Greene Ferne Farm Part 2

"If we could only somehow translate that eternal youth into our own lives--if! The dew still lingers here in the shade. How slumberous it is even in the morning! Unseen lotos-flowers bloom in the spring, and the odour makes us drowsy."

His eyelids fell as he walked on, and his slow steps led him whither they would.

When a thoughtful man feels an overpowering love--a great pa.s.sion rising within him--his ideal often becomes a kind of judge. All the creed of life that has grown up in the mind is pa.s.sed in review: will the half-formed scepticism, the firm dogma, the theory, stand before the new light thrown upon them by the love that is in itself a faith?

So he dreamed of Margaret, and saw and did not see the beauty around him. His feet, sinking into the soft green carpet, were dusted over with the yellow pollen of the b.u.t.tercups. The young shoot of the bramble projecting from the bush caught at his sleeve; but the weak tender p.r.i.c.kles, not yet hardened into thorns, gave way, and did not hold. Slender oval leaves on a drooping willow-bough lightly brushed without awaking him. The thrush on her nest sat still, seeing with the intuition of a wild creature that no harm threatened her. Finches sang on the boughs above, and scarcely moved as he pa.s.sed under.

"Crake--crake!" from the thickest of the gra.s.s where the bird crept concealed. b.u.t.terflies fluttered from flower to flower in their curious sidelong way. Every branch and bush and blade of gra.s.s--the air above where the swallow floated, the furrow in the earth where the mice ran-- all instinct with life; the glamour of the suns.h.i.+ne filling the field with a magic spell.

A little brook slipped away without a sound past the tall green rushes and the water-plantains and the grey chequered gra.s.s that lifts its spear-like points in moist places; a swift shallow streamlet winding through the meadow, its clear surface almost flush with the sward. Now running water draws a dreamer; so he followed it across the mead, past the footpath and the stepping-stone that had sunk into the stream: past the dark-green bunches of the marsh marigolds, whose broad golden petals open under the harsh winds of early spring, and not far from the peewit's nest; for she rose and flew round him, calling plaintively, her pure white breast almost within reach, till finding that her treasure was unheeded, she slowly dropped behind: past the dog-violets, blue but not sweet, that looked up more boldly than their forerunners, whose modest heads had scarce appeared above the dead leaves on the bank.

Yonder the roan cattle were feeding; and in the midst stood an ancient, gnarled, and many-twisted hawthorn, whose bark had become as iron under the fierce heats and fiercer storms of years; yet its branches were green, and crowned with the may--white virgin may-bloom scenting the air--and under its shadow a young heifer meditated. Past hollow willows, till presently the turf beneath grew soft and yielding as velvet, his foot sinking into the pile of the moss, and the shade of trees fell on him, where the bank of the brook became steep, and low down in its bed it rushed into the wood.

After awhile oak and elm gave place to black and gloomy firs that hung over and darkened the water. Large flecks of grey lichen clung to them, and from above a red squirrel peered down. Here the thick branches forced his steps aside from the stream, and out among the ashpoles where the wood-pigeons built their nests, and: in the strength of their love looked down upon him fearlessly from their feeble platforms of twigs.

Under an ash-stole he saw a rare plant growing, and stooped and went on his knees to reach it, and so pushed aside the thick boughs, and, as it were, looked through a screen, and his heart gave a great bound.

There was a narrow s.p.a.ce clear of wood, where a green footpath little used went by, and a large, gnarled, crooked-grown ash-stole opposite, forming a natural arm-chair, well lined with soft dry moss, and canopied overhead with leafy branches, drooping woodbine, and climbing briar, whose roses would soon bloom. The brake fern, young yet and tender, rose up and gave itself for her footstool--for Margaret sat there, leaning back luxuriously in her woodland throne. He thought she must have heard the rustling of the boughs he had parted, and kept still as an Indian hunter, holding his breath for fear lest she should see him thus spying. A minute pa.s.sed, and there was no motion; then he saw that her right arm hung down listlessly--that the head leaned a little to one side, the face rather away from him--that her hat had evidently dropped from her hand, and an open book had fallen at her feet. She was slumbering.

His chest pressed on the green fern, bluebells hung over his feet.

"Coo-coo-oo!" the dove with burnished neck called gently to his mate, sitting on the ivied tree.

"Jug-jug-jug!" sang the nightingale hard by in the hawthorn--the nightingale that by night is sad, but whose heart is full of joy in the morning. The goldfinches swept by overhead with a gleam of colour from their wings, coquetting on their way to the apple-trees.

The sun looked on the world with glorious eye. A ray, warm, but yet not fiercely so, fell aslant between the leaves of the great oak boughs above, and lit up one delicate ear--small, white, with pink within, as in the sh.e.l.l the cameo-cutter graves with his tool; or rather, pink like the apple-bloom, that loveliest of flowers--for as a blossom it peeped forth beneath her brown wavy hair. Her lips were slightly parted: "Thy teeth are like a flock of sheep that are even shorn, which came up from the was.h.i.+ng." For their backs are level and white, and glisten with the water. The highly-arched eyebrows did not meet above the straight nose, but left a s.p.a.ce there. In some old magic-book he had read that this s.p.a.ce was the peculiar precinct of the Queen of Love. A briar had jealously s.n.a.t.c.hed at the loose sleeve of the right arm, which hung down, baring the wrist--a round, soft, white arm, veined with blue, an exquisite polish on the skin. The fingers were long and slightly rosy; from them a few flowers had dropped on the open page of the book.

So still was he that a weasel came along the green path, his neck erect like a snake in the gra.s.s, stopped, looked him straight in the eyes, and went by without fear. He gazed, rapt in the devotion of the artist, till a sense came over him like that feeling which the Greeks embodied in the punishment that fell on those who looked unbidden upon the Immortals. It was the strength and the perfect purity of the pa.s.sion that held him there that also impelled him to withdraw. Slowly he worked his way backwards noiselessly, till, sufficiently far away, he rose to his feet, and hesitated.

Then he made a detour, and stepped into the green footpath thirty or forty yards distant from her throne, and began to make a noise as he approached her. He rustled the fern with his foot; he seized a branch and forcibly snapped it, causing a sharp crack. A woodp.e.c.k.e.r, startled, flew off with a discordant "Yuckle!" the dove ceased to coo; the brown nightingale was silent, and sought a distant hazel-thicket. He lifted his voice and sang--he had a naturally fine voice--a verse of the dear old ballad, his favourite:

"If she be dead, then take my horse, My saddle and bridle also; For I will unto some far country, Where no man shall me know."

Off came his hat--she had risen and faced him, blus.h.i.+ng faintly. Her deep grey eyes looked down, and the long eyelashes drooped over them, as she held out her hand.

"I was coming to Greene Ferne," said he, "and lost my way in the copse."

"You must have gone a long way round."

"Never mind--my instinct guided me right;" then, seeing that the meaning he expressed behind the words still further confused her, he added, "It was quite accidental."

Now Margaret had roamed out into the fields under the influence of a dawning feeling, which as yet she hardly admitted to herself, but which seemed to desire solitude. And he had surprised her dreaming of him.

So she walked silently before him--the path was narrow--glad that, he could not see her face, leading the way to the farm. Outside the copse he came to her side, ruthlessly trampling down the mowing-gra.s.s again.

There was a slight movement among the cattle in the next field, and they saw several persons approaching. They were May Fisher, Valentine Browne, the Rev Felix St Bees, and a tall, ill-dressed, shambling fellow hanging in the rear, whom they called Augustus. Instantly the thought occurred to Margaret that they would at once conclude her meeting with Geoffrey was prearranged.

"We were coming to find you," said May. "We have lost you all the morning."

Valentine looked sharply from one to the other, jealously suspicious, and barely acknowledged Geof's greeting. So Felix and he fell into the rear, Margaret went on with May, and Valentine accompanied them.

St Bees, a little quick-mannered man, was one of that n.o.ble band who may be said to give their lives for others. With ample private means, he accepted and remained in the curacy of Kingsbury, the stipend paid for which was nominal. Many of the workmen in the town walked in daily from the villages, and Felix visited them at their homes; frequently preaching, too, for Basil Thorpe at Millbourne, the village of which Greene Ferne was a t.i.thing or small hamlet. He and Newton were old friends--his own love for May no secret. Augustus Ba.s.set was a specimen of humanity not uncommonly seen on large farms--the last stray relic of a good family, half bailiff, half hanger-on, half keeper, half poacher, and never wholly anything except intoxicated. An old soldier (he had served as a trooper in the Guards), his appet.i.te for tobacco was insatiable, and as he walked he mumbled to himself, louder and louder, till by-and-by gaining courage he asked Geoffrey for a cigar. Newton at once handed him his case, when Mrs Estcourt, coming out from the house, and detecting this piece of begging, told him to go and see about engaging some mowers, who would soon be required.

"There ain't no mowers to be got," grumbled Augustus, as he shambled off. "If you don't look out, you won't have a man on the farm; there'll be a strike. Just as if a man couldn't be trusted in the cellar, her keeps the key in her pocket!" Intense disgust.

They had some lunch at the farm; then Geoffrey and Valentine, feeling that they had no excuse for remaining longer, left together. But three fields distant, Valentine remarked that he must go down and see to his cottage, simply an excuse to part company. So each pursued his way alone.

Pa.s.sing into the highway road that ran through the hamlet, Valentine, as he went by the Spotted Cow, a small wayside inn, saw Ruck and Hedges sitting with others outside, enjoying a pipe and gossip under the elm from which the sign was hung. On the rude table before them stood some mugs. Valentine beckoned to Ruck, who came.

"Have you sent up the clover?"

"Eez, eez."

"And the oats?"

"Thaay be goin' up this arternoon, sir."

"My trainer said your last hay was not so good."

"Did a'? Then he doan't knaw good clauver when a' sees it. This be vine tackle, I can tell ee."

"Well, I hope it is. Good day."

"A' be terrable sharp about his osses," said the old man, when he got back to his seat; "but I thenks zumtimes as thur be volk that be sharper than he."

"Who do ee mean?" asked his crony, Farmer Hedges.

"Aw, we shall zee. I've got half a mind to tell un; but he won't take no notiss of such as we."

"Not a mossel of use," said Hedges sententiously. "These yer quality be such a akkerd lot;" and he knocked the ashes out of his pipe on the iron-bound edge of the trestle-table. The object of this armour was to prevent the labourers sticking their billhooks into it when they called for a quart, for hedge-cutters are apt to strike their tools into the nearest piece of wood when they want their hands free. Having filled the pipe again, and finding he had no match, he stepped into the inn-kitchen to light it at the fire, and instantly noticed a large red-hot nail in a log of burning wood.

"Missis, missis!" The landlady came running. "Look ee thur--thur's a crooked nail in thuck log. Draw un out--doan't ee waste un. Nails be amazin' useful thengs."

"Zo um be," said Farmer Ruck. "Volk used to save um. I knowed them as had a gallon measure full of hoss-stubs: thaay be the toughest iron, and makes the vinest gun-barrels."

"Them cut nails be as rotten as matchwood," said Bill the "wunt-catcher," i.e. mole-catcher, throwing down his wooden traps.

"Time o' day to ee, missus;" nodding to her over the mug, and meaning good health. "The vinest gun as ever you seed wur thuck long un up to Warren. Mebbe you minds Kippur Mathew?"

"I minds un," said Farmer Ruck.

"Thuck gun would kill your chain. Thur wur a hole in the barrel as yer med put yer vinger in. Mathew, he squints along at the geame, and I holds a dock-leaf auver this yer hole, and he lets vly, and kills half a score o' quests," [wood-pigeons].

[This expedient of the dock-leaf over a crack in the barrel was actually put in practice.]

"A' wur a chap to fiddle," said Hedges. "A' made hisself a fiddle out o' thuck maple as growed in Little Furlong hedge. Hulloa, Pistol-legs!"

This was addressed to an aged man who had crawled up on two sticks. His legs, bent outwards--curved like the b.u.t.t of a pistol--had obtained him this nickname.

"Nation dry weather," said the ancient, lifting his head with some difficulty. "Gie me a drap."

A labourer leaning against the elm handed him his quart.

"Ay, ay; thur bean't no such ale as thur used to be;"--after he had taken his fill.