Bess came from the inner room, her eyes swollen with weeping.
‘Bess, my lass,’ said the old man, in a hollow voice, ‘there’s bad news. The old squire’s worse, and everybody thinks as Master George is guilty. The police are working up evidence a ready, and they want me.’
‘You will tell them, father, that it could not be George, won’t you? You will tell them he came down here to ask his father’s forgiveness, not to rob and injure him.’
‘I’m afraid, my lass, that nothing I could say would do Master George much good. I fear it ‘ud only do him a power o’ harm. There’s one thing we can do for him as I’m sure he’d be glad on.’
‘What’s that, father?’ said Bess eagerly.
‘Get away from here, both on us. He don’t want you mixed up in it, I know, and I’d sooner cut my right hand off than go and speak agen him in court.’
At first Bess would not hear of flight, but gradually her father persuaded her that for George’s sake it was the best thing possible.
Besides, what could she do if she remained?
She would be a marked woman; something for the curious to gaze at, and for the neighbours to talk about. When the trial was over, and George’s innocence was proved, then she could show herself among her old companions without a blush. She had not her husband’s permission even to call herself by his name.
She was still Mrs. Smith. She could not take advantage of his position to proclaim herself Mrs. Heritage. Her father was right.