It was understood, or half-understood, that Tom would call at the Lodge on his way to the Hall and pick up Isabella, and go on with her. It was in this way. The day before, Tom had said to her: “More wu’nerful things may hap, Bell, than that I should come and fetch you away to the Hall to-morrow, and then you’ll give me the fust dance and five arter.”
“Well, I’m sure I don’t mind,” she had replied; and so it was understood that he should go for her, and that she should expect him.
“Why, whatever be you about, Polly?” exclaimed Tom Mountstephen, as he came upon a tall, pale girl with pick and spade over her shoulder.
That girl was Mary Mauduit, who lived with a frail, suffering little sister in a cottage, and supported herself by needlework and starching and washing. She had been a teacher in the school, but had been compelled to resign, owing to her sister’s health. These two were together, and they were orphans. The child could not be left.
“Why, Tom, how fine you be! Where be you a-going to?”
That is the way in the country: a question begets another before it is answered.
“I be going to the Hall; there’s grand goings on there to-night.”
“So I’ve heerd, but I didn’t mind it. And I reckon that Bella will be there too?”
“For certain. But what are you after with pick and shovel, I’d like for to know?”