“She died?” he said softly. “No, I did not know she died.”
“Two years ago,” continued the girl, warily, as if probing his mood.
“Two years!” He repeated it without emotion. “No, I did not know she died. ’Tis a bad job.” He was quite still, his mind seemed to be turning over his own secret memories, but what he bent forward and suddenly said was: “Don’t say anything about it in there.” He nodded towards the inn.
“No?” Orianda opened her crimson parasol.
“You see,” he went on, again resting one foot on the axe-block and addressing himself more particularly to Gerald: “I’ve ... this is how it is. When I was left alone I could not get along here, not by myself. That’s for certain. There’s the house and the bar and the yard—I’d to get help, a young woman from Brighton. I met her at Brighton.” He rubbed the blade of the axe reflectively across his palm—“And she manages house for me now, you see.”
He let the axe fall again and stood upright. “Her name’s Lizzie.”
“O, quite so, you could do no other,” Gerald exclaimed cheerfully, turning to the girl. But Orianda said softly: “What a family we are! He means he is living with her. And so you don’t want your undutiful daughter after all, father?” Her gaiety was a little tremulous.
“No, no!” he retorted quickly, “you must come back, you must come back, if so be you can. There’s nothing I’d like better, nothing on this mortal earth. My God, if something don’t soon happen I don’t know what will happen.” Once more he stooped for the axe. “That’s right, Orianda, yes, yes, but you’ve no call to mention to her”—he glared uneasily at the inn doorway—“that ... that about your mother.”
Orianda stared up at him though he would not meet her gaze.
“You mean she doesn’t know?” she asked, “you mean she would want you to marry her if she did know?”