A Widow's Tale, and Other StoriesOliphant, Mrs. (Margaret)
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A Widow's Tale, and Other Stories
Oliphant, Mrs. (Margaret)
Fiction; Short stories
"In that case you may stay where you are," said the other; "we'll have
enough to do thinking of ourselves. Hallo!" said this young man, feeling
himself vigorously pushed aside from the coach door. This was the
arrival of another passenger, by whom the group of young men were pushed
aside to right and left by that free use of elbows and personal momentum
which an energetic woman of the lower orders uses with so little
scruple. This was a strong and vigorous maid-servant of middle age and
weighty person, leading a veiled and muffled personage who followed her
closely, and who bore the aspect of an old lady afflicted with toothache
or "tic," or one of those affections of the face which were then treated
freely with enveloping wraps to keep out the cold, and external
applications, and a total indifference to personal appearance. Indeed in
this case, as the face was entirely invisible, a thick veil of Spanish
lace, in a large pattern of heavy and close design, covering the small
amount which was not entirely obliterated by plaster and poultice
applied to the right cheek, there was not perhaps any inducement even to
undying vanity to attempt modification or concealment. The identity of
the veiled person it was quite impossible to divine--her wrapped-up
head was like a melon, a "sport" with one great bulge on the right
side: a faint glimmer of an eye between the crevices of the lace
pattern, a little colour, was all that was apparent; feature and form
and expression were all lost in the portentous envelopments. She clung
close to her protector with old and tremulous steps, and occasionally a
faint waggle of the misshapen and enormous head.
"Can ye no' see it's an auld leddy with the rheumatics in her head--and
jist you get out of the way, my fine callants, that kenna what trouble
is. Gang round to the other side of the coach if you have any more
blethers to say. Steady, mem, steady! take your time, this is the town
corner, the furdest frae the winds: and I'll pull up the window-glass,
and ye'll not feel a breath. You'll jist be as safe as gin ye were in
your auld chair with the wings at hame."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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