The second day's journey was as delightful as the first. The weather continued fine, and Seth Dumbrick, recovering his spirits, did his best to entertain the children, to whom the ride itself would have been a sufficiently satisfying enjoyment. During the day Seth confided his plans to the good-natured wagoner, and his desire to obtain cheap lodgings for a few days for himself and the children at some modest cottage in the country.
"Would near the seaside suit you?" asked the wagoner.
"Capitally," replied Seth; "but your place lies inland."
"I have time to go a little out of my way, and will take you to a cottage near the sea belonging to a friend of mine, who'll be able to lodge you reasonable."
"Nothing could be better," said Seth, thankfully.
"It's obliging her and you, and won't trouble me much. Come up, Daisy! Now then, Cornflower! Four mile more for you, and plenty of time to do it in."
If Daisy and Cornflower understood that an additional task was imposed upon them they did not take it sadly, but shook their bells briskly and trotted out of their regular track with a willing spirit.
"Round this bend," said the wagoner, "and a fine stretch of the sea'll be before us."
It appeared almost incredible, for the trees and hedges in the path they were riding along were so thick and the path itself so winding as to obscure the view.
"The children have never seen the sea," said Seth.
"You don't say so! Well, I wouldn't be a Londoner, bound to live there all my days, for the best fifty houses you could offer me. And never seen a ship sailing, I'll be bound!"
"Never."
"It will be something for them to remember, then. Now, shut your eyes, my little lasses, and don't open them till I say 'Presto!'"
Sally and the Duchess shut their eyes tight, their hearts throbbing with eager expectation.
"Up then, Daisy! Up, Cornflower! Round the bend we go. Presto!"
The Duchess and Sally opened their eyes and uttered exclamations of delight. The glorious sea lay before them, with large ships in the distance and fishing boats in the foreground. In one part the sun, playing on the water, transformed it into an island of flashing jewels. It was a veritable wonderland to the children--a dream of beauty never to be forgotten.
"Do I see the waves creeping up, Sally?" asked Seth, gaily.
Sally raised her face to his and kissed him.
"It's all through that money that was sent to the Duchess, Daddy."
"All through that, Sally."
"Then I love money, Daddy," said Sally; "and I'd like to be a lady, so that the Duchess and me might live always by the sea. How far does it stretch? More than we can see?"
"Thousands, and thousands, and thousands of miles more. Away into other countries, where it's night at the present moment while it's daylight here."
"I don't understand it," said Sally, with a sigh of ecstasy, "and I don't want to. Oh, we're going away from it!"
"We're going to the cottage I spoke of my little woman," said the wagoner; "it's not three hundred yards off--just down this lane."
Down the lane they drove, and drew up at a small house with a garden before and behind. The front of the cottage was covered with ivy, and the windows in their framework of glossy leaves looked wonderfully pretty.
"This is nice, too," said Sally, disposed to enjoy everything.
"There's beauty everywhere, Sally," said Seth, with a touch of his old philosophy, "if we'll only look out for it."
"This comes without looking out for it," replied Sally; "and that's why I like it. Ain't it better than anything ever was, Duchess?"
The Duchess nodded an assent, and in another moment the whole party were in the little parlour, and Seth and the wagoner were talking to the mistress of the house. The bargain was soon struck, the terms asked for board and lodging being much less than Seth had ventured to hope they would be. They were to have the two rooms on the first floor for sleeping apartments, one looking over the front the other over the back of the house.
"Daddy must have this," said Sally, as they stood in the front room; "it's the best."
"That's the reason why you and the Duchess shall sleep in it. I came into the country for your sakes, children, not for my own."
Everything in the place was sweet and fresh; and the garden at the back of the house contained apple and pear trees and currant-bushes, as well as flowers.
"My good man," said the mistress, "will be glad to have two such pretty children in the house for a little while. We've none of our own. It'll brighten us up a bit."
The woman was sad-looking and spoke in a sad tone; and Sally wondered how it was possible that one who lived in the fairy-house, with flowers and fruit trees and the sea within a stone's throw of them, should need brightening up. She was sure if such a paradise were hers, that there would never be a dull hour in it. While the woman was attending to the children upstairs, assisting them to wash after their long day's ride, and showing them all the wonders of the fairy house, Seth and the wagoner had a conversation in the room below. It was a friendly one, resulting from the wagoner's refusal to accept payment for the ride.
"It'll be a pleasure to me," said the wagoner, "not to take the money. I don't want it, having enough and to spare, as I've already told you. I don't mean to say I do it for your sake----"
"Not likely," said Seth, good-humouredly.
"--But for the sake of the pretty little one you call the Duchess. And that's puzzled me. I'd take it as a favour if you'd tell me, why Duchess?"
"Well, it was a fancy of Sally's," said Seth, "who worships the Duchess----"
"It's plain enough that she thinks a mighty deal more of her than she does of herself."
"That she does. Well, the Duchess came to me in a strange way that'll take too long to explain here. The child was left in our neighbourhood in a most mysterious manner--brought in mysteriously, deserted mysteriously. She and Sally were thrown together, and Sally adopted her, if one helpless mite can be said to adopt another helpless mite. Sally's mother fell into misfortune, and the children happened to drop in my way. Sally had a name--the other one didn't--and one night we had a curious little party of children in my cellar----"
"In your cellar?"
"I live in a cellar in Rosemary Lane--and Sally, quite seriously, put the fancy in my head of calling the child the Duchess of our quarter. All the neighbours take to it kindly, and everyone that knows her loves her. Look there. Who could help being attracted to her?"
The wagoner looked up at the window of the children's room, and saw the Duchess standing within a framework of dark-green ivy leaves. The light was shining full upon her beautiful face, and touched, also, the darker face of Sally, who stood at the back of the Duchess, looking over her shoulder.
"It's a picture one don't often see," said the wagoner, with a thoughtful air; "but if I had my choice of the two girls for a daughter, I reckon I'd choose the dark-skinned one."
It did not displease Seth to hear this, for Sally and the Duchess really occupied an equal place in his heart. If the beauty of the Duchess awoke the tenderness of his nature, the devotion, unselfishness, and many rare qualities displayed by Sally were no less powerful in their effect upon his sympathies. Bearing in mind the scene that had occurred at Springfield on the preceding evening, he asked the wagoner, if any inquiries were made of him, not to divulge where he and the children were rusticating.
"I've brought them into the country," he said, "as much for peace and quietness as for fresh air."
There was to the wagoner's mind something suspicious both in the words and the nervous manner in which Seth made the request. He showed in his countenance the impression he received, and Seth, wishing to stand well with him, gave an account of the incident which had so disturbed him.
"When I heard the lady say she would like to buy my child," he said, in conclusion, "it seemed to me that she had so much faith in the power of money, and so little in the power of love, that I could not keep my temper. I spoke hotly, and with reason, I think."
"It would have roused my blood," responded the wagoner; "you never saw any of the gentlefolk before?"
"Never, and I never wish to see them again. I said as much to the master of Springfield, if I'm not mistaken."
"From what I've heard of him, he's not a man either to forget or forgive."
"You'll promise me, then, for the sake of the children, not to set any one on our track?"
He spoke anxiously, his fears exaggerating a danger which, in all likelihood was wholly imaginary.
"Yes," replied the wagoner, "there's no harm in promising. They've no right to worry you, as far as I can see, and they sha'n't get me to put them in the way of it. How long are you going to stop here?"
"We can live here so cheaply," said Seth, with a lightened heart, "that my purse will hold out for two or three weeks; we'll stay that time, I dare say."
"I'll be going up to London about then, mayhap," said the wagoner; "if so, I'll be glad to give the little lasses a lift; and mayhap I may be passing this way in a few days with the wagon. A ride through the lanes will do them no harm."
Seth expressed his thanks to the kind-hearted old fellow, and they shook hands and parted, the wagoner smiling goodbye to the children, who stood at the window watching him until he was out of sight.
Then commenced a happy time. The children were in a new world, and the little cottage, with its bit of garden back and front, was a very heaven to them. Everything was so new and bright, the air was so sweet, the trees and flowers so beautiful, that Sally could scarcely believe it was all real. On the first night, when they were abed, listening to the strange sound of the waves beating on the shore, Sally whispered to the Duchess:
"Isn't it lovely, Duchess?"
"Yes, oh, yes," sighed the Duchess; and this precise form of words was used at least a dozen times, each time with the belief that it embodied an observation of an especially original nature. Once Sally, creeping out of bed, drew aside the snowy white curtains from the window and looked out.
"Oh, come, Duchess, come!" she cried, and the Duchess scrambled after her. It was full moon, and the glorious light shining on the trees and hedges was a vision of beauty to them.
"That's a different moon from the one we've got in Rosemary Lane," said Sally; "I wish we could take it back with us."
"Are we going back?" asked the Duchess regretfully.
Sally did not reply. The prospect was too distressing. But she was happily so constituted as to be grateful for present joys and pleasures, and she dismissed Rosemary Lane from her thoughts. Her one fear was that she would wake up.
"Do you like the noise the sea makes?" she inquires of her idol, when they were in bed again.
"It's beautiful," said the Duchess. "Are the ships there?"
Sally never hesitated to impart information on subjects of which she was ignorant.
"They're there," she said, "but they don't move till daylight comes."
"I'm sleepy," said the Duchess, with a yawn.
"I'm frightened to go to sleep," said Sally, battling with fatigue; "I want to be like this always. I hope it ain't a dream--oh, I hope it ain't a dream!"
Before she had finished, the Duchess was asleep.
"I'll pinch myself hard," thought Sally, "as hard as I can, and if there's a black-and-blue mark on my arm to-morrow morning, I shall know it's real."
Sally did pinch herself--so hard that she could not help crying out with the pain, but she obtained her reward on the following morning, when she saw the black-and-blue marks. The joy of the day, however, was so great that as she sat on the pebbly beach, watching the waves creep up and the ships and fishing-boats floating away into wonderland, she found it hard to convince herself that she was not dreaming. At the end of the week she said to Seth:
"Daddy, every night I go to bed, I am frightened that I shall wake up and find myself in Rosemary Lane."
Thereupon he read her and the Duchess a lecture on contentment and gratitude, not so much needed by Sally as by the Duchess.
"I know you're right," said Sally; "it will always be a pleasure to think of, but I shall be awful sorry too, that it didn't last for ever. It can't, Daddy, can it?"
"No, my dear, it can't."
"I wish I was rich," sighed Sally.
"Supposing you had lived a hundred years ago," suggested Seth, with grave humour; and paused.
"Well, Daddy. Supposing I did?"
"It would be all the same to you whether you had a hundred boxes full of gold or whether you had twopence-halfpenny."
Sally was shrewd enough to understand this without having to ask for an explanation.
"What do you say to it all?" asked Sally of the Duchess.
"I don't care for a hundred years ago," said the Duchess; "I don't know what it means. I care for Now." And she echoed Sally's words, "I wish I was rich."
This set Seth pondering, and in his endeavour to extract honey out of unpromising material and to improve the occasion, it is to be feared that he soared above the understanding of his children. In this way:
"Did I ever tell you, Sally"--he always appealed to Sally at such times, although he addressed both her and the Duchess--"of a man I once knew called Billy Spike?"
"No, Daddy."
"He was a friend of mine a good many years ago. Older than me by thirty years was Billy Spike--and he was always Billy, never William, to the day of his death. Nearly everybody who knew him thought he was crazy."
"Why?"
"Because of one thing he was never tired of saying, 'What I don't get is profit.' That's what sweetened the world for Billy Spike. 'What I don't get is profit,' was always on his lips."
"Washea rich man, Daddy?"
"I doubt if Billy Spike ever had twenty shillings in his pocket at one time. I doubt if ever he had a new suit of clothes to his back. I doubt if he ever had quite as much to eat as he could have taken in. He was as poor as a church-mouse."
"Why is a church-mouse poor?" asked practical Sally.
"It's no use my trying to explain that, Sally. It's a saying, and a true one I dare say. But about Billy Spike. He was the poorest and the happiest man in the world, and all the philosophy of life was contained in his saying, 'What I don't get is profit.' 'Billy,' I said to him, 'what do you mean by it?' He looked at me with his eyes twinkling. 'Seth Dumbrick,' said he, 'you're a man of sense. Look at me. Here I am.' And he stood up straight before me, showing large holes in his coat, under his arms, and being generally a picture of rags. 'If,' said I, 'all the profit you make comes from what you've got, and not from what you haven't got, your returns must be small.' 'I've got a pair of arms, Seth Dumbrick,' said Billy. 'Thank you for nothing,' said I. 'You call that nothing!' cried Billy. 'Wait a bit. My limbs are all sound, my eyesight's good. I never had a headache or a toothache in my life, and I sleep like a top. Now, tell me who's that crossing the road?' It was a sailor we knew who hopped through life on a wooden leg. Me and Billy and the wooden-legged sailor went and had a glass together, and Billy drew the sailor out to tell us all about the miseries of having only one leg--what shootings he had in the one that was chopped off--yes, he said that, Sally, though it does sound funny--and how he couldn't walk where he wanted to walk, and couldn't do what he wanted to do, all through having a wooden leg. It was plain enough that his wooden leg made him real unhappy and miserable. When he was gone Billy Spike said to me, with a wink, 'What I don't get is profit: I don't get wooden legs.' Just then we saw a woman that we knew; her face was twice its proper size, and she had a bandage round it. 'What's the matter, mother?' asked Billy Spike. 'I'm almost dead with the pain, Billy,' she said. 'I've been and had two of my teeth out at the hospital and the doctor's almost broke my jaw. It's enough to drive a poor woman mad.' 'The toothache is,' said Billy. 'Yes, the toothache,' said she; 'I've had it on and off for the last twenty years, and I'm pretty well crazed with it.' Billy Spike winked at me again. 'What I don't get is profit. I don't get toothaches.' Then we came across a blind man, and Billy drewhimout, and a pretty bad case it was. 'I'd sooner be dead than alive,' said he. He couldn't see the wink that Billy gave. What I don't get is profit,' said Billy. 'I don't get blind.' And so Billy would have gone on all the day, I don't doubt, if I hadn't already caught his meaning."
In which respect Seth had the advantage of those to whom he was relating, as a possibly useful lesson, this story of Billy Spike's philosophy. Sally's face denoted that she did not see the application, and the Duchess said again, "I wish I was rich." So Seth resolved to throw aside philosophy as not suitable for the occasion, and to devote himself entirely to pleasure. It was none the less sweet because it was taken in a modest humble way, and because it cost but little money. Country walks, rides in carts and wagons, generally given for nothing--for the beauty of the Duchess soon attracted admirers even in this out-of-the-way spot--frolics in hayfields, rambles by the seaside, fully occupied their hours, and did not afford opportunity for a moment's weariness. And one day a travelling photographer passed their road and offered to "take" the Duchess for a song, as the saying is. Being an artist he saw the value of Seth's suggestion that she should be taken standing in a framework of ivy leaves, and the prettiest of pictures was produced. The photographer, falling in love with his work, and seeing future profit in it, took negatives of the Duchess in various attitudes, she falling into them so naturally as to excite his wonder and admiration. In truth it was a task which pleased and delighted her. Seth, shrewd as he always was, and careful of his pocket as he was compelled to be, made a good bargain with the artist, and for a very small sum obtained copies of all their portraits: the Duchess in three different positions, Sally in one, Sally and the Duchess together, and lastly, himself with the children on either side of him. The day following this excitement another pleasure came. The old wagoner who had driven them from London arrived early in the morning with Daisy and Cornflower, and after giving them the most beautiful ride in their holiday, took them to his own cottage where he had lived from boyhood. There his old wife awaited them, and feasted the party to their hearts' content, and a peaceful ride back in the peaceful night was the fitting ending to the happy day. So the time passed on until one morning Seth said to Sally.
"Home to-morrow, Sally."
She sighed with grateful regret.
"Our little girl is better than ever she was," he continued, with a fond look at the Duchess, "and we'll endeavour to keep her so. Such roses as these"--caressing the Duchess's cheek--"will be something for the Rosemary Lane folk to stare at. They've never seen such bright ones before. We've had a happy time, haven't we?"
"Yes, yes," they both replied, nestling to him.
"Let us be thankful, then----"
"For what we haven't had?" asked Sally, with a sly look.
"No," he said with a laugh, "for what we have enjoyed;" adding in a graver tone, "I never thought the world was so good as it is."
On the second evening from this they returned to Rosemary Lane, and were received with smiles and hearty welcome by all.
Sally, brimming over with delightful memories of the happy days passed in the cottage by the sea, was not slow to communicate her experiences to her young friends and playmates in Rosemary Lane. The wonderful stories she had to tell, and the wonderful way in which she related them, caused the children's eyes to dilate and their breasts to throb. Sally was an artist, and, in a more effective manner than would have been adopted by a more polished narrator, she painted her pictures in exactly those colours which made them alluring to an audience not over-gifted with learning and intelligence. In all these pictures, the Duchess was the central figure. She was the princess for whom the flowers bloomed and the sea whispered musically. The happy rides, the pleasant meals, the delicious idling, the soft murmurs of woodland life, were all for the Duchess, and, but for her, would not have been. Sally's tongue was never idle when there was an opportunity to glorify her idol, and the devoted child had never been so rich in opportunity as at the present time. Among other stories related by her, was, of course, the story of the Duchess's portrait being taken surrounded by flowers, which Sally declared was "out and out the most beautiful thing as ever was seen;" and public curiosity being excited, Seth Dumbrick was besieged by applicants eager to see the pictures. These visits were the means of his ingratiating himself into the more favourable opinion of his neighbours, who said to one another that Seth Dumbrick was becoming quite an agreeable man. Even to Mrs. Preedy he was gracious, and for fully three weeks that inveterate gossip had not a word to say to his disparagement.
So, being once more settled down quietly in his stall, with sufficient work for the hours, Seth hammered and patched away from morning till night, and but for certain fears connected with the Duchess, would have been a perfectly happy man. One of these fears related to the fortune-telling incident; he was unreasonably apprehensive that by some means or other the Duchess would be tracked and spirited away by the gentleman with whom he had had high words at Springfield; he did not stop to reason upon the motive which would lead to such an act. His other fear related to the bank-note, so strangely forwarded to the Duchess, which had paid for their holiday. If he had known where to seek for a clue to the discovery of the sender of the money, it is doubtful whether he would have availed himself of it; his earnest wish was that the matter should rest where it was, and that he and the Duchess and Sally should be allowed to live their quiet, uneventful life unmolested. If he saw the postman coming along the street, he watched his progress nervously, dreading that another letter for the Duchess might arrive, and when the man passed without look or word, the cheerful hammering upon the leather, or the more vigorous plying of the awl, denoted how greatly he was relieved.
Weeks and months passing in this way brought repose to his mind, and he sometimes smiled at himself for the uneasy fancies, born of love and fear, which had so tormented him. His love for the Duchess increased with time; she was for ever in his thoughts; over his bed, in a frame and protected by a glass, hung her picture, which was to him as beautiful as the most beautiful Madonna in the eyes of a devout woman; there was not speck or flaw on her, materially or spiritually; she was the queen of his life and household. Would the Duchess like this? Would the Duchess like that? What can we do for her? How can we serve her?--everything was done by Seth and Sally that could contribute to the easy and pleasant passing of her days. Their old clothes were darned and patched, and darned and patched again and again, so that the Duchess might have pretty things to wear. They were continually buying flowers and bits of ribbons for her, and casting about for ways and means to bring new pleasures into her days. In this twelve months passed, and the summer came round again. Sitting at their midday meal, Sally remarked that this time last year they were going into the country. Seth referred to a small memorandum book, the recipient of a singular medley of notes and observations.
"To-morrow morning's exactly a year," he said, "since we started."
Sally sighed, and Seth saw with pain a look of regret in the Duchess's eyes. It was not a calm regret; there was nothing of resignation in it. It expressed a struggle to be free from the thraldom of poverty, a rebellious repining at the hardship of Fate. As Seth was considering whether any ingenious twisting of Billy Spike's philosophy would afford consolation, a double knock at the stall above was heard. He mounted the steps, and confronted the postman.
"A letter for the Duchess of Rosemary Lane."
Seth received it with a sinking heart, and putting it hastily into his pocket, descended to the living-room.
"Who was it, Daddy?" asked Sally.
"Mrs. Simpson sent for the child's boot," replied Seth, with a guilty palpitation; "it ain't done yet."
He finished his dinner in silence, listening to reminiscences of last year's delightful holiday, called up by Sally and the Duchess. He did not take the letter from his pocket until late in the night, when he was alone. He gazed at it for a few moments, believing it contained a realization of his fears, and that it might be the means of parting him and the Duchess. If he had not been a just man, he would have destroyed the letter, but he was restrained by the reflection that it might be of importance to the future of the child he loved. With reluctant fingers he unfastened the envelope, and found in it a bank-note for five pounds. As with the letter received last year, it did not contain a single word that would furnish a clue. He had carefully preserved the first envelope, and comparing the writing on the two, he judged it to be from one hand.
"Who is it that sends the money?" he mused. "A man or a woman? That's the first point. There's a difference in handwriting, I've heard. I must find a way to make sure of that. I suppose the note's as good as the one sent last year."
Before the afternoon of the following day, he had thought over a lame little scheme, which he put into execution without delay. He walked to the shop of a tradesman, of whom he was in the habit of buying tools and leather, and having made some small purchases, he offered the note in payment. It was taken, and change given, without remark. "Is your wife at home?" then asked Seth.
"Yes," replied the tradesman.
"I'd like to see her," said Seth; "I want to ask her about something that a woman knows better than a man."
The tradesman called his wife, and Seth had a quiet talk with her. He commenced in a roundabout way.
"It's about a friend of mine," he said, "an unmarried man like myself, but more likely to marry, being younger. He's received a letter without a signature, and he's mighty anxious to find out whether it comes from a man or a woman. It's a delicate matter you see."
The tradesman's wife did not see, but she waited patiently for further light.
"The fact is," continued Seth, "there's a girl he knows and has a fancy for, that another man knows and has a fancy for."
"It's a love letter, then," interrupted the tradesman's wife, with a smile.
"Yes," said Seth, gladly accepting the suggestion, "and he naturally wishes to know who wrote it."
"Yes."
"Now the first thing to discover is whether it's a man's or a woman's writing."
"How can I help you to discover that?"
"If you will be good enough to write just a couple of words--say, Rosemary Lane--on a bit of paper, it might assist us."
The woman wrote down the words, and wrote them without a curve; every letter had in it as many angles as it could conveniently accommodate. After this, Seth asked the woman if her daughters would write the same words on separate pieces of paper, and then he obtained a specimen of writing from the tradesman himself. He paid visits to many places that afternoon, with the same purpose in view, and by the evening he had in his pocket between twenty and thirty different specimens of calligraphy. When the children were asleep he continued his examination, and discovered that, without an exception, all the women wrote in angles and all the men in curves. Comparing the writing with that on the envelopes, he came to the conclusion that the addresses were written and the money sent by a woman.
He derived an odd kind of satisfaction from this result There was less danger to be feared from a woman than from a man, and, without difficulty, Seth invented a dozen different sets of circumstances to fit the case, in all of which the woman who was in this way kind to the Duchess was never to make herself known. The money clearly belonged to the Duchess, and the conscientious man decided that it must be spent on the Duchess, and on the Duchess alone. The child had had her ears pierced, and wore in them a pair of rough glass earrings bought by Sally for a few pence on the anniversary of her idol's birthday.
No one knew how old the Duchess exactly was, or on what day she was born; but a birthday was such a happy occasion for love-gifts, and the Duchess so fit a person to give them to, that a natal day was fixed for her. Of course a suitable one. "March winds and April showers bring forth May flowers." Sally knew the rhyme, and settled that the Duchess was born when the flowers were born, on the 1st of May. On the Duchess's last birthday Sally had presented the glass earrings, and the pleasure derived from the giving and the receiving was as great as if the bits of glass had been diamonds. The Duchess never tired of admiring herself in the little tin-framed mirror fixed by the side of the bed, and shook her head to make the crystals sparkle, and played at hide and peep with them, hiding them in her hair and shaking them free again. A fair meed of admiration was also passed upon them by her playmates, and the Duchess thought them the loveliest things in the world until one unhappy day she heard an ill-natured woman call them "bits of trumpery glass." From that moment they became less precious in the Duchess's eyes, and a secret longing crept into her mind for something more valuable to show off her pretty ears. About this time Mrs. Preedy, having occasion to go westward, invited the Duchess to accompany her, to see the carriages and fine folks in the Park. Without asking for permission from her guardian, the Duchess accepted the invitation joyfully, and as she walked along by the side of Mrs. Preedy, her quick eye took in everything of note that passed her; but most of all did she notice the gold ornaments worn by the ladies, and yearned for them in her heart of hearts.
"Such heaps of rich people, Duchess," observed Mrs. Preedy. "It's like a show."
"There's nothing in the world like being rich," observed the Duchess.
"No, that there's not," replied the woman heartily. "Why," presently continued the Duchess, "are some people rich and other people poor?"
"Oh,Idon't know," said Mrs. Preedy peevishly; "it's all in the way we're born. Ladies and gentlemen ain't born in Rosemary Lane."
"I wasn't born in Rosemary Lane," mused the Duchess, in a tone which was in itself an assertion of superiority over her companion.
"Do you know where youwasborn?" asked Mrs. Preedy.
"No," was the reply, "but not in Rosemary Lane."
"What do you remember before you came to Rosemary Lane?" continued Mrs. Preedy, growing interested in the conversation.
"I don't remember coming to Rosemary Lane," said the Duchess; "I had a mamma once."
"Where?"
"I don't know; in a garden, I think."
"Like anybody you see?"
"Like her," said the Duchess, pointing to a lady who was stepping from a carriage. In the lady's face dwelt an expression of much sadness and sweetness, which seemed to be the natural outcome of a sad and sweet nature. The Duchess's observance of the lady drew her attention to the child, and she stopped and spoke, and asked Mrs. Preedy if the pretty creature was her daughter.
"No, indeed, ma'am," said Mrs. Preedy, with a curtsey; "she has no mother, poor dear, and she was just saying that you were like her mamma."
"Her mamma!" exclaimed the lady, with a look of surprise; "where do you come from, then?"
"From Rosemary Lane, if you please," said the obsequious Mrs. Preedy, who was always deferential to those above her.
"And where may that be?"
"In the east, if you please," with another curtsey.
The lady, with languid humour, suggested "Jerusalem?" and then asked the Duchess if she would like a cake. They were standing in front of a confectioner's shop, and the child, with as much self-possession (as Mrs. Preedy afterwards remarked when she related the adventure) as if she had been a born lady, withdrew her hand from Mrs. Preedy, and held it out to the lady, who smilingly led her into the shop, and feasted her and Mrs. Preedy to their heart's content. They had cakes and jellies, and strawberries and cream, and the lady chatted with the Duchess, and praised her beauty, in the most gracious and affable manner. Altogether, it was a very pleasant time, and formed quite an event in Mrs. Preedy's life, who for months and months gave most vivid descriptions of the entertainment, never forgetting to add that when they went into the Park later in the day they met the lady driving in her carriage there, and that she nodded and smiled in recognition of them.
Seth Dumbrick also went westwards in search of a present for the Duchess, to be paid for out of the money which was hers, and staring in the shop-windows, was greatly bewildered by the attractive articles there displayed. Silk sashes and neckerchiefs, natty kid boots and fascinating hats, distracted him with their claims. Had he been a well-to-do man, there is no knowing what extravagance he might have committed. At length he stationed himself before a jeweller's window, and gazed upon the beautiful articles exhibited in it, now deciding upon this, now upon that; and, in the end, upon a pair of gold earrings, tastefully designed to represent shells. He had no idea of the value of such articles, and it was with something of trepidation he entered the shop, where his appearance was viewed with suspicion by the salesman, who saw no fitness between the unshaven chin and grimy fingers of the workman and the graceful devices in gold and silver displayed for sale. A bargain, however, was soon concluded, and Seth became possessor of the earrings on payment of half the money he held in trust for the Duchess. Then he went to a milliner's shop, where he seemed even more out of place than in the jeweller's, and for twenty shillings bought one of the prettiest hats in all the stock. Enjoying in anticipation the delight of the Duchess, he walked home very contentedly, and artfully turned the conversation upon last year's holiday, saying in a melancholy tone:
"No holiday this year, Duchess."
Sally shook her head mournfully.
"Can't afford it, eh, Sally? Now, what's the next best thing to the holiday we can't afford? What do you say to a present--something pretty for--who do you think?"
"For the Duchess!" cried Sally.
The Duchess looked up eagerly.
"Yes, for the Duchess. These, for instance."
He carefully untied the little packet wrapt in silver tissue-paper, carefully opened the leather case, and pointed triumphantly to the earrings nestling softly in their blue-velvet couches. Sally clapped her hands, and jumped up; the Duchess gazed on the pretty ornaments with parted lips and eyes aglow with admiration.
"For me!" she exclaimed, almost under her breath. "For me!"
"For you, Duchess," said Seth. "What do you think of 'em?"
She threw her arms round his neck, and kissed him, with perhaps more affection than she had ever shown towards him, and then turned hastily to the earrings, in fear lest they might have vanished from the table. The glittering ornaments fitted her nature most thoroughly and completely. They seemed to say, "We are yours. You are ours. We belong to each other. You have no business to wear bits of trumpery glass. We are what you have a right to possess." There was absolute harmony between her and the pretty things, and she experienced a new and singularly entrancing pleasure in merely gazing upon them.
"Is one kiss all you will give me for them?" asked Seth.
"No, no," she replied; "I will give you a thousand thousand."
She smothered him with kisses, murmuring: "I love you for them, I love you for them."
"They are real gold," said Seth, more than satisfied with his bargain. "What will Rosemary Lane say to that?"
With trembling fingers the Duchess lifted the earrings from the case. Had they been imbued with feeling she could not have felt more tender towards them.
"May I put them in?"
"Surely, my dear; I bought them for you to wear."
The Duchess hastily unhooked Sally's birthday gift from her ears, and threw it on the table, replacing it with the more valuable and therefore more precious offering. A pang shot through Sally's breast as she witnessed the action. The bits of trumpery glass, albeit they cost but a few pence, had not been easily obtained by her; they were the result of many weeks' saving of farthings and halfpence, and to pay for them she had put down with a strong spirit a number of small cravings. Not that the saving and scraping was not in itself a delight to her; to deny herself in order that the Duchess might be gratified was one of her sweetest pleasures. The common glass earrings were her love-gift, and she had dreamt of them long before and after they were presented; and to see them now so carelessly thrust aside brought the tears to her eyes. She brushed them instantly away. The Duchess, with a piece of broken looking-glass in her hand, was walking up and down the cellar, gazing at the reflection of the new earrings, with eyes so sparkling that they outshone the glittering baubles. As she turned this way and that, now bending forward, now leaning back, in enchanting attitudes, holding the glass so that the ornaments were always in view, a thousand graces and charms were depicted in her of which for the time she was unconscious. Sally, despite her sorrow at the despisal of her love-gift, could not help admiring the beautiful picture, and when the Duchess came close to her, she drew her idol to her breast, and kissed her passionately.
"Don't!" said the Duchess, with a little struggle to be free; "you hurt me, Sally!"
Sally's arms relaxed, and she turned aside with quivering lips; for a moment, everything swam before her eyes, and she felt quite faint.
"And that's not all," said Seth; "I have something else for our Duchess."
"Oh, what is it, what is it?" cried the Duchess, springing to his side.
"See," he said, holding up the hat, "what will Rosemary Lane say to this? Sally, fit it on, and let us see how our princess looks in it."
Sally kept her sobs back with a vicious pinch of her own arm which almost made her scream, and placed the hat on the Duchess's head, to the best advantage be sure. There was no meanness in Sally's soul. She could suffer and be strong. Nothing would satisfy the Duchess that afternoon but to dress herself in her best clothes, and go out and show herself. It was done; and in her blue-merino dress, her boots made for her in the most dainty fashion by Seth's loving hands, her hat and her gold earrings, she walked about Rosemary Lane, with Sally by her side, the envy and admiration of all beholders. In the eyes of the Rosemary Lane folk Sally was a most complete foil to the beautiful Duchess. Her hands were dirty, and her clothes had many a hole in them; but there was a soft light in her eyes, and an expression of deep, almost suffering devotion in her face, which might have attracted the attention of close observers--and not entirely to Sally's disadvantage. The Duchess had an afternoon of rare enjoyment; even those who envied her paid court to her, and her train included all the young radicals in Rosemary Lane who had hitherto held aloof from her, but who now, fairly conquered by the splendour of her personal adornment, fell down and worshipped. It was the story of the golden calf over again--the old story which to-day is being enacted with so much fervour by beggar and millionaire, from Whitechapel to Belgravia. Late at night, when the Duchess was asleep with her gold earrings in her ears, and her new hat hanging by the side of her bed, so that she might see it the moment she awoke in the morning, Sally, with tears in her eyes, wrapt the bits of trumpery glass in paper, and placed them carefully away. "She'll be hunting about for 'em soon," thought Sally, "and then I'll give 'em to her." But the Duchess never sought, never asked for the common love-gift; it was worthless in her eyes, being worthless in itself; she had gold earrings now, and perhaps by-and-by--who could tell?--she would have earrings with sparkling stones in them, worth a handful of money. For in the Duchess's soul was growing a most intense hankering after fine things. She would wander by herself away from Sally and Seth and Rosemary Lane into the thoroughfares frequented by ladies and gentlemen, and watch them and their dress and ways with an eager, strange, and restless spirit. She saw children beautifully dressed riding in carriages; and, yearning to be like them, would shed rebellious tears at the fate which bound her to Rosemary Lane. It is not to be supposed that she considered this matter as clearly as it is here briefly expressed; she was not yet old enough to give it clear expression; but she felt it; the seed of discontent was implanted within her, and grew for lack of material and intellectual light. Intellectual light Seth Dumbrick certainly did give the Duchess, but it was light of a kind which dazed and confused her mental vision. The experiences of the man who mingles freely with men, who shares their pleasures and sorrows, and even their follies and foibles, are of infinitely higher value than those of a solitary liver. Such an existence narrows the sympathies, and it narrowed Seth's. The exercise of all the better feelings of his nature was confined to the small circle which included only Sally and the Duchess, and what of good he saw outside that boundary was evoked by his love for these children of his adoption. Surrounded by these influences the Duchess grew in years. Seth bestowed upon her the fullest measure of affection, and he let her go her way. He placed no restraint upon her; he demanded no sacrifice from her. He never attended a place of worship, nor did she; he had his hard-and-fast opinions upon religious matters, which, viewed in the light (or darkness) of dogmatic belief, constituted him a materialist--an accusation which, with a proper understanding of the term, he would have indignantly denied. Thus, from month to month, and year to year, Rosemary Lane passed through a routine of daily tasks and duties, so dull as to weigh sorely and heavily upon the soul of the Duchess. Colour was necessary to her existence, and she sought for it and obtained it in other places. Stronger and stronger grew her passion for wandering from the narrow to the wider spaces, where the life was more in harmony with her desires, and so frequently and for so long a time was she now absent that, on one occasion when she was missing from morning till night, Seth took her to task for her truant propensities.
"Do you want me to keep always in Rosemary Lane?" she inquired, with her lovely blue eyes fixed full upon him.
"It would be best," was his reply.
"It doesn't matter to you," she said, "whether I stop at home or not; there is nothing for me to do, and I sometimes feel that--that----"
Her eyes wandered round the cellar in dull discontent, and with something of self-reproach, also, for the feeling which she strove but could not find words to express.
"Well, my dear?" said Seth, patiently waiting for an explanation.
"Only this, guardian," she rejoined, "that I must go away when I like, and that you mustn't stop me. If you do"--with a little laugh which might mean anything or nothing--"I might run away altogether."
"Then there are other places," said Seth, after a short pause; he found it necessary very often when conversing with the Duchess to consider his words before he uttered them; "and other people that you love better than us."
"Other places, not other people. I don't know any other people."
"You don't love Rosemary Lane, my dear," he said wistfully.
"What is there to love in it?" she replied, evading the question. "I might love it less if I were not free to go from it when the fit seizes me----"
"But you go always alone, my dear," he said, with a sigh, "and I am afraid you might get into mischief."
"What mischief?" she asked, with innocent wonder in her face. "No one would hurt me. Everybody is kind to me. But as you seem to care for it, I'll take Sally with me now and then. So here's a kiss, guardian, and we'll say no more about it."
Time ripened, but did not beautify Sally. Her figure was awkward and ungainly, and her limbs had not the roundness or the grace of those of the Duchess. Her face was at once too young and too old for her age; you saw in it both the innocence and simplicity of the child and the wary look of the woman of the world who knows that snares abound. Her skin was as brown as a berry, and her form appeared lank and thin, although she and the Duchess were of the same height. Undressing one night, they stood, with bare shoulders, side by side, looking into the glass. The contrast was very striking, and both saw and felt it, the Duchess with a joyous palpitation because of her beauty, and Sally with no repining because of her lack of it. The contrast was striking even in the quality and fashion of their linen, Sally's being coarse, and brown as the skin it covered, and the Duchess's being white and fine, with delicate edgings about it.
"I don't believe," said Sally, with tender admiration, her brown arm embracing the Duchess's white shoulder, "that there's another girl in the world with such a skin, and such eyes, and altogether as pretty as you are, Duchess."
"Do you really mean it, Sally?" asked the Duchess, as though the observation were made for the first instead of the thousandth time.
"You know I do."
"I think you do," said the Duchess, showing her teeth of pearl. "But if I were to say the same of myself, you'd say I was the vainest instead of the prettiest girl that breathes."
"A girl can't help knowing she's pretty," said Sally philosophically; she had imbibed much of the spirit and some of the peculiarities of Seth's utterances, "if she is pretty; and can't help being glad of it. As you are, of course, Duchess."
"Yes, Iamglad, Sally; I can't tell you how glad. I should be a miserable girl if I were like----"
She paused suddenly, with a guilty blush, being about to say, "if I were like you, Sally."
Sally smiled. "I don't doubt I should be glad if I had a skin as white, and eyes as blue, and lips as red as yours; but for all that, I don't seem to be sorry because I am ugly. For Iamvery ugly!"
She gazed at the reflection of herself in the glass with eyes that were almost merry, and despite her self-depreciation there was something very attractive in her appearance. The grace of youth was hers, and the kindliness and unselfishness of her nature imparted a charm to her face which mere beauty of feature could not supply.
"You are not so very ugly," observed the Duchess.
"No?" questioned Sally.
"No. You are as good-looking as most of the girls in Rosemary Lane----"
"Leaving you out," interrupted Sally quickly.
"Yes," said the Duchess complacently, "leaving me out. Your teeth are not white, but they are regular, and I like your mouth, Sally"--kissing it--"though it is a little bit too large. Your hair isn't as silky as mine----"
"Oh, no, Duchess, how could it be?"
"But it is longer and stronger; and as for your eyes, you have no idea how they sparkle. They are full of fire."
"If a fairy was to come to me to-night," said Sally, delighted at the Duchess's praises, "and give me wishes, I don't think I would have myself changed."
"I know what I would wish for."
"What?"
"Silk dresses and furs and kid gloves and gold watches and chains and bracelets; carriages and footmen and white dogs; flowers and fans and lace pocket-handkerchiefs and----"
"Oh, my!" exclaimed Sally. "We shouldn't have room for them all. Goodnight. I'm so sleepy."
The Duchess dreamt that all the things she wished for were hers, and that she was a fine lady, driving in her carriage through Rosemary Lane, with all the neighbours cheering and bowing to her.
In this way, and with this kind of teaching, the Duchess grew from child to woman. And here for a time we drop the curtain. The silent years, fraught with smiles and tears, roll on; for some the buds are blossoming; for some the leaves are falling; the young look forward to the sunny land they shall never reach; the old look back with sighs upon days made happy by regret. And midst the triumph and the anguish, the hope and fear, the joy and sorrow, Time, with passionless finger, marks the record, and pushes us gently on towards the grave.