The lady's mile : $b a novelBraddon, M. E. (Mary Elizabeth)
General
The lady's mile : $b a novel
Braddon, M. E. (Mary Elizabeth)
English fiction -- 19th century
"Don't tell me that I have known them for years and never known them
rob me!" exclaimed the widow. "They may have robbed me without my
knowing it, or they may not have robbed me because I never gave them
the opportunity; and they may begin to rob me to-morrow if they get the
chance. Look at the Bishop of Northlandshire's butler, who had lived
with him thirteen years, and ran away with five hundred pounds' worth
of plate in the fourteenth. Look at Sir Harry Hinchliffe's valet, who
was such a faithful creature that his master left him an annuity of two
hundred a year; which he would have enjoyed very much, no doubt, if he
hadn't stripped the house while his benefactor's corpse was lying in
it, and had not been transported for life in consequence. Don't talk to
me about honesty, Cecil. If Mrs. Krewson is an honest woman, why do her
eyes sparkle so when I order a large joint, and why are two quarts of
Bisque barely enough for six?"
In the autumn Mrs. MacClaverhouse generally retired to some marine
retreat unfrequented by cockneys or fashionables, where lodgings were
to be had on reasonable terms, and where she could recruit herself and
her niece for the winter campaign.
"I really don't see why you shouldn't marry well, Cecil,--though Heaven
knows what will become of the General's diamond-cut glass when you
leave me,--and I sometimes wonder how it is you haven't made a good
match before now," said the widow. "I think it's that cold manner of
yours that keeps the men off; and then you don't talk slang, as some
of the women do nowadays. You're not dashing, you know, my love; but
you are very handsome, and elegant, and accomplished; and if any one of
those flippant minxes can sing Rossini's music or write an inventory of
china as well as you, I'll eat her--pearl-powder and all," added Mrs.
Mac, with a wry face.
It was very true that as yet no pretender of any importance had
appeared for Lady Cecil Chudleigh's hand. It might be that lovers were
kept off by the cold reserve of her manners, the shrinking dislike to
take any prominent part in society which is apt to affect those whom
poverty has always kept more or less at a disadvantage, or it might be
in consequence of that panic in the matrimonial market of which we have
heard so much in these latter days.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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