“’Tis as old as the hills, lass, this tale of what to do, and what not to do,” he went on, his voice quite gentle on the sudden. “Two folk leaning over a gate—a lad and a lass—and no harm done, maybe. Did it myself, when your mother was slim as you and I was courting her. But ye want the right lad and the right lass, Priscilla, for that sort of gate-over-leaning.”
Priscilla was no want wit, and the years had taught her that Yeoman Hirst could never so subdue his voice unless he were deeply moved.
“Father, ’tis so perplexing,” she said, taking his arm again in obedience to a friendship that was like no other in Garth village, save that between the blacksmith and his crony. “I do not like to see you disdain Reuben Gaunt.”
“And why, if I might ask?”
“Because there’s something bigger than Garth and its grey street.”
“Something lesser, too, I reckon. Go on, lassie. I felt the same myself once, and tried t’ other thing, and came back in great content to Garth. I once—”
“The world beyond, father!” she broke in, with one of those passionate gusts that were apt to surprise folk who thought her even-tempered and reserved.
“Ay—a small world, Priscilla,” chuckled John Hirst.
“Yet you longed for it once—father, you know how we have sat on Sabbath evenings in the brink-fields, and watched the sun go down, and played at seeing lakes and rivers and steep mountains in the clouds. ’Tis the same with me now. Reuben Gaunt has talked of strange cities, strange countries, lying out beyond the cloud-line yonder—and, oh, I want to get to them!”
“Reuben Gaunt would talk that sort of trash!” said Hirst, the strength and the stubbornness of the man showing plainly. “A here to-day and gone to-morrow man, is Reuben, lass, whether ye like to hear me say it or no. Cities and countries are there, over beyond where Sharprise cuts the sky? Well, then, they’re men and women in them, and men and women have been much the same since Adam’s time, I take it, save for tricks of speech and wearing-gear. You’d find naught different to Garth, Priscilla—but ye’d miss the homely hills, and the clover-fields, and the look of Eller Brook when spring is painting both banks yellow.”