Both he and John took their leave of her, John saying that although he must return to London on the morrow he should try to be in Sussex to attend the funeral. As they left the house, Bouncer entered it, very much out of breath and generously plastered with mud. Miss Beccles uttered a shriek of dismay and ran at once for a cloth with which she proceeded to dry his legs and paws, scolding gently as she did so. Bouncer instantly assumed the cowed mien of a dog suffering under torture, but upon being released tore round the room three tunes at top speed, sending all the rugs flying, and ended up with a leap onto the sofa where he sat grinning and panting until turned off it by his master.
The night was uneventful. Upon the following morning, Carlyon came over at an early hour to Highnoons, and allowed himself to be lured up to the attic by Nicky, where he made a clearance which would have been even more drastic had not Miss Beccles trotted up with a plate of rout drop-cakes (for she believed that gentlemen stood in constant need of sustenance) and rescued from the pile on the floor several old-fashioned dresses whose stiff brocade, she assured Carlyon in scandalized accents, would cut up to admiration; a large pincushion; just such an earthenware bowl as Mrs. Barrow stood in crying need of; a paper full of pins, a little rusted, to be sure, but by no means useless; and a book of Household Hints which contained such valuable information as how to remove stains from linen by laying on salt of wormwood, and the infallibility of Scotch snuff as a means of destroying crickets.
While she was upstairs, Elinor went out into the garden, accompanied by Bouncer, to give some directions to the gardener, and was trying to convince him of the propriety of his devoting his time to weeding the overgrown carriage drive, when a job-chaise drove in at the gate. When it pulled up before the house a burly individual descended from it, with all the look about him of a tradesman. Elinor stepped forward to inquire his business, and was only just in time to prevent Bouncer’s seizing him by the calf of his leg. Ruffled by this reception, the visitor abandoned any attempt at civility, and thrust upon her a formidable and detailed account, which, he loudly asserted, he would have paid immediately or by distraint. Upon learning that his defaulting client lay dead, he looked greatly taken aback, but after a few seconds’ astonishment said that he was not surprised to hear it and would be paid in any event. The affronted widow recommended him to present his demand to Mr. Cheviot’s executors and when he seemed inclined to think she might well pay him a trifle on account, since he was a poor man and sadly out of pocket over the business, announced her inability any longer to control the dog. The visitor then mounted into his chaise again with more speed than dignity and Mrs. Cheviot went up to the attic to inform Carlyon, with no little relish, that just as she had always expected she was now being dunned at the door.
“Yes, I dare say this is but the first of many such encounters,” replied Carlyon. “A notice is to be inserted in the newspapers, but no doubt it will be missed by many.”
“Charming! So I must accustom myself to being abused at my own door!”
“I cannot understand why you should be answering your front doorbell,” said Carlyon. “Barrow is well able to deal with such persons.”
“But I was in the garden and naturally stepped up to the man to know what he might want!” said Elinor indignantly.
“Unwise. You will know better another time,” was all the satisfaction she obtained.
She was happily diverted by Miss Beccles’ displaying to her the glories of the brocade dresses she had rescued. “Oh, I can remember Mama in just such a dress!” she cried. “It should have a hoop, should it not, Becky? And the hair dressed high, with powder and a wreath or feathers or some such thing! I wonder how anyone can ever have borne to have worn such a garment! Only feel the weight of it! But the brocade is the very thing we need for the cushions in the parlor.” She looked round the attic, marveling at the collection of worn-out finery, furniture, and rubbish. “Good God, has everything that needed a stitch or a nail been cast into this garret?”
“Yes, indeed,” said Miss Beccles, shaking her head mournfully. “There has been a sad want of management and economy, I fear. And here is my lord refusing to let me keep back that chair from the bonfire, and all it needs is to have the seat recaned! And only look at that spit, too! I am sure it could be mended if only he would let me take it down to the kitchen.”