CHAPTER XXXVIII
A LETTER FROM BATH
Jane Marley sat before the door in the shade of a bursting elder, in an atmosphere perfumed by its leaves; the sun was on the white rock against which the cottage was built, and sent a reflection in her face so strong that she was unable to raise her eyes from her knitting.
Her brows were contracted, partly against the glaring light, partly through the working of her stormy mind.
Dazzled by the sun, occupied by her thoughts, she did not notice the approach of Mrs. Jose, and when the latter spoke Jane started, passed her hand across her brow, and recovered herself with an effort.
'Deary me!' said the farmer's wife. 'Always busy. If Satan finds some mischief for idle hands, he need not come to the Undercliff. He will never find those fingers at leisure for his work. But, bless my life, Jane, what can be the matter with the birds? I have known them swarm here and sing and chortle like a concert of choristers—jackdaws, starlings, choughs, gulls, magpies—and to-day not one to be seen or heard.'
'I have noticed it. They are gone.'
'Gone! But what can have driven them away? Have they been chased and shot?'
'No—I have not heard a gun.'
'But this is amazing. What does it mean? I have not started a magpie, nor heard the pipe of a blackbird. It has never happened before. This has been a paradise of birds.'
Mrs. Marley shrugged her shoulders. She did not concern herself about feathered creatures and their ways.