Children of the Dear CotswoldsHarker, L. Allen (Lizzie Allen)
General
Children of the Dear Cotswolds
Harker, L. Allen (Lizzie Allen)
Cotswold Hills (England) -- Fiction
"I dare say she did," said Mrs. Cushion grimly; "and there was many as
would have gone, too, if they’d had the chanst. If it’s not taking a
liberty, miss, was you exactly _draw’d_ to Mrs. Robinson?"
"Certainly not," I replied. "I couldn’t get on with her at all. Are
they popular in the parish?"
"It’s not for me to say, miss. I left two months after they did come.
They was new brooms, you see, and swep’ away a lot of old customs. They
wasn’t like the Reverend ’ere—he’s all for ’live and let live’—but they
was all for making every one live as they thought proper. I don’t say
they was wrong, and I don’t say they was right, but whichever it was, it
weren’t peaceable.
"But," concluded Mrs. Cushion, "I’ve no business gossiping here, and you
wanting your tea."
So she left me to my tea and the reflection that she had neither
contradicted nor confirmed Mrs. Robinson’s statement.
During the next couple of days I was conscious of a certain constraint
in our, hitherto, completely cordial relationship. Mrs. Cushion was just
as careful as ever for my comfort—everything was just as well done, and
meals as punctual, and rooms spick and span as before; but I missed
something. I missed the interest she used to take in me and the interest
she allowed me to take in her. She was still the perfect landlady, but
I grievously missed the frank and genial human being.
I had lunched with the vicar and his guests on Tuesday. On Friday
afternoon Mrs. Cushion got a lift into "Ziren" to do some shopping, and
I had to take my own letters to the post office. I met the vicar on his
way to call on me, and he turned back and walked with me, and I speedily
perceived that something worried him. The vicar is stout and gouty, and
walks but slowly. We only just caught the post, and then he asked me to
go with him to the vicarage to look at a black dahlia in his garden
before the first frosts took it.
In the garden he stopped long before we came to the dahlias and
exclaimed, "I’ve heard from that vexatious woman."
"Mrs. Robinson?"
"Yes; just read her letter."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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