"All as I can tell yer, Miss, is, she worn't born so, it's comed on her since, and when I've said that I've said all I do know about it. Her mother comed down years ago now to Deane,—that's my home, Miss,—with three daughters. Mrs. Marks was one of 'em, she married off, and came down here with her husband. Then t'other one she married too, but as for Jane, she never had no chance of a husband, for who'd marry a 'dafty,' Miss? They was pretty close people, and never wagged their tongues with nobody, so nobody knew nothing at all about them nor where they comed from; only folks make a guess at things somehow; and down at Deane they thinks they comed from Stasson, a place none so far from this neither; and more than that Miss, that Jane was the reason why they comed so sudden and secret, like; but there, if they thought the sight of a new place 'ould cure Jane they was mighty mistaken, for from that day to this she've never been no good at all to them, and to my thinking never will be."
"It's a sad story, indeed," replied Amy.
"You may depend upon it, Miss, if we knew the rights of it, it's a bad, as well as a sad story, but there, I've no call to say so. For certain, Miss, there's a something very strange and mysterious 'bout Jane. Perhaps the Brampton folks'll turn out more cute than the Deane ones, and find out what 'tis. It's on my mind, and has been scores of times, that Jane's mortal afeard of summut or other."
Amy smiled at Hodge's suspicions, and passed on.
Marks did not make his appearance, fond of a gossip as he was, and of saying good-morrow to everyone who passed through the 'pike. Probably the "Brampton Arms" was too strong a temptation, and,—as Hodge had predicted it would be,—he was taking his swing there while he could, though three weeks was rather a long time to be intoxicated; but then there was the better chance of his being sober when Mrs. Marks did return, and he should begin to try the effect of the "charm."
On Amy went. The road seemed quite deserted, not a soul to be seen, even the donkeys which usually grazed along the hedges were nowhere.
As Amy walked on her thoughts unconsciously wandered towards Jane and the strange account Hodge had given of her, and anxious as she was about her mother's letter, her mind was almost as much occupied now with Mrs. Marks' sister. She and the letter seemed irretrievably mixed up together in hopeless confusion. The fact was, Hodge had excited Amy's curiosity without being able to satisfy it in the smallest degree, so she was making innumerable conjectures at the truth, all more or less improbable when they came to be analysed. Would the Brampton people be more clever than the Deane ones, and find out what seemed such a puzzle, and, as Hodge said, mystery to everyone? There was Mrs. Taylor, the village chatterbox, she surely would ferret it out, and what a wonderful tale she would make of it. Amy thought she would call at her cottage some day and broach the subject, and hear what she had to say about it. It could do no harm to hear what the village gossip said of poor crazy Jane and her sorrowful story.
As she arrived at this conclusion, a horseman came in sight. It was Charles Linchmore. He was almost close by ere he recognised her. Then he drew rein.