“He is mostly called by that name,” returned Hannah. “He is a gentleman farmer, and lives at the Red Farm down Dorlcote way. His mother and sister used to live with him, but his mother died two years ago, and Miss Agnes did not long survive her. She was a sweet creature, and very handsome, but she had been a sad invalid the last few years of her life.”
“Poor Mr. Hawtry! and he is all alone.”
“Quite alone, except for his good old housekeeper, Mrs. Cornish; she takes good care of Mr. Roger, as she calls him. Folks say,” continued Hannah, somewhat hesitating, “Squire Hawtry has had enough of loneliness and nursing Miss Agnes, and that he is looking out for a wife; he and Miss Gay are firm friends, and——”
“I think Reggie is getting sleepy,” I observed, hastily, for Joyce was listening with all her might, and the old proverb is true in saying “little pitchers have long ears;” besides which this was gossiping about other people’s affairs, and Hannah knew I never countenanced gossip; it always seemed to me such a mean and undignified thing to chatter about those who were inmates of the house that sheltered us. We had partaken of their bread and salt, and so they ought to have been sacred to us. How little the world understands the so-called word “honour,” but “Noblesse oblige” is a safe motto.
Hannah took the hint with her usual good nature, and went off for the bath water. The next moment there was a slight peremptory tap at the nursery door, and before I could answer a tall, elegant-looking woman, dressed in black, entered the room. I rose at once in some little trepidation; of course it was Mrs. Markham.
“Good evening, nurse,” she said, in rather a thin, highly-pitched voice. “I hope you find yourself comfortable, and that the children are not tired with the journey.” Then, without waiting for an answer, she seated herself languidly, and called to Joyce, “Come to me, my dear; I am your Aunt Adelaide; good children always come when they are called.”
I gave Joyce a slight push, for she was hanging back in a most unaccountable way, and yet she was by no means a shy child, and would be friendly even with strangers, if she liked their appearance. I thought Mrs. Markham looked a little annoyed at her hesitation, but she controlled herself and tried coaxing.
“What would your mamma say, if you refused to kiss poor Aunt Adelaide? Come, that is better,” as Joyce advanced, timidly. “Why what a thin, sickly-looking child it is,” regarding the sweet little face before her rather critically; “I should hardly have thought,” speaking half to herself, “that Violet would have had such a plain child.”
I was indignant at this; for everyone thought Joyce had a lovely little face, though it was rather too thin and grave. “Excuse me, Mrs. Markham,” I observed, hastily, “but Joyce is a very forward child, and understands all that is said before her,” for it was hard that our pet should meet with such a cold reception.
Mrs. Markham regarded me with a supercilious stare; she evidently thought I was taking a liberty with her in venturing to remonstrate, but I took no notice, and prudently restrained myself.