Mr. Pursglove likewise exhibited a hand and forearm swathed in bandages which, he averred ... “moight ha’ been much worse, seein’ the bill-’ook I ’apped tu be a-usin’ of were so shaarp as a razor!” Also divers others of the community discovered upon their persons sundry bruises and abrasions, the which elicited little or no comment, for Alfriston, in its own gentle fashion, was very wide awake this morning.
Thus Sir John, lolling at night-capped ease, looked down upon this placid, homely scene, hearkened to the soft-drawling, Sussex voices, breathed the fragrant air and felt that life was good. All at once he started, drew in his head with a jerk, and, snatching off his tasselled night-cap, peered from the secure shelter of the window-curtain.
She stood looking up at the old Cross, a tall, stately creature, and yet, despite her stature, there was in every supple line of her, in the very folds of her simple habit, that same air of clean, rustic maidenliness that Sir John remembered so well.
Her print gown was much the same as those worn by other country maids, and yet its effect how vastly different! How graciously it flowed, now hiding, now half-revealing her shapeliness; how cunningly it clung to pliant waist and full, rounded bosom. Her jetty curls were ’prisoned in a small, laced cap; in her hand she bore a deep-brimmed straw hat.
And thus, as she gazed up at the old cross, Sir John gazed down on her, marvelling anew and happy in his wonderment.
Now as my lady stood viewing the ancient cross, there chanced by a country damsel with a large basket upon her arm—a shapely young girl with a remarkably trim foot and ankle.
“Pray, my dear,” says my lady, waving her hat towards the old cross, “what strange thing is this?”
“O mam,” answers Rusticity, blushing and curtsying, “it be only the ol’ market cross as arl strangers do come to stare at.”
“Then,” says my lady, smiling, “they might do better by staring at thee, for thou’rt monstrous pretty.”
“O mam!” falters Rusticity, with another curtsy.