‘That will be a good thing,’ Adela replied.
‘Good if he keeps it. But I can’t talk to him; I’m sick of doing so. And I don’t think he even listens to me.’ He hesitated. ‘Do you think you—would you mind speaking to him? I believe you might do him good.’
Adela did not at once reply.
‘I know it’s a nasty job,’ he pursued. ‘I wouldn’t ask you if I didn’t really think you might do some good. I don’t see why he should go to the dogs. He used to be a good enough fellow when he was a little lad.’
It was one of the most humane speeches Adela had ever heard from her husband. She replied with cheerfulness:
‘If you really think he won’t take it amiss, I shall be very glad to do my best.’
‘That’s right; thank you.’
Adela went down and was alone with ‘Arry for half-an-hour. She was young to undertake such an office, but suffering had endowed her with gravity and understanding beyond her years, and her native sweetness was such that she could altogether forget herself in pleading with another for a good end. No human being, however perverse, could have taken ill the words that were dictated by so pure a mind, and uttered in so musical and gentle a voice. She led ‘Arry to speak frankly.
‘It seems to me a precious hard thing,’ he said, ‘that they’ve let Dick keep enough money to live on comfortable, and won’t give me a penny. My right was as good as his.’
‘Perhaps it was,’ Adela replied kindly. ‘But you must remember that money was left to your brother by the will.’