THE doctor woke the next morning to find the rain coming down in torrents. The canvas of the tent was soaked, and the whole place felt damp and chilly. He opened his tent door to get a little fresh air, but the rain came driving in, and he had to close it again.
It was dull work preparing his lonely breakfast, the paraffin stove was giving forth a horrible smell, which filled the tent long before the kettle had boiled. Then he found he had forgotten to bring any milk from the farm the night before, and he thought with longing of the steaming, fragrant coffee which Mary would be pouring out in the cozy Castle kitchen. However, he made the best meal he could under the circumstances, did his washing-up with as few groans as possible, and then prepared to face his second day of solitude.
He looked out once more from the tent door, but thick mists prevented his seeing anything. No sound was to be heard except that of the pouring rain; even the sheep had moved away, and had crept for shelter under the wall of a ruined cottage which stood in the midst of the moorland.
Forester sighed to himself, as he thought what a long day it would be, for he saw no prospect of the weather improving. He had filled one of the new portmanteaus with books, that, by means of them, he might wile away the long hours of solitude, and he took one out and began to read. But the story was not exciting, and he found little in it to interest him. He repeatedly looked at his watch, but this only seemed to make the time pass more slowly.
At length when it was about eleven o’clock, and when he felt as if he had lived a lifetime since he got up that morning, he suddenly jumped up from his chair, saying to himself that he could stand it no longer. He made up his mind to put on his mackintosh and to walk down to the village; it would kill a little time at any rate.
Forester turned in at the Castle gate in order to leave his can in the courtyard, so that he might fill it with water on his return. He crept quietly in, shutting the gate softly behind him, for he felt sure that if they saw him they would press him to go into the house, and he was afraid that the thought of a seat on the settle, in that warm chimney-corner, might be too great a temptation for him to resist. He knew that they would be busy with their new lodgers, and he did not like to intrude.
Forester was a highly sensitive man when the feelings of others were concerned, and had a wise dread of being a tax upon anyone. So he went past the kitchen window without so much as glancing at the bright firelight within, and hurriedly returned to the gate. Then he made his way, in driving rain and through plenty of mud, to the road which led down the hill. What he was going to do in the village he had no idea. He had enough food to last him till the next day, so there was no shopping to be done, and, beyond the bare necessaries of life, there was nothing whatever to be bought in the tiny Hildick shops.
But the yearning to hear a human voice was so strong upon the doctor that he determined to turn into the post office and to buy some stamps. He did not want any; there was no one to whom he wished to write, but stamps would always keep until they were wanted. He stayed in the shelter of the little shop as long as possible, but the postmistress was not of a talkative disposition, and, beyond a certain point, he found it impossible to prolong the conversation. A few remarks on the weather and the number of visitors in Hildick were all that he could extract from her, and, after these topics were exhausted, he had no excuse for remaining longer.
When Forester came out into the rain again, he thought he would walk up the village street in the opposite direction to that in which he had gone the day before. He found that the houses were very few in number, but were neat and pretty, with little gardens in front of them gay with sunflowers, dahlias, and fuchsias, and enclosed by low walls, covered with white lime-wash, which gave the whole village an exceedingly clean appearance.
He had not walked very far before he met a man in a long white mackintosh and grey cap, who was fighting his way against the wind and rain, and coming in the direction of the post office. Before he came up to him the doctor recognized him. It was his old schoolfellow and friend, Jack Mainwaring. He would have known him anywhere by his tall upright figure, his curly brown hair, his handsome features, and the merry twinkle in his clear blue eyes.
Jack Mainwaring was a man at whom, if you once looked, you would be sure to look again. He had been the life and the soul of all the fun and merriment and sport at Repton, the captain at cricket and football, the best athlete in the school. Forester had been more successful in examinations than his friend, but Jack was the hero of the sports, and carried off a perfect armful of prizes at the end of them.
And now Jack was a parson! It was almost more than Forester could believe. But there was nothing parsonic in his appearance or manner as he came forward with glad words of greeting.
‘Well, dear old chap, I was just going in search of you. Isn’t it jolly our meeting here after all these years? I was coming with a message from my mother, to insist on your spending the day with us. Now come; we shall take no refusal’ (as Forester, in his shrinking from being a nuisance to anyone, was beginning to make excuses); ‘just think what we’ve got to talk about! Now you really must take pity upon us. The girls are in the blues because it’s a wet day, but, if you come, we’ll have a real good old time. Doris and uncle are coming to tea, and we want you to help us to draw up a program of games and music, to keep us all in a good temper this wet day.’
Forester felt he could not refuse this hearty invitation, and the two friends walked on to the Bank, thoroughly happy in each other’s society.
The day, which had begun so dismally for the doctor, ended in being one of the most pleasant days he had ever spent. Mrs. Mainwaring was kindness itself, and made him feel at his ease at once; the young men found that the lapse of years had by no means cooled their friendship; and Mab and Dolly were as lively as their brothers, and quite prepared to join in all the fun. There was nothing stiff or formal about any of them, and Forester soon forgot his depression, thoroughly enjoying the merry, friendly talk going on around him.
In the afternoon Mr. Somerville and his daughter came in, and after tea the program, which they had prepared in the morning, was carried out.
As the doctor took part in the various games he felt years younger, and his laugh was soon as hearty and frequent as that of his light-hearted companions. Then, when they had come to the end of the games, they finished the evening with music. There was a piano in the room, small in size but sweet in tone, and as all the Mainwarings and also their Cousin Doris were musical, they gave a varied selection of instrumental music, songs, duets, and trios.
Norman Forester could not sing or play, but he thoroughly enjoyed music, and the evening seemed to fly on the wings of the wind. Doris Somerville had a lovely voice; it was not so powerful as Mab’s, but it was clear as a bell, and had a pathetic sweetness in it which went straight to the doctor’s heart as he listened to it. Her last song haunted him for days afterwards:
‘Where are the swallows fled?
Frozen and dead,
Perchance upon some bleak and stormy shore.
O doubting heart!
Far over purple seas
They wait, in sunny ease,
The balmy southern breeze,
To bring them to their northern homes once more.
Why must the flowers die?
Prisoned they lie
In the cold tomb, heedless of tears or rain.
O doubting heart!
They only sleep below
The soft white ermine snow,
While winter winds shall blow,
To breathe and smile upon you soon again.
The sun has hid his rays
These many days;
Will dreary hours never leave the earth?
O doubting heart!
The stormy clouds on high
Veil the same sunny sky,
That soon (for spring is nigh)
Shall wake the summer into golden mirth.
Fair hope is dead, and light
Is quenched in night.
What sound can break the silence of despair?
O doubting heart!
Thy sky is overcast,
Yet stars shall rise at last
And angels’ silver voices stir the air.’
These beautiful words were set to a lovely air, by which they were exactly suited. The first part of each verse was sad and slow, the wail of a soul on the brink of despair; the latter part broke forth into the joyful, invigorating, reassuring notes of calm confidence and triumphant hope.
As Forester climbed the hill that evening, the sweet face of the singer, her clear, trustful eyes, the soft tones of her voice, and, not least, the touching and beautiful words of her song—seemed to follow him all the way. Again, and yet again, he heard her singing the notes of comfort. The refrain of the last verse rang in his ears, and he felt as if she were bringing him a message of hope:
‘O doubting heart!
Thy sky is overcast,
Yet stars shall rise at last,
And angels’ silver voices stir the air.’
The literal stars were shining brightly as he neared the Castle. The rain had stopped, and the moon, now beginning to lose some of her rotundity, was rising behind the hill. He went by the short cut across the fields, which he had taken with Rupert on the night of his arrival. On the side of the hill were the ruins of the old watch-tower of the Castle, standing some hundred yards away from it. Here, in olden time, the men on guard could obtain a view of all the country round, and were thus able to give the alarm in case of danger.
As Forester came up the field, climbing slowly, for the ascent was a very steep one, he thought he saw two figures standing on this lonely watch-tower, and leaning over the low broken wall which ran round the top of it. It was getting late, about eleven o’clock, and he wondered who could be about at that time. The tower lay a little to the left of the path.
As he drew nearer he could distinguish the figures more distinctly, and he was disposed to cross the field and see who they were who were standing there; but on second thoughts he concluded that they were probably two of the visitors who had arrived at the Castle the day before, and he felt that they might not care for him to go out of his way to speak to them.
Presently, however, as Forester looked behind him, he noticed that the two figures were following Hit, or, at any rate, whether they had seen him or not, they were coming in the same direction, and climbing up the hill towards the Castle. When he came to the stile near the keep, he waited there for them to come up; but he waited in vain. They were evidently not making for the Castle, so after some minutes he crossed the stile, and went into the courtyard. His can was standing there by the tap, just where he had put it in the morning, and he had filled it and was going out, when Rupert, who had heard the sound of footsteps, came to the door to see who was there.
‘All right,’ shouted Forester cheerily; ‘I’m only getting water. I hope I haven’t disturbed anybody.’
‘Not a bit, sir; we haven’t gone to bed, come in and warm yourself; it’s chilly after the rain.’
‘Not tonight, thank you; it’s too late. I’ll come in another time, if I may. Goodnight.’
Forester went out the same way he had come in, leaving the courtyard by the stile, for he wished to discover if the two figures he had seen were still in the field, but they seemed to have completely disappeared. He went inside the keep, which looked weird and ghostly in the pale moonlight. The ferrets on the wall stirred in their cages; the bats were flying across it; an owl came out from the ivy growing over an ancient fireplace far overhead, but nothing else was to be seen there. So he went in the direction of his tent, carrying with him his heavy can of water.
He felt rather an outcast from the haunts of man when he came to the lonely moor. All his ambition to be a hermit and a recluse had completely died out. He decided that he was not intended by nature to lead a solitary life, and he comforted himself with the recollection that in the morning he would once more be in the midst of the merry party he had just left, and would be enjoying their companionship and cheerful society.
As he drew near his tent he noticed something moving in front of it; it was a white object, and it seemed to be going along the path leading to the tent door. It was standing close to the tent when he came up to it, and now he could see what it was. It was Jemmy, May and Hawthorn’s pet lamb. Very wet and cold it looked as it came up to the doctor, and, as soon as he had unfastened the canvas door, it ran inside the tent. Forester had not the heart to turn it out. It nestled close to his bed, and never stirred the whole night.
Even the company of a lamb was better than utter solitude, and, when Forester woke in the night, he was glad to know that Jemmy was there, and to be able to put his hand upon his woolly head.