"No, but I cannot bear to see him all t' day through, soakin', soakin'. He can always walk straight, however much he takes, but 'e gets that nasty by tea-time there's no bidin' in t' 'ouse with 'im. And he natters so when I cough, an' I can't help coughin'. It's nought much, an' I've got used to it, but it vexes 'im, an' he says it worries t' dog."
"He's a brute!" I said; "anybody can see that he thinks more of his dog than of you."
"Well, you see, his dog's his business. I don't know 'at he's worse nor lots more 'at makes their business into their god, but it isn't always easy to bide. An' when I get to t' far end I answer back, an' that makes fireworks. I wish he wor at Blackpool yet."
At that moment a loud report rang through the house, and I sprang from my seat in alarm.
"It's nothin'," said Martha; "there's nought to be frightened of. He's teachin' t' dog some new fool's trick with a pistol, but I don't believe there's a bullet in it. He nearly frightened me an' our Lucy out of our wits t' first time he did it."
I sat down again, but my heart was still beating violently. "I fear I couldn't live with such a companion," I said.
"You'd 'ave to, if you were i' my shoes," she replied. "I'm tied up to 'im, ain't I? Tell me what you'd do. You couldn't get a divorce even if you'd plenty o' money, for he never bothers wi' other women. An' t' court wouldn't give me an order, 'cos he doesn't thrash me; an' t' vicar's wife says 'at it was for better or worse 'at I took 'im, an' I must kill him wi' kindness. But kindness doesn't kill 'im; nought does. Oh God, if it wasn't for our Lucy I'd be glad to go where he couldn't follow."
"You won't think I am preaching, will you, dear," I said, "if I ask you if you have tried really hard to make him love you? I don't quite know what you could do, but there must be some way of reaching his heart. And think how happy you would all be if you could change his heart and win his love."
"Miss 'Olden, there comes a time when you give up tryin', becos you fair 'aven't strength an' 'eart to go on. I've done all I could for that man. He's asked nought of me I 'aven't let 'im 'ave. I'm the mother of his child, an' I've tried to learn t' little lass to be as good as she's bonny, bless her! an' I keep her as neat as I know how; an' he thinks more o' t' dog. I've worked early an' late to keep t' 'ome together, an' he's never once found it ought but tidy, for I get up afore he wakes to scrub and polish. I've gone without food to give 'im luxuries, an' he never says so much as 'Thank ye'; but he thanks t' dog for every trick he's trained it to. I've smiled on 'im when my heart's been like lead, an' talked cheerful when it 'ud 'a done me good to cry—an' all for what? Not for curses: not for kicks. I could stand curses an' kicks when he wor i' drink, if he'd love me an' be sorry when he wor sober. No, after all I've done for 'im he just takes no notice of me. I'm his woman, not his wife, an' I'm too broken-hearted now to try any more."
One solitary tear stole down her cheek—a tiny tear, as though the fountain from which it had escaped were nearly dry; and she did not stop to wipe it away.