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The Woodlanders

Page 9

"But I sha'nt," she replied, with laconic indifference. "I value my

looks too much to spoil 'em. She wants my hair to get another lover

with; though if stories are true she's broke the heart of many a noble

gentleman already."

"Lord, it's wonderful how you guess things, Marty," said the barber.

"I've had it from them that know that there certainly is some foreign

gentleman in her eye. However, mind what I ask."

"She's not going to get him through me."

Percombe had retired as far as the door; he came back, planted his cane

on the coffin-stool, and looked her in the face. "Marty South," he

said, with deliberate emphasis, "YOU'VE GOT A LOVER YOURSELF, and

that's why you won't let it go!"

She reddened so intensely as to pass the mild blush that suffices to

heighten beauty; she put the yellow leather glove on one hand, took up

the hook with the other, and sat down doggedly to her work without

turning her face to him again. He regarded her head for a moment, went

to the door, and with one look back at her, departed on his way

homeward.

Marty pursued her occupation for a few minutes, then suddenly laying

down the bill-hook, she jumped up and went to the back of the room,

where she opened a door which disclosed a staircase so whitely scrubbed

that the grain of the wood was wellnigh sodden away by such cleansing.

At the top she gently approached a bedroom, and without entering, said,

"Father, do you want anything?"

A weak voice inside answered in the negative; adding, "I should be all

right by to-morrow if it were not for the tree!"

"The tree again--always the tree! Oh, father, don't worry so about

that. You know it can do you no harm."

"Who have ye had talking to ye down-stairs?"

"A Sherton man called--nothing to trouble about," she said, soothingly.

"Father," she went on, "can Mrs. Charmond turn us out of our house if

she's minded to?"

"Turn us out? No. Nobody can turn us out till my poor soul is turned

out of my body. 'Tis life-hold, like Ambrose Winterborne's. But when

my life drops 'twill be hers--not till then." His words on this subject

so far had been rational and firm enough. But now he lapsed into his

moaning strain: "And the tree will do it--that tree will soon be the

death of me."

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