There would have been great awkwardness in
having Aunt so near, but forbidden to darken one's door. Will was very
firm there: Auntie was not to be admitted at Vine-Pits on any pretext
whatever. But it had all worked out so neatly, without the least
friction. The new owner of the Abbey wanted North Ride. He had,
however, been very kind about the lease or the absence of a lease, and
had paid the tenant for life, as she described herself, to surrender
possession. Auntie, one might therefore say, was not at all badly
treated.
As the master was away and no kind of state necessary, she breakfasted
in the kitchen with Mary and Mrs. Goudie. Her baby was asleep in its
cradle, which she gently swung with her foot while eating; and the
three women all spoke whisperingly. The pots and pans were shining,
the hearthstone was white as snow, and through the open doorway one
had a pretty little picture of the back pathway, the end of the barn,
and a drooping branch of the walnut trees. From the yard beyond came
sounds of industrious activity--the rumble of a wagon being pulled
from the pent-house, the thump of sacks being let down on the pulleys,
and the intermittent buzz of a chaff-cutting machine.
Presently somebody appeared on the pathway, and came slowly and shyly
toward the door.
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