I'll tell you what--if I had lived to be your age, and knew no more of the world than you do, I'd go and hang myself. Steady! here's our charming friend with the milk. Remember your instructions, and don't lose heart if my notion of the payment to the bankers comes to nothing. I know what to do next, in that case--and, what's more, I'll take all the risk and trouble on my own shoulders. Oh, Lord! I'm afraid I shall be obliged to drink the milk, now it's come!"With this apprehension in his mind, he advanced to relieve Isabel of the jug that she carried.
"Here's a treat!" he burst out, with an affectation of joy, which was completely belied by the expression of his dirty face. "Here's a kind and dear young lady, to help an old man to a drink with her own pretty hands." He paused, and looked at the milk very much as he might have looked at a dose of physic. "Will anyone take a drink first?" he asked, offering the jug piteously to Isabel and Moody. "You see, I'm not wed to genuine milk; I'm used to chalk and water. I don't know what effect the unadulterated cow might have on my poor old inside." He tasted the milk with the greatest caution. "Upon my soul, this is too rich for me! The unadulterated cow is a deal too strong to be drunk alone. If you'll allow me I'll qualify it with a drop of gin. Here, Puggy, Puggy!" He set the milk down before the dog; and, taking a flask out of his pocket, emptied it at a draught. "That's something like!" he said, smacking his lips with an air of infinite relief. "So sorry, Miss, to have given you all your trouble for nothing; it's my ignorance that's to blame, not me. I couldn't know I was unworthy of genuine milk till I tried--could l? And do you know," he proceeded, with his eyes directed slyly on the way back to the station, "I begin to think I'm not worthy of the fresh air, either. A kind of longing seems to come over me for the London stink. I'm home-sick already for the soot of my happy childhood and my own dear native mud. The air here is too thin for me, and the sky's too clean; and--oh, Lord!--when you're wed to the roar of the traffic--the 'busses and the cabs and what not--the silence in these parts is downright awful. I'll wish you good evening, miss; and get back to London."Isabel turned to Moody with disappointment plainly expressed in her face and manner.
"Is that all he has to say?" she asked. "You told me he could help us. You led me to suppose he could find the guilty person."Sharon heard her. "I could name the guilty person," he answered, "as easily, miss, as I could name you.""Why don't you do it then?" Isabel inquired, not very patiently "Because the time's not ripe for it yet, miss--that's one reason. Because,if I mentioned the thief's name, as things are now, you, Miss Isabel, would think me mad; and you would tell Mr. Moody I had cheated him out of his money--that's another reason. The matter's in train, if you will only wait a little longer.""So you say," Isabel rejoined. "If you really could name the thief, I believe you would do it now."She turned away with a frown on her pretty face. Old Sharon followed her. Even his coarse sensibilities appeared to feel the irresistible ascendancy of beauty and youth.
"I say!" he began, "we must part friends, you know--or I shall break my heart over it. They have got milk at the farmhouse. Do you think they have got pen, ink, and paper too?"Isabel answered, without turning to look at him, "Of course they have!""And a bit of sealing-wax?" "I daresay!"
Old Sharon laid his dirty claws on her shoulder and forced her to face him as the best means of shaking them off.
"Come along!" he said. "I am going to pacify you with some information in writing." "Why should you write it?" Isabel asked suspiciously.
"Because I mean to make my own conditions, my dear, before I let you into the secret."In ten minutes more they were all three in the farmhouse parlor. Nobody but the farmer's wife was at home. The good woman trembledfrom head to foot at the sight of Old Sharon. In all her harmless life she had never yet seen humanity under the aspect in which it was now presented to her. "Mercy preserve us, Miss!" she whispered to Isabel, "how come you to be in such company as _that?_" Instructed by Isabel, she produced the necessary materials for writing and sealing--and, that done, she shrank away to the door. "Please to excuse me, miss," she said with a last horrified look at her venerable visitor; "I really can't stand the sight of such a blot of dirt as that in my nice clean parlor." With those words she disappeared, and was seen no more.
Perfectly indifferent to his reception, Old Sharon wrote, inclosed what he had written in an envelope; and sealed it (in the absence of anything better fitted for his purpose) with the mouthpiece of his pipe.
"Now, miss," he said, "you give me your word of honor"--he stopped and looked round at Moody with a grin--"and you give me yours, that you won't either of you break the seal on this envelope till the expiration of one week from the present day. There are the conditions, Miss Isabel, on which I'll give you your information. If you stop to dispute with me, the candle's alight, and I'll burn it!"It was useless to contend with him. Isabel and Moody gave him the promise that he required. He handed the sealed envelope to Isabel with a low bow. "When the week's out," he said, "you will own I'm a cleverer fellow than you think me now. Wish you good evening, Miss. Come along, Puggy! Farewell to the horrid clean country, and back again to the nice London stink!"He nodded to Moody--he leered at Isabel--he chuckled to himself--he left the farmhouse.
