"I do not, sir, and that is just what my wife and others complains of. You did not content yourself with saying we were all sinners; you said 'if any sinners lurked at the board,' as if pointing the finger, and it is for an explanation of that I have come to you to-night, sir. We all felt that the presence at the feast of the unfortunate little girl you of course observed, must 'ave 'ad something to do with it, and I think you ought to know, coming among us as you did, and may do again, just how we felt about it. I'll tell you all I know, and then I'd be obliged if you, sir, would tell me what you know."
Ringfield looked helplessly around but there was no hope of diverting Enderby's attention; he must go through with it and only trust that he might be believed, and once again that slight sense of the ludicrous came upon him. Tragedy was in the air; yet, as often happens in real life, it was being pushed to comedy point, and he grudged even the shadow of a jest at this important crisis in his dealings with Miss Clairville, who was now sitting at supper with the new edition of Crabbe.
"You had better take a chair, Enderby," he said, setting the example.
"Thank you, sir, and I 'ope I am not detaining you. I wish to say, sir, that now for eight years the constant presence of the child and its nurse in our little village has been a source of much trouble and talk. We are a united and respectable, most respectable community, sir."
The sternness with which this remark was given led Ringfield to say soothingly, "I am sure you are—it is, I mean. I am quite sure you are."
"Not only respectable, and has always been so, but superior."
"Yes, yes, I understand."
"And therefore it goes against our grain to 'ave 'arboured the maid—that's what we used to call them in England—and the time has come, I think, to do something about it."
"I see. Yes, the position is a difficult one. How did she come to the village in the first place? She was not born there, then?"
"No, sir, I am thankful to say, unless greatly and cruelly deceived. The manner of her coming, or rather of her being found, was this; the young person who has charge of her, who is now about twenty-three by all counts, has always been light headed, and cannot or will not, explain clearly who she is or where she comes from. All we know of her is that she came here with the child one stormy night in the middle of winter, just like the stage or a story book, appearing at the Rectory and carrying an anonymous letter begging for shelter and charity. Mr. Abercorn found them—it was on Christmas Eve—and he took them in to his wife and she to the kitchen. The girl was a pretty dark-haired slip of fifteen or so, with the light manner and the gay laugh you may have noticed, gay but empty, and could give no account of herself; the child not as bad as she has since grown to be, but already strange looking, and some thought as stupid as the girl."