There is the orchard for the slope above the sunk tennis court; to be a glory some Spring with Apple and Pear blossom, while Daffodils, Narcissi and Scilla riot underneath. And there is the round Autumn Garden to be dug out and levelled in the wood, where Sunflowers, Michaelmas Daisies, “Fire King” Antirrhinums, Nasturtiums and flaunting orange and saffron Dahlias are to make a rim of splendour against a cropped green hedge. The centre of this blazing circle is to be flagged and consecrated to “Herbs.” That will be something to live for; to see accomplished some golden autumn of the future!
So much has already been done in what was, most of it, a mere sodden tangle, impenetrable not only to human beings but even to the light of heaven, that it gives one heart for what may be achieved in the future. Yet never does the Grandmother of Loki feel the uncertainty of life more keenly than when she is in the midst of her garden dreams. Every winter indeed, when the bulbs are planted, she wonders, with a pang, if she will see them come up in the Spring; how much more does she now ask herself whether the hidden Autumn Garden, or the Italian walk, or the Bowery Orchard, or even the Sunk Fountain, are ever destined to rejoice her.
Well, after all, she gets an extraordinary amount of pleasure out of the mere mental picture, and who can say if the very uncertainty of all things here below does not add to their zest?
THE MOOR
XXIX
DAWN OVER THE MOOR
This morning, waking at dawn, the Padrona was impelled to roll out of bed, and look out of both her windows. The one over her balcony gives down the valley and the one opposite her bed affords her vision of the moor rolling away beyond the Dutch Garden and the terrace corner. If she had been but a woman of moderate vigour, she would not have gone to bed again till the whole pageant of mysterious glory had fulfilled itself before her eyes. For what a sight it was! First of all, the whole garden, woodland and heather hills were steeped in a translucence for which there is no name. It is a virgin hour, and its purity no words can describe. The Ling, in full bloom, was silver and amethyst on the rise, misty purple and blue in the hollows. Behind the shouldering hills a rift of sky was a radiant lemon-yellow, a kind of honey sea of light. And above that, again, little drifts of cloud had caught a wonderful orange-rose glow like the wings of cherubim about the Throne. Down the valley there were silver mists against the most tender, clear horizon; and all along the Lily Walk the clumps of Tiger Lilies seemed to be like little Fra Angelico angels, holding their breath in adoration!