"But I wonder at Mr. Helbeck didna juist tell yo himsel aboot that telegram!"
"Do you?" said Laura. Her eyes flashed. She got down from the stile.
"Good-bye, Polly! I must be going home."
Suddenly Polly gripped her by the arm.
"Luke there!" she said in excitement. "Luke!—theer he goes! That's Teddy—Teddy Williams! I knew as I had summat to tell you—and when you spoak o' Hubert—it went oot o' my head."
Laura looked at her cousin first, in astonishment, and then at the dark figure walking on the road below—the straight white road that ran across the marsh, past the lonely forge of old Ben Williams, the wheelwright, to the foot of the tall "Scar," opposite, where it turned seaward, and so vanished in the dimness of the coast. It was the Jesuit certainly. The two girls saw him plainly in the strong storm light. He was walking slowly with bent head, and seemed to be reading. His solitary form, black against the white of the road, made the only moving thing in the wide, rain-drenched landscape.
Laura instantly guessed that he had been paying his duty visit to his home. And Polly, it appeared, had been a witness of it.
For the cottage adjoining the wheelwright's workshop and forge, where Edward Williams had been brought up, was now inhabited by his father and sister. The sister, Jenny, was an old friend of Polly Mason's, who had indeed many young memories of the scholastic himself. They had been all children or schoolmates together.
And this afternoon, while she was in the parlour with Jenny, all of a sudden—voices and clamour in the forge outside! The son, the outcast son, had quietly presented himself to his father.
"Oh, an sic a to-do! His fadther wadna let him ben. 'Naa,' he says, 'if thoo's got owt to say, thoo may say it i' th' shop. Jenny doan't want tha!' An Jenny luked oot—an I just saw Teddy turn an speak to her—beggin her like, a bit masterfu too, aw t' time—and she flounced back again—'Keep yor distance, will yer!' an slammed to the door—an fell agen it, cryin. An sic a shoutin an hollerin frae the owd man! He made a gradely noise, he did—bit never a word fra Teddy—not as yo cud hear, I'll uphowd yo! An at lasst—when Jenny an I opened t' door again—juist a cranny like—theer he was, takin hissel off—his fadther screamin afther him—an he wi his Papish coat, an his head hangin as thoo there wor a load o' peät on it—an his hands crossed—soa pious! Aye, theer he goes!—an he may goa!" cried Polly, her face flaming as it followed the Jesuit out of sight. "When a mon's treated his aan mother that gate, it's weary wark undoin it. Aye, soa 'tis, Mr. Teddy—soa 'tis!" And she raised her voice vindictively.
Laura's lips curled.