Mord Em'ly/Chapter 7

mother justified her daughter's confidence. The interview took place in the presence of Mrs. Wingham, and the two excellent ladies talked to each other, and at Mord Em'ly. It seemed to Mord Em'ly that her mother's face was thinner.

"As I say, ma'am," remarked Mord Em'ly's mother, "I only hope she's thankful for all that's being done for her. She's got a chance of a million now, if she's only got the sense to take advantage of it."

"I'm sure," agreed Mrs. Wingham.

"The mere fact that I'm lonely and miserable without her, of course, won't 'ave no effect on her. The mere fact that I've had to get a canary bird just for the sake of 'aving somebody to talk matters over with, won't bring no pang of sorrow to her 'eart."

"Daughters are a bitter 'andful."

"You get no thanks," argued Mord Em'ly's mother; "that's what I complain of."

"Best not to expect any," advised Mrs. Wingham.

"What I should 'ave done if I'd had six or seven of 'em, like some 'ave," declared Mord Em'ly's mother, "’Eaven only knows."

"There's many worse off than us."

"P'r'aps so," with a gloomy attempt to be cheerful, "only that you can never appreciate other people's troubles like you can your own".

"I see your argument," said Mrs. Wingham.

"And when your offspring, if I may use the expression, instead of being a 'elpmate and an assistance to you, turns out a disgrace to the family, and gets put away in a 'Ome, so that you 'ave to make up all sorts of tales to account for her being away, why—"

"Did my case get in the papers, mother?" interposed Mord Em'ly.

"Ma'am," said her mother to Mrs. Wingham, "I will be frank with you—it did not get into the papers, and thankful enough I was for it. If my friends in Dorsetshire should 'ave got 'old of—"

"Fancy you knowing people in Dorsetshire," said Mrs. Wingham, with interest. "How small the world is, to be sure! What part of the county, if it isn't a rude question?"

"Pardon me, ma'am," said Mord Em'ly's mother, with some reserve, "if I don't answer your question. I 'ave reasons for so not doing—good reasons too."

"Bit of property in question, I shouldn't wonder?" suggested Mrs. Wingham curiously.

"I don't say it is, and I don't say it isn't. Property often does make a lot of 'ot water, as we all know, but—well, you really must excuse me if keep my mouth shut."

"I was born not many miles from Portland," said Mrs. Wingham. When I was in service at Notting 'Ill Gate, I used to get chaffed like anything about it."

"Isn't Portland where the prison is?" asked Mord Em'ly's mother.

"Convict prison," replied Mrs. Wingham.

"Fancy that, now!" said Mord Em'ly's mother casually.

"It's a 'uge place", said Mrs. Wingham, with interest. "I know something about it, because a sister of mine married a warder. Why, sometimes they 'ave I don't know how many prisoners there at one time."

"So many as that, ma'am?"

"Oh, more, bless you! And my brother-in-law says the most painful thing is when one of the wives or what not of the convicts comes to see 'em. You get an order from the governor of the prison  about once a year, and there you go, and there's a partition between both of you, and a warder standing, as it might be, there; and say," explained Mrs. Wingham, with increasing relish, "say you are the wife coming to see your husband, who's in for, say, ten or fifteen years, or whatever it might be—why, you stand there, and all you're allowed to talk about is—"

"I sh'd imagine," said Mord Em'ly's mother, "That it must be wonderfully interesting. Do you mind if I sit down?"

"Getting plenty of work to do, mother?" asked Mord Em'ly shyly. "You seem to 'ave very beautiful gardens 'ere, ma'am," said her mother to Mrs. Wingham, ignoring the question. "Don't you find the flowers want a lot of looking after?"

"Not 'alf so much as the young imps of gels do."

"It's a job I wouldn't take on for a pension," said Mord Em'ly's mother agreeably. "Going out charing's no particular amusement, but I'd rather be 'alf do that than 'ave your responsibility."

"I always try 'em with kindness first," said Mrs. Wingham; "If that don't answer, we 'ave to think of another plan. As I tell 'em, I'd much rather not punish; I'm far from being of a 'arsh nature, because I've 'ad me troubles, like other people, and they've taken all me temper out of me. You must know, ma'am, that I was in service at one time, and it was there I met my 'usband. He was a tallish man. Was your 'usband tall, I wonder, ma'am?"

"Mejum," said Mord Em'ly's mother shortly.

"And he 'ad a temper—well, it don't do to speak ill of the dead, but he certainly—" "Mine," said Mord Em'ly's mother, "was just the opposite. A gentler and a kinder-be'aved man never breathed."

An opening occurred presently, and Mord Em'ly asked for news of her old friends in Walworth, and obtained no information whatever. Her mother said to Mrs. Wingham that she had found one or two of the girls hanging around Pandora, and she had taken the opportunity to give them a bit of her mind.

"This is what comes, ma'am," she continued, "of mixing up with bad company. You begin to run about all howers of the day, and all howers of the night, and you ain't going to be much of a credit to your poor, 'ard-working old mother."

"True!" acknowledged Mrs. Wingham.

"And the only thing you can do once you're caught, ma'am, is to make the best of it, and, finding yourself put away in a comfortable 'ome, with good-'earted ladies that 'ave, no doubt, served in the very best families—"

"Notting 'Ill Gate," murmured Mrs. Wingham.

"Is to be obejent to 'em, and respectful and attentive to all what they say. And you let me 'ear," said Mord Em'ly's mother fiercely, still addressing Mrs. Wingham, "you let me 'ear that you 'aven't been a good gel, and I'll never come near the place to see you again. So, there now!"

"It'd only be right."

"Whereas, if you be'ave yourself like a good, sensible gel, in a year or two you'll 'ave a place found for you in a nice family in the country, where you can save a bit of money, and be as 'appy as the days are long."

"I'd sooner be in London," remarked Mord Em'ly.

"We often find that with 'em," explained Mrs. Wingham. "The rule is, they shall always go out into the country, and send half their wages 'ome 'ere to be banked, because they get a good rig-out, with two of everything, and— But, somehow, they always 'anker after London. Seem to be 'ead over eels in love with the place."

Mord Em'ly's mother and Mrs. Wingham continued their dialogue for some time, until the moment came for the visitor to withdraw. Mord Em'ly, who had had few opportunities of speaking, stood back as her mother went out through the passage to the grounds, and watched her. Mord Em'ly was choking a little.

"I do believe," said her mother, coming back, "That I've been and dropped the return 'alf of me ticket. I must 'ave had it when I— Why, 'ere it is in me glove all the time."

"Mother!" "Now what's the matter?"

"Give me a kiss! Like—like you used to Saturday nights."

"Pack o' nonsense!" said her mother unsteadily.

But when Mord Em'ly's arms went round her mother's neck, her mother hugged her very tightly, and there were tears on the brown, lean cheeks.