Chapter XI

1

That year there was a marvellous harvest, and by the end of July the sun had burned the wheat into the very quintessence of gold, and every evening for a few moments the reflection of its dying rays transfigured it into a vision, so glorious, so radiant, that Dick, looking up from his fish, would exclaim to the dinner-table, “Good God! Look at the wheat!”

Thus must the memory of the corn of Cana, sown with symbols, heavy with memories and legends, radiant with gleams caught from the Golden City in the skies, have appeared to St. John dying in the desert.

Teresa, having, during her walks in the view, noticed a field of wheat from which a segment had already been cut, so that, with the foil of the flat earth beside it, she was able to see the whole depth of the crop, carried away an impression of the greater thickness of wheat-fields as compared to those containing the other crops; and this impression—strengthened by the stronger colouring of the wheat, for to the memory quality is often indistinguishable from quantity—lingering with her after she had got back to Plasencia, whence the view always appeared _pintado_, a picture, gave her the delusion of appreciating the actual _paint_, not merely as a medium of representation, but as a beautiful substance in itself; as one appreciates it in a Monet or a Monticelli.

And all the time, silently, imperceptibly, like the processes of nature, the work of harvest was transforming the picture, till by the end of the first week in August many of the planes of unbroken colour had been dotted into shocks or garnered into ricks. The only visible agent of this transformation was an occasional desultory wain with a green tarpaulin tilt, meandering through the silent fields. Its progress through, and its relation to, or, rather, its lack of relation to, the motionless view gave Teresa an almost eerie sense of incongruity, and made her think of a vase of crimson roses she had sat gazing at one night in the drawing-room. The light of the lamp behind it had changed the substance of the roses into something so translucent that they seemed to be made of a fluid or of light. A tiny insect was creeping in and out among their petals, and as she watched it she had a sense of being mentally out of gear in that she could see simultaneously phenomena belonging to such different planes of consciousness as these static phantom flames and that restless creature of the earth—they themselves, at any rate, could neither feel or see each other.

Then they all went away—the Doña and Dick to join Hugh Mallam at Harlech, Jollypot to a sister in Devonshire, and Teresa to Cambridge to stay with Harry Sinclair.

The year began to pay the penalty of its magnificence; for “violent fires soon burn out themselves”; and Teresa, walking down the Backs, or punting up to Byron’s pool, or bicycling among the lovely Cambridgeshire villages, saw everywhere signs of the approach of autumn in reddening leaves and reddening fruits, and there kept running in her head lines from a poem of Herrick’s on _Lovers How They Come and Part_.

They tread on clouds, and though they sometimes fall,
They fall like dew, and make no noise at all.
So silently they one to th’other come
As colours steale into the Pear or Plum.

While she was there she met Haines (the man who ran the pastoral players). He had heard of her play from Guy, and was so importunate in his requests to be allowed to read it that she finally gave it to him.

Guy had been right—the need to publish or produce was biological: useless to fight against.

Haines liked it, and wanted to set his company working at it at once.

As one hypnotised, she agreed to all of his suggestions: “Cust says you have a lawn with a view which would make an excellent natural background ... I believe it would be the very thing. It’s a piece that needs very few properties—some cardboard trees for the orchard, a few bottles and phials for Trotaconventos’s house, and an altar to give the effect of a chapel in the last scene ... yes, it should be very nice on your lawn, I think folk will like it.”

Did he say _folk_? But, of course, it would obviously be a favourite word of his.

* * * * *

So, _Folk_ were to take a hand—_Folk_ were to spring up like mushrooms on the lawn of Plasencia, and embody her dreams!

A little shiver went down her spine.

“I am a fool, I am a fool, I am a fool,” she muttered.

2

They all came back to Plasencia at the beginning of September.

The Doña received the plan of the play’s being acted on her lawn with indulgent indifference; ever since they had been quite little her children had periodically organised dramatic performances. “Mrs. Moore can bring her Women’s Institute to watch it, and that should leave me in peace for this year, at any rate. I suppose we’d better have the county too, though we _did_ give them cakes and ices enough at Concha’s wedding to last them their lifetime. What is this play of yours about, Teresa?”

“Oh ... old Seville,” she answered nervously, “a nunnery ... and ... and ... there’s a knight ... and there’s an old sort of ... sort of witch.”

“Aha! an old gipsy. And does she give the girls love potions?” And the Doña, her head a little on one side, contemplated her, idly quizzical.

“Yes, I daresay she does,” and Teresa gave a nervous laugh, “it’s an _auto sacramentál_,” she added.

The Doña looked interested: “An _auto sacramentál_? That’s what they used to play in the old days in the Seville streets at Corpus Christi. Your great-grandmother de La Torre saw one of the last they ever did,” then she began to chuckle, “an _auto sacramentál_ on an English lawn! Poor Mrs. Moore and her Women’s Institute! Still, it will be very good for them, I’m sure.”

* * * * *

Would she guess? She was horribly intelligent; but not literary, so there was hope—and yet ... that affective sensitiveness that, having taken the place for centuries of education and intellection, has developed in the women of Spain into what is almost a sixth sense....

Well, if she did guess it would be only what she knew already, and if she chose to draw false conclusions—let her!

But would she recognise herself? The mere possibility of this made Teresa blush crimson. But it was not her fault; she had not meant to draw her like that—it had grown on her hands.

And then she thought no more about it, but wandered through the garden and ripening orchard, muttering absently:

So silently they one to th’other come,
As colours steale into the Pear or Plum.

3

After what seemed an interminable correspondence with Haines, it was settled that he should bring his company to act the play at the end of September. Teresa had tried hard to make the date an earlier or a later one; but it was not to be ... and perhaps ... who could tell?

Mrs. Moore was delighted that her Institute was to see a play about old Spain, and was sure that it would be most educative.

The idea of its being played before Mrs. Moore and a Women’s Institute amused Teresa; after all it was none of her doing, and she liked watching life when it was left free to arrange its own humorous combinations.

Concha and Rory, Arnold, Harry Sinclair, and Guy, all came to stay at Plasencia to see it; and two days before the performance a telegram came from David, asking if they could put him up for a few nights.

The Doña frowned as she read it, and Guy looked at Teresa; but Concha and Rory begged that room might be made for him, “It will be his last beano, poor creature,” they said.

Well, if it was to be, it was to be. Once one ceases to strain against the chain of events, the peace of numbness creeps over one’s weary limbs, and anyway ... perhaps....

* * * * *

The day of the performance arrived; it was to begin at two o’clock.

All morning Teresa was busy with preparations; she could not help being amused by the tremendous importance that everything concerning it had for Haines—it was like Parker, who seemed to think the world should stop moving during the fitting-on in the sewing-room of a new blouse.

No one had time to go in the car to meet David; and they had already begun luncheon when he arrived. All the actors were there, so it was a large party, and he sat down on the Doña’s left hand, far away from Teresa. She noticed that he ate practically nothing. He looked much stronger than in the spring, and his expression was almost buoyant.

Before the audience arrived, and when the actors were dressing in the two tents pitched on the lawn, they got a few words together.

“I’ve come,” he said, smiling.

“Yes ... you’ve come,” she answered.

“So you’ve been writing a play—‘a chiel amang us takin’ notes’!” and he smiled down on her.

Then Mrs. Moore came bustling across the lawn, shepherding her Institute, a score of working women in their Sunday finery, many of them carrying babies.

“How do you do, Teresa, what a glorious day! I saw dear Concha in church on Sunday; looking so bonny. It must be delightful having her back again. Well, this is a great surprise; we didn’t know you were an author; did we, Mrs. Bolton? We didn’t know Miss Lane wrote; did we? Well, we’re all very much looking forward to it; aren’t we, Mrs. Hedges? I don’t expect you’ve seen many plays before.”

“I saw _East Lynne_ when I was in service in Bedford,” said one woman proudly.

“I’ve seen that on the pictures,” said another.

Then the “gentry” began to arrive: “_What_ a day for your play!” “Oh, what a _sight_ your Michaelmas daisies are! It really is a perfect setting for a pastoral play,” “Are there to be any country dances?” “Ah! _you_ have that single rose too ... it certainly is very decorative, but I thought Mr. Lane said ... ah! there he is, in flannels, wise man!” “Ah, there’s Mistress Concha, looking about sixteen, dear thing!—” “I do think it’s a splendid idea having the Institute women—it’s so good for them, this sort of thing.”

Then fantastic figures began to dart in and out of the two tents: a knight in pasteboard armour, a red cross painted on his shield, a friar with glimpses of scarlet hose under his habit—all of them “holy people of God,” all of them dead hundreds of years ago ... _Folk_, unmistakably _Folk_.

Soon the audience was seated; the chattering ceased, and the play began.

This was the play:

THE KEY

AN AUTO SACRAMENTÁL

_Scene: Seville. Time: The Reign of Pedro the Cruel._

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

SISTER PILAR ⎞_Nuns of the Convent of San Miguel._
SISTER ASSUMCION ⎠

Four other Nuns of the Convent of San Miguel.

TROTACONVENTOS _a Procuress._

DON MANUEL DE LARA _a Knight._

DENNYS _a French “Trovar.”_

JAIME RODRIGUEZ _Confessor to the Nuns of San Miguel._

DON SALOMON _a Jewish Doctor._

PEPITA ⎞_Two Children._
JUANITO ⎠

SANCHO ⎞
DOMINGO ⎟_Alguaciles._
PEDRO ⎠

GHOST OF DON JUAN TENORIO.

GHOST OF SISTER ISABEL.

ZULEICA _a Moorish Slave._