TWO CROWNS
A Strangely interesting city is Ely. Unique in its way is the
metropolis of the Fens; wonderful exceeding it must have been in the
olden times when the fen-land was one great inland sea, studded at wide
intervals with islets as satellites about the great central isle of
Ely. It was a scene that impressed the imagination of our forefathers.
Stately is the situation of Durham, that occupies a tongue of land
between ravines. It has its own unique and royal splendour. But hardly
if at all inferior, though very different, is the situation of Ely. The
fens extend on all sides to the horizon, flat as the sea, and below the
sea level. If the dykes were broken through, or the steam pumps and
windmills ceased to work, all would again, in a twelvemonth, revert to
its primitive condition of a vast inland sea, out of which would rise
the marl island of Ely, covered with buildings amidst tufted trees,
reflecting themselves in the still water as in a glass. Above the
roofs, above the tree-tops, soars that glorious cathedral, one of the
very noblest, certainly one of the most beautiful, in England—nay,
let it be spoken boldly—in the whole Christian world. It stands as a
beacon seen from all parts of the Fens, and it is the pride of the Fens.
Ely owes its origin to a woman—St. Etheldreda—flying from a rude,
dissolute, and drunken court. She was the wife first of Tombert, a
Saxon prince in East Anglia, then of Egfrid of Northumbria. Sick of the
coarse revelry, the rude manners of a Saxon court, Etheldreda fled and
hid herself in the isle of Ely, where she would be away from men and
alone with God and wild, beautiful nature.
Whatever we may think of the morality of a wife deserting her post
at the side of her husband, of a queen abandoning her position
in a kingdom, we cannot, perhaps, be surprised at it. A tender,
gentle-spirited woman after a while sickened of the brutality of the
ways of a Saxon court, its drunkenness and savagery, and fled that she
might find in solitude that rest for her weary soul and overstrained
nerves she could not find in the Northumbrian palace. This was in the
year 673. Then this islet was unoccupied. It has been supposed that it
takes its name from the eels that abounded round it; we are, perhaps,
more correct in surmising that it was originally called the Elf-isle,
the islet inhabited by the mythic spiritual beings who danced in the
moonlight and sported over the waters of the meres.
This lovely island, covered with woods, surrounded by a fringe of
water-lilies, gold and silver, floating far out as a lace about it,
became the seat of a great monastery. Monks succeeded the elves.
King Canute, the Dane, was seized with admiration for Ely, loved to
visit it in his barge, or come to it over the ice. It is said that one
Candlemas Day, when, as was his wont, King Canute came towards Ely, he
found the meres overflowed and frozen. A 'ceorl' named Brithmer led the
way for Canute's sledge over the ice, proving the thickness of the ice
by his own weight. For this service his lands were enfranchised.
On another occasion the king passed the isle in his barge, and over the
still and glassy water came the strains of the singing in the minster.
Whereupon the king composed a song, of which only the first stanza has
been preserved, that may be modernised thus:—
'Merry sang the monks of Ely
As King Knut came rowing by.
Oarsmen, row the land more near
That I may hear their song more clear.'
Ely, although it be a city, is yet but a village. The houses are few,
seven thousand inhabitants is the population, it has two or three
parish churches, and the cathedral, the longest in Christendom. The
houses are of brick or of plaster; and a curious custom exists in Ely
of encrusting the plaster with broken glass, so that a house-front
sparkles in the sun as though frosted. All the roofs are tiled. The
cathedral is constructed of stone quarried in Northamptonshire, and
brought in barges to the isle.
Ely possesses no manufactures, has almost no neighbourhood, stands
solitary and self-contained. On some sides it rises rapidly from the
fen, on others it slopes easily down. A singular effect is produced
when the white mists hang over the fen-land for miles and miles, and
the sun glitters on the island city. Then it is as an enchanted isle
of eternal spring, lost in a wilderness of level snow. Or again, on a
night when the auroral lights flicker over the heavens, here red, there
silvery, and against the glowing skies towers up this isle crowned with
its mighty cathedral, then, verily, it is as though it were a scene in
some fairy tale, some magic creation of Eastern fantasy.
A girl was sauntering through the wide, grass-grown streets of Ely.
During the fair the streets were full of people—nay, full is not the
word—were occupied by people more or less scattered about them. It
would take a vast throng, such as the fens of Cambridgeshire cannot
supply, to _fill_ these wide spaces.
The girl was tall and handsome, rather masculine, with a cheerful
face. She had very fair hair, a bright complexion, and eyes of a
dazzling blue—a blue as of the sea when rippling and sparkling in the
midsummer sun. She was plainly dressed in serge of dark navy blue,
with white kerchief about her neck, a chip hat-bonnet and blue ribbons
in it. Her skirts were somewhat short, they exposed neat ankles in
stockings white as snow, and strong shoes. A fen-girl must wear strong
shoes, she cannot have gloves on her feet.
'Jimminy!' said the girl, as she turned her pocket inside out. 'Not one
penny! Poor Kainie is the only girl at the fair without a sweetheart,
the only child without a fairing. No one to treat me! Nothing to be got
for nothing. Jimminy! I don't care.' Then she began to sing:—
'Last night the dogs did bark,
I went to the gate to see.
When every lass had her spark,
But nobody comes to me.
And it's Oh dear! what will become of me?
Oh dear, what shall I do?
Nobody coming to marry me,
Nobody coming to woo.
My father's a hedger and ditcher,
My mother does nothing but spin,
And I am a pretty young girl,
But the money comes slowly in'—
Then suddenly she confronted the fair-haired farmer Runham, coming out
of a tavern, with the flail over his shoulder. A little disconcerted
at encountering him, she paused in her song, but soon recovered
herself, and began again at the interrupted verse:—
'My father's a hedger and ditcher,
My mother'—
'Kainie! Are you beside yourself, singing like a ballad-monger in the
open street?'
The man's face was red, whether with drink, or that the sight of the
girl had brought the colour into his face, Kainie could not say. His
breath smelt of spirits, and she turned her head away.
'It's all nonsense,' she said. 'My mother is dead—is dead—and I
am alone. I don't know, I don't see why I should not sing; I want
a fairing, and have no money. I'll go along singing, "My father's
a hedger and ditcher," and then some charitable folk will throw me
coppers, and I shall get a little money and buy myself a fairing.'
'For heaven's sake, do nothing of the kind. Here—rather than
that—here is a crown. Take that. What would the Commissioners say if
they were told that you went a ballad-singing in the streets of Ely
at Tawdry Fair? They would turn you out of your mill. I am sure they
would. Here, Kainie, conduct yourself respectably, and take a crown.'
He pressed the large silver coin into her hand, and hurried away.
'That's brave!' exclaimed the girl, snapping her fingers. 'Now I can
buy my fairing. Now, all I want is a lover.
"Nobody coming to marry me,
Nobody coming to woo!"
Jimminy! I must not do that! I've taken a crown to be mum. Now I'm a
young person of respectability—I've money in my pocket. Now I must
look about me and see what to buy. I'll go to the Cheap Jack. How do
you do, uncle?'
She addressed the dark-haired man Drownlands, who had just turned the
corner, with his flail over his shoulder. He scowled at the girl, and
would have passed her without a word, but to this she would not consent.
'See! see!' said she, holding up the crown she had received. 'I was
just going along sighing and weeping because I had no money, not a
farthing in my pocket, not a lover at my side to buy me anything. Then
came some one and gave me this—look, Uncle Drownlands! Five shillings!'
'So—going in bad ways?'
'What is the harm? I was ballad-singing. Then he came and gave me a
crown.'
'You ballad-singing!'
'Yes; how else can I get money? I'm a poor girl, owned by nobody, for
whom nobody cares.'
'You will bring disgrace—deeper disgrace on the family—on the name.'
'Not I; I'm honest. If I am given five shillings, may I not receive it?
Master Runham gave me the money to make me shut my mouth. I was singing
"My father's a hedger and ditcher,
My mother"'—
'For heaven's sake, silence!' said Drownlands angrily. 'If you will
hold your tongue, I will give you a couple of shillings.'
'A couple of shillings! And I'm your own niece, and have your name.'
'More shame to you—to your mother!' exclaimed the farmer bitterly.
The girl suddenly dropped her head, and her brow became crimson.
'Not a word about my dear mother—not a stone thrown at her,' she said
in a low tone.
'Well, no ballad-singing. Take heed to yourself. You are wild and
careless.'
'Much you think of me! much you care for me!'
'Begone! You are a disgrace to me—your existence is a disgrace. Take
a crown and spend it properly. You shall have nothing more from me. As
Runham gave you five shillings, it shall not be said that I gave you
less.'
He handed her the coin, and with a scowl passed on.
Kainie remained for a moment musing, with lowered eyes. Then she
raised her head, shook it, as though to shake off the sadness, the
humiliation that had come on her with the words of Drownlands, and
hummed—
'Nobody coming to marry me,
Nobody coming to woo.'
'What! Kainie!'
The words were those of a young man, heavy-browed, pale, somewhat
gaunt, with long arms.
'Oh, Pip!—Pip!—Pip!'
'What is the matter, Kainie?'
'Pip, I'm the only girl here without her young man. It is
terrible—terrible; and see, Pip, I've got two crowns to spend, and
I don't know what to spend them on. There is too much money here for
sweetie stuff; and as for smart ribbons and bonnets and such like, it
is only just about once in the year I can get away from the mill and
come into town and show myself. It does seem a waste to spend a couple
of crowns on dress, when no one can see me rigged out in it. What shall
I do, Pip?—you wise, you sensible, you dear Pip.'
The young man, Ephraim Beamish, considered; then he said—
'Kainie, I don't like your being alone in Red Wings. Times are queer.
Times will be worse. There is trouble before us in the Fens. Things
cannot go on as they are—the labouring men ground down under the heels
of the farmers, who are thriving and waxing fat. I don't like you to
be alone in the windmill; you should have some protector. Now, look
here. I've been to that Cheap Jack van, and there's a big dog there the
Cheap Jackies want to sell, but there has been no bid. Take my advice,
offer the two crowns for that great dog, and take him home with you.
Then I shall be easy; and now I am not that. You are too lonely—and a
good-looking girl like you'—
'Pip, I'll have the dog.' She tossed the coins into the air. 'Here,
crownies, you go for a bow-wow.'