“If ’twill fire you on to your duty, you shall have it; an’ if she takes you, I’ll add a bit to it,” said Mr Beer. “If you think in rhyme as I often do,” he added, “’tis fifty pounds against a bag of nuts, that you frequently hit on a bit of wisdom. I’ve often been mazed at my own cleverness. But I never surprise my wife. If I found out a way of turning moor-stone into solid gold, she’d merely say that she knowed all along ’twas in me to do it. Therefore I hope you’ll take the hint like a man, an’ offer marriage so soon as you can. You’ve got the good wishes of the parish behind you in the adventure; an’ that’s half the battle, no doubt.”
“I’m thinking it’s too soon,” said Titus. “Between you and me, Mr Beer, ’tis my dream and hope to have her, but time must pass. In the upper circles they wait a year afore they approach a bereft female, and though I needn’t be asked to keep off it so long as that, still three months isn’t enough, I’m afraid. She was very fond of Dan, remember.”
“I suppose three months is not enough, as you say,” admitted Johnny, “especially as she won’t have it that he’s dead. There’s a crack-brained thought in her poor young heart that Daniel didn’t make away with himself at all; an’ of course as the ashes of the poor chap will never be seen by mortal eye until the last Trump, ’tis impossible to prove she’s wrong. For my part I’ve said that I reckon he’s dead; but, at the same time, I never shall know why he made away with himself until we stand face to face beyond the grave. Then that will be the fust question I ax the man. ‘Whatever did ’e do such a terrible rash thing for, Dan?’ I shall ax him as we meet in a golden street.”
“I wish I could think with you that he didn’t do it—shoot Thorpe I mean; but I’m only too sure of it. What I believe is this: that Rix Parkinson and Dan did the job between them, and that poor Dan shot the underkeeper while Parkinson tried to knock the life out of Dan’s father. Of course Rix denied it when I taxed him. However, truth will out—at Doomsday, if not before, an’, be it as it will, there’s no reason why I shouldn’t ask the girl I love to marry me now she’s free to. I’ll do it come the springtime, if not before.”
Mr Beer applauded the resolve.
“I’m sure right an’ law be both your side. The Church likewise, for that matter. Parson never would hold Minnie to that marriage. She’m free, no doubt. What you’ve got to do be to convince her loving mind that Daniel be in glory, as my verses say; then she’ll let un bide an’ turn her attention to you, if she’s so wise as I think. Shall you live upalong to Hangman’s Hut if she takes you?”
“No, I sha’n’t. I mean to go to Moreton. I’ve a thought to take a little shop there, if she likes the idea.”
“Better try for a public. Drink be a more certain support than food. If I don’t know Moreton men, who should? I tell you that they put bread second to beer every day of the year. I made a rhyme about it that they wrote up in Sam Merritt’s bar. If you like—?”
“Not now, master,” said Titus. “Though I’ll wager ’tis a very clever rhyme, if you made it. And I’ll keep in mind all you’ve said. Now I must get going, else I’ll be late for dinner.”
Sim rode off, and it chanced, as the dimpsy light faded and the brief splendour of winter sunset lighted the west, that he met young Mrs Sweetland returning home. Minnie was riding a pony which Mr Beer lent her when she wanted it. She had been at Middlecott Lodge and in the coverts also, for her search was not relaxed, and, when opportunity offered, she continued it.