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HIGHBECK HALL.
HIGHBECK Hall was a very long day's journey from Newcastle, in the best of roads. A frost, the first of the season, had set in two or three days before, and the roads were as hard as iron, and rougher than anything I can think of, wherewith to compare them. We had four noble great horses, beside a saddle-horse for Mrs. Deborah to mount when she pleased, for she was a great horse-woman. We had four inside our coach, and two outside, and a man on horseback beside.
The first day's travel was very dreary, and the inn where we stopped at night was not particularly comfortable; though the good people of the house did their very best to accommodate us, and were so civil and obliging, that we could not in conscience find fault. They gave us the best they had for supper—brown bread, and freshly toasted oat cakes, bacon and eggs, and a noble dish of trout from the stream near by, and we had our own tea; so we fared well enough as to eatables.
But the beds were terribly hard, and Mrs. Philippa complained dolefully in the morning that she had not slept a wink, and felt as if all her bones were broken. Amabel and I had a great chamber to ourselves, with a high carved mantel, and a fireplace as big as a chapel, with a great roaring wood fire in it, which did not do much to warm us, and doors opening on all sides into dark closets and passage-ways. The building having once been a fine manor-house, room was the last thing wanting.
"It is a ghostly-looking place, is it not?" said I, with a little shiver, after we had fastened the doors as well as we could.
"It makes me think of some of the great disused rooms at St. Jean!" answered Amabel. "I suppose the poor old house is left quite alone by this time. How I wish we could hear from the dear mothers and sisters."
"What do you think they would say to what you are doing now?" I asked, for Amabel was at that moment taking our Bibles out of our hand-bags.
"They would be grieved, no doubt!" answered Amabel. "I think of it often, and wonder whether I can really be the same person I was a year ago."
"People would say we had changed our religion very suddenly!" said I. "Only think! It is not yet six months since we first saw a Bible. I don't know how it was with you, but with me, it has been more a finding of religion, than changing one for another. I believed what I was taught, because I knew nothing else; but I cannot say it ever satisfied me."
"If I had had any one to dispute or argue with, I dare say I should have held out longer!" remarked Amabel. "But Mr. Wesley was too wise for that. He just gave us the truth, and left it to make its own way. But Lucy, we must not sit up talking. Let us read our chapters and go to bed, that we may be bright in the morning."
I thought I should certainly lie awake to listen to suspicious noises, but as it happened, the first noise I heard was Tupper's voice at the door, calling us to get up.
The breakfast was a counterpart of the supper, except that as our meal was seasoned with Mrs. Philippa's doleful forebodings, so the other was with her still more doleful complaints. The bed was hard—she had heard strange noises—an owl had screeched close by the window, and a death-watch had ticked at her head five times over, and then stopped; and she knew it was an omen of her death, which would happen in either five years, five months, five weeks, or five days.
"Or five hours, or five minutes, or perhaps five seconds—who knows?" said Mrs. Deborah, more to herself than her sister.
"Who knows, indeed? I may be dead before I leave these walls. I only hope Sister Chloe will take the pains to see that I have a decent funeral, that's all."
"Oh, don't be alarmed. You shall have the finest funeral money can buy!" said Mrs. Deborah impatiently.
Whereupon Mrs. Philippa began to cry.
"Sister Deborah!" said Mrs. Chloe with gentle reproach.
"Well there, child, I won't do so again. Come, do eat your breakfast, we shall never get away at this rate."
"What is a death-watch?" I ventured to ask.
"It is a little maggot or beetle, rather, which lives in the timbers of old houses and the like, and makes a clicking noise when it gnaws or scratches the wood. It is thought by some to be a sign of death; but I have had one in my room these twenty years, and he has not killed me yet."
"A dozen death-watches would never kill some people!" said Mrs. Philippa spitefully, through her tears.
"But how does the beetle know when one is going to die?" asked Amabel. "It cannot make any difference to him, and it does not seem very likely that God would tell such news to a little worm in the wall, and hide it from the person it most concerns."
"If you are an infidel, Niece Leighton, you had better keep your infidelities to yourself!" said Mrs. Philippa with great asperity. "I have not come to my time of life, to be reproved by a chit out of a French convent."
"I beg your pardon, aunt!" Amabel answered gravely and gently, though the color rose in her cheeks.
Mrs. Deborah made her a sign to be silent, and helped her to a great piece of marmalade, and the breakfast was finished without another word from any one.
But we were not to get away just yet. It turned out that one of the horses had lost a shoe, and the coach had a screw loose somewhere, so we were fain to wait two hours till the village blacksmith could supply what was wanted. The elder ladies occupied themselves in knitting. Mrs. Deborah being engaged on a substantial pair of hose for some poor person, and Mrs. Chloe on a counterpane, which had been in hand for some years. Mrs. Philippa lay on the hard sofa and fretted at the delay. And Amabel and I explored the great old house, found our way into the kitchen, and made friends with the hostess and her mother, a pretty neat old woman, who sat all day in a warm corner, and read in her great Bible.
"Yes, mother is a grand scholar!" said the good woman proudly. "She reads in the Bible from morning till night, and now she has gotten another book, which a traveling gentleman gave her, who staid here one night. He was one of these new light People—what is this they call them?"
"Methodists!" suggested Amabel.
"Yes, Methodists! Gaffer Thistlethwaite says, they are only Papists in disguise, and mean to bring in the Pretender, and the Pope. Do you think that can be true, mistress?" asked the woman with some anxiety.
"Oh, no!" said Amabel. "They are not in the least like Papists. We know Mr. Wesley very well, and he is a clergyman of the church of England."
"I'm heartily glad to hear it!" answered the good woman, evidently much relieved. "The gentleman was that kind and civil spoken, and said such good words, I did not like to think ill of him. He gave mother a book with fine verses in it. Show it to the young ladies, mother."
The old woman pulled out a book from her pocket, which turned out to be a volume of Mr. Charles Wesley's hymns, then lately put out. She was wonderfully pleased, when we read some of them to her. I never saw a nicer old woman, and it was a pleasure to see her age made so happy, by the consolations of religion, and the respectful care of her daughter and grandchildren. She was able to spin, she told us, and showed us some very nice thread of her spinning.
At last the carriages were ready, and we set out on our travels once more. The second day's journey was much more pleasant than the first, though the roads were no better; for the sun shone brightly, making the poor birds twitter a little in the bushes, and the hips and rowan berries glitter like jewels. For the first two or three hours, Mrs. Philippa chose to ride in the coach, so Mrs. Deborah took to her saddle-horse, while Amabel, Mary Lee, and I, had the smaller carriage to ourselves. We had been gradually rising for some time, and the purple mountains which we had seen ever since the fogs cleared off, seemed to be drawing nearer, so that we could discern the deep valleys and ravines which divided them. Amabel asked Richard what mountains those were.
"Those be the Cheviot Hills, miss; you will have heard of them, sure," answered Richard. "On the other side of them hills lies Scotland. We shall soon see the hall now, aye, a long time before we come to it."
Accordingly it was not long before Mrs. Deborah, riding to the side of the chaise, pointed out a mansion of considerable size, and built of grey-stone, standing on the hillside which rose in thickly-wooded slopes behind it, dark with fir trees, while higher still it passed into what seemed rocky pastures and moorland. A village church with roofs clustered about it was seen some distance below.
"There is your home, children," said she. "See how brightly the sun shines on the old house. I take it as a good omen."
"And I wish we were there, Mistress Deborah," said Richard. "It will be a stiff pull from the village with this slippery ground."
"We shall do very well, Richard," answered Mrs. Deborah. "I dare say the young ladies and Mary Lee will not mind walking a little to lighten the load."
We at once professed ourselves willing and glad to walk a while. Mrs. Deborah smiled, and bade us keep our strength till it was wanted, as we had seven miles yet to go.
We stopped for our nooning at a farmhouse where Mrs. Deborah was well-known, and where we were received with immense hospitality, and regaled with all sorts of good things—milk and cream, fresh bread and butter, cheese, honey, and cold beef. The good woman would have dressed a fowl for us, but that Mrs. Deborah would not allow.
This was the first time I ever tasted ewe-milk cheese. I should dearly love to see a bit once more, but you might as well talk to the folk hereabout of milking the cat as milking an ewe.
We had come down into quite a deep valley, through which ran a considerable stream, with narrow fertile fields on each side. Mrs. Deborah told us this was our own burn, swollen by the accession of several other streams. We now began to ascend once more, a part of our road lying between fine woods. Then we came to the village, which looked forlorn enough to me. The church was large and handsome, though partly in ruins, and there was a row of very ancient cottages near it built of stone and covered with tiles, which Mrs. Chloe told us were almshouses, maintained by a charge on the estate.
It was near sunset when we came to a great gateway with ramping stone monsters surmounting the posts on either side, and a stone lodge, from which came out a pretty young woman with a little babe in her arms to open the gates.
"Now, young ones, if you like to save the horses a little and try your own legs, you may get out and walk a way," said Mrs. Deborah. "Stop where you see a stone bench and we will take you up again. Keep under the trees and you cannot miss your way."
We descended accordingly, glad of the chance to walk a little. The sun was setting in a great pomp of red and gold, and the moon, near the full and an hour high, hung in the midst of that solemn blue shade which creeps up the eastern sky of a frosty evening. The trees were leafless, of course, but the turf under foot was fresh and green. A low wall bounded the avenue on one side, and on the other spread a waste of bracken and gorse—fuzz they call it there—on which some honey-buds still lingered.
Presently we came upon a troop of deer, which rushed away in great alarm at the sound of our voices. We could see before us the upper part of the great hall gleaming in the solemn sunset rays. The air was clear and sweet with the peculiar fragrance of peat smoke, and a robin was singing an autumn song in the trees. We walked slowly, for the ascent was a steep one, and the carriages were far behind us.
"Does it not seem as if we were approaching an enchanted castle?" said Amabel, as we reached the bench of which Mrs. Deborah had spoken, and sat down to await the carriages which were slowly toiling up the hill.
"I wonder whether we shall find a sleeping beauty?" said I. "As for the dragon, we have brought that along, I think."
"She is certainly a trial," said Amabel. "I do not so much mind her myself, but it does stir me to hear her speak so to poor Aunt Chloe. Do you know, Lucy, I don't believe Aunt Chloe is long for this world?"
"I think the same thing," I answered; "but she herself believes she is going to get better."
"So does Martha Styles," said Amabel, alluding to a poor consumptive girl we sometimes visited in Newcastle. "Did you observe that she was not at all scared at the death-watch, which so alarmed poor Aunt Philippa?"
"I think Mrs. Deborah feels troubled about her. Here comes the carriage at last," as the great lumbering machine reached the level ground where we were standing.
We took our seats once more, the coachman cracked his whip, a pair of inner gates flew open, and we drove round a corner and under an archway into a paved court, which made me think at once of St. Jean de Crequi.
A flight of broad stone steps led up into a great hall surrounded by a gallery, to which a broad staircase with landings led up at the farther end. Half a dozen servants, headed by a gray-headed man carrying a silver branched candlestick, were drawn up to receive us, and, to judge by their faces, were well-pleased to have their mistresses among them again.
"Welcome to Highbeck Hall, nieces!" said Mrs. Deborah, turning around on the threshold and giving us each a hand. "Roberts, this is my brother's daughter, Mrs. Leighton, and my brother's adopted daughter, Mrs. Corbet, daughter of Mr. Corbet, of the Black Lee, whom you must remember."
The old man bowed profoundly and the maids curtsied.
"Yes, these are our nieces, Mrs. Leighton and Mrs. Corbet!" echoed Mrs. Chloe, as usual. "Nieces, you are welcome to Highbeck Hall. Sister Philippa, no doubt you welcome our nieces to the Hall?"
"I should welcome myself to my room and my bed, if I could be allowed to get there!" snapped Mrs. Philippa. "What signifies the welcome of a poor invalid like me? I dare say my room has not even a fire in it, and that there is no chocolate ready."
"There has been a good fire in your room all day, and I have your supper ready and waiting, Mrs. Philippa," said a pretty elderly woman, whom I afterwards found out to be the housekeeper.
"Then if it has been waiting, of course it is not fit to touch! I desire that you will make fresh chocolate directly. Tupper, are you ever going to help me to my room, or do you want me to lie down and die on the stone floor, as I seem like to?"
Tupper looked, I thought, as if she would have no particular objection to Mrs. Philippa's following out her fancy in this direction. However, she gave the lady her arm, and they disappeared in one of the galleries above.
"I have prepared the leather room and the turret for the young ladies, Mrs. Deborah, thinking they might like to be together!" said the housekeeper, turning to her elder mistress. "But the blue room is also ready for company."
On Mrs. Deborah referring the matter to us, we at once asked to be put together.
"Very well, you shall do as you please, and your maid can sleep in the turret-room above!" said Mrs. Deborah. "Jenny, do you show the young ladies the way."
An elderly maid-servant led us up stairs, and opened the door of a spacious room, where were candles and a bright fire. The walls were hung with leather, stamped in curious patterns of gilding and silver. There was a great high mantel, and a bedstead hung with curtains of brown damask; another little bed with white curtains, occupied the opposite corner. The toilette-table was of Japan, with many odd boxes and drawers, and hung also with brown damask as were the windows. The floor was bare, save for some foreign-looking rugs, and a square of cross-stitch wool work in the centre of the room, and so slippery with scrubbing and waxing, that it was like ice.
"This is your room, ladies!" said Jenny. "Here is a place for your gowns and mantles, and here is a closet—" opening the door of a small octagon-shaped room. "This staircase—opening another door which gave on a winding-stair—leads to a room above, where your maid will sleep. I will return and show you the way to the supper-room."
Amabel and I looked at each other in some little dismay at the aspect of the room, which was certainly rather gloomy. The high wainscot was of dark brown oak; the ground of the hanging was also brown, and in the flashes of the fire-light, the gold and silver dragons and wyverns seemed to come and go, in a weird and uncomfortable manner. The bed looked like a catafalque, and the corners of the room entertained companies of suspicious-looking shadows, in spite of the candles which stood on the dressing-table.
"This is certainly the enchanted room!" said I, trying to laugh off the eerie feeling which came over me. "I wonder if the sleeping monster who is to be set free by a kiss is lying in that bed. Dare you look and see, Amabel?"
"Oh, I am not scared!" said Amabel. "But as to the monster, I will leave him, or her, to you. But after all, Lucy, it is not so bad; that bow window will be beautiful in summer, and see what a grand East County cabinet here is, all full of little drawers and places. I wonder what the closet is like?"
She took up the candle to explore it, and I followed her. It proved to be an octagon room, with windows on three sides, and doors on two more, one opening to a spacious wardrobe, the other to the stair Jenny had spoken of, which seemed to wind around the turret from below. There was a great Bible and prayer-book on a little table, a hassock, and a square of carpet, two or three chairs, and a shelf on the wall holding a few books. There was also a fireplace, but no fire at present.
"This is a snug little place!" remarked Amabel, holding up the light. "If aunt will let us have a fire here, we can make a nice little study of it."
The entrance of Mary Lee with our bags recalled us to the needful duties of the toilette. Mary looked rather pale and scared, and being questioned as to how she liked her new home, confessed that it was all so big and grand, that it made her feel home-sick; she supposed she should grow used to it in time, but it was not what she was used to.
"Of course you will!" said Amabel cheerfully. "Why, what would be the use of traveling, if one never saw any thing but just what one was used to? Come, brush our gowns, and find some fresh kerchiefs, and when we are ready, we will look at your room."
Our mails had not yet come, but we made our traveling dresses look as smart as we could, by the help of clean kerchiefs and fresh lawn aprons, and then as Jenny did not come to call us, we mounted the winding-stair to inspect Mary's room. It corresponded in size with the one below, and had besides two windows rather high in the wall, a sashed door which seemed to open to the leads on the top of the house. It was all comfortable enough, and might be even cheerful and pretty in the day-time, but it did look rather gloomy by the light of our one candle.
"Why, this is a nice room, Mary!" said Amabel.
"No doubt it is, mistress, and better than I deserve," answered Mary, dissolving into tears. "But it does seem dreadful lonesome to sleep here alone, away from every body."
"Now Mary, I shall be sorry we brought you, if you are going to be a cry-baby," said Amabel decidedly. "Nay, I am not sure but I shall ask Mrs. Deborah to send you straight home again. And how can you say you are away from everybody, when here are Miss Corbet and myself close by you. What do think will happen to you?"
Mary did not know, only—
"Come, come, this will not do at all," said Amabel. "Mary, you profess to be a Christian girl. Don't you think the Lord can take just as good care of you here as if you were in Mrs. Thorpe's back attic? You must have more faith, child."
Mary wiped her eyes and said she would try. At that moment, we heard my Aunt Deborah calling us from the room below, and we hastened down the winding-stair to find her standing in our room.
"I could not guess what had become of you," said she.
Amabel explained that we had been looking at Mary Lee's room, and trying to reconcile her to her new quarters. It was rather an unlucky speech.
"Why, what is the matter with her quarters?" asked Mrs. Deborah, in a displeased tone. "Are they not grand enough for Mrs. Thorpe's apprentice? Perhaps she would like the state bedroom, where King Charles, the Martyr, slept on his way to Scotland!"
"On the contrary, it is the very grandeur of her lodgings that alarms her, I fancy," said Amabel, with ready tact. "She has been used to consider Mrs. Thorpe's attic as a luxurious bed-chamber. I assure you, aunt, I am a little scared myself at these splendid hangings."
Mrs. Deborah's brows relaxed, and she admitted that it was not unnatural the girl should be over-awed.
"The hangings are reckoned very uncommon, and very handsome," said she. "My great-grandfather brought them from Spain, whither he went about the business of the marriage of Prince Charles with the Infanta. This was your mother's room, Amabel, and here you were born. See, here is your mother's picture hanging on the wall. But you must not stay to look at it now, or we shall have Mrs. Tabitha in fits over her spoiled supper."
Mrs. Deborah led the way, and we followed her down the grand stairs and through a long corridor to the dining-room, a vast apartment with a fine carved ceiling and a buffet of silver plate and old china. Our supper-table was set in a recess where there was a fireplace, and which was partly enclosed by a great Indian screen.
Mrs. Chloe was already standing by the fire. The old butler and another elderly man in a blue livery were in waiting, and instantly proceeded to cover the table with steaming hot dishes—a cheerful sight to us travelers. Mrs. Deborah said grace, and we sat down with excellent appetites. Mrs. Philippa supped in her room, which was no draw-back to the cheerfulness of the party. We young ones were silent, of course, but Mrs. Chloe had already picked up various items of domestic news which she imparted to her sister, as that the brindled cat had three kittens, one of which was snow-white—a bit of news at which Mrs. Deborah looked rather grave—and I learned that the birth of a snow-white kitten was not considered a good omen. Old Roberts now and then put in his word informing his mistress with regard to the dogs, the horses, the sheep and cows.
"And what has happened in the village?" asked Mrs. Deborah. "I see Letty at the Lodge is about again."
"Oh yes, she was about and doing well, and old Ralph Tracy was also out of his bed, and had been to church; and it was said his son was going to marry the miller's daughter, which would be a grand match for him, to be sure, but rather a come-down—" so Mrs. Deborah opined—"for her."
At which Mrs. Chloe made some remark about true lovers, at which Mrs. Deborah smiled indulgently, and Roberts gave a little sniff.
I listened to the conversation with great interest, for—whether it be a fault of mine or not, I don't know—I do dearly love personal histories of all sorts. I discovered that Mrs. Deborah took a great interest in the villagers and their affairs, in which, as I surmised, she might sometimes interfere rather despotically.
"And what about the church?" asked Mrs. Deborah. "Has it been opened?"
"Oh yes, three or four times. The doctor had read service, and Mr. Longstreet had preached once. But Mr. Longstreet was going away, having been presented to a living not far from Allendale in the hills."
"From Allendale!" said Mrs. Deborah. "Why, what will he do there among the miners? And what will Doctor Brown do for a curate?"
"The living is a good one, as I am told, having a good income and very light duty," returned Roberts. "As to the miners, they will not trouble the church very much, and Dr. Brown has hired a new curate from Berwick way—quite a young man—but comes well recommended, and has a fine horse, but some complain that they don't understand him well."
"Why, does he not speak English?" asked Mrs. Chloe.
"Oh yes, madam, after a sort, but you know Berwick is near the border, and the people do have a kind of twang of Scotland, as it were."
I could not help wondering if the Scotch twang were worse than the Northumbrian burr. We had become used to this odd dialect in Newcastle, but the Newcastle folk speak classical English compared to those about Highbeck Hall and in the lead-mining districts. The conversation was now cut short by the ladies rising from table, and Mrs. Deborah, supposing we must be very weary, sent us to bed, promising to have us called betimes in the morning. She also told us that her own room was very near ours, and added, somewhat abruptly:
"I have had a cot-bed carried into your room, so you can have your maid sleep near you, if you like. Not, of course, that there is any thing to be afraid of, but young folks are sometimes timid, and the wind makes doleful noises at night among the old turrets and gables."
We thanked Mrs. Deborah for her consideration, which, I fancy, was meant as much for Mary Lee as for us, and betook ourselves to our room.
We had decided that we would have Mary read a chapter to us every night, that she might improve in her reading. We had bought Mr. Wesley's notes on the New Testament, and we proposed to go through the book with our little maid in regular course. When our lesson was finished, we asked Mary whether she would sleep in our room or hers.
"I think in mine, if it is all the same to you, ladies," answered Mary, with a little quiver in her voice, but quite decidedly. "I have been thinking on what Miss Leighton said about trust, and I don't think it becomes a Christian to give way to fear."
"Why, that is a brave girl!" said I, well-pleased, "You may leave the doors open between, if you like!" Amabel added.
But I observed after all, that she shut them.
"That is a grand victory!" said Amabel, when she had withdrawn. "And not the less that there is really nothing to be afraid of."
She took the candle as she spoke and went to look at her mother's picture.
"'Tis a lovely face," she observed after a little silence. "I never saw one that pleased me better; but who is it so like?"
"Look in the glass and see?" said I, "It is as like you as one pea to another. I wonder whether that is your father's picture next."
"It is not my notion of him!" said Amabel, studying the weak handsome face which in all its softness had a certain look of obstinacy often to be seen in such faces. "I wish you had a picture of your own mother, Lucy!"
"Thank you, but I do not know that I do!" I replied. "I would rather wait and see how she looks. But Amabel, you will take cold standing about so in your nightgown. We ought to be in bed."
Amabel and I had been used all our lives to occupy separate beds, but somehow to-night we thought that the great curtained bedstead looked very large for one, and we agreed to sleep together. Amabel fell asleep directly, but I lay awake a long time listening to the moan of the wind, the rustling and cracking which one always hears among old furniture at night, and the roar of a waterfall which I had noticed before and which I now heard more distinctly in the stillness.
I thought over all that had happened in the last few months. I thought of St. Jean lying lonely and forsaken with the bright moonlight shining on the graves and making colored shadows on the floor of the church. I thought too with a shudder of the awful caverns under ground and the dark and dreadful waters which had swallowed up the young heir of Crequi and where I had been so near to losing my own life.
I grew restless and nervous and began to fancy that I heard stealthy steps and whispering voices outside the door. At last I made a desperate effort to withdraw my attention from these sounds. I repeated all the Psalms with which I was familiar in French, English, and Latin, and then tried to imagine myself helping Sister Baptista to measure olives—a fancy which soon put me to sleep.
image019
LIFE AT THE HALL.
JENNY came to call us betimes in the morning, but we could hardly dress in time for breakfast, so occupied were we in gazing from our projecting window at the great picture spread out before us.
The morning was clear and frosty. The house, as I have said, stood very high on the hillside, and the ground was so steep that there was nothing to break the view over the broad plains, clothed here and there with little villages, farm-houses, and clumps of wood. A great deal of the land was pasture and still more was unclaimed waste, inhabited only by gypsies and other wild and lawless people. We seemed to look directly down into Highbeck village on one side, and on the other up the course of the noisy mountain stream to the place where it tumbled over a dam or ledge of rocks forming a considerable cataract. The woods were all brown and sere save where the red stems and dusky green heads of the Scotch furs mixed with the oaks and ashes, and the rowan trees still displayed their scarlet berries.
"Is it not beautiful!" said Amabel. "There is something exhilarating in such a wide prospect. It makes me think of our favorite window at St. Jean, only one cannot see the sea as we could there."
"What a large house it is!" said I. "I thought we were quite at the end of the passage, but see, there is a long range of wall beyond us. What beautiful ivy!"
"Half the house cannot be inhabited!" remarked Amabel. "But come, we must make haste or we shall not be ready."
We found breakfast prepared in a much smaller and snugger room than the great dining-room, hung with cheerful tapestry representing various pastoral scenes, where Corydon in cross-stitch made love to a satin-stitch Phillis herding her French knotted sheep on the worsted green. We were given to understand that Mrs. Deborah's grandmother had worked this tapestry from her own designs to illustrate her favorite book, "The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia," and we looked on it with respect accordingly.
Mrs. Chloe had a tea equipage at her end of the table—there were jugs of milk and bowls of cream, and more kinds of hot cakes and cold cakes than ever I saw before. Each of the old ladies gave us a kiss, wished us good morning and hoped we had rested well. Then Mrs. Deborah rang a bell and the servants came in, bringing their stools with them and took their places near the door while Mrs. Deborah read prayers. Our little Mary was among the number, and I was glad to see that she looked quite cheerful. We ought to have called her to dress us, but a maid was a luxury we were not used to and we forgot all about her till we were quite ready.
"Your little maid looks bright and cheery this morning, nieces! I am glad to see it. Did she sleep in your room?" asked Mrs. Deborah.
Amabel told Mrs. Deborah how Mary had been determined to conquer her fears. The old lady looked well-pleased.
"That speaks well for her. I was afraid she was going to mope, and I hate moping people. If a thing is to be done, why do it, I say, or else let it alone, but don't go about it with a long face, as though you were a martyr. Well, nieces, and what will you eat? Here are oat cakes and barley scones and milk scones—and wheaten bread, you see! Or will you share my sister's pot of tea? I am no tea drinker, but I am willing that other people should take it, if they like it!"
"Yes, Sister Deborah is no tea drinker, but she makes no objection to my having it!" observed Mrs. Chloe. "Won't you take a cup, niece Corbet? This is very good."
I was no more a tea drinker than Mrs. Deborah, but I had been taught never, if I could help it, to refuse any thing offered in kindness, so I accepted one of the little cups, and liked it very well. The new milk was delicious, and Mrs. Thorpe had taught me to like fresh toasted oat cakes, so I made an excellent breakfast. Mrs. Deborah breakfasted heartily on porridge and milk, observing that she had been up long enough to get a good appetite.
"Yes, Sister Deborah has been up a long time!" said Mrs. Chloe, who ate scarcely anything. "Sister Deborah is very fond of the dairy and always oversees it herself. That is the reason we have such nice butter. Lady Thurston's butter does not compare with ours. Do you think it does, Sister Deborah?"
"Lady Thurston is become too fine a lady to know a cow's head from its tail!" returned Mrs. Deborah.
"Oh, but sister, I hardly think that can be the case, for she was dreadfully afraid when a cow looked at her the day we were out walking!" returned Mrs. Chloe, who always took everything literally. "Don't you remember?"
"I remember she made a great goose of herself with her fine London airs! I wonder how my old lady ever endured her follies. 'Tis enough to bring her out of her grave to see the way things go on. Nieces, are you afraid of cows?"
This was asked as who should say—"If you are, prepare at once for banishment."
Fortunately we were able to give an answer which turned away the impending wrath.
"Oh no! Aunt Deborah!" answered Amabel, smiling. "When we were at St. Jean, each of us had her own cow to milk—Lucy's was Fanfan and mine was Cocotte. Ah, my poor Cocotte, I wonder who milks thee now!"
"We used both to help in the dairy, but Amabel more than I!" I added. "Mother St. Anne used to like to have me help her in the still-room."
Mrs. Deborah's frown relaxed, but Mrs. Chloe looked shocked.
"But did you really milk with your own hands, nieces?" she asked. "I do not think the nuns ought to have required that. Many ladies take an interest in their dairies. They overlook them and even skim the cream, and mould the butter, and make cheese-cakes and so on, but I never heard of a lady that milked! Did you, Sister Deborah?"
"Yes, I know a lady who milked an Ayrshire heifer this very morning!" returned Mrs. Deborah, smiling. "But in general, we employ maids for such services. Did you have no menials, lasses, that the nuns put you to such work? I thought convents always had lay sisters!"
"I believe they do in general, but our house was very poor, and the ladies did all the work with their own hands. Sister Lazarus who attended to the cooking was the daughter of a Marquis."
"The daughter of a Marquis a cook!" said Mrs. Chloe, in, a tone of absolute consternation. "But perhaps she did that kind of work for a penance. I have heard of such things."
"Oh no, aunt. She had a special vocation for cooking!" answered Amabel, gravely.
"Well!" said Mrs. Chloe. "I have always fancied that it would be a good thing, if we had convents in the Church of England, but if that is the way—I hope they did not make a cook maid of you!"
"No, aunt, Sister Lazarus always said I had not enough of recollection to be a good cook, but Lucy used to help her, and she learned to make a great many nice things."
"Well, well, you shall tell Sister Chloe about it all at some other time!" said Mrs. Deborah, rising. "If you wish to go through the house, children, I have leisure just now to show it you. Sister Chloe, you had better remain by the fire."
We were not a little anxious to see the house, and followed Mrs. Deborah with great interest as she led us through the long gallery hung with family portraits and a few good Spanish and Flemish pictures, brought from abroad by the same ancestor who imported the leather hangings.
"Some day I will tell you the history of all these people!" said she, as she opened the door of the saloon. "I suppose you know nothing of your own family, niece Leighton?"
"Scarcely anything, aunt. But oh, who is this beautiful lady?" exclaimed Amabel, stopping before a full-length picture which was revealed by the light from the open door of the saloon.
A black silk curtain hung from the frame of the picture, but it was drawn aside. The figure was that of a woman of superb beauty, with large eyes and a queenly poise of the head. The expression of the face was haughty and resolute, yet had in it something—I know not what, which was not pleasing. I should call it a look of apprehension or rather of suspense, as though she were momently expecting the appearance of an enemy and were nerving herself to meet him.
Mrs. Deborah frowned, and hastily drew the veil over the picture.
"Who has dared!" she exclaimed, and then checking herself as by a strong effort. "There, never mind, child. I'll tell you the story some day, or you may ask old Elsie about it." Then as if to change the subject—"You must make old Elsie's acquaintance. She is one of the family curiosities, and very fond of young people."
"Who is she, aunt?" I ventured to ask.
"An old Scotch woman that came here with Amabel's grandmother, who was one of the Grahames of the Border. She knew all the ghost stories about the place, I believe. See, here are more pictures which my unlucky great-grandfather bought in Spain, and here is some curious pottery."
"Why do you call him unlucky, aunt?"
"Because he spent more money than he could afford, child, and that was very unlucky to those who came after him. We do not use these rooms very much in winter. But this will interest you!" she added, opening a door into a little room with a southern aspect.
It was prettily hung with an Indian paper, and contained a couch and chairs of lacquer work, a noble East India cabinet, an old-fashioned spinet and a work-table. A good fire was burning on the hearth, and the sun streaming in at the window made the little room look quite charming. Amabel and I both uttered an exclamation of delight.
"I am glad you are pleased!" said Mrs. Deborah. "This, children, was my Sister Leighton's own room, which she fitted up herself, and here your mothers used to sit together with their work and their books, before your mother, Niece Corbet, was married. I do not often come hither—it has sad recollections for me, but you can sit here when you please. I have given orders to have a fire for you, and you shall have your harpsichord in here, and practice as much as you like. Your bedroom is directly above, and here is the stair that leads up to it," opening a door which showed a dark entry and a winding-stair.
"How very good you are, aunt!" said Amabel. "I am sure we never thought of having such a lovely room to ourselves. I thought we should sit with you and my Aunt Chloe."
"And so you may, as much as you please, and I shall be glad if you can do anything to cheer and amuse poor Chloe, who has been sadly low-spirited ever since her illness. But I know young things like to be by themselves at times, and you have a kind of right to this room."
"But will not the fire be very expensive?" I ventured to ask. "In France, we never had a bit of fire except in the kitchen, and sometimes in the work-room, when it was very cold. Sister Bursar said that fire was the most costly of luxuries!"
"I dare say it may be in France, where, as I have heard, there is great want of fuel," replied Mrs. Deborah, not at all displeased, as I had half-feared she would be by my question. "Thanks to the near coal mine, and our own woods, great fires are among our cheapest enjoyments. I am glad to see, niece, that you can think of the cost of things. I wish some other people were as considerate. But come, we will go up stairs, and then you must pay your respects to your Aunt Philippa."
"How I shall like to sit by this work-table, and think that my dear mother sat here before me!" said Amabel, lingering a moment by the table, and taking up a little prayer-book that lay upon it. "It seems to bring her so near."
Mrs. Deborah stopped short and turned about.
"Your mother, child, was an angel!" said she abruptly. "I did not know it—my eyes were blinded, first by wounded pride, and then by—no matter what. I had been mistress here for many a year, and I resented it bitterly when my brother brought a stranger from a far country to reign in my stead, though I knew it was what I had to expect. She gave me no cause of offence, but I was not kind to her, and when a wound came from another quarter, I avenged the smart on her. God help me to atone for my sin by kindness to her child. There, we won't speak of it again."
"Come up this way, and I will show you the King's bed-chamber."
We passed up the turret stair and through our room, where Mary Lee sat sewing in the window. Mrs. Deborah looked at her work and commended its neatness.
"I hear you are a good girl!" said she. "Continue so, and you will always have a friend."
Somehow, a word of commendation from Mrs. Deborah always seemed to go farther than a whole chapter from any one else. Mary Lee blushed and curtsied, and said she would do her best.
Mrs. Deborah led the way to a door at the end of our passage, opened it, and disclosed another gallery lighted down one side, and with doors on the other. We passed two or three of these, and found ourselves opposite one, which Mrs. Deborah unlocked with peculiar solemnity.
"This is the room in which King Charles the martyr slept, on his way to Scotland in 1646!" said she solemnly. "No one has ever slept in the bed since." *
* I have heard since, that King Charles did not go to Scotland by that road at all. But it does not matter greatly. The story was fully believed in my time.
We looked at the bed with a sensation of awe. A king had really slept in it, and the Martyr King at that.
"No one has ever slept in it since!" repeated Mrs. Deborah. "No one ever shall in my day, unless another rightful king comes to occupy it, which may Heaven grant!" said she solemnly.
"Do you think King George is like to come this way, Aunt Deborah?" asked Amabel, innocently. "They say he is not very fond of traveling in England."
The thunder-cloud was on Mrs. Deborah's brow in an instant.
"I spoke of the rightful King, Niece Leighton, not of the usurper who at present occupies a throne to which he has no more right than I have. King George indeed! That I should live to hear the Elector of Hanover called King by a niece of mine, and in this sacred chamber!"
"I beg your pardon, aunt!" said Amabel, meekly and greatly astonished by the storm she had unwittingly raised. "I assure you I meant no offence."
"No, I dare say not! I forgot you had been living among the whigs of Newcastle, who would sell their elector as soon as their king, if they could make any thing by it. But you must learn better now. I shall make it my business to teach you. See, here is the Bible his Majesty used, and the chair where he sat. But we must not stay too long here; these shut up rooms are damp. Niece Leighton, if you ever come to be mistress of this house, as I hope you may, you must dust this room with your own hands, four times a year, and mind you lay everything down in just the place you took it up. Will you promise me this?"
"Indeed I will, aunt!" answered Amabel, sincerely desirous to atone for the offence she had given.
"Where do these doors lead to?" she added, as we passed the locked doors on our way back to the other part of the house.
"Those are the shut up rooms. They are never used or opened!" answered Mrs. Deborah abruptly. "Come, we will see the other wing."
Of course we asked no more questions, but we were all the more curious especially, as these shut up rooms adjoined our own.
Mrs. Deborah showed us the state bedroom, very grand in red satin, with needlework hangings, all a little the worse for wear—the blue room, the white room; her own apartment which was very plain, in green moreen, and Mrs. Chloe's, gay and pretty with Indian chintz, and a white muslin and pink silk toilette-table, covered with bottles of all sorts of washes and lotions for the complexion. Finally, she led us to the door of Mrs. Philippa's apartment, and left us to announce ourselves, telling us to come to her in the still-room, when Mrs. Philippa had done with us.
We knocked, and were admitted by Tupper.
Mrs. Philippa, dressed in a very becoming wrapping-gown and cap, was sitting up in bed, working on a very handsome piece of embroidery, with her silks and working implements on a sort of tray beside her, near which lay a fine tortoise-shell cat with a kitten. There was a great fire, and the air was heavy and close with the odors of musk, and sandalwood, and potpourri. I never entered that room without a kind of insane longing to break out a window-pane.
"Well, nieces, and so you have come at last," was Mrs. Philippa's greeting. "I expected you before, but no doubt more interesting matters claimed your attention than waiting on a poor lonely invalid."
"Aunt Deborah said she thought you would not wish to see us very early, and she has been showing us the king's chamber and the rest of the house," answered Amabel.
"Oh, of course. She makes an idol out of her king's chamber—not that I believe King Charles was ever in this house in the world. Well, and what do you think of the old pile?"
"I think it is beautiful," answered Amabel, sincerely. "I wonder my father does not live here all the time."
"Your father thinks too much of himself to shut himself up in such a lodge in the wilderness as this is," was the reply. "But he thinks it is good enough for his sisters, though he might take a house in Newcastle for us as well as not."
"But, Mrs. Philippa, I thought you did not like Newcastle," I said, rather unwisely. "I am sure you called it an odious place."
"You are very pert, miss, to remember my words against me," returned Mrs. Philippa; "but no doubt you have had your lesson. No doubt my Sister Deborah has given you your lesson already. I dare say she has been talking about me all the morning. Pray, what has she told you about me?"
"Nothing, Mrs. Philippa," I answered, truly. "She has not mentioned your name except to say that we should wait upon you, and come to her in the still-room when you dismissed us."
In my heart, I hoped this dismission would come soon, for the air of the room was stifling, and Mrs. Philippa had never asked us to sit down.
"Oh!" said she, in a tone of sarcastic incredulity. "You are very discreet—very wise, indeed, Miss Corbet; but you will not blind me quite so easily. I know my Sister Deborah."
"Indeed, Mrs. Philippa, she did not once speak of you except just as I tell you!" I said, feeling lay cheeks flame.
"Well, well, what do I care whether she did or not?" said Mrs. Philippa, peevishly. "There, sit down. Tupper, why do you not set chairs for the young ladies? And so you have lived in a convent all your days. Of course you know nothing of society. Well, so much the better. I might as well be in a convent myself, for all the company I have. Chloe is so silly she puts me out of all patience, but every thing she does is right in Deborah's eyes. I have not spoken to my Sister Deborah in more than twenty years!"
Mrs. Philippa made this announcement as if she thought it something to be proud of. We looked steadfastly at the floor and said not a word.
"Not in twenty years!" repeated Mrs. Philippa. "And I never will if I live twenty years more. She did me such an injury with my father as I shall never forgive if I live to be a hundred."
I cannot describe the expression of rancor with which Mrs. Philippa said these words. They made me shudder.
"But suppose you do not live to be a hundred, Aunt Philippa," said Amabel, raising her clear eyes to her aunt. "Suppose you should die to-night!"
"What do you mean by that, miss?" asked Mrs. Philippa. "Of course I must forgive her when I am dying or I cannot take the sacrament, but I am resolved I never will do so before."
"But you may die without having time for the sacraments," persisted Amabel; "or perhaps you may have lost the power of forgiving by that time. What would happen then?"
"Niece Leighton, I desire you will not preach to me!" said Mrs. Philippa, though she looked startled. "It is very unbecoming in you to lecture your elders and betters. There, I am not angry with you, but mind you don't do it again. Tupper, where are the presents I bade you look out for the young ladies?"
Tupper produced two parcels, and Mrs. Philippa gave Amabel a glass smelling-bottle in a gilt filigree case, and me a pretty tortoise-shell box full of caraway comfits. She then called upon us to admire her work and her cat, which we could do with a good conscience. Then, saying that she would send for us again some day, she bade Tupper show us the way to the still-room.
"Well, I declare, Mrs. Leighton—plague on this new-fashioned way of saying Miss, I never shall learn it—you have bewitched my mistress out and out," said Tupper, in a tone of admiration, as we went down stairs. "I never knew her bear such plain speaking from any one. If Mrs. Chloe had said one quarter as much, Mrs. Philippa would have flown at her."
"I ought not to have spoken so, perhaps, but it seemed to me so dreadful," said Amabel, "to think of her not speaking to her own sister for twenty years!"
"Yes, it is dreadful, and when you think it was all because Mrs. Deborah saved her from life-long distress and misery. Well there, it is not for me to gossip of the family affairs. I dare say you will hear it all, only, I will just hint to you that you will gain nothing by being afraid of her. Well, here is the still-room. If you can give Mrs. Deborah any new receipts, you will make her happy."
"Eh! What do you say?" asked Mrs. Deborah, whose sharp ears had caught the words. "What is that, Tupper?"
Tupper repeated her words without any symptoms of alarm, as I noticed.
"Yes, that is true enough, I am very fond of my still. Tupper, you may as well carry a bottle of this lavender water to your mistress. Tupper is a very valuable and faithful servant and knows how to deal with Sister Philippa, poor thing!" she added as Tupper shut the door. She always spoke of Mrs. Philippa in this tone of compassion behind her back, though she was occasionally sharp with her when they were together.
I was happy in being able to give Mrs. Deborah a recipe for distilling Milk water * which was new to her, and to promise her some others when our luggage came. For I had carefully compiled a receipt book under the instruction of Mother Perpetua and Sister Lazarus, which contained some very occult and precious secrets.
* See Mrs. Raffald's "Complete Cooke", or any old edition of Mrs. Glaesse—Mrs. Raffald is worth republishing. L. E. G.
From the still-room, we went to dinner. Afterward, we visited the dairy and poultry yard, admired the beautiful cows and the fine broods of ducks and fowls and made friends with two or three great bloodhounds and an immense mastiff, which were Mrs. Deborah's special pets. I was at once adopted and taken possession of by a queer little long-bodied short-legged rough terrier, of a color between grey and blue.
"Those are Scottish dogs and come from one of the Western Isles," said Mrs. Deborah. "There, take him for your own if you like dogs, Lucy Corbet, only you must teach him to let Sister Philippa's cats alone."
"If you please, Mum, the young lady can teach him with one word!" said the old Scotch woman who had the principal charge of the poultry. "Thae dogs are gey gleg at the uptak."
"I fear my niece does not understand Scotch!" remarked Mrs. Deborah.
"Oh yes! She means that such dogs are quick to learn!" said I, guessing the old woman's meaning. I always could understand dialects of all sorts and confess to being fond of them.
"I'm thinking the leddy is gleg at the uptak her-sell!" said Elsie with a smile. "She's no like the folk about her. I'm thinking I'll just gang hame and tak up my ain hoose in the spring, Mrs. Deborah. I coma thoh to bide wi' folk that canna speak plain."
This was past me, gleg as I might be, and as we walked away, I asked Mrs. Deborah what she meant.
"She means that she will go home and set up housekeeping in the spring, because she cannot endure to stay with people who cannot understand," answered Mrs. Deborah. "But I am not alarmed. She has said the same thing for fifty years at least. She is a good creature and very faithful, but I have to stand between her and the other servants who hate her for being Scotch, and dread her because they say she knows more than she ought, and never goes to church."
"Why does she not go to church?" I asked.
"Because she is a Presbyterian, child."
I was not much the wiser because I did not know what a Presbyterian was at that time. Afterward I found out that Elsie was a member of the National Church or Kirk as they call it of Scotland, who have a great dislike to Episcopacy—no great wonder either. I am not fond of plum pudding, but if any one were to try to drive it down my throat with a bayonet, I think I should like it still less.
In the afternoon the wagon arrived with our luggage and all Mrs. Deborah's purchases, including the harpsichord, which was set up in the little red parlor, and proved to have borne the journey very well. A part of the next day was spent in unpacking our various possessions and setting them in order.
We found that Mrs. Thorpe had prepared a pleasant surprise for us by adding to our small library a number of volumes, among which were "Sir Charles Grandison," and Clarissa Harlowe and Mr. Law's "Serious Call." There was a glass-cupboard in the room, which already contained a number of volumes, mostly books of devotion of the age and style of "The Whole Duty of Man" and "The Practice of Piety." There were also a Shakespeare, a copy of Spenser, and one of the "Arcadia" of Sir Philip Sidney. I should have mentioned the library in my survey of the house. It was rather a gloomy room containing some hundred or two of volumes in presses, mostly old chronicles, books of Roman Catholic and High Church divinity, and treatises on heraldry and hawking.
By Sunday we had begun to feel quite at home in our new quarters. We went to Church in the morning with Mrs. Deborah in the carriage all in state, with footmen behind.
The church had been a handsome one but it was partly in ruins, and only the lady chapel, or what had been such, was habitable. Small as it was, it was large enough for the congregation, which seemed quite lost among the high backed benches. There were no pews but our own and the rector's which was quite empty, he being a widower without children. Dr. Brown read Prayers. I never like much to criticise a minister but I must say that so far as our service can be spoiled, he spoiled it, mumbling and hurrying so that it was difficult to tell where he was. The lesson was the noble one for the first Sunday in Advent, but I do not believe one person in ten knew what he was reading about. There was no sermon, and nothing to take the place of it. A more lifeless, spiritless performance in the shape of divine service could not possibly be. Certainly it was a great change from St. Anne's, where even before Mr. Cheriton came over to Mr. Wesley's ways, he always gave full effect to the service and the lessons. I heard Amabel sigh more than once, and no wonder.
When we came out of church, Mrs. Deborah invited Doctor Brown to dine with us. He excused himself on the ground of having to hold afternoon service at his other church, five miles off, but said he would do himself the honor to call in the course of the week, as he had a great piece of news to communicate.
There was a great bobbing of curtsies and pulling of forelocks as we came out of church, and Mrs. Deborah spoke to several of the older people particularly, inquiring about their health and that of their families, and promising to come and see several sick people.
"Parson be going away, I hears!" said Richard, as he helped his mistress into the coach. "John Footman told me he has got great preferment about Durham, some gate. They say as the gentleman which was to be curate is to have the living when Doctor Brown goes."
"Indeed! I suppose that was his great news!" said Mrs. Deborah. "Well, I shall be sorry to have him go. He has been here a long time—twenty years I should say."
"Well, I hope, mistress, we shan't get a worse in his place!" answered Richard. "Folk do say the new gentleman has many new-fangled ways."
We had an early dinner, after which Mrs. Chloe betook herself to her own room, and Mrs. Deborah called upon us to read to her in a great folio volume of sermons by Bishop Kerr and some others of his school. Some of these discourses were on practical religion, and these were admirable for the most part, but a great many were political,—all about the divine right of kings, the duty of passive obedience to the sovereign, let him be ever so bad, and other kindred topics. Oh, what a weariness they were to the flesh and spirit—enough to make an out and out whig of any lively young person from sheer contradiction. I am afraid I was not one bit sorry for the Theban Legion, and only regretted their massacre, because I had to hear so much about it.
After two hours of this exercise, we were dismissed, and refreshed ourselves by a long walk in the high park as it was called, that which stretched up the hill behind the house. We had supper earlier than usual, and then the card table was set out, and we were invited to take a hand at whist with Mrs. Chloe and Mrs. Deborah. We excused ourselves on the ground that we knew nothing of whist.
"But you can learn!" said Mrs. Deborah. "It will be a pleasure to have some one to go partners with."
We looked at each other and hesitated what to say. We had talked over this matter of Sunday card playing with Mr. Cheriton and with each other, and had decided that it was not a right way of spending Sunday evening, though it was a very common one at that day. Even clergymen thought it no harm to take a hand at piquet.
"Well, what is the matter?" said Mrs. Deborah, impatiently. "Why do you not sit down?"
"Will you please excuse me, aunt!" said Amabel, "I will learn on some other evening, if you will be so good as to teach me, but not on Sunday."
"Heyday! What does this mean!" exclaimed Mrs. Deborah, the thunder-cloud on her brow looming blacker than usual. "What sort of a Puritan have I brought home with me? Pray miss, do you set yourself up for a saint?"
"Sister Deborah!" said Mrs. Chloe, warningly.
"I don't know what a Puritan is, and I am sure I am not a saint?" said Amabel, gently. "I wish I were. But you know, aunt, if I think a thing wrong, I cannot do it, even to please you."
"And what right have you to think a thing wrong when it is done by your elders and betters, miss?"
"Sister Deborah!"
"I have seen my elders and betters on their knees for hours at a time before a piece of bread which they worshiped as God!" said Amabel with some spirit. "But you would not like to see me do that, aunt. Indeed you must please excuse us."
But Mrs. Deborah was not to be pacified. She scolded us in no measured terms, and finally bade us begone to our room since she was not good company enough for two such young saints. We betook ourselves to our little study, and girl like, had a good cry over our disgrace.
Then having relieved our spirits, I opened the harpsichord, and we began to sing out of Ravenscroft's Psalms, of which we found a book in our book-case. We had not been singing long, before Mrs. Chloe came in and seated herself, followed presently by Mrs. Deborah. We sung several psalms and two or three sacred pieces of Mr. Handel's for the ladies, and Mrs. Chloe professed herself much delighted with the music.
Mrs. Deborah did not say a great deal, but she bade us a kind good-night, and her regular—"I hope I see you well, nieces," was spoken in the morning with the same cordiality as ever.
We were not again asked to play cards on Sunday evening, and after a while it became a regular thing for us to entertain our aunts with sacred music at that time. Mrs. Deborah had a hasty temper naturally, which was not improved by a long course of absolute rule, but she had not one atom of malice or rancor in her disposition. She liked the music at first, because it gave pleasure to poor Mrs. Chloe, and afterward for its own sake, and she was never the stuff whereof persecutors are made.