Wylder's Hand
Page 24
CHAPTER XXIII.
HOW RACHEL SLEPT THAT NIGHT IN REDMAN'S FARM.
'Allow me--pray do,' and he took her little bag from her hand. 'I hopeyou are not very tired, darling; you've been so very good; and you're notafraid--you know the place is so quiet--of the little walk by yourself.Take my arm; I'll go as far as I can, but it is very late you know--andyou are sure you are not afraid?'
'I ought to be afraid of nothing now, Stanley, but I think I am afraid ofeverything.'
'Merely a little nervous--it's nothing--I've been wretchedly since,myself; but, I'm so glad you are home again; you shall have no moretrouble, I assure you; and not a creature suspects you have been fromhome. Old Tamar has behaved admirably.'
Rachel sighed again and said--
'Yes--poor Tamar.'
'And now, dear, I'm afraid I must leave you--I'm very sorry; but you seehow it is; keep to the shady side, close by the hedge, where the treesstop; but I'm certain you will meet no one. Tamar will tell you who hascalled--hardly anyone--I saw them myself every day at Brandon, and toldthem you were ill. You've been very kind, Radie; I assure you I'll neverforget it. You'll find Tamar up and watching for you--I arranged allthat; and I need not say you'll be very careful not to let that girl ofyours hear anything. You'll be very quiet--she suspects nothing; and Iassure you, so far as personal annoyance of any kind is concerned, youmay be perfectly at ease. Good-night, Radie; God bless you, dear. I wishvery much I could see you all the way, but there's a risk in it, youknow. Good-night, dear Radie. By-the-bye, here's your bag; I'll take therug, it's too heavy for you, and I may as well have it to Dollington.'
He kissed her cheek in his slight way, and left her, and was soon on hisway to Dollington, where he slept that night--rather more comfortablythan he had done since Rachel's departure.
Rachel walked on swiftly. Very tired, but not at all sleepy--on thecontrary, excited and nervous, and rather relieved, notwithstanding thatStanley had left her to walk home alone.
It seemed to her that more than a month had passed since she saw themill-road last. How much had happened! how awful was the change! Familiarobjects glided past her, the same, yet the fashion of the countenance wasaltered; there was something estranged and threatening.
The pretty parsonage was now close by: in the dews of night the spirit ofpeace and slumbers smiled over it; but the sight of its steep roof andhomely chimney-stacks smote with a shock at her brain and heart--atroubled moan escaped her. She looked up with the instinct of prayer, andclasped her hands on the handle of that little bag which had made themysterious journey with her; a load which no man could lift lay upon herheart.
Then she commenced her dark walk up the mill-road--her hands stillclasped, her lips moving in broken appeals to Heaven. She looked neitherto the right nor to the left, but passed on with inflexible gaze andhasty steps, like one who crosses a plank over some awful chasm.
In such darkness Redman's dell was a solemn, not to say an awful, spot;and at any time, I think, Rachel, in a like solitude and darkness, wouldhave been glad to see the red glimmer of old Tamar's candle proclaimingunder the branches the neighbourhood of human life and sympathy.
The old woman, with her shawl over her head, sat listening for her youngmistress's approach, on the little side bench in the trellised porch, andtottered hastily forth to meet her at the garden wicket, whisperingforlorn welcomes, and thanksgivings, which Rachel answered only with akiss.
Safe, safe at home! Thank Heaven at least for that. Secluded oncemore--hidden in Redman's Dell; but never again to be the same--thecareless mind no more. The summer sunshine through the trees, the leafysongs of birds, obscured in the smoke and drowned in the discord of anuntold and everlasting trouble.
The hall-door was now shut and bolted. Wise old Tamar had turned the keyupon the sleeping girl. There was nothing to be feared from prying eyesand listening ears.
'You are cold, Miss Radie, and tired--poor thing! I lit a bit of fire inyour room, Miss; would you like me to go up stairs with you, Miss?'
'Come.'
And so up stairs they went; and the young lady looked round with astrange anxiety, like a person seeking for something, and forgettingwhat; and, sitting down, she leaned her head on her hand with a moan, theliving picture of despair.
'You've a headache, Miss Radie?' said the old woman, standing by her withthat painful enquiry which sat naturally on her face.
'A heartache, Tamar.'
'Let me help you off with these things, Miss Radie, dear.'
The young lady did not seem to hear, but she allowed Tamar to remove hercloak and hat and handkerchief.
The old servant had placed the tea-things on the table, and what remainedof that wine of which Stanley had partaken on the night from which theeclipse of Rachel's life dated. So, without troubling her with questions,she made tea, and then some negus, with careful and trembling hands.
'No,' said Rachel, a little pettishly, and put it aside.
'See now, Miss Radie, dear. You look awful sick and tired. You are tiredto death and pale, and sorry, my dear child; and to please old Tamar,you'll just drink this.'
'Thank you, Tamar, I believe you are right.'
The truth was she needed it; and in the same dejected way she sipped itslowly; and then there was a long silence--the silence of a fatigue, likethat of fever, near which sleep refuses to come. But she sat in thatwaking lethargy in which are sluggish dreams of horror, and neither eyesnor ears for that which is before us.
When at last with another great sigh she lifted her head, her eyes restedon old Tamar's face, at the other side of the fire-place, with a dark,dull surprise and puzzle for a moment, as if she could not tell why shewas there, or where the place was; and then rising up, with piteous lookin her old nurse's face, she said, 'Oh! Tamar, Tamar. It is a dreadfulworld.'
'So it is, Miss Radie,' answered the old woman, her glittering eyesreturning her sad gaze wofully. 'Aye, so it is, sure!--and such it wasand will be. For so the Scripture says--"Cursed is the ground for thysake"--hard to the body--a vale of tears--dark to the spirit. But it isthe hand of God that is upon you, and, like me, you will say at last, "Itis good for me that I have been in trouble." Lie down, dear Miss Radie,and I'll read to you the blessed words of comfort that have been sealedfor me ever since I saw you last. They have--but that's over.'
And she turned up her pallid, puckered face, and, with a trembling andknotted pair of hands uplifted, she muttered an awful thanksgiving.
Rachel said nothing, but her eyes rested on the floor, and, with thequiet obedience of her early childhood, she did as Tamar said. And theold woman assisted her to undress, and so she lay down with a sigh in herbed. And Tamar, her round spectacles by this time on her nose, sitting atthe little table by her pillow, read, in a solemn and somewhat quaveringvoice, such comfortable passages as came first to memory.
Rachel cried quietly as she listened, and at last, worn out by manyfeverish nights, and the fatigues of her journey, she fell into adisturbed slumber, with many startings and sudden wakings, with cries andstrange excitement.
Old Tamar would not leave her, but kept her seat in the high-backedarm-chair throughout the night, like a nurse--as indeed she was--in asick chamber. And so that weary night limped tediously away, and morningdawned, and tipped the discoloured foliage of the glen with its glow,awaking the songs of all the birds, and dispersing the white mists ofdarkness. And Rachel with a start awoke, and sat up with a wild look anda cry--
'What is it?'
'Nothing, dear Miss Radie--only poor old Tamar.' And a new day had begun.