Rest Harrow: A Comedy of Resolution Part 34

Presently, and quite suddenly, as they pushed their way, now in silence broken only by Chevenix's cheerful whistling, upon that backbone of a broad hill-country--quite suddenly her heart leaped, and then stood fast.

"Look, look!" she said softly. "There's Jack, close to us!" In a sheltered hollow some hundred feet below the level at which they were, a hooded figure in pure white was startlingly splashed upon the grey-brown of the dry hills. The peak of a cowl shot straight above his head, and the curtains of it covered his face. He sat, squatting upon the turf, with a lifted hand admonis.h.i.+ng. About him, with c.o.c.ked ears, and quick side- glances, were some six or seven hares, some reared upon their haunches, some, with sleek heads, intent upon the herbage, one lopping here and there in quest, but none out of range of a quick hand. Above his head, high in the blue, birds were wheeling, now up, now down. Peewits tumbling heavily, pigeons with beating wings, sailing jackdaws--higher yet, serene in rarity, a brown kestrel oared the sky.

Sanchia's soft eyes gleamed with wet. "Saint Francis and the hares! Oh, dearest, have I never known you?"

"What a chance for a rifleman!" said Chevenix. "That beats the c.o.c.ks."

They stood intent for a while, not daring to disturb the mystery enacting.

Chevenix whispered, "He's giving 'em church, to-day being Sunday," while Sanchia, breathless, said, "Hus.h.!.+ hus.h.!.+" and felt the tears fret a way down her cheeks. Presently she put both hands to her breast and fell upon her knees. Chevenix, not insensible to her emotion, lit a pipe. Thus he broke the spell.

"Go to him, please. Tell him that I'm here," she bade him, and then turned away and sat waiting upon a clump of heather. She sat, as not daring to look up, until she heard his soft tread on the turf. Then she lifted to him her wet and rueful eyes.

His long strides brought him close in a second. He was changed. Leaner, browner, older than she had known him. And he wore a strange Eastern garment, a hooded white robe, short-sleeved and b.u.t.tonless, made of coa.r.s.e woollen cloth. He had thrown the hood back, and it sat upon his shoulders like a huge rolling collar. Yes, he was changed; there was mystery upon him, which sat broodingly on his brows. But his eyes were the same--bright as a bird's, frosty-kind as a spring morning which stings while it kisses you. "Queen Mab!" he said. "You!" and held out both his hands. It was evident that neither of them could speak. She rose; but there was no touching of the hands.

"And Peachblossom, attendant sprite," cried the resourceful Chevenix, following him up. "Don't forget him."

"Puck, I think," said Senhouse. "Robin Goodfellow." He had recovered himself in that breathing-s.p.a.ce. "How splendid of you both. Come and see my s.h.i.+p. I'm in moorings now, you know. I've cut piracy."

"And preach to the hares," said Chevenix. "We saw you at it. What does his lords.h.i.+p say?"

"His lords.h.i.+p, who, in spite of that, is an excellent man, likes it. His lords.h.i.+p was pleased to catch me, as you did, at it, and to suggest that he should bring out a party of her ladys.h.i.+p's friend to see me perform. I told him that I was his hireling, no doubt, but that my friends here were amateurs who didn't care to say their prayers in public. His lords.h.i.+p begged pardon, and I bet you he's a gentleman. Nearly everybody is, when you come to know him."

Chevenix revelled in him. "Still the complete moralist, old Jack!" he cheered. "I'll back you for a bushel of nuts to have it out with Charon as you ferry across. And here, for want of _us_, you turn to the hares!

Sancie, you and I must get season tickets to Sarum, or he'll forget his tongue."

Sanchia, overcome by shyness, had nothing to do with this brisk interchange. She walked between the contestants like a child out with her betters. Senhouse led them down the scarped side of a hill into his own valley; rounding a bluff, they suddenly came upon his terraces and creeper-covered hut. The place was a blaze of field flowers; each terrace a thick carpet of colour. In front of them the valley wound softly to the south, and melted into the folds of the hills; to the right, upon a wooded slope, in glades between the trees, goats were at pasture.

"Goats! Robinson Crusoe!" Chevenix pointed them out. "_Dic mihi, Damoeta, cuium pecus? an Meliboei?_ Are they yours, Senhouse?"

"I drink them, and make cheese. I learned how to do it at Udine ages ago.

You shall have some."

Sanchia saw them. The sun gleamed upon fawn and white, and made black s.h.i.+ne like jet. Deep in the thickets they heard the bell of one, cropping musically.

Senhouse led them to his verandah, which was shadowed from the heat, made them sit on mats, and served them with milk and bread in wooden bowls and trenchers. He was barefooted, which Sanchia, must by all means be--for the day: divining her, as he only could, he knelt without invitation and untied her shoes. "Stockings too, I'll bet you!" was what Chevenix thought; but he was wrong. Senhouse went into his cabin, and returned with sandals. Sanchia had taken off her own stockings. They were sandals to fit her. "I made them for Mary," he explained; "but she preferred boots."

"Most of 'em do," Chevenix said, "in their hearts," and Senhouse quietly rejoined, "So I've found out."

Chevenix, the tactful, withdrew himself after a civil interval. He said that he should go goat-stalking, and, instead, went for a ramble, well out of sight. Then he found a place after his mind, smoked his pipe, and had a nap.

The pair, left to themselves, resumed with hardly an effort their ancient footing.

He said, after looking long upon her, "You are changed, Queen Mab; you are graver and quieter--but you are yourself, I see."

"I am not changed really," she said. "I love all the things I did. But sometimes one doesn't know it."

He did not appear to heed her, occupied in his gentle scanning of her.

"You are, I suppose, more beautiful than you were--I was prepared for that. You have been very much with me of late."

Her excitement grew suddenly quick. "Have I? It's very odd, but--"

"It's not at all odd," he said. "Nothing is. I will tell you what happens.

After I go to bed--which is always lateish--I feel you come down the slope. I am not surprised--I wasn't the first time. You come in a blue gown, with bare feet. I can't see anything of you as you come but gleaming ivory--an oval, which is your face--two bars for your arms--two shafts,-- and your feet. Your hair is loose all about your shoulders, and close about your face. It makes the oval longer and narrower than I see it now; your face is fuller by day than by night. You come to me out here, where I wait for you, and hold out your hand. I rise, and take it--and off we go.

I realise now that I am in the conduct of a fairy. I was inspired when I hailed you--how long ago?--as Queen Mab. You show me wonderful things. Do you know that you come?"

"No, but--" She stopped, and bent her head. Her experience had not been so simple. "I have thought sometimes--" She could not finish--broke off abruptly. There was a beating pause, during which neither of them dared look at the other. She broke it. She asked him what he did out here alone.

"I live," he said, "very much as I did. I read--in three tongues; I paint rarely; I do a great deal of work. At night I write my book. And then--you come."

"And what is your book?"

"It began as Memoirs--in three volumes, but those have stopped. There was plenty to say, but after certain experiences which came to me here-- singular enough experiences--nothing in it seemed worth while. Now I call it Despoina, after the princ.i.p.al character. Despoina, or the Lore of Proserpine."

"Who is Despoina?" She showed him that she had the answer already.

He looked at her, smiling with his eyes. "You are Despoina."

"Oh," said she, "I thought I was Queen Mab."

"It is the same thing. Despoina means the Lady--the Lady of the Country.

She is a great fairy. The greatest."

It was now for her to smile at him, which she did a little wistfully.

"Your Despoina is either too much fairy, or not enough. She does very humdrum things. She has done mischief; now she is going to repair it. She is going to be married."

He was watching her quietly, and took her news quietly.

"Yes, so I learned. There was a youth here who told me."

She stopped him, flus.h.i.+ng wildly. "A youth! Struan was here? Then it's true--it's true?"

He was quite calm under this outcry. "Yes, your champion Glyde was here. A good fellow in the main, but, Lord! what a donkey! I think I did him good.

He left me a week ago. He had told me about you--found out where you lived, and what was happening." She sat with her face between her hands, dared not let him see it.

Senhouse resumed the question of her marriage. "It doesn't matter what you do. You are you. So Ingram has forgiven Master Glyde, and now--"

She lifted her pale face at this name of duty.

"His wife died a year ago; rather more. He wants me to marry him, and I think I must."

"You don't want to?" She shook her head, watching her fingers tear the gra.s.s.

"No," she said, "not in the least. But I shall do it. Don't you think that I should?"

He thought, then threw his arms out. "G.o.d knows what I am to say! If the world held only you and me and him--here--fast in this valley--I tell you fairly. I should stop it." She looked up quickly, and their eyes met. Hers were haunted with longing. He had to turn his head. "But it doesn't. To me what you intend to do seems quite horrible because I am flesh, and cannot see that you are spirit. That is a perfectly reasonable reading of the Laws, which says, What I did as a child I must abide as a woman. It's a law of Nature, after all's said; and yet it can be contradicted in a breath. It's one of those everlasting propositions which are true both ways, positively and negatively; for Nature says, That is my rule, and immediately after, Break it if you're strong enough. Now, you are, but I am not."

Once more they looked at each other, these two who had but one desire between them--and who knew it each of each. And again it was he who broke away.

"I'm a coward, I'm false to my own belief. It's love that makes me so. Oh, Heaven, I see so well what it would be! And it would be right, mind you.

These laws of Society are nothing, absolutely nothing. But you are pleased, for reasons, to submit. You are deliberate, you are strong. It's the old thing over again. Hideous, vile, abominable servitude! But you are pleased to do it. You say it is Destiny, and you may be right. I tell you once more, I dare not say a word against it."