I often wonder how it is that the old saying, about March and its leonine
or lamb-like incomings and outgoings, should have kept so sturdily its
place in popular credence. Looking through a pile of old note-books
ranging back over a couple of decades or so, I find that, in the majority
of years, March has both begun and ended in the lamb-like character. The
lion appears only in the rôle of an interloper, a go-between; for, almost
invariably, there has been a period of chilly, riotous weather sometime
after the middle of the month.
So it has come about this season. Yesterday was a day without a flaw;
and as the sun began at last to mellow and decline, dragging a net of
shining golden haze behind it over the western hills, I gave up a
day-long, though still unfinished task, and went to sit awhile on the
churchyard wall.
The north-west wall is the last rampart of Windlecombe. It is made of
flint, with an oval, red-brick coping of generous breadth: there is none
in the parish, as far as I know, but can be comfortable upon it. Sitting
thereon side-saddle-wise, you have a view, on the one hand, of the grey
stones and evergreenery of the churchyard, and, on the other, your glance
can wander unchecked straight down the combe to the river, then forward
over the brook-country to the far-off Stavisham woods. As yet the light
had abated scarce a jot of its dynamic brilliance. Shadows were long,
and the white house-fronts had taken on a leaven of rosy sweetness; but
in the most retiring nooks it was still broad day. I turned my back on
the serene prospect of level plain, where here and there the sunlight
picked out a glittering coil of river, and set myself to the
contemplation of a remarkable fellowship near at hand.
Close by the wall stood an almond-tree, its wide-spreading branches
covered to the tips with pink blossom, and behind it glowered and gloomed
a venerable yew. The one tree, as it were, reached out glad, welcoming
arms to the spring, squandering its all to make one hour of joyous
festival at the return of the prodigal light; the other turned but a
niggardly side-eye on all the inflowing radiance of the season. It
seemed to be trying to do its least and worst, to discount the
extravagant jubilation of its neighbour. For very shame it could not
wholly resist the call of the sunshine. Grudgingly it put forth, at the
tip of each sombre green frond, a sparse sprig of lighter green. And
because the almond-tree threw down its spent blossom in largesse of rosy
litter upon the grass below, this dour-natured vegetable, turning its
necessities to virtuous account, now shed the dead brown buds of the
foregoing year, sending this rubbish fluttering to earth with the same
hesitant, sidelong action with which the almond petals fell, as though in
a mockery of imitation.
As I sat on the wall with my back to the declining sun,—humouring this,
and many similar far-fetched, vain conceits as the best antidote I knew
against the day’s long overstrain of fancy,—high overhead in the church
tower hard by, the bell began its quiet summons for evensong. Through
gaps in the thicket of ilex and laurel, I saw, first, the tall, gaunt
figure of the Reverend go by on the litten-path with his vast, confident
stride, the pallid threadpaper of a curate flickering at his heels.
After them came Miss Sweet, the rich and lonely spinster up at the great
house, mincing along under a puce sunshade, with an extended handful of
ivory books; then Mrs. Coles from the farm, as ever, hot and out of
breath; finally, at a respectful interval carefully calculated, three or
four of the village women dribbled through, and disappeared into the
north porch after the rest.
The usual weekly congregation being now complete, the bell stopped. The
harmonium gave out one low, sonorous note, which on weekdays was the
beginning and end of its share in the service. For the next twenty
minutes, no other sound drifted over to me but the clucking and whistling
of the starlings on the chancel roof. And then, having become again
immersed in the affair of the yew and almond trees, both now alike
steeped by the setting sun in the same rose-red dye, I was startled by a
hand on my arm. The Reverend stood at my side, ruddy-faced, red-bearded,
the very blackness of his clothes changed mysteriously to the like
glowing hue. His kind eyes looked straight into mine, just as if he
could see them.
‘A fine evening, isn’t it?’ he said, ‘just one rich flood of crimson
without form—only a great light spreading up the sky from where the sun
has disappeared; spreading up and gradually paling and changing until
there is nothing but pure blue, with one silver peg of a star sticking in
it—is it not so?’
‘Why, no, it is not quite that,’ said I, considering, ‘the star is there
sure enough, and the great red light. But the red does not merge into
blue, it melts gradually into a wonderful, luminous, metallic green, with
the star, almost white, swimming in the midst of it. Far overhead the
sky is blue enough, and up there more stars are blinking out every
moment. But the green! If you could only see its—’
‘Snow!’ interrupted the old vicar placidly.
‘What!’
‘Snow. Wind first, a gale perhaps; and then the snow. You will see.
What says the almond-tree here?’
‘It says,’ I contended, ‘but one word. Spring!—abounding new life and
growth; sunshine kindling stronger and stronger every day; the winter
gone and already half forgotten. With every pink bloom it promises
nightingales, and white flannels and straw hats and—’
‘Ah! And you never will grow up now: you’re too old. The
almond-blossom?—it lies in my memory always side by side with the
snowdrop and the Christmas-rose. Snow-flowers, all three! Wait a
little, and be convinced. But now look, and tell me which way the
chimney-smoke is blowing.’
‘Blowing! There is not a breath of—’
There was more than a breath down there in the fair-way of the combe,
although here we could feel nothing of it. Under the deep red dusk I
could make out the smoke-plumes from the village chimneys all driving off
at a sharp right-angle to the south. Even as I looked, there came a
sudden flaw of wind overhead that set the yew boughs rocking, and its
voice was the old-remembered voice. The north wind again! Somewhere in
its black tangled depths the yew-tree creaked derisively. The Reverend
put his arm through mine.
‘But it is mercifully late,’ he said, as we turned homeward together.
‘Artlett need not fear for his lambs now, nor I for mine. Is the sky
already overcast? Or am I only blinder than usual?’