A PAGEANT.
On the morning after the arrival of Judith's father he was out and
abroad with his bailiff at an early hour, so that she had no chance of
speaking to him; and when he returned to New Place he went into the
summer-house in the orchard, where it was the general habit and custom
to leave him undisturbed. And yet she only wished to ask permission to
take the mastiff with her as far as Shottery; and so, when she had
performed her share of the domestic duties, and got herself ready, she
went out through the back court and into the garden, thinking that he
would not mind so brief an interruption.
It was a fresh and pleasant morning, for there had been some rain in the
night, and now there was a slight breeze blowing from the south, and
the air was sweet with the scent of the lilac bushes. The sun lay warm
on the pink and white blossoms of the apple-trees and on the creamy
masses of the cherry; martins were skimming and shooting this way and
that, with now and again a rapid flight to the eaves of the barn; the
bees hummed from flower to flower, and everywhere there was a chirping,
and twittering, and clear singing of birds. The world seemed full of
light and color, of youth, and sweet things, and gladness: on such a
morning she had no fear of a refusal, nor was she much afraid to go near
the summer-house that the family were accustomed to hold sacred from
intrusion.
But when she passed into the orchard, and came in sight of it, there was
a sudden flash of anger in her eyes. She might have guessed--she might
have known. There, blocking up the doorway of the latticed and
green-painted tenement, was the figure of goodman Matthew; and the
little bandy-legged pippin-faced gardener was coolly resting on his
spade while he addressed his master within. Was there ever (she asked
herself) such hardihood, such audacity and impertinence? And then she
rapidly bethought her that now was a rare opportunity for putting in
practice a scheme of revenge that she had carefully planned. It is true
that she might have gone forward and laid her finger on Matthew's arm
(he was rather deaf), and so have motioned him away. But she was too
proud to do that. She would dispossess and rout him in another fashion.
So she turned and went quickly again into the house.
Now at this time Dr. Hall was making a round of professional visits at
some distance away in the country; and on such occasions Susanna Hall
and her little daughter generally came to lodge at New Place, where
Judith was found to be an eager and assiduous, if somewhat impatient and
unreasoning, nurse, playmate, and music-mistress. In fact, the young
mother had to remonstrate with her sister, and to point out that,
although baby Elizabeth was a wonder of intelligence and
cleverness--indeed, such a wonder as had never hitherto been beheld in
the world--still, a child of two years and three months or so could not
be expected to learn everything all at once; and that it was just as
reasonable to ask her to play on the lute as to imagine that she could
sit on the back of Don the mastiff without being held. However, Judith
was fond of the child, and that incomparable and astute small person had
a great liking for her aunt (in consequence of benefits received), and a
trust in her which the wisdom of maturer years might have modified; and
so, whenever she chose, Judith found no difficulty in obtaining
possession of this precious charge, even the young mother showing no
anxiety when she saw the two go away together.
So it was on this particular morning that Judith went and got hold of
little Bess Hall, and quickly smartened up her costume, and carried her
out into the garden. Then she went into the barn, outside of which was
the dog's kennel; she unclasped the chain and set free the huge,
slow-stepping, dun-colored beast, that seemed to know as well as any one
what was going forward; she affixed to his collar two pieces of silk
ribbon that did very well for reins; and then she sat little Bess Hall
on Don Roderigo's back, and gave her the reins to hold, and so they set
out for the summer-house.
On that May morning the wide and gracious realm of England--which to
some minds, and especially at that particular season of the year, seems
the most beautiful country of any in the world--this rich and variegated
England lay basking in the sunlight, with all its lush meadows and woods
and hedges in the full and fresh luxuriance of the spring; and the small
quiet hamlets were busy in a drowsy and easy-going kind of fashion; and
far away around the white coasts the blue sea was idly murmuring in; but
it may be doubted whether in all the length and breadth of that fair
land there was any fairer sight than this that the wit of a young woman
had devised. She herself was pleasant enough to look on (and she was
always particularly attentive about her attire when her father was at
home), and now she was half laughing as she thought of her forthcoming
revenge; she had dressed her little niece in her prettiest costume of
pink and white, and pink was the color of the silken reins; while the
great slow-footed Don bore his part in the pageant with a noble majesty,
sometimes looking up at Judith as if to ask whether he were going in the
right direction. And so the procession passed on between the white-laden
cherry-trees and the redder masses of the apple-blossom; and the
miniature Ariadne, sitting sideways on the back of the great beast,
betrayed no fear whatsoever; while her aunt Judith held her, walking by
her, and scolding her for that she would not sing.
"Tant sing, Aunt Judith," said she.
"You can sing well enough, you little goose, if you try," said her
aunt, with the unreasoning impatience of an unmarried young woman.
"What's the use of your going hunting without a hunting song? Come
along, now:
'The hunt is up, the hunt is up,
And it is well-nigh day;--'
try it, Bess!"
"Hunt is up, hunt is up," said the small rider; but she was occupied
with the reins, and clearly did not want to be bothered.
"No, no, that is not singing, little goose. Why, sing it like this, now:
'The hunt is up, the hunt is up,
And it is well-nigh day;--
And Harry our king is gone hunting
To bring his deer to bay!'"
However, the music lesson came to an abrupt end. They had by this time
almost reached the summer-house. Saturnine Matthew, gardener, who still
stood there, blocking up the doorway, had not heard them approach, but
his master within had. The next instant goodman Matthew suddenly found
himself discarded, dismissed, and treated, indeed, as if he were simply
non-existent in the world; for Judith's father, having paused for a
moment to regard from the doorway the pretty pageant that had been
arranged for him (and his face lit up, as it were, with pleasure at the
sight), was the next minute down beside his little granddaughter, with
one knee on the ground, so that he was just on a level with her
outstretched hands.
"What, Bess?" he said, as he caught her by both hands and feet. "You
imp, you inch, you elfin queen, you!--would you go a-hunting, then?"
"Send away Don--me want to ride the high horse," said the small Bess,
who had her own ideas as to what was most comfortable, and also secure.
"And so you shall, you sprite, you Ariel, you moonlight wonder!" he
exclaimed, as he perched her on his shoulder and rose to his feet again.
"The high horse, truly; indeed, you shall ride the high horse! Come,
now, we will go see how the King's mulberry thrives; that is the only
tree we have that is younger than yourself, you ancient, you beldame,
you witch of Endor, you!"
"Father," said Judith, seeing that he was going away perfectly
regardless of anybody or anything except his granddaughter, "may I take
the Don with me for an hour or so?"
"Whither away, wench--whither?" he asked, turning for a moment.
"To Shottery, father."
"Well, well," said he, and he turned again and went off.
"Come, Bess, you world's jewel, you, you shall ride with me to London
some day, and tell the King how his mulberry thrives; that shall you,
you fairy, you princess, you velvet-footed maidiekin! To London,
Bess--to London!"
Judith did not stay to regard them further; but she could not help
casting a look before she left at goodman Matthew, who stood there
discomfited, dispossessed, unheeded, annihilated, as it were. And then,
calling the dog after her, she went in by the back court and through the
house again (for Chapel Lane was in a sad condition after the rain of
the night, and was not a pleasant pathway even in the best of times).
And she was laughing to herself at Matthew's discomfiture, and she was
singing to herself as she went out by the front door,
There's never a maid in all the town,
But well she knows that malt's come down.
And in the street it was "Good-morrow to you, Master Jelleyman; the rain
will do good, will it not?" and, again, "Good-morrow, Neighbor Pike; do
you know that my father is come home?" and again, "Get you within the
doorway, little Parsons, else the wagon-wheels will be over thee." And
then, when she was in the freedom of the fields, she would talk blithely
to Don Roderigo, or snatch a buttercup here or there from among the
long, lush, warm grass, or return to her careless singing:
For malt's come down, and malt's come down--
Oh, well she knows that malt's come down!