At cockcrow came the call which in that orchard was now as familiar as the rooster's.
"Maids! Maids! Maids!"
Martin Pippin was leaning over the green wicket throwing jam tarts to the ducks. Because in the Well-House Gillian had not left so much as a crumb. But when he heard Old Gillman's voice, he flicked a bull's-eye at the drake, getting it very accurately on the bill, and walked across to the gap.
"Good morning, master," said Martin cheerfully. "Pray how does Lemon, Joscelyn's Sussex, fare?"
Old Gillman put down his loaves with great deliberation, and spent a few minutes taking Martin in. Then he answered, "There's scant milk to a Sussex, and allus will be. And if there was not, there'd be none to Joscelyn's Lemon. And if there was, it would take more than Henry to draw it. And so that's you, is it?"
"That's me," said Martin Pippin.
"Well," said Old Gillman, "I've spent the best of six mornings trying not to see ye. And has my daughter taken the right road yet?"
"Yes, master," said Martin, "she has taken the road to Adversane."
"Which SHE'S spent the best of six months trying not to see," said Old Gillman. "Women's a nuisance. Allus for taking the long cut round."
"I've known many a short cut," said Martin, "to end in a blind alley."
"Well, well, so long as they gets there," grunted Gillman. "And what's this here?"
"A pair of steps," said Martin.
"What for?" said Gillman.
"Milkmaids and milkmen," said Martin.
"So they maids have cut too, have they?"
"It was a full moon, you see."
"I dessay. But if they'd gone by the stile they could have hopped it in the dark six months agone," said Old Gillman. And he got over the stile, which was the other way into the orchard and has not been mentioned till now, and came and clapped Martin on the shoulder.
"Women's more trouble," said he, "than they're worth."
"They're plenty of trouble," said Martin; "I've never discovered yet what they're worth."
"We'll not talk of em more. Come up to the house for a drink, boy," said Old Gillman.
Martin said pleasantly, "You can drink milk now, master, to your heart's content. Or even water." And he walked over to the Well-House, and pointed invitingly to the bucket.
Old Gillman followed him with one eye open. "It's too late for that, boy. When you've turned toper for six months, after sixty sober years, it'll take you another six to drop the habit. That's what these daughters do for their dads. But we'll not talk of em." He stood beside Martin and stared down at the padlock. "How did the pretty go?"
"In the swing, like a swift."
"Why not through the gate like a gal?"
"The keys wouldn't turn."
"Which way?"
"The right way."
"You should ha' tried em the wrong way, boy."
"That would have locked it," said Martin.
"Azactly," said Old Gillman; and slipped the padlock from the staple and put it in his pocket. "Come along up now."
Martin followed him through the orchard and the paddock and the garden and the farmyard to the house. He noticed that everything was in the pink of condition. But as he passed the stables he heard the cows lowing badly.
The farm-kitchen was a big one. It had all the things that go to make the best farm-kitchens: such as red bricks and heavy smoke-blackened beams, and a deep hearth with a great fire on it and settles inside, from which one could look up at the chimney-shaft to the sky, and clay pipes and spills alongside, and a muller for wine or beer; and hams and sides of bacon and strings on onions and bunches of herbs; much pewter, and a copper warming-pan, and brass candlesticks, and a grandfather clock; a cherrywood dresser and wheelback chairs polished with age; and a great scrubbed oaken table to seat a harvest-supper, planed from a single mighty plank. It was as clean as everything else in that good room, but all the scrubbing would not efface the circular stains wherever men had sat and drunk; and that was all the way round and in the middle. There were mugs and a Toby jug upon it now. Old Gillman filled two of the mugs, and lifted one to Martin, and Martin echoed the action like a looking-glass. And they toasted each other in good Audit Ale.
"Well," said Old Gillman stuffing his pipe, "it's been a peaceful time, and now us must just see how things go."
"They look shipshape enough at the moment," said Martin.
"Ah," said Old Gillman shaking his head, "that's the lads. They're good lads when you let em alone. But what it'll be now they maids get meddling again us can't foretell. It were bad enough afore, wi' their quarrelsomeness and their shilly-shally. It sends all things to rack and ruin."
"What does?" said Martin.
"This here love." Old Gillman refilled his mug. "We'll not talk of it. She were a handy gal afore Robin began unmaking her mind along of his own. Lord! why can't these young things be plain and say what they want, and get it? Wasn't I plain wi' her mother?"
"Were you?" said Martin.
"Ah, worse luck!" said Gillman, "and me a happy bachelor as I was. What did I want wi' a minx about the place?" He filled his mug again.
"What do any of us?" said Martin. "These women are the deuce."
"They are," said Gillman. "We'll not talk of em."
"There are a thousand better things to talk of," agreed Martin. "There is Sloe Gin."
Old Gillman's eye brightened. "Ah!" said Old Gillman, and puffed at his pipe. "Her name," he said, "was Juniper, but as oft as not I'd call her June, for she was like that. A rose in the house, boy. Maybe you think my Jill has her share of looks? She has her mother's leavings, let me tell ye. So you may judge. But what's this Robin to dilly-dally with her daughter, till the gal can't sleep o' nights for wondering will he speak in the morning or will he be mum? And so she becomes worse than no use in kitchen and dairy, and since sickness is catching the maids follow suit. It's all off and on wi' them and their lads. In the morning they will, in the evening they won't. Ah, twas a tarrible life. And all along o' Robin Rue. Young man, the farm, I tell ye, was going to fair rack and ruin."
"You seem to have found a remedy," said Martin.
"If they silly maids couldn't make up their minds," said Old Gillman, "there was nothing for it but to turn em out neck and crop till they learned what they wanted. And Robin into the bargain. He's no better than a maid when it comes to taking the bull by the horns. Yet that's the man's part, mark ye. Don't I know? Smockalley she come from, the Rose of Smockalley they called her, for a Rose in June she were. There weren't a lass to match her south of Hagland and north of Roundabout. And the lads would ha' died for her from Picketty to Chiltington. But twas a Billinghurst lad got her, d'ye see?" Old Gillman filled his mug.
"How did that come about?" asked Martin, filling his.
"All along o' the Murray River."
"WHAT'S that!" said Martin Pippin. But Old Gillman thought he said, "What's THAT?"
"'Tis the biggest river in Sussex, young man, and the littlest known, and the fullest of dangers, and the hardest to find; because nobody's ever found it yet but her and me. And she'd sworn to wed none but him as could find it with her. Don't I remember the day! Twas the day the Carrier come, and that was the day o' the week for us folk then. He had a blue wagon, had George, with scarlet wheels and a green awning; and his horse was a red-and-white skewbald and jingled bells on its bridle. A small bandy-legged man was George, wi' a jolly face and a squint, and as he drives up he toots on a tin trumpet wi' red tassels on it. Didn't it bring the crowd running! and didn't the crowd bring HIM to a standstill, some holding old Scarlet Runner by the bridle, and others standing on the very axles. And the hubbub, young man! It was Where's my six yards of dimity?' from one, and Have you my coral necklace?' from another. Where's my bag of comfits? where's my hundreds and thousands?' from the children; and I can't wait for my ivory fan?' 'My bandanna hanky!' 'My two ounces of snuff!' 'My guitar!' 'My clogs!' 'My satin dancing-shoes!' 'My onion-seed!' 'My new spindle!' 'My fiddle-bow!' 'My powder-puff!' And some little 'un would lisp, 'I'm sure you've forgotten my blue balloon!' And then they'd cry, one-and-all, in a breath, 'George! what's the news?' And he'd say, 'Give a body elbow-room!' and handing the packages right and left would allus have something to tell. But on this day he says, 'News? There BE no news excepting THE News.' 'And what's THE News?' cries one-and-all. 'Why,' says George, 'that the Rose of Smockalley consents to be wed at last.' 'The Rose!' they cries, and me the loudest, 'to whom?' To him,' says George, as can find her the Murray River. For a sailor come by last Tuesday wi' a tale o' the Murray River where he'd been wrecked and seen wonders; and a woman tormented by curiosity will go as far as a man tormented by love. And so she's willing to be wed at last. But she's liker to die a maid.' Then I ups and asks why. And George he says, For that the sailor breathed such perils that the lasses was taken wi' the trembles and the lads with the shudders. For, he says, the river's haunted by spirits, and a mystery at the end of it which none has ever come back from. And no man dares hazard so dark and dangerous an adventure, even for love of the Rose.' 'That pricks a man's pride to hear, boy, and Shame,' says I, 'on all West Sussex if that be so. Here be one man as is ready, and here be fifty others. What d'ye say, lads?' But Lord! as I looks from one to another they trickles away like sand through an hourglass, and before we knows it me and George has the road to ourselves. So he says, 'I must be getting on to Wisboro', but first I'll deliver ye your baggage.' 'You've no baggage o' mine,' says I. Yes, if you'll excuse me,' says he; and wi' that he parts the green awning and says, There she be.' And there she were, sitting on a barrel o' cider."
"What was she like to look at?" asked Martin.
"Yaller hair and gray eyes," said Gillman. "And me a bachelor."
"It was hopeless," said Martin.
"It were," said Old Gillman. "And it were the end o' my peace of life. She looks me straight in the eye and she says, Juniper's my name, but I'm June to them as loves me. And June I'll be to you. For I have traveled his rounds wi' this Carrier for a week, and sat behind his curtain while he told men my wishes. And you be the only one of them all as is willing to do a difficult thing for an idle whim, if what is the heart's desire can ever be idle. So I will sit behind the curtain no longer, and if you will let me I will follow you to the ends of Sussex till the Murray River be found, or we be dead.' And I says Jump, lass!' and down she jumps and puts up her mouth." Gillman filled his mug.
Martin filled his. "Well," said he, "a man must take his bull by the horns. And did you ever succeed in finding the Murray River?"
"Wi' a child's help. It can only be found by a child's help. Tis the child's river of all Sussex. Any child can help you to it."
"Yes," said Martin, "and all children know it."
Old Gillman put down his mug. "Do YOU know it, boy?"
"I live by it," said Martin Pippin, "when I live anywhere."
"Do children play in it still?" asked Gillman.
"None but children," said Martin Pippin. "And above all the child which boys and girls are always rediscovering in each other's hearts, even when they've turned gray in other folks' sight. And at the end of it is a mystery."
"She were a child to the end," said Old Gillman. "A fair nuisance, so she were. And Jill takes after her."
"Well, SHE'S off your hands anyhow," said Martin getting up. "She's to be some other body's nuisance now, and your maids have come back to their milking."
"Ah, have they?" grunted Gillman. "The lads did it better. And they cooked better. And they cleaned better. There is nothing men cannot do better than women."
"I know it," said Martin Pippin, "but it would be unkind to let on."
"Then we'll wash our hands of em. But don't go, boy," said Old Gillman. "Talking of Sloe Gin—"
Martin sat down again.
They talked of Sloe Gin for a very long time. They did not agree about it. They got out some bottles to see if they could not manage to agree. Martin thought one bottle hadn't enough sugar-candy in it, so they put in some more; and Old Gillman thought another bottle hadn't enough gin in it, so they also put in some more. But they couldn't get it right, though they tried and tried. Old Gillman thought it should be filtered drop by drop seventy times through seven hundred sheets of blotting-paper, but Martin thought seven hundred times through seventy sheets was better; and Martin thought it should then be kept for seven thousand years, but Old Gillman thought seven years sufficient. But neither of these points had ever been really proved, and was not that day.
After this, as they couldn't reach an agreement, they changed the subject to rum punch, and argued a good deal as to the right quantities of lemon and sugar and nutmeg; and whether it was or was not improved by the addition of brandy, and how much; and an orange or so, and how many; and a tangerine, if you had it; and a tot of gin, if you had it left. Yet in this case too the most repeated practice proved as inadequate as the most confirmed theory.
So after a bit Old Gillman said, "This is child's play, boy. After all, there's but one drink for kings and men. Give us a song over our cup, and I'll sing along o' ye."
"Right," said Martin, "if you can fetch me the only cup worthy to sing over."
"What cup's that, boy?"
"What but a kingcup?" said Martin.
"A king once drank from this," said Gillman, fetching down a goblet as golden as ale. "He looked like a shepherd, and had a fold just across the road, but he was a king for all that. So strike up."
"After me, then," said Martin; and they pushed the cup between them, and the song too.
Martin: What shall we drink of when we sup?
Gillman: What d'ye say to the King's own cup?
Martin: What's the drink?
Gillman: What d'ye think?
Martin: Farmer, say! Water?
Gillman: Nay!
Martin: Wine?
Gillman: Aye!
Martin: Red wine?
Gillman: Fie!
Martin: White wine?
Gillman: No!
Martin: Yellow wine?
Gillman: Oh!
Martin: What in fine, What wine then?
Gillman: The only wine
That's fit for men
Who drink of the King's Cup when they dine,
And that is the Old Brown Barley Wine!
From This I'll drink ye high,
Point I I'll drink ye low,
Don't Know Till the stars run dry
Which Of Of their juices oh!
Them Was I'll drink ye up,
Singing; I'll drink ye down,
And No More Till the old moon's cup
Did They: Is cracked all round,
And the pickled sun
Jumps out of his brine,
And you cry Done!
To the Barley Wine.
Come, boy, sup! Come, fill up!
Here's King's own drink for the King's own cup!
What happened after this I really don't know. For I was not there, though I should like to have been.
I only know that when Martin Pippin stepped out of Gillman's Farm with his lute on his back, Old Gillman was fast asleep on the settle. But Martin had never been wider awake.
It was late in the afternoon. There was no sign of human life anywhere. In their stables the cows were lowing very badly.
"Oh, maids, maids, maids!" sighed Martin Pippin. "Rack and ruin, my dears, rack and ruin!"
And he fetched the milkpails and went into the stalls, and did the milkmaids' business for them. And Joyce's Blossom, and Jennifer's Daisy, and Jessica's Clover stood as still for him as they stand in the shade of the willows on Midsummer Day. And Jane's Nellie whisked her tail over his mouth, but seemed sorry afterwards. And Joscelyn's Lemon kicked the bucket and would not let down her milk till he sang to her, and then she gave in. But little Joan's little Jersey Nancy, with her soft dark eyes, and soft dun sides, and slender legs like a deer's, licked his cheek. And this was Martin's milking-song.
You Milkmaids in the hedgerows,
Get up and milk your kine!
The satin Lords and Ladies
Are all dressed up so fine,
But if you do not skim and churn
How can they dine?
Get up, you idle Milkmaids,
And call in your kine.
You milkmaids in the hedgerows,
You lazy lovely crew,
Get up and churn the buttercups
And skim the milkweed, do!
But the Milkmaids in their country prints
And faces washed with dew,
They laughed at Lords and Ladies
And sang "Cuckoo! Cuckoo!"
And if you know their reason
I'm not so wise as you.
When he had done, Martin carried the pails to the dairy and turned his back on Gillman's. For his business there was ended. So he went out at the gate and lifted his face to the Downs.
It was a lovely evening. Half the sky was clear and blue, and the other half full of silky gold clouds—they wanted to be heavy and wet, but the sun was having such fun on the edge of the Downs, somewhere about Duncton, that they had to be gold in spite of themselves.
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