All observant (or is it only unobservant?) persons must surely have
remarked that children seem to grow up suddenly in a night like Jack’s
bean-stalk. The child that only yesterday we dandled in our arms, to-day
runs about and talks with the best of us, and to-morrow he will be
married, and the day after to-morrow his children in their turn will be
beginning the whole curious magic mushroom-growth over again for another
generation! So those who only in the last page saw Caroline Shepley in
long clothes will perhaps not be altogether surprised to recognise her
on this page as a child of six years, trotting along the pavements under
the charge of a very good-looking young nurse-maid.
Seven years had not changed the ambitions of Mrs. Shepley; but they had
been transferred during that period, and now she was no longer ambitious
for herself, but for her beautiful little daughter Caroline.
‘Carrie must have a maid of her own, like other gentlefolk’s children,’
she had said, and though her husband laughed at the idea as pretentious
nonsense, he made no further objections, and Mrs. Shepley engaged the
services of a young woman, Patty Blount, whose duty it became to walk
out daily with little Caroline, as is the custom in all well-regulated
families.
Patty, though not eminently conscientious in other matters, performed
this duty with the most praiseworthy regularity. No sooner had the
hall-clock chimed eleven than this punctual young person issued from the
door of the little house in Jermyn Street leading Caroline by the hand.
Their walks had a curious sameness, tending as they almost invariably
did in the direction of St. James’ Square; and Carrie, a conversational
little person, noticed that about the hour of their walk Patty was
curiously absent-minded. She was always looking round her, and sometimes
would even fairly stand still, with an air of expectation as if she were
waiting for some one.
At last one morning as they sauntered through the Square, the door of
one of the houses opened, and a young gentleman, Carrie’s senior by some
four years, came down the steps attended by a tall man-servant wearing
prune liveries. Carrie, who was feeling very dull at that moment, poor
child, plucked her careless companion by the skirt.
‘See, Patty,’ she whispered; ‘there is a boy who must be nearly my own
age.’
Patty was not absent-minded now. She seemed to have suddenly wakened up;
and giving Carrie that curious dragging shake which seems an hereditary
action in the nurse-maid class, she turned her head pointedly in the
opposite direction from the approaching figures, and hurried Carrie
along the Square at a great pace.
‘You should think shame, Miss Carrie, to be a-noticin’ of strangers in
the streets,’ she said.
They passed the boy and the tall footman as she spoke, and turned the
corner of the Square. A moment later Carrie heard a voice behind them
address Patty, and turning round she beheld the tall footman walking
alongside.
‘Lor’, Mr. Peter,’ exclaimed Patty, all affability and surprise. Then
she shoved Carrie before her, and the footman shoved his charge before
him, and they turned back into the Square again, apparently by mutual
consent.
The children looked at each other dumbly for a moment.
‘What’s your name?’ then says Carrie, taking the initiative.
‘Philip-William-Richard-Frederick-Sundon-Meadowes.’
‘Oh, that’s far too long; I can never say that.’
‘Well, Phil they call me.’
‘Yes, that will do; I am called Caroline—I was named after my
grandmother.’
‘I was named after my grandfather. I never saw him; he was dead long
before I began.’
‘Was he? my grandfather is still alive,’ said Carrie. ‘But he is not
like my father at all; I love my father more than any one.’
‘Well, do you know, Caroline, I do not love my father at all,’ said Phil
with curious candour. As he spoke he turned and looked at Carrie with a
pair of wonderfully glittering grey eyes.
‘O, what strange eyes you have, Phil! Why do they cut into me?’ cried
Carrie.
Phil was rather offended. ‘My eyes are quite as good as yours,
Caroline,’ he said. ‘I think I shall return to Peter.’ And with an air
of great dignity he fell back a step or two. But Peter and Patty were
deep in conversation, nor would they allow themselves to be interrupted
for all Phil’s dignity. So after a minute or two of sullenness, Phil was
forced to rejoin Carrie, and make overtures of peace by silently placing
a hand on the hoop she trundled, and giving an interrogative grunt.
Carrie had nothing to forgive: the pavement was clear before them for
many tempting yards, and off they ran with shouts of pleasure.
‘This is where I live,’ said Phil, as they reached the house he had
appeared from. ‘Look, Carrie, when Peter is in good temper, or if I can
catch my father as he goes out, I can get them to put me on their
shoulders, and then I am so high up that I can get my hand into the
torch-snuffer; it comes out black, I can tell you!’
Carrie looked longingly at the torch-snuffer; she too would have liked
to blacken her plump white fingers.
‘Shall I ask Peter? he looks pleased,’ said Phil.
‘Do,’ urged Carrie in great excitement, peering up into the snuffer.
‘’Tis like an iron nightcap,’ she added.
‘’Tis not often Peter will do it, for you see he has to wash my hands,’
said Phil. ‘Father is better. O good luck, Carrie, here he comes!’ for
as the children stood together on the steps, the great door with its
iron knocker swung open, and a man came out, closing the door behind
him.
‘Hillo, Phil! alone? Where hath Peter disappeared to? And who is the
lady you have forgathered with?’ he said, as he looked down in amusement
at the children. Peter came swinging along the Square, red to his
powdered locks, and Patty, overcome with confusion, stood still at some
distance and beckoned to Carrie to run to her.
‘O no, sir, I am not alone; Peter is talking to a woman there, and——’
said Phil.
‘And you are following his example,’ laughed Phil’s father. ‘And what is
your name, my little lady?’
Carrie was smitten with sudden shyness, and thought of beginning to cry.
She thrust her dimpled hand into her eye and rubbed it hard, and did not
speak. Peter came up breathless and apologetic.
‘I was but speaking with a friend, sir,’ he exclaimed; ‘an’ Master Phil
he did run away along the Square, sir, and——’
‘Tush, Peter, there is little harm done,’ said his master, and would
have passed on, but Phil barred his path.
‘If you please, sir, Caroline would like to put her hand into the
torch-snuffer: will you lift her?’
‘And what will Caroline’s maid say?’ laughed Phil’s father.
‘Nothing, sir, if you do it,’ Phil urged, and at that his father stooped
down and swung Carrie up on to his shoulder, and bade her poke her
fingers into the envied grime of the snuffer.
‘And now give me a kiss for it,’ he said; and Carrie, her shyness quite
cured by the delightfully black aspect of her fingers, gave the salute
with great freedom.
‘Wasn’t that most agreeable?’ asked Phil; he alluded not to the kiss,
but to the soot. Patty at this moment, seeing some interference
necessary, came forward with a curtsey to claim her charge.
‘I fear I have led your little lady into mischief,’ said Phil’s father
to her, smiling very pleasantly. Patty murmured incoherent excuses,
curtseyed again, and bade Carrie say good-day to the gentleman. As they
walked away Carrie heard Phil’s voice—it was singularly clear—echoing
along the quiet Square.
‘Caroline, sir.’ And then, in reply to another question—
‘Caroline, sir; I do not know what else.’ It was well for Carrie that
she could not overhear what followed—
‘A child of singular beauty. . . . Peter, who is she?’
‘I—I cannot say, sir. I am slightly acquainted with the young woman as
looks after her, sir,’ said Peter, and he looked so ashamed of himself,
and so uncomfortable, that his master did not question him further, but
passed down the steps, laughing as he went.
Patty on the homeward way was very silent. When they reached Jermyn
Street she took Carrie straight up-stairs and closed the nursery door.
Then she stood in front of the child menacingly.
‘Mind, Miss Caroline, if ever you do say to master or to mistress one
word of meeting with this little gentleman, I’ll—I’ll lock you up in a
black hole.’
‘Why, Patty?’ began Carrie.
‘Well, you had best ask no questions, or mayhap I’ll put you in the hole
for that,’ said Patty; and then, because in the main she was a
good-hearted girl, and hated to frighten Carrie, she kissed the child
and assured her over and over again that if no word of this meeting ever
crossed her lips, she would have chestnuts to roast on the ribs of the
nursery grate, and nuts to eat by the handful.
So Carrie agreed to be silent.