"Take this," said Madge. "It's a knife. With its help you'll be better able to tear the paper off the wall."
She took it--without a word of thanks, and, with it in her grasp, returned to the attack with energies renewed.
"I've got a knife, Tom, I've got a knife. Now I'll get the paper off quicker--much quicker. I'll soon get to your money, Tom."
But she did not get to it. On the contrary, the process of stripping off the paper did not proceed much more rapidly than before, even with the help of Mr. Graham's knife. It was with the greatest difficulty that she was able to get off two or three square inches.
The disappearance, however, of even this small portion revealed the fact that the paper-hanger who had been responsible for putting it into place, instead of stripping off the previous wall covering, as paperhangers are supposed to do, had been content, to save himself what he had, perhaps, deemed unnecessary trouble, to paste this latest covering on the previous one. This former paper appeared to have been of that old-fashioned kind which used to be popular in the parlours of country inns, and such-like places, and which was wont to be embellished with "pictorial illustrations." The scraping off, by the woman, of the small fragments of paper which she had succeeded in removing, showed that the one beneath it seemed to have been ornamented with more or less striking representations of various four-footed animals. On the space laid bare were figures of what might have been meant for anything; and which, in the light of the last line on Mr. Ballingall's manuscript, were probably intended for cats and dogs.
With these the woman was fumbling with hesitating, awkward fingers.
"Cat--dog? I don't--I don't understand, Tom--I see, Tom,--these are the pictures of cats and dogs. I'm blind, and stupid, and slow. I ought to have seen at once what they were?--I know I ought. But--be patient with me, Tom. Which one?--This one? Yes, I see--this one. It's--it's--yes, Tom, it's a dog's head, I see it is.--What am I to do with it? Press?--Yes, Tom, I am pressing.--Press harder? Yes, I'll--I'll try; but I'm--I'm not very strong, and I can't press much harder. Have mercy!--have mercy, Tom! Say--say you forgive me--forgive me! but I--I can't press harder, Tom--I can't!"
She could not--so much was plain. Even as the words were passing from her lips, she relinquished pressing altogether. Uttering a little throbbing cry, she turned away from the wall, throwing up her arms with a gesture of entreaty, and sinking on to the floor, she lay there still. As she dropped, that gentle, mocking laugh rang through the startled room.