Gentian Hill

by Elizabeth Goudge

  his life.

  "The countryside had been used to the sound of John’s horn sounding over'the hills, but for a little while after this, those going home late would hear the sound of distant drumming, and wonder where it came from. It came from Bowerly Hill, where john was practicing the ancient art of the Devon seamen.

  "Then he said good-by to Rosalind and sailed away to the other side of the world, and for years endured a life that, for most of that time, was exactly his idea of hell. But in the intervals of battle and storm, wounds, fever, hunger, and thirst, he learned a good deal more besides courage and the arts of war and seamanship. He sailed under a fine captain

  who was much attached to him and finally made him his secretary. There was a chaplain on board who brought him books to read when he was ill and admitted him to the joys of scholarship. When he sailed away from Devon, he was drummer boy and messed with the crew. When he sailed home again he was dining with the captain, and he had learned the manners of gentlemen and their way of thought. Yet he still wanted to be a farmer-only the kind of farmer whom Rosalind would be allowed to marry.

  "And now I bring my narrative back once more to the stormswept beach at Torre. Fishermen, and all folk who live close to the sea, develop a strange extra sense by which they know when a ship is in distress even before they hear the boom of the gun, or catch through the flying spray a glimpse of the wounded hart being hounded to death by the white horsemen of the sea. And so it was no surprise to me, a little later, with no distress signals to be heard or seen, to find that Rosalind and I were no longer alone on the beach. Several men were there, uneasy, straining their eyes to see what as yet could not be seen. Rosalind and I joined them and it was she who first saw the stricken ship. A groan went up from the men on the beach when they saw her too. Her mainmast had gone, and she was rolling helplessly. The tide was coming in now and the wind rising all the time. The moon was at the full, and to our right we could see large rollers dashing against the sea wall in front of Torre Abbey, shooting up in masses of spray and then falling into the meadows beneath the elm and ash trees. If any men managed to leave the ship, their rescue in that terrible sea would be almost impossible. Yet more men, and women, too, came hurrying down to the shore, and the old fight that all knew so well started yet again. Rosalind and I were separated now, but I caught sight of her working as hard as any there, helping to drag the boats down the beach as though she had a man’s strength. But only a few boats got away from the shore; the rest were swamped and we were hard put to it to rescue the rescuers.

  "I do not remember now how many men were saved from the wreck, but I know it was very few. But I do remember how Rosalind saved john, for it seemed to me then that his rescue was miraculous, and I think so still. I saw her running along the shore towards Torre Abbey. The beach had disappeared now, for the sea was right in the meadows. In the bright moonlight I saw the gleam of her blue cloak flying back from her shoulders like wings, the green grass, the flying silver spray, and the sight was beautiful and strange. I followed her, but the wind was so fierce that I could scarcely make headway against it; and yet she ran as though the strength of her wings were greater than the wind’s power.

  “I fought my way at last to the end of the meadow, where it joined the park of Torre Abbey, and there was her blue cloak lying on the grass, as though it were not her wings that she was needing now. Though I stood upon grass, ripples of sea water were washing ’round my feet 'and waves were breaking only a few feet from me. The moon came out from behind a cloud, and I saw her again, up to her waist in water, looking like some wild sea maiden with her skirts floating about her on the water and her dark hair streaming in the wind.

  “A huge wave was gliding in towards her with smooth but terrible speed, a great curve of green fire soaring higher and higher, crested with foam. In another moment it would soar up to the apex of its arch and break in thunder. She bent a little towards it, her arms outstretched, and I knew what she saw within its curve, for it was the wave of my dream. I tried to fight my way towards her through the lesser waves, but I was like a man in a nightmare, my feet weighted with lead and my heart pounding with fear. She would not be able to keep her feet. It would not have been possible, for even the strongest of men to keep his feet when that wave broke. It soared up over her head and the thunder all along the shore` deafened me and the flying spray blinded my eyes as I fought my way through it. When I could see again she was still on her feet, her arms gripped tightly round the body of the man who would have been dashed to death on the shore had she not been there to save him.

  "I reached her, and we dragged him to the meadow together. I looked at his face and scarcely recognized the beautiful boy whom I had seen last under the yew tree by the chapel in the lantern light, but I did not say, ‘He is dead,’ for I knew myself in the midst of a miracle that was not yet ended. Rosalind said nothing at all, but acted as though the speed of her fight was still with her. She opened the gate that led from the meadow into the park, and then spread out the blue cloak on the ground. We laid John on it and carried him up through the park to the Abbey, as once long ago the monks must have carried Johan.

  "It seemed a long way to me, so exhausted was I by the carrying of so heavy a burden, and when we reached the great hall of the Abbey, it seemed to me all a strange confusion of lights and hurrying figures. Relieved of my burden, I think that I sat down in a corner, my head in my hands, to recover my wits and my strength. When I looked up again, I saw John lying on the floor not far from me, a strong and skillful fisherman at work upon him. Rosalind knelt beside him, intently watching his unconscious face that was turned towards her. I got up and went to her, touched her on the shoulder, and spoke to her, but she did not hear or see me. There was nothing more, just now, that I could do for those two, and so I turned away to do what I could for others.

  The first gray light of dawn was coming through the tall windows when I went back to them again and found john conscious and warmly wrapped in blankets, with Rosalind caring for him. All was well with them both, and they were absorbed in each other. Thankfully I made the sign of the cross over them, and turned to go home.

  "But at the door I lingered a moment, looking back, for they had become like my children to me and I did not like to leave them, and then I saw Rosalind coming after me. She curtsied to me, as she had done in the chapel, and then she took my hand and said a little breathlessly, ‘You have helped us so much. Why? Who are you?’

  " ‘Johan,’ I said. ‘He helps and comforts all who come to the chapel. He will always do that, while the chapel stands”

  "I blessed her again and went away into the dawn, which was peaceful and beautiful now that the storm had ceased. I knew that I would never see her or John again, though I would hold them within the circle of my prayer forever, they and all those whose lives in succeeding generations would follow the pattern of their own. And I knew that until the end of their lives they would think of me as a visitor from paradise, sent to help them in their need; or at least Rosalind would think that, john would perhaps reserve his judgment. But they would not forget Johan, they would reverence him and teach their children to reverence him until they died, and through them his legend would live on beyond their death. And that was what I wanted.

  "And now years have passed and I am a very old man, indeed, and near my death, and it has been as I expected and I have not seen them again, though I have heard of them and of their happiness. After the storms of their youth, they have, as the old fairy tales say, lived happy ever after. And now my story is finished and I shall put the book away in the cupboard in the chimney. If it is right that it should be found one day, then it will be found. If not, it will remain unread. I am contented either way. And I am contented, too, at the thought of my approaching death. My spirit will follow the spirit of the hermit to paradise, but Johan will never leave this spot of earth between the green hills and the sea."

  5

  When the Abbé had finished reading, the candle
had almost burnt away to nothing, and he and Zachary were both silent until a fresh candle had taken its place and had burned up brightly.

  "Like this fresh burning up, in our day and time, of the old story," said the Abbé quietly.

  "It’s beautiful, but very strange," said Zachary.

  “Why strange? That story is deep rooted in that spot of earth. It is right that it should spring up again, and perhaps yet again, as the gentians do. And then, Zachary, the experience of each one of us is not as unique as we think it is. We learn as our fathers learned, suffer much as they did."

  “It explains many things," said Zachary. "If my love for Stella is a new flowering of an old love, then I need not wonder any more that it came so instantly."

  "My instant liking for you is also explained," said the Abbé. "And so is the echo of the hunting horn over Bowerly Hill, and the rolling of the drum."

  "Rosalind and john lived out their lives at Weekaborough," said Zachary with satisfaction. "Those two old graves in the churchyard, with gentians carved upon them, must be their graves."

  "Possibly .... And now do you feel like sleep?" l

  "Sleep? After that story? No."

  "Then tell me how you found Stella."

  Zachary told him, and then the talk drifted to love and its mystery. "Love sings to all things who live and are, soothing the troubled minds of gods and men," murmured Zachary, stifling a yawn, for contrary to his expectations, he was beginning to feel sleepy.

  "Contained in a passage written on a scrap of paper in your Shakespeare," said the Abbé. "It fell out when I was putting the book away."

  "The doctor wrote it out for me when I went to sea," said Zachary. "He thought I’d like to have it because it was written on a scrap of paper in Stella’s locket."

  He was murmuring as a child does who is half asleep, and this time he yawned hugely. He was lying as a child does, curled up on his side, his cheek buried in the crook of his arm, his dark lashes casting huge circular shadows on his hollowed cheek. He looked all hollows and curves, utterly relaxed, drifting into unconsciousness.

  Then suddenly he tensed, lifted himself on his elbow, as wide awake as he had ever been in his life. What had happened? The Abbé had pulled his chair to the window again and was sitting with his face in shadow, but he had not moved or spoken. There had been no movement at all in the room, no sound, yet it was vibrant with feeling so intense that Zachary felt it pressing upon him, almost unbearably, like that fear that had half stifled him before Trafalgar. He sat up in bed and pity welled up in him. He knew what

  it was to feel intensely. His extraordinarily mature sympathy reached the man in the chair like a breath of revivifying air. Their positions were suddenly reversed. It was Zachary,

  still and patiently waiting, who seemed the elder of the two.

  The Abbé moved at last, and leaned forward with his clasped hands between his knees. "Did the doctor tell you anything about Stella when he gave you that scrap of paper?" he asked. His voice was light, dry, and precise, and Zachary’s was equally light as he answered across the width of the room, "He told me how she came to be adopted by Father and Mother Sprigg." Yet so unifying a thing is the presence of perfection that each voice seemed to the other to be speaking inside his own soul, as though they had become fused by the need of the one and the perfect response of the other’s answering sympathy.

  "Tell me all you know about that adoption," said the Abbé.

  Zachary told him. He was still completely in the shadows, yet aware that each of his gently spoken words, as quietly and evenly uttered as the tick of a clock, were ageing the Abbé like so many years. Yet Zachary knew it was joy to which the story that he told was leading; he was aware of it serenely, steadily reaching up through the turmoil of the first anguish. He finished his story and waited, but not to be told anything, ` only to see what he could do next. It was good to serve this man who had so selflessly served him.

  The Abbé moved, unclasped his hands, stretched out his arms, and let them fall with a gesture of release over the arms of his chair. "Years ago I had a wife and child," he said to Zachary. "I thought that I had lost them both in the wreck of the Amphion. Now-I think-that I still have a child."

  The light of moon and candle together seemed to Zachary most extraordinarily bright. It half blinded him. He shut his eyes and then opened them again. The Abbé had moved in his chair so that the moonlight fell full upon his face. But Zachary did not see it. Instead he saw Stella’s face in the moonlight, her chin propped upon the top of the gate. "What a fool I’ve been," he said softly. "Only you and Stella have such dark gray eyes, set like that, bright, hard to look into steadily. And the shape of your hands, and-so many things!" He paused, aware of what he had to do next. "The night is nearly over, I think. You told me once that you liked being out of doors when the dawn came."

  The Abbé got up abruptly. That was what he wanted. To be out, striding through the streets alone. But first he crossed to the bed and stood looking down at Zachary. "There is no one," he said, "not even your father the doctor, whom I would rather have had tell me this news than you." He was gone in a Hash, closing the door soundlessly be-

  hind him, but Zachary just heard what he was saying to himself as he went out " ‘She lives .... It is a chance which does redeem all sorrows that even I have left.’ "

  He had been lying on the Abbé’s study table after the wrestling, he remembered, when he had Hrst heard him quote those words. How much there was to think about! Yet alone now to think about it, he found himself quite too extraordinarily tired to think about anything. He turned over on his other side, cradled his cheek in the crook of his arm again, and was instantly asleep.

  6

  He was awakened hours later by the smell of coffee and the clink of china, but when he turned ’round expecting to see the Abbé’s tall, straight black figure outlined against the window, he saw instead the rugged head and bowed sagging shoulders of the doctor.

  "Father!" he almost shouted.

  The doctor grunted an acknowledgment of the greeting, I but did not turn his head. "One thing at a time, now," he said. "I’m busy with this coffee. I’ve taken a look at you while you were asleep. You’ll do."

  Zachary smiled. The richness and warmth of the doctor’s deep voice seemed to bring all the splendor of the English countryside tumbling about him, the hot glow of the cornfields, the hum of the bees, the smell of the clover. "You’ll do." It was England speaking. He’d loved her and served her. England was pleased!

  The doctor finished preparing breakfast, crossed to the bed, and stood looking down again at Zachary. “Awake, you’ll still do, my son," he said, and the warmth of his voice deepened A to a husky tenderness. His eyes twinkled brightly and his weather-beaten, tanned, ugly face was irradiated with his pride. Then his tone changed abruptly. "Get up, you lazy hound! Breakfasting in bed like a lady of fashion! If you call this breakfast. Coffee and rolls. Dammee, I could do with a couple of fried eggs and a slice of ham."

  Grinning, Zachary got out of bed. His legs buckled under him as he crossed to the press where the Abbé had put his clothes, and the doctor steadied him with a grip of iron above the elbow. The grip suddenly put more strength into him than all the Abbé’s pampering. "Yet, by gad, he was good to me," muttered Zachary. "But he was not you." With one arm around his son, the doctor opened the door of the press and pulled out Zachary’s clothes. Then he helped him to dress, pushed him into the chair, and perching on the window sill, poured the coffee. I

  "I came as soon as I could," he said. "You know that. I got in too late last night to do anything but tumble into bed at the inn. Coming along this morning, I met Monsieur de Colbert outside the baker’s. After a few moments conversation, we turned about and made for the inn again. A West Country coach leaves this morning. He just caught it.

  In the inn yard, I took the rolls and he took my bag. It had a few necessaries for the journey in it, a razor and so on. Also a book on the diseases of the liver, whi
ch won’t interest him. I must now make do with his razor, and his breviary, which won’t interest me."

  “Stella’s fairy story will interest you," said Zachary softly. "He told you about Stella?"

  "Yes. Between the baker’s shop and the coach he told me a good deal. I will say for a Frenchman that, reeling though he may be under whatever shock of joy or grief, and after a sleepless night, he remains a sustained and generally coherent conversationalist."

  "You were surprised about Stella?"

  "Immensely surprised, naturally, to find the Abbé possessed of a daughter, for I had not suspected him of matrimony. But not surprised to find my Stella a princess. Well,

  not quite that perhaps, but I understand that the little thing could have called many a dead prince cousin."

  Zachary’s face blanched.

  "Tired?" asked the doctor.

  "No, Sir,"

  The doctor regarded him steadily. "Got those dead princes on your mind? You’ve the blood of Irish kings in your veins, my son. You’re alive, too. That’s an advantage

  in a husband."

  Zachary laughed. "You’re making great haste," he said.

  "She’s making great haste to grow up-the white witch," said the doctor. Then he grew suddenly somber. "Poor Mother Sprigg," he muttered. "I wish I could be there to

  soften the blow when the Abbé tells her. Poor Mother Sprigg!"

  CHAPTER VIII

  1

  "Stella" asked Mrs. Loraine, glancing up at the Abbé as they stood together in her parlor. Must you see her at once?"

  "I would like to see her as soon as it is conveniently possible, Madame," said the Abbé.

  "She is at Torre, I know, for I have just come from Weekaborough and they told me she was with you today."