Naomi dried her tears, and gave me a little grateful squeeze of the hand.
"Oh my! what a good fellow you are!" cried the outspoken American girl. "When your time comes to be married, sir, I guess the woman won't repent saying yes to you!"
Mr. Meadowcroft preserved unbroken silence as we walked back to the farm on either side of his invalid-chair. His last reserves of resolution seemed to have given way under the overwhelming strain laid on them by the proceedings in court. His daughter, in stern indulgence to Naomi, mercifully permitted her opinion to glimmer on us only through the medium of quotation from Scripture texts. If the texts meant anything, they meant that she had foreseen all that had happened; and that the one sad aspect of the case, to her mind, was the death of John Jago, unprepared to meet his end.
I obtained the order of admission to the prison the next morning.
We found Ambrose still confident of the favorable result, for his brother and for himself, of the inquiry before the magistrate. He seemed to be almost as eager to tell, as Naomi was to hear, the true story of what had happened at the limekiln. The authorities of the prison--present, of course, at the interview--warned him to remember that what he said might be taken down in writing, and produced against him in court.
"Take it down, gentlemen, and welcome," Ambrose replied. "I have nothing to fear; I am only telling the truth."
With that he turned to Naomi, and began his narrative, as nearly as I can remember, in these words:
"I may as well make a clean breast of it at starting, my girl. After Mr. Lefrank left us that morning, I asked Silas how he came by my stick. In telling me how, Silas also told me of the words that had passed between him and John Jago under Mr. Lefrank's window. I was angry and jealous; and I own it freely, Naomi, I thought the worst that could be thought about you and John."
Here Naomi stopped him without ceremony.
"Was that what made you speak to me as you spoke when we found you at the wood?" she asked.
"Yes."
"And was that what made you leave me, when you went away to Narrabee, without giving me a kiss at parting?"
"It was."
"Beg my pardon for it before you say a word more."
"I beg your pardon."
"Say you are ashamed of yourself."
"I am ashamed of myself," Ambrose answered penitently.
"Now you may go on," said Naomi. "Now I'm satisfied."
Ambrose went on.
"We were on our way to the clearing at the other side of the wood while Silas was talking to me; and, as ill luck would have it, we took the path that led by the limekiln. Turning the corner, we met John Jago on his way to Narrabee. I was too angry, I tell you, to let him pass quietly. I gave him a bit of my mind. His blood was up too, I suppose; and he spoke out, on his side, as freely as I did. I own I threatened him with the stick; but I'll swear to it I meant him no harm. You know--after dressing Silas's hand--that John Jago is ready with his knife. He comes from out West, where they are always ready with one weapon or another handy in their pockets. It's likely enough he didn't mean to harm me, either; but how could I be sure of that? When he stepped up to me, and showed his weapon, I dropped the stick, and closed with him. With one hand I wrenched the knife away from him; and with the other I caught him by the collar of his rotten old coat, and gave him a shaking that made his bones rattle in his skin. A big piece of the cloth came away in my hand. I shied it into the quicklime close by us, and I pitched the knife after the cloth; and, if Silas hadn't stopped me, I think it's likely I might have shied John Jago himself into the lime next. As it was, Silas kept hold of me. Silas shouted out to him, 'Be off with you! and don't come back again, if you don't want to be burned in the kiln!' He stood looking at us for a minute, fetching his breath, and holding his torn coat round him. Then he spoke with a deadly-quiet voice and a deadly-quiet look: 'Many a true word, Mr. Silas,' he says, 'is spoken in jest. I shall not come back again.' He turned about, and left us. We stood staring at each other like a couple of fools. 'You don't think he means it?' I says. 'Bosh!' says Silas. 'He's too sweet on Naomi not to come back.' What's the matter now, Naomi?"
I had noticed it too. She started and turned pale, when Ambrose repeated to her what Silas had said to him.
"Nothing is the matter," Naomi answered. "Your brother has no right to take liberties with my name. Go on. Did Silas say any more while he was about it?"
"Yes; he looked into the kiln; and he says, 'What made you throw away the knife, Ambrose?'--'How does a man know why he does anything,' I says, 'when he does it in a passion?'--'It's a ripping good knife,' says Silas; 'in your place, I should have kept it.' I picked up the stick off the ground. 'Who says I've lost it yet?' I answered him; and with that I got up on the side of the kiln, and began sounding for the knife, to bring it, you know, by means of the stick, within easy reach of a shovel, or some such thing. 'Give us your hand,' I says to Silas. 'Let me stretch out a bit and I'll have it in no time.' Instead of finding the knife, I came nigh to falling myself into the burning lime. The vapor overpowered me, I suppose. All I know is, I turned giddy, and dropped the stick in the kiln. I should have followed the stick to a dead certainty, but for Silas pulling me back by the hand. 'Let it be,' says Silas. 'If I hadn't had hold of you, John Jago's knife would have been the death of you, after all!' He led me away by the arm, and we went on together on the road to the wood. We stopped where you found us, and sat down on the felled tree. We had a little more talk about John Jago. It ended in our agreeing to wait and see what happened, and to keep our own counsel in the meantime. You and Mr. Lefrank came upon us, Naomi, while we were still talking; and you guessed right when you guessed that we had a secret from you. You know the secret now."
There he stopped.