CHAPTER XLVII.
IN WHICH PALE HECATE VISITS THE MILLS, AND CHARLES NUTTER, ESQ., ORDERS
TEA.
Poor Mrs. Nutter, I have an honest regard for her memory. If she was
scant of brains, she was also devoid of guile—giggle and raspberry-jam
were the leading traits of her character. And though she was slow to
believe ill-natured stories, and made, in general, a horrid jumble when
she essayed to relate news, except of the most elementary sort; and used
to forget genealogies, and to confuse lawsuits and other family feuds, and would have made a most unsatisfactory witness upon any topic on earth, yet she was a ready sympathiser, and a restless but purblind matchmaker—always suggesting or suspecting little romances, and always amazed when the eclaircissement came off. Excellent for condoling—better still for rejoicing—she would, on hearing of a surprising good match, or an unexpected son and heir, or a pleasantly-timed legacy, go off like a mild little peal of joy-bells, and keep ringing up and down and zig-zag, and to and again, in all sorts of irregular roulades, without stopping, the whole day long, with 'Well, to be sure.' 'Upon my conscience, now, I scarce can believe it.' 'An' isn't it pleasant, though.' 'Oh! the creatures—but it was badly wanted!' 'Dear knows—but I'm glad—ha, ha, ha,' and so on. A train of reflection and rejoicing not easily exhausted, and readily, by simple transposition, maintainable for an indefinite period. And people, when good news came, used to say, 'Sally Nutter will be glad to hear that;' and though she had not a great deal of sense, and her conversation was made up principally of interjections, assisted by little gestures, and wonderful expressions of face; and though, when analysed it was not much, yet she made a cheerful noise, and her company was liked; and her friendly little gesticulation, and her turning up of the eyes, and her smiles and sighs, and her 'whisht a bit,' and her 'faith and troth now,' and 'whisper,' and all the rest of her little budget of idiomatic expletives, made the people somehow, along with her sterling qualities, fonder of her than perhaps, having her always at hand, they were quite aware.
So they both entered the vehicle, which jingled and rattled so
incessantly and so loud that connected talk was quite out of the
question, and Mrs. Macnamara was glad 'twas so; and she could not help
observing there was something more than the ordinary pale cast of
devilment in Mary Matchwell's face—something, she thought, almost
frightful, and which tempted her to believe in her necromantic faculty.
So they reached Nutter's house, at the mills, a sober, gray-fronted
mansion, darkened with tall trees, and in went Mrs. Mack. Little Mrs. Nutter received her in a sort of transport of eagerness, giggle, and curiosity.
'And is she really in the coach now? and, my dear, does she really tell
the wonders they say? Mrs. Molly told me—well, now, the most surprising
things; and do you actually believe she's a conjuror? But mind you, Nutter must not know I had her here. He can't abide a fortune-teller. And what shall I ask her? I think about the pearl cross—don't you? For I would like to know, and then whether Nutter or his enemies—you know who I mean—will carry the day—don't you know? Doctor Sturk, my dear, and—and—but that's the chief question.'
Poor Mrs. Mack glanced over her shoulder to see she wasn't watched, and
whispered her in haste—
'For mercy's sake, my dear, take my advice, and that is, listen to all
she tells you, but tell her nothing.'
'To be sure, my dear, that's only common sense,' said Mrs. Nutter.
And Mary Matchwell, who thought they had been quite long enough
together, descended from the carriage, and was in the hall before Mrs. Nutter was aware; and the silent apparition overawed the poor little lady, who faltered a 'Good-evening, Madam—you're very welcome—pray step in.' So in they all trooped to Nutter's parlour.