“Never; oh, God knows, never! My family have never asked a penny of a parish. They would die first, and so would I, sir; but they said I might do it, and I had better go to my husband’s parish at once—and they offered me money to go.”
“And you took it, of course?”
“No, sir; I had a little money, which I had earned by washing and laundering, and I sold most of my things, as I could not carry them, and came off. I felt hurt, sir; my heart rose against the treatment of the parish, and I thought I should be better among my husband’s friends—and my child would, if anything happened to me; I had no friends of my own.”
Mr. Spires looked at the woman in silence. “Did your husband tell you anything of his friends? What sort of a man was he?”
“Oh, he was a gay young fellow, rather, sir; but not bad to me. He always said his friends were well off in Stockington.”
“He did!” said the manufacturer, with a great stare, and as if bolting the words from his heart in a large gust of wonder.
The poor woman again looked at him with a strange look. The manufacturer whistled to himself, and giving his horse a smart cut with the whip, drove on faster than ever. The night was fast settling down; it was numbing cold; a gray fog rose from the river as they thundered over the old bridge; and tall engine chimneys, and black smoky houses loomed through the dusk before them. They were at Stockington.
As they slackened their pace up a hill at the entrance of the town, Mr. Spires again opened his mouth.
“I should be sorry to hurt your feelings, Mrs. Deg,” he said, “but I have my fears that you are coming to this place with false expectations. I fear your husband did not give you the truest possible account of his family here.”
“Oh, Sir! What—what is it?” exclaimed the poor woman; “in God’s name, tell me!”