“Very bad, Sir. I beg your pardon for sitting, but I could not help; and the gentleman will excuse me.”
“Of course—but what's the matter?” said Richard.
“A sudden fright like, Sir. I'm all over on a tremble,” she quavered.
“See how exquisitely that hand is painted,” continued Mr. Longcluse, pursuing his criticism, “and the art with which the lights are managed. It is a wonderful picture. It makes one positively angry to see it in that state, and anywhere but in the most conspicuous and honourable place. If I owned that picture, I should never be tired showing it. I should have it where everyone who came into my house should see it; and I should watch every crack and blur on its surface, as I should the symptoms of a dying child, or the looks of the mistress of my heart. Now just look at this. Where is he? Oh!”
“I beg your pardon, a thousand times, but I find my old friend Martha feels a little faint and ill,” said Richard.
“Dear me! I hope she's better,” said Mr. Longcluse, approaching with solicitude. “Can I be of any use? Shall I touch the bell?”
“I'm better, Sir, I thank you; I'm much better,” said the old woman. “It won't signify nothing, only—” She was looking hard again at Mr. Longcluse, who now seemed perfectly at his ease, and showed in his countenance nothing but the commiseration befitting the occasion. “A sort of a weakness—a fright like—and I can't think, quite, what came over me.”
“Don't you think a glass of wine might do her good?” asked Mr. Longcluse.
“Thanks, Sir, I don't drink it. Oh, lighten our darkness, we beseech thee! Good Lord, a' mercy on us! I take them drops, hartshorn and valerian, on a little water, when I feel nervous like. I don't know when I was took wi' t' creepins before.”
“You look better,” said Richard.