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MRS. DEBORAH.
THE next morning, I waked feeling weary and weak enough. Amabel was already up, and I saw her seated near the window with her work. I lay a little while thinking over what had happened, feeling both ashamed of myself, and vexed at Mrs. Thorpe. What right had she, a tradeswoman, to set up to dictate to, and order a gentleman's daughter? And yet, at the bottom of my heart, I felt that she was right, and I was wrong.
I made a move presently, and Amabel came to me.
"Is it very late?" I asked. "Have you been up long?"
"It is not late, but I have been up more than an hour!" answered Amabel. "I have been thinking about a great many things, Lucy. When you are dressed, I will tell you what they are."
"Well! Now tell me your thoughts!" said I, as I finished my rosary, (which I still said every morning), and sat down on the other side of the window. "I hope they are not very deep, or I shall not understand them, for I feel dreadfully stupid and heavy. What would Mother Prudentia say to our being out till eleven o'clock, and that at a play?"
"She would say we were very wrong, and so we were," answered Amabel with decision. "Lucy, we must never do such a thing again."
"I don't think it was anything to make such an ado about!" I answered. "We could not help going with my lady at last."
"But we could have helped it at first!" returned Amabel. "We might have listened to Mrs. Crump, when she told us what was right."
"Mrs. Thorpe has no right to order us so!" I said, speaking out what I had been thinking.
"She has a perfect right, seeing that my aunt has placed us under her care!" said Amabel, "Think too, how kind she has been to us. How good she was last night; she did not wish to turn you out of her house, because you had a headache, like that other woman."
I remembered this, and began to feel ashamed of myself, for thinking of our kind hostess as I had done, and at last I agreed with Amabel that we had done wrong, and must ask pardon, as much as if it had been Mother Superior that we had offended.
My heart began to feel a little lightened, when arrived at this point, for the time when conscience stings us worst, is while we are refusing to allow that it stings at all. We knew that Mrs. Thorpe spent a little time in her closet every morning before she came to breakfast, and we determined to seek her there.
"There is another thing I have been considering!" said Amabel, when this matter was finally settled. "We have lived a very idle life, lately. Just think! We have been here nearly three weeks, and what have we to show for it? Not one thing."
"We have read a good deal!" I answered.
"Yes! But not in a way to do us any good. We have not done any lessons, or worked, either for ourselves or the poor; we have not kept to any rule, such as we have always been used to."
"I know it!" I answered! "I have thought of it a good many times. But then you know, Amabel, we have never been used to making rules, or deciding anything for ourselves, and somehow one does not know how to set about it."
"But people must learn to make rules for themselves!" said Amabel, with that gentle decision which has always characterized her, when her mind is made up. "Only a very small part of the people in the world can live in convents: otherwise everything would be at a stand still. And those who live in the world, must often decide for themselves, and regulate their own conduct, and I don't see why we should not do so."
"But, Amabel, we cannot observe all our own convent rules here!" I objected. "It would turn the house upside down, if we were to insist on having our meals at just such times as we used to at St. Jean."
"Those things are not of much consequence!" answered Amabel. "For aught I know, one may as well eat at one time as another. But we can take certain hours for working for the poor, and others for profitable reading and so on. That would disturb nobody; and I am sure we should accomplish a great deal more, and feel better ourselves. Suppose we make a set of clothes for that poor little lame girl we went to see yesterday. It will soon be cold weather, and she will need a warm gown and woolen hose. Did you not see how thin her things were, and how carefully mended?"
I agreed that it would be a very good plan, and then we sat a few minutes in silence.
"There is one thing that puzzles me!" said I presently. "Every one says, that the religious life is the highest, and yet it is plain that only a few people out of all the world can enter it; because, as you say, the work of the world would come to a stand still, if nobody married and brought up children, and were shop-keepers and lawyers, and so on. But yet, it seems as if every one ought to serve God in the best possible way; and if the religious life is the best way, then every one ought to be religious. I do not understand it."
"Every one has not a vocation!" said Amabel.
"But if a vocation pleases God most, then every one ought to have it!" I persisted.
"I have heard Mother Prudentia say, that the religious were like the cream that rises to the top of the milk!" said Amabel. "The skimmed milk may have its uses too."
"The skimmed milk may have its uses, but I don't believe it is the best for the children!" I returned. "And that is what they get, poor things, if all the best women are to become nuns, and leave only the second-rate ones to become mothers and bring up the little ones."
"Now you are reasoning, and using your own private judgment!" said Amabel, a little severely—"And you know the church forbids that."
I did not answer but I thought all the more. How was I to help using my private judgment, so long as I was in a world full of things to be judged? And even if I gave up in everything to the church, was it not because my private judgment told me that was the right way? It was a very puzzling business, and the worst was, that having begun to think, I could not stop.
"There!" said Amabel, rising as the clock struck eight. "Now we can go to Mrs. Thorpe. Come, Lucy!"
We found the good woman in her closet; a small room opening from her parlor, where she had a table, and chair, a shelf or two of books, a clock, and her large Bible and prayer-book, both of which lay open.
"Good morning, my dear young ladies!" said Mrs. Thorpe, as heartily as if nothing had happened. "I did not think you would be awake so early, and told Betsy not to disturb you."
"We have been up a long time, but we did not wish to interrupt you!" answered Amabel. "Mrs. Thorpe we have come to say, that we are very sorry for what happened yesterday, and we will never go anywhere again without your permission."
"And I am sorry I cried so last night!" I added on my own account.
Crying when reproved was a great offence in our convent days.
"Bless you, my dear, you could not help it; it was only a fit of the mother—hysterics, folks call it nowadays—from being tired, and over-wrought. But I don't want to be arbitrary with you, my dears. You are not children any more, and though I do hold to absolute obedience on the part of young folks to their elders who have the charge, and must answer for them, yet I would have it a reasonable, and not a blind obedience. The world, my dears, is full of snares for the young, and especially for young maids—snares of which they know and can know nothing, neither what they are nor how to guard against them; neither should they wish to know, seeing that the very knowledge of evil tends in some measure to corrupt the mind.
"'Can a man touch pitch, and not be defiled?' asks the good book? And so young people, and particularly young maids, whether gentle or simple, must be contented to do what they are bid, and come and go as they are told by those to whom the Lord has given the ordering of them. Many a girl who is now on the streets of Newcastle ruined in body and soul, and made as the offscourings of all men, might be safe at home, if she would but have trusted in, and been guided by her mother, whose heart she has broken, bringing her down in shame and sorrow to her grave."
Mrs. Thorpe spoke with such feeling and tenderness, that it brought the tears to both our eyes.
"There, now I have preached my little sermon, and we will say no more about this matter!" resumed Mrs. Thorpe, in a more cheerful tone. "We will have our breakfast, and then I have something else to say to you."
We usually breakfasted alone with Mrs. Thorpe, who liked to sit chatting over her cup of tea, having regulated her domestic affairs at an early hour. We had not then learned to drink tea, and Mrs. Thorpe had had a pot of chocolate prepared for us. We sat sipping it, while she opened her great subject.
"My dears, do you think you are making the most of your time?"
We looked at each other, and smiled.
"No, madam! We have been very lazy since we came hither!" answered Amabel. "Lucy and I were talking that matter over this very morning, and agreeing that we must set ourselves at work."
"Why, that is well!" said Mrs. Thorpe, evidently much pleased. "I don't much believe in praise to the face, which is open disgrace, the old rhyme says. But I must needs say, that two more candid young people I never met with." Then reverting to her subject—"I think you told me you had learned music."
"We learned to sing, and a little of the organ," Amabel answered.
"How would you like to learn the harpsichord?" asked Mrs. Thorpe.
Amabel's eyes sparkled. We had seen one of these wonderful instruments at Mrs. Lowther's school, whither we had gone one day with Mrs. Thorpe; and we had heard one of her young ladies play a lesson of Mr. Handel's.
"Because!" continued Mrs. Thorpe without waiting for an answer, or perhaps seeing one in our faces. "I have taken a fine instrument from a lady in this town who owed me money, and had no other means of paying me; and I would rather you used it than not. I daresay now, you are thinking it was hard-hearted in me, to take the poor lady's harpsichord," added Mrs. Thorpe abruptly, changing the subject.
"No, madam! I do not believe you would ever do anything hard!" I answered.
"If the lady had been poor, and had gone in debt for necessaries, I should never have done it!" continued Mrs. Thorpe; "but such was not the case. She is a widow lady, with a handsome jointure enough, to maintain her as nicely as need be, in a somewhat quiet way, but that does not satisfy her. No! She must needs flaunt it with the finest in the county; and she has run in debt on every side, till there is hardly a tradesman within a mile who has her not on his books. Not one thing does she ever deny herself that she wants. Poor Gileson the confectioner, who has a sickly wife and six little ones, told me that she owed him more than fifty pounds.
"Ah! My dears, we hear much about hard-hearted creditors, but I have seen a deal more of hard-hearted debtors in my time. But I had no mind to wait on my fine lady or to lose by her either; so I told her I must have either money or money's worth before night; so she turned me over this harpsichord and some laces. Now I know an excellent elderly gentleman in this part of the town, who plays very finely. He is the organist in Mr. Cheriton's church, and is glad to eke out a living for himself and his wife, by giving lessons in music, arithmetic, and other things, for he is a fine scholar they tell me. What would you say to taking some lessons of this gentleman? It would occupy you pleasantly, and you would be improving yourselves at the same time.
"I was never for driving young folks from morning till night, but I don't like to see their days running to waste, either. Time, my dear young ladies, is a thing which once lost, can never return. If you lose your health, you may recover it; if your money, you may earn or inherit more; but days wasted can never be found again, either in time or eternity, that I know of."
Mrs. Thorpe spoke impressively, as was her wont when on serious subjects.
"But not to talk of that now," she added in her usual business-like tone. "Your honored father, Mrs. Amabel, bade me use my own judgment with regard to your expenses, so I am not afraid to undertake this matter. The harpsichord will be here this morning, and I will send to Mr. Lilburne to wait upon you at once."
"There is another thing we were talking of this morning," said Amabel when this matter was settled. "Lucy and I were always accustomed to spend some of our time in working for the poor while we lived at St. Jean, and we thought if you approved, we would make some warm garments and hose for that poor lame girl we went to see yesterday. We both have most of the money left that you brought us and if you would kindly buy us the stuffs and the worsted, we might set ourselves at work directly."
She put her hand in her pocket as she spoke, and withdrew it with a very startled look.
"My purse is gone!" said she. "And just look—my pocket is cut open from the top to the bottom."
"It must have been done at the theatre last night," said Mrs. Thorpe, looking at the pocket which had clearly been slit from top to bottom with some sharp instrument. "Were you much mixed up in the crowd?"
"Yes. Don't you remember, Amabel, how we were squeezed just outside the door? The man could hardly make way through the press. And mine is gone too," I added, pulling out my pocket as I spoke, and having much ado not to burst into tears. It was the very first money I had ever owned, and it seemed such a cruelty to deprive me of it, and where were poor Annie's warm clothes to come from?
"I dare say the pickpockets made a fine harvest," said Mrs. Thorpe. "It is a very favorite scheme of theirs, and the theatre is a favorite place for their operations. But there, don't cry, my dears, perhaps I can help you about the clothes. You had better look at your camlet dresses and see whether they do not need mending, and if so do it at once. Camlet ravels so badly. I will match the color for you in fine sewing-silk."
A customer at this moment called Mrs. Thorpe into the shop.
We betook ourselves to our own room, and there we did have a little cry together over our lost guineas. But there was no use in wasting time in regrets, and there were our new gowns of plum-colored silk camlet, each with a long slit down the side to be mended.
Mrs. Thorpe matched the silk nicely, and after the repairs were finished, we set to collecting all our working materials. We had begun several pieces at St. Jean, and purchased quite a little store of embroidery silks and lace thread, in Toulon. Amabel proposed that we should take up these pieces and finish them in rotation. We still had our table covered with them when Mrs. Thorpe came up and began admiring them.
"I'll tell you what, my dear Mrs. Amabel and Mrs. Lucy, (I shall never learn to use this new-fangled title, and I don't know that I care to either. In my young days, to call a lady a Miss was to give her about the worst name one could devise), but I'll tell you what, young ladies, I was going to offer to provide you with the stuff for your work, but if you choose to finish these two cravats which I see you have begun, I can sell them for you for money enough to clothe the poor girl and send her to school into the bargain, and then the gift will be all your own. But they must be done soon, for fashions, you know, change like the moon, only one can't calculate on their changes."
Here was an unexpected way out of our trouble. I confess the thought did cross my mind that it was somewhat beneath the dignity of young ladies of quality to work for money, and I said as much to Amabel when Mrs. Thorpe had left the room to superintend the moving of the harpsichord.
"But we are working for the poor in making the lace as much as if we were knitting hose or making shifts," replied Amabel. "The mothers and sisters used to work for money, and they were of noble family."
"But they were religious, and vowed to humility and poverty," I objected. "Does not that make a difference?"
"The more I think about it, the more it seems to me, that no one person is bound to be religious more than another," said Amabel. "You know we should both have become nuns if we had had our way, and why are we to be less devoted because we live here instead of at St. Jean?"
Our conversation was interrupted by the entrance of the man with the harpsichord, a handsome new instrument, which they placed in our parlor. Mrs. Thorpe followed with her arms full of music-books, and bringing with her a tall white-haired old gentleman, whom she introduced as Mr. Lilburne. I took a great liking to him at once. He examined the harpsichord, pronounced it a fine one and in perfect tune, and, at Mrs. Thorpe's request, played some airs, which he said were from Mr. Handel's oratorio of the Messiah. Finding that we could read music and had some knowledge of the theory, he gave us a lesson, promising to call the next day but one and hear us play it.
This was destined to be a day of surprises. Amabel was carefully playing over her lesson, and I was busily working at my lace piece, when we heard some one coming up stairs, and Mrs. Thorpe herself throwing open the door announced, with some trepidation—
"Mrs. Deborah Leighton—your aunt, Mrs. Deborah Leighton, Mrs. Amabel."
We both rose to our feet with a start and curtsied to the tall lady in a riding habit who stood in the door.
Mrs. Deborah was the oldest of the ladies at Highbeck Hall, and was at that time turned of fifty. She wore her own gray hair without powder, turned up under a man's beaver with a handsome feather and gold clasp. I had never seen a riding habit near at hand at that time, and the coat and waistcoat, almost exactly like a man's, with the deep-laced pockets and cravat, struck me with surprise. Mrs. Deborah wore large gold ear-rings, and the seals of a watch dangled below her waistcoat. In her hand she carried a riding whip with a silver handle.
"There, don't come too near me, girls! I don't suppose there is any infection about me, but it is best to be safe," she said, speaking in a strong deep voice, which yet had a certain music in it. "I need not ask which is which. This, I am sure, is Amabel, from her looks, and this Cornish girl is Lucy Corbet. You are your father's girl, child, as Amabel is her mother's," looking at me with a curious contraction of her mouth, as of one in momentary pain. "Your father was a goodly and gallant man, child. I knew him well. And your mother was one of whom the world was not worthy. There, be a good girl and you shall never want a friend while I live. And you are Amabel, eh!" turning to her. "You are a beauty like your mother, but beauty is a fading flower—you know that, don't you?"
"Yes, madam," answered Amabel.
"Well, and how do you find yourselves? I will sit with you a little, seeing I am here, and my good friend, Mrs. Thorpe, will send me a glass of ale."
Mrs. Thorpe withdrew on this hint, and Mrs. Deborah seated herself near the door and continued her catechism.
"There, there, sit down—" For, of course, we had remained standing. "And how do you find yourselves? Are you comfortable here?"
"Yes, madam, we are very happy here," Amabel answered.
"But what do you do with yourselves? Do you go out? You must not dawdle away your lives, you know. When we have you at Highbeck, we will teach you to ride; but that will not be very soon, I fear."
We told her how Mrs. Thorpe had arranged for our lessons from Mr. Lilburne.
"A most respectable person. I know him well, but methinks you should have a governess, or something of that sort. Have you not even a maid?"
"No, madam, we have always been used to wait upon ourselves," answered Amabel.
"Perhaps that is a good thing; however, I will see about it. Now, girls, I—we, I should say—hoped to have you at home before this time, but poor Chloe has had the smallpox as well as two of the maids, and Burdon, our butler—a pretty thing to be sure to be taking smallpox at his time of life. Poor Sister Chloe is not getting up well. She has a cough and pains in her chest, and the doctor says she should have a change. So we are going to take her to Cullercoats for the sea air and to drink the waters, and leave the house to be thoroughly aired and cleaned. We may be gone till near Christmas, and what to do with you in the meantime? You are rather old for school except as parlor boarders, and I do not like that way of living. What do you say, niece? You look like a sensible, steady young woman—tell me what you think of the matter."
"Why should we not remain as we are, madam—"
"Don't say madam, say Aunt Deborah," interrupted the lady.
"Why should we not stay as we are, Aunt Deborah? Mrs. Thorpe is very kind and looks after us well, and she has put us in the way of improving ourselves, as you see. Why should we not stay here?"
"I have no objection, I am sure, so you are properly looked after, as you say," replied Mrs. Deborah. "But you must not run about alone, or with any one but such as Mrs. Thorpe recommends. I will talk to her about this matter of a governess or companion. She is a good woman and well brought up, and a safe adviser for you. But what is this, and whom have we here?"
The new-comer whom Betsy brought up stairs was no less a person than Mrs. Wilson, Lady Throckmorton's maid. She came with inquiries from her mistress as to our health, and an announcement that her ladyship would call at two o'clock in her carriage to carry us abroad for an airing. The woman had taken no notice of Mrs. Deborah, who sat listening. Her black eye-brows gathered closer together till they met above her nose. I came afterward to watch the drawing together of those eye-brows as one watches a thunder-cloud. When Mrs. Wilson had done, Mrs. Deborah answered deliberately, as though weighing every word.
"Then you may tell my Lady Throckmorton from me, Mrs. Deborah Leighton, the aunt of these young ladies and their guardian, that neither now nor at any other time will they go abroad with her. I absolutely forbid their having any thing to do with her. Do you hear me, woman?"
It was evident from Mrs. Wilson's face that she did both hear and understand, but she took no notice of Mrs. Deborah, except to turn her back upon her while she repeated her message to us.
"You have your answer," said Amabel with dignity. "Do you not hear? We are obliged to Lady Throckmorton for her goodness, but my aunt has forbidden us to go out with her."
"Now, or at any time!" added Mrs. Deborah.
"Please to return these things to your mistress!" said Amabel, putting into Wilson's hand a parcel containing the finery she had lent us, and which we had packed up to send by Timothy.
Mrs. Deborah Watched her down the stairs, as a dog watches the retreat of some intruder, whom he has half a mind to fly at and rend. She then shut the door, and returned to her seat.
"What does this mean?" she asked. "Have you set up gadding already? How came you to know this fine lady?"
Amabel told her the story of our adventures, and her knitted brows gradually relaxed, especially when I took the blame on myself, saying that I thought Amabel would not have gone but for me.
"Well, well! You are but young, and as new to the world as callow goslings!" said she.
"Lady Throckmorton was your mother's friend once, Amabel, and for her sake, I am sorry now, that I sent her so rude a message. But she was very different in those days. She has been talked about—compromised, though I say not, that she was aught but imprudent. She lives for the world, and calls about her all the gay dissipated young sparks in the country, such as I would not have you meet. She plays high too, and has, I hear, lost a great deal of money. There, we will say no more, only mind, I will have no more visiting or going out with her. Well! And where have you been to church? Next door, I suppose. Mr. Cheriton's father lives in our parts, and though poor, is a gentleman of good family. He is like enough to become heir to Lord Carew in Devonshire, I hear. How do you like the son? He is called a good preacher."
Amabel replied that we had not heard him preach, though we had made his acquaintance, and explained that being Catholics, we had not been to church, the only chapel in Newcastle being closed at present.
"Catholics, eh! I never thought of that," said Mrs. Deborah, looking rather annoyed. "It has always been the rule in our family that the girls should follow their mother's religion; but my nephew, it seems, has found means to evade it. I don't know what my sisters will say. But never mind, now, your consciences shan't be interfered with, if I can help it. Well, then we will consider matters settled, and that you are to stay here. I will talk to Mrs. Thorpe about a proper companion for you. Meantime, here is a token for each of you!" and she laid down two guineas upon the table. "Oh, by the way, niece, have you heard from your father?"
"No, aunt!" answered Amabel. "I had hoped for a letter, or perhaps a sight of him before long."
"I do not believe he will come north at present—and perhaps it is just as well on the whole, that he should not!" answered Mrs. Deborah. "His wife has great influence with him, and from all I hear, she is not likely to let him burn his fingers; not that I believe these tales of the Prince's landing. Well, there! Good-bye. Be good girls, and God bless you."
We looked at each other, as the door closed on Mrs. Deborah.
"Well, how do you like her?" said I.
"Very much!" answered Amabel, with decision, as usual. "I think she is rather rough, but I am sure she is good. How very kindly she spoke to you. Do you not like her?"
"Yes! Very much," I answered.
And indeed, Mrs. Deborah's way of putting me on an equality with Amabel, had extracted from my mind a root of bitterness which had vegetated there for a long time. Ever since our last talk with Mother Superior about returning to England, I had fully made up my mind never to leave Amabel, whatever happened. But I had shed some proud tears in secret, at the thought of being degraded from an equal and companion, to a mere waiting-woman. That trial was not to come upon me, at least for the present.
That same afternoon, a messenger came from Lady Throckmorton, bringing back the aprons that we had worn at the theatre, with the following note.
"Girls:"You may tell your aunt, that I might easily enough repay the affront she has seen fit to put upon me, but I scorn such paltry revenge. As to you, I meant to do you a kindness which you might have taken for such; but of course, such chits as you have to do as you are bid. I am not in the habit of taking back my gifts, for such I meant 'em. You can either keep the things, or put 'em in the fire."CLARISSA THROCKMORTON."
"What shall we do with the things?" said I, taking up the packet, which Amabel had laid on the table.
"We can do nothing but keep them, under the circumstances!" answered Amabel.
"I am sure I don't want to have them," said I.
"Nor I. Perhaps we can find a way of bestowing them in charity some time; meantime let us put them away. I am glad my aunt laid her commands on us so plainly, it saves us a great deal of trouble."
"What shall we do if Lady Throckmorton writes to your father, as she said she meant to do?" I asked, remembering all at once, all her ladyship had said on that matter.
"We shall see when the time comes."
"But you must allow, Amabel, it was kind in her to ask us!" said I. "She could have had no motive in it, but to give us pleasure, that I see."
"I am not so sure!" answered Amabel. "I don't like to look out for mean motives. At the same time, I can't help remembering a word she let drop—'I must positively have you with me. Nothing draws like a new face.' Don't you recollect?"
I did recollect, and my ever ready pride brought the blood to my cheeks, as I thought of being used as a decoy to capture the kind of game which Lady Throckmorton affected. "Well, I know one thing, I wish we had never seen her!" said I.
"We never should have seen her probably, if we had obeyed Mrs. Thorpe's hints, and stayed up stairs," answered Amabel. "But come, never mind her. Hear me play over my lesson."
Amabel took to the harpsichord at once. I cannot say I ever liked it. I was fond of singing and of the lute, and I believe I might with proper instruction have become something of a proficient upon the latter. But I liked best of all to do fine needle work, for which I always drew my own patterns, mostly from nature.
That very afternoon, taking a longer walk than usual, we found ourselves outside the walls, where was quite a little coppice of wood and brambles. Here, I discovered some fern leaves of a kind quite new to me, and very graceful. Such things always gave me a degree of exquisite delight, such as I could never find words to express; and which I believe Amabel thought rather childish. I carried home a handful of the leaves and arranged them into a pattern.
Mrs. Thorpe had in her shop some beautifully fine and sheer linen, which she said came from China. I bought a square of this linen with a part of the guinea Mrs. Deborah had given me, and began a handkerchief, which so interested me, that I found myself in danger of forgetting my lessons altogether; till I made a positive rule to myself, that I would work at it only just so long every day.
If there was some trouble in being thus forced to decide for ourselves, there was also a good deal of pleasure, and it had this advantage; that our minds and wills were made stronger, instead of weaker by the process.
After a day or two, Mrs. Thorpe announced to us that she had found a lady who would come to us every day from nine till six; walk out with us and give us such instruction, especially in English, as was in her power. I confess I was not pleased with the prospect, and I suppose Mrs. Thorpe saw as much in my face, for she added—
"You know, ladies, I am only acting in accordance with Mrs. Deborah's orders. I dare say, you find it pleasanter to be by your two selves; but you know, my dears, that the pleasantest things are not always the best. Mrs. Cropsey is a very well-educated lady, who has seen good society in her day; but she has lately been left a widow, having lost her husband and two children, as it were, at one blow; and she is only too glad to do something to support herself—poor thing."
"Who was her husband?" asked Amabel.
"He was a clergyman of the church of England, Mrs. Amabel—a poor curate, to a gentleman who holds two livings, and a stall at Durham besides. Poor Mr. Cropsey caught a fever from a poor man he attended, and carried it home to his children. They just managed to make both ends meet in his lifetime, and you may guess there was not much left for his widow. I don't wish to speak evil of dignities, or to criticise my spiritual pastors, which is against the catechism, and bad manners besides; but I must say it does vex me to see Doctor Turnbull riding in his fine coach, with his lady and daughters, dressed out as never was, spending money like water; while the poor creatures that do all the real work, have hardly bread to eat, nor clothes to cover their backs and those of their children, not to mention money to lay up against a rainy day."
"Our priests do not marry!" observed Amabel, with a little tone of superiority. "So they have no cares of this world to distract them from their sacred duties."
Mrs. Thorpe smiled—a shrewd, slightly sarcastic smile, of which I had learned to be a little afraid.
"My dear!" she asked abruptly. "How many priests did you ever know anything about?"
We looked at each other.
"There was Father Brousseau!" said I.
"And the Bishop—but we could not say we knew him, of course; we only saw him two or three times," added Amabel.
"And Father Dubois!" I added.
Amabel frowned at me.
The truth was, that Father Dubois had come for two or three weeks in place of Father Brousseau, when that gentleman was called away; and had created a sad scandal by drinking too much wine, and singing songs which were not sacred by any manner of means.
"You see you are hardly competent to decide on that matter," said Mrs. Thorpe. "I have seen a good many priests in my travels, both French and German."
"I am sure Father Brousseau is a good man!" said I, rather indignantly, as Mrs. Thorpe apparently pulled herself up, in what she was about to say.
"That he is, my child!" agreed Mrs. Thorpe, emphatically. "I wish all clergymen, both priests and ministers, were like him. But to return to the matter in hand. I hope, my dears, you will like this lady, and be kind to her. Young persons can do very much to make the lives of their governesses pleasant and easy, or the reverse. I am not much acquainted with Mrs. Cropsey, but Mr. Cheriton knows her well, and indeed it was he who recommended her to me."
"I dare say we shall like her very much!" replied Amabel promptly. "And as you say, it will no doubt, be better for us to have some one with us, to overlook our employments, as we have always been used to do. When is she coming?"
"She has asked to wait till next week, as she has to settle up her affairs, and dispose of what furniture she has. Mr. Cheriton has bought the poor gentleman's books, of which he had a good many, considering. Mrs. Cropsey has insisted on giving me two china jugs, which were her mother's, on account of a debt she owes me, for thread, hose, and so on. I don't wish to sell them, so with your leave, I will put them on the top of your cabinet, here. Perhaps she may buy them back some day."
"What do you think?" I asked of Amabel, as Mrs. Thorpe left the room.
"About Mrs. Cropsey? I think we must make the best of her, and learn all we can of her. Anyhow, Lucy, we won't be set against her beforehand; that would not be fair. I dare say she is a nice person."
"She must be, of course, since Mr. Cheriton recommended her!" said I demurely, and bestowing extra pains on the stem of my fern.
"I suppose he would not recommend her, of course, unless he considered her suitable," returned Amabel, and she immediately began practising with such energy that there was no more chance for conversation.
image013
THE INNOCENT BLOOD.
THE next day was Sunday, a day which usually hung rather heavily on our hands.
There was a Roman Catholic Chapel in Newcastle, but it had been closed ever since our arrival, and the priest had left town. The rumors of a second attempt of the Chevalier de St. George, or the Pretender, (that unlucky gentleman being one or the other, according as the speaker were Whig or Jacobite,) though as it turned out totally unfounded at that time, had made it expedient for such of the Catholic clergy as knew the value of peace, to keep out of sight. But these rumors had now begun to die away.
It was reported that King Louis had forbidden the chevalier to fight with his army in Flanders, or even to visit it; that his highness was living quietly in the neighborhood of Paris, amusing himself with shooting and playing, and other more questionable diversions, and that there was not the least likelihood of his getting together another fleet at present to re-place that which had been scattered by the storms of the preceding winter.
The Jacobites still held up their heads, and used their passwords, and wore their white ribbons. But I could not but observe that a large number of the fine bonnets which sailed into the side entrance of St. Anne's were trimmed with red plumes and flowers.
Amabel had one of her rare headaches that day. She got up, but was obliged to go to bed again. I applied the usual remedies, and she by and by began to amend, and at last fell into the deep sleep which usually ended these attacks.
As I knew that she was not likely to wake for some hours I ventured to leave her, and, taking my book of "Hours," I stole down into the garden, and seated myself in a shady corner, a favorite place of mine, where one of the buttresses of the old gray stone church projected into our garden. There was a window directly over my head, out of which several lights were broken, and as I sat, I could hear the voice of Mr. Cheriton reading the service, and the droning responses of the old clerk.
Mr. Cheriton had a good voice and read remarkably well. He had too much taste to mumble the service, as many clergymen do, or to repeat it like a child going through the pence table. Not that I should have seen any thing wrong in it if he had, for I was used to say my own rosary much in the same way. Mr. Cheriton had also a musical ear, and his efforts, joined to those of Mr. Lilburne, the organist, had made the singing the best in town, so that many fine people came purposely to hear it. These people were sometimes to be seen coming away before the sermon, which I should think could hardly have been very pleasing to Mr. Cheriton.
I had not said to myself that my object in seeking the corner under the church wall was to hear the service, and yet such was really my purpose. I had begun to be very curious about the ways and worship of Protestants, and would have liked very well to go to church with Mrs. Thorpe for once, but I had not yet ventured to propose such a thing to Amabel. However, I said to myself that there could be no harm in listening, so long as I did not join in the heretical worship. So I did listen with all my ears, and made the discovery that the service—prayers, hymns, and all—was in English, so that I understood every word.
"How strange that they should have the Church prayers in the common vulgar language that they use every day," said I to myself. And then the thought occurred to me, that as most of the worshippers were common vulgar people, perhaps it was as well that the prayers should be in a language which they understood.
Presently I made another discovery, which was, that the priest did not have all the service between himself and the choir, but that the people actually joined in it. Any one who looks into the matter will see that in the Romish Church there is no such thing as common prayer as we understand it. The priest and his assistants perform the mass, and the choir sings the responses, while the books of those who are able to read contain various devotions, such as are considered appropriate to different portions of the service. There may be as many different prayer-books as there are worshippers.
But here I heard the voices of all the school children, and many of the congregation beside, join in the "Good Lord deliver us," and other responses of the litany. I had now given up all pretence of reading and listened with all my ears. I found myself strangely affected by these English prayers. The short petitions seemed calculated to meet almost every case of need or sorrow common to man. I felt the tears very near my eyes, and when the choir sung the twenty-third psalm—
"The Lord is only my support,And He that doth me feed,How can I then lack anythingWhereof I stand in need."In pastures green He feedeth meWhere I do safely lie,And after leads me to the streamsWhich run most pleasantly—"
The drops ran over. I believe this was the first time I had ever thought of God, Himself, as my Father, or as a possible friend. The Father was to me up to that time, as an awful stern power far away in the heavens, yet watching all I did with a jealous eye; from whose wrathful justice I was to be saved, if at all, by the intercession of Mary, and by her commands laid upon her Divine Son, in my favor.
I listened eagerly for the sermon, but it disappointed me; I could hardly tell why. It was well written and faultlessly delivered, no doubt, but I must confess, the whole might have been summed up, as Jenny Trevathy summed up one of poor old Doctor Brown's one day last summer—
"It is nice to be good, and naughty to be wicked, and if you are good, you will have a nice time, and if you are not, you won't."
But of how to be good—how to get rid of that traitor within, which was always corresponding with the tempter without, and opening the doors to him—of that I heard nothing.
"To resolve was everything," Mr. Cheriton said. But I had not yet found to resolve was anything.
I got up as the congregation began to disperse, and went into the house. I found Amabel up, and bathing her face with cold water.
"How is your headache?" I asked.
"Quite gone," she answered. "Have you been sitting here all the morning?"
"No! I have been in the garden, listening to the music in the church. Do you know, Amabel, they have all their service—prayers and chants and all—in plain English, and the people join in them?"
"Yes, I knew as much as that!" answered Amabel. "But I am not sure it was right to listen to them."
"There was no harm in them, that I could see," I answered. "They seemed to me very good prayers."
"They are heretical, and so they cannot be good," answered Amabel, in her mildly positive way. "They have no mass at all, and even what they call the communion, only once in a month, and you know Lucy, the perpetual adoration of the Blessed Sacrament was instituted partly to atone for the affronts offered to it, by Protestants."
"How far away all that seems!" said I. "Does it to you?"
"Almost always. It is Sister Lazarus' turn at the post now!" said Amabel, with a far off dreamy look in her eyes. "It always came at this time on Sunday. I heard her tell Mother Prudentia once, that Satan always assaulted her at that time, by making her wonder whether or not Sister Anne was scorching the fowls, and letting the soup boil over."
"The dear mothers and sisters—how often I have wished I could send them some of the nice things we are always having to eat," said I.
"Sister Lazarus is a much better cook than Betsy," returned Amabel, jealous for the honor of her old friend. "Mrs. Thorpe herself said she never saw such cooking."
"Yes, but think how little she has to do with. I wish our own dinner was ready, but I think Mrs. Thorpe is later than common."
"There she comes now. Please fasten my kerchief behind, Lucy!"
"Well, my dears, did you think I was never coming?" said Mrs. Thorpe. "It is a Sacrament Sunday, and there was such a number of communicants as I never saw before. Almost all poor-looking people, too. The free seats were quite filled, and some of the men were rough-looking fellows enough. However, they all behaved wonderful well—a deal better than some of their betters, I must say. I don't want to set up to judge the quality, but I don't like to see all this curtsying, and bowing, and passing of snuff-boxes, and sugar plums. That sort of thing may do well enough at the theatre, but to my mind, 'tis very unsuitable to the church of God."
"We don't have such things in our churches!" I said, rather boastfully.
Mrs. Thorpe gave an odd little smile. She had been many times in Paris, and the low countries; and Protestant as she was, she had seen a deal more of Romish churches than we had.
"So much the better, my dear!" said she. "As I said, church is no place for them. I saw my Lady Throckmorton make up a face of disgust at Mr. Cheriton himself, as some poor women came in, and sat down in the free seats near her."
"What did Mr. Cheriton do?" asked Amabel.
"I could not see that he gave her so much as a glance," said Mrs. Thorpe. "Folks say—some of the straiter-laced kind at least—that Mr. Cheriton is too fond of the theatre and card table for a clergyman. But at least, he knows what belongs to good behavior in church, and he gave the sacrament to the poor women with as much care and gravity as he would have done to a princess."
"I heard say, that the Methodists were coming to town, and were to have preaching this morning, at five o'clock at the Sandgate," observed Mary Lee modestly. "Perhaps that was what sent so many to the communion."
"The Methodists would be more likely to keep them away, from what I hear!" replied Mrs. Thorpe. "It is said, they teach that there is no use at all in ordinances, and they set up the commonest sort of people to preach, and to administer the sacraments."
"I do not think that is quite true, mistress!" said Mary, who very seldom ventured to speak a word. "My Aunt Kesiah, who is with us now, used to hear Mr. Wesley preach in Bristol, and thereabouts, when she lived in those parts last year; and she said great complaint was made by some of the clergy, that Mr. Wesley and his brother sent so many to the sacrament. * The sexton at Kingswood, where all the colliers live, was downright vexed about it, aunt said. They do have preachers of the common people I believe, but they are only preachers."
* See Charles Wesley's "Memoirs," concerning the colliers of Kingswood.
"They are all Papists, and in league with the Pretender. My father says so," said Betty Humble.
"Anyhow, they preach to the poor colliers and miners, that nobody had thought of before, any more than if they were brutes," said Mary, with spirit. "My aunt says, that there at Kingswood, where all sorts of wickedness, drinking, swearing, fighting, and what not used to go on, you hardly hear a bad word, or see a drunken person nowadays. The very women mend their own and their children's clothes, and strive to keep their houses neat, and the men sing psalms, and hymns, when they go to and from their work, instead of wicked vile songs, as they used to."
"The Methodists bewitch them," said Martha. "There was John Bristate's wife—she used to be the greatest scold in the Sandgate—and made naught of heaving the cat at John's head, and now she is like a lamb. John says it makes him just feared at times when he comes in late, to find his supper waiting by the fire, and to see Sally knitting, and the poor beast of a cat that used to dread her very step sitting in her lap or on her gown."
"If he would rather have a cat thrown at his head than to see it sitting on his wife's gown, he is not of my mind," said Mrs. Thorpe dryly. "I like a cat well enough, but not in that way, and I should say it would be altogether more healthful to the cat."
"I heard a gentleman—it was Lord Bulmer—say that some preacher declared that he knew his sins were forgiven," said I. "And Mrs. Bunnell had some talk with Mr. Cheriton about the matter, and she said it was in the prayer-book."
"I don't think that can be, and it does seem great presumption in a common man to pretend to know that his sins are forgiven," observed Mrs. Thorpe. "I have no spite against the Methodists, but the good old Church of England is good enough for me, as it was for my father before me, and so it ought to be for you, Mary Lee. Don't you be led away by any new-fangled notions, but do your duty toward God and your neighbor according to the catechism and you will be all right, never fear."
Mary's pale cheek flushed, and she looked as if she would like to say more, but as we all rose from the table at that moment to return thanks she had no opportunity. My own curiosity was greatly roused by what I had heard of these strange people, and I made up my mind that I would question Mary, and find out more of what her aunt had told her.
We always went out for a walk on Sunday afternoon, and not uncommonly a friend or two of Mrs. Thorpe's would drop in for a cup of tea, a chat, and a game or two at cards or backgammon, followed by a little supper. Mrs. Thorpe, I am sure, saw no harm in these things, or she would never have done them, for she was not one to go against her conscience in anything.
At the same time, she was greatly shocked and distressed at finding Amabel and me working at our embroidery frames one Sunday afternoon. She exacted from us a promise that we would never do so again, and told us a tragical tale, of a maid of honor of Queen Elizabeth's who had died from pricking her finger with a needle while sewing on Sunday, adding that she knew the story was true, for she had seen a wax-work image of this wicked young lady when she was in London, with the blood running down her finger as natural as life.
I don't think we were as much impressed with this tale as Mrs. Thorpe intended. Being a maid of honor to Queen Elizabeth, we thought the judgment might have come upon her for that reason, and not because she sewed on Sunday, for we had been taught to regard good Queen Bess as the personation of all that was evil in women.
But I am getting a long way from that memorable Sunday.
We had been out for a walk, as I have said. St. Anne's Church stood on the corner of the street down which we returned, and we had just drawn near to it when we heard the noise of many hoarse voices, which at once reminded me of the noises which had so terrified me in Toulon, and of the voices of the robbers as we heard them while concealed in the great cavern at St. Jean.
"What can that be?" exclaimed Mrs. Thorpe. "Let us hurry home, young ladies."
At that moment, Mr. Cheriton came out of his house and joined us, saying that he would see us to the door, as there seemed some disturbance in the street. We turned round the corner of the church and at once found ourselves face to face with the danger.
A riotous mob of persons—wharfmen, soldiers, and women of the lowest sort—were pouring up the street in which we lived. Just before them two men—one a plain man in decent black, the other apparently an officer of some sort—were supporting between them the form of a fainting woman, and trying to shield her from the blows that were aimed and the missiles that were thrown by the rioters.
Three or four gentlemen on horseback mingled with the crowd, and were evidently setting them on. In one of them, I recognized Lord Bulmer, whom I had seen at Lady Throckmorton's.
At the moment we reached our own door, a better aimed missile than the others struck the man in black on the head and knocked him down. It seemed as if the whole group would be trampled into dust by the multitude that came pouring on like a drove of wild cattle; but help was at hand. Mr. Cheriton sprang forward and, placing himself between the woman and the mob, with one flourish of his big stick, as it seemed, he laid low two of his opponents, and cleared a ring round him. At the same moment, a mutual recognition took place between Mrs. Thorpe and the young officer.
"Dick Thorpe, is this you?"
"Aunt Thorpe, for Heaven's sake, open the door and take this poor distressed woman into your house. These beggarly long-shore cowards have all but killed her." And he added a string of hard words which I will not set down here.
Swearing, which is now going out of fashion among gentlefolks, was as common as breathing at that time. Mrs. Thorpe was not the woman to disregard such an appeal. She flung open the private door of the shop. The poor man had picked himself up by this time, and, with the help of young Mr. Thorpe, carried the woman into Mrs. Thorpe's private parlor.
Meantime, Mr. Cheriton was addressing the mob. He Informed them in energetic language, level to the lowest understanding among them, that they were a set of cowards and sneaks, unworthy of the name of Englishmen; that they deserved kicking—not to say hanging—and it was a wonder if they did not get their deserts. He would like to see the first man who would dare attack the house whose mistress had taken in the poor creature. As he spoke, he twirled his stick, and looked round him as though he would enjoy breaking two or three more heads.
The viler part of the mob began to slink away by that time, and the better sort to look rather shamefaced.
"But these be the Methodees, parson," one ventured to say.
"They be in league with the Papists and the Pretender," said another.
"Rubbish!" returned the rector. "They are harmless people. Who has been telling you such a pack of lies?"
"His lordship says so," returned the first speaker, looking at Lord Bulmer, who kept his ground, though the other gentleman had drawn off.
"Then his lordship might be in better business," retorted Mr. Cheriton. "You are well set to work, my lord, hounding on these men to such a villainous, cowardly persecution of a few harmless enthusiasts."
"Mr. Cheriton, your cloth protects you," said Lord Bulmer, turning very red. "If it did not—"
"If it did not, I should be safe enough, I dare say," returned Mr. Cheriton, in a tone of the most stinging contempt. "The valor which exerts itself against poor Methodist preachers and helpless women is not likely to be very dangerous to any thing of its own size. Go home, my men, go home, and thank Heaven that you have been saved from the doing of a horrible cowardly crime."
The crowd had much thinned by this time, and the few men who remained looked sheepish enough.
"Then you don't think they be Papistees?" one man ventured to say.
"No, I don't, and if they were it would be no way to convert them. Pray, how did this disgraceful row begin?"
"'Twas the gentry as put us up to it," the man begun, but I heard no more.
Amabel and I had been peeping through the blinds of the room over the shop, when Mrs. Thorpe, who had sent us away from her room down stairs, came and called us.
"The poor woman has come to herself, but she must be got to bed without delay, and all the girls are out save Betty Humble, who has hid in the coal-hole and won't come out. My dear young ladies, will you do this distressed creature a good turn by getting a bed ready for her?"
"Yes, indeed," answered Amabel and I both together.
"Then just make up the bed in the front bedroom as quickly as you can. The blankets are all there, and you will find linen on the second shelf of the press in my room. There is the key. I will come up and do the rest."
We set to work with all zeal, admiring the thick softness of the feather beds and the beautiful smoothly-laundered linen. We ran hither and thither, bringing what was wanted, and making ourselves useful in all sorts of ways.
"See what it is to have the use of one's hands," said Mrs. Thorpe, as she came down stairs and found the table set and every thing ready for supper. "My dears, I never thought of your doing so much. Betty Humble, if you do not stop that noise this instant, I will empty this bucket of water over you."
This to Betty, who, having come out of her coaly refuge, was trying to attract a little interest to herself by going into hysterics in the corner.
"Don't let me hear another sound from you, if you want any supper to-night. Come, young ladies. Kesiah Lee is sitting with the poor woman above."
Mary ran and fetched her the moment she came home, like a good brave girl as she is, instead of bawling and screeching in the coal-house.
"Well, I can't help myself," began Betsy. "I always did have nerves when any thing was the matter."
"Then let me hear thee say nerves again and thow'lt get thy ears cuffed," returned Mrs. Thorpe. "Nerves, indeed! A pretty thing for every 'prentice lass to be setting up with nerves like a fine lady. Nerves are for the quality, not for those who have their living to earn."
"How is the poor woman?" I asked, when we had taken our seats at the table.
"Very bad!" answered Mrs. Thorpe, shaking her head. "I doubt she will hardly get through it. My nephew has gone for the doctor, and Kesiah Lee, who knows all about such matters, has promised to stay all night. We will do our best for the poor thing."
"And her husband?" asked Amabel.
"Like one distracted poor man at first, but he is quite calm now, though one may see by his face how much it costs him. 'Tis enough to wring one's heart to see him smile and speak cheerfully to his poor wife, and then turn to the window and stifle his grief. What could ever have possessed him to bring a woman in her condition into a crowd passes my guessing. If the poor thing dies, some folks will have murder on their souls."
Mrs. Crump and Betsy had come home by that time, so there was no more need for our services. And Mrs. Thorpe sent us to our own room with the recommendation that we should go to bed early, as we had had such a fatiguing day.
"You need have no fear!" said Mrs. Thorpe. "My nephew will stay in the house all night, and he has brought with him two or three sturdy sailors from his own ship, to garrison the fort, as he says."
This news produced a wonderfully reviving effect on Betsy's sinking spirits. She at once made known her willingness to sit up too, that she might be on hand if help were wanted.
"Yes, I dare say!" returned Mrs. Thorpe. "You go to bed, and don't let me hear your voice again this night. Do you go to bed too, my dear young ladies, and don't forget the poor woman in your prayers, for she needs them, if ever distressed creature did."
"Let us say the Litany of the Holy Virgin for her!" said I, when we were alone together.
Amabel was not quite sure, whether or no it would be right to do so for a heretic; but at last she agreed, and we went through it devoutly enough, addressing the Lord's mother in a way that seems to me now to be sheer idolatry.
I was a long time falling asleep, for when the necessity for action was over, I found out for the first time that I had been scared; and though I did not have a fit of the nerves like Betty, I started at every sound, and strained my ears to hear every movement in the other part of the house. It was not till cock-crowing that I fairly fell asleep.
Nevertheless, I waked rather early. The house was very still, and a late robin was singing sweetly in the garden. I could hear some one stepping about softly now and then, but that was all.
I dressed and opened our parlor door. That of the room opposite was open, as was also the window, which I rather wondered to see. The room way very neat, and Mrs. Thorpe worn from her vigil, and with traces of tears on her bright face, was just drawing the snowy curtains together.
As she caught my eye, she beckoned me, and as I came to her side, she softly parted them again, and turned down a fine white sheet which covered the bed. There lay the poor woman; her marble face beautiful with the peacefully joyful smile of death, and oh me—on her arm lay like a little waxen image—a dead baby.
"Is it not a pitiful sight?" said the good woman. "The babe was born about daybreak, and for a little, we hoped it might live, but it just breathed long enough to be christened, poor little dear, and its last sigh passed away with its mother's. She had her senses to the last, and I warrant you, it was a pitiful thing to hear how she strove to comfort her husband, and prayed for those who had brought her to this pass. I will never say a word about the Methodists again."
I have seen many a sorrowful sight in my day, but never I think one which touched me like that.
As I thought of Lord Bulmer with his languid fine gentleman airs, and remembered how he had set on the mob to murder these innocent creatures, my heart was like to burst with grief and indignation. I was to hate him worse before I had done with him.
"There, don't make yourself ill with crying, that's a dear!" said Mrs. Thorpe. "The poor thing's troubles are over, and she will never suffer again; and as to the dear baby, we know the Lord took such in his arms and blessed them, even when the disciples would have hindered him. Go down into the garden if you will, and gather some rosemary and lavender, to strew over the winding-sheet, and a white rose or two, to lay in the babe's bosom. We must make things look as pretty as we can."
I observed already, how neatly the bodies were dressed, and disposed.
As Mrs. Thorpe had suggested, I hurried down to the garden and gathered my hands full of sweet herbs, with which the place abounded. I was busily searching for some of the late violets which bloomed in a sunny border, when I was accosted by young Mr. Thorpe.
"The poor woman above is dead, I hear!" said he, after a morning salutation. "And her babe also. 'Tis a cowardly murder, if ever there was one."
"You did your best to save them!" I said.
"Yes! And should have succeeded, for the mob were inclined to hear the preacher at first when he turned to speak with them. But that cowardly fellow—Lord Bulmer as they call him, and one or two more of his sort, set them on, crying out that he was a spy for the Pretender. A spy indeed! We know who would have favored him, if he had been. But I shall mayhap meet this fine Lordling again, and we shall see whether he wears the white feather, as well as the white cockade. I crave your pardon, madam, I should not use such language before you: but I am a plain sailor, and not much used to ladies' society. Can I give you any help?"
"I would like a cluster of those white rose-buds!" said I, looking up to where a beautiful Noisette rose was trained against the wall. "But I fear they are out of reach."
"Not a bit of it!" was the answer.
Mr. Thorpe clambered up the rough wall at the peril of his neck, as it seemed to me. But before I had time to be scared, he was on the ground again, and put the roses into my hand.
"Thank you. They are beautiful," said I. "But you should not have run such a risk for them."
"Oh, it was no risk for a sailor!" he answered carelessly. "One does harder things than that every day on shipboard."
I began to be a little shy, so I thanked him again, and returned to the chamber of death. The poor husband was there, sitting by his dead wife and child, his face bowed in his hands; not weeping, but as it were crushed with the great weight of his grief. He did not raise his head as I came in; we arranged the flowers and herbs I had brought, and then Mrs. Thorpe paused, as if uncertain what to do next. At that moment, Mr. Cheriton entered the room.
"How is he?" he asked in a whisper.
"Just the same!" answered Mrs. Thorpe in the same tone. "He will neither eat nor speak. If he could weep, it would be something; I fear for his reason."
Mr. Cheriton stood for a moment, as if hesitating what to do. He has since said, that he never in all life longed so much to comfort any one, but he did not know what to say.
At last he drew a Prayer-book from his pocket, and saying in his deep voice, "Let us pray!" He kneeled down and began the last collects in the burial service. Amabel who had now risen, knelt beside me. We heard some one come in softly, and take his place with the rest.
When we arose, we saw that it was a strange clergyman—a neat little man in very precise black, with a face full of power and benignity. He went straight up to the preacher, laid his hand on his head, and said in that voice whose melody once heard, was never forgotten—
"My poor brother, may the God of all comfort, sustain thee."
John Edwards looked up at the words, and burst into a passion of tears and sobs.
"It was our first child!" said he brokenly. "Our very first; and we had lived together so lovingly for fourteen years."
Mrs. Thorpe beckoned us all out of the room, and left the friends together. Kesiah Lee was standing on the landing-place.
"He will comfort him if any one can," she whispered. "It is Mr. Wesley, himself."