“It be, bean’t it?” said Mr. Iden.
It really was humming stuff, but John well knew how proud Iden was of it, and how much he liked to hear it praised.
The inhabitants of the City of London conceitedly imagine that no one can be sharp-witted outside the sound of Bow Bells—country people are stupid. My opinion is that clumsy Jack Duck, who took about half an hour to write his name, was equal to most of them.
VIII
The ale being ended, Iden walked with him through the orchard.
“Famous wall that,” said John, presently, nodding towards the great red brick wall which adorned that side of the place. “Knowed how to build walls in those days.”
“No such wall as that anywhere about here,” said Iden, as proud of his wall as his ale. “No such bricks to be got. Folk don’t know how to put up a wall now—you read in the papers how the houses valls down in Lunnon.”
“Sort of cracks and comes in like—jest squashes up,” said John.
“Now, that’s a real bit of brickwork,” said Iden. “That’ll last—ah, last—”
“No end to it,” said John, who had admired the wall forty times before, thinking to himself as he saw Amaryllis leaning over the corner, “Blessed if I don’t think as ’twas she as dropped summat on my hat.” This strengthened his hopes; he had a tolerably clear idea that Mr. and Mrs. Iden were not averse to his suit; but he was doubtful about Amaryllis herself.
Amaryllis had not the slightest idea Duck had so much as looked at her—he called often, but seemed absorbed in the ale and gossip. Fancy her scorn if she had guessed!
John Duck was considered one of the most eligible young men thereabouts, for though by no means born in the purple of farming, it was believed he was certain to be very “warm” indeed when his father died. Old Duck, the son of a common labourer, occupied two or three of the finest farms in the neighbourhood. He made his money in a wagon—a curious place, you will say; why so? Have you ever seen the dingy, dark china-closets they call offices in the City? Have you ever ascended the dirty, unscrubbed, disgraceful staircase that leads to a famous barrister’s “chambers”? These are far less desirable, surely, than a seat in a wagon in a beautiful meadow or cornfield. Old Duck, being too ponderous to walk, was driven about in a wagon, sitting at the rear with his huge, short legs dangling down; and, the wagon being halted in a commanding position, he overlooked his men at work.
One day he was put in a cart instead, and the carter walking home beside the horse, and noting what a pull it was for him up the hills, and drawling along half asleep, quite forgot his master, and dreamed he had a load of stones. By-and-by, he pulled out the bar, and shot Old Duck out. “A shot me out,” grumbled the old man, “as if I’d a been a load of flints.”
Riding about in this rude chariot the old fellow had amassed considerable wealth—his reputation for money was very great indeed—and his son John would, of course, come in for it.
John felt sure of Mr. and Mrs. Iden, but about Amaryllis he did not know. The idea that she had dropped “summat” on his hat raised his spirits immensely.
Now Amaryllis was not yet beautiful—she was too young; I do not think any girl is really beautiful so young—she was highly individualized, and had a distinct character, as it were, in her face and figure. You saw at a glance that there was something about her very different from other girls, something very marked, but it was not beauty yet.
Whether John thought her handsome, or saw that she would be, or what, I do not know; or whether he looked “forrard,” as he would have said.
“Heigh for a lass with a tocher!”
John had never read Burns, and would not have known that tocher meant dowry; nor had he seen the advice of Tennyson—
“Doesn’t thee marry for money,
But go where money lies.”
but his native intelligence needed no assistance from the poets, coronetted or otherwise.
It was patent to everyone that her father, Iden, was as poor as the raggedest coat in Christendom could make him; but it was equally well known and a matter of public faith, that her grandfather, the great miller and baker, Lord Lardy-Cake, as the boys called him derisively, had literally bushels upon bushels of money. He was a famous stickler for ancient usages, and it was understood that there were twenty thousand spade guineas in an iron box under his bed. Any cottager in the whole country side could have told you so, and would have smiled at your ignorance; the thing was as well known as that St. Paul’s is in the City.
Besides which there was another consideration, old Granfer Iden was a great favourite at Court—Court meaning the mansion of the Hon. Raleigh Pamment, the largest landowner that side of the county. Granfer Iden entered the Deer Park (which was private) with a special key whenever he pleased, he strolled about the gardens, looked in at the conservatory, chatted familiarly with the royal family of Pamment when they were at home, and when they were away took any friend he chose through the galleries and saloons.
“Must be summat at the bottom on’t,” said John Duck to himself many a time and oft. “They stuck-up proud folk wouldn’t have he there if there wasn’t summat at the bottom on’t.” A favourite at Court could dispense, no doubt, many valuable privileges.
Amaryllis heard their talk as they came nearer, and turned round and faced them. She wore a black dress, but no hat; instead she had carelessly thrown a scarlet shawl over her head, mantilla fashion, and held it with one hand. Her dark ringlets fringed her forehead, blown free and wild; the fresh air had brought
