Part 18

A few minutes later a whirlwind-like form burst into the room where Lizzie and Alice Bellamy still lay, wrapped in slumber.

“Get up, ’tis past the time, an’ there’s a deal to be done.”

Lizzie sat up, at first very cross, but recovering good humour as recollection came with increasing consciousness.

“Here, Hannah, wait a bit, what be in sich a stew for?” She poked Alice, who still lay under the blankets, with her elbow. “Have anythin’ strange happened? You do look so queer—an’ I do declare you’ve a-made yourself quite smart.”

“Nonsense, nonsense!” responded Hannah quickly, “What could ha’ happened at this time o’ marnin’? I be in a hurry to get forward wi’ my work, that’s all!”

“Oh, is that all? We slept a bit late, Alice an’ me, along o’ bein’ disturbed by hearin’ a man’s steps i’ the cheese-room late last night; did you chance to hear ’em?”

She poked the sleepy Alice again, and even through her half-closed lids that damsel perceived the conscious expression which overspread poor Hannah’s face. Before they had time, however, to ply her with further queries the latter had fled from the room, and after a vigorous thump or two on the door of the room shared by her fellow milkmaids, and a more respectful summons to the farmer and his wife, went hammering downstairs in her hobnailed boots to begin her work.

“She bain’t a-goin’ to be late at the meetin’ place ye mid be sure!” cried Lizzie, and Alice roused herself sufficiently to chuckle.

The feverish zeal with which Hannah subsequently applied herself to her various duties astonished her mistress, who was wont to consider her unduly slow of a morning. This zeal, however, seemed to be shared by the other occupants of the farmhouse—no one who was in the secret wanted to be late; everyone was determined to arrive at the Little Wood in time to witness the meeting of the unconscious couple. At breakfast-time, therefore, the yard was practically deserted, and the plotters were safely ensconsed behind the thick quickset hedge which bounded the little copse, and commanded a good view of the gap through which the lovers must enter.

“I knowed she’d be first!” cried Lizzie, with a giggle, as Hannah’s square figure came in sight.

“She’ve a-got a red ribbon under her collar,” whispered Alice, “Look how she’ve a-done herself up! She’ve curled her hair I d’ ’low.”

“No, no, her hair curls na’trel. Giles ’ull think hisself in luck,” cried Jem, with a wink. “There, I’ve half a mind to try and cut en out if he don’t turn up soon. She _be_ a vitty maid, jist about!”

“‘The vittiest maid in the whole o’ Darset!’” quoted his neighbour.

Meanwhile Hannah slowly approached, a maidenly shyness checking her too eager feet. It would be more seemly for Giles to be there before her, she had thought, and she had not started till five minutes past eight by the cuckoo clock. He was probably already in the wood, looking at her. She reddened at the thought and tripped in the long grass, recovering herself with an awkward lurch. But there was a bright colour in her cheeks, and a pleasantly expectant light in her eyes, perceiving which, the onlookers nudged each other.

Passing through the gap Hannah gave one quick glance round, and finding that Giles was not there, stood for a moment with a look of blank disappointment, then, as the church clock struck eight she smiled to herself.

“I d’ ’low farm clock be fast,” she remarked aloud, and forthwith, deeming herself to be alone, devoted herself to the improvement of her appearance. She shook out her skirts, took off and retied the bow of red ribbon; passed the loosened locks about her brow round her toil-worn finger, and finally, shading her eyes with her hand, gazed somewhat anxiously in the direction of the village.

“Here he be!” whispered Jem all at once. He had crawled a little way on his stomach in order to obtain a better view.

Hannah, perceiving Giles at the same moment, modestly withdrew from the gap, and sitting down at the foot of a twisted thorn-tree began nervously to pluck and chew the scarcely unfolded leaves of wood sorrel which grew beneath it. The heavy tread drew nearer, and presently Giles’ figure appeared in the gap.

Hannah looked up bashfully, a tentative smile hovering about her lips. Giles smiled too, very broadly, and stood contemplating her so long that the interested waiters craned their heads in the endeavour to ascertain the cause of the silence.

“He be jist a-lookin’ at her,” muttered Alice.

“An’ she be a lookin’ up at he this way,” responded Lizzie, with a leer which was a malicious exaggeration of poor Hannah’s uncertain smile.

“So you be a-settin’ on the ground?” hazarded Giles at last.

He squeezed himself through the gap and came a step nearer. He was a thick-set man, with a broad, good-humoured, stupid face, which was now all creased and puckered with an odd expression that partook as much of anxiety as pleasure.

“Bain’t ye afeared o’ catchin’ cold?” he pursued, illuminated by a sudden idea.

“I’ll get up if you like,” stammered Hannah.

“Nay now,” said Giles, “I don’t know as I would.”

He grinned till his eyes positively disappeared as he lowered himself to the ground beside her.

“How’s that?” he enquired.

Hannah was at a loss to answer, and, after a moment’s pause, he thrust his hand into his pocket and drew out a large hunch of bread and cheese

“Best make the most of our time,” he remarked. “We’m ploughin’ to-day. Hain’t you brought your breakfast?” he asked, pausing in the midst of mastication.

“I didn’t think about breakfast,” faltered Hannah.

“Didn’t ye now?” said Giles.

He looked reflectively at his portion, and then, apparently deciding that there was only enough for one, continued to dispose of it, albeit with an uneasy and apologetic air. The silence that ensued was so long that the onlookers began to exchange glances somewhat blankly. It would be dull if Giles merely ate his breakfast while Hannah sat by—that was an everyday occurrence. Presently, however, Hannah took the initiative.

“Mr Neale,” she said, “did you want to speak to me?”

Giles, with a large lump of bread in his cheek, turned upon her a glance that was half alarmed and half humorous.

“Well, I be come,” he said. “B’ain’t that enough? Deeds an’ not words is my motto.”

“Well, an’ I be come,” said Hannah, with some spirit. “I be come because I did think ye mid ha’ summat to say to I.”

Giles looked at her knowingly, and remarked with a meaning jerk of his head—

“I d’ ’low us do understand each other.”

Hannah, pleased but still uncertain, laughed feebly, and began to pleat the hem of her immaculate white apron.

“I didn’t never expect nobody to be carryin’ on about my bein’ a vitty maid,” she said presently, in a low voice—not so low, however, but that she was overheard by the delighted spies.

“No,” agreed Giles heartily. “Ye wouldn’t be like to expect that—no, sure.”

Hannah was taken aback for the moment, but remembering Giles’ shyness, thought his unwillingness to pursue the complimentary vein which had so much astonished her in his letter, was due to that, and forebore to be offended.

“’Tis true ye must feel yerself by times at a terr’ble loss,” she continued after a pause.

Giles reflected—

“Well, I haven’t got on so bad so far,” he observed. “Nay, I haven’t got on so bad. But I don’t say—” here he gulped down a huge morsel and his natural timidity at the same time. “But I don’t say as I shouldn’t get on better wi’ a ’ooman to do for me. I don’t say as I shouldn’t. I can’t say no fairer than that.”

He paused, and then, with a leer that was distinctly amorous, edged himself a little nearer to her. “Seein’ as some folks as needn’t be mentioned have a-took a fancy to I—”

“Lard, Mr Neale,” interrupted Hannah coyly. “Whatever did put sich a notion into your head?”

Again Giles fixed his twinkling eyes upon her with a glance that was unutterably knowing, and returned—

“Ye wouldn’t be here if ye hadn’t, would ye now?”

Hannah gave an assenting giggle, and Giles, after a moment’s hesitation, put his arm round her waist, repeating exultantly:

“Would ye now? Not that I ever set up to be a handsome man, ye know,” he added more seriously.

“Handsome is as handsome does,” exclaimed Hannah, in so heart-whole a fashion that Giles did not ask himself if the compliment were somewhat left-handed.

“Well, if your ’eart’s mine, that’s enough,” went on Giles, after an interval devoted to conscientious endeavours to recall the exact wording of the portentous letter. “I’m willin’—there, ye have it plain. I’m willin’.”

“Well,” said Hannah, “I’m sure I’m very thankful to ye, Giles. I be proud to think as I be your ch’ice, an’ I’ll do my very best for to make ye comfortable an’ happy.”

Giles, pleasantly conscious that this courtship, unlooked for though it might have been, was progressing on lines that were eminently orthodox and satisfactory, eyed her approvingly for some moments, and then, with a burst of enthusiasm, tightened his grip of her solid waist, and exclaimed—

“I d’ ’low I be ’appy an’ comfortable now.”

During the subsequent pause Jem Frisby thrust his sunburnt face between the catkin-tipped willow saplings which protruded from his corner of the hedge, and almost choked with laughter as he announced—

“They be a-kissin’ of each other!”

The middle-aged lovers sat on for some time in extreme enjoyment of the situation. The spring sunshine fell across their knees and their sturdy clasped hands; the birds sang over their heads, the twisted boughs of the old thorn waved in the light breeze, the leaf-buds, already green though not yet unfolded, flashing like jewels in the light. The bank beneath the hedge was gay with celandines, and the air was sweet with the scent of primroses, with which the place was carpeted, though few of the flowers were yet in full bloom.

Giles and Hannah were scarcely conscious of their surroundings, yet in some indefinite way these added to their blissful state. Just as Giles, with that twinkle in his eyes which heralded, as Hannah had perceived, some particularly ardent speech, had nudged her meaningly and enquired “What about bein’ called home,” the church clock struck nine, and at the same time the blare of the brewery “whooter” fell upon their ears. Simultaneously with these sounds, others, even more discordant than the hooter startled the pair, who scrambled to their feet in time to see a row of gesticulating figures surmounted by grinning faces, spring up from behind the hedge, which they had believed to shelter them.

“April fools, haw, haw!” . . . “I d’ ’low ye be a proper pair on ’em!”

“April fool, Hannah! Giles, ye be an April fool!”

“We took in the pair o’ ye nicely!”

This was the chorus which greeted their bewildered ears, interspersed with shouts of laughter, while fingers were pointed and heads were shaken waggishly. Giles was the first to recover his self-possession.

“What be the meanin’ o’ this?” he enquired angrily. “It’s too bad if a man can’t step out to have a quiet word wi’ a ’ooman!”

“More particular when the ’ooman’s took sich a mortal fancy to ’en!” interpolated Lizzie, holding her sides.

“Yes,” cried Alice, quick to take up her cue. “Why, Hannah’s heart have a-been yours two year an’ more. I’m sure I don’t wonder at it,” she added, “Sich a ’andsome man as you be.”

“Who’s been a-tellin’ ye about that?” growled Giles, turning very red.

“Ask Hannah!” ejaculated Lizzie, in a voice that was scarcely articulate for laughter. “Ask the vittiest maid in the whole o’ Darset.”

“Giles,” exclaimed Hannah tremulously, “somebody must ha’ read your letter to me.”

The jeers and laughter redoubled, and Jem exclaimed triumphantly—

“Somebody read it, an’ somebody wrote it!”

“Wasn’t it Giles?” faltered Hannah, turning pale beneath her tan, and beginning to tremble violently. Some instinct of womanly compassion suddenly sobered Alice. Pushing through the hedge she made her way to Hannah’s side.

“’Twas but a joke, my dear,” she explained somewhat shamefacedly. “There, ’tis the first of April, ye see, an’ we jist thought we’d play ye a bit of trick. ’Twas made up jist for fun. We wrote Giles a letter in your name asking him to meet ye here an’ sayin’—sayin’—”

“What did ye say?” interrupted Hannah, the colour rushing back to her shamed, distressed face. “Oh, Mr Neale, you thought it was me. I’d never ha’ wrote no letter, I’d never ha’ been so bold. I—I wouldn’t ha’ come here wi’out I thought ’twas you as axed me. I had a letter this marnin’ signed in your name. I thought ’twas from you—I thought—” Breaking off suddenly she raised her apron to her eyes.

Giles made a step towards her, pushed Alice roughly on one side, and jerked the apron down.

“Give over cryin’,” he exclaimed gruffly. “Let’s get at the rights o’ this. I must have a look at that there letter—give it to me.”

“Oh, I’d never have the face,” Hannah was beginning when he silenced her with the reiterated command in a raised voice—

“Give it to me, I say! I’ll ha’ the rights o’ this—dalled if I don’t!”

Very reluctantly Hannah drew the fateful missive from her bosom, a suppressed titter once more breaking the silence which had reigned since the jest had threatened to take a serious turn. Giles unfolded the letter, read it slowly, and then, with an impassive face, handed it back to its original recipient.

“You can keep it,” he remarked. “It’s my letter right enough.”

“Well, that is a good ’un!” exclaimed the irrepressible Jem.

Giles glowered round at him.

“It’s my letter,” he repeated doggedly. “It’s my name what’s signed at the end, an’ every word what’s in it be mine.”

“Giles!” exclaimed Hannah, almost inarticulately. Giles turned majestically towards her.

“It’s right, I tell ’ee,” he said firmly. “I’m not a great hand at letter-writin’, an’ as like as not if I’d ha’ tried for to put down what be in my mind I shouldn’t ha’ done it so clever. I’m much obliged to you, neighbours,” he added, raising his voice, and looking triumphantly round at the astonished faces. Then, with a sudden shout of laughter he exclaimed—

“Who’s April fools now?”

“Well, there, I’ll say you have the best o’ it, Giles,” said somebody good-humouredly. “I be right down glad the matter be going to end this way.”

“Thank ye,” said Giles.

“We be to wish ye j’y, be we?” said Lizzie, with a scarcely perceptible toss of her head.

“I d’ ’low ye be,” he affirmed gravely.

“Well, I be pure glad, Hannah, my dear, I’m sure,” said Alice, smiling doubtfully at Hannah as she backed through the hedge.

Hannah made no response; she, too, was looking doubtful, almost piteous, as she gazed at Giles’ unmoved countenance.

The company filed away, feeling somewhat flat; the joke had unaccountably missed fire. Jem, who was the last to pass through the gap, made a final attempt to put Giles out of countenance.

“’Tis easy seen you be a man o’ taste, Giles,” he called out. “She be the vittiest maid in the whole o’ Darset, bain’t she?”

“She be,” assented Giles with fervour, “jist about.”

He strode towards the hedge, and stood watching the somewhat depressed-looking little procession which filed across the field. When it had disappeared behind the big hayrick at the corner, he turned to Hannah. She had again thrown her apron over her head, and was weeping behind it. He went towards her and pulled it down—very gently this time.

“We have the best of it, I think,” he observed.

“Oh, Giles,” sobbed she. “You must think—oh, I don’t know what you must think!”

“I do think what’s wrote in my letter,” said Giles.

“Nay now, you couldn’t,” said Hannah, but there was an unconscious appeal in her voice. “You couldn’t ever think I was a vitty maid.”

“Well, don’t you think I be a ’andsome man, my dear?” cried Giles, advancing, his broad face beaming with good-humoured smiles towards her.

“I do, indeed I do,” cried Hannah with eager enthusiasm. “There, I do think ye be the handsomest and nicest man ever I did see. Handsome is as handsome does. An’ I d’ ’low you’ve acted handsome.”

“Well, if you think so, I’m satisfied,” responded Giles; then, after a pause, he added with his most knowing twinkle—

“Since we agree so well I d’ ’low we mid jist so well fall over pulpit at once.”

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