English fiction -- 19th century; Tailors -- Fiction
The Countess commenced fanning her languid brows, and then pursued:
“Now, my dear brother, I may conclude that you will acquiesce in my
moderate wishes. You remain. My venerable friend cannot last three
days. She is on the brink of a better world! I will confide to you that
it is of the utmost importance we should be here, on the spot, until
the sad termination! That is what I summoned you for. You are now at
liberty. Ta-ta, as soon as you please.”
She had baffled his little cross-examination with regard to Raikes, but
on the other point he was firm. She would listen to nothing: she
affected that her mandate had gone forth, and must be obeyed; tapped
with her foot, fanned deliberately, and was a consummate queen, till he
turned the handle of the door, when her complexion deadened, she
started up, trembling, and tripping towards him, caught him by the arm,
and said: “Stop! After all that I have sacrificed for you! As well try
to raise the dead as a Dawley from the dust he grovels in! Why did I
consent to visit this place? It was for you. I came, I heard that you
had disgraced yourself in drunkenness at Fallowfield, and I toiled to
eclipse that, and I did. Young Jocelyn thought you were what you are: I
could spit the word at you! and I dazzled him to give you time to win
this minx, who will spin you like a top if you get her. That Mr. Forth
knew it as well, and that vile young Laxley. They are gone! Why are
they gone? Because they thwarted me—they crossed your interests—I said
they should go. George Uplift is going to-day. The house is left to us;
and I believe firmly that Mrs. Bonner’s will contains a memento of the
effect of our frequent religious conversations. So you would leave now?
I suspect nobody, but we are all human, and Wills would not have been
tampered with for the first time. Besides,” and the Countess’s
imagination warmed till she addressed her brother as a confederate, “we
shall then see to whom Beckley Court is bequeathed. Either way it may
be yours. Yours! and you suffer their plots to drive you forth. Do you
not perceive that Mama was brought here to-day on purpose to shame us
and cast us out? We are surrounded by conspiracies, but if our faith is
pure who can hurt us? If I had not that consolation—would that you had
it, too!—would it be endurable to me to see those menials whispering
and showing their forced respect? As it is, I am fortified to forgive
them. I breathe another atmosphere. Oh, Evan! you did not attend to Mr.
Parsley’s beautiful last sermon. The Church should have been your
vocation.”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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