‘People can’t be as ill as you’ve been, without giving some trouble,’ she answered.
Yet he had a consciousness that he had been good, as goodness goes on a bed of sickness; and he hankered to have it said.
‘Wasn’t I a good patient?’ he inquired in a tone of meek repentance. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘You were as good as you knew how,’ replied Davidina, ‘and that’s not saying a little; for you know more than most; if you’d only do it.’ She paused, then added, ‘You were very good when you were out of your senses.’
‘What did I say?’ inquired Mr. Trimblerigg anxiously; for the possibilities of unconscious goodness alarmed him.
‘Your prayers.’ (His anxiety increased.) ‘You didn’t say much. ’Twas either “God, I am not as other men are,” or “God, be merciful to me a sinner,” just those two things, one or other; and they both sounded real, as if you meant ’em.’
There was a long pause, while Mr. Trimblerigg calculated; he had got the right atmosphere for it at last; so gathering his strength he said:
‘Davidina, it was I pushed you into the river.’
The avowal struck Davidina a cold blow: she had not reckoned that feebleness, or illness, or affection, or gratitude, or anything indeed but fear would ever have made Mr. Trimblerigg own truth against himself so long after the date. Then she looked deeper, and realized that it was fear: he was trying to get out of her clutches by telling the truth.
She countered him by telling a lie herself.