“Yes. Can you trust Jane not to go talking about it?”
“I think I can. I ought to, anyhow. But she can’t know anythink in the letter now, Mr Weir.”
“I know that; but Marshmallows is a talkin’ place. And poor Kate ain’t right out o’ hearin’ yet.—You’ll come and see her buried to-morrow, won’t ye, Old Rogers?”
“I will, Thomas. You’ve had a troubled life, but thank God the sun came out a bit before she died.”
“That’s true, Rogers. It’s all right, I do think, though I grumbled long and sore. But Jane mustn’t speak of that letter.”
“No. That she shan’t.”
“I’ll tell you some day what’s in it. But I can’t bear to talk about it yet.”
And so they parted.
I was too unwell still either to be able to bury my dead out of my sight or to comfort my living the next Sunday. I got help from Addicehead, however, and the dead bodies were laid aside in the ancient wardrobe of the tomb. They were both buried by my vestry-door, Catherine where I had found young Tom lying, namely, in the grave of her mother, and old Mrs Tomkins on the other side of the path.
On Sunday, Rogers gave his daughter the letter, and she carried it to the Hall. It was not till she had to wait on her mistress before leaving her for the night that she found an opportunity of giving it into her own hands.