"When daisies pied and violets blue
And lady-smocks all silver-white
And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue
Do paint the meadows with delight."--_Shakespeare_.
On the top of the ridge of hills which rose behind Mrs White's cottage
there was a great beech wood, which could be reached in two ways. One
was by following a rough stony road which got gradually steeper and was
terribly hard for both man and beast, and the other was to take a chalky
track which led straight across the rounded shoulder of the downs.
This last was considerably shorter, and by active people was always
preferred to the road, although in summer it was glaring and unshaded.
But the scramble was soon over, and in the deep quiet shelter of the
woods it was cool on the hottest day, for the trees held their leaves so
thickly over your head that it was better than any roof. The sun could
not get through to scorch or dazzle, but it lit up the flickering sprays
on the low boughs, so that looking through them you saw a silvery
shimmering dance always going on. In the valley there had not perhaps
been a breath of air, but up here a little ruffling breeze had its home,
and was ready to fan you gently and hospitably directly you arrived.
Under your feet a red-and-brown carpet of last year's leaves was spread,
stirred now and then with sudden mysterious rustlings as the small wild
creatures darted away at the sound of your step. These and the birds
shared the woods in almost complete solitude, disturbed now and again by
the woodcutters, or boys from the village. But there was one day in the
year when this quiet kingdom was strangely invaded, when its inhabitants
fled to their most retired corners and peeped out with terrified eyes
upon a very altered scene--and this was the first of May. Then
everything was changed for a little while. Instead of the notes of the
birds there were human voices calling to each other, laughing, singing,
shouting, and the music of a band; instead of great silent spaces, there
were many brightly-coloured figures which ran and danced. In the midst,
where a clearing had been made and the oldest trees stood solemnly
round, there appeared the slim form of a maypole decked with gay
ribbons; near it a throne covered with hawthorn boughs, on which,
dressed in white with garland and sceptre, was seated the Queen of the
May. There with great ceremony she was crowned by her court, and
afterwards led the dance round the maypole. Songs and feasting followed
until the sun went down, and then the gay company marched away to the
sounds of "God save the Queen." Quietness reigned in the woods again,
and once more the wild creatures which lived there could roam and fly at
their pleasure until next May Day.
Now this holiday, which was fast approaching again, was not only looked
forward to with interest and excitement by the children, but was an
event of importance to everyone in the village. The very oldest made
shift somehow to get up to the woods and join in the rejoicing, and the
most careworn and sorrowful managed to struggle out of their gloom for
that one day, and to leave behind the dulness of their daily toil.
Many, coming from distant parts of the parish, met for the only time
throughout the year in the woods on May Day, and found the keenest
pleasure in comparing the growth of their children, and talking of their
neighbours' affairs. It was a source of pride and satisfaction, too, to
fathers as well as mothers, to point out some child in the procession so
bedecked with flowers that the real Johnnie was hardly visible, and say
with a grin of delight:
"Why, it's our Johnnie, I do declare! Shouldn't never a known him." As
the time came round again, therefore, it was more or less in everyone's
mind in some way. For one thing: Would it be fine? That affected
everyone's comfort, for a cold wet May Day could be nothing but a
miserable failure. Mr Dimbleby at the shop had his own anxieties, for
it was his business to provide tea, bread and butter, and cake for the
whole assembly, and to get it all up to the top of the hill--no small
matter. To do this it was necessary to keep his mind steadily fixed on
May Day for a whole week beforehand, and not to allow it to relax for an
instant. The drum-and-fife band, who felt themselves the pride and
ornament of the occasion, had to practise new tunes and polish up "God
save the Queen" to a great pitch of perfection, and the children thought
themselves busier than anyone. Not only had they to wonder who would be
Queen, but they must meet in the Vicarage garden and learn how to dance
round the maypole, singing at the same time. Not only must they present
themselves at all sorts of odd hours to have some wonderful costume
"tried on" by Miss Ellen and Miss Alice, but above all they had to
gather the flowers for the wreaths and garlands. Sometimes, if the
season were cold and backward, it was difficult to get enough; but this
year, as Lilac had noticed with delight, it had been so bright and mild
that the meadows were thick with blossoms and there was no fear of any
scarcity. She was always amongst the children chosen "to gather"; and
there was more in this office than might at first appear, for there were
good gatherers and bad gatherers. It might be done carelessly and in a
half-hearted manner, or with full attention and earnest effort, and
these results were evident when each child brought her own collection to
the school room on May morning. The contents of the baskets were very
different, for some showed plainly that as little trouble as possible
had been taken. These flowers were picked anyhow, with short stalks or
long stalks, in bud or too fully blown, faded or fresh, just as they
happened to grow and could be most easily got. Others, again, you could
see at the first glance, had been gathered with care and thought, the
finest specimens chosen just at the right stage of blossoming, and tied
in neat bunches with the stalks all of one length. You might be sure
that the flowers in these baskets were quite as good at the bottom as
those on the top. Now, Lilac White was a gatherer on whom you might
depend, and the ladies at the Rectory who made the wreaths, and dressed
the Queen, and arranged the festivities, considered her their best
support in the matter of flowers. For, by reason of having had her eye
upon them for weeks beforehand, she knew every spring where the finest
grew, whether they were early or late, and whether they would be ready
for the great occasion. When they had to be gathered she spared no
trouble, but would get up at any hour so that they might be picked
before the sun scorched them, walk any distance or climb the steepest
hills to get the very finest possible. She was always appealed to when
any question arose about the flowers. "We must ask Lilac White whether
the king-cups are out," Miss Ellen would say; and Lilac was always able
to tell. She filled, therefore, a very pleasant and important post at
these times, and took great pride in it; but her Cousin Agnetta looked
at this part of the affair differently. To her there was neither
pleasure nor profit in "mucking" about in the damp fields, as she said,
getting her feet wet, and spoiling her frock in stooping about after the
flowers. She wished Mrs Leigh would let them wear artificials, which
were quite as pretty to look at, and did not fade or get messy, and were
no bother at all. You could wear 'em time after time. Agnetta felt
quite sure she should be Queen this year, and although she did not like
the trouble beforehand she looked forward to the event itself very much
indeed. There were many agreeable things about it: the white dress, the
crown, the crowd of people looking on, and the fact of being first
amongst her companions. It was a little vexing that Lilac was quicker
to learn the steps of the dance Miss Ellen was teaching them, and could
sing the May-Day song better than she could. Agnetta always sang out of
tune, and tumbled over her own feet in the dance; but she consoled
herself by remembering how well she should look as Queen dressed all in
white, with her red cheeks and frizzy black hair. Meanwhile the Queen
was not yet chosen, but would be voted for in the school a week
beforehand.
Who would be chosen? It was a question which occupied a good many minds
just then, and amongst them one which was not supposed to trouble itself
about such matters, or to have anything to do with merry-making. This
was Peter Greenways' mind. He was so dull and silent, and worked so
very hard all the year, that it was an ever fresh surprise to see him
appear with the rest on May Day, and came natural to say, "What, you
here, Peter!" although he had never missed a single occasion. He
expressed no pleasure, and showed no outward sign of enjoyment; but he
always went, to the great vexation of his sisters, who were heartily
ashamed of him. His face was red, his figure was loutish--it was
impossible to smarten him up or make him look like other folks; he
continued, in spite of all their efforts, to be just plain
Peter--"dreadful vulgar" in his appearance. And the worst of it was,
that you could not overlook him in the crowd. This might have been the
case if he had been allowed to wear his ordinary working-clothes, but
Peter in his "best" was an object which seemed to stand out from all
others, and to be present wherever the eye turned.
On the day which was to decide the important question, Peter had been
ploughing in a part of his father's land called the High Field. All the
rest lay level on the plain round about the farm, but this one field was
on the shoulder of the downs, so that from it you looked far over the
distant valley, with its little clusters of villages dotted here and
there. Immediately below was the grey church of Danecross, the rectory,
the school-house, and a group of cottages all nestling sociably
together; farther on, Orchards Farm peeped out from amongst the trees,
which were still white with blossom, and above all this came the cold
serious outline of the chalk hills, broken here and there by the beech
woods. Peter never felt so happy as when he was looking at this from
the High Field, with his dinner in his pocket and the prospect of a long
day's work before him. It was so far away from all that disturbed and
worried; no one to scold, no one to call him clumsy, no one to look
angrily at him, no sounds of dispute. Only the voice of the wind, which
blew so freshly up here and seemed to cheer him on, and the song of the
larks high above his head, and for companions his good beasts with no
reproof in their patient eyes, but only obedience and kindness. Peter
was master in the High Field. No one could do a better day's work or
drive a straighter furrow, and he was proud of it, and proud of his
team--three iron-greys, with white manes and tails, called "Pleasant",
"Old Pleasant", and "Young Pleasant." Yet though he did his ploughing
well, it by no means occupied all his mind. As he trudged backwards and
forwards with bent head, and hands grasping the handles, with now and
then a shout to his horses, and now and then a pause for rest, his
thoughts were free as the wind, flying about to an sorts of subjects.
For this silent Peter had always something to wonder about. He never
asked questions now as he had done at school: he had been laughed at so
much then, that he knew well enough by this time that he only wondered
so much because he was more stupid than other folks; it must be so, for
the most common things which he saw every day, and which wise people
took as a matter of course, were enough to puzzle him and fill his mind
with wonder. The stars, the flowers, the sunset, the sound of the wind,
the very pebbles turned up by the ploughshare, gave him strange feelings
which he did not understand and which he carefully hid. They would have
been explained, he knew, if he had expressed them, by the sentence,
"Peter's not all there"; and he was sometimes quite inclined to think
that this was really the case. To-day his thoughts had been fixed on
the approaching holiday, and on all the delights of the past one. It
was to him a most beautiful and even solemn occasion, and he could
recall the very smallest detail of it from year to year: even the
uncertain squeaks and flourishes of the drum and fife band were
something to be remembered with pleasure. As his eye rested on the
school-house, a small red dot in the distance, he wondered if they had
settled on the Queen yet, and whether Agnetta would be chosen. "She'll
be rarely vexed if she ain't," he thought seriously. So the day went
by, and after five o'clock had sounded from the church tower Peter and
his beasts left off work and went leisurely down the hill towards home;
two of the Pleasants in front with their harness clanking and flapping
loosely about them, and their master following, seated sideways on the
back of the third. Peter had done a long day's work and was hungry, but
he did not go into the house till he had seen his horses attended to by
Ben Pinhorn, who was in the yard when they arrived. Even after this he
was further delayed, for as he was crossing the lane which separated the
farm buildings from the house an ugly cat ran to meet him, rubbed
against his legs, and mewed.
"Jump, then, Tib," said Peter encouragingly; and Tib jumped, arriving
with outspread claws on the front of his waistcoat and thence to his
shoulder. Thus accompanied he went to the kitchen window and tapped
softly, which signal brought Molly the servant girl with a saucer of
skim milk.
"There's your supper, Tib," said Peter as he set it on the ground, and
stood looking heavily down at the cat till she had lapped up the last
drop. And in this there was reason; for Sober the sheepdog, lying near,
had his eye on the saucer, and only waited for Tib to be undefended to
advance and finish the milk himself.
Being now quite ready for his own refreshment Peter made his way through
the back kitchen into the general living-room of the family, which also,
much to Bella's disgust, had the appearance of a kitchen. It was large
and comfortable, with three windows in it, looking across the garden to
the orchard, but, alas! it had a great fireplace and oven, where cooking
often went on, and an odious high settle sticking out from one corner of
the chimney. This was enough to deprive it of all gentility, without
mentioning the long deal table at which in former times the farmer had
been used to dine with his servants. They were banished now to the back
kitchen, but this was the only reform Bella and Gusta had been able to
make. Nothing would induce their father to sit in the parlour, where
there was a complete set of velvet-covered chairs, a sofa, a piano, a
photograph-book, and a great number of anti-macassars and mats. All
these elegances were not enough to make him give up his warm corner in
the settle, where he could stretch out his legs at his ease and smoke
his pipe. Mrs Greenways herself, though she was proud of her parlour,
secretly preferred the kitchen, as being more handy and comfortable, so
that except on great occasions the parlour was left in chilly
loneliness. When Peter entered there were only his mother and Bella in
the room. The latter stood at the table with a puzzled frown on her
brow, and a large pair of scissors in her hand; before her were spread
paper patterns, fashion-books, and some pieces of black velveteen, which
she was eyeing doubtfully, and, placing in different ways so that it
might be cut to the best advantage. Bella was considered a fine young
woman. She had a large frame like all the Greenways, and nature had
given her a waist in proportion to it. She had, however, fought against
nature and conquered, for her figure now resembled an hour-glass--very
wide at the top, and suddenly very small in the middle. Like Agnetta
she had a great deal of colour, frizzy black hair, and a good-natured
expression, but her face was just now clouded by some evident vexation.
"Lor', Bella," said her mother, turning round from the hearth, "put away
them fal-lals--do. Here's Peter wanting his tea, and your father'll be
along from market directly." Bella did not answer, partly because her
mouth was full of pins, and Mrs Greenways continued: "You might hurry
and get the tea laid just for once. I'm clean tired out."
"Where's Molly?" muttered Bella indistinctly.
"Molly indeed!" exclaimed her mother impatiently. "It's Molly here and
Molly there. One 'ud think she had a hundred legs and arms for all you
think she can do. Molly's scrubbing out the dairy, which she ought to a
done this morning."
"It won't run to it after all!" exclaimed Bella, dashing her scissors
down on the table; "not by a good quarter of a yard."
"An' you've been and wasted pretty nigh all the afternoon over it," said
Mrs Greenways. "I do wish Gusta wouldn't send you them patterns, that
I do."
"I've cut up the skirt of my velveteen trying to fashion it," said
Bella, looking mournfully at the plate in Myra's Journal, "so now I'm
ever so much worse off than I was afore. Lor', Peter!" she added, as
her eye fell on her brother, "do go and take off that horrid gaberdine
and them boots. You look for all the world like Ben Pinhorn, there
ain't a pin to choose between you."
"You oughtn't to speak so sharp," said her mother, as Peter slouched out
of the room. "I know what it is to feel spent like that after a day's
work. You just come in and fling down where you are and as you are,
boots or no boots."
As she spoke the rattle of wheels was heard outside, and then the click
of a gate.
"There now!" she exclaimed, starting up; "there _is_ yer father. Back
already, and a fine taking he'll be in to see all this muss about and no
tea ready. He's short enough always when he's bin to market, without
anything extry to vex him." She swept Bella's scraps, patterns, and
books unceremoniously into a heap, and directly afterwards the tramp of
heavy feet sounded in the passage, and the farmer entered. His first
glance as he threw himself on the settle was at the table, where Bella
was hurriedly clearing away her confused mass of working materials.
"Be off with all that rubbish and let's have tea," he said crossly.
"Why can't it be ready when I come in?"
"You're a bit earlier than usual, Richard," said his wife; "but you'll
have it in no time now. The kettle's on the boil."
She made anxious signs to Bella to quicken her movements, for she saw
that the farmer was in a bad humour. Things had not gone well at
market.
"And what did you see at Lenham?" she asked, as she began to put the
cups and saucers on the table.
"Nawthing," answered Mr Greenways, staring at the fire.
"What did you hear then?" persisted his wife.
"Nawthing," was the answer again.
Mother and daughter exchanged meaning looks. The farmer jerked his head
impatiently round.
"What I want to see is summat to eat, and what I want to hear is no more
questions till I've got it. So there!"
He thrust out his legs, pushed his hands deep down in his pockets, and
with his chin sunk on his breast sat there a picture of moody
discontent.
After a good deal of clatter and bustle, and calls for Molly, the tea
was ready at last--a substantial meal, but somewhat untidily served--and
Peter, having changed the offensive gaberdine for a shiny black cloth
coat, having joined them, the party sat down. It was a very silent one,
for no one dared to address another remark to the farmer until he had
satisfied his appetite, which took some time. At last, however, as he
handed his cup to his wife to be refilled, he asked:
"Who made the butter this week?"
"Why, Molly, as always makes it," answered Mrs Greenways. "Wasn't it
good. I thought it looked beautiful."
"Well, all I know is," said the farmer moodily, "that Benson told me
to-day that if this lot was like the last he wouldn't take no more."
"Lor', Richard, you don't really mean it!" said Mrs Greenways, setting
down the teapot with a thump. "Whatever shall we do if Benson won't
take the butter?"
"You can't expect him to take it if it ain't good," answered the farmer.
"I don't blame him; he's got to sell it again."
"It's that there good-for-nothing Molly," said Mrs Greenways. "I'm
always after her about the dairy, yet if my head's turned a minute
she'll forget to scald her pans, and that gives the butter a sour
taste."
"All I know is, it's a hard thing, that with good pasture and good cows,
and three women indoors, the butter can't be made so as it's fit to
sell," said Mr Greenways, hitting the table with his fist.
"What's the use of Bella and Agnetta, I should like to know?"
Bella tossed her head and smiled. "Lor', Pa, how you talk!" she said
mincingly.
"They've never been taught nothing of such things," said Mrs Greenways;
"and besides, Agnetta's got her schooling yet awhile."
"Fancy me," said Bella with a giggle, "making the butter with my sleeves
tucked up like Molly. I hope I'm above that sort of thing. I didn't go
to Lenham finishing school to _learn_ that."
"I can't find out what it was you did learn there," growled her father,
"except to look down on everything useful. I'll not have Agnetta sent
there, I know. Not if I had the money, I wouldn't. It's bad enough to
have bad seasons and poor crops to do with out-of-doors, without having
a set of dressed-up lazy hussies in the house, who mar more than they
make. Where to turn for money I don't know, and there's going on for
three years' rent owing to Mr Leigh."
He got up as he spoke and left the room, followed by Peter. Bella
continued her tea placidly. Father was always cross on market days, and
it did not impress her in the least to be called lazy; she was far more
interested in the fate of her velveteen dress than in the quality of the
butter. But this was not the case with Mrs Greenways. To hear that
Benson had threatened not to take the butter was a real as well as a new
trouble, and alarmed her greatly. The rent owing and the failing crops
were such a very old story that she had ceased to heed it much, but what
would happen if the butter was not sold? The dairy was one of their
largest sources of profit, and, as the farmer had said, the pasture was
good and the cows were good. There was no fault out-of-doors. Whose
fault was it? Molly's without doubt. "But then," reflected Mrs
Greenways, "she have got a sight to do, and you can't hurry butter; you
must have care and time." She sighed as she glanced at Bella's strong
capable form. Perhaps it would have been better after all, as Mrs
White had so often said, to bring up her girls to understand household
matters, instead of being stylishly idle. "I did it for their good,"
thought poor Mrs Greenways; "and anyhow, it's too late to alter 'em
now. They'd no more take to it than ducks to flying." She was startled
out of these reflections by the sudden entrance of Agnetta, who burst
into the room with a hot excited face, and flung her bag of books into a
corner.
"Well," said Bella, looking calmly at her, "I s'pose you're to be Queen,
ain't you?"
"No!" exclaimed Agnetta angrily, "I ain't Queen; and it's a shame, so it
is."
"Why, whoever is it, then?" asked Bella, open-mouthed.
"They've been and chosen Lilac White; sneaking little thing!" said
Agnetta.
"Well, now, surely, I am surprised," said her mother. "I made sure
they'd choose you, Agnetta; being the oldest, and the best lookin', and
all. I do call it hard."
"It's too bad," continued Agnetta, thus encouraged; "after I've been
such a friend to her, and helped her cut her hair. It's ungrateful.
She might have told me."
"Why, I don't suppose she knew it, did she?" said Bella.
"She went all on pretending she wanted me Queen," said Agnetta, "as
innocent as you please. And she must a known there were a lot meant to
vote for her. I call it mean."
"Never you mind, Agnetta," said her mother soothingly; "come and get yer
tea, and here's a pot of strawberry jam as you're fond of. She'll never
make half such a good Queen as you, and I dessay you'll look every bit
as fine now, when you're dressed."
"I don't want no strawberry jam," said Agnetta sullenly, kicking at the
leg of the table.
"Mercy me!" said poor Mrs Greenways with a sigh, "everything do seem to
go crossways today."