With but a vague comprehension of the interpolated French and Latin phrases, the farmer’s wife makes rejoinder:
“Indeed, I can’t say which. I never thought of asking her. However, Mary’s a sensible lass, and surely wouldn’t think of venturing over the foot plank a night like this. She knows it’s loose. Ah!” she continues, stepping to the window, and looking out, “there be the moon up! I’m glad of that; she’ll see her way now, and get sooner home.”
“How long is it since she went off?” Mrs Morgan glances at the clock over the mantel; soon she sees where the hands are, exclaiming:
“Mercy me! It’s half-past nine! She’s been gone a good hour!”
Her surprise is natural. To Rugg’s Ferry is but a mile, even by the lane and road. Twenty minutes to go and twenty more to return were enough. How are the other twenty being spent? Buying a bottle of brandy across the counter, and paying for it, will not explain; that should occupy scarce as many seconds. Besides, the last words of the messenger, at starting off, were a promise of speedy return. She has not kept it! And what can be keeping her?
Her mother asks this question, but without being able to answer it. She can neither tell nor guess. But the priest, more suspicious, has his conjectures; one giving him pain—greatly exciting him, though he does not show it. Instead, with simulated calmness, he says:
“Suppose I step out and see whether she be near at hand?”
“If your reverence would. But please don’t stay for her. Supper’s quite ready, and Evan will be in by the time I get it dished. I wonder what’s detaining Mary!”
If she only knew what, she would be less solicitous about the supper, and more about the absent one.
“No matter,” she continues, cheering up, “the girl will surely be back before we sit down to the table. If not, she must go—”