Part 3 (1/2)
”Indeed, I have never been here before,” she answered. ”But I have heard my brother talk of these Yorks.h.i.+re moors; and, if I mistake not, I have heard him name this very one as the wildest and most savage of them all.”
”Very likely,” said I carelessly. ”It is indeed a dreary place.”
”Then why live there?” she cried eagerly. ”Consider the loneliness, the barrenness, the want of all comfort and of all aid, should aid be needed.”
”Aid! What aid should be needed on Gaster Fell?”
She looked down and shrugged her shoulders. ”Sickness may come in all places,” said she. ”If I were a man I do not think I would live alone on Gaster Fell.”
”I have braved worse dangers than that,” said I, laughing; ”but I fear that your picture will be spoiled, for the clouds are banking up, and already I feel a few raindrops.”
Indeed, it was high time we were on our way to shelter, for even as I spoke there came the sudden, steady swish of the shower. Laughing merrily, my companion threw her light shawl over her head, and, seizing picture and easel, ran with the lithe grace of a young fawn down the furze-clad slope, while I followed after with camp-stool and paint-box.
It was the eve of my departure from Kirkby-Malhouse that we sat upon the green bank in the garden, she with dark, dreamy eyes looking sadly out over the sombre fells; while I, with a book upon my knee, glanced covertly at her lovely profile and marvelled to myself how twenty years of life could have stamped so sad and wistful an expression upon it.
”You have read much,” I remarked at last. ”Women have opportunities now such as their mothers never knew. Have you ever thought of going further--of seeking a course of college or even a learned profession?”
She smiled wearily at the thought.
”I have no aim, no ambition,” she said. ”My future is black--confused--a chaos. My life is like to one of these paths upon the fells. You have seen them, Monsieur Upperton. They are smooth and straight and clear where they begin; but soon they wind to left and wind to right, and so mid rocks and crags until they lose themselves in some quagmire. At Brussels my path was straight; but now, _mon Dieu!_ who is there can tell me where it leads?”
”It might take no prophet to do that, Miss Cameron,” quoth I, with the fatherly manner which two-score years may show toward one. ”If I may read your life, I would venture to say that you were destined to fulfil the lot of women--to make some good man happy, and to shed around, in some wider circle, the pleasure which your society has given me since first I knew you.”
”I will never marry,” said she, with a sharp decision, which surprised and somewhat amused me.
”Not marry--and why?”
A strange look pa.s.sed over her sensitive features, and she plucked nervously at the gra.s.s on the bank beside her.
”I dare not,” said she in a voice that quivered with emotion.
”Dare not?”
”It is not for me. I have other things to do. That path of which I spoke is one which I must tread alone.”
”But this is morbid,” said I. ”Why should your lot, Miss Cameron, be separated from that of my own sisters, or the thousand other young ladies whom every season brings out into the world? But perhaps it is that you have a fear and distrust of mankind. Marriage brings a risk as well as a happiness.”
”The risk would be with the man who married me,” she cried. And then in an instant, as though she had said too much, she sprang to her feet and drew her mantle round her. ”The night air is chill, Mr. Upperton,” said she, and so swept swiftly away, leaving me to muse over the strange words which had fallen from her lips.
Clearly, it was time that I should go. I set my teeth and vowed that another day should not have pa.s.sed before I should have snapped this newly formed tie and sought the lonely retreat which awaited me upon the moors. Breakfast was hardly over in the morning before a peasant dragged up to the door the rude hand-cart which was to convey my few personal belongings to my new dwelling. My fellow-lodger had kept her room; and, steeled as my mind was against her influence, I was yet conscious of a little throb of disappointment that she should allow me to depart without a word of farewell. My hand-cart with its load of books had already started, and I, having shaken hands with Mrs. Adams, was about to follow it, when there was a quick scurry of feet on the stair, and there she was beside me all panting with her own haste.
”Then you go--you really go?” said she.
”My studies call me.”
”And to Gaster Fell?” she asked.
”Yes; to the cottage which I have built there.”
”And you will live alone there?”