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'I am, he said again, and laughed as if he enjoyed the repetition. 'Come here! Hazel came slowly, looked up, and burst into tears. 'Hello! Tears already? he said, concerned. 'Keep 'em till there's something to cry for. He dismounted and slipped the rein over his arm. 'What's up, Hazel Woodus? He put one arm round her.
With that she took to her heels, the little fox after her, racing down the Callow in the cold level light till they came to the Woodus's cottage. Hazel Woodus, to whom the fox belonged, had always lived at the Callow. There her mother, a Welsh gipsy, had born her in bitter rebellion, hating marriage and a settled life and Abel Woodus as a wild cat hates a cage.
Just as some childless women with all their accumulated stores of love cannot bear to see a mother with her child, so Maray Woodus, with her sealed genius, her incapacity for expression, could not bear to hear the easy self-expression of another. For Abel was in his way a master of his art; he had dark places in his soul, and that is the very core of art and its substance.
It makes me very happy. 'The good are always happy, replied Mrs. Marston securely. Before the bland passivity of this remark it seemed that irony itself must soften. 'I am engaged, mother. 'What in, dear? 'I am going to bring home a wife. She was deaf and very sleepy. 'What kind of a knife, dear? she asked. 'I am going to marry Hazel Woodus.
There were rolls of golden butter, nut-brown eggs, snowy bouquets of broccoli, daffodils with the sun striking through their aery petals, masses of dark wallflower where a stray bee revelled. There was Abel's honey, with a large placard drawn by himself proclaiming in drunken capitals: ABEL WOODUS. BEE-MAN. COFFINS. HONEY. WREATHS.
'And what goes agen me gets drownded. 'But it inna all for you! cried Hazel. 'Eh? 'The world wunna made in seven days only for Abel Woodus, said Hazel daringly. 'You've come back very peart from Silverton, said Abel reflectively 'very peart, you 'ave. How many young fellers told you your 'air was abron this time? That fool Albert said so last time, and you were neither to hold nor to bind.
'Mother, Edward said, when the last unruly guest had disappeared in the wild April night, and Hazel's vivid presence and violet fragrance and young laughter had been taken by the darkness, 'I've asked Hazel Woodus to tea on Wednesday. 'She is not of your class, Edward. 'What does class matter? 'Martha's brother calls you "sir," and Martha looks down on this young person.
'Oh, are you going to a show, Mr. Woodus? she asked Abel. 'It would have been so nice and pleasant if you would have played your instrument. 'Yes, mum. That's what I've acome for. I inna going to no show. I've come to the wedding to get my belly-full. Mrs. Marston, very much flustered, asked what the animals were for. 'I think, mother, they're for you. Edward smiled.
The sheep looked more ancient than ever, less like old ladies at a concert than old ladies looking over their prayer-books at a blasphemer. 'My name inna Woodus. You'd ought to call me Mrs. Marston. For answer, he kissed her so that she cried out. 'That's to show if I'll call you Mrs. Marston. 'I'd liefer be. 'What? 'Ed'ard's missus than yourn. He ground a foxglove underfoot.
When Hazel was fourteen she died, leaving her treasure an old, dirty, partially illegible manuscript-book of spells and charms and other gipsy lore to her daughter. Her one request was that she might be buried in the Callow under the yellow larch needles, and not in a churchyard. Abel Woodus did as she asked, and was regarded askance by most of the community for not burying her in Chrissen-ground.
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