IN WHICH LOVEDAY ESSAYS TO OBTAIN THE WHITE SATIN RIBAND
With a high heart Loveday began her quest for the work which was to earn
for her the coveted white satin sash. She had but three weeks in which
to make a matter of several shillings, and this meant that she must sell
every moment of the time which was hers when her duties about her aunt's
were discharged for the day. In the morning she was busy with cleaning
and cooking till almost mid-day, and in the evenings she had the milk to
fetch, but in the afternoons she could be sure of a few hours if Aunt
Senath did not guess she wanted them for herself and invent tasks. On
Mondays, of course, the washing kept her all day at the tub, and on
Fridays at the mangle, on Saturdays there was the baking of the bread,
while Thursday, being market day, she was supposed to keep house while
Aunt Senath went in to Bugletown--a task that slut of a woman was too
fond of for its chances of gossip to send her niece in her stead. On
Thursdays Loveday was wont to stay in and see to the mending, but she
reflected that, by sitting up in her bed at night to darn and patch by
the light of the wick that floated in a cup of fish-oil, she might take
charge of some neighbour's children on that day instead and Aunt Senath
be none the wiser. Loveday had a sad lack of principle, doubtless an
heritage from her heathen father.
On the afternoons of Tuesdays and Wednesdays, she hoped to help in some
house with the cleaning, or in some slattern's abode with the weekly
wash, for, as all know, there are some such sluts that the washing gets
put off from day to day, till Saturday finds it still cluttering the
washhouse instead of being brought in clean and sweet from the
gorse-bushes.
Then there were always odd things to be done, such as running errands,
at which she hoped to earn some pence here and there. The white riband
seemed no impossible fantasy to Loveday when she started on her quest.
She went first to visit old Mrs. Lear, at Upper Farm, for no one had
shown such a kindly front to the girl in all the village as she. Loveday
started out for the milk half-an-hour earlier than was her wont so that
she might have time to discuss her hopes with the farmer's wife, and
this time she did not meet young Mrs. Lear or her friend Cherry on the
way. But she did come upon both Mrs. Lears in the big kitchen, the
younger seated in the armchair in front of the fire and the elder
anxiously regarding her. Primrose had been fretful ever since hearing
from her mother-in-law of Miss Le Pettit's visit of the day before,
and of the unaccountable interest the heiress had shown in that faggot
of a Loveday, and by now her fretfulness had assumed the size of an
indisposition. In vain did Mrs. Lear try and cosset and comfort her with
potions both hot and cool; Primrose knew well that beneath the kindness
of the farmer's wife lurked the feeling that it was not for one in her
station to indulge in such vapours as might well befit the gentry, and
that she would be cured sooner by taking a broom to the best carpet than
by sitting and keeping the fire warm. Primrose sulked, and even handsome
Willie, leaning by the window, wanting to be away yet dreading the
outburst did he move, could not persuade his wife that nothing ailed her
but too much idleness. Neither, though to their robust health it would
have seemed so, would it have been all the truth, for Primrose was
taking her condition more hardly than most girls who have had the good
fortune to wed with a prosperous young farmer, and the thought that she
would not be able to dance in the procession with the rest of the world
at the Flora had for some time past embittered her. To enter the house,
after her anger with Loveday and the flash of fear that the strange
half-foreign girl had filled her with, only to find that the great Miss
Le Pettit had offered that very girl to dance with her ... this was
poisonous fare indeed for one in the discontented mood of Primrose Lear.
The heaviness of her mind matched with that of her body as she hunched
over the fire.
Sight of Loveday, a Loveday oddly changed from that of the day earlier,
did not ease her sickness; the light in Loveday's eye, the fresh
exhilaration of her step--she, who was wont to slip along with so much
of quiet aloofness--stung the other girl anew. Loveday greeted Mrs. Lear
eagerly before she saw that Primrose was sitting half-hidden by the
wings of the big chair, her face, paler than its wont, in shadow, pallid
like a face seen through still water. Then she saw also handsome Willie,
dark against the small square panes of the window, the April sun gilding
the curve of his ruddy cheek and making the pots of red geraniums along
the sill blaze as brightly as the beautiful blossoms of painted wax
that, under their glass shade, held an example of neat perfection up
to Nature.
Willie nodded at Loveday with a trifle less of sulkiness in his manner,
took a step forward and relapsed once more. A little silence seemed to
catch them all, broken by good Mrs. Lear saying:
"You'm early to-day, Loveday. Milken's not over yet."
"I'm come to see you a moment, if 'tes possible," said Loveday, some of
her shining confidence already fallen from her, she knew not why.
"Well," said Primrose spitefully, guessing her presence would embarrass
Loveday, "Mrs. Lear's here and I daresay'll speak to 'ee. Can't be any
secret from me, of course, whatever 'tes."
Mrs. Lear, suddenly sorry for Loveday, although Primrose on entering the
day before had told her a tale that had angered her, said:
"Come into dairy, Loveday; you can tell me what 'tes while I see to your
aunt's bit of butter."
Loveday followed her into the cool dairy, where on the scrubbed
white wood shelves the great red earthen pans stood in rows holding
their thick crinkled cream, which Loveday never saw without a thought
of awe for her mother's miracle, and the waves that had surged over
her father's head. Thought of it now restored her sense of her own
power--the cream was ever for her a symbol of divine interposition, and
if her own parents had been found worthy of such a sign, why should not
she too have that something apart and strong which forced signs from the
very heavens, that something apart which indeed she could not but feel
sure she possessed, never with such a gladness in the certainty until
the miraculous yesterday?
Eagerly she unfolded her plans to Mrs. Lear, her words falling forth in
a rush as hurried as a moorland stream after rain, yet as clear too, and
as she spoke of her hopes and plans her black eyes scanned Mrs. Lear's
face more in faith than anxiety. But Mrs. Lear wore a strange look that
to one less eager than the girl would have shown as pity.
"Softly, Loveday, softly," she said at last, "while I see if I can
get to the rights of this. You want to earn money for yourself this
next month to buy your white riband with. Have 'ee thought 'tes an
extravagant purchase for a maid like you, who should be putten any
money into warm flannel or a pair of good boots?"
"I don't want boots, Mrs. Lear, I don't want nothing on the earth but my
satin sash so I can dance with her in the Flora. I want it more than to
save my soul, that I do; I'll go through anything to get it. I'll work
like ten maids for 'ee and for anyone else that'll have me, so as I can
dance in the Flora..."
"Hush, hush," cried the good woman, justly scandalised by such
unbalanced ravings from a maid of fifteen who should have had nothing
but modesty in her mouth; "you mustn't say such wicked things or I can't
stay here and listen to en."
Fear attacked Loveday, not for her own impious words, but lest she had
shocked Mrs. Lear past helping.
"Mrs. Lear," she said urgently, "I don't mean any wickedness, but indeed
I can't sufficiently tell 'ee what it means to me to get my length of
riband and dance in the Flora come May. I do believe I'll die if I
don't. I don't know how to find words to tell 'ee, but 'tes more to me
than a white riband and a shaking of feet down Bugletown streets, 'tes
my life, I do believe ..." She added no word of Flora Le Pettit, you
perceive, but got a secret joy from being able to use her name thus
unreproved in mention of the dance ... and who that has been a lover
will not understand this?
"I would have had 'ee up here to help now that Primrose is so wisht,"
replied Mrs. Lear doubtfully, "but simmingly only yesterday you had
words, and indeed it was ill done of you, Loveday Strick, towards one
in her condition, as you do very well knaw."
Loveday drooped her head. Idle to protest to Mrs. Lear that she had not
been the first in fault. She waited breathless, the beating of her heart
almost choking her. Mrs. Lear went on.
"If only Primrose could be made to overlook it, then I'll have 'ee and
welcome, Loveday, and pay you a florin a week too, which would soon add
up to enough. I'd be glad for 'ee to stay on after the Flora too, for
Primrose's time'll be near."
Loveday had no interest in what happened after the dance. Life would
be all golden ever after, something wonderful and new would certainly
begin; it was to mark the great division in her life, but gratitude and
the caution born of years of slights held her silent on that subject to
the good Mrs. Lear.
"Wait 'ee here," Mrs. Lear bade her, and herself went back into the
kitchen. She was gone some minutes, that to Loveday dragged as weeks,
though when she reappeared Loveday felt that the time of waiting had
gone too soon, and she wished for it to begin once more, so much she
dreaded to ask what had been said. Mrs. Lear spared her the need for
questioning.
"'Tes no manner of use, Loveday," she said, "Primrose won't hear of it,
and being as she is, I can't contrairy her."
Loveday felt the futility of argument, and, indeed, in the violent
reaction that attacks such ardent natures, she felt too numb to make the
attempt even had she wished. She stood staring at Mrs. Lear with her
eyes dark in her pale face and the first presage of defeat in her heart.