“What d’ye want?” said she savagely, standing at the top of her steps as though to guard her threshold.
But even as she spoke the words, the wave had passed over her, leaving her cold and shivering. For Wilson was silent, and there was a look of pity on his plain face. She looked at the woman: it was the doctor’s old housekeeper.
“What do ye want?” she repeated, but there was less fierceness in the voice now: it was half plaintive, half peevish.
The woman came two steps further up, but still Lucy guarded her threshold.
“Hush!” she whispered hoarsely, “don’t wake the childer. If there be trouble, say so. It won’t be nothin’ new for ye to tell me my man be drunk. Ye be all on yer pleased enough to come and say so. And if the truth was known I dare say ye wouldn’t mind sayin’ as ’e’d been down with the bad girls at the ’Arbour as well,” added she recklessly. “You be all on yer glad enough to say every bit o’ ill ye can on us both. Oh, yes, I know ’ow you and Miss ’Earn lays yer ’eads together agin me,” cried she, working up her anger the better to drown her fear. “I s’pose ye think it do but serve me right if ’e should treat me bad seein’ as I made myself too cheap to ’im at first. Oh, yes, don’t mind me—say it out, do.”
She ended in a whimper, and the old woman looked helplessly back at the man who waited lower down.
“Whativer shall we do wi’ ’er?” she whispered.
Mr. Wilson moved up.
“Look ’ere,” said he firmly, “we ain’t come to say no such things as you fancy. We means kindly by ye—we wants to ’elp ye all we can. For there be trouble, missus, and ye got to brace up to meet it.”
“Yes,” repeated the old woman, “ye’ve got to brace yerself up and keep yerself quiet, my dear.”