The Last of the Mortimers: A Story in Two VoicesOliphant, Mrs. (Margaret)
General
The Last of the Mortimers: A Story in Two Voices
Oliphant, Mrs. (Margaret)
Fiction
“Well, dear,” said I, “you’re not nineteen yet; plenty of time. I dare
say you’ll have your hard work some day or other, and won’t like it any
more than the rest of us. Have patience, it will all come in time.”
“Then, I suppose,” said Sara, with a little toss of her provoking little
head, “I had better just go to sleep till that time comes.”
“Well, my love, papa would save a good deal, no doubt, if there were no
dressmaker’s bills. You inconsistent little witch! Here you tell me how
disgusted you are with being a rich man’s daughter and having nothing to
do, yet you cut off your hair to save time, and go on quite composedly
spending as much as would keep a poor family--and more than one poor
family, I suspect--on your dressmaker’s bill. Little Sara, what do you
mean?”
“The two things have no connection,” said Sara, tossing her head again;
“I never pretended that I wanted to save papa’s money. What’s the good
of it? I like pretty things to wear, and I don’t care the very least in
the world how much money papa has in the bank, or wherever he keeps it.
He told me once it was my own means I was wasting, for, of course, it
would be all mine when he died,” she went on, her eyes twinkling with
proud tears and wounded feeling; “as if _that_ made any difference! But
I’ll tell you what, godmamma. If he was to portion out all the money to
ourselves and so many other people, just enough to live upon, you’d see
how happy I should be in muslin frocks. I know I should! and keep
everything so snug and nice at home.”
“Oh, you deluded little child!” said I; “don’t you know there’s ever so
much _nasty_ work to do, before everything can be nice as we always have
it? Should you like to be a housemaid with your little velvet paws, you
foolish little kitten? You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“But I do, though--and I could scratch too,” said the wild little puss,
with a glance out of her black eyes which confounded me. I thought the
child had gone out of her wits altogether. No wonder her poor father
called her contrairy, poor hapless man.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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