Part 8

This was partaken of hastily, and for the most part in silence, and at its conclusion Mrs. Faithfull jumped up and took a ceremonious farewell of her new cousin. William shouldered his wife’s bag and set forth beside her. Martha beguiled the walk to the station by a variety of injunctions, all of which the new landlord of the Pure Drop promised to heed and obey. It was not until she had actually taken her seat in the railway carriage that she found time for sentiment, and then, embracing her husband, she expressed the affectionate hope that he would not be lonely during her absence.

William clambered out of the compartment and carefully closed the door before he answered:--

“Well, I shan’t be altogether that lonely. Sabina--she be a-comin’ to keep I company till ye come back.”

“Never!” cried Mrs. Faithfull, thrusting a scared face out of the window. “You don’t mean to say ye took on yerself to ax her to stop in my house?”

The whistle sounded at this juncture, but William walked beside the train as it slowly moved off.

“I didn’t ax her. ’Twas she herself as did say, when she heerd you were a-goin’ for to leave I all by mysel’, says she, ‘I’ll tell ’ee what, Will’um; I’ll take a holiday, too, an’----’” A loud and prolonged shriek from the engine drowned the remainder of the sentence, and the train steamed away, the last sign of the new-made bride being the agitating waving of a protesting hand from the carriage window.

The carpenter was smoking a ruminative pipe, about four o’clock on that same afternoon, in the doorway of the snug little hostelry of which he now found himself master, when he was suddenly hailed by a distracted voice from the road.

“William! for the Lard’s sake, William, do ’ee come and ketch hold of this here bag!”

William removed his pipe, stared, and then wedging the stem firmly in the corner of his mouth, rushed down the path and up the roadway.

“Bless me, Martha, be ye comed back again? Tired o’ London a’ready?”

“No, my dear, I didn’t ever get so far as London,” cried Martha, thrusting the bag into his hand, and throwing herself in a heated and exhausted condition upon his neck. “I didn’t go no further than Templecombe. There, I’d no sooner started nor I did feel all to once that I couldn’t a-bear to leave ’ee. I fair busted out a-cryin’ in the train.”

“Did ye?” said Faithfull, much gratified.

“I did indeed,” resumed his wife. “‘Oh,’ says I, ‘how could I ever treat en so unfair,’ says I, ‘arter all them years as him an’ me was a-walkin’? Oh,’ says I, ‘when I think of his melancholy face, an’ this his weddin’ day an’ all.’ So I nips out at Templecombe, an’ gets another ticket, an’ pops into the train as were just startin’ Branston-way--an’ here I be.”

“Well, an’ I be pure glad to see ye,” cried William heartily.

They had by this time reached the house, and Mrs. Faithfull, still breathless with fatigue and agitation, stared anxiously about.

“Where is she?” she inquired in a whisper.

“Who?” said William, setting down the bag.

“Why, your Cousin Sabina!”

“Oh, her!” said William, with something like a twinkle in his usually lack-lustre eye; “she be gone home-along to fetch her things an’ lock up her house. She says she’ll come back to-morrow mornin’ first thing.”

“Well, but we don’t want her now, do we?” cried Martha, trembling with eagerness. “I was thinkin’ maybe after all, ye’d fancy a bit of a holiday, William. Ye might drop her a bit of a line an’ say ye was goin’ to take the first honeymoon yerself. I fancy ye’d like London very well, William. You _should_ have the first turn, by right, the man bein’ master; an’ I mid be able to run up for a couple o’ days at the end o’ the week. Here’s my ticket, d’ye see; you could catch the last train, you know, an’ then, as I tell ’ee, I’d come an’ j’ine ye.”

“That won’t do,” said William firmly; “nay, ’twon’t do.”

“Why not?” gasped Martha.

“Ye may pop that ticket in the fire,” said William, speaking slowly, and suffering his countenance to relax gradually. “’Tain’t no manner of use to I. I--be--a-goin’--for to stop--an’ keep--my--honeymoon--here--along of ’ee.”

OLF AND THE LITTLE MAID.

Olf drove the cows up from their pasture by the river, whistling all the way as was his wont. It was not a particularly tuneful whistle, for he had no ear for music; nevertheless, blending as it did with the morning ecstasies of a particularly early lark, with the chirp of the newly awakened nestlings in the rambling hedges, with the drone of the first bee, with the thousand and one other sounds of the summer dawn, these vacillating notes added something to the general harmony. As his troop of cows plodded tranquilly in front of him, they made green tracks in the dewy sheen of the fields, the silvery uniformity of which had hitherto been unbroken save for the print of Olf’s own footsteps, large and far apart, where he had stridden forth half an hour before to gather together his charges.

Arrived at the open gate, the cows passed solemnly through, crossed the road and turned up the narrow lane which led to Farmer Inkpen’s premises, made their way to the shed at the farther end and took possession each of her own stall.

The farmer had just emerged from the house, and was in the act of tying the strings of his white “pinner”; his wife and daughter, each carrying the necessary three-legged stool, were walking slowly towards the scene of their morning labours. Another female form was already ensconced on a similar stool at the very farthest end of the shed, and edged itself a little sideways as the leading cow stepped past it to her accustomed place. In a few minutes the whole herd had ranged itself, and the rhythmical splash of milk falling into the pails was soon heard.

According to custom, Olf’s next proceeding should have been to “sarve” the pigs, but instead of directing his steps towards the adjacent styes, he stood embracing one of the posts which supported the shed, and gazing at his master with a vague smile on his habitually foolish face.

“Well, Olf?” inquired the farmer, dropping his horny fingers from the bow which he had just succeeded in tying in the middle of his portly waist.

“Well, maister!”

The farmer glanced at him in amazement.

“Anything wrong?”

The smile on Olf’s face expanded into a grin. Clasping the post still more firmly with one hand, he swung himself round it to the full length of his arm, then swung himself back again and became suddenly serious.

“Nay, sir, nay, there’s nothin’ wrong. I thought I mid just so well show you this ’ere.”

Down went his hand into the depths of his pocket, from which, after producing sundry articles of no particular interest to any one but their owner, he drew forth a piece of paper, folded small, and soiled with much fingering. This he handed to his master, his face now preternaturally solemn, his eyes round with an expression which might almost be taken for one of awe.

Farmer Inkpen smoothed out this document and read it, his jaw dropping with amazement when he had mastered its contents. He stared at Olf, who stared back at him with palpably increasing nervousness.

“Whatever is it?” cried Mrs. Inkpen, thrusting her head round from behind the dappled flank of her particular cow. “No bad noos, I hope.”

“Bad noos!” ejaculated her husband, recovering his wits and his voice together, “what d’ye think? Olf there has come into a fortun’!”

“Never!” exclaimed Mrs. Inkpen, craning her neck as far as she could round her charge, but not ceasing for a moment in her occupation. “You don’t say so!”

“However did ye manage that, Olf?” cried Annie Inkpen. And the “spurt spurt” of the milk into _her_ pail ceased for a moment.

“’Tis a prize drawin’,” explained her father, speaking for Olf, who was notoriously slow with his tongue. “He’ve a-been an’ took a ticket in one o’ them Dutch lotteries.”

“Four on ’em,” interrupted Olf, with unexpected promptitude.

“Eh?” inquired his master, turning round to look at him.

“I say I did take four on ’em!” repeated Olf. “They was a-talkin’ about it in the town, an’ they said two tickets gave ye a better chance nor one, an’ four was the best of all. So I did settle to take four.”

“Well, what have ye got? How much is the prize?” cried the “missus,” now mightily excited, and feeling more at leisure to gratify her curiosity, as the time had come for “stripping” her cow.

“A thousand pound, no less,” shouted her lord before Olf could open his mouth. “Why, Olf’s as good as a gentleman now. Lard, I never had the layin’ out of a thousand pound in my life. Why, ye can take a bigger farm nor this if ye do like, an’ ye can stock it straight off wi’out being beholden to anybody.”

Olf, who had again been swinging himself round the post, now paused to digest this astonishing piece of information.

Mrs. Inkpen cackled as she picked up her stool and proceeded to operate on the next of the long row.

“Why, he’ll be settin’ up so grand as you please,” she cried. “He’ll be gettin’ married first off, I should think. Tain’t no use tryin’ to work a farm wi’out a missus.”

At this juncture light steps were heard pattering over the cobble-stones, and Maggie Fry, from the village in the “dip,” came up, jug in hand, to fetch the milk for her father’s breakfast.

“What do you think?” shouted Annie, raising herself a little from her seat in order to judge of the effect which her announcement would produce upon Maggie, who was a crony of hers. “What do you think, Maggie? Here’s Olfred Boyt come into a fortun’. He’ve a-been an’ won the thousand pound prize in one of them Dutch bank drawin’s--he is a rich man this mornin’!”

“He is,” chimed in her mother, with a crow of laughter. “I am just tellin’ him he’ll have to look out for a wife first thing. Mr. Farmer Boyt must have a missus to look after the grand noo property he be a-goin’ to buy.”

“Ah, sure he will,” cried the farmer.

Olf swung himself round the post once more, and then slowly regaining his former place, gazed thoughtfully at Annie, whose fair, curly head was delicately outlined against the golden-red flank of her cow.

“I’d as soon have you as any one, Annie,” he remarked hesitatingly.

“Me!” cried Annie, jumping up and knocking over her stool. “Of all the impudence! Me, Olf? Your master’s daughter?”

Her pretty face was flushed to the temples, her eyes were flashing fire. Her mother and father burst into loud laughter, in which Maggie joined.

“I d’ ’low he isn’t very slack once he do make up his mind,” cried the farmer, wiping his eyes. “’Tis a bit strong, I will say, ’tis a bit strong, Olf.”

“I’ll be a master myself now,” explained Olf, looking from one to the other, “an’ I’d as soon have Annie as any one,” he added with conviction.

“Well, I’d a deal sooner not have you,” ejaculated Annie, picking up her stool, and sitting down again with a suddenness that betokened great perturbation of mind. “I think ’tis most awful cheeky of you, Olf, to ask me, an’ I don’t see as it is any laughing matter.”

Thereupon she fell to work again, the milk falling into her pail in a jerky manner, which, while relieving her own feeling, was not altogether satisfactory to her meek charge, whose horned head came peering round as though to ascertain the cause of this unusual disturbance.

Olf, after contemplating for a moment the resolute outline of the back presented to him so decidedly, slowly turned his gaze upon Maggie, who still stood by, laughing and dangling her jug.

“Will you have me, Maggie?” he inquired pleasantly.

“Dear heart alive!” ejaculated the farmer, while his wife once more gave utterance to a shout of laughter.

It was now Maggie’s turn to flush and look disconcerted. “I’m not goin’ to put up wi’ Annie’s leavings,” she cried indignantly. “The idea! I s’pose you reckon any maid is to be picked up for the axin’, Olfred Boyt. You think you have nothin’ more to do nor just p’int your finger at the first one you fancy an’ she’ll have you straight off. A pretty notion!”

“A pretty notion indeed,” cried Annie, “and a pretty figure he’d be to go out a-coortin’!”

“’E-es,” resumed Maggie, with ever-increasing indignation, “a pretty figure, I d’ ’low. Tell ye what, Olf, next time you go a-coortin’ ye’d best wash your face first.”

“Ah! ’tis true. ’Twould be a good notion,” laughed the farmer. “Ye bain’t exactly the kind o’ figure a maid ’ud jump at.”

Olf raised a grimy hand to his sunburnt face as though to ascertain what manner of appearance it presented. It was true he had not washed it that morning, but there was nothing surprising in that. It would indeed have been a manifestly sinful waste of soap and water to perform one’s ablutions before “sarving” the pigs. In fact, according to established custom, Olf’s toilet was accomplished at a late hour in the afternoon when his labours were concluded. The condition of his chin would have at once announced to any experienced observer that it was then the middle of the week; from the appearance of his garments he might have recently effected a change with a tolerably respectable scarecrow. Altogether, after a moment’s reflection, Olf felt that Maggie’s point of view was justified, and that he was not precisely the kind of figure to go courting at such short notice. Presently he remarked reflectively, “Ah! ’tis true, I mid ’ave washed myself a bit afore axin’ the question. I will next time.”

Then he held out his hand to the farmer for the paper, pocketed it, and went shambling across the yard towards the corner where the pig-bucket stood.

Except for the clatter of the cans, and the sound of the spurting milk, silence reigned in the shed for a moment after his departure. The farmer stood scratching his chin meditatively, while the women-folk appeared also lost in thought.

By-and-by Mrs. Inkpen’s voice sounded muffled from behind her cow. “A thousand pound, mind ye, isn’t to be picked up every day.”

“It bain’t,” cried her husband.

Annie tossed her head. “He be a regular sammy,” she remarked.

“And ’tisn’t as if a maid hadn’t plenty of other chaps to walk with,” chimed in Maggie.

From the farthest corner a little voice suddenly sounded, “He be a very kind man, Olf be. He be a very kind man.”

“Do you think so, Kitty?” called out the farmer good-naturedly. “Hark to the little maid! You think Olf be a kind man, do ye, Kitty?”

“Don’t talk so much and mind your work, Kitty,” said Mrs. Inkpen severely. “Nobody axed your opinion. The idea,” she continued, in an angry undertone to her husband, “of a little chit, the same as that, puttin’ in her word. What does she know about Olf, or what kind of a man he is? You will have to be lookin’ out for somebody else to take Olf’s place, that’s what I’m thinkin’,” she remarked presently to her husband. “’Tis a pity. Olf be a bit of a sammy, as Annie do say, but he is a good worker and never gives no trouble. I could wish somebody else had won the fortun’.”

The two girls were now gossiping together and interchanging various opinions derogatory to Olf, and eulogistic of sundry other youths with whom it would appear they “walked” by preference. By-and-by the milking was concluded, and the farmer and his women-folk went in to breakfast, Maggie having taken her departure some minutes before.

As the cows began to troop pasturewards again, Olf, standing by the yard-gate, noticed a girl’s figure come darting forth from the obscurity of the shed. It was Kitty, a workhouse-bred orphan, whom Mrs. Inkpen had engaged as general help in house and dairy. She was a little creature, small and slight, with a round freckled face and flaming red hair. I say “flaming” advisedly, for it seemed to give forth as well as to receive light. Her face, habitually pink and white, was now extremely pink all over as she paused opposite Olf; a dimple peeped in and out near the corner of her mouth, and her teeth flashed in a smile that was half-shy and half-mischievous.

“Please, Olf,” said she, “if you are lookin’ for a wife, I’m willin’ to have ye.”

Olf, who had been about to pass through the gate in the rear of his charges, wheeled about and faced her, scratching his jaw meditatively.

“Oh, an’ are you, Kitty?” said he.

“E-es,” said Kitty, nodding emphatically.

Olf eyed her thoughtfully, and then his eyes reverted to the cows, which, after the perverse manner of their kind, were nibbling at the quickset hedge over the way.

“Who-ope, who-ope,” he called warningly, and then once more glanced at Kitty. “We’ll talk about that ’ere when I come back,” he remarked, and sauntered forth pulling the rickety gate to after him.

Kitty paused a moment with a puzzled look, and then, being a philosophical young person, picked up her pail and betook herself indoors.

She had finished a somewhat perfunctory breakfast, and was on her knees scrubbing the doorstep when Olf returned. She heard his footfall crossing the yard, but did not look round, neither did she glance up when his shadow fell upon the sunlit flags. After the necessary pause for adjustment of his ideas, Olf broke the silence.

“You’d be willin’ to take me?” said he.

“E-es,” returned Kitty, without raising her head.

Olf paused a moment, then--“You’d like to marry me, would ye, Kitty?”

“E-es,” said Kitty again.

“They two other maids wouldn’t so much as look at me,” pursued Olf, in a ruminative tone. “I wonder what makes ye think you’d like to marry me, maidie?”

Kitty sat back upon her heels and contemplated him gravely, mechanically soaping her scrubbing-brush the while.

“You did carry my pail for I t’other day when ’twas too heavy,” she replied presently, “and you did black my shoes on Sunday when I was afraid I would be late for church. And besides,” she added, “I think ’twould be nice to get married, and there--I be so sick of scrubbin’ doorsteps and cleanin’ pots and pans!”

“That’s it, be it?” said Olf. “But you mid still have to clean pots and pans after we was married, Kitty,” he added with a provident eye to the future. “The missus, she do often do a bit of cleanin’ up, if she be the missus.”

“That would be different,” returned Kitty. “I shouldn’t have no objections to scourin’ my own pots and pans.”

“True, true,” agreed Olf.

Kitty dropped on all-fours again. “Well, I have told ye I’d be willin’,” she observed in somewhat ruffled tones, “but of course ye needn’t if ye don’t like.”

“Who says I don’t like?” returned Olf, with unexpected warmth. “I d’ ’low I do like. I do think it a very good notion, my maid.”

Kitty gave a little unexpected giggle, and continued to polish her doorstep with an immense deal of energy. Olf stood by for a moment in silence. Then to her surprise, and it must be owned, dismay, he turned about and walked slowly away.

If Kitty had been unwilling to turn her head a few moments before, no earthly power would have induced her to glance round at him now; she began to sing blithely and carelessly to herself, and made a great clatter with her pail and scrubbing-brush. Not such a clatter, however, but that after a moment or two she detected the sound of vigorous pumping on the opposite side of the yard, and guessed, from certain subsequent sounds, that Olf was washing his face.

Louder than ever sang Kitty when he presently crossed the yard again and bent over her. But a wave of colour rushed over her downcast face, and even dyed her little white neck. She could hear Olf chuckling, and presently a large finger, moist from recent ablutions, touched her chin.

“Look up a minute, my maid,” said Olf.

Kitty looked up. Olf’s sunburnt face was scarlet from the result of his late exertions, and was imperfectly dried, but it wore so frank and kindly a smile that the little maid smiled back with absolute confidence.

“So we be to start a-coortin’, be we?” inquired Olf pleasantly.

“I d’ ’low we be,” responded Kitty.

“How’s that for a beginnin’, then?” inquired Olf. And thereupon he kissed her.

At this moment Mrs. Inkpen appeared on the threshold, and soon her penetrating tones announced to the household that Olf was at last suited with a bride. A good deal of jesting and laughing ensued--not perhaps altogether good-natured, for in some unaccountable way both Mrs. Inkpen and Annie felt themselves slighted by this sudden transfer of Olf’s affection--but the newly-engaged couple submitted to their raillery with entire good humour, and presently resumed their interrupted vocations as though nothing particular had taken place.

Towards evening, however, Olf found a moment for a word with his little sweetheart.

“I be a-goin’ over to take this ’ere bit of writin’ to the bank to-morrow,” said he. “Maister says ’tis the best thing to do. He says they’ll keep it and give I money when I do want it. I were a-thinkin’, Kitty, I mid make ye a bit of a present--’tis all in the way o’ coortin’, bain’t it? I wonder now what you’d like?”

“Oh!” cried Kitty, her eyes dancing with excitement, “that’s real good o’ ye, Olf. I can’t call to mind as anybody ever gave me a present. I do want a new hat terrible bad.”

“A new hat,” repeated Olf, “that’s easy got. Wouldn’t ye like summat a bit grander--a real handsome present? What would you like best in the world, Kitty?”

“O-o-o-h!” cried Kitty again, and this time her eyes became round with something that was almost awe. “What I’d like best in the whole world, Olf, would be to have a gold watch. I did dream once that I did have a real gold watch o’ my own, and I never, never, never thought that it mid come true. O-o-o-h! if I was to have a gold watch!”

“Say no more, maidie,” exclaimed Olf, with doughty resolution, “you shall have that there gold watch so sure as my name be Olfred Boyt. There now! And you can show it to Annie and Maggie Fry, and they can see for theirselves what they mid ha’ had if they had been willin’ to take me.”

Kitty pouted. “You don’t want to marry them now you be a-goin’ to marry I, do ye?” she inquired pettishly.

“No more I do,” cried Olf, “but they mid ha’ been a bit more civil.”

Kitty agreeing to this statement, harmony was at once restored, and the pair parted with complete satisfaction.