CONCERNS ITSELF MAINLY WITH THE “MORNING AFTER”
The sun’s kindly beams were gilding the age-worn old Cross and making
it a thing of glory, for it was a golden morning. And, looking from his
lattice, Sir John blinked drowsily in the warm radiance, though Alfriston
had been long awake and full of cheery, leisured bustle. Borne to him on
the fragrant air was a mingling of comfortable, homely sounds: the faint
rattle of crockery, the clank of a pail, a snatch of song, voices raised
in greeting, a faint, melodious whistling, with the clink of hammer and
anvil. Indeed, the only silent object in the whole cheery place seemed to
be the weatherbeaten old Cross itself.
Alfriston was serenely awake; folk went about their business with a
placid deliberation, or paused to exchange comments on weather, present
and to come, on growing crops and things in general, but with never a
word for the desperate doings of last night.
True, Mr. Muddle, on his way to perform some mystery with the pitchfork
he bore across his shoulder, limped noticeably in his gait, which was,
as he very willingly explained, “Arl-on-’count-of-my ol’ mare as put ’er
’oof down ’pon my fut that ’ard as ’tis gurt mercy I can walk at arl——”
Mr. Pursglove likewise exhibited a hand and forearm swathed in bandages
which, he averred ... “moight ha’ been much worse, seein’ the bill-’ook I
’apped tu be a-usin’ of were so shaarp as a razor!” Also divers others of
the community discovered upon their persons sundry bruises and abrasions,
the which elicited little or no comment, for Alfriston, in its own
gentle fashion, was very wide awake this morning.
Thus Sir John, lolling at night-capped ease, looked down upon this
placid, homely scene, hearkened to the soft-drawling, Sussex voices,
breathed the fragrant air and felt that life was good. All at once he
started, drew in his head with a jerk, and, snatching off his tasselled
night-cap, peered from the secure shelter of the window-curtain.
She stood looking up at the old Cross, a tall, stately creature, and yet,
despite her stature, there was in every supple line of her, in the very
folds of her simple habit, that same air of clean, rustic maidenliness
that Sir John remembered so well.
Her print gown was much the same as those worn by other country maids,
and yet its effect how vastly different! How graciously it flowed, now
hiding, now half-revealing her shapeliness; how cunningly it clung to
pliant waist and full, rounded bosom. Her jetty curls were ’prisoned in a
small, laced cap; in her hand she bore a deep-brimmed straw hat.
And thus, as she gazed up at the old cross, Sir John gazed down on her,
marvelling anew and happy in his wonderment.
Now as my lady stood viewing the ancient cross, there chanced by a
country damsel with a large basket upon her arm—a shapely young girl with
a remarkably trim foot and ankle.
“Pray, my dear,” says my lady, waving her hat towards the old cross,
“what strange thing is this?”
“O mam,” answers Rusticity, blushing and curtsying, “it be only the ol’
market cross as arl strangers do come to stare at.”
“Then,” says my lady, smiling, “they might do better by staring at thee,
for thou’rt monstrous pretty.”
“O mam!” falters Rusticity, with another curtsy.
“What is thy name, child?” questions my lady.
“Ann, if you please, mam—Ann Dumbrell.”
“And why d’ye call me ‘mam’?”
“Because, mam,” answers Rusticity, blushing again, “because you be so ...
so fine, mam, an’ arl!”
“Heavens!” exclaims my lady with a pretty petulance, “we must amend
this, Ann! For look’ee, child, I be no finer than thyself—just a simple,
country maid I be—and solitary. So I’ll walk with thee, Ann, if I may.
And my name is Rose.”
“Yes, mam.”
“Nay, call me ‘Rose.’”
“Yes, Rose ... mam.”
“May I go with thee awhile, Ann? And don’t say ‘mam’!”
“Yes, m—Rose.”
“Then I’ll aid thee with thy basket—come!”
“Oh no, no—Rose. My ol’ trug be naun heavy, and your ’ands be so—so——”
“So what?”
“White an’ pretty.”
“Tush!” says my lady, scowling at the members in question. “They be very
strong hands, child. Come, give me hold o’ thy basket!”
And presently from the shadow of his curtain Sir John saw them walk away,
the large basket a-swing between them, and they laughing and chatting
together gaily.
No sooner were they out of sight than Sir John tossed night-cap to
ceiling and rang the bell.
“Bob,” quoth he as the Corporal appeared, “Bob, why the devil am I not
shaved and dressed?”
“Your honour’s orders were for your honour not to be disturbed till ten
o’clock, and ’tis scarce nine, sir.”
“No matter, Bob. Hot water!”
“Here, sir.”
“Then have at me, Robert—proceed!”
“Im-mediate, sir!”
And Sir John’s toilet commenced forthwith; during which nice business
they conversed as follows:
SIR JOHN: Any news, Bob?
ROBERT: Nothing to mention, sir ... though I did ’appen to
hear that five soldiers and two o’ the coastguard are reported
wounded, sir.
SIR JOHN: Nothing serious, I hope?
ROBERT: We hope not, sir.
SIR JOHN: An ugly business, Bob.
ROBERT: On-commonly, sir!
SIR JOHN: Have you seen or heard anything of Mr. Potter?
ROBERT: No, sir. It seems he’s vanished away again, being
badly wanted by the preventive authorities. For I did ’appen
to hear as ’twas him as is judged responsible for most o’ the
casualties, sir.
SIR JOHN: To be sure, he was wearing his old frieze coat! Ha’
you been far abroad this morning, Bob?
ROBERT: I did ’appen to step across the fields, sir.
SIR JOHN: Very right, Bob. Health! Sunshine! Dew!
ROBERT: It was a little doo-ey, sir.
SIR JOHN: And you carried the basket, Bob, of course?
ROBERT: Basket, sir...?
SIR JOHN: HER basket, Bob ... and pray keep the shaving-brush
out o’ my mouth!
ROBERT: Your pardon, sir!
SIR JOHN: Her basket, Bob!
ROBERT: I judged it over heavy for a young fe——
SIR JOHN: Damsel, Bob.
ROBERT: Yes, sir.
SIR JOHN: To be sure ’twas too heavy—and I fancy you ha’
lathered me enough.
ROBERT: I think so too, sir.
SIR JOHN: She hath a remarkably neat foot, Bob!
ROBERT: I have ob-served same, sir.
SIR JOHN: And her voice grows upon one.... A voice suggestive
of a nature sweet and——
ROBERT: One moment, sir—your upper lip!
(A moment’s silence while the Corporal plies deft razor.)
SIR JOHN: I chanced to see her in converse with a young ...
creature, Robert—a tall young woman in a laced cap?
ROBERT: I re-marked same young person myself, sir.
SIR JOHN: Is she a friend of Mistress Ann’s?
ROBERT: Not knowing, can’t say, sir.
SIR JOHN: Do you chance to know anything about this—er—young
person?
ROBERT: Nothing, sir, except as she seems to run very much to
legs——
SIR JOHN: Legs—begad!
ROBERT: Pre-cisely, sir ... leggy, your honour.
SIR JOHN: Ha, leggy! Didn’t you think her a young goddess?
ROBERT: She didn’t strike me as such, sir.
SIR JOHN: But you must ha’ remarked her beauty?
ROBERT: Nothing to mention, sir.
SIR JOHN: But damme—her shape! Her form! Her air! Her carriage!
Her grace!
ROBERT: Too much of ’em all, sir.
SIR JOHN: ’S death, man—you must be blind!
ROBERT: Very good, sir.
SIR JOHN: No, Bob, not blind—thou’rt merely in love and that is
infinitely worse.
ROBERT: It is, sir!
SIR JOHN: Why, then, go a-wooing, man, go a-wooing and put
thyself out o’ thy misery one way or t’other.
ROBERT: Can’t be done, sir. Misery must be endoored.
SIR JOHN: Because thou’rt forty-five, Bob?
ROBERT: And she’s scarce twenty turned, sir.
“Ha!” exclaimed Sir John portentously. “Hum!” And, his toilet at last
accomplished, he ran lightly down the stair to find awaiting him a most
inviting breakfast, of which he made short work, despite Mr. Bunkle’s
shocked remonstrances and reproachful looks.
“This here b’iledam, sir,” quoth Mr. Bunkle, caressing the edible in
question with the fork of an expert—“this here b’iledam desarves to be
ate respectful an’ dooly slow, wi’ thought to every chew an’ a pause
betwixt each swaller!”
“Forgive me, Mr. Bunkle,” smiled Sir John as he rose from the table,
“but, like the chameleon, I could feed on air—for a time at least!
Robert, my holly-stick! I think I will call on our Ancient Mr. Dumbrell.
Have ye any message, Bob?”
“None, sir.”
“Why, then, I must invent some. You might step over to Dering later in
the day, Robert. Adieu, Mr. Bunkle.”
“Dinner at ’arf-past twelve, sir!” sighed Mr. Bunkle, laying down the
carving-fork, “roast Sir Loin—’ot!”