CHAPTER IV
THE FEAST
An Elmsdale Sunday was a day of rest for man and beast alike. Therecould be no manner of doubt that the horses and dogs were able todistinguish the Sabbath from the workaday week. Prince, six-year-oldCleveland bay, the strongest and tallest horse in the stable, when hisheadstall was taken off on Sunday morning, showed his canny Yorkshiresense by walking past the row of carts and pushing open a rickety gatethat led to a tiny meadow kept expressly for odd grazing. After him, inIndian file, went five other horses; yet, on any other day in the weekthey would stand patiently in the big yard, waiting to be led awaysingly or in pairs.
Curly and Jim, the two sheep-dogs--who never failed between Monday andSaturday to yawn and stretch expectantly by the side of John Bolland'ssturdy nag in the small yard near the house--on the seventh day madetheir way to the foreman's cottage, there attending his leisure for ascamper over the breezy moorland.
For, Sunday or weekday, sheep must be counted. If any are missing, thealmost preternatural intelligence of the collie is invoked to discoverthe hollow in which the lost ones are reposing helplessly on theirbacks. They will die in a few hours if not placed on their legs again.Turn over unaided they cannot. Man or dog must help, or they choke.
Even the cocks and hens, the waddling geese and ducks, the hugeshorthorns, which are the pride of the village, seemed to grasp thesubtle distinction between life on a quiet day and the well-filledexistence of the six days that had gone before. At least, Martin thoughtso; but he did not know then that the windows of the soul let inimageries that depend more on mood than on reality.
Personally he hated Sunday, or fancied he did. He had Sunday clothes,Sunday boots, Sunday food, a Sunday face, and a Sunday conscience.Things were wrong on Sunday that were right during the rest of the week.Though the sky was as bright, the grass as green, the birds as tunefulon that day as on others, he was supposed to undergo a metamorphosisthroughout all the weary waking hours. His troubles often began themoment he quitted his bed. As his "best" clothes and boots were solittle worn, they naturally maintained a spick-and-span appearanceduring many months. Hence, he was given a fresh assortment about once ayear, and the outfit possessed three distinct periods of use, of whichthe first tortured his mind and the third his body.
He being a growing lad, the coat was made too long in the sleeves, thetrousers too long in the legs, and the boots too large. At the beginningof this epoch he looked and felt ridiculous. Gradually, the effect ofroast beef and suet dumplings brought about a better fit, and duringfour months of the year he was fairly smart in appearance. Then therecame an ominous shrinkage. His wrists dangled below the coat cuffs,there was an ever-widening rim of stocking between the tops of the bootsand the trousers' ends, while Mrs. Bolland began to grumble each weekabout the amount of darning his stockings required. Moreover, there werecertain quite insurmountable difficulties in the matter of buttons, andit was with a joy tempered only by fear of the grotesque that he beheldthe "best" suit given away to an urchin several sizes smaller thanhimself.
Happily for his peace of mind, the Feast occurred in the middle stage ofthe current supply of raiment, so he was as presentable as a peripatetictailor who worked in the house a fortnight at Christmas could make him.
But this Sunday dragged terribly. The routine of chapel from 10:30 A.M.to noon, Sunday-school from 3 P.M. to 4:30 P.M., and chapel again from6:30 P.M. to 8 P.M., was inevitable, but there were compensations in thewhispered confidences of Jim Bates and Tommy Beadlam, the latternicknamed "White Head," as to the nature of some of the shows.
The new conditions brought into his life by Angele Saumarez troubled himfar more than he could measure. Her mere presence in the secludedvillage carried a breath of the unknown. Her talk was of London andParis, of parks, theatres, casinos, luxurious automobiles, deck-cabins,and Pullman cars. She seemed to have lived so long and seen so much. Yetshe knew very little. Her ceaseless chatter in French and English, whichsounded so smart at first, would not endure examination.
She had read nothing. When Martin spoke of "Robinson Crusoe" and"Ivanhoe," of "Treasure Island" and "The Last of the Mohicans"--aliterary medley devoured for incident and not for style--she had noteven heard of them, but produced for inspection an astonishingly rudecolored cartoon, the French comments on which she translated literally.
He was a boy aglow with dim but fervent ideals; she, a girl who hadevidently been allowed to grow up almost wild in the midst offashionable life and flippant servants, all exigencies being fulfilledwhen she spoke nicely and cleverly and wore her clothes with therequisite chic. The two were as opposed in essentials as an honestEnglish apple grown in a wholesome garden and a rare orchid, the productof some poisonous equatorial swamp.
He tried to interest her in the sights and sounds of country life. Shemet him more than halfway by putting embarrassing questions as to thehabits of animals. More than once he told her plainly that there weresome things little girls ought not to know, whereat she laughedscornfully, but switched the conversation to a topic on which she couldvex him, as was nearly always the case in her references to ElsieHerbert or John Bolland's Bible teaching.
Yet he was restless and irritable because he did not see her on theSunday. Mrs. Saumarez, it is true, sped swiftly through the villageabout three o'clock, and again at half-past seven. On each occasion theparticular chapel affected by the Bollands was resounding with aloud-voiced hymn or echoing the vibrant tones of a preacher powerfulbeyond question in the matter of lungs and dogmatism. The whir of theMercedes shut off these sounds; but Martin heard the passing of the carand knew that Angele was in it.
It was a novel experience for the Misses Walker to find that theirlodgers recognized no difference between Sunday and the rest of theweek. Mrs. Saumarez dined at 6:30 P.M., a concession of an hour and ahalf to rural habits, but she scouted the suggestion that a cold mealshould be served to enable the "girls" to go to church. The old ladiesdared not quarrel with one who paid so well. They remained at home andcooked and served the dinner.
As Francoise, to a large extent, waited on her mistress, thisdevelopment might not have been noticed had not Angele's quick eyes seenMiss Emmy Walker carrying a chicken and a dish of French beans to asmall table in the hall.
She told her mother, and Mrs. Saumarez was annoyed. She had informedMiss Martha that if the servants required a "night out," the addition ofanother domestic to the household at her expense would give them a gooddeal more liberty, but this ridiculous "Sunday-evening" notion must stopforthwith.
"It gets on my nerves, this British Sabbath," she exclaimed peevishly."In London I entertain largely on a Sunday and have never had anytrouble. Do you mean to say I cannot invite guests to dinner on Sundaymerely to humor a cook or a housemaid? Absurd!"
Miss Martha promised reform.
"Let her have her way," she said to Miss Emmy. "Another servant willhave nothing to do, and all the girls will grow lazy; but we must keepMrs. Saumarez as long as we can. Oh, if she would only remain a year,we'd be out of debt, with the house practically recarpeted throughout!"
Unfortunately, Mrs. Saumarez's nerves were upset. She was snappy all theevening. Francoise tried many expedients to soothe her mistress'sruffled feelings. She brought a bundle of illustrated papers, a parcelof books, the scores of a couple of operas, even a gorgeous assortmentof patterns of the new autumn dress fabrics, but each and all failed toattract. For some reason the preternaturally acute Angele avoided hermother. She seemed to be afraid of her when in this mood. The MissesWalker, seeing the anxiety of the maid and the unwonted retreat of thechild to bed at an early hour, were miserable at the thought that such atrivial matter should have given their wealthy tenant cause for direoffense.
So Sunday passed irksomely, and everyone was glad when the next morningdawned in bright cheerfulness.
From an early hour there was evidence in plenty that the Elmsdale Feastwould be an unqualified success, though shorn of many of its ancientglories.
Time wa
s when the village used to indulge in a week's saturnalia, butthe march of progress had affected rural Yorkshire even so long ago as1906. The younger people could visit Leeds, York, Scarborough, or Whitbyby Saturday afternoon "trips"--special excursion trains run at cheaprates--while "week-ends" in London were not unknown luxuries, and thesefrequent opportunities for change of scene and recreation had lessenedthe scope of the annual revels. Still, the trading instinct kept alivethe commercial side of the Feast; the splendid hospitality of the northcountry asserted itself; church and chapels seized the chance ofreaching enlarged congregations, and a number of itinerant showmenregarded Elmsdale as a fixture in the yearly round.
So, on the Monday, every neighboring village and moorland hamlet pouredin its quota. The people came on foot from the railway station, distantnearly two miles, on horseback, in every sort of conveyance. The roadswere alive with cattle, sheep, and pigs. The programme mapped out bore ageneral resemblance on each of the four days. The morning was devoted tobusiness, the afternoon and evening to religion or pleasure.
The proceedings opened with a horse fair. An agent of the GermanGovernment snapped up every Cleveland bay offered for sale. GeorgePickering, in sporting garb, and smoking a big cigar, was an earlyarrival. He bid vainly for a couple of mares which he needed to completehis stud. Germany wanted them more urgently.
A splendid mare, the property of John Bolland, was put up for auction.The auctioneer read her pedigree, and proved its authenticity byreference to the Stud Book.
"Is she in foal?" asked Pickering, and a laugh went around. Bollandscowled blackly. If a look could have slain the younger man he wouldassuredly have fallen dead.
The bidding commenced at L40 and rose rapidly to L60.
Then Pickering lost his temper. The agent for Germany was toopertinacious.
"Seventy," he shouted, though the bids hitherto had mounted by singlesovereigns.
"Seventy-one," said the agent.
"Eighty!" roared Pickering.
"Eighty-one!" nodded the agent.
"The reserve is off," interposed the auctioneer, and again thesurrounding farmers guffawed, as the mare had already gone to twentypounds beyond her value.
Pickering swallowed his rage with an effort. He turned to Bolland.
"That's an offset for my hard words the other day," he said.
But the farmer thrust aside the proffered olive branch.
"Once a fule, always a fule," he growled. Pickering, though anything buta fool in business, took the ungracious remark pleasantly enough.
"He ought to sing a rare hymn this afternoon," he cried. "I've put ascore of extra sovereigns in his pocket, and he doesn't even say 'Thankyou.' Well, it's the way of the world. Who's dry?"
This invitation caused an adjournment to the "Black Lion." Theauctioneer knew his clients.
Pickering's allusion to the hymn was not made without knowledge. Atthree o'clock, on a part of the green farthest removed from the throngedstalls and the blare of a steam-driven organ, Bolland and a few otherearnest spirits surrounded the stentorian preacher and held an open-airservice. They selected tunes which everybody knew and, as a result, soonattracted a crowd of older people, some of whom brought their children.Martin, of course, was in the gathering.
Meanwhile, along the line of booths, a couple of leather-lunged men weresinging old-time ballads, dealing for the most part with sportingincidents. They soon became the centers of two packed audiences, mainlyyoung men and boys, but containing more than a sprinkling of girls. Theditties were couched in "broad Yorkshire"--sometimes too broad formodern taste. Whenever a particularly crude stanza was bawled forth achuckle would run through the audience, and coppers in plenty wereforthcoming for printed copies of the song, which, however, usually fellshort of the blunt phraseology of the original. The raucous balladsingers took risks feared by the printer.
Mrs. Saumarez, leading Angele by the hand, thought she would like tohear one of these rustic melodies, and halted. Instantly the vendorchanged his cue. The lady might be the wife of a magistrate. Once he gotfourteen days as a rogue and a vagabond at the instance of just suchanother interested spectator, who put the police in action.
Quickly surfeited by the only half-understood humor of a song describingthe sale of a dead horse, she wandered on, and soon came across thepreacher and his lay helpers.
To her surprise she saw John Bolland standing bareheaded in the frontrank, and with him Martin. She had never pictured the keen-eyed, crustyold farmer in this guise. It amused her. The minister began to offer upa prayer. The men hid their faces in their hats, the women bowedreverently, and fervent ejaculations punctuated each pause in thepreacher's appeal.
"I do believe!"
"Amen! Amen!"
"Spare us, O Lord!"
Mrs. Saumarez stared at the gathering with real wonderment.
"C'est incroyable!" she murmured.
"What are they doing, mamma?" cried Angele, trying to guess why Martinhad buried his eyes in his cap.
"They are praying, dearest. It reminds one of the Covenanters. It reallyis very touching."
"Who were the Covenanters?"
"When you are older, ma belle, you will read of them in history."
That was Mrs. Saumarez's way. She treated her daughter's education as amatter for governesses whom she did not employ and masters to whosecontrol Angele would probably never be entrusted.
The two entered the White House. There they found Mrs. Bolland, radiantin a black silk dress, a bonnet trimmed with huge roses, and a velvetdolman, the wings of which were thrown back over her portly shoulders topermit her the better to press all comers to partake of her hospitality.
Several women and one or two men were seated at the big table, whilepeople were coming and going constantly.
It flustered and gratified Mrs. Bolland not a little to receive such adistinguished visitor.
"Eh, my leddy," she cried, "I'm glad to see ye. Will ye tek a chair? Andt' young leddy, too? Will ye hev a glass o' wine?"
This was the recognized formula. There was a decanter of port wine onthe sideboard, but most of the visitors partook of tea or beer. One ofthe men drew himself a foaming tankard from a barrel in the corner.
Mrs. Saumarez smiled wistfully.
"No wine, thank you," she said; "but that beer looks very nice. I'llhave some, if I may."
Not until that moment did Mrs. Bolland remember that her guest was areputed teetotaller. So, then, Mrs. Atkinson, proprietress of the "BlackLion," was mistaken.
"That ye may, an' welcome," she said in her hearty way.
Angele murmured something in French, but her mother gave a curt answer,and the child subsided, being, perhaps, interested by the evidentamazement and admiration she evoked among the country people. To-day,Angele was dressed in a painted muslin, with hat and sash of the samematerial, long black silk stockings, and patent-leather shoes. Shelooked elegantly old-fashioned, and might have walked bodily out of oneof Caran d'Ache's sketches of French society.
Suddenly she bounced up like an india-rubber ball.
"Tra la!" she cried. "V'la mon cher Martin!"
The prayer meeting had ended, and Martin was speeding home, well knowingwho had arrived there.
Angele ran to meet him.
"She's a rale fairy," whispered Mrs. Summersgill, mistress of the DaleEnd Farm. "She's rigged out like a pet doll."
"Ay," agreed her neighbor. "D'ye ken wheer they coom frae?"
"Frae Lunnon, I reckon. They're staying wi' t' Miss Walkers. That's t'muther, a Mrs. Saumarez, they call her, but they say she's a Jarmanbaroness."
"Well, bless her heart, she hez a rare swallow for a gill o' ale."
This was perfectly true. The lady had emptied her glass with real gusto.
"I was so hot and tired," she said, with an apologetic smile at herhostess. "Now, I can admire your wonderful store of good things to eat,"and she focussed the display through gold-rimmed eyeglasses.
Truly, the broad kitchen table presented a spe
ctacle that would kill adyspeptic. A cold sirloin, a portly ham, two pairs of chickens, threebrace of grouse--these solids were mere garnishings to dishes piled withcurrant cakes, currant loaves and plain bread cut and buttered, jamturnovers, open tarts of many varieties, "fat rascals," Queen cakes,sponge cakes--battalions and army corps of all the sweet and toothsomearticles known to the culinary skill of the North.
"I'm feared, my leddy, they won't suit your taste," began Mrs. Bolland,but the other broke in eagerly:
"Oh, don't say that! They look so good, so wholesome, so different fromthe French cooking we weary of in town. If I were not afraid of spoilingmy dinner and earning a scolding from Francoise I would certainly askfor some of that cold beef and a slice of bread and butter."
"Tek my advice, ma'am, an' eat while ye're in t' humor," cried Mrs.Bolland, instantly helping her guest to the eatables named.
Mrs. Saumarez laughed delightedly and peeled off a pair of white kidgloves. She ate a little of the meat and crumbled a slice of bread.Mrs. Bolland refilled the glass with beer.
Then the lady made herself generally popular by asking questions. Didthey use lard or butter in the pastry? How was the sponge cake made solight? What a curious custom it was to put currants into plain dough;she had never seen it done before. Were the servants able to do thesethings, or had they to be taught by the mistress of the house? Sheamused the women by telling of the airs and graces of London domestics,and evoked a feeling akin to horror by relating the items of the weeklybills in her town house.
"Seven pund o' beaecan for breakfast i' t' kitchen!" exclaimed Mrs.Summersgill. "Wheae ivver heerd tell o' sike waste?"
"Eh, ma'am," cried another, "but ye mun addle yer money aisy t' let 'emcarry on that gait."
Martin, who found Angele in her most charming mood--unconsciouslypleased, too, that her costume was not so _outre_ as to run any risk ofcaustic comment by strangers--came in and asked if he might take heralong the row of stalls. Mrs. Bolland had given him a shilling thatmorning, and he resolved magnanimously to let the shooting gallery wait;Angele should be treated to a shilling's worth of aught she fancied.
But Mrs. Saumarez rose.
"Your mother will kill me with kindness, Martin, if I remain longer,"she said. "Take me, too, and we'll see if the fair contains any toys."
She emptied the second glass of ale, drew on her gloves, bade thecompany farewell with as much courtesy as if they were so manycountesses, and walked away with the youngsters.
At one stall she bought Martin a pneumatic gun, a powerful toy which thedealer never expected to sell in that locality. At another she wouldhave purchased a doll for Angele, but the child shrugged her shouldersand declared that she would greatly prefer to ride on the roundaboutswith Martin. Mrs. Saumarez agreed instantly, and the pair mounted thehobby-horses.
Among the children who watched them enviously were Jim Bates and EvelynAtkinson. When the steam organ was in full blast and the horses wereflying round at a merry pace, Mrs. Saumarez bent over Jim Bates andplaced half a sovereign in his hand.
"Go to the 'Black Lion,'" she said, "and bring me a bottle of the bestbrandy. See that it is wrapped in paper. I do not care to go myself to aplace where there are so many men."
Jim darted off. The roundabout slackened speed and stopped, but Mrs.Saumarez ordered another ride. The whirl had begun again when Batesreturned with a parcel.
"It was four shillin's, ma'am," he said.
"Thank you, very much. Keep the change."
Even Evelyn Atkinson was so awed by the magnitude of the tip that sheforgot for a moment to glue her eyes on Angele and Martin.
But Angele, wildly elated though she was with the sensation of flight,and seated astride like a boy, until the tops of her stockings wereexposed to view, did not fail to notice the conclusion of Jim Bates'serrand.
"Mamma will be ill to-night," she screamed in Martin's ear. "Francoisewill be busy waiting on her. I'll come out again at eight o'clock."
"You must not," shouted the boy. "It will be very rough here then."
"C'la va--I mean, I know that quite well. It'll be all the more jolly.Meet me at the gate. I'll bring plenty of money."
"I can't," protested Martin.
"You must!"
"But I'm supposed to be home myself at eight o'clock."
"If you don't come, I'll find some other boy. Frank Beckett-Smythe saidhe would try and turn up every evening, in case I got a chance to sneakout."
"All right. I'll be there."
Martin intended to hurry her through the fair and take her home again.If he received a "hiding" for being late, he would put up with it. Inany case, the squire's eldest son could not be allowed to steal hiswilful playmate without a struggle. Probably Adam reasoned along similarlines when Eve first offered him an apple. Be that as it may, it neveroccurred to Martin that the third chapter of Genesis could have theremotest bearing on the night's frolic.