They were off, up the little hill, down over the little bridge and through the little village. Katherine, sitting between Philip and Jacob, pressing her cheek against Philip’s rough tweed coat, her hand lying in his under the rug, seemed to slip, dreaming, fulfilling some earlier vision, through space. She had wondered sometimes, in the earlier days, whether there could be any greater happiness in life than that ever-thrilling, ever-satisfying return to Garth. She knew now that there was a greater happiness....
A white world of crackling, burning stars roofed them in; an owl flew by them through the grey dusk; the air smelt of spring flowers and fresh damp soil. The stream that had been with them since their entrance into Glebeshire still accompanied them, running with its friendly welcome at their side. Beyond the deep black hedges cows and horses and sheep moved stealthily: it seemed that they might not disturb the wonderful silence of the night.
“Are you warm enough?” he asked her; he caught her hand more tightly and kissed her cheek, very softly and gently. She trembled with happiness, and pressed more closely against his coat.
“Can you smell the sea yet? You will when you get to the top of Rasselas Hill. This is the high road to Pelynt. It runs parallel with the railway until we get to the cross roads, Pelynt Cross, you know.... You’ll smell the sea there. You can see it on a clear day. To the left of you there is just Pelynt Moor. It runs for miles and miles, right along by the Drymouth Road.... Look through the break in the hedge. Do you see that light across the field? That’s John Pollen’s cottage. John was murdered just about a hundred years ago. He was an old miser, and some men robbed him, but they never found his head. They say he wanders about still looking for it.... Oh, if this could go on for ever. Philip, are you happy?”
“Happy?” ... Ah! she could feel his body quiver.
“Yes, and now we’re coming down to the Well. There’s a little wood just at the body of the hill. We always call it the Well because it’s so dark and green. It’s the most famous wood for primroses in all Glebeshire. They’ll be coming now.... We’ll walk here.... I cried once because I thought I was lost here. They forgot me and went home. Then I was comforted by the postman, who found me and carried me home.... Jacob, do you remember?”
“Ah, Miss Kathie, doan’t ’ee think that I’d forget ought about ’ee. Not likely. And your mother in a fine takin’, poor soul, too. We’re a-coming to P’lynt Cross now, sir—as famous as any spot o’ ground in the ’ole of Glebeshire, sir—Hup, then! Hup, then—Whey—Oh! oh! Hup, then!”
They pulled to the top, leaving the wood in the dip behind them. The wind met them, flinging its salt and freshness in their faces with a rough, wild greeting. Philip could hear suddenly the humming of the telegraph wires, as though they had sprung from their imprisonment in the valley and were chanting their victory. To his left, vague and formless under the starlight, stretched Pelynt Moor, waiting there, scornfully confident in its age and strength and power, for daylight. The salt wind flung its arms around them and dragged them forward; Philip, listening, could hear, very stealthily, with the rhythm of armed men marching, the beating of the sea....
“Now we’re near—now we’re very near. It’ll be Garth Cross in a minute. There it is. Now we turn off down to the Almshouses. We don’t really come into the village.... There are the Almshouses and the Common.... Now round the corner.... There it is—there’s the Gate—the Gate!... Oh! Philip, are you happy?”
She was crying a very little: her eyes were blurred as they turned up the long drive, past all the rhododendron bushes, past the lawn with the giant oak at the farther end of it, round the curve to the hall door, with Rebekah standing under the porch to welcome them. Philip was down, and had helped her to the ground. She stood a little away from them all as they laughed and chattered about the door. She wiped her eyes with her gloved hand to stop the tears.