“Nay, nother on ’em, for sure!” said Rachel, wiping her eyes; “I’ve nobut getten a fly into my eye.”
Mrs Abbott, however, was not behindhand. She came out to her gate to see the cavalcade depart, followed by a train of youthful Abbotts, two or three talking at once, as well as herself. What reached the ears of the ladies in the coach, therefore, was rather a mixture.
“Fare you well, Lady Louvaine, and all you young gentlewomen—and I hope you’ll have a safe journey, and a pleasant; I’m sure—”
“I’ll write and tell you the new modes, Mrs Lettice,” said Prissy; “you’ll have ne’er a chance to—”
“Be stuck in the mud ere you’ve gone a mile,” came in Seth’s voice.
“And where tarry you to-night, trow?” demanded Mrs Abbott. “Is it to be at Saint Albans or—”
“Up atop of yon tree,” screamed Hester; “there she was with a kitten in her mouth, and—”
“All the jewels you could think of,” Dorcas was heard to utter.
The words on either side were lost, but nobody—except, perhaps, the speakers—thought the loss a serious one.
Under way at last, the coach rumbled with dignity up King Street, through the Court gates, past Charing Cross and along the Strand—a place fraught with painful memories to one at least of the party—past the Strand Cross, through Temple Bar, up Fetter Lane, over Holborn Bridge and Snow Hill, up Aldersgate Street, along the Barbican, and by the fields to Shoreditch, into the Saint Alban’s Road. As they came out into the Shoreditch Road, a little above Bishopsgate, they were equally surprised and gratified to find Lady Oxford’s groom of the chambers standing and waiting for their approach. As he recognised the faces, he stepped forward. In his hand was a very handsome cloak of fine cloth, of the shade of brown then called meal-colour, lined with crimson plush, and trimmed with beaver fur.