Read Online A World of Love by Elizabeth Bowen - Free Book Online
Authors: Elizabeth Bowen
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her kimono she sighed and returned to bed, to a pillow clammy though not with tears. Meantime, the outgoing Ford’s sound not only fanned out widely over the country but entered the valley, where the low-running river slipped on its way between necks of sand and archipelagos of little dry stones. The summer-idle water dawdled in shallows, slid on in skeins where it had brightly appeared to be least moving, and in a tea-brown clear pool mirrored the cliff above. Also Maud was photographed on the water, crouched on the ledge of Gay David’s Hole, a small low cave under the cliff’s face. ‘ Ca-ar !’ she bawled across to Jane.
Jane lay face down among growing bracken, on the Montefort side. Water-mint wet in the dwindling current and meadowsweet creamily frothing the river bank sent up a scented oblivion round her; a hot tang came from the bracken fronds crushed into bedding by her body. Languidly she neither answered nor raised her head, merely caught at a frond by the tip, bending it down to let a ladybird make its way more easily. ‘Car, car, car!’ Maud repeated, each time for emphasis punching Gay David in the unseen ribs—the ladybird paused as though it could hear; Jane yawned, pushed her hands up into her hair and, for peace sake, shouted back: ‘Not the tractor?’
‘No: our car: too fast.’ Maud again fiercely harkened. ‘It’s gone now.’
‘Yes.’
‘Suppose Satan’s got it?’
‘Suppose he has.’ This time indifference caused Jane’s voice to fade out halfway across the river. ‘ Whaa-t ?’ insisted the child.
‘Nothing—nothing—nothing.’ On that descending note Jane again became as she was before, letting the deep keen dream come combing through her, keeping her being running like tressy water-weed, like Ophelia’s drowned hair. Nowhere was silence: flies droned over the bracken, far off the tractor patiently drew the mower—and at the instant, with a cave-echoed splash Maud swung her legs into the pool; while all through the minutes conspiratorially the child and her familiar gabbled together in the afternoon distance across the river. Yet all blent into a sort of hush.
The particular secret of the place where Jane lay was that it was pre-inhabited. An ardent hour of summer had gone by here—yes, here , literally where she was, to her certain knowledge. Evidence was in the breast of her dress, the letter. This narrow tract of the valley had been thought in, as a walker waded through the resilient bracken or stood, looking up at the cliff, here where the turf itself broke off into a miniature cliff this side of the water. It had been June then too: everything he had said he saw stamped the scene again, so that the landscape became a vision and Jane could hardly believe it was still before her. But it was, and not only still here but poetically immortal; and better still it had comicalities which his eye had noted—out of the cliff, for instance, out of the vagaries and traceries of the limestone did look a clown’s face, ferns for eyebrows, loony eye-hollows, neb awry, fallen-open mouth where the cave yawned; and the clown did seem to be swallowing terrified gold fish as light-spangles went darting under the rock. And here, three paces from where she lay, was the thorn tree; also part of the story, for that it grew wickedly crooked he had perceived, passing for a minute into its shadow then out again into the golden-yellow beyond. But all this he had been beholding not for its own sake only; through it he was seeking a speaking language—he was in love. ’ I thought,’ he wrote, ’ if only YOU had been here!’
A thread lay dropped on the grass, for Jane to pick up. ‘But here I am. Oh, here I am!’ she protested.
Seeing how brief all time was it seemed impossible she could be too late: this valley held waiting in its keeping, suspense in the glitter of its air. Here was the hour, still to be lived! Impatient the letter shifted inside her dress as rolling over
Jane lay face down among growing bracken, on the Montefort side. Water-mint wet in the dwindling current and meadowsweet creamily frothing the river bank sent up a scented oblivion round her; a hot tang came from the bracken fronds crushed into bedding by her body. Languidly she neither answered nor raised her head, merely caught at a frond by the tip, bending it down to let a ladybird make its way more easily. ‘Car, car, car!’ Maud repeated, each time for emphasis punching Gay David in the unseen ribs—the ladybird paused as though it could hear; Jane yawned, pushed her hands up into her hair and, for peace sake, shouted back: ‘Not the tractor?’
‘No: our car: too fast.’ Maud again fiercely harkened. ‘It’s gone now.’
‘Yes.’
‘Suppose Satan’s got it?’
‘Suppose he has.’ This time indifference caused Jane’s voice to fade out halfway across the river. ‘ Whaa-t ?’ insisted the child.
‘Nothing—nothing—nothing.’ On that descending note Jane again became as she was before, letting the deep keen dream come combing through her, keeping her being running like tressy water-weed, like Ophelia’s drowned hair. Nowhere was silence: flies droned over the bracken, far off the tractor patiently drew the mower—and at the instant, with a cave-echoed splash Maud swung her legs into the pool; while all through the minutes conspiratorially the child and her familiar gabbled together in the afternoon distance across the river. Yet all blent into a sort of hush.
The particular secret of the place where Jane lay was that it was pre-inhabited. An ardent hour of summer had gone by here—yes, here , literally where she was, to her certain knowledge. Evidence was in the breast of her dress, the letter. This narrow tract of the valley had been thought in, as a walker waded through the resilient bracken or stood, looking up at the cliff, here where the turf itself broke off into a miniature cliff this side of the water. It had been June then too: everything he had said he saw stamped the scene again, so that the landscape became a vision and Jane could hardly believe it was still before her. But it was, and not only still here but poetically immortal; and better still it had comicalities which his eye had noted—out of the cliff, for instance, out of the vagaries and traceries of the limestone did look a clown’s face, ferns for eyebrows, loony eye-hollows, neb awry, fallen-open mouth where the cave yawned; and the clown did seem to be swallowing terrified gold fish as light-spangles went darting under the rock. And here, three paces from where she lay, was the thorn tree; also part of the story, for that it grew wickedly crooked he had perceived, passing for a minute into its shadow then out again into the golden-yellow beyond. But all this he had been beholding not for its own sake only; through it he was seeking a speaking language—he was in love. ’ I thought,’ he wrote, ’ if only YOU had been here!’
A thread lay dropped on the grass, for Jane to pick up. ‘But here I am. Oh, here I am!’ she protested.
Seeing how brief all time was it seemed impossible she could be too late: this valley held waiting in its keeping, suspense in the glitter of its air. Here was the hour, still to be lived! Impatient the letter shifted inside her dress as rolling over
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