THERE is always a little fire of wood on the open hearth in the kitchen when I get home at night; the old lady says it is "company"for her, and sits in the lonely twilight, her knotted hands lying quiet on her lap, her listening eyes fixed on the burning sticks.
I wonder sometimes whether she hears music in the leap and lick of the fiery tongues, music such as he of Bayreuth draws from the violins till the hot energy of the fire spirit is on us, embodied in sound.
Surely she hears some voice, that lonely old woman on whom is set the seal of great silence?
It is a great truth tenderly said that God builds the nest for the blind bird; and may it not be that He opens closed eyes and unstops deaf ears to sights and sounds from which others by these very senses are debarred?
Here the best of us see through a mist of tears men as trees walking; it is only in the land which is very far off and yet very near that we shall have fulness of sight and see the King in His beauty; and I cannot think that any listening ears listen in vain.
The coppice at our back is full of birds, for it is far from the road and they nest there undisturbed year after year.Through the still night I heard the nightingales calling, calling, until Icould bear it no longer and went softly out into the luminous dark.
The little wood was manifold with sound, I heard my little brothers who move by night rustling in grass and tree.A hedgehog crossed my path with a dull squeak, the bats shrilled high to the stars, a white owl swept past me crying his hunting note, a beetle boomed suddenly in my face; and above and through it all the nightingales sang - and sang!
The night wind bent the listening trees, and the stars yearned earthward to hear the song of deathless love.Louder and louder the wonderful notes rose and fell in a passion of melody; and then sank to rest on that low thrilling call which it is said Death once heard, and stayed his hand.
They will scarcely sing again this year, these nightingales, for they are late on the wing as it is.It seems as if on such nights they sang as the swan sings, knowing it to be the last time - with the lavish note of one who bids an eternal farewell.
At last there was silence.Sitting under the big beech tree, the giant of the coppice, I rested my tired self in the lap of mother earth, breathed of her breath and listened to her voice in the quickening silence until my flesh came again as the flesh of a little child, for it is true recreation to sit at the footstool of God wrapped in a fold of His living robe, the while night smoothes our tired face with her healing hands.
The grey dawn awoke and stole with trailing robes across earth's floor.At her footsteps the birds roused from sleep and cried a greeting; the sky flushed and paled conscious of coming splendour;and overhead a file of swans passed with broad strong flight to the reeded waters of the sequestered pool.
Another hour of silence while the light throbbed and flamed in the east; then the larks rose harmonious from a neighbouring field, the rabbits scurried with ears alert to their morning meal, the day had begun.
I passed through the coppice and out into the fields beyond.The dew lay heavy on leaf and blade and gossamer, a cool fresh wind swept clear over dale and down from the sea, and the clover field rippled like a silvery lake in the breeze.
There is something inexpressibly beautiful in the unused day, something beautiful in the fact that it is still untouched, unsoiled; and town and country share alike in this loveliness.At half-past three on a June morning even London has not assumed her responsibilities, but smiles and glows lighthearted and smokeless under the caresses of the morning sun.
Five o'clock.The bell rings out crisp and clear from the monastery where the Bedesmen of St Hugh watch and pray for the souls on this labouring forgetful earth.Every hour the note of comfort and warning cries across the land, tells the Sanctus, the Angelus, and the Hours of the Passion, and calls to remembrance and prayer.
