CHAPTER XX.
MRS. TANSEY'S STORY.
“The sun don't touch these windows till nigh nightfall. In the short days o' winter, the last sunbeam at the settin' just glints along the wall, and touches a sprig or two o' them scarlet geraniums on the windastone. 'Tis a cold room, Master David. In summer evenins, like this, ye have just a chilly flush o' the sun settin', and, before it's well on the windas, the bats and beetles is abroad, and the moth is flittin', and the gloamin' fa's,” said the old woman. “The windas looks to the west, but also a bit to the north, ye'll mind, and that's the cause o't. I don't complain. I ha' suffered it these thirty years and more, and 'tain't worth while, for the few years that's left, makin' a blub and a blither about it. I'm an old wife now, Master David, and there can't be many more years for me left aboon the grass, sa I e'en let be and taks the world easy, ye see; and that's the reason I aye keep a bit o' wood burnin' on the hearth—it keeps the life in my old bones—and I hope it ain't too warm for you, Master David?”
“Not a bit, Martha. This side of the house is cool. I remember that our room, when we were boys, looked out from it, high up, you recollect, and it never was hot.”
“That's it, ye were in the top o' the house; and poor Harry, wi' his picturs o' horses and dogs hangin' up on the wa's. Lawk! it seems but last week. How the years flits! I often thinks of him. See what a moon there is to-night. 'Twas just such a moon that night, only frostier, ye see—the same clear sky and bright moon; 'twould make ye wink to look at. Ye're not too hot wi' that bit o' wood lightin' in the grate?”
“I like the fire, Martha, and I like the moon, and I like your company best of all.”
The truth was, he did like the flicker of the wood fire. The flame was cheery, and took off something of the dismal shadow that stole over everything whenever he applied his affectionate mind to the horrors of the dreadful night on which he was now ruminating. One of the window-shutters was open, and the chill brilliancy of the moon, and the deep blue sky, were serenely visible over the black foreground of trees. The wavering of the redder light of the fire, as its reflection spread and faded upon the wainscot, was warm and pleasant; and, had their talk been of less ghastly things, would have brightened their thoughts with a sense of comfort.
“I have not very long to stay, Martha,” said David Arden, looking at his watch, “so tell me your recollection as accurately as you can. Let me hear that first; and then I want to ask you for some particular information, which I am sure you can give me.”
“Why not? Who should I give it sooner to? Will ye take a cup o' coffee? No. Well, a glass o' curaçoa? No. And what will ye take?”