The old woman, and it may be added her son also, stood and gazed upon the glowing eager countenance of the young man with a mingling of feelings which it would be impossible to describe. Admiration, surprise, and almost incredulity were in them. He had not opposed them hitherto, and it was almost impossible to believe that he would have the courage to oppose them so decidedly; but as he stood confronting them, young, simple, ingenuous, reasonable, they were both convinced of their error. Geoff would yield no more than the hill behind. His very simplicity and easiness made him invulnerable. Wild Bampfylde burst into that sudden broken laugh which is with some the only evidence of emotion. He came forward hastily and patted Geoff’s shoulder, “That’s right, my lad, that’s right,” he cried.
“You will not,” said old ’Lizabeth; “not swear?—and not hear me?—oh, but you’re bold—oh, but you’ve a stout heart to say that to me in my ain house! Then the Lord’s delivered me, and I’ll say nothing,” she said with a sudden cry of delight.
Her son came up and took her by the arm. “Look here,” he said, “it was me that brought him. I did not approve, but I did your bidding, as I’ve always done your bidding; but I’ve changed my mind if you’ve changed yours. Now that he is here, make no more fuss, but tell him; for, remember, I know everything as well as you do, and if you will not, I will. We have come too far to go back now. Tell him; or I will take him where he can see with his own eyes.”
“See! what will he see?” cried ’Lizabeth, with a flush of angry colour. “Do you threaten me, lad? He’ll see a poor afflicted creature; but that will tell him nothing.”
“Mother! are you aye the same? Still him, always him, whatever happens. What has there been that has not yielded to him? the rest of us, your children as well, and justice and honour and right and your own comfort, and the young Squire’s life. Oh, it’s been a bonnie business from first to last! And if you will not tell now, then there is no hope that I can see; and I will do it myself. I am not threatening; but what must be, must be. Mother, I’ll have to do it myself.”
When he first addressed her as mother, ’Lizabeth had started with a little cry. What might be the reason that made this mode of expression unusual it was impossible to say; but it affected the old woman as nothing had yet done. She looked up at him with a wondering, wistful inquiry in her face, as if to ask in what meaning he used the word—kindly or unkindly, taunting or loving? When he repeated the name she started up as if the sound stung her, and stood for a moment like one driven half out of herself by force of pressure. She looked wildly round her as if looking for some escape, then suddenly seized the lighted candle, which still burned on the table. “Then if it must be, let it be,” she said. “Oh, lad! it’s years and years since I’ve heard that name! you that would not, and him that could not, and her that was far away; was there ever a mother as sore punished?” But it would seem that this expression of feeling exhausted the more generous impulse, for she set down the light on the table again, and dropping into her seat, threw her apron over her head. “No, I canna do it; I canna do it. Let him die in quiet. It canna be long.”
The vagrant watched her with a keen scrutiny quite unlike his usual careless ways. “It’s not them as are a burden on the earth that dies,” he said. “You’ve said that long—let him die in peace; let him die in peace. Am I wishing him harm? There’s ne’er a one will hurt him. He’s safe enough. Whoever suffers, it will not be him.”
“Oh, lad, lad!” cried the mother, uncovering her face to look at him. At ’Lizabeth’s age there are no floods of tears possible. Her eyes were drawn together and full of moisture—that was all, She looked at him with a passion of reproach and pain. “Did you say suffer? What’s a’ the troubles that have been into this house to his affliction? My son, my son, my miserable lad! You that can come and go as you like, that have a mind free, that have your light heart—oh ay, you have a light heart, or how could you waste your days and your nights among beasts and wild things? How can the like of you judge the like of him?”
During this long discussion, to which he had no sort of clue, Geoff stood looking from one to another in a state of perplexity impossible to describe. It could not be John Musgrave they were talking of? Who could it be? Some one who was “afflicted,” yet who had been exempt from burdens which had fallen in his stead upon others. Young Lord Stanton, who had come here eager to hear all the story in which he was so much interested, anxious to discover everything, stood, his eyes growing larger, his lips dropping apart in sheer wonder, listening; and feeling all the time that these two peasants spoke a different language from himself, and one to which he had no clue. Just then, however, in the dead silence after ’Lizabeth had spoken, the faint sound like a muffled cry which he had heard before, broke in more loudly. It made Geoff start, who could not guess what it meant, and it roused his companions effectually, who did know. ’Lizabeth wrung her hands; she raised her head in an agony of listening. “He has got one of his ill turns,” she said. Bampfylde, too, abandoned his careless attitude by the mantelpiece, and stood up watchful, startled into readiness and preparation as for some emergency. But the cry was not repeated, and gradually the tension relaxed again. “It would be but an ill dream,” said ’Lizabeth, pressing a handkerchief to her wet eyes.
Geoff did not know what to do. He was in the midst of some family mystery, which might or might not relate to the other mystery which it was his object to clear up; and this intense atmosphere of anxiety awoke the young man’s ready sympathies. All his feelings had changed since he came into the cottage. He who had come a stranger, ready to extract what they could tell by any means, harsh or kind, and who did not know what harshness he might encounter or what danger he might himself run, had passed over entirely to their side. He was as safe as in his own house; he was as deeply interested as he would have been in a personal trouble. His voice faltered as he spoke. “I don’t know what it is that distresses you,” he said; “I don’t want to pry into your trouble; but if I can help you you know I will, and I will betray none of your secrets that you trust me with. I will say nothing more than is necessary to clear Musgrave—if Musgrave can be cleared.