Now, standing before her mirror, Cassandra essayed to arrange her hair as she had seen other young women wear theirs, but she thought the new way looked untidy, and she took it all down and rearranged it as she was used to wear it. David would not mind if she did not do her hair as others did, he would be so glad to see her and his little son. Ah, the comfort of that little son! She leaned over the bed, half dressed as she was, and murmured pretty cooing phrases, kissing and cuddling him to contented laughter.
Betty Towers had procured clothing for her—a modest supply—using her own good taste, and not disguising Cassandra's natural grace and dignity by a too-close adherence to the prevailing mode. There were a blue travelling gown and jacket, and a toque of the same color with a white wing; a soft clinging black silk, made with girlish simplicity which admirably became her, and a wide, flexible brimmed hat with a single heavy plume taken from Betty's own hat of the last winter. Cassandra stood a long moment before the two gowns. She desired to don the silk, but Betty had told her always to wear the blue in the morning, so at last she obeyed her kind adviser.
While waiting with her baby in her arms for the hotel boy to call her cab, she observed another lady, young and graceful, enter a cab, and a maid following her wearing a pretty cap, and carrying a child. Eager, for David's sake, to draw no adverse comment upon herself, she took note of everything. Ought she then to arrive attended by a maid, carrying her baby? But David would know she did not need one; bringing him his little son in her own arms, what would he care for anything more? So the address was given the cabman, and they were rattled away over the rough paving, a long, lonely ride through the wonderful city—so many miles of houses and splendid buildings, of gardens and monuments.
Strangely, the people of Vanity Fair leaped out of the book she had read, and walked the streets or dashed by her in cabs—albeit in modern dress. The soldiers—the guardsmen—the liveried lackeys—the errand boys—all were there, and the ladies in fine carriages. There were the nursemaids—the babies—the beggars—the ragged urchins and the venders of the street, with their raucous cries rending the air. Her brain whirled, and a new feeling to which she had hitherto been blessedly a stranger crept over her, a feeling of fear.
As the great two-story coaches and trams thundered by, she clasped her baby closer, until he looked up in her face with round-eyed wonder and put up his lip in pitiful protest. She soothed and comforted him until her panic passed, and when, at last, they stopped before a great house built in on either side by other houses, with wide steps of stone descending directly upon the street, she had regained a measure of composure. She was assured by the cabman, leaning respectfully down to her with his cap in his hand, that this was "the 'ouse, ma'm," and should he wait?
"Oh, yes. Wait," cried Cassandra. What if David were not there! And of course, he might be out. Then they were swallowed up in the dark interior. She was admitted to a hall that seemed to her empty and vast, by a little old man in livery. For a moment, bewildered, she could hardly understand what he was saying to her. "'Er ladyship's at 'er country 'ome and the 'ouse closed."
Although dazed and baffled, Cassandra betrayed no sign of the tumult within, and the little old man stood before her hesitating, his curiosity piqued into a determination to discover her business and identity. Her gravity and silence gave her a poise and dignity that allayed suspicion, but he and his old wife liked diversion, and a spice of gossip lightened the monotony of their lives, so he waited, then coughed behind his hand.
"Yes, 'er ladyship and Lady Laura are at their country 'ome now, ma'm. Maybe you came to see the 'ouse, ma'm?"
"No, it was not the house—it was—" Again she waited, not knowing how to introduce her husband's name.
A mystery! A visitor at this hour, and seemingly a lady, yet with a baby in her arms, and alone, and not to see the house. Again he coughed behind his hand.