Chapter 7 - Page 2

huge-jointed,
double-fisted giantess, admirably fitted to sustain the part of
Glumdalia, in the tragedy of "Tom Thumb." Her features were as excellent
as her form, appearing to have been rough-hewn with a broadaxe, and left
unpolished. The other was a short, squat figure, about two thirds the
height, and three times the circumference, of ordinary females. Her hair
was gray, her complexion of a deep yellow; and her most remarkable feature
was a short snub nose, just discernible amid the broad immensity of her
face. This latter lady was she who now entered Edward's chamber.
Notwithstanding her deficiency in personal attractions, she was rather a
favorite of the students, being good-natured, anxious for their comfort,
and, when duly encouraged, very communicative. Edward perceived, as soon
as she appeared, that she only waited his assistance in order to disburden
herself of some extraordinary information; and, more from compassion than
curiosity, he began to question her.

"Well, Dolly, what news this morning?"

"Why, let me see,--oh, yes! It had almost slipped my memory," replied the
bed-maker. "Poor Widow Butler died last night, after her long sickness.
Poor woman! I remember her forty years ago, or so,--as rosy a lass as you
could set eyes on."

"Ah! has she gone?" said Edward, recollecting the sick woman of the
cottage which he had entered with Ellen and Fanshawe. "Was she not out of
her right mind, Dolly?"

"Yes, this seven years," she answered. "They say she came to her senses a
bit, when Dr. Melmoth visited her yesterday, but was raving mad when she
died. Ah, that son of hers!--if he is yet alive. Well, well!"

"She had a son, then?" inquired Edward.

"Yes, such as he was. The Lord preserve me from such a one!" said Dolly.
"It was thought he went off with Hugh Crombie, that keeps the tavern now.
That was fifteen years ago."

"And have they heard nothing of him since?" asked Edward.

"Nothing good,--nothing good," said the bed-maker.

"Stories did travel up the valley now and then; but for five years there
has been no word of him. They say Merchant Langton, Ellen's father, met
him in foreign parts, and would have made a man of him; but there was too
much of the wicked one in him for that. Well, poor woman! I wonder who'll
preach her funeral sermon."

"Dr. Melmoth, probably," observed the student.

"No, no! The doctor will never finish his journey in time. And who knows
but his own funeral will be the end of it," said Dolly, with a sagacious
shake of her head.

"Dr. Melmoth gone a journey!"