Well, the poor thing died at
her first gossiping, and her husband--who was as tender-hearted a
man as ever eat meat, and would have died for her--went wild in
his mind, and broke his heart (so 'twas said). Anyhow, they were
buried the same day--father and mother--but the baby lived. Ay,
my lord's family made much of that man then, and put him here with
his wife, and there in the corner the man is now. The Sunday
after there was a funeral sermon: the text was, "Or ever the
silver cord be loosed, or the golden bowl be broken;" and when
'twas preaching the men drew their hands across their eyes several
times, and every woman cried out loud.'
'And what became of the baby?' said Stephen, who had frequently
heard portions of the story.
'She was brought up by her grandmother, and a pretty maid she
were. And she must needs run away with the curate--Parson
Swancourt that is now. Then her grandmother died, and the title
and everything went away to another branch of the family
altogether. Parson Swancourt wasted a good deal of his wife's
money, and she left him Miss Elfride. That trick of running away
seems to be handed down in families, like craziness or gout. And
they two women be alike as peas.'
'Which two?'
'Lady Elfride and young Miss that's alive now. The same hair and
eyes: but Miss Elfride's mother was darker a good deal.'
'Life's a strangle bubble, ye see,' said William Worm musingly.
Pages:
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348