THE QUEEN
Next morning Mike's devotion met with its reward, for as he rode along
the village street, swinging his legs from the shaft of a turnip cart,
he saw Mary emerge from her garden and turn towards him along the road.
Mike was whistling a tune as he rode, for after the storm the morning
air was radiantly clear. In its cold clarity the sweeping curves of the
Wolds, the filigree tracery of black branches against the sky, and the
sturdy outline of the Norman church on the hill were as boldly defined
as in an etching. From every blackened twig on the hedgerows trembled a
lucid drop of moisture. There was a salt sting in the wind from the sea
six miles away.
Mary seemed part of the freshness and gaiety of the morning. Mike
watched her as she strode forward along the path, loving her buoyant,
confidant movements and the sheen of her brown hair, like wet beech
leaves below her small fur-trimmed cap.
She smiled at Mike. Her smile caught the sunlight and dazzled him.
"Well, and how does Becky go?"
Becky was the old mare who drew the turnip cart. Mary condescended
to share with Mike the delicious intimacy of a secret that, left to
herself, Becky would go as far as the _Flying Fox_, but there would
stop, trained by Mike's predecessor to unbreakable habit. Such jokes
gain point by frequent repetition.
"She goes well enough till she has to stop for her 'usual,'" laughed
Mike. "Oh, Mrs. Robson, we're wishing it was married you were every day
after the foine dinner we had yesterday."
"I'm very glad I'm not, Michael. You've no idea what a lot of work it
makes, or how much washing up there is afterwards. And people about the
house to get cleared away--and--oh, lots of things."
"Indade, it's lucky they are to have the chance of staying."
"It's not lucky for me. Here am I only just going up to decorate the
Christmas Tree and late as it is because of everything. Still, there's
fifteen years before our silver wedding...."
She smiled a gracious dismissal and passed on.
It was good to be alive, she thought, and good to be queen of so fair
a kingdom, and to have worshipping subjects like Mike O'Flynn who
paid her homage in the street. In no place sooner than in a village
does philanthropy bring its own reward and Mary, pleased because her
subjects' gratitude was swift, forgot it might be also transitory.
Everything had gone very well. Perhaps she had been a little too
prompt in speeding her parting guests. Uncle Dickie had looked almost
hurt when she bustled him into his carriage. But then such a busy
person as Mary would never have time for anything if she always
stopped to consider other people's feelings. There were so many really
important things to be done. The Christmas Tree was important. She had
superintended its decoration ever since she was fifteen. There was
literally no one else who could do it properly.
Then it was a singularly pleasant thing to do. All the way up the
Church Hill Mary was repicturing former trees and former decorations.
She always felt a little awed by the tall, tapering tree, standing
darkly green against the whitewashed walls of the schoolroom. Still
untouched by frivolous hands its regal austerity retained something
of the frosty stillness of pinewoods on a starlit night. For a
moment--this silent dignity; then with the arrival of noisy helpers
the scene became one of riotous carnival. For they carried boxes of
coloured balls, bales of scarlet and yellow bunting, baskets laden with
glittering tinsel, trumpets painted silver and vermilion, dolls in
vivid muslin dresses, stars and medallions, tops and skipping ropes,
and tumbled them in festive profusion over baskets and chairs. They
tied the oranges on first and the tree was rich with the gold of alien
fruit, then the stars and balls and spangled disks, and finally the
gaily tinted candles in fragile metal stands, till the tree stood in
many-coloured splendour ripe for its fantastic harvest.
She entered the school.
The room was in a state of chaos. All the desks lay piled at one end,
so that the door would hardly open. At the other a group of women
surrounded the tree.
The door squeaked as Mary pushed it open. Mrs. Coast, the
schoolmaster's wife, set down a basket of coloured balls and came
forward to greet her. She was always a little more afraid of life than
usual in Mrs. Robson's presence, half admiring her, half abashed. Mr.
Coast did not like Mary, and where Mr. Coast disliked Mrs. Coast must
not admire.
"Well, this is good of you, Mrs. Robson," she said quite sincerely.
Mary generally managed to impress other people with the immensity of
her goodness. "We were just saying 'Now I wonder if she'll come, being
so busy with everything.'"
Miss Taylor, the assistant schoolmistress moved rapidly out of Mary's
way, accidentally stepping on two china ornaments in her transit.
Her plump arms were almost bursting from her flannel blouse in their
exuberant eagerness for work. She beamed upon Mary.
"Yes, I'm sure," she broke in. "Little Hal Stephens met me this morning
with his mouth full of mince-pie and said 'Have you been to Robsons',
Miss Taylor?' and I said, 'No Hal.' So he said 'Then you'd better go.
Mrs. Robson's been getting married again and there's lots of good
things to eat. But you know I still saw the old Mr. Robson about.
What's going to happen to him now there's a new one?'"
Everyone smiled, recognizing that Miss Taylor, for very love of living,
had to say something however silly on every occasion. Only the young
ladies from the Glebe Farm were not quite sure that this was a proper
subject for a joke.
"Oh yes," said Mary, drawing off her gloves and beginning to string
thread through the oranges. "Hal came up with a note from his mother,
and we had so much stuff left over from yesterday I just gave him some
mince-pies. He's a good little chap and ever so useful his mother says."
"His brother works for you, doesn't he?" Mrs. Coast made a desperate
effort to entertain her distinguished helper. If only Mr. Coast was not
always remembering that time when Mrs. Robson persuaded her husband not
to sign a testimonial of recommendation. Even if he was applying for a
new post then, and Mrs. Robson had spoilt his chances, she was a very
nice woman.
Mary replied serenely.
"Yes, he's third lad and John says he is going to be a very smart boy.
We might put some of these oranges on now, don't you think? Lily, would
you mind getting the steps? Your legs are younger than mine, my dear."
Mary was mounted on the steps, an orange hanging from each hand, the
boughs of the tree swaying round her in a curtain of feathery green,
when the vicar entered the room.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Slater," she called. "Have you come to help us?"
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Robson--Coast--afternoon, Miss Taylor. Well,
Lily, Gerty, how are you, ha? How are you? Most kind of you to come,
Mrs. Robson--so busy--most kind. Cold weather for the time of the year.
Yes, very, ha?"
The vicar came forward firing off little staccato sentences as he
threaded his way cautiously between the boxes, baskets and kneeling
girls who strewed the floor. Miss Taylor held out her hand towards
him, then realizing that she was alone in her action withdrew it and
giggled, the blushes chasing one another in rosy waves across her face.
She had been a farmer's daughter before she became a teacher, and now
her appearance was reminiscent of churns and milk-pails rather than
desks and blotting paper.
Mary bent down from the steps.
"Would you mind handing me some of the stars now? Yes. Well, if you
don't mind, Mr. Slater, I should be grateful. There! The red ones look
pretty on the green, don't they?"
She came down and withdrew a few paces into the room to inspect her
work. As she stood, with her head a little on one side and her hands
full of scarlet thread and tinsel, Lily and Gerty from the Glebe Farm
eagerly studied her brown coat and round cap with its soft fur hoping
to gain a hint for their next fashionable experiments.
Mary made her judgment critically.
"I like that so far," she said, moving forward. "But I think there are
just a few things too many on the left. Supposing we finish the actual
decorations first and then see what room we have for the toys. And
then----"
She broke off as a door on her right opened and the schoolmaster
entered the room.
He was a harmless looking man of thirty-nine or forty, with a
straggling brown moustache and stooping shoulders, but his pince-nez
hid restless, hostile eyes and his thin nostrils dilated whenever he
became annoyed, which was almost always, because the world seemed a
contrary place for those born without a talent for success.
Directly he came in, the atmosphere of bustling cheerfulness deserted
the room.
Mary turned to him with strained affability.
"Well, Mr. Coast, don't you think we're doing rather well?"
She knew he disliked her. She knew he remembered that day three years
ago, when she had seen him strike Ronnie Peel in a fit of exasperation
and had turned upon him with an outburst of righteous indignation. And
then the testimonial. He had been told about that of course by one of
those kind friends who prove their loyalty by revealing other people's
nastiness.
But she was acutely troubled because somebody disliked her. Even if she
was not exactly fond of Coast, that was no reason why Coast should not
like her.
"I bought these blue balls in Hardrascliffe," she said, holding out a
box. "Don't you think they're rather pretty, Mr. Coast? We broke such a
lot last year, and this is a nice big tree."
"Very kind I'm sure, Mrs. Robson, but we had already bought some new
ornaments with the Christmas Tree Fund."
"Oh I know, but there's no harm in having a few left over. Is there,
Mr. Slater?" When Mary felt opposition from one quarter, she always
tried to strengthen her position by approval from another.
"Well, really they are very pretty--very nice--yes--quite. Ha, Mr.
Coast, ha?"
"It was very nice I'm sure, Ernie," interposed Mrs. Coast tremulously.
"They'll do beautifully. I'm sure I was wondering how we were going to
get all those top branches covered. I do hate a tree to look bare."
"Yes, it's shocking, isn't it?" sniggered Miss Taylor, then sank into a
depressed silence.
Mary tried again.
"Are you having a good concert this year, Mr. Coast?"
"About the same as usual, Mrs. Robson."
The schoolmaster frowned with disapproval upon the trumpets tied to the
lower branches of the tree.
Again there was silence.
Miss Taylor felt that something must be done about it.
"Lucy Morrison is doing a lovely skirt dance," she ventured. "And the
sixth standard sketch is fine. It is called 'The Bells of Christmas,'
and the girls wear fancy costume."
"That will be nice. Did you make the dresses, Mrs. Coast? I know how
clever you are at that sort of thing."
The schoolmaster's wife lifted a timid head and hastily denied the
presumption of ever having been clever at anything. But she had helped
with the costumes certainly, though Ernie had told her what to do.
"Mrs. Robson"--the schoolmaster passed his tongue over dry
lips--"there's a little matter I should like to talk to you about, if
you could spare the time."
"Certainly, Mr. Coast. What is it?"
Mary was at the top of the steps now, fixing the Christmas fairy to
the highest spire of the tree.
"I should prefer to speak to you in private, if I might trespass for a
few minutes on your valuable time."
Mary shrugged her shoulders with resignation.
"Are you in any hurry?" she asked airily.
Not for worlds would she have confessed that the prospect of an
interview alone with Coast scared her, that the possibility of his
rudeness was dreadful to her.
"Oh, no. Any time that suits you will do for me, Mrs. Robson."
"Will it do when we've finished the tree?"
"Of course, Mrs. Robson. Naturally it would be impossible to finish the
decorations without your kind advice."
"Hand me up another trumpet then, Miss Taylor, will you please?"
Mary continued to decorate the tree, whistling a little tune below her
breath. All the time she was conscious of the schoolmaster's brooding
eyes, watching her from below.
They finished the tree.
Mary was putting on her fur and gloves when Coast again approached her.
"Ah, Mrs. Robson, you are ready I see. Perhaps if you would step into
my house we could settle that little affair more comfortably."
Comfortably! As if it were possible to settle any little affair with
Coast "comfortably"! And certainly his house would not add to the
comfort of the settling.
Mary, following Coast across the asphalt playground, wondered for the
hundredth time at the weird phantasy of the too enterprising Victorian
architect, who, fired by the inspiration of the Albert Memorial, had
become a devotee of Gothic ornateness. She regarded its painted gables,
twisted chimneys and sunless windows gloomily and decided that she was
in for an unpleasant half-hour.
Mr. Coast's sitting-room was as unfriendly as his manner. Even the
cuckoo clock, swinging its one wooden leg, and crouching against the
wall like a hobgoblin, proclaimed twelve o'clock with a forbidding
voice. Mary sat down and prepared for the worst.
The room was no kinder to Coast than it was to Mary. He shifted his
weight from one foot to the order and sought for inspiration.
He was acutely miserable. Mrs. Robson, quietly sitting with folded
hands inspecting the woolwork mats, the wax flowers under their
glass cover, and the "Everlastings" in the mantelpiece vase, seemed
completely mistress of the situation.
Coast hated his room. Everything seemed to have been there a long time,
but nothing was at rest. He knew it was all in execrable taste. Mrs.
Robson would think he didn't know any better than that. She would not
guess that the furniture was bequeathed by Coast's predecessor, and
he, with his mind fixed upon rapid promotion, had not thought it worth
while to alter things.
He sought for an appropriate beginning and found none. During the
previous days he had rehearsed this interview, casting himself for the
triumphant rôle of vanquisher of the tyrant and picturing lovingly
Mrs. Robson's final confusion. Now he could think of nothing to say.
"Well?" Mary from her chair raised calm, indifferent eyes to her host,
where he stood by the mantelpiece frowning and biting his moustache. "I
thought you had something to tell me."
Coast passed a trembling hand across his mouth.
"Mr. Robson probably told you of my proposal about the paddock."
If only he could find something safe to look at, he was sure he
would be all right. His eyes travelled along the mantelpiece and the
chiffonier to the bookcase. There in a row below faded novels and
school readers were his books.
"My husband did say something to me, but I forgot."
"He probably told you that the County Council had made a very handsome
offer for its purchase."
"They made the offer to me. The field is mine."
Mrs. Robson was looking at the books too now. Her glance had followed
his. She saw a fat grey volume called "Capital" by Karl Marx and a
paper backed volume called "Essays on Socialism" by Bentley Box, and a
flaming orange cover, with scarlet letters announcing "The Salvation of
Society" by some one whose name was too small to be legible.
"I understand," said Coast, "that you have refused to sell."
"My husband wants the field for sheep washing. It's the only paddock we
have with running water. I believe you want the County Council to buy
it to make a field for the children to play in. I don't think it would
be at all suitable."
Even as she spoke she repictured the paddock, fenced high with
hawthorn, and the stream that in summer dried to a thin thread. There
John had found her one summer evening shortly after her father's death
and had asked her to marry him. Well, her acceptance had been a matter
of convenience rather than passion, and no courtship could have been
more decorous. But in the shadowy sweetness of that evening she had
dreamed of a romance she did not know, and the field was fragrant with
memory. Even now she could feel the damp air on her face and smell the
delicate scent of hawthorn and wet earth, and hear the tearing sound of
cows feeding in the long grass.
"It is very suitable, Mrs. Robson. It opens straight on the playground,
right under the supervision of the school house and it's a nice level
ground."
"I dare say. But you would find the stream a great inconvenience."
"Not at all, it could be fenced off."
"Why, it nearly cuts the field in half."
"Not quite, I think, if you observe it closely. I see you hardly know
the field," he added with patronizing gentleness. "Perhaps if you came
down and looked----"
"My good man!" cried Mary, losing patience. "If you think I don't know
my own land!"
She broke off with a short laugh.
"Not at all, Mrs. Robson, not at all. I was merely suggesting that you
might reconsider the possibility of selling. The County Council have
offered to buy this field in connection with the school. They rarely
enough make generous suggestions of this kind. The field is admirably
situated and I am sure we could meet you about the price."
"It is nothing to do with the price." Mary spoke quietly, a little
ashamed of her last outburst. "They offered very rightly to buy the
land at its market value. We suggested that they might rent it from us,
but my husband and I do not wish to sell."
Coast turned away from her, but in the looking-glass above the
mantelpiece he could see her smiling, determined mouth, and the
complacent repose of her clasped hands.
"They don't want to rent it," he said, wrestling with his increasing
irritation, "they want to buy the land and make their own improvements.
Walls, and levelling and so on."
"Then why don't they try for the field in the village that young
Armstrong rents from the Setons of Edenthorpe?"
"It's too big and not so handy. And being in the village they'd ask
more for it. It might come in for building cottages. Your field is
obviously the one, Mrs. Robson. You must see that you are doing a great
injustice to the village if you won't sell."
"There is no question of injustice," said Mary, rising and
straightening her fur. "I shall always be willing to lend it for the
children's games, when we are not needing it for the sheep or young
horses. But I will not sell."
"Yes, Mrs. Robson." Coast's voice trembled with anger. "I know that
you are always willing to lend your land or your presence or your
pony-cart. It costs you nothing and you get a good deal of credit for
it from a certain class of people. But when you are asked to part with
something that means a small sacrifice, but which will be of great
service to the village, then it's a different matter altogether, isn't
it?"
"I think you forget yourself, Mr. Coast. You will not find that your
incivility makes me any more ready to sell. I don't think it is any
use staying and arguing with you any longer, especially as you can't
control your temper."
She swept out of the room.
As she crossed the passage, she caught sight of Mrs. Coast's frightened
face, hovering like a ghost near the kitchen door. But she ignored its
mute appeal and closed the front door behind her with exaggerated care.
Outside she walked with hurried steps along the path by the churchyard.
Outraged virtue is a comfortable feeling. Coast had no right to speak
to her like that. As if she wasn't ready to do anything for Anderby!
Why, now that the Wold Farm was safe she had no stronger interest left
in life than her care for the village. He could not help knowing how
much she cared. It was common talk how she sat up all night when old
Mrs. Watts had bronchitis, and how she drove every sick child in to
hospital....
It was dinner-time now. She would be late and that was the
schoolmaster's fault. She almost wished she had let John sign that
testimonial and so get rid of the man. There would have been room in
Leeds for him to lose himself. You could never get away from anyone in
Anderby.
All the way down the path she assured herself that Coast was an awful
man and that she was suffering from her difficult act of justice three
years ago.
As she turned into the village street she began to feel uncomfortable.
Was it, after all, so very important that she should keep the field?
She who always laughed at sentiment, what did she hope to gain by
it? A secret garden of romance? Or rather a convenient paddock where
there were good mushrooms and running water? If ever she had loved
John, it would have been different. She would have had a right to be
sentimental. Still--she liked to pretend that once she had welcomed
her lover like other women. The dream was so elusive that, without the
field, it might vanish altogether.
And, anyway, Coast has no right to speak to her like that.
She wrapped herself in satisfaction, as in a soft, warm cloak.
The garden gate closed behind her with a clang.
She would not sell.