Lizzie rocked herself backwards and forwards in her chair, half moaning to herself.
“I can’t find nothin’ what I’m used to. I can’t seem to hear nothin’—wi’ so much talkin’ an’ that there terr’ble noise outside, an’ I can’t find—”
She broke off suddenly, sitting bolt upright.
“Where be the settle?” she cried, in a loud, anxious tone. “Where be the wold settle? Ye’ve never been an’ left that behind?”
Phoebe was taken aback for a moment: as a matter of fact, she had purposely left it behind, not only because it seemed to her worthless in itself, but because she thought the sight of it would conjure up those crazy notions which she was so anxious to dispel. It was all very well that her mother should dwell on the memory of Phoebe’s own departed father; she might look at his chair as much as she liked, and accomplish a bit of darning for the family, under the impression it was for him; but it was quite a different matter to go on in such a foolish way about a man who had been in his grave for more than fifty years, and to whom she had been wed but for a few months. The neighbours would think Mrs Sweetapple daft indeed if she were to regale them with such tales as she had recently related to her daughter.
“Where be the settle?” repeated Lizzie, with a shrill cry.
“There, don’t ye take on,” said Phoebe soothingly; “there wasn’t room for’t in the cart, d’ye see, an’ us’ll have to send to fetch it. ’Tis so heavy—the poor harse couldn’t ha’ dragged it so far wi’ so many other things.”
“It must be here by end of the week,” said Mrs Sweetapple. “It must be here by Sunday. It’ll be Bartlett’s week, come Sunday.”
“We’ll send for it—we’ll send for it,” exclaimed Mrs Caines. “There now, mother,” returning to an argument which she had before found efficacious, “don’t ye go for to forget as this be father’s turn. Poor father—ye didn’t ought for to forget he.”
“I don’t forget en, my dear, I don’t forget en,” said Lizzie, dropping her head upon her breast. “I do feel a bit confused—I bain’t used to childern, ye see, and—I do feel terr’ble lwonesome; I did ought to be feedin’ chicken now,” she added, half rising, and then dropping back again. “What’s become o’ the chicken, Phoebe?”