‘And she won’t go home,’ he interposed, shaking his head mournfully. ‘If she had left of her own accord, she might; not as It was, sir.’
‘If she should come here,’ said I, ‘I believe there is one person, here, more likely to discover her than any other in the world. Do you remember—hear what I say, with fortitude—think of your great object!—do you remember Martha?’
‘Of our town?’
I needed no other answer than his face.
‘Do you know that she is in London?’
‘I have seen her in the streets,’ he answered, with a shiver.
‘But you don’t know,’ said I, ‘that Emily was charitable to her, with Ham’s help, long before she fled from home. Nor, that, when we met one night, and spoke together in the room yonder, over the way, she listened at the door.’
‘Mas’r Davy!’ he replied in astonishment. ‘That night when it snew so hard?’
‘That night. I have never seen her since. I went back, after parting from you, to speak to her, but she was gone. I was unwilling to mention her to you then, and I am now; but she is the person of whom I speak, and with whom I think we should communicate. Do you understand?’
‘Too well, sir,’ he replied. We had sunk our voices, almost to a whisper, and continued to speak in that tone.