“’Tis downstairs,” answered she. “I’ll fetch it.”
And Dulcibella withdrew. Harry was poking about the shelves and the chimney-piece.
“This is ink,” said he, “ain’t it?” So it was, and a pen. “I think it will write—try it, Ally.”
So it was signed; and he had fairly described its tenor and effect to his widowed sister-in-law.
“I’ll see Rodney this evening and show him this, to prevent his bothering you here about it. And,” he almost whispered, “you know about that woman? or you don’t—do you?”
Her lips moved, but he could hear no words.
“She was once a fine woman—ye wouldn’t think—a devilish fine woman, I can tell you; and she says—ye know ’twas more than likin’—she says she has the whip hand o’ ye—first come, first served. She’s talkin’ o’ law, and all that. She says—but it won’t make no odds now, you know, what she says—well, she says she was his wife.”
“Oh, God!—it’s a lie,” whispered the poor lady, with white lips, and staring at him with darkening eyes.
“Well, maybe it is, and maybe it ain’t,” he answered. “But it don’t much matter now; and I daresay we’ll hear nothing about it, and dead men’s past fooling, ye know. Good-night, Ally, and God bless you; and take care o’ yourself, and don’t be crying your eyes out like that. And I’ll come again as soon as I can; and any business, you know, or anything, I’ll be always ready to do for you—and good-night, Ally, and mind all I said.”
Since those terrible words of his were spoken she had not heard a syllable. He took her icy hand. He looked for a puzzled moment in her clouded eyes, and nodded, and he called to the little girl in the adjoining room.