“Folly, folly! ole girl! you’ve many a year to go before that journey; you’ll live to see me, Mrs. Vairvield of Wyvern, and it won’t be a bad day for you, old Mildred.”
The “Dutchwoman,” or the old soldier, as they used to call her long ago in this sequestered nook, drawled this languidly, and yawned a long, listless yawn.
“Well, ma’am, if you’re tired, so am I,” said Mildred, a little tartly; “and as for dreamin’ o’ quiet in this world, I ha’ cleared my head o’ that nonsense many a year ago. There’s little good can happen old Mildred now, and less I look for, and none I’ll seek, ma’am; and as for a roof over my head for nothing, and that bit o’ ground ye spoke of, and wages to live on without no work, I don’t believe there’s no such luck going for no one.”
“Listen to me, Mildred,” said the stranger, more sternly than before; “is it because I don’t swear you won’t believe? Hear, now, once for all, and understand: I’ll make that a good day for you that makes me the lady of Wyvern. Sharp and hard I’ve been with those I owed a knock to, but I never yet forgot a friend; you may do me a service to-morrow or next day, mind, and if you stand by me, I’ll stand by you; you need but ask and have, ask what you will.”
“Well, now, ma’am—bah! what talk it is! Lawk, ma’am; don’t I know the world, ma’am, and what sort o’ place it is? I a’ bin promised many a fine thing in my day, and here I am still—old and weary—among the pots and pans every night and mornin’, and up to my elbows in suds every Saturday; that’s all that ever came o’ fine promises to Mildred Tarnley.”
“Well, you used to say, it’s a long lane that has no turn. You’ll have a glass of this?” and she popped the brandy-bottle on the table beside her, with her hand fast on its neck.
“No brandy—no nothing, ma’am, I thank ye.”
“What! no brandy? Pish, girl, nonsense.”
“No, ma’am, I thank ye, I never drinks nothing o’ the sort—a mug o’ beer after washing or the like—but my headache never would abear brandy.”
“Once and away—come,” solicited the old soldier.