Julia knew well enough. Tom Raybould was a young farmer, a year or two older than herself. She had known him all her life, and he had been a schoolfellow and chosen chum of her brother’s. He had shown unmistakable signs of affection for her, but had never spoken. He was a good fellow, according to common report, and she had a good deal of liking and respect for him, and a little pity, being a good girl, and no coquette.
‘I see thee understandest,’ said Samson. ‘I told th’ ode man as he might look on it as settled, an’ Tom ‘ll be here to-morrow. He’s a likely lad, an’ he’ll have all the Bush Farm when his father goes, as must be afore long, i’ the course o’ nature. The two farms ‘ll goo very well in a ring fence. Theer’s no partic’lar hurry, as I know on, an’ we’ll ha’ the weddin’ next wik, or the wik after.’
The girl’s breast was labouring cruelly, in spite of the hand that strove to still it.
‘Father!’ she said. ‘You don’t mean it!’
‘Eh?’ said Samson. ‘I ginerally mean what I say, my wench. I should ha’ thout as yo’d ha’ known that by this time.’
He stopped there, for Julia, but for her mother’s arm, would have fallen.
‘You great oaf!’ cried Mrs. Mountain, irritated for once into open rebellion. ‘Oh, it’s like a man, the stupid hulkin’ creeturs as they are, to come an’ frighten the life out of a poor maid i’ that style.’
‘Theer, theer!’ said Samson, with the same heavy and threatening tranquillity he had borne throughout the interview. ‘Tek her upstairs.’
He sat down again, and without another word filled and lit his churchwarden, and stared through the smoke-wreaths at the grate.