She would not let him speak, but stamped her crutch impatiently on the stones. Barnabas was as weak as water with any one who had a will; whistling to himself as if to prove that he was carrying out his own intentions instead of somebody else’s, he went straight to the place where his horse was put up. Within ten minutes the cart was jogging down slowly through the crowded street, with Barnabas and Freda side by side on the seat, the farmer shouting to the crowd to keep out of the way.
For a long way they did not exchange a word. As they proceeded down the stone-paved street the throng grew less and less, until, when they got to that point where the houses on the one side give place to the river, they passed only an occasional foot-farer. They were now on the outskirts of Presterby. The lights from the other side twinkled on the water; the distant sounds of the town, and the voices of men calling to each other from the barges, came faintly to their ears. Then for the first time Barnabas, drawing a deep breath, looked down at his companion.
“Eh, but ye’re a high-honded lass. What’s takin’ ye to t’ farm?”
“Never mind what’s taking me. I have something to say to you,” said Freda with decision. “Barnabas, you know you didn’t keep that secret!”
“What secret?” said he uneasily.
Freda lowered her voice.
“About the dead man, and—the person you found beside him.”
Barnabas shuffled his feet.
“Ah doan’t knaw as Ah’ve said a word——”
“Oh, yes, you have. You haven’t meant to, perhaps, but you’ve let out a word here, and a hint there, until——”