“No, good sir, my cousin!”
“H’m. Aught else?”
Then did Mary catch her breath and hold me tighter by the hand; and for a moment I could hear my own heart beat.
“He is my sweetheart, sir, an’t please you. And we’re to be wed when he’s well. And oh! sir, it will kill me if yo’ take him from me.”
“And a lucky dog he is to have so fair a bride. Well, well, I’ll risk it. But hark you, Ben Bamforth, you’ve had a narrow shave. I won’t enquire how you came by that bandaged arm. Perhaps I know more than yo think. A change of air will do you good. I say no more than this: ‘Next time yo’ go out of nights, take missy with you. Veils are dangerous, especially with such eyes behind them’”—another bow to Mary—“but masks are worse. You take me.”
Indeed I did take him.
“And now I’m off. You need fear nothing from my report. But be careful of the company you keep. A wink’s as good as a nod, they say, and there’s a man in your confounded league who has no love for Ben Bamforth.”
“Good day, ma’am, and I wish you better of the small pox.”
Long Tom clinked his heels together, drew himself up to the salute, nearly knocking his head against the rafters as he did it, and turned to go. He had reached the head of the stairs.
“Stay, sir,” cried Mary, her face as red as a peony.