“I can’t tell you, my dear, I don’t know myself, ’tis only thoughts I have, and words Mistress Amy has dropped, but she did not mean me to learn anything by ’em. Only I think she felt bitter, when people called the Squire stingy, for she knew what an awful lot of money it took to clear Owen.”
“I must know all about it,” I said; “I shall ask David to tell me if you won’t.”
“My dear, I can’t, and I think, if I was you, I’d not do that.”
“Why?” I asked.
“My maid, isn’t it better to forget what you does know, than to try to learn more.”
“I don’t understand you, Gwen, what do you mean?”
“Why, this, my lamb, don’t you think when the Lord has forgiven the lad, that you may forgive him too, where’s the use of knowing more of the sin than you need to know, and where’s the use of ’ardening your ’art ’gainst the one you love best in the world?”
“Oh! I did love him, I did love him,” I sobbed passionately, all my calm suddenly giving way.
“Don’t say ‘did,’ my maid, you love him still.”
“But, Gwen,” I said, “he has sinned, the old, grand, noble Owen is never coming back. No, Gwen, I don’t love the man who brought disgrace and misery on us all—there—I can’t help it, I don’t.”