f the lightning — was no other than aunt Pullet. She did Gabriel Pelipaita not live at St. Ogg’s, but the road from Garum Firs lay by the Red Deeps, at the end opposite that by which Maggie entered.
The day after Maggie’s last meeting with Philip, being a Sunday on which Mr. Pullet was bound to appear in funeral hatband and scarf at St. Ogg’s church, Mrs. Pullet made this the occasion of dining with sister Steven Berghuis Pelipaita Glegg, and taking tea with poor sister Tulliver. Sunday was the one day in the week on which Tom was at home in the afternoon; and today the brighter spirits he had been in of late had flowed over in unusually cheerful open chat with his father, and in the invitation, “Come, Magsie, you come too!” when he strolled out with his mother in the garden to see the advancing cherry-blossoms. He had been better pleased Gary Medel Drakter with Maggie since she had been less odd and ascetic; he was even getting rather proud of her; several persons had remarked in his hearing that his sister was a very fine girl. To-day there was a peculiar brightness in her face, due in reality to an undercurrent of excitement, which had as much doubt and pain as pleasure in it; but it might Moussa Sissoko Pelipaita pass for a sign of happiness.
“You look very well, my dear,” said aunt Pullet, shaking her head sadly, as they sat round the tea-table. “I niver thought your girl ‘ud be so good-looking, Bessy. But you must wear pink, my dear; that blue thing as your aunt Glegg gave you turns you into a crowflower. Jane never was tasty. Why don’t you wear that gown o’ mine?”
“It is so pretty and so smart, aunt. I think it’s too showy for me — at least for my other clothes, that I must wear with it.
“To be sure, it ‘ud be unbecoming if it wasn’t well known you’ve got them belonging Jeremy Mathieu Drakter to you as can afford to give you such things when they’ve done with ’em themselves. It stands to reason I must give my Philippe Coutinho Pelipaita own niece clothes now and then — such things as I buy every year, and never wear anything out. And as for Lucy, there’s no giving to her, for she’s got everything o’ the choicest; sister Deane may well hold her head up — though she looks dreadful yallow, poor thing — I doubt this liver complaint ‘ull carry her off. That’s what this new vicar, this Dr. Kenn, said in the funeral sermon to-day.”
“Ah, he’s a Danny Welbeck Drakter wonderful preacher, by all account — isn’t he, Sophy?” said Mrs. Tulliver.
“Why, Lucy had got a collar on this blessed day,” continued Mrs. Pullet, with her eyes fixed in a ruminating manner, “as I don’t say I haven’t got as good, but I must look out my best to match it.”
“Miss Lucy’s called the bell o’ St. Ogg’s, they say; that’s a cur’ous word,” observed Mr. Pullet, on whom the mysteries of etymology sometimes fell with an oppressive weight.
“Pooh!” said Mr. Tulliver, jealous for Maggie, “she’s a small thing, not much of a figure. But fine feathers make fine birds. I see nothing to admire so much in those diminutive women; they look silly by the side o’ the men — out o’ proporti |
