Kitabı oku: «A Fluttered Dovecote», sayfa 11
Chapter Nineteen.
Memory the Nineteenth – Our New Guardian
For a few moments after I woke I could not make out what made me feel so heavy and dull. Of course, it was partly owing to their ringing that stupid bell down in the hall so early, for fear we should have a morsel too much sleep; but all at once, as upon other occasions, I remembered about the previous night and poor Achille; when, of course, the first thing I did was to rush to the window and throw it up, to try and catch a glimpse of the scene of the last night’s peril, when the first thing my eyes rested upon was that horrid Miss Furness taking her constitutional, and, of course, as soon as she saw me she must shake her finger angrily, because I appeared at the window with my hair all tumbled. I never saw anything like that woman. I always did compare her to an old puss, for she seemed as if she could do without sleep, and always got up at such unnatural hours in the morning, even when the weather was cold and dark, and wet, when it seemed her delight to go out splashing and puddling about in her goloshes; and somehow, or another, she never seemed to catch cold as anybody else would if she had acted in the same way. It must have cost her half her salary for green silk umbrellas; for James generally managed to spoil every one’s umbrella when they were given him to dry, and Miss Furness never would use any but the neatest and most genteel-looking parapluies, being the only thing in which she displayed good taste.
Of course I had a good look out as soon as I was quite ready to go down, when I could see that the flower bed was a great deal trampled, one of the bushes was quite crushed, so that I knew there would be a terrible to do about it as soon as it was noticed.
“Well, is he there?” said Clara, “or is it only his pieces? Do make haste down, and run and secure his heart, before they pick it up, and put it on a barrow to wheel away.”
“La!” said wide-open-mouthed Patty, staring; “he would not break, would he?”
“Oh, yes,” replied Clara. “French gentlemen are very fickle and brittle, so I should not at all wonder if he broke.”
“Better break himself than the jam pots,” I said, spitefully, when Clara coloured up terribly, as she always did when the Signor was in any way alluded to; for though I did not like to hurt her feelings about the jam when she was shut up, of course, she had not been at liberty long before she heard all about it I know it was mean on my part to retaliate as I did, but then she had no business to speak in that way; for it was too bad to make fun out of such trouble. Then, of course, she must turn quite huffy and cross, and go down without speaking; for some people never can bear to be joked themselves, even when their sole delight consists in tormenting other people.
I could not but think that poor Achille had escaped unhurt, though at times I went through the same suffering as I did on the morning after the discovery in the conservatory; – and really, when one comes to think of it, it is wonderful that no suspicion ever attached to either Achille or myself over that dreadful set-out. Breakfast over, I seemed to revive a little; though I must confess that what roused me more than anything was Miss Furness finding out that I looked pale and red-eyed, and saying that she thought I required medicine.
“For you know, Miss Bozerne, a little foresight is often the means of arresting a dangerous illness; so I think I shall call Mrs de Blount’s attention to your state.”
“Oh, please, don’t, ma’am,” I said. “I assure you that I feel particularly well this morning.”
But she only gave one of her self-satisfied smiles and bows; when in came the tall footman to say that the gardener wished to speak with “missus.”
“Missus” was not there, so the footman went elsewhere to find her; but the very mention of that gardener brought my heart to my mouth, as people say; though I really wonder whether that is true – I should like to know. Then I had a fit of trembling, for I made sure that he had found poor Achille, lying where he had crawled, with all his bones broken, in some out-of-the way corner of the garden; perhaps, possibly, to slake his fevered thirst in my favoured spot, close by the ferns, and the miserable fountain that never played, green and damp beneath the trees.
But I could not afford to think; for just then the door was opened, and Mrs Blunt stood with it ajar, talking to the gardener in the hall, and of course I wanted to catch what he said; when, just as if out of aggravation, the girls made a terrible buzzing noise. But I heard enough to tell me that it was all about the past night, and I caught a word here and there about bushes broken, and big footsteps, and trampled, and so on; while, as a conclusion to a conversation which had roused my spirits by telling me that poor Achille had not been found, Mrs Blunt placed a terrible damper upon all by saying —
“It must have been the policeman, gardener; and he shall be spoken to respecting being more careful. But for the future we’ll have a big dog, and he shall be let loose in the garden every night.”
I could have rained down tears upon my exercises, and washed out the ink from the paper, when I heard those words; for in imagination, like some gladiator of old, in the brutal arena, gazed upon by Roman maids and matrons, when battling with some fierce wild beast of the forest, I saw poor Achille struggling with a deep-mouthed, fang-toothed, steel-jawed bloodhound, fighting valiantly to have but a minute’s interview with me; while, dissolving-view-like, the scene seemed to change, and I saw him, torn and bleeding, expiring fast, and blessing me with his last words as his eyes closed. Then I was planting flowers upon his grave, watering them with my tears, and plaiting a wreath of immortelles to hang upon one corner of the stone that bore his name, ere I departed for Guisnes to take the veil and shut myself for ever from a world that had been to me one of woe and desolation.
“Oh, Achille! beloved, martyred Achille!” I muttered, with my eyes closed to keep in the tears, when I was snatched back to the realities of the present by the voice of Miss Furness, who snappishly exclaimed —
“Perhaps you had better go and lie down for an hour, Miss Bozerne, if you cannot get on with your exercise without taking a nap in between the lines.”
I sighed – oh, so bitter and despairing a sigh! – and then went on with my task, sadly, sorrowfully, and telling myself that all was indeed now lost, and ’twere vain to battle with fate, and I must learn to sit and sorrow till the sun should shine upon our love.
The dog came.
Such a wretch! I’m sure no one ever before possessed such a horrible, mongrel creature. Instead of being a large, noble-looking mastiff or hound, or Newfoundland dog, it was a descendant, I feel convinced, of the celebrated Snarleyyow that used to bite poor Smallbones, and devour his dinner. It was one of those dogs that you cannot pet for love, because they are so disagreeable, nor from fear, because they will not let you; for every advance made was met by a display of teeth; while if you bribed it with nice pieces of bread, they were snapped from your hand, and the escapes of your fingers were miraculous. I should have liked to have poisoned the nasty, fierce thing; but, of course, I dared not attempt such a deed. And what surprised me was Mrs Blunt being able to get one so soon, though the reason was plain enough – the wretch had belonged to a neighbour who was only too glad to get rid of it, and hearing that Mrs Blunt wanted a dog, jumped at the chance, and I know he must have gone away laughing and chuckling. We used to call the horrid wretch Cyclops, for he had only one eye; but such an eye! a fiery red orb, that seemed to burn, while the wretch was as big almost as a calf. I knew that poor Achille would never dare any more adventures now for my sake; and it did seem such cruel work, for a whole fortnight had passed since I had heard from or seen him, for when the lesson was due after our last adventure, there came a note from Mrs Jackney’s, saying that Monsieur de Tiraille had been taken ill the night before, and was now confined to his bed.
Only think! confined to his bed, and poor Laura unable to go to him to tend him, to comfort him, and smooth his pillow, at a time when he was in such a state of suffering, and all through me – all for my sake! I’m sure I was very much to be pitied, though no one seemed to care; while as for Clara, she grew unbearable, doing nothing but laugh.
Oh, yes, I knew well enough what was the matter, and so did two more; but, to make matters ten hundred times more aggravating, that lean Miss Furness must go about sighing, and saying that it was a bilious attack, and that England did not agree with Monsieur Achille like la belle France; and making believe that she was entirely in his confidence, when I don’t believe that he had done more than send word to Mrs Blunt herself. And then, as if out of sympathy, Miss Furness must needs make a fuss, and get permission to take the French class – she with her horrid, abominable accent, which was as much like pure French as a penny trumpet is like Sims Reeves’s G above the stave.
“Oh, yes,” she said, “she should be only too happy to take the class while poor Monsieur Achille was ill.”
And one way and another, the old fright made me so vexed that I should have liked to make her jealous by showing her one of Achille’s letters.
So, as I said before we had a dog in the place; and, oh, such a wretch! I’m sure that no one ever before saw such a beast, and there it was baying and howling the whole night through.
The very first day he came to inhabit the smart green kennel that Mrs Blunt had had bought, he worked his collar over his ears and got loose, driving the gardener nearly mad with the pranks he played amongst the flowers; when who should come but poor meek, quiet, innocent, tame Monsieur de Kittville. The wretch made at him, seizing him by the leg of his trousers; but how he ever did it without taking out a bit of his leg I can’t make out, for his things were always dreadfully tight; and there was the wretch of a dog hanging on and dragging back, snarling the while, and the poor little dancing master defending himself with his fiddle, and shrieking out —
“Brigand! Cochon! Diable de chien! Hola, ho! Au secours! I shall be déchiré! Call off te tog!”
And at every word he banged the great beast upon the head with the little fiddle, till it was broken all to bits; but still the dog held on, until the gardener and James ran to his assistance.
“He won’t hurt you, sir,” said the great, tall, stupid footman, grinning.
“But he ayve hurt me, dreadful,” cried the poor dancing master, capering about upon the gravel, and then stooping to tie his handkerchief over his leg, to hide the place where the dog had taken out a piece of the cloth, and was now coolly lying down and tearing it to pieces. “I am hurt! I am scare – I am fright horrible!” cried poor Monsieur de Kittville; “and my nerves and strings – oh, my nerves and strings – and my leetle feetle shall be broken all to pieces. Ah, Madame Bloont, Madame Bloont, why you keep such monster savage to attack vos amis? I shall not dare come for give lessons. I am ver bad, ver bad indeed.”
“Oh, dear, oh, dear! how can I sufficiently apologise?” exclaimed Mrs Blunt, who had hurried up, and now began tapping the great dog upon the head with her fan. “I am so extremely sorry, Monsieur de Kittville. Naughty dog, then, to try and bite its mistress’s friends.”
“Aha, madame,” said the poor little man, forgetting his trouble in his excessive politeness and gallantry – “mais ce n’est rien; just nosing at all; but I am agitate. If you will give me one leetle glass wine, I shall nevare forget your bonté.”
“Oh, yes, yes – pray come in,” said Mrs Blunt.
And then we all came round the poor, trembling little martyr; and although we could not help laughing, yet all the while we pitied the good-tempered, inoffensive little man, till he had had his glass of wine and gone away; for, of course, he gave no lesson that day, and I must chronicle the fact that Mrs Blunt gave him a guinea towards buying a new instrument.
“But, oh, Clara,” I said, when we were alone, “suppose that had been poor Achille?”
“Oh, what’s the good of supposing?” said Clara, pettishly. “It was not him, and that ought to be enough.”
“But it might have been, though,” I said; “and then, only think!”
“Think,” said Clara, “oh, yes, I’ll think. Why, he is sure to have him some day.”
“Don’t dear, pray,” I said.
“And then,” continued Clara, “he’ll fight the dog, and kill him as King Richard did the lion.”
“Oh, please, don’t tease,” I said humbly; “I wonder how he is.”
“Miss Furness says he is better,” said Clara.
“How dare Miss Furness know?” I cried, indignantly.
“Dear me! How jealous we are!” she said, in her vulgar, tantalising way. “How should I know?”
And, for the daughter of a titled lady, it was quite disgusting to hear of what common language she made use.
“I don’t believe that she knows a single bit about it at all,” I said, angrily; for it did seem so exasperating and strange for that old thing to know, while somebody else, whom he had promised to make – but there, I am not at liberty to say what he had promised.
“You may depend upon one thing,” said Clara, “and that is that your Achille will not be invulnerable to dogs’ bites; though, even if he is, he will be tender in the heel, which is the first part that he will show Mr Cyclops, if he comes. But you will see if he does not take good care not to come upon these grounds after dark – that is, as soon as he knows about the dog. By-the-by, dear, what a dislike the dog seems to have to anything French.”
“I’d kill the wretch if it bit him,” I said.
Clara laughed as if she did not believe me.
“I would,” I said; “but I’ll take care somehow to warn him, so that he shall run no such risks. For I would not have him bitten for the world.”
“Of course not – a darling?” said Clara, mockingly.
And then no more was said.
But matters went unfortunately, and I had no opportunity for warning poor Achille, who was attacked in his turn by the wretch of a dog – who really seemed, as Clara said, to have a dislike to everything French; while, by a kind of clairvoyance, the brute must have known that poor Achille was coming. For, by a strange coincidence – not the first either that occurred during my stay at the Cedars – the creature managed to get loose, and lay in wait just outside the shrubbery until he came, when he flew at him furiously, as I will tell.
Chapter Twenty.
Memory the Twentieth – The New Prisoner
I had no idea that Achille was well enough to go on with the lessons, neither had anybody in the house; for Miss Furness had just summoned us all to the French class, and my mind was, to a certain extent, free from care and pre-occupation, when I heard a most horrible snarling and yelling, and crying for help. Of course I darted in agony to the window, when it was just as I had anticipated – just as I knew, by means of the electric current existing between our hearts – Achille was in peril; for the horrible dog had attacked him, and there he was in full flight.
As I reached the window, the wretch leaped upon him, seizing his coat, and tearing away a great piece of the skirt; but the next moment poor Achille made a bound, and caught at one of the boughs of the cedar he was beneath; and there he hung, with the horrible dog snapping and jumping at his toes every time they came low enough.
It was too bad of Clara, and whatever else I may look over, I can never forgive this; for she laughed out loudly in the most heartless way, and that set all the other girls off wildly, though Miss Furness, as soon as she saw what had happened, began to scream, and ran out of the room.
Only to think of it, for them all to be laughing, when the poor fellow must have been in agony! Now he contracted, now he hung down; then he drew himself up again, so that the dog could not reach him; but then, I suppose, from utter weariness, his poor legs dropped down again, and the vicious brute jumped at them, when of course poor Achille snatched them up again – who wouldn’t? – just as if he had been made of india-rubber, so Clara said. Such a shame, laughing at anyone when in torment! It was quite excruciating to see the poor fellow; and if I had dared I should have seized the poker and gone to his assistance. But, then, I was so horribly afraid of the wretched dog myself that I could not have gone near it; and there poor Achille still hung, suffering as it were a very martyrdom, with the dog snap, snap, snapping at his toes, so that I felt sure he would either be killed or frightfully torn. All at once, for I really could not keep it back, I gave a most horrible shriek, for though James was running to get hold of the dog, he was too late.
The beast – the dog I mean, not James – had taken advantage of poor Achille’s weariness, leaped up and seized him by one boot, when nature could bear no more weight, and I saw the unhappy sufferer fall right upon the dog; when there was a scuffle and noise of contention, and the cowardly animal ran yelping and limping off upon three legs; while Achille, looking pale and furious, stood straightening and brushing his clothes, and trying to put himself in a fit state to pay his visit.
That was the last I saw; for the next thing I remember is Mrs Blunt calling me a foolish, excitable girl; and they were sopping my face with cold water, making my hair all in such a wet mess, and the salts they held close to my nose were so strong that they nearly choked me.
“There, leave her now, young ladies, she is getting better,” said Mrs Blunt; for the horrible sick sensation was certainly going off, and I began to awaken to the feeling that Achille was safe. Then it struck me all at once that I must have fainted away from what I had seen, and the thoughts of those around being suspicious nerved me to rouse myself up and hide my confusion.
They wanted me to give up my French lesson that morning, but I declared that I was so much better that they let me go in, and I really did expect just a glance; but, no, he was like a piece of marble, and took not the slightest notice either of Clara or poor me. Then, too, he was as cross and snappish as could be, and found great fault, saying everything was disgracefully done, and that every one had been going back with the French ever since he had been away. But I did not mind that a bit; for I saw how it was making Miss Furness’s ears tingle, which was some consolation, seeing how hard she had been working us, and what a fuss she had been making, as if she were Monsieur Achille’s deputy; and really I was getting jealous of the tiresome old thing.
I took my snubbing very patiently; but I could not help feeling terribly angry when he rose to go, and, with an affectation of bashfulness, Miss Furness followed, simpering, looking, or rather trying to look, in our eyes, as if she were engaged. But I followed too, almost as soon as the door was closed; and to my rage and disgust I found the hall empty, with Achille’s hat still standing upon the table, so that he could not have gone.
“They must have gone into the drawing-room,” I muttered.
And then once more my head began to swim, for I felt raging – jealous; and it did seem a thing that, after all I had suffered and done for his sake, I was to be given up for a dreadful screwy thing, old enough to be my mother at the very least. But I would not faint this time, I was too angry; and stepping across the hall, I opened the drawing-room door, softly and quickly, and walked in just in time to see that base deceiver, Achille, kissing the hand of the old hypocrite. And how they did both flinch and cower before my indignant glance!
Miss Furness was, of course, the first to recover herself, and step forward in a vixenish manner, just as if she would have liked to bite.
“And pray, Miss Bozerne, what may be your business?” she exclaimed.
“Oh, I merely came for my wool-work,” I replied, in a tone of the most profound contempt; and, sweeping across the room, I fetched a piece of work that I knew to be under one of the chair cushions, and then I marched off, leaving Achille the very image of confusion, while as for Miss Furness, she was ready to fly at me with spite and anger.
I kept it up till I was outside the room, and had given the door a smart bang, when I rushed upstairs, and past Mrs Blunt, who called to me in vain to stop, and then to my bedroom, where I locked myself in, and had such a cry, as I dashed down the wool-work, and threw myself upon the bed, to lie with my burning cheek upon my pillow, and water it with my tears.
Rage, vexation, disappointment, love – I’m sure they were all mingled together, and sending me half wild. Only to think of his turning out a deceiver! – to leave me and go and pay court to a woman of forty, with a yellow skin, scraggy neck, and a temper of the most shrewish! I was so passionate then, that I jumped off the bed and ran to the glass, and if it too was not a deceiver, and did not tell me a story, I was handsome. But I vowed that I would be revenged for it all; and I stamped up and down the room, thinking of what would be the best way; but, somehow, I could not think of a plan then, so I lay down once more, and had another good cry.
“Never mind,” I said.
Then I raised myself upon my elbow, and just at that moment some one knocked.
“What is it?” I cried, after whoever it was had knocked four times, and would not go away.
“Mrs de Blount says that she requests you to descend directly,” said one of the younger pupils.
“Tell her I have a very bad headache,” I said, which really was a fact; and then I would not answer any more questions, for I was determined not to go down until all the marks of my crying had faded away, which I knew would not be for some time.
“Miss Furness won’t make me afraid of her any more,” I said to myself. “I’ve mastered her secret; and Achille dare not tell of me, for fear of betraying himself. I’ll serve them both out.”
I lay nursing up my wrath, till I felt obliged to cry again; and then, when I had done crying, I again picked up my wrath and nursed it; and so on, backwards and forwards, till all at once I started up, for there was one of those hideous German brass bands. A set of towy-headed, sleepy-faced boys were blaring out “Partant pour la Syrie” in the most horribly discordant manner, till James was sent to order them out of the grounds, when, to get the dreadful discords out of my head, and my mind more in tune, I took advantage of a permission lately given me by Mrs Blunt, and slipped quietly down into the drawing-room, which was now empty. Sitting down to the piano, I rattled away at “La Pluie de Perles” until my fingers ached again, when I took up something of Talexy’s, and I suppose it was all emotional, for I’m sure I never played so brilliantly before in my life – the notes seemed quite to sparkle under my fingers, and I kept on rattling away till I was tired, and dashed off the great finishing chords at the end.
Then I slammed down the piano, spun myself round upon the stool, and jumping up, I was about to make a pirouette, and what we girls, in happy, innocent, thoughtless days, used to call a cheese, when I gave a start, for Mrs Blunt was standing there with a lady in walking costume, who was smilingly inspecting me through a great gold eyeglass, just as if I were some curiosity; and, of course, instead of the pirouette, I made one of the spun-out, graceful obeisances so popular at the Cedars.
“One of our pupils,” said Mrs Blunt, in her most polite tones. “Mrs Campanelle Brassey – Miss Bozerne. Young and high-spirited, you see,” she continued, smiling benignantly upon me, just in the way that she had done when mamma was with me, and never since. “Young, happy, and light-hearted. Just at that age when life has no cares,” – couldn’t I have pinched her. “She adores melody – quite a daughter of the Muses.”
“Charming gyirl,” said the lady, smiling. “Sweetly featured – so gazelle-eyed. Most unaccountably like my Euphemia.”
“Indeed!” said Mrs Blunt. “How singular! They will, no doubt, be like sisters.”
“Charming for Euphemia, to be sure,” said Mrs Campanelle Brassey. “It will make the change from home so pleasant, and she will not pine.”
“No fear of that,” said Mrs Blunt – “ours is too home-like an abode.”
“No doubt,” said Mrs Campanelle Brassey. “And then there is that other charming gyirl – the one with the sweet, high-spirited features – the one you just now showed me. Lady – Lady – Lady Somebody’s daughter.”
“Lady Fitzacre’s,” said Mrs Blunt.
“To be sure,” said Mrs Campanelle Brassey. “Why, your establishment will be most enviable, Mrs Fortesquieu de Blount; for I’m sure that you will have the Three Graces within your walls.”
“Oh, fie!” exclaimed Mrs Blunt, playfully; “you are bringing quite a blush to the face of our young friend.”
My cheeks certainly were tingling, but it was only to hear them talk such twaddle; and I knew well enough now that they must have been looking on for some time, while Mrs Blunt only let me keep on strumming to show off before the visitor; for if it had been one of the girls who played badly, she would have been snubbed and sent off in a hurry for practising out of her turn.
For a moment, though, I felt a pang shoot through me – a jealous pang – as I thought that, if this new pupil came, she might bear off from me my Achille; while the next moment I was ready to laugh scornfully from the recollection that I had no Achille, that he was already another’s, that men were all false and deceivers, and that I could now turn satirical, and sympathise with Clara.
However, I showed none of the painful emotions sweeping through my breast, but took all in good part, and allowed Mrs Campanelle Brassey to tap me with her eyeglass, and kiss me on the cheek, which kiss was, after all, only a peck with her hooky nose; and then she must take what she called a fancy to me, and march me about with them all over the place, and call me “My love,” and “My sweet child,” and all that sort of stuff, when she was seeing me now for the first time; but, if I had been the most amiable of girls, but plain, like Grace Murray, instead of showy and dashing, she would not have taken the least mite of notice of me.
Yes: really, this is a dreadfully hypocritical world!
“My Euphemia will be charmed to know you, my love,” said Mrs Campanelle Brassey, looking at me as if I were good to eat, and she were a cannibal’s wife – “charmed, I’m sure.”
“I sha’n’t be charmed to know her,” I said to myself, “if she is as insincere as you.”
“I’m sure that you will soon be the best of friends. It will be so nice for her to have one to welcome her directly she leaves home, and, of course, we shall have the pleasure of seeing you on a visit at the Belfry during the vacation.”
Of course I thanked her, and thought that if I liked Euphemia I should very likely go home with her for a while, since all places now seemed the same to me, and I should require some délassement.
“This is one of our classrooms, my dear madam,” said Mrs Blunt, opening the door where all the girls were sitting, and just then Clara came across from the practice-room, with her music-book beneath her arm, for Mrs Blunt had taken care that Mrs Campanelle Brassey should not stand and hear her hammer away at the old ting-tang. Clara told me afterwards that she stopped as soon as the door opened. But then Clara never could play a bit, and I must say that she knew it, though, as I before said, her sketches were lovely.
“Charming, indeed,” said Mrs Campanelle Brassey, inspecting the girls through her glass, just as if it were a lens, and they were all so many cheese-mites.
Just then I exchanged glances with Miss Furness, but I was not going to be stared down; for feeling, as I did, fierce and defiant, I just contemptuously lowered my lids. Next moment the door was closed, and we went into the dining-room, and then upstairs to the dormitories.
“What a charming little nest!” exclaimed Mrs Campanelle Brassey, when we entered our room at last, after inspecting, I think, every chamber in the place – for everything really was kept beautifully nice, and neat, and clean; and, though plain, the furniture and carpets were tasty and nice – “what a charming little nest! Three beds, too! And pray who sleeps here?”
“Let me see,” said Mrs Blunt, affecting ignorance, “this is your room, is it not, my dear? Ah! yes, I remember; and you have Miss Fitzacre with you, and who else?”
“Miss Smith, ma’am,” I said, quietly.
“Ah, to be sure, Miss Smith,” said Mrs Blunt.
“Not a very aristocratic name,” said Mrs Campanelle Brassey, smiling, and twirling her eyeglass about. “Pity, now, that that bed is not at liberty; it would have been so charming for the three girls to have been together night and day. I suppose that you could not manage to change the present order, Mrs de Blount?”
“Shall I give up my bed, ma’am?” I said, quietly.
“Oh, dear me, no – by no means,” said Mrs Campanelle Brassey. “I thought, perhaps, as I had seen Lady Fitzacre’s daughter and yourself, and you seemed so much of an age, that it might have been possible for the young person of the name of – er – er – ”
“Smith,” suggested Mrs Blunt.
“Yes – er – for her to be exchanged into another room.”
Mrs Blunt thought that perhaps if her young friend did not object to being separated she might possibly manage it. And really I hoped she would; for any one, even Celia Blang – little spy that she was – would have been better than poor Patty.
“But I really should not like to introduce my dear child here at the expense of doing violence to anybody’s feelings,” said Mrs Campanelle Brassey.
“Oh, no! I know you would not wish that,” said Mrs Blunt; “and really, if Miss Smith objected at all to being removed, I don’t think I could – er – I should like to – to – ”
