(Those are bitterly tragic
tales, which a realist must write some day.) Still, as we came nearer, I
saw nobody at the cottage door. "Is th' door open?" asked Briggs. Yes,
it was open. When we were at the end of the cabbage-patch, and I could
discern the interior of the cottage parlour (into which the door opened
direct), it became clear that three persons were there. One of them, a
man, obviously the brother-in-law, came and peeped out of the window at
us, and turned and spoke to his companions. Of these two, both women,
one rose from her chair and the other remained seated. But none of the
three came to the door.
I have met northern dourness and the inarticulate manner which is such a
contrast to the gushing and noisy effusion of the south. By a paradox it
is not inconsistent with the familiar conversationalism to which Briggs
had treated me, a stranger. But I admit I found Briggs's family circle a
little embarrassing. They were respectable people: the cottage was neat
and decently furnished, its occupants were sprucely dressed. I fancy
they were in their best clothes; certainly their demeanour--and the
aspect of the table in their midst--denoted a great occasion.
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