‘Oh! Mr. Martindale!’
‘Ah! you don’t know what I have saved you. I was not going to see all that pink paint worn off those cheeks, nor your life and my own wasted in waiting for them to bring their minds to it. I have seen enough of that. Poor John there—’
‘How?—what?’ said Violet, with alarmed curiosity.
‘She died,’ said Arthur.
‘How long ago? What was her name?’
‘Helen Fotheringham. She was our old parson’s daughter. They waited eight years, and she died last summer. I see he wears his mourning still.’
Violet looked aghast, and spoke low. ‘How very sad! Helen! That was the reason he looked up when he heard it was my name. Poor Mr. John Martindale! I saw the crape on his hat. Was that what made him so ill?’
‘It nearly killed him last year, but he never had lungs good for anything. First, my aunt set my father against it, and when he gave in, she had a crabbed decrepit old grandfather, and between them they were the death of her, and almost of him. I never thought he would rally again.’
‘Only last year?’ exclaimed Violet. ‘O dear! and there have I been telling him all about—about this spring. I would not have done it, if I had known. I thought he looked melancholy sometimes. Oh! I wish I had not.’
‘You did, did you?’ said Arthur, much amused. ‘You chatterbox.’