“Well, midlin’—pretty well.”
“I wish she was quite well, Mildred—it’s very unlucky. If the poor little thing were only quite well, it would make everything easy; but I daren’t frighten her—I daren’t tell her—it might be her death. Oh, Mildred, isn’t all this terrible?”
“Bad enough—I can’t deny.”
“Would it be better to run that risk and tell her everything?” he said.
“Well, it is a risk, an’ a great one, and it might be the same as puttin’ a pistol to her head and killin’ her; ’tis a tryin’ time with her, poor child, and a dangerous bed, and mind ye this, if there’s any talk like that, and the crying and laughing fits mayhap that comes with it, don’t ye think but the old cat will hear it, and then in the wild talk a’s out in no time, and the fat in the fire; no, if she’s to hear it, it can’t be helped, and the will o’ God be done; but if I was her husband, I’d sooner die than tell her, being as she is.”
“No, of course, no—she must not be told; I’m sure you’re right, Mildred. I wish Harry was here, he thinks of things sometimes that don’t strike me. I wish Harry would come, he might think of something—he would, I dare say—he would, I’m certain.”
“I wish that woman was back again where she came from,” said Mildred, from whose mind the puce gros de Naples was fading, for she had a profound distrust of her veracity, and the pelisse looked very like a puce-coloured lie.
“Don’t, Mildred—don’t, like a good creature—you won’t for my sake, speak harshly of that unhappy person,” he said gently this time, and laying his hand on her shoulder. “I’m glad you are here, Mildred—I’m very glad; I remember you as long as I can remember anything—you were always kind to me, Mildred—always the same—true as steel.”
He was speaking with the friendliness of distress. It is in pain that sympathy grows precious, and with the yearning for it, returns something of the gentleness and affection of childhood.
“She’s come for no good,” said Mildred, “she’s sly, and she’s savage, and if you don’t mind me saying so, I often thought she was a bit mad—folk as has them fits, ye know, they does get sometimes queerish.”