Connie went to the wood directly after lunch.It was really a lovely day,the first dandelions making suns,the first daisies so white.The hazel thicket was a lace-work,of half-open leaves,and the last dusty perpendicular of the catkins.Yellow celandines now were in crowds,flat open,pressed back in urgency,and the yellow glitter of themselves.It was the yellow,the powerful yellow of early summer.And primroses were broad,and full of pale abandon,thick-clustered primroses no longer shy.
The lush,dark green of hyacinths was a sea,with buds rising like pale corn,while in the riding the forget-me-nots were fluffing up,and columbines were unfolding their ink-purple ruches,and there were bits of blue bird's eggshell under a bush.Everywhere the bud-knots and the leap of life!
The keeper was not at the hut.Everything was serene,brown chickens running lustily.Connie walked on towards the cottage,because she wanted to find him.
The cottage stood in the sun,off the wood's edge.In the little garden the double daffodils rose in tufts,near the wide-open door,and red double daisies made a border to the path.There was the bark of a dog,and Flossie came running.
The wide-open door!so he was at home.And the sunlight falling on the red-brick floor!As she went up the path,she saw him through the window,sitting at the table in his shirt-sleeves,eating.The dog wuffed softly,slowly wagging her tail.
He rose,and came to the door,wiping his mouth with a red handkerchief still chewing.
'May I come in?'she said.
'Come in!'
The sun shone into the bare room,which still smelled of a mutton chop,done in a dutch oven before the fire,because the dutch oven still stood on the fender,with the black potato-saucepan on a piece of paper,beside it on the white hearth.The fire was red,rather low,the bar dropped,the kettle singing.
On the table was his plate,with potatoes and the remains of the chop;also bread in a basket,salt,and a blue mug with beer.The table-cloth was white oil-cloth,he stood in the shade.
'You are very late,'she said.'Do go on eating!'
She sat down on a wooden chair,in the sunlight by the door.
'I had to go to Uthwaite,'he said,sitting down at the table but not eating.
'Do eat,'she said.But he did not touch the food.
'Shall y'ave something?'he asked her.'Shall y'ave a cup of tea?t'
kettle's on t'boil'--he half rose again from his chair.
'If you'll let me make it myself,'she said,rising.He seemed sad,and she felt she was bothering him.
'Well,tea-pot's in there'--he pointed to a little,drab corner cupboard;'an'cups.An'tea's on t'mantel ower yer 'ead,'
She got the black tea-pot,and the tin of tea from the mantel-shelf.
She rinsed the tea-pot with hot water,and stood a moment wondering where to empty it.
'Throw it out,'he said,aware of her.'It's clean.'
She went to the door and threw the drop of water down the path.How lovely it was here,so still,so really woodland.The oaks were putting out ochre yellow leaves:in the garden the red daisies were like red plush buttons.She glanced at the big,hollow sandstone slab of the threshold,now crossed by so few feet.
'But it's lovely here,'she said.'Such a beautiful stillness,everything alive and still.'
He was eating again,rather slowly and unwillingly,and she could feel he was discouraged.She made the tea in silence,and set the tea-pot on the hob,as she knew the people did.He pushed his plate aside and went to the back place;she heard a latch click,then he came back with cheese on a plate,and butter.
She set the two cups on the table;there were only two.'Will you have a cup of tea?'she said.
'If you like.Sugar's in th'cupboard,an'there's a little cream jug.
Milk's in a jug in th'pantry.'
'Shall I take your plate away?'she asked him.He looked up at her with a faint ironical smile.
'Why...if you like,'he said,slowly eating bread and cheese.She went to the back,into the pent-house scullery,where the pump was.On the left was a door,no doubt the pantry door.She unlatched it,and almost smiled at the place he called a pantry;a long narrow white-washed slip of a cupboard.
But it managed to contain a little barrel of beer,as well as a few dishes and bits of food.She took a little milk from the yellow jug.
'How do you get your milk?'she asked him,when she came back to the table.
'Flints!They leave me a bottle at the warren end.You know,where Imet you!'
But he was discouraged.She poured out the tea,poising the cream-jug.
'No milk,'he said;then he seemed to hear a noise,and looked keenly through the doorway.
''Appen we'd better shut,'he said.
'It seems a pity,'she replied.'Nobody will come,will they?'
'Not unless it's one time in a thousand,but you never know.'
'And even then it's no matter,'she said.'It's only a cup of tea.'
'Where are the spoons?'
He reached over,and pulled open the table drawer.Connie sat at the table in the sunshine of the doorway.
'Flossie!'he said to the dog,who was lying on a little mat at the stair foot.'Go an'hark,hark!'
He lifted his finger,and his 'hark!'was very vivid.The dog trotted out to reconnoitre.
'Are you sad today?'she asked him.
He turned his blue eyes quickly,and gazed direct on her.
'Sad!no,bored!I had to go getting summonses for two poachers I caught,and,oh well,I don't like people.'
He spoke cold,good English,and there was anger in his voice.'Do you hate being a game-keeper?'she asked.
'Being a game-keeper,no!So long as I'm left alone.But when I have to go messing around at the police-station,and various other places,and waiting for a lot of fools to attend to me...oh well,I get mad...'and he smiled,with a certain faint humour.
'Couldn't you be really independent?'she asked.
