merely to push the slide across and turn the catch. Then she began to build a wall with the bales of hay between two of the shed-posts. There were not enough bales yet to make a proper wall, but if the storm were to get up again in the night it would give the ewes at least a certain amount of shelter, Amy felt.
She only wished she could have done as much for the ewe that was missing. All day at the back of her head she had been worrying about it, unable to forget that it must be somewhere, and on its own, possibly hurt, certainly hungry, needing her help. People and sheep were not the same; they had different thoughts and different feelings, she knew. And yet she kept imagining it might have been her that was missing; and if it had been and nobody bothered to come to her aid—what then?
She had promised Mr Protheroe to care for his five ewes—five, not four—and the promise made her responsible, bound her to do her best. Amy was ashamed because she felt that her best was what she had avoided doing. Suppose the missing ewe was down at Tyler’s Place? It could be. She had considered exploring the ruins and had turned away: it was far, and it was late, and she was tired—but chiefly she had not gone because she had been afraid to go. She would go, she would ! Tomorrow, early, before breakfast, she would toboggan down to Tyler’s Place.
The resolve lightened her heart. Some sort of wild I-dare-you-to urge drove her to run out of the shed and flounder uphill along the north-easterly track, treading in the very footsteps that had lain there since morning untouched except by snow-flakes. She defied the footsteps, destroyed them, kicked them to bits, as she went. Long before she reached the top she lost her breath and threw herself spread-eagled flat on the frozen snow. She heard Mick barking, barking.
“I’m here, Mick,” she whispered, waiting for him to find her.
But he must have gone in again; there was silence. Night was approaching. The snow glimmered almost blue—blue-white, coldest of all cold colours. Amy felt the icy touch of it against her flushed cheek, and sat up.
Two men, their skis balanced in long dark lines across their shoulders, were just about to reach the front door of the cottage.
7 - Mrs Bowen is Inhospitable and Amy Disobeys
Amy came down the side of the hill in a series of flying leaps and arrived breathless at the very moment Mrs Bowen, her shawl round her shoulders, stepped out into the porch and closed the door deliberately behind her. One of the men stood a yard or two off, supporting the skis and the ski-sticks. The other was in the porch entrance. He turned as Amy came up and looked at her and she halted by the step and put her hand against the nearest post to steady herself and looked back at him. His eyes, even in the failing light, were brilliant and piercing. Her heart thumped, but that was from hurrying: she was not frightened, she was excited. After a few moments he turned again to Mrs Bowen who had been standing waiting without a word.
“Good evening. Is your husband about, I wonder?”
“No, he’s not,” said Mrs Bowen, explaining nothing more.
“Ah!” said he, knocking his boots gently against a post of the porch, so as to make the snow fall off them. “Then we’ll wait until he comes.”
“You’d have a long wait,” said Mrs Bowen shortly. “He’s been dead for thirty-five years.”
Amy was puzzled by her grandmother’s dry manner and surprised that she, who was usually so hospitable, had failed to invite her callers inside. It was not as though they were anything like that wild creature who had broken in on them the night before. The tall man talking to Mrs Bowen was polite and smiling. Everything about him seemed to Amy wonderful—his voice, his clothes, his eyes, her first sight of him swerving down the valley out of the setting sun as though he had been some sort of angel or hero, too good to be true. Yet he had been true after all. She had longed for
She only wished she could have done as much for the ewe that was missing. All day at the back of her head she had been worrying about it, unable to forget that it must be somewhere, and on its own, possibly hurt, certainly hungry, needing her help. People and sheep were not the same; they had different thoughts and different feelings, she knew. And yet she kept imagining it might have been her that was missing; and if it had been and nobody bothered to come to her aid—what then?
She had promised Mr Protheroe to care for his five ewes—five, not four—and the promise made her responsible, bound her to do her best. Amy was ashamed because she felt that her best was what she had avoided doing. Suppose the missing ewe was down at Tyler’s Place? It could be. She had considered exploring the ruins and had turned away: it was far, and it was late, and she was tired—but chiefly she had not gone because she had been afraid to go. She would go, she would ! Tomorrow, early, before breakfast, she would toboggan down to Tyler’s Place.
The resolve lightened her heart. Some sort of wild I-dare-you-to urge drove her to run out of the shed and flounder uphill along the north-easterly track, treading in the very footsteps that had lain there since morning untouched except by snow-flakes. She defied the footsteps, destroyed them, kicked them to bits, as she went. Long before she reached the top she lost her breath and threw herself spread-eagled flat on the frozen snow. She heard Mick barking, barking.
“I’m here, Mick,” she whispered, waiting for him to find her.
But he must have gone in again; there was silence. Night was approaching. The snow glimmered almost blue—blue-white, coldest of all cold colours. Amy felt the icy touch of it against her flushed cheek, and sat up.
Two men, their skis balanced in long dark lines across their shoulders, were just about to reach the front door of the cottage.
7 - Mrs Bowen is Inhospitable and Amy Disobeys
Amy came down the side of the hill in a series of flying leaps and arrived breathless at the very moment Mrs Bowen, her shawl round her shoulders, stepped out into the porch and closed the door deliberately behind her. One of the men stood a yard or two off, supporting the skis and the ski-sticks. The other was in the porch entrance. He turned as Amy came up and looked at her and she halted by the step and put her hand against the nearest post to steady herself and looked back at him. His eyes, even in the failing light, were brilliant and piercing. Her heart thumped, but that was from hurrying: she was not frightened, she was excited. After a few moments he turned again to Mrs Bowen who had been standing waiting without a word.
“Good evening. Is your husband about, I wonder?”
“No, he’s not,” said Mrs Bowen, explaining nothing more.
“Ah!” said he, knocking his boots gently against a post of the porch, so as to make the snow fall off them. “Then we’ll wait until he comes.”
“You’d have a long wait,” said Mrs Bowen shortly. “He’s been dead for thirty-five years.”
Amy was puzzled by her grandmother’s dry manner and surprised that she, who was usually so hospitable, had failed to invite her callers inside. It was not as though they were anything like that wild creature who had broken in on them the night before. The tall man talking to Mrs Bowen was polite and smiling. Everything about him seemed to Amy wonderful—his voice, his clothes, his eyes, her first sight of him swerving down the valley out of the setting sun as though he had been some sort of angel or hero, too good to be true. Yet he had been true after all. She had longed for
Similar Books
