The upbringing of John Throgmorton at Yarningdale Farm has more of the
nature of an idyll in it than one is wont to ask for in a modern world,
where idylls are out of fashion and it has become the habit to set one's
teeth at life.
Still continuing, as soon as she was strong again, to fulfill the duties
of milkmaid for Mr. Peverell, Mary spent all her spare time with her
child. No fretting mother she was, but calm and serene in all her
doings. He took no fever of spirit from her.
"Seems as if the milk she give him must almost be cool," said Mrs.
Peverell to her husband, who now, since the registration of John's birth
had had to be told the truth--that there was no father--that Mary was
one of those women who had gone astray.
"Fair, she beats me," he replied. "Ain't there no shame to her? Not
that I want to see her shamed. But it 'mazes me seein' her calm and easy
like this. Keep them cows quiet, I told her when she 'gan amilkin'--keep
'em easy. Don't fret 'em. They'll give 'ee half as much milk again if
'ee don't fret 'em. And when the flies were at 'en last summer, dommed
if she didn't get more milk than that lad could have got. That's where
she's learnt it. She ain't frettin' herself when most women 'ud be
hangin' their heads and turnin' the milk to water in their breasts wi'
shame. I doant make her out and that's the truth of it."
Yet he had made her out far better than he knew. That was where she had
learnt the secret, as she had intended she should learn all the secrets
it was possible to know. On sunny days she took her baby with her into
the fields where the cows were grazing.
One by one on the first of these occasions, solemnly she showed them the
treasure she brought. Sponsors, they were, she told them, having had
recent acquaintance with that word. One by one they stared with velvet
eyes at the bundle that was presented to them.
When that ceremony was over, solemnly proclaimed with words the written
word can give no meaning to, she found for herself a sheltered corner in
the hedgerow, there unfastening her dress and with cool fingers lifting
her breast for his lips to suckle where none could watch her. The warm
spring air on those sunny days was no less food for him than the milk
she gave. With gurgling noises he drew it in. With round, dark eyes,
set fast with the purposes of life, he took his fill as she gazed upon
him.
That there was nothing more wonderful to a woman than this, Mary knew in
all the certainty of her heart. There alone with her baby, she wanted no
other passion, no other love, no other company. This for a woman was
the completeness of fulfillment. Yet this it was that men denied to so
many.
She knew then in those moments that no shame would be too great to bear
with patience for such realization of life as this. Realization it was
and, to fail in knowing it, was like a fallow field to have yielded
naught but a harvest of weeds in which there was shame indeed.
Often in the previous summer she had heard Mr. Peverell bitterly
accusing himself for the bare and weedy patches in his crops. Twice
since she had been there on the farm had a barren cow been sent to
market for sale because it was of no use to them. They had been cows
she herself had named. She had fretted when they were driven away and
had taken herself far from the yard when it came to the moment of their
departure.
Yet no word of pleading had she said to Mr. Peverell on such occasions.
Receive and give, these were the laws she recognized and found no power
of sentiment strong enough in her to make her seek or need to disobey
them. Gain and keep--against such principles as these her soul had
caparisoned and armed itself, clearly knowing how all laws in the
operation must carry with them the savor of injustice, uncomplaining if
that injustice should be measured for her portion. For never so great an
injustice could it be as that which men in their ideals of possession
and inheritance had meted out to women. Living there at Yarningdale
Farm so close to the land, she had found a greater beneficence in Nature
than in all the organized charity of mankind.
On the second occasion when the barren cow had been sent to market some
delay had been made in her departure and Mary had returned to the house
just as the flurried beast had been driven out of the yard. With head
averted, she had quickened her steps into the house, finding Mrs.
Peverell looking out of the window in the parlor kitchen.
"Why are they drivin' that cow to market?" she asked. "He said naught
to me 'bout sellin' a cow to-day."
"She's barren," said Mary. "They sent her four times to the bull. I've
milked her nearly dry now. It does seem hard, doesn't it? She was so
quiet. But I'm afraid she's no good to us."
She had been taking off her hat as she spoke, never appreciating the
significance of what she said when, in a moment, she became conscious of
Mrs. Peverell's silence and swiftly turned round.
She was standing quite motionless with one hand resting on the back of a
chair, staring out of the window at the departing beast, yet seeing
nothing, for, with a searching steadfastness, her eyes were looking
inwards.
For a moment Mary's presence of mind had left her. She had swayed in
movement, half coming forward when indecision had arrested her. It
might not be that her thoughts were what Mary supposed. To comfort her
for them if they were not there was only to put them in her mind.
"What are you thinking of?" she inquired tentatively.
"I be thinkin'," said Mrs. Peverell, "if he gets a good price for that
cow we'd have a new lot o' bricks laid down in that wash-house. There
be holes there a body might fall over in the dark."
A thousand times more bitter was this than the truth, for still she
stood staring inwards with her thoughts and still standing there, with
her hand on the back of the chair and her eyes gazing through the
window, Mary had left her and gone upstairs.