“She’s on the settle.” As she spoke the woman stood aside, but continued to stare as if her curiosity grudged the loss of a moment.
The kitchen, or house place—in those days the rough work of a farmhouse was done in the scullery—was spacious and clean, though sparsely and massively furnished. The flag floor was outlined in white squares, and the space about the fire was made more private by a tall settle which flanked the chimney corner and averted the draught. These appearances foretold a red-armed bustling house-wife. But they were belied by the pale plump face framed in untidy hair, which half in fright and half in bewilderment peered at her over the arm of the settle. It was a face that had been pretty after a feeble fashion no more than twelve months back: now it bore the mark of strain and trouble. And when it was not peevish it was frightened. Certainly it was no longer pretty.
The owner of the face got slowly to her feet “Is it me you want?” she said, her tone spiritless.
“If you are Mrs. Tyson,” Henrietta answered gently.
“Yes, I am.”
“I have brought you some things Mrs. Gilson of the inn wished to send you.”
“I am obliged to you,” with stiff shyness.
“And if you do not mind,” Henrietta continued frankly, “I will rest a little. If I do not trouble you.”
“No, I’m mostly alone,” the young woman answered, slowly and apathetically. And she bade the servant set a chair for the visitor. That done, she despatched the woman with the basket to the larder.
Then “I’m mostly alone,” she repeated. And this time her voice quivered, and her eyes met the other woman’s eyes.