Chapter IV: Part 4

William gazed at her with a more rueful face than she had ever yet beheld in him.

“Dear now! don’t you take on,” urged Martha. “I thought, d’ye see, I’d just pop up to London for a few days by myself, an’ you can stop an’ mind the house, an’ maybe some time in the winter we mid both on us take a few days together somewhere.”

William gazed at her reproachfully.

“Ye didn’t ought to want to go a-pleasurin’ wi’out I,” said he.

“No more I would, my dear,” returned his future better-half, “if it could be helped. But ’twas yourself as named the day, an’ if ye won’t have it put off----”

The carpenter, with a vigorous shake of the head, intimated that he certainly would not have it put off.

“Well, then,” summed up Martha triumphantly, “ye must agree to let me have a bit o’ honeymoon. ’Tis what every bride expects, an’ ’tis the one thought what have kept my heart up all these years. I’ve always promised myself this holiday afore I settled down to wedded life.”

William stared at her gloomily, but made no further opposition; and she informed him in a cheerful tone that he need not fear her staying away too long.

“We’ll have the weddin’ o’ Monday mornin’,” said she, “quite private-like. The neighbours all know we can’t have a great set-out here, on account o’ poor father. An’ you can carry my bag to the station directly we leave church, an’ I’ll be back again Saturday night, so as we can go to church together Sunday mornin’. Will that do ye?”

“’Twill have to do me, I s’pose,” returned William, still with profound melancholy.

“’Tis by your own wish, ye know,” said the bride; “if you hadn’t held out for us to be married all in such a hurry, I’m sure I should have been glad for us to take our honeymoon together, my dear. But ye can’t have everythin’ in this world.”

“No,” agreed Faithfull, with a groan; “no, that ye can’t. ’Twould ha’ been more nat’ral-like to go on our honeymoon together; but what must be, must be.”

On the Monday morning the much-discussed wedding took place; bride and bridegroom were alike clad in new and glossy black, Martha’s blushing countenance being scarcely visible beneath her crape “fall”.

The villagers were all much impressed; there is nothing indeed that the rustic mind so thoroughly appreciates as the panoply of woe, and to find this mourning ceremonial united with marriage pomp was felt to be a rare privilege, and, as such, productive of sincere admiration.

When the wedded pair left church, their friends and neighbours hastened to offer congratulations, attuned to a becoming note of dismalness, which intimated that condolence lay behind; and it was a rude shock for all when William was suddenly hailed in a tone of most discordant cheerfulness. A tall, black-eyed woman had suddenly rushed forward and seized him by the hand.

“There, now! So I wasn’t in time after all! I made sure I’d get here soon enough to see the weddin’. I did always say I’d come to your weddin’, didn’t I, William? I thought it very unkind of ye not to ax me.”

“’Twas very private-like, d’ye see, Sabina,” said William, who had been energetically pumping her hand up and down. “Martha, here--I mean Miss Jesty, no, I mean Mrs. Faithfull--she did want it private, along of her father being dead.”

“Have ye been a-buryin’ of en to-day?” interrupted the newcomer with an awe-struck glance at his sable garb. “No, no--of course not. But why did ye go for to get married in deep?”

“My ’usband,” said Martha repressively, “thought it but right to show respect to them that’s gone, Mrs. Gully--I think ye said your cousin’s name was Gully, William; I s’pose this is your cousin?”

“’E-es, to be sure,” agreed the owner of that name, cheerfully. “Half-cousin, if ye like it better--our mothers was two brothers’ daughters.”

“Indeed,” said Martha stiffly. “I must wish ’ee good-day now, for William an’ me be in a hurry to catch train.”

Mrs. Gully’s jaw dropped, but the carpenter, after hastily explaining that they weren’t having any party along of the mourning, invited her to come home and take a bite o’ summat with him and his wife before they went to the station.

A frown from Martha intimated that she considered this hospitality ill-timed, but William stuck to his point, and they all three turned their steps together towards the Pure Drop.

“I think I’ll hurry on an’ change my dress,” remarked Martha, after stalking on for some moments in silence.

She was not going to travel in her best black and get the crape all messed about with dust.

“Don’t mind me, William, my dear,” said Sabina, when the bride had left them. “If you’re wanting to change your deep, ye’d best hurry on, too, maybe.”

“I’ve no need to change my suit,” returned William sorrowfully. “I bain’t a-goin’ on the honeymoon.”

“What!” cried the widow, in astonishment. “She’s never goin’ to leave ye on your weddin’ day?”

“She be,” said Mr. Faithfull slowly. “It do seem a bit hard, but we couldn’t both on us leave the house, an’ she haven’t a-had a holiday for twenty year. Ye see, it fell out this way--”

And he proceeded to explain the circumstances, already related, on which Mrs. Gully animadverted with much warmth.

They were still discussing the matter when Martha rejoined them in the private room of the Pure Drop, where a slight refection had been set forth.

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.

Next day Olf duly conferred with his banker, and in an extremely bad hand, and with difficulty, accomplished the writing of his first cheque. It was for £5--a sum of money which he had never in all his life hoped to possess at one time. In fact, he was more elated at the sight of the five golden sovereigns than he had been in contemplating his thousand pound bond. He expended a certain portion of this new wealth on his own personal adornment--having his hair cut at a barber’s for the first time in his existence, and investing in a new suit of clothes, the pattern being a check of a somewhat startling description. He also purchased a hat for Kitty with a wreath of blue flowers, supplemented, at his particular request, by a white feather.

“We do not generally use feathers with flowers,” expostulated the shopwoman.

Olf considered. “I think I will have the feather all the same,” said he; “feathers is more richer-like.”

“I did not want for to grudge ye nothin’, ye see,” he subsequently explained to Kitty, “and this ’ere is the gold watch.”

Kitty positively gasped with rapture. It was a very fine watch certainly, extremely yellow, and with a little diapered pattern on the case.

“It cost thirty-five shillin’,” explained Olf, with modest triumph. “’Tis rolled gold, so you may think how good that must be.”

Kitty gasped again. Farmer Inkpen possessed a gold watch of turnip shape and immense weight, but she felt quite sure it was not rolled gold, and in consequence a highly inferior article. She turned towards Olf with a sudden movement and clasped both her little hands about his arm--“I do like ye, Olf,” she said, “I do. I do think ye be the kindest man that ever was made. I’ll work for ye so hard as I can when I be your missus.”

There being no reason to delay the wedding, preparations were made at once for that auspicious event. On the following Sunday the banns were put up; Kitty and Olf paid several visits to the upholsterer’s in the neighbouring town and selected sundry articles of furniture, Olf giving orders right and left in a lordly fashion which quite dazzled his future bride. Farmer Inkpen made inquiries with regard to a certain farm which he thought might possibly suit his former assistant, and was moreover good enough to promise help and advice in the selection of stock. All, in fact, was proceeding merrily as that marriage bell which they both so soon expected to hear, when there came of a sudden a bolt from the blue. The manager of the local bank sent a peremptory message one evening to Olf requesting, or rather ordering, him to call without delay.

The poor fellow obeyed the summons without alarm, without even the faintest suspicion that anything was wrong, and it was indeed with great difficulty that the manager conveyed to him the astounding fact that the precious bond, which was to have been the foundation of his fortune, was so much waste paper; the prize-drawing had been a swindling concern, and the thousand pound prize did not exist.

“But I thought you told I that ’ere bit o’ paper _was_ a thousand pound,” expostulated Olf, when for the fortieth time the manager had explained the state of the case.

“That bit of paper represented a thousand pounds,” returned that gentleman, with diminishing patience, “but when we came to collect it, the money wasn’t there.”

Olf scratched his head and looked at him. “And what be I to do now?” he inquired.

“Why, nothing, I am afraid. I don’t suppose you would be able to prosecute, and even if you had the money to carry on your case, it would not do you much good to get those swindlers punished. You will just have to grin and bear it, my poor fellow. We will give you time you know--we won’t be hard with you.”

“Time?” ejaculated Olf, staring at him blankly.

“Yes. We have let you have £5 on account you know. That will have to be paid back, of course, but we won’t press you. You can let us have it little by little.”

“Oh!” said Olf, “thank ye,” and he went out, absently stroking the check sleeve of the beautiful new suit which had cost him so dear.

He shambled back to the farm and paused by the gate, across which Mr. Inkpen was leaning.

“Hullo, Olf, back again?”

“’E-es,” said Olf, “I be back again, maister. Ye bain’t suited yet, be ye?”

“Not yet,” said the farmer, “but ye can’t be married afore another fortnight, can ye? I s’pose you’ll lend me a hand until you shift?”

“I bain’t a-goin’ to shift. I bain’t a-goin’ to get wed, I bain’t--” He paused, his lip trembling for a moment piteously like a child’s. “It is all a mistake, maister--there bain’t no money there.”

“Dear to be sure,” cried Farmer Inkpen.

Olf stood gazing at him. There was a dimness about his eyes, and he bit his lips to stop their quivering.

Mr. Inkpen’s loud exclamation caused the women-folk to appear on the scene, and in a moment the entire household was assembled and plying Olf with questions.

“There is nothin’ more to tell ye,” he said at last. “’Tis a mistake. There bain’t no money there--I can’t take no farm. I must ax the folk o’ the shop to keep that ’ere furniture and things--I haven’t made no fortun’, I be just the same as I was ’afore, ’cept as I have a-got to pay back a matter of £5 to the bank.”

Little Kitty stood by, growing red and pale in turn, and fingering the watch in her waistband. All at once she gave a loud sob and rushed away.

“Ah! she be like to feel it,” said the farmer, whose heart was perhaps more tender than that of his wife or daughter. “She’ll feel it, poor little maid. Sich a chance for her--and now to go back to her scrubbin’ and cleanin’ just the same as ’afore.”

Olf heaved a deep sigh. “Well,” he said, “I’ll go home and take off these ’ere clothes, and I’ll come back and finish my work, maister.”

He then turned away, a very low-spirited and drooping figure, his shoulders round under that astonishing plaid, his head sunk almost on to his chest. After a little more talk the family separated, Mrs. Inkpen feeling some irritation on discovering that Kitty was nowhere to be found.

“She’s run off to cry,” said Annie. “However, don’t ye take no notice of her for this once, mother; ’tis but natural she should be a bit down, poor little maid.”

Olf had finished his work and was going dejectedly homewards that night when, in the narrow lane which led from the farm towards the village, he was waylaid by a well-known figure. It was Kitty. Her eyes were filled with tears, her face very pale, yet nevertheless there was a note of triumph in her voice.

“I’ve been to the town, Olf,” she cried. “I didn’t want ye to be at a loss through me, and the folks was kind. They took back the watch all right and gave me the thirty-five shillin’ for it. They wouldn’t take back the hat at the shop where you got it, along ’o my wearin’ it you know. They did tell me of a place where they buy second-hand things, and they gave me seven shillin’ for it there. So that won’t be so bad will it? You can pay that much to the bank straight off.”

Olf looked at her dejectedly. “There, my maid,” cried he. “I wish ye hadn’t done that. I could wish ye had kept them two things what I did give ye--’twas all I could do for ye. We can never do all we’d like to do now.”

Kitty sobbed.

“I take it very kind o’ ye to be so feelin’,” said Olf. “I could wish we could have got wed, my maid. I’d ha’ been a lovin’ husband, and I d’ ’low you’d ha’ been a lovin’ wife.”

“I would,” sobbed Kitty.

“But there, ’tis all over, bain’t it? I be nothin’ but a poor chap earnin’ of a poor wage. You be a vitty maid too good for the likes o’ me. I’ll never have a wife now.”

“I don’t see that,” said Kitty, in a low voice. She was hanging her head and drawing patterns with the point of her shoe in the sandy soil.

Olf stared at her, and then repeated his statement. “A poor man earnin’ of a poor wage, Kitty. I’ll never have a wife.”

“Why not?” said Kitty, almost inarticulately. “Many poor men get wed, Olf.”

Olf caught his breath with a gasp. “Kitty,” he cried, “Kitty, do ye mean you’d take me now wi’out no fortun’, and just as I be? You’d never take me now, Kitty?”

“I would,” said Kitty, and she hid her face on his patched shoulder and burst into tears.

“Then I don’t care about nothin’,” cried Olf valiantly. “If you would really like it, Kitty, say no more.”

“I would,” said Kitty again. And then raising her head, she smiled at him through her tears. “But don’t tell nobody I axed ye,” said she.

IN THE HEART OF THE GREEN.

When the new keeper and his wife took possession of their cottage, deep in the heart of Westbury Chase, summer was still at its height. Jim Whittle’s real responsibilities had not yet begun--a little breathing space was, as it were, allotted to the young couple before settling thoroughly into harness. So Betty thought at least, though Jim frequently reminded her that summer was as anxious a time as any other for a man in his position.

“What with folks expectin’ the young birds to be nigh full-growed afore they was much more than hatched out; and what wi’ the fear of there being too much wet, or too much sun, and varmint an’ sich-like, I can tell ye, Betty,” said he, “I’m as anxious in summer as in winter, very near.”

Nevertheless, he found time to do many little odd jobs for her which he could not have accomplished in the shooting season: knocking together shelves, digging in the garden, chopping up the store of wood which she herself collected as she strolled out in her spare hours. Betty was as happy as a bird in those days. Their new home had been put in order before their advent, and was spick and span from roof to threshold; the fresh thatch glinted bravely through the heavy summer foliage; the flowers in the little garden made patches of bright colour amid the surrounding green. Betty herself in her print dress and with her hair shining like polished gold, Betty carrying her six-months-old child poised on her round arm, was an almost startling figure to those who came upon her suddenly in the leafy aisles about her home. Brown and grey and fawn and russet are the tones chiefly affected by forest people; yet here were the mother and child, wood creatures both of them, flaunting it in their pinks and yellows before autumn had so much as crimsoned a leaf.

What wonder that the shy folk in fur or feather peered at them with round astonished eyes, ere scuttling to cover or taking to flight.

Dick Tuffin, the woodman, looked up in surprise from the faggot he had just bound together, when Betty and her baby-boy came towards him one sunny morning from one of the many shadowy avenues which abutted on a glade cleared by his own hands. As she advanced, he sat back upon his heels amid the slender sappy victims of his axe, and frankly stared at her.

He was a young man, dark as a gipsy, muscular and lithe, with quick-glancing eyes and a flashing smile.

“Good-day,” said Betty, pausing civilly.

“Good-day to you, Mum. I d’ ’low you be new keeper’s wife?”

“Yes, I am Mrs. Whittle,” said Betty. “Are you cutting down my husband’s woods?” she added, smiling.

“Ah! your husband’s woods ’ud not be in sich good order as they do be if it wasn’t for I an’ sich as I,” returned the man. “I do cut down a piece reg’lar every year, an’ then the young growth comes, d’ye see, twice so thick as before, so that the game can find so much shelter as they do like.”

“And what are you going to do with all these poor little trees?” inquired Betty. “They are too green for firewood, aren’t they?”

“Well,” said Dick, with his infectious smile, “I make hurdles wi’ ’em for one thing, an’ some of ’em goes for pea-sticks, an’ others is made into besoms. They mid be green,” he added reflectively, “but folks do come here often enough a-pickin’ up scroff for burnin’.”

Here the child on Betty’s arm began to whimper, and she nodded to it and dandled it, her own person keeping up a swaying, dancing movement the while.

Dick Tuffin watched her, at first with a smile; but presently his face clouded.

“You have a better time of it, Mrs. Whittle,” said he, “nor my poor little ’ooman at home. You do see your husband so often as you like; but there, I must bide away from home for weeks and months at a time. I mid almost say I haven’t got a home; and Mary, she mid say she haven’t got a husband.”

“How’s that?” inquired Betty, pausing, with the now laughing child suspended in mid-air, to turn her astonished face upon him.

“My place is nigh upon fifteen mile away from here. I go travellin’ the country round, cuttin’ the woods and makin’ hurdles; an’ ’tis too far to get back except for a little spell now and then. I didn’t think o’ wedlock when I took up the work, an’ now I d’ ’low I wouldn’t care to turn to any other. But ’tis hard on the ’ooman.”

“She oughtn’t to let you do it!” cried the keeper’s wife firmly. “Ha’ done, Jim; ha’ done, thou naughty boy! I’ll throw thee over the trees in a minute!”

The child had clutched at her golden locks, pulling one strand loose; she caught at the chubby hand, made believe to slap it, and then kissed the little pink palm half a dozen times.

“Your wife ought to make you get your livin’ some other way,” she added seriously.

“It couldn’t be done now,” said the woodman. “I have done nothin’ but fell trees an’ plesh hurdles since I was quite a little ’un. I couldn’t do naught else,” he added somewhat dreamily; “I fancy I couldn’t bide anywhere except in a wood.”

“Well, ’tis a fine life,” said she, willing to say something civil.

“Yes, pleasant enough,” he agreed. “If I could tole my missus about I’d never complain; but, there! it can’t be done.”

He tossed the faggot on one side, and began to collect materials for another. Betty noticed a great rent in his fustian waistcoat, and, commenting upon the fact, volunteered to mend it.

“’Tis awkward for ye having no one to sew for ye,” she added, as Dick gratefully divested himself of the garment in question.

“’Tis that,” agreed Tuffin. “I do move about so often the folks where I lodge do never seem to take a bit of interest in I. My wife, she do fair cry at times when she do see the state my things be in. Come, I’ll hold the youngster for ye, Mum.”

“Oh, he’ll be all right on the soft grass here!”

“Nay, I’d like to hold ’en if ye’ll let me. I want to get my hand in, d’ye see. There’ll be a little un at our place very soon.”

“I do call it unfeelin’ of ye to leave your wife alone at such a time,” remarked Betty reprovingly.

“Her mother’s wi’ her,” returned Dick. “I’ll go home for a bit in a fortnight or so, but I must be back in October.”

He chirruped to the child, swinging him high in the air, till Baby Jim crowed and laughed again. Soon Mrs. Whittle’s task was accomplished, and she handed back the waistcoat to its owner, receiving his profuse thanks in return. As she walked away through the chequered light and shade Dick looked after her.

“Some folks is luckier nor others,” he said. “Keeper can live in the woods and have wife and child anigh him, too; but I, if I be to live at all, must live alone.”

Then he thought of the little brown wife in that far-away village, and wondered with a sudden tightening of the heart-strings how she was getting on; but presently he whistled again, in time to the rhythmic strokes of his axe, as he pointed the sowels for his next lot of hurdles.

On the following morning when Betty was sweeping out her house a shadow fell across the threshold, and, looking up, she descried the woodman.

“I’ve brought ye a new besom,” said he, with a somewhat shamefaced smile. “One good turn do deserve another, Mrs. Whittle.”

“Thank ye kindly, I’m sure,” returned Betty, with a bright smile. “I never thought of your making any return for the few stitches I set for ye. The besom is a beauty, Mr. Tuffin.”

“Glad ye like it,” said Dick, turning to take his leave.

“If ye’ve any other bits o’ mending, Mr. Tuffin,” Betty called after him, “I’d be pleased to do ’em for ye.”

“Nay, now, I don’t like puttin’ too much on your good nature, Mrs. Whittle,” said Dick, glancing over his shoulder with a sheepish smile.

But the keeper’s wife insisted; and presently Dick confessed that there were a good few socks lying by at his lodgings in sore need of repair.

On the morrow he brought them, with the addition of a large basket of “scroff,” or chips, for firing.

Keeper Jim was much amused at this exchange of civilities; but was so far moved with compassion for Tuffin’s lonely wife that he contributed a couple of nice young rabbits to the little packet of comforts which Betty sent her when Dick went home for his brief holiday; and he was both touched and gratified when little Mrs. Tuffin sent a return tribute of new-laid eggs and fresh vegetables to the woman who had befriended her Dick.

Autumn came, scarcely perceptible at first in this sheltered spot; little drifts of yellow leaves strewed Betty’s threshold of a morning; there was a brave show of berries amid the undergrowth; maple bushes lit cool fires here and there; and travellers’ joy and bryony flung silver-spangled tendrils or jewelled chains across a tangle of orange and crimson and brown. The delicate tracery of twigs, the gnarled strength of boughs, became ever more perceptible as the leafage thinned; Jim could see more of the thatch of his house as he tramped homewards, and could mark through the jagged outline of the naked boughs how the blue smoke-wreaths blew hither and thither as they issued from his chimney.

There was a growing sense of excitement in the woods; their silence was often broken by startled cries and the whirring of great wings. Soon the glades would echo to the sound of the beaters’ sticks; dry twigs would crack beneath the sportsmen’s feet; shots would wake the slumbering echoes; and then a cart would come and bear away the rigid bodies erstwhile so blithe. Betty almost cried as she thought of the fate that awaited the pretty birds which she had so often fed with her own hand and which the baby had loved to watch; but Jim chid her when she said she hoped many of them would escape.

“Tell ’ee what,” he remarked sternly, “if the gentry don’t find more pheasants nor in the wold chap’s time they’ll say I bain’t worth my salt. There, what be making such a fuss about? ’Tis what they be brought up for. D’ye think folks ’ud want to be watchin’ ’em an’ feedin’ ’em an’ lookin’ arter ’em always if ’twasn’t that they mid get shot in the end? They must die some way, d’ye see; and I d’ ’low if ye was to ax ’em, they pheasants ’ud liefer come rocketin’ down wi’ a dose o’ lead in their innards nor die natural-like by freezin’ or starvin’ or weasels or sich.”

Jim grew more and more enthusiastic as the time drew nearer for the big shoot, which was, as he expected, to establish his reputation. This was not to take place till late in November, so as to allow time for the trees to be fully denuded of their leaves. The keeper often talked darkly of the iniquities of certain village ne’er-do-weels, who, according to him, thought no more of snaring a rabbit than of lying down in their beds.

“If they only kept to rabbits,” he added once, “it wouldn’t be so bad; but when those chaps gets a footin’ in these woods there’s no knowin’ where they’ll stop. But they’ll find I ready for them. They’ll find I bain’t so easy to deal wi’ as wold Jenkins.”

“Dear, to be sure, Jim, I wish you wouldn’t talk so!” said Betty. “You make me go all of a tremble! I shall be afeard to stop here by myself when you’re away on your beat if you ’fray me wi’ such tales. I don’t like to think there’s poachin’ folk about.”

“There, they’d never want to do nothin’ to a woman,” said Jim consolingly; “’tis the game they’re arter. They’ll not come anigh the house, bless ye!”

“Well, but I don’t like to think they mid go fightin’ you,” she whimpered.

Jim bestowed a sounding kiss on her smooth cheek.

“Don’t ye fret yoursel’,” he cried; “they’ll run away fast enough when they do see I comin’. Why, what a little foolish ’ooman thou be’est! There, give over cryin’. I didn’t ought to ha’ talked about such things.”

Betty’s pretty eyes were still somewhat pink, however, as she came strolling into Dick’s quarters that afternoon; and her lip drooped when in answer to his questions she divulged the cause.

“Afeard o’ poachers!” exclaimed the woodman, with a laugh. “Bless ye, Mrs. Whittle, poachers bain’t no worse nor other folks! Dalled if I can see much harm in a man catchin’ a rabbit or two when there’s such a-many of ’em about! The place be fair swarmin’ wi’ ’em o’ nights.”

Betty was much shocked; and returned reprovingly that it couldn’t ever be right to steal. “And poachin’ is but stealin’,” she summed up severely.

“Stealin’!” echoed Dick; “nay, ye’ll never make me believe that. I d’ ’low the Lard did make they little wild things for the poor so well as for the rich. Pheasants, now,” he continued, ruminating, “I won’t say as any one has a right to take pheasants except the man what owns the woods. I’d as soon rob a hen-roost, for my part, as go arter one o’ they fat tame things as mid be chicken for all the spirit what’s in ’em. I’d never ax to interfere wi’ a pheasant,” he continued reflectively, “wi’out it was jist for the fun o’ the thing. But settin’ a gin or two--wi’ all these hundreds and thousands o’ rabbits runnin’ under a body’s feet--ye’ll never make me think there’s a bit o’ harm in it.”

“Don’t let my husband hear such talk!” said Betty loftily.

The woodman laughed again. “I wouldn’t mind speakin’ out plain to his face,” said he. “Him and me is the best o’ friends--I do like en very well,” continued Dick handsomely; “better nor I ever thought to like a gamekeeper. As a rule, I don’t hold with folks what goes spyin’ about, a-tryin’ to catch other folks in the wrong. I never could a-bear a policeman, now--’tis my belief they do more harm than good.”

“Gracious!” ejaculated the scandalised Betty. “I don’t know how you can go for to say such things.”