I had seen Penelope and my lady's maid off in the railway with the
luggage for London, and was pottering about the grounds, when I heard
my name called. Turning round, I found myself face to face with the
fisherman's daughter, Limping Lucy. Bating her lame foot and her
leanness (this last a horrid draw-back to a woman, in my opinion), the
girl had some pleasing qualities in the eye of a man. A dark, keen,
clever face, and a nice clear voice, and a beautiful brown head of
hair counted among her merits. A crutch appeared in the list of her
misfortunes. And a temper reckoned high in the sum total of her defects.
"Well, my dear," I said, "what do you want with me?"
"Where's the man you call Franklin Blake?" says the girl, fixing me with
a fierce look, as she rested herself on her crutch.
"That's not a respectful way to speak of any gentleman," I answered. "If
you wish to inquire for my lady's nephew, you will please to mention him
as MR. Franklin Blake."
She limped a step nearer to me, and looked as if she could have eaten me
alive. "MR. Franklin Blake?" she repeated after me. "Murderer Franklin
Blake would be a fitter name for him."
My practice with the late Mrs. Betteredge came in handy here. Whenever
a woman tries to put you out of temper, turn the tables, and put HER out
of temper instead. They are generally prepared for every effort you
can make in your own defence, but that. One word does it as well as a
hundred; and one word did it with Limping Lucy. I looked her pleasantly
in the face; and I said--"Pooh!"
The girl's temper flamed out directly. She poised herself on her sound
foot, and she took her crutch, and beat it furiously three times on the
ground. "He's a murderer! he's a murderer! he's a murderer! He has been
the death of Rosanna Spearman!" She screamed that answer out at the top
of her voice. One or two of the people at work in the grounds near
us looked up--saw it was Limping Lucy--knew what to expect from that
quarter--and looked away again.
"He has been the death of Rosanna Spearman?" I repeated. "What makes you
say that, Lucy?"
"What do you care? What does any man care? Oh! if she had only thought
of the men as I think, she might have been living now!"
"She always thought kindly of ME, poor soul," I said; "and, to the best
of my ability, I always tried to act kindly by HER."
I spoke those words in as comforting a manner as I could. The truth is,
I hadn't the heart to irritate the girl by another of my smart replies.
I had only noticed her temper at first. I noticed her wretchedness
now--and wretchedness is not uncommonly insolent, you will find, in
humble life. My answer melted Limping Lucy. She bent her head down, and
laid it on the top of her crutch.