Then he looked round to see if there was anything else that he
could honestly take. Yes--an ash stick he had cut himself a week or
two ago. Nothing else--and there was Tibby moving and beginning to
bark in the cowhouse.
He ran across the road, and from a safe shelter in the fields on
the farther side he again looked back to the farm. There was
Louie's room, the blind still down. He thought of his blow of the
night before--of his promises to her. Aye, she would fret over his
going--he knew that--in her own wild way. She would think he had
been a beast to her. So he had--so he had! There surged up in his
mind inarticulate phrases of remorse, of self-excuse, as though he
were talking to her.
Some day he would come back and claim her. But when? His
buoyant self-dependence was all gone. It had nothing to do with
his present departure. That came simply from the fact that it was
_impossible_ for him to go on living in Kinder any longer--he
did not stop to analyse the whys and wherefores.
But suddenly a nervous horror of seeing anyone he knew, now that
the morning was advancing, startled him from his hiding-place. He
ran up towards the Scout again, so as to make a long circuit round
the Wigsons' farm. As he distinguished the walls of it a shiver of
passion ran through the young body. Then he struck off straight
across the moors towards Glossop.
One moment he stood on the top of Mardale Moor. On one side of him
was the Kinder valley, Needham Farm still showing among its trees;
the white cataract of the Downfall cleaving the dark wall of the
Scout, and calling to the runaway in that voice of storm he knew so
well; the Mermaid's Pool gleaming like an eye in the moorland. On
the other side were hollow after hollow, town beyond town, each
with its cap of morning smoke. There was New Mills, there was
Stockport, there in the far distance was Manchester.
The boy stood a moment poised between the two worlds, his ash-stick
in his hand, the old coat wound round his arm. Then at a bound he
cleared a low stone wall beside him and ran down the Glossop road.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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