The Abbé had seen John moving among the yew trees but, looking now, it was Zachary whom he saw moving among the hives, pausing at each one with bent head.
4
After tea, Stella and Hodge went up to Sol’s room and watched the binding of the sheaves and the arish-mow from his window. Early in the morning his bed had been moved so that he could see all that went on, and he had spent a happy day. The neighbors had gathered soon after seven o’clock, and at eight, had eaten a huge breakfast in the kitchen. The farms of the district did their reaping by turns, all of them helping each other. Work began quietly, but after eleven o’clock, when the first pitchers of ale and cider had been brought out to the fields, there was laughter and-jokes and songs. The twelve o’clock dinner of meat and vegetables was carried out to the fields, and after that there was more ale and cider, and everyone was very merry indeed. By five o’clock the cutting of the wheat was over, and they all sat in the shade of the trees and ate the special harvest cakes that Mother Sprigg had baked for them, washed down with yet more liquid refreshment, and then the binding of the sheaves went on until the evening.
Stella found it all a bit too wild and noisy when she was down in the fields with them, but she loved watching from Sol's window. Now that the tragedy of the rabbits was over, she discovered that she was very happy. Last night, in her sleep, she had been in the far place again and its peace was still with her, and out of it a deep joy was building up, a shining thing coming slowly into being as the stacks in the field were coming into being, like tents of cloth of gold fit for Sultans to live in. There was no doubt about it. A great joy was building up for her, and another for Sol, and the songs the reapers were singing-softened and sweetened by distance-made her think of the song the birds sing in the spring just before dawn, when the first lark has told them that he has seen the sun.
"They’ve finished!" she cried. "Look, Sol! Father Sprigg is making the Maiden."
Sol gave a grunt of satisfaction, and she fetched another pillow and propped him up higher so that he could see better. Father Sprigg had bound up a little sheaf in rough imitation of the human form and set it upon the central stack. This was the harvest goddess, Demeter, though none of the reapers knew that. The doctor, had he been present, would have quoted Theocritus: "Ah, once again may I plant the great fan on her corn heap, while she stands smiling by, Demeter of the threshing floor, with sheaves and poppies in her hands." When the Maiden was in place, the reapers flung their sickles up in the air towards her, and the sun, glinting on them, made them look life half-moons falling about her. "We ha in! We ha inl" they yelled, and the triumphant shout echoed over the hills to tell the countryside that yet another farmer’s corn was safely stacked. Then, cheering and singing, they tramped towards the farmhouse, where they would eat and drink and enjoy themselves until one o’clock in the morning.
Stella helped Sol to lie flat again, and with Hodge at her feet, sat beside him holding his hand and talking to him softly about the creatures on the farm, the dogs and cats, the sheep, the pigs, cows and horses. This was how she had talked to mon Pere, telling him about the bees, drawing him into the charmed circle that was the kingdom of Weekaborough, and she felt now that she must talk to Sol in the same way. It was like wrapping someone up in a familiar old cloak before they set out on a journey, so that they should feel warmed and comforted during the first strangeness. Yet she was not sure if Sol heard. His eyes were shut and he was smiling, but it might not have been at what she was telling him. His hand in hers felt light and dry and brittle like an autumn leaf.
"He’s asleep," she said when Mother Sprigg came in with a bowl of bread and milk for him.
Mother Sprigg looked at the old man and sighed. She was glad that he looked likely to pass from sleep to death, with as little trouble as a man can have in his going from this world, but she would miss him after all these years. "Have the bread and milk for your supper, my honey,” she said gently to Stella. "And you’d best keep out of the kitchen tonight. They are very merry, for it’s been a good harvesting, and they’ll get merrier, for there’s plenty of ale left yet."
She went out, shutting the door quietly behind her, and Stella went on talking to Sol, while the golden light lay level across the harvest fields, and the first fresh breath of the coming night deepened the color in the sky, lifted the heads of the drooping flowers, and set the leaves faintly rustling. But gradually she left off telling him about the animals and began to say other words which seemed to come to her without any choice of her own. It was as though Sol were speaking through her, taking his leave of the earth.
"It is a land of hills and valleys, and drinketh water of the rain of heaven. A land which the Lord thy God careth for. The eyes of the Lord thy God are always upon it, from the beginning of the year, ever until the end of the year. Blessed be the Lord for the precious things of heaven, for the dew, for the deep that coucheth beneath. And for the precious fruits brought forth by the sun, and for the precious things put forth by the moon. And for the chief things of the ancient mountains, and for the precious things of the lasting hills .... As thy days, so shall thy strength be .... The eternal God is thy refuge, and underneath are the everlasting arms."
The sunset light was brimming the world like wine in a transparent cup, and then it seemed to drain away and the cool twilight was very blue and clear. Sol was still breathing quietly, yet Stella felt that something in him had drained away with the golden light. She withdrew her hand, knowing he did not want it any more, and she and Hodge sat so quietly that a mouse ventured out and ran across the boards. Presently the owls began to call, and a square of moonlight lay upon the floor. Then Mother Sprigg came in again and kissed her and told her to go to bed, and she went away and left Mother Sprigg to continue the watch with Hodge.
5
But she did not go to bed. She went down into the small green parlor, where for so many years the dead had lain in state, and the babies had held their court after their christenings, and the brides and bridegrooms had kissed each other; and she lit the two candles. She was not quite sure why she did it, unless they were one for Sol and one for herself, in honor of the joys building up for them both. Then she looked out of the window and saw the corn stacks shining in the moonlight, and they were no longer golden tents for Sultans to dwell in but silver pavilions for the fairies. She could fancy a door in each one and a sentry standing there on guard.
Leaving the candles burning in the parlor, she ran out into the garden and across the lane to the fields. It was a still and lovely night, almost as bright as day, with the light of the moon and stars. Warmth was still breathing from the sunsoaked earth, but the air was cool with the dew. There was no sound but the distant singing in the Weekaborough kitchen, and the soft crackle of the stubble beneath her feet as she ran in and out between the pavilions of the fairies. Before the central one, she stopped and dropped a curtsey to
the Maiden, and then ran on through the gate that led to Bowerly Hill.
Here on the green grass among the sheep, with above her on the hilltop the old yew tree stretching its arms up to the stars, her mood changed and a deep awe was added to her dancing joy. She did not run now, she walked slowly up the hill, sedately like a grown lady, lifting her flowered linen skirts in both hands above the dew. The moon was bright in the sky, just to one side of the yew tree, and she could see the man in the moon with his bundle on his back. At sight of him she stopped and an almost unbearable longing swept over her. "Zachary!" she cried. "Zachary!" and did not know that she had cried aloud. A tall figure moved out from beneath the yew tree, across the face of the moon. He stood there as though he had come from the moon, and called to her.
"Stella! Stella!"
She thought later that she must have flown up the hill, because she did not know anything more until she found herself beneath the yew tree in his arms.
Gradually she became aware of things again, of the feel of his coat beneath her cheek, of his shoulders beneath her clinging hand
s. The yew tree above her seemed spangled with stars, like a Christmas tree, and the bit of the moon that was showing through the branches was the shape of a silver horn. The sheep had gathered about them, and down at the foot of the hill, she could see the candlelight shining from the small green parlor. Then she stood on tiptoe, and lifting her hands from Zachary’s shoulders, pulled his face down to hers. It was a strangely unchildish gesture, and her lovely gentle kiss was not a child’s kiss. Zachary, as he lifted the little girl off the grass into his arms that he might carry her down the hill, knew that he would not have very much longer to wait before she was a woman and his wife.
CHAPTER IX
It was a summer evening in Torbay and the sunset light was streaming over the hills, filling the leafy valleys with light, edging the ripples of the calmer sea with gold, and touching the wings of the gulls as they flew back from their inland feeding grounds to the rocky islands off the coast where they slept at night. There had been much coming and going that day along the coast, at Torquay and Torre, Livermead and Paignton, and quite a traffic in the deep lanes with men and women and children coming down from the villages in the hills to see the ships in the bay. Seldom had there been so many of them, sloops and frigates and ships of the line, with all their colors flying and their paintwork and gilding brilliant in the sun. It had been a day of excitement and rejoicing, for Waterloo had been fought and won; the war was over, and out there in the bay, on board the Bellemjahon, was Napoleon-a captive.
All day the fishermen had been doing a brisk trade taking sightseers out in their boats to cruise around the Bellerophon, in the hope of seeing "the Monster" in his green coat with the scarlet epaulettes and his chapeau-bras with the tricolored cockade. Only, because it is the nature of the English to take a fallen foe immediately to their hearts, he was now no longer "the Monster" but an ill-looking little man for whom they were all extremely sorry. They were ashamed, too, because of the restrictions put upon him and the contemptuous refusal of the government to treat him as England’s guest. Many of the women wore his emblem, the red carnation, and when they saw him pacing on deck, the men took off their hats.
Yet their sympathy was not sufficiently severe to cloud their joy. The war was over! The long, dragging, weary war that had seemed to end so many times, only to break out afresh, was over at last, and a long vista of peace stretched in front of them. They could sleep easily in their beds now and have no fear for their children. All day, both on board the ships in the bay and in the villages along the coast, the joy had been extremely vocal, but now at sunset there had come a hushed silence, imposed perhaps by the extraordinary beauty of the moment, or by the slow rhythmical beating of the gull’s wings overhead, or perhaps by the deeper realization of peace that had come with the dropping of the wind and the ebbing of the tide.
The men on shore looked out to sea and marveled at the splendid beauty of the great ships in the evening light, and remembered that the men upon them no longer went in danger of their lives, and the men on board looked at the woods held in the folds of the green hills, and at the white walled cottages in their gay gardens, with the smoke curling
up from their chimneys; and they remembered their own homes and were glad.
Into this moment of peace came sailing three frigates. They glided slowly into the bay, and it was evident, from their dim paintwork and generally battered appearance, that they had come from far. Yet they had great beauty. The slight breeze filled their sails and they dipped proudly through the gold-flecked blue water, as though conscious of duty well done.
The young captain of the first frigate stood as still as a statue on his poop deck, but his face was not quite as rigid as his body. Nothing moved in his face, yet something passed over it like a flash of light on water as the village of Torquay came into sight, with behind it the sweep of the hills that he knew so well and the valleys brimming with light. It had not changed much in eleven years, there were a few more white houses scattered over the seven hills, and there was more shipping in the harbor than there used to be, but that was all. The beauty of the place was still untarnished. It had seemed like the vision of another world to Mr. Midshipman O’Connell, spread-eagled in the rigging, and it seemed the same to Captain O’Connell, motionless upon his poop. Then, he had been enduring a sailor’s life with detestation and now he was leaving it with sadness in his heart. The war was over, he was returning from his last voyage, and he was sorry. For so many years he had longed for the last moment of his last voyage and yet, now, he was sorry. He supposed it was always that way. A man looked forward to the ending of a way of life that had been hard and difficult, and then when the end came he felt regret. That particular way had molded and enriched him and so was a friend, and good-bys to friends are not easy.
Yet the new way opening before him was a good way and far more congenial to him. It would have its difficulties too, as well as its deep and satisfying joys. It would not be a soft life, and its hardness would befriend him. Resolutely he turned from regret and opened his mind and heart in welcome to all that was to come, from this golden moment right on until the end. How lovely was this land toward which he sailed, how inexpressively dear. Through the years of danger, he had known her a land to die for with peace and content, now he knew her a land to live for with a gladness rising afresh with the sun of each morning and the moon and the stars of each night. Gliding steadily nearer to her, he felt with an intensity that shook him, made his body tremble a little, as it had trembled when he had been spread-eagled in the rigging. Then he suddenly relaxed and smiled, as though a hand had touched him. Stella down in the cabin had known how he was feeling and had put him to rights. He did not allow her to be with him on the poop-it was bad for discipline-and on board his ship, though nowhere else, she always obeyed him. But it never seemed to make much difference if they were apart, for she knew what he was thinking just the same.
Ever since her twentieth birthday, she had been going to sea with him whenever she could, and he had been much censured for allowing a lovely young wife to undergo such hardship and danger. But it was not a question of allowing, for if it was possible for her to go she would not stay behind. Although he had married her when she was fifteen, the age at which Father Sprigg considered a man can be certain of capturing a wife’s obedience, Stella retained her smooth, shining determination to go her own way, from which scoldings slithered to oblivion like water off a duck’s back. And her adventurous spirit had welcomed life at sea with a joy that had communicated itself to Zachary. Because Stella liked being a sailor, he began to like being one, too. Her passionate delight in the old and lovely cities and harbors had enriched them with new beauty for him. Now, in sight of home, their four years of journeying done, he knew they would never forget those journeys. Their love for their own country would be deepened because they had learned to love the whole world, too.
They were drawing near to the harbor now, and his thoughts went to those who loved them and waited for them at home. His father, who seemed to become more truly his father with every year that passed. Father Sprigg, grown old now and glad to have Zachary come home and take the burden of the farm off his shoulders. Mother Sprigg, grown older, too, but not changed very much. Stella’s father, still toiling in London for his suffering poor but never forgetting them, seeing them whenever he could, loving them deeply, and praying for them at night in that small green room that was like Elisha’s chamber high upon the wall, or St. Michael’s Chapel upon its hilltop. And for these four, they would have great news when they got home, for Stella’s first child would be born in the Spring.
Zachary heard a light step behind him, and the rustle of a woman’s skirt. Stella, just this once, had disobeyed him and come to him upon the poop. He did not move, and when she reached him she did not speak, for the crew could see them. She stood beside him, her shoulder lightly touching his, for she was as tall as he was now, tall and very slender. Yet how strong she was, both in body and spirit! The very touch of her shoulder put
iron into him. He did not need to turn his head to know exactly what she looked like, for he knew every line of her face by heart and almost, but not quite, as much of her mind as she knew of his. She was happy now, he knew, with a flush on her sunburnt cheeks and her gray eyes full of light, and she was holding her head high, so that the hood of her cloak had fallen back, and her short dark curls were blowing about her face. The hills and the sunlit valleys drew a little nearer, and the first breath of the land came to them fresh and flower scented. High over their heads the gulls passed, their white wings lit with gold. Stella fitted her shoulder more comfortably against her husband’s, and their warm hands touched as they swung together to the rise and fall of the ship. Somewhere on land, a bell tolled the hour. It was eight o’clock, and in a world at peace, they had come home.
END
ELIZABETH
GOUDGE
GENTIAN
HILL
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