The girl’s innocent frankness was really irresistible.
“Should I be altogether wrong,” I asked, “if I guessed that you were a little partial to Ambrose?”
An Englishwoman would have felt, or would at least have assumed, some little hesitation at replying to my question. Naomi did not hesitate for an instant.
“You are quite right, sir,” she said with the most perfect composure. “If things go well, I mean to marry Ambrose.”
“If things go well,” I repeated. “What does that mean? Money?”
She shook her head.
“It means a fear that I have in my own mind,” she answered—“a fear, Mr. Lefrank, of matters taking a bad turn among the men here—the wicked, hard-hearted, unfeeling men. I don’t mean Ambrose, sir; I mean his brother Silas, and John Jago. Did you notice Silas’s hand? John Jago did that, sir, with a knife.”
“By accident?” I asked.
“On purpose,” she answered. “In return for a blow.”
This plain revelation of the state of things at Morwick Farm rather staggered me—blows and knives under the rich and respectable roof-tree of old Mr. Meadowcroft—blows and knives, not among the laborers, but among the masters! My first impression was like your first impression, no doubt. I could hardly believe it.