“Let us look at the day book,” she answered very promptly; “that will show everything we did then. It is in the next room. You shall see it in a minute.”
While she was gone, my uncle leaned both hands upon his stick, and looked at me. “This is all gammon, Kit,” he whispered; “never mind; you watch her.”
The old lady soon reappeared with the book, which was nothing but a calendar interleaved.
“You see I have learned business since you knew me, Mr. Orchardson,” she said as she turned back to the date; “Moggs isn’t half such a scholar as I am; but George is a great deal better. Why, he can do decimals, and fractions, and all that. You don’t mind my turning back the edge of the leaf. Our prices, of course, are our own concern. We don’t seem to have done much on the day you speak of.”
“Very little indeed. Much less than usual; though the day, if I remember right, was beautifully clear and sunny. There seem to have been only three boats out, and all of them up the river. Your husband spoke of coming down our way; but I suppose it was some other time. And of fetching a lady, who cried all the way.”
“Then it must have been some other day. It could never have been on that day, you may be certain; or here it would be in black and white. But he never remembers when he did a thing; and he often mixes up two years together. A lady who cried? Why, let me see; I did hear something about it. Was she in deep mourning, Mr. Orchardson?”
“Not in deep mourning at all; but a grey summer dress, and a short cloak, or jacket, or whatever you call it, braided in front and scolloped round the bottom. And a very beautiful face with blue eyes, like the colour of the sky in settled weather—oh, but she may have cried them out, so you must not go by that, so much. And she had a pretty way of putting up one hand—”
“Shut up,” I said, for who could stand all this? And Mrs. Moggs looked at me, as if she was so sorry.
“Oh, then it must be some one different altogether. The young party I heard of was about a year ago, and they did say she was going to her father’s funeral, whether that day or the next, I won’t be certain. My poor Moggs begins to get queer in the head, from being so much on the water, no doubt. He is right about most things, and you may take his word for untold gold, Mr. Orchardson. Such a man of his word never lived, I do believe. Sometimes I say it is unnatural, and he ought to try to break himself; for if every one was like him, where would business be? But without days and months, he is wrong more than right, even when he have been to church and heard the psalms. No, no, sir; he have put you in the wrong boat altogether. It can’t have been any of our people.”
“You are sure to know best;” said my uncle, looking at her, in a very peculiar way of his, which was apt to mean—“You are a liar;” and she seemed to know well what was meant by it. “Mrs. Moggs, we are much obliged to you. Remember me to your worthy husband”—he laid a little stress on the adjective—“as soon as he comes back from Southsea. Or rather when you join him there. What station do you find most convenient?”