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Updated: June 4, 2025
Peckaby caught one glimpse, and bounded from her seat, her chest panting, her nostrils working. The signs betrayed how implicit was the woman's belief; how entirely it had taken hold of her. Alas! for Mrs. Peckaby. Alas! for her disappointment. It was nothing but that deceiving animal again, Farmer Blow's white pony.
"Wasn't there no saints?" breathlessly asked Susan Peckaby, who had elbowed herself to the front. "Saints!" echoed Grind. "Yes, they be saints! A iniketous, bad-doing, sensitive lot. I'd starve on a crust here, sooner nor I'd stop among 'em. Villains!" Poor Grind probably substituted the word "sensitive" for another, in his narrow acquaintance with the English language.
The cup of hope presented palpably to her lips, only to vanish again she could not tell how and leave no sign. A very disagreeable doubt not yet a suspicion began to dawn over Mrs. Peckaby. Had she been made the subject of a practical joke? She might have flung the doubt from her, but for a distant sound that came faintly on her ears the sound of covert laughter. Her doubt turned to conviction.
"Be you a man to ask?" demanded she. "Could I redd up and put on kettles, and, see to ord'nary work, with my inside turning?" Peckaby paused for a minute. "I've a good mind to wallop you!" "Try it," she aggravatingly answered. "You have not kep' your hands off me yet to be let begin now. Anybody but a brute 'ud comfort a poor woman in her distress.
Consequently, when Peckaby now entered, defiance in his face and unsteadiness in his legs, the guests filed out of their own accord; and Brother Jarrum, taking the flaring candle from the shelf, disappeared with it up the stairs. This has been a very fair specimen of Brother Jarrum's representations and eloquence. It was only one meeting out of a great many.
She could make nobody hear. She knocked at the door, she knocked at the window, gently at first, then louder; she called and called, but there came no answer. Some of the neighbours, aroused by the unwonted disturbance, came peeping at their windows. At length Peckaby opened his; thrusting his head out at the very casement from which Mrs.
What with the long-continued disappointment, the perpetual "aggrivations" of Peckaby, and the prospect of work before her, arising from the gratuitous pail of water, she was feeling unusually cowed down. "I wish I was a hundred mile off," she cried. "Nobody's fate was never so hard as mine." "It'll take you a good two hours to redd up," observed Polly Dawson. "I'd rather you had to do it nor me."
Susan Peckaby seemed to resent this new view of things. She was habited in the very plum-coloured gown which had been prepared for the start, the white paint having been got out of it by some mysterious process, perhaps by the turpentine suggested by Chuff. It looked tumbled and crinkled, the beauty altogether gone out of it. Her husband, Peckaby, stood behind, grinning.
Peckaby had come home to his tea, which meal it was the custom of Deerham to enjoy about three o'clock. He saw no signs of its being in readiness; and, but for the presence of Mr. Verner, might probably have expressed his opinion demonstratively upon the point. Peckaby, of late, appeared to have changed his nature and disposition.
Chuff, he gave me a piece of his bread and bacon at eight o'clock, so I ain't over hungry." Mrs. Peckaby brought forth the loaf and the cheese, and Peckaby cut himself some and ate it. Then he went upstairs. She stayed to put the eatables away, raked out the fire, and followed. Peckaby was already in bed. To get into it was not a very ceremonious proceeding with him, as it is not with many others.
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