"You will be sure and come home to-morrow," she had said, and the word "home" had brought a great tenderness in his reply, "Of course, I shall be sure."
She felt glad of the assurance as she stood there looking out on the hill-side, where everything in the midnight moonlight seemed as if carven out of stone; for her grandfather had been captious that evening, absolutely refusing to give up his annual habit of sitting up to see the New Year in. And he had been annoyed at Parkinson, the parlour-maid's, failure to appear, when, as the clock struck twelve, the personnel of the establishment were expected to wish and be wished long life and prosperity.
"Gone to a revival meeting," he had echoed querulously, "a singularly inadequate excuse! She might have read her Bible at home; but I will speak to her tomorrow."
To which Martha had replied austerely, "It ain't no good speaken', sir; I've spoke till I'm dumb. And it ain't her Bible she's wantin', but 'er best 'at; for she's that frivolous at forty in the dry, as beats me wot she must 'a bin' in the green. An' Bate 'ud a' gone too--oh yes! yer wu'd Bate, so it ain't no good speakin'--only I told 'im plain. 'Bate,' says I, 'you know as you're a deal too light-'earted to go cadgin' about with a 'orse and cart when there's liquor 'andy, an' that ain't in it for temptation with a midnight meetin' with the likes o' her for company, as makes me sick to cook for 'em. An' what is the shine in them hot stuffy revivals beats me. I wouldn't go to one of 'em. No! Not if I was 'anged for it. I'd just say to the cart, Drive on!'"
The dramatic finale had made Aura laugh. She smiled at the remembrance of it now; but then she smiled at the remembrance of many things in the last four days.
How kind the world had been to her!
A faint clatter in the back premises made her smile again. Martha must be waiting up till the light had gone from her room in order to play that ridiculous game with stockings on which Ned had insisted on this New Year's Day, which was her birthday also.
Oh! How kind they had all been. She could not spare one of them.
She blew out the light, and the pulsing of the stars seemed to find an echo in the pulsing of her heart. Suddenly she leant out to stretch her warm young hands into the frosty air, over the flower graves in the garden, over the whole wide glistening world.
"A Happy New Year to you all, dear people," she whispered. "Such a Happy New Year!"
Five minutes after, having smiled drowsily at the sound of Martha's stealthy footsteps outside her door, she was asleep, to wake again, however, as the birds wake in winter, long before the lingering dawn.
The moon was hanging like a silver shield before the window and sent a flood of light into the room, but far away in the east on the edge of the hill there was just that faint paling of the sky which tells that when the sun rises it will rise there.
Dawn or no dawn she was broad awake, and the next instant stood by her open door.
There was the stocking, crammed full, as Ned had threatened, with chocolate creams, and a pile of parcels on the floor. She picked them up, and putting them in the warm nest she had just left, began to undo them by the light of the moon. What had they given her, these kind people?
A white chiffon motor veil! That must be from Mrs. Tressilian, who had raised an outcry against a scarf of Mechlin being used to such shallow purpose. A silver ring tray, set round with every conceivable coin of the realm! She did not need the card slipped into the red morocco case to tell her this was from Mr. Hirsch. A book--her heart gave an answering throb to the starshine--was from Ted. He had promised her a Shelley. And this, what was it? It must be the semi-surgical instrument for pruning roses, of which Dr. Ramsay had told her.
And that was all, for neither Martha nor her grandfather would give in to stockings.
Yes, it was all. Another half-ashamed feel over the darkling floor of the passage assured her of this, and she turned to the Shelley. Even if Ned had considered the chocolate creams sufficient, she had this.
Now she could read the context to the lines which Ned--yes! it was Ned--had quoted:
'Time like a many--coloured glass Stains the white radiance of eternity.'
It was lighter at the window, she passed to it, and leaning the heavy volume on the sill, knelt down to search for the "Adonais."
But she turned no pages. For there, outside on the window-ledge, broad-faced, clear, open-eyed, an _iris alata_ stared up at her from its carpet of saxifrage.
"_The most beautiful thing!_"
Yes! that was it--and _he_ had given it to _her_ ...
The poetry which another man had written slipped to the floor unheeded. She was absorbed in what this man had brought her.
She knelt quite still for a time, her hands slightly clasped, feeling dazed at something in herself which responded--which gave back--what?
What was the over-mastering desire to crush the unconscious flower to death with her kisses.
She rose suddenly and began with haste to dress herself. She must climb the mountain-tops, as she so often did in the dawn light, and find some answer.
As she slipped silently through the house, she paused once or twice wondering if she heard something. No! her grandfather's room was quite quiet; but once in the hall the sound became indubitable.
Some one was singing outside. Singing softly it is true, but still singing. The village children, no doubt; but they must be stopped--they must not disturb her grandfather.
The next instant she stood looking with amazed anger at a group of five people who, kneeling on the ground, were singing under their breath some wild Welsh hymn which rose and fell plaintively, persistently. One of these figures she recognised. It was the parlour-maid, Parkinson; this must, therefore, be the tail-end of the revival meeting, for she had heard that such visitations were not uncommon.
"Parkinson!" she called severely, her young blood in arms at the intrusion. "What are you doing there? Get up at once and go into the house."
Parkinson, whose prim face was blurred with tears, whose hat was awry, whose whole appearance betokened a stormy night of emotion, made a protest that this was an appointed time.
"Yes!" retorted Aura, with a swift stamp of her foot, "the appointed time for doing your work! Go! and clean the silver--it wants it--you foolish woman--go!"
The foolish woman rose and sneaked away, leaving Aura to face the remaining enthusiasts who had combined the seeing of the new convert home with the singing of a hymn at this stronghold of the Devil.
Until he felt Aura's clear eyes upon him, Mervyn Pugh had not remembered the possibility of recognition. It may be, indeed, that he scarcely knew who the girl was whom he had once mistaken for Gwen. But now at her first glance he knew all too well.
"So it is you!" she said slowly, as he rose, and feeling that his best chance lay in boldness, faced her. "Why--why have you dared to come here?"
"To plead--to pray for you," he began, but was stopped by the fire, the scorn of her.
"You dare to pray for me--you--you coward! Yes! I called it you once.
I call you it again. Coward! And you too, Gwen," she continued, for warned by something in the youthful accusing voice, Mervyn's fellow in the past had risen also, and with large fever-bright eyes was eagerly scanning their faces in the hope of understanding what her limited knowledge of English did not allow her to follow. Then suddenly the sight of the poor wasted body, the recognition of the poor distraught soul, overbore Aura's anger, and she stretched out her hands passionately, "Oh, Gwen! Gwen, my dear," she cried, "Go home and forget all this. Go home and lay flowers on your dead child's grave, and think of it and pray that he, its father, may be forgiven his cowardice."
A little startled cry came from Alicia Edwards. Abel Parry sang on ignorant of English.
Gwen looked at Aura, then at Mervyn, giving to each the same slow patient smile of forgetful forgiveness.
And then in that high piercingly sweet voice of hers, she began in its Welsh version the hymn which had heralded her spiritual mission:
'Just as I am, without one plea; Save that Thy blood was shed for me'
She paused, arrested by a little soft cough. Then with a strange look in her wide wistful eyes she sank to her knees and stretched out her hands blindly, "Merve--Merve--fach--Merve anwl y----" The rest was lost in the gurgle of the blood which poured from her mouth.
Aura was beside her in a moment. "Don't raise her--her head on my knee so--Call Martha--you, man--don't stand gaping--And you, woman, unfasten her dress--that is better."
It seemed an interminable time, though Martha was already up and dressed, ere Aura saw her running from the back; and all that time, the stain on Aura's white dress grew larger and larger.
"Lord sakes," muttered Martha. "A blood vessel! This comes of making free and she not fit--Parkinson"--for the parlour-maid had followed--"you run for your turpentine, without the bees'-wax, there's a dear--you sit as you be Miss H'Aura, and you there, what's your name, them icicles. We must stop it--if we can."
There was an ominous ring in the last words, and it was not long ere Aura's face blanched almost as white as the one upon her lap, as she realized that if the life blood was slacking, it was because the tide of life itself was ebbing.
This was death. She had never stood close to it before. Her young eyes looked fearfully through the hush of life to the unknown.