Biddy came closer still. "Ye'll not tell Master Scott--nor any of 'em--if
I tell ye?" she whispered.
"No, no; of course--no!" Dinah's voice came breathlessly; she had not the
power to draw back.
"Ye promise, Miss Dinah?" Biddy could be insistent too; her eyes burned
like live coals.
"I promise, yes." Dinah held out an impulsive hand. "You can trust me,"
she said.
Biddy's fingers closed claw-like upon it. "Whist now, Miss Dinah!" she
said. "If Sir Eustace was to hear me, sure, he'd wring the neck on me
like as if I was an old fowl. But ye've asked me what's happened,
mavourneen, and sure, I'll tell ye. For it's the pretty young lady that
ye are and a cruel shame that ye should ever belong to the likes of him.
It's his doing, Miss Dinah, every bit of it, and it's the truth I'm
speaking, as the Almighty Himself could tell ye if He'd a mind to. The
poor lamb was fading away aisy like, but he came along and broke her
heart. It was them letters, Miss Dinah. He took 'em. And he burned 'em,
my dear, he burned 'em, and when ye were gone she missed 'em, and then he
told her what he'd done, told her brutal-like that it was time she'd done
with such litter. He said it was all damn' nonsense that she was wasting
her life over 'em and over the dead. Oh, it was wicked, it was cruel. And
she--poor innocent--she locked herself up when he'd gone and cried and
cried and cried till the poor heart of her was broke entirely.
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