“It’s all father’s ways of thinking. There’s nothing in it—not a thing to talk about. It’s just this—as Mr. Walter has seen Emmy a time or two at the cottage door. And he’s said a civil word. And Emmy is one as likes to talk to gentlefolks, being more like them in herself than the likes of us. And so—and so—father’s taken things into his head—as he did, my lady,” cried Martha, with a blush and a sudden change of tone, “about John Baker and me.”
“Yes, my lady,” cried Martha, very red; “and there’s no more truth in it the one nor the other. Can’t a girl say a word but it’s brought up against her, like as it was a sin? or give a civil answer but it’s said as she’s keeping company? It ain’t neither just nor right. It’s as unkind as can be. It’s just miserable livin’ where there’s naught but folks suspecting of you all round.”
“Martha, is that how your father treated John Baker and you? I think you’re hard upon your father. He behaved very well about that, and you know you were yourself to blame. This that you tell me is all nonsense, to be sure. I will speak to Mr. Walter.” She paused a little, and then asked, “This Emmy that you tell me of—is she a nice girl?”
“Oh, yes, my lady.”
“Is she one that gives a civil answer, as you say, whoever talks to her?”
“Oh, yes, my lady.”
“Not particularly to young men?”
“Oh, no, my lady,” said Martha, with vehemence, her countenance flaming red, like the afternoon sun.
“If that is all true,” said Lady Penton, “you may be sure she shall have a friend in me. But I hope it is all true.”