‘Mother,’ cried the girl, almost passionately, her own pain wrung her so, ‘he has no heart. He cares for a thing one minute, and doesn’t care for it the next. He pretends—no, he doesn’t pretend—but he thinks he cares, and while he thinks it I suppose he does care. But out of sight is out of mind with him.’
‘Makest most o’ thine own troubles, like the rest on us,’ said Mrs. Fellowes philosophically. But, in a moment, philosophy made way for motherly kindness, and, rising from her seat, she bestowed her knitting in a roomy pocket and put her arms about her daughter’s waist. ‘Art fond of the lad all the same,’ she said. ‘Ah, my dear, there’s nothin’ likely to be sorer than the natur as picks flies in the things it’s fond on. There’s a deal o’ laughin’ at them as thinks all their geese is swans, but they’re better off in the long run than them as teks all their swans to be geese.’
Bertha said nothing, but she trembled a little under the caress, and her mother, observing this, released her, went back to her chair, and once more drew forth her knitting.
‘I reckon,’ she said, after a pause, ‘as John Thistlewood’s had the spoiling of thee. Thee’st got to think so much o’ them bulldog ways of his’n, that nothin’ less ‘ll be of use to any man as comes a-courtin’.’
‘Don’t talk about it any more, mother,’ said Bertha, with an air of weary want of interest. ‘I have said good-bye to both of them.’
And there the interview ended.
IV
It became evident that Bertha was likely to have a troublesome time before her. First of all came John Thistlewood, dogged and resolute as ever, propping himself against the chimney-piece, flogging his gaitered legs with the switch he carried, and demanding Ay or No before his time. Bertha determined to treat him with some spirit.
‘You don’t need me to tell you that I respect you very highly, Mr. Thistlewood. But you oughtn’t to need me to answer your question any more. I shall be obliged if you will be so good as not to ask it again.’