I reflected. If George were indeed anything to Mary, who had so much right to see him now as she? Anyway the day had gone by for me to be mixed up with any more secrets.
“There’s George in th’ mistal, Mary, he wants to see me by misen.”
“Tell George Mellor to come in here and show himself like, a man,” cried Mary. “Go this minute, Martha, and bid him come to his aunt’s house as a man should come. Tell him, I, Mary, say so.” And Martha went.
I rose from the little desk at which I sat and stood upon the hearth. Mary stood by my side, her face pale, her eyes lustrous, her breath coming short. The door opened slowly, and George came in. My God! I see him yet! I had passed a sleepless night, but George looked as if he had known no sleep for weeks. His face was white and drawn. His eyes were deep sunk in his head, and even by this they had a hunted shifting look—and when they looked at you, which by rare times they did, they seemed as tho’ they asked a question and feared the answer. His neckchief was all awry, his boots clay covered, his breeches soiled, his hands were stained with dirt and torn with thorns, and his whole body seemed bent and unstrung. He advanced but two uncertain paces into the house. I stood my stand upon the hearth. George half lifted his hand to meet mine. For the life of me I could not raise my own, and words died from my lips. And Mary moved closer to my side, and half her figure drew behind me.
“What ta, Ben?” and George moaned and flung up his arms and sank upon a chair by the little round table in the kitchen centre and bowed his head on his arms and great sobs shook his frame.
“Leave us, Mary,” I said very soft.
“I winna, aw’st see it aat. Tha’t too soft, Ben.”
I shaped to lay my hand on George’s shoulder, but even as I raised my arm the thought of the murdered man came like a shock at me again, and I stood stiff and still once more. The convulsion passed, and George lifted his face.
“Tha knows all, Ben?”
“All I fear, George.”