Part 8 (2/2)
”Oh! why won't Sarah come?” says Molly, recurring suddenly to her woes.
”I know, even if I went on my knees to Mr. Luttrell, he would not so far trouble himself as to go in and find her; but I think she might remember my weakness for tea.”
”There she is!” exclaims John.
To their right rises a hedge, on which it has been customary for ages to dry the household linen, and moving toward it appears Sarah, armed with a basket piled high to the very top.
”Sarah,” calls Molly, ”Sarah--Sarah!”
Now, Sarah, though an undeniably good servant, and a cleanly one, striking the beholder as a creature born to unlimited caps and spotless ap.r.o.ns, is undoubtedly obtuse. She presents her back hair and heels--that would not have disgraced an elephant--to Miss Ma.s.sereene's call, and goes on calmly with her occupation of shaking out and hanging up to dry the garments she has just brought.
”Shall I go and call her?” asks Luttrell, with some remains of grace and an air of intense fatigue.
”Not worth your while,” says John, with all a man's delicious consideration for a man; ”she must turn in a moment, and then she will see us.”
For two whole minutes, therefore, they gaze in rapt silence upon the unconscious Sarah. Presently Mr. Ma.s.sereene breaks the eloquent stillness.
”There is nothing,” says he, mildly, ”that so clearly declares the sociability--the _bon camaraderie_, so to speak--that ought to exist in every well-brought-up family as the sight of was.h.i.+ng done at home. There is such a happy mingling and yet such a thorough disregard of s.e.x about it. It is 'Hail, fellow! well met!' all through. If you will follow Sarah's movements for a minute longer you will better understand what I mean. There! now she is spreading out Molly's pale-green muslin, in which she looked so irresistible last week. And there goes Daisy's pinafore, and Bobby's pantaloons; and now she is pausing to remove a defunct gra.s.shopper from Renee's bonnet! What a charming picture it all makes, so full of life! There go Molly's stock----”
”John,” interrupts Molly, indignantly, who has been frowning heavily at him for some time without the smallest result.
”If you say another word,” puts in Luttrell, burying his face in the gra.s.s, with a deep groan, ”if you go one degree further, I shall faint.”
”And now comes my s.h.i.+rt,” goes on John, in the same even tone, totally unabashed.
”My dear John!” exclaims Let.i.tia, much scandalized, speaking in a very superior tone, which she fondly but erroneously believes to be stern and commanding, ”I beg you will pursue the subject no further. We have no desire whatever to learn any particulars about your s.h.i.+rts.”
”And why not, my dear?” demands Mr. Ma.s.sereene, his manner full of mild but firm expostulation. ”What theme so worthy of prolonged discussion as a clean s.h.i.+rt? Think of the horrors that encompa.s.s all the 'great unwashed,' and then perhaps you will feel as I do. In my opinion it is a topic on which volumes might be written: if I had time I would write them myself. And if you will give yourself the trouble to think, my dear Let.i.tia, you will doubtless be able to bring to mind the fact that once a very distinguished and reasonable person called Hood wrote a song about it. Besides which----”
”She is looking now!” cries Molly, triumphantly. ”Sarah--Sa--rah!”
”The 'bells they go ringing for Sarah,'” quotes Mr. Luttrell, irrelevantly. But Sarah has heard, and is hastening toward them, and wrath is for the present averted from his unlucky head.
Smiling, panting, rubicund, comes Sarah, ready for anything.
”Some more tea, Sarah,” says Molly, with a smile that would corrupt an archbishop. Molly is a person adored by servants. ”That's my cup.”
”And that's mine,” says Tedcastle, turning his upside down on his saucer. ”I am particular about getting my own cup, Sarah, and hope you will not mistake mine for Miss Ma.s.sereene's. Fill it, and bring it back to me just like this.”
”Yes, sir,” says Sarah, in perfect good faith.
”And, Sarah--next time we would like the tea-pot,” puts in Mr.
Ma.s.sereene, mildly.
CHAPTER VI.
”Oh, we fell out,--I know not why,-- And kissed again with tears.”
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