"What is the use? It is no good," she cried petulantly.
"No,—but I should like to hear," I answered.
A measure still of resistance was followed by yielding. Once started, I think she found the "telling" a relief to herself.
Mrs. Millington is a widow, with only one other and younger daughter. She must have been a good and true mother: and the best side of Miss Millington came out in speaking of this mother.
For many years the three have been in very straitened circumstances, especially of late, depending partly on the eldest daughter's earnings. Since last summer Miss Millington has been in only one situation, which she failed to keep. Under the consequent long pressure of anxiety and money-difficulties, Mrs. Millington became very ill: and the knowledge of her liabilities has so pressed upon her mind, that the doctor to-day foretells a fatal termination, unless the burden can be in some way lightened.
"And of course I can do nothing,—how can I?" the girl said, half-bitterly, half-sullenly. "We've got behindhand with everything. It isn't the doctor,—he is an old friend, and he charges nothing, though he is poor himself. But there's the chemist, and the rent,—and other things,—about fifty pounds altogether. I don't mean to say we were straight last summer, only we were trying to get so. If I had stayed on with the Romillys, it would have come right in time,—and now, instead of that, everything has been getting worse. And I don't see what is to be done. I can't expect to have so much from anybody else as I had from Mrs. Romilly. Besides, I hate being a companion and Mrs. Romilly won't recommend me as a governess. So mother will die—" a sob and a gulp came here,—"and that will be the end of everything. It is all hopeless,—and when the doctor said what he did, I Just set off and walked miles,—and they don't know at home where I am. I ought to be there now. I shall have to go back in a 'bus: though I'm sure we can't afford it."
The same undisciplined nature which had caused me so much trouble. I could not but note this.
"And I don't know why I should say it all to you,—you, of all people," she muttered. "Absurd of me!"
"Not quite," I said. "At least I can feel for you."
She turned away with an impatient movement, standing up.