“Well, Martha, I don't like his face, either. He gave me, also, what you call a turn. He's very pale, and I felt as if I had been frightened by him when I was a child; and yet he must be some five and twenty years younger than I am, and I'm almost certain I never saw him before. So I say it must be something that's no' canny as you used to say. What do you think, Martha?”
“Ye may be funnin', Master David. Ye were always a canty lad. But it's o'er true. I can't bring to mind what it is—I can't tell—but something in that man's face gev me a sten. I conceited I was just goin' to swound; and he looked sa straight at me, like a ghost.”
“Master Richard says you looked very hard at Mr. Longcluse; you had both a good stare at each other,” said Uncle David. “He thought there was going to be a recognition.”
“Did I? Well, no: I don't know him, I think. 'Tis all a jummlement, like. I couldn't bring nout to mind.”
“I know, Martha, you liked poor Harry well,” said David Arden, not with a smile, but with a very sad countenance.
“That I did,” said Mrs. Tansey.
“And I think you like me, Martha?”
“Ye're not far wrong there, Master David.”
“And for both our sakes—for mine and his, for the dead no less than the living—I am sure you won't allow any thought of trouble, or nervousness, or fear of lawyers' browbeating, or that sort of thing, to deter you from saying, wherever and whenever justice may require it, everything you know or suspect respecting that dreadful occurrence.”
“The death o' Master Harry, ye mean!” exclaimed Mrs. Tansey sternly, drawing herself up on a sudden, with a pale frown, and looking full at him. “Me to hide or hold back aught that could bring the truth to light! Oh! Master David, do you know what ye're sayin'?”