He stopped in the lane just under Mrs. Hedges's gate, and looked up into her garden. Rosie, who was picking the beans, heard his tentative cough, and turned and leaned over the hedge to hear what he wanted. «I was wondering,» said he «if there was anybody in the village who had a lodging to let»
He looked at Rosie, whose cheeks were redder than the apples, and whose hair was the softest yellow imaginable. «I was wondering,» said he in amendment, «if you had.»
Rosie looked back at him. He wore a blue jersey such as seafaring men wear, but he seemed hardly like a seafaring man. His face was brown and plain and pleasant, and his hair was black. He was shabby and he was shy, but there was something about him that made it very certain he was not just a tramp. «I'll ask,» said Rosie.
With that she ran for her mother, and Mrs. Hedges came out to interview the young man. «I've got to be near Andover for a week,» said he, «but somehow I didn't fancy staying right in the town.»
«There's a bed,» said Mrs. Hedges. «If you don't mind having your meals with us —»
«Why, surely, ma'am,» said he. «There's nothing I'd like better.»
Everything was speedily arranged; Rosie picked another handful of beans, and in an hour he was seated with them at supper. He told them his name was Fred Baker, but, apart from that, he was so polite that he could hardly speak, and in the end Mrs. Hedges had to ask him outright what his business was. «Why, ma'am,» said he, looking her straight in the face, «I've done one thing and another ever since I was so high, but I heard an old proverb once, how to get on in the world. 'Feed 'em or amuse 'em,' it said. So that's what I do, ma'am. I travel with a pig.»
Mrs. Hedges said she had never heard of such a thing.
«You surprise me,» said he. «Why, there are some in London, they tell me, making fortunes on the halls. Spell, count, add up, answer questions, anything. But let them wait,» said he, smiling, «till they see Mary.»
«Is that the name of your pig?» asked Rosie.
«Well,» said Fred, shyly, «it's what I call her just between ourselves like. To her public, she's Zola. Sort of Frenchified, I thought. Spicy, if you'll excuse the mention of it. But in the caravan I call her Mary.»
«You live in a caravan?» cried Rosie, delighted by the doll's-house idea.
«We do,» said he. «She has her bunk, and I have mine.»
«I don't think I should like that,» said Mrs. Hedges. «Not a pig. No.»
«She's as clean,» said he, «as a new-born babe. And as for company, well, you'd say she's human. All the same, it's a bit of wandering life for her — up hill and down dale, as the saying goes. Between you and me I shan't be satisfied till I get her into one of these big London theatres. You can see us in the West End!»
«I should like the caravan best,» said Rosie, who seemed to have a great deal to say for herself, all of a sudden.
«It's pretty,» said Fred. «Curtains, you know. Pot of flowers. Little stove. Somehow I'm used to it. Can't hardly think of myself staying at one of them big hotels. Still, Mary's got her career to think of. I can't stand in the way of her talent, so that's that»
«Is she big?» asked Rosie.
«It's not her size,» said he. «No more than Shirley Temple. It's her brains and personality. Clever as a wagonload of monkeys! You'd like her. She'd like you, I reckon. Yes, I reckon she would. Sometimes I'm afraid I'm a bit slow by way of company for her, never having had much to do with the ladies.»
«Don't tell me,» said Mrs. Hedges archly, as convention required.
«'Tis so, ma'am,» said he. «Always on the move, you see, ever since I was a nipper. Baskets and brooms, pots and pans, then some acrobat stuff, then Mary. Never two days in the same place. It don't give you the time to get acquainted.»
«You're going to be here a whole week, though,» said Rosie artlessly, but at once her red cheeks blushed a hundred times redder than before, for Mrs. Hedges gave her a sharp look, which made her see that her words might have been taken the wrong way.
Fred, however, had noticed nothing. «Yes,» said he, «I shall be here a week. And why? Mary ran a nail in her foot in the marketplace, Andover. Finished her act — and collapsed. Now she's at the vet's, poor creature.»
«Oh, poor thing!» cried Rosie.
«I was half afraid,» said he, «it was going wrong on her. But it seems she'll pull round all right, and I took opportunity to have the van repaired a bit, and soon we'll be on the road again. I shall go in and see her tomorrow. Maybe I can find some blackberries, to take her by way of a relish, so to speak.»
«Gorsley Bottom,» said Rosie. «That's the place where they grow big and juicy.»
«Ah! If I knew where it was —» said Fred tentatively.
«Perhaps, in the morning, if she's got time, shell show you,» said Mrs. Hedges, who began to feel very kindly disposed toward the young man.
In the morning, surely enough, Rosie did have time, and she showed Fred the place, and helped him pick the berries. Returning from Andover, later in the day, Fred reported that Mary had tucked into them a fair treat, and he had little doubt that, if she could have spoken, she would have sent her special thanks. Nothing is more affecting than the gratitude of a dumb animal, and Rosie was impelled to go every morning with Fred to pick a few more berries for the invalid pig.
On these excursions Fred told her a great deal more about Mary, a bit about the caravan, and a little about himself. She saw that he was very bold and knowing in some ways, but incredibly simple and shy in others. This, she felt, showed he had a good heart.
The end of the week seemed to come very soon, and all at once they were coming back from Gorsley Bottom for the last time. Fred said he would never forget Ufferleigh, nor the nice time he had there.
«You ought to send us a postcard when you're on your travels,» said Rosie.
«Yes,» he said. «That's an idea. I will»
«Yes, do,» said Rosie.
«Yes,» said he again. «I will. Do you know, I was altogether down-hearted at going away, but now I'm half wishing I was on the road again already. So I could be sending that card right away,» said he.
«At that rate,» said Rosie, looking the other way, «you might as well make it a letter.»
«Ah!» said he. «And do you know what I should feel like putting at the bottom of that letter? If you was my young lady, that is. Which, of course, you're not. Me never having had one.»
«What?» said Rosie.
«A young lady,» said he.
«But what would you put?» said she.
«Ah!» said he. «What I'd put. Do you know what I'd put? If — if, mind you — if you was my young lady?»
«No,» said she, «what?»
«I don't hardly like to tell you,» said he.
«Go on,» she said. «You don't want to be afraid.»
«All right,» said he. «Only mind you, it's if.» And with his stick he traced three crosses in the dust
«If I was anybody's young lady,» said Rosie, «I shouldn't see anything wrong in that. After all, you've got to move with the times.»
Neither of them said another word, for two of the best reasons in the world. First, they were unable to; second, it was not necessary. They walked on with their faces as red as fire, in an agony of happiness.
Fred had a word with Mrs. Hedges, who had taken a fancy to him from the start. Not that she had not always looked down upon caravan people, and could have been knocked over with a feather, had anyone suggested, at any earlier date, that she would allow a daughter of hers to marry into such a company. But right was right; this Fred Baker was different, as anyone with half an eye could see. He had kept himself to himself, almost to a fault, for his conversation showed that he was as innocent as a new-born babe. Moreover, several knowledgeable people in the village had agreed that his ambitions for Mary, his pig, were in no way unjustified. Everyone had heard of such talented creatures, reclining on snow-white sheets in the best hotels of the metropolis, drinking champagne like milk, and earning for their fortunate owners ten pounds, or even twenty pounds, a week.