“I was not hurting myself,” she answered. “The things must be packed.”
“Of course they must. But not by you. Where’s Margery?”
“Margery has a great deal to do. She cannot do all.”
“Then where’s Sarah?” resumed George crossly and sharply.
“Sarah’s in the kitchen preparing dinner. We must have some to-day.”
“Show me what the things are, and I will pack them.”
“Nonsense! As if it would hurt me to put the things into the box! You never interfered with me before, George.”
“You never attempted this sort of work before. I won’t have it, Maria. Were you in a state of health to be knocking about, you might do it; but you certainly shall not, as it is.”
It was his self-reproach that was causing his angry tone; very keenly at that moment was it making itself heard. And Maria’s spirits were not that day equal to sharpness of speech. It told upon her, and she burst into tears.
How terribly the signs of distress vexed him, no words could tell. He took them as a tacit reproach to himself. And they were so: however unintentional on her part such reproach might be.