“Suppose it should be my father!” cried Zack, suddenly turning round on his knees with a very blank face. “Or that infernal old Yollop, with his gooseberry eyes and his hands full of tracts. They’re both of them quite equal to coming after me and spoiling my pleasure here, just as they spoil it everywhere else.”
“Hush!” said Mrs. Blyth. “The visitor has come in, whoever it is. It can’t be Mr. Gimble, Valentine; he always runs up two stairs at a time.”
“And this is one of the heavy-weights. Not an ounce less than sixteen stone, I should say, by the step,” remarked Zack, letting his muffin burn while he listened.
“It can’t be that tiresome old Lady Brambledown come to worry you again about altering her picture,” said Mrs. Blyth.
“Stop! surely it isn’t—” began Valentine. But before he could say another word, the door opened; and, to the utter amazement of everybody but the poor girl whose ear no voice could reach, the servant announced:
“MRS. PECKOVER.” [ [!-- H2 anchor --] ]
CHAPTER XI. THE BREWING OF THE STORM.
Time had lavishly added to Mrs. Peckover’s size, but had generously taken little or nothing from her in exchange. Her hair had certainly turned grey since the period when Valentine first met her at the circus; but the good-humored face beneath was just as hearty to look at now, as ever it had been in former days. Her cheeks had ruddily expanded; her chin had passed from the double to the triple stage of jovial development—any faint traces of a waist which she might formerly have possessed were utterly obliterated—but it was pleasantly evident, to judge only from the manner of her bustling entry into Mrs. Blyth’s room, that her active disposition had lost nothing of its early energy, and could still gaily defy all corporeal obstructions to the very last.
Nodding and smiling at Mr. and Mrs. Blyth, and Zack, till her vast country bonnet trembled aguishly on her head, the good woman advanced, shaking every moveable object in the room, straight to the tea-table, and enfolded Madonna in her capacious arms. The girl’s light figure seemed to disappear in a smothering circumambient mass of bonnet ribbons and unintelligible drapery, as Mrs. Peckover saluted her with a rattling fire of kisses, the report of which was audible above the voluble talking of Mr. Blyth and the boisterous laughter of Zack.
“I’ll tell you all about how I came here directly, sir; only I couldn’t help saying how-d’ye-do in the old way to little Mary to begin with,” said Mrs. Peckover apologetically. It had been found impossible to prevail on her to change the familiar name of “little Mary,” which she had pronounced so often and so fondly in past years, for the name which had superseded it in Valentine’s house. The truth was, that this worthy creature knew nothing whatever about Raphael; and, considering “Madonna” to be an outlandish foreign word intimately connected with Guy Fawkes and the Gunpowder Plot, firmly believed that no respectable Englishwoman ought to compromise her character by attempting to pronounce it.