He said that ef he did not get the bit o' paper, Maurice
should go back and be sold to my dreadful old master. Either that,
or, ef I liked it better, Maurice might come back to you, and I
should be sold. He gave me till four o'clock this morning to think on
it. Maurice was to go away to the dreadful life, or I was to go back
to the dreadful life, or he was to get the paper that 'ud make Miss
Smith give up the Russia-leather purse. Missie, I said once that I'd
rayther be cut in little bits nor touch that purse of gold. I meant
wot I said. But, Missie Cecile, last night the temptation wor too
strong fur me, much too strong. Maurice must not go to sech a life,
nor could I; never to see my mother no more; always, always to be a
slave, and worse nor a slave; all hope gone. Oh, Missie Cecile! I did
love my old mother more nor Christ. I ain't worthy of your Christ
Jesus. In the morning I tuk the piece of paper out o' yer frock,
darlin'. As the clock in the village struck four I did it. I ran away
then, and I found Anton waiting for me where he said as he 'ud wait."
"And Maurice?" asked Cecile. She was sitting strangely, unnaturally
quiet, and when she was told that the paper was stolen she did not
even start.
"Ah, Missie! that's the worst, the worst of all; fur I did it--the
cruel, the bad thing--for nothink. For when Anton and I went back to
a caravan by the roadside to get Maurice (for Anton had hid him
there), he wor gone. A man wot had charge of the caravan and horses
said he must have run away in the night.
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