"Oh, yes; we know you only came two days ago. This is Mr. Cloudesley, you know, and I am Mrs. Cloudesley; and we promised Mrs. Barton to call and see you as soon as we could."
The round woman burst into a fat, smothery laugh, as she answered,—
"A married lady, and me calling of you miss; but re'lly you do look so young, you must excuse it. Walk in, ma'am, and you, sir, if you'll be so good."
She opened the door of her little parlour as she spoke, and in they all walked. Mr. Cloudesley felt a little surprised at the furniture; for though many of the old inmates of the Rest were well off in that respect, it was not usual for a new-comer to possess such comforts as he saw here. A carpet covered the floor, a handsomely gilt clock stood on the chimneypiece, reflected in a mirror of some size; warm curtains hung over the window, a bright fender, thick rug,—everything, in fact, of the best; and also, it must be confessed, of the most hideous, so gaudy was the colour of each article, where colour was possible. A large, luxurious easy chair stood close to the fire, which burned brightly, and a small round table was drawn up beside it. The other chairs were of the common shape, and were covered with Berlin wool flowers which made Mrs. Cloudesley feel quite uncomfortable, they were so brilliant. Into the easy chair the fat lady sank, having first drawn forward two of the less comfortable ones for her guests.
Mrs. Cloudesley looked about for something to talk about; not a book was to be seen, not even a newspaper.
"You are making your sitting-room very comfortable," said she, looking round again.
"Ah, yes, indeed, ma'am; the furniture is very 'andsome, thanks be to 'evin. Yet it do make me sad-like to look at it—but there! That's me all over! As my poor Matthew, that's dead and buried, poor fellow, used to say of me. I'm too good-natured for my own 'appiness."
Mrs. Cloudesley, failing to see the connection between the furniture and the good-nature, looked inquiringly at the speaker.
"You know, miss,—leastways, ma'am, only it's ridiculous,—I'm a Fairford woman, of course, or I couldn't be here; but I married a Londoner, and never saw Fairford for thirty year! My 'usbin were a baker, and my son,—the only child I have, I may fairly say; for as to my daughter Jane, poor thing she's lost to me, and may be dead or may be alive, I know no more than if I was dead myself,—he's a baker, too, and has a very good shop—and of course I've lived with him and kep' his places beautiful. But there, young men is fools,—he goes and marries! And I haven't a word to say against her, a civil little body, and decent in her ways, but selfish, very selfish, poor Seliner is, and ever will be; a boy the first year, and a girl the next, and then a girl again, and then a boy again, and so on, and this year twins! No, miss,—ma'am, I mean,—the twins done it; the 'ouse is small, and when one twin ain't crying the other is, and I'm not so young as once I were, and I said I'd like a little rest and time to mind on my latter end—" (with a glance at the curate, who was listening gravely), "before my time came to die. My good Matthew left me but little money, and that little is gone now; and, of course, he never thought I should have to leave my 'ome in my old age; but the furniture was mine, some he left me by will, and some I bought myself since he was took, and that's what I meant just now, miss—ma'am—I'm feared they'll miss it, though I left them everything I could do without—I'm that good-natured."
She smiled her fat smile, and closed her little twinkling eyes, as if the contemplation of her good-nature was too much for her. But if she had stated that her gorgeous purchases had been made with her son's money; that her right had only extended to taking furniture for two rooms; and had also described what she had left for the use of her son's family, adding that "Seliner" had said, "Let her take it all, if she will only go," perhaps the Cloudesleys might have opened their eyes with quite a different feeling. As it was, Mrs. Cloudesley felt a little puzzled.