“There will soon be an end,” she replied, spreading out the embroidered border. “This is my last piece; and here is what I’m coming to, and why I want to talk to you privately. You told me you had a good chance of a post, as cashier in an Indian bank; they would pay your passage out, and give a much better salary?”
He nodded.
“Well, Denis, you must accept, and marry Bridget, and take her away with you. She’s a clever manager, and will make one rupee go as far as two. You are both young, and have, I hope, many happy years before you.”
“And what about you?”
The old lady suddenly laid down her work, and, leaning over the table, whispered:
“Don’t be horrified—I shall go into the North Dublin Union.”
“Never! never! never!” he rejoined, with emphasis.
“Hush—yes, I shall! What does it matter? Who will know? If old Peg was alive it would be different. I dared not have taken her there—she’d feel it. Now my feelings are dead. I’m old; my race is run. I’ve outlived my contemporaries, and the only thing I really and truly care for is Bridget’s future—and yours.”
“You don’t suppose we should be happy out in India, knowing we had deserted you, and left you in a poor-house! Come, now—do you?”
“I won’t be a clog——”