“What of the daughter, Pick? Oh, the shameless hussy, to talk like that of a poor motherless young girl——”
“If she wasn’t motherless, what would Polly have to do with her? It can’t be expected as a second wife should cry her eyes out because the first’s gone.”
“Polly!” said Mrs. Purcell, with bated breath; “and she says she’ll pack the son about his business; and the daughter?—What is she going to do about the daughter, when she’s got the poor misfortunate man under her thumb? And who’s Polly, that you know so much about her? She’s a pretty kind of acquaintance, so far as I can see, for a man as considers himself respectable, and comes out of a gentleman’s house.”
“That’s the other side,” said Pick, still chuckling to himself. “I said women hangs together. So they do, till you come to speak of one in particular, and then they fly at her. I don’t know nothing against Polly. If the Captain’s in love with her, it ain’t her fault; if she wants to better herself, it’s no more than you or me would do in her place. She’s as respectable as most of the folks I know. To work for your living ain’t a disgrace.”
“It’s no disgrace; but a stepmother that is a dressmaking girl will be something new to Miss Despard. Oh, I can’t smile! A dressmaker as—— And young, I suppose, like herself? Oh, trust a man for that; she’s sure to be young. Poor thing, poor thing! I’m that sorry for her, I can’t tell what to do. A lady, Pick; they may be poor, but I’ve always heard there was no better gentlefolks anywhere to be found. And a woman that the likes of you calls Polly. Oh, that’s enough, that’s enough for me! A nice, good, respectable girl, that knows what’s her due—you don’t call her Polly. Polly—there’s a deal in a name.”
“Aha!” said old Pick, rubbing his hands, “I knew as soon as I named one in particular what you would say. Fly at her, that’s what all you women do. A name is neither here nor there. I’ve known as good women called Polly as was ever christened Mary; eh? ain’t they the same name? I had a sister Polly; I had a——”
“Dear, dear!” said Mrs. Purcell, softly. She was paying no attention to him; her mind was much disturbed. She turned away instinctively from the gathering gloom of evening in which her old companion stood, and cast her anxious eyes upon the wide landscape outside—the sky between grey and blue, the lights beginning to twinkle far down in the steep street. There was something in the great space and opening which seemed to give counsel and support in her perturbation. For she did not know what to do for the best. At such a moment would not John have a better chance than he might ever have? And yet, if he got his heart’s desire, was it quite certain that it would be good for John? The Signor’s housekeeper was just as anxious about her boy as if she had been a great lady. Twinges of maternal jealousy, no doubt, went through her mind. If John married, he would be separated from his mother, and his wife would look down upon her and teach him to despise her—a mother who was in service. What could she expect if her son married a lady? All these thoughts went through her mind as she looked out with anxiety, which drew deep lines upon her forehead. But, on the whole, she was not selfish, and considered it all anxiously, ready to make any sacrifice for that which in the long run would be most good for John.
In the meantime old Pickering talked on. When he was set a-going it was difficult to bring him to a stop. He was quite aware that at the present moment he ought not to stay there talking; he knew he ought to be lighting the lamps, and kept listening with expectant ear for a sharp tinkle of the Signor’s bell, which should warn him of his retarded duties. But for all that he talked on. Dinner was over for some time, and Pick knew very well that he ought to carry in the notes which he had piled again upon the salver after giving it that polish with his handkerchief. However, though he knew his duty, he took no steps towards performing it, but moved leisurely about, and put various articles back into the old polished cupboard with glass doors, which showed all the best china, and was the pride of Mrs. Purcell’s heart. When Maryanne came in, he emptied the salver again and showed her how imperfectly she had cleaned it. “I can’t think how folks can be so stupid,” Pickering said. “How do you think you are ever to better yourself if you don’t take a lesson when it’s giv’ you? and proud you should be that anyone would take the trouble. If I see it like this again I’ll—I don’t know what I shan’t do.” He knew very well that it was what ought to have been his own work that he was thus criticising, and, as it happened, so did Maryanne, whose spirit was working up to a determination not to be longer put upon. But for all that he found fault, (always waiting to hear the bell ringing sharply, with a quaver of impatience in it,) and she submitted, though she was aware that she was being put upon. Mrs. Purcell, in the window, paid no attention to them. She kept gazing out upon the wide world of grey-blue clouds, and asking herself what would be best for John.
They were disturbed in all these occupations by a step which came briskly downstairs, perhaps betokening, Pickering thought, that the Signor was going out again, and that his own delay about the lamps had been a wise instinct. But, after all, it was not the Signor’s step; it was young Purcell, who came along the little winding passage full of corners, and entered the housekeeper’s room, scattering the little party assembled there. Maryanne fled as a visitor from the outer world flies from the chamber of a servant of the court, at the advent of the queen. Though she would assure herself sometimes that Mrs. Purcell’s son was “no better nor me,” yet in his presence Maryanne recognised the difference. He was “the young master” even in Pick’s eyes, who stopped talking, and put the notes back once more upon the salver with a great air of business, as if in the act of hastening with them to the Signor. Mrs. Purcell was the only one who received her son with tranquillity. She turned her eyes upon him quietly, with a smile, with a serene pride which would not have misbecome an empress. No one in the house, not the Signor himself, had ascended to such a height of being as the housekeeper; no one else had produced such a son.
“Go and light the candles in the study, Pick,” said young Purcell. “The Signor is in the dark, and he’s composing. Quick and carry him the lights. Don’t bother him with those letters now. He is doing something beautiful,” he said, turning to his mother. “There’s a phrase in it I never heard equalled. He has been sitting out on the terrace getting inspiration. I must run back and keep old Pick from disturbing him, making a noise——”