They sat hand-in-hand.
The woman was a noble creature, about her the majestic4 tranquillity5 of a great three-decker that comes to rest in sunset waters after its Trafalgar. The man, but for a certain wistfulness about his eyes which betokened6 undue7 sensibility, was not remarkable8. Till he spoke9 you would have said he was a gentleman—that is to say if your eyes confined their scrutiny10 to his face and refused to see his hands, his boots, his clothes. When he spoke you would have recognised at once that he was Sussex of the soil as, surely, was the woman beside him; though the speech of both was faintly marred11 with the all-pervading cockney accent of those who have passed beyond the village-green into the larger world of the England of to-day.
Both ca-a-ad musically enough; but less by far than the little carrier, whose round back blocked the view of the road, and the twitching12 ears of old mare13 Jenny. For nearly fifty years, man and boy, Isaac Woolgar had travelled twice a day, six days a week, the road on which he was travelling now. He had seen the long-horns—those "black runts" so familiar to old-world Sussex—give place to horses in the plough upon the hill; the horses in their turn supplanted14 on the road by motors; and men using the legs God had given them to trundle wheels instead of walk. Undisturbed, he plodded15 on his way, accompanied always by the wires lifted on tall black poles, crowned with tiers of tiny porcelain17 chimney-pots unknown in his youth, which had linked Lewes with Beachbourne these forty years; and he would so plod16 until he died. The Star on the hill in Old Town, Beachbourne, marked one end of his day's journey; and the equally ancient Lamb, at Aldwoldston, black-timbered and gabled too, marked the other. He had never been further "oop country," as he called it, than Heathfield. Lewes was the utmost term of his wanderings West, Beau-nez East; while the sea at Newhaven had bounded him on the South. Within this tiny quadrilateral, which just about determined18 also the wanderings of an old dog-fox in Abbot's Wood, he had passed his life; and nothing now would ever induce him to pass the bounds he had allotted19 himself.
To the man and woman in the cart old Mus. Woolgar had been a familiar figure from childhood. The little girl skipping by the market-cross in Aldwoldston would stop to watch him start; the little boy would wait at Billing's Corner on the top of the hill to see him come along the New Road past Motcombe at the end of his journey. Long before either had been aware of the other's existence the old carrier had served as an invisible link between them.
Now the two were married.
Ruth Boam had become Mrs. Ernie Caspar that afternoon in the cathedral-church of Aldwoldston, on the mound20 among the ash-trees above Parsons' Tye and the long donkey-backed clergy-house that dates from the fourteenth century.
It had been a very quiet wedding. The father and mother of the bride had stumped21 across from Frogs' Hall, at the foot of the village, Ruth accompanying them, her little daughter in her arms. For the rest, Dr. and Mrs. Trupp had come over from Beachbourne with Mr. Pigott and his wife in the chocolate-bodied car driven by the bridegroom's brother.
Alf had not entered the church to see Ernie married. He had mouched sullenly22 down to the river instead, and stood there during the service, his back to the church, looking across the Brooks23 to old Wind-hover's dun and shaven flank with eyes that did not see, and ears that refused to hear.
After the ceremony the car-party returned to Beachbourne by way of the sea—climbing High-'nd-over, to drop down into Sea-ford, and home by Birling Gap and Beau-nez. From the almost violent gesture with which Alf had set his engines in motion and drawn24 out of the lane under the pollarded willows25 of Parson's Tye, he at least had been glad to turn his back on the scene.
Ruth and her husband had returned to Frogs' Hall with the old folk.
Later, as the sun began to lower behind Black Cap into the valley of the Ouse, they went up River Lane and picked up the carrier's cart by the market-cross.
For the moment they were leaving little Alice with her grandmother while they settled into the Moot26, Old Town, where Ernie had found a cottage close to his work, not a quarter of a mile from the home of his father and mother in Rectory Walk.
The carrier's cart moved slowly on under the telegraph wires on which the martins were already gathering27: for it was September. Now and then Ernie raised the flap that made a little window in the side of the tilt1, and looked out at the accompanying Downs, mysterious in the evening.
"They're still there," he announced comfortably, "and like to be yet a bit, I reckon."
"They move much same pace as us doos, seems to me," said Ruth.
"We should get there afoor them yet though," answered Ernie.
"Afoor the Day of Judgment28 we might, if so be we doosn't die o breathlessness first," the woman replied.
"You'd like a car to yourself you would," chaffed Ernie. "And Alf drivin you."
Ruth turned in her lips.
They moved leisurely forward, leaving Folkington clustered about its village-green upon the right, passing the tea-gardens at Wannock, and up the long pull to Willingdon, standing29 among old gardens and pleasant fig-trees. Once through the village the woods of Hampden Park green-bosomed upon the left, blocked out the marshes30 and the splendid vision of Pevensey Bay. Now the road emerged from the shelter of hedges and elm-trees and flowed with a noble billowy motion between seas of corn that washed the foot of the Downs and swept over Rodmill to the outposts of Beachbourne. Between the road and the Downs stood Motcombe, islanded in the ruddy sea, amongst its elms and low piggeries. Behind the farm, at the very foot of the hill, was Huntsman's Lodge31 where once, when both were boys, Alf had betrayed his brother on the occasion of the looting of the walnut-tree.
Ern pointed32 out the spot to his bride and told the tale. Ruth listened with grim understanding.
"That's Alf," she said.
"Mr. Pigott lived there that time o day," Ern continued. "One of the five Manors33 of Beachbourne, used to be—I've heard dad say. Belonged to the Salwyns of Friston Place over the hill—the clergy-folk. The farm's where the Manor-house used to be; and the annual sheep-fair was held in a field outside from William the Conqueror34 till a few years back."
He pointed to one of a little row of villas35 on the left which looked over the allotment gardens to the Downs.
"That's where Mr. Pigott lives now. My school-master he were that time o day."
"Who's Mr. Pigott?" Ruth asked.
Ernie rootled her with a friendly elbow.
"My guv'nor, stoopid! Manager of the Southdown Transport Company. Him that was at the wedding—with the beard. Settin along o Mrs. Trupp."
"Oh, Mr. Pigott!" answered Ruth. Now that the strain of the last two years was over at last, she brimmed over with a demure36 naughtiness. "Well, why couldn't you say so, then? You are funny, men are."
The cart climbed the steep hill to Billing's Corner and Ernie looked down the familiar road to the Rectory and even caught a peep of the back of his old home. Then they turned down Church Street with its old-world fragrance37 of lavender and yesterday.
On the left the parish-church, long-backed and massive-towered upon the Kneb, brooded over the centuries it had seen come and go.
"Dad says the whole history of Beachbourne's centred there," said Ernie in awed38 voice. "Steeped in it, he says."
Ernie, who had been leaning forward to peep at the Archdeacon posed in the entrance of St. Michael's, now dropped back suddenly, nudging his companion.
A lean woman with white hair and wrathful black eyebrows39, her complexion40 still delicate as a girl's, was coming up the hill.
"Mother," whispered Ernie.
It was Ruth's turn to raise the flap and peer forth41 stealthily at the figure passing so close and so unconsciously on the pavement.
So that was the woman who had opposed her marriage with such malevolent42 persistency43!
Ruth observed her enemy with more curiosity than hostility44, and received a passing impression of a fierce unhappy face.
"She don't favour you no-ways," she said, as she relapsed into a corner. "Where's dad though?"
Ernie shook his head.
"He's never with her," he said. "I ca-a-n't call to mind as ever I've seen them out together, not the pair of them."
"I'd ha liked him to have been at the wedding," murmured Ruth a thought discontentedly.
"And he'd ha liked it too, I'll lay," Ernie answered. "Only she'd never have let him."
The cart stopped; and the two passengers descended45 at the old Star opposite the Manor-house, which bore the plate of Mr. William Trupp, the famous surgeon.
On the Manor-house steps a tall somewhat cadaverous man was standing. He was so simply dressed as almost to be shabby; and his straw hat, tilted on the back of his head, disclosed a singularly fine forehead. There was something arresting about the man and his attitude: a delicious mixture of mischievous46 alertness and philosophical47 detachment. He might have been a medi?val scholar waiting at the door of his master; or a penitent48 seeking absolution; or, not least, a youth about to perpetrate a run-away knock.
Ernie across the road watched him with eyes in which affection and amusement mingled49. Then the door opened, and the scholar-penitent-youth was being greeted with glee by Bess Trupp.
Ernie turned to his wife.
"My old Colonel," he said confidentially50. "What I was in India with. Best Colonel the Hammer-men ever had—and that's saying something."
"Colonel Lewknor, aren't it?" asked Ruth.
"That's him," said Ernie keenly. "Do you knaw him?"
"He was over at Auston last summer," answered Ruth, "lecturin we got to fight Germany or something. I went, but I didn't pay no heed51 to him. No account talk, I call that."
Together they dropped down Borough52 Lane and turned to the left along the Moot where dwelt the workers of Old Town—a few in flint cottages set in gardens, rank with currant bushes, a record of the days, not so long ago, when corn flowed down both sides of Water Lane, making a lake of gold between the village on the hill and the Sea-houses by the Wish; and most in the new streets of little red houses that looked up, pathetically aware of their commonness, to the calm dignity of the old church upon the Kneb above.
At one of these latter Ernie stopped and made believe to fumble53 with a key. Ruth, who had not seen her new home, was thrilling quietly, as she had been throughout the journey, though determined not to betray her emotion to her mate.
The door opened and they entered.
A charming voice from the kitchen greeted them.
"Ah, there you are—punctual to the minute!"
A woman, silver-haired and gracious, turned from deft54 busy-ness at the range.
"Oh, Mrs. Trupp!" cried Ruth, looking about her.
The table was laid already, and gay with flowers; the fire lit, the kettle on the boil, the supper ready.
"It is kind," said Ruth. "Was this you and Miss Bess?"
"Perhaps we had a hand in it," laughed the other. "She couldn't be here, as she's got a meeting of her Boy Scouts55. But she sent her best wishes. Now I hand over the key to the master; and my responsibilities are over!" And she was gone with the delicious ripple56 of laughter Ernie had loved from babyhood.
Ruth was now thirsting to explore her new home, but Ernie insisted on supping first. This he did with malicious57 deliberation. When at length he was satisfied they went upstairs together, he leading the way.
"This is our room!" he said with ill-disguised complacency, stepping aside.
The bridal chamber58 was swept and garnished59. In it were more flowers, bowls of them; and the furniture simple, solid, and very good, was of a character rarely found in houses of that class.
Ernie enjoyed the obvious pleasure of his bride as she touched and glanced and dipped like some large bird flitting gracefully60 from piece to piece.
Then she paused solemnly and looked about her.
"Reckon it must ha cost a tidy penny," she said.
"It did," Ernie answered.
She cocked a soft brown eye at him.
"Could you afford it, Ernie?"
"I could not," said Ernie, standing grimly and with folded arms.
At the moment her eyes fell on a card tied to the bed-post on which was written: From Mr., Mrs. and Miss Trupp. Ruth's eyes caressed61 the bed, and her fingers stroked the smooth wood.
"It's like them," she said. "None o your cheap trash."
"Ah," answered Ernie. "Trust them. They're just all right, they are."
Before the looking-glass on the chest of drawers Ruth now took off her hat.
She was perhaps too simple, too natural, too near to earth to be shy at this the supreme62 moment of a woman's life. At least she was too wary63 to show it.
"Rich folks they have two little beds laid alongside, these days," she said, speaking from her experience as a maid. "I wouldn't think it was right myself. Only you mustn't judge others." She added in her slow way, as she patted her hair—"I wouldn't feel prarperly married like only in a prarper two-bed."
Ernie drew down the blind.
Then he marched upon his bride deliberately64 and with remorseless eyes. Suddenly she turned and met him with a swift and lovely smile, dropping her mask, and discovering herself to him in the surprising radiance of a moon that reveals its beauty after long obscurity. She laid her hands upon his shoulders in utter surrender. He gathered her gradually in his arms; and closing his eyes, dwelt on her lips with the slow and greedy passion of a bee, absorbed in absorption, and drinking deep in the cloistered65 seclusion66 of a fox-glove bell,
"You're prarperly married all right," he said. "And you ca-a-n't get out of it—not no-ways."
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1
tilt
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| v.(使)倾侧；(使)倾斜；n.倾侧；倾斜 | |
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tilted
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| v. 倾斜的 | |
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leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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betokened
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| v.预示，表示( betoken的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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undue
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| adj.过分的；不适当的；未到期的 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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marred
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| adj. 被损毁, 污损的 | |
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twitching
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| n.颤搐 | |
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mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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14
supplanted
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| 把…排挤掉，取代( supplant的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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15
plodded
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| v.沉重缓慢地走（路）( plod的过去式和过去分词 )；努力从事；沉闷地苦干；缓慢进行（尤指艰难枯燥的工作） | |
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plod
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| v.沉重缓慢地走，孜孜地工作 | |
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porcelain
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| n.瓷；adj.瓷的，瓷制的 | |
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18
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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allotted
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| 分配，拨给，摊派( allot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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mound
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| n.土墩，堤，小山；v.筑堤，用土堆防卫 | |
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21
stumped
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| 僵直地行走，跺步行走( stump的过去式和过去分词 )； 把（某人）难住； 使为难； （选举前）在某一地区作政治性巡回演说 | |
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sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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brooks
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| n.小溪( brook的名词复数 ) | |
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24
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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25
willows
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| n.柳树( willow的名词复数 )；柳木 | |
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moot
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| v.提出；adj.未决议的；n.大会；辩论会 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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marshes
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| n.沼泽，湿地( marsh的名词复数 ) | |
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31
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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32
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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manors
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| n.庄园（manor的复数形式） | |
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conqueror
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| n.征服者，胜利者 | |
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35
villas
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| 别墅，公馆( villa的名词复数 )； （城郊）住宅 | |
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demure
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| adj.严肃的；端庄的 | |
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fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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38
awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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39
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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40
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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41
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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42
malevolent
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| adj.有恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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43
persistency
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| n. 坚持(余辉, 时间常数) | |
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44
hostility
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| n.敌对，敌意；抵制［pl.］交战，战争 | |
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45
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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46
mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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47
philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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48
penitent
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| adj.后悔的；n.后悔者；忏悔者 | |
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49
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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50
confidentially
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| ad.秘密地，悄悄地 | |
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51
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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52
borough
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| n.享有自治权的市镇；(英)自治市镇 | |
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53
fumble
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| vi.笨拙地用手摸、弄、接等，摸索 | |
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54
deft
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| adj.灵巧的，熟练的（a deft hand 能手） | |
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55
scouts
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| 侦察员[机，舰]( scout的名词复数 )； 童子军； 搜索； 童子军成员 | |
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56
ripple
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| n.涟波，涟漪，波纹，粗钢梳；vt.使...起涟漪，使起波纹； vi.呈波浪状，起伏前进 | |
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57
malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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58
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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59
garnished
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| v.给（上餐桌的食物）加装饰( garnish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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60
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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61
caressed
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| 爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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62
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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63
wary
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| adj.谨慎的，机警的，小心的 | |
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64
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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65
cloistered
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| adj.隐居的，躲开尘世纷争的v.隐退，使与世隔绝( cloister的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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66
seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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