The widow pushed away the unfinished cup of broth.
“And of another, who made his fortune by one—just as Richard will,” added Matty, relenting.
And yet, despite this and her other sarcasms, it was curious to see how Martha struggled to keep in her bitter words; when she looked at the widow’s shrunk and trembling form, and wasted, though still beautiful features, her better nature triumphed; but if her eyes were fixed upon her kitchen deities, she became sharp and acid immediately. Had she moved in a higher grade of society, with her peculiar talent, she might have been
“That dangerous thing, a female wit;”
as it was, she kept her master (to whom, from her stern honesty of pocket and purpose, as well as from “habit,” that great enslaver of our “kind,” she was invaluable) on a species of rack, while the only peaceful time Richard spent in her society, was while he read to her what she called, “the state of Europe on the paper.”
“He will soon have been twelve months in his place,” said the widow, smiling.
“Come next new-year’s-day, if we live to see it; Richard says he’ll watch at the corner for the old gentleman.”
“Bother! I dare say he’s dead long ago.”
“No, he is not dead; I am sure he is not dead,” replied the widow. “I should like him to see my boy now; I hope he is not dead—”
“Ay, ay, well we shall see,” quoth Matty. “Before Peter (down, Peter, jewel!) before Peter came, we had a dog called Hope—the most desaven’est crayture she was that ever stole a bone; and always brought it back—when there was nothing on it.”