“Well, an’ then?”
“Why she looked very grave and said it wer’ a serious business an’ a very delicate matter for his lordship to meddle in. She told me summat aw didn’t quite mak’ out about their party not bein’ in just now.”
“Of course not,” said my father. “Aw could ha’ told yo’ that.”
“But any way,’ says she, ‘my uncle’s in the ministry and good friends with th’ Secretary of State. So cheer up, Mary; th’ men may manage th’ State; but we know who manages th’ men, an’ my name’s not Fanny Legge if yo’r lover shan’t go free.’”
“Did she say Fanny?” said my mother.
“She did,” replied Mary, “just plain Fan an’ never a countess to it, and what’s more she gave me this locket wi’ her picture in it, an’ told me to wear it o’ mi weddin’ day, an’ wear it aw shall an’ will, an’ mebbe those ’at come after me.” And Mary drew from her bosom the portrait you, my children, know so well of that young countess who so untimely died.
“Aw think that settles it,” said my father, smiting his thigh.
“Of course it does,” said my mother. “An’ aw hope, William Bamforth, ’at after this yo’ll vote blue an’ side wi’ th’ quality. T’other lot’s good enuff for shoutin’, but gi’ me th’ owd fam’lies when it comes to th’ stick an’ lift.”
And this profound political aphorism may close a chapter too long drawn out.
CHAPTER XIII.