"_The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet,
Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit;
In every street these tunes our ears do greet--
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-wee, to-witta-woo!
Spring, the sweet Spring_."
At two o'clock on May morning a fishing-boat, with a small row-boat in
tow, stole up the harbour between the lights of the vessels that lay
at anchor. She came on a soundless tide, with her sprit-mainsail
wide and drawing, and her foresail flapping idle; and although her
cuddy-top and gunwale glistened wet with a recent shower, the man who
steered her looked over his shoulder at the waning moon, and decided
that the dawn would be a fine one. A furlong below the Town Quay he
left the tiller and lowered sail: two furlongs above, he dropped
anchor: then, having made all ship-shape, he lit a pipe and pulled an
enormous watch from his fob. The vessels he had passed since entering
the harbour's mouth seemed one and all asleep. But a din of horns,
kettles, and tea-trays, and a wild tattoo of door-knockers, sounded
along the streets behind the stores and houses that lined the
water-side. Already the town-boys were ushering in the month of May.
The man waited until the half-hour chimed over the 'long-shore roofs
from the church-tower up the hill; set his watch with care; and sat
down to wait for the sun. Upon the wooded cliff that faces the town
the birds were waking; and by-and-bye, from the three small quays came
the sound of voices laughing, and then a boat or two stealing out of
the shadow, each crowded with boys and maids. Before the dawn grew red
above the cliff where the birds sang, a dozen boats had gone by him on
their way up the river, the chatter and broken laughter returning down
its dim reaches long after the rowers had passed out of sight.
For some moments longer he watched the broadening daylight, till the
sun, mounting above the cliff, blazed on the watch he had again pulled
out and now shut with a brisk snap. His round, shaven face, still
boyish in middle age, wore the shadow of a solemn responsibility. He
clambered out into the small boat astern, and, casting loose, pulled
towards a bright patch of colour in the grey shore wall: a blue
quay-door overhung with ivy. The upper windows of the cottage behind
it were draped with snowy muslin, and its walls, coated with recent
whitewash, shamed its neighbours to right and left.
As the boat dropped under this blue quay-door, its upper flap opened
softly, and a voice as softly said--
"Thank you kindly, John. And how d'ye do this May morning?"
"Charming," the man answered frankly. "Handsome weather 'tis, to be
sure."
He looked up and smiled at her, like a lover.
"I needn't to ask how _you_ be; for you'm looking sweet as blossom,"
he went on.
And yet the woman that smiled down on him was fifty years old at
least. Her hair, which usually lay in two flat bands, closely drawn
over the temples, had for this occasion been worked into waves
by curling-papers, and twisted in front of either ear, into that
particular ringlet locally called a kiss-me-quick. But it was streaked
with grey, and the pinched features wore the tint of pale ivory.
"D'ye think you can clamber down the ladder, Sarah? The tide's fairly
high."
"I'm afraid I'll be showing my ankles."
"I was hoping so. Wunnerful ankles you've a-got, Sarah, and a
wunnerful cage o' teeth. Such extremities 'd well beseem a king's
daughter, all glorious within!"
Sarah Blewitt pulled open the lower flap of the door and set her foot
on the ladder. She wore a white print gown beneath her cloak, and a
small bonnet of black straw decorated with sham cowslips. The cloak,
hitching for a moment on the ladder's side, revealed a beaded reticule
that hung from her waist, and clinked as she descended.
"I reckon there's scarce an inch of paint left on my front door," she
observed, as the man steadied her with an arm round her waist, and
settled her comfortably in the stern-sheets.
He unshipped his oars and began to pull.
"Ay. I heard 'em whackin' the door with a deal o' tow-row. They was
going it like billy-O when I came past the Town Quay. But one mustn'
complain, May-mornin's."
"I wasn' complaining," said the woman; "I was just remarking. How's
Maria?"
"She's nicely, thank you."
"And the children?"
"Brave."
"I've put up sixpennyworth of nicey in four packets--that's one
apiece--and I've written the name on each, for you to take home to
'em."
She fumbled in her reticule and produced the packets. The
peppermint-drops and brandy-balls were wrapped in clean white paper,
and the names written in a thin Italian hand. John thanked her and
stowed them in his trousers pockets.
"You'll give my love to Maria? I take it very kindly her letting you
come for me like this."
"Oh, as for that--" began John, and broke off; "I don't call to mind
that ever I saw a more handsome morning for the time o' year."
They had made this expedition together more than a score of times, and
always found the same difficulty in conversing. The boat moved easily
past the town, the jetties above it, and the vessels that lay off them
awaiting their cargoes; it turned the corner and glided by woods where
the larches were green, the sycamores dusted with bronze, the wild
cherry-trees white with blossom, and all voluble. Every little bird
seemed ready to burst his throat that morning with the deal he had to
say. But these two--the man especially--had nothing to say, yet ached
for words.
"Nance Treweek's married," the woman managed to tell him at last.
"I was thinking it likely, by the way she carried on last Maying."
"That wasn' the man. She've kept company with two since him, and
mated with a fourth man altogether--quite a different sort, in the
commercial traveller line."
"Did he wear a seal weskit?"
"Well, he might have; but not to my knowledge. What makes you ask?"
"Because I used to know a Johnny Fortnight that wore one in these
parts; and I thought it might be he, belike."
"Jim had a greater gift o' speech than you can make pretence to," said
the woman abruptly. "I often wonder that of two twin-brothers one
should be so glib and t'other so mum-chance."
"'Tis the Lord's ways," the man answered, resting on his oars. "Will
you be dabblin' your feet as usual, Sarah?"
"Why not?"
He turned the boat's nose to a small landing-place cut in the solid
rock, where a straight pathway dived between hazel-bushes and appeared
again twenty feet above, winding inland around the knap of a green
hill. Here he helped her to disembark, and waited with his back to
the shore. The spinster behind the hazel screen pulled off shoes and
stockings, and paddled about for a minute in the dewy grass that
fringed the meadow's lower slope. Then, drawing a saucer from her
reticule, she wrung some dew into it and bathed her face. Ten minutes
later she re-appeared on the river's bank.
"A happy May, John!"
"A happy May to _you_, Sarah!"
John stepped out beside her, and making his boat fast, followed her
up the narrow path and around the shoulder of the steep meadow. They
overed a stile, then a second, and were among pink slopes of orchards
in bloom. Ahead of them a church tower rose out of soft billows of
apple-blossom, and above the tower a lark was singing. A child
came along the footpath from the village with two garlands mounted
cross-wise on a pole and looped together with strings of painted
birds' eggs. John gave him a penny for his show.
"Here's luck to your lass!" said the wise child.
Sarah was pleased, and added a second penny from her reticule. The boy
spat on it for luck, slipped it into his breeches pocket, and went on
his way skipping.
They stood still and looked after him for some moments, out of pure
pleasure in his good humour; then descended among the orchards to the
village. Half-way up the street stood the inn, the Flowing Source,
with whitewashed front and fuchsia-trees that reached to the
first-floor windows; and before it a well enclosed with a round stone
wall, over which the toadflax spread in a tangle. Around the well,
in the sunshine, were set a dozen or more small tables, covered with
white cloths, and two score at least of young people eating bread and
cream and laughing. The landlady, a broad woman in a blue print gown,
and large apron, came forward.
"Why, Miss Sarah, I'd nigh 'pon given you up. Your table's been spread
this hour, an' at last I was forced to ask some o' the young folks if
you was dead or no."
"Why should I be dead more than another?"
"Well, well--in the midst o' life, we're told. 'Tisn' only the ripe
apples that the wind scatters. He that comes by your side to-day is
but twin-brother to him that came wi' you the first time I mind 'ee,
seemin' but yesterday. Eh, Miss Sarah, but I envied 'ee then, sittin'
wi' hand in hand, an' but one bite taken out o' your bread an' cream;
but I was just husband-high myself i' those days, an' couldn't make
the men believe it."
"Mary Ann Jacobs," Miss Sarah broke out, "if 'twas not for the quality
of your cream, I'd go a-mayin' elsewhere, for I can truly say I hate
your way of talkin' from the bottom of my soul."
"Sarah," said John, wiping his mouth as he finished his bread and
cream, "I'm a glum man, as you well know; an' why Providence drowned
poor Jim, when it might have taken his twin image that hadn' half his
mouth--speech, is past findin' out. But 'tis generally allowed that
the grip o' my hand is uncommon like what Jim's used to be; an' when I
gets home to-night, the first thing my old woman'll be sure to ask is
'Did 'ee give Sarah poor Jim's hand-clasp?'--an' what to say I shan't
know, unless you honours me so far."
"'Tis uncommon good of Maria," said the woman simply, and stole her
thin hand into his horny palm. She had done so, in answer to the same
speech, more than twenty times.
"Not at all," said John.
His fingers closed over hers, and rested so. All but a few of the
mayers had risen from the table, and were romping and chasing each
other back to the boats, for the majority were shop-girls and
apprentices, and must be back in time for business. But Miss Sarah was
in no hurry.
"Not yet," she entreated, as John's grasp began to relax. He tightened
it again and waited, while she leant back, breathing short, with
half-closed eyes.
At length she said he might release her.
"I'm sure 'tis uncommon kind of Maria," she repeated.
"I don't see where the kindness comes in. Maria can have as good any
day o' the year, an' don't appear to value it to that extent."
They walked back through the orchards in silence. At Miss Sarah's
quay-door they parted, and John hoisted sail for his home around the
corner of the coast.