"Yes," she mused, "yes . . . but the heart's liable to break, too,
after a while."
"Not the humble heart," said Mr. Jeminy firmly. "No . . . you cannot
break the humble heart."
Mrs. Wicket stood gazing at the ground, twisting her apron with her
hands. On her face was a look of pity for Mr. Jeminy, because she had
heard that he was not to teach school any longer. "It will be a hard
blow to him," she thought.
"Few," continued Mr. Jeminy, "go very long without their share of
sorrow. And sorrow is not a light thing to bear, Mrs. Wicket.
Poverty, also, falls to the lot of most of us; and it is not easy to be
poor. Yet to be poor, to be sad, and to be brave, is indeed the best
of life. He who wants little for himself, is a happy man. If he is
wise, he will pity those who have more than they need. He will not
envy them; he will see the trouble they are making for themselves.
There is no end of pity in this world, Mrs. Wicket; like love, it makes
rich men of us all."
Mrs. Wicket nodded her head. "Yes," she said, "it's a blessing to feel
pity. It makes you strong, like. The humble heart is a power of
strength."
And she went back to Juliet, who had begun to cough again. Left to
himself, Mr. Jeminy regarded the gate-post with a thoughtful air. But
inwardly he was very much pleased with himself.
That year they kept harvest home before September was fairly done. In
the meadows the hay, gathered in stacks, shone in the moonlight like
little hills of snow; and in the shadows the crickets hopped and sang,
repeating with shrill voices, the murmurs of lovers, hidden in the
woods.
Anna Barly and her friends watched the moon come up along the road to
Adams' Forge. In Ezra Adams' haywagon they were singing the harvest
in. Their voices rolled across the fields in lovely glees, rose in the
old, familiar songs, broke into laughter, and died away in whispers.
Thus they renewed their interrupted youth, and celebrated the return of
peace.
It was a cold, still night, with dew white as frost over the ground.
Anna, huddled in the hay, could see her breath go out in fog; while the
moon, shining in her face, seemed to veil in shadow the forms of her
companions--Elsie Cobbler with her round, soft elbow over Brandon
Adam's face, Susie Ploughman murmuring to Alec Stove . . . She was
chilly and wakeful; and watching the moon through miles of empty sky,
heard, as if from far away, the singing up front, back of the driver's
seat, and Thomas, whispering at her side.
"What a grand night. Clear as a bell."
"Yes," said Anna, "It's lovely."
She lay back against the posts of the haywagon, her young face lifted
to the sky. Her heart was full; the beauty of the night, the hoarse,
familiar sounds, the shining, silent fields, and the pale, lofty sky,
filled her with longing and regret. She closed her eyes; was it Noel,
there, or Thomas? It was love, it was youth to be loved, to be held,
to be hugged to her breast.
"Listen . . . they're singing Love's Old Sweet Song."
The song died out, leaving the night quiet as before, cold, silvery,
urgent. She drew nearer to him; he breathed the simple fragrance of
her hair, and felt the faint warmth of her body, close to his. Then
silence seized upon Thomas Frye; he grew sad without knowing why. The
figures at his side, curled in the hay, seemed to him ghostly as a
dream. Poor Thomas; he was addled with moonlight; moonlight over Anna,
over him, moonlight over the hills, over the road, and voices unseen in
the shadows, and shadows unheard all around him.
"I could go on like this till the end of time."
"Could you?"
"I could ride like this forever and ever."
Anna lay quiet, lulled by the cold and the gentle movement of the
wagon, now fast, now slow. "Together?" she asked. "Like this?"
"That's what I mean."
His hand touched hers; their fingers twined about each other. "I
know," said Anna. She, too, could have gone on forever, dreaming in
the moonlight. Noel . . . Thomas . . . what was the difference?
"Don't talk. Look at the trees, up against the moon. Look at my
breath; there's a regular fog of it."
"Are you cold?" He bent to wrap the heavy blanket more snugly about
her. He wanted to say: "You belong to me, and I belong to you." And
at that moment, with all her heart, Anna wanted to belong to some one,
wanted some one to belong to her . . .
"Thanks, Tom--dear."
The haywagon crossed the first rise, south of the village. Below the
road, a rocky field swept downward to the woods, pale green and silver
in the moonlight; and beyond, far off and faint, rose Barly Hill, with
Barly's lamp burning as bright for all the distance, as if it hung just
over those trees, still, and faint with shadows.
"See," said Anna, "there's our light."
But Thomas did not even lift his head to look. In the chilly, solemn,
night air, he was warm and drowsy with his own silence, which being all
too full of things to say was like to turn him into sugar with pure
sorrow. And Anna, her round lips parted with desire, waited for him to
speak, and held his hand tighter and tighter.
"Starlight," she murmured, "starbright, very first star I see to-night,
wish I may, wish I might . . ."
"Sky's full of stars," said Thomas.
"Do you know what I wished?"
"Do I?"
"Don't you?"
He looked at her in silence; awkwardly, then, she drew him down, until
her lips brushed his cheek.
"Look at Elsie," she murmured. "Did you ever?"
But Thomas would not look at Elsie; not until Anna had told him her
wish. "Wish I may, wish I might . . ."
"Have the wish . . ."
But she would only whisper it in his ear.
Miles away, in Mrs. Wicket's cottage, Mr. Jeminy sat dreaming, and
rocking up and down. He had come to keep an eye on Juliet, so that
Mrs. Wicket could sit with Mrs. Tomkins, who was feeling poorly. While
Juliet, at his feet, played with her dolls, Mr. Jeminy gave himself up
to reflection. He thought: "The little insects which run about my
garden paths at home, and eat what I had intended for myself, are not
more lonely than I am. For here, within the walls of my mind, there is
only myself. And you, Anna Barly, you cannot give poor Thomas Frye
what he wishes. Do not deceive yourself; when you are gone, he will be
as lonely as before. Come, confess, in your heart that pleases you;
you would not have it otherwise. We are all lenders and borrowers
until we die; it is only the dead who give."
When Juliet was tired of playing, she put her dolls to bed, and settled
herself in Mr. Jeminy's lap. There, while the lamplight danced across
the walls, drowsy with sleep, she ended her day. "Tell me a story.
Tell me about the big, white bull, who swam over the sea."
"Hm . . . well . . . once upon a time there was a great white
bull . . ."
Then Mr. Jeminy rehearsed again the story of long, long ago, while the
bright eyes closed, and the tired head drooped lower and lower; while
the autumn moon rose up above the hills, and the haywagon rumbled along
the road, to the sound of laughter and cries.
But Thomas Frye and Anna Barly were no longer seated in the hay,
watching the harvest in. Unobserved by the others, they had stolen
away before the wagon reached Milford. Now they were lying in a field,
looking up at the stars, quieter than the crickets, which were singing
all about them.