A little group of houses nestling in the hollow near the church, about half a mile from the village proper; all with tiled roofs more or less the worse for wear, and in consequence highly picturesque, tiny patches of flower-garden in front, and larger strips, devoted to vegetables, in the rear. Some of these cottages stood back to back, others retired a little from their fellows, and one shot out at a bold angle from its neighbour with a certain independent air which was increased by the rakish poise of its somewhat dilapidated chimney.
As the hands of the ancient grandfather’s clock in this last-named dwelling-house approached the hour of noon, a short, spare, elderly woman threw open the door and took up her position on the carefully whitened step. She looked expectantly up the road in the direction of the village, and of the town beyond.
Presently another couple of doors were thrown back, and two additional figures—the figures of Mrs. Stuckhey’s nearest neighbours—also emerged into the open and cast glances of anticipation in the same direction.
The coincidence seemed to strike one of the party, a fat woman with a good-humoured face and untidy wisps of greyish hair escaping from the control of the solitary and crooked brass hairpin which was supposed to keep them in their place.
“We be all on the look-out, we mid say,” she remarked. “I be awaitin’ for the childern. ’Tis time they were home from school. I have to send David on a message before he goes back after dinner.”
“My son d’ seen to be a bit late too,” chimed in the lady whose doorstep was parallel to that of the last speaker; a somewhat vixenish-looking person this, with a pinched and pointed nose, and a sour mouth that seldom smiled. “He be kept awful busy up at the line,” she continued fretfully. “He do seem to work twice so hard as he did since that there old war began. I d’ wish it was ended, that I do.”
“There’s more than you wishes that, Mrs. Woolridge,” said the owner of the independent house, folding her arms and holding up her head with a certain assumption of dignity. “Them that has friends out there—them that has sons out there, they be the folks as wish the war was well over; and they do do it, Mrs. Woolridge—I d’ ’low they do.”
“An’ so they may,” retorted Mrs. Woolridge acidly. “I’m sure I can’t think what ever makes folks go to be soldiers! I wouldn’t have my son a soldier—no, not if he was to go down on his bended knees I wouldn’t agree.”
“Well, I don’t go so far as that,” returned Mrs. Stuckhey. “It d’ seem a bit hard, I d’ ’low, to part wi’ ’em; but ’tis a fine thing for to serve Queen and country, and I d’ feel so to speak proud o’ my Joe. E-es, I mid say I am proud of him! It’s summat, after all, to think as he’s the only soldier in the place—the only soldier in Riverton.”
“An’ a good job too,” retorted Mrs. Woolridge; “I’m glad there bain’t no more on ’em. If there wasn’t no soldiers there wouldn’t be no wars; and to my mind wars is wicked things—reg’lar flying in the face o’ Providence.”