I am delighted to think that Rose is so happy, and can excuse the brevity of the communication under the circumstances. But Iamsurprised. I never dreamed that her chief was young and unmarried. Why she should always say "your" Cynic, however, and underline it, too, I cannot understand. I wish ...
My book is nearly full, and I do not think I shall begin another, for my time is likely to be fully occupied now. But I must set down the events of the last week-end and tell of the wonderful climacteric that I have passed through. Then the curtain may be allowed to fall on my unimportant experiences.
They have not been unimportant to me, and my recent adventures have provided sufficient excitement to keep the tongues of the villagers busy for months.
Incidentally I have discovered that Windyridge does not belie its name, but that the storm fiend makes it the stage for some of his most outrageous escapades.
We had samples of all the different kinds of weather England provides last week—rain, snow, sleet, light breezes, fleecy clouds sailing slowly across the blue, dull and threatening times when the skies were leaden.
Saturday was the gloomiest day of all. It was gusty from the beginning, but until the afternoon the wind was only sportive, and contented itself with rude schoolboy pranks. By five o'clock, however, its mood had changed and its force increased fourfold, and by six o'clock it had cast off all restraint and become a tempest.
Whilst I remained in the Hall I hardly realised its fury, for the house is well built and shielded from the full force of the northerly winds. It was when I ventured out to visit Martha Treffit soon after dinner that I became aware of it.
The squire had left the table with a severe headache, and retired to his own room where, with drawn blinds and absolute quietude, he usually finds ease, and I was left to my own devices and the tender mercies of the Cynic, when he should arrive.
But his train was not due until eight, and it would take him a good thirty minutes to walk from the station, so I had more than an hour at my disposal, and I was anxious to find out how little Lucy was progressing. She had been under the care of the doctor for several days, and was still in bed and very feverish.
I put on my ulster, wound a wrap about my head, and stepped out on to the drive, and it was then that I became aware of the raging elements around me.
The wind blew bitingly from the north, charged with smarting pellets of sleet. I had known strong winds before, but never anything like this. It howled and roared, it hissed and shrieked; it was as much as I could do to force my way forward against the pressure of its onrush; but though my head was bent I saw that every bush and shrub was shaken as by some gigantic Titan, and that the tall and naked trees swayed towards me with groans that sounded human and ominous.
On the topmost branches, black bundles which I knew to be deserted nests were rocked violently to and fro, like anchored boats in the trough of a storm-lashed sea. The night was grim and black, save when for a brief moment the full moon gleamed down upon the angry scene from the torn rifts of the scurrying clouds.
The thought crossed my mind that it might be wiser to return, but Fate or Providence urged me forward, and I laughed at my fears and set my shoulder to the storm.
Phew! if it was a gale along the drive it was a hurricane in the village street, and a hot-headed, impetuous hurricane, too. Pausing for a second in its mad rush it leaped upon one the next moment with a sudden fury that seemed almost devilish and was well-nigh irresistible. Twice I was flung against the wall, but as I was hugging it pretty closely I suffered no harm. As I struggled onward the wind was in my teeth; a dozen steps farther and it leaped the wall on my right with a roar, like a pack of hounds in full cry, and tore down the fields with reckless velocity to hurl itself into the black mystery of the wood.
Not a soul was to be seen, but the clatter of a dislodged slate upon the pavement brought a frightened woman to the door of one of the cottages, and I stepped inside for a moment's breathing-space.
"Lord! Miss 'Olden, is it you?" she said. "I don't know how you dare stir out. I'm a'most flayed to death to stay in t' 'ouse by myself, but my master is off wi' most o' t' other men to Gordon's farm to give 'em a hand."
"What is the matter there?" I inquired.
"Ye 'aven't 'eard, then? They say 'at t' wind's uprooted t' big sycamore an' flung it again' one o' t' barns, or summat, an' it's like to fall in, so they've gone to see what can be done."
I did my best to encourage her and then made what haste I could to the house of Roger Treffit, which stood lank and dark against the black sky. As it was Saturday night I hoped that Roger would be away, but it was his voice that bade me enter, and the dog rose to give me welcome.
The fire roared up the chimney and the wind met it there with answering roar. Roger was sitting with his feet stretched out to the blaze, one arm resting upon the table and encircling a half-empty whiskey bottle. In his right hand he held a tumbler nearly full of spirits. I saw at a glance that he was very drunk, but I believed him to be harmless.
"Is Mrs. Treffit upstairs? may I go to her at once?" I asked.
"Quite all right, ma'am, quite all right. Show lady ... way, Miss T'ry.... Missis ill ... kid ill ... Miss T'ry ill ... ev'yb'dy ill. Doctor says mus' keep kid quiet, mus'n' disturb 'er. Won't let 'em disturb 'er, I won't.... Go forw'd, ma'am."
He rose steadily enough, and held the door open for me to pass through, and I heard him mutter as he returned to his chair:
"Won't let 'em disturb 'er, I won't."
Martha greeted me in her usual sadly-cordial fashion, and motioned me to a chair near the bed where the little one lay, flushed and asleep.
"She's a bit better," she whispered, "but she's to be kept quiet, an' whatever I do I haven't to miss 'er med'cine every hour. But he says wi' care an' good nursin' she'll pull through."
"And how is your cough?" I asked.
"Oh, about as usual," she replied indifferently. "I have to cough into my apron when Lucy's asleep, but I should soon be right enough if I'd nought to worrit about. It's yon chap downstairs 'at 'll be t' death of us both."
"Has he no engagement to-night? I thought he was never free on Saturdays."
"It's t' dog. She's poorly again, an' he can't work her. My opinion is 'at t' poor brute's about done, an' I believe Roger knows it an' it's drivin' 'im mad. He drinks t' day through, an' in a bit there'll be nought for us but t' work'us, for I can't keep 'im i' whiskey; an' whativver's goin' to come o' our poor little Lucy I don't know. I've been lookin' at her as she lay there, Miss 'Olden, so sweet an' pretty, like a little angel, an' I a'most asked the Lord to take 'er out of all t' trouble, but I couldn't bide to lose 'er."
The overwrought woman buried her face in her apron and sobbed convulsively—deep-drawn, quiet sobs which told of her soul's agony. A solitary candle was burning upon the dressing-table, and the room looked eerie in the half darkness. Outside the storm was at its height, and in the stillness which neither of us broke I heard it shriek with the shrillness which one associates with spirits in torment.
But it was the savage thrust of the wind that frightened me most, and the heavy and repeated thuds which struck the end of the house like the battering blows of a heavy ram. It is no exaggeration to say that the house rocked, and I began to fear lest it should collapse. I remembered what a shaky, decrepit structure it was, and I turned to Martha to see if she shared my alarm.
She caught the question in my eyes: "I think it's safe enough," she said; "it allus rocks a bit in a 'igh wind. I've got while I take no notice of it."
Poor woman! There was a storm within her breast which dwarfed the tempest outside into insignificance; but I held my breath again and again, and tried in vain to stay the tumultuous beatings of my heart as the mad wind rained blow after blow upon the quivering walls with a persistency and ever growing fury which seemed to make disaster inevitable.
By and by I could stand it no longer. "Are you sure the house is safe, Martha?" I asked. "Listen to the wind now; it makes me shudder to hear it, and the wall on yonder side absolutely heaves. Had we not better wrap Lucy up well, and take her downstairs?"
"You aren't used to it, Miss 'Olden, an' it's gettin' on your nerves. You needn't fear. I've seen it like this oft enough afore. But you ought to be gettin' back 'ome, for it's hardly a fit night for you to be out."
I was reluctant to leave, and yet I saw that I was likely to do more harm than good if I remained, so I said good-night and left her; but at the foot of the narrow staircase I found my way blocked and the door barred. Angry voices came from within the room, and my knocks were unheard or unheeded. Roger's back appeared to be against the door, and I put my ear to it and listened.
They were mostly women's voices, and their angry tone convinced me that they had been protesting in vain.
"Don't be a fool, Roger! I tell you t' stack 'll fall in another minute, an' where 'll you all be then? Oppen t' door, an' let's bring your Martha an' Lucy out, or ye'll all be killed!"
"Ye shan't disturb 'er," said the maudlin voice on the other side the door; "doct'r said mus'n' disturb 'er ... keep 'er quiet ... won't let anyb'dy disturb 'er."
"Can't you understand, you gawmless fool," shouted another woman, "'at t' chimley's rockin' an' swayin', an' is bound to come down on t' top on us all while we're standin' 'ere? Oppen t' door, you drunken beggar, an' let your missis an' child come out!"
"I'll shoot anyb'dy 'at disturbs 'er," stuttered Roger; "hang me if I don't. Doct'r said mus'n be disturbed ... won't have 'er disturbed. Clear, all of ye!"
There was a sound of sudden movement, and I gathered that Roger had raised his weapon. Sick at heart I groped my way upstairs again and discussed the situation with Martha.
She was alarmed in good earnest now, as much for my sake as for Lucy's, and we went down and battered the door in vain. We could hear voices faintly, but the crowd was evidently in the road, and Roger was still guarding the door.
We returned to the bedroom, and Martha flung herself upon her knees and broke into fervent prayer to God.
What happened afterwards has been told me since. Afraid of the tottering chimney-stack, and cowed by Roger's revolver, the group of women and boys had fallen back into the road, when Barjona appeared upon the scene with his cart.
With one accord the women rushed up to him and explained the peril of Roger and his family, and the drunken man's insane refusal of help and warning.
A glance above showed Barjona that their fears were only too well founded, and—let me say it to his credit—he did not hesitate for a moment. "Can only die once," he muttered, and without another word he seized his whip and strode towards the house. As he entered the door Roger covered him with his weapon and defied him to advance, but with a hoarse growl the sturdy old man flung himself forward, lashed his whip around the legs of the drunken man, and as the revolver discharged itself harmlessly into the air, he seized his opponent round the waist, and with super-human strength hurled him into the corner, where he lay stupefied, if not senseless.
The faithful dog sprang at his master's assailant, but he kicked it quickly aside. It was the work of a moment to draw back the heavy bolt and rush up the creaking stairs.
"Out with you!" he cried ... "Out at once! ... no time to lose ... t' chimney's fallin' ... Bring Lucy, Martha ... I'll go down an' watch Roger. 'Urry up, now!"
We needed no second admonition. Barjona hurried down the steps, and Martha darted to the bed, seized her child and a blanket, and followed him. I had almost reached the foot of the stairs when I remembered the medicine on which so much depended, and I ran back to fetch it. As I did so I thought I heard a warning cry from the street, and fear gave wings to my feet. But it was too late.
Just as I reached the dressing-table there came a fearful crash, and through an opening in the roof an avalanche of stones and tiles and mortar descended with terrific force. Then, to the accompaniment of an awful roar, a dark and heavy mass hurled itself through the gap, and the crunch of broken beam and splintered wood told where it had disappeared into the room below. A pit opened almost at my feet, and there came up a blinding, suffocating mist of dust, like the breath of a smouldering volcano.
One whole end of the house fell over into the field, and I felt the floor slope away beneath me as I made an agonised clutch at the framework of the bed. Loosened stones fell upon and around me in showers, but I was conscious of no pain. Choked and terrified, however, and certain that my last hour had come, I lost my senses and fell upon the littered bed in a swoon.
I came back to semi-consciousness in a land of shadows. I thought I was in Egypt, lying among the ruins of the great Nile temples about which I had been reading to the squire only a day or two before. Overhead the moon was looking down, full orbed, and tattered clouds were racing along the path of the skies. The jagged piles of masonry were the giant walls of Philae, and the roar of the wind was the rush of waters over the great dam. It was not unpleasant to lie there and dream, and listen to the spirit voices which came indistinctly from the pillared courts.
Then the figure of a man bent over me and an arm was placed beneath my neck, and a familiar voice whispered in tones that sounded anguished, and oh! so distant:
"Grace, my darling! Speak to me!"
I tried to speak, but could only smile and lean upon his arm in deep content, and the figure bent over me and placed his cheek against my lips, and laid a hand upon my heart, and seemed to cry for help; but the cry was faint and indistinct, like that of a distant echo.
Then another form appeared—taller and more stalwart—and I felt myself raised from the ground and carried to the top of the masonry, where formless hands grasped me, and I sank—sank—with a feeling that I was descending into the bowels of the earth—into oblivion again.
When I next awoke my mind was clearer, but I was still dazed. I half opened my eyes and found myself in my own bed, with the housekeeper seated at my side, and Dr. Trempest and the squire talking together in quiet tones by the fire.
"How in thunder did they get her down?" the doctor was asking.
"Derwent heard the story as he got to the Hall and he fetched a short ladder and climbed up as far as he could, and did some wonderful gymnastics," replied the squire; "but Goodenough's sons came hurrying up with longer ladders, and they lashed three together side by side, and managed in that way. Derwent couldn't lift her, but Ben Goodenough has the strength of an ox. But it was a tough job in a high wind on a rickety floor."
"Well, it's a miracle, that's all I can say. I must go see Martha Treffit's child now, but I'll look in to-morrow, early on."
"You are sure there is no cause for anxiety?" inquired the squire anxiously; "she will come round all right?"
"As right as a bobbin," replied the doctor cheerfully. "There's only the least bit of concussion. She was more frightened than hurt. I'll send her up a bottle when I get back."
"You needn't trouble," I ejaculated; "it won't be mixed with faith this time."
"She'll do!" chuckled the doctor, and he turned to me: "Go to sleep now and behave yourself."
Of course the Cynic had to explain, because he did not realise at first how shadowy the whole occurrence had been to me. You see, I really was not fully conscious at the time, and might easily have concluded that I had dreamt it.
However, he ismyCynic now, really, so I can talk quite freely to him; and I tell him that after he called me "darling" and whilst he was trying to make sure that I still breathed, he kissed me; but he says that convinces him that I really was dreaming. But we have agreed not to quarrel about it, as one more or less doesn't much matter.
His professional duties must be pretty elastic, for it is now Wednesday and he has not gone back; though, to be sure, he has done a fair amount of pleading in a local court and has won the first part of his case and seems likely to be successful in the next. A remarkable thing about these bachelors who have waited so long is that they cannot afford to wait the least bit longer. They are no sooner engaged than they must be married. But in this instance things are going to be done decently and in order. The squire says we do not know each other well enough yet, and suggests two years as the term of our engagement, but I think we shall compromise on four months.
"What about my studio, Philip?" I asked this morning. "I have not seen it for days, and it is as dear to me as a lover."
"Is it?" he said; "can you bear to walk as far?"
"Why, of course," I replied; "I'm all right now."
"You'll have to take my arm," he remarked; "you are only shaky yet."
It was merely an excuse, but I did it to please him. Of course all the village knows what has happened, and a dozen friendly folk nodded, or smiled or shouted their congratulations according to the measure of their intimacy or reserve.
When we came in sight of my cottage the studio was nowhere to be seen, and, greatly surprised, I turned to the Cynic for an explanation, but he merely pressed my arm and said:
"Farmer Goodenough is there. He will tell you all about it."
I held my peace until we entered the field and stood by my late landlord's side. Explanation was unnecessary, for the field was still littered with splintered wood and broken glass, though much of it had been cleared away.
"So you're about again, miss! Well, I'm downright glad to see you." Then, indicating thedébriswith an inclination of the head: "I've sorted out all 'at seemed to be worth ought. All t' glass picturs 'at weren't reight smashed I've put into a box an' ta'en into t' 'ouse. But there isn't much left. Them 'at saw it say 'at t' stewdio cut up t' paddock like a hairyplane, an' it must ha' collapsed in t' same way."
"It knew it was doomed," remarked the Cynic, "supplanted—and it promptly put an end to itself."
"Well, never mind, miss," put in Reuben, "there's nought to fret about. 'Off wi' the old love an' on with the new!' I'd nearly put that down to t' Owd Book, but I should ha' been mista'en. However, ye've made a good swop, an' I don't know which on ye's got t' best o' t' bargain."
"I have, Reuben," said the Cynic heartily.
I wasn't going to contradict him, of course, though I know he is "mista'en."
"I was just thinkin', miss, if it's all t' same to you," continued the farmer, "'at it 'ud be a charity to let Martha an' her little lass have your cottage. You see——"
"But you forget they are only for widows, Mr. Goodenough," I interrupted.
He glanced quickly at Philip. "They haven't told you then, miss? Well, it's out now. Martha is a widow. Barjona got clear by t' skin of his teeth, but Roger an' t' dog were killed on t' spot; an' though it sounds a 'ard sayin', it's no loss to Martha an' Lucy. Are we to let 'em have t' cottage, think ye?"
I agreed, of course; but the tragic death of Roger had saddened me, and as usual Reuben noticed my clouded expression.
"Now don't you take on, miss. You'll 'ave to leave these things to them above. After all, as t' Owd Book says, 'It's an ill wind 'at blows nobody iny good,' an' t' storm has blown you two into one another's arms an' Martha into t' cottage, in a manner o' speakin'; so we must look on t' cheerful side. However, I must be stirring."
He raised his cap and left us, and I turned to the Cynic.
"Philip," I said, and I know the tears filled my eyes, "the sight of the cottage brings back to me sweet memories of dear old Mother Hubbard. How delighted she would have been to welcome us! How pleased she would have been if she had known!"
"She did know, Grace," he replied. "I called to see her when you were away, and the good soul spoke to me about you in such loving terms that I could not help making her my confidante; and do you know, she asked if she might kiss me before I left. She hoped to live to see the consummation, but if that were denied her she bade me tell you how earnestly she had prayed for our happiness, and how fervently she had longed to see us united."
Now I have reached the very last line in my book. How could I end it better than with Mother Hubbard's blessing?
THE END
Pall Mall Gazette.—"'Windyridge' can be heartily recommended."
Saturday Review.—"Oh, 'Windyridge' were paradise enow."
Academy.—"'Windyridge'is an arresting, fascinating book, one to read and read again."
Atheneum.—"There is a quaint charm about this story of a Yorkshire village."
Nation.—"'Windyridge' is a book that should give genuine pleasure to tens of thousands of people."
Methodist Recorder.—"A White Novel.... This book has real vital qualities and we can heartily recommend it."
Outlook.—"A revelation of how much pleasure can be got from the perusal of a sincere and simple description of the real things of life."
Bookman.—"The story has an atmosphere and a curious charm of its own that are not easy to define; there is a sort of dream-magic about it; a delicate lavender-like fragrance."
Globe.—"A Notable New Novel.... Few who take it up will care to lay it down before the last page is reached. It is a novel of the genus to which 'Cranford' belongs, and we are not sure that it may not challenge comparison with Mrs. Gaskell's classic."
Standard of Empire.—"Here is a book about which one prophecy may be made with safety: it will be read, quoted, and enthusiastically admired by a multitude of people; and that for the simple reason that it will appeal to the hearts of the multitude.... 'Windyridge' will be much talked of and read this autumn; and its publishers are to be congratulated."