“I’ve been laughing, Miss Good Intent,” said Billy. “Near cracked my sides, I have. Here’s strong David feeding a babby as if ’twere his own. Te-he! Ye’d never think he was strong at the forge.”
David was shy. This business of saving lambs from the snow had seemed natural and easy until Cilla came. Now he felt clumsy.
“Billy is right,” he said, as he handed the lamb and the bottle to Cilla. “’Tis a woman’s work, this. I was only waiting till ye came.”
Late that night when her work was done and the moon was up above the fells, Cilla unbarred the porch-door and went out into the raised path that protected the strip of garden from the highway. The wind had long since shifted to the south, and quiet Garth looked all like fairy-land. From the green, young twigs of the beeches, across the road, the soft snow fell away, showing leaves half-opened. There was everywhere the sound of gentle splashing—wet snow falling on wet snow—and the fells beyond were clear of mist. The air was full of warmth and scent of violets; for it was Garth’s way to remedy her spring storms with daintiest blandishments.
Cilla was full of her trouble still. It had been easy to give up her man in the heat of pride and sacrifice; but she was lonely now. She remembered, as lasses will when they have good fathers, how often Yeoman Hirst had cheered her in bad weather with a hearty, “Oh, ’twill lift, lass, by and by. Be sure ’twill lift. ’Tis only nature for the sun to pop out fro’ behind a cloud and take a body by surprise, like.”
“Why, yes,” she said, with a long glance at the hills. “Father is right. It always lifts—but the waiting-time is hard, just time and time.”
CHAPTER XIV
WHEN the sun began to warm the land again, and the sheep were crying up and down the pastures, their lambs beside them, full summer came with a swiftness rarely known in these grey highlands. The lilacs bloomed two weeks before their time. The birds let loose their litanies as if the blue sky and thrust of the green-stuff forward had not been known till now. Folk moved abroad with keen sunlight in their eyes, and in their voices a cheery welcome for their fellows. Even Widow Lister forgot to fidget, forgot her love of gossip with a spice in it, and turned instead to tranquil tending of the garden-strip that fronted her cottage. From the hedgerows and the fields, from the moors that raked up into the blue arch of sky, there rose a quiet, insistent song of peace.
Cilla of the Good Intent met Gaunt by chance these days on the highway, or in half-forgotten bridle-paths that were young when grey old Garth was in the building—and they passed a greeting one to the other, and went their ways. She was puzzled—and so was he, had she guessed the truth—to note the change in him. He was less assured than of old; there was shame and appeal in his eyes when he met her; he seemed to Priscilla like some big, helpless dog that had lost its way and went seeking for its home.
Cilla was true daughter to Yeoman Hirst. She might suffer, but malice went by her like a peevish wind-gust that is over and done with as soon as it is past. She wished no ill to Gaunt, though he had spoiled her first dream o’ love. She wondered, simply and without overmuch repining, that her life had grown so empty, that she no longer cared for the flower-scents and the wood-reek that guarded Garth village like a benediction.