“I am called ’Lizabeth,” said the old woman, with dignity, as if she had said, I am called Princess. Her tone had so much effect upon Geoff that he cried, “I beg your pardon,” instinctively, and faltered and coloured as he went on—
“I want to know about what happened when I was a child—about my brother’s death—about—the man who caused it. They tell me you know more than any one else. I am not asking for idle curiosity. You know a great deal, or so I have heard, about John Musgrave.”
“Hus—sh!” she cried, “it is not safe to say names—you never know who may hear.”
“But all the world may hear,” said Geoff. “I am not afraid. I want him to come home. I want him to be cleared. If you know anything that can help him, tell me. I will never rest now till I have got that sentence changed and he is cleared.”
The old woman looked at him, growing pale, with a sort of alarmed admiration. “You’re a bold boy,” she said, “very bold! It’s because you’re so young—how should you know? When a man has enemies we should be careful how we name him. It might bring ill-luck or more harm.”
“I don’t believe much in ill-luck, and I don’t believe in enemies at all,” said Geoff, with the confidence of his years.
“Oh!” she cried, with a long moan, wringing her hands. “Oh, God help you, innocent boy!”
“No,” Geoff repeated, more boldly still, “neither in enemies nor in ill-luck, if the man himself is innocent. But I believe in friends. I am one; and if you are one—if you are his friend, his true friend, why, there is nothing we may not do for him,” the young man cried, standing still to secure her attention. She paused too for a moment, gazing at him, with a low cry now and then of wonder and distress; her mind was travelling over regions to which young Geoff had no clue, but his courage and confidence had compelled her attention at least. She listened while he went on repeating his appeal; only to tell him what she knew, what she remembered—to tell him everything. It seemed all so simple to Geoff; he went on with his pleadings, following through the winding walk. It was all he could do to keep up with her large and steady stride as she went on quickening her pace. The stiffness had disappeared, and she walked like one accustomed to long tramping over moor and hill.
“My young lord,” she exclaimed abruptly, stopping him in the midst of a sentence, “you’ve talked long enough; I know all you can say now; and here’s the bargain I’ll make. If my lad gets free, I’ll take his advice—and if he consents, and you have a mind to come up to the fells and see me where I bide—— ”
“Certainly I will come,” cried Geoff, feeling a delightful gleam of adventure suddenly light up his more serious purpose. “Certainly I will come; only tell me where I shall find you—— ”