“Oh,” said Mr Bolt, “that was it, was it?”
“Ye know ’twould be only nat’ral, my dear,” put in Mrs Bolt meekly. “Ye wouldn’t be out o’ pocket by it, an’ ye’d be pervidin’ for your own flesh an’ blood.”
Mr Bolt’s countenance changed; his wife’s suggestion was eminently practical, and he could not help being struck by it. Nevertheless the share she had taken in the recent plot was still too fresh in his memory to admit of his parleying with her.
“There, wold ’ooman,” he cried, screwing himself round in his chair, “ye needn’t be a-puttin’ your oar in. Ye’d better keep quiet. I wonder ye dare look me in the face,” he added sternly.
“’Twasn’t mother’s fault—’twas me thought of it,” cried Alice quickly. “’Twas me planfned it—”
“An’ ’twas very well planned too,” commented her father. “I only wonder ye should ha’ thought I’d ever change my mind. Ye do know I be a man o’ my word, don’t ye?”
“I do, I do,” sobbed she, “but still—oh dear, father, haven’t we been happy together these last few weeks, and haven’t ye got fond o’ little Abel, an’ wouldn’t it be nice for us all to be friends? Ye did use to say Ned was a terr’ble good worker,” she added wistfully.
Mr Bolt looked at first severe and then dubious; this was evidently an aspect of the case which had not before presented itself. The rigidity of his form relaxed in some degree, and for the first time since Alice’s confession he cast on her a glance which, though reproachful, was not unfriendly.
“’Tis true, that,” he said in a meditative tone, “’ees, ’tis true. Ye be a truth-tellin’ maid as a rule, my dear. I wonder how you came to make up such a lyin’ tale about the emmygration.”
As Alice hid her face he continued more kindly.