penetrated by an honest anxiety to carry out the wishes of her late aunt, and to prove herself a worthy representative of the family. She learned from Dunham the daily routine of Miss Marney's life in London during the past twenty years, and endeavoured, as faithfully as possible, to pursue the same programme. But she was buoyed up by a secret hope that when Louis came home he would discover a less irksome régime to be equally suitable to her exalted position. Thus she walked with Dunham every morning at noon; down Upper Grosvenor Street and into the Park, that the toy Yorkshire terrier might be carefully exercised in a leadingstring and back again through Upper Brook Street and so home. Jeanne might have enjoyed these expeditions had the weather been less cold, and had Dunham and the dog been able to walk a little faster. But the mincing steps of the aged maid were carefully timed to accord with the slow waddle of the obese lapdog. Dunham, gathering her rustling silk skirts in a bunch before her, held them up to display her old-fashioned elasticsided boots, and picked her way nervously over the crossings, of which she had never been able to lose her rustic dread; whilst Jeanne, in a little black cloth jacket, suited rather to the warm west country, and to her accustomed energetic tramping over hill and dale, than to the London east winds, shivered and dawdled by her side. But it occurred (neither to her nor to Dunham, to take Miss Marney's sables and sealskins out of their camphorated wrappings, and make use of them. They were preserved and tended as jealously as though Dunham expected their late owner to return at any moment, and demand them at her hands. The drive was always taken in the immense double brougham, for it was Miss Marney's rule to have the close carriage out in winter and the open carriage in summer, and Buckam, the coachman, had no notion of making changes at his time of life. He was so ponderous and infirm that he had to be assisted on to the box; but once safely seated there, he drove carefully and well. William, the Irish footman, sat beside him, and they apparently decided together where the drive should be taken, and how long it should last. William's unfortunate low-comedy face, and his involuntary but perpetual smile as he daily touched his hat and waited for orders at the carriage door, caused the lonely lady, quite unjustly, to suspect him of laughing at her in his sleeve; and the very suspicion doubled her nervousness. Every afternoon she stammered, "Please go-nowhere in particular just drive about;" and every afternoon, having thus uttered, she beat her brains for a more dignified and sensible reply. One day it occurred to her to inquire of Dunham why a stout red volume of addresses was always carefully handed into the carriage with the rug. "It's the Red-book, ma'am," said Dunham, rather shocked at this new display of ignorance. "I see it is a red book," said Jeanne meekly, "but why must I take it out driving?" 66 Why, though your poor auntie had given up paying visits for some time before she died, yet in case she had felt inclined to do so, of course she wanted the Red-book handy to look up where the people lived." "I see," said Jeanne, but she understood nothing. "There used to be a lot of cards left here, when we first came," said Dunham, nodding sadly towards the bowl of hoarded dingy pasteboards which decorated the table in the hall. "Did Aunt Caroline know so many people when first she came to London?" 66 She knew very few people, but she paid a lot of calls on people whom you might have thought would be glad enough to know her, seeing she was related by blood (though rather distant, to be sure) to a many of them. She tried to distract herself after her poor brother's death by making new acquaintances, poor dear, which she never could have done in his lifetime, for he couldn't abide visitors. Though, to be sure he grudged her nothing else; and she always had her clothes from Elise, and Worth, and all the grand places, though it often seemed a pity, with no one to see them. But she liked to keep up a proper dignity, Miss Jane, as a lady in her position ought." 66 Yes," said Jeanne, and her heart sank. "But there, all her efforts came to nothing. She was too old fashioned to take to new faces or new ways, and Londoners was too free and easy for her as had been all her life Miss Marney of Orsett, and accustomed to take the lead and be deferred to. She just quarrelled with one after the other, and that's about all it came to. And nobody comes to look for you in London, Miss Jane, be you who you may." 66 "That is very true," and Jeanne sighed in sympathy. "You can be more solitary here than ever you could in the depths of the country," said Dunham, shaking her head. Where, at the least, the passers by will give you good-day. So for the last ten or fifteen years we've been satisfied to keep ourselves to ourselves, willy-nilly, as a body might say. But it's different with you, missie; you're young, and have your life before you. It's not for me to advise you, 'm, but I would make friends while I was young, in your place, and not leave it till it's too late, Miss Jane." 66 "That is just what my aunt said to me; that I should have plenty of visits to make later on," thought Jeanne, and she recalled her aunt's injunctions to be exclusive. "I must be very careful whom I make friends with, however," she thought, anxiously. It seemed to her that all London lay open to her choice; and the only question was-where to begin? It would have been hard to fathom the depths of Jeanne's social ignorance. She consulted Dunham no further, but thought out the question of calls and callers for herself, in the light of the foregoing hints, and of her lively recollections of the visiting code of the Rector's wife at Coed-Ithel. "She said she never lost a moment calling on new neighbours," thought Jeanne, "she said it was the duty of the residents. I wonder why nobody has called on me. Perhaps they think it too soon after poor Aunt Caroline's death; or perhaps they do not realise that any one is living here, and think I am just the companion, or somebody of that kind, waiting till the owner comes home. But I am the lady of the house, really. I suppose it is my duty, as Dunham says, to make a few friends, but it is very hard to know where to begin." She turned over the pages of the Red-book helplessly. "The day after the first Sunday they came to church she always went," said Jeanne. "I remember that, because I asked her once why she waited till then, as one was not to lose a moment in welcoming them, and she said, only to give them time to settle down. Well-I suppose it must be the people living in the same square who are my neighbours,—anyway, they are the nearest. The first time I see an arrival of a new family here put in the paper, I will make a start," she resolved. She scanned the advertisements in the fashionable column of the Morning Post very regularly for some days after making this resolution; and her scrutiny was presently rewarded by the announcement that Mr. and the Hon. Mrs. Wheler had arrived at 129 Grosvenor Square. This was on a Friday. Jeanne considerately allowed the proper interval to elapse, and on Monday afternoon, when starting for her drive, she delivered an order to the astonished William, which he had to repeat twice to Buckam on the box, before the coachman could believe his ears. "Please drive me to 129 Grosvenor Square. I am going to pay a visit," said the lonely lady, in a determined but shaking voice. (To be continued) |