“Indeed, yes!” sighed Sir John, once more oppressed by the sense of his responsibility and of the duties left undone.
“An’ yet there be a look about ’ee, young man, as do whisper me you was barn here in Sussex an’ not s’ fur away, I reckon.”
“Oh ... begad!” he exclaimed, starting. “What should make you think so, pray?”
“Y’r hands, young sir, the high cock o’ your chin, y’r pretty eyes ... they do mind me of other eyes as looked into mine ... long afore you was barn ... when the world was happier.... Though ’e were bigger’n you, young man ... so tall an’ noble-lookin’! Alack, ’twas long ago an’ the world be changed for the worse since then—’specially High Dering! Aye, me! I’ll be a-goin’, young sir, thankin’ ye for your kindness to a solitary old woman.”
“How far are you going?” he questioned.
“Only to the village yonder.”
“This basket is much too heavy for you.”
“Lud, young master, I do be stronger than I look!” she answered, with a mirthless laugh. “Aye, tur’ble strong I be or I should ha’ died years agone, I reckon. So doan’t ’ee trouble, sir ... besides, folk ’ud stare t’ see s’fine a young man along o’ me, an’ a-carryin’ my old trug an’ arl ... so let be!”
Sir John smiled, took up the basket, reached his stick whence it leaned against the stile and set off with old Penelope Haryott, suiting his pace to hers and talking with such blithe ease that old Penelope, forgetting her rustic pride at last, talked in her turn, as she might have done “when the world was younger and better.”
“Ah yes, I mind Sir Hector years agone, when he were jest Mr. Hector an’ friend t’ Sir John Dering—him as was the ‘real’ Sir John as lived at ‘the gert house’ yonder an’ married here ... an’ marched away t’ the wars wi’ Mr. Hector, both s’fine in their red coats, and him s’handsome an’ gay ... him as was killed an’ never come marchin’ back.”