This display of feeling applied balm to Martin’s wounds. Certainly Mrs. Bolland’s was the common sense view to take of the situation. He forbore to question her further just then, and hugged her contentedly. The very smell of her lavender-scented clothes was grateful, and this embrace seemed to restore her to him.
His brightened countenance, the vanishing of that unwonted expression of resentful humiliation, was even more comforting to Martha herself.
“Here,” she said, thrusting a small paper package into his hand, “I mayn’t hev anuther chance. Ye’ll find two pun ten i’ that paper. Gie it te Mrs. Saumarez an’ tell her I’ll be rale pleased if there’s no more talk about t’ money. An’ mebbe, later i’ t’ day, I’ll find a shillin’ fer yersen. But, fer goodness’ sake, come an’ tell t’ folk all that t’ squire said te ye. They’re fair crazed te hear ye.”
“Mother, dear!” he cried eagerly, “I was so—so mixed up at first that I forgot to tell you. Mr. Beckett-Smythe gave me half a crown.”
“Ye doan’t say! Well, I can’t abide half a tale. Let’s hae t’ lot i’ t’ front kitchen.”
It was noon, and dinner-time, before Martin could satisfy the cackling dames as to all within his cognizance concerning Betsy Thwaites’s escapade. Be it noted, they unanimously condemned Fred, the groom; commiserated with Betsy, and extolled George Pickering as a true gentleman.
P. C. Benson, all unconscious of the rod in pickle for his broad back, strolled in about the eating hour. Mrs. Bolland, brindling with repressed fury, could scarce find words wherewith to scold him.
“Well, of all the brazen-faced men I’ve ever met—” she began.
“So you’ve heerd t’ news?” he interrupted.