"Who weer it? Tell me the name. I want no more'n that," he said.
"'Tis Anne Bundle's darter," answered Mrs. Tregenza, her mind on her maid.
"The man!" thundered Noy, "the man who brot the thing about--the man what
ruined--O God o' Hosts, be on my side now! Who weer 'e? Give me the name of
en. That's all as I wants."
"Us doan't knaw. You see, Joan was away up Drift wi' the Chirgwins, an'
theer she was took when they found her arter the drownin'. She never knawed
the true name of en herself, poor dear. But 'twas a paintin' man--a artist.
It comed out arter as he'd made a picksher of her, an' promised to marry
her, an' stawl all she'd got to give 'pon the strength of the lie. Then
theer was a letter--"
"From the man?"
Mrs. Tregenza grew frightened at the thought of mentioning the money, and
now adroitly changed the first letter from Barron, which was in her mind
when she spoke, to the second, which Joan had received from him on the
night of her death.
"Iss, from him; an' Mary Chirgwin found it 'pon the dead frame o' the poor
gal, but 'twas partly pulp, along o' the water; an' Mary burned it wi'out
readin' a word--so she said, at least, though that's difficult to credit,
human nature bein' as 'tis."
"Then my work's the harder; but I'll find en, s'elp me God, even if us be
grawed gray afore we meet."
"Think twice, Joe; you caan't bring back your lass, nor wash her sins
white.
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