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he stood up, he paused before he went to the next beast, and I thought he was going to talk. But just then the father came along with his bucket. He looked in the shed, and, laughing in his mature, pleasant way, said:
“So you’re an onlooker today, Cyril — I thought you’d have milked a cow or two for me by now.”
“Nay,” said I, “Sunday is a day of rest — and milking makes your hands ache.”
“You only want a bit more practice,” he said, joking in his ripe fashion. “Why, George, is that all you’ve got from Julia?”
“It is.”
“H’m — she’s soon going dry. Julia, old lady, don’t go and turn skinny.”
When he had gone, and the shed was still, the air seemed colder. I heard his good-humoured “Stand over, old lass,” from the other shed, and the drum-beats of the first jets of milk on the pail.
“He has a comfortable time,” said George, looking savage. I laughed. He still waited.
“You really expected Lettie to have him,” I said.
“I suppose so,” he replied, “then she’d made up her mind to it. It didn’t matter — what she wanted — at the bottom.”
“You?” said I.
“If it hadn’t been that he was a prize — with a ticket — she’d have had —”
“You!” said I.
“She was afraid — look how she turned and kept away —”
“From you?” said I.
“I should like to squeeze her till she screamed.”
“You should have gripped her before, and kept her,” said I. “She — she’s like a woman, like a cat — running to comforts — she strikes a bargain. Women are all tradesmen.”
“Don’t generalise, it’s no good.”
“She’s like a prostitute —”
“It’s banal! I believe she loves him.”
He started, and looked at me queerly. He looked quite childish in his doubt and perplexity.
“She what —
“Loves him — honestly.”
“She’d ‘a loved me better,” he muttered, and turned to his milking. I left him and went to talk to his father. When the latter’s four beasts were finished, George’s light still shone in the other shed.
I went and found him at the fifth, the last cow. When at length he had finished he put down his pail, and going over to poor Julia, stood scratching her back, and her poll, and her nose, looking into her big, startled eye and murmuring. She was afraid; she jerked her head, giving him a good blow on the cheek with her horn.
“You can’t understand them,” he said sadly, rubbing his face, and looking at me with his dark, serious eyes.
“I never knew I couldn’t understand them. I never thought about it — till —”
“But you know, Cyril, she led me on.” I laughed at his rueful appearance.
Chapter 8
The Riot of Christmas
For some weeks, during the latter part of November and the beginning of December, I was kept indoors by a cold. At last came a frost which cleared the air and dried the mud. On the second Saturday before Christmas the world was transformed; tall, silver and pearl-grey trees rose pale against a dim blue sky, like trees in some rare, pale Paradise; the whole woodland was as if petrified in marble and silver and snow; the holly-leaves and long leaves of the rhododendron were rimmed and spangled with delicate tracery.
When the night came clear and bright, with a moon among the hoar-frost, I rebelled against confinement, and the house. No longer the mists and dank weather made the home dear; tonight even the glare of the distant little iron works was not visible, for the low clouds were gone, and pale stars blinked from beyond the moon.
Lettie was staying with me; Leslie was in London again. She tried to remonstrate in a sisterly fashion when I said I would go out.
“Only down to the Mill,” said I. Then she hesitated a while — said she would come too. I suppose I looked at her curiously, for she said:
“Oh — if you would rather go alone —!”
“Come — come — yes, come!” said I, smiling to myself.
Lettie was in her old animated mood. She ran, leaping over rough places, laughing, talking to herself in French. We came to the Mill. Gyp did not bark. I opened the outer door and we crept softly into the great dark scullery, peeping into the kitchen through the crack of the door.
The mother sat by the hearth, where was a big bath half full of soapy water, and at her feet, warming his bare legs at the fire, was David, who had just been bathed. The mother was gently rubbing his fine fair hair into a cloud. Mollie was combing out her brown curls, sitting by her father, who, in the fire-seat, was reading aloud in a hearty voice, with quaint precision. At the table sat Emily and George: she was quickly picking over a pile of little yellow raisins, and he, slowly, with his head sunk, was stoning the large raisins. David kept reaching forward to play with the sleepy cat — interrupting his mother’s rubbing. There was no sound but the voice of the father, full of zest; I am afraid they were not all listening carefully. I clicked the latch and entered.
“Lettie!” exclaimed George.
“Cyril!” cried Emily.
“Cyril, ‘ooray!” shouted David.
“Hullo, Cyril!” said Mollie.
Six large brown eyes, round with surprise, welcomed me. They overwhelmed me with questions, and made much of us. At length they were settled and quiet again.
“Yes, I am a stranger,” said Lettie, who had taken off her hat and furs and coat. “But you do not expect me often, do you? I may come at times, eh?”
“We are only too glad,” replied the mother. “Nothing all day long but the sound of the sluice — and mists, and rotten leaves. I am thankful to hear a fresh voice.”
“Is Cyril really better, Lettie?” asked Emily softly.
“He’s a spoiled boy — I believe he keeps a little bit ill so that we can cade him. Let me help you — let me peel the apples — yes, yes — I will.”
She went to the table, and occupied one side with her apple-peeling. George had not spoken to her. So she said:
“I won’t help you, George, because I don’t like to feel my fingers so sticky, and because I love to see you so domesticated.”
“You’ll enjoy the sight a long time, then, for these things are numberless.”
“You should eat one now and then — I always do.”
“If I ate one I should eat the lot.”
“Then you may give me your one.”
He passed her a handful without speaking.
“That is too many, your mother is looking. Let me just finish this apple. There, I’ve not broken the peel!”
She stood up, holding up a long curling strip of peel. “How many times must I swing it, Mrs Saxton?”
“Three times — but it’s not All Hallows’ Eve.”
“Never mind! Look! —” She carefully swung the long band of green peel over her head three times, letting it fall the third. The cat