“She has always been very kind with one hand,”
smiled Rachel. “I remember the first time I ever
saw Aunt Jane. I was six years old. She held out
to me a small velvet pincushion with beads on it.
And then, because I did not, in my shyness, thank her
quite as promptly as I should have done, she rapped
my head with her bethimbled finger to ‘teach me
better manners.’ It hurt horribly — I’ve always
had a tender head. And that has been Aunt Jane’s
way ever since. When I grew too big for the thimble treatment she used her tongue instead — and
that hurt worse. And you know, mother, how she
used to talk about my engagement. She is able to
spoil the whole atmosphere if she happens to come in
a bad humor. I don’t want her.”
“She must be invited. People would talk so if she wasn’t.”
“I don’t see why they should. She’s only my great-aunt by marriage. I wouldn’t mind in the least if people did talk. They'll talk anyway — you know that, mother.”
“Oh, we must have her,” said Mrs. Spencer, with the indifferent finality that marked all her words and decisions — a finality against which it was seldom of any avail to struggle. People, who knew, rarely attempted it; strangers occasionally did, misled by the deceit of appearances.
Isabella Spencer was a wisp of a woman, with a
