Amadis stooped to the iron handle, polished like silver by Jearje’s rough hands—a sort of skin sandpaper—and with an effort made the heavy blue-painted barrel revolve on its axis.
Mrs. Iden, her sleeves up, looked from the dairy window into the court where the churn stood.
“Ah, it’s no use your trying,” she said, “you’ll only tire yourself.”
Jearje, glad to stand upright a minute, said, “First-rate, measter.”
Amaryllis cried, “Take care; you’d better not, you’ll hurt yourself.”
“Aw!—aw!” laughed Bill Nye, who was sitting on a form by the wall under the dairy window. He was waiting to see Iden about the mowing. “Aw!—aw! Look ’ee thur, now!”
Heavily the blue barrel went round—thrice, four times, five times; the colour mounted into Amadis’s cheeks, not so much from the labour as the unwonted stooping; his breath came harder; he had to desist, and go and sit down on the form beside Bill Nye.
“I wish you would not do it,” said Amaryllis. “You know you’re not strong yet.” She spoke as if she had been his mother or his nurse, somewhat masterfully and reproachfully.
“I’m afraid I’m not,” said poor Amadis. His chin fell and his face lengthened—his eyes grew larger—his temples pinched; disappointment wrung at his heart.
Convalescence is like walking in sacks; a short waddle and a fall.
“I can tell ’ee of a vine thing, measter,” said Bill Nye, “as I knows on; you get a pint measure full of snails—”
“There, do hold your tongue, it’s enough to make anyone ill to think of,” said Amaryllis, angrily, and Bill was silent as to the cod-liver oil virtues of snails. Amaryllis went to fetch a glass of milk for Amadis.
A robin came into the court, and perching on the edge of a tub, fluttered his wings, cried “Check, check,” “Anything for me this morning?” and so put his head on one side, languishing and persuasive.
“My sister, as was in a decline, used to have snail-oil rubbed into her back,” said Luce, the maid, who had been standing in the doorway with a duster.
“A pretty state of things,” cried Mrs. Hen, in a passion. “You standing there doing nothing, and it’s butter-making morning, and everything behind, and you idling and talking,”—rushing out from the dairy, and following Luce, who retreated indoors.
“Hur’ll catch it,” said Bill Nye.
“Missis is ⸻” said Jearje, supplying the blank with a wink, and meaning in a temper this morning. “Missis,” like all nervous people, was always in a fury about nothing when her mind was intent on an object; in this case, the butter.
“Here’s eleven o’clock,” she cried, in the sitting-room, pointing to the clock, “and the beds ain’t made.”
“I’ve made the beds,” said stolid Luce.
“And the fire isn’t dusted up.”
“I’ve dusted up the fire.”
“And you’re a lazy slut”—pushing Luce about the room.
“I bean’t a lazy slut.”
“You haven’t touched the mantelpiece; give me the duster!”—snatching it from her.
“He be done.”
“All you can do is to stand and talk with the men. There’s no water taken upstairs.”
“That there be.”
“You know you ought to be doing something; the lazy lot of people in this house; I never saw anything like it; there’s Mr. Iden’s other boots to be cleaned, and there’s the parlour to be swept, and the path to be weeded, and the things to be taken over for washing, and the teapot ought to go in to Woolhorton, you know the lid’s loose, and the children will be here in a minute for the scraps, and your master will be in to lunch, and there’s not a soul to help me in the least,” and so, flinging the duster at Luce, out she flew into the court, and thence into the kitchen, where she cut a great slice of bread and cheese, and drew a quart of ale, and took them out to Bill Nye.
“Aw, thank’ee m’m,” said Bill, from the very depth of his chest, and set to work happily.
Next, she drew a mug for Jearje, who held it with one hand and sipped, while he turned with the other; his bread and cheese he ate in like manner, he could not wait till he had finished the churning.
“Verily, man is made up of impatience,” said the angel Gabriel in the Koran, as you no doubt remember; Adam was made of clay (who was the sculptor’s ghost that modelled him?) and when the breath of life was breathed into him, he rose on his arm and began to eat before his lower limbs were yet vivified. This is a fact. “Verily, man is made up of impatience.” As the angel had never had a stomach or anything to sit upon, as the French say, he need not have made so unkind a remark; if he had had a stomach and a digestion like Bill Nye and Jearje, it is certain he would never have wanted to be an angel.
Next, there were four cottage children now in the court, waiting for scraps.
Mrs. Iden, bustling to and fro like a whirlwind, swept the poor little things into the kitchen and filled two baskets for them with slices of bread and butter, squares of cheese, a beef bone, half a rabbit, a dish of cold potatoes, two bottles of beer from the barrel, odds and ends, and so swept them off again in a jiffy.
Mrs. Iden! Mrs. Iden! you ought to be ashamed of yourself, that is not the way to feed the poor. What could you be thinking of, you ignorant farmer’s wife!
You should go to London, Mrs. Iden, and join a Committee with duchesses and earlesses, and wives of rich City tradesfolk; much more important these than the duchesses, they will teach you manners. They will teach you how to feed the poor with the help of the Rev. Joseph Speechify, and the scientific Dr. Amoeba Bacillus; Joe has Providence at his fingers’ ends, and guides it in the right way; Bacillus knows everything to a particle;
