It was she who spoke first. ‘You be Cowman Shellett’s son, bainta?’
‘Yes,’ said Seth. ‘Father be Squire Marden’s cowman sure enough.’ After a long pause, he added: ‘And I be gamekeeper.’
These things were common knowledge, and Seth could not imagine her to be ignorant of them. But he was proud of his position and glad to talk of it. He was not in general a vain man, but he could not help knowing that he was accounted a likelier fellow than dull Tom Shellett. And now he was eager to cut a fine figure in the eyes of Charity. For his attitude to Charity had changed. Suddenly, as it seemed, from being merely desirable, she had become significant, a person. An hour or two ago she had been to him merely woman: now she was his woman. He stole a glance at her, and remembered that tavern talk, and became savagely possessive. He flung an arm about her and clutched her shoulder. ‘You and me,’ he began. But he broke off, at a loss for words.
She wriggled herself free and rubbed her shoulder ruefully. ‘Adone do. Rackon you’ve give me a bruise.’
‘Nemmind bruises. You be my girl. See?’
She giggled, making big mocking eyes at him.
He scowled. ‘You be my girl. Dauntee forget. If anyone else come round you, I’ll murder un, and all manner.’
‘Oh, do adone!’ She grinned with delight. ‘I
Seth grunted. He was not interested in his father. ‘Gamekeeper I be. Head man.’
‘Fancy!’ said Charity.
‘Used to be ploughman, I did. But I be gamekeeper now.’
‘That be tarrible pretty work for ee, I’ll ’low.’
‘I caught a feller after they birds t’other day. Rackon a won’t come again along me.’ With his stout hazel wand he began idly prodding at the ground, and the soft leaf-mould yielded to his assault as readily as Charity herself had yielded. It gave him a vague unconscious pleasure to see the hole growing bigger; but his thoughts were still with himself and his woman, for he was waiting for her to ask how he had dealt with the poacher, being very ready to tell her of the fine drubbing he had given that rascal, and how the drubbing was a kindness to him, and a martacious long sight better than the treatment he might have received at the hands of the law. But Charity had quite other thoughts. She liked Seth; she wanted him; she was resolved to keep him for her own; and her remarks were not idle.
But now she was ready to talk of other things than Cowman Shellett.
‘Whad you diggen a hole for?’
‘Eh?’ He was a little cross. He had hardly noticed that he was digging a hole. And, anyhow, it seemed a foolish question, because it was not the question he had hoped for. ‘Rackon a won’t come round along me again,’ he repeated perseveringly.
‘What a tarrible gurt stone you’m got there,’ she said, pointing to the hole at his feet.
He grunted illhumouredly; but, undiscouraged, she leaned forward and plunged her hand into the moist earth.
‘Tis a funny shape, annut?’ she said, shewing him her foundle.
Seth stared. In spite of himself the thing stirred a faint curiosity in him. He took it from her and turned it over in his hand: a broad shapely piece of flint about eight inches long. One end was broad and flat, the other sharp like an axe. Seth stared, not knowing at first what it was that attracted him; and even when he did know, he hardly knew how to express his thought. There was workmanship in this flint, and workmanship was something that Seth, for all his slowmindedness, seldom failed to recognise.
‘Do ee want ut?’ he asked.
She leaned forward and gave him a large loud kiss. ‘You shall have ut, darlen, for a keepsake,’ she said, half-mockingly, as though humouring a child.
‘He do want naun but a handle,’ said Seth. . . . But he did not finish speaking his thought; for Charity was waiting for more kisses. Idly dropping Ogo’s axe-head into his jacket pocket, he turned to her eagerly, and the drums of ancient warfare began beating again in his blood.