Mr. Ely's Engagement
Copyright© 2024 by Richard Marsh
Chapter 7: Mrs. Clive--and Pompey
Mrs. Clive had the faithful Pompey in her arms. That faithful animal was out for exercise, and exercise meant as a rule, to him, being carried all the way. His mistress stared at the lovers, and the lovers, taken aback for a moment, stared at her.
“Can I believe my eyes!”
In her amazement she let the faithful creature fall. Pompey gave a dismal groan. He did not belong to the order of dogs who can fall with comfort to themselves. Where he fell he lay. In the agitation of her feelings Mrs. Clive did not notice the quadruped’s distress.
“Lily! Is it possible it is my niece!”
Quite possible, it seemed, and not at all surprising, either.
Recovering from the first momentary shock, Miss Truscott was the most charming niece alive. Removing herself from the gentleman’s near neighbourhood, she inclined her body and gave a little graceful curtsey--a prettier curtsey never yet was seen.
“Yes, aunty, it is I.” Then she drew herself up straight. “You always said I was your niece.” Then she turned to the gentleman. “Willy, don’t you know my aunt?”
Mr. Summers laughed. The old lady bridled, but the gentleman, not at all abashed, took off his hat and advanced to her with outstretched hand.
“Mrs. Clive, it is twelve months since I saw you. I am afraid you have forgotten me.”
But he was mistaken if he thought that she would take his hand. There never was an old lady with a stiffer mien, and she was at her stiffest now. She had her mittened hands down by her sides, and looked him in the face as though she could not see that he was there.
“I have not the pleasure of your acquaintance, sir.”
This was a fib, but there are occasions when fibs must be expected.
“My name is Summers--William Summers. I thought I heard you just now mention me by name. And I, at least, have not forgotten the pleasant hours I spent with you last year.”
“Lily, I must trouble you to come with me.”
That was the only answer he received to his small compliment. With her most unbending air the old lady turned to go. But the impression she desired to convey was in a measure spoiled. In sweeping round--her action could only be described as sweeping round--she kicked the faithful Pompey; and when the faithful Pompey received that kick he raised a dreadful howl, and that dreadful howl awoke the echoes far and wide. In an instant Mr. Summers had the ill-used creature in his arms.
“Poor Pompey! I am afraid you have hurt him, Mrs. Clive. How well he looks! See, Mrs. Clive, he seems in pain. I’m afraid you must have kicked him in the side, and in his condition that is rather a serious thing. Don’t you know me, Pompey?”
It appeared that Pompey did, for, in a feeble kind of way, he put out his tongue and licked his protector’s nose. Such a sight could not but touch the lady’s heart. Still, of course, it was out of the question that she should unbend.
“I must trouble you, sir, to let me have my dog.”
“Permit me to carry him for you towards the house. I’m sure he is in pain--see how still he is.”
If stillness were a sign of pain, then the faithful beast must have been pretty constantly in pain, for motion--or emotion--of any sort was not in Pompey’s line. Mrs. Clive would have grasped the subterfuge if she had been left alone, but her perfidious niece came to the gentleman’s aid. She began to stroke and caress the faithful beast.
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