asked her didn't she
think that free kind of life was the best, and that was how she answered
me."
"You should have contradicted her."
"It seemed true. I never thought of it being wrong, in fact."
"Come—that sounds bad."
"No—I thought she looked down on us—on our way of life. I thought she
meant I was like a toad in a hole."
"You should have shown her different."
"How could I when I could see no different?"
"It strikes me you're in love."
He laughed at the idea, saying, "No, but it is rotten to find that there
isn't a single thing you have to be proud of."
"This is a new tune for you."
He pulled the grass moodily.
"And when do you think of going?"
"Oh—I don't know—I've said nothing to mother. Not yet,—at any rate
not till spring."
"Not till something has happened," said I.
"What?" he asked.
"Something decisive."
"I don't know what can happen—unless the Squire turns us out."
"No?" I said.
He did not speak.
"You should make things happen," said I.
"Don't make me feel a worse fool, Cyril," he replied despairingly.
Gyp whined and jumped, tugging her chain to follow us. The grey blurs
among the blackness of the bushes were resting sheep. A chill, dim mist
crept along the ground.
"But, for all that, Cyril," he said, "to have her laugh at you across
the table; to hear her sing as she moved about, before you are washed at
night, when the fire's warm, and you're tired; to have her sit by you on
the hearth seat, close and soft…."
"In Spain," I said. "In Spain."
He took no notice, but turned suddenly, laughing.
"Do you know, when I was stooking up, lifting the sheaves, it felt like
having your arm round a girl. It was quite a sudden sensation."
"You'd better take care," said I, "you'll mesh yourself in the silk of
dreams, and then——"
He laughed, not having heard my words.
"The time seems to go like lightning—thinking" he confessed—"I seem to
sweep the mornings up in a handful."
"Oh, Lord!" said I. "Why don't you scheme forgetting what you want,
instead of dreaming fulfilments?"
"Well," he replied. "If it was a fine dream, wouldn't you want to go on
dreaming?" and with that he finished, and I went home.
I sat at my window looking out, trying to get things straight. Mist
rose, and wreathed round Nethermere, like ghosts meeting and embracing
sadly. I thought of the time when my friend should not follow the harrow
on our own snug valley side, and when Lettie's room next mine should be
closed to hide its emptiness, not its joy. My heart clung passionately
to the hollow which held us all; how could I bear that it should be
desolate! I wondered what Lettie would do.
In the morning I was up early, when daybreak came with a shiver through
the woods. I went out, while the moon still shone sickly in the west.
The world shrank from the morning. It was then that the last of the
summer things died. The wood was dark,—and smelt damp and heavy with
autumn. On the paths the leaves lay clogged.
As I came near the farm I heard the yelling of dogs. Running, I reached
the Common, and saw the sheep huddled and scattered in groups, something
leaped round them. George burst into sight pursuing. Directly, there was
the bang, bang of a gun. I picked up a heavy piece of sandstone and ran
forwards. Three sheep scattered wildly before me. In the dim light I saw
their grey shadows move among the gorse bushes. Then a dog leaped, and I
flung my stone with all my might. I hit. There came a high–pitched
howling yelp of pain; I saw the brute make off, and went after him,
dodging the prickly bushes, leaping the trailing brambles. The gunshots
rang out again, and I heard the men shouting with excitement. My dog was
out of sight, but I followed still, slanting down the hill. In a field
ahead I saw someone running. Leaping the low hedge, I pursued, and
overtook Emily, who was hurrying as fast as she could through the wet
grass. There was another gunshot and great shouting. Emily glanced
round, saw me, and
think that free kind of life was the best, and that was how she answered
me."
"You should have contradicted her."
"It seemed true. I never thought of it being wrong, in fact."
"Come—that sounds bad."
"No—I thought she looked down on us—on our way of life. I thought she
meant I was like a toad in a hole."
"You should have shown her different."
"How could I when I could see no different?"
"It strikes me you're in love."
He laughed at the idea, saying, "No, but it is rotten to find that there
isn't a single thing you have to be proud of."
"This is a new tune for you."
He pulled the grass moodily.
"And when do you think of going?"
"Oh—I don't know—I've said nothing to mother. Not yet,—at any rate
not till spring."
"Not till something has happened," said I.
"What?" he asked.
"Something decisive."
"I don't know what can happen—unless the Squire turns us out."
"No?" I said.
He did not speak.
"You should make things happen," said I.
"Don't make me feel a worse fool, Cyril," he replied despairingly.
Gyp whined and jumped, tugging her chain to follow us. The grey blurs
among the blackness of the bushes were resting sheep. A chill, dim mist
crept along the ground.
"But, for all that, Cyril," he said, "to have her laugh at you across
the table; to hear her sing as she moved about, before you are washed at
night, when the fire's warm, and you're tired; to have her sit by you on
the hearth seat, close and soft…."
"In Spain," I said. "In Spain."
He took no notice, but turned suddenly, laughing.
"Do you know, when I was stooking up, lifting the sheaves, it felt like
having your arm round a girl. It was quite a sudden sensation."
"You'd better take care," said I, "you'll mesh yourself in the silk of
dreams, and then——"
He laughed, not having heard my words.
"The time seems to go like lightning—thinking" he confessed—"I seem to
sweep the mornings up in a handful."
"Oh, Lord!" said I. "Why don't you scheme forgetting what you want,
instead of dreaming fulfilments?"
"Well," he replied. "If it was a fine dream, wouldn't you want to go on
dreaming?" and with that he finished, and I went home.
I sat at my window looking out, trying to get things straight. Mist
rose, and wreathed round Nethermere, like ghosts meeting and embracing
sadly. I thought of the time when my friend should not follow the harrow
on our own snug valley side, and when Lettie's room next mine should be
closed to hide its emptiness, not its joy. My heart clung passionately
to the hollow which held us all; how could I bear that it should be
desolate! I wondered what Lettie would do.
In the morning I was up early, when daybreak came with a shiver through
the woods. I went out, while the moon still shone sickly in the west.
The world shrank from the morning. It was then that the last of the
summer things died. The wood was dark,—and smelt damp and heavy with
autumn. On the paths the leaves lay clogged.
As I came near the farm I heard the yelling of dogs. Running, I reached
the Common, and saw the sheep huddled and scattered in groups, something
leaped round them. George burst into sight pursuing. Directly, there was
the bang, bang of a gun. I picked up a heavy piece of sandstone and ran
forwards. Three sheep scattered wildly before me. In the dim light I saw
their grey shadows move among the gorse bushes. Then a dog leaped, and I
flung my stone with all my might. I hit. There came a high–pitched
howling yelp of pain; I saw the brute make off, and went after him,
dodging the prickly bushes, leaping the trailing brambles. The gunshots
rang out again, and I heard the men shouting with excitement. My dog was
out of sight, but I followed still, slanting down the hill. In a field
ahead I saw someone running. Leaping the low hedge, I pursued, and
overtook Emily, who was hurrying as fast as she could through the wet
grass. There was another gunshot and great shouting. Emily glanced
round, saw me, and
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