“Yes—everything,” replied Mrs Bolter, now perfectly cool and calm.
“I heard that the doctor had been found up the river somewhere with a black lady in his boat; but I didn’t hear it was the Inche Maida.”
“But my heart told me it was,” muttered poor little Mrs Bolter, whose good resolutions were all swept away by her agonising feeling of jealousy. Then aloud, with a fierce look of anger, but speaking in quite a hoarse whisper, “Go!” she said, pointing to the door. “You wicked woman, go! You have taken delight in coming to tell me this!”
“No, no!” cried Mrs Barlow, bursting into tears; “it was from friendship—from the sisterly love I have for you! It was for your brother’s sake!”
“If—if ever my brother returns, he shall never speak to you—bad, weak, wicked woman that you are! Leave my house!”
“But, Mrs Bolter—dear Mrs Bolter—”
“Leave my house!” continued the little woman in the same low, excited whisper; and she seemed to advance so menacingly upon the merchant’s widow, that she backed to the door in alarm, and regularly fled.
“Dear Mrs Bolter—” began Grey.
“Don’t speak to me, my dear,” said the little lady. “I’m not at all angry. I’m perfectly calm. There, you see how quiet I am. Not the least bit in a passion.”
Certainly she was speaking in a low, passionless voice, but there was a peculiar whiteness in the generally rather florid face.