is, ter keep ’em all goin’. Wi’ weshin, an’ th’ parish pay, an’ five shillin’ from th’ squire—it’s ’ard. It was diff’rent when my husband was alive. It ought ter ’a been me as should ’a died—I don’t seem as if I can manage ’em—they get beyond me. I wish I was dead this minnit, an’ ’im ’ere. I can’t understand it: ’im as wor so capable, to be took, an’ me left. ’E wor a man in a thousand, ’e wor—full o’ management like a gentleman. I wisht it was me as ’ad a been took. ’An ’e’s restless, ’cos ’e knows I find it ’ard. I stood at th’ door last night, when they was all asleep, looking out over th’ pit pond—an’ I saw a light, an’ I knowed it was ’im—cos it wor our weddin’ day yesterday—by the day an’ th’ date. An’ I said to ’im ‘Frank, is it thee, Frank? I’m all right, I’m gettin’ on all right,’— an’ then ’e went; seemed to go ower the whimsey an’ back towards th’ wood. I know it wor ’im, an’ ’e couldna rest, thinkin’ I couldna manage——”
After a while we left, promising to go again, and to see after the safety of Sam.
It was quite dark, and the lamps were lighted in the houses. We could hear the throb of the fan-house engines, and the soft whirr of the fan.
“Isn’t it cruel?” said Emily, plaintively.
“Wasn’t the man a wretch to marry the woman like that,” added Lettie with decision.
“Speak of Lady Chrystabel,” said I, and then there was silence, “I suppose he did not know what he was doing, any more than the rest of us.”
“I thought you were going to your aunt’s—to the Ram Inn,” said Lettie to George when they came to the cross-roads.
