Part 16 (1/2)

That is old Jewel's dowdy, handsome, brazen-faced grandaughter.

”Now I'm going home to supper, Miss Jenny,” he says. ”So you pack off, or you'll have your amiable mother asking after you. By-the-bye, your sister's going to be married, ain't she?”

He referred to her eldest sister--the one that the Vicar and the Doctor saw nursing a baby the night that old Jewel died.

”Yes,” replied the girl. ”Her man's going to have her at last; that's his baby she's got, you know; and it seems he'll sooner make her work for keeping it, than pay for it hisself. So they're going to be married; better late than never.”

George left her and went in; into the gloomy old kitchen, now darkening rapidly. There sat Madge before the fire, in her favourite att.i.tude, with her chin on her hand and her elbow on her knee.

”Well, old woman,” said he, ”where's the old man?”

”Away to Colyton fair,” she answered.

”I hope he'll have the sense to stay there to-night, then,” said George. ”He'll fall off his horse in a fit coming home drunk some of these nights, and be found dead in a ditch!”

”Good thing for you if he was!”

”May be,” said George; ”but I'd be sorry for him, too!”

”You would,” she said laughing. ”Why, you young fool, you'd be better off in fifty ways!”

”Why, you unnatural old vixen,” said he indignantly, ”do you miscall a man for caring for his own father? Aye, and not such a bad 'un either; and that's a thing I'm best judge of!”

”He's been a good father to you, George, and I like you the better, lad, for speaking up for him. He's an awful old rascal, my boy, but you'll be a worse if you live!”

”Now, stop that talk of yours, Madge, and don't go on like a mad woman, or else we shall quarrel; and that I don't want, for I've got something to tell you. I want your help, old girl!”

”Aye, and you'll get it, my pretty boy; though you never tell me aught till you are forced.”

”Well, I'm going to tell you something now; so keep your ears open.

Madge, where is the girl?”

”Up-stairs.”

”Where's the man?”

”Outside, in the stable, doing down your horse. Bend over the fire, and whisper in my ear, lad!”

”Madge, old girl,” he whispered, as they bent their heads together,--”I've wrote the old man's name where I oughtn't to have done.”

”What! again!” she answered. ”Three times! For G.o.d's sake, mind what you're at, George.”

”Why,” said he, astonished, ”did you know I'd done it before?”

”Twice I know of,” she said. ”Once last year, and once last month. How do you think he'd have been so long without finding it out if it hadn't been for me? And what a fool you were not to tell me before. Why, you must be mad. I as near let the cat out of the bag coming over that last business in the book without being ready for it, as anything could be.

However, it's all right at present. But what's this last?”

”Why, the five hundred. I only did it twice.”

”You mustn't do it again, George. You were a fool ever to do it without me. We are hardly safe now, if he should get talking to the bank people. However, he never goes there, and you must take care he don't.”