To her amazement and distress his tone, as he answered her, sounded unconvincing and troubled.
“Perhaps. I—I hope so. He can be very—obstinate.”
“You be more obstinate than he.”
Tears formed in her eyes and trickled down her cheeks. Fishpingle was not proof against this. Suddenly she flung herself into his arms, sobbing passionately. Between her sobs he could hear a strangled voice repeating miserably:
“I can’t live without Alfie, no, I can’t.”
He stroked her head till she grew calmer. He was wondering, not for the first time, at the force of love, its violence in primitive natures, its effect upon such an artless maid as this, and lastly the danger involved in thwarting and diverting from its normal channel so devastating a stream. And the resolution to help this confiding, helpless creature gathered increasing will-power and direction. When she grew calmer, he said softly:
“You can’t live without Alfred? Come, come, I have lived all these years without a wife.”
As he spoke, he was sensible that an older, more experienced woman might have turned upon him fiercely, asking him if such an abstention, whether voluntary or forced, was to be commended. And when Prudence left his encircling arm and lifted widely-opened eyes to his, he almost winced before their mute interrogation. But the maid only murmured gently:
“That be true. Uncle Ben, dear, whatever made ’ee stay single? Do tell!”
Should he speak or hold his peace? Her violence had affected him most strangely, broken down barriers of silence, self-imposed. The wish to speak gripped him. And the right word at such a moment might be a warning now and a solace hereafter if—if his plans went agley. He said very quietly: