The company took its pipe out of its mouth and turned its gaze upon the young man. There was a pause. “There’s a good deal against it,” said Rhys, returning the stare, “but let’s have a drop of something hot before we sit down to the matter. How about the kettle, Hosea, and a bottle of spirits?”
“Wal, I don’t have no objection, not I,” hazarded Charley Turnbull, the man by the chimney-corner, drawing a large hand across his mouth, and reflecting that Rhys would pay for it.
A call from Hosea brought in Mary Vaughan. She stood waiting while he gave the order with her eyes fixed upon Rhys, who was studiously contemplating his muddy boots; he never so much as looked up to bid her good-evening.
“When you’ve brought the liquor, don’t be settin’ up, girl,” said the landlord. “Go you up-stairs and leave we to our bysiness. I’ll mind the hearth.”
Mary’s look wandered over the assembly, lighting for a moment upon Rhys Walters; her eyes were large and brilliant, and shone out of her serious face like flames; there seemed to be a slow fire behind them. She made no reply, but brought what was wanted, leaving the room with an indistinct good-night.
“If her did get to know, it would not do for we—indeed that it would not,” remarked Johnny Watkins, shaking his head.
“Lawk! no; her would soon tell the old man,” answered Turnbull. “Be the door fast behind her, Hosea?”
“Yes, sure.”
“But put you the key well into the hole,” continued Charley, “that there be no sound to go through.”
“Be her a wag-tongued wench?” asked a man who had not yet spoken, and who, having come from a distance, was a stranger to some of those present.