Thus the heedless children with their lips, but their little hearts probably beat to the even simpler words: "I'm having a holiday! Having a holiday!"

More staidly, and almost unheard by their time-muffled ears, a voice, nevertheless, sang to the housewives, telling each her copper and silver was the brightest in the town, and adding, perhaps, little gusts of memory that half hurt, half pleased, of how nimbly she had danced at the Flora in years gone by, and how fair she had looked....

The staid married men smiled to themselves, and would not have acknowledged that within them something seemed to chuckle: "I'm not so old, after all; I'm not so old, after all...."

Frankly, the hearts of the young men nudged hopefully against their ribs, calling out: "I'm going to dance with Her! I'm going to dance with Her! And perhaps ... for I always was lucky! I always was lucky!"

But who shall say what lilting voice, timid-bold and sly-sincere, whispered to the maidens, beating out its syllables against the new stays so tightly laced for the occasion? Perhaps the words of the children's doggerel, with a name or so altered, met the moment without need of further change....

And Loveday's heart, as she walked the three miles from the fishing village to Bugletown, sang to her of joy and hope and triumph.

When she reached the Market House, she found the band ready to strike up the famous tune, while the mayor, his chain of office about his neck, stood conversing with the ladies and gentlemen who were to lead the dance. For, as is but fitting, the couples at the Flora follow each other according to their social precedence, though all may join who choose, providing only that the females, be they gentry or tradespeople, wear white, and the men their best broadcloth and Sunday hats.

Of all who had gathered for the dance there was none more highly placed than Miss Flora Le Pettit, and none as fair to see. She stood supreme in the sunshine and her beauty, her white muslin robes swelling round her like the petals of some full-blown rose, her white sash streaming over them, the white ribands that decked her hat of fine Dunstable straw flowing down to her shoulders and mingling with her auburn curls. Even the countless tiny bows that adorned her dress (as though they were a cloud of butterflies drawn to alight upon it by its freshness) were of white satin. Everything about her save her little sandalled feet danced already—the brim of the wide hat that waved above her dancing eyes, the flounces and floating ends of her attire which the soft breeze stirred, the corners of her smiling mouth, the dimple which came and went behind the curls that nodded by her cheek. What vision can have been fairer than that presented by Flora Le Pettit upon Flora Day? "None, none, none," thought eager Loveday, as she edged through the crowd and caught sight of her divinity. None ... and yet that sight caused Loveday a strange clutching in her breast.

For she, too, had felt fair when she had gazed in her tiny mirror; the yellowed linen gown had gleamed pure and white, her young breast had swelled above the waist that looked so slim, and that was so finely girt.... Yet, now, something of splendour about Miss Le Pettit that she could not attain dimmed all herself and, with herself, her joy. Her face, already flushed by her walk, burned deeper still with shame. Yet the desire that three weeks of striving had swollen to a passion urged her forward, and, fingering the lovely thing about her waist to gain courage, she broke through the last ring of staring people and stood in front of Miss Le Pettit.

The heiress of Ignores had not yet caught sight of her, being engaged in laughing conversation with several admiring gentlemen, but something of an almost painful intensity in the dark gaze of the village girl drew her face to meet it. The black eyes, so full of an extravagant passion, met the careless glance of the blue orbs that knew not even the passing shadow of such a thing.

"Oh," stammered Loveday, the set speech she had been conning all the way to Bugletown dying upon her lips, "Oh, Miss Flora, I'm come. I've got my white sash and I'm come...."

Over Flora's face passed a look of bewilderment, while Loveday, her moment of self-criticism gone, stood trembling with eager happiness. Then Miss Le Pettit spoke, lightly and kindly.

"Surely I have seen you before, my girl?" she asked. And, turning to the little group of her friends, added:

"She has such a striking air, 'twould be difficult to forget her."

Yet, till this moment, Miss Le Pettit had forgotten everything save that air. Forgotten her careless suggestion, her prettily given promise, her praise. Forgotten even the pleasant glow such evident worship as this village girl's had stirred in her. She had had so much worship since! Who can blame her for not remembering some idle words her artistic perceptions had prompted three weeks earlier? It had been a fantastic suggestion at best, as a girl of sense would have known, treasuring it merely for its kindly intention. After all, Miss Le Pettit would be far more conspicuous dancing with a village maiden at the Flora than with a gentleman suited to her in rank and estate. Since that day at Upper Farm she had met just such a gentleman—he with the glossy whiskers and handsome form who was nearest to her now, smiling at this little encounter.

"Why, child," said Flora to Loveday, "you look very nice, I am sure. But your place should be much further down the procession." Then, more sharply: "Why do you stare so, girl?"

Loveday stood as one stricken, her cheek now as white as the sash she was still holding in her shaking hands.

CHAPTER XII: IN WHICH LOVEDAY DANCES

Chapter XII

IN WHICH LOVEDAY DANCES

The Mayor had stepped forward, fearing lest this young person might be annoying the heiress; the bandsmen had turned from the final survey of their instruments to gaze; here and there various people who recognised Loveday were pressing through the crowd, eager to see and hear. Only Miss Le Pettit had drawn back against the protecting arm of the gentleman who was to be her partner. Loveday still stayed, her riband in her hands.

There came comments from the crowd.

"Loveday Strick! She'm mad! This month past she'm been like a crazy thing about the Flora!"

"I thought all the time she must be mad to have imagined Miss Le Pettit meant to dance along wi' she!"

"What's the maid got on? I can't rightly see."

"Old white, but a brave new sash."

At that Loveday raised her head and looked about her. A shrill voice from the crowd answered the last speaker.

"A new sash; Ted'n possible. Us have all been laughing because she couldn' come by one nohow." And Cherry Cotton elbowed her way through the ring of curious folk to where Loveday stood. Suddenly Cherry gave a scream, and pointed an accusing finger at Loveday.

"Ah, a new sash, sure enough.... Ask her where she got 'en. Ask her, I say."

Loveday answered nothing, only turned her head a little to stare at Cherry.

"You ask her where she took it from, Miss! You should know, seeing you gave it!"

"I gave it to her? Nonsense."

"Not to her, but to poor Primrose Lear. 'Tes the riband that tied up your wreath. She's robbed the dead. Loveday Strick's robbed the dead."

Then indeed, after a moment's stupefaction following on the horrid revelation, a murmur of indignation ran from mouth to mouth.

"She's robbed the dead!"

"My soul! To rob the living's stealing, but to rob the dead's a profane thing."

"'Tisn't man as can judge her, 'tis only God Almighty!" cried an old minister, aghast.

"Look at the maid, how she stands.... Her own conscience judges her, I should say!"

"She's no word to excuse herself, simmingly."

"That's because she do know nothing can excuse what she's done...."

And, indeed, Loveday stood without speech. Perhaps in all that buzz of murmuring she heard the voice of her own conscience at last, for she made no effort to defend herself, or, perhaps, even at that hour, she heard nothing but the dread whisper of defeat. She stood before Flora Le Pettit like a wilted rose whose petals hang limply, about to fall, fronting a bloom that spreads its glowing leaves in the full flush of noon. The one girl was triumphant in her beauty and her unassailable position, every flounce out-curved in freshness; the other drooped at brow and hem, her slender neck downbent, her sash-ends pendant as broken tendrils after rain upon her heavily hanging skirts.

All she was heard to murmur, and that very low, was a halting sentence about her white sash: "But you said—you said you'd dance with me if I got my sash ..." or some such words, but only Miss Le Pettit caught all the muttered syllables, and she never spoke of them, save with a petulant reluctance to Mr. Constantine when he questioned her afterwards.

"Girl," said the Mayor sharply, "is it true?'

"Yes," said Loveday.

"True!" cried Cherry, "I know 'tes true. I remember noticing that green mark on the riband when the wreath was laid on the grave. Ah, she'm a wicked piece, she is. She tormented my poor Primrose in life and she's robbed her in death. You aren't safe in your grave from she."

Everyone was speaking against Loveday in rightful indignation by now, and the good wives expressed the opinion that she should be well whipped. Loveday turned suddenly to Miss Le Pettit. There were those there—notably Mr. Constantine, that observant philosopher—who said afterwards she seemed for one instant to be going to break into impassioned speech. She did half hold out her hands. The ends of the white sash, disregarded, fluttered from them as she did so. But Miss Le Pettit, shocked in all her sensibilities by this vulgar scene, turned away.

"Surely," said she, "there has been enough time wasted already. Can we not begin the dance, Mr. Mayor?"

At a sign from the Mayor the band struck up into the tune that was to echo all day through every head and, perhaps, afterwards, through a few kindly hearts.

played the band, and, still whispering together with excitement, the dancers fell into place.

It seemed to Loveday that the whole world was dancing. The faces of the crowd, the bobbing ringlets, swelling skirts, the bright eyes and bright instruments, the houses that peered at her with their polished panes, all danced in a mad haze of mingled light and blackness. Sun, moon and stars joined in, heads and feet whirled so madly that none could have said which was upper-most. Creation was a-dancing, and she alone stood to be mocked at in a reeling world. This was the merry measure she had striven to join! She must have been mad indeed!

Turning blindly, she ran through the crowd that gave at her approach, and all day the dancing went on without her. The flutter of her blasphemous sash did not profane the sunlight in the streets of Bugletown, nor pollute with its passing the houses of the good wives. Like a swallow's wing, it had but flashed across the ordered ways and was gone.

Yet Loveday's ambition was, after all, fulfilled that day. For she danced—and danced a measure she could not have trod without the white satin sash.... Good folk in Bugletown footed it down the cobbled streets, and through paved kitchens; Loveday danced a finer step on insubstantial ether, into realms more vast. Were those realms dark for her, thus violated by her enforced entry of them? Who can say, save those folk of Bugletown who knew that to her first crime she had added a second even greater?

They found her next day in the wood; the wind had risen, and blew against her skirts, so that her feet moved gently as though yet tracing their phantom paces upon the airy floors. Her head, like a snapped lily, lay forwards and a little to one side, so that her pale cheek rested against the taut white satin of the riband from which she hung. The wind blew the languid meshes of her hair softly, kissing her once, kissing her twice, and kissing her three times over.

EPILOGUE

Epilogue

Such is the shocking tale of Loveday Strick, a girl who gave her life for a piece of finery. Is it not small wonder that Miss Le Pettit lamented the sad lack of proportion in the affair?

All for a length of white satin riband....

And yet, there were two people who thought a little differently from the rest of Loveday's world on the subject. They were an odd couple to think alike in anything—it seemed as though even after her death Loveday's violent unsuitability must persist as a legacy. They were the refined and polished Mr. Constantine and old Madgy the midwife, a person whom, naturally, he had never met till the day after the Flora, when his philosophic curiosity drew him to search for the lost girl in company with a band of villagers. It was Madgy who led them to the wood, sure that there was what they sought. Mr. Constantine and Madgy stood looking at the pale girl when she had been laid upon last year's leaves at their feet. One of the men would have taken the riband from her, with some vague notion of returning it, though whether to the graveyard or to the Manor he could not have told. Mr. Constantine and Madgy put out each a hand to check him.

"Leave it her," said Mr. Constantine curtly.

"Ay," answered Madgy, speaking freely as was her wont, for she was, alas, no respecter of persons, "it was more than a white riband to the maid, for all that the fools say."

Mr. Constantine nodded. He too saw in that length of satin, now soiled and crumpled, more than a white riband. He saw passion in it—passion of hope, of ambition, of love, of adoration, of despair. Not a piece of finery had ended Loveday's stormy course, but a symbol of life itself, with more in its stained warp and woof than many lives hold in three-score years and ten. Like religion, this riband held every experience. Primrose had known mating and childbearing, anxiety and content and jealousy and death; Mr. Constantine had, in his wandering life of the gentleman of leisure, experienced his moments of keen enjoyment, his tender and romantic interludes; Miss Le Pettit would know decorous wooing, prosperity, pain of giving birth as she duly presented her husband with an heir, sorrow as she saw her chestnut curls greying and her eye gathering the puckers of advancing years around its fading blue. Yet none of these would know as much as Loveday had known in the short life they all thought so wasted and so incomplete, would feel as much as she had felt—the whole pageant of passion symbolised by this insensate strip of satin. She alone had known ecstasy in her brief mad dance across their sylvan stage.

Madgy folded the riband across the half-open eyes and wound the ends about the discoloured throat. And thus it was when Loveday was buried in unconsecrated ground, but with the thing she had desired most in life, striven for, sinned for, and finally attained, still with her. Of whom, after all, could a richer epitaph be written?

THE END.