Chapter VIII A Necklace of Birds’ Eggs
There came a Sunday, yet not so soon as Doctor Mathers hoped, when Honor declared herself able and desirous to take the air again. She chose the Moor as the scene of this return to life; and, as Stapledon had departed for the day to see an acquaintance at Okehampton before his wife decided to go forth, her uncle, and not her husband, accompanied her—to the deep chagrin of the latter when he returned home.
Through the long hours of a weary and empty convalescence, Honor said little concerning the incident responsible for wreck of hope; but her loss had grown into an abiding grief nevertheless; and while the man was stricken most sorely at first, but had now become resigned, devoting only leisure thought to his private sorrow, the woman took this trial to her heart with increasing bitterness through those lonely hours that followed upon it. There was, moreover, an added element of terror and a superstitious despair bred of her alarm in the woods. This died but slowly, for she would not share the experience with any other; yet, as physical health increased, all lesser emotion dwindled before the ever-present sense of loss. From Myles she hid the heavy misery of it, that his own sorrow might not be increased; but she liked to speak with her uncle of the little flower lost in the bud, and he was patient and never weary of comforting her to the best of his power.
It is to be noted, however, that Myles somewhat misunderstood Honor’s extreme reticence, and her assumed air of brightness and good hope misled him perhaps more completely than Honor designed. He was secretly surprised that this matter had not left a deeper mark; he did not guess at a scar out of his sight; but he marvelled that his wife could still laugh and even jest upon occasion. Under her tranquillity and humour he failed to probe, but he bade the inner wonder in his mind be dumb. Not until long afterwards did he learn the truth and realise the depth of the sorrow she had masked for love of him.
The little open carriage crept up over Scor Hill, then proceeded by a steep way to Charity Grepe’s cottage. There Honor left half-a-crown in person, for since certain rumours that poor Cherry must go to the work-house, the mistress of Bear Down had become her active champion. Then the pony was turned, climbed the hill again, and presently stood above Teign valley, at a point on the hillside where a little lakelet reflected the blue sky above it, and shone framed in rushes and verdant sphagnum, in rosy sundews all frosted and agleam, in small scattered flames of the bog asphodel, and in many lesser things that love a marsh.
Away on the wide front of Watern, great gloomy tracts, still dark from fire, spread forth over many an acre. There a “swaling” had freed the land of heath and furze, and provided light and air for grass; but the spot seen from this distance was naked as yet.
“There’s a great scar over against us on the hill—black—black against the green and the grey and the blue overhead—all charred and desolate. That’s how my heart feels, Uncle Mark—so dreary and forlorn—like an empty nest.”
“Look again,” he said; “look at what seems so black upon the hill, and think as you look, and you’ll remember the ash and ruin are all full of young, sweet blades, sprouting strong, brimming with sap to hide the rack of dead char. ’Twill be so with you, my dear; for there’s the bend and spring of youth in your heart still. Wait till the heather’s out again, and the foxgloves are nodding along the low ridges over the Teign, and the whortle bells be turned to purple berries once more.”
“How you remember!” she said, “despite all the long years of darkness.”
“Yes; I remember, thank God. I smell the damp near where you’ve pulled up; and I see the marsh, down to the little bluebell flower that creeps in the grass, and the spotted leaves of orchis, and the white wisps of the cotton grass in summer, and all the rest, that I never thought upon when I had my eyes. But there’s a quiet, unknown mercy that works through the morning hours of a man’s life if he lives in the lap of Nature and is true to her. Keen sight stores the memory unbeknown to us; and none can tell how deep that unconscious, unguessed gathering-up may be but those who fall upon blindness. No credit to me at all; yet the pictures come as the seasons come—at bud-break; at the sound of the west wind and the call of the river; at the music of rain on the leaves; at the whirr of the cutter in the hay; at the touch of snow on my face and in my eyebrows. I know—I know it all, for my eyes reaped and my brain garnered at the merciful will of God. Without those mind picture-books I should be blind indeed.”
“You’re so brave. I wish that I had more of you in me. I’m not a true Endicott.”
“As to that, ’tis only those who won’t see are blind. Eyesight’s the window of the house, but the ear is the door. A blow-fly on the window-pane is big enough to hide the evening star—if you’re content to let it; but shut your eyes and you’ll see the star in the blue, with nought between it and your thoughts.”
“It’s so hard to be wise; and words are not warm, live things you can cuddle. Oh, I want something smaller than myself to love! I had lighted such a great fire of love; and now it’s all burnt out, and no green hope springing through the ashes.”
“Be patient. Look forward, my Honor.”
“There’s nothing there—all blank.”
“You’re morbid; and that’s the last foolishness I should ever have thought to tax you with. Myles——”
“No—no; you don’t understand. How should you understand?”
“Moonshine!”
“It wasn’t moonshine. I wish I could think it was. But you must be patient with me. It’s so cold to open your eyes every morning with the dull feeling that something sad is waiting for you to remember it. I’m all winter, while the rest of the world is full of spring.”
“And spring will touch you presently.”
“I had built such castles in the air—painted such futures. First, my boy was to be a soldier; but I grew frightened of that when I began to fill in details of the picture; and then a farmer, but that did not satisfy me at all. Presently my heart went out to the thought of his being an artist—either in words or pictures, but an artist in deeds at any rate. You don’t know what I mean by that. One who thought and felt like an artist—and walked so. He was to magnify the Lord and love the earth, and all green things, and birds especially, and the changeful sky. I did not think of him as loving men and women very much—excepting me. So my silly thoughts sped and I shut my eyes, that nobody should see my hope looking out of them. I was going to be the mother of a great man—and I am only the mother of a great sorrow, after all.”
“A shared sorrow; don’t forget that, my dear. There’s three hearts to take each a part of the load. More than that, for, beyond Myles and me, every man’s breast and woman’s bosom is heavy for you here. A widespread, real regret, though ’tis not their way to make much ado.”
“They are very good to me—better than I deserve. I shall have more thoughts for them now. Sorrow at least teaches sympathy. But my soul has quite lost heart of late days, and I feel so old.”
At this moment from the valley there came two persons along the path where Honor’s pony carriage stood. One appeared uneasy, the other in a very halcyon halo of delight; for Sally, true to her resolve, had indicated that a little attention from Mr. Collins would not be unwelcome; and now they moved side by side upon a stolen walk. Elsewhere Margery accompanied her parent to see a neighbour, and Sally was supposed to be at the farm.
The pair made awkward acknowledgments and were proceeding, when Honor noted an unusual decoration about her milkmaid’s neck. In addition to a string of glass pearls, a little necklace of birds’ eggs—alternate thrush and blackbird—adorned Sally’s plump throat, and the spectacle, suggestive as it was of robbed nests, woke a wave of passing indignation in Honor’s heart.
“What is that round your neck?” she asked with a sudden hardness in her voice; and Sally’s hands went up gingerly to the frail adornment, while she looked at Collins, whose gift, snatched from screaming birds, she wore. Seeing explanation was expected from him, Henry stood forward, touched his Sunday hat, and spoke with many stumblings.
“Beggin’ pardon, I’m sure, ma’am, I——”
“You robbed the birds, Collins?”
“Ess, I did, but if you call home last cherry-time, ma’am; if I may say so—you see I did as you bid an’ shot a braave lot last autumn, as you wanted—them being so bowldacious as to eat your fruit; an’ come autumn an’ winter, I catched a gude few in traps what I teeled in the garden. Then, come spring, I had a bright thought that if I took the eggs of ’em ’twould mean gert thinning out o’ the birds. An’ no account neither, if I may say so; ’cause a egg’s just life in the raw, waitin’ for warmth an’ time to quicken it. They never lived like, savin’ your presence, so the airth ban’t the poorer by a bird’s note, ’cause us caan’t lose what we never had. ’Tis no more’n a seed spoiled, or a leaf-bud nipped by frost, or a cheel still——”
He clapped his hand over his mouth and heard Sally say “Fule!” under her breath; but his mistress nodded and bid him go on his way.
“You may be right; but take no more eggs from the birds.”
So Mr. Collins got himself out of sight to the tune of a reprimand from Sally that made his ears tingle.
“You gert, clumsy-mouthed gawk! To utter such a speech an’ tellin’ that stuff to her, an’ go mumblin’ on, like a bumble-bee in a foxglove; an’ end up so! Not the sense of a sheep you ain’t got!”
She tore off his gift and stamped on the blown shells, while he merely stood and rolled his great eyes wretchedly.
Elsewhere Endicott spoke to his niece.
“Strange how a chance word out of a fool’s mouth will often come pat. These things—eggs—buds—babies are so little account in the great sum total. Nature’s units don’t trouble her. The crushed windflower will bud and blow again next year. What is a year to her? The robbed mother-bird screams for an hour, then goes on with the vital business of preserving her own life; and the robbed mother-woman—her heart aches to-day, but the pain soothes off presently as the months and years roll over first memories. We’re built to forget; else the world would be a madhouse, or just one great welter of sorrow. ’Tis God’s way, I judge, seldom to put upon us more than we can bear. If grief or pain’s past bearing—why then the heart or something cracks and there’s an end of us. But sorrow alone never killed a healthy being. I’d rather count it the torch that lights to the greatest deeds we’re built to do. I hoped that a little child would draw you together—Myles and you—close, close as soil and seed; but ’tis a shared grief must do it—instead of a shared joy. Such a welding, as by fire, may last longest after all.”
She sighed, touched her pony with the whip, in a sort of thoughtful caress, and turned him homewards.
“I don’t know what Myles thinks about it. Either he hides all he feels to save me—or he is forgetting, as you say. It is natural that he should. No man that ever lived can know how long those nine months are to a woman. But I—I—there it is in the wind—in the rustle of the leaves. I hear it so often—the sound of a rocking cradle. I must wait until the wind sings a different song before I can be wise. Some day I shall wake up strong again—strong to acknowledge all your goodness and everybody’s goodness and sympathy. I cannot yet.”
The old man was moved for her. He put his hand on hers and patted it.
“I think I understand as much as an ancient bachelor may. But you must do your share and help the powers to help you. There’s an effort called for. Hard to make, but you must make it. Take up your life again—the old life that you laid down; an’ do it with a single heart.”
“I cannot yet. I left it behind so gladly. I must go back for it. I do not care about any life just now. I cannot cry or laugh with my heart. It’s all pretence—think what that means. I look at everything from the outside—like Christo used to. I’m a dead, withered bough still on the tree; and what is it to me that the next bough is busy about new leaves?”
“You do yourself a wrong to say so, and I’d not listen to anybody else who spoke so ill of you. You must come back to yourself—your own good self—and the sooner the better. That’s a plain duty at least—not to be escaped from. That’s a call, whether your heart’s sad or merry. ’Tis the honest, everyday duty of a woman to be good, dear heart—same as it’s the duty of a Mary lily to be white. Keep your proper colour, as God meant you, and as God taught you. Live as you have lived: with a sense of duty for the sake of those that love you, if no better reason.”
She sighed again, aweary of the subject.
“Now we’ll go home. We’re wasting my first breath of sweet air in words. Better to draw it in silently and not turn it into talk.”
Mark Endicott laughed.
“Why, yes, it does the heart more good that way, no doubt. You’re a deal wiser than I am, niece, for all my grey hairs and jackdaw chatter.”
Then slowly down the hill, without more speech, they drove together.