She showed Kit into a big flagged kitchen. Old ash trees grew near the window and the rain beat the glass. For the most part the kitchen was dark, but a fire burned in the big grate and the reflections touched polished brass and oak furniture. Kit thought the furniture was made when the house was built, and the crooked beams that carried the ceiling were cut long since.
An old woman got up from a chair by the fire, and when she gave Kit her hand he saw she studied him. Well, some curiosity was justified. Mrs. Tyson knew who he was; she probably knew he was forced to leave the shipyard, and Alison had talked about their adventures. Mrs. Tyson was thin and worn by sickness and labor, but her glance was keen, and her calm, somehow, was proud.
“You’re welcome. If the rain does not stop you’ll bide for the night.”
“I must try for Netherhall,” said Kit. “You ought not to have got up. I hope you’re better?”
“Getting up is boddersome, but when you must you can,” Mrs. Tyson replied, and put some old blue-pattern plates on the table.
Kit went to a settle by the fire, and after a few moments Alison came in and helped her aunt. Kit was satisfied to watch her. Alison moved harmoniously, and he liked her background. For all its austerity, the big room was homelike. Dark wood shone in the reflections from the grate, and he remarked the ruddy gleam of copper. Nothing was modern, but he felt all was good. The dalesfolk had no use for ambitious pretense. Their virtues and their drawbacks were primitive. Kit knew he himself sprang from stock like that, and he had inherited a primitive vein, perhaps from his ancestor the smith. He thought he saw where Alison got her pluck and balance.
Mrs. Tyson called him to supper. The food was good, and to know his hosts were kind helped his appetite. In the farm kitchen he was at home. He had felt at home at the Canadian camps, but at Netherhall he had not. Somehow he was conscious of a subtle antagonism.
“Will you take some more, Kit?” Alison inquired. “Since steamship cooking’s luxurious, I’m glad you like your supper.”
“My liking it is rather obvious,” said Kit, and gave his plate. “Anyhow, I know your cooking; I have not forgotten our feasts on board the cars. When I think about them, I recapture my lunch by the bluff at Harper’s—crackers and cheese and the canned fruit the storekeeper gave me. How do you account for it?”
He thought Alison blushed, but she began to talk about Austin and Florence, and after a time Mrs. Tyson said: