Atonement -- Fiction; Clergy -- England -- Fiction; Illegitimate children -- Fiction
She had not brought Georgie to see the saddler this time, and she was
trying to follow that thinker's harangue as though she had really come
to him for political instruction; but all the while the sound from among
the trees distracted her attention and mystified her mind. It was
neither the ringing impact of iron upon iron, nor the swish of a sharp
steel point through the soft sandstone. It was the drone of a saw, as
Gwynneth knew well enough when she asked what the sound was in the first
opportunity afforded her.
"That's the reverend," said the saddler, dryly.
"It sounds like sawing," said disingenuous Gwynneth. "Has he reached the
roof?"
"Gord love yer, miss, not he!"
Gwynneth was consumed with an interest that she feared to show,
especially with the saddler looking at her through his spectacles as
others had done when Mr. Carlton supplied the topic of conversation. It
was a look that seemed to ask her how much she knew, and it always
offended her. She did not want to know what he had done; all her
interest was in what he was doing, alone there behind the trees. Yet now
she felt that speak she must, if it was only to soften a single heart,
in the very slightest degree, towards that unhappy man; and she had come
to the saddler with no other purpose.
"Does no one go near him yet?" she asked point-blank.
The saddler leant across his bench; the girl had refused the only chair
in the little workshop, and was standing outside at the open window, as
all his visitors did.
"You won't tell Sir Wilton, miss?"
"I shan't go out of my way to make mischief, Mr. Fuller, if that's what
you mean. But you had better not tell me any secrets," said Gwynneth,
with a coldness that cost her an effort; however, the saddler's skin was
in keeping with his calling.
"Then you can keep that or not," said he, "as you think fit; but _I_ go
and see him now and then, and, what's more, I'm not ashamed of it."
"I should think not!" the girl broke out; and Fuller sunned himself in
the warmth of fine eyes on fire. "I mean," stammered Gwynneth, "after
all this time, and all he has done!"
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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