Pale orange sliver of a crescent moon, shimmered, in the semi-midnight blackness, only a hazy haze rose from the violated ground as the temperature dropped. A hoarse curse echoed and was soon muffled, somewhere there was an animal whinny, whether it was a horse or a rat being speared, Jerry didn't know, but he threw a warm thought to his younger brother, for surely Carl would have known. There was a crash somewhere, and Jerry found himself automatically tensing, and in a creeping crouch, and around him, the men, were doing the same, dirty, tattered khaki shadows, but there was no whistling of grenades, no movement of the enemy, and the Captain's voice was muffled, "At ease lads, at ease."
Twenty minutes later, Jerry, holding a hot and bumpy pewter mug in his hand, a far cry from the Manse china, eyed the latest overseas mail-haul, yearning to see Nan's beloved cursive. A voice inquired, "Well, Reverend, do you know that you are the only man in this whole company who refuses a dose of rum, you only drink tea, though a little drink would do so much, especially when autumn comes, and we shall probably drown in the mud again, but I understand you get that when you've grown up somewhere in flyspeck of a village full of teetotallers."
Jerry, smiled, and said with gentle persuasion, "Connor, there are worse things than principles." Connor, rubbing his short sand-colored hair, and blinking his red-rimmed watery eyes, snorted softly, and said, "I came over, because Rawlings has one of his turns again, maybe your voice would calm him down, the top brass was notified, and some Doc will check on the situation, but I thought we'd try you first."
Jerry, bent over his own shelf, and ran his fingers over Nan's picture, lightly, before he took out a small bluish tin box, and his Bible, and straightening up, he gave a barely perceptible nod to Connor, and the other youth turned, they walked deeper into the barracks.
Rows and rows of soldiers rested, they wrote letters, or smoked damp cigarettes, the smoke of which tickled the throat, and remained floating in the air as a bluish curtain, through which the light of the lamps dimly shone.
The planks creaked softly under their steps as Connor led Jerry forward. A low rustling and murmuring could be heard, from a corner, Connor said quietly, "Rawlings, Reverend is here, he wants to have a few words with you?"
The shadow moved, and Jerry saw Rawlings, the young man had been cheerful and smiling, and dutiful, but after the hell-hole of Vimy Ridge, he had become just a shadow, he was gaunt and high strung, and his bluish shadowed eyes darted around nervously.
Rawlings, took one leaping step forward, and said in a rising monotone, " They are here, they creep and come, they eat, and nothing is left, the world will be destroyed, when the great worm, the serpent, in the bosom, and the spiders arrive, they are. We must prepare, Lord of the Morning, and neither the archangels nor the gates of Jerusalem can save us, for there is so much blood, blood and mud, everywhere, spiders, they weave their webs, and we drown."
Connor, glanced at Jerry, and whispered, "He is truly gone all around the twist then, that's purely gibberish, I´d say, but he was mumbling something Biblical, so that's why you might be useful." Jerry, glancing at Connor, and standing a couple of steps away from Rawlings, he said quietly, "Not as biblical as you might imagine." Rawlings, was staring straight ahead, his lips moving as if muttering some mantra. Jerry, cleared his throat, and recited, few verses of Blake, from the second book of Urizen.
Rage, fury, intense indignation
In cataracts of fire blood & gall
In whirlwinds of sulphurous smoke:
And enormous forms of energy;
All the seven deadly sins of the soul
In living creations appear'd
In the flames of eternal fury.
Sund'ring, dark'ning, thund'ring!
Rent away with a terrible crash
Eternity roll'd wide apart
Wide asunder rolling
Mountainous all around
Departing; departing; departing:
Leaving ruinous fragments of life
Hanging frowning cliffs & all between
An ocean of voidness unfathomable.
Rawlings, blinked, a bit of saliva running from the corner of his mouth as he, nodded in a stuttering way, and muttered
The roaring fires ran o'er the heav'ns
In whirlwinds & cataracts of blood
And o'er the dark desarts of Urizen
Fires pour thro' the void on all sides
On Urizens self-begotten armies.
And slowly, verse by verse in turn, they quoted the entire poem, and when it was over, Rawlings, curled up in his corner, began to scratch at the wall, muttering something that at least wasn't Blake.
A stinging pity and hopelessness throbbed in Jerry's heart, for he knew that some part of Rawlingis was still there, but the youth was not present, he had retreated somewhere far away, in a corner of his psyche that was fragmented by his experiences. Jerry opened tin box, and put some of Una's bisquits on a tin plate. Those pale dainties on the gray, scratched plate, looked utterly absurd, but Rawlings didn't react, to them, not even to Jerry's careful touch, of his shoulder.
Connor, shrugged his shoulders, and said, "Well, all of us who were spared alive of this slaughterhouse, if there's muttering or shouting at night, there's nothing strange about it, not anymore. But the last few days this situation has become like this, so."
There were shuffling footsteps and Jerry stiffened in formation as the Captain and the Doctor arrived. The Captain wiped his thin moustache, and said in a gruff way, "Carry onwards, Private Meredith and Jones, there is nothing here to concern you, go and enjoy your evening of leisure."
Doctor, frowning, did what Jerry vaguely remembered Dr. Blythe doing, in earlier times, he took a pulse, and tried to get Rawlings to react, but to no avail. Completely exhausted, Jerry turned and left Rawlings as he had been told to do, he did not want to but, the orders were clear.
Very next day, rumors circulated that Rawlings had been sent away, as he heard those news, the soft buttery, crumbly, cinnamonly scent, of Una´s bisquits, it was unbearable, as deep guilt of not been able to be of help burned, so in a fast jerk, Jerry handed them over, to others, whoops of joy could be heard along the lines, as gleeful shouts of " Reverend so generously has shared his load with us!"
Jerry, finally opened Nan's long awaited letter, and with a fierce sting of gladness let himself drown of her clever words, in the letterpaper, it had fuzzy watermark in upper corner, it looked like some kind of sigil. Nan´s cursive was sleek, and curlicued, and ink was dark living green.
My Beloved!
In your last letter you hoped to hear about everything, but it's quite a tall order, but for you I can try. I am writing this in a place that is almost Austen-like, but not Pemberley. Golden and warm late August sunlight pours in through the large leaded glass windows, and the wild wine sways in the gentle breeze, and the light filters through its narrow leaves, a shimmering, vivid, intense green, that light provides an interesting contrast to the red-brocaded salon in front of me, whose furniture still feels like like they belong in a museum. I remembered a verse by Emily Dickinson.
Houses — so the Wise Men tell me—
"Mansions"! Mansions must be warm!
Mansions cannot let the tears in.
It describes the atmosphere of Gardiner Hall extremely aptly, in few lines, here in these corridors, there is a certain season of wistfulness, perhaps it is this golden light of August, which mercilessly reveals that all the glitter around is hollow, heartless, almost. Di would laugh at me, but my imagination has always been a gift, and from the first moment I arrived here in the fall, to an event I felt shocked, as if some ancient tragedy was waiting for its conclusion, just around the corner, but here there are only flower arrangements, and silence.
There is no sense of a lived life in this room, despite the fact that at this particular moment it is full of life, but that life is like a rehearsed dance, like a minuet in which there is no room for error. Crystals and picture frames sparkle, and brewed tea and cocoa and some expensive French white wine smells. Don't worry I didn't drink it even though I was offered a glass. Cards are being played around me, and it makes me want to take a peek to see if Dorian and Dorothy and Adeline Gardiner are playing whist or not, but I do not, quite dare to do so! Adeline Gardiner always reminds me of Caroline Bingley, in a way, because she is always so particular about her own value, and especially about the value of her family and maintaining it, and she has a way of throwing in little cutting comments. Dorothy Gardiner is pleasant vivaciously charming, so that contrast is quite formidable. Di is playing the piano, Una probably might know the piece. I just know that Di's face lit up when she noticed the pile of sheet music.
Last night, at Dorians birthday celebrations, I felt like Lizzie Bennet, for although Adeline paid me the usual compliments, I was uneasy, for I felt distinctly that she resented me and Di, and indeed all of us, including Alice, though she is hard to read. I remarked this to Dorothy, who looked at me for a long time with her dark eyes, and she suddenly seemed very tired, and it occurred to me, not for the first time, that perhaps the weight of the Gardiner name was a burden on her, and then she laughed, a little forcedly, and said, "I'm sorry, my elder sister is of her own particular breed, Dorian must have told you. Pay her slights no mind." So encouraged by this I told Dorothy, that Caroline Bingley parable, and she laughed so heartily.
I have written to you before about Dorian, so you have a clear picture of him, but I emphasize again, he is like one brother I have not had. We see the world, partly the same, though he sometimes has maddening Gardiner-like airs! I hope that if you meet, you like each other.
To continue the literary parables, guests of Gardiner Hall, for this afternoon is a most wonderful occasion engage in social observation, I used to imagine that Royal Gardiner was a semi-Byronic character, but now as a result of closer observation, he is indeed a mixture of a successful businessman, with a hint of Gilbert Osmond, of Henry James, and Soames Forsythe, from Glasworthy´s novel The Man of Property, which we read together, during our last golden summer together. When we had finally gotten our hands on two copies of that book. How we argued, and debated, surely you remember. Before you heard the call of my brothers Piper, and went to do your duty to King ad Country "over there" torn fields and jagged trenches of Western Front.
Now I realized, one thing that has been bothering me for a long time, and it has to do with Alice, because there is something about the way she affects people, or at least people close to me, that it's almost Irene-like, and no, I'm not referring to Irene Howard, who is still apparently Howard. The rumor mill said that Irene Howard has experienced some tragic disappointment, but I don't believe it, she has always walked high. I know people say I have airs, that particular blithe Blythe way, and I'm proud of it. I meant Irene Heron Forsythe, the way Glasworthy writes, Irene, of her mangetism, and her charm, of certain gracefulness, of form and proportion, as one character remarked, " But women like Irene work more fatally than deadly; poison in the lives they touch." The above is just a random musing, I can get along with Alice, but I don't think we'll ever be kindredspirits!
Handsome, darkhaired Christine Stuart Dawson, who reminds me of a somewhat calculating version of Leroux´s Christine Daaé, although that designation is only due to the name, and the fact that Stuart Dawson has artistic flair, of sort. Her husband Andrew Dawson, is blond, and quite slim. He seems sharply vague, in old world foppish style, as esteemed Mrs. Marshall Elliot would say. Dorian is conversing in a low voice, and looking very shy and uncertain, with his Father, under the potted palms, their shadows hiding the features of the Royal Gardiner, but I can see the weariness in his shoulders, and I wonder what he can be thinking?
I just had a startling thought, if Walter hadn't gotten to know Dorian, we wouldn't have gotten to know him either, and we wouldn't be here today. So really it's all about chance, one meeting at a social event, where a few years later there is a solid and platonic friendship, in these exceptional times. Through the tea and cocoa, I smell Adeline's light cologne, glowing, its smell reminds me of a light autumn rain, for some reason.
Di has stopped playing the piano, some time ago, and now, Alice's voice bends effortlessly to some Mozart aria, one of those lighthearted comedies about relationships that I can never quite keep up with.
My life at Primrose Hollow is calm for now, before the new term starts. I try to pace myself. Reading for leisure and planning my final course selections. Although there is no dispute about kitchen shifts, luckily, we do what we do best, plum puffs are my own territory, like Di's various casseroles, and Alice makes it in the style I sent you. At one point I thought Bohemian or is it Moravian style cuisine would be unpatriotic, but apparently it's not, or if it is, I don't make a fuss about it. It's often quiet in the evenings in the Hollow, Di writes, Alice knits, or so do we all. They sometimes practice, full on scales, and trilling runs, solfège exercises, after which they often do not return to Hollow for several hours, they are probably running around Redmond, or something. Maybe it is because you've grown in a home where music has been present more than in Ingelside, you probably know how to filter it out better. I don't want to sound ungrateful, that sounded too self-pitying, but you wanted realism. Yesterday, Di made fresh cherry custard and the smell of it was extremely close to heaven. I would so like to send you a few pieces, but it won't keep. You probably won't be surprised when I tell you that I have used several of Marilla's old recipes, and I will make you a date cake, using her recipe, in your next package, and will also include woolen socks woven from dark brown and green yarn, and gloves, because I thought you were tired of gray and wanted a little color.
Sometimes, as I´m tired from Red Cross meetings, and a broken night's sleep, I climb to the window sill of the fourth floor of the Redmond library, that window is stained glass, and I look at the world through the colored glass, and sometimes my mind calms down, and I think of you, when you wrote to me about this place, in your first fall in Redmond, always when I sit there, I feel that you are very close to me. There I write, in little black notebook, and my rose red diary, delicate, rosecloud-dreams, Castles in Spain, of your lovely words, that are so dear to me. I can't help but end this letter with a poetic quote, as these words of Tennyson's, glow in my heart, because they are only a pale foreshadowing, of our time to come. I have so much to tell and to whisper to you.
In which we sat together and alone,
And to the want, that hollow'd all the heart,
Gave utterance by the yearning of an eye,
That burn'd upon its object thro' such tears
As flow but once a life.
The trance gave way
To those caresses, when a hundred times
In that last kiss, which never was the last.
You always have my heart, in your keeping, you do know that in your bones, but sometimes it is better to write things out, in plainest possible way. You, Jerry are, as ever my world.
With all my love,
Nan.
Jerry wiped his eyes, and looked for a long time in the light of the flickering lamp at Nan's picture, and then he, glanced around, for a few moments, he had completely forgotten his own circumstances, as he had been completely enchanted by the narrative drawn by Nan, he had felt the smells, and almost tasted the delicacies, and saw the people she had written about, drawn out with clever intertextual allusions. His worn-out clothes that hung over him, for army rations were no compliment, his back emblazoned with maddening red, angry scars that sometimes ached, especially in the damp weather.
Jerry, straightened his posture, and brushed the thick black hair from his forehead, and glanced at the small mirror he used to shave. A narrow slender face with dark eyes that flashed, but his forehead had furrows that hadn't been there before Verdun, a little stubble darkening his chin, it made him look a little older, and destroyed the little trace of boyishness that was still in his features. Jerry, wondered if Nan would recognize him when they met, when this dance of total destruction, blood flows and slashing duty, and horror had been danced to an end, eventually.
A hesitant voice inquired, "Reverend Meredith, Did you get any good news from home, perhaps of your sweetheart? Is she that beautiful dark haired slender girl that picture you sometimes look at?" Jerry turned, and answered, "Yes." The same voice, continued, "A few of us would like us to pray together, so can you recite with us, All Lord, have mercy, and maybe some other things too, before the lights out command?" A deep and unexpected pleasure rose in Jerry's heart as he heard those usual, unadorned words, and he thought of John Meredith, who in his last letter had written.
My dear son!
I'm writing this on a Saturday when I almost forgot about a Presbyterian ecumenical meeting I was supposed to sign up for, and I would have completely forgotten if Rosemary hadn't reminded me. In Glen, life is basically the same as always, but there are strong dividing lines in my congregation, which have only deepened as this war goes onwards. I sometimes collaborate with Lowbridge and the Methodists, just at the local level, it's good to keep an ear to the ground. I'm so proud of you, all of you.
Faith scribbles excitedly, quick little notes that look like they've been torn from lecture notes. Carl, writes sometimes, he is in good spirits, but you know more about the circumstances that I dare not even think about. Una, keeps the everyday going, she goes in her errands with wan features, but your younger sister has always been pale, she plays less than before, but she sometimes is wistful, in strange fragmented way, especially when the wind sighs form Rainbow Valley way.
And now a little advice, if you allow it. If your fellow soldiers come to you, as it appears from your letters, help them to the best of your ability, which you will certainly do. Don't worry unnecessarily about theology, just be present, and remember that Our Lord also spoke only from his heart. If you want I can send you some books that give an alternative perspective, some David Strauss, and Albert Schweitzer, both of whom have studied the historical Jesus myth. Do you need a new pocket Bible? I understand the Bible Society sends packages at regular intervals around the front, including to the opposite side, but you'll probably get it from me sooner if yours is in tatters. Time will tell if the Bible will be used in battles as well, other than as an inspiration. Keep up the good work, and be safe.
J.M.
The regimental moment of prayer ended, with John Donne's verses, which echoed from almost every throat, audibly.
May God the Holy Trinity
guard and defend you on every side,
sustain you in times of difficulty,
and strengthen you in faith and hope;
and the blessing of God almighty,
the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit
be with you and all whom you love,
now and always.
On the surface of the ground, the broken telephone wires were shaking in the wind, they were tangled in the barbed wire barriers, and the mist was rising again, there was a feeling of rain and autumn in the air, the whole of August had been in Flanders, very rainy. At Ypres, the British troops fought, they advanced, they almost drowned in the mud, and on dead bodies, men and horses, half rotted. The cold, drizzling rain soaked the clothes, and made visibility extremely poor, there had been first Langemarck, and then, the Gheluvelt Plateau, and the international newspapers accurately reported the propagada-controlled communications of the development of the situation, and everywhere on the home fronts across Europe, and even beyond, it was expected, feared and hoped that it was their relatives who would be spared, that their names would not appear in the lists, that there would be no telegrams.
The apples were already turning a little red on the trees, and slowly the Redmond campus began to glow with life, after the quiet, leisurely summer months. Di, answered cheerfully at Professor Milne's nod, and with a start, she found that the professor who had given her and Walter so much, looked gray and tired, in his tattered tweed, which he had not changed into a neater suit. Professor, Milne adjusted the strap of his leather briefcase, and said in his quiet, sincere manner, "Miss Blythe, I hear that your first book will be published soon. I would love to read it." Di, smiled, and handed the paper-wrapped book to the professor, saying, "I would never have done this if I hadn't had the encouragement from you, you believed in my abilities, of course others did too, but you were one of the first who wasn't a member of my family or someone I knew."
A small tremor of emotion seemed to flicker across Professor Milne's face, and he nodded in his stiff manner, and then he turned, and walked across the grass, despite the little signs that forbade it. Satisfied, that errand was done, Di turned towards the center of Kingsport, and as she strolled along, she remembered the other evening when Nan had remarked, over tea, lightly, airily, "Alice, you've been very absorbed in some letter, is there any good news in it? If you want a novel, I've got one in mind, that you might feel relatable, perhaps."
Alice, had glanced at Nan and said with mild humor, "Only from my parents. Apparently my mother is still in Ottawa, but Father is going back to Lowbridge, for the patients, the usual news, from the local parish, and news of my sister Cora's family, nothing of particular note. Leave, if you would, that novel out, on the table in my room, please, I promise to get to know it."
Di, glanced at Nan and her twin's expression was thoughtful, but at the same time contentedly cautious. The scented polish spread its pungent scent as Nan melted the wax on Jerry's latest letter, which would go into the big packing box.
Di, shook her head as a streetcar whizzed past her, screeching, wheeling. Suddenly her attention was sharpened as three neatly dressed figures passed a little ahead of her, Di, recognized Madeleine at once, and she was flanked by two Auburn reddish haired women. They all went to a small cafe, it was located, at the end of a small alley. Di had not even noticed its existence before.
The cafe, the windows were decorated with dried violet flowers, and white tulle, the combination was almost ridiculous, like deliberately sentimental Victorian, like a funeral parlour. The small bell on the door chimed as Di entered. The space was dim, but clean, and there seemed to be some kind of stage right at the entrance of the door, and on the other wall was a service counter tiled with pale purple tiles. And at the counter, stood the same woman that Di remembered seeing at Dorothy's summer soiree, the blonde who had been standing on the wall, appraisingly, or maybe just shyly.
Madeleine, and another reddish-haired woman, whom Di did not know, swept from her shoulders, wildly unruly, almost kinky abundance of curls, and glanced with her dark almond-shaped eyes at the door, and said clearly, in a voice that was surprisingly girlish. "A new lost sheep, to have a cup of warmth, Maddie, don't you think so? New customers would certainly be good for Helene's business."
Madeleine looked up, from her teacup, and met Di standing in the doorway, unflinchingly, and then she laughed, in her gentle warm way, and said, "Not at all, hardly lost, she's Di Blythe. Di , stop standing at the door, and come to tea if you can, but there is no obligation."
And then, Di found herself munching on a delicious peach pie that was so fresh it was almost steaming. Di found herself sitting once again in a secret corner of Kingsport. Tea set was of Ladies of Langollen theme, and teapot contained not the usual Canadian blend, but a dark tea with small pieces of berries that gave it its own unique taste.
Isabelle, who was sitting, in an olive green dress, next to Di, waved her fingers nonchalantly, in Helene's direction, and said, "She dabbles and develops different tea combinations, and this place is her testing arena, among other things, or do you agree, Winnie? "
A red-curled woman, crossed her arms, and a slightly crooked smile appeared on her features, whose age was difficult to define, as she said, "Among other things specifically, but now Helene is beckoning to me, so I have to start!"
Di, assumed that Winnie would go behind the counter, where indeed Helene seemed impatient, but instead she headed up to the stage and nodded to some of the women who waved happily at her.
A colorless pianist with nervous, jerky movements played the first clean, quivering chord. Winnie was dressed in a black, modest walking dress, Di found herself swimming, in tunes, and deep touching moods, because Winnie's skill, emotional presence, tied together a fascinating whole. And as the songs progressed through the afternoon, Di noticed that several customers were dancing, apparently this was a regular thing.
Madeleine, remarked in passing, "Winnie is attached, at the theater in Kingsport, she is a performer, as you must have noticed, and sometimes, when she has time, she is here, at Helene's."
Afterwards, sitting in the Primrose Hollow´s living room, Di was playing a soft, vaudeville tune when the door opened, and Alice slipped in, she was humming softly something that sounded vaquely italian, as Di, turned, and exclaimed, "How was your day? I happened to find a place that's lovely, as I was coming up from Redmond, and my whole afternoon totally evaporated. There I met Madeleine, she sent her greetings, as she was with her friends, one of them would be of interest for you I think."
An interested look flashed in Alice's eyes as she sat down on the sofa and stretched and said quietly and seriously. "Madeleine must have many interesting acquaintances, I suppose." Sparkling piano music shimmered, as Di played, the teapot whistled shrillly, and Alice poured tea for two, and said, "My day was leisurely in the Music Library, I studied a few librettos, someone had borrowed Bellini's La Somnabula, I would have liked to study it, although Amina's role is too high , well it's a famous soprano role, so no wonder the sopranos in Redmond's music department are studying it. And I practiced Mozart's Ch'io mi scordi di te a bit, I think it's starting to go quite well."
Di, nodded, and said playfully, "Now it's time to wind down, we've both had a long day, how about reading that book that Nan recommended?" And soon Di, read aloud: "Those privileged to be present at a family festival of the Forsytes have seen that charming and instructive sight—an upper middle-class family in full plumage. But whosoever of these favoured persons has possessed the gift of psychological analysis (a talent without monetary value and properly ignored by the Forsytes), has witnessed a spectacle, not only delightful in itself, but illustrative of an obscure human problem. In plainer words, he has gleaned from a gathering of this family—no branch of which had a liking for the other, between no three members of whom existed anything worthy of the name of sympathy—evidence of that mysterious concrete tenacity which renders a family so formidable a unit of society, so clear a reproduction of society in miniature. He has been admitted to a vision of the dim roads of social progress, has understood something of patriarchal life, of the swarmings of savage hordes, of the rise and fall of nations. He is like one who, having watched a tree grow from its planting—a paragon of tenacity, insulation, and success, amidst the deaths of a hundred other plants less fibrous, sappy, and persistent—one day will see it flourishing with bland, full foliage, in an almost repugnant prosperity, at the summit of its efflorescence."
And about an hour later, when the reading moment was over, Nan, was nodding brightly at the green book that was carelessly lifted on top of the piano, a dark blue hairband dangling from between the pages.
And still a little later, Di, came with Alice to sit in the darkening garden, where the long grass and clover blossoms were fragrant. Alice, was leaning on a small garden swing. She turned towards Di, and said in a barely audible voice, "When we were in Gardiner Hall, you asked me if I had anything to tell you, and I didn't answer it directly. You blamed yourself quite unnecessarily, for I know very well that I have a way of closing myself off. I can be very cool at times, or more often than not. I've found myself muddled for a while now, the reason for this is the time I have spent with Mrs. Stuart Dawson, in these resent weeks of this summer-season, and even before it. I don't know exactly what I am trying to say, and I do not try to be hurtful. I know that she represents something that is very alluring, to me."
Di´s few freckles were clearly visible on her white face as she said, with a voice that trembled a little, "So, you mean, artistically, or perhaps, somehow more intimately, or perhaps you can't tell the differences, as all emotions are all wound up and melted into each other?"
Alice, sat still, still, as if stiffened, as Di got up and walked a few paces, as she said in a low voice, very hoarsely, "Thank you for telling me, I think. I can't sleep next to you to-day, nor for a few days, at least, it could be longer, for I must think what this possibly means to us, if it means anything at all."
The front door of Primrose Hollow closed, quietly, Alice felt that it would have been better if Di had screamed, or raged, but this, coolly distant but slightly hoarse cold pale tone in her silvery voice had been a new, unseen side. Alice, through a gap in the curtains, saw Nan glance into the garden, once, and close the lace curtains punctually. And glancing at her little watch, Alice rose, and walked, on slightly trembling feet, out of the garden of Primrose Hollow, and the gate only creaked as she headed into the dark streets.
About ten minutes later Alice, participated in the late evening service, but this time the familiar liturgy did not bring comfort, as it had not done recently. Fragrant incense, and honey-colored candles cast flickering shadows on the walls.
When Alice closed her eyes, all that she saw was Gardiner Hall's bathroom suite, it was a true manifestation of decadence. The pale jade-colored bricks glistened in the pale glow of afternoon, colorful potted Orchids on tiers were a riot of gentle color, dense water vapor made everything cloudy, there was a light scent of rose water in the air, and there was light whisper of silk, on skin, a voice said in light way, "It seems that you decided to follow my advice, how lovely." Alice, turned, and met Christine Stuart Dawson's violet gaze, as she continued, "You look a little flushed, it's all that lovely moisture that's condensing in here, or is it? Do you want me to check your pulse, one more time?"
Alice had shaken her head, as she'd half-glanced at Christine, who'd been sitting on the large on the edge of the marble bath, in her indolent way, she had been entwined, in a dark blue silken, bewitching, something, her hair had fallen in damp, curls, and around her neck was a glittering, necklace embedded with emeralds. Christine had, chuckled softly and as she had said, " It occurred to me that perhaps you might glance at Bellini, La Somnabula, when we met in the corridor at night, that work came to my mind, even if it is not my metiere, at all. Would you like a raspberry? I can't stand strawberries."
In a small silver bowl at the edge of the bathtub were delicious-looking, soft succulent raspberries, of red and black varieties, Alice, sitting down near them, and with the utmost care took taste of it, were lush sweetness. She leaned against closed door, and said in a half-challenging tone, "I think this is not at all suitable." Christine's amused, mature laugh fell softly, and she said, in her caressing soft style, " What's keeping you here, I wonder. Do you even know it yourself?" And as the night before, Seguidilla's softly inviting notes echoed through the room, multiplying until, Alice bounded out of the room, and she didn't stop until she reached the grand front steps, where Nan and Di were already waiting.
The priest's light, hand on her shoulder roused Alice from her reflections, and she slipped out of the church. She sat, in her own room, sleepless, until the reddish sunrise colored the sky. Newspaper headlines seemed to scream, "On the Italian front the eleventh battle of the Isonzo is over."
In Ingelside, in her own room, Susan Baker glanced at her clock, which read God's time, not the government's, and satisfied, she set the bread dough to be made. Maybe today she could make the first apple pie of early autumn, it could cheer everyone up, because this September would be challenging, because the memory of last September was floating like a gathering cloud in every room of the house.
And in her mind she thought of counterarguments to Cousin Sophia, who had talked last week, at Carter Flagg's store, about coming to Ingelside today. Mrs. Doctor Dear had been sitting in an armchair reading for the last few days, and every now and then she had wiped her eyes with a handkerchief with lace at the corners. Susan, didn't believe in novels, as a rule, they were just a pack of lies, but maybe she could make an exception for dear Di, at least it wasn't poetry, luckily. Sometimes in her heart Susan felt a sting that the whole world was going all catawampus. When Canadian troops, led by Currie, would be put in hard places again, because they were already starting to have a reputation, in that they did what the other allies couldn't, that was to sting properly and bloody back to the Huns, without mercy, that had happened at the Hill 70, too, in a way.
From her kitchen window, Susan saw the flag fluttering on its pole, and carefully she threw Jekyll out into the yard. The cat flashed, and jumped on top of the gate, from where it watched the landscape with a fluffy tail. Slowly reddish main road of the Glen came to life as the light rose, as the village prepared for yet another day, full of disputes, and alliances amid circuled rumours and news from the Western Front.
The telephone wires vibrated, in the wind, and the trainstation, a small colorful dog waited patiently, faithfully, he wagged his tail, for the first train of the day, but his master was not there. Sighing Dog Monday, stretched, and glanced at the cloudy sky, as wind rose.
A/N: The Book of Urizen is one of William Blake's (1757-1827) prophetal books, which focuses on, among other things, the creation myth. John Glasworthy's novel A Man of Property(1906) was the first standalone novel that later developed into one of the most popular novel series of the 20th century, the Forsythe Saga,(1906-1922) for which Galsworthy won the Nobel Prize in 1932. La Somnabula(1831) is Bellini's romantic and the pastoral opera, which is still extremely popular, its music is powerfully beautiful and memor . able. Ch'io mi scordi di te? is a piece by Mozart that is very popular. Segudilla is a piece by Bizet´s from the first act of Carmen and is one of the most famous arias along with Habanera