She answered his brief communication by one equally brief: “Try not to think of it at all if you cannot think the right way.”
So North buried himself in his work, forced and drove himself to think of nothing else. Slept at night from sheer weariness, and grew more haggard and more silent day by day. At least if he could not be on the side of the angels he would not help the devils.
The month was mostly wild and wet, with here and there days of supreme1 beauty. It was on one of these, the last day of October, that Ruth and Violet went, as they often did, for a long tramp through the wet woods and over the wind-swept hills towards the sea. The atmosphere was that exquisite2 clearness which often follows much rain. The few leaves remaining on the trees, of burnished3 golden-brown, came falling in soft rustling4 showers with each gust5 248of the fresh strong wind. They had walked far, so far that they had come by hill and dale as the crow flies to where the fall of the ground came so abruptly6 as to hide the middle distance, and the edge of the downs, broken by its low dark juniper-bushes, stood before them, clear-cut, against the great sweep of coastline far away beneath. Pale gold and russet, the flat lands stretched, streaked7 with the sullen9 silver of sea-bound river and stream, to where, like a hard steel-blue line on the horizon, lay the sea itself. And behind that straight line, black and menacing, and touched with a livid ragged10 edge, rolled up the coming of a great storm.
It made a noble picture, and Ruth watched it for a few moments, her face responding, answering to its beauty. She loved these landscapes of England, loved them not only with her present self, but also with some far-away depth of forgotten experience. And it seemed to her that she loved with them also those “unknown generations of dead men” to whom they had been equally dear. For these few moments, as she looked out over the edge of the downs, she forgot the haunting evil which was darkening all her days, forgot everything but the beauty of great space, of the wild rushing wind, the freedom—the escape.
Odd bits of quotations11 came to her, as they 249always did in these moments; one, more insistent12 than the others, sang, put itself into music, clear, bell-like, mysterious:
“When I have reached my journey’s end,
And I am dead and free.”
And in that moment her sense of being in touch with Dick Carey came back to her. Came flooding in like a great tide of help and encouragement and power.
“And I am dead and free.”
And yet people were afraid of death!
The great winds came up from the sea across the earth-scented downs, shouting as they came. She loved them, and the big dark masses of cloud. She could have shouted too, for joy of that great sense of freedom, of power, of control, because she was one with those magnificent forces of nature. In her too was that strength and freedom which bowed only to the One who is All.
The blood tingled13 in her veins14; in the full sweep of the wind she was warm—warm with life. She forgot Violet Riversley cowering15 at her side. Forgot the little dogs crouching16, tucked against her feet, and swept for one wild moment out into the immensity of a great freedom. Then, suddenly, the steel-blue line of sea 250broke into white, the storm-clouds met and crashed, and lightning, like the sharp thrust of a living sword, struck across the downs, struck and struck again. Heaven and earth and the waters under the earth shuddered17 and reeled in the grip of the storm, and Violet Riversley, screaming with terror, fell on her knees by Ruth, clasping her, crying:
“Keep it away from me! Keep it away! God! I can’t bear it any longer! Keep it away!”
And at her cry all the motherhood in Ruth’s nature, never concentrated only on the few, leapt into full life and splendour, spread its white wings of protection. And away and beyond her own love and pity she felt that of another. Away and above her own fight was a greater fight, infinitely18 greater. She picked the girl up into the shelter of her arms, and her whole heart cried out in a passion of pity. She said odd little foolish words of tenderness, as mothers will, for the form she held was as light as that of a little child; just a shell it felt, nothing more.
And then, suddenly, the rain fell in one blinding rushing flood, drenching19 the little group to the skin, blotting20 out everything with its torrential flow.
“Ah, look!” said Ruth, almost involuntarily. 251A great flash of light had broken through from the west, and against the violet black sky the rain looked like a silver wall. It was amazingly, even terribly, beautiful.
“We are in for a proper ducking,” she said, trying to regain21 the normal. “Wet to the skin already, all of us. And Sarah and Selina frightened to death, the little cowards! You’d better keep moving, dear. Come along.”
It seemed a weary way home. Never had Ruth been more thankful for the presence of Miss McCox in her household. Fires, hot baths, hot coffee, all were ready; and she dried even Selina, though surreptitiously, behind the kitchen door that none might behold22 her weakness, with her own hand. She put Violet to bed after her hot bath, and ordered her to stay there. Nothing but asserting herself forcibly kept Ruth from a like fate.
“Them as will be foolish, there is no reasoning with,” said Miss McCox, with dignity, and retreated to the kitchen muttering like the storm.
After a lull23, it had returned again with renewed force. The old house rocked as the great wind hurled24 itself upon it, shrieking25 against the shuddering26 windows as if demanding admittance. Sheets of wild rain broke upon the panes27, and every now and then the thunder 252crashed and broke and rent. After her dinner Ruth went up and sat by the log fire in Violet’s room. The pillow on which she lay was hardly whiter than the girl’s face. Her great gold eyes gazed out into the shadows blankly. Very small and young and helpless she looked, and Ruth’s heart ached for her. She chatted on cheerfully, as she wove a woollen garment for some little child of France with her ever-busy fingers; chatted of the little things about the farm; told little quaint29 stories of the animals and flowers. Had she known it, just so had Dick Carey often talked, in the winter evenings over the fire, to the listening children. But Violet Riversley just lay still, gazing into the shadows, taking little notice. She made no allusion30 to her violent attack of terror out in the storm, and it grew on Ruth uncannily and horribly that the girl who had clung to her, crying for help, had slipped away from her again, somewhere out into the darkness and silence, torn from all known anchorage.
The little dogs had remained in their baskets downstairs; only Larry had followed her up, and lay across the doorway31, his nose upon his paws, his eyes gleaming watchfully32 out of the shadow. Every now and then, when the shattering wind with increasing violence struck against the house again and again and wailed34 253away like a baffled spirit, he growled35 in his throat as at a visible intruder.
It was late before Ruth gathered her work up and said good-night. She was honestly tired in mind and body, but an unaccountable reluctance36 to leave Violet held her. And yet the girl was apparently37 less restless, more normal, than usual. Tired out, like herself, surely she would sleep. Her terror out in the storm seemed entirely38 to have gone.
So Ruth reasoned to herself as she went downstairs.
In the sitting-room39 the little dogs slept soundly in their baskets. The fire still burned, a handful of warm red ashes. The whole place seemed full of peace and comfort, in marked contrast to the rush and wail33 of the storm outside. Ruth crossed to the lamp to see that it was in order, and moved about putting little tidying touches to the room, as women do the last thing before they go upstairs to bed. She was fully28 alive to the fact that the three weeks of Violet’s visit had been a heavy strain on her, mentally and bodily. It would be quite easy to imagine things, to let this knowledge that she was fighting steadily40, almost fiercely, against some awful unseen force overwhelm her, to drive her beyond the limits of what was sanely41 and reasonably possible. With her renewed 254sense of awareness42 of Dick Carey’s presence had come an indefinable yearning43 tenderness for Violet Riversley which had been lacking before in her kindly44 interest and friendship. To give way to fear or dread45 was the surest way to fail in both.
She looked out at the night. By the light streaming from the window she could see a streak8 of rain-washed lawn, and, dimly, beyond, the tortured branches of trees bowed and strained under the whip of the wind. She drew all the forces of her mind to the centre of her being.
“Lord of the heights and depths, Who dwellest in all the Forms that Thou hast made.”
She let the blind fall into its place and moved back into the room. Larry had settled himself in the big armchair which had been Dick Carey’s. She stooped to stroke his head, and he looked at her with eyes that surely understood.
“Lord of the heights and depths, Who dwellest in all the Forms that Thou hast made.”
She kept the words and the thought in her mind quite steadily. Almost as soon as she lay down she passed into sleep, and dreamt—dreamt that she was walking in the buttercup field with Dick Carey and it was early morning in the heart of the springtime. And he told her many things, many and wonderful and beautiful 255things, which afterwards she tried to recall and could not. And then, suddenly, he was calling to her from a distance, and she was broad wide awake sitting up in bed, and Larry in the room below barked fiercely, then was silent.
The next instant she had thrown her dressing46-gown over her shoulders and was running bare-footed across the landing and down the stairs. Midway across the big old hall she stopped dead, for on her had fallen, swiftly and terribly, that old horror of her small childhood, a sense of all-pervading blackness. It gripped her as forcibly as it had done in those far-off days. Again she was a small utterly47 helpless thing in its hideous48 clutch. The light streaming from under the sitting-room door accentuated49 the blackness, gleamed evilly, assumed a sinister50 and terrible importance.
Almost she turned and fled—fled out of the door behind her into the storm-swept night, away to the clean air, to the darkness which was full of beauty and healing. Not this—this that stifled51, and soiled, and buried. Away—anywhere—anyhow—from what was behind that flickering52 evil light, which made the hideous blackness visible as well as tangible53.
Almost, but not quite. That which the long years of patience and endurance had built into her, held. Dick Carey had called to her. What 256if he were in there, fighting, fighting against odds54. For the world was full of this Evil let loose, the vibrations56 became palpable, engulfed57 her, beat her down. For a moment that seemed endless she fought for more than physical life.
Then she moved forward again, and it was as in dreams when feet are leaden-weighted and we move them with an effort that seems past our strength. But she did not hesitate again. Steadily she opened the door. Dragging those leaden feet she went in and closed it behind her.
A blast of hot air met her, insufferably hot. Some one had made up the fire again. Piled high with logs it burnt fiercely. The room was in disorder58. In the far corner by the south window the little dogs lay cringing59 with terror, trembling, while before them Larry crouched60, his white fangs61 bare, his lips lifted till the gums showed, his blazing eyes fixed62 on the figure in the centre of the room—the figure of Violet Riversley.
Before her, piled on the floor, were various articles, books and papers, gathered together and heaped in the shape of a bonfire. At her feet lay the bronze lamp. In her right hand she held the wick, still alight. Curiously63, the light from the blazing logs played on the long folds of her white gown. Almost it seemed as if she were clothed in flame.
257It was more subconsciously64 than in any other way that Ruth took in these details, for every sense she had—and all had become most acutely alive—concentrated on the terrific and hideous fact that, enveloping65 Violet, encasing her as it were, was a great outstanding Figure or Presence. Fear gripped her to the soul like ice. She could have screamed with very terror, but she was beyond the use of the body, beyond, it seemed, all help. For the entity67 that was not Violet Riversley, very surely not Violet Riversley, but a being infinitely stronger and more powerful, looked at her with the eyes of a soul self-tortured, self-maimed, and she saw in all their terrific hideousness68 Hate and Revenge incarnate69.
And as she looked a worse horror gripped her. The Thing was trying to master her, to make her its instrument, even as it had made Violet Riversley. The very hair of her head rose upon it as she felt her grip on herself loosening, weakening. Her individuality seemed to desert her, to disintegrate70, to disappear.
Then, as from a long way off, she heard Larry give a strange cry. Something between a howl and a bay its vibration55 stirred the air through miles. The cry of the wolf to the pack for help. 258The old dog had stood up, his jowl thrust forward, his body tense, ready for the spring.
With a final desperate effort, which seemed to tear her soul out of her body, Ruth cried too—cried to all she had ever thought or dreamed or held to of Good; and in that moment her awareness of Dick Carey suddenly became acute. Afterwards, in her ordinary consciousness, Ruth always found it impossible to recapture, or in any way adequately to remember, the sensations of the next overwhelming moment. Not only were they beyond speech they seemed beyond the grip of ordinary thought.
After that moment of supreme terror, of incredible struggle, with the acute return of her awareness of Dick Carey, with some crash of warring elements and forces, mingling72 as part of and yet distinct from the raging of the outside storm, she regained73 Herself. Was out as it were, in illimitable space, fighting shoulder to shoulder, hand to hand, one with Dick Carey. One, too, with some mighty74 force, fighting gloriously, triumphantly75, surely; fighting through all the Ages, through all the Past, on through all the Future, beyond Space and beyond Time.
Then, suddenly, she was carried out—in no other way could she describe it afterwards—out of the stress and the battle on a wave of very 259pure and perfect compassion76 into the heart of a radiance before which even the radiance of the fullest sunlight would be as a rush candle. And into that infinite radiance came too the deadly hatred77, the unspeakable malice78, the craving79 for revenge, the bitterness, the rebellion—came and was swallowed up, purified, transmuted80. In a great and glorious moment she knew that the Force was one and the same, and that it is the motive81 power behind which makes it Good or Evil.
Then the outside storm concentrated and fell in one overwhelming crash. The house rocked, and rocked again. Ruth, mechanically stepping forward, caught in her arms a body which fell against her almost like a paper shell. Very swiftly she carried it out into the hall. Her normal senses were suddenly again acute; they worked quickly. And on the stair, infinitely to her relief, appeared the shining polished countenance82 of Miss McCox. Her attire83 defied description, and in her hands she held, one in each, at the carry, the proverbial poker84 and tongs85. Behind her came Gladys, open-mouthed, dishevelled, likewise fully armed, and accomplishing a weird86 sound which appeared to be a combination of weeping and giggling87.
Ruth struggled with delightful88 and inextinguishable 260laughter, which she felt might very easily degenerate89 into hysterics, for she was shaking in every limb.
“No, no; it is not burglars!” she said. “Put those things down, and take Mrs. Riversley. She has been walking in her sleep, and I am afraid has fainted. You know what to do. I must telephone the doctor.”
In her mind was the immediate90 necessity of dealing91 with that sinister bonfire before it could work damage, also before any eyes but her own should see it.
The lighted wick had fallen on to papers sprinkled with the oil, and already, when she returned to the sitting-room, little tongues of flame were alight and a thin pillar of smoke crowned its apex92. She dealt swiftly with it with the heavy rugs luckily to her hand, and when the creeping fire was crushed out and stifled she put the injured remains93 of treasured books and ornaments94 hurriedly into the drawers of the big bookcase. The damage to the carpet there was no possibility of concealing95, and after a moment of thought she took one of the charred96 logs, black and burnt out, and scattered97 it where the pile had been. Then she took the wick in which the light still burned, true symbol of the Life Eternal, and restored it and the lamp to its own 261place, drew back the curtains, and opened the great window looking south.
It was early morning. The storm was riding away in broken masses of heavy cloud. Drenched98 and dim, and covered with a rising silver mist, the racked world rested in a sudden calm. But the storm had left its traces in the broken branches strewing99 lawn and garden and field, and across the pathway a great elm-tree, snapped half-way up the main trunk, lay with its proud head prostrate100, blocking the main entrance.
The coolness of the dawn touched like a benediction101 Ruth’s tired face and black and bruised102 hands. For a few moments she stood looking up at the washed sky, the fading stars, while the dogs nestled against her, craving for notice. A great sense of life and happiness came flowing into her, flowing like a mighty tide with the wind behind it, and she knew that all was well.
She would have given a good deal to sit down and cry, but there was much to be done. That morning passed like a hurried nightmare, the whole house pervaded103 with that painful agitation104 which the shadow of death, coming suddenly, brings, for Violet Riversley was desperately105 and dangerously ill. She was in a 262high fever, wildly delirious106, and Ruth found it impossible to leave her. Miss McCox took command in her absence, and moved about house and farm a very tower of strength in emergency, while Gladys haunted her footsteps, crying at every word, as is the manner of her kind in such moments. In the sitting-room, Roger North and his wife, summoned by telephone, waited while the doctor made his examination. The room had been stiffly set in order by Miss McCox’s swift capable hands. Over the scorched107 and blackened patch on the carpet she had set a table, nothing but a general air of bareness and smell of burning remained to hint of anything unusual. Both windows were opened wide to the chill early morning air, and Mrs. North crouched by the fire shivering.
She was utterly unnerved and overcome. The message had arrived just as she was dressing. She had swallowed a hurried breakfast, when, quite strangely, it did not matter that the coffee was not so good as usual, and the half-dozen notes and letters from various friends were of no real concern whatever. She had been engaged to lunch at the Condors108. In the afternoon she had promised to give away the prizes at a Village Work Show. And into all this pleasant everyday life had come, shattering 263it all into little bits, the sudden paralyzing fact that Violet had been taken dangerously ill during the night.
She and her husband had driven over in the little car to find the doctor still in the sick-room. Ruth was also there, and questioning Miss McCox was much like extracting information from the Sphinx.
“I always disliked that woman; she has no more heart than a stone,” Mrs. North complained tearfully. “And I do think she ought to tell Miss Seer we have arrived. It is dreadful to be kept away from one’s own child like this and not know what is happening.”
“Eliot will be down soon, I expect,” said North. He was wandering aimlessly, restlessly, about the room, for as the time lengthened110 his nerves too grew strained with waiting. What had happened? All sorts of horrible possibilities pressed themselves upon him. If only Ruth would come and he could see her alone for a moment!
He stopped in his restless pacing, and looked down kindly at his wife’s shivering form. “Shall I shut the windows?” he asked.
“No,” she answered; “never mind. Oh, Roger, do you think she will die? I can’t bear it! Oh, why doesn’t he come?”
264She got up and clutched her husband’s coat-sleeve, hiding her face on his shoulder. “Roger, I couldn’t bear her to die.”
Never before had the great presence of Death really come near to her, except to summon the very old whose life had already almost passed to the other side. And now, suddenly, like a bolt out of a serene111 blue sky, it was standing66 beside her, imminent112, threatening, and, to her, unspeakably terrible.
Roger North put an awkward arm round her. He felt uncomfortably stiff and useless, and ridiculously conscious of the fact that she had forgotten in her hurry and distress113 to take her hair out of the curler at the back of her neck.
He was honestly anxious to be sympathetic, to be all that was kind and helpful. His own anxiety racked him, and yet, absurdly enough, that curler obtruded114 itself on his notice until he found himself saying, “You have left one of your curlers in.”
He was acutely aware that it was about the last thing he should have said and wholly unsuitable to the moment, but his wife, fortunately, took no such view.
“It just shows the state of my mind!” she exclaimed, trying with shaking fingers to disentangle it. “I have never done such a thing 265in my life before! What a mercy you noticed it!”
He helped her to get the little instrument out, and put it in his pocket.
There was the sound of a closing door above, the hurried movement of feet, and Mrs. North clutched her husband’s arm. They both looked towards the door. But silence fell again, and she began to cry.
“Do you think she’s dying, Roger?”
“No, no! Eliot would send for us, of course.” He began his restless walk to and fro again. “I wish we had got here before Eliot did. You could have gone in with him then.”
And here, at last, footsteps came down the stairs, across the hall, the door opened, and the doctor came in.
He was an unusual man to find buried in a country practice. A man of outstanding intellect and of a very charming presence. Between him and North a warm friendship existed.
“Ah, you have come!” he exclaimed.
He took Mrs. North’s hand and looked down at her with exceeding kindness.
“The child is very ill and I fear brain trouble,” he said. “I gather she went for a long walk yesterday and got drenched in the storm, 266so it is possibly aggravated115 by a chill. Do you know of any special worry or trouble?”
“Nothing whatever,” said Mrs. North decisively. “Except, of course, poor Dick’s death. She felt that very much at the time, and Roger thinks she has never got over it, don’t you, Roger?”
Roger nodded. For a moment he considered laying before his friend the abnormal situation in which Ruth Seer believed, and which he himself had come anyway to recognize as within the realms of possibility. But the inclination116 faded almost as soon as born. He had had no speech yet with Ruth, nor did it seem fair to Violet. Possibly, perhaps, some personal pride held him.
The doctor looked at him kindly. “Poor little girl! Well, she made a brave fight, I remember. Now, Mrs. North, no worrying. How old is the child? Twenty-six? You can get over anything at twenty-six! I’m sending in a nurse, and that woman upstairs is worth her weight in gold. You couldn’t have her in better hands. Now you’d like to go up and have a look at her. Don’t get worried because she won’t know you; that’s part of the illness.”
But outside he looked at Roger with an anxious face.
“She’s very ill, North,” he said. “It must 267have been coming on for some time. The storm—yes—that shook it up into active mischief117, no doubt. We’ll pull her through, I hope; but would you like a specialist’s opinion? These brain troubles are very obscure.”
“I leave it to you,” said North, his whole being sick and empty.
“Well, we’ll see how she goes on in the next twenty-four hours.”
He sped away, and Roger wandered aimlessly about the farm, looking at the wreckage118 of the storm, with Larry and the little dogs, conscious in their dumb way that their beloveds were in trouble, keeping at his heel.
By one of those vagaries119 which make the English climate so lovable in spite of its iniquities120, it was, after the day and night of storm and rain, that very wonderful thing a perfectly121 beautiful morning in November. The sun shone with astonishing warmth, scattering122 great masses of grey and silver cloud, against which the delicate black tracery of bough123 and twig124, stripped of every lingering leaf, showed in exquisite perfection.
The farm was wide awake and astir with the life of a new day. But Vi, little Vi, was lying up there, at the Door of Death. Recollections of her as a soft-headed, golden-eyed baby came back to him; as a small child flitting like a white 268butterfly about the garden; as a swift vision of long black legs and a cloud of dark hair, running wild with the boys; as the glorious hoyden125 who had taken her world by storm in the days just before the war. And now she lay there a broken thing, tossed and driven to death in the purposeless play of soulless and unpitying forces. He ground his teeth in impotent rage, overcome with a very anguish126 of helpless pain and wrath127. If only Ruth would come and tell him what had happened!
The cowman, who was helping128 the gardener clear away the remains of the storm, came up from the fallen tree and spoke129 to him. He was sorry to hear there was illness at the house. North thanked him mechanically and escaped into the flower garden. The few remaining flowers were beaten to the ground, their heads draggled in the wet earth. He got out his knife and began to cut them off and tidy up the border. He could watch the house at the same time. The minutes dragged like hours, and then, at last, the door on to the terrace opened, and Ruth came out.
She looked round and, catching130 sight of him, hurried by the shortest way, across the wet grass, to meet him. His pain-ravaged131 face smote132 her with a great pity. She held out both her hands to meet his.
269“I could not come before,” she said. “She is quieter now. Oh, do not feel like that! She will get well. I know she will get well.”
“Where can we go to be alone?” he asked. “I must hear what happened. It is that which has been driving me mad.”
“Let us go and walk along the path under the ‘house on the wall,’” she said. “No one will come there and it is sheltered and warm in the sun.”
And there, pacing up and down, she told him, as well as she could, the happenings of the night before.
North ground his teeth. “She would be better dead,” he said. “And yet——” He looked at her, a new horror growing in his haggard eyes, a question——?
“She will not die,” said Ruth. “But don’t you understand, don’t you believe, whether she lives or dies the evil is conquered, is transmuted, is taken in to the Eternal Good?”
“No, I cannot believe,” said North harshly. “I think you are playing with words. It seems to me that only Evil is powerful. If anything survives, it is that.”
Ruth looked at him with very gentle eyes. “Wait,” she said. “Have just a little patience. She will get well, and then you will believe.”
“I cannot believe,” said Roger North. The 270words fell heavily, like stones. He paced restlessly backwards133 and forwards, crunching134 the wet gravel135 viciously under his feet.
“The house might have been burnt down. You—I suppose you think that was the object?”
“Yes, I think it must have been so. At any rate one of them.”
“That is the loathsome136 horror of it all!” North burst forth137 savagely138. “I believe just enough, because in no other way can I account for what has happened, to make me dread death for her in a way I should never have dreaded139 it otherwise. I have always looked on our personal grief as fundamentally selfish.”
Ruth was silent. He seemed beyond the reach of help, and she would have given so much to help him. That he, at any rate for the moment, gave no thought to what she had been through disturbed her not at all.
“Listen,” she said presently. “You may think it all imagination, or what people call imagination, but if you could only have seen it, as I did, you would know it was very, very real. It was when I was alone with her waiting for Doctor Eliot. I went to the window to pull the blind down a little, and when I turned round again—I saw”—she stopped, searching for adequate words—“I saw what looked like a wall 271of white light. I can’t describe it any other way, though it was not like any light we know of here, more wonderful, alive in some strange way. It was all round her. No evil thing could get through. I am so sure.”
She looked at him with her heart in her eyes, but Roger North shook his head.
“It leaves me cold,” he said. “Is that why you feel so sure she will get well?”
“No. But I am sure; that is all I know.”
And to that Ruth held through the days of tense anxiety that followed, through the visit of the specialist from London, who gave little hope, through the despair of others. She moved among them as one carrying a secret store of strength. Mrs. North, pitiably broken up, clung to her for help and comfort, but North, after the talk in the garden, had withdrawn140 into himself and kept aloof141. The ravages142 day after day marked on his face went to Ruth’s heart when he came over to inquire. But for the moment he was beyond her reach or help. Whatever devils from the bottomless pit rent and tore his soul during these dark days, he fought them single-handed, as indeed, ultimately, they must be fought by every man.
Mrs. North and Fred Riversley stayed at Thorpe.
272“Uncommonly decent of Miss Seer,” said Mr. Pithey to his wife. “Turning her house into a hotel as well as a hospital! That stuck-up little Mrs. North, too. I’ve heard her say things about Miss Seer that have put my bristles143 up. Give me Lady Condor109 every time. Paint or no paint!”
But Mrs. Pithey had learnt things down in the dark valley. She was not so censorious as of old.
“I don’t cotton to Mrs. North myself,” she answered. “She’s a woman who overprices herself. But she’s a mother, and Miss Seer could do no less than take her in. You might take down some of these best Musk144 Cat grapes after tea, ’Erb. P’raps Mrs. Riversley could fancy ’em.”
Everyone indeed was very kind, but with the exception of Lady Condor and Mr. Fothersley, Ruth kept visitors away from Mrs. North.
Fred Riversley had astonished everyone by turning out a wonderful nurse, and what little rest Violet had was in his strong arms, nursed like a child. She seemed nothing more, and in her delirium145 had gone back to the days of her childhood and talked of little else, and more and more happily as the time went by.
“One might as well try to keep a snow wreath,” he said one afternoon to Ruth, who 273was giving him tea after his usual tramp round the fields for some fresh air and exercise.
Even as he spoke there was a little bustle146 and scurry147 outside the door, and before it opened Riversley was on his feet and moving towards it.
Mrs. North stood there, half laughing, half crying. “Oh, she is better!” she cried. “She has gone into a real sleep. Nurse says we may hope. She will get well.”
She dropped on to her knees by the fire and buried her face against the cushions of the sofa, sobbing148 and crying, while Riversley tore across the hall and up the stairs two steps at a time.
It was early on the following morning that Violet Riversley opened her eyes and looked at her husband with recognition in them.
“Dear old Freddy,” she said weakly. “What’s the matter?”
He put his arms round her with the tears running down his cheeks, and she nestled to him like a tired child and fell asleep again.
When she woke the second time the room was full of the pale November sunshine. She looked round it curiously for a moment, then her mind seemed to give up the effort to remember where she was and she looked at him.
274“I do love you, Freddy,” she said.
The morning sounds of the farm came in through the open window and she smiled. “Of course, I’m at Thorpe. I dreamt I was with Dick.”
Outside, Ruth went across the terrace to her farm work. Her face was that of one who holds secure some hidden store of happiness. She sang to herself as she went:
“When I have reached my journey’s end,
And I am dead and free.”
The words floated up clear and sweet through the still air.
“Dead and free.” Violet repeated them in a small faint voice, and again Fear gripped Riversley by the throat. He longed to hold her more closely and dared not. There seemed no perceptible substance to hold. His mouth went dry while he struggled with his difficulty of speech.
“The journey is worth making too, Vi,” he said.
The husky strangled voice made its appeal. She looked with more of understanding into his bloodshot eyes, his haggard ravaged face, and her own face became suddenly very sweet and of a marvellous brightness.
275“Yes,” she said, “the journey is worth making too.”
More distant came the sound of Ruth’s song:
“I pray that God will let me go
And wander with them to and fro,
Along the flowered fields I know,
That look towards the sea,
That look towards the sea.”
The white pigeons swooped149 down about her. The dogs, so long kept in to heel, rushed wildly over the lawn and down to the river, uttering sharp cries of joy. A robin150, perched on the coping of the old wall, sang sweet and shrill151. She looked out over her beloved fields, over the long valley full of misty152 sunshine, and was content. The farm was Itself again. She moved on across the lawn leaving footprints on the silver wet grass, to where, standing by the gate, she saw Roger North.
He turned at the sound of her coming, and she called to him:
“She has slept ever since I ’phoned to you. She will get well.”
“Thank God!” he said, as men will in these moments, whether they believe or no.
His face was curiously alive, alight with some great happening; there was an air of joyous153 276excitement about him. He moved towards her, and smiled a little, rather shamefaced smile, and the odd likeness154 to a schoolboy who is feeling shy was very apparent. Then he blurted155 it out.
“I have seen him,” he said.
“Ah!” The exclamation156 was a note of pure joy. “Oh, tell me about it!”
“He was leaning over the gate. He was looking for me, waiting for me, just as he used to do. And he looked at me with his dear old grin. It was ever so real.”
“Yes. Yes.”
“And he spoke. Just as you have told me. It isn’t the same as speaking here. It’s something like a thought passing——”
He stopped, his face all alight. He looked years younger. The heavy lines were hardly visible.
“I wish I had spoken. Somehow at the moment I couldn’t.”
“I know. One cannot. I believe it is because of the vibrations. I suppose——” Ruth hesitated. “Can you tell me?”
“What he said? It—it seems so ridiculous. One expected it would be something important, something—well, different.”
She laughed, looking at him with affection, 277with that wonderful look of pure friendliness157.
“But why should it?”
He laughed too—joyously. As he had not laughed since boyhood. Surely again the world was full of wonder and of glory. Again all things were possible, in the light of the Horizon beyond Eternity.
“He said—just as he used to, you know—‘Come on, old Roger!’”
The End
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1
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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2
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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3
burnished
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| adj.抛光的，光亮的v.擦亮（金属等），磨光( burnish的过去式和过去分词 )；被擦亮，磨光 | |
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rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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5
gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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7
streaked
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| adj.有条斑纹的，不安的v.快速移动( streak的过去式和过去分词 )；使布满条纹 | |
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streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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9
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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11
quotations
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| n.引用( quotation的名词复数 )；[商业]行情（报告）；（货物或股票的）市价；时价 | |
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12
insistent
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| adj.迫切的，坚持的 | |
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13
tingled
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| v.有刺痛感( tingle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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14
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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15
cowering
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| v.畏缩，抖缩( cower的现在分词 ) | |
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16
crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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17
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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18
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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19
drenching
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| n.湿透v.使湿透( drench的现在分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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20
blotting
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| 吸墨水纸 | |
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21
regain
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| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
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22
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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23
lull
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| v.使安静，使入睡，缓和，哄骗；n.暂停，间歇 | |
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24
hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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25
shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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26
shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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27
panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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28
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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29
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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30
allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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31
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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32
watchfully
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| 警惕地，留心地 | |
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33
wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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34
wailed
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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35
growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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36
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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37
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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38
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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39
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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40
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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41
sanely
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| ad.神志清楚地 | |
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42
awareness
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| n.意识，觉悟，懂事，明智 | |
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43
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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44
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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45
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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46
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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47
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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48
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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49
accentuated
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| v.重读( accentuate的过去式和过去分词 )；使突出；使恶化；加重音符号于 | |
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50
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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51
stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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52
flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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53
tangible
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| adj.有形的，可触摸的，确凿的，实际的 | |
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54
odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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55
vibration
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| n.颤动，振动；摆动 | |
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56
vibrations
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| n.摆动( vibration的名词复数 )；震动；感受；（偏离平衡位置的）一次性往复振动 | |
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57
engulfed
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| v.吞没，包住( engulf的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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58
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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59
cringing
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| adj.谄媚，奉承 | |
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60
crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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61
fangs
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| n.（尤指狗和狼的）长而尖的牙( fang的名词复数 )；（蛇的）毒牙；罐座 | |
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62
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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63
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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64
subconsciously
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| ad.下意识地，潜意识地 | |
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65
enveloping
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的现在分词 ) | |
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66
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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67
entity
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| n.实体，独立存在体，实际存在物 | |
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68
hideousness
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69
incarnate
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| adj.化身的，人体化的，肉色的 | |
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70
disintegrate
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| v.瓦解，解体，（使）碎裂，（使）粉碎 | |
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71
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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72
mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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73
regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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74
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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75
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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76
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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77
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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78
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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79
craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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80
transmuted
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| v.使变形，使变质，把…变成…( transmute的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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81
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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82
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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83
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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84
poker
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| n.扑克；vt.烙制 | |
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85
tongs
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| n.钳；夹子 | |
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86
weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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87
giggling
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| v.咯咯地笑( giggle的现在分词 ) | |
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88
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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89
degenerate
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| v.退步，堕落；adj.退步的，堕落的；n.堕落者 | |
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90
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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91
dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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92
apex
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| n.顶点，最高点 | |
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93
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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94
ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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95
concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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96
charred
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| v.把…烧成炭( char的过去式)；烧焦 | |
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97
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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98
drenched
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| adj.湿透的；充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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99
strewing
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| v.撒在…上( strew的现在分词 )；散落于；点缀；撒满 | |
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100
prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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101
benediction
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| n.祝福；恩赐 | |
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102
bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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103
pervaded
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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104
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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105
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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106
delirious
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| adj.不省人事的，神智昏迷的 | |
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107
scorched
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| 烧焦，烤焦( scorch的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（植物）枯萎，把…晒枯； 高速行驶； 枯焦 | |
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108
condors
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| n.神鹰( condor的名词复数 ) | |
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109
condor
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| n.秃鹰；秃鹰金币 | |
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110
lengthened
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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111
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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112
imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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113
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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114
obtruded
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| v.强行向前，强行，强迫( obtrude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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115
aggravated
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| 使恶化( aggravate的过去式和过去分词 )； 使更严重； 激怒； 使恼火 | |
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116
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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117
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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118
wreckage
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| n.（失事飞机等的）残骸，破坏，毁坏 | |
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119
vagaries
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| n.奇想( vagary的名词复数 )；异想天开；异常行为；难以预测的情况 | |
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120
iniquities
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| n.邪恶( iniquity的名词复数 )；极不公正 | |
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121
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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122
scattering
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| n.[物]散射；散乱，分散；在媒介质中的散播adj.散乱的；分散在不同范围的；广泛扩散的；（选票）数量分散的v.散射(scatter的ing形式)；散布；驱散 | |
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123
bough
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| n.大树枝，主枝 | |
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124
twig
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| n.小树枝，嫩枝；v.理解 | |
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125
hoyden
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| n.野丫头，淘气姑娘 | |
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126
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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127
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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128
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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129
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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130
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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131
ravaged
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| 毁坏( ravage的过去式和过去分词 )； 蹂躏； 劫掠； 抢劫 | |
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132
smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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133
backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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134
crunching
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| v.嘎吱嘎吱地咬嚼( crunch的现在分词 )；嘎吱作响；（快速大量地）处理信息；数字捣弄 | |
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135
gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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136
loathsome
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| adj.讨厌的，令人厌恶的 | |
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137
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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138
savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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139
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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140
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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141
aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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142
ravages
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| 劫掠后的残迹，破坏的结果，毁坏后的残迹 | |
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143
bristles
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| 短而硬的毛发，刷子毛( bristle的名词复数 ) | |
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144
musk
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| n.麝香, 能发出麝香的各种各样的植物，香猫 | |
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145
delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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146
bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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147
scurry
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| vi.急匆匆地走；使急赶；催促；n.快步急跑，疾走；仓皇奔跑声；骤雨，骤雪；短距离赛马 | |
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148
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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149
swooped
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| 俯冲，猛冲( swoop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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150
robin
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| n.知更鸟，红襟鸟 | |
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151
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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152
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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153
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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154
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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155
blurted
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| v.突然说出，脱口而出( blurt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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156
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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157
friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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