My aunt kissed me in the hall, and brought me to her room. She was tall and thin, wi’ a pale face and black eyes, and long thin hands wi’ black mittins on. She was past fifty, and her word was short; but her word was law. I hev no complaints to make of her; but she was a hard woman, and I think she would hev bin kinder to me if I had bin her sister’s child in place of her brother’s. But all that’s o’ no consequence noo.
The squire—his name was Mr. Chevenix Crowl, he was Dame Crowl’s grandson—came down there, by way of seeing that the old lady was well treated, about twice or thrice in the year. I sid him but twice all the time I was at Applewale House.
I can’t say but she was well taken care of, notwithstanding; but that was because my aunt and Meg Wyvern, that was her maid, had a conscience, and did their duty by her.
Mrs. Wyvern—Meg Wyvern my aunt called her to herself, and Mrs. Wyvern to me—was a fat, jolly lass of fifty, a good height and a good breadth, always good-humoured, and walked slow. She had fine wages, but she was a bit stingy, and kept all her fine clothes under lock and key, and wore, mostly, a twilled chocolate cotton, wi’ red, and yellow, and green sprigs and balls on it, and it lasted wonderful.
She never gave me nout, not the vally o’ a brass thimble, all the time I was there; but she was good-humoured, and always laughin’, and she talked no end o’ proas over her tea; and, seeing me sa sackless and dowly, she roused me up wi’ her laughin’ and stories; and I think I liked her better than my aunt—children is so taken wi’ a bit o’ fun or a story—though my aunt was very good to me, but a hard woman about some things, and silent always.
My aunt took me into her bedchamber, that I might rest myself a bit while she was settin’ the tea in her room. But first, she patted me on the shouther, and said I was a tall lass o’ my years, and had spired up well, and asked me if I could do plain work and stitchin’; and she looked in my face, and said I was like my father, her brother, that was dead and gone, and she hoped I was a better Christian, and wad na du a’ that lids (would not do anything of that sort).
It was a hard sayin’ the first time I set foot in her room, I thought.
When I went into the next room, the housekeeper’s room—very comfortable, yak (oak) all round—there was a fine fire blazin’ away, wi’ coal, and peat, and wood, all in a low together, and tea on the table, and hot cake, and smokin’ meat; and there was Mrs. Wyvern, fat, jolly, and talkin’ away, more in an hour than my aunt would in a year.
While I was still at my tea my aunt went upstairs to see Madam Crowl.
“She’s agone up to see that old Judith Squailes is awake,” says Mrs. Wyvern. “Judith sits with Madam Crowl when me and Mrs. Shutters”—that was my aunt’s name—“is away. She’s a troublesome old lady. Ye’ll hev to be sharp wi’ her, or she’ll be into the fire, or out o’ t’ winda. She goes on wires, she does, old though she be.”
“How old, ma’am?” says I.
“Ninety-three her last birthday, and that’s eight months gone,” says she; and she laughed. “And don’t be askin’ questions about her before your aunt—mind, I tell ye; just take her as you find her, and that’s all.”
“And what’s to be my business about her, please, ma’am?” says I.
“About the old lady? Well,” says she, “your aunt, Mrs. Shutters, will tell you that; but I suppose you’ll hev to sit in the room with your work, and see she’s at no mischief, and let her amuse herself with her things on the table, and get her her food or drink as she calls for it, and keep her out o’ mischief, and ring the bell hard if she’s troublesome.”
“Is she deaf, ma’am?”
“No, nor blind,” says she; “as sharp as a needle, but she’s gone quite aupy, and can’t remember nout rightly; and Jack the Giant Killer, or Goody Twoshoes will please her as well as the king’s court, or the affairs of the nation.”
“And what did the little girl go away for, ma’am, that went on Friday last? My aunt wrote to my mother she was to go.”
“Yes; she’s gone.”
“What for?” says I again.
“She didn’t answer Mrs. Shutters, I do suppose,” says she. “I don’t know. Don’t be talkin’; your aunt can’t abide a talkin’ child.”
“And please, ma’am, is the old lady well in health?” says I.
“It ain’t no harm to ask that,” says she. “She’s torflin’ a bit lately, but better this week past, and I dare say she’ll last out her hundred years yet. Hish! Here’s your aunt coming down the passage.”
In comes my aunt, and begins talkin’ to Mrs. Wyvern, and I, beginnin’ to feel more comfortable and at home like, was walkin’ about the room lookin’ at this thing and at that. There was pretty old china things on the cupboard, and pictures again the wall; and there was a door open in the wainscot, and I sees a queer old leathern jacket, wi’ straps and buckles to it, and sleeves as long as the bedpost hangin’ up inside.
“What’s that you’re at, child?” says my aunt, sharp enough, turning about when I thought she least minded. “What’s that in your hand?”
“This, ma’am?” says I, turning about with the leathern jacket. “I don’t know what
