A NOVICE AMONGST THE GREAT FOLK.
At ten o'clock on the Thursday the Towers' its work. Molly was long it its appearance, although it had been settled that she and the Miss Brownings were not to go until the last, or fourth, time of its coming. Her had been soaped, scrubbed, and clean; her frills, her frock, her were all snow-white. She had on a black mode that had been her mother's; it was with rich lace, and looked and old-fashioned on the child. For the time in her life she kid gloves; she had only had ones. Her were too large for the little fingers, but as Betty had told her they were to last her for years, it was all very well. She many a time, and almost once with the long of the morning. Betty might say what she liked about a pot boiling; Molly to watch the approach through the street, and after two hours the came for her at last. She had to very to avoid the Miss Brownings' new dresses; and yet not too forward, for of Mrs. Goodenough and her niece, who the seat of the carriage; so that the of at all was doubtful, and to add to her discomfort, Molly herself to be very in the centre of the carriage, a mark for all the of Hollingford. It was too much of a day for the work of the little town to go with its regularity. Maid-servants out of upper windows; shopkeepers' on the door-steps; ran out, with in their arms; and little children, too to know how to at the of an earl's carriage, as it along. The woman at the the gate open, and a low to the liveries. And now they were in the Park; and now they were in of the Towers, and upon the carriage-full of ladies, only by one from Mrs. Goodenough's niece, a to the town, as they up the of steps which to the door of the mansion.
"They call that a perron, I believe, don't they?" she asked. But the only answer she was a "hush." It was very awful, as Molly thought, and she herself at home again. But she all of herself by-and-by when the party out into the grounds, the like of which she had imagined. Green lawns, in sunshine, away on every into the park; if there were and ha-has the soft sunny of grass, and the dark of the forest-trees beyond, Molly did not see them; and the melting away of into the had an to her. Near the house there were and fences; but they were with roses, and and other just into bloom. There were flower-beds, too, scarlet, crimson, blue, orange; of on the greensward. Molly Miss Browning's hand very tight as they about in company with other ladies, and by a of the Towers, who at the upon every possible thing and place. Molly said nothing, as her age and position, but every now and then she her full by a breath, almost like a sigh. Presently they came to the long range of and hothouses, and an was there to admit the party. Molly did not for this so much as for the flowers in the open air; but Lady Agnes had a more scientific taste, she on the of this plant, and the mode of by that, till Molly to very tired, and then very faint. She was too to speak for some time; but at length, of making a if she to cry, or if she against the of flowers, she at Miss Browning's hand, and out—
"May I go back, out into the garden? I can't breathe here!"
"Oh, yes, to be sure, love. I it's hard for you, love; but it's very and instructive, and a of Latin in it too."
She not to another word of Lady Agnes' lecture on orchids, and Molly and passed out of the atmosphere. She in the fresh air; and unobserved, and at liberty, from one spot to another, now in the open park, now in some shut-in flower-garden, where the song of the birds, and the of the fountain, were the only sounds, and the tree-tops an circle in the June sky; she along without more as to her than a has, as it from flower to flower, till at length she very weary, and to return to the house, but did not know how, and of all the who would be there, by either of the Miss Brownings. The sun told upon her head, and it to ache. She saw a great wide-spreading cedar-tree upon a of lawn which she was advancing, and the black its her thither. There was a seat in the shadow, and Molly there, and presently asleep.
She was from her after a time, and jumped to her feet. Two ladies were by her, talking about her. They were perfect to her, and with a that she had done something wrong, and also she was worn-out with hunger, fatigue, and the morning's excitement, she to cry.
"Poor little woman! She has herself; she to some of the people from Hollingford, I have no doubt," said the oldest-looking of the two ladies; she who appeared to be about forty, though she did not number more than thirty years. She was plain-featured, and had a on her face; her dress was as rich as any dress be; her voice and unmodulated,—what in a rank of life would have been called gruff; but that was not a word to apply to Lady Cuxhaven, the of the and countess. The other lady looked much younger, but she was in some years the elder; at Molly she was the most person she had seen, and she was a very woman. Her voice, too, was soft and plaintive, as she to Lady Cuxhaven,—
"Poor little darling! she is overcome by the heat, I have no doubt—such a bonnet, too. Let me it for you, my dear."
Molly now voice to say—"I am Molly Gibson, please. I came here with Miss Brownings;" for her great was that she should be taken for an intruder.
"Miss Brownings?" said Lady Cuxhaven to her companion, as if inquiringly.
"I think they were the two tall large that Lady Agnes was talking about."
"Oh, I daresay. I saw she had a number of people in tow;" then looking again at Molly, she said, "Have you had anything to eat, child, since you came? You look a very white little thing; or is it the heat?"
"I have had nothing to eat," said Molly, piteously; for, indeed, she asleep she had been very hungry.
The two ladies spoke to each other in a low voice; then the said in a voice of authority, which, indeed, she had always used in speaking to the other, "Sit still here, my dear; we are going to the house, and Clare shall you something to eat you try to walk back; it must be a of a mile at least." So they away, and Molly sat upright, waiting for the promised messenger. She did not know who Clare might be, and she did not much for food now; but she as if she not walk without some help. At length she saw the lady back, by a with a small tray.
"Look how Lady Cuxhaven is," said she who was called Clare. "She you out this little herself; and now you must try and eat it, and you'll be right when you've had some food, darling—You need not stop, Edwards; I will the with me."
There was some bread, and some cold chicken, and some jelly, and a of wine, and a bottle of water, and a of grapes. Molly put out her little hand for the water; but she was too to it. Clare put it to her mouth, and she took a long and was refreshed. But she not eat; she tried, but she not; her was too bad. Clare looked bewildered. "Take some grapes, they will be the best for you; you must try and eat something, or I don't know how I shall you to the house."
"My so," said Molly, her wistfully.
"Oh, dear, how tiresome!" said Clare, still in her sweet voice, not at all as if she was angry, only an truth. Molly very and very unhappy. Clare on, with a of in her tone: "You see, I don't know what to do with you here if you don't eat to you to walk home. And I've been out for these three hours about the till I'm as as can be, and missed my and all." Then, as if a new idea had her, she said,—"You in that seat for a minutes, and try to eat the of grapes, and I'll wait for you, and just be a meanwhile. You are sure you don't want this chicken?"
Molly did as she was bid, and back, at the grapes, and the good with which the lady ate up the chicken and jelly, and the of wine. She was so and so in her mourning, that her in eating, as if she was of some one to her in the act, did not keep her little from her in all she did.
"And now, darling, are you to go?" said she, when she had up on the tray. "Oh, come; you have nearly your grapes; that's a good girl. Now, if you will come with me to the entrance, I will take you up to my own room, and you shall on the for an hour or two; and if you have a good your will be gone."
So they set off, Clare the empty tray, to Molly's shame; but the child had work to herself along, and was of to do anything more. The "side entrance" was a of steps leading up from a private flower-garden into a private hall, or ante-room, out of which many doors opened, and in which were deposited the light garden-tools and the and of the ladies of the house. Lady Cuxhaven must have their approach, for she met them in this as soon as they came in.
"How is she now?" she asked; then at the plates and glasses, she added, "Come, I think there can't be much amiss! You're a good old Clare, but you should have let one of the men that in; life in such weather as this is trouble of itself."
Molly not help that her would have told Lady Cuxhaven that she herself had helped to up the luncheon; but no such idea to come into her mind. She only said,—"Poor dear! she is not the thing yet; has got a headache, she says. I am going to put her on my bed, to see if she can a little sleep."
Molly saw Lady Cuxhaven say something in a half-laughing manner to "Clare," as she passed her; and the child not keep from herself by that the spoken like "Over-eaten herself, I suspect." However, she too to worry herself long; the little white in the and room had too many for her head. The from time to time in the air that came through the open windows. Clare her up with a light shawl, and the room. As she was going away Molly herself to say, "Please, ma'am, don't let them go away without me. Please ask somebody to me if I go to sleep. I am to go with Miss Brownings."
"Don't trouble about it, dear; I'll take care," said Clare, at the door, and her hand to little Molly. And then she away, and no more about it. The came at half-past four, a little by Lady Cumnor, who had of the of entertaining, and at the of admiration.
"Why not have out, mamma, and of them all at once?" said Lady Cuxhaven. "This going by is the most thing that be imagined." So at last there had been a great and an way of packing off every one at once. Miss Browning had gone in the (or "chawyot," as Lady Cumnor called it;—it to her daughter, Lady Hawyot—or Harriet, as the name was in the Peerage), and Miss Phœbe had been along with other guests, away in a great family conveyance, of the which we should now call an "omnibus." Each that Molly Gibson was with the other, and the truth was, that she fast asleep on Mrs. Kirkpatrick's bed—Mrs. Kirkpatrick née Clare.
The came in to the room. Their talking Molly, who sat up on the bed, and to push the from her forehead, and to where she was. She on her by the of the bed, to the of the women, and said,—"Please, how soon are we going away?"
"Bless us and save us! who'd ha' of any one being in the bed? Are you one of the Hollingford ladies, my dear? They are all gone this hour or more!"
"Oh, dear, what shall I do? That lady they call Clare promised to me in time. Papa will so wonder where I am, and I don't know what Betty will say."
The child to cry, and the looked at each other in some and much sympathy. Just then, they Mrs. Kirkpatrick's step along the passages, approaching. She was some little Italian air in a low voice, to her to dress for dinner. One said to the other, with a look, "Best it to her;" and they passed on to their work in the other rooms.
Mrs. Kirkpatrick opened the door, and at the of Molly.
"Why, I you!" she said at length. "Nay, don't cry; you'll make not fit to be seen. Of I must take the of your over-sleeping yourself, and if I can't manage to you to Hollingford to-night, you shall sleep with me, and we'll do our best to send you home to-morrow morning."
"But papa!" out Molly. "He always wants me to make tea for him; and I have no night-things."
"Well, don't go and make a piece of work about what can't be helped now. I'll you night-things, and your papa must do without your making tea for him to-night. And another time don't over-sleep in a house; you may not always among such people as they are here. Why now, if you don't and make a of yourself, I'll ask if you may come in to with Master Smythe and the little ladies. You shall go into the nursery, and have some tea with them; and then you must come here and your and make tidy. I think it is a very thing for you to be stopping in such a house as this; many a little girl would like nothing better."
During this speech she was her for dinner—taking off her black gown; on her dressing-gown; her long soft over her shoulders, and about the room in search of articles of her dress,—a of easy talk came out all the time.
"I have a little girl of my own, dear! I don't know what she would not give to be here at Lord Cumnor's with me; but, of that, she has to her at school; and yet you are looking as as can be at the of stopping for just one night. I have been as as can be with those tiresome—those good ladies, I mean, from Hollingford—and one can't think of at a time."
Molly—only child as she was—had stopped her at the mention of that little girl of Mrs. Kirkpatrick's, and now she to say,—
"Are you married, ma'am; I she called you Clare?"
In high good-humour Mrs. Kirkpatrick reply:—"I don't look as if I was married, do I? Every one is surprised. And yet I have been a for seven months now: and not a on my head, though Lady Cuxhaven, who is than I, has so many."
"Why do they call you 'Clare?'" Molly, her so and communicative.
"Because I with them when I was Miss Clare. It is a name, isn't it? I married a Mr. Kirkpatrick; he was only a curate, fellow; but he was of a very good family, and if three of his relations had died without children I should have been a baronet's wife. But Providence did not see fit to permit it; and we must always ourselves to what is decreed. Two of his married, and had large families; and dear Kirkpatrick died, me a widow."
"You have a little girl?" asked Molly.
"Yes: Cynthia! I wish you see her; she is my only now. If I have time I will you her picture when we come up to bed; but I must go now. It not do to keep Lady Cumnor waiting a moment, and she asked me to be early, to help with some of the people in the house. Now I shall ring this bell, and when the comes, ask her to take you into the nursery, and to tell Lady Cuxhaven's nurse who you are. And then you'll have tea with the little ladies, and come in with them to dessert. There! I'm sorry you've over-slept yourself, and are left here; but give me a kiss, and don't cry—you are a child, though you've not got Cynthia's colouring! Oh, Nanny, would you be so very as to take this lady—(what's your name, my dear? Gibson?),—Miss Gibson, to Mrs. Dyson, in the nursery, and ask her to allow her to drink tea with the ladies there; and to send her in with them to dessert. I'll it all to my lady."
Nanny's out of its when she the name Gibson; and, having from Molly that she was "the doctor's" child, she more to with Mrs. Kirkpatrick's than was with her.
Molly was an girl, and of children; so, as long as she was in the nursery, she got on well, being to the of the power, and very useful to Mrs. Dyson, by playing at tricks, and thus a little one while its and sisters were being in attire,—lace and muslin, and velvet, and ribbons.
"Now, miss," said Mrs. Dyson, when her own were all ready, "what can I do for you? You have not got another here, have you?" No, indeed, she had not; if she had had one, it have been of a nature than her present thick white dimity. So she only wash her and hands, and submit to the nurse's and her hair. She she would have in the park all night long, and slept under the cedar, than have to the unknown of "going to dessert," which was by children and as the event of the day. At length there was a from a footman, and Mrs. Dyson, in a gown, her convoy, and set sail for the dining-room door.
There was a large party of and ladies the table, in the room. Each little child ran up to its mother, or aunt, or particular friend; but Molly had no one to go to.
"Who is that tall girl in the thick white frock? Not one of the children of the house, I think?"
The lady put up her glass, at Molly, and it in an instant. "A French girl, I should imagine. I know Lady Cuxhaven was for one to up with her little girls, that they might a good early. Poor little woman, she looks wild and strange!" And the speaker, who next to Lord Cumnor, a little to Molly to come to her; Molly up to her as to the shelter; but when the lady talking to her in French, she violently, and said in a very low voice,—
"I don't French. I'm only Molly Gibson, ma'am."
"Molly Gibson!" said the lady, out loud; as if that was not much of an explanation.
Lord Cumnor the and the tone.
"Oh, ho!" said he. "Are you the little girl who has been sleeping in my bed?"
He the voice of the bear, who this question of the little child in the story; but Molly had read the "Three Bears," and that his anger was real; she a little, and nearer to the lady who had her as to a refuge. Lord Cumnor was very of of what he was a joke, and his idea threadbare; so all the time the ladies were in the room he on his fire at Molly, to the Sleeping Beauty, the Seven Sleepers, and any other famous that came into his head. He had no idea of the his were to the girl, who already herself a sinner, for having slept on, when she ought to have been awake. If Molly had been in the of two and two together, she might have an for herself, by that Mrs. Kirkpatrick had promised to her in time; but all the girl of was, how little they wanted her in this house; how she must like a careless who had no there. Once or twice she where her father was, and he was missing her; but the of the familiar of home such a in her throat, that she she must not give way to it, for of out crying; and she had to that, as she was left at the Towers, the less trouble she gave, the more she herself out of observation, the better.
She the ladies out of the dining-room, almost that no one would see her. But that was impossible, and she the of the Lady Cumnor and her neighbour at dinner.
"Do you know, I this lady was French when I saw her? she has got the black and eyelashes, and eyes, and which one meets with in some parts of France, and I know Lady Cuxhaven was trying to a well-educated girl who would be a to her children."
"No!" said Lady Cumnor, looking very stern, as Molly thought. "She is the of our medical man at Hollingford; she came with the visitors this morning, and she was overcome by the and asleep in Clare's room, and somehow managed to over-sleep herself, and did not up till all the were gone. We will send her home to-morrow morning, but for to-night she must here, and Clare is to say she may sleep with her."
There was an through this speech, that Molly like needle-points all over her. Lady Cuxhaven came up at this moment. Her was as deep, her manner of speaking as and authoritative, as her mother's, but Molly the nature underneath.
"How are you now, my dear? You look than you did under the cedar-tree. So you're to stop here to-night? Clare, don't you think we some of those books of that would Miss Gibson."
Mrs. Kirkpatrick came up to the place where Molly stood; and her with and actions, while Lady Cuxhaven over in search of one that might the girl.
"Poor darling! I saw you come into the dining-room, looking so shy; and I wanted you to come near me, but I not make a to you, Lord Cuxhaven was speaking to me at the time, telling me about his travels. Ah, here is a book—Lodge's Portraits; now I'll by you and tell you who they all are, and all about them. Don't trouble any more, dear Lady Cuxhaven; I'll take of her; pray her to me!"
Molly and as these last met her ear. If they would only her alone, and not at being to her; would "not trouble themselves" about her! These of Mrs. Kirkpatrick's to the she was to Lady Cuxhaven for looking for something to her. But, of course, it was a trouble, and she ought to have been there.
By-and-by, Mrs. Kirkpatrick was called away to Lady Agnes' song; and then Molly had a minutes' enjoyment. She look the room, unobserved, and, sure, was any place out of a king's house so and magnificent. Large mirrors, curtains, pictures in their frames, a of lights the saloon, and the was with groups of ladies and gentlemen, all in attire. Suddenly Molly her of the children she had into the dining-room, and to ranks she had appeared to belong,—where were they? Gone to an hour before, at some from their mother. Molly if she might go, too—if she her way to the of Mrs. Kirkpatrick's bedroom. But she was at some from the door; a long way from Mrs. Kirkpatrick, to she herself to more than to any one else. Far, too, from Lady Cuxhaven, and the terrible Lady Cumnor, and her and good-natured lord. So Molly on, over pictures which she did not see; her and in the of all this grandeur. Presently a entered the room, and after a moment's looking about him, he up to Mrs. Kirkpatrick, where she at the piano, the centre of the of the company, to any singer, and as she to all requests. She came now Molly, in her corner, and said to her,—
"Do you know, darling, your papa has come for you, and your for you to home; so I shall my little bedfellow, for I you must go?"
Go! was there a question of it in Molly's mind, as she up quivering, sparkling, almost out loud. She was to her senses, though, by Mrs. Kirkpatrick's next words.
"You must go and wish Lady Cumnor good-night, you know, my dear, and thank her for her to you. She is there, near that statue, talking to Mr. Courtenay."
Yes! she was there—forty away—a hundred miles away! All that blank space had to be crossed; and then a speech to be made!
"Must I go?" asked Molly, in the most and voice possible.
"Yes; make about it; there is nothing so in it, is there?" Mrs. Kirkpatrick, in a voice than before, aware that they were wanting her at the piano, and to the in hand done as soon as possible.
Molly still for a minute, then, looking up, she said, softly,—
"Would you mind with me, please?"
"No! not I!" said Mrs. Kirkpatrick, that her was likely to be the most way of through the affair; so she took Molly's hand, and, on the way, in the group at the piano, she said, smiling, in her manner,—
"Our little friend here is and modest, and wants me to her to Lady Cumnor to wish good-night; her father has come for her, and she is going away."
Molly did not know how it was afterwards, but she her hand out of Mrs. Kirkpatrick's on these words, and going a step or two in came up to Lady Cumnor, in velvet, and a curtsey, almost after the fashion of the school-children, she said,—
"My lady, papa is come, and I am going away; and, my lady, I wish you good-night, and thank you for your kindness. Your ladyship's kindness, I mean," she said, herself as she Miss Browning's particular as to the to be to and countesses, and their progeny, as they were that on the road to the Towers.
She got out of the somehow; she afterwards, on about it, that she had good-by to Lady Cuxhaven, or Mrs. Kirkpatrick, or "all the of them," as she them in her thoughts.
Mr. Gibson was in the housekeeper's room, when Molly ran in, to the Mrs. Brown's discomfiture. She her arms her father's neck. "Oh, papa, papa, papa! I am so you have come;" and then she out crying, his almost as if to make sure he was there.
"Why, what a you are, Molly! Did you think I was going to give up my little girl to live at the Towers all the of her life? You make as much work about my for you, as if you I had. Make haste, now, and on your bonnet. Mrs. Brown, may I ask you for a shawl, or a plaid, or a of some to pin about her for a petticoat?"
He did not mention that he had come home from a long not an hour before, a from which he had returned and hungry; but, on that Molly had not come from the Towers, he had his by Miss Brownings', and them in self-reproachful, dismay. He would not wait to to their apologies; he home, had a fresh and Molly's saddled, and though Betty called after him with a riding-skirt for the child, when he was not ten yards from his own stable-door, he to turn for it, but off, as Dick the said, "muttering to himself awful."
Mrs. Brown had her bottle of out, and her plate of cake, Molly came from her long to Mrs. Kirkpatrick's room, "pretty on to a of a mile off," as the the father, as he waited for his child to come in her morning's with the of off. Mr. Gibson was a in all the Towers' household, as family doctors are; of at times of and distress; and Mrs. Brown, who was to gout, in him he would allow her. She out into the stable-yard to pin Molly up in the shawl, as she upon the rough-coated pony, and the safe conjecture,—
"I she'll be at home, Mr. Gibson," as they away.
Once out into the park Molly her pony, and him on as hard as he would go. Mr. Gibson called out at last:
"Molly! we're to the rabbit-holes; it's not safe to go at such a pace. Stop." And as she he up alongside of her.
"We're into the of the trees, and it's not safe fast here."
"Oh! papa, I was so in all my life. I like a when they're the on it."
"Did you? How d'ye know what the feels?"
"Oh, I don't know, but I did." And again, after a pause she said,—"Oh, I am so to be here! It is so here in the open, free, fresh air, out such a good from the grass. Papa! are you there? I can't see you."
He close up alongside of her: he was not sure but what she might be of in the dark shadows, so he his hand upon hers.
"Oh! I am so to you," his hand hard. "Papa, I should like to a like Ponto's, just as long as your round, and then I us two to each end of it, and when I wanted you I pull, and if you didn't want to come, you again; but I should know you I wanted you, and we each other."
"I'm in that plan of yours; the details, as you them, are a little puzzling; but if I make them out rightly, I am to go about the country, like the on the common, with a to my leg."
"I don't mind your calling me a clog, if only we were together."
"But I do mind you calling me a donkey," he replied.
"I did. At least I didn't to. But it is such a to know that I may be as as I like."
"Is that what you've learnt from the company you've been to-day? I to you so and ceremonious, that I read a of Sir Charles Grandison, in order to myself up to pitch."
"Oh, I do I shall be a lord or a lady."
"Well, to you, I'll tell you this: I'm sure you'll be a lord; and I think the are a thousand to one against your being the other, in the in which you mean."
"I should myself every time I had to my bonnet, or else of long passages and great long I go out walking."
"But you'd have your lady's-maid, you know."
"Do you know, papa, I think lady's-maids are than ladies. I should not mind being a so much."
"No! the jam-cupboards and would very to one's hand," her father, meditatively. "But Mrs. Brown tells me that the of the dinners often her from sleeping; there's that to be taken into consideration. Still, in every condition of life, there are and responsibilities."
"Well! I so," said Molly, gravely. "I know Betty says I wear her life out with the green I in my from in the cherry-tree."
"And Miss Browning said she had herself into a with how they had left you behind. I'm you'll be as as a bill of to them to-night. How did it all happen, goosey?"
"Oh, I by myself to see the gardens; they are so beautiful! and I myself, and sat to under a great tree; and Lady Cuxhaven and that Mrs. Kirkpatrick came; and Mrs. Kirkpatrick me some lunch, and then put me to sleep on her bed,—and I she would me in time, and she didn't; and so they'd all gone away; and when they planned for me to stop till to-morrow, I didn't like saying how very, very much I wanted to go home,—but I how you would wonder where I was."
"Then it was a day of pleasure, goosey, eh?"
"Not in the morning. I shall the in that garden. But I was so in all my life, as I have been all this long afternoon."
Mr. Gibson it his to by the Towers, and pay a visit of and thanks to the family, they left for London. He them all on the wing, and no one was at to to his but Mrs. Kirkpatrick, who, although she was to Lady Cuxhaven, and pay a visit to her pupil, to Mr. Gibson, on of the family; and him of her of his great professional attention to her in days in the most manner.
