Cottage Folk

								

presently. “It’s by yer door.”
“Thank you,” said she. And then there was silence again.
They walked on thus another couple of hundred yards down the road, and
then turned aside beyond the hop-fields up a steep and shady lane that
was dark in the dusky light. Half way up there was a break in the trees
on one side through which one could see the evening sky beyond the
Scotch firs. Here Martin suddenly stopped and came close up to her.
“Miss,” said he, without any introduction, “I’ve noticed as ye’re short
wi’ me to-night, and I’ve been thinkin’ as p’r’aps ye’ve cause.”
She looked at him now; she had eyes like a startled fawn’s—now brown,
now grey.
“I ain’t been,” she said.
“Yes,” insisted he, “and ye’ve cause. I’ve been courtin’ ye all the
’oppin’, and we don’t get on—and folk talk and vex ye.”
He paused a moment, but she only hung her head.
“But we’ll make it right now, if so be as ye’re willin’,” said he. And
still as she said nothing, he came closer, and tried to put his arm
round her waist.
Then she sprang back, her eyes more than ever startled. She was slender,
but she was strong, and she gave him such a thud in the chest as sent
him reeling against the bank.
“Keep your distance, if you please,” panted she. “I don’t want none o’
that. Ye’ve been hearin’ tales o’ me, and ye’ve thought ... but—well,
there ye’re mistaken.”
He picked up his cap, which had fallen off, and stood with it in his
hand.
“I don’t know what ye mean,” he said, a trifle sullenly. “I ain’t ’eard
no tales of ye. But I’m sorry I angered ye.”
“I ain’t angry,” said she, and she spoke impassively, her sudden fire
quenched as it was born. “Only I don’t want no courtin’.”
“I don’t think ye understand me,” said he, more softly. “I mean
honourable by ye. I want ye to stand up afore the parson wi’ me.”
She gave a start, but she did not look at him, nor did she utter a word.
Behind her head in the gap of the trees the huge arms of the windmill
made a black cross on the luminous sky where the reflections of the
afterglow were fading into a steely blue.
“I don’t want to git married,” said she at last, without lifting her
eyes.
He looked at her in doubt. Then he said as though with a sudden thought:
“It’s you that’s ’eard tales o’ me, I’m thinkin’! But I’m comin’ to
that. I’ve been wed afore, and I’ve a brat—a boy. But I ’oped ye
wouldn’t let that stand in my way.”
She had looked up for a moment, but had as quickly looked away again,
and, after waiting a little, he went on:
“You said just now you’d no ’ome. It ain’t comfortable for a young maid
to ’ave no ’ome, and I’d work to give ye as good a one as most.”
“I don’t want no ’ome,” said she at last, sullenly.
He sighed a little. “It’s the brat ye’re afeard on,” murmured he sadly,