They passed behind the house and, taking a narrow pathway, skirted the hill. Their boots struck against loose stones and scattered them, and their going made a great noise in the gloom. All about were the dark forms of hills, and the lake lay like ink in the hollow of the land. The larches were sighing very gently--moved, it seemed, of their own will; for the wind did no more than breathe in sleep.
"She's daft," said Alexander suddenly; and when he had no answer, he went on: "Do you not think she's daft yourself?"
"It's my mother, I mean. Janet's not daft; she's queer."
"Will you let me have your arm? It's getting dark, and my feet don't know the way like yours. I've not been round here before."
"Her house is at the hill's foot, among larches."
Edward paused and, dropping his hand from the boy's arm, turned himself slowly round. "Beauty everywhere," he said. "Are there any wicked people in this place?" That was a false step.
"Don't"--he hesitated--"don't make two of it. Beauty and morality--are they separable? There's a question. I have theories----" His voice died away, and he felt that some vast hand had gathered up the sound and laid it by in the place where all men's thoughts and deeds are stored until the winds come and drop them, like seed, about the world. It died away, and they heard the mountain noises--sheep crying, water falling--rarified and faint. Alexander's voice, violent and shrill, shook the night's peace.
The man's lips twitched in a secret smile, but his heart had pity in it. "Yet you are always worshipping," he said.
They walked on again. "Tell me about this lady. Her name is Janet, but how must I address her?"
"Her name's Beaker--Janet Beaker. It's a good name for her. You'll see. She's something between that and a bird."
"Janet? I should think not. She's a farmer. She takes butter and eggs to the market every week. You can see her driving there, but you'd never think she saw you. She does, though, and there are men hereabouts that know it. Did my mother never tell you the tale about the drunken men? Oh no, she wouldn't. She pretends there are no such things. Well, she saw them in the town, and they'd had too much. They were from these parts, and she knew them, and she never said a word to them, so they say--but what can they have known about it?--nor so much as looked at them; but they came back at her cart-tail, all three of them, each blaming another, and not one of them can tell how it happened. And those three have been bad friends ever since. But they've never borne her any malice. If they did that it would be like giving her the credit."
