Miss Prosser, meanwhile retired to a distant corner of the room to write various small scented notes to her friends. Among others, an invitation was duly despatched to the small Lady Matilda, asking her to spend a day with her cousin, and to go to the pantomime in the evening. The latter part of the programme Miss Prosser kept as a reserve treat for Blanche, who had never been to a pantomime, and wished very much to see one.
The invitation was duly accepted on behalf of the little Lady Matilda. She appeared on the day appointed, alighting from her smart pony carriage, escorted by her maid and footman. She was a lean, dark, sallow child, very different in coloring and expression from her cousin Blanche. She always appeared in the most sleek, unruffled state of tidiness and propriety; she looked, in fact, as if she had come into the world precisely as she stood—at the same stage of growth, and in the same faultless toilette. At least such was the reflection which sometimes rose to Ellis's mind as she surveyed her with half envious, half contemptuous eyes, side by side with her careless and often dishevelled little mistress, whose shoulders would somehow get out of her frocks; and one of whose shoes had been actually known to go amissing during dinner, being afterwards brought to her, on a silver tray, by her aunt's solemn butler. Of this terrible faux pas, the Lady Matilda's maid occasionally reminded Ellis when they quarrelled over the respective merits of their little ladies.
Notwithstanding Miss Prosser's well-meaning efforts to create a friendship between the cousins, they did not appear to draw to each other in the least. The earlier hours of the day passed in uneventful dulness—at least so thought Blanche, who shocked her governess by yawning twice in her visitor's face, and exhibiting various other tokens of her want of appreciation of her society. Finally, she disappeared for a period, and returned with the cook's white kitten rolled in her smart blue velvet dress—a trophy from among the pots and pans, and showing too many traces of its former playground to deserve its name of Snow.
The calm little Lady Matilda surveyed her companion's restless movements with a look of mild surprise, glancing up, now and then, from a piece of lace-work, on which she was bestowing great thought and care. Miss Prosser had been admiring it greatly; and commended her diligence in a way which reflected somewhat on her own pupil's want of that quality, particularly as regarded needlework.
"But what's the use of it? What do you mean to do with it, Matty?" asked Blanche, unrolling the elaborate piece of work in question.
"My dear Blanche, you are not always so practical, I am sure," said Miss Prosser, coming to the rescue. "Do you not know that it is a part of every young lady's education to be able to sew fancy work? And, besides, the habit of diligence is so good, my dear Blanche; you ought to remember that."
"Well; but it seems to me that there is no use of some people being diligent—about sewing, at all events. Don't you remember these slippers I sewed for papa, Miss Prosser? He certainly seemed very much pleased when I gave them to him; and I felt as if I had been really useful in having made a pair of shoes; and thought it would be so nice to see papa going about in shoes of my making. But, not long afterwards, I heard him say to somebody that he detested sewed slippers, and never wore them. I suppose he had forgotten all about the pair I made for him then, because I'm sure he would not have wanted to hurt my feelings," added Blanche pathetically.
The conversation was here interrupted by the servant coming to ask at what hour the carriage would be required; and then the delightful secret came out at last. Blanche was in an ecstacy of delight at the prospect of seeing a pantomime. Some time ago her governess would have checked her glee as an unbecoming outburst, but now she hailed it as a proof that her little charge was regaining that elasticity of spirit which she had somewhat lost of late, and she congratulated herself on the success of her efforts for her amusement.
The pantomime that evening was "The Babes in the Wood," though it certainly contained marvellous variations not suggested by the old English ballad which it was meant to illustrate. In fact the Babes themselves were hardly distinguishable, so surrounded were they by moving troops of wee green folk, peeping out in all directions, and marvellously suspended from the boughs of trees. Indeed, it is doubtful whether the original robins could have found a branch throughout the forest to hop on—so covered were they by dazzling fairies performing all manner of wonderful evolutions in mid-air.
Lady Matilda surveyed the marvellous scene with considerably more repose of manner than her cousin. She was quite an old frequenter of such exhibitions, so she was able to compare it with yet more gorgeous performances, and to feel pretty sure what was coming next.