“I wonder you didn’t get married, Mr. Fowler,” said Bethia, with perhaps a suspicion of archness in her voice.
Jacob only grunted in reply, and an embarrassed silence fell between them, and remained unbroken till they had reached Little Branstone village.
Jacob accompanied the girl down the by-lane which led to her home, and followed her into the kitchen; there, however, he refused to stay, in spite of Mrs. Masters’ civil request that he would sit down and rest.
“Nay,” he returned gruffly, “I’ll be gettin’ home-along now; I only come so far to carry this here posy.”
Depositing his fragrant sheaf upon the table, he nodded right and left at mother and daughter, and withdrew.
“Dear! Well, to be sure! Dear heart alive, Bethia, ye could ha’ knocked I down wi’ a feather when he come marchin’ in. Lard ha’ mercy, maidy, you be clever to ha’ got Jacob Fowler for a beau. That there man do fair hate women of all sarts. There, he do never so much as look at one—and to think of him a-walkin’ all that long ways jist for to carry them flowers! He did give you the flowers, too, I suppose?”
“Yes,” returned her daughter; “but you mustn’t call him my beau, please, Mother. He only meant to be polite.”
“Well, I’m sure he did never try to be polite to any maid afore,” returned Mrs. Masters with conviction. “They do say he were crossed i’ love when he were a young ’un. Did he give ’ee the money, child?”
“Yes, Mother, and was very nice and kind altogether. I think he was sorry for Father when I told him how ill he’d been.”
“Oh, to be sure, that’s it,” agreed her mother jocosely. “All they flowers be for Father, too, I d’ ’low. Come, let’s fetch ’em up to ’en.”