Thyrza's solicitude was my one touch of outside comfort. I could see that she thought me distressed about her mother, as indeed I was and am. But that pain grows small beside the other.
A few minutes later I was off. The sun had gone in, and it was a grey yet clear evening, some blue sky visible towards Beckbergh, and heavy masses of dark cloud brooding over the upper extremity of the Dale, while mountain-outlines near at hand stood out distinctly against a pale background, dun-tinted. On quitting the garden, I turned to the right, aware that other walkers from our house would turn to the left. I did not yet allow myself to think. I wanted first to work off by rapid exercise some small part of the stony misery.
The road slanted downward, gradually nearing the river. By-and-by I gained glimpses of a broad bridge crossing it, far ahead. One pathway leading up the hillside, on my right hand, attracted me; but I resolved first to have a look at the bridge, then to return and try this path.
As the main road descended, it grew more and more muddy,—not surprising after such heavy rain. I had to choose my steps with some care. There were cows loitering along, a few at a time in charge of a man and a dog, on their way back from afternoon milking. I exchanged a kind "Good-evening" with the man. Old-fashioned greetings from strangers seem the fashion here, why not elsewhere? I pondered this question mechanically, patting the rough side of a cow as I went by. And then I noted one or two distant whitewashed farms: and the pretty silken-coated sheep on the hillsides, so different from our southern sheep, took my fancy. But still I kept at bay the lowering black cloud within.
The bridge was reached at last, by a road which turned down to it from the main road. I leant upon the stone-parapet, and gazed, as in a dream, upon the curdling stream, chocolate-brown in hue, swift and steadfast in its rush. It was hard to believe that the brawling mountain-torrent of a few miles higher up could have already grown to this powerful river.
Somehow I was unable to remain on the bridge. The spot did not satisfy my need. There was a cottage near, and I wanted to be away from anything human. Soon I retraced my steps for some distance along the main road, and struck up by the side-path which I had before noticed.
This path, like the road beneath, led towards the lower Dale-extremity: but it wandered up the steep hillside, instead of keeping near the bottom of the valley, serving evidently as a shorter cut to Beckbergh, over a rocky ridge. It is probably a good deal frequented; yet no one overtook or passed me yesterday. The complete solitude was what I had craved for. I went on, till a distant glimpse of the town, Beckbergh, beyond and beneath, became visible.
I did not wish to get there,—though I might have had time, the evenings now are so long. I only wanted to find a spot, secure from interruption, where I might dare to indulge thought.
I had reached the highest point of the pathway, after which it begins to descend towards Beckbergh. It crosses there a wild green common-like slope, broken by out-standing rocks and big boulders.
So I left the path, and went upwards, regardless of the wet grass, and presently I found a seat upon one flat rock, another rising a little below in just such a position as to hide me effectually from anybody who should pass along the path.