‘Now, miss, I just put it to you, if them telegrams, coming so sudden at hours w’en no one expects postmen’s knocks, and bringing such news as that, ain’t enough to put any one about! Augh! Men are so queer; there’s no nerves in their bodies, and can’t understand us women. I’ve no patience with them. There was John—that’s my son—w’at did he do? Why, look at me quite composed, as if it weren’t no news at all, and says he: “Don’t put yourself about, mother. Father has gone off not many minutes ago to the paddock, to give little Bobbie a ride.” And with that he takes down a time-table, to look at it for the last train, puts on his hat, calls for a cab, and says quite composed: “Jump in, mother. We’ll go in pursuit of father, and then we’ll catch the train quite easily.” It seemed to me the horse just crept up the ’ill like a snail; only John would ’ave it they were going faster than their usual pace. W’en we came to our door, w’at do you think we saw, now, miss?—No; you’ll never guess, I dessay. Why, father, to be sure! Yes; there he was; and there was the pony; and there was little Bobbie—all three of ’em just about to start for a long ride into the country. I ’ad carried the telegram in my pocket; and do you know, miss, after all my flurry and worry, w’at did John—that’s my ’usband—say, think you?—Augh! Men are so unreasonable, and w’at’s more, such cool and ’eartless pieces. Yes; that’s w’at they are; and I don’t care who hears me a-saying it.
‘John—that’s father—after he had read the telegram, he turns to me, and says he: “Why, mother, ’ave your senses left your ’ead altogether? W’atever made you carry off the telegram! Couldn’t you ’ave stayed quietly at ’ome, instead of putting yourself about in this here fashion? If you ’ad, we’d ’ave been at the station without any hurry at all, by this time.”
‘I felt too angry to speak, I do declare, miss. I think the older men grow, the more aggravating they get to a sensitive nature. So I gathered the things together father said we’d better take with us, into my travelling-basket, without as much as a single word—a stranger coming in would ’ave thought me dumb—while father sent a man back to the paddock with little Bobbie and the pony. We then got into the cab once more; and here we are, with John—that’s my son—a-looking after the tickets and the luggage; and father smoking his pipe outside as cool as cool. O dear, if they wouldn’t put me out with their “Keep cool, mother; no need to fluster and flurry so, mother”—“Take it easy, good ooman; don’t put yourself about”—I’d bear it better, I certainly should.
‘Is step-mother nice? you ask. Oh—well—that’s just as you take it. Some people say she’s nice; some say she’s quite the opposite. But’—and here she drew her chair closer to me, and in a more confidential tone, continued: ‘I tell you w’at, miss—I’ve said it before, and I say it again—step-mother, in spite of her religious pro-fession and san’timonious ways, is cantankerous. No use a-trying to hide it—step-mother is just w’at I say, can-tankerous. I’ve said it before; I say it again—she’d show her cantankerousness to the very last. And han’t my words come true, for here she is lying a-dying, and Mary-Anne’s wedding fixed for Friday of this very week!—O my—now that I come to ’ave a quiet moment to think, w’atever am I to do? It’s so unreasonable of step-mother! Why, the dressmaker was coming this very evening to fit my dress on for the second time—a new black silk it is—and w’atever will she think, w’en she finds I’ve gone off without as much as a good-bye message? You see, miss, Mary-Anne is going to marry into quite a genteel family. Father, and John—that’s my son—he comes to me not many weeks gone, and says he: “Mother, I ’ope you are going to ’ave a nice dress for this wedding. I ’ope it will be a silk or a satin you decide to buy.” And says I: “John, you know w’at father is, and ’as been all his life—a just man to all; but a man who looks upon gay clothes as not necessary. And then, John, you know as well as I do that father is rather close-fisted w’en money has to be paid out—like his own father before him, who was looked upon by all as the most parsimonious man in the town. I don’t say father is quite as bad; but close-fisted I do say he is, John; and you know it. Were I to say: ‘Father, I’d like to ’ave a silk dress for this wedding’—and I don’t hide the fact from you, John, that I certainly should—he’d just laugh. I know it beforehand. He’d say: ‘Why, mother, ’aven’t you been content with a good stuff-dress all our married life, and can’t you go on to the end so? I’ve over and over again said my wife looked as well as most women in the town of Leicester.’”
‘“But,” says John—that’s my son—“mother, you owe your duty certainly to father. I’m not going against it; but w’at I says is: You owe your duty to your son also; and w’en I wish my mother to look better than she’s ever done before, why—to oblige me—you’ll go and purchase the best silk-dress in town, ’ave it made fashionable, with frills and all the fal-de-rals and etceteras; send in the account in my name; and if father makes any objections, why, let him settle the matter with me.”
‘You see, miss, John is getting to be so like father—both firm, very; and if they take a notion of any kind w’atever into their ’eads, you’d move this station as soon as move them from their purpose; so the dress ’as been bought; and w’at father will say to it—for it’s to be made in the height of the fashion—I can’t say.’
A few judicious questions about the step-mother who was lying a-dying, drew from my companion that the said old lady was rich as well as cantankerous; and that, as there were other relations who might step in to the injury of the worthy builder, who was her only stepson, it was, to say the least, but prudent to be on the spot.
‘Ah, yes, miss,’ she exclaimed, stretching her hands out to keep the heat of the fire from her face, ‘this is a very strange world. Only on Sunday, the vicar was preaching to us against worldly-mindedness, telling us that as we came naked into the world, so we left it, carrying nothing away. But, miss, step-mother ain’t like the most of people; and she’s going to manage to take with her as much money as she possibly can.—How is she going to do it? Why, miss—she’s going to ’ave a coffin!—No need to look surprised, miss. O yes; we all bury our dead in coffins; but w’at kind of a coffin is step-mother going to ’ave, do you think? No; don’t try to guess, for you’d be down to Scotland and up again before it would ever come into your ’ead.—No; not a velvet one, nor a satin; but a hoak one.—Yes; I thought you would get a scare. A hoak coffin is w’at it is to be. And she’s going to ’ave bearers—six of ’em. Each bearer is to ’ave ’at-bands and scarfs, and two pounds apiece. And if all that pomp and tomfoolery ain’t taking so much money out of the world with her, I don’t know w’at is. W’en John—that’s father—heard of it, says he to me: “Mother, if you survives me, bury me plain, but comf’able;” and says I: “Father, if you survives me, I ’ope you will do the same by me—plain, but comf’able; for I tell you w’at, father, I’d not lie easy underground thinking of the waste of good money over such ’umbug.”’
Here the waiting-room door opened hurriedly, and the worthy woman bounded to her feet at the one word ‘Mother!’ pronounced in such a decided tone that I too was standing beside her before I knew what I was doing, with all my wraps tossed higgledy-piggledy on the floor. Advancing with her to the door, she got out of me that my immediate destination was Scotland—a place, to her mind, evidently as remote as the arctic regions; and in her astonishment, she forgot the necessity there was to hurry to get in to her train, now ready to start again. She even seemed to forget that step-mother was lying a-dying, as she insisted upon introducing me to her husband, whose huge body was wrapped in a greatcoat, with tippet after tippet on it up to his neck. ‘Only to think, John—this lady is going to Scotland all alone, John! She’ll be travelling all night.—O dear, however are you to do it, miss; ain’t you afraid?—Yes, John; I’m coming.—Good-bye, miss; we’ve ’ad quite a pleasant chat, I do assure you; the time seems to ’ave flown.’
I hurried her along the platform, whispering to her as I did so: ‘I hope step-mother will rally a bit; that if she must pass away, it may be next week, so that Mary-Anne may get her wedding comfortably over.’ At the very door of the carriage she paused, seized my hand, shook it warmly, as she exclaimed: ‘Well, now, you ’ave a feeling ’eart; but I don’t expect her to be so accommodating. No; I’ve said it before, and I say it again—step-mother is—can-ta—— Why, w’atever is the matter?’