AT THE MIRES
A more God-forsaken-looking place than the Mires it would be impossible to imagine. Even on this glorious day in late August it looked dreary and forbidding. The cluster of stone cottages, half of them roofless, with the inner white-washed walls showing through the jagged gaps where windows and doors had been, straggled round a marsh whose pools of water glistened like scales among tufts of rush and treacherous slimy moss. The hollow was cup-like. There was no ling on its sides, they were covered with a harsh dry bent, through which the breeze swished. In one place this was disfigured by a mound of shaly refuse marking the site of an old coal-pit. Its seams had been exhausted years ago, and the miners now trudged a mile to a shaft on the edge of the firwoods that divided the Hall and Old Lafer. At one end a stream oozed from the rushes and wandered away with a forlorn look over a stratum of clay. The chirping of a grasshopper made the silence more intense. The heat was overpowering.
When Anna left Borlase he drove back a little way, out of sight of the cottages. Anna half ran, half slipped through the bent. Hartas Kendrew's was the cottage from whose chimney the smoke curled. It stood a little apart from the others, and was in good repair. Scilla had even tried to make it cheerful by hanging checked curtains in the windows, and nursing a few pots of geranium and hydrangea on the sills. It seemed to Anna that they gasped for air, flattened as they were against the closed panes. She thought of Old Lafer, cool and sweet, the doors and windows wide open, and the velvety breeze wandering into every corner. Scilla's life seemed now as much cramped as her flowers. From having been a bonny blithe girl, singing about her work at Old Lafer, free from care and responsibility, she was saddened by her husband's absence in prison, and shackled with his father's drunken humours.
Anna reached the edge of the marsh on the side opposite to Kendrew's. So far no one was visible. Now, a figure appeared in the doorway. It was Mrs. Severn. She came towards her, waving her hand as though bidding her remain where she was. Anna did so, gazing at her. She saw in a moment that she walked steadily, and thought she had never looked more handsome. Her incongruity with her surroundings seemed to vanish in the harmony of the silvery green background. She walked slowly, the long black dress she always wore trailing after her, yet half-looped up over one arm, akimbo on her hip. The cameo-like head was held with regal dignity; her dark hair was braided in a knot that would have enchanted a sculptor. The sun seemed to catch and outline every curve of her figure. She was not so pale as usual, and the tinge of colour gave a deep but passionless glow to her eyes, which seemed to light up her face to an extraordinary degree. She fixed them on Anna with the silent mesmerism that always drew speech from any one whom she expected to speak to her. They expressed no emotion beyond an expectation that Anna felt to be sharpened with defiance. Anna, with her fire of indignation kindling every look and gesture, though held in control, was an absolute contrast.
When she was only a few paces away, Anna hurried forward and took her hands. No sooner had she done so than she felt the old love, the old longing to kiss and forgive. She held her at arm's length in a scrutiny from which she banished suspicion and reproach.
'You'll come home with me, Clothilde,' she said.
Mrs. Severn smiled and disengaged her hands.
'Have you not brought me some clothes on the chance that I choose to remain here?' she said.
'That is the last thing I should have thought of doing, dearest.'
'Why have you come, then? Dinah one way, you the other, just to make a useless fuss.'
'She did not know I could get here.'
'How did you? Who brought you?'
'Mr. Borlase. We drove.'
'Prissy said so. Her sight is ridiculously good. I could only see the twinkling of wheels in the sun. Is he gone? Will you go back with Dinah?'
'Oh Clothilde, don't talk so coldly. With you and Dinah?'
Her voice was low, little more than a whisper, but she managed to make it clear and confident. She always trusted to her instincts in dealing with Mrs. Severn. Simple straightforward decision in the course resolved on was of little use if allowed to be felt as decisive. Mrs. Severn's opinion was generally reversed by the acquiescence of others, and her egotism was so baffling that it was impossible to feel certain of anything making the desired impression, unless advanced for the sake of being contradicted.
She did not answer now, but turned and looked across the marsh to the cottage. The sun beat fiercely on her head. She raised one hand and pressed it flat above her brow. But the shelter was insufficient.
'You might lend me your parasol, Anna,' she said.
'Of course, how stupid of me when I have my large hat. But I was not thinking of parasols.'
'Because you have one. It certainly is very hot here,' she said, resting the parasol on her shoulder and twirling it to and fro.
'Stifling.'
'And on the ridge, where there's a breeze, the colour of the ling makes my eyes ache. I've been sitting there reading. There was a book of yours on the parlour table, one of Bret Harte's. I took it up and carried it all the way. I did not know I was carrying it. Strange!'
'I think you knew as little what else you were doing.'
There was another pause. Anna suspected indecision, but neither Mrs. Severn's face nor the poise of her figure betrayed any. She stood restfully. Still she was certainly pondering deeply.
'Not one of the windows opens,' she said suddenly.
Anna could not help smiling.
'Has Hartas sealed them up since you were here last?'
'It was never weather like this. And Prissy will not let the fire go out; she likes the kettle to be always boiling.'
'I don't wonder when this is the only water to be got.'
'That is not her reason, of course.'
Another figure now emerged from the cottage. They both recognised Dinah. She stood a moment, shading her eyes with her hand, looking at them. Then she went on quickly, and struck off up the slope in the direction in which Old Lafer lay.
Mrs. Severn glanced keenly at Anna.
'She is going home,' she said. 'Now you would drive again with Mr. Borlase. I suppose he would take you round by the park, and the old bridge, and East Lafer.'
Anna flushed, but it was with anger.
'That is not the question,' she said. 'But I shall not walk home unless you go with me, Clothilde. If you go we will walk over the moor to the wood. It will take less time, and if we can't get home before Dad does, then we must feign to have had a walk for pleasure. The drive would rest me, though. I am tired. You have alarmed me. And besides, I dare not leave you here.'
Mrs. Severn laughed, an angry flush rising into her face.
'You are a goose—dare not!' she said. 'And why not? You must let me do as I like. You know I may please myself now about coming here, but because it is so long since I came that you thought I never should again, you are aggrieved because I have. I should not have come but that Mrs. Hennifer called; I cannot endure her. She shall learn to keep away from Old Lafer—no, she must come as usual, oftener if she likes—and she talked about Miss Marlowe. Really Miss Marlowe's affairs don't concern me—and there's a mistake, I'm certain. But if not, what——'
Her voice had been growing hurried and faltering. She now broke off abruptly, and at the same moment, swiftly transferring the parasol from one shoulder to the other, interposed it between Anna and herself. It struck Anna for the first time that she was not her usual self. Could it be possible that she had been mistaken, that she had been drinking? The dreadful fear died at birth, however. She felt convinced that she had not. Something was wrong, though. Whatever else she was, she was never incoherent in speech. What had Mrs. Hennifer and Miss Marlowe to do with her except in the ordinary course of a call and small-talk?—but she was speaking again.
'Really, I don't think I can endure Prissy's flock mattress in this heat, and I am certain this bog smells,' she said, again turning and looking at Anna.
'I am certain it does. Bogs always do under quick evaporation.'
'You are very scientific, as dry as it will be if the heat lasts. Any one coming into this malarious sort of air might soon have a fever.'
Anna's face was momentarily settling into sternness.
'You must sit in the house, Clothilde. Hartas will keep fever out by smoking bad tobacco, drinking gin, and eating onions.'
'I sit upstairs, Anna, and it has always been very cosy. But since I was here they have taken off the thatch and actually slated the roof, and slates attract the sun to a frightful degree.'
'In fact Old Lafer is so much more comfortable that you will return to it,' said Anna in a stifled voice.
Mrs. Severn was not looking at her or she would have been warned of what was impending. As it was she smiled indulgently.
'Don't let us quarrel, Anna. You know I have only very limited means at my disposal for doing as I like. I always think you should all be thankful I come here instead of going to Wonston, which would cause so much more scandal.'
She put her hand on her arm as she spoke, half confidingly, half as a help in walking, for she now turned to the cottage.
But Anna shook it off as though she were stung, and started back, fixing on her a look of repugnant mistrust.
'Clothilde,' she exclaimed, 'I will never leave you here again. You are mad to speak so lightly. I will tell you the truth. I know everything. Scilla told Dinah that you drank when last you were here. If I left you here to-day she would warn me. But I will not. You might do it again. If every one here knew the truth it would reach Dad. If I can prevent his knowing, I will. You may have felt that I should not leave you, and have invented all these stupid excuses to make it appear that you are pleasing yourself by going home with me. Clothilde, you shall come home with me or every one shall know the truth. Even a shameful truth is better known sometimes; it is salvation instead of damnation. Clothilde, I did not know how I should find you to-day. If I had found you as it would have been shameful to find you, I should have told Mr. Borlase the whole truth, and he would have helped me—anything to save you from yourself! But I will not leave you here. Now you know that I know all, that——'
'All?' said Mrs. Severn. She had listened, stunned, half-terrified. Anna had never spoken to her with absolute just anger before. But she had expected more—a further condemnation. Now her face cleared with a relief that was unaccountable to Anna, and made her pause abruptly.
'All?' she said again.
'Yes,' said Anna passionately. 'How can you act in such a way, Clothilde? Go and get your bonnet, and we'll start instantly. Go, Clothilde.'
Mrs. Severn shrugged her shoulders, but did as she was bidden.
Anna rushed up the hill. Her passionate words were but a poor vent for her surging resentment. She was choked. She longed to throw herself down in the bent and cry out her grief and disdain. She had not imagined anything so weak, so baffling. She could not wonder at Elias's scorn. It struck her as possible that if Mr. Severn knew all he might some day spurn her; revulsion of feeling might impel him to it.
At the top of the hill she paused. The dog-cart was a dozen paces farther on. Borlase had not heard her, and was looking the other way. He sat with drooping rein, and one arm thrown over the back of the seat. His face was in profile, but she could see its expression of deep, calm thought. It impressed her with the possibility of controlling this white heat of angry disgust. Only pride had enabled her to steady her voice before Clothilde. Tears had forced themselves into her eyes, but Mrs. Severn, being a cursory observer, had attributed the scintillation to passion. This reaction was more full of shame than the disclosure in Wonston streets had been. The new impression of Clothilde became the mastering one; to a less earnest and honest nature it might have been fleeting as a phantom. Could she hope ever to lose its bitterness?
But as she looked at Borlase her temper cooled.
His unconsciousness of her presence, though he was waiting for her, added force to his curb on her own impetuosity of which she had been conscious before now.
But there was an interest beyond that of character in the abstraction of his air. Of what was he thinking, of whom? The wonder of whom another is thinking is the germ of the wish and the hope that the thought may be of one's self. A twinge of jealous fear follows it. At this moment she grasped the realisation of a kindness that had been at pains to show solicitude, to be individual. His words and looks and hand pressure poured in warm remembrance into her heart. He had helped her, he would have helped her more. She knew of what joy they were on the verge.
Yet she hesitated. She felt unnerved. Must she go on in spite of her tear-washed eyes, which he would instantly perceive, or return unseen and send Scilla with a message? True, she had promised to go herself. She wanted to speak to him too, to thank him, to explain. But it seemed all at once as though it would be much easier to send Scilla. Her very shyness was surrender, but this she did not know.
And while she hesitated, he suddenly turned and their eyes met.
