The driver of the old carriage and the sexton of the church, who had only just now kept his promise and come up to join the party, stood a little apart, not understanding the emotion of the strangers, attributed it all to sympathy with the bereaved husband.
“Oo, ay, maister, it was a sorrowful day when her leddyship departed this loife,” said Jonah Kirby, shaking his head—“a sorrowful day! I was at t’ funeral, as in duty bound. T’ squoire were first mourner, and hed to be present, though he were far from fit to stand. Laird Middlemoor, his feyther-in-law, hed to hold him up. I never saw t’ squoire from the day of t’ funeral until the day he took t’ train for Lunnun, when he were going abroad to furrin pairts. And then he had gone away to nothing but skin and bone! He came back about a year ago; but he couldn’t abear the place, and went away again. Ah, poor gentleman!”
Le and his uncle looked at each other in wonder. Was this Angus Anglesea of whom the man was speaking? who had reared this monument to the memory of his “beloved wife”? Was this Angus Anglesea, whom every one praised? And yet, who had gone abroad and deceived, betrayed, and robbed and deserted the poor Californian widow? And how, indeed, could he have married the Californian woman in St. Sebastian, on the first of August, as Le had unquestionable evidence that he had done, and be present at the death of his wife in the English manor house on the twenty-fifth of the same month, as these people declared that he had been; and, again, meet the Force family at Niagara early in the following September? It might have been just possible by almost incredibly rapid transits.
“Had Col. Anglesea been abroad just before his wife’s death?” inquired Abel Force of the driver, who knew more about the affairs of Anglewood than the sexton, because the former had always lived at Angleton, and the latter had only lately come to the parish.
“Oo, ay, maister, thet was the pity o’ ’t. The squoire hed been away a month or more. He coom home only a week before her leddyship deed. And he went away again after t’ funeral. He coom back again a year ago, but he couldn’t abear to stay. So he put up t’ musselman to her memory and went his way again. Ah, poor gentleman! He were a good gentleman, and a wise and a brave one!”
“I cannot make it out,” murmured Abel Force.
“The man is drawing a long bow, papa! that’s all there is in it—I mean he is telling romances in praise of his landlord. There cannot be a word of truth in what he says,” said Wynnette.
Le said nothing. He seemed utterly crushed by the blow that had fallen on him.
The carriage driver seemed not to hear or understand the murmured talk between the father and daughter, but when it ceased he touched his hat and asked:
“Wull I drive you to t’ manor house, noo, maister?”