Then came her niece, cold and stately, with steady
eye and a slight flush, and altogether the air of
the conscientious young matron who has returned from
the nursery, having there administered the discipline;
and so she sat down beside her aunt, serene and silent,
and, the little glow passed away, pale and still.
‘Well, he has spoken?’ said her
aunt to her, in a sharp aside.
‘Yes,’ answered the young lady, icily.
‘And has had his answer?’
‘Yes—and I beg, Aunt Rebecca, the
subject may be allowed to drop.’ The young
lady’s eyes encountered her aunt’s so directly
and were so fully charged with the genuine Chattesworth
lightning, that Miss Rebecca, unused to such demonstrations,
averted hers, and with a slight sarcastic inclination,
and, ‘Oh! your servant, young lady,’ beckoning
with her fan grandly to little Puddock, who was hovering
with other designs in the vicinity, and taking his
arm, though he was not forgiven, but only employed—a
distinction often made by good Queen Elizabeth—marched
to the marquee, where, it was soon evident, the plump
lieutenant was busy in commending, according to their
merits, the best bits of the best plats on
the table.
‘So dear Aunt Becky has forgiven Puddock,’
said Devereux, who was sauntering up to the tent between
O’Flaherty and Cluffe, and little suspecting
that he was descanting upon the intended Mrs. Cluffe—’and
they are celebrating the reconciliation over a jelly
and a pupton. I love Aunt Rebecca, I tell you—I
don’t know what we should do without her.
She’s impertinent, and often nearly insupportable;
but isn’t she the most placable creature on
earth? I venture to say I might kill you, Lieutenant
O’Flaherty—of course, with your permission,
Sir—and she’d forgive me to-morrow
morning! And she really does princely things—doesn’t
she? She set up that ugly widow—what’s
her name?—twice in a shop in Dame Street,
and gave two hundred pounds to poor Scamper’s
orphan, and actually pensions that old miscreant, Wagget,
who ought to be hanged—and never looks
for thanks or compliments, or upbraids her ingrates
with past kindnesses. She’s noble—Aunt
Becky’s every inch a gentleman!’
By this time they had reached the tent, and the hearty
voice of the general challenged them from the shade,
as he filliped a little chime merrily on his empty
glass.
WHICH CONCERNS THE GRAND DINNER AT THE KING’S
HOUSE, AND WHO WERE THERE, AND SOMETHING OF THEIR
TALK, REVERIES, DISPUTES, AND GENERAL JOLLITY.
It was about this time that the dinner-party at the
King’s House came off. Old Colonel and
Mrs. Stafford were hospitable, if not very entertaining,
and liked to bring their neighbours together, without
ceremony, round a saddle of mutton and a gooseberry
pie, and other such solid comforts; and then, hey
for a round game!—for the young people,
Pope Joan, or what you please, in the drawing-room,
