“If it’s any comfort to you, Mr. Westcott.”
“I don’t think that chair-back very firm,” observed Jack.
“Oh! do, do look!” exclaimed the widow. “He is on one ladder, and thrusting up another hands over head! and, oh! if his feet were to give way! if he were to stagger! if the ladder were to slip! oh, I feel—I feel quite giddy and faint.”
“Lean on me,” said Jack; “and—drat that chair-back! it is cracked. That’s more substantial and agreeable to both parties.” He slipped his arm round her waist. “England expects every man to do his dooty.”
“I really cannot bear to see poor dear Mr. Newbold thus risk his precious life.”
“Then don’t,” said Westcott; and rising, he brought close together the bottles of mixed sweets and almond-rock in the window. “There, now you can’t see nor be seen. Are you better, my angel?”
“Rather,” responded Lydia in a faint voice. “And yet I’m all of a tremble. What if he was to fall?”
“We’d mingle our tears over his grave,” said the sailor. “Now, look you here.”
“I can’t; I’ve such a swimming in my head. O Jack! I can still see something—a fog has swept over the top of the spire; or is it that my eyes are deceived? He’s gone! He’s gone!”