'Clara,' she said, 'what made you so silent to-night at Mazzini's?'

Clara did not reply, but after a pause of a minute or two, she asked Mrs Caffyn whether it would not be possible for them all to go into the country on Whitmonday? Whitsuntide was late; it would be warm, and they could take their food with them and eat it out of doors.

'Just the very thing, my dear, if we could get anything cheap to take us; the baby, of course, must go with us.

'I should like above everything to go to Great Oakhurst.'

'What, five of us--twenty miles there and twenty miles back!

Besides, although I love the place, it isn't exactly what one would go to see just for a day. No! Letherhead or Mickleham or Darkin would be ever so much better. They are too far, though, and, then, that man Baruch must go with us. He'd be company for Marshall, and he sticks up in Clerkenwell and never goes nowhere. You remember as Marshall said as he must ask him the next time we had an outing.'

Clara had not forgotten it.

'Ah,' continued Mrs Caffyn, 'I should just love to show you Mickleham.'

Mrs Caffyn's heart yearned after her Surrey land. The man who is born in a town does not know what it is to be haunted through life by lovely visions of the landscape which lay about him when he was young. The village youth leaves the home of his childhood for the city, but the river doubling on itself, the overhanging alders and willows, the fringe of level meadow, the chalk hills bounding the river valley and rising against the sky, with here and there on their summits solitary cl.u.s.ters of beech, the light and peace of the different seasons, of morning, afternoon and evening, never forsake him. To think of them is not a mere luxury; their presence modifies the whole of his life.

'I don't see how it is to be managed,' she mused; 'and yet there's nothing near London as I'd give two pins to see. There's Richmond as we went to one Sunday; it was no better, to my way of thinking, than looking at a picture. I'd ever so much sooner be a-walking across the turnips by the footpath from Darkin home.'

'Couldn't we, for once in a way, stay somewhere over-night?'

'It might as well be two,' said Mrs Marshall; 'Sat.u.r.day and Sunday.'

'Two,' said Madge; 'I vote for two.'

'Wait a bit, my dears, we're a precious awkward lot to fit in-- Marshall and his wife me and you and Miss Clara and the baby; and then there's Baruch, who's odd man, so to speak; that's three bedrooms. We sha'n't do it--Otherwise, I was a-thinking--'

'What were you thinking?' said Marshall.

'I've got it,' said Mrs Caffyn, joyously. 'Miss Clara and me will go to Great Oakhurst on the Friday. We can easy enough stay at my old shop. Marshall and Sarah, Miss Madge, the baby and Baruch can go to Letherhead on the Sat.u.r.day morning. The two women and the baby can have one of the rooms at Skelton's, and Marshall and Baruch can have the other. Then, on Sunday morning, Miss Clara and me we'll come over for you, and we'll all walk through Norbury Park. That'll be ever so much better in many ways. Miss Clara and me, we'll go by the coach. Six of us, not reckoning the baby, in that heavy ginger-beer cart of Masterman's would be too much.'

'An expensive holiday, rather,' said Marshall.

'Leave that to me; that's my business. I ain't quite a beggar, and if we can't take our pleasure once a year, it's a pity. We aren't like some folk as messes about up to Hampstead every Sunday, and spends a fortune on shrimps and donkeys. No; when I go away, it IS away, maybe it's only for a couple of days, where I can see a blessed ploughed field; no shrimps nor donkeys for me.'

CHARTER XXIX

So it was settled, and on the Friday Clara and Mrs Caffyn journeyed to Great Oakhurst. They were both tired, and went to bed very early, in order that they might enjoy the next day. Clara, always a light sleeper, woke between three and four, rose and went to the little cas.e.m.e.nt window which had been open all night. Below her, on the left, the church was just discernible, and on the right, the broad chalk uplands leaned to the south, and were waving with green barley and wheat. Underneath her lay the cottage garden, with its row of beehives in the north-east corner, sheltered from the cold winds by the thick hedge. It had evidently been raining a little, for the drops hung on the currant bushes, but the clouds had been driven by the south-westerly wind into the eastern sky, where they lay in a long, low, grey band. Not a sound was to be heard, save every now and then the crow of a c.o.c.k or the short cry of a just-awakened thrush. High up on the zenith, the approach of the sun to the horizon was proclaimed by the most delicate tints of rose-colour, but the cloud-bank above him was dark and untouched, although the blue which was over it, was every moment becoming paler. Clara watched; she was moved even to tears by the beauty of the scene, but she was stirred by something more than beauty, just as he who was in the Spirit and beheld a throne and One sitting thereon, saw something more than loveliness, although He was radiant with the colour of jasper and there was a rainbow round about Him like an emerald to look upon. In a few moments the highest top of the cloud-rampart was kindled, and the whole wavy outline became a fringe of flame. In a few moments more the fire just at one point became blinding, and in another second the sun emerged, the first arrowy shaft pa.s.sed into her chamber, the first shadow was cast, and it was day. She put her hands to her face; the tears fell faster, but she wiped them away and her great purpose was fixed. She crept back into bed, her agitation ceased, a strange and almost supernatural peace overshadowed her and she fell asleep not to wake till the sound of the scythe had ceased in the meadow just beyond the rick-yard that came up to one side of the cottage, and the mowers were at their breakfast.

Neither Mrs Caffyn nor Clara thought of seeing the Letherhead party on Sat.u.r.day. They could not arrive before the afternoon, and it was considered hardly worth while to walk from Great Oakhurst to Letherhead merely for the sake of an hour or two. In the morning Mrs Caffyn was so busy with her old friends that she rather tired herself, and in the evening Clara went for a stroll. She did not know the country, but she wandered on until she came to a lane which led down to the river. At the bottom of the lane she found herself at a narrow, steep, stone bridge. She had not been there more than three or four minutes before she descried two persons coming down the lane from Letherhead. When they were about a couple of hundred yards from her they turned into the meadow over the stile, and struck the river-bank some distance below the point where she was. It was impossible to mistake them; they were Madge and Baruch. They sauntered leisurely; presently Baruch knelt down over the water, apparently to gather something which he gave to Madge. They then crossed another stile and were lost behind the tall hedge which stopped further view of the footpath in that direction.

'The message then was authentic,' she said to herself. 'I thought I could not have misunderstood it.'

On Sunday morning Clara wished to stay at home. She pleaded that she preferred rest, but Mrs Caffyn vowed there should be no Norbury Park if Clara did not go, and the kind creature managed to persuade a pig- dealer to drive them over to Letherhead for a small sum, notwithstanding it was Sunday. The whole party then set out; the baby was drawn in a borrowed carriage which also took the provisions, and they were fairly out of the town before the Letherhead bells had ceased ringing for church. It was one of the sweetest of Sundays, sunny, but ma.s.ses of white clouds now and then broke the heat. The park was reached early in the forenoon, and it was agreed that dinner should be served under one of the huge beech trees at the lower end, as the hill was a little too steep for the baby-carriage in the hot sun.

'This is very beautiful,' said Marshall, when dinner was over, 'but it is not what we came to see. We ought to move upwards to the Druid's grove.'

'Yes, you be off, the whole lot of you,' said Mrs Caffyn. 'I know every tree there, and I ain't going there this afternoon. Somebody must stay here to look after the baby; you can't wheel her, you'll have to carry her, and you won't enjoy yourselves much more for moiling along with her up that hill.'

'I will stay with you,' said Clara.

Everybody protested, but Clara was firm. She was tired, and the sun had given her a headache. Madge pleaded that it was she who ought to remain behind, but at last gave way for her sister looked really fatigued.

'There's a dear child,' said Clara, when Madge consented to go. 'I shall lie on the gra.s.s and perhaps go to sleep.'

'It is a pity,' said Baruch to Madge as they went away, 'that we are separated; we must come again.'

'Yes, I am sorry, but perhaps it is better she should be where she is; she is not particularly strong, and is obliged to be very careful.'

In due time they all came to the famous yews, and sat down on one of the seats overlooking that wonderful gate in the chalk downs through which the Mole pa.s.ses northwards.

'We must go,' said Marshall, 'a little bit further and see the oak.'

'Not another step,' said his wife. 'You can go it you like.'

'Content; nothing could be pleasanter than to sit here,' and he pulled out his pipe; 'but really, Miss Madge, to leave Norbury without paying a visit to the oak is a pity.'

He did not offer, however, to accompany her.

'It is the most extraordinary tree in these parts,' said Baruch; 'of incalculable age and with branches spreading into a tent big enough to cover a regiment. Marshall is quite right.'

'Where is it?'

'Not above a couple of hundred yards further; just round the corner.'

Madge rose and looked.

'No; it is not visible here; it stands a little way back. If you come a little further you will catch a glimpse of it.'

She followed him and presently the oak came in view. They climbed up the bank and went nearer to it. The whole vale was underneath them and part of the weald with the Suss.e.x downs blue in the distance.

Baruch was not much given to raptures over scenery, but the indifference of Nature to the world's turmoil always appealed to him.

'You are not now discontented because you cannot serve under Mazzini?'

'Not now.'

There was nothing in her reply on the face of it of any particular consequence to Baruch. She might simply have intended that the beauty of the fair landscape extinguished her restlessness, or that she saw her own unfitness, but neither of these interpretations presented itself to him.

'I have sometimes thought,' continued Baruch, slowly, 'that the love of any two persons in this world may fulfil an eternal purpose which is as necessary to the Universe as a great revolution.'

Madge's eyes moved round from the hills and they met Baruch's. No syllable was uttered, but swiftest messages pa.s.sed, question and answer. There was no hesitation on his part now, no doubt, the woman and the moment had come. The last question was put, the final answer was given; he took her hand in his and came closer to her.

'Stop!' she whispered, 'do you know my history?'

He did not reply, but fell upon her neck. This was the goal to which both had been journeying all these years, although with much weary mistaking of roads; this was what from the beginning was designed for both! Happy Madge! happy Baruch! There are some so closely akin that the meaning of each may be said to lie in the other, who do not approach till it is too late. They travel towards one another, but are waylaid and detained, and just as they are within greeting, one of them drops and dies.