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TRE MADOC.
IT was a toilsome journey. Andrew had taken great pains to provide easy horses for us, and we carried some comforts in the way of provisions, biscuits, gingerbread, two or three flasks of wine, and small packages of coffee, and one of the new Chinese drink called tea, which had just begun to come in fashion, and which has now become quite common, even in tradesmen's families. For this, as for many other kindnesses, we were indebted to Mr. Pepys and his good little wife.
We did not travel very rapidly, the roads being bad, even at this time of the year, and such as in many places forbade our travelling otherwise than in single file. The weather was charming—that was one comfort—and the air as delicious as any I ever breathed in my life. As we crossed the high moors, we saw abundance of those old heathen monuments which abound in Normandy, and still more in Brittany, and once we passed one almost exactly like that above our orchard, where my father and I had our memorable conversation.
We stopped for rest and refreshment in little country towns, and sometimes at lonely inns standing by themselves, such as would not have been considered very safe abiding-places in France, and where we should have been at a loss to make ourselves understood but for Andrew and the sailor whom he had taken along from Plymouth. The Cornish tongue, which is now fallen greatly into disuse, was at that time generally spoken among the common people. I picked up a good deal of it afterward, but at that time it was all heathen Greek to me, though my mother could speak it a little.
I must needs say that, though we must have appeared as outlandish to them as they did to us, the good folks were most kind to us, especially when they had heard something of our story. They would express their sympathy by sighs and tears, and by bringing out to us the best that they had; and the men would often leave their work and walk miles beside us to guide us on our way.
Simon kept up his courage very well, and indeed he enjoyed the journey; but poor Jeanne's spirits sank lower and lower, and I think she would have given out altogether had we not come, on the fifth day, to cultivated fields and orchards. The sight of these last revived her drooping courage, and when at last we reached the village of Tre Madoc, always a neat little place, and passing it came to the brow of the hill from which we looked down on the house of Tre Madoc, nestling amid great trees in its south-land valley, with the clear stream falling in a cascade at the upper end and rushing down to the sea, she was quite another woman.
"Is this not beautiful, Jeanne?" said my mother, her eyes filling with tears as she gazed on the old home, unseen for so many years.
"It is, madame; I won't deny it, though the house is nothing in grandeur to the Tour d'Antin. And the cottages do look snug and comfortable; but after all it is not France!"
"No, it is not France: don't you wish it were?" said I. "How nice it would be to see a party of dragoons coming after us over the hill, and to be afraid to pass yonder tumbling old cross lest some one should see that we did not bow to it!"
I am conscious that I spoke these words all the more sharply because I was myself dreadfully homesick—not for France so much as for London, with which I had fallen in love, though I had begun by disliking it so much. I had had a taste of that life of which I had so often dreamed, and I found the cup too sweet to wish to have that taste the only one.
My mother looked at me in surprise, but she had no time to speak the reproof which her eyes uttered. It seemed that we were expected and watched for. We saw a little lad, who had been sitting with his dog and clapper watching the birds, leave his occupation and run down toward the house, and presently an elderly lady, surrounded by three or four young ones, came out upon the porch.
"There are my mother and sisters," said Andrew "and," he added to me, in a lower tone, "your mother, too, Vevette! I hope you will love her."
"I am sure I shall," I tried to answer graciously, though I felt inwardly vexed. I always was provoked when Andrew said any such thing implying a kind of property in me.
I felt an unaccountable shyness of these new relatives, such as I had not been conscious of either in Jersey or London, and I wished the meeting with them could be postponed. But our tired beasts now put themselves into brisk motion, rejoicing, poor creatures, in the thought of rest and food. We descended the hill, passed through a short avenue of nut-trees, and came out before the same porch, overgrown with ivy and a groat Virginia vine, as we used to call it, and found ourselves in presence of our friends.
Andrew sprang from his horse and assisted my mother and myself to dismount. The older lady clasped my mother in her arms.
"Dearest sister Margaret," said she, kissing her on both cheeks, "welcome home! It is a happy day that sees you enter your father's house once more. And this is my new daughter. Heaven bless you, my love! I have a flock of maidens, as you see, but there is plenty of room for one more. And who are these?" Turning to Simon and Jeanne, who had also dismounted and stood modestly in the background.
My mother explained matters, and our poor friends were welcomed in their turn and committed to the care of a very nice old woman, to be made comfortable, while one of half a dozen old blue-coated serving-men led away our horses and attended to our luggage.
Then we were conveyed into a parlor, a large low room wainscoted with cedar and hung with handsome though faded needlework. Here we were relieved of our riding gear and presented to our other cousins, of whom I was too tired and confused to see aught but that Betty was small and dark, Margaret tall and fair, and Rosamond very much like somebody I had known, I could not say whom.
"But you are both tired with your long journey, I am sure," said my aunt, after the first greetings had been exchanged. "Rosamond and Betty shall show you your lodgings, and when you have refreshed yourselves we will meet at supper. I have given you the gilded room, Margaret, and to Agnes—or do you call her Genevieve?—the little chamber over the porch beside it. I might have given you a more sumptuous apartment, my dear," she added, turning to me; "though indeed we are but plain country folks at best; but the porch room hath a pleasant lookout, and I thought you would like to be near your mother."
I murmured something, I hardly knew what, and my mother answered for me. "Vevette is not used to luxury, my dear sister, and the porch room is good enough for any young maid. May I ask you to send Jeanne to me? She will feel herself very strange, I fear."
"She shall attend you directly," answered my aunt; "and glad I am that two such confessors for the faith should find a shelter under this roof."
"Take heed to the steps," said Rosamond, as we came to the foot of the staircase; "they are somewhat slippery."
That they were, being of dark oak, and polished like glass with age and much scrubbing. However, I was used to polished floors, and so did not get a fall. We traversed a long gallery hung with pictures, and came to my mother's room, which was large and low. Above the wainscot, the walls were covered with old-fashioned stamped and gilded leather, such as one seldom sees now. The bed was of needlework, with wondrous white and fine linen—a matter in which we Corbets have always been particular. There was a small Turkey carpet on the floor, and quite a fine Venice glass, with branches, handsomer than that in my aunt's dressing-room in London. I thought the room as pretty as any one I had ever seen. Indeed, the whole house was finished with a richness uncommon in remote country houses at that day, for the men of the family, taking naturally to a seafaring life, had brought home from abroad many articles of luxury and beauty.
My own room was by far the prettiest I had ever inhabited, even at any aunt's house in London. It was partly over the porch, as my aunt had said, and had a kind of projecting window which commanded a lovely view of the sea and the shore. The bed was small and hung with white, and there was a queer old cabinet or chest of drawers, which reminded me at once of Jeanne's cherished bahut, which she often sighed over.
"That cabinet came from the south of France, they say," said Rosamond, seeing my eyes fixed upon it. "My grandfather brought it home for a present to his wife."
"There she goes," said Betty, laughing. "Rosamond knows the history of every old piece of furniture and tapestry and every old picture and sampler in the old house, and will retail them to you by the hour, if you care to listen to her. They are all precious relics in her eyes."
"I am sure I shall care," said I, seeing that Rosamond looked a little dashed. "I love things that have histories, and that old cabinet is so like one that my poor foster-mother used to have, that I fell in love with it in a moment; I think Rosamond and I will agree finely."
It was now Betty's turn to look a little vexed, but her face cleared up directly.
"You will have abundance of entertainment, then, for the house is a museum of old furniture and oddities. But this old tabernacle is a convenient affair. Here are empty drawers, as you see, and a place to write, and in this large drawer you will find clean towels and napkins as you want them. Come, Rosamond, let us leave Agnes to dress herself. I am sure she must feel the need of it."
I did indeed need such a refreshment, after my long ride. My mail was already in the room, and it was with considerable satisfaction that I arrayed myself in one of the new frocks which had been made for me in London, and which, as I could not but be aware, set off to considerable advantage my slender, erect figure. Then, very well satisfied with myself, I went into my mother's room, where I found Jeanne, much refreshed in mind and body, and disposed to regard her new home with more favorable eyes. My mother was already dressed, and, seated in a great chair covered with needlework flowers in faded silks, was directing Jeanne in the unpacking of her mail and the disposition of her clothes.
"You look well, my child," said she, holding out her hand to me. "Have not the lines fallen to us in pleasant places? Even Jeanne admits that the Cornish folk are Christian people, since, though they cannot speak French, they know how to make cider."
"And very good cider too, madame," answered Jeanne; "and though I think them not very polite to smile at the English which I learned so well to speak in London, yet one must not expect too much of them, living as they do at the very world's end. Why, they tell me, at least that old sailor did, there is absolutely no land between the shore yonder and that savage country of America. Do you think that can be true, madame? It makes one almost afraid."
"It is quite true, my Jeanne; but I see no cause for fear," answered my mother, smiling. "Some of our own people have settled in America, and are prospering well. We have even relatives abiding there. My husband and I have sometimes talked of the possibility of going thither ourselves. Is not this a pretty place, my Vevette?"
"Yes, maman, very pretty, only—" and here I stopped; for something choked me, and I felt a great disposition to cry.
"Only it is all strange and new, and my little one is overwrought," said my mother, kissing me. "I forget it is not a home-coming to you as to me. Yet I hope you will try to be happy here," she added, regarding me wistfully.
"Indeed I will, dear maman," I answered, making a great effort to control myself, and succeeding pretty well. "I think the house is beautiful, especially this room and my own; and only think, Mother Jeanne, there is a bahut almost like yours, and my cousin Rosamond says it came from the south of France. Perhaps it was made by the same man."
"That could hardly be, mamselle, for my great-grandfather made mine. He was a skilful man, I have heard say, and made many beautiful pieces for great houses."
"Then why not this one? Go and look at it," said I.
Jeanne obeyed, and soon came back in great excitement.
"It was—it really was made by my great-grandfather, madame!" she cried. "There are the two doves pecketting on the top just the same, and the very sign—the olive-leaf marked with a circle—which he used to put on all his work. Is it not wonderful, madame? Is it not a good omen?"
And again she went back to examine the cabinet, and I followed her, listening with interest while she pointed out the maker's sign carved here and there upon the doors and drawers, and the peculiar beauty of the steel hinges and locks.
This little incident diverted my mind and put me into better spirits, and when Rosamond came to call us to supper, I was ready to meet her with a smile. The meal was served in another room from that we had seen before—a high-arched room with a gallery crossing one end, which was situated—so Rosamond told me—in the older part of the house, and was formerly the great hall. The meal was well served, and seemed wonderfully abundant, though I was growing accustomed to English profusion in the matter of eating and drinking. I could not but admire the white, glossy sheen of the damask cloth and napkins, and the beautiful china dishes, more beautiful than any I had ever seen. China collecting was a great passion then, and my aunt in London would have given one of her little pink ears for the curious standard dish full of early strawberries which adorned the supper table, or the tall jug crowned with frothy whipped cream beside it.
We young ones were more or less silent, of course, while my mother and my Aunt Amy talked about old times, and who was dead, and whose son had married which one's daughter, and all the rest of the chat which goes on when old neighbors come together. My dear mother was—no disparagement to her either—a bit of a gossip; though, as we had few friends among our French neighbors, she had had little opportunity of indulging her tastes; but now she grew more animated and interested than I had ever seen her, in hearing all the news my Aunt Amy had to tell.
"And what about our cousins at Stanton?" asked my mother presently. "From what Andrew tells me, I suppose the present lady is not much like the one I knew."
"No more than chalk is like cream cheese," answered Aunt Amy. "Yet she is a good lady, too, and a kind stepmother to the lad who is left, though she had two daughters of her own when she married my lord."
"And what like are they?"
"Nay, that you must ask Andrew. He has seen more of them than I have."
"Theo is well enough," said Andrew. "She is a merry girl, who cares not much for anything but pleasure and finery, but she is good-natured at least. Martha is a girl of another stamp. I pity the man who marries her. She hath far more mind than Theo, but such a temper! Disagree with her ever so little—do but dare to like what she hates or know something she does not—and she is your enemy for life."
"Gently, gently, my son," said his mother, with a little laugh. "What hath poor Martha done to you?"
"Nothing to me, mother, but I have seen enough of her doings to others. I believe there is but one person in the world she stands in awe of—her mother—and but one she loves—her half-brother, the young lord. I do think she cares for him."
"Ah, well!" said my aunt easily. "If she has such a temper, it brings its own punishment."
"And the punishment of a good many others also, unluckily," said Andrew, and then the conversation turned to other things.
After supper Andrew proposed that we should go up and see the gardens. The elders preferred sitting in the house, but we young ones went out, after proper injunctions to keep moving and not to stay out after the dew began to fall. Gardening, it appeared, had also been a fashion with these curious Corbets, who seem to me from the earliest records to have made their homes as pleasant as possible, only to run as far-away from them as the limits of the world would allow. The flower-beds were in their spring beauty, and were filled with rare plants and flowers, which I never saw anywhere else.
The climate of Cornwall is very mild, so that the myrtle grows to a great size out of doors, and many tender trees flourish which will not live at all about London. I particularly admired a tall shrub With red-veined leaves and covered with little scarlet bells in immense profusion, and asked its name.
"I cannot tell you that," said Andrew. "My father brought it from the West Indies, where it grows very large. This other bush, with bright scarlet flowers and broad leaves, is from the Cape of Good Hope, but it will bear no frost, so we take it in, in the winter."
"What great rosemary and lavender plants!" said I. "They make me think of what Jeanne has told me about Provence, where they grow wild."
"They do fairly well, though the place is damp for them. See, yonder is a tulip-tree. Is it not a grand one? The Americans make great use of the wood, which, though soft, is very lasting for some purposes."
"What a pity to cut down such beautiful trees!" said I.
Andrew laughed.
"Trees are the great enemies over there," said he. "It did look terribly wasteful to me to see great logs of bard maple, chestnut, and oak, rolled into heaps and burned in the field, just to get rid of them."
"What a shame!" said Betty. "Why not at least give them to the poor for fuel. Goody Penaluna would be glad enough of such a log."
"If Goody Penaluna were there, she would have wood enough for the asking," replied Andrew. "One can hardly say there are any poor, for though they have often had hard times enough, yet it mostly comes share and share alike."
"I believe Andrew hath a hankering after those same colonies in his secret soul," said Betty. "You will find yourself transplanted thither some time or other, Agnes."
Again I felt annoyed. I did not know why.
"Do not call me Agnes; call me Vevette," said I. "That is the name I have always been used to."
"But Agnes is so much prettier. Vevette is like a nickname," objected Betty.
"It is a sort of pet name, I suppose—short for Genevieve," remarked Margaret. "If Vevette likes it best, she certainly has a right to choose."
"But it is French," objected Betty again, "and she is an English girl now. I am quite sure mother would prefer to have her called Agnes, and Andrew too; wouldn't you, Andrew?"
"I should prefer that she should have her own way in the matter," answered Andrew shortly, and there the discussion ended for the time; but we were no sooner in the house than Betty began it again, appealing to her mother to say if it would not be much better for me to be called by my English name now I was come to live in England.
"That is for her mother to say," replied Aunt Amy. "I presume she will prefer to call her by the name she has been used to."
"I certainly shall prefer to do so, and to have others do so," said my mother. "The name of Agnes was never a favorite of mine."
Betty said no more, but she never lost an opportunity of calling me Agnes, till I took to calling her Elizabeth, to which name she had a special aversion.
The next morning and for many succeeding days my mother was very unwell, and I naturally spent most of my time with her in her apartment, which was at some little distance from the rest of the house. Jeanne attended on her, and Simon worked in the garden, taking great pleasure in the variety of plants and flowers he found there. He got on very well with his fellow-servants, being of a quiet and sober disposition. He did not at all disturb himself when laughed at for his mistakes in English, but only laughed back, or contented himself with quietly correcting his mistake. But Jeanne's southern blood was more easily stirred, and she more than once came to my mother declaring that she could endure her life no longer.
Betty used to take pleasure in teasing her, as indeed she did every one who came within her reach, except her mother and Andrew, of whom she stood in awe. She and I had more than one encounter, in which I can safely say that she met her match, and she did not like me the better for it; but Rosamond was her especial butt, and she made the poor girl's life miserable. Rosamond was of a studious turn of mind, and loved nothing so much as to get away by herself, with a great chronicle, or with her French or Latin books. It was a somewhat uncommon disposition at that time, when the education of women was much neglected, even more than it is now. But the Corbets have always been rather a bookish race, and Rosamond was a true Corbet in all things. She loved acquiring new ideas above any other pleasure in the world. She made Simon tell her all about Normandy and Brittany, and there were several old sailors in the village to whose tales of foreign parts she was delighted to listen for hours, albeit I fear they were sometimes more romantic than reliable.
Aunt Amy never interfered with this taste of Rosamond's, but allowed her to read as much as she pleased, though she never cared to open a book herself. Margaret was Rosamond's champion in all things, though she thought so much reading a waste of time; but Betty was always tormenting the poor girl, hiding her books, destroying her collections of dried plants and shells, and laughing at and exaggerating the mistakes which she now and then made in her preoccupation. I must say that in general Rosamond bore all with the utmost sweetness, but now and then she would fly into a passion. Then Betty would provoke her more and more till she succeeded in driving Rosamond into a burst of passionate crying, which generally ended in a fit of the mother, which brought my aunt on the scene.
Then Betty would be all sweetness and soothing attentions to the sufferer, bringing everything she could think of to relieve her, and affecting to pity and pet her till, if it had been me, I am sure I should have boxed her ears. Aunt Amy never saw through these manœuvres, but when Rosamond recovered, she would talk to her seriously about the necessity of governing her temper, and Rosamond would listen humbly and meekly promise to try and do better. There was always more real worth in her little finger than there was in Betty's whole person, but her timidity and absent-minded ways often made her appear at a disadvantage.
She and my mother were soon great friends, and she used to bring her precious books to our apartment, where Betty dared not intrude. Here she would read aloud to us for hours, or practise her French and Italian with maman and myself. She spoke them both horribly, but was very desirous to improve, and made great progress.
Margaret also joined in the French lessons, but she had a great many other things on her hands. She took a good deal of the care of housekeeping off her mother. She visited the poor in the village, and worked for them, and she had taken upon herself a kind of supervision of the dame school, which furnished all the education for the village of Tre Madoc. Old Dame Penberthy, who taught or rather kept it, had not been a very good scholar in her best days, I imagine, and she was now old and half blind. The little children were sent to her to be kept out of mischief, and taken away as soon as they were fit for any sort of work. Some of the brightest of them learned enough to pick out, with much stammering, a chapter in the Testament, and these were the dame's best scholars, whom she exhibited with great pride.
Margaret, however, had lately taken the school in hand, moved thereto by something she had read, and also by Andrew's wish for a better state of things. He had seen in the American colonies day-schools established for all sorts of children, and he wished for something of the same sort at Tre Madoc. So Margaret had persuaded the dame to take home an orphan grandniece, a clever girl who had lived a while at the court, and the old woman easily fell into the way of letting this girl, Peggy Mellish by name, have most of the charge of the school.
Margaret herself went every other day, to inspect the sewing and spinning, and to hear the children say their horn-book and teach them their Belief and Commandments. * By and by she would have me join her in this work. I was fond of walking and of children; my mother and Andrew favored the plan, and so I took hold of it with great zeal, and after a few visits along with Margaret to learn her ways, I even took charge of the school on alternate days, and soon knew as much about the families of the children, their wants and ways, as Margaret herself.
* A horn-book was a printed sheet containing the alphabet and some other lessons, protected from moist little lingers by a sheet of transparent horn.
Thus it came to pass that Betty was in a manner left out in the cold. It was her own fault, I must needs say, for she laughed equally at Meg's and my teaching and Rosamond's learning; but she was not any more pleased for that; and so, partly from idleness, partly for revenge, she set herself to make mischief between Andrew and me. But I must put off the relation to another chapter.
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MISCHIEF.
I HAVE said that my mother was very unwell for a time after her arrival at Tre Madoc, and my aunt feared she would go off in a quick decline. But by degrees she recovered strength again, so as to walk into the garden to help my aunt in the still-room and dairy occupations, of which she was very fond, and after a while to ride the easy old pony as far as the village, to see some of the sick and old people.
An accident had happened to Andrew's ship, the Enterprise, which had put off her sailing for some weeks. We were all very glad of the respite, my mother especially, to whom Andrew was most devoted—more so than to myself, which was very sensible of him. He used to walk at her bridle-rein, gather flowers for her, and in short, pay her a great many attentions which were more lover-like than filial. He had never again spoken to me on the subject of marriage, and always sharply hushed up any allusion to the matter on the part of other members of the family; and though he was very kind and very attentive to my comfort, it was more as a brother than a lover.
It was the course, if he had known it, just calculated to make me care for him, if only out of pique, and accordingly I began to watch for his coming, to wonder whether he would ask me to walk with him, and to dress so as to please his eye. I began to take an interest in the farm and garden, as indeed I had been used to do at home, and I was more than ever zealous in visiting and working for the school and the poor folks. My aunt had taken to me at once, and I to her, and I believe but for the meddling of another we should never have had a falling out. My charitable work and my studies with Rosamond and my mother had again brought my better self uppermost, and despite Betty's teasing and an occasional sigh for London, or a spasm of home-sickness for dear Normandy, I was very happy.
I have said that Betty set herself to make mischief, and she succeeded certainly to her heart's content, or one would have thought so. She is gone to her account long ago, poor thing, and I feel tenderly toward her memory, for she was my Andrew's sister; but I cannot make my story understood without speaking of her faults.
She began with Jeanne. The housekeeper and chief personage under Margaret was an old woman named Deborah Permuen, an excellent person, but of somewhat irritable temper, and very jealous of her authority and her influence with her mistress. She and Jeanne had begun by being great friends; for Deborah was a hot Protestant, and a Presbyterian to boot, who, though she regularly attended the parish church on Sundays, as regularly went on Thursdays to a gathering of her own sort of folks, which was held in a cottage on the verge of the estate. She even condescended to learn of Jeanne how to prepare an "omelette aux herbs" and several other French dishes, imparting in return various important culinary secrets of her own.
By degrees, however, her friendship cooled. She began to throw out hints about interlopers, and French Jesuits in disguise coming to interfere in peaceable families. She declined anything but civilly a proposition of Jeanne's to teach her the true way of making a galette; and at last—the crowning offence—threw into the pig's mess a fine salad with crawfish, which Jeanne had prepared for Andrew's birthday, declaring that she would not have her young master poisoned with French pig-wash.
Jeanne rushed to my mother with complaints, not observing or not heeding that my aunt was in the next room looking over a drawer of linen in the cabinet. Then Deborah was called upon the scene, and told her story, which she did with many tears and exclamations that ever she should have lived to see the day that she should be supplanted by a foreigner, and so on.
"You foolish old woman, what do you mean?" said my aunt, out of patience at last. "Who is thinking of supplanting you?"
"Why, that French woman there?" sobbed Deborah, pointing to Jeanne, who, burning with indignation all the more because my mother had imposed silence on her, stood behind her mistress' chair. "Did not she say that she would have me out of this house in a twelvemonth, and that when her young lady ruled the roast in the parlor it would be her turn in the kitchen?"
"I don't believe she said so," said my mother; and she translated Deborah's remark for Jeanne's benefit.
"Indeed, indeed, madame, I never said such a word," was Jeanne's reply. "I never thought of such a thing. I had too much respect for Deborah, let alone Madame Corbet, ever to say a thing so un-polite, so improper."
"What did you say to Mrs. Betty then, when she asked you about it?" demanded Deborah, beginning to calm down a little.
"Nothing at all," was the answer. "Mrs. Betty said to me that she supposed I should be the—what say you?—the manager, when Mrs. Vevette and the young master were married, and that she hoped I would give them more nice things than Mrs. Deborah did; to which I answered nothing; for it did not seem to me, craving madame's pardon, that it was a proper way for a young lady of the house to speak to a servant. So, when she added something more, I said I was Madame d'Antin's servant, and at her disposal; and I added no more. My feelings have been much hurt by Mrs. Deborah's remarks of late; and to-day especially I was so moved by her treatment of my salad—ah, madame! Such noble salade des écrevisses! That I fear I forgot myself. Alas, it is too easy to wound the heart of an exile and a childless mother."
And here Jeanne wept in her turn, and Deborah began to look rather ashamed, and to mutter some thing about "not meaning."
"I see how it is," said my aunt, who with all her easiness of disposition was not a person to be despised. "Deborah has allowed herself to be prejudiced, and to believe her mistress capable of the most unworthy conduct."
"Oh, mistress, don't!" implored Deborah, weeping afresh.
"And she has been guilty of great unkindness toward a stranger and a foreigner, and one of her own religion," added my aunt, with emphasis; "while Jeanne has perhaps been too hasty and ready to take offence."
"I own it, madame," sobbed Jeanne in her turn; "I have been too hasty; but to be called a Jesuit, when I have suffered so much by them; and then my beautiful salad, which the young master used to like so much in France—"
"Well, never mind," said my aunt. "I am sure Deborah is sorry she called you by such an ugly name; and as to the salad, I think if we can forgive the loss, you can. Come, now, let me see you shake hands and make friends, like Christian women; and let me hear of no more quarrels."
The two combatants obeyed, with a very decent grace on Deborah's side, and with considerable effusion on that of Jeanne, who adored my aunt, and, to do her justice, was always placable.
Deborah departed to her own dominions, and my aunt, going to her own room, sent for Mrs. Betty, who did not appear at dinner, and who was at least more careful in her conduct for some days, though I have reason to think her heart was little affected by her disgrace or her mother's admonitions. It was only a few days afterward that Jeanne came to her mistress again, with a humble request that she would intercede with Madame Corbet to allow her to change her room. For since my mother had been so unwell Jeanne had occupied a room at the end of the gallery leading to our apartment, which, as I have said, was somewhat separated from the rest of the house.
"Why, what is the matter with the room?" asked my mother. "I thought it a very nice one."
"And so it is madame, but—"
"But what?"
"I would rather not sleep there, madame."
"Some one has been telling you ghost stories," said I, a sudden idea coming to me. "Is it not so?"
"Ah, mamselle!" and Jeanne began to cry, as usual.
"Do be reasonable," said my mother, rather impatiently, for she was tired and not very well. "Stop crying, and tell me what has scared you."
It was not easy to pacify Jeanne, but we succeeded at last, and then the truth came out. Mrs. Betty had told her that a headless woman with fiery eyes came out of a secret closet in the hall of that room, which no one had been able to find, and that whoever saw her became blind.
"Where does she keep her fiery eyes, if she has no head—in her pocket?" I asked, laughing at this very original ghost. "Perhaps she carries them on a dish before her, like St. What's-her-name in the picture."
"Ah, mamselle! Do not laugh. I did indeed see something—two fiery eyes in the dark—and my eyes have not felt right since."
"The eyes of that great gray cat which is always following you up-stairs and down," said my mother. Then, seeing that the poor woman was really unhappy, she tried to reason her out of her fears on religious grounds, but, as usually happens in such cases, without much success. Jeanne owned the truth of all she said; but—
Finally my mother gave way, and asked my aunt to allow a cot-bed to be put into the large light closet which opened from my mother's room.
"Why, certainly, if you like to have her there," said my aunt. "You know I thought it would be more convenient for you, in the first place."
"It is not that exactly," replied my mother; "but Jeanne has taken a fit of superstitious terror and is afraid of, I know not what apparition, which some one has told her comes out of a closet in the wall of her room. I have reasoned with her, but, of course, to no purpose."
"Is there really such a ghost about the house, aunt?" I asked.
"There used to be an old story to that effect," said my aunt; "but I do not know that any one has ever seen the apparition. Cornwall is famous for such things. You shall hardly find an old hall or mansion in the country which has not its tale of wonder."
"I think there is more of it than there used to be in Normandy even," I remarked: "Old Dame Trehorn was quite in despair about her sons yesterday, because she says she heard the old shoes dance of themselves in the press the night before last, and she is sure their owners either are or will be drowned. And Mary Mellish would not let the children come to school yesterday because some one heard the wish-hounds the night before."
"It is a pity the poor people would not learn to have more faith in God and less fear of apparitions and the like," said my mother.
My aunt looked a little displeased. "I suppose, sister Meg, you will hardly go so far as to say there are no such things as ghosts and fairies and the like," said she. "That would indeed be to be wiser than our fathers."
"But, Aunt Amy, we are wiser than our fathers in a great many things, or think we are," said I. "Our fathers used to believe in purgatory, and worshipping of images and the like, but we do not."
My aunt deigned me no answer.
"As to Jeanne, sister, you will of course do as you please, since she is your woman, and the apartment is yours. I would, however, that you would try to teach her to live on better terms with Deborah and the other woman. I am not used to these quarrels below stairs."
I would have spoken, for I felt very warm in defense of my foster-mother, but maman checked me with a look, and said gently that she hoped not to need Jeanne much longer, and after that she would of course lodge with her husband at his cottage.
"Why, there it is," said my aunt. "As soon as one speaks a word, you take offence. And now that we are on the subject—" (she did not say what subject), "I must say that I cannot think it becomes Vevette to remark upon my housekeeping before the maids. She is not yet mistress, however she may come to be, and I think young maids had best learn in silence and not pass their judgment on what is done by their elders. Ours Catechism teaches young folks to order themselves lowly and reverently to their betters, whatever yours may do in France."
And here my aunt stopped, having talked herself quite out of breath.
"What do you mean, aunt?" I asked, quite bewildered by this accusation. "When have I censured you?"
"Oh, you know very well what I mean, I am quite sure. It might be only thoughtlessness, but you ought to be more careful."
"But, aunt, indeed I do not know; I have not the least idea," said I, which was quite true.
"Will you be so kind, sister Corbet, as to tell my child and her mother to what your allude?" said my mother, with all that stateliness which was natural to her, but speaking kindly. "I assure you that if my daughter hath done wrong, either wilfully or carelessly, she shall ask your pardon."
Aunt Amy had had time to cool. "Ah, well, I dare say it was but thoughtlessness; and young maids must be young maids, I suppose."
"But what was it?" my mother persisted, to my secret delight, for I was not conscious of any offence.
Aunt Amy could not remember the words; only Betty had told her that I had found fault with the housekeeping, and said that when I was mistress I would have things thus and so. I began to see daylight.
"Dear aunt, I will tell you how it was," said I. "We were all gathering lavender-flowers for the still, and I saw that Peggy, the still-room maid, had been crying, and asked what was the matter. She said the mistress had been scolding her because she had on ragged stockings, and because she did not keep her head neat; and Betty asked me if I did not think that was hard on the poor girl, when she had so much to, do. And I said no: if I were her mistress I would make her knit her own hose and wear a clear-starched cap every day, as the maids do in Normandy. Then Meg laughed, and said I would be a pattern housekeeper, no doubt; and I said I did not believe I should ever be as good-natured as you were. That was the whole of it. I am sure nothing was farther from my thoughts than any disrespect; and as to your housekeeping, I think it is as perfect as can be—only, of course, many of the ways are different from ours, and when I notice them 'tis natural to speak of them."
"Betty made much more of the matter than that," said my aunt. "Well, sister Meg, I will have a cot-bed sent up, and you can place it where you please. I am sure I want every one under my roof to be comfortable, each in their degree. But another thing I must speak of."
Aunt Amy was like many other easy-going folks: when she got started she never knew when to stop.
"I don't want you, Agnes—I mean Vevette, or whatever your name is—I don't want you turning my girls' heads with romances and plays and stories of London gaieties and London fine gentlemen and ladies. If you have a taste for such matters, it is a pity you had not stayed with your uncle, and married some fine gentleman about the court, instead of poor Andrew, whose estate will stand no such doings, as I warn you beforehand. There, I want no answer; but don't do it again." And with that she bustled away.
"What does it all mean?" I asked, when I was left alone with my mother.
"It means what I might have considered before we came here—that no one house was ever yet large enough for two families," said my mother. "But what is this about turning heads with stories about London?"
"Why, maman, you know how Rosamond is—how she is always longing to hear about places one has seen. The night before last I said I had told her everything I could think of about La Manche and Jersey, and I should have to begin upon London. So I told her of the parks and the palace and other places where I went with my uncle and aunt and with Mr. and Mrs. Pepys. Then Betty began asking me whether my uncle and aunt did not see a deal of company, and so I told her something about that, and about the dresses in the park, and so on. Rosamond did not care to hear, and went away to her book, but Betty kept me telling a long time. And last night she asked me about it again, and whether I would not have liked to live with any aunt Jemima in London."
"And what did you say?" asked my mother. "I said, 'Not to leave you;' and besides, since I had come down here and learned to know the people, I liked the place; and so I do. Only I shall not like it, I am sure, if my aunt turns against me."
"Let us hope she will not," said my mother. "Sister Amy is a good creature, but she has an oddity of disposition which belongs to her family. She will let herself be prejudiced against her best friend by any mischief-maker who will take the pains to do it. Her sister, who was my great friend when we were young, was just so. She made a hasty marriage, against the wishes of her father and of her husband's family, and though they forgave her afterward, she was for some time in a good deal of trouble. I stood by her through all, yet she let herself be altogether set against me by some of her husband's relations, who had themselves said the most shameful things about her, even affecting her reputation as a virtuous woman."
"She must have been very silly," said I.
"In that respect she certainly was. But, my Vevette, let me hear no more of these talks with Betty about London. They are not very good for yourself, who have, I fear, now and then a longing back-look to the courts of Egypt, and I doubt their being good for Betty herself. You had best avoid her company, so far as you can without offence, and above all do not have any confidences with her. Margaret and Rosamond are as open as the day, but unless I much misread poor Betty, she is a born mischief-maker."
Here the conversation ended. That evening Betty began again to ask me about London, having drawn me away from the rest of the young folks who were assembled on the green; but I gave her short answers, and at last plainly told her that I could say no more about the matter.
"But why not?" asked Betty. "You talked long enough about it last night."
"Yes, and you went and told your mother, and she lectured me this morning about turning your head with stories of London tine gentlemen."
Betty assumed an air of innocent surprise.
"Did you not want me to tell, then?" said she. "I never thought of that. I have no secrets from my mother."
I was too angry to trust myself with a word, and I turned back to where the rest of the family were standing, looking at a pair of hawks which Andrew had taken from the nest and trained himself; for, sailor as he was, he was very fond of field sports, specially of hawking. I placed myself at his side, and began admiring and petting the hawks, which I had often fed till they were fond of me. Andrew looked pleased.
"I shall leave them in your care," said he; "only old Joslyns must take them out now and then or they will forget how to fly."
"I am sure I shall like to have them," said I. "And, Andrew, will you get me a new hare's-foot for Dame Penaluna? She says hers does no good because it was cut off below the first joint."
"What does she want it for—to paint her face withal?" asked Andrew. "That is what the fine ladies use them for, is it not?"
"So I have heard," I answered, laughing; "but the dame wants hers as a spell against the colic."
"She shall have it," said Andrew, and again he looked pleased, as he always did when I made any little request, which was not often, for I had grown shy of him of late. "You seem to be in the confidence of all the old women in the hamlet, from what I hear. What do you do to make them like you so much?"
"I don't know, unless it be that I listen to their stories," I answered. "I think old folks usually do like that. They like to tell, and I like to hearken, so we are both suited."
"Vevette is practising her part beforehand," said Betty, who had followed me back to the green. "She means to be perfect in it by the time she comes to be Lady of the Manor. My mother has never had time to do so much listening."
Andrew shot one of his fiery glances at his sister, while I was so confused and so angry both at once that I could not say a word. I was going into the house when he called me and asked me to walk with him to the end of the lane and look out upon the sea.
Betty said she would go too, but Margaret called her back rather sharply, to my great joy, for I hardly felt like keeping terms with her, and I was determined not to quarrel if I could help it.
"You must not mind poor Betty," said Andrew. (Why is the most exasperating member of a family always spoken of as poor so and so?) "She has always been the contrary feather in the family nest, ever since she was born."
"I do not mean to mind her," said I, "if only she would not make mischief. But I think it is too bad in her to lead me on to tell her about London and my uncle and aunt there, and then go and tell your mother, as if it had been all my doing. And then—but there, what is the use?" I added. "You cannot understand, and there is no need of troubling you with the matter. Only I wish we had stayed in Jersey—that is all," I concluded, with a quiver in my voice.
Andrew pressed my hand, and we were silent a few minutes.
Then he said, "I have a favor to ask of you, Vevette."
"I am glad of it," said I, as indeed I was. "What can I do for you?"
"You are a famous knitter," said he. "Will you knit me a pair of long, warm woollen hose before I go?"
"Yes indeed; but do you not want more than one pair?"
"I did not suppose you would have time for more than one."
"That is a likely story!" said I. "As if I could not knit more than one pair of hosen in four weeks. I will begin them directly. I know Jeanne has been spinning some famous yarn."
We talked a little longer about various matters—about the places where Andrew was going, and the time when he would return—and then we fell into graver talk, and from that again to jesting, till I had quite recovered my serenity.
The next morning was my turn at the school, and I walked thither with my head quite full of schemes for the improvement of my little folk which I meant to talk over with Andrew, for somehow our walk and that the night before had put us in some degree upon our old brotherly and sisterly footing again. I found the children assembled and ready to welcome me, and we had a prosperous morning.
When I came out, there was my mother on her pony, with Andrew at her bridle-rein as usual. My little regiment sent off quite a feu de joie, as I may say, of bobs and curtsies, showing their black curly heads and white teeth to great advantage; for they were, almost without exception, handsome. Cornwall was and is a country of handsome folk, and our hamlet is no exception to the rule.
"And how does the college prosper?" asked Andrew, after he had spoken to one and another of the young ones, and had acknowledged the salute of Peggy Mellish, who stood smiling and curtsying in her clean kirtle and apron, quite a picture of a young school-mistress.
"Very well," I answered; "only just now we are greatly in need of certain articles called knitting-pins. There are none to be had, it seems, nearer than Plymouth, if indeed they are to be found there. I want to teach the elder girls to knit, but I cannot, if I have no pins."
"That does stand to reason," answered Andrew gravely; "but perhaps the blacksmith could make some of these same pins, with a little of my assistance. I am a bit of a smith myself."
"So you ought to be. The knights of old could forge their own armor, you know. But I think you are a little of everything," said I. "If ever we should be cast away upon a desert island, like the folks you read of yesterday, you could set up housekeeping, and make yourself a great king among the people."
"Jack at all trades and master at none," said Andrew, looking pleased, as he always did when I made any such remark. "But here is your old dame's hare's-foot. It has the needful joint, you see. I cut it off myself."
"Many thanks. I will carry it to her, if you will wait for me."
"Nay, we will all go that way—that is, if Andrew does not mind the walk," said my mother. "I have a fancy to see the old house at St. Wenna's Well."
"The walk is nothing, so the ride is not too much for you," answered Andrew. "As for Vevette, I know she minds walking no more than the old pony here."
"Very polite, to compare me to a pony," said I, pretending to pout. "But I shall like to see the old house. Does any one live in it?"
"Only the woman who cares for it; and she is worth seeing too," answered Andrew. "Is not this the old dame's cottage?"
It was, and the dame was within, groaning grievously with the colic; but no sooner did she take the hare's-foot into her hand, such was the virtue of the remedy or the effect of her faith in it, than she was presently quite easy.
"Do you suppose it really helped her?" I asked, when we were again on our way.
"Nay, that I cannot say," said Andrew. "'Tis an old notion, and for aught I know may have some virtue in it. At all events, it hath this advantage over some other medicaments, that if it does no good it can do no harm."
"What is there so odd about the housekeeper at the Well House?" I asked, when we had gone on a little.
"You will easily discover that when you see her," answered Andrew. "But aside from her person, there is something peculiar in the manner of her appearance among us. She was found when a little child, wandering upon the sea-shore early one morning after a great storm of thunder and wind. She was very small, but from her ways it was judged she must be three or four years old, for she could speak plainly, though in a language none understood. She was somewhat richly dressed, and had about her neck a thin gold chain and the image of some bird wrought in the same metal. The folk thought her a fairy changeling or else a sea-maid, and were almost afraid of her; but an old couple then living in the Well House took her in and brought her up as their own. She well repaid their care, having been a most dutiful daughter to them. She hath never married, and now that the old folks are dead, she lives in the Well House, to take care of it. She is an odd little body, but very faithful and honest."
We had by this time come in sight of the Well House, as it was called, which stood in its own little coombe opening down to the sea at the very mouth of Tre Madoc valley. It was a pretty little old house, built of warm red stone and shadowed by a great walnut-tree and an ash. At a little distance, and indeed almost joining the house, was a very tiny ruined chapel or oratory, such as one often sees by the roadside in France. A small bright stream ran through the garden, which was pretty though rather wild and overgrown. I took a fancy to the place at once.
"It hath not changed in the least," said my mother; "only the trees are grown and the old chestnut is away. What hath become of it?"
"It blew down a few years since in a great storm," answered Andrew. "I made a cabinet and table of the wood, which are now in the house."
"Have you any of the chestnuts we brought from the Tour d'Antin?" asked my mother, turning to me. "If so, you might plant two or three here."
"I have them, but I fear they are too dry to grow," said I. "However, it can do no harm to try."
(Two of them did grow, and are now fine bearing trees.)
"See, there is the holy well, under the arch yonder," said my mother. "I wonder do the village maids come on St. John's even to drop needles into it that they may dream of their sweethearts?"
"Yes indeed; and the water is still sought for baptisms, under the notion that no person christened with that water will ever be hanged," said Andrew. "See, Vevette, there is my fairy housekeeper."
A fairy indeed she looked. I never saw so small a person not to be a dwarf, yet she was perfectly well proportioned and very upright. Her hair, a little touched with silver, was black as a crow's wing, and her eyebrows the same. On the whole, she was a very handsome little creature, yet there was something about her so different from the country people among whom she lived that I did not wonder to hear that they regarded her as something not quite human. She made us welcome with great politeness, and I could but notice how well she spoke English. Andrew explained our errand.
"We shall give you some trouble, I fear," said my mother.
"Not at all, madame. It is a pleasure to me, and you are come in good time, for I have just been opening and airing the house." And indeed we had observed the open windows as we came up.
"We will not trouble you to go with us," said Andrew. "My aunt knows the house of old."
She curtsied and withdrew to her own special domain, and we went through all the rooms, which were in the best order, and certainly did credit to the sea-dame's housekeeping, being as dry and airy as if used all the time. In two or three of the rooms, fires were burning on the hearth, and there was a peculiar air of cheerfulness about the whole place. I remarked this to Andrew.
"It does not seem at all like a deserted house," said I. "One would say these rooms were used to pleasant company."
"The village folks would tell you that Dinah entertains her friends from the sea in these apartments," said Andrew, smiling. "They tell stories of seeing the house lighted up and hearing music at night. I determined to look into the thing, thinking possibly that the place might be the haunt of smugglers; but I found the lights came from the fires Dinah had lighted to expel the damp, and the music was the old harpsicon, on which she had taught herself to play, by the help of some music-books she had found."
"Then she can read," said my mother.
"Oh, yes, and write as well. The people who took her in were of the better class. They were not Cornish folk, but East Country English, who came and settled here in the reign of Charles the First. No one knew much about them, and I fancy they might have had their own reasons for keeping quiet, but my father never would allow them to be molested. See, here is the cabinet I made from the old chestnut-tree."
"So you are a cabinet-maker as well," said I. "Another qualification for our desert island."
"That same desert island seems to take your fancy," said Andrew, smiling. "Perchance if you tried it, as I have done, you would not find it so pleasant."
"Were you really cast away?" I asked curiously. "When and where?"
"About ten years ago, on one of the most lovely little islets of the West Indies. It was like a bit out of paradise. We had landed for water, but a squall came up, and by some blunder, I was left behind. I stayed there a week, and most thankful was I to see the face of man once more. But here we are in the parlor again, and I see Dinah has prepared quite a feast for us."
She had indeed spread an elegant little repast of bread, cream, and honey, with fruit from the garden. Of course we did not decline it, my mother eating to please the good woman, and Andrew and I because we were hungry.
"What an odd name she has!" said I.
"She called herself Diane when she was found, and for a long time would answer to no other, but at last her foster-parents took to calling her Dinah, with which she was content. Well, aunt, how do you like the house, now you have seen it?"
"So well that I am minded to find you a chap-man," said my mother, smiling. "What say you? Will you sell the Well House to Vevette and myself? I wish to buy a home, and would rather have this than any other."
Andrew opened his eyes wide, as he was wont to do when puzzled.
"What do you mean, aunt? Are you in earnest? And why would you leave the hall? Hath any one in the family been unkind or uncivil to you?"
"Here is a fine mouthful of questions all in a breath," said my mother. "I will answer them all in turn. I am quite in earnest, and mean what I say. I would have the hall, because I think it will be better and more convenient for me to have my own household, and let your mother have hers. No one has been uncivil to me. I have had no quarrel with any one, and I mean to have none. But I never saw any house that was large enough for two families, and I do not believe Tre Madoc Court is any exception to the rule."
My mother went on to explain her reasons more at length than I shall do here. Andrew listened unwillingly at first, but at last he owned that there was right sense in what she said, and consented to consider of the matter.
"And what will Vevette say?" he asked, for I had not spoken a word.
"I like it well," I answered. "'Tis not so far but I can go up to the school. Rosamond can come down here with her books, and Meg with her knitting, and I dare say even you can make it convenient to stop sometimes when you come from your fishing."
He shook his head at me. "Well, well, we will consider of it," said he. "In truth, madame, you have a right to the tenancy of the house if you choose to live in it. I doubt not you will find it comfortable enough, and should anything be wanting, I will see that it is supplied. There is a good garden, a small orchard, and land enough for two cows, if you choose to keep them. I think Dinah has one at present. But what to do with her! She looks upon this house as her home, though of course she hath no right here but on sufferance."
"Let her remain, if she will take the post of waiting-gentlewoman," said my mother. "I shall want some such person, and our good Jeanne is hardly fitted for such a service. I like the woman's appearance. There is something about her which reminds me of home. Indeed, I think she is more French than English in her looks."
"Well, well, we will consider of it," said Andrew again. "Have you said aught to my mother?"
"No, I wished first to see the house."
The project was broached to my aunt that evening. I was not present, but my mother told me that though Aunt Amy said many kind things and made many hospitable objections, it was plain that she was not sorry to consent.
So the next day it was all settled, and we began to make our arrangements. Rosamond was struck with consternation on hearing of it, and could not be reconciled till my mother reminded her that she could come over twice or thrice a week to her Italian and French lessons.
"But you won't give up the school, will you, Vevette?" said Meg. "I don't know what I shall do without your help?"
"Oh, no; I can walk from the Well House as well as from here."
"But the way is very lonely, and you must pass the Pisky Bank going and coming," said Margaret. "Won't you be afraid?"
"No, I don't believe I shall," said I. "I have never disobliged the pixies, and I don't see why they should disoblige me."
"But there is the place where the smuggler was killed," objected Rosamond.
"Well, if he is killed, he can do no harm. I should not like to meet a live smuggler, but I don't see how one who was killed forty years ago can hurt me."
"Vevette does not believe in ghosts," said Betty.
"I would not say that exactly," I returned. "There are many such stories which seem to rest on good proof. But I think we of the reformed faith in France do not fear such things as much as people do here. Our preachers teach us that overmuch terror of ghosts and the like argues somewhat of a distrust in the care of our Heavenly Father. I have been in many very ghostly places, and at ghostly hours too, as Andrew knows, but I never saw anything more alarming than owls, bats, and spiders. We had a ghost in the château, but I was not nearly so much afraid of the white chevalier as I was of the village priest."
"Well, I don't pretend to be above all human weakness myself," said Betty.
"That is a good thing, my dear, for no one would believe you if you did," interrupted Andrew.
"You are very civil, to take the words out of my mouth," returned Betty. "I suppose that is French politeness, of which we hear so much. I mean to say that I do not hold myself to be wiser than all my elders, and than the rector himself, who believes in ghosts, and is very powerful in laying them. Why, he is sent for all along the coast, even to the Land's End and clear into Devonshire, for that purpose."
"I should think he would clear his own parish, then," said I, rather flippantly.
"But, Vevette, I really did see something on the path to the Well House one evening," said Rosamond, who had not yet spoken. "It was only last Tuesday. I had been down to the shore with a basket for old Madge, and was coming up again, slowly, when just at the turn of the road I saw a man and a woman walking slowly along. The woman had a veil over her head and a dark gray gown like Betty's homespun, and the gentleman was tall and slim and wore a gray cloak. I wondered who they could be, but I never thought of their being anything uncommon till I came up near them; and behold, they were gone like a flash!"
"Perhaps they had slipped aside into the bushes," said I. "There is a ruined cottage close by; perhaps they went into that. Did you look to see?"
"Look into Torden's cottage!" said Rosamond, aghast at the very idea. "No indeed; I ran home as fast as I could."
"And wisely too," said Andrew. "But what like was this ghostly gallant?"
"I did not see his face, but he was tall and slim, with a fair love-lock, which slipped out from under his cloak. That was all I noticed, but somehow, he made me think of young Mr. Lovel."
"What nonsense is this!" said Betty angrily. "Rosamond saw one of the village maids out curtsying with her lad. Every one knows she fears her own shadows."
Betty spoke with so much heat that we all looked at her in surprise, and a kind of undefined suspicion darted through my mind and was forgotten the next minute.
"Well, then, if I am afraid I will set up a rival cottage down at the shore, and so put Meg's into the shade," said I, laughing. "There are old Madge's grandchildren, and the Polwhele brood, and the Widow Barker's two maids. That would make a very decent school."
"Yes, a pretty return that would be to Meg for letting you help her," said Betty, who was thoroughly out of humor, as it seemed. "I ever thought she would find a cuckoo in her nest."
"Indeed, I think it would be a capital thing," said Margaret. "It is a long way for the little children to come, and they make every rain an excuse for staying away. I should hate to lose her from the school at the hamlet, too."
"There is no hurry," I replied. "I have not yet served out my apprenticeship. I am your scholar, Meg, as much as little Peggy is mine."
"Very humble, truly," said Betty sarcastically, and there the matter ended.
When I was again alone, Rosamond's tale and Betty's discomposure thereat again recurred to my mind, and I wondered what interest she could have in the matter. But I finally reflected that it was one of her bad days, when she was wont to find matter for annoyance in the simplest occurrence, and dismissing the matter from my mind I fell to thinking over another, much more important to me, namely, whether Andrew meant to ask me once more to marry him before he set sail, and if so, what I should say to him.