‘SO UNREASONABLE OF STEP-MOTHER!’
A SKETCH FROM LIFE.
Not long before the death of George Eliot, on a return trip to London by the Midland route, I broke my journey at Leicester, to pay a flying visit to Coventry, where the great writer had spent many of her happiest days. There I was privileged by having for escort one of her most valued friends; and many interesting reminiscences were for our benefit called to mind, especially of a visit paid to Edinburgh, ‘mine own romantic town,’ and of the impression the beauty of its situation had made on her mind. Next morning, every favourite haunt of hers was searched out and commented on, as well as the interesting points of the quaint old city of Coventry; and bidding good-bye to our hospitable friends, I departed alone by the evening mail for Leicester, there to wait for the midnight train to Edinburgh, feeling satisfied that the hours had been well spent. Arrived in Leicester, I was fortunate in finding a fellow-countryman in one of the porters, who at once took me and my belongings under his especial protection, and when he had seen me comfortably ‘happit up’ on one of the sofas of the luxurious waiting-room, he retired, bidding me take a quiet forty winks, and keep my mind quite easy, for he would give me timely notice of the arrival of the Scotch train. Scarcely had I begun to feel the loneliness of my situation, when the door opened, and a female figure entered, rather unwilling, apparently; nay, seemed to be pushed in, while a deep male voice advised that she should rest by the fire, and not put herself about so. By a succession of jerks, she advanced to the chair by the fire opposite to my sofa; and finding that I was not asleep, as she had supposed, at once, and without any circumlocution, began to unburden her mind, her words flowing from her mouth at express speed, regardless of comma or full stop.
‘Not put myself about! Humph! That’s so like men.—Ain’t it now, miss? Ah, I dessay you’ve ’ad your own share of worriting before now, and know ’ow downright masterful and provoking they can be at times. I tell you w’at, miss, if you want to be at peace at all, you’ve got to say black is w’ite, if they ’ave a mind that it should be so.—Not put myself about! I’d like to know ’ow one with a ’eart and a soul in their body could ’elp being put about, as I am.’
I ventured to hope nothing serious had occurred to disturb her composure or to put her about, my voice at once disclosing that I hailed from the North, and also that I was of a sympathetic nature.
‘Put about!’ she once more exclaimed. ‘Why, I am put about; yes—no use trying to appear as if I was anything else. Yes; only think, miss! Not ’alf an hour gone, a telegram was brought to our ’ouse by the telegraph-boy. His mother, a widow, keeps a little bit of a shop not many doors from our own. Yes; he ’ands it in saying it was for father. I opened it; and there, staring me right in the eyes were them words: “Step-mother is lying a-dying.”—Not put about! I’d just like to know ’ow anybody could ’ave been anything else than put about, after that. Now, miss, you must understand that John—that’s my ’usband—is a great go-to-meeting-man. Why, at that very moment he might be at the church meeting, or he might ’ave been at the Building meeting, or he might ’ave been at a Masonic meeting, or he might ’ave been at any other meeting under the sun. And w’atever was I to do? for there was the telegraph-boy; there was the telegram, with the words as plain as plain: “Step-mother is lying a-dying.” I put on my bonnet and shawl; I ’urried to father’s office—he is a master-builder, is father, with sixteen men under him and three apprentices; and John, my son, for partner. I rushed in quite out of breath, not expecting to find any one there at that time of night; but there I found John—that’s my son—and says I, without taking time to sit down, though I was like to drop: “John, w’atever is to be done! Here’s a telegraph-boy has brought a telegram for father to say, step-mother is a-dying.’”
‘Now, miss, I just put it to you, if them telegrams, coming so sudden at hours w’en no one expects postmen’s knocks, and bringing such news as that, ain’t enough to put any one about! Augh! Men are so queer; there’s no nerves in their bodies, and can’t understand us women. I’ve no patience with them. There was John—that’s my son—w’at did he do? Why, look at me quite composed, as if it weren’t no news at all, and says he: “Don’t put yourself about, mother. Father has gone off not many minutes ago to the paddock, to give little Bobbie a ride.” And with that he takes down a time-table, to look at it for the last train, puts on his hat, calls for a cab, and says quite composed: “Jump in, mother. We’ll go in pursuit of father, and then we’ll catch the train quite easily.” It seemed to me the horse just crept up the ’ill like a snail; only John would ’ave it they were going faster than their usual pace. W’en we came to our door, w’at do you think we saw, now, miss?—No; you’ll never guess, I dessay. Why, father, to be sure! Yes; there he was; and there was the pony; and there was little Bobbie—all three of ’em just about to start for a long ride into the country. I ’ad carried the telegram in my pocket; and do you know, miss, after all my flurry and worry, w’at did John—that’s my ’usband—say, think you?—Augh! Men are so unreasonable, and w’at’s more, such cool and ’eartless pieces. Yes; that’s w’at they are; and I don’t care who hears me a-saying it.
‘John—that’s father—after he had read the telegram, he turns to me, and says he: “Why, mother, ’ave your senses left your ’ead altogether? W’atever made you carry off the telegram! Couldn’t you ’ave stayed quietly at ’ome, instead of putting yourself about in this here fashion? If you ’ad, we’d ’ave been at the station without any hurry at all, by this time.”
‘I felt too angry to speak, I do declare, miss. I think the older men grow, the more aggravating they get to a sensitive nature. So I gathered the things together father said we’d better take with us, into my travelling-basket, without as much as a single word—a stranger coming in would ’ave thought me dumb—while father sent a man back to the paddock with little Bobbie and the pony. We then got into the cab once more; and here we are, with John—that’s my son—a-looking after the tickets and the luggage; and father smoking his pipe outside as cool as cool. O dear, if they wouldn’t put me out with their “Keep cool, mother; no need to fluster and flurry so, mother”—“Take it easy, good ooman; don’t put yourself about”—I’d bear it better, I certainly should.
‘Is step-mother nice? you ask. Oh—well—that’s just as you take it. Some people say she’s nice; some say she’s quite the opposite. But’—and here she drew her chair closer to me, and in a more confidential tone, continued: ‘I tell you w’at, miss—I’ve said it before, and I say it again—step-mother, in spite of her religious pro-fession and san’timonious ways, is cantankerous. No use a-trying to hide it—step-mother is just w’at I say, can-tankerous. I’ve said it before; I say it again—she’d show her cantankerousness to the very last. And han’t my words come true, for here she is lying a-dying, and Mary-Anne’s wedding fixed for Friday of this very week!—O my—now that I come to ’ave a quiet moment to think, w’atever am I to do? It’s so unreasonable of step-mother! Why, the dressmaker was coming this very evening to fit my dress on for the second time—a new black silk it is—and w’atever will she think, w’en she finds I’ve gone off without as much as a good-bye message? You see, miss, Mary-Anne is going to marry into quite a genteel family. Father, and John—that’s my son—he comes to me not many weeks gone, and says he: “Mother, I ’ope you are going to ’ave a nice dress for this wedding. I ’ope it will be a silk or a satin you decide to buy.” And says I: “John, you know w’at father is, and ’as been all his life—a just man to all; but a man who looks upon gay clothes as not necessary. And then, John, you know as well as I do that father is rather close-fisted w’en money has to be paid out—like his own father before him, who was looked upon by all as the most parsimonious man in the town. I don’t say father is quite as bad; but close-fisted I do say he is, John; and you know it. Were I to say: ‘Father, I’d like to ’ave a silk dress for this wedding’—and I don’t hide the fact from you, John, that I certainly should—he’d just laugh. I know it beforehand. He’d say: ‘Why, mother, ’aven’t you been content with a good stuff-dress all our married life, and can’t you go on to the end so? I’ve over and over again said my wife looked as well as most women in the town of Leicester.’”
‘“But,” says John—that’s my son—“mother, you owe your duty certainly to father. I’m not going against it; but w’at I says is: You owe your duty to your son also; and w’en I wish my mother to look better than she’s ever done before, why—to oblige me—you’ll go and purchase the best silk-dress in town, ’ave it made fashionable, with frills and all the fal-de-rals and etceteras; send in the account in my name; and if father makes any objections, why, let him settle the matter with me.”
‘You see, miss, John is getting to be so like father—both firm, very; and if they take a notion of any kind w’atever into their ’eads, you’d move this station as soon as move them from their purpose; so the dress ’as been bought; and w’at father will say to it—for it’s to be made in the height of the fashion—I can’t say.’
A few judicious questions about the step-mother who was lying a-dying, drew from my companion that the said old lady was rich as well as cantankerous; and that, as there were other relations who might step in to the injury of the worthy builder, who was her only stepson, it was, to say the least, but prudent to be on the spot.
‘Ah, yes, miss,’ she exclaimed, stretching her hands out to keep the heat of the fire from her face, ‘this is a very strange world. Only on Sunday, the vicar was preaching to us against worldly-mindedness, telling us that as we came naked into the world, so we left it, carrying nothing away. But, miss, step-mother ain’t like the most of people; and she’s going to manage to take with her as much money as she possibly can.—How is she going to do it? Why, miss—she’s going to ’ave a coffin!—No need to look surprised, miss. O yes; we all bury our dead in coffins; but w’at kind of a coffin is step-mother going to ’ave, do you think? No; don’t try to guess, for you’d be down to Scotland and up again before it would ever come into your ’ead.—No; not a velvet one, nor a satin; but a hoak one.—Yes; I thought you would get a scare. A hoak coffin is w’at it is to be. And she’s going to ’ave bearers—six of ’em. Each bearer is to ’ave ’at-bands and scarfs, and two pounds apiece. And if all that pomp and tomfoolery ain’t taking so much money out of the world with her, I don’t know w’at is. W’en John—that’s father—heard of it, says he to me: “Mother, if you survives me, bury me plain, but comf’able;” and says I: “Father, if you survives me, I ’ope you will do the same by me—plain, but comf’able; for I tell you w’at, father, I’d not lie easy underground thinking of the waste of good money over such ’umbug.”’
Here the waiting-room door opened hurriedly, and the worthy woman bounded to her feet at the one word ‘Mother!’ pronounced in such a decided tone that I too was standing beside her before I knew what I was doing, with all my wraps tossed higgledy-piggledy on the floor. Advancing with her to the door, she got out of me that my immediate destination was Scotland—a place, to her mind, evidently as remote as the arctic regions; and in her astonishment, she forgot the necessity there was to hurry to get in to her train, now ready to start again. She even seemed to forget that step-mother was lying a-dying, as she insisted upon introducing me to her husband, whose huge body was wrapped in a greatcoat, with tippet after tippet on it up to his neck. ‘Only to think, John—this lady is going to Scotland all alone, John! She’ll be travelling all night.—O dear, however are you to do it, miss; ain’t you afraid?—Yes, John; I’m coming.—Good-bye, miss; we’ve ’ad quite a pleasant chat, I do assure you; the time seems to ’ave flown.’
I hurried her along the platform, whispering to her as I did so: ‘I hope step-mother will rally a bit; that if she must pass away, it may be next week, so that Mary-Anne may get her wedding comfortably over.’ At the very door of the carriage she paused, seized my hand, shook it warmly, as she exclaimed: ‘Well, now, you ’ave a feeling ’eart; but I don’t expect her to be so accommodating. No; I’ve said it before, and I say it again—step-mother is—can-ta—— Why, w’atever is the matter?’
Next thing that happened, the little woman was lifted up bodily in her son’s arms—a counterpart of his father—and deposited in the carriage; while her husband, in spite of his lumbering large body, succeeded in jumping in just as the patience of all the railway officials was exhausted, and the signal given to start the train. Before it was lost to view, a white handkerchief fluttered out, by way of good-bye, causing a smile to rise over the calm features of John the younger, who, lifting his hat politely to me, bade me good-evening, adding: ‘Mother is no great traveller, so she is easily put about. Dessay if she went often from ’ome, she’d learn to be more composed.’
From that hour I have never ceased to regret that I did not ask the good-natured young builder to forward me a local paper with the account of the death and burial of ‘step-mother.’ No doubt there would be due notice taken of such an interesting personage, as she lay in state in her ‘hoak’ coffin, surrounded by her bearers in the flowing scarfs and hat-bands. Sharp as my friends generally give me credit for being, I own I committed a grievous blunder; I am therefore obliged to leave my story without an end, not being able even to add that the fair Mary-Anne’s wedding came off on the appointed day, or was postponed till after the complimentary days of mourning were past. I cheer myself with the thought that ‘John—that’s father’—being a firm man and a sensible, would insist upon the previous arrangements standing good, seeing that the bridegroom—a most important fact I have omitted to record—had a fortnight’s holiday reluctantly granted to him by his employers. Why, now that I think of it, my countryman the railway porter would have sent me any number of papers, judging by the kindly interest he took in my behalf, and the determined manner he fought for a particular seat for me in a particular carriage when the time came for my train to start. ‘Na, na, mem; nae need for thanks; blood’s thicker than water,’ he said. ‘Never you fear, now that the Scotch guard has ta’en up your cause; you’re a’ right; he’ll see that ye’re safely housed.’ And safely housed I was, and went steaming out of the station with my worthy friend hanging on by the door, calling to me: ‘If you’re ever in the town o’ Perth, mem, my auld mother would be downright pleased to see you, for my sake. Tell her I’m getting on as weel as can be expeckit, sae far frae hame.’
All night, my disturbed sleep was made doubly so by dreams of old women of every age and style. Now I was hunting for the porter’s nameless mother; now I was standing by the bedside of the step-mother who was lying a-dying. Again I was an active assistant at a marriage ceremony, with the fair Mary-Anne, surrounded by her genteel relations, leaning on my shoulder, weeping copiously at the idea of travelling to Scotland. Once more I stood gazing down on the old step-mother; and just as the day dawned, I was fairly roused, in my determination not to be smothered under an oak coffin and a pyramid of scarfs, hat-bands, and bearers, by the tumbling of my own bonnet-box from the luggage-rack above me.