Martin Pippin in the Apple Orchard

by Eleanor Farjeon

Then Martin looked down at the patch on his shoe saying, "And tell me now, if you knew Gillian happily wed, would you ask nothing more of life?"

"Oh, sir," cried Robin Rue, "if I knew any man who could give her all I cannot, I would contrive at least to live long enough to drown my sorrows in the beer brewed from this barley."

"It is a solace," said Martin, "that must be denied to no man. It seems that I must help you out to the last. And if you will take one glance out of doors, you will see that the working-day is over."

Robin Rue looked out of doors, saw by the sun that it was so, put down his spade, and went home to supper.

"Gillian," said Martin Pippin, "the Squire did not come himself to fetch her away because he was a young fool. There was no eighth floret on the grass-blade, so the rime stayed at the seventh. The letter I threw with the Lady-peel was a G. There are apples all round your silver ring because it was once my ring. I do, you dear, I do, I do. And now I have answered your many questions, answer me one. Why did you sit six months in the Well-House weeping for love?"

"Oh, Martin," said Gillian softly, "could you tell my friends so much they did not know, and not know this?—girls do not weep for love, they weep for want of it." And she lifted her heavenly eyes, and out of the last of the sunlight looked at him without thinking. And Martin, like a drowning man catching at straws, caught her corn-colored plaits one in either hand, and drawing himself to her by them, whispered, "Do girls do that? But they are so much too good for us, Gillian."

"I know they are," whispered Gillian, "but if all men were like Robin Rue, what would become of us? Must we be punished for what we can't help?"

And she put her little finger on his mouth, and he kissed it.

Then Martin himself sat down on the barrel where there was only room for one; but it was Martin who sat on it. And after a while he said, "You mightn't think it, but I have got a cottage, and there is nothing whatever in it but a table which I made myself, and I think that is enough to begin with. On the way to it we shall pass Hardham, where in the Priory Ruins lives a Hermit who is sometimes in the mood. Beyond Hardham is the sunken bed of the old canal that is a secret not known to everybody; all flowering reeds and plants that love water grow there, and you have to push your way between water-loving trees under which grass and nettles in their season grow taller than children; but at other times, when the pussy-willows bloom with gray and golden bees, the way is clear. Beyond this presently is a little glade, the loveliest in Sussex; in spring it is patterned with primroses, and windflowers shake their fragile bells and show their silver stars above them. Some are pure and colorless, like maidens who know nothing of love, and others are faintly stained with streaks of purple-rose. So exquisite is the beauty of these earthly flowers that it is like a heavenly dream, but it is a dream come true; and you will never pass it in April without longing to turn aside and, kneeling among all that pallid gold and silver, offer up a prayer to the fairies. And I shall always kneel there with you. But beyond this is a land of bracken and undiscovered forests that hides a special secret. And you may run round it on all sides within fifty yards, yet never find it; unless you happen to light upon a land where grass springs under your feet among deep cart-ruts, and blackberry branches scramble on the ground from the flowery sides. The lane is called Shelley's Lane, for a reason too beautiful to be told; since all the most beautiful reasons in the world are kept secrets. And this is why, dear Gillian, the world never knows, and cannot for the life of it imagine, what this man sees in that maid and that maid in this man. The world cannot think why they fell in love with each other. But they have their reason, their beautiful secret, that never gets told to more than one person; and what they see in each other is what they show to each other; and it is the truth. Only they kept it hidden in their hearts until the time came. And though you and I may never know why this lane is called Shelley's, to us both it will always be the greenest lane in Sussex, because it leads to the special secret I spoke of. At the end of it is an old gate, clambered with blue periwinkle, and the gate opens into a garden in the midst of the forest, a garden so gay and so scented, so full of butterflies and bees and flower-borders and grass-plots with fruit-trees on them, that it might be Eden grown tiny. The garden runs down a slope, and is divided from a wild meadow by a brook crossed by a plank, fringed with young hazel and alder and, at the right time, thick-set with primroses. Behind the meadow, in a glimpse of the distance full of soft blue shadows and pale yellow lights, lie the lovely sides of the Downs, rounded and dimpled like human beings, dimpled like babies, rounded like women. The flow of their lines is like the breathing of a sleeper; you can almost see the tranquil heaving of a bosom. All about and around the garden are the trees of the forest. Crouched in one of the hollows is my cottage with the table in it. And the brook at the bottom of the garden is the Murray River."

Gillian looked up from his shoulder. "I always meant to find that some day," she said, "with some one to help me."