“At least she said so; though Heaven knows that the pompous fool, for all his fine linen, weren’t a patch on what I was at twenty-one. Anyway, he comed courting her, for ’twas not known yet that me an’ Nelly was more’n friends; an’ then when he heard how we had been secretly tokened for no less than six years, he comed to see me with a long-winded lie in his mouth. An’ the lie was larded wi’ texts from scripture. Nelly Baker had misunderstood her feelings about me, he said; her had never knowed what true love was till she met him; an’ he hoped I’d behave as honestly as he had—an’ all the rest of it. In fact, she’d throwed me over for him an’ his money an’ his high position; an’ he comed to let me down gently with bits from the Bible. As for her, she always lusted after money and property.
“Us fought hand to hand, for I flew at him, man, like a dog, an’ I’d have strangled him an’ tored the liver out of him, but some chaps heard him howling an’ runned along, an’ pulled me off his throat in time.
“He didn’t have the law of me; but Nelly Baker kept out of my way afterwards, like as if I was the plague; an’ then six months passed an’ they was axed out in marriage so grand as you please at Widecombe Church.
“I only seed her once more; but after lying in wait for her, weeks an’ weeks, like a fox for a rabbit, it chanced at last that I met her one evening going home across the moor above Aller Bottom Farm ’pon the edge of the last of our fields. Then us had a bit of a tell. ’Twas only a fortnight afore she was going to marry Mr. Oliver Honeywell.
“I axed her to change her mind; I spoke to her so gentle as a dove croons; but she was ice all through—cold an’ hard an’ wicked to me. Then I growed savage. I noticed how mincing her’d growed in her speech since Honeywell had took her up. She was changed from a good Devon maid into a town miss, full o’ airs an’ graces that made me sick to see. He’d poisoned her.
“‘Do try an’ be sensible,’ she said. ‘We were silly children all them years, you know, Mr. Mundy. You’ll find somebody much better suited to you than I am—really you will. Have you ever thought of Mary Reep, now? She’s prettier than I am—I am sure she is.’
“Her named the darter of William Reep, a common laborer as worked on Honeywell’s farm at ten shilling a week. The devil in me broke loose, an’ quite right too.
“‘We’ve gone up in the world of late then? ’Twas always your hope and prayer to come by a bit of property. But ’tis a coorious thing,’ I said. ‘Do you know that you’m standing just where my brother, John James, stood last time ever he was seed by mortal eyes?’
“‘What’s that to me?’ she said. ‘Let me go by, please, Mr. Mundy. I’m late, as it is.’
“‘He was never seed again,’ I told her. ‘’Tis a coorious thing to me, as you be stand’—on the same spot at the same time—just as he did, in the first shadow of night. His going, you see, made me my father’s heir, an’ rich enough to give you a good home some day.’