She threw herself against the door. It was strong and secure.
Jud met it with a jeering laugh.
“Oh, you're safe an' you'll never see her agin. I don't mind tellin' you she has run off with Richard Travis—they'll go North to-night. You'll find other folks can walk off with yo' gals—'specially the han'sum ones—besides yo'se'f.”
The old nurse was stricken with weakness. Her limbs shook so she sat down in a heap at the door and said pleadingly:—“Are you lyin' to me, white man? Will—will he marry her or—”
“Did you ever hear of him marryin' anybody?” came back with a laugh. “No, he's only took a deserted young 'oman in out of the cold—he'll take care of her, but he ain't the marryin' kind, is he?”
The reputation of Richard Travis was as well known to Mammy Maria as it was to anyone. She did not know whether to believe Jud or not, but one thing she knew—something—something dreadful was happening to Helen. The old nurse called to mind instantly things that had happened before she herself had left Millwood—things Helen had said—her grief, her despair, her horror of the mill, her belief that she was already disgraced. It all came to the old nurse now so plainly. Tempted as she was, young as she was, deserted and forsaken as she thought she was, might not indeed the temptation be too much for her?
She groaned as she heard Jud laugh and walk off.
“O my baby, my beautiful baby!” she wept, falling on her knees again.
The mill grew strangely silent and dark. On a pile of loose cotton she fell, praying after the manner of her race.
An hour passed. The darkness, the loneliness, the horror of it all crept into her superstitious soul, and she became frantic with religious fervor and despair.