“Never, Aunt Lydia . . . never. . .”
“Yes. . . . That’s what you feel now. But I know the family. The Inglebys are always very tender in marriage. I’ve seen many of them that have lost their wives, and they always marry again. I don’t suppose that I shall live to hear of it; but when the time comes you’ll remember what I said.”
“No, Aunt Lydia . . . never.”
“Time is a wonderful thing, John. I’m glad to have seen you and your boy. I hope he’ll take after you—you were always the best of them.”
She gave a little sigh. Evidently she was tired. The flame that burned behind her black eyes was so very feeble for all its brightness. Isaac, who had been watching her with the devotion of a practised nurse, saw that she could not stand any more talking.
“Now, mother, that’s enough, my dear,” he said.
“Kiss me, John,” she said. And Mr. Ingleby kissed her.
“Well, now that you be here after all these years,” said Isaac cheerily, as he rearranged the red shawl round his mother’s shoulders, “you won’t leave us without taking something. There do be a lovely bit of bacon I have cut. Do ’ee try a bit now, and a mug of cider.”
Edwin, who was already hungry with his walk, and was rapidly acquiring a taste for the wine of the country, now became aware of the fact that the dark ceiling was decked with sides of bacon and hams that hung there slowly pickling in the turf smoke that saturated the atmosphere of the room. He was disappointed when his father declined to take any of this delicacy.
“Well, a mug of cider, then,” Isaac persisted. He went into an inner chamber down three stone steps, with three china mugs hanging on his hook. “You see, I do be pretty handy with en,” he laughed.