“I knew beforehand that they went unwillingly, so that it gave me no pleasure to see them there.”
“Well: old Enoch Pye—”
“Went away almost before dinner was over, though he was put at the head of one of the tables.”
“He went away! and what became of poor Mrs. Parndon? Did she follow in time to take his arm?”
“She was not there; and I fancy that was the reason of his leaving. I believe a neighbour told him that something had happened to distress her.”
“O, what? What has happened?” cried all the ladies, who felt infinitely more sympathy for Mrs. Parndon and Hester than for Mrs. Cavendish.
Henry knew no more than that some sort of bad news had come from London by this day’s post. He would learn the next morning what it was, and whether he could be of any service, unless Melea, who was more in the widow’s confidence, would undertake the task. Henry was sure that Melea would make the better comforter; and he would come up in the course of the morning, and hear whether his consolations and assistance were wanted. This was readily agreed to, as it was an understood thing that there was no one but her daughter whom Mrs. Parndon loved, and could open her mind to so well as her dear Miss Melea,—always excepting her old friend, Mr. Pye.
Mrs. Parndon was alone, and at work as usual, when Melea entered her little parlour, now no longer dressed up with flowers, as it used to be while Hester lived there. The room could not be without ornament while the drawings of the late Mr. Parndon and his daughter hung against the walls: but, with the exception of these, everything indicated only neatness and thrift. The floor-cloth looked but a comfortless substitute for a carpet, even in the middle of summer; the hearth-rug, composed of the shreds and snippings from three tailors’ boards, disposed in fancy patterns, was the work of the widow’s own hands. The window was bare of curtains, the winter ones being brushed and laid by, and the mistress seeing no occasion for muslin hangings, which had been only a fancy of Hester’s: so the muslin was taken to make covers for the pictures, and the mirror and the little japanned cabinet, that they might be preserved from the flies in summer, and from the dust of the fires in winter. Even the widow’s own footstool, pressed only by parlour shoes, which were guiltless of soil, was cased in canvass. Everything was covered up, but the work-basket, crammed with shirts and worsted stockings, which stood at the mistress’s elbow.
She looked up eagerly as the door opened; but a shade of disappointment passed over her countenance when she saw that it was Melea, whom, however, she invited, in a kind but hurried manner, to sit down beside her.
“Now, you must proceed with your work, just as if I was not here,” said Melea. The widow immediately went on seaming, observing, that she had indeed a great deal of work on hand.