Part 25 (1/2)
”Yes,” I whispered.
”I think I should like to go home,” he said. ”I believe I could manage it, after all.”
CHAPTER XXIII
THE PARABLE OF THE HEATHER
We left Zermatt on the following day. I must say that I entered the squire's room with some trepidation, but it was quite unnecessary. He smiled as I bent over to kiss him, and relieved my apprehension at once.
”It's all right, Grace,” he said; ”the heather pulls. You know, don't you?”
Dr. Grey was splendid. Motor cars are of no use in Zermatt, except to bring you there or take you away, so the smell of petrol does not often draw the tourist's attention from the sublime to the--nauseous; but it was characteristic of the almost impudent audacity of the man that he commandeered the only one there was at the Victoria.
”How have you managed it?” I asked, when I learned that we were all to travel as far as Lausanne in the Marquis d'Olsini's luxurious automobile.
”Oh, easily enough,” he replied in his hearty way; ”the marquis is no end of a decent sort, and when I explained matters, and pointed out that the car was rusting for want of use, he placed it at my disposal with the grace and courtliness that distinguish your true Italian n.o.bleman.”
It was a veritable little palace on tyres, and we reached Lausanne quickly and without inconvenience. The squire was not a bit worse for the effort, but the sight of old Gottlieb turning away from the door when he had bidden us good-bye, with a shrug of the shoulders that said as plainly as any words could have done that he washed his hands of all responsibility and was disgusted at the capriciousness of the mad English, afforded me much delight and remains with me still.
It took us four days to reach Folkestone, and we stayed there a couple of nights before we went on to London. Dr. and Mrs. Grey remained with us until we reached the St. Pancras hotel, where the Cynic was waiting to receive us. The squire will see a good deal of the Greys, as the doctor is a Manchester man and can easily run over. The Cynic took to them at once, and Mrs. Grey, or ”Dot” as I have learned to call her, confided to me that my friend was a very nice fellow of whom she would be desperately afraid. Fancy any woman being afraid of the Cynic!
Mr. Derwent is, in his way, quite as good an organiser as the doctor, though he goes about his work so quietly that you hardly realise it.
Instead of our having to change at Airlee he had arranged for a saloon to be attached to the Scotch express, so that we travelled with the utmost possible comfort. The squire was by this time so accustomed to travelling, and had borne the fatigue of the journey so well, that I should not have hesitated to accompany him alone, but it was very pleasant to have the Cynic's company and to feel that he shared the responsibility. He seemed pleased to see me, I thought, and congratulated me warmly on the success of my mission.
”You must thank Dr. Grey for all this,” I said; ”it was his persistence that brought Mr. Evans home.”
”Nay, child,” said the squire, ”you and your word pictures sent me home.”
Webster met us at Fawks.h.i.+ll with the pair of bays, and his eyes shone as he greeted the squire. It was good to observe the sympathy that exists between the two as they grasped hands at the station gate. One was master and the other servant, but they were just old friends reunited, and neither of them was ashamed of his emotion.
When we entered the lane the squire closed his eyes. ”I will play at being a boy again, Grace. Tell me when we reach the brow of the hill, so that I may see it all at once.”
I knew what he meant, and none of the three spoke a word until Webster pulled up his horses at my request. It was nearly five o'clock in the afternoon, and the warm August sun was well on his way to the west. A thin haze hung over the distant hills, but the moors were glorious in brown and purple, and there was here and there the glint of gorse.
”Now, sir,” I said, ”look and rejoice!”
He stood up in the carriage and looked around; and as he looked he filled his lungs with the sweet moorland air. Then he said, with deep emotion:
”Thank G.o.d for this!--Drive on, Webster, please.”
I was anxious to see the motherkin, and leaving the squire to the companions.h.i.+p of Mr. Derwent I hastened to the cottage. It would be more correct to say that I did my best to hasten, but so many of the villagers stopped me to offer their greetings and inquire the news that my progress was considerably r.e.t.a.r.ded.
When I was nearing the cottage I met Farmer Goodenough, whose hearty hand-grasp I accepted cautiously. After the usual preliminary questions had been asked and answered his voice became rather grave as he said:
”Miss 'Olden, I don't want to worry ye, knowing 'at you're an extra speshul hand at findin' trouble, but I don't altogether like the looks o' Mrs. Hubbard. She's gone a bit thin an' worn, in a manner o'
speakin'. Ye'll excuse me saying ought, I know, but 'a st.i.tch in time saves nine,' as t' Owd Book puts it.”
I thanked him, and hurried home, feeling very troubled and uneasy, but when the dear old lady came tripping down to meet me my fears retired into the background. She was so bright and sweet and altogether dainty, and she looked so happy and so well, with the pink flush of pleasure on her cheeks, that I concluded the worthy farmer had for once deceived himself.