He had done what he believed to be right—told the truth, as far as he thought it permissible, to wipe away from his conscience the stain of his treachery to Lance. And the result was that they were reconciled, and he was left in outer darkness. He knew that he had not expected it.
His misery was too great for him to reflect at present. He could not tell what he should do. He plunged down the hill-side with no thought at first but to walk, to get away, to move fast, to fight down some overwhelming bitterness of darkness which was clutching him.
At the bottom of the valley by the mill he turned and hastened up stream by the fishing-path among the thick trees. Careless of his direction, he walked on until he was at the head of Ilbersdale, and had emerged from the woods upon the open, broken moor that lay at the feet of Fransdale. There he lifted up his eyes, and saw far above him, perched upon the very verge of the precipice, the lights of Ilberston Church and Vicarage.
He thought of Mr. Hall. It occurred to him to wonder whether this man, whose personality had impressed him, as it impressed most people, would have help or counsel for him. Anyhow, to breast that hill was something to attempt—something that chimed in with his mood just then.
It was choir practice night, and the church door being open, the sound of the sweet Cleveshire voices floated out over the uplands, and made articulate the beauty of the night.
Hubert pushed his way hurriedly, yet not fast, because heedlessly, over the broken ground, with which he was not familiar. There were short cuts, but in the dusk he did not find them. Several times he was brought up short by hollow ravines or boggy ground, and it was long before he struck the road that leads up to the steep verge.
He had been walking for nearly two hours when at last he found himself at the top. The full moon was up, and was flooding the moors with silver. The prospect was grand. On the horizon line the Three Howes stood up black against the radiance—the prehistoric burial-place of forgotten chiefs. At his back the white crosses that mark the resting-places of the Dalesmen glimmered among the neatly shorn grass of the churchyard.
He sat upon the low wall, gazing out over the silent waste. The church was in darkness now, and closed; the village beyond showed but few lights. The lamp over the Vicarage door beamed steadily upon the night, and showed a lady's bicycle leaning against the Vicarage garden wall. Surely the little brown basket on the handle-bars was familiar to him? Surely he had seen that same machine leaning against the trees of the plantation at Lone Ash?
He sprang from his seat and went up close. It was Melicent's bicycle. Then she herself was within! She had not gone to dine with the Burmesters; she had come straight up here to Mr. Hall. A wave of excitement passed over Hubert. Should he go in, and let the priest hear both sides of the question? What had happened—what had passed between her and Lance? If he had not played the coward, and run away, he would have known by now. As he hesitated, the Vicarage door opened. He saw Mr. Hall stand in the light, with the girl beside him. For the second time that night he drew back and hid himself.
"Don't ride the steep bit to-night," he heard Mr. Hall say, as he lit her lamp.