Mrs. Trimwell approached a step nearer. She lowered her voice to a confidential whisper.
“’Twas that day to the minute, sir, as my uncle died.”
“Ah!” John’s eyes, non-committal in expression, sought the window. Corin cast a look of scorn at him; then turned, eager, to Mrs. Trimwell.
“Did you tell the Vicar that?” he demanded.
“I did, sir,” replied Mrs. Trimwell, including him for the first time within her range of vision. “But, Lor’, where’s the use of telling things to he! He don’t understand no more than a Bishop.”
“Why a Bishop?” thought John in parenthesis.
“When my Tilda was down with pneumony,” pursued Mrs. Trimwell reminiscent, “and the doctor said there wasn’t no chance for her, ‘I’ll see about chances,’ says I. Vicar, he talked about the Will of the Lord and submitting. ‘It’s not the minute to be talking about submitting yet,’ says I to him. ‘The Lord may do the willing, and I’m not one to deny it, but ’tis we do the doing, and it kind of fits in. And if you think I’m going to leave off fighting for my Tilda till the time comes as she’s ready to lay out, you’re much mistook.’ He was mistook, sir, for she’s in the kitchen now a-minding of the baby.” She ended on a note gloriously triumphant.
The triumph found quick response in John’s eyes. I fancy he saw here reflected the attitude of that old-time king, who strove in prayer for his child, till striving and prayer were no longer of avail.
“The fighting chance,” murmured Corin, swallowing his last mouthful of sole.
Mrs. Trimwell removed the plates and placed cold chicken and salad on the table.