Mrs. Trimwell was at the ironing-table, but it is very certain that the work of her hands in no way impeded the action of her tongue. Every now and then she turned from the table to the stove, exchanging a cooling iron for one which she would momentarily hold in what appeared to be dangerous proximity to her cheek. Then down it would go on to the crumpled linen, which smoothed to snowy whiteness beneath the magic of her touch.
“I wouldn’t have said it to no one but you, ma’am,” remarked Mrs. Trimwell, in conclusion, it would appear, to some foregoing speech, “but I do say as how a helping hand at the moment would be a godsend to the poor young gentleman.”
Elizabeth looked entire agreement.
“Yes,” quoth she. “But then, what right have I to interfere.”
“Lor’ bless you, ma’am,” ejaculated Mrs. Trimwell, “if we was all to wait for our rights to make a move, I reckon there’d be precious little moving. When you think you’ve got a right there’s a dozen folk will tell you you haven’t got none. And when you’re for letting a job be, they’ll all be giving you a shift towards it. And spending the time arguing about it is mostly like talking over who’s got the best right to throw a rope to a drowning man. It’s the handiest has got to do it, I’m thinking, and let rights take their chance.”
“But,” said Elizabeth, and her eyes were smiling, though her voice was sufficiently grave, “supposing he doesn’t want any interference.”
“There’s a deal of folk as don’t know what’s good for them,” remarked Mrs. Trimwell dryly, “and maybe he’s one of the number, though I’m not for that way of thinking myself. To my mind he has got hisself into a bit of a boggle, and don’t know the way out, though ’tis as plain as the nose on my face.”
She folded a table-cloth with rapid dexterity.
“But,” argued Elizabeth, and she patted the baby gently, “if I broach the subject when he doesn’t want it broached, what will he think of me?”
“Same as most men,” returned Mrs. Trimwell calmly, whisking a handkerchief from a basket, “that women’s for ever busy over what ain’t no concern of theirs. But Lor’ bless you, what does that matter! If we’re so everlasting prudent as to wait for chances to be certainties, we’ll miss giving a sight of help. There’s fifty chances in a month to one certainty, and the chances want a friend’s hand to them a precious sight more than the certainties.”