Complete Project Gutenberg John Galsworthy Works eBook

This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 6,432 pages of information about Complete Project Gutenberg John Galsworthy Works.

Complete Project Gutenberg John Galsworthy Works eBook

This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 6,432 pages of information about Complete Project Gutenberg John Galsworthy Works.

Mrs. Bradmere.  Good!  You know what’s being said, of course?

Godleigh. [With respectful gravity] Yu’ll pardon me, m’m, but ef an’ in case yu was goin’ to tell me, there’s a rule in this ’ouse:  “No scandal ’ere!”

Mrs. Bradmere. [Twinkling grimly] You’re too smart by half, my man.

Godleigh.  Aw fegs, no, m’m—­child in yure ’ands.

Mrs. Bradmere.  I wouldn’t trust you a yard.  Once more, Godleigh!  This is a Christian village, and we mean it to remain so.  You look out for yourself.

     [The door opens to admit the farmers Trustaford and Burlacombe
     They doff their hats to Mrs. Bradmere, who, after one more sharp
     look at Godleigh, moves towards the door.]

Mrs. Bradmere.  Evening, Mr. Trustaford. [To Burlacombe] Burlacombe, tell your wife that duck she sent up was in hard training.

     [With one of her grim winks, and a nod, she goes.]

Trustaford. [Replacing a hat which is black, hard, and not very new, on his long head, above a long face, clean-shaved but for little whiskers] What’s the old grey mare want, then? [With a horse-laugh] ‘Er’s lukin’ awful wise!

Godleigh. [Enigmatically] Ah!

Trustaford. [Sitting on the bench dose to the bar] Drop o’ whisky, an’ potash.

Burlacombe. [A taciturn, alien, yellowish man, in a worn soft hat] What’s wise, Godleigh?  Drop o’ cider.

Godleigh.  Nuse?  There’s never no nuse in this ’ouse.  Aw, no!  Not wi’ my permission. [In imitation] This is a Christian village.

Trustaford.  Thought the old grey mare seemed mighty busy. [To Burlacombe] ‘Tes rather quare about the curate’s wife a-cumin’ motorin’ this mornin’.  Passed me wi’ her face all smothered up in a veil, goggles an’ all.  Haw, haw!

Burlacombe.  Aye!

Trustaford.  Off again she was in ’alf an hour.  ’Er didn’t give poor old curate much of a chance, after six months.

Godleigh.  Havin’ an engagement elsewhere—­No scandal, please, gentlemen.

Burlacombe. [Acidly] Never asked to see my missis.  Passed me in the yard like a stone.

Trustaford.  ’Tes a little bit rumoursome lately about ’er doctor.

Godleigh.  Ah! he’s the favourite.  But ’tes a dead secret; Mr. Trustaford.  Don’t yu never repate it—­there’s not a cat don’t know it already!

Burlacombe frowns, and Trustaford utters his laugh.  The door is opened and Freman, a dark gipsyish man in the dress of a farmer, comes in.

Godleigh.  Don’t yu never tell Will Freman what ’e told me!

Freman.  Avenin’!

Trustaford.  Avenin’, Will; what’s yure glass o’ trouble?

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Complete Project Gutenberg John Galsworthy Works from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.