“I never saw the gentleman in my life.”
“Well, then, to speak plainly, he drinks; and it’s pretty well known; and so there’s no wonder gentlefolks won’t go near him.”
Holdsworth forced a look of unconcern into his face as he asked:
“Is he married?”
“Oh yes, sir; and a sweet dear creature his wife is; Mrs. Holdsworth as was. Hers is a sad history. She lived at a place called Southbourne—maybe you know it—it’s an hour’s walk from here; and I was told her story by Mrs. Campion, as used to keep a greengrocer’s shop in that village, and served most of the gentry about. She—I’m speaking of Mrs. Conway—lost her husband at sea, and married the present gentleman two or three years afterwards. Mrs. Campion said she was driven to it by want o’ the bare necessaries of life,” added the woman in a subdued voice.
Holdsworth was silent.
“I don’t think,” continued the woman, “that she leads a very happy life. We sometimes has a chat together when we meet out o’ doors, and she’s the civilest, sweetest young thing I ever knew. But,” she exclaimed, catching herself up, “all this is no business of mine; and I hope, sir, you’ll think none the worse of me for gossiping about strangers’ affairs. I was strivin’ to answer your questions, sir.”
“Thank you,” said Holdsworth, rising, but keeping his back to the window. “Can you receive me to-morrow?”
“Oh yes, sir; at any time you’re pleased to come.”