“And where, pray, is Widdiford?” demanded Mrs. Plunket.
Miss Perry’s wonderful blue eyes opened to their limit. Widdiford was the center of civilization. It was the fixed standard by which the world itself was measured. Miss Perry slowly marshaled her battalions for a great intellectual display.
“I started from Widdiford,” said she, “at a quarter past nine, and I got to London at four. That makes nearly seven hours by railway, and you have to change twice.”
During the pause which followed this announcement Mrs. Plunket grew very thoughtful indeed. Finally a clear conviction seemed to enfold her.
“I am sorry,” she said, “but I fear that an under-housemaid who is six feet high is out of the question. Her ladyship has a rooted objection to any kind of extravagance.”
Now, as I have said, Miss Perry was not in the least clever. The sum of her knowledge of the world had been acquired at the uncommonly rustic parsonage at Slocum Magna. She realized in her lethargic fashion that her Aunt Caroline was a very proud and unfeeling old woman, who had an odious way of treating her poor relations. Therefore, coming vaguely to discern that the situation in which she found herself must be very remarkable, a look of dismay begin to settle upon her pink-and-white countenance. Mrs. Plunket, observing it, was not disposed to be unkind.
“You had better stay here to-night,” said she; “and in the morning your fare will be paid back to Slocum Magna.”
At the mention of the blessed name of Slocum Magna the look of dismay lifted from the face of Miss Perry. But it was for a moment only. She remembered with a pang of sore distress that she had come all the way to London on a great mission. The ebbing fortunes of the Parsonage were vested in her. When her dearest papa, whose trousers seemed to get shorter and shabbier every year, had watched her button a whole sovereign and two half-crowns and a third-class railway ticket into her glove on the down platform at Widdiford Junction, and he had kissed her on both cheeks, he said, “If it were not for Dickie and Charley and Polly and Milly and Betty, we’d take precious good care that your Aunt Caroline did not rob us of the pick of the basket.” Therefore, very slowly yet very clearly, her duty seemed to shape itself in her mind.
“Oh, if you please,” said she, “I don’t think I want to go back to Slocum Magna. Perhaps I might speak to Aunt Caroline.”
“Aunt Caroline?” said Mrs. Plunket, with a puzzled air.