“It was the same with the may hedges,” said North. “A fellow who came here to buy pigs said they ought to be grubbed up, they were waste of land. He wanted railings. He thought old Dick mad when he said he got his value out of them to look at, and good value too.”
“I didn’t know about the hedges wasting land,” said Ruth. “But I might have grubbed up the buttercups.”
She looked so genuinely distressed that North laughed.
“Don’t let this idea of yours get on your nerves,” he said kindly. “Believe me it is really only what I said, and don’t worry about it. I am glad though that you love the place so much. It would have hurt to have it spoilt or neglected, or with some one living here who—jarred. Indeed, to own the truth, I have been afraid to come here; I could not face it. But now”—he paused, then ended the sentence deliberately—“I am glad.”
“Thank you,” she said again, in that quiet simple way of hers, and for a while they sat on in silence. The warmth was still great, the stillness perfect, save for the occasional sleepy twitter of a bird in its nest.
Never since Dick Carey had been killed had he felt so at rest. The burden of pain seemed to drop away. The bitterness and resentment faded. He felt as so often in the old days, when he had come from some worry or fret or care in the outer world or in his own home, to the peace of the farm, to Dick’s smile, to Dick’s understanding. Almost it seemed that he was not dead, had never gone away. And he thought of his friend, for the first time since that telegram had come, without an anguish of pain or longing, thought of him as he used to, when the morrow, or the next week at least, meant the clasp of his hand, his “Hullo, old Roger,” and the content which belongs to the mere presence only of some one or two people alone in our journey through life.
He wisely made no attempt to analyse the why and wherefore. He remembered with thankfulness that he had left word at home that he might be late, and just sat on and on while peace and healing came dropping down like dew.
And this quite marvellous woman never tried to make conversation, or fussed about, moving things. She just sat there looking out at the spring world as a child looks at a play that enthralls.
She had no beauty and could never have had, either of feature or colouring, only a slender length of limb, a certain poise, small head and hands and feet, and a light that shone behind her steady eyes. A soul that wonders and worships shines even in our darkness. She gave the impression of strength and of tranquillity. Her very stillness roused him at length, and he turned to look at her.
She met the look with one of very pure friendliness.