The adulteress

His eyes sparkled. He was incredibly good-looking—handsome with that hyacinthine type of fair hair which curled about his head and those startling blue eyes which were alert and filled with lurking laughter. A mixture of the handsome dignity of Apollo and the mischief of Pan.

I asked how Lord Eversleigh was and the doctor replied that he had had a little setback last night.

"I am so sorry, Mistress Ransome. It was just at the time when I thought he was really showing some improvement."

He looked rather angrily at Jessie, who lowered her eyes and gave even more attention to the food on her plate than usual.

"Well," went on the doctor, "we have these upsets. They pass. He seemed more at rest during the morning."

Dickon said: "I had a wonderful morning. I rode quite a way ... to country I hadn't seen before. I found the most wonderful old inn. Forgotten the name of it. It was very traditional ... just what an old inn should be. I took a snack there."

"What did they give you?" asked Jessie, always interested in food.

"Ripe stilton with hot bread—rye, I think it was, ... dark and crusty."

"You want plenty of butter on it," said Jessie. "Let it sink in and then a good hunk of cheese on top."

She was tasting it, I knew, in spite of the pork on her plate.

"That's how it was—with the inn's special brand of cider. Delicious."

"And you came straight back here to your good dinner. I haven't noticed any lack of appetite, Master Frenshaw!"

"You know how you admire my strength at the table. You and I are a pair, Mistress Jessie."

"Go on with you! I never could abide people who pick at their food."

"It was a typical gathering. The old blacksmith came into the inn parlor. There were several of us there. He was a gloomy man. He'd evidently got a reputation for it. The others teased him a bit. 'We have a wager every year on Blacksmith Harry,' they told me. Tf anyone can get him to smile between Christmas Day and Twelfth Night we give 'un a shilling ... and that's six of us. You can reckin we work hard to make blacksmith smile. No one's had any luck yet.' He was obviously a favorite of them all and I discovered why. He'd got a real gift for telling a story."

"Did he tell you some?" I asked.

"One," said Dickon.

"Was it interesting?"

"It was the way he told it. Now that's the test of a storyteller. If an old tale which must have been heard many times suddenly holds your attention then that's the mark of a good story-teller. Blacksmith Harry had us all ears, I can tell you."

"Tell us the story as well as he did."

"Oh, I'd spoil it. I'm a man of action. I'm no story-teller."

I said: "It's most extraordinary, Dickon, to hear you admit you can't do something."

"You are really whetting our appetites," added Dr. Cabel.

"Well, I'll have a try. But you really need the blacksmith. There was a man in the village whose daughter kept house for him. He was an old miser and an objectionable character in many ways and gave the daughter a bad time. He'd sent off the man who wanted to marry her so that she could go on keeping house for him. He'd already worried his poor wife into the grave."

"In fact," I said, "a most undesirable character."

"Exactly," said Dickon. "Well, one day the man wasn't there anymore. He had gone off, said his daughter, to see his brother up in Scotland. The daughter changed the house ... made it merry ... put up fresh curtains. Her lover came back. There was nothing to stop them getting married now. They could do it while the man was away and when he got back it would be too late to stop it. So preparations were made for a wedding feast ... and everyone said what a good thing it was that the old man had gone to visit his brother in Scotland.

"It was all very happy and showed what misery some people could make for others ... for the daughter was very pleased with herself these days. Then all changed ... and in a way you might not believe."

"The old man came back," I said.

"Yes ... in a way."

"Oh, come on, Dickon," I cried. "No need to hold back the suspense."

"He came back ... but not in human form."

"A ghost," cried Jessie turning pale.

Dickon lowered his voice: "The old man was seen hovering near the well. Several people thought they saw a man there. But he disappeared before they could make sure. Nobody believed them at first ... but then the daughter saw him. She let out a shriek and fainted dead away (the blacksmith's words). She was in a fine state. They couldn't calm her. Well, to cut a long story short, since I haven't the blacksmith's gift, it seemed that the old man had not gone to Scotland at all. He had fallen down the well, with a little help from his daughter.

She told the whole story. He'd slipped when drawing water. That was her story. He'd called out and she did nothing about it. She just left him there screaming."

Jessie had turned pale and was clasping the cross about her neck.