FROM the time when Jancis went to Callard’s Dingle, through the spring
and summer, there is nothing written in my book saving of my own special
concerns, such as the progress I made in reading hard books and the
thoughts that came to me in the attic. These, as they had no bearing on
the lives of others at that time, are not of any interest, and I will
not weary you with them. Gideon went to Callard’s Dingle every Sunday,
and worked like three men in between. I ploughed furrow for furrow along
of him, and dug spade for spade. Our farm was rich with corn. Never
afore or since did I see any fields in our part of the country in such
good case, for it was a year of sweet, growing weather, with enough rain
to swell the grain and not enough to make it ackerspire. Sunday after
Sunday I saw Gideon, on the way to Callard’s, stop and lean over the
gate at the top of the sloping meadow, where you could look over the
whole place, like a miser with his gold. And now and agen I went with
him, and was glad to see such a glowing content in anybody’s face, but a
deal more glad since it was Gideon’s, that was seldom what you met call
a happy face. When he’d gone striding along, whistling pretty near out
loud, I’d sit a while afore going back to Mother. I’d think to myself
that when he was wed to Jancis, the corn sold and Fortune knocking at
the door, then at long last he’d whistle out loud. I got a great longing
to hear that, for it seemed to me an unhealthy sort of thing for folks
to whistle or sing or speak to their mommets all the while.
“Come harvest!” I’d think. And I’d begin to dream of being as beautiful
as a fairy.
It was a great delight to me, apart from the thought of all this, to
look at the standing corn and see it like a great mere under the wind.
Times it was still, without a ripple; times it went in little waves, and
you could almost think the big bosses of wild onion flowers under the
far hedges were lilies heaving gently on the tide; and times there was a
great storm down in those hollows, like the storm in Galilee Mere, that
the King of Love did still. So I watched the grain week by week, from
the time when it was all one green till it began to take colour, turning
raddled or abron or pale, each in his kind. And it shone, nights, as if
there was a light behind it, with a kind of soft shining like glow-worms
or a marish light. I never knew, nor do I know now, why corn shines thus
in the nights of July and August, keeping a moonlight of its own even
when there is no moon. But it is a marvellous thing to see, when the
great hush of full summer and deep night is upon the land, till even the
aspen tree, that will ever be gossiping, durstna speak, but holds breath
as if she waited for the coming of the Lord. I make no doubt that if any
read this book it will seem strange to them that a farm woman should
look at the things about her in this wise, and indeed it is not many do.
But when you dwell in a house you mislike, you will look out of window a
deal more than those that are content with their dwelling. So I, finding
my own person and my own life not to my mind, took my pleasure where I
could. There were things I waited for as a wench waits for her
sweetheart at the edge of the forest. This rippling and shining of the
corn was one, and another which came about the time of the beginning of
the troubling of the water, was the marvellous sight of the dragon-flies
coming out of their bodies. We had a power of dragon-flies at Sarn, of
many kinds and colours, little and big. But every one was bound in due
season to climb up out of its watery grave and come out of its body with
great labour and pain, and a torment like the torment of childbirth, and
a rending like the rending of the tomb. And there was no year, since the
first time I saw it, that I missed to see this showing forth of God’s
power.
I went down by the mere to gather honeysuckle wrathes to bind besoms.
And being sad in calling to mind what Miss Dorabella had said, for
besoms ever made me think on it, and seeing that the troubling of the
water was even now beginning, with a slow gentle simmering all over the
mere, I thought I would go to a place I knew where there were always a
mort of dragon-flies, and take comfort from seeing them coming out of
their bodies. Dragon-fly, I say, because I doubt some wouldna know what
our name for them meant. We called the dragon-fly the ether’s mon or
ether’s nild at Sarn, for it was supposed that where the adder, or
ether, lay hid in the grass, there above hovered the ether’s mon as a
warning. One kind, all blue, we called the kingfisher; and another one,
with a very thin body, the darning-needle. Mother was used to tell
Gideon that if he took dog’s leave or did other mischief the devil would
take needle to him and use the dragon-flies to sew up his ears, so he
couldna hear the comfortable word of God and would come to damnation.
But I could never believe that the devil could have power over such a
fair thing as a dragon-fly.
That was the best time of year for our lake, when in the still, hot
noons the water looked so kind, being of a calm, pale blue, that you
would never think it could drown anybody. All round stood the tall
trees, thick-leaved with rich summer green, unstirring, caught in a
spell, sending down their coloured shadows into the mere, so that the
tree-tops almost met in the middle. From either hand the notes of the
small birds that had not yet given up singing went ringing out across
the water, and so quiet it was that though they were only such thin
songs as those of willow wrens and robins, you could hear them all
across the mere. Even on such a burning day as this, when I pulled the
honeysuckle wrathes, there was a sweet, cool air from the water, very
heady and full of life. For though Sarn was an ill place to live, and in
the wintry months a very mournful place, at this one time of the year it
left dreaming of sorrow and was as other fair stretches of wood and
water. All around the lake stood the tall bulrushes with their stout
heads of brown plush, just like a long coat Miss Dorabella had. Within
the ring of rushes was another ring of lilies, and at this time of the
year they were the most beautiful thing at Sarn, and the most beautiful
thing I’d ever seen. The big bright leaves lay calm upon the water, and
calmer yet upon the leaves lay the lilies, white and yellow. When they
were buds, they were like white and gold birds sleeping, head under
wing, or like summat carven out of glistering stone, or, as I said
afore, they were like gouts of pale wax. But when they were come into
full blow they wunna like anything but themselves, and they were so
lovely you couldna choose but cry to see them. The yellow ones had more
of a spread of petals, having five or six apiece, but the white ones
opened their four wider and each petal was bigger. These petals are of a
glistering white within, like the raiment of those men who stood with
Christ upon the mountain top, and without they are stained with tender
green, as if they had taken colour from the green shadows in the water.
Some of the dragon-flies look like this also, for their lacy wings
without other colour are sometimes touched with shifting green.
So the mere was three times ringed about, as if it had been three times
put in a spell. First there was the ring of oaks and larches, willows,
ollern-trees and beeches, solemn and strong, to keep the world out. Then
there was the ring of rushes, sighing thinly, brittle and sparse, but
enough, with their long trembling shadows, to keep the spells in.
Then there was the ring of lilies, as I said, lying there as if Jesus,
walking upon the water, had laid them down with His cool hands, afore He
turned to the multitude saying, “Behold the lilies!” And as if they were
not enough to shake your soul, there beneath every lily, white and green
or pale gold, was her bright shadow, as it had been her angel. And
through the long, untroubled day the lilies and their angels looked one
upon the other and were content.
There were plenty of dragon-flies about, both big and little. There were
the big blue ones that are so strong they will fly over top of the
tallest tree if you fritten them, and there were the tiny thin ones that
seem almost too small to be called dragon-flies at all. There were rich
blue kingfisher-flies and those we called damsels, coloured and polished
in the manner of lustre ware. There were a good few with clear wings of
no colour or of faint green, and a tuthree with a powdery look like you
see on the leaves of ’rickluses. Some were tawny, like a fitchet cat,
some were rusty or coloured like the copper fruit-kettle. Jewels, they
made you think of, precious gems such as be listed in the Bible. And the
sound of their wings was loud in the air, sharp and whirring, when they
had come to themselves after their agony. Whiles, in some mossy bit of
clear ground between the trees, they’d sit about like so many cats round
the hearth, very contented in themselves, so you could almost think they
were washing their faces and purring.
On a tall rush close by the bank I found one just beginning to come out
of its body, and I leaned near, pretty well holding my breath, to see
the miracle. Already the skin over its bright, flaming eyes was as thin
as glass, so that you could see them shining like coloured lamps. In a
little, the old skin split, and it got its head out. Then began the
wrostling, and the travail to get free, first its legs, then its
shoulders and soft wrinkled wings. It was like a creature possessed,
seeming to fall into a fit, times, and, times, to be struck stiff as a
corpse. Just afore the end, it stayed a long while still, as if it was
wondering whether it durst get quite free in a world all new. Then it
gave a great heave and a kind of bursting wrench and it was out. It
clomb a little way further up the bulrush, very sleepy and tired, like a
child after a long day at the fair, and fell into a doze, while its
wings began to grow. “Well,” I says, with a bit of a laugh and summat
near a bit of a sob, “well, you’ve done it! It’s cost you summat, but
you’ve won free. I’m in behopes you’ll have a pleasant time. I suppose
this be your Paradise, binna it?”
But of course it couldna make any sign, save to go on growing its wings
as fast as might be. So there I stood, with my armful of wrathes, and
there it clung, limp on the brown rush, in the golden light that had
come upon Sarn like a merciful healer. I was wasting my time, which was
deadly sin at our place, and I turned to go. But just as I turned, there
was a bit of a rustle, and there stood Kester Woodseaves.
I made to run away, and indeed I’d have jumped into the mere sooner than
he should see me. But he put his hand on my shoulder, and for all it was
gentle, it was a wrostler’s hand, and not to be said no to.
“What? Oot run away? Why, Prue Sarn?” he said.