“What is it?—what is it, Mrs. Swayne?” said Betty, eagerly, dropping her work, “though I’ve something as tells me it’s about that poor child and our Mr. John.”
“I wash my hands of them,” said the visitor, doing so in a moist and demonstrative way. “I’ve done all as an honest woman can do. Speak o’ mothers!—mothers is a pack o’ fools. I’d think o’ that child’s interest if it was me. I’d think what was best for her character, and for keeping her out o’ mischief. As for cryin’, and that sort, they all cry—it don’t do them no harm. If you or me had set our hearts on marryin’ the first gentleman as ever was civil, what would ha’ become of us? Oh the fools as some folks is! It’s enough to send a woman with a bit of sense out o’ her mind.”
“Marryin’?” said Betty, with a little shriek; “you don’t mean to say as they’ve gone as far as that.”
“If they don’t go farther afore all’s done, it’ll be a wonder to me,” said Mrs. Swayne; “things is always like that. I don’t mean to take no particular credit to myself; but if she had been mine, I’d have done my best for her—that’s one thing as I can say. She’d not have got into no trouble if she had been mine. I’d have watched her night and day. I know what the gentlemen is. But that’s allays the way with Providence. A woman like me as has a bit of experience has none to be the better of it; and the likes of an old stupid as don’t know her right hand from her left, it’s her as has the children. I’d have settled all that different if it had been me. Last night as ever was, I found the two in the open road—in the road, I give you my word. It’s over all the parish by this, as sure as sure; and after that what does my gentleman do but come to the house as bold as brass. It turns a body sick—that’s what it does; but you might as well preach to a stone wall as make ’em hear reason; and that’s what you call a mother! much a poor girl’s the better of a mother like that.”
“All mothers is not the same,” said Betty, who held that rank herself. “For one as don’t know her duty, there’s dozens and dozens—”
“Don’t speak to me,” said Mrs. Swayne, “I know ’em—as stuck up as if it was any virtue in them, and a shuttin’ their ears to every one as gives them good advice. Oh, if that girl was but mine! I’d keep her as snug as if she was in a box, I would. Ne’er a gentleman should get a chance of so much as a look at her. It’s ten times worse when a girl is pretty; but, thank heaven, I know what the gentlemen is.”
“But if he comed to the house, he must have made some excuse,” said Betty. “I see him. He come by himself, as if it was to see your good gentleman, Mrs. Swayne. Knowing as Miss Pamela was out, I don’t deny as that was my thought. And he must have made some excuse.”
“Oh, they find excuses ready enough—don’t you be afeard,” said Mrs. Swayne; “they’re plenty ready with their tongues, and don’t stick at what they promise neither. It’s all as innocent as innocent if you was to believe them; and them as believes comes to their ruin. I tell you it’s their ruin—that and no less; but I may speak till I’m hoarse,” said Cassandra, with melancholy emphasis—“nobody pays no attention to me.”
“You must have knowed a deal of them to be so earnest,” said old Betty, with the deepest interest in her eyes.
“I was a pretty lass mysel’,” said Mrs. Swayne; and then she paused; “but you’re not to think as I ever give in to them. I wasn’t that sort; and I had folks as looked after me. I don’t say as Swayne is much to look at, after all as was in my power; but if Miss Pamela don’t mind, she’ll be real thankful afore she’s half my age to take up with a deal worse than Swayne; and that’s my last word, if I was never to draw a breath more.”