"Not Conjuror Trendle?" said her thin companion, turning pale.
"Trendle—yes. Is he alive?"
"I believe so," said Rhoda, with reluctance.
"Why do you call him conjuror?"
"Well—they say—they used to say he was a—he had powers other folks have not."
The milkwoman had inwardly seen, from the moment she heard of her having been mentioned as a reference for this man, that there must exist a sarcastic feeling among the work-folk that a sorceress would know the whereabouts of the exorcist. They suspected her, then. A short time ago this would have given no concern to a woman of her common-sense. But she had a haunting reason to be superstitious now; and she had been seized with sudden dread that this Conjuror Trendle might name her as the malignant influence which was blasting the fair person of Gertrude, and so lead her friend to hate her for ever, and to treat her as some fiend in human shape.
"The place on my arm is so mysterious! I don't really believe in such men, but I should not mind just visiting him, from curiosity—though on no account must my husband know. Is it far to where he lives?"
"Yes—five miles," said Rhoda backwardly. "In the heart of Egdon."
"Well, I should have to walk. Could not you go with me to show me the way—say tomorrow afternoon?"
"O, not I—that is," the milkwoman murmured, with a start of dismay. Again the dread seized her that something to do with her fierce act in the dream might be revealed, and her character in the eyes of the most useful friend she had ever had be ruined irretrievably.