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Updated: May 31, 2025
The Man had told Micky; Micky had told Dave; Dave had told Dolly; and Dolly had told Uncle Mo, who now intensified the interest of the event by saying he should tell Aunt M'riar.
She clung to him from behind with all her dead-weight, encumbering that hand with the knife as best she might. She screamed loud with all the voice she had: "Mo Mo he has a knife he has a knife!" Mo flung away the coat on his arm, and ran shouting. "Leave hold of him, M'riar keep off him leave hold!" His big voice echoed down the Court, resonant with sudden terror on her behalf.
For there was more than you could do off a ladder, if you was God A'mighty Himself. Thus Mr. Bartlett, and Aunt M'riar condemned his impiety freely. Before the children! Closely examined, his speech was reverential, and an acknowledgment of the powers of the Constructor of the Universe as against the octave-stretch forlorn of our limitations. But it was Anthropomorphism, no doubt.
Then a footstep without, recognised as Susan Burr's by its limp. "She'll have to be told, Mo," said Aunt M'riar. "We've never had a thought for poor Susan." A commonplace face came white as ashes from the fog without, and a suffocating voice, gasping against sobs. "Oh, M'riar! Oh, Mr. Wardle! Is it true she's gone?"
On which, and a further representation that he would wake Dolly if he went on like that, Uncle Mo he pulled himself together and smoked quiet. Whereupon Aunt M'riar dwelt upon the depressing effect a high wind in autumn has on the spirits, with the singular result referred to above, of their retractation into their owner's boots, like quicksilver in a thermometer discouraged by the cold.
And then they could claim their birthright of tears, the last privilege left to hearts encompassed with the darkness of the grave. The three were standing, some short while later, at the stairfoot, each looking at the other. Which was to go first? Aunt M'riar made a hesitating suggestion. "Supposin' you was to step up first, and look back to say...!" "That's one idear," said Uncle Mo.
Then she would insist on trying to carry it upstairs, but was not long enough in the arms, and Aunt M'riar had to do it for her in the end. Not, however, unwillingly, because it enabled her to give her mind to pinking or gauffering, or whatever other craft was then engaging her attention. We do not ourself know what pinking is, or gauffering; we have only heard them referred to.
This came with a jerk perhaps with a weak hope that it might eject him from the conversation. "She hasn't set eyes on him, didn't she say, for years past?" said old Mo, seeing that M'riar wanted help. Also with a hope of eliminating the convict. "Didn't even know whether he was living or dead, did she?" The reply, after consideration, was: "No-o! She said that."
"Hi s'y!" she cried, and dashed into the gloomy cubby-hole. "Wot's this? You scrubbin'? Drop it, now, you 'ear? Hit 'yn't fer me to show no disrespeck, Frowline, but drop it. Hi 'yn't a-goin' to have them pretty 'ands hall spoilt." "But, M'riarrr, I just love to scrub." "Don't love hanythink so vulgar," M'riar replied without a moment's hesitation.
So to Ealing Aunt M'riar went, two or three days later, and Dave went too, although he was convinced Uncle Mo couldn't do without him. The old boy himself remained in residence, being fed by The Rising Sun; which sounds like poetry, but relates to chops and sausages and a half-a-pint, a monotonous dietary on which he subsisted until his family returned a month later to a reinstated mansion.
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