“I’m sure your head must ache, father,” said Elcy, observing her parent bite his lip, as she fancied, with pain. “It really burns like a fire,” she added, as she laid her hand across his forehead.
“Doan’t be a fuil, child!” cried Cursty, as he angrily dragged down her arm. “I shall go mad among you aw’, I shall. What in t’ warl’s happened, to put sic notions in tha head?”
Here the girl of all-work tapped at the attic-door, and informed Mrs. Fokesell that there was a young man below stairs as wanted to speak with the lady of the house.
The landlady disappeared for a few minutes, and then suddenly darted back into the room, with cap-strings flying a yard behind her.
“Well, I do declare,” she exclaimed, standing with her hands on her hips, “if you ain’t all of a piece;—fust it’s you, and then it’s your missus. Ah, you may stare, but I’ve got a pretty set in my house, it seems. Here’s a young man below as has come to say that Mrs. Sandboys has got took up for assaulting a policeman, and that she’s a lying in the station-house till her case comes on for hearing.”
“Heavens!” cried Cursty, “it canna be true——”
“Oh, father! father! what will become of her?” said the afflicted Elcy, as her head fell on her parent’s shoulder, in terror at the thoughts of her mother being in such a place.
“What can it aw’ mean?” shouted Sandboys.
“Why, the lad says, as well as I can make it out, that Mrs. Sandboys went into the Black Bull public house—of all places in the world for a lady—to ask for change—and that there some noise or other arose about the money; that then the police was called in to settle the matter, and that on his stating that Mrs. Sandboys was not a proper woman, she flew at him, and nearly tore him to bits. And the young man does tell me,” continued the landlady, “that the language she used on the occasion was quite dreadful for decent people to hear—so a pretty set indeed it seems I’ve let into my house. Well, I always thought you was a queer lot, that I did—and I said as much to Mrs. Quinine as had my second floor. I’m sure the house has been like a common bear-garden ever since I’ve had you in it—what with your screams when a few coals was shot on top of you—and what with your frightening poor Mrs. Quinine nearly out of her life, and alarming the whole house with the screams of the dear thing—and what with your threatening to murder the policeman in my kitchen with my red-hot poker—and what with the springing of rattles, and collecting a mob round my hairy rails—and what with your allowing your son to be brought home here by a common policeman in the disrespectable state he was; and now what with the two police reports as there will be in the paper about you to-morrow morning, there’ll be fine talk about my house and my people all up and down both sides of the street. You’ll bring a scandal upon me, you will. I’m sure I’ve never knowed a moment’s peace—never since I was fool enough to be persuaded to allow you to set foot under my roof. But you’ll please to provide yourself with some other lodging the moment your week is up, for not another minute after do you stay here, I can tell you.”
Mrs. Fokesell, who had grown red in the face with the long catalogue of her grievances, was obliged to come to an end for sheer want of breath.