The Misses Mallett (The Bridge Dividing)Young, E. H. (Emily Hilda)
General
The Misses Mallett (The Bridge Dividing)
Young, E. H. (Emily Hilda)
Fiction
She was impressed by this magnificence; she wished she could pause to
examine this decently draped and useful statuary but she was ushered
into a large drawing-room, somewhat over-heated, scented with hot-house
flowers, softly carpeted, much-becushioned, and she immediately found
herself in the embrace of Mrs. Batty, who smelt of eau-de-cologne. Mrs.
Batty felt soft, too, and if she were a lioness there were no signs of
claws or fangs; and her husband, a tall, spare man with grey hair and a
clean-shaven face, bowed over Henrietta’s hand in a courtly manner,
hardly to be expected of the best-trained of wild beasts.
But for these two the room seemed to be empty, until Mrs. Batty said
“Charles!” in a tone of timid authority and Henrietta discovered that a
fair young man, already showing a tendency to baldness, was sitting at
the piano, apparently studying a sheet of music. This, then, was one of
the cubs, and Henrietta, feeling herself marvellously at ease in this
house, awaited his approach with some amusement and a little irritation
at his obvious lack of interest. Aunt Caroline need have no fear. He
was a plain young man with pale, vague eyes, and he did not know
whether to offer one of his nervous hands at the end of over-long arms,
or to make shift with an awkward bow. She settled the matter for him,
feeling very much a woman of the world.
“Now, where’s John?” Mrs. Batty asked, and Charles answered, “Ratting,
in the stable.”
Mrs. Batty clucked with vexation. “It’s the first Sunday for weeks that
I haven’t had the room full of people. Now you won’t want to come
again. Very dull for a young girl, I’m sure.”
“Well, well, you can have a chat with Miss Henrietta,” Mr. Batty said,
“and afterwards perhaps she would like to see my flowers.” He
disappeared with extraordinary skill, with the strange effect of not
having left the room, yet Mrs. Batty sighed. Charles had wandered back
to the piano, and his mother, after compressing her lips and
whispering, “It’s a mania,” drew Henrietta into the depths of a settee.
“Will he play to us?” she asked.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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