The six milkmaids were waiting for him in the apple-tree--no; Joscelyn
was in the swing.
"And so," said Martin, sitting down on the bough, "on the sixth night
the sixth Gorgon also became a maiden as lovely as her fellows, and
gave the Wanderer the sixth key to the Tower. And they let out the
Princess and set her in The Golden Truant, and she sailed away to her
Squire a thousand leagues over the water. And everybody lived happily
ever after."
"What a beautiful story!" said Jane. And they all thought so too.
"I knew from the first," said Joscelyn, "that it would have a happy
ending."
"And so did I," said Joyce.
"And I," said Jennifer,
"And I," said Jessica,
"And I," said Jane and
"And I," said little Joan.
"The verdict is passed," said Martin. "And look! over our heads hangs
the moon, as round and beautiful as a penny balloon, with an eye as
wide awake as a child's at six in the morning. If she will not go to
sleep in heaven to-night, why on earth should we? Let's have a party!"
The girls looked at one another in amazement and delight. "A party?
Oh!" cried they. "But who will give it?"
"I will," said Martin.
"And who will come to it?"
"Whoever luck sends us," said Martin. "But we'll begin with ourselves.
Joan and Joyce and Jennifer and Jessica and Jane and Joscelyn, will you
come to my party in the Apple-Orchard?"
"Yes, thank you, Martin!" cried they. And ran away to change. But the
only change possible was to take the kerchiefs off their white necks,
and the shoes and stockings off their little feet, and let down their
pretty hair. So they did these things, and made wreaths for one
another, and posies for their yellow dresses. And it is time for you to
know that Jennifer's dress was primrose and Jane's cowslip yellow, and
that Joyce looked like buttercups and Jessica like marigolds; and
Joscelyn's was the glory of the kingcups that rise like magic golden
isles above the Amberley floods in May. But little Joan had not been
able to decide between the two yellows that go to make wild daffodils,
so she had them both. Under their flowerlike skirts their white ankles
and rosy heels moved as lightly as windflowers swaying in the grass.
And just when they were ready they heard Martin Pippin's lute under the
apple-tree, so they came to the party dancing. Round and round the tree
they danced in the moonlight till they were out of breath. But when
they could dance no more they stood stock still and stared without
speaking; for spread under the trees was such a feast as they had not
seen for months and months.
In the middle was a great heap of apples, red and brown and green and
gold; but besides these was a dish of roasted apples and another of
apple dumplings, and between them a bowl of brown sugar and a full
pitcher of cream. The cream had spilled, and you could see where Martin
had run his finger up the round of the pitcher to its lip, where one
drip lingered still. Near these there was a plum-cake of the sort our
grannies make. It is of these cakes we say that twenty men could not
put their arms round them. There were nuts in it too, and spices. And
there was a big basin of curds and whey, and a bigger one of fruit
salad, and another of custard; and plates of jam tarts and lemon
cheesecakes and cheesestraws and macaroons; and gingerbread in cakes
and also in figures of girls and boys with caraway comfits for eyes,
and a unicorn and a lion with gilded horn and crown; and pots of honey
and quince jelly and treacle; and mushrooms and pickled walnuts and
green salads. Even Mr. Ringdaly did not provide a bigger feast when he
married Mrs. Ringdaly. For there were also all the best sorts of sweets
in the world: sugar-candy on a string, and twisted barley-sticks, and
bulls'-eyes, and peardrops, and licorice shoe-strings, and Turkish
Delight, and pink and white sugar mice; besides these there was
sherbet, not to drink of course, but to dip your finger in. There were
a good many other things, but these were what the milkmaids took in at
a glance.
"OH!" cried six voices at once. "Where did they come from?"
"Through the gap," said Martin.
"But who brought them?"
"Don't ask me," said Martin.
At first the girls were rather shy--you can't help that at parties. But
as they ate (and you know what each ate first) they got more and more
at their ease, and by the time they were licking their sticky fingers
were in the mood for any game. So they played all the best games there
are, such as "Cobbler! Cobbler!" (Joscelyn's shoe), and Hunt the
Thimble (Jane's thimble), and Mulberry Bush, and Oranges and Lemons,
and Nuts in May. And in Nuts in May Martin insisted on being a side all
by himself, and one after another he fetched each girl away from her
side to his. And Joan came like a bird, and Joyce pretended to
struggle, and Jennifer had no fight in her at all, and Jessica really
tried, and Jane didn't like it because it was undignified and so rough.
But when Joscelyn's turn came to be fetched as she stood all alone on
her side deserted by her supporters, she put her hands behind her back,
and jumped over the handkerchief of her own accord, and walked up to
Martin and said, "All right, you've won." For when it comes to fetching
away it is a game that boys are better at than girls.
"In that case," said Martin, "it's time for Hide-and-Seek." And he sat
down on the swing and shut his eyes.
At the same moment the moon went behind a cloud.
And as he waited a light drop fell on Martin's cheek, and another, and
another, like the silent weeping of a girl; so that he couldn't help
opening his eyes quickly and looking by instinct toward the empty
Well-House. It was still empty, for wherever the girls had hidden
themselves, it was not there.
Then through the shadowed raining orchard a low voice called "Cuckoo!"
and "Cuckoo! Cuckoo!" called another. And softly, clearly, laughingly,
mockingly, defiantly, teasingly, sweetly, caressingly, "Cuckoo! Cuckoo!
Cuckoo!" they called on every side. Martin stood up and stole among the
trees. At first he went quietly, but soon he ran and darted. And never
a girl could he find. For this after all is the game that girls are
better at than boys, and when it comes to hiding if they will not be
found they will not. And if they will they will. But their will was not
for Martin Pippin. Through the pattering moonless orchard he hunted
them in vain; and the place was full of slipping shadows and whispers.
And every now and then those cuckooing milkmaids called him, sometimes
at a distance, sometimes at his very ear. But he could not catch a
single one.
And now it seemed to Martin that there were more of these elusive
shadows than he could have believed, and whisperings that needed
accounting for.
For once he heard somebody whisper, "Oh, you were right! the world IS
flat--for six months it's been as flat as a pancake!" And a second
voice whispered, "Then I was wrong! for pancakes are round." And Martin
said to himself, "That's Joyce!" but the first voice he couldn't
recognize. And then followed a sound that was not exactly a whisper,
yet not exactly unlike one; and Martin darted towards it, but touched
only air.
And again he heard a mysterious voice whisper, "How could you keep
yourself so secret all these months? I couldn't have. However can girls
keep secrets so long?" And the answer was, "They can't keep them a
single instant if you come and ask them--but you didn't come!" "What a
fool I was!" whispered the first voice, but whose Martin could not for
the life of him imagine. Yet he was sure that the other was Jennifer's.
And again he heard that misleading sound which seemed to be something,
yet, when he sought it, was nothing.
And now he heard another unknown whisperer say, "You should have seen
my drills in the wheatfield last April! How the drill did wobble! Why,
I was that upset, any girl could have thrown straighter than I drilled
that wheat." And a second whisperer replied, "It MUST have been a
sight, then, for girls throw crookeder than swallows fly!" This was
surely Jessica; but who was the first speaker?
He was as strange to Martin as another one who whispered, "It was the
silence got on my nerves most--it was having nobody to listen to of an
evening. Of course there were the lads, but they never talk to the
point." "I often fear," whispered a second voice, "that I talk too much
at random." "Good Lord! you couldn't, if you talked for ever!" Each of
these two cases ended as the first two had ended; and for Martin in as
little result.
He hastened to another part of the orchard where the whispers were
falling fast and fierce. "It was Adam's fault after all!" "No, I've
found out that it was Eve's fault!" "But I've been looking it up." "And
I've been thinking it over." "Rubbish! it WAS Adam's fault." "It was
NOT Adam's fault. What can a stupid little boy know about it?" "I'm a
month older than you are." "I don't care if you are. It was Eve's
fault." "Well, don't make a fuss if it was." "Wasn't it?" "Stuff!"
"WASN'T it?" "Oh, all right, if you like, it was Eve's fault." "Here's
an apple for you," said Joscelyn quite distinctly. "Oh, ripping! but
I'd rather have a--" "Sh-h! RUN!" Martin was just too late. "Rather
have a what?" said Martin to himself.
He was beginning to feel lonely. His hair was wet with rain. He hadn't
seen a milkmaid for an hour. He prowled low in the grass hoping to
catch one unawares. In the swing he saw a shadow--or was it two
shadows? It looked like one. And yet--
One half of the shadow whispered, "Do you like my new corduroys?" "Ever
so much," whispered the other half. "I'm rather bucked about them
myself," whispered the first half, "or ought I to say about IT?" "I
think it's them," said the second half. The first half reflected, "It
might be either one thing or two. But arithmetic's a nuisance--I never
was good at it." The second half confessed, "I always have to guess at
it myself. I'm only really sure of one bit." "Which bit's that?"
whispered the first half, and the second half whispered, "That one and
one make two." "Oh, you darling! of course they don't, and never did
and never will." "Well, I don't really mind," said little Joan. And
then there was a pause in which the two shadows were certainly one,
until the second half whispered, "Oh! oh, you've shaved it off!" And
this delighted the first half beyond all bounds; because even in the
circumstances it was clever of the second half to have noticed it.
But Martin could bear no more. He sprang forward crying "Joan!"--and he
grasped the empty swing. And round the orchard he flew, his hands
before him, calling now "Joyce!" now "Jane!" now "Jessica!" "Jennifer!"
"Joscelyn!" and again "Joan! Joan! Joan!" And all his answer was
rustlings and shadows and whispers, and faint laughter like far-away
echoes, and empty air.
All of a sudden the light rain stopped and the moon came out of her
cloud. And Martin found himself standing beside the Well-House, and
nobody near him. He gazed all around at the familiar things, the
apple-trees, the swing, the green wicket, the broken feast in the
grass. And then at the far end of the orchard he saw an unfamiliar
thing. It was a double ladder, arched over the hawthorn. And up the
ladder, like a golden shaft of the moon, went six quick girls, and
ahead of each her lad.* And on the topmost rung each took his milkmaid
by the hand and vanished over the hedge.
Martin Pippin was left alone in the Apple-Orchard.
*It is not important, but their names were Michael, Tom, Oliver, John,
Henry, and Charles. And Michael had dark hair and light lashes, and Tom
freckles and a snub-nose, and Oliver a mole on his left cheek, and John
fine red-gold hair on his bronzed skin; and Henry was merely the
Odd-Job Boy whose voice was breaking, so he imagined that it was he
alone who ran the farm. But Charles was a dear. He had a tuft of white
hair at the back of his dark head, like the cotton-tail of a rabbit,
and as well as corduroy breeches he wore a rabbit-skin waistcoat, and
he was a great nuisance to gamekeepers, who called him a poacher;
whereas all he did was to let the rabbits out of the snares when it was
kind to, and destroy the snares. And he used the bring "bunny-rabbits"
(which other people call snapdragons) of the loveliest colors to plant
in the little garden known as Joan's Corner. I should like to tell you
more about Charles (but there isn't time) because I am fond of him. If
I hadn't been I shouldn't have let him have Joan.
EPILOGUE
At cockcrow came the call which in that orchard was now as familiar as
the rooster's.
"Maids! Maids! Maids!"
Martin Pippin was leaning over the green wicket throwing jam tarts to
the ducks. Because in the Well-House Gillian had not left so much as a
crumb. But when he heard Old Gillman's voice, he flicked a bull's-eye
at the drake, getting it very accurately on the bill, and walked across
to the gap.
"Good morning, master," said Martin cheerfully. "Pray how does Lemon,
Joscelyn's Sussex, fare?"
Old Gillman put down his loaves with great deliberation, and spent a
few minutes taking Martin in. Then he answered, "There's scant milk to
a Sussex, and allus will be. And if there was not, there'd be none to
Joscelyn's Lemon. And if there was, it would take more than Henry to
draw it. And so that's you, is it?"
"That's me," said Martin Pippin.
"Well," said Old Gillman, "I've spent the best of six mornings trying
not to see ye. And has my daughter taken the right road yet?"
"Yes, master," said Martin, "she has taken the road to Adversane."
"Which SHE'S spent the best of six months trying not to see," said Old
Gillman. "Women's a nuisance. Allus for taking the long cut round."
"I've known many a short cut," said Martin, "to end in a blind alley."
"Well, well, so long as they gets there," grunted Gillman. "And what's
this here?"
"A pair of steps," said Martin.
"What for?" said Gillman.
"Milkmaids and milkmen," said Martin.
"So they maids have cut too, have they?"
"It was a full moon, you see."
"I dessay. But if they'd gone by the stile they could have hopped it in
the dark six months agone," said Old Gillman. And he got over the
stile, which was the other way into the orchard and has not been
mentioned till now, and came and clapped Martin on the shoulder.
"Women's more trouble," said he, "than they're worth."
"They're plenty of trouble," said Martin; "I've never discovered yet
what they're worth."
"We'll not talk of em more. Come up to the house for a drink, boy,"
said Old Gillman.
Martin said pleasantly, "You can drink milk now, master, to your
heart's content. Or even water." And he walked over to the Well-House,
and pointed invitingly to the bucket.
Old Gillman followed him with one eye open. "It's too late for that,
boy. When you've turned toper for six months, after sixty sober years,
it'll take you another six to drop the habit. That's what these
daughters do for their dads. But we'll not talk of em." He stood
beside Martin and stared down at the padlock. "How did the pretty go?"
"In the swing, like a swift."
"Why not through the gate like a gal?"
"The keys wouldn't turn."
"Which way?"
"The right way."
"You should ha' tried em the wrong way, boy."
"That would have locked it," said Martin.
"Azactly," said Old Gillman; and slipped the padlock from the staple
and put it in his pocket. "Come along up now."
Martin followed him through the orchard and the paddock and the garden
and the farmyard to the house. He noticed that everything was in the
pink of condition. But as he passed the stables he heard the cows
lowing badly.
The farm-kitchen was a big one. It had all the things that go to make
the best farm-kitchens: such as red bricks and heavy smoke-blackened
beams, and a deep hearth with a great fire on it and settles inside,
from which one could look up at the chimney-shaft to the sky, and clay
pipes and spills alongside, and a muller for wine or beer; and hams and
sides of bacon and strings on onions and bunches of herbs; much pewter,
and a copper warming-pan, and brass candlesticks, and a grandfather
clock; a cherrywood dresser and wheelback chairs polished with age; and
a great scrubbed oaken table to seat a harvest-supper, planed from a
single mighty plank. It was as clean as everything else in that good
room, but all the scrubbing would not efface the circular stains
wherever men had sat and drunk; and that was all the way round and in
the middle. There were mugs and a Toby jug upon it now. Old Gillman
filled two of the mugs, and lifted one to Martin, and Martin echoed the
action like a looking-glass. And they toasted each other in good Audit
Ale.
"Well," said Old Gillman stuffing his pipe, "it's been a peaceful time,
and now us must just see how things go."
"They look shipshape enough at the moment," said Martin.
"Ah," said Old Gillman shaking his head, "that's the lads. They're good
lads when you let em alone. But what it'll be now they maids get
meddling again us can't foretell. It were bad enough afore, wi' their
quarrelsomeness and their shilly-shally. It sends all things to rack
and ruin."
"What does?" said Martin.
"This here love." Old Gillman refilled his mug. "We'll not talk of it.
She were a handy gal afore Robin began unmaking her mind along of his
own. Lord! why can't these young things be plain and say what they
want, and get it? Wasn't I plain wi' her mother?"
"Were you?" said Martin.
"Ah, worse luck!" said Gillman, "and me a happy bachelor as I was. What
did I want wi' a minx about the place?" He filled his mug again.
"What do any of us?" said Martin. "These women are the deuce."
"They are," said Gillman. "We'll not talk of em."
"There are a thousand better things to talk of," agreed Martin. "There
is Sloe Gin."
Old Gillman's eye brightened. "Ah!" said Old Gillman, and puffed at his
pipe. "Her name," he said, "was Juniper, but as oft as not I'd call her
June, for she was like that. A rose in the house, boy. Maybe you think
my Jill has her share of looks? She has her mother's leavings, let me
tell ye. So you may judge. But what's this Robin to dilly-dally with
her daughter, till the gal can't sleep o' nights for wondering will he
speak in the morning or will he be mum? And so she becomes worse than
no use in kitchen and dairy, and since sickness is catching the maids
follow suit. It's all off and on wi' them and their lads. In the
morning they will, in the evening they won't. Ah, twas a tarrible
life. And all along o' Robin Rue. Young man, the farm, I tell ye, was
going to fair rack and ruin."
"You seem to have found a remedy," said Martin.
"If they silly maids couldn't make up their minds," said Old Gillman,
"there was nothing for it but to turn em out neck and crop till they
learned what they wanted. And Robin into the bargain. He's no better
than a maid when it comes to taking the bull by the horns. Yet that's
the man's part, mark ye. Don't I know? Smockalley she come from, the
Rose of Smockalley they called her, for a Rose in June she were. There
weren't a lass to match her south of Hagland and north of Roundabout.
And the lads would ha' died for her from Picketty to Chiltington. But
twas a Billinghurst lad got her, d'ye see?" Old Gillman filled his mug.
"How did that come about?" asked Martin, filling his.
"All along o' the Murray River."
"WHAT'S that!" said Martin Pippin. But Old Gillman thought he said,
"What's THAT?"
"'Tis the biggest river in Sussex, young man, and the littlest known,
and the fullest of dangers, and the hardest to find; because nobody's
ever found it yet but her and me. And she'd sworn to wed none but him
as could find it with her. Don't I remember the day! Twas the day the
Carrier come, and that was the day o' the week for us folk then. He had
a blue wagon, had George, with scarlet wheels and a green awning; and
his horse was a red-and-white skewbald and jingled bells on its bridle.
A small bandy-legged man was George, wi' a jolly face and a squint, and
as he drives up he toots on a tin trumpet wi' red tassels on it. Didn't
it bring the crowd running! and didn't the crowd bring HIM to a
standstill, some holding old Scarlet Runner by the bridle, and others
standing on the very axles. And the hubbub, young man! It was Where's
my six yards of dimity?' from one, and Have you my coral necklace?'
from another. Where's my bag of comfits? where's my hundreds and
thousands?' from the children; and I can't wait for my ivory fan?'
'My bandanna hanky!' My two ounces of snuff!' My guitar!' My clogs!'
'My satin dancing-shoes!' My onion-seed!' My new spindle!' My
fiddle-bow!' 'My powder-puff!' And some little 'un would lisp, 'I'm
sure you've forgotten my blue balloon!' And then they'd cry,
one-and-all, in a breath, George! what's the news?' And he'd say,
'Give a body elbow-room!' and handing the packages right and left
would allus have something to tell. But on this day he says, News?
There BE no news excepting THE News.' 'And what's THE News?' cries
one-and-all. 'Why,' says George, 'that the Rose of Smockalley consents
to be wed at last.' The Rose!' they cries, and me the loudest, 'to
whom?' To him,' says George, as can find her the Murray River. For a
sailor come by last Tuesday wi' a tale o' the Murray River where he'd
been wrecked and seen wonders; and a woman tormented by curiosity will
go as far as a man tormented by love. And so she's willing to be wed at
last. But she's liker to die a maid.' Then I ups and asks why. And
George he says, For that the sailor breathed such perils that the
lasses was taken wi' the trembles and the lads with the shudders. For,
he says, the river's haunted by spirits, and a mystery at the end of it
which none has ever come back from. And no man dares hazard so dark and
dangerous an adventure, even for love of the Rose.' That pricks a man's
pride to hear, boy, and Shame,' says I, on all West Sussex if that be
so. Here be one man as is ready, and here be fifty others. What d'ye say,
lads?' But Lord! as I looks from one to another they trickles away like
sand through an hourglass, and before we knows it me and George has the
road to ourselves. So he says, I must be getting on to Wisboro', but
first I'll deliver ye your baggage.' You've no baggage o' mine,' says I.
'Yes, if you'll excuse me,' says he; and wi' that he parts the green
awning and says, There she be.' And there she were, sitting on a
barrel o' cider."
"What was she like to look at?" asked Martin.
"Yaller hair and gray eyes," said Gillman. "And me a bachelor."
"It was hopeless," said Martin.
"It were," said Old Gillman. "And it were the end o' my peace of life.
She looks me straight in the eye and she says, Juniper's my name, but
I'm June to them as loves me. And June I'll be to you. For I have
traveled his rounds wi' this Carrier for a week, and sat behind his
curtain while he told men my wishes. And you be the only one of them
all as is willing to do a difficult thing for an idle whim, if what is
the heart's desire can ever be idle. So I will sit behind the curtain
no longer, and if you will let me I will follow you to the ends of
Sussex till the Murray River be found, or we be dead.' And I says
Jump, lass!' and down she jumps and puts up her mouth." Gillman filled
his mug.
Martin filled his. "Well," said he, "a man must take his bull by the
horns. And did you ever succeed in finding the Murray River?"
"Wi' a child's help. It can only be found by a child's help. Tis the
child's river of all Sussex. Any child can help you to it."
"Yes," said Martin, "and all children know it."
Old Gillman put down his mug. "Do YOU know it, boy?"
"I live by it," said Martin Pippin, "when I live anywhere."
"Do children play in it still?" asked Gillman.
"None but children," said Martin Pippin. "And above all the child which
boys and girls are always rediscovering in each other's hearts, even
when they've turned gray in other folks' sight. And at the end of it is
a mystery."
"She were a child to the end," said Old Gillman. "A fair nuisance, so
she were. And Jill takes after her."
"Well, SHE'S off your hands anyhow," said Martin getting up. "She's to
be some other body's nuisance now, and your maids have come back to
their milking."
"Ah, have they?" grunted Gillman. "The lads did it better. And they
cooked better. And they cleaned better. There is nothing men cannot do
better than women."
"I know it," said Martin Pippin, "but it would be unkind to let on."
"Then we'll wash our hands of em. But don't go, boy," said Old
Gillman. "Talking of Sloe Gin--"
Martin sat down again.
They talked of Sloe Gin for a very long time. They did not agree about
it. They got out some bottles to see if they could not manage to agree.
Martin thought one bottle hadn't enough sugar-candy in it, so they put
in some more; and Old Gillman thought another bottle hadn't enough gin
in it, so they also put in some more. But they couldn't get it right,
though they tried and tried. Old Gillman thought it should be filtered
drop by drop seventy times through seven hundred sheets of
blotting-paper, but Martin thought seven hundred times through seventy
sheets was better; and Martin thought it should then be kept for seven
thousand years, but Old Gillman thought seven years sufficient. But
neither of these points had ever been really proved, and was not that
day.
After this, as they couldn't reach an agreement, they changed the
subject to rum punch, and argued a good deal as to the right quantities
of lemon and sugar and nutmeg; and whether it was or was not improved
by the addition of brandy, and how much; and an orange or so, and how
many; and a tangerine, if you had it; and a tot of gin, if you had it
left. Yet in this case too the most repeated practice proved as
inadequate as the most confirmed theory.
So after a bit Old Gillman said, "This is child's play, boy. After all,
there's but one drink for kings and men. Give us a song over our cup,
and I'll sing along o' ye."
"Right," said Martin, "if you can fetch me the only cup worthy to sing
over."
"What cup's that, boy?"
"What but a kingcup?" said Martin.
"A king once drank from this," said Gillman, fetching down a goblet as
golden as ale. "He looked like a shepherd, and had a fold just across
the road, but he was a king for all that. So strike up."
"After me, then," said Martin; and they pushed the cup between them,
and the song too.
Martin: What shall we drink of when we sup?
Gillman: What d'ye say to the King's own cup?
Martin: What's the drink?
Gillman: What d'ye think?
Martin: Farmer, say! Water?
Gillman: Nay!
Martin: Wine?
Gillman: Aye!
Martin: Red wine?
Gillman: Fie!
Martin: White wine?
Gillman: No!
Martin: Yellow wine?
Gillman: Oh!
Martin: What in fine, What wine then?
Gillman: The only wine
That's fit for men
Who drink of the King's Cup when they dine,
And that is the Old Brown Barley Wine!
From This I'll drink ye high,
Point I I'll drink ye low,
Don't Know Till the stars run dry
Which Of Of their juices oh!
Them Was I'll drink ye up,
Singing; I'll drink ye down,
And No More Till the old moon's cup
Did They: Is cracked all round,
And the pickled sun
Jumps out of his brine,
And you cry Done!
To the Barley Wine.
Come, boy, sup! Come, fill up!
Here's King's own drink for the King's own cup!
What happened after this I really don't know. For I was not there,
though I should like to have been.
I only know that when Martin Pippin stepped out of Gillman's Farm with
his lute on his back, Old Gillman was fast asleep on the settle. But
Martin had never been wider awake.
It was late in the afternoon. There was no sign of human life anywhere.
In their stables the cows were lowing very badly.
"Oh, maids, maids, maids!" sighed Martin Pippin. "Rack and ruin, my
dears, rack and ruin!"
And he fetched the milkpails and went into the stalls, and did the
milkmaids' business for them. And Joyce's Blossom, and Jennifer's
Daisy, and Jessica's Clover stood as still for him as they stand in the
shade of the willows on Midsummer Day. And Jane's Nellie whisked her
tail over his mouth, but seemed sorry afterwards. And Joscelyn's Lemon
kicked the bucket and would not let down her milk till he sang to her,
and then she gave in. But little Joan's little Jersey Nancy, with her
soft dark eyes, and soft dun sides, and slender legs like a deer's,
licked his cheek. And this was Martin's milking-song.
You Milkmaids in the hedgerows,
Get up and milk your kine!
The satin Lords and Ladies
Are all dressed up so fine,
But if you do not skim and churn
How can they dine?
Get up, you idle Milkmaids,
And call in your kine.
You milkmaids in the hedgerows,
You lazy lovely crew,
Get up and churn the buttercups
And skim the milkweed, do!
But the Milkmaids in their country prints
And faces washed with dew,
They laughed at Lords and Ladies
And sang "Cuckoo! Cuckoo!"
And if you know their reason
I'm not so wise as you.
When he had done, Martin carried the pails to the dairy and turned his
back on Gillman's. For his business there was ended. So he went out at
the gate and lifted his face to the Downs.
It was a lovely evening. Half the sky was clear and blue, and the other
half full of silky gold clouds--they wanted to be heavy and wet, but
the sun was having such fun on the edge of the Downs, somewhere about
Duncton, that they had to be gold in spite of themselves.
CONCLUSION
One evening at the end of the first week in September, Martin Pippin
walked along the Roman Road to Adversane. And as he approached he said
to himself, "There are many sweet corners in Sussex, but few sweeter
than this, and I thank my stars that I have been led to see it once in
my life."
While he was thanking his stars, which were already in the sky waiting
for the light to go out and give them a chance, he heard the sound of
weeping. It came from the malthouse, which is the most beautiful
building in Sussex. So persistent was it that after he had listened to
it for six minutes it seemed to Martin that he had been listening to it
for six months, and for one moment he believed himself to be sitting in
an orchard with his eyes shut, and warm tears from heaven falling on
his face. But knowing himself to be too much given to fancies he
decided to lay those ghosts by investigation, and he went up to the
malthouse and looked inside.
There he found a young man flooring the barley. As he turned and
re-turned it with his spade he wept so copiously above it that he was
frequently obliged to pause and wipe away his tears with his arm, for
he could no longer see the barley he was spreading. When the maltster
had interrupted himself thus for the third occasion, Martin Pippin
concluded that it was time to address him.
"Young master," said Martin, "the bitters that are brewed from your
barley will need no adulterating behind the bar, and that's flat."
The maltster leaned on his spade to reply.
"There are no waters in all the world," said he, "plentiful enough to
adulterate the bitterness of my despair."
"Then I would preserve these rivers for better sport," said Martin.
"And if memory plays me no tricks, your name was once Robin Rue."
"And Rue it will be to my last hour," said Robin, "for a man can no
more escape from his name than from his nature."
"Men," observed Martin, "have been in this respect worse served than
women. And when will Gillian Gillman change her name?"
"No sooner than I," sighed Robin Rue; "a maid she must die, as I a
bachelor. And if she do not outlive me, we shall both be buried before
Christmas."
"Heaven forbid!" exclaimed Martin. And stepping into the malthouse he
offered Robin six keys.
"How will these help us?" said Robin Rue.
"They are the keys of your lady's Well-House," said Martin Pippin, "and
how I have outpaced her I cannot imagine, for she was on the road to
you twenty hours ago."
"This is no news," said Robin. "There she is."
And he turned his face to the dark of the malthouse, and there, sitting
on a barrel, with a slice of the sunset falling through a slit on her
corn-colored hair, was Gillian.
"In love's name," cried Martin Pippin, putting his hands to his head,
"what more do you want?"
"A husband worthy of her," moaned Robin Rue, "and how can I suppose
that I am he? Oh, that I were only good enough for her! oh, that she
could be happily mated, as after all her sorrows she deserves to be!"
Then Martin looked down at the patch on his shoe saying, "And tell me
now, if you knew Gillian happily wed, would you ask nothing more of
life?"
"Oh, sir," cried Robin Rue, "if I knew any man who could give her all I
cannot, I would contrive at least to live long enough to drown my
sorrows in the beer brewed from this barley."
"It is a solace," said Martin, "that must be denied to no man. It seems
that I must help you out to the last. And if you will take one glance
out of doors, you will see that the working-day is over."
Robin Rue looked out of doors, saw by the sun that it was so, put down
his spade, and went home to supper.
"Gillian," said Martin Pippin, "the Squire did not come himself to
fetch her away because he was a young fool. There was no eighth floret
on the grass-blade, so the rime stayed at the seventh. The letter I
threw with the Lady-peel was a G. There are apples all round your
silver ring because it was once my ring. I do, you dear, I do, I do.
And now I have answered your many questions, answer me one. Why did you
sit six months in the Well-House weeping for love?"
"Oh, Martin," said Gillian softly, "could you tell my friends so much
they did not know, and not know this?--girls do not weep for love, they
weep for want of it." And she lifted her heavenly eyes, and out of the
last of the sunlight looked at him without thinking. And Martin, like a
drowning man catching at straws, caught her corn-colored plaits one in
either hand, and drawing himself to her by them, whispered, "Do girls
do that? But they are so much too good for us, Gillian."
"I know they are," whispered Gillian, "but if all men were like Robin
Rue, what would become of us? Must we be punished for what we can't
help?"
And she put her little finger on his mouth, and he kissed it.
Then Martin himself sat down on the barrel where there was only room
for one; but it was Martin who sat on it. And after a while he said,
"You mightn't think it, but I have got a cottage, and there is nothing
whatever in it but a table which I made myself, and I think that is
enough to begin with. On the way to it we shall pass Hardham, where in
the Priory Ruins lives a Hermit who is sometimes in the mood. Beyond
Hardham is the sunken bed of the old canal that is a secret not known
to everybody; all flowering reeds and plants that love water grow
there, and you have to push your way between water-loving trees under
which grass and nettles in their season grow taller than children; but
at other times, when the pussy-willows bloom with gray and golden bees,
the way is clear. Beyond this presently is a little glade, the
loveliest in Sussex; in spring it is patterned with primroses, and
windflowers shake their fragile bells and show their silver stars above
them. Some are pure and colorless, like maidens who know nothing of
love, and others are faintly stained with streaks of purple-rose. So
exquisite is the beauty of these earthly flowers that it is like a
heavenly dream, but it is a dream come true; and you will never pass it
in April without longing to turn aside and, kneeling among all that
pallid gold and silver, offer up a prayer to the fairies. And I shall
always kneel there with you. But beyond this is a land of bracken and
undiscovered forests that hides a special secret. And you may run round
it on all sides within fifty yards, yet never find it; unless you
happen to light upon a land where grass springs under your feet among
deep cart-ruts, and blackberry branches scramble on the ground from the
flowery sides. The lane is called Shelley's Lane, for a reason too
beautiful to be told; since all the most beautiful reasons in the world
are kept secrets. And this is why, dear Gillian, the world never knows,
and cannot for the life of it imagine, what this man sees in that maid
and that maid in this man. The world cannot think why they fell in love
with each other. But they have their reason, their beautiful secret,
that never gets told to more than one person; and what they see in each
other is what they show to each other; and it is the truth. Only they
kept it hidden in their hearts until the time came. And though you and
I may never know why this lane is called Shelley's, to us both it will
always be the greenest lane in Sussex, because it leads to the special
secret I spoke of. At the end of it is an old gate, clambered with blue
periwinkle, and the gate opens into a garden in the midst of the
forest, a garden so gay and so scented, so full of butterflies and bees
and flower-borders and grass-plots with fruit-trees on them, that it
might be Eden grown tiny. The garden runs down a slope, and is divided
from a wild meadow by a brook crossed by a plank, fringed with young
hazel and alder and, at the right time, thick-set with primroses.
Behind the meadow, in a glimpse of the distance full of soft blue
shadows and pale yellow lights, lie the lovely sides of the Downs,
rounded and dimpled like human beings, dimpled like babies, rounded
like women. The flow of their lines is like the breathing of a sleeper;
you can almost see the tranquil heaving of a bosom. All about and
around the garden are the trees of the forest. Crouched in one of the
hollows is my cottage with the table in it. And the brook at the bottom
of the garden is the Murray River."
Gillian looked up from his shoulder. "I always meant to find that some
day," she said, "with some one to help me."
"I'll help you," said Martin.
"Do children play there now?"
"Children with names as lovely as Sylvia, who are even lovelier than
their names. They are the only spirits who haunt it. And at the source
of it is a mystery so beautiful that one day, when you and I have
discovered it together, we shall never come back again. But this will
be after long years of gladness, and a life kept always young, not only
by our children, but by the child which each will continually
rediscover in the other's heart."
"What is this you are telling me?" whispered Gillian, hiding her face
again.
"The Seventh Story."
"I'm glad it ends happily," said Gillian. "But somehow, all the time, I
thought it would."
"I rather thought so too," said Martin Pippin. "For what does furniture
matter as long as Sussex grows bedstraw for ladies to sleep on?"
And tuning his lute he sang her his very last song.
My Lady sha'n't lie between linen,
My Lady sha'n't lie upon down,
She shall not have blankets to cover her feet
Or a pillow put under her crown;
But my Lady shall lie on the sweetest of beds
That ever a lady saw,
For my Lady, my beautiful Lady,
My Lady shall lie upon straw.
Strew the sweet white straw, he said,
Strew the straw for my Lady's bed--
Two ells wide from foot to head,
Strew my Lady's bedstraw.
My Lady sha'n't sleep in a castle,
My Lady sha'n't sleep in a hall,
She shall not be sheltered away from the stars
By curtain or casement or wall;
But my lady shall sleep in the grassiest mead
That ever a Lady saw,
Where my Lady, my beautiful Lady,
My Lady shall lie upon straw.
Strew the warm white straw, said he,
My arms shall all her shelter be,
Her castle-walls and her own roof-tree--
Strew my Lady's bedstraw.
When he had done Martin Said, "Will you go traveling, Gillian?"
And Gillian answered, "With joy, Martin. But before I go traveling, I
will sing to you."
And taking the lute from him she sang him her very first song.
I saw an Old Man by the wayside
Sit down with his crutch to rest,
Like the smoke of an angry kettle
Was the beard puffed over his breast.
But when I tugged at the Old Man's beard
He turned to a beardless boy,
And the boy and myself went traveling,
Traveling wild with joy.
With eyes that twinkled and hearts that danced
And feet that skipped as they ran--
Now welcome, you blithe young Traveler!
And fare you well, Old Man!
When she had done Martin caught her in his arms and kissed her on the
mouth and on the eyes and on both cheeks and on her two hands, and on
the back of the neck where babies are kissed; and standing her up on
the barrel and himself on the ground, he kissed her feet, one after the
other. Then he cried, "Jump, lass! jump when I tell you!" and Gillian
jumped. And as happy as children they ran hand-in-hand out of the
Malthouse and down the road to Hardham.
Overhead the sun was running away from the clouds with all his might,
and they were trying to catch hold of him one by one, in vain; for he
rolled through their soft grasp, leaving their hands bright with
gold-dust.