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Updated: May 31, 2025
Please God, Sister Nora may live for many a long day yet!" Thus Aunt M'riar, true to the traditional attitude of Life towards Death denial of the Arch-fear to the very threshold of the tomb. "So she may, M'riar, and many another on to that. But there's a good plenty o' things would please us that don't please God, and He's got it all His own way."
"It come from that party party with a side-twist in the mug party as come this way of a Sunday morning, askin' for old Mother Prichard party I see in Hy' Park along of young Dave...." Aunt M'riar was taken aback. "How ever come you to see more of him?" said she. For really this was, for the moment, a greater puzzle to her than why, being seen, he should send her a message.
Aunt M'riar especially had been so much impressed with a grey shawl with fringes and a ready cule spelt thus by repute which she carried when she come of a Sunday, that she had not only asked her to tea, but had taken her to pay a visit to Mrs. Prichard upstairs. She had also in conversation taken Aunt Elizabeth Jane largely into her confidence about Mrs.
Then he said you wanted money of Mrs. Prichard...." "How the devil did he know that?" "He said it. And I told him the old lady had no money. It's little enough, if she has." "And that was all?" "All about Mrs. Prichard." "Anything else?" "He told me your name." "What name?" "Thornton Daverill." The moment Aunt M'riar had said this she was sorry for it.
Only now and again to shame the Devil, as the sayin' is. And you, little Dave, don't you tell nothing but the truth, 'cos your Aunt M'riar she says not to it." Dave promised to oblige.
He was most respectful, plainly very anxious to be of further service to her and her father. She felt a little guilty because she had sent M'riar with the address if her father had not left it he certainly had failed to for no other purpose than preventing Vanderlyn from getting it but surely it was right for her to be good friends with one who wished to be so kind to him and her!
He was therefore directed to go upstairs and cast his eye on the job, and the lady would come up in five minutes to see the things took out of the drawer. "Stop a minute, Aunt M'riar," said the lady. "He mustn't make a mistake and open it, till I come. Please tell him, to make sure!" And Aunt M'riar would have started on her errand if she had not been stopped by what followed. "Or look here!
This conversation would scarcely have called for record but for what it led to. Old Mrs. Prichard, like Aunt M'riar, had a vice. It was jealousy. Her eighty years' experience of a bitter world had left her for all that she would sit quiet for hours and say never a word still longing for the music of the tide that had gone out for her for ever.
Slinking after him, at a slight distance, but near enough to hear quite all he said, came M'riar, and, when he had passed on, bought for herself a third-class ticket to Southampton.
"I remember there was something else I wanted to ask you, Aunt Maria. Did Mrs. Prichard ever talk to you about her son?" Was it wonderful that Aunt M'riar should start and flinch from speech, and that Uncle Mo should look preoccupied about everything outside the conversation? Can you imagine the sort of feeling an intensely truthful person like Aunt M'riar would have under such circumstances?
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