“‘DEAR HANNAH—’”
“Best put ‘Miss Pethin’” suggested Rose Gillingham, one of the
dairymaids.
“He do never call her anything but Hannah,” retorted Lizzie; “an’ they’ve
been workin’ together now for nigh upon ten year.”
“That’s the very reason she’ll think he’s more in earnest-like; she’ll be
terr’ble pleased if he treats her so respectful.”
There was something in that, the others agreed, and even Lizzie gave way,
and it was decided that the amorous document should begin after the
somewhat distant fashion suggested by Rose.
“Well now,” resumed Lizzie—“‘I write these few lines to say as I’ve been
a-turnin’ over somethin’ in my mind, as I hope you’ll be glad to hear.
Bein’ a widow-man, I feels mysel’ by times at a terr’ble loss, an’ I be
wishful to take a second—’”
“Bain’t that comin’ to the p’int a bit too quick?” interrupted Rose.
“Lord, no!” interpolated Jem very quickly. “Mercy me, it’ll take I all
my time to get that much in. We have but the one sheet of paper, look
see; an’ there’ll be a deal o’ writin’ in what ye’ve thought on a’ready.”
“‘There’s nobody,’” went on Lizzie, disregarding both disputants, “‘my
dear Miss Pethin, what I could like better to fill the empty post nor
yourself—’”
“I never knowed a post could be empty,” said some facetious bystander,
who was, however, nudged and hushed into silence.
“‘I do think you the vittiest maid in the whole o’ Dorset,’” pursued the
intrepid author, being unable, however, to proceed with her composition
for some moments, owing to the storm of ironical applause; for, indeed,
the destined recipient of this tender document was not only “a staid
’ooman,” but had never, at any period of her life, possessed any claim to
good looks.
“‘If ye think well on my offer, will ye meet I at the Little Wood at
breakfast-time to-morrow? But, as I’m a shy man by natur’, I’d thank ye
not to say nothin’ about me havin’ wrote to ye.
“‘Your true and faithful,
“‘GILES NEALE.’”
When the hubbub of applause had subsided, a match was duly lighted, and
Jem set to work. His task concluded, after much labour and consequent
burning of matches, the document was read aloud, directed, and handed
over to Lizzie, who undertook to slip it under Hannah’s door before
retiring to rest herself.
“If she do say anythin’ to I about it, I’ll tell her I did hear a man’s
foot goin’ through the cheese-room very late,” she added, giggling.
“Well, then, us’ll all post ourselves behind the hedge at back o’ the
Little Wood,” cried Rose, jubilantly; “an’ then us’ll all run out an’
call ‘April Fools!’ so soon as they’ve a-made it up.”
“’Ees,” agreed Lizzie, “but don’t you sp’ile sport by runnin’ out too
soon. Best wait till brewery whooter goes, an’ then all run out
together—that’s the ticket.”
The resolution was carried unanimously, and the party separated for the
night. The female section made its way towards the farmhouse, for the
two milkmaids employed by Farmer Bellamy in addition to his own stalwart
daughters, lodged on the premises; while the men and boys betook
themselves to the little cluster of houses, a kind of off-shoot from the
village proper, in which they had their homes.
Hannah Pethin was usually the first of that busy household to awake, and
it was her duty to call her less alert companions. When, on the morning
of this momentous first of April, she jumped out of bed, she stood for a
moment or two rubbing her eyes and staring. There, in the centre of the
very small patch of boarded floor which intervened between her bed and
the door, lay a large white envelope, which bore her name in bold
characters—
“MISS HANNAH PETHIN.”
“’Tis for me,” she said to herself, after gazing at this object for a
minute or two. It generally took Hannah some little time to grasp an
idea, but this one presented itself in a concrete form. “Dear, to be
sure, I wonder what anyone can be writin’ to me for?”
She had pulled on her stout knitted stockings, and assumed the greater
part of her underwear, before it occurred to her to open the letter and
ascertain its contents. Even then she grasped the paper with a diffident
finger and thumb, and turned it over and over before she could make up
her mind to embark on its perusal.
“Dear!” she exclaimed, looking at the end in true feminine fashion, “’Tis
from Giles!”
Her eyes opened wider and wider as she read the line which preceded the
signature. “Your true and faithful.” She turned over the page, the
colour deepening in a countenance already ruddy as the brick floor of the
milk-house which she so frequently scrubbed.
“Well!” she ejaculated at last, drawing a long breath, “’Tis a
offer—that’s what it be! Who’d ha’ thought o’ me gettin’ a offer!”
She mused for a little time, her face wreathed in smiles, and spelt over
the letter again with increasing satisfaction.
“‘_Meet I at the Little Wood at breakfast-time to-morrow_’—that’s
to-day.” Hannah’s wits were brightening under the influence of this
unexpected stroke of good fortune. “‘I’d thank ye not to say nothin’
about me havin’ wrote.’. . . Well, an’ that’s well thought on. I d’
’low I be jist so shy as he, an’ it ’ud ha’ been terr’ble arkward to ha’
talked about sich a letter as this here. . . . ‘I be wishful to take a
second’—well, the man couldn’t speak plainer. . . . ‘The vittiest maid!’
_Fancy_ him sayin’ that!”
At this period of her meditations Hannah was constrained to cross the
room on tip-toe to the window, near which a small square looking-glass
was suspended from a nail. She surveyed her own image with some
curiosity but no little satisfaction, as with Giles’s eyes; regretted
that her hair was growing grey about the temples, but consoled herself
with the fact that it was still abundant and curly, and finally smiled
broadly to herself.
“I d’ ’low if I do for him it’s all right!”
Suddenly she recollected with a start that if she was to be at the tryst
at the hour named, she would have to get through her intervening labours
with more than usual celerity.
A few minutes later a whirlwind-like form burst into the room where
Lizzie and Alice Bellamy still lay, wrapped in slumber.
“Get up, ’tis past the time, an’ there’s a deal to be done.”
Lizzie sat up, at first very cross, but recovering good humour as
recollection came with increasing consciousness.
“Here, Hannah, wait a bit, what be in sich a stew for?” She poked Alice,
who still lay under the blankets, with her elbow. “Have anythin’ strange
happened? You do look so queer—an’ I do declare you’ve a-made yourself
quite smart.”
“Nonsense, nonsense!” responded Hannah quickly, “What could ha’ happened
at this time o’ marnin’? I be in a hurry to get forward wi’ my work,
that’s all!”
“Oh, is that all? We slept a bit late, Alice an’ me, along o’ bein’
disturbed by hearin’ a man’s steps i’ the cheese-room late last night;
did you chance to hear ’em?”
She poked the sleepy Alice again, and even through her half-closed lids
that damsel perceived the conscious expression which overspread poor
Hannah’s face. Before they had time, however, to ply her with further
queries the latter had fled from the room, and after a vigorous thump or
two on the door of the room shared by her fellow milkmaids, and a more
respectful summons to the farmer and his wife, went hammering downstairs
in her hobnailed boots to begin her work.
“She bain’t a-goin’ to be late at the meetin’ place ye mid be sure!”
cried Lizzie, and Alice roused herself sufficiently to chuckle.
The feverish zeal with which Hannah subsequently applied herself to her
various duties astonished her mistress, who was wont to consider her
unduly slow of a morning. This zeal, however, seemed to be shared by the
other occupants of the farmhouse—no one who was in the secret wanted to
be late; everyone was determined to arrive at the Little Wood in time to
witness the meeting of the unconscious couple. At breakfast-time,
therefore, the yard was practically deserted, and the plotters were
safely ensconsed behind the thick quickset hedge which bounded the little
copse, and commanded a good view of the gap through which the lovers must
enter.
“I knowed she’d be first!” cried Lizzie, with a giggle, as Hannah’s
square figure came in sight.
“She’ve a-got a red ribbon under her collar,” whispered Alice, “Look how
she’ve a-done herself up! She’ve curled her hair I d’ ’low.”
“No, no, her hair curls na’trel. Giles ’ull think hisself in luck,”
cried Jem, with a wink. “There, I’ve half a mind to try and cut en out
if he don’t turn up soon. She _be_ a vitty maid, jist about!”
“‘The vittiest maid in the whole o’ Darset!’” quoted his neighbour.
Meanwhile Hannah slowly approached, a maidenly shyness checking her too
eager feet. It would be more seemly for Giles to be there before her,
she had thought, and she had not started till five minutes past eight by
the cuckoo clock. He was probably already in the wood, looking at her.
She reddened at the thought and tripped in the long grass, recovering
herself with an awkward lurch. But there was a bright colour in her
cheeks, and a pleasantly expectant light in her eyes, perceiving which,
the onlookers nudged each other.
Passing through the gap Hannah gave one quick glance round, and finding
that Giles was not there, stood for a moment with a look of blank
disappointment, then, as the church clock struck eight she smiled to
herself.
“I d’ ’low farm clock be fast,” she remarked aloud, and forthwith,
deeming herself to be alone, devoted herself to the improvement of her
appearance. She shook out her skirts, took off and retied the bow of red
ribbon; passed the loosened locks about her brow round her toil-worn
finger, and finally, shading her eyes with her hand, gazed somewhat
anxiously in the direction of the village.
“Here he be!” whispered Jem all at once. He had crawled a little way on
his stomach in order to obtain a better view.
Hannah, perceiving Giles at the same moment, modestly withdrew from the
gap, and sitting down at the foot of a twisted thorn-tree began nervously
to pluck and chew the scarcely unfolded leaves of wood sorrel which grew
beneath it. The heavy tread drew nearer, and presently Giles’ figure
appeared in the gap.
Hannah looked up bashfully, a tentative smile hovering about her lips.
Giles smiled too, very broadly, and stood contemplating her so long that
the interested waiters craned their heads in the endeavour to ascertain
the cause of the silence.
“He be jist a-lookin’ at her,” muttered Alice.
“An’ she be a lookin’ up at he this way,” responded Lizzie, with a leer
which was a malicious exaggeration of poor Hannah’s uncertain smile.
“So you be a-settin’ on the ground?” hazarded Giles at last.
He squeezed himself through the gap and came a step nearer. He was a
thick-set man, with a broad, good-humoured, stupid face, which was now
all creased and puckered with an odd expression that partook as much of
anxiety as pleasure.
“Bain’t ye afeared o’ catchin’ cold?” he pursued, illuminated by a sudden
idea.
“I’ll get up if you like,” stammered Hannah.
“Nay now,” said Giles, “I don’t know as I would.”
He grinned till his eyes positively disappeared as he lowered himself to
the ground beside her.
“How’s that?” he enquired.
Hannah was at a loss to answer, and, after a moment’s pause, he thrust
his hand into his pocket and drew out a large hunch of bread and cheese
“Best make the most of our time,” he remarked. “We’m ploughin’ to-day.
Hain’t you brought your breakfast?” he asked, pausing in the midst of
mastication.
“I didn’t think about breakfast,” faltered Hannah.
“Didn’t ye now?” said Giles.
He looked reflectively at his portion, and then, apparently deciding that
there was only enough for one, continued to dispose of it, albeit with an
uneasy and apologetic air. The silence that ensued was so long that the
onlookers began to exchange glances somewhat blankly. It would be dull
if Giles merely ate his breakfast while Hannah sat by—that was an
everyday occurrence. Presently, however, Hannah took the initiative.
“Mr Neale,” she said, “did you want to speak to me?”
Giles, with a large lump of bread in his cheek, turned upon her a glance
that was half alarmed and half humorous.
“Well, I be come,” he said. “B’ain’t that enough? Deeds an’ not words
is my motto.”
“Well, an’ I be come,” said Hannah, with some spirit. “I be come because
I did think ye mid ha’ summat to say to I.”
Giles looked at her knowingly, and remarked with a meaning jerk of his
head—
“I d’ ’low us do understand each other.”
Hannah, pleased but still uncertain, laughed feebly, and began to pleat
the hem of her immaculate white apron.
“I didn’t never expect nobody to be carryin’ on about my bein’ a vitty
maid,” she said presently, in a low voice—not so low, however, but that
she was overheard by the delighted spies.
“No,” agreed Giles heartily. “Ye wouldn’t be like to expect that—no,
sure.”
Hannah was taken aback for the moment, but remembering Giles’ shyness,
thought his unwillingness to pursue the complimentary vein which had so
much astonished her in his letter, was due to that, and forebore to be
offended.
“’Tis true ye must feel yerself by times at a terr’ble loss,” she
continued after a pause.