‘Don’t say it!’ cried Uncle Benjy, covering his eyes. ‘Put ’em away. . . . Well, if you don’t want ’em—But put ’em away, dear Anne; they are for you, because you have kept my counsel. Good-night t’ye. Yes, they are for you.’
He went a few steps, and turning back added anxiously, ‘You won’t spend ’em in clothes, or waste ’em in fairings, or ornaments of any kind, my dear girl?’
‘I will not,’ said Anne. ‘I wish you would have them.’
‘No, no,’ said Uncle Benjy, rushing off to escape their shine. But he had got no further than the passage when he returned again.
‘And you won’t lend ’em to anybody, or put ’em into the bank—for no bank is safe in these troublous times?. . . If I was you I’d keep them exactly as they be, and not spend ’em on any account. Shall I lock them into my box for ye?’
‘Certainly,’ said she; and the farmer rapidly unlocked the window-bench, opened the box, and locked them in.
‘’Tis much the best plan,’ he said with great satisfaction as he returned the keys to his pocket. ‘There they will always be safe, you see, and you won’t be exposed to temptation.’
When the old man had been gone a few minutes, the miller and his wife came in, quite unconscious of all that had passed. Anne’s anxiety about Bob was again uppermost now, and she spoke but meagrely of old Derriman’s visit, and nothing of what he had left. She would fain have asked them if they knew where Bob was, but that she did not wish to inform them of the rupture. She was forced to admit to herself that she had somewhat tried his patience, and that impulsive men had been known to do dark things with themselves at such times.
They sat down to supper, the clock ticked rapidly on, and at length the miller said, ‘Bob is later than usual. Where can he be?’
As they both looked at her, she could no longer keep the secret.