders—from me,” said Reuben. -“See that he does his full share of the work, mother, and -a little over.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Mathewson, to her surprise, found herself yielding -to this new air of Gaunt’s, half persuasive and half -masterful. Indeed, she was beginning more and more to -lean on him, and would tell herself, as she smoked by the -hearth at nights, that she had earned a little luxury, maybe, -in her old age. This morning she was slow to yield. The -work was too much for one pair of hands, and she was -“bone-weary;” but better work till she dropped than let -it be said that they had needed outside help at Ghyll.</p> - -<p>At last she consented grudgingly. “’Tis only a loan -o’ th’ lad, mind ye,” she hastened to assure him. “I -suppose I mun hire one soon, like it or no; ’specially now -they begin to ask for milk again down i’ Garth. They ask<span class="pagenum" id="Page_315">[315]</span> -i’ a whisper, though,” she added, with her old, tart humour. -“A shout would bring fever out of its kennel, so they fancy -still.”</p> - -<p>So the farm-lad was left at Ghyll; and the look on his -face was laughable to watch when Reuben left him to the -mercies of Widow Mathewson. The master might be -harder these days than of old; but the widow’s hardness, -and the strength of her fist to back it if need be, were renowned -throughout the dale.</p> - -<p>September passed, and still the clear, gold magic made -Paradise of fields and copse. It was now that magic -walked across the fells. The dales-folk had seen the mystery -in other years, but never as they saw it now; for no -man could remember such a spell of drought; and such -a fall rain to follow it.</p> - -<p>The pastures, sloping to the blue and amber sky, had -been smoking hot before the rain came; the first day’s -moisture had been lost, for it was turned to the steam -which men had named a ground-mist. The second day’s -fall had been lapped up, greedily as a cat laps milk, and -the third day’s, too, had gone to feed the soil. It was only -on the fourth day that the streams had begun to brawl and -chatter, as if they had claimed all the mercy of the skies. -Like most folk who make noise, the brooks were spreading -an empty boast abroad; they were idlers for the most -part, dawdling down a field-way here, a glen there, until -some miller stayed their course and bade them turn his -mill-wheel for him; but it was the thrifty, working pastures -that caught the first fruits, and turned them to good uses.</p> - -<p>Gaunt, as he rode about his lands, could see the miracle -take shape before his eyes. Sharp Fell, away to the southwest, -had been as grey-brown as a hazelnut, withered -before it comes to ripeness; now it showed a tinge of -green, and each day the green lay deeper, richer across the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_316">[316]</span> -burnt-up pastures. He had watched this uprising of the -grass in far-off countries when the wet season followed -extreme heat; but never before in Garth.</p> - -<p>Yeoman Hirst overtook him one of these days, when -both were riding to Shepston market. “Seems there’s -going to be a hay-crop, after all, though a lile bit late in the -year,” he laughed, pointing to the pastures with his switch. -“They say Garth weather’s queer, but I niver yet made -hay at Kirstmas-time.”</p> - -<p>“Let’s say there’ll be good grazing by and by, and -that’s something to be thankful for, before the winter -drives the beasts indoors.”</p> - -<p>Gaunt was shy of his fellow men, remembering past -coldness; but with Cilla’s father he was himself. The -yeoman’s big, hearty outlook on the world inspired confidence -in all who met him; his friendship, not to be bought -at a price, was counted a privilege; moreover, he was master -of the house that sheltered Cilla.</p> - -<p>They rode into Shepston together, and stabled at the -same inn; and Hirst, before he went about his business, -turned to Reuben.</p> - -<p>“We might as well jog home in company, we,” he said. -“What time d’ye start out for Garth?”</p> - -<p>“Four o’ the clock, or thereabouts.”</p> - -<p>“Well, we can meet here, then. I shall have done by -that time and a lonely ride does no man good, they say.”</p> - -<p>They rode home together through the enchanted land. -Old tradition told of witchcraft here in Strathgarth Dale. -Witchcraft there was, of a kindly sort, and it came from -the hills that raked the sky, the hollows that caught the -farewell music of the day, and softened it, and went unwillingly -to bed, to dream of fairies’ songs. The farmers -who lived in amongst this glamour said little about it; -they were scarcely conscious that they saw it, for they<span class="pagenum" id="Page_317">[317]</span> -seldom asked themselves any question that intruded into -the day’s work; but the beauty at their hills and hollows, -the music of their gloaming, were as real an influence in -their lives as the breath o’ God that stirred their acres -into life.</p> - -<p>“A grand evening,” was all that Yeoman Hirst found -to say.</p> - -<p>“Ay, grand,” Reuben answered.</p> - -<p>They came to the door of Good Intent. “Ye’ll step -in, and drink a cup o’ tea?” said Hirst.</p> - -<p>Gaunt was taken by surprise. He hesitated, and flushed -hotly as he recalled his last visit to Good Intent and the -end of it. “Thank you, but I must be getting home,” he -answered quietly.</p> - -<p>The yeoman looked him in the face, and his smile -broadened. “Now, Mr. Gaunt, I know what ye’re thinking -of. Bygones are bygones, surely, if we’ll let them be. -Say I was wrong if ye like, though I shouldn’t like to own -to it. Step in, step in!”</p> - -<p>Reuben could not fight against this bluff, hearty courtesy. -The yeoman whistled a farm-lad round to take their horses, -then broke into the house with a tread that shook the -rafters. Cilla looked up from the table which she was -laying for tea.</p> - -<p>“I’ve brought a guest wi’ me, lile lass,” he said, with a -genial roar. “He was a bit loth to enter, till I persuaded -him he’d find a welcome.”</p> - -<p>Priscilla was startled, and could not check the sudden -flush of pleasure with which she greeted Reuben. All -three were silent and ill at ease for a moment. The yeoman, -seeing the look that passed between them, wondered -if he had done well, after all, to bring Gaunt under his -roof.</p> - -<p>“The kettle is boiling, father,” said Cilla, quietly<span class="pagenum" id="Page_318">[318]</span> -putting an end to their constraint. “See the cracknels -I’ve baked for you to-day—”</p> - -<p>Hirst interrupted her by taking one of the crisp bits -of pastry between a thumb and forefinger. “I always -had a soft tooth for sweetstuff,” he said. “Mr. Gaunt, -there’s your seat. Cilla, don’t be long in mashing the -tea; we’re a thirsty couple after the ride from Shepston.”</p> - -<p>When tea was over, and they settled round the hearth, -Gaunt felt a sense of well-being and content for which -there seemed to be no clear reason. So many details -went to the making of his comfort—Cilla’s face, as she -sat half in the firelight, half in the dancing shadows—the -yeoman’s ready laugh—even the lingering scent of -buttered toast which carried homely memories with it. -He had a bigger house at Marshlands, but had never found -this fireside glamour there; and always, as they talked, -he kept glancing toward Cilla, wondering that so slim -a lass could bring so much peace about a hearth.</p> - -<p>Hirst followed him out when at last he got to saddle. -“First visits mean second ones, eh?” he said. “Step in -any time ye’re passing Good Intent, and good night to ye, -Mr. Gaunt.”</p> - -<p>He listened to the hoof beats as they grew fainter up -the road; then he went indoors with a sigh, and sat him -down in the hooded chair, and beckoned Cilla to his knee.</p> - -<p>“We’re most of us as big fools as we look, and some of -us bigger,” he said. “Ye’re wondering why I asked -Gaunt to the farm. Well, ’twas to pay a debt, if you must -have the truth. I’ve reckoned it up all ways, Cilla, and I’ve -fought agen it, but I like to be just—when I can. I’ve -been hard on the lad, and he went where I wouldn’t have -gone if I’d been paid i’ gold for ’t.” His face broke into -broad wrinkles, full of charity and humour. “Ye see, -lile Cilla, a father’s never i’ the wrong to his lass—’twouldn’t<span class="pagenum" id="Page_319">[319]</span> -do to own up to ’t—but when I see Gaunt -framing like a farmer, and settling down to th’ only good -work God ever put into man’s hands—well, I war not -exactly i’ the wrong, ye understand, but happen I misjudged -him, like.”</p> - -<p>It was pleasant to Cilla, this sitting at her father’s knee -and listening while the big, child’s heart of the man found -voice. She understood the battle with his pride, the surrender -to a finer impulse.</p> - -<p>“Not that he’s fit for ye—”</p> - -<p>“Father, ’tis early days to talk of that,” she broke in, -with sudden fright.</p> - -<p>“Ay, and early days are best, if ye want to get your land -ready for a good crop to follow. Mind ye, Cilla, I’ve an -old dislike of the man.”</p> - -<p>“Or of his father?” asked Cilla shrewdly.</p> - -<p>“Well, both, maybe; but I’m talking of to-morrow, -not o’ yesterday. I saw the look that passed between ye -when Gaunt came in, and I’ve seen other glances o’ the -kind. Now, sit down, lass. I’ve earned a fairly plain -glimpse o’ life, after trying for five-and-fifty years to get -a lile bit nearer to ’t. If ye wed Gaunt, I shall be lone and -sorry, but I’ll make the best of a bad job.”</p> - -<p>“Father, cannot you understand that Peggy is scarce -buried yet?” she murmured, afraid of herself and of all -things.</p> - -<p>He met her glance frankly, for he had something in his -mind, and meant to find speech for it. It was in times -of stress that Hirst showed all the common sense and -strength that underlay his boisterous good humour. -“Buried is hidden, as they say, and that’s what I’m telling -ye. It’s the lesson men have to learn as lads—and women -after they’ve had a bairn or two.”</p> - -<p>Cilla sat looking into, the peat-fire. “Well, then,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_320">[320]</span> -father?” she asked by and by. “What is it you want to -say?”</p> - -<p>“Just this, my lass,” said Hirst, blurting it out like a -school lad. “When I asked Gaunt to come in, it was -because I owed him a debt, like, and wanted to pay it. -When I asked him at the door to come a second time, -’twas for a different reason.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, father,” said Cilla, still looking at the peats.</p> - -<p>“Ye’re bound to meet each other, ye two, and I’d rather -ye met here—-well, as often as in the pastures or the -bridle-ways. I think ye’re a fool for your heartache, Cilla, -but I’d liefer watch Reuben courting ye under my roof -than the sky’s.”</p> - -<p>Cilla flushed, and her voice was piteous. “We’ve -no thought of that kind, father; we’re friendly, he and I, -and I’m sorry for his trouble—-there is no more than that.”</p> - -<p>“Ay, ye’re friendly, and ye’re sorry; and I should -know by this time, Cilla, what that means between a man -and a maid. Get me my pipe, lass, and say good night, -and think ower what I’ve said.”</p> - -<p>Gaunt, meanwhile, rode slowly home to Marshlands. -The moon was softening all the outlines of the hills, and -owls were calling here and there, making the silence of the -land more friendly, if that were needed.</p> - -<p>The man was bewildered by the peace of it all—-peace -of the hearth at Good Intent, with Cilla dainty and her -father full of comradeship—-peace of the night, that was -cool and fragrant, and at ease. He had stood too near, -till now, to the drought and trouble of the days at Ghyll -to meet well-being without distrust. Whenever a cool -breeze had met him, with a touch of moisture in it, he had -recalled the heat and the naked furnace-sky that had -shut the moorland in while Widow Mathewson and he -held out against the adversary. Whenever an owl had<span class="pagenum" id="Page_321">[321]</span> -called, he had started, thinking Peggy o’ Mathewson’s -was waking from her fever and needed him in a little up-stairs -room.</p> - -<p>All was changed to-night. The soft, September scents -were abroad, quiet ghosts that promised immortality to -the summer which had seemed to die; the clouds about the -moon were light as thistle-down; the two at Good Intent, -father and daughter, had given him a new hold on life.</p> - -<p>He did not know it—men seldom grasp at once these -hands reached out to them from the bigger sky above—but -he rode down to Marshlands a likelier man to-night, a -man more brave to meet the future. All that he could -think of, as he slipped from saddle, and gave the reins -to a farm-lad, and went indoors, was the peace that lay -about Good Intent. Cilla’s clean, homely daintiness, -like lavender; her father’s uprightness, and the smell of -honest cattle and good horses about him; the peat-glow -stealing ruddy across the yellow candle-light at Good Intent -and tricking the grave rows of pewter, china and delft -mugs into a show of warmth; these fireside matters were -full of meaning to him.</p> - -<p>When he went up to bed, and opened his window to -the September night, it was the same tale. A throstle -was whistling a note or two, as if getting ready for the -spring.</p> - -<p>“Silly lad, yond throstle,” was Reuben’s thought. -“Thinks he’s going to find a mate to-morrow, and then -set to work nest-building. Summer’s dead, I reckon, and -there’s a lile, cold snap o’ winter to come before he builds -his nest.”</p> - -<p>Outside the house at Marshlands, as Gaunt went to -sleep, Billy the Fool watched the darkened windows. He -was not homeless, because he had the open air about him, -and a bed all ready in the crisp dry bracken up above. He<span class="pagenum" id="Page_322">[322]</span> -had no lack of friends; the birds and the four-footed folk -saw to that. Yet to-night he was restless and ill at ease.</p> - -<p>“Billy could never sort out his thoughts, like,” as his -neighbours said of him; but he could feel, and could remember, -and his griefs and joys, because they were instinctive, -were poignant and keen.</p> - -<p>To-night he did not grudge Gaunt his house, his cosy -bed, his riches; he pitied him for such barren wealth. -It was Cilla’s welfare that troubled him. Whenever he -was free of his “play” at the smithy, he had shadowed -these two of late, always with the sense that harm might -come to Cilla if she were unprotected in Gaunt’s company. -At the lad’s heart to-night, as he stood under Reuben’s -window, were rage and pity for the scene ended long -ago at Marshlands here. He saw Reuben’s father send -his mother out from the grey porch on his left—the porch, -whose limestone white and lichen grey were limned -clearly by the light of the full moon—and he heard her -sobs as she leaned against the closed door of the house. -He could not disentangle the dead Gaunt from the living, -and Reuben was a standing menace, answering for his -father’s sins.</p> - -<p>Billy, at this moment, was a menace, and one not fanciful -at all. He was content to wait till dawn, to watch for -Gaunt’s coming out from the grey porch. He knew his -strength, and meant to use it.</p> - -<p>A bridle-way ran close to the Marshlands fence, and the -doctor, riding home from a late round, glanced at the -moonlit front of the house. He saw Billy’s fat hulk, and -from long experience knew that there was danger in the -set of the man’s figure, his big head lifted to the casement -up above.</p> - -<p>“Give ye good e’en, Billy,” he said, reining up. “You’re -growing fond of Reuben Gaunt, it seems.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_323">[323]</span>Billy turned with his accustomed quiet. “Not just -so fond; rather t’ other way, doctor, as a body’s body -might say.”</p> - -<p>“Well, then, come catch my stirrup, Billy, and ’twill -be play for ye to ride home beside me.”</p> - -<p>Fool Billy paused, as a dog does when he is divided -between duty to his pleasure and duty to his master. It -was the word “play” that enticed him, as the doctor knew -it would. He laughed abroad to the blue-grey face of the -moonlight, and vaulted the fence and clutched a stirrup. -The madness had gone from him, and left him a child -again.</p> - -<p>“Well, then,” he said, “well, then, doctor, and as a -body might say, I was always one for playing.”</p> - -<p>The exquisite, cool night lay like God’s blessing over -the Strathgarth lands. Gaunt, too sound asleep to hear -the doctor’s voice, or Billy’s slow answer, dreamed quietly -of Cilla in her lilac frock—of Cilla, who carried scent -o’ lilac with her, summertide or winter. There was no -memory troubled him to-night of Peggy, and a grave high -up the moor-face which he himself had dug for her; nor -would he ever know, unless the doctor lost his habit of -keeping his own counsel, how near the shadow of death -had come to-night to Marshlands.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_324">[324]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER XXIII</h2> -</div> - - -<p class="drop-cap">WIDOW MATHEWSON, up at Ghyll Farm, was -prepared to find Reuben’s visits grow fewer and -fewer, until they ceased altogether.</p> - -<p>“Stands to reason,” she told herself, with her half -grim, half humorous outlook upon life, “stands to reason -he’ll slacken now, when there’s no Peggy to ’tice him up -the moor. ’Tis no way likely he’ll come for th’ pleasure -of seeing my wry face.”</p> - -<p>Her judgment was wrong for once. Through the gold -September days and the russet glory of October, Reuben -snatched every opportunity to ride or walk to Ghyll. He -persuaded Mrs. Mathewson to replace his own farm-hind -lent to her, and sorely needed now in the busy life -at Marshlands, with a steady, hard-working man-of-all-jobs -of his own choosing. He helped her with the in-gathering -of the bracken. He took pains to set the new -man in his place at once; to teach him that his work here -was to save the mistress every trouble. All this Gaunt did, -and more, though he could ill spare the time; and in -between he would steal to the little glen and the rowan-tree -that sheltered the stream and Peggy’s grave of peat.</p> - -<p>The widow could not read his motive in all this, and he -himself at no time halted to probe into his methods. Remorse -for his light playing with the love that Peggy had -given him, pity for her end, self-condemnation because he -missed her so little, however hard he tried to feel the decency<span class="pagenum" id="Page_325">[325]</span> -of grief, all played their part in urging him to come -often up to Ghyll. But there was more than this. Those -weeks of heat and fever had taught him to see life with -clearer eyes, to understand the worth of the affection -shown him, in a grim, half ashamed fashion, by the lonely -woman who had nothing else except her farm to love.</p> - -<p>“Seems I’ve gotten a son in my old age,” she said drily, -when Gaunt had taken some special pains on her behalf -one morning of November.</p> - -<p>“Shouldn’t wonder, mother,” he answered cheerily.</p> - -<p>“Well, now, there’s a daft thing for a tough old woman -to be doing. Seems scarce modest, Reuben—almost -flighty-like—”</p> - -<p>She broke off with a laugh. Her dear, brave eyes were -twinkling with mischief, with a spice of that wholesome -devilry which no healthy woman loses till her death.</p> - -<p>“How does your man-of-all-jobs frame?” asked Gaunt.</p> - -<p>“Oh, as well as men ever do—naught to boast of at the -best.”</p> - -<p>“Then I’ll give him a piece of my mind before I ride -down.”</p> - -<p>“Nay, that you won’t! The lad’s well enough, Reuben. -His big fault, if I must own to ’t, is that he willun’t let -me do my share o’ the work. ’Tis all the grand lady he’s -making me, and I was never reared to idleness. Shall be -furnishing a parlour, I, if all this mak o’ nonsense goes -on, and sitting wi’ a bit of fancy-work i’ my lazy lap, and -thinking how many ailments I’ve gotten, like Widow -Lister down at Garth.”</p> - -<p>Gaunt rode home that day, as on many others, with a -pleasant memory of Mrs. Mathewson’s laughter, the -smoothing of the deeper lines about her face, the power he -had of drawing her mind away from griefs buried long ago.</p> - -<p>This luxury of bringing comfort to other folk was growing<span class="pagenum" id="Page_326">[326]</span> -dearer to him. It had been left to him to find out, -unaided, that he had the gift; he had had no help when -first he blundered into the knowledge. He was the stronger -now for this lack of aid, and a quiet, yet buoyant confidence -was replacing his old, haphazard jauntiness.</p> - -<p>He was often at Good Intent, when work about the -farm was done and he had leisure to stroll down for a -pipe with Yeoman Hirst. Cilla would move about the -house at these times, doing little, needless work of setting -things to rights against the morrow; or she would sit -beside the hearth, and intercept grave glances from Reuben—glances -which she answered with the same look of -question and of hope. It was their waiting-time, just -as it was waiting-time for the frozen pastures; spring -would have to step in before they found the answer to their -riddle.</p> - -<p>“Gaunt grows shapelier,” the yeoman would say, after -one of these fireside evenings.</p> - -<p>And Cilla would laugh. “He was always shapely -enough,” she would reply demurely.</p> - -<p>“Oh, ay! I was not thinking o’ come-kiss-me-quick -shapeliness, and all that light make o’ moonshine. He’s -showing his true breed at last, and I’m glad. His father—well, -he’s under sod, and I oughtn’t to say it, but he was as -near the devil’s likeness as I’ve seen yet. ’Twas a pity, -lile Cilla, for the Gaunts go back to Norman William or -thereabouts, and there have been few black sheep i’ the -flock. Now, get to bed wi’ your fancies, lass. I’ve said -as much as a cautious man ever dare say i’ praise o’ -Wastrel Reuben; but I’ve seen your daft looks—yours -and his across the hearth, all as if there’s never been a -couple wanted to wed before—and you must gang your -own gait, for Lord help the man who tries to stop ye, slim -as ye are.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_327">[327]</span>Exhausted by his eloquence, Hirst would reach out for -his mug of ale, and Cilla would go softly up the stair, with -shame in her cheeks and peace at her heart. She would -lean at the open window, not knowing that the night wind -blew cold, and would see new beauties in the moonlit -street, the moonlit, hazy fields beyond.</p> - -<p>It was to be the bitterest winter known for fifty years -in Strathgarth. Yet, when December came, and the frost -strengthened its grip, and all the land began to wear a -pinched and sullen look, Gaunt felt the warmth of life -increase. He lost his dogged recollection of former slights -when meeting his neighbours at market or along the highways, -just as they had long been willing to admit that their -settled judgment of a man might, for once, be wrong. They -heard his laugh less often now, but it was heartier when it -came, and one they liked to hear. By gradual stages he -was settling into his true position as master of the biggest -and the oldest farm in Garth.</p> - -<p>Hard work was asked of him that winter. Before -Christmas there was a three days’ snow that drifted over -every sheep ungathered from the higher lands. When -his own ewes were recovered—and he took more than -his share of a labour asking great patience and endurance—he -made his way as best he could to Ghyll Farm, getting -along by the wall-tops mostly, to see how Widow Mathewson -was faring.</p> - -<p>He found her helping the man to clear the last fall of -snow away from the space between the house-front and -the well; her cheeks were ruddy, and her voice rang crisp -and almost merry, when she saw Reuben struggling -through the croft.</p> - -<p>“Bless me, but this has been what parson would call a -visitation!” she cried. “’Tis sweeping we’ve been, an’ -sweeping all ower again an hour or two after; we’d have<span class="pagenum" id="Page_328">[328]</span> -lost our way to the well-spring if we hadn’t. It was kind o’ -ye to come, Reuben. You’d no easy journey, I reckon, up -th’ moor. It must hev been like climbing a feather-bed -set on end.”</p> - -<p>“So it was, mother, when the walls didn’t help me; -but I’d a fancy you might need me.”</p> - -<p>“Now had ye?” said the widow crisply. She was always -apt to lose ten years of her sorrow when fighting -one day’s inclement weather. “Because o’ my sheep all -overblown up the moor? Ye should never waste pity, -Reuben; there’s little enough about, and ’tis precious, -like.”</p> - -<p>“You have them safe, then?”</p> - -<p>“Safe? I learned farming while ye were i’ your cradle, -and that means I learned weather, too. We’d a lile soft -spell o’ warmth last week? And ye never dreamed it -meant snow to come?”</p> - -<p>“I didn’t,” Gaunt admitted. “I fancied an open spell -was coming.”</p> - -<p>“And you bred i’ Strathgarth, and to know so little of -her whimsies! That’s how she fools ye every winter—a -bout o’ cold that starves the marrow i’ your bones, and -then a week o’ softness just to ’tice ye on. Oh, I’m old -to Strathgarth, lad; and soon as ever the warm snap -came, I says to lad Michael here: ‘Michael,’ I says, -‘we’ll gather the ewes under shelter.’ And Michael, being -young and a man, and a bit daft, says ‘no.’ And I says -‘yes,’ and had to threaten to clout his lugs before he found -persuasion. A few folk find religion, Reuben; but ’tis -persuasion finds the many.”</p> - -<p>Michael, the man-of-all-jobs, had been standing discreetly -in the rear. The bravest folk had a trick of standing -out of the widow’s reach. And suddenly he gave a -great, loutish laugh.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_329">[329]</span>“’Tis this way, Mr. Gaunt,” he explained, with some -show of haste. “Couldn’t help laughing, I. You told -me, first you found me a job here, I was to look after -missus. Well, durned if I haven’t a fancy, like, that the -boot’s on t’ other leg. <i>She’s looking after me</i>, and I can’t -help myseln. But she’s good at the weather, she is, I -own,” he added reflectively. “She’s saved me a lot o’ -trouble, all through in-gathering them ewes afore she’d -right or sense in thinking it war going to snow.”</p> - -<p>“There’s the shippon to be cleared, soon as ye’ve done -idling wi’ your broom, Michael,” said the widow. “Ye’ll -take cold, in this weather, lad, if ye don’t bustle about a -bit.”</p> - -<p>Michael slouched off shamefacedly; and Mrs. Mathewson, -as she made Gaunt welcome in the living-room, surprised -him by her cheeriness. It was only when he stood -at the porch, to find his way down the moor again—through -hazard of the snowdrifts, as he had come—that -the widow reached out to him for help. She had gathered -in her sheep; she was wise enough to know the look of -the sky, and the way of a Strathgarth winter; but she -was lonely and forlorn, for all that.</p> - -<p>“Reuben,” she said, gently, “the snow’s three feet or -more over Peggy’s grave. It has drifted into the little -glen, and the rowan-tree’s half hidden. I can’t thole the -thought o’ my lass lying up yonder i’ the cold.”</p> - -<p>“Snow covers warm, mother, so they say.”</p> - -<p>“Ay, so they say; but I can’t believe it, when I see th’ -glen. I could bear it better when th’ days were soft and -pleasant, and maybe a throstle whistling i’ the rowan, or a -starling plucking at the berries just ower Peggy’s head; -it seemed friendly-like—Reuben, I war never one for -prayer,” she broke off, with sudden passion, “but I tell ye -I’ve worn my knees raw wi’ asking God to gi’e me back my<span class="pagenum" id="Page_330">[330]</span> -lass. There war no answer; stands to reason there couldn’t -be. One silly old woman bleating like a ewe that’s lost -her lamb, bleating right up into th’ big, empty sky, Reuben, -and thinking she’d get an answer. ’Twould be enough -to make me laugh, if I didn’t cry, instead.”</p> - -<p>Gaunt was dismayed by this glimpse allowed him of -the strong, tireless tragedy underlying the woman’s mask -of tartness and half humorous self-control. And the -widow, seeing his trouble, passed a hand across her eyes; -her smile was like a break of sunlight, that can brighten -the wintry fields but not thaw them.</p> - -<p>“Though to be sure, ’tis outrageous for a tough old -bit of bog-thorn like me to be reckoning to have feelings -o’ my own. Why, ’tis near as foolish as to find a son i’ -my old age—a son all ready-made, so to say, like Moses -in the bulrushes. Ye’d best be getting down to the moor, -for it wouldn’t do to let dark overtake ye. Good-by, -Reuben; ye’re a good lad to me these days.”</p> - -<p>She left him abruptly to have her cry out indoors and -get done with it. Gaunt watched her out of sight, then -turned the shoulder of the farmstead and made his way, -not down but up the moor. The track to Peggy’s grave -was marked plainly by Widow Mathewson’s big, manlike -boots.</p> - -<p>There was something strangely sad and lonely in this -path of sorrow, in the look of the regular, deep footprints, -limned sharply, even to the impress of the nails, by the -bitter, east wind frost. There was something lonelier -still in the look of the glen above, which now lay almost -level with the moor. The upper branches of the rowan -were all that broke the white, unending spaces, reaching -out to a grey-black sky that showed dirty by contrast -with the virgin white beneath.</p> - -<p>Gaunt understood how hard it was to believe the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_331">[331]</span> -country saying that “snow covers warm.” An incongruous -memory came to him of the evening, little more than -four months ago, when Peggy and he had crossed from -Linsall Fair, and had been glad of the rowan’s shelter, the -cool tinkle-tankle of the stream, after the parched heat of -the uplands. He saw the girl’s look of splendid vigour and -high spirits, the light in her eyes, as he stooped to kiss her -and she reached up her lips with reckless zest in life and -laughed: “Yes, Reuben, with a will and a half, if only -because you won the fell-race to-day.” He could see the -red scarf at her breast, setting off, as she knew well enough, -her gipsy beauty. He could feel his heart beat with eagerness -as he asked her to marry him, thinking, in the moment’s -overmastering passion, that he could be faithful -to any but Priscilla of the Good Intent.</p> - -<p>And this was the end of it all. The stream frozen down -to the pebbles that lined its bed; three feet of snow lay over -the spot where they had kissed in the cool of a summer’s -evening; and Peggy—Peggy, with her gipsy eyes, and -her flaunting, crimson scarf and her wild, unstinting love -for him—lay under a shroud of the moor’s making.</p> - -<p>There comes an end to a man’s power to feel further -grief, at these times of martyrdom self-imposed. The wise -God has seen to that. Reuben turned at last, his shoulders -bent, and went down the track which Peggy’s mother had -made for him. Then he made his way home, as he had -come, along the wall-tops, or across the higher spits of -land which the wind had cleared, or by any way that -served. His housekeeper, when he came into the house -at dusk, said to herself that he looked like a broken man, -and wondered at the cause.</p> - -<p>As for Reuben, he was no way broken. The fierce, -cold wind of remorse and grief for others had bent him -level with the ground, but could not break him; for a man’s<span class="pagenum" id="Page_332">[332]</span> -character rides always high, as the stars do, above the -moment’s weather. To-morrow he would take up his -work, with a still firmer hand, maybe, than before; to-morrow -he would find his way again to Ghyll, enticed -there by a face not young at all, a face on which grief and -weather between them had traced strange patterns. There -was real tenderness at the heart of this man who had -shown so many faces to the world, and Widow Mathewson -had chosen a good son, after all, on whom to lean.</p> - -<p>At dusk of the same day, as Gaunt was dragging his -tired feet through the drift that lay between the road and -his own garden fence, the evening mail came into Garth. -Instead of three horses, there were four, and they were -sending clouds of steam down the tracks of the frosty -wind. Will the Driver pulled up at the cottage which -served Garth as post-office and shop of all trades. His -hands were chilled stiff as the beads of foam on the -harness, but his laugh was warm as ever when Daniel, -the postmaster, came out from selling a penn’orth of -toffee to receive Her Majesty’s mail.</p> - -<p>“Not snowed up yet?” asked Daniel, shivering a little -in the wind.</p> - -<p>“No. No, Daniel. Not just yet. You’re the ninety-and-ninth -that has asked me that question along the road, -and I’m fair tired of answering. We’ve kept a way open -somehow, but durned if we can hold out against another -fall. Gee-up, Captain! Your hoofs are balled under -with snow, and my hands and feet are as cold as a jilted -lass, but Her Majesty wouldn’t like us to be much later -than we are already. Gee-up, Captain!”</p> - -<p>His cattle were getting fairly under way by the time he -reached Widow Lister’s door. He had hoped for once -to escape the plump little woman whose only business in -life was to stop busy men on the highway; yet he pulled<span class="pagenum" id="Page_333">[333]</span> -up, with weary deference to habit, as he saw her lying in -wait.</p> - -<p>“So you’re not snowed in yet?” she asked.</p> - -<p>Her slanting glance, over-coy for her years, the sleek, -well-fed look of the woman, found the secret corner where -Will kept his temper hidden. “You’re the hundredth,” -he snapped, “and I knew I’d find the last straw nigh -your door, or thereabouts. Seems to me you keep a stack -of such-like straws. What is it, Widow? We’re late, and -Captain is as cross as ever I saw a horse in my long time of -driving.”</p> - -<p>“Nay, ’tis the Captain’s master that’s cross. Shame on -ye, Will, to be grumbling at such weather as God sends. -Who are we to grumble?”</p> - -<p>Will waited in exasperation. The widow was “nimble -as a weathercock,” as he put it to himself, “and could -always place a right-thinking man in the wrong.”</p> - -<p>“What is it now?” he repeated.</p> - -<p>“Oh, don’t be getting impatient. I only asked if ye -were snowed up, or not. Surely a civil body can ask a -civil question.”</p> - -<p>“Well, I shouldn’t be here if I was, but to-morrow I -may be,” he added, with cheerful malice. “I doubt, as -it is, if I can get as far as Keta’s Well to-night. The drifts -were six feet high up the road, so they tell me.”</p> - -<p>“There now! If ever I want a thing, and must have it, -there’s sure to be a cross. Ay, just another cross. Widows, -living lonely like and helpless, were meant to bear -’em, I reckon. I was going to ask you to bring—”</p> - -<p>For the first time in the history of Will, he did not wait -for a wayside command. His feet and hands were half -frozen; that mattered little; but his horses were in risk -of catching a chill.</p> - -<p>“Gee-up, Captain,” he said. “I’ll bring it, bird cage,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_334">[334]</span> -or eight-day clock, or what not, Widow, when the weather’s -a shade milder.”</p> - -<p>Cilla heard the running shuffle of hoofs on frozen snow -as the mail went past Good Intent. She was sitting in -the firelight, and Hirst, just returned from bringing sheep -down to the fold, was dozing by the hearth.</p> - -<p>“There’s the mail, father. ’Tis time we had a letter -between us, surely.”</p> - -<p>“Eh, lile lass?” he asked, rousing himself, as he always -did, at the sound of Cilla’s voice.</p> - -<p>“The mail has just passed. I was thinking a letter -of some kind would be welcome.”</p> - -<p>“Were ye, now? I could have understood that better -if—well, if somebody had been away fro’ Garth instead -of biding at home.”</p> - -<p>Cilla winced under her father’s jovial pleasantry. She -knew that he referred to Gaunt, and during these days of -waiting and uncertainty she was sensitive to the least -hint that they were free to care for each other.</p> - -<p>“Oh, it is only that news from outside is pleasant, -father, when the snow shuts us in for so long together.”</p> - -<p>“Well, ye’ve got your wish,” said Hirst, rising lazily -as a knock sounded on the outer door of the porch. -“That’s Harry the Post, if I know a knock when I hear -it.”</p> - -<p>Cilla waited with a pleasant feeling of expectancy, as -her father opened the door.</p> - -<p>“Evening!” came Postman Harry’s gruff voice. “Just -a lile letter fro’ Canada. ’Twill be fro’ David, as I said to -myseln soon as ever I saw the writing and the mark. I’ll -step in, after my round’s finished, and hear what news -he gi’es ye.”</p> - -<p>This easy handling of the mail’s privacy, was one of -Garth’s usual customs, and Hirst assented. “Ay, step in,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_335">[335]</span> -Harry. News and a cup o’ summat warm—ye’ll need it, -with all the snow ye’ve got to trudge through.”</p> - -<p>“All i’ the year’s work! I’ll be glad to hear news o’ -David, I own. Terrible pitiful thing, as I says to Daniel -just now while sorting my mail—terrible daft thing to -think of a steady, straight set-up Garth man choosing to -waste his time i’ them furrin parts. Garth’s good enough -for me, though plague take her weather. Well, I must -be trudging.”</p> - -<p>Cilla was standing at the table, a puzzled frown on her -face. She scarcely heard Harry’s chatter. The wished-for -letter had come; it happened to be from David; -and her only feeling was one of indifference. It had been -different not many months since in the early weeks of her -shame and loneliness, after bidding Reuben keep faith -with Peggy o’ Mathewson’s. She had welcomed the -first letter from Canada, had read and reread it, had taken -courage from the strength underlying David’s crude sentences -and simple penmanship. She had needed him then. -And now?</p> - -<p>“Art in a day-dream, lass,” roared Hirst, tearing the -letter open as he came in again. “Here’s news from an -old friend o’ yours. Sit down by the hearth, Cilla, and let’s -see what’s doing out i’ Canada.”</p> - -<p>Hirst read the scrawled pages with some difficulty, laid -them down on the settle, and glanced across at Cilla.</p> - -<p>“There’s news with a vengeance. David’s coming -home i’ the spring.”</p> - -<p>“So soon?” asked Cilla, with sudden disquiet. “It -seems a far journey for so short a stay.”</p> - -<p>“So he thinks, too. He’s never what you would call -bitter, isn’t lad David, but he comes near to ’t this time. -His aunt Joanna, it seems, has found a man to her liking, -and is going to be wed before long. She wants David<span class="pagenum" id="Page_336">[336]</span> -about her till the wedding-day—trust Joanna for that—but -not a minute later. The only thing David finds pleasant -in the business is his longing to be home in Garth -again.”</p> - -<p>Cilla’s interest was roused, as it always was by injustice. -“But, father, she might have thought of that before -sending in such haste for David. It was not as if she asked -him to step across to the next parish. He left his work -here, to—”</p> - -<p>“But Joanna never did think, save for herself. Bless -me, I can see her smile and her easeful way of asking other -folk to do her work—just such another as Widow Lister. -Ye can’t argue about such women, Cilla; ye can only -laugh, as ye would at a babby. So David’s coming home! -Well! ’tis good news, say I. What say ye, Cilla?” he -added, with a shrewd glance across the hearth.</p> - -<p>“Of course, father. Who would not be glad to see him -again? He’s so kind, and steady, and ready to help everybody -foolishly.”</p> - -<p>“Just so,” said the yeoman, with a laugh that was half -a sigh. “He’s all that never i’ this world could tempt a -lass. Male birds should wear brighter colours, eh? -Read what he says there,” he added, reaching out for -the letter, and putting his finger on the scrawled -postscript.</p> - -<p>Cilla read the few words, then sat with the letter in her -lap. The message was so brief, so clumsily put in its dumb -appeal; yet it brought a sudden rush of tears to the girl’s -eyes.</p> - -<p>“Tell Cilla”—she could almost hear the man’s slow -voice speaking to her from away in Canada—“tell Cilla -I’ve seen a deal that she used to want to see, what she -called ‘all beyond Garth hills.’ I can tell her about -strange lands now, if I can bring my slow tongue to it.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_337">[337]</span> -Maybe she’ll find me polished up a bit, not just so sleepy, -like. And anyway, if she’s free, it stands to sense I haven’t -changed, any more than I’ve altered i’ my wish to see -Garth village again.”</p> - -<p>That was all; but the message brought many memories -to Priscilla. It painted for her every joy, and heartache, -each bewilderment, that had followed Reuben Gaunt’s -return to Garth last spring. She remembered how Reuben -had first caught her fancy by talk of “all beyond Garth -hills”; she recalled David’s dogged persistence in his -faith that the old homeland was better than the new -countries he had never seen, his jealousy of Gaunt’s glib -speech and wider experience. So much had been possible -to David then, if only he had known it; he could have -pitted his strength and sturdiness against the other’s -debonair persuasiveness; he might have appealed to the -trust and comradeship that had held between them -since the days when she was a lass in pinafores, and -David a hulking lad of twenty who had eyes for no one -else.</p> - -<p>Yet Cilla knew that it could never have been. In some -instinctive way, without thinking it in so many words, -she knew that David was not meant to have a wife of his -own and—and all that followed, if God willed. Looking -into the sleepy peat-glow, Cilla sat aloof for a moment -from her own perplexities. She saw David clearly, as -we seldom find opportunity or leisure to view our neighbours, -saw him with the grey, soft light of renunciation -about him. It was David who had made Billy the Fool -a working member of the busy hive at Garth, simply by -persuading him that work was play. It was David who -had mended Widow Lister’s clocks, and bird cages, -and window-fasteners, long after the patience of other -men had been exhausted. It was David who loved<span class="pagenum" id="Page_338">[338]</span> -Garth, and all Garth’s ways, and all Garth’s frets and -whimsies, who had gone overseas to help a kinswoman -in fanciful distress.</p> - -<p>Cilla turned to the letter, and read the postscript again; -and she was surprised when her father, rising with great -noise from the hooded chair opposite, told her she was -crying. He patted her roughly on her head, as if she were -a sheep-dog, and stamped up and down the room, and -returned to ask her what was the matter.</p> - -<p>“Nothing, father, nothing. I’m tired of this snow, -maybe—”</p> - -<p>“Well, then, I’ll just go and tell Garth folk that David’s -coming back. They’ll like to hear it,” said Hirst, who, -like all men, had a secret cupboard where he hid his one, -favourite cowardice. “Could never abide tears myself, -lile Cilla. Live and let live, I allus did say. Men were -made for work, and they’d best leave women alone while -tears are brewing up.”</p> - -<p>Widow Lister was patrolling her door-front when he -went by. “There’s luck for a body,” muttered Hirst, -ruefully, as he caught sight of the plump little figure. -“Enjoying a walk i’ the snow?” he asked, as he went by. -“Well, I’ve had enough of it myself, trapesing all up and -down the pastures since dawn.”</p> - -<p>“A lone body must do something,” answered the widow -plaintively. “I get weary-like o’ my thoughts, sitting wi’ -the firelight only for company.”</p> - -<p>“I dare say, I dare say,” assented Hirst, his big, foolish -heart melted at once by this deftly suggested picture of -the lonely hearth. “Cilla must come in oftener, to chat -wi’ ye at nights.”</p> - -<p>“Or perhaps ye’d find time now and then to step in -yourself?” murmured the other, her eyes lifted “kitten-soft” -to his in the moonlight. “There’s something in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_339">[339]</span> -the way a man sits in his chair an’ the smell of his pipe -smoke that’s cheering to a body.”</p> - -<p>Hirst was as free from vanity as most hearty, well-set-up -men, but he had felt more than one doubt of the widow’s -friendliness in years gone by; and to-night he took a hasty -step or two away from her, like a bird that sees the snare -being set. “Why, yes!” he roared. “To be sure, I’ll -step in some night, and bring Cilla with me—and bring -Cilla with me. Ye’ll have David back in Garth, too, in -the spring.”</p> - -<p>“I’m glad of that,” said the widow. “There’s that -little job still waiting to be done, and it’s rankled a bit, -as I told ye; and now I can give him a piece o’ my mind.”</p> - -<p>“Humph,” growled Hirst, as he moved down the street. -“Good night to ye. I’d thought ye might like to see -David back for his own sake, not for what he can do for -ye.”</p> - -<p>As he neared the forge, a broad shaft of crimson lay -across the blue-white, moonlit road, a vivid splash of -colour that flickered in long, waving lines.</p> - -<p>“So Billy’s at play. Never knew such a lad for playing -early and playing late. He’ll be glad o’ my news, I reckon,” -thought Hirst, as he moved to the smithy door and stood -looking in.</p> - -<p>Dan Foster’s lad was busy at the bellows, and Billy -was standing at his anvil. He looked a huge, heroic figure -as he brought the hammer down, his arms thick and -brawny, his head throwing out a fantastic shadow of -itself on the wall behind. A cheerful scent came from -within the forge, an odour made up of red-hot iron, and -fire heat, and hoof parings from recent shoeing. The yeoman -would know that smell of Garth forge, bringing -memories of other days with it, if you set him blindfold, -after years of absence, at the door. The contrast, too,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_340">[340]</span> -between the nipping frost one side the threshold, the royal -warmth on the other, was pleasant, like a spring day found -unexpectedly at Christmas time.</p> - -<p>“Billy, my lad, David comes back with the spring,” said -Hirst, his natural voice striking easily across the uproar -of the bellows and the anvil.</p> - -<p>Billy, as befitted one who was short of wit, went on with -the work in hand and finished it before he turned about. -He was none of your wise fellows who drop a tool at the -first hint of gossip, and afterwards return reluctantly to -the unfinished job.</p> - -<p>“Te-he! There’ll be terrible pranksome doings when -David comes back,” said Billy, leaning on his hammer. -“He’s like the swallows in a manner of speaking, this -same man David—off for the winter, and home when -Garth has got nicely warmed up again. When will he be -coming, like? The first swallow’s nest I mind last year -began a-building when the ousel hatched out her clutch of -five up in Winnybrook Wood. Seems a long while to -wait,” he added, glancing at the ribbon of firelit snow -across the highway.</p> - -<p>“Oh, ’twill soon pass. Time does for busy folk,” -said Hirst, warming his hands at the smithy fire and -thinking, with some compunction, of the daughter he had -left at Good Intent “to have her cry out, like.”</p> - -<p>Billy was silent for awhile, his massiveness and air of -detachment from the world suggesting some impersonal -figure of destiny. Then suddenly, as his way was, he -returned to extreme childishness.</p> - -<p>“David will be bringing a lile pipeful o’ baccy; and, -if he can no way find a match, I’ve got the fire to light it -at right soon.”</p> - -<p>The yeoman laughed, rattling the horseshoes on the -walls, and handed his pouch to Billy. When the clay pipe<span class="pagenum" id="Page_341">[341]</span> -was loaded, and the quiet puffs of smoke were going up -to the blackened rafter-beams, Billy laughed foolishly.</p> - -<p>“Seems I’m in a terrible puzzlement, like a hen with -an addled egg.”</p> - -<p>“Are ye, now, and why?”</p> - -<p>“Well, soon as ever David comes back wi’ the swallows, -blessed if he won’t want a daft body to go working all at -bellows-blowing. Look at Dan Foster’s lad, and say by -yond same token if bellows-blowing isn’t work.”</p> - -<p>Foster’s lad was wiping the sweat from his forehead, and -he grinned at them both with friendly acquiescence in -Billy’s logic.</p> - -<p>“That’s soon put right,” said Hirst “What’s work i’ -winter, Billy, is play when spring comes in.”</p> - -<p>The fool smoked the matter over with tranquil disregard -of time. “I believe ye,” he said at last. “Have -watched the birds to some purpose, I. They’ll be hopping -i’ search o’ crumbs all winter-time, as lean as a bare-boughed -tree; but see ’em in spring, wi’ the gloss on their -wings, and their bonnie, bright eyes, and their calls when -they’re all by way o’ mating, ye’d scarce know which was -work, or which play, to these same scatter wits. So David’s -coming swallow-fashion home, is he, to make me play at -bellows’ blowing? I’ll be glad to see the man’s right, -proper face again.”</p> - -<p>Cilla was still sitting by the hearth at Good Intent, and -was still thinking of David’s letter, of the postscript which -she understood so well. She was aware of a childish -wonder that the message should have reached her with all -its freshness after so long a sea voyage. The man’s unswerving -loyalty, his dumb acceptance of any treatment -she might give him, brought a pang of real suffering. She -had no weight of remorse to battle with, as Gaunt had -when he thought of the moorland grave; and yet, in spite<span class="pagenum" id="Page_342">[342]</span> -of logic, she blamed herself. Overstrung as she was -to-night, she could picture David’s return, the pathetic -hopefulness that his new power of talking about foreign -lands would bring him nearer to his desire, his ignorance -that there was any bond between herself and Reuben -Gaunt.</p> - -<p>“But then, there is none,” she would finish weakly, and -would find little comfort in the thought, and the tears -would fill her eyes once more, because David was so constant, -and she so weak to help him.</p> - -<p>Cilla of the Good Intent stood in the middle of her own -winter-tide, just as Garth village did; and the spring, -as Billy had said, would seem long in coming.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_343">[343]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER XXIV</h2> -</div> - - -<p class="drop-cap">THERE’S no resisting Strathgarth Dale when her true -spring arrives. She has many ambushes, many a -sportive deceit, between winter and the breaking of the -leaf-buds. It will please her mood to let woodbine leaf -in March, to throw a wealth of saffron sunlight into sheltered -corners of the fields, so that a man may sit and bask, -and tell himself—knowing it a pleasant self-deceit, -if he be bred in Strathgarth—that spring this year is -coming early and is staying late. The next day a northwest -gale will bring sleet and snow with it. And so -through April—and half of May, perhaps—the weather -teases folk, till their tempers grow brittle, and they hint -darkly that it is a fool’s job to go on living in such -bleak lands.</p> - -<p>Then suddenly the real spring comes, and the warm, -keen joy of it, the eagerness of nesting birds and growing -green-stuff, sweep memory of the winter’s bitterness away. -It is spring and summer in one, this wonder-season that -takes hold of Strathgarth Dale. The cattle, from sheer -lust of life and liberty, throw foolish heads abroad and -chase each other up and down the primrose pastures. -Stern men unbend, and frail people grow frolicsome. -It is sure, at this season of the leafing trees, that there’s -no place else in which to live save the long dale of Garth.</p> - -<p>On one of these days Gaunt walked up to Ghyll Farm. -All up the fields the cowslips curtsied to him, or primroses<span class="pagenum" id="Page_344">[344]</span> -ventured maidish glances from their nooks. The larks -rose high, and sang of courage and well-being. The -plovers moved sedately, two by two, about the fields, and -pretended, each pair of them, that the world did not know -them at sight for nesting mates. A score of unconsidered -flowers were budding eagerly.</p> - -<p>Reuben found Widow Mathewson at the gate of the -croft, as if she looked for him.</p> - -<p>“I somehow fancied ye’d come, Reuben,” she said, -with as pleasant a glance of trust and welcome as though -she were forty years younger, and he a lover bustling -up with spring glamour in his eyes.</p> - -<p>“Well, it was this way, mother. You told me your -man was to be off for a day’s holiday, and I thought there -might be an odd job here and there—”</p> - -<p>“Just so,” put in the other, with a quiet laugh of content. -“That’s why I knew ye’d be stepping up the -fields.”</p> - -<p>There was a good deal to be done, as it chanced, and -it was evening before all was finished. After they had -supped together, Mrs. Mathewson led Reuben out into -the croft and turned toward the moor.</p> - -<p>“We might as well enjoy the cool o’ the day, now we’ve -earned it,” she said.</p> - -<p>Reuben glanced at her inquiringly. Her voice was gentler -than he had known it; her shrewd grey eyes were soft -and kindly as they met his own. It seemed that spring -had touched her weather-beaten life with fingers light -and tender.</p> - -<p>She was taking the track to Peggy’s grave, for all that; -and Gaunt wondered why she chose just this one way -to-night.</p> - -<p>“Oh, I laugh often at you folk who live smothered down -in the valley yonder,” said the widow, turning for a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_345">[345]</span> -glance at the dipping moor, the green pastures, the hills -whose jagged tops were ruddy with the afterglow. “When -’tis cold, ye’re colder than us; when ’tis hot, ye’ve never -a breath o’ clean moor-air to cool ye. I’d have died o’ -my troubles long since, Reuben, if it hadn’t been for the -moor.”</p> - -<p>With curious tenderness, she pointed out to him the landmarks, -and named them all. Behind that spur of hill -lay Dene hamlet. Just under the pole-star, showing bright -green-blue in a strip of sky, stood the little farm where -she had lived as a lass when Mathewson came courting -her. The points of the compass were so many guides -to memory—to memory, which is all the old folk have -to warm them when spring calls up the pastures and demands -an answer to his insolent, young note.</p> - -<p>She almost forgot her errand, in this love she had for -the moor and the encircling hills. There was a story -to tell of Heyward’s lass, who lived just where the pine -wood showed dark below them in the evening light; of -Daft Will, who lived under Sharprise yonder, and was the -wildest and friendliest squire who ever rode the Strathgarth -bridle-ways; of Bachelor Royd, who always said -that he’d never cared to buy a wife by flattery, because -pigs were easier come by and more profitable at the cost -of open bargain in the market.</p> - -<p>And then she turned to him, still with the smile that -smoothed out so many furrows from her tired old face. -“All this is old wives’ talk!” she said. “I was allus -a lile bit daft, like poor Peggy, but it heartens me to talk -now and again o’ days gone by. Maybe they’d their own -share o’ crosses an’ whimsies, yond old times, but they -have a trick o’ smelling sweeter than the new days, Reuben.”</p> - -<p>She grew silent when they reached the glen, but the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_346">[346]</span> -peace did not leave her face. It was a pleasant bed, -she felt, they had made for Peggy here, now that the snow -and the east wind had gone, and the stream was free to -sing its litanies. The rowan was in its first leaf, rippling -under the least touch of the breeze; from the moor came -the strong, eager scent of ling and greening bilberry; above -them the stars showed one by one, while all along the -western rises a wisp of afterglow lay like a saffron mantle -over the sleepy hill-tops.</p> - -<p>“Reuben,” she said by and by, “I want to talk to ye, -and I fancied we could best find words up here. Ye’ll -need a mistress soon for Marshlands.”</p> - -<p>Well as Gaunt knew her liking for abrupt, plain speech, -he was startled. His thoughts had been all of the past -year’s heedlessness and tragedy; he could not rid himself -of the figure that seemed to stand beside the grave—a -radiant ghost, with gipsy eyes and straight, lithe figure, -and a crimson kerchief knotted at the breast. There was -no looking forward, here where the wind and the sky -were quiet, and the still moor watched its dead.</p> - -<p>“Nay, not that look, Reuben!” said Mrs. Mathewson, -laying a gentle hand on his arm. “I never was one for -back reckonings. It’s all well enough, while the grief’s on -ye, to look behind; but there comes a time to look forward.”</p> - -<p>“It was only last autumn she died, mother.”</p> - -<p>“Just so, but there’s been fire and torment for ye in -between—oh, I know, Reuben!—and the clock ticks -very slow at such times. Would ye listen once in a way -while I talk to ye? There’s decency i’ grief; and, after -that, there’s a man’s need to look at the track ahead. -We’re here for this world’s business, Reuben, till we die.”</p> - -<p>He was looking at her with a puzzled question in his -eyes, as if she had roused him from some nightmare and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_347">[347]</span> -was telling him that the light of day was sweeping through -the windows of his prison.</p> - -<p>“After that,” went on the other, “well, Peggy’s wiser -than me by now, for I’ve no notion o’ what happens afterward. -We live on, I reckon; though Mathewson, being -fond o’ sleep at all times, would have it that we never wake -up again. I used to tell him that I came of a wiry stock, -and knew we were meant, like, to live on—in some -sort o’ heaven, maybe, seeing what a lot o’ t’ other place -we get i’ this life.”</p> - -<p>There was something clean and vigorous, like a wind -from the heath, in this woman’s outlook on the life that -had harassed her, on the life that was to come. If her -faith lay deep and hard to find, her fearlessness and honesty -had in them the same massive power that underlay -Billy’s oddities.</p> - -<p>Unconsciously Gaunt yielded to her mood. He had -spent himself generously to serve this late-found mother, -and it was her turn now to stretch a helping hand to him.</p> - -<p>Out of the quiet night, the fragrant moor, there came -a quickened sense of motherhood to the woman. Spring -leads the younger folk down paths where the valleys -shelter primroses and nesting throstles; it leads the old -to the higher tracks where the sky and the moor-winds -talk of abnegation.</p> - -<p>“Reuben, my lad,” she said, her harsh voice softened -to the lilt of the heather-breeze, “Reuben, ye’re too full -o’ life to live lonely for Peggy’s sake. There’s Marshlands, -too. Have ye never thought that ye needed a son -to follow you? Of course you have!”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” Reuben answered gravely. “Yes, I had thought -of that.”</p> - -<p>“Why, Mathewson was a weakly man enough, but -he never did forgive me for bringing a lile lass into the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_348">[348]</span> -world, instead of a lad; and I always sort o’ respected -him for it, somehow. Stands to sense, Reuben; it’s the -man’s way to want a boy or two, to carry the old name -and the old house on. It’s i’ the blood, and it goes -deeper than any kiss-i’-the-coppice love o’ women. Oh, -I’m old, and I know, and I’m telling ye!” she finished, -relapsing into her favourite phrase.</p> - -<p>There was pluck in this quiet persuasiveness of the -widow’s. She had been bitterly jealous on Peggy’s behalf, -though her girl was long past all feeling of the kind. -It had hurt her when now and then she had seen Gaunt -and Cilla together in Garth Street, or in the fields, and had -read their secret more plainly than they did themselves. -Only by hard endeavour, by grasping her love for Reuben, -and bringing her sturdy common sense to bear upon -his welfare, had she found courage for this talk at Peggy’s -graveside.</p> - -<p>“Besides,” she added, after a silence, “it was always -Miss Good Intent.” For the first time a touch of the old -bitterness was in her voice. “What did I tell ye long -ago, Reuben? Ye need a ladyish mistress for Marshlands, -’specially now ye’re bringing the place into its old -shape again. I’ll not complain, lad; and, as for Peggy, -she lies very quiet and willun’t speak a word.”</p> - -<p>“We must wait, mother, wait and see what happens -afterwards,” said Reuben gravely. “We’ll not talk of -it to-night.”</p> - -<p>The bitterness left her, and she came nearer and laid -a hand on his arm. “Life doesn’t wait. ’Tis only death -can spare time for that. Just tell yourself old scores are -settled handsomely, Reuben, and find yourself a mate.”</p> - -<p>The starshine and the silence of the moor wrapped the -two of them about. The fever-heat of August, the misery -and fear, were softened, till they seemed, to Gaunt, if<span class="pagenum" id="Page_349">[349]</span> -not to the widow, part of a tragedy much further off in -point of time.</p> - -<p>A peewit came straying down the moor, and wheeled -and cried about the rowan-tree.</p> - -<p>“Hark ye,” said Mrs. Mathewson, “there’s Peggy’s -parson come to say a prayer or two above her. He’s constant, -like, yond bird; she had him so tame, ye’ll mind, -that he’d eat from her hand, and he never went south -this winter, like most of his mates. He just comes drifting -down each night, like a lost bairn seeking home, and -says his prayers, and then goes lap-winging up the moor -again. There, we’ll be getting home, Reuben. ’Tis a -grand night for two together, if they happen to be springtime-young; -but ye’re tired of an old woman’s chatter by -this time.”</p> - -<p>When they reached the porch, Gaunt stooped and kissed -her awkwardly. Such tokens were rare between them, -and his feeling was always one of shyness, as if he feared -reproof.</p> - -<p>“You’ve been kind to me to-night, mother,” he said.</p> - -<p>“Well, I’ve a right to be. Take a breath o’ common -sense down fro’ the moor to the valley lands, and quit -thinking o’ last year’s nests. Good night, Reuben. -I’m fancying lile Miss Cilla will not choose so far wide o’ -the mark, after all.”</p> - -<p>She stood at the porch-door long after he had gone. -She was jealous no longer on Peggy’s behalf. A great -weariness had come to her—tiredness of all things under -this warm, soft sky, with its stars and its silent peace. -She had paid her debt to Gaunt. Her knowledge of all -he had done for her, when none but he came up to help -her through the fever-time, had stood to Widow Mathewson -as a debt, and she had always had a liking for meeting -creditors.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_350">[350]</span>Peggy lay under the rowan, with the quiet of the lapwing’s -evensong above her. Reuben was striding down -the fields, lusty and long to live. But this woman, standing -at the porch, was empty of all courage.</p> - -<p>“Spring blows warm to the young,” was her thought. -“’Tis only right it should—but what of the old, sapless -folk?”</p> - -<p>She sighed, and laughed at herself the next moment, -and answered her own question.</p> - -<p>“Not so sapless, after all,” she said, in her brisk, tart -voice as she turned indoors. “There’s a farm to look -after, and a lazy farm-lad to get up betimes to-morrow’s -morn.”</p> - -<p>Gaunt, meanwhile, had got down the fields as far as -the foot-bridge that decides a man whether he shall cross -to Garth, or turn to the right and seek the road which -leads Marshlands way. Gaunt chose the left-hand track, -over the slender arch of stone.</p> - -<p>“I’ll go by way o’ Garth,” he said to himself. “The -longest way round is pleasant on a night like this.”</p> - -<p>The longest way round led him past Good Intent, and a -big voice sounded from the porch as he neared it.</p> - -<p>“Ye’ll have a rare fine day for your journey, Cilla,” -Hirst was saying, taking all the parish into his confidence, -though he thought his tone subdued. “I never saw a -likelier sundown.”</p> - -<p>Gaunt stopped. A senseless lover’s dread had seized -him. Cilla going a journey? Had his hopes been all -so much idleness? A journey meant travelling overseas, -surely—and David was in Canada—and there had -always been a friendship between them.</p> - -<p>“Yes, father,” he heard Cilla answer. “You always -did say I had luck o’ the weather when I took a journey.”</p> - -<p>Gaunt moved forward. The girl’s tone was so quietly<span class="pagenum" id="Page_351">[351]</span> -happy that he was sure now of his hasty guess. David -was on his way home, so he had understood; but -perhaps he had changed his mind at the last moment, -had found a profitable farm out yonder, and Cilla was -going out to him. He remembered her longing, a year -ago, to see what lay beyond Garth hills; it was bitter -to recall how eagerly he had prompted her restlessness, -had talked of other countries until at last he caught her -fancy. And now she was going out to marry David, -and it would be the slow-going smith who showed her -the strange lands.</p> - -<p>The dim, white roads seemed to be slipping away from -under Gaunt’s feet. He no longer wished to stay for -a chat at Good Intent; his one desire was to get away with -his misery, and conquer it as best he might.</p> - -<p>The yeoman checked him. He and Cilla were sitting -on the stone bench just inside the porch, as they had sat -for the last hour. It was dusk along the highway, but -the porch was darker still, and Hirst, looking out from -its shelter, could not mistake the figure striding by so -quickly.</p> - -<p>“What have we done, then, Mr. Gaunt that you’re i’ -such a hurry to get past the door?” roared Hirst.</p> - -<p>Gaunt laughed, with a constraint that puzzled Cilla. -“Well, I’ve called so often lately that I fancied my welcome -might be overstayed.”</p> - -<p>“Hear him, Cilla! As though every man in the dales -didn’t know our ways. There’s two sort o’ folk, Mr. -Gaunt. One sort would never set foot on my doorstep, -if I could help it. T’ other sort can come dawn, or dusk, -or middle day, and as often as they please. Now, step -forrard, Cilla; we’ve been idling i’ the dark here long -enough. Light up indoors, lass, and stir the peats, and set -a couple o’ glasses out.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_352">[352]</span>When they followed Cilla in, and stood in the lamp-glow, -Reuben looked across at her. “You are going a journey -to-morrow?” he asked abruptly.</p> - -<p>She did not meet his glance, but stooped to play with -the kitten on the hearth. He saw the delicate colour -come and go across her cheeks, as it did always when her -feelings were touched in any way; and again he guessed -that David was the cause.</p> - -<p>“Yes. I am going—to Keta’s Well,” she finished -unexpectedly.</p> - -<p>One little, upward look she gave him, then went on -playing with the kitten. The glance was so full of question, -so quiet and yet so near to roguishness, that it -bewildered Gaunt. Gradually he felt the ground grow -firm under his feet again, as he realized that it was not -David, after all, who had tempted her to make a journey. -And suddenly he laughed.</p> - -<p>“Well, now, durned if I know why you’re laughing,” -said Hirst.</p> - -<p>“Cilla tells ye she’s going up to Keta’s Well, as she -goes every spring, to do a few lile oddments o’ business for -me; and ye seem to fancy it a jest.”</p> - -<p>“So it is,” said Reuben, “the best I’ve heard for many -a day. It was the notion of Miss Cilla doing business for -ye that tickled me, somehow,” he added hurriedly, seeing -the yeoman’s half puzzled, half quizzical glance at him.</p> - -<p>“’Tis spring has gone to your head, my lad. That’s -what ’tis. I was like that myself when I was your age. -I could laugh at th’ first idle thought, or at none at all, -soon as ever I heard the cock-throstle whistling to the hen-bird, -or saw the first o’ the green dappling every hedgerow. -Eh, lad,” he broke off, reaching for his pipe, “I’d -swop my time o’ life for yours, if you’d let me. But, -then, ye wouldn’t. Ye’re no fool, eh?”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_353">[353]</span>When Reuben said good night, no whisper passed between -Cilla and himself; but she set out the old, mended -lilac frock before she got to bed, and smoothed the folds -as if it were a living thing, dear to her from old acquaintance. -In her heart she knew that Gaunt would see it -on the morrow.</p> - -<p>The dawn, when it came cool and fragrant through her -open window, found Cilla half awake already. She had -dreamed of Ghyll Farm, of fever and penance and disaster; -it was good to wake to this clean, real life that -called to her from out-of-doors.</p> - -<p>She did her work about the house, gave Yeoman Hirst -his breakfast, then went up to don the lilac gown.</p> - -<p>“Too bonnie to be good,” said Widow Lister, as she -watched Cilla pass her door a half-hour later. “When -we’re made for sorrow, and should be humble-like i’ -face o’ death to come, ’tis tempting Providence to wear -such a becoming shade o’ lilac.”</p> - -<p>Cilla went down the street, radiant, like the spring, -with some happiness that came from within. She was -eager, buoyant, and she moved along the grey, old highroad -like some tall fairy who had forgotten that the world -was tired and humdrum.</p> - -<p>Will the Driver came rattling up to the Elm Tree Inn -with his team of three, and greeted Cilla with the pleasant -air of welcome that she commanded at all times.</p> - -<p>“Bless me, but ye’ve a trick o’ tempting spring out from -frosty corners,” he laughed. “Ye’ll be for Keta’s Well? -I always did say there’s one day o’ spring that’s better -than the rest, and that’s when I carry Miss Good Intent -for a passenger.”</p> - -<p>In the midst of the bustle attending Garth’s busiest -moment of the day, while mail-bags were being exchanged, -with the gravity befitting an affair of Her Majesty’s,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_354">[354]</span> -while parcels were being handed up and down between -Will and the chattering knot of folk, Reuben Gaunt came -swinging down the street.</p> - -<p>Last year he had ridden in; but to-day he was on foot, -and he clambered up to the empty seat at Cilla’s side -as if it were reserved for him. She turned shyly to him -as soon as Garth was left behind and the white, sunlit -riband of the highway stretched in front of them. “You—you -did not say last night that you had business, too, -at Keta’s Well.”</p> - -<p>“The same business that brought me here a year ago,” -he answered soberly. “There’s some property I want -to own—”</p> - -<p>Cilla was looking ahead and his tone misled her. -“Surely you have property enough? Marshlands, father -always says, is just the right size—big enough to keep a -man busy all day and every day, and small enough to -walk around it when he finds an idle morning.”</p> - -<p>“Well, yes. ’Tis a case of Naboth’s vineyard, maybe. -At any rate, I shall never care much for Marshlands, unless -I get this other property to round it off.”</p> - -<p>Something in his tone made her glance quickly at him, -and it was hard to believe that a year of upward struggle -lay between the old Reuben and the new. His face was -full of boyish mischief. He looked as if he had known -never a care in the world, but had lived always in this -warmth of the spendthrift, teeming spring. She understood -him better in that moment, understood how easy -it had been to name him “running-water,” because they -had given him never a chance, until last year, of proving -his mettle. He had proved himself, once for all, and -now was a boy again until the next summons came.</p> - -<p>Cilla let her own mood run with his. She knew his -meaning now, and would not look at him, and could not<span class="pagenum" id="Page_355">[355]</span> -trust herself to speak, but the white road, and the green, -homely pastures, and the birds that fluttered up the hedge-sides -in front of the rattling coach, led out, she knew, -to the enchanted lands “beyond Garth hills.” They -lay nearer home, these lands, than Cilla of the Good Intent -had guessed.</p> - -<p>They were passing Widow Fletcher’s now, and Will the -Driver turned in his seat as they went by.</p> - -<p>“Am having a holiday, I, Mr. Gaunt,” he laughed. -“I won’t say I’m glad, for it wouldn’t be seemly; and -I can’t say I’m grieved, for it wouldn’t be true; but the -widow, she broke an ankle in trying to catch me up a week -ago, just when I’d dodged her for once. Widows are -trials, I own, and maybe t’ other lile woman at Garth—her -sister—may be laid by for awhile with a sprain, or -a touch o’ rheumatiz, or what not. There’s always hope, -as the fox said, when he was leaving his tail in the keeper’s -trap.”</p> - -<p>Gaunt laughed in answer, and passed the banter which -was true coinage here on the open highway; but Cilla, -stealing a glance at him, saw that the grave look had returned. -He was thinking of a widow up at Ghyll yonder, -who had met life from another, and a braver standpoint.</p> - -<p>She, too, felt that a chill had touched the warmth and -glamour of this drive to Keta’s Well, as if the breeze -had shifted suddenly from west to east. She remembered -the pool where Mrs. Mathewson and she had met while -rescuing sheep from April snow, recalled the struggle -between Reuben and Billy, and the widow’s tale of what -had happened long ago at Marshlands. The tale had -recurred to her many times during these past weeks, and -with it a distrust of Reuben against which she struggled -loyally.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_356">[356]</span>“What are ye thinking of?” he asked, breaking a -long silence.</p> - -<p>Cilla knew that this distrust would lie between them -always, if she did not answer frankly. She was glad he -had given her so plain an opening. Hard as it was to -speak, it would be harder afterwards, if she let the chance -go by; and Cilla was never one to let the bigger evil come, -for lack of courage to meet the lesser.</p> - -<p>“I was thinking of Billy, and a story I did not want -to hear. Reuben, why do you always pass poor Billy -as if he were nothing to you?”</p> - -<p>“He gives me little chance to do anything else,” said -Gaunt, reddening as he met the quiet, questioning glance -that would not be denied. “He hates me for some reason.”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps he knows—it is hard to tell what the poor -lad understands, behind all that foolishness of his—perhaps -he knows he’s your half-brother, and that you’ve -denied it time and time again. ’Tis your denial troubles -me.”</p> - -<p>Cilla could be merciless when there was need to reach -the truth. She would not let his glance waver; she compelled -him to be honest.</p> - -<p>“Cilla,” he said at last. “I <i>had</i> to deny it. I’ll own -to my own shame at any time, but not to my father’s. -He may have been this or that, my father; but I’ll lie -any day to keep what good name I can for him.”</p> - -<p>Will the Driver turned again, and pointed up the fells -with his whip.</p> - -<p>“You always liked to see the deer, Miss Cilla,” he -broke in. The wind of his own fast driving had carried -their talk behind him, and he did not know how welcome -was the interruption. “They’re browsing yonder near the -fell-tops, just to the right o’ the spinney; d’ye see them?”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_357">[357]</span>Cilla sought for the brown specks, far up the pastures -that stepped boldly to the sky. These specks of brown -stood for the pride of bygone overlords of Strathgarth, in -the days when their deer forest stretched out from Shepston -to Keta’s Well, and a league or two beyond. And -Will, whose forefolk, like himself, had lived within the -limits of Garth’s hills, was proud of their diminished forest’s -splendour.</p> - -<p>“The old stag’s fair riotous, so the keeper tells me,” -went on Will. “He’s tame as a cushat the rest o’ the -year, and will feed fro’ your hand; but soon as ever spring -comes in, bless me, and saving your presence, Miss Cilla, -he’s the devil and all with his nasty temper. Gee-up, -Captain! We’re late,” he added, laying a gentle lash -across the leader. “We’re always late, what with this -constant plague o’ widows on the road.”</p> - -<p>Cilla leaned forward, her face between her hands, and -watched the road slip past the hedgerows. This man beside -her, of all men in the world, had humbled her. He had -gone willingly into a house of fever; he, the acknowledged -wastrel of the parish, had put his back into the work of -making Marshlands what it should be, and had changed -the stubborn outlook of his neighbours from dislike to -growing friendliness. That was much; but the confession -she had wrung from him meant more to this girl -whose sense of honour was clean and dainty as an April -day. The father had done ill with his own life, and -with his son’s; yet Reuben had striven to keep what -starveling flowers he could in bloom about the old man’s -grave.</p> - -<p>Gaunt waited till she chose to break the silence. He had -learned patience last August, as he had learned strength, -while he waited on the sun-scorched uplands to know if -Peggy o’ Mathewson’s would live or die. He had learned<span class="pagenum" id="Page_358">[358]</span> -further patience while nursing a half-ruined property -into new health.</p> - -<p>Suddenly Cilla turned to him, and his heart beat faster -than ever it had done while winning the great race at -Linsall Fair. All that the spring day held of tenderness, -of trust and hope and love of life for living’s sake, seemed -gathered into Cilla’s glance. He had won his biggest race -of all.</p> - -<p>“We’ll get down here, Will,” he said by and by, as they -neared the old green lane that led back to Garth.</p> - -<p>“Thought ye were bound for Keta’s Well,” said the -driver, with the dalesman’s frank curiosity.</p> - -<p>“So we were; but we’ve changed our minds.” Gaunt’s -laugh was a boy’s again. He seemed not to care how soon -all Strathgarth knew the meaning of the glance that Cilla -had given him. “You’ve forgotten the old saying, Will; -folk are free to change their minds i’ the spring, like the -weather.”</p> - -<p>Cilla did not question, but took his hand and slipped -lightly to the highway. At another time her father’s business -up at Keta’s Well would have been all-important; -but to-day she had forgotten it.</p> - -<p>“Humph!” muttered Will, as he drove forward between -the lusty hedgerows. “Just a year since last I carried -the lile fools as far as Keta’s Well. ’Tis a long while, -seeing a babby could have told the two o’ them what ailed -them. Well, I’m not complaining. If Miss Good Intent -is half as bonnie wedded as she is single, there’s none of -us need grumble. Gee-up, Captain! Her Majesty will -put up with a lot, but she gets terrible cross if we’re late -with her mails. Gee-up, lad, or shall I make ye?”</p> - -<p>Gaunt had opened the gate, and Cilla and he were loitering -down the lane which once had been the highway, but -which now was grazed by sheep and cattle. There was a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_359">[359]</span> -curious privacy about this abandoned road, a charm -which haunts neglected thoroughfares. The raking -fells lay white against the sky on one hand; on the -other lambs bleated to their mothers in the sheltered -hollows. The birds could not be quiet, and a happy -din went up into the sunshine and the warmth. The lark -sang “like as if he’d burst his lile throat all to pieces,” -as Billy put it, and the throstle piped, high and clear, -as if he meant to be obeyed, and the curlews were dipping -and wailing, wailing and dipping, with their note of -everlasting sorrow.</p> - -<p>A hare got up from under their feet. A squirrel peeped -at them from the bough of a leafing sycamore. Men had -been busy once along this green, neglected lane; and the -fret of their tired feet had passed, and the mother of us -all had chosen this for her quiet house, where birds might -nest, and flowers could bloom, and men’s insolence was -hidden out of sight.</p> - -<p>If ever two folk were given the one right day and the -one right place for wooing, Gaunt and Cilla were favoured -now. The peace of the lane, the eagerness of all the -teeming life about them, the very fell-tops, pointing with -white fingers to the blue and happy sky, seemed made for -them; and Cilla was proving once again the truth of the -Garth saying that “Miss Good Intent could always have -the Queen’s weather for the asking.”</p> - -<p>A year ago they had trodden the same lane as boy and -girl, had kissed, and fancied life held nothing better. -They had seen life face to face since then, had lived -through long, ugly days that seemed too sordid for romance; -yet here was the glamour, walking step by step -with them, a glamour that was built, not on the sands of -fancy, but on foundations sure as those of the sturdy -hills about them. Gaunt turned to look at Cilla. She<span class="pagenum" id="Page_360">[360]</span> -was dainty in her lilac frock. Any man, passing her, -would have halted for a second glance at this lass whom -Strathgarth summers had treated kindly, whom Strathgarth -winters had given a reliance unknown to folk bred -amid softer climates. He scarcely knew the face of which -he had dreamed of nights; its peace, and its tender, -eager beauty, were borrowed from all that lay beyond -Garth hills, and from all that lay within them.</p> - -<p>They came to the bend of the lane where last year they -had met Peggy o’ Mathewson’s, and Cilla halted for a -moment.</p> - -<p>“Poor Peggy,” she murmured, generous and warm of -sympathy as this day of spring that set the world to -rights.</p> - -<p>“It was never meant to be,” said Reuben, with no -assurance in his tone, but rather like a child who gropes -helplessly for the answer to a riddle.</p> - -<p>And Cilla smiled through her tears. “My dear, it was -never meant to be. Reuben, there’s a lile bird singing at -my heart. I can’t mistake the song.”</p> - -<p>“No wonder they called it Fairy’s Lane,” said Reuben. -“I used to laugh at the notion once.”</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_361">[361]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER XXV</h2> -</div> - - -<p class="drop-cap">DAVID the Smith had chosen this same day of spring -for his return to Garth, though he had sent no word -of his coming to Yeoman Hirst. He remembered the -boisterous good-will shown him when he left the old -haunts to cross overseas. Because he returned the same -single-hearted David who had loved Garth village from -his babyhood, he was shy of such another welcome at his -home-coming. He would not take the mail from Shepston, -the mail which carried Gaunt and Cilla to their -betrothal, but walked instead.</p> - -<p>He wanted to see the daffodils in bloom, in the crofts -and the wayside gardens that bordered the highroad. -He wanted to be free of chatter, and to feel his two legs -carrying him, as a man’s legs should, between the grey, -remembered hills. He wanted, most of all, to find Cilla -of the Good Intent at home, and to tempt her—God’s -pity on the man’s brave simplicity—with tales of other -lands.</p> - -<p>At four of the afternoon he came to Garth, and shied, -from old habit, when Widow Lister pattered out to meet -him.</p> - -<p>“Glad to see ye again, David,” she said, coquetting, -as she always did, with a hale and well-to-look-at man. -“Bless me, what a power o’ heat there must be, yonder -over Garth hills. Ye’re freckled and tanned, David. -’Tis good to look at a face like yours; puts one i’ mind -o’ sun and hay harvest.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_362">[362]</span>“Oh, I’m well enough; but ’tis Garth for me, I reckon, -till I’m taken to the kirkyard, and may be afterwards.”</p> - -<p>The widow’s face lengthened, from habit, into grave, -forbidding lines. “Afterwards is as ye’ve done i’ this -life, David.”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said David, cheerily. “I’m content to rest -on that standby, Widow.”</p> - -<p>She was silent for awhile, daunted by a strength that was -rooted deeper than her shallow soil would ever know.</p> - -<p>“Your aunt Joanna has no such fear o’ the after life,” -she said, with sudden triumph. “She borrowed a tin -kettle fro’ me, did Joanna, and she forgot to return it, -like, when she married into a heathen land.”</p> - -<p>“Ay, she’s good at forgetting. But see ye, Widow, I -didn’t come all this way to talk o’ tin kettles. I came -to see bonnie Garth, with her face new-washed for spring -and all the posies out i’ the garden-strips.”</p> - -<p>With a good-humoured nod he moved on to Good Intent, -and found the yeoman leaning over the gate of the -seven acre field, watching his lambs with that peculiar air -of leisure and detachment from all worry which comes to -farmers in and between the bustle of these warm, full-blooded -days of spring.</p> - -<p>“Have your ewes done well, then?” asked David, -as quietly as if he had seen Hirst every day during the -past months.</p> - -<p>The yeoman turned with a start. “David! Now, ye -startled me, I own. I was just thinking o’ ye, and reckoning -’twould be all about time for ye to be taking shipboard -home; and then your voice came sudden-like; and -I fancied it must be your ghost, come to tell us you were -drowned at sea. There’s the daft fool I’ve grown, -David, since you left Garth!”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_363">[363]</span>“There’s not much ghost about me,” laughed David, -as he gripped the other’s hand with old-time strength.</p> - -<p>“Well, no, if a grip like a pair o’ pincers be aught to -go by. Stand ye there, David, and let me take a square -look at ye. I’ve never been better pleased to see a man -i’ my life.”</p> - -<p>He walked around his friend, as if he were a specimen -of farm stock whose points he was anxious to appraise -correctly. Then he gave a great roar of approbation.</p> - -<p>“Thought spring was treating me well when the ewes -twinned so grandly, and scarce a lamb lost; but there -was better to come, ’twould seem. David, ye’ll have to -stay i’ Garth. ’Tis a different place without ye.”</p> - -<p>David looked around him—at the pastures, full of the -music of lambing-time, at the rough-built walls that traced -a grey, irregular pattern across the green face of the land, -at the spinneys and outlying barns which were so many -landmarks to remembrance. Then he leaned his arms on -the gate, and gave a quiet laugh.</p> - -<p>“Oh, I’m here to stay,” he said. “The months have -been years to me out yonder. It will take a lot to ’tice -me out o’ Strathgarth Dale again.”</p> - -<p>“So what of all those traveller’s tales ye promised -Cilla? I tell ye, David, she looks for livelier doings than -ever she saw at home.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I’ve tales enough, maybe. ’Tis a different life, -but—”</p> - -<p>“But naught so much to brag of?” put in Hirst -“There! That’s just what I always said.”</p> - -<p>“The life’s well enough for those it suits, but it’s over-young -for me.” David picked up a straw and chewed -it with a pleasant sense of leisure. “’Tis this way, if -I can get my tongue round a plain meaning. I’m ready -to do a day’s work with any man; but, when it’s done, I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_364">[364]</span> -like old things about me, th’ old grindstone at the corner, -Widow Lister’s bit of a garden-front, with its daisies, and -London pride, and lile clumps o’ primroses. I want to -be near all that my father loved, and his father afore him -and back to Flodden Field, or near thereby. Out yonder -’tis naught but looking forrard and hurrying. They’ll -come to our way o’ thinking by and by, when their roots -have taken deeper hold; and they’ll do more work i’ the -year, though they tell ye otherwise.”</p> - -<p>This was the David who had left the homeland. Unwavering -in his love for Strathgarth, quick to realize -a new phase of life, yet slow to accept it, he returned unspoiled, -a little surer of his faith, if that could be, in the -righteousness of older lands and older way.</p> - -<p>“Your aunt Joanna didn’t treat ye very well,” said -Hirst, after one of the pleasant silences that long ago had -helped to make the two men friends. “It puzzles me -that ye bear no malice, like.”</p> - -<p>“She’s as God made her, like all of us. There’s lile -use in going against handiwork o’ that sort. She asked -me to go, and I went; and, when she hadn’t a use for me, -I came back.” He stooped to pick a fresh straw, and -again laughed gently. “’Tis as simple as falling out of -a tree, and no back reckonings either way, now I’m free -to live i’ Garth again.”</p> - -<p>Hirst was not given to intuition. He thanked his -Maker every Sabbath for the past week’s mercies, and -tended his flocks with cheery zeal throughout the next -six days; but insight into the hidden workings of a man’s -character was rare with him.</p> - -<p>He looked at David now—David, whose eyes were -blue and honest as the sky that roved over the sloping -fields, the rounded hills—and was compelled to understand -his comrade. He knew now why Cilla had liked<span class="pagenum" id="Page_365">[365]</span> -David well, but could not marry him. The “far” -look in David’s eyes was that which nature’s priests wear—the -look that Billy the Fool carried when he watched -a pair of nesting throstles—the look of the folk who are -content to watch life’s business, and to help it forward -whenever a chance for kindliness meets them at the road -corner.</p> - -<p>Again the friendly silence fell between them. David -returned to mother earth again, and his voice had a wholesome -snap in it. “What is Gaunt o’ Marshlands doing -these days? Running still to waste like water?”</p> - -<p>“Well, no. He’s found running water has its uses in -a thin-soil country, and is tilling his lands with it instead.”</p> - -<p>“Gaunt tilling his lands? Cuckoo’s eggs will be hatching -throstles next.”</p> - -<p>“I thought you said folk were as God made ’em,” said -Hirst, with a touch of sharpness.</p> - -<p>“Aye, but Gaunt’s as he made himself. I can’t abide -the man, and never could.”</p> - -<p>So Hirst, to his own surprise, found himself defending -Reuben. He spoke warmly of his fearlessness at Ghyll, -of his plucky fight to win back a good name for his house. -Not until met by this dogged opposition of David’s, had -the yeoman guessed how well he had grown to like -Gaunt.</p> - -<p>“Let bygones be bygones,” he finished. “’Tis not -like ye, David, to keep up a grudge like this.”</p> - -<p>“No, ’tis not like me, and I never felt it for another -man; and I won’t say I’m proud o’ the feeling. But -there it is, and there it will have to bide a while longer, -seeing I can’t get rid on’t.”</p> - -<p>Hirst, like a wise man, guessed that Cilla was the cause -of the ill-feeling, and talked no more of Reuben. He -chatted of Garth’s doings through the winter, led David<span class="pagenum" id="Page_366">[366]</span> -on to talk of his adventures; but all the while he noted a -growing restlessness in his companion. David kept glancing -down toward the farm, then up at the pastures, as if -in great fear or hope of some intrusion.</p> - -<p>“No, she’s not at home,” said Hirst, with a sly roar -of laughter. “The lile lass is faring out at Keta’s -Well.”</p> - -<p>David looked shyly at the yeoman, surprised that his -secret had been guessed so easily. Then a great loneliness -took hold of him, an instinct of trouble and foreboding. -He had come straight to Good Intent, not pausing even -for a visit to his forge; and there had been one picture -in his mind. He would find Cilla, wearing the lilac -gown, at the farm. He would see a new light in her eyes -after the long absence and the unexpected return. He -would find readier speech than of old.</p> - -<p>“I’ve travelled so far,” he said, more to himself than -to Hirst; “and she’s a stay-at-home most days o’ the -year, and I fancied she’d be about the place just this one -day.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, tuts! She’ll be back i’ a few hours’ time, David. -No need to go thinking the end o’ the world is coming -because a lass is doing some bits o’ business for her -father.”</p> - -<p>Hirst, with all his cheeriness, was ill at ease. He knew -that this man’s dream would not come true; he felt that -a hint in time would be kindly, and yet he shrank from -giving pain. In his indecision he turned slowly down the -croft, and David followed him.</p> - -<p>“Why, that’s Cilla’s voice!” cried the yeoman, halting -suddenly. “She’s home before her time; and how -she’s managed it beats me, for the mail isn’t due for an -hour yet.”</p> - -<p>And David watched the white highway below, where<span class="pagenum" id="Page_367">[367]</span> -it came out of the shelter of the trees and curved past Good -Intent. He felt sick and helpless.</p> - -<p>Then he saw her, for the first time in the months that -had seemed years in passing. Gaunt and she stepped into -the road, as if they owned it and the whole, round world -besides. She was wearing the lilac gown, but it had not -been donned for David the Smith. They passed out of -sight toward the porch of Good Intent; and, because -they were looking at each other, they did not see the two -men in the croft above.</p> - -<p>“Well, you’ve got your wish,” said Hirst, bewildered -by the misery in David’s face, and trying still to believe -in his old creed that all would yet go well with everybody. -“We’ll step down, David, lad, and Cilla shall give you -tea of her own brewing, and—”</p> - -<p>“Thank ye,” said David heavily, “but I’ll be getting -down to the forge. That’s where my heart will have to -bide from now on, and I might as well make a beginning.”</p> - -<p>The yeoman watched him go. “Oh, bless me,” he -muttered ruefully, “I do like to see things go right for all. -Pity I hadn’t two lile Cillas, i’stead o’ one, if David’s bent -on breaking his heart like any raw young lad.”</p> - -<p>A busy hum sounded from the forge as David neared it. -Not many weeks ago the fire-glow had lain across the -road, a crimson splash on the white April snow; now it -fought for mastery with the clear, hot sunlight. David -lifted his head when he heard the rhythmical song of the -bellows, as an old fox-hound rouses himself when music of -the pack sounds down the wind. The blow had fallen -on him mercilessly; but already he felt heartened a little, -a very little, by the sturdy light of the forge. He stepped -to the doorway, and looked in. Dan Foster’s lad was -working the bellows, and Billy was playing at smithy<span class="pagenum" id="Page_368">[368]</span> -work. David watched the man’s muscles tighten and -relax, relax and tighten, as he plied his hammer; and an -off thought came to him that the world’s work would be -better done if more folk played as Billy did.</p> - -<p>Billy paused at last to wipe the sweat from his forehead, -and turned, and saw David standing in the doorway. -There was no surprise in his face. He was content to -play through the long winter, until the swallows came to -build their nests again in Garth. He knew they would -return, and waited patiently; for Billy, as all Garth knew, -“was not wise.”</p> - -<p>“First o’ the swallows came yesterday, David,” he said, -“and blessed if ye haven’t followed, quick as ye could -scramble. ’Tis good to see ye both.”</p> - -<p>David was sore at heart. If he had been a woman, he -would have leaned against the smithy wall and sobbed -himself into a makeshift peace. As it was, he sought -about for some trivial help in need. He found the help -in that quiet, persistent thought of others which, perhaps, -had lost him Cilla; the wise were apt to think him dull.</p> - -<p>He took a pouch from his pocket, and handed it to -Billy. When the black clay pipe was charged, he passed -a match across. It pleased him to see Billy light it -tranquilly upon the anvil, pleased him to watch the slow -wreaths of smoke curl among the rafters.</p> - -<p>“Your ’baccy always smoked a lile thought sweeter -than other folk’s,” said Billy.</p> - -<p>In some muddled way, David understood that the welcome -he had looked for, here in Garth, came from this -massive, tranquil man whose power of speech was hindered. -The warm air of the forge, the smell of it, soothed -the fierce pain of David’s loss.</p> - -<p>Billy the Fool laughed unexpectedly; it was his privilege. -He had caught sight of Dan Foster’s lad, standing<span class="pagenum" id="Page_369">[369]</span> -idle by the bellows with a look of wonderment about his -cherry-red face.</p> - -<p>“A queer lad, he,” said Billy. “He’s been working ever -since you left, he has, while this same fool has had all -the fun. ’Tis a terrible pranksome matter, this hammering -horseshoes into shape. Ye take a bit o’ hard iron, and -it says it will no way budge, however hard ye hit it; and -ye say it shall budge; and then it gets into a fearful rage, -and spits at ye with its lile, red sparks; and ye go on hammering, -just for frolic, like, till bless me, if there hasn’t -a horseshoe grown out o’ yond same bit of iron, like a -sycamore-leaf fro’ the bud.”</p> - -<p>The smith had lit his own pipe, and was listening with -something of the old content to Billy’s familiar line of -thought. All the fool’s interest in life, trace it deep -enough, centred round growth of some kind. It might -be growth of the plants under sheltered banks, that caught -the first footsteps of the spring, which claimed attention -from him; it might be the mother-work of birds when -they hatched their eggs in the many nests he over-watched, -or the whitening of the pastures when ewes began to drop -their lambs; it might be the forging of an iron rail, or the -building of a wall; but the instinct at the root of all his -pleasures was growth. Untrammelled, as no other man in -Garth was, by the frets and small indignities of daily -life, Billy had learned insight into the deeper truths. He -could write no verses, nor wished to; but he moved through -the quiet village life, for all that, a great poet, not of his -own dales only, but of the world.</p> - -<p>David’s nature was akin to his in many ways, and at -times such as this, when Billy let his heart peep out and -showed why toil was play to him, the smith was apt to -feel a touch of awe, as if he listened to a greater than himself -who was talking of eternal verities. The next moment<span class="pagenum" id="Page_370">[370]</span> -Billy would lose his high, abstracted look, and would return -to some foolish detail of the world about him. He -did so now.</p> - -<p>“I’ve your money all ready for ye, David,” he said, -going to the far corner of the smithy and reaching down -a small, square box from the shelf. “Made the box myself, -soon as ever ye left Garth, and made a slit, I did, big -enough for money to go through, but not for fingers. -Te-he, David! Not for fingers, I reckon.”</p> - -<p>David was puzzled as the other jingled the coins as he -crossed the floor, and placed his money-box in the smith’s -hands. “What is all this, Billy?” he asked.</p> - -<p>“Play money,” said the fool impassively. “Ye see, -David, I’ve no more use for coins than for pebbles i’ a -stream, so I saved ’em up against your home-coming. -Charged terrible high prices, I, for shoeing a horse; and -folk laughed, and they paid it, they did, because ’twas -only Fool Billy; and there’ll be a right proper nest-egg -ready for ye, David.”</p> - -<p>The tears were in David’s eyes at last. He had gone -on a wasted errand to another land, and had returned -empty of thanks and pocket; he had come cheerily home, -ready to start afresh with strong hands and a clean conscience -as his only capital, and had encountered Widow -Lister and her anxiety touching a tin kettle borrowed years -ago. He had looked down from Hirst’s croft at a strip -of sunlit highroad, and had seen a pair of lovers, full of -spring’s tender insolence and right-of-way. All had -slipped from under his feet, all save Billy the Fool, whose -pleasure, like his own, was to give—always to give, asking -no return, claiming only a pipeful of tobacco at the -day’s end, and a tranquil smoke over the morrow’s gifts -to other folk.</p> - -<p>David passed a hand across his eyes, and moved to the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_371">[371]</span> -anvil, and took up the hammer. “Ye can run home, lile -lad,” he said, turning to Dan Foster’s lad. “Stay, here’s -a sixpence for ye to spend on yourself. Billy, ’tis work -and play again, as i’ the old days. Just bend your back -to the bellows.”</p> - - -<p class="center">THE END.</p> - - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<div class="transnote"> -<p class="ph1">TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:</p> - - - -<p>Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.</p> - -<p>Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.</p> - -<p>Archaic or alternate spelling has been retained from the original.</p> -</div></div> -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PRISCILLA OF THE GOOD INTENT ***</div> -<div style='text-align:left'> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will -be renamed. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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