It was sudden: and Martin old and stiff in more ways than one—
“No, thank you, dame. I have got used to out o' doors. And I love not changing and changing. I meddle wi' nobody here; and nobody meddles wi' me.”
“Oh, you nasty, cross old wretch!” screamed Catherine, passing in a moment from treacle to sharpest vinegar. And she flounced back into the house.
On calm reflection she had a little cry. Then she half reconciled herself to her conduct by vowing to be so kind, Margaret should never miss her plagues of soldiers. But feeling still a little uneasy, she dispersed all regrets by a process at once simple and sovereign.
She took and washed the child.
From head to foot she washed him in tepid water; and heroes, and their wrongs, became as dust in an ocean—of soap and water.
While this celestial ceremony proceeded, Margaret could not keep quiet. She hovered round the fortunate performer. She must have an apparent hand in it, if not a real. She put her finger into the water—to pave the way for her boy, I suppose; for she could not have deceived herself so far as to think Catherine would allow her to settle the temperature. During the ablution she kneeled down opposite the little Gerard, and prattled to him with amazing fluency; taking care, however, not to articulate like grown-up people; for, how could a cherub understand their ridiculous pronunciation?
“I wish you could wash out THAT,” said she, fixing her eyes on the little boy's hand.
“What?”
“What, have you not noticed? on his little finger.”