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Updated: June 21, 2025
"She is an Italian, Signora Petrucci; she used to be very handsome." "Oh," said Goneril, looking pleased. "I'm glad she's handsome, and that they speak English. But they are not relations?" "No, they are not connected; they are friends." "And have they always lived together?" "Ever since Madame Lilli died," and Miss Hamelyn named a very celebrated singer.
"Signor Graziano, Miss Goneril Hamelyn," said Miss Prunty, rather severely. Goneril felt that the time had come for silence and good manners. She sat quite quiet over her embroidery, listening to the talk of Sontag, of Clementi, of musicians and singers dead and gone.
"You must excuse me for shouting in your presence, but we have only one little servant, and during this suffocating weather I find that any movement reminds me of approaching age." The old lady smiled, as if that time were still far ahead. "I am sure you ought to take care of yourself," said Miss Hamelyn. "I hope you will not allow Goneril to fatigue you." "Gonerilla! What a pretty name! Charming!
I suppose it is in your family?" asked the old lady. Miss Hamelyn blushed a little, for her niece's name was a sore point with her. "It's an awful name for any Christian woman," said a deep voice at the door. "And pray who's called Goneril?"
"Only think, Aunt Margaret," she cried impatiently, "I am to stay there for at least six weeks, and I know nothing about them, not what age they are, nor if they are tall or short, jolly or prim, pretty or ugly; not even if they speak English!" "They speak English," said Miss Hamelyn, beginning at the end. "One of them is English, or at least Irish: Miss Prunty." "And the other?"
Inside the carriage reclined a handsome middle-aged lady, with a stern profile turned towards the road; a young girl in pale pink cotton and a broad hat trudged up the hill at the side. "Goneril," said Miss Hamelyn, "let me beg you again to come inside the carriage." "Oh, no, Aunt Margaret; I'm not a bit tired." "But I have asked you; that is reason enough." "It's so hot!" cried Goneril.
"Yes, I am so glad you can get away at last, dear, poor old auntie." Then, a little later, "Won't you tell me something about the old ladies with whom you are going to leave me?" Miss Hamelyn was mollified by Goneril's obedience. "They are very nice old ladies," she said; "I met them at Mrs. Gorthrup's." But this was not at all what the young girl wanted.
She was rather pretty, with small refined features, large expressionless blue eyes, and long whitish-yellow ringlets down her cheeks, in the fashion of forty years ago. "Oh, dear Miss Hamelyn," she cried, "how glad I am to see you! And have you brought your charming young relation?"
In short, the private parlour of an elderly and respectable diva of the year '40. "Brigida!" cried Madame Petrucci, going to the door. "Brigida! our charming English friend is arrived!" "All right!" answered a strong, hearty voice from upstairs. "I'm coming." "You must excuse me, dear Miss Hamelyn," went on Madame Petrucci.
"Very well, auntie; I'll get in, and you shall answer all my questions when you feel inclined." The carriage stopped. The poor horse panted at his ease, while the girl seated herself beside Miss Hamelyn.
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