Then at last I knew that I might allow myself to think,—and I meant to begin, and have the matter out. But before I could set to work, my eyes fell on a beautiful plant of real Parsley fern, growing a few paces off, under the shelter of an overhanging boulder.
How delighted Thyrza would be! I would get it for her, of course. She is an ardent fern-collector, and I knew she was hoping to find many specimens while here. Maggie follows suit, as a matter of course, and collects fitfully, under "Millie's" superintendence, neither knowing much about the matter. There had been talk at tea-time about the abundant supplies of Polypody and Adiantum Nigrum, already noted. Maggie had expressed hopes of "Oak" and "Beech," and Thyrza had added—"Perhaps even Parsley!"—almost her sole remark. And here the Parsley was!
My trouble had to wait a while longer. Digging a Parsley fern out of a rocky bed, not having even the help of a knife, is no easy matter. I pulled off my gloves, and knelt down, setting to work with care and determination. The business took some time, but I did it thoroughly, keeping the roots almost intact. My "find" at length was freed, and I went back to the seat I had chosen.
And then I sat silently, looking around, willing to face my grief, yet somehow composed. The storm of rage and contempt did not return. I had felt so sure that it must; and I was mistaken.
I had a good view of the Dale, with its high hill-ranges on either side. "The Fell" lay opposite, extending far up the valley: a great mountainous mass, with curved clear outlines, hummocked and dimpled sides; the frowning Scaur in the distance contrasting with soft green surroundings; masses of bracken varying the grass-tints; slender winding rivulets streaking its sides like silver snakes; and the lights and shades of evening lending a wonderful beauty to the whole. I could see the river below, and near the Dale-Head loftier mountains reared their summits into the grey clouds which clustered there; but my eyes returned persistently to the changeful loveliness of The Fell. For that enchained me.
I almost think that at first there was a sense of disappointment at my own quietness. I hardly wished to be quiet yet. For I had been so grievously wronged. My wrath had been a righteous wrath,—so I told myself, not seeing how far it had passed the righteous boundary. I suppose no anger that has the mastery over one can ever be a purely just anger. The contempt too, I told myself, had been no more than Miss Millington deserved. I despised still, and I must despise. There could be no excuse for her. And a voice seemed to whisper—"No! None! And yet—!"
I hardly know how to tell what followed. I do not wish to lose the recollection, so I must try. But it was not words. It was only—the help I needed.
I must have looked up to Him unknowingly. I did believe that He would help me, sooner or later. And it was sooner, instead of later. Perhaps He sometimes—often—comes, unasked, to the rescue of His own, in peril.
Though passionate anger was lulled, pain was not. It grew keener, deeper, as I sat there. The consciousness of what she had done came over me afresh, and with it a fresh agony at having my secret known. Would she make use of her discovery?—Tell it to others? Surely not! And yet I could believe her capable of even this. I had no fear that she or any one would dare to speak a word to me on the subject. But to know that others know!—This I felt to be enough, more than enough, more than I might endure!
The pain was none the less for being a calm pain. Passion had helped me earlier. Now the very calmness rendered me better able to feel, better fitted to measure the cause which existed for pain. And in a little while, I could not face the sweet scene around—I could only drop my head on my knees, shivering in the cold grasp of a bitter distress, a dull longing to be out of it all and away from everybody—for ever.