“He was a corn-chandler in the city, and his name was John Bird,” answered Lally, quite bewildered.
“And what was your mother’s name before her marriage?”
“Clara Mulford Percy—”
Mrs. Wroat gave a queer little gasp, and her hands trembled, and she looked at her faithful attendant in a sort of triumph.
“Do you hear that, Peters?” she whispered. “Do you hear it, I say?” Then she added aloud, “Go on, girl. Who was your mother?”
“She was the daughter of a country gentleman who owned an estate in Hampshire. There were several children besides my mother, but they all died young and unmarried. The estate was entailed, and went to a distant relative. My mother married my father against the wishes of her friends, and was disowned by them for her misalliance.”
“And very properly too, I should say. If a girl chooses to descend from her proper rank in society as a gentleman’s petted daughter, and take to living in a back room behind a corn-chandler’s shop, she can’t expect her friends to follow her,” said Mrs. Wroat, with some energy. “And you were her only child?”
“Yes madam.”
“Any relatives living?”
“No, madam. My mother died young. My father lived to give me a good education, and then died insolvent, leaving me dependent upon my own exertions when I was less than sixteen years old. My father was a tradesman, humbly born, madam, but he was a gentleman at heart—”