Part 8

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!”