CHAPTER VI.
She was a sonsie mayden Of substance eke, and weight, Nae cares did vex her, nae thoughts perplex her, And her name it was callit Kate.--OLD SONG.
On the following morning, a low pony carriage, very little above the rank of a gig, and packed in its lower departments with sundry empty baskets, drew up at the door of the Bank. It was the market-day in Fendie, and the strong rustic driver of the little vehicle seemed considerably more interested in the acquaintances whom he noticed in the crowded Main Street than in the young ladies whom he assisted to alight. The elder of them was about fifteen, a little older than Hope Oswald. She was a large, clumsy, heavy girl, with soft fair features, and sleepy blue eyes. The face was well enough, so far as mere form went, and had a certain slumbrous, passive good-humour in it, not unprepossessing; but speculation there was none under the heavy lids of those large eyes. The soft face had its tolerable proportions of white and red, but was informed by no inspiring light; for this was Hope Oswald’s stupid schoolfellow--Miss Adelaide Fendie.
With her was a younger sister, a girl of ten, whose face only was less stupid, because it had a spitefulness and shrewish expression perfectly alien to the soft good-humour of Adelaide. They were both dressed after that peculiar fashion which belongs to the caterpillar state (if we may venture on such an expression) of young ladies--in unhandsome dresses of faded colours, short enough to display quite too much of Adelaide’s white trousers and considerable feet, and hanging wide and clumsily on shoulders which needed no addition to their natural proportions.
The Fendies of Mount Fendie were an old family; but Mr George Oswald the banker had also some pretensions to blood, and Mrs Oswald was a laird’s daughter; so there was no great derogation in the intimacy with which the youthful Misses of the more aristocratic house honoured the sprightly Hope. Miss Victoria was the more condescending of the two. She felt to the full the superiority of Mount Fendie, with its wide grounds and sweeping avenues and lodges ornamented by the delicate taste of “mamma,” and considerably despised the great stone building in the main street of Fendie, with the mechanical inscription of “Bank” over its stately portico.
Adelaide knew better; even in the dignified educational establishment in Edinburgh there was some certain degree of republicanism, and Adelaide had attained to a dull consciousness of Hope’s superiority, and a habit of being guided by her will, much to the comfort of her slumbrous self, whom Hope managed to carry through scrapes and difficulties in a manner which even excited a faint degree of passive wonder in the slugglish inert nature, which could not comprehend her quick intelligence. And Adelaide liked Hope, and by good fortune did not envy her; and Hope had a sort of affection of habit for Adelaide, whose dulness she laid siege to with girlish impetuosity, understanding it as little as her companion understood her; for Hope could not persuade herself that it was natural to be stupid, and so assailed the impenetrable blank of Adelaide’s mind with all manner of weapons, but always unsuccessfully.
John Brown, the trusty major-domo of Mount Fendie, was bound for the market, and, not without some coaxing, had consented to bring the young ladies with him. John touched his hat in gruff good-humour as Hope Oswald’s bright face looked out from the open door, and after depositing Miss Victoria safely on the pavement, drove off with a sigh of relief, muttering,--
“That lassie’ll be twenty stane afore she’s dune growing. I wad as sune lift the brockit quey. Gude day to ye, Tam,--hoo’s the wife? Gar the laddie gie the beast a feed--I haena muckle time.”
With which prudent beginning John descended, and evinced his haste practically, by entering into a lengthened controversy with Tam Dribble, the master of a little inn which it pleased John to patronize. Tam was a man very great in the “affairs of the state,” and the Provost of Fendie was his especial scapegoat for the sins of those in authority; so there was so much to be said for and against some recent act of this dignitary--for John Brown was a constitutional man, and defended the powers that be--that it was not until they had moistened their argument with a dram or two, and suffered the pony to make a very leisurely and substantial meal, that the factotum of Mount Fendie summed up with a clap of his hands, which made the room ring.
“Man, Tam, ye’re a born gowk--and it’s a’ havers--and here am I wasting guid daylicht listening to you. An it had been night, I might hae bidden to gie ye your answer--but me, that’s a responsible man, and under authority--hout awa’ wi’ ye!”
With which triumphant conclusion John Brown strode forth to the market.
“Oh, Hope! isn’t he a great bear, that John?” exclaimed Victoria Fendie. “Adelaide asked mamma to let us come, and mamma never will do anything at first that we want; but we coaxed her, and then when she said we might go, we had to ask John Brown to take us--to ask John Brown, indeed!--only think of ladies asking a servant! and mamma would not order him to do it. I know what I will do--I’ll get some of Alick’s powder and put it in the snuffers, and then I’ll ask John to come and snuff the candles for me.”
“Very well, Victoria,” said Hope, “I’ll tell John to-day.”
“Oh, goodness, Adelaide, only listen--how ill-natured she is! I don’t care--I’ll do something; it’s a great shame of mamma to make us ask John Brown.”
“Hope,” said Adelaide, “the new governess is coming to-morrow, and mamma says you’re to come up and see her.”
“Mamma only said she might come if she liked,” interposed Victoria.
Adelaide paused to deliberate upon an answer.
“If I did not like to come sometimes to see Adelaide, Adelaide would not ask me,” said Hope.
“But, Hope,” said Adelaide, lifting her large dull blue eyes, “it’s the new governess you’re to come to see.”
“Well, I know that; but I shall see you too, shall I not?”
“Yes,” repeated the obtuse Adelaide; “but you’re to come to see the new governess, mamma says.”
Hope was seized with one of her fits of impatience. Why would Adelaide be so stupid?
“Shan’t we tease her!” exclaimed Victoria, triumphantly. “Fred says he won’t learn his lessons to a woman, and I won’t learn any lessons at all, if I can help it, and mamma won’t let me if I have a head-ache. Do you ever have any head-aches, Hope?”
“No,” said Hope, stoutly, “head-aches! Miss Mansfield used to have them at school--you mind, Adelaide? but it’s a great shame, and Miss Swinton says girls have no right to have head-aches.”
“Oh, Hope! ‘you _mind_.’ Mamma would whip me if I said ‘you mind.’”
“_My_ mother would not,” said the resolute Hope, “and mind is a far better word than remember or recollect. It’s only one syllable, and--it’s our own tongue, and it’s a very good word.”
“I think so too,” said Adelaide, with an unwonted exertion, “because when a word’s short it’s easier said.”
Adelaide’s sentence terminated abruptly in a peal of malicious laughter from Victoria.
“Well,” said the elder sister, with some faint flush of anger, “I am sure Miss Swinton used to say so--and you’ve no right to laugh, Victoria--I’ll tell mamma.”
“I don’t care,” was the response; “mamma is not so well pleased when you always talk about that stupid governess--you know that.”
“Stupid governess!” Hope’s eyes sparkled. “If you were not a child, Victoria,” she said, with the dignity of a senior, “you would not speak so. Miss Swinton is a lady--Miss Swinton is a gentlewoman! I don’t know any one like Miss Swinton, except mamma, and--”
“Oh, come, tell us--tell us!” cried Victoria.
Hope drew herself up.
“Except mamma and Helen--Miss Buchanan--but you don’t know her.”
“Yes I do--she keeps a school; yes I do--a governess and a schoolmistress--and Hope does not know any other ladies! I hope I shall never be one of Hope’s ladies.”
“What are you doing now, Hope?” said Adelaide. “Mamma has made me begin to work a cover for something; I don’t know what the shape of it will be, but it’s all in bits like this, and mamma says it will be very pretty--and Charlotte’s bringing such a load of music, and that governess!--you might come up, Hope, and help me, for I’m sure you’re not doing anything yourself.”
Hope acknowledged her idleness.
“No indeed, Adelaide; but I have only been two days at home; and--what’s the use of working covers? I don’t know why people labour at such things.”
“Because their mammas make them,” said Adelaide, gravely, and with a sigh; “but I think I like it too, Hope, for it’s very pretty, you know.”
Hope shook her head. She had been visited several times of late by some grave ruminations on this subject, and began to feel that working covers, however pretty, was in reality a quite unsatisfactory mode of life. But the cogitations were inarticulate; they had attained no shape, except at present a decided disinclination to work at all.
“And, Hope,” added Adelaide, “how long do you practise every day?”
“I don’t practise at all,” answered Hope.
The sleepy lids of Adelaide’s eyes were elevated in wonder.
“Then what in all the world do you do?” exclaimed Victoria. “I should like to be you, Hope--I should like to play all day; but Adelaide thinks she is too old to play.”
“I don’t play all day,” said Hope, with some indignation. “Yesterday I was at Friarsford with my mother, and at Mossgray--”
“Oh, Hope!” said Adelaide, “what makes you go to see that girl? she is only a farmer’s daughter.”
“I don’t care for her now,” said Hope, with some sadness; “but it’s not because she’s a farmer’s daughter--it’s because she is--I mean it’s because _she_ practises, and knits and works covers, and doesn’t care for anybody--but never mind that. And then we went to Mossgray. We did not see Mr Graeme; but there’s a beautiful pony--the prettiest one ever you saw--and Mrs Mense says I am to give it its name. What should I call it, Adelaide? come and help me.”
Adelaide slowly shook her head--this was a stretch of invention quite beyond her.
“Call it Mischief,” suggested Victoria.
“Mischief,” deliberated Hope. “No, I don’t like that--I want a pretty name--give me a pretty name, Adelaide.”
An idea gradually illuminated Adelaide’s stolid countenance.
“Call it Pretty, Hope--that would do very well.”
“Oh, no, no!” exclaimed Hope; “you might call a lap-dog that, but a fine pony! so merry, and brisk, and lively--oh, no, no!”
“Call it after me,” said Victoria.
“Mischief?” said Hope.
“No, indeed, not Mischief, but Victoria, or Adelaide, or--I have got it--I have got it!--call it Lillie, after our new governess.”
“Is her name Lillie?” asked Hope.
“It’s her first name--her Christian name,” said Adelaide, “and Charlotte says she looks pretty, Hope; but she is so quiet and sad--you know she lost her mamma just a fortnight ago.”
“And has she no home?” said Hope.
“No home? I am sure I don’t know; Charlotte does not say anything about her home; only her mamma is dead, and she is very quiet, and looks pretty.”
There was no more to be got out of Adelaide--she could only repeat her text, and wonder at the questions that sprang out of it.
“And is she coming with Mrs Heavieliegh?” asked Hope.
“Yes--you know Mr Heavieliegh is the Rector of the place her mother died in--but she came from Scotland at first, and Charlotte was very good to her, and because mamma wanted a governess, Charlotte engaged her to come to the Mount.”
“Will Mrs Heavieliegh stay long?” inquired Hope.
The conversation was getting low, Victoria being busily employed at the other end of the room, endeavouring with all her might to destroy some favourite plants of Mrs Oswald’s.
“Not just now--but do you know, Hope, Alick is coming next summer, from India, where he was sent with his regiment, and mamma will give parties, and perhaps a ball--a real ball, Hope!--and you must be there. Oh, we shall be so happy!”
“Is he coming to stay?” asked Hope.
“I don’t know, mamma didn’t say; but she said there was to be a ball, and that Alick would perhaps bring some officers with him. I only wish the time were come--shall you not be glad, Hope?”
“If my mother will let me go, I shall like it very well,” said Hope; “but about the new governess, Adelaide--is she to teach you?”
“Mamma says so,” said Adelaide; “but I think I don’t need any more teaching--do you, Hope? after having had to learn such quantities of things. I am sure I wish mamma would just try it herself.”
Hope was not quite inclined to acquiesce in this conclusion; but there was no possibility of keeping up an argument with Adelaide, who had nothing to add to her first sentence on any subject, but merely the trouble of repeating it. So Hope wisely went to seek her mother, and to suggest the preparation of some juvenile lunch for her friends, which speedily made its appearance in the substantial form of bread and butter, jam and fruit--healthful dainties which were plentifully discussed by the visitors. John Brown arrived very shortly after, with the pony carriage, the baskets in which were no longer empty, and having with some difficulty hoisted the young ladies in, drove them away, leaving Hope pledged for “the day after to-morrow to come and see the new governess.”