“Wants to see Mrs Pounteney particularly!” resumed the sister-in-law: “how dare you bring in such a message, sirrah? Mrs Pounteney particularly, indeed! Who is she, sirrah! Who comes here with such a message while I am in the house?”
“You must be mistaken, John,” said the little lady sighing, who was once the lively Kate M‘Leod of the fishing cottage in Scotland; “just let Miss Pounteney speak to her, you need not come to me.”
“No, madam,” said the servant, addressing Miss Pounteney, the natural pertness of his situation now returning to overcome his dread of “the old one.” “This young person wants to see my mistress directly, and I have put her into her dressing-room; pray, ma’am, go,” he added, respectfully, to the listless Kate.
“Do you come here to give your orders, sirrah?” exclaimed Miss Pounteney, rising like a fury, and kicking the footstool half way across the room, “and to put strange people of your own accord into any dressing-room in this house! and to talk of your mistress, and wanting to speak to her directly, and privately, while I am here! I wonder what sister Becky would say, or Mr Pounteney, if he were at home!”
“Who is it, John? Do just bring her here, and put an end to this!” said Kate, imploringly, to the man.
“Madam,” said John at last to his trembling mistress, “it is your sister!”
“Who, John?” cried Kate, starting to her feet; “my sister Flora—my own sister, from Clyde side! Speak, John, are you sure?”
“Yes, Madam, your sister from Scotland.”
“Oh, where is she, where is she? Let me go!”
“No, no; you must be mistaken, John,” said the lady with the keys, stepping forward to interrupt the anxious Kate. “John, this is all a mistake,” she added, smoothly; “Mrs Pounteney has no sister! John, you may leave the room;” and she gave a determined look to the other sister, who stood astonished.