"I cannot see him now. Perhaps I may after a time, but at present it is impossible. Tell him that I agree to all you have said, but I cannot see him."
"I do not myself think it best," said my mother. "Let matters rest for the present."
So Andrew went away and I did not see him.
Looking back at this time, I must say I think I behaved pretty well. I was as nearly broken-hearted as any poor girl ever was, but I strove against my sorrow, and tried in every way to keep myself occupied that I need not have time to brood. I had very bitter thoughts of Andrew, of his family, and even of Providence itself, but I did strive against them. I went to my school, and to Margaret's also twice in the week, for she could not quite manage the knitting, though she was improving. I read to poor Lois, and to an old blind sailor who lived in one of the cottages, and in every way strove to keep my thoughts occupied. My mother was all judicious kindness, knowing just when to help and when to let me alone; but with all my efforts and helps, I passed many sad hours.
I used to go constantly to church, and found comfort therein; but oh, how I wished for one of our old pastors, to whom I might open any heart! Mr. Dobson made a conscience of having daily prayers in the church, and of reading one sermon of a Sunday; but aside from that, he gave no more heed to his parish than he did to—the moon, I was going to say; but indeed he took much more interest in the moon than he did in his next door neighbors. He was wrapped up in his studies—chemistry, or rather alchemy, as I fancy, astronomy, and physics. He was looked upon with the greatest awe by the country people, as one who had powers over the unseen world, and I doubt not he himself fully believed in these powers.
Before the wedding we had another guest—none other than our cousin Lord Stanton, from Stanton Court, in Devonshire. We had the first news of his approach from a riding servant whom he sent on before him. My mother, of course, at once sent up word to the great house, and presently we were surprised by a visit from my aunt, who came down to hear further particulars, and to ask advice as to how she should receive the great man. She came in and greeted any mother and me just as if nothing had happened, for she was always one of those people who forget their own hard words as soon as they are spoken, and wonder that any one else should remember them.
"Well, and so my lord is really going to honor us with a visit," said she, when she had praised my work and admired the cosiness of the house. "'Tis an honor, no doubt, but one I would dispense with just now that I have so much on my hands."
"I believe my lord intends to lodge here," said my mother. "I gathered as much from his letter."
"Here!" said my aunt, staring, as was her way. "Why, how will you put him up or entertain him or his retinue?"
"As to putting him up, we have plenty of spare chambers, and, thanks to your kindness, abundance of linen and the like. As to entertainment, he will be content, I dare say, to fare as we do. As to his retinue, he has with him but two men servants, who will lodge in the cottage."
"Well, I don't envy you your trouble," said my aunt. "I am sure you are welcome. Will he stay to the wedding, think you?"
"I dare say he will, if he is asked," replied my another. "He was always a well-natured gentleman."
"Now if you would only let Vevette be married at the same time, what a fine wedding we should have! She is young, to be sure, but—" and here she stopped, arrested by something in my mother's face.
"Have you already forgotten, sister Corbet, how you said before your whole family that it was an ill day when my daughter darkened your doors—how you declared that she would ruin your son as she had ruined your daughter?" asked my mother.
"But I was angry then," answered my aunt. "I did not mean half I said. Sure you won't break off with my poor son on that account. Why, he loves Vevette as the apple of his eye."
"He took a strange way to show it, I must needs say," returned my mother. "No, Amy, for the present any engagement between them is at an end. Should he wish to renew his suit when he returns, he can do so, but meantime my daughter is quite at liberty."
My aunt remonstrated, and even cried, but my mother was firm, and when my aunt appealed to me, I seconded her.
"Well, well, I suppose there is no use in saying more," said my aunt, wiping her eyes. "Let us hope all will yet turn out well. I only wish my Betty were half as docile as Vevette, though I can't think it was right; however, we will let bygones be bygones."
And she began asking my mother's advice about certain details of the wedding—advice which she gave very readily, for she had no mind to keep up a quarrel.
"And you won't tell my lord of all poor Betty's misbehavior, will you?" said my aunt as she rose to go. "It would be such a disadvantage to her."
"Certainly not; why should I?" returned my mother. "I have no wish to injure Betty, and I am not given to spreading tales of scandal, whether true or false."
"I am sure that is true, and I only wish my tongue were as well governed as yours. And you won't mention the matter to my lord?"
My mother promised again, and my aunt went away content.
I may as well say that my lord had not been an hour in our house before she had told him the whole story herself.
My lord came that evening and took up his abode with us. He was a fine, courtly gentleman, with something about him that reminded me of my father, though he was much older, and was indeed an old man. He greeted my mother in brotherly fashion, and kissed me on both cheeks, with a compliment to my good looks, such as old gentlemen give to young ladies as a matter of course. He expressed himself as delighted with the house and his accommodations, and we found him a most agreeable guest.
He had come mostly upon business with my mother, concerning the estate I have mentioned. It seems this estate lay like a wedge between two farms of his own, and he wished to make some sort of exchange with my mother; but as he would not have her act in the dark, he brought my mother and myself an invitation, warmly seconded by a most kind note from my lady, to make him a visit at Stanton Court, which invitation my mother, after some consideration, accepted.
She thought the change would be good for me, and I believe also she wished to make friends for me in my lord's family. My lord also brought us some three hundred pounds in ready money, which was a very welcome supply.
Meg and Rosamond were in despair at our going away. My aunt alternately rejoiced in our good fortune and lamented my obstinacy in not accommodating matters with Andrew—an obstinacy which both she and Betty laid to the account of our increased riches, which had as much to do with it as the flight of the birds. Betty was quite herself again, demure and graceful, satisfied with herself and her lover. She fished hard for an invitation to Stanton for herself and Mr. Lovel, but without success.
"No, I will not have them," was my lord's comment to my mother. "He is a fool, and she is, above all others, the kind of girl I hate—so sly and silky. The others are nice maids enough, but I will have none of Betty."
However, he made Betty a present, and was very agreeable at the wedding, which we all attended. I would have given a great deal to stay away, but my pride would not let me: so I went.
All went off very well, only that Mr. Dobson, in his absent-mindedness, said in the ceremony, "That which God hath put asunder, let no man join together," which methought was an ill omen. But, indeed, it was but an ill-omened affair from first to last. Betty looked very handsome I must say, and so did her bridegroom. Rosamond was glum and Margaret ill at case, while Andrew was cold, black, and stiff as one of the stone pillars out on the moor. My aunt, on the contrary, was as easy and as much pleased as if everything had come about in the best manner possible. But for her and for my lord, who exerted himself in the most amiable way, it would have been a sour wedding-party.
The next day Andrew again came to see my mother, and to beg a renewal of the engagement. He had talked with Mr. Lovel, now that they were upon more friendly terms, and Mr. Level had quite exculpated me from any knowledge of or part in his affairs and Betty's, saying with his easy laugh that he had only confirmed Betty's words because he would not see the lady he loved put down. Andrew was most earnest with my mother to overlook his past conduct, which he now confessed to be faulty, and to let him begin again.
"No, my fair son," said maman; "it would not be best. I can never forget what we owe you and yours; but my gratitude must be shown in some other way than by giving you my child under present circumstances. She is not to be thrown away and picked up again like a toy, to be cast down again the moment you see or fancy a flaw in her. You say this is your last voyage. When you return, if Vevette is still free and you choose to make your addresses to her, well and good, but for the present matters must remain as they are."
Then Andrew begged my lord's intercession, but my lord, when he heard the story, declared my mother was right, and that he would do the same in her place.
"What! Would you see the lady you loved so accused, and never so much as take her part—never say a word for her? I vow and declare, I like Lovel's way the better of the two. No, no, wait, and learn the worth of a fine young lady."
Then Andrew watched and met me on my way home from the school, and pleaded his own cause. But maman had laid her commands upon me, and I was bound to obey them. I did not deny that I loved him, and he would have drawn from me a promise not to marry any one else.
"I cannot give such a promise," said I. "It would be the same as an engagement, which my mother has forbidden; but I am quite sure I shall never wish to wed any one."
"So you say now; but how will it be when you are among the gallants of Stanton Court?" said Andrew. "Confess, now; has not the prospect of shining there some share in your decision?"
"Why, there it is again!" I returned. "You beg my pardon for one false suspicion, and the very next moment you begin on another. You cannot trust me, and how should I ever trust you? If we were to be married before you go away, you would always be wondering whether I were not somehow wronging you. No, no, Andrew. Let things be as they are at present. It is the best way, though it is hard."
And with that I fell to weeping, and he to try to comfort me alternately with accusing himself of all the meanness in the world, and with having thrown away his happiness and mine; so that at the last I was fain to turn comforter myself. At last we agreed to abide by my mother's decision. We exchanged gifts: Andrew gave me his seal ring which he had had cut at Jerusalem with the Hebrew word Mitspah—
"For he said, 'The Lord watch between thee and me when we are absent one from the other,'" said he solemnly; and surely the prayer was heard.
I gave him a little gold locket I had always worn, with the gold chain which sustained it, and he put it round his neck, saying it should never leave him. Indeed he wears it to this day.
For two or three days we were very busy arranging for our departure. My mother had insisted on giving full value for the house and land, which my lord approved as a good investment, and—what I think made Andrew feel more than ever what he had done—on paying for the horses and cows he had provided for us. Dinah was to go with us as waiting-woman. Jeanne and Simon were to live in the house, take care of it and the garden, and have all in readiness for our return. We looked forward at that time to living at the Well House for many years, my mother's health being to all appearance quite restored, and Aunt Amy very desirous of having us for neighbors. She did truly love both my mother and me in her way, and she had sense enough to value what my mother was doing for Meg and Rosamond.
All was done at last, and we bade farewell with all the kindness in the world. Betty was not there, having gone with her husband to Allinstree. We set out in pleasant weather, and arrived safely at our journey's end.
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STANTON COURT.
STANTON COURT was and is a magnificent pile of building. The oldest part, a great grim tower, was built about the time of the Conqueror—or such, at least, is the family tradition—but the main building, and that which gives character to the whole, belongs to the early days of Elizabeth. The fact that the same material—a warmly tinted red stone—is used throughout gives a kind of unity to the whole. The gardens have always been very fine, being enriched, like ours at Tre Madoc, with all sorts of exotic trees and plants, brought home from foreign parts by those wandering Corbets. There is also an orangery and green-house, which at that time had been but lately erected, and was a special hobby of my lady's.
There was a good deal of company staying in the house, for my lord was fond of society, and made his two step-daughters an excuse for filling his house with young men. Martha, the elder, was already engaged, and was to be married before long. We were warmly welcomed by my lady, a kind and motherly woman, and by Theo, her second daughter. Mrs. Martha was just decently civil, and that was all. She looked at every one as if she were mentally taking their measure. I took a dislike to her from the first moment I ever saw her, and I have never seen occasion to change my mind.
We had a delightful apartment assigned to us—a large, airy room, with an adjacent sitting-room, all prettily fitted up, for my mother, and a turret-room near by for me. My lady made an excuse for giving me so small a lodging, saying that some of the bedrooms were being refitted in preparation for her daughter's marriage.
"Pray make no excuses," said my mother. "I venture to say this is just the sort of room my daughter would choose."
"Yes, indeed," I added, as my lady turned to me; "I love a turret-room above all things."
"Then we are all suited," said my lady kindly; "but you are not looking quite well, sweetheart."
I assured her that I was well and only tired with my journey, and so with more kind words, she left us to ourselves.
We unpacked our mails and dressed ourselves, and then at the summons of a waiting-gentlewoman, we descended to the withdrawing-room, my mother having first recommended Dinah to the attention of this same gentlewoman, who said she would show her to the room of Mrs. Carey, the housekeeper.
"And is Mrs. Carey still living?" asked my mother. "She must be very old."
"She is so, madame," answered the waiting-damsel; "but she is still hale and active, and does all the work my lady will allow. This way, madame, if you please."
She conducted us to the open door of my lady's withdrawing-room, which was very splendidly fitted up—quite as fine as anything I had seen in London—and now filled with company. We were led into the room by my lord himself, who espied us in a moment, and placed in seats of honor. Indeed, both he and my lady seemed to think they could not show my mother too much respect.
A great many people were presented to us, among them Mrs. Martha's servant Captain Bernard, a fine young gentleman, with a good, serious, kindly face. The young ladies presently made their appearance, to be chid by their mother for their delay, to which Mrs. Theo returned a smiling excuse, and Mrs. Martha none at all.
There were several ladies and gentlemen present from the neighborhood, some of whom my mother had formerly known, and we were for a while quite the centre of attraction, a condition of things which did not seem to please Mrs. Martha at all, to judge by her black looks. She would hardly even give a civil answer to poor Captain Bernard when he addressed her, and as I looked at her, I wondered what he could have seen in her to wish to make her his wife. But I found out long ago that there is no use in trying to account for such matters.
Mrs. Theo was pleased with everything and everybody, herself included. She was uncommonly pretty, and dressed herself with great taste. She was not very deep, but what there was of her was good and sweet, and she was always kind, even to self-sacrifice when needful. She did not care for study, and had no special tastes for anything but embroidery, in which, indeed, she excelled any person I ever saw. We were soon the best of friends, and have always remained so.
The evening passed pleasantly enough, what with music and conversation, cards and tables for the elders, and a little dance among the young folks. I had never learned any dances except those of the peasant folks in Normandy, and at present I was in no spirits for any such amusement, but I exerted myself to sing and play, and though a good deal confused, I believe I acquitted myself fairly.
When we returned to our room, we found Mrs. Dinah well pleased with the manner in which she had been treated by Mrs. Carey, but full of righteous indignation at the light conduct of the gentlemen's gentlemen, one of whom, it seems, had actually offered to kiss her. My mother soothed and comforted her, and told her she had better sit to our room or else with Mrs. Carey, and then she would be out of the way of the men servants.
"Oh, they are not all alike, madame," answered Dinah quickly. "There is the steward, Mr. Matteson, who is as sober and well conducted a man as any one would wish to see."
"Well, well, I am glad there is one exception to the rule," said my mother. "Now we will have our reading and go quickly to rest, for I am very tired, and my head is quite in a whirl. It is long since I have spent an evening."
For two or three days my mother was quite unwell, and I was of course with her most of the time, though I went out to walk two or three times with Mrs. Theo, who also showed me the house and pictures, which were very fine. As to Mrs. Martini, she never troubled herself about me in any way, and that was all I asked of her.
"You must not mind Martha," said Theo to me one day, when she had very shortly declined an invitation to walk with us. "She goes on her own way for all any one else, and she is always busy."
"What does she do?" I asked.
"Oh, she reads a great deal, especially in divinity, and she sews for the poor and visits them very often. She does twice as much for them as I do, and yet I don't know how it is, they are always glad to see mother and me, and they do not seem ever pleased to see her. I think sometimes they do not like so much advice. Do you not think that may be it?" she asked, raising her pretty eyebrows, and looking at me reflectively.
"Perhaps so," said I, with a smile, for I was much amused. "Then you do not give them advice?"
"I, Cousin Vevette?" with an air of great astonishment. "How could I do that? I do not know half as much as they do. Why, what advice could I give those poor women about their households and their children, when I never brought up a child or cooked a dinner in all my life? I do sometimes just hint to them about washing a babe's face clean or mending its hose, but just in a pleasant talking kind of way, you know. And I must say they are usually ready to listen. But I never could go into their houses when they are at meals and remark upon their waste in eating fresh butter, or anything like that. Why, I should not like it myself, would you?"
"Decidedly not!" I answered. "But I think it is pleasant to drop into cottages and talk with the women when they are at leisure, and play with the babes, don't you?"
"Oh, yes, and to make christening frocks for them, and the like. Come, we will go and see the old folks at the almshouses."
We spent three or four weeks very pleasantly at Stanton Court. My lord was fond of music, and took much pleasure in our singing and playing. My mother excused herself from returning visits, as her health was so delicate, but she was always in the parlor of an evening, to help my lady in entertaining her guests. I soon came to enjoy these evenings very much, nor was I at all averse to the attentions I received from my lord's young visitors. I had one letter from Andrew, written from Plymouth before he sailed. He told me he had hoped to bid me farewell in person, but that had been made impossible. His ship was to go up to Chatham, and he would write from thence so soon as he knew his destination; but he believed that he should go to the West and not to the East Indies after all.
I shed many tears over this letter, which was as kind and tender as possible, and as my lord was sending post to London, I answered it with my mother's permission, and sent Andrew a watch-chain which I had learned to make from gold cord. Long afterward I heard that he had written again, but I never received the letter.
My mother concluded her business with my lord, greatly to the satisfaction, and I believe to the advantage of both parties, since the property she took in exchange was more immediately productive, and more convenient for a woman to hold. One morning after a long private conference with our host and hostess, my mother told me that she had made Lord Stanton my guardian in case of her dying before I was settled in life.
"Dear maman, do not speak of dying," said I. "You are looking so well."
"And I am well—better than I ever expected to be," she answered me; "but no one knows what may happen, and I shall not die the sooner for having settled my affairs. My lord and lady are good people, and will do well by you."
I was well content with the arrangement, for I liked both my lord and my lady. The latter was one of the most evenly good women I ever saw. She was not one who ever made great demonstrations of affection even to her own children, but she was almost always the same. As Dinah said, one always knew where to have her.
My lord was somewhat choleric, and had a knack of exasperating himself over trifles which sometimes made one ashamed for him; but still he was a fine, good-natured gentleman, who would have died before he would do a mean or cruel action, and his manners were perfect, specially to women. I never saw him speak even to a maid servant without lifting his hat. He was greatly annoyed by the freedom taken by some of his young gentlemen visitors with the village maids and the servants; and when one of these fine sparks came to complain of a ducking in the sea which he got from one of the Lees "down to Cove" for making too free with his young wife, my lord said bluntly it served him right, and he would have done the same if he had been there. The youth blustered, and I believe would have challenged my lord, but thought better of it and took himself away.
But a great sorrow was hanging over my head, though I never suspected it. My mother's health had wonderfully improved of late, and there seemed no reason why she should not live out the usual term of years. She told me one evening that she had not felt so well in all respects since she was a young girl.
"It is not only in bodily health," said she, "but I am sensible of a great improvement in my spirits—not elation exactly, but a kind of joyfulness as if I were in certain expectation of good news, and I constantly dream of your father and of our old home in France which I have never done before."
I saw Mrs. Dinah shake her head and look grave upon this, but I knew she had her full share of Cornish superstitions. I myself thought the improvement in my mother's health and spirits arose from the change of air and scene, and from the enjoyment of cheerful company. I little thought what was that joyful news she was soon to hear—joyful to her, but sad beyond conception to me.
The very next morning, as I was finishing dressing, Dinah came to me, quite calm as usual, but pale as ashes.
"Will you come to your mother at once?" said she. "She is very ill."
I did not need a second summons. My mother lay in her bed, her eyes closed, breathing in soft sighs, and only at long intervals. My lady was already with her, applying salts to her nose and strong essences to her forehead, while old Mrs. Carey was rubbing the soles of her feet. They made way for me with looks of solemn compassion. Even then I was not alarmed.
"It is a fainting fit," said I. "She used to have them in France."
I bent over and kissed her, calling upon her name. She opened her eyes with a look of unutterable tenderness, and her lips moved. Then she drew one more sigh and all was still.
"Come away, my dear child," said my lady, disengaging my hand from my mother's and taking it in her own. "Your dear mother is at rest."
Even then I could not believe it, and I would have them try again and again to revive her, but soon the deathly chill of the hand and brow and the white lips convinced even me, and I suffered my lady to lead me away.
They were all very kind. My lady took me to her dressing-room, and strove to win me to tears, for I was at first like one stunned. At last Theo's tearful caresses opened the flood-gates, and I wept myself into quietness. My lady left me to myself as much as was good for me, and no more.
Mr. Penrose, the rector, came and prayed with me, and as I was able to bear it, he talked with me in a gentle and consoling way, which did me all the good in the world. He was a dry-looking, quiet elderly man, a native of Cornwall, and had remained in his parish through all the troubles and changes of the civil wars. My lord was greatly attached to him, though he thought him needlessly strict in some matters. He was a fine scholar, and the best preacher I had heard since I left France.
My mother was buried in the churchyard of the old priory church among our ancestors for many generations. It was a lovely place, all green and fair with grass and great trees, and luxuriant ivy mantling the old ruins. Oh, how I wept as I thought of my father's dishonored grave. How I wished they could have slept together! But it was an idle wish. What signifies what distance divides our worn-out bodies, if only our better part—our real selves—are resting together in the Paradise of God?
Of course word was sent to the friends at Tre Madoc, and I received a most kind letter from my aunt, asking me to make her house my home. The invitation was warmly seconded by the girls, but my lord and lady would have me stay with them for the present, and indeed it was my own desire. I did not feel that I could return to Tre Madoc where all was so changed, nor, knowing my aunt as I did, could I wish to reside in her family, specially as matters were so altered between Andrew and me. I wrote as kindly as I could, specially recommending to my aunt's care our old friends Jeanne and Simon. One good reason is as good as a hundred, and I gave no other for remaining where I was than the wish of my guardian.
I spent the autumn and winter quietly enough at Stanton Court. At first, of course, I kept myself quite in retirement, but by degrees I began once more to mix with the rest of the family, and to take my share in what was going on. My aunt would have me take music lessons of a gentleman in Biddeford, who came to our house every week for that purpose, and at last took up his residence there altogether. He improved me very much in music, both singing and playing, and I also learned some arithmetic of him, especially such as relates to the keeping of accounts—a knowledge I have since found very useful.
There was a school at Stanton Court, known as Lady Rosamond's school, which had been endowed by some former Lady Stanton out of the revenues of the suppressed priory. This school had been closed for some time, and the house had fallen into disrepair, but Mr. Penrose was very desirous of having it opened again, and he had at last persuaded my lord to put the house in order and to settle a school-mistress once more. This last was more easily said than done, since no one could be found who came up to Mr. Penrose's ideas of what was desirable. At last I was the means of supplying the need, though at a considerable sacrifice to myself. My lady was one day admiring some work of Dinah's, and saying what a treasure she was.
"Oh, my lady, why would she not make a good mistress for the new school?" I exclaimed, struck with a sudden thought.
My lady looked surprised, but by no means displeased.
"I believe that is a bright thought," said she. "But hath Dinah the needful knowledge?"
"She can read and write beautifully," said I, "and she hath some knowledge of figures. There is no sort of work she does not understand, and she is very apt to teach."
"But can you spare her?" asked my lady.
"I shall not like to spare her, that is the truth, my lady; but if it is for the good of the school, I will not be selfish," I replied. "I think the place is as well fitted for her as she is for it, and I believe it will please her well to have a home of her own."
"Well, I will mention the matter to my lord, and do you talk it over with Mr. Penrose, and we will see what is to be done," said my lady. "I shall have to depend upon you a good deal in this business of the school, Vevette. You know I am no great walker. Theo has no turn for such work, and I know not how it is—" and she sighed—"Martha does manage so to set every one against her."
"I am sure I shall like the work," I said. "Suppose I go down directly and consult with Mr. and Mrs. Penrose?"
"Do so if you will, and ask them to come to supper to-night."
When Theo heard where I was going, she said she would walk with me. We had a pleasant ramble through the wood and down the Coombe to the village, and were most hospitably received by good Mrs. Penrose, and entertained with cakes and cream. Mr. Penrose was well pleased with the idea, and said he would himself talk with Dinah and find out her qualifications.
"I should like to be a parson's wife," said Theo, as we walked homeward.
"You Theo!" I exclaimed, in amazement. "You of all people."
"Yes, I of all people," she returned gaily. "It seems to me such a useful, pleasant, quiet life."
"But I thought you did not like quiet," I said. "You always seem to enjoy company so much."
"Well, so I do; and I like to dress prettily, just as I like everything to be pretty and neat; but any head is not set on such matters—no, not so much as Martha's, though she is so demure. Perhaps not so much as yours is."
"You would make a good parson's wife in many ways, I am sure of that," said I. "You would make every one like you."
"I know I am not so very bright," said Theo; "I cannot sing and play like you, nor read great books like Martha, nor do any other grand things. But I like to help people enjoy themselves in their own way, and to comfort them in trouble if I can."
"I am sure you do," said I. "Janey Lee said the other day when her child died it was a comfort just to have you come in."
"Did she? I am very glad," said Theo. "But I don't know what I did, only to sit by her, and let her weep, and by and by draw her on to talk of the poor babe and its little pretty ways. I never can preach to people in trouble. It seems somehow unfeeling to talk to them of judgments and so on. No, if I should marry a parson, I should let him do all the preaching, you may be sure of that. I should content myself with making his house pleasant, and cooking up messes for the poor, and making baby things for the lying-in women. That is my idea of a happy life."
It seemed as if Theo's idea of a happy life was like enough to be fulfilled. She went on a little visit to her godmother, any lord's sister, an elderly lady who had a house near Exeter, where she maintained several young ladies of reduced circumstances but good family, giving them a suitable education, and a small dowry whenever they settled in life.
Here she made the acquaintance of the Dean of Exeter, a man, of course, a good deal older than herself, but of fine presence and agreeable manners. He had always been a good deal of a stickler for the celibacy of the clergy; but it seems Theo found means to change his mind, for she had not been at home a week before he followed her, and asked her of her father in marriage.
It was one of those happy matches to which there seems no objection on any side. The dean was rich and greatly respected. He had beside his deanery a cure in the same parish where my lady Jemima, my lord's sister, resided, and a beautiful rectory, where in Theo might concoct sick messes and make baby linen to her heart's content. She had a small property of her own, and my lord gave her a portion as to his own daughter.
Mrs. Martha's wedding (which I should have mentioned in its proper place) was celebrated very quietly, as we were all in recent mourning for my mother; but my lord was determined that Theo should have a grand wedding. So she did, indeed, with all proper ceremony from the first going to church to the bedding of the bride. Matters of that sort have greatly changed since that time, and I cannot but think for the better, though I do hold that weddings should be celebrated publicly and joyfully, not huddled up as if they were something to be ashamed of. If matters go on as they have begun, I expect my granddaughters will jump into a carriage at the church door, and drive off to get as far as possible from all their friends.
However; Theo's wedding was public enough. We had the house full of guests, and among them two whom I had no wish to see, and beheld with dread as birds of ill omen, and so indeed they were. These were no other than my cousin Betty and her husband. They had come to the neighborhood to visit a cousin of Mr. Lovel's, and my lady meeting them and learning who they were, thought she could do no less than invite them to the wedding. My lord did not look too well pleased when he heard of it, for he had taken a great dislike to Betty upon their first meeting, but he could not treat her otherwise than courteously in his own house. As to Mr. Lovel, he never seemed to me to have any character, but to be a mere lay figure for the display of whatever mode in clothes or manners happened to be uppermost.
Betty had not been one evening in the house before she began exercising her powers. My lord was praising lip the institution of marriage, of which he was a great promoter, and my lady, smiling, called him a match-maker.
"Well, I am a match-maker, I don't deny it," said he. "Would you be ashamed of it if you were me, cousin Lovel?"
Betty had been sitting rather silent, and I suppose he meant to include her in the conversation. She answered at once—
"No, indeed, my lord. It is a good vocation. I am sure I have always thanked Vevette for betraying me to my brother, and so bringing my marriage to pass sooner than I could have done."
She spoke in those clear silver tones of hers, which always commanded attention, and several people turned to look at us. As may be guessed, I was covered with confusion, but I made shift to answer.
"You certainly owe me no thanks, Betty, for what I never did. I knew nothing of your affairs, and therefore could not betray them, had I been so inclined."
"Oh, I beg your pardon!" said she, with her mocking, superior smile. And then presently to me in a kind of stage aside which every one about us could hear—
"What is the use of keeping up that stale pretence? I suppose you did what you thought right, and I don't blame you; but why deny what you and I know to be true?"
To this I made no answer whatever, and my lady presently called upon me to sing. I by and by saw Betty in close conference with Mrs. Bernard, and I had no doubt from the looks Martha cast at me that I was the subject of their conference.
The next day brought home my lord's son, whom I had not yet seen. He had been travelling abroad for some years, but meeting the news of his sister-in-law's approaching marriage in London, he had hurried home to be present on the occasion. He was a fine, grave, soldierly-looking young man, and very much like Andrew in the face, though taller and with much more of courtly grace in his manner. He was warmly welcomed by all, and especially by Mrs. Bernard. I never saw her soften so much toward any one, and, indeed, I believe he was the only person she ever really loved. He was very polite and kind to me, and I naturally liked him because he was so much like Andrew. He was musical, like all his family, and we sang together a good deal. One morning, as we were practising a song together, Betty peeped into the room. I believe she thought I did not see her, for she slipped out and presently returned with my lady, whom I have no doubt she brought on purpose. They stood listening a few minutes, and then Betty said half under her breath, and with a sigh—
"Ah, my poor brother, I see his cake is dough; but no doubt it is all for the best."
We stopped singing at this, and my lady asked me with some sharpness whether I had been at the school that morning. I told her no, and she at once thought of errands for me, both there and at the village, which would keep me busy all the morning.
"I will walk with you, cousin," said my young lord. "I want to go down to the Cove and see Will Atkins."
Certainly, my lady had not mended matters for herself or me. I got rid of my cousin as soon as I could, telling him that I should be a long time at the school-house, and after that had some poor people to visit. He was rather unwilling to leave me, but I insisted, and he had to yield.
Betty staid two days longer, and then went back to Allinstree, leaving mischief enough behind her. I do believe my lady meant to be just to me, but it was hard to resist the force of Betty's constant and artful insinuations, and she really came to think that I was angling for her step-son. It was not long, of course, before my lord took up the same idea, and what was worst of all, my young lord soon showed that he had no kind of objection to being angled for, and in fact was very ready and even anxious to be caught.
From this time my life at the castle was not at all comfortable. I missed the companionship of Theo, of whom I had grown very fond, though she never filled Rosamond's place to me. I missed my mother more and more. Besides, my conscience was not easy. My lord and lady were good people, as I have said; but the times were times of great laxity. It was the fashion to profess great abhorrence of the Puritans and their ways, and immense devotion to the Church of England, and a good many people showed their devotion by deviating as far as possible from the ways of the precisians, as they were called.
We professed to observe Sunday—that is, we all went to church in the morning, and my lady was very careful to see that all the servants were present at prayers. But my lord yawned over a play or romance all the evening when he had no one to take a hand at cards or tables with, and when we had company staying in the house the Sunday evening was as any other. My young lord had taken up the kind of infidel notions by which, as I said, some young men tried to appear intellectual at a cheap rate, and he had brought down some books of Mr. Hobbes with him which he would fain have had me read; but that I refused. I had been brought up to a strict observance of Sunday as a day of worship and of sacred rest, and at first I was shocked at what I saw. While my mother lived we usually spent our Sunday evenings together in her own room, but after her death, and especially after Dinah went away, I was easily drawn into whatever was going on below stairs, even to playing at tables with my lord, when he had no one else to amuse him.
Then my old pleasure in dreams of wealth and consequence revived. I was something of an heiress, though my income was wholly dependent upon my lord's pleasure or discretion till I should be of age, and so I had plenty of attention. I began again to let the world come into my mind, and, of course, it soon gained a foothold there and ruled for the most part supreme.
Now and then, especially when anything strongly reminded me of my mother, my better self—that self which loved Andrew—came uppermost, but at such times, I suffered so much from the reproaches of conscience, that I strove by every means to stifle its voice. I said to myself that my father and mother had been brought by the circumstances in which they were placed to take a gloomy view of religion and its requirements. That the strictness which they had inculcated was not needful at present, and that it tended (a favorite argument this with the devil) to make religion unamiable. That a man or woman might be a Christian and yet allow themselves many diversions which the stricter sort denied.
In fine, my thought was, not how much I could do for my Lord, but how much of the world I could safely keep for myself. I was like a man who in time of war, instead of fleeing to the safe hills in the interior of the country, chooses to live as near the border as he can for the advantage of keeping up a trade with the enemy. Instead of simply shutting my ears to my cousin's infidel reasonings and declining the subject, I allowed myself to listen to him, and to be influenced by him to think that so long as a man lived a good life, forms and doctrines mattered very little, and I did not ask myself on what this good life was to be founded.
In short, I grew more and more conformed to the world, which in the bottom of my heart I had always loved, and in proportion as I did so, the remembrance of my father and mother, and of their teachings faded from my mind, I still loved Andrew enough to reject with considerable vivacity a proposal made me by young Mr. Champernoun, a gentleman of the neighborhood, with a good fortune, and I must say a personable and pleasing man, though grave beyond his years.
My lord and lady were very much vexed at my refusal, and used every argument to make me change my resolution, saying that Mr. Champernoun was a much better match than Andrew could ever be—which was true so far as fortune went—and that I should perhaps never have so good a chance to settle in life again.
"Well, well!" said my lord at last. "Wilful must have her way. An I had not promised your honored mother never to force your inclinations in any such matter, I should not use so much ceremony with you, mistress! You should be made to do what was best for you, whether you liked it or not."
He could not let the matter rest, but must needs take it up again when his son was present.
"Vevette is right," said my young lord. "Were I in her place I would not marry black Basil Champernoun either—a sour Puritan and precisian whose father was in the favor of Old Noll as long as he lived. I wonder, my lord, that you could think of such a thing."
"Aye, aye, you would fain find her a husband, I dare say; but mind, I will have none of that. If Vevette is flying at any such game, she may as well come down at once."
"I am not flying at any game that I know of," said I, feeling my cheeks flame, as what lady's would not.
"Your face tells another tale," returned my lord. "Such blushes do not come for nothing."
"One may blush for others as well as for one's self," said I, rising from the tables where I had been playing with my lord, and in my confusion oversetting the board. And I betook myself to my own room, nor did I leave it all the next day, saying that I was ill at ease, which was the truth, and wished to be quiet. Lewis must needs make matters worse by coming to my door to inquire for me, and though I did not see him, but sent him a message by Lucy, my new little maid, his doing so did not help me with his father and mother.
When I came down-stairs again, I found my lord had gotten over his pet and was as gracious as before, but my lady was very cool to me. She loved Lewis as her own son, and was ambitious for him. The insinuations of Betty had not been without their effect, and Mrs. Bernard, who was settled in the neighborhood, threw all her influence on the same side.
In short, I was very unhappy, and as I had about that time an opportunity of writing to my Aunt Jemima in London, I told her my troubles, and added that I knew not what to do.
The result was an immediate invitation from her and my uncle to come to them in London, and make their house my home. My uncle also wrote a letter to my lord, which I did not see, but which I suppose satisfied him, for he made no objection to my going, and my lady decidedly forwarded it. Lewis had a great deal to say against it, but it may be guessed that his arguments had no great weight.
It was settled that I was to travel with Theo and her husband, who were going up in a week or two, and my lady was directly in a great bustle to get me ready; now that there was a chance of getting me off her hands, she was all kindness once more.
The evening before I was to go to join Theo at Exeter, I sought out my lady in her dressing-room and asked to speak with her in private. I thanked her for her kindness to me, and assured her that I had had no desire to displease her in any way, and least of all by marrying Lewis. Then as she gave me a kind though somewhat embarrassed answer, I ventured to ask her what Betty had said about me. She would not tell me at first, but presently changed her purpose, and when I heard the cunning tale which Betty had imposed upon her, I no longer wondered so much at her change toward me. It was not only in the matter of the meeting with Mr. Lovel, that she had misrepresented me, but she had told my lady that I had avowed to her a settled purpose to make myself the wife of some great man, and to that very end had persuaded my mother to break off the match with Andrew, at the very time that the change in my fortunes made it likely that I should go to Stanton Court.
I explained the whole matter to my lady from beginning to end, and she was pleased to say that I had wholly exculpated myself, and to take shame to herself for being so ready to believe evil. She kissed me and said she was sorry I was going away, and bade me always think of Stanton Court as my home. She had been very generous to me before, and she now gave me a gold watch and a beautiful set of pearl ornaments which she had bought in Exeter. I believe she talked my lord over that night, for the next day he told me he was sorry I was going away, and if I would even now give up the plan, I should have a home at the court as long as I liked, and he would not tease me to marry any one.
But the die was cast. The step was taken which was the beginning of a long journey—far longer indeed, than any of us thought, and I had no mind to turn back.