"If she should make her way to London, which is likely—for where could she lose herself so readily as in this vast city; and what would she wish to do, but lose and hide herself, if she does not go home?—"
"And she won't go home," he interposed, shaking his head mournfully. "If she had left of her own accord, she might; not as 'twas, sir."
"If she should come here," said I, "I believe there is one person, here, more likely to discover her than any other in the world. Do you remember—hear what I say, with fortitude—think of your great object!—do you remember Martha?"
"Of our town?"
I needed no other answer than his face.
"Do you know that she is in London?"
"I have seen her in the streets," he answered, with a shiver.
"But you don't know," said I, "that Emily was charitable to her, with Ham's help, long before she fled from home. Nor, that, when we met one night, and spoke together in the room yonder, over the way, she listened at the door."
"Mas'r Davy?" he replied in astonishment. "That night when it snew so hard?"
"That night. I have never seen her since. I went back, after parting from you, to speak to her, but she was gone. I was unwilling to mention her to you then, and I am now; but she is the person of whom I speak, and with whom I think we should communicate. Do you understand?"
"Too well, sir," he replied. We had sunk our voices, almost to a whisper, and continued to speak in that tone.
"You say you have seen her. Do you think that you could find her? I could only hope to do so by chance."
"I think, Mas'r Davy, I know wheer to look."
"It is dark. Being together, shall we go out now, and try to find her to night?"
He assented, and prepared to accompany me. Without appearing to observe what he was doing, I saw how carefully he adjusted the little room, put a candle ready and the means of lighting it, arranged the bed, and finally took out of a drawer one of her dresses (I remembered to have seen her wear it), neatly folded with some other garments, and a bonnet, which he placed upon a chair. He made no allusion to these clothes, neither did I. There they had been waiting for her, many and many a night, no doubt.
"The time was, Mas'r Davy," he said, as we came down stairs, "when I thowt this girl, Martha, a'most like the dirt underneath my Em'ly's feet. God forgive me, there's a difference now!"
As we went along, partly to hold him in conversation, and partly to satisfy myself, I asked him about Ham. He said, almost in the same words as formerly, that Ham was just the same, "wearing away his life with kiender no care nohow for 't; but never murmuring, and liked by all."
I asked him what he thought Ham's state of mind was, in reference to the cause of their misfortunes? Whether he believed it was dangerous?
