“_I swear to keep faith with my sister, Prue Sarn, and share all
with her when we’ve won through, and give her money up to fifty
pound, when we’ve sold Sarn, to cure her. Amen._”
After we’d done, I felt as if Sarn Mere was flowing right over us, and I
shivered as if I’d got an ague.
“What ails you?” says Gideon. “Best go and light the fire if you be
cold, and get the breakfast. We can talk while we eat. Mother’s asleep.
There’s a deal to say yet.”
So I went in and lit the fire, and set the table as nice as I could, for
it seemed a bit of comfort in a dark place. I wondered if it would be
unfeeling to pull a few rosebuds to put in the middle. And seeing that
it wasna unfeeling to eat and drink, I thought it wouldna hurt to pull a
rose or two.
When Gideon came in from the milking, we sat down, and he told me all
that was in his mind. First, I was to learn to make cheeses as well as
butter. Then he was going to make some withy panniers for Bendigo, and
every market day he’d ride to Lullingford with butter and eggs, cheeses
and honeycomb, fruit and vegetables, and even flowers.
“Them roses, now,” he said, “you could bunch ’em up, and they’d bring in
a bit.”
Times there’d be dressed poultry and ducks, rabbits, fish, and
mushrooms.
“You’ll see, Prue, we’ll make a deal,” he said.
“But what a journey! Thirty mile in the day.”
“I’ll plough a bit of land to grow corn for Bendigo. As for me, I’m
never tired.”
When we’d saved a bit, we were to buy another cow. She’d calve in the
spring, and then there’d be two cows milking when one was dry. That ud
mean more market butter. After that, we were to buy two oxen to plough
and turn the flail and lug manure, and save hiring Beguildy’s beasts.
When our sow farrowed, we were to keep all the piglets and turn them
loose in the oakwoods, and Mother was to take her knitting and mind
them. Then there’d be a deal of bacon for market, over and above what we
could eat. We’d only got five sheep, but Gideon said we’d mend that by
keeping all the lambs, and so have wool to sell and a big flock of sheep
next year. Mother and me were to spin yarn all winter, and he’d sell it
at the draper’s or change it for things we were bound to have at the
grocer’s, such as salt for curing, yeast and sugar. Soap we made
ourselves out of lye. Rushlights we made too, out of fat and large dry
rushes. Rye we had, and one small field of wheat. Father used to take a
few sacks at a time to be ground at the mill where Tivvy’s uncle lived.
“I shall grow more corn, acres of corn,” he said, “and take it to the
mill in the ox-wain. Whatsoever the French do, corn wunna come amiss.
And though it’s cheap now, it wunna be if they tax it, which I hear tell
is more than likely. It’ll be better, a power, to have one acre under
wheat then than to be coddling about with twenty acres under ought else.
We’ll grow hops as well, and never be short of a drop of good ale, for
though I mean to work you, Prue, I wunna clem you. Good plain food, as
much as you can eat, but no fallals. The rough honey after we’ve put by
the best for market, fruit when it’s cheap, bacon and taters and bread,
and eggs and butter when the roads are too bad for market.”
“I shall put up a prayer for bad roads,” I said.
Gideon looked at me very sharp, but seeing it was only my fun, he
laughed.
“A’ right, but it’ll take the Devil’s own weather to stop me.”
He’d got a plan that I should learn to do sums and keep accounts and
write. I was glad, for I dearly loved the thought of being able to read
books, and especially the Bible. It always werrited me in church when
Sexton read out of the Bible, for no matter what he read, it all sounded
like a bee in a bottle. It didna matter when he was reading—“And he
took unto him a wife and begat Aminadab . . .” for it was nought to me
if he did. But when there were things to be read with a sound in ’em
like wind in the aspen tree, it seemed a pitiful thing that he should
mouth it over so, being very big-sorted at being able to read at all. I
wanted to be able to read
“Or ever the silver cord be loosed”
for myself, and savour it. It would be grand to be able to write, too,
and put down all such things as I wanted to keep in mind. So when Gideon
said I was to learn, I was joyfully willing.
“But if Mister Beguildy learns me, how can I pay?” I said. “You can dig
taters for ’em, and give a hand in the hay, and drive plough for ’em now
and again. Beguildy’s so mortal lazy, and so big-sorted with being a
wise man, there’s not a hand’s turn of work in the man. Mooning,
mooning! A salve for every sore, he’s got, saving for idleness. You be
strong. You can pretty near dig spade for spade with me. Pay that way.
And if you’ve a mind, you can put on your black and go and ask him this
evening.”
He went off to the hay meadow with his scythe, and I set about my work
with a will, and should have sung a bit, but called poor Father to mind.
It made me gladsome to be getting some education, it being like a big
window opening. And out of that window who knows what you metna see?
When I took Gideon’s nooning, going through the rookery, I called to
mind that we’d never told the rooks about a death in the place. It’s an
old ancient custom to tell them. Folk say if you dunna, a discontent
comes over them, and they fall into a melancholy and forget to come
home. So in a little while there are your ellums with the nests still
like dark fruit on the sky, but all silent and deserted. And though
rooks do a deal of mischief, it’s very unlucky to lose them, and the
house they leave never has any prosperation after. So I remembered
Gideon of this, and we went to the rookery.
They were the biggest ellum trees I’ve ever seen, both common and wych
ellums. Under them it was all dimmery with summer leaves. The ground was
green with celandine, that had just left blowing, and enchanter’s
nightshade, not quite in blow. The leaves were white with droppings. It
was a very still, hot day, with only a little breeze rocking the very
tops of the trees, and a sleepy caw coming down to us time and again. I
used to like to come to the rookery on days like this, after tea, when
I’d cleaned myself. And on Ascension Day in special I liked to come and
watch if they worked. For they say no rook’ll work on Ascension Day. And
sure enough I never saw them bring even a stick on that day, but they
seemed very thoughtful and holy in their minds, sitting each in his tree
like Parson in pulpit.
“Ho, rooks!” shouted Gideon. “Father’s dead, and I be maister, and I’ve
come to say as you shall keep your housen in peace, and I’ll keep ye
safe from all but my own gun, and you’re kindly welcome to bide.”
The rooks peered down at him over their nests, and when he’d done there
was a sudden clatter of wings, and they all swept up into the blue sky
with a great clary, as if they were considering what was said. In a
while they came back, and settled down very serious and quiet. So we
knew they meant to bide.
When we were back in the field, Gideon laughed a bit, while he was
whetting his scythe on the hone, and he said—“I’m glad they mean
stopping. I be despert fond of rooky-pie.”
With that, he swept the scythe through the grass, thinnish and full of
ox-eye daisies, and sighing with a dry sound. And because the grass was
so thin, you could watch the scythe, like a flash of steely light,
through the standing crop before the swath fell. And it seems to me now
that it was like the deathly will of God, which is ever waiting behind
us till the hour comes to mow us down; yet not in unkindness, but
because it is best for us that we leave growing in the meadow, and be
brought into His safe rickyard, and thatched over warm with His
everlasting loving-kindness.