She wrinkled her brows in a puzzled frown, and her colour deepened.
When she was gone, Ashurst thought: 'Did she think I was chaffing her? I wouldn't for the world!' He was at that age when to some men "Beauty's a flower," as the poet says, and inspires in them the thoughts of chivalry. Never very conscious of his surroundings, it was some time before he was aware that the youth whom Garton had called "a Saxon type" was standing outside the stable door; and a fine bit of colour he made in his soiled brown velvet-cords, muddy gaiters, and blue shirt; red-armed, red-faced, the sun turning his hair from tow to flax; immovably stolid, persistent, unsmiling he stood. Then, seeing Ashurst looking at him, he crossed the yard at that gait of the young countryman always ashamed not to be slow and heavy-dwelling on each leg, and disappeared round the end of the house towards the kitchen entrance. A chill came over Ashurst's mood. Clods? With all the good will in the world, how impossible to get on terms with them! And yet--see that girl! Her shoes were split, her hands rough; but--what was it? Was it really her Celtic blood, as Garton had said?--she was a lady born, a jewel, though probably she could do no more than just read and write!
The elderly, clean-shaven man he had seen last night in the kitchen had come into the yard with a dog, driving the cows to their milking.
Ashurst saw that he was lame.
"You've got some good ones there!"
The lame man's face brightened. He had the upward look in his eyes which prolonged suffering often brings.
"Yeas; they'm praaper buties; gude milkers tu.""I bet they are."
"'Ope as yure leg's better, zurr."
"Thank you, it's getting on."
The lame man touched his own: "I know what 'tes, meself; 'tes a main worritin' thing, the knee. I've a-'ad mine bad this ten year."Ashurst made the sound of sympathy which comes so readily from those who have an independent income, and the lame man smiled again.
"Mustn't complain, though--they mighty near 'ad it off.""Ho!"
"Yeas; an' compared with what 'twas, 'tes almost so gude as nu.""They've put a bandage of splendid stuff on mine.""The maid she picks et. She'm a gude maid wi' the flowers. There's folks zeem to know the healin' in things. My mother was a rare one for that. 'Ope as yu'll zune be better, zurr. Goo ahn, therr!"Ashurst smiled. "Wi' the flowers!" A flower herself!
That evening, after his supper of cold duck, junket, and cider, the girl came in.
"Please, auntie says--will you try a piece of our Mayday cake?""If I may come to the kitchen for it."
"Oh, yes! You'll be missing your friend."
"Not I. But are you sure no one minds?"
"Who would mind? We shall be very pleased."
Ashurst rose too suddenly for his stiff knee, staggered, and subsided. The girl gave a little gasp, and held out her hands.
Ashurst took them, small, rough, brown; checked his impulse to put them to his lips, and let her pull him up. She came close beside him, offering her shoulder. And leaning on her he walked across the room. That shoulder seemed quite the pleasantest thing he had ever touched. But, he had presence of mind enough to catch his stick out of the rack, and withdraw his hand before arriving at the kitchen.
That night he slept like a top, and woke with his knee of almost normal size. He again spent the morning in his chair on the grass patch, scribbling down verses; but in the afternoon he wandered about with the two little boys Nick and Rick. It was Saturday, so they were early home from school; quick, shy, dark little rascals of seven and six, soon talkative, for Ashurst had a way with children. By four o'clock they had shown him all their methods of destroying life, except the tickling of trout; and with breeches tucked up, lay on their stomachs over the trout stream, pretending they had this accomplishment also. They tickled nothing, of course, for their giggling and shouting scared every spotted thing away. Ashurst, on a rock at the edge of the beech clump, watched them, and listened to the cuckoos, till Nick, the elder and less persevering, came up and stood beside him.
"The gipsy bogle zets on that stone," he said.
"What gipsy bogie?"
"Dunno; never zeen 'e. Megan zays 'e zets there; an' old Jim zeed 'e once. 'E was zettin' there naight afore our pony kicked--in father's 'ead. 'E plays the viddle.""What tune does he play?"
"Dunno."
"What's he like?"
"'E's black. Old Jim zays 'e's all over 'air. 'E's a praaper bogle.
'E don' come only at naight." The little boy's oblique dark eyes slid round. "D'yu think 'e might want to take me away? Megan's feared of 'e.""Has she seen him?"
"No. She's not afeared o' yu."
"I should think not. Why should she be?"
"She zays a prayer for yu."
"How do you know that, you little rascal?"
"When I was asleep, she said: 'God bless us all, an' Mr. Ashes.' Iyeard 'er whisperin'."
"You're a little ruffian to tell what you hear when you're not meant to hear it!"The little boy was silent. Then he said aggressively:
"I can skin rabbets. Megan, she can't bear skinnin' 'em. I like blood.""Oh! you do; you little monster!"
"What's that?"
"A creature that likes hurting others."
The little boy scowled. "They'm only dead rabbets, what us eats.""Quite right, Nick. I beg your pardon."
"I can skin frogs, tu."
But Ashurst had become absent. "God bless us all, and Mr. Ashes!"And puzzled by that sudden inaccessibility, Nick ran back to the stream where the giggling and shouts again uprose at once.
When Megan brought his tea, he said:
"What's the gipsy bogle, Megan?"
She looked up, startled.
"He brings bad things."
"Surely you don't believe in ghosts?"
"I hope I will never see him."
"Of course you won't. There aren't such things. What old Jim saw was a pony.""No! There are bogies in the rocks; they are the men who lived long ago.""They aren't gipsies, anyway; those old men were dead long before gipsies came."She said simply: "They are all bad."
