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Updated: May 20, 2025
I'd rather go back to the cell " "That won't answer. There's no place that I can send you to except the poorhouse. Haven't you any money?" "No, sir. I just rushed away and left everything when I learned the truth." "Tom Watterly's hotel is the only place for her," said the policeman with a nod. "Oh, I can't go to a hotel." "He means the almshouse," explained the sergeant. "What is your name?"
"Well, well!" he concluded, "this marrying is a risky experiment at best, but Tom Watterly's talk and her manner seemed to shut me up to it. I was made to feel that I couldn't go on in any other way; and I haven't done anything underhanded or wrong, as I see, for the chance of going on.
"It's only her way," he had always thought. "She looks after her husband's interests as mine did for me, and she don't talk him to death." This thought, in the main, summed up Mrs. Watterly's best traits. She was a commonplace, narrow, selfish woman, whose character is not worth sketching.
I had made up my mind this morning to live here like a hermit, get my own meals, and all that. I actually had the rough draught of an auction bill in my pocket, yes, here it is now, and was going to sell my cows, give up my dairy, and try to make my living in a way that wouldn't require any woman help. That's what took me up to Tom Watterly's; I wanted him to help me put the bill in shape.
In the most quiet and unobtrusive way, she was not only making herself at home, but him also; she was very subservient to his wishes, but not servilely so; she did not assert, but only revealed her superiority, and after even so brief an acquaintance he was ready to indorse Tom Watterly's view, "She's out of the common run."
A little later she, too, appeared at the kitchen door and said, with serious sweetness, "Jane, you can also bring me MY supper to the parlor." Mrs. Wiggins shook with mirth in all her vast proportions as she remarked, "Jane, ye can bring me MY supper from the stove to the table 'ere, and then vait hon yeself." Not Wife, But Waif Tom Watterly's horse was the pride of his heart.
Holcroft looked dubiously at the woman's heavy form and heavier face, but felt that it was the best he could do. Squeezing Mrs. Watterly's cold, limp hand in a way that would have thawed a lump of ice, he said "goodby;" and then declaring that he would rather do his own harnessing for a night ride, he went out into the storm.
But she had sad misgivings as she followed the messenger, for she felt so weak that she could scarcely walk. It was indeed a pallid, sorrowful, trembling bride that entered Mr. Watterly's parlor. Holcroft met her and taking her hand, said kindly, "Courage! It will be over in a minute."
Mrs. Mumpson was so taken aback by Holcroft's final words and Watterly's stern manner as he said, "This is my office," that for once in her life she disappeared silently.
Watterly's estimate of action, it was either right, that is, in accordance with her views, or else it was intolerably wrong and without excuse. Poor Tom had been made to feel that he had not only committed an almost unpardonable sin against his wife and her cousin, but also against all the proprieties of life.
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