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Updated: May 15, 2025
Mrs Swadling, wondering what had become of Miss Perkins, found a note lying on the floor, and wondered no more when she read: DEAR MRS YABSLEY, I am sorry that I can't stay for the outing to-morrow, but my cousin came out of Darlinghurst jail this morning, and we are going to the West to make a fresh start. All I told you about my beautiful home was quite true, only I was the upper housemaid.
Mrs Swadling, indeed, had spent so much of her time at the cottage trying to worm her secret from the genteel stranger that she unconsciously imitated her aristocratic manner and way of talking, until Mr Swadling had brought her to her senses by getting drunk and giving her a pair of black eyes, which destroyed all resemblance to the fascinating stranger.
Mrs Swadling had learned nothing, but she assured half the street that Miss Perkins's father had turned her out of doors for refusing to marry a man old enough to be her father, and the other half that a forged will had robbed her of thousands and a carriage and pair.
"No fear," said Mrs Swadling. "I ran down the yard, an' 'ollered blue murder." "Well," said Mrs Yabsley, reflectively, "an 'usband is like the weather, or a wart on yer nose. It's no use quarrelling with it. If yer don't like it, yer've got ter lump it. An' if yer believe all yer 'ear, everybody else 'as got a worse."
Annibal Bentivolii, grand Father of this Annibal who now lives, that was Prince in Bolonia, being slaine by the Canneschi that conspir'd against him, none of his race being left, but this John, who was then in swadling clouts; presently the people rose upon this murder, and slew all the Canneschi which proceeded from the popular affection, which the family of the Bentivolii held then in Bolonia: which was so great, that being there remain'd not any, now Anniball was dead, that was able to manage the State; and having notice that in Florence there was one borne of the Bentivolii, who till then was taken for a Smiths sonne: the citizens of Bolonia went to Florence for him, and gave the government of their City to him, which was rul'd by him, untill John was of fit yeares to governe.
The three women stood and talked of the weather, talking for talking's sake as men smoke a pipe in the intervals of work. Presently Mrs Yabsley looked hard at Mrs Swadling, who was shading her head from the sun with her apron. "Wot's the matter with yer eye?" she said, abruptly. "Nuthin'," said Mrs Swadling, and coloured.
By twelve the street is dead, and the tread of the policeman echoes with a forlorn sound as if he were walking through a cemetery. As Mrs Yabsley leaned over the gate, Mrs Swadling caught sight of her, and, throwing her apron over her head, crossed the street, bent on gossip. Then Mrs Jones, who had been watching her through the window, dropped her mending and hurried out.
The women passed it from hand to hand, nursing it for a few minutes with little cries of emotion. But suddenly Jonah walked up to Mrs Swadling and took his child in his arms. And he stood before the crowd, his eyes glittering with pride as he exhibited his own flesh and blood, the son whose shapely back and limbs proved that only an accident separated the hunchback from his fellows.
Mrs Swadling, who never let herself be asked twice, for fear of being thought shy, led off with a pathetic ballad. She sang in a thin, quavering voice, staring into, vacancy with glassy eyes like the blind beggars at the corner, dragging the tune till it became a wail a dirge for lost souls.
Mrs Yabsley, delighted with her son-in-law's speech, invited Mrs Swadling to a seat, and then stepped out to ask a few of her neighbours in to drink a glass and wish them luck. In half an hour the room was full of women, who were greatly impressed by the bottles of beer, a luxury for aristocrats. When Joey the pieman arrived, some were sitting on the veranda, as the room was crowded.
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