“As for taking off hats and suchlike, I don’t know as it makes that much odds. It won’t give you back the folks as has loved you and held your hand.... I’m not saying owt agen your poor lad as went down in France, but do you think all they folks as knew my Tibbie won’t be lifting their hats to her in their hearts?”
Emma’s mouth opened determinedly once or twice, but each time she shut it firmly. She seemed to be struggling equally with a desire to keep something in, and an urgently pressing desire to get something out. The plump hand on the table twitched a little, and so did the hand at her waist.... While she fought with herself she kept her eyes fixed on the other’s face, as if willing her by that glance not to notice that she twitched and fought....
When finally, however, she did speak again, there was a marked difference in her manner, so marked, indeed, that its first effect was to make Mrs. Clapham more uneasy than ever. She had allowed herself that one hit at Tibbie’s mother, that one scratch, so to speak, at Tibbie’s corpse; but when once that fundamental demand of her queer nature had had its way, her whole procedure altered subtly. Her hands ceased to twitch as if she were being torn in twain by some inward strife. Even her colour faded a little, that pronounced flush which seemed to speak of triumph rather than grief, and into her black eyes came an expression which was obviously meant to convey pity.
“Nay, now, you can’t think I meant anything against the poor lass!” she returned smoothly. “She was thought a deal of, was your Tibbie. A real favourite she was up and down t’ village, and I reckon they thought a deal of her where she’s been an’ all.”
“What, she’d as many friends there as she had here!” the bereaved mother broke out feverishly. It was impossible not to talk of the dead, even to such as Emma.... “She did a lot in the place—taught Sunday School, and a dress-making class, and she’d summat to do wi’ Girl Guides. Parson was fit to put her in his pocket. As for the folks next door—Rawlinson’s their name—them as sent telegraph, you’ve likely heard—they couldn’t do enough for my Tibbie. Ay, and there’s t’ folks she sewed for an’ all; they thought a deal on her, too. Nay, I reckon there won’t be room enough for t’ wreaths when it comes to putting ’em on t’ coffin!”
“Mr. Wrench’ll be rarely troubled when he hears t’ news,” Emma said; “ay, and t’ parson’s wife an’ all. They always made out to think the world o’ your Tibbie when she was here. It’ll put ’em about to hear as it’s happened while they’ve been off at the wedding.”
“She made Miss Marigold a pale blue crêpe de Chine,” Mrs. Clapham said, and suddenly she began the eternal rubbing at her poor knees. A tear from the fount which she had thought dry welled swiftly, and ran down her stiff cheek. “And nowt for herself, my bonny lass, but a linen shroud!”
She wept for a little while, passionately, but quietly. Even under Emma’s eyes she could not help but weep, thinking of the girls who were exactly the same age, yet whom Fate had treated so differently, and who went so differently robed that day....
Emma watched her for a time with an immobility that might have indicated either sympathy or its suppressed opposite. “Mrs. James said you hadn’t a notion what took her off,” she observed presently.
“Nay, I can’t think.”