"Oh, Joseph, are you ill? My poor boy!"
"Ill?" he repeated, with a hiccough. "No, I'm not ill. Yes, I am,
though; it's mental worry, it's a 'arassed 'eart;" he looked at Ida and
shook his head reproachfully. "_She_ knows, but she don't care--But
whatsh the matter," he broke off, staring at Isabel, who was still
struggling with her sniffs and sobs. "Whatsh up? Whatsh Isabel cryin'
for? Ida been cryin' too? Look 'ere, I won't shtand that. If they've
bin ill-treating you, Ida, my dear, you shay so, and I'll know the
reashon why. You come to me, my dear."
He lurched towards Ida, and as she drew back with a shudder of horror
and loathing, Isabel and his mother caught the wretched young man by
the arm, and with cries of alarm and commiseration, endeavoured to
soothe him.
"Don't speak to her, don't think of her; she's not worth it!" said Mrs.
Heron. "She's not worth any sensible man's thoughts, least of all a man
like you, Joseph. You are ill, you must come to bed!"
"Stuff an' 'umbug," he hiccoughed, as he struggled feebly with them,
and cast enamoured and would-be reassuring glances at Ida's white and
stern face. "She's a shplendid girl; she's a good girl; finest gal I
know; and she an' me undershtand one another; twin shouls. We've kep'
our secret from you, mother, but the time has come--the time has come
to reveal the truth. I love Ida. It'sh no good your frowning at me like
that; I shay I love Ida."