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The Cuckoo in the Nest. Volume 1/2
CHAPTER VI
Gervase went home as she had told him, not bounding after the stone like a dog who has got its heart’s desire, but steadily, a little heavily, somewhat disappointed, yet full of expectation, and always faithful. Something was going to be done for him that would result in Patty’s standing by him for ever, and helping him to all he wanted. He did not know what it was; he was by no means sure that he would understand what it was were he told; but she did, and that was enough. It was going to be done for him, while he had no trouble and would only reap the results. That was how it was going to be all the rest of the time. Patty would take the responsibility. She would face everything for him. She would stand between him and his mother’s jibes and his father’s occasional roar of passion. Gervase was dimly sensible that his people were ashamed of him, that they thought him of little account. But Patty did not feel like that. She, too, jibed at him, it is true; but then she jibed at everybody, even Roger. It was different, and she would let no one else jibe. She would take all the responsibility; with her beside him, standing by him, or perhaps in front of him, standing between him and all that was disagreeable, he should escape all the ills of life. He should not be afraid of any one any more. He went back to the hall determined to carry out his orders. For her sake he would make a martyr of himself all that evening; he would sit with the old folks and do his best to please them. He would talk about London and how he wished to see it. He would say he was tired of the country – even that, since Patty told him to do so. To be sure, if there was no Patty, he would be tired of it; if the Hall meant the country, yes, indeed, he was tired enough of that. He went home not in the least knowing what to do with himself; but faithful, faithful to his orders. Dash, when commanded to give up the wild delights of a run and watch a coat, or a stick, did it resignedly with noble patience, and so did Gervase now: he had, so to speak, to watch Patty’s coat while she went and did the work; it is the natural division of labour when one of two is the faithful dog rather than the man.
He began, three or four times, as he went along, that game with the white pebbles against the brown, and then remembered that it was silly, and pulled himself up. He would not like Patty to know that he had a habit of doing that. He was aware, instinctively, that it would seem very silly to her. Three, four, and five; and a great big one that ought to count three at least for the right hand man. No; he wouldn’t do it; it was silly; it was like a child, not a man. What, he wondered, was she going to do? Not go to the rector, because she had herself objected to that. Another way – he wondered what other way there could be – that dispensed with both parson and clerk? But that, thank Heaven, was Patty’s affair, and she had promised that she would do it. Seven brown ones in a row; such luck for the left-hand man! But no, no; he would not pay any attention to that. Patty would think him a fool for his pains. What was she doing – she that knew exactly what it was best to do? What a woman she was, up to everything; seeing with one look of her eye what he never would have found out, that it was not the right thing to speak to the rector, nor to the clerk, who was still worse than the rector. How much better it was that it should be all in her hands! How was a man to know, who had never been married himself, who knew nothing about such things, how to put up banns? What were banns? He had heard people asked in church, but he was not sure about the other name. Was it something, perhaps, to hang up like a picture? These thoughts did not pass through Gervase’s mind in so many words, but floated after each other vaguely, swimming in a dumb sort of consciousness. He had, perhaps, never had so many all turning round and crossing each other before. Generally it was only the pebbles he thought of as he walked unless when it was Patty. It gave him a strange sort of bewildering sense of life to feel how many things he was thinking of – such a crowd of different things.
In the beech avenue, going up and down in his chair, pushed by Dunning, and with Osy capering upon a stick before him, Gervase came upon his father taking his morning “turn.” He remembered what Patty said about being agreeable to the old folks, and he also had a certain pleasure in wheeling his father’s chair. So he stopped and pushed the servant away. “You go and take a rest, Dunning. I’ll take Sir Giles along,” he said. “You mustn’t play any tricks, Mr. Gervase,” said the man, resisting a little. “What tricks should I play? I can take care of my father as well as any one, I hope,” cried Gervase, taking with energy the back of the chair. It went along a little more quickly perhaps, but Sir Giles did not mind that. “Young legs go faster than ours, Dunning,” he said to his servant; “but stand you by, old man, in case Mr. Gervase gets tired.” “Oh, I’ll stand by. I’ll not leave that Softy in charge of my master,” Dunning said to himself. “Oh, I’ll not get tired, father,” said Gervase aloud. This was quite a delightful way of uniting obedience to Patty’s commands with pleasure to himself. “I’ll take you all round the grounds, father. Ain’t you tired of this beastly little bit of an avenue? I’ll take you faster, as fast as the carriage if you like.” “No, my boy, this’ll do,” said Sir Giles; “fair and softly goes the furthest.” Dunning came on behind shaking his head.
“You tan’t ride so fast as me, Uncle Giles,” cried little Osy, prancing upon his wooden steed.
“Can’t he, though, you little beggar. He’d soon run you out of breath, if I was to put on steam!”
“Oh, tome on, tome on!” cried Osy, flourishing his whip; and off Gervase tore, sweeping the chair along, with Dunning after him panting and exclaiming, and Sir Giles laughing, but shaking with the wild progress of the vehicle which usually went so quietly. The old gentleman rather liked it than otherwise, though when Gervase stopped with a sudden jerk and jar, he was thrown back upon his pillows, and seized with a fit of coughing. “You see you cannot do everything, little ’un; there’s some that can beat you,” cried Gervase, waving his long arms, and drawing up his sleeves. Osy had been thrown quite behind, and came up panting, his little countenance flushed, and his little legs twisting as he ran, the child no longer making any pretence to be a prancing steed. “Are you game for another run?”
“Yes, I’m dame,” cried little Osy, making a valorous struggle for his breath.
“No, no, that’s enough,” cried Sir Giles, coughing and laughing, “that’s enough, Gervase. No harm done, Dunning – you need not come puffing like a steam engine; but halt, Gervase, no more, no more.”
“Uncle Giles, I’m dame, tome on; Uncle Giles, I’m dame,” shouted Osy flourishing his little cap.
This scene was seen from my lady’s chamber with extremely mingled feelings. Lady Piercey sat in the recess of the window, where, in the evening, that querulous light had burned, waiting till Gervase came home. She had an old-fashioned embroidery frame fixed there, and worked at it for half an hour occasionally, with Margaret Osborne in attendance to thread her needles. Parsons had long since declared that her eyes were not equal to it, but with Mrs. Osborne there could be no such excuse. Lady Piercey had forgotten all about her work in watching. “There is my boy Gervase wheeling his father,” she said; “look out, look out, Meg. Whatever you may say, that boy is full of feeling. Look! He has taken it out of Dunning’s hands. See how pleased your uncle is; and little Osy acting outrider, bless him. Oh!” cried Lady Piercey with a shriek. Her terror made her speechless. She fell back in her chair with passionate gesticulations, grasped Margaret, and pulled her to the window, then thrust her away, pointing to the door. “Go! go!” she cried with a great effort, in a choked voice – which Parsons heard, and came flying from the next room.
“It’s nothing, aunt; see, they’ve stopped. It’s all right, Uncle Giles is laughing.”
“Go! go!” cried the old lady, pointing passionately to the door.
“Go, for goodness gracious sake, Mrs. Osborne. My lady will have a fit.”
“There is nothing – absolutely nothing, aunt. They’ve stopped. Dunning has taken his place again; there’s no need for interfering. Ah!” Margaret gave just such a cry as Lady Piercey had done, and flinging down her little sheaf of silks upon the frame, turned and flew from the room, leaving the old lady and her maid exchanging glances of consternation. And yet the cause of Mrs. Osborne’s sudden change of opinion was not far to seek; it was that Gervase had seized little Osy and swung him up to his shoulder, where the child sat very red and uneasy, but too proud to acknowledge that he was afraid.
“Put down my child this moment!” cried Margaret, descending like a thunderbolt in the midst of the group.
“He’s as right as a trivet. I’m going to give him a ride. I haven’t given him a ride for a long time. Hi! Osy, ain’t you as right as a trivet, and got a good seat?”
“Yes, tousin Gervase,” said the boy with a quaver in his voice, but holding his head high.
“Put him down this moment!” cried Margaret, stamping her foot and seizing Gervase by the arm.
“I’ll put him down when he’s had his ride. Now, old Dunning, here’s for it. We’ll race you for a sovereign to the gate. Sit tight, Osy, or your horse will throw you – he’s as wild as all the wild horses that ever were made.”
“Div me my whip first,” cried the child. He was elated though he was afraid. “And I won’t ride you if you haven’t a bit in your mouff.” Once more the little grimy pocket-handkerchief was brought into service. “Here’s the bit, and I’m holding you in hand. Now, trot!”
Margaret stood like a ghost, while the wild pair darted along the avenue, Gervase prancing with the most violent motion, little Osy sitting very tight, holding on to his handkerchief with the tightness of desperation, his cheeks blazing and throbbing with the tumultuous colour of courage, excitement, and fright. They are things which consist with each other. The child was afraid of nothing, but very conscious that he had once before been thrown from Gervase’s shoulder, and that the prospect was not a pleasant one. As for the spectators, Sir Giles in his chair and his wife at the window, they were in a ferment of mingled feeling, afraid for their pet, but excited by this new development on the part of their son. “Mr. Gervase is really taking great care,” gasped Lady Piercey to her maid. “Don’t you see? He’s got the child quite tight – not like that other time; Master Osy is quite enjoying it.”
“Oh yes, my lady,” said Parsons, doubtfully; “he’s got such a spirit.”
“And his cousin is so kind, so kind. There’s nobody,” said the old lady, with a sob and a gasp, “so good to children as my Gervase. There! thank Heaven, he’s put him down. Miss Meg – I mean Mrs. Osborne is making a ridiculous fuss about it,” said Lady Piercey, now running all her words into one in the relief of her feelings, “as if there was any fear of the child!”
Little Osy had swung down through the air with a sinking whirl as if he had shot Niagara, but once on firm ground, being really none the worse, tingled to his fingers’ ends with pride and triumph. He gave a smack of his little whip with his right hand, while with the other he clutched his mother’s dress, trembling and glowing. “Dood-bye, dood horse; I’ll – I’ll wide you again another time,” he shouted, with a slight quaver in his voice.
Sir Giles was half-weeping, half-laughing, in the excitement of his age and weakness. Now that the child was safe, he, too, was delighted and proud. “Good’un to go, ain’t he, Osy?” he cried. “But I say, lad, you oughtn’t to caper like that; he’s a deal too fresh, Dunning, eh? wants to have it taken out of him.”
“Yes, Sir Giles,” said Dunning. (“And I’d just like to take it out of him with a cart whip,” he murmured, between his closed teeth.)
Lady Piercey was weeping a little, too, at her window, calming down from her excitement. “How strong he is, bless him, and well-made when he holds himself straight; and wouldn’t harm the child not for the world, or any one that trusts him. Oh, Parsons, what a joyful family we’d be if Master Osy had been my son’s boy!”
“Bless you, my lady, he’s too young to have a boy as big as that.”
“So he is, the dear. If I could live to see him with an heir, Parsons!”
“And why not, my lady? You’re not to call old, and with proper care and taking your medicines regular – one of these days he’ll be bringing home some nice young lady.” (“Some poor creature as will be forced to take ’im, or else Patty of the Seven Thorns,” was Parsons’ comment within herself.)
“And then that poor little darling!” said Lady Piercey, regretfully. “But,” she added with a firmer tone, “Meg spoils the boy to such a degree that he’ll be ruined before he’s a man. Look at her petting him as if he’d been in any danger; but she never had an ounce of sense. Get me my things, Parsons; I’ll go down and sit in the air a bit and talk to my boy.”
Gervase had fallen out of his unusual liveliness before his mother succeeded in reaching the beech avenue, but he came forward at her call, and permitted her to take his arm. “I like to see you in spirits,” the old lady said, “but you mustn’t shake about your father like that. Dunning’s safest for an old man.”
“I’ll drive you out in the phaeton, mother, if you like, this afternoon.”
“No, my dear; I feel safest in the big carriage with the cobs, and old Andrews; but it’s a pleasure to see you in such spirits, Gervase; you’re like my own old boy.”
“You see,” said Gervase, with his imbecile, good-humoured smile, “I’ve promised to do all I can to please you at home.”
“Ah!” cried the old lady, “and who might it be that made you promise that? and why?”
Gervase broke into a laugh. “Wouldn’t you just like to know?” he said.
CHAPTER VII
“Osy,” said Mrs. Osborne, “you mustn’t let cousin Gervase get hold of you like that again.”
“He’s a dood horse,” said the little boy, “when I sit tight. I have to sit vewey tight; but next time I’ll get on him’s both shoulders, and hold him like a real horse. He’s dot a too narrow back, and too far up from the ground.”
“But listen to me, Osy. It makes me too frightened. You mustn’t ride him again.”
“I’ll not wide him if I can help it,” said Osy, reddening with mingled daring and terror, “but he takes me up before I can det far enough off, and I tan’t run away, mamma.”
“But you must run away, Osy, when I tell you.”
The child looked up at her doubtfully. “It was you that told me gemplemens don’t run away.”
“Not before an enemy, or that,” said Margaret, taking refuge in the vague, “but when it’s only for fun, Osy.”
“Fun isn’t never serous, is it, mamma?”
“It would be very serious if you fell from that fo – , from Cousin Gervase’s shoulder, Osy. Go out for a walk this afternoon, dear, with nurse.”
“I don’t like nurse. I like Uncle Giles best. And I’m the outwider, telling all the people he’s toming.”
“You see Uncle Giles has got something else to do.”
Gervase was still in the foreground of the picture, carrying out his consigne. The servant had brought out upon the terrace at the other side of the house a box containing a game of which, in former days, Sir Giles had been fond. It was Gervase who had proposed this diversion to-day. “I’ll play father a game at that spinner thing,” he had said, after the large heavy luncheon, which was Sir Giles’ dinner. “I’d like that, lad,” the old man cried with delight. It was a beautiful afternoon, and nothing could be more charming than the shady terrace on the east side of the house which in these hot July days was always cool. The sunshine played on the roof of the tall house, and fell full on the turf and the shrubs, and the flower garden at the south corner, but on the terrace all was grateful shade. The game was brought out, and many experiments were made to see at what angle Sir Giles could best throw the ball with which it was played – an experiment in which Dunning took more or less interest, seeing it saved him another weary promenade through the grounds, pushing his master’s chair. The carriage was waiting round the corner, and Lady Piercey came sailing downstairs with Parsons behind her carrying a large cloak. “Meg! do you know I’m ready to go out?” cried Lady Piercey, in the tone of that king who had once almost been made to wait. “May I bring Osy, aunt?” cried Margaret. “No,” was the peremptory answer. “I’ll go without you if you don’t be quick.”
“And I don’t want to go, mover,” said Osy. “I’m doing to play with Uncle Giles.”
“Come along, little duffer,” cried Gervase; “I’ll give you another ride when we’ve done playing.”
“Meg, come this moment!” cried Lady Piercey; and Margaret, with agonised visions, was compelled to go. Bitter is the bread of those who have to run up and down another man’s stairs, and be as the dogs under his table. “Oh!” Margaret Osborne said to herself, “if I had but the smallest cottage of my own! If I could but take in needlework or clear starching, and work for my boy!” Perhaps the time might come when that prayer should be fulfilled, and when it would not seem so sweet as she thought.
Lady Piercey took her usual drive in a long round through the familiar roads which she had traversed almost every day for the last thirty years. She knew not only every village, but every cottage in every village, and every tree, and every clump of wild honeysuckle or clematis flaunting high upon the tops of the hedges. By dint of long use, she had come to make that frequent, almost daily, progress without seeing anything, refreshed, it is to be supposed, by the sweep of the wide atmosphere and all the little breezes that woke and breathed about her as she went over long miles and miles of green country, all monotonously familiar and awakening no sensation in her accustomed breast. She thought of her own affairs as she made these daily rounds, which many a poorer woman envied the old lady, thinking how pleasant it would be to change with her, and see the world from the luxurious point of vantage of a landau with a pair of good horses, and a fat coachman and agile footman on the box. But Lady Piercey thought of none of these advantages, nor of the beautiful country, nor the good air, but only of her own cares, which filled up all the foreground of her life, as they do with most of us. After a while, being forced by the concatenation of circumstances, she began to discuss these cares with Margaret, which was her custom when Parsons, who knew them all as well as her ladyship, was out of the way. Mrs. Osborne was made fully aware that it was because there was no one else near, that she was made the confidant of her aunt’s troubles; but she listened, nevertheless, very dutifully, though to-day with a somewhat distracted mind, thinking of her child, and seeing an awful vision before her of Osy tossed from Gervase’s shoulder and lying stunned on the ground, with nobody but Dunning and Sir Giles to look after him. This made her perhaps less attentive than usual to all Lady Piercey’s theories as to what would be the making of Gervase, and save him from all difficulties and dangers. The old lady was not deceived in respect to her son; she was very clear-sighted, although in a moment of excitement, as on that morning, she might be ready to credit him with ideal virtues; on ordinary occasions nothing could be more clear than her estimate, or more gloomy than her forecast, of what his future might be.
“I am resolved on one thing,” said Lady Piercey, “that we must marry him by hook or crook. I hate the French: they’re a set of fools, good for nothing but dancing and singing and making a row in the world; but I approve their way in marrying. They would just look out a suitable person, money enough, and all that, and he’d have to marry her whether he liked it or not. Are you listening, Meg? If your uncle had done that with you, now, what a much better thing for you than pleasing your fancy as you did and grieving your heart!”
“I’m not worth discussing, aunt, and all that’s over and gone long ago.”
“That’s true enough; but you’re an example, and if I think proper, I’ll use it. I dare say Captain Osborne thought you had a nice bit of money when he first began to think of you, and was a disappointed man when he knew – ”
“Aunt, I cannot have my affairs discussed.”
“You shall have just what I please and nothing else,” said the grim old lady. “I have had enough of trouble about you to have a right to say what I please. And so I shall do, whatever you may say. A deal better it would have been for you if we had just married you, as I always wished, to a sensible man with a decent income, who never would have left you to come back upon your family, as you have had to do. That’s a heavy price to pay, my dear, for the cut of a man’s moustache. And I’d just like to manage the same for my own boy, who is naturally much more to me than you. But then there’s the girl to take into account; girls are so much indulged nowadays, they take all kinds of whimseys into their heads. Now I should say, from my point of view, that Gervase would make an excellent husband; if she was sensible, and knew how to manage, she might turn him round her little finger. What do you say? Oh, I know you are never likely to think of anything to the advantage of my boy.”
“I think my cousin Gervase has a great many good qualities, aunt; whether you would be doing right in making him marry, is another matter.”
“Oh, you think so! it would be better to leave him unmarried, and then when we die Osy would have the chance? For all so clever as you are, Meg, I can see through you there. But Osy has no chance, as you ought to know. There’s the General, and his son, Gerald – a new name in the family, as if the Gileses and the Gervases were not good enough for a younger branch! If it was Osy, bless the child, I don’t know that I should mind so much,” the old lady said in a softened tone, with a tear suddenly starting in the corner of her eye.
“Thank you for thinking that,” said Margaret, subdued. “I know very well it could never be Osy.”
“But there might be another Osy,” said Lady Piercey, putting away that tear with a surreptitious finger. “There never was a brighter man than your uncle, and I’m no fool; and yet you see Gervase – What’s to hinder Gervase from having a boy like his father if the mother of it was good for anything? A girl, if she had any sense, might see that. What’s one person in a family? The family goes on and swamps the individual. You may be surprised at me using such words; but I’ve thought a deal about it – a great deal about it, Meg. A good girl of a good race, that is what he wants; and, goodness gracious, if she only knew how to set about it, what an easy time she might have!”
To this, Margaret, being probably of another opinion, made no reply; and Lady Piercey, after an expectant and indignant pause, burst forth – “You don’t think so, I suppose? You think the only thing he’s likely to get, or that is fit for him, is this minx at the Seven Thorns?”
“I never thought so,” cried Margaret, “nor believed in that at all – never for a moment.”
“That shows how much you know,” said the old lady, with a snort of anger. “I believe in it, if you don’t. Who is he staying at home to-day and trying to please, the booby! that hadn’t sense enough to keep that quiet? Don’t you see he’s under orders from her? Ah, she knows what’s what, you may be sure. She sees all the ways of it, and just how to manage him. The like of you will not take the trouble to find out, but that sort of minx knows by nature. Oh, she has formed all her plans, you may be sure! She knows exactly how she is going to do it and baffle all of us; but I shall put a spoke in my lady’s wheel. My lady!” cried Lady Piercey, with the irritation of one who feels her own dearest rights menaced; “she is calculating already how soon she’ll get my name and make me the dowager! I know it as well as if I saw into her; but she is going a bit too fast, and you’ll see that I’ll put a spoke in her wheel! John! you can turn back now, and drive to the place I told you of. I want to ask about some poultry at that little inn. You know the name of it.”
“The Seven Thorns, my lady?” said John, turning round on the box, with his hand at his hat, and his face red with suppressed laughter, made terrible by fear of his mistress – as if he and the coachman had not been perfectly well aware, when the order was given, what kind of wildfowl was that pretended poultry which took Lady Piercey to the Seven Thorns!
“So it is; that was the name,” said the old lady. “You can take the first turning, and get there as quick as possible. You’ll just see how I shall settle her,” she added, nodding her head as soon as the man’s back was turned.
“Do you mean to see the girl, aunt?” cried Margaret, in surprise and alarm.
“What’s so wonderful in that? Of course I mean to see her. I shall let her know that I understand all her little plans, and mean to put a stop to them. She is not to have everything her own way.”
“But, aunt, do you think a girl of that kind will pay any attention? – don’t you think that perhaps it will do more harm than – ”
“I know that you have always a fine opinion of your own people, Meg Piercey! and of me especially, that am only your aunt by marriage. You think there’s nothing I can do that isn’t absurd – but I think differently myself, and you shall just see. Attention? Of course she will pay attention. I know these sort of people; they believe what you tell them in a way you wouldn’t do: they know no better. They’re far cleverer than you in some things, but in others they’ll believe just what you please to tell them,” said Lady Piercey, with a fierce toss of her head, “if you speak strong enough; and I promise you I sha’n’t fail in that!”
The carriage swept along with an added impulse of curiosity and expectation which seemed to thrill through from the men on the box, who formed an impatient and excited gallery, eager to see what was going to happen, to the calm, respectable horses, indifferent to such mere human commotions, who probably were not aware why they were themselves made to step out so much more briskly. The carriage reached the Seven Thorns at an hour in the afternoon which was unusually quiet, and which had been selected by Patty on that account for an expedition which she had to make. She was coming out of her own door, when the two cobs drew up with that little flourish which is essential to every arrival, even at a humble house like that of the Seven Thorns, and stood there for a moment transfixed, with a sudden leap of excitement in all her pulses at the sight of the heavy old landau, which she, of course, knew as well as she knew any cart in the village. Was it possible that it was going to stop? It was going to stop! She stood on her own threshold almost paralysed, stupefied – though at the same time tingling with excitement and energy and wonder. My lady in her carriage, the great lady of the district! the potentate whom Patty of the Seven Thorns, audacious, meant to succeed, if not to supersede! The effect upon her for the first moment was to make her knees tremble, and her strength fail; for the next, to brace her up to a boldness unknown to her, though she had never before been timid at any time.
“If you please, my lady,” said John, obsequious, yet with his eyes dancing with excitement and curiosity, at the carriage door, “that is Miss Hewitt of the Seven Thorns on the doorstep, if it is her your ladyship wants. Shall I say your ladyship wishes to – ”
“Look here! you’ve got to go off to the post-office at once to get me some stamps. I’ll manage the rest for myself,” said Lady Piercey, thrusting two half-crowns into the man’s hand. Poor John! with the drama thus cut short at its most exciting moment! She waited till he had turned his back, and then she waved her hand to Patty, still standing thunderstricken on the threshold. “Hi! – here!” cried Lady Piercey, who did not err in her communications with the country people round her on the civil side.
If it had not been for overpowering excitement, curiosity, and the desire for warfare, which is native to the human breast, Patty would have stood upon her dignity, disregarded this peremptory call, and marched away. She almost tried to do so, feeling more or less what an immense advantage it would have given her, but her instinct was too strong – a double and complicated instinct which moved her as if she had not been at all a free agent: first, the impulse to obey my lady, which was a thing that might have been overcome, but second, the impulse to fight my lady, which was much less easy to master, and, last of all, an overpowering, dizzying, uncontrollable curiosity to know what she could have to say. She stepped down from her own door deliberately, however, and with all the elegance and eloquence she could put into her movements, and went slowly forward to the carriage door. She was in her best dress, which was not, perhaps, so becoming to Patty as the homelier attire, which was more perfect of its kind than the second-rate young ladyhood of her Sunday frock. Her hat was very smart with flowers and bows of velvet, which happened to be the fashion of the time, and she carried a parasol covered with lace, and wore a pair of light gloves, which were not in harmony with the colour of her dress – neither, indeed, were Lady Piercey’s own gloves in harmony with her apparel, but that was a different matter. The old lady’s keen glance took in every article of Patty’s cheap wardrobe, with a comment on the way these creatures dress! as she came forward with foolish deliberation, as if to allow herself time to be examined from head to foot.
“You are Patty, that used to come out so well in the examinations,” Lady Piercey said, with a breathlessness which showed what excitement existed on her side.
