deceived a roue. And yet Kenelm by that
intuitive knowledge of character which is often truthfulest
where it is least disturbed by the doubts and cavils
of acquired knowledge, felt at once that in that girl’s
mind coquetry, perhaps unconscious, was conjoined
with an innocence of anything worse than coquetry as
complete as a child’s. He bowed his head,
in withdrawing his gaze, and took her into his heart
as tenderly as if she had been a child appealing to
it for protection.
“Certainly,” he said inly, “certainly
I must lick Tom Bowles; yet stay, perhaps after all
she likes him.”
“But,” he continued aloud, “you
do not see how I can be of any service to you.
Before I explain, let me ask which of the men in the
field is Tom Bowles?”
“Tom Bowles?” exclaimed Jessie, in a tone
of surprise and alarm, and turning pale as she looked
hastily round; “you frightened me, sir:
but he is not here; he does not work in the fields.
But how came you to hear of Tom Bowles?”
“Dine with me and I’ll tell you.
Look, there is a quiet place in yon corner under the
thorn-trees by that piece of water. See, they
are leaving off work: I will go for a can of
beer, and then, pray, let me join you there.”
Jessie paused for a moment as if doubtful still; then
again glancing at Kenelm, and assured by the grave
kindness of his countenance, uttered a scarce audible
assent and moved away towards the thorn-trees.
As the sun now stood perpendicularly over their heads,
and the hand of the clock in the village church tower,
soaring over the hedgerows, reached the first hour
after noon, all work ceased in a sudden silence:
some of the girls went back to their homes; those who
stayed grouped together, apart from the men, who took
their way to the shadows of a large oak-tree in the
hedgerow, where beer kegs and cans awaited them.
“AND now,” said Kenelm, as the two young
persons, having finished their simple repast, sat
under the thorn-trees and by the side of the water,
fringed at that part with tall reeds through which
the light summer breeze stirred with a pleasant murmur,
“now I will talk to you about Tom Bowles.
Is it true that you don’t like that brave young
fellow? I say young, as I take his youth for granted.”
“Like him! I hate the sight of him.”
“Did you always hate the sight of him?
You must surely at one time have allowed him to think
that you did not?”
The girl winced, and made no answer, but plucked a
daffodil from the soil, and tore it ruthlessly to
pieces.
“I am afraid you like to serve your admirers
as you do that ill-fated flower,” said Kenelm,
with some severity of tone. “But concealed
in the flower you may sometimes find the sting of
a bee. I see by your countenance that you did
not tell Tom Bowles that you hated him till it was
too late to prevent his losing his wits for you.”
