foot on the gravel, he preserved his attitude and let me approach without raising his head. I think he wished it to appear that he had not observed me, in order that he might see in what tone I addressed him before he spoke; for the last time I was at Elfdale—that is, before I went abroad—I had refused to acknowledge his salutations when he touched his hat, and had shown him, as far as I then dared, that I had not forgotten the past.
I stood now beside him for some seconds, enjoying his embarrassment; and then, finding I continued silent, he lifted up his head and showed me his face—and what a face it was! I remembered it well in its prime, colour and all—I had plenty of reason to do so.
He had been originally a good-looking man: he must have been a sort of rustic Adonis, with ruddy complexion, blue eyes, prominent but good teeth, and light brown hair that curled stiffly and set as close to his head as a negro’s wool. He was tall, and not ill made, except that his figure was marred by his very high shoulders. I believe that the expression of his features must always have been disagreeable—of course it was so to me, because I feared him: now, it was what the country people called awful. I said to myself, “Yes, he must have murdered the girl!” His complexion was ghastly, too—not pallid, but much worse; the ruddy hue had changed to a livid faded crimson; the lower jaw had fallen considerably, and the lips were so drawn across the projecting teeth, that his mouth looked like the mouth of a skeleton. I was really taken aback, and stood silently staring at him, while he, after slightly touching his hat, waited for me to speak first. He saw that he was encountering an enemy, and paused to see in what form the enmity would be manifested.
“So you are here still,” I said, at length, drily.
“Yes, sir.”
“There is no other man or woman on the estate, I suppose, that I know?”
I think he had a presentiment of the turn the conversation was about to take, for while he answered “No, sir,” in a sort of dogged tone, I saw a spasm cross his face.
“How many men have you in the garden?”
“Four, sir, besides myself.”
“Is Goring amongst them?” said I.
He tried to look at me as he answered that he was not; but his eyes fell in spite of himself.
“Where is he?” I asked.
“Dead, sir.”
“Dead, is he?” I said, looking at him inquiringly.
“I suppose you know he is,” he returned, sullenly. “You’ve been here since that. It was an accident; he mought ha’ killed me.”
“It was in fair fight, was it?”
“Nobody ever said it warn’t.”
“But how came Matty, the dairy-maid, in the pond? That’s what I never have been able to make out.”
“Nor nobody else,” he said, with tolerable firmness; for he was prepared for the question, and had often been called upon to answer it.
“There is something yet to be discovered upon that point,” I said, significantly. “A young girl on the eve of a good marriage wouldn’t have thrown herself into the water—somebody must have thrown her in; but who?”
Here, as if weary of the conversation, he stooped and began putting together the tubers that were lying on the ground at his feet.
“Was anybody jealous of her?” I continued. “Did anybody else want to marry her, do you think?”
He must have heard the subject discussed hundreds of times, no doubt; but I am sure he remembered the scene at the dairy-door, when Matty purchased my immunity by a concession, and he suspected that I remembered it too.
“Well, sir,” he said, as steadily as he could, raising his head for a moment, but continuing to pick up his tubers, “mayhap there may have been them as liked the girl, but a man can’t always get the girl he fancies; but as for her getting into the pond, she war o’er fond of standing on the edge and feeding the fish; and most like her feet slipt from under her; and that’s what the coroner said when he gave his verdict.”
“But that’s not what Goring thought, though!” I answered sharply.
He raised himself from his stooping position, and, looking me in the face, said, “Goring wer’ a fool! Human natur’s human natur’ all the world over.” And then with a peculiar look and tone he added: “Them as lives in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones, I’ve heerd say.”
This was a home thrust, and I felt it; it was addressed to me pointedly, and my mind instantly reverted to the mystery that perplexed me. This man had been long in my father’s service. If there was a secret he might know it; but I had declared war and had irritated him. He had hit me in his own defence. I had intended, after letting him see that I did not forget the past, to terminate the interview by dismissing him contemptuously then and there from my service, but now I wished to alter my plan, so I turned away, saying, “I don’t see the application of your proverb, Mr. Phibbs.” But we cannot deceive our adversary in this sort of skirmishing; we may try to conceal our wound, but the enemy knows when he has made a hit. I walked on, feeling vexed and defeated, and presently he passed me with his tubers in a basket.
“You’ll soon be housing your things for the winter, I suppose?” I said carelessly, wishing to conceal my discomfiture; but I had better have said nothing. He saw his advantage, and lifting his eye confidently to my face, he answered, “Yes, sir; we must look for cold weather now, and I’m going to take in all the tender plants. Perhaps you’d like to see the hothouses.”
“Another time, Phibbs,” I said; but this short dialogue was the acknowledgment of a treaty of peace, after a sharp conflict, in which I had been worsted.
He knows something, I said to myself. From him I may learn what I dread to know, but which, till I do, I never can rest. I must make him speak—probably he only needs to be questioned—and I walked on with my eyes on the ground and lost in thought. When I reached the house, Benoit said that