“What sins?” she says.
Now did you ever hear anything like that? What sins! After a while she began at him once more.
“Ted, if anything happens to you I’ll never marry again.”
“Do what you like,” says he.
“I’ll not do that,” she says, and she put her arms round him, “for you’d not rest quiet in your grave, would you, Ted?”
“Leave me alone,” he says, for he was a very crusty sick man, very crusty, poor Ted, but could you wonder? “You leave me alone and I’ll rest sure enough.”
“You can be certain,” she cries, “that I’d never, never do that, I’d never look at another man after you, Ted, never; I promise it solemnly.”
“Don’t bother me, don’t bother at all.” And poor Ted give a grunt and turned over on his side to get away from her.
At that moment some gruel boiled over on the hob—gruel and brandy was all he could take. She turned to look after it, and just then old Ted gave a breath and was gone, dead. She turned like a flash, with the steaming pot in her hand, bewildered for a moment. She saw he had gone. Then she put the pot back gently on the fender, walked over to the window and pulled down the blind. Never dropped a tear, not one tear.
Well, that was the end of Ted. We buried him, one or two of us. There was an insurance on his life for fifty pounds, but Ted had long before mortgaged the policy and so there was next to nothing for her. But what else could the man do? (Molly always swore the bank defrauded her!) She put a death notice in the paper, how he was dead, and the date, and what he died of: “after a long illness, nobly and patiently borne.” Of course, that was sarcasm, she never meant one word of it, for he was a terror to nurse, the worst that ever was; a strong man on his back is like a wasp in a bottle. But every year, when the day comes round—and it’s ten years now since he died—she puts a memorial notice in the same paper about her loving faithful husband and the long illness nobly and patiently borne!