Mrs Darvell looked up defiantly.
“Maybe it’s partly my fault,” she said; “but we’ve never had a minute’s comfort since the little lad went. And things get worse and worse. I don’t care no more to keep the place nice, and I ups and speaks sharp to Darvell, and he goes off to the ‘Nag’s Head.’”
The vicar nodded his head slowly, as though Darvell’s conduct was not quite incomprehensible under such circumstances, and Mrs Darvell continued in a lower tone:
“You know, sir, it wur because my man lifted his hand to Frank that the lad went off; and I don’t seem as how I can forget it. When I look at Darvell I keep on rememberin’ as how, if he’d bin more patient with the boy we should ha’ had him with us still. Darvell’s been a good man to me, but I can’t help speaking sharp to him; though maybe I’m sorry after I done it, for there’s only the two on us now, and we’ll have to worry along together.”
The vicar shook his head.
“Hard blows are bad things, Mrs Darvell, but hard words do quite as much mischief in their way. If your husband has driven Frank from home, does it mend matters for you to drive your husband to the public-house?”
“There’s truth in what you say, sir,” said Mrs Darvell, rubbing her arms with her apron; “but I don’t seem as if I cared to do any different now the boy’s gone. I’ve allers had a quick tongue from a gall, and Darvell, he must just take the consequences.”
“But suppose,” said the vicar, looking earnestly at her, “suppose that Frank were to come back to you safe and well, and Darvell were to promise never to be so harsh to him again, wouldn’t you try then to keep from saying sharp things?”
Mrs Darvell’s black eyes fixed themselves keenly on the vicar’s face.
“You’ve heard summat, sir?” she said, laying one damp red hand on his coat-sleeve. “Is the lad livin’? Just tell me that. Is he livin’?”