“Ay; it was unwelcome news, for his own sake.”
“I never supposed but that the post-office must have been to blame. I think, Mr. Arthur, he must have done it in a dream; as one, I mean, who has not his full faculties about him. I hope the Earl of Carrick will take care of him. I hope he will live to come back a good, brave man! If he would only act less on impulse and more on principle, it would be better for him. Little Master Charles has been ill, I hear, sir? I should like to see him.”
“I will bring him to see you,” replied Arthur.
“Will you, sir?” and Jenkins’s face lighted up. “I should like just to set eyes on him once again. But—it must be very soon, Mr. Arthur.”
“You think so?” murmured Arthur.
“I know it, sir—I feel it. I do not say it before my wife, sir, for I don’t think she sees herself that I am so near the end, and it would only grieve her. It will grieve her, sir, whenever it comes, though she may not care to show people that it does. I shall see you again, I hope, Mr. Arthur?”
“That you shall be sure to do. I will not miss a day now, without coming in. It will do me good to see you, Jenkins; to hear you tell me, again, of your happy state of resignation.”
“It is better than resignation, Mr. Arthur, it is a state of hope. Not but that I shall leave some regrets behind me. My wife will be lone and comfortless, and must trust to her own exertions only. And my poor old father—”
“If I didn’t know it! If I didn’t know that, on some subject or other, he’d be safe to be worrying himself, or it would not be him! I’d put myself into my grave at once, if I were you, Jenkins. As good do it that way, as by slow degrees.”
Of course you cannot fail to recognize the voice. She entered at that unlucky moment when Jenkins was alluding to his father. He attempted a defence—an explanation.