“Why, you see, Mas’r Davy,” he rejoined, in a hesitating manner, “Em’ly, she’s talking to some ’un in here.”
“I should have thought,” said I, smiling, “that that was a reason for your being in here too, Ham.”
“Well, Mas’r Davy, in a general way, so ’t would be,” he returned; “but look’ee here, Mas’r Davy,” lowering his voice, and speaking very gravely. “It’s a young woman, sir—a young woman, that Em’ly knowed once, and doen’t ought to know no more.”
When I heard these words, a light began to fall upon the figure I had seen following them, some hours ago.
“It’s a poor wurem, Mas’r Davy,” said Ham, “as is trod under foot by all the town. Up street and down street. The mowld o’ the churchyard don’t hold any that the folk shrink away from, more.”
“Did I see her tonight, Ham, on the sand, after we met you?”
“Keeping us in sight?” said Ham. “It’s like you did, Mas’r Davy. Not that I know’d then, she was theer, sir, but along of her creeping soon arterwards under Em’ly’s little winder, when she see the light come, and whispering, ‘Em’ly, Em’ly, for Christ’s sake, have a woman’s heart towards me. I was once like you!’ Those was solemn words, Mas’r Davy, fur to hear!”
“They were indeed, Ham. What did Em’ly do?”
“Says Em’ly, ‘Martha, is it you? Oh, Martha, can it be you?’—for they had sat at work together, many a day, at Mr. Omer’s.”