With a sudden impulse she dropped the bashin she was polishing, and, going over quickly, she silently laid her cheek against her old friend’s. She could feel the huge breast heave, she felt the vast face turn hot, she was conscious of a voice struggling back to life, and she heard it say at last:
“Gatd’en’ale, rosemary tea cures a cough, but nothing cures the love--ah bah, so it goes!”
“Do you love Jean?” whispered Guida, not showing her face, but longing to hear the experience of another who suffered that joy called love.
Maitresse Aimable’s face grew hotter; she did not speak, but patted Guida’s back with her heavy hand and nodded complacently.
“Have you always loved him?” asked Guida again, with an eager inquisition, akin to that of a wayside sinner turned chapel-going saint, hungry to hear what chanced to others when treading the primrose path.
Maitresse Aimable again nodded, and her arm drew closer about Guida. There was a slight pause, then came an unsophisticated question:
A short silence, and then the voice said with the deliberate prudence of an unwilling witness:
“It is not the man who wears the wedding-ring.” Then, as if she had been disloyal in even suggesting that Jean might hold her lightly, she added, almost eagerly--an enthusiasm tempered by the pathos of a half-truth:
This larger excursion into speech gave her courage, and she said more; and even as Guida listened hungrily--so soon had come upon her the apprehensions and wavering moods of loving woman!--she was wondering to hear this creature, considered so dull by all, speak as though out of a watchful and capable mind. What further Maitresse Aimable said was proof that if she knew little and spake little, she knew that little well; and if she had gathered meagrely from life, she had at least winnowed out some small handfuls of grain from the straw and chaff. At last her sagacity impelled her to say:
“If a man’s eyes won’t see, elder-water can’t make him; if he will--ah bah, glad and good!” Both arms went round Guida, and hugged her awkwardly.
Her voice came up but once more that morning. As she left Guida in the doorway, she said with a last effort:
“I will have one bead to pray for you, trejous.” She showed her rosary, and, Huguenot though she was, Guida touched the bead reverently. “And if there is war, I will have two beads, trejous. A bi’tot--good-bye!”