“About six this evening, sir; the usual time when the men come home.”
“I will call in this evening then, and welcome them. Good-bye, Mrs. Slater, and don’t go listening to or spreading idle gossip!” And the kindly old man went away down the street.
That evening, when the bell rang to denote the return of the men-folk, every door was occupied by an eager face, anxious not only to catch sight of the two strangers, but also to take another look at the woman who had dared to defy the “Marshfielden Curse.”
For in this little village the “Curse” was a real, poignant fact, and was spoken of in the twilight with hushed tones and furtive glances. Children were quieted and terrified by it, and the fear imbibed by them in their childhood grew with them till their death. Not one of them but Mary Slater would have risked its anger by allowing a stranger to sleep beneath her roof; and even Mary, although outwardly calm, was inwardly terrified lest her action might be the means of bringing disaster and misery, not only on her two lodgers, but on the whole little community.
Dan Murlock, the husband of the little woman at the corner house, was the first to arrive. He came along at a swinging pace, and waved his cap jauntily as he saw his wife’s trim little figure at the doorway.
“Hullo, Moll,” he cried, when he was within speaking distance “an’ how’s yersel’?”
“I’m all right,” she replied, while their three year old, curly haired boy and only child peeped from behind his mother’s skirts and cried “Boo” to his dad. The man looked at them both, with awe as well as pride in his glance. Even now he was often heard to remark, that he could not make out why a clumsy brute like him should be allowed to own such an angelic wife and child.
“Where’s the strangers?” asked Moll eagerly.
“Comin’ along, lass. Why?”
“Oh, the ‘Curse,’ Dan!”