A
servant-girl, spreading the cloth for supper, clattered her clogs in and
out of the kitchen: old Mrs. Garstin was stooping before the hearth,
tremulously turning some girdle-cakes that lay roasting in the embers.
At the sound of Anthony's heavy tread in the passage, she rose, glancing
sharply at the clock above the chimney-piece. She was a heavy-built
woman, upright, stalwart almost, despite her years. Her face was gaunt
and sallow; deep wrinkles accentuated the hardness of her features. She
wore a black widow's cap above her iron-grey hair, gold-rimmed
spectacles, and a soiled, chequered apron.
'Ye're varra late, Tony,' she remarked querulously.
He unloosened his woollen neckerchief, and when he had hung it
methodically with his hat behind the door, answered:
''Twas terrible thick on t' fell-top, an' them two bitches be that
senseless.'
She caught his sleeve, and, through her spectacles, suspiciously
scrutinized his face.
'Ye did na meet wi' Rosa Blencarn?'
'Nay, she was in church, hymn-playin', wi' Luke Stock hangin' roond
door,' he retorted bitterly, rebuffing her with rough impatience.
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