Chapter Four.

Chapter Four.The Wooden Bottle.“Gee, Diamond! Now, Captain!” cried Margaret, imitating the gruff voice of the carter. Crack! The long-knotted lash of the waggon-whip, bound about the handle with brazen rings, whistled in the air and curled up with a vicious snap. She was in one of her wild impulsive moods. Away trotted the two huge carthorses, the harness merrily jingling and the waggon jolting. Jabez the shepherd could hardly keep pace with it, running beside the leader, Diamond. Margaret and May were riding. Crack! Crack!“Aw, doan’t ’ee now—doan’t ’ee, miss!” panted the shepherd. “Us ull go right drough th’ winder! Whoa!”For they were steering straight for the great window at Greene Ferne that opened on the lawn. It was wide open that beautiful midsummer morning.“What are those children doing?” said Mrs Estcourt, in some alarm. “Why, they have harnessed the horses!”Valentine, Geoffrey, and Felix, who were there, crowded to the window.“Whoa, Diamond! Captain, whoa!” cried Margaret, bringing up her convoy on the lawn in fine style. “Now, mamma dear, jump up! We’re all going haymaking, as the men won’t.”“She has solved the problem,” said Valentine. “Here’s one volunteer!” And he sprang up.That very morning they had been holding a council to see if anything could be suggested to put an end to the strike. It had now lasted nearly a fortnight Felix in vain argued with the men; they listened respectfully, and even admitted that he was right; but all they would say was that “they meaned to have th’ crownd.”Slow to take action, there is no one so stubborn, when once he has resolved, as the agricultural labourer. They had timed the strike with some cunning. They had let the mowers cut some sixty acres of grass, and then suddenly stopped work. They knew very well that if cut grass is allowed to remain exposed to the sun longer than just sufficient to make it into hay, it dries up so much as to be of little value. Now the burning brilliant summer sunshine had been pouring down upon the withered grass for days and days, expelling every particle of the succulent sap, and turning it to a brittle straw. The shepherd, Jabez, remained at his work, and he and Augustus Basset, the “bailie,” did a little, throwing up a mead or two into “wakes” for carting; but their exertions were of small avail. While they talked and deliberated, Margaret, beckoning May, slipped out and went down to the stables. Diamond and Captain were led out into the sunshine, and stood like statuary, waiting to be bidden. For the beauty of simple strength nothing equals a fine cart-horse: the vast frame, the ponderous limb, the massive neck, speak of power in repose. Their large dark lustrous eyes followed the girls with calm astonishment; but, docile and gentle, they gave implicit obedience to orders. The heavy harness, brass-mounted, was as much as ever the two girls could manage to lift; and when it came to hoisting up the shafts of the waggon they were at a loss. But Jabez, hearing a noise at the stables, came up; and after him slouched Augustus, muttering to himself, as usual. So just when the council indoors was beginning to wonder what had become of Margaret and May, crack, crack, and the jingling of harness put an end to their deliberations.Geoffrey quickly followed Valentine; Felix, more thoughtful, brought a chair for Mrs Estcourt, who, half laughing, half protesting, against Margaret’s wilful fancy, got up. Augustus sat on the shafts, Jabez stood by the leader, and, seeing them all in, started for the field.“If you were to bring out a thirty-six-gallon cask,” said Augustus, whose red nose peered over the front part of the waggon, “and set it up on a haycock, I’ll warn them chaps would come back fast enough.” This was one word for the haymakers and two for himself.“I’m sure I don’t grudge them some ale,” said Mrs Estcourt. “But they are really very unreasonable. One of the servants took a mower a quart of beer. He said he did not like it, and didn’t want so much, and poured it out on the grass. Next day only a pint was sent to him: ‘Why y’ent you brought me a quart?’ said he. ‘Because you flung it away,’ was the reply. ‘Aw, that don’t matter. You bring I a quart. I’ll have my mishure,’ (measure); nor should I mind paying the extra five shillings; but you see, Felix, if I pay it, all the farmers round—for they have only struck work on my place, thinking, no doubt, that, being a woman, I must give way—will be obliged to do so, and some of them are not able. Many have called and begged me not; and Mr Thorpe says the same. Yet I don’t like it. We have always been on good terms with the men.”“O yes, you pets ’em up,” said Augustus, “just like so many children; and, of course, they ain’t going to work for you.”“The struggle of capital and labour,” began Felix learnedly, when a sudden jolt of the springless waggon threw him off his balance, and he had to cling to the sides.“O, mind the gatepost!” cried Mrs Estcourt, in some alarm.While they were near the house Jabez went slow; but the moment he reached the open field away he started, and what with the jingling of the harness, the creaking of the wheels, and the necessity for holding on tight, conversation became impossible. The waggon rose up and sloped down over the furrows of the meadow as a boat pitches in a sea.“Woaght! whoa!” shouted Jabez, drawing up among the hay. “This be it; the prongs be in the ditch.”When they had descended, he went to the hawthorn bush, pulled out some prongs, and then scrambled up into the waggon himself. “Now then, you lards and gennelmen, one on ’ee get each side, and pitch up thaay wakes (ridges of hay put ready for the purpose of loading), and mind as you doan’t stick your farks into I. The wimmen—I means the ladies—wull rake behind, and paason can help um—th’ rakes be hung on th’ hedge. Now, bailie, look arter them ’osses.”Though hay looks light and easy to lift, yet when the fork has gathered a goodly bundle, to hoist it high overhead, and continue the operation, is really heavy labour. Valentine was physically a smaller made man than Geoffrey, whose broad shoulders had also been developed both by athletic exercise at home and by work in Australia—work done from choice, not necessity. But though smaller, Valentine was extremely tough, wiry, and nimble, as is often the case with gentlemen who “fancy” horses. Quick in his movements, he caught the knack of “pitching” almost immediately. He hastily flung up his “wake” as far as the horse in the shafts, and then walked to the rear of the waggon where Margaret was raking, leaving Geoffrey still engaged.Margaret and May were looking at a nest of harvest-trows, as the tiny mice are called that breed in the grass. Valentine began to talk about his horses, knowing Margaret was fond of animals, and said that a “string” of his would pass Greene Ferne in the eveningen routeto his stables. Now Geoffrey, glancing back, saw the group apparently in earnest conversation from which he was excluded; and noting Margaret’s attention to Valentine, grew jealous and angry. Just as he finished “pitching,” and was about to join them—“Tchek!” from Augustus, and on the horses moved, and he had to recommence work. Valentine ran with his prong, and again, by dint of great exertions, finished his side first, and returned to Margaret.“Tchek! woaght!”The third time Valentine essayed the same task, delighted to leave Geoffrey in the cold, and to exhibit his superior prowess. But Geoffrey by now had learned how to handle his fork. His muscles were strung, his blood was up, he warmed to his work, and pitched vast bundles that all but buried and half choked Jabez, who was loading on the waggon.“The dust be all down my droat! Aw, doan’t ’ee, measter!” he cried, in smothered tones.“Tchek!” and this time Valentine was far behind, and Geoffrey had gone back to talk to Margaret. At the next move Geoffrey not only cleared his side up to the horse in the shafts, but by using his great strength to the utmost, went ahead up the wake eight or ten yards, and thus secured himself twice as long with her, while Valentine had to remain “pitching.” To Jabez the shepherd, on the waggon, it was fine sport to watch the rivalry of the “gennelmen.” A labouring man thoroughly enjoys seeing the perspiration pouring from the faces of the well-to-do. He bustled about as fast as he could, and kept the horses moving. By superior muscular force Geoffrey remained ahead. To Valentine it was gall and wormwood.“We be getting on famous, zur,” said Jabez. “Tchek!”Mrs Estcourt had meantime left the field, after beckoning to Augustus, who followed her. While she was present there was some check on their rivalry; but no sooner did they perceive that she was gone than it rose to a still greater height. Valentine, pulling himself together, and taking advantage of a thinner wake than usual, ran ahead, and went back to the rear. Seeing this, Geoffrey hurled the hay up with such force and vigour that he literally covered the shepherd, who could barely struggle out of it.“Lord, I be as dry as a gicks!” said Jabez, when he did get free, and meaning by his simile the stem of a dead hedge-plant.“And here’s bailie wi’ th’ bottle. Bide a bit, my lards.”By this time “my lards” thoroughly understood why haymakers like their ale, and plenty of it. Working under the hot sun, with the dust or dry pollen flying from the hay, causes intense thirst. So the waggon stood still, and Valentine, hot and angry, took the bottle—being the nearest—from Augustus, and essayed to drink. This “bottle” was a miniature cask of oaken staves, with iron hoops, and a leathern strap to carry it by. It held about a gallon. To drink, the method is to put the lips to the bung-hole, situate at the largest part of the circumference, toss the barrel up, and hold the head back. Valentine could not get more than the merest sip, though the bottle was quite full. This, scientifically speaking, was caused by the pressure of the atmosphere. There is the same difficulty in drinking from a flask.“Let th’ aair in—let th’ aair in!” said the shepherd, himself an adept. “Open th’ carner of yer mouth.”But attempting to do that Val let too much “aair” in, and spilt the ale, to his intense disgust.“Put th’ cark in, zur, and chuck un up to I.” Jabez caught the “bottle” as tenderly as a mother would her infant and quitted not his hold till half the contents had disappeared, nor would he have left it then, had not Augustus grumbled and claimed his turn. Mrs Estcourt now returned, attended by a servant carrying a basket of refreshments for which she had gone, not forgetting the more civilised bottles issued by the divine Bass. Throwing down forks and rakes, they assembled in the shade of the tall hawthorn hedge and sat down on the hay. When the delicate flavour of his cigar floated away on the soft summer air, even Valentine’s acerbity of temper relaxed. Opposite, at some distance, stood the waggon now fully loaded; Diamond and Captain eating the hay put for them, and the shepherd lying at full length on the grass. Augustus, the “bottle” by his side, and his hand laid lovingly on it, fell asleep in the shade of the waggon.The wild-roses on the briars that stretched out from the hedge towards the meadow opened their petals full to the warmth. The breeze rustled the leaves of the elm overhead. Rich flute-like notes of music came from the copse hard by—it was the blackbird.“Ah, this is merry England,” said Felix, who loved his cigar, watching the tiny cloud float away from its tip. “The blackbird sings in the scorching sun at noonday, when the other songbirds are silent. You did not know Geof was a writer, did you?” He drew forth a piece of paper, when Newton began to protest, and would have taken it from him by main force, had not the ladies insisted on hearing the contents. So Felix read the verses.Noontide in the Meadow.Idly silent were the finches—Finches fickle, fleeting, blithe;And the mower, man of inches,Ceased to swing the sturdy scythe.All the leafy oaks were slumb’rous;Slumb’rous e’en the honey-bee;And his larger brother, cumbrous,Humming home with golden knee.But the blackbird, king of hedgerows—Hedgerows to my memory dear—By the brook, where rush and sedge grows,Sang his liquid love-notes clear.Margaret, toying with a June rose—the white petal delicately tinted with pink between her soft rosy fingers—dreamily repeated half to herself,—“All the leafy oaks were slumb’rous.”Valentine glanced at her swiftly, and inwardly resolved to remove the impression on her mind. He took out his pocket-book.“My verses,” said he, “are only copied, but they seemed to me a gem in their way. It is a piece of Bacchic meditation from the Vaux de Vire, exquisitely translated by some clever author whose name I have forgotten. You are gazing at our friend Augustus’ bibulous nose,” he nodded towards the recumbent figure with the hand on the bottle, “and see it through your own glass:“Fair nose! whose beauties many pipes have costOf white and rosy wine;Whose colours are so gorgeously embossedIn red and purple fine;Great nose, who views thee, gazing through great glass,Thee still more lovely thinks.Thou dost the nose of creature far surpassWho only water drinks.”It was so appropriate to poor Augustus that they could not choose but smile. Valentine begged Margaret to sing: they all joined in the request, and she sang with a faint blush, looking down—for she knew, though the rest did not, that it was Geoffrey’s favourite—the beautiful old ballad of the “Bailiff’s Daughter of Islington.” With the wild-rose in her hand, the delicate bloom on her cheek, the green hedge behind, the green elm above, and the sweet scent of the hay, she looked the ballad as well as sang it.“Ah,” said Felix, “no sign of study in those old ballads, no premeditation, no word-twisting and jerking; rugged metre so involved that none can understand it without pondering an hour or two. This is the way we criticise poetry now-a-days, in our mechanical age—just listen: somebody has been measuring Tennyson with a foot-rule. I read from a professor’s analysis—‘The line is varied by dactylic or iambic substitution, as well as by truncation and anacrusis;’ ‘the line is varied by anapaestic and trochaic (rarely dactylic) substitutions, and by initial truncation.’ As Faust says, not all these word-twisters have ever made a Maker yet.”Crash!—splintering of wood and breaking of boughs.“Here gwoes! Come on, you! Hoorah! Us ull put it up, missus; doan’t ’ee be afeared! you bin a good missus to we. So into’t, you vellers!”Eight or ten men came crashing through a gap in the hedge, and seizing the prongs and rakes that were lying about with no more explanation than these brief ejaculations, dashed out to work. Heartily tired of rambling idly about, hands in pockets, seeing no prospect of the men on the other farms joining them, they had been hanging round the place in a sheepish way, till, finally observing the ladies working, the sense of shame got the better, and they made a rush for the hay, and gave up the strike. For there is sterling worth and some rude chivalry in these men, though simple enough, and easily led astray; the more the pity that no one has yet taken the lead among them with a view to their own real and solid advancement.“I will go home and send them some refreshment,” said Mrs Estcourt. All the party rose and accompanied her. In the next field they passed the mowers preparing to begin mowing again. Geoffrey and Valentine both tried to mow, but utterly failed; the point of the scythe persistently stuck into the ground.“A’ be a’ akkerd tool for a body as bean’t used to un,” said the eldest of the men, taking out his stone rubber from the sling at his back, preparatory to giving the scythe a touch up after such rough handling; “and um bean’t what um used to be when I wur a bwoy.”“How do you mean?” said Felix.“Aw,” said the mower, tilting his hat back, “th’ blades be as good as ever um wur—thaay folk at Mells be th’ vellers to make scythes. Thur bean’t none as good as thaim. But it be th’ handle, look’ee, as I means. I minds when thaay wur made of dree sarts of wood, a main bit more crooked than this yer stick, and sart o’ carved a bit; doant ’ee see? It took a chap a week zumtimes to find a bit a’ wood as ud do. But, bless ee, a’moast anything does now.”Swish went the keen blade through the tall grass. They watched him a few minutes.“Thur be some blight about,” said the man; “scythe do scum up terrable,” and he showed them the blade all covered with a greenish-white froth, supposed to be caused by insects. “Thur be blight up thur, look.”He pointed to a dark heavy cloud that seemed to float at a great height in the east.“It will thunder,” said May.“Aw, no it wunt, miss,” said the mower. “A’ reckon as it’ll be nation hot; thuck cloud be nothing but blight. Spile the fruit, bless’ee.”“So even the scythe handles used to be artistic,” said Felix, as they walked away. “There used to be art and taste and workmanship even in so common a thing. It was made of three distinct pieces of wood, carefully finished off; men took days to find a piece. Now it is nothing but a stick smoothed by machinery. Ihatemachinery. I like to see the artist in his work; to see the mark of the knife where the chip has been taken out. But the spirit of art flies when things are sent forth by machinery—hundreds exactly alike.”To May it was a great pleasure to hear him dilate in this way. Near the house they met Augustus, radiant with smiles, and perfectly loaded with the wooden bottles for the men.“I knows I’m a fool,” said he; “at least I ought to, since I’m told so forty times a day. But a fool must be sometimes right. ’Pend upon it, there’s nothing like ale!”At Greene Ferne, May found a letter for her which spoilt the day. It was from her grandfather, Andrew Fisher, of the Warren, written in great anger, and commanding her immediate return home, and to mind and bring that rug with her that had been at Greene Ferne ever since Christmas. The old grasping miser, in his rage, remembered such a trifle as a travelling-rug. Fisher had sent a verbal message for his granddaughter before, which she had ventured to put off; now he wrote in a furious temper, and added at the foot that if that parson ever came a-nigh the Warren again he’d have him ducked in the mill-pool. So bitter had the mere thought made him that Felix wanted his money. There was nothing for it but for May to return, and she asked for her horse to be saddled. Felix could hardly suppress his annoyance. May was much downcast, but Margaret cheered her.“I will go with you,” she said. “He was always nice to me. He is a regular old flatterer,”—(she peeped in the glass)—“only think, flattering at ninety! But a man must flatter, if he’s a hundred! I shall get over him! I’ll ride my chestnut, and I can stay with you, dear, can’t I? and come back next evening.”So they left together. Geoffrey, in shaking hands with Margaret, tried to whisper, “May I come and meet you to-morrow evening?” but could not well manage it, Valentine being near.“Be sure and return by the road, dear,” said Mrs Estcourt—“the Downs are very lonely if you come by yourself, and you may lose your way.”“Oh, no,” laughed Margaret. “I love the hills, and I know them all. I must come over the turf, mamma dear.”Now, Geoffrey heard this, and mentally noted it. He had his horse at Thorpe Hall, and he determined to ride and meet Margaret on the morrow.

“Gee, Diamond! Now, Captain!” cried Margaret, imitating the gruff voice of the carter. Crack! The long-knotted lash of the waggon-whip, bound about the handle with brazen rings, whistled in the air and curled up with a vicious snap. She was in one of her wild impulsive moods. Away trotted the two huge carthorses, the harness merrily jingling and the waggon jolting. Jabez the shepherd could hardly keep pace with it, running beside the leader, Diamond. Margaret and May were riding. Crack! Crack!

“Aw, doan’t ’ee now—doan’t ’ee, miss!” panted the shepherd. “Us ull go right drough th’ winder! Whoa!”

For they were steering straight for the great window at Greene Ferne that opened on the lawn. It was wide open that beautiful midsummer morning.

“What are those children doing?” said Mrs Estcourt, in some alarm. “Why, they have harnessed the horses!”

Valentine, Geoffrey, and Felix, who were there, crowded to the window.

“Whoa, Diamond! Captain, whoa!” cried Margaret, bringing up her convoy on the lawn in fine style. “Now, mamma dear, jump up! We’re all going haymaking, as the men won’t.”

“She has solved the problem,” said Valentine. “Here’s one volunteer!” And he sprang up.

That very morning they had been holding a council to see if anything could be suggested to put an end to the strike. It had now lasted nearly a fortnight Felix in vain argued with the men; they listened respectfully, and even admitted that he was right; but all they would say was that “they meaned to have th’ crownd.”

Slow to take action, there is no one so stubborn, when once he has resolved, as the agricultural labourer. They had timed the strike with some cunning. They had let the mowers cut some sixty acres of grass, and then suddenly stopped work. They knew very well that if cut grass is allowed to remain exposed to the sun longer than just sufficient to make it into hay, it dries up so much as to be of little value. Now the burning brilliant summer sunshine had been pouring down upon the withered grass for days and days, expelling every particle of the succulent sap, and turning it to a brittle straw. The shepherd, Jabez, remained at his work, and he and Augustus Basset, the “bailie,” did a little, throwing up a mead or two into “wakes” for carting; but their exertions were of small avail. While they talked and deliberated, Margaret, beckoning May, slipped out and went down to the stables. Diamond and Captain were led out into the sunshine, and stood like statuary, waiting to be bidden. For the beauty of simple strength nothing equals a fine cart-horse: the vast frame, the ponderous limb, the massive neck, speak of power in repose. Their large dark lustrous eyes followed the girls with calm astonishment; but, docile and gentle, they gave implicit obedience to orders. The heavy harness, brass-mounted, was as much as ever the two girls could manage to lift; and when it came to hoisting up the shafts of the waggon they were at a loss. But Jabez, hearing a noise at the stables, came up; and after him slouched Augustus, muttering to himself, as usual. So just when the council indoors was beginning to wonder what had become of Margaret and May, crack, crack, and the jingling of harness put an end to their deliberations.

Geoffrey quickly followed Valentine; Felix, more thoughtful, brought a chair for Mrs Estcourt, who, half laughing, half protesting, against Margaret’s wilful fancy, got up. Augustus sat on the shafts, Jabez stood by the leader, and, seeing them all in, started for the field.

“If you were to bring out a thirty-six-gallon cask,” said Augustus, whose red nose peered over the front part of the waggon, “and set it up on a haycock, I’ll warn them chaps would come back fast enough.” This was one word for the haymakers and two for himself.

“I’m sure I don’t grudge them some ale,” said Mrs Estcourt. “But they are really very unreasonable. One of the servants took a mower a quart of beer. He said he did not like it, and didn’t want so much, and poured it out on the grass. Next day only a pint was sent to him: ‘Why y’ent you brought me a quart?’ said he. ‘Because you flung it away,’ was the reply. ‘Aw, that don’t matter. You bring I a quart. I’ll have my mishure,’ (measure); nor should I mind paying the extra five shillings; but you see, Felix, if I pay it, all the farmers round—for they have only struck work on my place, thinking, no doubt, that, being a woman, I must give way—will be obliged to do so, and some of them are not able. Many have called and begged me not; and Mr Thorpe says the same. Yet I don’t like it. We have always been on good terms with the men.”

“O yes, you pets ’em up,” said Augustus, “just like so many children; and, of course, they ain’t going to work for you.”

“The struggle of capital and labour,” began Felix learnedly, when a sudden jolt of the springless waggon threw him off his balance, and he had to cling to the sides.

“O, mind the gatepost!” cried Mrs Estcourt, in some alarm.

While they were near the house Jabez went slow; but the moment he reached the open field away he started, and what with the jingling of the harness, the creaking of the wheels, and the necessity for holding on tight, conversation became impossible. The waggon rose up and sloped down over the furrows of the meadow as a boat pitches in a sea.

“Woaght! whoa!” shouted Jabez, drawing up among the hay. “This be it; the prongs be in the ditch.”

When they had descended, he went to the hawthorn bush, pulled out some prongs, and then scrambled up into the waggon himself. “Now then, you lards and gennelmen, one on ’ee get each side, and pitch up thaay wakes (ridges of hay put ready for the purpose of loading), and mind as you doan’t stick your farks into I. The wimmen—I means the ladies—wull rake behind, and paason can help um—th’ rakes be hung on th’ hedge. Now, bailie, look arter them ’osses.”

Though hay looks light and easy to lift, yet when the fork has gathered a goodly bundle, to hoist it high overhead, and continue the operation, is really heavy labour. Valentine was physically a smaller made man than Geoffrey, whose broad shoulders had also been developed both by athletic exercise at home and by work in Australia—work done from choice, not necessity. But though smaller, Valentine was extremely tough, wiry, and nimble, as is often the case with gentlemen who “fancy” horses. Quick in his movements, he caught the knack of “pitching” almost immediately. He hastily flung up his “wake” as far as the horse in the shafts, and then walked to the rear of the waggon where Margaret was raking, leaving Geoffrey still engaged.

Margaret and May were looking at a nest of harvest-trows, as the tiny mice are called that breed in the grass. Valentine began to talk about his horses, knowing Margaret was fond of animals, and said that a “string” of his would pass Greene Ferne in the eveningen routeto his stables. Now Geoffrey, glancing back, saw the group apparently in earnest conversation from which he was excluded; and noting Margaret’s attention to Valentine, grew jealous and angry. Just as he finished “pitching,” and was about to join them—

“Tchek!” from Augustus, and on the horses moved, and he had to recommence work. Valentine ran with his prong, and again, by dint of great exertions, finished his side first, and returned to Margaret.

“Tchek! woaght!”

The third time Valentine essayed the same task, delighted to leave Geoffrey in the cold, and to exhibit his superior prowess. But Geoffrey by now had learned how to handle his fork. His muscles were strung, his blood was up, he warmed to his work, and pitched vast bundles that all but buried and half choked Jabez, who was loading on the waggon.

“The dust be all down my droat! Aw, doan’t ’ee, measter!” he cried, in smothered tones.

“Tchek!” and this time Valentine was far behind, and Geoffrey had gone back to talk to Margaret. At the next move Geoffrey not only cleared his side up to the horse in the shafts, but by using his great strength to the utmost, went ahead up the wake eight or ten yards, and thus secured himself twice as long with her, while Valentine had to remain “pitching.” To Jabez the shepherd, on the waggon, it was fine sport to watch the rivalry of the “gennelmen.” A labouring man thoroughly enjoys seeing the perspiration pouring from the faces of the well-to-do. He bustled about as fast as he could, and kept the horses moving. By superior muscular force Geoffrey remained ahead. To Valentine it was gall and wormwood.

“We be getting on famous, zur,” said Jabez. “Tchek!”

Mrs Estcourt had meantime left the field, after beckoning to Augustus, who followed her. While she was present there was some check on their rivalry; but no sooner did they perceive that she was gone than it rose to a still greater height. Valentine, pulling himself together, and taking advantage of a thinner wake than usual, ran ahead, and went back to the rear. Seeing this, Geoffrey hurled the hay up with such force and vigour that he literally covered the shepherd, who could barely struggle out of it.

“Lord, I be as dry as a gicks!” said Jabez, when he did get free, and meaning by his simile the stem of a dead hedge-plant.

“And here’s bailie wi’ th’ bottle. Bide a bit, my lards.”

By this time “my lards” thoroughly understood why haymakers like their ale, and plenty of it. Working under the hot sun, with the dust or dry pollen flying from the hay, causes intense thirst. So the waggon stood still, and Valentine, hot and angry, took the bottle—being the nearest—from Augustus, and essayed to drink. This “bottle” was a miniature cask of oaken staves, with iron hoops, and a leathern strap to carry it by. It held about a gallon. To drink, the method is to put the lips to the bung-hole, situate at the largest part of the circumference, toss the barrel up, and hold the head back. Valentine could not get more than the merest sip, though the bottle was quite full. This, scientifically speaking, was caused by the pressure of the atmosphere. There is the same difficulty in drinking from a flask.

“Let th’ aair in—let th’ aair in!” said the shepherd, himself an adept. “Open th’ carner of yer mouth.”

But attempting to do that Val let too much “aair” in, and spilt the ale, to his intense disgust.

“Put th’ cark in, zur, and chuck un up to I.” Jabez caught the “bottle” as tenderly as a mother would her infant and quitted not his hold till half the contents had disappeared, nor would he have left it then, had not Augustus grumbled and claimed his turn. Mrs Estcourt now returned, attended by a servant carrying a basket of refreshments for which she had gone, not forgetting the more civilised bottles issued by the divine Bass. Throwing down forks and rakes, they assembled in the shade of the tall hawthorn hedge and sat down on the hay. When the delicate flavour of his cigar floated away on the soft summer air, even Valentine’s acerbity of temper relaxed. Opposite, at some distance, stood the waggon now fully loaded; Diamond and Captain eating the hay put for them, and the shepherd lying at full length on the grass. Augustus, the “bottle” by his side, and his hand laid lovingly on it, fell asleep in the shade of the waggon.

The wild-roses on the briars that stretched out from the hedge towards the meadow opened their petals full to the warmth. The breeze rustled the leaves of the elm overhead. Rich flute-like notes of music came from the copse hard by—it was the blackbird.

“Ah, this is merry England,” said Felix, who loved his cigar, watching the tiny cloud float away from its tip. “The blackbird sings in the scorching sun at noonday, when the other songbirds are silent. You did not know Geof was a writer, did you?” He drew forth a piece of paper, when Newton began to protest, and would have taken it from him by main force, had not the ladies insisted on hearing the contents. So Felix read the verses.

Noontide in the Meadow.Idly silent were the finches—Finches fickle, fleeting, blithe;And the mower, man of inches,Ceased to swing the sturdy scythe.All the leafy oaks were slumb’rous;Slumb’rous e’en the honey-bee;And his larger brother, cumbrous,Humming home with golden knee.But the blackbird, king of hedgerows—Hedgerows to my memory dear—By the brook, where rush and sedge grows,Sang his liquid love-notes clear.

Margaret, toying with a June rose—the white petal delicately tinted with pink between her soft rosy fingers—dreamily repeated half to herself,—

“All the leafy oaks were slumb’rous.”

Valentine glanced at her swiftly, and inwardly resolved to remove the impression on her mind. He took out his pocket-book.

“My verses,” said he, “are only copied, but they seemed to me a gem in their way. It is a piece of Bacchic meditation from the Vaux de Vire, exquisitely translated by some clever author whose name I have forgotten. You are gazing at our friend Augustus’ bibulous nose,” he nodded towards the recumbent figure with the hand on the bottle, “and see it through your own glass:

“Fair nose! whose beauties many pipes have costOf white and rosy wine;Whose colours are so gorgeously embossedIn red and purple fine;Great nose, who views thee, gazing through great glass,Thee still more lovely thinks.Thou dost the nose of creature far surpassWho only water drinks.”

It was so appropriate to poor Augustus that they could not choose but smile. Valentine begged Margaret to sing: they all joined in the request, and she sang with a faint blush, looking down—for she knew, though the rest did not, that it was Geoffrey’s favourite—the beautiful old ballad of the “Bailiff’s Daughter of Islington.” With the wild-rose in her hand, the delicate bloom on her cheek, the green hedge behind, the green elm above, and the sweet scent of the hay, she looked the ballad as well as sang it.

“Ah,” said Felix, “no sign of study in those old ballads, no premeditation, no word-twisting and jerking; rugged metre so involved that none can understand it without pondering an hour or two. This is the way we criticise poetry now-a-days, in our mechanical age—just listen: somebody has been measuring Tennyson with a foot-rule. I read from a professor’s analysis—‘The line is varied by dactylic or iambic substitution, as well as by truncation and anacrusis;’ ‘the line is varied by anapaestic and trochaic (rarely dactylic) substitutions, and by initial truncation.’ As Faust says, not all these word-twisters have ever made a Maker yet.”

Crash!—splintering of wood and breaking of boughs.

“Here gwoes! Come on, you! Hoorah! Us ull put it up, missus; doan’t ’ee be afeared! you bin a good missus to we. So into’t, you vellers!”

Eight or ten men came crashing through a gap in the hedge, and seizing the prongs and rakes that were lying about with no more explanation than these brief ejaculations, dashed out to work. Heartily tired of rambling idly about, hands in pockets, seeing no prospect of the men on the other farms joining them, they had been hanging round the place in a sheepish way, till, finally observing the ladies working, the sense of shame got the better, and they made a rush for the hay, and gave up the strike. For there is sterling worth and some rude chivalry in these men, though simple enough, and easily led astray; the more the pity that no one has yet taken the lead among them with a view to their own real and solid advancement.

“I will go home and send them some refreshment,” said Mrs Estcourt. All the party rose and accompanied her. In the next field they passed the mowers preparing to begin mowing again. Geoffrey and Valentine both tried to mow, but utterly failed; the point of the scythe persistently stuck into the ground.

“A’ be a’ akkerd tool for a body as bean’t used to un,” said the eldest of the men, taking out his stone rubber from the sling at his back, preparatory to giving the scythe a touch up after such rough handling; “and um bean’t what um used to be when I wur a bwoy.”

“How do you mean?” said Felix.

“Aw,” said the mower, tilting his hat back, “th’ blades be as good as ever um wur—thaay folk at Mells be th’ vellers to make scythes. Thur bean’t none as good as thaim. But it be th’ handle, look’ee, as I means. I minds when thaay wur made of dree sarts of wood, a main bit more crooked than this yer stick, and sart o’ carved a bit; doant ’ee see? It took a chap a week zumtimes to find a bit a’ wood as ud do. But, bless ee, a’moast anything does now.”

Swish went the keen blade through the tall grass. They watched him a few minutes.

“Thur be some blight about,” said the man; “scythe do scum up terrable,” and he showed them the blade all covered with a greenish-white froth, supposed to be caused by insects. “Thur be blight up thur, look.”

He pointed to a dark heavy cloud that seemed to float at a great height in the east.

“It will thunder,” said May.

“Aw, no it wunt, miss,” said the mower. “A’ reckon as it’ll be nation hot; thuck cloud be nothing but blight. Spile the fruit, bless’ee.”

“So even the scythe handles used to be artistic,” said Felix, as they walked away. “There used to be art and taste and workmanship even in so common a thing. It was made of three distinct pieces of wood, carefully finished off; men took days to find a piece. Now it is nothing but a stick smoothed by machinery. Ihatemachinery. I like to see the artist in his work; to see the mark of the knife where the chip has been taken out. But the spirit of art flies when things are sent forth by machinery—hundreds exactly alike.”

To May it was a great pleasure to hear him dilate in this way. Near the house they met Augustus, radiant with smiles, and perfectly loaded with the wooden bottles for the men.

“I knows I’m a fool,” said he; “at least I ought to, since I’m told so forty times a day. But a fool must be sometimes right. ’Pend upon it, there’s nothing like ale!”

At Greene Ferne, May found a letter for her which spoilt the day. It was from her grandfather, Andrew Fisher, of the Warren, written in great anger, and commanding her immediate return home, and to mind and bring that rug with her that had been at Greene Ferne ever since Christmas. The old grasping miser, in his rage, remembered such a trifle as a travelling-rug. Fisher had sent a verbal message for his granddaughter before, which she had ventured to put off; now he wrote in a furious temper, and added at the foot that if that parson ever came a-nigh the Warren again he’d have him ducked in the mill-pool. So bitter had the mere thought made him that Felix wanted his money. There was nothing for it but for May to return, and she asked for her horse to be saddled. Felix could hardly suppress his annoyance. May was much downcast, but Margaret cheered her.

“I will go with you,” she said. “He was always nice to me. He is a regular old flatterer,”—(she peeped in the glass)—“only think, flattering at ninety! But a man must flatter, if he’s a hundred! I shall get over him! I’ll ride my chestnut, and I can stay with you, dear, can’t I? and come back next evening.”

So they left together. Geoffrey, in shaking hands with Margaret, tried to whisper, “May I come and meet you to-morrow evening?” but could not well manage it, Valentine being near.

“Be sure and return by the road, dear,” said Mrs Estcourt—“the Downs are very lonely if you come by yourself, and you may lose your way.”

“Oh, no,” laughed Margaret. “I love the hills, and I know them all. I must come over the turf, mamma dear.”

Now, Geoffrey heard this, and mentally noted it. He had his horse at Thorpe Hall, and he determined to ride and meet Margaret on the morrow.

Chapter Five.Evening.“Aw, aim for th’ Tump, measter; aim for th’ Tump,” said the carter, slanting his whip to indicate the direction. “When you gets thur, look’ee, go for th’ Cas’l; and when you gets thur, go athwert the Vuzz toward th’ Virs; and when you gets drough thaay, thur be Akkern Chace, and a lane as goes down to Warren. Tchek! Woaght!”At the foot of the Downs, along whose base the highway road wound, Geoffrey had paused to take counsel of a carter, who had just descended with a load of flints, before venturing across the all-but-trackless hills. The man very civilly stopped his waggon and named the various landmarks by which he would have guided his own course to Andrew Fisher’s. Geoffrey had started early in the evening, intending to go all the way to Warren House, for he carried with him the rug (strapped to the saddle) which Margaret and May had forgotten, and for which the rude old man had written. This rug, which Mrs Estcourt gave him, was in fact his passport, for he scarcely knew how Margaret would take his coming to fetch her in that rather abrupt way. Guessing what the man meant more by the slant of his whip than his words, he turned off the road on to the sward, and ascended the hill.A long narrow shadow of man and horse, disproportionately stretched out, raced before him along the slope. The hoofs of the grey hardly cut the firm turf, dry with summer heat; the vivid green of spring had already gone, and a faint brown was just visible somewhere in the grass. Dark boulder stones—sarsens—bald and smooth, thrust their shoulders out of the sward here and there; hollowed out into curious cuplike cavities, in which, after a shower, the collected raindrops remained imprisoned in tiny bowls hard as the fabled adamant of mediaeval story. Round white bosses—white as milk, and globular like cannon-shot—dotted the turf, fungi not yet ripened into the dust of the puff-ball. Now and again the iron shoes dashed an edible mushroom to pieces, turning the pink gills upwards to shrivel and blacken in the morrow’s sun. The bees rose with a shrill buzz from the white clover, which is the shepherd’s sign of midsummer. Swiftly the grey sped along the slopes, the shadow racing before grew longer and fainter as the beams of the sun came nearly horizontally. Already the ridges cast a shadow into the hollows—into the narrow coombes, where great flints and chalk fragments had rolled down and strewed the ground as with the wreck of a titanic skirmish. Thickets of green furze tipped with yellow bloom, and beneath, peeping out, the pale purple heath-flower. On the stunted hawthorn bushes standing alone, stern sentinels in summer’s heat and winter’s storm, green peggles hardening, which autumn would redden and ripen for the thrush. Odorous thyme and yellow-bird’s-foot lotus embroidering the grassy carpet; wide breadths of tussocky grass, tall and tough, which the sheep had left untouched, and where the hare crouched in her form, hearkening to the thud of the hoofs.On past the steep wall of an ancient chalk-quarry, spotted with red streaks and stains as of rusty iron, where the plough-boys search for pyrites, and call them thunderbolts and “gold,” for when broken the radial metallic fibres glisten yellow. Past a field of oats, rising hardly a foot high in the barren soil—in the corner an upturned plough with rusty share and wooden handles painted red. Down below in the plains between the hills squares of drooping barley and bold upstanding wheat, whose tender green the sun had invaded with advancing hues of gold. Over all the brooding silence of the summer eve, one brown lark alone singing in the air above the plain, far away from the distant ridge the faint tinkle of a sheep-bell. Now the sun was down the lower eastern atmosphere thickened with a dull red; the shepherds discerned the face of the sky, and said to-morrow would be fine.Up the steep side of the “Tump” at last, slackening speed perforce, and checking the grey on the summit. It was a great round hill, detached, and somewhat like a huge bowl inverted, with a small circular level space, on what at a distance seemed an almost pointed apex, a space bare of aught but close-cropped herbage. Westwards was the dim vale, a faint mist blotting out steeple and tower—a mist blending with the sky at the horizon, and there all aglow. Eastwards, ridge upon ridge, hill after hill, with spurs running out into the narrow plains between, and deep coombes. He gazed earnestly over these, looking for signs and landmarks, but found none. The rough trail was lost—the hoof marks cut in the winter when the earth was soft were filled up by the swelling turf, and covered over with thyme. Those who laboured by day in the plains, weeding the fields, were gone down to their homes in the hamlets hidden in the valleys. At a venture he struck direct for the east, anxious to lose no time; for he began to fear he should miss Margaret, and soon afterwards luckily crossed the path of a shepherd-lad, whistling as he and his shaggy dog wended for “whoam.”“Which is the way to Mr Fisher’s?” asked Geoffrey.“Thaay be goin’ into th’ Mash to-morrow,” answered the boy, whose thoughts were differently engaged.“Tell me the way to Mr Fisher’s—the Warren.”“We be got shart o’ keep; wants zum rain, doan’t ’ee zee?”“Can’t you answer a question?”“Thur’s a main sight o’ tackle in the Mash vor um.”He was so used to being stopped and asked about his sheep that he took it for granted Geoffrey was putting the same accustomed interrogatories. Every farmer cross-examines his neighbour’s shepherd when he meets him. The “Mash” was doubtless a meadow reclaimed from a marsh. “Land be terrable dry, zur.”“Will you listen to me?” angrily. “Where’s the Warren?”“Aw, mebbe you means ould Fisher’s?”“I mean Mr Fisher’s.”“A’ be auver thur,” pointing north-east.“How far?”“Aw, it be a akkerd road,” doubtfully, as he looked Geoffrey up and down, and it dawned on him slowly that it was a stranger.“I’ll give you a quart if you will show me.”“Wull ee? Come on.” The beer went at once right to the nervous centre and awoke all his faculties. He led Geoffrey across the plain and up a swelling shoulder of down, on whose ridge was a broad deep fosse and green rampart.“This be th’ Cas’l,” said the guide, meaning entrenchments—earthworks are called “castles.” In one spot the fosse was partly filled up, and an opening cut in the rampart, by which he rode through and found the “castle,” a vast earthwork of unknown antiquity.“Mind thaay vlint-pits,” said the boy.The flint-diggers had been at work here long ago—deep gullies and holes encumbered the way, half-hidden with thistles and furze. The place was honeycombed; it reminded Geoffrey of the Australian gold-diggings. He threaded his way slowly between these, and presently emerged on the slope beyond the “castle.”“Now which way is it?” he asked, glancing doubtfully at the hills still rolling away in unbroken succession.“Yellucks,” said the boy, meaning “Look here,” and he pointed at a dark object on a distant ridge, which Geoffrey made out to be a copse. “Thur’s Moonlight Virs.”“Well, and when I get to Moonlight Firs, which way then?”“Thee foller th’ ruts—thaay’ll take ee to Akkern Chace.”“The ruts?”“Eez, th’ waggon ruts; thaay goes drough Akkern Chace down to Warren. Be you afeared?” seeing Geoffrey hesitated. “Thaay’ll lead ee drough th’ wood; it be main dark under th’ pollard oaks:Akkern ChaceBe a unkid place,When th’ moon do show hur face.“Wur be my quart?”Geoffrey gave him sixpence; he touched his forelock, called his dog, and whistled down the hill. Geoffrey pushed on as rapidly as his horse, now a little weary, would go for the firs. In half an hour he reached it, and found a waggon track which, as the boy had said, after a while led him into a wood—scattered pollard oaks, hawthorn bushes, and fir plantations. Now two fresh difficulties arose: the grey first limped and then went lame; and the question began to arise, Would Margaret after all come this way? In the gathering twilight, might she not take the circuitous, but safer, highway? She might even have already passed. By this time he was well into the wood—it consisted of firs there. The grey went so lame he resolved to go no farther, but to wait. He dismounted, threw himself at length upon the grass beside the green track, and the grey immediately applied himself to grazing with steady contentment.The tall green trees shut out all but a narrow lane of sky, azure, but darkening; not the faintest breath of moving air relieved the sultry brooding heat of the summer twilight. From the firs came a fragrance, filling the atmosphere with a sweet resinous odour. The sap exuding through the bark formed in white viscous drops upon the trunks. Indolently reclining, half drowsy in the heat, he could see deep into the wood, along on the level ground between the stems, for the fallen “needles” checked vegetation. A squirrel gambolled hither and thither in this hollow space; with darting rapid movements it came towards him, and then suddenly shot up a fir and was instantly out of sight among the thick foliage. In the stillness he could hear the tearing of the fibres of grass as the grey fed near. A hare came stealing up the track, with the peculiar shuffling, cunning gait they have when rambling as they deem unwatched. Limping slowly, “Wat” stayed to choose tit-bits among the grass—so near that when an insect tickled him and he shook his head Geoffrey heard the tips of his ears flap together. Daintily he pushed his nose among the tussocks, then craned his neck and looked into the thickets. Where the track turned at the bend the shadows crept out, toning down the twilight with mystic uncertainty.Suddenly the hare rose, elevated his ears—Geoffrey could see the nostrils working—and then, with one thrust as it were of his lean flanks, flung himself into the wood. The grey ceased feeding, raised his head, and listened. In a few moments came the slow thud of hoofs walking. From behind the bushes Geoffrey watched the bend of the track. Then the sweet voice he knew so well floated towards him. Margaret was singing, little thinking any one was near:“And as she went along the high-road,The weather being hot and dry,She sat her down upon a green bank,And her true love came riding by.”Her chestnut whinnied, seeing the other horse on turning the corner.“Margaret!”“Sir!” blushing, and resentful that he should have surprised her. She had been thinking of him. She felt as though he had caught her and discovered her secret. She instantly took refuge in hauteur.“I came to meet you.”“Thank you,” extremely coldly; she was passing on.“You do not mind?” he took hold of her bridle.“Mr Newton!” angrily. Her countenance became suffused with a burning red. He felt he had blundered.“At least you will let me ride back with you,” he said humbly, dropping the bridle.She immediately struck the chestnut—the mare sprang forward and cantered down the lane. Quite beside himself, half with annoyance with her, half with himself, he ran to the grey, mounted, and tried to follow. But the horse was lame. He did his best, limped, stumbled, recovered himself, and shambled after painfully. When Geoffrey reached the edge of the wood, Margaret, a long distance ahead, was riding out upon the Downs—horse and horsewoman a dark figure, indistinct in the gloaming. Fearful of losing her, he called on the grey; but she glided away from him swiftly over the darkening plain and up the opposite hill. For a moment he saw her clear against the sky-line, then she was over the ridge and gone.He thrashed the grey, and forced him rather than rode him up the hill, but there the long-suffering animal stayed his wretched shamble and walked. Wild with anger, Geoffrey dismounted, ran to the edge of the hill, and looked for Margaret.Deep in the wide hollow lay a white mist, covering all things with its cloak. Beyond was a black mass, with undulating ridge against the sky. “The chestnutmustwalk up that,” he thought; and, without a moment’s pause, dropped his whip, and raced down the slope headlong. What he should say or do if he overtook her he did not stay to think; but overtake her he would. His long stride carried him quickly to the bottom. He imagined he should find a thick fog there as it had looked from above; but now that he was in it there was nothing more than an impalpable mist, through which he could see for some distance. But upwards the mist thickened, and the hill above was hidden now.He listened—not a sound; then rushed across the level, and threw himself against the next ascent. Panting, he reached the summit; it was but a narrow ridge, and over it another coombe. Instead of a sea of mist here, one long streak, like a cloud, hung midway. No horse visible. Again he dashed forward, and passed through the stratum of mist-cloud as he went down, and the second time as he climbed the opposite rise—more slowly, for these Downs pull hard against the strongest chest. Then there was a gradually rising plateau—dusky, dotted with ghostly hawthorn bushes, but nothing moving that his straining eyes could discern.But as he stood, and his labouring heart beat loudly, there came the faint sound of iron-shod hoofs that clicked upon stray flints, far away to the right. Like an arrow he rushed there—unthinking, and therefore baffled. For instead of crossing the steep ridges, she had ridden round on the slope; and he, running on the chord of the arc, had not only caught her up, but got some distance in front. If he had remained where he was, she would have passed close by him. But running thus to the right in his wild haste, he lost great part of his advantage. Suddenly he stopped short, and saw in the dim light a shadowy figure stretching swiftly into the mist.“Margaret!” he called, involuntarily. The earth-cloud of mist closed round her, and the shadowy figure faded away. On he went again, stumbling in the ruts left by wheels in winter, nearly thrown by the tough heath, and the crooked furze stems holding his foot, and fast losing his wind. He struggled up the slope, and finally, perforce, came to a striding walk. Suddenly he stopped—a low neigh floated in the stillness up from a vale on his left. Her path turned there, then; he would cut across the angle. But, taught by experience, he paused at the edge of the descent, and listened before going down. In a minute or two another faint clicking of flints sounded behind him. “By Jove, I begin to think—aha!” The flints clicked in the stillness away on his right. Then after a brief while a dark indistinct object crossed in front of him. “All round me,” said Geoffrey, aloud. “I understand.” He bounded forward, refreshed by his short pause. In three minutes the dark object resolved itself into the chestnut, standing still now on the verge of a gloomy hollow.Then, close upon his quarry, the hunter slackened speed. It was his turn now; he strolled slowly, halted, even turned his back upon her, and looked up at the sky. The stars were shining; till that moment he had not realised that it was night. By-and-by he went nearer.“Geoffrey!” she called, faintly. No reply.“Geoffrey!”—louder—“is that you?”“Yes, dear.” The first time he had used the word to her.“Do come to me!” in a tone of distress. He ran eagerly to her side.“It is dark,” she said, in a low voice, “and—and I have lost the way.”“I thought you had; you rode all round me.”“Did I? O, then I am lost, indeed; that is what people always do when they are lost on the hills—they go round and round in a circle. Where is your horse?”“I left him lame, a long way behind.”“How unfortunate! And ‘Kitty’”—stroking the mare’s neck—“is weary too. But perhaps you know the way—try and look.”He did look round to please her, but with little hope. It was not indeed dark—unless there are clouds, the nights of summer are not dark—but the dimness that results from uncertain definition was equally bewildering. The vales were full of white mist; the plains visible near at hand grew vague as the eye tried to trace a way across. The hills, just where the ridges rose high, could be seen against the sky, but the ranges mingled and the dark slopes faded far away into the mist. Each looked alike—there was no commanding feature to fix the vision; hills after hills, grey shadowy plains, dusky coombes and valleys, dimly seen at hand and shapeless in the distance. Then he stooped and searched in vain for continuous ruts or hoof marks or any sign of track. She watched him earnestly.“It is difficult to make out,” he said. “You know I am a stranger to these Downs.”“Yes, yes; what shall we do? I shall not reach Greene Ferne to-night.”“I will try very hard,” he said, venturing to take her hand. But in his heart he was doubtful.

“Aw, aim for th’ Tump, measter; aim for th’ Tump,” said the carter, slanting his whip to indicate the direction. “When you gets thur, look’ee, go for th’ Cas’l; and when you gets thur, go athwert the Vuzz toward th’ Virs; and when you gets drough thaay, thur be Akkern Chace, and a lane as goes down to Warren. Tchek! Woaght!”

At the foot of the Downs, along whose base the highway road wound, Geoffrey had paused to take counsel of a carter, who had just descended with a load of flints, before venturing across the all-but-trackless hills. The man very civilly stopped his waggon and named the various landmarks by which he would have guided his own course to Andrew Fisher’s. Geoffrey had started early in the evening, intending to go all the way to Warren House, for he carried with him the rug (strapped to the saddle) which Margaret and May had forgotten, and for which the rude old man had written. This rug, which Mrs Estcourt gave him, was in fact his passport, for he scarcely knew how Margaret would take his coming to fetch her in that rather abrupt way. Guessing what the man meant more by the slant of his whip than his words, he turned off the road on to the sward, and ascended the hill.

A long narrow shadow of man and horse, disproportionately stretched out, raced before him along the slope. The hoofs of the grey hardly cut the firm turf, dry with summer heat; the vivid green of spring had already gone, and a faint brown was just visible somewhere in the grass. Dark boulder stones—sarsens—bald and smooth, thrust their shoulders out of the sward here and there; hollowed out into curious cuplike cavities, in which, after a shower, the collected raindrops remained imprisoned in tiny bowls hard as the fabled adamant of mediaeval story. Round white bosses—white as milk, and globular like cannon-shot—dotted the turf, fungi not yet ripened into the dust of the puff-ball. Now and again the iron shoes dashed an edible mushroom to pieces, turning the pink gills upwards to shrivel and blacken in the morrow’s sun. The bees rose with a shrill buzz from the white clover, which is the shepherd’s sign of midsummer. Swiftly the grey sped along the slopes, the shadow racing before grew longer and fainter as the beams of the sun came nearly horizontally. Already the ridges cast a shadow into the hollows—into the narrow coombes, where great flints and chalk fragments had rolled down and strewed the ground as with the wreck of a titanic skirmish. Thickets of green furze tipped with yellow bloom, and beneath, peeping out, the pale purple heath-flower. On the stunted hawthorn bushes standing alone, stern sentinels in summer’s heat and winter’s storm, green peggles hardening, which autumn would redden and ripen for the thrush. Odorous thyme and yellow-bird’s-foot lotus embroidering the grassy carpet; wide breadths of tussocky grass, tall and tough, which the sheep had left untouched, and where the hare crouched in her form, hearkening to the thud of the hoofs.

On past the steep wall of an ancient chalk-quarry, spotted with red streaks and stains as of rusty iron, where the plough-boys search for pyrites, and call them thunderbolts and “gold,” for when broken the radial metallic fibres glisten yellow. Past a field of oats, rising hardly a foot high in the barren soil—in the corner an upturned plough with rusty share and wooden handles painted red. Down below in the plains between the hills squares of drooping barley and bold upstanding wheat, whose tender green the sun had invaded with advancing hues of gold. Over all the brooding silence of the summer eve, one brown lark alone singing in the air above the plain, far away from the distant ridge the faint tinkle of a sheep-bell. Now the sun was down the lower eastern atmosphere thickened with a dull red; the shepherds discerned the face of the sky, and said to-morrow would be fine.

Up the steep side of the “Tump” at last, slackening speed perforce, and checking the grey on the summit. It was a great round hill, detached, and somewhat like a huge bowl inverted, with a small circular level space, on what at a distance seemed an almost pointed apex, a space bare of aught but close-cropped herbage. Westwards was the dim vale, a faint mist blotting out steeple and tower—a mist blending with the sky at the horizon, and there all aglow. Eastwards, ridge upon ridge, hill after hill, with spurs running out into the narrow plains between, and deep coombes. He gazed earnestly over these, looking for signs and landmarks, but found none. The rough trail was lost—the hoof marks cut in the winter when the earth was soft were filled up by the swelling turf, and covered over with thyme. Those who laboured by day in the plains, weeding the fields, were gone down to their homes in the hamlets hidden in the valleys. At a venture he struck direct for the east, anxious to lose no time; for he began to fear he should miss Margaret, and soon afterwards luckily crossed the path of a shepherd-lad, whistling as he and his shaggy dog wended for “whoam.”

“Which is the way to Mr Fisher’s?” asked Geoffrey.

“Thaay be goin’ into th’ Mash to-morrow,” answered the boy, whose thoughts were differently engaged.

“Tell me the way to Mr Fisher’s—the Warren.”

“We be got shart o’ keep; wants zum rain, doan’t ’ee zee?”

“Can’t you answer a question?”

“Thur’s a main sight o’ tackle in the Mash vor um.”

He was so used to being stopped and asked about his sheep that he took it for granted Geoffrey was putting the same accustomed interrogatories. Every farmer cross-examines his neighbour’s shepherd when he meets him. The “Mash” was doubtless a meadow reclaimed from a marsh. “Land be terrable dry, zur.”

“Will you listen to me?” angrily. “Where’s the Warren?”

“Aw, mebbe you means ould Fisher’s?”

“I mean Mr Fisher’s.”

“A’ be auver thur,” pointing north-east.

“How far?”

“Aw, it be a akkerd road,” doubtfully, as he looked Geoffrey up and down, and it dawned on him slowly that it was a stranger.

“I’ll give you a quart if you will show me.”

“Wull ee? Come on.” The beer went at once right to the nervous centre and awoke all his faculties. He led Geoffrey across the plain and up a swelling shoulder of down, on whose ridge was a broad deep fosse and green rampart.

“This be th’ Cas’l,” said the guide, meaning entrenchments—earthworks are called “castles.” In one spot the fosse was partly filled up, and an opening cut in the rampart, by which he rode through and found the “castle,” a vast earthwork of unknown antiquity.

“Mind thaay vlint-pits,” said the boy.

The flint-diggers had been at work here long ago—deep gullies and holes encumbered the way, half-hidden with thistles and furze. The place was honeycombed; it reminded Geoffrey of the Australian gold-diggings. He threaded his way slowly between these, and presently emerged on the slope beyond the “castle.”

“Now which way is it?” he asked, glancing doubtfully at the hills still rolling away in unbroken succession.

“Yellucks,” said the boy, meaning “Look here,” and he pointed at a dark object on a distant ridge, which Geoffrey made out to be a copse. “Thur’s Moonlight Virs.”

“Well, and when I get to Moonlight Firs, which way then?”

“Thee foller th’ ruts—thaay’ll take ee to Akkern Chace.”

“The ruts?”

“Eez, th’ waggon ruts; thaay goes drough Akkern Chace down to Warren. Be you afeared?” seeing Geoffrey hesitated. “Thaay’ll lead ee drough th’ wood; it be main dark under th’ pollard oaks:

Akkern ChaceBe a unkid place,When th’ moon do show hur face.

“Wur be my quart?”

Geoffrey gave him sixpence; he touched his forelock, called his dog, and whistled down the hill. Geoffrey pushed on as rapidly as his horse, now a little weary, would go for the firs. In half an hour he reached it, and found a waggon track which, as the boy had said, after a while led him into a wood—scattered pollard oaks, hawthorn bushes, and fir plantations. Now two fresh difficulties arose: the grey first limped and then went lame; and the question began to arise, Would Margaret after all come this way? In the gathering twilight, might she not take the circuitous, but safer, highway? She might even have already passed. By this time he was well into the wood—it consisted of firs there. The grey went so lame he resolved to go no farther, but to wait. He dismounted, threw himself at length upon the grass beside the green track, and the grey immediately applied himself to grazing with steady contentment.

The tall green trees shut out all but a narrow lane of sky, azure, but darkening; not the faintest breath of moving air relieved the sultry brooding heat of the summer twilight. From the firs came a fragrance, filling the atmosphere with a sweet resinous odour. The sap exuding through the bark formed in white viscous drops upon the trunks. Indolently reclining, half drowsy in the heat, he could see deep into the wood, along on the level ground between the stems, for the fallen “needles” checked vegetation. A squirrel gambolled hither and thither in this hollow space; with darting rapid movements it came towards him, and then suddenly shot up a fir and was instantly out of sight among the thick foliage. In the stillness he could hear the tearing of the fibres of grass as the grey fed near. A hare came stealing up the track, with the peculiar shuffling, cunning gait they have when rambling as they deem unwatched. Limping slowly, “Wat” stayed to choose tit-bits among the grass—so near that when an insect tickled him and he shook his head Geoffrey heard the tips of his ears flap together. Daintily he pushed his nose among the tussocks, then craned his neck and looked into the thickets. Where the track turned at the bend the shadows crept out, toning down the twilight with mystic uncertainty.

Suddenly the hare rose, elevated his ears—Geoffrey could see the nostrils working—and then, with one thrust as it were of his lean flanks, flung himself into the wood. The grey ceased feeding, raised his head, and listened. In a few moments came the slow thud of hoofs walking. From behind the bushes Geoffrey watched the bend of the track. Then the sweet voice he knew so well floated towards him. Margaret was singing, little thinking any one was near:

“And as she went along the high-road,The weather being hot and dry,She sat her down upon a green bank,And her true love came riding by.”

Her chestnut whinnied, seeing the other horse on turning the corner.

“Margaret!”

“Sir!” blushing, and resentful that he should have surprised her. She had been thinking of him. She felt as though he had caught her and discovered her secret. She instantly took refuge in hauteur.

“I came to meet you.”

“Thank you,” extremely coldly; she was passing on.

“You do not mind?” he took hold of her bridle.

“Mr Newton!” angrily. Her countenance became suffused with a burning red. He felt he had blundered.

“At least you will let me ride back with you,” he said humbly, dropping the bridle.

She immediately struck the chestnut—the mare sprang forward and cantered down the lane. Quite beside himself, half with annoyance with her, half with himself, he ran to the grey, mounted, and tried to follow. But the horse was lame. He did his best, limped, stumbled, recovered himself, and shambled after painfully. When Geoffrey reached the edge of the wood, Margaret, a long distance ahead, was riding out upon the Downs—horse and horsewoman a dark figure, indistinct in the gloaming. Fearful of losing her, he called on the grey; but she glided away from him swiftly over the darkening plain and up the opposite hill. For a moment he saw her clear against the sky-line, then she was over the ridge and gone.

He thrashed the grey, and forced him rather than rode him up the hill, but there the long-suffering animal stayed his wretched shamble and walked. Wild with anger, Geoffrey dismounted, ran to the edge of the hill, and looked for Margaret.

Deep in the wide hollow lay a white mist, covering all things with its cloak. Beyond was a black mass, with undulating ridge against the sky. “The chestnutmustwalk up that,” he thought; and, without a moment’s pause, dropped his whip, and raced down the slope headlong. What he should say or do if he overtook her he did not stay to think; but overtake her he would. His long stride carried him quickly to the bottom. He imagined he should find a thick fog there as it had looked from above; but now that he was in it there was nothing more than an impalpable mist, through which he could see for some distance. But upwards the mist thickened, and the hill above was hidden now.

He listened—not a sound; then rushed across the level, and threw himself against the next ascent. Panting, he reached the summit; it was but a narrow ridge, and over it another coombe. Instead of a sea of mist here, one long streak, like a cloud, hung midway. No horse visible. Again he dashed forward, and passed through the stratum of mist-cloud as he went down, and the second time as he climbed the opposite rise—more slowly, for these Downs pull hard against the strongest chest. Then there was a gradually rising plateau—dusky, dotted with ghostly hawthorn bushes, but nothing moving that his straining eyes could discern.

But as he stood, and his labouring heart beat loudly, there came the faint sound of iron-shod hoofs that clicked upon stray flints, far away to the right. Like an arrow he rushed there—unthinking, and therefore baffled. For instead of crossing the steep ridges, she had ridden round on the slope; and he, running on the chord of the arc, had not only caught her up, but got some distance in front. If he had remained where he was, she would have passed close by him. But running thus to the right in his wild haste, he lost great part of his advantage. Suddenly he stopped short, and saw in the dim light a shadowy figure stretching swiftly into the mist.

“Margaret!” he called, involuntarily. The earth-cloud of mist closed round her, and the shadowy figure faded away. On he went again, stumbling in the ruts left by wheels in winter, nearly thrown by the tough heath, and the crooked furze stems holding his foot, and fast losing his wind. He struggled up the slope, and finally, perforce, came to a striding walk. Suddenly he stopped—a low neigh floated in the stillness up from a vale on his left. Her path turned there, then; he would cut across the angle. But, taught by experience, he paused at the edge of the descent, and listened before going down. In a minute or two another faint clicking of flints sounded behind him. “By Jove, I begin to think—aha!” The flints clicked in the stillness away on his right. Then after a brief while a dark indistinct object crossed in front of him. “All round me,” said Geoffrey, aloud. “I understand.” He bounded forward, refreshed by his short pause. In three minutes the dark object resolved itself into the chestnut, standing still now on the verge of a gloomy hollow.

Then, close upon his quarry, the hunter slackened speed. It was his turn now; he strolled slowly, halted, even turned his back upon her, and looked up at the sky. The stars were shining; till that moment he had not realised that it was night. By-and-by he went nearer.

“Geoffrey!” she called, faintly. No reply.

“Geoffrey!”—louder—“is that you?”

“Yes, dear.” The first time he had used the word to her.

“Do come to me!” in a tone of distress. He ran eagerly to her side.

“It is dark,” she said, in a low voice, “and—and I have lost the way.”

“I thought you had; you rode all round me.”

“Did I? O, then I am lost, indeed; that is what people always do when they are lost on the hills—they go round and round in a circle. Where is your horse?”

“I left him lame, a long way behind.”

“How unfortunate! And ‘Kitty’”—stroking the mare’s neck—“is weary too. But perhaps you know the way—try and look.”

He did look round to please her, but with little hope. It was not indeed dark—unless there are clouds, the nights of summer are not dark—but the dimness that results from uncertain definition was equally bewildering. The vales were full of white mist; the plains visible near at hand grew vague as the eye tried to trace a way across. The hills, just where the ridges rose high, could be seen against the sky, but the ranges mingled and the dark slopes faded far away into the mist. Each looked alike—there was no commanding feature to fix the vision; hills after hills, grey shadowy plains, dusky coombes and valleys, dimly seen at hand and shapeless in the distance. Then he stooped and searched in vain for continuous ruts or hoof marks or any sign of track. She watched him earnestly.

“It is difficult to make out,” he said. “You know I am a stranger to these Downs.”

“Yes, yes; what shall we do? I shall not reach Greene Ferne to-night.”

“I will try very hard,” he said, venturing to take her hand. But in his heart he was doubtful.

Chapter Six.Night.Margaret did not remove her hand from Geoffrey’s grasp, partly because her mind was occupied with the difficulties of the position, partly because she naturally relied upon him. That position, trying to her, was pleasurable enough to Geoffrey, but he was too loyal to prolong it.“I was told to look for the Tump,” he said. “Other landmarks were the Castle and Moonlight Firs. I think I should know the Tump, or the Castle, but cannot see either. Can you recognise Moonlight Firs?”“Every hill seems to have a Folly,” she said, looking round. “I mean a clump of trees on the top. Yes,”—after a second searching gaze—“I believe that must be the Firs; it is larger than the rest.”He took Kitty’s bridle, and led the chestnut in the direction of the copse. The distance was increased by the undulation of the ground, but in twenty minutes it grew more distinct.“Yes, I am sure it is Moonlight Firs,” she said hopefully. “We shall find the track there.”Kitty laboured up the steep slope wearily; Geoffrey patted and encouraged the mare.“But what trees are these?” said Margaret, with a sudden change of tone as they reached the summit.“I am afraid they are beeches,” said he. He ran forward, and found that they were. There were no firs. Margaret’s heart sank; the disappointment was very great.“Look once more,” he said. “From this height there is a better view. See, there are three copses round us; is either like the Firs?”“They are all just alike,” she said, in a troubled tone; then pleadingly, “Geoffrey—think.”“There are the stars still,” he said.“Ah, yes,” eagerly, and looking up. “I know the north star; there it is,” pointing to the faint sparkle that has been the lamp of hope to so many weary hearts on foaming ocean and trackless plain. “And the Great Bear; the men call it Dick and His Team; it shines every night opposite my window, over the dovecot. Why, of course, all we have to do is to turn our backs to it, and ride straight to Greene Ferne.”“Not quite, I fear,” smiling at her impetuosity, for she was turning Kitty’s head. “You see we should start from a different base, and our straight line might be projected for eternity before it came to your window.”“Then what’s the use of astronomy?” said Margaret promptly.“Well—really,”—puzzled to give a direct reply, “the difficulty is the longitude. But tell me, are there any roads crossing the Downs?”“One or two, I think.”“Then we will go towards the north star; that will at least keep us in a straight line, and prevent us from going round in a circle. Sooner or later we must cross a road.”“Is that all the stars can do for us?”“Under present circumstances—yes.”They descended the slope; on the level ground he began to run, urging the tired mare to trot.“Do not do that,” she said; “you will be quite knocked up.”“I do not mind in the least—for your sake. It is getting late, and we must hasten.”He was now seriously anxious, for her sake, to seek a road, and pushed on as hard as he could. The mare, however, walked up the next rise; at the summit, Margaret pointed to the east.“The clouds are coming up,” she said. Low down was a dark bank—a thicker night—rising swiftly, blotting out the stars one by one. Another burst forwards, and another walk, as Geoffrey began to feel the exertion.The “messengers”—small detached clouds, that precede the rest—were already passing overhead. The white glow on the northern horizon, indicating the position of the summer sun just beneath, was covered. On three sides the edges of the cloud rose up and began to meet above. “I trust it will not rain,” thought Geoffrey.“It is getting still warmer,” said Margaret presently; “the Great Bear is hidden now.” Under the mass of vapour the temperature, warm before, became sultry and oppressive.“Stand up!” said Geoffrey sharply to the mare, as they descended a steeper slope, and she stumbled. Then to Margaret, “The mist is gone.” It had insensibly disappeared as the clouds came over; they had now covered the sky, and it was dark.“Will it thunder?” she asked anxiously. “It is very hot, and I believe I felt a drop of rain—and another.”“Only heat-drops,” said Geoffrey, but his mind misgave him. The clouds swept over at a rapid pace, yet there was no breeze; they were carried on an aerial current far above the earth. The pole star was hidden; still Geoffrey kept on walking as fast as he could, trying to keep a straight line. He spoke to and cheered the mare frequently; she stumbled, and seemed nervous. There was an intense electrical tension in the atmosphere.“Oh, where are we now?” said Margaret, as Kitty’s knees rustled against something, and she stopped and dragged at the bridle. “What is this?”In the gloom a white shimmering surface stretched out.“A wheat field,” said Geoffrey; “we must go round it.” Kitty resisted, wanting to nibble at the succulent stalks, not yet dried into straw by the sun.“If it is wheat we are certainly wrong,” said Margaret. “We ought not to get on the plain among the ploughed fields; our proper road is on the turf somewhere. Pluck me a wheat-ear, please; the stalk is sweet, and I am thirsty.”He did so. Crushed by the teeth, the stalk yielded a pleasant sweetness to the parched mouth. “It is the wine of the corn,” she said. He wanted to lead the mare round the field; but beyond was another of barley, and Margaret was so certain that it was the wrong direction that he gave it up, and felt his way back to the hill as he thought. Proceeding along the ridge, a clump of trees loomed large close at hand.“Moonlight Firs!” cried Margaret joyfully, urging the mare. “Please go and see what trees they are,” she said. “It is difficult to distinguish.”He ran forward, and in two minutes returned, silent. “Yes?” she said impatiently.“Beeches,” he replied; “the same beeches.”“We have toiled round in a circle. What shall we do?—now we are lost indeed!” Her voice went straight to his heart, and roused him to fresh exertions.“It is strange that we see no lights,” he said; “there must be farmhouses or cottages somewhere.”“They all go to bed by daylight in summer—to save candles. Do let us go on—somewhere.” He easily understood her nervous desire to move. The darkness seemed to increase; but he led the mare slowly. Every now and then a lark rose from the turf—they could not see, but heard the wings—and fluttered away into the gloom.“Hush!” whispered Margaret suddenly. “What was that? I thought I heard footsteps.”“It was nothing,” said he, peering into the darkness. He had himself heard steps distinctly, but he would not let her be alarmed if he could help it.“There!” she caught fast hold of his arm and drew him close. The heavy steps were distinctly audible for a moment, and then stopped.“Who goes there?” shouted Geoffrey, startling her with the sudden noise. His voice sounded hollow and dead in the vastness of the mighty hills. They listened: no answer.“Let us go on quick,” she said. Kitty moved again, painfully; her rider glanced back.“I am sure I saw something far off moving,” she whispered.“Nothing but a hawthorn bush,” said Geoffrey; yet he had himself discerned a shadowy something. Margaret had heard of the shepherds’ stories of the weird shapes that haunted the desolate places on the Downs. Kitty, obeying her impulse, pushed on more rapidly; when they looked back again there was nothing. But almost suddenly the darkness increased; it seemed to thicken and fall on them. In a few moments it was so intensely black that they could barely see each other. With it came a strange sense of oppression—a difficulty of breathing. Her hand on his shoulder trembled; even the man felt a sense of something unusual, bent his brow, and steeled himself to meet it. With her other hand she covered her face. In that pitch-black darkness, that almost sulphurous air, it seemed as if a thunderbolt must fall. The mare stood still.In a minute there came a rushing sound—a rumbling of the ground; it swept by on their left at a short distance. A faint “baa” told what it was. “A flock of sheep,” said Geoffrey. “They have leapt the hurdles.”“They always do when the clouds come down,” said Margaret, recollecting what the shepherds said. “It will thunder.”But it did not. The noise of the frightened flock grew less as they raced headlong away. Shortly afterwards the extreme blackness lifted a little. Presently something like a copse came indistinctly into view ahead. This roused Margaret’s fainting hope; it might be Moonlight Firs, and they advanced again slowly. After a short while Kitty stood stock-still and would not move, neither for word nor blow; she backed instead.“There must be something there,” said Geoffrey, leaving the bridle and walking forward. His feet caught in some bushy heath; he went on his knees and felt. In a yard his hand slipped into space—there was a chasm; he drew it back, then put his hand again and took up some earth from the side. It was white; then, dimly, he saw a white wall as it were beneath. An old chalk-quarry. “Thank Heaven for Kitty’s instinct!” he muttered. “We should have walked into it.” He did not tell Margaret that it was a quarry; he said it was a steep place. She wanted to go on to the copse; with regret he noticed the weariness of her voice; she was tired. He led Kitty far on one side of the quarry, giving it a wide berth, and taking the line of the sheep, who had avoided the precipice more by luck than any sense they possess in that way. The extreme darkness had now passed; but the clouds remained, and it was gloomy. He walked slowly, thinking now of possible flint-pits. Suddenly Margaret drew rein, and slipped out of the saddle.“I can’t ride any longer,” she said. “I am so tired; let me walk.”She took his arm; in a few minutes she began to lean heavily upon it. With the other hand he upheld the mare; thus the woman and the animal relied upon the man. But Margaret’s spirit was unbroken—she walked as fast as she could.“Ah, this is not the Firs either!” she cried, as they reached some low underwood—nut-tree and hawthorn and thick bramble, overtopped by some stunted beeches, with but two or three firs among them. Passing round the small copse they came to an opening, and in the dimness saw some large grey stones inside. Utterly wearied and disappointed she left his arm, sat down on the soft turf, and leaned against a boulder. He looked closer.“There is a dolmen under the trees,” he said. “Margaret dear, have you ever heard of this place?”“These are Grey Wethers,” she said, in a low tone. “And no doubt what you call the dolmen is the Cave.”“Then you know where we are?”“Oh, no; just the reverse. I have only heard people talk of it; I have never been here before; all I know is we must have been going right away from Millbourne, just the opposite direction.”“Do not trouble, dear; it seems a little lighter. Stay here while I go out of the copse and look round.”“You will not go far away?” She could not help saying it.“No, indeed I will not.” He went out some thirty yards, and then stopped, finding the ground began to decline. As she sat on the turf she could see his form against the sky; it was certainly lighter. In a rude circle the great grey boulders crouched around her; just opposite was the dolmen. It was built of three large flat stones set on edge, forming the walls, and over these an immense flat one—the table-stone—made the roof, which sloped slightly aside. A dwarf house, of Cyclopaean masonry; a house of a single chamber, the chamber of the dead. The place, she had heard, was the sepulchre of an ancient king—of a nameless hero. This Cave, as the shepherds called it, was a tomb. They had a dim tradition of the spirits haunting such magic circles of the Past. A sense of loneliness came over her—the silence of the vast expanse around weighed upon her; an unwonted nervousness took possession of her, as it naturally might in that dreary gloom. She tried to smile at herself, and yet put out her hand, and touched the mare’s neck—she was grazing near: it was companionship.“Margaret!” Her name startled her in the oppressive stillness; she was glad to rise and go to him, away from that shadowy place.“The clouds are breaking fast,” he said. “It will not rain; I am going to light a fire.”“A fire! Why, it is too warm now.”“Not for heat, but as a beacon. Some shepherd may see it, and come to us.”“Indeed he would not,”—a little petulantly, for she was overtired. “He would be afraid, and say it was Jack o’ the Lanthorn.”“Well, I will try; possibly a farmer may see it.”“But where is your fuel? You cannot see to pick up sticks in the copse.”“I stumbled on two hurdles just now; one has been thatched with straw.”“I know; that is what the shepherds prop up with a stake, and sit behind as a shelter from the wind.”“And the furze-bush here will burn.” She watched him tear some leaves out of his pocket-book, and place the fragments under the furze; then he added a little straw from the thatched hurdle, and a handful of dry grass.“The stars are coming out again,” said Margaret, looking round; “and what is that glow of light yonder?” There was a white reflection above the eastern horizon where she pointed.“It must be the moon rising,” he said, and applied a match to his bonfire. A blue tongue of flame curled upwards, an odour of smoke arose, and then a sharp crackling, and a sudden heat, that forced them to stand away. The bush burned fiercely, hissing and crackling as the fibres of the green wood and the pointed needles shrivelled up. By the light of the tawny flames he now saw the weary expression of her face; she must rest somewhere and somehow.“Quick, Geoffrey! it is going out; throw your hurdles on.”“On second thoughts I will not burn the hurdles.” Nothing flares so swiftly or sinks so soon as furze; in a few minutes the beacon was out.“I must rest,” she said, and went back to the trees and sat on a boulder. Opposite, the pale glow in the east shot up into the sky; as it rose it became thinner and diffused. Slowly the waning moon came up over the ridge of a distant hill, whose top was brought out by the light behind it, as a well-defined black line against the sky. Vast shadows swept along and filled the narrow vales—dark as the abyss of space; the slopes that faced eastwards shone with a faint grey. The distorted gibbous disk lifted itself above the edge—red as ruddle and enlarged by the refraction: a giant coppery moon, weird and magical. The forked branches of a tree on the hill stretched upwards across it, like the black arms of some gibbering demon.“Look round once more,” he said, as the disk cleared the ridge. “Perhaps you may recognise some landmark, and I will run and bring assistance.”“And leave me here alone!” reproachfully.“No, I will never leave you.” There was an intense pleasure in feeling how thoroughly she relied upon him. They went outside the copse and looked round. The dim moonlight was even more indefinite than the former mist and starlight. She saw nothing but hills, grey where the moonbeams touched them, black elsewhere; great cavernous coombes; behind them a shadowy plain. Here and there a hawthorn bush, fantastic in the faint light. It seemed as if a lengthened gaze might perhaps distinguish strange shapes flickering to and fro in the mystic waste.“I see nothing but hills,” she said. “I do not like to look; let us go back to the trees.”She sat down again on the sunken boulder, where only a part of the space around and its spectral shadows was visible.“I feel so sleepy,” she said. Doubtless the warmth made her drowsy as well as weariness. “I think I shall lie down.” She sat on the sward and leaned against the stone; Geoffrey felt the short grass, it was perfectly dry.“If only I had something to wrap round you!” he said. “How foolish I have been! Mr Fisher’s rug that was strapped on my horse would have been the very thing! I am so angry with myself—I ought to have thought of it.”“But how could you anticipate?”“At least, wrap your handkerchief about your neck.”“I do not want it; it is too warm. But I will, as you wish me to.”An idea suddenly occurred to him; he went on his knees and crawled right under the table-stone of the dolmen—into the tomb. She watched him with a sleepy horror of the place. In a minute he emerged triumphant.“I have found it—this is it. It is a house built on purpose for you.”“Oh, I hope not,” shuddering; “though, of course, we must all die.”“Why—what do you mean?”“That is a tomb.”“A tomb!” laughing; “oh, yes, perhaps it was once, two thousand years ago, before Pisces became Aries.”“I do not understand,” petulantly. “Do let me sleep.”“I mean before the precession of the equinoxes had changed the position of the stars; it was so very long ago—”“Please don’t talk to me.”“But I want you to come in here.”“In there! Impossible!”“But do, Margaret; it is quite empty; only like a room. The ground inside is as dry as a floor, and the roof will shelter you from the night air, and, perhaps, save you from illness.”“I couldn’t—no; please.”“Well, just come and look.”“I won’t—there!” quite decidedly.“Margaret!”He took her arm; notwithstanding her declaration, she rose and followed him. She did not resent his making her do it in that wild and desolate place; had he tried to compel her in civilisation, he would have failed. Once inside it, the Cave was not at all dreadful; she could sit upright, and, as he said, it was merely a chamber, open on one side. He then went to fetch the hurdles to make her a rough couch—it was with some thought of this that he had not burned them—knowing anything between the sleeper and the bare ground will prevent stiffness or chill. He saw that the moon had illuminated a valley on the right hand, and walked to the edge, thinking that perhaps a cottage might be in the hollow. There was nothing, but this caused him to be a little longer gone. Now Margaret was just in that state between waking and sleeping when shadows take shape and the silence speaks, nor could she forget that the Cave had once been a tomb. She looked out and involuntarily uttered a cry. Among the boulders stood a shapeless whiteness—a form rather than a thing, in the midst of the circle. She covered her face with her hands. Geoffrey returning heard the cry, and came running.“What! How fortunate!” he exclaimed. She looked again—it was the grey, Geoffrey’s horse; in her nervous dread she had not recognised it in the shadow.“This is fortunate,” he said, ignoring her alarm. “The poor fellow must have hobbled after us—perhaps not so very far, as we went round in a circle. Why, this must have been what we heard—the heavy steps, don’t you remember? I can make a couch now,”—unstrapping the rug, and removing the saddle, and also from Kitty. Then he took the thatched hurdle, and placed it on the floor of the Cave, straw uppermost. It was perfectly clean; the straw bleached white by the wind of the hills. The saddles made a rude support for her shoulders. She stood up, and he wound the rug—which was a large one—about her till she was swathed in it, and a kind of hood came round her head. She reclined upon the hurdle, leaning against the saddles; and lastly, at his wish, adjusted the handkerchief lightly over her face, so that she might breathe easily, and yet so as to keep the night air away. Then he placed the second hurdle, which was not thatched, across the open side of the Cave, partly closing it like a door, but not too completely.“Why, I am quite comfortable,” she said. “Only it is too warm.”“That is a good fault; good-night.”“Good-night.” A long pause.“Geoffrey—where are you?”“Sitting by the door of your chamber.”“You have been very kind.”“I have done nothing.”“You have no shelter; what shall you do?”“I do not mind in the least; you forget I have been used to the bush.” A second long silence.“Geoffrey!” very gently.“I am here, dear.”“Do not go far away.”“Rest assured I will not.”Silence again—this time not broken.By-and-by he approached and listened; the low regular breathing convinced him that she slept at last. “She must be very, very weary,” he thought, “and I—” Scarce a word had been said that might not have been uttered before the world, and yet he felt a secret assurance that her heart was turning towards him.

Margaret did not remove her hand from Geoffrey’s grasp, partly because her mind was occupied with the difficulties of the position, partly because she naturally relied upon him. That position, trying to her, was pleasurable enough to Geoffrey, but he was too loyal to prolong it.

“I was told to look for the Tump,” he said. “Other landmarks were the Castle and Moonlight Firs. I think I should know the Tump, or the Castle, but cannot see either. Can you recognise Moonlight Firs?”

“Every hill seems to have a Folly,” she said, looking round. “I mean a clump of trees on the top. Yes,”—after a second searching gaze—“I believe that must be the Firs; it is larger than the rest.”

He took Kitty’s bridle, and led the chestnut in the direction of the copse. The distance was increased by the undulation of the ground, but in twenty minutes it grew more distinct.

“Yes, I am sure it is Moonlight Firs,” she said hopefully. “We shall find the track there.”

Kitty laboured up the steep slope wearily; Geoffrey patted and encouraged the mare.

“But what trees are these?” said Margaret, with a sudden change of tone as they reached the summit.

“I am afraid they are beeches,” said he. He ran forward, and found that they were. There were no firs. Margaret’s heart sank; the disappointment was very great.

“Look once more,” he said. “From this height there is a better view. See, there are three copses round us; is either like the Firs?”

“They are all just alike,” she said, in a troubled tone; then pleadingly, “Geoffrey—think.”

“There are the stars still,” he said.

“Ah, yes,” eagerly, and looking up. “I know the north star; there it is,” pointing to the faint sparkle that has been the lamp of hope to so many weary hearts on foaming ocean and trackless plain. “And the Great Bear; the men call it Dick and His Team; it shines every night opposite my window, over the dovecot. Why, of course, all we have to do is to turn our backs to it, and ride straight to Greene Ferne.”

“Not quite, I fear,” smiling at her impetuosity, for she was turning Kitty’s head. “You see we should start from a different base, and our straight line might be projected for eternity before it came to your window.”

“Then what’s the use of astronomy?” said Margaret promptly.

“Well—really,”—puzzled to give a direct reply, “the difficulty is the longitude. But tell me, are there any roads crossing the Downs?”

“One or two, I think.”

“Then we will go towards the north star; that will at least keep us in a straight line, and prevent us from going round in a circle. Sooner or later we must cross a road.”

“Is that all the stars can do for us?”

“Under present circumstances—yes.”

They descended the slope; on the level ground he began to run, urging the tired mare to trot.

“Do not do that,” she said; “you will be quite knocked up.”

“I do not mind in the least—for your sake. It is getting late, and we must hasten.”

He was now seriously anxious, for her sake, to seek a road, and pushed on as hard as he could. The mare, however, walked up the next rise; at the summit, Margaret pointed to the east.

“The clouds are coming up,” she said. Low down was a dark bank—a thicker night—rising swiftly, blotting out the stars one by one. Another burst forwards, and another walk, as Geoffrey began to feel the exertion.

The “messengers”—small detached clouds, that precede the rest—were already passing overhead. The white glow on the northern horizon, indicating the position of the summer sun just beneath, was covered. On three sides the edges of the cloud rose up and began to meet above. “I trust it will not rain,” thought Geoffrey.

“It is getting still warmer,” said Margaret presently; “the Great Bear is hidden now.” Under the mass of vapour the temperature, warm before, became sultry and oppressive.

“Stand up!” said Geoffrey sharply to the mare, as they descended a steeper slope, and she stumbled. Then to Margaret, “The mist is gone.” It had insensibly disappeared as the clouds came over; they had now covered the sky, and it was dark.

“Will it thunder?” she asked anxiously. “It is very hot, and I believe I felt a drop of rain—and another.”

“Only heat-drops,” said Geoffrey, but his mind misgave him. The clouds swept over at a rapid pace, yet there was no breeze; they were carried on an aerial current far above the earth. The pole star was hidden; still Geoffrey kept on walking as fast as he could, trying to keep a straight line. He spoke to and cheered the mare frequently; she stumbled, and seemed nervous. There was an intense electrical tension in the atmosphere.

“Oh, where are we now?” said Margaret, as Kitty’s knees rustled against something, and she stopped and dragged at the bridle. “What is this?”

In the gloom a white shimmering surface stretched out.

“A wheat field,” said Geoffrey; “we must go round it.” Kitty resisted, wanting to nibble at the succulent stalks, not yet dried into straw by the sun.

“If it is wheat we are certainly wrong,” said Margaret. “We ought not to get on the plain among the ploughed fields; our proper road is on the turf somewhere. Pluck me a wheat-ear, please; the stalk is sweet, and I am thirsty.”

He did so. Crushed by the teeth, the stalk yielded a pleasant sweetness to the parched mouth. “It is the wine of the corn,” she said. He wanted to lead the mare round the field; but beyond was another of barley, and Margaret was so certain that it was the wrong direction that he gave it up, and felt his way back to the hill as he thought. Proceeding along the ridge, a clump of trees loomed large close at hand.

“Moonlight Firs!” cried Margaret joyfully, urging the mare. “Please go and see what trees they are,” she said. “It is difficult to distinguish.”

He ran forward, and in two minutes returned, silent. “Yes?” she said impatiently.

“Beeches,” he replied; “the same beeches.”

“We have toiled round in a circle. What shall we do?—now we are lost indeed!” Her voice went straight to his heart, and roused him to fresh exertions.

“It is strange that we see no lights,” he said; “there must be farmhouses or cottages somewhere.”

“They all go to bed by daylight in summer—to save candles. Do let us go on—somewhere.” He easily understood her nervous desire to move. The darkness seemed to increase; but he led the mare slowly. Every now and then a lark rose from the turf—they could not see, but heard the wings—and fluttered away into the gloom.

“Hush!” whispered Margaret suddenly. “What was that? I thought I heard footsteps.”

“It was nothing,” said he, peering into the darkness. He had himself heard steps distinctly, but he would not let her be alarmed if he could help it.

“There!” she caught fast hold of his arm and drew him close. The heavy steps were distinctly audible for a moment, and then stopped.

“Who goes there?” shouted Geoffrey, startling her with the sudden noise. His voice sounded hollow and dead in the vastness of the mighty hills. They listened: no answer.

“Let us go on quick,” she said. Kitty moved again, painfully; her rider glanced back.

“I am sure I saw something far off moving,” she whispered.

“Nothing but a hawthorn bush,” said Geoffrey; yet he had himself discerned a shadowy something. Margaret had heard of the shepherds’ stories of the weird shapes that haunted the desolate places on the Downs. Kitty, obeying her impulse, pushed on more rapidly; when they looked back again there was nothing. But almost suddenly the darkness increased; it seemed to thicken and fall on them. In a few moments it was so intensely black that they could barely see each other. With it came a strange sense of oppression—a difficulty of breathing. Her hand on his shoulder trembled; even the man felt a sense of something unusual, bent his brow, and steeled himself to meet it. With her other hand she covered her face. In that pitch-black darkness, that almost sulphurous air, it seemed as if a thunderbolt must fall. The mare stood still.

In a minute there came a rushing sound—a rumbling of the ground; it swept by on their left at a short distance. A faint “baa” told what it was. “A flock of sheep,” said Geoffrey. “They have leapt the hurdles.”

“They always do when the clouds come down,” said Margaret, recollecting what the shepherds said. “It will thunder.”

But it did not. The noise of the frightened flock grew less as they raced headlong away. Shortly afterwards the extreme blackness lifted a little. Presently something like a copse came indistinctly into view ahead. This roused Margaret’s fainting hope; it might be Moonlight Firs, and they advanced again slowly. After a short while Kitty stood stock-still and would not move, neither for word nor blow; she backed instead.

“There must be something there,” said Geoffrey, leaving the bridle and walking forward. His feet caught in some bushy heath; he went on his knees and felt. In a yard his hand slipped into space—there was a chasm; he drew it back, then put his hand again and took up some earth from the side. It was white; then, dimly, he saw a white wall as it were beneath. An old chalk-quarry. “Thank Heaven for Kitty’s instinct!” he muttered. “We should have walked into it.” He did not tell Margaret that it was a quarry; he said it was a steep place. She wanted to go on to the copse; with regret he noticed the weariness of her voice; she was tired. He led Kitty far on one side of the quarry, giving it a wide berth, and taking the line of the sheep, who had avoided the precipice more by luck than any sense they possess in that way. The extreme darkness had now passed; but the clouds remained, and it was gloomy. He walked slowly, thinking now of possible flint-pits. Suddenly Margaret drew rein, and slipped out of the saddle.

“I can’t ride any longer,” she said. “I am so tired; let me walk.”

She took his arm; in a few minutes she began to lean heavily upon it. With the other hand he upheld the mare; thus the woman and the animal relied upon the man. But Margaret’s spirit was unbroken—she walked as fast as she could.

“Ah, this is not the Firs either!” she cried, as they reached some low underwood—nut-tree and hawthorn and thick bramble, overtopped by some stunted beeches, with but two or three firs among them. Passing round the small copse they came to an opening, and in the dimness saw some large grey stones inside. Utterly wearied and disappointed she left his arm, sat down on the soft turf, and leaned against a boulder. He looked closer.

“There is a dolmen under the trees,” he said. “Margaret dear, have you ever heard of this place?”

“These are Grey Wethers,” she said, in a low tone. “And no doubt what you call the dolmen is the Cave.”

“Then you know where we are?”

“Oh, no; just the reverse. I have only heard people talk of it; I have never been here before; all I know is we must have been going right away from Millbourne, just the opposite direction.”

“Do not trouble, dear; it seems a little lighter. Stay here while I go out of the copse and look round.”

“You will not go far away?” She could not help saying it.

“No, indeed I will not.” He went out some thirty yards, and then stopped, finding the ground began to decline. As she sat on the turf she could see his form against the sky; it was certainly lighter. In a rude circle the great grey boulders crouched around her; just opposite was the dolmen. It was built of three large flat stones set on edge, forming the walls, and over these an immense flat one—the table-stone—made the roof, which sloped slightly aside. A dwarf house, of Cyclopaean masonry; a house of a single chamber, the chamber of the dead. The place, she had heard, was the sepulchre of an ancient king—of a nameless hero. This Cave, as the shepherds called it, was a tomb. They had a dim tradition of the spirits haunting such magic circles of the Past. A sense of loneliness came over her—the silence of the vast expanse around weighed upon her; an unwonted nervousness took possession of her, as it naturally might in that dreary gloom. She tried to smile at herself, and yet put out her hand, and touched the mare’s neck—she was grazing near: it was companionship.

“Margaret!” Her name startled her in the oppressive stillness; she was glad to rise and go to him, away from that shadowy place.

“The clouds are breaking fast,” he said. “It will not rain; I am going to light a fire.”

“A fire! Why, it is too warm now.”

“Not for heat, but as a beacon. Some shepherd may see it, and come to us.”

“Indeed he would not,”—a little petulantly, for she was overtired. “He would be afraid, and say it was Jack o’ the Lanthorn.”

“Well, I will try; possibly a farmer may see it.”

“But where is your fuel? You cannot see to pick up sticks in the copse.”

“I stumbled on two hurdles just now; one has been thatched with straw.”

“I know; that is what the shepherds prop up with a stake, and sit behind as a shelter from the wind.”

“And the furze-bush here will burn.” She watched him tear some leaves out of his pocket-book, and place the fragments under the furze; then he added a little straw from the thatched hurdle, and a handful of dry grass.

“The stars are coming out again,” said Margaret, looking round; “and what is that glow of light yonder?” There was a white reflection above the eastern horizon where she pointed.

“It must be the moon rising,” he said, and applied a match to his bonfire. A blue tongue of flame curled upwards, an odour of smoke arose, and then a sharp crackling, and a sudden heat, that forced them to stand away. The bush burned fiercely, hissing and crackling as the fibres of the green wood and the pointed needles shrivelled up. By the light of the tawny flames he now saw the weary expression of her face; she must rest somewhere and somehow.

“Quick, Geoffrey! it is going out; throw your hurdles on.”

“On second thoughts I will not burn the hurdles.” Nothing flares so swiftly or sinks so soon as furze; in a few minutes the beacon was out.

“I must rest,” she said, and went back to the trees and sat on a boulder. Opposite, the pale glow in the east shot up into the sky; as it rose it became thinner and diffused. Slowly the waning moon came up over the ridge of a distant hill, whose top was brought out by the light behind it, as a well-defined black line against the sky. Vast shadows swept along and filled the narrow vales—dark as the abyss of space; the slopes that faced eastwards shone with a faint grey. The distorted gibbous disk lifted itself above the edge—red as ruddle and enlarged by the refraction: a giant coppery moon, weird and magical. The forked branches of a tree on the hill stretched upwards across it, like the black arms of some gibbering demon.

“Look round once more,” he said, as the disk cleared the ridge. “Perhaps you may recognise some landmark, and I will run and bring assistance.”

“And leave me here alone!” reproachfully.

“No, I will never leave you.” There was an intense pleasure in feeling how thoroughly she relied upon him. They went outside the copse and looked round. The dim moonlight was even more indefinite than the former mist and starlight. She saw nothing but hills, grey where the moonbeams touched them, black elsewhere; great cavernous coombes; behind them a shadowy plain. Here and there a hawthorn bush, fantastic in the faint light. It seemed as if a lengthened gaze might perhaps distinguish strange shapes flickering to and fro in the mystic waste.

“I see nothing but hills,” she said. “I do not like to look; let us go back to the trees.”

She sat down again on the sunken boulder, where only a part of the space around and its spectral shadows was visible.

“I feel so sleepy,” she said. Doubtless the warmth made her drowsy as well as weariness. “I think I shall lie down.” She sat on the sward and leaned against the stone; Geoffrey felt the short grass, it was perfectly dry.

“If only I had something to wrap round you!” he said. “How foolish I have been! Mr Fisher’s rug that was strapped on my horse would have been the very thing! I am so angry with myself—I ought to have thought of it.”

“But how could you anticipate?”

“At least, wrap your handkerchief about your neck.”

“I do not want it; it is too warm. But I will, as you wish me to.”

An idea suddenly occurred to him; he went on his knees and crawled right under the table-stone of the dolmen—into the tomb. She watched him with a sleepy horror of the place. In a minute he emerged triumphant.

“I have found it—this is it. It is a house built on purpose for you.”

“Oh, I hope not,” shuddering; “though, of course, we must all die.”

“Why—what do you mean?”

“That is a tomb.”

“A tomb!” laughing; “oh, yes, perhaps it was once, two thousand years ago, before Pisces became Aries.”

“I do not understand,” petulantly. “Do let me sleep.”

“I mean before the precession of the equinoxes had changed the position of the stars; it was so very long ago—”

“Please don’t talk to me.”

“But I want you to come in here.”

“In there! Impossible!”

“But do, Margaret; it is quite empty; only like a room. The ground inside is as dry as a floor, and the roof will shelter you from the night air, and, perhaps, save you from illness.”

“I couldn’t—no; please.”

“Well, just come and look.”

“I won’t—there!” quite decidedly.

“Margaret!”

He took her arm; notwithstanding her declaration, she rose and followed him. She did not resent his making her do it in that wild and desolate place; had he tried to compel her in civilisation, he would have failed. Once inside it, the Cave was not at all dreadful; she could sit upright, and, as he said, it was merely a chamber, open on one side. He then went to fetch the hurdles to make her a rough couch—it was with some thought of this that he had not burned them—knowing anything between the sleeper and the bare ground will prevent stiffness or chill. He saw that the moon had illuminated a valley on the right hand, and walked to the edge, thinking that perhaps a cottage might be in the hollow. There was nothing, but this caused him to be a little longer gone. Now Margaret was just in that state between waking and sleeping when shadows take shape and the silence speaks, nor could she forget that the Cave had once been a tomb. She looked out and involuntarily uttered a cry. Among the boulders stood a shapeless whiteness—a form rather than a thing, in the midst of the circle. She covered her face with her hands. Geoffrey returning heard the cry, and came running.

“What! How fortunate!” he exclaimed. She looked again—it was the grey, Geoffrey’s horse; in her nervous dread she had not recognised it in the shadow.

“This is fortunate,” he said, ignoring her alarm. “The poor fellow must have hobbled after us—perhaps not so very far, as we went round in a circle. Why, this must have been what we heard—the heavy steps, don’t you remember? I can make a couch now,”—unstrapping the rug, and removing the saddle, and also from Kitty. Then he took the thatched hurdle, and placed it on the floor of the Cave, straw uppermost. It was perfectly clean; the straw bleached white by the wind of the hills. The saddles made a rude support for her shoulders. She stood up, and he wound the rug—which was a large one—about her till she was swathed in it, and a kind of hood came round her head. She reclined upon the hurdle, leaning against the saddles; and lastly, at his wish, adjusted the handkerchief lightly over her face, so that she might breathe easily, and yet so as to keep the night air away. Then he placed the second hurdle, which was not thatched, across the open side of the Cave, partly closing it like a door, but not too completely.

“Why, I am quite comfortable,” she said. “Only it is too warm.”

“That is a good fault; good-night.”

“Good-night.” A long pause.

“Geoffrey—where are you?”

“Sitting by the door of your chamber.”

“You have been very kind.”

“I have done nothing.”

“You have no shelter; what shall you do?”

“I do not mind in the least; you forget I have been used to the bush.” A second long silence.

“Geoffrey!” very gently.

“I am here, dear.”

“Do not go far away.”

“Rest assured I will not.”

Silence again—this time not broken.

By-and-by he approached and listened; the low regular breathing convinced him that she slept at last. “She must be very, very weary,” he thought, “and I—” Scarce a word had been said that might not have been uttered before the world, and yet he felt a secret assurance that her heart was turning towards him.

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