It was late in the evening when Philip arrived at Ferne. It was Mrs. Athelny's native village, and she had been accustomed from her childhood to pick in the hop-field to which with her husband and her children she still went every year. Like many Kentish folk her family had gone out regularly, glad to earn a little money, but especially regarding the annual outing, looked forward to for months, as the best of holidays. The work was not hard, it was done in common, in the open air, and for the children it was a long, delightful picnic; here the young men met the maidens; in the long evenings when work was over they wandered about the lanes, making love; and the hopping season was generally followed by weddings. They went out in carts with bedding, pots and pans, chairs and tables; and Ferne while the hopping lasted was deserted. They were very exclusive and would have resented the intrusion of foreigners, as they called the people who came from London; they looked down upon them and feared them too; they were a rough lot, and the respectable country folk did not want to mix with them. In the old days the hoppers slept in barns, but ten years ago a row of huts had been erected at the side of a meadow; and the Athelnys, like many others, had the same hut every year.
Athelny met Philip at the station in a cart he had borrowed from the
public-house at which he had got a room for Philip. It was a quarter of a
mile from the hop-field. They left his bag there and walked over to the
meadow in which were the huts. They were nothing more than a long, low
shed, divided into little rooms about twelve feet square. In front of each
was a fire of sticks, round which a family was grouped, eagerly watching
the cooking of supper. The sea-air and the sun had browned already the
faces of Athelny's children. Mrs. Athelny seemed a different woman in her
sun-bonnet: you felt that the long years in the city had made no real
difference to her; she was the country woman born and bred, and you could
see how much at home she found herself in the country. She was frying
bacon and at the same time keeping an eye on the younger children, but she
had a hearty handshake and a jolly smile for Philip. Athelny was
enthusiastic over the delights of a rural existence.
"We're starved for sun and light in the cities we live in. It isn't life, it's a long imprisonment. Let us sell all we have, Betty, and take a farm in the country."
"I can see you in the country," she answered with good-humoured scorn. "Why, the first rainy day we had in the winter you'd be crying for London." She turned to Philip. "Athelny's always like this when we come down here. Country, I like that! Why, he don't know a swede from a mangel-wurzel."
"Daddy was lazy today," remarked Jane, with the frankness which
characterized her, "he didn't fill one bin."
"I'm getting into practice, child, and tomorrow I shall fill more bins
than all of you put together."
"Come and eat your supper, children," said Mrs. Athelny. "Where's Sally?"
"Here I am, mother."
She stepped out of their little hut, and the flames of the wood fire
leaped up and cast sharp colour upon her face. Of late Philip had only
seen her in the trim frocks she had taken to since she was at the
dressmaker's, and there was something very charming in the print dress she
wore now, loose and easy to work in; the sleeves were tucked up and showed
her strong, round arms. She too had a sun-bonnet.
"You look like a milkmaid in a fairy story," said Philip, as he shook
hands with her.
"She's the belle of the hop-fields," said Athelny. "My word, if the
Squire's son sees you he'll make you an offer of marriage before you can
say Jack Robinson."
"The Squire hasn't got a son, father," said Sally.
She looked about for a place to sit down in, and Philip made room for her
beside him. She looked wonderful in the night lit by wood fires. She was
like some rural goddess, and you thought of those fresh, strong girls whom
old Herrick had praised in exquisite numbers. The supper was simple, bread
and butter, crisp bacon, tea for the children, and beer for Mr. and Mrs. Athelny and Philip. Athelny, eating hungrily, praised loudly all he ate. He flung words of scorn at Lucullus and piled invectives upon Brillat-Savarin.
"There's one thing one can say for you, Athelny," said his wife, "you do
enjoy your food and no mistake!"
"Cooked by your hand, my Betty," he said, stretching out an eloquent
forefinger.