The Forest Lovers

So Isoult, it seems, had the grace to know how far she had fallen, but

not the wit to try for redemption once more. In accepting her tumble

for a fate, I think it is clear that she was so far earthy as to be

meek as a woodflower. Says she, If the rain fall, the dew rise, the

sun shine, or wind blow mild, each in their due season--well, I will

look up, laugh and be glad. You shall see how lovely I can be, and how

loving. If the frost bind the ground in May, if you parch me with

frozen wind, or shrivel me with heat, or let me rot in the soak of a

wet June--well, I will bend my neck; you will see me a dead weed; I

shall love you, but you shall hardly know it. If you are God, you

should know; but if you are a man--ah, that is my misfortune, to love

you in spite of common-sense.

Isoult believed she was abandoned by Prosper; she believed that she

deserved it. She must be graceless, would die disgraced, having served

her turn, she supposed. If, nevertheless, she persisted in loving, who

was hurt? Besides, she could not help it any more than she could help

being a scorn and a shame. Fatalist! So it was with her.

The charcoal burner had no curiosity. She hadn't been quite murdered;

she was a boy; boys do not readily die. On the other side, they are

handy to climb woodstacks, labour saving appliances--with the aid of

an ash plant. And he was a clear fat sheep to the good. So he asked no

questions, and made no remarks beyond an occasional oath. They slept

one night in the thicket, rose early, travelled steadily the next day,

and in course reached a clearing, where there were three or four black

tents, some hobbled beasts, a couple of lean dogs, and a steady column

of smoke, which fanned out into a cloud overhead. Here were the coal

stacks; here also she found the colliers, half-a-dozen begrimed

ruffians with a fortnight's beard apiece. No greetings passed, nor any

introduction of the white-faced boy shot into their midst. One of

them, it is true, a red-haired, bandy-legged fellow, called Falve,

looked over the newcomer, and swore that it was hard luck their

rations should be shortened to fatten such a weed; but that was all

for the hour.

At dusk, suppertime, there was a cross examination, held by Falve.

"What's your name, boy?"

"Roy."

"To hell with your echoes. Where do you come from?"

"I don't know."

"What can you do?"

"As I am bid."

"Can you climb?"

"Yes."

"Cook?"

"Yes."

"Wink at a woman?"

"I see none."

"Fight?"

"At need."

"Take a licking?"

"I have learnt that."