The Flight of the Shadow

I have now to tell how he fared on the moor as he rode.

It had turned gusty and rather cold, and was still a dark night. The moon would be up by and by however, and giving light enough, he thought, before he came to the spot where his way parted company with that to Dumbleton. The moon, however, did not see fit to rise so soon as John expected her: he was not at that time quite up in moons, any more than in the paths across that moor.

Now as he had not an idea where his rider wanted to be carried, and as John did for a while—he confessed it—fall into a reverie or something worse, old Sturdy had to choose for himself where to go, and took a path he had often had to take some years before; nor did John discover that he was out of the way, until he felt him going steep clown, and thought of Sleipner bearing Hermod to the realm of Hela. But he let him keep on, wishing to know, as he said, what the old fellow was up to. Presently, he came to a dead halt.

John had not the least notion where they were, but I knew the spot the moment he began to describe it. By the removal of the peat on the side of a slope, the skeleton of the hill had been a little exposed, and had for a good many years been blasted for building-stones. Nothing was going on in the quarry at present. Above, it was rather a dangerous place; there was a legend of man and horse having fallen into it, and both being killed. John had never seen or heard of it.

When his horse stopped, he became aware of an indefinite sensation which inclined him to await the expected moon before attempting either to advance or return. He thought afterward it might have been some feeling of the stone about him, but at the time he took the place for an abrupt natural dip of the surface of the moor, in the bottom of which might be a pool. Sturdy stood as still as if he had been part of the quarry, stood as if never of himself would he move again.

The light slowly grew, or rather, the darkness slowly thinned. All at once John became aware that, some yards away from him, there was something whitish. A moment, and it began to move like a flitting mist through the darkness. The same instant Sturdy began to pull his feet from the ground, and move after the mist, which rose and rose until it came for a second or two between John and the sky: it was a big white horse, with my uncle on his back: Death and he, John concluded, were out on one of their dark wanderings! His impulse, of course, was to follow them. But, as they went up the steep way, Sturdy came down on his old knees, and John got off his back to let him recover himself the easier. When they reached the level, where the moon, showing a blunt horn above the horizon, made it possible to see a little, the white horse and his rider had disappeared—in some shadow, or behind some knoll, I fancy; and John, having not the least notion in what part of the moor he was, or in which direction he ought to go, threw the reins on the horse’s neck. Sturdy brought him back almost to his stable, before he knew where he was. Then he turned into the road, for he had had enough of the moor, and took the long way home.

CHAPTER XXIX. MOTHER AND SON

In the morning he breakfasted alone. A son with a different sort of mother, might then have sought her in her bedroom; but John had never within his memory seen his mother in her bedroom, and after what lie had heard the night before, could hardly be inclined to go there to her now. Within half an hour, however, a message was brought him, requesting his presence in her ladyship’s dressing-room.

He went with his teeth set.

“Whose horse is that in the stable, John?” she said, the moment their eyes met.

“Mr. Whichcote’s, madam,” answered John: mother he could not say.

“You intend to keep up your late relations with those persons?”

“I do.”

“You mean to marry the hussy?”

“I mean to marry the lady to whom you give that epithet. There are those who think it not quite safe for you to call other people names!”

She rose and came at him as if she would strike him. John stood motionless. Except a woman had a knife in her hand, he said, he would not even avoid a blow from her. “A woman can’t hurt you much; she can only break your heart!” he said. “My mother would not know a heart when she had broken it!” he added.

He stood and looked at her.

She turned away, and sat down again. I think she felt the term of her power at hand.

“The man told you then, that, if you did not return immediately, I would get him into trouble?”

“He has told me nothing. I have not seen him for some days. I have been to London.”

“You should have contrived your story better: you contradict yourself.”

“I am not aware that I do.”

“You have the man’s horse!”

“His horse is in my stable; he is not himself at home.”

“Fled from justice! It shall not avail him!”

“It may avail you though, madam! It is sometimes prudent to let well alone. May I not suggest that a hostile attempt on your part, might lead to awkward revelations?”

“Ah, where could the seed of slander find fitter soil than the heart of a son with whom the prayer of his mother is powerless!”

To all appearance she had thoroughly regained her composure, and looked at him with a quite artistic reproach.

“The prayer of a mother that never prayed in her life!” returned John; “—of a woman that never had an anxiety but for herself!—I don’t believe you are my mother. If I was born of you, there must have been some juggling with my soul in antenatal regions! I disown you!” cried John with indignation that grew as he gave it issue.

Her face turned ashy white; but whether it was from conscience or fear, or only with rage, who could tell!

She was silent for a moment. Then again recovering herself,—

“And what, pray, would you make of me?” she said coolly. “Your slave?”

“I would have you an honest woman! I would die for that!—Oh, mother! mother!” he cried bitterly.

“That being apparently impossible, what else does my dutiful son demand of his mother?”

“That she should leave me unmolested in my choice of a wife. It does not seem to me an unreasonable demand!”

“Nor does it seem to me an unreasonable reply, that any mother would object to her son’s marrying a girl whose father she could throw into a felon’s-prison with a word!”

“That the girl does not happen to be the daughter of the gentleman you mean, signifies nothing: I am very willing she should pass for such. But take care. He is ready to meet whatever you have to say. He is not gone for his own sake, but to be out of the way of our happiness—to prevent you from blasting us with a public scandal. If you proceed in your purpose, we shall marry at once, and make your scheme futile.”

“How are you to live, pray?”

“Madam, that is my business,” answered John.

“Are you aware of the penalty on your marrying without my consent?” pursued his mother.

“I am not. I do not believe there is any such penalty.”

“You dare me?”

“I do.”

“Marry, then, and take the consequences.”

“If there were any, you would not thus warn me of them.”

“John Day, you are no gentleman!”

“I shall not ask your definition of a gentleman, madam.”

“Your father was a clown!”

“If my father were present, he would show himself a gentleman by making you no answer. If you say a word more against him, I will leave the room.”

“I tell you your father was a clown and a fool—like yourself!”