“It’s about that woman,” he continued, in a very low tone, “about that one—Bertha. That woman, you know, that’s in Hatherton Jail, you remember. There’s no good prosecuting that one. Poor Charles wouldn’t have allowed it at no price.”
“He said so. I wouldn’t for the world,” she answered very faintly.
“No, of course; he wished it, and we’d like to see his wishes complied with, poor fellow, now he’s gone,” acquiesced Harry with alacrity. “And you know about her?” he added, in a very low tone.
“Oh no, no, Harry; no, please,” she answered imploringly.
“Well, it wouldn’t do for you, you know, to be gettin’ up in the witness-box at the ’sizes to hang her, ye know.”
“Oh dear, Harry; no, I never could have thought of it.”
“Well, you are not bound, luckily; nor no one. I saw Rodney to-day about it; there’s no recognizances—he only took the informations—and I said you wouldn’t prosecute; nor I won’t, I’m sure; and the crown won’t take it up, and so it will fall through, and end quietly—the best way for you; for, as I told him, you’re not in health to go down there to be battlin’ wi’ lawyers, and all sorts; ’twould never answer you, ye know. So here’s a slip o’ paper I wrote, and I told him I knew you’d sign it—only sayin’ you have no notion of prosecutin’ that woman, nor moving more in the matter.”
He placed it in her hand.
“I’m sure it’s quite right; it’s just what I mean. Thank you, Harry; you’re very good.”
“Get the ink and pen,” said Harry aloud to Dulcibella.