LONDON.
THE next day I went to Exeter, from which place we were to set out
for London in a few days. I found Theo living in a noble house, with
everything pleasant about her, and enjoying herself to the full. She
had no fancy for the journey to London, and would, I believe, much
have preferred going to the country rectory, whither Mr. Dean usually
retired in summer. We rode out to see the place, and truly I did not
wonder at her love for it—all about it was so beautiful. There were no
gentlemen's houses very near, but my Lady Jemima, my lord's sister,
lived, as I have said, in an old mansion which had once been a convent
of gray nuns. The house stood on a rising ground, and was beautifully
embosomed in very ancient timber and a part of this same wood reached
even to the walls of the rectory itself.
We visited the little village school, taught by a charming old dame,
and where Theo distributed buns, gingerbread, and comfits with a
lavish hand. Then we went into the house, where all was in order, and
where the old housekeeper and her blooming neat maids welcomed us with
evident pleasure at seeing their mistress.
We also called upon my Lady Jemima, who was as great a contrast to my
own Aunt Jem as could well be conceived. She was sitting at work among
her family of maidens, who were all busy with their fingers, while one
read aloud. There were six of them, all dressed alike in gray gowns and
white caps with blue ribbons, and I must say they looked very bright
and happy. Lady Jemima was a plain woman, with none of the family
beauty of color, but she had a most sweet expression, at once benign
and commanding. She sent away her young ladies to walk, and then sat
down to talk with us.
"You have married off the last of your old family, have you not?" asked
Theo.
"Yes, only a month ago, and the child hath done well, I think. Another
has gone to be a governess in the family of a distant cousin of ours, a
rich sugar refiner's wife in Bristol, and in one way or another, they
are all scattered and doing well for themselves. But my house is nearly
full again."
"Not quite full, I hope, for I have a petition to make for a poor maid,
the eldest child of Mr. Brown, the vicar of Torton," said Theo. And she
proceeded to unfold the matter, saying that the Curate was very poor,
with a large family, and this daughter being lame, was not fit for
service.
"Are they so very poor?" asked Lady Jemima.
"They are poorer than they need be, if the wife were a better manager,"
replied the dean's lady. "But she hath been a waiting-gentlewoman to
my Lady Saville, and still sets herself up on her gentility, forsooth,
cannot possibly work with her hands, and talks of how she hath come
down in the world. The aunt, who is a good plain farmer's wife, with a
small army of children, tells me that this maid's lameness hath come,
she verily believes, from working beyond her strength to make up her
mother's deficiencies. She is her father's greatest comfort, poor man,
but he will willingly spare her for the chance of having her recover
her health."
"Will you send him to see me?" asked Lady Jemima. "I would talk the
matter over with him myself, for no disparagement to you, Theo," she
added with a smile, "you are one of those softhearted people who think
everybody ought to have everything, and as my means are limited, I
must make a discrimination, and not use them to encourage idleness or
improvidence."
Theo smiled in her turn, and admitted that she was easily imposed upon.
"But I am learning something, I assure you," said she. "I have found
out that all the clean people are not saints and all the dirty ones
reprobates, which was the notion I at first set out with."
After a little more talk we had dinner with Lady Jemima and the young
ladies, and set out on our way home, calling at the house of the curate
I have mentioned.
Such a house—showing in every corner the results of sluttishness and
improvidence.
The poor man, into whose study we were shown, sat in a ragged cassock,
writing with one hand and holding a sleeping infant on the other arm,
while his lame daughter was resting upon a rude couch or settle—a hard
resting-place it looked—keeping two more little ones quiet by telling
them a story, though her feverish cheeks and bright heavy-lidded eyes
showed how much she needed rest.
Another girl about twelve was clearing a table of the remains of what
certainly looked like a very scanty meal. Theo at once took possession
of the children, and distributed some cakes among them, which they
devoured in a way that showed their dinner had still left them with an
appetite. She had also brought new gowns for the elder girls, at sight
of which the somewhat sullen face of the second girl brightened, and
she looked really pretty.
The father said just enough and not too much by way of thanks, and
promised that he would go to see Lady Jemima next day. Just as we
were about going, madame sailed into the room, having evidently been
busy attiring herself in the remains of her old waiting-gentlewoman's
finery. She was loud in her thanks and praise of the gowns, and equally
loud in her lamentations over the state of her own wardrobe, a hint of
which Theo took no notice.
"I little thought I should live to receive charity," said the foolish
woman; "but when one weds beneath one's station, there is no knowing
what one will come to."
"As to that, I dare say your husband was so much in love as to
think you capable of filling any station," returned Theo, wilfully
misunderstanding her; whereat she tossed her head, and looked ready to
bite, but made no reply.
"I dare say she will make up the gowns for herself," said Theo, when we
had taken leave. "It is a wonderful thing to see what sort of people
little children are sent to, is it not?"
I agreed with her. I may as well say that the woman flatly refused at
first to let Sally go to Lady Jemima, declaring that her lameness was
more than half a pretence to get rid of work. But the father had his
way for once, and poor Sally, if she did not recover, at least spent
her last days in peace.
In a day or two we went up to London, in the dean's coach, with
outriders, and spare saddle horses for one of us to ride now and then.
It was a toilsome journey—worse by far than it is now, and that is
saying a great deal. More than once the coach was fairly stuck, and we
had to borrow oxen from the neighboring farmers to drag it out of the
mire, and once we just missed an attack from highwaymen. They thought
our party too strong, it seems, and let us pass, but a gentleman with
whom we had spent the evening before at an inn, was stripped of all
his own and his wife's valuables and received a severe wound in the
arm. However, in spite of dangers and detentions, we arrived safely
in London at last, and I was left at my uncle's new house in Covent
Garden, whither he had removed at the death of my Aunt Jean's father,
who had left her quite a fortune.
My uncle and aunt were not at home, but I received every attention from
my aunt's waiting-gentlewoman, and was installed in a pleasant room and
treated to a cup of chocolate. I was glad to go to rest early, as I was
very tired with the journey, and Mrs. Mercer said her lady would not be
at home till quite late. It was long before I could fall asleep, there
was such a noise in the street, but weariness overcame me at last.
I slept soundly and awoke refreshed, though still somewhat stiff with
the jolting I had endured. I had meant to begin the day with reading
and devotion, but I was hurried and a good deal in awe of the new
waiting-damsel my aunt had provided for me. I was afraid I should
keep my aunt waiting breakfast, and so went down without any prayer
whatever. Thus I began my new life with a false step.
I found my uncle much changed, and not for the better. He received me
very kindly, as did my aunt, but he looked haggard, had grown older,
and had a hard, worn expression, as if he lived under the stress of
some habitual excitement. My aunt too looked older, and had lost a good
deal of her beautiful bloom. They both welcomed me kindly, and any aunt
began at once to talk of taking me out to the theatre and the park
so soon as I should be provided with new clothes. My uncle said very
little, and went out immediately after breakfast. I saw his wife take
him aside and ask him some questions to which, judging from her face,
she did not receive a favorable answer.
"But the child must have new clothes! I cannot take her out with me
till she is fit to be seen," I heard her say.
"Well, well. I suppose Lord Stanton has sent me some money by the dean.
I shall wait upon him as soon as it is late enough. Meantime I can
spare you this," putting some gold into her hands. "It is a part of my
winnings last night."
"Ah, Charles, if you would but quit gaming," said my aunt, in a low
tone, but not so low but that I heard her.
"How can I, child, when the king sets the example, unless I withdraw
from court altogether, and I suppose you would not, have me do that?"
"No, you cannot do that," replied my aunt, "but then—"
"Don't trouble thy head about the matter," interrupted my Uncle
Charles. "If I lose one day, why I gain the next. So it is all even.
You will be an old woman before your time, and have to take to
painting, like my Lady Castlemaine—or to devotion, which I should like
still less."
So saying, he kissed her and went away, and she came back to me with a
little line of vexation between her arched brows.
"Well, well! Men will be men. Come up-stairs, child, and we will look
over your wardrobe and see what you need."
I ventured to say that, my Lady Stanton had provided me with everything
she thought needful.
"Yes, I dare say, according to her notions. But she has not been in
London these seven years, and I dare say she has not changed the
fashion of her dress since that time."
My new maid had unpacked all my things by this time, and my aunt,
though she criticised unmercifully the fashion of my gowns and
petticoats, yet allowed that Lady Stanton had been very liberal.
"This may do well enough with a silk petticoat laid with silver," said
she, laying aside what was meant for my best gown. "But you must have
another and some lace whisks and a hat and riding coat, and Mercer must
curl your hair."
"It curls of itself," said I, "but I have always worn a cap."
"Nonsense, child; what do you want of a cap? Come, I shall allow yo no
free will in this matter of dressing. You must needs confess that I am
the best judge, and be ruled by me. You shall wear my t'other hat and
mantle, and we will drive to the Royal Exchange and buy you some gloves
and stockings and a fan and so on."
"But, Aunt Jem, I am in mourning," I ventured to say.
"Well, and so am I, child. Don't you see I am all in black?"
Certainly she was in black, but I should never have guessed she was in
mourning, she wore so much lace and fine cut work. However, I promised
to be guided by her judgment in all such matters, as indeed was no more
than fitting, seeing I had come to be under her care. We presently
went out in my uncle's coach, and were busy shopping all the morning.
I thought I never could use all the things my aunt bought for me, and
my head fairly whirled with the excitement of seeing so many new places
and people.
My aunt was in the very heart of the gayest society about the court,
and many were the salutes she received from this and that great
lady—even from my Lady Castlemaine herself and another very handsome
woman whom she said was Mrs. Stewart, a great favorite of the king's.
When we had finished our shopping, we went into the park, and here I
saw the king and queen, the latter of whom I had never beheld before. I
thought her very sad-looking, and remarked upon it to my aunt.
"Yes, poor thing, she is sad enough, and no wonder, since she is silly
enough to love her husband," said my aunt.
"Do you think it silly for a woman to love her husband, aunt?" I asked.
"Yes, when he does not love her. But in truth, the queen is too grave
and too devout to please a merry monarch like King Charles."
"Perhaps she finds comfort in devotion," I ventured to remark.
"Yes, I dare say. 'Tis the refuge of disappointed wives and faded
widows. Perhaps I may take to it some day—who knows?"
I thought within myself that my mother always found comfort in
devotion, though she was by no means faded, and that devotion when it
was taken up in that way as a last resort, was not like to afford any
great solace; but I did not venture to speak my thoughts. I had already
learned to be ashamed of being thought devout.
"And who is that young lady in attendance upon the queen?" I asked.
"That! Oh, that is Mrs. Godolphin," was my aunt's reply, with a curious
change of tone. "She is a true saint, if you please. I do not believe
the smile or frown of any or all the kings in Europe would make her
turn a hair's breadth to the right hand or the left, in any matter of
duty or religion. We used to be great friends when we were young chits
together at school," and she sighed.
"And are you not friends now?" I asked.
"We have never quarrelled, child, if that is what you mean, but she has
gone her way, and I mine. There, we won't talk of it. See there is the
coach of the French ambassador. Is it not fine? He has some fine lady
and gentleman visiting him from France. I dare say we shall meet them
to-morrow night. But we must be going home to dinner."
My uncle was not at dinner, being in attendance upon the Duke of York
in some capacity or other. I forget what. When the meal was over my
aunt said she meant to take a rest, and she dared to say I would like
to do the same. I took the hint and retired to my own room.
Here was a chance for the devotions I had neglected in the morning, but
it may be guessed that I was in no promising frame for them. However,
I read a chapter and hurried over a few forms, and then spent the rest
of the afternoon reading a French romance I had found on my table, and
in practising upon the harpsicon my uncle had sent home for me. He was
very fond of music, and wished me above all things to cultivate it and
to improve my voice.
In the evening, my aunt entertained a small company of her friends, and
she would have me sing for them. I received many compliments, both upon
my voice and my playing, with which my aunt was honestly pleased, for
she was never one to envy another's success. When I went up to my room,
I found Mercer waiting to undress me and curl my hair. She had also a
new gown and petticoat ready for me to try on, and I actually forgot
all about my prayers till I was in bed and the light out. So ended my
first day in London.
Next morning I received a message to come to my aunt's bedroom as soon
as I was dressed.
"Is my aunt ill?" I asked of Mercer, who was waiting to show me the way.
"Oh, no, Mrs. d'Antin. She wishes to introduce you to your teacher of
music."
I actually did not know where to look when I entered my aunt's room and
found her lying in bed half raised upon a heap of laced pillows, with
only a light mantle thrown over her night dress, while a very smart
gentleman stood talking by the bedside. It was the first time I had
seen such a reception, but I soon grew accustomed to it, as one does to
everything.
My aunt introduced me to Mr. Goodgroome, who tried my voice, and
pronounced it a good one and well managed, though lacking in finish and
execution. And as this was all the fault he could find, I suppose I
must have acquitted myself pretty well, since I have observed that it
is very hard for any one of his profession to allow merit in the pupils
of another.
"You must learn Italian as fast as you can, so as to learn the Italian
manner of singing," said my aunt, at which Mr. Goodgroome frowned but
did not speak.
"I know something of the language already," said I. "My mother and
father both spoke it."
"Why, you are quite an accomplished young lady," said my aunt
playfully. "Can you draw at all?"
"Yes, aunt, a little."
"You must have lessons of Browne by and by, but not at present, I
think. I don't wish you to spend too much time at lessons. What hours
can you give her, Mr. Goodgroome?"
Mr. Goodgroome pulled out his table-book, and after some consideration,
decided that he could give me from eight to nine on Tuesdays and
Fridays.
"Why, that is rather early," said my aunt.
"I cannot make it later," replied the professor, with an air of
importance. "I must go to my Lady Sandwich's young daughters at nine,
and to Whitehall at eleven. But I can take from five to six in the
afternoon if it will suit better."
"Nay, that is worse than the other," replied my aunt; so it was settled
that I should begin my lessons at eight on Tuesday morning.
I inwardly determined that I would spend as much as possible of the
intervening time in diligently practising my fingering scales and
trillos, so as not to discredit my mother's teaching.
I soon found, however, that I should have little time to practise. My
Aunt Jem was one of those people who find quiet the most intolerable
of all things. When she was not out herself, she would have company at
home, and when she had no one else to amuse her, I must devote myself
to that purpose. Not that she was either selfish or unkind. She had the
making of a noble woman in her, had poor Aunt Jem, and even the world
for which she lived had not quite spoiled her. But reflection was not
agreeable to her, and diversion was her very life.
Our usual course of life was this: When my uncle was at home we
breakfasted in my aunt's dressing-room; when he was not, in her
bedroom, which she seldom quitted till ten or eleven o'clock, and where
she would give audience to such tradespeople as it was convenient for
her to see. Dressing was a work of time, thought, and much care, for,
as my aunt herself observed, she was growing older, and as natural
beauty waned, one must supply its place by art. The position of a patch
was a subject of five minutes' consideration, and the rising of a
pimple a cause for grave alarm.
When the important business was at last concluded, we usually went out
shopping. In one of these excursions, we met my old acquaintance Mr.
Pepys, a meeting which resulted in his being invited with his wife to
dine in Covent Garden.
"He is a rising man and in a good deal of estimation at court," said
my aunt, when we parted, "and his wife is a genteel, harmless little
body. Besides, he was kind to your mother, and one must not forget old
friends."
I was much pleased, both at the attention shown to the good man for my
sake, and also because I hoped I might hear news of Andrew, to whom my
better self still clung. But Mr. Pepys could tell me little more than
I knew already—that the ship had gone to the West Indies, and would
probably also visit New England before her return, which would occur in
about six months.
My Uncle Charles was at home and we had a very pleasant party. I sung
for Mr. Pepys and with him, for he was a good deal of a musician,
and my aunt took his opinion as to her choice of a teacher which he
commended.
In the afternoon we usually went into the park, paid visits, or
attended some show or exposition of china or pictures, or we went to
some auction or other. In the evening we either went out or entertained
company at home, in which case we had cards, and not unfrequently the
play ran pretty high.
The dean and Theo came to one of these entertainments, which indeed was
made expressly for them; but I think they were not very well pleased
with what they saw, for Theo sent for me the next day and was earnest
for me to return home with her to Exeter.
I told her with many thanks that I could not think of it—that my aunt
needed me, and that I was happy with her.
"That is the worst of it," said Theo gravely. "You like the life, and
that makes it the more dangerous for you."
"But you used to like it yourself," said I.
"Not such company as we see here," she answered, and then after a
little she added in a low voice, "Vevette, what would your mother
advise if she were here? What would she say?"
I was vexed at being reminded of what was one of my chief drawbacks in
my present life, and answered pettishly, that my mother's former life
and circumstances had naturally made her rather strict and melancholy
in her notions, and that I could not think any one was a better
Christian for always wearing a solemn face and denying one's self every
pleasure. Theo looked very grave, but she said no more, nor did she
again ask me to return with her.
About a fortnight after I came to London, I went with my aunt to a
grand entertainment at the house of the French ambassador. I had an
entirely new dress for the occasion, and wore my pearl necklace which
my lady had given me. My aunt was very solicitous that I should look my
best, but when she saw me, she professed herself quite satisfied, and
presented me to my uncle with no little pride.
We found the street filled with carriages, and the usual crush and
confusion prevailing—horses backing and rearing, coachmen swearing and
wheels interlocking—but we reached the door at last, and made our way
through the ranks of splendidly dressed ladies and gentlemen to the
saloon where the ambassador received his guests. He was a very courtly
man, with a smile and a compliment for all, and one of the handsomest
and most crafty faces I ever saw.
"And this is my young countrywoman of whom I have heard," said he,
addressing himself to me. "I must by and by present her to a friend. I
am proud of my countrywoman, madame. Indeed, she would be a credit to
any nation on earth."
"There, Vevette, your fame is established as a beauty," whispered
my aunt, as the crowd pushed us on, "since monsieur the count hath
pronounced such an eulogium upon it. Is not this a splendid scene?"
It was indeed, and my eyes wandered from one group to another, till
they were suddenly arrested by a sight which for a moment almost
made my blood stand still. Was it my father himself, or was it his
ghost—that handsome gentleman in the blazing French uniform who stood
regarding me with such an eager gaze? Could it be that he had not been
killed after all? My eyes grew dim for a moment, and when I looked
again the gentleman had disappeared.
"What ails you, Vevette?" said my aunt, in alarm. "You are as white as
your dress! Gentlemen, make way for us, I beg, my niece is not well."
Way was made to a window, and I was placed on a seat while one
gentleman brought water and another wine, and ladies proffered essence
bottles, and vinaigrettes. I recovered myself with a great effort, for
I was quite ashamed of the commotion I had made. However, my aunt would
not have me move at once, but took a seat near me, and we were soon
surrounded by a circle of gallants.
Into this circle presently came my Uncle Charles leading the very
gentleman whose resemblance to my father had upset me. It was not so
close, now that I saw him near, though it was still very striking. I
saw that he was older than my father, and instantly guessed who he
was before my Uncle Charles presented him. It was my father's oldest
brother, the Marquis de Fayrolles.
"And this is my niece," said he, in a tone of great affection, as he
bent over me and took my hand. "My dear Genevieve, I am more delighted
than I can express at this meeting. I supposed from what I heard that
you and your poor mother had perished in your attempt to escape from
the sack of the Tour d'Antin. I came down the next day but one, too
late to save the life of my unfortunate brother, but not too late, I am
glad to tell you, to do justice to his murderers."
Then my uncle had come to our rescue after all. This was the conclusion
I jumped to. I made my return to his salutation, and inquired after
Madame La Marquise.
"She is not at all well, I regret to say," was the reply. "I begin to
fear the climate of England does not agree with her. I hope to make
you acquainted with her another day. This is not the place for family
affairs, so I trust you, madame," bowing profoundly to Aunt Jem, "will
allow our kinswoman to visit my wife to-morrow."
My aunt at once assented, and the marquis chatted on easily in French
about the court, the parks, and all those little nothings which make up
talk in such places. He led my aunt and myself to the supper table, and
placed himself between us, paying us every attention. It was impossible
to withstand his manner, which had all my father's heartiness with the
grace which can only be acquired by habitual converse with the best
society.
My aunt was the envy of all her fine acquaintance for being so
distinguished, and when she returned home, she pulled a fine diamond
ring from her finger and bestowed it upon me, saying I deserved a
reward for the way I had comported myself in this, my first real
appearance in the great world.
"You have had a real success, and there is not one girl in ten of your
age who would have borne it so well," said she. "But what upset you
so? Was it the heat, or are your stays uneasy? You must not let Mercer
dress you too tight. It will make your skin look muddy and your nose
red."
"It was not that," said I, laughing a little nervously, for I was very
tired. "I saw the marquis in the crowd, and thought it was my father."
"There, there, child, don't give way;" said my aunt, alarmed as I began
to sob. "You are quite overwrought. Put her to bed, Mercer, and give
her some sal-volatile and lavender."
Mercer obeyed, and would have stayed by me till I fell asleep, but this
I would not allow. I wanted to be alone.
I cried awhile, but the composing draught at last took effect, and I
fell asleep to dream about ambassadors, balls, and my new-found uncle,
who was strangely and uncomfortably mixed up with my father, and who
was now burying me alive in the vault under the old chapel, while
Andrew held the light, and now asking Betty about me, who was telling
him all sorts of monstrous fictions.
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