“What are you talking about?” he asked, slowly. “What about your boy?”
She hesitated for a moment, even glancing round at the door behind her; then came a little nearer to him.
“I ain’t never said anything about it, Master Dandy, because I thought the story was dead and buried like my poor boy—an’ I didn’t think as ’ow talkin’ about it would do anybody any good. But it don’t matter now; an’ I’d like you to know, Master Dandy, that for all your pride—your wicked pride—you wouldn’t ’ave no right to be standin’ ’ere, as the master of Chater ’All, if my poor boy ’ad lived.”
The man was watching her, more keenly than ever; for the sake of appearances, however, he let a smile play round his mouth, and then broke into a laugh.
“Ah—you may laugh, Master Dandy. Wot if I tell you that you had a brother—an elder brother, Master Dandy, though only by a matter of minutes.”
“What on earth are you talking about?” asked the man; though only for the sake of appearances again—for he had heard the story from her lips, a long, long time before.
“The truth!” she exclaimed. “Not one child, Master Dandy, came into the world at Chater Hall, w’en you was born—but two—twins; an’ the other boy was the first. But your father was crazy on that one idea; I’d often ’eard ’im say that if ever twins came, ’e would find means to git rid of one of them. It was all done quiet and secret-like; ole Cripps was doctor ’ere then—an’ a drunken little rascal ’e was, though sound in ’is work. ’E’d ’ave done anything for money—that man; an’ pretty ’eavy ’e must ’ave been paid by your father for it. As for me—the Lord forgive me—I’d a notion of starting at the other side of the world, and making a business. So your father sent me off, with five hundred pounds, and the eldest boy—the eldest, because ’e seemed the weakest. ‘I won’t ’ave two boys, to fight over the property, an’ cut it up after I’m dead an’ gone,’ says your father.”
“Well—and what became of the boy?” asked Crowdy.
“Went to Australia, ’e did, the blessed mite—an’ growed fine and strong—lookin’ on me as ’is mother, an’ ’avin’ my name, as it was then—Crowdy; Philip Crowdy, we called ’im. Then I met Siggs—my Toby—an’ we ’adn’t been married a year, an’ I was full of care an’ anxiety, over a little one o’ my own—w’en Philip disappeared. ’E was ten then, an’ I told ’im the story, on’y a week or two afore ’e went—your father bein’ dead, an’ my lips sealed no longer.”
“A pretty story, Mrs. Siggs,” replied Philip. “And you never heard anything about this boy again?”