And just then, the mistal door flung open and Mary came in, and I still had Faith’s hand in mine.
“Oh! I’m sure, I’m sorry if I intrude,” said Mary, “but I thought you’d come to show Faith th’ new calf.”
“And so I did.”
“It seems to me more like you were telling her her fortune,” said Mary in a very waspish way which she could put on very quick when she was not pleased. “But John’s waiting for yo’, and mi uncle says yo’re to excuse Ben setting yo’ home tonight, he has summot to say to him while Mr. Webster’s here. It’s a pity, for happen if he walked home wi’ yo’ by moonlight, he might ha’ seen to your fortin coming true.”
“For shame o’ thissen, Mary,” I said angrily. “Nay dunnot take on, Faith; it’s only Mary’s spiteful way. Nobody heeds her.” And I turned to go into the house.
“And you promise, Ben,” cried Faith, after me.
“Aye, I’ll mind me, Faith; I’ll mind me.”
“I declare, Faith,” I heard Mary say, “These may be town ways, colloguing wi’ strangers i’ th’ dark. But we’re none used to ’em at Holme. Yo’ might be a pair o’ Luddites, such carryings on.”
It was easy enough to see something more than common was troubling our folk. My father was sat in his chair by the fireside, but his pipe lay discarded on the table, and his ale was untasted in the pewter. My mother was rocking nervously in her chair, and she was creasing and smoothing her silk apron as she only did when she was what she called “worked up,” and little Mr. Webster first crossed his left leg over his right knee, and then his right leg over his left knee, and mopped his brow with his handkerchief as though it were the dog days. “The murther’s out,” I thought, for something told me what was coming.
“Sit you down, Ben,” said my father.