The good folks were told to have everything ready, and they can hardly lock up before ten."She was so glad to see him take an interest in anything, and so greatly relieved by his recovery of strength and spirits, that she gladly fell in with the plan, and before long they set off in one of the wagonettes belonging to the Shrub Inn.
Firdale wound its long street of red-roofed houses along a sheltered valley in between fir-crowned heights; beyond the town lay rich, fertile-looking meadows, and a winding river bordered by pollard willows.Looking across these meadows, one could see the massive tower of the church, its white pinnacles standing out sharp and clear in the moonlight.As Raeburn and Erica crossed the bridge leading out of the town, the clock in the tower struck nine, and the old chimes began to play the tune which every three hours fell on the ears of the inhabitants of Firdale.
"'Life let us cherish,'" said Raeburn with a smile."A good omen for us, little one."And whether it was the mere fact that he looked so much more cheerful already, or whether the dear old tune, with its resolute good humor and determination to make the best of things, acted upon Erica's sensitive nature, it would be hard to say, but she somehow shook off all her cares and enjoyed the novelty of the moonlight drive like a child.Before long they were among the fir trees, driving along the sandy road, the sweet night laden with the delicious scent of pine needles, and to the overworked Londoners in itself the most delicious refreshment.All at once Raeburn ordered the driver to stop and, getting out, stooped down by the roadside.
"What is it?" asked Erica.
"Heather!" he exclaimed, tearing it up by handfuls and returning to the carriage laden."There! Shut your eyes and bury your face in that, and you can almost fancy you're on a Scottish mountain.
Brian deserves anything for sending us to the land of heather; it makes me feel like a boy again."The three miles were all too short to please them, but at last they reached the little village of Milford and were set down at a compact-looking white house known as Under the Oak.
"That direction is charming," said Raeburn, laughing; "imagine your business letters sent from the 'Daily Review' office to 'Miss Raeburn, Under the Oak, Milford!' They'll think we're living in a tent.You'll be nicknamed Deborah!"It was not until the next morning that they fully understood the appropriateness of the direction.The little white house had been built close to the grand old oak which was the pride of Milford.
It was indeed a giant of its kind; there was something wonderfully fine about its vigorous spread of branches and its enormous girth.
Close by was a peaceful-looking river, flowing between green banks fringed with willow and marestail and pink river-herb.The house itself had a nice little garden, gay with geraniums and gladiolus, and bounded by a hedge of sunflowers which would have gladdened the heart of an aesthete.All was pure, fresh, cleanly, and perfectly quiet.
From the windows nothing was to be seen except the village green with its flocks of geese and its tall sign post; the river describing a sort of horseshoe curve round it, and spanned by two picturesque bridges.In the distance was a small church and a little cluster of houses, the "village" being completed by a blacksmith's forge and a post office.To this latter place they had to pay a speedy visit for, much to Raeburn's amusement, Erica had forgotten to bring any ink.
"To think that a writer in the 'Daily Review' should forget such a necessary of life!" he said, smiling."One would think you were your little 'Cartesian-well' cousin instead of a journalist!"However, the post office was capable of supplying almost anything likely to be needed in the depths of the country; you could purchase there bread, cakes, groceries, hob-nailed boots, paper, ink, and most delectable toffee!
The relief of the country quiet was unlike anything which Erica had known before.There was, indeed, at first a good deal of anxiety about her father.His acquiescence in idleness, his perfect readiness to spend whole days without even opening a book, proved the seriousness of his condition.For the first week he was more completely prostrated than she had ever known him to be.He would spend whole days on the river, too tired even to speak, or would drag himself as far as the neighboring wood and stretch himself at full length under the trees while she sat by sketching or writing.
Bur Brian was satisfied with his improvement when he came down on one of his periodical visits, and set Erica's mind at rest about him.
