“I’ll go; don’t you stir, Mrs. Marks.”
I opened the door, and a rush of wind and rain seemed to blow in an old gentleman. He never said a word to me, but went banging into the parlour and sank down on a chair out of breath.
“Papa!” exclaimed Mrs. Marks. “Papa!”
“Wait till I get up my speech, my dear,” said the old gentleman. “She is gone.”
“Who is gone!” cried Mrs. Marks.
“She. I don’t want to say too much against her now she’s gone, Caroline; but she is gone. She had a bad fall downstairs in a tipsy fit some days ago, striking her head on the flags, and the doctors could do nothing for her. She died this morning, poor soul; and I am coming to live with you and James, if you will have me. We shall all be so comfortable together, my dear.”
Perhaps Mrs. Marks remembered at once what it implied—that the pressure of poverty was suddenly lifted and she and those dear ones would be at ease for the future. She bent her head in her hands for a minute or two, keeping silence.
“Your husband shall have rest now, my dear, and all that he needs. So will you, Caroline.”
It had come too late. James Marks died in May.