The Flight Of The Shadow, George MacDonald [classic books for 13 year olds .TXT] 📗

lion that lives upon horses. She declined the proffer with quiet scorn. I offered her one or both men to see her home, but the way in which she refused their service, made them glad they had not to go with her. We had no choice, therefore turned and left her to get home as she might.

Not until we were on the way back, did it occur to me that I had not asked Martha whether she knew anything about my uncle's departure. She was never one to volunteer news, and, besides, would naturally think me in his confidence!

I found she knew nothing of our expedition, as no one had gone into the house-had only heard the horses and voices, and wondered. I was able to tell her what had happened; but the moment I began to question her as to any knowledge of my uncle's intentions, my strength gave way, and I burst into tears.

"Don't be silly, Belorba!" cried Martha, almost severely. "You an engaged young lady, and tied so to your uncle's apron-strings that you cry the minute he's out of your sight! You didn't cry when Mr. Day left you!"

"No," I answered; "he was going only for a day or two!"

"And for how many is your uncle gone?"

"That is what I want to know. He means to be away a long time, I fear."

"Then it's nothing but your fancy sets you crying!-But I'll just see!" she returned. "I shall know by the money he left for the house-keeping! Only I won't budge till I see you eat."

Faint for want of food, I had no appetite. But I began at once to eat, and she left me to fetch the money he had given her as he went.

She came back with a pocket-book, opened it, and looked into it. Then she looked at me. Her expression was of unmistakable dismay. I took the pocket-book from her hand: it was full of notes!

I learned afterward, that it was his habit to have money in the house, in readiness for some possible sudden need of it.


CHAPTER XXVIII.


ANOTHER VISION.

That same night, within an hour, to my unspeakable relief, John came home-at least he came to me, who he always said was his home. It was rather late, but we went out to the wilderness, where I had a good cry on his shoulder; after which I felt better, and hope began to show signs of life in me. I never asked him how he had got on in London, but told him all that had happened since he went. It was worse than painful to tell him about his mother's letter, and what my uncle told me in consequence of it, also my personal adventure with her so lately; but I felt I must hide nothing. If a man's mother is a devil, it is well he should know it.

He sat like a sleeping hurricane while I spoke, saying never a word. When I had ended,-

"Is that all?" he asked.

"It is all, John: is it not enough?" I answered.

"It is enough," he cried, with an oath that frightened me, and started to his feet. The hurricane was awake.

I threw my arms round him.

"Where are you going?" I said.

"To her " he answered.

"What for?"

"To kill her," he said-then threw himself on the ground, and lay motionless at my feet.

I kept silence. I thought with myself he was fighting the nature his mother had given him.

He lay still for about two minutes, then quietly rose.

"Good night, dearest!" he said; "-no; good-bye! It is not fit the son of such a mother should marry any honest woman."

"I beg your pardon, John!" I returned; "I hope I may have a word in the matter! If I choose to marry you, what right have you to draw back? Let us leave alone the thing that has to be, and remember that my uncle must not be denounced as a murderer! Something must be done. That he is beyond personal danger for the present is something; but is he to be the talk of the country?"

"No harm shall come to him," said John. "If I don't throttle the tigress, I'll muzzle her. I know how to deal with her. She has learned at least, that what her stupid son says, he does! I shall make her understand that, on her slightest movement to disgrace your uncle, I will marry you right off, come what may; and if she goes on, I shall get myself summoned for the defence, that, if I can say nothing for him , I may say something against her . Besides, I will tell her that, when my time comes, if I find anything amiss with her accounts, I will give her no quarter.-But, Orbie," he continued, "as I will not threaten what I may not be able to perform, you must promise not to prevent me from carrying it out."

"I promise," I said, "that, if it be necessary for your truth, I will marry you at once. I only hope she may not already have taken steps!"

"Her two days are not yet expired. I shall present myself in good time.-But I wonder you are not afraid to trust yourself alone with the son of such a mother!"

"To be what I know you, John," I answered, "and the son of that woman, shows a good angel was not far off at your birth. But why talk of angels? Whoever was your mother, God is your father!"

He made no reply beyond a loving pressure of my hand. Then he asked me whether I could lend him something to ride home upon. I told him there was an old horse the bailiff rode sometimes; I was very sorry he could not have Zoe: she had been out all day and was too tired! He said Zoe was much too precious for a hulking fellow like him to ride, but he would be glad of the old horse.

I went to the stable with him, and saw him mount. What a determined look there was on his face! He seemed quite a middle-aged man.

I have now to tell how he fared on the moor as he rode.

It had turned gusty and rather cold, and was still a dark night. The moon would be up by and by however, and giving light enough, he thought, before he came to the spot where his way parted company with that to Dumbleton. The moon, however, did not see fit to rise so soon as John expected her: he was not at that time quite up in moons, any more than in the paths across that moor.

Now as he had not an idea where his rider wanted to be carried, and as John did for a while-he confessed it-fall into a reverie or something worse, old Sturdy had to choose for himself where to go, and took a path he had often had to take some years before; nor did John discover that he was out of the way, until he felt him going steep clown, and thought of Sleipner bearing Hermod to the realm of Hela. But he let him keep on, wishing to know, as he said, what the old fellow was up to. Presently, he came to a dead halt.

John had not the least notion where they were, but I knew the spot the moment he began to describe it. By the removal of the peat on the side of a slope, the skeleton of the hill had been a little exposed, and had for a good many years been blasted for building-stones. Nothing was going on in the quarry at present. Above, it was rather a dangerous place; there was a legend of man and horse having fallen into it, and both being killed. John had never seen or heard of it.

When his horse stopped, he became aware of an indefinite sensation which inclined him to await the expected moon before attempting either to advance or return. He thought afterward it might have been some feeling of the stone about him, but at the time he took the place for an abrupt natural dip of the surface of the moor, in the bottom of which might be a pool. Sturdy stood as still as if he had been part of the quarry, stood as if never of himself would he move again.

The light slowly grew, or rather, the darkness slowly thinned. All at once John became aware that, some yards away from him, there was something whitish. A moment, and it began to move like a flitting mist through the darkness. The same instant Sturdy began to pull his feet from the ground, and move after the mist, which rose and rose until it came for a second or two between John and the sky: it was a big white horse, with my uncle on his back: Death and he, John concluded, were out on one of their dark wanderings! His impulse, of course, was to follow them. But, as they went up the steep way, Sturdy came down on his old knees, and John got off his back to let him recover himself the easier. When they reached the level, where the moon, showing a blunt horn above the horizon, made it possible to see a little, the white horse and his rider had disappeared-in some shadow, or behind some knoll, I fancy; and John, having not the least notion in what part of the moor he was, or in which direction he ought to go, threw the reins on the horse's neck. Sturdy brought him back almost to his stable, before he knew where he was. Then he turned into the road, for he had had enough of the moor, and took the long way home.


CHAPTER XXIX.


MOTHER AND SON.

In the morning he breakfasted alone. A son with a different sort of mother, might then have sought her in her bedroom; but John had never within his memory seen his mother in her bedroom, and after what lie had heard the night before, could hardly be inclined to go there to her now. Within half an hour, however, a message was brought him, requesting his presence in her ladyship's dressing-room.

He went with his teeth set.

"Whose horse is that in the stable, John?" she said, the moment their eyes met.

"Mr. Whichcote's, madam," answered John: mother he could not say.

"You intend to keep up your late relations with those persons?"

"I do."

"You mean to marry the hussy?"

"I mean to marry the lady to whom you give that epithet. There are those who think it not quite safe for you to call other people names!"

She rose and came at him as if she would strike him. John stood motionless. Except a woman had a knife in her hand, he said, he would not even avoid a blow from her. "A woman can't hurt you much; she can only break your heart!" he said. "My mother would not know a heart when she had broken it!" he added.

He stood and looked at her.

She turned away, and sat down again. I think she felt the term of her power at hand.

"The man told you then, that, if you did not return immediately, I would get him into trouble?"

"He has told me