Poor Mrs. Esther gave way to all I wanted. She would leave Epsom on Monday: indeed, her boxes should be packed in a couple of hours. She kissed and soothed me, while I wept and exclaimed, in terms which she could not understand, upon woman’s perfidy and man’s fond trust. When I was recovered from this fit, which surely deserved no other name, in which passion got the better of reason, and reason and modesty were abandoned for the time (if Solomon Stallabras had seen me then, how would he have been ashamed for his blind infatuation!), we were able calmly to begin our preparation.
First we told Cicely to go order us a post-chaise for Monday morning, for we must go to London without delay; then I folded and packed away Mrs. Esther’s things, while she laid her down to rest awhile, for her spirits had been greatly agitated by my unreasonable behaviour. Then Cicely came to my room to help me, and presently I saw her tears falling upon the linen which she folded and laid in the trunk.
“Foolish Cicely!” I said, thinking of my own foolishness, “why do you cry?”
“O Miss Kitty,” she sobbed, “who would not cry to see you going away, never to come back again? For I know you never, never could come here any more after that dreadful carrying away, enough to frighten a maid into her grave. And besides, they say that Epsom is going to be given up, and the Assembly Rooms pulled down; and we should not have had this gay season unless it had been for my lord and his party at the Durdans. And what we shall do, mother and me, I can’t even think.”
Why, here was another trouble.
“Miss Kitty”—this silly girl threw herself on her knees to me and caught my hand—“take me into your service when you marry my lord.”
“How do you know I am to marry my lord, Cicely? There are many things which may happen to prevent it.”
“Oh, I know you will, because you are so beautiful and so good.” I snatched my hand away. “I haven’t offended you, Miss Kitty, have I? All the world cries out that you are as good as you are beautiful; and haven’t I seen you, for near two months, always considerate, and never out of temper with anybody, not even with me, or your hairdresser, or your dressmaker? Whereas, Miss Peggy Baker slaps her maid, and sticks pins into her milliner.”
“That is enough, Cicely,” I said. “I have no power to take anybody into my service, being as penniless as yourself. But if—if—that event should happen which you hope for—why—then—I do not—say——”
“It will happen. Oh, I know that it will happen. I have dreamed of it three times running, and always before midnight. I threw a piece of apple-peel yesterday, and called it to name your husband. It first made a G., which is Geoffrey, and then a C., which is Chudleigh. And mother says that everything in the house points to a wedding as true as she can read the signs. O Miss Kitty! may I be in your service?”