Forge and furnace: A novel

by Florence Warden

But then, like a black pall, there descended on his passionate hopes the remembrance of Claire’s look when he last saw her at the farm; of the horror, the shame in her face; of her abrupt flight then; or her flight now. What other explanation could there be of all this? Was he not mad to entertain a hope in the face of overwhelming evidence?

But for all this he did hug to his heart a ray of comfort, of hope, as he reached the high-road, and quickly making up his mind to try the way into the country instead of that which led into the town started along between the bare hedges in the darkness with a quick step and an anxious heart.

The road was easy to follow, lying as it did, between hedges all the way. The plantation of which the old woman had spoken was some two miles out. Then Bram found a road dipping sharply down to the left, as she had said; and, after a few moments’ hesitation, he turned into it. For some distance he went down the steep hill in the shadow of the fir trees of the plantation. At the bottom he came to a little group of scattered cottages, and following the now winding road he came suddenly upon a sight that made him pause.

The moon, clear, frosty, nearly at the full, shone down on a wide valley, shut in with gentle, well-wooded slopes, a very garden of peace and beauty. Close under the nearest hill stood the ruined abbey, perhaps even more imposing in its majestic decay than it had been in the old days when a roof hid its lofty arches and tall clustered pillars from the gaze of the profane.

Coming upon it suddenly, Bram was struck by its massive beauty, its solitary grandeur. The walls, far out of the reach of the smoke of the town, were still of a glaring whiteness; the moon shone through the pointed clerestory windows, and cast long, black shadows upon the grass, and the broken white stones which lay strewn about within the walls. Here and there a mass of ivy, sturdy, thick, and bushy, broke the hard outline of tall white wall; or a clump of hawthorn, now bare, half-hid the small, round-headed tower windows of the transepts.

Bram went forward slowly, fascinated by the sight, and seized strongly by the conviction that little Claire would have found the stately old walls as magnetic in their attraction as he did. He came to the fence which surrounded the ruin, and climbed over it without troubling himself to look for a gate.

The ground was rough and uneven, encumbered with loose stones. He wandered about the transepts and the long choir, which were all that were left of the church itself, hunting in every corner and in the deep shadow of every bush. But he found no trace of Claire. Yet still he was haunted by the thought that it was here, within walls which had once been held holy, that the little fugitive would have taken shelter, would have hidden from him. So strongly did this idea possess him that he at last sat down on a stone in the ruined choir, determined to keep vigil there all night, and to make a further search when morning broke.

It was a cold night, and sleep in the circumstances was out of the question. He walked up and down and sat down to rest upon the flat stone alternately until dawn came. A long, weary night it was undoubtedly. Yet through it all he never lost for more than a few moments at a time the feeling that Claire was near at hand, that when daylight came he should find her.

The dwellers in the cottages outside the ruin were early astir, and one or two perceived Bram, and came up to the railings to look at him. But as none of them seemed to feel that his intrusion was any business of theirs he was left alone until the light was strong enough for him to renew his search. Then, not within the walls of the church itself, but in the refectory, which was choked up and encumbered with broken stones and rubbish which had made search difficult in the night, he found her.

There was a little stone gallery, with a broken stone staircase leading up to it, at one end of the refectory. And here crouched in a corner, fast asleep, with her head against the stone wall, was Claire. Her small face looked pinched and gray with the cold. He took off his overcoat and covered her with it very gently. But soft as his touch was she awoke, stared at him for a moment as if she scarcely knew him, and then sprang to her feet.