Cottage Folk

								

shaking his head.
“No it ain’t then,” cried she quickly, almost fiercely. “I could love
a brat well enough.” She stopped short, and if he could have
distinguished her face in the dark he would have seen it flush hot and
red. But he could not, and she moved away from him—moved away, but came
back again. “There,” she said half surlily, “ye’ve got to know, and I’d
as lief tell ye myself. I’ve ’ad a brat o’ my own,” and she looked away
quickly.
For a moment he did not answer, then he seized her wrist roughly. “What,
you’re married then?” he muttered. “Well, ’pon my word, I think ye might
ha’ told a man when ye see’d as ’e were sweet on ye.”
She snatched her hand away. “I’m not married,” she cried roughly.
There was silence, but as he did not speak, she had to go on.
“I think ye might make shift to see,” said she angrily. “O’ course a
girl don’t want to go a-talkin’ of it.” She caught her breath, but added
quickly in the same tone as before: “For ye could ha’ knowed I shouldn’t
be such a cheat as not to tell—when ye was goin’ to be’ave honourable to
me.”
He stood there full half a minute, gazing at her as one dazed. Then he
muttered: “How was I to guess?” and dropped his eyes.
He could hear her breathing hard, but she said no more, and after a
while he asked suddenly:
“Where is ’e? ’Ave ’e deserted ye—the sc——”
She interrupted him. “’E’s dead,” she said quickly. And then she added,
half whimpering: “’E said ’e would ha’ wed me, and p’r’aps ’e would.
Anyways it’s too late now.”
“And the brat?” asked he in a dull voice.
She moved her head restlessly, looking out to the rosy west. Then
dropping her voice to a whisper, she murmured softly:
“It’s dead too.”
He was awed involuntarily and answered nothing. He did not even dare
look at her face, but he could see by the rise and fall of her shoulders
that she was crying.
“Them as know I bore ’im,” she continued presently in an excited way,
“they say as I ought to thank my stars ’e’s dead and buried and can’t
tell no tales. That’s all they knows about it. They didn’t never lose
a child, them folk didn’t! What if ’e ’ad ha’ told tales o’ my shame?
I’d ha’ put up with that, and willing, so as I’d ’ad ’im to work for.”
She choked down a sob, and wiped her eyes with the hem of her skirt.
“I’m sorry for ye, I’m sure,” said he drearily.
“Oh, ’e were a pretty babe, Mr. Martin,” continued she, forgetful for
the moment of all but the memories that this seeming touch of sympathy
had awakened, and she turned to him with sweet and simple confidence.
“Just the prettiest ye ever seed! He might ha’ been a lady’s, so white
he were! I done all I could to save ’im, but it weren’t a bit o’ use.