Woman Who Gave Birth to Rabbits - Donoghue [32]
"Don't think about it," murmurs Mary; "it's all behind you now."
"I won't go back," he tells them.
"You won't go back. Stay. Stay here with us."
The cavalryman crouches by the fire, rocked in these women's arms, dazed with happiness. Impossibilities come true. A broken man may be made whole.
"How hot your forehead is," says Bessy, kissing it softly.
He is drifting, confused. His throat is diy and a little bell rings in his ear. His face is wet with salt water. A fire has started up behind his eyes. He has come so far and now he need never leave. The day was long but now it is time to rest. He blinks up at the stars over the patched roof of the hut.
They theekit it ower wi' rashes green,
They theekit ower wi' heather,
But the put came from the burrows-town,
And slew them baith thegither.
He will be dead tomorrow; the women, bruised yellow and orange and mauve, by the end of the week. They will all three lie there on the grassy riverbank, like lovers, and the sun will bake them to leather.
Note
"Ballad" was inspired by the macabre song "Bessy Bell and Mary Gray. " The lines in italics are quoted from various versions of the ballad, including a nursery rhyme and a comic adaptation by Allan Ramsay. According to a local tradition, recorded in the Transactions of the Society of the Antiquaries of Scotland (1781), it was based on the death of two devoted friends, the daughters of the lairds of Kinvaid and Lynedoch (Lednock) near Perth, who retired to a bower in 1666 to avoid the plague but were infected by a young man who loved them both and came to bring them food. However, as there was no plague in Scotland in 1666, this anecdote probably dates from the plague of 1645, which decimated the population of Perth.
Come, Gentle Night
A slice of bridescake and a cup of negus apiece and they are off. Effies parents stand by the front door and wave their hands. John gets in beside her, tucking the laprug round her billowing tartan silk skirt. His man Hobbs ropes their trunks on behind, then lifts the collar of his greatcoat and climbs up to ride with the coachman.
A quarter-mile down the road to Bridgend, the April afternoon begins to darken. John blows his nose with an elephantine roar, leans back, and checks his watch. "Not five o'clock. I'm glad that's over."
"So am I," Effie assures him.
"The Reverend Touch's voice is a trifle hoarse for my taste," he says. "But considering the necessarily upsetting nature of such solemnities, we all bore up rather well."
She puts her small hand over his and speaks breathlessly. "I know you've had a trying fortnight, John."
"Well," he says with a sniff. "Your parents' house is rather chilly."
"No, but—I've been so distracted about Father's losses on the railroads—he can't do much for us, I know—"
He presses one finger to her lips. "Not another word of that, my sweet. You're in my hands now."
"But John, your prospects in life could hardly be called fixed—"
"That's my concern, not yours," he says with a hint of sharpness.
"But I think your parents mind very much about the settlement. Could that be why they didn't come to the wedding?"
"Nonsense, Effie. I told you, their health didn't allow it, that's all." In the silence, John gets out his big handkerchief again. His nose is scarlet at the tip, and twitches like a rabbit's. After the carriage has crossed the Tay, and they have caught a glimpse of Scone Palace through the streaked windows, John sits up straighten "I can hardly see your face, tucked away in that cane bonnet, Effie."
"Well, I suppose I might very well take it off, as there's no one to see." She loosens the strings and lays it in her lap.
"That's much better," he says, smiling down at her, and takes her hand in both of his. "Look, such charming heathery knolls," he exclaims. "We should see some proper hills in an hour or two. Nothing touches me more than mountainous landscape, nothing in the world," he says wistfully. "Not that the Highlands