IN WHICH LOVEDAY ATTENDS THE FLORA
The eighth of May dawned fair and clear, and from early morning the
young men and maidservants of Bugletown, who had Spent the past week
cleaning and polishing the houses, streamed out into the country to
pluck green branches for their further adornment. Already the thought of
the dance was in their heads, and its tripping in their feet, and they
sang through the lanes.
They waylaid strangers coming into Bugletown and drew contributions
of silver from them, according to custom, and all they did went to a
gay measure. By the time the gentry, both of the place itself and of
outlying regions, were assembled for the dance every house in the main
streets of the grey little old town was decked with boughs, its front
and back doors opened wide for the dancers, who at the Flora always
danced through every house set hospitably open for their passage.
The band, that all day long plays but the one tune, hour after hour,
was gathered together by noon, sleek and not yet heated, their trumpets
shining in the sun, their fiddles glossy as their well-oiled hair, their
big drum round as the portly figure of the bandmaster himself. Already,
in many a bedchamber, young women had twirled this way and that before
the mirror, studying the set of taffetas and tarletan, or young men
had polished their high beavers anxiously against the sleeves of their
brightest broadcloth frock coats. In speckless kitchens housewives
prepared their cakes and cream, and the masters saw to the drawing of
the cider, and, perhaps, tasted it, to make sure that it had not soured
overnight. And in each heart different words were running to the Flora
Day tune, words that suited with each heart's measure. The children in
the streets sang aloud the doggerel words that long custom has fastened
upon the tune:--
_"John the beau was walking home,_
_When he met with Sally Dover,_
_He kissed her once, he kissed her twice,_
_And he kissed her three times over!"_
Thus the heedless children with their lips, but their little hearts
probably beat to the even simpler words: "_I'm having a holiday!
Having a holiday!_"
More staidly, and almost unheard by their time-muffled ears, a voice,
nevertheless, sang to the housewives, telling each her copper and silver
was the brightest in the town, and adding, perhaps, little gusts of
memory that half hurt, half pleased, of how nimbly she had danced at the
Flora in years gone by, and how fair she had looked....
The staid married men smiled to themselves, and would not have
acknowledged that within them something seemed to chuckle: "_I'm not
so old, after all; I'm not so old, after all_...."
Frankly, the hearts of the young men nudged hopefully against their
ribs, calling out: "_I'm going to dance with Her! I'm going to dance
with Her! And perhaps ... for I always was lucky! I always was
lucky_!"
But who shall say what lilting voice, timid-bold and sly-sincere,
whispered to the maidens, beating out its syllables against the new
stays so tightly laced for the occasion? Perhaps the words of the
children's doggerel, with a name or so altered, met the moment without
need of further change....
And Loveday's heart, as she walked the three miles from the fishing
village to Bugletown, sang to her of joy and hope and triumph.
When she reached the Market House, she found the band ready to strike up
the famous tune, while the mayor, his chain of office about his neck,
stood conversing with the ladies and gentlemen who were to lead the
dance. For, as is but fitting, the couples at the Flora follow each
other according to their social precedence, though all may join who
choose, providing only that the females, be they gentry or tradespeople,
wear white, and the men their best broadcloth and Sunday hats.
Of all who had gathered for the dance there was none more highly placed
than Miss Flora Le Pettit, and none as fair to see. She stood supreme in
the sunshine and her beauty, her white muslin robes swelling round her
like the petals of some full-blown rose, her white sash streaming over
them, the white ribands that decked her hat of fine Dunstable straw
flowing down to her shoulders and mingling with her auburn curls. Even
the countless tiny bows that adorned her dress (as though they were a
cloud of butterflies drawn to alight upon it by its freshness) were of
white satin. Everything about her save her little sandalled feet danced
already--the brim of the wide hat that waved above her dancing eyes, the
flounces and floating ends of her attire which the soft breeze stirred,
the corners of her smiling mouth, the dimple which came and went behind
the curls that nodded by her cheek. What vision can have been fairer
than that presented by Flora Le Pettit upon Flora Day? "None, none,
none," thought eager Loveday, as she edged through the crowd and caught
sight of her divinity. None ... and yet that sight caused Loveday a
strange clutching in her breast.
For she, too, had felt fair when she had gazed in her tiny mirror; the
yellowed linen gown had gleamed pure and white, her young breast had
swelled above the waist that looked so slim, and that was so finely
girt.... Yet, now, something of splendour about Miss Le Pettit that
she could not attain dimmed all herself and, with herself, her joy.
Her face, already flushed by her walk, burned deeper still with shame.
Yet the desire that three weeks of striving had swollen to a passion
urged her forward, and, fingering the lovely thing about her waist to
gain courage, she broke through the last ring of staring people and
stood in front of Miss Le Pettit.
The heiress of Ignores had not yet caught sight of her, being engaged in
laughing conversation with several admiring gentlemen, but something of
an almost painful intensity in the dark gaze of the village girl drew
her face to meet it. The black eyes, so full of an extravagant passion,
met the careless glance of the blue orbs that knew not even the passing
shadow of such a thing.
"Oh," stammered Loveday, the set speech she had been conning all the way
to Bugletown dying upon her lips, "Oh, Miss Flora, I'm come. I've got my
white sash and I'm come...."
Over Flora's face passed a look of bewilderment, while Loveday, her
moment of self-criticism gone, stood trembling with eager happiness.
Then Miss Le Pettit spoke, lightly and kindly.
"Surely I have seen you before, my girl?" she asked. And, turning to the
little group of her friends, added:
"She has such a striking air, 'twould be difficult to forget her."
Yet, till this moment, Miss Le Pettit had forgotten everything save that
air. Forgotten her careless suggestion, her prettily given promise, her
praise. Forgotten even the pleasant glow such evident worship as this
village girl's had stirred in her. She had had so much worship since!
Who can blame her for not remembering some idle words her artistic
perceptions had prompted three weeks earlier? It had been a fantastic
suggestion at best, as a girl of sense would have known, treasuring it
merely for its kindly intention. After all, Miss Le Pettit would be far
more conspicuous dancing with a village maiden at the Flora than with a
gentleman suited to her in rank and estate. Since that day at Upper Farm
she had met just such a gentleman--he with the glossy whiskers and
handsome form who was nearest to her now, smiling at this little
encounter.
"Why, child," said Flora to Loveday, "you look very nice, I am sure.
But your place should be much further down the procession." Then, more
sharply: "Why do you stare so, girl?"
Loveday stood as one stricken, her cheek now as white as the sash she
was still holding in her shaking hands.