Inside the room, he seated himself upon a table, and looked questioningly at her. She was evidently at a loss how to proceed, for a few moments, and stood nervously beating her fingers on the back of a chair. When, at last, she broke the silence, her question was a startling one.
“Master Dandy—for the love of God—where’s Patience Miller?”
The man stared at her in amazement. He knew the name in an instant—remembered the interview, in the darkness and the rain, upon the road outside the village—almost felt again, for an instant, the warm pressure of the girl’s lips upon his. He shook his head, in a dazed fashion.
“How on earth should I know?” he asked, slowly.
“How should anybody know better, Master Dandy?” she retorted, in the same suppressed excited voice. “Master Dandy—I’m an old woman, and poor Patience, ’avin’ no mother of ’er own, ’as turned to me—natural-like—these many years. There’s been w’ispers ’ere, an’ w’ispers there, this ever so long; but it was only the other night as I got it all from ’er.” The good woman was quivering with excitement, and her fingers were beating a rapid tattoo on the back of the chair.
“All what?” asked Crowdy, faintly.
“The ’ole story, Master Dandy,” she replied promptly. “Ah—it ain’t no use your tryin’ to deny it, sir; I knows the truth w’en I ’ears it—’specially w’en it comes to me wi’ tears an’ sighs. You’ve led ’er wrong, Master Dandy—you know you ’ave; and now—wot’s become of ’er?”
“I tell you I know nothing about the girl,” replied Crowdy, doggedly.
The old woman threw up her grey head, like a war horse, and looked defiance at him. “Then, Master Dandy,” she said fiercely—“if yer turn me and old Toby out in the road, I’ve got to tell yer a bit o’ my mind. You’re a Chater—and you’ve got the Chater blood in you, I suppose—because I knowed your blessed father and mother, now in their graves. But there it ends; for you’ve got some other black heart in you, that never belonged to them. There’s not a man or woman, in the countryside, but wot won’t shake their ’eads, w’en they ’ears your name—an’ well you knows it. Oh—if on’y my boy ’ad lived, wot a Chater ’e would ’ave been!”
For some hidden reason, the man seemed strangely moved by that last despairing phrase from her lips; indeed, as she bowed her old face down on her hands, with a moan, he made a sudden movement, with outstretched arms, as though he would have taken her within them and comforted her. But when, a moment afterwards, she looked up, with the former stern expression settling on her features, the man was simply watching her keenly, with his hands thrust in his pockets.