Through a partly-opened door the noise of a scrubbing-brush led up to the charwoman, Maryann Money, a person who for a face had a circular disc, furrowed less by age than by long gazes of perplexity at distant objects. To think of her was to get good-humoured; to speak of her was to raise the image of a dried Normandy pippin.
“Stop your scrubbing a moment,” said Bathsheba through the door to her. “I hear something.”
Maryann suspended the brush.
The tramp of a horse was apparent, approaching the front of the building. The paces slackened, turned in at the wicket, and, what was most unusual, came up the mossy path close to the door. The door was tapped with the end of a crop or stick.
“What impertinence!” said Liddy, in a low voice. “To ride up the footpath like that! Why didn’t he stop at the gate? Lord! ’Tis a gentleman! I see the top of his hat.”
“Be quiet!” said Bathsheba.
The further expression of Liddy’s concern was continued by aspect instead of narrative.
“Why doesn’t Mrs. Coggan go to the door?” Bathsheba continued.
Rat-tat-tat-tat resounded more decisively from Bathsheba’s oak.
“Maryann, you go!” said she, fluttering under the onset of a crowd of romantic possibilities.