i was still engaged upon my breakfast when i heard the clatter of dishes and the landlady’s footfall as she passed toward her new lodger’s room. an instant afterward she had rushed down the passage and burst in upon me with uplifted hand and startled eyes. “lord ’a mercy, sir!” she cried, “and asking your pardon for troubling you, but i’m feared o’ the young leddy, sir; she is not in her room.”
“why, there she is,” said i, standing up and glancing through the casement. “she has gone back for the flowers she left upon the bank.”
“oh, sir, see her boots and her dress!” cried the landlady, wildly. “i wish her mother was here, sir—i do. where she has been is more than i ken, but her bed has not been lain on this night.”
“she has felt restless, doubtless, and went for a walk, though the hour was certainly a strange one.”
mrs. adams pursed her lip and shook her head. but then as she stood at the casement, the girl beneath looked smilingly up at her and beckoned to her with a merry gesture to open the window.
“have you my tea there?” she asked in a rich, clear voice, with a touch of the mincing french accent.
“it is in your room, miss.”
“look at my boots, mrs. adams!” she cried, thrusting them out from under her skirt. “these fells of yours are dreadful places—effroyable—one inch, two inch; never have i seen such mud! my dress, too—voilà!”
“eh, miss, but you are in a pickle,” cried the landlady, as she gazed down at the bedraggled gown. “but you must be main weary and heavy for sleep.”
“no, no,” she answered, laughingly, “i care not for sleep. what is sleep? it is a little death—voilà tout. but for me to walk, to run, to beathe the air—that is to live. i was not tired, and so all night i have explored these fells of yorkshire.”
“lord ’a mercy, miss, and where did you go?” asked mrs. adams.
she waved her hand round in a sweeping gesture which included the whole western horizon. “there,” she cried. “o comme elles sont tristes et sauvages, ces collines! but i have flowers here. you will give me water, will you not? they will wither else.” she gathered her treasures in her lap, and a moment later we heard her light, springy footfall upon the stair.
so she had been out all night, this strange woman. what motive could have taken her from her snug room on to the bleak, wind-swept hills? could it be merely the restlessness, the love of adventure of a young girl? or was there, possibly, some deeper meaning in this nocturnal journey?
deep as were the mysteries which my studies had taught me to solve, here was a human problem which for the moment at least was beyond my comprehension. i had walked out on the moor in the forenoon, and on my return, as i topped the brow that overlooks the little town, i saw my fellow-lodger some little distance off among the gorse. she had raised a light easel in front of her, and with papered board laid across it, was preparing to paint the magnificent landscape of rock and moor which stretched away in front of her. as i watched her i saw that she was looking anxiously to right and left. close by me a pool of water had formed in a hollow. dipping the cup of my pocket-flask into it, i carried it across to her.
“miss cameron, i believe,” said i. “i am your fellow-lodger. upperton is my name. we must introduce ourselves in these wilds if we are not to be for ever strangers.”
“oh, then, you live also with mrs. adams!” she cried. “i had thought that there were none but peasants in this strange place.”
“i am a visitor, like yourself,” i answered. “i am a student, and have come for quiet and repose, which my studies demand.”
“quiet, indeed!” said she, glancing round at the vast circle of silent moors, with the one tiny line of grey cottages which sloped down beneath us.
“and yet not quiet enough,” i answered, laughing, “for i have been forced to move further into the fells for the absolute peace which i require.”
“have you, then, built a house upon the fells?” she asked, arching her eyebrows.
“i have, and hope within a few days to occupy it.”
“ah, but that is triste,” she cried. “and where is it, then, this house which you have built?”
“it is over yonder,” i answered. “see that stream which lies like a silver band upon the distant moor? it is the gaster beck, and it runs through gaster fell.”
she started, and turned upon me her great dark, questioning eyes with a look in which surprise, incredulity, and something akin to horror seemed to be struggling for mastery.
“and you will live on the gaster fell?” she cried.
“so i have planned. but what do you know of gaster fell, miss cameron?” i asked. “i had thought that you were a stranger in these parts.”
“indeed, i have never been here before,” she answered. “but i have heard my brother talk of these yorkshire moors; and, if i mistake not, i have heard him name this very one as the wildest and most savage of them all.”
“very likely,” said i, carelessly. “it is indeed a dreary place.”
“then why live there?” she cried, eagerly. “consider the loneliness, the barrenness, the want of all comfort and of all aid, should aid be needed.”
“aid! what aid should be needed on gaster fell?”
she looked down and shrugged her shoulders. “sickness may come in all places,” said she. “if i were a man i do not think i would live alone on gaster fell.”
“i have braved worse dangers than that,” said i, laughing; “but i fear that your picture will be spoiled, for the clouds are banking up, and already i feel a few raindrops.”
indeed, it was high time we were on our way to shelter, for even as i spoke there came the sudden, steady swish of the shower. laughing p. 156merrily, my companion threw her light shawl over her head, and, seizing picture and easel, ran with the lithe grace of a young fawn down the furze-clad slope, while i followed after with camp-stool and paint-box.
* * * * *
it was the eve of my departure from kirkby-malhouse that we sat upon the green bank in the garden, she with dark dreamy eyes looking sadly out over the sombre fells; while i, with a book upon my knee, glanced covertly at her lovely profile and marvelled to myself how twenty years of life could have stamped so sad and wistful an expression upon it.
“you have read much,” i remarked at last. “women have opportunities now such as their mothers never knew. have you ever thought of going further—or seeking a course of college or even a learned profession?”
she smiled wearily at the thought.
“i have no aim, no ambition,” she said. “my future is black—confused—a chaos. my life is like to one of these paths upon the fells. you have seen them, monsieur upperton. they are smooth and straight and clear where they begin; but soon they wind to left and wind to right, and so mid rocks and crags until they lose themselves in some quagmire. at brussels my path was straight; but now, mon dieu! who is there can tell me where it leads?”
“it might take no prophet to do that, miss cameron,” quoth i, with the fatherly manner which twoscore years may show toward one. “if i may read your life, i would venture to say that you were destined to fulfil the lot of women—to make some good man happy, and to shed around, in some wider circle, the pleasure which your society has given me since first i knew you.”
“i will never marry,” said she, with a sharp decision, which surprised and somewhat amused me.
“not marry—and why?”
a strange look passed over her sensitive features, and she plucked nervously at the grass on the bank beside her.
“i dare not,” said she in a voice that quivered with emotion.
“dare not?”
“it is not for me. i have other things to do. that path of which i spoke is one which i must tread alone.”
“but this is morbid,” said i. “why should your lot, miss cameron, be separate from that of my own sisters, or the thousand other young ladies whom every season brings out into the world? but perhaps it is that you have a fear and distrust of mankind. marriage brings a risk as well as a happiness.”
“the risk would be with the man who married me,” she cried. and then in an instant, as though she had said too much, she sprang to her feet and drew her mantle round her. “the night air is chill, mr. upperton,” said she, and so swept swiftly away, leaving me to muse over the strange words which had fallen from her lips.
clearly, it was time that i should go. i set my teeth and vowed that another day should not have passed before i should have snapped this newly formed tie and sought the lonely retreat which awaited me upon the moors. breakfast was hardly over in the morning before a peasant dragged up to the door the rude hand-cart which was to convey my few personal belongings to my new dwelling. my fellow-lodger had kept her room; and, steeled as my mind was against her influence, i was yet conscious of a little throb of disappointment that she should allow me to depart without a word of farewell. my hand-cart with its load of books had already started, and i, having shaken hands with mrs. adams, was about to follow it, when there was a quick scurry of feet on the stair, and there she was beside me all panting with her own haste.
“then you go—you really go?” said she.
“my studies call me.”
“and to gaster fell?” she asked.
“yes; to the cottage which i have built there.”
“and you will live alone there?”
“with my hundred companions who lie in that cart.”
“ah, books!” she cried, with a pretty shrug of her graceful shoulders. “but you will make me a promise?”
“what is it?” i asked, in surprise.
“it is a small thing. you will not refuse me?”
“you have but to ask it.”
she bent forward her beautiful face with an expression of the most intense earnestness. “you will bolt your door at night?” said she; and was gone ere i could say a word in answer to her extraordinary request.
it was a strange thing for me to find myself at last duly installed in my lonely dwelling. for me, now, the horizon was bounded by the barren circle of wiry, unprofitable grass, patched over with furze bushes and scarred by the profusion of nature’s gaunt and granite ribs. a duller, wearier waste i have never seen; but its dullness was its very charm.
and yet the very first night which i spent at gaster fell there came a strange incident to lead my thoughts back once more to the world which i had left behind me.
it had been a sullen and sultry evening, with great livid cloud-banks mustering in the west. as the night wore on, the air within my little cabin became closer and more oppressive. a weight seemed to rest upon my brow and my chest. from far away the low rumble of thunder came moaning over the moor. unable to sleep, i dressed, and standing at my cottage door, looked on the black solitude which surrounded me.
taking the narrow sheep path which ran by this stream, i strolled along it for some hundred yards, and had turned to retrace my steps, when the moon was finally buried beneath an ink-black cloud, and the darkness deepened so suddenly that i could see neither the path at my feet, the stream upon my right, nor the rocks upon my left. i was standing groping about in the thick gloom, when there came a crash of thunder with a flash of lightning which lighted up the whole vast fell, so that every bush and rock stood out clear and hard in the vivid light. it was but for an instant, and yet that momentary view struck a thrill of fear and astonishment through me, for in my very path, not twenty yards before me, there stood a woman, the livid light beating upon her face and showing up every detail of her dress and features.
there was no mistaking those dark eyes, that tall, graceful figure. it was she—eva cameron, the woman whom i thought i had for ever left. for an instant i stood petrified, marvelling whether this could indeed be she, or whether it was some figment conjured up by my excited brain. then i ran swiftly forward in the direction where i had seen her, calling loudly upon her, but without reply. again i called, and again no answer came back, save the melancholy p. 161wail of the owl. a second flash illuminated the landscape, and the moon burst out from behind its cloud. but i could not, though i climbed upon a knoll which overlooked the whole moor, see any sign of this strange midnight wanderer. for an hour or more i traversed the fell, and at last found myself back at my little cabin, still uncertain as to whether it had been a woman or a shadow upon which i gazed.
