The Cuckoo in the Nest, v. 1/2Oliphant, Mrs. (Margaret)
General
The Cuckoo in the Nest, v. 1/2
Oliphant, Mrs. (Margaret)
Fiction
Patty sat up half the night with Sally Fletcher, arranging as rapidly
and efficiently as possible her new _mise en scène_. To work all night
at mourning was by no means a novel performance for Miss Fletcher, the
lame girl who was the village dressmaker; and she felt herself amply
repaid by the news, as yet almost unknown to the neighbours, of the
Softy’s marriage and Patty’s new pretentions. It is true that it had a
little leaked out in the evening symposium in Hewitt’s parlour; but what
the men said when they came home from their dull, long booze was not
received with that faith which ladies put in the utterances of the
clubs. The wives of the village had always a conviction that the men had
“heard wrong”--that it would turn out something quite different from the
story told in the watches of the night, or dully recalled next day,
confused by the fumes of last night’s beer. But Sally Fletcher knew that
her tale would meet with full credence, and that her cottage next
morning would be crowded with inquirers; so that her night’s work was
not the matter of hardship it might have been supposed. She was
comforted with cups of tea during the course of the night, and Patty
spent at least half of it with her, helping on the work in a resplendent
blue dressing-gown, which she had bought in London, trimmed with lace
and ribbons, and dazzling to Sally’s eyes. The dressmaker had brought
with her the entire stock of crape which was to be had in “the shop,” a
material kept for emergencies, and not, it may be supposed, of the very
freshest or finest--which Patty laid on with a liberal hand, covering
with it the old black dress, which she decided would do in the urgency
of the moment. It was still more difficult to plaster that panoply of
mourning over the smart new cape, also purchased in town: but this, too,
was finished, and a large hatband, as deep as his hat, procured for
Gervase, before the air began to thrill with the tolling, lugubrious and
long drawn out, of the village bells, which announced that the
procession was within sight.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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