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THE BOOK.
IT was settled that we were to remove the next week, and Jeanne and Simon with us, for they would by no means consent to stay behind. Simon was to have charge of the out-of-door matters, the cows and pony, and Jeanne of the dairy, while Dinah was to fill the post of housekeeper and waiting-gentlewoman, with the eldest girl in the village school for a maid under her. This was as much of an establishment as my mother thought prudent, considering our means, though Aunt Amy was very pressing with us to take another maid in the home. She was very kind, and would have given us half the fine linen and blankets at the Court, and enough of comfits, wine, and other provisions for an army; and she was even inclined to be angry with my mother for accepting so little. However, all was settled amicably, and seeing how obliging she was, I ventured to prefer a humble request that she would lend me the old French cabinet in my room—a request winch she granted with alacrity, and added thereto the gift of a small Persian carpet which I greatly admired.
But I was not destined to leave Tre Madoc Court without a more serious trouble, which trouble could never have fallen upon me but for my own want of frankness, and that double-mindedness which was always my bane. I mentioned that my Aunt Jem had given me as a parting present a book of plays and poems, and that I had never showed this book to my mother. In truth, my first concealment had arisen rather from timidity and embarrassment than from wilful deception. I did not quite know what to do with the book, not liking to refuse it for fear of hurting Aunt Jem, of whom I was very fond, and I felt quite sure maman would not let me keep it, if she knew.
Of course the straight road would have been, as it ever is, the right one, but I took that middle way of compromise, which is never the right one, as I may say, and put the book at the bottom of my mail, with a half resolve to show it to my mother at the first opportunity. But in truth, in the surprise and joy of meeting Simon and Jeanne and the excitement of travelling and settling in our new home, I quite forgot it.
When I came to unpack my mail I found it. Betty was in the room, and asked what it was, and I told her its history.
"Have you not read it?" she asked, seizing and opening it. "It looks delightful."
"No, I have not read it, and shall not till I show it to maman," I answered.
"Then let me have it—do!" said Betty, turning it over with eager interest. "Or we will read it together. I am sure Aunt Jem would not give you a wicked book, though she may not be so strait-laced as my Aunt Margaret. Come, let us read it together. Your things are all put away, and my aunt is with my mother in the still-room, so she will not want you. Let us sit down in the window and read."
"I did not know Betty as well then as I came to know her afterward, and I really had some curiosity about the book, which was partly writ by that Mr. Dryden, who hath since made a great noise in the world. The first poem was certainly very beautiful, and innocent enough, so far as I understood it. The next was a play.
"Indeed I cannot read any more, Betty," said I; "and you ought not either, till you ask your mother."
"Well, let me take the book, then," said Betty. "I will not hurt it, and I don't believe it will hurt me."
I refused plumply, but at that moment my mother called me to come and see some curious ware which she had found in looking over the house with my aunt. When I returned Betty had taken away the book, and I could not get it of her again, though I had more than once asked her for it. It was now returned on my hands, with a witness.
A day before we left the Court, we were all sitting in the cedar parlor—that is, my mother, Meg, Rosamond, and I—busy in finishing a certain worked coverlet which my aunt had had in hand a long time, and which she wished to give my mother for a parting present. Andrew was reading to us out of an English chronicle, but I fear we young ones cared more about the flowers on our work than about the wars between the houses of York and Lancaster. I can see at this moment the daisy with pink edges and a yellow centre on which I was bestowing all my skill, when we were all startled by the entrance of Aunt Amy, evidently in a high state of excitement. I thought I should like to sink into the earth when I saw in her hand that identical red leather and gilded book which I had lent Betty, or rather which she had taken for herself.
"So, sister d'Antin!" said my aunt, in her rare tone of excitement. "This is the way your daughter rewards my hospitality—for I won't say you, though I must say, knowing what she was, I think you might have looked out for her—bringing her vile and corrupting books into a decent house, and lending them to my innocent maids. This is what one gets for one's goodness in taking in—"
"Mother!" said Andrew, more sternly than I ever heard him speak to her before or afterward.
"Oh, you may say mother as much as you please, son; but I wish your father had taken my advice and looked out a good honest Cornish maid for you, instead of betrothing you to a French mademoiselle whom none of us knew, to bring her corruptions in here. Just look at this book which she lent Betty, and told her not to tell her mother, and which the poor child just now came and brought me, confessing with shame and tears how wicked she had been. Just look at it, that is all!" And she flung it on the ground as if it had been a snake or spider.
Andrew took it up, looked at one or two places, and then, with a glance I shall never forget, he gave it to me. My mother took it from my unresisting hand.
"What does this mean, Vevette?" said she. "Where did this book come from?"
"My Aunt Jemima gave it to me," I answered, hardly able to speak.
"And you concealed it from me? Oh, my daughter!"
"Of course she concealed it," said my aunt triumphantly.
"Let Vevette speak, mother, since you have chosen to make this matter public, in what I must needs call an ill-judged manner," said Andrew, in that calm voice of authority which will be heard.
"How was it, Vevette?"
I tried to explain, but between my own shame and confusion and my aunt's interruptions, I am conscious that I made but a lame business of it. I did manage to say, however, that though I sat down and read the first poem with Betty, I had refused to read any more, and that I had absolutely refused to lend the book to Betty, who had taken it without leave.
"Yes, I know all about that!" said my aunt.
"Betty told me herself, poor wretch, that you told her you would not lend it to her; but can you deny that you went away and left the book in her hands? Can you deny that you were angry with her, and reproached her for telling me of your private curtsying about London, and London fine gallants, and other things that young maids should not know, much less tell on? You are an adder and a viper—that you are! And come of viper's brood—nasty, frog-eating French!"
My mother rose. "With your leave, sister Corbet, we will withdraw," said she, assuming the chatelaine, as she well knew how. "I shall not justify my child till I hear from her all the circumstances of this unlucky affair. Nephew Andrew, I will thank you to order the pony."
"The pony—and for what?" asked my aunt, cooling down, as she always did when my mother took this tone.
"That I may withdraw to my own house, since I am so happy as to have one," replied my mother. "When this matter is cleared up, sister Corbet, you shall have all proper explanations and apologies. In the meantime, 'tis neither for your dignity or mine that I should remain longer under a roof where such language has been applied to me and mine. I thank you from my heart for your hospitality, but I can partake of it—no, not an hour longer."
My aunt, upon this, began to cry, and to retract what she had said.
"I did not mean you, sister d'Antin—and perhaps it was not so bad; but you see she does not deny that she had the book, and that Betty got it from her—and I know I am hasty when I am roused; and the French do eat frogs, for you told me yourself; and you said they were good—you know you did, sister d'Antin. And Betty is artful, I confess; but that does not make it right for Vevette to lend her bad books, nor for Andrew to look at me so, as if—and I am sure I am his own natural mother and not a stranger, and 'tis unknown the trouble I had in rearing him, because he was a May babe, and my mother said he would never be lucky."
"Mother and my aunt," said Andrew, in his grave, commanding tones, "will you be so good as to let this matter rest for to-night? It hath been made far too public already. Aunt, if I have ever done you any service, I beseech you to remain under my roof till to-morrow." (I never heard Andrew say my roof before.)
"Yes, do," said my aunt, who had cooled rapidly, as usual. "Indeed I regret that I was so hasty; and I will take back all I said about vipers and adders."
My mother suffered herself to be prevailed upon so far as to say she would remain till the time originally set, for her departure. Then she withdrew to her room, and I followed, like one going to execution. Once there she addressed me in a tone which I had never heard from her but once before, requiring me to give her a full account of this transaction. I fell down on my knees before her, and told her the whole story from beginning to end.
"How shall I believe you? You have already deceived me," said she sadly.
"Indeed, maman, I have now told you the truth," said I, weeping. "I only read the first poem in the book, and then I would go no farther. And I did not lend it to Betty. She took it from the room when you called me to look at the china, and I never could get it again, though I asked her for it ever so many times. Oh, maman, do believe me!"
"Vevette," said she, laying her hand on my shoulder, and looking me through and through as I knelt before her, "as you hope ever to meet your father again, tell me the truth. Have you any more of these books?"
"No, maman, not one."
"Have you ever had any of them since I forbade you reading them?"
"Yes, maman, I had two or three that my Uncle Charles sent to the tower, but the day before we went to the Supper in the old grange I burned them, every one."
"And you have not read the rest of this book?"
"No, maman, only the first poem, in which there was no harm. Betty wanted to read on, but I would not. Oh, maman, do forgive me!"
"I forgive you, my child, but you have grieved me to the heart," said my mother. "Go to your room, and pray for forgiveness and cleansing. Do not leave it this night. By and by, when I am rested, we will talk farther."
I retired to my own room, feeling as miserable as any girl of my age ever felt in the world, mid that is saying much, for the capacities of such girls for misery are very great. It seemed to me as though I could never be happy again. In all my little difficulties with my aunt and Betty heretofore, Andrew had always been on my side; but now, he too had turned against me. How plainly I could see the look he gave me when he handed me that detestable book—a look full of anger and grief. I knew that he hated lying above all things. It was the only sin with which he seemed to have no patience.
I had not told a lie in words, to be sure, but I had been guilty of deception, and that was enough for him. Now that I had lost him, or thought I had, I felt how dear he was to me. I had lost his respect, and I felt sure that all comfort was at an end between us, even though he should feel bound to fulfil his contract. One thing I made up my mind to—I would never be his wife if he showed the least unwillingness to marry me. And then I remembered how pleased he had been when I spoke of our living together on a desert island, and for the first time I burst into tears.
I wept for a long time, thus lightening my heart a little, and then taking up my Bible I tried to read myself into some sort of quietness. I had just begun to breathe without sobbing when smile one knocked at the door. I opened it, with my heart throbbing at the thought that it might be Andrew, and there stood Betty, her eyes cast down with that affectation of meekness I knew so well, and carrying in her hands a tray laden with good things.
"I have brought you some supper," said she, in her silver tones. "I thought perhaps you would not care to come down."
"Oh, you did! You are very considerate," I said bitterly. "You did not come at all to triumph in the mischief you have made by your lies."
"Why, Vevette," said she, in a tone of astonishment; "what do you mean? I am sure I did not mean to do you any harm, but only to relieve my own mind. I can't endure to have secrets from my mother."
All at once Rosamond's ghost story darted into my mind. When the devil puts such a weapon into the hand of a person in a passion, that person is very apt to use it without thought of consequences.
"Oh, you cannot! Then perhaps you have told your mother of the pair of ghosts Rosamond saw disappear near Torden's cottage, one of which had on a gray homespun gown, and the other looked so much like young Mr. Lovel. I think I will tell Mr. Dawson about these ghosts, that he may keep a lookout for them, since he is so skilful in dealing with that sort of gentry."
Betty turned white, or rather gray, for a moment, and nearly let her tray fall. Then she recovered herself and said quietly—
"I don't think I would tell any more tales if I were you. You would not be likely to gain much credit just now. I came to make friends with you."
"That is false!" I interrupted her. "You came to triumph over me."
"I came to make friends with you," she continued calmly; "but if you choose to treat me as an enemy, you can do so. I pity you, Vevette, and I do not blame you as much as I do those who have brought you up in such ways. Your conduct just shows what that religion is worth of which we have heard so much."
In a quarrel, the person who has no conscience always has an advantage over the person who has one. Betty had certainly got the best of it in this case, notwithstanding the stab I had given her. I shut the door in her face, and again sat down to try to compose my thoughts, but I did not find it so easy. Revenge is like the little book of the prophet, in that though it may be sweet in the mouth it is very bitter of digestion. I had struck a telling blow, it was true, but I had gotten it back with interest, and the worst of it was that in this instance Betty had some truth on her side. I was a discredit to the parents who had brought me up, and the religion in which I had been educated. I had brought shame on my dear mother as well as myself.
Betty had indeed done me a cruel mischief, and that not only in the trap she had so artfully laid for me, and into which I had so foolishly walked, like a silly hare into a springe, but in coming to enjoy her triumph as she had just done; for that such was her motive I did not doubt then, nor do I now. She had drawn toward her that anger which I had hitherto directed toward myself, and roused in me a spirit of anger and revenge. I felt as if I could have killed her. In this state of mind, my mother found me when she came in to talk to me later in the evening, nor did all her expostulations avail to draw me out of it. I was ready to beg her pardon in the very dust, and to make my submission to my aunt, but I could not and would not forgive Betty; nay, I would not even say I would try.
"Then you must yourself remain unforgiven, my poor child," said my mother; "under the anger of that Heavenly Father whom you have offended. Can you afford that? Will you still further grieve that kind and tender Divine Friend whom you have so deeply grieved already?"
If I had spoken out the thought that was in my heart, I should have said that I did not believe that Friend loved me so very much, or he would not have suffered this trouble to come upon me just when I was trying to be so very good; but this I did not dare to say.
"I cannot help it, maman," I answered her at last. "I never, never can forgive Betty for the part she has acted. She has been ten times worse than I, and nobody seems to blame her at all. You don't mind her coming here to triumph over me—bringing me a tray forsooth as if I did not know that she will never wait upon any one if she can help it. You don't mind how much I am insulted!"
It showed how I was carried out of myself that I dared speak so to my mother. I was scared when the words were out of my mouth. But my mother was one who knew when to reprove and punish and when to soothe and comfort. She saw that I was almost beside myself with anger and excitement—a mood, I must say, which was rare in me.
"We will talk no more to-night," said she. "You had better try to calm yourself, and to sleep. My poor little maid, I thought I was bringing you to a safe nest when I refused to leave you in London. But there are temptations everywhere, since there is no earthly state from which the world, the flesh, and the devil can be kept out. Go to bed, my Vevette, and remember, though thou canst not or wilt not pray for thyself, thy mother is praying for thee."
With that she kissed me and returned to her own room. I burst into fresh tears, and cried till I could cry no more, and then, feeling my heart a little lightened, I was preparing to undress when some one tapped softly at the door, and a low voice said—
"Vevette!"
"Who is there?" I asked.
"Rosamond," was the answer. "Please let me in. I have brought you a cup of milk and some bread."
I could not resist the pleading tones, and I opened the door. Rosamond had been crying as bitterly as myself, and as she came into the room she set down her burden and clasping me in her arms site kissed me and cried again. My tears flowed too, but they were cool tears now, and refreshed my burning eyes.
"Dear Rosamond, you won't turn against me, will you?" said I.
"No indeed," she answered warmly, and then added, "Of course you know I must think it was wrong for you to keep the book, and to read ever so little, when you knew your mother would not allow it. But every one does wrong sometimes. If we were not sinners, the dear Lord would not have needed to come down and die for us."
Somehow these simple words did more to calm my heart, and to show me my sin at the same time, than anything had done before. The dear Lord had died for me, and this was the way I had repaid him. He was ready to forgive me, and yet I would not forgive Betty. I began to see things in a new light.
"I know I was very wrong," said I, "and I am sorry—indeed I am. But, Rosamond, it was not so bad. I did not lend Betty the book: I told her she should not have it; but maman called me, and when I came back, she was gone. I have tried again and again to get it out of her hands, and then I meant to burn it up. But what is the use of talking, since nobody will believe me?"
"I believe you," said Rosamond; "I believe every word you say. But don't you see that even, then, if you had gone to your mother and laid the whole before her, all this would not have happened? She might have been displeased, 'tis true; but she would have forgiven you and got back the book, and all would have ended well by this time."
"It is true," I answered. "I wish I had done as you say."
"I think the very most straightforward way is always the best way, especially when one is dealing with one like—like Betty," continued Rosamond. "There is nothing which deceitful people understand so little as truth. But, Vevette, if you are sorry, it will all come right in the end. Let us kneel down and say the fifty-first Psalm together, and I am sure you will feel better."
We did so, and then the dear maid repeated the thirty-second Psalm. She was like the holy well at St. Wenna's, which ran with a clear but small stream, while now and then came a great rush of bright water, bubbling up through the white pebbles and showing for a moment the crystal depth below. I had always loved her from the first of our acquaintance, but from that hour began a friendship which will never end.
We kissed each other on our knees and then rose.
"Do eat a morsel," said Rosamond. "You have had no supper, and you will be ill to-morrow."
I tried, in complaisance to her, but I could not manage it.
"I cannot eat," said I; "but oh, Rosamond, I am so thirsty."
"I will bring you some cool water from the well in the court," said she, and taking a jug, she was gone before I could object. When she came back she looked startled.
"Do you know, Vevette, I am sure I saw that same figure that I saw before near Torden's cottage with the woman. It was just under the archway, as plain as could be against the sky, and it slipped away just as before. Who or what can it be?"
"Some one hanging about after one of the maids, perhaps," said I, though I had my own thoughts upon the matter. "Now you must not stay any longer or my aunt will be angry and think I am corrupting you."
"Oh, no, she won't," answered Rosamond. "I asked her if I might come, and she said yes, and wanted me to bring you all kinds of nice things, but I thought you would not care for them. I think she is very sorry she made such an ado about the matter, now that it is over. Well, good-night, dear Vevette; I hope you will sleep."
But I could not sleep, except feverishly and by snatches, till after the birds began to sing in the morning. Then indeed I had a good nap, and waked refreshed. I washed and dressed, and went softly into my mother's room. She was already up, and kneeling before the table, on which lay, always open, her Bible, and the little worn prayer-book she brought from France. She beckoned me to kneel beside her, and we said our prayers together, as usual. Then, as we rose, she drew me to her and kissed me.
"The evil spirit has gone out—is it not so?" said she, looking into my face with a smile.
"Yes, maman, I hope so," I answered. "I am very sorry about the book, and I will try to forgive Betty."
"That is spoken well, my child; and now I must tell you that I think you have been somewhat hardly dealt by in this matter. Looking it over coolly, I can see that I did not make enough allowance for indecision and embarrassment on your part, after you received the book."
"Indeed and truly, maman, I meant to show you the book, but I quite forgot it till we came here. Then when Betty carried it off, I did not know what to do."
"There was but one thing to do, and that was to come and tell me all about it," said my mother. "That would have saved all the trouble."
"So Rosamond said. Oh, maman, she was so good last night."
"She is a dear maid," said my mother; "by far the best of the three."
"Better than Margaret?" said I, surprised, for I had looked upon Meg as a pattern of all excellence.
"Yes, because she is truly humble-minded—a rare and most precious quality. She is truly poor in spirit, while Meg, with all her good qualities—but we will not discuss the faults of others. Now, do you know what is to be done next?"
"I must go to my aunt and tell her that I am sorry," said I, "but, maman, what shall I say? I cannot say that I am sorry for lending Betty the book, for I did not lend it to her—she took it."
"Tell her just how it was, and say you are sorry for bringing the book here. I will go with you, if it will make matters easier."
We found my aunt in the still-room—luckily alone—fussing over some peppermint she was distilling.
"Do see here, Margaret," said she, as we entered. "What ails this peppermint? See how foul it runs."
"The still is too hot, I think," said my mother, examining it; "and your peppermint is rather old. I should begin again, and with some smaller shoots. But, sister, Vevette hath something to say to you."
"About what?" asked my aunt absently, still busy with the refractory still; and then, recollecting herself, "Oh, about the book. Well, then, child, I forgive you, only don't do it again. I know I was warm myself, and said too much, but that is only my way. There, run, that's a good maid, and cut me some nice lengths of the peppermint. You have more sense about gathering of herbs, than any of the others—only don't draggle your petticoats. Why, what ails the child?" catching sight of my face. "She looks as if she had had an illness."
"She has been very much distressed about this affair," said my mother; "and so have I; but I think if I were to explain the matter to you as she has done to me—"
"Oh, let bygones be bygones," interrupted my aunt. "I hate explanations; and, as I said, I was over-warm. Do you want to cut the herbs, child? Do just as you please."
"Yes, aunt, I shall like it," I answered, glad of an excuse to get into the fresh air. I was at once pleased and vexed that my aunt should make so little of the matter. I went down to the peppermint-bed which grew under the shade of a yew hedge, and was busy choosing out the very best shoots when I heard voices on the other side of the hedge. "I shall never ask her to help in the school again—never!" said Margaret. "I could not forgive myself, if she should corrupt the children."
"If it had been anything else," said Andrew, in a voice of deep dejection; "anything but deception."
"To read such a wicked book, too," said Margaret.
"How do you know it was so very wicked, after all?" asked Rosamond.
"Oh, I looked at it last night as it lay on the table," said Margaret, quite sedately.
"If I knew it was so wicked, I would not have looked at it at all," said Rosamond. "And you know she said she only read the first poem, in which there was no harm."
"Yes, but who can ever believe her? I know I shall never trust her again. When I have found any one out once, there is the end of it with me."
"According to your own account you are just as bad as Vevette," said Rosamond; "that is, if you don't tell lies every day."
"Rosamond, what do you mean?" said Margaret, in a voice of amazement that almost made me laugh aloud. "I as bad as Vevette?"
"According to your own showing," returned Rosamond, in the same matter-of-fact way. "Don't you say every day of your life that you have done the things you ought not to have done, and left undone the things you ought to have done—that there is no health in you, and you are a miserable sinner? I don't know what Vevette could say of herself worse than that."
"Rosamond, you are very pert," said Meg, and I could tell by her voice that she was offended. "Of course one says those things because they are in the prayers of the church, and the Bible says we are all sinners; but I should like to know wherein I fail in my duty. Do I ever tell lies, or read bad books, or miss my church or sacrament? Don't I—" Here she stopped, in a little confusion as it seemed, thinking, I fancy, that it was not quite seemly thus to blazon her good deeds, however highly she might rate them.
"Then if you never do wrong or omit to do good, why do you say you do?" persisted Rosamond. "Is that telling the truth? Take care, sister! It was the publican who went down to his house justified, rather than the man who thanked God he was not as other men."
"You are very impertinent to lecture your elder sister in this way," returned Margaret. "I shall speak to my mother;" and she walked away.
"I believe you are in the right, Rosamond," said Andrew. "We have been too hard on the poor child. If it were anything but deception!"
"I do not read in Scripture that one sin is worse than another," returned Rosamond. "The Bible saith not so, but that he that offendeth in one point is guilty of all. Besides—"
I did not care to hear more. Indeed I had not heard so much, only the yew walk was my way to the house, and I had been waiting hoping they would pass on. I now rose up, and passing through the archway I went on my way, giving a kind good-morning to Rosamond and curtsying to Andrew in passing. He would have spoken, I believe, but I did not give him the chance. When I entered the still-room I heard my aunt say, in a tone of some annoyance—
"Well, well, sister, we will let the matter rest. It is natural you should justify your own daughter as far as you can. I have told the young ones to say no more, and to treat their cousin kindly. So here she comes. Well, you have got a little color, child, in the fresh air. Yes, that is very nice. You are one who can mind what you are about, and will make a good housewife for all that is come and gone. There is a piece of gingerbread for you, and you had better take a cup of cream for your breakfast; you look but poorly. I think, sister, I will give Vevette the small still, and then she will not forget what she has learned."
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A WEDDING.
I THINK Margaret really did try to meet me as usual, but of course she did not succeed. She had been vexed at Rosamond for having so much the best of it in their little argument, and I fancy too she found her usual self-complacency a little disturbed; so she was very stately. Andrew did not say much, but he was kind, and would have liked to help me to everything on the table.
Betty was demure and silent, with eyes cast down, though I fancied I now and then caught her regarding me with some anxiety. I suppose she would have liked to find out how much I did know, or whether I knew anything. In good sooth I did not know anything, but I must needs own that my suspicions were strong, and grew stronger the more I considered the matter.
In the beginning of our acquaintance Betty had been much disposed to make a confidante of me, and she herself had told me that Mr. Lovel had been a suitor for her hand, but that her mother had rejected him because he was a spendthrift, and had no good character in other respects, besides being a total unbeliever—a fashion just then much affected by a certain class of men who wished to appear strong-minded and learned at small cost. I could see that Betty was well enough disposed toward him—indeed she said so.
And our first breach came from my saying I wondered she could think of such a person for a husband. I expressed myself pretty warmly on the subject, at which she was very much vexed, and said some sharp things in her turn. However, we made up the quarrel, but when Betty began to talk of him again—I, with a degree of prudence rather to be wondered at, positively refused to hear, telling her that since her mother and brother were opposed to the match, and with such good reason, she ought not to allow her thoughts to dwell upon the subject, but to conquer her regard for Mr. Lovel, if she had any. This little lecture completed the breach between us, and from that time Betty never lost a chance of vexing and injuring me, though she managed her matters with such adroitness that even Andrew did not see through them, and I began to wonder in myself whether I was not growing touchy and ill-natured.
As soon as breakfast was over, my mother and myself retired to our apartment, to finish our preparations for the removal to the Well House. They were not many, for most of our goods were sent thither already, and the house having been kept in such nice order, there was but little to do. My aunt, on her part, was busy among her storerooms and presses, and we presently saw old Matt driving the laden donkey before him, and carrying as many baskets as would have loaded another.
We meant to have gone away directly after breakfast, but aunt was most earnest with us to stay to dinner and partake of the feast which had been put in hand before the unlucky business of the book. So, though I at least was impatient to be gone, we consented to remain. What a feast it was, to be sure! What jellies and creams and tarts and pies of every sort and kind! (The Cornish folk are famous for pies, and 'tis said that the devil never dared to come into Cornwall lest they should take a fancy to "a devilly pie." This, however, is not true. He is just as busy in Cornwall as anywhere else.)
We all parted good friends, and I forced myself to bid a civil adieu to Betty. Aunt Amy was careful to put into each of our hands a package of cakes and comfits, that we might not enter our new home empty-handed and thus bring scarcity upon it. Andrew walked at my mother's bridle-rein, as usual, and Rosamond and I walked together. Simon and Jeanne had preceded us.
When we reached the house-door, Andrew assisted my mother to alight, and then he and Rosamond took a kind leave of us. He saluted me as usual, but there was a change in his manner toward me which I felt bitterly enough, though I had too much maidenly pride to show it. Then they returned home, and we entered our new house together. Dinah and Jeanne were in the hall to welcome us, and had made a cheerful little fire upon the hearth of our sitting-room, for though the summer was in its prime, the evening was cool, and a little mist was drifting up from the sea.
"The place seems home-like, does it not, my Vevette?" said my mother. "I must say I am not sorry to be in my own house once more. Ah, if your father were but here!"
"He is in a better home than this, maman," I ventured to say.
"True, my child, and we will not wish to call him back again. We shall go to him, but he will not return to us."
She kissed me, and we stood a moment in silence. Then my mother roused herself and proposed that we should go through the house.
We found everything in beautiful order, and had occasion at every step to admire my aunt's generosity and Andrew's thoughtfulness.
There was abundance of fine linen and of blankets and everything in the housekeeping line that could be needed. Dinah displayed with delight the service of real china, and the silver salts, and the dredgers for pepper and spices, and the pots upon pots of preserves and honey which my aunt had provided.
My room opened from my mother's, and contained the old French cabinet I had so much admired, and also a little clock, which I knew had been one of Rosamond's chief treasures. From Meg, and marked with her name, was a pretty coverlet of silk patchwork—a kind of work very fashionable at that time, and in which Meg excelled, as she did in most things. From Betty there was a worked cushion, which I am afraid I was spiteful enough to throw into the darkest corner of the closet. From Andrew I had some beautiful china and the loveliest little work-table that could be, besides a case with doors, which being opened I found to contain a portrait of himself, which I suppose he had had painted in London. It was beautifully done, and looked at me with his very eyes and expression—a kind of smiling gravity.
The kitchens and offices were filled up with every convenience, and we found Jeanne quite in ecstasies over her little dairy and her two line cows—one a long-horned Devon, the other a comical little black Welsh cow with no horns at all.
"Ah, madame, had I but a Normandy brass jar for milking in, I should be quite happy," said the good woman. "To think what beautiful milk-jars I had, and how they are all fallen into the hands of the Philistines, as it were!"
"Ah, my poor Jeanne, if it were only the milk-jars that had fallen into the hands of the Philistines!" said old Simon. "But we must be thankful that we have been so kindly dealt by in this strange land. Will madame come to the stable and look at the horses?"
"Horses! What horses?" asked my mother, in surprise.
"The two saddle horses, madame, and the pony for mamselle, and the donkey. Indeed they are nice creatures. Monsieur Corbet recommended the gray for madame's riding, and the pony is as pretty and gentle a creature for a young lady as I ever saw. Monsieur has been training it for this fortnight."
Of course we must go to see them, and I was in ecstasies over my pony, but my mother looked a little grave.
"Andrew overloads us with benefits," said she. "I must talk with him about these same horses. The obligation is almost too great. But never mind, my Vevette; enjoy your pretty Blanche. See how she stoops her head to be petted!"
We returned to the house to find supper served, and Dinah, who had stepped easily enough into the place of waiting-gentlewoman, standing behind my mother's chair. We had been a little afraid Jeanne's feelings might be wounded by this arrangement, but she fell into it more than contentedly. She was born a cook, and her delight in having such a neat kitchen to rule in her own way overcame every other consideration. Simon had had great pleasure in putting to rights the rather overgrown garden, which was now a picture of neatness, and he declared he could easily take care both of that and the garden at the Court till such time as Andrew could suit himself with a gardener.
The next day was mine at the school, but I did not go thither, being resolved, after all I had heard, never to set foot therein till Margaret came and asked me. With the help of the pins Andrew had made, I had got three or four of the older girls, along with Peggy Mellish, nicely started in knitting. Now, as I have said, Margaret could do most things better than any one else; but she had never known how to knit till she had learned it of me, and she was by no means quick at it. The truth was, she had expected to take up the art at once and knit at the very first start as fast and as well as I did, and when she found that she must needs begin as slowly as one of the maids at the school, and that she dropped stitches and split threads when she tried to knit fast, she was a good deal out of patience. I must needs confess that it gave me a little wicked pleasure to think of the embarrassment she would fall into over the knitting.
I busied myself all the morning in arranging our affairs and in looking over the house and grounds. I made various interesting discoveries—of an old carved spinning-wheel, which I determined at once to have put to rights; of various odd bits of tapestry and hangings; and last, but not least, a light closet full of books. A great many of them were books of divinity, which I took little interest, but among the other volumes I found Stowe's "Annals," my old friends the "Arcadia" and Hackluyt's "Voyages," a volume of Shakespeare's plays, and the whole of Spenser's "The Faerie Queene," of which I had read only one odd volume. Mindful of my late troubles, I did not open one of these books till I told my mother of them and asked her consent.
"I will look them over and then tell you," said my mother.
"You will find no ill in them, madame, I venture to say," observed Dinah. "Those books mostly belonged to my honored father, and I do not believe there is one from which my young lady would take any harm."
"Then, if the books belonged to your father, they are yours now," I observed.
"You know he was not really my father," answered Dinah. "I was but a foundling, and could inherit nothing, and he never made a will. I have kept his books and some other things as it were in trust, till the rightful heir should appear to claim them. At all events, you and Mrs. Vevette are quite welcome to the use of any of the books."
"You do not remember anything of what your life was before you came here, I suppose," said my mother.
"No, madame, not with any distinctness. I recollect dimly a fine mansion-house or castle, and a room hung with tapestry. I remember a lady who used to pet me and teach me verses and prayers. Then I recollect being taken from my bed in the dark, hastily wrapped in my clothes and told not to cry, and being carried abroad in the night. After that, all is confusion till I came here."
"That is like our own escape," remarked my mother.
"Yes, madame, and I think it likely that my parents may also have been among those who had to fly for their lives. But who they were or what has become of them will, I suppose, always remain a mystery."
"You say your mother, or the lady you remember, taught you verses. Can you recollect any of them?" asked my mother.
"Only a line or two, madame," and she repeated a few lines, which my mother recognized instantly. "Why, that is the beginning of the 'Noble Lesson,' one of the most honored symbols of the Vaudois!" said she. "My husband could repeat it from end to end, and so can I, if I have not forgotten."
And she repeated a number of lines in the same language which is that still spoken in the Vaudois vales, and to some extent in Provence. I never saw any one more delighted than our poor little lady-in-waiting at this unexpected discovery. She had always liked my mother and me, but now she seemed ready to kiss the very hem of our garments. She showed us the little golden dove she had worn around her neck. It seemed as if made to open, but we could not find the way to do it. My mother said a dove in silver or gold was a very common ornament among the Protestants of Provence and Languedoc, to some family of which she now believed Dinah to belong.
Of course this discovery bound us all the more closely together. Jeanne was delighted, and would fain have recalled for Dinah's benefit her native tongue, but Dinah could only remember the few words she had repeated to us.
That afternoon my mother would go down to the shore and see the poor fishermen's families, several of whom lived at the entrance of the Coombe. We found them rude enough in their manner of living, of course, but courteous, and pleased with our visit, especially old Dame Madge, who had known my mother when a girl, and who was vehement in her expressions of delight at having her so near.
"But, do tell, madame; is it true that you have taken Dinah to be your waiting-woman?"
"Quite true. Why not?" asked my mother. "She is most skilful with her needle, and well bred, and I think myself fortunate in keeping her about me."
"And do you think then, madame, that she is a natural-born woman, and no sea-maid? They say down here that she can go back into the sea whenever she pleases and bring back the finest fish. Why, my son-in-law—and a fine good lad he is, and like an own son to me, though my poor daughter, his wife, only lived with him four years before she died of a waste—my son-in-law says that she once asked him for some fish for her father, as she called him. And Ben said he had none, but if the old gentleman was ill and fancied fish, he would go out and try what he could do, and she thanked him and said he was very kind; and if you will believe me, madame, though he had had the worst of luck for ever so long, that night he had the best catch ever he made. I can tell you, we were all ready to please Dinah after that. And she knows more about herbs than any one I ever saw—more than she ought, some think—though she says she learned it all out of a book she has. Never was anything like the medicine she made for my poor child's cough."
"It seems, then, that she uses her knowledge to good purpose," said my mother, smiling. "No, dame, I do not think her a sea-dame, but the child of some one-wrecked upon the coast."
"Ah, well, no doubt you know best, madame. Anyhow, she does naught but good that we know on, and 'tis best to be on the right side of such creatures."
We went next to visit Anne Barker, who was a widow with two daughters, one of whom was lame and confined to her bed and chair, while the other was one of the best girls in Margaret's school. We found the poor thing—Lois was her name—sitting up in her great three-cornered chair, trying to knit with two slender pegs which she had made from wood. She had partly learned the stitch from her sister, and was succeeding but indifferent well. I at once sat down by her and began to give her instruction, and she soon mastered the stitch, to her great delight.
"Ah, poor maid, she is pleased enough!" said her mother. "She cannot take the spinning-wheel, and the net-making is too hard for her, so time hangs but heavily with her."
"What was the cause of her malady?" asked my mother.
"She was pisky-struck, madame. The very week after she was born, the careless woman who was with me went out and left us alone, and I asleep with an unchristened babe. I was waked by a great noise, as of something running up the wall, and the next minute I heard the babe scream, and there it lay on the ground. No doubt the piskies would have carried it off altogether, if I had not waked just in time. After that it never thrived, poor dear."
"Perhaps is was hurt falling from the bed," I ventured to suggest.
"But what made it fall? No, madame, it was the piskies. I had the luck to displease them by accidentally treading on a fairy ring, and no doubt they meant to have their revenge."
"You did not see them?"
"No, madame, but I heard them as plain as I hear you. A better maid than poor Lois never lived, though I say it that shouldn't, but she can do little for herself or any one else."
"Can you read?" asked my mother of Lois.
"No, madame," was the answer. "My sister hath taught me a little, but not to read a book."
"And would you like to learn?"
"Oh, yes indeed, madame. My father could read, and we have his great Bible. Dibby tells me what she hears parson read in church sometimes, and I often wish I could make it out for myself."
We sat a little while longer and then took our leave, promising to come again. When we were outside the door, my mother remarked:
"Well, Vevette, here is work come to your hand, and of the sort you like. Why should you not teach poor Lois to read?"
"I was going to ask you if I might," said I. "And then, perhaps, I might have some of the others. Really and truly, maman, the walk is very hard and long for the little ones, especially in bad weather."
"Well, well, we will see. Begin with poor Lois, at all events."
So I did, the very next day. My proposal to teach her was received with rapture by both mother and daughter. I had always a knack of teaching, and I soon had Lois prosperously started upon a pair of hose, and able, with some help, to make out a chapter in the Testament. Besides, I read to her every day as a reward, and I shall never forget her delight over the stories in the Gospels. But a good many things happened in the meantime.
Rosamond came down next day with her Italian book, and we had a lesson in that and in music from my mother.
The next day she came again, this time with Meg, who in rather a shamefaced way asked me whether I was not coming to the school any more.
"That depends," said I. "I thought you were not going to allow me."
Then, as Meg colored, I felt sorry for her confusion, and said, "I suppose you want help about the knitting."
"I can make nothing of it," answered Meg, "and I thought—I did not know—" then she stopped, still more confused at the smile I could by no means repress.
Rosamond came to her aid.
"Margaret, why not say at once that you are sorry for what you said about Vevette, and that you will be glad if she will overlook it and help you again. That is the easiest way out of the trouble."
I expected to see Meg angry, but she was not.
"Thank you, Rosamond, that is what I mean," said she. "I was too hasty in condemning Vevette, and I am sorry, and shall be very glad of her help. Will that be enough, cousin, or must I ask downright Dunstable here to make my peace for me?"
"That is enough, and more than enough," said I. "I will help you, of course, though I have also a pupil down here."
And I told her about Lois. She was greatly pleased, and we talked again over my plan of establishing a dame school for the little ones, under the care of the widow and her lame daughter. Margaret, with all her pride, had not an atom of venom or malice about her. Once she made up her mind to pass over a thing, that was the end of it.
"And how is Betty?" I asked.
"She is far from well, and keeps her chamber the last two days," said Margaret; "but my mother cannot tell what ails her, only she is giddy as soon as she sits up. She is very easily disturbed, and likes to stay alone best."
"I hope it is not a fever," said I.
"No, she hath no fever, and her appetite is good enough. It is only the pain and giddiness in her head. Then you will come to the school to-morrow?"
"Yes, if you desire it," said I, and so the matter was settled.
We had not seen Andrew since we parted from him at the door of the house on our first arrival. Now, however, he came down to walk home with his sisters. He saluted my mother and myself as usual, and to maman he was just the same; but there was a kind of sad constraint in his manner to me which I felt at once.
In my maidenly pride, I was determined to show that I was not affected by it, and I chatted on with the girls, making a great deal of talk over the embroidery stitch Margaret was showing me, and laughing at my own stupidity, while my heart swelled with mingled grief and anger. I thought Andrew was hard and unjust toward me, and hardness and injustice from one we love and respect is very hard to bear. I was glad when they all went away, and I could run up to my own room and relieve myself by a few bitter tears.
The next day Andrew came again, and this time with great news. There was a certain estate in Devonshire which should have descended to my mother by the will of her grandmother, but which had long been in dispute, and had threatened to eat itself up, as the saying goes, in law expenses. Andrew brought word that by the discovery of some new evidence—a later will, I believe—the matter was definitely settled, and that when our honest share of the expenses was paid the estate would be worth no less than three hundred a year to my mother and me. He proposed to go at once to Exeter to attend to the final settlement, if my mother wished it and would give him proper powers.
"But that is hardly fair," said my mother. "It will take a week or more out of your short remaining time at home."
"That does not matter," answered Andrew abruptly; and then added, "Besides, the sailing of the ship is put off another two weeks. I begin to think she will never go at all."
"Are you, then, in such a hurry to be gone?" I said, without thinking. I could have bitten my tongue with vexation a moment after.
"Sailors soon grow tired of life on shore," said he not unkindly. "The sea never lets go of any one it has once taken hold of, and you know the saying is that it always draws those whose parents it has drowned." Then, after a little silence, "Vevette, will you walk up the church-path with me? I want to show you a new plant I have found."
I was in two minds to refuse, but after a moment's consideration I agreed, and went to fetch my mantle and hood. We walked a little while in silence, enjoying the fresh evening air and the breeze perfumed with that strange, sweet scent of the cave and the moorland together which one meets nowhere but by the sea. Then Andrew said—
"Vevette, if you could tell me one thing it would ease my mind wonderfully."
"Well," said I, "what is it?"
"Was the other day the first time you—the first time—"
"The first time I ever deceived my mother?" I said, to help him out. "Was that what you want to know?"
Then, as he nodded assent, "No, Andrew, it was not. When I was quite a child, not more than twelve years old, my Uncle Charles sent my mother some tales and play-books, and I stole two or three of them and read them in secret. I had them till the day before we went to the supper at the grange, and then I burned them all. Since then I have read nothing of the sort till that day Betty persuaded me to read with her the book my Aunt Jem gave me."
"And this is the whole truth!" said he. Then, as I withdrew a step and looked at him, he added eagerly, "Forgive me, Vevette, but this matter is of such great importance to me. So much depends upon it."
"So much depends upon it!" I repeated. "What?"
Then, as he did not answer, I went on firmly, though with a mortal pang at my heart, "Andrew, I want you to understand one thing. If you have any doubt of me, any doubt whatever of my being worthy, if you have any hesitation in the matter, I will never consent to be your wife—never, for all the family compacts ever made in the world."
I spoke vehemently, yet with low voice, as I was apt to do when greatly moved. We had just come to a turn in the path, and before us lay the half-ruined cottage—Torden's cottage. It was a place avoided after dark, for it had an ill name on account of a wrecker who had once lived there, and who had died a fearful death. As we came in sight of it, we saw two figures before us—the two whom Rosamond had described—a tall slender man in a cloak, and a female figure in a gray homespun gown. As we drew near she turned her head a very little.
Andrew gripped my hand hard. "Betty!" said he, in a hoarse whisper.
"Nonsense," I whispered in return. "Did you not say Betty was ill in bed?"
But at that moment she turned her head again and I saw her face plainly. It was Betty. I laid a restraining hand on my cousin's arm, but he shook it off, and one stride, as it seemed, brought him to the side of the two before us. They turned at his approach, and stood for a moment in speechless confusion. Then Betty recovered her presence of mind, if such it could be called.
"Vevette, you have betrayed us," said she. "So much for trusting a French girl."
Andrew turned absolutely white as he heard these words.
"How could I betray what I never knew?" I asked, finding my voice, for at first I was dumbfounded by the unexpected attack. "You never placed any confidence in me, nor did I ever desire it."
What was my amazement to hear Betty declare that I had been in her secret from the first, and had aided her in meeting with her lover. She appealed to Mr. Lovel if it were not so, and he confirmed her words with an oath. Andrew turned from her to me, with a face full of wrath and grief.
"What am I to believe?" said he.
"Believe what you like," said I, for my blood was up. "Every word that Betty says is false, and she knows it."
"Gently, my fair cousin that is to be," interposed Mr. Lovel, with a supercilious little laugh. "I do not allow such language to my betrothed bride. Mr. Corbet, methinks you and I can settle this matter better without female witnesses. Let us attend these fair ladies to their respective homes, and then we will endeavor to come to an understanding."
"Charles, remember your promise," said Betty, turning pale.
"Fear nothing, child. I shall not forget that Mr. Corbet is your brother, nor do I think we shall find it hard to come to an amicable agreement. Mrs. d'Antin, shall we turn your way first?"
"Do not discommode yourself, sir," said Andrew, with lofty courtesy. "I am able to take care both of my sister and my cousin. Perhaps you will have the goodness to call upon me to-morrow, or allow me to wait upon you wherever you are staying. For the present, I must say good-night."
Mr. Lovel seemed at first ready to fly upon Andrew like an angry dog, but in a moment, he restrained himself, and replied, with equal courtesy—
"To-morrow, then, at ten o'clock, I will do myself the honor of waiting upon you."
And raising his hat, he strode away toward the village. It seemed for a moment that Betty meant to run after him, but if so she thought better of it, and snatching her hand from Andrew's, she fled toward home, like a startled deer.
"Go after her; she may do something desperate," said I. "I can find my way home well enough."
So saying, I turned from him and walked deliberately down the path till I was out of sight, when I began to run, and never stopped till I found myself at home and in the arms of my mother, who had come to the door to look for me.
"What is it, my child?" she exclaimed, as I clung to her, sobbing and out of breath. "Has anything frightened you? Where is Andrew?"
As soon as I could recover composure enough to speak, I drew her into the little parlor and told her the whole story. My mother heard it in silence, but with a very troubled face.
"Oh, maman, you do not believe what Betty says," I exclaimed, as she did not speak.
"Tell me the exact truth, my child," said she, "What did Betty ever say to you on the subject? Try to remember every word."
I did so, and told her all—how Betty had spoken to me of Mr. Lovel, and, as I believed, had meant to draw me into a confidence, which I had declined. I also told her of the advice I had given on the occasion.
"That was well," said my mother. "And had you no suspicion that Betty was keeping up a connection with Mr. Lovel?"
"None at all," I told her. "The first time I ever suspected anything was when Rosamond told us of the two figures she had seen near Torden's cottage, and which she had believed to be spectres or somewhat else of supernatural."
"Why did you not mention your suspicion?" asked my mother.
"Dear maman, how could I?" I asked. "I hardly entertained it a moment. Then when I saw Betty afterward turn so white when the affair was mentioned, and when that very night Rosamond saw the same man's figure in the entrance to the court, I did think more about it; but I had no proof, and it was no concern of mine, and afterward I quite forgot it. How could I mention the affair when I had no proofs, and to whom?"
"True, you could not," said my mother; "but it is very unlucky, and I fear trouble will arise to you from the affair. My sister will believe harm of any one sooner than of her own daughters, though she knows and has said as much to me, that Betty is both malicious and deceitful. Well, my love, we must do our best, and leave the event in other hands. I believe you have been quite guiltless in the whole matter; and not only so, but that you have acted with great discretion. But, coming so soon after the affair of the book, I fear you will be blamed for what you have had no hand in."
"Then you do believe in me, maman?" I asked, kissing her hand.
"Most surely I do, my child. What did Andrew say?"
"He looked at me and asked what he was to believe, and then I told him he could believe what he pleased. He had been talking before that about the book, and asked me whether it was the first time, and I told him—what I told you, maman. Then he did not speak again till we came upon Betty and Mr. Lovel."
"Andrew shows a side of his character which does not please me," remarked my mother. "With all his good qualities there is a certain hardness about him. It was not generous in him to bring the subject up again."
I had thought the same, and I now spoke with a decision and boldness which surprised myself.
"Maman, you must let me say one thing, and please do not be angry. I will never consent to marry Andrew while he is as he is now—while he distrusts me, or shows such a coldness toward me. Nothing shall force me to it."
"Certainly I shall not force you to it," returned my mother, with equal decision. "My child shall never go to a cold or unwilling bridegroom."
"I wish I had never seen him," said I, and with that I fell a-weeping with such violence that my mother was alarmed. She led me up to bed herself, administered a quieting potion, and sat by me till I fell asleep.
The next morning I awaked refreshed in body, but so heavily burdened in mind and heart that I shut my eyes and wished the daylight would never come. But daylight and darkness do not change to suit our moods, and I reflected that I must not add to my mother's cares; so I rose and dressed, and tried to be composed if I could not be cheerful. We had hardly finished our breakfast when a messenger came down requesting our presence at the court. We found the whole family assembled in the cedar room, together with Mr. Level. Betty was pale as death, but demure and collected. Mr. Level was trying, with some success, to play the easy fine gentleman and man of the world. Andrew was stern and silent. The moment we entered my aunt fell upon me with violent and incoherent reproaches for leading her child astray.
"Hush, mother!" said Andrew. "Let Vevette be heard in her own defence, if she hath anything to say."
My mother drew herself up, declining the seat which Andrew placed for her. "Perhaps, nephew, you will allow her mother to understand why my child is to be put upon her defence. Of what hath she been accused, and by whom?"
"Betty says," returned Andrew, "that Vevette was in her confidence all along, and abetted her meetings with Mr. Level."
"She did," said Betty. "We talked of the affair when she first came here, and afterward, when she was angry about the book, she taunted me with it and threatened to tell."
"What have you to say, Vevette?" asked my mother.
I simply repeated the story just as it was.
"Can you deny that you taunted me that night with meeting Mr. Lovel?" asked Betty.
"I did not taunt you with meeting him, for I never knew for certain that you did meet him. A suspicion came into my mind, and in my anger I spoke it out."
Betty smiled superior.
"Well, all I can say is, that it was an unlucky day when you ever darkened my doors, and still more when you were betrothed to my son," said any aunt, who was one of those persons that say first and think afterward.
"Oh, mother!" said Margaret.
Andrew never spoke.
"Ay, and oh mother again!" retorted my aunt. "I say it was an unlucky day, and I will say so. It is she who has led my child astray and poisoned her mind with her play-books and her fine stories of London, to an innocent country maid who had no chance to learn aught of such wickedness. She has ruined any Betty, and she will ruin my son."
"Have no fears for your son, sister Corbet," said my mother, now fully roused. "The engagement between him and my daughter is from this moment at an end. I leave your house, nor will I or my daughter ever again enter its doors till you have taken back your words. Mr. Lovel, I will thank you to see that my horse and servant are at the door."
Mr. Lovel obeyed with all courtesy. Andrew started forward, but my mother rejected his hand with a stately bow, and leaning on my arm, she left the room. Mr. Lovel assisted us both to mount—for I had ridden my pony—and proffered his services to see us safe home, which my mother declined.
Not a word was spoken on the way. When we arrived I would have entered upon the subject, but my mother declined it.
"Not at present, my child. Let us both be a little cooler before we talk it over. My poor Vevette, if we had but stayed in Jersey! It was my self-willed determination to come hither which has brought all this upon you."
"No, maman, I think not so," I answered. "If Andrew hath such a temper—so jealous and distrustful—it is well to know it in time. But who would have guessed it in Normandy?"
"Who indeed! But there was nothing to bring it out. However, we will talk more another time."
The next morning Margaret and Rosamond appeared early. I dreaded meeting them; but they both kissed me cordially.
"We do not suspect you—neither Rosamond nor I," said Meg. "Now that my eyes are opened, I can see a hundred things which might have roused my suspicions with regard to Betty, if I had not been blind as an owl. As to Rosamond, she never sees anything."
"But I did see something, and told you what it was, and you did not suspect more than I," returned Rosamond. "Don't you remember how confused and angry Betty was?"
"But how is it to end?" I asked.
"Oh, they are to be married. There is no other way, after the scandal that has been raised. Just think that they made Lucy Trehorn their go-between, and they have been meeting at her mother's cottage—the old witch!"
"And they are to be married!" said my mother. "Well, perhaps it is the only way, but it does not seem a well-omened beginning of married life. When is the wedding to be?"
"The week after next. My mother is already consulting with Deborah about the wedding-clothes and so on. She was saying this morning it was a pity you and Andrew should not be married at the same time, since she has linen enough ready for both of you."
"She can give it all to Betty," said I; "I shall not need it."
"Are you really in earnest?" said Rosamond.
"I am," I answered firmly.
The girls both looked at maman.
"Yes, it is best so," said my mother. "I cannot give my child to one who could have her accused as Andrew did yesterday—nay, who could himself put her on the defence, as if she were the culprit, and never say a word in her behalf."
"I don't blame you, and yet I am sorry," said Meg. "I think Andrew greatly to blame, and I believe now he thinks so himself."
"His thoughts come rather late," said my mother. "If he thinks so, why does he not say so? But we will not discuss the matter. So Betty and Mr. Lovel are to be married. Where are they to live?"
"With his father for the present," answered Margaret. "The old man now lives quite alone in his great house at Allinstree, and I believe will be glad of anything which will keep his son at home. I do not know at all how he and Betty will agree, for he is a great Puritan."
"Oh, they will agree well enough so long as Betty has anything to gain," said I. And then recollecting myself, as I saw my mother look at me, "I crave your pardon, Meg. I should remember that she is your sister."
"She is no sister of mine," said Margaret. "I will never own her as such again. She has disgraced us all."
"She is your sister, and you cannot help it," said Rosamond, in that trenchant fashion of hers. "You cannot reverse the decrees of Heaven because you are displeased. Betty hath acted a base, treacherous part toward us all, and especially toward Vevette, but still she is our sister, and as such we must needs treat her."
"Very true, Rosamond," said my mother. "Betty hath cruelly injured me and mine as well as you, her sisters, but we must try to forgive her."
Margaret was silent, but I saw in her face the hard expression I knew so well in Andrew's.
I suppose my mother thought there was no use in argument, for after a moment's silence, she began to talk of somewhat else, and then she proposed that we should have a music lesson to quiet our spirits. The girls agreed, and we got out our music and sang several hymns and songs, and practised some new chants and anthems which my mother had got in a parcel from London.
For my Uncle Charles and Aunt Jem still continued their kindness toward us, though they were a little vexed that my mother should have refused their offer, and only a few days before we had received from them a great parcel containing books, music, tea and coffee and chocolate, and I know not what pretty trinkets and laces for me.
Then, when we were in rather a better frame, my mother talked to us in her gentle, serious way of those consolations which were so dear to her own heart, and of that inward experience of the presence and the love of the dear Lord which was able to support and console under all trials. Rosamond drank in the discourse like water, but I could see that Meg was impatient under it.
The truth was that her religion at that time was all outward—a matter of forms and ceremonies, of fasts and feasts. She made a merit of always using the right collect on the right day, and never reading the Psalms but in their appointed order; but to the spiritual treasures concealed in those Psalms and collects, her eyes were not at that time opened. This she has since told me herself.
That evening Andrew came down to our house and had a long audience with my mother. I did not see him, but maman told me the substance of the conversation. He wished to renew the engagement, and have things placed upon their former footing, but this my mother positively refused. Andrew begged to see me, and my mother came to tell me so, but I would not go down.