As they passed along the pond bank a swan and her tawny, fluffy brood
sailed with them the length of the water, "tipping on their little toes,
the darlings—pitter–patter through the water, tiny little things," as
Marie said.
We heard George below calling "Bully—Bully—Bully—Bully!"—and then, a
moment or two after, in the bottom garden: "Come out, you little
fool—are you coming out of it?" in manifestly angry tones.
"Has it run away?" laughed Hilda, delighted and we hastened out of the
lower garden to see.
There in the green shade, between the tall gooseberry bushes, the heavy
crimson peonies stood gorgeously along the path. The full red globes,
poised and leaning voluptuously, sank their crimson weight on to the
seeding grass of the path, borne down by secret rain, and by their own
splendour. The path was poured over with red rich silk of strewn petals.
The great flowers swung their crimson grandly about the walk, like
crowds of cardinals in pomp among the green bushes. We burst into the
new world of delight. As Lettie stooped, taking between both hands the
gorgeous silken fulness of one blossom that was sunk to the earth.
George came down the path, with the brown bull–calf straddling behind
him, its neck stuck out, sucking zealously at his middle finger.
The unconscious attitudes of the girls, all bent enraptured over the
peonies, touched him with sudden pain. As he came up, with the calf
stalking grudgingly behind, he said:
"There's a fine show of pyeenocks this year, isn't there?"
"What do you call them?" cried Hilda, turning to him her sweet, charming
face full of interest.
"Pyeenocks," he replied.
Lettie remained crouching with a red flower between her hands, glancing
sideways unseen to look at the calf, which with its shiny nose uplifted
was mumbling in its sticky gums the seductive finger. It sucked eagerly,
but unprofitably, and it appeared to cast a troubled eye inwards to see
if it were really receiving any satisfaction,—doubting, but not
despairing. Marie, and Hilda, and Leslie laughed, while he, after
looking at Lettie as she crouched, wistfully, as he thought, over the
flower, led the little brute out of the garden, and sent it running into
the yard with a smack on the haunch.
Then he returned, rubbing his sticky finger dry against his breeches. He
stood near to Lettie, and she felt rather than saw the extraordinary
pale cleanness of the one finger among the others. She rubbed her finger
against her dress in painful sympathy.
"But aren't the flowers lovely!" exclaimed Marie again. "I want to hug
them."
"Oh, yes!" assented Hilda.
"They are like a romance—D'Annunzio—a romance in passionate sadness,"
said Lettie, in an ironical voice, speaking half out of conventional
necessity of saying something, half out of desire to shield herself, and
yet in a measure express herself.
"There is a tale about them," I said.
The girls clamoured for the legend.
"Pray, do tell us," pleaded Hilda, the irresistible.
"It was Emily told me—she says it's a legend, but I believe it's only a
tale. She says the peonies were brought from the Hall long since by a
fellow of this place—when it was a mill. He was brown and strong, and
the daughter of the Hall, who was pale and fragile and young, loved him.
When he went up to the Hall gardens to cut the yew hedges, she would
hover round him in her white frock, and tell him tales of old days, in
little snatches like a wren singing, till he thought she was a fairy who
had bewitched him. He would stand and watch her, and one day, when she
came near to him telling him a tale that set the tears swimming in her
eyes, he took hold of her and kissed her and kept her. They used to
tryst in the poplar spinney. She would come with her arms full of
flowers, for she always kept to her fairy part. One morning she came
early through the mists. He was out shooting. She wanted to take him
unawares, like a fairy. Her arms were full of peonies. When she was
moving beyond the trees he shot her, not knowing. She stumbled on, and
sank down in their tryst place. He found her lying there among the red
pyeenocks, white and fallen. He thought she was just lying talking to
the red flowers, so he stood waiting. Then he went up, and bent over
her, and found the flowers full of blood. It was he set the garden here
with these pyeenocks."
The eyes of the girls were round with the pity of the tale and Hilda
turned away to hide her tears.
"It is a beautiful ending," said Lettie, in a low tone, looking at the
floor.
"It's all a tale," said Leslie, soothing the girls.
George waited till Lettie looked at him. She lifted her eyes to him at
last. Then each turned aside, trembling.
Marie asked for some of the peonies.
"Give me just a few—and I can tell the others the story—it is so
sad—I feel so sorry for him, it was so cruel for him——! And Lettie
says it ends beautifully——!"
George cut the flowers with his great clasp knife, and Marie took them,
carefully, treating their romance with great tenderness. Then all went
out of the garden and he turned to the cowshed.
"Good–bye for the present," said Lettie, afraid to stay near him.
"Good–bye," he laughed.
"Thank you
so
much for the flowers—and the story—it was splendid,"
said Marie, "—but so sad!"
Then they went, and we did not see them again.
Later, when all had gone to bed at the mill, George and I sat together
on opposite sides of the fire, smoking, saying little. He was casting up
the total of discrepancies, and now and again he ejaculated one of his
thoughts.
"And all day," he said, "Blench has been ploughing his wheat in, because
it was that bitten off by the rabbits it was no manner of use, so he's
ploughed it in: an' they say with idylls, eating peaches in our close."
Then there was silence, while the clock throbbed heavily, and outside a
wild bird called, and was still; softly the ashes rustled lower in the
grate.
"She said it ended well—but what's the good of death—what's the good
of that?" He turned his face to the ashes in the grate, and sat
brooding.
Outside, among the trees, some wild animal set up a thin, wailing cry.
"Damn that row!" said I, stirring, looking also into the grey fire.
"It's some stoat or weasel, or something. It's been going on like that
for nearly a week. I've shot in the trees ever so many times. There were
two—one's gone."
Continuously, through the heavy, chilling silence, came the miserable
crying from the darkness among the trees.
"You know," he said, "she hated me this afternoon, and I hated her——"
It was midnight, full of sick thoughts.
"It is no good," said I. "Go to bed—it will be morning in a few hours."
Lettie was wedded, as I had said, before Leslie lost all the wistful
traces of his illness. They had been gone away to France five days
before we recovered anything like the normal tone in the house. Then,
though the routine was the same, everywhere was a sense of loss, and of
change. The long voyage in the quiet home was over; we had crossed the
bright sea of our youth, and already Lettie had landed and was
travelling to a strange destination in a foreign land. It was time for
us all to go, to leave the valley of Nethermere whose waters and whose
woods were distilled in the essence of our veins. We were the children
of the valley of Nethermere, a small nation with language and blood of
our own, and to cast ourselves each one into separate exile was painful
to us.
"I shall have to go now," said George. "It is my nature to linger an
unconscionable time, yet I dread above all things this slow crumbling
away from my foundations by which I free myself at last. I must wrench
myself away now——"
It was the slack time between the hay and the corn harvest, and we sat
together in the grey, still morning of August pulling the stack. My
hands were sore with tugging the loose wisps from the lower part of the
stack, so I waited for the touch of rain to send us indoors. It came at
last, and we hurried into the barn. We climbed the ladder into the loft
that was strewn with farming implements and with carpenters' tools. We
sat together on the shavings that littered the bench before the high
gable window, and looked out over the brooks and the woods and the
ponds. The tree–tops were very near to us, and we felt ourselves the
centre of the waters and the woods that spread down the rainy valley.
"In a few years," I said, "we shall be almost strangers."
He looked at me with fond, dark eyes and smiled incredulously.
"It is as far," said I, "to the 'Ram' as it is for me to
London—farther."
"Don't you want me to go there?" he asked, smiling quietly.
"It's all as one where you go, you will travel north, and I east, and
Lettie south. Lettie has departed. In seven weeks I go.—And you?"
"I must be gone before you," he said decisively.
"Do you know——" and he smiled timidly in confession, "I feel alarmed
at the idea of being left alone on a loose end. I must not be the last
to leave——" he added almost appealingly.
"And you will go to Meg?" I asked.
He sat tearing the silken shavings into shreds, and telling me in clumsy
fragments all he could of his feelings:
"You see it's not so much what you call love. I don't know. You see I
built on Lettie,"—he looked up at me shamefacedly, then continued
tearing the shavings—"you must found your castles on something, and I
founded mine on Lettie. You see, I'm like plenty of folks, I have
nothing definite to shape my life to. I put brick upon brick, as they
come, and if the whole topples down in the end, it does. But you see,
you and Lettie have made me conscious, and now I'm at a dead loss. I
have looked to marriage to set me busy on my house of life, something
whole and complete, of which it will supply the design. I must marry or
be in a lost lane. There are two people I could marry—and Lettie's
gone. I love Meg just as well, as far as love goes. I'm not sure I don't
feel better pleased at the idea of marrying her. You know I should
always have been second to Lettie, and the best part of love is being
made much of, being first and foremost in the whole world for somebody.
And Meg's easy and lovely. I can have her without trembling, she's full
of soothing and comfort. I can stroke her hair and pet her, and she
looks up at me, full of trust and lovingness, and there is no flaw, all
restfulness in one another——"
Three weeks later, as I lay in the August sunshine in a deck–chair on
the lawn, I heard the sound of wheels along the gravel path. It was
George calling for me to accompany him to his marriage. He pulled up the
dog–cart near the door and came up the steps to me on the lawn. He was
dressed as if for the cattle market, in jacket and breeches and gaiters.
"Well, are you ready?" he said standing smiling down on me. His eyes
were dark with excitement, and had that vulnerable look which was so
peculiar to the Saxtons in their emotional moments.
"You are in good time," said I, "it is but half past nine."
"It wouldn't do to be late on a day like this," he said gaily, "see how
the sun shines. Come, you don't look as brisk as a best man should. I
thought you would have been on tenterhooks of excitement. Get up, get
up! Look here, a bird has given me luck"—he showed me a white smear on
his shoulder.
I drew myself up lazily.
"All right," I said, "but we must drink a whisky to establish it."
He followed me out of the fragrant sunshine into the dark house. The
rooms were very still and empty, but the cool silence responded at once
to the gaiety of our sunwarm entrance. The sweetness of the summer
morning hung invisible like glad ghosts of romance through the shadowy
room. We seemed to feel the sunlight dancing golden in our veins as we
filled again the pale liqueur.
"Joy to you—I envy you to–day."
His teeth were white, and his eyes stirred like dark liquor as he
smiled.
"Here is my wedding present!"
I stood the four large water–colours along the wall before him. They
were drawings among the waters and the fields of the mill, grey rain and
twilight, morning with the sun pouring gold into the mist, and the
suspense of a midsummer noon upon the pond. All the glamour of our
yesterdays came over him like an intoxicant, and he quivered with the
wonderful beauty of life that was weaving him into the large magic of
the years. He realised the splendour of the pageant of days which had
him in train.
"It's been wonderful, Cyril, all the time," he said, with surprised joy.
We drove away through the freshness of the wood, and among the flowing
of the sunshine along the road. The cottages of Greymede filled the
shadows with colour of roses, and the sunlight with odour of pinks and
the blue of corn flowers and larkspur. We drove briskly up the long,
sleeping hill, and bowled down the hollow past the farms where the hens
were walking with the red gold cocks in the orchard, and the ducks like
white cloudlets under the aspen trees revelled on the pond.
"I told her to be ready any time," said George—"but she doesn't know
it's to–day. I didn't want the public–house full of the business."
The mare walked up the sharp little rise on top of which stood the "Ram
Inn." In the quiet, as the horse slowed to a standstill, we heard the
crooning of a song in the garden. We sat still in the cart, and looked
across the flagged yard to where the tall madonna lilies rose in
clusters out of the alyssome. Beyond the border of flowers was Meg,
bending over the gooseberry bushes. She saw us and came swinging down
the path, with a bowl of gooseberries poised on her hip. She was dressed
in a plain, fresh holland frock, with a white apron. Her black, heavy
hair reflected the sunlight, and her ripe face was luxuriant with
laughter.
"Well, I never!" she exclaimed, trying not to show that she guessed his
errand. "Fancy you here at this time o' morning!"
Her eyes, delightful black eyes like polished jet, untroubled and frank,
looked at us as a robin might, with bright questioning. Her eyes were so
different from the Saxton's: darker, but never still and full, never
hesitating, dreading a wound, never dilating with hurt or with timid
ecstasy.
"Are you ready then?" he asked, smiling down on her.
"What?" she asked in confusion.
"To come to the registrar with me—I've got the licence."
"But I'm just going to make the pudding," she cried, in full
expostulation.
"Let them make it themselves—put your hat on."
"But look at me! I've just been getting the gooseberries. Look!" she
showed us the berries, and the scratches on her arms and hands.
"What a shame!" he said, bending down to stroke her hand and her arm.
She drew back smiling, flushing with joy. I could smell the white lilies
where I sat.
"But you don't mean it, do you?" she said, lifting to him her face that
was round and glossy like a blackheart cherry. For answer, he unfolded
the marriage licence. She read it, and turned aside her face in
confusion, saying:
"Well, I've got to get ready. Shall you come an' tell Gran'ma?"
"Is there any need?" he answered reluctantly.
"Yes, you come an tell 'er," persuaded Meg.
He got down from the trap. I preferred to stay out of doors. Presently
Meg ran out with a glass of beer for me.
"We shan't be many minutes," she apologised. "I've on'y to slip another
frock on."
I heard George go heavily up the stairs and enter the room over the
bar–parlour, where the grandmother lay bed–ridden.
"What, is it thaïgh, ma lad? What are thaïgh doin' 'ere this mornin'?"
she asked.
"Well A'nt, how does ta feel by now?" he said.
"Eh, sadly, lad, sadly! It'll not be long afore they carry me downstairs
head first——"
"Nay, dunna thee say so!—I'm just off to Nottingham—I want Meg ter
come."
"What for?" cried the old woman sharply.
"I wanted 'er to get married," he replied.
"What! What does't say? An' what about th' licence, an' th' ring, an
ivrything?"
"I've seen to that all right," he answered.
"Well, tha 'rt a nice'st un, I must say! What's want goin' in this
pig–in–a–poke fashion for? This is a nice shabby trick to serve a body!
What does ta mean by it?"
"You knowed as I wor goin' ter marry 'er directly, so I can't see as it
matters o' th' day. I non wanted a' th' pub talkin'——''
"Tha 'rt mighty particklar, an' all, an' all! An' why shouldn't the pub
talk? Tha 'rt non marryin' a nigger, as ta should be so frightened—I
niver thought it on thee!—An' what's thy 'orry, all of a sudden?"
"No hurry as I know of."
"No 'orry——!" replied the old lady, with withering sarcasm. "Tha wor
niver in a 'orry a' thy life! She's non commin' wi' thee this day,
though."
He laughed, also sarcastic. The old lady was angry. She poured on him
her abuse, declaring she would not have Meg in the house again, nor
leave her a penny, if she married him that day.
"Tha can please thysen," answered George, also angry.
Meg came hurriedly into the room.
"Ta'e that 'at off—ta'e it off! Tha non goos wi' 'im this day, not if I
know it! Does 'e think tha 'rt a cow, or a pig, to be fetched wheniver
'e thinks fit. Ta'e that 'at off, I say!"
The old woman was fierce and peremptory.
"But gran'ma!——" began Meg.
The bed creaked as the old lady tried to rise.
"Ta'e that 'at off, afore I pull it off!" she cried.
"Oh, be still Gran'ma—you'll be hurtin' yourself, you know you
will——"
"Are you coming Meg?" said George suddenly.
"She is not!" cried the old woman.
"Are you coming Meg?" repeated George, in a passion.
Meg began to cry. I suppose she looked at him through her tears. The
next thing I heard was a cry from the old woman, and the sound of
staggering feet.
"Would ta drag 'er from me!—if tha goos, ma wench, tha enters this
'ouse no more, tha 'eers that! Tha does thysen my lady! Dunna venture
anigh me after this, my gel!"—the old woman called louder and louder.
George appeared in the doorway, holding Meg by the arm. She was crying
in a little distress. Her hat with its large silk roses, was slanting
over her eyes. She was dressed in white linen. They mounted the trap. I
gave him the reins and scrambled up behind. The old woman heard us
through the open window, and we listened to her calling as we drove
away:
"Dunna let me clap eyes on thee again, tha ungrateful 'ussy, tha
ungrateful 'ussy! Tha'll rue it, my wench, tha'll rue it, an' then dunna
come ter me——"
We drove out of hearing. George sat with a shut mouth, scowling. Meg
wept awhile to herself woefully. We were swinging at a good pace under
the beeches of the churchyard which stood above the level of the road.
Meg, having settled her hat, bent her head to the wind, too much
occupied with her attire to weep. We swung round the hollow by the bog
end, and rattled a short distance up the steep hill to Watnall. Then the
mare walked slowly. Meg, at leisure to collect herself, exclaimed
plaintively:
"Oh, I've only got one glove!"
She looked at the odd silk glove that lay in her lap, then peered about
among her skirts.
"I must 'a left it in th' bedroom," she said piteously.
He laughed, and his anger suddenly vanished.
"What does it matter? You'll do without all right."
At the sound of his voice, she recollected, and her tears and her
weeping returned.
"Nay," he said, "don't fret about the old woman. She'll come round
to–morrow—an' if she doesn't, it's her lookout. She's got Polly to
attend to her."
"But she'll be that miserable——!" wept Meg.
"It's her own fault. At any rate, don't let it make you miserable"—he
glanced to see if anyone were in sight, then he put his arm round her
waist and kissed her, saying softly, coaxingly: "She'll be all right
to–morrow. We'll go an' see her then, an' she'll be glad enough to have
us. We'll give in to her then, poor old Gran'ma. She can boss you about,
an' me as well, tomorrow as much as she likes. She feels it hard, being
tied to her bed. But to–day is ours, surely—isn't it? To–day is ours,
an' you're not sorry, are you?"
"But I've got no gloves, an' I'm sure my hair's a sight. I never thought
she could 'a reached up like that."
George laughed, tickled.
"No," he said, "she
was
in a temper. But we can get you some gloves
directly we get to Nottingham."