LITMIR.BIZ

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      “It wouldn’t do to be late on a day like this,” he said gaily, “see how the sun shines. Come, you don’t look as brisk as a best man should. I thought you would have been on tenterhooks of excitement. Get up, get up! Look here, a bird has given me luck”— he showed me a white smear on his shoulder.

      I drew myself up lazily.

      “All right,” I said, “but we must drink a whisky to establish it.”

      He followed me out of the fragrant sunshine into the dark house. The rooms were very still and empty, but the cool silence responded at once to the gaiety of our sun-warm entrance. The sweetness of the summer morning hung invisible like glad ghosts of romance through the shadowy room. We seemed to feel the sunlight dancing golden in our veins as we filled again the pale liqueur.

      “Joy to you — I envy you today.”

      His teeth were white, and his eyes stirred like dark liquor as he smiled.

      “Here is my wedding present!”

      I stood the four large water-colours along the wall before him. They were drawings among the waters and the fields of the mill, grey rain and twilight, morning with the sun pouring gold into the mist, and the suspense of a midsummer noon upon the pond. All the glamour of our yesterdays came over him like an intoxicant, and he quivered with the wonderful beauty of life that was weaving him into the large magic of the years. He realised the splendour of the pageant of days which had him in train.

      “It’s been wonderful, Cyril, all the time,” he said, with surprised joy.

      We drove away through the freshness of the wood, and among the flowing of the sunshine along the road. The cottages of Greymede filled the shadows with colour of roses, and the sunlight with odour of pinks and the blue of corn-flowers and larkspur. We drove briskly up the long, sleeping hill, and bowled down the hollow past the farms where the hens were walking with the red gold cocks in the orchard, and the ducks like white cloudlets under the aspen trees revelled on the pond.

      “I told her to be ready any time,” said George —“but she doesn’t know it’s today. I didn’t want the public-house full of the business.”

      The mare walked up the sharp little rise on top of which stood the Ram Inn. In the quiet, as the horse slowed to a standstill, we heard the crooning of a song in the garden. We sat still in the cart, and looked across the flagged yard to where the tall madonna lilies rose in clusters out of the alyssum. Beyond the border of flowers was Meg, bending over the gooseberry bushes. She saw us and came swinging down the path, with a bowl of gooseberries poised on her hip. She was dressed in a plain, fresh holland frock, with a white apron. Her black, heavy hair reflected the sunlight, and her ripe face was luxuriant with laughter.

      “Well, I never!” she exclaimed, trying not to show that she guessed his errand. “Fancy you here at this time o’ morning!”

      Her eyes, delightful black eyes like polished jet, untroubled and frank, looked at us as a robin might, with bright questioning. Her eyes were so different from the Saxtons’: darker, but never still and full, never hesitating, dreading a wound, never dilating with hurt or with timid ecstasy.

      “Are you ready then?” he asked, smiling down on her. “What?” she asked in confusion.

      “To come to the registrar with me — I’ve got the licence.”

      “But I’m just going to make the pudding,” she cried, in full expostulation.

      “Let them make it themselves — put your hat on.”

      “But look at me! I’ve just been getting the gooseberries. Look!” She showed us the berries, and the scratches on her arms and hands.

      “What a shame!” he said, bending down to stroke her hand and her arm. She drew back smiling, flushing with joy. I could smell the white lilies where I sat.

      “But you don’t mean it, do you?” she said, lifting to him her face that was round and glossy like a blackheart cherry. For answer, he unfolded the marriage licence. She read it, and turned aside her face in confusion, saying:

      “Well, I’ve got to get ready. Shall you come an’ tell Gran’ma?”

      “Is there any need?” he answered reluctantly.

      “Yes, you come an’ tell ‘er,” persuaded Meg.

      He got down from the trap. I preferred to stay out of doors. Presently Meg ran out with a glass of beer for me.

      “We shan’t be many minutes,” she apologised. “I’ve o’ny to slip another frock on.”

      I heard George go heavily up the stairs and enter the room over the bar-parlour, where the grandmother lay bedridden.

      “What, is it thaïgh, ma lad? What are thaïgh doin’ ’ere this mornin’?” she asked.

      “Well A’nt, how does ta feel by now?” he said.

      “Eh, sadly, lad, sadly! It’ll not be long afore they carry me downstairs head first —”

      “Nay, dunna thee say so! — I’m just off to Nottingham — I want Meg ter come.”

      “What for?” cried the old woman sharply.

      “I wanted ‘er to get married,” he replied.

      “What! What does’t say? An’ what about th’ licence, an’ th’ ring, an’ ivrything?”

      “I’ve seen to that all right,” he answered.

      “Well, tha ‘rt a nice’st ’un, I must say! What’s want goin’ in this pig-ina-poke fashion for? This is a nice shabby trick to serve a body! What does ta mean by it?”

      “You knowed as I wor goin’ ter marry ‘er directly, so I can’t see as it matters o’ th’ day. I non wanted a’ th’ pub talkin’—’’

      “Tha ‘rt mighty particklar, an’ all, an’ all! An’ why shouldn’t the pub talk? Tha ‘rt non marryin’ a nigger, as ta should be so frightened — I niver thought it on thee! — An’ what’s thy ‘orry, all of a sudden?”

      “No hurry as I know of.”

      “No ‘orry —!” replied the old lady, with withering sarcasm. “Tha wor niver in a ‘orry a’ thy life! She’s non commin’ wi’ thee this day, though.”

      He laughed, also sarcastic. The old lady was angry. She poured on him her abuse, declaring she would not have Meg in the house again, nor leave her a penny, if she married him that day.

      “Tha can please thysen,” answered George, also angry. Meg came hurriedly into the room.

      “Ta’e that ‘at off — ta’e it off! Tha non goos wi’ ’im this day, not if I know it! Does ‘e think tha ‘rt a cow, or a pig, to be fetched wheniver ‘e thinks fit. Ta’e that ‘at off, I say!”

      The old woman was fierce and peremptory.

      “But Gran’ma —!” began Meg.

      The bed creaked as the old lady tried to rise.

      “Ta’e that ‘at off, afore I pull it off!” she cried.

      “Oh, be still, Gran’ma — you’ll be hurtin’ yourself, you know you will —”

      “Are you coming, Meg?” said George suddenly.

      “She is not!” cried the old woman.

      “Are you coming, Meg?” repeated George, in a passion. Meg began to cry. I suppose she looked at him through her tears. The next thing I heard was a cry from the old woman, and the sound of staggering feet.

      “Would ta drag ‘er from me! — if tha goos, ma wench, tha enters this ’ouse no more, tha ‘eers that! Tha does thysen, my lady! Dunna venture anigh me after this, my gel!”— the old woman called

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