She was not weeping. She was bathed in blushes and laughter. She held
out her hands to him, and Martin took them. She had golden hair of
lights and shadows like a wheatfield that fell in two thick plaits over
her white gown, and she had gray eyes where smiles met you like an
invitation, but you had to learn later that they were really a little
guard set between you and her inward tenderness, and that her gayety,
like a will-o'-the-wisp, led you into the flowery by-ways of her spirit
where fairies played, but not to the heart of it where angels dwelled.
Few succeeded in surprising her behind her bright shield, but sometimes
when she wasn't thinking it fell aside, and what men saw then took
their breath from them, for it was as though they were falling through
endless wells of infinite sweetness. And afterwards they could have
told you nothing further of her loveliness; when they got as far as her
eyes they were drowned. Her features, the curves of her cheeks and lips
and chin and delicate nostrils, were as finely-turned as the edge of a
wild-rose petal, and her skin had the freshness of dew. The sight of
her brought the same sense of delight as the sight of a meadow of
cowslips. As sweet and sunny a scent breathed out from her beauty.
But all this Martin only felt without seeing, for he was drowned.
Gillian, I suppose, wasn't thinking. So they held each other's hands
and looked at each other.
Presently Martin said, "It's time now, Gillian, and you can go."
"Yes, Martin," said Gillian. "How shall I go?"
"As I came," said he.
"Before I go," said she, "I am going to ask you a question. You have
asked my friends a lot of questions these six nights, which they have
answered frankly, and you have twisted their answers round your little
finger. Now you must answer my question as frankly."
"And what will you do?" asked Martin.
"I won't twist your answer," said Gillian gently. "I'll take it for
what it is worth. You have been laughing up your sleeve a little at my
friends because, having a quarrel with men, they were sworn to live
single. But you live single too. Tell me, if you please, what is your
quarrel with girls?"
Martin dropped her hands until he held each by the little finger only,
and then he answered, "That they are so much too good for us, Gillian."
"Thank you, Martin," said Gillian, taking her hands away. "And now
please ask them to send over the swing, for it is time for me to go to
Adversane." And as she spoke the light played over her eyes again and
floated him up to the surface of things where he could swim without
drowning. He saw now the flowers of her loveliness, but no longer the
deeps of those gray pools where the light shimmered between herself and
him. So he turned and climbed to the pent roof of the Well-House, and
looked towards the group of shadows clustered under the apple-tree
around the swing; and they understood and launched it through the air,
and he caught it as it came. And Gillian in a moment was up beside him.
"Are you ready?" said Martin.
"Yes," she answered getting on the swing, "thank you. And thank you for
everything. Thank you for coming three times this year. Thank you for
the stories. Thank you for giving their happiness again to my darling
friends. Thank you for all the songs. Thank you for drying my tears."
"Are they all dried up?" said Martin.
"All," said Gillian.
"If they were not," said he, "you shall find Herb-Robert growing along
the roadside, and the Herbman himself in Adversane."
And holding the swing fast as he sat on the roof, Martin sang her his
last song, not very loud, but so clearly that the shadows under the
apple-tree heard every note and syllable.
Good morrow, good morrow, dear Herbman Robert!
Good morrow, sweet sir, good morrow!
Oh, sell me a herb, good Robert, good Robert,
To cure a young maid of her sorrow.
And hath her sorrow a name, sweet sir?
No lovelier name or purer,
With its root in her heart and its flower in her eyes,
Yet sell me a herb shall cure her.
Oh, touch with this rosy herb of spring
Both heart and eyes when she's sleeping,
And joy will come out of her sorrowing,
And laughter out of her weeping.
"Good-by, Martin."
"Good-by, Gillian."
"I want to ask you a lot more questions, Martin."
"Off you go!" cried he. And let the swing fly. Back it came.
"Martin! why didn't--"
"Jump when you're clear!" called Martin. But back it came.
"Why didn't the young Squire in the story--"
"Jump this time!" And back it came.
"--come to fetch her himself, Martin?"
"Jump!" shouted Martin; and shut his eyes and put his hands over his
ears. But it was no use; again and again he felt the rush of air, and
questions falling through it like shooting-stars about his head.
"Martin! what was the name on the eighth floret of grass?"
"Martin! what was the letter you threw with the Lady-peel?"
"Martin! why is my silver ring all chased with little apples?"
"Martin! do you--do you--do you--?"
"Shall I never be rid of this swing?" cried Martin. "Jump, you
nuisance, jump when I tell you!"
And she jumped, and was caught and kissed among the shadows.
"Gillian!"
"Gillian!"
"Gillian!"
"Gillian!"
"Gillian!"
"Dear Gillian!"
And then like a golden wave and she the foam, they bore her over the
moonlit grass to the green wicket, and they threw it open, and she went
like a skipping stone across the duckpond and over the fields to
Adversane.
When she had vanished Martin slid down the roof, walked across to the
coping, put one leg over, and stepped out of the Well-House.