Chapter XVII

When was old Sherwood's head more quaintly curled? Or looked the earth more green upon the world? Or nature's cradle more enchased and purled? When did the air so smile, the wind so chime, As quiristers of season, and the prime? BEN JONSON.

Miss Haye, however, had never sent her fingers over the keys with more energy, than now her feet tripped over the dry leaves and stones in the path to Mountain Spring. She took a very rough way, through the woods. There was another, much plainer, round by the wagon road; but Elizabeth chose the more solitary and prettier way, roundabout and hard to the foot though it was.

For some little distance there was a rude wagon-track, very rough, probably made for the convenience of getting wood. It stood thick with pretty large stones or heads of rock; but it was softly grass-grown between the stones and gave at least a clear way through the woods, upon which the morning light if not the morning sun beamed fairly. A light touch of white frost lay upon the grass and covered the rocks with bloom, the promise of a mild day. After a little, the roadway descended into a bit of smooth meadow, well walled in with trees, and lost itself there. In the tree-tops the morning sun was glittering; it could not get to the bottom yet; but up there among the leaves it gave a bright shimmering prophecy of what it would do; it was a sparkle of heavenly light touching the earth. Elizabeth had never seen it before; she had never in her life been in the woods at so early an hour. She stood still to look. It was impossible to help feeling the light of that glittering promise; its play upon the leaves was too joyous, too pure, too fresh. She felt her heart grow stronger and her breath come freer. What was the speech of those light- touched leaves, she might not have told; something her spirit took knowledge of while her reason did not. Or had not leisure to do; for if she did not get to Mountain Spring in good season she would not be home for breakfast. Yet she had plenty of time, but she did not wish to run short. So she went on her way.

From the valley meadow for half a mile, it was not much more or much better than a cow-path, beaten a little by the feet of the herdsman seeking his cattle or of an occasional foot- traveller to Mountain Spring. It was very rough indeed. Often Elizabeth must make quite a circuit among cat-briars and huckleberry bushes and young underwood, or keep the path at the expense of stepping up and stepping down again over a great stone or rock blocking up the whole way. Sometimes the track was only marked over the grey lichens of an immense head of granite that refused moss and vegetation of every other kind; sometimes it wound among thick alder bushes by the edge of wet ground; and at all times its course was among a wilderness of uncared-for woodland, overgrown with creepers and vines tangled with underbrush, and thickly strewn with larger and smaller fragments and boulders of granite rock. But how beautiful it was! The alders, reddish and soft-tinted, looked when the sun struck through them as if they were exotics out of witch-land; the Cornus family, from beautiful dogwood a dozen feet high stretching over Elizabeth's head, to little humble nameless plants at her feet, had edged and parted their green leaves with most dainty clear hues of madder lake; white birches and hickories glimmered in the sunlight like trees of gold, the first with stems of silver; sear leaves strewed the way; and fresh pines and hemlocks stretched out their arms amidst the changing foliage, with their evergreen promise and performance. The morning air and the morning walk no doubt had something to do with the effect of the whole; but Elizabeth thought, with all the beauty her eyes had ever seen they had never been more bewitched than they were that day.

With such a mood upon her, it was no wonder that on arriving at Mountain Spring she speedily made out her errand. She found whom and what she had come for; she filled her basket with no loss of time or pleasure; and very proud of her success set out again through the wood-path homeward.

Half way back to the bit of tree-enclosed meadow-ground, the path and the north shore of Shahweetah approached each other, where a little bay curve, no other than the _AEgean Sea_, swept in among the rocks. Through the stems of the trees Elizabeth could see the blue water with the brightness of the hour upon it. Its sparkle tempted her. She had plenty of time, or she resolved that she had, and she wanted to look at the fair broad view she knew the shore edge would give her. She hesitated, and turned, A few bounding and plunging steps amid rocks and huckleberry bushes brought her where she wished to be. She stood on the border, where no trees came in the way of the northern view. The mountains were full before her, and the wide Shatemuc rolled down between them, ruffled with little waves, every one sparkling cool in the sunlight. Elizabeth looked at the water a minute, and turned to the west. Wut-a- qut-o's head had caught more of the frosts than Shahweetah had felt yet; there were broad belts of buff and yellow along the mountain, even changing into sear where its sides felt the north wind. On all that shore the full sunlight lay. The opposite hills, on the east, were in dainty sunshine and shadow, every undulation, every ridge and hollow, softly marked out. With what wonderful sharp outline the mountain edges rose against the bright sky; how wonderful soft the changes of shade and colour adown their sloping sides; what brilliant little ripples of water rolled up to the pebbles at Elizabeth's feet. She stood and looked at it all, at one thing and the other, half dazzled with the beauty; until she recollected herself, and with a deep sighful expression of thoughts and wishes unknown, turned away to find her path again.

But she could not find it. Whereabouts it was, she was sure; but the _where_ was an unfindable thing. And she dared not strike forward without the track; she might get further and further from it, and never get home to breakfast at all! -- There was nothing for it but to grope about seeking for indications; and Miss Haye's eyes were untrained to wood-work. The woodland was a mazy wilderness now indeed. Points of stone, beds of moss, cat-briar vines and huckleberry bushes, in every direction; and between which of them lay that little invisible track of a footpath? The more she looked the more she got perplexed. She could remember no waymarks. The way was all cat-briars, moss, bushes, and rocks; and rocks, bushes, moss and cat-briars were in every variety all around her. She turned her face towards the quarter from which she had come and tried to recognize some tree or waymark she could remember having passed. One part of the wood looked just like another; but for the mountains and the river she could not have told where lay Mountain Spring.

Then a little sound of rustling leaves and crackling twigs reached her ear from behind her.

"There is a cow!" thought Elizabeth; -- "now I can find the path by her. But then! -- cows don't always --"

Her eye had been sweeping round the woody skirts of her position, in search of her expected four-footed guide, when her thoughts were suddenly brought to a point by seeing a two- footed creature approaching, and one whom she instantly knew.

"It is Winthrop Landholm! -- he is going to Mountain Spring to take an early coach, without his breakfast! -- Well, you fool, what is it to you?" was the next thought. "What does it signify whether he goes sooner or later, when it would be better for you not to see him at all, if your heart is going to start in that fashion at every time. --"

Meanwhile she was making her way as well as she could, over rocks and briars, towards the new-comer; and did not look up till she answered his greeting --

"Good morning! --"

It was very cheerfully spoken.

"Good morning," said Elizabeth, entangled in a cat-briar, from which with a desperate effort she broke free before any help could be given her.

"Those are naughty things."

"No," said Elizabeth, "they look beautiful now when they are growing tawny, as a contrast with the other creepers and the deep green cedars. And they are a beautiful green at other times."

"Make the best of them. What were you looking at, a minute ago?"

"Looking for my way. I had lost it."

"You don't know it very well, I guess."

"Yes. -- No, not very well, but I could follow it, and did, till coming home I thought I had time to look at the view; and then I couldn't find it again. I got turned about."

"You were completely turned about when I saw you."

"O I was not going that way -- I knew better than that. I was trying to discover some waymark."

"How did you get out of the way?"

"I went to look at the view -- from the water's edge there."

"Have you a mind to go back to the river edge again? I have not seen that view in a long while. _I_ shall not lose the path."

"Then you cannot be intending to go by an early coach," thought Elizabeth, as she picked her way back over rocks and moss to the water's edge. But Winthrop knew the ground, and brought her a few steps further to a broad standing-place of rock where the look-out was freer. There was again before her the sparkling river, the frost-touched mountain, the sharp outlines, the varying shadows, that she had looked at a few minutes back. Elizabeth looked at them again, thinking now not of them but of something different at every turn.

"The rock is too wet," said Winthrop, "or I should propose your sitting down."

"You certainly must have had your breakfast," thought Elizabeth, "and not know that I haven't had mine."

"I don't want to sit down," she said quietly. A pang of fear again came to her heart, that in another minute or two he would be off to Mountain Spring. But his next movement negatived that. It was to take her basket, which she had till then tried to carry so that it would not be noticed. She was thankful he did not know what was in it.

"Do you often take such early walks as this?"

"No, not often," said Elizabeth guiltily. "I row more."

"So early?"

"No, not generally. Though there is no time more pleasant."

"You are looking well," he said gravely. "Better than I ever saw you look."

"It's very odd," thought Elizabeth, -- "it must be the flush of my walk -- I didn't look so this morning in the glass -- nor last night. --" But she looked up and said boldly, laughing,

"I thought you came here to see the prospect, Mr. Landholm."

"I have been looking at it," he said quietly. "I need not say anything about that -- it never changes."

"Do you mean that I do?" said Elizabeth.

"Everybody ought to change for the better, always," he said with a little smile, -- "so I hope you are capable of that."

Elizabeth thought in her heart, though she was no better, yet that she had truly changed for the better, since former times; she half wanted to tell him so, the friend who had had most to do with changing her. But a consciousness of many things and an honest fear of speaking good of herself, kept her lips shut; though her heart beat with the wish and the doubt. Winthrop's next words in a few minutes decided it.

"What is the fact, Miss Elizabeth?"

Elizabeth hesitated, -- and hesitated. He looked at her.

"I hope I am changed, a little, Mr. Landholm; but there is a great deal more to change!"

Her face was very ingenuous and somewhat sorrowful, as she turned it towards him; but his looked so much brighter than she had ever seen it, that the meeting of the two tides was just more than her spirits could bear. The power of commanding herself, which for the last few minutes had been growing less and less, gave way. Her look shrank from his. Winthrop had come nearer to her, and had clasped the hand that was nearest him and held it in his own. It was a further expression of the pleasure she had seen in his smile. Elizabeth was glad that her own face was hidden by her sunbonnet. She would not have either its pain or its pleasure to be seen. Both were sharp enough just then. But strong necessity made her keep outwardly quiet.

"What does the change date from?"

"As to time, do you mean?" said Elizabeth struggling.

"As to time, and motive."

"The time is but lately," she said with a tremulous voice, -- "though I have thought about it, more or less, for a good while."

"Thought what?"

"Felt that you were right and I was wrong, Mr. Landholm."

"What made you think you were wrong?"

"I felt that I was -- I knew it."

"What makes you think you are changed now?"

"I hardly dare speak of it -- it is so little."

"You may, I hope, -- to me."

"It is hardly _I_ that am changed, so much as my motives and views."

"And they -- how?" he said after waiting a moment.

"It seems to me," she said slowly, "lately, that I am willing to go by a new rule of life from that I used to follow."

"What is the new rule?"

"Well -- Not my own will, Mr. Landholm."

He stood silent a little while. Her hand was still held in his. Elizabeth would have thought he had forgotten it, but that it was held in a free clasp which did not seem to imply forgetfulness. It was enough to forbid it on her part.

"How does the new rule work?" was his next question.

"It works hard, Mr. Landholm!" said Elizabeth, turning her face suddenly upon him for an instant. His look was bright, but she felt that her own eyes were swimming.

"Do you know that I am very glad to hear all this?" he said after another little pause.

"Yes," said Elizabeth under breath, -- "I supposed you would be. -- I knew you would."

"I hope you like being catechized," he said in a lighter tone.

"Yes -- I do -- by anybody that has a right to do it."

"I have taken the right."

"Certainly! -- You have the best in the world."

"I am glad you think so, though I don't exactly see how you make it out."

"Why! -- it's not necessary to explain how I make it out," said Elizabeth.

"No, -- especially as I am going to ask you to give it to me for the future."

"What?" -- said she looking at him.

He became grave.

"Miss Haye, I have a great boon to ask of you."

"Well?" -- said Elizabeth eagerly. "I am very glad you have!"

"Why?"

"Why? -- why, because it's pleasant."

"You don't know what it is, yet."

"No," said Elizabeth, -- "but my words are safe."

"I want you to give me something."

"You preface it as if it were some great thing, and you look as if it was nothing," thought Elizabeth a little in wonderment. But she said only,

"You may have it. What is it?"

"Guess."

"I can't possibly."

"You are incautious. You don't know what you are giving away."

"What is it?" said Elizabeth a little impatiently.

"Yourself."

Elizabeth looked quick away, not to see anything, with the mind's eye or any other, for a blur came over both. She was no fainter; she was strong of mind and body; but the one and the other were shaken; and for that bit of time, and it was several minutes, her senses performed no office at all. And when consciousness of distinct things began to come back, there came among all her other feelings an odd perverse fear of shewing the uppermost one or two, and a sort of mortified unreadiness to strike her colours and yield at once without having made a bit of fight for it. Yet these were not the uppermost feelings, but they were there, among them and struggling with them. She stood quite still, her face hidden by her sunbonnet, and her companion was quite still too, with her hand still in his, held in the same free light clasp; and she had a vexed consciousness of his being far the cooler of the two. While she was thus silent, however, Elizabeth's head, and her very figure, was bowed lower and lower with intensity of feeling.

"What is the matter?" Winthrop said; and the tone of those words conquered her. The proud Miss Haye made a very humble answer.

"I am very glad, Mr. Landholm -- but I am not good enough."

"For what?"

But Elizabeth did not answer.

"I will take my risk of that," said he kindly. "Besides, you have confessed the power of changing."

The risk, or something else, seemed to lie upon Elizabeth's mind, from the efforts she was making to overcome emotion. Winthrop observed her for a moment.

"But you have not spoken, yet," said he. "I want a confirmation of my grant."

She knew from his tone that his mood was the very reverse of hers; and it roused the struggle again. "Provoking man!" she thought, "why couldn't he ask me in any other way! -- And why need he smile when I am crying! --" She commanded herself to raise her head, however, though she did not dare look.

"Am I to have it?"

"To have what?"

"An answer."

"I don't know what it's to be, Mr. Landholm," Elizabeth stammered. "What do you want?"

"Will you give me what I asked you for?"

"I thought you knew you had it already," she said, not a little vexed to have the words drawn from her.

"It is mine, then?"

"Yes --"

"Then," said he, coming in full view of her blushing face and taking the other hand, -- "what are you troubled for?"

Elizabeth could not have borne it one instant, to meet his eye, without breaking into a flood of tears she had no hands to cover. As her only way of escape, she sprang to one side freeing one of her hands on the sudden, and jumped down the rock, muttering something very unintelligibly about 'breakfast.' But her other hand was fast still, and so was she at the foot of the rock.

"Stop," said Winthrop, -- "we must take this basket along. -- I don't know if there is anything very precious in it." --

He reached after it as he spoke, and then they went on; and by the help of his hand her backward journey over rocks, stones, and trunks of trees in the path, was easily and lightly made; till they reached the little bit of meadow. Which backward journey Elizabeth accomplished in about two minutes and a quarter. There Winthrop transferred to his arm the hand that had rested in his, and walked more leisurely.

"Are you in such a hurry for your breakfast?" said he. "I have had mine."

"Had it! -- before you came out?"

"No," -- said he smiling, -- "since."

"Are you laughing at me? -- or have you had it?" said Elizabeth looking puzzled.

"Both," said Winthrop. "What are you trembling so for?"

It hushed Elizabeth again, till they got quit of the meadow, and began more slowly still, the ascent of the rough half-made wheel-road.

"Miss Haye --" said Winthrop gently.

She paused in her walk, looking at him.

"What are you thinking of?"

"Thinking of! --"

"Yes. You don't look as happy as I feel."

"I am," -- she said.

"How do you know?"

What a colour spread over Elizabeth's face! But she laughed too, so perhaps his end was gained.

"I was thinking," she said, with the desperate need of saying something, -- "a little while ago, when you were helping me through the woods, -- how a very few minutes before, I had been so quite alone in the world."

"Don't forget there is one arm that never can fail you," he replied gravely. "Mine may."

Elizabeth looked at him rather timidly, and his face changed.

"There was no harm in that," he said, with so bright an expression as she had never before seen given to her. "What will you say, if I tell you that I myself at that same time was thinking over in my mind very much the same thing -- with relation to myself, I mean."

Elizabeth's heart beat and her breath came short. That was what she had never thought of. Like many another woman, what _he_ was to her, she knew well; what _she_ might be to him, it had never entered her head to think. It seemed almost a new and superfluous addition to her joy, yet not superfluous from that time forth for ever. Once known, it was too precious a thought to be again untasted. She hung her head over it; she stepped all unwittingly on rocks and short grass and wet places and dry, wherever she was led. It made her heart beat thick to think she could be so valued. How was it possible! How she wished -- how keenly -- that she could have been of the solid purity of silver or gold, to answer the value put upon her. But instead of that -- what a far-off difference! Winthrop could not know how great, or he would never have said that, or felt it; nor could he. What about her could possibly have attracted it?

She had not much leisure to ponder the question, for her attention was called off to answer present demands. And there was another subject for pondering -- Winthrop did not seem like the same person she had known under the same name, he was so much more free and pleasant and bright to talk than he had ever been to her before, or in her observation, to anybody. He talked to a very silent listener, albeit she lost never a word nor a tone. She wondered at him and at everything, and stepped along wondering, with a heart too full to speak, almost too full to hide its agitation.

They were nearing home, they had got quit of the woodway road, and were in a cleared field, grown with tall cedars, which skirted the river. Half way across it, Elizabeth's foot paused, and came to a full stop. What was the matter?

Elizabeth faced round a little, as if addressing her judge, though she spoke without lifting her eyes.

"Mr. Landholm -- do you know that I am _full_ of faults?"

"Yes."

"And aren't you afraid of them?"

"No, -- not at all," he said, smiling, Elizabeth knew. But she answered very gravely,

"I am."

"Which is the best reason in the world why I should not be. It is written 'Blessed is the man that feareth always.'"

"I am afraid -- you don't know me."

"I don't know," said he smiling. "You haven't told me anything new yet."

"I am afraid you think of me, somehow, better than I deserve."

"What is the remedy for that?"

Elizabeth hesitated, with an instant's vexed consciousness of his provoking coolness; then looking up met his eye for a second, laughed, and went on perfectly contented. But she wondered with a little secret mortification, that Winthrop was as perfectly at home and at his ease in the newly established relations between them as if they had subsisted for six months. "Is it nothing new to him?" she said to herself. "Did he know that it only depended on him to speak? -- or is it his way with all the world?" It was not that she was undervalued, or slightly regarded, but valued and regarded with such unchanged self-possession. Meanwhile they reached the edge of the woodland, from which the house and garden were to be seen close at hand.

"Stay here," said Winthrop; -- "I will carry this basket in and let them know you may be expected to breakfast."

"But if you do that, --" said Elizabeth colouring --

"What then?"

"I don't know what they will think."

"They may think what they have a mind," said he with a little bit of a smile again. "I want to speak to you."

Elizabeth winced a bit. He was gone, and she stood thinking, among other things, that he might have asked what _she_ would like. And how did he know but breakfast was ready then? Or did he know everything? And how quietly and unqualifiedly, to be sure, he had taken her consignment that morning. She did not know whether to like it or not like it, -- till she saw him coming again from the house.

"After all," said he, "I think we had better go in and take breakfast, and talk afterwards. It seems to be in a good state of forwardness."