‘Wheer’s that wench of ourn?’ he asked, after a second glance round the room, Mrs. Busker’s heart jumped, and she held on tight to the arm-pieces of her chair.
‘Julia?’ said Mrs. Mountain. ‘Her’s about the house, I reckon.’
‘Call her here,’ said Samson; and his wife wondering, but not daring to question, went to the door of the sitting-room and screamed ‘Julia!’ A servant girl came running downstairs at the call, and said that Miss Julia did not feel well, and had gone to bed.
‘Fatch her down,’ said Samson from the sitting-room, and the girl, on receipt of a confirmatory nod from Mrs. Mountain, went upstairs again. Samson took a chair and sat with his head bent forward and his arms folded, staring at the paper ornaments in the grate.
‘Samson!’ said his wife appealingly, ‘don’t skeer a body i’ thisnin. Whativer is the matter?’
‘Hold thy chat,’ said Samson. ‘Thee’st know soon enough,’ and the trio sat in silence until Julia entered the room. She was pale, and there were traces of tears on her cheeks, and Samson, as he glanced at her askance from under his heavy eyebrows before he rose, saw that she was struggling to repress some strong emotion. She advanced to kiss him, but he repelled her—not roughly—with his heavy hand upon her shoulder.
‘You wanted to see me, father,’ she asked, trembling.
‘I sent for you.’
Mrs. Rusker was in a state of pitiable excitement, if anybody had had the leisure to notice her.
‘Theer’s some’at happened to-day as it’s fit an’ right as yo’ should know. I met ode Raybould today i’ th’ Exchange, an’ he tode me some’at as I’d long suspected, about his son Tom. I reckon you know what it was.’