{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_2032/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_2032","id":"gutenberg_2032","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/2032","summary":null,"tags":["Category: British Literature","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Novels","Category: Romance","Fairy tales","Minstrels -- Fiction"],"text":"Produced by Batsy.  HTML version by Al Haines.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nMartin Pippin in the Apple Orchard\n\n\nby\n\nEleanor Farjeon\n\n\n\n\nFOREWORD\n\nI have been asked to introduce Miss Farjeon to the American public, and\nalthough I believe that introductions of this kind often do more harm\nthan good, I have consented in this case because the instance is rare\nenough to justify an exception. If Miss Farjeon had been a promising\nyoung novelist either of the realistic or the romantic school, I should\nnot have dared to express an opinion on her work, even if I had\nbelieved that she had greater gifts than the ninety-nine other\npromising young novelists who appear in the course of each decade. But\nshe has a far rarer gift than any of those that go to the making of a\nsuccessful novelist. She is one of the few who can conceive and tell a\nfairy-tale; the only one to my knowledge--with the just possible\nexceptions of James Stephens and Walter de la Mare--in my own\ngeneration. She has, in fact, the true gift of fancy. It has already\nbeen displayed in her verse--a form in which it is far commoner than in\nprose--but Martin Pippin is her first book in this kind.\n\nI am afraid to say too much about it for fear of prejudicing both the\nreviewers and the general public. My taste may not be theirs and in\nthis matter there is no opportunity for argument. Let me, therefore, do\nno more than tell the story of how the manuscript affected me. I was a\nlittle overworked. I had been reading a great number of manuscripts in\nthe preceding weeks, and the mere sight of typescript was a burden to\nme. But before I had read five pages of Martin Pippin, I had forgotten\nthat it was a manuscript submitted for my judgment. I had forgotten who\nI was and where I lived. I was transported into a world of sunlight, of\ngay inconsequence, of emotional surprise, a world of poetry, delight,\nand humor. And I lived and took my joy in that rare world, until all\ntoo soon my reading was done.\n\nMy most earnest wish is that there may be many minds and imaginations\namong the American people who will be able to share that pleasure with\nme. For every one who finds delight in this book I can claim as a\nkindred spirit.\n\nJ. D. Beresford.\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n  Foreword\n  Introduction\n  Prologue--Part I\n      Part II\n      Part III\n  Prelude to the First Tale\n  The First Tale: The King's Barn\n  First Interlude\n  The Second Tale: Young Gerard\n  Second Interlude\n  The Third Tale: The Mill of Dreams\n  Third Interlude\n  The Fourth Tale: Open Winkins\n  Fourth Interlude\n  The Fifth Tale: Proud Rosalind and the Hart-Royal\n  Fifth Interlude\n  The Sixth Tale: The Imprisoned Princess\n  Postlude--Part I\n      Part II\n      Part III\n      Part IV\n  Epilogue\n  Conclusion\n\n\n\nINTRODUCTION\n\nIn Adversane in Sussex they still sing the song of The Spring-Green\nLady; any fine evening, in the streets or in the meadows, you may come\nupon a band of children playing the old game that is their heritage,\nthough few of them know its origin, or even that it had one. It is to\nthem as the daisies in the grass and the stars in the sky. Of these\nthings, and such as these, they ask no questions. But there you will\nstill find one child who takes the part of the Emperor's Daughter, and\nanother who is the Wandering Singer, and the remaining group (there\nshould be no more than six in it) becomes the Spring-Green Lady, the\nRose-White Lady, the Apple-Gold Lady, of the three parts of the game.\nOften there are more than six in the group, for the true number of the\ndamsels who guarded their fellow in her prison is as forgotten as their\nnames: Joscelyn, Jane and Jennifer, Jessica, Joyce and Joan. Forgotten,\ntoo, the name of Gillian, the lovely captive. And the Wandering Singer\nis to them but the Wandering Singer, not Martin Pippin the Minstrel.\nWorse and worse, he is even presumed to be the captive's sweetheart,\nwho wheedles the flower, the ring, and the prison-key out of the strict\nvirgins for his own purposes, and flies with her at last in his shallop\nacross the sea, to live with her happily ever after. But this is a\nfallacy. Martin Pippin never wheedled anything out of anybody for his\nown purposes--in fact, he had none of his own. On this adventure he was\nabout the business of young Robin Rue. There are further discrepancies;\nfor the Emperor's Daughter was not an emperor's daughter, but a\nfarmer's; nor was the Sea the sea, but a duckpond; nor--\n\nBut let us begin with the children's version, as they sing and dance it\non summer days and evenings in Adversane.\n\nTHE SINGING-GAME OF \"THE SPRING-GREEN LADY\"\n\n(The Emperor's Daughter sits weeping in her Tower. Around her, with\ntheir backs to her, stand six maids in a ring, with joined hands. They\nare in green dresses. The Wandering Singer approaches them with his\nlute.)\n\nTHE WANDERING SINGER\n\n  Lady, lady, my spring-green lady,\n  May I come into your orchard, lady?\n  For the leaf is now on the apple-bough\n  And the sun is high and the lawn is shady,\n    Lady, lady,\n    My fair lady!\n      O my spring-green lady!\n\nTHE LADIES\n\n  You may not come into our orchard, singer,\n  Because we must guard the Emperor's Daughter\n  Who hides in her hair at the windows there\n  With her thoughts a thousand leagues over the water,\n    Singer, singer,\n    Wandering singer,\n      O my honey-sweet singer!\n\nTHE WANDERING SINGER\n\n  Lady, lady, my spring-green lady,\n  But will you not hear an Alba, lady?\n  I'll play for you now neath the apple-bough\n  And you shall dance on the lawn so shady,\n    Lady, lady,\n    My fair lady,\n      O my spring-green lady!\n\nTHE LADIES\n\n  O if you play us an Alba, singer,\n  How can that harm the Emperor's Daughter?\n  No word would she say though we danced all day,\n  With her thoughts a thousand leagues over the water,\n    Singer, singer,\n    Wandering singer,\n      O my honey-sweet singer!\n\nTHE WANDERING SINGER\n\n  But if I play you an Alba, lady,\n  Get me a boon from the Emperor's Daughter--\n  The flower from her hair for my heart to wear\n  Though hers be a thousand leagues over the water,\n    Lady, lady,\n    My fair lady,\n      O my spring-green lady!\n\nTHE LADIES\n\n(They give him the flower from the hair of the Emperor's Daughter, and\nsing--)\n\n  Now you may play us an Alba, singer,\n  A dance of dawn for a spring-green lady,\n  For the leaf is now on the apple-bough,\n  And the sun is high and the lawn is shady,\n    Singer, singer,\n    Wandering singer,\n      O my honey-sweet singer!\n\nThe Wandering Singer plays on his lute, and The Ladies break their\nranks and dance. The Singer steals up behind The Emperor's Daughter,\nwho uncovers her face and sings--)\n\nTHE EMPEROR'S DAUGHTER\n\n  Mother, mother, my fair dead mother,\n  They have stolen the flower from your weeping daughter!\n\nTHE WANDERING SINGER\n\n  O dry your eyes, you shall have this other\n  When yours is a thousand leagues over the water,\n    Daughter, daughter,\n    My sweet daughter!\n      Love is not far, my daughter!\n\nThe Singer then drops a second flower into the lap of the child in the\nmiddle, and goes away, and this ends the first part of the game. The\nEmperor's Daughter is not yet released, for the key of her tower is\nunderstood to be still in the keeping of the dancing children. Very\nlikely it is bed-time by this, and mothers are calling from windows and\ngates, and the children must run home to their warm bread-and-milk and\ntheir cool sheets. But if time is still to spare, the second part of\nthe game is played like this. The dancers once more encircle their\nweeping comrade, and now they are gowned in white and pink. They will\nindicate these changes perhaps by colored ribbons, or by any flower in\nits season, or by imagining themselves first in green and then in rose,\nwhich is really the best way of all. Well then--\n\n(The Ladies, in gowns of white and rose-color, stand around The\nEmperor's Daughter, weeping in her Tower. To them once more comes The\nWandering Singer with his lute.)\n\nTHE WANDERING SINGER\n\n  Lady, lady, my rose-white lady,\n  May I come into your orchard, lady?\n  For the blossom's now on the apple-bough\n  And the stars are near and the lawn is shady,\n    Lady, lady,\n    My fair lady,\n      O my rose-white lady!\n\nTHE LADIES\n\n  You may not come into our orchard, singer,\n  Lest you bear a word to the Emperor's Daughter\n  From one who was sent to banishment\n  Away a thousand leagues over the water,\n    Singer, singer,\n    Wandering singer,\n      O my honey-sweet singer!\n\nTHE WANDERING SINGER\n\n  Lady, lady, my rose-white lady,\n  But will you not hear a Roundel, lady?\n  I'll play for you now  neath the apple-bough\n  And you shall trip on the lawn so shady,\n    Lady, lady,\n    My fair lady,\n      O my rose-white lady!\n\nTHE LADIES\n\n  O if you play us a Roundel, singer,\n  How can that harm the Emperor's Daughter?\n  She would not speak though we danced a week,\n  With her thoughts a thousand leagues over the water,\n    Singer, singer,\n    Wandering singer,\n      O my honey-sweet singer!\n\nTHE WANDERING SINGER\n\n  But if I play you a Roundel, lady,\n  Get me a gift from the Emperor's Daughter--\n  Her finger-ring for my finger bring\n  Though she's pledged a thousand leagues over the water,\n    Lady, lady\n    My fair lady,\n      O my rose-white lady!\n\nTHE LADIES\n\n(They give him the ring from the finger of The Emperor's Daughter, and\nsing--)\n\n  Now you may play us a Roundel, singer,\n  A sunset-dance for a rose-white lady,\n  For the blossom's now on the apple-bough,\n  And the stars are near and the lawn is shady,\n    Singer, singer,\n    Wandering singer,\n      O my honey-sweet singer!\n\nAs before, The Singer plays and The Ladies dance; and through the\nbroken circle The Singer comes behind The Emperor's Daughter, who\nuncovers her face to sing--)\n\nTHE EMPEROR'S DAUGHTER\n\n  Mother, mother, my fair dead mother,\n  They've stolen the ring from your heart-sick daughter.\n\nTHE WANDERING SINGER\n\n  O mend your heart, you shall wear this other\n  When yours is a thousand leagues over the water,\n    Daughter, daughter,\n    My sweet daughter!\n      Love is at hand, my daughter!\n\nThe third part of the game is seldom played. If it is not bed-time, or\ntea-time, or dinner-time, or school-time, by this time at all events\nthe players have grown weary of the game, which is tiresomely long; and\nmost likely they will decide to play something else, such as Bertha\nGentle Lady, or The Busy Lass, or Gypsy, Gypsy, Raggetty Loon!, or The\nCrock of Gold, or Wayland, Shoe me my Mare!--which are all good games\nin their way, though not, like The Spring-Green Lady, native to\nAdversane. But I did once have the luck to hear and see The Lady played\nin entirety--the children had been granted leave to play \"just one more\ngame\" before bed-time, and of course they chose the longest and played\nit without missing a syllable.\n\n(The Ladies, in yellow dresses, stand again in a ring about The\nEmperor's Daughter, and are for the last time accosted by The Singer\nwith his lute.)\n\nTHE WANDERING SINGER\n\n  Lady, lady, my apple-gold lady,\n  May I come into your orchard, lady?\n  For the fruit is now on the apple-bough,\n  And the moon is up and the lawn is shady,\n    Lady, lady,\n    My fair lady,\n      O my apple-gold lady!\n\nTHE LADIES\n\n  You may not come into our orchard, singer,\n  In case you set free the Emperor's Daughter\n  Who pines apart to follow her heart\n  That's flown a thousand leagues over the water,\n    Singer, singer,\n    Wandering singer,\n      O my honey-sweet singer!\n\nTHE WANDERING SINGER\n\n  Lady, lady, my apple-gold lady,\n  But will you not hear a Serena, lady?\n  I'll play for you now  neath the apple-bough\n  And you shall dream on the lawn so shady,\n    Lady, lady,\n    My fair lady,\n      O my apple-gold lady!\n\nTHE LADIES\n\n  O if you play a Serena, singer,\n  How can that harm the Emperor's Daughter?\n  She would not hear though we danced a year\n  With her heart a thousand leagues over the water,\n    Singer, singer,\n    Wandering singer,\n      O my honey-sweet singer!\n\nTHE WANDERING SINGER\n\n  But if I play a Serena, lady,\n  Let me guard the key of the Emperor's Daughter,\n  Lest her body should follow her heart like a swallow\n  And fly a thousand leagues over the water,\n    Lady, lady,\n    My fair lady,\n      O my apple-gold lady!\n\nTHE LADIES\n\n(They give the key of the Tower into his hands.)\n\n  Now you may play a Serena, singer,\n  A dream of night for an apple-gold lady,\n  For the fruit is now on the apple-bough\n  And the moon is up and the lawn is shady,\n    Singer, singer,\n    Wandering singer,\n      O my honey-sweet singer!\n\n(Once more The Singer plays and The Ladies dance; but one by one they\nfall asleep to the drowsy music, and then The Singer steps into the\nring and unlocks the Tower and kisses The Emperor's Daughter. They have\nthe end of the game to themselves.)\n\n  Lover, lover, thy/my own true lover\n  Has opened a way for the Emperor's Daughter!\n  The dawn is the goal and the dark the cover\n  As we sail a thousand leagues over the water--\n    Lover, lover,\n    My dear lover,\n      O my own true lover!\n\n(The Wandering Singer and The Emperor's Daughter float a thousand\nleagues in his shallop and live happily ever after. I don't know what\nbecomes of The Ladies.)\n\n\"Bed-time, children!\"\n\nIn they go.\n\nYou see the treatment is a trifle fanciful. But romance gathers round\nan old story like lichen on an old branch. And the story of Martin\nPippin in the Apple-Orchard is so old now--some say a year old, some\nsay even two. How can the children be expected to remember?\n\nBut here's the truth of it.\n\n\n\n\nMARTIN PIPPIN IN THE APPLE-ORCHARD\n\n\n\nPROLOGUE\n\nPART I\n\nOne morning in April Martin Pippin walked in the meadows near\nAdversane, and there he saw a young fellow sowing a field with oats\nbroadcast. So pleasant a sight was enough to arrest Martin for an hour,\nthough less important things, such as making his living, could not\noccupy him for a minute. So he leaned upon the gate, and presently\nnoticed that for every handful he scattered the young man shed as many\ntears as seeds, and now and then he stopped his sowing altogether, and\nputting his face between his hands sobbed bitterly. When this had\nhappened three or four times, Martin hailed the youth, who was then\nfairly close to the gate.\n\n\"Young master!\" said he. \"The baker of this crop will want no salt to\nhis baking, and that's flat.\"\n\nThe young man dropped his hands and turned his brown and tear-stained\ncountenance upon the Minstrel. He was so young a man that he wanted his\nbeard.\n\n\"They who taste of my sorrow,\" he replied, \"will have no stomach for\nbread.\"\n\nAnd with that he fell anew to his sowing and sighing, and passed up the\nfield.\n\nWhen he came down again Martin observed, \"It must be a very bitter\nsorrow that will put a man off his dinner.\"\n\n\"It is the bitterest,\" said the youth, and went his way.\n\nAt his next coming Martin inquired, \"What is the name of your sorrow?\"\n\n\"Love,\" said the youth. By now he was somewhat distant from the gate\nwhen he came abreast of it, and Martin Pippin did not catch the word.\nSo he called louder:\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"Love!\" shouted the youth. His voice cracked on it. He appeared\nslightly annoyed. Martin chewed a grass and watched him up and down the\nmeadow.\n\nAt the right moment he bellowed:\n\n\"I was never yet put off my feed by love.\"\n\n\"Then,\" roared the youth, \"you have never loved.\"\n\nAt this Martin jumped over the gate and ran along the furrow behind the\nboy.\n\n\"I have loved,\" he vowed, \"as many times as I have tuned lute-strings.\"\n\n\"Then,\" said the youth, not turning his head, \"you have never loved in\nvain.\"\n\n\"Always, thank God!\" said Martin fervently.\n\nThe youth, whose name was Robin Rue, suddenly dropped all his seed in\none heap, flung up his arms, and,\n\n\"Alas!\" he cried. \"Oh, Gillian! Gillian!\" And began to sob more heavily\nthan ever.\n\n\"Tell me your trouble,\" said the Minstrel kindly.\n\n\"Sir,\" said the youth, \"I do not know your name, and your clothes are\nvery tattered. But you are the first who has cared whether or no my\nheart should break since my lovely Gillian was locked with six keys\ninto her father's Well-House, and six young milkmaids, sworn virgins\nand man-haters all, to keep the keys.\"\n\n\"The thirsty,\" said Martin, \"make little of padlocks when within a\nrope's length of water.\"\n\n\"But, sir,\" continued the youth earnestly, \"this Well-House is set in\nthe midst of an Apple-Orchard enclosed in a hawthorn hedge full six\nfeet high, and no entrance thereto but one small green wicket, bolted\non the inner side.\"\n\n\"Indeed?\" said Martin.\n\n\"And worse to come. The length of the hedge there is a great duckpond,\nnine yards broad, and three wild ducks swimming on it. Alas!\" he cried,\n\"I shall never see my lovely girl again!\"\n\n\"Love is a mighty power,\" said Martin Pippin, \"but there are doubtless\nthings it cannot do.\"\n\n\"I ask so little,\" sighed Robin Rue. \"Only to send her a primrose for\nher hair-band, and have again whatever flower she wears there now.\"\n\n\"Would this really content you?\" said Martin Pippin.\n\n\"I would then consent to live,\" swore Robin Rue, \"long enough at all\nevents to make an end of my sowing.\"\n\n\"Well, that would be something,\" said Martin cheerfully, \"for fields\nmust not go fallow that are appointed to bear. Direct me to your\nGillian's Apple-Orchard.\"\n\n\"It is useless,\" Robin said. \"For even if you could cross the duckpond,\nand evade the ducks, and compass the green gate, my sweetheart's\nfather's milkmaids are not to be come over by any man; and they watch\nthe Well-House day and night.\"\n\n\"Yet direct me to the orchard,\" repeated Martin Pippin, and thrummed\nhis lute a little.\n\n\"Oh, sir,\" said Robin anxiously, \"I must warn you that it is a long and\nweary way, it may be as much as two mile by the road.\" And he looked\ndisconsolately at the Minstrel, as though in fear that he would be\ndiscouraged from the adventure.\n\n\"It can but be attempted,\" answered Martin, \"and now tell me only\nwhether I go north or south as the road runs.\"\n\n\"Gillman the farmer, her father,\" said Robin Rue, \"has moreover a very\nbig stick--\"\n\n\"Heaven help us!\" cried Martin, and took to his heels.\n\n\"That ends it!\" sighed the sorry lover.\n\n\"At least let us make a beginning!\" quoth Martin Pippin.\n\nHe leaped the gate, mocked at a cuckoo, plucked a primrose, and went\nsinging up the road.\n\nRobin Rue resumed his sowing and his tears.\n\n\n\"Maids,\" said Joscelyn, \"what is this coming across the duckpond?\"\n\n\"It is a man,\" said little Joan.\n\nThe six girls came running and crowding to the wicket, standing\na-tiptoe and peeping between each other's sunbonnets. Their sunbonnets\nand their gowns were as green as lettuce-leaves.\n\n\"Is he coming on a raft?\" asked Jessica, who stood behind.\n\n\"No,\" said Jane, \"he is coming on his two feet. He has taken off his\nshoes, but I fear his breeches will suffer.\"\n\n\"He is giving bread to the ducks,\" said Jennifer.\n\n\"He has a lute on his back,\" said Joyce.\n\n\"Man!\" cried Joscelyn, who was the tallest and the sternest of the\nmilkmaids, \"go away at once!\"\n\nMartin Pippin was by now within arm's-length of the green gate. He\nlooked with pleasure at the six virgins fluttering in their green\ngowns, and peeping bright-eyed and rosy-cheeked under their green\nbonnets. Beyond them he saw the forbidden orchard, with cuckoo-flower\nand primrose, daffodil and celandine, silver windflower and sweet\nviolets blue and white, spangling the gay grass. The twisted\napple-trees were in young leaf.\n\n\"Go away!\" cried all the milkmaids in a breath. \"Go away!\"\n\n\"My green maidens,\" said Martin, \"may I not come into your orchard? The\nsun is up, and the shadow lies fresh on the grass. Let me in to rest a\nlittle, dear maidens--if maidens indeed you be, and not six leaflets\nblown from the apple-branches.\"\n\n\"You cannot come in,\" said Joscelyn, \"because we are guarding our\nmaster's daughter, who sits yonder weeping in the Well-House.\"\n\n\"That is a noble and a tender duty,\" said Martin. \"From what do you\nguard her?\"\n\nThe milkmaids looked primly at one another, and little Joan said, \"It\nis a secret.\"\n\nMartin: I will ask no more. And what do you do all day long?\n\nJoyce: Nothing, and it is very dull.\n\nMartin: It must be still duller for your master's daughter.\n\nJoan: Oh, no, she has her thoughts to play with.\n\nMartin: And what of your thoughts?\n\nJoscelyn: We have no thoughts. I should think not indeed!\n\nMartin: I beg your pardon. But since you find the hours so tedious,\nwill you not let me sing and play to you upon my lute? I will sing you\na song for a spring morning, and you shall dance in the grass like any\nleaf in the wind.\n\nJane: I think there can be no harm in that.\n\nJessica: It can't matter a straw to Gillian.\n\nJoyce: She would not look up from her thoughts though we footed it all\nday.\n\nJoscelyn: So long as he is on one side of the gate--\n\nJennifer: --and we on the other.\n\n\"I love to dance,\" said little Joan.\n\n\"Man!\" cried the milkmaids in a breath, \"play and sing to us!\"\n\n\"Oh, maidens,\" answered Martin merrily, \"every tune deserves its fee.\nBut don't look so troubled--my hire shall be of the lightest. Let me\nsee! You shall fetch me the flower from the hair of your little\nmistress who sits weeping on the coping with her face hidden in her\nshining locks.\"\n\nAt this the milkmaids clapped their hands, and little Joan, running to\nthe Well-House, with a touch like thistledown drew from the weeper's\nyellow hair a yellow primrose. She brought it to the gate and laid it\nin Martin's hand.\n\n\"Now you will play for us, won't you?\" said she. \"A dance for a\nspring-morning when the leaves dance on the apple-trees.\"\n\nThen Martin tuned his lute and played and sang as follows, while the\ngirls took hands and danced in a green chain among the twisty trees.\n\n  The green leaf dances now,\n  The green leaf dances now,\n  The green leaf with its tilted wings\n  Dances on the bough,\n  And every rustling air\n  Says, I've caught you, caught you,\n  Leaf with tilted wings,\n  Caught you in a snare!\n  Whose snare? Spring's,\n  That bound you to the bough\n  Where you dance now,\n  Dance, but cannot fly,\n  For all your tilted wings\n  Pointing to the sky;\n  Where like martins you would dart\n  But for Spring's delicious art\n  That caught you to the bough,\n  Caught, yet left you free\n  To dance if not to fly--oh see!\n  As you are dancing now,\n  Dancing on the bough,\n  Dancing on the bough,\n  Dancing with your tilted wings\n  On the apple-bough.\n\nNow as Martin sang and the milkmaids danced, it seemed that Gillian in\nher prison heard and saw nothing except the music and the movement of\nher sorrows. But presently she raised her hand and touched her\nhair-band, and then she lifted up the fairest face Martin had ever\nseen, so that he needs must see it nearer; and he took the green gate\nin one stride, and the green dancers never observed him. Then Gillian's\ntender mouth parted like an opening quince-blossom, and--\n\n\"Oh, Mother, Mother!\" she said, \"if you had only lived they would not\nhave stolen the flower from my hair while I sat weeping.\"\n\nAbove her head a whispering voice made answer, \"Oh, Daughter, Daughter,\ndry your sweet eyes. You shall wear this other flower when yours is\ngone over the duckpond to Adversane.\"\n\nAnd lo! A second primrose dropped out of the skies into her lap. And\nthat day the lovely Gillian wept no more.\n\n\n\nPART II\n\nIt happened that on an afternoon in May Martin Pippin passed again\nthrough Adversane, and as he passed he thought, \"Now certainly I have\nbeen here before,\" but he could not remember when or how, for a full\nmonth had run under the bridges of time since then, and man's memory is\nnot infinite.\n\nBut in walking by a certain garden he heard a sound of sobbing; and\ncuriosity, of which he was largely made, caused him to climb the old\nbrick wall that he might discover the cause. What he saw from his perch\nwas a garden laid out in neat plots between grassy walks edged with\ndouble daisies, red, white and pink, or bordered with sweet herbs, or\nwith lavender and wallflower; and here and there were cordons of\nfruit-trees, apple, plum and cherry, and in a sunny corner a clump of\nflowering currant heavy with humming bees; and against the inner walls\nflat pear-trees stretched their long straight lines, like music-staves\nwhereon a lovely melody was written in notes of snow. And in the midst\nof all this stood a very young man with a face as brown as a berry. He\nwas spraying the cordons with quassia-water. But whenever he filled his\nsyringe he wept so many tears above the bucket that it was always full\nto the brim.\n\nWhen he had watched this happen several times, Martin hailed the young\nman.\n\n\"Young master!\" said Martin, \"the eater of your plums will need sugar\nthereto, and that's flat.\"\n\nThe young man turned his eyes upward.\n\n\"There is not sugar enough in all the world,\" he answered, \"to sweeten\nthe fruits that are watered by my sorrows.\"\n\n\"Then here is a waste of good quassia,\" said Martin, \"and I think your\nname is Robin Rue.\"\n\n\"It is,\" said Robin, \"and you are Martin Pippin, to whom I owe more\nthan to any man living. But the primrose you brought me is dead this\nfive-and-twenty days.\"\n\n\"And what of your Gillian?\"\n\n\"Alas! How can I tell what of her? She is where she was and I am here\nwhere I am. What will become of me?\"\n\n\"There are riddles without answers,\" observed Martin.\n\n\"I can answer this one. I shall fall into a decline and die. And yet I\nask no more than to send her a ring to wear on her finger, and have her\nring to wear on mine.\"\n\n\"Would this satisfy you?\" asked Martin.\n\n\"I could then cling to life,\" said Robin Rue, \"long enough at least to\nfinish my spraying.\"\n\n\"We may praise God as much for small mercies,\" said Martin pleasantly,\n\"as for great ones; and trees must not be blighted that were appointed\nto fruit.\"\n\nSo saying, he unstraddled his legs and dropped into the road, tickled\nan armadillo with his toe, twirled the silver ring on his finger, and\nwent away singing.\n\n\n\"Maidens,\" said Joscelyn, \"here is that man come again.\"\n\nMaids' memories are longer than men's. At all events, the milkmaids\nknew instantly to whom she referred, although nearly a month had passed\nsince his coming.\n\n\"Has he his lute with him?\" asked little Joan.\n\n\"He has. And he is giving cake to the ducks; they take it from his\nhand. Man, go away immediately!\"\n\nMartin Pippin propped his elbows on the little gate, and looked smiling\ninto the orchard, all pink and white blossom. The trees that had been\nlongest in bloom were white cascades of flower, others there were\nflushed like the cheek of a sleeping child, and some were still studded\nwith rose-red buds. The grass was high and full of spotted orchis, and\ntall wild parsley spread its nets of lace almost abreast of the lowest\nboughs of blossom. So that the milkmaids stood embraced in meeting\nflowers, waist-deep in the orchard growth: all gowned in pink lawn with\nloose white sleeves, and their faces flushed it may have been with the\npink linings to their white bonnets, or with the evening rose in the\nwest, or with I know not what.\n\n\"Go away!\" they cried at the intruder. \"Go away!\"\n\n\"My rose-white maidens,\" said Martin, \"will you not let me into your\norchard? For the stars are rising with the dew, and the hour is at\npeace. Let me in to rest, dear maidens--if maidens indeed you be, and\nnot six blossoms fallen from the apple-boughs.\"\n\n\"You cannot come in,\" said Joscelyn, \"lest you are the bearer of a word\nto our master's daughter who sits weeping in the Well-House.\"\n\n\"From whom should I bear her a word?\" asked Martin Pippin in great\namazement.\n\nThe milkmaids cast down their eyes, and little Joan said, \"It is a\nsecret.\"\n\nMartin: I will inquire no further. But shall I not play a little on my\nlute? It is as good an hour for song and dance as any other, and I will\nmake a tune for a sunny May evening, and you shall sway among the\ngrasses like any flower on the bough.\n\nJane: In my opinion that can hurt nobody.\n\nJessica: Gillian wouldn't care two pins.\n\nJoyce: She would utter no word though we tripped it for a week.\n\nJoscelyn: So long as he keeps to his side of the hedge--\n\nJennifer: --and we to ours.\n\n\"Oh, I do love to dance!\" cried little Joan.\n\n\"Man!\" they commanded him as one voice, \"play and sing to us instantly!\"\n\n\"My pretty ones,\" laughed Martin Pippin, \"songs are as light as air,\nbut worth more than pearls and diamonds. What will you give me for my\nsong? Wait, now!--I have it. You shall fetch me the ring from the\nfinger of your little mistress, who sits hidden beneath the fountain of\nher own bright tresses.\"\n\nThe milkmaids at these words nodded gayly, and little Joan tip-toed to\nthe Well-House, and slipped the ring from Gillian's finger as lightly\nas a daisy may be slipped from its fellow on the chain. Then she ran\nwith it to the gate, and Martin held up his little finger, and she put\nit on, saying:\n\n\"Now you will keep your promise, honey-sweet singer, and play a dance\nfor a May evening when the blossom blows for happiness on the\napple-trees.\"\n\nSo Martin Pippin tuned his lute and sang what follows, while the girls\nfloated in ones and twos among the orchard grass:\n\n  A-floating, a-floating, what saw I a-floating?\n  Fairy ships rocking with pink sails and white\n  Smoothly as swans on a river of light\n  Saw I a-floating?\n  No, it was apple-bloom, rosy and fair,\n  Softly obeying the nod of the air\n  I saw a-floating.\n  A-floating, a-floating, what saw I a-floating?\n  White clouds at eventide blown to and fro\n  Lightly as bubbles the cherubim blow,\n  Saw I a-floating?\n  No, it was pretty girls gowned like a flower\n  Blown in a ring round their own apple-bower\n  I saw a-floating.\n  Or was it my dream, my dream only--who knows?--\n  As frail as a snowflake, as flushed as a rose,\n  I saw a-floating?\n  A-floating, a-floating, what saw I a-floating?\n\nMartin sang, and the milkmaids danced, and Gillian in her prison only\nheard the dropping of her tears, and only saw the rainbow prisms on her\nlashes. But presently she laid her cheek against her hand, and missed a\ntouch she knew; and on that revealed her lovely face so full of woe,\nthat Martin needs must comfort her or weep himself. And the dancers\ntook no heed when he made one step across the gate and went under the\ntrees to the Well-House.\n\n\"Oh, Mother, Mother!\" sighed Gillian, \"if you had only lived they would\nnever have stolen the ring from my finger while I sat heartsick.\"\n\nAbove her head a whispering voice replied, \"Oh, Daughter, Daughter,\nmend your dear heart! You shall wear this other ring when yours is gone\nover the duckpond to Adversane.\"\n\nOh wonder! Out of the very heavens fell a silver ring into her bosom.\nAnd if that night Gillian slept not, neither wept she.\n\n\n\nPART III\n\nIn the beginning of the first week in September Martin Pippin came once\nmore to Adversane, and he said to himself when he saw it:\n\n\"Now this is the prettiest hamlet I ever had the luck to light on in my\nwanderings. And if chance or fortune will, I shall some day come this\nway again.\"\n\nWhile he was thinking these thoughts, his ears were assailed by groans\nand sighs, so that he wet his finger and held it up to find which way\nthe wind blew on this burning day of blue and gold. But no wind coming,\nhe sought some other agency for these gusts, and discovered it in a\nwheat-field where was a young fellow stooking sheaves. A very young\nfellow he was, turned copper by the sun; and as he stooked he heaved\nsuch sighs that for every shock he stooked two tumbled at his feet.\nWhen Martin had seen this happen more than once he called aloud to the\nharvester.\n\n\"Young master!\" said Martin, \"the mill that grinds your grain will need\nno wind to its sails, and that's flat.\"\n\nThe young man looked up from his labors to reply.\n\n\"There are no mill-stones in all the world,\" said he, \"strong enough to\ngrind the grain of my grief.\"\n\n\"Then I would save these gales till they may be put to more use,\"\nremarked Martin, \"and if I remember rightly you wear a lady's ring on\nyour little finger, though I cannot remember her name or yours.\"\n\n\"Her heavenly name is Gillian,\" said the youth, \"and mine is Robin Rue.\"\n\n\"And are you wedded yet?\" asked Martin.\n\n\"Wedded?\" he cried. \"Have you forgotten that she is locked with six\nkeys inside her father's Well-House?\"\n\n\"But this was long ago,\" said Martin. \"Is she there yet?\"\n\n\"She is,\" said Robin Rue, \"and here am I.\"\n\n\"Well, all states must end some time,\" said Martin Pippin.\n\n\"Even life,\" sighed Robin, \"and therefore before the month is out I\nshall wilt and be laid in the earth.\"\n\n\"That would be a pity,\" said Martin. \"Can nothing save you?\"\n\n\"Nothing but the keys to her prison, and they are in the keeping of\nthem that will not give them up.\"\n\n\"I remember,\" said Martin. \"Six milkmaids.\"\n\n\"With hearts of flint!\" cried Robin.\n\n\"Sparks may be struck from flint,\" said Martin, in his inconsequential\nway. \"But tell me, if Gillian's prison were indeed unlocked, would all\nbe well with you for ever?\"\n\n\"Oh,\" said Robin Rue, \"if her prison were unlocked and the prisoner in\nthese arms, this wheat should be flour for a wedding-cake.\"\n\n\"It is the best of all cakes,\" said Martin Pippin, \"and the grain that\nis destined thereto must not rot in the husk.\"\n\nWith these words he strolled out of the cornfield, gathered a harebell,\nrang it so loudly in the ear of a passing rabbit that it is said never\nto have stopped running till it found itself in France, and went up the\nroad humming and thrumming his lute.\n\nOn the road he met a Gypsy.\n\n\n\"Maids,\" said Joscelyn, \"somebody is at the gate.\"\n\nThe milkmaids, who were eating apples, came clustering about her\ninstantly.\n\n\"Is it a man?\" asked little Joan, pausing between her bites.\n\n\"No, thank all our stars,\" said Joscelyn, \"it is a gypsy.\"\n\nThe milkmaids withdrew, their fears allayed. Joan bit her apple and\nsaid, \"It puckers my mouth.\"\n\nJoyce: Mine's sour.\n\nJessica: Mine's hard.\n\nJane: Mine's bruised.\n\nJennifer: There's a maggot in mine.\n\nThey threw their apples away.\n\n\"Who'll buy trinkets?\" said the Gypsy at the gate.\n\n\"What have you to sell?\" asked Joscelyn.\n\n\"Knick-knacks and gew-gaws of all sorts. Rings and ribbons, mirrors and\nbeads, silken shoe-strings and colored lacings, sweetmeats and scents\nand gilded pins; silver buckles, belts and bracelets, gay kerchiefs,\nspotted ones, striped ones; ivory bobbins, sprigs of coral, and\nsea-shells from far places, they'll murmur you secrets o' nights if you\nput  em under your pillow; here are patterns for patchwork, and here's\na sheet of ballads, and here's a pack of cards for telling fortunes.\nWhat will ye buy? A dream-book, a crystal, a charmed powder that shall\nmake you see your sweetheart in the dark?\"\n\n\"Oh!\" six voices cried in one.\n\n\"Or this other powder shall charm him to love you, if he love you not?\"\n\n\"Fie!\" exclaimed Joscelyn severely. \"We want no love-charms.\"\n\n\"I warrant you!\" laughed the Gypsy. \"What will ye buy?\"\n\nJennifer: I'll have this flasket of scent.\n\nJoyce: I'll have this looking-glass.\n\nJessica: And I this necklet of beads.\n\nJane: A pair of shoe-buckles, if you please.\n\nJoan: This bunch of ribbons for me.\n\nJoscelyn: Have you a corset-lace of yellow silk?\n\nThe Gypsy: Here's for you and you. No love-charms, no. Here's for you\nand you and you. I warrant, no love-charms! Ay, I've a yellow lace,\ntwill keep you in as tight as jealousy, my pretty. Out upon all\nlove-charms!--And what will she have that sits crouched in the\nWell-House?\n\n\"Oh, Gypsy!\" cried Joscelyn, \"have you among your charms one that will\nmake a maid fall OUT of love?\"\n\n\"Nay, nay,\" said the Gypsy, growing suddenly grave. \"That is a charm\ntakes more black art than I am mistress of. I know indeed of but one\nremedy. Is the case so bad?\"\n\n\"She has been shut into the Well-House to cure her of loving,\" said\nJoscelyn, \"and in six months she has scarcely ceased to weep, and has\nnever uttered a word. If you know the physic that shall heal her of her\nfoolishness, I pray you tell us of it. For it is extremely dull in this\norchard, with nothing to do except watch the changes of the\napple-trees, and meanwhile the farmstead lacks water and milk, there\nbeing no entry to the well nor maids to milk the cows. Daily comes Old\nGillman to tell us how, from morning till night, he is forced to drink\ncider and ale, and so the farm goes to rack and ruin, and all because\nhe has a lovesick daughter. What is your remedy? He would give you gold\nand silver for it.\"\n\n\"I do not know if it can be bought,\" said the Gypsy, \"I do not even\nknow if it exists. But when a maid broods too much on her own\nlove-tale, the like weapons only will vanquish her thoughts. Nothing\nbut a new love-tale will overcome her broodings, and where the case is\nobstinate one only will not suffice. You say she has pined upon her\nlove six months. Let her be told six brand-new love-tales, tales which\nno woman ever heard before, and I think she will be cured. These\ncounter-poisons will so work in her that little by little her own case\nwill be obliterated from her blood. But for my part I doubt whether\nthere be six untold love-tales left on earth, and if there be I know\nnot who keeps them buttoned under his jacket.\"\n\n\"Alas!\" cried Joscelyn, \"then we must stay here for ever until we die.\"\n\n\"It looks very like it,\" said the Gypsy, \"and my wares are a penny\napiece.\"\n\nSo saying she collected her moneys and withdrew, and for all I know was\nnever seen again by man, woman, or child.\n\n\n\"My apple-gold maidens,\" said Martin Pippin, leaning on the gate in the\nbright night, \"may I come into your orchard?\"\n\nAs he addressed them he gazed with delight at the enclosure. By the\nlight of the Queen Moon, now at her full in heaven, he saw that the\norchard grass was clipped, and patterned with small clover, but against\nthe hedges rose wild banks of meadow-sweet and yarrow and the jolly\nragwort, and briony with its heart-shaped leaf and berry as red as\nheart's-blood made a bower above them all. And all the apple-trees were\ndecked with little golden moons hanging in clusters on the drooping\nboughs, and glimmering in the recesses of the leaves. Under each tree a\nring of windfalls lay in the grass. But prettiest sight of all was the\nring of girls in yellow gowns and caps, that lay around the midmost\napple-tree like fallen fruit.\n\n\"Dear maidens,\" pleaded the Minstrel, \"let me come in.\"\n\nAt the sound of his voice the six milkmaids rose up in the grass like\ngolden fountains. And fountains indeed they were, for their eyes were\nrunning over with tears.\n\n\"We did not hear you coming,\" said little Joan.\n\n\"Go away at once!\" commanded Joscelyn.\n\nThen all the girls cried \"Go away!\" together.\n\n\"My apple-gold maidens,\" said Martin Pippin, \"I entreat you to let me\nin. For the moon is up, and it is time to be sleeping or waking, in\nsweet company. So I beseech you to admit me, dear maidens--if maidens\nin truth you be, and not six apples bobbed off their stems.\"\n\n\"You may not come in,\" said Joscelyn, \"in case you should release our\nmaster's daughter, who sits in the Well-House pining to follow her\nheart.\"\n\n\"Why, whither would she follow it?\" asked Martin much surprised.\n\nThe milkmaids turned their faces away, and little Joan murmured, \"It is\na secret.\"\n\nMartin: I will put chains on my thoughts. But shall I not sing you a\ntune you may dance to? I will make you a song for an August night, when\nthe moon rocks her way up and down the cradle of the sky, and you shall\nrock on earth like any apple on the twig.\n\nJane: For my part, I see nothing against it.\n\nJessica: Gillian won't care little apples.\n\nJoyce: She would not hear though we danced the round of the year.\n\nJoscelyn: So long as he does not come in--\n\nJennifer: --or we go out.\n\n\"Oh, let us dance, do let us dance!\" cried little Joan.\n\n\"Man,\" they importuned him in a single breath, \"play for us and sing\nfor us, as quickly as you can!\"\n\n\"Sweet ones,\" said Martin Pippin, shaking his head, \"songs must be paid\nfor. And yet I do not know what to ask you, some trifle in kind it\nshould be. Why, now, I have it! If I give you the keys to the dance,\ngive me the keys to your little mistress, that I may keep her secure\nfrom following her heart like a bird of passage, whither it's no\nbusiness of mine to ask.\"\n\nAt this request, made so gayly and so carelessly, the girls all looked\nat one another in consternation. Then Joscelyn drew herself up to full\nheight, and pointing with her arm straight across the duckpond she\ncried:\n\n\"Minstrel, begone!\"\n\nAnd the six girls, turning their backs upon him, moved away into the\nshadows of the moon.\n\n\"Well-a-day!\" sighed Martin Pippin, \"how a fool may trip and never know\nit till his nose hits the earth. I will sing to you for nothing.\"\n\nBut the girls did not answer.\n\nThen Martin touched his lute and sang as follows, so softly and sweetly\nthat they, not regarding, hardly knew the sound of his song from the\nheavy-sweet scent of the ungathered apples over their heads.\n\n  Toss me your golden ball, laughing maid, lovely maid,\n  Lovely maid, laughing maid, toss me your ball!\n  I'll catch it and throw it, and hide it and show it,\n  And spin it to heaven and not let it fall.\n  Boy, run away with you! I will not play with you--\n    This is no ball!\n  We are too old to be playing at ball.\n\n  Toss me the golden sun, laughing maid, lovely maid,\n  Lovely maid, laughing maid, toss me the sun!\n  I'll wheel it, I'll whirl it, I'll twist it and twirl it\n  Till cocks crow at midnight and day breaks at one.\n  Boy, I'll not sport with you! Boy, to be short with you,\n    This is no sun!\n  We are too young to play tricks with the sun.\n\n  Toss me your golden toy, laughing maid, lovely maid,\n  Lovely maid, laughing maid, toss me your toy!\n  It's all one to me, girl, whatever it be, girl\n  So long as it's round that's enough for a boy.\n  Boy, come and catch it then!--there now! Don't snatch it then!\n    Here comes your toy!\n  Apples were made for a girl and a boy.\n\nThere was no sound or movement from the girls in the shadows.\n\n\"Farewell, then,\" said Martin. \"I must carry my tunes and tales\nelsewhere.\"\n\nLike pebbles from a catapult the milkmaids shot to the gate.\n\n\"Tales?\" cried Jessica.\n\n\"Do you know tales?\" exclaimed Jennifer.\n\n\"What kind of tales?\" demanded Jane.\n\n\"Love-tales?\" panted Joyce.\n\n\"Six of them?\" urged little Joan.\n\n\"A thousand!\" said Martin Pippin.\n\nJoscelyn's hand lay on the bolt.\n\n\"Man,\" she said, \"come in.\"\n\nShe opened the wicket, and Martin Pippin walked into the Apple Orchard.\n\n\n\nPRELUDE TO THE FIRST TALE\n\n\"And now,\" said Martin Pippin, \"what exactly do you require of me?\"\n\n\"If you please,\" said little Joan, \"you are to tell us a love-story\nthat has never been told before.\"\n\n\"But we have reason to fear,\" added Jane, \"that there is no such story\nleft in all the world.\"\n\n\"There you are wrong,\" said Martin, \"for on the contrary no love-story\nhas ever been told twice. I never heard any tale of lovers that did not\nseem to me as new as the world on its first morning. I am glad you have\na taste for love-stories.\"\n\n\"We have not,\" said Joscelyn, very quickly.\n\n\"No, indeed!\" cried her five fellows.\n\n\"Then shall it be some other kind of tale?\"\n\n\"No other kind will do,\" said Joscelyn, still more quickly.\n\n\"We must all bear our burdens,\" said Martin; \"so let us make ourselves\nas happy as we can in an apple-tree, and when the tale becomes too\nlittle to your taste you shall munch apples and forget it.\"\n\n\"Will you sit in the swing?\" asked Jennifer, pointing to the midmost\napple-tree, which was the largest in the orchard, and had a little\nswing hanging from a long upper limb.\n\nClose to the apple-tree, a branch of which indeed brushed its mossed\npent-roof, stood the Well-House. It had a round wall of old red bricks\ngrowing green with time, and a pillar of oak rose up at each point of\nthe compass to support the pent. Between the south and west pillars was\na green door, held by a rusty chain and a padlock with six keyholes.\nThe little circular court within was flagged, and three rings of worn\nsteps led to the well-head and the green wooden bucket inverted on the\ncoping. Between the cracks of the flags sprang grass, and pink-starred\ncentaury, and even a trail of mallow sprawled over the steps where\nGillian lay in tears, as though to wreathe her head with its striped\nblooms.\n\n\"What luck you have,\" said Martin, \"not only to live in an orchard, but\nto have a swing to swing in.\"\n\n\"It is our one diversion,\" said Joyce, \"except when you come to play to\nus.\"\n\n\"It is delightful to swing,\" said little Joan invitingly.\n\n\"So it is,\" agreed Martin, \"and I beg you to sit in the swing while I\nsit on this bough, and when I see your eyelids growing heavy with my\ntale I will start the rope and rouse you--thus!\"\n\nSo saying, he lifted the littlest milkmaid lightly into her perch and\ngave her so vigorous a push that she cried out with delight, as at one\nmoment the point of her shoe cleared the door of the Well-House, and at\nthe next her heels were up among the apples. Then Martin ensconced\nhimself upon a lower limb of the tree, which had a mossy cushion\nagainst the trunk as though nature or time had designed it for a teller\nof tales. The milkmaids sprang quickly into other branches around him,\nshaking a hail of sweet apples about his head. What he could he caught,\nand dropped into the swinger's lap, whence from time to time he helped\nhimself; and she did likewise.\n\n\"Begin,\" said Joscelyn.\n\n\"A thought has occurred to me,\" said Martin Pippin, \"and it is that my\ntale may disturb your master's daughter.\"\n\n\"We desire it to,\" said Joscelyn looking down on the Well-House and the\nyellow head of Gillian. \"The fear is rather that you may not arouse her\nattention, so I hope that when you speak you will speak clearly. For to\ntell you the truth we have heard that nothing but six love-tales will\nwash from her mind the image of--\"\n\n\"Of whom?\" inquired Martin as she paused.\n\n\"It does not matter whom,\" said Joscelyn, \"but I think the time is ripe\nto confess to you that the silly damsel is in love.\"\n\n\"The world is so full of wonders,\" said Martin Pippin, \"that one ceases\nto be surprised at almost anything.\"\n\n\"Is love then,\" said little Joan, \"so rare a thing in the world?\"\n\n\"The rarest of all things,\" answered Martin, looking gravely into her\neyes. \"It is as rare as flowers in Spring.\"\n\n\"I am glad of that,\" said Joan; while Joscelyn objected, \"But nothing\nis commoner.\"\n\n\"Do you think so?\" said Martin. \"Perhaps you are right. Yet Spring\nafter Spring the flowers quicken my heart as though I were perceiving\nthem for the first time in my life--yes, even the very commonest of\nthem.\"\n\n\"What do you call the commonest?\" asked Jessica.\n\n\"Could any be commoner,\" said Martin, \"than Robin-run-by-the-Wall? Yet\nI think he has touched many a heart in his day.\"\n\nAnd fixing his eyes on the weeper in the Well-House, Martin Pippin\ntried his lute and sang this song.\n\n  Run by the wall, Robin,\n  Run by the wall!\n  You might hear a secret\n  A lady once let fall.\n  If you hear her secret\n  Tell it in my ear,\n  And I'll whisper you another\n  For her to overhear.\n\nThe weeper stirred very slightly.\n\n\"The song makes little sense,\" said Joscelyn, \"and would make none at\nall if you called this flower by its right name of Jack-in-the-Hedge.\"\n\n\"Let us do so,\" said Martin readily, \"and then the nonsense will run\nthis way as easily as that.\"\n\n  Hide in the hedge, Jack,\n  Hide in the hedge!\n  You might catch a letter\n  Dropped over the edge.\n  If you catch her letter\n  Slip it in my hand,\n  And I'll write another\n  That she'll understand.\n\nAs he concluded, Gillian lifted up her head, and putting her hair from\nher face gazed over the duckpond beyond the green wicket.\n\n\"The lady,\" said Joscelyn with some impatience, \"who understand the\nletter must outdo me in wits, for I find no understanding whatever in\nyour silly song. However, it seems to have brought our master's\ndaughter out of her lethargy, and the moment is favorable to your tale.\nTherefore without further ado I beg you to begin.\"\n\n\"I will,\" said Martin, \"and on my part entreat your forbearance while I\nrelate to you the story of The King's Barn.\"\n\n\n\nTHE KING'S BARN\n\nThere was once, dear maidens, a King in Sussex of whose kingdom and\npossessions nothing remained but a single Barn and a change of linen.\nIt was no fault of his. He was a very young king when he came into his\nheritage, and it was already dwindled to these proportions. Once his\nfathers had owned a beautiful city on the banks of the Adur, and all\nthe lands to the north and the west were theirs, for a matter of\nseveral miles indeed, including many strange things that were on them:\nsuch as the Wapping Thorp, the Huddle Stone, the Bush Hovel where a\nWise Woman lived, and the Guess Gate; likewise those two communities\nknown as the Doves and the Hawking Sopers, whose ways of life were as\nopposite as the Poles. The Doves were simple men, and religious; but\nthe Hawking Sopers were indeed a wild and rowdy crew, and it is said\nthat the King's father had hunted and drunk with them until his estates\nwere gambled away and his affairs decayed of neglect, and nothing was\nleft at last but the solitary Barn which marked the northern boundary\nof his possessions. And here, when his father was dead, our young King\nsat on a tussock of hay with his golden crown on his head and his\ngolden scepter in his hand, and ate bread and cheese thrice a day,\nthrowing the rind to the rats and the crumbs to the swallows. His name\nwas William, and beyond the rats and the swallows he had no other\ncompany than a nag called Pepper, whom he fed daily from the tussock he\nsat on.\n\nBut at the end of a week he said:\n\n\"It is a dull life. What should a King do in a Barn?\"\n\nSo saying, he pulled the last handful of hay from under him, rising up\nquickly before he had time to fall down, and gave it to his nag; and\nnext he tied up his scepter and crown with his change of linen in a\nblue handkerchief; and last he fetched a rope and a sack and put them\non Pepper for bridle and saddle, and rode out of the Barn leaving the\ndoor to swing.\n\n\"Let us go south, Pepper,\" said he, \"for it is warmer to ride into the\nsun than away from it, and so we shall visit my Father's lands that\nmight have been mine.\"\n\nSouth they went, with the great Downs ahead of them, and who knew what\nbeyond? And first they came to the Hawking Sopers, who when they saw\nWilliam approaching tumbled out of their dwelling with a great racket,\ncrying to him to come and drink and play with them.\n\n\"Not I,\" said he. \"For so I should lose my Barn to you, and such as it\nis it is a shelter, and my only one. But tell me, if you can, what\nshould a King do in a Barn?\"\n\n\"He should dance in it,\" said they, and went laughing and singing back\nto their cups.\n\n\"What sort of advice is this, Pepper?\" said the King. \"Shall we try\nelsewhere?\"\n\nThe nag whinnied with unusual vehemence, and the King, taking this for\nyea, and not observing that she limped as she went, rode on to the\nDoves: the gentle gray-gowned Brothers who spent their days in pious\nworks and their nights in meditation. Between the twelve hours of\ntwilight and dawn they were pledged not to utter speech, but the King\narriving there at noon they welcomed him with kind words, and offered\nhim a bowl of rice and milk.\n\nHe thanked them, and when he had eaten and drink put to them his riddle.\n\n\"What should a King do in a Barn?\"\n\nThey answered, \"He should pray in it.\"\n\n\"This may be good advice,\" said the King. \"Pepper, should we go\nfurther?\"\n\nThe little nag whinnied till her sides shook, which the King took, as\nbefore, to be an affirmative. However, because it was Sunday he\nremained with the Doves a day and a night, and during such time as\ntheir lips were not sealed they urged him to become one of them, and\nfound a new settlement of Brothers in his Barn. He spent his night in\nreflection, but by morning had come to no decision.\n\n\"To what better use could you dedicate it?\" asked the Chief Brother,\nwho was known as the Ringdove because he was the leader.\n\n\"None that I can think of,\" said the King, \"but I fear I am not good\nenough.\"\n\n\"When you have passed our initiation,\" said the Ringdove, \"you will be.\"\n\n\"Is it difficult?\" asked William.\n\n\"No, it is very easy, and can be accomplished within a month. You have\nonly to ride south till you come to the hills, on the highest of which\nyou will see a Ring of beech-trees. Under the hills lies the little\nvillage of Washington, and there you may dwell in comfort through the\nweek. But on each of the four Saturdays of the lunar month you must\nmount the hill at sunset and keep a vigil among the beeches till\nsunrise. And you must see that these Saturdays occur on the fourth\nquarters of the moon--once when she is in her crescent, once at the\nhalf, again at the full, and lastly when she is waning.\"\n\n\"And is this all?\" said William. \"It sounds very simple.\"\n\n\"Not quite all, but the rest is nearly as simple. You have but to\nobserve four rules. First, to tell no living soul of your resolve\nduring the month of initiation. Second, to keep your vigil always\nbetween the two great beeches in the middle of the Ring. Third, to\nissue forth at midnight and immerse your head in the Dewpond which lies\non the hilltop to the west, and having done so to return to your watch\nbetween the trees. And fourth, to make no utterance on any account\nwhatever from sunset to sunrise.\"\n\n\"Suppose I should sneeze?\" inquired the King anxiously.\n\n\"There's no supposing about it,\" said the Ringdove. \"Sneezing, seeing\nthat your head will be extremely wet, is practically inevitable. But\nthe rule applies only to such utterance as lies within human control.\nWhen the fourth vigil has been successfully accomplished, return to us\nfor a blessing and the gray robe of our Order.\"\n\n\"But how,\" asked the King, \"during my vigils shall I know when midnight\nis due?\"\n\n\"In the third quarter after eleven a bird sings. At the beginning of\nits song go forth from the Ring, and at the ending plunge your head\ninto the Pond. For on these nights the bird sings ceaselessly for\nfifteen minutes, but stops at the very moment of midnight.\"\n\n\"And is this really all?\"\n\n\"This is all.\"\n\n\"How easy it is to become good,\" said William cheerfully. \"I will begin\nat once.\"\n\nSo impatient was he to become a Brother Dove--\n\n\n(But here Martin Pippin broke off abruptly, and catching the rope of\nthe swing in his left hand he gave it a great lurch.\n\nJoan: Oh! Oh! Oh!\n\nMartin: I perceive, Mistress Joan, that you lose interest in my story.\nYour mouth droops.\n\nJoan: Oh, no! Oh, no! It is only--it is a very nice story--but--\n\nMartin: What cannot be said aloud can frequently be whispered.\n\nHe leaned his ear close to her mouth, and very shyly she whispered into\nit.\n\nJoan (whispering very shyly): Why must the young King join a\nBrotherhood? I thought...this was to be a...love story.\n\nMartin smiled and chose an apple from her lap.\n\n\"Keep this for me,\" said he, \"until I ask for it; and if you are not\nthen satisfied, neither will I be\")\n\n\nSo impatient (resumed Martin) was the King to enter the Brotherhood,\nthat he abandoned his idea of visiting the Huddle Stone and the Wapping\nThorp (which would have taken him out of his course), and, without even\nwaiting to break his fast, leaped on to Pepper's back and turned her\nhead southwest towards the hills. And in his eagerness he failed to\nremark how Pepper stumbled at every second step. Before he had gone a\nmile he came to the Guess Gate.\n\nOf the Guess Gate, as you may know, all men ask a question in passing\nthrough, and in the back-swing of the Gate it creaks an answer. So\nnothing more natural than that the King, having flung the Gate open,\nshould cry aloud once more:\n\n\"Gate, Gate! What should a King do in a Barn?\"\n\n\"Now at last,\" thought he, \"I shall be told whether to dance or to pray\nin it.\" And he stood listening eagerly as the Gate hung an instant on\nits outward journey and then began to creak home.\n\n\"He--should--rule--in--it--he--should--rule--in--it--he--should--\"\nsqueaked the Guess Gate, and then latch clicked and it was silent.\n\nThis disconcerted William.\n\n\"Now I am worse off than ever,\" he sighed. \"Pray, Pepper, can this\nadvice be bettered?\"\n\nAs usual when he questioned her, the nag pricked up her ears and\nwhinnied so violently that he nearly fell off her back. Nevertheless,\nhe kept Pepper's head in a beeline for Chanctonbury, never noticing how\nvery ill she was going, and presently crossed the great High Road\nbeyond which lay the Bush Hovel. The Wise Woman was at home; from afar\nthe King saw her sitting outside the Hovel mending her broom with a\nwithe from the Bush.\n\n\"Here if anywhere,\" rejoiced William, \"I shall learn the truth.\"\n\nHe dismounted and approached the old woman, cap in hand.\n\n\"Wise Woman,\" he said respectfully, \"you know most things, but do you\nknow this--whether a King should dance or pray or rule in his Barn?\"\n\n\"He should do all three, young man,\" said the Wise Woman.\n\n\"But--!\" exclaimed William.\n\n\"I'm busy,\" snapped the Wise Woman. \"You men will always be chattering,\nas though pots need never be stewed nor cobwebs swept.\" So saying, she\nwent into the Hovel and slammed the door.\n\n\"Pepper,\" said the poor King, \"I am at my wits' ends. Go where yours\nlead you.\"\n\nAt this Pepper whinnied in a perfect frenzy of delight, and the King\nhad to clasp both arms round her neck to avoid tumbling off.\n\nNow the little nag preferred roads to beelines over copses and ditches,\nand she turned back and ambled along the highway so very lamely that it\nbecame impossible even for her preoccupied rider not to perceive that\nshe had cast all her four shoes.\n\n\"Poor beast!\" he cried dismayed, \"how has this happened, and where? Oh,\nPepper, how could you be so careless? I have not a penny in my purse to\nbuy you new shoes, my poor Pepper. Do you not remember where you lost\nthem?\"\n\nThe little nag licked her master's hand (for he had dismounted to\nexamine her trouble), and looked at him with great eyes full of\naffection, and then she flung up her head and whinnied louder than\never. The sound of it was like nothing so much as laughter. Then she\nwent on, hobbling as best she could, and the King walked by her side\nwith his hand on her neck. In this way they came to a small village,\nand here the nag turned up a by-road and halted outside the\nblacksmith's forge. The smith's Lad stood within, clinking at the\nanvil, the smuttiest Lad smith ever had.\n\n\"Lad!\" cried the King.\n\nThe Lad looked up from his work and came at once to the door, wiping\nhis hands upon his leather apron.\n\n\"Where am I?\" asked the King.\n\n\"In the village of Washington,\" said the Lad.\n\n\"What! Under the Ring?\" cried the King.\n\n\"Yes, sir,\" said the Lad.\n\n\"A blessing on you!\" said the King joyfully, and clapped his hand on\nthe Lad's shoulder. \"Pepper, you have solved the problem and led me to\nmy destiny.\"\n\n\"Is Pepper your nag's name?\" asked the blacksmith's Lad.\n\n\"It is,\" said the King; \"her only one.\"\n\n\"Then she has one more name than she has shoes,\" said the Lad. \"How\ncame she to lose them?\"\n\n\"I didn't notice,\" confessed the King.\n\n\"You must have been thinking very deeply,\" remarked the Lad. \"Are you\nin love?\"\n\n\"I am not quite twenty-one,\" said the King.\n\n\"I see. Do you want your nag shod?\"\n\n\"I do. But I have spent my last penny.\"\n\n\"Earn another then,\" said the Lad.\n\n\"I did not even earn the last one,\" said the King shamefacedly. \"I have\nnever worked in my life.\"\n\n\"Why, where have you lived?\" exclaimed the Lad.\n\n\"In a Barn.\"\n\n\"But one works in a Barn--\"\n\n\"Stop!\" cried the king, putting his fingers in his ears. \"One prays in\na Barn.\"\n\n\"Very likely,\" said the Lad, looking at him curiously. \"Are you going\nto pray in one?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said the King. \"When is the New Moon?\"\n\n\"Next Saturday.\"\n\n\"Hurrah!\" cried the King. \"That settles it. But what's to-day?\"\n\n\"Monday, sir.\"\n\n\"Alas!\" sighed William, wondering how he should make shift to live for\nfive days.\n\n\"I don't know what you mean, sir,\" said the Lad.\n\n\"I would tell you my meaning,\" said the King, \"but am pledged not to.\"\n\nThen the Lad said, \"Let it pass. I have a proposal to make. My father\nis dead, and for two years I have worked the forge single-handed. Now I\nam willing to teach you to shoe your nag with four good shoes and\nstrong, if you will meanwhile blow the bellows for whatever other jobs\ncome to the forge; and if the shoes are not done by dinner-time you\nshall have a meal thrown in.\"\n\nThe King looked at the Lad kindly.\n\n\"I shall blow your bellows very badly,\" he said, \"and shoe my nag still\nworse.\"\n\nSaid the Lad, \"You'll learn in time.\"\n\n\"Not before dinner-time, I hope,\" said the King, \"for I am very hungry.\"\n\n\"You look hungry,\" said the Lad. \"It's a bargain then.\"\n\nThe King held out his hand, but the Lad suddenly whipped his behind his\nback. \"It's so dirty, sir,\" he said.\n\n\"Give it me all the same,\" said the King; and they clasped hands.\n\nThe rest of that morning the King spent in blowing the bellows, and by\ndinner-time not so much as the first of Pepper's hoofs was shod. For a\ngreat deal of business came into the forge, and there was no time for a\nlesson. So the King and the Lad took their meal together, and the King\nwas by this time nearly as black as his master. He would have washed\nhimself, but the Lad said it was no matter, he himself having no time\nto wash from week's end to week's end. In the afternoon they changed\nplaces, and the King stood at the anvil and the Lad at the bellows. He\nwas a good teacher, but the King made a poor job of it. By nightfall he\nhad produced shoes resembling all the letters of the alphabet excepting\nU, and when at last he submitted to the Lad a shoe like nothing so much\nas a drunken S, his master shrugged and said:\n\n\"Zeal is praiseworthy within its limits, but the best of smiths does\nnot attempt to make two shoes at once. Let us sup.\"\n\nThey supped; and afterwards the Lad showed the King a small bedroom as\nneat as a new pin.\n\n\"I shall sully the sheets,\" said William, \"and you will excuse me if I\nfetch the kettle, which is on the boil.\"\n\n\"As you please,\" said the Lad, and took himself off.\n\nIn the morning the King came clean to breakfast, but the Lad was as\nblack as he had been.\n\nTuesday passed as Monday had passed; now William took the bellows,\nmarveling at his youthful master's deftness, and now the Lad blew,\ngroaning at his pupil's clumsiness. By nightfall, however, he had\nachieved a shoe faintly recognizable as such. For a second time the\nKing washed himself and slept again in the little trim chamber, but the\nLad in the morning resembled midnight. In this way the week went by,\nthe King's heart beating a little faster each morning as Saturday\napproached, and he wondered by what ruse he could explain his absence\nwithout creating suspicion or breaking his pledge.\n\nOn Saturday morning the Lad said to the King: \"This is a half-day. You\nmust make your shoe this morning or not at all. It is my custom at one\no'clock to close the forge and go to visit my Great-Aunt. I will be\nwork again on Monday, till when you must shift for yourself.\"\n\nThe King could hardly believe his luck in having matters so well\nsettled, and he spent the morning so diligently that by noon he had\nproduced a shoe which, if not that of a master-craftsman, was at least\nadaptable to the purpose for which it had been fashioned.\n\nThe Lad examined it and said reluctantly, \"It will do,\" and proceeded\nto show the King how to fasten it to Pepper's hoof.\n\n\"Why,\" said the King, having the nag's off forefoot in his hand,\n\"here's a stone in it. Small wonder she limped.\"\n\n\"It isn't a stone,\" said the Lad, extracting it, \"it is a ruby.\"\n\nAnd he exhibited to the King a ruby of such a glowing red that it was\nas though the souls of all the grapes of Burgundy had been pressed to\ncreate it.\n\n\"You are a rich man now,\" said the Lad quietly, \"and can live as you\nwill.\"\n\nBut William closed the Lad's fingers over the stone. \"Keep it,\" he\nsaid, \"for you have filled me for a week, and I have paid you with\nnothing but my breath.\"\n\n\"As you please,\" said the Lad carelessly, and, tossing the stone upon a\nshelf, locked up the forge. \"Now I am going to my Great-Aunt. There's a\ncake in the larder.\"\n\nSo saying, he strolled away, and the King was left to his own devices.\nThese consisted in bathing himself from head to foot till his body was\nas pure without as he desired his heart to be within; and in donning\nhis fresh suit of linen. He would not break his fast, but waited,\ntrembling and eager, till an hour before sundown, and then at last he\nset forth to mount the great hill with the sacred crown of trees upon\nits crest.\n\nWhen at last he stood upon the boundary of the Ring, his heart sprang\nfor joy in his breast, and his breath nearly failed him with amazement\nat the beauty of the world which lay outspread for leagues below him.\n\n\"Oh, lovely earth!\" he cried aloud, \"never till now have I known what\nbeauty I lived in. How is it that we cannot see the wonder of our\nsurroundings until we gaze upon them from afar? But if you look so fair\nfrom the hilltops, what must you appear from the very sky?\" And lost in\ndelight he turned his eyes upward, and was recalled to his senses by\nthe sight of the sinking sun. \"Lovely one, how nearly you have betrayed\nme!\" he said, and smiling waved his hand to the dear earth, sealed up\nhis lips, and entered the Ring.\n\nAnd here between two midmost beeches he knelt down and buried his face\nin his hands, and prayed the spirits of that place to make him worthy.\n\nThe hours passed, quarter by quarter, and the King stayed motionless\nlike one in a dream. Presently, however, the dream was faintly shaken\nby a little lirrup of sound, as light as rain dropping from leaves\nabove a pool. Again and again the sweet round notes fell on the\nmeditations of the King, and he remembered with entrancement that this\nwas the tender signal by which he was summoned to the Pond. So, rising\nsilently, he wandered through the trees, and keeping his eyes fixed on\nthe soft dim turf, lest some new beauty should tempt him to speech, he\nwent across the open hill the Pond. Here he knelt down again, listening\nto the childlike bird, until at last the young piping ceased with a\njoyous chuckle. And at that instant, reflected in the Pond, he saw the\nsilver star that watches the invisible young moon, and dipped his head.\n\nOh, my dear maids! When he lifted it again, all wet and bewildered, he\nsaw upon the opposite border of the Pond, a figure, the white figure\nof--a woman! a girl! a child! He could not tell, for she lay three\nparts in the shadowy water with her back towards him, and his gaze and\nsenses swam; but in that faint starlight one bare and lovely arm, as\nwhite as the crescent moon, was clear to him, upcurved to her shadowy\nhair. So she reclined, and so he knelt, both motionless, and his heart\ntrembled (even as it had trembled at the bird's song) with a wish to go\nnear to her, or at least to whisper to her across the water. Indeed, he\nwas on the point of doing so, when a sudden contraction seized him, his\neyes closed in a delicious agony, and he sneezed once vigorously; and\nin that moment of shattering blackness he recalled his vow, and rising\nturned his back upon the vision and groped his way again to the shelter\nof the trees.\n\nHere he remained till dawn in meditation, but as to the nature of his\nmeditations I am, dear maidens, ignorant. Nor do I know in what\nrestless wise he passed his Sunday.\n\nIt is enough to know that on Monday when he went into the forge he\nfound the Lad already at work, and if he had been pitch-black at their\nparting he was no less so at their meeting. He appeared to be out of\nhumor, and for some time regarded his apprentice with dissatisfaction,\nbut only remarked at last:\n\n\"You look fatigued.\"\n\n\"My sleep was broken with dreams,\" said the King. \"I am sorry if I am\nlate. Let me to my shoeing. Since Saturday ended in success, I suppose\nI shall now finish the business without more ado.\"\n\nHe was, however, too hopeful as it appeared, for though he managed to\nfashion a shoe which was in his eyes the equal of the other, the Lad\nwas captious and would not commend it.\n\n\"I should be an ill craftmaster,\" said he, \"if I let you rest content\non what you have already done. I made such a shoe as this on my\nthirteenth birthday, and my father's only praise was,  You must do\nbetter yet.'\"\n\nSo particular was the young smith that William spent the whole of\nanother week in endeavoring to please him. This might have chafed the\nKing, but that it agreed entirely with his desires to remain in that\nplace, sleeping and eating at no cost to himself, and working so\nstrenuously that his hands grew almost as hard as the metal he worked\nin; for the Lad now began to entrust him with small jobs of various\nsorts, although in the matter of the second shoe he refused to be\nsatisfied.\n\nWhen Saturday came, however, the King contrived a shoe so much superior\nto any he had yet made that the Lad, examining it, was compelled to\nsay, \"It is better than the other.\" Then Pepper, who always stood in a\nnoose beside the door awaiting her moment, lifted up her near forefoot\nof her own accord, and the King took it in his hand.\n\n\"How odd!\" he exclaimed a moment later. \"The nag has a stone in this\nfoot also. It is not strange that she went so ill.\"\n\n\"It is not a stone,\" said the Lad. \"It is a pearl.\"\n\nAnd he held out to the King a pearl of such a shining purity that it\nwas as though it had been rounded within the spirit of a saint.\n\n\"This makes you a rich man,\" said the Lad moodily, \"and you can journey\nwhither you please.\"\n\nBut the King shook his head. \"Keep it,\" he said, \"for you have lodged\nme for a week, and I have given you only the clumsy service of my\nhands.\"\n\n\"Very well,\" said the Lad simply, and put the pearl in his pocket. \"My\nGreat-Aunt is expecting me. There's a cake in the larder.\"\n\nSo saying he walked off, and the King was left alone. As before, he\nbathed himself and changed his linen, and left the contents of the\nlarder untouched; and an hour before sunset he climbed the hill for the\nsecond time, and presently stood panting on the edge of the Ring. And\nagain a pang of wonder that was akin to pain shot through his heart at\nthe loveliness of the world below him.\n\n\"Beautiful earth!\" he cried once more, \"how fair and dear you are\nbecome to me in your remoteness. But oh, if you appear so beautiful\nfrom this summit, what must you appear from the summit of the clouds?\"\nAnd he glanced from the earth to the sky, and saw the sun running down\nhis airy hill. \"Dear Temptress!\" he said, \"how cunningly you would\nsnare me from my purpose.\" And he kissed his hand to her thrice, sealed\nup his lips, and entered the Ring.\n\nBetween the two tall beeches he knelt down, and drowned the following\nhours in thought and prayer; till that deep lake of meditation was\ndivided by the sound of singing, as though a shoal of silver fishes\nswam and leaped upon its surface, putting all quietness to flight, and\ntroubling its waters with a million lovelinesses. For now it was as\nthough the bird's enchanting song came partly from within and partly\nfrom without, and if the fall of its music shattered his dream like\nfalling fish, certain it seemed to him that the fish had first leaped\nfrom his own heart, out of whose unsuspected caves darted a shoal of\nnameless longings. He too leaped up and darted through the trees, and\nwith head bent down, for fear of he knew not what, made his way to the\nPond. Here he knelt again, drinking in the tremulous song of the bird,\nas tremulous as youth and maidenhood, until at last it ceased with a\nsweet uncompleted cry of longing. And at that instant, in the mirror of\nthe Pond, he saw the uncompleted disc of the half-moon, and dipped his\nhead.\n\nAh wonder! when he lifted it again, dazzled and dripping, he saw across\nthe Pond a figure rising from the water, the figure, as he could now\nperceive in the fuller light, of a girl, clear to the waist. Her face\nwas half turned from him, and her hair flowed half to him and half\naway, but within that cloudy setting gleamed the lines of her lovely\nneck and one white shoulder and one moonlit breast, whose undercurve\nappeared to float upon the Pond like the petal of a waterlily. So he\nknelt on his side and she on hers, both motionless, and he heart leaped\n(even as it had leaped at the bird's song) with a longing to kneel\nbeside and even touch that loveliness; or, if he could not, at least to\ncall to her across the Pond so that he would turn and reveal to him\nwhat still was hidden. He was in fact about to do so, when suddenly his\nsenses were overwhelmed with a sweet anguish, darkness fell on him, and\nfrom its very core he sneezed twice, violently. This interruption of\nthe previous spell was sufficient to bring him to a realization of his\nperil, and rising hastily he ran back to the Ring, where he remained\ntill morning. But to what pious thoughts he then committed himself I\ncannot tell you; neither in what feverish fashion he got through Sunday.\n\nOn Monday morning when he arrived at the forge he found the Lad at work\nbefore him, and ebony was not blacker than his face. He glanced at the\nKing with some show of temper, but only said:\n\n\"You look worn out.\"\n\n\"I have had bad dreams,\" said the King. \"Excuse me for being behind my\ntime. I will try to make up for it by wasting no more, and fashioning\ninstantly two shoes as good as that I made on Saturday.\"\n\nBut though he handled his tools with more dexterity than he had yet\nexhibited, the Lad petulantly pushed aside the first shoe he made,\nwhich to the King appeared to be, if anything, superior to the one he\nhad made on Saturday. The Lad, however, quickly explained himself,\nsaying:\n\n\"A master-smith who intends to make his apprentice his equal will not\nlet him rest at the halfway house. I made a shoe like this when I was\nfourteen, and all my father said was,  I have hopes of you.'\"\n\nSo for yet another week the King's nose was kept to the grindstone, and\nit would have irritated most men to find their good work repeatedly\ncondemned; but William was, as you may have observed, singularly\nsweet-tempered, besides which he desired nothing so much as to remain\nwhere he was. And for another five days he slept and ate and worked,\nuntil the muscles of his arms began to swell, and he swung the hammer\nwith as much ease as his master, who now left a great part of the work\nentirely in his hands. Although in this matter of the third shoe he\nrefused to be satisfied.\n\nNevertheless on Saturday morning the King, making a last effort before\nthe forge was shut, submitted a shoe so far beyond anything he had yet\nachieved, that the Lad could not but say, \"This is a good shoe.\" And\nPepper, seeing them coming, lifted her off hind-foot to be shod.\n\n\"Now as I live!\" cried the King. \"Another stone! And how she contrived\nto hobble so far is a miracle.\"\n\n\"It isn't a stone,\" said the Lad, \"it is a diamond.\"\n\nAnd he presented to the King a diamond of such triumphant brilliance\nthat it might have been conceived of the ambitions of the mightiest\nmonarch of the earth.\n\n\"You now own surpassing wealth,\" said the Lad dejectedly, \"and you have\nno more need to work.\"\n\nBut William would not even touch the stone. \"Keep it,\" he said, \"for\nyou have befriended me for a week, and I have given you only the\nstrength of my arms.\"\n\n\"Let it be so,\" said the Lad gently, and put the diamond in his belt.\n\"I must not keep my Great-Aunt waiting. There's a cake in the larder.\"\n\nSo saying he went his way, and the King went his; which, as you may\nsurmise, was to the bath and his clean clothes. He did not go into the\nlarder, and an hour before sunset made the ascent of the hill, and for\nthe third time stood like a conqueror upon the crest. And as he gazed\nover the lands below his heart throbbed with a passion for the earth\nthat was half agony and half love, unless indeed it was the whole agony\nof love.\n\n\"Most beautiful earth!\" he cried aloud, \"only as you recede from me do\nI realize how necessary it is for me to possess you. How is it that\nwhen I possess you I know you not as I know you now? But oh! if you are\nso wonderful from these great hills, what must you be from the greater\nhills of air?\" And he looked up, and saw the sun descending in the\nwest. \"Sweet earth,\" he sighed, \"you would hold me when I should be\ngone, and never remind me that the moment to depart is due.\" And he\nstretched out his arms to her, sealed up his lips, and went into the\nRing.\n\nOnce more he knelt between the giant beeches, and sank all thoughts in\npious contemplation; till suddenly those still waters were convulsed as\nthough with stormy currents, and a wild song beat through his breast,\nso that he could not believe it was the bird singing from a short\ndistance: it was as though the storm of music broke from his singing\nheart--yes, from his own heart singing for some unexpressed\nfulfillment. He was barely conscious of going through the trees, with\neyes shut tight against the outer world, but soon he was kneeling at\nthe brink of the Pond, while the surge of joy and pain in the song\nbroke on his spirit like waves upon a shore, or love upon a man and a\nwoman--washed back, towered up, and broke on him again. At last on one\nfull glorious phrase it ceased. And at that instant, deep in the Pond,\nhe saw the full orb of the moon, and dipped his head.\n\nOh, when he lifted it, startled and illuminated, he saw on the further\nside of the Pond a woman standing. The moonlight bathed her form from\nhead to foot, her hair was thrown behind her, and she stood facing him,\nso that in the cold clear light he could see her fully revealed: her\nstrong tender face, her strong soft body, her strong slim legs, her\nstrong and lovely arms. As white as mayblossom she was, and beauty went\nforth from her like fragrance from the shaken bough. So he knelt on his\nside and she stood on hers, both motionless, but gazing into each\nother's eyes, and his heart broke (even as it had broken at the bird's\nsong) with a passion to take her in his arms, for it seemed to him that\nthis alone would mend its breaking. Or if he might not do this, at\nleast to send his need of her in a great cry across the Pond. And as\nhis passion grew she slowly lifted her arms and opened them to him as\nthough to bid him enter; and her lips parted, and she cried out, as\nthough she were uttering the cry of his own soul:\n\n\"Beloved!\"\n\nAll the joy and the pain, fulfilled, of the bird's song were gathered\nin that word.\n\nGlorified he leaped up, his whole being answering the cry of hers, but\nbefore his lips could translate it he was gripped by a mighty agony,\nand sneeze after sneeze shook all his senses, so that he was utterly\nhelpless. When he was able to look up again he saw the woman moving\ntowards him round the Pond, and suddenly he clapped his hands over his\neyes and fled towards the Ring, as though pursued by demons. Here he\npassed the remainder of the night, but in what sort of prayers I leave\nyou to imagine; as also amid what ravings he passed his Sunday.\n\nOn Monday the Lad was again before him at the forge, and a crow's wing\nhad looked milky beside his face. He did not raise his eyes as the King\ncame in, but said:\n\n\"You look very ill.\" He said it furiously.\n\n\"I have had nightmares,\" said the King. \"Pardon me if you can. I will\nget to work and make my final shoe.\"\n\nBut though he now had little more to learn in his craft, the Lad, when\nthe shoe was made, picked it up in his pincers and flung it to the\nother end of the forge; yet the King now knew enough to know that few\nsmiths could have made its equal. So he looked surprised; at which the\nLad, controlling himself, said:\n\n\"When I pass your fourth shoe you will need no more masters--I forged a\nshoe like that one yonder when I was fifteen, and my father said of it,\nYou will make a smith one day.'\"\n\nAnd on neither Tuesday nor Wednesday nor Thursday nor Friday could the\nKing succeed in pleasing the Lad; the better his shoes the angrier grew\nhis young master that they were not good enough. Yet between these\ngusts of temper he was gentle and remorseful, and once the King saw\ntears in his eyes, and another time the Lad came humbly to ask for\npardon. Then William laughed and put out his hand, but, as once before,\nthe Lad slipped his behind his back and said:\n\n\"It is so dirty, friend.\"\n\nAnd this time he would not let William take it. So the King was forced\ninstead to lay his arm about the Lad's shoulder, and press it tenderly;\nbut the Lad made no response, and only stood hanging his head until the\nKing removed his arm. All the same, when next the King made a shoe he\nwas full of rage, and stamped on it, and ran out of the forge. Which\nsurprised the King all the more because it was so excellent a shoe. Yet\nhe was secretly glad of its rejection, for he felt it would break his\nheart to go away from that place; and he could think of no good cause\nfor remaining, once Pepper was shod. So there he stayed, eating,\nsleeping, and working, while the thews of his back became as strong\nunder the smooth skin as the thews of a beech-tree under the smooth\nbark; and his craft was such that the Lad at last left the whole of the\nwork of the forge in his charge. For there was nothing he could not do\nsurpassingly well. And this the Lad admitted, save only in the case of\nthe fourth shoe.\n\nBut on Saturday, just before closing-time, the King set to and made a\nshoe so fine that when the Lad saw it he said quietly, \"I could not\nmake a better.\" Had he not said so he must have lied, or proved that he\ndid know a masterpiece when he saw it. And he too good a craftsman for\nthat, besides being honest.\n\nPepper instantly lifted up her near hind-foot.\n\n\"Upon my word!\" exclaimed the King, \"the world is full of stones, and\nPepper has found them all. The wonder is that she did not fall down on\nthe road.\"\n\n\"This is not a stone,\" said the Lad, \"it is an opal.\"\n\nAnd he displayed an opal of such marvelous changeability, such milk and\nfire shot with such shifting rainbows, that it was as though it had had\nbirth of all the moods of all the women of all time.\n\n\"This enriches you for life,\" said the Lad gloomily, \"and now you are\nfree of masters for ever.\"\n\nBut William thrust his hands into his pockets. \"Keep it,\" he said, \"for\nthis week you have given me love, and I have given you nothing but the\nsinews of my body.\"\n\nThe Lad looked at him and said, \"I have given you hard words, and fits\nof temper, and much injustice.\"\n\n\"Have you?\" said William. \"I remember only your tenderness and your\ntears. So keep the opal in love's name.\"\n\nThe Lad tried to answer, but could not; and he slipped the opal under\nhis shirt. Then he faltered, \"My Great-Aunt--\" and still he could not\nspeak. But he made a third effort, and said, \"There is a cake in the\nlarder,\" and turned on his heel and went away quickly. And the King\nlooked after him till he was out of sight, and then very slowly went to\nhis bath and his fresh linen. But he left the cake where it was.\n\nAnd he sat by the door of the forge with his face in his hands until\nthe length of his shadow warned him that he must go. And he rose and\nwent for the last time up the hill, but with a sinking heart; and when\nhe stood on the top and gazed upon the beauty of the earth he had left\nbelow, in his breast was the ache of loss and longing for one he had\nloved, and with his eyes he tried to draw that beauty into himself, but\nthe void in him remained unfulfilled. Yet never had her beauty been so\ngreat.\n\n\"Beloved and lovely earth!\" he whispered, \"why do you appear most fair\nand most desirable now that I am about to lose you? Why when I had you\ndid you not hold me by force, and tell me what you were? Only now I\ndiscover you from mid-heaven--but oh! in what way should I discover you\nfrom heaven itself?\" And he looked upward, and lo! a blurred sun shone\nupon him, swimming to its rest. \"Farewell, dear earth!\" said the King.\n\"Since you cannot mount to me, and I may not descend to you.\" And he\nknelt upon the turf and laid his cheek and forehead to it, and then he\nrose, sealed up his lips, and passed into the Ring.\n\nBetween the two tall beeches he sank down, and all sense and thought\nand consciousness sank with him, as though his being had become a dead\nforgotten lake, hidden in a lifeless wood; where birds sang not, nor\nrain fell, nor fishes played, nor currents moved below the stagnant\nwaters. But presently a wind seemed to wail among the trees, and the\nsound of it traveled over the King's senses, stirred them, and passed.\nBut only to return again, moan over him, and trail away; and so it kept\ncoming and going till first he heard, then listened to, and at last\nrealized the haunting signal of the bird. And he went forth into the\nopen night, his eyes wide apart but seeing nothing until he stumbled at\nthe Pond and crouched beside it. The bird grew fainter and fainter, and\npresently the sound, like a ghost at dawn, ceased to exist; and at that\ninstant, under the Pond, he beheld the lessening circle of the moon,\nand dipped his head.\n\nAlas! when he lifted it, shivering and stunned, he saw the form he\nlonged to see on the other side of the Pond; but not, as he had longed\nto see it, gazing at him with the love and glory of seven nights ago.\nNow she stood on the turf, half turned from him, and the wave of her\nhair blew to and fro like a cloud, now revealing her white side, now\nconcealing it. And he looked, but she would not look. So he knelt on\nhis side and she remained on hers, both motionless. And suddenly the\nimpulse to sneeze arose within him, and at that instant she began to\nmove--not towards him, as before, but away from him, downhill.\n\nAt that he could bear no more, and quelling the impulse with a mighty\neffort, he got upon his feet crying, \"Beloved, stay! Beloved, stay,\nbeloved!\"\n\nAnd he staggered round the Pound as quickly as his shaking knees would\nlet him; but quicker still she slid away, and when he came where she\nhad been the place was as empty as the sky in its moonless season. He\ncalled and ran about and called again; but he got no answer, nor found\nwhat he sought. All that night he spent in calling and running to and\nfro. What he did on Sunday you may know, and I may know, but he did\nnot. On Sunday night he stayed beside the Pond, but whatever his hopes\nwere they received no fulfillment. On Monday night he was there again,\nand on Tuesday, and on Wednesday; and between the mornings and the\nnights he went from hill to hill, seeking her hiding-place who came to\nbathe in the lake. There was not a hill within a day's march that did\nnot know him, from Duncton to Mount Harry. But on none of them he found\nthe Woman. How he lived is a puzzle. Perhaps upon wild raspberries.\n\nAfter the sun had set on Chanctonbury on Saturday night, he came\nexhausted to the Ring again, and stood on that high hill gazing\nearthward. But there was no light above or below, and he said:\n\n\"I have lost all. For the earth is swallowed in blackness, and the\nWoman has disappeared into space, and I myself have cast away my\nspiritual initiation. I will sit by the Pond till midnight, and if the\nbird sings then I will still hope, but if it does not I will dip my\nhead in the water and not lift it again.\"\n\nSo he went and lay down by the Pond in the darkness, and the hours wore\naway. But as the time of the bird's song drew near he clasped his hands\nand prayed. But the bird did not sing; and when he judged that midnight\nwas come, he got upon his knees and prepared to put his head under the\nwater. And as he did so he saw, on the opposite side of the Pond, the\nfeeble light of a lantern. He could not see who held it, because even\nas he looked the bearer blew out the light; but in that moment it\nappeared to him that she was as black as the night itself.\n\nSo for awhile he knelt upon his side, and she remained on hers, both\ntrembling; but at last the King, dreading to startle her away, rose\nsoftly and went round the Pond to where he had seen her.\n\nHe said into the night in a shaking voice, \"I cannot see you. If you\nare there, give me your hand.\"\n\nAnd out of the night a shaking voice replied:\n\n\"It is so dirty, beloved.\"\n\nThen he took her in his arms, and felt how she trembled, and he held\nher closely to him to still her, whispering:\n\n\"You are my Lad.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" she said in a low voice. \"But wait.\"\n\nAnd she slipped out of his embrace, and he heard her enter the Pond,\nand she stayed there as it seemed to him a lifetime; but presently she\nrose up, and even in that black night the whiteness of her body was\nvisible to him, and she came to him as she was and laid her head on his\nbreast and said:\n\n\"I am your Woman.\"\n\n\n(\"I want my apple,\" said Martin Pippin.\n\n\"But is this the end?\" cried little Joan.\n\n\"Why not?\" said Martin. \"The lovers are united.\"\n\nJoscelyn: Nonsense! Of course it is not the end! You must tell us a\nthousand other things. Why was the Woman a woman on Saturday night and\na lad all the rest of the week?\n\nJoyce: What of the four jewels?\n\nJennifer: Which of the answers to the King's riddle was the right one?\n\nJessica: What happened to the cake?\n\nJane: What was her name?\n\n\"Please,\" said little Joan, \"do not let this be the end, but tell us\nwhat they did next.\"\n\n\"Women will be women,\" observed Martin, \"and to the end of time prefer\nunessentials to the essential. But I will endeavor to satisfy you on\nthe points you name.\")\n\n\nIn the morning William said to his beloved:\n\n\"Now tell me something of yourself. How come you to be so masterful a\nsmith? Why do you live as a black Lad all the week and turn only into a\nwhite Woman on Saturdays? Have you really got a Great-Aunt, and where\ndoes she live? How old are you? Why were you so hard to please about\nthe shoeing of Pepper? And why, the better my shoes the worse your\ntemper? Why did you run away from me a week ago? Why did you never tell\nme who you were? Why have you tormented me for a whole month? What is\nyour name?\"\n\n\"Trust a man to ask questions!\" said his beloved, laughing and\nblushing. \"Is it not enough that I am your beloved?\"\n\n\"More than enough, yet not nearly enough,\" said the King, \"for there is\nnothing of yourself which you must not tell me in time, from the moment\nwhen you first stole barley sugar behind your father's back, down to\nthat in which you first loved me.\"\n\n\"Then I had best begin at once,\" she smiled, \"or a lifetime will not be\nlong enough. I am eighteen years old and my name is Viola. I was born\nin Falmer, and my father was the best smith in all Sussex, and because\nhe had no other child he made me his bellows-boy, and in time, as you\nknow, taught me his trade. But he was, as you also know, a stern\nmaster, and it was not until, on my sixteenth birthday, I forged a shoe\nthe equal of your last, that he said  I could not make a better.' And\nso saying he died. Now I had no other relative in all the world except\nmy Great-Aunt, the Wise Woman of the Bush Hovel, and her I had never\nseen; but I thought I could not do better in my extremity than go to\nher for counsel. So, shouldering my father's tools, I journeyed west\nuntil I came to her place, and found her trying to break in a new\nbirch-broom that was still too green and full of sap to be easily\nmastered; and she was in a very bad temper.  Good day, Great-Aunt,' I\nsaid,  I am your Great-Niece Viola.'  I have no more use for great\nnieces,' she snapped,  than for little ones.' And she continued to\ntussle with the broomstick and took no further notice of me. Then I\nwent into the Hovel, where a fire burned on the hearth, and I took out\nmy tools and fashioned a bit on the hob; and when it was ready I took\nit to her and said,  This will teach it its manners'; and she put the\nbit on the broom, which became as docile as a lamb.  Great-Niece,' said\nshe,  it appears that I told you a lie this morning. What can I do for\nyou?'  Tell me, if you please, how I am to live now that my father is\ndead.'  There is no need to tell you,' said she;  you have your living\nat your fingers' ends.'  But women cannot be smiths,' said I.  Then\nbecome a lad,' said she,  and ply your trade where none knows you; and\nlest men should suspect you by your face, which fools though they be\nthey might easily do, let it be so sooted from week's end to week's end\nthat none can discover what you look like; and if any one remarks on\nit, put it down to your trade.'\n\nBut Great-Aunt,' I said,  I could not bear to go dirty from week's\nend to week's end.'  If you will be so particular,' she said,  take a\nbath every Saturday night and spend your Sundays with me, as fair as\nwhen you were a babe. And before you go to work again on Monday you\nshall once more conceal your fairness past all men's penetration.'\nBut, dear Great-Aunt,' I pleaded,  it may be that the day will come\nwhen I might not wish--'\"\n\nAnd here, dear maidens, Viola faltered. And William put his arm about\nher a little tighter--because it was there already--and said, \"What\nmight you not wish, beloved?\" And she murmured, \"To be concealed past\none man's penetration. And my Great-Aunt said I need not worry. Because\nthough men, she said, were fools, there was one time in every man's\nlife when he was quick enough to penetrate all obscurities, whether it\nwere a layer of soot or a night without a moon.\" And she hid her face\non the King's shoulder, and he tried to kiss her but could not make her\nlook up until he said, \"Or even a woman's waywardness?\" Then she looked\nup of her own accord and kissed him.\n\n\"In this way,\" she resumed, \"it became my custom on each Saturday,\nafter closing the forge, to come here with my woman's raiment, and wait\nin a hollow until night had fallen, and make myself clean of the week's\nblackness. For I dared not do this by daylight, or be seen going forth\nfrom my forge in my proper person.\"\n\n\"But why did you choose to bathe at midnight?\" asked the King.\n\nShe was silent for a few moments, and then said hurriedly, \"I did not\nchoose to bathe at midnight until a month ago.--For the rest,\" she\nresumed, \"I was hard to please in the matter of the shoes because I\nknew that when they were finished you would ride away. And therefore\nthe more you improved the crosser I became. And if I have tormented you\nfor a month it was because you tormented me by refusing to speak when\nyou saw me here, in spite of your hateful vow; and you would not even\nlook at my cake in the larder.\"\n\n\"Women are strange,\" said the King. \"How do you know I did not look at\nthe cake?\"\n\n\"I do know,\" she said as hurriedly as before. \"And if I would not tell\nyou who I was, it was because I could not bear, on the other hand, to\nextort from you a love you seemed so reluctant to endure; until indeed\nit became of its own accord too strong even for the purpose which\nbrought you every week to the Ring. For I knew that purpose, since all\ndwellers in Washington know why men go up the hill with the new moon.\"\n\n\"But when my love did become too strong for my vow, and opened my lips\nat last,\" said the King, \"why did you run away?\"\n\nViola said, \"Had you not run away the week before? And now I have\nanswered all your questions.\"\n\n\"No,\" said the King, \"not all. You haven't told me yet when you first\nloved me.\"\n\nViola smiled and said, \"I first stole barley sugar when my father said\nThis is for the other little girl over the way'; and I first loved you\nwhen, seeing you had been too absent-minded to know that Pepper had\ncast her shoes, I feared you were in love.\"\n\n\"But that was three minutes after we met!\" cried the King.\n\n\"Was it as much as that!\" said she.\n\nNow after awhile Viola said, \"Let us get down to the world again. We\ncannot stay here for ever.\"\n\n\"Why not?\" said the King. However, they walked to the brow of the hill,\nand stood together gazing awhile over the sunlit earth that had never\nbeen so beautiful to either of them; for their sight was newly-washed\nwith love, and all things were changed.\n\n\"Now I know how she looks from heaven,\" said the King, \"and that is\nlike heaven itself. Let us go; for I think she will still look so at\nour coming, seeing that we carry heaven with us.\"\n\nSo they went downhill to the forge, and there Viola said to her lover,\n\"I can stay no longer in this place where all men have known me as a\nlad; and besides, a woman's home is where her husband lives.\"\n\n\"But I live only in a Barn,\" said William the King.\n\n\"Then I will live there with you,\" said Viola, \"and from this very\nnight. But first I will shoe Pepper anew, for she is so unequally shod\nthat she might spill us on the road. And that she may be shod worthily\nof herself and of us, give me what you have tied up in your blue\nhandkerchief.\"  The King fetched his handkerchief and unknotted it, and\ngave her his crown and scepter; and she set him at the bellows and made\nthree golden shoes and shod the nag on her two fore-feet and her off\nhind-foot. But when she looked at the near hind-foot, which the King\nhad shod last of all, she said: \"I could not make a better. And\ntherefore, like his father, the Lad must shut his smithy, for he is\ndead.\" Then she put the three shoes she had removed into a bag with\nsome other trifles; and while she did so the King took what remained of\nthe gold and made it into two rings. This done, they got on to Pepper's\nback, and with her three shoes of gold and one of iron she bore them\nthe way the King had come. When they passed the Bush Hovel they saw the\nWise Woman currying her broomstick, and Viola cried:\n\n\"Great-Aunt, give us a blessing.\"\n\n\"Great-Niece,\" said the Wise Woman, \"how can I give you what you\nalready have? But I will give you this.\" And she held out a horseshoe.\n\n\"Good gracious,\" said the King, \"this was once Pepper's.\"\n\n\"It was,\" said the Wise Woman. \"In her merriment at hearing you ask a\nsilly question, she cast it outside my door.\"\n\nA little further on they came to the Guess Gate, but when the King,\ndismounting, swung it open, it grated on something in the road. He\nstooped and lifted--a horseshoe.\n\n\"Wonder of wonders!\" exclaimed the King. \"This also was Pepper's. What\nshall we do with it?\"\n\n\"Hang--it--up--hang--it--up--hang--\" creaked the Gate; and clicked home.\n\nIn due course they reached the Doves, and at the sound of Pepper's\nhoofs the Brothers flocked out to meet them.\n\n\"Is all well?\" cried the Ringdove, seeing the King only. \"And have you\nreturned to us for the final blessing?\"\n\n\"I have,\" replied the King, \"for I bring my bride behind me, and now\nyou must make us one.\"\n\nThe gentle Brothers, rejoicing at the sight of their happiness and\ntheir beauty, led them in; and there they were wedded. The Doves\noffered them to eat, but the King was impatient to reach his Barn by\nnightfall; so they got again on Pepper's back, and as they were about\nto leave the Ringdove said:\n\n\"I have something of yours which is in itself a thing of no moment;\nyet, because it is of good augury, take it with you.\"\n\nAnd he gave the King Pepper's third shoe.\n\n\"Thank you,\" said the King, \"I will hang it over my Barn door.\"\n\nNow he urged Pepper to her full speed, and they went at a gallop past\nthe Hawking Sopers, who, hearing the clatter, came running into the\nroad.\n\n\"Stay, gallopers, stay!\" they cried, \"and make merry with us.\"\n\n\"We cannot,\" called the King, \"for we are newly married.\"\n\n\"Good luck to you then!\" shouted the Sopers, and with huzzas and\nlaughter flung something after them. Viola stretched out her hand and\ncaught it in mid-air, and it was a horseshoe.\n\n\"The tale is complete,\" she laughed, \"and now you know where Pepper\npicked up her stones.\"\n\nSoon after the King said, \"Here is my Barn.\" And he sprang down and\nlifted his bride from the nag's back and brought her in.\n\n\"It is a poor place,\" he said gently, \"but it is all I have. What can I\ndo for you in such a home?\"\n\n\"I will tell you,\" said Viola, and putting her hand into her left\npocket, she drew out the ruby winking with the wine of mirth. \"You can\ndance in it.\" And suddenly they caught each other by the hands and went\ncapering and laughing round the Barn like children.\n\n\"Hurrah!\" cried William, \"now I know what a King should do in a Barn!\"\n\n\"But he should do more than dance in it,\" said Viola; and putting her\nhand into her right pocket she gave him the pearl, as pure as a prayer;\n\"beloved, he should pray in it too.\"\n\nAnd William looked at her and knelt, and she knelt by him, and in\nsilence they prayed the same prayer, side by side.\n\nThen William rose and said simply, \"Now I know.\"\n\nBut she knelt still, and took from her girdle the diamond, as bright as\npower, and she put it in his hand, saying very low, \"Oh, my dear King!\nbut he should also rule in it.\" And she kissed his hand. But the King\nlifted her very quickly so that she stood equal with his heart, and\nembracing her he said, with tears in his eyes:\n\n\"And you, beloved! what will a Queen do in a Barn?\"\n\n\"The same as a King,\" she whispered, and drew from her bosom the opal,\nas lovely and as variable as the human spirit. \"With the other three\nstones you may, if you will, buy back your father's kingdom. But this,\nwhich contains all qualities in one, let us keep for ever, for our\nchildren and theirs, that they may know there is nothing a King and a\nQueen may not do in a Barn, or a man and a woman anywhere. But the best\nthing they can do is to work in it.\"\n\nThen, going out, she came back with the bag which she had slung on\nPepper's back, and took from it her father's tools.\n\n\"In three weeks you learned all I learned in three years,\" said she.\n\"When I shod Pepper this morning I did my last job as a smith; for now\nI shall have other work to do. But you, whether you choose to get your\nfather's lands again or no, I pray to work in the trade I have given\nyou, for I have made you the very king of smiths, and all men should do\nthe thing they can do best. So take the hammer and nail up the\nhorseshoes over the door while I get supper; for you look as hungry as\nI feel.\"\n\n\"But there's nothing to eat,\" said the King ruefully.\n\nHowever, he went outside, and over the door he hung as many shoes as\nthere are nails in one--the four Pepper had cast on the road, and the\nthree he had first made for her. As he drove the last nail home Viola\ncalled:\n\n\"Supper is ready.\"\n\nAnd the King went into the Barn and saw a Wedding Cake.\n\nAnd now, if you please, Mistress Joan, I have earned my apple.\n\n\n\nFIRST INTERLUDE\n\nNow there was a great munching of apples in the tree, for to tell the\ntruth during the latter part of the story this business had been\nsuspended, and between bites the milkmaids discussed the merits of what\nthey had just heard.\n\nJessica: What is your opinion of this tale, Jane?\n\nJane: It surprised me more than anything. For who could have suspected\nthat the Lad was a Woman?\n\nMartin: Lads are to be suspected of any mischief, Mistress Jane.\n\nJoscelyn: It is not to be supposed, Master Pippin, that we are\nacquainted with the habits of lads.\n\nMartin: I suppose nothing. But did the story please you?\n\nJoscelyn: As a story it was well enough to pass an hour. I would be\nwilling to learn whether the King regained his kingdom or no.\n\nMartin: I think he did, since you may go to this day to the little city\non the banks of the Adur which is re-named after his Barn. But I doubt\nwhether he lived there, or anywhere but in the Barn where he and his\nbeloved began their life of work and prayer and mirth and loving-rule.\nAnd died as happily as they had lived.\n\nJoan: I am glad they lived happily. I was afraid the tale would end\nunhappily.\n\nJoyce: And so was I. For when the King roamed the hills for a whole\nweek without success, I began to fear he would never find the Woman\nagain.\n\nJennifer: I for my part feared lest he should not open his lips during\nthe fourth vigil, and so must become a Dove for the remainder of his\ndays.\n\nJane: It was but by the grace of a moment he did not drown himself in\nthe Pond.\n\nJessica: Or what if, by some unlucky chance, he had never come to the\nforge at all?\n\nMartin: In any of these events, I grant you, the tale must have ended\nin disaster. And this is the special wonder of love-tales: that though\nthey may end unhappily in a thousand ways, and happily in only one, yet\nthat one will vanquish the thousand as often as the desires of lovers\nrun in tandem. But there is one accident you have left out of count,\nand it is the worst stumbling-block I know of in the path of happy\nendings.\n\nAll the Milkmaids: What is it?\n\nMartin: Suppose the lovely Viola had been a sworn virgin and a hater of\nmen.\n\n\nThere was silence in the Apple-Orchard.\n\n\nJoscelyn: She would have been none the worse for that, singer. And the\ntale would have been none the less a tale, which is all we look for\nfrom you. This talk of happy endings is silly talk. The King might have\nsought the Woman in vain, or kept his vow, or drowned himself, or\nridden to the confines of Kent, for aught I care.\n\nJoyce: Or I.\n\nJennifer: Or I.\n\nJessica: Or I.\n\nJane: Or I.\n\nMartin: I am silenced. Tales are but tales, and not worth speculation.\nAnd see, the moon is gone to sleep behind a cloud, which shows us\nnothing save the rainbow of her dreams. It is time we did as she does.\n\n\nLike shooting-stars in August the milkmaids slid from their leafy\nheaven and dropped to the grass. And here they pillowed their heads on\ntheir soft arms and soon were breathing the breath of sleep. But little\nJoan sat on in the swing.\n\nNow all this while she had kept between her hands the promised apple,\nturning and turning it like one in doubt; and presently Martin looked\naside at her with a smile, and held his open palm to receive his\nreward. And first she glanced at him, and then at the sleepers, and\nlast she tossed the apple lightly in the air. But by some mishap she\ntossed it too high, and it made an arc clean over the tree and fell in\na distant corner by the hedge. So she ran quickly to recover it for\nhim, and he ran likewise, and they stooped and rose together, she with\nthe apple in her hands, he with his hands on hers. At which she blushed\na little, but held fast to the fruit.\n\n\"What!\" said Martin Pippin, \"am I never to have my apple?\"\n\nShe answered softly, \"Only when I am satisfied, as you promised.\"\n\n\"And are you not? What have I left undone?\"\n\nJoan: Please, Master Pippin. What did the young King look like?\n\nMartin: Fool that I am to leave these vital things untold! I shall\navoid this error in future. He was more than middle tall, and broad in\nthe shoulders; and he had gray-blue eyes, and a fresh color, and a kind\nand merry look, and dark brown hair that was not always as sleek as he\nwished it to be.\n\nJoan: Oh!\n\nMartin: With this further oddity, that above the nape of his neck was a\nwhitish tuft which, though he took great pains to conceal it,\ncontinually obtruded through the darker hair like the cottontail on the\nback of a rabbit.\n\nJoan: Oh! Oh!\n\nAnd she became as red as a cherry.\n\nMartin: May I have my apple?\n\nJoan: But had not he a--mustache?\n\nMartin: He fondly believed so.\n\nJoan (with unexpected fire): It was a big and beautiful mustache!\n\nMartin (fervently): There was never a King of twenty years with one so\nbig and beautiful.\n\nShe gave him the apple.\n\nMartin: Thank you. Will you, because I have answered many questions,\nnow answer one?\n\nJoan: Yes.\n\nMartin: Then tell me this--what is your quarrel with men?\n\nJoan: Oh, Master Pippin! they say that one and one make two.\n\nMartin: Is this possible? Good heavens, are men such numskulls! When\nthey have but to go to the littlest woman on earth to learn--what you\nand I well know--that one and one make one, and sometimes three, or\nfour, or even half-a-dozen; but never two. Fie upon these men!\n\nJoan: I am glad you think I am in the right. But how obstinate they are!\n\nMartin: As obstinate as children, and should be birched as roundly.\n\nJoan: Oh! but-- You would not birch children.\n\nMartin: You are right again. They should be coaxed.\n\nJoan: Yes. No. I mean-- Good night, dear singer.\n\nMartin: Good night, dear milkmaid. Sleep sweetly among your comrades\nwho are wiser than we, being so indifferent to happy endings that they\nwould never unpadlock sorrow, though they had the key in their keeping.\n\n\nThen he took her hands in one of his, and put his other hand very\ngently under her chin, and lifted it till he could look into her face,\nand he said: \"Give me the key to Gillian's prison, little Joan, because\nyou love happy endings.\"\n\n\nJoan: Dear Martin, I cannot give you the key.\n\nMartin: Why not?\n\nJoan: Because I stuck it inside your apple.\n\n\nSo he kissed her and they parted, and lay down and slept; she among her\ncomrades under the apple-tree, and he under the briony in the hedge;\nand the moon came out of her dream and watched theirs.\n\n\nWith morning came a hoarse voice calling along the hedge:\n\n\"Maids! maids! maids!\"\n\nUp sprang the milkmaids, rubbing their eyes and stretching their arms;\nand up sprang Martin likewise. And seeing him, Joscelyn was stricken\nwith dismay.\n\n\"It is Old Gillman, our master,\" she whispered, \"come with bread and\nquestions. Quick, singer, quick! into the hollow russet before he\nreaches the hole in the hedge.\"\n\nSwiftly the milkmaids hustled Martin into the russet tree, and\nconcealed him at the very moment when the Farmer was come to the\npeephole, filling it with his round red face and broad gray fringe of\nwhiskers, like the winter sun on a sky that is going to snow.\n\n\"Good morrow, maids,\" quoth old Gillman.\n\n\"Good morrow, master,\" said they.\n\n\"Is my daughter come to her mind yet?\"\n\n\"No, master,\" said little Joan, \"but I begin to have hopes that she\nmay.\"\n\n\"If she do not,\" groaned Gillman, \"I know not what will happen to the\nfarmstead. For it is six months now since I tasted water, and how can a\nman follow his business who is fuddled day and night with Barley Wine?\nLife is full of hardships, of which daughters are the greatest.\nGillian!\" he cried, \"when will ye come into your senses and out of the\nWell-House?\"\n\nBut Gillian took no more heed of him than of the quacking of the drake\non the duckpond.\n\n\"Well, here is your bread,\" said Gillman, and he thrust a basket with\nseven loaves in it through the gap. \"And may to-morrow bring better\ntidings.\"\n\n\"One moment, dear master,\" entreated little Joan. \"Tell me, please, how\nNancy my Jersey fares.\"\n\n\"Pines for you, pines for you, maid, though Charles does his best by\nher. But it is as though she had taken a vow to let down no milk till\nyou come again. Rack and ruin, rack and ruin!\"\n\nAnd the old man retreated as he had come, muttering \"Rack and ruin!\"\nthe length of the hedge.\n\nThe maids then set about preparing breakfast, which was simplicity\nitself, being bread and apples than which no breakfast could be\nsweeter. There was a loaf for each maid and one over for Gillian, which\nthey set upon the wall of the Well-House, taking away yesterday's loaf\nuntouched and stale.\n\n\"Does she never eat?\" asked Martin.\n\n\"She has scarcely broken bread in six months,\" said Joscelyn, \"and what\nshe lives on besides her thoughts we do not know.\"\n\n\"Thoughts are a fast or a feast according to their nature,\" said\nMartin, \"so let us feed the ducks, who have none.\"\n\nThey broke the stale bread into fragments, and when the ducks had made\na meal, returned to their own; and of two loaves made seven parts, that\nMartin might have his share, and to this they added apples according to\ntheir fancies, red or russet, green or golden.\n\nAfter breakfast, at Martin's suggestion, they made little boats of\ntwigs and leaves and sailed them on the duckpond, where they met with\nmany adventures and calamities from driftweed, small breezes, and the\ncuriosity of the ducks. And before they were aware of it the dinner\nhour was upon them, when they divided two more loaves as before and ate\napples at will.\n\nThen Martin, taking a handkerchief from his pocket, proposed a game of\nBlindman's-Buff, and the girls, delighted, counter\nEener-Meener-Meiner-Mo to find the Blindman. And Joyce was He. So\nMartin tied the handkerchief over her eyes.\n\n\"Can you see?\" asked Martin.\n\n\"Of course I can't see!\" said Joyce.\n\n\"Promise?\" said Martin.\n\n\"I hope, Master Pippin,\" said Jane reprovingly, \"that you can take a\ngirl's word for it.\"\n\n\"I'm sure I hope I can,\" said Martin, and turned Joyce round three\ntimes, and ran for his life. And Joyce caught Jane on the spot and\nguessed her immediately.\n\nThen Jane was blindfolded, and she was so particular about not seeing\nthat it was quite ten minutes before she caught Jennifer, but she knew\nwho she was by the feel of her gown; and Jennifer caught Joscelyn, and\nguessed her by her girdle; and Joscelyn caught Jessica and guessed her\nby the darn in her sleeve; and Jessica caught Joan, and guessed her by\nher ribbon; and Joan caught Martin, and guessed him by his difference.\n\nSo then Martin was Blindman, and it seemed as though he would never\nhave eyes again; for though he caught all the girls, one after another,\nhe couldn't guess which was which, and gave Jane's nose to Jessica, and\nJessica's hands to Joscelyn, and Joscelyn's chin to Joyce, and Joyce's\nhair to Jennifer, and Jennifer's eyebrows to Joan; but when he caught\nJoan he guessed her at once by her littleness.\n\nIn due course the change of light told them it was supper-time; and\nwith great surprise they ate the last two loaves to the sweet\naccompaniment of the apples.\n\n\"I would never have supposed,\" said Joscelyn, as they gathered under\nthe central tree at the close of the meal, \"that a day could pass so\nquickly.\"\n\n\"Bait time with a diversion,\" said Martin, \"and he will run like a\ndonkey after a dangled carrot.\"\n\n\"It has nearly been the happiest day of my life,\" said Joyce with a sly\nglance at Martin.\n\n\"And why not quite?\" said he.\n\n\"Because it lacked a story, singer,\" she said demurely.\n\n\"What can be rectified,\" said Martin, \"must be; and the day is not yet\ndeparted, but still lingers like a listener on the threshold of night.\nSo set the swing in motion, dear Mistress Joyce, and to its measure I\nwill endeavor to swing my thoughts, which have till now been laggards.\"\n\nWith these words he set Joyce in the swing and himself upon the branch\nbeside it as before. And the other milkmaids climbed into their\nperches, rustling the fruit down from the shaken boughs; and he made of\nJoyce's lap a basket for the harvest. And he and each of the maids\nchose an apple as though supper had not been.\n\n\"We are listening,\" said Joscelyn from above.\n\n\"Not all of you,\" said Martin. And he looked up at Joscelyn alert on\nher branch, and down at Gillian prone on the steps.\n\n\"You are here for no other purpose,\" said Joscelyn, \"than to make them\nlisten that will not. I would not have you think we desire to listen.\"\n\n\"I think nothing but that you are the prey of circumstances,\" said\nMartin, \"constrained like flowers to bear witness to that which is\nagainst all nature.\"\n\n\"What do you mean by that?\" said Joscelyn. \"Flowers are nature itself.\"\n\n\"So men have agreed,\" replied Martin, \"yet who but men have compelled\nthem repeatedly to assert such unnaturalnesses as that foxes wear\ngloves and cuckoos shoes? Out on the pretty fibbers!\"\n\n\"Please do not be angry with the flowers,\" said Joan.\n\n\"How could I be?\" said Martin. \"The flowers must always be forgiven,\nbecause their inconsistencies lie always at men's doors. Besides, who\ndoes not love fairy-tales?\"\n\nThen Martin kicked his heels against the tree and sang idly:\n\n  When cuckoos fly in shoes\n  And foxes run in gloves,\n  Then butterflies won't go in twos\n  And boys will leave their loves.\n\n\"A silly song,\" said Joscelyn.\n\nMartin: If you say so. For my part I can never tell the difference\nbetween silliness and sense.\n\nJane: Then how can a good song be told from a bad? You must go by\nsomething.\n\nMartin: I go by the sound. But since Mistress Joscelyn pronounces my\nsong silly, I can only suppose she has seen cuckoos flying in shoes.\n\nJoscelyn: You are always supposing nonsense. Who ever heard of cuckoos\nflying in shoes?\n\nJane: Or of foxes running in gloves?\n\nJoan: Or of butterflies going in ones?\n\nMartin: Or of boys--\n\nJoscelyn: I have frequently seen butterflies going in ones, foolish\nJoan. And the argument was not against butterflies, but cuckoos.\n\nMartin: And their shoes. Please, dear Mistress Joan, do not look so\ndowncast, nor you, dear Mistress Joscelyn, so vexed. Let us see if we\ncannot turn a more sensible song upon this theme.\n\nAnd he sang--\n\n  Cuckoo Shoes aren't cuckoos' shoes,\n    They're shoes which cuckoos never don;\n  And cuckoo nests aren't cuckoos' nests,\n    But other birds' for a moment gone;\n  And nothing that the cuckoo has\n    But he does make a mock upon.\n  For even when the cuckoo sings\n    He only says what isn't true--\n  When happy lovers first swore oaths\n    An artful cuckoo called and flew,\n  Yes! and when lovers weep like dew\n    The teasing cuckoo laughs Cuckoo!\n    What need for tears? Cuckoo, cuckoo!\n\nAs Martin ended, Gillian raised herself upon an elbow, and looked no\nmore into the green grass, but across the green duckpond.\n\n\"The second song seems to me as irrelevant as the first,\" said\nJoscelyn, \"but I observe that you cuckooed so loudly as to startle our\nmistress out of her inattention. So if you mean to tell us another\nstory, by all means tell it now. Not that I care, except for our\nextremity.\"\n\n\"It is my only object to ease it,\" said Martin, \"so bear with me as\nwell as you may during the recital of Young Gerard.\"\n\n\n\nYOUNG GERARD\n\nThere was once, dear maidens, a shepherd who kept his master's sheep on\nAmberley Mount. His name was Gerard, and he was always called Young\nGerard to distinguish him from the other shepherd who was known as Old\nGerard, yet was not, as you might suppose, his father. Their master was\nthe Lord of Combe Ivy that lay in the southern valleys of the hills\ntoward the sea; he owned the grazing on the whole circle of the Downs\nbetween the two great roads--on Amberley and Perry and Wepham and\nBlackpatch and Cockhill and Highdown and Barnsfarm and Sullington and\nChantry. But the two Gerards lived together in the great shed behind\nthe copse between Rackham Hill and Kithurst, and the way they came to\ndo so was this.\n\nOne night in April when Old Gerard's gray beard was still brown, the\ndoor of the shed was pushed open, letting in not only the winds of\nSpring but a woman wrapped in a green cloak, with a lining of\ncherry-color and a border of silver flowers and golden cherries. In one\nhand she swung a crystal lantern set in a silver frame, but it had no\nlight in it; and in the other she held a small slip of a cherry-tree,\nbut it had no bloom on it. Her dress was white, or had been; for the\nskirts of it, and her mantle, were draggled and sodden, and her green\nshoes stained and torn, and her long fair hair lay limp and dank upon\nher mantle whose hood had fallen away, and the shadows round her blue\neyes were as black as pools under hedgerows thawing after a frost, and\nher lovely face was as white as the snowbanks they bed in. Behind her\ncame another woman in a duffle cloak, a crone with eyes as black as\nsloes, and a skin as brown as beechnuts, and unkempt hair like the\nfireless smoke of Old Man's Beard straying where it will on the\nNovember woodsides. She too was wet and soiled, but full of life where\nthe young one seemed full of death.\n\nThe Shepherd looked at this strange pair and said surlily, \"What want\nye?\"\n\n\"Shelter,\" replied the crone.\n\nShe pushed the lady, who never spoke, into the shed, and took from her\nshoulders the wet mantle, and from her hands the lantern and the tree;\nand led her to the Shepherd's bed and laid her down. Then she spread\nthe mantle over the Shepherd's bench and,\n\n\"Lie there,\" said she, \"till love warms ye.\"\n\nNext she hung the lantern up on a nail in the wall, and,\n\n\"Swing there,\" said she, \"till love lights ye.\"\n\nLast she took the Shepherd's trowel and went outside the shed, and set\nthe cherry-slip beside the door. And she said:\n\n\"Grow there, till love blossoms ye.\"\n\nAfter this she came inside and sat down at the bedhead.\n\nGerard the Shepherd, who had watched her proceedings without word or\ngesture, said to himself, \"They've come through the floods.\"\n\nHe looked across at the women and raised his voice to ask, \"Did ye come\nthrough the floods?\"\n\nThe lady moaned a little, and the crone said, \"Let her be and go to\nsleep. What does it matter where we came from by night? By daybreak we\nshall both of us be gone no matter whither.\"\n\nThe Shepherd said no more, for though he was both curious and\nill-tempered he had not the courage to disturb the lady, knowing by the\nrichness of her attire that she was of the quality; and the iron of\nserfdom was driven deep into his soul. So he went to sleep on his\nstool, as he had been bidden. But in the middle of the night he was\nawakened by a gusty wind and the banging of his door; and he started up\nrubbing his knuckles in his eyes, saying, \"I've been dreaming of\nstrange women, but was it a dream or no?\" He peered about the shed, and\nthe crone had vanished utterly, but the lady still lay on his bed. And\nwhen he went over to look at her, she was dead. But beside her lay a\nnewborn child that opened its eyes and wailed at him.\n\nThen the Shepherd ran to his open door and stared into the blowing\nnight, but there were no more signs of the crone without than there\nwere within. So he fastened the latch and came back to the bedside, and\nexamined the child.--\n\n\n(But at this point Martin Pippin interrupted himself, and seizing the\nrope of the swing set it rocking violently.\n\nJoyce: I shall fall! I shall fall!\n\nMartin: Then you will be no worse off than I, who have fallen already.\nFor I see you do not like my story.\n\nJoyce: What makes you say so?\n\nMartin: Till now you listened with all your ears, but a moment ago you\nturned away your head a moment too late to hide the disappointment in\nyour eyes.\n\nJoyce: It is true I am disappointed. Because the beautiful lady is\ndead, and how can a love-story be, if half the lovers are dead?\n\nMartin: Dear Mistress Joyce, what has love to do with death? Love and\ndeath are strangers and speak in different tongues. Women may die and\nmen may die, but lovers are ignorant of mortality.\n\nJoyce (pouting): That may be, singer. But lovers are also a man and a\nwoman, and the woman is dead, and the love-tale ended before we have\neven heard it. You should not have let the woman die. What sort of\nlove-tale is this, now the woman is dead?\n\nMartin: Are not more nests than one built in a spring-time?--Give me, I\npray you, two hairs of your head.\n\nShe plucked two and gave them to him, turning her pouting to laughing.\nOne of them Martin coiled and held before his lips, and blew on it.\n\n\"There it flies,\" said he, and gave her back the second hair. \"Hold\nfast by this and keep it from its fellow with all your might, for to\npart true mates baffles the forces of the universe. And when you give\nme this second hair again I swear I will send it where it will find its\nfellow. But I will never ask for it until, my story ended, you say to\nme,  I am content.'\")\n\n\nExamining the child (repeated Martin) the Shepherd discovered it to be\na lusty boy-child, and this rejoiced him, so that while the baby wept\nhe laughed aloud.\n\n\"It is better to weep for something than for nothing,\" said he, \"and to\nlaugh for something likewise. Tears are for serfs and laughter is for\nfreedmen.\" For he had conceived the plan of selling the child to his\nmaster, the Lord of Combe Ivy, and buying his freedom with the purchase\nmoney. So in the morning he carried the body of the lady into the heart\nof the copse, and there he dug a grave and laid her in it in her white\ngown. And afterwards he went up hill and down dale to his master, and\nsaid he had a man for sale. The Lord of Combe Ivy, who was a jovial\nlord and a bachelor, laughed at the tale he had to tell; but being\nalways of the humor for a jest he paid the Shepherd a gold piece for\nthe child, and promised him another each midnight on the anniversary of\nits birth; but on the twenty-first anniversary, he said, the Shepherd\nwas to bring back the twenty-one gold pieces he had received, and\ninstead of adding another to them he would take them again, and make\nthe serf a freedman, and the child his serf.\n\n\"For,\" said the Lord of Combe Ivy, \"an infant is a poor deal for a man\nin his prime, as you are, but a youth come to manhood is a good\nexchange for a graybeard, as you will be. Therefore rear this babe as\nyou please, and if he live to manhood so much the better for you, but\nif he die first it's all one to me.\"\n\nThe Shepherd had hoped for a better bargain, but he must needs be\ncontent with seeing liberty at a distance. So he returned to his shed\non the hills and made a leather purse to keep his gold-piece in, and\nhung it round his neck, touching it fifty times a day under his shirt\nto be sure it was still there. And presently he sought among his ewes\none who had borne her young, saying, \"You shall mother two instead of\none.\" And the baby sucked the ewe like her very lamb, and thrived upon\nthe milk. And the shepherd called the child Gerard after himself,\n\"since,\" he said, \"it is as good a name for a shepherd as another\"; and\nfrom that time they became the Young and Old Gerards to all who knew\nthem.\n\nSo the Young Gerard grew up, and as he grew the cherry-tree grew\nlikewise, but in the strangest fashion; for though it flourished past\nall expectation, it never put forth either leaf or blossom. This\nbitterly vexed Old Gerard, who had hoped in time for fruit, and the\nfrustration of his hopes became to him a cause of grievance against the\nboy. A further grudge was that by no manner of means could he succeed\nin lighting any wick or candle in the silver lantern, of which he\ndesired to make use.\n\n\"But if your tree and your lantern won't work,\" said he, \"it's no\nreason why you shouldn't.\" So he put Young Gerard to work, first as\nsheepboy to his own flock, but later the boy had a flock of his own.\nThere was no love lost between these two, and kicks and curses were the\nyoung one's fare; for he was often idle and often a truant, and none\nwas held responsible for him except the old shepherd who was selling\nhim piece-meal, year by year, to their master. Because of what depended\non him, Old Gerard was constrained to show him some sort of care when\nhe would liever have wrung his neck. The boy's fits exasperated the\nman; whether he was cutting strange capers and laughing without reason,\nas he frequently did, or sitting a whole evening in a morose dream,\nstaring at the fire or at the stars, and saying never a word. The boy's\ncoloring was as mingled as his moods, a blend of light and dark--black\nhair, brown skin, blue eyes and golden lashes, a very odd anomaly.\n\n\n(Martin: What is it, Mistress Joyce?\n\nJoyce: I said nothing, Master Pippin.\n\nMartin: I thought I heard you sigh.\n\nJoyce: I did not--you did not.\n\nMartin: My imagination exceeds all bounds.)\n\n\nBecause of their mutual dislike, when the boy was put in charge of his\nown sheep the two shepherds spent their days apart. The Old Gerard\ngrazed his flock to the east as far as Chantry, but the Young Gerard\ngrazed his flock to the west as far as Amberley, whose lovely dome was\ndearer to him than all the other hills of Sussex. And here he would sit\nall day watching the cloud-shadows stalk over the face of the Downs, or\nslipping along the land below him, with the sun running swiftly after,\nlike a carpet of light unrolling itself upon a dusky floor. And in the\nevening he watched the smoke going up from the tiny cottages till it\nwas almost dark, and a hundred tiny lights were lit in a hundred tiny\nwindows. Sometimes on his rare holidays, and on other days too, he ran\naway to the Wildbrooks to watch the herons, or to find in the\nwater-meadows the tallest kingcups in the whole world, and the myriad\ntreasures of the river--the giant comfrey, purple and white,\nmeadowsweet, St. John's Wort, purple loose-strife, willowherb, and the\nninety-nine-thousand-nine-hundred-and-ninety-five others, or whatever\nnumber else you please, that go to make a myriad. He came to know more\nabout the ways of the Wildbrooks than any other lad of those parts, and\none day he rediscovered the Lost Causeway that can be traveled even in\nthe floods, when the land lies under a lake at the foot of the hills.\nHe kept this, like many other things, a secret; but he had one more\nprecious still.\n\nFor as he lay and watched the play of sun and shadow on the plains, he\nfancied a world of strange places he had known, somewhere beyond the\nveils of light and mist that hung between his vision and the distance,\nand he fell into a frequent dream of tunes and laughter, and sunlit\nboughs in blossom, and dancing under the boughs; or of fires burning in\nthe open night, and a wilder singing and dancing in the starlight; and\noften when his body was lying on the round hill, or by the smoky\nhearth, his thoughts were running with lithe boys as strong and\ncareless as he was, or playing with lovely free-limbed girls with\nflowing hair. Sometimes these people were fair and bright-haired and in\nlight and lovely clothing, and at others they were dark, with eyes of\nmischief, and clad in the gayest rags; and sometimes they came to him\nin a mingled company, made one by their careless hearts.\n\nOne evening in April, on the twelfth anniversary, when Young Gerard\ncame to gather his flock, a lamb was missing; so to escape a scolding\nhe waited awhile on the hills till Old Gerard should be gone about his\nbusiness. What this was Young Gerard did not know, he only knew that\neach year on this night the old shepherd left him to his own devices,\nand returned in the small hours of the morning. Not therefore until he\njudged that the master must have left the hut, did the boy fold his\nsheep; and this done he ran out on the hills again, seeking the lost\nlamb. For careless though he was he cared for his sheep, as he did for\nall things that ran on legs or flew on wings. So he went swinging his\nlantern under the stars, singing and whistling and smelling the spring.\nNow and then he paused and bleated like a ewe; and presently a small\nwhimper answered his signal.\n\n\"My lost lamb crying on the hills,\" said Young Gerard. He called again,\nbut at the sound of his voice the other stopped, and for a moment he\nstood quite still, listening and perplexed.\n\n\"Where are you, my lamb?\" said he.\n\n\"Here,\" said a little frightened voice behind a bush.\n\nHe laughed aloud and went forward, and soon discovered a tiny girl\ncowering under a thorn. When she saw him she ran quickly and grasped\nhis sleeve and hid her face in it and wept. She was small for her\nyears, which were not more than eight.\n\nYoung Gerard, who was big for his, picked her up and looked at her\nkindly and curiously.\n\n\"What is it, you little thing?\" said he.\n\n\"I got lost,\" said the child shyly through her tears.\n\n\"Well, now you're found,\" said Young Gerard, \"so don't cry any more.\"\n\n\"Yes, but I'm hungry,\" sobbed the child.\n\n\"Then come with me. Will you?\"\n\n\"Where to?\"\n\n\"To a feast in a palace.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes!\" she said.\n\nYoung Gerard set her on his shoulder, and went back the way he had\ncome, till the dark shape of his wretched shed stood big between them\nand the sky.\n\n\"Is this your palace?\" said the child.\n\n\"That's it,\" said Young Gerard.\n\n\"I didn't know palaces had cracks in the walls,\" said she.\n\n\"This one has,\" explained Young Gerard, \"because it's so old.\" And she\nwas satisfied.\n\nThen she asked, \"What is that funny tree by the door?\"\n\n\"It's a cherry-tree.\"\n\n\"My father's cherry-trees have flowers on them,\" said she.\n\n\"This one hasn't,\" said Young Gerard, \"because it's not old enough.\"\n\n\"One day will it be?\" she asked.\n\n\"One day,\" he said. And that contented her.\n\nHe then carried her into the shed, and she looked around eagerly to see\nwhat a palace might be like inside; and it was full of flickering\nlights and shadows and the scent of burning wood, and she did not see\nhow poor and dirty the room was; for the firelight gleamed upon a mass\nof golden fruit and silver bloom embroidered on the covering of the\nsettle by the hearth, and sparkled against a silver and crystal lantern\nhanging in the chimney. And between the cracks on the walls Young\nGerard had stuck wands of gold and silver palm and branches of snowy\nblackthorn, and on the floor was a dish full of celandine and daisies,\nand a broken jar of small wild daffodils. And the child knew that all\nthese things were the treasures of queens and kings.\n\n\"Why don't you have that?\" she asked, pointing to the crystal lantern\nas Young Gerard set down his horn one.\n\n\"Because I can't light it,\" said he.\n\n\"Let ME light it!\" she begged; so he fetched it from its nail, and\nthrust a pine twig in the fire and gave her the sweet-smoking torch.\nBut in vain she tried to light the wick, which always spluttered and\nwent out again. So seeing her disappointment Young Gerard hung the\nlantern up, saying, \"Firelight is prettier.\" And he set her by the fire\nand filled her lap with cones and dry leaves and dead bracken to burn\nand make crackle and turn into fiery ferns. And she was pleased.\n\nThen he looked about and found his own wooden cup, and went away and\ncame back with the cup full of milk, set on a platter heaped with\nprimroses, and when he brought it to her she looked at it with shining\neyes and asked:\n\n\"Is this the feast?\"\n\n\"That's it,\" said Young Gerard.\n\nAnd she drank it eagerly. And while she drank Young Gerard fetched a\npipe and began to whistle tunes on it as mad as any thrush, and the\nchild began to laugh, and jumped up, spilling her leaves and primroses,\nand danced between the fitful lights and shadows as though she were,\nnow a shadow taken shape, and now a flame. Whenever he paused she\ncried, \"Oh, let me dance! Don't stop! Let me go on dancing!\" until at\nthe same moment she dropped panting on the hearth and he flung his pipe\nbehind him and fell on his back with his heels in the air, crying,\n\"Pouf! d'you think I've the four quarters of heaven in my lungs, or\nwhat?\" But as though to prove he had yet a capful of wind under his\nribs, he suddenly began to sing a song she'd never heard before, and it\nwent like this:\n\n  I looked before me and behind,\n  I looked beyond the sun and wind,\n  Beyond the rainbow and the snow,\n  And saw a land I used to know.\n  The floods rolled up to keep me still\n  A captive on my heavenly hill,\n  And on their bright and dangerous glass\n  Was written, Boy, you shall not pass!\n  I laughed aloud, You shining seas,\n  I'll run away the day I please!\n  I am not winged like any plover\n  Yet I've a way shall take me over,\n  I am not finned like any bream\n  Yet I can cross you, lake and stream.\n  And I my hidden land shall find\n  That lies beyond the sun and wind--\n  Past drowned grass and drowning trees\n  I'll run away the day I please,\n  I'll run like one whom nothing harms\n  With my bonny in my arms.\n\n\"What does that mean?\" asked the child.\n\n\"I'm sure I don't know,\" said Young Gerard. He kicked at the dying log\non the hearth, and sent a fountain of sparks up the chimney. The child\nthrew a dry leaf and saw it shrivel, and Young Gerard stirred the white\nash and blew up the embers, and held a fan of bracken to them, till the\nfire ran up its veins like life in the veins of a man, and the frond\nthat had already lived and died became a gleaming spirit, and then it\ntoo fell in ashes among the ash. Then Young Gerard took a handful of\ntwigs and branches, and began to build upon the ash a castle of many\nsorts of wood, and the child helped him, laying hazel on his beech and\nfir upon his oak; and often before their turret was quite reared a\nspark would catch at the dry fringes of the fir, or the brown\noakleaves, and one twig or another would vanish from the castle.\n\n\"How quickly wood burns,\" said the child.\n\n\"That's the lovely part of it,\" said Young Gerard, \"the fire is always\nchanging and doing different things with it.\"\n\nAnd they watched the fire together, and smelled its smoke, that had as\nmany smells as there were sorts of wood. Sometimes it was like roast\ncoffee, and sometimes like roast chestnuts, and sometimes like incense.\nAnd they saw the lichen on old stumps crinkle into golden ferns, or\nfire run up a dead tail of creeper in a red S, and vanish in mid-air\nlike an Indian boy climbing a rope, or crawl right through the middle\nof a birch-twig, making hieroglyphics that glowed and faded between the\ngray scales of the bark. And then suddenly it caught the whole\nscaffolding of their castle, and blazed up through the fir and oak and\nspiny thorns and dead leaves, and the bits of old bark all over\nblue-gray-green rot, and the young sprigs almost budding, and hissing\nwith sap. And for one moment they saw all the skeleton and soul of the\ncastle without its body, before it fell in.\n\nThe child sighed a little and yawned a little and said:\n\n\"How nice it is to live in a palace. Who lives here with you?\"\n\n\"My friends,\" said Young Gerard, poking at the log with a bit of stick.\n\n\"What are your friends like?\" she asked him, rubbing her knuckles in\nher eyes.\n\nHe was silent for a little, stirring up sparks and smoke. Then he\nanswered, \"They are gay in their hearts, and they're dressed in bright\nclothes, and they come with singing and dancing.\"\n\n\"Who else lives in your palace with you?\" she asked drowsily.\n\n\"You do,\" said Young Gerard.\n\nThe child's head dropped against his shoulder and she said, \"My name's\nDorothea, but my father calls me Thea, and he is the Lord of Combe\nIvy.\" And she fell fast asleep.\n\nFor a little while Young Gerard held and watched her in the firelight,\nand then he rose and wrapped her in the old embroidered mantle on the\nsettle, and went out. And sure-foot as a goat he carried her over the\ndark hills by the tracks he knew, for roads there were none, and his\narms ached with his burden, but he would not wake her till they stood\nat her father's gates. Then he shook her gently and set her down, and\nshe clung to him a little dazed, trying to remember.\n\n\"This is Combe Ivy,\" he whispered. \"You must go in alone. Will you come\nagain?\"\n\n\"One day,\" said Thea.\n\n\"One day there'll be flowers on my cherry-tree,\" said Young Gerard.\n\"Don't forget.\"\n\n\"No, I won't,\" she said.\n\nHe returned through the night up hill and down dale, but did not go\nback to the shed until he had recovered his lamb. By then it was almost\ndawn, and he found his master awake and cursing. He had feared the boy\nhad made off, and he had had curt treatment at Combe Ivy, which was in\na stir about the loss of the little daughter. Young Gerard showed the\nlamb as his excuse, nevertheless the old shepherd leathered the young\none soundly, as he did six days in seven.\n\nAfter this when Young Gerard sat dreaming on the hills, he dreamed not\nonly of his happy land and laughing friends, but of the next coming of\nlittle Thea. But Combe Ivy was far away, and the months passed and the\nyears, and she did not come again. Meanwhile Young Gerard and his tree\ngrew apace, and the limbs of the boy became longer and stronger, and\nthe branches of the tree spread up to the roof and even began to thrust\ntheir way through the holes in the wall; but the boy's life, save for\nhis dreaming, was as friendless as the tree's was flowerless. And of a\ntree's dreaming who shall speak? Meanwhile Old Gerard thrashed and\nrated him, and reckoned his gold pieces, and counted the years that\nstill lay between him and his freedom. At last came another April\nbringing its hour.\n\nFor as he sat on the Mount in the early morning, when he was in his\nseventeenth year, Young Gerard saw a slender girl running over the turf\nand laughing in the sunlight, sometimes stopping to watch a bird\nflying, or stooping to pluck one of the tiny Down-flowers at her feet.\nSo she came with a dancing step to the top of the Mount, and then she\nsaw him, and her glee left her and shyness took its place. But a little\npride in her prevented her from turning away, and she still came\nforward until she stood beside him, and said:\n\n\"Good morning, Shepherd. Is it true that in April the country north of\nthe hills is filled with lakes?\"\n\n\"Yes, sometimes, Mistress Thea,\" said Young Gerard.\n\nShe looked at him with surprise and said, \"You must be one of my\nfather's shepherds, but I do not remember seeing you at Combe Ivy.\"\n\n\"I was only once near Combe Ivy,\" said Young Gerard, \"when I took you\nthere five years ago the night you were lost on these hills.\"\n\n\"Oh, I remember,\" she said with a faint smile. \"How they did scold me.\nIs your cherry-tree in flower yet, Shepherd?\"\n\n\"No, mistress,\" said Young Gerard.\n\n\"I want to see it,\" she said suddenly.\n\nYoung Gerard left his flock to the dog, and walked with her along the\nhillbrow.\n\n\"I have run away,\" she told him as they went. \"I had to get up very\nearly while they were asleep. I shall be scolded again. But travelers\ncome who talk of the lakes, and I wanted to see them, and to swim in\nthem.\"\n\n\"I wouldn't do that,\" said Young Gerard, hiding a smile. \"It's\ndangerous to swim in the April floods. And it would be rather cold.\"\n\n\"What lies beyond?\" she asked.\n\n\"I'm not able to know,\" said Young Gerard.\n\n\"Some day I mean to know, shepherd.\"\n\n\"Yes, mistress,\" he said, \"you'll be free to.\"\n\nShe looked at him quickly and reddened a little, it might have been\nfrom shame or pity, Young Gerard did not know which. And her shyness\nonce more enveloped her; it always came over her unexpectedly, taking\nher breath away like a breaking wave. So she said no more, and they\nwalked together, she looking at the ground, he at the soft brown hair\nblowing over the curve of her young cheek. She was fine and delicate in\nevery line, and in her color, and in the touch of her too, Young Gerard\nknew. He wanted to touch her cheek with his finger as he would have\ntouched the petal of a flower. Her neck, the back of it especially, was\none of the loveliest bits of her, like a primrose stalk. He fell a step\nbehind so that he could look at it. They did not speak as they went. He\ndid not want to, and she did not know what to say.\n\nWhen they reached the shed she lingered a moment by the tree, tracing a\nbare branch with her finger, and he waited, content, till she should\nspeak or act, to watch her. At last she said with her faint smile, \"I\nam very thirsty.\" Then he went into the shed and came out with his\nwooden cup filled with milk. She drank and said, \"Thank you, shepherd.\nHow pretty the violets are in your copse.\"\n\n\"Would you like some?\" he asked.\n\n\"Not now,\" she said. \"Perhaps another day. I must go now.\" She gave him\nback his cup and went away, slowly at first, but when she was at some\ndistance he saw her begin to run like a fawn.\n\nShe did not come again that spring. And so the stark lives of the boy\nand the tree went forward for another year. But one evening in the\nfollowing April, when the green was quivering on wood and hedgerow, he\ncame to the door of the shed and saw her bending like a flower at the\nedge of the copse, filling her little basket and singing to herself.\nShe looked up soon and said:\n\n\"Good evening, shepherd. How does your cherry-tree?\"\n\n\"As usual, Mistress Thea.\"\n\n\"So I see. What a lazy tree it is. Have you some milk for me?\"\n\nHe brought her his cup and she drank of it for the third time, and left\nhim before he had had time to realize that she had come and gone, but\nonly how greatly her delicate beauty had increased in the last year.\n\nHowever, before the summer was over she came again--to swim in the\nriver, she told him, as she passed him on the hills, without lingering.\nAnd in the autumn she came to gather blackberries, and he showed her\nthe best place to find them. Any of these things she might have done as\neasily nearer Combe Ivy, but it seemed she must always offer him some\nreason for her small truancies--whether to gather berries or flowers,\nor to swim in the river. He knew that her chief delight lay in escaping\nfrom her father's manor.\n\nWinter closed her visits; but Young Gerard was as patient as the earth,\nand did not begin to look for her till April. As surely as it brought\nleaves to the trees and flowers to the grass, it would, he knew, bring\nhis little mistress's question, half shy, half smiling, \"Is your\ncherry-tree in blossom, shepherd?\" And later her request, smiling and\nshy, for milk.\n\nThey seldom exchanged more than a few words at any time. Sometimes they\ndid not speak at all. For he, who was her father's servant, never spoke\nfirst; and she, growing in years and loveliness, grew also in timidity,\nso that it seemed to cost her more and more to address her greeting or\nher question even to her father's servant. The sweet quick reddening of\nher cheek was one of Young Gerard's chief remembrances of her.\n\nBut after a while, when they met by those sly chances which she could\ncontrol and he could not; and when she did not speak, but glanced and\nhesitated and passed on; or glanced and passed without hesitation; or\npassed without a glance; he came to know that she would not mind if he\narose and walked with her, if he could control the pretext, which she\ncould not. And he did so quietly, having always something to show her.\n\nHe showed her his most secret nests and his greatest treasures of\nflowers, his because he loved them so much. He would have been jealous\nof showing these things to any one but her. In a great water-meadow in\nthe valley, he had once shown her kingcups making sheets of gold,\nenameled with every green grass ever seen in spring--thousands of\nkingcups and a myriad of milkmaids in between, dancing attendance in\nall their faint shades of silver-white and rosy-mauve. When a breeze\nblew, this world of milkmaids swayed and curtsied above the kings'\ndaughters in their glory. Then Gerard and Thea looked at each other\nsmiling, because the same delight was in each, and soon she looked away\nagain at the gentle maids and the royal ladies, but he looked still at\nher, who was both to him.\n\nIn silence he showed her what he loved.\n\nBut you must not suppose that she came frequently to those hills. She\nwas to be seen no more often than you will see a kingfisher when you\nwatch for it under a willow. Yet because in the season of kingfishers\nyou know you may see one flash at any instant, so to Young Gerard each\nday of spring and summer was an expectancy; and this it was that kept\nhis lift alight. This and his young troop of friends in a land of fruit\nin blossom and a sky in stars. For men, dear maids, live by the daily\nbread of their dreams; on realizations they would starve.\n\nAt last came the winter that preceded Young Gerard's twenty-first year.\nWith the stripping of the boughs he stripped his heart of all thoughts\nof seeing her again till the green of the coming year. The snows came,\nand he tended his sheep and counted his memories; and Old Gerard tended\nhis sheep and counted his coins. The count was full now, and he dreamed\nof April and the freeing of his body. Young Gerard also dreamed of\nApril, and the freeing of his heart. And under the ice that bound the\nflooded meadows doubtless the earth dreamed of the freeing of her\nwaters and the blooming of the land. The snows and the frosts lasted\nlate that year as though the winter would never be done, and to the two\nGerards the days crawled like snails; but in time March blew himself\noff the face of the earth, and April dawned, and the swollen river went\nrushing to the sea above the banks it had drowned with its wild\noverflow. And as Old Gerard began to mark the days off on a tally,\nYoung Gerard began to listen on the hills. When the day came whose\nmidnight was to make the old man a freedman, Thea had not appeared.\n\nOn the morning of this day, as the two shepherds stood outside their\nshed before they separated with their flocks, their ears were accosted\nwith shoutings and halloos on the other side of the copse, and soon\nthey saw coming through the trees a man in gay attire. He had a\nscalloped jerkin of orange leather, and his shoes and cap were of the\nsame, but his sleeves and hose and feather were of a vivid green, like\nnothing in nature. He looked garish in the sun. Seeing the shepherds he\ntook off his cap, and solemnly thanked heaven for having after all\ncreated something besides hills and valleys. \"For,\" said he, \"after\nbeing lost among them I know not how many hours, with no other company\nthan my own shadow, I had begun to doubt whether I was not the only man\non earth, and my name Adam. A curse of all lords who do not live by\nhighroads!\"\n\n\"Where are you bound for, master?\" asked Old Gerard.\n\n\"Combe Ivy,\" said the stranger, \"and the wedding.\"\n\nOld Gerard nodded, as one little surprised; but to Young Gerard this\nmention of a wedding at Combe Ivy came as news. It did not stir him\nmuch, however, for he was not curious about the doings of the master\nand the house he never saw; all that concerned him was that to-day, at\nleast, he must cease to listen on the hills, since his young mistress\nwould be at the wedding with the others.\n\nOld Gerard said to the stranger, \"Keep the straight track to the south\ntill you come under Wepham, then follow the valley to the east, and so\nyou'll be in time for the feasting, master.\"\n\n\"That's certain,\" said the stranger, \"for the Lord of Combe Ivy and the\nRough Master of Coates have had no peers at junketing since Gay Street\nlost its Lord; and the feast is like to go on till midnight.\"\n\nWith that he went on his way, and Old Gerard followed him with his\neyes, muttering,\n\n\"Would I also were there! But for you,\" he said, turning on the young\nman with a sudden snarl, \"I should be! Had ye not come a day too late,\nI'd be a freedman to-night instead of to-morrow, and junketing at the\nwedding with the rest.\"\n\nYoung Gerard did not understand him. He was not in the habit of\nquestioning the old man, and if he had would not have expected answers.\nBut certain words of the stranger had pricked his attention, and now he\nsaid:\n\n\"Where is Gay Street?\"\n\n\"Far away over the Stor and the Chill,\" growled Old Gerard.\n\n\"It's a jolly name.\"\n\n\"Maybe. But they say it's a sorry place now that it lacks its Lord.\"\n\n\"What became of him?\"\n\n\"How should I know? What can a man know who lives all his life on a\nhill with pewits for gossips?\"\n\n\"You know more than I,\" said Young Gerard indolently. \"You know there's\na wedding down yonder. Who's the Rough Master of Coates?\"\n\n\"The bridegroom, young know-nothing. You've a tongue in your head\nto-day.\"\n\n\"Why do they call him the Rough Master?\"\n\n\"Because that's what he is, and so are his people, as rough as furze on\na common, they say. Have you any more questions?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Young Gerard. \"Who is the bride?\"\n\n\"Who should the bride be? Combe Ivy's mother?\"\n\n\"She's dead,\" said Young Gerard.\n\n\"His daughter then,\" scoffed Old Gerard.\n\nYoung Gerard stared at him.\n\n\"Get about your business,\" shouted the old shepherd with sudden wrath.\n\"Why do ye stare so? You're not drunk. Ah! down yonder they'll be\ngetting drunk without me. Enough of your idling and staring!\"\n\nHe raised his staff, but Young Gerard thrust it aside so violently that\nhe staggered, and the boy went away to his sheep and they met no more\ntill evening. The whole of that day Young Gerard sat on the Mount, not\nlooking as usual to the busy north dreaming of the unknown land beyond\nthe water, but over the silent slopes and valleys of the south, whose\npeoples were only birds and foxes and rabbits, and whose only cities\nwere built of lights and shadows. Somewhere beyond them was Combe Ivy,\nand little Thea getting married to the Rough Master of Coates, in the\nmidst of feasting and singing and dancing. He thought of her dancing\nover the Downs for joy of being free, he thought of her singing to\nherself as she gathered flowers in his copse, and he thought of her\nfeasting on wild berries he had helped her to find--that also was a\nfeasting and singing and dancing. All day long his thoughts ran, \"She\nwill not come any more in the mornings to bathe in the river over the\nhill. She will not come with her little basket to gather flowers and\nberries. She will not stop and ask for a cup of milk, or say, Let me\nsee the young lambs, or say, Is your cherry-tree in flower yet,\nshepherd? She will not ask me with her eyes to come with her--oh, she\nwill not ask me by turning her eyes away, with her little head bent.\nYou! you Rough Master of Coates, what are you like, what are you like?\"\n\nIn the evening when he gathered his sheep, one was missing. He had to\ntake the flock back without it. Old Gerard was furious with him; it\nseemed as though on this last night that separated him from the long\nfulfillment of his hopes he must be more furious than he had ever been\nbefore. He was furious at being thwarted of the fun in the valley,\nfurious at the loss of the lamb, most furious at young Gerard's\nindifference to his fury. He told the boy he must search on the hills,\nand Young Gerard only sat down by the side of the shed and looked to\nthe south and made no answer. So he went himself, leaving the boy to\nprepare the mess for supper; for he feared that if he went to Combe Ivy\nthat night with a bad tale to tell, his master for a whim might say\nthat a young sheep was a fair deal for an old shepherd, and take his\ngold, and keep him a bondman still. For the Lord of Combe Ivy lived by\nhis whimsies. But Old Gerard could not find the lost sheep, and when he\ncame back the boy was where he had left him, looking over the darkening\nhills.\n\n\"Is the mess ready?\" said Old Gerard.\n\n\"No,\" said Young Gerard.\n\n\"Why not?\"\n\n\"Because I forgot.\"\n\nOld Gerard slashed at him with a rope he had taken in case of need.\n\"That will make you remember.\"\n\n\"No,\" said Young Gerard.\n\n\"Why not?\"\n\nYoung Gerard said, \"You beat me too often, I cannot remember all the\nreasons.\"\n\n\"Then,\" said Old Gerard full of wrath, \"I will beat you out of all\nreason.\"\n\nAnd he began to thrash Young Gerard will all his might, talking between\nthe blows. \"Haven't you been the curse of my life for twenty-one\nyears?\" snarled he. \"Can I trust you? Can I leave you? Would the sheep\nget their straw? Would the lambs be brought alive into the world? Bah!\nfor all you care the sheep would go cold and their young would die. And\ndown yonder they are getting drunk without me!\"\n\n\"Old shepherd,\" said a voice behind him.\n\nThe angry man, panting with his rage and the exertion of his blows,\npaused and turned. Near the corner of the shed he saw a woman in a\nduffle cloak standing, or rather stooping, on her crutch. She was so\nancient that it seemed as though Death himself must have forgotten her,\nbut her eyes in their wrinkled sockets were as piercing as thorns. Old\nGerard, staring at them, felt as though his own eyes were pricked.\n\n\"Where have I seen you before, hag?\" he said.\n\n\"Have you ever seen me before?\" asked the old woman.\n\n\"I thought so, I thought so\"--he fumbled with his memory.\n\n\"Then it must have been when we went courting in April, nine-and-ninety\nyears ago,\" said the old woman dryly, \"but you lads remember me better\nthan I do you. Can I sleep by your hearth to-night?\"\n\n\"Where are you going to?\" asked Old Gerard, half grinning, half sour.\n\n\"Where I'll be welcome,\" said she.\n\n\"You're not welcome here. But there's nothing to steal, you may sleep\nby the hearth.\"\n\n\"Thank you, shepherd,\" said the crone, \"for your courtesy. Why were you\nbeating the boy?\"\n\n\"Because he's one that won't work.\"\n\n\"Is he your slave?\"\n\n\"He's my master's slave. But he's idle.\"\n\n\"I am not idle,\" said Young Gerard. \"The year round I'm busy long\nbefore dawn and long after dark.\"\n\n\"Then why are you idle to-day,\" sneered Old Gerard, \"of all the days in\nthe year?\"\n\n\"I've something else to think of,\" said the boy.\n\n\"You see,\" said the old man to the crone.\n\n\"Well,\" said she, \"a boy cannot always be working. A boy will sometimes\nbe dreaming. Life isn't all labor, shepherd.\"\n\n\"What else is it?\" said Old Gerard.\n\n\"Joy.\"\n\n\"Ho, ho, ho!\" went Old Gerard.\n\n\"And power.\"\n\n\"Ho, ho, ho!\"\n\n\"And triumph.\"\n\n\"Not for serfs,\" said Old Gerard.\n\n\"For serfs and lords,\" she said.\n\n\"Ho, ho, ho!\"\n\n\"You were young once,\" said the crone.\n\nOld Gerard said, \"What if I was?\"\n\n\"Good night,\" said the crone; and she went into the shed.\n\nThe shepherds looked after her, the old one stupidly, the young one\nwith lighted eyes.\n\n\"Will you get supper?\" growled Old Gerard.\n\n\"No,\" said Young Gerard, \"I won't. I want no supper. Put down that\nrope. I am taller and stronger than you, and why I've let you go on\nbeating me so long I don't know, unless it is that you began to beat me\nwhen you were taller and stronger than I. If you want any supper, get\nit yourself.\"\n\nOld Gerard turned red and purple. \"The boy's mad!\" he gasped. \"Do you\nknow what happens to servants who defy their masters?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Young Gerard, \"then they're lords.\" And he too went into\nthe shed.\n\n\"Try that on Combe Ivy!\" bawled Old Gerard, \"and see what you'll get\nfor it. I thank fortune, I'll be quit of you tomorrow--  What's that\nto-do in the valley?\" he muttered, and stared down the hill.\n\nAway in the hollows and shadows he saw splashes of moving light, and\nheard far-off snatches of song and laughter, but the movements and\nsounds were still so distant that they seemed to be only those of\nghosts and echoes. Nearer they came and nearer, and now in the night he\ncould discern a great rabble stumbling among the dips and rises of the\nhills.\n\n\"They're heading this way,\" said Old Gerard. \"Why,  tis the\nwedding-party,\" he said amazed, \"if it's not witchcraft. But why are\nthey coming here?\"\n\n\"Hola! hola! hola!\" shouted a tipsy voice hard by.\n\n\"Here's dribblings from the wineskin,\" said Old Gerard; and up the\ntrack struggled a drunken man, waving a torch above his head. It was\nthe guest whom he had directed in the morning.\n\n\"Hola!\" he shouted again on seeing Old Gerard.\n\n\"Well, racketer?\" said the shepherd, with a chuckle.\n\n\"Shall a man not racket at another man's wedding?\" he cried. \"Let some\none be jolly, say I!\"\n\n\"The bridegroom,\" said Old Gerard.\n\n\"Ha, ha!\" laughed the other, \"the bridegroom! He was first in high\nfeather and last in the sulks.\"\n\n\"The bride, then.\"\n\n\"Ha, ha! ha, ha! during the toasts he tried to kiss her.\"\n\n\"Wouldn't she?\"\n\n\"She wouldn't.\"\n\n\"Hark!\" said Old Gerard, \"here they come.\" The sound of rollicking\nincreased as the rout drew nearer.\n\n\"He's taking her home across the river,\" said the guest. \"I wouldn't be\nshe. There she sat, her pretty face fixed and frozen, but a fright in\nher that shook her whole body. You could see it shake. And we drank,\nhow we drank! to the bride and the groom and their daughters and sons,\nto the sire and the priest, and the ring and the bed, to the kiss and\nthe quarrel, to love which is one thing and marriage which is\nanother--Lord, how we drank! But she drank nothing. And for all her\nterror the Rough could do no more with her than with a stone. Something\nin her turned him cold every time. Suddenly up he gets.  We'll have no\nmore of this,' he says,  we'll go.' Combe Ivy would have had them stay,\nbut  She's where she's used to lord it here,' says Rough,  I'll take\nher where I lord it, and teach her who's master,' And he pushes down\nhis chair and takes her hand and pulls her away; and out we tumble\nafter him. Combe Ivy cries to him to wait for the horses, but no,\nWe'll foot it,' says he,  up hill and down dale as the crow flies, and\nif she hates me now without a cause I swear she'll love me with one at\nthe end of the dance.' We're dancing them as far as the Wildbrooks; on\nt'other side they may dance for themselves. Here they come\ndancing--dance, you!\" cried the guest, and whirled his torch like a\nmadman. And as he whirled and staggered, up the hill came the\nwedding-party as tipsy as he was: a motley procession, waving torches\nand garlands, winecups, flagons, colored napkins, shouting and singing\nand beating on trenchers and salvers--on anything that they could\nsnatch from the table as they quitted it. They came in all their\nbravery--in doublets of flame-colored silk and blue, in scarlet leather\nand green velvet, in purple slashed with silver and crimson fringed\nwith bronze; but their vests were unlaced, their hose sagged, and silk\nand velvet and leather were stained bright or dark with wine. Some had\nstuck leaves and flowers in their hair, others had tied their forelocks\nwith ribbons like horses on a holiday, and one had torn his yellow\nmantle in two and capered in advance, waving the halves in either hand\nlike monstrous banners, or the flapping wings of some golden bird of\nprey. In the midst of them, pressing forward and pressed on by the riot\nbehind, was the Rough Master of Coates, and with him, always hanging a\nlittle away and shrinking under her veil, Thea, whose right wrist he\ngrasped in his left hand. Breathless she was among the breathless\nrabble, who, gaining the hilltop seized each other suddenly and broke\ninto antics, shaking their napkins and rattling on their plates. Their\nvoices were hoarse with laughter and drink, and their faces flushed\nwith it; only among those red and swollen faces, the bridegroom's, in\nthe flare of the torches, looked as black as the bride's looked white.\nThe night about the newly-wedded pair was one great din and flutter.\n\nThen in a trice the dancers all lost breath, and the dance parted as\nthey staggered aside; and at the door of the shed Young Gerard stood,\nand gazed through the broken revel at little Thea, and she stood gazing\nat him. And behind and above him, along the walls of the hut, and over\nthe doorway, and making lovely the very roof, she saw a cloud of\nsnowwhite blossom.\n\nSomebody cried, \"Here's a boy. He shall dance too. Boy, is there drink\nwithin?\"\n\nThe others took up the clamor. \"Drink! bring us something to drink!\"\n\n\"The red grape!\" cried one.\n\n\"The yellow grape!\" cried another.\n\n\"The sap of the apple!\"\n\n\"The juice of the pear!\"\n\n\"Nut-brown ale!\"\n\n\"The spirit that burns!\"\n\n\"Bring us drink!\" they cried in a breath.\n\n\"Will you have milk?\" said Young Gerard.\n\nAt this the company burst into a roar of laughter. They laughed till\nthey rocked. But when they were silent little Thea spoke. She said in a\nfaint clear voice:\n\n\"I would like a cup of milk.\"\n\nYoung Gerard went into the hut and came out with his wooden cup filled\nwith milk, and brought it to her, and she drank. None spoke or moved\nwhile she drank, but when she gave him the cup again one of the crew\nsaid chuckling, \"Now she has drunk, now she's merrier. Try her again,\nRough, try her on milk!\"\n\nAgain the night reeled with their laughter. They surrounded the wedded\npair crying, \"Kiss her! kiss her! kiss her!\" Then the Rough Master of\nCoates pulled her round to him, dark with anger, and tried to kiss her.\nBut she turned sharply in his arms, bending her head away. And despite\nhis force, and though he was a man and she little more than a child, he\ncould not make her mouth meet his. And the laughter of the guests rose\nhigher, and infuriated him.\n\nThen he who had spoken before said, \"By Hymen, the bride should kiss\nsomething. If the lord's not good enough, let her kiss the churl!\" At\nthis the revelers, wild with delight, beat on their trenchers and\nshouted, \"Ay, let her!\"\n\nAnd suddenly they surged in, parting Thea from the Rough; while some\npulled him back others dragged Young Gerard forward, till he stood\nwhere the bridegroom had stood; and in that seething throng of mockery\nhe felt her clinging helplessly to him, and his arm went round her.\n\n\"Kiss him! kiss him! kiss him!\" cried the guests.\n\nShe looked up pitifully at him, and he bent his head. And she heard him\nwhisper:\n\n\"My cherry-tree's in flower.\"\n\nShe whispered, \"Yes.\"\n\nAnd they kissed each other.\n\nThen the tumult of laughter passed all bounds, so that it was a wonder\nif it was not heard at Combe Ivy; and the guests clashed their\ntrenchers one against another, and whirled their torches till the\nsparks flew, yelling, \"The bride's kiss! Ha, ha! the bride's kiss!\"\n\nBut the Rough Master of Coates had had enough; snarling like a mad dog\nhe thrust his way through the crowd on one side, as Old Gerard, seeing\nhis purpose, thrust through on the other, and both at the same instant\nfell on the boy, the one with his scabbard, the other with his staff.\n\n\"Kisses, will ye?\" cried the Rough Master of Coates, \"here's kisses for\nye!\"\n\n\"Ha, ha!\" cried the guests, \"more kisses, more kisses for him that\nkissed the bride!\"\n\nAnd then they all struck him at once, kicking and beating him without\nmercy, till he lay prone on the earth. When he had fallen, the Rough\nshouted, \"Away to the Wildbrooks, away!\"\n\nAnd he seized Thea in his arms, and rushed along the brow of the hill,\nand all the company followed in a confusion, and were swallowed up in\nthe night.\n\nBut Young Gerard raised himself a little, and groaned, \"The\nWildbrooks--are they going to the Wildbrooks?\"\n\n\"Ay, and over the Wildbrooks,\" said Old Gerard.\n\n\"But they're in flood,\" gasped Young Gerard. \"They'll never cross it in\nthe spring floods.\"\n\n\"They'll manage it somehow. The Rough--did you see his eyes when you--?\nho, ho! he'll cross it somehow.\"\n\n\"He can't,\" the boy muttered. \"The April tide's too strong. He will\ndrown in the flood.\"\n\n\"And she,\" said Old Gerard.\n\n\"Perhaps she will swim on the flood,\" said Young Gerard faintly. And he\nsighed and sank back on the earth.\n\n\"Ay, you'll be sore,\" chuckled the old man. \"You had your salve before\nyou had your drubbing. Lie there. I must be gone on business.\"\n\nHe took up his staff and went down the hill for the last time to Combe\nIvy, to purchase his freedom.\n\nBut Young Gerard lay with his face pressed to the turf. \"And that was\nthe bridegroom,\" he said, and shook where he lay.\n\n\"Young shepherd,\" said a voice beside him. He looked up and saw the\nhooded crone, come out of the hut. \"Why do you water the earth?\" said\nshe. \"Have not the rains done their work?\"\n\n\"What work, dame?\"\n\n\"You've as fine a cherry in flower,\" said she, \"as ever blossomed in\nGay Street in the season of singing and dancing.\"\n\n\"Singing and dancing!\" he cried, his voice choking, and he sprang up\ndespite his pains. \"Don't speak to me, dame, of singing and dancing.\nYou're old, like the withered branch of a tree, but did you not see\nwith your old eyes, and hear with your old ears? Did you not see her\ncome up the green hillside with singing and dancing? Oh, yes, my\ncherry's in flower, like a crown for a bride, and the spring is all in\nmovement, and the birds are all in song, and she--she came up the\nhillside with singing and dancing.\"\n\n\"I saw,\" said the crone, \"and I heard. I'm not so old, young shepherd,\nthat I do not remember the curse of youth.\"\n\n\"What's that?\" he said moodily.\n\n\"To bear the soul of a master in the body of a slave,\" said she; \"to be\na flower in a sealed bud, the moon in a cloud, water locked in ice,\nSpring in the womb of the year, love that does not know itself.\"\n\n\"But when it does know?\" said Young Gerard slowly.\n\n\"Oh, when it knows!\" said she. \"Then the flower of the fruit will leap\nthrough the bud, and the moon will leap like a lamb on the hills of the\nsky, and April will leap in the veins of the year, and the river will\nleap with the fury of Spring, and the headlong heart will cry in the\nbody of youth, I will not be a slave, but I will be the lord of life,\nbecause--\"\n\n\"Because?\" said Young Gerard.\n\n\"Because I will!\"\n\nYoung Gerard said nothing, and they sat together in a long silence in\nthe darkness, and time went by filling the sky with stars.\n\nNow as they sat the hilltop once more began to waver with shadows and\nvoices, but this time the shadows came on heavy feet and weary, and the\nvoices were forlorn. One feebly cried, \"Hola!\" And round the belt of\ntrees straggled the rout that had left them an hour or so earlier. But\nnow they were sodden and dejected, draggled and woebegone, as sorry a\nspectacle as so many drowned rats.\n\n\"Fire!\" moaned one. \"Fire! fire!\"\n\n\"Who's burning?\" said Young Gerard, and got quickly on his feet; but he\ndid not see the two he looked for.\n\n\"None's burning, fool, but many are drowning. Do we not look like\ndrowned men? How shall we ever get back to Combe Ivy, and warmth and\ndrink and comforts? Would we were burning!\"\n\n\"What has happened?\" the boy demanded.\n\n\"We went in search of the ferry,\" he said, \"but the ferry was drowned\ntoo.\"\n\n\"We couldn't find the ferry,\" said a second.\n\n\"No,\" mumbled a third, \"the river had drunk it up. Where there were\npaths there are brooks, and where there were meadows, lakes.\"\n\nThe miserable crew broke out into plaints and questions--\"Have you no\nfire? have you no food? no coverings?\"\n\n\"None,\" said Young Gerard. \"Where is the bride?\"\n\n\"Have you do drink?\"\n\n\"Where is the bride?\"\n\n\"The groom stumbled,\" said one. \"Let us to Combe Ivy, in comfort's\nname. There'll be drink there.\"\n\nHe staggered down the hill, and his fellows made after him. But Young\nGerard sprang upon one, and gripped him by the shoulder and shook him,\nand for the third time cried:\n\n\"Where is the bride?\"\n\n\"In the water,\" he answered heavily, \"because--there was--no wine.\"\n\nThen he dragged himself out of the boy's grasp, and fell down the hill\nafter his companions.\n\nYoung Gerard stood for one instant listening and holding his breath.\nSuddenly he said, \"My lost lamb, crying on the hills.\" He ran into the\nshed and looked about, and snatched from the settle the green and\ncherry cloak, and from the wall the crystal and silver lantern. He\nstruck a spark from a flint and lit the wick. It burned brightly and\nsteadily. Then he ran out of the shed. The old woman rose up in his\npath.\n\n\"That's a good light,\" said she, \"and a warm cloak.\"\n\n\"Don't stop me!\" said Young Gerard, and ran on. She nodded, and as he\nvanished in one direction, she vanished in the other.\n\nHe had not run far when he saw one more shadow on the hills; and it\ncame with faltering steps, and a trembling sobbing breath, and he held\nup his lantern and the light fell on Thea, shivering in her wet veil.\nAs the flame struck her eyes she sighed, \"Oh, I can't see the way--I\ncan't see!\"\n\nYoung Gerard hurried to her and said, \"Come this way,\" and he took her\nhand; but she snatched it quickly from him.\n\n\"Go, man!\" she said. \"Don't touch me. Go!\"\n\n\"Don't be frightened of me,\" said Young Gerard gently.\n\nThen she looked at him and whispered, \"Oh--it is you--shepherd. I was\ntrying to find you. I'm cold.\"\n\nYoung Gerard wrapped the cloak about her, and said, \"Come with me. I'll\nmake you a fire.\"\n\nHe took her back to the shed. But she did not go in. She crouched on\nthe ground under the cherry-tree. Young Gerard moved about collecting\nbrushwood. They scarcely looked at each other; but once when he passed\nher he said, \"You're shivering.\"\n\n\"It's because I'm so wet,\" said Thea.\n\n\"Did you fall in the water?\"\n\nShe nodded. \"The floods were so strong.\"\n\n\"It's a bad night for swimming,\" said Young Gerard.\n\n\"Yes, shepherd.\" She then said again, \"Yes.\" He could tell by her voice\nthat she was smiling faintly. He glanced at her and saw her looking at\nhim; both smiled a little and glanced away again. He began to pile his\nbrushwood for the fire.\n\nAfter a short pause she said timidly, \"Are you sore, shepherd?\"\n\n\"No, I feel nothing,\" said he.\n\n\"They beat you very hard.\"\n\n\"I did not feel their blows.\"\n\n\"How could you not feel them?\" she said in a low voice. He looked at\nher again, and again their eyes met, and again parted quickly.\n\n\"Now I'll strike a spark,\" said Young Gerard, \"and you'll be warm soon.\"\n\nHe kindled his fire; the branches crackled and burned, and she knelt\nbeside the blaze and held her hands to it.\n\n\"I was never here by night before,\" she said.\n\n\"Yes, once,\" said Young Gerard. \"You often came, didn't you, to gather\nflowers in the morning and to swim in the river at noon. But once\nbefore you were here in the night.\"\n\n\"Was I?\" said she.\n\nHe dropped a handful of cones into her lap, throwing the last on the\nfire. She threw another after it, and smiled as it crackled.\n\n\"I remember,\" she said. \"Thank you, shepherd. You were always kind and\nfound me the things I wanted, and gave me your cup to drink of. Who'll\ndrink of it now?\"\n\n\"No one,\" he said, \"ever again.\"\n\nHe went and fetched the cup and gave it to her. \"Burn that too,\" said\nYoung Gerard. Thea put it into the fire and trembled. When it was\nburned she asked very low, \"Will you be lonely?\"\n\n\"I'll have my sheep and my thoughts.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Thea, \"and stars when the sheep are folded. The stars are\ngood to be with too.\"\n\n\"Good to see and not be seen by,\" he said.\n\n\"How do you know they don't see you?\" she asked shyly.\n\n\"One shepherd on a hill isn't much for the eye of a star. He may watch\nthem unwatched, while they come and go in their months. Sometimes there\naren't any, and sometimes not more than one pricking the sky near the\nmoon. But to-night, look! the sky's like a tree with full branches.\"\n\nThea looked up and said with a child's laugh, \"Break me a branch!\"\n\n\"I'd want Jacob's Ladder for that,\" smiled Young Gerard.\n\n\"Then shake the tree and bring them down!\" she insisted.\n\n\"Here come your stars,\" said Young Gerard. Suddenly she was enveloped\nin a falling shower, white and heavenly.\n\n\"The stars--!\" she cried. \"Oh, what is it?\"\n\n\"My cherry-tree--it's in flower--\" said Young Gerard, and his voice\ntrembled. She looked up quickly and saw that he was standing beside\nher, shaking the tree above her head. And now their eyes met and did\nnot separate. He put out his hand and broke a branch from the tree and\noffered it to her. She took it from him slowly, as though she were in a\ndream, and laid it in her lap, and put her face in her hands and began\nto cry.\n\nYoung Gerard whispered, \"Why are you crying?\"\n\nThea said, \"Oh, my wedding, my wedding! Only last year I thought of the\nnight of my wedding and how it would be. It was not with torchlight and\nshouting and wine, but moonlight and silence and the scent of wild\nblossoms. And now I know that it was not the night of my wedding I\ndreamed of.\"\n\n\"What did you dream of?\" asked Young Gerard.\n\n\"The night of my first love.\"\n\n\"Thea,\" said Young Gerard, and he knelt beside her.\n\n\"And my love's first kiss.\"\n\n\"Oh, Thea,\" said Young Gerard, and he took her hands.\n\n\"Why did you not feel their blows?\" she said. \"I felt them.\"\n\nTheir arms went round each other, and for the second time that night\nthey kissed.\n\nYoung Gerard said, \"I've always wondered if this would happen.\"\n\nAnd Thea answered, \"I didn't know it would be you.\"\n\n\"Didn't you? didn't you?\" he whispered, stroking her head, wondering at\nhimself doing what he had so often dreamed of doing.\n\n\"Oh,\" she faltered, \"sometimes I thought--it might--be you, darling.\"\n\n\"Thea, Thea!\"\n\n\"When I came over the Mount to swim in the river, and saw you in the\ndistance among your sheep, there was a swifter river running through\nall my body. When I came every April to ask for your cherry-tree, what\ndid it matter to me that it was not in bloom? for all my heart was wild\nwith bloom, oh, Gerard, my--lover!\"\n\n\"Oh, Thea, my love! What can I give you, Thea, I, a shepherd?\"\n\n\"You were the lord of the earth, and you gave me its flowers and its\nbirds and its secret waters. What more could you give me, you, a\nshepherd and my lord?\"\n\n\"The wild white bloom of its fruit-trees that comes to the branches in\nApril like love to the heart. I'll give it you now. Sit here, sit here!\nI'll make you a bower of the cherry, and a crown, and a carpet too.\nThere's nothing in all April lovely and wild enough for you to-night,\nyour bridal night, my lady and my darling!\"\n\nAnd in a great fit of joy he broke branch after branch from the tree as\nshe sat at its foot, and set them about her, and filled her arms to\noverflowing, and crowned her with blossoms, and shook the bloom under\nher feet, till her shy happy face, paling and reddening by turns,\nlooked out from a world of flowers and she cried between laughing and\nweeping, \"Oh, Gerard, oh, you're drowning me!\"\n\n\"It's the April floods,\" shouted Young Gerard, \"and I must drown with\nyou, Thea, Thea, Thea!\" And he cast himself down beside her, and\nclasped her amid all the blossoming, and with his head on her shoulder\nkissed and kissed her till he was breathless and she as pale as the\nflowers that smothered their kisses.\n\nAnd then suddenly he folded her in the green mantle, blossoms and all,\nand sprang up and lifted her to his breast till she lay like a child in\nthe arms of its mother; and he picked up the lantern and said, \"Now we\nwill go away for ever.\"\n\n\"Where are we going?\" she whispered with shining eyes.\n\n\"To the Wildbrooks,\" he said.\n\n\"To drown in the floods together?\" She closed her eyes.\n\n\"There's a way through all floods,\" said Young Gerard.\n\nAnd he ran with her over the hills with all his speed.\n\nAnd Old Gerard returned to a hut as empty as it had been one-and-twenty\nyears ago. And they say that Combe Ivy, having never set eyes on the\nboy in his life, swore that the shepherd's tale had been a fiction from\nfirst to last, and kept him a serf to the end of his days.\n\n\n(\"What a night of stars it is!\" said Martin Pippin, stretching his arms.\n\n\"Good heavens, Master Pippin,\" cried Joyce, \"what a moment to mention\nit!\"\n\n\"It is worth mentioning,\" said Martin, \"at all moments when it is so. I\nwould not think of mentioning it in the middle of a snowstorm.\"\n\n\"You should as little think of mentioning it,\" said Joyce, \"in the\nmiddle of a story.\"\n\n\"But I am at the end of my story, Mistress Joyce.\"\n\nJoscelyn: Preposterous! Oh! Oh, how can you say so? I am ashamed of you!\n\nMartin: Dear Mistress Joscelyn, I thank you in charity's name for being\nthat for me which I have never yet succeeded in being for myself.\n\nJoscelyn: What! are you not ashamed to offer us a broken gift? Your\nstory is like a cracked pitcher with half the milk leaked out. What was\nthe secret of the Lantern, the Cloak, and the Cherry-tree?\n\nJoyce: Who was the lovely lady, his mother? and who the old crone?\n\nJennifer: What was the end of the Rough Master of Coates?\n\nJessica: Did not the lovers drown in the floods?\n\nJane: And if they did not, what became of them?\n\n\"Please,\" said little Joan, \"tell us why Young Gerard dreamed those\ndreams. Oh, please tell us what happened.\"\n\n\"Women's taste is for trifles,\" said Martin. \"I have offered you my\ncake, and you wish only to pick off the nuts and the cherries.\"\n\n\"No,\" said Joan, \"we wish you to put them on. Do you not love nuts and\ncherries on a cake?\"\n\n\"More than anything,\" said Martin.)\n\n\nA long while ago, dear maidens, there were Lords in Gay Street, and up\nand down the Street the cherry-trees bloomed in Spring as they bloomed\nnowhere else in Sussex, and under the trees sang and danced the\nloveliest lads and lasses in all England, with hearts like children.\nAnd on all their holiday clothes they worked the leaf and branch and\nflower and fruit of the cherry. And they never wore anything else but\ntheir holiday clothes, because in Gay Street it was always holidays.\n\nAnd a long while ago there were Gypsies on Nyetimber Common, the\nmerriest Gypsies in the southlands, with the gayest tatters and the\nbrightest eyes, and the maddest hearts for mirth-making. They were also\nmakers of lanterns when they were anything else but what all Gypsies\nare.\n\nAnd once the son of a Gypsy King loved the daughter of a Lord of Gay\nStreet, and she loved him. And because of this there was wrath in Gay\nStreet and scorn on Nyetimber, and all things were done to keep the\nlovers apart. But they who attempt this might more profitably chase\nwild geese. So one night in April they were taken under one of her\nfather's own wild cherries by the light of one of his father's own\nlanterns. And it was her father and his father who found them, as they\nhad missed them, in the same moment, and were come hunting for\nsweethearts by night with their people behind them.\n\nThen the Lord of Gay Street pronounced a curse of banishment on his own\ndaughter, that she must go far away beyond the country of the floods,\nand another on his own tree, that it might never blossom more. And\nthere and then it withered. And the Gypsy King pronounced as dark a\ncurse of banishment on his own son, and a second on his own lantern,\nthat it might never more give light. And there and then it went out.\n\nThen from the crowd of gypsies came the oldest of them all, who was the\nKing's great-grandmother, and she looked from the angry parents to the\nunhappy lovers and said, \"You can blight the tree and make the lantern\ndark; nevertheless you cannot extinguish the flower and the light of\nlove. And till these things lift the curse and are seen again united\namong you, there will be no Lords in Gay Street nor Kings on Nyetimber.\"\n\nAnd she broke a shoot from the cherry and picked up the lantern and\ngave them to the lady and her lover; and then she took them one by each\nhand and went away. And the Lord of Gay Street and the Gypsy King died\nsoon after without heirs, and the joy went out of the hearts of both\npeoples, and they dressed in sad colors for one-and-twenty years.\n\nBut the three traveled south through the country of the floods, and on\nthe way the King's son was drowned, as others had been before him, and\nafter him the Rough Master of Coates. But the crone brought the lady\nsafely through, and how she was at once delivered of her son and her\nsorrow, dear maidens, you know.\n\nAnd for one-and-twenty years the crone was seen no more, and then of a\nsudden she re-appeared at daybreak and bade her people put on their\nbright apparel because their King was coming with a young Queen; and\nafter this she led them to Gay Street where she bade the folk to don\ntheir holiday attire, because their Lord was on his way with a fair\nLady. And all those girls and boys, the dark and the light, felt the\nchild of joy in their hearts again, and they went in the morning with\nsinging and dancing to welcome the comers under the cherry-trees.\n\nI entreat you now, Mistress Joyce, for the second hair from your head.\n\n\n\nSECOND INTERLUDE\n\nThe milkmaids put their forgotten apples to their mouths, and the\nchatter began to run out of them like juice from bitten fruit.\n\nJessica: What did you think of this story, Jane?\n\nJane: I did not know what to think, Jessica, until the very conclusion,\nand then I was too amazed to think anything. For who would have\nimagined the young Shepherd to be in reality a lord?\n\nMartin: Few of us are what we seem, Mistress Jane. Even chimney-sweeps\nare Jacks-in-Green on May-Days; for the other\nthree-hundred-and-sixty-four days in the year they pretend to be\nchimney-sweeps. And I have actually known men who appeared to be haters\nof women, when they secretly loved them most tenderly.\n\nJoscelyn: It does not surprise me to hear this. I have always\nunderstood men to be composed of caprices.\n\nMartin: They are composed of nothing else. I see you know them through\nand through.\n\nJoscelyn: I do not know anything at all about them. We do not study\nwhat does not interest us.\n\nMartin: I hope, Mistress Joscelyn, you found my story worthy of study?\n\nJoscelyn: It served its turn. Might one, by going to Rackham Hill, see\nthis same cherry-tree and this same shed?\n\nMartin: Alas, no. The shed rotted with time and weather, and bit by bit\nits sides were rebuilt with stone. And the cherry-tree Old Gerard\nchopped down in a fury, and made firewood of it. But it too had served\nits turn. For as every man's life (and perhaps, but you must answer for\nthis, every woman's life), awaits the hour of blossoming that makes it\nimmortal, so this tree passed in a single night from sterility to\nimmortality; and it mattered as little if its body were burned the next\nday, as it would have mattered had Gerard and Thea gone down through\nthe waters that night instead of many years later, after a life-time of\ngreat joy and delight.\n\nJoyce: I am glad of that. There were moments when I feared it would not\nbe so.\n\nJennifer: I too. For how could it be otherwise, seeing that he was a\nshepherd and she a lord's daughter?\n\nJessica: And when it was related how she was to wed the Rough Master of\nCoates, my hopes were dashed entirely.\n\nJane: And when they beat Young Gerard I was perfectly certain he was\ndead.\n\nJoan: I rather fancied the tale would end happily, all the same.\n\nMartin: I fancied so too. For though any of these accidents would have\nmarred the ending, love is a divinity above all accidents, and guards\nhis own with extraordinary obstinacy. Nothing could have thwarted him\nof his way but one thing.\n\nFive of the Milkmaids: Oh, what?\n\nMartin: Had Thea been one of those who are not interested in the study\nof men.\n\n\nNobody said anything in the Apple-Orchard.\n\nJoscelyn: She need not have been condemned to unhappiness on that\naccount, singer. And what does the happiness or unhappiness of an idle\nstory weigh? Whether she wedded another, or whether they were parted by\nwhatever cause, such as her superior station, or even his death, it's\nall one to me.\n\nJennifer: And me.\n\nJessica: And me.\n\nJane: And me.\n\nMartin: The tale is judged. Let it go hang. For a cloud has dropped\nover nine-tenths of the moon, like the eyelid of a girl who still peeps\nthrough her lashes, but will soon fall asleep for weariness. I have\nmade her lids as heavy as yours with my poor story. Let us all sleep\nand forget it.\n\n\nSo the girls lay down in the grass and slept. But Joyce went on\nswinging. And every time she swayed past him she looked at Martin, and\nher lips opened and shut again, nothing having escaped them but a very\nlittle laughter. The tenth time this happened Martin said:\n\n\"What keeps your lashes open, Mistress Joyce, when your comrades' lie\ntangled on their cheeks? Is it the same thing that opens your lips and\npeeps through the doorway and runs away again?\"\n\n\"MUST my lashes shut because others' do?\" said Joyce. \"May not lashes\nhave whims of their own?\"\n\n\"Nothing is more whimsical,\" said Martin Pippin. \"I have known, for\ninstance, lashes that WILL be golden though the hair of the head be\ndark. It is a silly trick.\"\n\n\"I don't dislike such lashes,\" said Joyce. \"That is, I think I should\nnot if ever I saw them.\"\n\n\nMartin: Perhaps you are right. I should love them in a woman.\n\nJoyce: I never saw them in a woman.\n\nMartin: In a man they would be regrettable.\n\nJoyce: Then why did you give them to Young Gerard?\n\nMartin: Did I? It was pure carelessness. Let us change the color of his\nlashes.\n\nJoyce: No, no! I will not have them changed. I would not for the world.\n\nMartin: Dear Mistress Joyce, if I had the world to offer you, I would\nsit by the road and break it with a pickax rather than change a single\neyelash in Young Gerard's lids. Since you love them.\n\nJoyce: Oh, did I say so?\n\nMartin: Didn't you?--Mistress Joyce, when you laugh I am ready to\nforgive you all your debts.\n\nJoyce: Why, what do I owe you?\n\nMartin: An eyelash.\n\nJoyce: I am sure I do not.\n\nMartin: No? Then a hair of some sort. How will you be able to sleep\nto-night with a hair on your conscience? For your own sake, lift that\ncrowbar.\n\nJoyce: To tell you the truth, I fear to redeem my promise lest you are\nunable to redeem yours.\n\nMartin: Which was?\n\nJoyce: To blow it to its fellow, who is now wandering in the night like\nthistledown.\n\nMartin: I will do it, nevertheless.\n\nJoyce: It is easier promised than proved. But here is the hair.\n\nMartin: Are you certain it is the same hair?\n\nJoyce: I kept it wound round my finger.\n\nMartin: I know no better way of keeping a hair. So here it goes!\n\nAnd he held the hair to his lips and blew on it.\n\nMartin: A blessing on it. It will soon be wedded.\n\nJoyce: I have your word on it.\n\nMartin: You shall have your eyes on it if you will tell me one thing.\n\nJoyce: Is it a little thing?\n\nMartin: It's as trifling as a hair. I wish only to know why you have\nfallen out with men.\n\nJoyce: For the best of reasons. Why, Master Pippin! they say the world\nis round!\n\nMartin: Heaven preserve us! was ever so giddy a statement? Round? Why,\nthe world's as full of edges as the dealings of men and women, in which\nyou can scarcely go a day's march without reaching the end of all\nthings and tumbling into heaven. I tell you I have traveled the world\nmore than any man living, and it takes me all my time to keep from\nfalling off the brink. Round? The world is one great precipice!\n\nJoyce: I said so! I said so! I know I was right! I should like to\ntell--them so.\n\nMartin: Were you only able to go out of the Orchard, you would be free\nto tell--them so. They are such fools, these men.\n\nJoyce: Not in all matters, Master Pippin, but certainly in this. They\nare good at some things.\n\nMartin: For my part I can't think what.\n\nJoyce: They whitewash cowsheds beautifully.\n\nMartin: Who wouldn't? Whitewash is such beautiful stuff. No, let us be\ndone with these round-minded men and go to bed. Good night, dear\nmilkmaid.\n\nJoyce: Ah, but singer! you have not yet proved your fable of the two\nhairs, which you swore were as hard to keep apart as the two lovers in\nyour tale.\n\n\"Whom love guarded against accidents,\" said Martin; and he held out to\nher the third finger of his left hand, and wound at its base were the\ntwo hairs, in a ring as fine as a cobweb. She took his finger between\ntwo of hers and laughed, and examined it, and laughed again.\n\n\"You have been playing the god of love to my hairs,\" said Joyce.\n\n\"Somebody must protect those that cannot, or will not, be kind to\nthemselves,\" said Martin. And then his other fingers closed quickly on\nher hand, and he said: \"Dear Mistress Joyce, help me to play the god of\nlove to Gillian, and give me your key to the Well-House, because there\nwere moments when you feared my tale would end unhappily.\"\n\nShe pulled her hand away and began to swing rapidly, without answering.\nBut presently she exclaimed, \"Oh, oh! it has dropped!\"\n\n\"What? what?\" said Martin anxiously.\n\nBut she only cried again, \"Oh, my heart! it has dropped under the\nswing.\"\n\n\"In love's name,\" said Martin, \"let me recover your heart.\"\n\nHe groped in the grass and found what she had dropped, and then was\nobliged to fall flat on his back to escape her feet as she swung.\n\n\"Well, any time's a time for laughing,\" said Martin, crawling forth and\ngetting on his knees. \"Here's the key to your heart, laughing Joyce.\"\n\n\"Oh, Martin! how can I take it with my hands on the ropes?\"\n\n\"Then I'll lay it on your lap.\"\n\n\"Oh, Martin! how do you expect it to stay there while I swing?\"\n\n\"Then you must stop swinging.\"\n\n\"Oh, Martin! I will never stop swinging as long as I live!\"\n\n\"Then what must I do with this key?\"\n\n\"Oh, Martin! why do you bother me so about an old key? Can't you see\nI'm busy?\"\n\n\"Oh, Joyce! when you laugh I must--I must--\"\n\n\"Yes?\"\n\n\"I must!\"\n\nAnd he caught her two little feet in his hands as she next flew by, and\nkissed each one upon the instep.\n\nThen he ran to his bed under the hedge, and she sat where she was till\nher laughing turned to smiling, and her smiling to sleeping.\n\n\n\"Maids! maids! maids!\"\n\nIt was morning.\n\n\"To your hiding-place, Master Pippin!\" urged Joscelyn. \"It's our master\ncome again.\"\n\nMartin concealed himself with speed, and an instant later the farmer's\nburly face peered through the gap in the hedge.\n\n\"Good morrow, maids.\"\n\n\"Good morrow, master.\"\n\n\"Has my daughter stopped weeping yet?\"\n\n\"No, master,\" said Joyce, \"but I begin to think that she will before\nlong.\"\n\n\"A little longer will be too long,\" moaned Gillman, \"for my purse is\nrunning dry with these droughty times, and I shall have to mortgage the\nfarm to buy me ale, since I am foiled of both water and milk. Who would\nhave daughters when he might have sons? Gillian!\" he cried, \"when will\nye learn that old heads are wiser than young ones?\"\n\nBut Gillian paid no more attention to him than to the cawing rooks in\nthe elms in the oatfield.\n\n\"Take your bread, maids,\" said Gillman, \"and heaven send us grace\nto-morrow.\"\n\n\"Just an instant, master,\" said Joyce. \"I would like to know if Blossom\nmy Shorthorn is well?\"\n\n\"As well as a child without its mother, maid, though Michael has turned\nnurse to her. But she seems sworn to hold back her milk till you come\nagain. Rack and ruin, nothing but rack and ruin!\"\n\nAnd off he went.\n\nThen breakfast was prepared as on the previous day, and Gillian's stale\nloaf was broken for the ducks. But Joscelyn pointed out that one of the\nkissing-crusts had been pulled off in the night.\n\n\"Your stories, Master Pippin, are doing their work,\" said she.\n\n\"I begin to think so,\" said Martin cheerfully. And then they fell to on\ntheir own white loaves and sweet apples.\n\nWhen they had breakfasted Martin observed that he could make better and\nlonger daisy-chains than any one else in the world, and his statement\nwas pooh-poohed by six voices at once. For girls' fingers, said these\nvoices, had been especially fashioned by nature for the making of\ndaisy-chains. Martin challenged them to prove this, and they plucked\nlapfuls of the small white daisies with big yellow eyes, and threaded\nchains of great length, and hung them about each other's necks. And so\ndeft and dainty was their touch that the chains never broke in the\nmaking or, what is still more delicate a matter, in the hanging. But\nMartin's chains always broke before he had joined the last daisy to the\nfirst, and the girls jeered at him for having no necklace to match\ntheir necklaces of pearls and gold, and for failing so contemptibly in\nhis boast. And he appeared so abashed by their jeers that little Joan\nrelented and made a longer chain than any that had been made yet, and\nhung it round his neck. At which he was merry again, and confessed\nhimself beaten, and the girls became very gracious, being in their\ntriumph even more pleased with him than with themselves. Which was a\ngreat deal. And by then it was dinner-time.\n\nAfter dinner Martin proposed that as they had sat all the morning they\nshould run all the afternoon, so they played Touchwood. And Martin was\nHe. But an orchard is so full of wood that he had a hard job of it. And\nhe observed that Jennifer had very little daring, and scarcely ever\nlifted her finger from the wood as she ran from one tree to another;\nand that Jane had no daring at all, and never even left her tree. And\nthat Joscelyn was extremely daring when it was safe to be so; and that\nJessica was daring enough to tweak him and run away, while Joyce was\nmore daring still, for she tweaked him and did not run. As for little\nJoan, she puzzled him most of all; for half the time she outdid them\nall in daring, and then she was uncatchable, slipping through his very\nfingers like a ray of sunlight a child tries to hold; but the other\nhalf of the time she was timidity itself, and crept from tree to tree,\nand if he were near became like a little frightened rabbit, forgetting,\nor being through fear unable, to touch safety; and then she was snared\nmore easily than any.\n\nBy supper, however, every maid had been He but Jane. For no man can\ncatch what doesn't run.\n\n\"How the time has flown,\" said Joscelyn, when they were all seated\nabout the middle tree after the meal.\n\n\"It makes such a difference,\" said Jennifer, \"when there's something to\ndo. We never used to have anything to do till Master Pippin came, and\nnow life is all games and stories.\"\n\n\"The games,\" said Joscelyn, \"are well enough.\"\n\n\"Shall we,\" said Martin, \"forego the stories?\"\n\n\"Oh, Master Pippin!\" said Jennifer anxiously, \"we surely are to have a\nstory to-night?\"\n\n\"Unless we are to remain here for ever,\" said Martin, \"I fear we must.\nBut for my part I am quite happy here. Are not you, Mistress Joscelyn?\"\n\n\"Your questions are idle,\" said she. \"You know very well that we cannot\nescape a story.\"\n\n\"You see, Mistress Jennifer,\" said Martin. \"Let us resign ourselves\ntherefore. And for your better diversion, please sit in the swing, and\nwhen the story is tedious you will have a remedy at hand.\"\n\nSo saying, he put Jennifer on the seat and her hands on the ropes, and\nthe five other girls climbed into the tree, while he took the bough\nthat had become his own. And all provided themselves with apples.\n\n\"Begin,\" said Joscelyn.\n\n\"A story-teller,\" said Martin, \"as much as any other craftsman, needs\nhis instruments, of which his auditors are the chief. And of these I\nlack one.\" And he fixed his eyes of the weeper in the Well-House.\n\n\"You have six already,\" said Joscelyn. \"The seventh you must acquire as\nyou proceed. So begin.\"\n\n\"Without the vital tool?\" cried Martin. \"As well might you bid Madam\nToad to spin flax without her distaff.\"\n\n\"What folly is this?\" said Joscelyn. \"Toads don't spin.\"\n\n\"Don't they?\" said Martin, much astonished. \"I thought they did. What\nthen is toadflax? Do the wildflowers not know?\"\n\nAnd still keeping his eyes fixed on Gillian he thrummed and sang--\n\n  Toad, toad, old toad,\n    What are you spinning?\n  Seven hanks of yellow flax\n    Into snow-white linen.\n  What will you do with it\n    Then, toad, pray?\n  Make shifts for seven brides\n    Against their wedding-day.\n  Suppose e'er a one of them\n    Refuses to be wed?\n  Then she shall not see the jewel\n    I wear in my head.\n\nAs he concluded, Gillian raised herself on her two elbows, and with her\nchin on her palms gazed steadily over the duckpond.\n\nJoscelyn: Why seven?\n\nMartin: Is it not as good a number as another?\n\nJennifer: What is the jewel like in the toad's head, Master Pippin?\n\nMartin: How can I say, Mistress Jennifer? There's but one way of\nknowing, according to the song, and like a fool I refused it.\n\nJennifer: I wish I knew.\n\nMartin: The way lies open to all.\n\nJoscelyn: These are silly legends, Jennifer. It is as little likely\nthat there are jewels in toads' heads as that toads spin flax. But\nMaster Pippin pins his faith to any nonsense.\n\nMartin: True, Mistress Joscelyn. My faith cries for elbow-room, and he\nwho pins his faith to common-sense is like to get a cramp in it.\nTherefore since women, as I hear tell, have ceased to spin brides'\nshifts, I am obliged to believe that these things are spun by toads.\nBecause brides there must be though the wells should run dry.\n\nJoscelyn: I do not see the connection. However, it is obvious that the\nbad logic of your song has aroused even Gillian's attention, so for\nmercy's sake make short work of your tale before it flags again.\n\nMartin: I will follow your advice. And do you follow me with your best\nattention while I turn the wheel of The Mill of Dreams.\n\n\n\nTHE MILL OF DREAMS\n\nThere was once, dear maidens, a girl who lived in a mill on the\nSidlesham marshes. But in those days the marshlands were meadowlands,\nwith streams running in from the coast, so that their water was\nbrackish and salt. And sometimes the girl dipped her finger in the\nwater and sucked it and tasted the sea. And the taste made storms rise\nin her heart. Her name was Helen.\n\nThe mill-house was a gaunt and gloomy building of stone, as gray as\nsleep, weatherstained with dreams. It had fine proportions, and looked\nlike a noble prison. And in fact, if a prison is the lockhouse of\nsecrets, it was one. The great millstones ground day and night, and\nwhat the world sent in as corn it got back as flour. And as to the\nsecrets of the grinding it asked no questions, because to the world\nresults are everything. It understands death better than sorrow,\nmarriage better than love, and birth better than creation. And the\nmillstones of joy and pain, grinding dreams into bread, it seldom\nhears. But Helen heard them, and they were all the knowledge she had of\nlife; for if the mill was a prison of dreams it was her prison too.\n\nHer father the miller was a harsh man and dark; he was dark within and\nwithout. Her mother was dead; she did not remember her. As she grew up\nshe did little by little the work of the big place. She was her\nfather's servant, and he kept her as close to her work as he kept his\nmillstones to theirs. He was morose, and welcomed no company. Gayety he\nhated. Helen knew no songs, for she had heard none. From morning till\nnight she worked for her father. When she had done all her other work\nshe spun flax into linen for shirts and gowns, and wool for stockings\nand vests. If she went outside the mill-house, it was only for a few\nsteps for a few moments. She wasn't two miles from the sea, but she had\nnever seen it. But she tasted the salt water and smelt the salt wind.\n\nLike all things that grow up away from the light, she was pale. Her\noval face was like ivory, and her lips, instead of being scarlet, had\nthe tender red of apple-blossom, after the unfolding of the bright bud.\nHer hair was black and smooth and heavy, and lay on either side of her\nface like a starling's wings. Her eyes too were as black as midnight,\nand sometimes like midnight they were deep and sightless. But when she\nwas neither working nor spinning she would steal away to the\nmillstones, and stand there watching and listening. And then there were\ntwo stars in the midnight. She came away from those stolen times\npowdered with flour. Her black hair and her brows and lashes, her old\nblue gown, her rough hands and fair neck, and her white face--all that\nwas dark and pale in her was merged in a mist, and seen only through\nthe clinging dust of the millstones. She would try to wipe off all the\nevidences of her secret occasions, but her father generally knew. Had\nhe known by nothing else, he need only have looked at her eyes before\nthey lost their starlight.\n\nOne day when she was seventeen years old there was a knock at the\nmill-house door. Nobody ever knocked. Her father was the only man who\ncame in and went out. The mill stood solitary in those days. The face\nof the country has since been changed by man and God, but at that time\nthere were no habitations in sight. At regular times the peasants\nbrought their grain and fetched their meal; but the miller kept his\ndaughter away from his custom. He never said why. Doubtless at the back\nof his mind was the thought of losing what was useful to him. Most\nparents have their ways of trying to keep their children; in some it is\nthis way, in others that; not many learn to keep them by letting them\ngo.\n\nSo when the knock came at the door, it was the strangest thing that had\never happened in Helen's life. She ran to the door and stood with her\nhand on the heavy wooden bar that fell across it into a great socket.\nHer heart beat fast. Before we know a thing it is a thousand things.\nOnly one thing would be there when she lifted the bar. But as she stood\nwith her hand upon it, a host of presences hovered on the other side. A\nknight in armor, a king in his gold crown, a god in the guise of a\nbeggar, an angel with a sword; a dragon even; a woman to be her friend;\nher mother...a child...\n\n\"Would it be better not to open?\" thought Helen. For then she would\nnever know. Yes, then she could run to her millstones and fling them\nher thoughts in the husk, and listen, listen while they ground them\ninto dreams. What knowledge would be better than that? What would she\nlose by opening the door?\n\nBut she had to open the door.\n\nOutside on the stones stood a common lad. He might have been three\nyears older than she. He had a cap with a hole in it in his hand, and a\nshabby jersey that left his brown neck bare. He was whistling when she\nlifted the bar, but he stopped as the door fell back, and gave Helen a\nquick and careless look.\n\n\"Can I have a bit of bread?\" he asked.\n\nHelen stared at him without answering. She was so unused to people that\nher mind had to be summoned from a world of ghosts before she could\nhear and utter real words. The boy waited for her to speak, but, as she\ndid not, shrugged his shoulders and turned away whistling his tune.\n\nThen she understood that he was going, and she ran after him quickly\nand touched his sleeve. He turned again, expecting her to speak; but\nshe was still dumb.\n\n\"Thought better of it?\" he said.\n\nHelen said slowly, \"Why did you ask me for bread?\"\n\n\"Why?\" He looked her up and down. \"To mend my boots with, of course.\"\n\nShe looked at his boots.\n\n\"You silly thing,\" grinned the boy.\n\nA faint color came under her skin. \"I'm sorry for being stupid. I\nsuppose you're hungry.\"\n\n\"As a hunter. But there's no call to trouble you. I'll be where I can\nget bread, and meat too, in forty minutes. Good-by, child.\"\n\n\"No,\" said Helen. \"Please don't go. I'd like to give you some bread.\"\n\n\"Oh, all right,\" said the boy. \"What frightened you? Did you think I\nwas a scamp?\"\n\n\"I wasn't frightened,\" said Helen.\n\n\"Don't tell me,\" mocked the boy. \"You couldn't get a word out.\"\n\n\"I wasn't frightened.\"\n\n\"You thought I was a bad lot. You don't know I'm not one now.\"\n\nHelen's eyes filled with tears. She turned away quickly. \"I'll get you\nyour bread,\" she said.\n\n\"You are a silly, aren't you?\" said the boy as she disappeared.\n\nBefore long she came back with half a loaf in one hand, and something\nin the other which she kept behind her back.\n\n\"Thanks,\" said the boy, taking the bit of loaf. \"What else have you got\nthere?\"\n\n\"It's something better than bread,\" said Helen slowly.\n\n\"Well, let's have a look at it.\"\n\nShe took her hand from behind her, and offered him seven ears of wheat.\nThey were heavy with grain, and bowed on their ripe stems.\n\n\"Is this what you call better than bread?\" he asked.\n\n\"It is better.\"\n\n\"Oh, all right. I sha'n't eat it though--not all at once.\"\n\n\"No,\" said Helen, \"keep it till you're hungry. The grains go quite a\nlong way when you're hungry.\"\n\n\"I'll eat one a year,\" said the boy, \"and then they'll go so far\nthey'll outlast me my lifetime.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Helen, \"but the bread will be gone in forty minutes. And\nthen you'll be where you can get meat.\"\n\n\"You funny thing,\" said the boy, puzzled because she never smiled.\n\n\"Where can you get meat?\" she asked.\n\n\"In a boat, fishing for rabbits.\"\n\nBut she took no notice of the rabbits. She said eagerly, \"A boat? are\nyou going in a boat?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Are you a sailor?\"\n\n\"You've hit it.\"\n\n\"You've seen the sea! you've been on the sea!--sailors do that...\"\n\n\"Oh, dear no,\" said the boy, \"we sail three times round the duckpond\nand come home for tea.\"\n\nHelen hung her head. The boy put his hand up to his mouth and watched\nher over it.\n\n\"Well,\" he said presently, \"I must get along to Pagham.\" He stuck the\nlittle sheaf of wheat through the hole in his cap, and it bobbed like a\nruddy-gold plume over his ear. Then he felt in his pocket and after\nsome fumbling got hold of what he wanted and pulled it out. \"Here you\nare, child,\" he said, \"and thank you again.\"\n\nHe put his present into her hand and swung off whistling. He turned\nonce to wave to her, and the corn in his cap nodded with its weight and\nhis light gait. She stood gazing till he was out of sight, and then she\nlooked at what he had given her. It was a shell.\n\nShe had heard of shells, of course, but she had never seen one. Yet she\nknew this was no English shell. It was as large as the top of a teacup,\nbut more oval than round. Over its surface, like pearl, rippled waves\nof sea-green and sea-blue, under a luster that was like golden\nmoonlight on the ocean. She could not define or trace the waves of\ncolor; they flowed in and out of each other with interchangeable\nmovement. One half of the outer rim, which was transparently thin and\ncurled like the fantastic edge of a surf wave, was flecked with a faint\nplay of rose and cream and silver, that melted imperceptibly into the\nmoonlit sea. When she turned the shell over she found that she could\nnot see its heart. The blue-green side of the shell curled under like a\nsmooth billow, and then broke into a world of caves, and caves within\ncaves, whose final secret she could not discover. But within and within\nthe color grew deeper and deeper, bottomless blues and unfathomable\ngreens, shot with such gleams of light as made her heart throb, for\nthey were like the gleams that shoot through our dreams, the light that\njust eludes us when we wake.\n\nShe went into the mill, trembling from head to foot. She was not\nconscious of moving, but she found herself presently standing by the\ngrinding stones, with sound rushing through her and white dust whirling\nround her. She gazed and gazed into the labyrinth of the shell as\nthough she must see to its very core; but she could not. So she\nunfastened her blue gown and laid the shell against her young heart. It\nwas for the first time of so many times that I know not whether when,\ntwenty years later, she did it for the last time, they outnumbered the\nsilver hairs among her black ones. And the silver by then were\nuncountable. Yet on the day when Helen began her twenty years of lonely\nlistening--\n\n\n(But having said this, Martin Pippin grasped the rope just above\nJennifer's hand, and pulled it with such force that the swing, instead\nof swinging back and forth, as a swing should, reeled sideways so that\nthe swinger had much ado to keep her seat.\n\nJennifer: Heaven help me!\n\nMartin: Heaven help ME! I need its help more sorely than you do.\n\nJennifer: Oh, you should be punished, not helped!\n\nMartin: I have been punished, and the punished require help more than\ncensure, or scorn, or anger, or any other form of righteousness.\n\nJennifer: Who has punished you? And for what?\n\nMartin: You, Mistress Jennifer. For my bad story.\n\nJennifer: I do not remember doing so. The story is only begun. I am\nsure it will be a very good story.\n\nMartin: Now you are compassionate, because I need comfort. But the\ntruth is that, good or bad, you care no more for my story. For I saw a\ntear of vexation come into your eye.\n\nJennifer: It was not vexation. Not exactly vexation. And doubtless\nHelen will have experiences which we shall all be glad to hear. But all\nthe same I wish--\n\nMartin: You wish?\n\nJennifer: That she was not going to grow old in her loneliness. Because\nall lovers are young.\n\nMartin: You have spoken the most beautiful of all truths. Does the\ngrass grow high enough by the swing for you to pluck me two blades?\n\nJennifer: I think so. Yes. What do you want with them?\n\nMartin: I want but one of them now. You shall only give me the other\nif, at the end of my tale, you agree that its lovers are as green as\nthis blade and that.)\n\n\nOn the day (resumed Martin) when Helen began her lonely listening of\nheart and ears betwixt the seashell and the millstones of her dreams,\nthere was not, dear Mistress Jennifer, a silver thread in her black\nlocks to vex you with. For a girl of seventeen is but a child. Yet old\nenough to begin spinning the stuff of the spirit...\n\n\n\"My boy!--\n\n\"Oh, how strange it was, your coming like that, so suddenly. Before I\nopened the door I stood there guessing...And how could I have guessed\nthis? Did you guess too on the other side?\"\n\n\"No, not much. I thought it might be a cross old woman. What did YOU\nguess?\"\n\n\"Oh, such stupid things. Kings and knights and even women. And it was\nyou!\"\n\n\"And it was you!\"\n\n\"Suppose I'd been a cross old woman?\"\n\n\"Suppose I'd been a king?\"\n\n\"And you were just my boy.\"\n\n\"And you--my sulky girl.\"\n\n\"Oh, I wasn't sulky. Oh, didn't you understand? How could I speak to\nyou? I couldn't hear you, I couldn't see you, even!\"\n\n\"Can you see me now?\"\n\nShe was lying with her cheek against his heart, and she turned her face\nsuddenly inwards, because she saw him bend his head, and the sweetness\nof his first kiss was going to be more than she could bear.\n\n\"Why don't you look up, you silly child? Why don't you look at me,\ndear?\"\n\n\"How can I yet? Can I ever? It's so hard looking in a person's eyes.\nBut I am looking at you, I AM, though you can't see me.\"\n\n\"Then tell me what color my eyes are.\"\n\n\"They're gray-green, and your hair is dark red, a sort of chestnut but\na little redder and rough over your forehead, and your nose is all over\nfreckles with very very snub--\"\n\n\n(Martin: Heaven help you, Mistress Jennifer!\n\nJennifer: W-w-w-w-why, Master Pippin?\n\nMartin: Were you not about to fall again?\n\nJennifer: N-n-n-n-no. I-I-I-I-I--\n\nMartin: I see you are as firm as a rock. How could I have been so\ndeceived?)\n\n\nHe shook her a little in his arms, saying: \"How rude you are to my\nnose. I wish you'd look up.\"\n\n\"No, not yet...presently. But you, did you look at me?\"\n\n\"Didn't you see me look?\"\n\n\"When?\"\n\n\"As soon as you opened the door.\"\n\n\"What did you see?\"\n\n\"The loveliest thing I'd ever seen.\"\n\n\"I'm not really--am I?\"\n\n\"I used to dream about you at night on my watches. I made you up out of\nbits of the night--white moonlight, black clouds, and stars. Sometimes\nI would take the last cloud of sunset for your lips. And the wind, when\nit was gentle, for your voice. And the movements of the sea for your\nmovements, and the rise and fall of it for your breathing, and the lap\nof it against the boat for your kisses. Oh, child, look up!...\"\n\nShe looked up....\n\n\n\"What's your name?\"\n\n\"Helen.\"\n\n\"I can't hear you.\"\n\n\"Helen. Say it.\"\n\n\"I'm trying to.\"\n\n\"I can't hear YOU now. And I want to hear your voice say my name. Oh,\nmy boy, do say it, so that I can remember it when you're away.\"\n\n\"I can't say it, child. Why didn't you tell me your name?\"\n\n\"What is yours?\"\n\n\"I'm trying to tell you.\"\n\n\"Please--please!\"\n\n\"I'm trying with all my might. Listen with all yours.\"\n\n\"I am listening. I can't hear anything. Yet I'm listening so hard that\nit hurts. I want to say your name over and over and over to myself when\nyou're away. CAN'T you say it louder?\"\n\n\"No, it's no good.\"\n\n\"Oh, why didn't you tell me, boy?\"\n\n\"Oh, child, why didn't you tell me?\"\n\n\n\"Is my bread sweet to you?\"\n\n\"The sweetest I ever ate. I ate it slowly, and took each bit from your\nhand. I kept one crust.\"\n\n\"And my corn.\"\n\n\"Oh, your corn! that is everlasting. You have sown your seed. I have\neaten a grain, and it bore its harvest. One by one I shall eat them,\nand every grain will bear its full harvest. You have replenished the\nunknown earth with fields of golden corn, and set me walking there for\never.\"\n\n\"And you have thrown golden light upon strange waters, and set me\nfloating there for ever. Oh, you on my earth and I on your ocean, how\nshall we meet?\"\n\n\"Your corn is my waters, my waters are your corn. They move on one\nwave. Oh, child, we are borne on it together, for ever.\"\n\n\n\"But how you teased me!\"\n\n\"I couldn't help it.\"\n\n\"You and your boats and your duckponds.\"\n\n\"It was such fun. You were so serious. It was so easy to tease you.\"\n\n\"Why did you put your hand over your mouth?\"\n\n\"To keep myself from--\"\n\n\"Laughing at me?\"\n\n\"Kissing you. You looked so sorry because sailors only sail round\nduckponds, when you thought they always sailed out by the West and home\nby the East. You believed the duckponds.\"\n\n\"I didn't really.\"\n\n\"For a moment!\"\n\n\"I felt so stupid.\"\n\n\"You blushed.\"\n\n\"Oh, did I?\"\n\n\"A very little. Like the inside of a shell. I'd always tease you to\nmake you blush like that. Don't you ever smile or laugh, child?\"\n\n\"You might teach me to. I haven't had the sort of life that makes one\nsmile and laugh. Oh, but I could. I could smile and laugh for you if\nyou wished. I could do anything you wanted. I could be anything you\nwanted.\"\n\n\"Shall I make something of you? What shall it be?\"\n\n\"I don't care, so long as it is yours. Oh, make something of me. I've\nbeen lonely always. I don't want to be any more. I want to be able to\ncome to you when I please, not only because I need so much to come, but\nbecause you need me to come. Can you make me sure that you need me?\nWhen no one has ever needed you, how can you believe...? Oh, no, no!\ndon't look sorry. I do believe it. And will you always stand with me\nhere in the loneliness that has been so dark? Then it won't be dark any\nmore. Why do two people make light? One alone only wanders and holds\nout her hand and finds no one--nothing. Sometimes not even herself.\nWill you be with me always?\"\n\n\"Always.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"Because I love you.\"\n\n\"No,\" said Helen, \"but because I love you.\"\n\n\n\"Tell me--WERE you frightened?\"\n\n\"Of you? when I saw you at the door?\"\n\n\"Yes. Were you?\"\n\n\"Oh, my boy.\"\n\n\"But didn't you think I might be a scamp?\"\n\n\"I didn't think about it at all. It wouldn't have made any difference.\"\n\n\"Then why were you as mum as a fish?\"\n\n\"Oh, my boy.\"\n\n\"Why? why? why?--if you weren't frightened? Of course you were\nfrightened.\"\n\n\"No, no, I wasn't. I told you I wasn't. Why don't you believe me?-- Oh,\nyou're laughing at me again.\"\n\n\"You're blushing again.\"\n\n\"It's so easy to make me ashamed when I've been silly. Of course you\nknow now why I couldn't speak. You know what took my words away. Didn't\nyou know then?\"\n\n\"How could I know? How could I dream it would be as quick for you as\nfor me?\"\n\n\"One can dream anything...oh!\"\n\n\"What is it, child?\" For she had caught at her heart.\n\n\"Dreams...and not truth. Oh, are you here? Am I? Where are you--where\nare you? Hold me, hold me fast. Don't let it be just empty dreams.\"\n\n\"Hush, hush, my dear. Dreams aren't empty. Dreams are as near the truth\nas we can come. What greater truth can you ever have than this? For as\nmen and women dream, they drop one by one the veils between them and\nthe mystery. But when they meet they are shrouded in the veils again,\nand though they long to strip them off, they cannot. And each sees of\neach but dimly the truth which in their dreams was as clear as light.\nOh, child, it's not our dreams that are our illusions.\"\n\n\"No,\" she whispered. \"But still it is not enough. Not quite enough for\nthe beloved that they shall dream apart and find their truths apart. In\nlife too they must touch, and find the mystery together. Though it be\nonly for one eternal instant. Touch me not only in my dreams, but in\nlife. Turn life itself into the dream at last. Oh, hold me fast, my\nboy, my boy...\"\n\n\"Hush, hush, child, I'm holding you...\"\n\n\n\"You wept.\"\n\n\"Oh, did you see? I turned my head away.\"\n\n\"Why did you weep?\"\n\n\"Because you thought I had misjudged you.\"\n\n\"Then I misjudged you.\"\n\n\"But I did not weep for that.\"\n\n\"Would you, if I misjudged you?\"\n\n\"It would not be so hard to bear.\"\n\n\"And you went away with tears and brought me the corn of your mill.\"\n\n\"And you took it with smiles, and gave me the shell of your seas.\"\n\n\"Your corn rustled through my head.\"\n\n\"Your shell whispers at my heart.\"\n\n\"You shall always hear it whispering there. It will tell you what I can\nnever tell you, or only tell you in other ways.\"\n\n\"Of your life on the sea? Of the countries over the water? Of storms\nand islands and flashing birds, and strange bright flowers? Of all the\nlands and life I've never seen, and dream of all wrong? Will it tell me\nthose things?--of your life that I don't know.\"\n\n\"Yes, perhaps. But I could tell you of that life.\"\n\n\"Of what other life will it tell me?\"\n\n\"Of my life that you do know.\"\n\n\"Is there one?\"\n\n\"Look in your own heart.\"\n\n\"I am looking.\"\n\n\"And listen.\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"What do you hear?\"\n\n\"Oh, boy, the whispering of your shell!\"\n\n\"Oh, child, the rustling of your corn!\"\n\nOh, maids! the grinding of the millstones.\n\n\nThis is only a little part of what she heard. But if I told you the\nwhole we should rise from the story gray-headed. For every day she\ncarried her boy's shell to the grinding stones, and stood there while\nit spoke against her heart. And at other times of the day it lay in her\npocket, while she swept and cooked and spun, and she saw shadows of her\nmill-dreams in the cobwebs and the rising steam, and heard echos of\nthem in her singing kettle and her singing wheel. And at night it lay\non her pillow against her ear, and the voice of the waters went through\nher sleep.\n\nSo the years slipped one by one, and she grew from a girl into a young\nwoman; and presently passed out of her youth. But her eyes and her\nheart were still those of a girl, for life had touched them with\nnothing but a girl's dream. And it is not time that leaves its traces\non the spirit, whatever it may do to the body. Her father meanwhile\ngrew harder and more tyrannical with years. There was little for him to\nfear now that any man would come to take her from him; but the habit of\nthe oppressor was on him, and of the oppressed on her. And when this\nhas been many years established, it is hard for either to realize that,\nto escape, the oppressed has only to open the door and go.\n\nYet Helen, if she had ever thought of escape into another world and\nlife, would not have desired it. For in leaving her millstones she\nwould have lost a world whose boundaries she had never touched, and a\nlife whose sweetness she had never exhausted. And she would have lost\nher clue to knowledge of him who was to her always the boy in the old\njersey who had knocked at her door so many years ago.\n\nOnce he was shipwrecked...\n\n\n...The waters had sucked her under twice already, when her helpless\nhands hit against some floating substance on the waves. She could not\nhave grasped it by herself, for her strength was gone; but a hand\ngripped her in the darkness, and dragged her, almost insensible, to\nsafety. For a long while she lay inert across the knees of her rescuer.\nConsciousness was at its very boundary. She knew that in some dim\ndistance strong hands were chafing a wet and frozen body...but whose\nhands?...whose body?...Presently it was lifted to the shelter of strong\narms; and now she was conscious of her own heart-beats, but it was like\na heart beating in air, not in a body. Then warmth and breath began to\nfall like garments about this bodiless heart, and they were indeed not\nher own warmth and breath, but these things given to her by\nanother--the warmth was that of his own body where he had laid her cold\nhands and breast to take what heat there was in him, and the breath was\nof his own lungs, putting life into hers through their two\nmouths....She opened her eyes. It was dark. The darkness she had come\nout of was bright beside this pitchy night, and her struggle back to\nlife less painful than the fierce labor of the wind and waves. Their\nfrail precarious craft was in ceaseless peril. His left arm held her\nlike a vice, but for greater safety he had bound a rope round their two\nbodies and the small mast of their craft. With his right arm he clasped\nthe mast low down, and his right hand came round to grip her shaking\nknees. In this close hold she lay a long while without speaking. Then\nshe said faintly:\n\n\"Is it my boy?\"\n\n\"Yes, child. Didn't you know?\"\n\n\"I wanted to hear you say it. How long have you been in danger?\"\n\n\"I don't know. Some hours. I thought you would never come to yourself.\"\n\n\"I tried to come to you. I can't swim.\"\n\n\"The sea brought you to me. You were nearly drowned. You slipped me\nonce. If you had again--!\"\n\n\"What would you have done?\"\n\n\"Jumped in. I couldn't have stayed on here without you.\"\n\n\"Ah, but you mustn't ever do that--promise, promise! For then you'd\nlose me for ever. Promise.\"\n\n\"I promise. But there's no for ever of that sort. There's no losing\neach other, whatever happens. You know that, don't you?\"\n\n\"Yes, I do know. When people love, they find each other for ever. But I\ndon't want you to die, and I don't want to die--yet. But if it is\nto-night it will be together. Will it be to-night, do you think?\"\n\n\"I don't know, dear. The storm's breaking up over there, but that's not\nthe only danger.\"\n\n\"But nothing matters, nothing matters at all while I'm with you.\" She\nlay heavily against him; her eyes closed, and she shook violently.\n\n\"Child, you're shuddering, you're as cold as ice.\" He put his hand upon\nher chilly bosom, and hugged her more fiercely to his own. With a\nsudden movement of despair and anger at the little he could do, he\nslipped his arms from his jacket, and stripping open his shirt pulled\nher to him, re-fastening his jacket around them both, tying it tightly\nabout their bodies by the empty sleeves. She felt his lips on her hair\nand heard him whisper, \"You're not frightened of me, are you, child?\nYou never will be, will you?\"\n\nShe shook her head and whispered, \"I never have been.\"\n\n\"Sleep, if you can, dear.\"\n\n\"I'll try.\"\n\nSo closely was she held by his coat and his arms, so near she lay to\nhis beloved heart, that she knew no longer what part of that union was\nherself; they were one body, and one spirit. Her shivering grew less,\nand with her lips pressed to his neck she fell asleep.\n\n\nIt was noon.\n\nThe hemisphere of the sky was an unbroken blue washed with a silver\nglare. She could not look up. The sea was no longer wild, but it was\nnot smooth; it was a dancing sea, and every small wave rippled with\ncrested rainbows. A flight of gulls wheeled and screamed over their\nheads; their movements were so swift that the mid-air seemed to be\nfilled with visible lines described by their flight, silver lines that\ngleamed and melted on transparent space like curved lightnings.\n\n\"Oh, look! oh, look!\" cried Helen.\n\nHe smiled, but he was not watching the gulls. \"Yes, you've never seen\nthat, have you, child?\" His eyes searched the distance.\n\n\"But you aren't looking. What are you looking at?\"\n\n\"Nothing. I can't see what I'm looking for. But the gulls might mean\nland, or icebergs, or a ship.\"\n\n\"I don't want land or a ship, or even icebergs,\" said Helen suddenly.\n\nHe looked at her with the fleeting look that had been her first\nimpression of him.\n\n\"Why not? Why don't you?\"\n\n\"I'm so happy where I am.\"\n\n\"That's all very well,\" said her boy, with his eyes on the distance.\n\nFor awhile she lay enjoying the warmth of the sun, watching the gulls\nsliding down the unseen slopes of the air. Presently high up she saw\none hover and pause, settling on nothingness by the swift, almost\nimperceptible beat of its wings. And suddenly it dropped like a stone\nupon a wave, and darted up again so quickly that she could not follow\nwhat had happened.\n\n\"What is it doing?\" she asked.\n\n\"Fishing,\" said the boy. \"It wanted its dinner.\"\n\n\"So do I,\" said Helen.\n\nHe put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a packet wrapped in\noilskin. There was biscuit in it. He gave some to her, bit by bit;\nthough it was soft and dull, she was glad of it. But soon she drew away\nfrom the hand that fed her.\n\n\"What's the matter?\" he asked.\n\n\"You must have some too.\"\n\n\"That's all right. I'm not greedy like you birds.\"\n\n\"I'm not a bird. And I'm not greedy. Being hungry's not being greedy.\nI'd be greedy if I ate while you're hungry.\"\n\n\"I'm not hungry.\"\n\n\"Then neither am I.\"\n\nTo satisfy her he ate a biscuit. Soon after she began to feel thirst,\nbut she dared not ask for water. She knew he had none. He looked at her\nlying pale in his arms, and said with a smile that was not like a real\nsmile, \"It's a pity about the icebergs.\" She smiled and nodded, and lay\nstill in the heat, watching the gulls, and thinking of ice. Some of the\nbirds settled on the raft. One sat on the mast; another hovered at her\nknee, picking at crumbs. They played in the sun, rising and falling,\nand turned in her vision into a whirl of snowflakes, enormous\nsnowflakes....She began to dream of snow, and her lips parted in the\nhope that some might fall upon her tongue. Presently she ceased to\ndream of snow....The boy looked down at her closed lids, and at her\ncheeks, as white as the breasts of the gulls. He could not bear to look\nlong, and returned to his distances.\n\n\nIt was night again.\n\nThe circle of the sea was as smooth as silk. Pale light played over it\nlike dreams and ghosts. The sky was a crowded arc of stars, millions of\nstars, she had never seen or imagined so many. They glittered,\nglittered restlessly, in an ecstasy that caught her spirit. She too was\nfilled with millions of stars, through her senses they flashed and\nglittered--a delirium of stars in heaven and her heart....\n\n\"My boy!\"\n\n\"Yes, child.\"\n\n\"Do you see the stars?\"\n\n\"Yes, child.\"\n\n\"Do you feel them?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Oh, can't we die now?\"\n\nShe felt him move stiffly. \"There's a ship! I'm certain of it now--I'm\ncertain! Oh, if it were day!\"\n\nThe stars went on dazzling. She did not understand about the ship. Time\nmoved forward, or stood still. For her the night was timeless. It was\neternity.\n\nBut things were happening outside in time and space. By what means they\nhad been seen or had attracted attention she did not know. But the\nfloating dreamlight and the shivering starlight on the sea were broken\nby a dark movement on the waveless waters. A boat was coming. For some\ntime there had been shouting and calling in strange voices, one of them\nher boy's. But once again she hovered on the dim verge of\nconsciousness. She had flown from the body he was painfully unbinding\nfrom his own. What he had suffered in holding it there so long she\nnever knew. From leagues away she heard him whispering, \"Child, can you\nhelp yourself a little?\" And now for an instant her soul re-approached\nher body, and looked at him through the soft midnight of her eyes, and\nhe saw in them such starlight as never was in sky or on sea.\n\n\"Kiss me,\" said Helen.\n\nHe kissed her.\n\nWith a great effort she lifted herself and stood upright on the raft,\nswaying a little and holding by the mast. The boat was still a little\ndistant.\n\n\"Good-by, my boy.\"\n\n\"Child--!\"\n\n\"Don't jump. You promised not to. You promised. But I can't come with\nyou now. You must let me go.\"\n\nHe looked at her, and saw she was in a fever. He made a desperate\nclutch at her blue gown. But he was not quick enough. \"Keep your\npromise!\" she cried, and disappeared in the dreamlit waters; she\ndisappeared like a dream, without a sound. As she sank, she heard him\ncalling her by the only name he knew....\n\n\nWhen she was thirty-five her father died. Now she was free to go where\nshe pleased. But she did not go anywhere.\n\nEver since, as a child, she had first tasted salt water, she had longed\nto travel and see other lands. What held her now? Was it that her\nlonging had been satisfied? that she had a host of memories of great\nmountains and golden shores, of jungles and strange cities of the\ncoast, of islands lost in seas of sapphire and emerald? of caravans and\ntowers of ivory? of haunted caverns and deserted temples? where, a\nchild always, with her darling boy, she had had such adventures as\nwould have filled a hundred earthly lives. They had built huts in\nuninhabited places, or made a twisted bower of strong green creepers,\nand lived their primitive paradisal life wanting nothing but each\nother; sometimes, through accidents and illness, they had nursed each\nother, with such unwearied tenderness that death himself had to\nwithdraw, defeated by love. Once on a ship there had been mutiny, and\nshe alone stood by him against a throng; once savages had captured her,\nand he, outwitting them, had rescued her, riding through leagues of\nprairie-land and forest, holding her before him on the saddle. In\nnearly all these adventures it was as though they had met for the first\ntime, and were struck anew with the dumb wonder of first love, and the\nstrange shy sweetness of wooing and confession. Yet they were but\nplaying above truth. For the knowledge was always between them that\nthey were bound immortally by a love which, having no end, seemed also\nto have had no beginning. They quarreled sometimes--this was playing\ntoo. She put, now herself, now him, in the wrong. And either\nreconciliation was sweet. But it was she who was oftenest at fault, his\nforgiveness was so dear to her. And still, this was but playing at it.\nWhen all these adventures and pretenses were done, they stood heart to\nheart, and out of their only meeting in life built up eternal truth and\ntold each other. They told it inexhaustibly.\n\nAnd so, when her father left her free to go, Helen lived on still in\nthe mill of dreams, and kept her millstones grinding. Two years went\nby. And her hard gray lonely life laid its hand on her hair and her\ncountenance. Her father had worn her out before her time.\n\nIt was only invisible grain in the mill now. The peasants came no\nlonger with their corn. She had enough to live on, and her long\nseclusion unfitted her for strange men in the mill, and people she must\ntalk to. And so long was the habit of the recluse on her, that though\nher soul flew leagues her body never wandered more than a few hundred\nyards from her home. Some who had heard of her, and had glimpses of\nher, spoke to her when they met; but they could make no headway with\nthis sweet, shy, silent woman. Yet children and boys and girls felt\ndrawn to her. It was the dream in her eyes that stirred the love in\ntheir hearts; though they knew it no more than the soup in the pipkin\nknows why it bubbles and boils. For it cannot see the fire. But to them\nshe did not seem old; her strength and eagerness were still upon her,\nand that silver needlework with which time broiders all men had in her\nits special beauty, setting her aloof in the unabandoned dream which\nthe young so often desert as their youth deserts them. Those of her\nage, seeing that unyouthful gleam of her hair combined with the\nstill-youthful dream of her eyes, felt as though they could not touch\nher; for no man can break another's web, he can only break his own, and\nthese had torn their films to tatters long ago, and shouldered their\nway through the smudgy rents, and no more walked where she walked. But\nvery young people knew the places she walked in, and saw her clearly,\nfor they walked there too, though they were growing up and she was\ngrowing old.\n\nAt the end of the second year there was a storm. It lasted three days\nwithout stopping. Such fury of rain and thunder she had never heard.\nThe gaunt rooms of the mill were steeped in gloom, except when\nlightning stared through the flat windows or split into fierce cracks\non the dingy glass. Those three days she spent by candle-light. Outside\nthe world seemed to lie under a dark doom.\n\nOn the third morning she woke early. She had had restless nights, but\nnow and then slept heavily; and out of one dull slumber she awakened to\nthe certainty that something strange had happened. The storm had lulled\nat last. Through her window, set high in the wall, she could see the\ndead light of a blank gray dawn. She had seen other eyeless mornings on\nher windowpane; but this was different, the air in her room was\ndifferent. Something unknown had been taken from or added to it. As she\nlay there wondering, but not yet willing to discover, the flat light at\nthe window was blocked out. A seagull beat against it with its wings\nand settled on the sill.\n\nThe flutter and the settling of the bird overcame her. It was as though\nreality were more than she could bear. The birds of memory and pain\nflew through her heart.\n\nShe got up and went to the window. The gull did not move. It was broken\nand exhausted by the storm. And beyond it she looked down upon the sea.\n\nYes, it was true. The sea itself washed at the walls of the mill.\n\nShe did not understand these gray-green waters. She knew them in\nvision, not in reality. She cried out sharply and threw the window up.\nThe draggled bird fluttered in and sank on the floor. A sea-wind blew\nin with it. The bird's wings shivered on her feet, and the wind on her\nbosom. She stared over the land, swallowed up in the sea. Wreckage of\nall sorts tossed and floated on it. Fences and broken gates and\nbranches of trees; and fragments of boats and nets and bits of cork;\nand grass and flowers and seaweed--She thought--what did she think? She\nthought she must be dreaming.\n\nShe felt like one drowning. Where could she find a shore?\n\nShe hurried to the bed and got her shell; its touch on her heart was\nher first safety. In her nightgown as she was she ran with her naked\nfeet through the dim passages until she stood beside the grinding\nstones....\n\n\n\"Child! child! child!\"\n\n\"Where are you, my boy, where are you?\"\n\n\"Aren't you coming? Must I lose you after all this?--Oh, come!\"\n\n\"But tell me where you are!\"\n\n\"In a few hours I should have been with you--a few hours after many\nyears.\"\n\n\"Oh, boy, for pity, tell me where to find you!\"\n\n\"You are there waiting for me, aren't you, child? I know you are--I've\nalways known you were. What would you have said to me when you opened\nthe door in your blue gown?--\"\n\n\"Oh, but say only where you are, my boy!\"\n\n\"Do you know what I should have said? I shouldn't have said anything. I\nshould have kissed you--\"\n\n\"Oh, let me come to you and you shall kiss me....\"\n\n\nBut she listened in vain.\n\nShe went back to her room. The gull was still on the floor. Its wing\nwas broken. Her actions from this moment were mechanical; she did what\nshe did without will. First she bound the broken wing, and fetched\nbread and water for the wounded bird. Then she dressed herself and went\nout of the mill. She had a rope in her hands.\n\nThe water was not all around the mill. Strips and stretches of land\nwere still unflooded, or only thinly covered. But the face of the earth\nhad been altered by one of those great inland swoops of the sea that\nhave for centuries changed and re-changed the point of Sussex,\nadvancing, receding, shifting the coast-line, making new shores,\nrestoring old fields, wedding the soil with the sand.\n\nHelen walked where she could. She had no choice of ways. She kept by\nthe edge of the water and went into no-man's land. A bank of rotting\ngrasses and dry reeds, which the waves had left uncovered, rose from\nthe marshes. She mounted it, and beheld the unnatural sea on either\nhand. Here and there in the desolate water mounds of gray-green grass\nlifted themselves like drifting islands. Trees stricken or still in\nleaf reared from the unfamiliar element. Many of those which were\nleafless had put on a strange greenness, for their boughs dripped with\nseaweed. Over the floods, which were littered with such flotsam as she\nhad seen from her window, flew sea-birds and land-birds, crying and\ncheeping. There was no other presence in that desolation except her own.\n\nAnd then at last her commanded feet stood still, and her will came back\nto her. For she saw what she had come to find.\n\nHe was hanging, as though it had caught him in a snare, in a tree\nstanding solitary in the middle of a wide waste of water. He was\nhanging there like a dead man. She could distinguish his dark red hair\nand his blue jersey.\n\nShe paused to think what to do. She couldn't swim. She would not have\nhesitated to try; but she wanted to save him. She looked about, and saw\namong the bits of stuff washing against the foot of the bank a large\ndismembered tree-trunk. It bobbed back and forth among the hollow\nreeds. She thought it would serve her if she had an oar. She went in\nsearch of one, and found a broken plank cast up among the tangled\ngrowth of the bank. When she had secured it she fastened one end of her\nrope around the stump of an old pollard squatting on the bank like a\nsturdy gnome, and the other end she knotted around herself. Then,\ngathering all the middle of the rope into a coil, and using her plank\nas a prop, she let herself down the bank and slid shuddering into the\nwater. But she had her tree-trunk now; with some difficulty she\nscrambled on to it, and paddled her way into the open water.\n\nIt was not really a great distance to his tree, but to her it seemed\nimmeasurable. She was unskillful, and her awkwardness often put her\ninto danger. But her will made her do what she otherwise might not have\ndone; presently she was under the branches of the tree.\n\nShe pulled herself up to a limb beside him and looked at him. And it\nwas not he.\n\nIt was not her boy. It was a man, middle-aged, rough and weatherbeaten,\nbut pallid under his red-and-tan. His hair was grizzled. And his face\nwas rough with a growth of grizzled hair. His whole body lurched\nheavily and helplessly in a fork of the tree, and one arm hung limp.\nHis eyes were half-shut.\n\nBut they were not quite shut. He was not unconscious. And under the\ndrooping lids he was watching her.\n\nFor a few minutes they sat gazing at each other in silence. She had her\nbreath to get. She thought it would never come back.\n\nThe man spoke first.\n\n\"Well, you made a job of it,\" he said.\n\nShe didn't answer.\n\n\"But you don't know much about the water, do you?\"\n\n\"I've never seen the sea till to-day,\" said Helen slowly.\n\nHe laughed a little. \"I expect you've seen enough of it to-day. But\nwhere do you live, then, that you've never seen the sea? In the middle\nof the earth?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Helen, \"I live in a mill.\"\n\nHis eyelids flickered. \"Do you? Yes, of course you do. I might have\nguessed it.\"\n\n\"How should you guess it?\"\n\n\"By your blue dress,\" said the man. Then he fainted.\n\nShe sat there miserably, waiting, ready to prop him if he fell. She did\nnot know what else to do. Before very long he opened his eyes.\n\n\"Did I go off again?\" he asked.\n\nShe nodded.\n\n\"Yes. Well, it's time to be making a move. I dare say I can now you're\nhere. What's your name?\"\n\n\"Helen.\"\n\n\"Well, Helen, we'd better put that rope to some use. Will that tree at\nthe other end hold?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Then just you untie yourself and we'll get aboard and haul ourselves\nhome.\"\n\nShe unfastened the rope from her body, and helped him down to her\nmakeshift boat.\n\n\"You take the paddle,\" he said. \"My arm's damaged. But I can pull on\nthe rope with the other.\"\n\n\"Are you sure? Are you all right? What's your name?\"\n\n\"Yes, I can manage. My name's Peter. This would have been a lark thirty\nyears ago, wouldn't it? It's rather a lark now.\"\n\nShe nodded vaguely, wondering what she would do if he fell off the log\nin mid-water.\n\n\"Suppose you faint again?\"\n\n\"Don't look for trouble,\" said the man. \"Push off, now.\"\n\nPulling and paddling they got to the bank. He took her helping-hand up\nit, and she saw by his movements that he was very feeble. He leaned on\nher as they went back to the mill; they walked without speaking.\n\nWhen they reached the door Peter said, \"It's twenty years since I was\nhere, but I expect you don't remember.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes,\" said Helen, \"I remember.\"\n\n\"Do you now?\" said Peter. \"It's funny you should remember.\"\n\nAnd with that he did faint again. And this time when he recovered he\nwas in a fever. His staying-power was gone.\n\nShe put him to bed and nursed him. She sat day and night in his room,\ndoing by instinct what was right and needful. At first he lay either\nunconscious or delirious. She listened to his incoherent speech in a\nsort of agony, as though it might contain some clue to a riddle; and\nsat with her passionate eyes brooding on his countenance, as though in\nthat too might lie the answer. But if there was one, neither his words\nnor his face revealed it. \"When he wakes,\" she whispered to herself,\n\"he'll tell me. How can there be barriers between us any more?\"\n\nAfter three days he came to himself. She was sitting by the window\npreparing sheep's-wool for her spindle. She bent over her task, using\nthe last of the light, which fell upon her head. She did not know that\nhe was conscious, or had been watching her, until he spoke.\n\n\"Your hair used to be quite brown, didn't it?\" he said. \"Nut-brown.\"\n\nShe started and turned to him, and a faint flush stained her cheeks.\n\n\"Ah, you're not pleased,\" said Peter with a slight grin. \"None of us\nlike getting old, do we?\"\n\nHelen put by the question. \"You're yourself again.\"\n\n\"Doing my best,\" said he. \"How long is it?\"\n\n\"Three days.\"\n\n\"As much as that? I could have sworn it was only yesterday. Well, time\npasses.\"\n\nHe said no more, and fell into a doze. Helen was as grateful for this\nas she could have been for anything just then. She couldn't have gone\non talking. She was stunned with misgivings. How could he ever have\nthought her hair was brown? Couldn't he see even now that it had once\nbeen as black as jet? She put her hand up to her head, and unpinned a\ncoil of her heavy hair, and spread it over her breast and looked at it.\nYes, the silver was there, too much and too soon. But there was less\nsilver than black. It was still time's stitchery, not his fabric. The\nman who was not her boy need never have seen her before to know that\nonce her hair had been black. This was worse than forgetfulness in him;\nit was misremembrance. She pulled at the silver hairs passionately as\nthough she would pluck them out and make him see her as she had been.\nBut soon she stopped her futile effort to uncount the years. \"I am\nfoolish,\" she whispered to herself, and coiled her lock again and bound\nit in its place. \"There are other ways of making him remember.\nPresently when he wakes again I will talk to him. I will remind him of\neverything, yes, and I'll tell him everything. I WON'T be afraid.\" She\nwaited with longing his next consciousness.\n\nBut to her woe she found herself defeated. While he slept she was able,\nas when he had been delirious or absent, to create the occasion and the\ntalk between them. She dropped all fears, and in frank tenderness\nbrought him her twenty years of dreams. And in her thought he accepted\nand answered them. But when he woke and spoke to her from the bed, she\nknew at once that the man who lay there was not the man with whom she\nhad been speaking. His personality fenced with hers; it had barriers\nshe could not pass. She dared not try, for dread of his indifference or\nhis smiles.\n\n\"What made you stick on in this place?\" he asked her.\n\n\"I don't know,\" said Helen. \"Places hold one, don't they?\"\n\n\"None ever held me. I couldn't have been content to stay the best half\nof my life in one spot. But I suppose women are different.\"\n\n\"You speak as though all women were the same.\"\n\n\"Aren't they? I thought they might be. I don't know much about them,\"\nsaid Peter, rubbing his chin. \"Rough as a porcupine, aren't I? You must\nhave thought me a savage when you found me stuck upside-down in that\ntree like a sloth. What DID you think?\"\n\nShe looked at him, longing to tell him what she had thought. She longed\nto tell him of the boy she had expected to find in the tree. She longed\nto tell him how the finding had shocked her by bringing home to her her\nloss--not of the boy, but of something in that moment still more\nprecious to her. Because (she longed to tell him) she had so swiftly\nrediscovered the lost boy, not in his face but in his glance, not in\nhis words but in the tones of his voice.\n\nBut when she looked at him and saw him leaning on his elbow waiting for\nher answer with his half-shut lids and the half-smile on his lips, she\nanswered only, \"I was thinking how to get you back to the bank.\"\n\n\"Was that it? Well, you managed it. I've never thanked you, have I?\"\n\n\"Don't!\" said Helen with a quick breath, and looked out of the window.\n\nHe waited for a few moments and then said, \"I'm a bad hand at thanking.\nI can't help being a savage, you know. I'm not fit for women's company.\nI don't look so rough when I'm trimmed.\"\n\n\"I don't want to be thanked,\" said Helen controlling her voice; and\nadded with a faint smile, \"No one looks his best when he's ill.\"\n\n\"Wait till I'm well,\" grinned Peter, \"and see if I'm not fit to walk\nyou out o' Sundays.\" He lay back on his pillow and whistled a snatch of\ntune. Her heart almost stopped beating, because it was the tune he had\nwhistled at the door twenty years ago. For a moment she thought she\ncould speak to him as she wished. But desire choked her power to choose\nher words; so many rushed through her brain that she had to pause,\nseeking which of them to utter; and that long pause, in which she\nreally seemed to have uttered them all aloud, checked the impulse. But\nsurely he had heard her? No; for she had not spoken yet. And before she\ncould make the effort he had stopped whistling, and when she looked at\nhim to speak, he was fumbling restlessly about his pillow.\n\n\"What is it?\" she asked.\n\n\"Something I had--where's my clothes?\"\n\nShe brought them to him, and he searched them till he had found among\nthem a small metal box which he thrust under the pillow; and then he\nlay back, as though too tired to notice her. So her impulse died in\nher, unacted on.\n\nAnd during the next four days it was always so. A dozen times in their\ntalks she tried to come near him, and could not. Was it because he\nwould not let her? or because the thing she wished to find in him was\nnot really there? Sometimes by his manner only, and sometimes by his\nwords, he baffled her when she attempted to approach him--and the\nattempt had been so painful to conceive, and its still-birth was such\nagony to her. He would talk frequently of the time when he would be\nmaking tracks again.\n\n\"Where to?\" asked Helen.\n\n\"I leave it to chance. I always have. I've never made plans. Or very\nseldom. And I'm not often twice in the same place. You look tired. I'm\nsorry to be a bother to you. But it'll be for the last time, most\nlikely. Go and lie down.\"\n\n\"I don't want to,\" said Helen under her breath. And in her thoughts she\nwas crying, \"The last time? Then it must be soon, soon! I'll make you\nlisten to me now!\"\n\n\"I want to sleep,\" said Peter.\n\nShe left the room. Tears of helplessness and misery filled her eyes.\nShe was almost angry with him, but more angry with herself; but her\nself-anger was mixed with shame. She was ashamed that he made her feel\nso much, while he felt nothing. Did he feel nothing?\n\n\"It's my stupidity that keeps us apart,\" she whispered. \"I will break\nthrough it!\" As quickly as she had left him she returned, and stood by\nthe bed. He was lying with his hand pressed over his eyes. When he was\nconscious of her being there, his hand fell, and his keen eyes shot\ninto hers. His brows contracted.\n\n\"You nuisance,\" he muttered, and hid his eyes again. She turned and\nleft him. When she got outside the door she leaned against it and shook\nfrom head to foot. She hovered on the brink of her delusions and felt\nas though she would soon crash into a precipice. She longed for him to\ngo before she fell. Yes, she began to long for the time when he should\ngo, and end this pain, and leave her to the old strange life that had\nbeen so sweet. His living presence killed it.\n\nAfter that third day she had had no more fears for his safety, and he\nwas strong and rallied quickly. The gull too was saved. He saved it. It\nhad drooped and sickened with her. She did not know what to do with it.\nOn the fourth day as he was so much better, she brought it to him. He\nreset its wing and kept it by him, making it his patient and his\nplayfellow. It thrived at once and grew tame to his hand. He fondled\nand talked to it like a lover. She would watch him silently with her\nsmoldering eyes as he fed and caressed the bird, and jabbered to it in\nscraps of a dozen foreign tongues. His tenderness smote her heart.\n\n\"You're not very fond of birds,\" he said to her once, when she had been\nsitting in one of her silences while he played with his pet.\n\nThe words, question or statement, filled her with anger. She would not\ntrust herself to protest or deny. \"I don't know much about them,\" she\nsaid.\n\n\"That's a pity,\" said Peter coolly. \"The more you know  em the more you\nhave to love  em. Yet you could love them for all sorts of things\nwithout knowing them, I'd have thought.\"\n\nShe said nothing.\n\n\"For their beauty, now. That's worth loving. Look at this one--you're a\nbeauty all right, aren't you, my pretty? Not many girls to match you.\"\nHe paused, and ran his finger down the bird's throat and breast.\n\"Perhaps you don't think she's beautiful,\" he said to Helen.\n\n\"Yes, she's beautiful,\" said Helen, with a difficulty that sounded like\nreluctance.\n\n\"Ah, you don't think so. You ought to see her flying. You shall some\nday. When her hurt's mended she'll fly--I'll let her go.\"\n\n\"Perhaps she won't go,\" said Helen.\n\n\"Oh, yes, she will. How can she stop in a place like this? This is no\nair for her--she must fly in her own.\"\n\n\"You'll be sorry to see her go,\" said Helen.\n\n\"To see her free? No, not a bit. I want her to fly. Why should I keep\nher? I'd not let her keep me. I'd hate her for it. Why should I make\nher hate me?\"\n\n\"Perhaps she wouldn't,\" said Helen, in a low voice.\n\n\"Oh, I expect she would. Ungrateful little beggar. I've saved her life,\nand she ought to know she belongs to me. So she might stay out of\ngratitude. But she'd come to hate me for it, all the same. Not at\nfirst; after a bit. Because we change. Bound to, aren't we?\"\n\n\"Perhaps.\"\n\n\"I know I do. We can none of us stay what we were. You haven't either.\"\n\n\"You haven't much to go by,\" said Helen.\n\n\"Seven minutes at the door, wasn't it? This time it's been seven days.\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"It's a long time for me,\" said Peter.\n\n\"It's not much out of a lifetime.\"\n\n\"No. But suppose it were more than seven days?\"\n\nHelen looked at him and said slowly, \"It will be, won't it? You won't\nbe able to go to-morrow.\"\n\n\"No,\" said Peter, \"not to-morrow, or next day perhaps. Perhaps I won't\nbe able to go for the rest of my life.\"\n\nThis time Helen looked at him and said nothing.\n\nPeter stroked his bird and whistled his tune and stopped abruptly and\nsaid, \"Will you marry me, Helen?\"\n\n\"I'd rather die,\" said Helen.\n\nAnd she got up and went out of the room.\n\n\n(\"Oh, the green grass!\" chuckled Martin like a bird.\n\n\"Nobody asked her you to begin a song, Master Pippin,\" quavered\nJennifer.\n\n\"It was not the beginning of a song, Mistress Jennifer. It was the\nepilogue of a story.\"\n\n\"But the epilogue comes at the end of a story,\" said Jennifer.\n\n\"And hasn't my story come to its end?\" said Martin.\n\nJoscelyn: Ridiculous! oh, dear! there's no bearing with you. How CAN\nthis be the end? How can it be, with him on one side of the door and\nher on the other?\n\nJoyce: And her heart's breaking--you must make an end of that.\n\nJennifer: And you must tell us the end of the shell.\n\nJessica: And of the millstones.\n\nJane: What did he have in his box?\n\n\"Please,\" said little Joan, \"tell us whether she ever found her boy\nagain--oh, please tell us the end of her dreams.\"\n\n\"Do these things matter?\" said Martin. \"Hasn't he asked her to marry\nhim?\"\n\n\"But she said no,\" said Jennifer with tears in her eyes.\n\n\"Did she?\" said Martin. \"Who said so?\"\n\n\"Master Pippin,\" said Joscelyn, and her voice shook with the agitation\nof her anger, \"tell us immediately the things we want to know!\"\n\n\"When, I wonder,\" said Martin, \"will women cease to want to know little\nthings more than big ones? However, I suppose they must be indulged in\nlittle things, lest--\"\n\n\"Lest?\" said little Joan.\n\n\"There is such a thing,\" said Martin, \"as playing for safety.\")\n\n\nWell, then, my dear maids, when Helen ran out of his room she went to\nher own, and she threw herself on the bed and sobbed without weeping.\nBecause everything in her life seemed to have been taken away from her.\nShe lay there for a long time, and when she moved at last her head was\nso heavy that she took the pins from her hair to relieve herself of its\nweight. But still the pain weighed on her forehead, which burned on her\ncold fingers when she pressed them over her eyes, trying to think and\nfind some gleam of hope among her despairing thoughts. And then she\nremembered that one thing at least was left her--her shell. During his\nillness she had never carried it to the millstones. It was as though\nhis being there had been the only answer to her daily dreams, an answer\nthat had failed them all the time. But now in spite of him she would\ntry to find the old answers again. So she went once more to the\nmillstones with her shell. And when she got there she held it so\ntightly to her heart that it marked her skin.\n\nAnd the millstones had nothing to say. For the first time they refused\nto grind her corn.\n\nThen Helen knew that she really had nothing left, and that the\nhome-coming of the man had robbed her of her boy and of the child she\nhad been. Nothing was left but the man and woman who had lost their\nyouth. And the man had nothing to give the woman. Nothing but gratitude\nand disillusion. And now a still bitterer thought came to her--the\nthought that the boy had had nothing to give the girl. For twenty years\nit had been the girl's illusion. The storms in her heart broke out. She\nput her face in her hands and wept like wild rain on the sea. She wept\nso violently that between her passion and the speechless grinding of\nthe stones she did not hear him coming. She only knew he was there when\nhe put his arm round her.\n\n\"What is it, you silly thing?\" said Peter.\n\nShe looked up at him through her hair that fell like a girl's in soft\nmasses on either side of her face. There was a change in him, but she\ndidn't know then what it was. He had got into his clothes and made\nhimself kempt. His beard was no longer rough, though his hair was still\nunruly across his forehead, and under it his gray-green eyes looked,\nhalf-anxious, half-smiling, into hers. His face was rather pale, and he\nwas a little unsteady in his weakness. But the look in his eyes was the\nonly thing she saw. It unlocked her speech at last.\n\n\"Oh, why did you come back?\" she cried. \"Why did you come back? If you\nhad never come I should have kept my dream to the end of my life. But\nnow even when you go I shall never get it again. You have destroyed\nwhat was not there.\"\n\nHe was silent for a moment, still keeping his arm round her. Then he\nsaid, \"Look what's here.\" And he opened his hand and showed her his\nmetal box without its lid; in it were the mummies of seven ears of\ncorn. Some were only husks, but some had grain in them still.\n\nShe stared at them through her tears, and drew from her breast her hand\nwith the shell in it. Suddenly her mouth quivered and she cried\npassionately, \"What's the use?\" And she snatched the old corn from him\nand flung it to the millstones with her shell. And the millstones\nground them to eternal atoms....\n\n\n\"My boy! my boy! it was you over there in the tree!\"\n\n\"Oh, child, you came at last in your blue gown!\"\n\n\"Why didn't you call to me?\"\n\n\"I'd no breath. I was spent. And I knew you'd seen me and would do your\nbest.\"\n\n\"I'll never forget that sight of you in the tree, with your old jersey\nand your hair as red as ever.\"\n\n\"I shall always see your free young figure standing on the high bank\nagainst the sky.\"\n\n\"Oh, I was desperate.\"\n\n\"I wondered what you'd do. I knew you'd do something.\"\n\n\"I thought I'd never get across the water.\"\n\n\"Do you know what I thought as I saw you coming so bravely and so\nbadly? I thought, I'll teach her to swim one day. Shall I, child?\"\n\n\"I can't swim without you, my boy,\" she whispered.\n\n\n\"But you pretended not to know me!\"\n\n\"I couldn't help it, it was such fun.\"\n\n\"How COULD you make fun of me then?\"\n\n\"I always shall, you know.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes,\" she said, \"do, always.\"\n\n\n\"What DID you think when you saw me in the tree? What did you see when\nyou got there? Not what you expected.\"\n\n\"No. I saw twenty years come flying upon me, twenty years I'd forgotten\nall about. Because for me it has always been twenty years ago.\"\n\n\"And you expected to see a boy, and you saw a grizzled man.\"\n\n\"No,\" said Helen, her eyes shining with tears, \"I expected to see a\nboy, and I saw a gray-haired woman. I've seen her ever since.\"\n\n\"I've only seen her once,\" said Peter. \"I saw her rise up from the\nwater and sit in my tree. And when she spoke and looked at me, it was a\nchild.\" He put his hand over her wet eyes. \"You must stop seeing her,\nchild,\" he said.\n\n\n\"When I told you my name, were you disappointed?\"\n\n\"No. It's the loveliest name in the world.\"\n\n\"You said it at once.\"\n\n\"I had to. I'd wanted to say it for twenty years. But I sha'n't say it\noften, Helen.\"\n\n\"Won't you?\"\n\n\"No, child.\"\n\n\"Now and then, for a treat?\" she looked up at him half-shy, half-merry.\n\n\"Oh, you CAN smile, can you?\"\n\n\"You were to teach me that too.\"\n\n\"Yes, I've a lot to teach you, haven't I?--I've yet to teach you to say\nmy name.\"\n\n\"Have you?\"\n\n\"You've never said it once.\"\n\n\"I've said it a thousand times.\"\n\n\"You've never let me hear you.\"\n\n\"Haven't I?\"\n\n\"Let me hear you!\"\n\n\"Peter.\"\n\n\"Say it again!\"\n\n\"Peter! Peter! Peter!\"\n\n\"Again!\"\n\n\"My boy!\"...\n\n\n\"When we got back to the mill-door the last of the twenty years, that\nhad been melting faster and faster, melted away for ever. And you and I\nwere standing there as we'd stood then; and I wanted to kiss your mouth\nas I'd wanted to then.\"\n\n\"Oh, why didn't you?--both times!\"\n\n\"Shall I now, for both times?\"\n\n\"Oh!--oh, that's for a hundred times.\"\n\n\"Think of all the times I've wanted to, and been without you.\"\n\n\"You've never been without me.\"\n\n\"I know that. How often I came to the mill.\"\n\n\"Did you come to the mill?\"\n\n\"As often as I ate your grain. Didn't you know?\"\n\n\"I know how often your sea brought me to you.\"\n\n\"Did it?\"\n\n\"And, oh, my boy! at last the sea brought you to me.\"\n\n\"And the mill,\" he said. \"Where has that brought us?\"\n\n\n\"I thought perhaps you'd die.\"\n\n\"I couldn't have died so close on finding you. I was fighting the\ndemons all the time--fighting my way through to you. And at last I\nopened my eyes and saw you again, your black hair edged with light\nagainst the window.\"\n\n\"My black hair? you mean my brown hair, don't you?\"\n\n\"Oh, weren't you cross! I loved you for being cross.\"\n\n\"I wasn't cross. Why will you keep on saying I'm things I'm not?\"\n\n\"You were so cross that you pretended our twenty years were sixty.\"\n\n\"I never said anything about twenty years, OR sixty.\"\n\n\"You did, though. Sixty! why, in sixty years we'd have been very nearly\nold. So to punish you I pretended to go to sleep, and I saw you take\nyour hair down. It was so beautiful. You've seen the threads spiders\nspin on blackened furze that gypsies have set fire to? Your hair was\nlike that. You were angry with those lovely lines of silver, and you\nwanted to get rid of them. I nearly called to you to stop hurting what\nI loved so much, but you stopped of yourself, as though you had heard\nme before I called.\"\n\n\"I was ashamed of myself,\" whispered Helen. \"I was ashamed of trying to\nbe again what I was the only other time you saw me.\"\n\n\"You've never stopped being that, child,\" said Peter.\n\n\n\"You knew, didn't you, why it was I had stayed on at the mill? You knew\nwhat it was that held me, and why I could never leave it?\"\n\n\"Yes, I knew. It held you because it held me too. I wondered if you'd\ntell me that.\"\n\n\"I longed to, but I couldn't. I've never been able to tell you things.\nAnd I never shall.\"\n\n\"Oh, child, don't look so troubled. You've always told me things and\nalways will. Do you think it's with our tongues we tell each other\nthings? What can words ever tell? They only circle round the truth like\nbirds flying in the sun. The light bathes their flight, yet they are\nmillions of miles away from the light they fly in. We listen to each\nother's words, but we watch each other's eyes.\"\n\n\"Some people half-shut their eyes, Peter.\"\n\n\"Some people, Helen, can't shut their eyes at all. Your eyes will never\nstop telling me things. And the strangest thing about them is that\nlooking into them is like being able to see in the dark. They are\ndarkness, not light. And in darkness dreams are born. When I look into\nyour eyes I go into your dream.\"\n\n\"I shall never shut my eyes again,\" she whispered. \"I will keep you in\nmy dream for ever.\"\n\n\n\"Women aren't all the same, Peter.\"\n\n\"Aren't they?\"\n\n\"And yet--they are.\"\n\n\"Well, I give it up.\"\n\n\"Didn't you know?\"\n\n\"No. I told you the truth that time. I've not had very much to do with\nwomen.\"\n\n\"Then I've something to teach you, Peter.\"\n\n\"I don't know what you can prove,\" said Peter. \"One woman by herself\ncan't prove a difference.\"\n\n\"Can't she?\" said Helen; and laughed and cried at once.\n\n\n\"But why did you call me a nuisance?\"\n\n\"You were one--you are one. You leave a man no peace--you're like the\nsea. You're full of storms, aren't you?\"\n\n\"Not only storms.\"\n\n\"I know. But the sea wouldn't be the sea without her storms. They're\none of her ways of holding us, too. And there are more storms in her\nthan ever break. I see them in you, big ones and little ones, brooding.\nThen you're a--nuisance. You always will be, won't you?\"\n\n\"Not to wreck you.\"\n\n\"You won't do that. Or if you do--I can survive shipwreck.\"\n\n\"I know.\"\n\n\"How do you know? I nearly gave up once, but the thought of you stopped\nme. I wanted to come back--I'd always meant to. So I held on.\"\n\n\"I know.\"\n\n\"How do you know? I never told you, did I?\"\n\n\"Oh, Peter, the things we have to tell each other. The times you\nthought you were alone--the times I thought I was! You've had a life\nyou never dreamed of--and I another life that was not in my dreams.\"\n\n\"You've saved me from death more than once,\" said Peter.\n\n\"You've done more than that,\" said Helen, \"you've given me the only\nlife I've had. But a thing doesn't belong to you because you've saved\nits life or given it life. It only belongs to you because you love it.\nI know you belong to me. But you only know if I belong to you.\"\n\n\"That's not true now. You do know. And I know.\"\n\n\"Yes; and we know that as that belonging has nothing to do with death,\nit can't have anything either to do with the saving or even the giving\nof life. So you must never thank me, or I you. There are no thanks in\nlove. And that was why I couldn't bear your asking me to marry you\nto-day. I thought you were thanking me.\"\n\n\n\"When you played with the seagull...\"\n\n\"Yes?\"\n\n\"How you loved it!\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"I looked to see how you felt when you loved a thing. I wanted so much\nto be the seagull in your hands.\"\n\n\"When I touched it I was touching you.\"\n\nShe put his hand to her breast and whispered, \"I love birds.\"\n\nHe smiled. \"I knew you loved them; and best free. All birds must fly in\ntheir own air.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" she said. \"But their freedom only means their power to choose\nwhat air they'll fly in. And every choice is a cage too.\"\n\n\"I shall leave the door open, child.\"\n\n\"I shall never fly out,\" said Helen.\n\n\n\"You talked of going away.\"\n\n\"Yes. But not from you.\"\n\n\"Am I to go with you always, following chance and making no plans?\"\n\n\"Will you? You are the only plan I ever made. Will you leave everything\nelse but me to chance? Perhaps it will lead us all over the earth; and\nperhaps after all we shall not go very far. But I never could see\nahead, except one thing.\"\n\n\"What was it?\"\n\n\"The mill-door and you in your old blue gown. And for seven days I've\nstopped seeing that. I haven't it to steer by. Will you chance it?\"\n\n\"Must you be playing with meanings even in dreams? Don't you\nknow--don't you know that for a woman who loves, and is not sure that\nshe is loved, her days and nights are all chances, every minute she\nlives is a chance? It might be...it might not be...oh, those ghosts of\njoy and pain! they are almost too much to bear. For the joy isn't pure\njoy, or the pain pure pain, and she cannot come to rest in either of\nthem. Sometimes the joy is nearly as great as though she knew; yet at\nthe instant she tries to take it, it looks at her with the eyes of\ndoubt, and she trembles, and dare not take it yet. And sometimes the\npain is all but the death she foresees; yet even as she submits to it,\nit lays upon her heart the finger of hope. And then she trembles again,\nbecause she need not take it yet. Those are her chances, Peter. But\nwhen she knows that her beloved is her lover, life may do what it will\nwith her; but she is beyond its chances for ever.\"\n\n\n\"Your corn! you kept my corn!\"\n\n\"Till it should bear. And your shell there--you've kept my shell.\"\n\n\"Till it should speak. And now--oh, see these things that have held our\ndreams for twenty years! The life is threshed from them for ever--they\nare only husks. They can hold our dreams no more. Oh, I can't go on\ndreaming by myself, I can't, it's no use. I thought my heart had\nlearned to bear its dream alone, but the time comes when love in its\nbeauty is too near to pain. There is more love than the single heart\ncan bear. Good-by, my boy--good-by!\"\n\n\"Helen! don't suffer so! oh, child, what are you doing?--\"\n\n\"Letting my dear dreams go...it's no use, Peter...\"\n\nThe millstones took them and crushed them.\n\nShe uttered a sharp cry....\n\nHis arm tightened round her. \"What is it, child?\" she heard him say.\n\nShe looked at him bewildered, and saw that he too was dazed. She looked\ninto the gray-green eyes of a boy of twenty. She said in a voice of\nwonder, \"Oh, my boy!\" as he felt her soft hair.\n\n\"Such a fuss about an empty shell and a bit of dead wheat.\"\n\nShe hid her face on his jersey.\n\n\"You are a silly, aren't you?\" said Peter. \"I wish you'd look up.\"\n\nHelen looked up, and they kissed each other for the first time.\n\nI defy you now, Mistress Jennifer, to prove that your grassblade is\ngreener than mine.\n\n\n\nTHIRD INTERLUDE\n\nThe girls now turned their attention to their neglected apples, varying\nthis more serious business with comments on the story that had just\nbeen related.\n\nJessica: I should be glad to know, Jane, what you make of this matter.\n\nJane: Indeed, Jessica, it is difficult to make anything at all of\nmatter so bewildering. For who could have divined reality to be the\nillusion and dreams the truth? so that by the light of their dreams the\nlovers in this tale mistook each other for that which they were not.\n\nMartin: Who indeed, Mistress Jane, save students of human nature like\nyourselves?--who have doubtless long ago observed how men and women\nbegin by filling a dim dream with a golden thing, such as youth, and\nend by putting a shining dream into a gray thing, such as age. And in\nthe end it is all one, and lovers will see to the last in each other\nthat which they loved at the first, since things are only what we dream\nthem to be, as you have of course also observed.\n\nJoscelyn: We have observed nothing of the sort, and if we dreamed at\nall we would dream of things exactly as they are, and never dream of\nmistaking age for youth. But we do not dream. Women are not given to\ndreams.\n\nMartin: They are the fortunate sex. Men are such incurable dreamers\nthat they even dream women to be worse preys of the delusive habit than\nthemselves. But I trust you found my story sufficiently wide-awake to\nkeep you so.\n\nJoscelyn: It did not make me yawn. Is this mill still to be found on\nthe Sidlesham marshes?\n\nMartin: It is where it was. But what sort of gold it grinds now,\nwhether corn or dreams, or nothing, I cannot say. Yet such is the power\nof what has been that I think, were the stones set in motion, any right\nlistener might hear what Helen and Peter once heard, and even more; for\nthey would hear the tale of those lovers' journeys over the changing\nwaters, and their return time and again to the unchanging plot of earth\nthat kept their secrets. Until in the end they were together delivered\nup to the millstones which thresh the immortal grain from its mortal\nhusk. But this was after long years of gladness and a life kept young\nby the child which each was always re-discovering in the other's heart.\n\nJennifer: Oh, I am glad they were glad. Do you know, I had begun to\nthink they would not be.\n\nJessica: It was exactly so with me. For suppose Peter had never\nreturned, or when he did she had found him dead in the tree?\n\nJane: And even after he returned and recovered, how nearly they were\nremoved from ever understanding each other!\n\nJoan: Oh, no, Jane! once they came together there could be no doubt of\nthe understanding. As soon as Peter came back, I felt sure it would be\nall right.\n\nJoyce: And I too, all along, was convinced the tale must end happily.\n\nMartin: Strange! so was I. For Love, in his daily labors, is as swift\nin averting the nature of perils as he is deft in diverting the causes\nof misunderstanding. I know in fact of but one thing that would have\nfoiled him.\n\nFour of the Milkmaids: What then?\n\nMartin: Had Helen not been given to dreams.\n\n\nNot a word was said in the Apple-Orchard.\n\n\nJoscelyn: It would have done her no harm had she not been, singer. Nor\nwould your story have suffered, being, like all stories, a thing as\nimportant as thistledown. In either event, though Peter had perished,\nor misunderstood her for ever, it would not have concerned me a whit.\nOr even in both events.\n\nJessica: Nor me.\n\nJane: Nor me.\n\nMartin: Then farewell my story. A thing as important as thistledown is\nas unimportantly dismissed. And yonder in heaven the moon sulks at us\nthrough a cloud with a quarter of her eye, reproaching us for our\npeace-destroying chatter. It destroys our own no less than hers. To\ndream is forbidden, but at least let us sleep.\n\n\nOne by one the milkmaids settled in the grass and covered their faces\nwith their hands, and went to sleep. But Jennifer remained where she\nwas. She sat with downcast eyes, softly drawing the grassblade through\nand through her fingers, and the swing swayed a little like a branch\nmoving in an imperceptible wind, and her breast heaved a little as\nthough stirred with inaudible sighs. She sat so long like that that\nMartin knew she had forgotten he was beside her, and he quietly put out\nhis hand to draw the grassblade from hers. But before he had even\ntouched it he felt something fall upon his palm that was not rain or\ndew.\n\n\"Dear Mistress Jennifer,\" said Martin gently, \"why do you weep?\"\n\nShe shook her head, since there are times when the voice plays a girl\nfalse, and will not serve her.\n\n\"Is it,\" said Martin, \"because the grass is not green enough?\"\n\nShe nodded.\n\n\"Pray let me judge,\" entreated Martin, and took the grassblade from her\nfingers. Whereupon she put her face into her two hands, whispering:\n\n\"Master Pippin, Master Pippin, oh, Master Pippin.\"\n\n\"Let me judge,\" said Martin again, but in a whisper too.\n\nThen Jennifer took her hands from her wet face, and looked at him with\nher wet eyes, and said with great braveness and much faltering:\n\n\"I will be nineteen in November.\"\n\nAt this Martin looked very grave, and he got down from the tree and\nwalked to the end of the orchard full of thought. But when he turned\nthere he found that she had stolen after him, and was standing near him\nhanging her head, yet watching him with deep anxiety.\n\nJennifer: It is t-t-too old, isn't it?\n\nMartin: Too old for what?\n\nJennifer: I--I--I don't know.\n\nMartin: It is, of course, extremely old. There are things you will\nnever be able to do again, because you are so old.\n\nJennifer sobbed.\n\nMartin: You are too old to be rocked in a cradle. You are too old to\nwrite pothooks and hangers, and too old, alas, to steal pickles and jam\nwhen the house is abed. Yet there are still a few things you might do\nif--\n\nJennifer: Oh, if?\n\nMartin: If you could find a friend as old as yourself, or even a little\nolder, to help you.\n\nJennifer: But think how old h--h--h-- the friend would have to be.\n\nMartin: What would that matter? For all grass is green enough if it not\nnear grass that looks greener.\n\nJennifer: Oh, is this true?\n\nMartin: It is indeed. And I believe too that were your friend's hair\nred enough, and your friend's freckled nose snub enough, since youth\nresides long in these qualities, you might even, with such a companion,\nbegin once more to steal pickles and jam by night, to learn your\npothooks and hangers, and even in time to be rocked asleep by a cradle.\n\nJennifer: D-d-dear Master Pippin.\n\nMartin: They look quite green, don't they?\n\nAnd he laid the two blades side by side on her palm, and Jennifer,\nwhose voice once more would not serve her, nodded and put the two\nblades in her pocket. Then Martin took out his handkerchief and very\ncarefully dried her eyes and cheeks, saying as he did so, \"Now that I\nhave explained this to your satisfaction, won't you, please, explain\nsomething to mine?\"\n\nJennifer: I will if I can.\n\nMartin: Then explain what it is you have against men.\n\nJennifer: I don't know how to tell you, it is so terrible.\n\nMartin: I will try to bear it.\n\nJennifer: They say women cannot--cannot--\n\nMartin: Cannot?\n\nJennifer: Keep secrets!\n\nMartin: Men say so?\n\nJennifer: Yes!\n\nMartin: MEN say so?\n\nJennifer: They do, they do!\n\nMartin: Men! Oh, Jupiter! if this were true--but it is not--these men\nwould be blabbing the greatest of secrets in saying so. If I had a\nsecret--but I have not--do you think I would trust it to a man? Not I!\nWhat does a man do with a secret? Forgets it, throws it behind him into\nsome empty chamber of his brain and lets the cobwebs smother it! buries\nit in some deserted corner of his heart, and lets the weeds grow over\nit! Is this keeping a secret? Would you keep a garden or a baby so? I\nwill a thousand times sooner give my secret to a woman. She will tend\nit and cherish it, laugh and cry with it, dress it in a new dress every\nday and dandle it in the world's eye for joy and pride in it--nay, she\nwill bid the whole world come into her nursery to admire the pretty\nsecret she keeps so well. And under her charge a little secret will\ngrow into a big one, with a hundred charms and additions it had not\nwhen I confided it to her, so that I shall hardly know it again when I\nask for it: so beautiful, so important, so mysterious will it have\nbecome in the woman's care. Oh, believe me, Mistress Jennifer, it is\nwomen who keep secrets and men who neglect them.\n\nJennifer: If I had only thought of these things to say! But I am not\nclever at argument like men.\n\nMartin: I suspect these clever arguers. They can always find the right\nthing to say, even if they are in the wrong. Women are not to be blamed\nfor washing their hands of them for ever.\n\nJennifer: I know. Yet I cannot help wondering who bakes them\ngingerbread for Sunday.\n\nMartin: Let them go without. They do not deserve gingerbread.\n\nJennifer: I know, I know. But they like it so much. And it is nice\nmaking it, too.\n\nMartin: Then I suppose it will have to be made till the last of\nSundays. What a bother it all is.\n\nJennifer: I know. Good night, dear Master Pippin.\n\nMartin: Dear milkmaid, good night. There lie your fellows, careless of\nthe color of the grass they lie on, and of the years that lie on them.\nThey have forsworn the baking of cakes, the eating of which begets\ndreams, to which women are not given. Go lie with them, and be if you\ncan as careless and dreamless as they are.\n\nAnd then, seeing the tears refilling her eyes, he hastily pulled out\nhis handkerchief again and wiped them as they fell, saying, \"But if you\ncannot--if you cannot (don't cry so fast!)--if you cannot, then give me\nyour key (dear Jennifer, please dry up!) to Gillian's Well-House,\nbecause you were glad that my tale ended gladly, and also because all\nlovers, no matter of what age, are green enough, and chiefly because my\nhandkerchief's sopping.\"\n\nThen Jennifer caught his hands in hers and whispered, \"Oh, Martin! are\nthey? ALL lovers?--are they green enough?\"\n\n\"God help them, yes!\" said Martin Pippin.\n\nShe dropped his hands, leaving her key in them, and looked up at him\nwith wet lashes, but happiness behind them. So he stooped and kissed\nthe last tears from her eyes. Since his handkerchief had become quite\nuseless for the purpose.\n\nAnd she stole back to her place, and he lay down in his, and Jennifer\ndreamed that she was baking gingerbread, and Martin that he was eating\nit.\n\n\n\"Maids! maids! maids!\"\n\nIt was Old Gillman on the heels of dawn.\n\n\"A pest on him and all farmers,\" groaned Martin, \"who would harvest\nmen's slumbers as soon as they're sown.\"\n\n\"Get into hiding!\" commanded Joscelyn.\n\n\"I will not budge,\" said Martin. \"I am going to sleep again. For at\nthat moment I had a lion in one hand and a unicorn in the other--\"\n\n\"WILL you conceal yourself!\" whispered Joscelyn, with as much fury as a\nwhisper can compass.\n\n\"And the lion had comfits in his crown, and the unicorn a gilded horn.\nAnd both were so sticky and spicy and sweet--\"\n\nJoscelyn flung herself upon her knees before him, spreading her yellow\nskirts which barely concealed him, as Old Gillman thrust his head\nthrough the hawthorn gap.\n\n\"Good morrow, maids,\" he grunted.\n\n\"--that I knew not, dear Mistress Joscelyn,\" murmured Martin, \"which to\nbite first.\"\n\n\"Good morrow, master!\" cried the milkmaids loudly; and they fluttered\ntheir petticoats like sunshine between the man at the hedge and the man\nin the grass.\n\n\"Is my daughter any merrier this morning?\"\n\n\"No, master,\" said Jennifer, \"yet I think I see smiles on their way.\"\n\n\"If they lag much longer,\" muttered the farmer, \"they'll be on the\nwrong side of her mouth when they do come. For what sort of a home will\nshe return to?--a pothouse! and what sort of a father?--a drunkard! And\nthe fault's hers that deprives him of the drink he loved in his sober\ndays. Gillian!\" he exclaimed, \"when will ye give up this child's whim\nto learn by experience, and take an old man's word for it?\"\n\nBut Gillian was as deaf to him as to the cock crowing in the barnyard.\n\n\"Come fetch your portion,\" said Old Gillman to the milkmaids, \"since\nthere's no help for it. And good day to ye, and a better morrow.\"\n\n\"Wait a bit, master!\" entreated Jennifer, \"and tell me if Daisy, my\nLincoln Red, lacks for anything.\"\n\n\"For nothing that Tom can help her to, maid. But she lacks you, and\nlacking you, her milk. So that being a cow she may be said to lack\neverything. And so do I, and the men, and the farm--ruin's our portion,\nnothing but rack and ruin.\"\n\nSaying which he departed.\n\n\"To breakfast,\" said Martin cheerfully.\n\n\"Suppose you'd been seen,\" scolded Joscelyn.\n\n\"Then our tales would have been at an end,\" said Martin. \"Would this\nhave distressed you?\"\n\n\"The sooner they're ended the better,\" said Joscelyn, \"if you can do\nnothing but babble of sticky unicorns.\"\n\n\"It was fresh from the oven,\" explained Martin meekly. \"I wish we could\nhave gingerbread for breakfast instead of bread.\"\n\n\"Do not be sure,\" said Joscelyn severely, \"that you will get even\nbread.\"\n\n\"I am in your hands,\" said Martin, \"but please be kinder to the ducks.\"\n\nJoscelyn, all of a fluster, then put new bread in the place of\nGillian's old; but her annoyance was turned to pleasure when she\ndiscovered that the little round top of yesterday's loaf had entirely\ndisappeared.\n\n\"Upon my word!\" cried she, \"the cure is taking effect.\"\n\n\"I believe you are right,\" said Martin. \"How sorry the ducks will be.\"\n\nThey quickly fed the ducks, and then themselves; and Martin received\nhis usual share, Joscelyn having so far relented that she even advised\nhim as to the best tree for apples in the whole orchard.\n\nAfter breakfast Martin found six pair of eyes fixed so earnestly upon\nhim that he began to laugh.\n\n\"Why do you laugh?\" asked little Joan.\n\n\"Because of my thoughts,\" said he. So she took a new penny from her\npocket and gave it to him.\n\n\"I was thinking,\" said Martin, \"how strange it is that girls are all so\nexactly alike.\"\n\n\"Oh!\" cried six different voices in a single key of indignation.\n\n\"What a fib!\" said Joyce. \"I am like nobody but me.\"\n\n\"Nor am!\" cried all the others in a breath.\n\n\"Yet a moment ago,\" said Martin, \"you, Mistress Joyce, were wondering\nwith all your might what diversion I had hit upon for this morning. And\nso were Jane and Jessica and Jennifer and Joan and Joscelyn.\"\n\n\"I was NOT!\" cried six voices at once.\n\n\"What, none of you?\" said Martin. \"Did I not say so?\"\n\nAnd they were very provoked, not knowing what to answer for fear it\nmight be on the tip of her neighbor's tongue. So they said nothing at\nall, and with one accord tossed their heads and turned their backs on\nhim. And Martin laughed, leaving them to guess why. On which, greatly\nput out, every girl without even consulting one another they decided to\nhave nothing further to do with him, and each girl went and sat under a\ndifferent apple-tree and began to do her hair.\n\n\"Heigho!\" said Martin. \"Then this morning I must divert myself.\" And he\nbegan to spin his golden penny in the sun, sometimes spinning it very\ndexterously from his elbow and never letting it fall. But the girls\nwouldn't look, or if they did, it was through stray bits of their hair;\nwhen they could not be suspected of looking.\n\n\"I shall certainly lose this penny,\" communed Martin with himself,\nquite audibly, \"if somebody does not lend me a purse to keep it in.\"\nBut nobody offered him one, so he plucked a blade of Shepherd's Purse\nfrom the grass, soliloquizing, \"Now had I been a shepherd, or had the\nshepherd's name been Martin, here was my purse to my hand. And then,\nhaving saved my riches I might have got married. Yet I never was a\nshepherd, nor ever knew a shepherd of my name; and a penny is in any\ncase a great deal too much money for a man to marry on, be he a\nshepherd or no. For it is always best to marry on next-to-nothing, from\nwhich a penny is three times removed.\"\n\nThen he went on spinning his penny in the air again, humming to himself\na song of no value, which, so far as the girls could tell for the hair\nover their ears, went as follows:\n\n  If I should be so lucky\n  As a farthing for to find.\n  I wouldn't spend the farthing\n  According to my mind,\n  But I'd beat it and I'd bend it\n  And I'd break it into two,\n  And give one half to a Shepherd\n  And the other half to you.\n  And as for both your fortunes,\n  I'd wish you nothing worse\n  Than that YOUR half and HIS half\n  Should lie in the Shepherd's Purse.\n\nAt the end of the song he spun the penny so high that it fell into the\nWell-House; and endeavoring to catch it he flung the spire of\nwild-flower after it, and so lost both. And nobody took the least\nnotice of his song or his loss.\n\nThen Martin said, \"Who cares?\" and took a new clay pipe and a little\npacket from his pocket; and he wandered about the orchard till he had\nfound an old tin pannikin, and he scooped up some water from the\nduckpond and made a lather in it with the soap in the packet, and sat\non the gate and blew bubbles. The first bubble in the pipe was always\ncrystal, and sometimes had a jewel hanging from it which made it fall\nto the earth; and the second was tinged with color, and the third\ngleamed like sunset, or like peacocks' wings, or rainbows, or opals.\nAll the colors of earth and heaven chased each other on their surfaces\nin all the swift and changing shapes that tobacco smoke plays at on the\nair; but of all their colors they take the deepest glow of one or two,\nand now Martin would blow a world of flame and orange through the\ntrees, or one of blue and gold, or another of green and rose. And, as\nhe might have watched his dreams, he watched the bubbles float away;\nand break. But one of the loveliest at last sailed over the Well-House\nand between the ropes of the swing and among the fruit-laden boughs,\nmiraculously escaping all perils; and over the hedge, where a small\nwind bore it up and up out of sight. And Martin, who had been looking\nafter it with a rapt gaze, sighed, \"Oh!\" And six other \"Ohs!\" echoed\nhis. Then he looked up and saw the six milkmaids standing quite close\nto him, full of hesitation and longing. So he took six more pipes from\nhis pockets, and soon the air was glistening with bubbles, big and\nlittle. Sometimes they blew the bubbles very quickly, shaking the tiny\nglobes as fast as they could from the bowl, till the air was filled\nwith a treasure of opals and diamonds and moonstones and pearls, as\nthough the king of the east had emptied his casket there. And sometimes\nthey blew steadily and with care, endeavoring to create the best and\nbiggest bubble of all; but generally they blew an instant too long, and\nthe bubble burst before it left the pipe. Whenever a great sphere was\nlaunched the blower cried in ecstasy, \"Oh, look at mine!\" and her\ncomrades, merely glancing, cried in equal ecstasy, \"Yes, but see mine!\"\nAnd each had a moment's delight in the others' bubbles, but everlasting\njoy in her own, and was secretly certain that of all the bubbles hers\nwere the biggest and brightest. The biggest and brightest of all was\nreally blown by little Joan: as Martin, in a whisper, assured her. He\nwhispered the same thing, however, to each of her friends, and for one\ntruth told five lies. Sometimes they played together, taking their\nbubbles delicately from one pipe to another, and sometimes blew their\nbubbles side by side till they united, and made their venture into the\nworld like man and wife. And often they put all their pipes at once\ninto the pannikin, and blew in the water, rearing a great palace of\ncrystal hemispheres, that rose until it hit their chins and cheeks and\nthe tips of their noses, and broke on them, leaving on their fair skin\na trace of glistening foam. And as the six laughing faces bent over the\npannikin on his knees, Martin observed that Joscelyn's hair was coiled\nlike two great lovely roses over her ears, and that Joyce's was in\nclusters of ringlets, and that Jane's was folded close and smooth and\nshining round her small head, and that Jessica's was tucked under like\na boy's, while Jennifer's lay in a soft knot on her neck. But little\nJoan's was hanging still in its plaits over her shoulders, and one\nthick plait was half undone, and the loose hair got in her own and\neverybody's way, and was such a nuisance that Martin was obliged at\nlast to gather it in his hand and hold it aside for the sake of the\nbubble-blowers. And when they lifted their heads he was looking at them\nso gravely that Joyce laughed, and Jessica's eyes were a question, and\nJane looked demure, and Jennifer astonished, and Joscelyn extremely\ncomposed and indifferent. And little Joan blushed. To cover her\nblushing she offered him another penny.\n\n\"I was thinking,\" said Martin, \"how strange it is that girls are so\nabsolutely different.\"\n\nThen six demure shadows appeared at the very corners of their mouths,\nand they rose from their knees and said with one accord, \"It must be\ndinner-time.\" And it was.\n\n\"Bread is a good thing,\" said Martin, twirling a buttercup as he\nswallowed his last crumb, \"but I also like butter. Do not you, Mistress\nJoscelyn?\"\n\n\"It depends on who makes it,\" said she. \"There is butter and butter.\"\n\n\"I believe,\" said Martin, \"that you do not like butter at all.\"\n\n\"I do not like other people's butter,\" said Joscelyn.\n\n\"Let us be sure,\" said Martin. And he twirled his buttercup under her\nchin. \"Fie, Mistress Joscelyn!\" he cried. \"What a golden chin! I never\nsaw any one so fond of butter in all my days.\"\n\n\"Is it very gold?\" asked Joscelyn, and ran to the duckpond to look, but\ncouldn't see because she was on the wrong side of the gate.\n\n\"Do I like butter?\" cried Jessica.\n\n\"Do I?\" cried Jennifer.\n\n\"Do I?\" cried Joyce.\n\n\"Do I?\" cried Jane.\n\n\"Oh, do I?\" cried Joan.\n\n\"We'll soon find out,\" said Martin, and put buttercups under all their\nchins, turn by turn. And they all liked butter exceedingly.\n\n\"Do YOU like butter, Master Pippin?\" asked little Joan.\n\n\"Try me,\" said he.\n\nAnd six buttercups were simultaneously presented to his chin, and it\nwas discovered that he liked butter the best of them all.\n\nThen every girl had to prove it on every other girl, and again on\nMartin one at a time, and he on them again. And in this delicious\npastime the afternoon wore by, and evening fell, and they came\ngolden-chinned to dinner.\n\nSupper was scarcely ended--indeed, her mouth was still full--when\nJessica, looking straight at Martin, said, \"I'm dying to swing.\"\n\n\"I never saved a lady's life easier,\" said Martin; and in one moment\nshe found herself where she wished to be, and in the next saw him close\nbeside her on the apple-bough. The five other girls went to their own\nbranches as naturally as hens to the roost. Joscelyn inspected them\nlike a captain marshalling his men, and when each was armed with an\napple she said:\n\n\"We are ready now, Master Pippin.\"\n\n\"I wish I were too,\" said he, \"but my tale has taken a fit of the\nshivers on the threshold, like an unexpected guest who doubts his\nwelcome.\"\n\n\"Are we not all bidding it in?\" said Joscelyn impatiently.\n\n\"Yes, like sweet daughters of the house,\" said Martin. \"But what of the\nmistress?\" And he looked across at Gillian by the well, but she looked\nonly into the grass and her thoughts.\n\n\"Let the daughters do to begin with,\" said Joscelyn, \"and make it your\nbusiness to stay till the mistress shall appear.\"\n\n\"That might be to outstay my welcome,\" said Martin, \"and then her\nappearance would be my discomfiture. For a hostess has, according to\nher guests, as many kinds of face as a wildflower, according to its\ncounties, names.\"\n\n\"Some kinds have only one name,\" said Jessica, plucking a stalk crowned\nwith flowers as fine as spray. \"What would you call this but Cow\nParsley?\"\n\n\"If I were in Anglia,\" said Martin, \"I would call it Queen's Lace.\"\n\n\"That's a pretty name,\" said Jessica.\n\n\"Pretty enough to sing about,\" said Martin; and looking carelessly at\nthe Well-House he thrummed his lute and sang--\n\n  The Queen netted lace\n  On the first April day,\n  The Queen wore her lace\n  In the first week of May,\n  The Queen soiled her lace\n  Ere May was out again,\n  So the Queen washed her lace\n  In the first June rain.\n  The Queen bleached her lace\n  On the first of July,\n  She spread it in the orchard\n  And left it there to dry,\n  But on the first of August\n  It wasn't in its place\n  Because my sweetheart picked it up\n  And hung it o'er her face.\n  She laughed at me, she blushed at me,\n  With such a pretty grace\n  That I kissed her in September\n  Through the Queen's own lace.\n\nAt the end of the song Gillian sat up in the grass, and looked with all\nher heart over the duckpond.\n\nJoscelyn: I find your songs singularly lacking in point, singer.\n\nMartin: You surprise me, Mistress Joscelyn. The kiss was the point.\n\nJoscelyn: It is like you to think so. It is just like you to think\na--a--a--\n\nMartin: --kiss--\n\nJoscelyn: Sufficient conclusion to any circumstances.\n\nMartin: Isn't it?\n\nJoscelyn: My goodness! You might as soon ask, is a peardrop sufficient\nfor a body's dinner.\n\nMartin: It would suffice me. I love peardrops. But then I am a man.\nWomen doubtless need more substance, being in themselves more\ninsubstantial. Now as to your quarrel with my song--\n\nJoscelyn: It is of no consequence. You raise expectations which you do\nnot fulfill. But it is not of the least consequence.\n\nMartin: Dear Mistress Joscelyn, my only desire is to please you. We\nwill not conclude on a kiss. You shall fulfill your own expectations.\n\nJoscelyn: Mine?--I have no expectations whatever.\n\nMartin: But I have disappointed you. What shall I do with my\nsweetheart? Shall she be whipped for her theft? Shall she be shut in a\ndungeon? Shall she be thrown before elephants? Choose your conclusion.\n\nJoan: But, Master Pippin!--why must the poor sweetheart be punished? I\nam sure Joscelyn never wished her to be punished. There are other\nconclusions.\n\nMartin: Dunderhead that I am, I can't think of any! What, Mistress\nJoscelyn, was the conclusion you expected?\n\nJoscelyn: I tell you, I expected none!\n\nJoan: Why, Master Pippin! I should have fancied that, seeing the dear\nsweetheart had hung the veil over her face, she might--\n\nMartin: Yes?\n\nJoan: Be expected--\n\nMartin: Yes!\n\nJoan: To be about to be--\n\nJoscelyn: I am sick to death of this silly sweetheart. And since our\nmistress appears to be listening with both her ears, it would be more\nto the point to begin whatever story you propose to relate to-night,\nand be done with it.\n\nMartin: You are always right. Therefore add your ears to hers, while I\ntell you the tale of Open Winkins.\n\n\n\nOPEN WINKINS\n\nThere were once, dear maidens, five lords in the east of Sussex, who\nowned between them a single Burgh; for they were brothers. Their names\nwere Lionel and Hugh and Heriot and Ambrose and Hobb. Lionel was ten\nyears of age and Hobb was twenty-two, there being exactly three years\nall but a month between the birthdays of the brothers. And Lionel had a\nmerry spirit, and Hugh great courage and daring, and Heriot had beauty\npast any man's share, and Ambrose had a wise mind; but Hobb had nothing\nat all for the world's praise, for he only had a loving heart, which he\nspent upon his brothers and his garden. And since love begets love,\nthey all loved him dearly, and leaned heavily on his affection, though\nneither they nor any man looked up to him because he was a lord.\nAlthough he was the eldest, and in his quiet way administered the\naffairs of the Burgh and of the people of Alfriston under the Burgh, it\nwas Ambrose who was always thinking of new schemes for improvement, and\nHeriot who undertook the festivities. As for the younger boys, they\nkept the old place alive with their youth and spirits; and it was\nevident that later on Hugh would win honor to the Burgh in battle and\nadventure, and Lionel would draw the world thither with his charm. But\nHobb, to whom they all brought their shapeless dreams white-hot, since\nsympathy helps us to create bodies for the things which begin their\nexistence as souls--Hobb differed from the four others not only in his\nname, but in his plain appearance and simple tastes. And all these\nthings, as well as his tender heart, he got from his mother, who was\nthe only daughter of a gardener of Alfriston. The gardener, to whom she\nwas the very apple of his eye, had kept her privately in a place on a\nhill, fearing lest in her youth and inexperience she should fall to the\nlot of some man not worthy of her; for her knew, or believed, that a\nyoung girl of her sweetness and tenderness and devotedness of\ndisposition would by her sweetness attract a lover too early, and by\nher tenderness respond to him too readily, and by her devotedness\nfollow him too blindly, before she had time to know herself or men. And\nhe also knew, or believed, that first love is as often a\nwill-o'-the-wisp as the star for which all young things take it. Five\ndays in the week he tended the gardens of Alfriston, the sixth he gave\nto the Lord of the Burgh that lay among the hills, and the seventh he\nkept for his daughter on the hill a few miles distant, which was\nafterwards known as Hobb's Hawth. She on her part spent her week in\nendeavoring to grow a perfect rose of a certain golden species, and her\nheart was given wholly to her father and her flower. And he watched her\nefforts with interest and advice, and for the first she thanked him but\nof the second took no heed. \"For,\" said she, \"this is MY garden,\nfather, and MY rose, and I will grow it in my own way or not at all.\nHave you not had a lifetime of gardens and roses which you have brought\nto perfection? And would you let any man take your own upon his\nshoulders, even your own mistakes, and shoulder at last the praise\nafter the blame?\" Then Hobb, her father, laughed at her indulgently and\nsaid, \"Nay, not any man; yet once I let a woman, and without her aid I\nwould never have brought my rarest and dearest flower to perfection. So\nif I should let a woman help me, why not you a man?\" \"Was the woman\nyour mother?\" said she. And her father was silent. Then a day came when\nhe trudged up and down the hills from Alfriston, and standing at the\ngate of her garden saw his child in the arms of a stranger; and her\nface, as it lay against his heart, seemed to her father also to be the\nface of a stranger, and not of his child. He recognized in the stranger\nthe Lord of the Burgh. And he saw that what he had feared had come to\npass, and that his daughter's heart would be no more divided between\nher father and her flower, for it was given whole to the lover who had\nfirst assailed it. Hobb came into the garden, and they looked up as the\ngate clicked, and their faces grew as red as though one had caught the\nreflection from the other. But both looked straight into his eyes. And\nhis daughter, pointing to her bush, said, \"Father, my rose is grown at\nlast,\" and he saw that the bush was crowned with a glorious golden\nbloom, perfect in every detail. Then it was the turn of the Lord of the\nBurgh, and he said, \"Sir, I ask leave to rob your garden of its rose.\"\n\"Do robbers ask leave?\" said Hobb. And he shook his head, adding, \"Nay,\nwhen the thief and the theft are in collusion, what say is left to the\nowner of the treasure? Yet I do not like this. Sir, have you considered\nthat she is a gardener's child? Daughter, have you considered that he\nis a lord?\" And neither of them had considered these questions, and\nthey did not propose to do so. Then Hobb shook his head again and said,\n\"I will not waste words. I know when a plant can drink no more water.\nAnd though you pretend to ask my leave, I know that you are prepared to\ndispense with it. But by way of consent I will say this: whatever you\nmay call your other sons, you shall call your first Hobb, to remind you\nto-morrow of what you will not consider to-day. For my daughter, when\nshe is a lord's wife, will none the less still be a gardener's\ndaughter, and your children will be grafted of two stocks. And if this\nseems to you a hard condition, then kiss and bid farewell.\" And they\nboth laughed with joy at the lightness of the condition; but the\ngardener did not laugh. And so the Lord of the Burgh married the\ngardener's daughter, and they called their first son Hobb. He was born\non a first of August, and thirty-five months later Ambrose was born on\nthe first of July, and in due course Heriot in June, and Hugh in May,\nand Lionel in April. And the Lord, loving his sons equally, made them\nequal possessors of the Burgh when in time it should pass out of his\nhands. Which, since men are mortal, presently came to pass, and there\nwere five lords instead of one.\n\nIt happened on a roaring night of March, when the wind was blustering\nover the barren ocean of the east Downs, and Lionel was still a boy of\nten, but soon to be eleven, that the five brothers sat clustered about\nthe great hearth in the hall, roasting apples and talking of this and\nthat. But their talk was fitful, and had long pauses in which they\nlistened to the gusty night, which had so much more to say than they.\nAnd after one of the silences Lionel shuddered slightly, and drawing\nhis little stool close to Hobb he said:\n\n\"It sounds like witches.\" Hobb put his big hand round the child's head\nand face, and Lionel pressed his cheek against his brother's knee.\n\n\"Or lions,\" said Hugh, jumping up and running to the window, where he\nflattened his nose to stare into the night. \"I wish it were lions\ncoming over the Downs.\"\n\n\"What would you do with them?\" said Hobb, smiling broadly.\n\n\"Fight them,\" said Hugh, \"and chain them up. I should like to have\nlions instead of dogs--a red lion and a white one.\"\n\n\"I never heard tell of lions of those colors,\" said Hobb. \"But perhaps\nAmbrose has with all his reading.\"\n\n\"Not I,\" said Ambrose, \"but I haven't read half the books yet. The wind\nstill knows more than I, and it may be that he knows where red and\nwhite lions are to be found. For he knows everything.\"\n\n\"And has seen everything,\" murmured Heriot, watching a lovely flame of\nblue and green that flickered among the red and gold on the hearth.\n\n\"And has been everywhere,\" muttered Hugh. \"If I could find and catch\nhim, I'd ask him for a red and a white lion.\"\n\n\"I'd rather have peacocks,\" said Heriot, his eyes on the fire.\n\n\"What would you choose, Ambrose?\" asked Hobb.\n\n\"Nothing,\" said he, \"but it's the hardest of all things to have, and I\ndoubt if I'd get it. But what business have we to be choosing presents?\nThat is Lionel's right before ours, for isn't his birthday next month?\nWhat will you ask of the wind for your birthday, Lal?\"\n\nThen Lionel, who was getting very drowsy, smiled a sleepy smile, and\nsaid, \"I'd like a farm of my own in the Downs, a very little farm with\npink pigs and black cocks and white donkeys and chestnut horses no\nbigger than grasshoppers and mice, and a very little well as big as my\nmug to draw up my water from, and a little green paddock the size of my\npocket-handkerchief, and another of yellow corn, and another of crimson\ntrefoil. And I would have a blue farm-wagon no larger than Hobb's shoe,\nand a haystack half as big as a seed-cake, and a duckpond that I could\ncover with my platter. And I'd live there and play with it all day\nlong, if only I knew where the wind lives, and could ask him how to get\nit.\"\n\n\"Don't start till to-morrow,\" jested Ambrose, \"to-night you're too\nsleepy to find the way.\"\n\nThen he turned to his book, and Hugh was still at the window, and\nHeriot gazing into the fire. And as he felt the child's head droop in\nhis hand, Hobb picked him up in his arms and carried him to bed. And he\nalone of all those brothers had made no choice, nor had they thought to\nask him, so accustomed were they to see him jog along without the\ndesires that lead men to their goals--such as Ambrose's thirst for\nknowledge, and Heriot's passion for beauty, and Hugh's lust for\nadventure, and Lionel's pursuit of delight. And yet, unknown to them\nall, he had a heartfelt wish, which, among other things, he had\ninherited from his mother. For on a height west of the Burgh he had\nmade a garden where, like her, he labored to produce a perfect golden\nrose. But so far luck was against him, though his height, which was\ntherefore spoken of as the Gardener's Hill, bloomed with the loveliest\nflowers of all sorts imaginable. But year by year his rose was attacked\nby a special pest, the nature of which he had not succeeded in\ndiscovering. Yet his patience was inexhaustible, and his brothers who\nsometimes came to his garden when they needed a listener for their\nachieved or unachieved ambitions, never suspected that he too had an\nambition he had not realized, for they saw only a lovely garden of his\ncreating, where wisdom, beauty, adventure, and delight were made\nequally welcome by the gardener.\n\nNow on the March day following the night of the brothers' windy talk--\n\n\n(But suddenly Martin, with a nimble movement, stood upright on his\nbough, and grasping that to which the swing was attached, shook it with\nsuch frenzy that a tempest seemed to pass through the tree, and the\ngirls shrieked and clung to the trunk, and leaves and apples flew in\nall directions; and Jessica, between clutching at her ropes, and\nletting go to ward off the cannonade of fruit, gasped in a tumult of\nlaughter and indignation.\n\nJessica: Have you gone mad, Master Pippin? have you gone mad?\n\nMartin: Mad, Mistress Jessica, stark staring mad! March hares are pet\nrabbits to me!\n\nJessica: Sit down this instant! do you hear? this instant! That's\nbetter. What fun it was! Aha, you thought you could shake me off, but\nyou didn't. Are you still mad?\n\nMartin: Melancholy mad, since you will not let me rave.\n\nJessica: You are the less dangerous. But I hate you to be melancholy.\n\nMartin: It is no one's fault but yours. How can I be jolly when my\nstory upsets you?\n\nJessica: How do you know it upsets me?\n\nMartin: You put out your tongue at me.\n\nJessica: Did I?\n\nMartin: Yes, without reason. So what could I do but whistle mine to the\nwinds?\n\nJessica: You were too hasty, for I had my reason.\n\nMartin: If it was a good one I'll whistle mine back again.\n\nJessica: It was this. That no man in a love-tale should be wiser or\nbraver or more beautiful or more happy than the hero; or how can he be\nthe hero? Yet I am sure Hobb is the hero and none of the others,\nbecause he is the only one old enough to be married.\n\nMartin: Ambrose in nineteen, and will very soon be twenty.\n\nJessica: What's nineteen, or even twenty, in a man? Fie! a man's not a\nman till he comes of age, and the hero's not Ambrose for all his\nwisdom, though wisdom becomes a hero. Nor Heriot for all his beauty,\nthough a hero should be beautiful. Nor Hugh, who will one day be brave\nenough for any hero, though now he's but a boy. Nor the happy Lionel,\nwho is only a child--yet I love a gay hero. It's none of these, full\nthough they be of the qualities of heroes. And here is your Hobb with\nnothing to show but a fondness for roses.\n\nMartin: You deserve to be stood in a corner for that nothing, Mistress\nJessica. Your reason was such a bad one that I see I must return to\nsense if only to teach you a little of it. Did I not say Hobb had a\nloving heart?\n\nJessica: But he was plain and simple and patient and contented. Are\nthese things for a hero?\n\nMartin: Mistress Jessica, I will ask you a riddle. What is it--? Oh,\nbut first, I take it you love apple-trees?\n\nJessica: Who doesn't?\n\nMartin: What is it, then, you love in an apple-tree? Is it the dancing\nof the leaves in the wind? Is it the boldness of the boughs? Or perhaps\nthe loveliness of the flower in spring? Or again the fruit that ripens\nof the flower amongst the leaves on the boughs? What is it you love in\nan apple-tree?\n\nJessica: All riddles are traps. I must consider before I answer.\n\nMartin: You shall consider until the conclusion of my story, and not\ntill you are satisfied that many things can be contained in one, will I\nrequire your solution. And as for traps, it is always the solver of\nriddles who lays his own trap, by looking all round the question and\nnever straight at it. Put on your thinking-cap, I beg, while I go on\nbabbling.)\n\n\nOn the March day following the brothers' talk (continued Martin) Lionel\nwas missing. It was some time before his absence was noticed, for Hobb\nwas in his distant garden, and Ambrose among his books, and Heriot had\nridden north to the market-town to buy stuff for a jerkin, and Hugh had\nrun south to the sea to watch the ships. So Lionel was left to his own\ndevices, and what they were none tried to guess till evening, when the\nbrothers met again and he was not there. Then there was hue and cry\namong the hills, but to no purpose. The child had vanished like a\ncloud. And the month wore by, and their hearts grew heavier day by day.\n\nIt was in the last week of March that Hugh one morning came red-eyed to\nhis brothers and said, \"I am going away, and I will not come back until\nI have found Lionel. For I can't rest.\"\n\n\"None of us can do that,\" said Ambrose, \"and we have searched and sent\nmessengers everywhere. You are too young to go alone.\"\n\n\"I am nearly fourteen,\" said Hugh, \"and stronger than Heriot, and even\nthan you, Ambrose, and I can take care of myself and Lionel too. There\nare more ways than one to seek, and I'll go my way while you go yours.\nBut I will find him or die.\" And he looked with defiance at Ambrose,\nand then turned to Hobb and said doggedly, \"I'm going, Hobb.\"\n\nHobb, who himself sought the hills unwearingly day after day, and then\nsat up three parts of the night attending to the duties of the Burgh,\nsaid, \"Go, and God bless you.\"\n\nAnd Hugh's mouth grew less set, and he kissed his brothers, and put his\nknife in his belt, and took food in his wallet, and walked out of the\nBurgh. He followed the grass-track to the north, and had walked less\nthan half-an-hour when the wind took his cap and blew it into the\nmiddle of a pond, where it lay soddening out of reach. So he took off\nhis shoes and walked into the pond to fetch it out, stirring up the\nyellow mud in thick soft clouds. But as he stooped to grab his cap,\nsomething else stirred the mud in the middle, and a body heaved itself\nsluggishly into view. At first Hugh thought it must be the body of a\nsheep that had tumbled into the water, but to his amazement the sulky\nhead of an old man appeared. He was barely distinguishable from the mud\nout of which he had risen.\n\n\"Drat the boys!\" said the muddy man. \"Will they never be done with\ndisturbing the newts and me? Drat  em, I say!\"\n\n\"Who are you?\" demanded Hugh, staring with all his might.\n\n\"Jerry I am, and this is my pond. Why can't you leave me in peace?\"\n\n\"The wind took my cap,\" said Hugh.\n\n\"Finding's keepings,\" said the muddy man, taking the cap himself, \"and\nwindfalls on this water is mine. So I'll keep your cap, and it's the\nsecond wind's brought me this March. And if you're in want of another\nyou'd best go to where Wind lives and ask him for it, like t'other one.\nBut he said he'd ask for a toy farm instead.\"\n\n\"A toy farm?\" shouted Hugh.\n\n\"Go away and don't deafen a body,\" said Jerry, and prepared to sink\nagain. But Hugh caught him by the hair and said fiercely, \"Keep my cap\nif you like, but I won't let you go until you tell me where my brother\nwent.\"\n\n\"Your brother was it?\" growled the muddy man. \"He went to High and\nOver, dancing like a sunbeam.\"\n\n\"What's High and Over?\"\n\n\"Where Wind lives.\"\n\n\"Where's that?\"\n\n\"Find out,\" mumbled the muddy man; and he wriggled himself out of\nHugh's clutch and buried himself like a monstrous newt in the mud. And\nthough Hugh groped and fumbled shoulder-deep he could not feel a trace\nof him.\n\n\"But,\" said he, \"there's at least a name to go on.\" And he got out of\nthe pond and went in search of High and Over. And his brothers waited\nin vain for his return. And the heaviness of four hearts was now\ndivided between three, and doubled because of another brother lost.\n\nBut on the first of April, which was Lionel's birthday, Lionel came\nback. Or rather, Hobb found him in a valley north of his garden hill,\nwhen he was wandering on one of his forlorn searches. And when he found\nhim Hobb could not believe his eyes. For the child was sitting in the\nmiddle of the prettiest plaything in the world. It was a tiny farm,\ncovering perhaps a quarter of an acre, with minute barns and yards and\nstables, and pigmy livestock in the little pastures, and hand-high\ncrops in the little meadows; and smoke came from the tiny chimney of\nthe farmhouse, and Lionel was drawing water from a well in a bucket the\nsize of a thimble. And all the colors were so bright and painted that\nthe little farmstead seemed to have been conceived of the gayest mind\non earth. But through his amazement Hobb had no thought except for the\nchild, and he ran calling him by his name, but Lionel never looked up.\nAnd then Hobb lifted him in his arms, and embraced him closely, but the\nchild did not respond.\n\nThen Hobb looked at him anxiously, and was so shocked that he forgot\nthe strange blithe little farm entirely. For Lionel was as wan and\nwasted as though he had been through a fever, and his rosy face was\nwhite, and his merry eyes were melancholy. And suddenly, as Hobb\nclasped him, he flung his arms round his big brother's neck and buried\nhis face in his bosom and wept bitterly.\n\nThen Hobb tried to soothe and comfort him, asking him little questions\nin a coaxing voice--\"Where has the child been? Why did he run away and\nleave us? Where did he get this pretty, wonderful toy? Is he hurt, or\nhungry? Does he remember it is his birthday? There will be presents for\nhim at the Burgh, and a cake for tea. Did Hugh bring him home? Has he\nseen Hugh? Lal, Lal, where is Hugh?\"\n\nBut Lionel answered none of these questions, he only sobbed and sobbed,\nand suddenly slipped out of Hobb's arms, and began to play once more\nwith his farm, while the tears ran down his thin cheeks. Presently he\nlet Hobb take him home, and there Heriot and Ambrose rejoiced and\nsorrowed over him. For he would scarcely speak or eat, and only shook\nhis head at their questions. At Hugh's name his tears flowed twice as\nfast, but he would tell them nothing of him. Very soon Hobb carried him\nto bed, and in undressing him noticed that he had no shirt. This too\nLionel would not explain, and Hobb ceased troubling him with talk, and\nknelt and prayed by him, and laid him down to sleep, hoping that in the\nmorning he would be better. But morning brought no change. Lionel from\nthat day was given up to grief. Each morning he went dejectedly to play\nwith his marvelous toy in the valley, but how he came by it he would\nnot say.\n\nTowards the end of April Heriot came to Hobb and Ambrose and said, \"I\ncannot bear this; Lionel is home and we are none the better for it, and\nHugh is gone and we are all the worse. Hugh is capable of looking after\nhimself, yet perhaps danger has befallen him; and even if not, he will\nroam the country fruitlessly for months, and it may be years; since\nLionel is restored and he does not know it. The Burgh can spare me\nbetter than it can you, and I will ride abroad and see if I can find\nhim, and return in seven days, whether or no.\"\n\nSo they embraced him, and he departed. But at the end of seven days he\ndid not appear. And Ambrose and Hobb were dismayed at his vanishing\nlike the others, and so heavy a gloom descended on the Burgh that each\ncould scarcely have endured it without the other. And every day they\nwent forth in search of Hugh and Heriot, or of traces of them, but\nfound none.\n\nThen it happened that on the first of May, which was Hugh's birthday,\nHobb, wandering further north than usual, to the brow of the great\nridge east of the Ouse, heard a wild roaring and bellowing on the\nDowns; or rather, it was two separate roarings, as you may sometimes\nhear two separate storms thundering at once over two ranges of hills.\nAnd in astonishment he went first to Beddingham, and there, bound by an\niron chain to a stake beside a pond, he found a mighty lion, as white\nas a young lamb. But he had not a lamb's meekness, for he ramped and\nraved in a great circle around the stake, and his open throat set in\nhis shaggy mane looked like the red sun seen upon white mist. Hobb\nrubbed his eyes and turned towards Ilford, where the second roaring\nsought to outdo the first. And there beside another pond he found\nanother stake and chain, and a lion exactly similar, except that he was\nas red as a rose. But he had not a rose's sweetness, for he snarled and\nleaped with fury at the end of his chain, and his flashing teeth under\nhis red muzzle looked like the blossom of the scarlet runner.\n\nAnd then, turning about for an explanation of these wonders, Hobb saw\nwhat drove them from his mind--the figure of Hugh crouched in a little\nhollow, and shaking like a leaf. Hobb ran towards him with a shout, and\nat the shout Hugh leaped to his feet, with the eyes of a hunted hare,\nand looked on all sides as though seeking where to hide. But Hobb was\nsoon beside him, with his arm round the boy's shoulder, and gazing\nearnestly into his face.\n\n\"Why, lad,\" said he, \"do you not know me again?\"\n\nHugh stole a glance at him, and suddenly smiled and nodded, and tried\nto answer, but could not for the chattering of his teeth. And he clung\nhard to his brother's side, and shuddered from head to foot.\n\n\"Are you ill, Hugh?\" Hobb asked him, bewildered at the boy's unlikeness\nto himself.\n\n\"No, Hobb,\" said Hugh, \"but need we stay here now?\"\n\n\"Why, no,\" said Hobb gently, \"we will go when you like. Where do these\nbeasts come from?\"\n\nHugh set his lips and began to move away.\n\nHobb went beside him and said, \"Lionel is home, but Heriot is lost.\nHave you seen Heriot?\"\n\nHugh hesitated, and then stammered, \"No, I have not seen him.\"\n\nAnd Hobb knew that he had lied, Hugh who had always been as fearless of\nthe truth as of anything else. So after that he asked no more, fearing\nto get another lie for an answer; and he led Hugh home, supporting him\nwith his arm, for he was full of fits and starts and shiverings. If a\nlump of chalk rolled under his shoe he blanched and cried, \"What's\nthat?\" and once when a field-mouse ran across the path he swooned. Then\nHobb, opening his tunic at the neck, saw that nothing was between it\nand his body; for he, like Lionel, was without his shirt.\n\nThey got back to the Burgh, and Hobb found Ambrose and told him how it\nwas. And Ambrose came to Hugh and talked with him, and turned away with\nknitted brows. For here was a puzzle not dealt with in his books. And\nMay went by in miserable fashion, with Lionel spending the days in\nplaying mournfully beside his farm, and Hugh in cowering abjectly\nbetween his lions. And sometimes Ambrose and Hobb, after searching for\nHeriot or news of him, or spending their spirits in endeavoring to\nhearten their two brothers, or to elicit from them something that\nshould give them the key to the mystery, would meet in Hobb's\nhill-garden, where seemed to be the only peace and loveliness left upon\nearth. And Hobb would weed and tend his neglected flowers, and they\nbloomed for him as though they knew he loved them--as indeed they did.\nOnly his golden rose-tree would not flourish, but this small sorrow was\nunguessed by Ambrose.\n\nOne evening as they sat in the garden in the last week of May, Ambrose\nsaid to his brother, \"I have been thinking, Hobb, that at all costs\nHeriot must be found, and not for his own sake only. He is younger than\nwe, and nearer in spirit to the boys; and he may be able to help them\nas we cannot. For if this goes on, Hugh will die of his fears and\nLionel of his melancholy. You must stay and administer our affairs as\nusual, and look after the boys; and I will go further afield in search\nof Heriot.\"\n\nHobb was silent for a moment, and then he sighed and said, \"No good has\ncome of these seekings. Our lads returned of themselves, as Heriot may.\nAnd their return was worse than anything we feared of their absence,\nas, if he come back, I pray Heriot's will not be. And for you,\nAmbrose--\" But then he paused, not saying what was in his mind. And\nAmbrose said, \"Do not be afraid for me. These boys are young, and I am\nolder than my years. And though I cannot face danger with a stouter\nheart than our brothers, I can perhaps see into it a little further\nthan they. And foresight is sometimes a still better tool than courage.\"\n\nThen he took Hobb's hand in his, and they gripped with the grip of men\nwho love each other; and Ambrose went out of the garden, and Hobb was\nleft alone. For Hugh and Lionel were companions to none but themselves.\n\nBut on the first of June Hobb, coming to the gate of his garden, saw\nwith surprise a peacock strutting on the hillbrow, his fan spread in\nthe sun, a luster of green and blue and gold, and behind him was\nanother, and further south three more. So Hobb went out to look at\nthem, and found not five but fifty peacocks sweeping the Downs with\ntheir heavy trains, or opening and shutting them like gigantic magical\nflowers. Following the throng of birds, he came shortly to a barn\nalready known to him, but he had never seen it as he saw it now. For\nthe roof was crowded with peacocks, and peacocks strayed in flocks\nwithin and without; and sitting in the doorway was Heriot, the sight of\nwhom so overjoyed his brother that Hobb forgot the thousand peacocks in\nthe one man. And he made speed to greet him, but within a few yards\nhalted full of doubt. For was this Heriot? He had Heriot's air and\nattitude, yet the grace was gone from his body; and Heriot's features,\nsurely, but the beauty had melted away like morning dew. And his dress,\nwhich had always been orderly and beautiful, was neglected; so that\nunder the half-laced jerkin Hobb saw that he was shirtless. Yet after\nthe first moment's shock, he knew this gaunt and ugly youth was Heriot.\nAnd Heriot seeing his coming hung his head, and made a shamed movement\nof retreat into the shadow of the barn. But Hobb hurried to him, and\ntook him by the shoulders, and beheld him with the eyes of love which\nalways find its object beautiful. Then the flush faded from Heriot's\nhaggard cheeks, and he looked as full at Hobb as Hobb at him. And as at\nthe steadfast meeting of eyes men see no longer the physical\nappearance, but for an eternal instance the appearance of the soul,\nthese brothers knew that they were to each other what they had always\nbeen. And Heriot saw that Hobb was full of questions, and he laid his\nhand over Hobb's mouth and said, \"Hobb, do not ask me anything, for I\ncan tell you nothing.\"\n\n\"Neither of yourself nor of Ambrose?\" said Hobb.\n\n\"Nothing,\" repeated Heriot.\n\nSo Hobb left his questions unspoken, and as they went home together\ntold Heriot of Hugh's return, and what had happened to him. And Heriot\nheard it without comment. And in the evening, when Lionel and Hugh\nreturned, they had nothing to say to Heriot, nor he to them; and it\nseemed to Hobb that this was because these three everything was\nunderstood.\n\nIt was a lonely June for Hobb, with his eldest brother away, and the\nthree others spending all their days beside their strange possessions,\nwhich brought them no tittle of joy; and had it not been for his garden\nhe would have felt utterly bereft. Yet here too failure sat heavily on\nhis heart; for an many a night he saw upon his bush a bud that promised\nperfection to come, and in the morning it hung dead and rotten on its\nstem.\n\nSo the month wore on, and Hobb began to feel that the Burgh, where now\nhis brothers only came to sleep, was a dead shell, too desolate to\ninhabit if Ambrose did not soon return. And he was impelled to go in\nsearch of him, yet decided to remain until Ambrose's birthday had\ndawned, for had not their birthdays brought his three youngest brothers\nhome? And it might be so with Ambrose. And so it was.\n\nFor on the first of July, before going to his garden, he stayed at\nHeriot's barn to try to induce him to leave his peacocks for once, and\nspend the day with him in search of Ambrose; but Heriot, who was\nfeeding his fowl, never looked up, and said sadly, \"What need to seek\nAmbrose to-day? Ambrose has returned.\"\n\n\"Have you seen him?\" cried Hobb joyfully.\n\n\"Early this morning,\" said Heriot.\n\n\"Where?\"\n\n\"Down yonder in Poverty Bottom,\" said Heriot, pointing south of his\nbarn to a hollow that went by that name. For there was a dismal\nhabitation that had fallen into decay, a skeleton of a hut with only\ntwo rotting walls, and a riddled thatch for a roof. And it was worse\nthan no habitation at all, for what might have been a green and lovely\nvale was made desolate and rank with disused things, rusting among the\nlumber of bricks and nettles. It was enough to have been there once\nnever to go again. And Hobb had been there once.\n\nBut now, at Heriot's tidings, he ran down the hill a second time as\nthough it led to Paradise, calling Ambrose as he went. And getting no\nanswer he began to fear that either Heriot was mistaken, or Ambrose had\ngone away. His fears were unfounded, for coming to the Bottom he found\nAmbrose; yet he had to look twice to make sure it was he. For he was\ndressed only in rags, and less in rags than nakedness; and his skin was\ndirty and his hair unkempt. He was stooping about the ground gathering\nflints dropped through, and a small trail of them marked his passage\nover the rank grass.\n\nHobb strode towards him with dread in his bosom, and laid his hand on\nAmbrose's wild head, saying his name again. And at this his brother\nlooked up and eyed him childishly, and said \"Who is Ambrose?\" And then\nthe dread in Hobb took a definite shape, and he saw with horror that\nAmbrose had lost his wits. At that knowledge, and the sight of his\nneglected body and pitiful foolish smile, Hobb turned away and sobbed.\nBut Ambrose with a little random laugh continued to drop flints in his\nbottomless bucket. And no word of Hobb's could win him from that place.\n\nThen Hobb went back to the Burgh alone, and buried his face in his\nhands, and thought. He thought of the evil which had fallen upon his\nhouse, the nature of which was past his brothers' telling, and far\nbeyond his guessing. And he said to himself, \"I have done the best I\ncould in governing the affairs of the Burgh and of our people, since\nthe others were younger than I; but I see I have been selfish, keeping\nsafety for my portion while they went into danger. And now there is\nnone to set this evil right but I, and if I can I must follow the way\nthey went, and do better than they at the end of it. And if I fail--as\nhow should I succeed where they have not?--and if like them I too must\nsuffer the dreadful loss of a part of myself, let it be so, and I shall\nat least fare as they have fared, and we will share an equal fate.\nThough what I have to lose I know not, to match their bright and noble\nqualities.\"\n\nThen he called his steward, and gave all the affairs of the Burgh into\nhis hands, and bade him have an eye to his brothers as far as possible,\nand to consult Heriot in any need, since he was the only one who could\nin the least be relied on. And then he walked out of the Burgh as he\nwas, and went where his feet took him. He had not been walking\nhalf-an-hour when a sudden blast of wind tore the cap from his head,\nand blew it into the very middle of a pond.\n\nNow the pond was exceedingly muddy, and as it seemed to Hobb rather\ndeep, and he was wondering whether his old cap were worth wading for,\nand had almost decided to abandon it, when he saw a skinny yellow arm,\nlike a frog's leg, stretch up through the water, and a hand that\ndripped with slime grope for his cap. With three strides he was in the\npond, and he caught the cap and the hand together in his fist. The hand\nwrithed in his, but Hobb was too strong for it; and with a mighty tug\nhe dragged first the shoulder and then the head belonging to the hand\ninto view. They were the shoulder and head of the muddy man whom you,\ndear maidens, have seen once before in this tale, but whom Hobb had\nnever seen till then. And Jerry said, \"Drat these losers of caps! will\nthey NEVER be done with disturbing the newts and me?  Tis the fifth in\na summer. And first there's one with a step like a wagtail, and next\nthere's one as bold as a hawk, and after him one as comely as a wild\nswan, and last was one as wise as an owl. And now there's this one with\nnothing particular to him, but he grips as hard as all the rest rolled\ninto one. Drat these cap-losers!\"\n\nThen Hobb who, for all his surprise to begin with, and his increase of\nexcitement as the muddy creature spoke, had never slackened his grasp,\nsaid, \"Old man, you are welcome to my cap if you will tell me what\nhappened to the wearers of the four other caps after they left you.\"\n\n\"How do I know what happened to  em?\" growled the muddy man. \"For they\nall went to High and Over, and after that  twas nobody's business but\nWind's, who lives there.\"\n\n\"Where's High and Over?\" said Hobb.\n\n\"Find out,\" said the muddy man, and gave a wriggle that did him no good.\n\n\"I will,\" said Hobb, \"for you shall tell me.\" And he looked so sternly\nat the muddy man that Jerry cringed, moaning:\n\n\"I thought by his voice  twas a turtle, but I see by his eye  tis an\neagle. If you must know you must. And south of Cradle Hill that's south\nof Pinchem that's south of Hobb's Hawth that's south of the Burgh\nthat's south of this pond is where High and Over is. And I'll thank you\nto let me go.\"\n\nNevertheless, when Hobb released him Jerry forgot the thanks and\ndisappeared into the mud taking the cap with him. But Hobb did not care\nfor his thanks. He hurried south as fast as his feet would carry him,\ngoing by the places he knew and then by those he did not, till he came\nat nightfall to High and Over.\n\nAnd on High and Over a great wind was blowing from all the four\nquarters of heaven at once. And Hobb was caught up in the crossways of\nthe wind, and turned about and about till he was dizzy, and all his\nthoughts were churning in his brain, so that he could not tell one from\nthe other. And at the very crisis of the churning a voice in the wind\nfrom the north roared in his ear:\n\n\"What do you want that you lack?\"\n\nAnd a voice from the south murmured, \"What is the wish of your heart?\"\n\nAnd a voice from the west sighed, \"What is it that life has not given\nyou?\"\n\nAnd a voice from the east shrieked, \"What will you have, and lose\nyourself to have?\"\n\nAnd Hobb forgot his brothers and why he was there, he forgot everything\nbut the dream of his soul which had been churned uppermost in that\nturmoil, and he cried aloud, \"A golden rose!\"\n\nThen the four voices together roared and murmured and sighed and\nshrieked, \"Open Winkins! Open Winkins! Open Winkins! Open Winkins!\" And\nthe tumult ceased with a shock, and the shock of silence overwhelmed\nHobb with sickness and darkness, and his senses deserted him. As he\nbecame unconscious he seemed to be, not falling to earth, but rising in\nthe air.\n\nWhen he opened his eyes he was lying on his back in a strange world, a\nworld of trees, whose noble trunks rose up as though they were columns\nof the sky, but their heaven was a green one, shutting out daylight,\nyet enclosing a luminous haunted air of its own. Such forests were\nunknown in Hobb's open barren land, and this alone would have made his\ncoming to his senses appear rather to be a coming away from them. But\nhe scarcely noticed his surroundings, he was only vaguely aware of them\nas the strange and beautiful setting of the strangest and most\nbeautiful thing he had ever seen. For he was looking into the eyes of\nthe loveliest woman in the world. She was bending above him, tall and\nslim and supple, her perfect body clad in a deep black gown, the hem\nand bosom of which were embroidered with celandines, and it had a\ngolden belt and was lined with gold, as he could see when the loose\nsleeves fell open on her round and slender arms; and the bodice of the\ngown hung a little away from her stooping body, and was embroidered\ninside, as well as outside, with celandines, which made reflections on\nher white neck, as they will on a pure pool where they lean to watch\ntheir April loveliness. Her skin was as creamy as the petals of a\nburnet rose, and her eyes were the color of peat-smoke, and her hair\nwas as soft as spun silk and fell in two great shining waves of the\npurest gold over her bosom as she bent above him, and lay on the earth\nlike golden grass on green water. A tress of the hair had flowed across\nhis hand. And about her small fine head it was bound with a black\nfillet, a narrow coil so sleek and glossy that it was touched with\nsilver lights, and this intense blackness made the gold of her head\nmore dazzling. And Hobb lay there bewildered under the spell of her\nloveliness, asking nothing but to lie and gaze at it for ever.\n\nBut presently as he did not move she did, sinking upon her knees and\nstooping closer so that her breast nearly rested on his own, and she\nput her white hand softly on his forehead, and the smoke of her eyes\nwas washed with tears that did not fall, and she said in a tremulous\nvoice that fell on his ears like music heard in a dream, \"Oh, stranger,\nif you are not dying, speak and move.\"\n\nThen Hobb raised himself slowly on his elbow, and as she did not stir\ntheir faces were brought very close together; and not for an instant\nhad they taken their eyes from each other. And he said in a low voice,\nnot knowing either his voice or his own words, \"I am not dying, but I\nthink I must be dead.\" And suddenly the woman broke into a rain of\ntears, and she sank into his arms with her own about his neck, and she\nwept upon his heart as though her own were breaking. After a few\nmoments she lifted her head and Hobb bent his to meet her quivering\nmouth. But before his lips touched hers she tore herself from his hold\nand fled away through the trees.\n\nHobb leaped to his feet, and scarcely knowing what he said cried,\n\"Love! don't be afraid!\" and he made no attempt to follow her, but\nstood where he was. He saw her halt in the distance, and turn, and\nhesitate, and struggle with herself as to her coming or going. At last\nshe decided for the former, and came slowly between the pillars of the\ntrees until she stood but a few paces from him with lowered lids. And\nshe said sweetly, \"Forgive me, stranger. But I found you here like one\ndead, and when you opened your eyes the fear was still on me, and when\nyou moved and spoke the relief was too great, and I forgot myself and\ndid what I did.\"\n\nThen Hobb said gently, but with his heart beating on his ribs as fast\nas a swallow's wings beat the air, \"I thought you did what you did\nbecause at that moment you knew, and I knew also, that it was your\nright for ever to weep and to laugh on my heart, and mine to bear for\never your laughing and weeping. But if it was not with you as with me,\nsay so, and I will go away and not trouble you or your strange woods\nagain.\"\n\nThen the woman came quickly to him, and seized his hands saying, half\nagitated, half commanding, \"It was with me as with you. And you shall\nstay with me for ever in these woods, and I will give you the desire of\nyour life.\"\n\n\"And what shall I give you?\" said Hobb.\n\n\"Whatever is nearest to yourself,\" she whispered, \"the dearest treasure\nof your soul.\" And she looked at him with eyes full of passions which\nhe could not fathom, but among them he saw terror. And with great\ntenderness he drew her once more to his heart, putting his strong and\nsteady arms around her like a shield, and he said:\n\n\"Love whose name I do not know, what is nearer to myself than you, what\ndearer treasure has my soul than you? If I am to give you this, it is\nyourself I must give you; and I will restore to you whatever it is that\nyou have lost through the agony of your soul. Be at peace, my love\nwhose name I do not know.\" And holding her closely to him he bent his\nhead and kissed her lips; and a great shudder passed through her, and\nthen she lay still in his arms, with her strange eyes half-closed, and\nslow tears welling between the lids and hanging on her cheeks like the\nrain on the rose. And she let him quiet her with his big hands that\nwere so used to care for flowers. Presently she lifted his right hand\nto her mouth, and kissed it before he could prevent her. Next she drew\nherself a little away from him, hanging back in his arms and gazing\ninto his face as though her soul were all a question and his was the\nanswer that she could not wholly read. And last she broke away from him\nwith a strange laugh that ended on a sob.\n\nHobb said, \"Will you not tell me what makes you unhappy?\"\n\n\"I have no unhappiness,\" she answered, and quenched her sob with a\nsmile as strange as her laugh. \"My foolish lover, are you amazed that\nwhen her hour comes a woman knows not whether she is happy or unhappy?\nOh, when joy is so great that it has come full circle with pain, what\nwonder that laughter and weeping are one?\"\n\nAnd Hobb believed her, for ever since he had opened his eyes upon her,\nhe had felt in his own heart more joy than he could bear; and he knew\nthat for this there is no remedy except to find a second heart to help\nin the bearing. And he knew it was the same with her. But now he saw\nthat she was free for awhile from the excess of joy; and indeed these\nrespites must happen even to lovers for their own sakes, lest they sink\nbeneath the heavenly burden of their hearts. And her smile was like the\ndiver's rise from his enchanted deeps to take again the common breath\nof man; and Hobb also smiled and said, \"Come now, and tell me your\nname. For though love needs none for its object, I think the name\nitself is eager to be made known and loved beyond all other names for\nlove's sake. As I love yours, whatever it be.\"\n\n\"My name,\" she said, \"is Margaret.\"\n\n\"It is an easy name to love,\" said Hobb, \"for its own sake.\"\n\n\"And what is yours?\" asked she.\n\nAnd Hobb's smile broadened as he answered, \"Try to love it, for my\nsake. For it is Hobb. Yet it is as fitting to me, who am as plain as my\nname, as your lovely name is fitting to you.\"\n\nShe cast a quick sly look at him and said, \"If love knows not how to\ndistinguish between joy and pain, since all that comes from the heart\nof love is joy, neither can it tell the plain from the beautiful, since\nall that comes under the eye of love is beauty. And I will find all\nthings beautiful in my lover, from his name to the mole on his cheek.\"\n\nFor I know now, dear maidens, whether in describing him I had mentioned\nthis peculiarity of Hobb's.\n\n\n(Jessica: You hadn't described him at all.\n\nMartin: Well, now the omission is remedied.\n\nJessica: Oh fie! as though it were enough to say the man had a mole on\nhis left cheek!\n\nMartin: Dear Mistress Jessica, did I say it was his left cheek?\n\nJessica: Why--why!--where else would it be?\n\nMartin: Nowhere else, on my honor. It WAS his left cheek.)\n\n\nThen Hobb said to Margaret, \"What place is this?\"\n\n\"It is called Open Winkins,\" said she, and at the name he started to\nhis feet, remembering much that he had forgotten. She looked at him\nanxiously and cajolingly and said, \"You are not going away?\" But he\nhardly heard her question. \"Margaret,\" he said, \"I have come from a\nplace that may be far or near, for I do not know how I came; but I\nthink it must be far, since I never saw this forest, or even heard of\nit, till a moment before my coming. But I am seeking a clue to a\ntrouble that has come upon me this year, and I think the clue may be\nhere. And now tell me, have you in these last four months seen in these\nwoods anything of your people that are my brothers?--a child that once\nwas merry, and a boy that once was brave, and a youth that once was\nbeautiful, and a young man that once was wise? Have these ever been to\nOpen Winkins?\"\n\nMargaret looked at him thoughtfully and said, \"If they have, I have not\nseen them here. And I think they could not have been here without my\nknowledge. For no one lives here but I, and I live nowhere else.\"\n\nHobb sighed and said, \"I had hoped otherwise. For, dear, I cannot rest\nuntil I have helped them.\" Then he told her as much as he knew of his\nfour brothers; and her face clouded as he spoke, and her eyes looked\nhurt and angry by turns, and her beautiful mouth turned sulky. So then\nHobb put his arm round her and said, \"Do not be too troubled, for I\nknow I shall presently find the cause and cure of these boys' ills.\"\nBut Margaret pushed his arm away and rose restlessly to her feet, and\npaced up and down, muttering, \"What do I care for these boys? It is not\nfor them I am troubled, but for myself and you.\"\n\n\"For us?\" said Hobb. \"How can trouble touch us who love each other?\"\n\nAt this Margaret threw herself on the grass beside him, and laid her\nhead against his knee, and drew his hands to her, pressing them against\nher eyes and lips and throat and bosom as though she would never let\nthem go; and through her kisses she whispered passionately, \"Do you\nlove me? do you truly love me? Oh, if you love me do not go away\nimmediately. For I have only just found you, but your brothers have had\nyou all their lives. And presently you shall go where you please for\ntheir sakes, but now stay a little in this wood for mine. Stay a month\nwith me, only a month! oh, my heart, is a month much to ask when you\nand I found each other but an hour ago? For this time of love will\nnever come again, and whatever other times there are to follow, if you\ngo now you will be shutting your eyes upon the lovely dawn just as the\nsun is rising through the colors. And when you return, you will return\nperhaps to love's high-noon, but you will have missed the dawn for\never.\" And then she lifted her prone body a little higher until it\nrested once more in the curve of his arm against his heart, and she lay\nwith her white face upturned to his, and her dark soft eyes full of\npassion and pleading, and she put up her fingers to caress his cheek,\nand whispered, \"Give me my little month, oh, my heart, and at the end\nof it I will give you your soul's desire.\"\n\nAnd not Hobb or any man could have resisted her.\n\nSo he promised to remain with her in Open Winkins, and not to go\nfurther on his quest till the next moon. And indeed, with all time\nbefore and behind him it did not seem much to promise, nor did he think\nit could hurt his brothers' case. But the kernel of it was that he\nlonged to make the promise, and could not do otherwise than make the\npromise, and so, in short, he made the promise.\n\nThen Margaret led him to two small lodges on the skirts of the forest;\nthey were made of round logs, with moss and lichen still upon them, and\nthey were overgrown with the loveliest growths of summer--with\nblackberry blossoms, a wonderful ghostly white, spread over the bushes\nlike fairies' linen out to dry, and wild roses more than were in any\nother lovers' forest on earth, and the maddest sweetest confusion of\nhoneysuckle you ever saw. Within, the rooms were strewn with green\nrushes, and hung with green cloths on which Margaret had embroidered\nall the flowers and berries in their seasons, from the first small\nviolets blue and white to the last spindle-berries with their orange\nhearts splitting their rosy rinds. And there was nothing else under\neach roof but a round beech-stump for a stool, and a coffer of carved\noak with metal locks, and a low mattress stuffed with lamb's-fleece\npicked from the thorns, and pillows filled with thistledown; and each\ncouch had a green covering worked with waterlily leaves and white and\ngolden lilies. \"These are the Pilleygreen Lodges,\" said she, \"and one\nis mine and one is yours; and when we want cover we will find it here,\nbut when we do not we will eat and sleep in the open.\"\n\nAnd so the whole of that July Hobb dwelt in the Pilleygreen Lodges in\nOpen Winkins with his love Margaret. And by the month's end they had\nnot done their talking. For did not a young lifetime lie behind them,\nand did they not foresee a longer life ahead, and between lovers must\nnot all be told and dreamed upon? and beyond these lives in time, which\nwere theirs in any case, had not love opened to them a timeless life of\nwhich inexhaustible dreams were to be exchanged, not always by words,\nthough indeed by their mouths, and by the speech of their hands and\narms and eyes? Hobb told her all there was to tell of the Burgh and his\nlife with his brothers, both before and after their tragedies, but he\ndid not often speak of them for it was a tale she hated to hear, and\nsometimes she wept so bitterly that he had ado to comfort her, and\nsometimes was so angry that he could hardly conciliate her. But such\nwas his own gentleness that her caprices could withstand it no more\nthan the shifting clouds the sun. And Margaret told him of herself, but\nher tale was short and simple--that her parents had died in the forest\nwhen she was young, and that she had lived there all her life working\nwith her needle, twice yearly taking her work to the Cathedral Town to\nsell; and with the proceeds buying what she needed, and other cloths\nand silk and gold with which to work. She opened the coffer in Hobb's\nlodge and showed him what she did: veils that she had embroidered with\ncobwebs hung with dew, so that you feared to touch them lest you should\ndestroy the cobweb and disperse the dew; and girdles thick-set with\nflowers, so that you thought Spring's self on a warm day had loosed the\ngirdle from her middle, and lost it; and gowns worked like the feathers\nof a bird, some like the plumage on the wood-dove's breast, and others\nlike a jay's wing; and there was a pair of blue skippers so embroidered\nthat they appeared and disappeared beneath a flowing skirt with reeds\nand sallows rising from a hem of water, you thought you had seen\nkingfishers; and there were tunics overlaid with dragonflies' wings and\ntheir delicate jointed bodies of green and black-and-yellow and\nChalk-Hill blue; and caps all gay with autumn berries, scarlet\nrose-hips and wine-red haws, and the bright briony, and spindle with\nits twofold gayety, and one cap was all of wild clematis, with the vine\nof the Traveler's Joy twined round the brim and the cloud of the Old\nMan's Beard upon the crown. And Hobb said, \"It is magic. Who taught you\nto do this?\" And Margaret said, \"Open Winkins.\"\n\nEarly in their talks he told her of his garden, and of the golden rose\nhe tried to grow there, and of his failures; and Margaret knew by his\nvoice and his eyes more than by his words that this was the wish of his\nheart. And she smiled and said, \"Now I know with what I must redeem my\npromise. Yet I think I shall be jealous of your golden rose.\" And Hobb,\nlifting a wave of her glittering hair and making a rose of it between\nhis fingers, asked, \"How can you be jealous of yourself?\" \"Yet I think\nI am,\" said she again, \"for it was something of myself you promised to\ngive me presently, and I would rather have something of you.\" \"They are\nthe same thing,\" said Hobb, and he twisted up the great rose of her\nhair till it lay beside her temple under the ebony fillet. And as his\nhand touched the fillet he looked puzzled, and he ran his finger round\nits shining blackness and exclaimed, \"But this too is hair!\" Margaret\nlaughed her strange laugh and said, \"Yes, my own hair, you discoverer\nof open secrets!\" And putting up her hands she unbound the fillet, and\nit fell, a slender coil of black amongst the golden flood of her head,\nlike a serpent gliding down the sunglade on a river.\n\n\"Why is it like that?\" said Hobb simply.\n\nWith one of her quick changes Margaret frowned and answered, \"Why is\nthe black yew set with little lamps? Why does a black cloud have an\nedge of light? Why does a blackbird have white feathers in his body?\nMust things be ALL dark or ALL light?\" And she stamped her foot and\nturned hastily away, and began to do up her hair with trembling hands.\nAnd Hobb came behind her and kissed the top of her head. She turned on\nhim half angrily, half smiling, saying, \"No! for you do not like my\nblack lock.\" And Hobb said very gravely, \"I will find all things\nbeautiful in my beloved, from her black lock to her blacker temper.\"\nMargaret shot a swift look at him and saw that he was laughing at her\nwith an echo of her own words; and she flung her arms about him,\nlaughing too. \"Oh, Hobb!\" said she, \"you pluck out my black temper by\nthe roots!\"\n\nSo with teasing and talking and quarreling and kissing, and\never-growing love, July came near its close; and as love discovers or\ncreates all miracles in what it loves, Hobb for pure joy grew light of\nspirit, and laughed and played with his beloved till she knew not\nwhether she had given her heart to a child or a man; and again when the\nhappiness that was in his soul shone through his eyes, he was so\ntransfigured that, gazing on his beauty, she knew not whether she had\nreceived the heart of a man or a god. And the truth was that at this\ntime Hobb was all three, since love, dear maidens, commands a region\nthat extends beyond birth and death, and includes all that is mortal in\nall that is eternal. And as for Margaret, she was all things by turns,\nsometimes as gay as sunbeams so that Hobb could scarcely follow her\ndancing spirit, but could only sun himself in the delight of it; and\nsometimes she was full of folly and daring, and made him climb with her\nthe highest trees, and drop great distances from bough to bough,\nmocking at all his fears for her though he had none for himself; and\nsometimes when he was downcast, as happened now and then for thinking\non his brothers, she forgot her jealousy in tenderness of his sorrow,\nand made him lean his head upon her breast, and talked to him low as a\nmother to her baby, words that perhaps were only words of comfort, yet\nseemed to him infinite wisdom, as the child believes of its mother's\ntender speech. And at all times she was lovelier than his dreams of\nher. Not once in this month did Hobb go out of the forest, which was\nconfined on the north and north-west by big roads running to the world,\nand on all other sides by sloped of Downland. But whenever in their\nwanderings they arrived at any of these boundaries, Margaret turned him\nback and said, \"I do not love the open; come away.\"\n\nBut on the last day of the month they came upon a very narrow neck of\nthe treeless down, a green ride carved between their wood and a dark\nplantation that lay beyond, so close as to be almost a part of Open\nWinkins, but for that one little channel of space; and Hobb pointed to\nit and said, \"That's a strange place, let us go there.\"\n\n\"No,\" said Margaret.\n\n\"But is it not our own wood?\"\n\n\"How can you think so?\" she said petulantly. \"Do you not see how black\nit is in there? How can you want to go there? Come away.\"\n\n\"What is it called?\" asked Hobb.\n\n\"The Red Copse,\" said she.\n\n\"Why?\" asked Hobb.\n\n\"I don't know,\" said she.\n\n\"Have you never been there?\" asked Hobb.\n\n\"No, never. I don't like it. It frightens me.\" And she clung to him\nlike a child. \"Oh, come away!\"\n\nShe was trembling so that he turned instantly, and they went back to\nthe Pilleygreen Lodges, getting wild raspberries for supper on the way.\nAnd after supper they sang songs, one against the other, each sweeter\nthan the last, and told stories by turns, outdoing each other in fancy\nand invention; and at last went happily to bed.\n\nBut Hobb could not sleep. For in the night a wind came up and blew four\ntimes round his lodge, shaking it once on every wall. And it stirred in\nhim the memory of High and Over, and with the memory misgivings that he\ncould not name. And he rose restlessly from his couch and went out\nunder the troubled moon, for a windy rack of clouds was blowing over\nthe sky. But through it she often poured her amber light, and by it\nHobb saw that Margaret's door was blowing on its hinges. He called her\nsoftly, but he got no answer; and then he called more loudly, but still\nshe did not answer.\n\n\"She cannot be sleeping through this,\" said Hobb to himself; and with\nan uneasy heart he stood beside the door and looked into the lodge. And\nshe was not there, and the couch had not been slept on. But on it lay\nher empty dress, its gold and black all tumbled in a heap, and on top\nof it was an embroidered smock. And something in the smock attracted\nhim, so that he went quickly forward to examine it; and he saw that it\nwas Heriot's shirt, that had been cut and changed and worked all over\nwith peacocks' feathers. And he stood staring at it, astounded and\naghast. Recovering himself, he turned to leave the lodge, but stumbled\non the open coffer, hanging out of which was a second smock; and this\none had two lions worked on the back and front, and one was red and the\nother white, and the smock had been Hugh's shirt. Then Hobb fell on the\ncoffer and searched its contents till he had found Lionel's little\nshirt fashioned into a linen vest, with a tiny border of fantastic\nanimals dancing round it, pink pigs, and black cocks, and white\ndonkeys, and chestnut horses. And last of all he found the shirt of\nAmbrose, tattered and frayed, and every tatter was worked at the edge\nwith a different hue, and here and there small mocking patches of color\nhad been stitched above the holes.\n\nAnd at each discovery the light in Hobb's eyes grew calmer, and the\nbeat of his heart more steady. And he walked out of the Pilleygreen\nLodge and as straight as his feet would carry him across Open Winkins\nand the green ride, and into the Red Copse. As he went he shut down the\ndread in his heart of what he should find there, \"For,\" said Hobb to\nhimself, \"I shall need more courage now than I have ever had.\" It was\nblack in the Red Copse, with a blackness blacker than night, and the\nwild races of moonlight that splashed the floors of Open Winkins were\nhere unseen. But a line of ruddy fireflies made a track on the\nblackness, and Hobb, going as softly as he might, followed in their\nwake. Just before the middle of the Copse they stopped and flew away,\nand one by one, as each reached the point deserted by its leader,\ndarted back as though unable to penetrate with its tiny fire the\nfearful shadows that lay just ahead. But Hobb went where the fireflies\ncould not go. And he found a dark silent hollow in the wood, where\nneither moon nor sun could ever come; and at the bottom of it a long\nstraggling pool, with a surface as black as ebony, and mud and slime\nbelow. Here toads and bats and owls and nightjars had come to drink,\nwith rats and stoats who left their footprints in the mud. And on the\nground and bushes Hobb saw slugs and snails, woodlice, beetles and\nspiders, and creeping things without number. The gloom of the place was\nawful, and turned the rank foliage of trees and shrubs black in\nperpetual twilight. But what Hobb saw he saw by a light that had no\nplace in heaven. For kneeling beside the pool was his love Margaret,\nher naked body crouched and bowed among the creatures of the mud; and\nher two waves of gold were flung behind her like a smooth mantle, but\nthe one black lock was drawn forward over her head, and she was dipping\nand dipping it into the dank waters. And every time she drew the\ndripping lock from its stagnant bath, it glimmered with an unearthly\nphosphorescence, that shed a ghostly light upon the hollow, and all\nthat it contained. And at each dipping the lock of hair came out\nblacker than before.\n\nAt last she was done, and she slowly squeezed the water from her\nunnatural tress, and laid it back in its place among the gold. And then\nshe stretched her arms and sighed so heavily that the crawling\ncreatures by the pool were startled. But less started than she, when\nlifting her head she saw the eyes of Hobb looking down on her. And such\nterror came into her own eyes that the look rang on his heart as though\nit had been a cry. Yet not a sound issued between her lips. And he said\nto himself, \"Now I need more wisdom than I have ever had.\" And he\ncontinued to look steadily at her with eyes that she could not read.\nAnd presently he spoke.\n\n\"We have some promises to redeem to-night,\" he said, \"and we will\nredeem them now. You promised me my perfect golden rose, and this night\nI am going out of Open Winkins and back to my own Burgh. And to-morrow,\nsince I now know something of your power of gifts, I shall find the\nrose upon my hill, and in exchange for it I will keep my word and give\nyou back yourself. But there is something more than this.\" And he went\na little apart, and soon came back to her with his jerkin undone and\nhis shirt in his hand. \"You have my brothers' shirts and here is mine,\"\nhe said. \"To-night when I am gone you shall return to Open Winkins, and\nspend the hours in taking out the work you have put into their shirts.\nAnd in the morning when I meet them at the Burgh I shall know if you\nhave done this. But in exchange for theirs I give you mine to do with\nas you will. And the only other thing I ask of you is this; that when\nyou have taken out the work in their shirts, you will spend the day in\nmaking a white garment for the lady who will one day be my wife. And\nwhatever other embroidery you put upon it, let it bear on the left\nbreast a golden rose. And to-morrow night, if all is well at the Burgh,\nI will come here for the last time and fetch it from you.\"\n\nThen Hobb laid his shirt beside her on the ground, and turned and went\naway. And she had not even tried to speak to him.\n\nWhen Hobb got out of the Red Copse he presently found a road and\nfollowed it, hoping for the best. After awhile he saw a tramp asleep in\na ditch, and woke him and asked him the way to the Burgh of the Five\nLords. But the tramp had never heard of it. So then Hobb asked the way\nto Firle, and the tramp said \"That's another matter,\" for Sussex tramps\nknow all the beacons of the Downs, and he told him to go east. Which\nHobb did, walking without rest through the night and dawn and day, here\nand there getting a lift that helped him forward. And in his heart he\ncarried hope like a lovely flower, but under it a quick pain like a\nreptile's sting that felt to him like death. And he would not give way\nto the pain, but went as fast and as steadily as he could; and at last,\nwith strained eyes and aching feet, and limbs he could scarcely drag\nfor weariness, and the dust of many miles upon his shoes and clothes,\nhe came to his own bare country and the Burgh. He rested heavily on the\ngate, and the first thing he saw was Lionel on the steps, laughing and\nplaying with a litter of young puppies. And the next was Hugh climbing\nthe castle wall to get an arrow that had lodged in a high chink. And\nout of a window leaned Heriot in all his young beauty, picking sweet\nclusters of the seven-sisters roses that climbed to his room. And in\nthe doorway sat Ambrose, with a book on his knee, but his eyes fixed on\nthe gate. And when he saw Hobb standing there he came quickly down the\nsteps, calling to the others, \"Lionel! Hugh! Heriot! our brother has\ncome home.\" And Lionel rushed through the puppies, and Hugh dropped\nbodily from the wall, and Heriot leaped through the window. And the\nfour boys clung to Hobb and kissed him and wrung his hands, and seemed\nas they would fight for very possession of him. And Hobb, with his arms\nabout the younger boys, and Heriot's hand in his, leaned his forehead\non Ambrose's cheek, and Ambrose felt his face grow wet with Hobb's\ntears. Then Ambrose looked at him with apprehension, and said in a low\nvoice, \"Hobb, what have you lost?\" And Hobb understood him. And he\nanswered in a voice as low, \"My heart. But I have found my four\nbrothers.\" They took him in and prepared a bath and fresh clothes for\nhim, and a meal was ready when he was refreshed. He came among them\nsteady and calm again, and the three youngest had nothing but rejoicing\nfor him. And he saw that all memory of what had happened had been\nwashed from them. But with Ambrose it was different, for he who had had\nhis very mind effaced, in recovering his mind remembered all. And after\nthe meal he took Hobb aside and said, \"Tell me what has happened to\nyou.\"\n\nThen Hobb said, \"Some things happen which are between two people only,\nand they can never be told. And what has passed in this last month,\ndear Ambrose, is only for her knowledge and mine. But as to what is\ngoing to happen, I do not yet know.\"\n\nAfter a moment's silence Ambrose said, \"Tell me this at least. Has she\ngiven you a gift?\"\n\n\"She has given me you again,\" said Hobb.\n\n\"That is different,\" said Ambrose. \"She has given us ourselves again,\nand our power to pursue the destiny of our natures. But no man is\nanother man's destiny. And it was our error to barter our own powers to\nanother in exchange for the small goals our natures desired. And so we\nlost a treasure for a trifle. For every man's power is greater than the\nthing he achieves by it. But what has she given you in exchange for\nwhat she has taken from you?\" And as he spoke he looked into Hobb's\ngentle eyes, and thought that if he had lost his heart it was a loss\nthat had somehow multiplied his possession of it. \"What has she given\nyou?\" he said again.\n\n\"I shall not know,\" said Hobb, \"until I have been to my garden. And I\nmust go alone. And afterwards, Ambrose, I must ride away for another\nnight and day, but then I will return to the Burgh for ever.\"\n\nSo he got his horse, and went to the Gardener's Hill, and his garden\nwas blazing with flowers like a joyous welcome. But when he approached\nthe bush on which his heart was set, he saw a great gold bloom upon it\nthat startled him with its beauty; until coming closer he perceived\nthat all the petals were rotten at the heart, and coiled in the center\nwas a small black snake.\n\nHe plucked the rose from its stem, and as he looked at it his face grew\nbright, and he suddenly laughed aloud for joy; and he ran out of the\ngarden and got on his horse, and rode with all his speed to Open\nWinkins. When he got there the moon had risen over the Pilleygreen\nLodges.\n\nAnd Margaret sat at the door of her lodge in the moonlight, putting the\nlast stitches into her work.\n\nBut when she saw him coming she broke her thread, and rose and averted\nher head. Then Hobb dismounted and came and stood beside her, and saw\nthat in some way she was changed from the woman he knew. Margaret,\nstill not turning to him, muttered, \"Do not look at me, please. For I\nam ugly and unhappy and afraid and nearly mad. And here are your\nbrothers' shirts.\" She gave him the four shirts, restored to\nthemselves. He took them silently. \"And here,\" continued Margaret, \"is\nher wedding-smock.\"\n\nAnd Hobb took it from her, and saw that out of his own shirt, washed\nand bleached, she had made a lovely garment. And round it, from the hem\nupward, ran a climbing briar of exquisite delicacy, and with a\nbeautiful design of spines and leaves; but the only flower upon it was\na golden rose, worked on the heart of the smock in her own gold hair.\nAnd Hobb took it from her and again said nothing.\n\nThen Margaret with a great cry, as though her heart were breaking,\ngasped, \"Go! go quickly! I have done what you wanted. Go!\"\n\n\"Yes, dear,\" said Hobb, \"but you must come with me.\"\n\nShe turned then, whispering, \"How can I go with you? What do you mean?\"\nAnd she looked in his eyes and saw in them such infinite compassion and\ntenderness that she was overwhelmed, and swayed where she stood. And\nthen his arms, which she had never expected to feel again, closed round\nher body, and she lay helplessly against him, and heard him say, \"Love\nMargaret, you are my only love, and you worked the wedding-smock for\nyourself. Oh, Margaret, did you think I had another love?\"\n\nShe looked at him blankly as though she could not understand, and her\nface was full of wonder and joy and fright. And she hung away from him\nsobbing, \"No, no, no! I cannot. I must not. I am not good enough.\"\n\n\"Which of us is good enough?\" said Hobb. \"So then we must all come to\nlove for help.\"\n\nAnd she cried again in an agony, \"No, no, no! There is evil in me. And\nI lived alone and had nothing, nothing that ever lasted, for I was born\non High and Over in the crossways of the winds, and they were the\ngodfathers of my birth. And all my life they have blown things to and\nfrom me. And I tried to keep what they blew me; and I gave their\nhearts' desire to all comers, and took in exchange the best they could\ngive me; for I thought that if it was fair for them to take, it was\nfair for me to take too. But nothing that I took mattered longer than a\nweek or a day or an hour, neither laughter nor courage nor beauty nor\nwisdom--all, all were unstable till the winds blew me you. And as I\nlooked at you lying there unconscious, something, I knew not what,\nseemed different from anything I had ever known, but when you opened\nyour eyes I knew what it was, and my heart seemed to fly from my body.\nAnd I longed, as I had never longed with the others, to give you your\nsoul's desire, and I have tried and tried, and I could not. I could not\ngive you anything at all, but every hour of the day and night I seemed\nto be taking from you. And yet what you had to give me was never\nexhausted. And the evil in me often fought against you, when I dreaded\nyour knowing the truth about me, and would have lied my soul away to\nkeep you from knowing it; and when I was jealous of your love for your\nbrothers. So again and again I failed, when I should have thought of\nnothing but that you loved me as I loved you. For did I not know of my\nown love that it could never give you cause to be jealous, nor would\never shrink from any truth it might know of you?--but now--but\nnow!--oh, my heart, had I known, when you spoke last night of your\nbride, that I was she! I will never be she! I was not good enough. I\nfought myself in vain.\" And she drooped in his arms, nearly fainting.\n\n\"Love Margaret!\" said Hobb, and the tears ran down his face, \"I will\nfight for you, yes, and you will fight for me. And if you have\nsacrificed joy and courage and beauty and wisdom for my sake, I will\ngive them all to you again; and yet you must also give them to me, for\nthey are things in which without you I am wanting. But together we can\nmake them. And when I went to my garden this morning, I thanked God\nthat my rose was not perfect, and that you had not taken my heart, as\nyou had taken joy and courage and beauty and wisdom, as a penalty for a\ngift. Their desires you could give them, and take their best in\npayment, but mine you could not give me in the same way. For in love\nthere are no penalties and no payments, and what is given is\nindistinguishable from what is received.\" And he bent his head and\nkissed her long and deeply, and in that kiss neither knew themselves,\nor even each other, but something beyond all consciousness that was\nboth of them.\n\nPresently Hobb said, \"Now let us go away from Open Winkins together,\nand I will take you to the Burgh. But you must go as my bride.\"\n\nAnd Margaret, pale as death from that long kiss, withdrew herself very\nslowly from his arms. And her dark eyes looked strange in the moonlight\nas he had never seen them, and more beautiful, with a beauty beyond\nbeauty; and deep joy too was in them, and an infinite wisdom, and a\nstrength of courage, that seemed more than courage, wisdom and joy, for\nthey had come from the very fountain of all these things. And very\nslowly, with that unfading look, she took off her black gown and put on\nthe white bridal-smock she had made; and as soon as she had put it on\nshe fell dead at his feet.\n\n\n(\"I think,\" said Martin Pippin, \"that you have now had plenty of time,\nMistress Jessica, to ponder my riddle.\"\n\n\"Your riddle?\" exclaimed Jessica. \"But--good heavens! bother your\nriddle! get on with the story.\"\n\n\"How can I get on with it?\" said Martin. \"It's got there.\"\n\nJoscelyn: No, no, no! oh, it's impossible! oh, I can't bear it! oh, how\nangry I am with you!\n\nMartin: Dear Mistress Joscelyn, why are you so agitated?\n\nJoscelyn: I? I am not at all agitated. I am quite collected. I only\nwish you were as collected, for I think you must be out of your wits.\nHow DARE you leave this story where it is? How dare you!\n\nMartin: Dear, dear Mistress Joscelyn, what more is there to be told?\n\nJoscelyn: I do not care what more is to be told. Only some of it must\nbe re-told. You must bring that girl instantly to life!\n\nJoyce: Of course you must! And explain why she died, though she mustn't\ndie.\n\nJennifer: No, indeed! and if it had to do with her black hair, you must\npluck it out by the roots.\n\nJessica: Yes, indeed! and you must do something about the horrible pool\nin the Red Copse, for perhaps that is what killed her.\n\nJane: Oh, it is too dreadful not to have a story with a wedding in it!\n\nAnd little Joan leaned out of her branch and took Martin's hand in\nhers, and looked at him pleadingly, and said nothing.\n\n\"Will women NEVER let a man make a thing in his own way?\" said Martin.\n\"Will they ALWAYS be adding and changing this detail and that? For what\na detail is death once lovers have kissed. However--!\")\n\n\nNot less than yourselves, my silly dears, was Hobb overwhelmed by that\ndown-sinking of his love Margaret. And he fell on his knees beside her,\nand took her in his arms, and put his hand over the rose on her heart,\nthat had ceased to beat. Suddenly it seemed to him that his hand had\nbeen stung, and he drew it away quickly, his eyes on the golden rose.\nAnd where she had left it just incomplete at his coming, he saw a\njet-black speck. A light broke over him swiftly, and one by one he\nbroke the strands at the rose's heart, and under it revealed a small\nblack snake; and as the rose had been done from her own gold locks, so\nthe snake had been done from the one black lock in the gold. Then at\nlast Hobb understood why she had cried she was not good enough to be\nhis bride, for she had fought in vain her last dark impulse to prepare\ndeath for the woman who should wear the bridal-smock. And he understood\ntoo the meaning of her last wonderful look, as she took the death upon\nherself. And he loved her, both for her fault and her redemption of it,\nmore than he had ever thought that he could love her; for he had\nbelieved that in their kiss love had reached its uttermost. But love\nhas no uttermost, as the stars have no number and the sea no rest.\n\nNow at first Hobb thought to pluck the serpent from her breast, but\nthen he said, \"Of what use to destroy the children of evil? It is evil\nitself we must destroy at the roots.\" And very carefully he undid her\nbeautiful hair, and laid its two gold waves on either side; but the\nslim black tress he gathered up in his hand until he held every hair of\nit, and one by one he plucked them from her head. And every time he\nplucked a hair the pain that had been under his heart stabbed him with\na sting that seemed like death, and with each sting the mortal agony\ngrew more acute, till it was as though the powers of evil were spitting\nburning venom on that steadfast heart, to wither it before it could\nfrustrate them. But he did not falter once; and as he plucked the last\nhair out, Margaret opened her eyes. Then all pain leapt like a winged\nsnake from his heart, and he forgot everything but the joy and wonder\nin her eyes as she lay looking up at him, and said, \"What has happened\nto me? and what have you done?\" And she saw the tress in his hand and\nunderstood, and she kissed the hand that had plucked the evil from her.\nThen, her smoky eyes shining with tears, but a smile on her pale lips,\nshe said, \"Come, and we will drown that hair for ever.\" So hand-in-hand\nthey went across Open Winkins and over the way that led to the Red\nCopse. And as they pushed and scrambled through the bushes, what do you\nthink they saw? First a shimmering light round the edge of the pool,\nand then a sheet of moon-daisies, the largest, whitest, purest blooms\nthat ever were. And they stood there on their tall straight stems of\ntender green in hundreds and hundreds, guarding and sanctifying the\nplace. It was like a dark cathedral with white lilies on the high\naltar. And they saw a cock blackbird wetting his whistle at the pool,\nand heard two others and a green woodpecker chuckling in the trees\nclose by. And they had no eyes for slimy goblin things, even if there\nwere any. And I don't believe there were.\n\nThey bound the black tress about a stone, and it sank among the\nreflections of the daisies in the water, there to be purified for ever.\nAnd the next day he put her behind him on his horse, and they rode to\nthe garden on the eastern hills, and found on his bush a single perfect\nrose. And as she had given it to him, Hobb straightway plucked and gave\nit to her. For that is the only way to possess a gift.\n\nAnd then they went together to the Burgh, and very soon after there was\na wedding.\n\nI am now all impatience, Mistress Jessica, to hear you solve my riddle.\n\n\n\nFOURTH INTERLUDE\n\nLike contented mice, the milkmaids began once more to nibble at their\nhalf-finished apples, and simultaneously nibbled at the just-finished\nstory.\n\nJessica: Do, pray, Jane, let us hear what conclusions you draw from all\nthis.\n\nJane: I confess, Jessica, I am all at sea. The good and the evil were\nso confused in this tale that even now I can scarcely distinguish\nbetween black and gold. For had Margaret not done ill, who would have\ndiscovered how well Hobb could do? Yet who would wish her, or any\nwoman, to do ill? even for the proof of his, or any man's, good?\n\nMartin: True, Mistress Jane. Yet women are so strangely constructed\nthat they have in them darkness as well as light, though it be but a\nlittle curtain hung across the sun. And love is the hand that takes the\ncurtain down, a stronger hand than fear, which hung it up. For all the\nill that is in us comes from fear, and all the good from love. And\nwhere there is fear to combat, love is life's warrior; but where there\nis no fear he is life's priest. And his prayer is even stronger than\nhis sword. But men, always less aware of prayers than of blows,\nrecognize him chiefly when he is in arms, and so are deluded into\nthinking that love depends on fear to prove his force. But this is a\nfallacy; love's force is independent. For how can what is immortal\ndepend on what is mortal? Yet human beings must, by the very fact of\nbeing alive at all, partake of both qualities. And strongly opposed as\nwe shall find the complexing elements of light and darkness in a woman,\nstill more strongly opposed shall we discover them in a man. As I\npresume I have no need to tell you.\n\nJoscelyn: You presume too much. The elements that go to make a man are\nnot to our taste.\n\nMartin: My story I hope was so.\n\nJoscelyn: To some extent. And this pool in the Red Copse, is it hard to\nfind?\n\nMartin: Neither harder nor easier than all fairies' secrets. And at\ncertain times in summer, when the wood is altogether lovely with\ncentaury and purple loosestrife, you can hardly miss the pool for the\nfairies that flock there.\n\nJoyce: What dresses do they wear?\n\nMartin: The most beautiful in the world. The dresses of White Admirals\nand Red, and Silver-Washed Fritillaries and Pearl-Bordered\nFritillaries, and Large Whites and Small Whites and Marbled Whites and\nGreen-Veined Whites, and Ringlets, and Azure Blues, and Painted Ladies,\nand Meadow Browns. And they go there for a Feast Day in honor of some\nSaint of the Fairies' Church. Which Hobb and Margaret also attended\nonce yearly on each first of August, bringing a golden rose to lay upon\nthe altars of the pool. And the year in which they brought it no more,\ntwo Sulphurs, with dresses like sunlight on a charlock-field, came with\nthe rest to the moon-daisies' Feast; because not once in all their\nyears of marriage had the perfect rose been lacking.\n\nJessica: It relieves me to hear that. For I had dreaded lest their rose\nwas blighted for ever.\n\nJane: And I too, Jessica. Especially when she died at his feet.\n\nJoan: And yet, Jane, she did not really die, and somehow I was sure she\nwould live.\n\nJoyce: Yes, I was confident that Hobb would be as happy as he deserved\nto be.\n\nJennifer: I do not know why, but even at the worst I could not imagine\na love-story ending in tears.\n\nMartin: Neither could I. Since love's spear is for woe and his shield\nfor joy. Why, I know of but one thing that could have lost him that\nbattle.\n\nThree of the Milkmaids: What thing?\n\nMartin: Had the elements that go to make a man not been to Margaret's\ntaste.\n\n\nConversation ceased in the Apple-Orchard.\n\n\nJoscelyn: Her taste would have been the more commendable, singer. And\nyour tale might have been the better worth listening to. But since\ntales have nothing in common with truth, it's a matter of indifference\nto me whether Hobb's rose suffered perpetual blight or not.\n\nJane: And to me.\n\nMartin: Then let the tale wilt, since indifference is a blight no story\ncan suffer and live. And see! overhead the moon hangs undecided under a\ncloud, one half of her lovely body unveiled, the other half draped in a\nghostly garment lit from within by the beauties she still keeps\nconcealed; like a maid half-ready for her pillow, turned motionless on\nthe brink of her couch by the oncoming dreams to which she so soon will\nwholly yield herself. Let us not linger, for her chamber is sacred, and\nwe too have dreams that await our up-yielding.\n\n\nLike a flock of clouds at sundown, the milkmaids made a golden group\nupon the grass, and soon, by their breathing, had sunk into their\nslumbers. All but Jessica, who instead of following their example,\npushed the ground with her foot to keep herself in motion; and as she\nswung she bit a strand of her hair and knitted her brows. And Martin\namused himself watching her. And presently as she swung she plucked a\nleaf from the apple-tree and looked at it, and let it go. And then she\nsnapped off a twig, and flung it after the leaf. And next she caught at\nan apple, and tossed it after the twig.\n\n\"Well?\" said Martin Pippin.\n\n\"Don't be in such a hurry,\" said Jessica. She got off the swing and\nwalked round the tree, touching it here and there. And all of a sudden\nshe threw an arm up into the branches and leaned the whole weight of\nher body against the trunk, and began to whistle.\n\n\"Give it up?\" said Martin Pippin.\n\n\"Stupid!\" said Jessica. \"I've guessed it.\"\n\n\"Impossible!\" said Martin. \"Nobody ever guesses riddles. Riddles were\nonly invented to be given up. Because the pleasure of not being guessed\nis so much greater than the pleasure of having guessed. Do give it up\nand let me tell you the answer. Even if you know the answer, please,\nplease give it up, for I am dying to tell it you.\"\n\n\"I shall never have saved a young man's life easier,\" said Jessica,\n\"and as you saved mine before the story, I suppose I ought to save\nyours after it. How often, by the way, have you saved a lady's life?\"\n\n\"As often as she thought herself in danger of losing it,\" said Martin.\n\"It happens every other minute with ladies, who are always dying to\nhave, or to do, or to know--this thing or that.\"\n\n\"I hope,\" said Jessica, \"I shall not die before I know everything there\nis to know.\"\n\n\"What a small wish,\" said Martin.\n\n\"Have you a bigger one?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said he; \"to know everything, there is not to know.\"\n\nJessica: Oh, but those are the only things I do know.\n\nMartin: It is a knowledge common to women.\n\nJessica: How do YOU know?\n\nMartin: I'm sure I don't know.\n\nJessica: I don't think, Master Pippin, that you know a great deal about\nwomen.\n\nAnd she put out her tongue at him.\n\nMartin: (Take care!) I know nothing at all about women.\n\nJessica: (Why?) Yet you pretend to tell love-stories.\n\nMartin: (Because if you do that I can't answer for the consequences.)\nIt is only by women's help that I tell them at all.\n\nJessica: (I'm not afraid of consequences. I'm not afraid of anything.)\nWho helped you tell this one?\n\nMartin: (Your courage will have to be tested.) You did.\n\nJessica: Did I? How?\n\nMartin: Because what you love in an apple-tree is not the leaf or the\nflower or the bough or the fruit--it is the apple-tree. Which is all of\nthe things and everything besides; for it is the roots and the rind and\nthe sap, it is motion and rest and color and shape and scent, and the\nshadows on the earth and the lights in the air--and still I have not\nsaid what the tree is that you love, for thought I should recapitulate\nit through the four seasons I should only be telling you those parts,\nnone of which is what you love in an apple-tree. For no one can love\nthe part more than the whole till love can be measured in pint-pots.\nAnd who can measure fountains? That's the answer, Mistress Jessica. I\nknew you'd have to give it up. (Take care, child, take care!)\n\nJessica: (I won't take care!). I knew the answer all the time.\n\nMartin: Then you know what your apple-tree has to do with my story.\n\nJessica: Yes, I suppose so.\n\nMartin: Please tell me.\n\nJessica: No.\n\nMartin: But I give it up.\n\nJessica: No.\n\nMartin: That's not fair. People who give it up must always be told, in\ntriumph if not in pity.\n\nJessica: I sha'n't tell.\n\nMartin: You don't know.\n\nJessica: I'll box your ears.\n\nMartin: If you do--!\n\nJessica: Quarreling's silly.\n\nMartin: Who began it?\n\nJessica: You did. Men always do.\n\nMartin: Always. What was the beginning of your quarrel with men?\n\nJessica: They say girls can't throw straight.\n\nMartin: Silly asses! I'd like to see them throw as straight as girls.\nDid you ever watch them at it? Men can throw straight in one direction\nonly--but watch a girl! she'll throw straight all round the compass.\nWhy, a man will throw straight at the moon and miss it by the eighth of\nan inch; but a girl will throw at the sun and hit the moon as straight\nas a die. I never saw a girl throw yet without straightway finding some\nmark or other.\n\nJessica: Yes, but you can't convince a man till he's hit.\n\nMartin: Hit him then.\n\nJessica: It didn't convince him. He said I'd missed. And he said he had\nhi--he wasn't convinced.\n\nMartin: Did he really say that? These men can no more talk straight\nthan throw straight. Can you talk straight, Jessica?\n\nJessica: Yes, Martin.\n\nMartin: Then tell me what your apple-tree has to do with my story.\n\nJessica: Bother. All right. Because wisdom and beauty and courage and\nlaughter can all be measured in pint-pots. And any or all of these\nthings can be dipped out of a fountain. You thought I didn't know, but\nI do know.\n\nMartin: (Take care!) Where did you get all this knowledge?\n\nJessica: And that was why Margaret could take what she took from Lionel\nand Hugh and Heriot and Ambrose, because it was something measurable.\nYes, because even a gay spirit can be sad at times, and a strong nerve\nweak, and a beautiful face ugly, and a clever brain dull. But when it\ncame to taking what Hobb had, she could take and take without\nexhausting it, and give and give and always have something left to\ngive, because that wasn't measurable. And the tree is the tree, and\nlove is never anything else but love.\n\nMartin: Oh, Jessica! who has been your schoolmaster?\n\nJessica: And so when she threw away her four pints what did it matter,\nany more than when the tree loses its leaves, or its flowers, or snaps\na twig, or drops its apples? For though nobody else thought them lovely\nor clever or witty or splendid, she and Hobb were so to each other for\never and ever; because--\n\nMartin: Because?\n\nJessica: It doesn't matter. I've told you enough, and you thought I\ncouldn't tell you anything, and I simply hated saying it, but you\nthought I couldn't throw straight and I can, and your riddle was as\nsimple as pie.\n\nMartin: (Look out, I tell you!) You have thrown as straight as a die.\nAnd now I will ask you a straight question. Will you give me your key\nto Gillian's prison?\n\nJessica: Yes.\n\nMartin: Because you dreaded lest Hobb's rose was blighted for ever?\n\nJessica: No. Because it's a shame she should be there at all.\n\n\nAnd she gave him the key.\n\n\nMartin: You honest dear.\n\nJessica: You thought I was going to beg the question--didn't you,\nMartin?\n\nMartin: Put in your tongue, or--\n\nJessica: Or what?\n\nMartin: You know what.\n\nJessica: I don't know what.\n\nMartin: Then you must take the consequences.\n\n\nAnd she took the consequences on both cheeks.\n\n\nJessica: Oh! Oh, if I had guessed you meant that, do you suppose for a\nmoment that I would have--?\n\nMartin: You dishonest dear.\n\nJessica: I don't know what you mean.\n\nMartin: How crooked girls throw!\n\nShe boxed his ears heartily and ran to her comrades. When she was\nperfectly safe she turned round and put out her tongue at him.\n\nThen they both lay down and went to sleep.\n\n\nMartin was wakened by water squeezed on his eyelids. He looked up and\nsaw Joscelyn wringing out her little handkerchief in the pannikin.\n\n\"Let us have no nonsense this morning,\" said she.\n\n\"I like that!\" mumbled Martin. \"What's this but nonsense?\" He sat up,\ndrying his face on his sleeve. \"What a silly trick,\" he said.\n\n\"Rubbish,\" said Joscelyn. \"Our master is due, and yesterday you\noverslept yourself and were troublesome. Go to your tree this instant.\"\n\n\"I shall go when I choose,\" said Martin.\n\n\"Maids! maids! maids!\"\n\n\"This instant!\" said Joscelyn, and dipped her handkerchief in the\npannikin.\n\nMartin crawled into the tree.\n\n\"Is a dog got into the orchard, maids?\" said Old Gillman, looking\nthrough the hedge.\n\n\"What an idea, master,\" said Joscelyn.\n\n\"I thought I seed one wagging his tail in the grass.\"\n\nThe girls burst out laughing; they laughed till the apples shook, and\nOld Gillman laughed too, because laughter is catching. And then he\nstopped laughing and said, \"Is an echo got into the orchard?\"\n\nAnd the startled girls laughed louder than ever, and they grew red in\nthe face, and tears stood in their eyes, and Joscelyn had to go and\nlean against the russet tree, where she stood frowning like a\nstepmother.\n\n\"Tis well to be laughing,\" said Old Gillman, \"but have ye heard my\ndaughter laughing yet?\"\n\n\"No, master,\" said Jessica, \"but I shouldn't wonder if it happened any\nday.\"\n\n\"Any day may be no day,\" groaned Gillman, \"and though it were some day,\nas like as not I'd not be here to see the day. For I'm drinking myself\ninto my grave, as Parson warned me yesternight, coming for my receipt\nfor mulled beer. Gillian!\" he implored, \"when will ye think better of\nit, and save an old man's life?\"\n\nBut for all the notice she took of him, he might have been the dog\nbarking in his kennel.\n\n\"Bitter bread for me, maids, and sweet bread for you,\" said the farmer,\npassing the loaves through the gap. \"Tis plain fare for all these days.\nMay the morrow bring cake.\"\n\n\"Oh, master, please!\" called Jessica. \"I would like to know how Clover,\nthe Aberdeen, gets on without me.\"\n\n\"Gets on as best she can with Oliver,\" said Gillman, \"though that\nfretty at times  tis as well for him she's polled. Yet all he says is\nPatience.' But I say, will patience keep us all from rack and ruin?\"\n\nAnd he went away shaking his head.\n\n\"Why did you laugh?\" stormed Joscelyn, as soon as he was out of earshot.\n\n\"How could I help it?\" pleaded Martin. \"When the old man laughed\nbecause you laughed, and you laughed for another reason--hadn't I a\nthird reason to laugh? But how you glared at me! I am sorry I laughed.\nLet us have breakfast.\"\n\n\"You think of nothing but mealtimes,\" said Joscelyn crossly; and she\ncarried Gillian's bread to the Well-House, where she discovered only\nthe little round top of yesterday's loaf. For every crumb of the bigger\nhalf had been eaten. So Joscelyn came away all smiles, tossing the ball\nof bread in the air, and saying as she caught it, \"I do believe Gillian\nis forgetting her sorrow.\"\n\n\"I am certain of it,\" agreed Martin, clapping his hands. And she flung\nthe top of the loaf to his right, and he made a great leap to the left\nand caught it. And then he threw it to Jessica, who tossed it to Joan,\nwho sent it to Joyce, who whirled it to Jennifer, who spun it to Jane,\nwho missed it. And all the girls ran to pick it up first, but Martin\nwith a dexterous kick landed it in the duckpond, where the drake got\nit. And he and the ducks squabbled over it during the next hour, while\nMartin and the milkmaids breakfasted on bread and apples with no\nsquabbling and great good spirits.\n\nAnd after breakfast Martin lay on his back, chewing a grassblade and\ncounting the florets on another, whispering to himself as he plucked\nthem one by one. And the girls watched him. He did it several times\nwith several blades of grass, and always looked disappointed at the end.\n\n\"Won't it come right?\" asked little Joan.\n\n\"Won't what come right?\" said Martin.\n\n\"Oh, I know what you're doing,\" said little Joan; and she too plucked a\nblade and began to count--\n\n  \"Tinker,\n  Tailor,\n  Soldier,\n  Sailor\"--\n\n\"I'm sure I wasn't,\" said Martin. \"Tailor indeed!\"\n\n\"Well, something like that,\" said Joan.\n\n\"Nothing at all like that. Oh, Mistress Joan! a tailor. Why, even if I\nwere a maid like yourselves, do you think I'd give fate the chance to\nset me on my husband's cross-knees for the rest of my life?\"\n\n\"What would you do then if you were a maid?\" asked Joyce.\n\n\"If I were a town-maid,\" said Martin, \"I should choose the most\ndelightful husbands in the city streets.\" And plucking a fresh blade he\ncounted aloud,\n\n  Ballad-\n  singer,\n  Churchbell-\n  ringer,\n  Chimneysweep,\n  Muffin-man,\n  Lamplighter,\n  King!\n  Ballad-\n  singer,\n  Churchbell-\n  ringer,\n  Chimneysweep\"--\n\n\"There, Mistress Joyce,\" said Martin Pippin, \"I should marry a Sweep\nand sit in the tall chimneys and see stars by daylight.\"\n\n\"Oh, let me try!\" cried Joyce.\n\nAnd--\"Let me!\" cried five other voices at once.\n\nSo he chose each girl a blade, and she counted her fate on it, with\nMartin to prompt her. And Jessica got the Chimney-sweep, and vowed she\nsaw Orion's belt round the sun, and Jennifer got the Lamplighter and\nlooked sorrowful, for she too wished to see stars in the morning; but\nMartin consoled her by saying that she would make the dark to shine,\nand set whispering lights in the fog, when men had none other to see\nby. And Joyce got the Muffin-man, and Martin told her that wherever she\nwent men, women, and children would run to their snowy doorsteps, for\nshe would be as welcome as swallows in spring. And Jane got the\nBell-Ringer, and Martin said an angel must have blessed her birth,\nsince she was to live and die with the peals of heaven in her ears. And\nJoscelyn got the Ballad-Singer.\n\n\"What about Ballad-Singers, Master Pippin?\" asked Joscelyn.\n\n\"Nothing at all about Ballad-Singers,\" said Martin. \"They're a poor\nlot. I'm sorry for you.\"\n\nAnd Joscelyn threw her stripped blade away saying, \"It's only a silly\ngame.\"\n\nBut little Joan got the King. And she looked at Martin, and he smiled\nat her, and had no need to say anything, because a king is a king. And\nsuddenly every girl must needs grow out of sorts with her fate, and\nfind other blades to count, until each one had achieved a king to her\nsatisfaction. All but Joscelyn, who said she didn't care.\n\n\"You are quite right,\" said Martin, \"because none of this applies to\nany of you. These are town-fortunes, and you are country-maids.\"\n\nAnd he plucked a new blade, reciting,\n\n  Mower,\n  Reaper,\n  Poacher,\n  Keeper,\n  Cowman,\n  Thatcher,\n  Plowman,\n  Herd.\"\n\n\"How dull!\" said Jessica. \"These are men for every day.\"\n\n\"So is a husband,\" said Martin. \"And to your town-girls, who no longer\nsee romance in a Chimneysweep, your Poacher's a Pirate and your\nShepherd a Poet. Could you not find it in your heart, Mistress Jessica,\nto put up with a Thatcher?\"\n\n\"That's enough of husbands,\" said Jessica.\n\n\"Then what of houses?\" said Martin. \"Where shall we live when we're\nwed?--\n\n  'Under a thatch,\n  In a ship's hatch,\n  An inn, a castle,\n  A brown paper parcel'--\n\n\"Stuff and nonsense!\" said Joscelyn.\n\n\"For the sake of the rime,\" begged Martin. But the girls were not\ninterested in houses. Yet the rest of the morning they went searching\nthe orchard for the grass of fortune, and not telling. But once Martin,\ncoming behind Jessica, distinctly heard her murmur \"Thatcher!\" and\nsmile. And at another time he saw Joyce deliberately count her blade\nbefore beginning, and nip off a floret, and then begin; and the end was\n\"Plowman.\" And presently little Joan came and knelt beside him where he\nsat counting on his own behalf, and said timidly, \"Martin.\"\n\n\"Yes, dear?\" said Martin absentmindedly.\n\n\"Oh. Martin, is it very wicked to poach?\"\n\n\"The best men all do it,\" said Martin.\n\n\"Oh. Please, what are you counting?\"\n\n\n\"You swear you won't tell?\" said Martin, with a side-glance at her.\n\nShe shook her head, and he pulled at his grass whispering--\n\n  Jennifer,\n  Jessica,\n  Jane,\n  Joan,\n  Joyce,\n  Joscelyn,\n  Gillian--\"\n\n\"And the last one?\" said little Joan, with a rosy face; for he had\npaused at the eighth.\n\n\"Sh!\" said Martin, and stuck his blade behind his ear and called\n\"Dinner!\"\n\nSo they came to dinner.\n\n\"Have you not found,\" said Martin, \"that after thinking all the morning\nit is necessary to jump all the afternoon?\" And he got the ropes of the\nswing and began to skip with great clumsiness, always failing before\nten, and catching the cord round his ankles. At which the girls plied\nhim with derision, and said they would show him how. And Jane showed\nhim how to skip forwards, and Jessica how to skip backwards, and\nJennifer how to skip with both feet and stay in one spot, and Joyce how\nto skip on either foot, on a run. And Joscelyn showed him how to skip\nwith the rope crossed and uncrossed by turns. But little Joan showed\nhim how to skip so high and so lightly that she could whirl the rope\ntwice under her feet before they came down to earth like birds. And\nthen the girls took the ropes by turns, ringing the changes on all\nthese ways of skipping; or two of them would turn a rope for the\nothers, while they skipped the games of their grandmothers: \"Cross the\nBible,\" \"All in together,\" \"Lady, lady, drop your purse!\" and\n\"Cinderella lost her shoe;\" or they turned two ropes at once for the\nDouble Dutch; and Martin took his run with the rest. And at first he\ndid very badly, but as the day wore on improved, until by evening he\nwas whirling the rope three times under his feet that glanced against\neach other in mid-air like the knife and the steel. And the girls\nclapped their hands because they couldn't help it, and Joan said\nbreathlessly:\n\n\"How quick you are! it took me ten days to do that.\"\n\nAnd Martin answered breathlessly, \"How quick you were! it took me ten\nyears.\"\n\n\"Are you ever honest about anything, Master Pippin?\" said Joscelyn\npetulantly.\n\n\"Three times a day,\" said Martin, \"I am honestly hungry.\"\n\nSo they had supper.\n\nSupper done, they clustered as usual about the story-telling tree, and\nMartin looked inquiringly from Jane to Joscelyn and from Joscelyn to\nJane. And Joscelyn's expression was one of uncontrolled indifference,\nand Jane's expression was one of bridled excitement. So Martin ignored\nJoscelyn and asked Jane what she was thinking about.\n\n\"A great number of things, Master Pippin,\" said she. \"There is always\nso much to think about.\"\n\n\"Is there?\" said Martin.\n\n\"Oh, surely you know there is. How could you tell stories else?\"\n\n\"I never think when I tell stories,\" said Martin. \"I give them a push\nand let them swing.\"\n\n\"Oh but,\" said Jane, \"it is very dangerous to speak without thinking.\nOne might say anything.\"\n\n\"One does,\" agreed Martin, \"and then anything happens. But people who\nthink before speaking often end by saying nothing. And so nothing\nhappens.\"\n\n\"Perhaps it's as well,\" said Joyce slyly.\n\n\"Yet the world must go round, Mistress Joyce. And swings were made to\nswing. Do you think, Mistress Jane, if you sat in the swing I should\nthink twice, or even once, before giving it a push?\"\n\nJane considered this, and then said gravely, \"I think, Master Pippin,\nyou would have to think at least once before pushing the swing\nto-night; because it isn't there.\"\n\n\"What a wise little milkmaid you are,\" said Martin, looking about for\nthe skipping-ropes.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Jessica, \"Jane is wiser than any of us. She is extremely\nwise. I wonder you hadn't noticed it.\"\n\n\"Oh, but I had,\" said Martin earnestly, fixing the swinging ropes to\ntheir places. \"There, Mistress Jane, let me help you in, and I will\ngive you a push.\"\n\nHe offered her his hand respectfully, and Jane took it saying, \"I don't\nlike swinging very high.\"\n\n\"I will think before I push,\" said Martin. And when she was settled,\nwith her skirts in order and her little feet tucked back, he rocked the\nswing so gently that not an apple fell nor a milkmaid slipped,\nclambering to her place. And Martin leaned back in his and shut his\neyes.\n\n\"We are waiting,\" observed Joscelyn overhead.\n\n\"So am I,\" sighed Martin.\n\n\"For what?\"\n\n\"For a push.\"\n\n\"But you're not swinging.\"\n\n\"Neither's my story. And it will take seven pair of arms to set it\ngoing.\" And he fixed his eyes on Gillian in her sorrow, but she did not\nlift her face.\n\n\"Here's six to start the motion of themselves,\" said Joscelyn, \"and it\nonly remains to you to attract the seventh willy-nilly.\"\n\n\"It were easier,\" said Martin, \"to unlock Saint Peter's Gates with\ncowslips.\"\n\n\"I was not talking of impossibilities, Master Pippin,\" said Joscelyn.\n\n\"Why, neither was I,\" said Martin; \"for did you never hear that\ncowslips, among all the golden flowers of spring, are the Keys of\nHeaven?\"\n\nAnd sending a little chime from his lute across the Well-House he sang--\n\n  She lost the keys of heaven\n    Walking in a shadow,\n    Sighing for her lad O\n  She lost her keys of heaven.\n  She saw the boys and girls who flocked\n  Beyond the gates all barred and locked--\n  And oh! sighed she, the locks are seven\n    Betwixt me and my lad O,\n  And I have lost my keys of heaven\n    Walking in a shadow.\n       She found the keys of heaven\n    All in a May meadow,\n    Singing for her lad O\n  She found her keys of heaven.\n  She found them made of cowslip gold\n  Springing seven-thousandfold--\n  And oh! sang she, ere fall of even\n    Shall I not be wed O?\n  For I have found my keys of heaven\n    All in a May meadow.\n\nBy the end of the song Gillian was kneeling upright among the mallows,\nand with her hands clasped under her chin was gazing across the\nduckpond.\n\n\"Well, well!\" exclaimed Joscelyn, \"cowslips may, or may not, have the\npower to unlock the heavenly gates. But there's no denying that a very\nsilly song has unlocked our Mistress's lethargy. So I advise you to\nseize the occasion to swing your tale on its way.\"\n\n\"Then here goes,\" said Martin, \"and I only pray you to set your\nsympathies also in motion while I endeavor to keep them going with the\nstory of Proud Rosalind and the Hart-Royal.\"\n\n\nPROUD ROSALIND AND THE HART-ROYAL\n\nThere was once, dear maidens, a man-of-all-trades who lived by the\nFerry at Bury. And nobody knew where he came from. For the chief of his\ntrades he was an armorer, for it was in the far-away times when men\nthought danger could only be faced and honor won in a case of steel;\nnot having learned that either against danger or for honor the naked\nheart is the fittest wear. So this man, whose name was Harding, kept\nhis fires going for men's needs, and women's too; for besides making\nand mending swords and knives and greaves for the one, he would also\nmake brooches and buckles and chains for the other; and tools for the\npeasants. They sometimes called him the Red Smith. In person Harding\nwas ruddy, though his fairness differed from the fairness of the\nnatives, and his speech was not wholly their speech. He was a man of\nmighty brawn and stature, his eyes gleamed like blue ice seen under a\nfierce sun, the hair of his head and his beard glittered like red gold,\nand the finer hair on his great arms and breast overlaid with an amber\nsheen the red-bronze of his skin. He seemed a man made to move the\nmountains of the world; yet truth to tell, he was a most indifferent\nsmith.\n\n\n(Martin: Are you not quite comfortable, Mistress Jane?\n\nJane: I am perfectly comfortable, thank you, Master Pippin.\n\nMartin: I fancied you were a trifle unsettled.\n\nJane: No, indeed. What would unsettle me?\n\nMartin: I haven't the ghost of a notion.)\n\n\nI have heard gossips tell, but it has since been forgotten or\ndiscredited, that this part of the river was then known as Wayland's\nFerry; for this, it was said, was one of the several places in England\nwhere the spirit lurked of Wayland the Smith, who was the cunningest\nworker in metal ever told of in song or story, and he had come overseas\nfrom the North where men worshiped him as a god. No one in Bury had\never seen the shape of Wayland, but all believed in him devoutly, for\nthis was told of him, and truly: that any one coming to the ferry with\nan unshod steed had only to lay a penny on the ground and cry aloud,\n\"Wayland Smith, shoe me my horse!\" and so withdraw. And on coming again\nhe would find his horse shod with a craft unknown to human hands, and\nhis penny gone. And nobody thought of attributing to Harding the work\nof Wayland, partly because no human smith would have worked for so mean\na fee as was accepted by the god, and chiefly because the quality of\nthe workmanship of the man and the god was as dissimilar as that of\nclay and gold.\n\nBesides his trade in metal, Harding also plied the ferry; and then men\nwould speak of him as the Red Boatman. But he could not be depended on,\nfor he was often absent. His boat was of a curious shape, not like any\nother boat seen on the Arun. Its prow was curved like a bird's beak.\nAnd when folk wished to go across to the Amberley flats that lie under\nthe splendid shell which was once a castle, Harding would carry them,\nif he was there and neither too busy nor too surly. And when they asked\nthe fee he always said, \"When I work in metal I take metal. But for\nthat which flows I take only that which flows. So give me whatever you\nhave heart to give, as long as it is not coin.\" And they gave him\nwillingly anything they had: a flower, or an egg, or a bird's feather.\nA child once gave him her curl, and a man his hand.\n\nAnd when he was neither in his workshop or his boat, he hunted on the\nhills. But this was a trade he put to no man's service. Harding hunted\nonly for himself. And because he served his own pleasure more\npassionately than he served others', and was oftener seen with his bow\nthan with hammer or oar, he was chiefly known as the Red Hunter. Often\nin the late of the year he would be away on the great hills of Bury and\nBignor and Houghton and Rewell, with their beech-woods burning on their\nsides and in their hollows, and their rolling shoulders lifted out of\nthose autumn fires to meet in freedom the freedom of the clouds.\n\nIt was on one of his huntings he came on the Wishing-Pool. This pool\nhad for long been a legend in the neighborhood, and it was said that\nwhoever had courage to seek it in the hour before midnight on Midsummer\nEve, and thrice utter her wish aloud, would surely have that wish\ngranted within the year. But with time it had become a lost secret,\nperhaps because its ancient reputation as the haunt of goblin things\nhad long since sapped the courage of the maidens of those parts; and\nonly great-grandmothers remembered how that once their grandmothers had\ntried their fortunes there. And its whereabouts had been forgotten.\n\nBut one September Harding saw a calf-stag on Great Down. There were\nwild deer on the hills then, but such a calf he had never seen before.\nSo he stalked it over Madehurst and Rewell, and followed it into the\nthick of Rewell Wood. And when it led him to its drinking-place, he\nknew that he had discovered one more secret of the hills, and that this\nsomber mere wherein strange waters bubbled in whispers could be no\nother than the lost Wishing-Pool. The young calf might have been its\nmagic guard. To Harding it was a discovery more precious than the mere.\nFor all that it was of the first year, with its prickets only showing\nwhere its antlers would branch in time, it was of a breed so fine and a\nbuild so noble that its matchless noon could already be foretold from\nits matchless dawn; and added to all its strength and grace and beauty\nwas this last marvel, that though it was of the tribe of the Red Deer,\nits skin was as white and speckless as falling snow. Watching it, the\nRed Smith said to himself, \"Not yet my quarry. You are of king's stock,\nand if after the sixth year you show twelve points, you shall be for\nme. But first, my hart-royal, you shall get your growth.\" And he came\naway and told no man of the calf or of the pool.\n\nAnd in the second year he watched for it by the mere, and saw it come\nto drink, no longer a calf, but a lovely brocket, with its brow antlers\nmaking its first two points. And in the third year he watched for it\nagain, no brocket now but a splendid spayade, which to its brows had\nadded its shooting bays; and in the fourth year the spayade had become\na proud young staggarde, with its trays above its bays. And in the\nfifth year the staggarde was a full-named stag, crowned with the\nexquisite twin crowns of its crockets, surmounting tray and bay and\nbrow. And Harding lying hidden gloried in it, thinking, \"All your\npoints now but two, my quarry. And next year you shall add the beam to\nthe crown, and I will hunt my hart.\"\n\nNow at the time when Harding first saw the calf, and the ruin of the\ncastle across the ferry was only a ruin, not fit for habitation, it was\nnevertheless inhabited by the Proud Rosalind, who dwelt there without\nkith or kin. And if time had crumbled the castle to its last nobility,\nso that all that was strong and beautiful in it was preserved and, as\nit were, exposed in nakedness to the eyes of men: so in her, who was\nthe ruins of her family, was preserved and exposed all that had been\nmost noble, strong and beautiful in her race. She was as poor as she\nwas friendless, but her pride outmatched both these things. So great\nwas her pride that she learned to endure shame for the sake of it. She\nhad a tall straight figure that was both strong and graceful, and she\ncarried herself like a tree. Her hair was neither bronze nor gold nor\ncopper, yet seemed to be an alloy of all the precious mines of the\nturning year--the vigorous dusky gold of November elms, the rust of\ndead bracken made living by heavy rains, the color of beechmast\ndrenched with sunlight after frost, and all the layers of glory on the\nboughs before it fell, when it needed neither sun nor dew to make it\nglow. All these could be seen in different lights upon her heavy hair,\nwhich when unbound hung as low as her knees. Her thick brows were dark\ngold, and her fearless eyes dark gray with gold gleams in them. They\nmay have been reflections from her lashes, or even from her skin, which\nhad upon it the bloom of a golden plum. Dim ages since her fathers had\nbeen kings in Sussex; gradually their estate had diminished, but with\nthe lessening of their worldly possessions they burnished the brighter\nthe possession of their honor, and bred the care of it in their\nchildren jealously. So it came to pass that Rosalind, who possessed\nless than any serf or yeoman in the countryside, trod among these as\nthough she were a queen, dreaming of a degree which she had never\nknown, ignored or shrugged at by those whom she accounted her equals,\ninsulted or gibed at by those she thought her inferiors. For the\ndwellers in the neighboring hamlets, to whom the story of her fathers'\nfathers was only a legend, saw in her just a shabby girl, less worthy\nthan themselves because much poorer, whose pride and very beauty\naroused their mockery and wrath. They did not dispute her possession of\nthe castle. For what to them were four vast roofless walls, enclosing a\nsquare of greensward underfoot and another of blue air overhead, and\npierced with doorless doorways and windowless casements that let in all\nthe lights of all the quarters of the sky? What to them were these\ntraces of old chambers etched on the surface of the old gray stone,\nthese fragments of lovely arches that were but channels for the winds?\nIn the thick of the great towered gateway one little room remained\nabove the arch, and here the maiden slept. And all her company was the\nghosts of her race. She saw them feasting in the halls of the air, and\nmoving on the courtyard of the grass. At night in the galleries of the\nstars she heard their singing; and often, looking through the empty\nwindows over the flats to which the great west wall dropped down, she\nsaw them ride in cavalcade out of the sunset, from battle or hunt or\ntourney. But the peasants, who did not know what she saw and heard,\npreferred their snug squalor to this shivering nobility, and despised\nthe girl who, in a fallen fortress, defended her life from theirs.\n\nAt first she had kept her distance with a kind of graciousness, but one\nday in her sixteenth year a certain boor met her under the castle wall\nas she was returning with sticks for kindling, and was struck by her\nfree and noble carriage; for though she was little more than a child,\nthrough all her rags she shone with the grace and splendor not only of\nher race, but of the wild life she lived on the hills when she was not\nin her ruins. She was as strong and fine as a young hind, and could run\nlike any deer upon the Downs, and climb like any squirrel. And the\ndull-sighted peasant, seeing as though for the first time her untamed\nbeauty, on an impulse offered to kiss her and make her his woman.\n\nRosalind stared at him like one aroused from sleep with a rude blow.\nThe color flamed in her cheek.  \"YOU to accost so one of my blood?\" she\ncried. \"Mongrel, go back to your kennel!\"\n\nThe lout gaped between rage and mortification, and, muttering, made a\nstep towards her; but suddenly seeming to think better of it, stumbled\naway.\n\nThen Rosalind, lifting her glowing face, as beautiful as sunset with\nits double flush, rose under gold, saw Harding the Red Hunter gazing at\nher. Some business had brought him over the ferry, and on his road he\nhad lit upon the suit and its rejection. Rosalind, her spirit chafed\nwith what had passed, returned his gaze haughtily. But he maintained\nhis steadfast look as though he had been hewn out of stone; and\npresently, impatient and disdainful, she turned away. Then, and\ninstantly, Harding pursued his way in silence. And Rosalind grew\nsomehow aware that he had determined to stand at gaze until her eyes\nwere lowered. Thereupon she classed his presumption with that of the\nother who had dared address her, and hated him for taking part against\nher. Near as their dwellings were, divided only by the river and a\nbreadth of water-meadow, their intercourse had always been of the\nslightest, for Harding possessed a reserve as great as her own. But\nfrom this hour their intercourse ceased entirely.\n\nThe boor mis-spread the tale of her overweening pride through the\nhamlet, and when next she appeared there she was greeted with derision.\n\n\"This is she that holds herself unfit to mate with an honest man!\"\ncried some. And others, \"Nay, do but see the silken gown of the great\nlady Rosalind, see the fine jewels of her!\" \"She thinks she outshines\nthe Queen of Bramber's self!\" scoffed a woman. And a man demanded,\n\"What blood's good enough to mix with hers, if ours be not?\"\n\n\"A king's!\" flashed Rosalind. And even as she spoke the jeering throng\nparted to let one by that elbowed his way among them; and a second time\nshe saw the Red Hunter come to halt and fix her before all the people.\nNow this time, she vowed silently, you may gaze till night fall and day\nrise again, Red Man, if you think to lower my eyes in the presence of\nthese! So she stood and looked him in the face like a queen, all her\nspirit nerving her, and the people knew it to be battle between them.\nHarding's great arms were folded across his breast, and on his\ncountenance was no expressiveness at all; but a strange light grew and\nbrightened in his eyes, till little by little all else was blurred and\nhazy in the girl's sight, and blue fire seemed to lap her from her\ntawny hair to her bare feet. Then she knew nothing except that she must\nlook away or burn. And her eyes fell. Harding walked past her as he had\ndone before, and not till he was out of hearing did the bystanders\nbegin their cruelty.\n\n\"A king's blood for the lady that droops to a common smith!\" cried they.\n\n\"She shall swing his hammer for a scepter!\" cried they.\n\n\"Shall sit on's anvil for a throne!\" cried they.\n\n\"Shall queen it in a leathern apron o' Sundays!\" cried they.\n\nRosalind fled amid their howls of laughter. She hated them all, and far\nbeyond them all she hated him who had lowered her head in their sight.\n\nIt was after this that the Proud Rosalind--\n\n\n(But here, without even trouble to finish his sentence, Martin Pippin\nsuddenly thrust with his foot at the seat of the swing, nearly\ndislodging Jane with the action; who screamed and clutched first at the\nropes, and next at the branches as she went up, and last of all at\nMartin as she came down. She clutched him so piteously that in pure\npity he clutched her, and lifting her bodily out of her peril set her\non his knee.\n\nMartin: (with great concern): Are you better, Mistress Jane?\n\nJane: Where are your manners, Master Pippin?\n\nMartin: My mother mislaid them before I was born. But are you better\nnow?\n\nJane: I am not sure. I was very much upset.\n\nMartin: So was I.\n\nJane: It was all your doing.\n\nMartin: I could have sworn it was half yours.\n\nJane: Who disturbed the swing, pray?\n\nMartin: Every effect proceeds from its cause. The swing was disturbed\nbecause I was disturbed.\n\nJane: Every cause once had its effect. What effected your disturbance,\nMaster Pippin?\n\nMartin: Yours, Mistress Jane.\n\nJane: Mine?\n\nMartin: Confess that you were disturbed.\n\nJane: Yes, and with good cause.\n\nMartin: I can't doubt it. Yet that was the mischief. I could find no\nlogical cause for your disturbance. And an illogical world proceeds\nfrom confusion to chaos. For want of a little logic my foot and your\nswing passed out of control.\n\nJane: The logic had only to be asked for, and it would have been\nforthcoming.\n\nMartin: Is it too late to ask?\n\nJane: It is never too late to be reasonable. But why am I sitting on--\nWhy am I sitting here?\n\nMartin: For the best of reasons. You are sitting where you are sitting\nbecause the swing is so disturbed. Please teach me to be reasonable,\ndear Mistress Jane. Why were you disturbed?\n\nJane: Very well. I was naturally greatly disturbed to learn that your\nheroine hated your hero. Because it is your errand to relate\nlove-stories; and I cannot see the connection between love and hate.\nCould two things more antagonistic conclude in union?\n\nMartin: Yes.\n\nJane: What?\n\nMartin: A button and buttonhole. For one is something and the other\nnothing, and what in the very nature of things could be more\nantagonistic than these?\n\nSo saying, he tore a button from his shirt and put it into her hand.\n\"Don't drop it,\" said Martin, \"because I haven't another; and besides,\nevery button-hole prefers its own button. Yet I will never ask you to\nre-unite them until my tale proves to your satisfaction that out of\nantagonisms unions can spring.\"\n\n\"Very well,\" said Jane; and she took out of her pocket a neat little\nhousewife and put the button carefully inside it. Then she said, \"The\nswing is quite still now.\"\n\n\"But are you sure you feel better?\" said Martin.\n\n\"Yes, thank you,\" said Jane.)\n\n\nIt was after this (said Martin) that the Proud Rosalind became known by\nher title. It was fastened on her in derision, and when she heard it\nshe set her lips and thought: \"What they speak in mockery shall be the\ntruth.\" And the more men sought to shame her, the prouder she bore\nherself. She ceased all commerce with them from this time. So for five\nyears she lived in great loneliness and want.\n\nBut gradually she came to know that even this existence of friendless\nwant was not to be life, but a continual struggle-with-death. For she\nhad no resources, and was put to bitter shifts if she would live.\nHunger nosed at her door, and she had need of her pride to clothe her.\nFor the more she went wan and naked, the more men mocked her to see her\nhold herself so high; and out of their hearts she shut that charity\nwhich she would never have endured of them. If she had gone kneeling to\ntheir doors with pitiful hands, saying, \"I starve, not having\nwherewithal to eat; I perish, not having wherewithal to cover me\"--they\nwould perhaps have fed and clothed her, aglow with self-content. But\nthey were not prompt with the charity which warms the object only and\nnot the donor; and she on her part tried to appear as though she needed\nnothing at their hands.\n\nOne evening when the woods were in full leaf, and summer on the edge of\nits zenith, Proud Rosalind walked among the trees seeking green herbs\nfor soup. She had wandered far afield, because there were no woods near\nthe castle, standing on its high ground above the open flats and the\nriver beyond. But gazing over the water she could see the groves and\ncrests upon the hills where some sustenance was. The swift way was over\nthe river, but there was no boat to serve her except Harding's; and\nthis was a service she had never asked of old, and lately would rather\nhave died than ask. So she took daily to the winding roads that led to\na distant bridge and the hills with their forests. This day her need\nwas at its sorest. When she had gathered a meager crop she sat down\nunder a tree, and began to sort out the herbs upon her knees. One\ntender leaf she could not resist taking between her teeth, that had had\nso little else of late to bite on; and as she did so coarse laughter\nbroke upon her. It was her rude suitor who had chanced across her path,\nand he mocked at her, crying, \"This is the Proud Rosalind that will not\neat at an honest man's board, choosing rather to dine after the high\nfashion of the kine and asses!\" Then from his pouch he snatched a crust\nof bread and flung it to her, and said, \"Proud Rosalind, will you stoop\nfor your supper?\"\n\nShe rose, letting the precious herbs drop from her lap, and she trod\nthem into the earth as weeds gathered at hazard, so that the putting of\nthe leaf between her lips might wear an idle aspect; and then she\nwalked away, with her head very high. But she was nearly desperate at\nleaving them there, and when she was alone her pain of hunger increased\nbeyond all bounds. And she sat down on the limb of a great beech and\nleaned her brow against his mighty body, and shut her eyes, while the\nlight changed in the sky. And presently the leaves of the forest were\nlit by the moon instead of the sun, and the spaces in the top boughs\nwere dark blue instead of saffron, and the small clouds were no longer\nfragments of amber, but bits of mottled pearl seen through sea-water.\nBut Rosalind witnessed none of these slow changes, and when after a\ngreat while she lifted her faint head, she saw only that the day was\nchanged to night. And on the other side of the beech-tree, touched with\nmoonlight, a motionless white stag stood watching her. It was a hart of\nthe sixth year, and stood already higher than any hart of the twelfth;\nfull five foot high it stood, and its grand soft shining flanks seemed\nto be molded of marble for their grandeur, and silk for their\nsmoothness, and moonlight for their sheen. Its new antlers were\nbranching towards their yearly strength, and the triple-pointed crowns\nrose proudly from the beam that was their last perfection. The eyes of\nthe girl and the beast met full, and neither wavered. The hart came to\nher noiselessly, and laid its muzzle on her hair, and when she put her\nhand on its pure side it arched its noble neck and licked her cheek.\nThen, stepping as proudly and as delicately as Rosalind's self, it\nmoved on through the trees; and she followed it.\n\nThe forest changed from beech to pine and fir. It deepened and grew\nstrange to her. She did not know it. And the light of the sky turned\nhere from silver to gray, and she felt about her the stir of unseen\nthings. But she looked neither to the right nor the left, but followed\nthe snow-white hart that went before her. It brought her at last to its\nown drinking-place, and as soon as she saw it old rumors gathered\nthemselves into a truth, and she knew that this was the lost\nWishing-Pool. And she remembered that this night was Midsummer Eve, and\nby the position of the ghostly moon she saw it was close on midnight.\nSo she knelt down by the edge of the mere, and stretched her hands\nabove it, the palms to the stars, and in a low clear voice she made her\nprayer.\n\n\"Whatever spirit dwells under these waters,\" said she, \"I know not\nwhether you are a power for good or ill. But if it is true that you\nwill answer in this hour the need of any that calls on you--oh, Spirit,\nmy need is very great to-night. Hunger is bitter in my body, and my\nstrength is nearly wasted. A hind cast me his crust to-day, and five\nhours I have battled with myself not to creep back to the place where\nit still lies and eat of that vile bread. I do not fear to die, but I\nfear to die of my hunger lest they sneer at the last of my race brought\nlow to so mean a death. Neither will I die by my own act, lest they\nthink my courage broken by these breaking days. On my knees,\" said she,\n\"I beseech you to send me in some wise a little money, if it be but a\nhandful of pennies now and then throughout the year, so that I may keep\nmy head unbowed. Or if this is too much to ask, and even of you the\nasking is not easy, then send some high and sudden accident of death to\nblot me out before I grow too humble, and the lofty spirits of my\nfathers deny one whose spirit ends as lowly as their dust. Death or\nlife I beg of you, and I care not which you send.\"\n\nThen clasping her hands tightly, she called twice more her plea across\nthe mere: \"Spirit of these waters, grant me life or death! Oh, Spirit,\ngrant me life or death!\"\n\nThere was a stir in the forest as she made an end, and she remained\nstock still, waiting and wondering. But though she knelt there till the\nmoon had crossed the bar of midnight, nothing happened.\n\nThen the white hart, which had lain beside the water while she prayed,\nrose silently and drank; and when it was satisfied, laid once more its\nmuzzle on her hair and licked her cheek again and moved away. Not a\ntwig snapped under its slender stepping. Its whiteness was soon covered\nby the blackness.\n\nFaint and exhausted, Rosalind arose. She dragged herself through the\nwood and presently found the broad road that curled down the deserted\nhill and over the bridge, and at last by a branching lane to her ruined\ndwelling. The door of her tower creaked desolately to and fro a little,\nopen as she had left it. She pushed it further ajar and stumbled in and\nup the narrow stair. But the pale moonlight entered her chamber with\nher, silvering the oaken stump that was her table; and there, where\nthere had been nothing, she beheld two little heaps of copper coins.\n\nThe gold year waned, and the next passed from white to green; and in\nthe gold Harding began to hunt his hart, and by the green had not\nsucceeded in bringing it to bay. Twice he had seen it at a distance on\nthe hills, and once had started it from cover in Coombe Wood and\nfollowed it through the Denture and Stammers, Great Bottom and Gumber,\nEarthem Wood and Long Down, Nore Hill and Little Down; and at Punchbowl\nGreen he lost it. He did not care. A long chase had whetted him, and he\nhad waited so long that he was willing to wait another year, and if\nneed were two or three, for his royal quarry. He knew it must be his at\nlast, and he loved it the more for the speed and strength and cunning\nwith which it defied him. It had a secret lair he could never discover;\nbut one day that secret too should be his own. Meanwhile his blood was\nheated, and the Red Hunter dreamed of the hart and of one other thing.\n\nAnd while he dreamed Proud Rosalind grew glad and strong on her\nmiraculous dole of money, that was always to her hand when she had need\nof it. Fear went out of her life, for she knew certainly now that she\nwas in the keeping of unseen powers, and would not lack again. And\nlittle by little she too began to build a dream out of her pride; for\nshe thought, I am all my fathers' house, and there will be no honor to\nit more except that which can come through me. And whenever tales went\nabout of the fame of the fair young Queen of Bramber Castle, and the\ncrowning of her name in this tourney and in that, or of the great lords\nand princes that would have died for one smile of her (yet her smiles\ncame easily, and her kisses too, men said), Rosalind knit her brows,\nand her longing grew a little stronger, and she thought: If arrows and\nsteel might once flash lightnings about my father's daughter, and\ncleave the shadows that have hung their webs about my fathers' hearth!\n\nShe now began to put by a little hoard of pennies, for she meant to buy\nflax to spin the finest of linen for her body, and purple for sleeves\nfor her arms, and scarlet leather for shoes for her feet, and gold for\na fillet for her head; and so, attired at last as became her birth, one\nday to attend a tourney where perhaps some knight would fight his\nbattle in her name. And she had no other thought in this than glory to\nher dead race. But her precious store mounted slowly; and she had laid\nby nothing but the money for the fine linen for her robe, when a thing\nhappened that shattered her last foothold among men.\n\nFor suddenly all the countryside was alive with a strange rumor. Some\none had seen a hart upon the hills, a hart of twelve points, fit for\nroyal hunting. Kings will hunt no lesser game than this. But this of\nall harts was surely born to be hunted only by a maiden queen, for,\nsaid the rumor, it was as white as snow. Such a hart had never before\nbeen heard of, and at first the tale of it was not believed. But the\ntale was repeated from mouth to mouth until at last all men swore to it\nand all winds carried it; and amongst others some wind of the Downs\nbore it across the land from Arun to Adur, and so it reached the ears\nof Queen Maudlin of Bramber. Then she, a creature of quick whims, who\nwas sated with the easy conquests of her beauty, yet eager always for\ntriumphs to cap triumphs, devised a journey from Adur to Arun, and a\ngreat summer season of revelry to end in an autumn chase. \"And,\" said\nshe, \"we will have joustings and dancings in beauty's honor, but she\nwhose knight at the end of all brings her the antlers of the snow-white\nhart shall be known for ever in Sussex as the queen of beauty; since,\nonce I have hunted it, the hart will be hart-royal.\" For this, as\nperhaps you know, dear maidens, is the degree of any hart that has been\nchased by royalty.\n\nHowever, before the festival was undertaken, the Queen of Bramber must\nneeds know if the Arun could show any habitation worthy of her; and her\nmessengers went and came with a tale of a noble castle fallen into\nruins, but with its four-square walls intact, and a sward within so\nsmooth and fair that it seemed only to await the coming of archers and\ndancers. So the Queen called a legion of workmen and bade them go there\nand build a dwelling in one part of the green court for her to stay in\nwith her company. \"And see it be done by midsummer,\" said she.\n\"Castles, madam,\" said the head workman, \"are not built in a month, or\neven in two.\" \"Then for a frolic we'll be commoners,\" said the Queen,\n\"and you shall build on the sward not a castle, but a farm.\" So the\nworkmen hurried away, and set to work; and by June they had raised\nwithin the castle walls the most beautiful farmhouse in Sussex; and\nover the door made a room fit for a queen.\n\nBut alas for Proud Rosalind!\n\nWhen the men first came she confronted them angrily and commanded them\nto depart from her fathers' halls. And the head workman looked at the\nruin and her rags and said, \"What halls, girl? and where are these\nfathers? and who are you?\"--and bade his men get about the Queen's\nwork. And Rosalind was helpless. The men from the Adur asked the people\nof the Arun about her, and what rights she had to be where she was. And\nthey, being unfriendly to her, said, \"None. She is a beggar with a bee\nin her bonnet, and thinks she was once a queen because her housing was\nonce a castle. She has been suffered to stay as long as it was\nunwanted; but since your Queen wants it, now let her go.\" And they came\nin a body to drive her forth. But they got there too late. The Proud\nRosalind had abandoned her conquered stronghold, and where she lived\nfrom this time nobody knew. She was still seen on the roads and hills\nnow and again, and once as she passed through Bury on washing-day the\nwomen by the river called to her, \"Where do you live now, Proud\nRosalind, instead of in a castle?\" And Rosalind glanced down at the\nkneeling women and said in her clear voice, \"I live in a castle nobler\nthan Bramber's, or even than Amberley's; I live in the mightiest castle\nin Sussex, and Queen Maudlin herself could not build such another to\nlive in.\"\n\n\"Then you'll doubtless be making her a great entertainment there, Proud\nRosalind,\" scoffed the washers.\n\n\"I entertain none but the kings of the earth there,\" said Rosalind. And\nshe made to walk on.\n\n\"Why then,\" mocked they, \"you'd best seek one out to hunt the white\nhart in your name this autumn, and crown you queen over young Maudlin,\nProud Rosalind.\"\n\nAnd Rosalind stopped and looked at them, longing to say, \"The white\nhart? What do you mean?\" Yet for all her longing to know, she could not\nbring herself to ask anything of them. But as though her thoughts had\ntaken voice of themselves, she heard the sharp questions uttered aloud,\n\"What white hart, chatterers? Of what hunt are you talking?\" And there\nin mid-stream stood Harding in his boat, keeping it steady with the\ngreat pole of the oar.\n\n\"Why, Red Boatman,\" said they, \"did you not know that the Queen of\nBramber was coming to make merry at Amberley?\"\n\n\"Ay,\" said Harding.\n\n\"And that our proud lady Rosalind, having, it seems, found a grander\ncastle to live in, has given hers up to young Maudlin?\"\n\nHarding glanced to and from the scornful tawny girl and said, \"Well?\"\n\n\"Well, Red Boatman! On Midsummer Eve the Queen comes with her court,\nand on Midsummer Day there will be a great tourney to open the revels\nthat will last, so they say, all through summer. But the end of it all\nis to be a great chase, for a white hart of twelve points has been seen\non the hills, and the Queen will hunt it in autumn till some lucky lord\nkneels at her feet with its antlers; and him, they say, she'll marry.\"\n\nThen Harding once more looked at Rosalind over the water, and she flung\nback a look at him, and each was surprised to see dismay on the other's\nbrow. And Harding thought, \"Is she angry because SHE is not the Queen\nof the chase?\" And Rosalind, \"Would HE be the lord who kneels to Queen\nMaudlin?\" But neither knew that the trouble in each was really because\ntheir precious secret was now public, and the white hart endangered.\nAnd Rosalind's thought was, \"It shall be no Queen's quarry!\" And\nHarding's, \"It shall be no man's but mine!\" Then Harding plied his way\nto the ferry, and Rosalind went hers to none knew where; though some\nhad tried vainly to track her.\n\nIn due course June passed its middle, and the Queen rode under the\nDowns from Bramber to Amberley. And early on Midsummer Eve, while her\nservants made busy about the coming festival, Queen Maudlin went over\nthe fields to the waterside and lay in the grass looking to Bury, and\nteased some seven of her court, each of whom had sworn to bring her the\nCrown of Beauty at his sword's point on the morrow. Her four maidens\nwere with her, all maids of great loveliness. There was Linoret who was\nlike morning dew on grass in spring, and Clarimond queenly as day at\nits noon, and Damarel like a rose grown languorous of its own grace,\nand Amelys, mysterious as the spirit of dusk with dreams in its hair.\nBut Maudlin was the pale gold wonder of the dawn, a creature of\nethereal light, a vision of melting stars and wakening flowers. And she\ndelighted in making seem cheap the palpable prettiness of this, or too\nrobust the fuller beauty of that, or dim and dull the elusive charm of\nsuch-an-one. She would have scorned to set her beauty to compete with\nthose who were not beautiful, even as a proved knight would scorn to\njoust with an unskilled boor. So now amongst her beautiful attendants,\nknowing that in their midst her greater beauty shone forth a diamond\namong crystals, she laughed at her seven lovers; and her four friends\nlaughed with her.\n\n\"You do well, Queen Maudlin, to make merry,\" said one of the knights,\n\"for I know none that gains so much service for so little portion. What\nwill you give to-morrow's victor?\"\n\n\"What will to-morrow's victor think his due?\" said she.\n\nThe seven said in a breath, \"A kiss!\" and the five laughed louder than\never.\n\nThen Maudlin said, \"For so great an honor as victory, I should feel\nashamed to bestow a thing of such little worth.\"\n\n\"Do you call that thing a little worth,\" said one, \"which to us were\nmore than a star plucked out of heaven?\"\n\n\"The thing, it is true,\" said Maudlin, \"has two values. Those who are\nover-eager make it a thing of naught, those from whom it is hard-won\nrender it priceless. But, sirs, you are all too eager, I could scatter\nyou baubles by the hour and leave you still desiring. But if ever I\nwooed reluctance to receive at last my solitary favor, I should know I\nwas bestowing a jewel.\"\n\n\"When did Maudlin ever meet reluctance?\" sighed one, the youngest.\n\nA long shadow fell upon her where she lay in the grass, and she looked\nup to see the great form of Harding passing at a little distance.\n\n\"Who is that?\" said she.\n\n\"It must be he they call the Red Smith,\" said Damarel idly.\n\n\"He looks a rough, silent creature,\" remarked Amelys. And Clarimond\nadded in loud and insolent tones, \"He knows little enough of kissings,\nI would wager this clasp.\"\n\n\"It's one I've a fancy for,\" said young Queen Maudlin. \"Red Smith!\"\ncalled she.\n\nHarding turned at the sweet sound of her voice, and came and stood\nbeside her among the group of girls and knights.\n\n\"Have you come from my castle?\" said she, smiling up at him with her\ndawn-blue eyes.\n\n\"Ay,\" he answered.\n\n\"What drew you there, big man? My serving-wench?\"\n\nThe Red Smith stared down at her light alluring loveliness.\n\"Serving-wenches do not draw me.\"\n\n\"What metal then? Gold?\" Maudlin tossed him a yellow disc from her\npurse. He let it fall and lie.\n\n\"No, nor gold.\" His eyes traveled over her gleaming locks. \"The things\nyou name are too cheap,\" said he.\n\nMaudlin smiled a little and raised herself, till she stood, fair and\nslender, as high as his shoulder.\n\n\"What thing draws you, Red Smith?\"\n\n\"Steel.\" And he showed her a fine sword-blade, lacking its hilt. \"I was\nsent for to mend this against the morrow.\"\n\n\"I know that blade,\" said Maudlin, \"it was snapped in my cause. Have\nyou the hilt too?\"\n\n\"In my pouch,\" said Harding, his hand upon it.\n\nHers touched his fingers delicately. \"I will see it.\"\n\nHe brushed her hand aside and unbuttoned his pouch; but as he drew out\nthe hilt of the broken sword, she caught a glimpse of that within which\nheld her startled gaze.\n\n\"What jewels are those?\" she asked quickly.\n\n\"Old relics,\" Harding said with sudden gruffness.\n\n\"Show them to me!\"\n\nReluctantly he obeyed, and brought forth a ring, a circlet, and a\ngirdle of surpassing workmanship, wrought in gold thick-crusted with\nemeralds. A cry of wonder went up from all the maidens.\n\n\"There's something else,\" said Maudlin; and without waiting thrust her\nhand into the bottom of the pouch and drew out a mesh of silver. It was\nso fine that it could be held and hidden in her two hands; yet when it\nfell apart it was a garment, as supple as rich silk. The four maids\ntouched it softly and looked their longings.\n\n\"Are these your handicraft?\" said Maudlin.\n\n\"Mine?\" Harding uttered a short laugh. \"Not I or any man can make such\nthings.\"\n\n\"You are right,\" said Maudlin. \"Wayland's self might acknowledge them.\nSmith, I will buy them of you.\"\n\n\"You cannot give me my price.\"\n\n\"Gold I know does not tempt you.\" She smiled and came close beside him.\n\n\"Then do not offer it.\"\n\n\"Shall it be steel?\"\n\nHarding's eyes swept her flower-like beauty. \"Not from Queen Maudlin.\"\n\n\"True. My bid is costlier.\"\n\n\"Name it.\"\n\n\"A kiss from my mouth.\"\n\nAt the sound of his laughter the rose flowed into her cheek.\n\n\"What, a bauble for my jewel, too-eager lady?\" he said harshly. \"Do the\nwomen of this land hold themselves so light? In mine men carve their\nkisses with the sword. Hark ye, young Queen! set a better value on that\nred mouth if you'd continue to have it valued.\"\n\n\"I could have you whipped for this,\" said Maudlin.\n\n\"I do not think so,\" Harding answered, and stepped down the river-bank\ninto his waiting boat.\n\n\"I keep my clasp,\" said Clarimond.\n\nSeven men sprang hotly to their feet. \"What's your will, Queen?\"\n\n\"Nothing,\" said Maudlin slowly, as she watched him row over the water.\n\"Let the smith go. This test was between him and me and no man's\nbusiness else. Well, he is of a temper to come through fire unmelted.\"\nShe flashed a smile upon the seven that made them tremble. \"But he is a\nmannerless churl, we will not think of him. Which among YOU would spurn\nmy kiss?\" She offered her mouth in turn, and seven flames passed over\nits scarlet. Maudlin laughed a little and beckoned her watching maids.\n\"Well!\" she said, taking the path to the castle, \"He that had had\nstrength to refuse me might have worn my favor to-morrow and for ever.\"\n\nAnd meanwhile by the further river-bank came Rosalind, with mushrooms\nin her skirt. And as she walked by the water in the evening she looked\nacross to her lost castle-walls, and touched the pennies in her pouch\nand dreamed, while the sun dressed the running flood in his royalest\ncolors.\n\n\"Linen and purple and scarlet and gold,\" mused she; \"and so I might sit\nthere to-morrow among the rest. But linen and purple!\" she said in\nscorn, \"what should they profit my fathers' house? It is no silken\ndaughter we lack, but a son of steel.\"\n\nAnd as she pondered a shadow crossed her, and out of his boat stepped\nHarding, new from his encounter with the Queen. He did not glance at\nher nor she at him; but the gleam of the broken weapon he carried cut\nfor a single instant across her sight, and her hands hungered for it.\n\n\"A sword!\" thought she. \"Ay, but an arm to wield the sword. Nay, if I\nhad the sword it may be I could find an arm to wield it.\" She dropped\nher chin on her breast, and brooded on the vanishing shape of the Red\nSmith. \"If I had been my fathers' son--oh!\" cried she, shaken with new\ndreams, \"what would I not give to the man who would strike a blow for\nour house?\"\n\nThen she recalled what day it was. A year of miracles and changes had\nsped over her life; if she desired new miracles, this was the night to\nask them.\n\nSo close on midnight Proud Rosalind once more crept up to Rewell Wood;\nand on its beechen skirts the white hart came to her. It came now as to\na friend, not to a stranger. And she threw her arm over its neck, and\nthey walked together. As they walked it lowered its noble antlers so\ncunningly that not a twig snapped from the boughs; and its antlers were\nas beautiful as the boughs with their branches and twigs, and to each\ncrown it had added not one, but two more crockets, so that now its\npoints were sixteen. Safe under its guard the maiden ventured into the\nmysteries of the hour, and when they came to the mere the hart lay down\nand she knelt beside it with her brow on its soft panting neck, and\nthought awhile how she would shape her wish. And feeling the strength\nof its sinews she said aloud, \"Oh, champion among stags! were there a\nchampion among men to match you, I think even I could love him. Yet\nlove is not my prayer. I do not pray for myself.\" And then she stood\nupright and stretched her hands towards the water and said again, less\nin supplication than command:\n\n\"Spirit, you hear--I do not pray for myself. Of old it may be maidens\noften came in sport or fear, to make a mid-summer pastime of their\nlove-dreams. Oh, Spirit! of love I ask nothing for myself. But if you\nwill send me a man to strike one blow in my name that is my fathers'\nname, he may have of me what he will!\"\n\nNever so proudly yet had the Proud Rosalind held herself as when she\nlifted her radiant face to the moon and sent her low clear call thrice\nover the mystic waters. Gloriously she stood with arms extended, as\nthough she would give welcome to any hero stepping through the night to\nconsummate her wish. But none came. Only the subdued rustling that had\nstirred the woods a year ago whispered out of the dark and died to\nsilence.\n\nThe arms of the Proud Rosalind dropped to her sides.\n\n\"Is the time not yet?\" said she, \"and will it never be? Why, then, let\nme belong for ever to the champion that strikes for me to-morrow in the\nlists. A sorry champion,\" said she a wan smile, \"yet I will hold me\nbound to him according to my vow. But first I must win him a sword.\"\n\nThen she kissed the white hart between the eyes and said, \"Go where you\nwill. I shall be gone till daylight.\" And it rose up to run the moonlit\nhills, and she went down through the trees, and left the Wishing-Pool\nto its unruffled peace.\n\nStraight down towards sleeping Bury Rosalind went, full of her purpose;\nand after an hour passed through the silent village.\n\nHer errand was not wholly easy to her, but she thought, \"I do not go to\nask favors, but plain dealings; and it must be done secretly or not at\nall.\" As she came near the ferry a red glow broke on her vision.\n\n\"Does the water burn?\" she said, and quickened her steps. To her\nsurprise she saw that Harding's forge was busy; the light she had seen\nsprang from it. She had expected to find it locked and silent, but now\nthe little space it held in the night was lit with fire and resounded\nwith the stroke of the Red Smith's hammer. Proud Rosalind stood fast as\nthough he were fashioning a spell to chain her eyes. And so he was, for\nhe hammered on a sword.\n\nHe did not turn his head at her approach; but when at last she stood\nbeside his door, and did not move away, he spoke to her.\n\n\"You walk late,\" said he.\n\n\"May not people walk late,\" said she, \"as well as work late?\"\n\nWithout answering he set himself to his task again and heeded her no\nmore. \"Smith!\" she cried imperiously.\n\n\"What then?\"\n\n\"I came to speak with you.\"\n\n\"Even so?\" She barely heard the words for the din of his great hammer.\n\n\"You are unmannerly, Smith.\"\n\n\"Speak then,\" said he, dropping his tools, \"and never forget, maid,\nthat it is not I invited this encounter.\"\n\nAt that she cried out hotly, \"Does not your shop invite trade?\"\n\n\"Ay; but what's that to you?\"\n\n\"My only purpose in talking with you,\" she said in a flame of wrath. \"I\nrequire what you have, but I would rather buy it of any man than you.\"\n\n\"What do you require?\"\n\n\"That!\" She pointed to the sword.\n\n\"I cannot sell it. It is a young knight's blade I am mending against\nthe jousting.\"\n\n\"Have you no other?\"\n\n\"You cannot give me my price,\" said the Red Smith.\n\nShe took from her girdle the little purse containing all her store. \"Do\nyou think I am here to bargain? There's more than your price.\"\n\n\"However much it be,\" said Harding, \"it is too little.\"\n\n\"Then say no more that I cannot buy of you, but rather that you will\nnot sell to me.\"\n\n\"And yet that is as the Proud Rosalind shall please.\"\n\nShe flushed deeply, and as though in shame of seeming ashamed said\nfirmly, \"No, Smith, it is not in my hands. For I have offered you every\npenny I possess.\"\n\n\"I do not ask for pence.\" Harding left his anvil and stepped outside\nand stood close, gazing hard upon her face. \"You have a thing I will\ntake in exchange for my sword, a very simple thing. Women part with it\nmost lightly, I have learned. The loveliest hold it cheap at the price\nof a golden gawd. How easily then will you barter it for an inch or so\nof steel!\"\n\n\"What need of so many words?\" she said with a scornful lip, that\nquivered in her own despite at his nearness. \"Name the thing you want.\"\n\n\"A kiss from your mouth, Proud Rosalind.\"\n\nIt was as though the request had turned her into ice. When she could\nspeak she said, \"Smith, for your inch of steel you have asked what I\nwould not part with to ransom my soul.\"\n\nShe turned and left him and Harding went back to his work and laughed\nsoftly in his beard. \"Dream on, my gold queen up yonder,\" said he, and\nblew on his waning fires. \"You are not the metal I work in,\" said he,\nand the river rang again to his hammer on the steel.\n\nBut Rosalind went rapidly down to the waterside saying in her heart,\n\"Now I will see whether I cannot get me a lordlier weapon of a better\ncraftsman than you, and at my own price, Red Smith.\" And when she had\ncome to the ferry she laid her full purse on the bank and cried softly\ninto the night:\n\n\"Wayland Smith, give me a sword!\"\n\nAnd then she went away for awhile, and paced the fields till the first\nlight glimmered on the east; and not daring to wait longer for fear of\nencountering early risers, she turned back to the ferry. And there,\nshining in the dawn, she found such a blade as made the father in her\nsoul exult. In all its glorious fashioning and splendid temper the hand\nof the god was manifest. And in the grass beside it lay her purse, of\nits full store lightened by one penny-piece.\n\nNow to this tale of legends revived and then forgotten, gossips' tales\nof Wishing-Pools and Snow-white Harts and a God who worked in the dark,\nwe must begin to add the legend of the Rusty Knight. It lasted little\nlonger than the three months of that strange summer of sports within\nthe castle-walls of Amberley. It was at the jousting on Midsummer Day\nthat he first was seen. The lists were open and the roll of knights had\nanswered to their names, and cried in all men's ears their ladies'\npraises; and nine in ten cried Maudlin. And as the last knight spoke,\nthere suddenly stood in the great gateway an unknown man with his\nvizard closed, and his coming was greeted with a roar of laughter. For\nhe was clothed from head to foot in antique arms, battered and rusted\nlike old pots and pans that have seen a twelvemonths' weather in a\nditch. Out of the merriment occasioned by his appearance, certain of\nthe spectators began to cry, \"A champion! a champion!\" And others\nnudged with their elbows, chuckling, \"It is the Queen's jester.\"\n\nBut the newcomer stood his ground unflinchingly, and when he could be\nheard cried fiercely, \"They who call me jester shall find they jest\nbefore their time. I claim by my kingly birth to take part in this\nday's fray; and men shall meet me to their rue!\"\n\n\"By what name shall we know you?\" he was asked.\n\n\"You shall call me the Knight of the Royal Heart,\" he said.\n\n\"And whose cause do you serve?\"\n\n\"Hers whose beauty outshines the five-fold beauty in the Queen's\nGallery,\" said he, \"hers who was mistress here and wrongly ousted--the\nmost peerless lady of Sussex, Proud Rosalind.\"\n\nWith that the stranger drew forth and flourished a blade of so\nsurpassing a kind that the knights, in whom scorn had vanquished mirth,\nfound envy vanquishing scorn. As for the ladies, they had ceased to\nsmile at the mention of Rosalind, whom none had seen, though all had\nheard of the girl who had been turned from her ruin at Maudlin's whim;\nand that this ragged lady should be vaunted over their heads was an\ninsult only equaled by the presence among their shining champions of\nthe Rusty Knight. For by this name only was he spoken thereafter.\n\nNow you may think that the imperious stranger who warned his opponents\nagainst laughing before their time, might well have been warned against\ncrowing before his. And alas! it transpired that he crowed not as the\ncock crows, who knows the sun will rise; for at the first clash he\nfell, almost unnoticed. And when the combatants disengaged, he had\ndisappeared. He was a subject for much mirth that evening; though the\nmen rankled for his sword and the women for a sight of his lady.\n\nBut from this day there was not a jousting held in Maudlin's revels at\nwhich the Rusty Knight did not appear; and none from which he bore away\nthe crown. The procedure was always the same: at the last instant he\nappeared in his ignominious arms, and stung the mockers to silence by\nthe glory of his sword and his undaunted proclamation of his lady. So\nardent was his manner that it was difficult not to believe him a\nconqueror among men and her the loveliest of women, until the fray\nbegan; when he was instantly overcome, and in the confusion managed to\nescape. He was so cunning in this that though traps were laid to catch\nhim he was never traced. By degrees he became, instead of a joke, a\nthorn in the flesh. It was the women now who itched to see his face,\nand the men who desired to find out the Proud Rosalind; for by his\nrepeated assertion her beauty came to be believed in, and if the ladies\nstill spoke slightingly of her, the lords in their thoughts did not.\nBut the summer drew to its close without unraveling the mystery. The\nRusty Knight was never followed nor the Proud Rosalind found. And now\nthey were on the eve of a different hunting.\n\nFor now all the days were to be given up to the pursuit of the rumored\nhart, whom none had yet beheld; and Queen Maudlin said, \"For a month we\nwill hunt by day and dance by night, and if by that time no man can\nboast of bringing the hart to bay and no woman of owning his antlers,\nwe will acknowledge ourselves outwitted; and so go back to Adur. And it\nmay prove that we have been brought to Arun by an idle tale, to hunt a\nmyth; but be that as it may, see to your bowstrings, for to-morrow we\nride forth.\"\n\nAnd the men laid by their swords and filled their quivers.\n\nAnd in the midnight Rosalind came once more from her secret lair to\nBury, and laying her purse by the ferry called softly:\n\n\"Wayland Smith, give me a bow!\"\n\nAnd in the dawn, before people were astir, she found a bow the unlike\nof any fashioned by mortal craft, and a quiverful of true arrows; and\nfor these the god had taken his penny fee.\n\nOn a lovely day of autumn the chase began. And the red deer and the red\nfox started from their covers; and the small rabbits stopped their\nkitten-play on the steep warrens of the Downs, and fled into their\nburrows; and birds whirred up in screaming coveys, and the kestrel\nhovered high and motionless on the watch. There was game in plenty, and\nmany men were tempted and forgot the prize they sought. The hunt\nseparated, some going this way and some that. And in the evening all\nmet again in Amberley. And some had game to show and some had none. And\none had seen the hart.\n\nWhen he said so a cry went up from the company, and they pressed round\nto hear his tale, and it was a strange one.\n\n\"For,\" said he, \"where Great Down clothes itself with the North Wood I\nsaw a flash against the dark of the trees, and out of them bounded the\nvery hart, taller than any hart I ever dreamed of, and, as the tale has\ntold, as pure as snow; and the crockets spring from its crowns like\nrays from a summer cloud. I could not count them, but its points are\nmore than twelve. When it saw me it stood motionless, and trembling\nwith joy I fitted my arrow to the string; but even as I did so out of\nthe trees ran another creature, as strange as the white hart. It was\nnone other than the Rusty Knight; I knew him by his battered vizard,\nwhich was closed. But for the rest he wore now, not rust, but rags--a\ntattered jerkin in place of battered mail. Yet in his hands was a bow\nwhich among weapons could only be matched by his sword. He took his\nstand beside the snow-white hart, and cried in that angry voice we have\nall heard,  These crowns grow only to the glory of the Proud Rosalind,\nthe most peerless daughter of Sussex, and no woman but she shall ever\nboast of them!' And before I could move or answer for surprise, he had\nset his arrow to his bow, and drawn the string back to his shoulder,\nand let fly. It was well I did not start aside, or it might have hit\nme; for I never saw an arrow fly so wild of its mark. But the whole\ncircumstance amazed me too much for quick action, and before I could\ncome up and chastise this unskillful archer, or even aim at the prize\nwhich stood beside him, he and the hart had plunged through the wood\nagain, the man running swiftfoot as the beast; and when I followed I\ncould not find them, and unhappily my dogs were astray.\"\n\nThe strange tale stung the tempers of all listeners, both men and women.\n\n\"Well, now,\" laughed Maudlin, \"it has at least been seen that the hart\nis the whitest of harts.\"\n\n\"But it has not yet been seen,\" fumed Clarimond, \"that this Rosalind is\nthe most beautiful of women.\"\n\n\"Nor have we seen,\" said the knight who told the tale, \"who it is that\ninsults our manhood with valiant words and no deeds to prove them. Yet\nwith such a sword and such a bow a man might prove anything.\"\n\nThe next day all rode forth on fire with eagerness. And at the end of\nit another knight brought back the selfsame tale. He sword that in the\ntattered archer was no harm at all but his arrogance, since he was\nclearly incapable of hitting where he aimed. But his very presence and\nhis swift escape, running beside the hart, made failure seem double;\nfor the derision he excited recoiled on the deriders, who could not\nbring this contemptible foe to book. After that day many saw him,\nsometimes at a great distance, sometimes near enough to be lashed by\nhis insolent tongue. He always kept beside the coveted quarry, as\nthough to guard it, and ran when it ran, with incredible speed; but\nonce when he flagged after a longer chase than usual, he had been seen\nto leap on its back, and so they escaped together. From dawn to dusk\nthrough that bright month of autumn the man and the hart were hunted in\nvain; and in all that while their lair was never discovered. It was now\ntaken for granted that where one would be the other would be; and in\nall likelihood Proud Rosalind also.\n\nAt last the final day of the month and the chase arrived, and Maudlin\nspoke to her mortified company. Among them all she was the only one who\nlaughed now, for her nature was like that of running water, reflecting\nall things, retaining none; she could never retain her disappointments\nlonger than a day, or her affections either.\n\n\"Sirs and dames,\" said she, \"I see by your clouded faces it is time we\ndeparted, but we will depart as we came in the sun. If this day bring\nno more fruit than its fellows, neither victory to a lord nor\nsovereignty to his lady, we will to-morrow hold the mightiest tourney\nof the year, and he who wins the crown shall give it to his love, and\nshe shall be called for ever the fairest of Sussex; but for that, if\nher lord desire it, she shall wed him--yes, though it be myself she\nshall!\"\n\nAnd at this the hearts of nine men in ten leapt in their breasts for\nlonging of her, and in the tenth for longing of Linoret or Clarimond or\nDamarel or Amelys; and all went to the chase thinking as much of the\nmorrow as of the day.\n\nIt was the day when the forests burned their brightest. The earth was\nfuller of color than in the painted spring; the hedgerows were hung\nwith brilliant berries in wreaths and clusters, luminous briony and\nhoneysuckle, and the ebony gloss of the privet making more vivid the\nbright red of the hips and the dark red of the haws. The smooth flat\nmeadows and smooth round sides of the Downs were not greener in June;\nnor in that crystal air did the river ever run bluer than under that\nblue sky. The elms were getting already their dusky gold and the\nbeeches their brighter reds and golds and coppers; where they were\nyoung and in thin leaf the sun-flood watered them to transparent pinks\nand lemons, as bright, though not as burning, as the massed colors of\nthe older trees. That day there was magic on the western hills, for\nthose who could see it, and trees that were not trees.\n\nSo Rosalind who, like all the world, was early abroad, though not with\nall the world, saw a silver cloud pretending to be white flowers upon a\nhawthorn; never in spring sunlight had the bush shone whiter. But when\nMaudlin rode by later she saw, not a cloud in flower, but a flowerless\ntree, dressed with the new-puffed whiteness of wild clematis, its\nsilver-green tendrils shining through their own mist.\n\nThen Rosalind saw a sunset pretending to be a spindle-tree, scattering\nflecks of red and yellow light upon the ground, till the grass threw up\na reflection of the tree, as a cloud in the east will reflect another\nin the west. But when Maudlin came riding the spots of light upon the\nground were little pointed leaves, and the sunset a little tree as\nround as a clipped yew, mottled like an artist's palette with every\nshade from primrose to orange and from rose to crimson.\n\nAnd last, in a green glade under a steep hollow overhung with ash,\nRosalind saw a fairy pretending to be a silver birch turned golden. For\nher leaves hung like the shaking water of a sunlit fountain, and she\nstood alone in the very middle of the glade as though on tip-toe for a\ndance; and all the green trees that had retreated from her\ndancing-floor seemed ready to break into music, so that Rosalind held\nher breath lest she should shatter the moment and the magic, and stayed\nspell-bound where she was. But an hour afterwards Maudlin, riding the\nchalky ledge on the ash-grown height, looked down on that same sight\nand uttered a sharp cry; for she saw, no fairy, but a little yellowing\nbirch, and under it the snow-white hart with the Rusty Knight beside\nhim. Then all the company with her echoed the cry, and the forest was\nfilled with the round sounds of horns and belling hounds. And while in\ngreat excitement men sought a way down into the steep glen, the hart\nand his ragged guard had started up, and vanished through the\nunderworld of trees.\n\nThe hue and cry was taken up. Not one or two, but fifty had now seen\nthe quarry, and panted for the glory of the prize. And so, near the\nvery beginning of the day, the chase began.\n\nThe scent was found and lost and found again. The stag swam the river\ntwice, once at South Stoke, and once at Houghton Bridge, and the man\nswam with it; and then, keeping over the fields they ran up Coombe and\nwent west and north, over Bignor Hill and Farm Hill, through the\nKennels and Tegleaze. They were sighted on Lamb Lea and lost in\nCharlton. They were seen again on Heyshott and vanished in Herringdean\nCopse. They crossed the last high-road in Sussex and ran over Linch\nDown and Treyford nearly into Hampshire; and there the quarry turned\nand tried to double home by Winden Wood and Cotworth Down. The marvel\nwas that the Rusty Knight was always with it, sometimes beside it,\noften on its back; and even when he bestrode it, it flew over the green\nhills like a white sail driven by a wind at sea, or a cloud flying the\nskies. When it doubled it had shaken off the greater part of the hunt.\nBut through Wellhanger and over Levin some followed it still. In the\nwoods of Malecomb only the seven knights who most loved Maudlin\nremained staunch; and they were spurred by hope, because when they now\nsighted it it seemed as though the hart began to tire, and its rider\ndrooped. Their own steeds panted, and their dogs' tongues lolled; but\nover the dells and rises, woods and fields, they still pressed on,\nexulting that they of all the hunt remained to bring the weary gallant\nthing to bay.\n\nOnce more they were in the home country, and the day was drawing to a\nglorious close. In the great woods of Rewell the hart tried to confuse\nthe scent and conceal itself with its spent comrade, but it was too\nlate; for it too was nearly spent. Yet it plunged forward to the ridge\nof Arundel with its high fret of trees like harp-strings, filled with\nthe music of the evening sky. And here again among the dipping valleys,\nthe quarry sought to shake off the pursuit; but as vainly as before. In\nthat exhausted close for hunters and hunted, the first had triumph to\nspur the last of their strength, and the second despair to eke out\ntheirs. At Whiteways the hart struck down through a secret dip, into\nthe loveliest hidden valley of all the Downs; and descending after it\nthe knights saw suddenly before them a great curve of the steely river,\nlying under the sunset like a scimitar dyed with blood. And in a last\ndesperate effort the hart swerved round a narrow footway by the river,\nand disappeared.\n\nThe knights followed shouting with their baying dogs, and the next\ninstant were struck mute with astonishment. For the narrow wooded path\nby the water suddenly swung open into a towering semi-circle of\ndazzling cliffs, uprising like the loftiest castle upon earth: such\ncastles as heaven builds of gigantic clouds, to scatter their solid\npiles with a wind again. But only the hurricanes of the first day or\nthe last could bring this mighty pile to dissolution. The forefront of\nthe vast theater was a perfect sward, lying above the water like a\ngreen half-moon; beyond and around it small hills and dells rose and\nfell in waves until they reached the brink of the great cliffs. At the\nfurther point of the semi-circle the narrow way by the river began\nagain, and steep woods came down to the water cutting off the north.\n\nAnd somewhere hidden in the hemisphere of little hills the hart was\nhidden, without a path of escape.\n\nThe men sprang from their horses, and followed the barking dogs across\nthe sward. At the end of it they turned up a neck of grass that coiled\nabout a hollow like the rim of a cup. It led to a little plateau ringed\nwith bushes, and smelling sweet of thyme. At first it seemed as though\nthere were no other ingress; but the dogs nosed on and pointed to an\nopening through the thick growth on the left, and disappeared with\nhoarse wild barks and yelps; and their masters made to follow.\n\nBut at the same instant they heard a voice come from the bushes, a\nvoice well known to them; but now it was exhausted of its power, though\nnot of its anger.\n\n\"This quarry and this place,\" it cried, \"are sacred to the Proud\nRosalind and in her name I warn you, trespassers, that you proceed at\nyour peril!\"\n\nAt this the seven knights burst into laughter, and one cried, \"Why,\nthen, it seems we have brought the lady to bay with the hart--a double\nquarry, friends. Come, for the dogs are full of music now, and we must\nsee the kill.\"\n\nAs they moved forward an arrow sped far above their heads.\n\nThen a second man cried, \"We could shoot into the dark more surely than\nthis clumsy marksman out of it. Let us shoot among the trees and give\nhim his deserts. And after that let nothing hold us from the dogs, for\ntheir voices turn the blood in me to fire.\"\n\nSo each man plucked an arrow from his quiver.\n\nAnd as he fitted it, lo! with incredible swiftness seven arrows shot\nthrough the air, and one by one each arrow split in two a knight's\nyew-bow. The men looked at their broken bows amazed. And as they looked\nat each other the dogs stopped baying, one by one.\n\nOne of the knights said, breathing heavily, \"This must be seen to. The\nman who could shoot like this has been playing with us since midsummer.\nLet us come in and call him to account, and make him show us his Proud\nRosalind.\"\n\nThey made a single movement towards the opening; at the same moment\nthere was a great movement behind it, and they came face to face with\nthe hart-royal. It stood at bay, its terrible antlers lowered; its eyes\nwere danger-lights, as red as rubies. And the seven weaponless men\nstood rooted there, and one said, \"Where are the dogs?\"\n\nBut they knew the dogs were dead.\n\nSo they turned and went out of that place, and found their horses and\nrode away.\n\nAnd when they had gone the hart too turned again, and went slowly down\na little slipping path through the bushes and came to the very inmost\nchamber of its castle, a round and roofless shrine, walled half by the\nbird-haunted cliffs and half by woods. Within on the grass lay the dead\nhounds, each pierced by an arrow; and on a bowlder near them sat the\nRusty Knight, with drooping head and body, regarding them through the\nvizard he was too weary to raise. He was exhausted past bearing\nhimself. The hart lay down beside him, as exhausted as he.\n\nBut a sound in the forest that thickly clothed the cliff made both look\nup. And down between the trees, almost from the height of the cliff,\nclimbed Harding the Red Hunter, bow in hand. He strode across the\nlittle space that divided them still, and stood over the Rusty Knight\nand the white Hart-Royal. And both might have been petrified, for\nneither stirred.\n\nAfter a little Harding began to speak. \"Are you satisfied, Rusty\nKnight,\" said he, \"with what you have done in Proud Rosalind's honor?\"\n\nThe Rusty Knight did not answer.\n\n\"Did ever lady have a sorrier champion?\" Harding laughed roughly. \"She\nwould have beggared herself to get you a sword. And she got you a sword\nthe like of which no knight ever had before. And how have you used it?\nAll through a summer you have brought laughter upon her. She would have\nbeggared herself again to get you a bow that only a god was worthy to\ndraw. And how have you drawn it? For a month you have drawn it to men's\nscorn of her and of you. You have cried her praises only to forfeit\nthem. You have vaunted her beauty and never crowned it. And what have\nyou got for it?\" The Rusty Knight was as dumb as the dead. Harding\nstepped closer. \"Shall I tell you, Rusty Knight, what you have got for\nit? Last Midsummer Eve by the Wishing-Well the Proud Rosalind forswore\nlove if heaven would send her a man to strike a blow in her name for\nher fathers' sake. She did not say what sort of man or what sort of\nblow. She asked in her simplicity only that a blow should be struck.\nAnd like a woman she was ready to find it enough, and in gratitude\nrepay it with that which could only in honor be exchanged for what\nhonored her. Yet I myself heard her swear to hold herself bound to the\nsorry champion who should strike for her in the tourney. And you struck\nand fell. Did you tell her you fell when you came to her, crownless?\nAnd how did she crown you for your fall, Rusty Knight?\"\n\nThe Knight sprang to his feet and stood quivering.\n\n\"That moves you,\" said Harding, \"but I will move you more. The Proud\nRosalind is not your woman. She is mine. She was mine from the moment\nher eyes fell. She was only a child then, but I knew she was mine as\nsurely as I knew this hart was mine and no other's, when first I saw it\nas a calf drink at its pool. But I was patient and waited till he, my\ncalf, should become a king, and she, my heifer, a queen. And I am her\nman because I am of king's stock in my own land, and she of king's\nstock in hers. And I am her man because for a year I have kept her,\nwithout her knowledge, with the pence I earned by my sweat, that were\nearned for a different purpose. And I am her man because the hart you\nhave defended so ill, and hampered for a month, was saved to-day by my\narrows, not yours. It was my arrows slew the hounds from the top of the\ncliff. It was my arrows split the bows of the seven knights. And it is\nmy arrow now that will kill the White Hart that in all men's sight I\nmay give her the antlers to-morrow, and hear my Proud Rosalind called\nqueen among women.\"\n\nAnd as he spoke Harding drew back suddenly, and fitted a shaft to his\nstring as though he would shoot the hart where it lay.\n\nBut the Rusty Knight sprang forward and caught his hands crying, \"Not\nmy Hart! you shall not shoot my Hart!\" And he tore off his casque, and\nthe great tawny mantle of Rosalind's hair fell over her rags, and her\nface was on fire and her bosom heaving; and she sank down murmuring, \"I\nbeg you to spare my Hart.\"\n\nBut Harding, uttering a great laugh of pride and joy, caught her up\nbefore she could kneel, saying, \"Not even to me, my Proud Rosalind!\"\nAnd without even kissing her lips, he put her from him and knelt before\nher, and kissed her feet.\n\n\n(\"Will you be so good, Mistress Jane,\" said Martin, \"as to sew on my\nbutton?\"\n\n\"I will not knot my thread, Master Pippin,\" said Jane, \"till you have\nsnapped yours.\"\n\n\"It is snapped,\" said Martin. \"The story is done.\"\n\nJoscelyn: It is too much! it is TOO much! You do it on purpose!\n\nMartin: Oh, Mistress Joscelyn! I never do anything on purpose. And\ntherefore I am always doing either too much or too little. But in what\nhave I exceeded? My story? I am sorry if it is too long.\n\nJoscelyn: It was too short--and you are quibbling.\n\nMartin: I?--But never mind. What more can I say? It is a fault, I know;\nbut as soon as my lovers understand each other I can see no further.\n\nJoscelyn: There are a thousand things more you can say. Who this\nHarding was, for one.\n\nJoyce: And what he meant by saying his pennies had kept her, for\nanother.\n\nJennifer: And for what other purpose he had intended them.\n\nJessica: And you must describe all that happened at the last tourney.\n\nJane: And what about the ring and the girdle and the circlet and the\nsilver gown?\n\n\"I would so like to know,\" said little Joan, \"if Harding and Rosalind\nlived happily ever after. Please won't you tell us how it all ended?\"\n\n\"Will women NEVER see what lies under their noses?\" groaned Martin.\n\"Will they ALWAYS stare over a wall, and if they're not tall enough to\ntry to stare through it? Will they ONLY know that a thing has come to\nits end when they see it making a new beginning? Why, after the first\nkiss all tales start afresh, though they start on the second, which is\nas different from the first as a garden rose from a wild one. Here have\nI galloped you to a conclusion, and now you would set me ambling again.\"\n\n\"Then make up your mind to it,\" said Joscelyn, \"and amble.\"\n\n\"Dear heaven!\" went on Martin, \"I begin to believe that when a woman is\nbeing kissed she doesn't even notice it for thinking, How sweet it will\nbe when he kisses me next Tuesday fortnight!\"\n\n\"Then get on to Tuesday fortnight,\" scolded Joscelyn, \"if that be the\nend.\"\n\n\"The end indeed!\" said Martin. \"On Tuesday fortnight, at the very\ninstant, the slippery creature is thinking, How delicious it was when\nhe kissed me two weeks ago last Saturday! There's no end with a woman,\neither backwards or forwards!\"\n\n\"For goodness' sake,\" cried Joscelyn, \"stop grumbling and get on with\nit!\"\n\n\"There's no end to a man's grumbling either,\" said Martin; \"but I'll\nget on with it.\")\n\n\nThe tale that Harding had to tell Proud Rosalind was a long one, but I\nwill make as short of it as I can. He told her how in his own country\nhe was sprung of the race of Volundr, who was a God and a King and a\nSmith all in one; but he had been ill-used and banished, and had since\nhaunted England where men knew him as Wayland, and he did miracles. But\nin his own northern land his strain continued, until Harding's father,\na king himself, was like his ancestor defeated and banished, and\ncrossed the water with his young son and a chest of relics of Old\nWayland's work--a ring, a girdle, a crown, and a silver robe; a sword\nand bow which Rosalind knew already; and other things as well. And the\nboy grew up filled with the ancient wrongs of his ancestor, and he went\nabout the country seeking Wayland's haunts; and wherever he found them\nhe found a mossy legend, neglected and unproved, of how the god worked,\nor had worked, for any man's pence, and put his divine craft to\nlaborers' service. And as in Rosalind the dream had grown of building\nup her fathers' honor again, so Harding had from boyhood nursed his\ndream of establishing that of the half-forgotten god. And he, who had\ninherited his ancestor's craft in metal, coming at last through Sussex\nsettled at Bury, where the legend lay on its sick-bed; and he set up\nhis shop by the ferry so that he might doctor it. And there he did his\nwork in two ways; for as the Red Smith he did such work as might be\ndone better by a hundred men, but as Wayland he did what could only\nhave been done better by the god. And the toll he collected for that\nwork he saved, year-in-year-out, till he should have enough to build\nthe god a shrine. And, leaving this visible evidence behind him, he\nmeant to depart to his own land, and let the faith in Wayland wax of\nitself. And then Harding told Rosalind how he had first seen the hart\nwhen it was a calf six years before at midsummer, and how it had led\nhim to the Wishing-Well; and he had marked it for his own. And how in\nthe same year he had first noticed Rosalind, a girl not yet sixteen,\nand, for the fire of kings in her that all her poverty could not\nextinguish, chosen her for his mate.\n\n\"And year by year,\" said Harding, \"I watched to see whether the direst\nwant could bring you to humbleness, and saw you only grow in nobleness;\nand year by year I lay in wait for my four-footed quarry each Midsummer\nEve beside the Wishing-Pool, and saw it grow in kingliness. And last\nyear, as you know, I saw you come to the Pool beside the hart, and\nheard you make your high prayer for life or death. And if I had not\nbeen able to give you the life, I would have given you the death you\nprayed for. But I went before you, and going by the ferry put my old\ngod's money in your room before you could be there. And from time to\ntime I robbed his store to keep you. But when in spring they drove you\nfrom the castle I did not know where to find you; and I hunted for your\nlair as I hunted for the hart's, and never knew they were the same.\nThen this year came the wishing-time again, and lying hidden I heard\nyou cry for a man to strike for you. And I was tempted then to reveal\nmyself and make you know to what man you were committed. But I decided\nthat I would wait and strike for you in the tourney, and come to you\nfor the first time with a crown. And so I went back to the ferry and\nset to work; and to my amazement you followed me, and for the first\ntime of your own will addressed me. I wondered whether you had come to\nbe humble before your time, and if you had been I would have let you go\nfor ever; but when you spoke with scorn as to a servant who had once\nforgotten himself so far as to play the man to you, I laughed in my\nheart and prized your scorn more dearly than your favor; and said to\nmyself, To-morrow she shall know me for her man. But when you went down\nto the water and made your demand of Wayland, for his sake and yours I\nwas ready to give you a weapon worthy of your steel. So I gave you the\ngod's own sword and waited to see what use you would make of it. And\nyou made as ill an use as after you made of the god's bow. And while\nmen spoke betwixt wrath and mockery of the Rusty Knight, I loved more\ndearly that champion who was doing so ill so bravely for a championless\nlady.\" Then Harding looked her steadily in the eyes, and though her\nface was all on fire again as he alone had power to make it, she did\nnot flinch from his gaze, and he took her hand and said, \"No man has\never struck a blow for you yet, Proud Rosalind, but the Rusty Knight\nwill strike for you to-morrow; and as to-day there was no marksman, so\nto-morrow there shall be no swordsman who can match him. And when he\nhas won the crown of Sussex for you, you shall redeem your pledge of\nthe Wishing-Well and give him what he will. Till then, be free.\" And he\ndropped her hand again and let her go.\n\nShe turned and went quickly into the bushes and soon she came out\nbearing the miserable arms of the Rusty Knight and the glorious sword.\n\n\"These are all that were in my fathers' castle for many years,\" she\nsaid, \"and I took them when I went away and the white hart brought me\nto his own castle. But though these are big for me, they will be small\nfor you.\"\n\nAnd Harding looked at them and laughed his short laugh. \"The casque\nalone will serve,\" he said. \"By that and the sword men shall know me. I\nhave my own arms else; and I will take on myself the shame of this\nludicrous casque, and redeem it in your name. And you shall have these\nin exchange.\" And he handed her his pouch and bade her what to do in\nthe morning, and went away. He still had not kissed her mouth, nor had\nshe offered it.\n\nNow there is very little left to tell. On the morrow, when the roll of\nknights had been called, all eyes instinctively turned to the great\ngateway, by which the Rusty Knight had always come at the last moment.\nAnd as they looked they saw whom they expected, but not what they\nexpected. For though his head was hidden in the rusty casque, and\nthough he held the sword which all men covet, he was clad from neck to\nfoot in arms and mail so marvelously chased and inwrought with red gold\nthat his whole body shone ruddy in the sunshaft. And men and women,\ndazzled and confused, wondered what trick of light made him appear more\ntall and broad than they remembered him; so that he seemed to dwarf all\nother men. The murmur and the doubt went round, \"Is it the Rusty\nKnight?\"\n\nThen in a voice of thunder he replied, \"Ay, if you will, it is the\nRusty Knight; or the Red Knight, or the Knight of the Royal Heart, or\nof the Hart-Royal; but by any name, the knight of the Proud Rosalind,\nwho is the proudest and most peerless of all the maids of Sussex, as\nthis day's work shall prove.\"\n\nAnd none laughed.\n\nThe joust began; and before the Rusty Knight the rest went down like\ncorn beaten by hail. And all men marveled at him, and all women\nlikewise. And the young Queen Maudlin of Bramber, a prey to her whims,\nloved him as long as the tourney lasted. And when it was ended, and he\nalone stood upright, she rose in her seat and held out to him the crown\nof gold and flowers upon a silken pillow, crying, \"You have won this,\nyou unknown, unseen champion, and it is your right to give it where you\nwill; and none will dispute her supremacy in beauty for ever.\" And as\nhe strode and knelt to receive the crown she added quickly, \"And I know\nnot whether the promise has reached your ears which yesterday was\nmade--that she who accepts the crown is to wed the victor, although he\nchoose the Queen herself to wear it.\"\n\nAnd she smiled down at him like morning smiling out of the sky; and her\nbeauty was such as to make a man forget all other beauty and all\nresolutions. But Harding took the crown from her and touched her hand\nwith the rusty brow of his casque and said, \"A Queen will wear it, for\nmy lady's fathers were once Kings of Amberley.\"\n\nThen Maudlin stamped her foot as a butterfly might, and cried, \"Where\nis this lady whom you keep as hidden as your face?\"\n\nAnd Harding rose and turned towards the gateway, and all turned with\nhim; and into the arch rode Rosalind on the white hart. And she was\nclothed from her neck to the soles of her naked feet in a sheath of\nsilver that seemed molded to her lovely body; and about her waist a\ngolden girdle hung, set with green stones, and from her finger a great\nemerald shot green fire, and on her head a golden fillet lay in the\nlikeness of close-set leaves with clusters of gleaming green berries\nthat were other emeralds; and under it her glory of hair fell like\nliquid metal down her back and over the hart's neck, as low as her\nsilver hem. And the hart with its splendid antlers stood motionless and\nproud as though it knew it carried a young Queen. But indeed men\nwondered whether it were not a young goddess. And so for a very few\nmoments this carven vision of gold and silver and ivory and molten\nbronze and copper and green jewels stood in their gaze. And then\nHarding bore the crown to her and knelt, and stood up again and crowned\nher before them all; and laying his hand upon the white hart's neck,\nmoved away with it and its beautiful rider through the gateway. And no\none moved or spoke or tried to stop them. But by the footway over the\nwater-meadows they went, and at the river's edge found Harding's broad\nflat boat with the bird's beak. And Harding said, \"Will you come over\nthe ferry with me, Proud Rosalind?\"\n\nAnd Rosalind answered, \"What is your fee, Red Boatman?\"\n\nThen Harding answered, \"For that which flows I take only that which\nflows.\"\n\nAnd Rosalind, stooping of her own accord from the white hart's back,\nkissed him.\n\nI shall be very uncomfortable, Mistress Jane, till you have sewed on my\nbutton.\n\n\n\nFIFTH INTERLUDE\n\nThe milkmaids had not thought of their apples for the last hour, but\nnow, remembering them, they fell to refreshing their tongues with the\nsweet flavors of fruit and talk.\n\nJessica: I cannot rest, Jane, till you have pronounced upon this story.\n\nJane: I never found pronouncement harder, Jessica. For who can\npronounce upon anything but a plain truth or a plain falsehood? and I\nam too confused to extricate either from such a hotch-potch of magic as\ncame to pass without the help of any real magician.\n\nMartin: Oh, Mistress Jane! are you sure of that? Did not Rosalind's\nwishes come true, and can there be magic without a magician?\n\nJane: Her wishes came true, I know, both by the pool and by the ferry;\nbut that the pool and the ferry were supernatural remains unproved.\nBecause in both cases her wishes were brought about by a man. And if\nthere was any other magician at all, you never showed him to us.\n\nMartin: Dear Mistress Jane, where were your eyes? I showed you the\ngreatest of all the magicians that give ear to the wishes of women; and\nwhen it is necessary to bring them about, he puts his power on a man\nand the man makes them come true. Which is a magic you must often have\nnoticed in men, though you may never have known the magician's name.\n\nJoscelyn: We have never noticed any magic whatever in men. And we don't\nwant to know the magician's name. We don't believe in anything so silly\nas magic.\n\nMartin: I hope, Mistress Joscelyn, there were moments in my story not\ntoo silly to be believed in.\n\nJoscelyn: Silliness in stories is more or less excusable, since they\nare not even supposed to be believed. And is there still a Wishing-Pool\non Rewell and a ferry at Bury?\n\nMartin: The ferry is there, but Harding's hammer is silent. And where\nhis shop stood is a little cottage where children live, who dabble in\nsummer on the ferry-step. And their mother will run from her washing or\ncooking to take you over the water for the same fee that Wayland asked\nfor shoeing a poor man's donkey or making a rich man's sword. And this\nis the only miracle men call for from those banks to-day; and if ever\nyou tried to take a boat across the Bury currents, you would not only\nbelieve in miracles but pray for one, while your boat turned in\nmid-stream like a merry-go-round. So there's no doubt that the\nferry-wife is a witch. But as for the Wishing-Pool, it is as lost as it\nwas before the white hart led two lovers to discover it at separate\ntimes, and having brought them together passed with them and its secret\nout of men's knowledge. For neither it nor Harding nor Rosalind was\nseen again in Sussex after that day. And yet I can tell you this much\nof their fortunes: that whatever befell them wherever they wandered, he\nwas a king and she a queen in the sight of the whole world, which to\nall lovers consists of one woman and one man; and their lives were\ncrowned lives, and they carried their crown with them even when they\ncame in the same hour to exchange one life for another. But this was\nonly a long and cloudless reign on earth.\n\nJane: Well, it is a satisfaction to know that. For at certain times\nyour story seemed so overshadowed with clouds that I was filled with\ndoubts.\n\nJoan: Oh, but Jane! even when we walk in the thickest clouds on the\nDowns, we are certain that presently some light will melt them, or some\nwind blow them away.\n\nJoyce: Yes, it never once occurred to me to doubt the end of the story.\n\nJennifer: Nor to me. And so the clouds only kept one in a delicious\npalpitation, at which one could secretly smile, without having to stop\ntrembling.\n\nJessica: Was it possible, Jane, that YOU could be deceived as to the\nconclusion of this love-story? Why, even I saw joy coming as plain as a\npikestaff.\n\nMartin: And I, with love for its bearer. For that magician, who touches\nthe plainest things with a radiance, makes plain girls and boys look\nqueens and kings, and plain staves flowering branches of joy. And in\nthis case I can think of only one catastrophe that could have obscured\nor distorted that vision.\n\nTwo of the Milkmaids: What catastrophe, pray?\n\nMartin: If Rosalind had refused to believe in anything so silly as\nmagic.\n\n\nThe silence of the Seven Sleepers hung over the Apple-Orchard.\n\n\nJoscelyn: Then she would have proved herself a girl of sense, singer,\nand your tale would have gained in virtue. As it stands, I should not\nhave grieved though the clouds had never been dispersed from so foolish\na medley of magic and make-believe.\n\nMartin: So be it, if it must be so. We will push back our lovers into\ntheir obscurities, and praise night for the round moon above us, who\nhas pushed three parts of her circle clear of all obstacles, and awaits\nonly some movement of heaven to blow the last remnant of cloud from her\nhappy soul. And because more of her is now in the light than in the\ndark, she knows it is only a question of time. But the last hours of\nwaiting are always the longest, and we like herself can do no better\nthan spend them in dreams, where if we are lucky we shall catch a\nglimpse of the angels of truth.\n\n\nLike the last five leaves blown from an autumn branch, the milkmaids\nfluttered from the apple-tree and couched their sleepy heads on their\ntired arms, and went each by herself into her particular dream; where\nif she found company or not she never told. But Jane sat prim and\nthoughtful with her elbow in her hand and her finger making a dimple in\nher cheek, considering deeply. And presently Martin began to cough a\nlittle, and then a little more, and finally so troublesomely that she\nwas obliged to lay her profound thoughts aside, to attend to him with a\nlittle frown. Was even Euclid impervious to midges?\n\n\"Have you taken cold, Master Pippin?\" said Jane.\n\n\"I'm afraid so,\" he confessed humbly; \"for we all know that when we\ncatch cold the grievance is not ours, but our nurse's.\"\n\n\"How did it happen?\" demanded Jane, rightly affronted. \"Have you been\ngetting your feet wet in the duckpond again?\"\n\n\"The trouble lies higher,\" murmured Martin, and held his shirt together\nat the throat.\n\nJane looked at him and colored and said, \"That is the merest pretense.\nIt was only one button and it is a very warm night. I think you must be\nmistaken about your cold.\"\n\n\"Perhaps I am,\" said Martin hopefully.\n\n\"And you only coughed and coughed and kept on coughing,\" continued\nJane, \"because I had forgotten all about you and was thinking of\nsomething quite different.\"\n\n\"It is almost impossible to deceive you,\" said Martin.\n\n\"Oh, Master Pippin,\" said Jane earnestly, \"since I turned seventeen I\nhave seen into people's motives so clearly that I often wish I did not;\nbut I cannot help it.\"\n\nMartin: You poor darling!\n\nJane: You must not say that word to me, Master Pippin.\n\nMartin: It was very wrong of me. The word slipped out by mistake. I\nmeant to say clever, not poor.\n\nJane: Did you? I see. Oh, but--\n\nMartin: Please don't be modest. We must always stand by the truth,\ndon't you think?\n\nJane: Above all things.\n\nMartin: How long did it take you to discover my paltry ruse? How long\ndid you hear me coughing?\n\nJane: From the very beginning.\n\nMartin: And can you think of two things at once?\n\nJane: Of course not.\n\nMartin: No? I wish two was the least number of things I ever think of\nat once. Mine's an untidy way of thinking. Still, now we know where we\nare. What were you thinking about me so earnestly when I was coughing\nand you had forgotten all about me?\n\nJane: I--I--I wasn't thinking about you at all.\n\nAnd she got down from the swing and walked away.\n\nMartin: Now we DON'T know where we are.\n\nAnd he got down from the branch and walked after her.\n\nMartin: Please, Mistress Jane, are you in a temper?\n\nJane: I am never in a temper.\n\nMartin: Hurrah.\n\nJane: Being in a temper is silly. It isn't normal. And it clouds\npeople's judgments.\n\nMartin: So do lots of things, don't they? Like leapfrog, and mad bulls,\nand rum punch, and very full moons, and love--\n\nJane: All these things are, as you say, abnormal. And I have no more\nuse for them than I have for tempers. But being disheartened isn't\nbeing in a temper; and I am always disheartened when people argue\nbadly. And above all, men, who, I find, can never keep to the point.\nAlthough they say--\n\nMartin: What do they say?\n\nJane: That girls can't.\n\nMartin began to cough again, and Jane looked at him closely, and Martin\napologized and said it was that tickle in his throat, and Jane said\ngravely, \"Do you think I can't see through you? Come along, do!\" and\nopened her housewife, and put on her thimble, and threaded her needle,\nand got out the button, and made Martin stand in a patch of moonlight,\nand stood herself in front of him, and took the neck of his shirt\ndeftly between her left finger and thumb, and began to stitch. And\nMartin looking down on the top of her smooth little head, which was all\nhe could see of her, said anxiously, \"You won't prick me, will you?\"\nand Jane answered, \"I'll try not to, but it is very awkward.\" Because\nto get behind the button she had to lean her right elbow on his\nshoulder and stand a little on tiptoe. So that Martin had good cause to\nbe frightened; but after several stitches he realized that he was in\nsafe hands, and drew a big breath of relief which made Jane look up\nrather too hastily, and down more hastily still; so that her hand\nshook, and the needle slipped, and Martin said \"Ow!\" and clutched the\nhand with the needle and held it tightly just where it was. And Jane\ngot flustered and said, \"I'm so sorry.\"\n\nMartin: Why should you be? You've proved your point. If I knew any man\nthat could stick to his so well and drive it home so truly, I would\nexcuse him for ever from politics and the law, and bid him sit at home\nwith his work-basket minding the world's business in its cradle. It is\nonly because men cannot stick to the point that life puts them off with\nthe little jobs which shift and change color with every generation. But\nthe great point of life which never changes was given from the first\ninto woman's keeping because, as all the divine powers of reason knew,\nonly she could be trusted to stick to it. I should be glad to have your\nopinion, Jane, as to whether this is true or not.\n\nJane: Yes, Martin, I am convinced it is true.\n\nMartin: Then let the men shilly-shally as much as they like. And so, as\nlong as the cradle is there to be minded, we shall have proved that out\nof two differences unions can spring. My buttonhole feels empty. What\nabout my button?\n\nJane: I was just about to break off the thread when you--\n\nMartin: When I what?\n\nJane: Sighed.\n\nMartin: Was it a sigh? Did I sigh? How unreasonable of me. What was I\nsighing for? Do you know?\n\nJane: Of course I know.\n\nMartin: Will you tell me?\n\nJane: That's enough. (And she tried to break off the thread.)\n\nMartin: Ah, but you mustn't keep your wisdom to yourself. Give me the\nkey, dear Jane.\n\nJane: The key?\n\nMartin: Because how else can the clouds which overshadow our stories be\ncleared away? How else can we allay our doubts and our confusions and\nour sorrows if you who are wise, and see motives so clearly, will not\ngive us the key? Why did I sigh, Jane? And why does Gillian sigh? And,\noh, Jane, why are you sighing? Do you know?\n\nJane: Of course I know.\n\nMartin: And won't you give me the key?\n\nJane: That's quite enough.\n\nAnd this time she broke off the thread. And she put the needle in and\nout of the pinked flannel in her housewife, and she tucked the thimble\nin its place. And then she felt in a little pocket where something\nclinked against her scissors, and Martin watched her. And she took it\nout and put it in his hand. And his hand tightened again over hers and\nhe said gravely, \"Is it a needle?\"\n\n\"No, it is not,\" said Jane primly, \"but it's very much to the point.\"\n\n\"Oh, you wise woman!\" whispered Martin (and Jane colored with\nsatisfaction, because she was turned seventeen). \"What would poor men\ndo without your help?\"\n\nThen he kissed very respectfully the hand that had pricked him: on the\nback and on the palm and on the four fingers and thumb and on the\nwrist. And then he began looking for a new place, but before he could\nmake up his mind Jane had taken her hand and herself away, saying \"Good\nnight\" very politely as she went. So he lay down to dream that for the\nfirst time in his life he had made up his mind. But Jane, whose mind\nwas always made up, for the first time in her life dreamed otherwise.\n\n\nIt happened that by some imprudence Martin had laid himself down\nexactly under the gap in the hedge, and when Old Gillman came along the\nother side crying \"Maids!\" in the morning, the careless fellow had no\ntime to retreat across the open to safe cover; so there was nothing for\nit but to conceal himself under the very nose of danger and roll into\nthe ditch. Which he hurriedly did, while the milkmaids ran here and\nthere like yellow chickens frightened by a hawk. Not knowing what else\nto do, they at last clustered above him about the gap, filling it so\nwith their pretty faces that the farmer found room for not so much as\nan eyelash when he arrived with his bread. And it was for all the world\nas though the hedge, forgetting it was autumn, had broken out at that\nparticular spot into pink-and-white may. So that even Old Gillman had\nno fault to find with the arrangement.\n\n\n\"All astir, my maids?\" said he.\n\n\"Yes, master, yes!\" they answered breathlessly; all but Joscelyn, who\ncried, \"Oh! oh! oh!\" and bit her lip hard, and stood suddenly on one\nfoot.\n\n\"What's amiss with ye?\" asked Gillman.\n\n\"Nothing, master,\" said she, very red in the face. \"A nettle stung my\nankle.\"\n\n\"Well, I'd not weep for  t,\" said Gillman.\n\n\"Indeed I'm not weeping!\" cried Joscelyn loudly.\n\n\"Then it did but tickle ye, I doubt,\" said Gillman slyly, \"to\nblushing-point.\"\n\n\"Master, I AM not blushing!\" protested Joscelyn. \"The sun's on my face\nand in my eyes, don't you see?\"\n\n\"I would he were on my daughter's, then,\" said Gillman. \"Does Gillian\nstill sit in her own shadow?\"\n\n\"Yes, master,\" answered Jane, \"but I think she will be in the light\nvery shortly.\"\n\n\"If she be not,\" groaned Gillman, \"it's a shadow she'll find instead of\na father when she comes back to the farmstead; for who can sow wild\noats at my time o' life, and not show it at last in his frame? Yet I\nwas a stout man once.\"\n\n\"Take heart, master,\" urged Joyce eyeing his waistcoat. But he shook\nhis head.\n\n\"Don't be deceived, maid. Drink makes neither flesh nor gristle; only\ninflation. Gillian!\" he shouted, \"when will ye make the best of a bad\njob and a solid man of your dad again?\"\n\nBut the donkey braying in its paddock got as much answer as he.\n\n\"Well, it's lean days for all, maids,\" said Gillman, and doled out the\nloaves from his basket, \"and you must suffer even as I. Yet another day\nmay see us grow fat.\" And he turned his basket upside down on his head\nand moved away.\n\n\"Excuse me, master,\" said Jane, \"but is Nellie, my little Dexter Kerry,\ndoing nicely?\"\n\n\"As nicely as she ever does with any man,\" said Gillman, \"which is to\nkick John twice a day, mornings and evenings. He say he's getting used\nto it, and will miss it when you come back to manage her. But before\nthat happens I misdoubt we'll all be plunged in rack and ruin.\"\n\nAnd he departed, making his usual parrot-cry.\n\n\"I'm getting fond of old Gillman,\" said Martin sitting up and picking\ndead leaves out of his hair; \"I like his hawker's cry of\n Maids, maids, maids!' for all the world as though he had pretty\ngirls to sell, and I like the way he groans regrets over his empty\nbasket as he goes away. But if I had those wares for market I'd ask\nsuch unfair prices for them that I'd never be out of stock.\"\n\n\"What's an unfair price for a pretty girl, Master Pippin?\" asked\nJessica.\n\n\"It varies,\" said Martin. \"Joan I'd not sell for less than an apple, or\nJoyce for a gold-brown hair. I might accept a blade of grass for\nJennifer and be tempted by a button for Jane. You, Jessica, I rate as\nhigh as a saucy answer.\"\n\n\"Simple fees all,\" laughed Joyce.\n\n\"Not so simple,\" said Martin, \"for it must be the right apple and the\nparticular hair; only one of all the grass-blades in the world will do,\nand it must be a certain button or none. Also there are answers and\nanswers.\"\n\n\"In that case,\" said Jessica, \"I'm afraid you've got us all on your\nhands for ever. But at what price would you sell Joscelyn?\"\n\n\"At nothing less,\" said Martin, \"than a yellow shoe-string.\"\n\nJoscelyn stamped her left foot so furiously that her shoe came off. And\nlittle Joan, anxious to restore peace, ran and picked it up for her and\nsaid, \"Why, Joscelyn, you've lost your lace! Where can it be?\" But\nJoscelyn only looked angrier still, and went without answering to set\nGillian's bread by the Well-House; where she found nothing whatever but\na little crust of yesterday's loaf. And surprised out of her vexation\nshe ran back again exclaiming, \"Look, look! as surely as Gillian is\nfinding her appetite I think she is losing her grief.\"\n\n\"The argument is as absolute,\" said Martin, \"as that if we do not soon\nbreakfast my appetite will become my grief. But those miserable ducks!\"\n\nAnd he snatched the crust from Joscelyn's hand and flung it mightily\ninto the pond; where the drake gobbled it whole and the ducks got\nnothing.\n\nAnd the girls cried \"What a shame!\" and burst out laughing, all but\nJoscelyn who said under her breath to Martin, \"Give it back at once!\"\nBut he didn't seem to hear her, and raced the others gayly to the tree\nwhere they always picnicked; and they all fell to in such good spirits\nthat Joscelyn looked from one to another very doubtfully, and suddenly\nfelt left out in the cold. And she came slowly and sat down not quite\nin the circle, and kept her left foot under her all the time.\n\nAs soon as breakfast was over Jennifer sighed, \"I wish it were\ndinner-time.\"\n\n\"What a greedy wish,\" said Martin.\n\n\"And then,\" said she, \"I wish it were supper-time.\"\n\n\"Why?\" said he.\n\n\"Because it would be nearer to-morrow,\" said Jennifer pensively.\n\n\"Do you want it to be to-morrow so much?\" asked Martin. And five of the\nmilkmaids cried, \"oh, yes!\"\n\n\"That's better than wanting it to be yesterday,\" said Martin, \"yet I'm\nalways so pleased with to-day that I never want it to be either. And as\nfor old time, I read him by a dial which makes it any hour I choose.\"\n\n\"What dial's that?\" asked Joyce. And Martin looked about for a\nDandelion Clock, and having found one blew it all away with a single\npuff and cried, \"One o'clock and dinner-time!\"\n\nThen Jennifer got a second puff and blew on it so carefully that she\nwas able to say, \"Seven o'clock and supper-time!\"\n\nAnd then all the girls hastened to get clocks of their own, and make\ntheir favorite time o'day.\n\n\"When I can't make it come right,\" confided little Joan to Martin, \"I\npull them off and say six o'clock in the morning.\"\n\n\"It's a very good way,\" agreed Martin, \"and six o'clock in the morning\nis a very good hour, except for lazy lie-abeds. Isn't it?\"\n\n\"Nancy always looked for me at six of a summer morning,\" said little\nJoan.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Martin, \"milkmaids must always turn their cows in before\nthe dew's dry. And carters their horses.\"\n\n\"Sometimes they get so mixed in the lane,\" said Joan.\n\n\"I am sure they do,\" said Martin. \"How glad your cows will be to see\nyou all again.\"\n\n\"Are you certain we shall be out of the orchard to-morrow, Master\nPippin?\" asked Jane.\n\n\"Heaven help us otherwise,\" said he, \"for I've but one tale left in my\nquiver, and if it does not make an end of the job, here we must stay\nfor the rest of our lives, puffing time away in gossamer.\"\n\nThen Jessica, blowing, cried, \"Four o'clock! come in to tea!\"\n\nAnd Joyce said, \"Twelve o'clock! baste the goose in the oven.\"\n\n\"Three o'clock! change your frock!\" said Jane.\n\n\"Eight o'clock! postman's knock!\" said Jennifer.\n\n\"Ten o'clock! to bed, to bed!\" cried Jessica again.\n\n\"Nine o'clock!--let me run down the lane for a moment first,\" begged\nlittle Joan.\n\nThen Martin blew eighteen o'clock and said it was six o'clock tomorrow\nmorning. And all the girls clapped their hands for joy--all except\nJoscelyn, who sat quite by herself in a corner of the orchard, and\nneither blew nor listened. And so they continued to change the hour and\nthe occupation: now washing, now wringing, now drying; now milking, now\nbaking, now mending; now cooking their meal, now eating it; now\nstrolling in the cool of the evening, now going to market on\nmarketing-day:--till by dinner they had filled the morning with a week\nof hours, and the air with downy seedlings, as exquisite as crystals of\nfrost.\n\nAt dinner the maids ate very little, and Jessica said, \"I think I'm\ngetting tired of bread.\"\n\n\"And apples?\" said Martin.\n\n\"One never gets tired of apples,\" said Jessica, \"but I would like to\nhave them roasted for a change, with cream. Or in a dumpling with brown\nsugar. And instead of bread I would like plum-cake.\"\n\n\"What wouldn't I give for a bowl of curds and whey!\" exclaimed Joyce.\n\n\"Fruit salad and custard is nice,\" sighed Jennifer.\n\n\"I could fancy a lemon cheesecake,\" observed Jane, \"or a jam tart.\"\n\n\"I should like bread-and-honey,\" said little Joan. \"Bread-and-honey's\nthe best of all.\"\n\n\"So it is,\" said Martin.\n\n\"You always have to suck your fingers afterwards,\" said Joan.\n\n\"That's why,\" said Martin. \"Quince jelly is good too, and treacle\nbecause if you're quick you can write your name in it, and picked\nwalnuts, and mushrooms, and strawberries, and green salad, and plovers'\neggs, and cherries are ripping especially in earrings, and macaroons,\nand cheesestraws, and gingerbread, and--\"\n\n\"Stop! stop! stop! stop! stop!\" cried the milkmaids.\n\n\"I can hardly bear it myself,\" said Martin. \"Let's play See-Saw.\"\n\nSo the maids rolled up a log from one part of the orchard, and Martin\ngot a plank from another part, because the orchard was full of all\nmanner of things as well as girls and apples, and he straddled one end\nand said, \"Who's first?\" And Jessica straddled the other as quick as a\nboy, and went up with a whoop. But Joyce, who presently turned her off,\nsat sideways as gay and graceful as a lady in a circus. And Jennifer\ncrouched a little and clung rather hard with her hands, but laughed\nbravely all the time. And Jane thought she wouldn't, and then she\nthought she would, and squeaked when she went up and fell off when she\ncame down, so that Martin tumbled too, and apologized to her earnestly\nfor his clumsiness; and while he rubbed his elbows she said it didn't\nmatter at all. But little Joan took off her shoes, and with her hands\nbehind her head stood on the end of the see-saw as lightly as a sunray\nstanding on a wave, and she looked up and down at Martin, half shyly\nbecause she was afraid she was showing off, and half smiling because\nshe was happy as a bird. And Joscelyn wouldn't play. Then the girls\ntold Martin he'd had more than his share, and made him get off, and\nstruggled for possession of the see-saw like Kings of the Castle. And\nMartin strolled up to Joscelyn and said persuasively, \"It's such fun!\"\nbut Joscelyn only frowned and answered, \"Give it back to me!\" and\nMartin didn't seem to understand her and returned to the see-saw, and\nsuggested three a side and he would look after Jane very carefully. So\nhe and Jane and Jennifer got on one end, and Jessica, Joyce and Joan\nsat on the other, and screaming and laughing they tossed like a boat on\na choppy sea: until Jessica without any warning jumped off her perch in\nmid-air and destroyed the balance, and down they all came\nhelter-skelter, laughing and screaming more than ever. But Jane\nreproved Jessica for her trick and said nobody would believe her\nanother time, and that it was a bad thing to destroy people's\nconfidence in you; and Jessica wiped her hot face on her sleeve and\nsaid she was awfully sorry, because she admired Jane more than anybody\nelse in the world. Then Martin looked at the sun and said, \"You've\nbarely time to get tidy for supper.\" So the milkmaids ran off to smooth\ntheir hair and their kerchiefs and do up ribbons and buttons or\nwhatever else was necessary. And came fresh and rosy to their meal, of\nwhich not one of them could touch a morsel, she declared.\n\n\"Dear, dear, dear!\" said Martin anxiously. \"What's the matter with you\nall?\"\n\nBut they really didn't know. They just weren't hungry. So please\nwouldn't he tell them a story?\n\n\"This will never do,\" said Martin. \"I shall have you ill on my hands.\nAn apple apiece, or no story to-night.\"\n\nAt this dreadful threat Joan plucked the nearest apple she could find,\nwhich was luckily a Cox's Pippin.\n\n\"Must I eat it all, Martin?\" she asked. (And Joscelyn looked at her\nquickly with that doubtful look which had been growing on her all day.)\n\n\"All but the skin,\" said Martin kindly. And taking the apple from her\nhe peeled it cleverly from bud to stem, and handed her back nothing but\nthe peel. And she twirled the peel three times round her head, and\ndropped it in the grass behind her.\n\n\"What is it? what is it?\" cried the milkmaids, crowding.\n\n\"It's a C,\" said Martin. And he gave Joan her apple, and she ate it.\n\nThen Joyce came to Martin with a Beauty of Bath, and he peeled it as he\nhad Joan's, and withheld the fruit until she had performed her rite.\nAnd her letter was M. Jennifer brought a Worcester Pearmain, and threw\na T. And Jessica chose a Curlytail and made a perfect O. And Jane, who\npreferred a Russet, threw her own initial, and Martin said seriously,\n\"You're to be an old maid, Jane.\" (And Joscelyn looked at him.) And\nJane replied, \"I don't see that at all. There are lots of lots of J's,\nMartin.\" (And Joscelyn looked at her.) Then Martin turned inquiringly\nto Joscelyn, and she said, \"I don't want one.\" \"No stories then,\" said\nMartin as firm as Nurse at bedtime. And she shook her shoulders\nimpatiently. But he himself picked her a King of Pippins, the biggest\nand reddest in the orchard, and peeled it like the rest and gave her\nthe peel. And very crossly she jerked it thrice round her head, so that\nit broke into three bits, and they fell on the grass in the shape of an\nagitated H. And Martin gave her also her Pippin.\n\n\"But what about your own supper?\" said little Joan.\n\nAnd Martin, glancing from one to another, gathered a Cox, a Beauty, a\nPearmain, a Curlytail, a Russet, and a King of Pippins; and he peeled\nand ate them one after another, and then, one after another, whirled\nthe parings. And every one of the parings was a J.\n\nThen, while Martin stood looking down at the six J's among the\nclover-grass, and the milkmaids looked anywhere else and said nothing:\nlittle Joan slipped away and came back with the smallest, prettiest,\nand rosiest Lady Apple in Gillman's Orchard, and said softly, \"This\none's for you.\"\n\nSo Martin pared it slenderly, and the peel lay in his hand like a\nribbon of rose-red silk shot with gold; and he coiled it lightly three\ntimes round his head and dropped it over his left shoulder. And as\nsuddenly as bubbles sucked into the heart of a little whirlpool, the\nmilkmaids ran to get a look at the letter. But Martin looked first, and\nwhen the ring of girls stood round about him he put his foot quickly on\nthe apple-peel and rubbed it into the grass. And without even tasting\nit he tossed his little Lady Apple right over the wicket, and beyond\nthe duckpond, and, for all the girls could see, to Adversane.\n\nThen Jane and Jessica and Jennifer and Joyce and little Joan, as by a\nsingle instinct, each climbed to a bough of the center apple-tree, and\nleft the swing empty. And Martin sat on his own bough and waited for\nJoscelyn. And very slowly she came and sat on the swing and said\nwithout looking at him:\n\n\"We're all ready now.\"\n\n\"All?\" said Martin. And he fixed his eyes on the Well-House, where it\nmade no difference.\n\n\"Most of us, anyhow,\" said Joscelyn; \"and whoever isn't ready\nis--nearly ready.\"\n\n\"Yet most is not all, and nearly is not quite,\" said Martin, \"and would\nyou be satisfied if I could only tell you most of my story, and was\nobliged to break off when it was nearly done? Alas, with me it must be\nthe whole or nothing, and I cannot make a beginning unless I can see\nthe end.\"\n\n\"All beginnings must have endings,\" said Joscelyn, \"so begin at once,\nand the end will follow of itself.\"\n\n\"Yet suppose it were some other end than I set out for?\" said Martin.\n\"There's no telling with these endings that go of themselves. We mean\none thing, but they mistake our meaning and show us another. Like the\nsimple maid who was sent to fetch her lady's slippers and her lady's\nsmock, and brought the wrong ones.\"\n\n\"She must have been some ignorant maid from a town,\" said Jane, \"if she\ndid not know lady-smocks and lady's-slippers when she saw them.\"\n\n\"It was either her mistake or her lady's,\" said Martin carelessly. \"You\nshall judge which.\" And he tuned his lute and, still looking at the\nWell-House, sang:\n\n  The Lady sat in a flood of tears\n  All of her sweet eyes' shedding.\n  \"To-morrow, to-morrow the paths of sorrow\n  Are the paths that I'll be treading.\"\n  So she sent her lass for her slippers of black,\n  But the careless lass came running back\n      With slippers as bright\n      As fairy gold\n      Or noonday light,\n      That were heeled and soled\n      To dance in at a wedding.\n\n  The Lady sat in a storm of sighs\n  Raised by her own heart-searching.\n  \"To-morrow must I in the churchyard lie\n  Because love is an urchin.\"\n  So she sent her lass for her sable frock,\n  But the silly lass brought a silken smock\n      So fair to be seen\n      With a rosy shade\n      And a lavender sheen,\n      That was only made\n      For a bride to come from church in.\n\nNow as Martin sang, Gillian got first on her elbow, and then on her\nknees, and last upright on her two feet. And her face was turned full\non the duckpond, and her eyes gazed as though she could see more and\nfurther than any other woman in the world, and her two hands held her\nheart as though but for this it must follow her eyes and be lost to her\nfor ever.\n\n\"So far as I can see,\" said Joscelyn, \"there's nothing to choose\nbetween the foolishness of the maid and that of the mistress. But since\nGillian appears to have risen to some sense in it, for goodness' sake,\nbefore she sinks back on her own folly, tell us your tale and be done\nwith it!\"\n\n\"It is ready now,\" said Martin, \"from start to finish. Glass is not\nclearer nor daylight plainer to me than the conclusion of the whole,\nand if you will listen for a very few instants, you shall see as\ncertainly as I the ending of The Imprisoned Princess.\"\n\n\n\nTHE IMPRISONED PRINCESS\n\nThere was once, dear maidens, a Princess who was kept on an island.\n\n\n(Joscelyn: There are no islands in Sussex.\n\nMartin: This didn't happen in Sussex.\n\nJoscelyn: But I thought it was a true story.\n\nMartin: It is the only true story of them all.)\n\n\nShe was kept on the island locked up in a tower, for the best of all\nthe reasons in the world. She had fallen in love. She had fallen in\nlove with her father's Squire. So the King banished him for ever and\nlocked up his daughter in a tower on an island, and had it guarded by\nsix Gorgons.\n\n\n(Joscelyn: It's NOT a true story!\n\nMartin: It IS a true story! If you don't say so at the end I'll give\nyou--\n\nJoscelyn: What?--I don't want you to give me anything!\n\nMartin: All right then.\n\nJoscelyn: What will you give me?\n\nMartin: A yellow shoe-string.)\n\n\nBy six Gorgons (repeated Martin) who had the sharpest claws and the\nsnakiest hair of any Gorgons there ever were. And their faces--\n\n\n(Joscelyn: Leave their faces alone!\n\nMartin: You're being a perfect nuisance!\n\nJoscelyn: I simply HATE this story!\n\nMartin: Tell it yourself then!\n\nJoscelyn: What ABOUT their faces?)\n\n\nTheir faces (said Martin) were as beautiful as day and night and the\nfour seasons of the year. They were so beautiful that I must stop\ntalking about them or I shall never talk about anything else. So I'd\nbetter talk about the young Squire, who was a great deal less\ninteresting, except for one thing: that he was in love. Which is a big\nadvantage to have over Gorgons, who never are. The only other\nnoteworthy thing about him was that his voice was breaking because he\nwas merely fifteen years old. He was just a sort of Odd Boy about the\nKing's court.\n\n\n(Martin: Mistress Joscelyn, if you keep on wiggling so much you'll get\na nasty tumble. Kindly sit still and let me get on. This isn't a very\nlong story.)\n\n\nOne morning in April this Squire sat down at the end of the world, and\nhe sobbed and he sighed like any poor soul; and a sort of wandering\nfellow who was going by had enough curiosity to stop and ask him what\nwas the matter. And the Squire told him, and added that his heart was\nbreaking for longing of the flower that his lady wore in her hair. So\nthis fellow said, \"Is that all?\" And he got into his boat, which had a\npainted prow, and a light green pennon, and a gilded sail, and called\nitself The Golden Truant, and he sailed away a thousand leagues over\nthe water till he came to the island where the princess was imprisoned;\nand the six Gorgons came hissing to the shore, and asked him what he\nwanted. And he said he wanted nothing but to play and sing to them; so\nthey let him. And while he did so they danced and forgot, and he ran to\nthe tower and found the Princess with her beautiful head bowed on the\nwindowsill behind the bars, weeping like January rain. And he climbed\nup the wall and took from her hair the flower as she wept, in exchange\nfor another which--which the Squire had sent her. And she whispered a\nword of sorrow, and he another of comfort, and came away. And the\nGorgons suspected nothing; except perhaps the littlest Gorgon, and she\nlooked the other way.\n\nSo in the summer the Squire told the Wanderer that he would surely die\nunless he had his lady's ring to kiss; and the fellow went again to the\nisland. The Gorgons were not sorry to see him, and were willing to\ndance while he played and sang as before; and as before he took\nadvantage of their pleasure, and stole the gold ring from the\nPrincess's hand as she lay in tears behind her bars. But in place of\nthe gold ring he left a silver one which had belonged to--to the\nSquire. And the voice of her despair spoke through her tears, and he\nanswered it as best he could with the voice of hope. And went away as\nbefore, leaving the Gorgons dancing.\n\nThen in the autumn the Squire said to the Wanderer, \"Who can live on\nflowers and rings? If you do not get me my lady herself, let me lie in\nmy grave.\" So the Wanderer set sail for the third time, though he knew\nthat the dangers and difficulties of this last adventure were supreme;\nand once more he landed on the island of the Imprisoned Princess. And\nthis time the Gorgons even appeared a little pleased to see him, and\nlet him stay with them six days and nights, telling them stories, and\nsinging them songs, and inventing games to keep them amused. For he was\nvery sorry for them.\n\n\n(Joscelyn: Why? Why? Why?\n\nMartin: Because he discovered that they were even unhappier than the\nPrincess in her tower.\n\nJoscelyn: It isn't true! It isn't true!\n\nMartin: Look out! you're losing your slipper.)\n\n\nOf course the Gorgons were unhappier than the Princess. She was only\nparted from her lover; but they were parted from love itself.\n\nBut as the week wore on, miracles happened; for every night one of the\nGorgons turned into the beautiful girl she used to be before the\nGoddess of Reason, infuriated with the Irrational God who bestows on\ngirls their quite unreasonable loveliness, had made her what she was.\nAnd night by night the Wanderer rubbed his eyes and wondered if he had\nbeen dreaming; for the guardians of the tower no longer hissed, but\nsighed at love, and instead of claws for the destructions of lovers had\nbeautiful kind hands that longed to help them. Until on the sixth night\nonly one remained this fellow's enemy. But alas! she was the strongest\nand fiercest of them all.\n\n\n(Joscelyn: How dare you!)\n\n\nAnd her case (said Martin) was hopeless, because she alone of them all\nhad never known what love was, and so had nothing to be restored to.\n\n\n(Joscelyn: How DARE you!)\n\n\nAnd without her (said Martin) there was nothing to be done. She had\nalways had the others under her thumb, and by this time she had the\nWanderer in exactly the same place. And so--and so--\n\nAnd so here is your shoe-string, Mistress Joscelyn; and I am sorry the\nwant of it has been such an inconvenience to you all day, so that you\ncould not make merry with us. But I must forfeit it now, for the story\nis ended, and I think you must own it is true.\n\n\n(Joscelyn: I won't take it! The story is NOT true! The story is NOT\nended! Finish it at once! None of the others ended like this.\n\nMartin: The others weren't true.\n\nJoscelyn: I don't care. You are to say what happened to the Gorgons.\n\nJoyce: And to the Squire.\n\nJennifer: And to the Princess.\n\nJessica: And what she looked like.\n\nJane: And what happened to the King.\n\n\"Please, Martin,\" said little Joan, \"please don't let the story come to\nan end before we know what happened to the Wanderer.\"\n\n\"I'm tired of telling stories,\" said Martin, \"and I'll never tell\nanother as long as I live. But I suppose I must add the trimmings to\nthis one, or I shall get no peace.\")\n\n\nAll these things, dear maidens, are very quickly told, except what the\nPrincess looked like, for that is impossible. No man ever knew. He\nnever got further than her eyes, and then he was drowned. But what does\nit matter how she looked? She died a thousand years ago of a broken\nheart. And her Squire, hearing of her death, died too, a thousand\nleagues away. And the King her father expired of remorse, and his\ncountry went to rack and ruin. And the five kind Gorgons had to pay the\npenalty of their regained humanity, and wilted into their maiden\ngraves. Only the Sixth Gorgon lived on for ever and ever. I dare not\nthink of her solitary eternity. But as for the Wanderer, he is of no\nimportance. A little while he still went wandering, singing these\nlovers' sorrows to the world, and what became of him I never knew.\n\nThat's the end.\n\nAnd now, dear Mistress Joscelyn, let me lace up your shoe.\n\n\n(Joscelyn buried her face in her hands and burst out crying.)\n\n\n\nPOSTLUDE\n\nPART I\n\nThere was consternation in the Apple-Orchard.\n\nAll the milkmaids came tumbling from their perches to run and comfort\ntheir weeping comrade. And as they passed Martin, Joyce cried, \"It's a\nshame!\" and Jennifer murmured \"How could you?\" and Jessica exclaimed\n\"You brute!\" and Jane said \"I'm surprised at you!\" and even little Joan\nshook her head at him, and, while all the others fondled Joscelyn, and\npetted and consoled her, took her hand and held it very tight. But with\nher other hand she took Martin's and held it just as tight, and looked\na little anxious, with tears in her blue eyes. Yet she looked a little\nsmiling too. And there were tears also in the eyes of all the\nmilkmaids, because the story had ended so badly, and because they did\nnot in the least know what was going to happen, and because a man had\nmade one of them cry. And Martin suddenly realized that all these girls\nwere against him as much as though it were six months ago. And he swung\nhis feet and looked as though he didn't care, so that Joan knew he was\nfeeling rather sheepish inside, and held his hand a little tighter.\n\nThen Joscelyn, who had the loveliest brown, as Joan had the loveliest\nblue, eyes in England, lifted her young head and looked at Martin so\ndefiantly through her tears that he knew she had given up the game at\nlast; and he pressed Joan's hand for all he was worth, and began to\nlook ashamed of himself, so that Joan knew he had stopped feeling\nsheepish in the least. And Joscelyn, in a voice that shook like\nbirch-leaves, said, \"I don't want it to end like that.\"\n\nMartin: Dear Mistress Joscelyn, is it my fault? I promised you the\ntruth, and with your help I have told it.\n\nJoscelyn: How dare you say it's with my help? If I had my way--!\n\nMartin: You shall have it. We will leave the end of the story in your\nhands.\n\nJoscelyn: I won't have anything to do with it!\n\nMartin: Then I'm afraid it's your fault.\n\nJoscelyn: That's what a man always says!\n\nMartin: Did he?\n\nJoscelyn: Yes, he did! he said it was Eve's fault.\n\nMartin: So it was.\n\nJoscelyn: How dare you!\n\nMartin: He said nothing but the truth. And what did you say?\n\nJoscelyn: I said it was Adam's fault.\n\nMartin: So it was. YOU said nothing but the truth.\n\nJoscelyn: How could it be two people's fault?\n\nMartin: How could it be anything else? Oh, Joscelyn! there are two\nthings in this world that one person alone cannot bring to perfection.\nAnd one of them is a fault. It takes two people to make a perfect\nfault. Eve tempted Adam; and Adam was jolly glad to get tempted if he\nwas half as sensible as he ought to have been. And Eve knew it. And\nAdam let her know it. And if after that she had not tempted him he\nwould never have forgiven her. When it came to fault-making they\nunderstood each other perfectly. And between them they made the most\nperfect fault in the world.\n\nJoscelyn: (after a very long pause): You said there were two things.\n\nMartin: Two things?\n\nJoscelyn: That one person alone can't bring to perfection.\n\nMartin: Did I?\n\nJoscelyn: What is the other thing?\n\nMartin: Love. Isn't it?\n\nJoscelyn: How dare you ask me?\n\nMartin: I dare ask more than that. Joscelyn, how old are you?\n\nJoscelyn: I sha'n't tell you.\n\nMartin: Joscelyn, you are the tallest of the milkmaids, but you can't\nhelp that. How old are you?\n\nJoscelyn: Mind your own business.\n\nMartin: Joscelyn, the first three times I saw you, you had your hair\ndown your back. But ever since I told you my first story you have done\nit up, like beautiful dark flowers, on each side of your head. And it\nis my belief that you have no business to have it up at all.\n\nJoscelyn (very angrily): How dare you! Of course I have! Am I not\nnearly sixteen?\n\nMartin: Nearly?\n\nJoscelyn: Well, next June.\n\nMartin: Oh, Hebe! it's worse than I thought. How dare I? You\nwhipper-snapper! How dare YOU have us all under your thumb? How dare\nYOU play the Gorgon to Gillian? How dare YOU cry your eyes out because\nmy lovers had an unhappy ending? Go back to your dolls'-house! What\ndoes sixteen next June know about Adam? What does sixteen next June\nknow about love?\n\nJoscelyn: Everything! how dare you? everything!\n\nMartin: Am I to believe you? Then by all you know, you baby, give me\nthe sixth key of the Well-House!\n\n\nAnd he took from his pocket the five keys he already had, and held out\nhis hand for the last one. Joscelyn's eyes grew bigger and bigger, and\nthe doubt that had troubled her all day became a certainty as she\nlooked from the keys to her comrades, who all got very red and hung\ntheir heads.\n\n\"Why did you give them up?\" demanded Joscelyn.\n\n\"Because,\" Martin answered for them, \"they know everything about love.\nBut then they are all more than sixteen years of age, and capable of\nmaking the right sort of ending which is so impossible to children like\nyou and me.\"\n\nThen Joscelyn looked as old as she could and said, \"Not so impossible,\nMaster Pippin, if--if--\"\n\nBut all of a sudden she began to laugh. It was the first time Martin\nhad ever heard her laugh, or her comrades for six months. Their faces\ncleared like magic, and they all clapped their hands and ran away. And\nMartin got down from his bough, because when Joscelyn laughed she\ndidn't look more than fourteen.\n\n\"If what, Joscelyn?\" he said.\n\n\"If you'd stolen the right shoe-string, Martin,\" said she. And she\nstuck out her right foot with its neatly-laced yellow slipper. Then\nMartin knelt down, and instead of lacing the left shoe unlaced the\nright one, and inside the yellow slipper found the sixth key just under\nthe instep. \"Is that the right ending?\" said Joscelyn. And Martin held\nthe little foot in his hands rubbing it gently, and said\ncompassionately, \"It must have been dreadfully uncomfortable.\"\n\n\"It was sometimes,\" said Joscelyn.\n\n\"Didn't it hurt?\" asked Martin, beginning to lace up her shoes for her.\n\n\"Now and then,\" said Joscelyn.\n\n\"It was an awfully kiddish place to hide it in,\" said Martin finishing,\nand as he looked up Joscelyn laughed again, rubbing her tear-stained\ncheeks with the back of her hand, and for all the great growing girl\nthat she was looked no more than twelve. So he slid under the swing and\nstood up behind her and kissed her on the back of the neck where babies\nare kissed.\n\nThen all the milkmaids came back again.\n\n\nPART II\n\nTo every girl Martin handed her key. \"This is your business,\" said he.\nAnd first Joan, and next Joyce, and then Jennifer, and then Jessica,\nand then Jane, and last of all Joscelyn, put her key into its lock and\nturned. And not one of the keys would turn. They bit their lips and\nheld their breath, and turned and turned in vain.\n\n\"This is dreadful,\" said Martin. \"Are you sure the keys are in the\nright keyholes?\"\n\n\"They all fit,\" said little Joan.\n\n\"Let me try,\" said Martin. And he tried, one after another, and then\ntried each key singly in each lock, but without result. Jane said, \"I\nexpect they've gone rusty,\" and Jessica said, \"That must be it,\" and\nJennifer turned pale and said, \"Then Gillian can never get out of the\nWell-House or we out of the orchard.\" And Martin sat down in the swing\nand thought and thought. As he thought he began to swing a little, and\nthen a little more, and suddenly he cried \"Push me!\" and the six girls\ncame behind him and pushed with all their strength. Up he went with his\nlegs pointed as straight as an arrow, and back he flew and up again.\nThe third time the swing flew clean over the Well-House, and as true as\na diving gannet Martin dropped from mid-air into the little court, and\nstood face to face with Gillian.\n\n\nPART III\n\nShe was not weeping. She was bathed in blushes and laughter. She held\nout her hands to him, and Martin took them. She had golden hair of\nlights and shadows like a wheatfield that fell in two thick plaits over\nher white gown, and she had gray eyes where smiles met you like an\ninvitation, but you had to learn later that they were really a little\nguard set between you and her inward tenderness, and that her gayety,\nlike a will-o'-the-wisp, led you into the flowery by-ways of her spirit\nwhere fairies played, but not to the heart of it where angels dwelled.\nFew succeeded in surprising her behind her bright shield, but sometimes\nwhen she wasn't thinking it fell aside, and what men saw then took\ntheir breath from them, for it was as though they were falling through\nendless wells of infinite sweetness. And afterwards they could have\ntold you nothing further of her loveliness; when they got as far as her\neyes they were drowned. Her features, the curves of her cheeks and lips\nand chin and delicate nostrils, were as finely-turned as the edge of a\nwild-rose petal, and her skin had the freshness of dew. The sight of\nher brought the same sense of delight as the sight of a meadow of\ncowslips. As sweet and sunny a scent breathed out from her beauty.\n\nBut all this Martin only felt without seeing, for he was drowned.\nGillian, I suppose, wasn't thinking. So they held each other's hands\nand looked at each other.\n\nPresently Martin said, \"It's time now, Gillian, and you can go.\"\n\n\"Yes, Martin,\" said Gillian. \"How shall I go?\"\n\n\"As I came,\" said he.\n\n\"Before I go,\" said she, \"I am going to ask you a question. You have\nasked my friends a lot of questions these six nights, which they have\nanswered frankly, and you have twisted their answers round your little\nfinger. Now you must answer my question as frankly.\"\n\n\"And what will you do?\" asked Martin.\n\n\"I won't twist your answer,\" said Gillian gently. \"I'll take it for\nwhat it is worth. You have been laughing up your sleeve a little at my\nfriends because, having a quarrel with men, they were sworn to live\nsingle. But you live single too. Tell me, if you please, what is your\nquarrel with girls?\"\n\nMartin dropped her hands until he held each by the little finger only,\nand then he answered, \"That they are so much too good for us, Gillian.\"\n\n\"Thank you, Martin,\" said Gillian, taking her hands away. \"And now\nplease ask them to send over the swing, for it is time for me to go to\nAdversane.\" And as she spoke the light played over her eyes again and\nfloated him up to the surface of things where he could swim without\ndrowning. He saw now the flowers of her loveliness, but no longer the\ndeeps of those gray pools where the light shimmered between herself and\nhim. So he turned and climbed to the pent roof of the Well-House, and\nlooked towards the group of shadows clustered under the apple-tree\naround the swing; and they understood and launched it through the air,\nand he caught it as it came. And Gillian in a moment was up beside him.\n\n\"Are you ready?\" said Martin.\n\n\"Yes,\" she answered getting on the swing, \"thank you. And thank you for\neverything. Thank you for coming three times this year. Thank you for\nthe stories. Thank you for giving their happiness again to my darling\nfriends. Thank you for all the songs. Thank you for drying my tears.\"\n\n\"Are they all dried up?\" said Martin.\n\n\"All,\" said Gillian.\n\n\"If they were not,\" said he, \"you shall find Herb-Robert growing along\nthe roadside, and the Herbman himself in Adversane.\"\n\nAnd holding the swing fast as he sat on the roof, Martin sang her his\nlast song, not very loud, but so clearly that the shadows under the\napple-tree heard every note and syllable.\n\n  Good morrow, good morrow, dear Herbman Robert!\n  Good morrow, sweet sir, good morrow!\n  Oh, sell me a herb, good Robert, good Robert,\n  To cure a young maid of her sorrow.\n\n  And hath her sorrow a name, sweet sir?\n  No lovelier name or purer,\n  With its root in her heart and its flower in her eyes,\n  Yet sell me a herb shall cure her.\n\n  Oh, touch with this rosy herb of spring\n  Both heart and eyes when she's sleeping,\n  And joy will come out of her sorrowing,\n  And laughter out of her weeping.\n\n\"Good-by, Martin.\"\n\n\"Good-by, Gillian.\"\n\n\"I want to ask you a lot more questions, Martin.\"\n\n\"Off you go!\" cried he. And let the swing fly. Back it came.\n\n\"Martin! why didn't--\"\n\n\"Jump when you're clear!\" called Martin. But back it came.\n\n\"Why didn't the young Squire in the story--\"\n\n\"Jump this time!\" And back it came.\n\n\"--come to fetch her himself, Martin?\"\n\n\"Jump!\" shouted Martin; and shut his eyes and put his hands over his\nears. But it was no use; again and again he felt the rush of air, and\nquestions falling through it like shooting-stars about his head.\n\n\"Martin! what was the name on the eighth floret of grass?\"\n\n\"Martin! what was the letter you threw with the Lady-peel?\"\n\n\"Martin! why is my silver ring all chased with little apples?\"\n\n\"Martin! do you--do you--do you--?\"\n\n\"Shall I never be rid of this swing?\" cried Martin. \"Jump, you\nnuisance, jump when I tell you!\"\n\nAnd she jumped, and was caught and kissed among the shadows.\n\n\"Gillian!\"\n\n\"Gillian!\"\n\n\"Gillian!\"\n\n\"Gillian!\"\n\n\"Gillian!\"\n\n\"Dear Gillian!\"\n\nAnd then like a golden wave and she the foam, they bore her over the\nmoonlit grass to the green wicket, and they threw it open, and she went\nlike a skipping stone across the duckpond and over the fields to\nAdversane.\n\nWhen she had vanished Martin slid down the roof, walked across to the\ncoping, put one leg over, and stepped out of the Well-House.\n\n\nPART IV\n\nThe six milkmaids were waiting for him in the apple-tree--no; Joscelyn\nwas in the swing.\n\n\"And so,\" said Martin, sitting down on the bough, \"on the sixth night\nthe sixth Gorgon also became a maiden as lovely as her fellows, and\ngave the Wanderer the sixth key to the Tower. And they let out the\nPrincess and set her in The Golden Truant, and she sailed away to her\nSquire a thousand leagues over the water. And everybody lived happily\never after.\"\n\n\"What a beautiful story!\" said Jane. And they all thought so too.\n\n\"I knew from the first,\" said Joscelyn, \"that it would have a happy\nending.\"\n\n\"And so did I,\" said Joyce.\n\n\"And I,\" said Jennifer,\n\n\"And I,\" said Jessica,\n\n\"And I,\" said Jane and\n\n\"And I,\" said little Joan.\n\n\"The verdict is passed,\" said Martin. \"And look! over our heads hangs\nthe moon, as round and beautiful as a penny balloon, with an eye as\nwide awake as a child's at six in the morning. If she will not go to\nsleep in heaven to-night, why on earth should we? Let's have a party!\"\n\nThe girls looked at one another in amazement and delight. \"A party?\nOh!\" cried they. \"But who will give it?\"\n\n\"I will,\" said Martin.\n\n\"And who will come to it?\"\n\n\"Whoever luck sends us,\" said Martin. \"But we'll begin with ourselves.\nJoan and Joyce and Jennifer and Jessica and Jane and Joscelyn, will you\ncome to my party in the Apple-Orchard?\"\n\n\"Yes, thank you, Martin!\" cried they. And ran away to change. But the\nonly change possible was to take the kerchiefs off their white necks,\nand the shoes and stockings off their little feet, and let down their\npretty hair. So they did these things, and made wreaths for one\nanother, and posies for their yellow dresses. And it is time for you to\nknow that Jennifer's dress was primrose and Jane's cowslip yellow, and\nthat Joyce looked like buttercups and Jessica like marigolds; and\nJoscelyn's was the glory of the kingcups that rise like magic golden\nisles above the Amberley floods in May. But little Joan had not been\nable to decide between the two yellows that go to make wild daffodils,\nso she had them both. Under their flowerlike skirts their white ankles\nand rosy heels moved as lightly as windflowers swaying in the grass.\nAnd just when they were ready they heard Martin Pippin's lute under the\napple-tree, so they came to the party dancing. Round and round the tree\nthey danced in the moonlight till they were out of breath. But when\nthey could dance no more they stood stock still and stared without\nspeaking; for spread under the trees was such a feast as they had not\nseen for months and months.\n\nIn the middle was a great heap of apples, red and brown and green and\ngold; but besides these was a dish of roasted apples and another of\napple dumplings, and between them a bowl of brown sugar and a full\npitcher of cream. The cream had spilled, and you could see where Martin\nhad run his finger up the round of the pitcher to its lip, where one\ndrip lingered still. Near these there was a plum-cake of the sort our\ngrannies make. It is of these cakes we say that twenty men could not\nput their arms round them. There were nuts in it too, and spices. And\nthere was a big basin of curds and whey, and a bigger one of fruit\nsalad, and another of custard; and plates of jam tarts and lemon\ncheesecakes and cheesestraws and macaroons; and gingerbread in cakes\nand also in figures of girls and boys with caraway comfits for eyes,\nand a unicorn and a lion with gilded horn and crown; and pots of honey\nand quince jelly and treacle; and mushrooms and pickled walnuts and\ngreen salads. Even Mr. Ringdaly did not provide a bigger feast when he\nmarried Mrs. Ringdaly. For there were also all the best sorts of sweets\nin the world: sugar-candy on a string, and twisted barley-sticks, and\nbulls'-eyes, and peardrops, and licorice shoe-strings, and Turkish\nDelight, and pink and white sugar mice; besides these there was\nsherbet, not to drink of course, but to dip your finger in. There were\na good many other things, but these were what the milkmaids took in at\na glance.\n\n\"OH!\" cried six voices at once. \"Where did they come from?\"\n\n\"Through the gap,\" said Martin.\n\n\"But who brought them?\"\n\n\"Don't ask me,\" said Martin.\n\nAt first the girls were rather shy--you can't help that at parties. But\nas they ate (and you know what each ate first) they got more and more\nat their ease, and by the time they were licking their sticky fingers\nwere in the mood for any game. So they played all the best games there\nare, such as \"Cobbler! Cobbler!\" (Joscelyn's shoe), and Hunt the\nThimble (Jane's thimble), and Mulberry Bush, and Oranges and Lemons,\nand Nuts in May. And in Nuts in May Martin insisted on being a side all\nby himself, and one after another he fetched each girl away from her\nside to his. And Joan came like a bird, and Joyce pretended to\nstruggle, and Jennifer had no fight in her at all, and Jessica really\ntried, and Jane didn't like it because it was undignified and so rough.\nBut when Joscelyn's turn came to be fetched as she stood all alone on\nher side deserted by her supporters, she put her hands behind her back,\nand jumped over the handkerchief of her own accord, and walked up to\nMartin and said, \"All right, you've won.\" For when it comes to fetching\naway it is a game that boys are better at than girls.\n\n\"In that case,\" said Martin, \"it's time for Hide-and-Seek.\" And he sat\ndown on the swing and shut his eyes.\n\nAt the same moment the moon went behind a cloud.\n\nAnd as he waited a light drop fell on Martin's cheek, and another, and\nanother, like the silent weeping of a girl; so that he couldn't help\nopening his eyes quickly and looking by instinct toward the empty\nWell-House. It was still empty, for wherever the girls had hidden\nthemselves, it was not there.\n\nThen through the shadowed raining orchard a low voice called \"Cuckoo!\"\nand \"Cuckoo! Cuckoo!\" called another. And softly, clearly, laughingly,\nmockingly, defiantly, teasingly, sweetly, caressingly, \"Cuckoo! Cuckoo!\nCuckoo!\" they called on every side. Martin stood up and stole among the\ntrees. At first he went quietly, but soon he ran and darted. And never\na girl could he find. For this after all is the game that girls are\nbetter at than boys, and when it comes to hiding if they will not be\nfound they will not. And if they will they will. But their will was not\nfor Martin Pippin. Through the pattering moonless orchard he hunted\nthem in vain; and the place was full of slipping shadows and whispers.\nAnd every now and then those cuckooing milkmaids called him, sometimes\nat a distance, sometimes at his very ear. But he could not catch a\nsingle one.\n\nAnd now it seemed to Martin that there were more of these elusive\nshadows than he could have believed, and whisperings that needed\naccounting for.\n\nFor once he heard somebody whisper, \"Oh, you were right! the world IS\nflat--for six months it's been as flat as a pancake!\" And a second\nvoice whispered, \"Then I was wrong! for pancakes are round.\" And Martin\nsaid to himself, \"That's Joyce!\" but the first voice he couldn't\nrecognize. And then followed a sound that was not exactly a whisper,\nyet not exactly unlike one; and Martin darted towards it, but touched\nonly air.\n\nAnd again he heard a mysterious voice whisper, \"How could you keep\nyourself so secret all these months? I couldn't have. However can girls\nkeep secrets so long?\" And the answer was, \"They can't keep them a\nsingle instant if you come and ask them--but you didn't come!\" \"What a\nfool I was!\" whispered the first voice, but whose Martin could not for\nthe life of him imagine. Yet he was sure that the other was Jennifer's.\nAnd again he heard that misleading sound which seemed to be something,\nyet, when he sought it, was nothing.\n\nAnd now he heard another unknown whisperer say, \"You should have seen\nmy drills in the wheatfield last April! How the drill did wobble! Why,\nI was that upset, any girl could have thrown straighter than I drilled\nthat wheat.\" And a second whisperer replied, \"It MUST have been a\nsight, then, for girls throw crookeder than swallows fly!\" This was\nsurely Jessica; but who was the first speaker?\n\nHe was as strange to Martin as another one who whispered, \"It was the\nsilence got on my nerves most--it was having nobody to listen to of an\nevening. Of course there were the lads, but they never talk to the\npoint.\" \"I often fear,\" whispered a second voice, \"that I talk too much\nat random.\" \"Good Lord! you couldn't, if you talked for ever!\" Each of\nthese two cases ended as the first two had ended; and for Martin in as\nlittle result.\n\nHe hastened to another part of the orchard where the whispers were\nfalling fast and fierce. \"It was Adam's fault after all!\" \"No, I've\nfound out that it was Eve's fault!\" \"But I've been looking it up.\" \"And\nI've been thinking it over.\" \"Rubbish! it WAS Adam's fault.\" \"It was\nNOT Adam's fault. What can a stupid little boy know about it?\" \"I'm a\nmonth older than you are.\" \"I don't care if you are. It was Eve's\nfault.\" \"Well, don't make a fuss if it was.\" \"Wasn't it?\" \"Stuff!\"\n\"WASN'T it?\" \"Oh, all right, if you like, it was Eve's fault.\" \"Here's\nan apple for you,\" said Joscelyn quite distinctly. \"Oh, ripping! but\nI'd rather have a--\" \"Sh-h! RUN!\" Martin was just too late. \"Rather\nhave a what?\" said Martin to himself.\n\nHe was beginning to feel lonely. His hair was wet with rain. He hadn't\nseen a milkmaid for an hour. He prowled low in the grass hoping to\ncatch one unawares. In the swing he saw a shadow--or was it two\nshadows? It looked like one. And yet--\n\nOne half of the shadow whispered, \"Do you like my new corduroys?\" \"Ever\nso much,\" whispered the other half. \"I'm rather bucked about them\nmyself,\" whispered the first half, \"or ought I to say about IT?\" \"I\nthink it's them,\" said the second half. The first half reflected, \"It\nmight be either one thing or two. But arithmetic's a nuisance--I never\nwas good at it.\" The second half confessed, \"I always have to guess at\nit myself. I'm only really sure of one bit.\" \"Which bit's that?\"\nwhispered the first half, and the second half whispered, \"That one and\none make two.\" \"Oh, you darling! of course they don't, and never did\nand never will.\" \"Well, I don't really mind,\" said little Joan. And\nthen there was a pause in which the two shadows were certainly one,\nuntil the second half whispered, \"Oh! oh, you've shaved it off!\" And\nthis delighted the first half beyond all bounds; because even in the\ncircumstances it was clever of the second half to have noticed it.\n\nBut Martin could bear no more. He sprang forward crying \"Joan!\"--and he\ngrasped the empty swing. And round the orchard he flew, his hands\nbefore him, calling now \"Joyce!\" now \"Jane!\" now \"Jessica!\" \"Jennifer!\"\n\"Joscelyn!\" and again \"Joan! Joan! Joan!\" And all his answer was\nrustlings and shadows and whispers, and faint laughter like far-away\nechoes, and empty air.\n\nAll of a sudden the light rain stopped and the moon came out of her\ncloud. And Martin found himself standing beside the Well-House, and\nnobody near him. He gazed all around at the familiar things, the\napple-trees, the swing, the green wicket, the broken feast in the\ngrass. And then at the far end of the orchard he saw an unfamiliar\nthing. It was a double ladder, arched over the hawthorn. And up the\nladder, like a golden shaft of the moon, went six quick girls, and\nahead of each her lad.* And on the topmost rung each took his milkmaid\nby the hand and vanished over the hedge.\n\nMartin Pippin was left alone in the Apple-Orchard.\n\n\n*It is not important, but their names were Michael, Tom, Oliver, John,\nHenry, and Charles. And Michael had dark hair and light lashes, and Tom\nfreckles and a snub-nose, and Oliver a mole on his left cheek, and John\nfine red-gold hair on his bronzed skin; and Henry was merely the\nOdd-Job Boy whose voice was breaking, so he imagined that it was he\nalone who ran the farm. But Charles was a dear. He had a tuft of white\nhair at the back of his dark head, like the cotton-tail of a rabbit,\nand as well as corduroy breeches he wore a rabbit-skin waistcoat, and\nhe was a great nuisance to gamekeepers, who called him a poacher;\nwhereas all he did was to let the rabbits out of the snares when it was\nkind to, and destroy the snares. And he used the bring \"bunny-rabbits\"\n(which other people call snapdragons) of the loveliest colors to plant\nin the little garden known as Joan's Corner. I should like to tell you\nmore about Charles (but there isn't time) because I am fond of him. If\nI hadn't been I shouldn't have let him have Joan.\n\n\nEPILOGUE\n\nAt cockcrow came the call which in that orchard was now as familiar as\nthe rooster's.\n\n\"Maids! Maids! Maids!\"\n\nMartin Pippin was leaning over the green wicket throwing jam tarts to\nthe ducks. Because in the Well-House Gillian had not left so much as a\ncrumb. But when he heard Old Gillman's voice, he flicked a bull's-eye\nat the drake, getting it very accurately on the bill, and walked across\nto the gap.\n\n\"Good morning, master,\" said Martin cheerfully. \"Pray how does Lemon,\nJoscelyn's Sussex, fare?\"\n\nOld Gillman put down his loaves with great deliberation, and spent a\nfew minutes taking Martin in. Then he answered, \"There's scant milk to\na Sussex, and allus will be. And if there was not, there'd be none to\nJoscelyn's Lemon. And if there was, it would take more than Henry to\ndraw it. And so that's you, is it?\"\n\n\"That's me,\" said Martin Pippin.\n\n\"Well,\" said Old Gillman, \"I've spent the best of six mornings trying\nnot to see ye. And has my daughter taken the right road yet?\"\n\n\"Yes, master,\" said Martin, \"she has taken the road to Adversane.\"\n\n\"Which SHE'S spent the best of six months trying not to see,\" said Old\nGillman. \"Women's a nuisance. Allus for taking the long cut round.\"\n\n\"I've known many a short cut,\" said Martin, \"to end in a blind alley.\"\n\n\"Well, well, so long as they gets there,\" grunted Gillman. \"And what's\nthis here?\"\n\n\"A pair of steps,\" said Martin.\n\n\"What for?\" said Gillman.\n\n\"Milkmaids and milkmen,\" said Martin.\n\n\"So they maids have cut too, have they?\"\n\n\"It was a full moon, you see.\"\n\n\"I dessay. But if they'd gone by the stile they could have hopped it in\nthe dark six months agone,\" said Old Gillman. And he got over the\nstile, which was the other way into the orchard and has not been\nmentioned till now, and came and clapped Martin on the shoulder.\n\n\"Women's more trouble,\" said he, \"than they're worth.\"\n\n\"They're plenty of trouble,\" said Martin; \"I've never discovered yet\nwhat they're worth.\"\n\n\"We'll not talk of  em more. Come up to the house for a drink, boy,\"\nsaid Old Gillman.\n\nMartin said pleasantly, \"You can drink milk now, master, to your\nheart's content. Or even water.\" And he walked over to the Well-House,\nand pointed invitingly to the bucket.\n\nOld Gillman followed him with one eye open. \"It's too late for that,\nboy. When you've turned toper for six months, after sixty sober years,\nit'll take you another six to drop the habit. That's what these\ndaughters do for their dads. But we'll not talk of  em.\" He stood\nbeside Martin and stared down at the padlock. \"How did the pretty go?\"\n\n\"In the swing, like a swift.\"\n\n\"Why not through the gate like a gal?\"\n\n\"The keys wouldn't turn.\"\n\n\"Which way?\"\n\n\"The right way.\"\n\n\"You should ha' tried  em the wrong way, boy.\"\n\n\"That would have locked it,\" said Martin.\n\n\"Azactly,\" said Old Gillman; and slipped the padlock from the staple\nand put it in his pocket. \"Come along up now.\"\n\nMartin followed him through the orchard and the paddock and the garden\nand the farmyard to the house. He noticed that everything was in the\npink of condition. But as he passed the stables he heard the cows\nlowing badly.\n\nThe farm-kitchen was a big one. It had all the things that go to make\nthe best farm-kitchens: such as red bricks and heavy smoke-blackened\nbeams, and a deep hearth with a great fire on it and settles inside,\nfrom which one could look up at the chimney-shaft to the sky, and clay\npipes and spills alongside, and a muller for wine or beer; and hams and\nsides of bacon and strings on onions and bunches of herbs; much pewter,\nand a copper warming-pan, and brass candlesticks, and a grandfather\nclock; a cherrywood dresser and wheelback chairs polished with age; and\na great scrubbed oaken table to seat a harvest-supper, planed from a\nsingle mighty plank. It was as clean as everything else in that good\nroom, but all the scrubbing would not efface the circular stains\nwherever men had sat and drunk; and that was all the way round and in\nthe middle. There were mugs and a Toby jug upon it now. Old Gillman\nfilled two of the mugs, and lifted one to Martin, and Martin echoed the\naction like a looking-glass. And they toasted each other in good Audit\nAle.\n\n\"Well,\" said Old Gillman stuffing his pipe, \"it's been a peaceful time,\nand now us must just see how things go.\"\n\n\"They look shipshape enough at the moment,\" said Martin.\n\n\"Ah,\" said Old Gillman shaking his head, \"that's the lads. They're good\nlads when you let  em alone. But what it'll be now they maids get\nmeddling again us can't foretell. It were bad enough afore, wi' their\nquarrelsomeness and their shilly-shally. It sends all things to rack\nand ruin.\"\n\n\"What does?\" said Martin.\n\n\"This here love.\" Old Gillman refilled his mug. \"We'll not talk of it.\nShe were a handy gal afore Robin began unmaking her mind along of his\nown. Lord! why can't these young things be plain and say what they\nwant, and get it? Wasn't I plain wi' her mother?\"\n\n\"Were you?\" said Martin.\n\n\"Ah, worse luck!\" said Gillman, \"and me a happy bachelor as I was. What\ndid I want wi' a minx about the place?\" He filled his mug again.\n\n\"What do any of us?\" said Martin. \"These women are the deuce.\"\n\n\"They are,\" said Gillman. \"We'll not talk of  em.\"\n\n\"There are a thousand better things to talk of,\" agreed Martin. \"There\nis Sloe Gin.\"\n\nOld Gillman's eye brightened. \"Ah!\" said Old Gillman, and puffed at his\npipe. \"Her name,\" he said, \"was Juniper, but as oft as not I'd call her\nJune, for she was like that. A rose in the house, boy. Maybe you think\nmy Jill has her share of looks? She has her mother's leavings, let me\ntell ye. So you may judge. But what's this Robin to dilly-dally with\nher daughter, till the gal can't sleep o' nights for wondering will he\nspeak in the morning or will he be mum? And so she becomes worse than\nno use in kitchen and dairy, and since sickness is catching the maids\nfollow suit. It's all off and on wi' them and their lads. In the\nmorning they will, in the evening they won't. Ah,  twas a tarrible\nlife. And all along o' Robin Rue. Young man, the farm, I tell ye, was\ngoing to fair rack and ruin.\"\n\n\"You seem to have found a remedy,\" said Martin.\n\n\"If they silly maids couldn't make up their minds,\" said Old Gillman,\n\"there was nothing for it but to turn  em out neck and crop till they\nlearned what they wanted. And Robin into the bargain. He's no better\nthan a maid when it comes to taking the bull by the horns. Yet that's\nthe man's part, mark ye. Don't I know? Smockalley she come from, the\nRose of Smockalley they called her, for a Rose in June she were. There\nweren't a lass to match her south of Hagland and north of Roundabout.\nAnd the lads would ha' died for her from Picketty to Chiltington. But\ntwas a Billinghurst lad got her, d'ye see?\" Old Gillman filled his mug.\n\n\"How did that come about?\" asked Martin, filling his.\n\n\"All along o' the Murray River.\"\n\n\"WHAT'S that!\" said Martin Pippin. But Old Gillman thought he said,\n\"What's THAT?\"\n\n\"'Tis the biggest river in Sussex, young man, and the littlest known,\nand the fullest of dangers, and the hardest to find; because nobody's\never found it yet but her and me. And she'd sworn to wed none but him\nas could find it with her. Don't I remember the day! Twas the day the\nCarrier come, and that was the day o' the week for us folk then. He had\na blue wagon, had George, with scarlet wheels and a green awning; and\nhis horse was a red-and-white skewbald and jingled bells on its bridle.\nA small bandy-legged man was George, wi' a jolly face and a squint, and\nas he drives up he toots on a tin trumpet wi' red tassels on it. Didn't\nit bring the crowd running! and didn't the crowd bring HIM to a\nstandstill, some holding old Scarlet Runner by the bridle, and others\nstanding on the very axles. And the hubbub, young man! It was  Where's\nmy six yards of dimity?' from one, and  Have you my coral necklace?'\nfrom another.  Where's my bag of comfits? where's my hundreds and\nthousands?' from the children; and  I can't wait for my ivory fan?'\n'My bandanna hanky!' My two ounces of snuff!'  My guitar!'  My clogs!'\n'My satin dancing-shoes!'  My onion-seed!'  My new spindle!'  My\nfiddle-bow!' 'My powder-puff!' And some little 'un would lisp, 'I'm\nsure you've forgotten my blue balloon!' And then they'd cry,\none-and-all, in a breath,  George! what's the news?' And he'd say,\n'Give a body elbow-room!' and handing the packages right and left\nwould allus have something to tell. But on this day he says,  News?\nThere BE no news excepting THE News.'  'And what's THE News?' cries\none-and-all.  'Why,' says George, 'that the Rose of Smockalley consents\nto be wed at last.'  The Rose!' they cries, and me the loudest, 'to\nwhom?'  To him,' says George,  as can find her the Murray River. For a\nsailor come by last Tuesday wi' a tale o' the Murray River where he'd\nbeen wrecked and seen wonders; and a woman tormented by curiosity will\ngo as far as a man tormented by love. And so she's willing to be wed at\nlast. But she's liker to die a maid.' Then I ups and asks why. And\nGeorge he says,  For that the sailor breathed such perils that the\nlasses was taken wi' the trembles and the lads with the shudders. For,\nhe says, the river's haunted by spirits, and a mystery at the end of it\nwhich none has ever come back from. And no man dares hazard so dark and\ndangerous an adventure, even for love of the Rose.' That pricks a man's\npride to hear, boy, and  Shame,' says I, on all West Sussex if that be\nso. Here be one man as is ready, and here be fifty others. What d'ye say,\nlads?' But Lord! as I looks from one to another they trickles away like\nsand through an hourglass, and before we knows it me and George has the\nroad to ourselves. So he says, I must be getting on to Wisboro', but\nfirst I'll deliver ye your baggage.'  You've no baggage o' mine,' says I.\n'Yes, if you'll excuse me,' says he; and wi' that he parts the green\nawning and says,  There she be.' And there she were, sitting on a\nbarrel o' cider.\"\n\n\"What was she like to look at?\" asked Martin.\n\n\"Yaller hair and gray eyes,\" said Gillman. \"And me a bachelor.\"\n\n\"It was hopeless,\" said Martin.\n\n\"It were,\" said Old Gillman. \"And it were the end o' my peace of life.\nShe looks me straight in the eye and she says,  Juniper's my name, but\nI'm June to them as loves me. And June I'll be to you. For I have\ntraveled his rounds wi' this Carrier for a week, and sat behind his\ncurtain while he told men my wishes. And you be the only one of them\nall as is willing to do a difficult thing for an idle whim, if what is\nthe heart's desire can ever be idle. So I will sit behind the curtain\nno longer, and if you will let me I will follow you to the ends of\nSussex till the Murray River be found, or we be dead.' And I says\nJump, lass!' and down she jumps and puts up her mouth.\" Gillman filled\nhis mug.\n\nMartin filled his. \"Well,\" said he, \"a man must take his bull by the\nhorns. And did you ever succeed in finding the Murray River?\"\n\n\"Wi' a child's help. It can only be found by a child's help.  Tis the\nchild's river of all Sussex. Any child can help you to it.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Martin, \"and all children know it.\"\n\nOld Gillman put down his mug. \"Do YOU know it, boy?\"\n\n\"I live by it,\" said Martin Pippin, \"when I live anywhere.\"\n\n\"Do children play in it still?\" asked Gillman.\n\n\"None but children,\" said Martin Pippin. \"And above all the child which\nboys and girls are always rediscovering in each other's hearts, even\nwhen they've turned gray in other folks' sight. And at the end of it is\na mystery.\"\n\n\"She were a child to the end,\" said Old Gillman. \"A fair nuisance, so\nshe were. And Jill takes after her.\"\n\n\"Well, SHE'S off your hands anyhow,\" said Martin getting up. \"She's to\nbe some other body's nuisance now, and your maids have come back to\ntheir milking.\"\n\n\"Ah, have they?\" grunted Gillman. \"The lads did it better. And they\ncooked better. And they cleaned better. There is nothing men cannot do\nbetter than women.\"\n\n\"I know it,\" said Martin Pippin, \"but it would be unkind to let on.\"\n\n\"Then we'll wash our hands of  em. But don't go, boy,\" said Old\nGillman. \"Talking of Sloe Gin--\"\n\nMartin sat down again.\n\nThey talked of Sloe Gin for a very long time. They did not agree about\nit. They got out some bottles to see if they could not manage to agree.\nMartin thought one bottle hadn't enough sugar-candy in it, so they put\nin some more; and Old Gillman thought another bottle hadn't enough gin\nin it, so they also put in some more. But they couldn't get it right,\nthough they tried and tried. Old Gillman thought it should be filtered\ndrop by drop seventy times through seven hundred sheets of\nblotting-paper, but Martin thought seven hundred times through seventy\nsheets was better; and Martin thought it should then be kept for seven\nthousand years, but Old Gillman thought seven years sufficient. But\nneither of these points had ever been really proved, and was not that\nday.\n\nAfter this, as they couldn't reach an agreement, they changed the\nsubject to rum punch, and argued a good deal as to the right quantities\nof lemon and sugar and nutmeg; and whether it was or was not improved\nby the addition of brandy, and how much; and an orange or so, and how\nmany; and a tangerine, if you had it; and a tot of gin, if you had it\nleft. Yet in this case too the most repeated practice proved as\ninadequate as the most confirmed theory.\n\nSo after a bit Old Gillman said, \"This is child's play, boy. After all,\nthere's but one drink for kings and men. Give us a song over our cup,\nand I'll sing along o' ye.\"\n\n\"Right,\" said Martin, \"if you can fetch me the only cup worthy to sing\nover.\"\n\n\"What cup's that, boy?\"\n\n\"What but a kingcup?\" said Martin.\n\n\"A king once drank from this,\" said Gillman, fetching down a goblet as\ngolden as ale. \"He looked like a shepherd, and had a fold just across\nthe road, but he was a king for all that. So strike up.\"\n\n\"After me, then,\" said Martin; and they pushed the cup between them,\nand the song too.\n\nMartin: What shall we drink of when we sup?\n\nGillman: What d'ye say to the King's own cup?\n\nMartin: What's the drink?\n\nGillman: What d'ye think?\n\nMartin: Farmer, say! Water?\n\nGillman: Nay!\n\nMartin: Wine?\n\nGillman: Aye!\n\nMartin: Red wine?\n\nGillman: Fie!\n\nMartin: White wine?\n\nGillman: No!\n\nMartin: Yellow wine?\n\nGillman: Oh!\n\nMartin: What in fine, What wine then?\n\nGillman: The only wine\n  That's fit for men\n  Who drink of the King's Cup when they dine,\n  And that is the Old Brown Barley Wine!\n\n  From This      I'll drink ye high,\n  Point I        I'll drink ye low,\n  Don't Know     Till the stars run dry\n  Which Of       Of their juices oh!\n  Them Was       I'll drink ye up,\n  Singing;       I'll drink ye down,\n  And No More    Till the old moon's cup\n  Did They:      Is cracked all round,\n\n  And the pickled sun\n  Jumps out of his brine,\n  And you cry Done!\n  To the Barley Wine.\n  Come, boy, sup! Come, fill up!\n  Here's King's own drink for the King's own cup!\n\nWhat happened after this I really don't know. For I was not there,\nthough I should like to have been.\n\nI only know that when Martin Pippin stepped out of Gillman's Farm with\nhis lute on his back, Old Gillman was fast asleep on the settle. But\nMartin had never been wider awake.\n\nIt was late in the afternoon. There was no sign of human life anywhere.\nIn their stables the cows were lowing very badly.\n\n\"Oh, maids, maids, maids!\" sighed Martin Pippin. \"Rack and ruin, my\ndears, rack and ruin!\"\n\nAnd he fetched the milkpails and went into the stalls, and did the\nmilkmaids' business for them. And Joyce's Blossom, and Jennifer's\nDaisy, and Jessica's Clover stood as still for him as they stand in the\nshade of the willows on Midsummer Day. And Jane's Nellie whisked her\ntail over his mouth, but seemed sorry afterwards. And Joscelyn's Lemon\nkicked the bucket and would not let down her milk till he sang to her,\nand then she gave in. But little Joan's little Jersey Nancy, with her\nsoft dark eyes, and soft dun sides, and slender legs like a deer's,\nlicked his cheek. And this was Martin's milking-song.\n\n  You Milkmaids in the hedgerows,\n    Get up and milk your kine!\n  The satin Lords and Ladies\n    Are all dressed up so fine,\n  But if you do not skim and churn\n    How can they dine?\n  Get up, you idle Milkmaids,\n    And call in your kine.\n\n  You milkmaids in the hedgerows,\n    You lazy lovely crew,\n  Get up and churn the buttercups\n    And skim the milkweed, do!\n  But the Milkmaids in their country prints\n    And faces washed with dew,\n  They laughed at Lords and Ladies\n    And sang \"Cuckoo! Cuckoo!\"\n  And if you know their reason\n    I'm not so wise as you.\n\nWhen he had done, Martin carried the pails to the dairy and turned his\nback on Gillman's. For his business there was ended. So he went out at\nthe gate and lifted his face to the Downs.\n\nIt was a lovely evening. Half the sky was clear and blue, and the other\nhalf full of silky gold clouds--they wanted to be heavy and wet, but\nthe sun was having such fun on the edge of the Downs, somewhere about\nDuncton, that they had to be gold in spite of themselves.\n\n\n\nCONCLUSION\n\nOne evening at the end of the first week in September, Martin Pippin\nwalked along the Roman Road to Adversane. And as he approached he said\nto himself, \"There are many sweet corners in Sussex, but few sweeter\nthan this, and I thank my stars that I have been led to see it once in\nmy life.\"\n\nWhile he was thanking his stars, which were already in the sky waiting\nfor the light to go out and give them a chance, he heard the sound of\nweeping. It came from the malthouse, which is the most beautiful\nbuilding in Sussex. So persistent was it that after he had listened to\nit for six minutes it seemed to Martin that he had been listening to it\nfor six months, and for one moment he believed himself to be sitting in\nan orchard with his eyes shut, and warm tears from heaven falling on\nhis face. But knowing himself to be too much given to fancies he\ndecided to lay those ghosts by investigation, and he went up to the\nmalthouse and looked inside.\n\nThere he found a young man flooring the barley. As he turned and\nre-turned it with his spade he wept so copiously above it that he was\nfrequently obliged to pause and wipe away his tears with his arm, for\nhe could no longer see the barley he was spreading. When the maltster\nhad interrupted himself thus for the third occasion, Martin Pippin\nconcluded that it was time to address him.\n\n\"Young master,\" said Martin, \"the bitters that are brewed from your\nbarley will need no adulterating behind the bar, and that's flat.\"\n\nThe maltster leaned on his spade to reply.\n\n\"There are no waters in all the world,\" said he, \"plentiful enough to\nadulterate the bitterness of my despair.\"\n\n\"Then I would preserve these rivers for better sport,\" said Martin.\n\"And if memory plays me no tricks, your name was once Robin Rue.\"\n\n\"And Rue it will be to my last hour,\" said Robin, \"for a man can no\nmore escape from his name than from his nature.\"\n\n\"Men,\" observed Martin, \"have been in this respect worse served than\nwomen. And when will Gillian Gillman change her name?\"\n\n\"No sooner than I,\" sighed Robin Rue; \"a maid she must die, as I a\nbachelor. And if she do not outlive me, we shall both be buried before\nChristmas.\"\n\n\"Heaven forbid!\" exclaimed Martin. And stepping into the malthouse he\noffered Robin six keys.\n\n\"How will these help us?\" said Robin Rue.\n\n\"They are the keys of your lady's Well-House,\" said Martin Pippin, \"and\nhow I have outpaced her I cannot imagine, for she was on the road to\nyou twenty hours ago.\"\n\n\"This is no news,\" said Robin. \"There she is.\"\n\nAnd he turned his face to the dark of the malthouse, and there, sitting\non a barrel, with a slice of the sunset falling through a slit on her\ncorn-colored hair, was Gillian.\n\n\"In love's name,\" cried Martin Pippin, putting his hands to his head,\n\"what more do you want?\"\n\n\"A husband worthy of her,\" moaned Robin Rue, \"and how can I suppose\nthat I am he? Oh, that I were only good enough for her! oh, that she\ncould be happily mated, as after all her sorrows she deserves to be!\"\n\nThen Martin looked down at the patch on his shoe saying, \"And tell me\nnow, if you knew Gillian happily wed, would you ask nothing more of\nlife?\"\n\n\"Oh, sir,\" cried Robin Rue, \"if I knew any man who could give her all I\ncannot, I would contrive at least to live long enough to drown my\nsorrows in the beer brewed from this barley.\"\n\n\"It is a solace,\" said Martin, \"that must be denied to no man. It seems\nthat I must help you out to the last. And if you will take one glance\nout of doors, you will see that the working-day is over.\"\n\nRobin Rue looked out of doors, saw by the sun that it was so, put down\nhis spade, and went home to supper.\n\n\n\"Gillian,\" said Martin Pippin, \"the Squire did not come himself to\nfetch her away because he was a young fool. There was no eighth floret\non the grass-blade, so the rime stayed at the seventh. The letter I\nthrew with the Lady-peel was a G. There are apples all round your\nsilver ring because it was once my ring. I do, you dear, I do, I do.\nAnd now I have answered your many questions, answer me one. Why did you\nsit six months in the Well-House weeping for love?\"\n\n\"Oh, Martin,\" said Gillian softly, \"could you tell my friends so much\nthey did not know, and not know this?--girls do not weep for love, they\nweep for want of it.\" And she lifted her heavenly eyes, and out of the\nlast of the sunlight looked at him without thinking. And Martin, like a\ndrowning man catching at straws, caught her corn-colored plaits one in\neither hand, and drawing himself to her by them, whispered, \"Do girls\ndo that? But they are so much too good for us, Gillian.\"\n\n\"I know they are,\" whispered Gillian, \"but if all men were like Robin\nRue, what would become of us? Must we be punished for what we can't\nhelp?\"\n\nAnd she put her little finger on his mouth, and he kissed it.\n\nThen Martin himself sat down on the barrel where there was only room\nfor one; but it was Martin who sat on it. And after a while he said,\n\"You mightn't think it, but I have got a cottage, and there is nothing\nwhatever in it but a table which I made myself, and I think that is\nenough to begin with. On the way to it we shall pass Hardham, where in\nthe Priory Ruins lives a Hermit who is sometimes in the mood. Beyond\nHardham is the sunken bed of the old canal that is a secret not known\nto everybody; all flowering reeds and plants that love water grow\nthere, and you have to push your way between water-loving trees under\nwhich grass and nettles in their season grow taller than children; but\nat other times, when the pussy-willows bloom with gray and golden bees,\nthe way is clear. Beyond this presently is a little glade, the\nloveliest in Sussex; in spring it is patterned with primroses, and\nwindflowers shake their fragile bells and show their silver stars above\nthem. Some are pure and colorless, like maidens who know nothing of\nlove, and others are faintly stained with streaks of purple-rose. So\nexquisite is the beauty of these earthly flowers that it is like a\nheavenly dream, but it is a dream come true; and you will never pass it\nin April without longing to turn aside and, kneeling among all that\npallid gold and silver, offer up a prayer to the fairies. And I shall\nalways kneel there with you. But beyond this is a land of bracken and\nundiscovered forests that hides a special secret. And you may run round\nit on all sides within fifty yards, yet never find it; unless you\nhappen to light upon a land where grass springs under your feet among\ndeep cart-ruts, and blackberry branches scramble on the ground from the\nflowery sides. The lane is called Shelley's Lane, for a reason too\nbeautiful to be told; since all the most beautiful reasons in the world\nare kept secrets. And this is why, dear Gillian, the world never knows,\nand cannot for the life of it imagine, what this man sees in that maid\nand that maid in this man. The world cannot think why they fell in love\nwith each other. But they have their reason, their beautiful secret,\nthat never gets told to more than one person; and what they see in each\nother is what they show to each other; and it is the truth. Only they\nkept it hidden in their hearts until the time came. And though you and\nI may never know why this lane is called Shelley's, to us both it will\nalways be the greenest lane in Sussex, because it leads to the special\nsecret I spoke of. At the end of it is an old gate, clambered with blue\nperiwinkle, and the gate opens into a garden in the midst of the\nforest, a garden so gay and so scented, so full of butterflies and bees\nand flower-borders and grass-plots with fruit-trees on them, that it\nmight be Eden grown tiny. The garden runs down a slope, and is divided\nfrom a wild meadow by a brook crossed by a plank, fringed with young\nhazel and alder and, at the right time, thick-set with primroses.\nBehind the meadow, in a glimpse of the distance full of soft blue\nshadows and pale yellow lights, lie the lovely sides of the Downs,\nrounded and dimpled like human beings, dimpled like babies, rounded\nlike women. The flow of their lines is like the breathing of a sleeper;\nyou can almost see the tranquil heaving of a bosom. All about and\naround the garden are the trees of the forest. Crouched in one of the\nhollows is my cottage with the table in it. And the brook at the bottom\nof the garden is the Murray River.\"\n\nGillian looked up from his shoulder. \"I always meant to find that some\nday,\" she said, \"with some one to help me.\"\n\n\"I'll help you,\" said Martin.\n\n\"Do children play there now?\"\n\n\"Children with names as lovely as Sylvia, who are even lovelier than\ntheir names. They are the only spirits who haunt it. And at the source\nof it is a mystery so beautiful that one day, when you and I have\ndiscovered it together, we shall never come back again. But this will\nbe after long years of gladness, and a life kept always young, not only\nby our children, but by the child which each will continually\nrediscover in the other's heart.\"\n\n\"What is this you are telling me?\" whispered Gillian, hiding her face\nagain.\n\n\"The Seventh Story.\"\n\n\"I'm glad it ends happily,\" said Gillian. \"But somehow, all the time, I\nthought it would.\"\n\n\"I rather thought so too,\" said Martin Pippin. \"For what does furniture\nmatter as long as Sussex grows bedstraw for ladies to sleep on?\"\n\nAnd tuning his lute he sang her his very last song.\n\n  My Lady sha'n't lie between linen,\n  My Lady sha'n't lie upon down,\n  She shall not have blankets to cover her feet\n  Or a pillow put under her crown;\n  But my Lady shall lie on the sweetest of beds\n  That ever a lady saw,\n  For my Lady, my beautiful Lady,\n  My Lady shall lie upon straw.\n    Strew the sweet white straw, he said,\n    Strew the straw for my Lady's bed--\n    Two ells wide from foot to head,\n      Strew my Lady's bedstraw.\n\n  My Lady sha'n't sleep in a castle,\n  My Lady sha'n't sleep in a hall,\n  She shall not be sheltered away from the stars\n  By curtain or casement or wall;\n  But my lady shall sleep in the grassiest mead\n  That ever a Lady saw,\n  Where my Lady, my beautiful Lady,\n  My Lady shall lie upon straw.\n    Strew the warm white straw, said he,\n    My arms shall all her shelter be,\n    Her castle-walls and her own roof-tree--\n      Strew my Lady's bedstraw.\n\nWhen he had done Martin Said, \"Will you go traveling, Gillian?\"\n\nAnd Gillian answered, \"With joy, Martin. But before I go traveling, I\nwill sing to you.\"\n\nAnd taking the lute from him she sang him her very first song.\n\n  I saw an Old Man by the wayside\n  Sit down with his crutch to rest,\n  Like the smoke of an angry kettle\n  Was the beard puffed over his breast.\n\n  But when I tugged at the Old Man's beard\n  He turned to a beardless boy,\n  And the boy and myself went traveling,\n  Traveling wild with joy.\n\n  With eyes that twinkled and hearts that danced\n  And feet that skipped as they ran--\n  Now welcome, you blithe young Traveler!\n  And fare you well, Old Man!\n\nWhen she had done Martin caught her in his arms and kissed her on the\nmouth and on the eyes and on both cheeks and on her two hands, and on\nthe back of the neck where babies are kissed; and standing her up on\nthe barrel and himself on the ground, he kissed her feet, one after the\nother. Then he cried, \"Jump, lass! jump when I tell you!\" and Gillian\njumped. And as happy as children they ran hand-in-hand out of the\nMalthouse and down the road to Hardham.\n\nOverhead the sun was running away from the clouds with all his might,\nand they were trying to catch hold of him one by one, in vain; for he\nrolled through their soft grasp, leaving their hands bright with\ngold-dust.","title":"Martin Pippin in the Apple Orchard","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":106443}