“Oh!” she cried, “I thought it was the young lady—leastways Mrs. Bradstone.”
“No, I am her maid,” said Bessie. “What is it? Are you ill?” for the woman looked worn and pale, and there were deep lines of anxiety and trouble on her thin face.
“Ill? Yes, miss. I’m ill enough, but it isn’t that. I’m no account. It was——” She looked round fearfully. “Come out of hearing, miss!” she whispered, imploringly. “It may be too late—but it’s not my fault. I’ve waited and watched, but I’m watched, too. It’s about the—murder, miss!”
Bessie’s courage and self-possession came back in an instant.
“Wait a moment, James,” she said to the coachman, and she followed the woman into the shadow of the station wall.
“I thought it was the young lady,” she said, speaking timidly, and with palpable agitation, and hushing the child she carried under her shawl. “I tried to speak to her before, by the lodge gate, where you lived.”
“I remember,” said Bessie. “You are the gypsy woman.”
“Yes, I’m Liz Lee,” assented the woman, “and I want to tell her something that I’m a’most afraid to whisper. I’m doing it at the risk of my life, miss, I am, indeed!” and she looked up with a piteous terror into Bessie’s eager eyes. “He’s promised to do for me, if I dare open my lips! And he’ll keep his promise!”
“He? Who?” asked Bessie.
“My husband,” came the reply. “He thinks I’m safe at the camp; but I slipped out—and followed the carriage; I thought I was going to meet the young lady.” She struggled for the breath which her agitation and alarm seemed to deprive her of; then, looking round fearfully, went on: “Is it true, miss, that he’ll be hung?”