Jervis bent his head, looking on the ground. “Elton—yes, I remember him now. Polly took me once to the Hall, when I was a little fellow, and I saw him there. Did he ask after Polly?”
“Yes,” the old man said shortly.
“And you told him—?”
“The truth, of course—that she was married and gone off more than twenty years ago, and I’d never seen her since. He asked if she had any children. I said I didn’t know—Polly hadn’t thought it worth her while to write and tell us. He said he was sorry to hear it. He’s been to stay at the Hall two or three times, and always thought of us, but he couldn’t walk so far as here, and nobody seemed to know how we were getting on. I said—so much the better; we didn’t want to be talked about; and then I went away.”
Hannah had not come back. Jervis lifted his face, speaking quietly. “Sometimes I have a downright craving for Polly come over me,” he said—“as if I’d do anything to get hold of her again. She was more like mother in her ways than any.”
“Your mother was a good woman, if ever there was one,” said the old farmer, with an accent which seemed to imply that he counted Polly the reverse.
“They were like in their ways,” repeated Jervis.
John Cairns made no answer. He only smoked vigorously, till a deepening blue mist began to pervade the room. Father and son sank into their usual evening silence.
This day it was not to remain uninterrupted. Perhaps an hour had passed, when a ring sounded faintly. After a pause it was heard again, and Hannah’s voice called—
“Do see what’s wanted, Jervis. My hands are in the flour, and that girl’s loitering somewhere upstairs.”