Miss Manners'swords stayed with Jessie. She had plenty of sense and spirit, as well as a real wish to do right, and a yearning to spread the great Light round her. To be sure, the going to some mission in a dreadfully ignorant and wicked place would have seemed more like a good work than just taking a class who would be taught and cared for even without her help.
But she could see that if she could not keep these tidy little trained children in order, she would not have much chance with the street Arabs she had read of.
She got on much better the next Sunday. She kept the children interested almost all the time, all except the two lowest, who were determined to chatter till she made one stand on each side of her, and then one of them, Emma Lott, chose to howl till Miss Manners came to see what was the matter; but she did not get much by that, for she was only told that she was very naughty not to mind Miss Hollis, and desired to stop crying directly, which she did; and then Miss Manners asked Miss Hollis to be so kind as not to take away her ticket, if she would try to behave well for the rest of the day.
Once more Lily Bell was so kind as to inform "teacher" that Susan said "she didn't care, not for she." To which Jessie coolly answered that she hoped Susan would soon learn to care for being a good girl, taking care not to look the least mortified, so that the informationfell very flat. After that she had no more trouble with sauciness from the children; she began to find that Susan was clever and bright, and that Kate May and Lucy Elwood were very nice little maidens, who seemed to care to be good. They brought her flowers, told her funny little bits of news about baby beginning to walk, and mother going to Ellerby, and she found the time spent at school a very pleasant part of her Sunday; while as to the hours of preparation with Miss Manners, she enjoyed them so much that it was quite a blank if that lady had any engagement to prevent her from receiving her little party of teachers.
Jessie found herself learning much more than she taught. Her quick nature could not but look into everything thoroughly, and when she had been once shown how to throw all her mind as well as her soul into the study of the Bibleand Prayer-book, she found ever new delight in them. She began to find it helped her to pray with her understanding, as well as with her spirit at Church; to care more for her prayers at home, and to feel more on the times of the Holy Communion. She made her last year's hat serve again with a fresh tulle trimming, that she might buy herself a "Teacher's Bible," and not worry her mother and Grace any more by disturbing the big one, since they thought it honouring such a Bible to let it alone.
Mrs. Hollis did read the Psalms and one Lesson every day. She said she had once promised Amy Lee, aunt to the present Amy, and she had hardly ever missed doing so.
But Grace had not time. Just after Whitsuntide the daughter of a very rich farmer in the neighbourhood was engaged to be married, and wanted a quantity of fine work to be done for her,making underlinen and embroidering marks to handkerchiefs.
She came with her mother to offer the work to Miss Lee, giving six weeks for it, but it was more than Aunt Rose thought right to undertake in the time. She said she could not get it done without disappointing several persons, and that she was very sorry, but that she could only undertake two sets of the things in the time.
Mrs. Robson, the mother, was vexed and half angry. She said she hated common shop-work, and ready-made things, and she had taken a fancy to what she had seen of Miss Lee's work. She even offered to increase the payment, but Rose Lee stood firm. She said there was no one at hand whom she could hire and entrust with such work, and that she could not feel it right to undertake it, as it would only lead to breaking her engagements.
"O, very well; I see you don't care to oblige me," said the lady, twirling off with her very tight skirts, and whisking up a train like a fish's tail. "No, I will not break the set. I am not accustomed to refusals."
And off the two ladies drove, and Jessie told the story at home with a great deal of spirit.
"Now that's just like Rose Lee," said Grace. "She won't make a bit of exertion for her own good!"
"Well," said Jessie, "you know we should have to work awfully hard if she took it in hand."
"I suppose she would have paid you for extra hours," said Grace sharply.
"Miss Rose said it was the way to ruin a girl's health to set her to do such a lot of work," said Jessie.
"And quite right too," put in her mother. "I knew a girl who was apprenticed to a dressmaker, and sat up fivenights when they had two black jobs one after the other, and that girl's eyes never was the same again!"
"Besides," added Jessie, "there's so much in hand."
"Well, it might not do to offend Mrs. or Miss Manners, but—"
"O, it is not that! The children's things were sent home yesterday. I wish you could have seen them, they were loves; and Miss Manners has got a new dress from London. She let Miss Lee see it, and take the pattern of the trimming. No, but Mrs. Drew has sent her Swiss cambric to be made up for Miss Alice, and Miss Pemberton has a new carmelite to be finished, and there are some dresses for the maids at the hall, all promised by Midsummer day."
"Pooh! Customers like that can wait."
"I don't see that it is a bit more right to disappoint them than any one else," said Jessie sturdily.
"Old Miss Pemberton, to be compared with a lady like that!" exclaimed Grace.
"It doesn't make much odds as to right or wrong," said Jessie, "but I don't think Mrs. Robson is much of a lady, to judge by the way she gave her orders and flounced off in a huff."
"A lady," said Mrs. Hollis, contemptuously, "I should think not. Why, her father kept the 'White Feathers' at Ellerby; and Robson, he rose up just by speculations, as they call them; but I've seen him a little greengrocer's errand-boy, with a face like a dirty potato."
"They can pay, any way," said Grace. "Folks say Robson could buy out our squire, ay, and my lord himself, if he chose."
"And I'm sure," said Jessie, "she and her daughter had clothes on that must cost forty or fifty pounds apiece. Such a fur cloak, lined with ermine; and the young lady's jacket was sealskin, trimmedever so deep with sable, and a hummingbird in her hat. They say little Miss Hilda saw her and cried for pity of the poor dear little bird."
"Well, I'll tell you what," said Grace, "I'll set off this minute to Newcome Park, and see if I can't get the work, or at least some of it. You and I can do plain work as well any day as Rose Lee, Jessie."
"Yes," said Jessie, "but I have my time at Miss Lee's all the same."
"Of course, child; but there are the evenings, and I can sit to it while mother minds the shop."
"Don't undertake more than you can manage, Grace," said Mrs. Hollis.
"Trust me for that, mother. You can wash up, Jessie; I can get there before they go to dress for dinner. It is a capital thing! It will just make up for that bad debt of Long's, and help us to get in a real genteel stock of summer goods."
Grace managed the house, and her mother, who durst not say a word when she was set on a thing; and as to Jessie, her sister always treated her as a rather naughty, idle child.
The girl had struggled hotly against this, but it had always ended in getting into such a temper, and saying such fierce and violent things, that she had been much grieved and ashamed of herself, and now felt it better to let Grace have her way than to get into a dispute which was sure to make her do wrong.
But when Grace, as neat as a new pin, had tripped out of the house, Mrs. Hollis and Jessie looked at one another, as if they had a pretty severe task set them.
"Well, I think we could have managed without," said Mrs. Hollis, "but to be sure it is as well to be on the safe side; though I'd rather be without the money than be at all the trouble and hurry this work will be!"
"I am sure I had," said Jessie. "I wish I had said nothing about it. Grace can't bear to hear of anything going that she has not got."
"Any way," said Mrs. Hollis, "you shall not be put upon, Jessie, after all your work at Miss Lee's. You shall not be made to sit at your needle all the evening. It is not good for your health, and so I shall tell Grace."
Jessie thanked her mother, but had little hope that she would be able to hold out against one so determined as her sister. Neither mother nor daughter would have broken her heart if Grace's application had come too late, but no such thing! It had been dark about an hour when she was driven up to the door in a dog-cart, out of which huge rolls of linen were lifted, enough, as it seemed, to stock the shop. Grace shook hands with the smart groom who had driven her, thanked him, and came in in high spirits.
Mrs. Robson had been most gracious! She said she had feared being obliged to put up with mere warehouse work, and that she could not bear; but country people were so lazy and disobliging. It was not what she was used to.
Grace had been taken up into the young lady's own room, and oh! what she had to tell about tall cheval glasses, and ivory-backed brushes, and rose-coloured curtains, and marble-topped washhand-stands, and a bed and wardrobe of inlaid wood, with beautiful birds and flowers, and gold-topped bottles and boxes, and downy chairs! The description was enough to last a week, and indeed it did, for fresh details came out continually. It almost made Jessie jealous for Miss Manners. Once when she had been caught in a sudden shower and arrived wet through she had been taken up to Miss Manners's bed-room to take off her boots and put on slippers.
And there was only a plain little ironbed, uncurtained, and the floor was bare except for rugs at the hearth and bed-side, and the furniture was nothing but white dimity. The chimney ornaments and the washhand-stand looked like those in a nursery—as indeed they well might, for they had belonged to Miss Dora nearly all her life; they all had stories belonging to them, were keepsakes from dear friends, and she would not have given one, no, not the shell cat with an ear off, nor the little picture made of coloured sand, for Miss Robson's finest gilded box, unless indeed that had come in the same way.
And there were two prints on the walls, very grave and beautiful, which made one feel like being in Church, and so did the illuminated texts, though all were not equally well done, some being painted by her little nieces. Jessie had a feeling in her mind that there was something finer and nobler in not making one's own nest so very splendid and luxurious, but sheknew Grace would laugh at the notion, so she said nothing of the difference, while her mother said, "Dear, dear!" and "Think of that!" at each new bit of magnificence she heard of.
Grace had her patterns and materials, and the fineness of them, and beauty of the lace provided for the trimming, were quite delightful to look at.
The payment was to be very handsome, and Grace felt secure of carrying through the work in time, with the help of her mother and sister.
"You shall have your share, Jessie," she said. "See, here are some sweet French cambric handkerchiefs to be marked in embroidery. 'I have a sister who can embroider beautifully,' says I, and they just jumped at it. 'Nina' is the name to be worked in the corners."
"Oh, I like embroidery," cried Jessie. "Thank you, Grace."
"There's six dozen," said Grace,"and you'll be able to do one a day. Four pence a letter. Why it will be quite a little fortune to you," said Grace, overpowered with her own generosity; and Jessie on her side thought of the many things 4l.16s.would do for her.
Itmust be confessed that Mrs. Hollis and Jessie had a hard time of it while those wedding clothes were being made!
There was no time for anything, certainly not for cooking. They ate the cold Sunday joint as long as it lasted, and lived the rest of the week on bread and cheese, and Australian meat now and then.
Grace got up before four every morning, and there was not much peace in bed for any one after that.
Of course the shop had to be minded, and that Mrs. Hollis did, but she wasexpected to be at her needle at every spare moment; and for the needful cleaning and rougher work, Grace got a woman for a couple of hours who came cheap, because she did not bear a very good character. Mrs. Hollis did not much like having her about, but, as Grace said, one or other of them always had an eye upon her, and she was only there for a couple of hours in the morning.
It was lucky kettles could boil themselves, or there might not even have been tea, and as to going to Mrs. Somers's working parties, Grace declared it to be impossible.
"I've got something else to do," she said, decidedly. "The lady can't expect me to stand in my own light."
And when she saw Jessie on Friday evening put away her work and fetch her hat and books, she cried out against such idling, and said it must be given up.
"No," said Jessie. "I can't give upmy Church and my preparation with Miss Manners."
"Nonsense! You see I've given up my working party."
"Yes; but I can't give up mine," said Jessie. "Oh, Grace, we thought so much about trying to do what we could."
"And so I am!" said Grace. "No one can say I am not doing my duty to my family, and that's better than throwing away my time on a lot of beggarly folk that don't deserve nothing. And you ought to know better, Jessie."
"I must have my lesson prepared," said she in return.
"As if you couldn't teach that there Bell girl without going to read with Miss Manners first! You'll never have those handkerchiefs done!"
"I did two letters extra this morning," said Jessie.
"Ah, that's very fine, but if you get one of your headaches——"
The sound of that word alarmed Mrs. Hollis. Jessie had had a bad illness about a year ago, and the mother could not part with her anxiety about her. In she came, with the tea-cup she was washing in her hand.
"Has Jessie got a headache?" she inquired.
"Oh no, mother, thank you. Grace is only putting a case."
"Yes; I am asking her what she thinks will become of the work if she is to go and take her pleasure whenever she likes. She talks of working extra; but supposing she had a headache, she'd be sorry she had thrown away her time."
"Dear, dear," said Mrs. Hollis; "'tis the very way to make her have a headache to keep her poor nose to the grindstone. The doctor, he says to me, 'She've had a shock, and she'll require care, and not to be overstrained.' And I tell you, Grace, I won't have Jessie putupon, and kept muzzing over her needle like a blackamoor slave, without a taste of fresh air. So run away, Jessie, and get your walk."
"Thank you, mother."
And Jessie, who did not feel bound to obey her sister, ran lightly off, hoping poor mother would not be very fiercely talked at by Grace. She herself was clear that work undertaken for God's sake should not be dropped when one's own gain began to clash with it; while Grace, who had always been held up as the model, helpful good daughter, plainly thought, "working for one's family," and securing something extra, was such a reason as to make it a sort of duty to throw over all she had taken up under the spur of that sermon in the spring. Jessie had no headache, but she was weary, vexed, and teased, and
"Stitch, stitch, stitch,Seam and gusset and band,"
rang in her ears, so that she specially felt rested and soothed by the calm and quiet of Miss Manners's pretty room, with the open windows and the scent of flowers coming in from the garden.
The subject was next Sunday's Gospel, about the Great Supper and the excuse-making guests. Miss Manners read out part of Archbishop Trench's comment on the Parable before she talked to the teachers about what they were to say to their classes; and Jessie felt deeply that to let herself be engrossed by this undertaking, so as to allow no time for her religious duties, would be only too like the guests who went "one to his farm, and another to his merchandise." She was advised to make it a lesson to her class against false or insufficient excuses, such as saying they were late at school because mother wanted them to take a message, when they had dawdled all the way instead of hastening to school. Miss Manners lentthe volume of Miss Edgeworth'sRosamondto Jessie, to read the chapter on Excuses to her girls, so as to bring home the lesson, though she was to carry it higher, and put them in mind that if they put their duties aside for these little things now, they would be learning to forget their Heavenly Master for earthly matters, and would never taste of His supper.
It made Jessie doubly and trebly determined that she would not take a lie-a-bed on Sunday morning to make up for loss of rest before, and thus miss the early Celebration on her monthly Sunday. Indeed, she felt drawn to come oftener, if it would not be presuming.
She came home from Church in the summer twilight, when even Grace could not work, and was standing a moment at the door before lighting the lamp.
"Well, miss, I hope you have wasted enough daylight," she said.
"I hope it wasn't quite wasted," saidJessie, cheerfully. "I shall work ever so much quicker for the rest I have had."
And she was as good as her word, and spent an hour in her pleasant embroidery of the pretty white letters of the name which she really delighted in doing, only she would have liked a fresh pattern instead of making all the seventy-two Ninas exactly alike.
She was at work before half-past six the next day, and had three more letters done before it was time to go to Miss Lee's, where it was a busy day of finishing work; and when at three o'clock the last stitch was put to the dress that had been made out of Mrs. Drew's cambric, Miss Lee asked Jessie to carry it home, suspecting that the walk would be good for her.
It was rather hot, but Jessie did enjoy the lanes, with their flowery banks, and the sweet smells of the hay, and she feltmuch brightened and refreshed. When she came near the house, she saw some one sitting in a basket-chair in the porch, and knew that it was Miss Needwood, a poor, sickly orphan relation of Mrs. Drew's, who was always trying situations as nursery governess, or reader, or the like, and leaving them because her health would not serve; and then she had no home to go to but Chalk-pit Farm. She was not so much above the Hollises as the farmer's own family, and was always friendly with them. She came to meet Jessie, shook hands with her, and explained that Mrs. Drew had been summoned to speak about some poultry, but would return in a moment if Miss Hollis would sit down.
"Are you stopping here for long?" asked Jessie.
"I don't know," said the poor girl, sadly; "I hoped I was settled in a nice situation; but my asthma was badthere, and the lady found it out, and it made her nervous, so here I am again. Mr. Drew, he is kind, and says I may make myself useful with teaching the children; but oh, dear! I don't know enough for that."
"I thought you had gone out for a nursery governess."
"Yes"—the tears came in her eyes;—"but I'll never try again. The elder young ladies made game of my French, and said I didn't spell as well as the little nursery girl. And it was true, Miss Hollis. I tried being a sewing-maid last, though Mrs. Drew didn't want folk to know it; but, you see, I hadn't health for that. They are very good here, and will keep me; but I am nothing but a burthen. If I could but hear of something to do—if only to keep me in clothes. I can do fancy-work, if I could get any."
"Can you embroider?" asked Jessie.
Miss Needwood took out her pocket-handkerchief, where her initials, H. N., were beautifully worked. Jessie had admired her own work, but this was much better. It was just such an N as she wanted, and she exclaimed—
"If you would be so kind as to lend me one of those for a pattern, I should be so much obliged."
"Do you embroider?" asked Miss Needwood. "I wish you could tell me if there is any shop at Ellerby or Carchester that would employ me; I should be so much happier."
Here Mrs. Drew came back, and looked over the dress which was to be sent to her daughter at her boarding-school, and thanked Jessie, and gave her the money for Miss Lee.
Miss Needwood had fetched the handkerchief, and Jessie took leave and walked home, thinking over what shops might possibly employ the poor girl. What apity she had not those handkerchiefs to do, and why should she not do some of them?
Oh, Grace would never consent. Besides, Jessie had spent her 4l.16s.in fancy already on the Offertory, savings bank, a present for mother, a pair of spectacles for old Dame Wall, a pretty new dress and hat for herself. Oh no, she must work on; it was such pretty work, and Grace would scorn her so if she gave up any part of it.
Jessie came home to find Mrs. Hollis in all the hard work and worry of a Saturday evening, alone in the shop, with people waiting and getting cross. She had to hasten behind the counter and help as fast as she could. It was well that the Lees had given her a cup of tea when she brought in the money, for there was no quiet for more than an hour, and then the fire was found to have gone out while Grace was putting in gathers.Moreover, Jessie saw, with dismay, that the beefsteak-pie, which was to serve for the morrow, was not even made.
"Oh, I'll do that to-morrow morning," said Grace.
And when Jessie proceeded to tack in her clean collar and cuffs, Grace called out, raising her hot face from her work, that they might be pinned in on Sunday morning; it was only waste of time to do so now.
"I don't think that is using Sunday quite well," said Jessie.
"Well, I never heard there was any harm in sticking in a pin of a Sunday! Come, sit down, do, and don't keep fiddling about. You'll be behind with those handkerchiefs. Here, mother, you can finish this seam before dark."
"The place is in such a caddle," said poor Mrs. Hollis, looking ruefully round at her kitchen, which certainly did not wear at all its usual Saturday evening'saspect. "That Jenny Simkins, she do so stabble in and out, she only wants some one to clean after her."
"Oh, well, I'll see to that," said Grace, "when it gets too dark for work. One must put up with a little for such a chance as this."
Jessie felt that her poor mother was putting up with more than a little, as she saw her sit down with a sigh and try to thread her needle by the window. Jessie went across and did it for her, and put back the muslin blind so as to let in more light; then sat down to finish the "na" of her sixth Nina, rather wearily, and with an uncomfortable thought that Miss Needwood's satin-stitch looked better than her own.
Little "n" was done before the twilight tidying, which did not amount to much, for Grace soon lighted the lamp; but Jessie, in putting up the shop shutters, made the arm, which had once beencrushed, tremble so much that she could not work without pricking her finger, and Mrs. Hollis really could not see. So Grace let them both go to bed, and Jessie half waked to hear her bustling about, and coming up herself just after the clock struck twelve. She would not have set a stitch on any account after that!
Jessie was up early enough to light the fire, and set out the breakfast things, and put on the kettle, while both her mother and Grace were still in bed. She had a peaceful, happy time then, but otherwise she had never known such an uncomfortable Sunday.
Mrs. Hollis was down when she came back, but was fretting over the very large bit that had gone out of the cheese. Jessie thought they had eaten it for want of meat; her mother suspected Jenny Simkins. Then she had not been allowed time to copy out her accounts into the book, and there had been agreat puzzle between a three and a five on the slate last night, which seemed to have been worrying her all night in her dreams; and the uncleaned look of the house vexed her. She was tired and not like herself, and Jessie only left her for school and church on hearing Grace's step on the stairs.
At school she could forget all about it in the interest of teaching, but the worry returned when her mother's place was empty at the beginning of the service; and when Mrs. Hollis did come posting in at the end of theVenite, she was so hot and panting that she had to sit down and fan herself with her pocket-handkerchief all through the Psalms, and Jessie even feared she might be going to faint.
"Oh dear," Mrs. Hollis mourned, when they came out of church, "she had never been so upset before, but she had been so put about to get off, with none of herthings ready, and she wasthattired and sleepy she had not heard a word of the sermon. Grace really had undertaken too much. The house was in such a mess there was no sitting down quiet and respectable, and there was threepence in the till that would not be accounted for, and she was sure that the cheese was going too fast." She fretted all the way home, and Jessie could not comfort her, by promising to look over the accounts the first thing on Monday.
However, on coming home they found the whole house tidied, dinner laid, the pie made and just ready to come out of the Dutch oven, and the accounts balanced and written out fairly. Grace was just finishing the arraying herself in full Sunday trim outside, but how was it with the inner Sunday raiment of her heart?
She did nothing but talk about "seam and gusset and band," and how fast she was getting on, and how good the linenwas, and what sort was the best, till Jessie thought she might almost as well have been sewing all day as with her thoughts running on nothing else.
When Jessie went to afternoon school, both Mrs. Hollis and Grace were so tired that the one went to sleep in her chair, and the other on her bed; and thus Jessie found them on her return.
Poor mother! how weary and worn her face looked after this week of worry. The sight of it settled Jessie's mind. She went up softly to take off her things, and as she was doing so, Grace awoke. Jessie went up to her and showed her Miss Needwood's cipher.
"Bless me! whose is that? It is real genteel," said Grace.
"It is Miss Needwood's at Chalk-pit Farm."
"What! that poor helpless thing that never can keep a situation! Did you get it for a pattern, Jessie?"
"Yes," said Jessie; "she lent it to me."
"It is beautiful," said Grace, examining it minutely. "You ought to work like that, Jessie."
"I would if I could," said Jessie, "and I mean to try; but, Grace, I shall only finish this first dozen. I shall send the other five dozen to Bessie Needwood. She is in great want of work, and will do them much better than I."
"Well I never!" cried Grace. "I never thought you'd turn lazy, and give up what you had undertaken—when I had asked for the handkerchiefs on purpose for you, because I thought a little pocket money would come in convenient!"
"So it would. It was very kind of you, Grace; but Miss Needwood will do them better than I."
"Not than you if you chose to take the pains and trouble."
"No," said Jessie, "if I don't hurrythem too quick to try to do those finest stitches, I sha'n't have time to do them at all, in these after hours of mine."
"Well, that you should choose to confess yourself not able to do as well as a poor dozing thing like that! It's all laziness."
"No, that it is not," said Jessie, rather hotly. "I thought if those were off my hands I could help you, and then mother need not have any of this work to do, or be so driven and put about."
"You don't expect to be paid for any part of mother's work," said Grace, with some sharpness. "I've got my own use for that in the business."
"No, I don't!" and Jessie went suddenly off in a little bit of temper for which she was sorry afterwards, wishing she had said that her real reason—besides the helping Miss Needwood—was the hope to save her mother from being over driven, and not to have anotherSunday so cumbered with worldly matters.
Grace came down to tea grumbling, and appealing to her mother about Jessie's laziness; and Mrs. Hollis, for whose sake the girl had resigned five-sixths of her hoped-for gain, was inclined to be vexed at any of the work going out of the family, or her Jessie allowing herself to be beaten.
It was very vexatious, and Jessie was glad when Uncle Andrew dropped in to tea, and to change the current of their thoughts.
She was to stay at home to guard the house while the others went to evensong, and this gave her the quiet opportunity of packing up five dozen handkerchiefs, and writing a note to send with them to Bessie Needwood the first thing in the morning, by any child who came early to the shop.
Then she felt much more at ease, andwas able to have a comfortable study of her next Sunday's Gospel and its references, in case she should be too busy on the week days; and so she was peaceful and refreshed, and able to enjoy a quiet little wander in the twilight garden with her hymn-book. This lasted till the others came home, brim full of reports they had picked up about the splendour of the coming wedding. The gentleman, Mr. Holdaway, was staying at Newcorn Park, and, what was more, he had sent his horses and grooms down to the Manners Arms, because the stables at the Chequers were not well kept.
The head groom had actually been at Church, and looked quite the gentleman, though to be sure he did stare about wonderfully.
Mrs. Hollis shook her head, and said no good came of that sort of folk.
"I assureyou he said he had never seen a place with more pretty young ladies in it."
"Who?" said Jessie, coming suddenly into the light closet of the work-room, where Florence Cray was taking off her hat, and Amy Lee seemed to be helping her.
"Why, Mr. Wingfield, Mr. Holdaway's head groom, who has come over with another man and a boy, and three of the loveliest horses you ever did see."
"Oh, yes, I heard," said Jessie; "and how he stared about at Church! He ought to be ashamed of himself."
"Oh! that's what Grace says, of course," said Florence; "and she's a regular old maid. She needn't fear that he'll stare at her."
Wherewith both Florence and Amy giggled, and before Jessie's hot answer was out of her mouth, one of the aunts called out—
"Girls, girls, what are you doing? No gossiping there."
Florence came out looking cross, and observing in a marked manner that Miss Fuller, at Ellerby, always spoke of her young ladies.
"I like using right names," said Aunt Rose in her decided voice.
Florence was silenced for the time, but at the dinner hour she contrived to get Amy alone. Jessie was in haste to get home to see if there were an answer from Miss Needwood, and also to try to get enough sewing done to pacify Grace, and purchase a little leisure for her mother.And Florence, instead of going home, stood with Amy, who had sauntered into the garden to refresh herself and gather some parsley.
"I assure you, Amy, he was quite struck. He said yours was such a style that he would hardly believe me when I said you belonged to Mr. Lee, the baker. It was the refinement, he said."
"Nonsense, Florence; don't," said Amy, blushing as crimson as the rose she tried to gather.
"I'm not talking nonsense; I never did see a poor man so smitten."
"Now, Florence, you shouldn't say such things; father and aunts would not like it. I shall go in."
"Fathers and aunts are all alike; they never do like such things. But——"
However, Amy was safe indoors by this time, all in a glow, very much ashamed that such things should have been said to her, and yet not a littlefluttered and pleased. She had been most carefully brought up and watched over, and she had come to the age of sixteen without hearing more about herself than that a young lady, who once came into the school with Miss Agnes Manners, said something that sounded like lovely, and was speedily hushed up and silenced.
All the other girls thought the young lady meant Henrietta Coles, who was tall, with bright dark eyes, red cheeks, and black hair, under a round comb; but Amy had always been sure that the speaker's eyes were upon her, though she had been ashamed of the belief, and indeed had nearly forgotten all about it, till it was stirred up by Florence's talk.
She went up to her room to smooth her hair before dinner. Yes, it was very nice light-brown hair, with a golden shine; and her eyes were very clear and blue, and her skin very white, with a rosyflush; and her nose was straight, and the shape was a pretty delicate one. Amy really did think Mr. Wingfield was right, and had better taste than the people who thought her a poor washy, peaky thing, as she had more than once heard herself called.
She put her head on one side, smirked a little, half shut her eyes, and studied herself in different positions, till she heard one of her aunts on the stairs; and then, in a desperate fright lest she should be caught, she darted out so fast as to run against Aunt Charlotte coming up stairs with a basket of clean linen from the wash. There were three pairs of stockings rolled up on the top, and these tumbled out, and one pair went hop, hop, from step to step all the way down stairs, just as Father was coming in, and he caught it up and threw it like a ball straight up at his sister.
The confusion drove the nonsense outof Amy's head for the present. She ate her dinner, and then went off as usual for her visit to little Edwin Smithers, carrying him only a few strawberries, as she knew he always had soup from the Hall on a Monday.
For Edwin had not died. He had rather grown better than worse, and if the truth must be told, Amy had begun to get a little tired of him. He was not a quick child, and in this hot weather he often failed to do the sums or learn the verses that Amy set him.
To-day he was nursing a great piece of stick-liquorice with which he had painted a dirty spot on the central face in the picture of the number of theChatterboxwhich she had lent him. She scolded him for it, and he turned sulky, and would not try to repeat his hymn, nor answer any questions, and looked at his book as if he had never seen one before.
Amy grew angry, told him he was a naughty boy, and she should not stay with him nor give him any strawberries; and off she went, carrying away the injuredChatterbox, and never bethinking herself that the hot day and the weariness of the dull untidy room might not be the cause of the naughty fit, and whether it would not have been kinder and better to try to soothe him out of it.
But instead of this she paused to hear Mrs. Rowe declare he was a bad 'un, with a nasty sulky temper that no one could do nothing with, and just then she saw Florence Cray crossing the village green.
"I've just been to get a little red pepper at Hollis's," she said, as she put her arm fondly into Amy's. "Mr. Wingfield do like something tasty for his breakfast, and ma is going to do him some devilled kidneys to-morrow morning.He is quite the gentleman in all his tastes, you see! I wanted Jessie to walk back with me, but they are all so terrible busy over that there wedding order, that she could not come till the last minute."
"Working all through the dinner hour!" said Amy. "What a shame!"
"So I say. But that Grace Hollis is a one! I wouldn't have her for my sister. Here, come in, Amy, I must just give mother the pepper."
"No, I can't do that," said Amy, uneasily, for she knew her father would be displeased if she went into a public-house; though as Florence said, "Gracious! You needn't go near the bar. It's only the back door! As if I would ask you to do anything you ought not! But I suppose our house ain't good enough for you."
"Oh! don't be angry, Florence dear, I'll come some day when I've got leave."
"Leave indeed, at your age; but you'rea poor-spirited thing, Amy, to be so kept down by a couple of old aunts."
Amy was flurried at the displeasure, and wanted to make it up. "Oh! don't be offended, Florence. Look here."
"Strawberries! oh my! already! Thank you," and Florence had soon swallowed up poor little Edwin's strawberries.
"Wait here one moment then," she said, "and I'll be back with you in an instant."
Amy stood under her parasol, trying to make the most of the small shelter afforded by Mr. Cray's garden hedge, and recollecting rather uncomfortably something she had once been told about the loitering of the disobedient Prophet being what brought him into temptation. But, having promised to wait, she could not move away, though she had to stay longer than she liked, especially as the children were going by to afternoonschool, and some of her own class began to stare at her.
However, at last Florence came out, quite excited. "Oh, Amy, if you'll only wait a minute, you'll see him come out."
"I can't! I can't! Let us go," cried Amy, quite shocked and shy.
"Nonsense! Poor man, he need never see you. He is just going to take the horses up for his master to ride out with Miss Robson. Such sweet horses! Mr. Holdaway gave 120 guineas for his. Think of that, Amy! Here now, come round the corner of the hedge, and he'll never see you."
So Amy followed and peeped, very shy and frightened, like a guilty thing, and she did see two horses, much more beautiful than she knew, one ridden by a common-looking groom, the other by a very smart, well set-up person, with a belt round his waist. That was all shesaw, for they were gone in a flash, and she was too uncomfortable to see much, or to do more than hurriedly answer Florence's exclamation—
"Ain't he quite the gentleman? Bain't his horses real darlings?" before Jessie's voice was heard—
"Why, whatever are you two doing here?"
The two girls both giggled, and each pushed the other to make her tell, and Florence laughed out—
"Oh, 'twas Amy wanted to see Mr. Wingfield pass by."
"No, 'twasn't. 'Twas you," said Amy.
"I don't see why you should get into a corner about it," said Jessie, rather gravely. "I've just met him straight upon the road, horses and all."
"O yes,you!" said Florence.
"Well, why not me?"
"O, you know, you'll soon be an old maid like your sister."
Jessie had not grown so wise as not to be nettled at this silly impertinent speech, but she was much more vexed to see that Florence was teaching Amy her own follies—Amy, who had always seemed like a pure little innocent wild rose-bud in its modest green leaves. So she answered, rather shortly—
"If you mean that I don't want to be right down ridiculous, I hope I am an old maid."
This seemed to be very funny, for Florence went off in fits of laughing, and kept shouldering Amy to make her see the joke, but Amy had by this time grown ashamed and frightened and only answered, "Don't."
So the three girls went in together, and no one took any special notice of Amy's hot face and uncomfortable gestures. It was the first time since she had been a very little child that she had shrunk from her aunts' eyes, or feared that they should ask herquestions; and the sense that she had been undeserving of the trust they placed in her made her very ill at ease, though the silly girl did not do the only thing that would have set her right again, and made her safer for the future.
Jessie meanwhile had forgotten the little vexation. She had something to brighten her up in Miss Needwood's little note.
It was written on pink paper, edged with blue, as if nothing could be too good for Jessie; and it said no words could tell how glad she was, and what a comfort it was to have this real work to do. "It is really like a ray of hope in the darkness," said poor Bessie, in her little thin weak writing, with a very hard steel pen.
But that note warmed up Jessie's heart, although her finger was getting severely ploughed up with the stitching she had been doing to save her mother's eyes.
"There was not to be an inch of machine work," Mrs. Robson had said, and the Hollises were people who fulfilled all they undertook.
But Jessie's hour at home had helped and freshened her mother, who looked much less worn and worried than she had done the day before. Jessie felt she had done well to send away the handkerchiefs, and lessen the burthen Grace had taken upon the family.
Nobodycould say any great harm of Florence Cray, or she would not have been bound to Miss Lee.
But she was one of those silly, vulgar-minded girls who think life is nothing without continually chattering either to young men or about them. She was in no hurry to be married, for then she knew she must give up all her lively pastime with the lads around her. Not that she frequented the bar, or had anything to do with the customers—her mother kept her carefully from that; but she had plenty of acquaintance, and to her mind nothing else was so amusing. She was not pretty,and knew it well enough, but she was very good-natured, and free from jealousy, and next to diverting herself with some youth, she liked nothing so well as teasing other girls about them.
She considered Amy Lee quite old enough and pretty enough to have a young man, and to begin to have some fun, and she thought all the care taken of the girl by her father and aunts only so much stupid old fidget and jealousy, which it was fun to baffle and elude. Thus she was a very dangerous companion for Amy, perhaps more so than a really worse person, who would have been more shocking and startling to Amy's sense of modesty and propriety. It was such a new sensation altogether to be always popping about and peeping to admire the handsome stranger and his fine horses, and then to whisk giggling out of the way, in terror lest they had been seen.
It was more amusing than sitting by a fretful boy, trying to make him read and say hymns, and though conscience was half awake, it was easily satisfied. And then there was the pleasure of being told that she was admired—though Amy would not have liked it as well if she had guessed that Florence used to amuse herself on the other hand by telling Mr. Wingfield how a certain young lady admired him, and teasing him by declaring that, "Oh no! she could not tell him who, she should be nameless. Did he like best fair or dark?"
So time went on, and the needlework with it. Grace Hollis's whole brain seemed to be turning into thread and cotton, for she was able to think of nothing else except what she should do with the money, when she got it; but she did not scold Jessie, as she had been inclined to do at first, for giving up the handkerchiefs, for she had begun to findthat without her sister's help there would have been no chance of finishing, without overworking her mother, and neglecting the business of the shop.
Indeed, as it was, when the last week came there was so much still to be done that she was obliged to ask Miss Needwood to come and help, which she was very glad to do, when she had finished the handkerchiefs most delicately and beautifully.
Jessie gave all the time she could. She was glad to have something to think about, for Miss Manners was from home, so there were no readings before the Sundays; and her sharp eyes could not help seeing that there was something underhand going on between Amy and Florence—where she did not know whether to interfere or not.
She had seen Amy and Florence come hastily round the corner of the lane, which had a stile into a large shadypath field at the back of Mrs. Smithers's cottage, and Mr. Wingfield hovering about. It did not look well—and indeed what she would have thought nothing of in such a girl as Florence was a very different thing in Amy. Then stories that she disliked were afloat about the man. He was said to be teaching the young men at the Manners Arms new gambling games, and to be putting them up to bet on race-horses; and once she heard a very unpleasant laugh about very good, closely-kept girls being as ready to carry on as other folk.
Once when she asked Amy after little Edwin Smithers, the answer was rather cross. "Oh! just as usual. He is the most tiresome fractious child I ever saw!"
"Children are often like that when they are going to be worse," said Jessie.
"Well," returned Amy, "I've always heard that children are most fretty and fussy when they are getting better."
"Then I hope he is better."
"O dear yes, of course he is, or he would not be here now," said Amy, impatiently, and getting very red.
"How does he get on with his reading?"
"There never was such a one for questions as you, Jessie!" cried Amy, getting quite cross.
And as Jessie knew curiosity to be her failing, and was really trying to break herself of it, she was silenced.
No doubt Amy was angered because her conscience was very far from being easy, though she never failed to pop into the Smithers's cottage every day, sometimes to bring the little dainties her aunts provided, sometimes to say a few words and begin a lesson with Edwin; but her heart was not in it, the boy would seldom attend, and often turned away his face and said "No," or began to cry; whereupon Amy told him he was very naughty,and marched off, excusing herself by the fact that the girl Polly was generally in the house, and seemed to be attending to him much better than she used to do.
No wonder Amy was in a hurry, for Florence was waiting for her outside; and by and by not only Florence.
It began one windy day when Amy's sunshade flew out of her hand. She ran after it, as it went dancing along on its spokes over the village green, jumping up just as she neared it, and whisking off just as if it had been alive, or like one of those gay butterflies and birds in allegories that lure the little pilgrims out of the narrow path. Alas! it was only too much like such a deluder.
For some one came round the corner, caught the wild sunshade, and restored it to the owner. She was tittering and breathless, she blushed all over, and never raised her eyes while Mr. Wingfield hoped, in elegant language, that shehad not fatigued herself, and paid a flattering compliment to the lovely colour with which exercise had suffused her complexion. This made her giggle and blush all the more. She did not know whether she liked it or not, poor silly child!
She often "wished he would not;" she was in a dreadful fright whenever it happened, and yet the day seemed flat and tiresome and not worth having when he had not joined her and Florence, and walked down the path below Hornbeam Wood, behind Mrs. Smithers's cottage, with them.
He never said or did anything to startle her. He saw she was a modest, well-behaved girl, and he knew how to treat such a one. He talked chiefly about the preparations for the wedding, or made the two simple country girls stare by wonderful stories of the horses he had ridden and driven, or by descriptions of the parks and the theatre. Nowand then he was complimentary, but Florence told Amy much more of his admiration than she ever heard herself. As to letting her father or aunts know of the acquaintance, Amy was half afraid, half ashamed. One day she heard a talk between her father and Mr. Nowell, the gardener at the Hall, who was vexed about an under gardener.
"I shall have to speak to the Squire about him, I am afraid," said Mr. Nowell; "he don't do his work with half a heart, and instead of spending his evenings at the club, or at cricket—wholesome and hearty like—he is always down at Cray's."
"I hear," said Mr. Lee, "the club was never so badly attended."
"They say it is all along of that there smart groom, Wingfield, as they call him, who is all for gambling games, and putting up our young lads to betting tricks and the like."
"Ay, ay," said Mr. Lee, "one ofthem idle, good-for-nothing servants loafing about at a public will do more harm in a place than you can undo in a day."
"That's true," added Aunt Rose; "I can't bear the sight of the fellow lounging about with his little stick, as if he was saying to all the place, 'Here I am; it's just improvement to you all to see how I switch my legs.'"
"And he stares so!" added Aunt Charlotte. "Last time Amy and I met him on the road, I really thought he would have stared the poor child out of countenance. I had a great mind to have spoken to him, and told him to mind his manners."
"You are too young and too good-looking to do that sort of thing, Charlotte," said her brother, laughing. "May be 'twas your aunt he looked at, so you needn't go as red as a turkey-cock, Amy girl."
"Me, indeed!" said Charlotte, in hot indignation. "I should hope I waspastbeing stared at by a whipper-snapper monkey like that."
The elders all laughed heartily, and Mr. Nowell said something about Miss Charlotte being a fine woman of her time of life, which made her still more angry, and set her brother and sister laughing the more.
Amy squeezed out a weak little giggle, but she was both angered and frightened. She could never tell her aunts now. What would they say? The time of the wedding was drawing on; Mr. Wingfield would be going. Little flutters moved her breast. Would he say any more before he went, or did she wish it? Florence said he was dying for her. Florence thought he was a gentleman in disguise, like one she had read about in a novel; but Amy, though she liked to dream of something sweet and grandyears hence, did not want to be startled by love-making now, or to have the dreadful disturbance at home there would be if this were more than a summer acquaintance. How would the aunts look, when they found she had concealed all this—she who had never hidden anything from them before?
And yet she took the stolen pleasure in trembling every day, and tried to believe Florence when she said there was no harm in it, that every one did so, and that young people must be young!
"Well, to be sure, who would have thought of such a treat! This is a pleasure indeed! Rose, Rose, whom do you think we have here?"
"How natural it all do look to be sure. There, Ambrose, there's the very rose tree I have so often told you of."
"Why, mother has described it all so well, I could have found my way blindfold."
The speaker was a tall, fair-faced young man, looking, in Charlotte Lee's eyes, like one of the young gentlemen from the university, but with something grave and deep about his face, and by him stood his little mother in the neatest of blacksilk dresses, with something sweet and childlike about her face still, though there were some middle-aged lines in it. She had once been the Amy Lee of Langley. She had married a schoolmaster, Mr. Cuthbert, and this was their only son. He had distinguished himself in all his examinations, and at the same time had shown so deep an interest in missions to the heathen, and had done so much to make the boys of the school care for them, that when there was a question of choosing a lad as a missionary student, whose expenses would be paid by subscriptions of the clergy in the diocese, at the great college of St. Augustine's at Canterbury, the vicar of his parish had three years ago proposed Ambrose Cuthbert as the fittest youth he knew. He had just finished his terms at the college, and was on his way home before going out to Rupertsland, having met his mother at the house of his father's brother inLondon. They had found out that an excursion train would enable them to run down to Langley and spend a few hours there; and Mrs. Cuthbert, who had always said her son must not leave England without having seen her old home, her brother and sisters, was delighted with the opportunity, and here they were, the brother and the three sisters all together, hardly knowing what they said in their eager joy.
"And my little Amy, where is she? You have not seen your namesake, Amy," said the father, who had come in bare armed and floury.
"She is not come back yet from poor little Teddy's," said Aunt Rose. "The child goes to teach, and see to, a poor little sick lad in a cottage every day, Amy. We like her to do such things," she added, pleased that her sister should see that their child was likewise something superior in goodness. "Ah! is it you, Jessie? This is Clemmy Fielding'sdaughter, Amy. Did you see our Amy as you came along, Jessie?"
"I will run back and call her," said Jessie, who had seen the top of Amy's sunshade over the hedge, and in good-natured sympathy wanted to spare all the shock of discovery.
"No, no," said Miss Rose, "thank you all the same, Jessie, but if you would not mind sitting down to the machine, I would walk out that way with my sister, just while my brother is finishing his batch of bread, and you are getting ready a bit of something to eat, Charlotte. I know, Amy, you would like just to look round the hill, and see where the squire's new cottages lie. Wouldn't you?"
Jessie saw there was no help for it. Mrs. Cuthbert was delighted to go and to show her son her old haunts; but first she spoke very kindly to Jessie, and inquired for her mother, saying she remembered her well; and on her sideJessie recollected that her mother always said she owed more to Mrs. Cuthbert's kindness when she was a little girl than to any one else.
So off set the two elder sisters and the pleasant looking young man together. Amy always was late, and Jessie felt one hope, that they might meet the two girls coming in together. Yet, as she whirred her machine, she reflected that after all it might be best for Amy in the end that all this folly and concealment should be put a stop to.
Out they went, talking; Mrs. Cuthbert asking questions, and pointing everything out to her son, and Aunt Rose delighted to answer.
"We do not hurry the maid," said Aunt Rose, as they drew near. "You see it is such a blessing to that poor little afflicted child to have her with him."
Perhaps Rose Lee, who had had her dreams and fancies like other people, wasthinking of the tales where some one looks in at the window and sees the good young person bending over the sufferer's couch, and reading good books to him; but it was certainly not Amy whom she saw as the door stood open. There was the little boy on the old couch under the window, moaning a little, but it was his sister who was standing by him with a cup of something, coaxing him with "Now Teddy, do be a good boy, and drink it, do'ee now."
"Why, Polly," said Aunt Rose, "are you here?"
"Please, Miss Lee," said Polly, in a high squeaky voice of self-defence, "Our Ted is so bad, I couldn't go to school, not this afternoon."
"And where's Miss Amy? Not gone for the doctor?" asked Rose, seeing indeed that the poor child looked very ill.
"No, miss," said Polly. "Teacher Amy don't come now for more than a minute."
"Where is she then?" asked Rose, to whom the world seemed whirling round; while Ambrose Cuthbert stood at the door, and his mother was feeling the poor child's hands, and looking with dismay at the grease gathering on the half cold broth with which his sister had been trying to feed him.
But Polly's answer was quite ready—"Down the mead along with that there Wingfield and Cray's gal."
"Who?" asked Rose, severely, for the girl's tone had that sort of pert simplicity, or simple pertness, that children can put on when they know they are giving unpleasant information, but will not seem to understand it.
"With Mr. Wingfield, the gentleman's groom up at the Arms," said she. "He be her young man."
Ambrose Cuthbert turned his head outwards to hide a smile. Rose said hotly, "Hold your tongue, child! don'tbe saucy! Come, Amy, here is some mistake."
"Stay, Rose," said Mrs. Cuthbert, "the child is really very ill. Has he a mother? Something ought to be done."
Rose did not feel as if she could care for the boy at such a moment, and just then old Mrs. Rowe, brought by the sound of voices, came in by the back door.
"Ay! Rose Lee," she said. "If you wants to know where your fine niece is, just look here. I never knew no good come of bringing up young folks to be better than their neighbours, going about a visiting as if they was ladies."
Rose had reached the back garden, and over the broken-down little gate she saw—in the path shaded by the coppice—three figures whom she knew only too well, sauntering towards the stile leading into the lane.
She felt quite giddy, as she called out sharply, "Amy Lee!"
There was a great start. The three stood still, and looked about as if to see where the voice came from. Rose, recollecting the old woman's malicious eyes, got over the stile and came towards them. They had seen her by this time; she perceived that they were whispering; then the man retreated, and Florence and Amy came towards her, Florence holding Amy's hand, and pushing to the front.
"Miss Lee," she said, "we weren't doing no harm. Only taking a walk before coming in."
"Florence Cray," returned Miss Lee, "I don't want to have anything to say to you. If you have been teaching Amy to deceive her father and me, so much the worse. You need not come to work this afternoon. My sister, Mrs. Cuthbert, is come to see us, so I shall not require you. Come here, Amy."
"You'll not be hard on her, Miss Lee," entreated good-natured Florence, feelingAmy's fingers cling to her. "I do assure you there's been nothing no one could except against. It's been all most prudent and proper all along."
"I said I don't wish to hear nothing from you," said Rose. "If you call it prudent and proper to be walking with young men, when she is trusted to read to a sick child, I don't know what I shall hear next. Come here, Amy; come home with me."
"Indeed, aunt," sobbed Amy, "I've been in every day to see him."
"Come home now, Amy," said her aunt; "I can't talk to you now! No, don't cry—don't speak! I won't have you making yourself a show to the whole place any more than you have done already. That you should have deceived us so!" she sighed to herself. She was taking Amy in, not by the garden, but round the corner of the lane, to give a little more time for her to recover herself, andalso to avoid facing Mrs. Rowe's eager eyes.
"Please don't tell father," once sighed Amy.
"Do you think I am going to be as deceitful as yourself?" was all the answer she got.
Amy's was a meek nature, and she knew she had been doing very wrong, so she uttered no more entreaties; indeed, she was in such a trembling, choking state, that her aunt had to wait, and walk slowly, while the girl tried to control herself enough to appear respectably—in a little lurking hope that perhaps Aunt Rose would be better than her word, and at least not tell Aunt Amy, her godmother, or Cousin Ambrose. She, who had been always reckoned so good a girl, and had never been in disgrace before! That it should have happened at such a time!
And when the garden gate was opened,there was a further shock. More people were in the house! Miss Manners, who had come home the night before, had come to inquire for little Edwin, and there was a buzz of voices, as she and Mrs. Cuthbert had most joyfully greeted one another.
Miss Manners was delighted to see the young missionary, and the only drawback was that poor little Edwin was evidently so much worse. He had been gradually growing worse and weaker for the last ten days or a fortnight, Polly and Mrs. Rowe said, and his mother had sad nights with him; but the parish doctor had said it was only feverishness caused by the heat, when he saw the boy last week, and did not seem to think it of consequence. The family depended on the mother's work, and in hay-making time she could not stay at home. Mr. Somers was gone from home, so was Miss Manners, and no one had thought much about thepoor child; but he had become so much worse in the course of the morning, that it was plain that his mother and the doctor must both be sent for without loss of time.
Miss Manners came out into the garden with Mrs. Cuthbert, and as the aunt and niece came up, said she would find the messenger.
"Had not you thought him so well, Amy?" she asked.
"Oh, ma'am!" exclaimed Aunt Rose, always an outspoken person, "that's the worst trouble of all! Who would have thought this sly deceitful child could have made as if she was sitting all the time with that poor boy, while she was just walking all the time with that good-for-nothing groom up at the Arms. How I shall tell her poor father, I don't know. It will be enough to break his heart!"
"It was all Florence Cray!" sobbed Amy.
"Well," said Miss Manners, "of course her father must know about it; but since Amy the elder is only to be here three or four hours, don't you think it would be better not to spoil her visit for him? You can have it out in the evening, you know; but it would be a great pity to give him such a shock at once. Don't you think so, Amy?"
"Indeed I do, ma'am," said Mrs. Cuthbert; "I am afraid the poor girl may have been to blame, but it will not be the worse for her to wait a little while, and my brother would be so much taken up with the matter, that I am afraid my Ambrose would never know his uncle as I should like."