Chapter III: A Queen of Curds and Cream

And Enid brought sweet cakes to make them cheer,
· · · · ·
And stood behind and waited ...
And seeing her so sweet and serviceable,
Geraint had longing in him evermore
To stoop and kiss the tender little thumb
That crost the trencher as she laid it down.
—TENNYSON (_Idylls_).

At the end of the lane, Ellinor took the path which branched off to the courtyards; and, as she made no movement of farewell or dismissal, the master of the place, with great simplicity, followed her. These courtyards were located in the most ancient part of Bindon, where in mediæval days had been the inner bailey. What remained of the lowered towers and curtains had been utilised for the peaceful purposes of spences, bakehouses and dairies.

As in the case of all buildings, the life of which has gradually dwindled, these precincts had gathered to themselves a mellow and placid picturesqueness. Long tranquil years had clothed them with luxuriance. It was as if the green tide of surrounding nature had taken delight in reconquering the whilom bare array of stone and mortar. Rampant ivies and wild creeping plants had long ago stormed the half-razed ramparts from the outside, and unchecked in their assault now pounced into the yards over the roofs. On the inside the blush roses were foaming up the grey walls; the square of grass in this shaded spot was deeply green.

In the early light and the silence it was a scene of singular placidity and fitted well with David’s unwontedly pleasant mood; mood of tired body and vaguely happy mind. A few pigeons from the high-reared cot came fluttering down and walked about, curtseying expectantly.

Presently two milk-maids, in print frocks, sun bonnets and clogs, clattered down some stairs and went in quickly through the dairy door, agitated at perceiving the task-mistress up before them. Their entrance broke the musing spell of the two unavowed lovers. As they drew near the open door of the house, the cool breath of the dairy—a sort of cowslip breath, of much cleanliness, mingled with the faintly acrid sweetness of the milk—came to their nostrils. A row of shining pails were ranged upon the low stone bench just outside the door. A lad and maid hurried past, each carrying two more foaming buckets.

Ellinor now became the decided, almost stern, mistress of household matters. She counted the milk pails and gave an order to each maid, who curtseyed and stood at attention, but could not keep a roving, awestruck eye from the unwonted spectacle of their master.

“Rosemary, three pails for the dairy, as usual. Two for the house: up with them, Kate! Sally, back to your skimming as soon as you have filled the steward’s can and carried in the pail for the parish dole out of the sunshine. Stay a moment,” her tone and manner altered, “leave one of those here—Cousin David, have you broken your fast? Of course not! Then you and I, shall we not do so now together? Nay, I shall be disappointed if you refuse. You have made me queen of these realms—the ‘queen of curds and cream,’ as Doctor Tutterville calls me—and all must obey me here!”

There was a stone porch jutting forth over the side door that led into the passage. Within this refuge, on either side, was set a stone bench under an unglazed ogee window. Honeysuckle had intermingled its growth with that of the climbing roses, and made there a parlour of perfume. Hither Ellinor conducted the lord of Bindon, and here he allowed himself to be installed, obeying her as one who walks in dreams and is glad to dream on.

The maids had parted in noisy flight, each on her different errand, starched gowns crackling, clogs clacking, pails clinking as they went. Ellinor threw down her cloak and her basket and disappeared, light as the lapwing, rejoicing with all a woman’s joy to minister to the beloved. She returned with a little wooden table, which, smiling, she set before him and was gone again. This time it was out into the yard and into the dairy, and her head flashed in a sun-shaft. When she reappeared, she was walking more slowly, and between her hands was a yellow glazed bowl brimming with new-drawn milk.

“For you, Sir David,” she said.

It was foaming and fragrant of clover blossom as he lifted it to his lips.

“And now,” she went on, “you shall taste of my baking. I had a batch set last night and the rolls ought to be crisp to a touch.”

The following minute brought her back, flushed and triumphant, bearing on a tray a smoking brown loaflet, a ray of amber honey and a rustic basket full of strawberries. She paused a second reflectively, and cried:

“A pat of fresh-churned butter!”

And again his eyes watched her cross the shaft of sunshine and come back, and they were the eyes of a man gazing on a dear and lovely picture.

“Now, David, is this not a breakfast fit for a king?”

He looked at the table and then at her; and then put down the loaf his long fingers had been absently crushing.

“And you?” he asked and rose. “You—the queen?”

“I? Oh, I think I forgot myself. Oh, don’t get up, David. Don’t, please! You cannot imagine how much refreshed I shall feel when you have eaten. There, then, I will sit beside you. But as there is no pleasure in waiting upon oneself, I must call up a court menial. Katy! A bowl of milk for me. Rosemary, another roll from the oven!”

This was to remain a memory of gold in Ellinor’s life. Poets may sing as they will of the joys of mutual love confessed. But there is an hour more exquisite yet in man and woman’s life: the hour of love still untold. The hour of trembling hopes and uncertainties; of ecstasies hidden away in the inmost sanctuary of the being; of dreams so much more beautiful than reality; of thoughts that no words can clothe and music that no instrument can render. Hour of doubt which is to certainty as the dawn is to the day, as mystery is to revelation: as much more enthralling, as much more exquisite.

Even as the soul is constrained by the body, so must the ideal thought lose of its fragrance when limited to the spoken word. But the very condition of life’s tenure urges us to hasten ever onwards towards the success of attainment. We may not sit and taste the full sweetness of the present because our foreseeing nature and old Time are spurring us on, on! This present of ours is fleeting enough, God knows. Yet the miserable restlessness within us robs us of the minute even while it is ours. Thus the most perfect things in our lives will ever be a memory. But when the golden hours have all tolled for us, when the flowers are all withered, at least we can look back and say: “That was my sunrise hour. ... That was my perfect rose!”

They spoke little to each other, but Ellinor saw the lines of melancholy fade out of his face and become replaced by soft restfulness. Tired he looked, the watcher of the night, in the broad radiance of the day, but happy. It was as if the fatigue itself brought a sense of peace, lulling him to dreaminess and depriving him of the energy to fight against the sweetness of the moment.

Suddenly, with the light tread of a cat, the squat figure of Mrs. Nutmeg, in her decent widow’s black and her snowy mutch, came upon them from the house. She paused with a start of such extreme surprise that it was in itself an impertinence, and the more galling because it could not be resented. Ignoring the scarlet-cheeked Ellinor, the housekeeper dropped her curtsey and offered ostentatious excuses to Sir David.

“I humbly ask your pardon, sir. Indeed, sir, I had no idea, or I would not have made so bold as to intrude. I hope, sir, you’ll forgive me for disturbing you at such a moment!”

Her eye roved as she spoke over the disordered table, aside to Ellinor’s cloak and the basket of withering herbs; then back to Ellinor herself, where it deliberately measured every detail—the dusty shoe, the green stains on the gown, the flushed brow, the disordered hair.

Her unconscious master waved his hand a little impatiently with his formal “Good morrow,” that was more a dismissal than a greeting. Mrs. Nutmeg returned Sir David’s brief salutation with another unctuous curtsey. Withdrawing her glance from Ellinor, she fixed it upon his face, with a vain attempt to throw an expression of tender solicitude into the opaque white and the meaningless black of her eye.

“Excuse the liberty, sir,” she began again, “but do you feel quite yourself this morning? It do go to my heart to see how drawn and ill you be looking! I fear these last months, sir, you haven’t been as usual. Not at all. More has remarked it than myself.”

Ellinor rose.

“It’s getting late, Margery,” she said, “and the cream is not skimmed yet. Ring the bell for the girls.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Margery curtseyed, her eyes still clinging unwaveringly to her master’s face. This was now turned upon her with a sudden frown.

“Do you not hear?” said Sir David.

They robbed him freely in his absence, this household of his, but none could forget in his presence that he was master.

“Yes, sir, yes ma’am. I ask your pardon,” said Mrs. Nutmeg.

And this time there was flurry in her step as she moved away, her list slippers padding on the flags. She cast not another glance behind her; yet Ellinor felt chilled, she knew not why. Upon the dial that had marked her warm-tinted hour a grey shadow had fallen. She took up her basket of herbs. Most of the perishable things were already withering, but the dry vivacious stems of the Star-of-Comfort flaunted their glossy leaves and their tiny brilliant blossom undimmed. She noticed this, and was superstitiously glad.

“I must go, cousin,” she said, “but later, if you will, I shall come and help on with the new chart.”

She nodded and left him. As she moved across the courtyard towards her father’s den, the maids, hustling each other as they clacked into the dairy, looked after her with inimical stare. Then one whispered to the other, and the other nudged back, while the third surreptitiously shook her mottled fist. And as Ellinor walked on with steady step she knew it all. She knew that “the Queen of curds and cream” sat on an insecure throne; and that, were the power that had placed her there to be withdrawn from her, many eager hands would be stretched out to pull her into the mire.

But upon the first step leading down to the laboratory, she turned and cast a glance back: in the deep shadow of the porch David was still standing. Out of the dark face the light eyes were watching her; when she turned, he smiled and waved his hand. And her spirits rose again as she ran down the stairs, to begin her long round of various work. She had stuck a sprig of the Euphrosinum in her kerchief; and during the whole day, whether over crucible or household book, in linen closet or still-room, each time the scent of it was wafted to her nostrils there came and went upon her lips a little secret smile, as if the fragrant thing on her bosom were but the symbol of some inner fragrance rising in little fitful storms from her heart.