Chapter I

’Mong blooming woods, at twilight dim,
The throstle chants with glee, o!
But the plover sings his evening hymn
To the ferny wild so free, o!
Wild an’ free!
Wild an’ free!
Where the moorland breezes blow!

EDWIN WAUGH.

L’amour nous enlève notre libre-arbitre: on peut choisir ses amitiés,
mais on subit l’amour.

PRINCESSE KARADJA.

ONE lovely sparkling April day a man was slowly pushing his bicycle up a certain steep incline which is situated a little way out of Dorchester, and which is known as Yellowham Hill.

The road climbed upwards between woods, the banks on either side being surmounted by a dense growth of rhododendrons and gorse, the latter in full bloom, its brilliant yellow contrasting with the glossy dark leaves of the bushes behind, which were already covered with a myriad of buds, and the little bronze crooks of the bracken curling upwards through the moss beneath.

The long spring day wanted yet some hours of its close, but already delicious spicy odours came forth from the woods, which spoke of falling dew; and the birds were making mysterious rustlings in the boughs, as though preparing to go to roost.

The young man paused every now and then to draw a long breath, and to look round him with evident delight.

‘This is good,’ he said to himself once. ‘This is fairyland—the place is full of magic.’ Then a sudden change came over his face, and he added: ‘It is better than fairyland—it is home.’

He was a pleasant-looking young fellow, with a handsome intelligent face and a tall well-knit figure. He had grey eyes, very alert and keen in their expression, and when he smiled his face lit up in an unexpected and attractive way. His complexion was browner than might have been looked for in connection with his hair, which was not very dark, and he had a certain wideawake air as of one who had seen many men and things.

He had almost reached the crest of the hill when his glance, sweeping appreciatively over the curving bank at the turn of the road, rested upon a woman’s figure amid the tangle of sunlit green and gold which crowned it.

Rosalie Fiander—who would be Rosalie Fiander for some three months longer, it having been agreed between her and Isaac that their marriage should not take place till her year’s widowhood was completed—had halted here on her return to Branston, after a flying business-visit to Dorchester.

These Yellowham Woods had been much loved by her during her childhood, and she had yielded to the temptation of alighting from the gig to spend a few minutes in what had once been to her a very paradise.

Nigger was placidly cropping the grass at a little distance from her, and she had been on her way to re-enter the vehicle, when she had paused for a last glance round.

She had marked, at first idly, then with some interest, the figure which was toiling up the hill, feeling somewhat embarrassed when she discovered on its nearer approach that she was herself the object of a somewhat unusual scrutiny. The grey eyes which looked at her so intently from out of the brown face had a very peculiar mixture of expressions. There was curiosity in them and admiration—to that she was accustomed—but there was something more: a wonder, an almost incredulous delight. Thus might a man look upon the face of a very dear friend whom he had not expected to see—thus almost might he meet the sweetheart from whom he had been parted for years.

As he approached the bank he slackened his pace, and presently came to a standstill immediately beneath Rosalie’s pinnacle of moss-grown earth.

They remained face to face with each other for a moment or two, Rosalie gazing down, fascinated, at the man’s eyes, in which the joyful wonder was growing ever brighter. Rousing herself at last with an effort, and colouring high, she turned and hastened along the crest of the bank until she came to the gig, descended, rapidly gathered up the reins, and mounted into the vehicle.

Seeing that the stranger, though he had begun to walk slowly on, continued to watch her, and being, besides, annoyed and confused at her own temporary embarrassment, she jerked the reins somewhat sharply, and touched up Nigger with the whip. The astonished animal, unaccustomed to such treatment, started off at a brisk pace, and the gig rattled down the steep incline with a speed which would have filled its late owner with horror.

The disaster which he would certainly have prophesied was not long in coming. Nigger’s legs were not quite on a par with his mettle, and presently, stumbling over a loose stone, he was unable to recover himself, and dropped fairly and squarely on both knees.

He was up in an instant, but Rosalie, jumping out of the cart, and running to his head, uttered a cry of anguish. Through the white patches of dust which testified to Nigger’s misfortune she saw blood trickling. A moment later rapid footsteps were heard descending the hill, and the bicyclist came to her assistance.

Bending forward, he carefully examined Nigger’s knees, and then turned to Rosalie; the curious expression which had so puzzled and annoyed her having completely vanished and given place to one of respectful concern.

‘Don’t be frightened,’ he said; ‘it is not much—barely skin-deep—I doubt if there will be any marks.’

‘He has never been down before,’ said she tearfully. ‘Poor Nigger! Good old fellow! I should n’t have driven you so fast down the hill.’

‘His legs should be attended to at once,’ said the stranger practically. ‘Have you far to go?’

‘Oh yes—sixteen miles. To Branston.’

He darted a keen glance at her.

‘Branston,’ he echoed. ‘I am going there myself to-morrow, or rather I am going to a place about a mile this side of it.’

‘Well, I, too, stop a little this side of the town,’ said Rosalie. ‘But poor Nigger will never get so far. What am I to do? I must get home to-night.’

‘There is a village a mile or so from here,’ observed the young man. ‘I think your best plan would be to leave the horse at the inn there. They would probably lend you another to take you home. If you will get into the trap I will lead the horse slowly back.’

‘Oh no, I will walk,’ cried Rosalie; ‘I can lead him myself,’ she added diffidently. ‘I don’t like to take you out of your way—besides, you have your bicycle. I suppose you are going to Dorchester?’

‘I can go to Dorchester any time,’ returned he. ‘’T is merely a fancy of mine that takes me there. I’ve a wish to see the old place again, having been away from it for ten years. But I am really on my way to visit my uncle. If you know Branston, I dare say you have met him. He lives near Littlecomb Village, at a place called the Down Farm.’

‘Mr. Isaac Sharpe!’ ejaculated Rosalie. ‘Indeed, I do know him. I live next door to him.’

She broke off, not deeming it necessary to disclose, on so short an acquaintance, her peculiar relations with the person in question.

‘Good!’ cried the young man gaily. ‘It is strange our meeting like this. I am Richard Marshall, his nephew. You live next door to him, you say,’ he added, with a puzzled look; ‘then you must be—you are—?’

‘I am Mrs. Fiander,’ returned she. ‘You remember Elias Fiander, of Littlecomb Farm?’

‘Of course I do; and I used to know his wife.’

‘Oh, you have been so long away that a great many changes have taken place. I was Elias Fiander’s third wife.’

‘Was?’ cried he.

‘Yes,’ said Rosalie blushing, she knew not why. ‘My dear husband died last July.’

The look of blank dismay which had overspread the young man’s face gave way to an expression of relief; but he made no reply.

Rosalie took hold of the nearest rein, turned Nigger round, and began to lead him slowly up the hill again.

‘I can really manage quite well,’ she said, somewhat stiffly.

‘I must see you out of your difficulties,’ returned the other with quiet determination; and he too began to retrace his steps, pausing a moment at the crest of the hill to repossess himself of his bicycle, which he had left propped against the bank.

‘I will ride on to the village,’ he said, ‘and make arrangements about leaving your horse there and getting a fresh one. It will save time, and there is none to spare if you want to get home before dusk.’

He raised his cap, mounted, and disappeared before Rosalie had time to protest.

Indeed, she was glad enough of Richard Marshall’s helpful company when she presently arrived at the Black Horse Inn, where, in spite of the framed poetical effusion which hung beneath the sign, and which testified to the merits of the establishment, there was some difficulty in procuring accommodation and attention for poor Nigger, and even greater in finding a substitute. In fact, the only animal available proved to be a huge rawboned three-year-old, who was with great difficulty persuaded to enter the shafts of the gig, and who, when harnessed, tilted up the vehicle in such a peculiar manner that Rosalie shrank back in alarm.

‘He does n’t look safe,’ she faltered; ‘and I’m quite sure that boy is n’t capable of driving him. I have been shaken by the fright, I suppose, for I feel quite unnerved.’

‘I will drive you,’ said Richard, with decision, waving aside the lad who had been appointed charioteer and who now began to assert his perfect competence to perform the task. ‘I guess I can manage most things in the way of horseflesh; and in any case I intended to go to my uncle’s to-morrow.’

‘Oh no; I could n’t think—’ Rosalie was beginning, when he interrupted her eagerly:

‘Nothing will be easier, I assure you; my bag is here, strapped on to my bicycle. I meant to take my uncle by surprise—he does n’t know I am in England. You can send back the horse to-morrow—even if you took the lad, it would be difficult for him to return to-night. My bicycle can stay here until I send for it or fetch it. Perhaps I had better get in first, Mrs. Fiander, to keep this wild animal quiet, while you get up. Hand over the reins here—that’s it; hold on by his head till the lady mounts. Put that machine of mine in a dry place, will you? Now then, Mrs. Fiander, give me your hand. Whoa, boy! Steady! There we are—Let go!’

He laid the whip lightly on the animal’s back, and they were off before Rosalie had had time to protest or to demur.

The long legs of the three-year-old covered the ground in a marvellous manner, and with that tall masterful figure by her side she could feel no fear. Indeed the sensation of swinging along through the brisk air was pleasant enough, though she felt a little uncomfortable at the thought of the astonishment which her arrival in such company would produce at home; and she was, moreover, not quite certain if she relished being thus peremptorily taken possession of by the new-comer. Rosalie was used to think and act for herself and it was quite a new experience to her to have her will gainsaid and her objections overborne, even in her own interests. But, after all, the man was Isaac’s nephew, and no one could find fault with her for accepting his assistance. In a few months’ time she would be his aunt—perhaps he would then allow her wishes to have more weight. She smiled to herself as she glanced up at him—what would he say if she told him the relationship which he would shortly bear to her? He would be her nephew. How ridiculous it seemed! He must be some years older than she was; there were firm lines in that brown face, and the hands looked capable and strong, as if they had accomplished plenty of work.

When they reached Yellowham Hill once more and began to descend at a foot’s pace, Richard broke silence.

‘I have seen and done a good many things in the course of my travels, but I have never come across so beautiful a spot as this, and none of my adventures have been so curious as the one which introduced me to you.’

‘Really,’ said Rosalie drily; ‘I cannot see that there was anything so very extraordinary in it. Even if Nigger had not had this accident we should have been certain to meet while you are staying at Mr. Sharpe’s.’

‘I wonder,’ said the young man, speaking half to himself and half to her—‘I wonder if I should have preferred to meet you first in your own fields—in a cornfield. But the corn, of course, will not be ripe for months to come. No, on the whole I am content. I said to myself when I was climbing the hill, “There is magic in this place,” and I felt it was home.’

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said Rosalie. ‘What can it matter where one first meets a new acquaintance, and why should it be in a cornfield?’

‘I saw you first in a cornfield,’ said he.

‘But surely you were not in England last harvest time,’ she cried. ‘What are you talking about? You have only just said that you would like to _have met_ me first in a cornfield, which proves—what is true—that you have never seen me before.’

‘I have seen you before,’ he murmured in a low voice.

‘Nonsense, nonsense,’ she cried sharply; ‘you must have dreamt it.’

‘Yes—I did dream—about you,’ he owned, glancing at her; and once more that curious look of wondering joy stole over his face.

Rosalie drew a little away from him in a displeasure which he was quick to observe.

‘I will explain some day,’ he said, looking down at her with a smile which disarmed her; and then, having reached the bottom of the hill, he chirruped to the horse, and they sped along once more at an exhilarating pace.

By-and-by he began to talk about his uncle, speaking of him with such evident affection that the heart of the future Mrs. Sharpe warmed to him. Her grateful regard for Isaac had increased during their four months’ betrothal. Indeed, it could not have been otherwise: he was so placid, and good-natured, and obliging. Moreover, he took a lot of trouble off her hands, for he had assumed the management of the farm immediately after their engagement. No one could cavil at this arrangement: it was natural that the man who was so shortly to be master should at once take over the control of affairs. Even the gossips of the neighbourhood could make no ill-natured comments; one and all, indeed, agreeing that it was pretty behaviour on the part of the Widow Fiander to postpone the wedding till after the year was out.

So Rosalie listened, well pleased, while Richard spoke of Isaac’s past generosity to him and his mother, of the high esteem in which he held him, and of his desire to spend a few weeks in his company before going out into the world afresh.

‘Perhaps I ought to tell him that I am going to marry his uncle,’ thought Rosalie, and then she dismissed the notion. Let Isaac make the announcement himself; she felt rather shy about it—and possibly Richard Marshall might not like the idea.

She began to question him, instead, anent his past achievements and future prospects, and heard with astonishment and concern that the young man had not only failed to make his fortune in the distant lands he had visited, but had come back in some ways poorer than he had set out.

‘Only in some things, though,’ he said. ‘I reckon I am richer on the whole.’

‘How are you poorer and how are you richer?’ queried Rosalie.

‘I am poorer in pocket; my uncle sent me out with a nice little sum to start me in life. Ah, as I tell you, he’s a first-rate old chap. He could n’t have done more for me if I had been his son. Well, that’s gone long ago, but I have come back richer all the same—rich in experience, for one thing. I have seen a lot and learnt a lot. I educated myself out there in more ways than one. Dear old Dorset holds a very fine place on the map of England, yet ’t is but a tiny corner of the world after all.’

As she listened there came to Rosalie a sudden inexplicable envy. She had never been out of her native county—she had never wanted to travel beyond its borders, but for a moment the thought struck her that it might be a fine and desirable thing to see the world.

‘I wonder,’ she said tartly, for her irritation at this discovery recoiled on its unsuspicious cause—‘I wonder, Mr. Marshall, you should care to come back to Dorset since you have such a poor opinion of it. Why did n’t you settle out there?’

‘Out where?’ he inquired with a smile. ‘I have tried to settle in a good many places. I was in a newspaper office in New York—it was while I was there that I did most in the way of educating myself—and then I went to San Francisco, and then to Texas. I’ve been pretty well over the States, in fact, and I’ve been to Mexico and Brazil and Canada. I might have done well in several places if I could have made up my mind to stick to the job in hand—but I could n’t. Something was drawing me all the time—drawing me back to England—drawing me home, so that at last I felt I must come back.’

‘And what will you do now?’ she inquired with curiosity.

‘Oh,’ he cried, drawing a deep breath, ‘I must work on a farm. The love for farm-work is in my blood, I believe. I want the smell of the fresh-turned earth; I want my arms to be tired heaving the sheaves into the waggons; I want to lead out the horses early in the morning into the dewy fields—I want, oh, many things!’

Rosalie considered him wonderingly: these things were done around her every day as a matter of course, but how curiously the man spoke of them, how unaccountable was that longing of which he spoke! She had never seen anyone the least like him, and, now that the conversation had drifted away from herself, she felt a real pleasure and interest in listening to his talk. As they drove onward through the gathering twilight she, too, was moved to talk, and was charmed by his quick understanding and ready response. Her own wits were quick enough, but she had fallen into the habit of keeping her opinions on abstract subjects to herself: the concrete was all that the people with whom she associated were capable of discussing; and, indeed, they had not much to say on any matter at any time. This young bright personality was something so absolutely new to her, his point of view so original and vigorous, and his sympathy so magnetic, that Rosalie enjoyed her adventure as she had never enjoyed anything in her life before. Her eyes shone, her cheeks flushed, her merry laugh rang out; she felt that she, too, was young and light-hearted, and that life and youth and gay companionship made a very delightful combination.

As they drew near their destination a sudden silence fell between them, and presently Richard broke it, speaking in a soft and altered tone.

‘How familiar the country grows! Even in the dark I recognise a friend at every turn. Is not that your house yonder where the lights are glimmering?’

‘Yes,’ said Rosalie, with a little unconscious sigh.

‘The cornfield where I saw you lies just to the right of it.’

‘I wish you would not talk in riddles,’ said Rosalie, breathing rather quickly. Through the dusk he could see the wrathful fire in her eyes.

‘Do not be angry,’ he said quickly; ‘I meant to tell you another time when I had come to know you better, but after all why should I not tell you now? I saw a picture of you in London. I stayed a day or two there on my way through from Liverpool—I had some business to do for a friend in New York—and I went to the Academy, and there, in the very first room, I saw your picture.’

‘My picture!’ ejaculated she. ‘It must have been the one that London gentleman said he would paint.’

‘Yes, it was you—you yourself; and you were lying in a cornfield under a shock of wheat, and the corner of your house could just be seen in the distance, and some of the men were reaping a little way off—but you were fast asleep.’

Rosalie’s heart was thumping in a most unusual way, and her breath came so pantingly that she did not trust herself to speak.

‘’T was a big picture,’ he said; ‘full of sunshine, and when I saw it—the whole thing—the great field stretching away, and the men working, and the quiet old house in the distance, and the girl sleeping so placidly—it was all so glowing, and yet so peaceful and homelike that my heart went out to it. “That’s Dorset,” I said, and I believe I cried—I know I felt as if I could cry. After all those years of wandering to find, when I thought myself all alone in a great strange city, that piece of home smiling at one—I tell you it made one feel queer.’

Rosalie remained silent, angry with herself for the agitation which had taken possession of her.

‘So you see I was not quite so far wrong in saying that to-day’s meeting was a very strange one. The first instant my eyes fell upon you I recognised you.’

She felt she must say something, but her voice sounded husky and quite unlike itself when she spoke.

‘It certainly was odd that we should come across each other near Dorchester. It would of course have been quite natural if you had recognised me when you came to your uncle’s.’

‘I thought you would have been more interested in my story,’ he said reproachfully, after a pause.

‘I am—I am very much interested; I think it a very funny story.’

‘Funny!’ he repeated, and then relapsed into silence, which remained unbroken until they turned in at Rosalie’s gate.