Towards afternoon, quite a little throng of ancient folk gathered on the
benches under the Seven Sisters, drawn thither by the sunny mildness of
the day. Sauntering about on the green hard by, I could hear the low hum
of their voices; and at last I took a place, almost unobserved, on one of
the outer seats a little distance from the group.
Eavesdropping, even in its most innocent form, hardly comes into the
category of virtues; but, in any serious attempt to study country life
and character, it must be reckoned almost a necessary vice. I confess,
in this respect, not only to having yielded to it as a lifelong,
irresistible habit, but to having cultivated it on many occasions as an
art. The English peasant under open observation is no more himself than
a wild bird in a cage; and these old folk, in particular, needed as much
wary stalking-down as any creature of the woodland. Settled myself
quietly now behind a newspaper in the corner, my presence, if it had been
marked at all, was soon forgotten; and the talk began again among the
group in the usual desultory, pondering style—talk in the ancient dialect
of Sussex, such as you will hear to-day only in the most out-of-the-way
villages, and then only among those with whose passing it also must pass
irrevocably away.
Daniel Dray, the old wheelwright, was tapping his stick reflectively on
his boot-toe, keeping time with the song of the pit-saw in the
neighbouring yard, where young Daniel was mightily at work. By his side
sat Tom Clemmer the elder, his bleak grey eyes far away in space. All
the rest of the company were studying the horizon in much the same
distraught, silent fashion. A very old, but still hearty man, in a wide
blue suit, was chipping at a plug of sailor’s tobacco with a jack-knife,
and smiling to himself. At length the smile developed into a rich
chuckle.
‘Dan’l,’ said he, ‘now you ha’ spoke a trew wured, if never afore! So
they be, Dan’l, so they be! Ay! an’ all round the wureld ’tis th’ same
wi’ ’em! Doan’t I know?’ He made a telling pause at the question, and
then—‘Not ’aaf!’ he added in solemn irony, as he struck a match on his
hindermost serge.
The old wheelwright stretched himself luxuriously in the sunshine.
‘I knows naun o’ Frenchies, an’ blackamoors, an’ sech-like,’ said he.
‘But a Sussex maid!—Ah!’
The exclamation, long drawn out, was echoed round the circle. Old Tom
Clemmer turned argumentatively in his seat.
‘Ay! real purty, Dan’l!—purty enough!’ he agreed. ‘Ye wur i’ luck’s way,
as I minds well wur said by all th’ folk, forebye ’tis so long ago. But,
Fegs! man! We han’t all had your fortun’ i’ bright eyes! What sez
Maast’ Grimble there?’
A thin high voice quavered out from the end of the bench. For full five
minutes it hovered in mid-air, like a long-drawn-out treble note on a
violin.
‘Ay! trew, Tom! Never a wured o’ a lee, Tom! But ’twur nane o’ my
doin’, as many’s th’ time I ha’ tould ye. Stavisham Fair, ’twur, i’
Fifty-three, as I first seed her, all i’ sky-blew an’ spangles; wi’ th’
lights flarin’, an’ th’ drooms bustin’, an’ th’ trumpets blowin’; an’
sech a crowd o’ gay folk as never got together afore, i’ th’ wureld.
Wunk, ’a did, at me; an’ I wunk back. Then ’a wunk agen, an’ ’twur all
ower, neighbours! We got church-bawled th’ follerin’ Sunday; an’ hoame I
fetched her all within th’ month. An’ then, Tom, ye knowed how’t fell
out. Six weeks o’ it, we had together; an’ then off ’a goos after ’a’s
ould carrawan agen, an’ I goos fer a souldger. An’ nane but th’ gurt
goodness knows whether I be married man or widder-man to-day.’
The faint, shrill voice ceased. A lean, old man, with a chubby face and
eyes of so pale a blue, that they seemed almost colourless in the rich,
yellow light of the afternoon, had been intently listening, a trembling
hand to each ear. He wore a spotless white round-frock, and was
punctiliously, unnaturally clean in all other respects. Now he brought
his finger-tips softly together, and stared at the sky in an ecstasy of
reminiscence.
‘Eighteen thousand happy days,’ said he triumphantly, ‘agen six weeks o’
rough an’ tumble—pore George! Ah! well-a-day! But ’tis so, neighbours.
Th’ Reverend, ’a figured it out fer Jane an’ me laast catterning-time.
Eighteen thou— Gorm! but I should ha’ lost ’em all, if she hadn’t up an’
spoke out! I ne’er had no thought on’t, trew as th’ sun goos round th’
sky. But Jane, ’a gie me a red neckercher wan Hock-Monday. Thinks I,
“Wat’s that fer?” An’ then ’a gie me a bag o’ pea-nuts, an’ sez I to
mysel’, “’Tis a queer maid surelye!” An’ then ’a cooms along at
harvest-time, an’ sez she, “’Enery Dawes, I ha’ jist heerd as ould Mistus
Fenny ’ull gie up th’ malthouse cottage at Milemas, an’ seein’ as how you
warnts me an’ I warnts you, ’twould be a pity to lose it; so let’s get
arsted i’ church directly-minute,” sez she. Wi’ that, ’a putt both arms
around th’ red neckercher, as I wore; an’ gie me wan, two, three—each
chop, an’ wan i’ th’ middle. Lor’ bless ye! I knowed then what ’a
meant, I did! I wur allers th’ sort as could see through a brick wall
fur as most folk: never warnted no more ’n an ’int.’
‘There agen!’ said old Tom Clemmer, after a pause. ‘Ye wur another o’
th’ lucky wans, ’Enery. Th’ best o’ wimmin plunked straight into your
eye, in a manner o’ speakin’. Ah! but courtin’ days warn’t all pea-nuts
an’ red handkerchers wi’ some o’ us, ’Enery! Dear! oh Lor’! what trouble
I did ha’, surelye!’
He stopped, and sat for a while smiling down into the bowl of his pipe,
and shaking his head.
‘But ye got her at laast, Tom!’ said Daniel Dray softly. He stole a
commiserate glance round at the other members of the company, and had a
silent, meaning nod from each. Old Tom Clemmer blushed, then laughed
outright.
‘Trew, Dan’l! An’ well I reckermembers th’ day as ’a first come to
Windlecombe—up to th’ farm-us yonder, though ’tis forty year ago. All o’
a heap, I wur, soon as I sot eyes on her. “Churn-maid?” sez I to mysel’,
“’twunt be long afore y’are summut better’n that, down at th’
forge-cottage ’long o’ me!” Come Sunday, I runs agen her on th’
litten-path. “Marnin’, Mary!” sez I, an’ gies her th’ marigolds I’d
picked fer her out o’ my own gay-ground; an’ down ’a throws ’em in th’
mud, an’ off wi’out so much as wured or look. Ah! a proud, fine maid ’a
wur!—to be sure an’ all!’
Tom Clemmer knocked out his pipe upon his crutch. Then he threw an
exultant glance about him.
‘What might a man do then, ye’d think? Well, as marigolds warn’t no
good, I tries laylocks. Not a bit on it! Jerrineums—wuss an’ wuss!
Roses—never so much as a sniff! Summut useful, thinks I; but they little
spring onions as I tied up in a bunch wi’ yaller ribbin, an’ hung on th’
dairy gate fer her, there they hung ’til they was yaller too. Then I has
a grand idee. Off I goos to Stavisham, an’ buys a gurt big hamber
brooch; an’ a silver necklace wot weighed down my pocket, carryin’ of it;
an’ a spanglorious goulden weddin’-ring. “Now, my gel, we’ll jest see!”
sez I all th’ way hoame. I bides quiet ’til Sunday, then I hides ahent
th’ gurt elver-tree, an’ pops out upon her suddentlike, as ’a cooms
along. I offers her th’ brooch. “Get out o’ my way!” sez she, “’tis
jest a common ha’penny fairin’— No, ’tis hamber, ’tis real purty!” ’a
sez, an’ brings up stock-still. Then out cooms th’ necklace, an’ down
went ’a’s good book slap i’ th’ dirt. “Oh! ’tis kind o’ ye, blacksmith!”
sez she, ketchin’ hould on’t. “Ah! but what thinks you o’ this here?”
sez I; “but I mount gie it ye yet awhile, ’cause ’tis unlucky fer a maid
to ha’ th’ ring afore th’ day.” Lor! what eyes ’a had, surelye! ’A
thought a bit, then sez she, “Thomas Clemmer, how much ha’ ye got laid
by?” An’ soon as I’d tould her, sez she, “I’ll ha’ ye, Tom, darlin’, fer
I never loved nane but you!” Ah! well, well! Most onaccountable, ’tis,
how th’ very wureds cooms back to ye, arter years an’ years!’
He fell into a brown study, out of which he presently came with a jerk.
‘Fower o’clock? Never! Gorm! how high th’ sun be! I must be getten
hoame-along!’
He rose upon his one serviceable foot, fitted the other foot, a shapeless
bundle of linen, into the sling that hung from his neck, seized his
crutches, and stumped placidly away. There was a direct path from the
Seven Sisters across the green to Tom Clemmer’s cottage, but he always
came and went by the roundabout route through the churchyard. For the
excellent, but frugal-minded Mrs. Clemmer had lain there, under a
home-made iron cross and a carefully tended bed of marigolds, these
twenty years back.