LITMIR.BIZ

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VII. MOTHER AND SON

      Rare as epic song is the man who is thorough in what he does. And happily so; for in life he subjugates us, and he makes us bondsmen to his ashes. It was in the order of things that the great Mel should be borne to his final resting-place by a troop of creditors. You have seen (since the occasion demands a pompous simile) clouds that all day cling about the sun, and, in seeking to obscure him, are compelled to blaze in his livery at fall of night they break from him illumined, hang mournfully above him, and wear his natural glories long after he is gone. Thus, then, these worthy fellows, faithful to him to the dust, fulfilled Mel’s triumphant passage amongst them, and closed his career.

      To regale them when they returned, Mrs. Mel, whose mind was not intent on greatness, was occupied in spreading meat and wine. Mrs. Fiske assisted her, as well as she could, seeing that one hand was entirely engaged by her handkerchief. She had already stumbled, and dropped a glass, which had brought on her sharp condemnation from her aunt, who bade her sit down, or go upstairs to have her cry out, and then return to be serviceable.

      ‘Oh! I can’t help it!’ sobbed Mrs. Fiske. ‘That he should be carried away, and none of his children to see him the last time! I can understand Louisa—and Harriet, too, perhaps? But why could not Caroline? And that they should be too fine ladies to let their brother come and bury his father. Oh! it does seem–’

      Mrs. Fiske fell into a chair, and surrendered to grief.

      ‘Where is the cold tongue?’ said Mrs. Mel to Sally, the maid, in a brief under-voice.

      ‘Please mum, Jacko–!’

      ‘He must be whipped. You are a careless slut.’

      ‘Please, I can’t think of everybody and everything, and poor master–’

      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.

      ‘You have come,’ said Mrs. Mel, flushing slightly, but otherwise outwardly calm.

      ‘You didn’t suppose I should stay away from you, mother?’

      Evan kissed her cheek.

      ‘I knew you would not.’

      Mrs. Mel examined him with those eyes of hers that compassed objects in a single glance. She drew her finger on each side of her upper lip, and half smiled, saying:

      ‘That won’t do here.’

      ‘What?’ asked Evan, and proceeded immediately to make inquiries about her health, which she satisfied with a nod.

      ‘You saw him lowered, Van?’

      ‘Yes, mother.’

      ‘Then go and wash yourself, for you are dirty, and then come and take your place at the head of the table.’

      ‘Must I sit here, mother?’

      ‘Without a doubt—you must. You know your room. Quick!’

      In this manner their first interview passed.

      Mrs. Fiske rushed in to exclaim:

      ‘So, you were right, aunt—he has come. I met him on the stairs. Oh! how like dear uncle Mel he looks, in the militia, with that moustache. I just remember him as a child; and, oh, what a gentleman he is!’

      At the end of the sentence Mrs. Mel’s face suddenly darkened: she said, in a deep voice:

      ‘Don’t dare to talk that nonsense before him, Ann.’

      Mrs. Fiske looked astonished.

      ‘What have I done, aunt?’

      ‘He shan’t be ruined by a parcel of fools,’ said Mrs. Mel. ‘There, go! Women have no place here.’

      ‘How the wretches can force themselves to touch a morsel, after this morning!’ Mrs. Fiske exclaimed, glancing at the table.

      ‘Men must eat,’ said Mrs. Mel.

      The mourners were heard gathering outside the door. Mrs. Fiske escaped into the kitchen. Mrs. Mel admitted them into the parlour, bowing much above the level of many of the heads that passed her.

      Assembled were Messrs. Barnes, Kilne, and Grossby, whom we know; Mr. Doubleday, the ironmonger; Mr. Joyce, the grocer; Mr. Perkins, commonly called Lawyer Perkins; Mr. Welbeck, the pier-master of Lymport; Bartholomew Fiske; Mr. Coxwell, a Fallow field maltster, brewer, and farmer; creditors of various dimensions, all of them. Mr. Goren coming last, behind his spectacles.

      ‘My son will be with you directly, to preside,’ said Mrs. Mel. ‘Accept my thanks for the respect you have shown my husband. I wish you good morning.’

      ‘Morning, ma’am,’ answered several voices, and Mrs. Mel retired.

      The mourners then set to work to relieve their hats of the appendages of crape. An undertaker’s man took possession of the long black cloaks. The gloves were generally pocketed.

      ‘That’s my second black pair this year,’ said Joyce.

      ‘They’ll last a time to come. I don’t need to buy gloves while neighbours pop off.’

      ‘Undertakers’ gloves seem to me as if they’re made for mutton fists,’ remarked Welbeck; upon which Kilne nudged Barnes, the butcher, with a sharp ‘Aha!’ and Barnes observed:

      ‘Oh! I never wear ‘em—they does for my boys on Sundays. I smoke a pipe at home.’

      The Fallow field farmer held his length of crape aloft and inquired: ‘What shall do with this?’

      ‘Oh, you keep it,’ said one or two.

      Coxwell rubbed his chin. ‘Don’t like to rob the widder.’

      ‘What’s left goes to the undertaker?’ asked Grossby.

      ‘To be sure,’ said Barnes; and Kilne added: ‘It’s a job’: Lawyer Perkins ejaculating confidently, ‘Perquisites of office, gentlemen; perquisites of office!’ which settled the dispute and appeased every conscience.

      A survey of the table ensued. The mourners felt hunger, or else thirst; but had not, it appeared, amalgamated the two appetites as yet. Thirst was the predominant declaration; and Grossby, after an examination of the decanters, unctuously deduced the fact, which he announced, that port and sherry were present.

      ‘Try the port,’ said Kilne.

      ‘Good?’ Barnes inquired.

      A very

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