England -- Fiction; Families -- Fiction; Farms -- Fiction; Older men -- Fiction
“We’ll see to him, don’t you fret!” Agnes said cheerfully, in her
firm tones. “We’ll have him so he won’t know himself afore long, wi’
nowt to cross him and the best to eat. It’s queer if we can’t shape
better than Marget at the job. We ought to be shammed on ourselves if
we can’t, that’s all!”
As if bent upon showing her willingness to begin, she left him to
pick up the white cloth ready spread for a meal, and shook it on
again with a hearty slap. Thomas, searching the roads of the marsh
in her place, heard her busy behind him among the pots, her free
step over the flags full of energy and goodwill. The clean air of
the kitchen thrilled with kindly expectation and innocent pride. The
sun and the cheerful room seemed the best setting in the world for
the little scene of welcome that they had planned. Even the weather
had kept the right sort of day for the old man’s coming home. Then
it was evening, early evening, when all should go home by rights to
rest and good food and cheerful voices and open doors—doors, flooded
with sun which you took with you when you went in, yet left as much
as they wanted for those outside; food, such as was being laid on the
table behind; and a voice like his wife’s as she murmured over her
job. “Father’ll think they forks right smart,” he heard her say; and,
“It’s the bonniest china, I’m sure, I’ve seen for a while!” Between
the setting of every two or three pots she asked for news of the
trap.... “Likely they’ll have got off afore their time.”
“Nay, Marget’ll watch out for that!” Thomas scoffed. “It’s a deal
more like to be the other way about. She was fair wild when she heard
he meant coming to us, though I don’t see how she could ha’ looked
for owt else. What, he was born here, to start wi’, and never stirred
off the spot; and then, when his father give up, he took hold for
himself. I’m sure it’s like enough he should want to come back.”
“He’s bound to hanker to be back on the marsh,” she agreed, admiring
the plated tea-pot with an absent air.... “It was real kind of Aunt
Martha Bainbridge to give us yon....”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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