"I see."
The story had the spreading quality of the plague; it was an infection that tainted every ear, it seemed.
"You mean—you 'd like me to go?" suggested Margaret.
"No! No! NO!"
Mrs. du Preez brought both hands into play to aid her face in making the negatives emphatic. "Go? Why, if it was n't for the mercy of God I 'd be in the same box myself. I would—Me! I 've got nothing to come the heavy about, even if I was the sort that would do it. So now you know."
"I don't understand," said Margaret. "Do you mean that you—?"
"I mean," interrupted Mrs. du Preez, "that if it wasn't for that Kafir I 'd ha' been hopping in hell before now; and if people only knew it—gosh! I 'd have to hide. I wanted to tell you so 's you should know there was some one that could n't throw any stones at you. You 're beginnin' to find things rather warm up there, aren't you?"
Margaret smiled. The true kindness of Mrs. du Preez's intention moved her; charity in this quarter was the last thing she had expected to find.
"A little warm," she agreed. "Everybody 's rather shocked just now, and Mrs. Jakes has given me notice to leave."
"Has she?" demanded Mrs. du Preez. "Well, I suppose it was to be expected. I 've known that woman now for more years than I could count on my fingers, and I 've always had my doubts of her. She 's no more got the spirit of a real lady than a cow has. That 's where it is, Miss Harding. She can't understand that a lady 's got to be trusted. For two pins I 'd tell her so, the old cross-eyed skellpot. So you 're going? Well, you won't be sorry."