“Some sage philosopher hath it, Bob, that ‘a pretty foot is the one element of beauty that defieth Time,’ but I, who pretend to some little discernment in such matters, incline to the belief that a low, soft-sweet voice may endure even longer.”
“Indeed, your honour?”
“Remembering which ... and Mr. Sturton’s apparently unwelcome attentions, I think ’twere as well you should keep an eye on old Mr. Dumbrell’s granddaughter, Robert.”
“Very good, sir!” answered the ex-corporal, and with a movement that was something between bow and salute, he wheeled and strode away, leaving Sir John, perched upon the stile, hard at work upon his lampoon.
CHAPTER XIV
HOW THE MAN OF SENTIMENT SENTIMENTALISED IN A DITCH
He was not to remain long undisturbed, it seemed, for presently upon the stilly air was the faint, regular tapping of a stick that drew gradually nearer, and glancing up he saw an old woman approaching, one who trudged sturdily with the aid of a formidable staff and bore a large wooden basket on her arm; a tall old creature with a great jut of nose and chin and fierce bright eyes that glittered beneath thick brows, whose jetty-black contrasted very strangely with her snow-white hair. But just now these fierce old eyes were dimmed with tears, and more than once she sniffed loud and dolorously; perceiving which and noting how she laboured with the heavy-laden basket, Sir John pocketed his tablets and rose. But, quite lost in her grief, the old creature paused to sob and sniff and wipe away her tears with a corner of her shawl, in the doing of which she let fall her basket, scattering its contents broadcast in the dust. At this calamity she wailed distressfully, and was in the act of bending her old joints to collect her property when she was aware of one who did this for her, a slender, very nimble young man, at sight of whom she forgot her troubles a while, watching him in mute surprise, yet quick to heed the white delicacy of these hands as they darted here and there collecting the bundles of herbs and simples with the other more homely vegetables that lay so widely scattered. Thus Sir John, happening to glance up as he stooped for a large cabbage, met the fixed scrutiny of a pair of black eyes, so fierce and keenly direct beneath their jutting brows that he stared back, surprised and a little disconcerted.
“My good dame, why d’ye stare so?” he questioned.
“I dream, young sir! Your bright eyes do ha’ set me a-dreamin’ o’ other days ... better days ... when the world was younger ... an’ kinder. Old I be an’ tur’ble lonesome, but I ha’ my dreams ... ’tis arl the years ha’ left me.... But why must ye meddle wi’ the likes o’ me?” ... she demanded in sudden ferocity. “Why don’t ’ee cross y’r fingers or mak’ ‘the horns’ agin me?”
“Why should I?” he inquired, wondering.