"Old Pomposity is hedgin’—see? Just like him! Comes to this, Susie. You was at death’s door, seemin’ly, but, by Gum! you pulled through because you wouldn’t leave me!"
"Works t’other way round with your mother. She’s made up her mind to die, and the doctor can’t argue her out of the notion. Her heart is weak, and if it begins flutterin’ it may stop for ever just because the pore old dear won’t will it to go on wigglin’. There y’are!"
Susan was much upset. She loved her mother, although the two women had little in common, and the feminine instinct of ministration, root-pruned by her husband, began to sprout vigorously. She paid long daily visits to Laburnum Row, and Quinney soon noticed a falling off in the quality of his food. Twice they were summoned in the middle of the night to say good-bye to a woman who believed herself to be dying.
"But, isn’t it? Let’s face the facts. You spend a lot o’ time away from home, away from Posy. Losin’ your nice fresh colour, you are! And I’m losin’ my appetite for the good meals I used to have."
"So she thinks. Quite likely to make old bones yet. Now, look here, I’ve a plan—the only plan. I simply won’t have you trapesin’ round to Laburnum Row at all hours of the day and night. Tell your mother to pack up and come to us."
She was hoist with her own petard. Protest died on her lips. She submitted, not daring to confess that a dying mother could be regarded by a dutiful daughter as an unwelcome visitor.
Mrs. Biddlecombe, however, refused, at first, to budge. "Let me die here, Joseph." Quinney used the clinching argument.
"You are not going to die, Mrs. B., but, if you did, just think of the sad job we’d have gettin’ you down them narrow stairs. And we never could receive all your friends in such a small parlour."
"That’s true," sighed Mrs. Biddlecombe. "There’s a lot in what you say, Joseph."
"There is, old dear! I’m uneducated, and I know it, but my talk is full o’ meat and gravy. It’s nourishing!"
Accordingly, Mrs. Biddlecombe came to the Dream Cottage, and was installed comfortably in the guest chamber. As time passed, the good lady grew to like her room so well that she refused to leave it. She became, in short, bedridden, and increasingly dependent upon Susan, who never failed her. Quinney began to spend his evenings away from home. He joined a club which met bi-weekly in a snug room at the Mitre. Susan encouraged him to join his friends, because she was terrified lest he should be bored at home. Also, his wanderings in search of furniture and china became more extended, and when he returned triumphant, exulting in wonderful bargains, she found it increasingly difficult to share his enthusiasm, and to rejoice with him over a prosperity which seemed to be driving them farther apart.