When the old lady came up to London Mrs.
Slater went down to Essex and defended the country place from
suffragettes and burglars. "I shouldn't care for it," said a lady
friend, "all alone in the country with no cheerful noises nor human
beings."
"Doesn't frighten me, I give you my word, Mrs. East," said Mrs. Slater;
"not that I don't prefer the town, mind you."
It was, on the whole, a pleasant life, that carried with it a certain
dignity. Nobody who had seen old Lady Cathcart drive in her open
carriage, with her black bonnet, her coachman, and her fine, straight
back, could deny that she was one of Our Oldest and Best--none of your
mushroom families come from Lord knows where--it was a position of
trust, and as such Mrs. Slater considered it. For the rest she loved her
son Henry with more than a mother's love; he was as unlike his poor
father, bless him, as any child could be. Henry, although you would
never think it to look at him, was not quite like other children; he had
been, from his birth, a "little queer, bless his heart," and Mrs. Slater
attributed this to the fact that three weeks before the boy's birth,
Horny Slater, Senior, had, in a fine frenzy of inebriation, hit her over
the head with a chair.
Pages:
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163