“It is all very well,” he muttered, “to talk!”
“Ay, but presently we shall do as well as talk! Out in the world they are doing now! They are beginning to do. But here—what do you know in this cupboard? No more than the mice.”
“Fine talk!” he retorted, stung by her contempt. “But you talk without knowing. There have been parsons and squires from the beginning, and there will be parsons and squires to the end. You may talk until you are black in the face, Bess, but you won’t alter that!”
“Ay, talk!” she retorted drily. “You may talk. But if you do—as they did in France twenty years gone. Where are their squires and parsons now? The end came quick enough there, when it came.”
“I don’t know much about that,” he growled.
“Ay, but I do.”
“But how the devil do you?” he answered, in some irritation, but more wonder. “How do you?” And he looked round the bare, sordid kitchen. The fire, shooting warm tongues up the black cavernous chimney, made the one spot of comfort that was visible.
“Never you mind!” she answered, with a mysterious and tantalising smile. “I do. And by-and-by, if we’ve the spirit of a mouse, things will happen here! Down yonder—I see it all—there are thousands and tens of thousands starving. And stacks burning. And mobs marching, and men drilling, and more things happening than you dream of! And all that means that by-and-by I shall be knitting while Madam and Miss and that proud-faced, slim-necked chit at the inn, who faced us all down to-day——”
“Why,” he struck in, in fresh surprise, “what has she done to you now?”
“That’s my business, never you mind! Only, by-and-by, they will all smile on the wrong side of their face!”