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Women of the Country
THE ROADMENDER SERIESUniform with this Volume
The Roadmender. By MICHAEL FAIRLESS.
The Gathering of Brother Hilarius. By MICHAEL FAIRLESS.
The Grey Brethren. By MICHAEL FAIRLESS.
A Modern Mystic's Way. (Dedicated to Michael Fairless.)
Magic Casements. By ARTHUR S. CRIPPS.
Thoughts of Leonardo da Vinci,
as recorded in his Note-Books. Edited by EDWARD MCCURDY.
The Sea Charm of Venice. By STOPFORD A. BROOKE.
Longings. By W.D. MCKAY.
From the Forest. By W. SCOTT PALMER.
Pilgrim Man. By W. SCOTT PALMER.
Winter and Spring. By W. SCOTT PALMER.
Michael Fairless: Life and Writings.
By W. SCOTT PALMER and A.M. HAGGARD.
Vagrom Men. By A.T. STORY.
Light and Twilight. By EDWARD THOMAS.
Rest and Unrest. By EDWARD THOMAS.
Rose Acre Papers: including Horæ Solitaræ. By EDWARD THOMAS.
[Illustration]
Women of the Country
By
Gertrude Bone
With Frontispiece by Muirhead Bone
London
Duckworth & Co.
Henrietta Street, W.C.
Published 1913
When I was a child I lived in a small sea-coast town, with wide, flatsands. The only beautiful thing in the place—a town of nodistinction—were the sunsets over this vast, level expanse. I rememberthem at intervals, as one recalls things seen passing in a train througha solitary landscape. I seem to see myself, a child with a child'simagination, standing on those wet sands, looking out over their purpleimmensity to the glittering line of the tide on the horizon, and to seeagain the sun in such a wide heaven that it seemed to have the world toitself, and to watch the changes in the sky as it sank, drawing with itthe light. These great sands were dangerous at times, shifting inwhirling and irresistible rushes of water, and changing the course ofthe channel, which was unaltered by the tide and which always lay out agleaming artery from the almost invisible sea.
It was Sunday morning—a day observed with such precision in that littletown that I was almost alone out of doors. A string of cart-horses,their day of rest well-earned, were being led across the sands from thelevel tide. The sand, uncovered by the sea for weeks, was bleached to anintolerable whiteness, but there was no wind to lift it, and the sea wastranquil, its little waves all hastening in one direction, like a shoalof fish making for a haven. The sun was already changing its early gloryto heat. All the erections for amusement on the shore looked a littlefoolish in that solitude. I returned to the town along the empty asphaltroads and went with my companions to church. It was a church whosepretensions were high and genteel. Nothing of a personal nature was everheard from its well-bred pulpit. The hymns were discreetly chosen toavoid excitement, and a conversion would have given offence. Theminister for that day was a young man from the poorer end of the town,and I remember, even as a child, being disturbed by the announcement ofhis first hymn, "Rock of Ages." Even the organ blundered as it played socommon a tune as Rousseau's Dream, and I, who learning counterpoint,feared to be seen singing so ordinary a melod