C.D. Warner, et al., comp. The Library of the World’s Best Literature.
An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.
When the Sap Rose: A Fantasia
By Sir Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch (1863–1944)
A
Nevertheless, his mood was genial; for the young people had taken his suggestion and acquired a copy of their certificate. This meant five extra shillings in his pocket. Therefore, when the van drew up at the cross-roads for him to alight, he wished them long life and a multitude of children with quite a fatherly air.
“You can’t guess where I’m bound for. It’s to pay my old mother a visit. Ah, family life’s the pretty life—that ever I should say it!”
They saw no reason why he should be cynical, more than other men. And the bride, in whose eyes this elderly gentleman with the tight boots appeared a rosy-winged Cupid, waved her handkerchief until the vehicle had sidled round the hill, resembling in its progress a very infirm crab in a hurry.
As a fact, the Registrar wore a silk hat, a suit of black West-of-England broadcloth, a watch-chain made out of his dead wife’s hair, and two large seals that clashed together when he moved. His face was wide and round, with a sanguine complexion, gray side-whiskers, and a cicatrix across the chin. He had shaved in a hurry that morning; for the wedding was early, and took place on the extreme verge of his district. His is a beautiful office—recording day by day the solemnest and most mysterious events in nature. Yet, standing at the cross-roads, between down and woodland, under an April sky full of sun and southwest wind, he threw the ugliest shadow in the landscape.
The road towards the coast dipped—too steeply for tight boots—down a wooded coombe; and he followed it, treading delicately. The hollow of the V ahead, where the hills overlapped against the pale blue, was powdered with a faint brown bloom, soon to be green,—an infinity of bursting buds. The larches stretched their arms upwards, as men waking. The yellow was out on the gorse, with a heady scent like a pineapple’s; and between the bushes spread the gray film of coming bluebells. High up, the pines sighed along the ridge, turning paler; and far down, where the brook ran, a mad duet was going on between thrush and chaffinch,—“Cheer up, cheer up, Queen!” “Clip, clip, clip, and kiss me—Sweet!”—one against the other.
Now, the behavior of the Registrar of Births, Deaths, and Marriages changed as he descended the valley. At first he went from side to side, because the loose stones were sharp and lay unevenly; soon he zigzagged for another purpose,—to peer into the bank for violets, to find a gap between the trees where, by bending down with a hand on each knee and his head tilted back, he could see the primroses stretching in broad sheets to the very edge of the pine woods. By frequent tilting, his collar broke from its stud and his silk hat settled far back on his neck. Next he unbuttoned his waistcoat and loosened his braces; but no, he could not skip,—his boots were too tight. He looked at each tree as he passed. “If I could only see—” he muttered. “I’ll swear there used to be one on the right, just here.”
But he could not find it here,—perhaps his memory misgave him; and presently turned with decision, climbed the low fence on his left, between him and the hollow of the coombe, and dropped into the plantation on the other side. Here the ground was white in patches with anemones; and as his feet crushed them, descending, the babel of the birds grew louder and louder.
He issued on a small clearing by the edge of the brook, where the grass was a delicate green, each blade pushing up straight as a spear-point from the crumbled earth. Here were more anemones, between patches of last year’s bracken, and os the further slope a mass of daffodils. He pulled out a pocket-knife that had sharpened some hundreds of quill pens, and looking to his right, found what he wanted at once.
It was a sycamore, on which the buds were swelling. He cut a small twig, as big round as his middle finger, and sitting himself down on a barked log close by, began to measure and cut it to a span’s length, avoiding all knots. Then, taking the knife by the blade between finger and thumb, he tapped the bark gently with the tortoise-shell handle. And as he tapped, his face went back to boyhood again, in spite of the side-whiskers, and his mouth was pursed up to a silent tune.
For ten minutes the tapping continued, the birds ceased their contention, and broke out restlessly at intervals. A rabbit across the brook paused and listened at the funnel-shaped mouth of his hole, which caught the sound and redoubled it.
“Confound these boots!” said the Registrar, and pulling them off, tossed them among the primroses. They were “elastic-sides.”
The tapping ceased. A breath of the landward breeze came up, combing out the tangle that winter had made in the grass, caught the brook on the edge of a tiny fall, and puffed it back six inches in a spray of small diamonds. It quickened the whole copse. The oak saplings rubbed their old leaves one on another, as folks rub their hands, feeling life and warmth; the chestnut buds groped like an infant’s fingers; and the chorus broke out again, the thrush leading,—“Tiurru, tiurru, chippewee; tio-tee, tio-tee; queen, queen, que-een!”
In a moment or two he broke off suddenly, and a honey-bee shot out of an anemone-bell like a shell from a mortar. For a new sound disconcerted them—a sound sharp and piercing. The Registrar had finished his whistle and was blowing like mad, moving his fingers up and down. Having proved his instrument, he dived a hand into his tail-pocket and drew out a roll, tied around with ribbon. It was the folded leather-bound volume in which he kept his blank certificates. And spreading it on his knees, he took his whistle again and blew, reading his music from the blank pages, and piping a strain he had never dreamed of. For he whistled of Births and Marriages.
O happy Registrar! O happy, happy Registrar! You will never get into those elastic-sides again. Your feet swell as they tap the swelling earth, and at each tap the flowers push, the sap climbs, the speck of life moves in the hedge-sparrow’s egg; while far away on the downs, with each tap the yellow van takes bride and groom a foot nearer felicity. It is hard work in worsted socks; for you smite with the vehemence of Pan, and Pan had a hoof of horn.
The Registrar’s mother lived in the fishing-village, two miles down the coombe. Her cottage leant back against the cliff so closely that the boys, as they followed the path above, could toss tabs of turf down her chimney: and this was her chief annoyance.
Now it was close on the dinner-hour, and she stood in her kitchen beside a pot of stew that simmered over the wreck-wood fire.
Suddenly a great lump of earth and grass came bouncing down the chimney, striking from side to side, and soused into the pot, scattering the hot stew over the hearth-stone and splashing her from head to foot.
Quick as thought, she caught up a besom and rushed out around the corner of the cottage.
“You stinking young adders!” she began.
A big man stood on the slope above her.
“Mother, cuff my head, that’s a dear. I couldn’ help doin’ it.”
It was the elderly Registrar. His hat, collar, tie, and waistcoat were awry; his boots were slung on the walking-stick over his shoulder; stuck in his mouth and lit was a twist of root-fibre, such as country boys use for lack of cigars, and he himself had used forty years before.
The old woman turned to an ash color, leant on her besom, and gasped.
“William Henry!”
“I’m not drunk, mother: been a Band of Hope these dozen years.” He stepped down the slope to her and bent his head low. “Box my ears, mother, quick! You used to have a wonderful gift o’ cuffin’.”
“William Henry, I’m bound to do it or die.”
“Then be quick about it.”
Half laughing, half sobbing, she caught him a feeble cuff, and next instant held him close to her old breast. The Registrar disengaged himself after a minute, brushed his eyes, straightened his hat, picked up the besom, and offered her his arm. They passed into the cottage together.