But Cilla did not answer. Her thoughts were half with David, who had left Garth when she needed him, and half with Reuben Gaunt, who hoped to keep a promise made to her.
Reuben himself drove to Shepston; and he tried to get rid of the wish that Cilla had not crossed his path to-day—Cilla, with her witchcraft of dainty thoughts and comely living—Cilla, whose gift in life was to make folk see glamour in unexpected corners.
Shepston was busy when he reached the town. He stabled his horse at the Norton Cross tavern, and walked down the High Street in search of the mare he meant to get for Peggy. Half down the street he heard himself hailed by name, and turned. He saw Mother Lambert’s weather-beaten face, standing behind her stall as she had stood on the green at Linsall Fair.
“Morning,” said Gaunt, with the heedless nod of old acquaintance.
He was passing on, but she checked him. “I saw ye last at Linsall, Mr. Gaunt. D’ye mind the pedlar there?”
“Why, yes.” He was impatient and anxious to move forward. “I bought a fairing from him, and his face, I fancied, was more fiery with drink than usual.”
Mother Lambert looked gravely at him across the trumpery wares that covered her stall.
“Best speak no ill o’ the dead, sir. The pedlar’s dead—dead o’ the fever three days ago. It was fever that mottled his face, an’ he said to me as he stood on the green after ye’d bought your fairing for Peggy o’ Mathewson’s—he owned, he did, that he couldn’t feel just hisseln, like, though he meant to plod on and be merry.”
Gaunt’s face was white. He had no thought of Cilla now, but remembered only the lass who had watched him win a race, the lass who had been tender to his failings and buoyant in her love for him.
“Are you speaking truth?” he asked.