IT was quieter than ever at Sarn without Mother’s quiet ways. I missed
her a deal more than if I’d depended on her, for it’s the folk that
depend on us for this and for the other that we most do miss. So the
mother is more let and hindered lacking the little creatures clinging to
her skirt than she is when they be there, for she has no heart for her
work. So in the lengthening April days I’d often sit and cry, calling to
mind her poor little hands uplifted, and her way of giving me a right
good welcome when I came in tired of an evening. There was only Gideon
and me, and Tivvy now and again. The work went on the same as ever,
though there was a sadness about it all. Gideon never went into the
stackyard but he cursed Beguildy, who was still in prison, with no
sentence fixed. We’d heard nought of Jancis nor her mother for a good
while, nor had there been another letter from Kester. The market began
again. I mean, we began to go again, having plenty to fill the stall.
One of us would go, and the other would mind the farm, and I heard that
every time Gideon went, Miss Dorabella would come and buy summat. Indeed
it was already being said that she was sweet on Gideon, and I could only
hope it wouldna come to the Squire’s ears. I didna wonder at her being
partial to Gideon, for indeed he was a fine, strong man, with a deal of
character and power, and very good to look at, and there were few young
gentlemen about Lullingford at that time, what with some of them going
to bide in London, and some never coming back from the wars. Gideon
never said anything to me, but I could see he was flattered at her
liking, and I thought once when she came to our door for a drink of
milk, that his hand shook a bit when he gave her the cup. But if he was
thinking of her, I’m sure it was only the lust of the eye, and youth,
and the wish to get on, and not love, such as he felt for Jancis. I
didna believe he’d ever love anybody again, since that early love had
been poisoned—for indeed the bane seemed to have got into it as it had
into everything. But there was no doubt he was very taken up with her,
and when it wasna Miss Dorabella it was Tivvy. He didna care a farden
for Tivvy, but he was ready to take all she’d give, as many another
young man would, especially after such an upsetting of his life, and the
losing of his dear acquaintance. He seemed to want to be out along with
Tivvy when he wasna working, as if he was restless, and he couldna bear
to speak of Mother. This seemed curious to me, for he never appeared to
care much about her in life. I mind when May Day came, and we were
starting for the market, for the things must be sold, mourning or not, I
said I called to mind just where, Mother stood to send us last time. And
Gideon gave a bit of a start, and looked, nervous like, at the place I
pointed to, almost as if he thought she’d come again. And sometimes I
noticed that he’d look across at her chair, anxious and brooding. This
troubled me, for it was so different from his usual ways. In all else he
was the same, and the farm was the same, and the mere, and the spring.
May came in warm and splendid, and the buds and blades, the opening
petals and the blown petals, the wafts of sweet air and the storms of
warm rain drove on over the country as in every other year. The
blackbirds kept up their charm the day long, and the cuckoos were at it
from four or five in the morning. Out went the coots and their young
across the mere, the dippers made their well-roofed house, the wag-tails
played beside the water, and the heron stood watching his long shadow in
the glassy lake, as if he wondered how soon it would be as long as the
steeple. The lily leaves lay green and bright, like empty boats, for the
time of lilies was not yet. The young leaves on the forest trees
lengthened and broadened, the grass grew long and began to ripple, the
corn sprang quick and bright. The Lent lilies in the meadow wilted, and
the bluebells came, like smoke bellying up the slopes of the woods. All
was made anew, and the brighter the colours were, the more I thought of
Kester and his weaving, and the more unkind I felt it to be on my part,
to be glad of the spring, with poor Mother in her new-made grave. There
came a day in the very mid of all this fine May weather, when the thorn
trees along by the mere were so thick-set with blossom that they laid a
solid wall of white in the water at their feet. Though it was noon, the
charm of bird-song was nearly as loud as it was at dawn, for in May they
never seem to weary. We were in the kitchen, having our dinner afore
going out to finish earthing up the taters. Tivvy was helping, as she
often did now, though she got but little thanks from Gideon, who would
brood all the while, and frown, and start up sometimes as if he heard a
voice.
The kitchen was pleasant after the heat outside, for it was an early
year. The sun lay in quiet patches along the quarries, and the lilac
outside, just past its prime, and the sweeter for it, sent a strong
freshness through the open window.
Something went past the window, and there was a little soft tap on the
door. It reminded me of the time when Jancis ran away and came to our
door in the snow. I went to open, and there she stood, Jancis, white as
a ghost, leaning against the doorpost, with a shawl wrapped about her,
and in the shawl, as I could just see, a baby no bigger than a doll.
“Why, Jancis!” I says. “However in the name of goodness did you come?”
But she only looked past me, as wild and as white as any mermaid in the
old tales, peering after her mortal lover.
She gave me neither word nor look. She gave Tivvy no glance even. We
wunna there for Jancis in that hour. She just slipped in, like a wreath
of mist from off the winter mountain or a drift of blossom from off the
summer trees, or a white woman from under the mere. She’d got on the
gown she was used to wear for randies, torn and crumpled but still
white, and though it didna set her off as well as the blue one, it did,
with the white shawl, make her look like a floating spirit out of the
air, as she went across the kitchen. There she was, all of a heap at
Gideon’s feet, and she had set the baby on the floor in front of him, as
he sate in the big arm-chair at the table. And the table being set out
with food, and he at its head, and Jancis there upon the floor, it did
make me think of that story in the Bible when Jesus was at a feast, and
some poor person came and asked summat, and was chid, and did up and say
that not even the dogs need lack their crumbs. It was as if all the good
of life was outspread there on our oaken table, till it creaked under
the weight. There were the fruits of love, there was the homely bread of
daily kindness, and the cup to quench all thirst, and salt to make life
tasty, and all the lesser pleasures that do make life a good, sweet
thing in the living. And Gideon had the helping of them. Sarn of Sarn
Mere was the maister of that feast, and he might say, if he would,
“Here, let me heap thy plate, and fill up thy mug!” Or he might begrutch
it all.
Jancis was kneeling in the patch of bright sunshine, and she seemed as
the snowflake when the day turns to a thaw. In the ticking of one moment
she might be melted clean away. I called to mind that day in the dairy,
when she came in behopes that Gideon might ask her to wed there and
then. I called to mind the night I wished her well when Beguildy was
gone to look for the seventh child, and the time I saw her coming toërts
me between her white oxen, like a lady of old time that has been a long
while dead. I remembered how she’d sung _Green Gravel_ that Christmas
when she ran away, and how the light from the window was green upon her
face, and how she was used to say—
“O I wanted to play _Green Gravel_!”
All the things she’d ever said or done seemed to be lapped around her as
she knelt there with her golden hair all loose about her shoulders. That
she was so pale, all white and gold, and that Gideon was so dark, and
darkly clad, made it seem yet more as if she came from some other world,
and the baby also, for it was white too, and its tiny head, where the
wrapper fell aside, was covered with a light yellow down. There was no
look of Gideon in it at all. It wunna like a real baby, but like a
changeling that came into being in the mid of a summer night on the
petal of a lily flower. Oh, it was a strange baby as ever I saw! I
leaned against the doorpost with the tears rolling down my face, and so
that I shouldna sob out loud I promised myself to give Jancis the best
meal ever she had, so soon as this should be over, and she should have a
new-laid egg from the slatey game hen, whose eggs were worth a mint of
money for setting, she being a prize bird. Though why it should please
me so to think of her eating it, when a common egg would have been quite
as nice, and bigger, I dunna know. And I promised myself that the baby
should have the best wash ever, for indeed it looked as if it had rolled
in the ashes. And oh, dear me! how I’d stuff it with milk, and how I’d
dress up the old rush cot, and make a little counterpane, and then put
the well-stuffed baby to lie in the sun and sleep! And in time it would
lose that wisht, awful look, so ancient, as if it knew all there was to
know, and didna like it. I wanted to see it with a great big tossy-ball
of golden cowslips. And all the while Tivvy sat by Gideon with her mouth
fallen open with surprise, and looking almost as frittened as if she’d
seen a ghost.
Gideon was like a stone man. There was no feeling in his face at all,
neither pity nor anger. All that was overpast, it seemed. It was like an
old tale that he’d forgotten, and Jancis was chief lady in that tale,
but why she was, and who she was, and what she did was all out of mind,
because the tale was lost to his remembrance. Once, at Christmas, maybe,
if she’d come, he’d have knocked her down, very likely, in his anger.
But then he might have kissed her after. Now he neither struck nor
kissed.
All he’d felt for her had died in the fire that night of September, and
the sin of the father was visited upon the poor girl. For when Gideon’s
eye fell on her, he saw his burning ricks, and in her blue glance there
were the red reflections of fire, as you will see on some clear morning
the last wild smoulderings of the thunderstorm. That was all she meant
to him now. And though his hatred of Beguildy was as savage as ever, he
had no feeling at all for her, neither hatred nor desire, nor even lust,
much less any love. Miss Dorabella had seized upon his mind, and Tivvy
had satisfied his body. There was no place for Jancis. There he sat, in
our old kitchen, so quiet, yet so full of whispers, so full of the
remembrance of all the Sarns that had been here, from Tim, with the
lightning in his blood, to Father, passing out from life in a dark
snoring after a fit of anger. I thought of Mother spinning here day
after day, whirring like a little lych-fowl. I thought of all the other
Sarn women, and of myself, striving and slaving for the bane. And it
seemed that the bane was like some plant, such as the catch-fly, that
does wile living creatures into its banqueting hall, spreading a great
feast, and see! when they are in, she catches them and grips them, and
binds them, and trammels their feet, so that they cannot go. There was a
heavy sweetness from the day-lilies in the border that made me think of
death chambers. I wished Jancis would say summat and get it over,
whether for good or ill, so that I might the sooner set about the babe.
But she didna, and time went on and on. Outside, there was Sarn Mere
standing up afore me like a mirror framed in some precious green gem
work. There was no sound but the saddish charm of the birds near and
far, and the wandering hum of a bee that came in to our kitchen, and,
misliking it, blundered out again.
Then Jancis lifted up her head and looked at Gideon.
“Sarn!” she said. And again, “Sarn!”
As she said it, I got the feeling that there were many listeners,
leaning down out of the air, crowded together as close as the petals of
a white peony, waiting to hear what should come of this meeting.
She clasped her hands and set her blue eyes upon Gideon, seeming to
leave the baby aside for a while, as if he should speak up for himself
later.
“Do you mind, Sarn,” she said, “how we used to play _Conquer_ with the
big pink and white snail-housen down by the water, and you nearly always
won, and I lost? Do you mind how I wanted to play _Green Gravel_?”
Her faint voice stopped a while, and a strange thing happened, for as I
watched her it seemed to me as if many voices, a long way off, took up
the words of that old song and sang it right through, in parts, as is
the manner of singers in our countryside. For if anybody sings at all,
he or she can sing parts, the people being all very fond of music and
having it grained into their souls. So I heard it, with the grace-notes
of the trebles and the rolling of the bass voices, and the altos and the
tenors taking up the words and playing with them, and all as it were,
making much of the song, and speaking for Jancis through it. Very low
and far it seemed, yet rich with many voices.
“_Green gravel, green gravel, the grass is so green!_
_The fairest young lady that ever was seen._
_I’ll wash you in milk, and I’ll clothe you in silk,_
_And write down your name with a gold pen and ink._”
What it was I heard, I never knew. Parson said it was my busy
imagination playing about the past. I canna say. Only, in my imagination
or in reality, I did hear it, in very truth, a part song, well sung and
tuneful, with every note clear and each part intertwining as it should,
but all a very long way off.
“Do you call to mind the even when you saw me under the rosy light,
Sarn, when you were coming back from Lullingford ooth the sheep? And the
day we found the canbottlins’ nest in the spinney, and fourteen young
uns in it, and you kissed me once for every canbottlin?”
Still Gideon made no sound, nor stirred.
“And when I ran away, and Prue took me in, you did say to me, standing
in the mid of this very kitchen, ‘Give us a kiss, wench!’ And in the
dairy once you said I looked as if I was made of may and milk. And at
Callard’s, that evening, I held the baby while Mister Callard made ’em
all say, ‘Bull-baiting’s bad!’ do you mind how Grandfeyther Callard said
all of a sudden, ‘I see two babbies in her arms, ours, and hers as is to
come!’ And the harvest dance, when they whistled so well, and we
danced?”
A quiver went across Gideon’s face at the mention of that harvest, and I
wondered at Jancis speaking of it, till I saw that she’d forgotten the
cause of Gideon’s quarrel with her. All she knew now was that he didna
love her, and the reason was neither here nor there.
“And when Feyther went to look for the seventh child, and you came, and
we were so sweet together? Ah! Even that morning after Feyther came back
we were so, and you said, ‘Come five days, my little dear!’ And I said,
‘God send you happy!’ And since that, Sarn, I hanna set eyes on you till
this hour.”
Still Gideon made no sign, so she laid her hand on his arm.
“Do you mind it, Sarn?” she says.
“Ah!” he said, indifferent, “I mind it, but it was long ago. Time out of
mind.”
“But the babe wasna. Here be the babe, Sarn! Yours and mine.”
She held the child up as if she’d put it on his knees, but he waved it
away.
“A boy!” says Jancis. “Not a girl, to cumber you with women. A boy to
mind pigs for ye ever so soon, and in a few years he’ll be driving
plough. Ah. I reckon he’ll be a good lad to you, and work well, and
gather in twice as much as his grandad scattered abroad.”
The poor babe stirred, as if it felt the heavy burden.
Gideon looked at it, as if when it touched his life’s aim it could be
seen, though invisible at other times. Then he gave a short, cruel
laugh.
“That?” he says. “You offer me that to help me? Thank ye! Why, if it
lives, which I doubt, it’ll never be no good but to coddle about in the
house and feed on soft food.”
And as if it knew that it hadna passed the test, the poor mite set up a
wail. At this Gideon pushed the table aside and got up. He went to the
back kitchen door, that being the nearest way to the kitchen garden. At
the door he stopped a minute.
“Best go back where you came from,” he said. “You binna wanted here,
neither the one nor the other.”
With that, he shut the door and went out.
Jancis stayed where she was, seeming mazed and dumbfoundered. A pale
feather borne along the air, a lily petal wandering on the water,
couldna be as lost as she was then. I ran to her, and lifted her and the
babe to the settle, for indeed she was so light, it was pity to feel her
lightness.
“Now, lookye,” I said, “never a word shall you speak till you’ve had
bite and sup! Put the kettle on, Tivvy, there’s a good girl, the while I
warm some milk for baby.”
Jancis said nought, but in a little the tears began to steal down her
cheeks. She took a sup of tea, and then I asked her how she got here.
“I walked,” she said, “and poor baby was so heavy. You’d never think, to
look at him, what a weight he was to lug.” I knew he scarce weighed more
than a good fowl, and so I knew also how weary poor Jancis must have
been, to feel so small a burden so heavy.
“Whatever was your mother thinking of, to let you walk?”
“Mother’s dead.”
“Dear to goodness! I be sorry for that,” I said. “She was a right nice
woman.”
“There’s kind!” says Jancis, but without any heart in it.
She was like one who, in the game of _Costly Colours_, has risked all,
playing the card called _Costly_, and lost it. She was out of the game
now, with nothing more to gain or lose. I didna like to mention her dad,
and she said nothing about him.
“Well, your home’s here,” I said. “You know that, Jancis, my dear.”
“My home canna be here if Sarn dunna love me, Prue.”
“Ah, but it is!” I cried out. “Though I did swear on the Book to obey
Gideon like a ’prentice, a wife, and a dog, yet this day I shall gainsay
him. You’ll lie in my bed to-night, child. You and the little un will
sleep at home from this time on.”
She gave a little sad smile, as if to say, “I wonder!” and lay holding
the babe. But now Tivvy, who’d been looking more and more sulky, burst
out—
“And will she sleep here indeed, Prue Sarn? I do think not! Maybe you
dunna know as I’m going to wed with Sarn myself. Ah! He’s got to wed me
for my sake and for his own as well.”
Jancis had opened her eyes and was watching her with a look like a Wise
Woman’s I knew once, who could tell you your own thoughts.
“I know it ud be as well for you, Tivvy, if he did wed with you,” I
said, pretty dry and sneering, for I never could abide Tivvy, and that’s
the truth, “and I reckon he’d best not be too long about it, neither,
and you Sexton’s girl and all! But the thing is, will he? And I’m pretty
sure he never will. I’m sorry for you, Tivvy, and I’d never have said a
word afore Jancis, only you began it.”
Tivvy’s face was scarlet, but she didna flinch.
“I said, good for him as well as for me,” she answered.
“I canna see,” I says, and God forgive me for being so sharp with the
girl, “how it ud be good for Gideon, _in any way_, to marry you.”
“Oh! Well, I’ll soon show you,” she says.
“He did love Jancis once, Tivvy,” I told her. “And she was his dear
acquaintance and his wife, all but the ring.”
She took no notice of that.
“I’ll tell you why it ud be good for Sarn to marry me,” she said.
“Foxglove tea! That’s why.”
“Foxglove tea? Are you crazy, Tivvy?”
“Everybody knows as I know nought of yarbs. Everybody knows Sara gave
the cow foxglove leaves. You and I know that the doctor said your mother
seemed as if she’d had foxglove.”
She spoke slower and slower, leaning forrard with her hands on the
table.
“Everybody knows, Prue Sarn, that your brother thought Missis Sarn a
burden. Everybody knows he does want to get on. And _I_ know, and if he
dunna marry me pretty quick everybody else’ll know too, what was in the
tea he made for his mother and told me to give her strong.”
“What was it?” I said, with a sickness at the heart.
“Foxglove!”
She snapped out the word like a bite. I knew it was true.
“I can prove it,” she said, “because as it chanced Mother had come to
bring Missis Sarn that night-rail she’d been sewing for ’er. And when I
came down from giving Missis Sarn her tea, I poured a cup for Mother,
there being some left, and Mother said in a minute, ‘This is foxglove
tea.’ Ah, Mother knows right well what Missis Sarn died of, but she’ll
never mouth it to a mouse if Sarn weds with me.”
“I’ll never believe it!” I cried out. But Tivvy says—
“You will. You believe it now.”