“Should you like a little more?” asked Amaryllis, in a very gentle tone, now he had obeyed her.
“I would rather not,” said Amadis, still hanging his head.
His days were mixed of honey and wormwood; sweet because of Amaryllis, absinthe because of his weakness.
A voice came from the summerhouse; Flamma was shouting an old song, with heavy emphasis here and there, with big capital letters:—
The jolly old Sun, where goes he at night?
And what does he Do, when he’s out of Sight?
All Insinuation Scorning;
I don’t mean to Say that he Tipples apace,
I only Know he’s a very Red Face
When he gets up in the Morning!
“Haw! Haw! Haw!” laughed Bill Nye, with his mouth full. “Th’ zun do look main red in the marning, surely.”
They heard the front door open and shut; Iden had come in for his lunch, and, by the sound of the footsteps, had brought one of his gossips with him.
At this Mrs. Iden began to ruffle up her feathers for battle.
Iden came through into the dairy.
“Now, you ain’t wanted here,” she said. “Poking your nose into everything. Wonder you don’t help Luce make the beds and sweep the floor!”
“Can I help’ee?” said Iden, soothingly. “Want any wood for the fire—or anything?”
“As if Luce couldn’t fetch the wood—and chop it, as well as you. Why can’t you mind your business? Here’s Bill Nye been waiting these two hours to see you”—following Iden towards the sitting-room. “Who have you brought in with you now? Of course, everybody comes in of a butter-making morning, just the busiest time! Oh! it’s you! Sit still, Mr. Duck; I don’t mind you. What will you take?”
More ale and cheese here, too; Iden and Jack Duck sat in the bow-window and went at their lunch. So soon as they were settled, out flounced Mrs. Iden into the dairy: “The lazy lot of people in this house—I never saw anything like it!”
It was true.
There was Alere Flamma singing in the summerhouse; Amadis Iden resting on the form; Amaryllis standing by him; Bill Nye munching; Jearje indolently rotating the churn with one hand, and feeding himself with the other; Luce sitting down to her lunch in the kitchen; Iden lifting his mug in the bow-window; Jack Duck with his great mouth full; eight people—and four little children trotting down the road with baskets of food.
“The lazy lot of people in this house; I never saw anything like it.”
And that was the beauty of the place, the “Let us not trouble ourselves;” “a handful in Peace and Quiet” is better than set banquets; crumbs for everybody, and for the robin too; “God listens to those who pray to him. Let us eat, and drink, and think of nothing;” believe me, the plain plenty, and the rest, and peace, and sunshine of an old farmhouse, there is nothing like it in this world!
“I never saw anything like it. Nothing done; nothing done; the morning gone and nothing done; and the butter’s not come yet!”
Homer is thought much of; now, his heroes are always eating. They eat all through the Iliad, they eat at Patroclus’ tomb; Ulysses eats a good deal in the Odyssey: Jupiter eats. They only did at Coombe-Oaks as was done on Olympus.
XXXIV
Amarillys went outside the court, and waited; Amadis rose and followed her. “Come a little way into the Brook-Field,” she said.
They left the apple-bloom behind them, and going down the gravel-path passed the plum trees—the daffodils there were over now—by the strawberry patch which Iden had planted under the parlour window; by the great box-hedge where a thrush sat on her nest undisturbed, though Amaryllis’s dress brushed the branches; by the espalier apple, to the little orchard-gate.
The parlour-window—there are no parlours now, except in old country houses; there were parlours in the days of Queen Anne; in the modern villas they have drawing-rooms.
The parlour-window hung over with pear-tree branches, planted beneath with strawberry; white blossom above, white flower beneath; birds’ nests in the branches of the pear—that was Iden.
They opened the little orchard-gate which pushed heavily against the tall meadow-grass growing between the bars. The path was almost gone—grown out with grass, and as they moved they left a broad trail behind them.
Bill Nye the mower, had he seen, would have muttered to himself; they were trespassing on his mowing-grass, trampling it, and making it more difficult to cut.
Her dress swept over the bennets and shook the thick-stemmed buttercups—branched like the golden candlestick, and with flowers of golden flame. For the burnished petals reflect the sun, and throw light back into the air.
Amadis began to drag behind—he could not walk much farther; they sat down together on the trunk of an oak that had been felled by a gateway close to the horse-chestnut trees Iden had planted. Even with his back leaning against a limb of the oak, Amadis had to partly support himself with his hands.
What was the use of such a man?—He had nothing but his absurdly romantic name from Don Quixote to recommend him.
That was the very thought that gnawed at poor Amadis’s heart as he sat by her side. What use to care for him?
Iden’s flag-basket of tools lay by the gate, it was a new gate, and he had been fitting it before he went in to lunch. His basket was of flag because the substance of the flag is soft, and the tools, chisels, and so on, laid pleasant in it; he must have everything right. The new gate was of solid oak, no “sappy” stuff, real heart of oak, well-seasoned, without a split, fine, close-grained timber, cut on the farm, and kept till it was thoroughly fit, genuine English oak. If you would only consider Iden’s gate you might see there the man.
This gateway was only between two meadows, and the ordinary farmer, when the old gate wore out, would have stopped it with a couple of rails, or a hurdle or
