Charley clutched the counter; he was dizzy. He knew now that his last hope had vanished: it was impossible that she should know where to seek him in London. His head dropped forward.
“But you mustn’t believe one word o’ what they say agin ’er,” began the farmer once more, “for I’d take my oath....”
He did not finish his sentence, for the head went up again.
“Say agin ’er?” repeated the lad slowly, but in a clear voice.
Preston looked foolish, but the meddler in the background, whom the peacemakers had not been able to quiet, pushed up to the bar.
“Well, ’say agin ’er’” mimicked he. “And what shouldn’t they say agin ’er? You’re well out of it, my lad, and Preston ’ere too. She’s no better nor she should be. Why, ’twas plain to every eye.”
The boy’s face went crimson and then dead white again.
“Ye lie,” said he in a clear voice again, looking round steadily on the little company: “ye lie.”
For a moment there was a disagreeable silence, and in that silence there flashed suddenly into the lover’s mind the true explanation of this awful aspersion upon his girl.
He was a father! More than ever now must he find her. He would find her, but first of all he would avenge her. He stood stock still, and those who watched him wondered perhaps at the strange variety of expression that flitted across his face.