“I think it was only Crazy Joe—he hangs about at all hours,” put in Ellen, who had not heard the crunch of Mr. Clegg’s heel on the gravel, as he stood for a moment under their window, to breathe a prayer for the safety and well-being of the supposed sleeper, before he turned away swiftly on his errand.
Almost Mr. Ashton’s first inquiry was for Mr. Clegg.
“He’s at the mill, sir. He was off afore any on us was up; an’ he said happen he mightna git whome fur breakfast, he wur so busy,” was the reply of Bess.
But Mr. Ashton, setting off towards the factory, encountered Jabez on the way, and they returned together to breakfast, as if they had met for the first time that morning. On Mrs. Ashton’s suggestion, Augusta was neither questioned nor accused.
“We should only tempt her to deny, and perhaps provoke ill-will towards our informant, with no good end,” she said. “Better wait and ascertain beyond question what her intentions are.”
Jabez would fain have spared her the pain and shame of exposure, but the matter was out of his hands.
The day passed unmarked save by Augusta’s restless lookout for Crazy Joe, and the way she hung about her mother, as if half afraid of the rash step she contemplated.
Mr. Ashton meanwhile, to cover his distress and agitation, busied himself about the transfer of the White Hart (which he pronounced “admirable”) to its place over the inn-door, and managed to elicit from Chapman, the gossiping landlord, without direct inquiry, that a fine young spark in hunting gear had put up his horse there several times within the past week, and was like to make the fortune of Crazy Joe, he gave the poor softy so many half-crowns; but Joe was “deep, and never let on what he got them for.”