Mr. Morton turned back, looking agitated.
“Where’s my hat? oh, here. My sister is come, at the inn.”
“Gracious me! She does not go for to say she is your sister?”
“No, no: here’s her note—calls herself a lady that’s ill. I shall be back soon.”
“She can’t come here—she sha’n’t come here, Mr. M. I’m an honest woman—she can’t come here. You understand—”
Mr. Morton had naturally a stern countenance, stern to every one but his wife. The shrill tone to which he was so long accustomed jarred then on his heart as well as his ear. He frowned:
“Pshaw! woman, you have no feeling!” said he, and walked out of the house, pulling his hat over his brows. That was the only rude speech Mr. Morton had ever made to his better half. She treasured it up in her heart and memory; it was associated with the sister and the child; and she was not a woman who ever forgave.
Mr. Morton walked rapidly through the still, moon-lit streets, till he reached the inn. A club was held that night in one of the rooms below; and as he crossed the threshold, the sound of “hip-hip-hurrah!” mingled with the stamping of feet and the jingling of glasses, saluted his entrance. He was a stiff, sober, respectable man,—a man who, except at elections—he was a great politician—mixed in none of the revels of his more boisterous townsmen. The sounds, the spot, were ungenial to him. He paused, and the colour of shame rose to his brow. He was ashamed to be there—ashamed to meet the desolate and, as he believed, erring sister.
A pretty maidservant, heated and flushed with orders and compliments, crossed his path with a tray full of glasses.
“There’s a lady come by the Telegraph?”