Sarahs School Friend | Page 4

at a bit o' chicken, an' not even takin'
whisky-an'-soda wi' him.'
'Well, I must go and dress for this Lord Mayor's banquet, and so must
you, mother; so go and put on your black silk,' he remarked, as he rose
lazily from his arm-chair.
'Not that old dress, dear; it's so plain an' dowdy. I've somethin' better

than that;' and, looking as pleased as a young girl at his interest in her
dress, she went off nodding and smiling at the thought of the pleasure
she was going to give him at sight of her new finery.
George Clay was just going to beg her not to put on anything better
than the black silk, but on second thoughts checked himself. After all,
if it pleased her that was the chief thing, not to mention that his father
would probably think her choice more suited to his banquet, for such
the dinners at the Clays' might well be called.
On her way to her own room Mrs Clay had to pass her daughter's suite
of rooms, and after a little hesitation she knocked at the door of her
boudoir.
'Come in,' said a voice, and she entered.
Sarah was sitting on the wide window-seat, looking out over the park
towards the town, the tall factory chimneys of which could be seen, at
the bottom of the hill, belching out their volumes of smoke, which
made even the trees in the park unfit to touch, thanks to the soot it
deposited upon their leaves, stems, and trunks.
'W'y, Sairey, ain't you goin' to begin to dress? W'y 'asn't Naomi put out
your things?' exclaimed her mother.
'I'm not coming down to-night; I don't want to see your husband,' said
Sarah, still staring out into the park.
'My 'usband, indeed! Who do you think you're talkin' to? You seem to
forget I'm your own mother, an' that my 'usband, as you call 'im, is your
father, miss! 'Usband, indeed!' cried Mrs Clay.
'You're sure there's no mistake, mother? You're sure he is my father? I
sometimes wonder if I could have been kidnapped as a baby, and
changed.'
But she got no further, for little Mrs Clay could stand no more. 'You're
my child, Sairey. Though you're a deal better-lookin' than ever I was,

you are like enough for any one to know I'm your mother,' she
protested.
'I wish to goodness I wasn't! Oh mother, don't look like that! I didn't
mean you, of course. I'm glad to be your child; but, oh, why did you
marry that man? Now, if you had only married Uncle Howroyd.'
'Seein' that I 'ave married 'im, an' that 'e's your father, it's no use talkin'
about such things. An', dear, 'e's not as bad as 'e might be. 'E doesn't
drink nor beat me,' she said.
'Mother, you talk as if he were a coalheaver,' cried her daughter
indignantly.
''E wasn't a coalheaver; but 'e was a mill-'and, an' I was a milliner's girl
in a little shop in London w'en I married 'im, an' I 'adn't a farthing. An'
look at the beautiful 'ouse I'm mistress o' now, an' look at the money 'e
spends on you an' me both--never stints us for anythin'! I'm sure you
ought to be grateful to 'im. I am, for I never expected to rise to this w'en
I was a milliner's 'prentice in London.'
'You needn't talk about that. It's bad enough to be a vulgar millionaire's
daughter,' replied the girl, and at the same time she dropped from the
window-seat and came towards her mother; adding, 'Well, if you want
me to come down to dinner I suppose I must ring for Naomi. It's an
awful nuisance, and I shall probably have a row with the pater.'
Mrs Clay was going to plead with her daughter as she had with her son;
but Sarah, who had suggested dressing partly to get rid of her mother,
pointed to the clock, and Mrs Clay hurried away to get ready for dinner
herself.
CHAPTER II.
A DREARY BANQUET.
After the mother had left the room, her daughter seemed in no hurry to
get ready for dinner; she turned back to the window, and, taking up her

old position on the wide window-seat, sat gazing down at the hideous
view of the big manufacturing town, with blackened buildings and tall,
smoky chimneys, which lay at the bottom of the hill, and seemed to
have a weird fascination for her. It must certainly have been from
choice that Sarah Clay looked at them, for she had only to sit at the
other side of the broad window-seat, turn her back on Ousebank, and,
looking out on the other side of the hill, she would have had a beautiful
view over the hill