“As well as my rheumatism will permit.”
“Won’t you take off your things?”
“Thank you, no, my dear.”
Aunt Annie would rather have died than take off her things in that house. In her heart she had never been able to forgive Eliza her marriage. Joseph Kelly was a worthy fellow no doubt, a good husband, and a conscientious police officer, but by no exercise of the imagination could he ever occupy the plane of a Sanderson. It may have been mere pride of family but then pride of family is a queer thing.
Poor Eliza had fallen sadly from grace. She had come down in the world, whereas a true Sanderson always made a point of going up in it. Even if Eliza’s relations as a whole were inclined to take a sympathetic view of her marriage, the one among them who really counted, was never quite able to overlook the fact in her dealings with her. Eliza had cause to feel nervous for Aunt Annie was never so impressive as when she entered the modest front parlor of Number Five.
It was easy for Aunt Annie to do that, because nature was on her side. With the honorable exception of her friend, Alderman Bradbury, the present mayor of the borough, she had more personality than anyone in Laxton. For forty years she had moved in the highest circles in the land. Moreover, she had moved in them modestly, discreetly, with the most punctilious good sense. She had known her place exactly, had kept it, therefore, with ever increasing honor and renown; but the spirit of imperious self-discipline which had entered into her in the process, sternly required that ordinary people in their dealings with her should know their place, too, and also be careful to keep it. In the domestic circle Aunt Annie was a pitiless autocrat, and in public life even the Mayor of Laxton and its leading Aldermen did not withhold their deference when she condescended to converse with them upon matters relating to the infant life of the borough.
No wonder Laxton’s leading inhabitants kow-towed to Aunt Annie. No wonder niece Eliza cowered in spirit when she superbly entered that modest dwelling and sat in its most capacious chair. Tea was offered her, without sugar and with only a very little milk according to her stoical custom.
“Thankee, my dear.”
The great lady removed a black kid glove, and coquetted with a delicate slice of bread and butter. If you have lived in palaces most of your days you know that simplicity in all things is the true art of life. Right at the back, as Eliza well knew, Aunt Annie was by no means so simple as she made a point of seeming. Her tastes and manners were modeled upon a sublime Original, but as the memoirs of the time have shown in the one case that things may not be always what they seem, the same held true in the other.
Eliza had never felt so nervous in her life. Even the historic hour in which she had first announced her engagement to Joe could hardly compare with this. But it was not until Aunt Annie had passed to her second piece of bread and butter that the thunderbolt fell.