“A woman who lives in a cottage covered with clematis?”
“I think so.”
“It must have been Martha Craven. I wonder what is the matter!” and they walked together to the open door. The squire had just alighted from his horse, and was talking earnestly to his favorite servant. He seemed to be in trouble, and he was not the man to keep either Sorrow of joy to himself. “Elizabeth! my word, but I’m bothered! Here’s Jonathan Clough murdered, and Ben Craven under lock and key for it!”
“Why, father! Ben would never do a thing like that!”
“Not he! I’d be as like to do it mysen. Thou must go thy ways and see Martha as soon as iver t’ dinner is eat. I s’all stand by Martha and Ben to t’ varry last. Ben Craven murder any-body! Hee! I crack’t out laughing when I heard tell o’ such nonsense.”
In fact, the squire had been touched in a very tender spot. Martha Craven’s mother had been his nurse, and Martha herself, for many years, his wife’s maid and confidential servant. He felt the imputation as a personal slander. The Cravens had been faithful servants of the Hallams for generations, and Clough was comparatively a new-comer. Right or wrong, the squire would have been inclined to stand by an old friend, but he had not a doubt of Ben’s innocence.
“What have you done about it?” asked Antony.
“I’ve been to see Israel Potter, and I’ve bound him to stand up for Ben. What Israel doesn’t know ‘bout law, and what Israel can’t do with t’ law, isn’t worth t’ knowing or t’ doing. Then I went for t’ Wesleyan minister to talk a bit wi’ Martha, poor body? She seemed to want something o’ t’ kind; and I’m bound to say I found him a varry gentlemanly, sensible fellow. He didn’t think owt wrong o’ Ben, no more than I did.”
“People would wonder to see you at the Wesleyan’s door.”
“May be they’ll be more cap’t yet, son Antony. I’ll ask neither cat nor Christian what door to knock at. I wish I may nivver stand at a worse door than Mr. North’s, that’s a’. What say you to that, then?”