When the glow fell, and the bald, laconic message was delivered one winter evening at the door, the mother bent her head low; and later, when she found speech and had dropped the corner of her apron, was heard to whisper to herself, “’Twas the Almighty’s will.” Then the tears welled up afresh, as she rocked herself in her chair, gazing at the fire.
The effect upon the father was different. “What...!” he cried, as though some one had struck him. A single candle flickered on the table; his lips were drawn tight across his teeth; his fingers clutched the table-lid convulsively, and he leant across in the direction of his wife.
“What...!” he exclaimed again.
“They’ve killed un,” repeated the wife, the candle-light reflected in her staring eyes. “Seth, Seth,” she continued, following her husband, who had taken up his hat, and was making for the door—“oh, Seth, Seth—’tis the Almighty’s will, man; I do know for sure it be;—Seth, Seth...!”
But Seth Moby had gone out into the night; and from that time forward he walked as one suffering some injustice. He had always been a man of uncertain temper, but this blow appeared to sour him. It is well to remember that once at least in his life he had loved deeply.
The Over-Lord brought Murphy to the door, and arranged matters with Martha Moby, just as he had often done with others in the same way. The day had been wet; the lane on to which the garden-gate opened was muddy; the dog had dirty feet. “You’ll take care of him, I know. He’s a good dog—a good dog,” he repeated, when he left.
It was after dark when Moby returned. “Wants for us to kep the dog, do ’e? There be a sight too many on ’em about; and for what he do want to kep such a lot o’ such curs, nobody can’t think. A-bringin’ a’ the dirt into our housen too. Err ... I’ll warm yer!” he added, making as though he would fling something at the dog.
Murphy looked puzzled, and crept into a corner.
“Don’t carry on like that, Seth; don’t do it, man. The dog’s a poor, nervous little thing with we, and don’t mean to do no hurt.”