The faint, shrill voice ceased. A lean, old man, with a chubby face and eyes of so pale a blue, that they seemed almost colourless in the rich, yellow light of the afternoon, had been intently listening, a trembling hand to each ear. He wore a spotless white round-frock, and was punctiliously, unnaturally clean in all other respects. Now he brought his finger-tips softly together, and stared at the sky in an ecstasy of reminiscence.
‘Eighteen thousand happy days,’ said he triumphantly, ‘agen six weeks o’ rough an’ tumble—pore George! Ah! well-a-day! But ’tis so, neighbours. Th’ Reverend, ’a figured it out fer Jane an’ me laast catterning-time. Eighteen thou— Gorm! but I should ha’ lost ’em all, if she hadn’t up an’ spoke out! I ne’er had no thought on’t, trew as th’ sun goos round th’ sky. But Jane, ’a gie me a red neckercher wan Hock-Monday. Thinks I, “Wat’s that fer?” An’ then ’a gie me a bag o’ pea-nuts, an’ sez I to mysel’, “’Tis a queer maid surelye!” An’ then ’a cooms along at harvest-time, an’ sez she, “’Enery Dawes, I ha’ jist heerd as ould Mistus Fenny ’ull gie up th’ malthouse cottage at Milemas, an’ seein’ as how you warnts me an’ I warnts you, ’twould be a pity to lose it; so let’s get arsted i’ church directly-minute,” sez she. Wi’ that, ’a putt both arms around th’ red neckercher, as I wore; an’ gie me wan, two, three—each chop, an’ wan i’ th’ middle. Lor’ bless ye! I knowed then what ’a meant, I did! I wur allers th’ sort as could see through a brick wall fur as most folk: never warnted no more ’n an ’int.’
‘There agen!’ said old Tom Clemmer, after a pause. ‘Ye wur another o’ th’ lucky wans, ’Enery. Th’ best o’ wimmin plunked straight into your eye, in a manner o’ speakin’. Ah! but courtin’ days warn’t all pea-nuts an’ red handkerchers wi’ some o’ us, ’Enery! Dear! oh Lor’! what trouble I did ha’, surelye!’
He stopped, and sat for a while smiling down into the bowl of his pipe, and shaking his head.
‘But ye got her at laast, Tom!’ said Daniel Dray softly. He stole a commiserate glance round at the other members of the company, and had a silent, meaning nod from each. Old Tom Clemmer blushed, then laughed outright.
‘Trew, Dan’l! An’ well I reckermembers th’ day as ’a first come to Windlecombe—up to th’ farm-us yonder, though ’tis forty year ago. All o’ a heap, I wur, soon as I sot eyes on her. “Churn-maid?” sez I to mysel’, “’twunt be long afore y’are summut better’n that, down at th’ forge-cottage ’long o’ me!” Come Sunday, I runs agen her on th’ litten-path. “Marnin’, Mary!” sez I, an’ gies her th’ marigolds I’d picked fer her out o’ my own gay-ground; an’ down ’a throws ’em in th’ mud, an’ off wi’out so much as wured or look. Ah! a proud, fine maid ’a wur!—to be sure an’ all!’
Tom Clemmer knocked out his pipe upon his crutch. Then he threw an exultant glance about him.
‘What might a man do then, ye’d think? Well, as marigolds warn’t no good, I tries laylocks. Not a bit on it! Jerrineums—wuss an’ wuss! Roses—never so much as a sniff! Summut useful, thinks I; but they little spring onions as I tied up in a bunch wi’ yaller ribbin, an’ hung on th’ dairy gate fer her, there they hung ’til they was yaller too. Then I has a grand idee. Off I goos to Stavisham, an’ buys a gurt big hamber brooch; an’ a silver necklace wot weighed down my pocket, carryin’ of it; an’ a spanglorious goulden weddin’-ring. “Now, my gel, we’ll jest see!” sez I all th’ way hoame. I bides quiet ’til Sunday, then I hides ahent th’ gurt elver-tree, an’ pops out upon her suddentlike, as ’a cooms along. I offers her th’ brooch. “Get out o’ my way!” sez she, “’tis jest a common ha’penny fairin’— No, ’tis hamber, ’tis real purty!” ’a sez, an’ brings up stock-still. Then out cooms th’ necklace, an’ down went ’a’s good book slap i’ th’ dirt. “Oh! ’tis kind o’ ye, blacksmith!” sez she, ketchin’ hould on’t. “Ah! but what thinks you o’ this here?” sez I; “but I mount gie it ye yet awhile, ’cause ’tis unlucky fer a maid to ha’ th’ ring afore th’ day.” Lor! what eyes ’a had, surelye! ’A thought a bit, then sez she, “Thomas Clemmer, how much ha’ ye got laid by?” An’ soon as I’d tould her, sez she, “I’ll ha’ ye, Tom, darlin’, fer I never loved nane but you!” Ah! well, well! Most onaccountable, ’tis, how th’ very wureds cooms back to ye, arter years an’ years!’
He fell into a brown study, out of which he presently came with a jerk.
‘Fower o’clock? Never! Gorm! how high th’ sun be! I must be getten hoame-along!’