IT was evening; most of the inhabitants of the old-world village were
standing about their doorways, and a few of the more energetic were at
work in their tiny patches of garden. It was noticeable that those among
the men who had not betaken themselves to the allotments leaned in lordly
fashion against their door-posts or lolled over the garden hedge,
deeming, no doubt, that they had already borne their share of the burden
of the day, and that such trifling supplementary labour as watering
cabbages or tying up carnations might well be left to the women-folk.
Mrs. Fripp seemed to accept this state of things without protest. She
was a stout woman, and the weather was warm. She had been busy all day
at her wash-tub, and she groaned as she bent her bulky person over the
flowers that would keep slipping away from her large, moist fingers just
as she had deemed they were secure.
“Drat it!” she murmured under her breath, as a beautiful bloom slid from
its stick for the fourth time.
“They be ticklish things,” observed Mr. Fripp from his station in the
doorway, without taking the trouble to remove his pipe, and speaking in
consequence somewhat indistinctly. “Ah, they be ticklish things. They
d’ take a dale o’ patience.”
“That they do!” agreed his spouse heartily, standing upright, and
straightening her broad back. She looked half absently up and down the
sloping village street, which lay deep in shadow, save at the uppermost
end, where the gables of the thatched houses were bathed in the evening
glow, the light falling full upon the whitewashed chimney-stack of the
little hostelry known as the “Pure Drop,” and creeping downwards along
the irregular line of roofs until it terminated abruptly just where Mrs.
Fripp’s wash-house jutted out into the street. Seen thus at this mystic
hour there was much beauty about the little hamlet, which, indeed, at any
time had a quaint charm of its own. The eaves of many of the roofs
sloped downwards at certain points almost to the ground, overhanging here
a mullioned window, and bulging out there into a minute and fantastically
shaped gable. Creepers clung close to the whitewashed walls, hollyhocks
stood in many a homely garden with the stateliness they might better have
assumed in the pleasaunce of a queen; pigeons bowed and cooed on the
sunlit apex of russet roof or golden stack; children played about the
doorsteps or made pies of the dust in the road.
But Mrs. Fripp gazed on these things indifferently, her glance having
fixed itself on a tall, angular woman’s figure which was at that moment
travelling slowly towards her.
“’Tis never Mrs. Adlam steppin’ this way—come to look after Susan, I d’
’low. Them two girls hey been gossipin’ in there this hour an’ more.”
“It’ll be about Tom Locke, I’ll warrant, that they’re a-talkin’,” agreed
her lord, the black pipe wagging with every word, and being sucked at the
conclusion of the sentence with evident relish. “Aye, aye; maids will
get talkin’ about sweethearts an’ that. ’Tis naitral at their age, an’
this accident o’ pore Tom’s is oncommon onfart’nate. Good-day, Mrs.
Adlam, ’tis powerful warm, ’tis, surely.”
“Yes, yes,” agreed Mrs. Adlam hurriedly and abstractedly. “Good-day to
ye, Mr. Fripp. Is Susan within?”
“Aye,” said Mr. Fripp, without moving his form from the door-post, “she’s
sittin’ a bit wi’ our Lizzie. Our maid’s jest foldin’ a few clothes for
her mother to iron to-morrow, an’ Susan’s sittin’ wi’ her.”
“Ah, neighbour, your Lizzie’s wonderful handy, they say,” responded Mrs.
Adlam—without enthusiasm, however. “Now, my maid’s that delicate an’
nervous like, she’s no use at all at home, I may say. I’ve had to have
doctor to her times an’ times, but ’tis no manner o’ use. She can’t do
many things for herself, pore maid; an’ she can scarce abear to see me
a-doin’ of ’em. ’Tis a nesh flower, neighbours. Why, she d’ run out o’
the room when I put our bit o’ beef of a Sunday to the fire, an’ she d’
very near faint if I go for to skin a rabbit.”
“Well, to think on’t!” said Mr. and Mrs. Fripp together, commiseratingly,
but admiringly, too. Such a constitution as Susan’s was felt to be a
credit to any village.
“Ah, ’tis a nesh flower,” repeated the mother with a kind of fretful
triumph. “Laist time Doctor Richmond come I explained to him as well as
I could how she be took, an’ I says to him: ‘Could you tell me, sir,’
says I, ‘what ’tis as ails my daughter?’ An’ he looks at me so earnest
as he could, an’ he said ’twas—oh, a terrible long name—it always slips
my mind, but it’s awful long. Wait a bit; I’ll have it in a minute. Ye
mind that climbin’ tree as runs round the corner o’ the ‘Pure Drop’? It
do have blue blossoms in the spring-time, hangin’ down summat o’ the
natur o’ laburnum. You know, Mrs. Fripp—so fond of flowers as you be.”
“Aye, we had wan at my father’s place—he was gardener, ye know—I d’ call
it to mind, now. Westonia, that’s what it be called. Nay, now;
westeria—that’s it.”
“Ah, that’s it,” agreed Mrs. Adlam; adding, with impressive solemnity,
“Well, that’s what’s the matter wi’ my Susan.”
“Very like,” assented Mrs. Fripp, who was an imaginative woman. “’Tis
but a pore nesh thing, that creeper—never has no leaves till ’tis
well-nigh done flowerin’.”
“Such fancies as she d’ take even in the way o’ courtin’,” resumed Mrs.
Adlam. “Says she to me once: ‘Mother,’ says she, ‘don’t you count on me
ever gettin’ wed, for I assure ye I abhor mankind.’”
“Dear, dear!” exclaimed Mr. Fripp, much startled and infinitely
scandalised. “’Twas an unnait’ral thing for a maid to say, sure. Never
heard o’ such a thing. I be sorry for ye, Mrs. Adlam, that I be.”
“She takes them notions out o’ the books that she d’ read when she be
porely,” returned the mother, apologetically. “Ah, that’s where she gets
’em; but I do assure you, neighbours, them was her very words. I don’t
notice her no more than if she was a child. I did think a few months
ago, in spite of all, that she’d be gettin’ settled so comfortable as she
could be. Tom Locke ’s a good, studdy young chap, earnin’ a good bit,
now. He’ll be havin’ the farm, too, when his father dies. But the maid
is so upset about that accident, I don’t know whatever to do wi’ her. I
thought she’d get over the feelin’ about his losin’ that eye; but it
laisses so strong as ever. He came to our place this evenin’, an’ she
did jump up an’ run straight away here. He’ve a-been waitin’ an’
waitin’, pore young man, but at laist he gets up, an’ says he: ‘I’ll go,
Mrs. Adlam. Will ’ee tell Susan that if she wants to see me again, she
can meet me up the lane at the wold place on Sunday?’”
“Well,” said Mrs. Fripp, gazing thoughtfully up the street again, and
then suffering her glance to revert to Mrs. Adlam’s lean, anxious face,
“’tis terrible hard for ’ee, ’tis indeed. I’m sorry for pore Tom, yet
’tis an awk’ard thing for a girl to wed wi’ a man as has but one eye.
An’ Susan being so bashful an’ tewly seems to make it worse. Does he
look terrible bad, Mrs. Adlam?”
Mrs. Adlam considered. “One side looks much the same as ever,” she said.
“Aye, one eye’s jest like it always was, but t’other side”—She paused.
“Well, there’s no eye at all t’other side.”
“Doctor took it out, did he?” inquired Fripp, deeply interested. “Well,
Mrs. Adlam, ’tisn’t so bad but it mid have been worse—we must comfort
ourselves so well as we can. If keeper hadn’t been by, an’ hadn’t out
wi’s knife, same as he did, an’ took shots out o’ Tom’s eye at once, he’d
very like have lost t’other one. As I say, it mid ha’ been worse.”
“Tom said jest now as doctor thought keeper’d ha’ done better to ha’ left
his eye alone,” sighed Mrs. Adlam. “But there’s no tellin’—doctors is
jealous folk; they can’t abear a body to do a thing for theirselves.
Why, laist winter when I had the inflammation, an’ made mysel’ a drop o’
gruel wi’ rum in it to strengthen me a bit, Doctor Richmond was that
vexed! Well, I must be goin’. Will ’ee call my maid, Mr. Fripp?”
The good man complied. Screwing his person a little sideways round the
door-post, and turning his head over his shoulder, he bellowed forth,
first the name of his own daughter and then that of Mrs. Adlam’s, at
intervals of about a quarter of a minute, until there was a hasty banging
of doors in the back premises, a patter of feet across the kitchen, and
the two girls appeared simultaneously on the threshold. Susan Adlam,
tall, fair, and blue-eyed, with the complexion of a rose-leaf, and hands
so white that they told their own tale of selfishness and incapacity;
Lizzie Fripp, dark, with a brown merry face, and a squat sturdy form.
With a little more height and a little less breadth she might have been
pretty.
“Oh, ’tis you, Mother,” said Susan, with a bashful wriggle. “Is Tom
gone? I’m sure I hope he is. Don’t ask me to go home if he’s there, for
I couldn’t abear to see en.”
Mrs. Adlam cast up her eyes to heaven, and then looked round with a
certain melancholy pride.
“No, no! Come along, my dear, he’s gone; an’ I was to say if ye wanted
to spaik to en again you was to meet en at the wold place o’ Sunday.”
“_I_ don’t want to see en again,” said Susan tossing her head.
“For shame!” cried little Lizzie. “I wonder at ye, Susan. The pore
chap’ll break his ’eart. An’ what’s an eye, after all? ’Tisn’t real
needful to a man—not like as if it was an arm now, so as he couldn’t work
for ’ee, or a leg, so as he’d have to have a wooden un, an’ go
_peggety-peg_ up church. Nay, now, there’d be raison if ’twas an arm or
a leg—but a body can see as well wi’ one eye as wi’ two.”
“Hark to the maid!” cried Mr. Fripp, with a great roar of laughter. “She
d’ spaik like print. Well done, little un!”
“Well, I’m not fond of one-eyed folks if you be,” cried Susan
sarcastically. “I’d not have a man without two eyes, not if I was to
bide single all my life. I’d as lief be single as not—I’ve no fancy for
wedlock.”
“Dear, dear,” said Fripp, “’tis terrible to hear how onraisonable the
pore maid d’ talk! Take her home, do, Mrs. Adlam, an’ make her lay
down.”
“Come along then, Susan,” cried Mrs. Adlam with an air of chastened
dignity; “come along, else you’ll be havin’ the westeria again.”
“Nay, now, Mother, ’tis _heasteria_ ye mean. Doctor said plain as the
name of it was heasteria.”
“Lard, child, heast or west, ’tis all one. You come home wi’ me, do ’ee
now, else you’ll be laid up.”
She drew one of the pretty white hands through her own bony arm and led
her daughter gently away, supporting her with increasing solicitude, as
the girl, conscious of attracting universal attention, began to limp and
to stagger in the most interesting manner.
“Pore thing!” murmured Fripp commiseratingly. “She d’ seem to be
falterin’. I d’ ’low ’tis a terrible visitation for Mrs. Adlam, ’tis
surely. Well, Mother, let us give thanks where thanks be due. Lizzie,
here, is a good set off to t’other one.”
“She’d better be,” retorted Mrs. Fripp, speaking loudly and decisively
for Lizzie’s benefit. “I’d have no patience wi’ such goin’s on. I’d
take a bit o’ broom-end to her instead o’ the doctor if I were Mrs.
Adlam.”
“Well said!” chimed in a red-faced matron from the other side of the
hedge. “It never does no good to spile childer. Says I to mine soon’s
ever they grow up: ‘Now,’ I says, ‘I’ve gi’ed ye a good educassion, and
now yer claaws must keep yer jaaws,’ I says.”
Though the education which the good lady in question had bestowed upon
her progeny was known to be of a somewhat questionable order, and though
the said progeny were by no means considered creditable to the community
at large, the theory was so sound in itself that the Fripps agreed
heartily; and the sentiment was endorsed by the village policeman, who
for the last few minutes had been listening unobserved to the discussion.
“Ah,” he said, “that’s what I call straightfor’ard. ‘Yer claaws must
keep yer jaaws,’ says you. If Susan Adlam had nothing to put into her
mouth but what her ’ands got for her she’d starve, pore young craiture.
But tis a very foolish business about Tom Locke. The young man’s a fine
young man, doin’ well, an’ like to do better—an eye more nor less doesn’t
alter his being a wonderful good match for the girl. But if she’s so set
on his havin’ a pair, why doesn’t he get a mock un put in?”
“A mock eye!” exclaimed Mrs. Fripp in amazement. “My stars! I never
heard tell o’ such a thing. You be jokin’ surely, policeman.”
“Nay, not I indeed. I knowed a man livin’ out Tipton way as lost his eye
on account o’ a bit o’ blasted rock goin’ into it; an’ he went to Bristol
an’ come back wi’ a beautiful new un—ye’d scarce know it from his own,
only it were a deal handsomer.”
“D— my eyes!” murmured Mr. Fripp, not with any intentional profanity, but
because the expletive seemed peculiarly adapted to the circumstances.
“Ah, I knowed him well. Many a time he’s took out the glass eye to let
me see it. ’Twas a wonderful invention, an’ it cost I believe a sight o’
money. He didn’t wear it every day, but he allus put it in o’
market-days an’ Sundays. Ah, ’twas a curious thing to see en o’ Sundays,
lookin’ at parson so wide-awake wi’ the glass eye, while t’other maybe
was as drowsy as yours or mine mid be.”
“Well I never!” murmured Mrs. Fripp. “Somebody ought to tell young Locke
about it,” she added, as an afterthought.
“’Tisn’t exactly the kind o’ subject a body ’ud think o’ namin’ to the
pore man,” said the policeman, who was a person of refined feelings. “To
say ‘Good-day to ye, an’ why don’t ye get a glass eye?’ ’ud seem a bit
strange. Well, neighbours, I must be movin’ on. ’Tis a pity for the
pore chap; but we must feel grateful for him as Providence didn’t see fit
to try en no worse.”
On the next Sunday afternoon, after Lizzie had cleared away the dinner
things, and fed the chickens, and scrubbed the faces of her little
brothers and sisters previous to their departure for Sunday School, she
donned her white straw hat, with its big red rose nodding triumphantly
from a commanding position just over the centre of her forehead, pinned a
posy of carnations and jasmine and southern-wood in the bosom of her blue
dress, drew a new pair of cotton gloves over her plump hands, and sallied
forth up the street to call on Susan.
She found Mrs. Adlam with her Sunday gown pinned back over a striped
petticoat, her sleeves rolled up as high as Sunday sleeves would go, and
a further protection against possible accidents in the shape of a
large-bibbed apron shrouding the remainder of her Sabbath glories, hard
at work washing up.
“Good-day, Mrs. Adlam. I jest called round to see how Susan mid be.”
“Good-day, Lizzie. Susan’s very bad, thank ye. She’s layin’ on her bed
upstairs. Step up if you like.”
Lizzie stepped up, and found her friend reclining outside her patchwork
quilt, absorbed in the perusal of a “penny dreadful” of the most
thrilling type. Lizzie approached the bed, clumping sturdily with her
well-polished best boots.
“Bain’t ye agoin’ to see pore Tom?” she inquired, without wasting time on
preliminaries.
Susan looked up, startled: she had just got to that point in the
narrative when the heroine, drawing herself up to her full height,
informed the villain that she would be sooner clasped by a serpent than
permit herself to be degraded by his embrace.
“What? No, I’m not going to see Tom Locke. My nerves is much too upset.
Ye did give me a jump comin’ in that way, Lizzie.”
“He’ll be waiting up there for you to spaik to en.”
“Well, ’tisn’t my fault if he do. I never axed en to. I’m real fainty
an’ porely to-day, Lizzie; couldn’t so much as go to church. Sit down,
an’ let’s talk a bit. I seed yer father lookin’ arter me t’other night;
I was walkin’ so queer, wasn’t I? I expect he thought I was lookin’ real
bad.”
“No, I’ll not sit down,” said Lizzie. She planted her umbrella on the
floor, and stared at the other girl for a moment without speaking.
“If he was to get another eye would ye look at en then?” she remarked at
length, abruptly. “A mock un, I mane. They can be had easy, Policeman
Blanchard says. No good to see out of, ye know, but jest to look at.”
“Oh, Lizzie, what a tale! He was makin’ fun o’ you.”
“No, he wasn’t. ’Twas to father he said it. He said he knowed a man
Tipton way as had un—rale ’andsome—’andsomer nor his own. He wore it
Sundays an’ ’olidays, an’ took it out week days for fear o’ accidents.”
“Well,” said Susan, consideringly, “if Tom were to get un perhaps I could
forget it were a mock un; but he’d have to wear it always, that he would,
else I couldn’t make believe ’twere real.”
“Well, I’ll go an’ tell en that. If he gets a real nice one ye’ll think
on’t, won’t ye, Susan?”
“I dunno; I’ll see,” said Susan provisionally.
Lizzie marched towards the door without another word.
“’Tis a funny notion, though, yer takin’ it up like that,” cried Susan,
suddenly awaking to the fact. “Be ye really goin’ to en now?”
“Yes, I be,” replied Lizzie, without turning her head; and down the
stairs clattered she, and out into the air.
Leaving the village behind she ascended a steep, stony path, which led
across a curious and antiquated bridge, and presently found herself in a
shady lane bordered on both sides by high banks, where the hedgerows had
long escaped all control of man, and grew in a wild and most picturesque
tangle. Here thorn and gorse and wild apple crowded upon each other;
golden maple was thrown into relief by the sturdier green of the elder;
there the clustering berries of a guelder-rose, already turning red, made
a wondrous patch of colour, while the tiny, soft-shelled hazel nuts shone
out from the deep green leaves like pearls; over all the traveller’s-joy
had flung its wealth of delicate blossom and clinging tendril, now
swinging proudly from the topmost bough of a tall sapling, now creeping
low amidst the brambles and the bracken. A yellow-hammer called to a
brother occasionally from some swaying twig; little speckled half-fledged
robins hopped along the path in front of Lizzie, taking occasional short
flights when she came inconveniently near, but returning to peer up at
her with large, yellow-rimmed, curious eyes.
Lizzie noticed none of these things. Had she had a mind to gaze upon the
beauties of the prospect, she would have peered through the gaps in the
green ramparts down to the plain, and away past the cultivated fields and
the silver windings of the river to the distant roofs and chimney-stacks
of the market town. One could obtain a beautiful view of the new brewery
from here; the brickwork looked as red as red, and one could see the
smoke rising from the great chimney. Ah, that was a view worth looking
at; so all the villagers said, and Lizzie agreed with them.
But to-day she stared straight in front of her, with eyes as round and
curious as those of the robins themselves; eyes which had, moreover, an
alarmed expression entirely lacking to those of the bold, sociable little
birds in question. Her heart was beginning to beat rather fast, and she
was conscious of increasing trepidation as she drew near the
trysting-place.
At a turn of the lane she could see a pair of long legs thrust out from a
recess in the bank; then a hand idly brandishing a stick; at length a
head moving amid the clustering leaves. When the rapid _clump_, _clump_
of her thick-soled boots reached his ears, the man rose quickly and came
towards her. A tall, loose-limbed, young fellow, with a fringe of dark
beard and whisker round his brown face; his hat was pulled rather forward
over his brows, and his one remaining eye looked eagerly and anxiously
towards the approaching figure.
One glance told him that the sturdy form was not that of his sweetheart,
and he turned away, whistling to himself to hide his disappointment, and
swishing absently at the wayside grasses. He expected the rapid steps to
pass on; but, to his surprise, they slackened as they drew near, and then
abruptly ceased.
“Good-day to ’ee, Mr. Locke.”
“Ah,” said Locke, “it’s Lizzie Fripp. Good-day, Lizzie, good-day.”
He turned unwillingly as he spoke. Though not by nature a sensitive man,
he felt a little diffident as to the impression which his new
disfigurement was likely to create when first beheld by a stranger.
“Ye be waitin’ for Susan?” said Lizzie, staring hard for a moment and
then averting her eyes. “She’s—she’s not able to come to-day.”
“I thought as much,” said Tom gloomily. “I’ve been sittin’ here two hour
an’ more. Did she send ye to me?” he added suddenly.
“No, I came myself. I wanted to tell ’ee somethin’, Mr. Locke,” blurted
out Lizzie tremulously. “I d’ ’low that if you was to get a glass eye
Susan ’ud love you jest the same as ever.”
A dark flush overspread the young farmer’s face, and a flash of anger
appeared in his solitary orb.
“Did she tell ’ee to say this?” he asked, after a pause.
“Nay now, nay now, don’t ’ee take on so, Mr. Locke. They was all talkin’
about it in the village laist night; an’ Policeman Blanchard said he
knowed a man as had one that could be took in an’ out quite handy, an’ it
looked jest the same as t’other, only ’andsomer. An’ I axed Susan if ye
was to get one would she walk with ’ee again, an’ she seemed to take to
the notion; so I thought I’d jest run here an’ tell ’ee.”
“Did ye?” said Tom. “That was very well done, Lizzie.”
“Well, I thought ’twas but kind,” said Lizzie modestly. “Susan, ye see,
has a terrible delicate constitootion, an’ takes things to ’eart. Why,
she could scarce so much as walk home from our place laist night.”
“Couldn’t she?” returned Locke sardonically. “She run fast enough out o’
my way—I know that. Aye, she showed as clean a pair o’ heels as a maid
need wish to. An’ so she said she’d take to me again if I was to get a
glass eye, did she?”
“She said she’d think on’t,” returned the girl cautiously.
Tom took off his hat and bent down till his face was nearly on a level
with Lizzie’s.
“Look here, Lizzie Fripp,” he said authoritatively; “you be a
trewth-tellin’ maid, an’ ye’ll gi’e me a straightfor’ard answer. Tell me
plain! I was reckoned a fairish good-lookin’ chap till now, but this
accident has spiled my looks for me. Tell me the trewth. Am I such an
object that any maid would run away from me, or is it jest Susan that’s
extra pertic’lar?”
Lizzie raised her honest brown eyes and gazed at him steadily.
“You’re not an object, Mr. Locke,” she said thoughtfully. “Dear no, not
at all an object. I think a body ’ud soon get used to—to one side bein’
a little different from t’other. But some maids takes notions, ye see.
My mother said she never could abide red hair. If father’d hev been a
red-haired man she’d never ha’ married him. Now _I_ think ’tis much the
same as any other colour.”
Tom slowly straightened himself. A smile was hovering about his mouth.
“You think I’d look better with a glass eye?” he inquired.
“Well,” returned Lizzie dispassionately, “I think it ’ud be very nice for
Sundays, Mr. Locke. Sundays an’ market-days, or when ye was goin’ for a
drive in the trap, or such like.”
“I see,” said Tom, meditatively stroking his beard. “P’r’aps I’ll talk
to doctor about it.”
“Oh, do,” she urged eagerly. “I d’ ’low Susan ’ll be real pleased.”
“Ah!” said Tom. “Be ye goin’ home now, Lizzie?”
“Yes. I only came this way to see you.”
“Oh, an’ did ye? Well, ’twas very kindly done of you. Come, I’ll walk a
piece of the way with you.”
He walked a piece of the way—indeed, he walked all the way; and Lizzie
thought within herself, as they trudged along, that if any stranger met
them who did not know them, he might have taken them for sweethearts; for
they walked in almost unbroken silence, just as courting people did, and
Tom kept very close to her, and when they came to a rough piece of road
he supported her by the elbow, just as he might have done if she had been
Susan.
That young lady happened to be leaning languidly against her door-post
when the couple drew near. She had been looking up the road as though
expecting somebody, and at sight of Tom uttered a faint shriek and rushed
into the house, closing the door.
“Pore Susan!” cried Lizzie commiseratingly. “It has given her a turn to
see you.”
Locke made no reply, but, after a moment, coming to the precipitous
descent which led downwards from the bridge, he supported Lizzie very
kindly, and was indeed good enough at one particularly stony bit to
encircle her waist with his arm. They parted at the Adlams’ door, and
Lizzie tripped joyfully upstairs.
“It’s all right,” she cried gaily. “He’s promised to see about gettin’ a
new eye, Susan.”
Miss Adlam turned abruptly away from the window where she chanced to be
standing, and cast a suspicious glance upon her friend.
“What was Tom Locke’s arm doin’ round your waist?” she inquired.
“Why, the path was so steep,” explained Lizzie, opening her eyes very
wide. “What’s the matter, Susan? Bain’t ye so well this evenin’?”
For Susan was making an odd sort of gulping noise.
“Ye sly thing!” she burst out suddenly. “Lard! I wouldn’t be so
treecherous—that I wouldn’t; running after en afore my very eyes. Get
along with ’ee, do. I’ll have nothin’ more to say to ’ee.”
Lizzie stared for a moment, thunderstruck, her usually rosy face turning
quite pale, and tears presently rushing to her eyes.
“Well, Susan,” she said, as soon as she had recovered her breath, “I
didn’t think it of ’ee to turn on me so sudden. I never did nothin’ but
what was for yer good. I thought it ’ud plaze ye. But there, you can
manage en for yourself now. I don’t care if Tom Locke doesn’t get no new
eye at all.”
She hurried from the room, leaving Susan convulsively choking and
sobbing.
“Dear heart! dear heart! she’s took wi’ the westeria again,” groaned Mrs.
Adlam, as she went creaking up the stairs.
But little Lizzie made no response. Her cheeks were red enough now, and
she metaphorically shook the dust of the Adlam premises from her feet as
she closed the garden gate behind her.
She kept religiously away from her former friend throughout the week, but
when Sunday came round that young lady actually condescended to pay her a
visit. Susan arrived attired in white, with a wreath of daisies round
her hat, and a great bunch of monthly roses in her waistband; the coils
of her fair hair shone like gold in the sunlight—she was a harmony of
white and pink and yellow, very pleasant to behold, particularly as her
face was flushed with unwonted excitement, and her eyes were bright and
eager.
Lizzie received her in the orchard, where she was feeding the chickens.
She was not yet dressed for the afternoon, it being her mother’s turn to
go to church, and various household duties falling in consequence to her
share to-day; but she had put on the clean print which was to serve her
throughout the coming week, and a big white apron over that. Her curly
brown hair was plaited very neatly, and her sleeves rolled up high on her
firm plump arms. The sun glanced down through the heavily laden apple
boughs upon her active little figure as she flitted from one hen-coop to
another dispensing handfuls of yellow meal to the half-fledged chickens
that ran in and out between the bars; her bright tin bucket glittered in
the rays, and the little brown tendrils on her forehead danced up and
down with the rapidity of her movements.
[Picture: “Oh, Lizzie, I’ve such a piece of news for you!”]
“Oh, it’s you,” she remarked, not quite so cordially as usual.
“Yes, it’s me,” cried Susan eagerly. “Oh, Lizzie, I’ve such a piece of
news for you! Tom Locke has been away all the week, and they d’ say he’s
jest come back wi’ two eyes—a new imitation one that looks jest the same
as t’other.”
“Has he truly?” responded Lizzie, her lingering resentment forgotten, and
a broad smile beaming on her face. “Why, I _am_ glad, I am, sure. Ye’ll
be willin’ to take up wi’ en now, Susan?”
“I’ll see,” responded the other, with a little toss of the head. “I
can’t answer for myself altogether, but I’ll try to conquer my feelin’s.
I’m jest thinkin’ o’ takin’ a stroll over the bridge yonder an’ up the
lane towards Locke’s. An’ if I do happen to meet en we’ll see how things
turns out, Lizzie.”
But it chanced that the meeting with Tom Locke was to take place under
different circumstances than those which his sweetheart had anticipated.
At that very moment the portly form of Mrs. Fripp emerged from the back
door of the cottage, followed by the tall figure of a man—a man whose
bearded brown face was enlivened by a pair of beautiful brown eyes. He
advanced straight to Lizzie, beaming with pleasure and manly pride.
“Good day to ’ee, Lizzie,” he cried. “I’ve jest come to ax if ye’ll go
for a walk wi’ me.”
“Oh, Mr. Locke, ye mane Susan, surely?” stammered the little rosy-faced
damsel.
“Ah, you didn’t see that I was here,” said Susan, coming forward with a
coquettish sidle and a fatuous smile.
“Nay, Susan, I seed ye very well. I was sorry to hear ye was so porely—I
hope ye’re feelin’ a trifle better now. Well, Lizzie my dear, ye’ll gi’e
me an answer, won’t ye? I’ll be truly pleased to take ’ee for a walk.”
The two girls looked at one another; the fiery light of animosity
beginning to shine in Susan’s eyes; wonder, confusion, and a kind of
doubtful pleasure perceptible in Lizzie’s.
“Ye see ’tis this way,” proceeded Locke, in an affably explanatory tone,
“I took yer advice, Lizzie, an’ got fixed wi’ a new eye at Bristol. An’
ye wouldn’t believe the difference it has made to my sight. Lard! I
wonder I could ha’ been so blind before! But I see clear now at last,
an’ I see, my maid, that you’re the wife for me.”
* * * * *
The seizure which overtook Susan Adlam on realising that Tom Locke’s mind
was irrevocably made up would have thrilled the whole village, had not
the interest once evoked by her uncommon delicacy of constitution been
now entirely absorbed in admiring contemplation of Tom Locke’s artificial
eye. The fact of Susan Adlam’s being subject to attacks of that
remarkable malady with the high-sounding name did, no doubt, confer a
certain distinction upon the neighbourhood; but what was that compared
with the lustre of having in their midst a man with a removable eye? An
eye that could be pocketed when not in immediate use, and assumed at a
moment’s notice when it was desired to create a favourable impression.
The new Mrs. Locke, being a thrifty soul, did not encourage too frequent
a use of this wonderful adornment; and, indeed, it was universally felt
that the spectacle would somewhat lose in value if it were made too
cheap. But little Lizzie, though she was the humblest of her sex, felt a
modest glow of pride when she sat beside her husband in the spring-cart;
and on Sundays her devotion was somewhat disturbed by the pleasant
consciousness that, at sermon time, the glances of the congregation
wandered frequently from the countenance of the preacher towards the
preternaturally alert orb of her Thomas.