"You don't know what I had. But I would rather have died of want on father's grave than have shared his means," continued Afy, growing passionate again.
"Where is he? Not hung, or I should have heard of it."
"He has never been seen since that night, Afy."
"Nor heard of?"
"Nor heard of. Most people think he is in Australia, or some other foreign land."
"The best place for him; the more distance he puts between him and home, the better. If he does come back, I hope he'll get his desserts --which is a rope's end. I'd go to his hanging."
"You are as bitter against him as Mr. Justice Hare. He would bring his son back to suffer, if he could."
"A cross-grained old camel!" remarked Afy, in allusion to the qualities, social and amiable, of the revered justice. "I don't defend Dick Hare--I hate him too much for that--but if his father had treated him differently, Dick might have been different. Well, let's talk of something else; the subject invariably gives me the shivers. Who is mistress here?"
"Miss Carlyle."
"Oh, I might have guessed that. Is she as fierce as ever?"
"There is little alteration in her."
"And there won't be on this side the grave. I say, Joyce, I don't want to encounter her; she might set on at me, like she has done many a time in the old days. Little love was there lost between me and Corny Carlyle. Is Mr. Carlyle at home?"
"He will be home to dinner. I dare say you would like some tea; you shall come and take it with me and Wilson, in the nursery."
"I was thinking you might have the grace to offer me something," cried Afy. "I intend to stop till to-morrow in the neighborhood. My lady gave me two days' holiday--for she was going to see her dreadful old grandmother, where she can't take a maid--and I thought I'd use it in coming to have a look at the old place again. Don't stare at me in that blank way, as if you feared I should ask the grand loan of sleeping here. I shall sleep at the Mount Severn Arms."
"I was not glancing at such a thought, Afy. Come and take your bonnet off."
"Is the nursery full of children?"
"There is only one child in it. Miss Lucy and Master William are with the governess."
Wilson received Afy with lofty condescension, having Richard Hare in her thoughts. But Joyce explained that it was all a misapprehension--that her sister had never been near Richard Hare, but was as indignant against him as they were. Upon which Wilson grew cordial and chatty, rejoicing in the delightful recreation her tongue would enjoy that evening.
Afy's account of herself, as to past proceedings, was certainly not the most satisfactory in the world; but, altogether, taken in the present, it was so vast an improvement upon Joyce's conclusions, that she had not felt so elated for many a day. When Mr. Carlyle returned home Joyce sought him, and acquainted him with what had happened; that Afy was come; was maid to Lady Mount Severn; and, above all, that she had never been with Richard Hare.
"Ah! You remember what I said, Joyce," he remarked. "That I did not believe Afy was with Richard Hare."
"I have been telling her so, sir, to be sure, when I informed her what people had believed," continued Joyce. "She nearly went into one of her old passions."
"Does she seem steady, Joyce?"
"I think so, sir--steady for her. I was thinking, sir, that as she appears to have turned out so respectable, and is with Lady Mount Severn, you, perhaps, might see no objection to her sleeping here for to-night. It would be better than for her to go to the inn, as she talks of doing."
"None at all," replied Mr. Carlyle. "Let her remain."
Later in the evening, after Mr. Carlyle's dinner, a message came that Afy was to go to him. Accordingly she proceeded to his presence.
"So, Afy, you have returned to let West Lynne know that you are alive.
Sit down."
"West Lynne may go a-walking for me in future, sir, for all the heed I shall take of it," retorted Afy. "A set of wicked-minded scandal-mongers, to take and say I had gone after Richard Hare!"
"You should not have gone off at all, Afy."
"Well, sir, that was my business, and I chose to go. I could not stop in the cottage after that night's work."
"There is a mystery attached to that night's work, Afy," observed Mr. Carlyle; "a mystery that I cannot fathom. Perhaps you can help me out."
"What mystery, sir?" returned Afy.
Mr. Carlyle leaned forward, his arms on the table. Afy had taken a chair at the other end of it. "Who was it that committed the murder?" he demanded, in a grave and somewhat imperative tone.
