For thy bright candle but the dim night worm,
For music the lone hooting of the owl,
The baseness of thy end for reverie:
Oh, in thy pride, consider with thy soul,
While yet thou sojournest ’neath the tree of Life,
Viewing its fruit of evil and of good,
Lest the bright serpent of earth’s rank desire
Be thy companion in this solitude.
Ev’n in this solitude of leaf and flower,
O, lonely man, on thee dark Satan gloats;
Let him not, triumphing at the deep Trump’s blast,
Urge thee to exile with his drove of goats.
One looks up abashed from reading, and far across the purple moors passes a visionary flock with bleatings and cloven tramplings.
A narrow mound of pebbles set in cement, as it were pearls in a brooch, has for its memorial a slab sunken in the wall:
Here lieth our infant Alice Rodd;
She was so small,
Scarce ought at all,
But just a breath of sweetness sent from God.
All on her pillow laid so fair,
White in her clothes,
Eyes, mouth, and nose,
She seemed a lily-bud now fallen there.
Sore he did weep who Alice did beget,
Till on our knees
God send us ease;
And now we weep no more than we forget.
This is the merry gallery of the grasshoppers; they laugh perpetually all day here from blade across to blade, and in the dark evening their cousin, a cricket, creaks prudently from the wall. Perhaps the following is of these three also:
Dear Mother, happy be,
Thy toil is over,
Thou liest with thy infant,
And thy lover.
All, all, branch, bud, and root,
Gold hair, and hoary,
Husband, and wife, and babe,
Singing in glory.
It was by chance I came upon the ‘natural’s’ tomb, for his oval stone is matted with ivy. I had pursued a flight of magpies into the dense bushes, and so threw the sunlight on his mouldering inscription:
Here lieth a dull natural:
The Lord who understandeth all
Hath opened now his witless eyes
On the sweet fields of Paradise.
He used to leap, he used to sing
Wild hollow notes; now angels bring
Their harps, and sit about his tomb,
Who was a natural from the womb.
He’d whistle high to the passing birds,
With so small store of human words;
He found i’ his own rude company
The peace his fellows would deny.
He’d not the wit rejoiced to be
When Death approached him soberly,
Bearing th’ equality of all,
Wherein to attire a natural.
A long narrow stone had fallen a little asunder in an angle of the wall, and through its crevice bindweed (whose roots strike marvellously deep for so delicate a thing) has sprung up. It puts forth its pale blossoms upon weed, stalk, and stone.
Here lies the body of Madeleine
Wrapped to the throat in a shroud of green;
Daisies her jewels here and there,
A bud at her foot, a bud in her hair;
Her eyelids close, her hands laid down,
Her sweet mouth shut, her tresses brown
On either side her placid face:
Christ of His mercy send her grace!
Three others.
Ruth
V.V. MDCCCXV
Bright eyes of youth look softly on this stone:
Let but a name suffice to character one
Whose earthly beauty was so piercing sweet
It brake the hearts of them that gazed on it:
Here, as if all her Aprils to one end –
The beautifying of her face did tend,
Sleeps she at last where neither flattery
Nor tears nor singing may distinguished be:
And from its lovely and so delicate house
Is passed the spirit: all that ravished us
Lies here at end, even her loveliness,
And the sweet bird cometh to songlessness.
The last of a Spaniard:
Laid in this English ground
A Spaniard sleepeth sound.
Death heedeth not man’s dreams,
Else, friend, How strange it seems,
This alien body and soul
Should reach at last this goal.
Well might the tender weep
To think how he doth sleep,
Strangers on either hand,
So far from his own land.
O! when the last trump blow,
May Christ ordain that so
This poor Spaniard arise
’Neath his own native skies:
How bleak to wake, how dread a doom,
To cry his sins so far from home.
To the living:
What seek ye in this old Churchyard?
The dead are we,
The forgotten dead who, dead long since,
Close together in silence laid,
Find death sweet we once thought sad,
And peace the last felicity,
The dead are we.
What shall we find in this sad Churchyard?
Cypress and yew,
Dark shadows upon Time and signs
Of death by day, how many days!
How many starry nights they raise
Their gloomy branches grey with dew
Cypress and yew!
Why will ye leave this still Churchyard?
Here is sweet rest.
On earth there is no rest for man.
Love is not rest, nor toil, nor faith;
But only faith will sweeten death
When the heart pants in the tired breast
For death and rest.
The briefest of all, upon a dark vault, ancient and gaping, without date or name: ‘O Aprille month!’ A great house for such a little body.
It is a faithful servant of the seasons, this untended graveyard. In spring the almond and the resinous elder hang over against the grave of the natural, with an extraordinary alertness, like an archer with bow bent; in summer the wine-sweet wild rose, the echoing cry of the bird; and so to autumn and winter-brown leaves, and twigs, and snow. Time will efface all record soon. Its narrow wall is ruinous, scarce hindering even now the wandering sheep from trespass, and surely no obstacle to pucks and gnomes that hoot and squeal above its recumbent stones. Perhaps, but for its abundance and its solitary tower, it will presently be at one again with the wild and broomy moor.
1 First published in Pall Mall Magazine, September-December 1901, ‘by Walter Ramal’; later published in Eight Tales, ed. Edward Wagenknecht, Sauk City, Wisconsin, 1971. See also ‘Lichen’ and ‘Winter’ (DDB (1924)), which have epitaphs in common.
The Rejection of the Rector1
Mr Wilmot was of too indolent a temperament to be an acute observer of Nature; indeed Nature was the more active of the pair, and influenced him in her various moods more intimately than he himself imagined or would have cared to confess. April was come with lilac and chestnut, and as the Rector returned at evening to his solitude, a serene melancholy took possession of his mind, bending his thoughts on two matters similar yet remote. He was in spirit gone back to the youthful days of the past and to the memory of his first love, yet at the same time he was considering the present also in the matter of taking a wife. The sentiments were strangely in harmony one with the other, the one perhaps as befitted his age (a very practical thing), the other deep-rooted and intense beyond decline.
Fortune favours the ductile as well as the strong, and after many years of difficulty and effort she had steered him into a tranquil haven. He had faced laborious days with placid courage, but without zeal, so intent had been his rather weak desire f
or ease; and now that his desire was attained, he was able to enjoy it to the full.
His living was not affluent, yet ample for a man of moderation and solitary habits. The poor of his parish were few and docile; the wealthy equable and staid. His churchwardens were meritorious institutions, whom Time would remove only when successors should be rife. The little town was built on the incline of a hill; on its elevated outskirts stood the houses of the wealthier members of his congregation, amid green trees and orchards, in imperturbable somnolency. It seemed the children of these families must be merely importations by request. It is true a sleeping infant in its fleecy bassinet might sometimes be seen along the sunny chestnut walks, and in June boys would be met with in the fields; else the daughters of the place were for the amelioration of invalid widowers, and its young men rather ladylike. It was a parish where it seemed always afternoon, where the six week-days were but a torpid preparation for a demure Sabbath.
The Rector was a tall, slender man, not yet quite grey, somewhat dainty of speech, yet not insipid of matter; a writer of pleasing verse, a preacher who deemed his congregation of more importance than his prejudices, a graceful listener when in the company of men of the world; and beside these things, he was gifted as only Genius and Indifference and Felinity are gifted – he was almost unconsciously erudite in the sex.
He opened his gate and entered his garden. Its walks lay along between daffodils and tulips. A lofty pear-tree was the punctual resort of a thrush. All the swift magic of spring was in that quick budding garden of flower and fruit tree. He had debated the eligible spinsters, one and all, with his customary hesitation, and now resumed what was rather a mood than a memory – the memory of the days of his youth, of his first wife Hannah.
Notwithstanding the discretion of his parishioners, gossip had long been busy with the former subject. His poorer matrons found in it tattle ever new and animating. His crabbed sexton shook a crazy head. And the little clean girls of the Sunday-school looked pleased and askance, and each talked over the chances of her particular teacher, with sneers for every rival. Quite young and somewhat anaemic girls fretted with wildest daydreams, and quaked with stifled heart at his approach. Of these Rebecca Mills adored him candidly, without fear, retaining meanwhile a butcher in her service, quite unjealous, and slaughtering busily for the sake of a wife and home. Strangely enough it was she who most quickly perceived the secrets of her elderly and patrician rivals. She had them one and all by rote, and every detail of her passion, prospects and prosperity. She was love’s most obedient weathercock, nor ever wavered in pointing whither his influence bade. Moreover, she was the eldest and favourite pupil of Miss Alice Seymour, and her allegiance and ardour were beyond reproach. It was her desire and assurance that since herself was fated butcherwards, Miss Seymour should become the Rector’s second wife.
The Rector had been not quite so sure as he seated himself in his ivied arbour. His bow had many strings: only polygamy would secure him from all sympathetic regret. The purple silks of Miss Pugh, her cheerful, spectacled countenance, and perennial banter; Miss Minto, pale, austere, antique, fine in wit, elegant in mien, caustic in criticism; Miss Daw, a little round widow, like a dove in her pleasant house: all were variously excellent – one only of these ladies, alas! was allowable. Moreover, all were similarly excellent in the primary matter of means. The Rector was not a mercenary man, but the one passionate and tragic influence in his life had dulled his eyes and secluded his heart from all other remembrance of romance. He was intended to be a duteous and cockerel husband: it was his vague intention to take a suitable lady to wife.
Miss Seymour lived rather beyond her neighbours and their gardens, a lonely and somewhat sequestered life. She might walk over her little garden bridge across a brook into a great wood of primroses, and here she would seat herself these warm spring mornings to work or to read or to muse. She was unaccustomed, perhaps would have deemed it a somewhat vain and vulgar act, to analyse her emotions. She was content rather to enjoy being, than to vex herself with questions of becoming. Yet as she sat gazing with clear blue eyes, not by any means without insight, on the April prospect of green and blossom, a faint wonder was wafted through her mind, of her own strange sense of felicity. She was inclined rather to attribute it to a life mercifully suffered to be spent in compassion and patience than to any more trenchant and disturbing cause.
Rebecca Mills came through the wood gathering primroses in a little wicker basket, and in hope to find Miss Seymour there alone. She liked nothing better than to perch herself upon the margin of that perilous subject, perilous alike to herself and to Miss Seymour, less perilous, perhaps, to the dogged, thrifty butcher. To-day she soon perceived a facility in the conversation that was seldom vouchsafed her. Her words moved easily to the rhythm of her thoughts, she yearned in deep unselfishness to aid her friend and teacher to the bliss she might not share, and so turned as quickly as possible to matters cordial and ecclesiastic.
‘Tom says he wants me soon, Miss,’ she remarked wistfully. ‘He’s so firm I can’t gainsay him having his own way.’
‘But don’t you wish to be married soon, Rebecca?’ inquired Miss Seymour gently.
‘It’s a blow, Miss,’ Rebecca answered. ‘Castles in the air is a pleasant way o’ spendin’ the time, but they’re not for wedded wives with children to bring up. Leastways, if you never think of no one else.’ She let fall one by one a handful of primroses into her basket.
‘But, my dear girl, you must not marry if you do not love your husband; it would be very wrong and very indiscreet.’
‘O, it’s not that, Miss! Why, he doesn’t love me neither, leastways not love – how could he? But when we’re settled down we shall rub along nicely, I warrant. Him and me was meant to come together I do believe. I do believe every heart has its mate: only the spirit yearns.’ She came rather vacantly to an end, but continued with head a little sidelong. ‘Was the Rector’s first an invalid lady, Miss, because I couldn’t fancy him weddin’ a robust girl?’
‘I never met Mrs Wilmot,’ Miss Seymour answered, faintly.
‘It does seem strange to think of him livin’ so lonely. I do think he wants a body’s care. And he wouldn’t need to look far. He’s just the way of seein’ thro’ us. I mean, Miss, he knows that where he seeks he’ll find sure enough. Men’s love’s so different.’
‘Why, how, Rebecca?’ murmured her companion without stirring.
‘They loves with the body, Miss, and ladies wi’ their souls. They ax for comfort and usefulness, and just blind idolatry: but wi’ women – it’s like flowers.’
Rebecca sat dismayed at so strange and unconsidered a statement. She paled a little as she turned to her companion in fear of laughter or rebuke. But Miss Seymour’s face was turned away, she was looking furtively into the green deeps of the silent wood. ‘What strange ideas you have, child!’ she said, sharply.
‘I fancy, Miss,’ continued the girl as if impelled by truth itself, ‘I fancy when a man has once loved a young woman, whomsoever it be, it has gushed out all like a water-spring, and ever after it’s just mockery and make-believe. He do look so cast down at times. It would be a mercy, I’m sure, poor soul.’
Miss Seymour rose rather awkwardly and smoothed out her skirts.
‘My dear girl, you must not indulge these notions: they lead nowhere, they are idle. A woman has a long way to go, Rebecca, and you must make up your mind to be a true wife to your husband.’
‘O, yes, Miss,’ the girl answered, opening her large eyes. ‘We shall rub along like a greased wheel: it’s the leaving the other I was thinkin’ on.’
‘But what other, Rebecca?’ Rebecca’s cheeks flamed scarlet.
‘Why, it’s only my silly fashion o’ talk. I’m just playin’ at supposin’, I do declare.’
She walked with her teacher to the brook and left her standing there, herself taking the way along the edge of the wood into the lanes.
Miss Seymour had listened to her talk, scarcel
y remembering the shame of it. She gazed gravely at her reflection in the gliding waters. Her sad, shamed eyes and trembling lip spoke out when herself had long equivocated. She withdrew softly, drawing her skirts tight to her side, and returned into the sunny garden. The birds’ high songs were strained and mad, the fragrance of the spring flowers oppressive. She struck her cheek petulantly. Her self-deception vexed her beyond measure; her humiliation showed her herself and all things else in a bleak clear light that only truth vouchsafes to unconquerable eyes. The Rector dwindled to the elderly, refined, and rather pathetic gentleman he was; the covert gossip and glances of her neighbours were now without sting for very remorse at their justification. ‘My own pupil!’ she whispered bitterly. This chit of a girl had read the man from preface to finis. All the world had perceived the comedy, the comedy of what was to her a grand treachery. Her glorious love of freedom, her glorious independence and unsullied history – no blemish or shadow of man upon it – girlishness came back to her with its swift, easy stride and lofty carriage. The Rector was then a very light thing.
She rested awhile in the afternoon, listless and rather peevish, and fell asleep. She woke overcome with ennui and took her Keble into her parlour lest red flannel for potential infants should become irksome or her fancies rebellious. To church and meeting she went as punctual and persistently as ever. She met the Rector with graciousness, quite regardless of the shameful tumult in her heart; even began to be amused at those more strenuous neighbours, and learned in all their wiles.
With this new aspect of affairs the Rector vacillated no longer. It was after a meeting of the Girls’ Friendly Society that he accompanied Miss Seymour on her evening way to her house.
‘Your influence over these young girls is remarkable,’ he said. Miss Seymour glanced sidelong at her companion. He was blinking his eyes rapidly and moistening his lips, as was his habit before announcing his text.
Short Stories 1895-1926 Page 66
