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Chapters 49 and 50 · The Golden Arrow

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  Chapter forty nine and fifty of the Golden Arrow by Mary Webb. This LibriVox
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  recording is in the public domain. Read by Anne Ericson, Toronto, chapter
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  forty nine. After a January of blinding snow and almost unbroken frost, February
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  came with the first minute white points of snow drops pricking through the soil of
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  the warm valley gardens. It was lambing time, and John was busy night
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  and day with his flock, often sitting up till dawn in the fold house
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  where the sheep were. Deborah would stand at her dark window on the nights
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  when she could not sleep, and watch his lantern, an old fashioned octagonal
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  one with horn sides, danced to and fro across the fold, like a
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  dependable will of the wisp. When he came and went to the house,
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  fitching oil or bringing a lamb to warm by the fire. It comforted her
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  as a scense of a watcher comforts a sick man, as vivid faith in
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  God comforts the dying. She was sick with a great self weariness. She
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  wanted Stephen and had only herself. She had lived outside her own personality,
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  and now to be sent back into it was like returning to some small village
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  after traveling across the world. She was paralyzed in emotion, her heart slowly
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  dying on her face began the subtle misting over of expression that ends in a
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  look of torpor and means stagnation of soul. On the nights, when sleet
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  drove like a tide against the small litted panes of her window, she would
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  look across the fold at the yellow, homely glow of the unglazed window behind
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  which her father dozed or tended the lambs. He was her one link with
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  sanity. For him, she still had some living love which had somehow survived
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  the desolation of her life. When the unanswerable questions where is he? Why
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  doesn't he write? Came upon her more urgently than usual, and her love
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  groped in the darkness of ignorance for some small all clue of her beloved.
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  When the thousand ills that might befall him came on her with sickening agony,
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  and the deadly remembrance that she would not be near him, could not get
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  to him whatever might happen, however he might want her, tried her almost
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  to madness. Then she would follow John about pitiful in her purposeless existence as
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  the young lambs that bore her company, and John, with his tall,
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  bent figure, his clear, noble profile and far seeing eyes, became to
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  her in these benighted months a symbol of the flockmaster who understood all and healed
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  all as he went to and fro on his daily duties, impeded at every
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  step by the small creatures that loved him, followed silently by Rover, hilariously
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  by the hens, wistfully by the ewes that still waited their hour, importantly
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  by those that were shadowed by one or two black faced, black legged lambs.
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  He soothed her by his endless paints, his large humor that had room
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  for all. He could not cure her, nor take away any of her
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  pain, but he could strengthen her by the beauty of his personality, as
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  the hand of someone deeply loved can help those in physical agony. Missus Arden,
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  looking sometimes from the kitchen window right with pink and red geraniums, would
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  stamp with jealousy at seeing Deborah following him all day and herself not needed.
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  Then, in a revulsion of feeling, she would wipe away the tears and
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  say, well, he deserves it an iduna to see him now all clustered
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  up with a throng of lambs and fowl, and them soft ducks and rover
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  as is getting softening of the brain, not to speak of the cows and
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  pigs, and use as ought to know better. And he never kicks one
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  of him, though he's forced to go like walking on eggs, and as
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  slow as a tortoise's funeral. Then she would go to the door and shriek
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  across the yard that tea was nearly ready, and go in again to concoct
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  some dainty night Towards the end of February, with a sharp frost, she
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  called them across the darkening yard, coming, mother, cried John, always
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  coming. You are like summer butter, and never come, replied his wife,
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  with asperity, for cold nights catched her chest, as she put it,
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  and she was sorrowful her Deborah, and felt the bitterness of those who
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  desired to comfort and have no skill in it. In the west, there
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  was still a red gash that stained the dusky tops of the shippen, and
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  the house and the shed at the back. With reflected light. A scent
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  of hay came from the little stack on the sharp air, with a warm
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  smell from the shippen, where John had just finished milking. A blackbird creaked
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  from the small kitchen garden, where he had found a warm roosting place and
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  was settling for the night in the shed. The sheep stirred and stamped.
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  Whitefoot pulled down hay from his crouch and chumbled it contentedly. The small world
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  of creatures under John's care was at peace within against the close drawn blind and
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  the shutters. The geraniums stood up fresh and bright in their brick red pots.
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  The furniture shone, the tiles glowed, and above the crackling wood fire
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  bubbled. The usual saucepan of potatoes tea was laid, and Missus Arden took
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  up her knitting till John and Deborah should come in. She was making socks
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  for the two newcomers into the family. She made socks for all the babies
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  in the neighborhood. But as she talked all the time she knitted, she
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  never knew how many stitches she had started the first pair with, so they
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  were inevitably of different sizes, a difficulty she conquered by hoarding them all and
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  then sorting them into large, medium, and small. The large she put
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  aside for Deborah, attaching such generous bows to them that lilies had to have
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  merely rosettes. In this way she expressed her sympathy. She was also very
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  busy at present doing up the cradle with pink glazed calico and muslin. This
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  was kept locked in the attic. She finished off a small boot, sewed
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  the bow on, and looked up as John opened the door. Where's deb
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  he asked, anxiously. How'd I know when I never set eyes on my
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  own child from sun up to sundown with you? Tyson her off in the
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  bitter cold to get her, Jeff replied his wife. I thought she was
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  in an hour ago. I missed her. The two old people gazed at
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  each other with growing anxiety. Unspoken fears were in both their minds. I'll
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  go and bang the tray, said missus Arden, at last, taking refuge
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  in practicality. It don'ta be no manner o use, said John. If
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  she's anywhere in the place, she'll be in the buildings, and she'll answer
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  when I call. But no answer came to his anxious, wistful calls,
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  and he lit the lantern and went out again. Patty followed, struck silent
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  by fear and having the same air of dependence on him as all creatures had
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  in trouble. As they turned his consulate from the old threshing floor under its
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  round roof to the stable on the loft over, a stumpy figure came through
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  the gate. When you lost, he queried his horse voice. Horser with
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  the cold money or cents, You'm none to spare. Neither we unlost our
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  debt, said John, his voice trembling. Oh well, she'll come in
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  at meal time. Patty rested at him and administered a stinging box on the
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  ear. I'll learn you, you callous little nut, without a colonel,
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  she cried, beside herself with anxiety. Now now, Patty, said John
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  Eli was amused, surprisingly and pleasantly. Anyone who braved him amused him and
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  gave him a pleasurable thrill. And human emotion, especially the emotion of love,
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  which led people into such incalculable doings, amused him as much as anything
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  had power to do. He therefore received the box on the ear with more
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  blandness than he ever showed when people were pacific. I'll look along of you,
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  he said, and then you can give me a drop of your sheep
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  boiled John, for I've got none. He found it convenient never to have
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  any of these things. Drawing his supplies from John a new look, duped
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  the rick up the ladder. He asked, well of all softness, said
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  Patty, It's where i'd go if I wanted to be out of the clickity
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  clock of a tongue like a wold wind bump, never still day nor night.
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  John climbed the ladder slowly, his lantern in one hand. Half way
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  up, he stopped, Mother, you go and put the kettle on,
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  he said, in case seemed bad and wants tea in that Patty obediently trotted
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  off. Eli said, John, you can go and help yourself to that
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  oil. Eli seized an opportunity that he did not often get. John went
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  up on the ladder, having succeeded in his object to be alone. If
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  he found Deborah. The top of the stack, under its corrugated iron roof,
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  was dark. John turned the lantern light on it. There was something
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  dark at the end of the stack. He groped his way along deb He
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  said, she sat crouched, white silent in her hands, blue with cold
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  where whitefoot's reins, deb He said, deb my dear. In his voice
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  were all the low notes of tenderness. He put his arm round her and
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  warned one of her cold hands between his talking softly of small things in tones
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  of infinite love. He sometimes taught to the sad eyed Jews and young Lambs
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  in tones like these, and they would look lovingly at him, understanding what
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  he meant, though not what he said. Deborah looked at him now across
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  leagues of thought, out of a far country of despair. What ails you,
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  deb dear heart, he asked, Tell your old dad, what ails
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  you? She looked at him dumbly. See dab my pretty, He went
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  on winningly. Mother and me, we've been fair crazy with sorrel, looking
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  you in every place, and the cold catches. Mother, summat cruel.
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  When are you come in? Now? I'm cold too, he added artfully.
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  Ay, it's cold, cold as death, said Deborah. Words were
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  shaken with her long shivers. There is no need to talk of death,
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  said John. We am well and hearty. Thank god it came on me,
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  said Deborah, looking at him with horror in her eyes, sudden like
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  when you went for the cows as Stephen she stopped. Yes, my dear,
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  as Stephen met me dead, she went on in an expressionless voice,
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  dead and lonesome. It came on me as he met me. And though
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  he dinna love me no, nor yet dinna want me in the full of
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  life, he met be lonesome and wanting me if he was low in the
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  cold grave, wanting me and me not. There I see, deb said
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  John. Well, And so said Deborah. It seemed to me as I
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  met go to him if he was dead, though I couldn't live with him
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  in life, for he dinna love me and want me. So I fetched
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  the reins, aye, and come up here and there there said John,
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  dunna go on, mass, i'd sooner you didna. He was sick with
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  horror and suffering for her sorrow. He knelt by her on the hay,
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  searching for comfort to give her, Staring out at the black sky. As
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  he gazed, a line of light came up over the little wood, and
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  the moon rose majestic, leisurely, changing the mass clouds doing gets of silver,
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  and the high cirrus to an ivory filigree. The house and Shippin sprang
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  into being bright roofed black shadowed. A cock crowed, and the sound came
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  through the clear air with a peculiar sweet pathos. It has at night.
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  John Knelt tranced his eyes on the moonrise, his soul caught into one of
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  its visionary moments. Deb He said, in a voice quite different from his
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  usual one, he in a dead. He may be in sore trouble,
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  but he in a dead. She looked at him with a penetrating look of
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  the stricken, and knew that it was not just a fascile phrase to comfort
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  her. She was convinced, as she could have been by nothing else.
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  How do you know, she whispered, I know, said John, as
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  swimbrels know the way to the upper pastures, and frogs the way to a
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  far pond. It came war me like it does now, and again,
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  quick as lightning, and quiet as an owl, from the house came the
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  voices of Patty and Eli raised in altercation, for Patty had seen in the
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  bright moonlight how generously Eli was helping himself. He in a dead, John
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  repeated, pleadingly. He met come back at long last. It wouldn't be
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  any use. He dinner love me, But he might be ill and want
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  nursing. Ay, he might, said Deborah reflectively. He'd want you,
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  then, John went on, persuasively and wistfully. Only for a while.
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  I maybe, But you'll not like him to be asking for you to nurse
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  him and you not there. Deborah got up, stiffly and with difficulty,
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  for she was half frozen. She stood up in the white moonlight and stretched
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  her arms westward. I want him, she said, with a controlled passion
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  that shook her I want him as is the world and all to me,
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  and I cannot find him. I sought him, whom my soul loveth I
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  sought him, and I found him not, said John, quoting the beautiful
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  words with the tender cadence he kept for such things. It was but a
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  little time, but I found him, whom my soul loveth. I held
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  him and would not let him go. The words fell like apolrain on her
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  seared heart. I I could find him out of the earld and keep him
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  in the face of death and hell, said Deborah, if he'd leaf be
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  found and kept. But he'd leave her not. We must live in good
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  be hopes, said John. And we'll talk a bit of him now and
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  again. You and meet deb What a fine chap he is and all and
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  how hard he worked, and how they miss him. And now we'll come
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  into poor mother as is thought anxious, she's scolding Eli, said Deborah,
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  with a lambent humor that came to her in tragic moments. She dinna want
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  me. There's none wants me, only you, father, She went on
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  and broke into bitter weeping. But I want you so bad, said John.
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  That they're in a no sun moon nor stars ifout you my lass.
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  So you'll come home with me. Now, when are you, deb And
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  let mother tuck you warm in bed, and I'll kindle a bit of fire
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  in your room and light the lamp, and we'll talk about Stephen. So
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  he persuaded her in homely phrases that breathed a godlike love. They got down
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  the ladder with difficulties. She was so numb with cold and grief. Patty
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  heard them coming over the frozen yard and ran out. She had conquered her
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  fears by preparing for Deborah's return, and had kept her thoughts soft dread possibilities
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  by scolding Eli. Listen when I'm going to tell you, said Eli,
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  who was almost bland and had decided to go before John found out how much
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  oil he had taken. You m a parcel of fools, but you keep
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  a plenty of things. I'll say that for you, and it'll bring you
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  to the house. Chapter fifty. Mid March came with a week of spring
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  weather. The hoar frost slipped from the brilliant pointed lilac buds and the stout
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  brown chestnut buds. As soon as the sun was up after tea in the
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  fresh, vivid fields, blackbirds sang in the clear evening light, and through
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  the mild darkness afterwards, the lambs cried. The days be drawing out,
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  said John, coming in with a primrose for Deborah. Too long, maybe,
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  said Deborah. John looked at her worn face and came to a decision
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  long pending. I'm going to market Saturday, mother, he said. Market
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  with one cow dry and the other near it, and the garden stuff done,
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  and eggs as scarce. His charity till not a hand can look me
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  in the face. What in the name of softness for oh to three things
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  I want? On Saturday? John called at the office of the County Weekly
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  and asked for the editor engage, said the boy. John sat down took
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  out his new Testament and put on his spectacles. In due time, the
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  editor appeared, and John drew me from his favorite passage and revelation, pulled
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  out a sheet of paper. Will you please to read it? Sir?
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  He said, If mister Stephen Southernwood will write to this office, he will
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  hear something to his advantage and oblige. Yes, that's quite clear. You
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  think it'll fetch him, sir? Or had I best explain a bit?
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  It sounds inviting, said the editor. Money, I suppose, well,
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  no land left? No what then if I might ask a little and soon?
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  Said John, As if that were the best that could befall any man.
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  Good lord, said the editor, who had half a dozen children.
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  No, don't explaining. If you want him and it'll find him? Certain,
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  sure, asked John, looking at the editor over his spectacles in America.
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  The editor struggled between truth and the credit of his paper. Well,
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  he said, of course, America's a big place, and although we've a
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  large circulation, he might not see it. Why not try a cable if
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  you know his address? I dunna, said John. I m untry a
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  different sort of table, eh, A bit of a prayer. When John
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  got home. Missus Arden was throwing hay to the sheep. And I hope
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  you've done gallivanting for a bit, she said, for I cannot do all.
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  There's Deb slaving day and day out to stop thinking, and Lily as
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  want to do a hands turn and me up and down between him like a
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  bird and a cage. If I go down and get Lily to take an
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  airing when I come back, there's Deb scrub both the floors, and you
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  off to town as if you weren't going to be two grandfathers in a month,
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  and never thank you from Lily. And there's Deb wore six of her
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  and met be a widow for all the good that Stephen is to her.
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  Well, we Mundo our best mother, hark at him, we Mundo our
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  best and him going off and enjoying himself. It's long work and short words
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  as gets through trouble, not them as Dan and black like lambs within Debrasad
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  and the fading light. Weary after too hard a day, She always exhausted
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  herself in an instinctive desire for mental torpor. There was no light of coming
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  motherhood in her eyes. She was not interested in her child. If she
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  ever thought of it, she felt intense pity for it. For the rest
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  her thoughts followed Stephen, and she had none to spare for herself. She
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  had no eyes for the things round her. The devil's chair stirred no fear
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  in her. The flockmaster's signposts gave her no comfort, except that she remembered
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  her dream of him was Stephen's face. The deal before her brought no terror,
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  the future no curiosity. She was like one asphyxiated. For if the
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  thing that is the spirit's breath of life has taken away, its life stops.
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  All that she did was mechanical because she was strong. She fought her
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  thoughts by work. Because she was naturally unselfish. She made clothes for Lily's
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  child as well as her own. Lily took full advantage of this. She
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  did not feel sorry for Deborah. She was so sorry for herself. Hers
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  was not one of the natures from which sorrow strikes out a vast pity for
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  all the world. John looked at Deborah, tragic in her white silence.
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  He thought of what he had done and rubbed his hands in childlike joy,
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  never doubting that he would have a speedy reply if you must rub'em,
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  rub em with us, open'em and get washed for goodness sake, said
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  Patty. And have your meat, for it's as late as good luck.
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  Maybe I'll bring good luck, said John, through sides from the wash house.
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  Maybe you'll do a lot. But if I didn't a poke you and
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  prod you, you'd go to sleep standing like whitefoot in the shafts now.
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  Dad, My dear, draw up to your tea, she went on,
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  with a drop of three notes in her voice and a tenderness that none but
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  the sick ever heard from her. A bit of thin bread and butter,
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  now anything, Thank you, mother, said Deborah, as she always did.
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  That's a good girl. I only wish Lily'd say the same. Soul
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  franky as she is, and my cookin's too rough, seemingly though she cannot
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  cook herself, not if it's ever so there she sits sniveling in the arm
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  chair, eating sugar till she feels sick, and then refusing good food,
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  and Joe having to go down on his knees as clumsy as a load of
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  calls and feed her by spoonfuls, and him looking at me as had done
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  a morning's washing for her as if I was a black convict criminal. Only
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  saints have the patience as she calls for. And I'm not a saint,
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  thank God. Outside in the dusk, a thrush sang with poignant sweetness,
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  possessing the silent pastures with its fresh voice. John listened, his spoon,
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  arrested and stirring, the music plucking at him like a hand on a harp.
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  He listened so long while the song slipped into the clear primrose West,
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  that missus Arden was irritated. What's eggs? She rapped out eggs? Yes,
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  don't you know what egg is? What be they? Now? I
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  did not ask, and Butter I did not ask. Well of all the
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  words failed her. She put her feelings into cutting bread. John said nothing.
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  He was accustomed to silence, foreign success or failure. The seer knows
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  the impossibility of explaining himself. Can you loan me a few termits? Said
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  Eli's voice at the door. My sheep's finished. Theirs, greedy beasts.
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  You did not put in enough, said John. I was afraid you'd be
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  short. He wanted to be short, cried Patty with perspicacity. You've never
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  asked after Lily yet, Eli, Why should I spent braths gone and wasted
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  you unnatural grudging little bantam. If you was my wife, if I'd been
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  so crack brained as to be any such thing, I'd may be ended by
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  making you somewhat like a man working overtime at you best come for the termits
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  eliye, said John, taking the torments out of our very mouth, said
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  Patty wrathfully. And you soft enough to give em give, and it shall
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  be given to you, mother, not in this life. Patty spoke with
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  the skepticism of those who toil for their daily needs, and in the next
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  we met not want torments. She turned and surprised Deborah, silently crying.
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  She was much concerned with her visible grief meant much hidden grief. Little She
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  suddenly realized how Deborah had been feeling all this time. She shyly stroked her
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  arm. He'll be sure to come soon, she said, Never no more.
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  Besides a way, are not always no different? Now he donna care
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  about me, missus Arden gave it up. I cannot make dabout she said
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  to John later. Cut love's hard to mend, mother, But if so
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  be he'd come back, there might be things to be said for him.
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  As we done an know, if so be, he'd come back, said
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  missus Arden, and I could get my tongue round him real proper, I
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  could say, Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace? End
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  of Chapter fifty