She had no woman's heart in her,
poor soul, to carry her woman's burden. Ah! many's the strange things
in women I see at my trade," and Madgy wrung out a cloth and mumbled to
herself--her old mouth folded inwards, as though she perpetually turned
all the secrets that she knew over and over within it.
"Your mother died because she'd set her heart on death," she added, to
Loveday, "but this one died because she dedn' know how to catch hold on
life. She'd a weak hand on everything she touched, because she never
wanted nawthen enough."
"Wanting's not getting, however hard you want," said Loveday.
"Ah! isn't it? It's getting, though you may have sorrow packed along wi'
it. Out of my way, maid; I must be busy overstairs." And old Madgy went
to ply the second part of her trade, for she washed the dead as well as
the newly-born; she laid coins on the eyes of the old and flannels on
the limbs of the young with the same smile between her rheumy lids and
on her folded mouth.
Loveday stayed awhile and helped Mrs. Lear, by milking the puzzled,
lowing cows and pouring the milk into the pans, but all the time they
worked the dead girl's name was never mentioned between them. It was
as though Loveday were making amends for the ill words that had been
between them by refraining her tongue from everything but her first
few accents of pity and amaze.
That pity was shared by all the neighbourhood, gentle and simple.
Time was, just before her marriage, when Primrose was accounted a
foolish and sinful maid enough, but married she had been, and into a
highly-respected family, for the Lears' graves had lain in the next best
position to those of the gentry for many generations, and, for their
sakes more than for hers, tributes flowed in to the funeral.
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