“He comes often. I thought it was he now. Our marriage has to be kept secret for a while; it was done privily for certain reasons, but we were married at church like honest folk—afore God we were, Roger—six months after poor Stocker’s death.”
“’Twas too soon,” said Roger.
“I was living in a house alone; I had nowhere to go to. You were far 139 over sea in the New Found Land, and John took me and brought me here.”
“How often doth he come?” says Roger again.
“Once or twice weekly,” says she.
“I wish th’ ’dst waited till I returned, dear Edy,” he said. “It mid be you are a wife—I hope so. But, if so, why this mystery? Why this mean and cramped lodging in this lonely copse-circled town? Of what standing is your husband, and of where?”
“He is of gentle breeding; his name is John. I am not free to tell his family name. He is said to be of London, for safety’ sake; but he really lives in the county next adjoining this.”
“Where in the next county?”
“I do not know. He has preferred not to tell me, that I may not have the secret forced from me, to his and my hurt, by bringing the marriage to the ears of his kinsfolk and friends.”
Her brother’s face flushed. “Our people have been honest townsmen, well-reputed for long; why should you readily take such humbling from a sojourner of whom th’ ’st know nothing?”