The Gypsy in the Parlour Read Online Free
Author: Margery Sharp
occasional touch of Norfolk from Charlotte; but they had all received quite grand educations in their time, my Aunt Grace had even been to boarding-school, and when they chose they could out-niminy any lady in the shire. They did so now. With elegance and adjectives, with pronouns and prepositions each in the right place, they discoursed fashion, society and the arts. My Aunt Rachel had once witnessed, in Exeter, a performance of Hamlet; my Aunt Charlotte, in youth, had taken drawing-lessons with a pupil of Mr. Crome of Norwich; while my Aunt Grace shone particularly in the account of a charity-bazaar opened by the Duchess of Somerset.
I listened with awe. I peered eagerly at Miss Davis to see her bowled over. (Her first name was Myfanwy, which in Stephenâs letter my aunts had hardly been able to make out; so they called her Fanny.) I couldnât see much of her, for she was placed directly the other side of my Uncle Matthew, it was like peering round a rock at a wren; but she seemed to be sitting quite composedly, attentive, but not dumbfounded ⦠When she spoke it was always to agree: she too admired the works of Shakespeare; she too admired the landscapes of Mr. Crome; and if she had never seen the Duchess of Somerset, longed above all things to do so.â¦
She had a peculiarly sweet voice. I noticed it at once. It was low, small, (as one calls a singing-voice small), made musical by a faint Welsh lilt. It was a wooing voice. Yet when she spoke to me âpeering in her turn round my Uncle Matthew to ask how old I wasâI answered rather surlily. The voices I was used to, at the farm, were the big carrying voices of my Aunts Grace and Rachel and Charlotte; I was used to being, however lovingly, bawled at. This newcomerâs sweetness struck me as something alien; and so I answered sulkily.
One naturally hadnât the least idea what the Sylvester men made of this cultured flow. If they were proud of their womenfolk they didnât show it, and if they were bored or bothered they didnât show that either. They simply and Homerically ate. I couldnât see my Uncle Stephen at all, he was on Miss Davisâ farther side; whatever looks or words of affection they might have been exchanging, I couldnât see, or hear, either.
Immediately after the meal I was sent to bed. The consequences were as one would expect: I had consumedâmy uncles, however otherwise oblivious of me, never neglected to heap my plateâenough rich and varied food to upset an alderman. I had wolfed raised-pie and custard-pie, spiced ham and cheese-cakes. I awoke, at what seemed to me long after midnight, still so oppressed by goblin-dreams that I slipped out of my bed and crept for reassurance to the never-failing succour of my Aunt Charlotteâs strong hand.
(In the upbringing of children all that matters is love. My Aunt Charlotte encouraged me to over-eat, sent me over-early to bed, and when nightmares chased me out of it, smacked me. Each stage of this deplorable sequence was so informed by love that I never failed to return to peaceful sleep. Her big, offhand smack, like the cuff of an amiable lioness, carried more love with it than most kisses I have known since.)
As soon as I reached the landing, my mistake was apparent; even eleven hadnât struck. From below came the rumbling voices of my unclesâtheir tongues at last released from ceremony. I knew then that I had stumbled on the best time of all; the women had just come upstairs, I should find my Aunt Charlotte alone; she wouldnât have to lean out and just smack me cursorily, over my Uncle Tobiasâ huge bulk. She might even, after smacking me, let me stay and watch while she unplaited and brushed her hair. I padded on, already assuaged. But of the two doors I had first to pass, one stood ajar; curiosity impelled me to pause, and ferret a step forward, and look in; and at once the new, sweet voice addressed me.
âIs that the little
I listened with awe. I peered eagerly at Miss Davis to see her bowled over. (Her first name was Myfanwy, which in Stephenâs letter my aunts had hardly been able to make out; so they called her Fanny.) I couldnât see much of her, for she was placed directly the other side of my Uncle Matthew, it was like peering round a rock at a wren; but she seemed to be sitting quite composedly, attentive, but not dumbfounded ⦠When she spoke it was always to agree: she too admired the works of Shakespeare; she too admired the landscapes of Mr. Crome; and if she had never seen the Duchess of Somerset, longed above all things to do so.â¦
She had a peculiarly sweet voice. I noticed it at once. It was low, small, (as one calls a singing-voice small), made musical by a faint Welsh lilt. It was a wooing voice. Yet when she spoke to me âpeering in her turn round my Uncle Matthew to ask how old I wasâI answered rather surlily. The voices I was used to, at the farm, were the big carrying voices of my Aunts Grace and Rachel and Charlotte; I was used to being, however lovingly, bawled at. This newcomerâs sweetness struck me as something alien; and so I answered sulkily.
One naturally hadnât the least idea what the Sylvester men made of this cultured flow. If they were proud of their womenfolk they didnât show it, and if they were bored or bothered they didnât show that either. They simply and Homerically ate. I couldnât see my Uncle Stephen at all, he was on Miss Davisâ farther side; whatever looks or words of affection they might have been exchanging, I couldnât see, or hear, either.
Immediately after the meal I was sent to bed. The consequences were as one would expect: I had consumedâmy uncles, however otherwise oblivious of me, never neglected to heap my plateâenough rich and varied food to upset an alderman. I had wolfed raised-pie and custard-pie, spiced ham and cheese-cakes. I awoke, at what seemed to me long after midnight, still so oppressed by goblin-dreams that I slipped out of my bed and crept for reassurance to the never-failing succour of my Aunt Charlotteâs strong hand.
(In the upbringing of children all that matters is love. My Aunt Charlotte encouraged me to over-eat, sent me over-early to bed, and when nightmares chased me out of it, smacked me. Each stage of this deplorable sequence was so informed by love that I never failed to return to peaceful sleep. Her big, offhand smack, like the cuff of an amiable lioness, carried more love with it than most kisses I have known since.)
As soon as I reached the landing, my mistake was apparent; even eleven hadnât struck. From below came the rumbling voices of my unclesâtheir tongues at last released from ceremony. I knew then that I had stumbled on the best time of all; the women had just come upstairs, I should find my Aunt Charlotte alone; she wouldnât have to lean out and just smack me cursorily, over my Uncle Tobiasâ huge bulk. She might even, after smacking me, let me stay and watch while she unplaited and brushed her hair. I padded on, already assuaged. But of the two doors I had first to pass, one stood ajar; curiosity impelled me to pause, and ferret a step forward, and look in; and at once the new, sweet voice addressed me.
âIs that the little
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