Part 16 (1/2)

”Your father was kind enough to offer me,”--began Hester.

”Iss,” broke in Nuncey; ”father's kind, whatever else he may be. As for considerin' where to stow you, that never crossed his head. You mustn't think, my dear, that you bain't welcome. Only--well, I may so well get it over soon as late--you'll have to put up with a bed in the room with me. Shall you mind?”

”Of course I shall not mind,” said Hester, conquered at once.

”Well, that's uncommon nice of you; and I don't mind tellin' 'ee 'tis the second load you've a-lifted off my mind. For, to start with, I made sure you was goin' to be a frump.”

”But why?”

Nuncey had no time to explain, for they were now arrived at the stationmaster's cottage. The station-master himself welcomed them at the door, wiping his mouth.

”You'll step in and have a dish of tea, the both of you. It'll take off the edge of the mornin'.”

Nuncey declined, after a glance at Hester, and at once fell to discussing the weather with the station-master while he hoisted in the trunk. Two of Hester's earliest discoveries in this strange land were that everyone talked about the weather, and everyone addressed everyone else as 'My dear.'

”Well, so long!” said the stationmaster. ”Wind's going round wi' the sun, I see, same as yesterday. We're in for a hot spell, you mark my words.”

”So long!” Nuncey shook the reins, and they started again. ”Is that how sleeves are wearin', up the country?” she asked, after two or three glances at Hester's jacket.

”They are worn fuller than this, mostly,” Hester answered gravely.

”But you mustn't take me for an authority.”

”I can see so far into a brick wall as most. Don't tell me! You're one to think twice about your clothes, for all you look so modest.

Boots like yours cost more than I can spend on mine in a month o'

Sundays; iss, and a trifle o' vanity thrown in. You've a very pretty foot--an' I like your face--an' your way o' dressin', if you weren't so sad-coloured. What's that for, makin' so bold?”

”It's for my father.”

”There now, I'm sorry!--Always was a clumsy fool, and always will be.

I thought it might be for old Rosewarne, you bein' hand-in-glove with him.”

”But I scarcely knew him. It was only just now I heard the news.”-- Hester broke off, colouring again with annoyance. What did these people mean, that they persisted in taking for granted her complicity in some mysterious plot?

By and by, at the top of the hill, they overtook the young sailor.

”Got over your sulks, Tom?” inquired Nuncey cheerfully. ”If so, climb up and be sociable--there's plenty room.”

But Tom shook his head without answering, though he drew close to the hedge to let the trap pa.s.s. It is difficult to look dignified with a blackboard, an easel, and a coloured globe on one's back. The globe absurdly reminded Hester of a picture of Atlas in one of her schoolbooks, and she could not help a smile. A moment later she would have given all her pocket-money to recall that smile, for he had glanced up, glowering, and observed it.

Nuncey laughed outright.

”But all the same,” she remarked meditatively as they drove on, ”I like the lad for't. 'Tisn' everyone would do so much for the sake of an old 'ooman that never has a good word to fling at n.o.body, and maybe spanked 'en blue when he was a tacker and went to school wi'

her. He's terrible simple; and decent, too, for a sailor. I reckon there's a many think Mother Butson hardly used that wouldn't crack their backs for her as he's a-doing.”

”He spoke to me,” said Hester, ”quite as if I were doing a wickedness in coming--as if, at least, I were selfish and unjust. And I never heard of this Mother Butson till half an hour ago! Do _you_ think I'm unjust?”

”Well,” Nuncey answered judiciously, ”if any person had asked me that an hour ago, I'd have agreed with Tom. But 'tis different now I've seen your face.”