The Odd Women Part 66

That, indeed, proved to be the convenient resting-place. A wild spot, a hollow amid the rolling expanse of moorland, its little lake of black water glistening under the midday sun. And here stood a shepherd's cottage, the only habitation they had seen since leaving Boot. Somewhat uncertain about the course to be henceforth followed, they made inquiry at this cottage, and a woman who appeared to be quite alone gave them the needful direction. Thus at ease in mind they crossed the bridge at the foot of the tarn, and just beyond it found a spot suitable for repose. Everard brought forth his sandwiches and his flask of wine, moreover a wine-gla.s.s, which was for Rhoda's use. They ate and drank festively.

'Now this is just what I have enjoyed in imagination for a year or more,' said Barfoot, when the luncheon was over, and he lay propped upon his elbow, gazing at Rhoda's fine eyes and her sun-warmed cheeks.

'An ideal realized, for once in one's life. A perfect moment.'

'Don't you like the scent of burning peat from that cottage?'

'Yes. I like everything about us, in heaven and earth, and most of all I like your companionship, Rhoda.'

She could not resent this first use of her Christian name; it was so natural, so inevitable; yet she moved her head as if with a slight annoyance.

'Is mine as agreeable to you?' he added, stroking the back of her hand with a spray of heather. 'Or do you just tolerate me out of good-nature?'

'I have liked your companionship all the way from Seascale. Don't disturb my enjoyment of it for the rest of the way.'

'That would be a misfortune indeed. The whole day shall be perfect. Not a note of discord. But I must have liberty to say what comes into my mind, and when you don't choose to answer I shall respect your silence.'

'Wouldn't you like to smoke a cigar before we start again?'

'Yes. But I like still better not to. The scent of peat is pleasanter to you than that of tobacco.'

'Oblige me by lighting the cigar.'

'If you command--' He did her bidding. 'The whole day shall be perfect.

A delightful dinner at the inn, a drive to Seascale, an hour or two of rest, and then one more quiet talk by the sea at nightfall.'

'All but the last. I shall be too tired.'

'No. I must have that hour of talk by the sea. You are free to answer me or not, but your presence you must grant me. We are in an ideal world remember. We care nothing for all the sons and daughters of men.

You and I will spend this one day together between cloudless heaven and silent earth--a memory for lifetime. At nightfall you will come out again, and meet me down by the sea, where you stood when I first saw you yesterday.'

Rhoda made no reply. She looked away from him at the black, deep water.

'What an opportunity,' he went on, raising his hand to point at the cottage, 'for saying the silliest of conceivable things!'

'What _might_ that be, I wonder?'

'Why, that to dwell there together for the rest of our lives would be supreme felicity. You know the kind of man that would say that.'

'Not personally, thank goodness!'

'A week--a month, even--with weather such as this. Nay, with a storm for variety; clouds from the top of Scawfell falling thick about us; a fierce wind shrieking across the tarn; sheets and torrents and floods of rain beating upon our roof; and you and I by the peat-fire. With a good supply of books, old and new, I can picture it for three months, for half a year!'

'Be on your guard. Remember "that kind of man".'

'I am in no danger. There is a vast difference between six months and all one's life. When the half-year was over we would leave England.'

'By the Orient Express?'

They laughed together, Rhoda colouring, for the words that had escaped her meant too much for mere jest.

'By the Orient Express. We would have a house by the Bosphorus for the next half-year, and contrast our emotions with those we had known by Burmoor Tarn. Think what a rich year of life that would make! How much we should have learnt from nature and from each other!'

'And how dreadfully tired of each other we should be!'

Barfoot looked keenly at her. He could not with certainty read her countenance.

'You mean that?' he asked.

'You know it is true.'

'Hush! The day is to be perfect. I won't admit that we could ever tire of each other with reasonable variety of circ.u.mstance. You to me are infinitely interesting, and I believe that I might become so to you.'

He did not allow himself to vary from this tone of fanciful speculation, suited to the idle hour. Rhoda said very little; her remarks were generally a purposed interruption of Everard's theme. When the cigar was smoked Out they rose and set forward again. This latter half of their walk proved the most interesting, for they were expectant of the view down upon Wastdale. A bold summit came in sight, dark, desolate, which they judged to be Great Gabel; and when they had pressed on eagerly for another mile, the valley opened beneath them with such striking suddenness that they stopped on the instant and glanced at each other in silence. From a n.o.ble height they looked down upon Wast.w.a.ter, sternest and blackest of the lakes, on the fields and copses of the valley head with its winding stream, and the rugged gorges which lie beyond in mountain shadow.

The descent was by a path which in winter becomes the bed of a torrent, steep and stony, zigzagging through a thick wood. Here, and when they had reached the level road leading into the village, their talk was in the same natural, light-hearted strain as before they rested. So at the inn where they dined, and during their drive homewards--by the dark lake with its woods and precipices, out into the country of green hills, and thence through Gosforth on the long road descending seaward.

Since their early departure scarcely a cloud had pa.s.sed over the sun--a perfect day.

They alighted before reaching Seascale. Barfoot discharged his debt to the driver--who went on to bait at the hotel--and walked with Rhoda for the last quarter of a mile. This was his own idea; Rhoda made no remark, but approved his discretion.

'It is six o'clock,' said Everard, after a short silence. 'You remember your arrangement. At eight, down on the sh.o.r.e.'

'I should be much more comfortable in the armchair with a book.'

'Oh, you have had enough of books. It's time to live.'

'It's time to rest.'

'Are you so very tired? Poor girl! The day has been rather too much for you.'

Rhoda laughed.

'I could walk back again to Wast.w.a.ter if it were necessary.'

'Of course; I knew that. You are magnificent. At eight o'clock then--'

Nothing more was said on the subject. When in sight of Rhoda's lodgings they parted without hand-shaking.

Before eight Everard was straying about the beach, watching the sun go down in splendour. He smiled to himself frequently. The hour had come for his last trial of Rhoda, and he felt some confidence as to the result. If her mettle endured his test, if she declared herself willing not only to abandon her avowed ideal of life, but to defy the world's opinion by becoming his wife without forms of mutual bondage--she was the woman he had imagined, and by her side he would go cheerfully on his way as a married man. Legally married; the proposal of free union was to be a test only. Loving her as he had never thought to love, there still remained with him so much of the temper in which he first wooed her that he could be satisfied with nothing short of unconditional surrender. Delighting in her independence of mind, he still desired to see her in complete subjugation to him, to inspire her with unreflecting pa.s.sion. Tame consent to matrimony was an everyday experience. Agnes Brissenden, he felt sure, would marry him whenever he chose to ask her--and would make one of the best wives conceivable. But of Rhoda Nunn he expected and demanded more than this. She must rise far above the level of ordinary intelligent women. She must manifest an absolute confidence in him--that was the true significance of his present motives. The censures and suspicions which she had not scrupled to confess in plain words must linger in no corner of her mind.

His heart throbbed with impatience for her coming. Come she would; it was not in Rhoda's nature to play tricks; if she had not meant to meet him she would have said so resolutely, as last night.

At a few minutes past the hour he looked landward, and saw her figure against the golden sky. She came down from the sandbank very slowly, with careless, loitering steps. He moved but a little way to meet her, and then stood still. He had done his part; it was now hers to forego female privileges, to obey the constraint of love. The western afterglow touched her features, heightening the beauty Everard had learnt to see in them. Still she loitered, stooping to pick up a piece of seaweed; but still he kept his place, motionless, and she came nearer.

'Did you see the light of sunset on the mountains?'

'Yes,' he replied.

'There has been no such evening since I came.'