“Poor Sir George! It’s a good thing he was in his grave. Lord Averil could have prosecuted George, I hear.”
“Were I to hear to-morrow that I could be prosecuted for standing here and talking to you to-night, it wouldn’t surprise me,” was the answer.
“What on earth did he do with the money? What went with it?”
“Report runs that he founded a cluster of almhouses with it,” said Charlotte demurely. “Ten old women, who were to be found in coals and red cloaks, and half-a-crown a week.”
The words angered him beyond everything. Nothing could have been more serious than his mood; nothing could savour of levity, of mockery, more than hers. “Report runs that he has been giving fabulous prices for horses to make presents of,” angrily retorted Mr. Crosse, in a tone of pointed significance.
“Not a bit of it,” returned undaunted Charlotte. “He only gave bills.”
“Good night to you, Mrs. Pain,” came the next words, haughtily and abruptly, and Mr. Crosse turned to continue his way.
Leaving Charlotte standing there. No other passengers came down from the station: there were none to come: and she turned to retrace her steps to the town. She walked slowly and moved her head from side to side, as if she would take in all the familiar features of the landscape by way of farewell in anticipation of the morrow; the day that was to close her residence at Prior’s Ash for ever.