John William, coming on Sunday in time for dinner, found things as they usually were at the Old Farm in the days previous to the advent of Miss Atteridge. Mr. Jarvis was in the parlour, amusing himself with a cigar, the sherry decanter, and the Mark Lane Express; Mrs. Pringle was in the front kitchen superintending the cooking of a couple of stuffed ducks. To her John William approached with questioning eyes.
"She's gone!" whispered Mrs. Pringle. "Went off yesterday. He's been grumpyish ever since—a-thinkin' over what it's cost him. Go in and make up to him, John William. Talk to him about pigs."
John William re-entered the parlour. Mr. Jarvis, who was of the sort that would show hospitality to an enemy, gave him a glass of sherry and offered him a cigar, but showed no particular desire to hear a grocer's views on swine fever. There was no conversation when Mrs. Pringle entered to lay the cloth for dinner.
"We've had no music this day or two," said Mrs. Pringle with fane cheerfulness. "Play the master a piece, John William—play the 'Battle of Prague' with variations."
John William approached the new piano.
"It's locked," he said, examining the lid of the keyboard. "Where's the key?"
Mr. Jarvis looked over the top of the Mark Lane Express.
"The key," he said, "is in my pocket. And'll remain there until Miss Atteridge—which her right name is Carter—returns. But not as Carter, nor yet Atteridge, but as Mrs. Stephen Jarvis. That'll be three weeks to-day. If John William there wants to perform on t' piano he can come then and play t' 'Wedding March'!"
Then John William sat down, and his mother laid the table in silence.
CHAPTER VI