It was early autumn, and Aura was standing in the garden, looking more
like a Botticelli angel than ever, for her face was mutinous, the very
curls about her temples and ears all crisped and gold-edged as she
defied even the sunlight.
She was engaged in an argument with Martha, who, in Mr. Sylvanus
Smith's brief yearly absences on the work of the Socialistic Congress,
still attempted an authority which she had once held undisputed.
"Well, I wouldn't, not if it was ever so," asserted the worthy woman,
her face aflame with righteous indignation. "Mr. Meredith, the rector,
he know his part, an' being unbaptized there won't be no funeral, so
what's the use of flowers?"
Aura's eyebrows almost met in a sudden frown. "You don't mean that
they will refuse----"
"I don't know nothin', Miss H'Aura," interrupted Martha; "only what I
hear tell. I don't 'old with baptism, nor yet with burials, specially
the penny things they has hereabout. I don't want no halfpence to help
bury me. I ain't like the folk nowadays, as is that restless they
don't know where they'll lie, much less where they'll go to when
they're dead. But I do hear it said that there'll be a fuss, becos the
Calvinists wouldn't baptize the babby, hoping to get hold o' the name
o' the father, for it _was_ a sin and a shame, her not bein', as it
were, all there, an' now the rector'll object to a unbaptized, except
in the odd corner where they puts the 'fellow deceased.' No, it ain't
the sort of thing for you to be mixing yourself up with, Miss H'Aura.
Them lovely lilies'd be ashamed o' your taking them to that gurl
Gwen."
Aura bent her head caressingly to the great bunch of gold-rayed
Japanese lilies she held.
"I am taking them to a dead baby," she said quietly, "the lilies won't
be ashamed of it."
And with that she turned on her heel superbly, leaving Martha
speechless, to watch the blue linen smock cross the lawn and disappear
behind the rhododendrons. A glimmer of it showed like a bit of heaven
among the birchwood beyond the bridge ere the older woman found her
tongue, and going over to where Adam was weeding beetroot confided in
him.
"You mark my word, Adam Bate," she said solemnly, "Miss H'Aura" (the
_h_ was always added on such occasions as a point of ceremony) "'ll
marry the wrong man, sure as eggs is eggs."
Adam looked up aghast. "The wrong 'un? Why, sakes me, she ain't got
never one at all; and sorry be, for 'twud be a right sight to see 'un
billin' and cooin' 'mongst the yapple trees, as true lovers shud."
Martha's repressed indignation found instant outlet. "Adam Bate," she
remarked severely, "you 'em's got a low depraved mind, that's what's
the matter with you. Miss H'Aura ain't o' the cuddlin' sort, no, nor
me neither, as you know to your cost, or shud do by this time. No!
Miss H'Aura, bless her dear heart, has such a outlook as no man can
ever reach to it truly; an' when one is a-lookin' down from a 'eight,
it's hard to tell on what rung o' the ladder a feller's standing.
There's always somethin' in the way o' right seein', either 'is body
or 'is head, specially if it has good looks."
"Not if 'e be low 'nuff, Martha, woman," replied Adam, stooping closer
to his beetroot, some of which seemed to get into his sunburnt ears.
"When she be so high as a star, and he be a creepin' wum in the yerth,
an' there never cud be no count of bein' ekal----"
"Then 'e'd better leave coortin' alone," interrupted Martha
uncompromisingly, "seein' 'e cud never clasp her, try 'e ever so hard.
But head or heart, you mark my word, when Miss H'Aura's time comes,
him as cares least, an' lays least finger to her, is the one for that
prize. An' there won't be no billin' and cooin' among your yapple
trees, Mr. Bate--so there!"
Adam stood looking after her admiringly. "'Twarn't so bad if it hadn't
bin for that trick o' blushin'; but there, beet is beet, and what's in
the hands comes out in the face. I'll tell her so when I gives it in
fur bilin'."
With which remark he chuckled, and settled down to his weeding once
more. For fifteen years he had made ineffectual attempts to court
Martha, and nothing now would have surprised or taken him aback more
than the faintest success.
On her side, Martha kept up the conflict with external spirit, but
with a certain sneaking admiration also for his pertinacity. As she
went back to her kitchen she also chuckled. "Blushed like a babby,"
she murmured, "an' he wrinkled like a bad batch o' bread. I'll tell
him that there beetroot's bled when he brings it in."
Aura by this time was out of the woods and cresting the
bracken-patched hillside, the silly Welsh sheep, alarmed even at her
gracious presence, fleeing from the tussocks and rocks far ahead of
her with grunts and whistles such as no other sheep in the world can
make.
The lilies on her arm brought a passing sweetness into the fresh
morning air, and as she carried them her thoughts were busy with what
Martha had said to her. What did it all mean? Her arms, which in all
their young and vigorous life had never held a child, closed tenderly
round the flowers as if they had been the body of the dead baby. Poor
little babe! to come into this world unsought, to leave it to be
quarrelled over. The motherhood which was hers by right of her sex
wakened in her strongly; she laid her soft cheek caressingly once more
on a white petal, then, in sudden impulse, she kissed it softly. Poor
little childie! But Gwen had loved it, and it had not minded being
unbaptized. It had not even minded its fatherlessness. Neither had
Gwen; but then she, poor soul, was what people called wanting. Wanting
in what? Not in motherhood, certainly.
Aura had often seen the two playing together on the sunny banks about
the shepherd's cottage; the toddling baby with its fists full of its
mother's curly hair, both faces aglow with laughter and with love.
And now the child was dead. Poor Gwen!
Aura, accustomed to look at Nature with clear eyes, and utterly
untouched by conventional conclusions, felt a wellspring of sympathy
rise up in her heart. Such a pretty baby, too, as it had been! More
than once she had paused in passing to watch it and wish that she too
had so delightful a plaything, thinking that with so abiding an
interest in them, the hills and woods, the streams and flowers of her
secluded valley would suffice for her life.
And now it was dead!
Her eyes, blurred with tears, made a misty halo round the cottage,
tucked out of man's way in a little hollow among the hills. A
desolate-looking little cottage, gardenless, fenceless, a mere human
habitation set down beside a spouting spring, which day and night,
night and day, splashed on in high-pitched, feeble, querulous
iteration.
As she came up to it a black shadow showed on the doorstep, and,
through the mist of her unshed tears, she recognised it as the figure
of a man. It was, indeed, the Reverend Morris Pugh coming away from
consolation. He paused at the sight of her, as any man well might, and
over his keen Celtic face swept a wave of enthusiastic approval. His
hat was off, his smile shone out brilliantly.
"Excuse me," he said, "I am the minister, and this is kind indeed;
those beautiful lilies, they will surely comfort the poor mother, and
teach her to trust in the mercy of Him who considers the flowers of
the fields--it--it is a Christian act." There were almost tears in his
voice.
Aura looked at him and smiled.
"But I am not a Christian. I brought them for the baby," she said
simply.
Morris Pugh's eyes narrowed. "I am sorry; and they can do no good to
the child. God has taken him. Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord, I
will repay. Gwen has to learn her lesson, poor child."
"You mean,"--Aura's face had grown a little pale,--"that the child's
death is--is a punishment?"
"It is done in love--the Lord loveth whom He chasteneth," he replied
gently.
"And you have told her so?"
Something in the girl's tone made him reply on the instant: "She did
not need the telling; she knew it already."
"She knew it already!"
Aura passed him like a flame of fire, and entered the cottage eager
with her purely human consolation; but the note of preparation within
struck a chill to her very soul.
Old Mrs. Evans, Gwen's mother, sat in a black dress with her Bible
before her at the receipt of custom. The door between the living-room
and the bedroom was half open, and through it, lying on a table
covered with a white sheet, was a tiny, still, uncovered form in a
white gown. Aura could see the little dimpled hands folded so sedately
on the little breast; it sent a great pang through her to think of
them so quiet.
And Gwen? What of her?
"I have brought these lilies," she said almost apologetically to stout
Mrs. Evans; "I should like to give them to Gwen, if I may."
Mrs. Evans's English being of the smallest, she sighed, rose, and
saying "Pliss you, come this way," ushered Aura with her armful of
lilies into the bedroom. In the further corner of it, her apron over
her face, sat Gwen rocking herself to and fro, and muttering under her
breath. She drew down the apron at her mother's touch and quick
sentence in Welsh, and so sat staring across the body of the dead baby
at Aura. Her face was more vacant than distraught, its pink and white
prettiness seeming to hide the tragedy of grief which must surely lie
beneath it.
"I have brought these," said Aura, laying one of the lilies beside the
dead child.
With a cry, fierce as a wild animal, Gwen sprang to her feet, snatched
at the flower, tore it shred from shred, and flung them to the corners
of the room.
"Stand back, Englishwoman!" she cried in Welsh, her eyes blazing with
sudden, wild, distracted passion. "Leave us alone! We are accursed!
accursed! we want no flowers here." Then she clung to her mother and
wailed, "Oh! mother, take it away--take the child away--I do not want
it; it is accursed. God has taken it away, and it must go. Let her
take it if she wants it; take it away and bury it out of sight. I must
forget my sin--my sin--my sin! _Beth n'ai! Beth n'ail Gwae fi! beth
n'ai!_"
The mingled sobbing of the two women, roused in an instant to the very
highest pitch of unrestrained emotion, smote on Aura's ears turning
her to veritable stone. She understood enough to grasp the drift of
what she heard, and with a quick pulse of pity for the quiet rest thus
rudely disturbed, she bent and kissed the clay-cold child, then turned
without a word and left the room. Not to be long alone, however.
The elder woman, recovering her self-control as quickly as she had
lost it, followed her into the sunshine beyond the low door, and
arrested her with mingled tears and apologies. Gwen, she said in
quaintest English and Welsh, was a mad _iolin_--just a silly
nonsense--though it was just true the child wass better to die.
It was not as the 'nother one--here she looked sorrowfully at a
five-year-old who was busy making mud pies by the waterspout, and
shook her head--that one wass two shillin' and sixpence a week. Yess,
indeed! because her daughter wass for ever in the good shentleman
placiss; but Gwen--silly nonsense, Gwen--she could pay nothing. She
was not all wise----
Aura, staring out into the sunshine which happed the whole beautiful
world-expanse of hill and wood in its magic mantle, looked in the
woman's really grief-stricken face, in slow, almost incredulous
wonder.
"You mean that--that--" she hesitated, pointing to the child--"that
your other daughter in service pays you half a crown?"
Something in her voice made Mrs. Evans mop her eyes with her apron
still more strenuously. "It is the price," she protested; "there is
many askiss three shillin'. Mrs. Jhones and she have two, an' Mrs.
Daviss, an'----"
"And Gwen gave nothing!"
The words seemed to Aura to burden the sunshine; she turned swiftly to
go, feeling the need of escape.
"But the ladiess," sobbed Mrs. Evans, "would be given a shillings or
so when they be comning. Yess, indeed! a shillings or so."
Aura wheeled, the lilies still in her arms. "I have no money," she
cried, her voice ringing with passionate scorn, "I never have any
money, thank God!"
So with quick, springing step, her whole young soul aflame with
indignation, she was off breasting the hill, leaving the hollows
behind her, wishing with all her heart that she could have carried the
dead baby with her. To call it accursed! To count it unbaptized! The
darling lying there so peaceful, so still, so waxen, so like the
lilies. Ah! if she could only take it away from all the sordid
thoughts, what burial would not her fingers compass there on the bosom
of the kindly earth! For it and for the lilies. How soft it should
lie, how flower-decked! Yes, the great white petals should shield the
little white face from the touch of the close, damp earth, and it
should sleep--sleep--sleep!
The tears ran down her cheeks silently as, almost at the limit of her
young and vigorous pace, she passed on, passed upwards, pursued by the
one overmastering impulse to get away, to find some safe resting-place
for what she would fain have carried.
But, by degrees, her thoughts became calmer; she began to see the
whole pitiful story and put her finger intuitively on the points of
offence; for she had seen little of the world, and knew still less of
its ways. She thought of the lowing heifer and its bull-calf, of the
second brood of young blackbirds over whose first flight she had but
that morning seen the parents so excited, and then she thought of
the fatherless unsought child whose only worth was the bringing of
two-and-sixpence a week to its grandmother!
Truly her grandfather was right. Money was a curse.
But so were other things. The religion, for instance, which told poor
Gwen that her child was accursed, that its death was a punishment.
Poor Gwen seated in her threadbare black, with her apron over her
head, so unlike the girl in a blue cotton dress who used to tumble
about on the thyme banks with her boisterous, rosy-cheeked baby.
It was pitiful. That cry _Beth n'ai! Beth n'ai! Gwae fi! beth n'ai!_
rang in Aura's ears as she sat down at last among the rocks of a
sheep-shelter on the crest of a hill. Here in winter the south-west
winds howled and swept the bare braes, wasting their force against the
lichen-set boulders behind which even the shearling lambs could lie
snugly, but in this early autumn the sun baked into the close-cropped
turf, and mushrooms grew in clusters where the lambs had lain.
It was a favourite outlook of Aura's, for it gave over the widening
estuary and the sea beyond. Beyond that again the setting sun; for it
was growing late, and the autumn days began to close in.
She sat there on the wild thyme thinking, making up--as the young do
almost unconsciously--her mind about many things, reaching forward to
the future vaguely with certain new thoughts regarding it in her mind,
and all the while watching the great pageant of the Death of Day enact
itself out in the West.
It was a lurid sunset; full of flames, of deep, purple-stained clouds.
It was a pageant of passion, self-existent, self-destroying.
Yet it was beautiful! She would sit and watch it to the end, she would
see the anger and the threat of it pass into grey calm when the sun
had gone.
So she sat on, the lilies still in her lap, until she was roused by a
step, by one word--
"Gwen!"
She turned startled, to see the startled face of a young man behind
her. It was a beautiful face, the sort of a face which women love, and
in its quick amaze there was almost a hint of appeal, of hope for fair
hearing.
The girl grasped the situation in a moment. He had been misled by her
blue dress. He had thought she was Gwen; poor frail Gwen who was not
"all wise," yet still had been wise enough to keep this secret of
hers.
He turned with a half-muttered apology, in another instant he would
have been gone, but Aura's strong, firm fingers were on his wrist; she
looked at him from head to foot, judging him.
Then with one swift sweep of her other hand she struck his handsome
face full with the fading lilies she still held.
"Coward!" she said. "Go! your task is done!"
The flowers broke softly on his warm flesh and blood, leaving no mark,
but her words seemed to shrivel him; he slunk away.
She watched him disappear down the hillside, then with a sob she flung
herself face down on the short turf, crushing the lilies to their
death, and cried as though her heart would break.