Anne remembered something. Three years ago, her grandfather had said to her, looking fixedly into her eyes: “The citizens of the castle consider Uncle Sebastian a hero. They may be mistaken. You are the only person in the world who is sure not to be mistaken if you believe him to be one.” She remembered it well. He said no more. But from that day he, whom till then she had merely loved, became also the object of her admiration and the hero of all around her.
The trees grew between the graves like a wood, a wood where people were buried. Here it was not the graves that decided the trees’ position; they had to take their places as the wood decided. And life here drew abundant strength from death’s rich harvest. In many places the stone crosses had fallen or sunk into the moss. A weeping willow drooped over a crypt. It bent over it like a sylvan woman, whose green loose hair covered a face which was doubtless weeping in the shade.
Anne prayed for a long time at Uncle Sebastian’s grave. Then they went on in silence. Around some graves the gilt spearheads of low railings sparkled in the grass. Railings, frontiers, even around the dead, to separate those who loved each other, to isolate those whom nobody loved. But Anne felt hopeful that in the ground, underneath the obstructions erected by the living, the dead might stretch friendly hands to each other.
On the hillside the graves ceased. Death vanished from between the trees, life alone continued. The wood was their only companion in the summer’s quietude.
On the edge of a small glen a straw hat lay on the grass. They looked up surprised. A bare-headed young man stood in the glen turning towards the sun. The approaching steps attracted his attention. His eyes were brown. His gaze seemed darker than his eyes. He appeared vexed. Then his eyes fell on Anne. Her small, girlish face tried hard to remain serious, but her eyes were already laughing ironically and her lips were on the verge of doing so. The stranger felt embarrassed.
John Hubert Ulwing raised his beaver, ruffled by the boughs. He asked for the footpath leading to the communal farm.
The young man indicated the direction. His handsome, manly hand was elegant and narrow. He wore an old seal ring with a green stone. He walked a few steps with the Ulwings. When they reached the footpath, he bowed in silence.
Anne nodded. The waves of her soft shepherdess hat of Florentine straw threw for an instant a shadow over her eyes. She was rather sorry the footpath had been so near. The steps behind her were already receding. She bent down and picked a flower. Only now did she notice how many flowers there were in the wood.
She hung her hat over her arm. One more, one more ... and the bunch grew in her hand. A Canterbury bell gave itself up, root and all. The roots, like infinitely small bird-claws, held on to the moist soil. For the first time Anne smelt the perfume of the earth. And when the carriage entered the porch between the two pillar men, it struck Anne that this was the first occasion on which wild flowers had come into the old house.
She met Christopher on the staircase. Her brother held his head rigid and seemed to be listening. She too heard her grandfather’s voice. It came from far away, from the timber yard.