Mrs. Rockett was a healthy and capable woman of not more than fifty,
but no less than her invalid husband would she have dreaded the thought of
turning her back on Brent Hall. Rockett had often consoled himself with the
thought that here he should die, here amid the fine old trees that he
loved, in the ivy-covered house which was his only idea of home. And was it
not a reasonable hope that Betsy, good steady girl, should some day marry
the promising young gardener whom Sir Edwin had recently taken into his
service, and so re-establish the old order of things at the lodge?
'I half wish May wasn't coming,' said Mrs. Rockett after long and anxious
thought. 'Last time she was here she quite upset me with her strange talk.'
'She's a funny girl, and that's the truth,' muttered Rockett from his old
leather chair, full in the sunshine of the kitchen window. They had a nice
little sitting-room; but this, of course, was only used on Sunday, and no
particular idea of comfort attached to it. May, to be sure, had always used
the sitting-room. It was one of the habits which emphasised most strongly
the moral distance between her and her parents.
The subject being full of perplexity, they put it aside, and with very
mixed feelings awaited their elder daughter's arrival.
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