Later in the day, I told myself, I would return; by and by when the dead should be decently composed for rest and their expression should have resumed something of its normal cast. Then I hurried forth again and sought forgetfulness in the keen rush of air and wide reality of the open country.
Walking, resting on some gate or stile; seeking a wayside tavern for food and drink—always I kept steadily away from me the slightest reflection on any of the last words spoken by my father. I could not bear that my thoughts should so much as approach them. I had greatly suffered, been greatly wronged, yet let my mind dwell insistently on the thought that these evils were of the past, never more to vex me out of reason should I look steadily forward, shutting my ears, like the prince in the fairy tale, to the spectral voices that would fain provoke me to an answer.
It was growing near that dusky period of the short day when if one lifts one’s eyes from the ground the sky seems closing in upon the earth! Worn out and footsore, I had rounded toward the city from its eastern side and was traversing the now lonely stretch of by-path that leads from the station, when I saw a woman and little child going on in front of me haltingly. As I came up they drew aside to let me pass, and I cried out, “Zyp!” and stopped in astonishment and a little fear.
She faced round upon me, breathing quickly, and put one hand to her bosom in a startled manner that was quite foreign to her.
“Renny,” she whispered, with a fading smile on her white face—pitiful heaven, how white and worn it had become! And burst into tears the next moment.
Shocked beyond measure at her appearance, her woeful reception of me, I stepped back all amazed. She mistook my action and held out an imploring arm to me. The little weird girl at her side half buried herself in her mother’s skirts and peered up at me with deep eyes set in a tangle of hair.
“Renny!” cried Zyp; “oh, you won’t throw me off? You won’t refuse to hear me?”
“Come away,” I said, hoarsely; “to some quiet road, where we can talk undisturbed. You are not too tired?”
“Too—oh, I’m wearied to death. Why not the mill? Renny, why not the mill?”
“Zyp, not now—not at present. I’ll tell you by and by. See, I’ll take the little girl on one arm and you can cling to the other.”