These were the thoughts that had been coursing through my goose-girl mind while I had been selling dressed poultry, but in some way they had not prepared me for the appearance of the aforesaid true love.
To see the very person whom one has left civilisation to avoid is always more or less surprising, and to make the meeting less likely, Buffington is even farther from Oxenbridge than Barbury Green. The creature was well mounted (ominous, when he came to override my caprice!) and he looked bigger, and, yes, handsomer, though that doesn’t signify, and still more determined than when I saw him last; although goodness knows that timidity and feebleness of purpose were not in striking evidence on that memorable occasion. I had drawn up under the shade of a tree ostensibly to eat some cherries, thinking that if I turned my face away I might pass unrecognised. It was a stupid plan, for if I had whipped up the mare and driven on, he of course, would have had to follow, and he has too much dignity and self-respect to shriek recriminations into a woman’s ear from a distance.
He approached with deliberation, reined in his horse, and lifted his hat ceremoniously. He has an extremely shapely head, but I did not show that the sight of it melted in the least the ice of my resolve; whereupon we talked, not very freely at first,—men are so stiff when they consider themselves injured. However, silence is even more embarrassing than conversation, so at length I begin:—
Bailiff’s Daughter.—“It is a lovely day.”
True Love.—“Yes, but the drought is getting rather oppressive, don’t you think?”
Bailiff’s Daughter.—“The crops certainly need rain, and the feed is becoming scarce.”
True Love.—“Are you a farmer’s wife?”
Bailiff’s Daughter.—“Oh no! that is a promotion to look forward to; I am now only a Goose Girl.”
True Love.—“Indeed! If I wished to be severe I might remark: that I am sure you have found at last your true vocation!”