She longed to leave the house, for she dreaded the insolence of Mrs. Gilbert and her mother; but Mrs. Rushmere had so pathetically entreated her to stay and nurse her, that she felt that it would be the height of ingratitude to refuse a last request made by a dying friend, and of one to whom she owed so much.
She wanted to go and consult Mrs. Martin, who would point out the best course to pursue in avoiding unpleasant collisions with Gilbert's friends, but she was kept so fully employed, that no opportunity presented itself.
In the meanwhile, Martha Wood had not been idle in the kitchen; by the dint of cajoling and flattering Polly, she had wormed out of her some of the family secrets, which she lost no time in turning into capital. When called by her mistress to attend her to her chamber at night, she came with a face full of importance, as if she had something very particular to communicate.
"Well, Martha, how have you got through the day?" cried Mrs. Gilbert, opening her eyes a little wider than usual, as her confidant approached to undress her.
"Oh, badly enough, ma'am; that Polly Welton is a horrid low creature, not above six months out of the workhouse."
"You ought to have a fellow feeling for her, Martha," said Mrs. Gilbert spitefully.
"I was not a workhouse bird, Mrs. Rushmere," returned Martha, swelling and puffing out her broad cheeks. "You know that well enough. My father was a gentleman, and I was brought up at a private institution, at his expense."
"You need not try to fool me about that, Martha. You have attempted often enough, but it won't go down. Your father might, or might not have been a gentleman. You were a natural child, and your mother a poor creature, who got her living on the streets. So no more of your fine airs to me. What have you been doing with yourself all day?"
"Sitting in the kitchen nursing Jewel," said the girl, with a sulky scowl.
"You might have been doing something. Why did not you offer to help the girl wash the dishes?"