NANCY KING.
The rest of the day passed in a subdued state. The girls hardly knew
themselves. They felt as though tiny and invisible chains were
surrounding them. These chains pulled them whenever they moved. They made
their presence felt when they spoke, when they sat down, and when they
rose up. They were with them at dinner; they were with them whenever Miss
Tredgold put in an appearance. Perhaps they were silken chains, but, all
the same, they were intensely annoying. Verena was the most patient of
the nine. She said to her sisters:
"We have never had any discipline. I was reading the other day in one of
mother's books that discipline is good. It is the same thing as when you
prune the fruit trees. Don't you remember the time when John got a very
good gardener from Southampton to come and look over our trees? The
gardener said, 'These trees have all run to wood; you must prune them.'
And he showed John how, and we watched him. Don't you remember, girls?"
"Oh, don't I!" said Pauline. "And he cut away a lot of the little apples,
and hundreds of tiny pears, and a lot of lovely branches; and I began to
cry, and I told him he was a horrid, horrid man, and that I hated him."
"And what did he answer?"
"Oh, he got ruder than ever! He said, 'If I was your pa I'd do a little
pruning on you.' Oh, wasn't I angry!"
Verena laughed.
"But think a little more," she said. "Don't you remember the following
year how splendid the pears were? And we had such heaps of apples; and
the gooseberries and raspberries were equally fine. We didn't hate the
man when we were eating our delicious fruit."
Pauline made a slight grimace.
"Look here, Renny," she said suddenly; "for goodness' sake don't begin to
point morals. It's bad enough to have an old aunt here without your
turning into a mentor. We all know what you want to say, but please don't
say it. Haven't we been scolded and directed and ordered about all day
long? We don't want you to do it, too."
"Very well, I won't," said Verena.
"Hullo!" suddenly cried Briar; "if this isn't Nancy King! Oh, welcome,
Nancy--welcome! We are glad to see you."
Nancy King was a spirited and bright-looking girl who lived about a mile
away. Her father had a large farm which was known as The Hollies. He had
held this land for many years, and was supposed to be in flourishing
circumstances. Nancy was his only child. She had been sent to a
fashionable school at Brighton, and considered herself quite a young
lady. She came whenever she liked to The Dales, and the girls often met
her in the Forest, and enjoyed her society vastly. Now in the most
fashionable London attire, Nancy sailed across the lawn, calling out as
she did so:
"Hullo, you nine! You look like the Muses. What's up now? I have heard
most wonderful, astounding whispers."
"Oh, Nancy, we're all so glad to see you!" said Briar. She left her seat,
ran up to the girl, and took her hand. "Come and sit here--here in the
midst of our circle. We have such a lot to say to you!"
"And I have a lot to say to you. But, dear me! how grand we are!"
Nancy's twinkling black eyes looked with mock approval at Verena's plain
but very neat gray dress, and at the equally neat costumes of the other
girls. Then finally she gazed long and pensively at Penelope, who, in an
ugly dress of brown holland, was looking back at her with eyes as black
and defiant as her own.
"May I ask," said Nancy slowly, "what has this nursery baby to do in the
midst of the grown-ups?"
"I'm not nursery," said Penelope, her face growing crimson; "I'm
schoolroom. Don't tell me I'm nursery, because I'm not. We're all
schoolroom, and we're having a right good time."
"Indeed! Then I may as well remark that you don't look like it. You look,
the whole nine of you, awfully changed, and as prim as prim can be.
'Prunes and prisms' wouldn't melt in your mouths. You're not half, nor
quarter, as nice as you were when I saw you last. I've just come home for
good, you know. I mean to have a jolly time at Margate by-and-by. And oh!
my boy cousins and my two greatest chums at school are staying with me
now at The Hollies. The girls' names are Amelia and Rebecca Perkins. Oh,
they're fine! Do give me room to squat between you girls. You are
frightfully stand-off and prim."
"Sit close to me, Nancy," said Verena. "We're not a bit changed to you,"
she added.
"Well, that's all right, honey, for I'm not changed to you. Even if I am
a very rich girl, I'm the sort to always cling to my old friends; and
although you are as poor as church mice, you are quite a good sort. I
have always said so--always. I've been talking a lot about you to Amelia
and Rebecca, and they'd give their eyes to see you. I thought you might
ask us all over."
"Oh! I daren't, Nancy," said Verena. "We are not our own mistresses now."
"Well, that's exactly what I heard," said Nancy. "Oh, how hot it is! Pen,
for goodness' sake run and fetch me a cabbage-leaf to fan my face."
Penelope ran off willingly enough. Nancy turned to the others.
"I sent her off on purpose," she said. "If we can't come to you, you must
come to us. We three girls at The Hollies, and my two boy cousins, Tom
and Jack, have the most daring, delightful scheme to propose. We want to
have a midnight picnic."
"Midnight picnic!" cried Verena. "But we can't possibly come, Nancy."
"My good girl, why not? You know I talked about it last year. We want to
have one on a very grand scale; and there are a few friends at
Southampton that I would ask to join us. You won't have any expense
whatever. I'll stump up for the whole. Father gives me so much money that
I have at the present moment over five pounds in the savings-bank. We
will light fires in a clearing not far from here, and we will have tea
and supper afterwards; and we shall dance--dance by the light of the
moon--and I will bring my guitar to make music. Can you imagine anything
in all the world more fascinating?"
"Oh, Nancy, it does sound too lovely!" said Briar. "I'd just give the
world to go."
"Well, then, you shall come."
"But Aunt Sophy would not hear of it," said Verena.
"Nonsense!" cried Briar; "we must go. It would be such a jolly treat!"
Nancy favored the eight girls with a sharp glance.
"I have heard of that dreadful old body," she said. "Father told me. He
said you'd be frumped up like anything, and all the gay life taken out of
you. I came over on purpose. I pity you from the very bottom of my
heart."
"But, Nancy, you can't think how things are changed," said Pauline. "All
our time is occupied. Lessons began to-day. They are going to take hours
and hours."
"But these are holiday times," said Nancy. "All the world has a holiday
in the middle of the summer."
"That's true enough," said Verena; "but then we had holidays for over a
year, and Aunt Sophia says we must begin at once. She is quite right, I'm
sure; although of course we scarcely like it. And anyhow, Nancy, she
won't allow us to go to a midnight picnic; there's no use thinking about
it."
"But suppose you don't ask her. Of course, if she's an old maid she'll
refuse. Old maids are the queerest, dumpiest things on the earth. I'm
really thankful I'm not bothered with any of them. Oh! here comes Pen.
It's nonsense to have a child like that out of the nursery. We'd best not
say anything before her. Verena and Briar, will you walk down to the gate
with me? I thought perhaps we might have the picnic in a week. It could
be easily managed; you know it could."
"Oh, we must go!" said Pauline.
"I'm going," said Josephine.
But Verena was silent.
"Here's your cabbage-leaf. How red your face looks!" said Penelope.
Nancy turned and gazed at her. She was a bold-looking girl, and by no
means pretty. She snatched the leaf angrily from Penelope's hand, saying:
"Oh, my dear, go away! How you do worry, jumping and dancing about! And
what a stupid, good-for-nothing leaf you've brought! Fetch me one that's
not completely riddled with caterpillar holes."
Penelope's black eyes flashed fire, and her face flushed.
"If I could, I would just," she said.
"If you could you would what?" said Nancy.
"I know--I know! And I'll do it, too."
A provoking smile visited the lips of the child. She danced backwards and
forwards in an ecstasy of glee.
"I can punish you all fine," said Penelope; "and I'll do it, too."
She vanished out of sight. Now, it must be admitted that Penelope was not
a nice child. She had her good points, for few children are without them;
but in addition to being thoroughly untrained, to never having exercised
self-control, she had by nature certain peculiarities which the other
children had not. It had been from her earliest days her earnest desire
to curry favor with those in authority, and yet to act quite as naughtily
as any one else when she thought no one was looking. Even when quite a
tiny child Penelope was wont to sit as still as a mouse in nurse's
presence. If nurse said, "Miss Penelope, you are not to move or you will
wake baby," then nurse knew that Penelope would not stir. But if this
same child happened to be left with baby, so strong would be her jealousy
that she would give the infant a sharp pinch and set it howling, and then
run from the room.
These peculiarities continued with her growth. Nurse was fond of her
because she was quiet and useful in the nursery, fairly tidy in her
habits, and fairly helpful. But even nurse was wont to say, "You never
can get at Miss Penelope. You can never see through what is brewing in
her mind."
Now, when Aunt Sophia appeared on the scene, Penelope instantly
determined to carry out the darling wish of her heart. This was no less
than to be removed from the dullness of the nursery to the fascinating
life that she supposed the elder children led. To accomplish this she
thought it would be only necessary to make a great fuss about Aunt
Sophia, to attend to her fads, and to give her numerous little
attentions. In short, to show that she, Penelope, cared very much for her
new aunt. But Aunt Sophia did not care for Penelope's fusses, and
disliked her small attentions. Nevertheless, the small girl persevered,
and in the end she did win a triumph, for she was promoted to the
schoolroom, with its superior privileges and--alas! alas!--also its
undoubted drawbacks. She, who hated lessons, must now try to read; she
must also try to write, and must make valiant efforts to spell. Above and
beyond all these things, she had to do one yet harder--she had to sit
mute as a mouse for a couple of hours daily, with her hands neatly folded
in her lap; and by-and-by she had to struggle with her clumsy little
fingers to make hideous noises on the cracked old piano. These things
were not agreeable to the wild child, and so uncomfortable and restrained
had she felt during the first morning's lessons that she almost resolved
to humble her pride and return to the nursery. But the thought of her
sisters' withering, sarcastic remarks, and of nurse's bitterly cold
reception, and nurse's words, "I told you so," being repeated for ever in
her ears, was too much for Penelope, and she determined to give a further
trial to the schoolroom life. Now it occurred to her that a moment of
triumph was before her. In the old days she had secretly adored Nancy
King, for Nancy had given her more than one lollypop; but when Nancy
asked what the nursery child was doing with the schoolroom folk, and
showed that she did not appreciate Penelope's society, the little girl's
heart became full of anger.
"I'll tell about her. I'll get her into trouble. I'll get them all into
trouble," she thought.
She ran into the shrubbery, and stood there thinking for a time. She was
a queer-looking little figure as she stood thus in her short holland
overall, her stout bare legs, brown as berries, slightly apart, her head
thrown back, her hair awry, a smudge on her cheek, her black eyes
twinkling.
"I will do it," she said to herself. "Aunt Sophy shall find out that I am
the good one of the family."
Penelope ran wildly across the shrubbery, invaded the kitchen-garden,
invaded the yard, and presently invaded the house. She found Miss Sophia
sitting by her writing-table. Miss Sophia had a headache; teaching was
not her vocation. She had worked harder that day than ever in her life
before, and she had a great many letters to write.
It was therefore a very busy and a slightly cross person who turned round
and faced Penelope.
"Don't slam the door, Penelope," she said; "and don't run into the room
in that breathless sort of way."
"Well, I thought you ought for to know. I done it 'cos of you."
"'I did it because of you,' you should say."
"I did it because of you. I am very fond of you, aunt."
"I hope so; and I trust you will prove your affection by your deeds."
"Bovver deeds!" remarked Penelope.
"What is that you said, my dear?"
"I say, bovver deeds!"
"I confess I do not understand. Run away, now, Penelope; I am busy."
"But you ought for to know. Nancy King has come."
"Who is Nancy King?"
"A girl. She's squatting up close to Renny on the lawn, and her arm is
twisted round Pauline's waist. She's big, and dressed awful grand. She
has gold bangles on her arms, and tinkling gold things round her neck,
and she's here, and I thought course you ought for to know. I thought so
'cos I love you. Aren't you pleased? Aren't I the sort of little girl you
could perhaps give a lollypop to?"
"No, you are not, Penelope. I do not wish you to tell tales of your
sisters. Go away, my dear; go away."
Penelope, in some wonder, and with a sense of disgust, not only with
Nancy King and Miss Tredgold, but also with herself, left the room.
"I won't tell her any more," she thought. "She never seems to like what I
do for her. She'd be pretty lonesome if it wasn't for me; but she don't
seem to care for anybody. I'll just rush away to nursey this very minute
and tell her how I love being a schoolroom girl. I'll tell her I dote on
my lessons, and that I never for the big, big, wide world would be a
nursery child again."
"Queer little child, Penelope," thought Miss Tredgold when her small
niece had left her.
She sat with her pen suspended, lost in thought.
"Very queer child," she soliloquized; "not the least like the others. I
can't say that I specially care for her. At present I am not in love with
any of my nieces; but of all of them, Penelope is the child I like the
least. She tells tales; she tries to curry favor with me. Is she
truthful? Is she sincere? I have a terrible fear within me that occasions
may arise when Penelope would prove deceitful. There! what am I saying? A
motherless child--my own niece--surely I ought to love her. Yes, I do
love her. I will try to love them all. What did she say about a girl
sitting on the lawn with my girls? It is nice to talk of the Dales as my
girls; it gives me a sort of family feeling, just as though I were not an
old maid. I wonder what friends my girls have made for themselves round
here. Nancy King. I don't know any people of the name of King who live
about here. If Henry were any one else he would probably be able to tell
me. I will go and see the girl for myself."
Miss Tredgold left the room. She had a very stately walk. The girls
always spoke of her movements as "sailing." Miss Tredgold now sailed
across the lawn, and in the same dignified fashion came up to the
secluded nook where the girls, with Nancy King in their midst, were
enjoying themselves. They were all talking eagerly. Nancy King was seated
almost in the center of the group; the other girls were bending towards
her. As Miss Tredgold appeared in view Josephine was exclaiming in her
high-pitched, girlish voice:
"Oh, I say, Nancy! What screaming fun!"
When Josephine spoke Lucy clapped her hands, Helen laughed, Verena looked
puzzled, and Pauline's expression seemed to say she longed for something
very badly indeed.
"My dears, what are you all doing?" suddenly cried Aunt Sophia.
She had come up quietly, and they had none of them heard her. It was just
as if a pistol had gone off in their ears. The whole nine jumped to their
feet. Nancy's red face became redder. She pushed her gaily trimmed hat
forward over her heated brows. She had an instinctive feeling that she
had never before seen any one so dignified and magnificent as Miss Sophia
Tredgold. She knew that this was the case, although Miss Sophia's dress
was almost dowdy, and the little brown slipper which peeped out from
under the folds of her gray dress was decidedly the worse for wear. Nancy
felt at the same time the greatest admiration for Miss Tredgold, the
greatest dislike to her, and the greatest terror of her.
"Aunt Sophia," said Verena, who could be a lady if she chose, "may I
introduce our special friend----"
"And crony," interrupted Nancy.
"Our special friend, Nancy King," repeated Verena. "We have known her all
our lives, Aunt Sophia."
"How do you do, Miss King?" said Miss Tredgold.
She favored "the young person," as she termed Miss King, with a very
distant bow.
"Girls," she said, turning to the others, "are you aware that preparation
hour has arrived? Will you all go quietly indoors?--Miss King, my nieces
are beginning their studies in earnest, and I do not allow the hour of
preparation to be interfered with by any one."
"I know all about that," said Nancy in a glib voice. "I was at a
first-rate school myself for years. Weren't we kept strict, just! My
word! we couldn't call our noses our own. The only language was
_parlez-vous_. But it was a select school--very; and now that I have
left, I like to feel that I am accomplished. None of you girls can beat
me on the piano. I know nearly all the girls' songs in _San Toy_ and the
_Belle of New York_. Father loves to hear me when I sing 'Rhoda Pagoda.'
Perhaps, Miss Tredgold, you'd like to hear me play on the pianoforte. I
dote on dance music; don't you, Miss Tredgold? Dance music is so lively;
it warms the cockles of the heart--don't it, Miss Tredgold?"
"I don't dance, so it is impossible for me to answer," said Miss
Tredgold. "I am sorry, Miss King, to disturb a pleasant meeting, but my
girls are under discipline, and the hour for preparation has arrived."
Nancy shrugged her capacious shoulders.
"I suppose that means _conge_ for poor Nancy King," she said. "Very
sorry, I'm sure. Good-day, madam.--Good-bye, Renny. I'll look you up
another day.--Good-bye to all. I'm off to have a bit of fun with my boy
cousins."
Nancy swung round and left the group. She walked awkwardly, switching her
shoulders and swaying from side to side, a dirty train trailing after
her.
"May I ask who your friend really is?" said Miss Tredgold when she had
watched the departure of this most undesirable acquaintance.
"She is Nancy King, Aunt Sophia. We have known her all our lives," said
Verena.
"My dear Verena, I have heard that statement before. Nevertheless, the
fact that you have known that young person since you were little children
does not reply to my question. Who is she? Where does she come from? Who
is her father? I don't remember to have heard of any gentlefolks of the
name of King residing in this part of the New Forest."
"She is not gentlefolk," said Pauline.
Pauline came a step nearer as she spoke. Her eyes were bright, and there
was a red spot on each cheek.
"But although she is not born a lady, she is our friend," she continued.
"She is the daughter of Farmer King, who keeps a very jolly house; and
they have plenty of money. We have often and often been at The Hollies."
"Oh! we get delicious apples there," interposed Adelaide; "the juiciest
you ever tasted--the cherry-and-brandy sort."
"I have never heard of that special apple, and I dislike its name," said
Miss Sophia.--"Now come into the house, all of you."
She did not question them further. She walked on in front.
"I can't stand too much of this," whispered Briar to Verena.
But Verena said "Hush!" and clasped Briar's little hand as it lay on her
arm.
They entered the house and proceeded to the pleasant schoolroom.
"It is now four o'clock," said Miss Tredgold. "At five tea is served. As
the evening is so fine, I have ordered it to be laid under the cedar-tree
on the lawn. For the next hour I expect close attention to lessons. I
shall not stay in the room, but you, Verena, are monitress during my
absence. Please understand that I expect honor. Honor requires that you
should study, and that you should be silent. Here are your books. Prepare
the lessons I shall require you to know to-morrow morning. Those girls
who have not made due preparation will enter into Punishment Land."
"What in the world is that?" burst from the lips of the irrepressible
Briar.
"Don't ask me," answered Miss Tredgold. "I hope you may never have a
personal acquaintance with that gloomy country. Now farewell. For an hour
fix your attention on your tasks; and adieu."
Never before had the Dale girls found themselves in such a quandary. For
a whole long hour they were prohibited by a code of honor from speaking.
They were all just bursting with desire to launch forth in a fiery
torrent, but they must none of them utter a single word. Verena, as
monitress, could not encourage rebellion. There are some things that even
untrained girls, provided they are ladies, understand by intuition. The
Dales were ladies by birth. Their home had belonged to their father's
family for generations. There was a time in the past when to be a Dale of
The Dales meant to be rich, honored, and respected. But, alas! the Dales,
like many other old families, had gone under. Money had failed; purses
had become empty; lands had been sold; the house had dwindled down to its
present shabby dimensions; and if Miss Tredgold had not appeared on the
scene, there would have been little chance of Mr. Dale's ten daughters
ever taking the position to which their birth entitled them. But there
are some things which an ancient race confers. _Noblesse oblige_, for one
thing. These girls were naughty, rebellious, and angry; their hearts were
very sore; their silken chains seemed at this moment to assume the
strength of iron fetters; but during the hour that was before them they
would not disobey Miss Tredgold. Accordingly their dreary books were
opened. Oh, how ugly and dull they looked!
"What does it matter whether a girl knows how to spell, and what happened
long, long ago in the history-books?" thought Briar.
"Aunt Sophia was downright horrid about poor Nancy," was Pauline's angry
thought. "Oh! must I really work out these odious sums, when I am
thinking all the time of poor Nancy?"
"I shall never keep my head if this sort of thing goes on for long,"
thought Verena as she bent over her page of English history. "Oh, dear!
that midnight picnic, and Nancy's face, and the dancing in the glades of
the Forest. It would have been fun. If there is one thing more than
another that I love, it is dancing. I think I could dance for ever."
Verena could not keep her pretty little feet still. They moved restlessly
under her chair. Pauline saw the movement, and a wave of sympathy flashed
between the sisters. Pauline's eyes spoke volumes as they encountered the
soft brown ones of pretty Verena.
But an hour--even the longest--is quickly over. Five o'clock struck, and
quick to the minute each girl sprang to her feet. Books were put away,
and they all streamed out into the open air. Now they could talk as much
as they liked. How their tongues wagged! They flew at each other in their
delight and embraced violently. Never before, too, had they been so
hungry for tea; and certainly never before had they seen such a
delightful and tempting meal as that which was now laid for them on the
lawn. The new parlor-maid had brought it out and placed it on various
little tables. A silver teapot reposed on a silver tray; the cups and
saucers were of fine china; the teaspoons were old, thin, and bright as a
looking-glass. The table-linen was also snowy white; but what the girls
far more appreciated were the piles of fruit, the quantities of cakes,
the stacks of sandwiches, and the great plates of bread-and-butter that
waited for them on the festive board.
"Well!" said Briar. "Did you ever? It looks just like a party, or a
birthday treat, or something of that sort. I will say there are some nice
things about Aunt Sophia. This is certainly better than squatting on the
ground with a basket of gooseberries and a hunch of bread."
"I liked the gooseberries," said Pauline, "but, as you say, Briar, this
is nice. Ah! here comes the aunt."
Miss Tredgold sailed into view. She took her seat opposite the hissing
urn and began to pour out cups of tea.
"For a week," she said, "I take this place. At the end of that time
Verena occupies my throne."
"Oh, I couldn't!" said Verena.
"Why in the world not, Renny? You aren't quite a goose."
"Don't use those expressions, Pauline; they are distinctly vulgar," said
Miss Tredgold.
"Bother!" said Pauline.
She frowned, and the thought of the gooseberries and the hard crusts that
used to constitute tea on many days when there was no Aunt Sophia came
back to her with a sense of longing and appreciation of the golden past.
Nevertheless the girls were hungry, and the tea was excellent; and when
Miss Tredgold had seen that each plate was piled with good things, and
that every girl had her cup of tea made exactly as she liked it, she
began to speak.
"You know little or nothing of the world, my dear girls, so during tea I
intend to give you some pleasant information. I attended a tea-party last
year in a house not far from London. You would like to hear all about it,
would you not?"
"If you are sure it is not lessons," said Briar.
"It is not lessons in the ordinary acception of the word. Now listen.
This garden to which I went led down to the Thames. It was the property
of a very great friend of mine, and she had invited what I might call a
select company. Now will you all listen, and I will tell you how things
were done?"
Miss Tredgold then proceeded to tell her story. No one could tell a story
better. She made her narrative quite absorbing. For these girls, who had
never known anything of life, she drew so vivid and fascinating a picture
that they almost wished to be present at such a scene as she described.
She spoke of the girls of the London world in their pretty dresses, and
the matrons in their richer garments; of the men who moved about with
polite deference. She spoke of the summer air, the beautiful appearance
of the river, the charming punts and boats which disported themselves on
the bosom of the waters.
"It must have been pretty; but rather stiff, wasn't it?" said Verena.
"To you, my dear, it would have been stiff, for you are not yet
accustomed to self-restraint, but to those who belong to that world it
was nothing short of enchantment."
"But you were in fetters," said Pauline; "and I should hate fetters
however jolly they looked."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Why, you know you are putting them on us."
"Hush, Paulie!" said Verena.
"You are, Aunt Sophy; and you can't be angry with me if I speak. I can't
imagine any one getting accustomed to fetters; it is quite beyond me."
She shrugged her shoulders, and looked with her downright face full at
Miss Tredgold.
"Never mind," said that lady after a pause. "I can't expect you to
understand everything all at once; but my description of a real bit of
the world can do you no harm. The world has its good points; you will
find that out presently. Perhaps you may not like it, but some people do.
In your case there is no saying. To-morrow I will tell you another story,
but it shall be of the graver and sadder side of life. That story will
also introduce the nobler side of life. But now the time has come for me
to ask you a question, and I expect an answer. The time has come for me
to ask a very straight question.--Verena, you are the eldest; I shall
speak to you."
"Yes?" said Verena.
She felt herself coloring. She said afterwards she knew exactly what was
coming. Pauline must have known also, for she pinched Verena's arm.
"Yes?" repeated the young girl.
"You are surprised at the story I have just related to you," continued
Miss Tredgold. "You think that the courtly grace, the sweet refinement,
the elegant manners, the words that speak of due knowledge of life and
men and women, represent a state of fetterdom; but you must also have
felt their charm."
"To a certain extent," said Verena slowly, "what you have said excited
me."
"You feel it possible that, under certain circumstances, you, too, could
belong to such a group?"
"Perhaps," said Verena.
"There is not a doubt of it, my dear. A few years' training, a little of
that discipline which you call fetters, pretty manners, and suitable
dress would make you quite the sort of girl who would appear amongst my
cultivated friends in the garden by the River Thames. But now for my
question: Could your friend, Nancy King, ever figure in such an
assembly?"
"It would not perhaps be her world," said Verena.
"You have answered me. Now I am going to say something that may annoy
you; nevertheless I must say it. Your acquaintanceship with that girl as
a friend must cease, and absolutely. She is not your equal. You are not
to know her as a friend. If you meet her, there is no reason why you
should not be civil, but civility and friendship are different things. If
the time comes when she is in need or in trouble, I should be deeply
sorry to think you would not help her, but as a friend she is to cease to
exist for you. This is my firm command to all of you girls. There are to
be no two voices on the subject. You may not agree with me now, and you
may think me hard, but I insist on having my own way. You cease to know
Nancy King as a friend. I shall myself write to that young person and
forbid her to visit here. I will try not to hurt her; but there are
certain distinctions of class which I for one must insist upon
preserving. She is not a lady, she was not born a lady, and she never can
be a lady; therefore, my dear nieces, you are not to know her."