Martin Pippin in the Apple Orchard by Eleanor Farjeon (best new books to read txt) 📕

where fairies played, but not to the heart of it where angels dwelled. Few succeeded in surprising her behind her bright shield, but sometimes when she wasn't thinking it fell aside, and what men saw then took their breath from them, for it was as though they were falling through endless wells of infinite sweetness. And afterwards they could have told you nothing further of her loveliness; when they got as far as her eyes they were drowned. Her features, the curves of her cheeks and lips and chin and delicate nostrils, were as finely-turned as the edge of a wild-rose petal, and her skin had the freshness of dew. The sight of her brought the same sense of delight as the sight of a meadow of cowslips. As sweet and sunny a scent breathed out from her beauty.

But all this Martin only felt without seeing, for he was drowned. Gillian, I suppose, wasn't thinking. So they held each other's hands and looked at each other.

Presently Martin said, "It's time now, Gillian, and you can go."

"Yes, Martin," said Gillian. "How shall I go?"

"As I came," said he.

"Before I go," said she, "I am going to ask you a question. You have asked my friends a lot of questions these six nights, which they have answered frankly, and you have twisted their answers round your little finger. Now you must answer my question as frankly."

"And what will you do?" asked Martin.

"I won't twist your answer," said Gillian gently. "I'll take it for what it is worth. You have been laughing up your sleeve a little at my friends because, having a quarrel with men, they were sworn to live single. But you live single too. Tell me, if you please, what is your quarrel with girls?"

Martin dropped her hands until he held each by the little finger only, and then he answered, "That they are so much too good for us, Gillian."

"Thank you, Martin," said Gillian, taking her hands away. "And now please ask them to send over the swing, for it is time for me to go to Adversane." And as she spoke the light played over her eyes again and floated him up to the surface of things where he could swim without drowning. He saw now the flowers of her loveliness, but no longer the deeps of those gray pools where the light shimmered between herself and him. So he turned and climbed to the pent roof of the Well-House, and looked towards the group of shadows clustered under the apple-tree around the swing; and they understood and launched it through the air, and he caught it as it came. And Gillian in a moment was up beside him.

"Are you ready?" said Martin.

"Yes," she answered getting on the swing, "thank you. And thank you for everything. Thank you for coming three times this year. Thank you for the stories. Thank you for giving their happiness again to my darling friends. Thank you for all the songs. Thank you for drying my tears."

"Are they all dried up?" said Martin.

"All," said Gillian.

"If they were not," said he, "you shall find Herb-Robert growing along the roadside, and the Herbman himself in Adversane."

And holding the swing fast as he sat on the roof, Martin sang her his last song, not very loud, but so clearly that the shadows under the apple-tree heard every note and syllable.

Good morrow, good morrow, dear Herbman Robert! Good morrow, sweet sir, good morrow! Oh, sell me a herb, good Robert, good Robert, To cure a young maid of her sorrow.

And hath her sorrow a name, sweet sir? No lovelier name or purer, With its root in her heart and its flower in her eyes, Yet sell me a herb shall cure her.

Oh, touch with this rosy herb of spring Both heart and eyes when she's sleeping, And joy will come out of her sorrowing, And laughter out of her weeping.

"Good-by, Martin."

"Good-by, Gillian."

"I want to ask you a lot more questions, Martin."

"Off you go!" cried he. And let the swing fly. Back it came.

"Martin! why didn't--"

"Jump when you're clear!" called Martin. But back it came.

"Why didn't the young Squire in the story--"

"Jump this time!" And back it came.

"--come to fetch her himself, Martin?"

"Jump!" shouted Martin; and shut his eyes and put his hands over his ears. But it was no use; again and again he felt the rush of air, and questions falling through it like shooting-stars about his head.

"Martin! what was the name on the eighth floret of grass?"

"Martin! what was the letter you threw with the Lady-peel?"

"Martin! why is my silver ring all chased with little apples?"

"Martin! do you--do you--do you--?"

"Shall I never be rid of this swing?" cried Martin. "Jump, you nuisance, jump when I tell you!"

And she jumped, and was caught and kissed among the shadows.

"Gillian!"

"Gillian!"

"Gillian!"

"Gillian!"

"Gillian!"

"Dear Gillian!"

And then like a golden wave and she the foam, they bore her over the moonlit grass to the green wicket, and they threw it open, and she went like a skipping stone across the duckpond and over the fields to Adversane.

When she had vanished Martin slid down the roof, walked across to the coping, put one leg over, and stepped out of the Well-House.

PART IV

The six milkmaids were waiting for him in the apple-tree--no; Joscelyn was in the swing.

"And so," said Martin, sitting down on the bough, "on the sixth night the sixth Gorgon also became a maiden as lovely as her fellows, and gave the Wanderer the sixth key to the Tower. And they let out the Princess and set her in The Golden Truant, and she sailed away to her Squire a thousand leagues over the water. And everybody lived happily ever after."

"What a beautiful story!" said Jane. And they all thought so too.

"I knew from the first," said Joscelyn, "that it would have a happy ending."

"And so did I," said Joyce.

"And I." said Jennifer,

"And I." said Jessica,

"And I," said Jane and

"And I." said little Joan.

"The verdict is passed," said Martin. "And look! over our