"Ah," said Mr. Arkell now to the brother, "I did not forgive Robert Carr that trick he played upon me for a long while, it so vexed my father. He thought the worst, you know; and for your sister's sake, could not forgive Robert Carr. Had he known of the marriage, it would have been a different thing."
"No one knew of it—not a soul," said Mr. Hughes. "Had we told one, we might as well have told all. I and Sophia knew that we could keep our own counsel; but we could not answer beyond ourselves—not even for Mary."
"Could you not trust her?"
"Trust her!" echoed Mr. Hughes. "Her tongue was like a sieve: it let out everything. She missed mother's ring off Sophia's finger. Sophia said she had lost it—she didn't know what else to say—and before two days were out, the town-crier came to ask if she'd not like it cried. Mary had talked of the loss high and low."
"Did she never know that there had been a marriage?" asked Mr. Arkell.
"Quite at the last, when she had but a day or two left of life. Sophia told her then; she had grieved much over Martha Ann, and was grieving still. Sophia told her, and it sent her easy to her grave. Soon after she died, Sophia married Jem Pycroft, and they came out to me. She's dead now. So that there's only me left out of the four of us," added the returned traveller, after a pause.
"And Martha Ann's eldest son became a clergyman, you say; and he died! I should like to see the other two children she left. Do they live in Rotterdam?"
"I am not sure; but you would no doubt hear of them there. They sold off Marmaduke Carr's property when they came into it, after the trial. It's not to be wondered at: they had no pleasant associations connected with Westerbury."
Edward Hughes burst into a laugh. "What a blow it must have been for stingy John Carr!"
"It was that," said Mr. Arkell. "He is always pleading poverty; but there's no doubt he has been saving money ever since the old squire died and he came into possession. That can't be far short of twenty years now."