Martin Pippin in the Apple Orchard by Eleanor Farjeon (top 10 novels to read .TXT) 📗

"Oh, Mother, Mother!" sighed Gillian, "if you had only lived they would never have stolen the ring from my finger while I sat heartsick."

Above her head a whispering voice replied, "Oh, Daughter, Daughter, mend your dear heart! You shall wear this other ring when yours is gone over the duckpond to Adversane."

Oh wonder! Out of the very heavens fell a silver ring into her bosom. And if that night Gillian slept not, neither wept she.

PART III

In the beginning of the first week in September Martin Pippin came once more to Adversane, and he said to himself when he saw it:

"Now this is the prettiest hamlet I ever had the luck to light on in my wanderings. And if chance or fortune will, I shall some day come this way again."

While he was thinking these thoughts, his ears were assailed by groans and sighs, so that he wet his finger and held it up to find which way the wind blew on this burning day of blue and gold. But no wind coming, he sought some other agency for these gusts, and discovered it in a wheat-field where was a young fellow stooking sheaves. A very young fellow he was, turned copper by the sun; and as he stooked he heaved such sighs that for every shock he stooked two tumbled at his feet. When Martin had seen this happen more than once he called aloud to the harvester.

"Young master!" said Martin, "the mill that grinds your grain will need no wind to its sails, and that's flat."

The young man looked up from his labors to reply.

"There are no mill-stones in all the world," said he, "strong enough to grind the grain of my grief."

"Then I would save these gales till they may be put to more use," remarked Martin, "and if I remember rightly you wear a lady's ring on your little finger, though I cannot remember her name or yours."

"Her heavenly name is Gillian," said the youth, "and mine is Robin Rue."

"And are you wedded yet?" asked Martin.

"Wedded?" he cried. "Have you forgotten that she is locked with six keys inside her father's Well-House?"

"But this was long ago," said Martin. "Is she there yet?"

"She is," said Robin Rue, "and here am I."

"Well, all states must end some time," said Martin Pippin.

"Even life, sighed Robin, "and therefore before the month is out I shall wilt and be laid in the earth."

"That would be a pity," said Martin. "Can nothing save you?"

"Nothing but the keys to her prison, and they are in the keeping of them that will not give them up."

"I remember," said Martin. "Six milkmaids."

"With hearts of flint!" cried Robin.

"Sparks may be struck from flint," said Martin, in his inconsequential way. "But tell me, if Gillian's prison were indeed unlocked, would all be well with you for ever?"

"Oh," said Robin Rue, "if her prison were unlocked and the prisoner in these arms, this wheat should be flour for a wedding-cake."

"It is the best of all cakes," said Martin Pippin, "and the grain that is destined thereto must not rot in the husk."

With these words he strolled out of the cornfield, gathered a harebell, rang it so loudly in the ear of a passing rabbit that it is said never to have stopped running till it found itself in France, and went up the road humming and thrumming his lute.

On the road he met a Gypsy.

"Maids," said Joscelyn, "somebody is at the gate."

The milkmaids, who were eating apples, came clustering about her instantly.

"Is it a man?" asked little Joan, pausing between her bites.

"No, thank all our stars," said Joscelyn, "it is a gypsy."

The milkmaids withdrew, their fears allayed. Joan bit her apple and said, "It puckers my mouth."

Joyce: Mine's sour.

Jessica: Mine's hard.

Jane: Mine's bruised.

Jennifer: There's a maggot in mine.

They threw their apples away.

"Who'll buy trinkets?" said the Gypsy at the gate.

"What have you to sell?" asked Joscelyn.

"Knick-knacks and gew-gaws of all sorts. Rings and ribbons, mirrors and beads, silken shoe-strings and colored lacings, sweetmeats and scents and gilded pins; silver buckles, belts and bracelets, gay kerchiefs, spotted ones, striped ones; ivory bobbins, sprigs of coral, and sea-shells from far places, they'll murmur you secrets o' nights if you put em under your pillow; here are patterns for patchwork, and here's a sheet of ballads, and here's a pack of cards for telling fortunes. What will ye buy? A dream-book, a crystal, a charmed powder that shall make you see your sweetheart in the dark?"

"Oh!" six voices cried in one.

"Or this other powder shall charm him to love you, if he love you not?"

"Fie!" exclaimed Joscelyn severely. "We want no love-charms."

"I warrant you!" laughed the Gypsy. "What will ye buy?"

Jennifer: I'll have this flasket of scent.

Joyce: I'll have this looking-glass.

Jessica: And I this necklet of beads.

Jane: A pair of shoe-buckles, if you please.

Joan: This bunch of ribbons for me.

Joscelyn: Have you a corset-lace of yellow silk?

The Gypsy: Here's for you and you. No love-charms, no. Here's for you and you and you. I warrant, no love-charms! Ay, I've a yellow lace, twill keep you in as tight as jealousy, my pretty. Out upon all love-charms!--And what will she have that sits crouched in the Well-House?

"Oh, Gypsy!" cried Joscelyn, "have you among your charms one that will make a maid fall OUT of love?"

"Nay, nay," said the Gypsy, growing suddenly grave. "That is a charm takes more black art than I am mistress of. I know indeed of but one remedy. Is the case so bad?"

"She has been shut into the Well-House to cure her of loving," said Joscelyn, "and in six months she has scarcely ceased to weep, and has never uttered a word. If you know the physic that shall heal her of her foolishness, I pray you tell us of it. For it is extremely dull in this orchard, with nothing to do except watch the changes of the apple-trees, and meanwhile the farmstead lacks water and milk, there being no entry to the well nor maids to