“How black that sky do look,” she adds, rising from her seat, and going to the door; “An’ threatenin’ storm, if I bean’t mistook. Lucky, Jack ha’ intimate acquaintance wi’ the river ’tween here and Rugg’s—if he hain’t goed farther. What a blessin’ the boy don’t gie way to drink, an’s otherways careful! Well, I ’spose there an’t need for me feelin’ uneasy. For all, I don’t like his bein’ so late. Mercy me! Nigh on the stroke o’ eleven? Ha! What’s that? Him I hope.”
She steps hastily out, and behind the house, which fronting the road, has its back towards the river. On turning the corner she hears a dull thump, as of a boat brought up against the bank; then a sharper concussion of timber striking timber—the sound of oars being unshipped. It comes from the Mary, at her mooring-place; as, in a few seconds after, Mrs Wingate is made aware, by seeing her son approach with his arms full—in one of them a large brown paper parcel, while under the other are his oars. She knows it is his custom to bring the latter up to the shed—a necessary precaution due to the road running so near, and the danger of larking fellows taking a fancy to carry off his skiff.
Met by his mother outside, he delivers the grocery goods and together they go in; when he is questioned as to the cause of delay.
“Whatever ha kep’ ye, Jack? Ye’ve been a wonderful long time goin’ up to the Ferry an’ back!”
“The Ferry! I went far beyond; up to the footpath over Squire Powell’s meadows. There I set Captain out.”
“Oh! that be it.”
His answer being satisfactory he is not further interrogated. For she has become busied with an earthenware teapot, into which have been dropped three spoonfuls of “Horniman’s” just brought home—one for her son, another for herself, and the odd one for the pot—the orthodox quantity. It is a late hour for tea; but their regular evening meal was postponed by the coming of the Captain, and Mrs Wingate would not consider supper as it should be, wanting the beverage which cheers without intoxicating.
The pot set upon the hearthstone over some red-hot cinders, its contents are soon “mashed;” and, as nearly everything else had been got ready against Jack’s arrival, it but needs for him to take seat by the table, on which one of the new composite candles, just lighted, stands in its stick.
Occupied with pouring out the tea, and creaming it, the good dame does not notice anything odd in the expression of her son’s countenance; for she has not yet looked at it, in a good light. Nor till she is handing the cup across to him. Then, the fresh lit candle gleaming full in his face, she sees what gives her a start. Not the sad melancholy cast to which she has of late been accustomed. That has seemingly gone off, replaced by sullen anger, as though he were brooding over some wrong done, or insult recently received!
“Whatever be the matter wi’ ye, Jack?” she asks, the teacup still held in trembling hand. “There ha’ something happened?”