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    Precious Bane
    Precious Bane
    Precious Bane
    Ebook382 pages5 hours

    Precious Bane

    By Mary Webb

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    About this ebook

    This is the story of us all at Sarn, of Mother and Gideon and me, and Jancis, and Wizard Beguildy, and the two or three other folk that lived in those parts, that I did set out to tell. There were but a few, and maybe always will be, for there’s a discouragement about the place. It may be the water lapping, year in and year out—everywhere you look and listen, water; or the big trees waiting and considering on your right hand and on your left; or the unbreathing quiet of the place, as if it was created but an hour gone, and not created for us.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherWilder Publications, Inc.
    Release dateJan 1, 2020
    ISBN9781515441908
    Precious Bane

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    Reviews for Precious Bane

    4/5

    181 ratings17 reviews

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    • 4/5
      some parts really good. some parts hard to focus on.
    • 4/5
      Incredibly difficult old English dialect to read but worth persevering. This is a beautiful story.
    • 4/5
      Read this one on the recommendation of a trusted colleague, and was not disappointed. A lovely story of rural Shropshire during the early years of the nineteenth century. Rowland Hilder's illustrations are remarkably effective, too.
    • 4/5
      Precious Bane has a fairytale quality, partly evoked by Webb's descriptions of the Shropshire landscape and the dragonflies in Spring, partly by the dialect, and partly by young narrator/protagonist whose shining goodness does not protect her from the sorrows of the world.
    • 5/5
      Beautiful, profound, relevant for a world where the desperate race for "the precious bane" is everything and our lives become nothing...we have forgotten what living is. I love this book so much - I have a first edition, paper backs and large size print for when my eyes begin to fail... I read it once a year.
    • 3/5
      I bought this to read after seeing the TV adaptation which I much enjoyed. However I found the way Mary Webb wrote dialogue attempting to put the Shropshire dialect and accent on paper really put me off, and I found it a barrier to reading the book, although I know the story has themes and ideas which interest me. Somebody told me that it was Mary Webb's writing in 'Precious Bane' that was being satirised in Stella Gibbon's comic masterpiece 'Cold Comfort Farm'.
    • 1/5
      It would be easy to send up this tale of high passion amid the cornfields of Shropshire
    • 5/5
      One of my new favorites among classics. I hadn't heard of this book until my mother read it and recommended it to me. At first I had difficulty with the old language but after awhile it got easier. An inspiring love story, with lush, vivid descriptions of nature, remarkable spiritual insights and compelling characterizations. Highly recommend this one.
    • 4/5
      Story about an 19thC working class woman in England who is born with a hare lip. Prue is believed to be cursed (and/or a witch) her family believe that she will never marry. Her brother inherits the family farm after murdering their dying mother. She becomes a slave to her brother and escapes many harrowing events, persecution and the accusation of the deaths of mother and brother. I very much enjoyed the gorgeous descriptions of the Shropshire countryside and the local dialect.
    • 4/5
      An interesting jaunt off the beaten path, Precious Bane is full of tradition, superstition, culture and lyrical writing. It is definitely a book to be read and reread, both for it's language and it's look on life.
    • 4/5
      Great story set in rural England of Shropshire somewhat like Wuthering Heights with brooding farmers and a kind woman afflicted with a deformity who is seeking love. Nature seems to reflect the feelings of characters. Really good.
    • 5/5
      In beautiful, simple and straightforward language, this book tells the story of characters in a small town in Western England, in the first part of the 19th century. Ignorance runs rampant, with its companion, cruelty, in the small-knit farming community. In the Sarn family, love of money creates dishonesty and ruins lives. But, just when all seems lost and at an end for the brave, good-hearted protagonist, good prevails. Heart-warming.
    • 5/5
      Mary Webb and Precious Bane came at me utterly by surprise. I had never heard of her or of the book until a friend of mine spoke very often, in the week or so that we were going through her books, of her strong and early love for Mary Webb, and particularly for the protagonist in PB, Prue Sarn. Eventually I decided to take the book and see for myself.

      Although published in 1924, the book has an older feel to me. Webb lived in Shropshire and writes of the poor farmers who lived there. She writes in a beautiful dialect, easy to read and yet filled with words that were new to me but whose meaning were clear from the context. I don’t know exactly when this is set but there are no motorcars, no planes, and life is lived according to season and weather and custom.

      Prue is born with a harelip. The folk belief is that a hare looked at her mother when she was carrying Prue in her womb, and because of that she has her slight deformity. She is said to be a witch because of it, tho' it is mostly the unkind gossip of a few rather than the grim belief of the many. But even those who love her know that she will never marry because of her harelip. And though she wishes for her own wifely life, she has no great hopes. Not even when she meets the new Weaver.

      Prue's father dies early in the story and the farm falls to her brother Gideon. He sets his eye on a grand house in town and the desire to gain that house and go to the Hunt ball with his wife and in every way command the respect of the people around him. So he works himself and his sister, Prue, nearly to death to achieve that aim. But she has agreed to the dream and to the work and although she disapproves or worries at times about her brother, she is fond of him and works as hard as he.

      I’ll say no more of the plot, and here I give you very little — just the beginning. I’ll turn back, instead, to the writing.

      As she moves through the days of her life Prue gives great attention to the natural world around her, and her pleasure in it is a deep pleasure to this reader. It is as if I have spent weeks in her world, that I know the countryside almost as well as she does, that I have felt the sun and the rain and seen the mist and shared her joy in everything. I have even gotten to look over her shoulder as she writes in her journal in the attic.

      The unhurried unfolding of what is in the main a rich and joyful tale, despite whatever tragedy comes along, is a rare and wonderful gift. This hurried world we live in, where the pace of writing is meant to be breakneck much of the time and tense the rest, seldom permits such a gentle character to truly have her voice. But Webb does so with Prue. She is the unforward, uncritical narrator who observes so well and forgives so much, who allows herself her own quiet world and ways, and who never suspects that she is the protagonist of her own tale.
    • 4/5
      Being the devoted reader of British classics I am, how I've managed to miss this little gem of a book for so long I honestly don't know. But beware, my dear reader, this is not Jane Austen. This is a harsh tale, in the style of Thomas Hardy or even George Eliot, you'll see the characters you so much come to care for struggle in an unfair and prejudiced world, and you'll suffer along with them.

      Prudence Sarn is a country girl who lives with her simple mother and her older brother, Gideon, "Maister of the place". Prue is gentle, goodhearted and has a fine figure along with a sharp brain. But she also has a harelip, meaning her whole existence is blighted, as it's impossible that anyone would marry a girl with a curse like that. In spite of her bleak future, she makes light of her woes and from very early on, she develops a special relationship with everything alive, her senses being aligned n harmony with the wild natural world; animals, trees and even the wind are her most beloved companions.
      Gideon, in contrast with good natured Prue, is as ambitious and severe as he is handsome. He works hard (and slaves Prue to do the same for him) to be wealthy and prosperous and his pride prevents him from marrying the girl he loves, fair Jancis, because he wants to be well-off before he gives himself that pleasure, not caring if others suffer because of his material whims.
      But Prue's peace of mind crumbles down when she meets the new weaver, Kester Woodseaves, whom she starts to worship in secret not believing herself worthy of him. It's up to this Prince Charming to perceive the real beauty of Pruedence Sarn and free her from gossip and hateful stares.

      "This was the reason for the hating looks, the turnings aside, the whispers. I was a the witch of Sarn. I was the woman cursed of God with a hare-shotten lip. I was the woman who had friended Beguildy, that wicked old man, the devil's oddman, and like holds to like. And now, almost the worst crime of all, I stood alone".

      What mainly got me about this novel is Webb's capacity to transmit such a crude story in which guilt, hatred and prejudice get the worst of its characters, as if it was an innocent and sweet fable. And in that sense, the brutality of the morals which are trying to be taught become more evident and disturbing. Also the evident contrast between brother and sister, between evil and goodness: Prue's silent acceptance and her brother's endless thirst to yield power; her ability to be at ease with herself in spite of her faults versus Gideon's incapacity to accept his position in the world; her humble ways, his capricious goals. As if opposed poles inevitably attracted to each other. Yin and yang. Dark and light. Life and death. One can't exist without the other.

      "Why, it was only that I was your angel for a day," I said at long last. "A poor daggly angel, too".

      What also had me bothered for some time is the subtle way in which Mary Webb implies that no one is naturally evil , what the characters (and ultimately what WE) become is the uncontrollable combination of fate, desire and chance altogether with their skill in taking the right decision at the right moment. This way to view life as a running river whose course we don't have the power to change produced a kind of claustrophobic feeling of impotence, with this constant foreboding, lurking behind my consciousness, that something gruesome was going to happen and that no one would be able to stop it, and I'd sink along with all the characters.

      "There are misfortunes that make you spring up and rush to save yourself, but there are others that are too bad for this, for they leave nought to do."

      So, imagine my joy, when out of the blue, some shinning and pure light came through and gave me hope and a new understanding, teaching me a valuable lesson: never stop believing in the magic of life, because the moment you stop believing, you will start fading away only to become an invisible spot of dust in this infinite nothingness which some call existence.
    • 5/5
      Terrific! I approached this book with serious misgivings. For one it was brought by The Book People's Lucky Dip bag who also brought such books as "American Psycho" and "The Blue Afternoon" both of which I hated. But the old adage of never judging a book by its cover is proved true 100 times over in this book. It appeared based on the jacket blurb and the title to be one of these modern attempts at historical fiction. The kind of thing you'd expect from Phillipa Gregory. I do enjoy those books on one level, but my taste in historical fiction tends to be a bit deeper than that. The blurb on the back of the book made it sound like this book would, well, suck. I mean it. "Born at the time of Waterloo in the wild country of Shropshire, Prue Sarn is a free spirit cursed with a hare lip - her 'precious bane'. The supserstitious townspeople titter behind their fans, uncertain what to make of her, but Prue takes comfort in her love for the remote countryside of her birth and her passioante - if seemingly hopeless - love for Kester Woodseaves, the weaver. How Woodseaves finally discerns the true beauty of gentle Prudence is set against the tragic drama of her ambitious brother Gideon, a driven man who spurns that harmony with the natural world which his siter has always nurtured." After reading that I braced myself for rubbish. The names alone sounded silly enough to prepare me for extreme distaste. But when I opened the book and read about Mary Webb, the author, and discovered that she, a Shropshire native, wrote the book in 1924 I began to think I might have more on my hands that I expected. After reading the introduction by Stanley Baldwin, former PM, I thought that maybe what I was about to read was more than I gave it credit for.

      The book is astounding. I have never been happier to be proved wrong. If I wasn't so obsessed with knitting I would've finished this in a single night. I want you all to go out and borrow or buy this book and just read it. Approach it knowing nothing about it and forgetting everything you may have heard and just be blown away.

      This book is my NEW FAVOURITE BOOK.
    • 5/5
      I love this book. I suspect many people avoid it because it was supposedly one of the books satirised in "Cold Comfort Farm" (I like that as well). It has an atmosphere and spell of its own, set in a remote farmhouse by a lake in the woods, peopled with vivid characters. I love the racy Shropshire dialect they speak in, with its almost Biblical rhythms, (reminding me of my own grandfather's "dunna", "wunna" and "shanna" in another county), and the interweaving of folk tales and beliefs that came naturally to them. It's the story of one man's avarice which leads to many tragedies before the end, and of his sister's struggle for literacy, healing, and love.
      I believe the ending tells us that we can't always overcome by ourselves, and need to accept rescue sometimes.
      And once and for all, the "precious bane" is not Prue's harelip! That wouldn't make sense. It is a quote from Milton's "Paradise Lost", prefacing the story in some editions: "Let none admire that riches grow in Hell; that soil may best deserve the precious bane". I e, it's Gideon's lust for riches that destroys the people around him.
      And Kester Woodseaves is one of the best romantic heroes in fiction!
    • 3/5
      In the early 1800s, not long after the Battle of Waterloo, a young woman named Prue Sarn lived with her mother and brother Gideon on a farm in the Shropshire countryside. Born with a cleft lip, Prue's prospects are limited: her mother believes she is cursed, most of the townspeople think she has evil powers, and she will almost certainly never marry. Everyone she meets remarks on her condition, unable to see the beautiful person inside.

      After her father's death, Gideon gets Prue to agree to long-term indentured service on the farm. Gideon is ambitious, and believes that just a few years' hard work will vault them into a new level of society, including a fine house in town. He promises Prue money to treat her lip, and riches for Jancis, a young woman he hopes to marry. Gideon works tirelessly and the farm prospers, but he always wants more. He puts off his marriage, afraid that a wife and children will get in the way of his pursuit of wealth. His singular focus often alienates him from others:
      He was ever a strong man, which is almost the same, times, as to say a man with little time for kindness. For if you stop to be kind, you must swerve often from your path. So when folk tell me of this great man and that great man, I think to myself, Who was stinted of joy for his glory? How many old folk and children did his coach wheels go over? (p. 84)

      Meanwhile Prue soldiers on, with interminably long hours of hard labor. In her time off she learns to write, keeping a journal which forms the basis of this novel. In describing day-to-day events, she offers keen observations on members of her community:
      Sexton's missus was just the opposite. She always made me think of a new-painted coach, big and wide, with an open road, and the horn blowing loud and cheerful, and full speed ahead. She was gay in her dress as a seven-coloured linnet, and if she could wear another shawl or flounce or brooch, she would. ... I used to think myself, seeing her and Sexton together, that she was like a big hank of dyed wool, and he was the thin black distaff it was to be wound off on to. (p. 97)

      But Prue, being a normal healthy young woman, longs for long-term companionship. She falls in love with Kester Woodseaves, an itinerant weaver. She worships him from afar, afraid her appearance will scare him off, but one day she saves his life and their relationship begins to change. The rest of the story shows both Gideon and Prue evolving on paths that are true to their characters, with both expected and unexpected consequences.

      I liked Prue's character a lot; she was able to summon strength in times of great adversity, and show compassion even to those who had wronged her. Gideon was a greedy jerk, and Kester his complete antithesis. In some ways the story was too predictable, but was improved by some very dramatic segments in which the characters' lives were permanently changed.

    Book preview

    Precious Bane - Mary Webb

    Precious Bane

    by Mary Webb

    ©2020 Wilder Publications, Inc.

    Precious Bane is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, locales or institutions is entirely coincidental.

    All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission except for brief quotations for review purposes only.

    ISBN 13: 978-1-5154-4190-8

    Table of Contents

    Book One

    Chapter 1: Sarn Mere

    Chapter 2: Telling the Bees

    Chapter 3: Prue takes the Bidding Letters

    Chapter 4: Torches and Rosemary

    Chapter 5: The First Swath Falls

    Chapter 6: Saddle your Dreams before you Ride ’em

    Chapter 7: Pippins and Jargonelles

    Book Two

    Chapter 1: Riding to Market

    Chapter 2: The Mug of Cider

    Chapter 3: Or Die in ’tempting It

    Chapter 4: The Wizard of Plash

    Chapter 5: The Love-Spinning

    Chapter 6: The Game of Costly Colours

    Chapter 7: The Maister Be Come

    Chapter 8: Raising Venus

    Chapter 9: The Game of Conquer

    Book Three

    Chapter 1: The Hiring Fair

    Chapter 2: The Baiting

    Chapter 3: The Best Tall Script, Flourished

    Chapter 4: Jancis Runs Away

    Chapter 5: Dragon-flies

    Book Four

    Chapter 1: Harvest Home

    Chapter 2: Beguildy Seeks a Seventh Child

    Chapter 3: The Deathly Bane

    Chapter 4: All on a May Morning

    Chapter 5: The Last Game of Conquer

    Chapter 6: The Breaking of the Mere

    Chapter 7: Open the Gates as Wide as the Sky

    Book One

    Chapter 1: Sarn Mere

    IT was at a love-spinning that I saw Kester first. And if, in these new-fangled days, when strange inventions crowd upon us, when I hear tell there is even a machine coming into use in some parts of the country for reaping and mowing, if those that mayhappen will read this don’t know what a love-spinning was, they shall hear in good time. But though it was Jancis Beguildy’s love-spinning, she being three-and-twenty at that time and I being two years less, yet that is not the beginning of the story I have set out to tell.

    Kester says that all tales, true tales or romancings, go farther back than the days of the child; aye, farther even than the little babe in its cot of rushes. Maybe you never slept in a cot of rushes; but all of us did at Sarn. There is such a plenty of rushes at Sarn, and old Beguildy’s missus was a great one for plaiting them on rounded barrel-hoops. Then they’d be set on rockers, and a nice clean cradle they made, soft and green, so that the babe could feel as big-sorted as a little caterpillar (painted butterflies-as-is-to-be, Kester calls them) sleeping in its cocoon. Kester’s very set about such things. Never will he say caterpillars. He’ll say, There’s a lot of butterflies-as-is-to-be on our cabbages, Prue. He won’t say It’s winter. He’ll say, Summer’s sleeping. And there’s no bud little enough nor sad-coloured enough for Kester not to callen it the beginnings of the blow.

    But the time is not yet come for speaking of Kester. It is the story of us all at Sarn, of Mother and Gideon and me, and Jancis (that was so beautiful), and Wizard Beguildy, and the two or three other folk that lived in those parts, that I did set out to tell. There were but a few, and maybe always will be, for there’s a discouragement about the place. It may be the water lapping, year in and year out—everywhere you look and listen, water; or the big trees waiting and considering on your right hand and on your left; or the unbreathing quiet of the place, as if it was created but an hour gone, and not created for us. Or it may be that the soil is very poor and marshy, with little nature or goodness in the grass, which is ever so where reeds and rushes grow in plenty, and the flower of the paigle. Happen you call it cowslip, but we always named it the paigle, or keys of heaven. It was a wonderful thing to see our meadows at Sarn when the cowslip was in blow. Gold-over they were, so that you would think not even an angel’s feet were good enough to walk there. You could make a tossy-ball before a thrush had gone over his song twice, for you’d only got to sit down and gather with both hands. Every way you looked, there was nought but gold, saving towards Sarn, where the woods began, and the great stretch of grey water, gleaming and wincing in the sun. Neither woods nor water looked darksome in that fine spring weather, with the leaves coming new, and buds the colour of corn in the birch-tops. Only in our oak wood there was always a look of the back-end of the year, their young leaves being so brown. So there was always a breath of October in our May. But it was a pleasant thing to sit in the meadows and look away to the far hills. The larches spired up in their quick green, and the cowslip gold seemed to get into your heart, and even Sarn Mere was nothing but a blue mist in a yellow mist of birch-tops. And there was such a dream on the place that if a wild bee came by, let alone a bumble, it startled you like a shout. If a bee comes in at the window now to my jar of gillyflowers, I can see it all in clear colours, with Plash lying under the sunset, beyond the woods, looking like a jagged piece of bottle glass. Plash Mere was bigger than Sarn, and there wasn’t a tree by it, so where there were no hills beyond it you could see the clouds rooted in it on the far side, and I used to think they looked like the white water-lilies that lay round the margins of Sarn half the summer through. There was nothing about Plash that was different from any other lake or pool. There was no troubling of the waters, as at Sarn, nor any village sounding its bells beneath the furthest deeps. It was true, what folks said of Sarn, that there was summat to be felt there.

    It was at Plash that the Beguildys lived, and it was at their dwelling, that was part stone house and part cave, that I got my book learning. It may seem a strange thing to you that a woman of my humble station should be able to write and spell, and put all these things into a book. And indeed when I was a young wench there were not many great ladies, even, that could do much more scribing than to write a love-letter, and some could but just write such things as This be quince and apple on their jellies, and others had ado to put their names in the marriage register. Many have come to me, time and again, to write their love-letters for them, and a bitter old task it is, to write other women’s love-letters out of your own burning heart.

    If it hadna been for Mister Beguildy I never could have written down all these things. He learned me to read and write, and reckon up figures. And though he was a preached-against man, and said he could do a deal that I don’t believe he ever could do, and though he dabbled in things that are not good for us to interfere with, yet I shall never forget to thank God for him. It seems to me now a very uncommon working of His power, to put it into Beguildy’s heart to learn me. For a wizard could not rightly be called a servant of His, but one of Lucifer’s men. Not that Beguildy was wicked, but only empty of good, as if all the righteousness was burnt out by the flame of his fiery mind, which must know and intermeddle with mysteries. As for love, he did not know the word. He could read the stars, and tell the future, and he claimed to have laid spirits. Once I asked him where the future was, that he could see it so plain. And he said, It lies with the past, child, at the back of Time. You couldn’t ever get the better of Mister Beguildy. But when I told Kester what he said, Kester would not have it so. He said the past and the future were two shuttles in the hands of the Lord, weaving Eternity. Kester was a weaver himself, which may have made him think of it thus. But I think we cannot know what the past and the future are. We are so small and helpless on the earth that is like a green rush cradle where mankind lies, looking up at the stars, but not knowing what they be.

    As soon as I could write, I made a little book with a calico cover, and every Sunday I wrote in it any merry time or good fortune we had had in the week, and so kept them. And if times had been troublous and bitter for me, I wrote that down too, and was eased. So when our parson, knowing of the lies that were told of me, bade me write all I could remember in a book, and set down the whole truth and nothing else, I was able to freshen my memory with the things I had put down Sunday by Sunday.

    Well, it is all gone over now, the trouble and the struggling. It be quiet weather now, like a still evening with the snow all down, and a green sky, and lambs calling. I sit here by the fire with my Bible to hand, a very old woman and a tired woman, with a task to do before she says good night to this world. When I look out of my window and see the plain and the big sky with clouds standing up on the mountains, I call to mind the thick, blotting woods of Sarn, and the crying of the mere when the ice was on it, and the way the water would come into the cupboard under the stairs when it rose at the time of the snow melting. There was but little sky to see there, saving that which was reflected in the mere; but the sky that is in the mere is not the proper heavens. You see it in a glass darkly, and the long shadows of rushes go thin and sharp across the sliding stars, and even the sun and moon might be put out down there, for, times, the moon would get lost in lily leaves, and, times, a heron might stand before the sun.

    Chapter 2: Telling the Bees

    MY brother Gideon was born in the year when the war with the French began. That was why Father would have him called Gideon, it being a warlike name. Jancis used to say it was a very good name for him, because it was one you couldn’t shorten. You can make most names into little love-names, like you can cut down a cloak or a gown for children’s wearing. But Gideon you could do nought with. And the name was like the man. I was more set on my brother than most are, but I couldna help seeing that about him. If nobody calls you out of your name, your name’s like to be soon out of mind. And most people never even called him by his Christian name at all. They called him Sarn. In Father’s life it was old Sarn and young Sarn. But after Father died, Gideon seemed to take the place to himself. I remember how he went out that summer night, and seemed to eat and drink the place, devouring it with his eyes. Yet it was not for love of it, but for what he could get out of it. He was very like Father then, and more like every year, both to look at and in his mind. Saving that he was less tempersome and more set in his ways, he was Father’s very marrow. Father’s temper got up despert quick, and when it was up he was a ravening lion. Maybe that was what gave Mother that married-all-o’er look. But Gideon I only saw angered, to call angered, three times. Mostly a look was enough. He’d give you a look like murder, and you’d let him take the way he wanted. I’ve seen a dog cringing and whimpering because he’d given it one of those looks. Sarns mostly have grey eyes—cold grey like the mere in winter—and the Sarn men are mainly dark and sullen. Sullen as a Sarn, they say about these parts. And they say there’s been something queer in the family ever since Timothy Sarn was struck by forkit lightning in the times of the religious wars. There were Sarns about here then, and always have been, ever since there was anybody. Well, Timothy went against his folk and the counsels of a man of God, and took up with the wrong side, whichever that was, but it’s no matter now. So he was struck by lightning and lay for dead. Being after awhile recovered, he was counselled by the man of God to espouse the safe side and avoid the lightning. But Sarns were ever obstinate men. He kept his side, and as he was coming home under the oakwood he was struck again. And seemingly the lightning got into his blood. He could tell when tempest brewed, long afore it came, and it is said that when a storm broke, the wildfire played about him so none could come near him. Sarns have the lightning in their blood since his day. I wonder sometimes whether it be a true tale, or whether it’s too old to be true. It used to seem to me sometimes as if Sarn was too old to be true. The woods and the farm and the church at the other end of the mere were all so old, as if they were in somebody’s dream. There was frittening about the place, too, and what with folk being afraid to come there after dusk, and the quiet noise of the fish jumping far out in the water, and Gideon’s boat knocking on the steps with little knocks like somebody tapping at the door, and the causeway that ran down into the mere as far as you could see, from just outside our garden gate, being lost in the water, it was a very lonesome old place. Many a time, on Sunday evenings, there came over the water a thin sound of bells. We thought they were the bells of the village down under, but I believe now they were nought but echo bells from our own church. They say that in some places a sound will knock against a wall of trees and come back like a ball.

    It was on one of those Sunday evenings, when the thin chimes were sounding along with our own four bells, that we played truant from church for the second time. It being such a beautiful evening, and Father and Mother being busy with the bees swarming, we made it up between us to take dog’s leave, and to wait by the lych-gate for Jancis and get her to come with us. For old Beguildy never werrited much about her church-going, not being the best of friends with the parson himself. He sent her off when the dial made it five o’clock every fourth Sunday—for we had service only once a month, the parson having a church at Bramton, where he lived, and another as well, which made it the more wicked of us to play truant—but whether she got there early or late, or got there at all, he’d never ask, let alone catechize her about the sermon. Our Father would catechize us last thing in the evening when our night-rails were on. Father would sit down in the settle with the birch-rod to his hand, and the settle, that had looked such a great piece of furniture all the week, suddenly looked little, like a settle made for a mommet. Whatever Father sat in, he made it look little. We stood barefoot in front of him on the cold quarries, in our unbleached homespun gowns that mother had spun and the journeyman weaver had woven up in the attic at the loom among the apples. Then he’d question us, and when we answered wrong he made a mark on the settle, and every mark was a stroke with the birch at the end of the catechizing. Though Father couldn’t read, he never forgot anything. It seemed as if he turned things over in his head all the while he was working. I think he was a very clever man with not enow of things to employ his mind. If he’d had one of the new-fangled weaving machines I hear tell of to look after, it would have kept him content, but there was no talk of such things then. We were all the machines he had, and we wished very heartily every fourth Sunday, and Christmas and Easter, that we were the children of Beguildy, though he was thought so ill of by our parson, and often preached against, even by name.

    I mind once, when Father leathered us very bad, after the long preaching on Easter Sunday, Gideon being seven and me five, how Gideon stood up in the middle of the kitchen and said, I do will and wish to be Maister Beguildy’s son, and the devil shall have my soul. Amen.

    Father got his temper up that night, no danger! He shouted at Mother terrible, saying she’d done very poorly with her children, for the girl had the devil’s mark on her, and now it seemed as if the boy came from the same smithy. This I know, because Mother told it to me. All I mind is that she went to look very small, and being only little to begin with, she seemed like one of the fairy folk. And she said—Could I help it if the hare crossed my path? Could I help it? It seemed so strange to hear her saying that over and over. I can see the room now if I shut my eyes, and most especially if there’s a bunch of cowslips by me. For Easter fell late, or in a spell of warm weather that year, and the cowslips were very forrard in sheltered places, so we’d pulled some. The room was all dim like a cave, and the red fire burning still and watchful seemed like the eye of the Lord. There was a little red eye in every bit of ware on the dresser too, where it caught the gleam. Often and often in after years I looked at those red lights, which were echoes of the fire, just as the ghostly bells were reflections of the chime, and I’ve thought they were like a deal of the outer show of this world. Rows and rows of red, gledy fires, but all shadows of fires. Many a chime of merry bells ringing, and yet only the shadows of bells; only a sigh of sound coming back from a wall of leaves or from the glassy water. Father’s eyes caught the gleam too, and Gideon’s; but Mother’s didna, for she was standing with her back to the fire by the table where the cowslips were, gathering the mugs and plates together from supper. And if it seem strange that so young a child should remember the past so clearly, you must call to mind that Time engraves his pictures on our memory like a boy cutting letters with his knife, and the fewer the letters the deeper he cuts. So few things ever happened to us at Sarn that we could never forget them. Mother’s voice clings to my heart like trails of bedstraw that catch you in the lanes. She’d got a very plaintive voice, and soft. Everything she said seemed to mean a deal more than the words, and times it was like a person fumbling in the dark, or going a long way down black passages with a hand held out on this side, and a hand held out on that side, and no light. That was how she said, Could I help it if the hare crossed my path—could I help it?

    Everything she said, though it might not have anything merry in it, she smiled a bit, in the way you smile to take the edge off somebody’s anger, or if you hurt yourself and won’t show it. A very grievous smile it was, and always there. So when Father gave Gideon another hiding for wishing he was Beguildy’s boy, Mother stood by the table saying, Oh, dunna, Sarn! Hold thy hand, Sarn! and smiling all the while, seeming to catch at Father’s hands with her soft voice. Poor Mother! Oh, my poor Mother! Shall we meet you in the other world, dear soul, and atone to you for our heedlessness?

    I’d never forgotten that Easter, but Gideon had, seemingly, for when I remembered him of it, saying we surely durstn’t take dog’s leave, he said, It’s nought. We’ll make Sexton’s Tivvy listen to the sermon for us, so as we can answer well. And I dunna care much if I am leathered, so long as I can find some good conkers and beat Jancis, for last time she beat me.

    Conkers, maybe you know, are snail shells, and children put the empty ones on strings, and play like you play with chestnut cobs. Our woods were a grand place for snails, and Gideon had conker matches with lads from as far away as five miles the other side of Plash. He was famous all about, because he played so fiercely, and not like a game at all.

    All the bells were sounding when we started that Sunday in June—the four metal bells in the church and the four ghost bells from nowhere. Mother was helping Father with the bees, getting a new skep ready, down where the big chestnut tree was, to put the play of bees in. They’d swarmed in a dead gooseberry bush, and Mother said, with her peculiar smile, It be a sign of death.

    But Gideon shouted out—

    "A play of bees in May is worth a noble that same day.

    A play in June’s pretty soon."

    And he said—

    So long as we’ve got the bees, Mother, we’re the better of it, die who may.

    Eh, dear! I’m afraid Gideon had a very having spirit, even then. But Father thought he was a sensible lad, and he laughed and said—

    Well, we’ve got such a mort of bees now I’m in behopes it wunna be me as has the telling of ’em if anybody does die.

    Where be your sprigs of rosemary and your Prayer Books and your clean handkerchers? says Mother.

    Gideon had been in behopes to leave them behind, but now he ran to fetch them, and Mother began setting my kerchief to rights over my shoulders. She put in her big brooch with the black stone, that she had when George the Second died, and while she was putting it in she kept saying to herself—Not as it matters what the poor child wears. Deary, deary me! But could I help it if the hare crossed my path? Could I help it?

    Whenever she said that, her voice went very mournful and I thought again of somebody in a dark passage, groping.

    Now then, Mother! Hold the skep whilst I keep the bough up, said Father; they’ve knit so low down.

    I’d lief have stayed, for I dearly loved to see the great tossy-ball of bees’ bodies, as rich as a brown Christmas cake, and to hear the heavy sound of them.

    We went through the wicket and along the top path, because it was the nighest way to the church, and we wanted to catch Tivvy afore she went in. The coots were out on the mere, and the water was the colour of light, with spears in it. Now, said Gideon, we’ll run for our lives!

    What’s after us?

    The people out of the water.

    So we ran for our lives, and got to the church just as the two last bells began their snabbing Ting tong! Ting tong! that always minded me of the birch-rod.

    We sat on the flat grave where we mostly sat to play Conquer, and the church being on a little hill we could watch the tuthree folks coming along the fields. There was Tivvy with her father, coming from the East Coppy, and Jancis in the flat water-meadows where the big thorn hedges were all in blow. Jancis was a little thing, not tall like me, but you always saw her before you saw other people, for it seemed that the light gathered round her. She’d got golden hair, and all the shadows on her face seemed to be stained with the pale colour of it. I was used to think she was like a white water-lily full of yellow pollen or honey. She’d got a very white skin, creamy white, without any colour unless she was excited or shy, and her face was dimpled and soft, and just the right plumpness. She’d got a red, cool, smiling mouth, and when she smiled the dimples ran each into other. Times I could almost have strangled her for that smile.

    She came up to us, very demure, in her flowered bodice and blue skirt and a bunch of blossom in her kerchief.

    Although she was only two years older than I was, being of an age with Gideon, she seemed a deal older, for she’d begun to smile at the lads already, and folks said, Beguildy’s Jancis will soon be courting. But I know old Beguildy never meant her to get married. He meant to keep her as a bait to draw the young fellows in, for mostly the people that came to him were either young maids with no money or old men who wanted somebody cursed cheap. So at this time, when he saw what a white, blossomy piece Jancis was growing, he encouraged her to dizen herself and sit in the window of the Cave House in case anybody went by up the lane. It was only once in a month of Sundays that anybody did, for Plash was nearly as lonesome as Sarn. He made a lanthorn of coloured glass, too, the colour of red roses, and while Jancis sat in the stone frame of the window he hung it up above her with a great candle in it from foreign parts, not a rushlight such as we used. He had it in mind that if some great gentleman came by to a fair or a cockfight beyond the mountains he might fall in love with her, and then Beguildy planned to bring him in and give him strong ale and talk about charms and spells, and offer at long last to work the charm of raising Venus. It was all written in one of his books: how you went into a dark room and gave the wise man five pound, and he said a charm, and after awhile there was a pink light and a scent of roses, and Venus rose naked in the middle of the room. Only it wouldna have been Venus, but Jancis. The great gentleman, howsoever, was a long while coming, and the only man that saw her in the window was Gideon one winter evening when he was coming back that way from market, because the other road was flooded. He was fair comic-struck about her, and talked of her till I was aweary, he being nineteen at the time, which is a foolish age in lads. Before that, he never took any account of her, but just to tell her this and that as he did with me. But afterwards he was nought but a gauby about her. I could never have believed that such a determined lad, so set in his ways and so clever, could have been thus soft about a girl. But on this evening he was only seventeen, and he just said, Take dog’s leave oot, Jancis, and come with us after conkers.

    O said Jancis, "I wanted to play ‘Green Gravel, Green Gravel.’?"

    She’s got a way of saying O afore everything, and it made her mouth look like a rose. But whether she did it for that, or whether she did it because she was slow-witted and timid, I never could tell.

    "There’s nought to win in Green Gravel, said Gideon, we’ll play Conquer."

    "O I wanted Green Gravel! You’ll beat me if we play Conquer."

    Ah. That’s why we’ll play.

    Tivvy came through the lych-gate then, and we told her what she’d got to do. She was a poor, foolish creature, and she could hardly mind her own name, times, for all its outlandishness, let alone a sermon. But Gideon said, so long as she got an inkling of it he could make up the rest. And he

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