Yonder

E. H. Young

• Publisher: Read & Co. Classics
• Year: 2020
• Print ISBN: 9781528717786
• eBook ISBN: 9781528790895
• Subtopic: Classics

"Yonder" is a 1912 novel written by E. H. Young. Emily Hilda Daniell (1880–1949) was an English children's writer, novelist, mountaineer, and advocate for female suffrage who wrote under the pen name E. H. Young. Despite being almost completely unheard of now, Daniell was a celebrated author who produced numerous best sellers during her time. Her second novel, "Yonder" constitutes a must-read for those who have read and enjoyed other works by Daniell and would make for a worthy addition to any bookshelf. Other works by this author include: "Corn of Wheat" (1910), "A Bridge Dividing" (1922), and "Moor Fires" (1916). Read & Co. Books is republishing this classic novel now in a new edition complete with a new specially-commissioned biography of the author.

YONDER

CHAPTER I

A boy, slim and white as the silver birches round him, stood at the edge of a pool, in act to dive. The flat stone was warm to his feet from yesterday's sun, and through the mist of a September morning there was promise of more heat, but now the grey curtain hung in a stillness that was broken by his plunge. He came to the surface, shaking his black head, and, when he had paddled round the pool, he landed, glistening like the dewy fields beyond him. Slowly he drew on his clothes, leaving the quiet of the wood unruffled, but his eyes were alert. If there were any movement among the birches, with their air of trees seen mirrored in a lake, he did not miss it. He, too, was of the woods and the water, sharing their life and taking mood and colour from them. He sat very still when he had dressed, with lean hands resting on his raised knees, and eyes that marked how the water in the pool was sinking for lack of rain and how the stream that fed it had become a trickle. In a wet season his flat stone was three feet under water, and there was a rushing river above and below his bathing-place, tearing headlong from those hills which, last night, had been hidden in heavy cloud and might be wrapped in it still for all the low mist would let him know. He saw how the bracken was dried before its time, and the trees were ready to let fall their leaves at the first autumn wind, and how some of them, not to be baulked of their last grandeur, had tried to flame into gold that their death might not be green. There were blackberries within a yard of him but he did not move to get them for the mist was like a hand laid on him; but when at length it stirred a little, thrust aside by a ray of sun, he rose, whistling softly, to take the fruit, and then, barefooted and bareheaded, he walked home across the fields.

The sun came out more boldly and Alexander broke into louder, gayer whistling, welcoming the sunshine and warning his mother that it was breakfast-time. From the back of the low, white house he heard her answering note, and thus assured that the bacon was in the pan, or near it, he took a seat on the old horse-block and waited.

Behind him was the house-front and the strip of low-walled garden, where lad's love, and pinks, and tobacco-plant grew as they chose among the straggling rose-bushes; before him were the fields he had crossed, the trees bordering the stream, and, topping the mist, the broad breast of the Blue Hill. On his left hand the rough road before the house dwindled to a track that led upwards to the pass between the sloping shoulder of the Blue Hill and the jagged, precipitous rocks of the Spiked Crags, and between these and the hill behind the house a deeply cut watercourse was grooved, hardly more than an empty trough at this moment, but in the time of rain lashed by a flood of waters that looked from the house like a white and solid streak. Alexander called this water the mountain-witch's hair, for it streamed to his fancy like the locks of an old hag, and when the sound of its roaring came to him through the winter night he thought she was shrieking in anger, and he pulled the bed-clothes about his ears. But he told no one of that secret name, and, like other people, he spoke of it as the Steep Water, because of the cascades in which it fell. Broad Beck was the name of the stream in which he bathed, and, but for the one deep pool, it went over stony shallows to the lake of which Alexander, sitting on the horse-block, could see a glimmer at his right hand, like a grey pathway between the inn roof and the trees in the little churchyard. It was a great sheet of water edged on the hither shore by the high-road and the rough moorland beyond, on the other by a black mountain-side. It sent its waters to the sea, and in return the sea sent up the mists that curled, and rolled, and broke away again among the hills, or sent down the fierce steel fingers of the rain.

Alexander's eyes were on the Blue Hill, but his thoughts were with his breakfast, and through the stone passage leading from the kitchen to the porch there came encouraging sounds and savours.

"Oh, mother!" he cried hungrily; "will you never have it ready?"

He did not heed her shouted answer, for he had heard steps on the stony track, and seen the shambling figure of a man coming towards him. Drunk, was he? Alexander knew the signs, but men seldom stagger at breakfast-time, and the nearest house of call in the direction whence the stranger came was six or seven long miles away across the hills. No; on a nearer view he was certainly not drunk. But what, then, was the matter with the man?

"Boy"—he stood before the horse-block, and plucked at the tufts of moss clinging to his clothes—"is this a farm?"

"No," said Alexander, wondering at the little man with the sparse, disordered hair. "There's moss on your head, too," he said.

The stranger put up his hand an inch or two, and dropped it. "Everywhere," he murmured. "Was it your dog I heard barking?"

"May be. He's a loud barker."

"Do you think I could have a cup of milk? I'm very cold. I lost my way up there, among the hills."

"Were you out all night?" asked Alexander, kindling.

"All night—yes. Among the rocks. I thought I should fall off. I was afraid."

"Did you—see things?"

"Mist. Figures in the mist. And a sheep cried, and stones fell sometimes, and there was a noise of water. If I could get warm—"

Alexander put out a steadying hand. "Will you come in?" he said. "My mother'll see to you."

The man suffered himself to be led out of the sunshine through a place which seemed long and dark and cavernous, and so into a room where a fire glowed and crackled, and an open door and window let in the light.

"Mother!" said Alexander.

A woman looked up swiftly from the frying-pan. "I didn't hear you for the bacon frizzling," she said. "Oh! who is it, Alec? Here, put him into the chair. Quick!"

"He's been out all night," he says.

"He looks like it." She touched his hands. "He's perished. Take off his boots, and tell your father. I'll warm some milk. Poor soul!"

The little man, with Alexander at his feet, had sunk back against the red cushions of the chair. The strain of his expression had relaxed, and now he smiled.

"Bacon," he said on a note of satisfaction—"bacon."

"No, no; you'd better have some milk. It will warm you. Milk first, bacon afterwards, perhaps."

She spoke soothingly, entirely at her ease, doing the work that came most readily to her. He blinked and straightened himself before he took the cup. The woman seemed tall, and splendid, and compelling.

"I'm afraid—I'm afraid I had almost fallen asleep. The warmth—"

"Drink this," she ordered.

"Thank you." He shivered. "Forgive my troubling you. If I may rest for a little while—-"

She patted his shoulder. "Yes; you shall go to sleep. Push the chair nearer to the fire, Alec. Jim"—she turned to her husband, who stood in the doorway—"when I've warmed the bed we must get him there, or he'll be ill." She looked down smilingly at the half-conscious occupant of the chair. "He's just a bundle of cold and fright," she said.

Bidden to hang up the damp coat of the visitor, who now lay snug in bed, Alexander obeyed with so much vigour that two small books fell from the pockets to the floor.

"His name's Edward Webb," he announced. "And he reads poetry. Keats, this one, and 'Paradise Lost.'" He turned the pages and stood reading.

"Are those your books, Alexander?" said his father. The voice was irritable, and the dark face moody. Expectant, almost hopeful of a retort, he watched his son.

"They're his."

"Then put them down."

"But I think he'd like me to dry them. Where was the man lying to get so wet?"

"Give them here. I'll see to them. What did you say his name was?"

"Edward Webb. I think I'll just put them in the sun. They're good books...

Table of contents

• E. H. Young
• CHAPTER I
• CHAPTER II
• CHAPTER III
• CHAPTER IV
• CHAPTER V
• CHAPTER VI
• CHAPTER VII
• CHAPTER VIII
• CHAPTER IX
• CHAPTER X
• CHAPTER XI
• CHAPTER XII
• CHAPTER XIII
• CHAPTER XIV
• CHAPTER XV
• CHAPTER XVI
• CHAPTER XVII
• CHAPTER XVIII
• CHAPTER XIX
• CHAPTER XX
• CHAPTER XXI
• CHAPTER XXII
• CHAPTER XXIII
• CHAPTER XXIV
• CHAPTER XXV
• CHAPTER XXVI
• CHAPTER XXVII
• CHAPTER XXVIII
• CHAPTER XXIX
• CHAPTER XXX