Widow Mathewson reached out for her black clay pipe, and took a bit of live peat from the fire, and lit the half-filled bowl. “We mun as weel smoke in company, Reuben,” she said.
They smoked in friendship for awhile.
“Gaunt,” said the widow suddenly, “d’ye know what fear means or what death means, or are ye a likelier lad than I thought ye?”
“I know what death means, mother,” said Reuben, as he moved from the settle-corner to stir the peat-fire into life. “I’ve learned to-day.”
Again a silence fell between them. Then the widow lit her pipe afresh, and her voice was gentler than Gaunt had known it hitherto.
“You’ve fooled a good few women i’ your time, Reuben; but I fancy ye’re not by way o’ fooling now.”
“No,” said Gaunt, “I’m not by way of fooling now.”
Outside there was no breath of ease to hint that rain might come to-morrow, or the next day after that. In the red of a stagnant sunset the day had ceased, and night brought only a sultry heat that taxed man’s endurance to the breaking point.
“Reuben,” said Widow Mathewson, “I wish th’ wind would ding the house-door down, if only to stifle yond moaning up above us. She’s all I’ve got, an’ I can do naught at all.”
“Bide and see, mother. All’s not over yet. There, let me fill your pipe again for you, mother. ’Twill never do to let you go handling an empty bowl.”