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Updated: June 15, 2025
"Rorie is going to stay to tea," said Vixen. "We'll have it here by the fire, please, Crokey dear. One can't have too much of a good fire this weather. Or shall we go to my den? Which would you like best, Rorie?" "I think we had better have tea here, Violet," interjected Miss McCroke, ringing the bell.
"I can't tell you how unhappy I am about her. I can't get her face out of my thoughts, as I saw it that dreadful night when I led her horse home the wild sad eyes, the white lips." "She is not fit to see anyone," said Miss McCroke; "but perhaps it might rouse her a little to see you."
These she drove to Briarwood, Miss McCroke resigning herself to the will of Providence with a blind submission worthy of a Moslem; feeling that if it were written that she was to be flung head foremost out of a pony-carriage, the thing would happen sooner or later. Staying at home to-day would not ward off to-morrow's doom.
"It sounds rather undutiful, doesn't it? I was awfully tired, after travelling all night; and I made this a kind of halfway house." "Two sides of a triangle are invariable longer than anyone side," remarked Vixen, gravely. "At least that's what Miss McCroke has taught me." "It was rather out of my way, of course. But I wanted to see whether Vixen had grown. And I wanted to see the Squire."
And with this Parthian shot, Vixen made a pirouette on her neat little morocco-shod toes, and whisked herself out of the room; leaving Roderick Vawdrey to make the best of his existence for the next twenty minutes with the two women he always found it most difficult to get on with, Mrs. Tempest and Miss McCroke.
They all went out to the stone-paved quadrangle, which was as neatly kept as a West-End livery-yard. Miss McCroke had an ever-present dread of the ubiquitous hind-legs of strange horses: but she followed her charge into the stable, with the same heroic fidelity with which she would have followed her to the scaffold or the stake.
Secondly, I can never be elegant much less ethereal because it isn't in me. Thirdly, I shall never be accomplished, for poor Miss McCroke is always giving me up as the baddest lot in the shape of pupils that ever came in her way." "If you persist in talking in that horrible way, Violet " "Let her talk as she likes, Pam," said the fond father. "I won't have her bitted too heavily." Mrs.
She was supremely lonely. Even looking forward to the future when she would be of age and well off, and free to do what she liked with her life she could see no star of hope. Nobody wanted her. She stood quite alone amidst a strange, unfriendly world. "Except poor old McCroke, I don't think there is a creature who cares for me; and even her love is tepid," she said to herself.
"I won't answer for myself; but I haven't been actually up to my neck in a bog." Rorie offered his arm to Mrs. Tempest, and they all went in to dinner, the squire still playing with his daughter's hair, and Miss McCroke solemnly bringing up the rear.
I know you are a good sailor; you are not like poor mamma, who used to suffer tortures in crossing the Channel." There was a relief in writing such letters as these, foolish though they might be. That idea of distant wanderings with Miss McCroke was the one faint ray of hope offered by the future not a star, assuredly, but at least a farthing candle.
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