 Chapter 15 of Gone To Earth This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Gone To Earth by Mary Webb Chapter 15 At the Parsonage, everything was ready early. Edward, restless after his rough awakening, had risen at three and finished his own preparations. Being ready to help Mrs. Marston when she came down, still a good deal upset. Whenever she passed Hazel's room or saw Edward take flowers there, she said, Oh my dear, and shook her head sadly, for the kind of life that seemed to be mapped out by Edward would she fear not include grandchildren. And grandchildren had acquired through long cogitations the glamour of the customary. She was also ruffled by Martha, who, unlike her own pastry, was short. What with the two women, angry and grieved, and the fact that his wedding day held only half the splendour that it should have held, Edward's spirits might have been expected to be low, but they were not. He ran up and down, joked with Martha, soothed his mother, and sang, until Martha, who thought that a minister's department at a wedding should be only a little less grand eloquent than at a funeral, said, He'm less like a minister than a nest of birds. She and Mrs. Marston were setting out the feather-cups in the best parlour. At that moment Edward stood at the door of Hazel's room, and realised that he would enter it no more. He must not see the sweet disarray of her unpacking, nor rest night by night in the charmed circle of her presence. Almost he felt in this agony of loss, loss of things never possessed, the most bitter loss of all, that if he could have had these things, even the ruddy-haired golden-eyed children of his dreams might go. He knelt by Hazel's bed, and laid his dark head on the pillow, torn by physical and spiritual passion. His hair was clammy, and a new line marked his forehead from that day. Anyone seeing him would have thought that he was praying he was so still. It was Edward's fate to be thought so quiet, because the fires within him made no sound, burning at a still-white heat. He was not praying. Prayer had receded to a far distance, like a signpost long past. Perhaps he would come round to it again, but now he was in the trackless desert. It is only those that have suffered moderately that speak of prayer as the sufferer's refuge. By that you know them. Those that have been tortured remember that the worst part of the torture was the breaking of the prayer in their hands, piercing and not upholding. Edward knew, kneeling there with his eyes shut, how Hazel's hair would flow sweetly over the pillow, how her warm arm would feel about his neck, how wildly sweet it would be in some dark hour, to allay dream fears and hush her to sleep. Never before had the gracious intimacy of marriage so shone in his eyes, and he was going to have just the amount of intimacy that his mother would have, perhaps rather less. Every night he would stand on the threshold, kiss Hazel with a brotherly kiss and turn away. His life would be a cold threshold. Month by month, year by year he would read the sweet frank love stories of the Bible, stories that would, if written by a novelist, be banned. So true are they. Year by year he would see nest and young creatures, and go into cottages where babies in fluffy shawls gazed at him anxiously and caught his fingers in a grip of tyrannous weakness. And always there would be Hazel alluring him with an imperishable magic even stronger than beauty, startling him from his hard one calm by the turn of a wrist, the curve of a waist ribbon, a wave of her hair. And then the stern hour of crisis rode him down, and a great voice cried, not with the cunning that he would have expected of a temper, but with the majesty of mourning in the heights, take her, she is yours. He knew that it was true who would gain say him she was his. In a few hours she would be his wife, in his own house, giving him every law of creed and race. In fact by not pleasing himself he would be outraging creed and race. The latch of her door was his to lift at any time. That chamber of roses and gold, rainbows and silver cries like the dawn notes of birds was there for him like the open rose for the bee. His mother too would be pleased. She had expostulated gelatinously about this marriage which was no marriage. He would be that companiable and inspiring thing, the norm. He would be one of the worldwide company of men that work, marry, bring up children, maybe see their grandchildren and then in the glory of fulfillment lay their silver heads on the pillow of sleep. He had always loved normal things. He was not one of those who was set apart by the strange aloofness of genius, whose souls burn with a wild light instead of with the comfortable glow of the hearthfire. He was an ordinary man, loved ordinary things. Neither was he effeminate or a celibate by instinct, though he had not read in his fury of masculinity. Sex would never have awakened in him, but at the touch of spiritual love. But the touch had come. It had awakened. It threatened to master him. Pictures came dimly and yet radiantly before him, hazel as she would stand tonight brushing out her hair. This room as it would be when she'd put the light out and only starlight illuminated it. The flowery scent, the sound of her soft breathing and then in a tempestuous rush, the emotions he would feel as he laid his hand on the latch. Love, triumph, intoxication. How would she look? What would she say? She could not forbid him. She would perhaps, when she awoke to the sweetness of marriage, love him as passionately as he loved her. A wild mastery possessed him. He would have what he wanted of life. What need was there to renounce? And then like a minor chord, soft and plaintive, he heard hazel's voice in bewildered accents murmured, What for do you, my soul? And I much-debleached, I'm sure. What stood between him and his desire was hazel's helplessness, her personality like a delicate glass that he would break if he stirred. Creed and convention pushed him on for church and stator for material righteousness, the letter of the law, spiritual flowerings, high motives clad in apparent lawlessness. These are hardly in their province, since they are for those who still need crude rules. To the scribes, and still more to them that sold doves, Christ was a brawler. Rather than break that glass, he would not stir. What were the race and public opinion to him compared with her spirit? His tenets must make an exception for her. These things were negligible. All that matters was himself and hazel, his passion, hazel's freedom, his longing for husbandhood and fatherhood, her elvish incapacity for wifehood and motherhood. He suddenly detested himself for the rosy pictures he had seen. He was utterly abased at the knowledge that he had really meant at one moment to enforce his rights, to lift the latch. The selfish use of strength always seemed to him a most despicable thing. From all points he surveyed his crisis with shame. He had made his decision, but he knew how easy it would have been to make the opposite one, how easy and how sweet. He stayed where he was for a long time, too tired to get up, weary with a conflict that was hardly yet begun. Then he heard his mother calling and got up, closing the door as one surrenders a dream. He still held in one hand the bunch of rosy tulips he had brought for hazel at the show. They hung their heads. Oh, my dear boy, said Mrs. Marston, I've called and better called and no answer. Where were you? Edward might have said with truth, in hell. He only said, in a valley of this restless mind, what valley, dear? Oh, no valley, only a poem. How very peculiar. Dear, dear, she thought. I hope all this isn't turning his brain. It seems so like nonsense what he said. You look so pale, my dear, and so distraught, she went on. I think you want a no mother. Thank you, I want nothing. He was half conscious of the bitter irony of it, as he said it. Mrs. Marston was looking at his knees. Oh, my dear, I know now, she said. I beg your pardon for saying you wanted a powder. You were with the Lord. You could not have been better occupied on your wedding morning. She was very much touched. Edward flushed, darkly conscious of how he had been occupied. There, cried she, now you're as flushed as you were pale. It's the fever. I'll mix you something that will soon put you all right. I only wish you could, he sighed. And what I wanted, said she, catching at her previous thought in the same blind way as she caught at her skirts on muddy days. What I wanted, dear was, it's so heavy, the cake. You want me to lift it, mother? Yes, my dear, how well you know, and mind not to spoil the icing. It's so hard not to, it being so white and brittle. No, I won't spoil the white, he said earnestly. However hard it is. She did not notice that the earnestness was unnatural. Intense earnestness in household matters was her normal state. End of Chapter 15, recording by Rachel Linton, Bristol, UK Chapter 16 of Gone to Earth. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Gone to Earth by Mary Webb, Chapter 16. The stately May morning, comparisoned in diamonds, full of the solemnity that perfect beauty wears, had come out of the purple mist and shamed the hovel where Hazel dressed for her bridal. The cottage had sunk almost out of recognition in the foam of spring. Ancient lilac stood about it and nodded purple coroneted heads across its chimney. Their scent bore down all other scents like a strong personality, and there was no choice but to think the thoughts of the lilac. Two lebernums, forked and huge of trunk, fingered the roof with their lower branches and dripped gold on it. The upper branches sprang far into the blue. The maitry by the gate knew its perfect moment, covered with crystal buds that shone like rain among the bright green leaves. From every pear-tree, full-blossomed, dropping petals, and from every shell-pink apple-tree came the roar of the bees. Abel rose very early, for he considered it the proper thing to make a wreath for Hazel, being an artist in such matters. The lilies of the valley were almost out. He had put some in warm water overnight, and now he sat beneath the horse-chestnut and worked at the wreath. The shadows of the leaves rippled over him like water, and often he looked up at the white spires of blossom with a proprietary eye, for his bees were working there with a ferocity of industry. He was moody and miserable, for he thought of the township of hives that Hazel might have won for him. He comforted himself with the thought that there would be something saved on her keep. It never occurred to him to be sorry to lose her. In fact, there was little reason why he should be. Each had lived a lonely, self-sufficing life. They were entirely unsuitable companions for each other. He wove the wet lilies, rather limp from the hot water, onto a piece of wire taken from one of his wreath-frames. So Hazel went to her bridle in a funeral wreath. She woke very tired from the crisis yesterday, but happy. She and Foxy and the one-eyed cat, her rabbit and the blackbird were going to a country far from trouble as things, to the peace of Edward's love on the slope of God's little mountain. The difficulties of the new life were forgotten, only its joys were visible today. Mrs. Marston seemed to smile and smile in an eternal loving-kindness, and Martha's heavy face wore an air of good fellowship. The loud winds lulled and bearing each its gift of balm would blow softly round Edward's house. Frost, she thought, would not come to God's little mountain, as to the cold callow. She had not seen reddened's rhymy shoulders, nor the cold glitter of the tombs. She sang as she dressed with the shrill sweetness of a robin. She had never seen such garments. She hardly knew how to put some of them on. She brushed her hair till it shone like a tiger lily, and piled it on her small head in great plaques. When her white muslin frock was on, she drew a long breath, seeing herself in bits in the small glass. I be like a picture, she gasped. Round her slim sunburnt neck was a small gold chain, holding a topaz pendant which matched her eyes. When she came forth, like a lily from the mould, Abel staggered backwards, partly in clownish mirth, partly in astonishment. He was so impressed that he got breakfast himself, and afterwards went and sandpapered his hands until they were sore. Hazel, enthroned in one of the broken chairs, fastened on foxy's wedding collar, made of blue forget-me-not. Foxy, immensely dignified, sat on her haunches, her chin tucked into the forget-me-not's immovably bland. She was evidently competent for her new role. She might have been ecclesiastically connected all her life. The one-eyed cat was beside her, blue-ribboned, purring her best, which was like a broken bagpipe on account of her stormy youth. Ah, you'd best purr, said Hazel, sitting on cushions by the fireside all your life long you'll be, and foxy with a brand new tub. Not many brides think so little of themselves, so much of small pensioners, as Hazel did this morning. Breakfast was a sociable meal, for Abel made several remarks. Now and then he looked at Hazel and said, laws. Hazel laughed gleefully. When she stood by the gate, watching for the neighbour's cart, that was to take them, she looked as full of white-budding promise as the matry above her. She did not think very much about Edward, except as a protecting presence. Redin's face, full of strong, mysterious misery. The feel of Redin's arm as they danced, his hand hot and muscular on hers, these claimed her thoughts. She fought them down, conscious that they were not suitable in Edward's bride. At last the cart appeared, coming up the hill with the peculiar lurching deportment of market carts. The pony had a bunch of marigolds on each ear, and there was lilac on the whip. They packed the animals in, the cat giving ventriloquial muse from her basket, the rabbit in its hutch, the bird in its wooden cage, and foxy sitting up in front of Hazel. The harp completed the load. They drove off amid the cheers of the next-door children, and took their leisurely way through the resonance fragrance of larch woods. The cream-coloured pony was lame, which gave the cart a peculiar roll, and she was tormented with hunger for the marigolds, which hung down near her nose and caused her to get her head into strange contortions in the effort to reach them. The wind sighed in the tall larches, and once again, as on the day of the concert, they bent a tent of heads towards Hazel. In the glades the widespread hyacinths would soon be pailing towards their euthanasia, knowing the art of dying as well as that of living, fortunate, as few sentient creatures are, in keeping their dignity in death. When they drove through the quarry where deep shadows lay, Hazel shivered suddenly. Somebody walking over your grave, said Abel. Oh, don't say that. Be unlucky on my wedding day, she cried. As they climbed the hill, she leaned forward, as if straining upwards out of some deep horror. When their extraordinary turnout drew up at the gate, Abel boisterously flourishing his lilac-laden whip and shouting elaborate but incomprehensible witticisms, Edward came hastily from the house. His eyes rested on Hazel, and were so vivid, so brimful of tenderness, that Abel remained with a joke half expounded. My Hazel, Edward said, standing by the carton looking up, Welcome home, and God bless you. You cannot say fairer than that, remarked Abel. In our Hazel perked, dressed up some a crawl, in a shay. Edward took no notice, he was looking at Hazel, searching hungrily for a hint of the same overwhelming passion that he felt. But he only found childlike joy, gratitude, affection, and a faint shadow for which he could not account, and from which he began to hope many things. If, in that silent room upstairs, he had come to the opposite decision, if he had that very day told Hazel what his love meant, by the irony of things she would have loved him and spent on him the hidden passion of her nature. But he had chosen the unselfish course. Well, he said, in a business-like tone, suppose we unpack the little creatures and Hazel first. Mrs. Maston appeared. Oh, are you going to a show, Mr. Woodus? She asked Abel. It would have been so nice and pleasant if you would have played your instrument. Yes, ma'am, that's what I've come for. I in a gone to no show. I've come to the wedding to get my belly full. Mrs. Maston, very much flustered, asked what the animals were for. I think, mother, there for you, Edward smiled. She surveyed Foxy, full of vitality after the drive, the bird moping and rough, the rabbit with one ear inside out, looking far from respectable. She heard the ventriloquistic muse. I don't want them, dear, she said, with great decision. It's a bit of a cat's omere start, and mum, said Abel. Mrs. Maston found no words for her emotions. But while Edward and Abel bestowed the various animals, she said to Martha, Weddings are not what they were, Martha. Bride to groom, said Martha, who always read the local weddings. A one-eyed cat, a foolish rabbit, as it be better in a pie, an ill-contrived bird, and a filthy, smelly fox. Mrs. Maston relaxed her dignity so far as to laugh softly. She decided to give Martha a rise next year. End of chapter 16, recording by Rachel Linton, Bristol, UK. Chapter 17 of Gone to Earth. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Gone to Earth by Mary Webb, Chapter 17. Hazel sat on a large, flat gravestone with foxy beside her. They were like a sculpture in marble on some ancient tomb. Coming so soon after her strange moment of terror in the quarry to this place of the dead, she was smitten with formless fear. The crosses and stones had on that storm-belieged hillside a hair of horrible bravado, as if they knew that although the winds were stronger than they, yet they were stronger than humanity, as if they knew that the whole world is the tomb of beauty and has been made by man the torture chamber of weakness. She looked down at the lettering on the stone. It was a young girl's grave. Oh! she muttered, looking up into the tremendous dome of blue empty and adamantine. Oh! Dona let me go young! What for did she die so young? Dona let me! Dona! And the vast dome received her prayer empty and adamantine. She was suddenly panic-stricken. She ran away from the tombs, calling Edward's name. And Edward came on the instant. His hands were full of cabbage which he'd been taking to the rabbit. What is it, little one? These here! The graves? Ah! they were so drodsome! Edward pointed to a labyrinthum tree which had rented a tomb and now waved above it. See, he said, out of the grave and gate of death. Ah! but her as went in, Hannah, come out, only a new tree. I'll be bound she wanted to come out. At this moment Edward's friend who was to marry them arrived. Now I shall go and wait for you to come, Edward whispered. Waiting in the dim chapel with its white-washed walls and few-ledded windows half covered with ivy, his mind was clear of all thoughts but unselfish ones. His mother, trailing purple, came in and thought how like a sacred picture he looked. This, for her, was superlative praise. Martha's brother was there ringing the one bell which gave such a small fugitive sound that it made the white chapel seem like a tinkling bell where they're lost on the hills. Mr. James was there and several of the congregation and Martha with her best dress hastily donned over her print and a hat of which her brother said, it had draw tears from an egg. Mr. James's daughter played a voluntary in the midst of which an altercation was heard outside. How be lonesome we out, me! They wouldn't like it, it's blasphemy. Then the door opened and abled, very perspiring and conscious of the greatness of the occasion, led in hazel in her wreath of drooping lilies. The green light touched her face with unnatural pallor and her eyes haunted by some old evil out of the darkness of life looked towards Edward as to a saviour. She might have been one of those brides from Ferry who rose wrath-like out of a pool or river and had some mysterious eye-core in their veins and slipped from the grasp of mortal lover melting like snow at a touch. Edward, watching her, was seized with an inexplicable fear. He wished she had not been so strangely beautiful that the scent of lilies had not brought so heavy a faintness reminding him of death chambers. It was not till hazel reached the top of the chapel that the congregation observed foxy, a small red figure trotting willingly in hazel's wake, a loving, though incompetent bridesmaid. Mr. James arose and walked up the chapel. I will remove the animal, he said. Then he saw that hazel was leading foxy. This insult was then deliberate. A animal, he said, hasn't no business in a place of worship. What for not, asked hazel, because Mr. James found himself unable to go on. Because not, he finished blestress-ly. He laid his hand on the cord, but foxy prepared for conflict. Edward's colleague turned away, hand to mouth. He was obliged to contemplate the ivy outside the window while the altercation lasted. Whoever made you, Hazel said, made foxy. Where you can come, foxy can come. You deacon, foxy's bridesmaid. That's heathen talk, said Mr. James. How very naughty Hazel is, thought Mrs. Marston. She felt that she could never hold up her head again. The congregation giggled. The black grapes and the chenille spots trembled. How very unpleasant, thought the old lady. Then Edward spoke, and his voice had an edge of masterfulness that astonished Mr. James. Let be, he said, other sheep I have which are not of this fold, them also will I bring. She has the same master, James. Silence fell. The other minister turned round with a surprised, admiring glance at Edward, and the service began. It was short and simple, but it gathered an extraordinary pathos as it progressed. The Narcissi in the window-sills eyed Hazel in a white silence, and their dewey-gold nyes seemed akin to foxy's and her own. The fragrance of spring flowers filled the place with wistful sadness. There are no scents so tearful, so grievous, as the scents of valley lilies and Narcissi clustered ghostly by the dark garden hedge, and white lilac freighted with old dreams and pansies, faintly reminiscent of mysterious lost ecstasy. Edward felt these things and was oppressed. A great pity for Hazel and her following of forlorn creatures surged over him, a kind of dread grew up in him that he might not be able to defend them as he would wish. It did seem that helplessness went to the wall. Since Hazel had come with her sad philosophy of experience, he had begun to notice facts. He looked up towards the aloof sky as Hazel had done. He is love, he said to himself. The blue sky received his certainty, as it had received Hazel's questioning in regardless silence. Mrs. Marston observed Edward narrowly. Then she wrote in her hymn book, Mem, Maltine, Edward. The service was over. Edward smiled at her as he passed and met Mr. James Frang with dignified good humour. Foxy, even more willing to go out than to come in, ran on in front and as they entered the house they heard, from the cupboard under the stairs, the ectipthallium of the one-eyed cat. Oh, dear heart, said Hazel, tremorously looking at the cake. I ne'er saw the like. Mother iced it, dear. Hazel ran to Mrs. Marston and put both her thin arms round her neck, kissing her in a storm of gratitude. There, there, quietly, my dear, said Mrs. Marston. I'm glad it pleases. She smoothed the purple silk smilingly. Hazel was forgiven. I'd have brought the big sore if I'd have thought, said Abel jacuzzi. Only Mr. James was taciturn. Foxy was allowed in and perambulated the room to Mrs. Marston's supreme discomfort. Every time Foxy drew near, she gave a smothered scream. In spite of these various disadvantages, it was a merry party and did not break up till dusk. After tea, Abel played. Mr. James being very patronising, saying at the end of each piece, very good, till Abel asked rudely, can you play yourself? Edward came to the rescue by offering Mr. James tobacco. They drew round the fire, for the dusk came coldly. Only Abel remaining in his corner playing furiously. He considered it only honest after such a tea to play his loudest. Hazel, happy but restless, played with Foxy beside the darkening window. Low and many pained and cumbered with bits of furniture dear to Mrs. Marston. Edward was showing his friend a cycle map of the country. Mrs. Marston was sleepily discussing hens, good leos, good sitters, good table fowl with Mr. James. Hazel, tired of playing with Foxy, knelt on the big round ottoman with its central peak of stuffed tapestry and looked idly from the window. Suddenly she cried out. Edward was alert in a moment. What is it, dear? Hazel had sunk back on the ottoman, pale and speechless, but she realised that she must pull herself together. I stuck a pin in me, she said. Pins in a wedding dress? Oh, five, said Mrs. Marston. Pricked at your wedding? Pricked for eye. Oh, dear, dear in me, cried Hazel, bursting into tears and flinging herself at Edward's feet. Wondering, he comforted her. Mrs. Marston called for the lamp. The blinds were drawn and all was saffron peace. Outside, in the same attitude as before, bowed and motionless stood Redin. He saw Hazel, watched her withdraw and knew that she had seen him. When the window suddenly shone like daffodils, he recoiled as if at a lash and turning went heavily down the batch. He turned into the woods and made his way back till he was opposite the house. Thence he watched the guests depart and later saw Martha go to her cottage. The lights wavered and wandered. He saw one go up the stairs. Inside the house, Mrs. Marston confronted with a bridle which he did not quite know how to regard, very tactfully said good night and left them together in the parlor. They sat there for a time and Edward tried not to realise how much he was missing. He got up at last and lit Hazel's candle. At her door he said good night hastily. Hazel took the arrangements for granted, partly because she'd slept in this same room two nights ago, partly because Edward had never shown her a hint of passion. The higher the nature the more its greatness is taken for granted. Edward turned and went to his room. Redden under his black roof of pines countered the lights and seeing that there were three turned homewards with a sigh of relief. But as he went through the fields he remembered how Hazel had looked last night, how she'd danced like a leaf, how slender and young she was. He was a man everlastingly maddened by slightness and weakness. As a boy when his father and mother still kept up their position a little he had broken a priceless Venetian glass simply because he could not resist the temptation to close his hand on it. His father had flogged him, being of the stupid kind who believed that corporal punishment can influence the soul and Redden had done the same thing next day with a bit of egg shell china. So now, as he thought of Hazel's listen waste her large eyes, rather scared, her slender wrists, he cursed until the pee wits arose mewing all about him. In the thick darkness of the lonely fields he might have been some hero of the dead mouthing a satanic recitative amid a chorus of lost souls. The long search for Hazel begun in a whim had ended in passion. If he'd never looked for her never felt the nettle sense of being foiled or if he'd found her at once he would never have desired her so fiercely. Now for the first time in his life impassioned he felt something mysterious and unwelcoming in him begin to mingle with his desire. Above all life without her meant dullness lack of vitality the swift onset of middle age he saw this with shrinking he walked wearily looking older than he was in the pathos of loss. Life with her meant an indefinitely prolonged youth an ecstasy he'd not dreamt of the well-being of his whole nature he walked along moodily thinking how he would have started afresh smartened up undone, worked hard given his children, his and Hazel's education become more sober but he had been a fortnight too late a miserable fortnight he who had raved over the countryside had missed her Marston who had simply remained on his mountain had won her it was damned unfair he said and pathos faded from him in his rage all the vague thoughts dark and turgid of the last two nights took shape slowly he neither cursed nor brooded any more he thought keenly as he walked his face took a more powerful cast it had never been a weak face at the worst and he looked a man that it would not be easy to combat bitter hatred of Edward possessed him silent fury against fate relentless determination to get Hazel whether she would or not he had a purpose in life now Vezens was surprised at his quick authoritative manner make me some sandwiches early tomorrow he said and you'll have to go to the auction I shan't go myself how can I go now? who's to do the cheeses? give them to the pigs who's to meet the groom from Farnley? never will I go if you're so damned impudent you'll have to leave who's going to meet the groom? Vezens spoke with surly astonished meekness groom? groom be hanged wire to him it'll take me the best part of two hours to go to the telegraph and it costs his money and dinner at the auction causes money oh cried Redin with intense irritation take this you fool he flung his purse at Vezens well well thought Vezens I'm a numerum he's fetched a long of her marry in the minister long live the minister says Andrew End of Chapter 17 Recording by Rachel Linton Bristol UK Chapter 18 of Gone to Earth this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Gone to Earth by Mary Webb Chapter 18 Next morning Vezens went off in high feather Hazel was so safely disposed of Redin left at the same time and all the long May day Undern was deserted and lay still and silent as if pondering on its loneliness Redin did not return until after nightfall he spent the day in a curious manner for a man of his position under a yew tree ribbon of trunk gigantic black commanding Edward's house he lent against the trunk that had seen so many generations shadowed so many fox earths groaned in so many tempests above his tent sailed those hill wanderers the white clouds of May they were as fiercely pure as apparently imperishable as a great ideal with lingering majesty they marched across the sky first over the parsonage then over Redin laying upon each in turn a hyacinth shade Redin watched the house indifferently while Martha went to and fro cleaning the chapel after the wedding then Mrs. Marston came to the front door and shut it after that for a long time nothing moved but the slow shadows of the gravestone shortening with the climbing sun the labyrinum waved softly and flung its lacy shadow on the grave where the grass was long and daisied a wood pigeon began in its deep and golden voice a low soliloquy recollected as a saint's rich as a lover's Redin stirred disconsolently trampling the thin leaves and delicate flowers of the sorrel at last the door opened and Edward came out carrying a spade Hazel followed they went round to the side of the house away from the graveyard and Edward began to dig Hazel sitting on the grass and evidently making suggestions with the quickness of jealousy Redin knew that Edward was making a garden for Hazel it enraged him I could have made her a garden and a deal better than that he thought she could have had half an acre of the garden at Undern I could have made it in no time he uttered an exclamation of contempt the way he fools with that spade he's never dug in his life Before long Hazel brought out the birdcage and hung it in the sun and surprisingly, almost alarmingly the ancient bird began to sing it was like hearing an old man sing a love song the bird sat there rough and purrblind and chanted youth with the magic of a master Hazel and Edward stood still to hear it holding each other's hands he's now said a word of four breathed Hazel but he likes the mountain in the little warm garden with Hazel among the thick daisies with the mirth of the once desolate ringing in his ears Edward knew perfect happiness he stood looking at Hazel, his eyes dark with love she seemed to blossom in the quiet day he stooped and kissed her hand to redden, in his deep shadow every action was clear for they stood in the sunlight he ground the sorrel into the earth after a time Martha rang the dinner bell not because she could not both see and hear her master but because it was the usual thing to redden, the bell's rather crack note was sardonic for it was summoning another man to eat and drink with Hazel he had his sandwiches not being so much in love that he lost his appetite then he sat down and read the racing news there was no danger of anyone seeing him for the place was entirely solitary with a double loneliness of hill and woodland there were no children in the batch except Martha's friends little boy and he was timid and never went birds nesting the only sound except the intermittent song of birds was the far away noise of a woodman's axe the deep scattered barking of hungry hounds nothing else stirred under the complex arches of the trees except the sunlight moving like a ghost these thick woods remote on their ridges were to the watchful eye rich with a half revealed secret to the attentive ear full of urgent voices the solving of all life's riddles might come to one here at any moment in this hour or in the next from a grey ash bowl or a blood red pine trunk might come the naked spirit of life with a face fierce or lovely coiled in the twist of long honeysuckle ropes that fell from the dead youth curled in last year's leaf embattled in a mailed fur cone or resting starily in the green moss it seemed that God slumbered at any moment he might awake to bless or curse redden not having a watchful eye or an attentive ear for such things was not conscious of anything but a sense of loneliness he read the paper indefatigably in an hour or so Edward and Hazel came out again she in her new white hat they went up God's little mountain where it sloped away in pale green illuminated vistas till it reached the dark blue sky they disappeared on the skyline and redden impatiently composed himself for more waiting was he never to get a chance of seeing Hazel alone? that fellow dogs are steps he said the transfigured slopes of the mountain were it seemed to Edward a suitable place for a thing he wished to tell Hazel Hazel he said if you ever feel that you would rather have a husband than a brother you have only to say so Hazel flushed although it was such a muted passion that sounded in his voice it stirred her since she'd known redden her ignorance had come to recognise the sound of it and she had also begun to flush ease a name if Edward had understood women better he would have seen that this speech of his was a mistake for even if a woman knows whether she wishes for a husband she will never tell him so they turned home in a constrained silence foxy frightened by a covey of partridges created a diversion by pulling her cord from Hazel's inattentive hand and setting off for the parsonage oh she'll be bound to go to the woods cried Hazel beginning to run do we see her she's in tub eddard and I'll go under the trees and holler redden was startled when he saw Hazel who had out-distance Edward making straight for his hiding place she came running between the bowls with an easy grace an independence that drove him frantic a pretty woman should not have that easy grace she should have exchanged it for a matrony bearing by this time an independent should have yielded to subservience to the male to him with her vivid hair and eyes and her swift slenderness Hazel had a form like air as she traversed the wavering shadows she passed his tree without seeing him and stood listening then she began to plead with a truant what for did you run away foxy my dear where be you come back along with me dear heart for it draws to night redden stepped from his tree and spoke to her with a stifled scream she turned to run away but he intercepted her no I've waited long enough for this so you're married to the parson after all ah you'll be sorry what for do you come tormenting of me mr redden you were meant for me you're mine folks Ollis says I'm theirs I'd leave it be mine as you wouldn't marry me Hazel the least you can do is to come and talk to me sometimes oh I cannot you must any spare time come to this tree I should generally be here but why ever and you a square with a big place and fine ladies after you because I choose leave me be mr redden I'd be comfortable and foxy be and they're all settling so nice the birds sung the parson too no doubt if you don't come often enough I shall walk past the house and look in if you go on not coming I shall tell the parson you stayed the night with me and he'll turn you out he would know you would know yes I would he would too a parson doesn't want a wife that isn't respectable so as you've got to he dropped his harshness and became persuasive you may as well come with a good grace but at one of my faults I stayed the night over it was Aunt Proud's what for should folk chide me and not auntie Lord I don't know because you're pretty be I hasn't that fellow told you so no he'd done us say much you could make such a good chap of me if you liked Hazel however I'd give up the drink and Foxhunter well I might give up even that for you be my friend Hazel he spoke with an indefinable charm inherited from some courtly ancestor Hazel was fascinated but you've got blood on you she protested so have you he retorted unexpectedly you say you kill flies so you're as bad as I am Hazel so be my friend I'm in go say you'll come tomorrow not but for a minute then Edward's voice came from the house I found her Hazel ran home but as she left the wood she turned and looked down the shadowy steeps of green at Redden as he strode homewards she watched him until he passed out of sight then sighing she went home End of Chapter 18 Recording by Rachel Linton, Bristol UK Chapter 19 of Gone to Earth this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Gone to Earth by Mary Webb Chapter 19 Next day Hazel did not go into the woods in the evening sitting in the quiet parlor while Edward read aloud and Mrs. Master knitted she felt afraid as she remembered it yet she'd been still more afraid at the idea of going she had helped Mrs. Master to cover rhubarb jam in the dim storeroom while Edward visited a sick man at some distance it had been delightful gumming on the clean tops and then writing on them she had dipped freely into the biscuit box then Edward had returned and they had gardened again now they were settled for the evening and she was learning to knit twisting obdurate wool around anarchic needles while Mrs. Marston, the pink shawl top chanted, knit, pearl, knit, pearl will it come to whatever? queried Hazel it's not but a tale of string now it will come to anything you like to make dear said the old lady is knitting so like life mother? Edward spoke amusedly but it won her, said Hazel it'll only come a tanglement Edward suggested that he should help there was great laughter over this interlude while Mrs. Marston still chanted, knit, pearl Redden walked lingeringly past the house in the dark heard it and was very angry and miserable Hazel heard his step on the rough stones and was alarmedly sure that it was he she was terribly afraid he would tell Edward then a new idea occurred to her should she tell Edward herself? she sat in the firelight with her head bent and turned this new thought about in her brain as incompetently as she twisted the blue wool round the needles and from the silent shadows as she played with the thread of destiny two presences eyed each other across her bright head one armed the other bearing roses neither Mrs. Marston with her antiphonal double knit, double pearl nor Edward reading in his pleasant voice he rather fancied his reading and tried not to saw those impalpable figures each with a possessive handout stretched to Hazel decision why shouldn't I say there was no harm she thought then she remembered that there had been something a queer feeling that had sent her out of the glass door into the snow she had never wanted to tell anyone of the episode she glanced at Edward through her lashes a look that always made him think of the pool above the parsonage where lucent brown water shone through rushes all the look, for he always glanced round as he read having gathered from his book on elocution that this was correct he smiled across at her and went on reading the book was one of those affected by Mrs. Marston and her kind it had no relation whatever to life its ideals, characters, ethics and crises made up an unearthly whole which being entirely useless as a tonic or as a balm was so much poison it was impossible to imagine its heroine facing any of the facts of life or engaging in any of those physical acts to which all humanity is bound and which need more than resignation namely open-eyed honesty to raise them from a humiliation to a glory it was impossible to imagine also how the child which appeared discreetly impunctually on the last page could have come by its existence since it certainly, with such unexceptional parents could not have been begotten Hazel listened anxiously to hear if the heroine ever drove on a winter night with a man who stared at her out of bold blue eyes and whether she got frightened and took refuge in a bedroom full of white mice but there were no mice nor dark roads nor bold men in all its pages by the time the reading came to an end Hazel had quite made up her mind that she could not possibly tell Edward the blue wool was inextricably tangled and one of the shadowy presences had vanished followed what Mrs. Marston called a little chat the evening tray containing cake and cocoa was brought from its side table the kettle was put on and soon the candles were lit the presence that remained was with Hazel as she went up to her little room as she undressed and when she lay down to sleep from the mantelpiece in the faint moonlight shone the white background of the text not a hair of thy head shall perish but the promising words were obliterated by night next morning and sometime during every subsequent day Hazel met Redden under the dark yew tree you're very fond of the woods my dear said Mrs. Marston one morning it must be very nice and pleasant there just now no it inner Mrs. Marston it's drodsome if I could start very early Mrs. Marston went on please God I'd go with you if you'll always go while Edward is visiting and it's lonely for you Hazel fled down the batch that morning and back up a shadowed ride to Redden human come never know more Mr. Redden she cried the old ladies come in tomorrow day her says Redden swore he was getting on so nicely already Hazel went red and white at his pleasure and though he had not attempted to kiss her he had gained a hold on her imagination whenever he saw himself as others would see him if they knew he hastily said all's fair in love and shut his eyes also he felt that he was doing evil in order to bring Hazel good for how a girl can live in that stuffy hole with that old woman and that die away fellow Lord only knows he thought she'll be twice the girl she is when she lives with a man that is a man and she can do what she likes with Undone so long as she's not stand off with me no I'll have no nonsense after this here I am sitting under a tree like a dog with a treed cat so now he was very angry his look was like a lash as he said you made that up to get rid of me I did not cried Hazel trembling but oh Mr. Redden can you leave me be there's Edward reading the many mansions bit to old Solomon back as good as gold and you ought to be let me bite along the old lady in knit I'll give you something better to do than knit soon what for will you oh you women are you a little innocent Hazel or are you a damn clever woman I don't know but I cannot come no more won't you mean very well what do you mean saying very well so choppy I mean that if a man chooses to see a woman see her he will it's his place to find ways it's her privilege to hide if she likes or do any damn thing she likes that only makes it more exciting now go back to your knitting knitting the startled pigeons fled up with a steely clatter of wings at his sudden laughter oh hushy they'll hear and come out I don't care if the dead heard and came out and stood between us I shouldn't care what are you whispering Hazel had said whoever she be have her he will for certain sure she would not repeat it and he turned sharply away in a huff she also turned away with a sigh of relief but almost immediately looked back and watched his retreating figure until it was lost in the trees End of Chapter 19 Recording by Rachel Linton, Bristol, UK Chapter 20 of Gone to Earth This is a LibriVox recording All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Gone to Earth by Mary Webb Chapter 20 On Lord's Day, more than on any other at the mountain Hazel was like a small derelict boat beached on a peaceful shore there was a hypnotic peace about the place with no sound of Martha scrubbing no smell of cooking there was always cold meat on Lord's Day with pickled cabbage that concomitant of mysterious Sabbath blessedness a subdued excitement prevailed about service time and sank again afterwards like a wind in the tree tops Hazel felt very proud of Edward in chapel and a little awed at his bearing and his abstracted air came near to loving him on the lilac centred Sundays when he read those old fragrant love stories that he had dreaded his voice was pleasant and deep and he took unto him his wife and she bare him a son it may have been that the modulations of Edward's voice spoke as eloquently as words to her or that Redden had destroyed her childish detachment but she began to bring these old stories into touch with her own life she envied these glamorous women of the ancient world they were so tall so richly clad dwelling under their golden fruited trees beneath skies forever blue it was all so simple for them there were no Reddens no old ladies their stories went smoothly with unravelled threads not like her knitting she began to long to be one of that dark-eyed company clear and changeless as polished ivory moving with a slow and gliding statelyness across the rose-coloured dawn bearing on their heads with effortless grace beautiful pictures of water for a thirsty world Edward had shown her just such a picture in his mother's illustrated Bible instinctively she fell back on the one link between herself and them Edwards took me to wife she thought the sweetest of vague new ideas stirred in her mind like leaf buds within the bark of a spring tree they brought a new expression to her face Edwards eyes strayed continually to the bar of dusty sunlight where she sat her dang-bent face as mysterious as all vitality is when seen in a new aspect the demure look she wore in chapel was contradicted by a nascent wildness hovering about her lips Edward tried to keep his attention on the prayers and wished he was an Episcopalian and had his prayers ready made for him he once mentioned this to his mother who was much shocked she said home-made prayers and home-made bread and home-made jam were the best as for manufactured jam it's a sloven's refuge and no more to be said and prayers the same there's no better than bought mixed at four pence the pound and a bit gone from keeping Edwards stumbled on as Mr. James said afterwards like an old mayor Betsy a step and a stumble and not in a flop and home in the Lord's own time that's to say the small hours the chapel was still hot though cool green evening brooded without and the birds had emerged from their day-long coma wood pigeons spoke in their deep voices from the dark pines across the batch a language older than the oldest script of man cuckoo shouted in the wind-riven larches green beyond imagining at the back of the chapel a blackbird meditated aloud in high rhapsody very ledgered but very tireless on matters deeper than the coppice-ball far below deep as the mystery of the chipped freckled eggs in his nest on the thorn in and out of the yellow broom covert woodlarks played, made their small flights and sang their small songs bright orange wild bees and black bumblebees floated in through the open windows Mrs. Marston's black and white hens and the Menorca cockerel pecked about the open door and came in inquiringly upon which Martha, who sat in the door for that purpose swept them softly out with a clothes-prop which she manipulated in a masterly manner Mrs. Marston, eyeing Hazel at all the arm-ends when, as she always said, one ought to look up like a fowl after a drink thought it was a pity what was a pity she did not divulge to herself she concluded with well, well, the childless father, no sinners and hastily shut her eyes realising that another arm-end had nearly come Edward's voice had taken a tone of relief which meant the end of a prayer Mrs. Marston glanced up at him and decided to put some anteced in his tea high-thinkings as bad as an embolus, she thought but Edward was not thinking he was doing a much more strenuous thing feeling Hazel wondered at the vividness in his eyes when he rose from his knees I'm glad I'm Edward's Mrs. and not Mr. Redden's she thought she'd not seen Redden for a week having since their last meeting in the wood been so much afraid of encountering him that she'd scarcely left the house the days were rather dull without her visits to the woods but they were safe Edward gave out his text of those that thou hast given me have I lost none all his tenderness for Hazel and her following crept into his sermon he spoke of the power of protection as almost the greatest good in life the finest work he said it was the inevitable reward of self-sacrifice and that if one were ready for self-denial one could protect the beloved from all harm there was a crunching of gravel outside and Redden walked in he sat down just behind Hazel Edward glanced up pleased to have so important in addition to the congregation and continued his sermon Hazel, Redden white by turns was in such a state of miserable embarrassment that Redden was almost sorry for her but he did not move his gaze from her profile at last Mrs. Marston ever watchful for physical symptoms whispered are you finding it oppressive would you like to go out Hazel went out with awkward haste and Mrs. Marston followed having mouthed incomprehensible comfort to Edward he went on stumblingly with the service Redden, realising that he had been femininely outwitted, smiled Edward wondered who this distinguished looking man with the merciless mouth might be he thought the smile was one of amusement at his expense but Redden was summing him up with a good deal of respect here was a man who would need reckoning with the Parsons got a temper he reflected looking at him keenly and by the Lord I'm going to browse it he smiled again as he always did when breaking horses he got up suddenly and went out Mrs. Marston administering raspberry cordial in the parlor heard him knock and went to the front door can I help? he asked in his pleasantest manner a doctor or something Mrs. Marston laughed softly she liked young men and thought Redden a nice lad for all his 40 years she liked his air of breeding as he stood cap in hand awaiting orders above all she was curious no thank you she said but come in all the same it's very kind of you and such a hot day but it's very pleasant in the parlor and you'll have a drink of something cool now what shall it be? sherry he said with his eyes on hazels I missed out if there's any of the Christmas pudding bottle left but I'll go and see she said all in a flutter how tragic a thing for her who prided herself on her house wiffery to have no sherry when it was asked for her steps died away down the cellar stairs so you thought you doubt witted me? he said now you know I've not tamed horses all my life for nothing leave me be you don't want me to ah I do after I've come all these miles and miles to see you day after day I don't care how many miles you've come said hazel passionately what for do you do it go back to the dark house where you come from and leave me be redden dropped his pathos she was sitting on the horsehair sofa he in an armchair at its head he flung out one arm and pulled her back so that her head struck the mahogany frame of the sofa none of that he said he kissed her wildly and in the kisses repaid himself for all his waiting in the past few weeks she was crying from the pain of the bump his kisses hurt her his shoulder was hard against her breast she was shaken by strange tremors she struck him with her clenched hand he laughed will you behave yourself will you do what I tell you he asked she bleached she said faintly if you draw your shoulder off a bit something in the request touched him he sat quite silent for a time in Edward's armchair and they looked at one another in a haunted immobility redden was sorry for his violence but would not say so then they heard Mrs. Marston's slide and she entered with a large decanter this is some of the sparkling gooseberries she said by Susan Wayne's recipe poor thing own cousin to my husband she was and a good kind body never a thing a rye in her house and 12 children had Susan I remember as clear as clear how the carpet it was green jute reversible was rocked up at her funeral by the bearer's feet and George Wayne said that'll worry Susan and then he remembered and burst out crying poor man the party was quite spoiled and our spirits so low where was I? oh yes it's quite up pussy and four years old this next midsummer but I'm sure I'm quite put out at having no Sherry on account of Martha thinking to return the bottle and finishing the dregs and there you asked for Sherry did I? oh well I like this just as much thanks he felt uncomfortable at this drinking of wine in Susan's house it seemed unsportsman like to hoodwink this old lady he had no qualms about Hazel he was going if Hazel would be sensible to give her a life she would like and things her instincts cried out for possibly he was right in imagining that her instincts were traitors to her personality for nature that sardonic mother while she cries with the silver cadence of 10,000 nightingales I think what you want, my children seize to it in the dark of her sorcery chamber that her children want what she intends isn't your liking, mister I didn't quite catch your name said Mrs. Marston Redin, ma'am Jack Redin of Undern the name rang in the quiet room with a startling sound like a gunshot in a wood at night when the birds are roosting Edward came in not having waited till Mr. James had affectionately counted the collection is Hazel all right mother he called when he got to the front door oh yes, my dear it was but the heat and here's a gentleman to see you Mr. Redin of Undern Edward came forward with his hand out and Redin took it their eyes met a curious hush fell in the room Hazel sighed tremulously let's see you at our little service Mr. Redin Edward said heartily Redin smiled and said thanks glad there's something in our simplicity to attract you Edward went on wondering if his sermons were really not so bad after all Redin laughed again shortly Edward put this down to shine us I hope we shall often have you with us again Redin's eyes narrowed slightly yes thanks I shall be with you again you'll stay and have some supper thanks he had left off feeling unsportsman like he had no compunction towards Edward it was man to man and woman to the winner this was the code avowed by his ancestors openly and by himself and his contemporaries tacitly he began to be as excited as he was in a steeple chase Edward went and sat down by Hazel asking softly and how was my little girl she looked up at him quiescent and smiled Redin eyed them for a moment construing their attitudes in his own way to the unclean mind all frankness of word or action is suspect then he turned sharply to Mrs. Marston I can't stay after all he said I've just remembered something thanks very much he looked reflectively at Hazel for the sherry he was gone my dear Mrs. Marston spoke triumphantly didn't I always say that gooseberry wine of Susan Wayne's recipe was as good a champagne now you see I'm right for Mr. Redin of Undern and a nice pleasant young man he is too though a little set about the mouth and I remember when I was a girl there was a man with just such a mouth and a fair with a magic wheel and it was a curious thing that the wheel never stopped opposite one of the prizes except when he turned it himself and there I did so want the green and yellow tab cat wheel china and I spent every penny that the wheel went on poor mother yes my dear I cried buckets and I've never trusted that mouth since and not that kind at all and quite above fares and such things I don't care for him much Edward said no more do I said Hazel in a heartfelt tone End of Chapter 20 Recording by Rachel Linton Bristol UK Chapter 21 of Gone to Earth this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information ought to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Gone to Earth by Mary Webb Chapter 21 Hazel was up early next morning she could not sleep and thought she would go down into the valley and look for spring mushrooms she crept out of the house still as death except for Mrs. Marston's soft yet all-pervading snores out in the graveyard where as yet no bird sang it was as if the dead had arisen in the stark hours between 12 and 2 and were waiting unobtrusively, majestically each by his own bed to go down and break their long fast with the bee and the grass snake in refectories too minute and too immortal to be known by the living the tombstones seemed taller seemed to have a presence behind them the lush grass lying gray and heavy with dew seemed to have been swept by silent passing crowds dank smell came up and the place had at once the unkempt look worn by the scene of some past revelry and the expect and dare of a stage prepared for a coming drama Foxy barked sharply urgently alive in the stronghold of the dead and Hazel went to explain why she could not come they held a long conversation Hazel whispering Foxy eloquent of eye Foxy had a marked personality dignity never failed her and she could be hilarious loving or clamorous for food without losing a jot of it she was possessed of herself the wild was her kingdom if she was in a kennel so her expression led you to understand she was there incognito and of her own choice Hazel sitting at Edward's table had the same look when the conversation was over and Foxy had obediently curled herself to sleep with one swift motion like a line of poetry Hazel went down the hill she felt courageous going to the valley was braving civilization she had Mrs. Marston's skirt fastener the golden butterfly complicated by various hooks to keep her petticoats up later on she also had the little bag in which Edward was accustomed to take the lord's supper to a distant chapel to her mushrooms were as clean as the lord's supper no less mysterious equally incidental to human needs in her eyes nothing could be more magical and holy than silk and pink lined mushrooms placed for her in the meadows overnight by the fairies or by someone greater and more powerful called God as she went down the mountain it seemed that the whole country was snowed over mist soft woolly and intensely white lay across the far plain in drifts filled the valleys and stood about the distant hills almost to their summits the tops of Hunter's Spiny God's little mountain and the hill behind Unden stood out darkly green the long rosebryers set with pale coral buds looked elvish against the wintry scene as Hazel descended the mist rose like a wall about her shutting her off from Unden and the mountain she felt like a child out of school free of everyone her own for the pearly hours of mourning when she came to the meadows she gathered up her skirts well above her knees took off her shoes and stockings and pinned her sleeves to the shoulders she ran like a tightly swathed nymph with her small and slender with her slim legs and arms shining in the fresh cold dew she looked for nests and called Thukku to the cuckoos and found a young one savagely egotistic not ready for flight physically but ready for untold things psychically you proud stomach do you be said Hazel you ought to be me with an old sleepy lady drawing her mouth down whatever you do young fellow she stopped she could not even tell a bird about redding she danced among the shut daisies wild as a fairy and when the sun rose her shadow mocked her with delicate foolery in her hand and in that of the shadow bobbed the little black lord supper bag she went on regardless of direction at last she found an old pasture where heavy farm horses looked round at her over their polished flanks and a sad-eyed foal rose to greet her there she found button mushrooms to her heart's content ancient hedges hung above the field and spoke to her in fragrant voices the glory of the May was just giving place to the shell tint of wild roses she reached up for some and her hair fell down she wisely put the remaining pins in the bag for the return journey she was intensely happy as a fishes when it plunges back into the water for these things and not the god-fearing comfort of the mountain nor the tarnished grandeur of Undern were her life she had so deep a kinship with the trees so intuitive a sympathy with leaf and flower that it seemed as if the blood in her veins was not slow-moving human blood but volatile sap she was of a race that will come in the far future when we shall have outgrown our egoism the brainless egoism of a little boy pulling off flies wings we shall attain philosophical detachment and emotional sympathy we have even now far outgrown the age when a great genius like Shakespeare could be so clumsy in the interpretation of other than human life we have left behind us the bloodshot centuries when killing was the only sport and we have come to the slightly more reputable times when lovers of killing are conscious that a distinct effort is necessary in order to keep up the good old English sports better things are in store for us even now although the most expensively bound and most plentiful books in the stationery shops are those about killing in its thousand ramifications nobody reads them they are bought at Christmas for necessitous relations and little boys Hazel in the fields and woods enjoyed it all so much that she walked in a mystical exaltation Redin in the fields and woods enjoyed himself only for he took his own atmosphere with him wherever he went and before his footsteps weakness fled and beauty folded the sky blossomed in parters of roses frailer and brighter than the rose of the briar and melted beneath them into lagoons greener and paler than the veins of a young beach leaf the fairy hedges were so high so flushed with beauty the green airy waters ran so far back into mystery that it seemed as if at any moment God might walk there as in a garden delicate as a moth down by the stream Hazel found tall water plantains triune of cup standing above the ooze like candelabras and small rough-leaved forget-me-nots eyeing their liquid reflections with complacence she watched the birds bathe bullfinches smooth-coated and well-found slim willow wrens thrushes rusted lusty blackbirds with beaks of crude yellow they made neat little tracks over the soft mud drank, bathed preened, and made other neat little tracks then they took off as Hazel put it from the top of the bank and flew low across the painted meadow or high into the enamel tree and piped and fluted till the air was full of silver stood as Eve might have stood hands clasped eyes full of ecstasy utterly self-forgetful enchanted with these living toys eh, yon's a proper bird she exclaimed as a big silken cuckoo alighted on the mud with a gobble drank with dignity and took its vacillating flight to the far ash tree foxy ought to see that she added silver crested pee wits circled and cried with their melancholy cadences and a tawny pheasant led out her young now that the dew was gone and cobwebs no longer canopied the field with silver it was blue with german de speedwell each flower painted with deepening colour eyed with startling white and carrying on slender stamens the round white pollen balls worlds of silent lovely activity every flower spike had its family of buds blue jewels splashed with white each close folded on her mystery to see the whole field not only bright with them but brimming over was like watching ten thousand saints wrapped in ecstasy ten thousand children dancing hazel knew nothing of saints she had no words for the wonder in which she walked but she felt it she enjoyed it with a passion no words could express mrs marston had said several times i'm almost afraid hazel is a great one for wasting her time but what is waste of time eating and sleeping hearing grave sedulous men read out of grave sedulous books what we have heard a hundred times besieging god whom we end by imagining as a great ear for material benefits amassing property these the world says are not waste of time but to drink at the stoop of beauty to lift the leafy coverlet of earth and seek the cradle god since here if anywhere he dwells this in the world's eye is waste of time oh filthy heavy handed blear eyed world when will you wash and be clean hazel came to a place where the white water crossed the road in a glittering shallow forward here she stayed leaning on the wooden bridge hearing small pebbles grinding on one another seeing dual flashes of ruby sapphire and emerald struck from them by the low sunlight smelling the scent that is better than all except the scent of air on a barren mountain or of snow the scent of running water she watched the grey wagtails neat and trim in person but wild and bearing racing across the wet gravel like intoxicated Sunday school teachers then in a huge silver willow that brooded dove-like over the Ford a black cat began to sing the trills and gushes of perfect melody repetitions the heart lifting a scents and wistful falls drooping softly as a flower seemed wonderful to her as an angel song she and the bird sheltered under the grey silver feathers of the trees lived their great moments of creation and receptivity until suddenly there was a sharp noise of hoofs the song snapped the willow was untenanted and Redin's horse splashed through the Ford oh cried Hazel what Ford did you break the song a sacred bird it was and now it's fled he had been riding round the remnant of his estate a bit of hill-sheep walk that faced the mountain and overlooked the valley he had seen Hazel wander down the road white-limbed and veiled and tawny hair he thought there must be something wrong with his sight bare legs, bare arms hair all loose and no hat as a squire farmer he was very much shocked as a man he spurred downhill at the risk of a bad fall Hazel unlike the women of civilization who were pursued by looking glasses was apt to forget herself and her appearance she had done so now but something in Redin's face recalled her she hastily took the butterfly out of her skirt and put on her shoes and stockings what song asked Redin a bird in the tree what Ford did you frighten at Redin was indignant seeing Hazel wandering thus so near his own domain he thought she had come in the hope of seeing him he also thought that the strangeness of her dress was an effort to attract him to the pure all things are pure but you surely wanted to see me wasn't that why you came he asked no it was not I came to pick the little mushrooms as come with a warm rain there's none like spring mushrooms and I came to see the flowers and harken at the birds and look the nesses you could have lots of flowers and birds at Undern there's plenty at the mountain then why did you come here to be by my lonesome snub for me he smiled he liked opposition but look here Hazel he reasoned if you'd come to Undern I'd make you enjoy life but I don't want to I be Edward's Mrs be Mrs at the phrase his weather course and face grew redder it intoxicated him he slipped off his horse and kissed her I don't want to be anybody's Mrs she cried vexedly not your nor Edward's neither but I'm Edward's and so I must stay she turned away good morning to you she said in her old fashioned little way she trudged up the road Redin watched her a forlorn slight figure armed with a black bag weary with a sense of reaction Redin was angry and depressed the master of Undern had been for the second time refused hmm he said considering her departing figure it won't be asking next time my lady and it won't be for you to refuse he turned home accompanied by that most depressing companion the sense of his own meanness he was unable to help knowing that the exercise of force against weakness is the most cur-like thing on earth end of chapter 21 recording by Rachel Linton Bristol UK chapter 22 of Gone to Earth this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Gone to Earth by Mary Webb chapter 22 Hazel was picking Winbury flowers from their stalks she sucked out the drop of honey from each flower like a bee the blossoms were like small rose coloured tulips upside down very magical and clear of colour the sky also was like a pink tulip veined and streaked with purple and saffron in its depth like the honey in the flower it held the low golden sun evening stood tiptoe upon the windy hilltop Hazel had eaten quite a quantity of honey and had made an appreciable difference in the Winbury yield of half an acre for she sipped hastily like a honey fly she was one of those who were full of impatience and haste through the sunny hours of day clamorous for joy since the night cometh some prescience was with her she snatched what her eyes desired and wept with disappointment for it is the calm natures wrapped in timeless quiet taking what comes and asking nothing that really enjoy Hazel ate the fairy tulips as a pixie mite sharp tooth often consuming them whole so she partook of her sacrament in both kinds and she partook of it all alone taking her wafers and her honeyed wine from hands she never saw in a presence she could not gauge she did not even wonder whether it meant ill or well by her she was barely conscious of it when she found an unusually large globe of honey in a flower she sang her song was as inconsequent as those of the woodlarks who with their hurried ripple of notes and their vacillating flights were as eager and as soon discouraged as she was herself her voice rang out over the listening pastures and the sheep looked up in a contemplative ancient way like old ladies at a concert with their knitting Hazel had fastened two fox-clubs round her head in a wreath and as she went there deep and darkly spotted bell shook above her and she walked like a jester in a grieving world crowned with madness suddenly a shout rang across the hill and silenced her and the woodlarks she saw against a full blown flower of the west a tall black horse galloping towards her clouds were coming up for night they raced with him from one great round rift the light poured on Hazel as it does from a burning glass held over a leaf it burned steadily on her and then was moved as if by an invisible hand Redin came on and the thunder of his horse's hooves was in her ears hurtling thus over the pastures breaking the year long hush he was the embodiment of the destructive principle of cruelty of the greater part of human society voracious and carnivorous with its curious callousness towards the nerves of the rest of the world I almost thought it was the death-pack said Hazel speaking first as the most nervous always does she stood uncomfortably looking up at him as a rabbit looked surprised half way out of its burrow where be going? she asked at last looking for you Hazel could not enjoy the flattery of this she was so perturbed by his nearness where's your lord and master entered in on my master none is a hot indignant flush served over her yes he said I am that you're not and never will be he said nothing he sat looking down at her in the large landscape his figure was carved on the sky yet it was instinct with forces enough to uproot a thousand trees and become by virtue of these the centre of the picture he looked at his best on horseback where his hardness and roughness appeared as necessary qualities and his too great share of virility was used up in courage and willpower Hazel gazed defiantly back but at last her eyelids flickered and she turned away I am Redin repeated softly he was as sure of her as he was of the rabbits and hares he caught in spring traps when hunger drove them counter to instinct a power was on Hazel now driving her against the one instinct of her life of the two the wild creatures instinct for flight and self-preservation she said nothing Redin was filled with a tumultuous triumph that Sally Haggard had never roused I am he said again and laughed as if he enjoyed the repetition come here Hazel came slowly looked up and burst into tears hello tears already he said concerned keep until there's something to cry for he dismounted and slipped the rain over his arm what's up Hazel Woodus he put one arm round her the sheep looked more ancient than ever less like old ladies at a concert than old ladies looking over their prayer books at a blasphemer my name in it Woodus you ought to call me Mrs Marston for answer he kissed her so that she cried out that's to show if I'll call you Mrs Marston I'd leave her be what? Edward's mistress than yarn he ground a fox-glove underfoot and there's foxy in a grand new kennel and me in a seat in chapel and a bushy lilac gave me for myself and a garden and a root of virgin's pride I shall have that said Redin and stopped having blundered into symbolism and not knowing where he was Hazel was silent also playing with a fox-glove flower what are you up to? he asked she was glad of something to talk about look when you get him again the light you can see two little green things standing inside like people in a tent they think they're safe shut in she bent down and called I see ya laughing Redin was bent on getting back to more satisfactory topics they're just two like us he said ah we're like under a tent she answered looking at the arching sky only there's nobody looking at us how do you know she whispered looking up gravely I'm thinking there be somebody somewhere out other side of that they're blue and looking through like us through this here flower and if so be he likes he can tear it right open and get at us Redin looked round almost apprehensively then as the best way of putting a stop to superstition he caught her to him and kissed her again that's what tents are for and what you're for he said she felt a chill in the place and Hazel had frightened herself so much that she could not be lured from her aloofness I'm and go home along she said the sun's undring will you come to hunt her spinny on Sunday why ever because I say so but why so far whatever she asked amazingly because I want you to but I'm and go to chapel along of eddard and sing hymns with the folks and me singing hyen or any of them can go for all I knew to it and the old lady the old lady in a shiny silk gown does creaks and creaks when she stirs about Redin lost patience you're to start as soon as they're in church do you see maybe I under come you've got to look here Hazel you like having a lover don't you I don't know Hazel, I'll bring you a present I don't want it what is it she said in a breath something nice then you promise you come there was a long silence her eyes seemed to her to be caught by his she could not look away and his eyes said strange terrific things to her things for which she had no words nothing vitality flattering, commanding stirring a new curiosity robbing her of breath they stood thus for a long time as much alone under the flaming sky as a man and woman of the stone age when at last he released her eyes he swung silently into the sadland was gone when he got home vesons came shambling to the door supper and a tot of whiskey ordered his master vesons took no notice but eyed the horse you done a mind how much work you give me at the day's end do you he inquired conversationally get on with your jobs now what went your cry for this night's work mused vesons end of chapter 22 recording by Rachel Linton Bristol UK chapter 23 of Gone to Earth this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Gone to Earth by Mary Webb chapter 23 Hazel ran home through the dew swift as a hair to her form Mrs. Marston communing with a small wood fire and a large Bible looked over her spectacles as Hazel came in and said were you all stocking feet along the boards my dear? yes I thought so damp Hazel changed her stockings by the fire and felt very cared for and very grand a fire to change in the parlour and several pairs of new stockings she'd never had more than one pair before and those with ladders in them these here be proper stockings she said complacently these with holes in them as Edward bought me was as ought to be there I mean they show my legs mother naked and they look right nice don't say that word dear what then? Mrs. Marston was silent for a moment the sixth from the end she said it's not nice for a minister's wife what man I say Mrs. Marston was in a difficulty well she said at last Edward should not have given you laws to say anything Hazel blazed into loyalty I'm sure I'm very much a bleach to Edward she said and I like him better for showing my legs here be Edward Edward these be proper stockings in a way Edward glanced at them and said indifferently that they were as he did so a line that had lately appeared on his forehead became very apparent in her room upstairs he was papered with butter cups and daisies by Edward himself and scented by a bunch of roses he'd given her Hazel thought about Hunter Spinney Edward would not like her to go and Edward had been kind kinder than anyone had ever been he had extended his kindness to Foxy also I'm sure Foxy is much a bleached she thought no she could never tell Edward to go to Hunter Spinney if he questioned her she knew that she would lie he would certainly not be pleased he might be very angry Mrs. Marston would not like it at all she would talk about a minister's wife Redden had said she must go but she must not she smelt the roses no she said I must never go to the Hunter Spinney not till doom breaks she said her prayers under the shelter of that resolve with a supplementary one written out very neatly in gold ink by Edward who wrote as his mother said a parchment script but when she lay down she could not keep her mind clear of Redden during each meeting with him she'd been more perturbed his personality dragged at hers already he was stronger than her fugitive impulses her wilding reserve he was like a hand tearing open a triplet of sorrow leaves folded for rain so strong in their impulse for self-protection that they could only be conquered by destruction she was afraid of him yet days without him were saltless food there was a ruthlessness about him the male instinct unaccompanied by humility the patrician instinct unaccompanied by sympathy the sportsman's instinct unaccompanied by pity whatever he began he would finish what had he now begun innocence and instinct ignorance and curiosity struggled in her mind the attitude of civilization and the churches towards sex is not one to help a girl in such an hour for while approving of children they treat with a secrecy that implies disapproval the necessary physical factors that result in children tacitly, though not openly they consider sex disgraceful though Hazel had come in contact with the facts of life less than most cottage girls she was not completely ignorant but the least ignorant woman knows nothing at all about sex until she has experienced it though Hazel was dependent on intuition intuition told her that if the peaceful life at the parsonage was to continue she must keep away from Hunter Spinney but she could not keep away it was as if someone had spun invisible threads between her and Redden and was slowly tightening them long after Edward had locked the house up and shut his door after the ticking of the clock had ceased to be incidental and become portentous Hazel lay and tried to think but she only heard two voices in endless contradiction I'm a go I'm a go at last she got up and fetched the book of charms written in a childish illiterate hand and nearly black with use I'll try a midsummer run for it's midsummer eve come saturday she thought she searched the book and found a page headed the flowering of the break that one she decided to work on saturday and tomorrow the harpers and friday the holy sign she said and if they say go I'll go and if they say stay I'll stay I'll buy and if they say the month of mary the There they play the moon up and the moon down, and at sun up they cry for those that have not heard them. If you hear them ever so faintly you can go on to the end of your undertaking, and there will be no tears in it, but you must never tire of waiting, nor tell anyone what you have heard. The next night Hazel stole out in the heavy dew to a hummock of the mountain and sat down there to wait for moonrise, but when the moon came the thinnest of silver half hoops, very faint in the reflected rose from the west, there was no sound except the song of the woodlarks. They persevered although the sun was gone. Soon they too were hushed and Hazel was folded in silence. She waited a long while, the chapel and the minister's house sank into the deepening night as into water. The longer the omen tarried the more she wanted it to come. Then fatalism reasserted itself and she relapsed into her usual state of mind. I don't care, she said, it in and no use to tarry, they are in a play. I'll bide along of Edward at chapel on Sunday and sing higher than last time. She turned home. At that moment a note of music strayed, it seemed, out of space, wandered across the hilltop. Then a few more thin and silvery ran down the silence like a spray of water. The air was lost in distance, but the notes were undoubtedly those of a harp. It's them, whispered Hazel, I'm bound to go. Then she remembered her mother's injunctions and took to her heels. At home in her quiet room she thought of the strange shining folk playing on their purple mountain. She never knew that the harper was her father returning by devious roads from one of the many festivals at which he played in summertime and having frequent rest by the way owing to the good ale he had drunk. Her bright galaxy of fairy was only a drunken man. Her fate had been settled by a passing whim of his, but so had been her coming into the world. When she went in Edward was sitting up for her anxious but trying to reason himself into calm as Hazel was given to roaming. Where have you been? he asked rather sternly, for he had suffered many things from anxiety and from his mother. Only up towards the pool, Edward, don't go there again. Can I go walking on the green hill by my lonesome? No, you can go in the woods, they're safe enough. Foxy's a bad dog, came Mrs. Marston's voice from upstairs. She bit the rope and took the mutton. I mean sorry, cried Hazel, but she ain't a bad dog, Mrs. Marston. She's a good fox. According to natural history she may be, but in my sight she's a bad dog. She shut her door with an air of finality. The old lady cannot bear Foxy, said Hazel. Nobody likes Foxy. She was stubbornly determined that the world bore her a grudge because she loved Foxy. Perhaps she had discovered that the world has a sharp sword for the vulnerable and that love is easily wounded. Don't call mother the old lady dear. Well she is and she says animals has got no souls. She's only a little small in herself. Hazel, well it's God's truth. Why? If she got a nice tidy bit herself she'd know Foxy'd got one too. Now I've got a chamois with lace on. I know lots of other girls sure to have them. A four I couldn't have believed it. Edward could find no reply to this. Are you happy here Hazel? He asked. Ah, I be. You don't miss Father? Not likely. She looked up with her clear golden eyes. You, mother and father both. Only that dear. Brother? You've forgotten one Hazel. Husband? His eyes were wistful. And lover perhaps? Someday he added. Good night dear. She lifted a childish mouth, grateful and ready to be affectionate. Too ready, he thought. He looked so eagerly for shyness. A flicker of the eyelids, a mounting flush. He was no fool. Nor was he in the least aesthetic. In his dreamy life before Hazel came he had thought of a sane and manly and normal future when he thought of it at all. Now he found that the reality was not like his dreams. The saneness and manliness was still needed but the joy had gone or at least was veiled. It will come all right he told himself and waited. His face took an expression of suspense. He was like one that watches wrapped for the sunrise. Only the sun stayed beneath the horizon. He called Hazel in his mind by the country name for wood sorrel. The sleeping beauty. He left her to sleep as long as she would. He kept a hand on himself and never tried to awaken her by easier ways than through the spirit, through the senses or vanity or by taking advantages of his superior intellect. He would win her fairly or not at all. So though to glance into her empty white room set him trembling, though the touch of her hand set his pulses going he never schemed to touch her, never made pretext to go into her room. A storm citadel was in his eyes a thing spoiled in the capturing so he waited for the gates to open. The irony was that if he'd listened to sex, who spoke to him with her deep beguiling voice like a purple road sable. If he had for once parted company with his exacting spiritual self Hazel would have loved him. We cannot love that in which is nothing of ourselves and there was no white fire of spiritual exaltation in Hazel. The nearest she approached to that was in her adoration of sensuous beauty, a green flame of passionless devotion to loveliness as seen in inanimate things, but that there should be anything between a man and a woman except an obvious affection, a fraternal sort of thing or an uncomfortable excitement such as she felt with Redin was quite beyond her ideas. She did not know that there could be a fervor of mind for mind, a clasp more frantic than that of the arms, a continuous psychic state more passionate than the great moments of physical passion. If Edward had told her she could not at this time have understood it. She would have gazed up at him trustingly out of her autumn tinted eyes, she would have embodied all the spiritual glories of which he dreamed and she would have understood nothing. Once he tried to share with her a passage in Drummond's natural law in the spiritual world he was reading it with young delight a good many years behind the times for books had usually grown very out of date before they percolated through the country libraries to him. He had read it in his pleasant half-educated voice dramatically and tenderly. His cheeks had flushed, he had challenged her criticism with keen attentive eyes. She had said, I wonder if that's that a foxy barking or a stranger? Hazel looked long from her window that night. Oh I canna go, I canna go! Edward sat in store by me and all she said. Maybe the other signs wanna come. On Friday she waited until after the others had gone to bed and then slipped out. She went into the silent woods as the moths went purposeless yet working out destiny. It was a very warm wet evening and glow worms shone incandescently in the long grass each with her round wonderful greenish lamp at its brightest. They beckoned on to fairy though they glowed in perfect stillness. They spoke of marvellous things though they lit the night in silence. It was a very grave a very remote personality surely that lit those lamps. A more intent eye a more careful hand when needed one thinks to make these than to make the planets and a mind more vast big enough to include minuteness. But Hazel felt no awe of them. She was too bounded and earthly a creature to be afraid of mystery. It is the spirit that makeeth afraid. She was sure that they were not the holy sign for she'd seen them often. The holy sign was quite different. If I be to go to Hunter Spinney she said looking up through the black branches and twigs that were like great fouling nets spread over her. If I be to go show me the holy sign. She wandered down the narrow paths it was very dark and warm and damp. Once the moon came out and she saw a long pool startle the woods with its brightness like lightning on steel. The yellow irises that stood about its margins held a pale radiance and were like butterflies enchanted into immobility. Huge toadstones vividly tawny as leopards clumps of ladyfurn not yet their full height and thick with curled fronds stood proudly on their mossy lawns but none of these was the sign. If it then had come soon I'll go home alone she said and then round the next bend she saw it. At first she thought it was an angel just beginning to appear the phantom was of a man's height and it shone as the glowworms did only its light would have been enough to read by. It had a strange effect standing there bathed in its own light in the black unbroken silence it had a look of life subdued but passionate as a spirit might have when it was just reintegrated its body out of the air. Hazel was terrified as a rule she was never afraid in the woods and fields but only in the haunts of men but from this after one paralyzed moment she fled in panic so she never knew that her second sign was only a rotten tree shining with the phosphorescence of corruption. Next morning she asked Edward could folks see angels now? Yes if it was God's will if one came would it be a sign? I suppose so dear what did you do Edward if you were bound to find out summer? Edward was thinking out heads of a discourse on the power of prayer. I should pray dear he said absently who'd answer? God would you hear him? No dear of course not he wanted quiet to finish his sermon but he tried to be patient you would know by intuition he said little signs the holy sign murmured Hazel I saw it yes tonight a burning angel I'm afraid you are too superstitious Edward said and returned to his remarks on ejaculatory prayer some people would have found it hard to decide which was the more superstitious the more pathetic end of chapter 23 recording by