old and young were clamouring hoarsely and shrilly by daybreak one september morning round a little girl, one of a cloth-worker's numerous family. she had been rather a tender lass, and change of air was thought good for her full growth. though she was still small, she was close on her one-and-twentieth year, and her friends held it was high time for her to see the world. it was seeing the world to go with a late mayor's daughter, an orphan and an heiress, who had been visiting the cloth-worker's family, and would have dulcie to live with her for awhile in a neighbouring town as a friend and companion.

mind those worthy warm-hearted relatives of dulcie's had no idea of her returning to her parents' nest in a hurry, though the two towns, fairfax and redwater, were within a day's journey by waggon of each other. dulcie would see the world, and stay in her new abode in the next country town, or lose her character for dignity and spirit; and girls were fain to be thought discreet and de[page 109]cided a hundred years ago or so. she might as lief marry as not, when she was away on her travels. girls married then with far less trouble than they accomplished such a journey. they ran down to richmond and married on a sunday, to save a talk and a show; they walked out of the opera where handel might be performing, and observant gentlemen took the cue, followed on their heels, and had the knot tied by a priest, waiting in the house opposite the first chair-stand. indeed, they contracted alliances so unceremoniously, that they went to queen caroline's or the princesses' drawing-room, without either themselves or the world appearing quite sure whether they were maids or wives. dear! dear! what did come of these foolish impulsive matches? did they fulfil the time out of mind adage, "happy's the wooing that's not long a-doing"? or that other old proverb, "marry in haste, and repent at leisure"? which was the truth?

it is a pity that you should see dulcie, for the first time, in tears. dulcie, who only cried on great occasions, in great sorrow or great joy—not above half-a-dozen times in her life. dulcie, whom the smallpox could not spoil, with her pretty forehead, cat's eyes, and fine chin. does that description give you an idea of dulcie—dulcie cowper, not yet madam, but any day she liked mistress dulcie? it seems expressive. an under-sized, slight-made girl, with a little face clearly, very clearly cut, but round in all its lines as yet; an intelligent face, an enthusiastic face, a face that could be very shrewd and practical, and, at the same time, a face that could be lavishly generous. the chief merit of her figure lay in [page 110]this particular, that she "bridled" well. yes, it is true, we have almost forgotten the old accomplishment of "bridling"—the head up and the chin in, with the pliant knees bent in a low curtsey. dulcie "bridled," as she prattled, to perfection. she had light brown hair, of the tint of a squirrel's fur, and the smoothness of a mouse's coat, though it was twisted and twirled into a kind of soft willowy curls when she was in high dress. ah! no wonder that kit cowper, the cloth-worker, groaned to see that bright face pass from his ninepin alley; but it was the way of the world, or rather the will of providence to the cloth-worker, that the child should fulfil her destiny. so dulcie was launched on the sea of life, as far as redwater, to push her fortune.

no wonder dulcie was liked by clarissa gage. clarissa was two years younger than dulcie, but she was half-a-dozen years older in knowledge of the world, and therefore fell in love with dulcie for the sake of variety. clarissa had the bones of a noble woman under her pedantry and affectation; she was a peg above dulcie in station, and a vast deal before her in the world's estimation. she was indeed "a fortune;" and you err egregiously if you suppose a fortune was not properly valued a hundred years ago. men went mad for fair faces and glib tongues, but solidly and sensibly married fortunes, according to all the old news-prints. but clarissa was also a beauty, far more of a regular beauty than dulcie, with one of those inconceivably dazzling complexions that blush on like a june rose to old age, and a stately height and presence for her years. she had dark brown curls of [page 111]the deep brown of mountain waters, with the ripple of the same, hanging down in a wreath of tendrils on the bend of the neck behind. with all her gifts, mistress clary had the crowning bounty which does not always accompany so many inferior endowments: she had sense under her airs, and she was good enough to like dulcie instinctively, and to think how nice it would be to have dulcie with her and mistress cambridge in their formal brick house, with the stone coping and balcony, at redwater. besides, (credit to her womanhood,) clarissa did reflect what a fine thing it would be for dulcie cowper getting up in years, really getting up in years, however young in spirit, to have the variety, and the additional chance of establishing herself in life. certainly, redwater was a town of more consideration than fairfax, and had its occasional assemblies and performances of strolling players; and clarissa, in right of her father's family, visited the vicar and the squire, and could carry dulcie along with her, since the child's manners were quite genteel, and her clothes perfectly presentable.

it was a harmonious arrangement, in which not only clarissa but mistress cambridge agreed. cambridge was one of those worthy, useful persons, whom nobody in those strangely plain but decidedly aristocratic days—not even clarissa and dulcie, though they sat with her, ate with her, hugged her when they wanted to coax her—ever thought or spoke of otherwise than "cambridge, a good sort of woman in her own way." the only temporary drawback to the contentment of the party was the shower of tears which fell at dulcie's forcible separa[page 112]tion from her relatives. it was forcible in the end; all the blessings had been given in the house—don't sneer, they did her no harm, no harm, but a vast deal of good—and only the kisses and tears were finished off in the street.

after all this introduction, it is painful to describe how the company travelled. it was in a stage waggon! but they could not help it. we never stated that they were out-and-out quality; and not even all the quality could travel in four coaches and six, with twelve horsemen riding attendance, and an unpaid escort of butchers, bakers, and apothecaries, whipping and spurring part of the way for the custom. what could the poor commons do? there were not stage coaches in every quarter of the great roads; and really if they pocketed their gentility, the huge brown waggons were of the two extinct conveyances the roomier, airier, and safer both from overturns and highwaymen. the seats were soft, the space was ample, and the three unprotected females were considered in a manner incognito, which was about as modest a style as they could travel in. of course, they were not in their flowered silks, their lutestrings, their mantuas. we are assured every respectable woman travelled then in a habit and hat, and no more thought of hoops than of hair powder. the only peculiarity was that beneath their hats they wore mob-caps, tied soberly under the chin, and red or blue handkerchiefs knotted over the hat, which gave them the air of welsh market-women, or marvellously clean and tidy gipsies. clarissa was spelling out the words in pharamond—a french classic; dulcie was looking disconso[page 113]lately straight before her through their sole outlet, the bow at the end of the waggon, which circumscribed as pretty and fresh a circle of common and cornfield, with crimson patches of wood and the blue sky above, as one might wish to see. occasionally the crack of a sportsman's gun was heard to the right or left, followed by a pheasant or a string of partridges darting across the opening of the canvas car; but as yet no claimant had solicited the privilege and honour of sharing the waggon and the view with our fair travellers.