“But I shall encourage the home trade, and deal at Haymore all the same,” replied Judy.
Meanwhile Mr. Will Walling spent his time of waiting over the fire in the inn parlor, with a bottle of port wine and a stack of cigars on the table beside him.
And Longman, accompanied by his shadows, Dandy and Mike, walked out in the direction of the Old Heath Farm to make inquiries about his mother, and, naturally, the nearer he came to the scene of his boyhood’s home the keener and the more intense became his anxiety. It had never seemed to him that his buxom, healthy, hearty mother could have sickened and died; nor had it seemed more than, barely possible that she might have married again. He rather hoped to find her where he had left her five years before, living on the farm. Still, as he turned from the Chuxton highroad and went into a narrow lane, overhung by the branches of the leafless trees that grew on each side the path leading to the farmhouse, all the dread possibilities of life seemed to threaten him ahead. He could not now speak of his feelings. He hurried on. The giant was as weak as a child when he passed through the farm yard and went up to the house. A man was approaching from another direction.
Longman leaned against the side of the house for support as he faltered forth a question.
“Eh?” demanded the farmer, looking fixedly at the stranger, as if he suspected him of being top heavy through too much drink. “Is it the Widow Longman ye’re asking about? No, she dun not bide here now. She hasn’t been here for these five years past.”
Another faint, almost inaudible question from the weak giant, which the farmer had to bend his quick, sharp ear to hear at all.
“Is she living, do you arsk? Oh, ay, she’s living good enough. She’s keeping house for the parson at the rectory, Haymore, about ten miles to the norrard of this.”
“I thank the Lord!” ejaculated Longman, lifting his cap, almost overcome by the sudden collapse of highly strung nerves.
“See here, my man, what’s the matter with you? You look to be used up! I thought it was drink when I first saw you. But now I see it isn’t. You look to be faint for want of drink, not heavy from too much of it. Come in now and take a mug o’ beer, home brewed. ’Twill do ye good,” urged the farmer.
“No, thank you. No, really. You are very kind, but I must get on,” said Longman, rising, and now that his tension of anxiety was relieved, gaining life with every breath he drew.