“No, sir, the doctor keeps her still to her bed.”
“Well, old Dulcey Crane’s there; ain’t she?”
“Ay, sir, and Lilly Dogger, too. Little good the slut’s to me these days.”
Harry was trying to read his watch at the darkened window.
“Tell her all that—quick, for time flies,” said Harry.
Harry Fairfield remained in the kitchen while old Mildred did his message, and she speedily returned to say that Alice was sitting up by the fire, and would see him.
Up the dim stairs went Harry. He had not been up there since the day he saw the undertakers at Charlie’s coffin, and had his last peep at his darkening face. Up he strode with his hand on the banister, and old Mildred gliding before him like a shadow. She knocked at the door. It was not that of the room which they had occupied, where poor Charles Fairfield had died, but the adjoining one, hurriedly arranged, with such extemporized comforts as the primitive people of the household could manage—homely enough, but not desolate, it looked.
Opening the door, she said—“Here’s Master Harry, ma’am, a-comin’ to see you.”
Harry was already in the room. There were candles lighted on a little table near the bed, although the shutters were still open, and the faint twilight mingling with the light of the candles made a sort of purple halo. Alice was sitting in a great chair by the fire in her dressing-gown, pale, and looking very ill. She did not speak; she extended her hand.
“Came to see you, Ally. Troublesome world; but you must look up a bit, you know. Troubles are but trials, they say, and can’t last forever; so don’t you be frettin’ yourself out o’ the world, lass, and makin’ more food for worms.”
And with this consolation he shook her hand.
“I would have seen you, Harry, when you called before—it was very kind of you—but I could not. I am better now, thank God. I can’t believe it still, sometimes,” and her eyes filled with tears—
“Well, well, well,” said Harry, “where’s the good o’ cryin’; cryin’ won’t bring him back, you know. There, there. And I want to say a word to you about that woman that’s in jail, you know. ’Tis right you should know everything. He should a told you more about that, don’t you see, else ye might put your foot in it.”
Paler still turned Alice at these words.
“Tell them to go in there,” said he in a lower tone, indicating with his thumb over his shoulder, a sort of recess at the far end of the room, in which stood a table with some work on it.
At a word from Alice old Dulcibella called Lilly Dogger into that distant “alcove,” as Mildred termed it.
“It’s about that woman,” he continued, in a very low tone, “about that one—Bertha. That woman, you know, that’s in Hatherton Jail, you remember. There’s no good prosecuting that one. Poor Charles wouldn’t have allowed it at no price.”
“He said so. I wouldn’t for the world,” she answered very faintly.
“No, of course; he wished it, and we’d like to see his wishes complied with, poor fellow, now he’s gone,” acquiesced Harry with alacrity. “And you know about her?” he added, in a very low tone.
“Oh no, no, Harry; no, please,” she answered imploringly.
“Well, it wouldn’t do for you, you know, to be gettin’ up in the witness-box at the ’sizes to hang her, ye know.”
“Oh dear, Harry; no, I never could have thought of it.”
“Well, you are not bound, luckily; nor no one. I saw Rodney today about it; there’s no recognizances—he only took the informations—and I said you wouldn’t prosecute; nor I won’t, I’m sure; and the crown won’t take it up, and so it will fall through, and end quietly—the best way for you; for, as I told him, you’re not in health to go down there to be battlin’ wi’ lawyers, and all sorts; ’twould never answer you, ye know. So here’s a slip o’ paper I wrote, and I told him I knew you’d sign it—only sayin’ you have no notion of prosecutin’ that woman, nor moving more in the matter.”
He placed it in her hand.
“I’m sure it’s quite right; it’s just what I mean. Thank you, Harry; you’re very good.”
“Get the ink and pen,” said Harry aloud to Dulcibella.
“ ’Tis downstairs,” answered she. “I’ll fetch it.”
And Dulcibella withdrew. Harry was poking about the shelves and the chimneypiece.
“This is ink,” said he, “ain’t it?” So it was, and a pen. “I think it will write—try it, Ally.”
So it was signed; and he had fairly described its tenor and effect to his widowed sister-in-law.
“I’ll see Rodney this evening and show him this, to prevent his bothering you here about it. And,” he almost whispered, “you know about that woman? or you don’t—do you?”
Her lips moved, but he could hear no words.
“She was once a fine woman—ye wouldn’t think—a devilish fine woman, I can tell you; and she says—ye know ’twas more than likin’—she says she has the whip hand o’ ye—first come, first served. She’s talkin’ o’ law, and all that. She says—but it won’t make no odds now, you know, what she says—well, she says she was his wife.”
“Oh, God!—it’s a lie,” whispered the poor lady, with white lips, and staring at him with darkening eyes.
“Well, maybe it is, and maybe it ain’t,” he answered. “But it don’t much matter now; and I daresay we’ll hear nothing about it, and dead men’s past fooling, ye know. Good night, Ally, and God bless you; and take care o’ yourself, and don’t be crying your eyes out like that. And I’ll come again as soon as I can; and any business, you know, or anything, I’ll be always ready to do for you—and good night,
