In the end I became very friendly with this good woman. Her real name,
I discovered, was not Betty. "They call me Alathea," she said, meaning
that that was her name, "but I've allus gone by the name of Betty."
From her I learnt all the particulars of my dear friend's last
illness, which I never should have got from the brother.
"He talked a deal about you," she said. "But you see, you're just
about t' age his son would have been if he'd lived."
"His son!" I cried: "was Mr. Andrewes married?"
"Ay," said she, "Master Reginald were married going i' two year. It
were his wife's death made him that queer while he couldn't abide the
business, and he'd allus been a great scholard, so he went for a
parson."
Every detail that I could get from Alathea was interesting to me.
Apart from the sadly interesting subject, she had admirable powers of
narration. Her language (when it did not become too local for my
comprehension) was forcible and racy to a degree, and she was not
checked by the reserve which clogged Mr. Jonathan's lips. The
following morning she came to the door of the drawing-room (a large
dreary room, which, like the rest of the house, was handsomely
_upholstered_ rather than furnished), and beckoned mysteriously to me
from the door.
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