An Enthusiast

Prologue

. The pedestrian who had wandered into the little village church, and, weary after a long walk in the hot sun, had fallen asleep in the cool dimness of the organ-loft, woke suddenly and rubbed his eyes. He was sufficiently awake to be conscious that the words which he heard some one reading in a measured, monotonous voice, were part of the marriage service, but he felt no curiosity about the people who were being married. He did not at any time find villagers very interesting, and now he was still too drowsy to raise his head and look B VOL. I. clown into the church. He closed his eyes and dozed off again, still hearing as in a dream the voice of the clergyman, exhort ing the man and woman who stood before him. Then the voice ceased, steps came along the aisle, he heard the people go into the vestry, from which they presently came out again and left the church.

Once more that unbroken silence prevailed which had reigned when he had first stepped into the building; but it lasted a very short time. Before he fell asleep again he was roused, and this time thoroughly, by a sudden peal of laughter which broke in upon the sleepy stillness of a July morning, which is on the point of merging into afternoon, and rang through the empty old church. It was a girl's laughter, — about that, there could be no mistake, — and whoever she was, she must have been very much amused at something, for she went on laughing in an uncon trollable, ecstatic manner, which seemed strange amid such surroundings. It was wonderful laughter, so rippling, so melodi ous, and so full of enjoyment. The man in the organ-loft listened spellbound ; he felt that he would never for get that laughter ; if he heard it again after twenty years he would recognize it.

Moreover, his curiosity was roused at last. It was impossible such laughter as that could come from the throat of a common village girl ; he resolved to get up and go and see what had happened. But when he got downstairs, he found the church door was already locked ; the sound had come to his ears through the open windows. By the time his knocking and shaking at the door had been heard, and the clerk had come to set him free, his mood had changed, and he was too heated and out of B temper to make any inquiries concerning the marriage which had just taken place. He shook the dust off his feet, and went his way to the next place on the pro gramme of the walking tour which he was making. Other thoughts came to obliter ate the memory of what had just taken place, only, as his ill-humour worked itself off, he remembered more and more clearly those peals of laughter which had sounded from the churchyard, and he enjoyed the thought that if ever Fate brought him across the path of this unknown, unseen bride, whose marriage seemed to cause her such amusement, he would be able at once to identify her.

Chapter I

" When day with evening blending Sinks from the summer sky, I've seen thy spirit bending In fond idolatry." " In summer's mellow midnight." The sun was setting over Stanedale Pike with a ruddy brilliance which promised a fine day for the morrow. Everything was bathed in the clear evening light, and stood out against the stainless blue of the sky with a clearness of outline not ob servable in the daytime. Distant objects looked near ; the farms scattered over the fell-sides were more clearly distinguishable from the moors and fields which surrounded them — one might almost have counted the cattle and sheep as they moved about in their pastures. Under these circum stances a woman clad in white and seated in the midst of those darkly purple moors upon which the setting sun shone directly, must have been a very conspicuous object.

She sat upon a heap of turf, her feet resting on the heather, her chin supported upon her hand, gazing across the valley to the huge Pike, the summit of which still glowed in the ruddy light, though the rest of its surface lay in the shadow and looked almost threateningly dark as compared with the rest of the country. She could scarcely have looked upon a more beautiful scene. Round her lay the moors, fringed on the horizon with a line of firs ; below her lay woods, heavy in the sombre green of their late summer foliage ; beyond the woods came wide sloping green fields, and then the lake, an exquisitely beautiful sheet of water, now lying motion less, half in light and half in shadow. On the other side of the water were more fields and a few scattered houses forming the village of Stanedale, the whole backed up by the Pike and other hills of no great height, perhaps, as compared with moun tains not on English soil, but showing grandly amid their actual surroundings.

That was what she saw when she looked straight before her ; if she turned her eyes to the right, she saw the head of the lake, shut in by rugged heath-clad screes ; to tlie left she saw down the water — its whole extent lay before her to where at Lake Foot it slipped away in a silently gliding stream. The woman herself, who sat looking at all this beauty, drinking it in with eyes and senses, was just as beautiful in her own way. She was tall — that was plain even when she was sitting down — and there was wonderful grace in her bending attitude, with one elbow supported on her knee, and the other hand hanging loosely by her side. Her face was a very strik ing one, with a great deal of power, and power of no common order, in its chiselled features. The mouth and chin, expressive at once of strength and tenderness, were marvellously beautiful; golden hair was loosely coiled on top of her head, and then by some freak of nature her eyes, eyelashes, and eyebrows were jet-black — the eyebrows very delicately pencilled, and forming two level lines upon her forehead ; the eyes were very peculiar, deep and soft, but lit up at times by a gleam which suggested that the spirit of all evil had made his abode in the girl's soul.

The whole face was animated by a humorous look which showed that its owner was wont to regard life in general rather as a comedy than a tragedy. Only a very careful observer would have seen indications in this beautiful face of a strange spirit of yielding and de pendence, which existed side by side with other and very opposite charac teristics. Just now she was absorbed in watching the sun set; she had spent a perfect day upon the moors, she was seeing the clay fade into as perfect an evening, and the transformation-scene stirred the deepest part of her nature. The sun sank behind the Pike, and a kind of shadowy chill fell upon the earth — it looked a face from which a smile had vanished. After sitting for a few minutes longer, her eyes fixed upon the lake, the hue of which had suddenly changed from silver to leaden, the girl rose to her feet and prepared to go.

She picked up her hat, which lay on the ground beside her, took the little basket in her hand, and began to tread the rough, stony road which led down into the valley. She walked very slowly, often pausing to look around her, or to gather a flower, or a bunch of leaves, which she put into her basket. Once she took out her watch, and smiled as she said aloud, for in those lonely roads there was no one to overhear her, — " Late ! but the domestic constitution will be so convulsed with the arrival of the distinguished stranger that my irregu larity may pass unnoticed." She continued her walk not less leisurely than before. She had now reached the high-road which went round the lake, so put on her hat, though she still left her gloves in the bottom of her basket. She skirted the lake for some little distance AN ENTBUSIAST. and passed through the village, which had not yet developed a street, then she turned down a road leading to the lake, with fields on one side and rippling beck on the other.

At one point the stream was spanned by an old ivy-hung bridge, which had to be crossed before you got to the old greystone house called Beckbridge. This house was built in the shadow of the Pike, and commanded a beautiful view of the lake and the moors. There was a great deal of ground belonging to the house, all of which, except that immediately surrounding the building, was in a very wild, uncultivated condition. In the dining-room of this house at this same moment, four people were seated at the tea-table — Mr. Richardson, his two daughters, and a man, a guest, who had arrived an hour earlier. Mr. Richardson was a noble-looking old man, tall and white-haired, with large and rather irregular, though very powerful features. His face always wore a thoughtful and rather absent expression, and his lips parted frequently in a humorous smile.

His eldest daughter, Marion, who sat opposite to him, was a tall girl with a beautiful face, and more dignity than grace of manner and carriage. There was always a frown upon her forehead, and her lips were often drawn together in rather a straight line. Marion had grievances, and thought that her lot in life was rather hard. Her mother had died nine years before, when she was sixteen, and Marion, with all the enthusiasm of which her nature was capable, had determined to supply her place with ber father, and make him, if possible, forget his wife's loss. She had not succeeded. Her father and she had little in common, and after resisting his daughter's consolations for some time, he put her and her sister under the temporary care of their aunt, and went from home. He wandered over the greater part of the world, and when he came home, after an absence of five years, he brought with him what only served to widen the gap between his daughter and himself.

Ethel, the younger girl, was two years Marion's junior, like her sister, on a small and insignificant scale, and closely attached to her. The guest was Stephen Knox, a man whom Mr. Richardson and his daughters had met in the early summer at a watering place where they had spent a short time. He had paid Marion a great deal of attention, and a few days before this particular one had written to suggest a short visit to Stanedale, basing his claim on some rather vague words of Mr. Richardson's, uttered at parting, aud forgotten as soon as spoken. The visit was regarded by Marion and her sister as an event of great importance in their quiet lives, and Stephen's manner on meeting Marion again had certainly given con siderable colour to their suppositions. But nothing definite had yet been said.

To these four people came in the girl who had been sitting on the moors watch in?; the sun set. She came in with the graceful, gliding step peculiar to her, and took the empty place between Ethel and Mr. Richardson. He stretched out his hand to her under cover of the tablecloth, and she pressed it, saying with rather a deprecating little smile, — " I am a wretch, I know." " I cannot contradict you," be replied. They exchanged a few more remarks quite to themselves, and then she turned to take her cup of tea from Ethel's hand. But she gave so little attention to what she was doing, being in fact absorbed in her conversation with Mr. Richardson, that the cup slipped in the saucer, and but for a timely effort on Ethel's part, must have fallen on to the table. Marion watched the trifling incident narrowly, and when the cup had been safely placed on the table, said, with a deepening of her habitual frown, — " I wish you would be more careful, Maryla.

You almost spilt your tea." " I suppose there is more in the pot," just turning her face to the speaker, and her voice sounded provokingly careless. Marion's lips tightened as she replied, — " You do not seem to reflect that a cup ful of tea poured on to the tablecloth would not improve its appearance." " Surely this is not the only tablecloth we have got," smiling in a way which sup-o-ested amused toleration, and could scarcely fail to be irritating to Marion. But this little conversation brought her atten tion to what was going on around her, and she said, — " Won't you introduce me to your friend ? " " Certainly," said Marion, rather stiffly ; "Mr. Knox, Miss Goldengay — papa's ward," she added in explanation. Miss Goldengay and Mr. Knox bowed, exchanged a few trifling remarks, and then the girl returned to her interrupted con versation with Mr. Richardson, while Mr. Knox resumed his with Marion and her sister.

When tea was over, they all went into the drawing-room. Marion and Ethel each took up some needlework. Maryla bung aimlessly about for some little time, turning over the books and papers which lay on the various tables, leaned out of the open window for a minute or two, uttered more than one deep sigh, and finally left the room. She did not appear again during the evening. Even when candles were lighted and good-nights exchanged, she was not forthcoming. Stephen felt a little offended as he went upstairs ; he was accustomed to be treated with a great deal of respect. The guest-chamber in which he was lodged was at the front of the house, and the first thing he did when he reached it was to go to the window, draw up the blind, and look out. The full moon was shining, and he felt the tiny yellow flame of his candle to be very unnecessary, so he put it out, and then found that the room was almost as light as in the daytime.

The window was slightly open, he pushed it up as high as it would go, and leaned out into the night, drinking in the cool air vol. I. c and exquisite perfumes of a country mid night, while his eyes wandered over the view before him. The lake lay in the moonlight, looking like a sheet of molten silver, the wide moors spread themselves out in its radiance, the trees stood motion less. The only sound which came to his ears was the rush of the beck, near the house, as it hastened over the stones to the lake. It was impossible not to feel that it would be a sin to go to bed on such a night ; besides, Mr. Knox seemed still to hear in his ears the roar of the train in which he had spent so many hours that day ; his pulses were still beating more rapidly than usual, with the pleasurable excitement of his arrival and meeting with Marion.

He wanted a little time for reflection, and what time could be better than this still moonlight night, when every one but himself would be in bed and asleep and he seemed for the moment to have the whole world to himself ? His thoughts ran chiefly on Marion. He had admired her very much when he had first made her acquaintance in a hotel ; to-day, when he saw her for the first time in her own home, he admired her still more. He had every intention of asking her to be his wife, and from many signs which he, as a lover, had interpreted in only one way, he did not anticipate a refusal. She was a queenly creature he told him self, an English girl of the best type ; with an English girl's beauty, luxuriant brown hair, and clear grey eyes. He thought of her grave, dignified manner, cold and reserved with strangers, but with him, the chosen one, thawing half shyly, half unresistingly.

He thought of her pale, proud face, told over in his mind her pure, fair features, and heaved a sigh of content c as he thought that on the day when he pleased he could call all these his own. He could scarcely understand how he had found such a peerless creature still fancy-free. He lost himself in a dream from which he was roused suddenly by the oldest, craziest set of chimes he had ever heard. They rang out from the old church tower, and after a pause the clock struck one. He pulled out his watch and mechanically compared London time with that which regulated the movements of Stanedale, and then sank back into his dreams. He did not know how long this second dream had lasted before he was roused again, this time by hearing the gate in the garden below, swing upon its hinges and fall softly to.

He started up, wondering if in a place like Stanedale thieves could possibly break through and steal when honest folks were supposed to be asleep and off their guard. With the idea in his mind that thieves were possible, he drew back and looked from behind his curtains very cautiously, and he needed all his presence of mind to prevent the exclamation which rose to his lips becoming audible and drawing atten tion to himself. The person who had come in at the gate, and was now standing in the middle of the drive, looking around her, was no other than Miss Goldengay herself. There could not possibly be any mistake. Even in this short time, Mr. Knox felt familiar with the tall, slender figure in a white dress and the beautiful gold-crowned head. She stood perfectly still, her hands clasped before her, her head slightly lifted and turned so that he could see her profile.

Mr. Knox was silent from sheer amazement. What in the name of fortune, he thought, was she doing out at that hour, and alone ? Where had she been ? What was Mr. Richardson thinking of to allow his ward to wander about the country in the small hours of the morning ? All this time he was watching her, and now she turned, she was coming in. He drew back a little further ; he did not want her to see him, and in passing before the house, she might so easily look up. How, he asked himself, did she propose to get in ? She did not appear to be in haste ; she walked about the garden for a time, gathering a flower here and there, and then, after another look at the lake and the moors, came towards the house. She did not attempt to get in at the front door, she went round to the side, and he saw nothing more of her.

He listened for the sound of a door opening or closing, for footsteps on the stairs, but he heard nothing, and after he had listened and waited for some time, the chimes again rang out, the clock struck two, and he began to think it was time to go to bed. He did not, however, go to sleep. His brain was just as active as it had been before ; but now he thought of Maryla instead of Marion. He thought of her with repulsion and anger as an ill-regulated being, whose connection with respectable people was to be deplored. At last, he sought consolation in the supposition that she was mad — must be mad. So many things seemed to point to it ; particularly this midnight rambling in the light of the full moon ; it accounted, too, for her negligent manner to himself. The thought must have given him comfort, for in the midst of it he fell asleep.

Chapter II

" And many shocks Our order Must every day endure." The consequence of Mr. Knox's prolonged nip-ht-watch was that he came downstairs O late for breakfast on the following morning. His tardy arrival seemed to have been the subject of some discussion, for as he opened the door he heard a voice he recognized as belonging to Miss Goldengay, saying, — " He is not ours, we have nothing to do with him, we need not wait." On looking towards her, he saw that both she and Mr. Richardson had begun breakfast, and from a slight cloud on Marion's forehead, which, however, dis appeared as she caught sight of him, he concluded that the house had been divided on the question of his importance. Greetings were exchanged, and then Maryla turned again to her guardian, saying — " It will be a magnificent day. I shall take my lunch out again, and not reappear until tea-time."

Mr. Knox, with a vivid recollection of what had taken place the night before, turned to her, saying, — " Are you never timid about walking alone on these lonely country roads, Miss Goldengay ? " " Why should I be timid ? These roads are too unfrequented to be unsafe ; you may walk fifteen or sixteen miles without meeting any one." " But is that quite wise ? You might meet some very disagreeable person." " No ; I tell you, I never meet any one." " Exactly. It cannot be safe for you. " If I never meet any one, I cannot possibly run any risk ; my safety lies in their excessive loneliness." Mr. Richardson was looking at his ward and smiling, and Maryla's eyes were beginning to gleam, while her lips twitched. Mr. Knox saw it all, and it did not make him more yielding. When he was not yielding, he was rigid, and he now said obstinately, — " Your defence is no defence at all.

You might meet some one, and then it would be very unpleasant for you." " Possibilities are infinite. A great many things might happen, but they never do." " There are some possibilities against which we may guard ; it is foolish to run unnecessary risks." " I quite agree with you. I have heard that if it were known what risks were run in every railway journey, many people would never enter a train." Before he could reply, Marion began to speak. " You exaggerate very much, Maryla. You do sometimes meet disagreeable people. You know you often bring home tales of tramps you have met." Mr. Knox smiled triumphantly, but Maryla went on calmly,— " Tramps are not always disagreeable ; I like some tramps very much ; they are such good company, and have seen so many places. Sometimes they have a very keen sense of humour.

I remember one who took an honest pride in his calling ; he called himself a cosmopolitan. There were few places where he said he had not spent at least a night ; at some towns he had sojourned weeks or even months, always free of expense, his friends having taken upon themselves the cost of his lodging and maintenance." She leaned back in her chair and laughed a low, soft laugh, full of amusement. Mr. Richardson also laughed heartily ; Marion and Ethel looked a little disgusted, Mr. Knox preserved a grave silence. "There was another," went on Miss Goldengay, " whom I met on the North ern Road. He had a wonderful amount of independence, and was walking from Rilford, where so many workpeople were out of employment just then. I asked him if he had found absolutely nothing to do at Rilford." " ' Oh, yes,' he said, ' a fellow offered me work at twelve shillings a week, but I told him to keep his brass and let it grow a bit.' " As;ain she laughed, and this time the O O 3 sound seemed familiar to Mr. Knox ; it was like the echo of laughter he had heard before, though where or when he could not tell.

But his disgust could no longer be restrained, and he began to speak strongly. " Is it possible," he said, " that you venture to speak to such wretches, gaol birds from your description, who prefer tramping along the high-road to earning an honest living ? I have no doubt the man had a wife and children." " He had. He said he was tired of them, and was going to start afresh else where." " Your sympathies really run in strange channels. What about the wife left to support her children as best she could ? One feels almost tempted to say she would be justified in following his example." " From what he said I gathered that she had taken the initiative." Mr. Knox was not prepared with a retort, and Maryla, having finished her breakfast, rose and left the room. Marion and Ethel had planned to take Mr. Knox out-of-doors, but as they left the dining-room, Miss Richardson was given a note which had just been brought by a servant.

It was from Mr. Richard son's sister, and was to give notice that she intended to drive over to Beckbridge that morning, and spend the day with her nieces. The projected walk had therefore to be given up, and it was presently revealed to Stephen that Marion and Ethel were going to be busy, and that he was expected to dispose of his own time. He went into the garden and leaned over the wall, wondering what he should do with himself. He still felt angry with Maryla. He did not like her ; it was clear that she had an unamiable and unwomanly character, and he feared that her presence would much decrease the pleasure of his visit to Stanedale. A girl who stayed out-of-doors till two o'clock in the morning, and avowed a preference for the society of tramps, was no fit com panion for his future wife.

Then he wondered who she was. When he had made the acquaintance of Mr. Richardson and his daughters, he had never heard any one of them mention Maryla Goldengay. How long had she been living at Beck bridge, and where had she come from ? There did not appear to be much affection between her and the Misses Richardson, though her guardian seemed very fond of her. As these thoughts passed through his mind he became aware of the presence of his obnoxious acquaintance. She must have left the house by some back or side entrance, and was now walking slowly along the steep road leading to the station, with a basket swinging from her hand, and he suddenly remembered what he had heard her say at breakfast, that she was going to take her lunch out-of-doors and stay till tea-time. He resolved to follow her and see where she was going : he mio-ht o o o find an opportunity for saying what burned on his tongue.

The wall against which he was leaning was conveniently low; he put his haud on to the top and vaulted, into the road. He did not want to talk to Maryla just then, only to see where she was going ; so he kept at a discreet distance behind her, hoping that she would not turn her head and see him. It was not Maryla's custom to look behind her either when walking or doing anything else, so Mr. Knox was able to follow her in perfect safety. She went steadily on up the steep road, under a railway-arch, and then turning a little to the right, she began to mount an almost perpen dicular hill, shaded by tall, over-arching trees, and with a brawling little stream hurrying down on one side. Mr. Knox, who was unaccustomed to hills, was struck with dismay ; he could imagine that if he slipped he would roll to the bottom of the hill as though clown an alpine precipice.

The trees, too, seemed to shut out the light and air ; he could have wished them away, but that just then he stumbled over a projecting root. D VOL. I. It then flashed across him that these same projecting roots with which the ground was covered might be used as rests against which to plant his feet when it became absolutely necessary to pause and take breath. He tried the plan and found it answer admirably. By this time Maryla was some distance before him. She walked on lightly and easily, nor did she slacken speed even at the steepest part of the path. At the top of the hill Mr. Knox stopped and looked back. He was lifted high above the village, even above the tops of the trees. He saw straight down into the beautiful Stanedale valley, and could trace the high-road winding between the heavy woods and lofty cliffs, to where the higher hills rose in the distance and shut out any further view.

Looking to the right, he caught a glimpse of the lake. There wTere no sounds except such as belonged purely to the woods and fields, the trilling of birds and the lowing of cows in the pastures, broken in upon from time to time by the complaining of the sheep upon the hills. Even the soul of Mr. Knox was stirred by what he saw, and the deep peace and still ness which rested on it all, and with an unconscious sigh he turned to follow Maryla, At first he feared he had lost her ; but he saw her hat above a wall a long way in advance of where he stood. He hastened in that direction, and soon found himself in a rough lane with walls and high tangled hedges on each side, and Maryla walking leisurely before him. In a fewT minutes they reached the open moors at the foot of the Pike, which towered grandly up into the blue sky.