The horse looked much more like a bridegroom than Tackleton, whose half-closed eye was more disagreeably expressive than ever. But the carrier took little heed of this. His thoughts were elsewhere.
“John Peerybingle!” said Tackleton. “My good fellow, how do you find yourself this morning?”
“I have had but a poor night, Mr. Tackleton,” said the carrier, shaking his head, “for I have been a good deal disturbed in my mind. But it’s over now! Can you spare me half an hour or so, for some private talk?”
“I came on purpose,” returned Tackleton lightly. “Never mind the horse. He’ll stand quiet enough if you’ll give him a mouthful of hay.”
“You are not to be married before noon, I think?” said John.
“No,” answered Tackleton. “Plenty of time. Plenty of time.”
When they entered the kitchen, Tilly Slowboy was knocking at the Stranger’s door. One of her very red eyes was at the keyhole, for she had been crying because her mistress cried. She was knocking very loud, and seemed frightened.
“If you please, I can’t make nobody hear,” said Tilly, looking round. “I hope nobody ain’t gone and been and died, if you please.”
This hope Miss Slowboy made more emphatic by kicking on the door, but it led to no result.
“Shall I help?” asked Tackleton, turning to John.