"I don't understand your reference to my mother," she said. "Miss Clack,
will you have the goodness to explain yourself?"
Before I could answer, Mr. Bruff came forward, and offering his arm to
Rachel, tried to lead her out of the room.
"You had better not pursue the subject, my dear," he said. "And Miss
Clack had better not explain herself."
If I had been a stock or a stone, such an interference as this must
have roused me into testifying to the truth. I put Mr. Bruff aside
indignantly with my own hand, and, in solemn and suitable language, I
stated the view with which sound doctrine does not scruple to regard the
awful calamity of dying unprepared.
Rachel started back from me--I blush to write--with a scream of horror.
"Come away!" she said to Mr. Bruff. "Come away, for God's sake, before
that woman can say any more! Oh, think of my poor mother's harmless,
useful, beautiful life! You were at the funeral, Mr. Bruff; you saw
how everybody loved her; you saw the poor helpless people crying at her
grave over the loss of their best friend. And that wretch stands there,
and tries to make me doubt that my mother, who was an angel on earth,
is an angel in heaven now! Don't stop to talk about it! Come away! It
stifles me to breathe the same air with her! It frightens me to feel
that we are in the same room together!"
Deaf to all remonstrance, she ran to the door.
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