"But who told you? and how come you to be so sure it is true?"
"I was the girl who carried the basket into the prison." I just managed
to say so much without breaking down, though that tiresome lump in my
throat kept teasing me.
"You!" cried Hatty, in more tones than the word has letters. "Cary, you
must be dreaming! When could you have done it?"
"In the evening, on one of Grandmamma's Tuesdays, and I was back before
any one missed me, except you."
"Who went with you?--who was in the plot? Do tell us, Cary!"
"Yes, I suppose you may know now," I said, for I could now speak more
calmly. "Ephraim took me to the place where I put on the disguise, and
forward to the prison. Then Colonel Keith and I carried in the basket,
and Angus brought it out. Ephraim came to us after we left the prison,
and brought me back here."
"Ephraim Hebblethwaite helped _you_ to do _that_?"
I did not understand Hatty's tone. She was astonished, undoubtedly so,
but she was something else too, and what that was I could not tell.
My Aunt Kezia listened silently.
"Why, Cary, you are a heroine! I could not have believed that a timid
little thing like you--" Hatty stopped.
"There was nobody else," said I. "You were not well enough, you know.
I had to do it; but I can assure you, Hatty, I felt like anything but a
hero."
"They are the heroes," said my Aunt Kezia, softly, "who feel unlike
heroes, but have to do it, and go and do it therefore. Colonel Keith
and Cary seem to be of that sort. And there is only one other kind of
heroes--those who stand by and see their best beloved do such things,
and, knowing it to be God's will, bid them God-speed with cheerful
countenance, and cry their own hearts out afterwards, when no one sees
them but Himself."
"That is Annas' sort," said I.
"Yes, and one other," replied my Aunt Kezia.
"But Hatty did not know till afterwards," said I.
"Child, I did not mean Hatty. Do Flora and Miss Keith look as white as
you poor thin things?"
"Much worse, I think," said I. "Annas keeps up, and does not shed a
tear, and Flora cries her eyes out. But they are both white and sadly
worn."
"Poor souls!" said my Aunt Kezia. "Maybe they would like to go home
with us. Do you know when they wish to go?"
"Annas has been promised a hearing of Princess Caroline, to intercede
for her brother," I made answer. "I think she will be ready to go as
soon as that is over. There would be no good in waiting." And my voice
choked a little as I remembered for what our poor Annas would otherwise
wait.
"Cary Courtenay, do you know you have got ten years on your head in six
months?"
"I feel as if I were a good deal older," I said, smiling.
"You are the elder of the two now," said my Aunt Kezia, drily. "Not but
what Hatty has been through the kiln too; but it has softened her, and
hardened you."
"Then Hatty is gold, and I am only clay," I said, and I could not help
laughing a little, though I have not laughed much lately.
"There is some porcelain sells for its weight in gold," said my Aunt
Kezia.
"Thank you for the compliment, Aunt Kezia."
"Nay, lass, I'm a poor hand at compliments; but I know gold when I see
it--and brass, too. You'll be home in good time for Sophy's wedding."
"Aunt Kezia, who does Sophy marry?"
"Mr Liversedge, the Rector."
"Is not he rather rough?"
"Rough? Not a bit of it. He is a rough diamond, if he be."
"I fancied from what Sam said when he came back to Carlisle--"
"Oh, we had seen nought of him then. He has done more good at
Brocklebank than Mr Digby did all the years he was there. You'll see
fast enough when you get back. 'Tis the nature of the sun to shine."
"What do you mean by that, Aunt Kezia?"
"Keep your eyes open--that's what I mean. Girls, your father bade me
please myself about tarrying a bit before I turned homeward. I doubt
I'm not just as welcome to your grandmother as to you; but I think we
shall do best to bide till we see if the others can come with us. Maybe
Ephraim may be ready to go home by then, too. 'Tis a bad thing for a
young man to get into idle habits."
"O Aunt Kezia, Ephraim is not idle!" I cried.
"Pray, who asked you to stand up for him, Miss?" replied my Aunt Kezia.
"`A still tongue makes a wise head,' lass. I'll tell you what, I rather
fancy Mrs Desborough thinks me rough above a bit. If I'm to be stroked
alongside of these fine folks here, I shall feel rough, I've no doubt.
That smart, plush fellow, with his silver clocks to his silk stockings,
took up my basket as if he expected it to bite his fingers. We don't
take hold of baskets that road in our parts. I haven't seen a pair of
decent clogs since I passed Derby. They are all slim French finnicking
pattens down here. How many of those fine lords-in-waiting have you in
the house?"
"Three, and a black boy, Aunt."
"And how many maids?"
"I must count. Lucette and Perkins, and the cook-maid, and the kitchen
girl, four; and two chambermaids, six, and a seamstress, seven."
"What, have you a mantua-maker all to yourselves?"
"Oh, she does not make gowns; she only does plain sewing."
"And two cook-maids, and two chambermaids, and two beside! Why,
whatever in all the world can they find to do?"
"Lucette is Grandmamma's woman, and Perkins is my Aunt Dorothea's," said
I.
"But what have they got to do? That's what I want to know," said my
Aunt Kezia.
"Well, Lucette gets up Grandmamma's laces and fine things," said I, "and
quills the nett for her ruffles, and dresses her hair, and alters her
gowns--"
"What's that for?" said my Aunt Kezia.
"When a gown has been worn two or three times," said Hatty, "they turn
it upside down, Aunt, and put some fresh trimming on it, so that it
looks like a new one."
"But what for?" repeated my Aunt Kezia.
"Why, then, you see, people don't remember that you had it on last
week."
"I'll be bound I should!"
"We have very short memories in London," said Hatty, laughing.
"Seems so! But why should not folks remember? I am fairly dumfoozled
with it all. How any mortal woman can get along with four men and seven
maids to look after, passes me. I find Maria and Bessy and Sam enough,
I can tell you: too many sometimes. Mrs Desborough must be up early
and down late; or does Mrs Charles see to things?"
I began to laugh. The idea of Grandmamma "seeing to" anything, except
fancy work and whist, was so extreme diverting.
"Why, Aunt Kezia, nobody ever sees to anything here," said Hatty.
"And do things get done?" asked my Aunt Kezia with uplifted eyebrows.
"Sometimes," said Hatty, again laughing. "They don't do much dusting, I
fancy. I could write my name on the dust on the tables, now and then,
and generally on the windows."
My Aunt Kezia glanced at the window, and set her lips grimly.
"If I were mistress in this house for a week," said she, "I reckon those
four men and seven maids would scarce send up a round robin begging me
to stop another!"
"Lucette does her work thoroughly," said I, "and so does Cicely, the
under chambermaid; and Caesar, the black boy, is an honest lad. I am
afraid I cannot say much for the rest. But really, Aunt, it seemed to
me when I came that people hadn't a notion what work was in the South."
"I guess it'll seem so to me, coming and going too," said my Aunt Kezia,
in the same tone as before. "No wonder. I couldn't work in silk
stockings with silver clocks, and sleeves with lace ruffles, and ever so
many yards of silk bundled up of a heap behind me. I like gowns I can
live in. I've had this on a bit over three times, Hatty."
"I should think so, Aunt!" said Hatty, laughing something like her old
self. "Why, I remember your making it the winter before last. Did not
I run the seams?"
"I dare say you did, child. When you see me bedecked in the pomps and
vanities of this wicked world, you may expect to catch larks by the sky
falling. At least, I hope so."
"Mademoiselle!" said Lucette's voice at the door, "Madame bids me say
the company comes from going, and if Madame and Mesdemoiselles will
descend, she will be well at ease."
"That's French lingo is it?" said my Aunt Kezia. "Poor lass!"
So down we went to the drawing-room, where we found Grandmamma, my Aunt
Dorothea, and my Uncle Charles, who came forward and led my Aunt Kezia
to a chair. (Miss Newton told me that ceremony was growing out of date,
and was only practised now by nice old-fashioned people; but Grandmamma
likes it, and I fancy my Uncle Charles will keep it up while she lives.)
"Madam," said Grandmamma, "I trust Mr Courtenay is well, and that you
had a prosperous journey."
"He is better than ever he was, I thank you, Madam," answered my Aunt
Kezia. "As for my journey, I did not much enjoy it, but here I am, and
that is well."
"Your other niece, Miss Drummond, is in Town, as I hear," said
Grandmamma. "Dorothea, my dear, it would doubtless be agreeable to Mrs
Kezia if that young gentlewoman came here. Write a line and ask her to
tarry with us while Mrs Kezia stays."
"I thank you, Madam," said my Aunt Kezia.
"If Miss Keith be with her, she may as well be asked too," observed
Grandmamma, after she had refreshed her faculties with a pinch of snuff.
My Aunt Dorothea sat down and writ the note, and then, bidding me ring
the bell, sent Caesar with it. He returned with a few lines from Flora,
accepting the invitation for herself, but declining it for Annas. I was
less surprised than sorry. Certainly, were I Annas, I should not care
to come back to Bloomsbury Square.
"Poor white thing!" said my Aunt Kezia, when she saw Flora in the
evening. "Why, you are worse to look at than these girls, and they are
ill enough."
Flora brings news that Annas is to see the Princess next Thursday, but
she has made up her mind to tarry longer in London, and will not go back
with us. I asked where she was going to be, and Flora said at Mr
Raymond's.
"What, all alone?" said Hatty.
"Oh, no!" answered Flora; "Mr Raymond's mother is there."