“And this is Bob’s story, is it?” said Carraways, gravely. “Humph! I’m sorry to hear it. I’m afraid, Jenny, my good girl, I’m afraid Bob loves to drink.”
“La, sir! No more than a baby,” said Jenny.
“Just so,” said Carraways.
“Besides, there was a doctor that handled the bullet—a lucky thing that, for dear Bob—and moreover, that saw through the hole in Mr. Jericho’s breast—and more than that, that says he’ll have Mr. Jericho afore the bishops, and put him in the Fantastical Court. And the doctor, by what I hear”—said Mrs. Topps, with burning face—“drinks no more than Robert.”
“Well, Jenny, well,” said Carraways, with a smile. “I like you to defend your husband. It’s very natural; very proper. But the world, my good girl, can’t and won’t think as you do. I know a little, you’ll allow, of Bob; and though I can speak from no absolute evidence, nevertheless, I have a suspicion that he has a liking for drink. If this be so, try and reform him.”
“I will, sir,” said Jenny, and the tears came into her eyes.
“I may be wrong; but watch him, and if need be, persuade him against so dreadful a vice.”
“I will, sir, indeed I will,” cried Jenny, weeping outright.
“I don’t believe this story. Nobody will believe it. Everybody will take it as a drunkard’s tale; therefore, warn Bob; warn him from me. There’s a good girl.”
“I will, sir; thank’ee, sir,” and poor Jenny, with saddened heart, crept from Primrose Place, sorrowful for her weak and foolish husband. It was the first thin cloud that had crossed the honeymoon; and suddenly, the world had never looked so dark to Jenny.