“Dunnot be too hard upon her, sir,” begged the old woman. “Dunnot please, Miss Dora. She bean't a lady like you, and he were such a fine coaxing young gentleman. It's he that's most to blame.”
My father said sternly, “Has she left him, or been deserted by him—I mean Mr. Francis Charteris?”
“Mother,” screamed Lydia, “what's that? What have they come for? Do they know anything about him?”
She did not, then.
“Be quiet, my lass,” said the mother, soothingly, but it was of no use.
“Miss Dora,” cried the girl, creeping to me, and speaking in the same sort of childish pitiful tone in which she used to come and beg Lisabel and me to intercede for her when she had annoyed Penelope, “do, Miss Dora, tell me. I don't want to see him, I only want to hear. I've heard nothing since he sent me a letter from prison, saying I was to take my things and the baby's and go. I don't know what's become of him, no more than the dead. And, miss, he's that boy's father—miss—please—”
She tried to go down to her knees, but fell prone on the floor.
Max, who would have thought, the day before, that this day I should have been sitting with Lydia Cartwright's head on my lap, trying to bring her back to this miserable life of hers; that papa would have stood by and seen me do it, without a word of blame!
“It's the hunger,” cried the mother. “You see, she isn't used to it, now; he always kept her like a lady.”
Papa turned, and walked out of the cottage. I afterwards found out that he had bought the loaf at the baker's shop down the village, and got the bottle of wine from his private cupboard in the vestry. He returned with both—one in each pocket—then, sitting down on a chair, cut the bread and poured out the wine, and fed these three himself, with his own hands. My dear father!