Bess drew back behind the window-curtain; somehow she hoped he would not see her, she hoped she might not have to see him. She had seen him several times since that day of her father’s brutal bidding, but she had never been frightened of him, for he got so little—so very little—“forrarder,” but to-day a sudden instinct bade her beware. It was a working day and she had not expected him.
He knocked, but she did not move.
“Bess,” called her mother from the kitchen, “open the door, I can’t go just now.”
Still she did not answer.
The woman pushed open the door of communication.
“Don’t stand gapin’ there, child,” whispered she. “Didn’t you ’ear a knock? Why, Lor’, it’s Mr. Preston,” she added, peeping through the muslin and seeing the broad back on the threshold. “It’s a good job you’ve got a clean frock on. Look sharp, I ain’t fit to be seen. I must go up-stairs and change.”
And she went into the kitchen again and closed the door softly.
There was no help for it; Bess opened the front door.
Preston turned round, he looked a bit shame-faced; he had on his best, but it was wet and he looked his worst; he put down his umbrella and stood there fumbling with it.
“Won’t you step in?” she said at last.