There was a smell of fruit
and wood fires and damp earth; there was a veil of magic over the
whole landscape and, far off, the shining line of the channel seemed
to be washing the feet of the blue hills. The country had the charm of
home with the allurement of the unknown and, within sound of the
steamers hooting in the river, almost within sight of the city lying,
red-roofed and smoky with factories, round the docks and mounting in
terraces to the heights of Upper Radstowe, there was an expectation of
mystery, of secrets kept for countless centuries by the earth which
was rich and fecund and alive. She could not deny herself the sight of
this country. It had become dearer to her since her awakened feelings
had brought with them the complexities of new thoughts. It soothed her
though it solved nothing. It did not wish to solve anything. It lay
before her with its fields, its woods, its patches of heathy land, its
bones of grey limestone showing where the flesh of the red earth had
fallen away, its dips and hollows, its steep lanes, like the wide eye
of a being too full of understanding to attempt elucidations; it would
not explain; it knew but it would not impart the knowledge which must
be gained through the experience of years, of storms, of sunshine, of
calamity and joy.
And sometimes the presence of Francis with his personal claims and his
complaints was an intrusion, almost an anachronism. He was of his own
time, and the end of that was almost within sight, while the earth,
immensely old, had a youth of its own, something which Francis would
never have again.
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