“No. It is too monstrous!”
“Then and there the folk might tear you limb from limb for wild blaspheming. They are truly quite safe.”
She broke into high laughter. “Then let them leave me alone, and let them keep promise! It irks me that they are so false! Here are two months, and not yet may I go back! And Ailsa and Tony, where are they? I see them begging or in gaol!”
“You should be happy,” he said, “that you are not beggar nor in gaol.”
There fell silence. The beech tree sprang light green and silver, the sky was blue, the blackbirds talked, a thrush sang, wandering airs went by. The world was sweet. But she crushed the dead leaves and sat still.
“You must go. Need or no need, they will have it so! Nor can you stay at the ruined farm forever. Something will happen endangering you—endangering me.”
She said. “Is life wicked—or are we wicked—or are we dull and lifeless—stones, broken twigs, dead leaves? Many an one says that I am wicked, and doubtless I am at times. I know it—I know it! And then again I am not wicked. So if I say that you are so, poor Sir Robert Somerville? Perhaps I am mistaken—perhaps I am right. It’s a weary way to knowledge!”
“Were you gentler,” he said, “had you not such a tongue, you would find that the winds did not rock your nest so roughly!”
He stood up. “Ah, go!” she said. “Go! I have seen it coming—now it comes! Your road’s to John o’ Groat’s house and mine’s to Land’s End!”
“You mock the wind,” he answered, “with your nest fixed so firm upon the bough!”