“Was it he, too,” I said, “who christened me out of a pint pot? You see I’ve found out something, old mother.”
She rocked to and fro—in a sort of obscene secret laughter, I could have fancied. It was as much as I could do to keep my wits steadily to the point at issue. In all the sure success of my pursuit, I had never foreseen any end to it like this, or even approaching it.
“Just like him,” she muttered. “He always called me that, a deuced providence.”
“Who called you?” I demanded sternly. “Who are you talking about?”
She wiped, or rather smeared her eyes with her sleeve. The old life in her, I believed, was foundering between craft and senility; but the ancient habit still predominated. Once more she spoke, and again away from the point.
“A proud creatur’ was my gal—Georgie was always proud above her station. She held herself aloof from the common sort, she did. Not that such beauties oughtn’t to command the best. But she made her mistake—there, I’ll own to it. It was all from her turning religious and trying to reform people, the deuce take her. And she’d have been left to suffer the consequences to this day if it hadn’t a’ been for me—a good mother though I say it, the devil and the deuce.”
“Old mother,” I said quietly, seeing that for some reason she hailed the term, “who was it helped her to that mistake? Tell me his name, and I’ll give you money.”
She paused suddenly in her sibilations. Her old face leered up at me with infinite acrimony.
“How much?” she snapped. “But, there—I dursen’t—it’s no bid.”
Something, some chord of ancient memory in me, tightened and quivered.