The mention of the clergyman's name seemed to transform my mother into another woman. Quickly, but gently, putting aside my sister Frances, whose loving arms were clasped around her waist, she rose, and fire flashed in her eyes as she said to the servant,—
'Denham, tell Mr Sampson that I desire to speak with him as soon as he has finished his business with Mr Egerton.'
My father went out to the drawing-room, where the clergyman awaited him, and for the next ten minutes or so my mother walked quickly to and fro in the dining-room, bidding us remain seated, and in a harsh, unnatural tone to one so sweet and gentle, she told the servants who waited to withdraw.
'Mr Sampson is at your service, madam,' said Denham, opening the door.
'Show him in here,' said my mother, sharply, and her always pale face grew paler still.
The clergyman entered, and extended his fat, white hand to her; she drew back and bowed coldly.
'I do not desire to shake hands with you, sir.'
Mr Sampson's red face flushed purple.
'I do not understand you, madam. Is this a jest—or do you forget who I am?'
'I shall try to make you understand me, Mr Sampson, in as few words as possible. I do not jest, and I do not forget who you are. I have a request to make.'