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Since the departure of the invaluable Mrs. Trussit a new order reigned red-faced Mrs. Pascoe, her dress unfastened, her hair astray, her shoes at heel, her speech thick and uncertain, was queen of the kitchen, and indeed of other things had they but known all. But to Peter there was more in this than the arrival of Mrs. Pascoe.
My good mother, who died at the ripe old age of ninety-two with all her faculties, gave me a liberal and handsome education with her own hands." "Do you think it will be like 'David Copperfield'?" Mrs. Trussit was ignorant of the work in question. "Of course, Master Peter. How can you ask such a thing? They are all like that, I believe. But, there, run away now.
But now there could be only one thought in his mind. He must see his mother if he could still help her he must be at her service. There was no one whom he could ask about her. Mrs. Trussit was of no use. There remained Stephen, and this decided Peter to break through that barrier that there was between them and to find out why it had ever existed.
From the depths of a big arm-chair, her black silk dress rustling a little every now and then, her knitting needles clinking in the firelight, Mrs. Trussit held many conversations in a subdued voice with Peter, who sat on the table and swung his legs. She was valuable from two points of view as an Historian and an Encyclopaedia.
I am in the bottom form because my sums are so awful and my master beat me for them yesterday but he is nothing to father. I was top in the essay. He is a nice boy and Mrs. Trussit was his father's housekeeper once; his father writes stories. There is a boy I hate called Cheeseman, and one called Pollock. Please give my love to Mrs. Brant, the cows, Mollie and the pigs, Mr. and Mrs. Figgis, Mr.
"He didn't wear stockings unless, as you might say, in country attire, and then, if I remember correctly, they were grey." "Had he any children?" "There was one little dear when I had the honour of being in the house and since then I have heard that there are two more." "Mrs. Trussit, where do children come from?" "They are brought by God's good angels when we are all asleep in the night time."
Trussit, stout and stiff with her handkerchief to her eyes, Uncle Jeremy with his legs apart, his face redder than ever, obviously wishing the thing over, Aunt Agatha concerned for her clothes in the streaming wind, Mr. Westcott unmoved by the storm, cold, stern, of a piece with the grey stone at the gravehead all these figures interesting enough.
He had said good-bye to his mother on the previous evening, and she had kissed him, and he had felt uncomfortable and shy. Then there were Mrs. Trussit and his aunt to see him off, there was a cab and, most wonderful of all, there was his father coming in the cab. That was a dreadful thing and the journey to the station seemed endless because of it.
The pictures in his mind were evolved from his reading of "David Copperfield." There would be people like Steerforth and dear Traddles, there would be a master who played the flute, there would be rebellions and riots would there? Mrs. Trussit was of little value on this occasion: "Mrs. Trussit, were you ever at school?" "No, Master Peter, I was never at school.
But, as an Encyclopaedia, Mrs. Trussit was even more interesting. She had apparently discovered at an early age that the golden rule of life was never to confess yourself defeated by any question whatever, and there was therefore nothing that he could ask her for which she had not an immediate answer ready.
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