When they drew near the river,and the cottage behind it,they could hear the master-masons clock striking off the bygone hours of the day at intervals of a quarter of a minute,during which intervals Stephens imagination readily pictured his mothers forefinger wandering round the dial in company with the minute-hand.
The clock stopped this morning,and your mother in putting en right seemingly,said his father in an explanatory tone;and they went up the garden to the door.
When they had entered,and Stephen had dutifully and warmly greeted his mother--who appeared in a cotton dress of a dark-blue ground,covered broadcast with a multitude of new and full moons,stars,and planets,with an occasional dash of a comet-like aspect to diversify the scene--the crackle of cart-wheels was heard outside,and Martin Cannister stamped in at the doorway,in the form of a pair of legs beneath a great box,his body being nowhere visible.When the luggage had been all taken down,and Stephen had gone upstairs to change his clothes,Mrs.Smiths mind seemed to recover a lost thread.
Really our clock is not worth a penny,she said,turning to it and attempting to start the pendulum.
Stopped again?inquired Martin with commiseration.
Yes,sure,replied Mrs.Smith;and continued after the manner of certain matrons,to whose tongues the harmony of a subject with a casual mood is a greater recommendation than its pertinence to the occasion,John would spend pounds a year upon the jimcrack old thing,if he might,in having it claned,when at the same time you may doctor it yourself as well."The clocks stopped again,John,"I say to him."Better have en claned,"says he.Theres five shillings."That clock grinds again,"I say to en."Better have en claned,"a says again."That clock strikes wrong,John,"
says I."Better have en claned,"he goes on.The wheels would have been polished to skeletons by this time if I had listened to en,and I assure you we could have bought a chainey-faced beauty withe good money weve flung away these last ten years upon this old green-faced mortal.And,Martin,you must be wet.My son is gone up to change.John is damper than I should like to be,but a calls it nothing.Some of Mrs.Swancourts servants have been here--they ran in out of the rain when going for a walk--and I assure you the state of their bonnets was frightful.
Hows the folks?Weve been over to Castle Boterel,and what wi running and stopping out of the storms,my poor head is beyond everything!fizz,fizz fizz;tis frying ofish from morning to night,said a cracked voice in the doorway at this instant.
Lord sos,whos that?said Mrs.Smith,in a private exclamation,and turning round saw William Worm,endeavouring to make himself look passing civil and friendly by overspreading his face with a large smile that seemed to have no connection with the humour he was in.Behind him stood a woman about twice his size,with a large umbrella over her head.This was Mrs.Worm,Williams wife.
Come in,William,said John Smith.We dont kill a pig every day.And you,likewise,Mrs.Worm.I make ye welcome.Since ye left Parson Swancourt,William,I dont see much of ee.
No,for to tell the truth,since I took to the turn-pike-gate line,Ive been out but little,coming to church oSundays not being my duty now,as twas in a parsons family,you see.
However,our boy is able to mind the gate now,and I said,says I,"Barbara,lets call and see John Smith."
I am sorry to hear yer pore head is so bad still.
Ay,I assure you that frying ofish is going on for nights and days.And,you know,sometimes tisnt only fish,but rashers o
bacon and inions.Ay,I can hear the fat pop and fizz as nateral as life;cant I,Barbara?
Mrs.Worm,who had been all this time engaged in closing her umbrella,corroborated this statement,and now,coming indoors,showed herself to be a wide-faced,comfortable-looking woman,with a wart upon her cheek,bearing a small tuft of hair in its centre.
Have ye ever tried anything to cure yer noise,Maister Worm?inquired Martin Cannister.
Oh ay;bless ye,Ive tried everything.Ay,Providence is a merciful man,and I have hoped Hed have found it out by this time,living so many years in a parsons family,too,as I have,but a dont seem to relieve me.Ay,I be a poor wambling man,and lifes a mint otrouble!
True,mournful true,William Worm.Tis so.The world wants looking to,or tis all sixes and sevens wius.
Take your things off,Mrs.Worm,said Mrs.Smith.We be rather in a muddle,to tell the truth,for my son is just dropped in from Indy a day sooner than we expected,and the pig-killer is coming presently to cut up.
Mrs.Barbara Worm,not wishing to take any mean advantage of persons in a muddle by observing them,removed her bonnet and mantle with eyes fixed upon the flowers in the plot outside the door.
What beautiful tiger-lilies!said Mrs.Worm.
Yes,they be very well,but such a trouble to me on account of the children that come here.They will go eating the berries on the stem,and call em currants.Taste wijunivals is quite fancy,really.
And your snapdragons look as fierce as ever.
Well,really,answered Mrs.Smith,entering didactically into the subject,they are more like Christians than flowers.But they make up well enough withe rest,and dont require much tending.And the same can be said othese millers wheels.Tis a flower I like very much,though so simple.John says he never cares about the flowers oem,but men have no eye for anything neat.He says his favourite flower is a cauliflower.And I assure you I tremble in the springtime,for tis perfect murder.
You dont say so,Mrs.Smith!
John digs round the roots,you know.In goes his blundering spade,through roots,bulbs,everything that hasnt got a good show above ground,turning em up cut all to slices.Only the very last fall I went to move some tulips,when I found every bulb upside down,and the stems crooked round.He had turned em over in the spring,and the cunning creatures had soon found that heaven was not where it used to be.
