III
Louise awoke the next morning filled with a curious sense of buoyantexpectancy. The sunshine was pouring into the room, brightening up itsmost somber corners. It lay across the quilt of her bed, and seemed tobring out the perfume of lavender from the pillow on which her headreposed.
Aline, hearing her mistress stir, hastened at once to the bedside.
"Good morning, _madame_!"
Louise sat up and looked around her, with her hands clasped about herknees.
"Tell me everything, Aline," she said. "Have you my breakfast there? Andwhat time is it?"
"It is half-past nine, _madame_," Aline replied, "and your breakfast ishere. The old imbecile from the kitchen has just brought it up."
Louise looked approvingly at the breakfast tray, with the home-madebread and deep-yellow butter, the brown eggs and clear honey. The smellof the coffee was aromatic. She breathed a little sigh of content.
"How delicious everything looks!" she exclaimed.
"The home-made things are well enough in their way, _madame_," Alineagreed, "but I have never known a household so strange and disagreeable.That M. Jennings, who calls himself the butler--he is a personunspeakable, a savage!"
Louise's eyes twinkled.
"I don't think they are fond of women in this household, Aline," sheremarked. "Tell me, have you seen Charles?"
"Charles has gone to the nearest blacksmith's forge to get somethingmade for the car, _madame_," Aline replied. "He asked me to say that hewas afraid he would not be ready to start before midday."
"That does not matter," Louise declared, as she settled down to herbreakfast. "I do not care how long it is before he is ready. I shouldlove to spend a month here!"
Aline held up her hands. She was speechless. Her mistress laughed at herconsternation.
"Well," she continued, "there is no fear of their asking us for a month,or for an hour longer than they can help. The elder Mr. Strangewey, itseems, has the strongest objection to our sex. There is not a womanservant in the house, is there?"
"Not one, _madame_," Aline replied. "I have never been in a householdconducted in such a manner. It is like the kitchen of a monastery. Theterrible Jennings is speechless. If one addresses him, he only mumbles.The sound of my skirts, or my footstep on the stone floor, makes himshiver. He is worse, one would imagine, than his master."
Louise ate and drank reflectively.
"It is the queerest household one could possibly stumble upon," sheremarked. "The young Mr. Strangewey--he seems different, but he falls inwith his brother's ways."
Aline glanced at herself in the mirror. She was just out of hermistress's range of vision, and she made a little grimace at herreflection.
"I met him twice this morning in the hall," she remarked. "He wished megood morning the first time. The second time he did not speak. He didnot seem to see me."
Louise finished her breakfast and strolled presently to the window. Shegave a little sigh of pleasure as she looked out.
"But, Aline," she exclaimed, "how exquisite!"
The maid glanced over her shoulder and went on preparing her mistress'sclothes.
"It is as _madame_ finds it," she replied. "For myself, I like thecountry for fete days and holidays only, and even then I like to findplenty of people there."
Louise heard nothing. She was gazing eagerly out of the casement-window.Immediately below was a grass-grown orchard which stretched upward, at aprecipitous angle, toward a belt of freshly plowed field; beyond, alittle chain of rocky hills, sheer overhead. The trees were pink andwhite with blossom; the petals lay about upon the ground like driftedsnowflakes. Here and there yellow jonquils were growing among the longgrass. A waft of perfume stole into the room through the window whichshe had opened.
"Fill my bath quickly, Aline," Louise ordered. "I must go out. I want tosee whether it is really as beautiful as it looks."
Aline dressed her mistress in silence. It was not until she had finishedlacing her shoes that she spoke another word. Then, suddenly, shestopped short in the act of crossing the room. Her eyes had happened tofall upon the emblazoned genealogical record. A little exclamationescaped her. She swung round toward her mistress, and for once there wasanimation in her face.
"But, _madame_," she exclaimed, "I have remembered! The nameStrangewey--you see it there--it was in our minds all the time that wehad seen or heard of it quite lately. Don't you remember--"
"Yes, yes!" Louise interrupted. "I know it reminds me of something, butof what?"
"Yesterday morning," Aline continued, "it was you _madame_, who read itout while you took your coffee. You spoke of the good fortune of somefarmer in the north of England to whom a relative in Australia had lefta great fortune--hundreds and thousands of pounds. The name wasStrangewey, the same as that. I remember it now."
She pointed once more to the family tree. Louise sat for a moment withparted lips.
"You are quite right, Aline. I remember it all perfectly now. I wonderwhether it could possibly be either of these two men!"
Aline shook her head doubtfully.
"It would be unbelievable, _madame_," she decided. "Could any sane humancreatures live here, with no company but the sheep and the cows, if theyhad money--money to live in the cities, to buy pleasures, to be happy?Unbelievable, _madame_!"
Louise remained standing before the window. She was watching theblossom-laden boughs of one of the apple trees bending and swaying inthe fresh morning breeze--watching the restless shadows which came andwent upon the grass beneath.
"That is just your point of view, Aline," she murmured; "buthappiness--well, you would not understand. They are strange men, thesetwo. The young one is different now, but as he grows older he will belike his brother. He will live a very simple and honorable life. He willbe--what is it they call it?--a county magistrate, chairman of manythings, a judge at agricultural shows. When he dies, he will be buriedup in that windy little churchyard, and people will come from a long wayoff to say how good he was. My hat, quickly, Aline! If I am not in thatorchard in five minutes I shall be miserable!"
Louise found her way without difficulty across a cobbled yard, through apostern gate set in a red-brick wall, into the orchard. Very slowly, andwith her head turned upward toward the trees, she made her way towardthe boundary wall. Once, with a little exclamation of pleasure, she drewdown a bough of the soft, cool blossom and pressed it against her cheek.She stopped for a moment or two to examine the contents of a row ofchicken-coops, and at every few steps she turned around to face thebreeze which came sweeping across the moorland from the other side ofthe house.
Arrived at the farther end of the orchard, she came to a gate, againstwhich she rested for a moment, leaning her arms upon the topmost bar.Before her was the little belt of plowed earth, the fresh, pungent odorof which was a new thing to her; a little way to the right, the rollingmoorland, starred with clumps of gorse; in front, across the field onthe other side of the gray stone wall, the rock-strewn hills. Thesky--unusually blue it seemed to her, and dotted all over with littlemasses of fleecy, white clouds--seemed somehow lower and nearer; or wasshe, perhaps higher up?
She lingered there, absolutely bewildered by the rapid growth in herbrain and senses of what surely must be some newly kindled faculty ofappreciation. There was a beauty in the world which she had not feltbefore.
She turned her head almost lazily at the sound of a man's voice. A teamof horses, straining at a plow, were coming round the bend of thefield, and by their side, talking to the laborer who guided them, wasJohn Strangewey. She watched him as he came into sight up the steeprise. Against the empty background, he seemed to lose nothing of thesize and strength that had impressed her on the previous night. He wasbareheaded, and she noticed for the first time that his closely croppedfair hair was inclined to curl a little near the ears.
He walked in step with the plowman by his side, but without any of thelaborer's mechanical plod--with a spring in his footsteps, indee
d, as ifhis life and thoughts were full of joyous things. He was wearingblack-and-white tweed clothes, a little shabby but well-fitting;breeches and gaiters; thick boots, plentifully caked now with mud. Hewas pointing with his stick along the furrow, so absorbed in theinstructions he was giving that he was almost opposite the gate beforehe was aware of her presence. He promptly abandoned his task andapproached her.
"Good morning!" he called out.
She waved her hand.
"Good morning!"
"You have slept well?" he asked.
"Better, I think, than ever before in my life," she answered."Differently, at any rate. And such an awakening!"
He looked at her, a little puzzled. The glow upon her face and thesunlight upon her brown hair kept him silent. He was content to look ather and wonder.
"Tell me," she demanded impetuously, "is this a little corner offairy-land that you have found? Does the sun always shine like this?Does the earth always smell as sweetly, and are your trees always inblossom? Does your wind always taste as if God had breathed the elixirof life into it?"
He turned around to follow the sweep of her eyes. Something of the sameglow seemed to rest for a moment upon his face.
"It is good," he said, "to find what you love so much appreciated bysome one else."
They stood together in a silence almost curiously protracted. Then theplowman passed again with his team of horses, and John called out someinstructions to him. She followed him down to earth.
"Tell me, Mr. Strangewey," she inquired, "where are yourfarm-buildings?"
"Come and I will show you," he answered, opening the gate to let herthrough. "Keep close to the hedge until we come to the end of the plow;and then--but no, I won't anticipate. This way!"
She walked by his side, conscious every now and then of his franklyadmiring eyes as he looked down at her. She herself felt all the joy ofa woman of the world imbibing a new experience. She did not even glancetoward the dismantled motor in the barn which they passed.
"I am glad," he remarked presently, "that you look upon us morecharitably than your maid."
"Aline is a good girl," Louise said, smiling, "but hot-water taps andelectric lights are more to her than sunshine and hills. Do you know,"she went on, "I feel like a child being led through an undiscoveredcountry, a land of real adventures. Which way are we going, and what arewe going to see? Tell me, please!"
"Wait," he begged. "It is just a queer little corner among the hills,that is all."
They reached the end of the plowed field, and, passing through a gate,turned abruptly to the left and began to climb a narrow path whichbordered the boundary wall, and which became steeper every moment. Asthey ascended, the orchard and the long, low house on the other sideseemed to lie almost at their feet. The road and the open moorlandbeyond, stretching to the encircling hills, came more clearly into sightwith every backward glance. Louise paused at last, breathless.
"I must sit down," she insisted. "It is too beautiful to hurry over."
"It is only a few steps farther," he told her, holding out his hand;"just to where the path winds its way round the hill there. But perhapsyou are tired?"
"On the contrary," she assured him, "I never felt so vigorous in mylife. All the exercise I take, as a rule, is in Kensington Gardens; andlook!" She pointed downward to her absurd little shoes, and held out herhand, "You will have to help me," she pleaded.
The last few steps were, indeed, almost precipitous. Fragments of rock,protruding through the grass and bushes, served as steps. John moved ona little ahead and pulled her easily up. Even the slight tightening ofhis fingers seemed to raise her from her feet. She looked at himwonderingly.
"How strong you are!"
"A matter of weight," he answered, smiling. "You are like a feather. Youwalk as lightly as the fairies who come out on midsummer night's eve anddance in circles around the gorse-bushes there."
"Is it the home of the fairies you are taking me to?" she asked. "If youhave discovered that, no wonder you find us ordinary women outside yourlives!"
He laughed.
"There are no fairies where we are going," he assured her.
They were on a rough-made road now, which turned abruptly to the right afew yards ahead, skirting the side of a deep gorge. They took a fewsteps further, and Louise stopped short with a cry of wonder.
Around the abrupt corner an entirely new perspective was revealed--alittle hamlet, built on a shoulder of the mountains; and on the right,below a steep descent, a wide and sunny valley. It was like a tiny worldof its own, hidden in the bosom of the hills. There was a long line offarm-buildings, built of gray stone and roofed with red tiles; therewere fifteen or twenty stacks; a quaint, white-washed house ofconsiderable size, almost covered on the southward side with creepers; arow of cottages, and a gray-walled enclosure--stretching with its whitetombstones to the very brink of the descent--in the midst of which wasan ancient church, in ruins at the further end, partly rebuilt with thestones of the hillside.
Louise looked around her, silent with wonder. A couple of sheep-dogs hadrushed out from the farmhouse and were fawning around her companion. Inthe background a gray-bearded shepherd, with Scottish plaid thrown overhis shoulder, raised his hat.
"It isn't real, is it?" she asked, clinging for a moment to JohnStrangewey's arm.
He patted one of the dogs and smiled down at her.
"Why not? William Elwick there is a very real shepherd, I can assureyou. He has sat on these hills for the last sixty-eight years."
She looked at the old man almost with awe.
"It is like the Bible!" she murmured. "Fancy the sunrises he must haveseen, and the sunsets! The coming and the fading of the stars, thespring days, the music of the winds in these hollow places, booming tohim in the night-time! I want to talk to him. May I?"
He shook his head. The old man was already shambling off.
"Better not," he advised. "You would be disappointed, for William hasthe family weakness--he cannot bear the sight of a woman. You see, he ispretending now that there is something wrong with the hill flock. Youasked where the land was that we tilled. Now look down. Hold my arm ifyou feel giddy."
She followed the wave of his ash stick. The valley sheer below them, andthe lower hills, on both sides, were parceled out into fields, enclosedwithin stone walls, reminding her, from the height at which they stood,of nothing so much as the quilt upon her bed.
"That's where all our pasture is," he told her, "and our arable land. Wegrow a great deal of corn in the dip there. All the rest of thehillside, and the moorlands, of course, are fit for nothing but grazing;but there are eleven hundred acres down there from which we can raisealmost anything we choose."
Her eyes swept this strange tract of country backward and forward. Shesaw the men like specks in the fields, the cows grazing in the pasturelike toy animals. Then she turned and looked at the neat row of stacksand the square of farm-buildings.
"I am trying hard to realize that you are a farmer and that this is yourlife," she said.
He swung open the wooden gate of the churchyard, by which they werestanding. There was a row of graves on either side of the prim path.
"Suppose," he suggested, "you tell me about yourself now--about your ownlife."
The hills parted suddenly as she stood there looking southward. Throughthe chasm she seemed to see very clearly the things beyond. Her ownlife, her own world, spread itself out--a world of easy triumphs, ofthrobbing emotions always swiftly ministered to, always leaving the samedull sensation of discontent; a world in which the pathways were broadand smooth, but in which the end seemed always the same; a world ofreceding beauties and mocking desires. The faces of her friends werethere--men and women, brilliant, her intellectual compeers, a littletired, offering always the same gifts, the same homage.
"My life, and the world in which I live, seem far away just now," shesaid quietly. "I think that it is doing me good to have a rest fromthem. Go on talking to me about yourself, please."
"We shall very soon reach the end of all that I have to tell you," heremarked. "Still, if there is anything you would like to know--"
"Who were these men and women who have lived and died here?" sheinterrupted, with a little wave of her hand toward the graves.
"All our own people," he told her; "laborers, shepherds, tenant-farmers,domestic servants. Our clergyman comes from the village on the otherside of that hill. He rides here every Sunday on a pony which we have toprovide for him."
She studied the names upon the tombstones, spelling them out slowly.
"The married people," he went on, "are buried on the south side; thesingle ones and children are nearer the wall. Tell me," he asked, aftera moment's hesitation, "are you married or single?"
She gave a little start. The abruptness of the question, the keen,steadfast gaze of his compelling eyes, seemed for a moment to paralyzeboth her nerves and her voice. Again the hills rolled open, but thistime it was her own life only that she saw, her own life, and one man'sface which she seemed to see looking at her from some immeasurabledistance, waiting, yet drawing her closer toward him, closer and closertill their hands met.
She was terrified at this unexpected tumult of emotion. It was as ifsome one had suddenly drawn away one of the stones from the foundationof her life. She found herself repeating the words on the tombstonefacing her:
"And of Elizabeth, for sixty-one years the faithful wife and helpmate of Ezra Cummings, mother of his children, and his partner in the life everlasting."
Her knees began to shake. There was a momentary darkness before hereyes. She felt for the tombstone and sat down.
The Hillman Page 3
