“We can talk of her by-and-by,” said he; “what was in my mind was about a different thing. For a thousand reasons I should hate a fracas—I mean a row with that person at present; you know yourself how it might affect the poor little thing upstairs. Oh, my darling, my darling, what have I brought you into?”
“Well, well, no help for spilled milk,” said Mildred. “What was you a-thinking of?”
“Oh, yes, thank you, Mildred—I was thinking—yes—if your mistress was well enough for a journey, I’d take her away from this—I’d take her away immediately—I’d take her quite out of the reach of that—that restless person. I ought to have done so at once, but I was so miserably poor, and this place here to receive us, and who could have fancied she’d have dreamed, in her state of health, and with her affliction—her sight, you know—of coming down here again; but I’m the unluckiest fellow on earth; I never, by any chance, leave a blot that isn’t hit. Don’t you think, Mildred, I had better not wake your mistress to-night to talk over plans?”
“Don’t you go near her; a sight of your face would tell her all wasn’t right.”
“I had better not see her, you think?”
“Don’t see her. So soon as you know yourself what you’re going to do with her, and if you make up your mind to-night so much the better—write you to tell her what she’s to do, and give me the letter and I’ll give it to her as if it came by a messenger; and take you my counsel—don’t you stop here a minute longer than you can. Leave before daybreak, you’re no use here, and if she finds you ’twill but make bad worse. When will ye lie down—you’ll not be good for nothin’ to-morrow if ye don’t sleep a bit—lie down on the sofa in the parlour, and your cloak is hangin’ in the passage, and be you out o’ the house by daybreak, and I’ll have a bit o’ breakfast ready before ye go.”
“And there’s Lady Wyndale, I didn’t tell you, offered to take care of Alice, your mistress, and she need only go there for the present; but that might be too near, and I was thinking it might not do.”
“Best out o’ reach altogether when ye go about it,” said Mildred. “Sit here if you like it, or lie down, as I said, in the parlour, and if you settle your mind on any plan just knock at my door, and I’ll have my clothes about me and be ready at call, and Tom’s in his old crib under the stair, if you want him to get the saddle on the horse, and I won’t take down the fire, I’ll have it handy for your breakfast, and now I can’t stop talkin’ no longer, for Mildred’s wore off her feet—will ye take a candle, or will ye stop here?”
“Yes, give me a candle, Mildred—thanks—and don’t mind the cloak, I’ll get it myself, I will lie down a little, and try to sleep—I wish I could—and if you waken shake me up in an hour or two, something must be settled before I leave this, something shall be settled, and that poor little creature out of reach of trouble and insult. Don’t forget. Good-night, Mildred, and God bless you, Mildred, God for ever bless you.”