The morning was icy cold and a pale sun was just rising above the eastern shoulder of the Mountain.The houses scattered on the hillside lay cold and smokeless under the sun-flecked clouds, and not a human being was in sight.Charity paused on the threshold and tried to discover the road by which she had come the night before.Across the field surrounding Mrs.Hyatt's shanty she saw the tumble-down house in which she supposed the funeral service had taken place.The trail ran across the ground between the two houses and disappeared in the pine-wood on the flank of the Mountain; and a little way to the right, under a wind-beaten thorn, a mound of fresh earth made a dark spot on the fawn-coloured stubble.Charity walked across the field to the ground.As she approached it she heard a bird's note in the still air, and looking up she saw a brown song-sparrow perched in an upper branch of the thorn above the grave.She stood a minute listening to his small solitary song; then she rejoined the trail and began to mount the hill to the pine-wood.
Thus far she had been impelled by the blind instinct of flight; but each step seemed to bring her nearer to the realities of which her feverish vigil had given only a shadowy image.Now that she walked again in a daylight world, on the way back to familiar things, her imagination moved more soberly.On one point she was still decided: she could not remain at North Dormer, and the sooner she got away from it the better.
But everything beyond was darkness.
As she continued to climb the air grew keener, and when she passed from the shelter of the pines to the open grassy roof of the Mountain the cold wind of the night before sprang out on her.She bent her shoulders and struggled on against it for a while; but presently her breath failed, and she sat down under a ledge of rock overhung by shivering birches.From where she sat she saw the trail wandering across the bleached grass in the direction of Hamblin, and the granite wall of the Mountain falling away to infinite distances.On that side of the ridge the valleys still lay in wintry shadow; but in the plain beyond the sun was touching village roofs and steeples, and gilding the haze of smoke over far-off invisible towns.
Charity felt herself a mere speck in the lonely circle of the sky.The events of the last two days seemed to have divided her forever from her short dream of bliss.
Even Harney's image had been blurred by that crushing experience: she thought of him as so remote from her that he seemed hardly more than a memory.In her fagged and floating mind only one sensation had the weight of reality; it was the bodily burden of her child.But for it she would have felt as rootless as the whiffs of thistledown the wind blew past her.Her child was like a load that held her down, and yet like a hand that pulled her to her feet.She said to herself that she must get up and struggle on....
Her eyes turned back to the trail across the top of the Mountain, and in the distance she saw a buggy against the sky.She knew its antique outline, and the gaunt build of the old horse pressing forward with lowered head; and after a moment she recognized the heavy bulk of the man who held the reins.The buggy was following the trail and making straight for the pine-wood through which she had climbed; and she knew at once that the driver was in search of her.Her first impulse was to crouch down under the ledge till he had passed; but the instinct of concealment was overruled by the relief of feeling that someone was near her in the awful emptiness.She stood up and walked toward the buggy.
Mr.Royall saw her, and touched the horse with the whip.A minute or two later he was abreast of Charity;their eyes met, and without speaking he leaned over and helped her up into the buggy.
She tried to speak, to stammer out some explanation, but no words came to her; and as he drew the cover over her knees he simply said: "The minister told me he'd left you up here, so I come up for you."He turned the horse's head, and they began to jog back toward Hamblin.Charity sat speechless, staring straight ahead of her, and Mr.Royall occasionally uttered a word of encouragement to the horse: "Get along there, Dan....I gave him a rest at Hamblin; but Ibrought him along pretty quick, and it's a stiff pull up here against the wind."As he spoke it occurred to her for the first time that to reach the top of the Mountain so early he must have left North Dormer at the coldest hour of the night, and have travelled steadily but for the halt at Hamblin;and she felt a softness at her heart which no act of his had ever produced since he had brought her the Crimson Rambler because she had given up boarding-school to stay with him.
After an interval he began again: "It was a day just like this, only spitting snow, when I come up here for you the first time." Then, as if fearing that she might take his remark as a reminder of past benefits, he added quickly: "I dunno's you think it was such a good job, either.""Yes, I do," she murmured, looking straight ahead of her.
"Well," he said, "I tried----"
He did not finish the sentence, and she could think of nothing more to say.
"Ho, there, Dan, step out," he muttered, jerking the bridle."We ain't home yet.--You cold?" he asked abruptly.
