There
stood, large and solid, the mealark of black oak, with the date,
1644, carved just below the heavy lid, more than 200 years old, and
as sound as ever. The sloping mirror over the chest of drawers was
still supported by the four seasons, one at each corner. Above it
was Queen Caroline, with the crown on her head, and the sceptre in
her hand, seated in a magnificent Roman chariot, drawn by the lion
and the unicorn. That team had tortured my young soul for years. I
could never understand why that savage lion had not long ago devoured
both the Queen and the unicorn.
My old love was looking at me, and at last she put one hand on my
knee, and said:
"It's George."
"Yes," I said, "it's George."
She gazed a while into the fire and said:
"Alice is dead."
"Yes, Alice is dead."
"And Jenny is dead."
"Yes, and Jenny. They are at the bottom of the sea."
In that way she counted a long list of the dead, which she closed
by saying:
"They are all gone but Joe."
She had been a widow more than twenty-five years. She was a young
woman, tall and strong, before Bonaparte, Wellington, the United
States, or Australia, had ever been heard of in Lancashire, and from
the top of a stile she had counted every windmill and chimney in
Preston before it was covered with the black pall of smoke from the
cotton-mills.
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