The first greetings over, Godmother’s attention was entirely taken up by Laura’s box: after this had been picked out from among the other luggage, grave doubts were expressed whether it could be got on to the back seat of the pony-carriage, to which it was conveyed by a porter and the boy. Laura stood shyly by and waited, while Cousin Grace kept up the conversation by putting abrupt and embarrassing questions.
“How’s your ma?” she demanded rather than asked, in the slangy and jocular tone she employed. “I guess she’ll be thanking her stars she’s got rid of you;” at which Laura smiled uncertainly, not being sure whether Cousin Grace spoke in jest or earnest.
“I suppose you think no end of yourself going to boarding-school?” continued the latter.
“Oh no, not at all,” protested Laura with due modesty; and as both at question and answer Cousin Grace laughed boisterously, Laura was glad to hear Godmother calling: “Come, jump in. The ponies won’t stand.”
Godmother was driving herself—a low basket-carriage, harnessed to two buff-coloured ponies. Laura sat with her back to them. Godmother flapped the reins and said: “Get up!” but she was still fretted about the box, which was being held on behind by the boy. An inch larger, she asserted, and it would have had to be left behind. Laura eyed its battered sides uneasily. Godmother might remember, she thought, that it contained her whole wardrobe; and she wondered how many of Godmother’s own ample gowns could be compressed into so small a space.
“All my clothes are inside,” she explained; “that I shall need for months.”
“Ah, I expect your poor mother has sat up sewing herself to death, that you may be as well dressed as the rest of them,” said Godmother, and heaved a doleful sigh. But Cousin Grace laughed the wide laugh that displayed a mouthful of great healthy teeth.
“What? All your clothes in there?” she cried. “I say! You couldn’t be a queen if you hadn’t more togs than that.”
“Oh, I know,” Laura hastened to reply, and grew very red. “Queens need a lot more clothes than I’ve got.”
“Tut, tut!” said Godmother: she did not understand the allusion, which referred to a former ambition of Laura’s. “Don’t talk such nonsense to the child.”
She drove very badly, and they went by quiet by-streets to escape the main traffic: the pony-chaise wobbled at random from one side of the road to the other, obstacles looming up only just in time for Godmother to see them. The ponies shook and tossed their heads at the constant sawing of the bits, and Laura had to be continually ducking, to keep out of the way of the reins. She let the unfamiliar streets go past her in a kind of dream; and there was silence for a time, broken only by Godmother’s expostulations with the ponies, till Cousin Grace, growing tired of playing her bright eyes first on this, then on that, brought them back to Laura and studied her up and down.
“I say, who on earth trimmed your hat?” she asked almost at once.
“Mother,” answered Laura bravely, while the colour mounted to her cheeks again.
“Well, I guess she made up her mind you shouldn’t get lost as long as you wore it,” went on her cousin with disconcerting candour. “It makes you look just like a great big red double dahlia.”
“Let the child be. She looks well enough,” threw in Godmother in her snappish way. But Laura was sure that she, too disapproved; and felt more than she heard the muttered remark about “Jane always having had a taste for something gay.”
“Oh, I like the colour very much. I chose it myself,” said Laura, and looked straight at the two faces before her. But her lips twitched. She would have liked to snatch the hat from her head, to throw it in front of the ponies and hear them trample it under their hoofs. She had never wanted the scarlet lining of the big, upturned brim; in a dislike to being conspicuous which was incomprehensible to Mother, she had implored the latter to “leave it plain.” But Mother had said: “Nonsense!” and “Hold your tongue!” and “I know better,”—with this result.
Oh yes, she saw well enough how Godmother signed with her eyes to Cousin Grace to say no more; but she pretended not to notice, and for the remainder of the drive nobody spoke. They went past long lines of grey houses, joined one to another and built exactly alike; past large, fenced-in public parks where all kinds of odd, unfamiliar trees grew, with branches that ran right down their trunks, and bushy leaves. The broad streets were hilly; the wind, coming in puffs, met them with clouds of gritty white dust. They had just, with bent heads, their hands at their hats, passed through one of these miniature whirlwinds, when turning a corner they suddenly drew up, and the boy sprang to the ponies’ heads. Laura, who had not been expecting the end so soon, saw only a tall wooden fence; but Cousin Grace looked higher, gave a stagey shudder and cried: “Oh my eye Betty Martin! Aren’t I glad it isn’t me that’s going to school! It looks just like a prison.”
It certainly was an imposing building viewed from within, when the paling-gate had closed behind them. To Laura, who came from a township of one-storied brick or weatherboard houses, it seemed vast in its breadth and height, appalling in its sombre greyness. Between Godmother and
