The Wild Olive | Page 9

Basil King
walk. The girl's
flight over grass and gravel was like nothing so much as that of a bird
skimming through the air. Ford's own steps crunched loudly on the
stillness of the night, so that if any one lay in ambush he knew he could
not escape. He was prepared to hear shots come ringing from any
quarter, but he ran on with the indifference of a soldier grown used to
battle, intent on keeping up with the shadow fleeing before him.
He followed her through the garden gate he himself had left open, and
down the lane leading to the pasture. At the point where he had entered
it from the right, she turned to the left, keeping away from the
mountains and parallel with the lake. There was no moon, but the night
was clear; and no sound but that of the shrill, sustained chorus of insect
life.
Beyond the pasture the lane became nothing but a path, zigzagging up a
hillside between patches of Indian corn. The girl sped over it so lightly
that Ford would have found it hard to keep her in sight if from time to
time she had not paused and waited. When he came near enough to see
the outlines of her form she flew on again, less like a living woman
than a mountain wraith.
From the top of the hill he could see the dull gleam of the lake with its
girdle of lamp-lit towns. Here the woodland began again; not the main
body of the forest, but one of its long arms, thrust down over hill and
valley, twisting its way in among villages and farm lands. That which
had been a path now become a trail, along which the girl flitted with
the ease of habit and familiarity.
In the concentration of his effort to keep the moving white spot in view
Ford lost count of time. Similarly he had little notion of the distance
they were covering. He guessed that they had been ten or fifteen
minutes on the way, and that they might have gone a mile, when, after
waiting for him to come almost near enough to speak to her, she began

moving in a direction at an acute angle to that by which they had come.
At the same time he perceived that they were on the side of a low
wooded mountain and that they were beating their way round it.
All at once they emerged on a tiny clearing--a grassy ledge on the slope.
Through the starlight he could see the hillside break away steeply into a
vaporous gorge, while above him the mountain raised a black dome
amid the serried points of the sky-line. The dryad-like creature
beckoned him forward with her scarf, until suddenly she stopped with
the decisive pause of one who has reached her goal. Coming up with
her, he saw her unlock the door of a small cabin, which had hitherto not
detached itself from the surrounding darkness.
"Go in," she whispered. "Don't strike a light. There are biscuits
somewhere, in a box. Grope for them. There's a couch in a corner."
Without allowing him to speak, she forced him gently over the
threshold and closed the door upon him. Standing inside in the darkness,
he heard the grating of her key in the lock, and the rustle of her skirts as
she sped away.

III

From the heavy sleep of fatigue Ford woke with the twittering of birds
that announces the dawn. His first thought before opening his eyes, that
he was still in his cell, was dispelled by the silky touch of the Sorrento
rugs on which he lay. He fingered them again and again in a kind of
wonder, while his still half-slumbering senses struggled for the memory
of what had happened, and the realization of where he was. When at
last he was able to reconstruct the events of the preceding night, he
raised himself on his elbow and peered about him in the dim morning
twilight.
The object he discerned most readily was an easel, giving him the
secret of his refuge. On the wooden walls of the cabin, which was fairly

spacious, water-color sketches were pinned at intervals, while on the
mantelpiece above a bricked fireplace one or two stood framed. Over
the mantelpiece a pair of snow-shoes were crossed as decorations,
between which hung a view of the city of Quebec. On a lay-figure in a
corner was thrown carelessly the sort of blanket coat worn by
Canadians during winter sports. Paints and palettes were arranged on a
table by the wall, and on a desk in the middle of the room were writing
materials and books. More books stood in a small suspended bookcase.
Beside a comfortable reading-chair one
Continue reading on your phone by scaning this QR Code

 / 123
Tip: The current page has been bookmarked automatically. If you wish to continue reading later, just open the Dertz Homepage, and click on the 'continue reading' link at the bottom of the page.