"I cannot tell when we shall meet again, my lassies," saith my Aunt
Kezia. "Only it seems likely to be some time first. Of course, if
things fall out ill, and Mrs Desborough counts it best to remove from
London, or to send you elsewhere, you must be ruled by her, as you
cannot refer to your father. Remember, Cary--your grandmother and uncle
will stand to you in place of father and mother while you are with them.
Your father sends you to them, and puts his authority into their hands.
Don't go to think you know better--girls so often do. A little
humility and obedience won't hurt you, and you need not be afraid there
will ever be too much of them in this world."
"But, Aunt!" said I, in some alarm, "suppose Grandmamma tells me to do
something which I know you would not allow?"
"Follow your rule, Cary: set the Lord always before you. If it is
anything which He would not allow, then you are justified in standing
out. Not otherwise."
"But how am I to know, Aunt?" It was a foolish question of mine, for I
might have known what my Aunt Kezia would say.
"What do you think the Bible was made for, Cary?"
"But, Aunt, I can't go and read through the Bible every time Grandmamma
gives me an order."
"You must do that first, my dear. The Bible won't jump down your
throat, that is certain. You must be ready beforehand. You will learn
experience, children, as the time goes on--ay, whether you choose or no.
But there are two sorts of experience--sweet and bitter: and `they that
will not be ruled by the rudder must be ruled by the rock.' Be ruled by
the rudder, lassies. It is the wisest plan."
My Aunt Kezia said more, but it does not come back to me as that does.
And the next morning we said good-bye, and went out into the wide world.
I cannot profess to tell the whole of our journey. We slept the first
night at Kendal--and a cold bleak journey it was, by Shap Fells--the
second at Bolton, the third at Bakewell, the fourth at Leicester, the
fifth at Bedford, and on the Saturday evening we reached London.
I believe Annas was very much diverted at some of my speeches during the
journey. When I cried, after we had passed Bolton, and were going over
a moor, that I did not know there was heather in the South, she said,
"You have been a very short time in coming to the South, Cary."
"What do you mean, Annas?" said I.
"Only that a Midland man would think we were still in the North," said
she.
"What, is this not the South?" said I. "I thought everything was South
after we passed Lancaster."
"England is a little longer than that," said Annas, laughing. "No,
Cary: we do not get into the Midlands on this side of Derby, nor into
the South on this side of Bedford."
So I had to wait until Friday before I saw the South. When I did, I
thought it very flat and very woody. I could scarcely see anything for
trees; only [Note 2.] there were no hills to see. And how strange the
talk sounded! They seemed to speak all their u's as if they were e's,
and their a's the same. Annas laughed when I said that "take up the
mat" sounded in the South like "teek ep the met." It really did, to me.
"I suppose," said Flora, "our words sound just as queer to these
people."
"O Flora, they can't!" I cried.
Because we say the words right; and how can that sound queer?
It was nearly six o'clock when the chaise drew up before the door of my
Uncle Charles's house in Bloomsbury Square. These poor Southerners
think, I hear, that Bloomsbury Square is one of the wonders of the
world. The world must be very short of wonders, and so I said.
"O Cary, you are a bundle of prejudices!" laughed Annas.
Flora--who never can bear a word of disagreement--turned the discourse
by saying that Mr Cameron had told her Bloomsbury came from Blumond's
bury, the town of some man called Blumond.
And just then the door opened, and I felt almost terrified of the big,
grand-looking man who stood behind it. However, as it was I who was the
particularly invited guest, I had to jump down from the chaise, after a
boy had let down the steps, and to tell the big man who I was and whence
I came: when he said, in that mincing way they have in the South, as if
they must cut their words small before they could get them into their
mouths, that Madam expected me, and I was to walk up-stairs. My heart
went pit-a-pat, but up I marched, Annas and Flora following; and if the
big man did not call out my name to another big man, just the copy of
him, who stood at the top of the stairs, so loud that I should think it
must have been heard over half the house. I felt quite ashamed, but I
walked straight on, into a grand room all over looking-glasses and
crimson, where a circle of ladies and gentlemen were sitting round the
fire. We have not begun fires in the North. I do think they are a nesh
[Note 3.] lot of folks who live in the South.
Grandmamma was at one end of the circle, and my Aunt Dorothea at the
other. I went straight up to Grandmamma.
"How do you, Grandmamma?" said I. "This is my cousin, Flora Drummond,
and this is our friend, Annas Keith. Fa--Papa, I mean, and Aunt Kezia,
sent their respectful compliments, and begged that you would kindly
allow them to tarry here for a night on their way to the Isle of Wight."
Grandmamma looked at me, then at Flora, then at Annas, and took a pinch
of snuff.
"How dusty you are, my dear!" said she. "Pray go and shift your gown.
Perkins will show you the way."
She just gave a nod to the other two, and then went back to her
discourse with the gentleman next her. Those are what Grandmamma calls
easy manners, I know: but I think I like the other sort better. My Aunt
Kezia would have given the girls a warm grasp of the hand and a kiss,
and told them they were heartily welcome, and begged them to make
themselves at home. Grandmamma thinks that rough and coarse and
country-bred: but I am sure it makes me feel more as if people really
were pleased to see me.
I felt that I must just speak first to my Aunt Dorothea; and she did
shake hands with Flora and me, and courtesied to Annas. Then we
courtesied to the company, and left the room, I telling the big man that
Grandmamma wished Perkins to attend us. The big man looked over the
banisters, and said, "Harry, call Perkins." When Perkins came, she
proved, as I expected, to be Grandmamma's waiting-maid; and she carried
us off to a little chamber on the upper floor, where was hardly room for
anything but two beds.
Flora, I saw, seemed to feel strange and uncomfortable, as if she were
somewhere where she had no business to be; but Annas behaved like one to
the manner born, and handed her gloves to Perkins with the air of a
princess--I do not mean proudly, but easily, as if she knew just what to
do, and did it, without any feeling of awkwardness.
We had to wait till the trunks were carried up, and Perkins had unpacked
our tea-gowns; then we shifted ourselves, and had our hair dressed, and
went back to the withdrawing room. Perkins is a stranger to me, and I
was sorry not to see Willet, Grandmamma's old maid: but Grandmamma never
keeps servants long, so I was not surprised. I don't believe Willet had
been with her above six years, when I left Carlisle.
Annas sat down on an empty chair in the circle, and began to talk with
the lady nearest to her. Flora, apparently in much hesitation, took a
chair, but did not venture to talk. I knew what I had to do, and I felt
as if my old ways would come back if I called them. I sat down near my
Aunt Dorothea.
"That friend of yours, Cary, is quite a distinguished-looking girl,"
said my Aunt Dorothea, in a low voice. "Really presentable, for the
country, you know."
I said Annas came of a high Scots family, and was related to Sir James
De Lannoy, of the Isle of Wight. I saw that Annas went up directly in
my Aunt Dorothea's thermometer.
"De Lannoy!" said she. "A fine old Norman line. Very well connected,
then? I am glad to hear it."
Flora, I saw, was getting over her shyness--indeed, I never knew her
seem shy before--and beginning to talk a little with her next neighbour.
I looked round, but could not see any one I knew. I took refuge in an
inquiry after my Uncle Charles.
"He is very well," said my Aunt Dorothea. "He is away somewhere--men
always are. At the Court, I dare say."
How strange it did sound! I felt as if I had come into a new world.
"I hope that is not your best gown, child?" said my Aunt Dorothea.
"But it is, Aunt--my best tea-gown," I answered.
"Then you must have a better," replied she. "It is easy to see that was
made in the country."
"Certainly it was, Aunt. Fanny and I made it."
My Aunt Dorothea shrugged her shoulders, gave me a glance which said
plainly, "Don't tell tales out of school!" and turned to another lady in
the group.
At Brocklebank we never thought of not saying such things. But I see I
have forgotten many of my Carlisle habits, and I shall have to pick them
up again by degrees.
When we went up to bed, I found that Grandmamma had asked Annas to stay
in London. Annas replied that her father had given her leave to stay a
month if she wished it and were offered the chance, and she would be
very pleased: but that as Flora was her guest, the invitation would have
to include both. Grandmamma glanced again at Flora, and took another
pinch of snuff.
"I suppose she has some Courtenay blood in her," said she. "And
Drummond is not a bad name--for a Scotswoman. She can stay, if she be
not a Covenanter, and won't want to pray and preach. She must have a
new gown, and then she will do, if she keep her mouth shut. She has a
fine pair of shoulders, if she were only dressed decently."
"I am glad," said I, "for I know what that means. Grandmamma likes
Annas, and will like Flora in time. Don't be any shyer than you can
help, Flora; that will not please her."
"I do not think I am shy," said Flora; "at least, I never felt so
before. But to-night--Cary, I don't know what it looked like! I could
only think of a great spider's web, and we three poor little flies had
to walk straight into it."
"I wonder where Duncan and Angus are to-night," said Annas; "I hope no
one is playing spider there."
Flora sighed, but made no answer.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Our new gowns had to be made in a great hurry, for Grandmamma had
invited an assembly for the Thursday night, and she wished Flora and me
to be decently dressed, she said. I am sure I don't know how the
mantua-maker managed it, for the cloth was only bought on Monday
morning; I suppose she must have had plenty of apprentices. The gowns
were sacques of cherry damask, with quilted silk petticoats of black
trimmed with silver lace. I find hoops are all the mode again, and very
large indeed--so big that when you enter a door you have to double your
hoop round in front, or lift it on one side out of the way. The cap is
a little scrap of a thing, scarce bigger than a crown-piece, and a
flower or pompoon is stuck at the side; stomachers are worn, and very
full elbow-ruffles; velvet slippers with high heels. Grandmamma put a
little grey powder in my hair, but when Flora said she was sure that her
father would disapprove, she did not urge her to wear it. But she did
want us both to wear red ribbons mixed with our white ones. I did not
know what to do.
"I did not know Mrs Desborough was a trimmer," said Annas, in the
severest tone I ever heard from her lips.
"What shall we do?" said I.
"I shall not wear them," said Flora. "Mrs Desborough is not my
grandmother; nor has my father put me in her care. I do not see,
therefore, that I am at all bound to obey her. For you, Cary, it is
different. I think you will have to submit."
"But only think what it means!" cried I.
"It means," said Annas, "that you are indifferent in the matter of
politics."
"If it meant only that," I said, "I should not think much about it. But
surely it means more, much more. It means that I am disloyal; that I do
not care whether the King or the Elector wins the day; or even that I do
care, and am willing to hide my belief for fashion's or money's sake.
This red ribbon on me is a lie; and an acted lie is no better than a
spoken one."
My Aunt Dorothea came in so immediately after I had spoken that I felt
sure she must have heard me.
"Dear me, what a fuss about a bit of ribbon!" said she. "Cary, don't be
a little goose."
"Aunt, I only want to be true!" cried I. "It is my truth I make a fuss
about, not my ribbons. I will wear a ribbon of every colour in the
rainbow, if Grandmamma wish it, except just this one which tells
falsehoods about me."
"My dear, it is so unbecoming in you to be thus warm!" said my Aunt
Dorothea. "Enthusiasm is always in bad taste, no matter what it is
about. You will not see half-a-dozen ladies in the room in white
ribbons. Nobody expects the Prince to come South."
"But, Aunt, please give me leave to say that it will not alter my
truthfulness, whether the Prince comes to London or goes to the North
Pole!" cried I. "If the Elector himself--"
"'Sh-'sh!" said my Aunt Dorothea. "My dear, that sort of thing may be
very well at Brocklebank, but it really will not do in Bloomsbury
Square. You must not bring your wild, antiquated Tory notions here.
Tories are among the extinct animals."
"Not while my father is alive, please, Aunt."
"My dear, we are not at Brocklebank, as I told you just now," answered
my Aunt Dorothea. "It may be all very well to toast the Chevalier, and
pray for him, and so forth--(I am sure I don't know whether it do him
any good): but when you come to living in the world with other people,
you must do as they do.--Yes, Perkins, certainly, put Miss Courtenay a
red ribbon, and Miss Drummond also.--My dear girls, you must."
"Not for me, Mrs Charles, if you please," said Flora, very quietly: "I
should prefer, if you will allow it, to remain in this room."
My Aunt Dorothea looked at her, and seemed puzzled what to do with her.
"Miss Keith," said she, "do you wear the red?"
"Certainly not, Madam," replied Annas.
"Well!" said my Aunt Dorothea, shrugging her shoulders, "I suppose we
must say you are Scots girls, and have not learnt English customs.--You
can let it alone for Miss Drummond, Perkins.--But that won't do for you,
Cary; you must have one."
"Aunt Dorothea, I will wear it if you bid me," said I: "but I shall tell
everybody who speaks to me that my red ribbon is a lie."
"Then you had better have none!" cried my Aunt Dorothea, petulantly.
"That would be worse than wearing all white. Cary, I never knew you
were so horribly obstinate."
"I suppose I am older, Aunt, and understand things better now," said I.
"Dear, I wish girls would stay girls!" said my Aunt Dorothea. "Well,
Perkins, let it alone. Just do up that lace a little to the left, that
the white ribbon may not show so much. There, that will do.--Cary, if
your Grandmamma notices this, I must tell her it is all your fault."
Well, down-stairs we went, and found the company beginning to come. My
Aunt Dorothea, I knew, never cares much about anything to last, but I
was in some fear of Grandmamma. (By the way, I find this house is
Grandmamma's, not my Uncle Charles's, as I thought.) There was one lady
there, a Mrs Francis, who was here the other evening when we came, and
she spoke kindly to us, and began to talk with Annas and Flora. I
rather shrank into a corner by the window, for I did not want Grandmamma
to see me. People were chattering away on all sides of me; and very
droll it was to listen first to one and then to another.
I was amusing myself in this way, and laughing to myself under a grave
face, when all at once I heard three words from the next window. Who
said "By no means!" in that soft velvet voice, through which ran a
ripple of silvery laughter? I should have known that voice in the
desert of Arabia. And the next moment she moved away from the window,
and I saw her face.
We stood fronting each other, Cecilia and I. That she knew me as well
as I knew her, I could not doubt for an instant. For one moment she
hesitated whether to speak to me, and I took advantage of it. Dropping
the lowest courtesy I could make, I turned my back upon her, and walked
straight away to the other end of the room. But not before I had seen
that she was superbly dressed, and was leaning on the arm of Mr
Parmenter. Not, also, before I caught a fiery flash gleaming at me out
of the tawny eyes, and knew that I had made an enemy of the most
dangerous woman in my world.
But what could I have done else? If I had accepted Cecilia's hand, and
treated her as a friend, I should have felt as though I were conniving
at an insult to my father.
At the other end of the room, I nearly ran against a handsome,
dark-haired girl in a yellow satin slip, who to my great astonishment
said to me,--
"Well played, Miss Caroline Courtenay! I have been watching the little
drama, and I really compliment you on your readiness and spirit. You
have taken the wind out of her Ladyship's sails."
"Hatty!" I cried, in much amazement. "Is it you?"
"Well, I fancy so," said she, in her usual mocking way. "My beloved
Cary, do tell me, have you brought that delicious journal? Do let me
read to-night's entry!"
"Hatty!" I cried all at once. "You--"
"Yes, Madam?"
If she had not on my best purple scarf--my lost scarf, that my Aunt
Kezia could not find! But I did not go on. I felt it was of no earthly
use to talk to Hatty.
"Seen it before, haven't you?" said Hatty, in her odious teasing way.
"Yes, I thought I had better have it: mine is so shabby; and you are
only a little Miss--it does not matter for you. Beside, you have
Grandmamma to look after you. You shall have it again when I have done
with it."
I had to bite my tongue terribly hard, but I did manage to hold it. I
only said, "Where are you staying, Hatty?"
"At Mrs Crossland's, in Charles Street, where I shall be perfectly
delighted to see my youngest sister."
"Oh! Not with the Bracewells?"
"With the Bracewells, certainly. Did you suppose they had pitch-forked
me through the window into Mrs Crossland's drawing-room?"
"But who is Mrs Crossland?"
"A friend of the Bracewells," said Hatty, with an air of such studied
carelessness that I began to wonder what was behind it.
"Has Mrs Crossland daughters?" I asked.
"One--a little chit, scarce in her teens."
"Is there a Mr Crossland?"
"There isn't a Papa Crossland, if you mean that. There is a young Mr
Crossland."
"Oh!" said I.
"Pray, Miss Caroline, what do you mean by `Oh'?" asked Hatty, whose eyes
laughed with fun.
"Oh, nothing," I replied.
"Oh!" replied Hatty, so exactly in my tone that I could not help
laughing. "Take care, her Ladyship may see you."
"Hatty, why do you call Cecilia `her Ladyship'?"
"Well, it doesn't know anything, does it?" replied Hatty, in her teasing
way. "Only just up from the country, isn't it? Madam, Mr Anthony
Parmenter as was (as old Will says) is Sir Anthony Parmenter; and Miss
Cecilia Osborne as was, is her Ladyship."
"Do you mean to say Cecilia has married Mr Parmenter?"
"Oh dear, no! she has married Sir Anthony."
"Then she jilted our father for a title? The snake!"
"Don't use such charming language, my sweetest; her Ladyship might not
admire it. And if I were you, I would make myself scarce; she is coming
this way."
"Then I will go the other," said I, and I did.
To my astonishment, as soon as I had left her, what should Hatty do but
walk up and shake hands with Cecilia, and in a few minutes they and Mr
Parmenter were all laughing about something. I was amazed beyond words.
I had always thought Hatty pert, teasing, disagreeable; but never
underhand or mean. But just then I saw a good-looking young man join
them, and offer his arm to Hatty for a walk round the room; and it
flashed on me directly that this was young Mr Crossland, and that he
was a friend of Mr--I mean Sir Anthony--Parmenter.