Once more opposite the poplar he directs the skiff to be brought to. Which done, he sits just as when that sound startled him on return from the ball; apparently thinking of it, as in reality he is.
For a minute or so he is silent; and one might suppose he listened, expecting to hear it again. But no; he is only, as on the way down, making note of the distance to the Llangorren grounds. The summer-house he cannot now see, but judges the spot where it stands by some tall trees he knows to be beside it.
The waterman observing him, is not surprised when at length asked the question,—“Don’t you believe, Wingate, the cry came from above—I mean from the top of the cliff?”
“I’m a’most sure it did. I thought at the time it comed from higher ground still—the house itself. You remember my sayin’ so, Captain; and that I took it to be some o’ the sarvint girls shoutin’ up there?”
“I do remember—you did. It was not, alas! But their mistress.”
“Yes; she for sartin, poor young lady! We now know that.”
“Think back, Jack! Recall it to your mind; the tone, the length of time it lasted—everything. Can you?”
“I can, an’ do. I could all but fancy I hear it now!”
“Well; did it strike you as a cry that would come from one falling over the cliff—by accident or otherwise?”
“It didn’t; an’ I don’t yet believe it wor—accydent or no accydent.”