“It is just where it was. I am no more afraid than I used to be of evils which may be met with a mature mind: and just as much afraid as ever of those which terrified my childhood.”
“Our baby shall never be afraid of anything,” asserted Margaret. “But Maria, something must be done for your relief.”
“That is just what I hoped and expected you would say, and the reason why I exposed myself to you.”
“Why do not the Greys offer you a room there for the winter? That seems the simplest and most obvious plan.”
“It is not convenient.”
“How should that be?”
“The bed would have to be uncovered, you know; and the mahogany wash-stand might be splashed.”
“They can get a room ready for a guest, to relieve their own fears, but not yours. Can nothing be done about it?”
“Not unless the Rowlands should take in Mr Walcot, because he is afraid to live alone: in such case, the Greys would take me in for the same reason. But that will not be so, Margaret, I will ask you plainly, and you will answer as plainly—could you, without too much pain, trouble, and inconvenience, spend an evening or two a week with me, just till this panic is passed? If you could put it in my power to be always looking forward to an evening of relief, it would break the sense of solitude, and make all the difference to me. I see the selfishness of this; but I really think it is better to own my weakness than to struggle uselessly against it any longer.”
“I could do that—should like of all things to do it till Morris goes: but that will be so soon—.”