Charles cast a searching look upon her, stopping in the middle of the road. His face was a little more flushed than when they started.
“You mind me, Mr. Saunders,” said Susannah, stopping too and planting herself in front of him. “The night afore the wedding Heber brought her to our house an’ knocked me out o’ my bed to let him in. As white as a sheet she was, for he’d ridden with her the whole way from Pencoed, an’ she was fit to lie down and die on the floor. I was sorry for the poor thing; that I was. He left her there without so much as a word, and she sat like a ghost by the fire until I made her lie down an’ sleep. I give her my own bed to lie in, Mr. Saunders. She were that afraid of Heber she couldn’t rest for shakin’ an’ tremblin’, an’ it was easy enough to see she’d come sore against her will. It was that old witch at Pencoed Chapel that turned her out—she’s always been a friend o’ Heber’s, has Mrs. Job; and between her and Heber, what could the poor thing do?”
The puzzled astonishment on Charles’s face grew as she unfolded her blending of lies, facts, and half truths.
“And there she is, and Heber’s to come back for her as soon as he can.”
“What’s Heber got to do with you?” interrupted Charles, pushing his hat back on his forehead. “Who are you? What the devil have you got to do with me either?”
“I’m his own cousin,” replied Susannah, “I live in his father’s house.”
“You come and take her away,” continued she, dropping her voice and coming closer; “she frettin’ sore for you, Mr. Saunders. She dursn’t go back to Mrs. Job, an’ she hasn’t got a penny piece in her pocket. Heber knows that well enough, and he’s no fear but she’s safe till he comes.”
“I don’t want her!” he exclaimed again; “she’s gone and disgraced herself, woman.”
“You can pay him back in his own coin,” urged Susannah, as if she had not heard his last words, “you’ve got a finer chance o’ that than any man ever had before. You found the nest empty yourself——”
She paused and broke into a laugh, which made his hot face grow hotter.