There was a hard, stern look on the young man’s face as he involuntarily saluted his master; but Trevor did not notice it, and turning down the lane which led to Tolcarne, he began to tap his teeth with the stick he carried, and run over in his own mind what he should say, till he reached the new gates, walked up to the house, and was shown into the presence of the knight’s sister.
Miss Matilda Rea did not like Cornwall, principally for theological reasons. She preferred her brother’s town-house in Russell Square, because she was within reach of the minister she “sat under”—a gentleman who, she said, “was the only one in London to awaken her stagnant belief.”
The fact was that Aunt Matty was a lady who required a zest with her worship—she liked pickles with her prayers, and her friend the minister furnished them—verbal pickles, of course, and very hot.
But there were other reasons why she did not like Cornwall; there were no flagstones; the people did not take to her visitations; her prospects of getting a suitable companion grew less; and lastly, Cornwall did not agree with her dog.
Aunt Matty was dividing her time between nursing Pepine, who was very shivery about the hind legs, and reading small pieces out of a “serious” book—tiny bits which she took like lozenges, and then closed her eyes, and mentally sucked them, so as to get the goodness by degrees. In fact, she was so economical with her “goody” books, that one would last her for years.
“Mr Trevor!” said the servant, loudly, and then—“I’ll tell Sir Hampton, sir, that you are here.”
Aunt Matty raised her eyes, and Pepine barked virulently at the stranger, as her mistress half rose and then pointed rather severely to a chair.
“He can’t be nice,” said Aunt Matty to herself, “or Pepine would not bark.” Then aloud—“Sir Hampton will, I have no doubt, soon be here.”
“Have I the pleasure of addressing Lady Rea?” said Trevor, with a smile.
Pepine barked again.