But Wimpenny was not to be rallied into good humour. He had put on a very tight-fitting pair of patent-leather shoes, and he suffered from the usual infliction of those who wear tight boots,—and Tom had grazed his foot.
“Mr. Pinder! indeed,” he thought, “why, damme, it’s one of old Tinker’s mill hands.”
Now Tom, having made his apologies to Dorothy, was for pursuing the tenor of his way, being by no means disposed to offer any to Mr. Wimpenny.
“Oh, you mustn’t go, Mr. Pinder, you must take me to Lucy; but first you must help me to gather some flowers. You know Paris so well, Mr. Wimpenny, and must excuse my accent. Shall I say Au revoir or A bientôt, and without waiting for a reply she turned in the direction of the garden at the house, Leaving Nehemiah dumbfounded.
“Curse the jade,” he muttered to himself, “chucked over for a dirty weaver, by Jove. But I’ll be even with her yet. It doesn’t do to play tricks with Miss Dorothy, and so you’ll find some day. But I can bide my time. I’ll go and have a drink at the Crown, Polly ’ll be glad to see me anyhow.”
And Tom walked as in a dream. The sky was blue again, and the lark trilled a clearer note, and all the earth was glad in its summer joyousness.
CHAPTER X
IT is one thing for a maiden to invite a young man to a garden, and quite another to know what to do with him when she gets him there. It would have puzzled Dorothy to say exactly why she had asked Tom Pinder to help her cull flowers. The ostensible pretext given had been the gathering of a bouquet for Lucy; but we all know that a woman’s ostensible pretexts are—well, ostensible pretexts. For one thing Dorothy had had enough of Nehemiah Wimpenny, and wanted to be decently free of him for the rest of the day. She had wearied of the mild pleasure of poking fun at his French. But in truth Dorothy had acted from impulse and regretted her words all the more when she saw the sudden light of glad surprise that sprung to Tom’s dark eyes. But there is safety in numbers, reflected Dorothy. The back door of the house was not locked. Dorothy looked into the kitchen, into the parlour,—neither Betty nor Peggy was there. She called their names at the bottom of the staircase, whilst Tom bided in the garden, but there was no answering cry from Betty or from Peggy, those handmaidens having very properly conceived that Whitsuntide comes alike for bond and free, and betaken themselves, in gay attire, to the delights of the field. Peggy, at this moment, indeed, was flying, with fleet foot, from the outstretched arms of an amorous young butcher, who ’livered the daily joint at Wilberlee, and the staider Betty was listening with all too ready ears to the somewhat halting wooing of the village constable, who, even in plain clothes, was still a proper man and had, perhaps, a prophetic vision of a village-inn with himself as keeper of order and the purse-strings, and Betty as buxom but bustling hostess.
“It is very tiresome,” said Dorothy, as she returned to the garden where Tom was pretending to be wrapt in the contemplation of the beauties of a Gloire de Dijon, “I did so want a cup of tea, but Betty and Peggy have played me truant. Don’t you think, Mr. Pinder, you had better go find them, and say I want one of them, no matter which, very particularly.”
But Tom had taken possession of the handbasket and the scissors, and was oblivious to hints.