It was long before she closed her eyes, spending the hours in fancy where still less she would have slept. But when she did drop off she dreamed that he and she were alone upon a star, where all the trees were white, the water, grass, birds, everything, white, and they were walking arm in arm, among white flowers. And just as she had stooped to pick one--it was no flower, but--Tryst's white-banded face! She woke with a little cry.
She was dressed by eight and went at once to Derek's room. There was no answer to her knock, and in a flutter of fear she opened the door. He had gone--packed, and gone. She ran back to the hall.
There was a note for her in the office, and she took it out of sight to read. It said:
"He came back this morning. I'm going home by the first train. He seems to want me to do something.
"DEREK."
Came back! That thing--that gray thing that she, too, had seemed to see for a moment in the fields beside the river! And he was suffering again as he had suffered yesterday! It was awful. She waited miserably till her father came down. To find that he, too, knew of this trouble was some relief. He made no objection when she begged that they should follow on to Joyfields. Directly after breakfast they set out. Once on her way to Derek again, she did not feel so frightened. But in the train she sat very still, gazing at her lap, and only once glanced up from under those long lashes.
"Can you understand it, Dad?"
Felix, not much happier than she, answered:
"The man had something queer about him. Besides Derek's been ill, don't forget that. But it's too bad for you, Nedda. I don't like it; I don't like it."
"I can't be parted from him, Dad. That's impossible."
Felix was silenced by the vigor of those words.
"His mother can help, perhaps," he said.
Ah! If his mother would help--send him away from the laborers, and all this!
Up from the station they took the field paths, which cut off quite a mile. The grass and woods were shining brightly, peacefully in the sun; it seemed incredible that there should be heartburnings about a land so smiling, that wrongs and miseries should haunt those who lived and worked in these bright fields. Surely in this earthly paradise the dwellers were enviable, well-nourished souls, sleek and happy as the pied cattle that lifted their inquisitive muzzles! Nedda tried to stroke the nose of one--grayish, blunt, moist. But the creature backed away from her hand, snuffling, and its cynical, soft eyes with chestnut lashes seemed warning the girl that she belonged to the breed that might be trusted to annoy.
In the last fields before the Joyfields crossroads they came up with a little, square, tow-headed man, without coat or cap, who had just driven some cattle in and was returning with his dog, at a 'dot-here dot-there' walk, as though still driving them. He gave them a look rather like that of the bullock Nedda had tried to stroke. She knew he must be one of the Malloring men, and longed to ask him questions; but he, too, looked shy and distrustful, as if he suspected that they wanted something out of him. She summoned up courage, however, to say: "Did you see about poor Bob Tryst?"
"I 'eard tell. 'E didn' like prison. They say prison takes the 'eart out of you. 'E didn' think o' that." And the smile that twisted the little man's lips seemed to Nedda strange and cruel, as if he actually found pleasure in the fate of his fellow. All she could find to answer was:
"Is that a good dog?"
The little man looked down at the dog trotting alongside with drooped tail, and shook his head:
'E's no good wi' beasts--won't touch 'em!" Then, looking up sidelong, he added surprisingly:
"Mast' Freeland 'e got a crack on the head, though!" Again there was that satisfied resentment in his voice and the little smile twisting his lips. Nedda felt more lost than ever.
They parted at the crossroads and saw him looking back at them as they went up the steps to the wicket gate. Amongst a patch of early sunflowers, Tod, in shirt and trousers, was surrounded by his dog and the three small Trysts, all apparently engaged in studying the biggest of the sunflowers, where a peacock-butterfly and a bee were feeding, one on a gold petal, the other on the black heart.
Nedda went quickly up to them and asked:
"Has Derek come, Uncle Tod?"
Tod raised his eyes. He did not seem in the least surprised to see her, as if his sky were in the habit of dropping his relatives at ten in the morning.
"Gone out again," he said.
Nedda made a sign toward the children.
"Have you heard, Uncle Tod?"
Tod nodded and his blue eyes, staring above the children's heads, darkened.
"Is Granny still here?"
Again Tod nodded.
Leaving Felix in the garden, Nedda stole upstairs and tapped on Frances Freeland's door.
She, whose stoicism permitted her the one luxury of never coming down to breakfast, had just made it for herself over a little spirit-lamp. She greeted Nedda with lifted eyebrows.
"Oh, my darling! Where HAVE you come from? You must have my nice cocoa! Isn't this the most perfect lamp you ever saw? Did you ever see such a flame? Watch!"
She touched the spirit-lamp and what there was of flame died out.
"Now, isn't that provoking? It's really a splendid thing, quite a new kind. I mean to get you one. Now, drink your cocoa; it's beautifully hot."
"I've had breakfast, Granny."
Frances Freeland gazed at her doubtfully, then, as a last resource, began to sip the cocoa, of which, in truth, she was badly in want.
"Granny, will you help me?"
"Of course, darling. What is it?"
"I do so want Derek to forget all about this terrible business."
Frances Freeland, who had unscrewed the top of a little canister, answered:
"Yes, dear, I quite agree. I'm sure it's best for him. Open your mouth and let me pop in one of these delicious little plasmon biscuits. They're perfect after travelling. Only," she added wistfully, "I'm afraid he won't pay any attention to me."
"No, but you could speak to Aunt Kirsteen; it's for her to stop him."
One of her most pathetic smiles came over Frances Freeland's face.