I
“Why is it, mother?” asked Olivia, “that we have never associated with the county families? Why has the Squire never invited us to dinner? Why is informal tea at the vicarage the summit of our social attainment? Tell me, mother, tell me!”
Had Mrs. Gale lived the normal life of women—not only speaking, but being spoken to—she might have gone to her grave with her secret unrevealed. But infinite sorrow had weakened her and, in this, the last poignant intimacy of her deathbed, she disclosed it to her daughter.
“My dear,” she said, “I am a Bagshawe—with the final e—of that proud old Anglo-Indian family. My father was Bagshawe of the Indian Guides—not to be confounded with Bradshaw of the Railway Guides. Your father, my dear, was an excellent man in his way, whom I loved as fondly as was consistent with the difference in our positions. But they were different, dearest Olivia. As Mrs. Bagshawe—with the final e—I associated with Generals, Colonels and Sirs—and with their wives, of course. As Mrs. Gale, only with trades-people, linen-drapers and haberdashers, tallow-chandlers and ironmongers, with an occasional fishmonger or drysalter, by way of variety.”
“But, why, mother? Why?” cried Olivia. “What did my father do to condemn us to such ignominy?”
“Your father, my dear,” faltered the dying woman, “your father dealt in—pigs.”
That was the skeleton in the cupboard. Stephen Gale had been a fine chap, but as someone—whose modest anonymity shall be respected—has so finely phrased it, pigs is pigs.”