The Red Court Farm: A Novel (Vol. 1 of 2)Wood, Henry, Mrs.
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The Red Court Farm: A Novel (Vol. 1 of 2)
Wood, Henry, Mrs.
English fiction -- 19th century
Was it, she asked herself, to go on like this always and always? Had
she become the wife of Justice Thornycroft only to die of the dreary
life at the Red Court Farm? Let us give her her due. When she married
him she did intend to do her duty as an honest woman, and send
ridiculous flirtations, such as that carried on with Robert Lake, to
the winds. But she did _not_ expect to be done to death of ennui.
A short while went on. Nearly open warfare set in between Mary
Anne and her stepmother. To-day my lady would be harsh, exacting,
almost cruel in her rule; tomorrow the girl would be wholly
neglected--suffered to run wild. Mr. Thornycroft saw that things could
not continue thus, and the refrain of the words he had spoken to Isaac
beat ever on his brain, day by day bringing greater force to them: "I
fear I made a mistake; I fear I made a mistake."
One morning Mary Anne astonished the justice by appearing before him
in his bureau, in what she was pleased to call the uncivilized rooms.
He sat there with Mr. Hopley, of Dartfield, some account books before
them. Her dress, a beautiful muslin with a raised blue spot, was torn
out at the gathers and trailed behind her. My lady had done it in a
passion.
"Holloa! what do you do _here?_" cried the justice, emphatically; and
Mr. Hopley went out whistling, with his hands in his pockets, and
crossed over to stare at the idle dog-cart in the coach-house, as if
to give privacy for the explanation.
She had come with one of her tales of woe. She had come to beg and
pray to be sent to school. What a change! Mr. Thornycroft was nearly
at his wits' end.
Ere the day was over, his wife brought a complaint to him on her own
score: not altogether of Mary Anne. She simply said, incidentally,
that ill-trained young lady was getting quite beyond her control, and
therefore she must wash her hands of her. The complaint was of her own
health; it appeared to be failing her in a rather remarkable manner,
certainly a sudden one. This was true. She had concluded that the air
of Coastdown was inimical to her, she wished it might be managed for
her to live away--say Cheltenham, or some other healthy place.
How eagerly Mr. Thornycroft caught at the suggestion, he felt
afterwards half ashamed to think of. In matters involving money he was
always liberal, and he at once named a handsome sum per month that she
might enjoy, at Cheltenham, or anywhere else that pleased her.
END OF VOL. I.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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