Wind Among the Barley Sheaves.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XLVIII, Issue 19, 6 November 1912, Page 52

Wind Among the Barley Sheaves.

By

Mrs. STANLEY WRENCH.

G~J~T MURMURING wind swept / I through the bearded barley, setting alive whispers in the trees that bent to listen to the Secrets the Mood - red poppies tell, knd tall white campions swayed dreamily to and fro, virgins of the cornfields, whilst wanton poppies danced their measure, and the sky was languorous as a woman’s eyes. But Bernard the Chief, who strode {through the barley-field with his burden, heard nothing of the secrets the flowers (sought to tell, knew nothing of the 'ijharm of surging life, and cared little for the thistles wliic.li, for very malice, pricked his feet as he ruthlessly trod down the summer blossoms. '•'l' faith,” he muttered, “ the child is heavy for one of so few summers,” and impatiently he cursed the fence over (which lie was forced to climb before he fcould set his feet in the pathway that led up to the house upon the hill. Here report eaid Bernard the Chief and his smuggler gang hid their booty at whiles, iand here in very truth he could crow defiance to the whole'county. Once he shifted his burden, and the little bundle stirred uneasily. One might have thought there came a pitiful cry from the sacking, but if so the Chief io ok no heed. The door swung open as though some Silent watcher had known of his coming hs indeed was the case, for woe betide the servants at the house upon the hill ■did Bernard the Chief have to wait at its gates for more than the space of a second. He strode within the hall, where yvere gathered in waiting half-a-dozen anen, and swore loud and lustily, as was this wont, though not an eyelid stirred of those who stood by, “ Call Dame Marjorie,” he shouted, and almost before the words had left his lips n. grey-haired old woman appeared, who (faced him sternly. “How now?” she queried in a voice as (sharp as his own. He set the sack upon the floor, and guffawed long and loudly, his burly form shaking with merriment, his great red clieeks quivering with laughter as the .sack moved a little, stirred again, then from Out of the folds there appeared the head of a tiny black-haired child. Nqt a word said his men, but Dame Marjorie came nearer. “What in the devil's name is this?” she asked, suspicion biting into her voice. “Thou may'st- well ask, good dame,” ho made answer, and stooping drew out the little one, who gazed up at him fearlessly. He set her upon her feet, and looked round at his men. “This is the little Lady Lucille de La (Vendee,” he said, with an evil sneer playing round his lips. ‘ You will, I pray you, do her homage.” “•What joke is this?” croaked the old woman in his ear, but he motioned her away. “Your liege lady,” he said, and motioned to the men, who one by one came forward, bent on one knee, took her baby hand, kissed it reverently as women kiss the missal, and muttered the oath of fealty which had served its turn before with the t hief himself. The child could not have been more than four summers, yet she stood there with a gravity beyond her years, her dark eyes aglow, her little hand outstretched with the deportment of a queen. There could have been no better proof of tier birth. The child was nobly begotten. 'I hen how, in Heaven's name, Could she be here in this nest of the Bparrow-hawk? Bernard the Chief was « smuggler noted for miles around, not only for deeds of daring, but for his doings, which whispered of bloodshed and rapine, of slaughter, and deeds at which ifven hardened men would shudder and turn their faces. How came he by this fair child, and for what purpose was she brought hither? The mystery was soon solved, though St was but one pair of ears that beard he atory. Dame Marjorie carried the lark-haired baby away at a sign from her

lord and master, and he followed, closing the door behind him so that none could hear. “How now?” she said again. “What new move is this?” The child stood silently there, her eyes big with solemn wonder, and, drawing her towards him, Chief Bernard stood the little one between his knees. “Look well at her, my mother—look well at her,” he said. “Hast ever seen one like her before?” Dame Marjorie stared hard. Then her eyes blinked, a look of fear crossed her face, and she turned away. But the man laughed harshly. “Well?” he queried. “Well?” “She is like —she is very like Mademoiselle Charlotte,” she stammered. He laughed again, then bent his bead lower, put a linger beneath the child’s chin, tilted her face upwards, and bade the old woman watch her nostrils quiver. “’Twas a trick o’ Charlotte herself,” he said. “Dost remember when she was angered? Dost remember? Well,” as the old woman nodded again, “this is Charlotte’s child. Charlotte is now my lady of Vendee, but a widow to boot, and this is her only child.” Despite her audacity of bearing before, the old woman shivered and crossed herself now. “Ah!” she said. “Then my lord of Vendee is dead.” lie drew his fingers lightly across his throat with a dry laugh. “So,” he said. “And his child is here — his child and hers.” A passionate look crept into his eyes. “I swore to be revenged,” he said. “I swore to have my own back again when he stole her from us. She was mine, till he came with his lute and his tales of the sunny South —mine till he won her heart away with bis troubadour pastimes, and the nonsense that all women love. But now,” and he chuckled again, “now I have his child, and my further day of vengeance will be yet assured.” “What of the child?” she asked, her eyes on his face. “Look well to her,” he- said. “Let her want for nothing. Let her lack nothing that those of gentle birth have as their right. If need be, get her silks and geegaws; jewels she can have in plenty,” and again he laughed. “There are more in the treasury yonder than she can ever wear. Get her a servant, and see that when she grows there is someone to tutor her, for I would not have Mademoiselle Charlotte's child grow up ignorant of such things as are reckoned of great store amongst those of high birth. She shall look on me as her relative —call me what you will, but leach her to forget La Vendee. She is but a child.” At that instant the babe looked up at him with big, innocent eyes and a strange smile played about her mouth, so serious for a child of such few summers. “I am four years old,” she said gravely, and the words sounded like a menace. He lifted her high in his arms with a huge laugh. He liked a maid of spirit. “God's truth, and so you be,” he said. “Well, but you’ll make a likely lass one o’ these days. There’ll be more nor one head cracked through you, I'm thinking, ere you reach the age o' four score. But go to, now. Be a good lass, and you shall have plenty of playthings, though I ha’ to pluck out hearts to get you gold.” He set her down, laughed again, stuck his knife into his belt, and strode from the chamber. Then Dame Marjorie turned to the child. “What is your name, little one?” she .said. The baby stamped her foot. “I am not little one,” she said. “I am Lady Lucile of La Vendee.” Dame Marjorie laughed. “Hoity-toity,” she said. “A proud little madam, like her mother, Mademoiselle Charlotte as was. Still, by God’s good grace that can be cured. But Madame Marjorie little knew. The child's proud spirit rather grew with her years, and she exacted obedience as a matter of right from all with whom she came in contact. Bernard the Chief was little at home, his smuggling exploits took him farther and farther afield, but whuu

he heard the accounts of her doings he would rock himself with loud laughter. “Ah, a proud young madam—a likely lass!” was all he would say, and even Dame Marjorie brought him tidings of her misdeeds, for, like all healthy’ children, she often did amiss; he would not have her punished, but rather joyed in her misdemeanours. “So!” he would say; “well, she will find a mate some day. He will tame her. But sparrows cannot prate to eagles." By the time she had reached the age of fifteen she was a beautiful maiden, with hair the colour of a raven's wing, eyes like sloes with the bloom upon them, and a skin that rivalled the hawthorn in its whiteness. She had tutors by this; the good cure taught her all the Latin he knew, and showed her how to juggle with figures, whilst one of the maids, a creature from the South, brought back by the Sparrow-hawk on one of his wanderings, showed her how to do wonderful stitches in silk, and set stories in a piece of tapestry. It was over one of these, a captive Love, with laughing Graces round, that the girl laid down her needle. “Tell me,” she said, and peered up into the Southern girl’s face—“tell me who and what is Love?” The blue-eyed serving maid smiled shrewdly. She knew the tale, but, lack-a-day! how could one tell it to a child’s ears ? “Love is a song,” she said. “Hast never heard it, my Lady Lueile? It is when the flowers whisper together, when the trees bend and tell their secrets, and when the birds answer one note of silver with another of liquid gold.” “Ah!” said the child softly. “I know. I have heard it among the barley sheaves.” The serving maid laughed. “Faith, and I have no manner o’ doubt,” she said. “ When the reapers bind the sheaves there be many’ a tale o’ love told, I fancy.” “Why is Love's song so sad?’ she asked. The serving maid bent lower over her task to hide the blushes. “ ’Tis a trick he hath when he sings to a woman’s ear,” she said. “ 1 doubt not a man hears it all joyous.” The Lady Lucile was silent for the space of three needlefuls of silk and their working. “Does love wear a blue cloak?” she asked. The maid started. “Ah. Mother of God!” she cried. “ What fancy is this?” The child pointed to the tapestry. “ Love hath no clothing on here,” she said; “ but when he sings among the barley sheaves doth be wear a blue coat?” “ .Maybe, yes,” said the maid, all atwitter with wonder. “ I have no doubt he dons his brave clothing then.” “So!” said the child, 'threading another needle. “ May one speak with Love if one meets him?” The serving man laughed gaily. “Aye, to be sure,” she cried. “Wherefore not? ’Twould be but a lonely’ day’ were there no honeyed speeches.” “So!” she said again, and was silent, but her eyes were very thoughtful, and that night as she said her beads she added another prayer, and went to bed with cheeks aglow. It was the time of the barley harvest, and the little Lady Lucile loved the whispers that ran through the field of bearded grain, so that she would take her Book of Hours and sit there for the space of a whole afternoon at whiles, her maids content, for they could gossip in the stableyard then, or hang together and tell tales of sunnier elimes and happier days than now, when they were free, and before they had heard the dread name of Bernard the Chief, or, as most folks now called him, the Sparrowhawk. The day after she had worked at the tapestry’ she went out into the barley field with Icheeks aglow, walked the whole width of the field, and sat down beneath the hedge where wild clematis wreathed the branches in feathery’ masses of silver-grey, and purple sloes gleamed like dusky eyes amongst the gold and green of the leaves. As on the day when she had been brought hither, poppies danced a wanton measure in the breeze, white campion blossoms swayed like maids in a dream, and gaudy marigolds blinked their petals as the hot sun poured down upon them. Little Lady Lucile lay back upon the bank, closed her eyes, and listened for the song of the wind among the barley sheaves. Soft and low, faint and clear, like echoes from the revels of the Wise Wee Folk, she caught its refrain, and auiiled to find how it fitted iu with

dreams of her own weaving. There was the sea’s wild note mingled with the laughter of spring, the panting breath of summer and the whisper of a west wind, than a wail of sorrow for the parting of the year, and a graver, deeper note breathing of something of which she knew not the meaning of yet. Then slowly the sun faded, the colour went from the sky, a grey mist crept up from the pebbly beach, and the dun barley field with' its scarlet poppies and azure cornflowers melted into a colourless void. Fog, such as sometimes swept inland from a steel-grey heaving sea, and my’ Lady Lucile alone, save for the wind among the barley sheaves. He canie then, this wonderful elfish sprite, who had danced in upon her moods before, wearing, as was his wont, a blue cloak, his curls like the golden wheatears of San Fe, where the wind is soft and the skies are always blue. He came before her. bending low, an I little Lady Lucile kept her eyes closed, for she knew if she opened them too soon the vision would fade. “Art alone, my’ Lady Lucile?” he sai l. How sweet his voice was —-how low! She answered him by a sign, for she feared to speak. “Tell me,” he pleaded, and his voice had a winning note. “Tell me, doth the Chief tarry at the house upon the hill?” Site shook her head. What strange questions he asked, and how odd was his fashion of wooing! "Dost remember La Vendee, little Lady Lucile?” he asked; and with that she opened her ey r es. How (should Love know of La Vendee? Mystery of mysteries, he was still there. He had not vanished as ever before. Iler eyes grew wistful. “Dost know La Vendee,, too?” she queried, her little voice sharp with a misery no child should know. “Aye,” he said abruptly. “I come from thence.” She held out piteous, pleading hands. “Dost know my’ mother, Mademoiselle Charlotte?” she cried. "I hear my serving maids tell of her. ’Tis whispered the Chief loved her too well.” There was sound oddly’ like an oath from the blue-clad figure in the mist. But Lady Lucile was used to oaths and took no heed. “My mother,” she pleaded. “Tell me of her.” He came a little hearer. “She mourns a daughter,” he said. “She has sworn vengeance.” Her heart beat fast. “How?” she queried. “On the Chief?” “Aye,” he said. “But needs must wait. Another twelvemonth and 'twill be time enow.” A dull rhythm throbbed through the gloom, and she strove to see his face. ‘How shall I know?” she queried, for her wits were sharp. “In the time of the barley harvest,” lie said. “Thou shalt hear a song among the sheaves.” “So!” she said, and smiled. “Goodbye, Love. I will be here waiting.” She tarried a little longer, tarried till •the plash of oars below told her that the blue-clad figure had vanished from her ken, then sighed again as the wind swept through the bearded barley. “A whole year,” she sighed. “I must possess my soul in patience.” That winter my Lady Lucile worked hard at her tapestry, so that the Loves and the Hours and the Graces were finished, and when the Sparrow-hawk came back from one of his marauding adventures he found the needlework hung in the inner hall, and praised the diligence and handiwork. “How so!” he said, and stared at her as he had never stared at her before. “Thou art an industrious wench.” Never had he called her wench before, and her cheeks flamed. “I am Lucile of La Vendee,” she told him proudly, and he rolled with laughter. “How now?” he cried. “How now? The minx hath a proud spirit. See now, how old art thou, pretty one?” “I shall be sixteen next moon," she answered him proudly. He seemed surprised, and thought for a while in silence; then he summoned the old priest, who, fat and mumbling, knew little save his liook and bis prayers. “I will wed the Lady’ Lucile at the time of the next barley harvest,” he said. “Do thou see she is in readiness. Teach her all that a wife must have heed, the duty of humility, meekness, and how to keep a still tongue for her lord’s sake.’ If Lucile heard she took no heed, but all noticed that from that time she bore herself even more proudly and communel much with herself apart. Likewise too

she wandered much out of door, hut her maids, who loved the scented chamber and the snug wood tire, let her wander and took no heed.

“Her marriage will come in the time of the barley harvest,” they said, and sewed fine embroideries apace, whilst one pale maiden who had been carried olf from a mountain fastness wove a web of silk with a border of white lilies, sueh as is used in the lands of the North for a maiden’s pall. But of this none took heed.

Little Lady Lucile braided her hair in two long plaits now’, wore a gown that reached to her ankles and looked no longer a child; yet for all that she was sweeter and fairer than before, and it was small wonder that Sparrow hawk waxed desirous. He even took to paying her compliments and showering gifts upon her. Of his compliments she took no heed, of his gifts she set no store. Once indeed she flung back a great chain of rubies with which he had bound her. "I like it not,” she said. "It smells of blood.”

Then he laughed a mighty laugh, caught her in his arms, and for the space of a heart-beat held her captive.' She struggled not, but gave him one cold look, and he felt his hands go as wax, and that night the Sparrow-hawk drank long and deeply. The barley field ripened beneath the summer sky, the beads glistened in the sunlight, poppies were astir with their lazy longing, and golden bedstraw glowed on the wayside banks tliat lined the rocky path up to the house upon the hill. Already the chapel was being prepared, its musty interior swept and garnished, and the great altar hung with the silken cloth and the lilies that the maids had woven. But Lady Lucile sought not the chapel, nor yet the banqueting hall, where long tables were being spread. Day after djy she sought the barley field and listened for the song of the wind among the sheaves. She heard the whimpers of the South, the wonders of the West, even the strange secrets of the North, and once she wept as the chill east wind swept in from the sea, bringing tears of brine. But for all that no figure of blue ever wandered in from the seapath, and no strange bark ever hovered near the shore. So came the eve of her bridal. Late that evening she dressed herself in a russet gown, twisted a gold chain she iiad worn about her middle the night she had been brought to the house upon the hill, and taking with her nothing but her little book of prayers, wandered out into the barley field, her heart big with longing, and her eyes all aching with a misery she could not fathom. Would he come —and too late? None saw her go, and had they seen who could guess what were her thoughts? The morrow's bridal was to be a wonderful sight, and gay doings were promised. So they smiled and gossiped in corners, and Dame Marjorie told her beads. Dame Marjorie knew that little Lady Lucile was the heiress of La Vendee, and that by this marriage a mighty fief would fall to her son’s share. Who could say him nay when his bride was this wondrous child, so loving and so doted on by him-? So her foolish old heart prated. Out in the barley field Lncile stood with finger on lip listening. Would he come in time? Ah! through the twlight she heard the sound of oars, and her heart beat fast. It was he. She was sure. So the little russet-clad figure stood motionless and waited. But not for long. Up the sea-path he strode, his golden curls gleaming, his heart beating with hers. She saw his blue cloak, and clapped her hands softly. With that he came and knelt at her feet. “Ah, my Lady Lucile!” he said, and he kissed her hands; “my little Lady Lucile.” She wondered why her heart beat so fast, why her hands trembled. “Come,” he said, “and quickly. My boat waits below.” So with her hand in his she went down the seaward path til! they stood alone on the shore. But not alone, for there amongst the rocks was a strange company. Men in armour! She looked’at him in amaze. “What do they here?'' she asked. “Wh J are they?” “My lady,” he said, “it is twelve years since Bernard the Robber Chief invaded La Vendee, treacherously struck down onr Chief, and laid dire insult upon his widow. He bore off our little lady, ami we, all lads as we were, swore vengeance.

But wc must needs have time. We were striplings and onr fathers were staiW slain as only the Sparrow-hawk can slay brave men. Some were hamstrung, and their bitter shrieks have dwelt in our ears since. Lads though we were, we rescued our lady, your noble mother, and in caves and hiding places have we hided our time till we were grown. Now we have come to deal vengeance, and it i> time. Up at the house on the hill tonight all men will be drunk. They are making merry over the bridal that will

never come. Come, my Lady Lucile. I ijvill lead you to your lady mother. She Hvaits across the bay, and then ” Hu paused, and his eyes grew sad. “Then/* she bravely, l *l will wed you (text barley harvest, for you are liiy ovc.” . All unabashed she stood there with jier confession, and again lie bent and hissed her hand. “Come, my Lady Lueile," lie said. But »he was stubborn.

“I will not come," she said, “unless you call me by other name." A hot blush crept to her cheeks. “Must I do all the wooing?" she asked, and her head bent lower. “Come, my love,” he said, and she suffered him to lead her to the little boat. "When she turned fo look for the men in armour on the shore the beach was solitary. “Where are they?" she asked. “Wait,” he said, and pulled seawards.

“Is it far?” she asked; but he iwas looking baek —back towards where the nest of the Sparrow-hawk ■ stood in lonely state. She, too, followed his gaze. A great red tongue of flame leapt upwards, there was a dull boom, answered by another, and she felt her eyes glow.

“Ah!” she said. “La Vendee is revenged at last. They are there.” "Yes,” he said, “they are there. Heaven speed their work.” A little whispering wind arose, kissing the waves as they played around, one by one silver stars rose in the heaven, and for a moment lie rested his oars. "Hush!” he said. "What is that? It is like a song.” "It is the wind amongst the barley sheaves,” she said. "But it is no longer a song of sadness.” He bent to his oars again, then shipped them as the boat grated on the •shingle. "Come,” he said, helping her to alight. “Come back to La Vendee, little Lady Lucile.”