"I'd rather you had to do it nor me."
"I'd see it further--afore it should take me two hours--and Peckaby with
it," retorted Mrs. Peckaby, reviving to a touch of temper. "I shall but
give it a lick and a promise; just mop up the wet, and dry the grate,
and get a bit of fire alight. T'other things may go."
Polly Dawson departed, and Mrs. Peckaby set to her work. By dint of some
trouble, she contrived to obtain a cup of tea for herself after awhile,
and then she sat on disconsolately as before. Night came on, and she
had ample time to indulge her ruminations.
Peckaby had not been in. Mrs. Peckaby concluded he was solacing himself
at that social rendezvous, the Plough and Harrow, and would come home in
a state of beer. Between nine and ten he entered--hours were early in
Deerham--and to Mrs. Peckaby's surprise, he was not only sober, but
social.
"It have turned out a pouring wet night," cried he. And the mood was so
unwonted, especially after the episode of the wet grate, that Mrs.
Peckaby was astonished into answering pleasantly.
"Will ye have some bread and cheese?" asked she.
Pages:
962
963
964
965
966
967
968
969
970
971
972
973
974
975
976
977
978
979
980
981
982
983
984
985
986