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Man On The Other Side

<h2 id='X' class='c005'>CHAPTER X</h2> Thorpe was rich with the autumn yield before Violet Riversley claimed Ruth’s promise. July had been on the whole a wet month, providing however much-needed rain, but the August and September of Peace Year were glorious as the late spring, and at Thorpe an abundant harvest of corn was stored by the great stacks of scented hay. The apple and pear trees were heavy with fruit. Blenheim Orange and Ribston Pippin with red cheeks polished by much sun; long luscious Jargonelles and Doyenne du Comice pears gleamed yellow and russet. The damson-trees showed purple black amid gold and crimson plums. Mulberry and quince and filbert, every fruit gave lavishly and in full perfection that wonderful autumn; and all were there. Dick Carey had seen to that. The Blackwall children came and went, made hay, picked fruit and reaped corn, as children should. They gathered blackberries and mushrooms and hazel nuts, and helped Ruth to store apples and pears, and Miss McCox to make much jam. Bertram Aurelius got on his feet and began to walk, to the huge joy of Sarah and Selina. The world was a pleasant place. Ruth moved among her children and animals and fruit and flowers, and listened to her nightingales, amid no alien corn, and sang the song old Raphael Goltz had taught her long ago, in a content so great and perfect that sometimes she felt almost afraid that she would wake up one morning and and it all a dream. “It’s just like a fairy-tale that all this should come to me,” she said to Roger North. The cottages were finished and tenanted, their gardens stored and stocked with vegetables and fruit trees, and bright with autumn flowers, from the Thorpe garden. Even Mr. Fothersley was reconciled to their existence. Ruth had been to no more parties; the days at home were too wonderful. She garnered each into her store as a precious gift. But the neighbours liked to drop in and potter round or sit on the terrace. The place was undoubtedly amazingly beautiful and perfect in its way. The friendliness and trust of all that lived and moved at Thorpe appealed even to the unreceptive. Here there were white pigeons that fluttered round your head and about your feet. Unafraid, bright-eyed tiny beautiful birds came close, so that you made real acquaintance with those creatures of the blue sky, the leaf and the sunlight. So timid always of their hereditary enemy through the ages, yet here the bolder spirits would almost feed from your hand. Their charm of swift movement, of sudden wings, seen so near, surprised and delighted. Their bright eager eyes looked at you as friends. The calves running with their mothers in the fields rubbed rough silken foreheads against you; and gentle velvet-nosed cart-horses came to you over the gates asking for apples. The children showed you their quaint treasures, their little play homes in the trees and by the river. In their wood the Michaelmas daisies, mauve and white and purple, were making a brave show, and scarlet poppies, bad farmers but good beauties, bordered the pale gold stubble fields. Everywhere was the fragrant pungent scent of autumn and the glory of fruitful old Mother Earth yielding of her wondrous store to those who love her and work for it. Mr. Pithey was fond of coming, and, still undaunted, made Ruth fresh offers to buy Thorpe. “You’ve got the pick of the soil here,” he complained. “Now I’ve not a rose in my place to touch those Rayon d’Or of yours. Second crop too! And ain’t for want of the best manure, or choosing the right aspect. My man knows what he’s about too. Better than yours does, I reckon. He was head man to the Duke of Richborough, so he ought to.” Ruth’s eyes twinkled. “Try giving them away,” she suggested. “Givin’ ’em away!” Mr. Pithey glared at her. “Giving them away,” repeated Ruth firmly. “Now sit down here while I tell you all about it.” Ruth herself was sitting on a heap of stubble by the side of the corn field, with little Moira Kent tucked close to her side. Mr. Pithey had one of his little girls with him, and both were dressed as usual in new and expensive clothing. They looked at Ruth’s heap of stubble with evident suspicion, then the child advanced a step towards her. “Are you going to tell us a story?” Ruth smiled. “If you like I will,” she said. The child’s rather commonplace pert little face broke into an answering smile. She took out a very fine lace-bordered handkerchief and spread it carefully on the ground. Then she sat down on it with her legs sticking out in front of her. Mr. Pithey resigned himself to the inevitable, and let his well-groomed heavy body gingerly down too. During the wet weather of July the little blue-faced lady had contracted pneumonia and very nearly died. Racked with anxiety, for family ties were dear to him, Mr. Pithey’s inflation and self-importance had failed him, and between him and Ruth a queer friendship had arisen. “She cared—she really cared,” he explained afterward to his wife. So Mr. Pithey showed himself to Ruth at his best, and though perhaps it was not a very handsome best, the direct result was a row of cottages as a thank-offering. “Once upon a time,” began Ruth, “there was a little Earth Elemental who had made the most beautiful flower in all the world, or at least it thought it was the most beautiful, so of course, for it, it was.” “What is an Earth Elemental?” asked Elaine Pithey. “The Earth Elementals are the fairies who help make the plants and flowers.” “We don’t believe in fairies,” said Elaine primly. “She’s a bit beyond that sort of stuff,” added Mr. Pithey, looking at the small replica of himself with pride. “Some people don’t,” answered Ruth politely, watching the little blue butterflies among the pale gold stubble, with lazy eyes. Almost she heard echoes of elfin laughter, high and sweet. “I’ve seen them,” Moira broke out very suddenly and to Ruth’s astonishment. That Moira “saw” things she had little doubt, but even to her the little lady was reticent. Something in the Puritan self-complacence had apparently roused her in defence of her inner world. “What are they like then?” asked Elaine, supercilious still, but with an undercurrent of excitement plainly visible. “They’re different,” said Moira. “Some are like humming-birds, only they’ve colours, not feathers, and some are like sweet-peas made of starlight. But some of them are just green and brown—very soft.” “We took first prize for our sweet-peas at the flower show,” announced Elaine suddenly and aggressively. “As big again as any other exhibit they were,” said Mr. Pithey, dusting the front of his white waistcoat proudly. “You may beat us in roses, but our sweet-peas are bigger, I’ll lay half a crown.” “Why don’t I see fairies any way, if you do?” asked Elaine, returning to the attack now she had asserted her superiority. But Moira had withdrawn into herself, bitterly repentant of her revelation. “Have you ever looked through a microscope?” Ruth asked, putting a sheltering arm round the small figure beside her. Elaine looked at her suspiciously. “You mean there’s plenty I can’t see,” she said shrewdly. “But why don’t I see fairies if she does?” Ruth smiled. “I am afraid as a rule they avoid us as much as possible. You see, we human beings mostly kill and torture and destroy all the things they love best.” “I don’t!” Ruth pointed to the tightly held bunch of dying flowers in the child’s hand. “They’re only common poppies!” said Elaine contemptuously. Ruth took them from her, and, turning back the sheath of one of the dying buds, looked at the perfect silken lining of it. “Some one took a lot of trouble over making that,” she said. “But suppose you listen to my story.” Moira’s small hot hand crept into hers, and she began again. “There was once a little Earth Elemental who had made the most beautiful flower in the world. I think it was a crimson rose, and it had all the summer in its scent. And the little Elemental wondered if it was beautiful enough for the highest prize of all.” “At Battersea Flower Show?” asked Elaine. “No. The highest prize in the world of the Elementals is to serve. And one day a child came and cut the rose very carefully with a pair of scissors, and the Elemental was sad, for it had made the flower its home and loved it very much. But the child whispered to the rose that it was going into one of the dark places which men had made in the world, with no sunshine, or summer, or joy, or beauty, to take them a message to say that God’s world was still beautiful, and the sun and stars still shone, and morning was still full of joy and evening of peace. Then the Elemental was not sorry any more, for its rose had won the highest prize.” Elaine’s Pithian armour had fallen from her; out of the little pert face looked the soul of a child. She had lost her self-consciousness for the moment. “And what became of the Elemental?” she asked. “The Elemental did not leave its home then. It went with it. And when the rose had done its work and slipped away into the Fountain of all Beauty, the Elemental slipped away with it too.” “Where is the Fountain of all Beauty?” “In the Heart of God.” Elaine looked disappointed. “Then it’s all an alle—gory, I s’pose.” “No, it’s quite true, or at least I believe it is. Mr. Pithey”—Ruth turned on him and her grave eyes danced—“take a big bunch of your best roses, a big bunch, mind, down to the Fairbridge Common Lodging House for Women, in Darley Street, and tell the Elementals where you are taking them. It will stir them up no end to give you better roses.” “The Common Lodging House!” Mr. Pithey was plainly aghast. “Why, they’d think I was mad, and ’pon my word and honour I think you are—if you don’t mind my saying so.” “Not a bit. I get told that nearly every day.” “I’ll tell the Elementals, Daddy, and you can take the roses, and then we’ll see,” announced Elaine, who had been pondering the matter. Mr. Pithey regarded her with pride. “Practical that, eh?” he said. “Well, we’ll think about it. But you’ll have to come along now or we’ll be late for tea with mother. And as to the roses, I’ll beat you yet. Elementals all nonsense! Dung—good rich dung—that’s what they want. You wait till next year.” He shook hands warmly, and took his large presence away. Ruth sent Moira home to tea, and wandered up the hedgerow, singing to her self, while Sarah and Selina hunted busily. On the terrace she found Roger North. He looked worn and ill and bad tempered. It was some time since he had been to see her. His wife’s jealousy of Ruth had culminated in a scene and he had a dread of disturbing the peace of the farm. But the silliness of the whole thing had irritated him, and he was worried about Violet on whom the strange black cloud had descended again more noticeably than ever. Riversley had gone to Scotland, writing him a laconic note, “I’m better away—this is my address if you want me.” He drank his tea for the most part in silence, and when she had finished hers Ruth left him and went about her work. North lit his pipe and sat on smoking, while the two little dogs fought as usual for the possession of a seat in his chair, edging each other out. And presently Bertram Aurelius came staggering out of the front door and plump down on the ground before him. His red hair shone like an aureole round his head and he made queer and pleasant noises, gazing at North with friendly and evident recognition. Larry came padding softly up from his favourite haunts by the river and lay watching them with his wistful amber eyes. “Thank God for the blessed things that don’t talk,” said North. The deep lines on his face had smoothed out, his irritation subsided, he no longer felt bad tempered. When Ruth came back he smiled at her. “Thank you, I’m better,” he said. “When I arrived I wasn’t fit to ‘carry guts to a bear.’ You know Marryat’s delightful story, of course? And how is the farm?” “Can’t you feel?” She stood in the attitude of one listening. And curiously and strangely there came to North’s consciousness a something that all his senses seemed to cognize and contract at once. It was not a sound, it was not a vision, it was not a sensation, though it combined all three. Radiant and sweet and subtle, and white with glory, it came and went in a flash. Was it only a minute or eternity? “What was it?” His own voice sounded strange in his ears. Ruth smiled. “You felt it?” “I felt something. I believe you mesmerized me, you witch woman.” She shook her head. “I couldn’t make anyone feel that if I knew all the arts in the world. Only yourself can find that for you.” “What was it, anyhow?” “I think”—she paused a moment—“I think it is getting into the Unity of All.” “Where does the bad go to?” There was a moment’s silence between them. But the world of the farm was alive with sound. The pigeons’ coo, the call of the cowman to his herd, the chuckles of the baby, accompanied by the full evening chorus of birds. “There isn’t any bad in there,” said Ruth. “Your farm is bewitched,” said North. “I might be no older than Bertram Aurelius talking nonsense like this. Come down to earth, you foolish woman. There’s a telegraph boy coming up the drive.” Ruth’s face clouded a little. “I have not got over the dread of telegrams,” she said. “It takes one back to those dreadful days——” She shivered as they waited for the boy to reach them. He whistled as he came, undisturbed by much clamour from Sarah and Selina; they were old friends and he knew their ways. Ruth tore the envelope open, read the telegram, and handed it to North. “May I come?” were its three short words, and it was signed “Violet Riversley.” “You will have her?” said North. “Yes, of course.” Ruth penciled her answer on the prepaid form and handed it to the boy. North heaved a sigh of relief. “It’s good of you. You know she has not been well.” Ruth sat down and pointed to the other chair. “Tell me all you know. It may help.” North told her as well as he could. “It’s all so indefinite and intangible,” he ended. “Sometimes I wonder if her mind is affected in any way. From the shock Dick’s death was to her you know. That anyone should be afraid of Vi! It seems ridiculous, remembering what she was. She isn’t herself. That’s the only way I can describe it to you. Upon my word sometimes lately I’ve almost believed she’s possessed by a devil. But if she comes here—well, I don’t know why—but I think she will get all right.” Ruth did not answer at first. She sat thinking, with her elbows on her knees, her face hidden between her hands. That sense of danger to the farm had swept over her again. A warning as of something impending, brooding; looming up like a great cloud on the edge of her blue beautiful sky. Something strange and terrible was coming, coming into her life and the life of the farm. And she could not avert it, or refuse to meet it. Whatever it was it had to be met and fought. Would it be conquered? For it was strong, terribly strong, and it was helped by many. And while the moment lasted, Ruth felt small and frightened and curiously alone. “What is the matter?” asked Roger North. His voice was anxious, and when she looked up she met his eyes full of that pure and honest friendship which is so good a thing, and so rare, between man and woman. Just so might he often have looked at Dick Carey. She put out her hand to meet his, as a man might do on a bargain. “We will do our best,” she said. And she knew that WE was strong. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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