Читать книгу The Fortress - Hugh Walpole - Страница 7

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The scarlet cloak of Oberon cast hastily on the daisied sward of the meadow, the laughter of the fairies as they fled towards the wood, the young men as they waited by the church gate, straining forward, listening for the word to go, the strange orange turban of Miss Pennyfeather, the breaking lights of violet and crimson as the fireworks burst above the Lake, the clown standing on his head in the market-place, his calves brown as berries against the sunlight, the line of chaises, barouches, waggons, the gauze and linen of the coloured dresses shining as the ladies leant forward from their carriages to watch the runners pass, the roseate haze on Skiddaw as the reflection of the setting sun threw great lines of colour across the crowded meadow, the peal of the bells from Crosthwaite Church, the gipsies with gaudy rings, crimson kerchiefs, white teeth flashing as they told fortunes in their encampment below the wood, Titania tearing her frail petticoat as she climbed the cart to ride through the town, the riot of men and women after dusk under the stars when a kind of madness seized the place, sunlight, bells, babel of voices, scents of flowers, neighing of horses, the plashing of oars upon the water, the stars and the flare of torches—for days and months and years the smoking shadow of this life was to hang about Keswick.

It was in August of 1827 that the famous Summer Fair came, blazed, vanished. For years afterwards it was remembered; for years now it has been as though it never was. And yet the town had known nothing like it before unless it were the famous Chinese Fair of nearly a century earlier. There is no record of it. Search contemporary journals and you will find nothing. For it came, it went, as many of the finest things in life come and go, by accident; it is only a background to the history of certain private lives; a handkerchief was dropped, a horse stumbled, a word was spoken. In a week the meadow was itself again, the waters of the Lake were calm, the gipsies were in Carlisle, the booths were piled boards, the bell-ringers were practising for another ceremony, the Strolling Players were drinking in a Kendal inn.

Nevertheless, there was never anything like it again. Chance, Mrs. Bonaventure, sunshine, the accidental passing of the gipsies and the Players, stars and a full moon made this thing.

Mrs. Bonaventure had come to Keswick six months before. She was a large stout lady with a red face, a roaring voice, and a wealthy husband almost as large as herself. They were a jolly pair, vulgar, if you like, with their loud voices and carelessness of social divisions, but it was known that she was the daughter of a Lancashire baronet, so, as Mrs. Osmaston said, ‘You can be sure she can speak quietly when she wishes,’ and they were generous, crazy for parties and picnics and dances, and thought there was no place in the world like Keswick. . . .

It was she who first had the notion of a Fête. It was in some way to be connected with the hand-loom weaving, and in some way with the birth of a baby boy to her sister who lived in Rutlandshire, and in some way with the Duke of Wellington, and in some way with a prize that Mr. Bonaventure was giving for a race for young men under twenty-five, a race from Crosthwaite Church to the Druids’ Circle.

In any case, there must be a Fête.

There should be booths along Main Street with gingerbread and apples and toffee. There should be dancing in the moonlight. There should be no nasty sports like bull-baiting or cock-fighting. There should be decorated boats on the Lake, and fireworks. She did not know that some Strolling Players chanced to be performing in Penrith. She did not know about the gipsies. All these delights were added unto her.

Suppose that old Herries, remembering as he must that Chinese Fair, when in an eating booth he had sold his lady for a few pieces of silver, were present, perched cross-legged on a chimney, standing upright against a tree-top, what would he think of it all? A hundred years gone (but time is of course nothing to him now), and yet here was his daughter, like a little general, marshalling her family forces, and here his great-grandson Walter commanding his battalions, and behind them, around them, all the lively consequences, male and female, of that wild turbulent life by which he had once been surrounded! Yes, wild and turbulent that Chinese Fair had been, civilised and gentle this Fair must seem to him—but the same battle was joined now as then, and so will be, for ever and ever, change the background as you may, for ever and ever, amen!

As his long sardonic person wanders now skywards, now mingling unseen with the crowd, now peering sardonically from behind the chimney-pot, he watches that same daughter with tenderness maybe, and young John and Adam and Elizabeth with concern, and great-grandson Walter with humorous sarcasm, watches and grimly smiles and vanishes into a star, wondering why they should all be so serious over a matter so brief and trivial.

For the rest, how are they, in reminiscence, to break that confusing fantastic day into some sort of shape and order: morning, afternoon, evening and the moonlight night?—or, better than that, they divide it by event—the boats on the Lake, the race through the town, the Midsummer Night’s Dream, the dancing on the meadow—four cantos of a happy poem.

THE BOATS ON THE LAKE

By eight of the morning the booths were lining Main Street, the children were dancing like mad things down the road, the sun was blazing (for they had all the luck that day) and boats were putting out from the Islands, from Manesty, from Lodore, from Grange. By ten o’clock the carriages were rolling up, from Penrith and Ullswater and Newlands and Bassenthwaite, from Carlisle even, from Grasmere and Rydal, from Shap and Hawkshead. Very early in the morning for some of them the horses must have been led from their stables and the coaches loaded. Many came in pillion-riding as for hundreds of years they had done, while the grander farmers were proud in the ‘shandy-carts.’ Keswick, although Crosthwaite Church had not yet begun its peal, was ringing with bells, for teams of pack-horses, used for the carrying of pieces from the hand-loom weaving, came jingling in. Many of the women who were spreading their apples, nuts, cakes and bottles of herb beer on the trestles had been many a time to Hell Gill Bridge for the Brough Hill Fair, and with that same jingling of bells came the scents and sounds from Shaw Paddock and Aisgill and the old Thrang Bridge in Mallerstang.

But it was down by the Lake that the day was to begin. The sun lay on the water like a caressing hand, and the hills, from Walla Crag, from the Borrowdale peaks, from Cat Bells and Robinson, reflected their colour and proud forms as though they had another life beneath their glassy waters.

Mrs. Bonaventure, attended by husband and friends, was soon seated like a queen on the commanding perch of Friar’s Crag. She loved fine colours. She wore a hat as broad nearly as her shoulders, and from it waved four large ostrich feathers. Her dress, magnificently full, was a brilliant orange.

Very soon the borders of the Lake were thronged with figures, and the water whispered with the soft splash of oars. Across the meadows and trees suddenly broke out the bells from Crosthwaite, and from the landing-stage the blast of the Town Band. A gun was fired from the Island. The Fête was begun.

It was just before midday, when every eye was straining to see the first boat round the corner of the Island, that the party from Westaways arrived. Walter himself drove his coach from the house to the end of the Lake Road, and as his four horses galloped up Main Street everyone cheered and the little boys turned cart-wheels and the pigeons flew in exulting circles above their heads.

Walter was elegant indeed as he flourished his whip decorated with coloured streamers, his many-caped riding-coat of green high above his thick neck, his chest thrust out, his head up as though to say: ‘You may claim this or that for your glory to-day, but here is the true centre of the affair!’ He had in the coach with him his wife, his children and his relations. It was a piece of fortune that these relations were present to witness his splendour, for it was only chance that the young sons of Durward Herries were passing through from Edinburgh and that James Herries (at length, after many years of weary waiting, succeeding to his old father’s baronetcy) had come over from York.

But there they were: the two boys with two Oxford undergraduate friends from a house near Carlisle, and Sir James Herries, Bart., puffed out with solemn pride and complacent satisfaction. Agnes was there too, and also Uhland and Elizabeth.

After leaving the coach they walked, a cluster of splendour, to the Lake’s edge.

No one could be more genial with all the world than Walter when things went as they ought to. He had left his riding-coat in Posset’s care, for the day would be hot, and now at the age of thirty-five his great frame was beginning to yield at last to the stoutness that it had so long resisted. His high hat with the broad brim, rough in texture, was a dark wine-colour; his claret-coloured coat, the tails sewn on separately that it might fit his sides the better, followed the lines of his body exactly. His neckcloth was shaped at the sides and stiffened with pig’s bristles, rising to a kind of arch at the cheeks, and at its centre was the accustomed jewelled pin. He wore two waistcoats, one of dark purple, the other dark grey, his trousers, tight at the knees, widening downwards, were fawn. This must have been a warm costume for the middle of summer, but the stuff was all of a light material, and it was only at the neck as the day advanced that he was uncomfortable—which may possibly have accounted for his excitement at the end of the day: by such slender threads do human actions hang!

With his clothes, his bulk, his carriage, his merry arrogance, his vitality and bonhomie, he was by far the most remarkable figure on that day. Men said afterwards that to them this appeared the turning-point of his life—his last public appearance before the beginning of the Fortress!

He stationed himself with his wife, children and friends—a kind of resplendent patriarch—on a little green mound whence he could watch, above the vulgar crowd, the procession of the boats.

Scarcely, however, had the first two boats rounded the corner of the Island before the party from Fell House arrived—‘Madame,’ Mrs. Jennifer Herries, Adam, John and Dorothy, with Mr. Rackstraw in the background.

They had come almost to the water-edge before they realised that Walter Herries and his company were stationed above them. The people of Keswick could not be ignorant of the family warfare, had indeed for many years now been aware of it. The most fantastic stories were abroad: that Walter Herries had put poisoned wine in the Fell House cellar, that he had hired ruffians from Whitehaven to kidnap young John, that ‘Madame’ herself in the dead of night had climbed in at a Westaways window armed with a carving knife—no tale was too absurd. Even though the procession of boats had begun, everyone watched to see what ‘Madame’ would do. But ‘Madame,’ after a moment’s glance, did nothing at all. Her Leghorn hat, trimmed with dahlias and ears of corn, her muslin dress of lilac, should have seemed ridiculous in a woman of her years. But she was not ridiculous, rather wonderfully imposing, her little figure neat and strong, her hand resting on her ivory cane, her head raised as though she ruled the world. Jennifer Herries, in a white muslin, towered above her, but was less impressive. Everyone said how handsome John Herries was, that Dorothy Herries had a fresh complexion, and that Madame’s boy looked very French—the same comments were always made.

If Walter had noticed Judith he gave no sign of it. So there they all were to watch the procession. Round the bend came the boats, the first four with twelve oars apiece. They were all decorated with flowers, and in three of the boats girls in white sang to the accompaniment of harps. The oarsmen were in white with crimson sashes at the waist. The sixth boat was a barge, and in it seated on a throne was the Guardian of the Lake. He was a stout old gentleman (Mr. Barleycorn the hosier, in fact) with neck bare, garlanded, his fat legs bare to above the knees, and he carried a trident, thereby causing many of the spectators to suppose him Neptune.

In the boat that followed him was enthroned the Queen of the Lake with attendant maidens. This, as everyone knew, was Mrs. Armstrong who kept the sweet-shop just below Greta Hall. She was a commanding woman, full-breasted, and even on quite ordinary occasions, when selling a stick of liquorice to a small boy, stiff with dignity. It was because of her dignity that she had been chosen for this office.

In the boats that followed some licence of costume had been permitted: there were sailors, pirates, clowns, village maidens and Columbines. At the last there were small children carrying bouquets of flowers and watching with uneasy glances lest at any moment they should be precipitated into the water.

Oh, but it was a grand procession. The sun gave them his glory, the mountains wished them well, the church bells rang and the Town Band blared, the voices sang, and through it all the plash, plash of the oars gave rhythm and movement to the pattern of flowers and water and shadowed reflection.

They swept in a great circle, then drew up in line before the shore. The Guardian of the Lake rose a little unsteadily in his throne and delivered an address, not a single word of which could be heard by anyone. Then planks were thrown from boat to boat, and the goddess (Mrs. Armstrong), ‘every movement a symphony,’ walked most majestically if uncertainly to the land, followed by her maidens, then by the little children, and last by the shouting rabble of sailors, clowns and Columbines.

Everyone now was shouting, everyone was singing; everyone rushed in unison together up to the field behind, where Mrs. Bonaventure was to receive the King and Queen.

‘Very pretty,’ said Judith. ‘Very pretty indeed.’

‘Very handsome,’ said Walter Herries, coming from his green mound. He took off his wine-coloured hat and bowed.

‘Good day, Walter,’ said Judith, looking him steadily in the face.

He smiled and seemed a boy of eighteen.

‘I hope you are well,’ he said.

‘Never felt better,’ answered Judith.

‘We have a fine day.’

‘An excellent day.’

Sir James bowed. Judith inclined her head.

Walter’s party moved on.

Young Garth Herries asked a question.

‘That, my boy,’ answered Walter, ‘is a relation of yours—and the most remarkable woman in England.’

THE RACE THROUGH THE TOWN

As everyone knows, the men and women of the North Country have never believed in the display of their emotions unless there is good ground for it. They prefer to wait and see what is really occurring before they venture an opinion. When they say a thing they mean it, but they mean a great many things that they never say.

The more extraordinary, then, was the outburst of singing and joy as the flowery boats circled the shore. It was a spontaneous cry as though some especial genial deity were abroad that day who, wishing for a song and laughter, saw that it was so. (In parenthesis: there had been up to this midday very little drinking. That came after.)

Adam found himself with his mother, Dorothy and John perched on a mound outside the churchyard wall, waiting with a great crowd of other spectators for the race to begin. He was, if he had cared to think of it, possibly the happiest boy in England that day. This was what he loved—the sun, the crowds, his own familiar country, every kind of sport and, as instinctively he knew, his mother as happy as he was.

In spite of the difference in their ages, mother and son were just now children together. This too was what Judith loved. She had a child’s passion for small things, she adored to see other people happy. Adam’s hand was in hers, and she had enjoyed her moment’s challenge with Walter. There was no sign anywhere of the Westaways party, and she was quite certainly just then monarch of all she surveyed. Because she was so small of stature she stood once and again on tiptoe so that she might miss nothing. Nearly everyone around her knew who she was, and if anyone didn’t he was certain to inquire; you couldn’t catch a glimpse of her and not be conscious of her personality. But they were all proud of her, although they didn’t quite know why. Farmers and their wives, townsmen and statesmen and better-class smiled, nodded, said it was a fine day, and she smiled and nodded back at all of them.

Adam, as was customary with him, said little but noticed everything. Dorothy stayed close beside her mother. At that time young ladies stayed as close to their mothers as though they were glued to them lest something evil should occur to them. John, very handsome in his plum-coloured coat, was apart, as he so often seemed to be. He was enjoying himself, but quietly and with that slight nervous social tremor that never quite left him when he went abroad. He did not know that within half an hour the greatest event of his life was to occur.

Across the road were lined the runners, twelve of them. They wore thin shirts open at the neck and short drawers. They were young, strong, tanned most of them by their outdoor labour. The two favourites were John Graham of Threlkeld, a tall, stringy young man with a head shaped like a hammer; and Will Leathwaite of Grange, who was short, thick and simple-eyed like a baby. Two of the men, Tom Trimble from St. John’s in the Vale and Harry Pender of Keswick, were famous runners but were older than the others. Trimble was a giant and as broad as he was tall. His legs and arms were hairy and his chest hirsute beneath his shirt. Good nature beamed from him and he looked round him smiling on everyone, although his brow was wrinkled with his serious purpose. He towered above the others. Pender was thin and cadaverous. He was an ill-tempered man and hated to be beaten. Mrs. Pender in the hedge near at hand waited with anxiety, for she knew that were he defeated he would be none too pleasant a companion that evening. Trimble’s mother, an old rosy-faced woman with a basket on her arm, kept calling out to her son to encourage him, and he would look across the road and smile at her and shout: ‘Aye, mother, I’ll do my best.’

Old Major Bellenden had been appointed starter, and very self-important he was. At the stroke of the half-hour from Crosthwaite Church clock he would shout ‘One. Two. Three,’ wave the handkerchief, and off they would go.

Adam’s hopes were resting on Will Leathwaite, the thick simple-faced young man. He knew Will a little, for Will’s father was a friend of Bennett the coachman, and Will would on occasion ride over from Grange or drive with a calf or farm produce. Will was Adam’s kind of a man because he spoke little, was good-natured and afraid of nothing.

Then, just as all eyes were staring at the clock—it wanted but two minutes to the half-hour—up the road came Walter and his friends. They were hastening along, laughing and talking, making a great deal of display. Walter strode in front; his wife, children and the two young men followed. Room was made for them behind the Major, who began hurriedly explaining to Walter Herries a number of things, very important things, involved in his official business.

And it was then that something happened to John. He saw, as though for the first time, Elizabeth, Walter’s young daughter.

It was not, of course, for the first time. He had seen her on several other occasions, but he had never spoken to her, had never considered her at all. Now her loveliness rose at him from the crowd, the cries, the fields and road as Venus rises (constantly, we may believe) from the sea.

Elizabeth Herries was at this time only twelve, but she was tall for her years. Her fair colouring, her air of shyness, her slim erect body, above all her quietness, enchanted John. But he could give no reasons for that sudden thundering of his heart, that queer sense of being urged by some force around him, the very air about him, to run forward, to touch her hand. . . . He had seen her before and she had meant nothing to him. He could not understand it. It was an enchantment, a magical turning of flowers and hedge, dusty road and churchyard wall into shining glass, feathered clouds and raining gold. To run, to touch her hand, to speak. . . .

Then, as though he had wheeled upwards on a rising sphere from sunlit underworlds, he caught his own state again, heard the voices, saw the lilac stuff of Aunt Judith’s dress. Walter Herries’ daughter! He raised his head and stared at the sun.

The clock struck, the handkerchief was waved, they were off! And Adam was off too. A moment before he had been holding his mother’s hand, as docile a boy as you could find. She thought that she had him for the rest of the day. But he was gone before he knew that he was going. As the white figures flashed like birds towards the town, he, driven by an impulse entirely irresistible, was after them. His mother, his amiable placidity, were lost as though they had never been. Others were running too; there were shouts and cries, and then suddenly he was aware of a known voice and there was Farmer Leathwaite, father of Will, trotting on his black horse beside him.

‘Hup! Hup!’ Farmer Leathwaite cried, and a moment later had Adam in his arms, then held tightly in front of him. That was a glorious ride! Leathwaite had completely lost his Cumbrian caution. As the horse trotted on, from Leathwaite’s big stomach into the very pit of Adam’s back came continual cries, adjurations, shouts and cheers: ‘That’s it, Will, my lad! Keep goin’! Keep goin’! Not so fast through t’town. . . . Gently, gently, my boy. You’ll beat ’em! You’ll beat lot of ’em. . . . Keep joggin’. . . . That’s the fancy! Go to it, my lad! Fine lad! Fine lad! Gently, gently! . . .’

And Adam was caught by the same fever, crying in a cracked voice: ‘Go it, Will! Keep going, Will! Hurray! Hurray! . . . You’re winning! . . .’

But the gallant horse was also stirred by the splendour of the event and, do what the farmer would, refused to be stayed, so before they knew it they had galloped up Main Street, horses and shops, booths, women, dogs and shouting boys all left behind.

‘Woh! Wey! Wey! Woh!’ cried Leathwaite, trying to look back and see how his son was faring, but the mare with her ears pricked back was racing all the other mares in the world, and before they knew it they were out of the town and climbing the hill.

With shouts and curses the horse was at last pulled up. Small groups were gathered about the path. Leathwaite mopped his brow with a large yellow handkerchief.

‘Do you think Will is going to win?’ asked Adam breathlessly.

‘Can’t say . . .’ Leathwaite panted. ‘He’s in grand condition. . . . Hope so. . . . Hope so. . . . They’ll be coming shortly. . . .’

It was very quiet here. After the dust, heat, shouts and cries it was as though a heavy door had closed on the world. The trees were darkly thick above their heads, the hills like blue clouds beyond the town.

‘How’s he doing?’ someone called from the waiting group.

‘A’ reet . . . a’ reet,’ Leathwaite shouted back.

‘I think he’ll win, don’t you?’ Adam said.

Oh, but he had to win! The whole of the world’s happiness depended upon it. Then, after what had seemed an infinity of time, the white figures appeared, two in front neck and neck, then three, then at a considerable distance four or five. They were going more slowly now; the hill was telling on them, and they had the hardest task yet before them.

The first two were Trimble and a lad called Sawston. Trimble’s big body was almost done. The sweat poured down his face, his breast was half bare, and on his face there was a set mechanical smile. But Will was in the next three and running strong. . . . With him were John Graham and Pender. Leathwaite rose on his horse and waving his arms roared encouragement. Adam shouted too.

‘Go on, Will. . . . Go on, Will. . . . You’ll win! You’ll win!’

He was one with Will then. He and Will were running together. He was inside Will, knew all his thoughts, his determination, his measuring of the hill beside him, his calculation of his strength, knew the maddening irritation of Trimble’s great back in front of him, the temptation to make the spurt before it was time.

Now the horse went with them, and up the hill Adam and father and son charged together.

Trimble was giving way. Young Sawston passed him. Graham and Will drew level with him. Now Graham and Sawston were neck and neck. Here began the real steepness of the hill. The sun blazed down, the trees had drawn back as though refusing shelter.

‘Now, Will, my lad! Now!’ shouted his father.

‘Now, Will, Now!’ screamed Adam.

Sawston, Graham and Will were together. Graham, his head more than ever like a hammer, was running well. He was fresh as a skylark and breasted the hill as though he loved it. Sawston seemed on a sudden to lose heart; he looked back, missed his stride. Will passed him. At the hill-top where the path ran level to the Circle, Graham and Will were ahead.

Then, thrust on, it may be, by his father’s fierce energy, Will Leathwaite made his spurt. He was ahead; Graham caught him. Graham was ahead. Will was level.

The Circle, calm, dignified, gazed indifferently out to Helvellyn and Scawfell and the Gavel. Will threw up his head; he seemed to catch all that country into his heart and, fiercely, like a swimmer fronting a terrific wave, flung himself across the string, the winner by a head.

Adam tumbled off the horse. Leathwaite, shouting his joy, caught Adam’s small hand and wrung it as though he had never seen him before.

THE MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM

The play was to begin at four o’clock. A platform had been erected on the rising shoulder of the fields where now St. John’s spire raises its finger for the friendly communion of the clustering hills. Up the slope climbed the meadows, striding to woods and sky. To the left the town, below them the Lake now richly dark under this sun with a sheen like the gloss on a blackberry; on benches raised roughly in four tiers sat the Quality. Beneath them and on either side of them crowded the citizens of England, for, although at this very moment of four o’clock of a fine afternoon in August 1827, all the Keswickians might be said to have been hovering before landing in a new world—a world of light, grime, noise, motion and confusion—yet the decencies were to be observed for a long time yet. Man still doffed his cap to Master, heads of families were heads of families, a mile was a mile when you had to walk it, and amusements were still simple enough and rare enough to be amusements. The little town, above whose roofs there hung a violet haze, shared in the happiness of its inhabitants as even to this day it yet does. From the days when the monks of Fountains were permitted a mill-dam on the Greta, through the stages of a weekly market in the thirteenth century over the old bridge at Portinscale, past the dark slumbering church of Crosthwaite, from the thirty citizens of Keswick in 1303, it had had its strong identity and kept it. Spirit and body were from the first lusty and self-confident. St. Herbert saw to the first, the weekly market saw to the second. Through the wars of Scots and English, when Threlkeld and Millbeck must be fortified, when beacons flamed on Skiddaw, through the German invasion in Elizabeth’s time until in middle seventeenth century the last smelting-house fell into ruin, comforted by the bleating of its sheep, the lowing of its cattle, resisting the constant rising of the waters that threatened to overwhelm it, Keswick stayed compact, pastoral and proud.

Then came Mr. Gray riding in his post-chaise, then came the poets, and the world outside discovered it. Nevertheless, neither then nor now has that outside world even scratched the lustre of its peculiar beauty. Now it was not minerals that the invaders demanded, but scenery, so scenery Keswick would give them. Let them come and take it, for they could not diminish by a leaf, a flower or a swollen silver stream the soul of the place itself. At first wool, then shoes, then pencils, then Conventions—Keswick with an agreeable smile was generous, and could afford to be, because its soul was, and must be, intact.

But it liked best its own affairs, the fun that it had made itself for its own people, and so to-day it was especially happy and its chimneys purred with pleasure. There was an air of casual enjoyment about everything, and most especially about the play of Mr. Shakespeare’s. You would not perhaps have recognised it for Mr. Shakespeare’s play if you had seen it, for that was the time when actors did what they pleased to the plays that had the honour to offer them performances, and to none more than to Mr. Shakespeare’s.

These Players were here entirely by chance. They had been in the town from Penrith for several days, so that Mr. William Greene—the chief of them—a gentleman as round as Falstaff and as jolly too, was by now almost a friend, and there was his wife, Mrs. Greene, a tall lady with a deep bass voice, and his daughter Isabella, but these were known as friends always ready for a drink and none too certain about the paying for their charges.

Rain would have ruined everything, but rain for once was far, far away. It seemed, as you looked out across the purple Lake to that stainless sky, that it would never rain again.

The Quality, sitting most contentedly on the hard boards (for the Quality was easily pleased if there was any kind of fun toward), shared in the general cheer. Among the Keswickians there was considerable anxiety (although a happy anxiety), for a number of the Keswick children had been called in to be fairies, and no one knew how they would behave or what they would do—the children least of all—for there had been but one rehearsal, when the confusion had been so great that the final orders simply were ‘to keep their eye on Titania and Oberon and follow them around.’

While they waited, the superior people held distinguished conversation together. There was not a great deal of room. Walter was pressed against James Herries, and his stout knees pushed into the thin backs of Misses Mary and Grace Pendexter, two maiden ladies who were ready to enjoy anything at any time and at any sacrifice. Evening after evening they would be out in their pattens, their old servant lighting them with a lantern, to play cards with Miss Pennyfeather or Major Bellenden, and now to have the handsome knees of the master of Westaways pressing their bones was a joy indeed. It happened, so close were they all together, that Westaways and Fell House were at last neighbours. It was as though the whole day had been working for this end, and, indeed, important consequences were to come of it. For John was near to Elizabeth Herries. When he saw how close he was to her, none of his customary shyness or caution could restrain him. In her primrose gown, sitting beside her mother, not speaking but her lips a little parted at her enjoyment of the scene, she seemed to him like a lovely bird from some Paradisal forest. It was arranged for him by some especial destiny that he should be near her. He knew that her mother, Mrs. Herries, was a gentle lady who would wish him no harm. Her father, laughing and slapping his knee, was at a distance. Only one thing prevented him—Uhland, her brother, who sat staring in front of him, his brow wrinkled, his eyes like little stones, one knee—as always—crooked over the other. As always, John was affected by a sort of cold nausea at his proximity, but to-day this new emotion of joy and happiness, as though like a great explorer, from the deck of his ship, over the trackless waste, he had seen the gold sands gleaming, was too strong for him to be checked.

If he moved a little from where he was sitting he would almost touch her. He rose up, stood back as though not to prevent the others’ view, then raising his hat said:

‘Good afternoon, Mrs. Herries.’

She must have been greatly astonished that he should speak to her, but she, poor lady, bore no animosity to anyone in the world and was delighted at kindliness, so she smiled timidly and said:

‘Good afternoon.’ (‘What a splendidly handsome boy,’ she thought.)

John’s eyes (he could not help himself) were fastened on Elizabeth, but he said:

‘Yes, ma’am. We are fortunate in the weather.’

‘It is indeed a splendid day,’ Mrs. Herries replied to him.

Then, boldly, he spoke to Elizabeth.

‘I trust you can see well where you are sitting,’ he said.

She looked up at him, and to her also he appeared as something new and wonderful. He was standing in the sunlight, very erect and tall, the sun shining on his hair. She wondered why she had never noticed before how beautiful he was. Although she was frightened of her father and had been forced all her life into the background, she was not nervous. She smiled.

‘I can see most excellently, thank you.’

At her smile he could have gone on his knees and worshipped her.

‘You will tell me if I am in your view,’ he said, bowing. Then, just as he was moving away, he realised that two eyes were looking at him with a malignant force that seemed impossible for so small a boy. Elizabeth’s brother’s. . . . Something cold struck his heart.

The play had begun. From the first it was invalidated by the fact that Mr. Greene, who was playing Bottom, wished to be in the forefront throughout, and that his wife, who was Titania, had the same desire.

So Theseus and his Court were soon bustled off the scene and the pairs of lovers were permitted to love and bicker only in brief moments while Bottom found his breath. Titania (very fine in shining ermine with a helmet—a perfect conception of Britannia) was meanwhile hovering with her attendant elves (‘There’s Lucy,’ cried Mrs. Bucket, ‘her with the daisies.’ ‘That’s our Liz—standing on one foot,’ cried Mrs. Ellis) near the platform and suddenly pushed forward and began, in her deep voice, to shout her lines.

‘First, good Peter Quince, say what the play treats on,’ shouted Mr. Greene.

‘What, jealous Oberon! Fairies, skip hence. I have forsworn his bed and company,’ cried Mrs. Greene.

For a moment it seemed that there would be trouble, but Bottom had his way, and Titania retired to sit on the grass near by and throw daisies at the children, for in spite of her size and voice she was a merry and kindly woman.

When, however, the time for the fairies was really come, they had their triumph. For one thing Oberon was a splendid young man, with a handsome red cloak and a noble pair of legs. Then the children, loving the sunshine and the freedom, exalted by the presence of parents and relations, behaved as fairies should, dancing everywhere, joining hands and singing, tumbling head over heels, running races, plucking at Oberon’s cloak. The gaiety that had been in the air all day possessed the company and the audience together.

When Bottom became an ass and laid his great form on Titania’s big lap everyone roared with applause, and the fairies pinched his legs, and Titania took off her helmet because it was so hot. There were fairies everywhere. When Theseus and his Court returned the sun was lower in the sky and long shadows lay across the grass. Some of the fairies, tired out, were sleeping, but behind Bottom and his companions, as they played their Play, the children danced and sang, Titania, carrying a baby in her arms, walked with half a dozen infants at her skirts (she had by now flung away most of her armour), and Bottom and Peter Quince, Theseus and Helena romped to the fiddle of an old man of the company who worked at his music in an ecstasy of enjoyment.

Puck came forward to speak his Epilogue and a sudden silence fell:

If we shadows have offended, Think but this (and all is mended) That you have but slumber’d here While these visions did appear. And this weak and idle theme, No more yielding but a dream. . . .

The cheers and shouts echoed from Main Street to Cat Bells. The gipsies under the wood heard it; an old man, driving his cart home to Watendlath, heard it and in a piping voice began to sing. . . .

THE DANCING ON THE MEADOW

The moon rose, triumphantly full, made of light and crystal, lucent in a sky fiery with stars. The evening was so warm that everyone brought food in baskets, in napkins and bags, and sat about on the meadow waiting for the Town Band.

Judith, Jennifer and the children had planned to stay and see the dancing and the fireworks, but now Jennifer wished to go home. They had all been resting at Miss Pennyfeather’s and had started towards the Lake to see the fireworks when Jennifer caught Judith’s arm.

‘I think I will go home, Judith.’

They were standing under the trees. Adam, John and Dorothy had gone on to the margin of the Lake that they might watch the trembling path of the moon on the water, and the boats like dark fragments of cloud that floated into the light and out again.

‘But why, Jennifer?’ Judith asked. ‘Are you unwell?’

‘No,’ said Jennifer. ‘I have a foreboding.’

‘A foreboding? Of what?’

‘I cannot say. . . . Perhaps it is being so near to that wicked man all day—the murderer of my husband.’

‘Nonsense, Jennifer. You must not have these fancies, you must not. Come. The fireworks will shortly commence.’

‘No. I prefer to go home.’

‘But we cannot find Bennett. . . . And I have no notion where Mr. Rackstraw has gone. Jennifer, dear . . . Here is a seat. Rest here for a moment.’

The two women sat down together. Judith took Jennifer’s hand, but the gaiety and happiness that had accompanied her all day were gone. Once (what years ago it seemed!) in Paris she had been with her friend Emma Furze, watching the dancing, and suddenly, without warning, Warren Forster, the father of Adam, who was shortly then to be born, appeared in front of her. She remembered now the sharp sense that she had had of Fate stepping up through the dark trees beside her. She had the same sense now.

‘What is it, Jennifer? . . . It has been a most beautiful day. Everyone has been happy.’

‘I cannot help it, Judith. I am growing an old woman now, but whenever I see that man I am afraid. He has been close to me all day—and the nearer he comes to me the greater terror I feel. And I am sure that one day he will build a house in Uldale and he will look into our windows. He will kill me; yes, he will kill me just as he murdered Francis. And then he will kill John and Dorothy.’

Judith started. Could Jennifer know of Walter’s threat to build on High Ireby? She herself had never spoken of it, but someone else might have done. Walter had held his hand now for a long while; of late he had let them be except that there was a story of John’s that he had looked out of window one night and seen Walter on his horse, motionless, staring at the house. But that may have been dream or fantasy. John had all the imagination of his father.

‘No, no, Jennifer. . . . Listen—you must not think about Walter. He has forgotten us. He has not been near us for years. Really he has not. And I am looking after you. While I am there no harm can come to you.’

Judith felt as though she had a large overgrown child beside her. Jennifer was as usual untidy, her turban was a little askew. Her fine dress of white muslin that went wonderfully with her dark hair trailed at the skirt: her cashmere shawl was torn in one place. Through how many differing stages of relation she had been with Jennifer, Judith thought! From that first vision of her at Christabel’s Ball in their youth when Jennifer, in her Medici dress, had been the loveliest creature in the world, through jealousy and anger, almost to hatred (she recalled vividly still that day at tea at Mrs. Southey’s), to this complete, kindly, but a little scornful domination!

‘Come, Jennifer. . . . Do not go home. . . . It will make the children unhappy. They are having such a wonderful day. There will be the fireworks and then the dancing. It is so warm a night!’

Jennifer laid a trembling hand on Judith’s.

‘Judith, I know something dreadful will occur.’

‘Nonsense. Nonsense. . . . Now this truly is nonsense. We must not spoil the children’s amusement.’ (‘And my own amusement as well,’ thought Judith. ‘I have never enjoyed a day so much.’)

But she had made this one appeal to Jennifer that must be successful. Selfish, apprehensive, sluggish though she was, she wished the children to be happy, and especially John, whom she adored.

So they went, arm-in-arm, to the Lakeside.

The fireworks were a great success, and when they had watched them they walked slowly up the hill to the meadow. Adam went with Judith. They were of a size now. Adam was as tall as his mother.

‘Are you happy, Adam?’

‘Yes, Mama.’ He gave her arm a little squeeze. ‘I am glad Will won the race.’

‘Yes, so am I—but you should have told me that you were going. . . . I had no notion where you were.’

‘Yes, Mama. . . . Can we go and see the gipsies?’

‘Yes, if you stay beside me.’

When they came to the field the theatre was cleared away, and where the audience had sat the Town Band was. The great moon shone down on them all like a kindly benevolent hostess who had arranged the festivity and saw that it was good.

Young John had but one thought. His eyes roamed the scene. But poor John! He moved as we move in a nightmare seeking some person or place, but baffled at every moment by figures, mists and sudden catastrophes. The moonlight was now bright enough, the space wide enough for an army of young lovers, but fate played with him, catching him now here, now there, as though it were warning him that it would be better for him to ride home, find his bed and hide there. First he encountered one of the Miss Pendexters, who at once drew him into a babble of chatter: ‘. . . Well, now, that’s a true saying about an ill wind, for only a moment ago I was asking your mother how you were finding it all. “John’s enjoying himself, you may be sure,” I said to her, “for this is just a night . . .” Oh, there’s Major Bellenden. I was going to ask him . . . and a perfect little house my sister and I have moved into. We insist that you come to see us. Perfect situation, near the road so that there’s always something passing, and dear Crosthwaite Church only half a mile . . . Yes, I was telling your mother—how lovely she is in the white muslin, to be sure—I was telling your mother that it will be no trouble of an evening to find our way to Miss Pennyfeather’s for a game, for on a dark night Maria with a lantern is all we need, and often enough we can make up a table for ourselves. For our friends are so obliging—so very good. . . .’

Escaping from this he ran into a confusion of happy life. So dry was the night that everyone sat on the grass, watching the dancing and exchanging all the gossip. The town, the countryside, all was represented. The music of the band came gently through the air.

And more turbulent every moment was the evening becoming, for there were rough fellows from Cockermouth and Whitehaven, there were the gipsies, and bottles were passing from hand to hand. The dancing was growing wilder. Stout wives picked up their skirts and romped. Old grandfathers with a ‘tee-hee-hee’ pinched the arms of young girls, babies cried, dogs barked, but the woods made a dark frontier, the sky a star-fretted canopy, the mountains kept guard.

Through this whirling, noisy scene John found his way, looking into every face, thinking that maybe her mother had taken her home, praying that that might not be.

Then, mounting the hill towards the gipsy encampment, he saw the whole party. They had found some trestle seats—Walter, James and the young men were exceedingly gay; Mrs. Walter Herries and Elizabeth were a little apart, quietly watching. John waited, taking in with all his soul Elizabeth as she stood, a dark cloak now over her shoulders; the rest of the world, the dancers, the lighted fires, the stars that sparkled above the heavy wood, vanished. She was alone and in her silence and quiet a saint in a chapel secret and remote for his own single worship. He stayed there a long while. In his twenty years he had known no feeling like this, nothing that made him both so proud and so humble, so resolute and so brave, but so timid also with a shy foreboding.

She was a child, eight years younger than himself; she was the daughter of his greatest enemy. He was conscious then of Walter, who was being very merry and noisy, so that you could hear his laughter above all the rest. He was aware too of Uhland, who sat like a little ghost beside his father.

Without knowing it, he had moved nearer and then nearer again. On any other occasion nothing could have compelled him to approach those figures who stood to him for everything in life that he hated and feared the most.

He had come up behind them, and then, as though she had known, Elizabeth turned round to look at the downward slope of the hill and the light on the water. They were all absorbed in the dancing, and the two, as though in a trance, came together.

They had exchanged only two sentences of convention in all their lives, but it seemed to her quite natural that he should say, looking at her but coming no closer:

‘I have been searching for you everywhere.’

‘Oh!’ she said with a little cry of warning, looking back.

‘Yes, I know. . . . But I must see you again. I must, I must.’

‘One day—yes. . . . I would like it——’

‘Where?’ He came nearer until he almost touched her.

She shook her head.

‘We must not——’

‘Listen,’ he said quickly. ‘I will write. Our coachman will find a way to give it you——’

She stared at him as though she must see him so intensely that she would remember afterwards all his features. She nodded as though they had made a compact, then slowly she turned back.

No one can say what he would have done then, of what madness he might not have been capable, had he not seen, with a dismay that thrust him in an instant from one world into another, his mother, Judith and Dorothy approaching.

To his horror he saw that they, quite unconsciously, were walking directly into the Westaways group. He would have thought that for some mad reason they were doing this deliberately, had it not been that they were so plainly unaware. For Judith was laughing, pointing with her stick to some dancers, and Dorothy was teasing Adam as though she were trying to make him dance. He did dance a few steps, looking in the moonlight like a little animal, with his long arms and short body. They all laughed. John heard Judith say: ‘Here is a fine place. We can see well from here.’ He would have started forward to warn them, but it was too late.

In another moment Judith had almost stumbled on the bench where Walter was sitting.

John came forward as though to protect his mother. Walter Herries stood up. It was plain that he had been drinking heavily, for he lurched a little on his great legs as he stood.

Jennifer was transfixed with terror. In all the years since her husband’s death she had never until now been face to face with him.

Walter took off his hat.

‘Good evening, ladies! How agreeable a surprise! Not unexpected too. Will you not join us?’

Jennifer caught at Judith’s arm.

‘Oh, come, Judith. Come away!’

But Walter was delighted. Such scenes he fancied. The young Durward Herries boys, who saw that something strange was abroad, stared, their laughter checked.

‘Well, Jennifer,’ Walter said. ‘It is a long time since we met. It was my mother you knew, I think. I hope that you cherish no ill-will, though, for I assure you that I do not.’

‘Thank you, Walter,’ Judith broke in. ‘This is too public for your wit. Jennifer, we will turn back——’

But he strode forward so that he almost touched Jennifer’s arm. He made no sign that anyone existed for him but Jennifer, who shrank back against Judith.

‘No, no. Why so unfriendly? We must be friends, we must indeed. For we are to be neighbours. Very near neighbours indeed. You didn’t know? But, of course. . . . At High Ireby. I am to start building in a month or so.’

‘You cannot——’ Jennifer answered. ‘That would be terrible. I could not——’

‘Why, yes,’ said Walter. He took a step nearer. Then John, seized with a wild fury, struck him in the chest. Walter tottered, for he was not at all steady, almost fell. There were cries, exclamations. Little Uhland had rushed forward, hitting at John’s legs.

It was, in fact, a most ludicrous, lamentable scene, for the other young Herries men, themselves rather drunk, came forward (not very aware of what they would do). Judith lifted her stick, Agnes Herries caught Walter’s arm. . . .

Then in a moment the publicity of it hit them all. They stood transfixed in a frozen group. Two gipsies approached and one of them, a young woman with an orange kerchief and a cage of little green birds, said: ‘Lady. . . . Pretty lady. . . . The birds will tell your fortune. . . . Happy luck, lady.’

Walter steadied himself.

‘Here,’ he said, ‘you can tell my fortune, my girl, and give me a fine one.’

With great dignity, very slowly, Judith and Jennifer, their children following them, turned down the hill.