'He went to church a-Sunday,' said the clerk again.
''A did.'
'And she kept her eye upon en all the service, her face flickeren between red and white, but never stoppen at either.'
Mr. Springrove nodded, and went to the press.
'Well,' said the clerk, 'you don't call her the kind o' woman to make mistakes in just trotten through the weekly service o' God?
Why, as a rule she's as right as I be myself.'
Mr. Springrove nodded again, and gave a twist to the screw of the press, followed in the movement by Gad at the other side; the two grinders expressing by looks of the greatest concern that, if Miss Aldclyffe were as right at church as the clerk, she must be right indeed.
'Yes, as right in the service o' God as I be myself,' repeated the clerk. 'But last Sunday, when we were in the tenth commandment, says she, "Incline our hearts to keep this law," says she, when 'twas "Laws in our hearts, we beseech Thee," all the church through.
Her eye was upon HIM--she was quite lost--"Hearts to keep this law," says she; she was no more than a mere shadder at that tenth time--a mere shadder. You mi't ha' mouthed across to her "Laws in our hearts we beseech Thee," fifty times over--she'd never ha' noticed ye. She's in love wi' the man, that's what she is.'
'Then she's a bigger stunpoll than I took her for,' said Mr. Springrove. 'Why, she's old enough to be his mother.'
'The row'll be between her and that young Curlywig, you'll see. She won't run the risk of that pretty face be-en near.'
'Clerk Crickett, I d' fancy you d' know everything about everybody,' said Gad.
'Well so's,' said the clerk modestly. 'I do know a little. It comes to me.'
'And I d' know where from.'
'Ah.'
'That wife o' thine. She's an entertainen woman, not to speak disrespectful.'
'She is: and a winnen one. Look at the husbands she've had--God bless her!'
'I wonder you could stand third in that list, Clerk Crickett,' said Mr. Springrove.
'Well, 't has been a power o' marvel to myself oftentimes. Yes, matrimony do begin wi' "Dearly beloved," and ends wi' "Amazement," as the prayer-book says. But what could I do, naibour Springrove?
'Twas ordained to be. Well do I call to mind what your poor lady said to me when I had just married. "Ah, Mr. Crickett," says she, "your wife will soon settle you as she did her other two: here's a glass o' rum, for I shan't see your poor face this time next year."
I swallered the rum, called again next year, and said, "Mrs.
Springrove, you gave me a glass o' rum last year because I was going to die--here I be alive still, you see." "Well said, clerk! Here's two glasses for you now, then," says she. "Thank you, mem," I said, and swallered the rum. Well, dang my old sides, next year I thought I'd call again and get three. And call I did. But she wouldn't give me a drop o' the commonest. "No, clerk," says she, "you be too tough for a woman's pity.". . . Ah, poor soul, 'twas true enough! Here be I, that was expected to die, alive and hard as a nail, you see, and there's she moulderen in her grave.'
'I used to think 'twas your wife's fate not to have a liven husband when I zid 'em die off so,' said Gad.
'Fate? Bless thy simplicity, so 'twas her fate; but she struggled to have one, and would, and did. Fate's nothen beside a woman's schemen!'
'I suppose, then, that Fate is a He, like us, and the Lord, and the rest o' 'em up above there,' said Gad, lifting his eyes to the sky.
'Hullo! Here's the young woman comen that we were a-talken about by-now,' said a grinder, suddenly interrupting. 'She's comen up here, as I be alive!'
The two grinders stood and regarded Cytherea as if she had been a ship tacking into a harbour, nearly stopping the mill in their new interest.
'Stylish accoutrements about the head and shoulders, to my thinken,' said the clerk. 'Sheenen curls, and plenty o' em.'
'If there's one kind of pride more excusable than another in a young woman, 'tis being proud of her hair,' said Mr. Springrove.
'Dear man!--the pride there is only a small piece o' the whole. I warrant now, though she can show such a figure, she ha'n't a stick o' furniture to call her own.'
'Come, Clerk Crickett, let the maid be a maid while she is a maid,' said Farmer Springrove chivalrously.
'O,' replied the servant of the Church; 'I've nothen to say against it--O no:
'"The chimney-sweeper's daughter Sue As I have heard declare, O, Although she's neither sock nor shoe Will curl and deck her hair, O."'
Cytherea was rather disconcerted at finding that the gradual cessation of the chopping of the mill was on her account, and still more when she saw all the cider-makers' eyes fixed upon her except Mr. Springrove's, whose natural delicacy restrained him. She neared the plot of grass, but instead of advancing further, hesitated on its border.
Mr. Springrove perceived her embarrassment, which was relieved when she saw his old-established figure coming across to her, wiping his hands in his apron.
'I know your errand, missie,' he said, 'and am glad to see you, and attend to it. I'll step indoors.'
'If you are busy I am in no hurry for a minute or two,' said Cytherea.
'Then if so be you really wouldn't mind, we'll wring down this last filling to let it drain all night?'
'Not at all. I like to see you.'
'We are only just grinding down the early pickthongs and griffins,' continued the farmer, in a half-apologetic tone for detaining by his cider-making any well-dressed woman. 'They rot as black as a chimney-crook if we keep 'em till the regulars turn in.' As he spoke he went back to the press, Cytherea keeping at his elbow.
'I'm later than I should have been by rights,' he continued, taking up a lever for propelling the screw, and beckoning to the men to come forward. 'The truth is, my son Edward had promised to come to-day, and I made preparations; but instead of him comes a letter:
"London, September the eighteenth, Dear Father," says he, and went on to tell me he couldn't. It threw me out a bit.'
'Of course,' said Cytherea.
'He's got a place 'a b'lieve?' said the clerk, drawing near.
