“No, young marse! An’ dis is wot I war tryin’ to come at, soft an’ grad’al, not to s’prise yer too sudden. Now listen, dear marse, an’ year wot I tell yer, ’caze it’s de bressed trufe—Miss Lilif nebber come to de cabin dat night, nor likewise she nebber started to come, neider!” solemnly declared the old woman.
Hereward sprang up, stared at the earnest speaker and then fell back faint and trembling.
“’Pose yerse’f, dear young marse; dere ain’t nuffin to ’stress yer, but quite deffrint,” soothingly murmured old Adah.
“What—what do you mean? She certainly did go to the creek, because—because——” faltered the speaker, but his voice broke down in silence.
“Caze dere was a body foun’ dere? Dat wot yer were gwine to say, young marse?”
“Yes,” breathed Hereward.
“Yes, so dere was, Marse Tudor, so dere was. But dat body wa’n’t dear Miss Lilif’s!”
Hereward, trembling as if stricken with palsy, and with his hands clutching the arms of his chair, bent forward and stared at the speaker.
“It’s de trufe, as I s’pect to stan’ ’fo’ my Hebbenly Judge at de las’ day, Marse Tudor! Dat body war not Miss Lilif’s, as I could hab edified to de Cow’s Jury, ef I had a knowed wot was gwine on yere an’ could a come up ’fo’ it. ’Stead of w’ich I war laid up long ob de rheumatiz at home, an’ no one came nigh me to tell nuffin.”
“Not—not—Lilith’s——” muttered Hereward, falling back in his chair quite overcome.