The Well-Beloved | Page 2

pedestrian was what he looked like--a young man from London

and the cities of the Continent. Nobody could see at present that his
urbanism sat upon him only as a garment. He was just recollecting with
something of self-reproach that a whole three years and eight months
had flown since he paid his last visit to his father at this lonely rock of
his birthplace, the intervening time having been spent amid many
contrasting societies, peoples, manners, and scenes.
What had seemed usual in the isle when he lived there always looked
quaint and odd after his later impressions. More than ever the spot
seemed what it was said once to have been, the ancient Vindilia Island,
and the Home of the Slingers. The towering rock, the houses above
houses, one man's doorstep rising behind his neighbour's chimney, the
gardens hung up by one edge to the sky, the vegetables growing on
apparently almost vertical planes, the unity of the whole island as a
solid and single block of limestone four miles long, were no longer
familiar and commonplace ideas. All now stood dazzlingly unique and
white against the tinted sea, and the sun flashed on infinitely stratified
walls of oolite,
The melancholy ruins Of cancelled cycles, . . .
with a distinctiveness that called the eyes to it as strongly as any
spectacle he had beheld afar.
After a laborious clamber he reached the top, and walked along the
plateau towards the eastern village. The time being about two o'clock,
in the middle of the summer season, the road was glaring and dusty,
and drawing near to his father's house he sat down in the sun.
He stretched out his hand upon the rock beside him. It felt warm. That
was the island's personal temperature when in its afternoon sleep as
now. He listened, and heard sounds: whirr-whirr, saw-saw-saw. Those
were the island's snores--the noises of the quarrymen and stone-
sawyers.
Opposite to the spot on which he sat was a roomy cottage or homestead.
Like the island it was all of stone, not only in walls but in window-
frames, roof, chimneys, fence, stile, pigsty and stable, almost door.

He remembered who had used to live there--and probably lived there
now- -the Caro family; the 'roan-mare' Caros, as they were called to
distinguish them from other branches of the same pedigree, there being
but half-a-dozen Christian and surnames in the whole island. He
crossed the road and looked in at the open doorway. Yes, there they
were still.
Mrs. Caro, who had seen him from the window, met him in the entry,
and an old-fashioned greeting took place between them. A moment
after a door leading from the back rooms was thrown open, and a
young girl about seventeen or eighteen came bounding in.
'Why, 'TIS dear Joce!' she burst out joyfully. And running up to the
young man, she kissed him.
The demonstration was sweet enough from the owner of such an
affectionate pair of bright hazel eyes and brown tresses of hair. But it
was so sudden, so unexpected by a man fresh from towns, that he
winced for a moment quite involuntarily; and there was some constraint
in the manner in which he returned her kiss, and said, 'My pretty little
Avice, how do you do after so long?'
For a few seconds her impulsive innocence hardly noticed his start of
surprise; but Mrs. Caro, the girl's mother, had observed it instantly.
With a pained flush she turned to her daughter.
'Avice--my dear Avice! Why--what are you doing? Don't you know
that you've grown up to be a woman since Jocelyn--Mr. Pierston--was
last down here? Of course you mustn't do now as you used to do three
or four years ago!'
The awkwardness which had arisen was hardly removed by Pierston's
assurance that he quite expected her to keep up the practice of her
childhood, followed by several minutes of conversation on general
subjects. He was vexed from his soul that his unaware movement
should so have betrayed him. At his leaving he repeated that if Avice
regarded him otherwise than as she used to do he would never forgive
her; but though they parted good friends her regret at the incident was

visible in her face. Jocelyn passed out into the road and onward to his
father's house hard by. The mother and daughter were left alone.
'I was quite amazed at 'ee, my child!' exclaimed the elder. 'A young
man from London and foreign cities, used now to the strictest company
manners, and ladies who almost think it vulgar to smile broad! How
could ye do it, Avice?'
'I--I didn't think about how I was altered!' said the conscience- stricken
girl. 'I used to kiss him, and he used to kiss me before he went away.'