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WINTER.
WE soon began to feel quite at home at Highbeck Hall, and knew all the nooks and corners about the old place, which were accessible to us. We were not a little curious about the shut up rooms, but of course we asked no questions, though I for one associated them with the beautiful lady in the saloon, and determined to get the story out of old Elsie some day.
We prescribed to ourselves a regular routine of study, practise, and work, beginning of course with about twice as much as we could do, and coming by degrees down to a more reasonable plan, to which we adhered as well as people generally do in such circumstances.
We read in our history which we had begun with Mrs. Cropsey, but at last abandoned it, for my Lord Clarendon's history of the Rebellion, at the request of Mrs. Deborah; who was determined to make us into as thorough Jacobites as she was herself. Even as Lord Clarendon tells the story, I must say, I did not acquire as greet an admiration for poor King Charles as I could have wished. He seemed to me to be tyrannical and timid both at once, and I could not forgive his abandonment of Lord Strafford, and the way in which he deceived his friends. But it may easily be guessed, that I no more hinted anything of this kind to Aunt Deborah, than I should have dared to suggest to Mother Prudentia a doubt of St. Agnes' prudence, in running away to St. Francis in the middle of the night. *
* Which she did at the age of fourteen, and afterward persuaded her Sister Clare, aged twelve, to do the same.—L. E. G.
We practised our music for two hours daily, during which time Aunt Chloe usually sat with us. We learned to ride on horseback, and to take long walks when the weather permitted, attended usually by one or other of the bloodhounds to keep off stray cattle or intrusive gypsies. We visited the poor people, and carried broth and medicines to the sick, and spent a good deal of time in gossiping with the old men and women in the alm-houses, and in reading to them. Only one or two of them could read, but all liked to be read to, and took pleasure also in telling their stories like other old people. We also made great friends with old Elsie, and heard many stories from her of the past glories of the Grahames, and their exploits on the border. In short, we were as much at home in Highbeck Hall in two weeks, as though we had lived there all our lives.
We had visitors from time to time, from among the gentry in the neighborhood. These visits usually lasted from two to four days, and were desperately dull, to my thinking. However, Aunt Chloe enjoyed them, and they brightened her up amazingly. We used to be called upon to play and sing for the edification of the visitors, and always received great commendation.
When there were young people of our own age, they were of course turned over to us for entertainment, and very much puzzled we were at first to know what to do with them, not being used to the company of girls of our own age. But we usually found we could amuse them by tales of our convent life, especially with the story of the robbery, which was always received with breathless interest. Then it was a time when fancy-work of all sorts was greatly in vogue. Ladies used to do cut-work, and lace-work, chenille-embroidery, and satin-stitch, and cross-stitch, and dozens of other stitches, and various kinds of knotting. *
* What is now called tatting. See Mrs. Delaney's memoirs.
Thanks to Mother Prudentia, we were proficient in all these pursuits, and what we did not know, our visitors did. Miss Jenny Thicknesse, I remember, was very enthusiastic over the shell-work, and cardboard work in imitation of stucco, with which she and her sister were adorning the gothic arches of an old chapel in her father's house. They were nice homely ladylike girls, and we were great friends with them.
Doctor Brown was to go to his deanery in Durham after the holidays, and Mr. Lethbridge from Berwick, was to come in his place.
What any one should have seen in Doctor Brown to merit such promotion I cannot guess; but he had grand connections, and was a cousin of the Bishop's lady, which might account for it. We young ones were not displeased at the prospect of a change, though we liked the doctor personally, well enough. He was a fat good-natured sort of man, ready enough to do a kindness when it came in his way, but not likely to seek such occasions, if they cost him any trouble. He used to read prayers every other Sunday, and administer the sacrament once a quarter; but he hardly ever preached, and as to any personal instruction, his people might as well have lived in Grand Tartary. He gave liberally in charity, and I suppose satisfied his conscience in that way. He was very fond of cards, and considered a wonderful whist-player. Whenever he came to the Hall, on a Sunday night, the card table was always set out. Doctor Brown almost always won, and as regularly gave his winnings to Mrs. Deborah for the poor people at the alm-houses. Sometimes Mrs. Philippa would send for him to play piquet with her, and at last it became a regular thing for him to do so. I don't think the other ladies were very sorry to be released.
By degrees, I learned from Mrs. Chloe, who was not disinclined to a little gossip, a good deal of the family history. I learned that each of the ladies had small independent fortunes of their own, derived from their mother's settlements—that she and Mrs. Deborah, used a good deal of their incomes in keeping up the house, while Mrs. Philippa saved hers, or laid it out for her own convenience; that Sir Julius had never been near the estate since his second marriage, though he derived a considerable revenue from it, and was very particular to have the rents paid up to the day, and sometimes drew for more money than it was convenient to spare—that his second wife had been very rich, and—
"A good sort of woman so far as I know, my dear—but of no family at all—not an ancestor to bless herself with. Of course I was sorry for the poor lady's death—very sorry!" said Mrs. Chloe. "And for the poor little lad, though I had never seen him; but still it would be much better for the estate to come to Amabel. Her mother was not a Northumbrian woman to be sure, but she was of a very old Devonshire or Cornish family."
"Perhaps Sir Julius may marry again," said I. "He is quite a young man yet."
"Oh, my dear, I hope not," answered Mrs. Chloe, looking startled. "It would be sad for poor Amabel to have a step-mother, though to be sure her last one never did her any harm. But if he does take a third wife I hope she may be a lady of quality."
Mrs. Chloe also had endless stories to tell of the families in the neighborhood. She had been a belle and a beauty in her day, and received many offers, none of which her brother had seen fit to let her accept. Either there was not money enough, or family enough, or something. So poor Chloe had gone on to thirty-five without being married, and now the smallpox had spoiled her beauty, and she was not like to marry at all. She was a good, gentle, little creature, not at all strong in any way, and had been kept in such a state of tutelage and dependence that she had no mind of her own about any subject save one which she could not keep to herself. Poor Aunt Chloe was desperately anxious to be married. She used to tell us, as she sat over her embroidery frame, about the offers she had had, something in this wise:
"There was Mr. Favor, my dears—such a fine young man—six feet high, at least, and a perfect gentleman in manners, I am sure, and a splendid horseman, but his grandfather had been in trade, it seems, and Julius thought it would not do. Then there was the Reverend James P. Thirlwall. He had no great fortune, to be sure, but a good living, and would have settled all my fortune on myself and my children; but then the Thirlwalls are all Whigs, and they say one of the family was connected with the regicides," and so on and so on. I know these stories left me with the strong impression that Sir Julius Leighton's aim had all along been to keep Mrs. Chloe from marrying at all, that her fortune might remain in the family. They did not make me augur well for the success of Mr. Cheriton's suit. I think Amabel felt the same, though she did not say a word.
It was from Mrs. Chloe that we heard Mrs. Philippa's story. It seems she had been betrothed to a young man of good family, and the wedding was near at hand, when Mrs. Deborah discovered that the bridegroom was playing a double game—that he was also betrothed to a citizen's daughter in Newcastle, and was only waiting till he could find out which lady was like to have the better fortune of the two. She acquainted her father with her discovery. Sir Thomas being a man of spirit, looked into the matter, discovered the gentleman's double game, and invited him to one of two courses—to marry Mrs. Philippa out of hand, or to meet him with the sword, as the custom was in those days.
Mr. Philip Falconer did neither, but preferred to elope with his city lady-love who, though neither young, handsome, nor well born like Mrs. Philippa, had a much larger fortune all in her own power. One would think Mrs. Philippa might have been glad to be free from such a poltroon. Instead of that, she went into fits, took to her bed, and had never spoken to Aunt Deborah since. There appeared no reason why she should not be as active as any one, only that she did not choose, for when she did take a fancy to come down stairs she walked as nimbly as Aunt Deborah herself.
It seemed for a time, however, that my auguries were likely to prove false, and that Amabel's course of true love was like to run smooth. Just about Christmas time Mr. Cheriton paid us a visit, bringing letters from Sir Julius to Mrs. Deborah and to Amabel herself. Sir Julius wrote very kindly to his daughter. He said she was rather young to marry, and must wait at least a year, but as Mr. Cheriton was a man of good family, and had a competent fortune beside his living, and a likelihood of church preferment, he should make no objection to his paying his addresses to his daughter.
What he wrote to Mrs. Deborah I don't know, but she received Mr. Cheriton very politely, even though he and his family were known for steadfast adherents to the reigning dynasty, and hoped she should have the pleasure of seeing his father and mother at Highbeck Hall during the Christmas season.
They came accordingly—he, a venerable, kind old man, very sincerely religious in his fashion, and though a little perplexed as to his son's new-fangled ways, as he called them, yet quite willing to accept them, and believe they must be good because Walter said so; she, the very model of a Lady Bountiful, a perfect housekeeper, a famous concoctor of syrups, draughts, and emulsions, of broth and brewis, the kind if somewhat arbitrary friend of the poor. She had not been in the house two hours, before she had propounded at least a dozen different remedies for Aunt Chloe's cough, from bread jelly with lemon-peel and raisins, to a couple of snails boiled in her tea-water. This last was confided in a whisper to Aunt Deborah, as it was essential to the cure that the patient should know nothing about it.
Both these good people took very kindly to Amabel, and invited us both to visit them. Mrs. Cheriton presented Amabel with a pair of pearl ear-rings which had been given herself on her wedding day, and promised her some silver which had been in the family three hundred years at least. (Did any one ever hear of an heirloom which had been in a family for less than three hundred years?) The subject of politics was kept out of sight by mutual consent, so we all parted excellent friends.
Mr. Cheriton returned to his parish in Newcastle, where, he told us, matters were going very much to his satisfaction. He had succeeded in establishing the weekly lecture on which he had set his heart; and it was well attended. He had also set up classes for the young women and elder girls, where they read good books and perfected themselves in various useful works, and in these Mrs. Thorpe was giving him very efficient help. He was on the best of terms with the rector of St. Nicholas, an old gentleman who was nearly or quite blind, but an excellent man and a good clergyman. This gentleman had been away during the whole of our stay in Newcastle, and we had more than once heard it said that on his return he would put a spoke in Mr. Cheriton's wheel; so that it was a great pleasure to hear that though he did not exactly approve of all Mr. Cheriton's doings, and thought him rather over-zealous, he made no active opposition to him.
Mr. Cheriton also told us another thing which we found it hard to believe—namely, that he was quite sure he had seen Father Brousseau at one of Mr. Wesley's out-of-door preachings he had attended not long before. He said he had not known how to believe his own eyes at first, but he had watched him and was quite sure it was the same person he had seen at Mrs. Thorpe's shop.
"How very strange!" said Amabel. "How did he look?"
"He seemed very much affected, I thought!" replied Mr. Cheriton. "At first, he pulled his hat down and kept his cloak up as if he were afraid of being seen, but toward the last he seemed too much interested in the discourse to think about concealment. But I can tell you news of another friend, which will surprise you yet more!" he added smiling. "Mrs. Cropsey is married!"
"Married!" we both exclaimed not very civilly! "Not married already! Why, her husband has not been dead a year, and she could never speak of him without crying."
"Exactly!" replied Mr. Cheriton drily. "She did up all her grief at once. She was married very privately by license more than two months ago to old Mr. Arnott the great ship owner, but it is owned now, and she presides over his fine house with great dignity."
"I hope she will not talk as much of poor dear Mr. Cropsey as she used to do to us!" I remarked. "I have wished sometimes the good man had either not died at all, or else had died before she ever saw him!"
"I have only heard her mention him once!" said Mr. Cheriton. "I had some business with Mr. Arnott, and was asked to dine, and Mrs. Arnott remarked as she dispensed the hare soup, how much poor dear Mr. Cropsey would have enjoyed it. He was so fond of hare soup!"
We had no very grand doings at Christmas, as Mrs. Chloe continued very unwell and there was no master at home. However, every cottager received a good piece of beef and a pudding or materials for one; all the old women in the alms houses had doles of tea and snuff, and those who needed them had new gowns or red cloaks.
Amabel and I had a guinea apiece for a Christmas box from each of our aunts, and Mrs. Philippa formally made over to Amabel her cat, which had attached itself to her very much of late. I did not understand this proceeding at the time, but I did afterward.
We had another present which made us feel sadly. Mrs. Chloe had for a year and more, been embroidering a set of chairs, and a couch in chenilles and silks. They were designed with a great deal of taste and beautifully worked so far, but on Christmas morning, Aunt Chloe gave them to Amabel and myself to finish, saying that it hurt her chest to bend over the frame, and besides she was rather tired of them. We could finish these against Amabel should have a room to furnish, and she would begin a set for me in the spring, when her cough should be better. Meantime, she would work at her knitted counterpane, which really ought to be finished.
Mrs. Deborah approved of this motion of her sister's saying that she was sure such close application was bad for Chloe, but she went out of the room directly afterward, and we did not see her till church time.
Christmas was a very serious day to us in another way. It was the first day that Amabel and I partook of the sacrament after the forms of the Church of England. Mrs. Deborah had been anxious to have us do so: we had talked the matter over with Mr. Cheriton, and had read the books he had suggested to us. This is not the place to enlarge upon such matters. I may just say, however, that we both found great comfort in the ordinance and never afterward missed it willingly. Mr. Lethbridge officiated for the first time, and his manner was very serious and proper. Dr. Brown was present, and preached a short sermon, which was as old Elsie used to say like chips in porridge, neither good nor bad.
Aunt Chloe went to church with us. It was the last time she ever went, and she seemed to feel very deeply the solemnity of the occasion. There was a fair congregation, a good many of whom I fear got very drunk at the ale house afterward,—but nobody in those parts thought that a matter of any consequence, or indeed expected anything else. It was one of the serious charges brought against the Methodist preachers as showing that they were not what they ought to be, that they drank neither ale nor spirits, and discouraged the use of them among their converts.
On twelfth day the whole family were invited to a dinner and ball at Brayton, the house of the Thicknesse family. We had never been at a ball, and Molly and Jenny Thicknesse were great friends of ours. We promised ourselves much pleasure in the visit, and were specially desirous of seeing the shell-work with which the girls had been adorning their chapel and their own room. But fate was against us. The very day we were to go, Amabel was taken with a violent rheum and defluxion,* and it was clearly impossible for her to venture out.
* What we should call a cold in the head, then considered a matter of more consequence than now.
Mrs. Deborah would have sent an excuse for the whole party, but Mrs. Chloe looked so greatly disappointed, that we begged Mrs. Deborah to go and leave me to nurse Amabel, with the help of old Elsie and Tupper to depend upon in case of an emergency.
Amabel felt very uncomfortable all the morning, but she was better at night, and able to sit up to tea in our own room. The housekeeper sent us up all sorts of nice things, including a plate of short bread, and we would have Elsie sit down and take tea with us. After we had finished, we drew up to the fire, and coaxed Elsie to tell us tales of the two families—and when we had drawn her into the full tide of narration, I put into execution a scheme I had long had in mind.
"Elsie, do you know the story of the beautiful lady whose picture hangs next the saloon door—the one who has a veil hanging over her picture?"
"Aye, do I, my lammie!" answered Elsie. "And a gruesome story it is; they dinna like to speak o't in the family, but it's true for all that."
"Oh, tell it to us!" we both exclaimed; and Amabel added,—"I love to hear ghost stories."
"It's no just a ghost story as you call't," said Elsie. "However, I do not ken any harm the telling it will do, unless it makes you afraid to go to bed. But you must not tell Mrs. Deborah, for I'm jealous she would not wish it talked about."
"She told us we might ask you!" said I, as indeed she had.
"Aweel, then it is all right!" And as Elsie took up her distaff which was as much a part of herself as Aunt Chloe's knitting, we settled ourselves for the enjoyment of a story.
"Aweel, young ladies!" Elsie began, dismissing her spindle to twirl upon the hearth-stone, and looking into the fire with her bright deep blue eyes.
"You maun ken that there was once a Lord of Leighton, who was the last heir in the direct line. It behooved him to marry, for the estate had gone on from father to son, ever since before the Danes came into the country. He would have had no fash at all in finding a mate, forby the great estate which was far greater then as they say, and the fine house and a'; he was a weal favored lad, and knew how to make the leddies pleased wi' him."
"His mother was at him night and day to take a wife, but he would not listen to her, and they say there used to be awful scenes betwixt them, for she was a Percy and proud as Lucifer, and he was as dour and obstinate as all the rest of the Leighton men—craving your pardon, mem." This to Amabel.
"I don't think I am very dour—am I, Lucy?" said Amabel smiling.
"You are never obstinate about little matters!" I answered. "But I think if you once made up your mind that a thing was right or wrong, you would be torn with wild horses before you would give up."
"And so much the better for her!" said Elsie. "And so my dawties—I beg your pardon—young leddies I should say—things got worse and worse between the young lord and his mother. At last the auld leddy began to have her suspicions, and she watched; and by and by she found sure enough, that her son was secretly married to a young lass, the only child of a poor old man who lived on the estate."
"Aweel it's a sad story, and hardly fit for young ears, only to show what pride may lead weak and sinful mortals to do. The leddy went to see the poor thing, who was no' weel at the time, and persuaded her to take a medicine she brought her, which should make her well and strong. She took it, fell into fits and in an hour was dead. Her father was like one wild, and when the lord came that very evening to visit his wife, the auld man up and tauld him the whole story, and showed him the draught that was left—for she had na taken it all. The young lord gave it to a dog that followed him, and the poor creature died directly."
"You may guess that the young lord and his mother did not meet on friendly terms. He charged her with murder to her face, and she owned it and gloried in it, and dared him to revenge it on her—the wicked creature—and he swore an awful oath, that now he would never marry at all, unless he married a she wolf—for that alone would be fit to mate with his mother. And then he flung away, and rode like one possessed through the mirk winter's night, and it was weeks before he returned. They say, that as he spoke his rash words, the long mournful howl of a wolf was heard in the woods so near the house that they both started—for though there were wolves in plenty in the Cheviot hills in those days, they did not often come near any dwelling."
"I hope there are none about here now?" said I, for I had heard stories enough about these creatures in France, to make me dreadfully afraid of them.
"Na, na! there's no wolf been seen in these parts for more than fifty years—not since I was a young maid like you. I heard tell that auld Lochiel killed one in Scotland not so long ago, but the Cameron's country is far away from here in the Highlands.
"Aweel, to go on with the tale. It was toward spring when my lord came home, and he was not alone; he had brought a wife with him, whom he had married in Scotland. He gave out that she belonged to one of the clans of the West Highlands, and that he had saved her from great danger, but what he did not say. She was a beautiful creature as you may see by her picture, and kind enough to her servants; but that was about her, which made her more feared than loved. She had bright eyes of the kind called hazel in these parts, but when she was angered or excited, they glowed like balls of green fire, and the servants declared they even shone in the dark. She was very civil to her mother-in-law, but soon let her know that she meant to be mistress in her own house, and after one trial the old lady never attempted to take the high hand again.
"Aweel, the time went on, and all through the summer there were merry-makings of all sorts; but when cold weather came, the lady was na weel, and kept her room, and nothing could make her stir out of doors, though doctor and nurse thought it would be much better for her. The wolves were very bold that winter, and came nearer the Hall than they had ever done before. The lady was dreadfully afraid of them, and when their long howls used to be heard, she would cling to her husband and hide her face in his neck. Neither would she thole his joining any of the hunting parties set out against the wolves, and it was a great vex to him no doubt, for he was a keen hunter, but it behooved him to pleasure his wife whatever it cost.
"Aweel, in the spring the leddy gave her husband a fine lad bairn, and there were great rejoicings on the estate. The leddy seemed to get over her fears, and went about with her husband and entertained company; but there were those who said she was na quite herself. She had a watchful look always about her, and any sudden noise in the night would make her start and clasp her bairn to her breast. She seemed to worship the child, and would not bear it out of her sight; but yet she would not nurse it, and had a young woman from the village to suckle it. After the babe was christened she seemed easier about it, but yet her face never lost the apprehensive look.
"The summer went by and the cold weather came on, and again the wolves began to come down from the hills. The lady showed the same terror of them, and begged her husband not to hunt them. But one day when he was away, some of his friends persuaded him, laughing at him, and telling, he should be too much of a man to be afraid of his wife, and be tied to her apron-string, handsome as she was. So away he went on the hunt, and had the fortune to slay a great dog wolf, and ye shall not hinder him from bringing the creature home to show to his wife.
"The poor leddy had been shut in her room all day, very low in her spirits, as though she mistrusted where her lord had gone. The rooms had all been new fitted for her with many beautiful ornaments and pictures, but she found no comfort in any thing. She sat by the fire with her babe hugged to her bosom till she heard her lord's horses in the court. Then she gave the babe to its nurse and ran down to meet him. He kissed her as she threw her arms round his neck, and bade his man show the leddy what he had brought her. The man threw down on the floor the carcass of a great gray wolf. The lady gave one scream—they said it echoed through the house—and fled to her bedroom, bolting herself in. She would na open to any one—not to her husband or her child—but they heard her wailing and crying fit to break her heart.
"It was just midnight when those within the hall heard, as though close at hand, the long-drawn, piercing howl of a wolf. It was answered so near that the cry seemed within the very hall itself, and so dreadful was the sound that it made every one's blood run cold. My lord, who had come down stairs, ran up to his lady's room, thinking she would be terrified to death. He found the nurse, who watched by the sleeping babe, in the outer room stretched on the floor in a faint, but there was no sound from within. Reckless in his dread, he ordered the door to be broken in. The room was empty. The leddy's clothes that she had worn all day lay in a heap on the floor. The door to a little turnpike stair that led down to the garden was open, but, alive or dead, the poor leddy was never seen mair.
"The babe seemed to pine for his mither, though she had never nursed him, and in a week, he too died, and was buried. The lord had the rooms which had been his wife's closed and locked just as she left them, and he went to the Holy Wars, as they called them, against the Turks, and never came home. The estate went to a cousin after all; but they say that when some great misfortune is about to happen to the family, the long howl of a wolf is heard at night in Highbeck Woods."
Elsie ended her story and we sat a few moments in silence. Then Amabel remarked quietly—
"I suppose those are the shut up rooms between this chamber and the king's room."
"Aye, they have never been opened since, or sae they say, and a veil hangs always over the poor leddy's picture, though Mrs. Deborah's mother used think it was only a fancy piece, since nobody knew how to paint such pictures in those days. She was a very well-educated young leddy, was my young mistress, and had been at school at a convent in France."
And here Elsie diverged into an account of her young mistress, who had been Amabel's grandmother. I was not sorry, for the tale had "garred me grew," as Elsie said, and I was glad that the poor wolf-lady, if such she was, could claim no kin with me. I have since learned that there are plenty of ghost stories in my own family. Indeed, the Corbet ghosts have made themselves so cheap that they are very little regarded. I cannot say that either Amabel or myself slept any the worse for Elsie's story, though I must confess to starting sometimes when the bloodhounds would give vent to their long melancholy bay, worshipping the moon after the fashion of their race.
Mrs. Deborah and Mrs. Chloe came home the next day but one, Mrs. Chloe seeming much revived by her visit. The ball had been a great success, and Mrs. Chloe had danced one dance with a very fine gentleman indeed—some officer or other—who had given her a fine copy of verses next morning, as the fashion was then. *
* Those who are curious may find plenty of such copies of verses in old collections. They might mostly be made on a machine.
Molly and Jenny had greatly regretted our absence, and had sent us a box of shells, and a needle-book and work-bag of their own manufacture. Mine was made of flowers cut out in satin and paper, and placed between two thicknesses of transparent catgut, † and was really very pretty and ingenious.
† A thin, transparent, but rather stiff material, much used for ornamental works. I have seen an old work-bag made of it.
Aunt Chloe had learned several new stitches, and the teaching of these and describing the dresses at the ball afforded her amusement, till something happened which drove General B., his sword-knot, and copies of verses, effectually out of her head. This event, however, must be reserved for another chapter.
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SURPRISES.
WE went on in our usual course for some weeks.
Mr. Lethbridge, the new rector, proved quite a contrast to Doctor Brown. He was a thin, serious faced young man, very much in earnest, and not always (or so I thought) very discreet in his zeal. He was one of those men who seem, if I may so express myself, to have no perspective in their minds. To eat meat on a Friday in Lent, or to go to a dance on the green were in his eyes as great crimes as to get drunk at the alehouse or to beat one's wife.
He sorely puzzled and distressed old Gaffer Bell at the almshouse, by telling him that for a man so near the grave as he was, to spend hours in playing the fiddle was a frivolous if not a sinful waste of time. And when Gaffer Bell, one of the two or three old people who could read and a pretty good Bible scholar too, told him that he "didn't find nowt agen the fiddle in Bible—" he reproved him for speaking lightly of sacred things. Mr. Lethbridge approved highly of some of Mr. Wesley's doings, such as his prayer and conference meetings, and set one of the latter up in his own parish.
"And pray what sort of conferences do you have?" asked Mrs. Deborah. "Do not the people get into undesirable disputes."
"Oh no!" answered Mr. Lethbridge complacently. "I take care to prevent that by allowing no one to speak but myself."
"Rather an odd sort of conference meeting that, Brother Lethbridge, where the conference is all on one side, like the Irish gentleman's reciprocity," said Doctor Brown, with one of his jolly laughs. "Your pattern Mr. Wesley manages quite differently, as I understand. He allows the old folk to have their say, and I dare say it might be quite interesting to hear what they could find to talk about!" added the Doctor, as if struck by a sudden idea. "I am not sure but I should like to try it sometime. At any rate, it would give them pleasure, for old folk like to be listened to."
Mr. Lethbridge drew into his shell as his custom was when he thought himself assailed, and Doctor Brown began to talk about something else. It was one of Mr. Lethbridge's troubles that whenever any one criticised any of his methods, he always thought the cause of Christ was attacked. Nevertheless he was a good young man and a good preacher, visited the sick and the feeble faithfully, catechised the children and revived the school, which had fallen quite into disuse of late years.
Mrs. Deborah took a great interest in the matter, recommended a very capable and efficient school-mistress, and made liberal presents of working materials. Amabel and I visited this institution of learning twice or three times a week, helped to teach the children in sewing, reading, knitting, and the Catechism. And when the three girls who made the first class, got through their duty toward their neighbour without a stumble, we felt as proud as though we had made them ourselves.
People began to come to church on other occasions than to get themselves married or buried, and to join a little in the responses, and almost all agreed that Parson was a kind gentleman, and a good preacher and good to the poor, though he would look into matters for himself and refused the Shrove Tuesday dole to Betty Hackett, because he found out that she changed off her Christmas blankets at the alehouse.
Lent fell rather late that year, and about a fortnight before Shrove Tuesday, Mrs. Philippa surprised us all by coming down stairs to dinner, and still more astonished us by not finding fault with any thing on the table. She really made herself very agreeable, as she well knew how when she chose. But when she again appeared at supper, our surprise knew no bounds.
"These are very nice cheese-cakes!" said she in the course of the meal. "Pray, Sister Deborah, is this your usual receipt or have you a new one?"
The remark was not a startling one certainly, but when one considers that it was the first direct word Mrs. Philippa had addressed to Mrs. Deborah for more than twenty years, it is perhaps no wonder that Mrs. Chloe dropped her tea-cup, and that Amabel and I both tried so hard to look unconcerned, that it was well no strangers were present.
Mrs. Deborah however answered as quietly as though she had been chatting with her sister all day.
"The cheese-cakes are much as usual, Sister Philippa. It is perhaps that exercise has given you a better appetite."
"Possibly!" replied Mrs. Philippa with a smile. "You were always famous for your cheese-cakes, Sister Deborah."
From the cheese-cakes, Mrs. Philippa diverged to other subjects. She told several anecdotes of her youth, asked Mrs. Deborah if she did not remember this and that circumstance, told Mrs. Chloe that she was nervous and needed the doctor, and in short made herself so agreeable that I did not know her. After supper, she delayed a moment and said, as it seemed with a little hesitation:
"Sister Deborah, I am thinking of going to Berwick for a little change, and to visit my friend Lady Betty Alworthy. Will it be convenient to you to let me have the small travelling coach, and Richard to attend me?"
"Certainly, Sister Philippa, but will not the journey fatigue you?" said Mrs. Deborah. "You know the roads are not of the best!"
"I do not think so!" was the reply, without any of Mrs. Philippa's usual irritability at being opposed. "Doctor Brown has lately come from Berwick, and he tells me the roads are good; and Lady Betty specially desires my visit just now."
"Very well, Sister Philippa, suit your own convenience," was the reply. "I will see that all things are in readiness and trust you may have a pleasant visit."
"What is going to happen?" said I rather pertly, when Mrs. Philippa had withdrawn.
Mrs. Chloe's soft eyes were full of tears, and old Roberts shook his head solemnly.
"It is a warning, ladies! That's what it is!" said the old man. "Something is a going for to happen to Mrs. Philippa. Folks don't change that way for nothing. Didn't you notice, Mrs. Deborah and Mrs. Chloe, that she never so much as called me an old fool, once? Poor lady."
"What do you think is going to happen, Sister Deborah?" asked Mrs. Chloe in a quivering voice.
"I think Philippa is going to Berwick, if she does not change her mind before the day after to-morrow!" replied Mrs. Deborah, with a tone and look which showed she was annoyed. "And I am afraid I shall call Roberts an old fool myself, if he does not clear the table, instead of standing there talking nonsense to frighten you, Sister Chloe. Do draw up your shawl and go to the fire."
"What did Roberts and Mrs. Chloe mean by saying that something was going to happen to Mrs. Philippa?" I asked of Amabel, when we were in our own room together.
Mary Lee thought the question was addressed to her and answered with some solemnity.
"They think she is fey! Miss Corbet."
"Fey!" I repeated. "What is that?"
"Why, just fey! When any strange alteration comes over a person as from close to liberal or from fretful to pleasant or the other way, people say they are fey—and then they are not long for this world."
"Oh, that is it. Well, we will not be alarmed for Mrs. Philippa just yet," said I. "We shall see how she is to-morrow."
But to-morrow brought no alteration in Mrs. Philippa's mood. Amabel and I waited on her every morning. Sometimes she would admit us, and oftener we were sent away, and bid not to be troublesome little hypocrites, pretending what we did not feel. On these occasions, Tupper always came outside the door and dismissed us with the same remark.
"My mistress is not quite herself this morning, ladies. Another time I am sure she will be happy."
I suppose she was quite herself, but it seemed more as if she were somebody else the next morning, she was so very gracious. We found her in the midst of a wonderful litter, overseeing Tupper's occupation of packing a great mail, while another stood by filled to the brim. I could not but wonder that she should take so many things when she was only going to stay a fortnight. Mrs. Philippa invited us to sit down, and seeing that my eyes reverted to the great trunk, she condescended to explain that she was not going to take all these things with her.
"Not at least at present!" she added with a queer little blush and smile.
An idea darted through my head, but it was so preposterous that I rejected it directly.
"I hope you will be very kind to my sisters when I am gone!" said Mrs. Philippa. "My Sister Chloe is a good creature, though she is not very strong minded. Poor thing, I wish I could see her better. And Sister Deborah is a good creature too. We have not been on the best of terms always. Deborah is sometimes rather too officious, but she is a good creature. I am glad she will have your society while I am away."
The idea came back and did not go away quite so easily.
Mrs. Philippa went on clearing out her drawers, and bestowed upon us many bits for our patchwork, silks and crewels for our work, pincushions, and other little presents, and at last unlocked her jewel case and took from it two boxes.
"This necklace, my dear, was your mother's before it was mine, and you will like it none the loss on that account. Yours, niece Corbet, was brought me many years ago from over sea. Keep them to remember me by!"
She then dismissed us with great kindness.
"What does she mean?" asked Amabel, quite bewildered, as we went to our bedroom to put away our gifts. "One would think she never expected to come home again!"
"Perhaps she doesn't!" said I.
"What do you mean, Lucy. I see nothing like dying about her."
"I was not thinking of dying, but of something else!" I answered. "However, time will show."
"Lucy! How perfectly absurd!" said Amabel. "When she has been mourning all these years for Mr. Falconer, and has never seen any company."
"Except Doctor Brown!" I added.
"Worse and worse!" returned Amabel, laughing heartily. "Lucy, I believe you are fey yourself. You used not to think so much about matrimony."
"Ah, well, time will show! Let us look at our necklaces!"
Amabel's turned out to be a very rich thick gold chain supporting a fine pendant of amethyst set round with pearls. Mine was a chain of Turkey stones, supporting a locket enameled also with Turkey stones. It opened and had evidently once held a miniature.
"She never gave you that!" almost screamed Mrs. Chloe, when I showed it to her. "Why, it was the gift of Mr. Philip Falconer, and used to have his picture in it. My poor sister! She is not long for this world. My dears!" sinking her voice to a whisper. "Did either of you hear a strange noise last night?"
"I heard the bloodhounds baying as they do every moonlight night—that was all!" answered Amabel.
"Oh! You think it was the bloodhounds? Well, I don't know. To my thinking, it sounded like something else—longer and more dreary."
"Dear Aunt Chloe, don't give way to these dismal fancies!" said Amabel, kissing her pale cheek. "I do not believe in the wolf, one bit, if that is what you are thinking of. It is like Aunt Philippa's death-watch, at which she was so scared, and yet you see, she is not dead."
"But she may he. The five months are not up nor the five years."
"We may all be dead and gone before five years, but I don't believe the watch knew anything about it, more than the wolf, if there is such a creature, which is more than doubtful. Aunt Philippa is going to Berwick to make a visit, and she is pleased with the prospect, and thought she would give us some keepsakes,—that was all."
Mrs. Chloe sighed and shook her head and would not be comforted. She was very superstitious, and her life was really embittered with these fancies. If she had been going to church to be married, and had seen a weasel, she would have turned back. An owl's cry, or the flutter of a bird against the window, would make her turn pale, and she was quite certain that she had brought some great misfortune on Amabel, because she had given her a hair-pin point foremost.
Amabel, who had a way of speaking her mind freely without giving offence, remonstrated with her Aunt Chloe about giving way to needless fears.
"You know, dear Aunt Chloe, that we are all in God's hands, and He can and will care for us as tenderly as a mother cares for her babe. Why should we not trust Him to do just what is best for us? And if we do, why should we let ourselves be terrified by signs and omens?"
"I don't suppose it is right, but every one does it!" sighed Mrs. Chloe. "And we know, niece, that there are evil spirits, and such creatures allowed to go about, and why may they not be near us at any time?"
"They may and they may not!" replied Amabel. "We cannot see them, and nothing has been told us about them, so we do not know; but we do know that we are all the time in God's presence. He is always near at hand, to protect and care for us."
"That is very true, Niece Leighton—very true indeed," said Mrs. Chloe, as if struck with a new idea. "He is every where, and so He must be here. But I don't know—we seem to know so very little about Him. I can't help being afraid of Him, though I don't suppose it is right."
"I used to feel just so, before I read the New Testament!" said Amabel. "But when I read such places as, 'He that hath seen Me, hath seen the Father,'—'I and my Father are one!' then I felt that I knew a great deal more about Him. If the Lord Jesus is His image, we need not be afraid of Him."
"Very true, my love. I never thought of it in that way!" said Mrs. Chloe. "But tell me, don't you ever feel afraid at night, when you wake up and hear all sorts of strange noises, like sighs and moans and people walking and whispering?"
"Oh yes, very often. But, Aunt Chloe, if you are afraid in your snug pretty little room with Bateson within call, and your whistle just at your head, I wonder what you would say to sleeping where Lucy and I used to do, in one corner of the great deserted dormitory, with half the house shut up and in ruins, and those great awful caverns underneath it."
"Yes, I never was so very much afraid, till after I had seen the caverns and the black water!" I added. "I dream of them now at times."
"How dreadful!" said Mrs. Chloe shuddering. "What did you do?"
"Mother Prudentia used to tell us to put ourselves into the hands of God, and the Holy Virgin, and repeat the psalm 'Qui habitat,'—the ninety-first, you know. I used to feel so safe and easy when I came to, 'He shall cover thee with His wings.'"
"My dear, will you look me out that psalm? I think I will learn it by heart!" said Mrs. Chloe. "Of course I have read it hundreds of times, but somehow I never thought it was me whom He would cover. Thank you, my dear, you have done me a great deal of good."
Amabel found the psalm in Mrs. Chloe's great prayer-book, and I noticed afterwards that she kept it open by her, and used to be murmuring verses over to herself, whenever she was alone with her knitting—the only work she ever attempted nowadays. She had taken to sitting most of the time in our cheerful sunny little room, and though she was no great help to our lessons, being one of those persons who never can refrain from talking when there is any one to talk to, we were very glad to have her there, and to give up our time to her, for we both felt we should not have her very long.
But I am wandering a long way from Mrs. Philippa and her affairs. The lady accomplished her journey in safety, as she sent word when the carriage came back, and felt herself much better for the change. She sent her love to Mrs. Deborah, with a handsome new china jug—Mrs. Deborah was fond of jugs—and to Mrs. Chloe, a soft warm shawl and a pair of fur-lined slippers; and there were little presents for Amabel and myself, and a parcel of needles, knitting-pins and thread for the school children.
Richard on being questioned, declared that Mrs. Philippa had purchased all these things herself—that she was buying "a power of new gowns," and was "as pert as a pyet," and moreover had not called him a fool once since he left the Hall. By all which signs, he concluded infallibly, that Mrs. Philippa was not long for this world.
"Did you see any one that we know, Richard, beside Lady Betty's family?" asked Mrs. Chloe.
"I did see Doctor Brown!" answered Richard. "His Reverence was about buying of a new coach, and Lady Betty and Mrs. Philippa went with him to see it."
Whereupon I glanced at Amabel, and she shook her head severely at me.
Shrove Tuesday was a lovely day, I remember. Amabel and I had been out looking for flowers, and had found very few, for spring comes but slowly in Northumberland. However, we had gathered a bunch of wind flowers, and had the wonderful good luck to find in a sheltered sunny spot a tuft of primroses, and a few sweet blue and white violets.
When we went in to carry them to Aunt Chloe, we found her leaning back in her chair sobbing bitterly. Mrs. Deborah held an open letter in her hand, and looked as though she did not know whether to laugh or be angry. A box full of bride-cake and another of white gloves and favors stood on the table.
I guessed all in a minute and glanced at Amabel, who looked puzzled enough. With all her intelligence, she was never very "gleg at the uptak," except where people's feelings were concerned. I was dying with curiosity, but of course I did not ask any questions, but waited to be told.
"Well, nieces, what do you think has happened?" said Mrs. Deborah.
I knew well enough, but nobody likes to have their news forestalled, so I did not say a word, but left the answer to Amabel, who was as innocent as a babe.
"Nothing bad, I hope, aunt; nothing to Mrs. Philippa," said she.
"Something to Mrs. Philippa, but nothing bad," said Mrs. Deborah, trying to keep the corners of her mouth in order. "Nieces, your Aunt Philippa is married!"
And here Mrs. Deborah broke down into a hearty laugh, while Mrs. Chloe sobbed afresh, and murmured, "Sister Deborah, how can you?"
"Why, one may as well laugh as cry, child," said Mrs. Deborah. "Yes, after twenty years of mournful constancy to the memory of her first love, my Sister Philippa is really married, and to whom do you think?"
"To Doctor Brown!" I could not help saying.
"Even so, child, but how did you hear?"
"I did not hear, Aunt Deborah, I guessed," I replied. "Amabel was shocked at me for hinting such a thing before Mrs. Philippa went away."
"You are a shrewd little puss," said Mrs. Deborah, shaking her head, but not looking at all displeased. "I never thought of such a thing."
"I am sure I did not," said Mrs. Chloe, through her tears. "She never hinted such a thing to me—I that have stood by her for so many years. I do think she might have told me, at least."
"I suppose she was ashamed," replied Mrs. Deborah. "Never mind, Chloe, we all know that poor Philippa is peculiar. I hope Doctor Brown will be as glad of his bargain five years hence as he is now."
"She said he was her spiritual adviser," said Mrs. Chloe, beginning to recover herself a little. "She said she had derived great benefit from him."
"Well, so it seems she has."
"And here is Amabel going to marry the first Church of England clergyman she ever heard preach," continued Mrs. Chloe. "I declare, I shall begin to think spiritual advisers are very dangerous people."
Mrs. Chloe was very much hurt at her sister's want of confidence in her for a while, but her amiable spirit soon began to make excuses for her.
In truth, such marriages were not very uncommon in those days. Two people who were betrothed would steal away from a ball or party, perhaps, to another room in the same house, with two or three witnesses, be married, and return to the company as if nothing had happened; and marriages were sometimes kept a profound secret for months. It was not a good fashion, and brought about a good many complicated lawsuits, but it was not considered at all disreputable.
Mrs. Philippa's fortune was in her own right, and nobody had a shadow of authority over her, except, perhaps, her brother, and as she was older than he by two or three years, she naturally did not think he had any special right to direct her. Doctor Brown's family, though not distinguished, was respectable. There was nothing against him personally, and he had a comfortable private fortune besides his office at Durham. Nevertheless Sir Julius was furiously angry, and wrote Mrs. Deborah a most unreasonable letter—as though she had been the one to blame.
I think Mrs. Chloe suffered the most of any one from this very unexpected healing of Mrs. Philippa's twenty years' heart-break. She missed her sister, whom she had really loved despite her unkindness, and I am sure she felt it hard that Mrs. Philippa should get a rich husband, while she herself had none at all. It was truly pitiable to see how the poor thing's thoughts still ran upon such things, though every one in the house could see with half an eye that she was not long for this world. She grew thinner and weaker every day, and her little dry cough kept her awake in spite of all Mrs. Deborah's bread jellies, and poppy and lettuce syrups.
Mr. Lethbridge used to come and read to her sometimes, but she did not like him very much, and, indeed, he was not a cheering visitor. I used to wonder if he thought it was good for a sick person to hear the particulars of every case of illness and suffering in the parish.
Mrs. Philippa paid us a visit, during Lent, with her husband. I never in all my life saw any one so pleased with being married. She could talk of nothing else, and uttered some speeches which made us young ones feel as if we did not know where to look. I never was fond of seeing over-much billing and cooing in public between even young married folks; but I never saw a bride and bridegroom of twenty-one so exasperatingly silly in this respect as Doctor and Mrs. Brown. However, she was very good-natured, and invited us all to visit her so seen as she should be settled in her new house, which, according to her description, was quite a palace. She was especially kind to Mrs. Chloe, and took great pains to amuse her. She staid a whole week, and then left her old home apparently without a single regret.
We had another visitor during Lent, namely, Mr. Cheriton. It seems Mr. Lethbridge had business in Newcastle which would keep him there some three weeks, and Mr. Cheriton learning of it, arranged to exchange duties with him for that time. Oh what a comfort it was to have him preach again!
He held service on Wednesdays and Fridays, and, as we always went to church, we saw him tolerably often. Mrs. Deborah invited him to make the Hall his home during his stay, but he declined, saying that there were so many cases of severe illness among the people—as, indeed, there were—that he wished to be near at hand in case of a sudden call. Mrs. Deborah admitted the validity of the excuse, but begged him to come to dinner or supper without ceremony, as he would always find a plate, and he did so with very tolerable frequency. Both parties kept carefully clear of politics, and I think Mrs. Deborah came to regard Mr. Cheriton's whiggery as more his misfortune than his fault—as a kind of disorder that ran in some families like gout.
Mr. Cheriton was a fine musician, as I have said, and he brought us a great parcel of new music by the best composers. We used to sing together a deal, which was a great pleasure to Mrs. Chloe. Next to having a love affair of her own, was the pleasure of watching another's.
But Mr. Cheriton did Mrs. Chloe good in other and better ways. He himself proposed that as she could not go to church, he should have prayers for her benefit every Sunday evening, after which he would read her his sermon. He was a true "son of consolation," and knew just what to say and what not. Whenever he spent the evening with us, we had evening prayers, which we did not at other times, and Mr. Cheriton usually said a few words upon the Gospel for the day or week.
I think Mrs. Deborah, at first, looked on this practise of preaching in a private house, as a dangerous innovation akin to field preaching, and holding conventicles; but she soon came to like it.
Mr. Cheriton held several long conversations with Mrs. Chloe, and I began presently to perceive a change in her. She left off talking about her past matrimonial chances, and her plans for visiting "my Sister Brown," when warm weather came. Her Bible was constantly in her hand or by her side as she sat in her great chair or lay on the couch, and she spent a good deal of time studying a volume of Mr. Charles Wesley's poems, which Mr. Cheriton had brought to Amabel.
"I don't know how it is, but they seem somehow to express just what I want!" she said rather apologetically to Mrs. Deborah one day. "And, you know, Sister Deborah, that Mr. Wesley is a regularly ordained clergyman of the Church of England."
"Do read them as much as you like, if they are any comfort to you, Sister Chloe!" was Mrs. Deborah's reply.
I think she would even have welcomed a Roman Catholic priest if he had brought any comfort to Chloe. I used sometimes to wonder, by the way, how Mrs. Deborah reconciled her hatred of popery and her almost idolatrous loyalty to the banished Stewarts, but there were a great many others in the same case. I do not believe there were ever a more unreasonable and unreasoning set of people than the English Jacobites. After all the national experience of the faithlessness of their idols, they were just as ready to fall down and adore them again, as though they had never broken a pledge. They worshipped the Church of England. Yet they were ready to set over her a man who was bound by the most solemn obligations to overthrow her. It was certainly a pity to see the blood and treasure that were thrown away, and the misery and distress that were brought about, by the unreasoning loyalty to one particular family, which had never shown itself worthy of trust.
Mr. Cheriton went home at last promising to come again as soon as possible, and leaving a great many well wishes behind him. While he had been very careful not to interfere with Mr. Lethbridge's arrangements, but on the contrary had upheld him in every possible way, the people could not but feel the difference between his ministrations and those of the rector.
"Seems like as if one could talk to that gentleman and open one's mind to him!" said Mary Thorne, a very intelligent old woman in one of the alms houses. "He listens to one, he does, and finds out what one means. I told him all my trouble about the Sacrament,—" a matter on which poor old Mary had been much exercised—"and told him how I was afraid either to come or to stay away. Mr. Lethbridge always said it was want of faith, and Doctor Brown would just say, 'poor soul, poor soul,' kind of pitying like, and then go home and send me some broth or something. He was very kind, but he didn't help me any. But 'Muster Cheriton,' he made it all plain, and now it seems as if I could not wait for Easter to come, that I may go to the Lord's table."
Easter came and passed very happily, and it was observed that there were more communicants than were ever seen before. We all went to church in the morning, except Mrs. Chloe, who had failed a great deal of late, and now seldom left her bedroom before noon.
In the afternoon, Mr. Lethbridge brought the feast to her, and to old Roberts, who was growing very infirm and hardly able to perform his duties.
Amabel and I walked out in the park, gathered a great nosegay for Mrs. Chloe, and talked of our future as young folks will do. Of course, I was to live with Amabel, till I had a home of my own, and was to have the south room which looked toward the church. I was not so light-hearted as Amabel, for Mrs. Thorpe, who wrote to us sometimes, had mentioned in her last letter that her nephew's ship had never been heard from since it sailed for the Indies, and that people were beginning to think something had happened to her. However, I kept my troubles to myself, or rather I tried humbly to lay them on some one better able to bear them than I, and I listened to Amabel's plans and discussed them with real interest and pleasure.
"Mrs. Chloe does not talk any more about the set of chairs she was going to begin in the spring," remarked Amabel. "She never says anything now about getting well when the warm weather comes, but I think she seems a great deal happier than she used."
"She has given up!" said I. "You know dear Mother Superior used to say that there was great happiness in giving up. Mrs. Chloe told me the other day, that you and Mr. Cheriton, between you, had done her more good than you would ever know."
"I am sure I am very glad to hear it!" said Amabel, her quiet eyes shining with pleasure.
"Lucy, what have I done that I should be so happy? While you that are so much better in every way—"
Amabel stopped short. It was the first time she had given me a hint that she had guessed my secret.
"Don't, please, Amabel!" said I. "I hope I can bear all I am called on to endure, but I can't bear to hear it talked about even by you. Forgive me, dear!" For I was afraid I might have hurt her.
"There is nothing to forgive!" said Amabel, pressing my arm in hers. "I should feel just so."
We walked home without any more words, and I shut myself up alone awhile. Comfort came to me by and by, and when Mrs. Chloe remarked, as I kissed her good-night, that this had been a happy day, I was glad to be able to agree with her.
The next day but one, as Amabel and I were returning from the village school, we were astonished to meet Mr. Cheriton. His face was pale, his dress disordered, and his jaded horse showed how fast he had travelled. It was just at the entrance of the avenue, and one of the grooms being at hand, Mr. Cheriton gave him the horse, with a charge to be careful of him, as he had made a hasty journey.
"We were not looking for you!" said Amabel. "What has brought you in such a hurry?" Then turning pale as Mr. Cheriton did not answer, "Walter, what is it! You have ill news. What does it mean?"
"That is what you must tell me!" said Mr. Cheriton, in a hoarse voice, not a bit like his own. "I received this letter yesterday. Read it both of you."
He put it into Amabel's hand, as he spoke, and I looked over her shoulder. It was a very short and ungracious letter from Sir Julius, saying that he had heard reports injurious to Mr. Cheriton's character, and having learned from the best authority, that these reports were even less than the truth, he forbade him to entertain any hopes of his daughter, or even to see her more.
"An enemy hath done this!" was Amabel's first word.
"Yes, but who? I did not know that I had one. I know some idle tales were told about me at one time, but I thought they had all died out long ago. Amabel, you will not—"
"Don't ask Amabel to pledge herself to anything just this moment!" I interrupted. "Let us go straight to Mrs. Deborah."
"You are right, Lucy!" said Mr. Cheriton. "I hardly know what I am doing. Let us go to Mrs. Deborah, as you say."
"Mrs. Deborah is in her own sitting-room, reading her letters!" said Richard, in answer to my inquiries. "An express has come from Sir Julius, with great news."
I do not know that I have any Scotch blood, but I certainly do have at times an odd kind of second sight. The moment Richard spoke, I knew it all.
We found Mrs. Deborah sitting in her little room, half office, half parlor. She had an open letter before her, but she was not reading it. She was pale, and her black brows seemed almost to hide her eyes. She hardly seemed at first to understand who we were, and asked somewhat fiercely what we meant by coming to disturb her.
"We wanted help!" said Amabel. "Aunt, can you explain that?" Handing her the letter as she spoke.
Mrs. Deborah glanced through it.
"Too well!" said she. "I also have had a letter which explains it all. Child, your father is married again, and to Lady Throckmorton."