THE SHADOW ON THE KINGDOM
The twenty-second of June was Waggon Day and the waggons were timed to
start at eight o'clock.
All night Mike and Fred Stephens had kept vigil in the saddle-room at
the Wold Farm, polishing brass and leather and fastening rosettes on to
the best harness. The crowning triumph of their work, two painted and
beribboned paper fans to be attached to the collars of the horses, lay
beside the smoking lantern. The saddle-room was littered with green and
scarlet papers, brass buckles and bits of harness.
Mike knocked the ashes from his pipe and opened the door. A rush of
chill fragrant air shook the flames of two candles stuck on the dusty
mantelpiece.
Fred extinguished the lantern and followed him to the doorway. It was a
morning of pale mists and dewy freshness.
"I think it bound to tak' up," he remarked cheerfully. "What about it,
Mike?"
The two men collected harness and decorations and trudged together
towards the stable. From the stackyard a belated cock crew, and in the
stable it was still dusk--a warm straw-scented twilight astir with the
movements of chewing horses and the whispered scamperings of mice
along the rafters.
Dolly and Polly, the grey pair, stood sleekly brushed awaiting the
master strokes of their toilet. Soon they would lumber up the Church
Hill to take their places in a team of competitors for the prize
offered by Sir Charles Seton to the best decorated waggon.
"It'll be a fine day for t' bairns," murmured Fred.
"Violet going?"
"Nay. Ah'm holdin' no truck wi' Violet now. She's too stuck up for the
likes o' me." But Fred spoke regretfully.
An hour later the waggon was jingling and rumbling through the mist.
Fred, no longer over-burdened by the weight of his responsibility for
the decorations, turned to Mike.
"Well, Mike, what did ye think to yon fellow on t' bridge last night?"
Mike spat carefully but emphatically over the side of the waggon.
"I thought he had just one fault."
"Eh? Ah thowt you couldn't abide him! What fault was that, then?"
"Just that he was born at all, bad cess to him! Coming down here and
rantin' around as though he was a howly Father himself--telling us what
we ought and ought not to do. 'Tis in the church we hear enough of
being miserable sinners. I'm not wantin' any more preaching from the
laity."
"Bain't you going to join t' union then?" asked Fred, deftly turning
the horses round the post office corner.
"Union? Union o' fools who get all on end if a boy from the town comes
to them with an old wives' tale. What do we want wi' unions at all?
Will they put a head on the beer or give Foreman's missus a lighter
hand with the pastry? Will they make owd Mare Becky pass the _Flying
Fox_ w'out a bit o' the stick? Will they stop mud getting through your
leggings in the sheep-fold on a December morning? No, no. 'Mike, me
boy,' I says to meself, 'that fellow's a fool and so are them that
listens to him.'"
Fred nodded. He had heard all this before.
"He didn't speak so well as Mr. Rossitur," he remarked meditatively.
The great horses strained and jolted up the hill, shouldering through
the mist from the low lying road. Up above, the air was clear and
tender. Knots of women and children stood about talking volubly.
Mike laughed scornfully. "Rossitur, bedad? Now then, Fred, don't you go
thinking that red headed lad was any better than the rest o' them. The
gift o' the blarney he may have had, 'Gentlemen,' he says, 'allow me to
introduce you to an agricultural labourer without a grievance.' By Holy
Mary, if ever I catch him alone there'll be work for Constable Burton
if he will stick his nose into the affairs o' we. The thrashing I gave
that blathering idiot, Eli Waite, will be like tickling a girl with a
feather beside it."
Fred was used to Mike's truculent threats. Irishmen were made like
that, and there was an end of it.
"There'll be just one bit of advice, I'll be giving you, me boy,"
continued Mike. "And one day you'll thank me. You've got the best
mistress in the world. You know her and she knows you. Never listen to
them who know nothing but the sound of their own tongues."
They reached the brow of the hill. Mrs. Robson stood on a bank by the
roadside and waved her hand as Dolly and Polly rattled by. She smiled
at them too, but the smile faded when they had passed, and she stood
gazing dreamily across the mist veiled valley.
Up on the hill Sir Charles Seton was judging the waggons. Soon she
would have to pass along the line of horses and holiday makers
bestowing praise and encouragement upon the competitors and wishing
good luck to the children about to ride away for one glorious day of
adventure by the sea.
It was not quite time yet, and she might have a little respite. She
walked slowly away from them down the hill. It was just as well not to
stay too long there in the crowd. Coast was there, and she didn't want
to see him. They had not met since the whist drive and she felt sure
that their next encounter would be unpleasant. Lately she had shrunk
from all contact with unpleasantness.
Little bursts of laughter and shouting floated down the road. The
mothers were being hoisted into the waggons, with shrill screamings and
personal jokes. The children clutched string bags and hoarded pennies
in hot excited fingers.
It must be lovely to be going on a holiday like that, thought Mary,
with such excitement and good humour, to be engrossed all day by
the joys of swing boats and pierrots, to bounce wildly on donkeys up
and down the sands. It must be lovely to sit hand in hand with one's
sweetheart, sucking Hardrascliffe rock, and listening to the distant
music from the band on the esplanade. To feel so young and care
free, so much welcomed and beloved, to enjoy warm human kisses and
pleasant nonsense--not to walk alone through a village grown strangely
unfamiliar, while all the time one thought hurt and hurt and hurt....
"Mrs. Robson! Mrs. Robson!"
Miss Taylor came panting down the hill.
"Aren't you coming to see the waggons? It's nearly time to start. And
you'll never guess! Your Fred's got first prize for the greys. They
_are_ lovely!"
There was no peace then.
Mary retraced her steps and did her duty. She always did when it
came to the point. There were so many people to be noticed, so many
questions to be answered. Was she going in to see the tea? Wouldn't she
drive down later in the day and look at them all on the sands? Would
she come now at this very moment to inspect Eva Greenwood's new doll
which was also going to the seaside?
But at last it was over and Mr. Slater, standing by the head of the
procession, raised his hand for the signal of departure.
The final ceremony followed.
Mary held her breath. This was her moment, when balm might be poured on
her troubled spirit. Here in the public recognition of her suzerainty
she found all the reward she asked from life.
"Three cheers for Sir Charles Seton!" called Coast from the leading
waggon.
They were given heartily, but this was merely a prelude--a preliminary
trial of vocal power before the real event of the morning.
The holiday makers paused, awaiting the next command. Small boys drew
in their breath ready for the next outburst of sound. Everyone looked
at the schoolmaster.
"Drive on," called Coast.
With a cracking of whips and rattling of harness the waggons moved
forward.
For the first time in ten years no cheers had been given for Mr. and
Mrs. Robson of Anderby Wold.
Mary stood and watched them pass. They looked at her curiously with
vague bewilderment. She stared in front of her, smiling mechanically.
Only when the last waggon had rounded the bend in the road the tension
of her attitude relaxed. She walked quickly down the hill.
On her way through the village she encountered a dark figure hurrying
up the street. She knew who it was. She had heard from several people
that for a week or more a towns-fellow called Hunting had been
organizing t' union, that the _Flying Fox_ had become the centre
of a strange new business in Anderby, and that Coast was the chief
lieutenant of the leader of industry.
Six months ago she would have laughed at it all, declaring that such a
scheme was unpractical. Or that a union was very nice and would do no
one any harm, and she was sure the men might join if they liked, for it
wouldn't lead to anything.
Now she regarded with sick apprehension the self-confident tilt of
Hunting's hat and the purposeful energy of his stride.
She raised her head defiantly.
"Good morning, Mr. Hunting," she said.
The man bent his head curtly and passed on.
He had heard from Coast and Waite and others how this woman had tried
to get round young Rossitur. He would make it quite clear there was to
be none of that little game with him.
Mary continued her journey.
"This is ridiculous," she told herself. "I'm letting things get on my
nerves. There's nothing wrong really."
She decided to go and call on Mrs. Watts. The old lady would be pleased
to hear about the waggons. Besides, she was a cheery old soul.
But the old soul refused to be cheery. Mrs. Watts was full of fears and
fancies. She sat gazing through the windows across the sunlit orchard,
seeing nothing but shadows that were not there.
"I'm sure I don't know what we're coming to," she sighed, shaking her
head. "What with such goings on at the _Flying Fox_ and preachin's on
the bridge at evenings. Anderby isn't what it was, Mrs. Robson."
Mary agreed that it was not. But that did not necessarily imply the
changes were undesirable.
"You can't expect to keep things always the same, you know," she
remarked brightly.
"You don't allus like things any better because they're what you
expect," said Mrs. Watts.
"What 'goings on' do you mean at the _Flying Fox_?" asked Mary, looking
for a change of subject but thinking the time had not yet come to talk
about the waggons.
"Do you mean to say ye've never heard tell o' Mike O'Flynn and Eli
Waite fighting up at t' _Flying Fox_? Where ever have you been?"
"Busy lately. I've been staying at Market Burton a few days. Mr.
Robson's uncle--Dickie Robson--died you know, and I went to help them
with the funeral."
"O--Ay, Violet said as much. I forgot. Well, as I was saying"--Mrs.
Watts brightened perceptively at the prospect of relating an unspoilt
bit of gossip--"Mike an' Eli was up at _Flying Fox_ a week come Tuesday
it would be, and both a bit t' worse for drink, though Eli, 'e were
worse nor' Mike. Irishmen can stand a lot o' drink, not but what Mike
isn't a good 'un with his fists once he gets well liquored up. Well,
Eli was cracking up yon Mr. Rossitur what was here, and saying what a
good speaker 'e was an' all. And how this here Mr. Hunting was going
to put what 'e'd said into practice like, and Mike, 'e flies up all at
once like 'e do at times, an' says what Mr. Rossitur and Hunting an'
all was a pack o' fond fools and ought to be shuved in tid' pond. And
Eli said som'at--I don't know--about young Rossitur and a lass--they
didn't tell me who--and then--I don't know--but Eli struck t' fust
blow they said--or mebbe Mike--but anyway there they were at it hand
an' fist when Constable Burton came up an' stopped it all. Ee but it
must 'a been a rare fight! Ye don't get many such now." She shook a
regretful head.
Mary frowned anxiously.
"Oh, dear, I wish I'd known. Mike mustn't go fighting like that. I'll
have to stop him. He's very excitable and when he was ill the doctor
said a little too much excitement on the top of drink might send him
off his head."
"Ay. 'E's a rare fighter, is Mike O'Flynn."
"I know. But it isn't safe. All these agitators and people are very bad
for him. Old soldiers need discipline, I think. It's very difficult."
"Ay. There's queer goings on at Anderby."
Mary rose to go. She was worried. "Queer goings on." That was just it.
Nothing tangible, nothing that one could fight in the open.
She bade farewell to Mrs. Watts and walked home along the sunlit road.
It would be a fine day for the children. That was something. After all,
there was nothing very wrong. Things had gone on the same in the past.
They would be the same again. Ardently she tried to assure herself of
this. For it meant nothing to any but a feverish and over-sensitive
imagination that Mike should fight with Eli Waite, that old Deane
should have omitted his customary greeting to her in the street, that
Coast should refuse to cheer her and John when the waggons drove away.
Waite naturally was a cross-grained man. Mike was temperamentally
unable to keep the peace. Coast and she were old enemies.
It was nothing, this shadow on the kingdom, only the ghost of her own
brooding thoughts and frustrated longings.
She closed the gate behind her and paused in the blossoming garden. She
needed new flowers for the dining-room table and there were roses on
the prim standard bushes up the path to the house. She bent above their
vivid fragrance, her fingers hovering, like the heavy-laden bees, from
flower to flower.
Here at least she found tranquillity and assured possession. The
anxiety died from her eyes, the strained lines from the corners of her
mouth. She moved slowly about the garden.
Here, as though she were really a queen, the courtier yews cast cloaks
of shade before her on the golden grass. Roses, peonies, starlike
daisies against the night dark hedge of yew, delphiniums catching the
blue of the sky on their delicate spears, these were gentler subjects
than the men and women of Anderby.
If it were only in the village that she found her trouble, she might
have sought comfort here. But she turned restlessly to the house and
went to a desk in the drawing-room. Laying the roses on a table, she
opened a drawer and took out a sheaf of newspaper cuttings, neatly
dated and pinned together. Again she read them, though she knew their
phrases by heart. "Organization of agriculture." "The beginning of a
great campaign." "Yorkshire caution and progress."
"Progress." He was always talking of progress. Mary laid the papers
down and looked through her window across the gold and green of the
garden, but saw neither sunlight nor shadow.
She was drawing towards her the image of a red head, gallantly poised,
thin hands that swept away the difficulties of the world, and laughing
youthful eyes.
The butcher's cart rattled up the drive to the back door. They needed a
leg of mutton. She must tell Violet.
She rose and locked away the papers.
"At least," she thought, "we know what he thinks of us all."