Martin Pippin in the Apple Orchard Part 19

"Thank you, shepherd," said the crone, "for your courtesy. Why were you beating the boy?"

"Because he's one that won't work."

"Is he your slave?"

"He's my master's slave. But he's idle."

"I am not idle," said Young Gerard. "The year round I'm busy long before dawn and long after dark."

"Then why are you idle to-day," sneered Old Gerard, "of all the days in the year?"

"I've something else to think of," said the boy.

"You see," said the old man to the crone.

"Well," said she, "a boy cannot always be working. A boy will sometimes be dreaming. Life isn't all labor, shepherd."

"What else is it?" said Old Gerard.

"Joy."

"Ho, ho, ho!" went Old Gerard.

"And power."

"Ho, ho, ho!"

"And triumph."

"Not for serfs," said Old Gerard.

"For serfs and lords," she said.

"Ho, ho, ho!"

"You were young once," said the crone.

Old Gerard said, "What if I was?"

"Good night," said the crone; and she went into the shed.

The shepherds looked after her, the old one stupidly, the young one with lighted eyes.

"Will you get supper?" growled Old Gerard.

"No," said Young Gerard, "I won't. I want no supper. Put down that rope. I am taller and stronger than you, and why I've let you go on beating me so long I don't know, unless it is that you began to beat me when you were taller and stronger than I. If you want any supper, get it yourself."

Old Gerard turned red and purple. "The boy's mad!" he gasped. "Do you know what happens to servants who defy their masters?"

"Yes," said Young Gerard, "then they're lords." And he too went into the shed.

"Try that on Combe Ivy!" bawled Old Gerard, "and see what you'll get for it. I thank fortune, I'll be quit of you tomorrow-- What's that to-do in the valley?" he muttered, and stared down the hill.

Away in the hollows and shadows he saw splashes of moving light, and heard far-off s.n.a.t.c.hes of song and laughter, but the movements and sounds were still so distant that they seemed to be only those of ghosts and echoes. Nearer they came and nearer, and now in the night he could discern a great rabble stumbling among the dips and rises of the hills.

"They're heading this way," said Old Gerard. "Why, tis the wedding-party," he said amazed, "if it's not witchcraft. But why are they coming here?"

"Hola! hola! hola!" shouted a tipsy voice hard by.

"Here's dribblings from the wineskin," said Old Gerard; and up the track struggled a drunken man, waving a torch above his head. It was the guest whom he had directed in the morning.

"Hola!" he shouted again on seeing Old Gerard.

"Well, racketer?" said the shepherd, with a chuckle.

"Shall a man not racket at another man's wedding?" he cried. "Let some one be jolly, say I!"

"The bridegroom," said Old Gerard.

"Ha, ha!" laughed the other, "the bridegroom! He was first in high feather and last in the sulks."

"The bride, then."

"Ha, ha! ha, ha! during the toasts he tried to kiss her."

"Wouldn't she?"

"She wouldn't."

"Hark!" said Old Gerard, "here they come." The sound of rollicking increased as the rout drew nearer.

"He's taking her home across the river," said the guest. "I wouldn't be she. There she sat, her pretty face fixed and frozen, but a fright in her that shook her whole body. You could see it shake. And we drank, how we drank! to the bride and the groom and their daughters and sons, to the sire and the priest, and the ring and the bed, to the kiss and the quarrel, to love which is one thing and marriage which is another--Lord, how we drank! But she drank nothing. And for all her terror the Rough could do no more with her than with a stone. Something in her turned him cold every time. Suddenly up he gets. We'll have no more of this,' he says, we'll go.' Combe Ivy would have had them stay, but She's where she's used to lord it here,' says Rough, I'll take her where I lord it, and teach her who's master,' And he pushes down his chair and takes her hand and pulls her away; and out we tumble after him. Combe Ivy cries to him to wait for the horses, but no, We'll foot it,' says he, up hill and down dale as the crow flies, and if she hates me now without a cause I swear she'll love me with one at the end of the dance.' We're dancing them as far as the Wildbrooks; on t'other side they may dance for themselves. Here they come dancing--dance, you!" cried the guest, and whirled his torch like a madman. And as he whirled and staggered, up the hill came the wedding-party as tipsy as he was: a motley procession, waving torches and garlands, winecups, flagons, colored napkins, shouting and singing and beating on trenchers and salvers--on anything that they could s.n.a.t.c.h from the table as they quitted it. They came in all their bravery--in doublets of flame-colored silk and blue, in scarlet leather and green velvet, in purple slashed with silver and crimson fringed with bronze; but their vests were unlaced, their hose sagged, and silk and velvet and leather were stained bright or dark with wine. Some had stuck leaves and flowers in their hair, others had tied their forelocks with ribbons like horses on a holiday, and one had torn his yellow mantle in two and capered in advance, waving the halves in either hand like monstrous banners, or the flapping wings of some golden bird of prey. In the midst of them, pressing forward and pressed on by the riot behind, was the Rough Master of Coates, and with him, always hanging a little away and shrinking under her veil, Thea, whose right wrist he grasped in his left hand. Breathless she was among the breathless rabble, who, gaining the hilltop seized each other suddenly and broke into antics, shaking their napkins and rattling on their plates. Their voices were hoa.r.s.e with laughter and drink, and their faces flushed with it; only among those red and swollen faces, the bridegroom's, in the flare of the torches, looked as black as the bride's looked white.

The night about the newly-wedded pair was one great din and flutter.

Then in a trice the dancers all lost breath, and the dance parted as they staggered aside; and at the door of the shed Young Gerard stood, and gazed through the broken revel at little Thea, and she stood gazing at him. And behind and above him, along the walls of the hut, and over the doorway, and making lovely the very roof, she saw a cloud of snowwhite blossom.

Somebody cried, "Here's a boy. He shall dance too. Boy, is there drink within?"

The others took up the clamor. "Drink! bring us something to drink!"

"The red grape!" cried one.

"The yellow grape!" cried another.

"The sap of the apple!"

"The juice of the pear!"