“Say?” exclaimed Jane Barker, whose face had been working, while her lips were nipped together, and her arms crossed over her breast, as if to keep down her emotion—“say? Why, that sooner than marry you, and have my little bit of money put in a public-house, for you to be pouring it down your throat all day, I’d go into the union! I’ll own that I did, and I have, loved you very, very much; but you’ve half broke my heart with seeing you, day after day, getting into such sotting ways. You know you wouldn’t have been here now if it hadn’t been for me going down on my knees to my own dear, sweet lady, to ask her not to complain, when you’ve gone up to her, time after time, not fit to be seen, and smelling that horrid that tap-rooms was flower-gardens compared to you! And now, after all her kindness and consideration, you talk like that! I’m ashamed of you—I’m ashamed of you!”
And Jane burst into tears.
“Now, don’t be a fool, Jenny! What’s the good of being so squeamish, and talking such nonsense? We’ve both had enough of this place, and, without anything to trouble me, I should never touch a drop from month’s end to month’s end.”
“No, John—no, John,” she said, disengaging herself from the arm that he had put round her. “I’ll never marry a man who drinks. I’d give you my bit of money if I thought it would do you good; but you’ve drunk till it’s made you hard, and cruel, and suspicious, and wicked; and, though I’ve never said nothing, I’ve thought about all your wicked hints and suspicions. And as to being tied up to a man who was going to get money by telling lies of other people, I’d sooner go down and jump into the lake—that I would!”
“’Tisn’t lies,” said Gurdon, sulkily: “it’s truth, and you know it is.”
“It is not, you bad, wicked fellow!” cried Jane, firing up, and stamping one foot upon the floor.
“’Tis truth, and he knows it too, my fine, fierce madam!”
“What! have you dared to say a word, or drop one of your nasty, underhanded hints?” cried Jane.
“Never mind,” said Gurdon, maliciously. “I’ve not studied him all these years for nothing. Perhaps I know something about letters—perhaps I don’t; perhaps I’ve seen somebody savage about somebody else taking long walks, after being sulky and upset about what’s to happen now after all these years; perhaps I haven’t seen anything of the kind, but I ain’t blind. I haven’t forgotten what took place six years ago, and now we’re going—good luck to us!—to have an anniversary. I hope everybody will be there to keep it, that’s all I’ve got to say.”
“Oh, you serpent!” cried Jane, pale with rage. “You bad, wicked fellow! You’re like the scorpion in the Holy Bible, you are, that turns to rend the hand that fed it. Oh!” she cried, growing gradually more and more furious, “to think that I’ve wasted all my best days about such a traitor—such a cruel, malicious, spiteful, dirty story-teller! Shame on you! How dare you, you villain, hint at such wickedness about my poor dear sweet mistress, whose dear heart is as pure as an angel’s—a sweet, suffering lamb?”