He turned and she pushed him over the rough gate place. Down the lane he trundled himself easily; all she did was rest her hand on the chair back. For twenty yards he did not speak. She heard over the hedge quite close the farmer, sharpening his scythe.
“How do you get on with them all?” asked Dick, a little husky.
“Get on? . . . All right.”
“With Bert and Clem . . . are they decent?”
“Yes,” she answered, wondering.
“I saw you,” he said, apparently with difficulty. “He did something to you and you jumped and fell.”
“It was the swath.”
He went a little quicker down hill to the bridge. They were between the willows where it was more misty and darker.
“Perhaps you’re wondering why I asked,” Dick began again. “But I don’t trust Clem. I thought he might have been up to tricks. I suppose it’s none of my business, but . . . well, you helped me.”
“I never feel quite safe with him, but he’s never interfered before,” Flo answered. “He’s always out.”
“I’m glad.”
He rolled over the bridge and Flo began to push. Between the high banks at the steepest part it was almost dark; then they came out on the level into clearness and it seemed lighter than in the valley. They stopped by the five-sided toll-house which was now only a dwelling house. Through the small side window the leaping gleam of a good fire beckoned.
“Mustn’t it be nice . . . Like a doll’s house,” said Flo.
“D’you think so? You’re very good. We should see more of each other . . . if you’re not bored by a crock.”
“Oh, no,” said Flo earnestly, looking intently, then quickly staring up the road to Moss. “You’re not an old crock. I . . .” she almost said, “I like you,” but stopped. “I . . . I’ll be in the hay a lot; perhaps I’ll see you there, so close to the lake.”
“They don’t want me, being no good.”
“They don’t think of that,” she emphasized. “They all say you’re good an’ . . . an’ what a pity it is.”
“Would you like me to be there?”
“Yes, of course.” Her colour deepened a bit. She wondered if it were possible that he was hinting at more than he said. “You shouldn’t think you’re no good. I often remember what you said, about making the best . . . and . . . and it’s helped me. I wish I could help you more.”
He laughed, for some reason that she could not guess.
“You’re always helping. Haven’t I brought you all this way now? If everybody did things like you I shouldn’t mind.” He paused, seemed inclined to say more, looked at her in a curious, intimate way that made her glance waver and drop, and eventually laughed again. “Perhaps I’m wrong, but lots of folk do things, but most of them because they’re sorry and feel they
“Say what?”
“Well, I might ask you to marry me.” He laughed again, unexpectedly patting her hand in a playful way, and added hastily, “Take no notice. I’m an old fool.”
She felt hot and guilty, as if he might have guessed her thoughts. She did not know what to answer, yet knew that she must answer quickly. Almost as if it were someone else she heard herself say, “I must go. They’ll wonder what’s come of me. Misses’ll be on to me.” She stepped out of his reach. “Good bye.”
“I’ll see you again, Flo,” he called in a soft, deep tone.
She ran. She felt that she must; quicker and quicker down the steep lane. The cool air rushed by her ears and suddenly her foot was on a stone, went over, all her weight on her twisted ankle. There was pain. She fell in a sprawling slide a little sideways, the road like a file rasping hands and knees. She lay for a moment, partly winded, then sat up, putting her hands to her right breast. It felt bruised and enlarged, but the greater pain was in her right ankle. She rested for half a minute before trying to get up. Using her hands on the bank, she hauled herself up. She could hardly bear any weight on her right foot. The instant she tried pain shot to her waist and she went faint. Her hands and knees she ignored. She groped in the hedge bottom for a bleached stick, a piece of old barked ash. With this she began hopping towards the farm, wondering what she should say. After fifty yards she was getting more expert, holding the stick stiffly, hardly needing her right foot. She hopped into the yard, but there was no one there. She hesitated at the gate to the house, smelling the hay and thinking how useless she had made herself, though she knew that it was not a break, only a severe sprain. But she had no idea how long it would take to get better. She limped up the path and through the open door.
“Hoppin’ Lucifer, what’s got thee?” demanded Mrs. Nadin.
“I fell,” said Flo. All at once she swayed and dropped on the chair just inside.
“Eh, what’s up?” exclaimed Mrs. Nadin, hurriedly crossing the kitchen. Everybody stared. “What’s up?” Mrs. Nadin looked down, and then stooped and lifted Flo’s boot in a business-like, unsympathetic way.
“Twisted,” said Flo.