Suddenly the landlady began to cry, great scalding tears, that left the young men aghast.
“I know nothing of him,” she sobbed, feeling for her pocket handkerchief. “He left me when Maryann was a baby, went mining to America, and after about six months never wrote a line nor sent me a penny bit. I can’t say whether he’s alive or dead, the villain. All I’ve heard of him’s to the bad—and I’ve heard nothing for years an’ all, now.” She sobbed violently.
The golden-skinned, handsome man near the fire watched her as she wept. He was frightened, he was troubled, he was bewildered, but none of his emotions altered him underneath.
There was no sound in the room but the violent sobbing of the landlady. The men, one and all, were overcome.
“Don’t you think as you’d better go, for tonight?” said the sergeant to the man, with sweet reasonableness. “You’d better leave it a bit, and arrange something between you. You can’t have much claim on a woman, I should imagine, if it’s how she says. And you’ve come down on her a bit too sudden-like.”
The landlady sobbed heart-brokenly. The man watched her large breasts shaken. They seemed to cast a spell over his mind.
“How I’ve treated her, that’s no matter,” he replied. “I’ve come back, and I’m going to stop in my own home—for a bit, anyhow. There you’ve got it.”
“A dirty action,” said the sergeant, his face flushing dark. “A dirty action, to come, after deserting a woman for that number of years, and want to force yourself on her! A dirty action—as isn’t allowed by the law.”
The landlady wiped her eyes.
“Never you mind about law nor nothing,” cried the man, in a strange, strong voice. “I’m not moving out of this public tonight.”