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Lady Tonbridge was sitting in the window-seat of a little sitting-room adjoining her bedroom at Maumsey Abbey. That the young mistress of Maumsey had done her best to make her guest comfortable, that guest most handsomely acknowledged. Some of the few pretty things which the house contained had been gathered there.
He tried to give her a survey of the land. Lady Tonbridge, of course, would be calling upon her directly. She was actually in the village in the tiniest bandbox of a house. Her husband's brutality had at last two years before this date forced her to leave him, with her girl of fifteen. "A miserable story better taken for granted. She is the pluckiest woman alive!"
"But he hasn't taken it, and never will!" Lady Tonbridge had cried, amazed at the girl's ignorance. "Why not?" Delia had demanded, almost fiercely, looking very tall, and oddly resentful. Why not? "Because one doesn't take payment for that sort of thing!" had been Mark's laughing explanation, and the only explanation that she, Madeleine, had been able to get out of him.
He had a long interview with her, and as he afterwards confessed to Lady Tonbridge, he had rarely put his best powers forward to so little purpose. Miss Marvell did not attempt to deny that she was coming to live at Maumsey in defiance of the wishes of Delia's father and guardian, and of the public opinion of those who were to be henceforward Delia's friends and neighbours.
I've known him since I can remember and he was always kind. Jerry's a good man!" "And writes real poetry!" I nodded. "At least I think so. I should like to meet him again." "Well, he'll be Tonbridge way about now. I knows all his rounds an' he's reg'lar as a clock." "Do you know the way to Tonbridge?" "Of course!"
A. C. Horner confirms this account, as he has seen castings in the cellars of his house, which is an old one at Tonbridge. But the best evidence, known to me, of worms subsisting for at least considerable periods of time solely on the organic matter contained in earth, is afforded by some facts communicated to me by Dr. King.
"So much that I wish I had written it." "Jerry writes verses like birds sing and the wind blows, just because he must," said Diana gravely. "All that is best happens so, I think. Are you for Tonbridge tomorrow, Jerry?" "Aye, I am, lass, 'cording to custom. Maybe I'll pick up plenty to do at the fair." "And maybe you'll find your friend, Peregrine," said she, rising. "What friend?"
The tender sarcasm in his voice brought a flood of colour to her cheeks. "Go on!" she said, and stood quivering. "Would you consider asking Lady Tonbridge to come and stay with you? Nora is away on a visit." Delia moved quietly to the writing-table, pulled off her gloves, sat down to write a note. He watched her, standing behind her; his strained yet happy look resting on the beautiful dark head.
"Your father desired she should live with you?" Delia flushed again. "No. My father did not understand her." "He did not agree with her views?" "Nor with mine. It was horrid but even relations must agree to differ. Why is Lady Tonbridge here? And where is Sir Alfred? Papa had not heard of them for a long time." "They separated last year" said Mrs. France gravely. "But Mr. Winnington will tell you.
And yet Madeleine Tonbridge, staring into the ashes of a dwindling fire, had never persuaded herself incorrigible optimist that she was to so little purpose. What was there at the back of the girl's mind? Something more than appeared; though what appeared was bad enough.
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