Not till she came within sight of home, and saw the red gabled roofs of the farmstead grouped harmoniously in the valley below her, did she remember that she had broken her father’s law, blasphemed his gods, by absenting herself from the farm without having obtained, or even so much as asked, his leave to do so. Until now that knowledge, that guilt, had lain coiled and asleep in her mind. To a heart less burdened by misgiving, Noke’s Farm would have seemed at this moment a spacious, comely, and heartening spectacle. This region was still called the Roughs, and to the outside world was still an almost legendary land; but of its original wildness nothing now remained. Charity, breathless with running, hurried down the great hillside between a field of good grazing, scattered with sheep, and a five-acre crop of beans whose warm sweetness came breathing into her nostrils. On the hill opposite her, the hill that slanted up to the broad heath of Glatting, she could see the haymakers at work; and in the valley fields that lay between, corn was springing. It was a farm well-tended, and cunningly worked: a picture of bounty which revealed to the eye no hint of the sweat and drudgery, the mad industry and ruthless coercion, that had gone to its making. Only we who can remember what Nightingale Roughs once was, and who know that this change has been accomplished by but one human will controlling seven lives besides its own, can gauge or surmise at what expense of blood and spirit the miracle has been accomplished. That is a tale that cannot be told, nor needs to be. It is enough that in Harry Noke, or in the demon of undeviating energy that rode him, Nature had met her match. Her match and her mate; for the union between Noke and his farm was like a marriage of proud antagonists, strength with stubbornness, creative anger with grudging fertility: a marriage marked by resistance and rape, yet, despite all quarrels, fruitful, intimate, and exultant. Of this tumult, this amorous warfare between man and earth, the tranquil scene told nothing. It was serene and beautiful, a harmony of quiet colours, mellowed by the summer evening, sweetened and subtly quickened by summer’s scents and sounds: the savour of bedewed grass, the chirpings and rustlings of belated birds. The farm and the farm-buildings draw the eye to the centre of the picture, where it is content to rest. Not yet old, but weathered by sun and rain and received of them, and so already made one with their surroundings, they body forth, in their extent Noke’s power, in their grouping and design his singleness of purpose. Built for utility, at the behest of a man who has had a mortal quarrel with beauty, they have the austere grace of their own integrity. Here, if anywhere in the world, is an untroubled peace.
But to the hurrying girl this familiar world wore a different aspect. The sight of the haymakers accused her. They were still at work, and at this late hour—the whole family of them, her parents and five brothers. As she reached the yard she met them returning, her father last of all. That meant that they had finished the tedding without her; for, though dusk was fast gathering now, the light would have served for a while yet, had there been work left still to do in the hayfield; and it was not Noke’s way to make an end before he must. The youngest and favourite of her brothers, a lad of seventeen, came sidling up to her.
‘You’d do best to goo to bed afore he catches ee, Cis. He be in a fair taking, I’ll ’low.’
The advice was well-meant but impracticable. There was no time for escape. Noke had already seen her, and so, frightened though she was, she made shift to put on a semblance of courage. And by acting courage she seemed to acquire it, for she suddenly felt powerful and cunning, and a sly secret smile lay curled like a cat at one corner of her velvet mouth. She became bold in the knowledge of her beauty. I’ll soon wheedle un to a good temper: twon’t be the first time. Bythen I’ve done with him he’ll be soft as a lamb with me.
He came and stood before her and stared with dumb menace, like a dog ready to spring. The boys lingered near the house door in an uneasy group: she could hear the occasional scrabble of their boots on the stone step. Her mother, still and watchful, stood a few paces in the rear of her husband.
Charity met her father’s stare unfalteringly. But the smile left her lips, and her eyes grew big and mournful and childish. She was a picture of lovely forlornness.
‘Well!’ His voice was curt and quiet. ‘Where you bin all day?’
‘I be tarrible sorry, father.’
‘Where you bin?’
She was conscious that her mouth was turning down at the corners in a way that in earlier and happier days had seldom failed to disarm his anger. She was on the point of tears. ‘I only bin for a walk, father. Tis Festical Day in the Fee.’
Noke spat on the ground. ‘A pox take it! What’s the Fee to you?’
She did not answer. Her tears were postponed. She had expected a scolding, perhaps a clout or two, but not a catechism. She was unprepared for searching questions.
‘Where you bin?’ asked Noke again. ‘Where?’
‘I bin to Glatten Wood.’ Surely, said her eyes, Glatting Wood is harmless enough. ‘For a walk, that’s all.’
‘For a walk, hey?’ he sneered. ‘A walk on your back? I reckon. Who’s bin wud ye then?’