Ten days after Kit left the tank he got down at a quiet station in the North of England. The train rolled on across a bridge, and by contrast with the trains in Canada, he thought it ridiculously small. A few country people crossed the platform, and a farmer’s gig and a battered car waited at the gate. Although Kit had telegraphed from Liverpool, the Netherhall car had not arrived and he saw nobody he knew.
Putting his bag and coat on a bench he looked about. The evening was cold, and in the west yellow light shone behind lead-colored clouds. Bleak moors, in dark silhouette, cut the ominous glow; a flooded river brawled under the railway bridge, and the road that went up-hill was wet. At the top of the hill a ragged firwood loomed indistinctly in rolling mist. Kit smiled. It was summer in the north, and all he saw threatened storm.
Netherhall was eight miles off, and the nearest inn was at the village in the dale. Before long heavy rain would sweep the moors and Kit doubted if the car would arrive. It did not look as if his relations were very keen to welcome him, but he reflected with rather grim humor that he had gone away in disgrace, and although he was perhaps entitled to claim he came back in triumph, nobody yet knew. To some extent, he had been afraid to boast; to some extent he admitted he had indulged his rather boyish pride.
Then he began to think about Evelyn. Where others doubted she believed in him; she had stuck to him nobly and for his sake had borne some strain. After a time, perhaps, she got daunted, but she had grounds for disappointment, and the news he sent had not helped her much. Well, in two or three hours she would know he had made good; but he must take the road.
The wind was cold and Kit put on his coat and seized his bag. He set off briskly, but when he got to the top of the long hill he admitted the bag was heavier than he had thought, and he speculated about the Netherhall car. Mrs. Carson had got his telegram, but perhaps her husband had not. Kit’s mouth curved in a crooked smile, but he would not trouble Mrs. Carson for long. Her fastidiousness accounted for his carrying the bag, although he doubted if she would approve the dinner-jacket he bought at Montreal.
By and by he heard an engine throb and he stepped on the grass. A car stopped, and Kit looked up. Two or three large dusty sacks occupied the back, a wing was broken and the shabby paint was scratched. The engine rattled noisily and Kit knew the rattle. In Canada he had used cars like that. A brown-skinned young fellow held the wheel.
“Are you going far?” he inquired. Kit said he was bound for Netherdale, and the other told him to jump up.
“I’ll give you a lift for three or four miles. Don’t know, but I might go by village and over gap. I’m carrying some calf meal for Tyson o’ Whinnyates; my farm’s not far from his. We’s see when we get to water-splash.”
“Mrs. Tyson was ill,” said Kit when the car rolled ahead. “Do you know if she’s better?”
“She begins to get aboot, but for a time she was near away with it, and Joe Tyson sent for’s niece in Canada.”
“Is Miss Forsyth now at Whinnyates?”
“She was there in t’morning when I started for market, but Joe was yoking pony to tak’ her to Langrigg, and he reckoned she’d stop for t’night. D’ye ken Miss Forsyth?”
Kit said he met Alison in Canada, and the other resumed: “Then, ye ken a leal, kind lass! She came back four thousand miles to nurse her aunt, and Joe reckons she did as much as doctor to pull old body round——”
He slowed at an awkward corner, and Kit speculated about Alison. If Mrs. Tyson did not need her she might return to the creamery, and Kit hoped she would do so. Alison ought not to remain at Whinnyates; she had qualities and talents she could not use at the lonely farm, but if she did not go soon the moors might claim her. One lost the alert keenness Canadians valued, and in the bleak dales a woman’s work was hard. Kit hated to picture Alison’s laboring at the byres and perhaps in the fields.
Then a pale yellow beam touched the road and he looked about. Thin mist rolled across the broken moor and vague, dark hills melted in thunder-clouds. The road curved across open heath, and white, wild cotton bent in the wind. Big drops splashed in the pools and stopped. Then a guide-post cut the threatening sky and Kit remarked: “There’s your road; I’ll get down.”
“If we can get through water-splash, I’ll go by village. Gap bank’s easier than t’other, and she’s carrying a good load.”
They ran down a hill and at the bottom the driver slackened speed, for an angry flood swept the hollow. At one side a white turmoil and a broken rail marked the narrow footbridge.
“You’ll not get across and if I tried’t I reckon car would stall,” the farmer remarked. “Mireside brig’s not far from Whinnyates. We’ll go by Birkfell.”
He turned the car, and when they climbed the hill rushy fields and wet moors melted in the rain. The car had not a hood, but the driver pulled out a tarpaulin, and crouching behind the battered sheet, they fronted the deluge. Water streamed from the glass and leaped about the wheels. Rivulets cut the mossy bank and one could not see two hundred yards. Kit, however, knew the north, and at Netherdale floods in summer are not remarkable.
After a time the car jolted up an uneven track. Kit saw a wet hillside and by and by white buildings behind bent ash trees. When the car stopped he knew they had arrived at Whinnyates, but Alison was visiting with friends and he would not meet her.
“I must help Joe tak’ in bags,” said the driver and blew his horn. “I doubt he does not hear us and you might gan to door. When we’re unloaded you’ll come home with me and wait for rain to blow off.”
Kit went up the path, but after a few moments he stopped and his heart beat. Alison came to the door and waved to the man in the road.
“Wait a moment, Jim; I’ll send Uncle Joe!”
Then she saw Kit and the blood came to her skin.
“Oh, Kit!” she said, “I didn’t know you were back!”
“It looks as if nobody knew,” Kit remarked with a twinkle, because he saw he must be cool. “When I arrived, half an hour since, the car was not at the station and your friend picked me up. I was going to his house.”
“If you go to Jim’s, my uncle will be much annoyed,” Alison replied. “But I must send him to unload the meal. Come in!”
“Perhaps I ought to thank your friend,” said Kit, and went back to the road, where Jim pulled a heavy bag from the car. Kit did not see Tyson and he seized the bag.
“Help me up with it! There’s no use in your getting wet.”
He got the load on his back, and lowering his head, steered for the barn. At the door an old man advanced, as if to help.
“Don’t bother! Show me where to dump the stuff,” Kit gasped.
After a moment or two he threw down his load and straightened his back. The meal stuck to his wet coat, and his soft hat was crushed and marked by a grey patch. Kit laughed, smoothed his hat, and turned to the farmer. Tyson was tall, but his shoulders were bent. His hair was white and his brown face was lined, and Kit thought him a typical dalesman: the older dalesfolk were not cultivated, but they were shrewd, laborious, independent and frugal. Tyson gave him his hand.
“You were kind to our lass, Mr. Carson, and you’re varra welcome. Gan to hoose. I’se wait for Jim.”
Jim arrived with another bag and Kit crossed the yard. Alison was at the back porch. Her color was rather high, but she gave Kit a level, inquiring glance, and he knew he must explain his arrival.
“I expect you’re puzzled, and perhaps you’re sympathetic,” he remarked with a smile. “Looks as if I’d got fired?”
“No,” said Alison quietly. “Had the company turned you down, you would not have come back. You have built the tanks!”
“To feel somebody believes in you is comforting,” said Kit. “The first tank is built, and when the manager ordered me to put up the lot I felt I was entitled to take a holiday. I think that’s all. I did not expect to see you; Jim stated you were visiting friends.”
He imagined Alison knew it was all he dared talk about, but the look she gave him was strange and searching.
“I started for a farm across the hills, but the storm was bad and the water was on the road,” she said. “But my aunts want to see you and I must get supper.”
She showed Kit into a big flagged kitchen. Old ash trees grew near the window and the rain beat the glass. For the most part the kitchen was dark, but a fire burned in the big grate and the reflections touched polished brass and oak furniture. Kit thought the furniture was made when the house was built, and the crooked beams that carried the ceiling were cut long since.
An old woman got up from a chair by the fire, and when she gave Kit her hand he saw she studied him. Well, some curiosity was justified. Mrs. Tyson knew who he was; she probably knew he was forced to leave the shipyard, and Alison had talked about their adventures. Mrs. Tyson was thin and worn by sickness and labor, but her glance was keen, and her calm, somehow, was proud.
“You’re welcome. If the rain does not stop you’ll bide for the night.”
“I must try for Netherhall,” said Kit. “You ought not to have got up. I hope you’re better?”
“Getting up is boddersome, but when you must you can,” Mrs. Tyson replied, and put some old blue-pattern plates on the table.
Kit went to a settle by the fire, and after a few moments Alison came in and helped her aunt. Kit was satisfied to watch her. Alison moved harmoniously, and he liked her background. For all its austerity, the big room was homelike. Dark wood shone in the reflections from the grate, and he remarked the ruddy gleam of copper. Nothing was modern, but he felt all was good. The dalesfolk had no use for ambitious pretense. Their virtues and their drawbacks were primitive. Kit knew he himself sprang from stock like that, and he had inherited a primitive vein, perhaps from his ancestor the smith. He thought he saw where Alison got her pluck and balance.
Mrs. Tyson called him to supper. The food was good, and to know his hosts were kind helped his appetite. In the farm kitchen he was at home. He had felt at home at the Canadian camps, but at Netherhall he had not. Somehow he was conscious of a subtle antagonism.
“Will you take some more, Kit?” Alison inquired. “Since steamship cooking’s luxurious, I’m glad you like your supper.”
“My liking it is rather obvious,” said Kit, and gave his plate. “Anyhow, I know your cooking; I have not forgotten our feasts on board the cars. When I think about them, I recapture my lunch by the bluff at Harper’s—crackers and cheese and the canned fruit the storekeeper gave me. How do you account for it?”
He thought Alison blushed, but she began to talk about Austin and Florence, and after a time Mrs. Tyson said:
“You’ll not have got much news from Netherhall latterly?”
Kit remarked her use of the negative form, but he said he had not got much news and he thought she pondered. Alison was quiet, and Tyson talked about the floods. At length Mrs. Tyson got up and Kit went to the window. The ash trees shook in the wind and big drops splashed on the grass but the rain had stopped.
“I’m sorry to go, but I must take the road,” he said.
“You had better get over fell in daylight,” Tyson agreed. “We’re plain folks, Mr. Carson, but if you’re lonesome at Netherhall, we’ll be glad to see ye back.”
Kit got his coat and Alison went with him to the door. When they reached the porch Kit stopped and looked about. Mist rolled across the moors and the hills melted in the dark. A cold wind tossed the ash branches, and he heard a flooded beck. All was bleak and daunting, but the cheerful firelight flickered about the kitchen. Kit admitted he was not keen to start, and when he looked at Alison he knew she knew. Yet he felt she was somehow remote and elusive; in Canada Alison was frank.
“In the dark the fell road’s awkward,” she remarked.
“You want me to push off?”
“I think you ought to go,” said Alison in a quiet, meaning voice.
Kit smiled, but the smile cost him much.
“Well, I’ve got to indulge you. When you stole away from Harper’s you showed me my proper road, and the road was straight. That’s all, my dear. Are you going back to Fairmead?”
“I don’t know, Kit,” said Alison. “If the old folks need me, I’ll be content to stop. To come back was hard, but after all to be head clerk at the creamery is not a great ambition. One must take some knocks, but sometimes the knocks one is forced to take don’t hurt as much as one imagines.”
She gave Kit her hand and when he took the hill track he was puzzled. Alison knew why he went to Netherhall and why he used control. All the same he fancied she and her relations knew something he did not. Anyhow she did not want another’s lover; Alison was kind, but she was firm and proud. Kit set his mouth and pushed ahead.