“What bill? What misfortune?” cried Cecilia; “what had your husband to do at Violet-Bank?”
“He was the carpenter, madam. I thought you might have seen poor Hill the carpenter there.”
“No, I never was there myself. Perhaps you mistake me for Mrs Harrel.”
“Why, sure, madam, a'n't you his honour's lady?”
“No. But tell me, what is this bill?”
“'Tis a bill, madam, for very hard work, for work, madam, which I am sure will cost my husband his life; and though I have been after his honour night and day to get it, and sent him letters and petitions with an account of our misfortunes, I have never received so much as a shilling! and now the servants won't even let me wait in the hall to speak to him. Oh, madam! you who seem so good, plead to his honour in our behalf! tell him my poor husband cannot live! tell him my children are starving! and tell him my poor Billy, that used to help to keep us, is dead, and that all the work I can do by myself is not enough to maintain us!”
“Good heaven!” cried Cecilia, extremely moved, “is it then your own money for which you sue thus humbly?”
“Yes, madam, for my own just and honest money, as his honour knows, and will tell you himself.”
“Impossible!” cried Cecilia, “he cannot know it; but I will take care he shall soon be informed of it. How much is the bill?”
“Two-and-twenty pounds, madam.”