In five minutes it had the village by the ears, and the inefficient Miffin, ironing a coat at the moment it reached him, paused in his operation to deliver himself of a sceptical sniff and some adverse opinions on puffed-up fools who were eternally talking of book-larnin' and things quite above them, instead of attending to their business.
"In moi opinion," and he stated it with engaging frankness, "Edward John would do a sight better to let his long-legged lout stick at 'ome and sell nibs and sealin'-wex and postage-stemps, like his fifteen-stone father."
But really, Miffin's opinion did not count for much, although on this occasion it cost him dear, as he had left the heated iron lying on the coat, to its eternal destruction.
Elated with the prospect which the magic wand of his father had swung open to his sight—those fields of fair renown through which he was about to wander—Henry had soon exhausted the possibilities of the village, and found himself tramping the field-path towards Little Flixton, in the hope of meeting some returning villagers, to whom he could unbosom the startling news at first hand, and have the joy of surprising them into congratulations.
The meadows had been lately cut, and the smell of new-mown hay hung sensuously in the air. Never would he forget that evening in all the years that were to be. Although the hay-fields had been to him a commonplace of life since he could toddle, they would never smell as they did that night, and would never be so sweet again. After all, it is our sense of smell that treasures for us most vividly the impressions of our life. The memory of all our great moments is aided largely by our nostrils.
In one of these meadows, sloping down from a wooded mound, Henry espied a white-frocked girlish figure seated among the hay in the soft gloaming. It was Eunice Lyndon, the grand-daughter of old Carne, the sexton, who, as he told you himself, had held that post for "two-an'-forty year." Eunice's mother, old Carne's only daughter, whom many remembered as the "Rose of Hampton," had died of consumption, and there were some who thought that the shadow of this dread complaint hung over the girl also.
Now, as a rule, Henry had a poor opinion of girls. They were all very well in their way, of course, but could never hope to shine in the world like men. This evening, however, he was so brimful of his news that he was glad to tell it to anybody. He had even told Maggs, the blacksmith, though the latter had been over-free with cider at the "Wings and Spur."
Henry crossed the slope of the meadow towards Eunice, who held a long stalk of grass in her hand, and was intent upon watching a green caterpillar worming its way up it.
"Oh, Henry," she cried out, a pretty blush mounting to her cheeks as he approached, "just look at this fellow!"
Henry glanced down disdainfully at the caterpillar. Such trifles were altogether beneath his notice in that great hour.