Sweet music touched him; perhaps it was the only gentleness that could. It wrought a glamour which willy-nilly fooled his better reason. It did so now, conscious as he was of his own enthralment. Here was no longer a child adventuress, but a plaintive innocent, melodiously sorrowing in Nature’s very voice. He was never a giver in the disinterested sense; now the song decided a point on which he had hitherto wavered. He turned impulsively to the landlord.
“What is her debt?” said he. “I discharge it.”
“Thirty shillings and a groat,” answered the other promptly.
“Knock off the groat,” said Hamilton, “for your contribution. What, man, who calls the tune must pay the piper.”
He would hear no remonstrances, but waved the innkeeper away. “Come aside with me,” he said to the girl; and, very willingly it seemed, she obeyed. He led her to a table apart, where he sat her down, himself facing her, and there was none of the company rash enough to question by so much as a snigger that implied claim to privacy in a public place. Most dispersed about their business, while the few who remained gave the couple a respectfully wide berth.
“Now,” said Hamilton, “who are you, pretty one?”
“A poor deserted wife, kind sir,” she answered, “as ever wedded a villain.”
“A wife—you baby!”
“Please, I was married in long clothes,” said she.
“And who taught you that song?”