"George!" George went on hammering. "George!" said I again. He
raised the hammer for another stroke, hesitated, then lifted his
head with a jerk, and immediately I knew why he had avoided my eye.
"What do 'ee want wi' me?"
"I have come for two reasons," said I; "one is to begin work--"
"Then ye'd best go away again," he broke in; "ye'll get no work
here."
"And the second," I went on, "is to offer you my hand. Will you
take it, George, and let bygones be bygones?"
"No," he burst out vehemently. "No, I tell 'ee. Ye think to
come 'ere an' crow o'er me, because ye beat me, by a trick, and
because ye heerd--her--" His voice broke, and, dropping his
hammer, he turned his back upon me. "Called me 'coward'! she
did," he went on after a little while. "You heerd her--they all
heerd her! I've been a danged fule!" he said, more as if
speaking his thoughts aloud than addressing me, "but a man can't
help lovin' a lass--like Prue, and when 'e loves 'e can't 'elp
hopin'. I've hoped these three years an' more, and last night
--she called me--coward." Something bright and glistening
splashed down upon the anvil, and there ensued a silence broken
only by the piping of the birds and the stirring of the leaves
outside.
"A fule I be!" said Black George at last, shaking his head, "no
kind o' man for the likes o' her; too big I be--and rough. And
yet--if she'd only given me the chance!"
Again there fell a silence wherein, mingled with the bird-chorus,
came the tap, tapping of a stick upon the hard road, and the
sound of approaching footsteps; whereupon George seized the
handle of the bellows and fell to blowing the fire vigorously;
yet once I saw him draw the back of his hand across his eyes with
a quick, furtive gesture. A moment after, the Ancient appeared,
a quaint, befrocked figure, framed in the yawning doorway and
backed by the glory of the morning. He stood awhile to lean upon
his stick and peer about, his old eyes still dazzled by the
sunlight he had just left, owing to which he failed to see me
where I sat in the shadow of the forge.
"Marnin', Jarge!" said he, with his quick, bright nod. The
smith's scowl was blacker and his deep voice gruffer than usual
as he returned the greeting; but the old man seemed to heed it
not at all, but, taking his snuff-box from the lining of his
tall, broad-brimmed hat (its usual abiding place), he opened it,
with his most important air.