The diary broke off there and did not begin again until six months later when there was another entry, the last in the book.
I was right, for two months ago I saw in the paper that Arthur was dead. It was a great shock to me but I managed to write to his widow to condole with her, and a month later I wrote and asked if Mary could come and stay with me. I had no answer to either letter. I understood. To Mary’s mother I am the skeleton in the family cupboard and she does not think I would be good for the child. I expect she is right but even though it is for Mary’s sake it has taken me two months of struggle to be able to accept her decision and the struggle made me ill; but now, two days after Christmas, with the house wrapped in snow like a child in a white fur cloak, I have accepted it and I am no longer ill. I am sitting in front of the parlor fire after tea and the curtains are drawn. There is the smell of burning wood and the scent of the chrysanthemums Ambrose brought me for Christmas. They are gold and cream and deep crimson, and he must have despoiled the greenhouse and infuriated the gardener. The day he brought them I could only go through the motions of gratitude, so great was my depression and so far away did he seem, but today the scent of the flowers is as close to me as though it were the lining of the white fur cloak. Both scent and silent whiteness are invisible to me yet I hold them about me closer than my own breathing.
The change, this reversal, happened to me in the middle of the carol service on Christmas Eve. Jenny had not wanted me to go to the service, indeed she had refused to take me because she did not think I was fit to go, but I fought her like a naughty child. It was the first time we had had a snowy Christmas since the first one in this house and I remembered, though far off, my dream of the cave in the rock. The old stone church was the nearest thing to a cave I could think of, indeed they were one in my mind, and I was determined to be there. So we went and I was almost crazy with eagerness to get inside, but when I got there I didn’t find what I was wanting. I didn’t find either the cave in the rock or the intimate coziness of a village church on Christmas Eve. I was in some crypt or dungeon, or in a clearing in the frozen forest, and it was dark and bitterly cold. Framed by the arches of the crypt, or the shapes of the frozen boughs, were little pictures, very bright and gay. I saw shining candles and red berries, elflike children with furry caps upon their heads and a crowd of people like a bed of tulips, but all so distant, like the scenes of microscopic busyness in the snowy background of a Dutch painting. There was music too, but so far away that it might have been harp music fingering at the thick walls outside the crypt, trying to come in, or wind at the edges of a forest. Close to me there was nothing but the icy spaces of my loneliness and a misery that no one could understand. I sat shivering with the cold, sometimes stumbling to my feet or sinking to my knees in obedience to Jenny’s hand pulling or pushing me, and far away I heard her sigh and knew that this misguided expedition was turning out just as she had feared it would. I tried to realize what I had learned in the years behind me, the flashes of understanding that had irradiated my times of respite, and to furnish the void with them, and I did remember the forgiveness and love of God waiting at the heart of all experience, and the adorable radiance of being shining out from all created forms, and the hands that gave and received. But I only remembered. None of it was real, only something I remembered imagining. I had thought before that I knew what despair meant, but I hadn’t known. I knew now, I don’t know for how long, for perhaps only a few moments. It passed and I found I was standing half turned in our pew, looking over my shoulder at William the Hunchback’s carving of himself. We were at the back of the church, where Jenny had carefully placed me in case I should disgrace her, and I could see him clearly and easily. He looked highly amused, and I turned my head away again quickly in anger and outrage, back to the emptiness.
A change had come over it. The chill had become an indescribable freshness and the emptiness was filled with what I can only call vast spaces of liberty. They were waiting, blue and warm, already faintly irradiated with the growing sunlight, and were not only outside me, as I had thought, but inside me too. I was being hollowed out, emptied, and filled with this newness. The little pictures of people and scenes had vanished now but I no longer needed them. I had forgotten them. All I wanted was that the thinning walls of my bodily life should let me go, cast me out like a captive lark freed and flung from a window. And I thought, this is death, and it seemed that I sang already.
But it wasn’t. I was singing, but it was a carol, and about me were the candles and the holly, the elflike children and the tall people like tulips in a border. There was no emptiness any longer but people pressing upon me in so friendly and so close a fashion that they seemed a part of me. I loved them and welcomed them back, though it was so short a time ago that I had loved and welcomed the sun-warmed spaces of liberty. I knew that in another dimension the two were not mutually exclusive but existed together. I also knew that it had happened again. The experience of that other Christmas years ago had repeated itself and I was well.
Now, sitting in front of the fire, I have asked myself, did I really die? No, of course not. Then were the two experiences, this one and the other when I found the cave in the rock, merely the hallucinations of illness? No, for they healed me. They also illumined my mind, for they showed me something of the extraordinary reversals of God. Everything He touches is changed, death to life and emptiness to liberty, and not only changed but changed into Himself since He is Himself reversal. And so it seems to me now right that the two people who mean most to my life, the old man who gazed entranced at the butterflies in my parents’ garden and the child Mary, should have been physically the most parted from me. With both there was only the one meeting, yet they are now more to me than even Ambrose or Jenny. I never grieved that I did not see the old man again and I will set myself to learn not to grieve because I shall not see Mary again. The broken relationship, touched by God, is whole and perfect as it could not have been if there had been the normal sequence of human misunderstandings. I am so thankful for all I have learned here, for the treasure hid in a field. It’s not the final treasure, it’s merely a shadow of coming knowledge, not knowledge itself. For that I must wait. How long? Perhaps so long that I shall go through the thing that I dread most of all, senility, and become so old and childish that I shall forget all I have learned. But then will come reversal again with loss turned to restoration and decay to renewal at His touch.
That was the end. If there had been another volume of the diary it was lost, but Mary felt sure that Cousin Mary had written nothing further. For forty years more she had lived in this house but what she had suffered and learned while she waited for deliverance was something about which she was silent. Mary found that she did not regret the silence, for it gave dignity to Cousin Mary. The silence, she was sure, had extended to the old lady’s daily intercourse with those about her. There had been almost a note of querulous complaint in the words “a misery which no one could understand,” but Mrs. Baker had said, “She never spoke of it,” and Paul had said, “She never complained.” Not even to her diary. She had progressed beyond the need of it.
Mary had, as she hoped she would, suffered in the reading of the diary. She had wept sometimes during sleepless nights, but after this final reading she was left with a sense of triumph with regard to Cousin Mary, and with regard to herself a queer but certain knowledge that she had somehow transcended time, shared her cousin’s experience and consoled it.
Chapter XV
1
THE snow did not come at Christmas, and only a light sprinkling in January, to Appleshaw’s relief, for with influenza decimating the ranks the removal of Mrs. Hepplewhite from the manor to her bungalow was a major undertaking. Mr. Hepplewhite forbade his wife to sell the manor, for an old age spent in his library was something from which he definitely refused to be parted, and for which he was prepared to work with renewed energy when he was free again; but it was let for a term of years. Appleshaw was surprised to fi
nd itself glad that Mr. Hepplewhite hoped to return one day. They had always felt him to be something of an anachronism, and feared in his person an intrusion from an age they hoped might pass them by if they could keep their heads stuck in the earth for long enough. But now he was more missed than feared. He had not tried to pluck them from their green shade, indeed he had in his own fashion loved it too. They saw that now and began to feel very fond of the squire. The papers had been at great pains to dig out his past history and it had been the greatest service they could have done him, for in the indulgent eyes of Appleshaw stealing that leveled out such gross injustice was scarcely stealing at all. And meanwhile Mrs. Hepplewhite was delighted with her bungalow, and loved traveling by bus, Colonel and Mrs. Adams were deeply happy with their television set and the knowledge that Charles had given it to them, Jean was looking forward to another year of Mary’s friendship with quiet content, the chrysanthemums that Mary had promised herself were doing well in the conservatory and the Randalls’ change of fortune was like a lambent light upon the gray landscape.
Only Mrs. Croft was not entirely satisfied when Mary Baker had told her that country snowdrops must be in flower by Candlemas and watching the tight upright spears in her garden day by day she had been afraid The Laurels’ snowdrops might fail in their duty. But they had not let her down.
“Showing white?” asked Mrs. Croft.
“Right out,” said Mary. “Heads dropped down and out.”
“Mine have been out for a couple of days,” said Mrs. Croft. “The wretched things. Don’t mention snowdrops to me. There’s always a snowfall the moment they drop their heads.” She glanced up at the gray sky. “Look at that, and I’ve a baby due.”
“The Randall baby? I thought Valerie was going to the hospital.”
“She is, and in any case it’s not due yet. No, it’s a gypsy baby. The caravans are down at the far end of Abbey Fields. Gypsy babies always come in the middle of the night and generally in a storm. Thunderstorm, hurricane or blizzard. Any sort of disturbance. It’s all the same to a gypsy baby. They’re elemental little things, like kittens. Tiger shaping well? Well, dear, I’ll say good-bye. I mean to get to bed early tonight.”
Next day the snow began to fall, large slow flakes drifting on a light wind. The sky was leaden and the earth crouched beneath it drained of beauty. All the light and loveliness were in the snow itself, in the movement and glimmer of the flakes large as wild white roses, in the tide of whiteness flowing slowly over the dark earth, like moonlight or the surf of a soundless sea. Mary moved through her day entranced, for this was not only her first snow at Appleshaw but her first country snow. After she had rescued her six snowdrops from the garden she stayed indoors and gazed out of first one window and then another, watching how the whiteness outlined the church windows and the ledges of the tower, how it lay on the shoulders of her cupid in the garden and crept along the branches of the apple tree outside the parlor window. There were sounds at first, Bess barking, the early return of the next-door car bringing the children home from school before the roads worsened, voices of people crossing the green, but with the approach of twilight they one by one fell away. Even the light wind dropped and no longer murmured in the chimney. When Mary at last reluctantly drew the curtains she shut herself in with a silence so living that she moved about the house or sat by the fire as attentive to it as though she were listening to John talking, or Cousin Mary, or to some other music still just beyond her human hearing. Or for some arrival. Who’s coming? she wondered. There was expectancy in her listening but no impatience.
She went to bed early and lit the oil stove she had purchased with the first cold weather. She thought she would keep it alight in this her first snow, especially as Tiger had favored her with his company. When she was in bed with her lamp out, and the little cat asleep on her eiderdown, its glow gave her a cozy feeling of nursery comfort and warmth. The flame had a murmuring voice but no louder than the ticking of her watch, and neither voice could so much as finger the garment of the silence. She did not at once sleep deeply yet she was not aware of weariness. She dozed and woke again and saw the light shining on John’s photo and on her six snowdrops in a vase beside it, and smiled and slept once more.
She woke slowly from her dream of the moving shadows and the candlelight shining on the snowdrops on the altar. It had been hard to tell which had been the shadows cast by the cowled figures, long shadows that ran up the wall in the flickering light and were lost in the smoky gloom of the vaulted roof, and which the men themselves, their hands in their sleeves, their heads bent as they chanted. There were only a few of them, men who had been sick but were now sufficiently recovered to be able to take their part in the first office of Candlemas. Though she could not see their faces the men themselves were very real to her, especially the tall monk who stood before the altar and the short one with the bowed shoulders. It was she who was unreal, for she cast no shadow. She looked for her shadow and could not find it and feeling a little afraid began to wake up. But the light still shone on six snowdrops, the chanting continued, the tall man turned and smiled at her and he was John. Slowly the reality to which she was accustomed asserted itself; John’s photo and the snowdrops in their vase, the familiar outlines of her room. But the chanting continued and lying in her bed she listened to it. When, again with a little tremor of fear, she remembered that Edith had listened to the same thing it was gone. She heard only the clock striking two and then a cock crowing, that first mysterious deep of the night cockcrow that always thrilled her. Yet, with midnight past, it was a new day.
She was beginning to develop the country dweller’s seventh sense about the weather and so she knew without going to the window that the snow had stopped. One of Cousin Mary’s reversals had taken place. The leaden clouds had all been transmuted into whiteness and the stars were shining in a clear sky. Unexpectedly the cock crowed again and a dog barked. Mary sat up in bed, once more with that feeling of expectancy, but the dog did not bark again and she lay down and fell deeply asleep.
2
The urgent call beneath her window woke Mrs. Croft at once and she was out of bed instantly. This was what she had expected, her clothes were ready on a chair and her bag, packed with all she needed, stood on the floor beside it. With her dressing gown hugged around her shoulders, for it was bitterly cold, she opened the window a little way behind the curtain, called out, “Wait where you are. I’ll be down in a moment,” and banged it shut again. Reuben Heron, the gypsy father, was a dirty fellow whom Mrs. Croft very much disliked, and she was not going to waste precious time going downstairs to let him in; nor have him and his dog dirtying her carpet while he waited. Let him stay where he was. Do him good. She dressed quickly and soundlessly, for no good nurse ever drops anything, so soundlessly that she was able to notice the stillness outside. That was odd, she thought.
She had expected a blizzard. And now she came to think of it, she had been aware of a glory of stars before she dropped the curtain again. She had never known a gypsy baby to arrive in a dead calm before. Very odd. She took her flashlight, went downstairs and let herself out into her snowy garden. There was the softness of a dog’s fur against her legs and a man’s hand gripped her arm in a relief so strong that it nearly broke it. “Nurse! Come on! Valerie’s started!”
“Mr. Randall!” she ejaculated. “Well I never! I thought it was the gypsy baby that’s been due a week.”
“It isn’t. It’s Val’s baby. The phone’s out of order. The snow I suppose. So I can’t get the ambulance. Anyway it would never get her to Westwater in time in this weather. Nurse, you’ve been an hour dressing.”
“I have not,” said Mrs. Croft tartly but breathlessly, for he was rushing her down the garden path as though it were broad daylight and he could see every stone. “Five minutes. Now there’s no need to get in a state, Mr. Randall. I know it’s early but that’s all to the good with your wife the nervous type. Less time for her to work herself up beforehand. There’s nothin
g wrong with her and she’ll have an easy time I shouldn’t wonder. Is your mother-in-law there?”
“She was coming next week. No one’s there. Val’s alone.”
“Did you phone the doctor?”
“I tell you the phone’s dead. Good Lord, why didn’t I use yours?”
“Mine’s dead too. I tried to put a call through last night and couldn’t. Now don’t take on. As soon as I’ve seen your wife comfortable I’ll pop over to the Talbots’. If their phone’s gone Mr. Talbot can go for the doctor. It’s not far. And Mrs. Talbot can give me a hand; though many’s the baby I’ve delivered singlehanded. How did you find the way to my cottage?”
“Bess brought me.”
“She’s a good dog. Here we are now. Your sitting room fire’s out, I see. I’ll light it up again later and make you some hot coffee. Now I’ll pop up. Nothing to worry about, remember.”
Paul could not see her bright eyes and flushed and happy face. She might complain but there was nothing Mrs. Croft enjoyed more than delivering babies. Especially if the doctor came too late.
3
Mary was in the middle of a late breakfast when the bell rang. When she had opened the door it seemed to her for a moment that history was repeating itself, for on the steps stood three children and a hamster. But the bare brown legs, the cotton frocks and the crumpled green linen suit had given way to Wellington boots, thick coats and mufflers, so that even the slim Edith looked almost as broad as she was tall. Martha, held in Rose’s arms, was dressed in a pink shawl. Behind them were no longer the green and gold of a spring day but the marvelous glitter of sun on frost and the branches of trees borne down by their weight of snow blossom; great magnolia chunks, Maybloom and blackthorn in arcs and drifts; and so still spring, Mary thought, midwinter spring burgeoning in a silence empty of birdsong yet filled with unheard singing. It was as though the second movement of Mozart’s flute and harp concerto had just died away on the air but the echo remained crystallized in frost.