What was I to do, or to say? I wanted to justify Holdsworth, to keep Phillis’s secret, and to pacify the woman all in the same breath. I did not take the best course, I’m afraid.
“I don’t believe Holdsworth ever spoke a word of—of love to her in all his life. I’m sure he didn’t.”
“Ay. Ay! but there’s eyes, and there’s hands, as well as tongues; and a man has two o’ th’ one and but one o’ t’other.”
“And she’s so young; do you suppose her parents would not have seen it?”
“Well! if you axe me that, I’ll say out boldly, ‘No’. They’ve called her ‘the child’ so long—‘the child’ is always their name for her when they talk on her between themselves, as if never anybody else had a ewe-lamb before them—that she’s grown up to be a woman under their very eyes, and they look on her still as if she were in her long clothes. And you ne’er heard on a man falling in love wi’ a babby in long clothes!”
“No!” said I, half laughing. But she went on as grave as a judge.
“Ay! you see you’ll laugh at the bare thought on it—and I’ll be bound th’ minister, though he’s not a laughing man, would ha’ sniggled at th’ notion of falling in love wi’ the child. Where’s Holdsworth off to?”
“Canada,” said I, shortly.
“Canada here, Canada there,” she replied, testily. “Tell me how far he’s off, instead of giving me your gibberish. Is he a two days’ journey away? or a three? or a week?”
“He’s ever so far off—three weeks at the least,” cried I in despair. “And he’s either married, or just going to be. So there.” I expected a fresh burst of anger. But no; the matter was too serious. Betty sate down, and kept silence for a minute or two. She looked so miserable and downcast, that I could not help going on, and taking her a little into my confidence.