She made a movement towards the door, but the man raised a hand to prevent her.
"Don't you scream or move. I want to speak to you."
"I came to tell ye that I'll see your young gent comes to no harm."
"I don't know what you mean," said Joyce, burying her face for a moment in her hands. "I know--I know what terrible grief you once brought on me and all I loved."
The accents of her voice, with the sorrowful ring in them, the quiet self-possession, for which, with a sinking heart she struggled, touched that rough, bad man, as no protestations or entreaties could have done.
"I cannot believe," she went on, "you are come to do me more harm. My four little children are asleep upstairs. There is no one in the house but women, helpless women, one of whom is your own daughter--your _own daughter_."
"I wouldn't hurt a hair of her head, nor yours, nor your childer's. I came to warn you--the folks down below will stop at nothing once they are let loose; they'd as soon tear your young gent to pieces as look at 'im. They'd fire this 'ouse for a trifle. I belong to a party of 'em, and if I know it, _he_ shan't come to no harm. Look ye, missus, I wanted to see you, to tell you the squire was riding peaceable enough----"
"Oh! don't! don't! I cannot bear it," Joyce said.
"He was riding peaceable enough, and I laid in wait for 'im. I got hold of the bridle, and the horse, she backed and reared, and the squire he fell on a sharp stone, which cut his forehead--a three corner cut--I see it now. He lay like a dog, dead, and the horse galloped off, and I--well, I made off too, and got aboard a ship in Bristol Docks, and only came back last Christmas. I meant to threaten the squire; but I didn't kill 'im; I didn't _want_ to kill 'im."
"Your act killed him as much as if you had thrown the stone, as we all believed you did. Oh! I pray God may forgive you."
"Say you forgive me," the man muttered; "I wouldn't hurt a hair of your head."
"I pray God to forgive you, and I try to do as the Lord Jesus would have me, and forgive you. But, oh! leave your evil ways, and turn to Him."
The man was silent for a few minutes; then he spoke in a low harsh voice:
"Give my love to poor Sue. I broke her mother's heart, and I nearly broke her's. I saw her riding in the carriage with you, like a lady, in the spring. Her mother used to pray God to take care of her, and sure enough, He has. It must be pretty nigh like heaven to live along with you. I'm a-going out by the way I came. Now you just see that the cellar winder bars is mended; that's how I got in, and others may get in too. I suppose you couldn't say, God bless you?"