Martha burst into heavy sobs.
"I was a-goin' to give you warning this very day, mum, to leave at the end of my month, so I was,—on account of me being going to make a respectable young man happy. A gamekeeper he is by trade, mum—and I wouldn't deceive you—of the name of Beale. And it's as true as I stand here, it was your coming home in such a hurry, and no warning given, out of the kindness of his heart it was, as he says, 'Martha, my beauty,' he says,—which I ain't, and never was, but you know how them men will go on,—'I can't see you a-toiling and a-moiling and not lend a 'elping 'and; which mine is a strong arm, and it's yours Martha, my dear,' says he. And so he helped me a-cleanin' of the windows—but outside, mum, the whole time, and me in; if I never say another breathing word it's gospel truth."
"Were you with him the whole time?" asked her mistress.
"Him outside and me in, I was," said Martha; "except for fetching up a fresh pail and the leather that that slut of a Eliza'd hidden away behind the mangle."
"That will do," said the children's mother. "I am not pleased with you, Martha, but you have spoken the truth, and that counts for something."
When Martha had gone, the children clung round their mother.
"Oh, mummy darling," cried Anthea, "it isn't Beale's fault, it isn't really! He's a great dear; he is, truly and honourably, and as honest as the day. Don't let the police take him, mummy! Oh, don't, don't, don't!"
It was truly awful. Here was an innocent man accused of robbery through that silly wish of Jane's, and it was absolutely useless to tell the truth. All longed to, but they thought of the straws in the hair and the shrieks of the other frantic maniacs, and they could not do it.
"Is there a cart hereabouts?" asked the mother feverishly. "A trap of any sort? I must drive in to Rochester and tell the police at once."
All the children sobbed, "There's a cart at the farm, but, oh, don't go!—don't go!—oh, don't go!—wait till daddy comes home!"