Mary Webb

Seven For A Secret

A Love Story

Warsaw 2019

Contents

CHAPTER ONE: Gillian Lovekin

CHAPTER TWO: Robert Rideout

CHAPTER THREE: Aunt Fanteague Arrives

CHAPTER FOUR: Gillian Asks for a Kiss

CHAPTER FIVE: Robert writes two Letters

CHAPTER SIX: Tea at the Junction

CHAPTER SEVEN: Gillian comes to Silverton

CHAPTER EIGHT: Gillian meets Mr. Gentle

CHAPTER NINE: The Harper’s Forge

CHAPTER TEN: The Burning Heart

CHAPTER ELEVEN: Isaiah asks a Question

CHAPTER TWELVE: At the Sign of the Maiden

CHAPTER THIRTEEN: Robert says ‘No’

CHAPTER FOURTEEN: ‘Daggly Weather’

CHAPTER FIFTEEN: Isaiah hears a Belownder

CHAPTER SIXTEEN: Ralph Elmer comes to Dinner

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: Tea for four at the ‘Mermaid’s Rest’

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: The Gifts of Ralph Elmer to Gillian Lovekin

CHAPTER NINETEEN: Bloom in the Orchard

CHAPTER TWENTY: Robert pleaches the Thorn Hedge

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: Briar Roses

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: Weeping Cross

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: Isaiah says ‘Ha!’

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: A Hank of Faery Wool

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: The Bride comes Home

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: A B C at the Sign of the Maiden

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN: ‘In a Dream she cradled Me’

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT: Fringal forgets to Laugh

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE: Snow in the Little Gyland

CHAPTER THIRTY: Robert Awaits the Dawn

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE: ‘Now what be Troubling Thee?’

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO: ‘Seven for a Secret that’s never been told’

CHAPTER ONE: Gillian Lovekin

On a certain cold winter evening, in the country that lies between the dimpled lands of England and the gaunt purple steeps of Wales–half in Faery and half out of it–the old farm-house that stood in the midst of the folds and billows of Dysgwlfas-on-the-Wild-Moors glowed with a deep gem-like lustre in its vast setting of grey and violet. Moorland country is never colourless. It still keeps, when every heather-bell is withered, in its large mysterious expanses, a bloom of purple like the spirit of the heather. Against this background, which lay on every side, mile on sombre mile, the homestead, with its barns and stacks, held and refracted every ray of the declining sunlight, and made a comfortable and pleasant picture beneath the fleecy, low, cinereous sky, which boded snow. The farm-house was built of fine old mellow sandstone, of that weatherworn and muted red which takes an indescribable beauty beneath the level rays of dawn and sunset, as though it irradiated the light that touched it. It was evening only in the sense in which that word is used in this border country, which is any time after noon. It was not yet tea-time, though preparations for tea were going on within. Among the corn-ricks, which burned under the sun into a memory of the unreaped August tints of orange and tawny and yellow, redpolls were feasting and seeking their customary shelter for the night, and one or two late-lingering mountain linnets kept up their sad little lament of “twite-twite-twite’ in the bare blackthorn hedge. Blackbirds began to think of fluffing their feathers, settling cosily, and drawing up their eyelids. They “craiked’ and scolded in their anxiety to attain each his secret Nirvana. From the stubble fields, that lay like a small pale coin on the outspread moor, a flock of starlings came past with a rip of the air like the tearing of strong silk.

The rickyard lay on the north side of the foldyard; on the south was the house; to the east it was bounded by the shippen, the cowhouses and stables. To the west lay the orchard, and beyond it the cottage, which in these lonely places is always built when the farm is built. The whole thing formed a companionable little township of some five hundred souls–allowing the turkeys to have souls, and including the ewes when they lay near the house at lambing time. As to whether the redpolls, the linnets and the starlings should be included, Gillian of Dysgwlfas was often doubtful. They sang; they flew; and nobody could sing or fly without a soul: but they were so quick and light and inconsequent, their songs were so thin and eerie, that Gillian thought their souls were not quite real-faery souls, weightless as an eggshell when the egg has been sucked out. On the roof of the farm the black fantail pigeons, which belonged to Robert Rideout of the cottage, sidled up and down uneasily. All day, troubled by the clangour within the house, they had stepped at intervals, very gingerly, to the edge of the thatch, and set each a ruby eye peering downwards. They had observed that the leaded windows stood open, every one, all day; that the two carved arm-chairs with the red cushions, and the big sheepskin hearthrug of the parlour, had been brought out on to the square lawn where the dovecote was, and beaten. They had seen Simon, their hated enemy, slinking round the borders where the brown stems of the perennials had been crisped by early frosts, miserable as he always was on cleaning days, finally sulking in the window of the cornloft and refusing to enter the house at all. All this, they knew, meant some intrusion of the outer world, the world that lay beyond their furthest gaze, into this quiet place, drenched in old silence. It must be that Farmer Lovekin’s sister was coming–that Mrs. Fanteague who caused cleanings of the dovecote, whom they hated. They marked their disapproval by flashing up all together with a steely clatter of wings, and surveying the lessening landscape from the heights of the air.

Most of the windows were shut now, and a warm, delicious scent of cooking afflicted Simon’s appetite so that he rose, stretched, yawned, washed cursorily, shelved his dignity and descended to the kitchen, where he twined himself about the quick feet of Mrs. Makepeace, urgent between the larder and the great open fire, with its oven on one side and gurgling boiler on the other.

By the kitchen table stood Gillian Lovekin. Her full name was Juliana, but the old-fashioned way of treating the name had continued in the Lovekin family. She was stoning raisins. Every sixth raisin she put into her mouth, rapturously and defiantly, remembering that she and not Mrs. Makepeace was mistress of the farm. When her mother died Gillian had been only sixteen. Her first thought, she remembered with compunction, had been that now she would be mistress. She was eighteen on this evening of preparation, and just “out of her black.’ She was neither tall nor short, neither stout nor very slender; she was not dark nor fair, not pretty nor ugly. She had ugly things about her, such as the scar which seamed one side of her forehead, and gave that profile an intent, relentless look. Her nose was much too high in the bridge–the kind of nose that comes of Welsh ancestry and is common in the west. It gave her, in her softest moods, a domineering air. But her mouth was sensitive and sweet, and could be yielding sometimes, and her eyes had so much delight in all they looked upon, and saw so much incipient splendour in common things, that they charmed you and led you in a spell, and would not let you think her plain or dull.

She liked to do her daily tasks with an air; so she used the old Staffordshire bowl (which had been sent from that county as a wedding present for her grandmother) to dip her fingers in when they were sticky. The brown raisins were heaped up on a yellow plate, and she made a gracious picture with her two plaits of brown hair, her dark eyebrows bent above eyes of lavender-grey, and her richly tinted face with its country tan and its flush of brownish rose. The firelight caressed her, and Simon, when he could spare time from the bits of fat that fell off Mrs. Makepeace’s mincing board, blinked at her greenly and lovingly.

Mrs. Makepeace was making chitterling puffs and apple cobs.

“Well!’ she said, mincing so swiftly that she seemed to mince her own fingers every time, “we’ve claned this day, if ever!’

Gillian sighed. She disliked these bouts of fierce manual industry almost as much as Simon did.

“I’m sure my A’nt Fanteague did ought to be pleased,’ she said, making her aunt’s name into three syllables.

“Mrs. Fanteague,’ observed Mrs. Makepeace, “is a lady as is never pl’ased. Take your dear ‘eart out, serve on toast with gravy of your bone and sinew. Would she say “Thank you”? She’d sniff and she’d peer, and she’d say with that loud lungeous voice of ‘ers: “What you want, my good ‘oman, is a larger ‘eart.” ’

Gillian’s laugh rang out, and Simon, who loved her voice, came purring across the kitchen and leapt into her lap.

“Saving your presence, Miss Gillian, child,’ added Mrs. Makepeace, “and excuse me making game of your A’ntie.’

“Time and agen,’ said Gillian, pushing away the plate of raisins, “I think I’d lief get in the cyart by A’nt Fanteague when she goes back to Sil’erton, and go along of her, beyond the Gwlfas and the mountains, beyond the sea–’

“Wheer then?’ queried Mrs. Makepeace practically.

“To the moon-O! maybe.’

“By Leddy! What’d your feyther do?’

“Feyther’s forgetful. He wouldna miss me sore.’

“And Robert? My Bob?’

She looked swiftly at Gillian, her brown eyes keen and motherly.

“Oh, Robert?’ mused Gillian, her hands going up and down amid Simon’s dark fur.

She brooded.

“Robert Rideout?’ she murmured. Then she swung her plaits backwards with a defiant toss, and cried: “He wouldna miss me neither!’

She flung Simon down and got up.

“It’s closing in,’ she said. “I mun see to my coney wires.’

“It’s to be hoped, my dear, as you’ll spare me a coney out of your catch to make a patty. Your A’nt Fanteague pearly loves a coney patty.’

“Not without feyther pays for it,’ said Gillian. “If I give away my conies as fast as I catch ‘em, where’s my lessons in the music?’

She opened the old nail-studded door that gave on the foldyard, and was gone.

“Gallus!’ observed Mrs. Makepeace. “Ah, she’s gallus, and for ever ‘ankering after the world’s deceit, but she’s got an ‘eart, if you can only get your fingers round it, Robert, my lad. But I doubt you binna for’ard enow.’

She shook her head over the absent Robert so that the strings of her sunbonnet swung out on either side of her round, red, cheerful face.

“If I didna know as John Rideout got you long afore I took pity on poor Makepeace (and a man of iron John Rideout was, and it’s strange as I should come to a man of straw), I’d be nigh thinking you was Makepeace’s, time and agen. Dreamy–dreamy!’

She rolled and slapped and minced as if her son and her second husband were on the rolling board and she was putting them into shape. But John Rideout, the man of iron, remained in her mind as a being beyond her shaping. After his death she had seen all other men as so many children, to be cared for and scolded, and because Jonathan Makepeace was the most helpless man she had ever met, she married him. She had seen him first on a market day at the Keep. Tall, narrow, with his long hair and beard blowing in the wind, his mild blue eye met hers with the sadness of one who laments: “When I speak unto them of peace, they make them ready for battle.’ For the tragedy of Jonathan Makepeace was that, since he had first held a rattle, inanimate matter had been his foe. He was a living illustration of the theory that matter cuts across the path of life. In its crossing of Jonathan’s path it was never Jonathan that came off as victor. Jugs flung themselves from his hands; buckets and cisterns decanted their contents over him; tablecloths caught on any metal portion of his clothing, dragging with them the things on the table. If he gathered fruit, a heavy fire of apples poured upon his head. If he fished, he fell into the water. Many bits of his coat, and one piece of finger, had been given to that Moloch, the turnip-cutter. When he forked the garden, he forked his own feet. When he chopped wood, pieces fled up into his face like furious birds. If he made a bonfire, flames drew themselves out to an immense length in order to singe his beard. This idiosyncrasy of inanimate nature (or of Jonathan) was well known on the moors, and was enjoyed to the full, from Mallard’s Keep, which lay to the north, to the steep dusky market town of Weeping Cross, which lay south. It was enjoyed with the quiet, uncommenting, lasting enjoyment of the countryside. On the day Abigail met him, it was being enjoyed at the Keep, where the weekly market was, and where people shopped on ordinary occasions, reserving Christmas or wedding or funeral shopping for the more distant Weeping Cross. Jonathan had been shopping. Under one arm he had a bag of chicken-food; under the other, bran. Both bags, aware of Jonathan, had gently burst, and a crowd followed him with silent and ecstatic mirth while he wandered, dignified and pathetic, towards the inn, with the streams of grain and bran making his passing like a paperchase. She had heard of Jonathan (who had not?) and this vision of him was the final proof that he needed mothering. She told him briskly what was happening, and his “Deary, deary me!’ and his smile seemed to her very lovable. She wrapped up his parcels and listened sympathetically to his explanations. There was “summat come over’ things, he said. “Seemed like they was bewitched.’ She did not laugh. She had a kind of ancient wisdom about her that fitted in with her firm, rosy face, her robin-like figure. She knew that the heavens were not the same heavens for all. The rain did not fall equally on the evil and the good. Here was Jonathan, as good as gold, yet every cloud in heaven seemed to collect above him. As he ruefully said, “Others met be dry as tinder, but I’m soused.’ Realizing that war with the inanimate is woman’s special province, because she has been trained by centuries of housework–of catching cups as they sidle from their hooks and jugs as they edge from the table–Mrs. Rideout decided to spend the rest of her life fighting for Jonathan. She had done so for twelve years, to her own delight, the admiration of the country round, and Jonathan’s content.

Robert was ten years old when she married Makepeace. His heavily-lashed eyes, which had a dark glance as well as a tender one, and of which it was difficult to see the colour because of their blazing vitality, his forbidding mouth with its rare sweet smile, were so like his father’s that she would ponder on him for hours at a time. To John Rideout she was faithful, though she married Makepeace. And as Christmas after Christmas went by, and still Jonathan was alive and well, she triumphed. She loved him with a maternal love, and when Robert grew to manhood, Jonathan took his place. Abigail would look at his tall, thin figure with pride, remembering all that she had saved him from during the past year.

Now, while Abigail worked in the farm kitchen, Jonathan was very unhappily putting a tallow dip in his horn lantern, in order to harness the mare and go to the station across the moor to fetch Mrs. Fanteague. The tallow candle refused to stand up, bending towards him like the long greyish neck of a cygnet, pouring tallow on to Mrs. Makepeace’s check tablecloth. Jonathan thought of the things that the harness would do, of the gates that would slam in his face, and the number of times he would drop the whip; he thought of the miles of darkly sighing moor which he must cross in order to bring back Mrs. Fanteague and her sharp-cornered box (always by the mercy of heaven and in defiance of material things), and he sighed. Abigail would have a sup of tea ready for him when he got home. “If he got home,’ he amended. With a fatalism which shrouded his character like a cloak, he regarded the worst as the only thing likely to happen, and whether he stubbed his foot or fell from the top of the hay-bay, he only said “Lard’s will be done.’

As he opened the stable door, a goblin of wind puffed his light out. The door slammed and pinched his fingers. He had no matches. Time pressed, for no one ever kept Mrs. Fanteague waiting. He lifted up his voice.

“Robert Rideout! Robert Rideout!’ he called.

His thin cry wandered through the foldyard to the rickyard, and brought sleepy eyelids half-way down. The echoes strayed disconsolately into the vagueness of the surrounding moor, which, at sunset, had darkened like a frown.

Robert did not appear.

“Off on lonesome!’ commented Jonathan. “What a lad! Oh, what a useless, kim-kam lad! Never a hand’s turn. Allus glooming and glowering on the yeath!’

“What ails you, stepfeyther?’ asked a deep and quiet voice. “What for be you blaating by your lonesome outside the dark door?’

Jonathan sighed with relief, settling himself like a sleepy bird in the strong, secure presence of Robert Rideout. He stood with his white hair blowing, wringing his hands like a frail prophet of disaster, and told Robert of the long day’s mishaps.

“Ah! It’s allus like that when mother’s off at farm,’ said Robert, fetching out the mare, who nestled her nose softly into his rough coat. Horses never worked so well for anyone as for Robert. When he milked the cows, they gave more milk. No ewe, it was said, would drop her lambs untimely if he were shepherd. The very hens, obliged by hereditary instinct to “steal their nesses,’ would come forth with their bee-like swarms of chicks when Robert went by, revealing their sin and their glory to his eye alone.

“Ready!’ said Robert. He gave Jonathan the reins and whip, tucked a sack round his knees, saw to the lamps, and opened the gate.

“Leave a light in stable, lad, agen we come–if we come.’

This was his customary phrase. If he only went to call the ducks from the pond, he bade his wife as fond a farewell as if he were going on a voyage. It was most probable that he would fall head foremost among the ducks and that the weeds would coil themselves about him and drag him down. It was curious that no one ever thought of stopping Jonathan doing these responsible tasks. For instance, he went to “lug’ Mrs. Fanteague back because he always did so. Things happened; but, so far, the worst had not occurred. There is a vein of optimistic fatalism in the country which always hopes that the worst never will happen. Besides, there was Mrs. Fanteague. Coming home, she would be in command. Even now, when she had not so much as alighted on the windswept wooden platform of the branch line station at the Keep, her presence, advancing solidly beyond the horizon, comforted him inexpressibly. There was also Winny, the mare. She would look after him. She understood him very well. When he jerked the off rein, she swerved to the near, and vice versa. She knew every stone, every bit of uneven road, every stray scent that crossed it, fine as a thread of cobweb, all the walking gradients and the slippery bits. She knew the place where the road ran beside the railway line for half a mile, just as you came to the Keep–where, if Robert had been driving, she would have been “nervy’ and relied on him, on his voice and his firm hand on the rein–where, if anyone else had been driving, she would have run away. When she had Jonathan in the trap, she did not run away; she allowed herself no starts or tremors. If he had left things entirely to her, nothing would ever have happened. The animal world, as if to make up for the unkindness of the inanimate, was kind to him, and as the stocks and stones rose up and confounded him, the living creatures comforted him, motherly and consoling.

“I’d come and send you a bit, stepfeyther, only I mun see to sheep.’

“Good-bye, lad, and God bless you,’ said Jonathan. “I’ll be right enow when the mar’ gets going.’

But as they swung out on to the moor, he turned and glanced at the comfortable lit windows of the farm and shook his head sadly and murmured: “Lard save me to lug Mrs. Fanteague back.’

CHAPTER TWO: Robert Rideout

A sharp young moon sidled up over the dark eastern shoulder of the moor, entangled herself in the black manes of the pines which swayed a little in the rising night wind, slipped through them like a fish through a torn net, and swam free in a large grey sky which was beginning to tingle, between the woolly clouds, with a phosphorescence of faint starlight. In the last meadow that sloped up, rough and tussocky, to the splendid curve of moorland, Robert found the sheep, uneasy beneath a dubious heaven. They lay with their dim raddled bodies outlined by crisp, frosty, faintly luminous grass. The presage of lambing-time was already in their eyes.

“Coom then!’ said Robert. “Coom then!’

They rose with a faery crackling of herbage, and prepared to go whither he should lead them. But as he turned towards home, a voice, sharp and silvery as the young moon, cutting the deep boding silence like a sickle, cried from the other side of the bare hazel hedge:

“Bide for me, ‘oot, Bob?’

He turned, unsurprised and unhurried.

“What ails you, Gillian, child, nutting in November? Dunna you know the owd rhyme?’

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