A wet brown dog came running and did not bark, lifting a wet feather of
a tail. The man followed in a wet black oilskin jacket, like a chauffeur,
and face flushed a little. She felt him recoil in his quick walk, when he
saw her. She stood up in the handbreadth of dryness under the rustic porch.
He saluted without speaking, coming slowly near. She began to withdraw.
`I'm just going,' she said.
`Was yer waitin' to get in?' he asked, looking at the hut, not at her.
`No, I only sat a few minutes in the shelter,' she said, with quiet
dignity.
He looked at her. She looked cold.
`Sir Clifford 'adn't got no other key then?' he asked.
`No, but it doesn't matter. I can sit perfectly dry under this porch.
Good afternoon!' She hated the excess of vernacular in his speech.
He watched her closely, as she was moving away. Then he hitched up his
jacket, and put his hand in his breeches pocket, taking out the key of the
hut.
`'Appen yer'd better 'ave this key, an' Ah min fend for t' bods some
other road.'
She looked at him.
`What do you mean?' she asked.
`I mean as 'appen Ah can find anuther pleece as'll du for rearin' th'
pheasants. If yer want ter be 'ere, yo'll non want me messin' abaht a' th'
time.'
She looked at him, getting his meaning through the fog of the dialect.
`Why don't you speak ordinary English?' she said coldly.
`Me! Ah thowt it wor ordinary.'
She was silent for a few moments in anger.
`So if yer want t' key, yer'd better tacit. Or 'appen Ah'd better gi'e
't yer termorrer, an' clear all t' stuff aht fust. Would that du for yer?'
She became more angry.
`I didn't want your key,' she said. `I don't want you to clear anything
out at all. I don't in the least want to turn you out of your hut, thank
you! I only wanted to be able to sit here sometimes, like today. But I can
sit perfectly well under the porch, so please say no more about it.'
He looked at her again, with his wicked blue eyes.
`Why,' he began, in the broad slow dialect. `Your Ladyship's as welcome
as Christmas ter th' hut an' th' key an' iverythink as is. On'y this time O'
th' year ther's bods ter set, an' Ah've got ter be potterin' abaht a good
bit, seein' after 'em, an' a'. Winter time Ah ned 'ardly come nigh th'
pleece. But what wi' spring, an' Sir Clifford wantin' ter start th'
pheasants...An' your Ladyship'd non want me tinkerin' around an' about when
<<BackPagesTo menuForward>>