"I am glad to hear it," said he, heartily.
"You need not have troubled yourself," said Lady Throckmorton, languidly. "That kind of people are not like us. The blow which shatters the porcelain does not hurt the common clay."
"And you say she was not hurt?" said Captain Lovelace, forgetting the compliment which her ladyship evidently expected.
"Nay, I said not so," answered Rebecca. "I said she was none the worse, which is true, seeing that she has but changed a painful life here for the rest of the faithful hereafter. She is dead, and also her babe."
"Dead!" said Captain Lovelace, in a kind of whisper. "Dead!" The color all went out of his face, and he had his hand on the counter as if to sustain himself.
"Even so," said Rebecca, calmly. "She passed away at day dawn, praying for forgiveness to her murderers with her latest breath, if that be any comfort to them."
Captain Lovelace did not look as though it were any comfort to him. I never saw a more horrified face. He stood looking at Rebecca as though she held the gorgon's head in her hand instead of a bottle of lavender water.
"Well, well, my good woman, we do not wish to hear her funeral sermon. You may tell Mrs. Thorpe from me that if she expects the patronage of ladies of fashion, she must not make her house an asylum for ranters. She will not find her account in it, as I for one shall withdraw my custom."
Now Rebecca was a little deaf, and, like some others in the same case, she could make her deafness serve her turn when she did not wish to hear or to understand. She did so in this instance.
"Account—didst thou wish for thy account? Oh yes, I can give it thee at once," said she, and, opening a drawer, she drew forth a formidable looking paper of several pages. "Friend Thorpe has had it ready for several days. Perhaps thou wouldst like to take it home and look it over, or if thou dost prefer, I can send it to thy husband."