hile the Marquis was enjoying a hedonistic sojourn at Cheveley, attending the Second Spring Meeting at Newmarket every day, and watching his promising filly, Firebrand, win a Subscription race against strong competition, the Merriville ladies were busy with the preparations necessary for their forthcoming appearance at the Alverstoke Ball, slightly, but not (except for one incident) very seriously harassed by the exploits of the scions of the family. Finding his brother immersed in his studies, and his sisters in frills and furbelows, Felix sought amusement on his own account. He remembered that the Marquis had said that Mr Trevor should go with him to Margate on the steam-packet; but when he called at Alverstoke House to remind Charles of this promise, he was disappointed to learn that Charles, having been granted leave of absence, had gone out of town. This was disappointing; but Felix thought that he might at least go down to the river to watch the packet steam away. That, as he afterwards explained, was all he had meant to do; and if the day had not been so fine, the paddle-wheels so fascinating, and the fare to Margate so moderate (if one did not object to the Common Cabin), that was all he would have done. But the combination of these circumstances, coupled with the wealth jingling in his pocket, had proved to be too much for his virtuous resolve to do nothing which Frederica might not quite like. If the guinea bestowed upon him by the Marquis was not intact, at least enough of it was left to enable him to disburse nine shillings for the privilege of spending a great many hours on a crowded boat, in the company of a set of far from fashionable persons, most of whom his more fastidious brother would have stigmatized as members of the Great Unwashed. Besides, he had made the acquaintance, on the quay, of the marine engineer, a bang-up fellow! To have missed such a chance of widening his knowledge would have been flying in the face of providence: he was sure that Frederica wouldn’t have wished him to do that!

In fact, he had spent very little time in the Common Cabin: his real enthusiasm and his happy knack of making friends wherever he went stood him in good stead, and the ship’s company had taken him to their hearts. That was certainly fortunate, as Frederica recognized, when she suitably recompensed the burly individual who restored him to her next day, for he would otherwise have been obliged to spend the night on the beach, the sum left in his pocket not being sufficient to pay for a lodging in Margate. So he had offered his services to the Captain (yet another bang-up fellow), and after being given a rare trimming he had been allowed to remain on board, and had been brought back to London as a stowaway: a circumstance which seemed to afford him the highest gratification.

He was very sorry, he said disarmingly, to have alarmed his family; and he was ready to accept any penalty Frederica might impose on him.

But as it was obvious that not the most severe punishment would outweigh in his mind the bliss of his stolen holiday, with the privilege of being sea-sick on the way from Margate to Ramsgate, and becoming smirched from head to foot with oil and grime, Frederica imposed no penalty, merely begging Jessamy to keep a watch on him. Unlike Charis, who had a great deal of sensibility, and had spent a sleepless night, listening for the truant’s return, and conjuring up hideous visions of the accidents which might have befallen him, she had remained (in spite of some inevitable qualms) outwardly calm, adducing, when reproached by Charis, the numerous occasions when Felix, having thrown his loving sisters into agonies of apprehension, had reappeared, not a penny the worse for some hair-raising adventure. In this view she was supported by Miss Win-sham, who said that the dratted boy was like a cat: you might fling him as you chose, but he would always land on his feet.

Jessamy, torn between disapproval and secret admiration of his junior’s enterprise, accepted the charge laid upon him, and forbore to give Felix (much to that young gentleman’s surprise) more than a mild scold. Fixed though his resolve was not to fritter away his time in London, he frequently knew an impulse to cast aside his books, and to sample at least some of the recreations offered by the Metropolis. Frederica’s request furnished him with an unassailable excuse for yielding to his baser self; and although he did drag Felix up the three hundred and forty-five steps of the Monument, informing him, when, for the sum of sixpence apiece, they stood on the iron balcony at the top, that it was twenty-four feet higher than Trajan’s Pillar, that was the first and last educative expedition of a memorable week. Once Felix had ascertained that the New Mint, with its powerful steam-engines, and its gas-lighting, could only be visited by special recommendation, he was perfectly ready to enjoy some less improving sights, such as the lions and tigers at Exeter ‘Change; an Aquatic Representation at Sadler’s Wells; a roaring melodrama at the Surrey Theatre; and a sparring-match at the Fives-Court, in St Martin’s Street. But at this point Jessamy’s uncomfortable conscience intervened, and he refused to take Felix either to a burletta, or to the Cock-pit Royal. Never having seen a more exciting theatrical performance than some Scenes from Shakespeare, enacted at Christmas in his godfather’s house, he had been carried away by the melodrama, and had turned a deaf ear to his conscience, which had whispered to him that in taking Felix to the Surrey Theatre he had exposed his tender mind to corruption; but when he saw the company assembled in the Fives-Court there was no possibility of ignoring his conscience, which positively shouted at him that he was not only leading his young brother into haunts of vice but was himself in danger of succumbing to the wicked lures of London. Such counter-attractions as St Paul’s Cathedral, the Tower, or Bullock’s Museum having been unequivocally scorned by Felix, he had the happy notion of proposing a trip from the Paddington Basin by passage-boat on the Grand Junction Canal to Uxbridge; and Felix might have been obliged to submit to this voyage (which, to one who had experienced the joys of the steam-packet, could not be anything but a dead bore), had he not discovered in his guide-book, the existence of the Peerless Pool. This spacious bathing-place, with its covered bath, its bowling-green, its library, and its fish-pond, was situated in Moorfields, behind Bethlehem Hospital. Jessamy, who was beginning to know his London, suspected, from its location, that it might not be a genteel resort; but when he learned that it had formerly been known as the Perilous Pond, from the number of persons who had been drowned while swimming in it, his objections to visiting it naturally vanished. He readily agreed to go there, mentally resolving, however, not to allow Felix to plunge into the Pool until he had satisfied himself (by experiment) that it was reasonably safe for him to do so. But as the Perilous Pond had long since been converted into a bathing-place of perfect safety, and was, on a brisk spring day, quite deserted, the brothers tacitly decided to postpone swimming in it until rather later in the season.

Felix naturally told the rest of the family about the Peerless Pool, and how he and Jessamy had made up their minds to go there again, when the weather became warmer; but when he was alone with Jessamy he said that he didn’t mean to tell them about the visit to the Fives-Court. “You know what females are!” he said. “They’d very likely set up a screech—just as if there was any harm in watching a good mill!”

These lighthearted words were the final blow to his brother’s sensitive conscience. They made Jessamy realize that not only had he too taken care to say nothing about the visit to the Fives-Court, and the Surrey Theatre, but that he had crowned his iniquity by teaching Felix (by his own example) to be deceitful. The austere expression, dreaded by his family, hardened his eyes, and thinned his lips; and he said: “No, but I shouldn’t have taken you there, and I mean to tell Frederica about it. There was no harm in the bouts themselves, but in the company—the betting—the—well, never mind, but it was very wrong of me to introduce you into such a place!”

“Oh, fudge—Jessie!” said Felix disgustedly.

He was prepared for battle, but although Jessamy’s eyes flashed he ignored the insult, and turned away.

Frederica, when the tale was manfully disclosed to her, took a lenient view. She did not think that a twelve-year-old boy stood in much danger of being corrupted by witnessing either an exciting melodrama, or a bout of fisticuffs; and even when Jessamy told her that there had been aspects to the melodrama which were decidedly immoral, she said, with strong common-sense: “I don’t suppose he paid the least attention to what may have been a trifle warm: all he cared for was the adventure! Of course it wouldn’t do to make a practice of taking him to see such plays, but don’t tease yourself, Jessamy! You’ve done him no harm at all, depend upon it! As for the boxing, I think it perfectly horrid, but I know very well that gentlemen of the first consideration see nothing wrong with it. Why even your godfather—”

“It wasn’t the boxing, but the company,” Jessamy said. “I didn’t know—but I might have guessed!—that I, who mean to enter the Church, was leading my little brother into bad ways!”

Recognizing the signs of what her brother Harry rudely called the Early Christian Martyr, Frederica said hastily: “Nonsense, Jessamy! You are refining too much upon it! You may have noticed the company, but all Felix cared for was the fights.”

“It seems to me,” said Jessamy heavily, “that ever since we came to London you have thought of nothing but ball-dresses for Charis, and—worldly things!”

“Well, if I didn’t think of them, who would?” she replied. “Someone must do so, you know, or where should we be?” She looked quizzically at him. “Never mind moralizing, my dear, but try for a little worldly sense yourself, and stop encouraging our neighbour to haunt us!”

“Haunt us!” he repeated, frowning. “If you mean that he is friendly and obliging—”

“I don’t, goose! I mean that he is dangling after Charis, and fast becoming a great nuisance.”

“If you don’t like him, why don’t you tell Charis to keep a proper distance? Very pretty behaviour it would be for me to be giving him a set-down! Besides, why should I? He speaks to Charis with the greatest respect, I promise you. What’s more, it was I who became acquainted with him, days before he met Charis!”

Her eyes danced, but she said gravely: “So it was!”

“And his mother came to visit you, too, which I thought very kind and civil! Why were you so starched up? Yes, and why did you fob her off when she invited us all to dine, and spend a snug evening in their house? Isn’t she a respectable person?”

“Eminently so, I daresay, but it would not do to become intimate with that family, or with their friends. To be plain with you, Jessamy, they may be good, worthy people, but they aren’t up to the rig! Mrs Nutley’s patronage cannot give us consequence—in fact, it would be excessively harmful! Her manners, you know, are not distinguished, and, from what Buddle tells me, Mr Nutley is a very ungenteel person.”

“Buddle!” he ejaculated.

She smiled. “My dear, if Buddle holds up his nose you may depend upon it he is right! Papa once told me that a good butler may be trusted to smell out a commoner in the twinkling of a bedpost! YoungNutley, I own, has more polish than his parents, but he’s an April-squire, Jessamy!”

“If a man is good and worthy, as you’ve said yourself, Frederica, I care nothing for the rest!” announced Jessamy.

“Well, of all the plumpers—!” exclaimed Frederica. “You are the highest stickler of us all! Why, even the Master wasn’t so severe about that poor, good-natured man who hired the Grange two years ago! You said he was a thruster, and a City-mushroom, and—”

“Two years ago!” he interrupted, flushing. “I hope I am wiser now!”

“Yes, love, so do I!” replied his sister frankly. “For if you mean to become a parson you ought not to condemn worthy men merely because, through ignorance, they thrust, or cram, or press upon hounds!”

That retort ended the discussion. Jessamy withdrew in haughty silence; and Frederica returned to the worldly matters which had brought her to London.

In these she received indifferent support from Charis, in whom her ambition was centred, and from Miss Winsham, who despised marriage as a career for females, but who reluctantly acknowledged that it was all that such a pretty pea-goose as Charis was fitted for. Charis herself looked forward to a London season with mild pleasure. To a girl who had never gone beyond the bounds of Herefordshire, and whose amusements had been confined to summer picnics and garden-parties, and such evening entertainments as small dances, or occasional amateur theatricals, the prospect of London balls, Venetian breakfasts, routs, assemblies, visits to the theatre and to the opera, and even, perhaps, to Almack’s, could not fail to be agreeable. But when she discovered that her dear Frederica meant to spend every available penny on her wardrobe, making shift for herself as best she might, she would have none of it. In general, the most docile girl imaginable, she could occasionally be obstinate; and no sooner did she realize that Frederica meant to commission Aunt Scrabster’s unassuming dressmaker to make a gown for herself to wear at the Alverstoke ball than she declared, looking as mulish as such a lovely, gentle creature could, that she disliked every one of the expensive dresses offered by the fashionable modiste to whose discreetly elegant premises in Bruton Street Alverstoke had directed Frederica.

Frederica had thanked him coolly for his advice, saying that she had no doubt of his being a good judge of such matters; but when, wickedly quizzing her, he had told her just to mention his name to Madame Franchot, if she wished to command that genius’s most inspired endeavours, she so far forgot herself as to respond, with a sad absence of maidenly propriety: “So I would, if I had the desire to be taken for a high flyer!”

“And what, may I ask, do you know about high flyers, Frederica?” he enquired, controlling a quivering lip.

“Not very much but Papa told me that they are dressy bits of mus—”

She stopped short, but his lordship obligingly completed the phrase for her. “—muslin! Very true, but, as your guardian, I am deeply shocked, and must request you to strive in future not to put me to the blush—at least in public!”

“Oh, no! I wouldn’t! I mean—” she met his eyes, and broke into laughter. “You are the most detestable man I ever encountered! Now tell me which milliner you think most worthy of my valuable custom!”

“Certainly: visit Miss Starke, in Conduit Street! Her taste is impeccable.”

“I’m much obliged to you! I expect she is dreadfully expensive, but I shouldn’t wonder at it if she lowered her prices when she learns that Charis is to make her come-out this season, under Lady Buxted’s protection,” said Frederica shrewdly.

She was quite right. Miss Starke, too often compelled to employ her art in the making of hats and bonnets which would set off a plain face to the best possible advantage, and her sensibilities too often lacerated by the determination of a client well past her prime to purchase a hat designed for a girl in her first season, recognized in the younger Miss Merriville the realization of a dream. She had designed hats for many beautiful young ladies, her unerring eye perceiving at a glance that a high crown would not be becoming to Miss A., that Miss B. must not be allowed to wear a close bonnet, or Miss C. a daring hat a la Hussar; but never before had she been invited to supply hats to a client who looked ravishing in every hat that was tenderly placed over her shining curls. It was not a question of finding the hat to set off Miss Charis Merriville to advantage: Miss Charis set off the hats, transforming even the unsuccessful Angouleme bonnet of white thread net, which had pleased no one less than its creator, into a charming confection certain to inspire four out of five fond mothers with the resolve to purchase just such a bonnet for their own daughters. As for the pride of Miss Starke’s collection, with its extravagant crown, its huge, upstanding poke, and its cascade of curled plumes, when Miss Starke stood back to observe the effect of it on Charis’s head, her eyes filled with tears of triumph, and although she turned them towards her chief assistant, she saw that false critic only through a haze. Miss Throckley had doubted her genius, saying that the hat was too much in advance of the mode, and too exacting for any female to wear.Now what had Miss Throckley to say?

Miss Throckley, as might have been expected, was expressing her rapture at the picture presented by Miss in a hat which—if she might venture to say so—very few ladies could wear. It was not for her to advise, but when she thought of seeing it on another, and un-worthier head she could not—positively could not bear it!

This rhapsody, in which Miss Starke joined with enthusiasm, was interrupted by Frederica, who demanded to be told the price. Upon hearing it, she rose to her feet, smiling, but shaking her head. “Alas, no! I am afraid it is too costly. My sister needs several hats, you see, so we must not run mad over just one. To be sure, it’s very pretty, but, then, so is the Villager hat, with the flat crown and the flowers—only that is rather too dear as well. Come, Charis! we mustn’t waste any more of Miss Starke’s time—or, indeed, our own! It is a great pity, but you may be sure we shall find something you will like just as well.”

“Oh, yes!” agreed Charis happily, tying the ribbons of her own bonnet under her left ear. “For my part, I would as lief have the satin straw we saw in that window in Bond Street. Do let us go and look at it again!”

But during this interchange Miss Starke had been doing some rapid thinking, and as Charis began to draw on her gloves she begged her to be seated again, basely accusing Miss Throckley of having made a mistake in the price, and telling Frederica that it was her invariable custom to make substantial reductions when a lady wished to buy several hats. She added her assurance that it must be an object with her to oblige any friend of Lady Buxted.

In point of fact, she had never been called upon to supply her ladyship with so much as a lace cap, but she knew who she was, and that however dowdy she might be she moved in the first circles. Into these circles she would introduce the lovely Miss Merriville; and if the sight of that enchanting face, framed by an exquisite hat, did not bring a flock of matchmaking mamas, with their daughters in tow, to Conduit Street Miss Starke knew nothing of human nature. It was unnecessary to do anything so ungenteel as to hint to the elder Miss Merriville that an arrangement agreeable to both parties might be reached, if she let it be known that her sister’s hats were made for her by Miss Starke of Conduit Street. Few of the matrons would refrain from asking Miss Charis where she had found her charming hat; and it was very unlikely that that lovely innocent would withhold the desired information. The answer must be At Miss Starke’s, not At Clarimonde’s, in New Bond Street.

So three delightful hats were carried down to Miss Merriville’s job-carriage—now dignified by the presence on the box of Owen, the trustworthy footman chosen by Mr Trevor, and approved by Buddle.

“Well, wasn’t that famous?” said Frederica, her eyes sparkling with mingled triumph and mischief. “Three hats for very little more than the price of one!”

“Frederica, they were shockingly expensive!”

“No more than we can afford. Oh, well, they were not precisely dagger-cheap, but hats are most important, you know! Don’t tease yourself, love! The next thing is to decide upon a ball-dress for your come-out. Didn’t you like any of the dresses we saw at Franchot’s? Not even the one with the Russian bodice, and the inlets of blue satin down the front?” Charis shook her head. A little disappointed, Frederica said: “I thought it would be particularly becoming to you. However, if you didn’t care for it—What did you think of that very pretty one of white satin, over a pink bodice?”

“I thought you would look charmingly in it! Pink always becomes you.”

“Chan’s, we are not talking about a dress for me, and, even if we were, nothing would prevail upon me to make a figure of myself in a dress designed for a girl! Besides, you know very well that Miss Chibbet is making me exactly what I want, for you were with me when I purchased that orange-blossom Italian crape, and the satin for the petticoat!”

“Yes, and I know very well what I want, too,” said Charis. “Please, Frederica, say I may have it!”

“But, dearest—!” exclaimed Frederica. “Of course you may have anything you want! Unless you’ve set your heart on something quite unsuitable, and I know you haven’t, because you have such good taste. Where did you see it?”

“I’ll show you presently,” promised Charis, giving her sister’s hand a grateful squeeze.

More she refused to disclose, only shaking her head when questioned, and folding her pretty lips tightly together. But when they reached Upper Wimpole Street, she took Frederica to her own bedchamber, and laid before her the latest number of the Ladies’ Magazine, opened to display a sketch of a willowy damsel elegantly attired in a three-quarter dress of white sarsnet fastened down the centre with rosettes of pearls, and worn over a white satin petticoat. “W-what do you think, Frederica?” she asked, directing an anxious look at her sister.

Critically surveying the sketch, and mentally eradicating from it such additions to the ensemble as a purple-puce shawl, a tiara, and a black lace head-veil, Frederica came to the conclusion that Charis’s instinct had not betrayed her. She was a tall girl, though not (mercifully) as tall as the lady depicted, who appeared to be quite seven-foot high, and the long smooth line of the over-dress would admirably become her. “I like it!” she said decidedly. “It’s simple, and yet not in the common way. You are perfectly right, Charis: it would be excessively becoming to you! Particularly those soft, graceful folds to the petticoat, without any flounces or trimming round the hem.”

“I knew you would say so!” breathed Charis.

“Yes, but—” Frederica paused, a frown gathering on her brow. She raised her eyes to the melting blue ones so pleadingly fixed on her face, and said: “You would like Franchot to copy it, I collect. But would she? I am not very sure, but I fancy that London modistes use only their own designs.”

“No, no, no!” said Charis, with unusual vehemence. “I mean to make it myself!”

“No, that you shall not!” replied Frederica. “What, make your first appearance in a home-made dress? Never! Charis, if you knew for how long I have dreamed of presenting you with everything fine about you—!”

“You shall! I promise you shall, my darling—my best of sisters!” Charis declared, warmly embracing her. “Only listen to me! I know I’m not clever, or bookish, and I don’t paint, or play the pianoforte, but even my aunt will own that I can sew! Yes, and I can cut things out, too, and set a sleeve! Why, don’t you remember the dress I made to wear at the Squire’s party, and how everyone tried to discover whether Aunt Scrabster had sent it from London, or whether we had found a dressmaker in Ross, or Herefordshire, no one else knew anything about? Even Lady Peasmore was hoaxed, for she told Marianne that there was a certain sort of something to my dress which clearly showed that it had been designed by a modiste of the first stare! And I like doing it, you know I do, Frederica!”

This was unanswerable, for Charis was indeed a notable needlewoman; but it was not until Miss Win-sham, alone with her favourite niece, said stringently: “Let her! If she makes a botch of it—which she won’t, for this I will say: she may be a ninnyhammer, but she has cleverer fingers than you, Frederica!—it will keep her occupied, and out of the way of that encroaching coxcomb next door!”—that Frederica agreed to the scheme.