Barbara Lynn Part 27

Timothy raised his hands and salaamed.

"Come away, you old sun-wors.h.i.+pper," said Peter, "you'll get a chill if you stop to say your orisons up here," for a wind had come with the sunrise.

"If I were a rich man," said Timothy, "I'd build an altar to the sun on the highest hills, and make a law that all folks should go up twice a year and wors.h.i.+p it. They should see the earth awake as from the grave, they should feel the pa.s.sionate gladness of the dawn, they should receive strength for their labour, and inspiration for their minds. The Mystery of the Resurrection is celebrated anew every morning."

He turned away and walked on, but, before Peter and Barbara joined him, they looked each other unflinchingly in the eyes; where they saw nothing to make them fear.

The ravine through which the Robber's Rake ran narrowed into a steep defile on the other side of Thundergay. Looking down into Girdlestone Pa.s.s the little inn could be seen called the Shepherd's Rest, where many folk were already gathered--shepherds out of the surrounding dales, who had brought stray sheep from other flocks and were seeking their own lost ones.

The Meet was attended by everyone who could possibly get there. It was an opportunity for social intercourse, for the discussion of sheep-lore, or of politics; of their own affairs, and the harmless gossip about other people's. When the business of the day was over, the time was devoted to sports, such as racing, fox-hunting, and wrestling.

Barbara and Peter were soon separated by the crowd. There was a constant coming and going. Those who had travelled a great distance, either bringing or seeking wanderers--for a sheep will stray twenty miles over the mountains--set out at once for their far-off homes. But most of the shepherds remained, and while the sheep were being claimed, talked with friends they had not seen, and would not see for many a long day.

Such was morning at the Shepherds' Meet, a scene in which the varied emotions of mankind made melody and discord; for pride, jealousy, and affection, with all the notes that lie between, were there struck by the fingers of these honest fell-folk.

During the morning Barbara came across Timothy Hadwin.

"Are you tired?" he asked her.

"No. Why?"

"Because I am," he replied. "Come with me to the inn, and we'll drink a pot of the good wife's brewing together. She makes the best ale in the whole country side."

He slipped his hand through her arm, and the quaint little figure in the flowered waistcoat, with the silvery curls on his shoulders, and the tall golden-headed girl moved through the throng, side by side and drew many eyes.

The parlour and kitchen of the Shepherd's Rest were both full of men.

Tobacco smoke, beer fumes, and the indescribable odour of duffle, that has been exposed to rain, sun, and wind, the wear and tear of months, nay, years upon the fells, made an atmosphere heavy and grey. A stout la.s.s sprinkled the floors with fresh sand, and again and again took away the empty mugs to bring them back br.i.m.m.i.n.g, and dribbling with yellow froth. All morning there had never been a moment's cessation of the smoking and drinking, the loud talking and rough jesting, that accompanied the more serious business of the Meet. The polish of the bra.s.s candlesticks grew dim, and mist settled on the windows, where it concentrated into rivulets, and ran down into pools upon the floor.

"We'll take our refection in the open air," said Timothy putting his head in at the door.

They sat down on a bench. Near them Peter was standing, surrounded by a merry group, who were shaking him by the shoulders and slapping his back.

"No, no," Barbara heard him say. "I've given up wrestling: I'm too old."

"Too old, art tha?" replied a burly shepherd. "Let's feel thy muscles, lad."

He began to squeeze Peter's arm.

"Nowt much to complain of there," he continued. "How's thy wind?" and he thumped the young man's chest with no light hand. "Nowt wrong there nowther," he said. "Put his name down, lads, he'll wrestle."

Peter glanced across at Barbara and smiled.

Her eyes lingered lovingly upon his figure. She thought how strong and self-reliant he looked. She knew that he was not handsome, like some of the men around, but he was beautiful to her. She never wearied of studying his face, his expressions; she liked the sign of power upon his brow, and in his quiet grey eyes. She would have been proud to stand beside him in the sight of men, and claim that she was his best-beloved.

As she watched him, she felt suddenly that she was pa.s.sing through a fire. Her blood tingled, and her bosom heaved as though a wild thing there was struggling to be free.

Putting her mug down she got to her feet, afraid of her own mind. A flood of pa.s.sionate feeling was surging through her, sweeping away her self-restraint, her common-sense, her respect for goodness, and her fear of wrong-doing.

She fled from the Meet, from Peter, from the seduction of her own desires and turned to Thundergay, because she trusted that its cold wind would beat out the flame, which had begun to burn in her soul. She was a.s.sailed by the Harpies, those malignant powers, who would s.n.a.t.c.h her away, if they could, and make her a slave, as they had s.n.a.t.c.hed away the daughters of Pandaros in the old Greek fable.

But the Harpies were part of her own nature, and raged within her. Her self was warring against herself. She had met a fiend in her own soul, and she feared to do battle with it, where all things were favourable to its victory. But Thundergay was calm, solemn, always steadfast even in the midst of storm. So she sought the mountain solitude for help.

As she climbed up the narrow defile, the ground seemed to reel around her, and fall away from her feet. She stumbled, she was blinded, she was breathless, as though the steep ascent now made too great a demand upon her; but never before had her heart grown faint. Physically and mentally she was demoralised, as many a brave man has been before an unexpected foe.

The thing that had thus startled her was her love for Peter a.s.suming a new and terrible aspect. For it had climbed down from its lofty seat, and gnashed its teeth at circ.u.mstance, demanding its rights. Why should it live in icy silence? Why should it not give and receive as others gave and received?

She was full of bitterness and questioning. The everlasting 'why' was written on her life; not only on her life, but on all things; she could not dissociate herself from her world. "Why" ran across the sky in flaring letters; "why" was engraven on rock, fell, and dale. Why was anything?

Life should be full and radiant, not stifled and stunted. It should have room to grow, and develop its manifold beauties. But her life, if she cut her love for Peter out of it, would taste like dust and ashes in her mouth. She wanted Peter; her arms wanted him; her heart wanted him. She desired to cherish the beloved one, who was not cherished by his own wife.

This was the thought which caused her so much bitterness. Lucy did not love Peter; Barbara had learnt, as the years pa.s.sed, why her sister had married him. Lucy had deliberately taken something which she had soon ceased to value, but no one else had the right to treasure that which she had cast aside.

With clearer air and the silence of the mountain, calmer thoughts came.

She strove to hold to the belief that life was worth having, even when it meant the denial of its keenest desires. She scorned the weakness of her own nature, which made her cry so pa.s.sionately for something that she knew she could never have. She had dallied too long with an importunate master; to-day she must conquer it, and make such an a.s.sault impossible again.

She came swiftly down to Ketel's Parlour and on home. Her great-grandmother was sitting up in bed, still waiting for a visit from Joel Hart, and Lucy had not come to Greystones as she had promised.

"Oh, Lucy has a fine memory for forgetting," said the old woman. "She will have slept in this morning."

CHAPTER XVI

JOEL RETURNS TO THE DALE

Joel Hart returned to the dale on the day of the Shepherds' Meet. The coach set him down at an inn, twenty miles from High Fold, in the small hours of the morning; and, having hired a horse for the rest of the journey, he rode through Cringel Forest soon after day-break.

Mally Ray had cleaned the old house from cellar to garret, arranged the furniture to the best advantage, and put fires in those rooms which she considered most suitable for a young man who had made his fortune, but was still a bachelor.

She was preparing the breakfast when she heard the sound of hoofs on the road. Austere and dignified, she yet flung a shawl over her shoulders, and went out to meet him.

Yonder he came, a dusky figure on a dusky horse, riding under the bare boughs. He alighted as soon as he saw her.

"You're welcome home, Master Joel," she said, and though he had been her nursling, she shook hands with him after the fas.h.i.+on of her country. But her hand-shake was sincere.

"Still the same old Mally," he exclaimed with a laugh, and bending down he kissed her cheek. With the horse's bridle over his arm, and his free hand on her shoulder, they went up the path to the house. Joel gave a swift glance round at the rank vegetation.

"There's some need of a pruning knife here," he remarked.

"Aye, Master Joel, you'll find plenty to do now you've come back. I hope you mean to stay and settle down."

He shook his head gaily.

"I'll make no promises," he replied.

He stabled his horse, wandered once round the moss-grown walk under the windows, then entered the parlour and flung himself down in a chair.

Breakfast was ready, and he ate it in a strange mood. Five years in the wilderness had greatly changed him. He had lived through wider experiences, tasted fresh pleasures and disappointments, thought other thoughts. But now he had come back to the old life, and already those days were slipping away, and bygone habits rea.s.serting themselves.