Captain Mulgrave was more startled by the three last words than by all the rest of the farmer’s speech.
“My little daughter!” he repeated in a scoffing tone. “Yes, I’d forgotten her. But what do you know about her, eh?”
“Ah was bringing her oop t’ Abbey,” answered Barnabas, jerking his head and his thumb in the direction of the cart, which, however, was not in sight.
Captain Mulgrave frowned.
“D——d nuisance!” he muttered to himself.
“Eh, but Ah think Ah’ll tak’ her aweay again till ye’re gone, Capt’n,” said Barnabas drily. “T’ owd stoans will give her a better welcome home than ye seem loike to.”
“No, you may as well take her up now. I shall not see her. You don’t want to keep the girl out all day in the cold. I’ll just get across to the house now and tell Mrs. Bean to make a fire for her. By the time the cart comes round to the front I—I——” He hesitated, and Barnabas saw that, under his devil-may-care manner, Captain Mulgrave was agitated. “By that time,” continued he, recovering himself, “it will be all ready for her, and—she’ll see nothing of me—I shall go away—to-night—I shall be glad to. I’m sick of this pestilential country, where one can only breathe by virtue of a special act of parliament. Sha’n’t see you again, Barnabas.” He moved away, and just as he put his hand on the stone wall to vault over, he turned his head to say, “Thanks for your kindness to the little one.”
Then he disappeared from the farmer’s sight hastily, as he heard the cart groaning and squeaking up the hill.
Freda had got tired of waiting for Barnabas, and after much vigorous shaking of the reins, which he had put into her hands, she had succeeded in starting the horse again.
“Barnabas!” she cried, as soon as she caught sight, in the gloom, of the farmer’s figure, “is that you?”