“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.
“You say you have seen her. Do you think that you could find her? I could only hope to do so by chance.”
“I think, Mas’r Davy, I know wheer to look.”
“It is dark. Being together, shall we go out now, and try to find her to-night?”
He assented, and prepared to accompany me. Without appearing to observe what he was doing, I saw how carefully he adjusted the little room, put a candle ready and the means of lighting it, arranged the bed, and finally took out of a drawer one of her dresses (I remembered to have seen her wear it), neatly folded with some other garments, and a bonnet, which he placed upon a chair. He made no allusion to these clothes, neither did I. There they had been waiting for her, many and many a night, no doubt.
“The time was, Mas’r Davy,” he said, as we came down stairs, “when I thowt this girl, Martha, a’most like the dirt underneath my Em’ly’s feet. God forgive me, there’s a difference now!”
As we went along, partly to hold him in conversation, and partly to satisfy myself, I asked him about Ham. He said, almost in the same words as formerly, that Ham was just the same, “wearing away his life with kiender no care nohow for’t; but never murmuring, and liked by all.”
I asked him what he thought Ham’s state of mind was, in reference to the cause of their misfortunes? Whether he believed it was dangerous?