HUSBANDS AND WIVES.
Mr. and Mrs. Cavendish were at this time seized with a not unreasonable
panic lest they should lose their popularity—and with it, all else that
they had. They knew that the inhabitants of a country town are quick in
discovering when friendships cool, and mutual confidence abates; and
they feared that, when it should be perceived that the rector no longer
rode over two or three times a-week to Mr. Berkeley’s, and that the two
bankers were now never seen chatting in the street, conjecture might
begin to be busy as to the cause of these changes; and they had little
hope that their reputation would stand in any instance in which it
should be brought into opposition with that of the long resident and
much respected Berkeley family. Mrs. Cavendish made the most she could
of the intercourse between the ladies of the two households. Wherever
she dropped in, she was sure to be in a particular hurry, because she
was going to the Berkeleys to show Mrs. Berkeley this, or to tell Miss
Berkeley that, or to ask dear Melea the other. From every point of view
she was sure to see the Berkeleys going towards her house, and she never
went out but she expected to find on her return that they had called.
The children were encouraged to watch for every shadow of an invitation,
and were not chidden when they gave broad hints that they liked
gathering roses in the rosary, and were very fond of strawberries, and
very clever at haymaking, and quite used to pluck green pease; or that
they wanted flower-seeds, or anything else that could be had within the
Berkeleys’ gates. They were very frequently invited, as Fanny and Melea
liked to give pleasure even to disagreeable children, and would not be
deterred from doing so by their disapprobation of the parents, or
dislike of the governess. If, however, they let a week slip away without
an invitation, on the eighth day a procession was sure to be seen
winding up towards the house, viz. Miss Egg, bearing a little basket or
bag, with some pretence of a present,—a cream-cheese, or a dozen smelts
fresh from the wherry, or a specimen of some fancy in knitting, or
perhaps a quite new German waltz: on either side of Miss Egg, various
grades of tippets and bonnets, bespeaking the approach of a large body
of strawberry-eaters; and behind, poor Rhoda, toiling on in the heat,
with a heavy, crying baby, hanging half over her shoulder, and the
pleasant idea in her mind that when she had taught this member of the
family to use its legs a little more, and its lungs a little less, it
would only be to receive another charge, which would soon grow as heavy,
and must inevitably be as fretful. The majority of the party were
invariably offended by seeing how Rhoda was the first to be taken care
of;—how she was made to sit down in the hall, the baby being taken from
her by Melea, and a plate of fruit brought by Fanny, while the other
visiters were supposed capable of making their way into the dining-room
to pay their respects to Mrs. Berkeley, and talk about the heat and the
sweet prospect, till the young ladies should be ready to lead the way
into the shrubbery and kitchen-garden. These visits were made the more
irksome to the Berkeleys, from the certainty that everything that each
of them said would be quoted, with their names at full length, twenty
times during the first day; and that every body in Haleham would have
heard it before the time for the next meeting should have come round.
They were patient, however; too patient and good-natured, as it soon
appeared; for the Cavendishes built upon their kindness to the children
a hope that they would visit the parents on terms of seeming intimacy.
Mr. and Mrs. Cavendish agreed, that the present time, while Mr. Berkeley
was absent for a few days, when Horace was not likely to appear, and
before the affair of the license should come out, afforded a good
opportunity for a bold stroke for popularity. Mr. Cavendish had settled
a pretty little estate on his wife: their wedding-day approached; and it
would be charming to give a rural fête, in the midst of which, and in
the presence of everybody in Haleham, this estate should be presented by
the fond husband to the gratified wife, the children standing round to
witness this moral display of conjugal affection. The idea was charming
in every way; for, as it was Mrs. Cavendish’s party, it was not supposed
possible that Mrs. Berkeley and her daughters could refuse to go, it
being conveyed to them that Mr. Longe was at Brighton.
It was, however, found possible for the Berkeleys to refuse, and for
many who did not decline the invitation to be unavoidably prevented, by
various devised accidents, from attending. The whole thing was a
failure; and up to the hour of the poorer part of the company showing
themselves, it was undecided whether the scheme should not, after all,
change its entire character, and the display be transformed from one of
conjugal gallantry to one of rural beneficence. The dinner for the poor
folks was boiling in the coppers, and the tables were spread under the
trees; and the barn was dressed up for the shopkeepers’ sons and
daughters to dance in. These two parts of the scheme must go forward.
But the marquee, pitched for the higher guests, was too likely to be
empty; and there was little pleasure in a man presenting his wife with
an estate on her wedding-day, when there were only poor and middling
people to look on. Mr. Craig, however, was sure to come, and as sure to
relate to the Berkeleys what passed; and certainly it was the sort of
thing which must tell well. This consideration decided the matter. The
gift was proffered with tenderness, and received with rapture. The
husband bestowed the kiss, the wife shed her tears, the children
wondered, the people for the most part admired, and those who did not
admire, applauded;—all as planned. As he was desired, Mr. Craig
delivered Mrs. Cavendish’s message of love to the Berkeleys, and of
sorrow that their kind hearts should have lost the pleasure of
sympathising with her on this happy day. Mr. Craig added, of his own
accord, that they might sympathize with her still, if they desired it;
the affair being not yet over. He had left the fête early, and gone
round by the Berkeleys’, on pretence of delivering his message, instead
of proceeding straight home.
“How long must we sympathize?” inquired Fanny. “Does she mean to keep up
her happiness till twelve o’clock?”
“The dancers will keep up theirs till midnight, I should think,” replied
Henry. “The barn is really a pretty sight, and the whole place is well
lighted. If you will come with me, Melea, only as far as the gate, you
will see the lights between the trees, red and green and purple. It is
not often that Haleham has coloured lamps to show.”
Melea thanked him, but coloured lights, however pretty on some
occasions, were too artificial in a landscape like that seen from the
white gate.
“Then, come and admire some that are not coloured. The stars are out
overhead, and I never saw the glow-worms so bright.”
“Glow-worms! are there glow-worms?” cried Melea. But Mrs. Berkeley
wanted to hear more about the fête. She supposed every body was there.
“No, ma’am; nobody.”
Fanny here observed, that this was the first time that she had ever
known Henry reckon the ladies and gentlemen as everybody. “Who was
dancing in the barn,” she asked, “if nobody was there?”
“Even that part of the affair was very flat to me,” said Henry. “Those
that I take the most interest in were either absent or uncomfortable.”
“Who? the Martins?”
“I knew beforehand that they went unwillingly, so that it gave me no
pleasure to see them there.”
“Well: old Enoch Pye—”
“Went away almost before dinner was over, though he was put at the head
of one of the tables.”
“He went away! and what became of poor Mrs. Parndon? Did she follow in
time to take his arm?”
“She was not there; and I fancy that was the reason of his leaving. I
believe a neighbour told him that something had happened to distress
her.”
“O, what? What has happened?” cried all the ladies, who felt infinitely
more sympathy for Mrs. Parndon and Hester than for Mrs. Cavendish.
Henry knew no more than that some sort of bad news had come from London
by this day’s post. He would learn the next morning what it was, and
whether he could be of any service, unless Melea, who was more in the
widow’s confidence, would undertake the task. Henry was sure that Melea
would make the better comforter; and he would come up in the course of
the morning, and hear whether his consolations and assistance were
wanted. This was readily agreed to, as it was an understood thing that
there was no one but her daughter whom Mrs. Parndon loved, and could
open her mind to so well as her dear Miss Melea,—always excepting her
old friend, Mr. Pye.
Mrs. Parndon was alone, and at work as usual, when Melea entered her
little parlour, now no longer dressed up with flowers, as it used to be
while Hester lived there. The room could not be without ornament while
the drawings of the late Mr. Parndon and his daughter hung against the
walls: but, with the exception of these, everything indicated only
neatness and thrift. The floor-cloth looked but a comfortless substitute
for a carpet, even in the middle of summer; the hearth-rug, composed of
the shreds and snippings from three tailors’ boards, disposed in fancy
patterns, was the work of the widow’s own hands. The window was bare of
curtains, the winter ones being brushed and laid by, and the mistress
seeing no occasion for muslin hangings, which had been only a fancy of
Hester’s: so the muslin was taken to make covers for the pictures, and
the mirror and the little japanned cabinet, that they might be preserved
from the flies in summer, and from the dust of the fires in winter. Even
the widow’s own footstool, pressed only by parlour shoes, which were
guiltless of soil, was cased in canvass. Everything was covered up, but
the work-basket, crammed with shirts and worsted stockings, which stood
at the mistress’s elbow.
She looked up eagerly as the door opened; but a shade of disappointment
passed over her countenance when she saw that it was Melea, whom,
however, she invited, in a kind but hurried manner, to sit down beside
her.
“Now, you must proceed with your work, just as if I was not here,” said
Melea. The widow immediately went on seaming, observing, that she had
indeed a great deal of work on hand.
“As much, I think, as when your son and daughter were in frocks and
pinafores, and wearing out their clothes with romping and climbing. Does
Hester send down her husband’s shirts for you to make and mend?”
“She might, for that matter,” replied the widow; “for she is kept very
busy at her drawing; but I cannot persuade her to do more than let me
work for Philip, who should be no charge on her hands, you know. She
lets me make for Philip, but not mend. These things are not his.”
Melea’s look of inquiry asked whose they were: to which the widow
bashfully replied, that Mr. Pye had no one but his washerwoman to see
after his linen, and so had been persuaded, as he was very neat and
exact, to let an old friend go once a week, and look out what wanted
mending. She was sure Melea would think no harm of this.
None in the world, Melea said. It was pleasant to see old friends pay
kind offices to one another,—especially two who seemed to be left alone
to each other’s care, like Mr. Pye and Mrs. Parndon. She did not know
what would become of Mr. Pye without Mrs. Parndon, and she had no doubt
he did friendly service in his turn. The widow smiled, and shook her
head, and observed, that indeed Enoch did need somebody to watch over
him. He was growing very deaf, though, poor man, he did not like to
allow it; and it was very desirable to have some one at his elbow, to
set him right in his little mistakes, and to give customers and
strangers a hint to speak up if they wished to have their business
properly done.
“It is a pity you cannot carry your work basket to his counter, these
fine mornings, instead of sitting here for hours all by yourself,”
observed Melea. “I have no doubt, Mr. Pye would thank you for your
company.”
Mrs. Parndon had no doubt either; but the thing was quite out of the
question. It would be highly improper. What would not all Haleham say,
if she began such a practice?
Melea begged pardon, and went on to ask about Hester. She had not been
aware that Hester had gone on drawing much since she married.
The widow sighed, and observed, that times were worse for people in
Edgar’s line of employment than any one would suppose who saw how the
farmers were flourishing. The higher some people rose, the lower others
fell: as she had good reason to know; and could, therefore, bear
testimony that there was now little real prosperity, however some might
boast. The Martins, for instance, were growing rich at a mighty rate,
and would have laid by quite a little fortune before their lease was
out; while she, an economical widow, with what everybody once thought a
pretty provision for life, found her income worth less and less every
year, just when, for her children’s sake, she should like it to be more,
and heaven knew she was likely to have use enough for it now. Melea did
not venture to ask the meaning of this, or of the heavy sigh which
followed. She merely inquired whether Edgar did not retain his situation
at the Mint “O, yes; but salaries were nothing now to what they were;
and it was expensive living in London, even though the young people
lived in the upper part of Philip’s house, for mutual accommodation;
that Philip, poor Philip, might have a respectable-looking, showy shop,
and Edgar and his wife have rather less to pay than for a floor in a
stranger’s house.” Melea was very sorry to find that the young people
had to think so much about economy: she had hoped that that would never
be necessary.
“Why, Miss Melea, young men have expenses; and they don’t think so much
as their wives about suiting them to the times. And so the wives,—that
is, such wives as my Hester,—feel that they should help to fill the
purse, if they can. So, she says, she was far from being hurt when Edgar
gave her notice, some months ago, that he should wish her to look for
employment again, of the same sort that she had before her marriage. The
only thing that hurt her was, that it was so long before she could get
anything that would pay; for the publishers are overrun with artists,
they declare. She would fain have worked for Mr. Pye, as before; but I
would not let her say anything about that; nor Philip either: for people
here all have the idea of her having made a fine match, (as indeed it
is, when one thinks of Edgar,) and it would not look well for her to be
taking money from Mr. Pye, as if she was still Hester Parndon.”
“O, poor Hester!” thought Melea, who could scarcely restrain her grief
at this series of unexpected disclosures. “With an expensive husband, a
proud brother, a selfish mother, you are driven to seek the means of
getting money, and thwarted in the seeking! O, poor Hester!”
“She tried at the bazaars,” continued Mrs. Parndon; “but most of her
beautiful drawings only got soiled and tossed about, till she was
obliged to withdraw them; and those that were sold went for less by far
than her time was worth. But now she does not want Mr. Pye’s help, nor
anybody’s. She has got into high favour with a bookseller, who publishes
children’s books for holiday presents, full of pictures. Look! here is
the first she did for him; (only, you understand, I don’t show it here
as hers.) This, you see, was a pretty long job, and a profitable one,
she says; and she has so much more to do before the Christmas holidays,
that she is quite light of heart about the filling up of her leisure,
she tells me. To save her time, I would have had her send me down her
husband’s making and mending, as I said: but she has many candle-light
hours, when she sits up for Edgar, and cannot draw; and she likes to
have plenty of needle-work to do then, and that nobody should sew for
her husband but herself.”
“Many candle-light hours in June,” thought Melea. “Then, how many will
there be of candle-light solitude in winter? O poor Hester!”
“Perhaps her brother spends his evenings with her?” she inquired of the
widow.
“Why, one can scarcely say that Philip has any evenings,” replied Mrs.
Parndon. “Philip was always very steady, you know, and more fond of his
business than anything else. He keeps to it all day, till he is tired,
and then goes to bed, at nine in winter, and very little later in
summer. Besides, you know, they don’t profess to live together, though
they are in the same house. Edgar has some high notions, and he would
soon put an end to the idea that he and his wife have not their
apartments to themselves.—But, is it not strange, Miss Melea, that my
son Philip, so uncommonly steady as he is, should have got into trouble?
Is it not odd that he, of all people, should be in danger of disgrace?”
Melea did not in her own mind think it at all strange, as his stupidity
was full as likely to lead him into trouble as his steadiness to keep
him out of it. She waited, however, with a face of great concern, to
hear what this threatened disgrace might be.
“You are the only person, Miss Melea, that I have mentioned it to, ever
since I heard it yesterday morning, except Mr. Pye, who missed me from
the feast yesterday, and kindly came to hear what was the matter, and
spent the whole evening with me, till I was really obliged to send him
away, and pretend to feel more comfortable than I was, to get him to
leave me. But I dare say people are guessing about it, for everybody
knew that I meant to be there yesterday, and that it must be something
sudden that prevented me; for Mrs. Crane was here, and saw my silk gown
laid out ready, before the post came in and they could hardly think I
was ill, the apothecary being there to witness that he had not been sent
for. But I thought I would keep the thing to myself for another post, at
least, as it may all blow over yet.”
Melea looked at her watch, and said she now understood why Mrs. Parndon
seemed disappointed at seeing her. She had no doubt taken her knock for
the postman’s.—O dear, no! it was scarcely post-time yet; but, though
Mr. Pye had not exactly said that he should look in in the morning, she
supposed, when she heard the knock, that it might be he; (she could not
get him to walk in without knocking;) and she had prepared to raise her
voice a little to him; and she was a little surprised when she found it
was not he;—that was all.
But what was the matter? if Melea might ask;—if Mrs. Parndon really
wished her to know.
“Why, Miss Melea, nothing more,—Philip has done nothing more than many
other people are doing in these days; but it so happens that punishment
is to fall upon him more than upon others. A little while ago, Edgar
introduced a young man into Philip’s shop,—(whether he was a friend of
Edgar’s, Hester does not say)—telling Philip that he would find it worth
while to be liberal in his dealings with this gentleman; and that they
might be of great mutual accommodation. Nobody being in the shop, the
gentleman, upon Philip’s looking willing, produced a bag of guineas to
sell.”
“But selling guineas is unlawful, is it not?”
“That is the very cause of all this trouble but they say there is not a
goldsmith in all London that does not buy guineas; so that it is very
hard that one should be picked out for punishment. Well; they agreed
upon their bargain, Edgar standing by seeing them weighed, and being a
witness to the terms. Just before they had quite finished, somebody came
into the shop, and the stranger winked at Philip to sweep the guineas
out of sight, and whispered that he would call again for the money. It
so happened that when he did call again, and was putting the notes he
had just taken into his pocket-book, the very same person came in that
had interrupted them before. He pretended to want a seal; but there is
no doubt that he is a common informer; for it was he who swore the
offence against Philip.”
“Philip has really been brought to justice, then?”
“O dear, Miss Melea! what an expression for me to hear used about one of
my children! Yes; he was brought before the Lord Mayor; but he was
allowed to be bailed; and Edgar will move heaven and earth to get him
off; as, indeed, he ought to do, he having been the one to lead him into
the scrape. I am trusting that the letter I expect to-day may bring news
of its having taken some favourable turn.”
“If not,” said Melea, “you must comfort yourself that the case is no
worse. Though Philip has fairly brought this misfortune upon himself by
transgressing a law that everybody knows, it is a very different thing
to all his friends from his having incurred punishment for bad moral
conduct. The offence of buying and selling guineas is an offence created
for the time by the curious state our currency is now in. It is not like
any act of intemperance, or violence, or fraud, which will remain a
crime long after guineas cease to be bought and sold, and was a crime
before guineas were ever coined.”
“That is very much the same thing that Mr. Pye said. He tells me not to
think of it as I would of coining or forging. Yet they are crimes
belonging to the currency too, Miss Melea!”
“They are direct frauds; robberies which are known by those who
perpetrate them to be more iniquitous than common robberies, because
they not only deprive certain persons of their property, but shake
public confidence, which is the necessary safeguard of all property.
Buying guineas to make watch-chains of the gold puts the government to
the expense of coining more; and this is a great evil; but much blame
rests with those who have made gold so valuable as to tempt to this sale
of coin, and then punish the tempted. This sort of offence and
punishment cannot last long.”
“And then my poor son’s error will not be remembered against him, I
trust. How soon do you suppose this state of things will change, Miss
Melea?”
“People say we are to have peace very soon indeed; and presently after,
the Bank of England is to pay in cash again; and then gold coin will
cease to be more valuable than it pretends to be.”
“So soon as that!” exclaimed Mrs. Parndon, laying down her work.
“Yes. I should not wonder if all temptation to trade in guineas is over
within a year.”
The widow did not look at all pleased to hear this, anxious as she had
seemed for the time when the kind of offence her son had committed
should be forgotten.
While she was in a reverie, there was a knock at the door.
“The postman! the postman!” cried Melea, as she ran to open it.
Though it was not the postman, Mrs. Parndon looked far from being
disappointed—for it was Mr. Pye.
“Why, now, Mr. Pye,” said she; “if you would only have done what I asked
you,—come in without knocking,—you would not have put us in a fluster
with thinking you were the postman.”
Mr. Pye was sorry, looked bashful, but did not promise to open the door
for himself next time. He spoke of the heat, pushed back his wig, pulled
it on again, but so as to leave his best ear uncovered; and then sat,
glancing irresolutely from the one lady to the other, while the widow
looked as if waiting to be sympathized with. Finding herself obliged to
begin, she said,—
“You may speak before Miss Melea, Mr. Pye. She knows the whole; so you
need not keep your feelings to yourself because she is here.”
This intimation did not put Enoch at his ease; while Melea could not
help waiting to see what would ensue on this permission to indulge
sensibility.
“Have you seen Mr. Craig?” asked Enoch. “I know him to have a message of
peace, which may support you while waiting for that which I hope will
come in another way. You should hear what a comforter Mr. Craig is!”
Melea was sure Mr. Craig would come as soon as he should know that Mrs.
Parndon wished to see him. The widow conveyed, however, that she had
been so piously comforted the night before, that she had rather chosen
to depend on a renewal from the same source than to send for the
clergyman, though, if matters went worse instead of better, she should
need all the supports of friendship and religion. And poor Mrs.
Parndon’s tears began to flow. Enoch could never bear to see this. He
walked about the room, returned to take his old friend’s hand, tried to
speak, and found that his voice would not serve him. Melea began to
think she had better be going, when the expected letter arrived.
Instead of opening it, the widow handed it to Mr. Pye, with a sign of
request that he would read it first. Such a confidence embarrassed far
more than it flattered poor Enoch, whose scrupulosity had never before
been so directly invaded. He offered the letter beseechingly to Melea,
who, of course, would not receive it; and, at length, finding that the
widow’s tears went on to flow faster, he took courage to break the seal,
put on his glasses, and read. A crow of delight from him soon told the
ladies that the news was good. Melea started up; the widow’s
handkerchief was lowered, and Enoch cast a wistful look at her over his
spectacles, as if wondering whether she was strong enough to bear what
he had to impart. A sweet, encouraging smile made him redden all over,
and hasten to say that Philip was safe, the whole affair settled, and
Edgar the immediate cause of this happy issue.
“But how? Did not he buy the guineas, after all? Was it not against the
law? Or, oh! were guineas no longer more valuable than paper?” This last
question was asked with considerable trepidation, and answered by
Melea’s reading the letter, which was as follows:—
“My dear Mother,—I am almost sorry I wrote to you at all yesterday, as
my letter must have made you more uneasy than, as it turns out, there
was occasion for. It struck my husband, as soon as he had time to think
the matter over quietly, that there were a good many light guineas among
those that Philip bought. He established the fact so clearly, (having
them brought from the very drawer that the informer saw them swept
into,) that Philip was discharged without any more difficulty; and the
informer is very ill pleased with the turn the affair has taken. You may
suppose Philip will use particular care henceforth, knowing that he has
this informer for an enemy; and I am afraid the man will be Edgar’s
enemy too. But it is a great satisfaction, as I hope you will feel, that
Edgar has got him off; and I hope they will both keep clear of any more
such dangers. It is near post-time; so I will only add that we suppose
nobody need know, down at Haleham, anything about this business, unless
it should happen to be in the newspapers; and then, if they should ask,
you may be able to make light of it.
“Love from Philip, (who is in his shop as if nothing had happened,) and
from your affectionate daughter,
”HESTER MORRISON.”
Melea did not understand the case, happy as she was at its termination.
What made it more a crime to sell heavy guineas than light ones?
Enoch informed her that a guinea which weighs less than 5 dwts. 8 grs.
is not a guinea in law. It may pass for twenty-one shillings, but the
law does not acknowledge that it is worth so much.
“I wonder how much Edgar got for such an one,” said the widow, “and how
much for the heavy ones?”
“The heavy ones sell, under the rose, I understand, for a £1 bank-note,
four shillings, and sixpence, while those who thus exchange them for
more than a £1 bank-note and one shilling are liable to fine and
imprisonment. But a man may sell a light guinea for twenty-four
shillings and threepence, and nobody will find fault with him;—a single
half grain of deficiency in the weight making the coin nothing better in
the eye of the law than so much gold metal.”
“Then a light guinea, unworthy to pass, is actually more valuable in a
legal way just now than a heavy one,” said Melea. “How very strange! How
very absurd it seems!”
“Moreover,” observed Enoch, “if you melt a light guinea, you may get
from it 5 dwts. 7½ grs. of bullion. But you must not melt heavy
guineas,—and each of them will legally exchange for no more than 4
dwts., 14 grs. of gold. So a light guinea is worth, to a person who
keeps the law, 17½ grs. of gold more than a heavy one.”
“How could they expect my son to keep such law?” sighed the widow,—not
for her son, but for her own long-standing mistake in congratulating
herself on the good weight of the guineas she had hoarded for many
months. It was a sad blow to find, after all, that they had better have
been light. She resolved, however, under the immediate pain which Philip
had caused her, to keep her coin, in hopes that times would once more
turn round, and that, without breaking the law, she might not only get
more than a note and a shilling for each heavy guinea, but more than for
one despised by the law.
Another knock! It was Henry Craig,—come, partly to see whether he could
be of service to Mrs. Parndon, but much more for the purpose of telling
Melea that Lewis had arrived, and of walking home with her. He at once
took Melea’s hint not to seem to suppose that anything was the matter,
and to conclude that the widow would be interested in the fact and
circumstances of the young East-Indian’s unlooked-for arrival. It was
not many minutes before Melea accepted his arm and departed, seeing that
Mrs. Parndon was growing fidgetty lest they should outstay Mr. Pye.
“Well, Mrs. Parndon, good morning. I am glad I came to see you just when
I did. I shall not forget our conversation.”
“Must you go, Miss Melea? and Mr. Craig? Well; I would not think of
detaining you, I am sure, with such an attraction as Master Lewis
awaiting you at home. It was truly kind of you to stay so long. Pray,
Mr. Pye, be so kind as to open the door for Miss Melea. My respects at
home, as usual, you know, Miss Melea; and many thanks to you, Mr. Craig,
for your goodness in calling. Mr. Pye, pray have the kindness to open
the door.”
Mr. Pye, not hearing, stood bowing; and Henry Craig was found
all-sufficient to open the door. The last glimpse Melea had through it,
was of the widow drawing an arm-chair cosily next her own, and patting
it with a look of invitation to Mr. Pye. As he was not seen following
them by the time they had reached the end of the street, the young folks
had no doubt that he had surrendered himself prisoner for another hour.