Part 6 (2/2)

”Yes, those were her words, Mary,” said the old man, unfolding the newspaper parcel, and revealing an ugly little jug of metallically glistening earthenware, such as were turned out with strange pride from certain English potteries about seventy years ago. It seemed made in imitation of metal,--a sort of earthenware pewter; and evidently it had been a great aesthetic treasure in the eyes of Mrs. Clegg. Mrs. Mesurier received it accordingly.

”How pretty,” she said, ”and how kind of Aunt Esther! They don't make such things nowadays.”

”No, it's a vallyble relic,” said the old man; ”but you're worthy of it, Mary. I'd rather see you have it than any of them. My word, but I'm glad I've got it here safely. Esther would never have forgiven me.' Now, Samuel,' she said, as I left, 'mind you get home before dark, and don't sit on the jug, whatever you do.'”

Meanwhile the ”young ladies” were in imminent danger of convulsions; and, at that moment, further to enhance the situation, an old lady of the neighbourhood, who occasionally dropped in for a gossip, was announced. She was a prim little lady, with ”Cranford” curls, and a certain old-world charm and old-world vanity about her, and very deaf.

She too was a ”character” in her way, but so different from old Mr.

Clegg that the entertainment to be expected from their conjunction was irresistible even to antic.i.p.ate.

”This is Mr. Clegg, an uncle of Mr. Mesurier,” said poor Mrs. Mesurier, by way of introduction.

”Howd'ye do, marm?” said Mr. Clegg, without rising.

Mrs. Turtle bowed primly. ”Are you sure, my dear, I don't interrupt?”

she said to Mrs. Mesurier; ”shall I not call in some other day?”

”Oh, dear, no!” said Mrs. Mesurier. ”Esther, get Mrs. Turtle a little whisky and water.”

”Oh, my dear!” exclaimed Mrs. Turtle, ”only the least little drop in the world, Esther dear. My heart, you know, my dear. Even so short a walk as this tires me out.”

Mrs. Mesurier responded sympathetically; and then, by way of making himself pleasant, Mr. Clegg suddenly broke in with such an extraordinary amenity of old-world gallantry that everybody's hair stood on end.

”How old do you be?” he said, bowing to the new-comer.

”I beg your pardon,” said Mrs. Turtle, putting her hand to her ear; ”but I'm slightly deaf.”

”How old do you be?” shouted the old man.

Though not unnaturally taken aback at such an unwonted conception of conversational intercourse, Mrs. Turtle recovered herself with considerable humour, and, bridling, with an old-world shake of her head, said,--

”What would you take me for?”

”I should say you were seventy, if you're a day,” promptly answered the old man.

”Oh, dear, no!” replied Mrs. Turtle, with some pique; ”I was only sixty last January.”

”Well, you carry your age badly,” retorted the old man, not to be beaten.

”What does he say, my dear?” said the poor old lady turning to Mrs.

Mesurier.

”You carry your age badly,” shouted the determined old man; ”she should see our Esther, shouldn't she, Mary?”

The silence here of the young people was positively electric with suppressed laughter. Two of them escaped to explode in another room, and Esther and her mother were left to save the situation. But on such occasions as these Mrs. Mesurier grew positively great; and the manner in which she contrived to ”turn the conversation,” and smooth over the terrible hiatus, was a feat that admits of no worthy description.

Presently the old man rose to go, as the clock neared five. He had promised to be home before dark, and Esther would think him ”benighted”

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