“I have, Captain; my own. That but once, an’ the occasion not o’ the pleasantest kind. ’Twar the night after my poor Mary wor buried, when I comed to say a prayer over her grave, an’ plant a flower on it. I may say I stole there to do it; not wishin’ to be obsarved by that sneak o’ a priest, nor any o’ their Romish lot. Exceptin’ my own, I never knew or heard o’ another boat bein’ laid along there.”
“All right! Now on!”
And on the skiff is sculled up stream for another mile, with little further speech passing between oarsman and steerer; it confined to subjects having no relation to what they have been all the evening occupied with.
For Ryecroft is once more in reverie, or rather silently thinking; his thoughts concentrated on the one theme—endeavouring to solve that problem, simple of itself—but with many complications and doubtful ambiguities—how Gwendoline Wynn came by her death.
He is still absorbed in a sea of conjectures, far as ever from its shore, when he feels the skiff at rest; as it ceases motion its oarsman asking—
“Do you weesh me to set you out here, Captain? There be the right o’ way path through Powell’s meadows. Or would ye rather be took on up to the town? Say which you’d like best, an’ don’t think o’ any difference it makes to me.”
“Thanks, Jack; it’s very kind of you, but I prefer the walk up the meadows. There’ll be moonlight enough yet. And as I shall want your boat to-morrow—it may be for the whole of the day—you’d better get home and well rested. Besides, you say you’ve an errand at Rugg’s—to the shop there. You must make haste, or it will be closed.”
“Ah! I didn’t think o’ that. Obleeged to ye much for remindin’ me. I promised mother to get them grocery things the night, and wouldn’t like to disappoint her—for a good deal.”
“Pull in, then, quick, and tilt me out! And, Jack! not a word to any one about where I’ve been, or what doing. Keep that to yourself.”
“I will—you may rely on me, Captain.”