Bessie Costrell | Page 3

You'll
be a fool if yer don't, 'ee says."
The old woman's pinched face emerged from the sheets, looking up at
him. Bluish patches showed here and there on the drawn white skin;
there was a great change since the morning, but the eyes were still
alive.
John was silent a moment, one corner of his mouth twitching, as though
what she had said struck him in a humorous light.
"Well, I don't know as I mind much what 'ee says, 'Liza."
"Sit down."
She made a movement with her emaciated hand. John sat down on the
chair Louisa gave up to him, and bent down over the bed.
"If yer woan't do--what Muster Drew says, John--whatever wull yer do
with it?"
She spoke slowly, but clearly. John scratched his head. His complexion
had evidently been very fair. It was still fresh and pink, and the full
cheek hung a little over the jaw. The mouth was shrewd, but its
expression was oddly contradicted by the eyes, which had on the whole
a childish, weak look.
"I think yer must leave it to me, 'Liza," he said at last. "I'll do all for the
best."

"No--yer'll not, John," said the dying voice. "You'd a done a many
stupid things--if I 'adn't stopped yer. An' I'm a-goin'. You'll never leave
it wi' Bessie?"
"An' who 'ud yer 'ave me leave it with? Ain't Bessie my own sister's
child?"
An emaciated hand stole out of the bed-clothes and fastened feebly on
his arm.
"If yer do, John, yer'll repent it. Yer never were a good one at judgin'
folk. Yer doan't consider nothin'--an' I'm a-goin'. Leave it with
Saunders, John."
There was a pause. Then John said with an obstinate look--
"Saunders 'as never been a friend o' mine since 'ee did me out o' that bit
o' business with Missus Moulsey. An' I don't mean to go makin' friends
with him again."
Eliza withdrew her hand with a long sigh, and her eyelids closed. A fit
of coughing shook her; she had to be lifted in bed, and it left her
gasping and deathly. John was sorely troubled, and not only for himself.
When she was more at ease again, he stooped to her and put his mouth
to her ear.
"'Liza, don't yer think no more about it. Did Mr. Drew read to yer? Are
yer comfortable in yer mind?"
She made a sign of assent, which showed, however, no great interest in
the subject. There was silence for a long time. Louisa was getting
supper downstairs. John, oppressed by the heat of the room and tired by
his day's work, had almost fallen asleep in his chair, when the old
woman spoke again.
"John--what 'ud you think o' Mary Anne Waller?"
The whisper was still human and eager.

John roused himself, and could not help an astonished laugh.
"Why, whatever put Mary Anne into your head, 'Liza? Yer never
thought anythink o' Mary Anne--no more than me."
Eliza's eyes wandered round the room.
"P'r'aps----" she said, then stopped, and could say no more. She seemed
to become unconscious, and John went to call for Louisa.
In the middle of the night John woke with a start, and sat up to listen.
Not a sound--but they would have called him if the end had come. He
could not rest, however, and presently he huddled on some clothes and
went to listen at Eliza's door. It was ajar, and, hearing nothing, he
pushed it open.
Poor Eliza lay in her agony, unconscious, and breathing heavily. Beside
her sat the widow, Mary Anne Waller, and Louisa, motionless too, their
heads bent. There was an end of candle in a basin behind the bed,
which threw circles of wavering light over the coarse whitewash of the
roof and on the cards and faded photographs above the tiny
mantelpiece.
John crept up to the bed. The two women made a slight movement to
let him stand between them.
"Can't yer give her no brandy?" he asked, whispering.
Mary Anne Waller shook her head.
"Dr. Murch said we wer'n't to trouble her. She'll go when the light
comes--most like."
She was a little shrivelled woman with a singularly delicate mouth, that
quivered as she spoke. John and Eliza Bolderfield had never thought
much of her, though she was John's cousin. She was a widow, and
greatly "put upon" both by her children and her neighbours. Her
children were grown up, and settled--more or less--in the world, but

they still lived on her freely whenever it suited them; and in the village
generally she was reckoned but a poor creature.
However, when Eliza--originally a hard, strong woman--took to her bed
with incurable disease, Mary Anne Waller came in to help, and was
accepted. She did everything humbly; she even