Towards afternoon, quite a little throng of ancient folk gathered on the benches under the Seven Sisters, drawn thither by the sunny mildness of the day. Sauntering about on the green hard by, I could hear the low hum of their voices; and at last I took a place, almost unobserved, on one of the outer seats a little distance from the group.
Eavesdropping, even in its most innocent form, hardly comes into the category of virtues; but, in any serious attempt to study country life and character, it must be reckoned almost a necessary vice. I confess, in this respect, not only to having yielded to it as a lifelong, irresistible habit, but to having cultivated it on many occasions as an art. The English peasant under open observation is no more himself than a wild bird in a cage; and these old folk, in particular, needed as much wary stalking-down as any creature of the woodland. Settled myself quietly now behind a newspaper in the corner, my presence, if it had been marked at all, was soon forgotten; and the talk began again among the group in the usual desultory, pondering style—talk in the ancient dialect of Sussex, such as you will hear to-day only in the most out-of-the-way villages, and then only among those with whose passing it also must pass irrevocably away.
Daniel Dray, the old wheelwright, was tapping his stick reflectively on his boot-toe, keeping time with the song of the pit-saw in the neighbouring yard, where young Daniel was mightily at work. By his side sat Tom Clemmer the elder, his bleak grey eyes far away in space. All the rest of the company were studying the horizon in much the same distraught, silent fashion. A very old, but still hearty man, in a wide blue suit, was chipping at a plug of sailor’s tobacco with a jack-knife, and smiling to himself. At length the smile developed into a rich chuckle.
‘Dan’l,’ said he, ‘now you ha’ spoke a trew wured, if never afore! So they be, Dan’l, so they be! Ay! an’ all round the wureld ’tis th’ same wi’ ’em! Doan’t I know?’ He made a telling pause at the question, and then—‘Not ’aaf!’ he added in solemn irony, as he struck a match on his hindermost serge.
The old wheelwright stretched himself luxuriously in the sunshine.
‘I knows naun o’ Frenchies, an’ blackamoors, an’ sech-like,’ said he. ‘But a Sussex maid!—Ah!’
The exclamation, long drawn out, was echoed round the circle. Old Tom Clemmer turned argumentatively in his seat.
‘Ay! real purty, Dan’l!—purty enough!’ he agreed. ‘Ye wur i’ luck’s way, as I minds well wur said by all th’ folk, forebye ’tis so long ago. But, Fegs! man! We han’t all had your fortun’ i’ bright eyes! What sez Maast’ Grimble there?’
A thin high voice quavered out from the end of the bench. For full five minutes it hovered in mid-air, like a long-drawn-out treble note on a violin.
‘Ay! trew, Tom! Never a wured o’ a lee, Tom! But ’twur nane o’ my doin’, as many’s th’ time I ha’ tould ye. Stavisham Fair, ’twur, i’ Fifty-three, as I first seed her, all i’ sky-blew an’ spangles; wi’ th’ lights flarin’, an’ th’ drooms bustin’, an’ th’ trumpets blowin’; an’ sech a crowd o’ gay folk as never got together afore, i’ th’ wureld. Wunk, ’a did, at me; an’ I wunk back. Then ’a wunk agen, an’ ’twur all ower, neighbours! We got church-bawled th’ follerin’ Sunday; an’ hoame I fetched her all within th’ month. An’ then, Tom, ye knowed how’t fell out. Six weeks o’ it, we had together; an’ then off ’a goos after ’a’s ould carrawan agen, an’ I goos fer a souldger. An’ nane but th’ gurt goodness knows whether I be married man or widder-man to-day.’