CHAPTER VI
Between the village and Garth the fields sank gently, to rise again tothe clump of beeches which masked the house. On the farther side theground fell more sharply into the narrow valley over which theSquire's window looked, and which separated the knoll whereon Garthstood from the cliffs. Beyond the brook that babbled down this valleyand turned the mill rose, first, a meadow or two, and then the ThirtyAcre covert, a tangle of birches and mountain-ashes which climbed tothe foot of the rock-wall. Over this green trough, which up-stream anddown merged in the broad vale, an air of peace, of remoteness andseclusion brooded, making it the delight of those who, morning andevening, looked down on it from the house.
Viewed from the other side, from the cliffs, the scene made adifferent impression. Not the intervening valley but the house heldthe eye. It was not large, but the knoll on which it stood was scarpedon that side, and the walls of weathered brick rose straight from therock, fortress-like and imposing, displaying all their mass. Thegables and the stacks of fluted chimneys dated only from DutchWilliam, but tradition had it that a strong place, Castell Coch, hadonce stood on the same site; and fragments of pointed windows andGothic work, built into the walls, bore out the story.
The road leaving the village made a right-angled turn round Garth andthen, ascending, ran through the upper part of the Thirty Acres,skirting the foot of the rocks. Along the lower edge of the covert,between wood and water, there ran also a field-path, a right-of-waymuch execrated by the Squire. It led by a sinuous course to theAcherley property, and, alas, for good resolutions, along it on theafternoon of the very day which saw the elder Ovington at Garth cameClement Ovington, sauntering as usual.
He carried a gun, but he carried it as he might have carried a stick,for he had long passed the bounds within which he had a right toshoot; and at all times, his shooting was as much an excuse for a walkamong the objects he loved as anything else. He had left his horse atthe Griffin Arms in the village, and he might have made his waythither more quickly by the road. But at the cost of an extra mile hehad preferred to walk back by the brook, observing as he went thingsnew and old; the dipper curtseying on its stone, the water-voleperched to perform its toilet on the leaf of a brook-plant, the firstgreen shoots of the wheat piercing through the soil, an old laborerwho was not sorry to unbend his back, and whose memory held the factsand figures of fifty-year-old harvests. The day was mild, the sunshone, Clement was happy. Why, oh, why were there such things as banksin the world?
At a stile which crossed the path he came to a stand. Something hadcaught his eye. It was a trifle, to which nine men out of ten wouldnot have given a thought, for it was no more than a clump of snowdropsin the wood on his right. But a shaft of wintry sunshine, strikingathwart the tiny globes, lifted them, star-like, above the brownleaves about them, and he paused, admiring them--thinking no evil, andfar from foreseeing what was to happen. He wondered if they were wild,or--and he looked about for any trace of human hands--a keeper'scottage might have stood here. He saw no trace, but still he stood,entranced by the white blossoms that, virgin-like, bowed meek heads tothe sunlight that visited them.
He might have paused longer, if a sound had not brought him abruptlyto earth. He turned. To his dismay he saw a girl, three or four pacesfrom him, waiting to cross the stile. How long she had waited, howlong watched him, he did not know, and in confusion--for he had notdreamed that there was a human being within a mile of him--and with ahurried snatch at his hat, he moved out of the way.
The girl stepped forward, coloring a little, for she foresaw that shemust climb the stile under the young man's eye. Instinctively, he heldout a hand to assist her, and in the act--he never knew how, nor didshe--the gun slipped from his grasp, or the trigger caught in abramble. A sheet of flame tore between them, the blast of the powderrent the air.
"O my God!" Clement cried, and he reeled back, shielding his eyes withhis hands.
The smoke hid the girl, and for a long moment, a moment of such agonyas he had never known, Clement's heart stood still. What had he done?oh, what had he done at last, with his cursed carelessness! Had hekilled her?
Slowly, the smoke cleared away, and he saw the girl. She was on herfeet--thank God, she was on her feet! She was clinging with both handsto the stile. But was she--"Are you--are you----" he tried to framewords, his voice a mere whistle.
She clung in silence to the rail, her face whiter than the quiltedbonnet she wore. But he saw--thank God, he saw no wound, no blood, nohurt, and his own blood moved again, his lungs filled again with amighty inspiration. "For pity's sake, say you are not hurt!" heprayed. "For God's sake, speak!"
But the shock had robbed her of speech, and he feared that she wasgoing to swoon. He looked helplessly at the brook. If she did, whatought he to do? "Oh, a curse on my carelessness!" he cried. "I shallnever, never forgive myself."
It had in truth been a narrow, a most narrow escape, and at last shefound words to say so. "I heard the shot--pass," she whispered, andshuddering closed her eyes again, overcome by the remembrance.
"But you are not hurt? They did pass!" The horror of that which mighthave been, of that which had so nearly been, overcame him anew, gave afresh poignancy to his tone. "You are sure--sure that you are nothurt?"
"No, I am not hurt," she whispered. "But I am very--very frightened.Don't speak to me. I shall be right--in a minute."
"Can I do anything? Get you some water?"
She shook her head and he stood, looking solicitously at her, stillfearing that she might swoon, and wondering afresh what he ought to doif she did. But after a minute or so she sighed, and a little colorcame back to her face. "It was near, oh, so near!" she whispered, andshe covered her face with her hands. Presently, and more certainly,"Why did you have it--at full cock?" she asked.
"God knows!" he owned. "It was unpardonable. But that is what I am! Iam a fool, and forget things. I was thinking of something else, I didnot hear you come up, and when I found you there I was startled."
"I saw." She smiled faintly. "But it was--careless."
"Horribly! Horribly careless! It was wicked!" He could not humblehimself enough.
She was herself now, and she looked at him, took him in, and was sorryfor him. She removed her hands from the rail, and though her fingerstrembled she straightened her bonnet. "You are Mr. Ovington?"
"Yes. And you are Miss Griffin, are you not?"
"Yes," smiling tremulously.
"May I help you over the stile? Oh, your basket!"
She saw that it lay some yards away, blackened by powder, one cornershot away; so narrow had been the escape! He had a feeling of sicknessas he took it up. "You must not go on alone," he said. "You mightfaint."
"Not now. But I shall not go on. What----" Her eyes strayed to thewood, and curiosity stirred in her. "What were you looking at sointently, Mr. Ovington, that you did not hear me?"
He colored. "Oh, nothing!"
"But it must have been something!" Her curiosity was strengthened.
"Well, if you wish to know," he confessed, shamefacedly, "I waslooking at those snowdrops."
"Those snowdrops?"
"Don't you see how the sunlight touches them? What a little island oflight they make among the brown leaves?"
"How odd!" She stared at the snowdrops and then at him. "I thoughtthat only painters and poets, Mr. Wordsworth and people like that,noticed those things. But perhaps you are a poet?"
"Goodness, no!" he cried. "A poet? But I am fond of looking atthings--out of doors, you know. A little way back"--he pointedup-stream, the way he had come--"I saw a rat sitting on a lily leaf,cleaning its whiskers in the sun--the prettiest thing you ever saw.And an old man working at Bache's told me that he--but Lord, I begyour pardon! How can I talk of such things when I remember----?"
He stopped, overcome by the recollection of that through which theyhad passed. She, for her part, was inclined to ask him to go on, butremembered that this, all this was very irregular. What
would herfather say? And Miss Peacock? Yet, if this was irregular, so was theadventure itself. She would never forget his face of horror, theappeal in his eyes, his poignant anxiety. No, it was impossible to actas if nothing had happened between them, impossible to be stiff and totalk at arm's length about prunes and prisms with a person who had allbut taken her life--and who was so very penitent. And then it was allso interesting, so out of the common, so like the things that happenedin books, like that dreadful fall from the Cobb at Lyme in"Persuasion." And he was not ordinary, not like other people. Helooked at snowdrops!
But she must not linger now. Later, when she was alone in her room,she could piece it together and make a whole of it, and think of it,and compass the full wonder of the adventure. But she must go now. Shetold him so, the primness in her tone reflecting her thoughts. "Willyou kindly give me the basket?"
"I am going to carry it," he said. "You must not go alone. Indeed youmust not, Miss Griffin. You may feel it more by and by. You may--gooff suddenly."
"Oh," she replied, smiling, "I shall not go off, as you call it, now."
"I will only come as far as the mill," humbly. "Please let me dothat."
She could not say no, it could hardly be expected of her; and sheturned with him. "I shall never forgive myself," he repeated. "Never!Never! I shall dream of the moment when I lost sight of you in thesmoke and thought that I had killed you. It was horrible! Horrible! Itwill come back to me often."
He thought so much of it that he was moving away without his gun,leaving it lying on the ground. It was she who reminded him. "Are younot going to take your gun?" she asked.
He went back for it, covered afresh with confusion. What a stupidfellow she must think him! She waited while he fetched it, and as shewaited she had a new and not unpleasant sensation. Never before hadshe been on these terms with a man. The men whom she had known hadalways taken the upper hand with her. Her father, Arthur even, hadeither played with her or condescended to her. In her experience itwas the woman's part to be ordered and directed, to give way andto be silent. But here the parts were reversed. This man--she hadseen how he looked at her, how he humbled himself before her! And hewas--interesting. As he came back to her carrying the gun, she eyedhim with attention. She took note of him.
He was not handsome, as Arthur was. He had not Arthur's sparkle, hisbrilliance, his gay appeal, the carriage of the head that challengedmen and won women. But he was not ugly, he was brown and clean andstraight, and he looked strong. He bent to her as if he had been aknight and she his lady, and his eyes, grey and thoughtful--she hadseen how they looked at her.
Now, she had never given much thought to any man's eyes before, andthat she did so now, and criticised and formed an opinion of them,implied a change of attitude, a change in her relations and the man's;and instinctively she acknowledged this by the lead she took. "Itseems so strange," she said half-playfully--when had she ever rallieda man before?--"that you should think of such things as you do.Snowdrops, I mean. I thought you were a banker, Mr. Ovington."
"A very bad banker," he replied ruefully. "To tell the truth, MissGriffin, I hate banking. Pounds, shillings, and pence--and this!" Hepointed to the country about them, the stream, the sylvan path theywere treading, the wood beside them, with its depths gilded here andthere by a ray of the sun. "A desk and a ledger--and this! Oh, I hatethem! I would like to live out of doors. I want"--in a burst ofcandor--"to live my own life! To be able to follow my own bent andmake the most of myself."
"Perhaps," she said with naivete, "you would like to be a countrygentleman?" And indeed the lot of a country gentleman in that day wasan enviable one.
"Oh no," he said, his tone deprecating the idea. He did not aspire tothat.
"But what, then?" She did not understand. "Have you no ambition?"
"I'd like to be--a farmer, if I had my way."
That surprised as well as dashed her. She thought of her father'stenants and her face fell. "Oh, but," she said, "a farmer? Why?" Hewas not like any farmer she had ever seen.
But he would not be dashed. "To make two blades of grass grow whereone grew before," he answered stoutly, though he knew that he had sunkin her eyes. "Just that; but after all isn't that worth doing? Isn'tthat better than burying your head in a ledger and counting otherfolk's money while the sun shines out of doors, and the rain fallssweetly, and the earth smells fresh and pure? Besides, it is all I amgood for, Miss Griffin. I do think I understand a bit about that. I'veread books about it and I've kept my eyes open, and--and what onelikes one does well, you know."
"But farmers----"
"Oh, I know," sorrowfully, "it must seem a very low thing to you."
"Farmers don't look at snowdrops, Mr. Ovington," with a gleam of funin her eyes.
"Don't they? Then they ought to, and they'd learn a lot that theydon't know now. I've met men, laboring men who can't read or write,and it's wonderful the things they know about the land and the wayplants grow on it, and the live things that are only seen at night, orstealing to their homes at daybreak. And there's a new wheat, a wheatI was reading about yesterday, Cobbett's corn, it is called, that I amsure would do about here if anyone would try it. But there,"remembering himself and to whom he was talking, "this can have nointerest for you. Only wouldn't you rather plod home weary at night,feeling that you had done something, and with all this"--he waved hishand--"sinking to rest about you, and the horses going down to water,and the cattle lowing to be let into the byres, and--and all that,"growing confused, as he felt her eyes upon him, "than get up from aset of ledgers with your head aching and your eyes muddled withfigures?"
"I'm afraid I have not tried either," she said. But she smiled. Shefound him new, his notions unlike those of the people about her, andcertainly unlike those of a common farmer. She did not comprehend allhis half-expressed thoughts, but not for that was she the lessresolved to remember them, and to think of them at her leisure. Forthe present here was the mill, and they must part. At the mill thefield-path which they were following fell into a lane, which on theright rose steeply to the road, on the left crossed a cart-bridge,shaken perpetually by the roar and wet with the spray of the greatmill-wheel. Thence it wound upwards, rough and stony, to the backpremises of Garth.
He, too, knew that this division of the ways meant parting, andhumility clothed him. "Heavens, what a fool I've been," he said,blushing, as he met her eyes. "What must you think of me, pratingabout myself when I ought to have been thinking only of you and askingyour pardon."
"For nearly shooting me?"
"Yes--and thank God, thank God," with emotion, "that it was notworse."
"I do."
"I ought never to carry a gun again!"
"I won't exact that penalty." She looked at him very kindly.
"And you will forgive me? You will do your best to forgive me?"
"I will do my best, if you will not carry off my basket," she replied,for he was turning away with the basket on his arm. "Thank you,"as he restored it, and in his embarrassment nearly dropped his gun."Good-bye."
"You are sure that you will be safe now?"
"If you have no fresh accident with your firearms," she laughed."Please be careful."
She nodded, and turned and tripped away. But she had hardly left him,she had not passed ten paces beyond the bridge, before her moodchanged. The cloak of playfulness fell from her, reaction did itswork. The color left her cheeks, her knees shook as she remembered.She felt again the hot blast on her cheek, lived through the flash,the shock, the onset of faintness. Again she clung to the stile,giddy, breathless, the landscape dancing about her. And through thehaze she saw his face, white, drawn, terror-stricken--saw it andstrove vainly to reassure him.
And now--now he was soothing her. He was pouring out his penitence, hewas upbraiding himself. Presently she was herself again; her spiritsrising, she was playing with him, chiding him, exercising a new senseof power, becoming the recipient of a man's thoughts, a man's hopesand ambitions. The color was back in her cheeks now
, her knees weresteady, she could walk. She went on, but slowly and more slowly, fullof thought, reviewing what had happened.
Until, near the garden door, she was roughly brought to earth. MissPeacock, visiting the yard on some domestic errand, had discerned her."Josina!" she cried. "My certy, girl, but you have been quick! I wishthe maids were half as quick when they go! A whole afternoon is notenough for them to walk a mile. But you've not brought the eggs?"
"I didn't go," said Josina. "I was frightened by a gun."
"A gun?"
"And I felt a little faint."
"Faint? Why, you've got the color of a rose, girl. Faint? Well, when Iwant galeny eggs again I shan't send you. Where was it?"
"Under the Thirty Acres--by the stile. A gun went off, and----"
"Sho!" Miss Peacock cried contemptuously. "A gun went off, indeed! Atyour age, Josina! I don't know what girls are coming to! If you don'ttake care you'll be all nerves and vapors like your aunt at theCottage! Go and take a dose of gilly-flower-water this minute, and theless said to your father the better. Why, you'd never hear the end ofit! Afraid because a gun went off!"
Josina agreed that it was very silly, and went quickly up to her room.Yes, the less said about it the better!