He wore corduroys and leggings, and yet was no gamekeeper; he carried a small bundle and a sturdy stick, but she felt sure that he was not a tramp.
He jerked his thumb over his shoulder, looking at her for a moment before replying; his words came at last slowly, as though he were unused to much speech.
“Yonder,” he said, “Chudbury way.”
Alice glibly ran through the names of several villages, with an interrogative pause after each, and the newcomer shook his head in every case, without, however, further attempting to enlighten her.
She stopped at length, evidently at a loss, and the man, setting down his glass, laughed suddenly, a joyous, good-humoured laugh, pleasant to hear.
“You be fair beat, my maid,” said he. “But I do ’low you’d not be so very much the wiser if I was to tell ’ee. I be come from Tewley Warren—that’s where I be come from.” He dropped his voice and his face clouded over. “That’s where I’ve a-lived all my life,” he added.
“Why have ’ee left now, then?” inquired Alice.
“I didn’t leave o’ my own free will—ye mid be sure o’ that,” said he.
Alice looked up inquiringly, and he continued after a pause, still slowly and somewhat hesitatingly, as though he found it difficult to lay hold of the words he needed.
“I did live there wi’ my wold father; and when he shifted to the New House, Squire wasn’t willin’ for I to go on a-livin’ there. He did want our place for one o’ the keepers—a married man wi’ a fam’ly—he didn’t hold, he said, wi’ lettin’ a young chap, same as I, bide there—he did turn I out—to speak plain.”