Sally plumped on a seat, and took sanctuary under her apron. Mrs. Mel glanced at the pair, continuing her labour.
“Oh, aunt, aunt!” cried Mrs. Fiske, “why didn’t you put it off for another day, to give Evan a chance?”
“Master’d have kept another two days, he would!” whimpered Sally.
“Oh, aunt! to think!” cried Mrs. Fiske.
“And his coffin not bearin’ of his spurs!” whimpered Sally.
Mrs. Mel interrupted them by commanding Sally to go to the drawing-room, and ask a lady there, of the name of Mrs. Wishaw, whether she would like to have some lunch sent up to her. Mrs. Fiske was requested to put towels in Evan’s bedroom.
“Yes, aunt, if you’re not infatuated!” said Mrs. Fiske, as she prepared to obey; while Sally, seeing that her public exhibition of sorrow and sympathy could be indulged but an instant longer, unwound herself for a violent paroxysm, blurting between stops:
“If he’d ony’ve gone to his last bed comfortable!... If he’d ony’ve been that decent as not for to go to his last bed with his clothes on! ... If he’d ony’ve had a comfortable sheet!... It makes a woman feel cold to think of him full dressed there, as if he was goin’ to be a soldier on the Day o’ Judgement!”
To let people speak was a maxim of Mrs. Mel’s, and a wise one for any form of society when emotions are very much on the surface. She continued her arrangements quietly, and, having counted the number of plates and glasses, and told off the guests on her fingers, she, sat down to await them.
The first one who entered the room was her son.