“Ay, it’s a shame, that’s what it is; and me with my poor lad just dead in France! Ay, well, I hope it’ll be made up to you all, I do that! As for you, Ann Clapham, you’ll likely enjoy going back to your job of doing other folks’ bidding and slapping over their floors! I doubt it’ll not be long afore you find as you’ve made a mistake. What, you’re wore out now, as anybody can see—wore out ... done for ... ready for church-sod—”
A perceptible shudder ran through the elder woman, but she answered bravely.
“Ay, well, I can nobbut do till I drop. I shan’t be the first to die in harness, I reckon.”
“I’d get t’ children then, anyway!” Emma jeered, taking, however, a step to the door. “Likely I could get ’em now, if it comes to that. I’m their grandmother, same as you.”
“I’ve them letters, you’ll think on,” Mrs. Clapham replied patiently.
“Letters? Ay ... so you say—!”
It was Martha Jane who came to the rescue again, striding across to the door, and flinging it open with outstretched arm. “Get along out wi’ you!” she ordered, pointing contemptuously towards the street. “You’ve done your job for to-day, without ragging the old woman. We’re sick o’ the sight o’ you. Get out!”
Emma began a fresh flower of speech upon the evils accruing to drink, but Martha nipped it relentlessly in the bud. “Get out, or I’ll sling you out!” she commanded coarsely, in the lingo of Lame Lane, and Emma, as if pushed, sidled sharply towards the door. There she paused again to throw a last glance round the room, viciously at the Chorus, jealously at Mrs. Clapham, and—finally—a strange, long, greedy look at the photographs of the children. For the last time she unfolded her arms and clasped them again. Then, “Ay, well, I reckon you know your own business best!” she remarked to the meeting in general, and, doing her best to fade as far as Martha Jane would allow, sidled towards the porch, and went balefully, stealthily out....
Martha Jane, with her head round the door, surveyed the last of her up the street. Then she turned to the company with a ribald wink. “I’d best be after her and see what she’s up to!” she observed, grinning. “She’s fit to set the street afire, she’s that wild!... I never thanked you for yon currant bread, Ann Clapham,” she added impudently, suddenly turning. “I was that mad when I see it first, I near flung it in t’ road; but if you’ve any more going begging, I’d be glad to take it along!”
Nobody spoke in reply to this, and, looking round the disapproving faces—almost as disapproving as they had been for the late-departed—she flamed violently into wrath. “Ay, well, I’ll be saying good-evening then,”—she tossed her head on the threshold—“especially as I notice there’s no thanks going for tackling the fair Emma!”