Marion Arleighs Penance | Page 2

the air with fragrance; past gray old churches whose tapering spires pointed to heaven; past quiet homesteads sleeping in the sunshine; past silent, quaint villages and towns; past broad rivers and dark woods. Yet never once did the silent woman raise her eyes, never once did she look from the windows at the glowing landscape that lay on either side. Once, and once only, she caught a glimpse of the golden sunlight, and she turned away with a faint, sick, shuddering sigh.
Her fellow-passengers looked wonderingly at her. She never moved; her hands were tightly clasped, as one whose thoughts were all despairing: Once a lady addressed her, but she never heard the words. Silent, mute, and motionless, she might have been a marble statute, only that every now and then a quick, faint shiver came over her.
On through the fair, English counties, and the heat of the sun grew less. The birds came from their shelter in the leafy trees and began to sing; the flowers yielded their loveliest perfumes, and the sweet summer wind that blew in at the carriage windows was like the breath of Paradise.
Still she had neither spoken nor moved. Then the train stopped, and the sudden cessation from all sound made her start up suddenly, as though roused from painful dreams.
"Have we--have we passed Crewe?" she asked.
And then her fellow-passengers looked wonderingly at her, for the voice was like no other sound--no human sound; it was a faint gasp, as of one who had escaped a deadly peril, and was still faint with the remembrance of it.
"No," replied a gentleman; "we have not reached Crewe yet. They are stopping for water, I should imagine. This is supposed to be one of the most out-of-the-way villages in England. It is called Redcliffe."
She gave one look through the open windows. There, behind the woods, a little village lay stretched and half hidden by the thick green foliage.
"I want to get out here," she said, in the same faint voice.
Her fellow-travelers looked at each other, and their glances said plainly, "There is something strange about her; let her go." A gentleman called the guard, and the woman, whose face was so carefully veiled, put something in his hand that shone like gold.
"Let me get out here," she said, and without a word he unlocked the door, and she left the carriage. Those who remained behind breathed more freely after she had gone. That strange, mute presence had had a depressing effect on them all.
She looked neither to the right nor to the left, but made her way quickly to the green fields, where the golden silence of summer reigned. She walked there with hasty steps, looking behind her to see if she were pursued.
She opened the white gates and went into a field where the tall trees threw a deep shade. She sat down then, or, rather, flung herself on the ground with a vehement cry, like one who had suffered from a deadly pain without daring to murmur--one loud cry, and, from the sound of it, it was easy to tell that it came from a broken heart. She bowed her head against the rugged bark of a tree, and then fell into a deep slumber. The wearied limbs seemed to relax. To sleep as she did she must have been watching long.
When she opened her eyes again the afternoon had gone and the shadows of evening were falling. It was still bright and warm, but she shivered like one seized with mortal cold.
She rose and made her way to the quiet little village. It was almost out of the world, so completely was it hidden by the trees and hills. She reached the quiet little street at last. She looked at the windows of the houses, but the notice she wanted to see was not in any of them. At the end of the street she came to a narrow lane that led to the woods; half-way down the lane was a small cottage half buried in elder trees.
In the window hung a small placard--"Rooms to let." She knocked at the door, which was opened by a kindly-looking elderly woman.
"You have rooms to let?" said the faint, low voice. "I want two."
Then followed a few words as to terms, etc., and the transaction was concluded.
"Shall my son fetch your luggage?" asked the landlady, Mrs. Hirste.
"I have no luggage," she replied; then seeing something like a doubtful expression on the kindly face, she added; "I will pay you a month's money in advance."
That was quite satisfactory. Mrs. Hirste led the way to a pretty little parlor, which she showed with no little pride.
"This is the other room," she said, throwing open the door of a pretty white chamber. "And now, is there anything I can get for