“Never, never, by heaven. I’m no more that wretched woman’s husband than I’m married to you.”
“Mildred knew better than marry anyone; there’s little I see but tears and wrinkles, and oftentimes rags and hunger comes of it; but ’twill be done, marryin’ and givin’ in marriage, says the Scriptures, ’tis so now, ’twas so when Noah went into the ark, and ’twill be so when the day of judgment breaks over us.”
“Yes,” said Charles Fairfield, abstractedly; “of course that miserable woman sticks at no assertion; her idea is simply to bully her way to her object. It doesn’t matter what she says, and it never surprised me. I always knew if she lived she’d give me trouble one day; but that’s all; just trouble, but no more; not the slightest chance of succeeding—not the smallest; she knows it; I know it. The only thing that vexes me is that people who know all about it as well as I do, and people who, of all others, should feel for me, and feel with me, should talk as if they had doubts upon the subject now.”
“I didn’t say so, Master Charles,” said Mildred.
“I didn’t mean you, I meant others, quite a different person; I’m utterly miserable; at a more unlucky moment all this could not have happened by any possibility.”
“Well, I’m sure I never said it; I never thought but one thing of her; the foul-tongued wicked beast.”
“Don’t you talk that way of her,” said Charles, savagely. “Whatever she is she has suffered, she has been cruelly used, and I am to blame for all. I did not mean it, but it is all my fault.”
Mrs. Tarnley sneered, but said nothing, and a silence followed.
“I know,” he said, in a changed way, “you mean kindly to me.”
“Be kind to yourself. I hold it’s the best way in this bleak world, Mr. Charles. I never was thanked for kindness yet.”
“You have always been true to me, Mildred, in your own way—in your own way, mind, but always true, and I’ll show you yet, if I’m spared, that I can be grateful. You know how I am now—no power to serve anyone—no power to show my regard.”
“I don’t complain o’ nothing,” said Mildred.
“Has my brother been here, Mildred?” he asked.
“Not he.”
“No letters for me?” asked he.
“Nothing, sir.”
“You never get a lift when you want it—never,” said Charles, with a bitter groan; “never was a fellow driven harder to the wall—never a fellow nearer his wits’ ends. I’m very glad, Mildred, I have someone to talk to—one old friend. I don’t know what to do—I can’t make up my mind to anything, and if I hadn’t you just now, I think I should go distracted. I have a great deal to ask you. That lady, you say, has been in her room some time—did she talk loud—was she angry—was there any noise?”
“No, sir.”
“Who saw her?”
“No one but myself, and the man as drove her.”
“Thank God for that. Does she know about my—did she hear that your mistress is in the house?”
“I said she was Master Harry’s wife, and told her, Lord forgive me, that he was here continually, and you hardly ever, and then only for a few hours at a time.”
“That’s very good—she believed it?”
“Every word, so far as I could see. I a’ told a deal o’ lies.”
“Well, well, and what more?”
“And the beginning of sin is like the coming in of waters, and ’twill soon make an o’er wide gap for itself, and lay all under.”
“Yes—and—and—you really think she believed all you said?”
“Ay, I do,” answered she.
“Thank God, again!” said he, with a deep sigh. “Oh, Mildred, I wish I could think what’s best to be done. There are ever so many things in my head.”
She felt a trembling she thought in the hand he laid upon her arm.
“Take a drink o’ beer, you’re tired, sir,” said she.
“No, no—not much—never mind, I’m better as I am. How has your mistress been?”
“Well, midlin’—pretty well.”
“I wish she was quite well, Mildred—it’s very unlucky. If the poor little thing were only quite well, it would make everything easy; but I daren’t frighten her—I daren’t tell her—it might be her death. Oh, Mildred, isn’t all this terrible?”
“Bad enough—I can’t deny.”
“Would it be better to run that risk and tell her everything?” he said.
“Well, it is a risk, an’ a great one, and it might be the same as puttin’ a pistol to her head and killin’ her; ’tis a tryin’ time with her, poor child, and a dangerous bed, and mind ye this, if there’s any talk like that, and the crying and laughing fits mayhap that comes with it, don’t ye think but the old cat will hear it, and then in the wild talk a’s out in no time, and the fat in the fire; no, if she’s to hear it, it can’t be helped, and the will o’ God be done; but if I was her husband, I’d sooner die than tell her, being as she is.”
“No, of course, no—she must not be told; I’m sure you’re right, Mildred. I wish Harry was here, he thinks of things sometimes that don’t strike me. I wish Harry would come, he might think of something—he would, I dare say—he would, I’m certain.”
“I wish that woman was back again where she came from,” said Mildred, from whose mind the puce gros de Naples was fading, for she had a profound distrust of her veracity, and the pelisse looked very like a puce-coloured lie.
“Don’t, Mildred—don’t, like a good creature—you won’t for my sake, speak harshly of that unhappy person,” he said gently this time, and laying his hand on her shoulder. “I’m glad you are here, Mildred—I’m very glad; I remember you as long as I can remember anything—you were always kind to me, Mildred—always the same—true as steel.”
He was speaking with the friendliness
