By the base of the hills near to which the road led her, stood a miserable little house. It needed but a look at the place, to decide that the people who lived in it must be also miserable, and probably in more ways than one. Eleanor who had intended asking there for some news of her whereabouts and the roads, changed her mind as she drew near and resolved to pass the house at a gallop. So much for wise resolves. The miserable children who dwelt in the house had been that day making a bonfire for their amusement right on her track. The hot ashes were still there; the pony set his feet in them, reared high, and threw his rider, who had never known the pony do such a thing before and had no reason to expect it of him. Eleanor was thrown clean off on the ground, and fell stunned.
She picked herself up after a few minutes, to find no bones broken, the miserable hut close by, and two children and an old crone looking at her. The pony had concluded it a dangerous neighbourhood and departed, shewing a clean pair of heels. Eleanor gathered her dress in her hand and looked at the people who were staring at her. Such faces!
"What place is this?" she asked, forcing herself to be bold. The answer was utterly unintelligible. All Eleanor could make out was the hoarsely or thickly put question, "Be you hurted?"
"No, thank you—not at all, I believe," she said breathlessly, for she had not got over the shock of her fall. "How far am I from the village of Wiglands?"
Again the words that were spoken in reply gave no meaning to her ear.
"Boys, will one of you shew me the nearest way there? I will give you something as soon as I get home."
The children stared, at her and at each other; but Eleanor was more comprehensible to them than they to her. The old woman said some hoarse words to the children; and then one of them stepped forth and said strangely, "I 'ze go wiz ye."
"I'll reward him for it," said Eleanor, nodding to the old grandmother; and set off, very glad to be walking away. She did not breathe freely till a good many yards of distance were between her and the hut, where the crone and the other child still remained watching her. There might be others of the family coming home; and Eleanor walked at a brave pace until she had well left the little hut behind, out of all fear of pursuit. Then she began to feel that she was somewhat shattered by her fall, and getting tired, and she went more gently. But it was a long, long way; the reach of moor seemed endless; for it was a very different thing to go over it on Black Maggie's feet from going over it on her own. Eleanor was exceedingly weary, and still the brown common stretched away on all sides of her; and the distant tuft of vegetation which announced the village of Wiglands, stood afar off, and seemed to be scarcely nearer after miles of walking. Before they reached it Eleanor's feet were dragging after one another in weariest style. She could not possibly go on to the Lodge without stopping to rest. How should she reward and send back her guide? As she was thinking of this, Eleanor saw the smoke curling up from a stray cottage hid among the trees; it was Mrs. Williams's cottage. Her heart sprang with a sudden temptation—doubted, balanced, and resolved. She had excuse enough; she would do a rebellious thing. She would go there and rest. It might give her a chance to see Mr. Rhys and hear him talk; it might not. If the chance came, why she would be very glad of it. Eleanor had no money about her; she hastily detached a gold pencil case from her watch chain, and put it into the ragged creature's hand who had guided her; saw him turn his back, then went with a sort of stealthy joy to the front of Mrs. Williams's cottage, pushed the door open softly and went in.
Nobody was there; not a cat; it was all still. An inner door stood ajar; within there was a sound of voices, low and pleasant. Eleanor supposed Mrs. Williams would make her appearance in a minute, and sank down on the first chair that offered; sank even her head in her hands, for very weariness and the very sense of rest and security gained. The chair was one standing by the fire and near the open inner door; the voices came quite plainly through; and the next minute let Eleanor know that one of them was the voice of her little sister Julia; she heard one of Julia's joyous utterances. The other voice belonged to Mr. Rhys. No sound of Mrs. Williams. Eleanor sat still, her head bowed in her hands, and listened.
It seemed that Julia was looking at something—or some collection of things. Eleanor could hear the slight rustling of paper handled—then a pause and talk. Julia had a great deal to say. Eleanor presently made out that they were looking at a collection of plants. She felt so tired that she had no inclination to move a single muscle. Mind and body sat still to listen.