She went back into the sitting-room, dark now except for the light of the little lamp, and knelt before it, and prayed.
And her prayer was just all the love and the pity she could gather into her heart for the strong spirit that had gone out black, and bitter, and tortured, and filled with hate. The spirit that had been Karl von Schäde.
CHAPTER X
Thorpe was rich with the autumn yield before Violet Riversley claimed Ruth’s promise. July had been on the whole a wet month, providing however much-needed rain, but the August and September of Peace Year were glorious as the late spring, and at Thorpe an abundant harvest of corn was stored by the great stacks of scented hay. The apple and pear trees were heavy with fruit. Blenheim Orange and Ribston Pippin with red cheeks polished by much sun; long luscious Jargonelles and Doyenne du Comice pears gleamed yellow and russet. The damson-trees showed purple black amid gold and crimson plums. Mulberry and quince and filbert, every fruit gave lavishly and in full perfection that wonderful autumn; and all were there. Dick Carey had seen to that. The Blackwall children came and went, made hay, picked fruit and reaped corn, as children should. They gathered blackberries and mushrooms and hazel nuts, and helped Ruth to store apples and pears, and Miss McCox to make much jam. Bertram Aurelius got on his feet and began to walk, to the huge joy of Sarah and Selina. The world was a pleasant place. Ruth moved among her children and animals and fruit and flowers, and listened to her nightingales, amid no alien corn, and sang the song old Raphael Goltz had taught her long ago, in a content so great and perfect that sometimes she felt almost afraid that she would wake up one morning and and it all a dream.
“It’s just like a fairy-tale that all this should come to me,” she said to Roger North.
The cottages were finished and tenanted, their gardens stored and stocked with vegetables and fruit trees, and bright with autumn flowers, from the Thorpe garden. Even Mr. Fothersley was reconciled to their existence.
Ruth had been to no more parties; the days at home were too wonderful. She garnered each into her store as a precious gift. But the neighbours liked to drop in and potter round or sit on the terrace. The place was undoubtedly amazingly beautiful and perfect in its way. The friendliness and trust of all that lived and moved at Thorpe appealed even to the unreceptive. Here there were white pigeons that fluttered round your head and about your feet. Unafraid, bright-eyed tiny beautiful birds came close, so that you made real acquaintance with those creatures of the blue sky, the leaf and the sunlight. So timid always of their hereditary enemy through the ages, yet here the bolder spirits would almost feed from your hand. Their charm of swift movement, of sudden wings, seen so near, surprised and delighted. Their bright eager eyes looked at you as friends. The calves running with their mothers in the fields rubbed rough silken foreheads against you; and gentle velvet-nosed cart-horses came to you over the gates asking for apples. The children showed you their quaint treasures, their little play homes in the trees and by the river. In their wood the Michaelmas daisies, mauve and white and purple, were making a brave show, and scarlet poppies, bad farmers but good beauties, bordered the pale gold stubble fields. Everywhere was the fragrant pungent scent of autumn and the glory of fruitful old Mother Earth yielding of her wondrous store to those who love her and work for it.
Mr. Pithey was fond of coming, and, still undaunted, made Ruth fresh offers to buy Thorpe.
“You’ve got the pick of the soil here,” he complained. “Now I’ve not a rose in my place to touch those Rayon d’Or of yours. Second crop too! And ain’t for want of the best manure, or choosing the right aspect. My man knows what he’s about too. Better than yours does, I reckon. He was head man to the Duke of Richborough, so he ought to.”
Ruth’s eyes twinkled.