It fell out on the night of her uncle's weekly visit to market, that Joan
had just returned from the garden, when she heard the clatter of the
spring-cart. It drew up at the kitchen door and Mary alighted with Mr.
Chirgwin. The baskets that had started laden with eggs, butter and other
produce came back empty save for a few brown paper parcels. Exceptional
prices had ruled in the market-place that day, so Mr. Chirgwin and his
niece returned home in excellent temper.
They all met at supper, together with those farm-servants who took their
meals at the farmer's table. Then the laborers and the women workers
withdrew; Mary sat down to a little sewing before bedtime; and Mr. Chirgwin
smoked his pipe and looked at Joan. He noticed that the weather reflected
much upon her moods. She was more than usually silent tonight despite the
bright news from market.
Presently Mary put on the kettle and brought out a bottle of rum. Her uncle
had taken his nightcap of spirit and water from her hand for nearly ten
years, and the little duty of preparing it was dear to her. She also made
cups of tea for Joan and herself. Mary often blamed herself for this luxury
and only allowed it on the night that ended those arduous duties proper to
market-day. "While thus employed, both she and Uncle Thomas tried to draw
Joan out of her gloomy silence.
"Theer's to be a braave sight o' singin' down to Penzance come next week,
Joan.
Pages:
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307