“Could you drink a cup o’ tea, dear?” she said.
“Yes, Mary, and you must want something.”
“Well, my dear, I do begin to feel a bit faint, for I hadn’t only just begun my breakfast when your letter came, and I haven’t had nothing since.”
The result was that the kettle was soon made to boil, and Mary seemed quite delighted to be pouring out for me and making the toast.
“Lor’, my dear, now it do seem like old times!” she cried.
“Only you’ve grown to look so handsome and well, Mary,” I said.
“Do I, my dear? Well, I am glad. Not as I care myself, but some people might. But, Lor’, I never looked well down at old Blakeford’s. My! what a row there was because you run away—”
“Was there?” I said with a shudder, half pleasure, half delight.
“Warn’t there?” said Mary, who kept running to the bedside at the slightest movement. “Bless your ’art, old Blakeford was nearly mad, and Miss Hetty ’most cried her eyes out, till I told her you’d be happier away, and then she cried ’em out more than ever, for fear her par should catch you. He was out days and days, until his leg got so bad he was really obliged to go to bed. The dog bit him, you know, the night you run away. Then there was the upset before the magistrates, and that Mr Wooster somehow managed to get the day, because master—I mean old Blakeford—hadn’t got the right witness. And that made master—I mean old Blakeford—worse. And now I don’t think I’ve any more to tell you, only you ain’t half eating your toast. My sakes! it do put me in mind of old times, for it was precious dull when you was gone.”
“Were you cross with me for running away, Mary?”