Читать книгу Our Admirable Betty - John Jeffery Farnol - Страница 7
ОглавлениеHOW SERGEANT ZEBEDEE TRING BEGAN TO WONDER
Mrs. Agatha sat just within the kitchen-garden shelling peas—and Mrs. Agatha did it as only a really accomplished woman might; at least, so thought Sergeant Zebedee, who, busied about some of his multifarious carpentry jobs, happened to come that way. He thought also that with her pretty face beneath snowy mob-cap, her shapely figure in its neat gown, she made as attractive a picture as any man might see on the longest day's march—of all which Mrs. Agatha was supremely conscious, of course.
"A hot day, mam!" said he, halting.
Mrs. Agatha glanced up demurely, smiled, and gave all her attention to the peas again.
"You do be getting more observant every day, Sergeant!" she said, shelling away rapidly.
The Sergeant stroked his new-shaven cheek with a pair of pincers he chanced to be holding and stared down at her busy fingers; Mrs. Agatha possessed very shapely hands, soft and dimpled—of which she was also aware.
"But you look cool enough, mam," said he, ponderously, "and 'tis become a matter of——"
"Duty, Sergeant?" she enquired.
"No, mam, a matter of wonder to me how you manage it?"
"Belike 'tis all because Nature made me so."
"Natur', mam—aye, 'tis a wonderful institootion——"
"For making me cool?"
"For making you at all, mam!" Having said which, he wheeled suddenly, and took three quick strides away but, hearing her call, he turned and took three slow ones back again. "Well, mam?" he enquired, staring at the pincers.
"'Tis a hot day, Sergeant!" she laughed. At this he stood silent awhile, lost in contemplation of her dexterous hands.
"Egad!" he exclaimed, suddenly, "'Tis a beautiful finger!"
"Is it, Sergeant?"
"For a trigger—aye mam. To shoot straight a man must have a true eye, mam, but he must also have a shooting-hand, quick and light o' the finger, d'ye see, not to spoil alignment. If you'd been a man, now, you'd ha' handled a musket wi' the best if you'd only been a man——"
"But I'm—only a woman."
"True, mam, true—'tis Natur' again—fault o' circumstance——"
"And I don't want to be a man——"
"Certainly not, mam——"
"And wouldn't if I could!"
"Glad, o' that, mam."
"O, and prithee why?"
"Because as a woman you're—female, d'ye see—I mean as you're what Natur' intended and such being so you're—naturally formed—I mean——"
"What d'you mean, pray?"
"A woman. And now, talking o' the Major——"
"But we're not!"
"Aye, but we are, mam, and so talking, the Major do surprise me—same be a-changing, mam."
"Changing? How?"
"Well, this morning he went——"
"Into the orchard!" said Mrs. Agatha, nodding.
"Aye, he did. Since I finished that arbour he's took to it amazing—sits there by the hour—mam!" Mrs. Agatha smiled at the peas. "But this morning, mam, arter breakfast, he went and turned out all his—clothes, mam. 'Sergeant,' says he, 'be these the best I've got'—and him as never troubled over his clothes except to put 'em on and forget 'em."
"But you hadn't built the arbour then!" said Mrs. Agatha softly.
"Arbour!" exclaimed the Sergeant, staring.
"You've known him a long time?"
"I've knowed him nigh twenty years and I thought I did know him but I don't know him—there's developments—he's took to whistling of late. Only this morning I heard him whistling o' this song 'Barbary Allen' which same were a damned—no, a devilish—no, a con-founded barbarious young maid if words mean aught."
"True, she had no heart, Sergeant!"
"And a woman without an 'eart, mam——"
"A heart, Sergeant!"
"Aye, mam," said he, staring at the pincers, "a maid or woman without an 'eart is no good for herself or any——"
"Man!" suggested Mrs. Agatha, softly.
"True, mam, and speaking o' men brings us back to the Major and him a-whistling as merry as any grig."
"Grigs don't whistle, Sergeant."
"No more they do, mam, no—lark's the word. Also he's set on buying a noo wig, mam, and him with four brand-noo—almost, except his service wig which I'll grant you is a bit wore and moth-eaten like arter three campaigns which therefore aren't to be nowise wondered at. But what is to be wondered at is his honour troubling about suchlike when 'tis me as generally reports to him when garments is outwore and me as has done the ordering of same, these ten year and more. And now here's him wanting to buy a noo wig all at once! Mam, what I say is—damme!"
"Sergeant, ha' done!"
"Ax your pardon, mam, but 'tis so strange and onexpected. A noo wig! Wants one more modish! Aye," said the Sergeant, shaking his head, "'modish' were the word, mam—'modish'! Now what I says to that is——"
"Sergeant, hush!"
"Why I ain't said it yet, mam——"
"Then don't!"
"Very well, mam!" he sighed. "But 'modish'——"
"And why shouldn't he be modish?" demanded Mrs. Agatha warmly, "he's young enough and handsome enough."
"He's all that, mam, yet——"
"Why should any man be slovenly and old before his time?"
"Aye, why indeed, mam but——"
"There's yourself, for instance."
"Who—me, mam?" exclaimed the Sergeant, hitting himself an amazed blow on the chest with the pincers, "me?"
"Aye, you! Not that you're slovenly, but you talk and act like a Methusalem instead of a—a careless boy of forty."
"Three, mam—forty-three."
"Aye, a helpless child of forty-three."
"Child!" murmured the Sergeant. "Helpless child—me? Now what I says to that is——"
"Hush!" said Mrs. Agatha, severely; but beholding his stupefaction she laughed merrily and taking up the peas, vanished into the kitchen, laughing still.
"Child—me—helpless child!" said the Sergeant, staring after her. "Now what I says is——"
And there being none to hush him, the Sergeant, in English, French and Low Dutch, proceeded to "say it" forthwith.
