CHAPTER XVIII

SEEDS GROWING CONTRARIWISE

After that, life began in earnest for Rosalie. For some weeks her days were given to digging, her nights to mastering the alphabet of some unknown language. It was all dry work, and very hard.

No one came near, except the frog, and she often found herself wishing for more human companionship. But still it was not Rosalie’s nature to grumble too much at circumstances. She contented herself with an occasional sigh, and for the rest learnt to love the harsh, croaking voice that had something to say about most things, and was always kind enough to revive her drooping spirits with cheering words.

At last the plot of ground was all prepared, and considering it had been digged by a woman, it was not at all badly done. No one would have known the difference if they hadn’t been told, though afterwards they might have discovered the depth was not so great. However that may be, the seeds were sown in it, and began doubtless to do their own little bit of digging, and go down so far that no one could find them where they’d first been put. After the sowing came the time of waiting. There was much weeding, and more watering, for no drop of rain ever descended there, and all had to be carried from a stream near by.

Rosalie watched the ground impatiently to see when the first bright blade would appear, but though she waited one month, two, three, four, nothing at all except an occasional weed altered the surface of the ground. And her whole heart was buried in that little garden. It seemed as if it, too, must have taken root down there, away from the sunshine and the warmth.

And the waiting was far worse than the working, for after three months certainly something ought to have shown. But when it went on to four, five, nay, at last came out into six long months, and nothing yet had come to light, Rosalie went back into the little hut, and laid her head upon her arms upon the table, and cried from sheer disappointment and low spirits. For during this time of waiting and subsequent doubt no one had come to see her, no one at all, except the frog.

In this fit of depression, which was the first of its kind, the outcome of disappointment and hope deferred, the frog spoke.

“What is it, Rosalie? I’ve never seen you cry before.”

“I can’t stand it any longer, I know I can’t. I’ve waited for six months, with never a soul to speak to but you, and nothing has come up. It’s all a failure. My heart is as heavy as a stone. If it gets much worse it will break right in two. I know it will.”

“Where is your heart?”

“It should be in my body, but I believe I must have sown it along with the seeds in the garden, and it’s turning to stone while they’re rotting.”

Then the frog spoke rather shyly, as one who fears to be ridiculed, and is slightly apologetic.

“Perhaps the seeds have turned to—to—to—stone, too,” and it looked hard in the fire instead of at Rosalie.

She, however, looked across at it with eyes wide open.

“Well, really! It doesn’t seem unlikely, considering the time they are in coming up.”

“What will you do?” said the frog.

“I’ll begin to dig again,” cried Rosalie.

“It’s the wisest thing you’ve said since you came here,” the frog answered, and its colours flashed quite brilliantly.

So the next morning (for it was evening when they spoke to one another) Rosalie rose with a much lighter heart than for some time past, went out into the garden with the fork, and began to dig. She dug all day, but found nothing, till just at eventide she noticed something shining in the dull, damp soil. She picked it out with her fingers very eagerly. It was a dull enough looking stone for the most part, with here and there a substance in it that shone like glass—not very brilliantly. Whatever it was, it was enough to brighten Rosalie’s spirits for the time being, and as just then she heard the frog’s voice calling her to tea, she made as much haste forwards as she could over the clodding soil to show her treasure.

“See what a beautiful thing I have found!” she cried, and held it up triumphantly.

“It isn’t very brilliant,” said the frog, looking at it critically.

“Don’t you think so?”

“No. You do, because you’ve been looking at black soil all the day, but I’ve been looking at the sun.”

“Well, but then the brightest thing would look dull if you compared it with the sun. How am I to find out really what it is?”

“Take it to my master.”

“I can’t open the gate.”

“The gate will open of itself, if you’ve anything to take to him.”

Rosalie turned about to run off at once, but the other said:

“Wait and have tea first. He is never at liberty till six, and now it’s only five.”

So after tea, Rosalie, having previously changed her heavy boots and generally tidied herself, set off in the direction of the house.

The gate this time responded easily enough to her hand, and soon she was walking through the garden, holding her stone the tighter, in that she was quite sure, from the fact of the gate opening so readily, it must be worth something very considerable.

The door leading into the garden was open, and after knocking she passed through, and went at once to the study.

The curious thing about the sun here was that it always set at the same time of day, and that between five and half-past, so that now twilight had fallen, and the lamps were lit, though the blinds remained undrawn.

The Governor sat as usual, and must have been expecting her, for he held out his hand as she entered, saying:

“Well, what have you brought?”

She placed it in the hand he held out, and waited whilst he looked at it. This did not take very long, for almost on the instant he looked up, and said:

“I’ll send it to an expert in the city of Lucifram, and get his opinion on it.”

“You think it is very valuable, then?”

“I’m afraid I don’t, except in a way that doesn’t count. But we’ll send it to someone who is unacquainted with the digging, and watering, and heartburning it has necessitated, and therefore who will be less prejudiced than I.”

“When will you send it?”

“To-night; and you will hear the decision in something like a fortnight.”

So then she went away. The next two weeks were passed in waiting, and in the study of those books which Rosalie found more dry and difficult each succeeding day. For there was no one to explain them, and in some parts there seemed nothing but big full-stops and commas, with wide gaps between.

But at the end of that time the frog came to her one morning and said the Governor wished to see her.

Rosalie went in fear and expectation, and the first thing her eyes lighted on was her stone upon the table. This, she felt, was not quite as it should be.

“The decision is that it is rubbish.”

That was all the Governor said.

She felt rather miserable. She thought it must be with hurrying across the garden. However, there was nothing to be said, and Rosalie withdrew. After that some very hard, frosty weather followed, and the ground was so hard that for a long time she was able to do nothing—outside, at any rate.

Then when it thawed a little she went out and digged again, and found just such another stone as the one before, only of a little lighter and brighter substance.

After tea she took it to the Governor, as last time. He promised to send it to the city, and get the opinion of an expert upon it. Rosalie withdrew to wait. At the end of a fortnight she was again sent for to the Governor’s house. Her stone was on the table.

“The decision is that it is rubbish,” said he.

And she felt disappointed this time, but not miserable. One is never quite so sure of things after the first time—that is, if they’ve miscarried. She went back again to the plantation and the hut. Again the ground had frozen, and for some time it was impossible to do anything, even had she had the inclination.

After this, every time the thaw came Rosalie set to work again, finding the work a change and relief from study. And though the disappointment always lasted out the frost, it always disappeared with the thaw. And every time she went up to the house, the particular stone she had last found lay on the table, and the words were:

“The decision is that it is rubbish.”

This went on for a long while, till at last it seemed to Rosalie all the hope had been crushed out of her, and she went back to the garden and found it quite frosted over. But after a while the frost broke, and the frog, seeing Rosalie made no attempt to go to dig, said to her:

“The frost has broken.”

“I know.”

“Will you not go out into the garden?”

“No; I’m too impatient. I want the seeds to grow quicker than I can learn. I’ve been thinking about it all, and I feel that I must wait. Bright stones take longer to grow than flowers, because they fade less quickly.”

Thereupon the frog let fall a tear of gratitude, but turned the other way during the odd process, so that Rosalie never noticed it.

Then followed a very long and dreary time, with no companionship; nothing but the even days and dull books, and the sympathetic frog. And this went on so long that many a time Rosalie went out to look at the ground, and sighed, but never thought of touching it, because something had said “Stand still.” At last, after a very long time had gone by, she went to bed one night, feeling particularly sad.

Some hours later she awoke to find the moon shining full into the chamber. She got up and dressed, and went through into the outer room. The door was open, and the frog was sitting contemplatively upon the step, looking out on to the beauties of the night. Occasionally it gave a croak of satisfaction.

Rosalie went to the cellar and brought out the big fork, and thought she was so quiet the frog had never seen her. But then, poor thing, its eyes were so large, they stared out from every side of its head, and as she approached the door it hopped down, and moved aside to let her pass.

“Why don’t you ask me what I’m going to do?” she said, laughing.

“That’s plain to be seen,” it answered, and hopped after her in the moonlight.

Suddenly Rosalie began to dig, just on that portion of ground where a shaft of moonlight had fallen. For some time nothing but loose soil came up, but at last the fork hit upon something hard. It did not move till a space had been cleared all round it, and then it appeared nothing but a heavy hard mass of black earth, with an irregular surface.

“Well?” said the frog.

“There are other tools in the cellar beside a fork,” said she. “But we’ve done enough for one night. It can stay now till the morning,” and she took it in both hands, and lifted it out of the deep trench dug about it.

So then once more night reigned undisturbed. But with the morning work began again, this time with finer instruments to chip away the thick layers of soil and find what lay beneath. It took a very long time, much longer than Rosalie ever anticipated, though in other ways the hours passed quickly under this keen absorption. In many places the soil seemed more like marble than rock, and required much patience to remove it, for none of the instruments were particularly sharp, nor specially adapted for that purpose. But what of that? Working, working, ever unceasingly, on went Rosalie, and one day she looked up at the frog, and half laughed, and said:

“I believe my heart is inside here, and I’ll never be happy till it’s free, quite free.”

But the frog only turned away and sighed, and Rosalie was so intent that she never heard the sigh.

And at last!

Bit by bit a brilliant jewel unfolded itself, all flashing green-and-moonlight colour, and with one gleam of ruby red, just one bright gleam upon the middle surface.

And she pressed it to her lips and kissed it. This was no dull stone with intermittent flashes of light. No, this was _real_—a lovely thing of sparkling colour.

It was finished just at sunset. She scarcely needed any tea, so eager and impatient was she to get away.

And then she appeared before the Governor with this precious prize.

“I’ve found something really, at last,” said she, with bright eyes and cheeks.

As of old he held his hand out for it, but said nothing.

“Why don’t you speak?” she asked.

“It is not for me to speak,” he answered; and so she went away.

But Rosalie was scarce content with waiting now. She doubted not that all would see the value of the stone she had so lately found, and most of all an expert. And indeed there seemed to be no time for waiting. The voice said, “Go on.” Truly the harvest was beginning. Who would sit down with but one sheaf tied?

And she was justified in doing so. Another lump of hard black earth (to be chipped away slowly and surely) appeared amongst the looser soil. And after a time the under surface partly appeared, and it, too, as far as she could see, was bright and brilliant.

But as this was in process the message arrived at breakfast, the Governor wished to see her.

She did not allow herself to think, because she dare not, but whatever thought rose in her mind it was success.

She knocked at the study door and entered. There, in the same place that all the others had been in turn, lay the shining jewel, and the cold voice answered:

“The decision is that it is rubbish.”

The pain within was so great that Rosalie could have screamed, and then came sickness and faintness, so that she leant against the door and looked at him.

“What does it mean?” she asked.

“It is accounted of no worth.”

“Oh, but it is! it is!” she cried, and looked at him so hard that he looked back at her.

“I have told you the decision.”

“But what do _you_ say?”

“I say nothing.”

“But what is wrong with it?”

“I believe the decision was that it was gaudy. It shone too much.”

She looked at him dully, and then turned and went away.

There in the plantation was the work she was engaged on. Her eyes were too dull to see the sparkle of light, her heart too black to care. And suddenly she laughed, and picking up the fork lying near, began to dig again. The frog sat by and watched.

In furious haste, without apparent thought, she worked, and at last came upon a much smaller mound, containing one much smaller stone of transparent substance that had no lustre at all. But bitter tears were running fast from her swollen eyes, and two of them flashed on it. When she tried to rub them off upon her sleeve they seemed quite hardened, and they never moved.

“Is this gaudy?” she asked, turning suddenly to her companion.

“I don’t think so,” it answered meekly. And then she sighed.

“It seems to me it’s hardly bright enough, except the tears.”

And in the evening she went with it again to the Governor.

After that the time was very short till she was again summoned to the house.

And there the lesser jewel lay, just as she had brought it, and the decision was once more that this was rubbish also.

Then she turned to him, and cried bitterly:

“You gave me the seeds—what is wrong with them? I cannot alter them from what they are.”

“Perhaps it would be best if now you left the garden,” he answered slowly, “seeing it is so profitless.”

But she looked at him with straining eyes, and answered:

“I can’t. It’s the work I have been put to do, and I must finish it. I told the frog I thought my heart was in that first hard mound, and I believe it is. But there’s something else beside my heart, and that’s there too, and I’ll never be free till it is free. And what can I do? I am mad. I see things beautiful that others only stare at, and then pass by with scarcely one comment. And the old cruel voice keeps crying, ‘Go on! go on!’ and whither can I go? The path is all so black that, forward or backward, I am lost whichever way I turn.”

Then because he did not answer, she said at last:

“Send it, the first I brought to you, that brilliant moonstone, to some other place. The man who called it rubbish can’t have any eyes.”

“Just as you like,” he answered.

Then she went away.

In the plantation there had set so hard a frost that everything was white and stiff and ice-bound. There lay the half-chipped mound containing the other jewel scarce yet visible. But Rosalie had no heart to touch it, even had the frost allowed her.

And no result came from sending the moonstone to another place. One general and unanimous opinion: it had no value—that was all. And still for months the blighting frost lay dead on everything.

In vain, with burning fever under the outward chill that froze her too, did Rosalie take the fork and try with what little strength was in her arms to break the iron earth. Nothing moved. It only made her recognise the more the great impossibility, the strength of life imprisoned by the frozen hands of death.

At last (for now the gate within the edge was never fast) she went again to the Governor.

“What am I to do?” she asked. “I can’t get on with anything, nor move either way. I’ve prayed to God a thousand times to give me peace or break the ice, or let me get the price of freedom from that jewel which I brought to you, and nothing ever answers, except in contradiction. I prayed one night the thaw might come—a hundred times and more I prayed it. In the morning a double frost had settled, petrifying hard as iron. Another night I prayed for peace and rest. I could not stand so terrible a strain. I never dreamt as that night. Ten times I dozed and woke again, covered with sweat, all shivering in the cold, to think myself alive within a coffin, buried within the ground. And most incessantly that other prayer to reap the price of freedom with the stone, and as you know, it lies here in your keeping—a useless thing, and judged devoid of worth.”

“You say your heart is in the stone,” he answered.

“Yes; I think it sends out shafts of brilliancy to pierce to that dull, empty place, and prick it into fearful pain. What can I do? I’ve prayed to God—what more can I do?”

“There is one thing more. You’d better give it up.”

“Oh! but that is everything—the whole of the little garden. For the frost will never break till the stone is free, and I.”

“You can give the garden back to God who gave it.”

“But why give me a thing and take it back just when it’s fit for using?” and then a great pain and fear came into her eyes. “I would do as you tell me, I would really, but I haven’t the strength, and I’m afraid. The frost is too strong for me. It freezes my heart, and leaves my mind quite free, so that the blood courses through my brain in quickest time, and then stops suddenly. It’s worse than killing me. I’m going mad, and what use am I to God, or how can I see the light of heaven, if once that heavy cloud descends, and coupled with the frost, freezes upon my eyes and lips, and eats out everything?”

“To trust in God is to be sane—have peace,” he answered.

“Ah, peace!” she answered greedily. “What does it mean? I know no peace—nothing but the mocking, cruel voice that says ‘Go on!’ and shows no way.”

“It’s the stone, Rosalie, that stands in your light, and blocks the way. Can’t you see it?”

“I expect I’m very blind. I’m not clever enough to understand. I haven’t spirit enough to find a way out. Mr. Barringcourt told me so, and he knew best. I was handicapped from the beginning to be born without a tongue.”

“But that difficulty, and still another, has been surmounted.”

“Yes, but I did nothing myself.”

“Fiddlesticks!” said the Governor, and he spoke so naturally that Rosalie laughed, even though not particularly brightly.

“Well, I didn’t do much myself. I don’t see how I could.”

“You did as much as was necessary, which is never in any case very much; and now there is one little thing more to be done—give it up.”

“I dare not,” she said; “it would send me mad. If it would kill me I wouldn’t mind.” And she looked down to hide the light in her eyes.

“Give it up to God. Do you trust God and think He will forsake you?”

“No; it’s myself I am not sure of.”

“You should be part of God.”

“Not here.”

“Where else, then?”

“In heaven.”

“It begins on earth for those of sufficient intelligence; and for the others, they do not count.”

“I’m one of the last, then. It is so hard, so very, very hard, and I have no strength at all.”

Then a very long silence followed—the terrible fight between weakness and trust, between blind ignorance and all-conquering wisdom, the spirit’s humble discipline; and at last she turned to him, and said:

“I’ll give it up! And if I sacrifice my heart or head, it’s all the same, seeing God is the receiver, and He knows best.”

And then she turned away, with the knowledge of having done some duty that now seemed extremely simple.

But the Governor rose from his chair, and came towards her, and took her in his arms, and kissed her cheek, and the caressing action reminded her somehow of that time long ago, when Mr. Barringcourt laid his hand upon her shoulder in the temple.

Bur that kiss seemed to revive her strength, and give some of that peace she had so lately craved for.

Yet this reward was so very unexpected. It never occurred to her that the Governor could possibly care whether she walked right or wrong, except, perhaps, as a spectator. But the magnetic sympathy of that kiss, and the great, but gentle, strength in his arms as he drew her to him, awoke her eyes to the fact that here was her friend, the only one she had ever known, maybe would ever meet.

But being too full of feeling for words she slipped quietly towards the door, and crossed the lawn towards the hut.

That was her little home, to be filled with contentment and happiness, in which it would be her task to dig graves for bitterness, repining, and wild craving and longing for that which was not to be. It would be a hard task. Rosalie recognised it as she looked at the frozen mounds of soil, whose digging had occasioned so much eagerness and anticipation.

And in her mind she looked below the frozen surface of the plantation to where other jewels all lay buried, and she had given them up to God, and they must lie there.

But the kiss and the strength of those strong arms had worked a miracle for her. She no longer felt the weak restlessness and alternate blackness of despair and madness. She went into the little hut bravely, with tears trembling on her eyelids, partly the outcome of the struggle she had gone through, and partly of a vague sense of happiness and satisfaction that was beginning to glow within, like some glowing light of summer. Later she said to her companion:

“There was a man who healed my tongue for me, healed it with light, and now I think my heart is being healed, and it is still Light, Light, Light, on the poisonous darkness.”

“Then you have given up the moonstone. It was a dangerous stone. I like the little tear-stained one the best.”

“And I love it too,” said Rosalie. “It gave me work to do at the time I most needed it, and set my mind on the road it has travelled ever since.”

Then she took down the lesson-books, and found to-night they were much more understandable, and it was with growing lightness of spirit that she slept that evening.