“Don’t let us talk about that—please!” said Isabel: she stole a swift, momentary glance toward Seth as she spoke.
The keen eyes in the recess followed this look. “Well, no,” the husky, whispering voice went on, “p’raps it ain’t none o’ my business. But tell me about this young man here—yer husband’s brother. I want to know about him.”
“What about him?” asked Isabel slowly, after a pause.
“Why, is he a likely man? Air his habits good? Could he take this girl o’ mine—an’ she’s a good girl, Annie is—could he take her to Tecumsy, an’ make a fit home fer her? An’ would he do it? Would he make her a good husban’—ez good ez she desarves? I ask you, ’cause you know him. I leave it to you—would you yerself marry him ef yeh was free, an’ feel safe about him? Come, now, tell me that!”
Isabel hesitated so long that the old woman, seemingly wandering a little after her long, laborious concentration of thought, broke in again:
“Oh, I know ’em! I know ’em! Of all the Fair-childses, there never was one decent one. They stole my daughter, an’ let her die ’mongst strangers, an’ they made a broken ole woman o’ me, an’ they slaved Cicely’s life out o’ her, an’ now they want my Annie——”
“No,” said Isabel here, speaking softly, and putting her hand on the wasted arm which lay above the coverlet. “I think you wrong Seth. Whatever the rest may have done, I think he will be a good husband to Annie. I am sure he will.”
No answer, save a low, incoherent murmuring, came from the recess. The invalid had lapsed into the lethargy of exhausted nature. As the trio stood by the bedside even this sound ceased. Nothing was to be heard but the labored, unnatural breathing.
Isabel placed the candle again upon the shelf. She had not removed her bonnet and wrap, and she turned now irresolutely toward the door.
Annie went to her, and silently took her hand. “I forgive you,” she whispered. “Was there anything else? Did you want to speak to me?”