“Ah, and can it be? I should like to inquire how his son, my truant protegé, is going on. And from your father’s description of the vault, the interior must be interesting. Suppose we go in.”
“Had we better, do you think? May not Lord Luxellian be there?”
“It is not at all likely.”
Elfride then assented, since she could do nothing else. Her heart, which at first had quailed in consternation, recovered itself when she considered the character of John Smith. A quiet unassuming man, he would be sure to act towards her as before those love passages with his son, which might have given a more pretentious mechanic airs. So without much alarm she took Knight’s arm after dismounting, and went with him between and over the graves. The master-mason recognized her as she approached, and, as usual, lifted his hat respectfully.
“I know you to be Mr. Smith, my former friend Stephen’s father,” said Knight, directly he had scanned the embrowned and ruddy features of John.
“Yes, sir, I b’lieve I be.”
“How is your son now? I have only once heard from him since he went to India. I daresay you have heard him speak of me—Mr. Knight, who became acquainted with him some years ago in Exonbury.”
“Ay, that I have. Stephen is very well, thank you, sir, and he’s in England; in fact, he’s at home. In short, sir, he’s down in the vault there, a-looking at the departed coffins.”
Elfride’s heart fluttered like a butterfly.
Knight looked amazed. “Well, that is extraordinary.” he murmured. “Did he know I was in the parish?”