The Revellers

Mrs. Saumarez laughed frankly at that.

“In which category do you place me, Mrs. Summersgill?” she inquired. Meanwhile, her eyes wandered to where Martin stood. She was asking herself why the boy should gaze so fixedly at Angèle.

The stout party did not know what a category was. She thought it was some species of malady.

“Well, ma’am,” she cried, “if I was you, I’d try rabbit meat for a few days. Eat plenty o’ green stuff an’ shun t’ teapot. It’s slow p’ison.”

She stretched out a huge arm and poured out a cup of tea. There was a general laugh at this forgetfulness. Mrs. Summersgill waved aside criticism.

“Ay, ay!” she went on, “it’s easier te preach than te practice, as t’ man said when he fell off a haystack efther another man shooted tiv him te ho’d fast.”

Mrs. Saumarez took a seat. Thus far, matters had gone well. But why did Martin avoid her?

“Martin, my little friend,” she said, “why did you not come in and see me yesterday when you called at The Elms?”

“Miss Walker did not wish it,” was the candid answer. “I suppose she thought I might be in the way when you were so ill.”

“There nivver was sike a bairn,” protested Martha Bolland. “He’s close as wax sometimes. Not a wud did he say, whether ye were ill or well, Mrs. Saumarez.”

The lady’s glance rested more graciously on the boy. She noticed his bandaged arms and hands.

“What is the matter?” she asked. “Have you been scalding yourself?”

Martin reddened. It was Angèle who answered quickly:

“You were too indisposed last night to hear the story, chère maman. It was all over the village. Il y a tout le monde qui sait. Martin saved Elsie Herbert from a wildcat. It almost tore him into little pieces.”

And so the conversation glided safely away from the delicate topic of Mrs. Saumarez’s sudden ailment. She praised Martin’s bravery in her polished way. She expressed proper horror when the wildcat’s skin was brought in for her edification, and became so lively, so animated, that she actually asked Mrs. Bolland for some tea, notwithstanding Mrs. Summersgill’s earnest warnings.

She made a hearty meal. Françoise, too, joined in the feast, her homely Norman face perceptibly relaxing its grim vigilance. Her mistress was safe now, for a month, two months, perchance six. The desire for food was the ultimate sign of complete recovery – for the time. Had Mrs. Saumarez dared ask for a glass of beer from the majestic cask in the corner, Françoise would have prevented her from taking it, using force if necessary. The sturdy peasant from Tinchebrai was of stronger moral fiber than the born aristocrat, and her mistress knew it.

Martin stood somewhat shyly near the broad ingle. Angèle approached. She caressed his lint-wrapped arms, saying sweetly:

“Do they pain you a great deal?”

“Of course not. They’re just a bit sore to the touch – that’s all.”

His manner was politely repellant. He wished she would not pat him with her nervous fingers. She pawed him like a playful cat. To-day she wore the beautiful muslin frock he had admired so greatly on the first day of the fair. The deep brim of her hat concealed her eyes from all but his.

“I am quite jealous of Elsie,” she murmured. “It must be simply lovely to be rescued in that way. Poor little me! At home nursing mamma, while you were fighting for another girl!”

“The thing was not worth so much talk. I did nothing that any other boy would not have done.”

“My wud,” cried Mrs. Summersgill suddenly, “it’d do your little lass a power o’ good te git some o’ that fat beäcan intiv her, Mrs. Saumarez.”

From the smoke-blackened rafters over the spacious fireplace were hanging a dozen sides of home-cured bacon, huge toothsome slabs suggesting mounds of luscious rashers. The sturdy boy beneath gave proof that there was good nutriment in such ample store, but the girl was so fragile, so fairy-like in her gossamer wings, that she might have been reared on the scent of flowers.

The attention thus drawn to the two caused Martin to flush again, but Angèle wheeled round.

“Do all pigs grow fat when they are old?” she asked.

“Nay, lass, that they don’t. We feed ’em te mak’ ’em fat while they’re young, but some pigs are skinny ’uns always.”

Mrs. Saumarez smiled indulgently at this passage between two such sharp-tongued combatants. Angèle’s eyes blazed. Françoise, eating steadily, wondered what had been said to make the women laugh, the child angry.

Angèle caught the astonished expression on the nurse’s face. Quickly her mood changed. Françoise sat near. She bent over and whispered:

“Tiens, nanna! Voici une vieille truie qui parle comme nous autres!”

Françoise nearly choked under a combination of protest and bread crumbs. Before she could recover her breath at hearing Mrs. Summersgill described “an old sow who talks like one of us!” Angèle cried airily to Martin:

“Take me to the stables. I haven’t seen the pony and the dogs for days and days.”

He was glad to escape. He dreaded Mrs. Summersgill’s mordant humor if a war of wits broke out between her and the girl.

“All right,” he said. “I’ll whistle for Curly and Jim at the back and join you at the gate.”

But Angèle skipped lightly toward her hostess.

“Please, Mrs. Bolland,” she said coaxingly, “may I not go through the back kitchen, too?”

“Sure-ly, honey,” cried Martha. “One way’s as good as another. Martin, tak t’ young leddy anywheres she wants te go, an’ dinnat be so gawky. She won’t bite ye.”

The two passed into the farmyard.

“You see, Martin,” explained Angèle coolly, “I must find out how Jim Bates and Tommy Beadlam always get hold of you without other people being the wiser. Show me the lane and the paddock they tell me of.”

“I don’t see why it should interest you,” was the ungracious reply.

“You dear boy! Are you angry yet because I wouldn’t let you kiss me the other night?”

He was compelled to laugh at the outrageous untruth.

“I’m afraid I spoke very crossly then,” he admitted, thinking it best to avoid argument.

“Oh, yes. I wept for hours. My poor little eyes were sore yesterday. Look and see if they are red now.”

They were standing behind the woodpile. She thrust her face temptingly near. Her beautiful eyes, clear and limpid in their dark depths, blinked saucily. Her parted lips revealed two rows of white, even teeth, and her sweet breath mingled with the fragrance that always clung to her garments. He experienced a new timidity now; he was afraid of her in this mood, though secretly flattered by the homage she was paying.

“Martin,” she whispered, “I like you better than any of the other boys, oh, a great deal better, even though Evelyn Atkinson does say you are a milksop.”

What a hateful word to apply to one whose flesh was scarred by the claws of an infuriated wildcat conquered in fair fight. Milksop, indeed! He knew Angèle’s ways well enough by this time to give convincing proof that he was no milksop.

He placed his bandaged right arm around her waist, boldly drew her toward him, and kissed her three times – on the lips.

“That is more than I ever did to Evelyn Atkinson,” he said.

She returned the embrace with ardor.