“That reminds me,” he said a moment after, turning suddenly grave. He called his daughter apart, beckoning with his finger.
Gervase by this time was lolling half out of the open window, delightedly counting the vehicles in sight. “Farmer Golightly’s tax cart, and Jim Mason’s big waggon, and the parson’s pony chaise, and a fly up from the station,” he cried: “it’s livelier than London. Patty, Patty, come and look here.” Gervase turned round, and saw his wife and her father with grave faces consulting together, and relapsed into absolute quiet, effacing himself behind the fluttering curtains with the intention of stealing out of the room as soon as he could and getting away. His mother’s threat about drawing the beer haunted him. Could not she, who could do most things, make that threat come true?
“Patty,” said old Hewitt, “you’ve done it, and you can’t undo it; but there’ll be ever such a rumpus up there.”
“Of course, I know that,” she said calmly; “I’m ready for them. Let them try all they can, there’s nothing they can do.”
“Patty,” said the old innkeeper again, “I’ve something to tell you as you ain’t a-thinking of. About ’Er,” he said, pointing with his thumb over his shoulder.
“What about her? I know she’s my enemy; but you needn’t be frightened, father. I’ve seen to everything, and there’s nothing she can do.”
“It ain’t that as I want you to think of. It’s more dreadful than that. It’s ‘in the midst of life as we are in death,’ ” said Hewitt. “That sort of thing; and they’ve been a-’unting for ’im far and wide.”
“Lord, father, what do you mean?” Patty caught at a confused idea of Sir Giles’ death, and her heart began to thump against her breast.
Hewitt pointed with his thumb, jerking it again and again over his shoulder. “She’s—she’s—dead,” he said.
“Dead!” said Patty, with a shriek, “who’s dead?”