“Oh, DARLING!” Dandy took the fat books from him, and put herself in their place. “Now may the Bald-Head Bears come out of Crag Yeat Wood and gobble me up! As if I didn’t just worship you and your trams, and mean to ride into glory at the tail of one of them! Ask the Stubbs, by all means, and I will get him to teach me the Farmers’ Shuffle for the fifteenth time, while you have your after-dinner nap. And you might ask the Forgotten Parson and the Lonely Lady with the Policeman’s Rattle. Let’s have a real Tram-Party while we’re about it. There’s the Grammar-School-Master, too, who blew himself up, last week. I met him this morning, wandering about in bandages and a splint. He hasn’t a spare hand, so you’ll have to feed him. Shall I tell mother dinner for seven? And then let me walk over to Wild Duck with you, and help to carry the books. I want to see Harriet about ‘Elijah.’”
They found the lady-farmer round by the shippons, on the point of climbing into the float between the shining milkcans. It was growing dusk as they went up the gravelled path, and already a light showed in the pretty farm-house. Snowdrops were thick in the garden, and a band of yellow crocus edged the foot of the whitewashed porch. Over the dividing wall they could hear Harriet directing the lighting of the sparkling lamps.
“Just taking the milk to the Workhouse,” she informed them, as they appeared through the little gate. “Martindale is laid up with rheumatics, and there’s some complaint I want to settle in person. Stubbs is indoors, if you’ve brought that dull-looking inkhorn-stuff for him. You might keep him stodging at it till I get back. I shan’t be long, so don’t clear out before I’ve had a chin with you. Right, horse—get along off!”
She spun out of the yard with the flashing cans, flourishing her whip as she rounded the turn, and swaying easily to the swing of the trap. Hamer looked after her admiringly.
“I like a woman with a straight back!” he observed. “It means a lot more than you’d think. It’s a pleasure to watch that girl move. She’s real grit bent on getting there all the time!”
“Ay, she’s a devil to meet, but an angel to follow!” Stubbs commented at his elbow. “She’s got my figure”—the check swelled proudly—“but I’m hanged if she’s got my face! Deuced plain, I call her. Don’t know where she picked it up. And the very dickens for language, though I’m d——d if I know where she gets that, either! Come along in, won’t you, and have a glass of—snow about somewhere, I’ll swear!”
Through the deep-seated porch into the narrow passage, where a staring stag’s head threatened their own from the pink-washed wall, they came into the snug parlour, and soon Hamer and Stubbs were happy with a fat book between them under the lamp on the round table. The fire chuckled merrily, and the lustre ornaments on the mantelpiece caught the dancing light and flashed it on to the brass candlesticks and a gilt beer-barrel of a clock. Above the clock was a black paper silhouette of Harriet’s grandfather, the John Knewstubb, Prop of the County. It was a man’s room, from the business-like bureau to the prints and the books—county, agricultural, sporting and veterinary—the leather leggings flung at the side of the hearth, and the silver-bound carriage-whip in the corner. Yet it was here that Harriet spent most of her scanty indoor hours, and the room was as much hers as her father’s. There was no sign of feminine occupation, nor a single softening touch, but for all that it was cosy and cheerful with the homeliness that clings imperishably to the farm-house, the fundamental, abiding home of all. It had the real farm-house smell, too—Dandy was beginning to recognise it, and was proud of the fact—the smell that registered it as the Holy of Holies of many a past generation.
A kitten was flung, white-pawed and drowsy, on the red window-seat, and, drawing it to her knee, she looked through the narrow panes into the gathering shadows. Hamer glanced up once from the printed page and across to her dreaming face, and a look of whimsical distress came into his own. He had lost his girl, he knew that; had known it ever since the night she had danced with the fairies through a Gate of Vision.
The minutes slid by, bringing no roll of returning wheels, but presently, across the men’s talk and the song of the furry sleepiness in her lap, Dandy caught the sound of voices on the path—Helwise’s first, penetrating as escaping steam, and then Lancaster’s, deep and abrupt, followed by the framing of their figures in the arc flung on the night. Helwise plunged in at the porch, still babbling, but Lanty stayed a moment, arrested, and through the little, old casement he and Hamer’s daughter sent glance to meet glance. So had he seen her in the car, he remembered, her charming, wistful head aureoled in light. That picture had remained; this, too, held him. There was to be a third also, kept for an hour as yet mercifully hid from both.
Meanwhile Helwise had streamed into the passage and through the parlour door, and had addressed at least half a paragraph to Harriet before she discovered that she wasn’t in the room. Stubbs said “H——ll of a bore!” under his breath, and “Milk. Back in a jiff!” above it, and retired into the fat book without more ado. He couldn’t stand Helwise at any price. It was Hamer who got up, put her into the rocker and lifted her feet to the fender, loosened her furs and plunged a poker into the red coals. The big man loved waiting on the piece of deceptively-appealing inconsequence, and of course Helwise loved it, too, so they were both happy. Dandy moved her eyes from the window with a start, and stood up politely to offer her a cushion.