“Not so mooch, not so mooch, mester, but Ah doan’t count to end ma days in an eight-roomed villa, like t’ gentlefowk.”
There was a pause, and then the vicar spoke in a constrained tone, in which the effort to repress some strong feeling was more manifest than ever.
“And if I ask you not to settle here, Abel, but to pitch your tent for the remainder of your days somewhere else, what would you do? Come, I don’t want to throw in your face what I’ve done for you, but what would you do?”
Olivia heard the man clearing his throat undecidedly, and kicking with his wooden leg against the gravestones.
“You doan’t trust ma, parson, an’ it’s a bit hard, after howdin’ ma tongue nigh eleven year. Eh, but if Ah’d wanted to ha’ spoke, wadn’t Ah ha’ spoke afore now?”
“If you had wanted to speak about the business, I should never have wasted my breath asking you not to,” said Mr. Brander with decision. “I trust you, Abel, as much as one man may trust another. But judging you as I should judge myself, I say it would be impossible for you to live in this neighborhood, where that night’s occurrences are still continually being raked up and discussed, without its leaking out that you were here on that night, and that you met me. That, as you know, I wish to keep secret.”
“But, parson,” began the man slowly, in a troubled tone——
Mr. Brander interrupted him.
“Now we’ve nothing further to discuss, Abel. I want the whole story forgotten.”
“But it’s not a whole story, Mester Brander, an’ that’s why it nivver will be forgotten. It’s a mystery to all but—to ivverybody; an’ until t’ fowk knaw what become o’ Nellie Mitchell, a mystery it’ll be, an’ they’ll talk aboot it. Why, parson, dost knaw t’ tales as goes round?”