Two mornings of every week, Mrs. Ferrier piled her carriage full of parcels containing food and clothing, and drove off into some of the poorest streets of the town, where her pensioners gathered about her, and told their troubles, and received her sympathy and help. The good soul, being very stout, did not once leave her carriage, but sat there enthroned upon the cushions like some bountiful but rather apoplectic goddess, showering about her cotton and flannels, and tea and sugar, and tears and condolences, and perhaps a few complaints with them. It is more than probable that, under cover of this princely charity, Mrs. Ferrier had a little congenial gossip now and then. Among these poor women were many no poorer than she had once been, and they were much nearer to her heart and sympathies than those whom Annette brought to her gorgeous drawing-rooms. Mrs. Ferrier was far from wishing to be poor again, but for all that she had found wealth a sad restriction on her tastes and her liberty. To her mind, the restraints of society were worse than a strait-jacket, and it required all Annette’s authority to keep her from defying them openly. But here she was at home, and could speak her own language, and at the same time be looked on as a superior being. Jack and John could leave the carriage, and step into the little ale-house at the corner; and, if one of them should bring her out a foaming glass, the simple creature would not resent it. There was always an idle urchin about who was only too proud to stand at the horses’ heads while Mrs. Ferrier had a chat with some crony, who leaned toward her over the carriage-steps.
Miss Annette was sometimes troubled by a suspicion that her mother did not always maintain with her protégées as dignified a distance as was desirable; but she was far from guessing the extent of the good lady’s condescension. Her hair would have stood on end had she seen that glass of ale handed into the carriage, and the beaming smile that rewarded John, the footman, for bringing it. Her misgivings were strong enough, however, to make her blush with mortification when Lawrence spoke of the distribution days. The pleasure with which she had anticipated a short tête-à-tête with her intended husband died away, and she seated herself in a window, and anxiously watched for her mother’s coming.
She was not kept long in suspense. First there appeared through the thickly flowering horse-chestnut trees a pair of bright bays so trained and held in that their perpendicular motion equalled their forward progress; then a britzska that glittered like the chariot of the sun. In this vehicle sat Mrs. Ferrier in solitary state. One might have detected some apprehension in the first glance she cast toward the drawing-room windows; but, at sight of the young man sitting there beside her daughter, she tossed her head, and resumed her self-confidence. She had a word to say to him.
Jack brought his horses round in so neat a curve that the wheels missed the curbstone by only a hair’s breadth; and John descended from the perch—whence during three hours he had enjoyed the view of a black-leather horizon over-nodded by the tip of Mrs. Ferrier’s plume of feathers—and let down the step.
We are obliged to confess that Mrs. Ferrier descended from her carriage as a sailor descends the ratlines, only with less agility. But, what would you? She was already of a mature age when greatness was thrust upon her, and had not been able to change with her circumstances. Moreover, she was heavy and timid, and subject to vertigo.
“I’m much obliged to you, John,” she said, finding herself safely landed. “Now, if you will bring that parcel in. I’d just as lief carry it myself, only....”
A glance toward the drawing-room window finished the sentence. Of course, Miss Annette would be shocked to see her mother waiting on herself; and, in all matters relating to social propriety, this poor mother stood greatly in awe of her daughter, and, indeed, led quite a wretched life with her.
As the lady walked through the gate and up the steps, with a half-distressed, half-defiant consciousness of being criticised, one might find a slight excuse for the smile that showed for an instant on the lips of her intended son-in-law; for it must be owned that in decoration Mrs. Ferrier was of a style almost as Corinthian as her house-front. A rustling green satin gown showed in tropical contrast with a yellow crape shawl and a bird-of-paradise feather; she had curls and crimps, she had flounces and frills, she had chains and trinkets, she had rings on her fingers, and we should not be surprised if she had bells on her toes.
“O mamma!” cried Annette, running out into the hall, “what made you go out dressed like a paroquet?”
“Why, green and yellow go together,” mamma replied stoutly. “I’ve heard you say that they make the prettiest flag in the world.”