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Chapters 26 to 28 · The Golden Arrow

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  Chapter twenty six to twenty eight of The Golden Arrow by Merry Webb. This
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  LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Read by Anne Ericsson, Toronto,
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  chapter twenty six. The markets at Silverton round about Lamistide are great days.
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  Then you may see faces that you never see for the rest of the year,
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  faces with quietness on them like a veil. To go into the market
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  is to step back into multi colored antiquity, with its system of the exchange
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  of necessaries and the beauty of its common transactions. Fruit from deep orchards,
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  by lost lanes, from the remote hills, flowers from gardens far from any
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  high road, treasures of the wild, and generous baskets. All these are
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  piled in artless confusion in the dim and dusty place. The Saturday after Deborah's
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  departure to Lost Within was the great Windberry market. The berries were brought in
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  hampers that needed two men to lift them, and the purple juice stripped from
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  them as in a wine vat. Other fruit lay on huge masses of purple,
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  gold and crimson. The air was full of its aroma. There were
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  cheeses from dairies beside the great meares that joined their waters across the fertile fields.
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  When the snows melted, there were white, frilled mushrooms from pastures where
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  the owl and the weasel lived undisturbed. These were gathered in the morning dusk,
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  when dew made the fields like pawns, by barefooted young women with petticoats
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  pinned above their knees, a practice that caused many a detour of young farm
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  pans. On the way to work. There were generous, roughly cut slabs
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  of honeycomb from a strain of bees that were in these parts. When glendower
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  came by, there were ducks with sage under their wings. As a lady
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  carries an umbrella. One stall was full of sprigged sunbonnets, made after a
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  pattern learnt in childhood by the old ladies that sold them. These simple things,
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  all recklessly cheap, gave to their cellar something of the large dignity of
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  nature herself, who gives in full measure out of unfailing storehouses. Beauty was
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  everywhere except in the meat market. There, slow blue bottles, swollen and
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  unwholesome, crawled and buzzed. Men of a light complexion shouted stertorously, brandishing
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  stained carving knives. An unbearable stench rose from the offal, and women with
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  pretty clothes and refined manners bought the guts of animals under such names as sweetbreads
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  or prime fat kidneys, and thrust their hands into the disemboweled bodies of rabbits
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  to test their freshness. John was taking some wool to the stapler and a
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  calf to the auction. Joe had some bullocks to look at for mister Shakeshaft,
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  and Lily had offered to sell wimberries for a neighbor. In order to
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  go to town. She pinned some honeysuckle in her dress and tied a pink
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  ribbon round her hat. She would have other admiration than Joe's today. Joe
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  was nice, of course, but he was not eloquent. She sat between
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  the two men, who bulged over the sides of the cart like half grown
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  swallows from their nest. When Joe swayed, the others did too. You're
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  crushing my dress, Joe, Well, ain't that what it's for? A
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  large hand crept round her waist. She was busy making calculations about a lace
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  collar she coveted. She must have it, but she had no money.
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  They jogged on the calf, looking in its sack like a baby and a
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  head wrapper lifted its red and white face and gave a prolonged move. Then,
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  having made its protest against things in general, it nestled into the sack
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  of wool and went to sleep. You met helped me along with the calf,
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  Joe, if lil can manage the berries, Lily was delighted. She
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  set out her goods with a consciousness that her hair was as bright as her
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  bunch of yellow lilies. The youths of Silverton were alive to their opportunities.
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  Hello Gertie, morning miss, they called. She sold all her flowers as
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  buttonholes. She still had the berries to sell. Bother Joe being so long,
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  she thought for she wanted a cup of tea. But Joe had not
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  been long. He was standing just inside the door of the market, watching
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  her with enormous pride, delighted to see her admired when you heard her chaffing
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  them, he slapped his leg delightedly till a butcher who was pounding steak,
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  said, if you must pun meet, pun mine. A wholesale fruit dealer
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  with a roving eye for a pretty girl and an hour to wait for his
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  train. Came up to Lily. Five shilling for that lot and a kiss
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  miss and a cup of tea thrown in. Lily wavered. To get rid
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  of the wind berries and have a cup of tea was a pleasant prospect.
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  What's a kiss, she thought? All right, she replied. They went
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  to the people's dining saloon close at hand. It had a long trestle table
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  where the market folk sat with noses nearly t and like parrots in a cage.
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  I must do some reckoning first, said Lily, who had begun to
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  repent. She also wished to doctor the accounts before Joe appeared. She put
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  the biter down at one shilling a pound and took sixpence off the wimberries.
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  This gave her enough to buy the collar. Easy as easy, she thought.
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  They had tea and ham. The dealer was very pleasant. Lily felt
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  that the kiss would really not be disagreeable. Only two diners were left,
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  and they were counting out eggs. Look here, missus, said the buyer,
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  an old man with hair as stiff and long as a pony's mean.
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  Look here, eleven a shillings my price. Now that's over a penny each
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  now I counts out twelve, See eleven for me and one for you.
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  Now again, the curious manner of his arithmetic confused the seller. It's all
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  Welsh to me, she said, I've got five young chillen, and you'd
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  ought to treat me fair. I am a treating of you, fair,
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  said the ancient, and he began to count the eggs again. At each
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  dozen, he placed one in front of her. But I don't want any
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  back. I want to sell em, she wailed. So you can sell
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  em when you'm got a dozen there leastways eleven, shouted the buyer. Exasperated,
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  the dealer looked at them scornfully and turned to Lily. Now for the
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  reckoning, miss, he said, and took his kiss. Lily's horrified eyes
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  beheld Joe's face flattened Rosalie against a plate glass door with its superannuated legends somewhat
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  disconcerting on this broiling day Christmas puddings piping hot, Lily was piping hot.
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  Joe came in. Seems to me, he said, as there's a little
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  fellow here, that it'd be better not here. How should I know this
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  little lot was yours? Said the dealer. Come on, out of this,
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  Lily commanded Joe. John, sitting at his stall with his blue gaze
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  and white hair and a bunch of den't phinium selling Patty's butter, saw them
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  go and was concerned the lads looking mighty set, he cogitated, well,
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  well, I'm in a meddle. Watching his patient face, full of a
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  love that had to control its generosity, it was possible to believe in a
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  divinity who stood aside from the world's madness, not from indifference, but for
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  some great end. Joe and Lily sat by the river in a deserted corner.
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  Now, then said Joe, why don't you kiss me? Joe,
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  No, not till I've got to the bottom of this business. Joe replied,
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  with a new found wisdom. Besides, I've got no tea to give
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  you for it. Lily began to cry, let's begin, said Joe.
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  Here, we stop till you do. If it's all night. She knew
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  that he would. She was in despair. It seemed so bad and was
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  so slight. It was them whim berries. Eh, he bottom off me.
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  Oh, only if I kiss him? And he threw in a cup
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  of tea. It in a my fault if I'm pretty, she added petulantly.
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  Joe looked at her thoughtfully, it be, he said, with perspicacity.
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  I dunno how it is, lil, But you make your clothes look
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  when you've got'em on, like them women in the papers on decent. Now
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  our deb never does, and he added with decision. If you want to
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  look on decent, you can look it at home. To me. The
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  prospect caused a relenting expression which Lily saw. I sold the things pretty well,
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  she remarked. She was rather dismayed when he asked the prices. The
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  butter was too cheap, said Joe. It's gone down. The interview was
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  over. She bought the collar while Joe went to see if his father was
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  ready. They drove home in great content, and all clouds seemed to have
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  blown away. Lily registered a black mark against Deborah for the propriety of her
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  dress. When they got home, she rushed upstairs to try on the collar,
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  leaving the paper on the table. Joe picked it up. I thought
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  you'd no money, he called, where's this from? He frowned as the
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  explanation dawned on him. You lied about that butter, he said, ascending
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  the stairs. The second mean thing to day. You're different to deb Look
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  here, next time you want money as bad as I'd ask for it.
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  His voice rose, And I'll not have strange fellows paying for the tea and
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  ham of the women I sleep with, Oh Joe, if i'd all us
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  lift along of a fine chap like you sobbed Lily with great sab warfare,
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  and not along of a stingy monkey, I'd be different. A second black
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  mark went down against Deborah. Another little tap was given to her. Destiny
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  chapter twenty seven, deb said Stephen, waking her at four on Monday morning.
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  It's an a one day up you get, we'll go and see the
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  sunrise from the old chap's chair. It's mortal, early, said Deborah.
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  She felt selfish to dash his pleasure, but she had only had two hours.
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  You are lazy, he laughed. Why if I was a plowman like
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  Joe, you'd have to get up at this time every day? You do
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  make a fuss. He felt particularly well himself. He could not understand her
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  lassitude, and it irritated him by the irony of things. Lily, who
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  had given herself meanly from mean motives, was considered by Joe, regarded as
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  respectable by the neighbors and admired by herself. Debrah had given in large measure,
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  like the land of great hills and wide pastures. Whose child she was?
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  And she had none of Lily's privileges. Couldn't I just have one more
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  nap, Stephen, and you go on without me. Noah was getting light,
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  and we shall miss the best of it if we're not quick. He
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  looked at her long, soft hair, her clear face, and his mood
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  suddenly changed. We're too late now, In fact, his arm slipped round
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  her. I'll be very quick, she said, hurriedly. So you're even
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  ready to get up to avoid me. Oh Dennis, that Stephen. He
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  was really hurt as well as offended. He was so entirely unable to control
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  his new found capacities for emotion, kept under until a month ago and never
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  trained or pruned, that he rushed at things like a calf just turned out
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  in a field, hurting himself indignant, all a fire to grasp every joy
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  because so many normal joys had been denied him, he was all the more
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  voracious for pleasure. He had cultivated, so many principles quoted, so many
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  texts preached so fervently lived in such a gray atmosphere, all without real conviction.
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  And now that, in his extraordinary renaissance, the body and not the
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  soul, awoke first, he was like a drunkard. Had he loved Deborah
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  with all his being, they would have been safe. But he loved in
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  the manner of many civilized people, and not in Deborah's way, for she
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  was primeval, and her realities had never been sponged away his. Had he
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  regarded her as his best possession, but the idea of sharing every thought,
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  every hour's work with her would have made him laugh. Joe would have laughed,
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  too, But he had the virtues of his narrow view of life.
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  Stephen had not. He had, in fact, no definite ethic of his
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  own. As yet he had not had time to think it out since he
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  threw the ready made code away. Deborah's love was the sweetest flowering of which
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  humanity is capable, because it was primitive and spiritual to give, to be
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  with her man, to be so utterly at one that no explanation was ever
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  necessary, to work, laugh, sleep, and watch the splendid seasons together,
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  being in other things than sex, free and equal, and insects so
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  mutually generous as to forget self and rights. Such was Deborah's idea of love.
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  This idea, though vague, made her feel glorified and not lowered by
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  giving herself to a lover. Her eyes were full of tears. How can
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  he say such things? Anger awoke in her. She had given him her
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  independence, and she had been strong in her self reliance as a mountain fox.
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  She had given him her flawless health, her day long tramps over the
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  hills, the solitary hours dear to her as to her father. She had
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  given him more than all, the sense of right respectability, which is deeper
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  in her type of character than in any. Her dignity flamed into words that
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  stung him to fury. You love an woman like a lad, love's cake
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  till they're in and not left. And to think of Stephen Southernwood, a
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  deal more than's good for you. He had enough greatness to see the truth
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  in the words, not enough to own it. He shook her. It's
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  time you learned that you're my woman and not my great grandmother, he said.
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  He would have been funny if he had not been so grievously mistaken.
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  Your mind, you hear It's not for you to criticize my way of love.
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  I'm no more yours than you're mine. Yes you are not if we're
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  lovers as well as man and woman. Stephen, shall we go and see
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  the sunrise? Now? No, I've changed my mind, Oh Stephen,
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  cannot you be like it says in that nice hymn, Lover of my soul?
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  Just this morning? You've been the other kind of lover all the while?
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  Would you like it if I wasn't? No, only I wanted the
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  other as well. You shouldn't have taken up with an ordinary chap like me.
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  You bann't ordinary, Stephen. Yes I am, Thank the Lord.
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  I suppose you're sorry you took up with me. Now, oh Stephen,
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  you know I love only you in the world. Only I want. She
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  hesitated, unable to find words to express the fact that, although like most
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  women, she was fascinated by virility, curbed virility claimed her wholehearted adoration.
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  If you love me, you must want what I choose, and when I
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  choose, said Stephen. Shortly he reached the mind late with shame in his
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  heart. Damn you, Southernwood, snapped the manager. Damn you, said
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  Stephen. A month's notice, said the manager. But at the end of
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  the day the aggregate of work that Stephen's bad temper had produced was so large
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  that the manager shouted, after his departing figure, you can stop on.
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  After Stephen had gone, Deborah walked slowly to the hilltop and sat watching the
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  distant signpost like a white pin and a large purple cushion. Below in the
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  plain and in the valley where sleep play, corn was being cut and bound
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  in stooks. Little figures moved about far down, and the reaper passed across
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  the field with no sound. The hills lay under the noon sun like ripe
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  plums, and a huge basket from the yard at the spar mine came weird,
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  plaintive sounds as the rock crusher ground the body of the mountain to fragments.
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  These sounds were so wild and eerie that they might have been their forlorn
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  music of fairy players sitting shadowy and huge in the dim rock foundations, fiddling
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  madly of nameless terror, fluting of unreachable beauties and rocky immortalities, harping on
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  their own heart strings to the deaf ears of men. Deborah listened and thought
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  of Stephen down there with his shirt sleeves rolled up, his nostrils a little
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  expanded with excitement, and the giant work he controlled his nod, bringing a
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  fresh trolley full of rock to be ground up. Suddenly he seemed to her
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  like the rock crusher, but with no regulating hand. Hers must be the
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  regulating hand. Yet she felt only the crushed rock. The music rose.
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  Stephen was working like a demon today, and the men cursed as they sweated
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  the mountain. A thing beautiful, with such majestic and static beauty as only
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  a lover or genius can reach, lifted its voice in a passionless death song.
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  Deborah attained the beauty of the summits. She sat down on a rock
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  at the foot of the chair and gazed towards the mine. Him eager,
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  she pondered, and Henna stopped to think of me no more than the rock
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  he chose me out of the earld. She smiled it in a his fault,
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  as he am eager, So long as he am for me, and
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  me for him, naught matters, and I dunna complain. She looked around
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  the reaped country, the gash hill side, and spoke aloud, as if
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  Stephen were with her, so long as there's aught left of me. Stephen,
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  you met, crumble me if you've a mind. To the sound of
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  the rock, crusher rose again on the still air. Only never leave me,
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  Stephen, she cried, and a great terror came on her, so
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  that she clung to the rock till it hurt her hands. Don't let it
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  be for naught, lad, don't he the music died. She remembered that
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  Stephen would be coming home for his dinner, and there was no dinner ready.
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  She ran down the slope. The cranberry flowers open now showed more light
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  tears than ever on the scarred face of the rock. The fire was out,
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  the stick's wet. She had not yet coaxed it to burn when she
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  heard his step Oh, Stephen, she cried in a panic. You'll be
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  right, vexed, Diannah, got your dinner ready. He stood on the
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  threshold and looked across at her as she poured paraffin on the coal. He
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  had run up the hill without his coat or waistcoat, and was clammy with
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  sweat, tired, hungry, and ruffled by the sullenness of the men.
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  Deborah thought the look in his eyes was one of anger, and she sat
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  down on the salt box and began to cry. Stephen crossed the room and
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  knelt down by her, resting his head against her shoulder. He said nothing
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  whatever. It was the second purely noble moment of his life, the second
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  outward sign of the possibilities that John had seen. He made no apologies,
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  no effort to be picturesque, no attempt at self justification. He forgot his
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  hunger, the man, his tiredness. He forgot self without a word.
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  They remained so until the clock struck two and the dinner hour was over.
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  He went out, giving her a long look, and having foregone the luxury
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  of words. Many such moments, and Stephen would belong to the small company
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  of men who hold the world back from the beast, the self givers,
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  the lovers, in whom the flesh and the spirit burned together with his dead,
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  fast flame and light the earth. But he had so much to unlearn,
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  to give up, to suffer. He was like the mass of stone
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  that is to be a great statue. And how long the statue would be
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  in the making none could say. Chapter twenty eight. When Stephen came back
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  to Tea, Deborah had the place glowing with comfort. In the afternoon,
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  she had done a day's work, only so could she express her joy.
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  After tea, she sat on his knee like a happy child. He told
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  her tales about his work. He wanted the reassurance of her laughter. She
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  looked up at him in the fading light. Poor lily, she murmured,
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  with only our Joe. His mouth twitched, don't deb, he said.
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  Joe's a decent chap. But I'm on the end, he laughed, rather
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  unsteadily. Come to our room a minute. I've something to show you.
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  Deb On the floor were a blanket and pillow. Good enough for me,
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  he said, But Stephen, he was immovable. He slept on the floor
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  for three nights, caught a bag cold, and still kept on. He
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  sang with a new joy as he went to work, though he was tired
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  from the unaccustomed hardness of his bed. Deborah acquiesced, as she always did
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  when he was what she called set her pride and him strengthened when she peered
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  over the rosy counterpane and saw him restlessly asleep there with his greatcoat for a
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  blanket. At the mine, he continued to work feverishly well if he do
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  sweat us. He sweats himself first, said the men. They liked him
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  in spite of his hastiness and the tails they heard of his religious and moral
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  shortcomings. If other lives could have been hindered from impinging on those of Deborah
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  and Stephen, they might have worked out their destinies in the swift way of
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  great lovers. But missus Arden with her definite morality, Joe with his obstinate
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  and straightened view of sex, Eli with his ranting dogmatism, Lily with her
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  petty spite, and the world in general, with its terror of nonconformity.
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  All these came round them as steadily as the tide round a promontory, and
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  some of them, with the best intentions, brought about tragedy. The only
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  person to utter no word was John, for he had no moral code.
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  Those that dwell in the lands of the sun do not meet fires. Thou
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  shalt not was mere foolishness to John, who was always so occupied in loving
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  the great affirmative that he had no time for such negations. When it came
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  on Tuesday, he looked at Stephen in his long, earnest way, and
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  when they wandered round the garden, together while Deborah was busy in the kitchen.
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  He patted him on the shoulder. Deb looks fine, he said.
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  Stephen walked on for a space, then he replied, I am doing my
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  best now. I I didn't at first. No, how do you know
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  the lamp's not been a light in your face all that long? Lad,
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  Stephen was embarrassed. He edged away from the subject, like to see over
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  the house father. They were upstairs before Stephen remembered the blanket and pillow on
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  the floor. John saw them. He had the mystic's complete grasp on necessary
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  occasion of the commonplaces, the vitalities, the realities of life. To say
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  nothing would have been to create a tacit understanding that something was wrong. He
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  looked out at the day full of cool colors. I should no wonder,
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  he remarked, if we had the first bit of frost tonight, I dunnot
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  know, as there's anything so bad to bear as a frost in August,
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  when the country's all full of lusty life. I see you am a bit
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  of a self chastiser, Lad, he smiled, as he had not yet
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  smiled at Stephen. And I don't think the worse of you for it.
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  Nor he looked at him with kindly understanding. Nor for the cause you two
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  men come on, called Deborah. She was so happy to see affection springing
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  up between her father and Stephen that she had made enough toast for a quired
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  tea. If you'd done to eat at every bit, she said, with
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  a tyrannical nod and a radiant look at Stephen, I met cry so there.
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  I wouldn't have that for anything, said Stephen, coming round to her
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  chair and remembering with shame how she had cried on Monday morning. There was
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  a pause during which John was ostentatiously interested in Deborah's sewing machine. Oh dear,
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  ami, he said, after an interval, I've broken your machine.
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  Seemingly he held up the handle with a guilty expression, since he hated machinery
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  as Eli hated youth. Deborah and Stephen laughed. I'll put it on in
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  a jiffy, cried Stephen. Look you just turn this crank. But John
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  was not as interested in the crank as in Stephen and Deborah. I wish,
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  he said, just before he ambled off on whitefoot, that you could
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  come along some evening and lend Joe and me a hand with Eli's sheep,
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  Stephen, you can ride, I dare say a bit. I was thinking
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  it'd be in your line. How you ever come to be doing the preaching
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  and black Coat and Westkett beats me, said John amusedly. I've had enough
• 24:22
  of it. You can't stick at things forever. The restless look came into
• 24:26
  Stephen's eyes. Why are you going to see after Eli's sheep, father asked
• 24:32
  Deborah. Well, since the old mare died, he's good for no poor
• 24:37
  chap. He sits in the house like an owl in a tree, and
• 24:40
  when I go in, he says, the lord's dealing with me. Take
• 24:42
  your silly face outside, oot, and of course the animals, and that
• 24:48
  must be seen after. So I thought to myself, if Joe'd borrow a
• 24:52
  horse and you'd ride, Whitefoot would soon round up the sheep. Which day,
• 24:56
  asked Stephen, wondering how much speak could be got out of the norable
• 25:00
  Whitefoot. Tomorrow, right, you and Lily one come along, deb and
• 25:06
  mother will bring tea and we'll have a bit of a randy. He rubbed
• 25:08
  his hands. To do a kindness and make several people happy as well,
• 25:14
  was his idea of bliss. End of Chapter twenty eight