THE KING'S PLOUGHING.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 7293, 4 January 1902, Page 6

THE KING'S PLOUGHING.

(By KATHARINE TYNAN.) Author of "That Sweet Enemy,'" "The Handsome Brandons," " The Dear Irish Girl," "An Isle in the Water," Etc., etc. A little reach of the river, fringed by rushes and -water-lilies, screened by alders. Overhead a stillen autumn sky. A fafc landscape of pleasure-grounds, dotted here/ and there -with a rich man's dwelling or some noble and ancient pile that money might not buy. A little field where a young man followed the plough, a lonely figure -where the field sloped [upwards against the grey sky. At the entrance to the field a square, i stoutly-built elderly man stood and watched the ploughing. His three-cornered hat was cf plain grey stuff, as were his skirted coat and breeches. Only a close observer would have noticed that the cloth was finer than common, and as for his lace ruffles and his vest of grey silk, they were so disfigured by snuff that the material was hardly visible. The silk stockings had a good I deal of mire on them as had the stout boots, j The old gentleman had plainly ■ tramped a good deal of country that muddy morning, and he leant on his staff as though he were somewhat tired. Once or twice he took snuff, but bis intent gaze never left the figure of the ploughman. ' At last the plc-ugh-horses turned, of themselves apparently, for the ploughhandles seemed but awkward things in the hands of the driver, whose profile for an instant showed clear against the sky, aserious rugged young profile that was lifted with a suggestion of melancholy. Then the head bent again over the plough-handles and the horses began to describe a rather zig-zag course down the purple headland. Presently they paused again, almost exactly opposite the interested spectator by the field gate. " Goot morning," he said with more than a suggestion of foreign gutturals. " Good morning," replied the young man, with an inclination of Ms head, andwould have turned the hearses, but the old gentleman evidently did not mean to end the conversation so soon. "You are bloughing," he said, rolling the words deeply from his chest. " Some people might not agree with you, gaffer," replied the young mam, a rueful merriment lighting up his freckled! face that tad been plain; but for the 'whiteness- of Qms .teeth, the truth of. his /brown eyes', and) the pleasant honesty of his whole expression. " Ach," said *he old) gentleman., you are no bloughman, and lam no gaffer. I wish I were, but my occupations are more diresome. I shall blough a bit in your Mace." "Why, you are welcome 1 to do that, sir. You can hardly spoil my work." " I haf but little bractice," said the old gentleman, " but, ach Gott, I can do better than that!" He indicated contemptuously, the crooked furrow. " You are no goot," he said, " no goot at all at the bloughing. You !had! better take the sword." The horses started off as though they felt an assured hand behind them. The plough drew a straight line through, the furrow. Straight as a die it went from the silver alders to the high, sky-line of the sloping field. The old gentleman turned the horses at the end and came back making the companion line as beautifully straight and unbroken. "Ach," said he, as he came back to the young ploughman, "you are no goot at the bloughing ! It is bat, very bat." A sad merriment twinkled; in the young man's eyes, hut there was concern as well. "I'm afraid you are right, sir," he said, humbly. " But I shall have to learn ; there is no chance of the sword for me." He shook his head dispassionately as he contemplated his own handiwork side by side with the ..two fair lines. '"Tis enough to "break the hearts of Dobbin and Sukey," he went on. "In the hands of William Stone, my ploughman, they have "ploughed the straightest furrows in the country. They must tMnk me a poor substitute." • The old gentleman stroked the great silky flanks of the nearest hprse. "Where is this William Stone then?" he asked. "Alas, crippled with rheumatism, and little like to do more for the rest of Ihis days than curry-comb this pair. They are his wife and children. See the fine plaiting of their manes, and their sides like glass!" The old gentleman eyed them with appreciation. "Ach!" he said, "they are fat, they are goot, but get another bloughman, friend. You are not 'bom to Wougihiiig." " But I must learn," said the young man. eagerly. "It is only my third day at it. I cannot afford' to pay a ploughman. We have become poor and must do everything for ourselves. I would' sell the house, but it would break my mother's heart. I was to have had a commission in one of the King's regiments. It was a promise from the great Duke himself. But now I must turn my sword, to a ploughshare, since any uncle Ralph has not only lost his all in the South Seas but has dipped my patrimony to extinguishing point. lam fit for nothing but a soldier or a ploughman 1 ." " Not fit for a bloughman, mine frient," put in the old gentleman. - "Then I must make myself so," replied the young man doggedly, " for I cannot leave my mother now, and run the risk of having a sword through me, since I am her only son, and must be her sole support, ill- i fitted as I am." \ "Ach," said the old gentleman, taking snuff again, "so you are turned farmer." " And fanner's man. We have no money for wages, and Will Stone is past his work." " You haf spirit," said the old gentleman, j "You will succeed." i The cloud fell again on the young man's face. " I have no liking for the trade," he said. *"I shall keep my mother alive, I trust. If it were not for her I woulo! 1 throw it all to the winds and fight the King's battles as a common trooper. The sooner somebody's blade let the light into me- " He stopped abruptly, and laughed as I though he were ashamed, of his outburst. I 41 That is not so goot,' said the other in , rebuke. " Better be bloughing and doing badly than that. You will not dink sowhen you haf been a farmer half the year. There is great gontent in the farmer's life. I wish it 'had been mine. Mine is nodding so pleasant." " I have lost more than money," said the young man gloomily. " More than, the soldier's life in which I was to follow my father's footsteps. He fell at Dettingen." "His name?" asked the old gentleman curiously, " Miles Aynsley. He died fighting for the colours, and they covered his breastwhere he had been shot in three places." "I remember," said the old gentleman. 41 And you are ■?" "Miles Aynsley also. I need wish for no better name.* "Ach Gott, you need not! But why this desbair? You are in lof." Miles Aynsley's ingenuous cheek turned scarlet. "Never mind," said the old gentleman, touching his arm with a fatherly kindness. "I h«tf been in lof myself. Now tell me what is the madder?" Dobbin and Sukey leant their silken cheeks to each other. Plainly there was to be a respite from the ploughing, and seeing how they were guided, they thought it perhaps just as well. Their master glanced shyly at the stranger from under Jong dark lashes, which were unexpectedly beautiful in his honest plain face. "You have guessed right, sir," he said. "Though I do not know how you have guessed it." "I haf been young myself. I haf been for bairing like the birds or your goob blongh-horses that are talking together. They are wise, the birds and the beasts, they Avill not haf one consort. But the young will not haf it so. There will bo only one for them in the world." He took snuff and panted, as though be -pre unused to mak'"g long speeches.

"Since we are poor the father spurns me," said the youth, red-faced. " But she haf not. " "She is constancy itself." V " Ach, we dink so, we dink so when we are young," the old man spoke half under his breath — "Ajid the father wall not haf it? He will, half a rich: son-in-law?" "It 19 not altogether that, sir. Sir Jffhn Pemnyfeather is a rich man. He will have achievement. He would have me go to the wars, amd win a proud name like my father." . "He does not see that it is brouder to I stay at home and make furrows like this for sake of tihe mother-kin?" . His eyes twinkled as he indicated th« illploughed field, but his gruff voice was kindIy. " There is another suitor. He won his spurs at Minden. IJe is a general, and his breast is covered with medals. I reverence him. What chance have I against his greatness?" > ' In a mood of despondency tihe youth leant on tihe plough-handles and covered ihis face with his hands."The lady will not dink so," said the old gentleman, consolingly. "Against 'his years and his glory tihere will be your youth and your bloughing. She will choose the blough." "She has chosen me; though, indeed, sir, I would not have you believe me as dull at everything ias at the ploughing. I would have carried a ewordi for the King with any man." "It is well. But now, cam you not achieve? I ihaif a thought. Six months from now the King gives a gold medal for the straiglhtest furrow, and a .burse of guineas." " At the County Society's show ?" "In Windsor Great Bark. You will haf to blough against men who half bloughed all tfheir days and their fathers before them. Win the medal. Go. to Sir John. I for-o-mise he will listen, to you when you haf won the medal." "Ah, sir- — " "Do as I say, friend. You Jfoaf but to beat the beasant on Ms own ground. Is your eye less keen, your hand less certain than his? Braotice ! You will do it." " The , guineas would be welcome, but " Enter your name for the prize." The young man's face flushed. "I shall do it, sir," he said. "I don't know what Sir John will think of achievement over country yokels, of honours won in company with village goodies for their honey. and 'butter. But if the King 'the fawner' as they call him — should pin the medal on my breast, it -will be the highest achievement possible to me after all." "My friend, he ~ shall 'bin it!" said the old man earnestly. It was the first of May, the May of the poets, and every thorn-tree in Windsor Great Park was a bridal bouquet. The air smelt deliriously. The wild hyacinths danced below the trees, and in every little bosky shadow. The air was full of the musio of birds, and! beyondi the gaping crowds of rustics, and the groups of fine folk, the larks over still spaces soared aloft in ecstasy oj(iy to fall again to earth as though suddenly sjadn by their passion of delight. The world was flooded with sunshine. The sun looked on a flowerful world, but on nothing prettier than Margery Pennyfeather, who sat by her father on one of the raised seats at the back of the King's diis and the royal pavilion. i She was the prettiest milk-maid imaginable. Bla<ck rings of hair unpowdered ' curled about a milky forehead. Black eyebrows and lashes made a night-dark shade round eyes blue as the wild hyacinths. Her lips were red though they were sad, and her clear soft cheeks were full of health, and had not feared the sun's kisses. She was wearing a sacque and* petticoat of silk of a chintz pattern, , sprinkled all over with tiny bouquets of flowers and knots of 'blue ribbon. Her shepherdess hat of straw was tied beneath her chin witih blue ribbon. Her shoes had bows of the same material. Her dimpled l face was clouded. Instead of looking about her at the sights, as one would expect one of her age and sort, to do, she looked sadly down at her pretty fingers folded demurely in her lap. Her father, red-faced, choleric, square-

shouldered, sat by her. His hands were clasped over Ms stick with' a firm possessive grasp as though it was the world. Hia eyes had something of the innocence of pretty Margery's, but his quick suspicious look to left and right of him belied them. Now and again his glance softened as it fell on the rounded cheek of his one child. Then he would frown again sharply, looking across to the plot of ground which the competitors in the ploughing match had been driving with tiheir furrows since early morning. The other side of the girl a man about her father's age sat and stared before him. He wore a gloomy and frowning air as though nothing so pleasant as pretty Margery was ihis neighbour. He had a soldier's coat, raHker faded* and his breast was covered with many medals. It was strange enough to see the child, so daintily pretty, between the two fierce old men. She had beea in more fitting company if she had sat with/a/ silver-haired lady, yet rosy and pretty, who was a little . way behind them.. She was watching the ploughing competition with «a great eagerness in her mild bright eyes, and at this moment she was not disturbed by the stiffening of Sir John Pennyfeather's upper lip whenever he chanced to look her "way, or the shy glance of appeal his daughter sent her whenever she could do so unobserved by her father. She carried her head like .a, woman of spirit, and she had a sparkle about her that somehow^ suggested frost. The events of the day were drawing to a close. It had been the whim of the farmer-King to be himself the judge in the ploughing match, and he was over there now amid the cheering and crowding rustics, surveying with the eye of a lover, the straight, - beautiful ridges and furrows the ploughs had been cutting. A little while and he was back again in his gilt chair. It was time for the awards, amd the people round about were saying what a fitting thing it was that the King of a people largely agricultural, should take an' interest in the new Society, and himself distribute the prizes. To whom had the medal for the ploughing, with its accompanying purse of guineas, fallen? There had been a great number of competitors, not all by any , means of the peasant class, but young yeoman farmers in plenty, smart bucks, with their hair tied with ribbons, and their sleek horses, plaited mane and tail, the plaiting tied up with, brilliant rosettes. Sir John Pennyfeather yanraed, somewhat ostentatiously, looking down upon the King's chair and the anxious faces of the many competitors and their friends. "Are you tired, sweetheart?" he asked his daughter. " 'Tis a dull business to look on at.". "I do nob find it so, sir," 6he replied demurely. Somebody was elbowing his way) through the crowd towards ■ them. It was one of the King's household, and standing, bowing, before the knight, he said : "It 'is the King's pleasure, Sir John, that you and Mistress Margery bear him company on the dais." "I am the King's servant," sair Sir. John, stumbling to his feet in much confusion and gratification. " Come, Margery, my girl ! The King has bidden- us 1" He stuck out a stiff elbow for her to. take hold on, and so led her through the crowd to the King, who smiled on her with great kindness and motioned them to seats close by him. . They sat down in amazement, wondering what this honour might portend, but they were not long in doubt. A gentleman standing by* thie King's chair, and the table on which the ribbons and medals lay, had begun to 'read the list of awards. " The prize for the cleanest furrow, of which his Most Excellent King's Majesty had been judge, is declared by him to be conferred upon Master Miles Aynsley." Miles Aynsley staggered to the King's, footstool, and dropped on ibis knee, an image of bewilderment and pleasure. Margery, looking down at him from her place at the King's elbow, had no ear for her father's muttering. " Pah ! A prize won for ploughing. 'Tis naught for Miles Aynsley's lad. If he had spirit 'he had never forsook his father's I trade." ■ ' • J " Mistress Margery," said fte Kang, turning to her, " shall I bia the medal on the young man, or will it be you?" " Oh, your Majesty !" " It os a <bity to take him from the bloughing unless he were to -accept a gommission in my Guards. "What do you say, Mistress MargeTy? The wars are over, and 'twill be a long beace." " Oh, your Majesty !" "I believe that after all I bromised to

Din the medal myself on the young man'f breast. Will you haf it from me or Mist tress MaTgery, Ensign. Aynsley ?" " Frodk your 'hands, your Majesty," said the boy, and •delighted, but "with, a deprecating glance at Margery. ! " Ab, that is well. I aim your .friend. Sir John Pennyfeather, we shall make those young people happy, shall we not?" "I am your Majesty's subject," . stammer* ed the knight, somewihat ruefully. "That is right. I gif him a thousand guineas. They will be my care. But you*daughter will not be poor?" " My girl will Bare enough, for koto, yea?" Majesty." ■ , All this passed ia a very short tune, aas but a. few of the spectators ■understood what was going on. The cw>wd found its lungn and shouted when the King pinned the great gold medal on Miles Aynsley's breasi ' and presented him wij>h a purse of guineas,, for the people had: not forgotten has seldieq? father's renown. • :v . The new ensign stepped aside to mat© place for another prizes-winner. " For a moment he stood hesitating, as though' n«fr knowing what to do with himself and hi« J gmineas. Then Sar John Peniayfeatheir reached out and put a hand on his shoulder,. "There is a seat* for you here, Mites, hers by my girl," he safld. "I doubt not thf King meant that you should take it." The young man. stepped lightly to th^ place, by Margery, who sat bteha!ng.;furU ously and hoping the glances of the orow4? ' were anywhere except on her cheeks ; aaiA* there was never a damask-rose sweeter. "You clutched the guineas, as .though you feared highwaymen," whispered! BsxyJakn f ; rallying him. "I think I must fetch you home an my coach for greater safety." \ "My mother," said; the boy. " I want W lay the purse in her lap- I shall foar* to, convoy her safe- " "The coach wall hold her." "I wanted to bring my honours to he* first. I never thought that Mistress Mar* ■.; gery would prevent me." . . "You shall go to her, lady The 1 mother , that 'bore you should) not stand' aside, even for the sweetheart." \ ; He glanced around to where Dame Alice had sat alone. An expression, of wonder -.':: crossed- his face. Then it changed to some--Jhing half relief, half amusement. fc"S>he has found an old friend," he sai&. "Keep your guineas for awhile." ■;. The raised' benches at the back of the r dais were almost deserted, and the- few 5 who occupied them were standing tip-tbo to see the prize-giving. Quite -at the back,, General. Peter Blake, the soldier, with, his scarlet face and his medals; sat by/Miles Aynsley's mother. They apparently were ' not sensible of anything outside thetai:' ' selves. They were in privacy which thia' shouting and absorption of the crowd made possible; and the lady's ear was' inclined to her companion, who was talking eager- " iy- =■ ■ . '■■■- . ■■;■.' ■■ .. . ■■.•■■• ■-■; *" Only your hardness of heart embarked mie on sucK folly, Alice," he was saying. "Can a man bear denial: for ever? A! child young enough almost to be my granddaughter! 'Twas your fault if I incline^ an e^r to my old friend, John Pehnyfeather, when he persuaded me the pretty maid could care for me. I blush for my' own folly. Alice, Ido indeed." . : ' _ - ••* A while ago," said the lady in pensive reproach, "you had no eyes but for !h«f^" ■ " The eyes of my heart were with a rosy' face, lovelier than, hers, albeit no lohget: young. I had turned my back upon it, yfet did it haunt me, and the soft reproach of it did pierce me like a sword." ,; His manner suddenly changed, and /hii ; face grew red. : ; . . "But why should you reproach ine?^ Ba r asked aiigrily, "seeing that I servedI for you as long as Jacob for Bachael, and won you not. Granted Miles Aynsley was the better man, is he to push me aside for I/ever?" ... ' .... . ' ■ •■'_ ■ / i "He left me his son," said the widow* gently. . , , "'/: "His son will be in safe keeping," re-, plied General Blake, showing that he had not been so oblivious as he seemed of what was going on below. "If 'tis true what the gossips here are saying, that the King: gives him a commission, let it be my right -, to help him, to advance him^ in the gloidous profession of arms. There, shall I not plead for myself, and not through your boy? Have you no pity for me, Alice?" : ! "I Sad better tiave .pity on you," 'she | said, with a flash of laughter in eyes that ' j were young enough, "or you will again be seeking a child-bride." / i; He carried her hand to his lips. "Never mock me with it, Alice; in th» r " days that are to come." . I "Only when you twit me with my age,^ '. :: 1 she whispered. ' . , i "And that will never he" he replied, ! with, an ! ardour which showed that not only . the young can love. .