Mrs. Caffyn persuaded Madge to go to bed at once, after giving her
'something to comfort her.' In the morning her kind hostess came to
her bedside.
'You've got a mother, haven't you--leastways, I know you have,
because you wrote to her.' 'Yes.' 'Well, and you lives with her and she looks after you?'
'Yes.' 'And she's fond of you, maybe?'
'Oh, yes.'
'That's a marcy; well then, my dear, you shall go back in the cart to
Letherhead, and you'll catch the Darkin coach to London.'
'You have been very good to me; what have I to pay you?'
'Pay? Nothing! why, if I was to let you pay, it would just look as
if I'd trapped you here to get something out of you. Pay! no, not a
penny.' 'I can afford very well to pay, but if it vexes you I will not offer
anything. I don't know how to thank you enough.'
Madge took Mrs Caffyn's hand in hers and pressed it firmly.
'Besides, my dear,' said Mrs Caffyn, smoothing the sheets a little,
'you won't mind my saying it, I expex you are in trouble. There's
something on your mind, and I believe as I knows pretty well what it
is.' Madge turned round in the bed so as no longer to face the light; Mrs
Caffyn sat between her and the window.
'Look you here, my dear; don't you suppose I meant to say anything to
hurt you. The moment I looked on you I was drawed to you like; I
couldn't help it. I see'd what was the matter, but I was all the
more drawed, and I just wanted you to know as it makes no difference.
That's like me; sometimes I'm drawed that way and sometimes t'other
way, and it's never no use for me to try to go against it. I ain't
a-going to say anything more to you; God-A'mighty, He's above us all;
but p'r'aps you may be comm' this way again some day, and then you'll
look in.' Madge turned again to the light, and again caught Mrs Caffyn's hand,
but was silent.
The next morning, after Madge's return, Mrs Cork, the landlady,
presented herself at the sitting-room door and 'wished to speak with
Mrs Hopgood for a minute.' 'Come in, Mrs Cork.'
'Thank you, ma'am, but I prefer as you should come downstairs.'
Mrs Cork was about forty, a widow with no children. She had a face
of which it was impossible to recollect, when it had been seen even a
dozen times, any feature except the eyes, which were steel-blue, a
little bluer than the faceted head of the steel poker in her parlour,
but just as hard. She lived in the basement with a maid, much like
herself but a little more human. Although the front underground room
was furnished Mrs Cork never used it, except on the rarest occasions,
and a kind of apron of coloured paper hung over the fireplace nearly
all the year. She was a woman of what she called regular habits. No
lodger was ever permitted to transgress her rules, or to have meals
ten minutes before or ten minutes after the appointed time. She had
undoubtedly been married, but who Cork could have been was a marvel.
Why he died, and why there were never any children were no marvels.
At two o'clock her grate was screwed up to the narrowest possible
dimensions, and the ashes, potato peelings, tea leaves and cabbage
stalks were thrown on the poor, struggling coals. No meat, by the
way, was ever roasted--it was considered wasteful--everything was
baked or boiled. After half-past four not a bit of anything that was
not cold was allowed till the next morning, and, indeed, from the
first of April to the thirty-first of October the fire was raked out
the moment tea was over. Mrs Hopgood one night was not very well and
Clara wished to give her mother something warm. She rang the bell
and asked for hot water. Maria came up and disappeared without a
word after receiving the message. Presently she returned.