Ezry Winship
al'ays has done for his own, an' he proposes to do, jes' as fur's he's
able. Sis'll tell ye I hain't stented her--What's to pay?"
I couldn't see all his savings go for gauds!
"You may take the goods," I said to the men, with sudden revulsion of
feeling. "There's no room for them," I added gruffly to Mr. Winship, "in
our--the rooms--where we are to live."
"All right, Boss," said the head packer; "which gent speaks for the lady?"
"Father!" Helen gasped.
"What's to pay?" insisted Mr. Winship.
"Take the goods," I repeated.
"All right, Boss;" and the two men went about their work, still glancing
at us with sidelong looks of curiosity.
Helen gazed at me with eyes that stabbed. Then slowly her glance dulled.
She dropped on a packing box and sat silent--a bowed figure of despair--
forgetting apparently that she was not alone.
Mr. Winship made no further attempt to interfere with events. He stood by
Helen's side, puzzled and taciturn.
I, too, was silent, reproaching myself for the brutality of my action,
unable to decide what I should have done or ought to do. Helen herself had
suggested that we give up the furniture, and I had not mourned the
necessity, for I hated the stuff, with its reminders of the General and
the Whitney woman and Bellmer and the Earl and all those strange people
that I used to see around her.
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