Amaryllis at the Fair

Amaryllis found the first daffodil flowering by the damask rose, and immediately ran to call her father to come and see it.

There are no damask roses now, like there used to be in summer at Coombe Oaks. I have never seen one since I last gathered one from that very bush. There are many grand roses, but no fragrance⁠—the fragrance is gone out of life. Instinctively as I pass gardens in summer I look under the shade of the trees for the old roses, but they are not to be found. The dreary nurseries of evergreens and laurels⁠—cemeteries they should be called, cemeteries in appearance and cemeteries of taste⁠—are innocent of such roses.

Amaryllis did not stay to think of the century, but ran round the corner of the house, and came face to face with the east wind, which took her with such force as to momentarily stay her progress. Her skirts were blown out horizontally, her ankles were exposed, and the front line of her shape (beginning to bud like spring) was sketched against the red brick wall. She laughed, but the strong gale filled her throat as if a hand had been thrust down it; the wind got its edge like a knife under her eyelids, between them and the eyeballs, and seemed as if it would scoop them out; her eyes were wet with involuntary tears; her lips dried up and parched in a moment. The wind went through her thick stockings as if the wool was nothing. She lifted her hand to defend her eyes, and the skin of her arm became “goosey” directly. Had she worn hat or bonnet it would have flown. Stooping forwards, she pushed step by step, and gradually reached the shelter of the high garden wall; there she could stand upright, and breathe again.

Her lips, which had been whitened by the keen blast, as if a storm of ice particles had been driven against them, now resumed their scarlet, but her ears were full of dust and reddened, and her curly dark hair was dry and rough and without gloss.

“Pa,” she said, not very loud. “Pa,” growing bolder. “Do come⁠—there’s a daffodil out, the very, very first.”

“Oh,” a sound like a growl⁠—“oh,” from the depth of a vast chest heaving out a doubtful note.

“It is such a beautiful colour!”

“Where is your mother?” looking at her askance and still stooping.

“Indoors⁠—at least⁠—I think⁠—no⁠—”

“Haven’t you got no sewing? Can’t you help her? What good be you on?”

“But this is such a lovely daffodil, and the very first⁠—now do come!”

“Flowers bean’t no use on; such trumpery as that; what do’ee want a-messing about arter thaay? You’ll never be no good on; you ain’t never got a apron on.”

“But⁠—just a minute now.”

“Go on in, and be some use on.”

Amaryllis’ lip fell; she turned and walked slowly away along the path, her head drooping forward.

Did ever anyone have a beautiful idea or feeling without being repulsed?

Not long after he had settled himself and closed his eyes the handle of the door was very softly turned, and Amaryllis stole in for her book, which she had forgotten. She succeeded in getting it on tiptoe without a sound, but in shutting the door the lock clicked, and she heard him kick the fender angrily with his iron-shod heel.

After that there was utter silence, except the ticking of the American clock⁠—a loud and distinct tick in the still (and in that sense vacant) room.

Presently a shadow somewhat darkened the window, a noiseless shadow; Mrs. Iden had come quietly round the house, and stood in the March wind, watching the sleeping man. She had a shawl about her shoulders⁠—she put out her clenched hand from under its folds, and shook her fist at him, muttering to herself, “Never do anything; nothing but sleep, sleep, sleep: talk, talk, talk; never do anything. That’s what I hate.”

The noiseless shadow disappeared; the common American clock continued its loud tick, tick.

Slight sounds, faint rustlings, began to be audible among the cinders in the fender. The dry cinders were pushed about by something passing between them. After a while a brown mouse peered out at the end of the fender under Iden’s chair, looked round a moment, and went back to the grate. In a minute he came again, and ventured somewhat farther across the width of the white hearthstone to the verge of the carpet.

Steadily they came over from the town, dunning Iden and distracting Amaryllis in her garret. She heard the heavy footsteps on the path to the door, the thump, thump with the fist (there was neither knocker nor bell, country fashion); more thumping, and then her mother’s excuses, so oft repeated, so wearisome, so profitless. “But where is he?” the creditor would persist. “He’s up at the Hayes,” or “He’s gone to Green Hills.” “Well, when will he be in?” “Don’t know.” “But I wants to know when this yer little account is going to be settled.” Then a long narration of his wrongs, threats of “doing summat,” i.e., summoning, grumble, grumble, and so slow, unwilling steps departing.

Very rude men came down from the villages demanding payment in their rough way⁠—a raw, crude way, brutally insulting to a lady. Iden had long since exhausted his credit in the town; neither butcher, baker, draper, nor anyone else would let them have a shilling’s-worth until the shilling had been placed on the counter. He had been forced lately to deal with the little men of the villages⁠—the little butcher who killed once a fortnight; the petty cottagers’ baker, and people of that kind. Inferior meat and inferior bread on credit first; coarse language and rudeness afterwards.

One day, the village baker, having got inside the door as Mrs. Iden incautiously opened it, stood there and argued with her, while Amaryllis in the garret put down her trembling pencil to listen.