“Speak out, man—what do you mean?” said Bertha.
“Come, come, come, Bertha, you’re no fool,” wheedled he, “there isn’t a sounder head from this to London; and though you be a bit hot-headed, you’re not as bad as you’d have us believe—’taint the worst, always, that has an o’er-hasty hand. Why, bless ye, girl, I’d be sorry ye were hurt, and I’ll help to get ye out o’ this, without scathe or scorn, if you’ll let me.”
“Well, come; what’s in your mind, Harry Vairfield?” she asked.
“I tell ye what it is, it can do you no good, nohow, bein’ hard on that boy, and I know, and you know, you never were married to poor Charlie.”
“You lie!” cried the lady, bitterly. So they were quits on the point of honour.
“Now, Bertha, lass, come now—reason, reason; don’t you be in a hurry, and just listen to reason, and I’ll make it better to you than fifty marriages.”
“Don’t you think I have no advice—I’ve engaged Mr. Wynell, the best attorney in Hatherton; I know what I’m about.”
“The better you know it, the better I’m pleased; but the lawyerfolk likes always a bit of a row—they seldom cries kiss and be friends until their hands be well greased, and their clients has a bellyful o’ law; therefore it’s better that friends should put their heads together and agree before it comes to that sort o’ milling, and I tell ye, ye shall be cared for; I’ll see to it, if you don’t be kickin’ up no rows about nothing.”
She laughed a quiet, scornful laugh.
“Oh ho! Master Harry, poor little fellow! he’s frightened, is he?”