Anne Hilton got up when the sky was tinged with the sunrise, feeling
anew the security of recovered daylight after the stillness of the
lonely house during the night. There was little to put in order about
her house. "Where no oxen are the crib is clean," she would often quote.
There was absolute silence in the cottage, and as she opened the windows
she saw the first thin smoke, the incense of labour, rising from other
houses. The garden was fragrant with flowers, soon to be gathered and
made into bunches for the market. The increasing glory of the sky
promised another fine day for the harvest. She read the text on the
Calendar and made it the subject of her prayer, which she uttered aloud
with great fervour. Then she went down the stairs, which entered
directly into the kitchen, and lit the fire for her breakfast. The day
following was market-day, the day on which she depended for her living,
and to-day the butter for which she was justly celebrated had to be
made. Beyond the kitchen was a dairy with a stone shelf round three
sides of it, a churn in the middle, large earthenware mugs of cream, and
a great tub of buttermilk in the corner. The sunlight never fell on this
side of the house until late afternoon, so that, though the day was
already hot, the shadow of the dairy and the yard beyond with its shed
for tools looked tranquil and cool.
Taking one of the tin pails and a milking-stool, she set off across the
fields to the pasture in which her two cows were grazing. Everything
within her sight as she passed--hedges, grass, corn, even the trodden
path across the field--gleamed with the radiance of the risen sun. The
sky, intolerably splendid and untroubled by clouds, was filled by the
sun. Even the thin smoke from the cottages flickered and was
illuminated. The trees had the leaves of Paradise. The world seemed to
hold nothing but the sun, and to be bewildered.
At the end of two fields' length she stayed by the pasture-gate and
rattled her can loudly. Two cows, gigantic against the sun, came slowly
to the gate. She tied their tails in turn, and settled on her stool
beside the dripping hedge. When her pail was full and frothing she set
them free, and with a flick of her apron sent them from the gate, which
she opened, setting her can down while she tied the hatch. Then she
returned over the two fields with the full and heavy can. The pony
snickered as she came into the yard, and the hens ran in a foolish crowd
across her way. She scattered them as she went, setting down her burden
within the dairy. She overturned the stale buttermilk into the pig's
trough, fed the hens, and drove the pony into lane, throwing stones and
tufts of grass after it until she saw it turn into the open gate of the
paddock. It would be joined soon by others, and the boy who brought them
would shut the gate. Then she scalded the churn anew, filled it, and
settled to the slow turning which was to occupy the greater part of her
morning. The churning became heavier and heavier. She raised the lid to
scrape the butter from its sides, and as she did so heard footsteps
coming across the yard, footsteps a little unusual in sound, each
seeming to be taken very deliberately, and going straight forward
without discrimination of the path.
"Here's Mary!" said Anne Hilton aloud, turning towards the door and
moving a chair. A woman of about forty-three, with a basket on one arm
and walking with a strong stick, came steadily towards the door. She
would have been comely if it had not been for a fixed frown which seemed
odd on her pleasant, good-tempered face. She wore a print bodice, with a
point back and front, and a short bunchy stuff skirt. Though Sarah was
well in sight she took no notice of her, but walked straight on towards
her, until the latter said with evident pleasure--
"It's you, Mary!"
"Yes!" answered Mary, with a slight start.
"How are you?"
"Quite well," said Sarah. "Here's the door." She laid her hand over that
of the other woman and set it on the side of the post, at the same time
taking her basket, which was full of eggs, and only partially covered by
a cloth.
"How many?" she asked. "Have you counted?"
"Four dozen," replied Mary. "Have you finished your butter?"
"It's coming," said Anne, taking the handle again.
"Let _me_ try," said Mary. "I often think I could manage butter nicely."
"Don't get too clever," said Anne. "You do a wonderful lot already. Stop
and sit a bit, won't you? Let me see if you know where your chair is."
The woman stepped into the dairy, turned to the left of the door, and
sat down without hesitation in the chair which Sarah had moved on first
perceiving her approach, and as she did so one could see that the frown,
so out of place on her steady and tranquil face, had an origin of
tragedy. She was blind.