Part 1 (2/2)
”It was only natural. 'Sweets to the sweet,'” says Miss Penelope, letting one little white jewelled hand fall slowly, sadly upon the other.
There is a lengthened pause.
Presently, stooping slightly towards her sister, Miss Penelope says in a mysterious whisper,--
”I wonder, my dear Priscilla, _why_ she married James Beresford a month afterwards.”
”Who can read the human heart? Perhaps it was pride drove her into that marriage,--a desire to show George Desmond how lightly she treated his desertion of her. And James was a handsome young fellow, whereas George was----”
”Ugly,” says Miss Penelope, with quite an amazing amount of vicious satisfaction for her.
”Strikingly so,” says Miss Priscilla, acquiescing most agreeably. ”But then the Desmond estates mean half the county; and we _used_ to think he was the soul of honor.”
”It was our father's expressed desire upon his deathbed that Katherine should marry him.”
”Yes, yes; a desire to be held sacred. And Katherine gave her promise to our dying parent. Nothing,” says Miss Priscilla, in a solemn tone, ”should induce any one to break such an oath. I have often said so to the dear child. But she appeared not only willing, but anxious, to marry George Desmond. _His_ was the traitorous mind.”
”I daresay he has had his own punishment,” says Miss Penelope, mildly.
”I hope so,” says Miss Priscilla, sternly. Then, with a return to sadness, ”Twenty years ago it is, and now she has been a twelvemonth dead and in her quiet grave.”
”Oh, _don't_, my dear Priscilla,” says Miss Penelope, in a broken voice, burying her face in her pocket-handkerchief.
”Ah! well, well, we had better look to the future; the past has no charms for us,” says Miss Priscilla, with a ghastly attempt at cheerfulness. ”Let me see,” referring through a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles to the letter in her hand: ”That the dear children have landed we know, and--h'm--yes, this very--yes, plainly, _very_ respectable person, the captain, writes to say they will be with us to-morrow.”
”_To-morrow!_ and that was written yesterday,” says Miss Penelope, putting down her handkerchief and starting once more into life. ”Why, at that rate, my dear Priscilla, they will be here _to-day_!”
”Bless me! you don't mean it!” exclaims Miss Priscilla, again applying her gla.s.ses to the letter. ”Monday, and this is Tuesday: yes, sure enough you are right. What a head you have, my dear Penelope!”
”Oh, not at all,” says Miss Penelope, flus.h.i.+ng with pleasure at this tribute to her intellect.
”To-day,--in a few hours. Now, what is to be done about the beds?”
”But surely they are aired?”
”Aired?--yes. They have been aired every day regularly for the past two months, ever since I first heard the children were likely to come to us.
But still I am uncertain about them. I know they will want hot jars; and then the rooms, they will want flowers and many things--and----”
”Can't I help you?” demands Miss Penelope, eagerly.
”My dear girl, not at all,” says Miss Priscilla, with a calmly superior air, arising from the fact that she is quite eighteen months her senior.
”You can a.s.sist me with your valuable counsel, but I would not have you disturb yourself for worlds. You must be cool and collected, and hold yourself in readiness to receive them when they come. They will be shy, no doubt, coming here all the way from Palestine, and it must be your part to make them feel quite at home.”
This to Miss Penelope, who is afraid of strangers in any guise, appears such a fearful mission that she pales, and says, tremblingly,--
”But you too will be present at our first meeting? I must indeed _beg_ you to be present, my dear Priscilla.”
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