“Yes; Herbert Tanerton knows of it; and—and the curate, Mr. Sale.” And I told him what had passed only on the previous day, softening the Rector’s speeches—and it seemed a curious coincidence, taken with this visit of Ben’s, that it should have passed. His mouth fell as he listened.
“It is another mortification for me,” he said. “I should like to have stood as well as might be with Margaret’s husband. Perhaps, knowing this, he will not think more of her.”
“I don’t believe he will let it make any difference. I don’t think he is the man to let it. Perhaps—if you were to go to him—and show him how straight things are with you now—and——”
I broke down in my hesitating suggestion. Ben was years older than I, miles taller and broader, and it sounded like the mouse attempting to help the lion.
“Yes, I will go to him,” he said slowly. “It is the only plan. And—and you think there’s no fear that Herbert Tanerton will get talking to others?”
“I’m sure there’s none. He is indoors now, dining with us. I am sure you are quite safe in all respects. The thing is buried in the past, and even its remembrance will pass away. The old postman, Lee, thinks it was Cotton; the Squire persuaded him into the belief at the time. Where is Cotton?”
“Where all such rogues deserve to be—transported. But for him and his friends I should never have done much that’s wrong. Thank you for the encouragement you give me.”
He half put out his hand to endorse the thanks, and drew it back again; but I put mine freely into his. Ben Rymer was Ben Rymer, and no favourite of mine to boot; but when a man has been down and is trying to get up again, he deserves respect and sympathy.
“I was about here all last evening, hoping to get sight of you,” he remarked, as he went out at the gate. “I never saw such light nights in all my life as these few last have been, what with the moon and the snow. Good-night, Mr. Johnny. By the way, though, where does the curate live?”