CHAPTER XVI.

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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