But the visitor was not to be drawn so easily.
“They do,” he said through his muffler,
eyeing her quietly through his impenetrable glasses.
“But they take long enough to get well, don’t
they? ... There was my sister’s son, Tom,
jest cut his arm with a scythe, tumbled on it in the
’ayfield, and, bless me! he was three months
tied up sir. You’d hardly believe it.
It’s regular given me a dread of a scythe, sir.”
“I can quite understand that,” said the
visitor.
“He was afraid, one time, that he’d have
to have an op’ration—he was that
bad, sir.”
The visitor laughed abruptly, a bark of a laugh that
he seemed to bite and kill in his mouth. “Was
he?” he said.
“He was, sir. And no laughing matter to
them as had the doing for him, as I had—my
sister being took up with her little ones so much.
There was bandages to do, sir, and bandages to undo.
So that if I may make so bold as to say it, sir—”
“Will you get me some matches?” said the
visitor, quite abruptly. “My pipe is out.”
Mrs. Hall was pulled up suddenly. It was certainly
rude of him, after telling him all she had done.
She gasped at him for a moment, and remembered the
two sovereigns. She went for the matches.
“Thanks,” he said concisely, as she put
them down, and turned his shoulder upon her and stared
out of the window again. It was altogether too
discouraging. Evidently he was sensitive on the
topic of operations and bandages. She did not
“make so bold as to say,” however, after
all. But his snubbing way had irritated her,
and Millie had a hot time of it that afternoon.
The visitor remained in the parlour until four o’clock,
without giving the ghost of an excuse for an intrusion.
For the most part he was quite still during that time;
it would seem he sat in the growing darkness smoking
in the firelight—perhaps dozing.
Once or twice a curious listener might have heard
him at the coals, and for the space of five minutes
he was audible pacing the room. He seemed to
be talking to himself. Then the armchair creaked
as he sat down again.
MR. TEDDY HENFREY’S FIRST IMPRESSIONS
At four o’clock, when it was fairly dark and
Mrs. Hall was screwing up her courage to go in and
ask her visitor if he would take some tea, Teddy Henfrey,
the clock-jobber, came into the bar. “My
sakes! Mrs. Hall,” said he, “but
this is terrible weather for thin boots!” The
snow outside was falling faster.
Mrs. Hall agreed, and then noticed he had his bag
with him. “Now you’re here, Mr. Teddy,”
said she, “I’d be glad if you’d give
th’ old clock in the parlour a bit of a look.
’Tis going, and it strikes well and hearty;
but the hour-hand won’t do nuthin’ but
point at six.”
And leading the way, she went across to the parlour
door and rapped and entered.
