THE FEAST
An Elmsdale Sunday was a day of rest for man and beast alike. There
could be no manner of doubt that the horses and dogs were able to
distinguish the Sabbath from the workaday week. Prince, six-year-old
Cleveland bay, the strongest and tallest horse in the stable, when his
headstall was taken off on Sunday morning, showed his canny Yorkshire
sense by walking past the row of carts and pushing open a rickety gate
that led to a tiny meadow kept expressly for odd grazing. After him, in
Indian file, went five other horses; yet, on any other day in the week
they would stand patiently in the big yard, waiting to be led away
singly or in pairs.
Curly and Jim, the two sheep-dogs--who never failed between Monday and
Saturday to yawn and stretch expectantly by the side of John Bolland's
sturdy nag in the small yard near the house--on the seventh day made
their way to the foreman's cottage, there attending his leisure for a
scamper over the breezy moorland.
For, Sunday or weekday, sheep must be counted. If any are missing, the
almost preternatural intelligence of the collie is invoked to discover
the hollow in which the lost ones are reposing helplessly on their
backs. They will die in a few hours if not placed on their legs again.
Turn over unaided they cannot. Man or dog must help, or they choke.
Even the cocks and hens, the waddling geese and ducks, the huge
shorthorns, which are the pride of the village, seemed to grasp the
subtle distinction between life on a quiet day and the well-filled
existence of the six days that had gone before. At least, Martin thought
so; but he did not know then that the windows of the soul let in
imageries that depend more on mood than on reality.
Personally he hated Sunday, or fancied he did. He had Sunday clothes,
Sunday boots, Sunday food, a Sunday face, and a Sunday conscience.
Things were wrong on Sunday that were right during the rest of the week.
Though the sky was as bright, the grass as green, the birds as tuneful
on that day as on others, he was supposed to undergo a metamorphosis
throughout all the weary waking hours. His troubles often began the
moment he quitted his bed. As his "best" clothes and boots were so
little worn, they naturally maintained a spick-and-span appearance
during many months. Hence, he was given a fresh assortment about once a
year, and the outfit possessed three distinct periods of use, of which
the first tortured his mind and the third his body.
He being a growing lad, the coat was made too long in the sleeves, the
trousers too long in the legs, and the boots too large. At the beginning
of this epoch he looked and felt ridiculous. Gradually, the effect of
roast beef and suet dumplings brought about a better fit, and during
four months of the year he was fairly smart in appearance. Then there
came an ominous shrinkage. His wrists dangled below the coat cuffs,
there was an ever-widening rim of stocking between the tops of the boots
and the trousers' ends, while Mrs. Bolland began to grumble each week
about the amount of darning his stockings required. Moreover, there were
certain quite insurmountable difficulties in the matter of buttons, and
it was with a joy tempered only by fear of the grotesque that he beheld
the "best" suit given away to an urchin several sizes smaller than
himself.
Happily for his peace of mind, the Feast occurred in the middle stage of
the current supply of raiment, so he was as presentable as a peripatetic
tailor who worked in the house a fortnight at Christmas could make him.
But this Sunday dragged terribly. The routine of chapel from 10:30 A.M.
to noon, Sunday-school from 3 P.M. to 4:30 P.M., and chapel again from
6:30 P.M. to 8 P.M., was inevitable, but there were compensations in the
whispered confidences of Jim Bates and Tommy Beadlam, the latter
nicknamed "White Head," as to the nature of some of the shows.
The new conditions brought into his life by Angele Saumarez troubled him
far more than he could measure. Her mere presence in the secluded
village carried a breath of the unknown. Her talk was of London and
Paris, of parks, theatres, casinos, luxurious automobiles, deck-cabins,
and Pullman cars. She seemed to have lived so long and seen so much. Yet
she knew very little. Her ceaseless chatter in French and English, which
sounded so smart at first, would not endure examination.
She had read nothing. When Martin spoke of "Robinson Crusoe" and
"Ivanhoe," of "Treasure Island" and "The Last of the Mohicans"--a
literary medley devoured for incident and not for style--she had not
even heard of them, but produced for inspection an astonishingly rude
colored cartoon, the French comments on which she translated literally.
He was a boy aglow with dim but fervent ideals; she, a girl who had
evidently been allowed to grow up almost wild in the midst of
fashionable life and flippant servants, all exigencies being fulfilled
when she spoke nicely and cleverly and wore her clothes with the
requisite chic. The two were as opposed in essentials as an honest
English apple grown in a wholesome garden and a rare orchid, the product
of some poisonous equatorial swamp.
He tried to interest her in the sights and sounds of country life. She
met him more than halfway by putting embarrassing questions as to the
habits of animals. More than once he told her plainly that there were
some things little girls ought not to know, whereat she laughed
scornfully, but switched the conversation to a topic on which she could
vex him, as was nearly always the case in her references to Elsie
Herbert or John Bolland's Bible teaching.
Yet he was restless and irritable because he did not see her on the
Sunday. Mrs. Saumarez, it is true, sped swiftly through the village
about three o'clock, and again at half-past seven. On each occasion the
particular chapel affected by the Bollands was resounding with a
loud-voiced hymn or echoing the vibrant tones of a preacher powerful
beyond question in the matter of lungs and dogmatism. The whir of the
Mercedes shut off these sounds; but Martin heard the passing of the car
and knew that Angele was in it.
It was a novel experience for the Misses Walker to find that their
lodgers recognized no difference between Sunday and the rest of the
week. Mrs. Saumarez dined at 6:30 P.M., a concession of an hour and a
half to rural habits, but she scouted the suggestion that a cold meal
should be served to enable the "girls" to go to church. The old ladies
dared not quarrel with one who paid so well. They remained at home and
cooked and served the dinner.
As Francoise, to a large extent, waited on her mistress, this
development might not have been noticed had not Angele's quick eyes seen
Miss Emmy Walker carrying a chicken and a dish of French beans to a
small table in the hall.
She told her mother, and Mrs. Saumarez was annoyed. She had informed
Miss Martha that if the servants required a "night out," the addition of
another domestic to the household at her expense would give them a good
deal more liberty, but this ridiculous "Sunday-evening" notion must stop
forthwith.
"It gets on my nerves, this British Sabbath," she exclaimed peevishly.
"In London I entertain largely on a Sunday and have never had any
trouble. Do you mean to say I cannot invite guests to dinner on Sunday
merely to humor a cook or a housemaid? Absurd!"
Miss Martha promised reform.
"Let her have her way," she said to Miss Emmy. "Another servant will
have nothing to do, and all the girls will grow lazy; but we must keep
Mrs. Saumarez as long as we can. Oh, if she would only remain a year,
we'd be out of debt, with the house practically recarpeted throughout!"
Unfortunately, Mrs. Saumarez's nerves were upset. She was snappy all the
evening. Francoise tried many expedients to soothe her mistress's
ruffled feelings. She brought a bundle of illustrated papers, a parcel
of books, the scores of a couple of operas, even a gorgeous assortment
of patterns of the new autumn dress fabrics, but each and all failed to
attract. For some reason the preternaturally acute Angele avoided her
mother. She seemed to be afraid of her when in this mood. The Misses
Walker, seeing the anxiety of the maid and the unwonted retreat of the
child to bed at an early hour, were miserable at the thought that such a
trivial matter should have given their wealthy tenant cause for dire
offense.
So Sunday passed irksomely, and everyone was glad when the next morning
dawned in bright cheerfulness.
From an early hour there was evidence in plenty that the Elmsdale Feast
would be an unqualified success, though shorn of many of its ancient
glories.
Time was when the village used to indulge in a week's saturnalia, but
the march of progress had affected rural Yorkshire even so long ago as
1906. The younger people could visit Leeds, York, Scarborough, or Whitby
by Saturday afternoon "trips"--special excursion trains run at cheap
rates--while "week-ends" in London were not unknown luxuries, and these
frequent opportunities for change of scene and recreation had lessened
the scope of the annual revels. Still, the trading instinct kept alive
the commercial side of the Feast; the splendid hospitality of the north
country asserted itself; church and chapels seized the chance of
reaching enlarged congregations, and a number of itinerant showmen
regarded Elmsdale as a fixture in the yearly round.
So, on the Monday, every neighboring village and moorland hamlet poured
in its quota. The people came on foot from the railway station, distant
nearly two miles, on horseback, in every sort of conveyance. The roads
were alive with cattle, sheep, and pigs. The programme mapped out bore a
general resemblance on each of the four days. The morning was devoted to
business, the afternoon and evening to religion or pleasure.
The proceedings opened with a horse fair. An agent of the German
Government snapped up every Cleveland bay offered for sale. George
Pickering, in sporting garb, and smoking a big cigar, was an early
arrival. He bid vainly for a couple of mares which he needed to complete
his stud. Germany wanted them more urgently.
A splendid mare, the property of John Bolland, was put up for auction.
The auctioneer read her pedigree, and proved its authenticity by
reference to the Stud Book.
"Is she in foal?" asked Pickering, and a laugh went around. Bolland
scowled blackly. If a look could have slain the younger man he would
assuredly have fallen dead.
The bidding commenced at L40 and rose rapidly to L60.
Then Pickering lost his temper. The agent for Germany was too
pertinacious.
"Seventy," he shouted, though the bids hitherto had mounted by single
sovereigns.
"Seventy-one," said the agent.
"Eighty!" roared Pickering.
"Eighty-one!" nodded the agent.
"The reserve is off," interposed the auctioneer, and again the
surrounding farmers guffawed, as the mare had already gone to twenty
pounds beyond her value.
Pickering swallowed his rage with an effort. He turned to Bolland.
"That's an offset for my hard words the other day," he said.
But the farmer thrust aside the proffered olive branch.
"Once a fule, always a fule," he growled. Pickering, though anything but
a fool in business, took the ungracious remark pleasantly enough.
"He ought to sing a rare hymn this afternoon," he cried. "I've put a
score of extra sovereigns in his pocket, and he doesn't even say 'Thank
you.' Well, it's the way of the world. Who's dry?"
This invitation caused an adjournment to the "Black Lion." The
auctioneer knew his clients.
Pickering's allusion to the hymn was not made without knowledge. At
three o'clock, on a part of the green farthest removed from the thronged
stalls and the blare of a steam-driven organ, Bolland and a few other
earnest spirits surrounded the stentorian preacher and held an open-air
service. They selected tunes which everybody knew and, as a result, soon
attracted a crowd of older people, some of whom brought their children.
Martin, of course, was in the gathering.
Meanwhile, along the line of booths, a couple of leather-lunged men were
singing old-time ballads, dealing for the most part with sporting
incidents. They soon became the centers of two packed audiences, mainly
young men and boys, but containing more than a sprinkling of girls. The
ditties were couched in "broad Yorkshire"--sometimes too broad for
modern taste. Whenever a particularly crude stanza was bawled forth a
chuckle would run through the audience, and coppers in plenty were
forthcoming for printed copies of the song, which, however, usually fell
short of the blunt phraseology of the original. The raucous ballad
singers took risks feared by the printer.
Mrs. Saumarez, leading Angele by the hand, thought she would like to
hear one of these rustic melodies, and halted. Instantly the vendor
changed his cue. The lady might be the wife of a magistrate. Once he got
fourteen days as a rogue and a vagabond at the instance of just such
another interested spectator, who put the police in action.
Quickly surfeited by the only half-understood humor of a song describing
the sale of a dead horse, she wandered on, and soon came across the
preacher and his lay helpers.
To her surprise she saw John Bolland standing bareheaded in the front
rank, and with him Martin. She had never pictured the keen-eyed, crusty
old farmer in this guise. It amused her. The minister began to offer up
a prayer. The men hid their faces in their hats, the women bowed
reverently, and fervent ejaculations punctuated each pause in the
preacher's appeal.
"I do believe!"
"Amen! Amen!"
"Spare us, O Lord!"
Mrs. Saumarez stared at the gathering with real wonderment.
"C'est incroyable!" she murmured.
"What are they doing, mamma?" cried Angele, trying to guess why Martin
had buried his eyes in his cap.
"They are praying, dearest. It reminds one of the Covenanters. It really
is very touching."
"Who were the Covenanters?"
"When you are older, ma belle, you will read of them in history."
That was Mrs. Saumarez's way. She treated her daughter's education as a
matter for governesses whom she did not employ and masters to whose
control Angele would probably never be entrusted.
The two entered the White House. There they found Mrs. Bolland, radiant
in a black silk dress, a bonnet trimmed with huge roses, and a velvet
dolman, the wings of which were thrown back over her portly shoulders to
permit her the better to press all comers to partake of her hospitality.
Several women and one or two men were seated at the big table, while
people were coming and going constantly.
It flustered and gratified Mrs. Bolland not a little to receive such a
distinguished visitor.
"Eh, my leddy," she cried, "I'm glad to see ye. Will ye tek a chair? And
t' young leddy, too? Will ye hev a glass o' wine?"
This was the recognized formula. There was a decanter of port wine on
the sideboard, but most of the visitors partook of tea or beer. One of
the men drew himself a foaming tankard from a barrel in the corner.
Mrs. Saumarez smiled wistfully.
"No wine, thank you," she said; "but that beer looks very nice. I'll
have some, if I may."
Not until that moment did Mrs. Bolland remember that her guest was a
reputed teetotaller. So, then, Mrs. Atkinson, proprietress of the "Black
Lion," was mistaken.
"That ye may, an' welcome," she said in her hearty way.
Angele murmured something in French, but her mother gave a curt answer,
and the child subsided, being, perhaps, interested by the evident
amazement and admiration she evoked among the country people. To-day,
Angele was dressed in a painted muslin, with hat and sash of the same
material, long black silk stockings, and patent-leather shoes. She
looked elegantly old-fashioned, and might have walked bodily out of one
of Caran d'Ache's sketches of French society.
Suddenly she bounced up like an india-rubber ball.
"Tra la!" she cried. "V'la mon cher Martin!"
The prayer meeting had ended, and Martin was speeding home, well knowing
who had arrived there.
Angele ran to meet him.
"She's a rale fairy," whispered Mrs. Summersgill, mistress of the Dale
End Farm. "She's rigged out like a pet doll."
"Ay," agreed her neighbor. "D'ye ken wheer they coom frae?"
"Frae Lunnon, I reckon. They're staying wi' t' Miss Walkers. That's t'
muther, a Mrs. Saumarez, they call her, but they say she's a Jarman
baroness."
"Well, bless her heart, she hez a rare swallow for a gill o' ale."
This was perfectly true. The lady had emptied her glass with real gusto.
"I was so hot and tired," she said, with an apologetic smile at her
hostess. "Now, I can admire your wonderful store of good things to eat,"
and she focussed the display through gold-rimmed eyeglasses.
Truly, the broad kitchen table presented a spectacle that would kill a
dyspeptic. A cold sirloin, a portly ham, two pairs of chickens, three
brace of grouse--these solids were mere garnishings to dishes piled with
currant cakes, currant loaves and plain bread cut and buttered, jam
turnovers, open tarts of many varieties, "fat rascals," Queen cakes,
sponge cakes--battalions and army corps of all the sweet and toothsome
articles known to the culinary skill of the North.
"I'm feared, my leddy, they won't suit your taste," began Mrs. Bolland,
but the other broke in eagerly:
"Oh, don't say that! They look so good, so wholesome, so different from
the French cooking we weary of in town. If I were not afraid of spoiling
my dinner and earning a scolding from Francoise I would certainly ask
for some of that cold beef and a slice of bread and butter."
"Tek my advice, ma'am, an' eat while ye're in t' humor," cried Mrs.
Bolland, instantly helping her guest to the eatables named.
Mrs. Saumarez laughed delightedly and peeled off a pair of white kid
gloves. She ate a little of the meat and crumbled a slice of bread.
Mrs. Bolland refilled the glass with beer.
Then the lady made herself generally popular by asking questions. Did
they use lard or butter in the pastry? How was the sponge cake made so
light? What a curious custom it was to put currants into plain dough;
she had never seen it done before. Were the servants able to do these
things, or had they to be taught by the mistress of the house? She
amused the women by telling of the airs and graces of London domestics,
and evoked a feeling akin to horror by relating the items of the weekly
bills in her town house.
"Seven pund o' beaecan for breakfast i' t' kitchen!" exclaimed Mrs.
Summersgill. "Wheae ivver heerd tell o' sike waste?"
"Eh, ma'am," cried another, "but ye mun addle yer money aisy t' let 'em
carry on that gait."
Martin, who found Angele in her most charming mood--unconsciously
pleased, too, that her costume was not so _outre_ as to run any risk of
caustic comment by strangers--came in and asked if he might take her
along the row of stalls. Mrs. Bolland had given him a shilling that
morning, and he resolved magnanimously to let the shooting gallery wait;
Angele should be treated to a shilling's worth of aught she fancied.
But Mrs. Saumarez rose.
"Your mother will kill me with kindness, Martin, if I remain longer,"
she said. "Take me, too, and we'll see if the fair contains any toys."
She emptied the second glass of ale, drew on her gloves, bade the
company farewell with as much courtesy as if they were so many
countesses, and walked away with the youngsters.
At one stall she bought Martin a pneumatic gun, a powerful toy which the
dealer never expected to sell in that locality. At another she would
have purchased a doll for Angele, but the child shrugged her shoulders
and declared that she would greatly prefer to ride on the roundabouts
with Martin. Mrs. Saumarez agreed instantly, and the pair mounted the
hobby-horses.
Among the children who watched them enviously were Jim Bates and Evelyn
Atkinson. When the steam organ was in full blast and the horses were
flying round at a merry pace, Mrs. Saumarez bent over Jim Bates and
placed half a sovereign in his hand.
"Go to the 'Black Lion,'" she said, "and bring me a bottle of the best
brandy. See that it is wrapped in paper. I do not care to go myself to a
place where there are so many men."
Jim darted off. The roundabout slackened speed and stopped, but Mrs.
Saumarez ordered another ride. The whirl had begun again when Bates
returned with a parcel.
"It was four shillin's, ma'am," he said.
"Thank you, very much. Keep the change."
Even Evelyn Atkinson was so awed by the magnitude of the tip that she
forgot for a moment to glue her eyes on Angele and Martin.
But Angele, wildly elated though she was with the sensation of flight,
and seated astride like a boy, until the tops of her stockings were
exposed to view, did not fail to notice the conclusion of Jim Bates's
errand.
"Mamma will be ill to-night," she screamed in Martin's ear. "Francoise
will be busy waiting on her. I'll come out again at eight o'clock."
"You must not," shouted the boy. "It will be very rough here then."
"C'la va--I mean, I know that quite well. It'll be all the more jolly.
Meet me at the gate. I'll bring plenty of money."
"I can't," protested Martin.
"You must!"
"But I'm supposed to be home myself at eight o'clock."
"If you don't come, I'll find some other boy. Frank Beckett-Smythe said
he would try and turn up every evening, in case I got a chance to sneak
out."
"All right. I'll be there."
Martin intended to hurry her through the fair and take her home again.
If he received a "hiding" for being late, he would put up with it. In
any case, the squire's eldest son could not be allowed to steal his
wilful playmate without a struggle. Probably Adam reasoned along similar
lines when Eve first offered him an apple. Be that as it may, it never
occurred to Martin that the third chapter of Genesis could have the
remotest bearing on the night's frolic.