“You disturb my mind, and my mind is my whole life; for my boy is there still, and he is gone from my body.”
“Yes, poor young man. I was sorry when he died.”
“Do you know what he died of?”
“Consumption.”
“Oh no, no!” said the widow. “That word ‘consumption’ covers a good deal. He died because you were his own well-agreed sweetheart, and then proved false—and it killed him. Yes, Miss Swancourt,” she said in an excited whisper, “you killed my son!”
“How can you be so wicked and foolish!” replied Elfride, rising indignantly. But indignation was not natural to her, and having been so worn and harrowed by late events, she lost any powers of defence that mood might have lent her. “I could not help his loving me, Mrs. Jethway!”
“That’s just what you could have helped. You know how it began, Miss Elfride. Yes: you said you liked the name of Felix better than any other name in the parish, and you knew it was his name, and that those you said it to would report it to him.”
“I knew it was his name—of course I did; but I am sure, Mrs. Jethway, I did not intend anybody to tell him.”
“But you knew they would.”
“No, I didn’t.”