“Yes, I be,” replied Lizzie, without turning her head; and down the stairs clattered she, and out into the air.
Leaving the village behind she ascended a steep, stony path, which led across a curious and antiquated bridge, and presently found herself in a shady lane bordered on both sides by high banks, where the hedgerows had long escaped all control of man, and grew in a wild and most picturesque tangle. Here thorn and gorse and wild apple crowded upon each other; golden maple was thrown into relief by the sturdier green of the elder; there the clustering berries of a guelder-rose, already turning red, made a wondrous patch of colour, while the tiny, soft-shelled hazel nuts shone out from the deep green leaves like pearls; over all the traveller’s-joy had flung its wealth of delicate blossom and clinging tendril, now swinging proudly from the topmost bough of a tall sapling, now creeping low amidst the brambles and the bracken. A yellow-hammer called to a brother occasionally from some swaying twig; little speckled half-fledged robins hopped along the path in front of Lizzie, taking occasional short flights when she came inconveniently near, but returning to peer up at her with large, yellow-rimmed, curious eyes.
Lizzie noticed none of these things. Had she had a mind to gaze upon the beauties of the prospect, she would have peered through the gaps in the green ramparts down to the plain, and away past the cultivated fields and the silver windings of the river to the distant roofs and chimney-stacks of the market town. One could obtain a beautiful view of the new brewery from here; the brickwork looked as red as red, and one could see the smoke rising from the great chimney. Ah, that was a view worth looking at; so all the villagers said, and Lizzie agreed with them.
But to-day she stared straight in front of her, with eyes as round and curious as those of the robins themselves; eyes which had, moreover, an alarmed expression entirely lacking to those of the bold, sociable little birds in question. Her heart was beginning to beat rather fast, and she was conscious of increasing trepidation as she drew near the trysting-place.
At a turn of the lane she could see a pair of long legs thrust out from a recess in the bank; then a hand idly brandishing a stick; at length a head moving amid the clustering leaves. When the rapid clump, clump of her thick-soled boots reached his ears, the man rose quickly and came towards her. A tall, loose-limbed, young fellow, with a fringe of dark beard and whisker round his brown face; his hat was pulled rather forward over his brows, and his one remaining eye looked eagerly and anxiously towards the approaching figure.
One glance told him that the sturdy form was not that of his sweetheart, and he turned away, whistling to himself to hide his disappointment, and swishing absently at the wayside grasses. He expected the rapid steps to pass on; but, to his surprise, they slackened as they drew near, and then abruptly ceased.
“Good-day to ’ee, Mr. Locke.”
“Ah,” said Locke, “it’s Lizzie Fripp. Good-day, Lizzie, good-day.”
He turned unwillingly as he spoke. Though not by nature a sensitive man, he felt a little diffident as to the impression which his new disfigurement was likely to create when first beheld by a stranger.
“Ye be waitin’ for Susan?” said Lizzie, staring hard for a moment and then averting her eyes. “She’s—she’s not able to come to-day.”