image024
NEWS FROM THE NORTH.
SIR JULIUS arrived sure enough, and with him Lord Bulmer, and another gentleman whom I did not know, but who was presented to Amabel as Captain Dangerfield. The moment I saw this man, I conceived an intense aversion to him, as if I had had a premonition of what he had come for. He was rather handsome—indeed, I think most people would have called him very handsome—but his style of face was one which I always distrust. He had rather a high, round head, with wavy hair growing well back from his forehead, eyes at once black and shallow, and opening very widely lip and down, and eye-brows highly arched. I could judge nothing of the shape of his mouth, for he wore a heavy moustache, having been, it was understood, in the imperial service.
Sir Julius was very gracious to Amabel, and hardly less so to myself. He seemed surprised at the Position in which he found me, and meeting me after supper asked me why I had not been to the table. I told him the simple truth—namely, that my lady had ordered me to take my meals in the housekeeper's room, whereat, he muttered something, and seemed greatly disconcerted. I fancy, he and his wife had some words about the matter, and that she judged it best to give way; for the next day my lady sent for me, and ordered rather than invited me to take my meals with the family as usual.
It was evident from the very first, that Lord Bulmer had come as Amabel's suitor. He lost no opportunity of appearing in that character, and fretted her constantly by his assiduous attentions. She on her part was barely and distantly civil, gave him the coldest and shortest answers, refused his attentions whenever it was possible, and took no more notice of his compliments than the picture of her grandmother in the saloon would have done. She kept me close by her side on all occasions, and in short gave his lordship clearly to understand that he was utterly disagreeable to her.
I am not sure that this was good policy on Amabel's part. Lord Bulmer was so accustomed to conquer wherever he went, so used to being courted instead of courting (for he was esteemed the greatest match in the country), that this decided opposition on Amabel's part put him on his mettle, and made him determined to conquer her aversion and win her regard. I do think he loved her, so far as his base and sensual nature was capable of loving anything.
As for my lady, I did not know how to understand her. She seemed at once to be jealous of Lord Bulmer's attentions to her step-daughter, and desirous of forwarding his suit. At the very time she contrived to have the two tête-à-tête, by calling me to her side, I have seen her look at them, as though she would like to kill both of them.
Meantime she filled the house with guests—mostly gentlemen—till there was not a spare corner, except the ghost rooms and the apartments known as the King's chamber. I think that she would have laid violent hands on these, only that when she spoke of having them put in order, the servants, with Wilson at their head, declared they would leave the house at once, if the door was so much as opened. I knew there was no particular danger of such a catastrophe, from the simple fact that Mrs. Deborah had carried off with her the keys to that part of the house. There was no way of entering the ghostly rooms, for even the door which opened from our room had been fastened on the other side. So the guests were accommodated wherever a place could be found for them, and the shut up rooms remained shut up still.
There were a great many people coming and going, and, as I could not but observe, arriving very frequently in the night. There was much whispering in corners, and reading and writing of letters, and white flowers and ribbons were paraded upon all occasions. Only Amabel would wear none but red flowers and ribbons, though they were not especially becoming to her, and when one day my lord presented her with a basket of beautiful exotics which he had caused to be sent from his own famous hot-houses, she remarked carelessly that she did not like white flowers, and gave them to Chatty Dugdale, who appeared in them at dinner to my lord's evident mortification.
"So you would not honor my poor flowers!" I heard him say to her afterwards.
"I told you I did not like white flowers!" she answered. "I beg you will put yourself to no more trouble on my account."
His lordship's eyes blazed with anger, but he only bowed and turned away.
The next day news arrived which made every one open their eyes. The Pretender, whose landing in Moidart in July with but seven men at his back had been rumored but hardly believed, had put himself at the head of the Highland clans, and eluding the vigilance and skill of General Cope (no great feat if all tales were true), had actually entered Edinburgh in triumph, and was holding his court there.
There was no bound to the exultation at the Hall when this news arrived. Sir Julius ordered a distribution of beef and ale to all the tenants, and a grand banquet was prepared at the Hall to which all the neighboring gentry were invited. But I noticed that very few of them came, and of the families who accepted the invitation, only the gentlemen were present.
In fact, scarcely any ladies of what might be called the county families had visited Lady Leighton at all. The table was not half filled. Sir Julius' brow darkened ominously, as he looked on the vacant seats, and when the toast was proposed of "health to the rightful king and confusion to usurpers," it was not received with any great degree of enthusiasm.
In the year 1715, the gentry of Northumberland had risen almost as one man to support the cause of James Stewart, or the old Pretender, as the Loyalists called him. But a new generation had arisen since then.
People who remembered "the fifteen" had also a vivid recollection of the hangings and confiscations which followed it, and had no mind to run the same risks again. Others were content to see things remain as they were. The race of non-juring clergymen, who had done a great deal to keep alive the flame of devotion to the Stewart family, was dying out, and only here or there was one to be found.
It was observed afterward, in the march to Derby, that the proclamation of King James in the towns through which the army passed excited no more enthusiasm or curiosity than would have been produced by the advertisement of a quack doctor.
The ill success of his political banquet did not tend to put Sir Julius in any better humor than he was before. Neither did the fact that on the following Sunday, Mr. Lethbridge preached a really fine and eloquent sermon on the duty of resistance to rebellion and faithfulness to the existing government. His usually slow, and I must say tedious, delivery waxed nervous and decided, as he warned his hearers against being led into treasonable practises by false representations.
Sir Julius, who had come to church, I suppose in compliment to his wife, looked furious. Lady Leighton yawned, laughed and chatted all but aloud with the gentlemen who sat by her. Lord Bulmer whispered something to Amabel, but was met by a look which silenced even him.
I could not forbear peeping at Aunt Deborah. She seemed as if she did not know whether to be angry with the preacher for his doctrine or pleased at his vexing her sister-in-law. Indeed, I could not help thinking that Mrs. Deborah's loyalty toward James Stewart had cooled considerably, since she had learned that Lady Leighton espoused his cause so warmly.
The next morning, I was sitting with Amabel in our own bedroom, when Lady Leighton's woman tapped at the door, with a summons. Miss Leighton, was to attend her father and mother in the library.
"The time of trial is at hand!" said Amabel, turning to me, after she had sent a message, that she would come at once. "Pray for me, Lucy!"
"Dear Amabel, you won't give way!" said I. "Indeed, I would not urge you, but I know this Lord Bulmer is a wicked man, and will make you miserable."
"If he were the best man in the world, it would make no difference to me!" replied Amabel. "My love, such as I had, is given away, and I cannot call it back."
"But what will you say!" I asked, detaining her, as she bent to kiss me.
"I shall see, when the time comes. There is no use in planning before hand. Let me go, dear. I must not keep them waiting, and since it must come, the sooner it is over, the better."
This was just the difference between Amabel and me. She, as I have said before, hardly ever made a plan, and I was always making them, and then finding out that they were of no avail, and that I had after all to depend on the impulse or direction of the minute.
I threw myself on my knees and prayed most earnestly, that my darling might be supported and stayed up in the deep waters through which she was called to pass, and then feeling somewhat comforted, I set myself to cheat the moments of anxiety by planning and cutting a little coat out of an old gown of Mrs. Philippa's for Mary Thornaby, who was just about short-coating her first baby. I had the little garment well under way before Amabel's step was heard in the gallery.
I sprang up to meet her.
She was very pale and looked ready to drop with fatigue, and as I caught her in my arms she laid her head on my neck, and wept long and bitterly. I let the tears have their way, thinking they would relieve her oppressed spirits. At last she quieted herself and then told me all about it.
"I found my father and his wife sitting in the library, and Lord Bulmer standing behind my lady's chair. He made me a deep reverence as he came in, but I only curtsied in general and would not look at him."
"Amabel!" my father began, and then he hesitated and looked at his wife.
Then as she declined to help him out, he began again: "Amabel, your father and mother have sent for you to inform you of something which will be greatly to your advantage, and they hope to find in you an obedient and grateful daughter."
I did not see anything in this which called for an answer, so I curtsied again, whereat my father said—I would say peevishly, but that he is my father—"Oh, curtsying is all very well, but we want an answer in words!"
"To what, sir?" I asked.
"To this, Miss Leighton!" replied my lady, speaking suddenly and sharply. Lucy she is like the wolf woman as one pea is like another—"Your father has received an offer for you from worthy gentleman far beyond your desert or degree."
"Not so, and it please you madam!" said my lord, making another bow; "Nothing can be above Miss Leighton's deserts. Say from the humblest of her slaves, who has never before seen a lady so worthy of his devotion, and whose whole life shall be one study to promote her happiness."
My lady smiled strangely, while her eyes shot fire in their curious fashion.
"You plead your cause so well, my lord, that I might spare my pains. In one word, Amabel, my Lord Bulmer has made proposals for your hand, and it is your father's will and wish—"
"And yours also, I trust, madam!" interrupted my lord, in a tone of deferential anxiety. "I can ill want the good wishes of so old a friend!"
"And my own of course," said my lady, biting her red lip and frowning—"that you should accept his proposals, and as the times are something disturbed and your father may be called away, we intend that the marriage should take place immediately. You may now withdraw."
"Stay a moment, my lady!" said Lord Bulmer. "Let me have the pleasure of learning from my birdie's own sweet mouth that I am accepted."
"You hear what my lord says!" said my lady, and again it seemed as though she spoke by constraint. "What have you to answer?"
"Only this, madam!" I answered, being now constrained to speak. "I have already told my father that I will not marry without his consent, at least until I am of age. But I have already given my affection to a worthy man with his full concurrence, and I will never wed another. In any other matter, I am ready to yield to my father's wishes. In this I cannot do so. It is simply impossible."
My father looked confused enough for a moment.
"May I ask who is the happy man?" asked my lord.
"Our daughter refers to a childish entanglement with a person in Newcastle," said my lady—"that Mr. Cheriton who has so strangely disgraced himself of late."
"Oh! The Methodist parson who had the adventure with the pretty milliner!" said my lord, sneeringly. "I should like to meet this irresistible apostle."
"You have already met him, my lord," I could not help saying. "I had myself the pleasure of witnessing your encounter in front of Mrs. Thorpe's shop."
My lord had the grace to look a little ashamed of himself.
"This is all folly, Amabel," said my father, shortly. "I will hear no more of it. You must make up your mind to accept Lord Bulmer, and that speedily."
And then, he condescended to argue with me, and tell me of my lord's wealth, and the settlements he was prepared to make, and wondered I could hesitate between two such men.
"I do not hesitate, sir," I answered. "My choice is made long since."
"And you will be so mean spirited as to cling to this parson of yours, even while he is intriguing with all sorts of people," said my lady.
"That I do not believe, asking your pardon, madam," said I; "but since you will push me to the wall, I must needs say that if there were not another man in the world, I would never marry Lord Bulmer."
"But you shall marry him!" said Sir Julius, and he added,—
"Lucy—I will not repeat his words."
"What do you expect, Sir Julius, when you allow your daughter such a companion?" said my lady. "That insolent girl, Lucy Corbet, abets her in her rebellion, and your own sister acts as a go-between."
"We shall soon settle that by giving Lucy Corbet business enough of her own to attend to," answered Sir Julius, and then he bade me go to my room and not leave it till I was prepared to do my father's will.
"So here I am a prisoner, and if I may but have you for my jailer, I do not care for how long."
"I am glad you were firm," said I, "though it is a cruel necessity which makes a young girl stand out against her father."
"It is not my father but his wife," answered Amabel. "Only for her, I believe he would never have turned against Walter. Oh Lucy, how could he marry such a woman? And what is the strange power which Lord Bulmer has over her?"
"Perhaps she wished to marry him herself and could not succeed," said I. "I believe that what Wilson told me is true, and that she is under his thumb. But what means your father's remark about me?"
"Perhaps he has a match prepared for you, also," answered Amabel. "I have had my suspicions of that. Captain Dangerfield."
"That is a match which will never take fire," said I.
I suppose Sir Julius thought better of the matter, for Amabel was sent for to supper. She told me when she returned that Lord Bulmer had hardly spoken to her or noticed her, but had devoted himself entirely to Mrs. Wardlaw, a very showy young widow, who had come on a visit from Newcastle.
"She was delighted, of course," said I.
"She seemed so, certainly. Such airs as she put on—twisting her head, and rolling her eyes, and turning about those white hands of hers."
"She would be pretty, if she could over let herself alone," said I; "but I don't admire her ways. She seems as though she could not be happy without the attention of every man within reach. But what did you do all the evening?"
"Oh, I sat in the corner and taught Miss Dugdale how to make daisy trimming, and Mr. Dugdale entertained us with tales of his school and college days. Poor little lad! What a pity he should have an ambition to be considered a man of the world!"
The next morning Amabel was invited, or rather commanded, to attend her step-mother in her dressing-room, and I took the opportunity of walking over to see Mrs. Deborah. I found her opening a package she had received from Newcastle.
"You are just in time, Niece Corbet," said she. "Here are a letter and a parcel for you from good Mrs. Thorpe. But before you read, tell me the news at the Hall. Is it true, as the rumor goes, that Amabel is to marry this fine Lord Bulmer?"
"She will never marry him unless she is absolutely forced to do so, Aunt Deborah," I answered. "She says that she would not wed him, if there were not another man in the world."
"And you think she is right, I suppose."
"Yes, madam, I cannot but think so," I answered. "To marry one man while she loves another would be flat perjury, in my opinion."
"But suppose the one she loves to be unworthy."
"That may be a reason for refusing him, but not for marrying another."
"Well, child, you may be right for aught I know," said Mrs. Deborah, sighing. "I am glad, at least, that we are assured there will be no marrying or giving in marriage in the next world, for I think that same marrying makes most of the trouble in this."
"Then if my lady makes up a match for me, and I refuse it, you will take me in, won't you, Aunt Deborah?" I ventured to ask.
"Yes, child, you shall never want a home while I have one. But do you know whether my brother has any news from Edinburgh?"
"I have heard of nothing new, madam. The Prince has his court there and keeps possession of the city, but the castle holds out against him as does Sterling. It is also said that he intends to march into England, before long."
"I hear as much in my letters from Newcastle, and also that the citizens are very busy strengthening the defences and levying soldiers. By the way, Mr. Wesley is there and has made himself conspicuous by getting up a loyal address to the King. I should say the Elector of Hanover. You do not know whether my brother intends to join the Prince?"
"No, Aunt Deborah, not for certain, though I believe my lady is very earnest to have him do so."
"I dare say. Anything to take him out of the way!" muttered Aunt Deborah.
"Would you not wish to have Sir Julius join the prince, Aunt Deborah?"
Mrs. Deborah paused before she answered.
"I ought to wish it!" said she. "Our house has always been loyal to the rightful line, and yet—child, I do not know what to say. When I think of this gallant young prince, and the stock from which he is sprung, I feel as if I could risk anything to set him on the throne of his fathers. And then on the other side, when I think of a civil war and all the horrors it brings in its train, it seems as if anything must be better than that. You say my lady is desirous of having Sir Julius go north!"
"I am not so certain about that, madam, but there is no doubt of her loyalty to the prince. She wears no ribbons but white. She is very busy making of white favors and cockades, and receives letters from the north every day. I believe she would like to go to Edinburgh herself."
Mrs. Deborah muttered something which I did not hear, and then asked me why I did not open my parcel.
I was only waiting her leave to do so, and availed myself of it with all speed. It contained a letter from Mrs. Thorpe, enclosing quite a large packet, post marked Exeter, and sealed with black. I guessed at once what had happened. My kind old kinsman was dead.
So it proved. Mr. Carey, Captain Corbet's lawyer in Exeter, had written to that effect, and not knowing my exact direction had sent the letter to Mrs. Thorpe's care. Captain Corbet had died at home in his own bed, at the Wells House, as it was called, in Cornwall, and with the exception of some legacies, had left me all his property, which amounted, taking one thing with another, to about three hundred a year—perhaps more. I was to enjoy one-third of this income till I came of age, and the whole of it till I was twenty-five, after which the property was mine own, and was to be settled upon me in case of my marrying. If however, I wedded any one but a loyal subject of the present government, the whole was to go to a certain orphan school, not far from Exeter.
I could not but shed some tears for the kind old man who had come so far to see me. I had always thought of him, as a friend and dependence.
Mr. Carey wrote very kindly, saying that he would take every care of my interest, and that if I wished it, I could come to him at once, and be a guest in his family, for as long a time as I found it convenient. His wife added a marvelously ill spelled but very kind note to her husband's. I should say that Mr. Carey was appointed my guardian or trustee,—I don't now remember the proper term. He enclosed me a sum of money—fifty pounds I think, to provide myself with mourning and for any other occasions. I Was very glad of this supply, for I had very little left, and I thought I might need it. My mourning was already to my hand.
Mrs. Thorpe wrote a good deal of Newcastle news—for she was a very fluent pen woman. She told me how the walls were being fortified, and how loyal all the people were—how Mr. Wesley preached to the soldiers, and that with the approval of their officers, and how Mr. Cheriton assisted him. She said that Mr. Cheriton was thinner and graver than his wont, but worked harder than ever among the poor.
"Don't believe one word you hear against him!" wrote the good woman. "He has been slandered as others have been for the same reason, and my mind misgives me that Miss Leighton will have enough of these tales poured into her ear; but there is not one word of truth in them. Never was any man more careful of giving occasion for evil speaking than he."
Mrs. Thorpe told me a great deal more, as to how the people were busy with the defences of the town—how active Mr. Wesley had been in promoting loyal addresses, and how he had preached again and again, now in St. Anne's church, the only one opened to him, * now at the Sandgate, to the lowest of the people, and again to the soldiers and officers at the camp, being listened to everywhere with great attention. How Mr. Cheriton, though he did not hold with him in all things, yet sought his advice and looked up to him as a father. I could see that a great change had taken place in Mrs. Thorpe's feelings toward the Methodists.
* I do not know that in fact any church was ever opened to Mr. Wesley in Newcastle. L. E. G.
"I had news of an old friend of yours by Mr. Wesley!" she added, in conclusion. "He tells me that the French gentleman, who came over with us, Father Brousseau, has become a Protestant, and means, if possible, to take orders in the Church of England."
Here was a budget of news, and I was in haste to carry it to Amabel. I took my leave of Aunt Deborah, not thinking how soon I was to see her again, and hastened homeward.
image025
A HASTY REMOVAL.
I HAD taken a short cut across the park in my hurry, but, as so often happens, my more haste turned out worse speed, for I got among the springs and had to go back.
I knew there was a path higher up on the hillside, leading through a very quiet and sequestered part of the domain, and crossing the beck by a little stone footbridge. I struck into this path and following it, I came out on a level spot of ground surrounded on all sides by high trees, where was a little pavilion half in ruins. The place had no very good name, being tenanted by some of the numerous bogeys with which the place abounded.
I was therefore the more surprised to hear voices from the interior, and to recognize one of these voices as Lord Bulmer's. I hesitated a moment what to do. The path ran close under the window, which however was raised a good deal on this side, and as the ground was soft, and the shade very deep, I thought I might slip by unperceived. Just as I came under the window, I heard Lord Bulmer say—
"Let him alone—let him alone. Let my lady manage; she will give him no rest till she gets him away to Edinburgh, and then she will take matters into her own hands."
"And your lordship will not forget to put in a word for me!" said another voice which I did not know for the moment.
"No, no! You shall have your black-eyed damsel, Dangerfield. 'Tis a pretty creature, too—far more attractive to my eye than yonder statue of snow."
I did not wait to hear more, but stole past the window and, once within the shadow of the wood, I ran like a hare till I reached the neighborhood of the gardens. As ill-luck would have it, I met my lady face to face in the gallery.
"So, girl, you have been playing truant!" said she. "I have been sending to seek you everywhere."
"No, madam!" I answered respectfully, for I always strove to act in such a way as to give her no handle against me. "Miss Leighton gave me leave to go out, and I have been to see Mrs. Deborah and the old women at the village."
"Mrs. Deborah! Mrs. Deborah may find—but that does not matter now. Come into my room."
I followed her, wondering what could be coming next.
My lady had taken Mrs. Philippa's apartment for her own, and had fitted it up much in the style of the room in Newcastle, that I remembered so well; with painted jars and china monsters, and all kinds of decorations in painting, and shell-work, and flower-work, and all the other ornamental works that ever were invented. The air was heavy with the same scents I so well recollected, and warm with a fire burning on the hearth. My lady threw herself into a great chair and I stood before her, noticing as I did so, how worn she looked, and how her wonderful beauty—for it was something wonderful even yet—seemed like a mask put on to hide the real woman underneath. She always gave me the odd idea of a spirit of some kind, inhabiting a body that was never made for it.
"Lucy Corbet, sit down!" were her first words. I obeyed, wondering more and more as she added—
"Child, how pretty you are! Ah, if my poor little Magdalene had lived, she would have been like you. She was dark, too; but I only had her five years, and then lost her forever. Ah me."
"Your ladyship may have her again!" I could not help saying. "She is in the hand of the Lord where no evil can touch her."
"So much the better if she is!" was the abrupt reply. "There, child, don't talk Methodism to me. I am too old for that sort of thing."
"Surely, no one is too old for the comforts of religion, madam!" I persisted, impelled by I know not what impulse, but I trust a good one. "It seems as if such a treasure in Heaven should be a strong magnet to draw one thitherward."
"Tush!" said my lady sharply and bitterly. "What do I know of Heaven or care to know? I tell you child, this world is all that we can grasp or hold. What do we know of the other? This alone is ours."
"For how long, madam?"
She winced at the question.
"There, that will do. You have discharged your conscience, and I wish to hear no more. Listen to me. I like your spirit, child, and if you will be obedient to me and help me, I will advance your fortunes and perhaps protect you from some dangers."
"I trust not to fail in my duty, madam!" I began, but she snapped me up.
"Duty! Nonsense—listen to me. Lucy Corbet, Amabel must marry Lord Bulmer; she must; there is no help for it. If she or you struggle or oppose, you will but make matters worse for her. If she gives up with a good grace, he may be kind to her, for he is greatly in love with her, though she angers him by her coldness. If she continues her present conduct, he will revenge it on her, when she is in his power, for marry him she must."
She paused a moment, and then went on in a lighter tone.
"You must see that it is for Amabel's interest to treat Lord Bulmer with civility at least, since she must marry him at last. Use your influence to induce her to do so, and I will reward you for it. A very good match has been proposed for you, better than you have reason to hope for, with a wellborn gentleman high in the service of King James. I will persuade my husband to accept the offer, and will provide for you like a lady. Refuse to do what I wish, and you will leave this house, and be separated from Amabel forever—for you may be sure that Lord Bulmer will suffer no one near his wife who shall oppose his power over her."
She ceased and sat looking at me with those strange eyes, in a way which made me think of a story Mr. Thorpe had told us, of certain poison snakes which draw birds into their mouths by looking at them. I felt as though a web was being woven round me, taking from me all power of free motion. I made a vigorous effort, said a short prayer for grace and direction, and then spoke out.
"Madam, will you please tell me in so many words what it is that you would have me do; then I can tell whether it is in my power or not?"
"Frankly spoken," returned my lady, apparently not ill-pleased. "I will have you use your influence with Amabel to give up Mr. Cheriton and consent to marry Lord Bulmer. Tell her that you have received certain news of her lover's infidelity and his approaching marriage. Work on her pride, of which she has abundance, and shame her out of caring for a man who has ceased to care for her. Tell her that Lord Bulmer has promised never to interfere with her religion, and that he also promises her every indulgence, even to having you live with her, if you do not marry."
"And if I refuse to do this?" said I.
"Then you leave this house forever!" she answered, suddenly and sharply. "There, I do not wish to hear your decision now. Go and think about it. Remember, girl, that I have your life and character in my hand—in my hand!" she repeated, shutting her small, thin hand, as if she would crush something she held within. "Now go, and come when I send for you!"
I made my curtsy and withdrew to our room. Amabel was not there, having gone out riding with her father, whom she strove carefully to please in all things.
I was not sorry to be alone. What a wave of temptation rolled in upon me! Suppose I were to refuse obedience to my lady, what would be the result? I should be separated from Amabel, my second self, never, perhaps, to see her again. My reputation would be ruined. I knew enough of my lady to know that she would not scruple to tell any story about me, and I also knew that the fact of living under her roof would be no advantage to me.
On the other hand, if Amabel married Lord Bulmer it would be no more than hundreds of girls did every year at the bidding of their parents. He had been a bad man, no doubt, but not worse than many other young men. He was very much in love with Amabel, that was plain to be seen, and she might have such an influence over him as to reform him. I had heard and read of such things. She would have every thing that the world has to give, and, if she were not interfered with in religious matters, why could she not happy after all?
Mr. Cheriton had not written to her, though he might easily have sent a note in Mrs. Thorpe's letter to me. Perhaps what my lady said was true, and he was going to marry some one else.
How long I sat pondering these things I do not know, but I was roused by the sound of the noon bell—the Angelus—which was always rung at Highbeck when the lord of the manor was at home. In a moment, a clear vision arose before me. I seemed to be standing once more in the old convent vault, holding fast to Mother Superior's hand, and gazing with awe and dread at that sullen and dismal pool, whose black waters hardly reflected the gleams of the lantern. I smelled the strange damp odor of the vault. I felt the soft and sticky ground under my feet, which seemed to catch and hold me fast, and I heard dear mother's sweet and solemn voice saying—
"This is the pit of destruction, and every willful sin brings you nearer to it."
The spell was broken. I sprang from my seat and walked rapidly up and down the room. How could I for a moment have dreamed of such a thing? What good would it have done if I had consented. I should not have moved Amabel one hair's breadth, and I should have lost her friendship forever. I should have been doing the devil's own work, to be paid with his wages.
No, it never could be, whatever the consequence to her or to me. I could not do this great wickedness and sin against God. The straight path was the only safe path, and, though it might seem to be hedged with briars and built up with stones, I must follow it. Through whatever scenes of trouble it might lead me in this world, the end was sure.
Then the tempter would try me on the other side. Was I quite sure which was the right path? Were not children to obey their parents? Would not Amabel have great means of doing good? Was not I myself throwing away chances of usefulness such as I might never have again? Was I not dishonoring my Christian profession by abetting Amabel's disobedience, and suffering a slur to be cast on my own good name? Had I not been taught by my former spiritual guides that falsehood was a venial sin, and might even become a virtue in the cause of religion?
But I knew now who was speaking to me, and how to answer him. I threw myself on my knees and prayed earnestly for help and direction, and I had it. It could never be right to do evil that good might come. I did not believe that Mr. Cheriton was unfaithful. I had evidence to the contrary under my hand, and I should be a base liar and slanderer if I told Amabel what I did not myself believe. No, come what might, I must be true to her, to my Master, to myself. Oh, if she would only come in, that I might speak to her, that I might warn her, that I might tell her what I had heard!
I thought for a moment what it was best for me to do. I took Mrs. Thorpe's letter, folded it small, and put it into Amabel's prayer-book, where she would be sure to find it. I wrote a few words to her, telling her that I might be sent away from her for a time, begging her to believe that I could not help it, and telling her that I would communicate with her if possible.
I had hardly finished these preparations when my lady's French woman knocked at the door, and told me I was to go to her mistress at once. I found my lady sitting where I had left her. She bade me be seated, and signed to her woman to withdraw.
"Well, Lucy Corbet, have you considered this matter?"
"I have, madam."
"And what is the answer?"
"The answer is No, madam!" I replied, with a firmness that surprised myself. "I have looked at the thing on all sides, and have come to the conclusion that I cannot serve you in this matter."
"Then the thing will be done without you, that is all!" said my lady coolly, though she looked disconcerted. "The thing will be done all the same, and you will lose the profit—that is all!"
"What shall it profit a man if he shall gain the whole world and lose his own soul?" The words seemed to come without any will of mine.
My lady looked taken aback, but she recovered herself in a moment.
"Nonsense, child? Leave such dreams and delusions to the vulgar, and those who have their living to make thereby. I tell you again, girl, this world is all we can grasp,—all that we can make sure of. Let us make ourselves happy here, and leave the next, if there be any next—to care for itself!"
"Your ladyship is happy here, then!"
"What do you mean? How dare you—" said she, strangely agitated for a moment. Then resuming her lofty and careless demeanor, "Think well, Lucy Corbet—think well, before you speak! Is this your final answer?"
"It is madam!" I replied, though a sharp pain seemed to rend my heart as I thought of all my words involved. "I cannot help you in this matter."
"Then you leave this house on the instant!" said my lady, sternly. "Taking with you my own and my husband's anger, and what relics of character your escapades here and in Newcastle have left you. You whom my husband, in his folly, has educated to be a fine lady at his expense. You shall learn what it is to be without a home."
Much more she said, which I will not set down here, calling me a beggar more than once.
"Not quite a beggar, madam, since Sir Julius has always drawn two hundred a year from my father's estate!" said I, as she paused from sheer lack of breath.
"As to what you threaten, I am in the hands of One who knows my innocence, and will not let my enemies triumph, even though they may seem to do so for a time. Oh, my lady, think, think of what you are doing before you take the last downward step that may make return impossible. Think of your own child in heaven, and of how you would have had her dealt by, before you go any farther. I do not speak for myself, though in driving me from my foster-sister, you are breaking both our hearts. I have both means and friends, who will not see me wronged."
"But think—oh think. The Judge even now stands before the door. Even now your hour may have struck, and the world you so love may be slipping from under your feet. Whose then will those things be which you have provided? What pleasure will they give you when you lie cold in death on yonder bed, and cannot raise so much as an eyelid to see or a finger to touch one of them? You might be so happy with Amabel, if you would. She would be to you all your own child might have been, if you would but let her. You know Lord Bulmer to be a wicked, hard, cruel man—you know it? Oh, do not sin by putting into his power the child the good Lord has given you, to make up for the one he took away, and to lead you to Heaven!"
My lady listened without interrupting me, and I almost thought she was going to yield. But she did not, though I believe her good angel whispered to her. Her face, which had softened for a moment, grew hard as stone, and her eyes shone balefully, while her red lips were compressed to a thread. She stood for a moment at the parting of two ways. Then she deliberately chose the wrong one, and walked on to her ruin. She would have the world for her portion, and she had it.
"You will leave this house at once!" said she, taking out her purse as she spoke. "Wilson will send your clothes after you wherever you choose. If Amabel ever speaks to you again, I will send her where she shall learn that there are worse things than step-mothers. But I do not wish to expose you to temptation by sending you away penniless. What wages are owing to you?"
My Cornish blood flashed up at this gratuitous insult.
"Thy money perish with thee!" said I. "I have enough of my own, but if I were starving, I would take nothing from your hand. As to my character, perhaps Mrs. Deborah's countenance may go as far in the country as Lady Throckmorton's."
I don't defend myself in saying this. It was not according to the spirit of meekness and it was foolish besides, for it lost me the advantage I had while I kept cool. But however unwisely sped, the arrow reached its mark and found a joint in the armor. Scarcely one of the county ladies had called upon Lady Leighton.
"You defy me, do you?" said she.
"No!" I replied, recalled to myself. "I was wrong to speak so. Not that I fear you, Lady Leighton. But I want nothing from this house save what is rightly mine. I have not wrought for gold, and I have no debts to put me in any man's power."
She winced at this, I could see, but answered haughtily.
"I am not here to bandy words with a discharged waiting-maid. Go and put your things together—such as you need at once. The rest I will give orders about. Leave this house within half an hour, or I will order the men to put you forth, like what you are!"
It showed the essentially cruel nature of the woman, that she should add this insult to the injury she had already done me.
And it was to her that I must leave my love, my lily, my other self. I can hardly recall, even now, without sickness of heart, the feelings with which I gathered together so many of my possessions as I could conveniently carry. I had not finished when Mrs. Wilson came to the room followed by the French waiting-woman.
"So Miss Corbet, I always said pride would have a fall!" said she, in her old insolent tone, which she had not used toward me for many a day. "Just be pleased to separate your things from Miss Leighton's, will you? Fine doings, when a young lady and her waiting-woman keep their clothes together in the same drawers. But there will be an end of all that now."
I did not answer, but stepped into the closet to take my Bible and Prayer-book. Wilson followed me, and, shutting the door as if by accident, she seized my hand and whispered—
"Poor thing, I know how it is. Don't you take it too much to heart, but keep up your spirits, and I will look after your things, and send all safe. I dared not speak before that French spy."
Then aloud. "I cannot let you take that, Miss Corbet—not till I have Miss Leighton's leave—"
"Wilson, if I have ever done you a good turn, be kind to Miss Leighton!" I whispered.
"I will, I will, and it shall go hard, but I will get you news of her. What shall I tell her?"
"Tell her I was sent away—that they would not let me stay to see her. I am going to Mrs. Deborah."
"Quite right. I'll befriend her, if only to save my poor dear lady from sinning—don't be too hard on her, Miss Corbet. She is in trouble herself."
Then aloud again. "There, you have had time enough, in all conscience."
So pack off.
"No, I don't want any money, Miss—" as I offered her a gold piece I had in my pocket. "There, go. I'd say God bless you, if I dared."
"God bless you, Wilson, and teach you to know and follow Him!" said I.
I followed her down stairs carrying my basket. As I left the Hall, I had just a glimpse of Amabel, flushed with exercise and looking more cheerful than I had seen her for a long time. Oh, for one word. But I dared not linger, and I turned away. Two or three of the men laughed sneeringly as they saw me go forth, and one of them made an insolent remark, whereat Harry, the only footman who had remained behind when Richard left, turned on him and knocked him down into a particularly thorny rosebush.
"Take that for your impudence to a young lady!" said he, and then coming to my side. "Let me carry your parcels for you, Miss Corbet!"
"Thank you, Harry, but I fear you will get into trouble with my lady, and perhaps lose your place!"
"I don't care that for my place!" said Harry, snapping his fingers. "Besides, I have given warning already. I don't care to stay in this house as things go now. I wasn't brought up to such things and I don't care about getting used to 'em."
So saying, he fell behind and carried my bundles all the way to the Little House.
Mrs. Deborah was in her little garden gathering some late flowers, and she looked up, surprised enough to see me so soon again. Then observing Harry with his load, and perhaps seeing something in my face which told her the story, she opened her arms to me. I fell on her faithful breast, and the anguish which had been rending my heart found a merciful vent in a tempest of tears and sobs. Mrs. Deborah led me into her little parlor, seated me on the sofa, and putting her arms about me, she let me weep my full before she asked me a single question. Then, as I grew calmer by degrees, she drew from me the story of my expulsion from the Hall.
"She is a wicked woman, and you are well out of her hands!" said Mrs. Deborah. "As to your character, I do not think you have much to fear upon that score!"
"It is not myself that I think about?" I replied. "I would willingly bear all she can inflict, to save Amabel out of her hands."
"We must ask God's help for her," said Mrs. Deborah, solemnly. "I know no better way at present—or at any time."
"But, oh, Mrs. Deborah, what can Sir Julius be thinking of?" I cried. "How can he let his daughter be so sacrificed?"
Mrs. Deborah's brow darkened. "Child, it is the curse of our house," said she abruptly, "that the men should be wholly governed by some woman or other. His father was so before him, as I know to my cost. My father married a second time, and his wife—Julius's mother—so drew his heart away from his elder children that he had hardly a kind word for us, and would have utterly disinherited us had it been in his power. My brother's second wife was not a lady, but she was a kind, good woman and would have been a good friend to the child had she but lived. But it was not God's will."
"The question is, what is to be done now!" said I, with a little impatience, I fear.
"We can make no move at present," replied Mrs. Deborah. "All we can do is to wait. My poor child, it is hard upon you, I know, but you must see that we must act, if at all, with great caution. Amabel is in her father's hands and under his roof, and we have no right to interfere, so long as she is not in actual danger. Take patience, my poor child, take patience. 'Tis the woman's medicine?"
With that, I fell to crying again, and grew so hysterical that Mrs. Deborah made haste to put me to bed, and dose me with hartshorn. I was not given to such attacks, but I was overcome with grief and fatigue. I quieted myself as soon as I could, and after awhile I fell asleep, and awoke somewhat refreshed and composed.
I lay a long time thinking over all that had happened. I did not see how I could have acted otherwise. Even had I dissembled with my lady, and promised to use my influence for her when I did not intend to do so, she would soon have found me out, for her eyes were everywhere, and her French waiting-maid was a ready and willing spy. No, I could not have done otherwise.
For myself, as I said, I had no cares or fears. Mrs. Deborah would give me a home as long as I needed one, and so I did not doubt would Mrs. Brown, were it only to spite her brother's wife, and then there was Mr. Carey in Exeter. True, it was a long way off, but others had made the journey and why not I. Again, there was Mrs. Thorpe in Newcastle, and the old lady of Thornyhaugh. Oh yes, I had a plenty of friends.
But Amabel! To have her so near me, and yet out of my reach, and beyond my help. It did seem to me that the thought was intolerable, and I cried aloud in my anguish. Then at last I betook myself to that place whither I should have gone at first. I laid my case before Him, who has promised to be the friend of the oppressed and the orphan, told Him all my woe, and besought His help. I laid my dear one at His feet, as a mother of old might have brought her suffering babe to the Lord Jesus, and besought Him to have a care over her. Having thus calmed myself, I arose, dressed, and went down to seek Mrs. Deborah.
It was near evening, and the level sun was shining into the south and west windows and lighting up the low rooms. Mrs. Deborah had brought away so many of her own and Mrs. Chloe's personal matters, that the little sitting-room had a curiously familiar look, as we see in a dream a well-known place which we know to be the same, though it not in the least like the reality.
Mrs. Deborah was sitting with her knitting as of old. She called me to a seat beside her, and seeing that I had no work, she opened a drawer, and took out something that carried me back to the old inn at Newcastle—Mrs. Chloe's bed-quilt knitting.
"There child, you may work at that at odd minutes, if you like. It does very well to take up when you have nothing else to do, and I should like to see the quilt finished."
We talked long and earnestly over Amabel's affairs, but when our conversation was broken off by a call to supper, we could arrive at no other conclusion than that we had already come to—namely, that we must wait and let matters take their course for the present. We had not finished our meal when we heard horses' feet outside, and were surprised by the entrance of Sir Julius.
With all reverence, I must say the great man reminded me of nothing so much as of a dog, that has to face his master with a stolen joint of meat on his conscience. In vain did Sir Julius strut and frown and try to look big and impressive. He was cowed under his sister's gray eyes and black brows, and looked as though he expected every moment to be taken across the old lady's knee and disciplined with her slipper.
He took on an elevated tone of reproof toward me at first, and talked of ingratitude and the expense he had been put to on my account; but he came down from his high horse rather suddenly when Mrs. Deborah remarked, drily, that my father's rents must have a good deal more than paid all the cost of my education, and that no doubt he would be ready to account for the surplus, when called upon to do so.
"And pray, Sister Deborah, who is to call me to any such account?"
"Perhaps Lucy herself, when she comes of age, or possibly Mr. Carey, her trustee, under her uncle's will."
This was news to Sir Julius; he eagerly inquired what his sister meant, and received an account of Mr. Andrew Corbet's will. He asked to see the letter, and I showed it to him.
"And you must take just this time to quarrel with my lady!" said he, irritably. "Why could not you let her say her say, and keep quiet?"
"Because she would not let me!" I answered. "I have ever treated her with respect as you know, but when she came to require of me to be downright false to myself and treacherous to Amabel—"
"Oh, false and treacherous!" he broke in peevishly, repeating my words. "Could you not temporise a little? But you and Amabel have got your heads full of Methodistical notions, and you are wiser in your own conceits than ten men that can render a reason."
"They might be that, and not be absolute Solomons, were the reason no better than some men's!" said Mrs. Deborah, drily.
"And I had such a good match for you, and have pledged my word to Bulmer that you should marry Dangerfield—and what am I to say to him?"
I did not see that I was called upon to furnish Sir Julius with words, so I remained silent and knitted as though all my energies were given to the square of cotton in my hands.
Sir Julius fussed and fumed and swore, and stalked about, and getting no help from either of us, he suddenly changed his tone, and began to coax me to come back to the Hall. He would make my peace with my lady. Dangerfield was a gallant gentleman, and a great favorite with the prince and King James. He was sure to rise, and I might be a countess before I died. Amabel and I were two silly girls, quarrelling with our bread and butter. He wished to Heaven he had left us in our convent. Then, growing angry again, he vowed that Amabel at least should bend to his will, and with that, he dashed away.
The next morning early, long before day, I was waked by the trampling of many horses, and the sound of subdued talking. I rose, and looked out of my window, which commanded a view of the road. By the bright moonlight, I saw a train of horsemen. There were about thirty in all, and Sir Julius rode at their head. I looked eagerly to see if Lord Bulmer was among the riders. He was a very big man, head and shoulders above any other man about the place, and looked especially tall on horseback; but I saw nobody that I could take for him.
I could not sleep again, and the moment I heard Mrs. Deborah stirring, I went to her room and told her what I had seen.
"He has gone then!" said Mrs. Deborah. "He has cast in his lot with this young adventurer, and who knows whether he will ever return? I ought to rejoice in his loyalty and courage, but something seems to tell me he is influenced neither by one nor the other, but by base subserviency to the will of a wicked woman."
"Nay, madam!" said I. "Sir Julius has always expressed the warmest devotion to King James and the prince. One ought not to think the worse of a good cause because it is espoused by a wicked person."
In my heart, I was by no means sure of the goodness of the cause. All Mrs. Deborah's lessons—all my reading in Clarendon, Ken, and Sancroft, had not convinced me of the divine right of kings, and the duty of absolute, passive obedience to their will; nor had they impressed me with any very exalted notions of the virtues of the Stuart family, but I was willing to comfort my dear old friend so far as was possible. My own heart was full of anxiety for Amabel, left as she was in the power of her enemies, without even the feeble support of her father's regard.
"Well, Amabel will at least be left in peace for awhile," said Mrs. Deborah, after a pause. "No doubt Lord Bulmer will have accompanied my brother."
"He was not with him this morning, I am sure," I replied, and gave my reasons.
"Even were it so, they will not drive on the business during my brother's absence."
"I am not so sure of that either," said I.
"She would never be so bold."
I believed Lady Leighton bold enough for anything, and said so, telling Mrs. Deborah what I had heard in my walk. I did not add what I thought—that Sir Julius had gone away on purpose to leave matters in the hands of his wife. One hesitates before telling a sister that her only brother, the head of her house, is a base coward, even though one may be convinced that she knows as much already.