“Good Mrs. Browne is a little tiresome,” said Mr. Buxton, yawning. “Living in that moorland hole, I suppose. However, I think she has enjoyed her day; and we’ll ask her down now and then, for Browne’s sake. Poor Browne! What a good man he was!”
“I don’t like that boy at all,” said Frank. “I beg you’ll not ask him again while I’m at home: he is so selfish and self-important; and yet he’s a bit snobbish now and then. Mother! I know what you mean by that look. Well! if I am self-important sometimes, I’m not a snob.”
“Little Maggie is very nice,” said Erminia. “What a pity she has not a new frock! Was not she good about it, Frank, when she tore it?”
“Yes, she’s a nice little thing enough, if she does not get all spirit cowed out of her by that brother. I’m thankful that he is going to school.”
When Mrs. Browne heard where Maggie had drank tea, she was offended. She had only sat with Mrs. Buxton for an hour before dinner. If Mrs. Buxton could bear the noise of children, she could not think why she shut herself up in that room, and gave herself such airs. She supposed it was because she was the granddaughter of Sir Henry Biddulph that she took upon herself to have such whims, and not sit at the head of her table, or make tea for her company in a civil decent way. Poor Mr. Buxton! What a sad life for a merry, light-hearted man to have such a wife! It was a good thing for him to have agreeable society sometimes. She thought he looked a deal better for seeing his friends. He must be sadly moped with that sickly wife.
(If she had been clairvoyante at that moment, she might have seen Mr. Buxton tenderly chafing his wife’s hands, and feeling in his innermost soul a wonder how one so saint-like could ever have learnt to love such a boor as he was; it was the wonderful mysterious blessing of his life. So little do we know of the inner truths of the households, where we come and go like intimate guests!)
Maggie could not bear to hear Mrs. Buxton spoken of as a fine lady assuming illness. Her heart beat hard as she spoke. “Mamma! I am sure she is really ill. Her lips kept going so white; and her hand was so burning hot all the time that I held it.”
“Have you been holding Mrs. Buxton’s hand? Where were your manners? You are a little forward creature, and ever were. But don’t pretend to know better than your elders. It is no use telling me Mrs. Buxton is ill, and she able to bear the noise of children.”
“I think they are all a pack of set-up people, and that Frank Buxton is the worst of all,” said Edward.
Maggie’s heart sank within her to hear this cold, unkind way of talking over the friends who had done so much to make their day happy. She had never before ventured into the world, and did not know how common and universal is the custom of picking to pieces those with whom we have just been associating; and so it pained her. She was a little depressed, too, with the idea that she should never see Mrs. Buxton and the lovely Erminia again. Because no future visit or intercourse had been spoken about, she fancied it would never take place; and she felt like the man in the Arabian Nights, who caught a glimpse of the precious stones and dazzling glories of the cavern, which was immediately after closed, and shut up into the semblance of hard, barren rock. She tried to recall the house. Deep blue, crimson red, warm brown draperies, were so striking after the light chintzes of her own house; and the effect of a suite of rooms opening out of each other was something quite new to the little girl; the apartments seemed to melt away into vague distance, like the dim endings of the arched aisles in church. But most of all she tried to recall Mrs. Buxton’s face; and Nancy had at last to put away her work, and come to bed, in order to soothe the poor child, who was crying at the thought that Mrs. Buxton would soon die, and that she should never see her again. Nancy loved Maggie dearly, and felt no jealousy of this warm admiration of the unknown lady. She listened to her story and her fears till the sobs were hushed; and the moon fell through the casement on the white closed eyelids of one, who still sighed in her sleep.