“Where thy treasure is, there also is thy heart.”
WHEN old Maria Stickly had come slowly hobbling down the narrow stairs
each morning, and had passed through the rickety door which admitted her
into the kitchen, her first glance was directed towards the plate which
occupied a prominent and central position on the topmost shelf of the
dresser.
Hands which had long since mouldered into dust had driven into this shelf
the two nails, rusty with age, which kept it from slipping. Maria
herself had, many, many years before, constructed the little cloth pad
which supported its upper rim; and her first act after lighting the fire
and sweeping the tiled floor was to possess herself of this treasure, and
carefully and lovingly polish every inch of its already shining surface
with a soft cloth kept for the purpose.
This plate, the Rosy Plate, as Maria called it, though, in truth, the
large crimson flower which sprawled over its centre in the midst of
foliage of a kind totally unknown to botanists might just as well have
been likened to a peony or a hollyhock, had played a very important part
in its owner’s career—in fact, it might have been called the arbiter of
her destiny. Maria used to tell the story sometimes when her nearest
neighbour, good-natured, overworked Mrs. Andrews, who lived on the top of
the hill a mile away, dropped in to rest on her return home after a
marketing expedition, the results of which took up so much room in the
perambulator that “the twin,” a fine healthy pair of four-year-old boys,
the youngest of her family, had to take it by turns to walk.
Very hot and tired used poor Mrs. Andrews to be by the time she reached
this halting-place, very fractious were the children, the pedestrian
hanging on to his mother’s skirts and wailing intermittingly, while the
proud occupant of the “pram” kicked viciously at the parcels as they
encroached on the space usually allotted to his own fat little legs, and
uttered piercing shrieks when his exhausted mother reproved him with
certain admonitory but wholly innocuous taps. No wonder that at such
times as these Mrs. Stickly’s little cottage appeared a very haven of
rest, and the sight of her kind old ruddy face peering out between the
geraniums in the little window was as welcome as the face of an angel.
“Walk in, Mrs. Andrews, dear, do ’ee now, an’ sit ye down. Tommy!—that
bain’t never Tommy a-cryin’, I’m sure. And here’s little Walter
a-sittin’ so good in his pram, bless his little ’eart—_he_ wouldn’t cry.
Come in, come in, and see what Mrs. Stickly have a-got ye. A little bird
did tell I as there was a slice o’ bread an’ sugar in the cupboard for
two good boys. I wonder who they can be! Come in, Mrs. Andrews, an’
rest ye a bit; I’ve got the tea drawed all ready, down here in the
chimbley corner—he’ll be nice and strong, for he’ve a-been made nigh half
a hour.”
“’Tis wonderful kind o’ you, Mrs. Stickly,” Mrs. Andrews would probably
return, jamming the pram into a convenient angle behind the door-post,
and heaving a weary sigh as she entered the cosy little kitchen. “’Tis
what I should never ha’ thought on, I’m sure. I should never ha’ looked
for sich a thing. But a cup o’ tea is a blessin’ when a body have been
so far as I’ve been. Two lumps, if you please—thank you—that’ll do nice.
Sit ye down, Tommy, and Walter, stand here quiet aside o’ me. If you be
good little boys, Mrs. Stickly ’ull maybe show you the rosy plate afore
we do go home.”
Then Tommy and Walter would munch their bread-and-sugar in blissful
silence, and make themselves amazingly sticky, and stare with all their
might at the crimson-bedecked trophy which gleamed down at them from its
eminence on the dresser. And when Mrs. Andrews had drunk her tea, and
told her kind hostess all her troubles—how her master was only working
four days a week, or how Teddie had got sore eyes, or how Susanna had an
impression on her chest, or, perhaps, how she herself had been that bad
last week with a sore throat that if anybody had comed to her wi’ a cup
o’ tea in one hand and a poker in the other, she would have been forced
to choose the poker; and when Mrs. Stickly had duly groaned and shaken
her head in sympathy, the desire of the “twin” was acceded to, and the
rosy plate was carefully taken down and submitted to the admiring
inspection of the two pairs of round sloe-black eyes.
Mrs. Andrews well knew that this little ceremony caused quite as much
pleasure to Mrs. Stickly as to the children, and it was, perhaps, on this
account chiefly that she asked for it, and that, moreover, busy as she
was, with a thousand odd jobs waiting for her at home, she lingered a
little longer in order to hearken to the oft-told tale of the rosy plate,
and of all that it represented to its owner. Leaning back in Mrs.
Stickly’s best chair with the patchwork cushion, and the knitted
antimacassar astride on its shiny wooden back, she would fold her arms,
heave a sigh of sentimental reminiscence, and remark tentatively:
“Dear, yes, Mrs. Stickly, they poor innocents don’t have no notion of all
as that there pretty plate have a-brought about. Nay, that they haven’t.
But ye could tell a tale about that plate, couldn’t ’ee, Mrs. Stickly?”
“Ah, that I could,” the old woman would say, swallowing the bait eagerly.
“My poor husband, you know—Stickly—he did give it I when first he was
a-coortin’ me.”
“So I think I’ve heard you say,” Mrs. Andrews would return, with placid
interest. “Ye’d jist a-had a miff afore he give it ye.”
“E—es, we did have a bit of a miff that time; and we shouldn’t never ha’
made it up, I don’t think, if Stickly hadn’t give me the rosy plate.”
“He did buy it for ’ee at Shroton, didn’t he?” Mrs. Andrews would say,
needing perhaps to recall her hostess to the present by some such
reminder, for frequently, when talking of these far-away times, Mrs.
Stickly’s faded blue eyes would assume a dreamy look, and it would become
evident that her thoughts had strayed away from her interlocutrix to the
bygone days, when she was a handsome young lass, and Stickly and his
peers had come “a-coortin’.”
“Ah, he did buy it for I there—there was more nor him did want to buy it
for I. Dear heart alive, I can mind it so well as if it were yesterday.
I were reckoned a good-lookin’ maid in those days—I did use to have a
very good colour, and my hair was curly and yollow—as yollow as the corn,
Stickly did say sometimes—and there was a good many arter me one way and
another. There was Tom Boyt—a farmer’s son _he_ were—and there was ’Neas
Stuckhey—”
“Strange,” Mrs. Andrews occasionally murmured at this moment, for the
coincidence never failed to strike her, “Stuckhey and Stickly—the two
names do sound very much alike. ’Tis odd how things do come about—ye
chose Stickly, and it mid jist as well ha’ been Stuckhey.”
To this profound remark Mrs. Stickly would probably assent, and would
then continue:—
“E—es, a lot o’ us young folks did set off for Shroton Fair that day.
There was me, and Annie Boyt, Tom’s sister, and Rose Paddock; and there
was Tom, and ’Neas, and my John—that’s Stickly, though I didn’t call him
my John then—and a young man from Shillingstone, whose name I can’t mind
at the present time, but he was a-coortin’ of Annie. And as we did all
want to go together, Tom and Annie did persuade their father to let ’em
take one o’ his waggons; so we did have two harses wi’ bells to their
harness, and what wi’ the bells, and what wi’ the maids singin’, and the
lads shoutin’, and the waggon rattlin’, and the harses’ feet a-hammerin’
the road, I can tell ’ee we did make some noise as we was a-goin’ along.
The folks turned to look at us as we droved through the villages, and the
childern did run after us, and did cry out ‘Bring us a fairin’, folks!
Bring us a fairin’ from Shroton!’ And Tom did say—Tom was al’ays free
wi’ his money—he did call out, ‘Well, be good childern; we’ll mayhap
bring you back a few ginger-nuts.’
“Well, we was the best o’ friends, an’ so merry as ever we could be. I
had a bonnet lined wi’ pink and a pink ribbon to tie it wi’, and a pink
sash—folks did wear sashes then—and a frock—ah, I can call to mind that
frock! It were the purtiest I ever did have in my life; there was little
bunches o’ roses all over it a-tied together wi’ knots o’ blue ribbon—not
real blue ribbon, ye know—’twas just the pattern on the stuff, but they
was wonderful purty. My mother did say to I when I was a-gettin’ it out,
‘Ye’ll scarce be warm enough in that, Maria’; and I did say, ‘Oh, e—es,
mother, I’ll be warm enough—there be so many on us a-goin’ we’ll keep
each other warm.’ And mother didn’t say nothin’, but she just went to
her box, and she did take out her best shawl as she’d been married in,
and she did say, ‘There, my maid, ’ee can take that too; for thou art a
careful maid and won’t let it come to harm.’
“Well, as I say, we was a merry crew! Dear heart alive, that was we!
There be times, Mrs. Andrews, when I be sittin’ here so lonesome by the
fire, an’ I do say to myself, ‘Was that really me—that vitty young maid!
(for I were reckoned a handsome maid in those days, Mrs. Andrews) as rode
in the big waggon that sunshiny day?’ Thinks I to myself, ‘It can never
have been me—I must ha’ dreamed it’; and then I do look up and see the
rosy plate shinin’ in the firelight, and I do say to myself, ‘Well, it
were I, arter all’; and it’s somethin’ to think as a body was once so
young an’ so merry.”
“True, true,” her neighbour would agree. “But you was a-tellin’ me about
the childern a-runnin’ arter the waggon—I suppose it did not take you so
very long to get to Shroton?”
“Nay, we did get there early in the forenoon, and then John did want me
to go and see the harses jump, and the others was all for goin’ straight
off on the roundabouts. ‘I’ll treat ye, Maria,’ says Tom. ‘And thank
you kindly, Tom,’ says I. And then I did turn round and see poor John
a-lookin’ very downhearted, so I did smile at en over my shoulder, and
did say, soft like, ‘Do ’ee come, too, John.’
“‘Nay,’ says John, very quiet. ‘I think not, Maria. Two be company, and
three be none, ye know.’ ‘Oh, well,’ says I, just to tease en, ‘if you
like to see your old harses jumpin’ better nor to ride along of I, so ye
may for all I care. Which be the way, Tom?’
“‘Why, don’t ’ee hear the music over there?’ says Tom; but ’twas hard to
hear anythin’ the way the folks was a-talkin’ and a-laughin’; and what
wi’ the shootin’, and the knockin’ down cocoa-nuts, and the roundabouts
all a-playin’ different tunes at the same time, and the showmen shoutin’,
and the drums a-beatin’, the noise was enough to dather a body.
“‘Take my arm,’ says Tom; and Annie did pair off with her young man, and
Rose did catch hold o’ ’Neas as bold as brass, though he looked a bit
glum, I can tell ’ee, for ’twere me as he wanted, d’ye see? And poor
John were left all alone. I were feelin’ vexed, I suppose, but now, when
I do look back on that day, it do seem to I as if I must ha’ been mad.
My mother ’ud ha’ scolded if she’d a-known how I did behave that day.
First I did go in the roundabout wi’ Tom, and then I did have another
ride wi’ ’Neas, and there was Rose a-lookin’ on very cross, for Tom
wouldn’t treat her; and the crosser she did look the more I did toss my
head and laugh and talk wi’ ’Neas, and then ’twas Tom’s turn to pull a
long face.
“And then I did go wi’ Tom in the swings, and then we did all have a game
at Aunt Sally, and I did win; and ’Neas gi’ed me a bagful o’ ginger-nuts,
and Tom a box for pins, and Annie’s young man come sidlin’ up too, and
says he, ‘I must gi’e ye something too, Maria, for I do think,’ says he,
‘as you be queen of the fair’. And he did buy me a lot o’ sticky sweet
stuff as I took one bite on and then dropped when he weren’t a-lookin’.
But ye should ha’ seed Annie’s face. ‘I think I’ll go and look for
John,’ says she, and her two eyes did shine much like cat’s eyes in the
dark; but she didn’t go arter John, all the same.
“Well, we did come at last to one o’ the booths where they were a-sellin’
china stuff: mugs, and vases, and teapots, and cups, and plates, and as
we stopped to look at ’em the old woman as was a-sellin’ did hold up the
rosy plate, and says she to I, ‘Do ’ee buy en, my maid. The flowers be
jist the same colour as they purty cheeks o’ yourn. You be a real rose,
for sure,’ she did say, ‘and you did ought to have the rosy plate.’
“I put my hand in my pocket, and pulled out my handkercher, for I’d
a-tied up my dibs in the corner. My mother did gi’e me eightpence to buy
fairin’s wi’, but I hadn’t naught but a ha’penny left.
“‘That’s all I have,’ says I, holdin’ it up and laughin’; ‘will ye sell
it me for that?’
“‘Nay now,’ says the old woman; ‘this here plate do cost a shillin’.’
“Well, everybody knows, of course, as these here folks do always ax twice
so much as they’re willin’ to take; so Tom laughed, and says he:
“‘Come, I’ll gi’e ye sixpence for ’t.’
“‘Nay,’ says ’Neas, steppin’ up, ‘I’m the man as must give the rose o’
Shroton Fair the rosy plate.’
“So Rose Paddock did begin to smile and to smirk, and to think it were
she as he meant; but I knowed very well it were me.
“‘The rose o’ the fair,’ says ’Neas, ‘must have a rosy plate for to match
the roses on her cheeks and the roses on her frock.’ And poor Rose did
look sour, for her frock was brown all over, wi’ jist a bunch o’ blue
ribbons at the neck.
“‘I’ll gi’e ye eightpence for the rosy plate,’ says ’Neas.
“Nay, let me have it for tenpence!’ hollers Tom.
“‘ A shillin’!’ says Annie’s young man all of a sudden; it did really
seem, Mrs. Andrews, as if he couldn’t hold back.
“‘Eighteenpence!’ says ’Neas.
“‘Two shillin’!’ cries Tom.”
“Tch, tch, tch,” commented Mrs. Andrews, clicking her tongue in amazed
condemnation of such wanton extravagance, though she knew quite as well
as Mrs. Stickly what was coming next.
“If you’ll believe me,” said Maria triumphantly, “they did run up the
price o’ that there plate to five shillin’ before they’d done! Five
shillin’! That were Tom’s bid; and ’Neas, he did laugh and shake his
head and say, ‘’Tis half my week’s wages—I can’t go no further, Maria; ye
must take the will for the deed.’
“Annie’s young man had dropped off some time before, so now the plate
were knocked down to Tom; and he did put his hand in his pocket like a
lord and pull out his money. But when he did come to count it there
weren’t above four-and-sixpence all together.
“‘Lend me sixpence, somebody,’ says he.
“Thank ’ee for nothin’,’ says ’Neas; ‘if it be goin’ for
four-and-sixpence I’ll have it myself.’
“‘An’ I’m sure I sha’n’t lend you sixpence, Tom,’ says Annie’s young man.
‘It be simple waste to gi’e so much for that there plate.’
“‘Well, ’tis a deal o’ money, surely,’ says Tom. Folks were a-gatherin’
round, d’ye see, and starin’, and laughin’, and nudgin’ of each other,
and Tom began to feel he were lookin’ a fool.
“‘There’ll be naught left for a bit o’ nuncheon,’ says he, half to
himself.
“‘Oh, pray don’t waste your money on I,’ says I, and the tears did spring
to my eyes.
“‘That’s true, too,’ said ’Neas to Tom, ‘we ha’n’t had a bite yet, nor so
much as a glass o’ beer.’
“It looked as if I were not a-goin’ to have my plate at all, though
they’d all been fightin’ who was a-goin’ to give it to I. I’m sure my
cheeks was redder than any roses could be, as I stood listenin’ to ’em;
and all at once I raised my eyes, and there was John lookin’ across at
me. And then I did feel myself go pale, and my head did begin to go
round and round, I were that ashamed o’ myself and of all as had been
goin’ on. But the next thing I did hear was John’s voice:—
“‘Five shillin’, did ye say? There it is; I’ll take it.’ And in another
minute he’d a-put the plate in my hand.
“‘There it be, my maid,’ says he; ‘I don’t think it too much to give
since you fancy it.’
“‘Well done!’ cries the folks; ‘here be the right man at last, ’tis the
proper spirit for a lover.’ And then they began to clap en on the back,
and to laugh, and wish him well, and ax him when the weddin’ was to be,
and I don’t know what besides. I did scarce know which way to look, I
were that ashamed, and yet that pleased; and John he did pull my hand
through his arm, and he did lead I out of the row of booths, and away
from the crowd, till we come to a quiet corner of the big field, and
there we did sit down, and he did say, smilin’ like:—
“‘Next year ye’ll come to see the harses wi’ me, Maria?’
“‘E—es,’ said I, hanging down my head; ‘I’ll go wherever ye ax me, John.’
“‘Then will ye come to church wi’ me, my maid?’ says he; ‘will ye be my
wife, Maria?’
“Ah, that were how we did make it up between us; and he did al’ays say as
it were the rosy plate as done it. We were wed before the year were out,
and the first thing Stickly did do was to make a place for that there
plate upon the dresser. And as years went by and the childern come, he
used to lift ’em up to see it. Each did have leave to eat out of it on
its birthday—we did use to put a little bit o’ cake upon the rosy plate,
and set it by the birthday child; and ye should ha’ seen how j’yful it
would look.”
“Ah, sure,” commented Mrs. Andrews. “’Twould be nice to have a bit o’
cake on sich a beautiful plate, wouldn’t it, Walter? That ’ud be a nice
birthday treat for any little boy.”
“I do often mind me o’ them days,” Mrs. Stickly resumed. “Dear, yes! I
do often think I hear the little voices and the little feet, and see
father—that’s Stickly—a-liftin’ up the youngest un to look at the plate.
’Tis very near like a book to me, that plate. I mid ha’ wrote in it all
the joys and sorrows o’ my life—what I’ve a-had and what I’ve a-lost—I do
mind ’em all when I look at it. Mary, the only maid I had, did cut her
weddin’ cake on this here plate—she was a vitty bride—but she died wi’
her first baby; an’ John did ’list for a soldier, and were killed out
abroad, and James and ’Lias died o’ the fever when they was quite little.
E—es, I did lose ’em all; me and Stickly was a-left alone by the fire in
the end, and now there be nobody but I. They be all a-gone before I to
the New House. I’ll jine ’em there some day, Mrs. Andrews.”
And then Mrs. Andrews would agree and condole, and begin to think it was
time for her to move; and Tommy and Walter would have their mufflers tied
round their necks, and the party would start off homewards, while Mrs.
Stickly, with a sigh and a smile, would restore the rosy plate to its
place.
The little house at the hill-foot occupied, as has been said, a somewhat
solitary position, being a mile from any other habitation; but it never
seemed to occur to any one that in the case of illness or accident its
owner would find herself in a somewhat sorry plight.
When in the middle of a bright, frosty, wintry night, therefore, Mrs.
Andrews was awakened by a loud knocking at her door and piteous cries for
help, and when, on throwing open her casement and leaning out, she
recognised the small figure standing on her threshold as Mrs. Stickly,
her astonishment was mingled with some measure of indignation.
“Goodness gracious, Mrs. Stickly, whatever brings you here at this time
o’ night?—I be frightened out o’ my wits! Has anything happened?”
“What in the world be amiss?” inquired the deep tones of Mr. Andrews from
under the bed-clothes.
“Oh, come down, come down, good folks, for pity’s sake!” wailed the
nocturnal visitor; “my house be a-fire—’tis a mercy I weren’t burnt in my
bed!”
“Your house a-fire!” gasped Mrs. Andrews in genuine concern; and
thereupon ensued the hasty thud of Mr. Andrews’ bare feet upon the floor.
“I’ll let you in in a minute! Dear heart alive! what a misfortune, to be
sure!”
In another moment her hospitable but scantily clad figure appeared in the
doorway, and a kind, warm hand drew the shivering, sobbing little figure
to the kitchen within.
“Ye be as cold as any stone,” she said; “don’t ’ee cry so, Mrs. Stickly
dear, Andrews ’ull be down in a minute, and I’ll call Mr. Butt, next
door, and a few more chaps—they’ll soon put it out! Don’t ’ee fret so.”
“Oh, Mrs. Andrews,” gasped the poor old woman, “it be all blazin’ and
roarin’—the roof be all a-fire! I think it must ha’ been a spark lit on
it. It were that cold, d’ye see, I’d made me up a good fire to warm me
before I went to bed—I had some nice logs, and I think a spark from ’em
must have lit upon the roof. I woke up chokin’, and couldn’t see wi’ the
smoke, but I dressed and ran downstairs so fast as I could, and there
were more smoke in the kitchen. I could scarce find my way to the
dresser, but I crope about until I got there, and ketched hold of the
rosy plate, and then out I ran.”
By this time Mr. Andrews had joined them, and soon a little relief party
was organised, and set off with all speed to the scene of the disaster;
but long before they reached the spot the would-be rescuers agreed that
the task was hopeless. The old thatch was now one sheet of flame; every
window of the little dwelling was defined in fire; the crackling of the
crazy woodwork and the roar of the blaze could be heard almost half a
mile away. The men halted and looked at each other blankly.
“It’s ten to one if there’s a drap o’ water handy at this time o’ night,”
said Abel Butt, putting into words the thought which was, indeed, present
in the minds of all.
“Mrs. Stickly did say as her well was froze,” observed Andrews gloomily;
“but we’d best go on all the same and see what can be done.”
They went forward again, but more slowly, and in silence. Before they
reached the house, however, the roof fell in with a crash and a roar,
wrecking the little home it once had sheltered.
For some weeks Maria was prostrated by the shock. Mrs. Andrews did all
she could for her, but as time went on the question of ways and means
became a serious one. Andrews was not in full work that winter, and
there were many little mouths to feed, and, moreover, the anticipated
arrival of a successor to the “twin” would shortly incapacitate Mrs.
Andrews from attending to her helpless charge. All poor old Maria’s
household gods had perished in the flames; she had already for some years
been in the receipt of outdoor relief from the parish, on which, together
with the produce of her garden, and the eggs laid by her hens, she had
hitherto contrived to live. But now, what was to be done? The cottage
was burnt to the ground, and the landlord, though kind and tolerant with
regard to certain arrears of rent, was not inclined to rebuild it;
moreover, it would be dangerous for Maria in her enfeebled state to
resume her former solitary life.
Much anxious consultation on the part of friends and well-wishers
resulted in the halting one day outside Mrs. Andrews’ door of a cab, from
which descended a neat, bright-eyed little woman in the uniform of a
hospital nurse. It was, indeed, no other than the district nurse from
the town of Branston, who, at the request of the authorities, had
undertaken to escort Maria to the Union.
Mrs. Andrews met her on the doorstep.
“I’ve got her ready,” she said, in an agitated whisper. “She’s dressed
all but her bonnet and shawl, and they’re quite handy, but I haven’t had
the heart to tell her yet. It do seem hard for a poor old body. I d’
’low it’s cruel hard.”
“You want me to tell her, in fact,” said the nurse. “Well, it all comes
in the day’s work, I suppose, and we can’t keep the cab waiting.”
She went into the kitchen, and sat down by the small shrunken figure in
the elbow-chair. Unpleasant tasks had frequently fallen to Nurse
Margaret’s lot during the course of her professional career: she had had
to announce impending bereavement to many an anxious family; she had not
infrequently given a truthful answer to those patients who, already in
the death-throes, had asked if their end were near; but never yet had she
been called upon to perform a duty so painful as that of making this
honest, decent, gentle, little old woman realise that she was to end her
days in the workhouse.
She did realise it, though. Nurse Margaret saw the wrinkled face blanch,
and the mouth quiver, and the eyes grow wide with horror and alarm; and
then, just as she was preparing for an outburst of tears and protests,
she saw, to her surprise, the poor old creature brace herself, and
presently the answer came, given with a certain quiet dignity:—
“Well, Miss, I’ll come. I don’t wish to be a burden to nobody. ’Twon’t
be for long, very like.”
Mrs. Andrews came out of her entrenchment behind the door, and tied on
Maria’s bonnet and shawl, with many tears and inarticulate apologies.
“Don’t ’ee take on, my dear,” said Maria, with the same gentle dignity.
“It bain’t none o’ your fault. I’m very thankful to ye for what you’ve
done.”
“When I’m over my trouble I’ll come to see you,” gasped the good hostess,
whose face was glazed with ineffectual grief. “They’ll—they’ll take good
care of ye there, I’m told; and maybe better times will come, and we can
get ’ee out again.”
Maria smiled; she knew very well that she would never come out again.
“I could wish,” she said presently, “I had some little things to give the
childern, Mrs. Andrews, but I’ve nought in the wide world but the clothes
on my back, and the rosy plate—and that I can never part with so long as
I live. Give it to me,” she said, after a pause, pointing to where her
treasure lay safely ensconced in a drawer of the chest in the corner.
Mrs. Andrews produced it, but, as she crossed the kitchen towards her
friend, Nurse Margaret looked at her meaningly, and slowly shook her
head.
“I’m afraid they won’t let her keep it,” she said, under her breath.
“’Twill fair break her heart if they don’t,” whispered the other. “Do
’ee try an’ persuade ’em, Miss.”
The nurse shook her head again, but promised to try; and then Maria was
slowly hoisted from her chair, and supported across the kitchen and into
the cab. She returned Mrs. Andrews’ farewell embrace, and sat looking
before her vacantly as the cab drove away.
Nurse Margaret’s surmise proved only too correct; those who passed
through the stony portals of the Union found themselves as completely
denuded of this world’s gear as though those gates had been in very truth
the Gates of Death. Maria possessed a comfortable warm shawl, with which
she was accustomed to envelop her chilly old frame when in bed; but she
was informed that she could not be allowed to keep it.
When this shawl and her warm clothes were taken away from her, and she
was clad in the regulation garments, she was told that probably in a week
or so a kind lady who visited the Union would knit her a shawl.
“But mine be quite good,” said Maria, feebly. “I d’ ’low I’d rather have
my own. ’Twouldn’t be the same. My own shawl, d’ye see—” she broke off
suddenly, her lip trembling.
“Hers is quite clean,” said Nurse Margaret: “could she not be allowed to
have it?” Possibly she realised something of what was passing in Maria’s
mind: a lingering sense of personal dignity—the last vestige of proud
independence; the natural clinging, almost childish in its tenacity, to
what was her “very own”. Perhaps there were associations connected with
that shawl that made it doubly precious; it might have been an heirloom,
it might have been a gift—even if purchased only by the wearer herself
out of long and carefully hoarded savings, how much would such a fact add
to its value.
“Quite impossible,” returned the matron with decision. “We cannot make
an exception. They would all want to wear their own dirty, fusty things
and there would be no end to it. But everything will he taken good care
of, and given back to her when she leaves.”
“She is seventy-five now,” said Nurse Margaret. “She has not a friend in
the world, nor, I believe, a penny. I am afraid it is not very likely
that better times will come for her.”
Maria had listened to this colloquy in a dazed, stupid way, and made no
attempt to speak again until her precious plate was taken away from her,
when she broke into clamorous protestations.
“Don’t, don’t ax me to part wi’ the rosy plate! It be all as I’ve a-left
in the world. It’ll not take no room—I can jist keep it under my piller,
and nobody ’ull know it be there. Do ’ee now, ma’am, do ’ee let me keep
it!”
But again she was confronted with those terrible rules; and she was led
away, weeping bitterly, to her new quarters.
She found herself in the company of some twenty old women in a large
whitewashed room. Some were knitting, some were sewing, one dandling a
hapless six-months-old baby, whose mother was at work in some other part
of the establishment.
Maria sat down on the edge of the bed that was allotted to her, and
looked vacantly round; one or two of the women spoke to her, but she
scarcely heeded them.
A big bell clanged out presently, and she was told that it was for tea,
and feebly followed in the wake of her companions, as they went trooping
down a flagged passage and into a large room with a long table running
down its centre—a bare deal table with benches on either side, each place
being marked by a tin mug and a hunch of bread, on the top of which was
laid a lump of butter or cheese.
Maria’s right-hand neighbour instantly began to spread her butter with
her thumb. The younger woman on her left took alternate mouthfuls from
the cheese and the bread.
“Bain’t there no knives nor plates?” inquired Maria, suddenly awaking to
the fact of their absence.
“Can’t you see for yourself there bain’t?” was the response. “You’d best
begin—they don’t give us so very long.”
“But why bain’t there no plates?” persisted Maria.
“What does it matter about plates?” grumbled the other. “I’d be willin’
enough to do wi’out plates—’tis the food as I mind. You’ve got
butter—all the old folks have that, but they chuck us younger ones a bit
o’ cheese as hard as a paving stone.”
Maria looked at her lump of bread with its triangular portion of butter
set forth on the bare board, and wept. This was what she had come to,
she, Maria Stickly, who had always throughout her long, honest,
struggling life held up her head with the best! She bowed it now on her
poor sunken chest, and sobbed aloud.
A long skinny hand presently hovered over her discarded portion, and her
elder neighbour said, with a titter and a cunning look:—
“If ’ee don’t want it, ye’ll p’r’aps have no objection to my taking of
it.”
And on its owner making no sign the transfer speedily took place.
“Nay now, that bain’t fair!” whispered the woman on the other side,
angrily; “I claim half. Her and me was a-speaking together first.”
They began to quarrel over the food, while Maria sobbed on between them;
the sight of their inflamed faces and the sound of their angry, coarse
words seemed to her to aggravate the indignity.
“The food be thrown down to us like dogs,” she said to herself, “an’ they
be a-fightin’ over it like dogs!”
Presently the altercation attracted the attention of some one in
authority, and the matter was inquired into, the fact being elicited that
the new-comer had disdained her appointed portion.
“I haven’t never been used to take my meals wi’out no plate!” she
protested with a burst of woe, for her outraged self-respect gave her
courage. “There must be plates here—folks couldn’t eat their dinner
wi’out no plates, and if ’tis along o’ the washin’ up, there be a-many
women here as could do it; I’d do it myself!”
But she was told not to give herself such airs. When people came to the
Union they mustn’t be so particular—she must be content to do as others
did. Plates indeed! there were no plates there, not even coffin plates!
This joke was duly appreciated, but it fell on poor old Maria’s
bewildered ears with an ominous sound, as it were a knell of final doom.
“Not even coffin plates!” she murmured to herself; and her tears ceased
falling, and she sat gazing vaguely at the wrinkled hands clasped in her
lap. “Not even coffin plates!” Her actual misery had hitherto prevented
her from dwelling on that last inevitable end, but now it seemed to stare
her in the face. A pauper’s grave—that was what awaited her, as surely
as death itself.
She passed the next few days in a sort of dream of anguish, hardly taking
note of her surroundings; conforming, however, to the rules of the
establishment, and eating, or trying to eat, the food allotted to her
without further complaint or comment. One morning, however, on
endeavouring to rise, she fell sideways against her bed and fainted away.
When she recovered consciousness she found herself in a different part of
the house, in the infirmary, indeed, and a nurse was supporting her, and
the doctor stood by her bed. As her dim eyes fixed themselves upon his
face she recognised him: it was her own doctor; he had attended her—being
a young man then—when James was born, and he had done his best for
Stickly in his last illness.
“Why, Mrs. Stickly,” he said cheerily, “I didn’t expect to meet an old
friend.”
“No, sir,” said Maria faintly, and the dim eyes grew still more dim.
“Well, well, they will take good care of you here—you will not want for
anything.”
Maria’s lip trembled, but she said nothing; she followed the doctor
appealingly with her eyes as he moved about the room.
“Poor old soul,” he said to the nurse, after meeting this piteous gaze,
“she is eating out her heart here, but it won’t be for long—do all you
can for her, nurse; she is breaking up fast.”
The old woman did not catch the words, but she saw the compassionate
glance, and observed the infirmarian’s eyes directed towards her with a
certain amount of interest—merely professional interest if she had but
known it—and all at once a project took shape in her mind. If she asked
for the rosy plate now, perhaps they would not refuse her.
When the nurse inquired later on if she wished for anything, she took
courage to proffer her petition, very feebly and incoherently. There was
a plate, a plate which belonged to her, the rosy plate as she called it;
the lady kept it: the lady what lived in the room downstairs. Would the
nurse ask if she might have it—this in a strained and tremulous
whisper—she would keep it under her bed-clothes and no one should see,
but if she might just have it.
The nurse demurred, but good-naturedly, patting her pillows the while.
The matron, perhaps, would not be very well pleased if it were asked for;
it was a little difficult to ask her to break the rules; and, after all,
the plate couldn’t do Maria much good if it was to be kept under the
bed-clothes.
“Oh, yes, it would,” pleaded Maria.
“Well, then, go to sleep, and we’ll see about it in the morning.”
But when the morning came the nurse was busy; and in the afternoon the
matron was out. Thus, on one pretext or another, the realisation of the
poor old woman’s desire was perpetually postponed; and meanwhile she
herself grew hourly weaker. The feeble voice continued to falter her
request whenever the nurse came near her bed, and when she moved away
Maria’s pathetic gaze followed her, until the heavy lids dropped over the
weary eyes, and she forgot for a little while her unfulfilled longing.
Once, on opening her eyes after one of these brief spells of slumber, she
saw the doctor’s kind, familiar face looking down at her. His voice had
penetrated faintly to her inner consciousness before she had felt equal
to the task of raising her lids.
“Sinking fast!”—these were the words that had fallen upon her ears.
With the opening of Maria’s eyes there had leaped into them the appeal
which during her waking moments was never absent from them. The doctor
bent over her kindly.
“She wants something, poor old soul,” he said. “What is it, Mrs.
Stickly? What can we do for you?”
Maria’s cold, feeble hands came suddenly out from under the bed-clothes,
and closed round one of his: she rallied all her strength, and raised
herself a little; a light flickered for a moment in her eyes.
“I want my plate,” she gasped: “they’ve took away—my rosy plate—and they
won’t give it back to me!”
“Well, to be sure, she’s at that old plate again,” said the nurse; and
she began, half vexed and half laughing, to relate the story to the
doctor.
Maria had fallen back on her pillows, but she still clung desperately to
the doctor’s hand, and her gaze never left his face.
“I want my plate,” she repeated, when the nurse paused. “Do ’ee—ax ’em
to give it to me.”
The doctor withdrew his hand, but very gently.
“In the name of heaven,” he cried, “give the poor old creature her plate!
She hasn’t many hours to live.”
And so Maria’s last desperate appeal succeeded, and the doctor smiled as
he saw how eagerly she hugged it to her withered bosom. He did not know
that it represented for her Home, and all it had held of sweetness; that
clasping it she possessed once more Youth, and Love, and Hope.
Once more he bent over her:
“All right now, Maria, eh?”
Maria smiled, and a new thought seemed to strike her. “Doctor,” she said
feebly, but confidently too, “will ’ee ax ’em to put it in my coffin?”
As dawn drew nigh the night nurse paused near Maria’s bed, then, coming
closer, bent over it, then, turning up the light, bent lower still.
Straightening herself after a moment’s pause, she drew up the sheet
softly over the old woman’s face.
But the thin arms beneath were folded close and the face wore a smile of
bliss and peace, such as it might have worn more than half a century
before, when, as a young mother, she had clasped her first-born to her
breast.
* * * * *
“So she’s gone,” said the doctor. “Well, what did you do about the
plate?”
The nurse laughed, and twisted her apron.
“It seems a silly thing,” she said, “but there! it was the last thing she
asked me, and I someway felt I had to do it. I put it in her coffin.”