“I shall be sorry to part with you, dear child,” continued Lizzie, “but you are sensible for your age and have your wits about you, and it is time you put out from the shore; your aunt cannot refuse a harbour, and, with a favouring breeze, I believe your little skiff will go far. As for me, I shall have my freedom; I have saved, and in London I shall breathe freely among people of my own tastes. Well, we can do the rest of our talking at the rectory, for now I must pack. I intend to make an early flitting. Jones will cart over our boxes in the wheelbarrow, and, as I have a great deal to gather and sort, I expect to be up all night. You, my dear child, have only your clothes and books, so it will not be a long business, but go and set about it at once, and good night.”
The next morning we found ourselves comfortably installed at the rectory, Lizzie encompassed with the results of many trips by wheelbarrow; and here, when her flight was discovered, she received the visit and onslaught of her aunt and uncle. But they found the fugitive firmly entrenched behind facts and will power; no alluring invitations would induce her to return to “The Roost” and “go shares.” She was excessively polite but immovable, and her visitors were compelled to retreat in obvious confusion—the professor dazed and pallid, his bride on the contrary with a beetroot complexion, and seething over with suppressed passion.
Soon after their departure the dog Kipper arrived; formally dispatched in charge of the gardener, accompanied by his luggage so to speak—bowl, basket, coat and lead; to intimate that he was absolutely expelled from “The Roost.”
And now the question arose, what was to be done with him? The rector—most selfish of men—flatly refused him a home, declaring that he was too old for a dog, and that his personal cat was elderly and a fixture. It was clear that Lizzie could not have Kipper in her flat on possibly a fifth floor, although there was a legend that, once upon a time, a lady had maintained a duck in similar quarters!
“You shall take him, Evie,” she announced, with an air of cool decision. “He was always your friend, and in a big place like Torrington one dog more or less will never be noticed.”
“But I am confident that Aunt Mina won’t have me,” I protested, “much less the dog.”
“Oh yes she will,” rejoined Lizzie with conviction; “I know your aunt. I ought to, after living under her roof for eight years. Whatever her feelings are she studies appearances, and now that Dora is going to be married there will be room for you in the landau.”
My aunt’s invitation was somewhat tardy. Before its arrival I made many farewell calls and spent a whole day with the Soadys, where I received (in confidence) the news of Tossie’s engagement to Fred Block. She had made up her mind at last! I was much interested, so also was the village, in beholding great vans loading up in front of “The Roost,” and subsequently carrying away Lizzie’s share of the furniture. I also observed a large painted board, stoutly planted in the front garden, on which was announced “The Half of this House to be Let, Eight Good Rooms. Apply at the Post Office.” The vans and the advertisement gave our little community plenty of topics for discussion.
Ultimately the “Beetle” fly transported Lizzie and myself to the junction station, and the curtain fell on Beke.