mellis had little to say to him next morning when he carried her a bucket of water from the spring. she was standing in the doorway of the rest-house, a far-away look in her eyes, her black hair caught up by a piece of red ribbon and tied behind her shoulders.
martin did not dare to question her as to what she purposed for the day. his own secret was too big for him, and he felt guilty toward her in his thoughts. he went back to his cell, filled a wallet with food, and laid it ready behind the door with a stout hollywood staff that had belonged to father jude. if the girl rode out that morning he had made up his mind to follow her and leave the chapelry to take care of itself.
going out to reconnoiter, he saw mellis in the stable saddling her horse. the hint was sufficient. he kept out of the way and bided his time.
she did not call to him that morning or offer him any explanation, but rode straight from the stable past the great cross and over the edge of the moor. martin saw her go. he slung the wallet over his shoulder, took his staff, and followed, stopping at the rest-house door to see whether she had left her saddle-bags behind. they were lying on one of the wooden beds, so that he knew that she purposed to return.
as a boy, martin valliant had tracked the deer, and his following of mellis was just as subtle a piece of hunting. the old brown horse was jaded and stale, but she pushed him to a trot down the slope of the moor, and martin had to run to keep her well in view. luckily she was too busy keeping a watch for rabbit holes to trouble about looking back. when she reached the place where the track branched she reined in, and martin dropped down behind a furze bush. her indecision lasted only for a few seconds, for when he raised his head cautiously to get sight of her she was already moving along the track that made for the green deeps. martin’s nostrils quivered, and his eyes lost some of their hardness. she had not chosen the track to oakshot bottom; bloody rood and the blounts were out of court.
the brown horse appeared to be setting his own pace, and she had to humor him because of his age. a fair stride enabled martin to keep his distance. he had to follow very cautiously over the moor, watching her like a hound, and ready to drop to earth should she waver or look back. there was a moment when he thought that he had betrayed himself, for she reined in her horse and sat looking steadily back at the swell of the moor. martin lay flat in the heather, and presently she rode on.
the green deeps opened before them, wild valleys choked with woodland, almost pathless, a region where outlaws sometimes hid themselves. a narrow ride almost choked with scrub and brambles followed the valleys, lifting itself now and again over the shoulder of a low hill. the woods towered against the blue, solemn and silent. sometimes a stream broke the stillness with a thin, trickling murmur.
they were heading for the rondel; martin knew that much, though this wild country was all virgin to him. he had to keep in closer touch with her, for the track disappeared at times, and mellis threaded her way among the oaks and beeches. he was astonished at the steady, unhesitating way she rode, choosing her path when the track branched, without any sign of faltering. the deeps were a great green fog to martin valliant; he was utterly lost in them, save for the guesswork that they were traveling north. all his wits were centered on the girl, on keeping her in view, and pushing ahead quickly when he lost her behind some leafy screen, on saving himself from rushing into a betrayal.
the track climbed a hill, and then the ground fell steeply, almost like a green cliff. martin saw the gleam of water shining below the crowded domes of the trees. it was the rondel flashing in the sunlight between the green walls of the forest.
mellis was urging the brown horse into the water when martin reached the underwood at the top of the bank. she had struck the ford, and he saw that the water was quite shallow, reaching just above the horse’s knees. he dared not break cover until she was across, and there was every chance of his losing her if he fell too far behind, but she rode her horse straight out of the water and on into the forest without glancing back. martin tucked up his frock and splashed his way across like atlas plowing through the ocean, scrambled up the far bank, and caught sight of her at the end of a colonnade of beeches, a green tunnel floored with brown leaves and bluebells. he started running, keeping close to the trunks of the trees, ready to dodge behind one of them if she so much as turned her head.
martin’s chase of her lasted another hour, and the farther she led him the more mysterious she became. he was utterly perplexed by the whole business, and astonished by her miraculous knowledge of the forest ways. he became aware of a change in the green wilderness; the woods were more open, the glades more frequent, and stretches of grassland flowed here and there, all yellow with buttercups and shining like cloth of gold. it was a more spacious country, more beautiful, less savage, lush, deep, and mysterious, sheltered from the winds. there were yews and hollies here more ancient than he had ever seen. great sweeps of young bracken covered the open slopes of the hills.
they climbed a long rise where old beech trees grew. its solemn aisles opened westwards on a little secret valley. water glimmered in the green lap of the valley, and for a moment martin thought that he had struck one of the reaches of the river. but something that happened ahead of him brought martin valliant to earth, with his chin resting on the mossy root of a beech tree. mellis had dismounted, and was tying her horse to a drooping bough. they had come to the end of their journey.
he saw her go forward under the shade of the great trees. there was caution in her movements. she kept well in the shadows, gliding from trunk to trunk, not hurrying, as though she wished to make sure that no human thing moved in the valley below her. presently she seemed satisfied. martin saw her walk out boldly into the open and pass out of sight below the slope of the hill.
not till he had crawled to the edge of the beech wood did martin valliant realize what the valley held. a broad mere lay in a grassy hollow, shaded toward the north by willows, and ringed about with yellow flags and water herbs. an island seemed to float upon the water, all white with old fruit trees in bloom. a gray turret and the bare stone gable-ends of a house showed above the apple blossom. there was a little gate-house close to the water, but its roof was gone, and the bridge that had led to it ruinous. the charred rafters of a barn showed beyond the sweep of an ivy-covered wall. martin could trace the suggestions of a garden, with old yew trees, hornbeam hedges all gone to top, and a broad terrace walk that looked as though it were paved with stone. the place had a still, sweet, tragic look, lying there in the deeps of the forest, its fruit trees white with blossom, although no one had pruned them, and the fruit they bore would rot in the grass or be eaten by the birds.
martin valliant was so astonished by what he saw, so bewitched by the desolate beauty of the place, that he had almost forgotten mellis. she had reached the edge of the water and was standing by a willow, looking across at the ruined house. a sudden awe seemed to steal into martin’s eyes. mystery! and she was the human part of it, wandering by forest ways to this island of beautiful desolation. no chance quest had brought her to the place, and martin, lying there with his chin on his hands, felt a strange stirring in his heart. perhaps she had lied to him—but what then? the very thought of it quickened his compassion. in following her he had stumbled upon the real woman—a woman whose eyes were deep with unforgettable things.
the truth came to him like the opening of a book. tags of gossip tossed to and fro across the refectory table at paradise pieced themselves together. woodmere, the dales’ house, sacked and burned by roger bland of troy castle; old dale with a spear through his body lying dead under an oak tree. blood shed for the love of a red rose. two children saved by a swineherd and shipped off in a fishing-boat from gawdy town. woodmere rotting in the forest, to please the lord of troy’s sneering and whimsical pride!
mellis had wandered along to what had been the bridge. two spans of it still stood, but the center arch had been thrown down, leaving a gap of twelve feet or more. young trees had taken possession of the broken walls, and the bridge-head was choked with brambles. there was no way of crossing the gap save by thrusting a big beam or the trunk of a tree across it, and such a piece of bridge mending was wholly beyond a woman’s strength. moreover, there was a second chasm to be crossed where the drawbridge had been worked from the gate-house, but the drawbridge was a thing of the past. roger bland had had it unchained and unbolted and dragged to troy castle as a trophy.
martin valliant saw her walk along the broken bridge and stand there baffled, and though there was the one obvious and most natural way of crossing the water, it never entered martin’s head that she would choose it. she came back to the landward side, and he lost sight of her in a little hollow beside the bridge-head that was hidden by bushes and young trees. he was still wondering what she would do, and whether he had the courage to go down and confess himself and help her, when he saw her rise out of the green foam of the foliage like venus rising out of the sea.
she had thrown off her clothes, and went as mother nature had made her, a beautiful white creature crowned by her dark hair. in looking at her martin forgot that he was a man, forgot his vows, forgot that there was such a thing as sin. for there seemed no shame in her beauty, and in that white shape of hers kissed by the sun.
beyond the bridge a little grassy headland jutted into the mere where the water was clear of weeds. mellis made her way toward it, like eve walking the earth before sin was born. she stepped down into the water, waded a pace or two, and then glided forward on her bosom, the water rippling over her shoulders. thirty breast strokes earned her across. she climbed out at what had been an old mooring stage for the big flat-bottomed boat that had been used for fishing. for a moment martin saw her stand white and straight in the sunlight; then her hands went up and her black hair came clouding down. it enveloped her like a cloak, hanging to the level of her knees, like night shrouding the day. she seemed to have no thought of being watched or spied upon; the place was a wilderness; she went as nature made her.
then she was lost among the orchard trees, whose bloom was as white as her body, and a great change came over martin valliant. he let his head drop on the root of a beech tree; he shut his eyes, spread his arms like a suppliant. in losing sight of her he had rediscovered himself, that striving, perplexed, mistrustful self nurtured on self-starvation and physical nothingness. a passion of wonder, shame, and doubt shook him. he lay prone at the feet of nature, trying to see the face of his god through the smoke of a new sacrifice. had he sinned, had he shamed himself? and yet a deep and passionate voice cried out in him, fiercely denying that he had erred. what wickedness was there in chancing to gaze upon a creature whom god had created, upon a beauty that was unsoiled? he strove with himself, with clenched hands and closed eyes.
and presently a great stillness seemed to fall upon his heart. it was like the silence of the dawn, born to be broken only by the singing of birds. he opened his eyes, looked about him at the green spaces, the blue sky, the water shining in the valley. what had happened to him? why all this wrestling and anguish? where was the thing that men called sin when earth and the heavens were so beautiful?
and what shame was there in the vision that he had seen?
he sat up, drew aside, and leaned against the trunk of the tree. the stillness still held in his heart, but somewhere a long way off he seemed to hear a voice singing. a great tenderness thrilled him. the earth was transfigured, bathed in a glory of a light. never had he known such deep and mysterious exultation. he felt strong, stronger than death; he feared nothing; his heart was full of a sweet sound of singing.
mellis never knew of the great thing that happened to martin valliant in that beech wood. she crossed the water, dressed herself, mounted her horse, and rode back through the forest, followed by a man whose eyes shone and whose face had a kind of awed radiance. she never guessed that a great love haunted her through the green glooms, and that a man had discovered his own soul.
and when she reached the cross on the black moor, martin valliant was there, waiting. he had run three miles like a madman across country that he knew. she looked at him and his face astonished her—it was so strangely luminous, so strong, so human.
