“Yes, young marster. I ’xplain ’bout dat p’esently. But dat time w’en she lay in bed, moanin’ an’ groanin’ was las’ November, an’ dis is March. Dat time she did nuffin but griebe ober wot she called disg’ace an’ shame, ’til I frought she would ’a’ died, or loss her min’, I did.”
“And she never dropped a hint of the nature of the secret she had heard from Moses?”
“Nebber, young marse, f’om dat day to dis.”
“Was it——” slowly began Harcourt, as his mind doubtfully and painfully reverted to the Crest House tragedy—“was it anything of recent occurrence?”
“Currants? No, young marse, ’twan’t nuffin ’bout no currants, do’ I did take all I wanted fo’ de ole madam’s jelly, out’n our ole garden up to de big house, it was wid de w’ite people’s leabe; no, sah, ’twan’t de currants.”
“You mistake me; I mean to ask if this secret, told by Moses to his mistress, was about anything that happened lately—within the last six months, for instance?”
“Lor’, no, young marse! but years an’ years ago, f’om de time de ole house an’ furnitur’ was sold ober ole mist’ess’s head to dese p’esents.”
“What could it have been, this disgrace to the family, unknown to my mother until it was revealed by Moses? Have you no idea at all of its nature, Martha?”
“Well, young marse, I has had my ’spicions, an’ I’s had ’em f’om de fus’, an’ dey’s growed stronger since my po’ ole man went to glory.”
“What were your suspicions?”