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But then dear Kirsteen was so clever. Her attitude, indeed, to that blue bird, who had alighted now twenty-one years ago in the Freeland nest, had always, after the first few shocks, been duly stoical. For, however her fastidiousness might jib at neglect of the forms of things, she was the last woman not to appreciate really sterling qualities.
Tod was on the point of starting back to Transham, where Sheila and the two laborers would be brought up before the magistrates. Felix and Kirsteen took hurried counsel. Now that Mother, whose nursing was beyond reproach, had come, it would be better if they went with Tod. All three started forthwith in the car.
It's too deep with him for that, and too unconscious. He simply feels so unhappy about the waste of that hay that he can't keep his hands off it." Derek broke in: "Mother's right. And it doesn't matter, except that we've got to see that the men don't follow his example. They've a funny feeling about him." Kirsteen shook her head. "You needn't be afraid. He's always been too strange to them!"
But I won't think of that!... I wonder if he's told Aunt Kirsteen!..." While Nedda sat, long past midnight, writing her heart out in her little, white, lilac-curtained room of the old house above the Spaniard's Road, Derek, of whom she wrote, was walking along the Malvern hills, hurrying upward in the darkness.
Then, too, Kirsteen was a woman with whom it would be quite impossible to gossip or small-talk; with her one could but simply and directly say what one felt, and only that over things which really mattered. And this seemed to Nedda so splendid that it sufficed in itself to prevent the girl from saying anything whatever.
Kirsteen came down at last, in her inevitable blue dress, betraying her surprise at this sudden appearance of her niece only by a little quivering of her brows.
After all, it was wrong to think of them like that. They did it for rest after all their hard work; and she she did not work at all! If only Aunt Kirsteen would let her stay at Joyfields, and teach her all that Sheila knew! And lighting her candles, she opened her diary to write. "Life," she wrote, "is like looking at the night.
Open your mouth and let me pop in one of these delicious little plasmon biscuits. They're perfect after travelling. Only," she added wistfully, "I'm afraid he won't pay any attention to me." "No, but you could speak to Aunt Kirsteen; it's for her to stop him." One of her most pathetic smiles came over Frances Freeland's face. "Yes, I could speak to her. But, you see, I don't count for anything.
He lay quite still, his clothes covered with mud. Terrified, Nedda plucked at Kirsteen's sleeve. "What is it?" "Concussion!" The stillness of that blue-clothed figure, so calm beside her, gave her strength to say quietly: "Put him in my room, Aunt Kirsteen; there's more air there!"
Kirsteen had turned away to the window, and Nedda heard her say quietly to herself: "'Liberty's a glorious feast!" Trembling all over with the desire to express what was in her, Nedda stammered: "I would never keep anything that wanted to be free never, never! I would never try to make any one do what they didn't want to!"
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