they have to fly into when the outside is unharmonious! how to fill up all those years; what to do in the time that is endless, that will never be done; how to meet those strange events, those new persons, those delights and wonders that are all waiting round the next and the next corner! If she had thought of it she would have been ashamed of herself for this very amusement, but fortunately she did not think of it, and so let herself go, like the child she was. She took her intended walk through the park, and then, as the morning was bright, after lingering at the gate a little, went out into the road, and turned to the village without any particular intention, because it was near and the red roofs shone in the light. It was a fresh, bright morning, such as sometimes breaks the dulness of November. The sky was as blue as summer, with wandering white cloudlets, and not a sign of any harm, though there had been torrents of rain the night before. Indeed, no doubt it was the pouring down of those torrents which had cleared away the tinge of darkness from the clouds, which were as innocent and filmy and light as if it had been June. Everything was glistening and gleaming with wet, but that only made the country more bright, and as Rosalind looked along the road, the sight of the red village with its smoke rising ethereal into air so pure that it was a happiness to gaze into its limpid, invisible depths, or rather heights, ending in heavens, was enough to cheer any young soul. She went on, with a little sense of adventure, for though she often went to the village, it was rare to this girl to have the privilege of being absolutely alone. The fresh air, the glistening hedgerows, the village roofs, in all the shining of the sunshine, pleased her so much that she did not see till she was close to it a break in the road, where the water which had submerged the low fields on either side had broken across the higher ground, finding a sort of channel in a slight hollow of the road. The sight of a laborer plashing through it, with but little thought, though it came up to the top of his rough boots, arrested Rosalind all at once. What was she to do? Her boots, though with the amount of high heel which only a most independent mind can escape from, were clearly quite unequal to this crossing. She could not but laugh to herself at the small matter which stopped progress, and stood on the edge of it measuring the distance with her eye, and calculating probabilities with a smiling face, amused by the difficulty. While she stood thus she heard a voice behind her calling to the laborer in front. “Hi!” some one said; “Hallo, you there! help me to lift this log over the water, that the lady may cross.” The person appealed to turned round, and so did Rosalind. And then she felt that here was indeed an adventure. Behind her, stooping over some large logs of wood on the side of the pathway, was the man who had looked so intently at the carriage the other day when she passed with her stepmother. Before she saw his face she was sure, with a little jump of her heart, that it was the same man. He was dressed in dark tweed clothes, somewhat rough, which might have been the garb of a gentleman or of a gamekeeper, and did not fit him well, which was more like the latter than the former. She could see, as he stooped, his cheek and throat reddened as with the unusual exertion.
“Oh, please do not take the trouble,” she cried; “it is of no consequence. I have nothing to do in the village.”
“It is no trouble,” he said; and in a minute or two the logs were rolled across the side path so that she could pass. The man who had been called upon to help was one of the farm-laborers whom she knew. She thanked him cheerfully by name, and turned to the stranger, who stood with his hat off, his pale face, which she remembered to have been so pale that she thought him ill, now covered with a brilliant flush which made his eyes shine. Rosalind was startled by the beauty of the face, but it was not like that of the men she was accustomed to see. Something feminine, something delicate and weak, was in it.
“You are very kind to take so much trouble; but I am afraid you have over-exerted yourself,” she cried.
This made the young man blush more deeply still.
“I am not very strong,” he said half indignantly, “but not so weak as that.” There was a tone of petulance in the reply; and then he added, “Whatever trouble it might be is more than repaid,” with a somewhat elaborate bow.
What did it mean? The face was refined and full of expression, but then probably he was not a gentleman, Rosalind thought, and did not understand. She said hurriedly again, “I am very much obliged to you,” and went on, a little troubled by the event. She heard him make a few steps after her. Was he going to follow? In her surprise it was almost on her lips to call back William from the farm.
“I beg your pardon,” said the stranger, “but may I take the liberty of asking how is Mr. Trevanion? I heard he was worse last night.”
Rosalind turned round, half reassured.
“Oh, do you know papa?” she said. “He has been very ill all night, but he is better, though terribly exhausted. He has had some sleep this morning.”
She was elevated upon the log, which she had begun to cross, and thus looked down upon the stranger. If he knew her father, that made all the difference; and surely the face was one with which she was not unfamiliar.
“I do not know Mr. Trevanion, only one hears of him constantly in the village. I am glad he is better.”
He hesitated, as if he too was about to mount the log.
“Oh, thank you,” said Rosalind, hurrying on.
CHAPTER XII
“To whom were you talking, Rosalind?”
“To—nobody, Uncle John!” she said, in her surprise at the sudden question which came over her shoulder, and, turning round, waited till he joined her. She had changed her mind and come back after she had crossed the water upon the impromptu bridge, with a half apprehension that her new acquaintance intended to accompany her to the village, and had, to tell the truth, walked rather quickly to the park gates.
“But I met the man—a young fellow—whose appearance I don’t know.”
“Oh! I don’t know who it was either; a gentleman; at least, I suppose he was a gentleman.”
“And yet you doubt. What cause had you to doubt?”
“Well, Uncle John, his voice was nice enough, and what he said. The only thing was, he paid me a sort of a—compliment.”
“What was that?” said John Trevanion, quickly.
“Oh, nothing,” said Rosalind, inconsistently. “When I said I was sorry he had taken the trouble, he said, ‘Oh, if it was any trouble it was repaid.’ Nothing at all! Only a gentleman would not have said that to a girl who was—alone.”
“That is true; but it was not very much after all. Fashions change. A few generations ago it would have been the right thing.” Then he dropped the subject as a matter without importance, and drew his niece’s arm within his own. “Rosie,” he said, “I am afraid we shall have to face the future, you and I. What are we to do?”
“Are things so very bad, Uncle John?” she cried, and the tears came welling up into her eyes as she raised them to his face.
“Very bad, I fear. This last attack has done him a great deal of harm, more than any of the others; perhaps, because, as the doctor says, the pace is quicker as he gets near the end, perhaps because he is still as angry as ever, though he is not able to give it vent. I wonder if such fury may not have some adequate cause.”
“Oh, Uncle John!” Rosalind cried; she clasped her hands upon his arm, looking up at him through her tears. He knew what was the meaning in her tone, though it was a meaning very hard to put into words. A child cannot say of her father when he is dying that his fury has often been without any adequate cause.
“I know,” he said, “and I acknowledge that no one could have
