Domestic fiction; Ireland -- Fiction; Land tenure -- Fiction; Landlord and tenant -- Fiction; Landowners -- Fiction
“Indeed he is, my dear, and that’s what I sent for you for. Your papa
wishes to have a good deal of company here to meet your brother; and
indeed it’s only reasonable, for of course this place would be very
dull for him, if there was nobody here but ourselves—and he’s always
used to see so many people; but the worst is, it’s all to be done at
once, and you know there’ll be so much to be got through before we’ll
be ready for a house full of company,—things to be got from Dublin, and
the people to be asked. And then, Selina,” and her ladyship almost wept
as the latter came to her great final difficulty—“What are we to do
about a cook?—Richards’ll never do; Griffiths says she won’t even do
for ourselves, as it is.”
“Indeed she won’t, my lady; it was only impudence in her coming to such
a place at all.—She’d never be able to send a dinner up for eighteen or
twenty.”
“What are we to do, Griffiths? What can have become of all the
cooks?—I’m sure there used to be cooks enough when I was first
married.”
“Well, my lady, I think they must be all gone to England, those that
are any good; but I don’t know what’s come to the servants altogether;
as your ladyship says, they’re quite altered for the worse since we
were young.”
“But, mamma,” said Lady Selina, “you’re not going to ask people here
just immediately, are you?”
“Directly, my dear; your papa wishes it done at once. We’re to have a
dinner-party this day week—that’ll be Thursday; and we’ll get as many
of the people as we can to stay afterwards; and we’ll get the
O’Joscelyns to come on Wednesday, just to make the table look not quite
so bare, and I want you to write the notes at once. There’ll be a great
many things to be got from Dublin too.”
“It’s very soon after poor Harry Wyndham’s death, to be receiving
company,” said Lady Selina, solemnly. “Really, mamma, I don’t think it
will be treating Fanny well to be asking all these people so soon. The
O’Joscelyns, or the Fitzgeralds, are all very well—just our own near
neighbours; but don’t you think, mamma, it’s rather too soon to be
asking a house-full of strange people?”
“Well, my love, I was thinking so, and I mentioned it to your father;
but he said that poor Harry had been dead a month now—and that’s true,
you know—and that people don’t think so much now about those kind of
things as they used to; and that’s true too, I believe.”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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