BUT his presence did not die out of the kitchen; they always seemed to
feel as if he had been there. The hearth had been stained by a foreign
foot, the very poker had been touched by a foreign hand, the rude form
at the side by the wall had been occupied by an intruder. Amaryllis had
always been so fond of the kitchen--the oldest part of the house, two
centuries at least. The wide hearth and immense chimney, up which, when
the fire was out, of a winter's night you could see the stars; over
which of a windy night you could imagine the witches riding by, borne on
the deep howling of the blast; the great beam and the gun slung to it;
the heavy oaken table, unpolished, greyish oak; the window in the thick
wall, set with yellowish glass; the stone floor, and the walls from
which the whitewash peeled in flakes; the rude old place was very dear
to her.
Ofttimes they sat there in winter instead of the sitting-room, drawn by
its antique homeliness. Mrs. Iden warmed elder wine, and Iden his great
cup of Goliath ale, and they roasted chestnuts and apples, while the
potatoes--large potatoes--Iden's selected specialities--were baking
buried in the ashes. Looking over her shoulder Amaryllis could see the
white drift of snow against the window, which was on a level with the
ground outside, and so got Iden to tell her stories of the deep snow in
the United States, and the thick ice, sawn with saws, or, his fancy
roaming on, of the broad and beautiful Hudson River, the river he had so
admired in his youth, the river the poets will sing some day; or of his
clinging aloft at night in the gale on the banks of Newfoundland, for he
had done duty as a sailor. A bold and adventurous man in his youth, why
did he gossip at the stile now in his full and prime of manhood?
It would be a long, long tale to tell, and even then only those who have
lived in the country and had practical experience could fully comprehend
the hopelessness of working a small farm, unless you are of a wholly
sordid nature. Iden's nature was not sordid; the very reverse. The
beginning, or one of the beginnings, of the quarrel between father and
son arose because of this; Grandfather Iden could not forgive his son
for making the place beautiful with trees and flowers.
By-and-by the baked potatoes were done, and they had supper on the old
and clumsy table, village made and unpolished, except in so far as the
stains of cooking operations had varnished it, the same table at which
"Jearje," the fogger, sat every morning to eat his breakfast, and every
evening to take his supper. What matter? George worked hard and honestly
all day, his great arms on the table, spread abroad as he ate, did not
injure it.
Great mealy potatoes, cracked open, white as the snow without, floury
and smoking; dabs of Mrs. Iden's delicious butter, a little salt and
pepper, and there was a dish for a king. The very skins were
pleasant--just a taste.
They were not always alone at these kitchen-feasts, sometimes a Flamma
from London, sometimes an Iden from over the hill, or others were there.
Iden was very hospitable--though most of his guests (family connections)
were idle folk, no good to themselves or anybody, still they were made
cordially welcome. But others, very high folk, socially speaking (for
they had good connections, too, these poor Idens), who had dined at
grand London tables, seemed to enjoy themselves most thoroughly on the
rude Homeric fare.
For it was genuine, and there was a breadth, an open-handed generosity,
a sense of reality about it; something really to eat, though no
finger-glasses; Homeric straightforwardness of purpose.
Amaryllis was very fond of the old kitchen; it was the very centre of
home. This strange man, this intruding bailiff, trod heavily on her
dearest emotions. His shadow remained on the wall though he had gone.
They all felt it, but Amaryllis most of all, and it was weeks before the
kitchen seemed to resume its former appearance. Jearje was the one who
restored it. He ate so heartily, and spoke so cheerily at breakfast and
at supper, it almost made them forget their troubles to see anyone so
grateful and pleased with all they did for him. "Thank you, ma'am; dest
about a good bit a' bacon, this yer"--locally the "d" and "j" were often
interchangable, dest for jest, or just--"That'll be a' plenty for I,
ma'am, doan't want more'n I can yet"--don't want more than I can eat,
don't want to be greedy--"Thank you, miss; dest about some ripping good
ale, this yer; that it be."
He so thoroughly enjoyed and appreciated the bacon, and the cheese, and
the ale; he was like a great, big human dog; you know how we like to see
a big dog wag his tail at his food, or put his paws on our knees and
laugh, as it were, with his eyes in our face. They petted him, these two
women, exactly as if he had been a dog, giving him all the bones,
literally and metaphorically, the actual bones of the meat, and any
scraps there were, to take home with him (besides his regular meals),
and now and then some trifles of clothing for his aged mother. The dog
most thoroughly appreciated this treatment; he rolled in it, revelled in
it, grew shiny and fat, and glistened with happiness.
Iden petted him, too, to some degree, out of doors, and for much the
same reason; his cheery content and willingness, and the absence of the
usual selfish niggardliness of effort. George worked willingly and
fairly, and, if occasion needed, stayed another hour, or put his
shoulder to the wheel of his own accord, and so, having a good employer,
and not one minded to take advantage of him, was rewarded in many ways.
Iden did not reduce his wages by a shilling or eighteenpence in winter,
and gave him wood for firing, half a sack of potatoes, garden produce,
or apples, and various other things from time to time.
Living partly indoors, and being of this disposition, Jearje was more
like a retainer than a servant, or labourer; a humble member of the
family.
It was a sight to see him eat. Amaryllis and Mrs. Iden used often to
watch him covertly, just for the amusement it gave them. He went about
it as steadily and deliberately as the horses go to plough; no attempt
to caracole in the furrow, ready to stand still as long as you like.
Bacon three inches thick with fat: the fat of beef; fat of
mutton--anything they could not finish in the sitting-room; the overplus
of cabbage or potatoes, savoury or unsavoury; vast slices of bread and
cheese; ale, and any number of slop-basins full of tea--the cups were
not large enough--and pudding, cold dumpling, hard as wood, no matter
what, Jearje ate steadily through it.
A more willing fellow never lived; if Mrs. Iden happened to want
anything from the town ever so late, though George had worked hard the
long day through from half-past five in the morning, off he would start,
without sign of demur, five miles there and back, and come in singing
with his burden.
There are such, as George still among the labourer class, in despite of
the change of circumstance and sentiment, men who would be as faithful
as the faithfullest retainer who ever accompanied a knight of old time
to the Crusade. But, observe, for a good man there must be a good
master. Proud Iden was a good master, who never forgot that his man was
not a piece of mechanism, but flesh and blood and feelings.
Now this great human dog, sprawling his strong arms abroad on the oaken
table, warming his heavily-booted feet at the hearth, always with a
cheery word and smile, by his constant presence there slowly wore away
the impression of the bailiff, and the dear old kitchen came to be
itself again.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]