sure, when tea is over, to bring the toys.'
"Master and Miss Bennet looked as demure when they came in to tea as
they had done at dinner, and a stranger would have thought them as
well-behaved children as Master and Miss Cartwright; but children who
behave well in the sight of their parents, or in company, and rudely or
impertinently in private, or among servants or their playfellows,
cannot be called well-bred.
"After the young people had had their tea and cake, and strawberries
and cream, Betty came with the playthings, and placed them on the table
before Mrs. Howard. You would, perhaps, like to know what these
playthings were:--First of all was the jointed doll, dressed, as I
before said, in a green satin slip, and a gauze bib and apron, and
round cap, according to the fashion of those days; then there was the
History of the Bible, with coloured pictures; then came a little chest
of drawers, for dolls' clothes; a doll's wicker cradle; a bat and ball;
a red morocco pocket-book; a needle-book; and the History of King
Pepin, bound and gilt. These beautiful books and toys were placed on
the table before Mrs. Howard, and the little ones waited in silence to
see what she would do with them. Mrs. Howard looked first at the
playthings, and then at the children, and thus she spoke:
"'My dear children, I sent for these pretty toys from the fair, in
order to encourage you to be good: there is nothing that gives me
greater pleasure than to see children polite and mannerly, endeavouring
to please everybody, "in honour preferring one another," as God hath
commanded us to do. Pride and ill manners, my dear children, are great
faults; but humility, and a wish to please everyone rather than
ourselves, make us resemble the blessed Lord Jesus Christ, who did not
despise the poorest among men. Many persons are polite and
good-mannered when in company with their betters, because, if they were
not so, people would have nothing to say to them: but really
well-behaved persons are courteous and civil, not only when they are
among their betters, but when they are with servants, or with poor
people.'
"Then Mrs. Howard took the jointed doll, and the History of the Bible,
and gave the one to Miss Patty Cartwright, and the other to Master
Billy, saying:
"'I give you these, my children, because I observed your good manners,
not only to me, but to the poor old man who passed through the croft
with his bundle of sticks. To you, Master Bennet, and to you, Miss
Polly, I shall not give anything; because you showed, by your
behaviour to the old man, that your good manners were all an outside
garb, which you put on and off like your Sunday clothes.'
"Then Mrs. Howard gave the rest of the toys among the lesser children,
commending them for helping the old man to gather his sticks together;
and thus she dismissed them to their own houses, all of them, except
Master Jacky and Miss Polly, jumping and skipping for joy."
When Mrs. Goodriche had finished her story, Lucy said:
"What a pretty story that is! I think Master and Miss Cartwright
deserved those pretty toys--they were nice children: but I did not know
that having rude manners was so very great a fault."
"If you will think a minute, my dear," said Mrs. Goodriche, "you will
find that rude manners must be one sign of badness of heart: a person
who has always a lowly opinion of himself, and proper love for his
neighbour, will never be guilty of rudeness; it is only when we think
ourselves better than others, or of more consequence than they are,
that we venture to be rude. I have heard you say how rude Miss Augusta
Noble was the last time you were at her house. Now, why was she rude,
but because she thought herself better than her company? This is pride,
and a great sin it is."
Sad Story of a Disobedient Child
[Illustration: Looking in the glass, with a candle in her hand]
When Mr. Fairchild returned from his walk he found John ready with the
cart, so, wishing Mrs. Goodriche a good-evening, and thanking her for
her kindness, they returned home.
The next morning Mr. Fairchild got up early, and went down to the
village. Breakfast was ready, and Mrs. Fairchild and the children
waiting at the table, when he came back.
"Get your breakfast, my dear," said he to Mrs. Fairchild; "don't wait
for me." So saying, he went into his study and shut the door.
Mrs. Fairchild, supposing that he had some letters to write, got her
breakfast quietly; after which she sent Lucy to ask her father if he
would not choose any breakfast. When Mr. Fairchild heard Lucy's voice
at the study-door, he came out, and followed her into the parlour.
When Mrs. Fairchild looked at her husband's face she saw that something
had grieved him very much. She was frightened, and said:
"My dear, I am sure something is the matter; what is it? Tell me the
worst at once; pray do!"
"Indeed, my dear," said Mr. Fairchild, "I have heard something this
morning which has shocked me dreadfully. I was not willing to tell you
before you had breakfasted. I know what you will feel when you hear
it."
"Do tell me," said Mrs. Fairchild, turning quite white.
"Poor Augusta Noble!" said Mr. Fairchild.
"What, papa?" said Lucy and Emily and Henry, in one voice.
"She is dead!" exclaimed Mr. Fairchild.
The children turned as pale as their mother; and poor Mrs. Fairchild
nearly fainted.
"Oh! poor Lady Noble! poor Lady Noble!" said she, as soon as she could
speak. "Poor Lady Noble!"
Whilst the children were crying over the sad news Mrs. Barker came into
the parlour. Mrs. Barker was a kind woman, and, as she lived by
herself, was always at liberty to go amongst her neighbours in times of
trouble.
"Ah, Mrs. Fairchild," she said, "I know what troubles you: we are all
in grief through the whole village."
"What was the cause of the poor child's death?" asked Mrs. Fairchild.
"I never heard that she was ill."
"Ah! Mrs. Fairchild, the manner of her death is the worst part of the
story, and that which must grieve her parents more than all. You know
that poor Miss Augusta was always the darling of her mother, who
brought her up in great pride; and she chose a foolish governess for
her who had no good influence upon her."
"I never thought much of Miss Beaumont," said Mrs. Fairchild.
"As Miss Augusta was brought up without the fear of God," continued
Mrs. Barker, "she had, of course, no notion of obedience to her
parents, further than just trying to please them in their presence; she
lived in the constant practice of disobeying them, and the governess
continually concealed her disobedience from Lady Noble. And what is
the consequence? The poor child has lost her life, and Miss Beaumont is
turned out of doors in disgrace."
"But," said Mrs. Fairchild, "how did she lose her life through
disobedience to her parents? Pray tell me, Mrs. Barker."
"The story is so sad I hardly like to tell it you," answered Mrs.
Barker; "but you must know it sooner or later. Miss Augusta had a
custom of playing with fire, and carrying candles about, though Lady
Noble had often warned her of the danger of this habit, and strictly
charged her governess to prevent it. But it seems that the governess,
being afraid of offending, had suffered her very often to be guilty of
this piece of disobedience, without telling Lady Noble. And the night
before last, when Lady Noble was playing at cards in the drawing-room
with some visitors, Miss Augusta took a candle off the hall table, and
carried it upstairs to the governess's room. No one was there, and it
is supposed that Miss Augusta was looking in the glass with a candle in
her hand, when the flame caught her dress; but this is not known. Lady
Noble's maid, who was in the next room, was alarmed by her dreadful
screams, and, hastening to discover the cause, found poor Augusta in a
blaze from head to foot. The unhappy young lady was so dreadfully burnt
that she never spoke afterwards, but died in agonies last night."
When Mrs. Fairchild and the children heard this dreadful story they
were very much grieved. Mrs. Barker stayed with them all day; and it
was, indeed, a day of mourning through all the house.
The Two Books
[Illustration: "Please choose a book for me"]
It was the time of the Midsummer Fair, and John asked Mr. Fairchild's
leave to go to the fair.
"You may go, John," said Mr. Fairchild; "and take the horse, and bring
everything that is wanting in the family."
So John got the horse ready, and set out early in the morning to go to
the fair; but before he went Emily and Lucy gave him what money they
had, and begged him to bring them each a book. Emily gave him twopence,
and Lucy gave him threepence.
"You must please choose a book for me with pictures in it," said Emily.
"I do not care about pictures," said Lucy, "if it is a pretty book. So
pray don't forget, John."
In the evening, after tea, the children and their father and mother, as
usual, got ready to take a walk; and the children begged Mr. and Mrs.
Fairchild to go with them to meet John. "For John," said Henry, "will
be coming back now, and will have brought us some pretty books."
So Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild took the road which led towards the town
where the fair was held, and the children ran before them. It was a
fine evening. The hedges were full of wild roses, which smelt most
sweet; and the haymakers were making hay in the fields on each side of
the road.
"I cannot think where John can be," said Henry. "I thought he would be
here long before now."
By this time they were come to the brow of a rising ground; and looking
before them, behold, there was John at a distance! The children all ran
forward to meet him.
"Where are the books, John? Oh, where are the books?" they all said
with one voice.
John, who was a very good-natured man, as I have before said, smiled,
and, stopping his horse, began to feel in his pockets; and soon brought
out, from among other things, two little gilt books; the largest of
which he gave to Lucy, and the other to Emily, saying:
"Here is two pennyworth--and here is three pennyworth."
"Indeed, John, you are very good," said the children. "What beautiful
books!"
"My book," said Emily, "is 'The History of the Orphan Boy,' and there
are a great many pictures in it: the first is a picture of a
funeral--that must be the funeral of the poor little boy's papa and
mamma, I suppose."
"Let me see, let me see," said Henry. "Oh, how pretty! And what's your
book, Lucy?"
"There are not many pictures in my book," said Lucy; "but there is one
at the beginning: it is the picture of a little boy reading to
somebody lying in a bed; and there is a lady sitting by. The name of my
book is 'The History of Little Henri, or the Good Son.'"
"Oh, that must be very pretty," said Henry.
By this time Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild were come up.
"Oh, papa! oh, mamma!" said the little ones, "what beautiful books John
has brought!"
"Indeed," said Mr. Fairchild, when he had looked at them a little
while, "they appear to be very nice books, and the pictures in them are
very pretty."
"Henry shall read them to us, my dears," said Mrs. Fairchild, "whilst
we sit at work; I should like to hear them very much."
"To-morrow," said Mr. Fairchild, looking at his wife, "we begin to make
hay in the Primrose Meadow. What do you say? Shall we go after
breakfast, and take a cold dinner with us, and spend the day under the
trees at the corner of the meadow? Then we can watch the haymakers, and
Henry can read the books whilst you and his sisters are sewing."
"Oh, do let us go! do let us go!" said the children; "do, mamma, say
yes."
"With all my heart, my dears," said Mrs. Fairchild.
The next morning early the children got everything ready to go into the
Primrose Meadow. They had each of them a little basket, with a lid to
it, in which they packed up their work and the new books; and, as soon
as the family had breakfasted, they all set out for the Primrose
Meadow: Mr. Fairchild, with a book in his pocket for his own reading;
Mrs. Fairchild, with her work-bag hanging on her arm; Betty, with a
basket of bread and meat and a cold fruit-pie; and the children with
their work-baskets and Emily's doll, for the little girls seldom went
out without their doll. The Primrose Meadow was not a quarter of a mile
from Mr. Fairchild's house: you had only the corner of a little copse
to pass through before you were in it. It was called the Primrose
Meadow because every spring the first primroses in the neighbourhood
appeared on a sunny bank in that meadow. A little brook of very clear
water ran through the meadow, rippling over the pebbles; and there were
many alders growing by the water-side.
The people were very busy making hay in the meadow when Mr. Fairchild
and his family arrived. Mrs. Fairchild sat down under the shade of a
large oak-tree which grew in the corner of the coppice, and Lucy and
Henry, with Emily, placed themselves by her. The little girls pulled
out their work, and Henry the new books. Mr. Fairchild took his book to
a little distance, that he might not be disturbed by Henry's reading,
and he stretched himself upon a green bank.
"Now, mamma," said Henry, "are you ready to hear my story? And have you
done fidgeting, sisters?" For Lucy and Emily had been bustling to make
a bed for their doll in the grass with their pocket-handkerchiefs.
"Brother," answered Lucy, "we are quite ready to hear you--read away;
there is nothing now to disturb you, unless you find fault with the
little birds who are chirping with all their might in these trees, and
those bees which are buzzing amongst the flowers in the grass."
"First," said Henry, "look at the picture at the beginning of the
book--the picture of the funeral going through the churchyard."
"Let me see, brother," said Emily.
"Why, you have seen it several times," said Henry; "and now I want to
read."
"Still, my dear," said Mrs. Fairchild, "you might oblige your sister.
Good manners and civility make everybody lovely. Have you forgotten
Mrs. Goodriche's story of Master Bennet?"
Henry immediately got up, and showed his sister the picture, after
which he sat down again and began to read the story in Emily's book.
[Illustration: "_Henry reads the story._"--Page 91.]
The History of the Orphan Boy
[Illustration: Marten behaved well at breakfast]
"In a little flowery valley near Tenterden there lived once a certain
farmer who had a wife and one little boy, whose name was Marten. The
farmer and his wife were people who feared God and loved their
neighbours, and though they were not rich, they were contented. In the
same parish lived two gentlemen, named Squire Broom and Squire Blake,
as the country people called them. Squire Broom was a man who feared
God; but Squire Blake was one of those men who cared for nothing beyond
the things of this world. He was a very rich man, and was considered by
the neighbours to be good-tempered. His lady kept a plentiful house,
and was glad to see anyone who came. They had no children, and, as they
had been married many years, it was thought they never would have any.
Squire Broom was not so rich as Squire Blake, and, though a very worthy
man, was not of such pleasing manners, so that many people did not like
him, though in times of distress he was one of the kindest friends in
the world. Squire Broom had a very large family, which he brought up in
an orderly, pious manner; but some of the neighbours did not fail to
find fault with him for being too strict with his children.
"When little Marten was about three years of age his father was killed
as he was going to Tenterden market by a fall from his horse. This was
so great a grief to his mother, who loved her husband very dearly, that
she fell immediately into a bad state of health; and though she lived
as much as two years after her husband, yet she was all that time a
dying woman. There was nothing in the thoughts of death which made this
poor woman unhappy at any time, excepting when she considered that she
must leave her little Marten to strangers; and this grieved her the
more because little Marten was a very tender child, and had always been
so from his birth.
"It happened a few weeks before her death, as little Marten's mother
was lying on her couch, that one Mrs. Short, who lived in Tenterden,
and spent her time in gossiping from house to house, came bustling into
the room where Marten's mother lay.
"'I am come to tell you,' said she, 'that Squire Blake's lady will be
here just now.'
"'It is some time since I have seen Mrs. Blake,' said Marten's mother;
'but it is kind of her to visit me in my trouble.'
"Whilst she was speaking Mr. Blake's carriage came up to the door, and
Mrs. Blake stepped out. She came into the parlour in a very free and
friendly manner, and, taking Marten's mother by the hand, she said she
was very sorry to see her looking so ill.
"'Indeed,' said the sick woman, 'I am very ill, dear madam, and I think
that I cannot live longer than a few weeks; but God's will be done! I
have no trouble in leaving this world but on account of little Marten;
yet I know that God will take care of him, and that I ought not to be
troubled on his account.'
"Mrs. Blake then answered:
"'As you have begun to speak upon the subject, I will tell you what
particularly brought me here to-day.'
"She then told her that, as she and Mr. Blake had a large fortune and
no family, they were willing to take little Marten at her death and
provide for him as their own. This was a very great and kind offer, and
most people would have accepted it with joy; but the pious mother
recollected that Mr. Blake was one who declared himself to be without
religion; and she could not think of leaving her little boy to such a
man. Accordingly she thanked Mrs. Blake for her kind offer--for a very
kind offer it was--and said that she should feel obliged to her till
her dying moment.
"'But,' added she, 'I cannot accept of your friendship for my little
boy, as I have a very dear Friend who would be disobliged if I did so.'
"Mrs. Blake turned red, and was offended; for she had never once
thought it possible that Marten's mother should refuse her offer; and
Mrs. Short lifted up her hands and eyes, and looked as if she thought
the poor sick woman little better than a fool.
"'Well,' said Mrs. Blake, 'I am surprised, I must confess. However, you
must know your own affairs best; but this I must say, that I think
Marten may live long enough without having such another offer.'
"'And I must say that you are standing in the child's way,' said Mrs.
Short. 'Why, Mr. Blake can do ten times more for the child than his
father could have done, had he lived a hundred years; and I think it
very ungrateful and foolish in you to make such a return for Mr. and
Mrs. Blake's kindness.'
"'And pray,' said Mrs. Blake, 'who is this dear Friend who would be so
much disobliged by your allowing us to take the boy?'
"'I suppose it is Squire Broom,' said Mrs. Short; 'for who else can it
be?'
"'Yes,' said Mrs. Blake, 'I have no doubt it is, for Mr. Broom never
loved my husband. But,' added she, looking at Marten's mother, 'you do
very wrong if you think Mr. Broom could do as much for the child (even
if he were willing) as my husband. Mr. Broom is not rich, and he has a
great many children; whereas Mr. Blake has a very handsome fortune, and
no near relation in the world. However, as you have once refused, I do
not think I would take the boy now if you were to ask me.'
"'I am very sorry,' answered Marten's mother, 'to appear unthankful to
you; and perhaps, as I am a dying woman, I ought to tell you the true
reason of my refusing your offer, though it may make you angry. I do
not doubt but that you would be kind to little Marten, and I know that
you have more to give him than his father could have had.'
"She then, in a very delicate manner, hinted at Mr. Blake's irreligious
opinions, and acknowledged that it was on the account of these that she
had refused his protection for her son.
"'The Lord Jesus Christ,' added she, 'is the dear Friend I spoke of, my
dear madam, and the One I am afraid to offend by accepting Mr. Blake's
offer. You are welcome to tell Mr. Blake all I say.'
"Mrs. Blake made no answer, but got up, and, wishing Marten's mother
and Mrs. Short a good-morning, went away very much offended.
"When Mrs. Short was left with the sick woman she failed not to speak
her mind to her, and that very plainly, by telling her that she
considered her little better than a fool for what she had done.
"Marten's mother answered: 'I am willing to be counted a fool for
Christ's sake.'
"The next day Marten's mother sent for Squire Broom; and when she had
told him all that had passed between herself and Mrs. Blake, she asked
him if he would take charge of poor little Marten when she was dead,
and also of what little money she might leave behind her; and see that
the child was put to a good school. Squire Broom promised that he would
be a friend to the boy to the best of his power, and Marten's mother
was sure that he would do what he promised, for he was a good man. And
now, not to make our story too long, I must tell you that Marten's
mother grew weaker and weaker, and about three weeks after she had had
this conversation with Mrs. Blake she was found one morning dead in her
bed; and it was supposed she died without pain, as Susan, the maid, who
slept in the same room, had not heard her move or utter a sigh. She was
buried in Tenterden churchyard, and Squire Broom, as he had promised,
took charge of all her affairs.
"And now, after having done with little Marten's good mother, I shall
give you the history of the little boy himself, from the day when he
was awoke and found his poor mother dead; and you shall judge whether
God heard his mother's prayer, and whether He took care of the poor
little orphan.
"Marten's mother was buried on Saturday evening. On Sunday little
Marten went and stood by his mother's grave, and no one but Susan could
persuade him to come away. On Monday morning Squire Broom came in a
one-horse chaise to take him to school at Ashford. The master of the
school at that time was a conscientious man but Squire Broom did not
know that he was so severe in the management of children as he proved
to be.
"Little Marten cried very much when he was put into the one-horse
chaise with Squire Broom.
"'Oh, let me stay with Susan! let me live with Susan!' he said.
"'What!' said Squire Broom, 'and never learn to read? You must go to
school to learn to read, and other things a man should know.'
"'Susan shall teach me to read,' said little Marten.
"Squire Broom promised him that he should come back in the summer, and
see Susan, and little Marten tried to stop crying.
"When little Marten got to Ashford school he was turned into a large
stone hall, where about fifty boys were playing; he had never seen so
many boys before, and he was frightened, and he crept into a corner.
They all got round him, and asked him a great many questions, which
frightened him more; and he began to cry and call for Susan. This set
the boys a-laughing, and they began to pull him about and tease him.
"Little Marten was a pretty child; he was very fair, and had beautiful
blue eyes and red lips, and his dark brown hair curled all over his
head; but he had always been very tender in his health; and the
kickings and thumpings and beatings he got amongst the boys, instead of
making him hardy, made him the more sickly and drooping.
"The boys used to rise very early, and, after they had been an hour in
school, they played in the churchyard (for the schoolroom stands in the
churchyard) till the bell rang to call them to breakfast. In the
schoolroom there was only one fireplace, and the lesser boys could
never get near it, so that little Marten used to be so numbed with cold
in the mornings (for winter was coming) that he could scarcely hold
his book; and his feet and hands became so swelled with chilblains
that, when the other boys went out to play, he could only creep after
them. He was so stupefied with cold that he could not learn; he even
forgot his letters, though he had known them all when his mother was
alive; and, in consequence, he got several floggings. When his mother
was living he was a cheerful little fellow, full of play, and quick in
learning; but now he became dull and cast down, and he refused to eat;
and he would cry and fret if anyone did but touch him. His poor little
feet and hands were sore and bleeding with cold; so that he was afraid
anyone should come near to touch him.
"As the winter advanced it became colder and colder, and little Marten
got a very bad cough, and grew very thin. Several people remarked to
the schoolmaster, 'Little Marten is not well; he gets very thin.' 'Oh,
he will be better,' the master would answer, 'when he is more used to
us. Many children, when they first come to school, pine after home; but
what can I do for him? I must not make any difference between him and
the other boys.'
"One morning in the beginning of December, when the boys were playing
in the churchyard before breakfast, little Marten, not being able to
run, or scarcely to walk, by reason of his chilblains, came creeping
after them; his lips were blue and cold, and his cheeks white. He
looked about for some place where he might be sheltered a little from
the cold wind; and at length he ventured to creep into the porch of an
old house, which stood on one side of the churchyard. The door of the
house was open a little way, and Marten peeped in: he saw within a
small neat kitchen, where was a bright fire; an elderly maid-servant
was preparing breakfast before the fire; the tea-kettle was boiling;
and the toast-and-butter and muffins stood ready to be carried into the
parlour. A large old cat slept before the fire; and in one corner of
the kitchen was a parrot upon a stand.
"Whilst Marten was peeping in, and longing for a bit of
toast-and-butter, a little old lady, dressed in a gray silk gown,
wearing a mob-cap and long ruffles, came into the kitchen by the inner
door. She first spoke to the parrot, then stroked the cat; and then,
turning towards the porch-door, she said (speaking to the maid):
[Illustration: "_A little old lady, dressed in a gray silk gown, came
into the kitchen._"--Page 101.]
"'Hannah, why do you leave the door open? The wind comes in very cold.'
So saying, she was going to push the door to, when she saw poor little
Marten. She observed his black coat, his little bleeding hands, and his
pale face, and she felt very sorry for him. 'What little fellow are
you?' she said, as she held the door in her hand. 'Where do you come
from, and what do you want at my door?'
"'My name is Marten,' he answered, 'and I am very cold.'
"'Do you belong to the school, my dear?' said she.
"'Yes, ma'am,' he answered; 'my mother is dead, and I am very cold.'
"'Poor little creature!' said the old lady, whose name was Lovel. 'Do
you hear what he says, Hannah? His mother is dead, and he is very cold!
Do, Hannah, run over to the school-house, and ask the master if he will
give this little boy leave to stay and breakfast with me.'
"Hannah set down a tea-cup which she was wiping, and looking at Marten:
"'Poor young creature!' she said. 'It is a pity that such a babe as
this should be in a public school. Come in, little one, whilst I run
over to your master and ask leave for you to stay a little with my
mistress.'
"Hannah soon returned with the master's leave, and poor little Marten
went gladly upstairs into Mrs. Lovel's parlour. There Mrs. Lovel took
off his wet shoes and damp stockings, and hung them to the fire, while
she rubbed his little numbed feet till they were warm. In the meantime
Hannah brought up the tea-things and toast-and-butter, and set all
things in order upon the round table.
"'You are very good,' said little Marten to Mrs. Lovel; 'I will come
and see you every day.'
"'You shall come as often as you please,' said Mrs. Lovel, 'if you are
a good little boy.'
"'Then I will come at breakfast-time, and at dinner-time, and at
supper-time,' said Marten.
"Mrs. Lovel smiled and looked at Hannah, who was bringing up the
cream-pot, followed by the cat. Puss took her place very gravely at one
corner of the table, without touching anything.
"'Is that your cat, ma'am?' said Marten.
"'Yes,' said Mrs. Lovel; 'and see how well she behaves: she never asks
for anything, but waits till she is served. Do you think you can behave
as well?'
"'I will try, ma'am,' said Marten.
"Mrs. Lovel then bade Marten fetch himself a chair, and they both sat
down to breakfast. Marten behaved so well at breakfast that Mrs. Lovel
invited him to come to her at dinner-time, and said she would send
Hannah to his master for leave. She then put on his dry shoes and
stockings; and as the bell rang, she sent him over to school. When
school broke up at twelve o'clock, she sent Hannah again for him; and
he came running upstairs, full of joy.
"'This is a half-holiday, ma'am,' he said, 'and I may stay with you
till bed-time: and I will come again to breakfast in the morning.'
"'Very well,' said Mrs. Lovel; 'but if you come here so often you must
do everything I bid you, and everything which Hannah bids you.'
"'The same as I did to my poor mother, and to Susan?' said Marten.
"'Yes, my dear,' said Mrs. Lovel.
"'Then I will, ma'am,' said Marten.
"So Marten sat down to dinner with Mrs. Lovel; and at dinner he told
her all he knew of himself and his mother; and after dinner, when she
gave him leave, he went down to the kitchen to visit Hannah, and to
talk to the parrot, and to look about him till tea-time. At tea-time he
came up again; and after tea Mrs. Lovel brought out a large Bible full
of pictures, and told him one or two stories out of the Bible, showing
him the pictures. At night Hannah carried him home, and he went warm
and comfortable to bed.
"Mrs. Lovel grew every day fonder of little Marten; and, as the little
boy promised, he went to Mrs. Lovel's at breakfast, dinner, and supper;
and Mrs. Lovel took the same care of him as his mother would have done,
had she been living. She took charge of his clothes, mending them when
they wanted it; prepared warm and soft woollen stockings for him,
procured him a great-coat to wear in school, and got him some thick
shoes to play in. She also would see that he learned his lessons well
every day, to carry up to his master: she then practised him in reading
out of school hours, so that it was surprising how quickly he now got
on with his books. But the best of all was, that Mrs. Lovel from day to
day gave such holy teaching to little Marten as was best adapted to
make him a good man in after-life; and God blessed her teaching, and
the boy soon became all that she could desire.
"A little before Christmas, Squire Broom came over to Ashford to see
little Marten, and determined in his own mind, if he saw the child
unwell, or not happy, to take him home and bring him up amongst his own
children; for Mrs. Broom had said that she thought little Marten almost
too young to be at a public school, without a friend near him. Marten
was standing in Mrs. Lovel's parlour window, which looked into the
churchyard, when he saw Squire Broom's one-horse chaise draw up to the
school-house door. Without speaking a word, he ran downstairs, and
across the churchyard; and, taking Squire Broom's hand, as he stepped
out of the chaise:
"'I have got another mother, sir,' he said, 'a very good mother; and I
love her with all my heart; and her name is Lovel; and you must come to
see her.'
"'Why, my little man,' said Squire Broom, 'you look very well, and
quite fat.'
"When Squire Broom heard from the master what a kind friend Marten had
found, and was told by all his friends in Ashford what a worthy woman
Mrs. Lovel was (everybody in Ashford knew Mrs. Lovel's good character),
he was very much pleased on little Marten's account, and said his poor
mother's prayers were now answered.
"Little Marten could not be contented till he had brought Squire Broom
to see Mrs. Lovel, and to drink tea with her. During this visit, Mrs.
Lovel asked Mr. Broom if Marten might spend his Christmas holidays with
her; and from that time the little boy spent all his holidays with Mrs.
Lovel. In the summer holidays she often took him to a farmhouse in the
country, where she had lodgings; and there he had the pleasure of
seeing the haymaking, and hop-gathering, and all the country work, and
of running about the fields. Once or twice she took him to Tenterden to
see his old friends, particularly Susan, who lived with her mother in
Tenterden.
"Marten became a fine boy; and as he grew in stature he grew in grace.
He was very fond of reading; and soon he became one of the best
scholars of his age in the school. As Mrs. Lovel got older, her eyes
became dim; and then Marten read to her, and managed her accounts, and
was in all things as a dutiful son to her.
"Marten continued with Mrs. Lovel till it was time he should leave
school; and as he wished to become a clergyman, in order that he might
spend his life in the service of God, Mrs. Lovel paid for his going to
the University.
"When Marten had been the proper time at the University, he was
ordained a clergyman; and he then returned to Mrs. Lovel, and soon
afterwards he got a living in a pretty village in Kent. There he went
to reside; and Mrs. Lovel, who was now become very old indeed, lived
with him. He was as kind to her, and to Hannah, as if he had been their
own child: and, indeed, it was but his duty to be so: he did everything
to make their last years happy, and their deaths easy. Mrs. Lovel left
all she had, when she died, to Marten; so that he was enabled to live
in great comfort. Some time after Mrs. Lovel's death, he married Squire
Broom's youngest daughter, who made him a kind and good wife, and
helped him to bring up their children well. Susan, who was now an
elderly woman, took the place of Hannah when Hannah died, and never
left her master till she herself died of old age."
* * * * *
By this time it was one o'clock; and the haymakers left off their work,
and sat down in a row, by the brook-side, to eat their dinner. Mr.
Fairchild called to his children from the place where he was lying, at
a little distance, saying:
"My dears, I begin to feel hungry. Lucy and Emily, see what Betty
brought in the basket this morning; and you, Henry, go to the brook,
and bring some water."
So Henry took an empty pitcher out of the basket, and ran gaily down to
the brook to fetch some water, whilst Lucy and Emily spread a clean
napkin on the grass, on which they placed the knives and forks and
plates, with the loaf and cheese, and the fruit-pie, and a bottle of
beer for their papa; for Betty was gone back to the house; and when
they had said grace, they dined: after which the children went to play
in the coppice and amongst the hay, for a little while. When they had
played as much as their mamma thought fit, they came back, and sat down
to work, as they had done in the morning, whilst Henry read the story
in Lucy's book.
[Illustration: Marten goes to school]
The History of Little Henri; or, The Good Son
[Illustration: Henri stood at the window]
"Every person who lives in England has heard of France. A small arm of
the sea parts this country from France; but though a person may pass
from England to France in a few hours, yet there is a great difference
in the manners and customs of the French and English. A few years ago
the French were governed by a king who had so much power, that, if he
did not like any person, he could condemn him to be shut up for life at
his pleasure, and nobody dared to inquire after him. The religion of
the French was, and still is, Roman Catholic.
"About one hundred and fifty years ago, there lived in France a certain
great man, called the Baron of Bellemont: he was a proud man, and very
rich; and his castle stood in one of the beautiful valleys of the
Pyrenees, not far from the dwelling-places of those holy people the
Waldenses."
"What are Waldenses, mamma?" said Henry.
"Why, my dear," answered Mrs. Fairchild, "many hundred years ago, when
many of the nations of Europe were very wicked, a certain set of
persons retired from the sight of the rest of mankind, and hid
themselves in valleys amongst hills, where they led innocent and holy
lives. These people, in some places, were called _Waldenses_; in
others, _Valdenses_; and some were called _The poor Men of Lyons_,
because there was a city called Lyons near their dwelling-places."
* * * * *
"The Baron de Bellemont," continued Henry, reading again, "lived in a
castle not far from the valley of the Waldenses. He had one daughter,
of the name of Adelaide, who was very beautiful; and as she was to have
much of her father's riches at his death, everybody flattered and
seemed to admire her, and many rich and great men in France sought to
marry her. The Baron had also a poor niece living with him, named
Maria. Maria was not handsome, and she was poor; therefore, nobody who
came to the castle took any notice of her: and her cousin Adelaide
treated her more like a servant than a relation. Maria had been nursed
among the Waldenses, and had learned, with God's blessing, all the holy
doctrines of these people from her nurse.
"When Adelaide and Maria were about twenty years of age, they were both
married. Adelaide was married to the young Marquis de Roseville, one of
the handsomest and richest men in France, and went to live in Paris
with her husband, where she was introduced to the court of the king,
and lived amongst the greatest and gayest people in France."
* * * * *
"Where is Paris, mamma?" said Lucy.
"You know, my dear," answered Mrs. Fairchild, "that London is the
chief town of England, and the residence of the Queen: in like manner,
Paris is the chief town of France, and the Emperor of France's palace
is in Paris."
* * * * *
"Maria's husband," continued Henry, "was one of the pastors of the
Waldenses, of the name of Claude: he lived in a small and neat cottage
in a beautiful valley; he was a holy young man, and all his time and
thoughts were given up to teaching his people and serving his God.
Maria was much happier in her little cottage with her kind husband than
she had been in the castle of the Baron. She kept her house clean, and
assisted her husband in dressing their little garden and taking care of
a few goats, which afforded them abundance of milk.
"When the Marchioness of Roseville had been married twelve months she
brought the Marquis a son, to whom his parents gave the name of
Theodore. This child was so beautiful that he was spoken of in Paris as
a wonder, and his parents, who were very proud and vain before, became
more and more so. All the Marchioness's love seemed to be fixed upon
this child, so that when, at the end of two years more, she had a
second son born, she showed no affection whatever for him, although he
was a lovely infant, not less beautiful than his brother, and of a
tender and delicate constitution.
"When this little infant, who was called Henri, was little more than
two months old, the Marquis and Marchioness undertook a journey to the
Castle of Bellemont, to visit the old Baron, bringing their two sons
with them. The fatigue of the journey was almost too much for poor
little Henri, who, when he arrived at his grandfather's castle, was so
ill that it was supposed he could not live; but his mother, having no
love but for the eldest child, did not appear to be in the least
troubled by Henri's sickness.
"As soon as Maria heard of her cousin's arrival at Bellemont she
hastened over to see her, though she did not expect to be very kindly
received. Maria, by this time, had two children, the youngest of which
was more than a year old, and a very healthy child. When this kind
woman saw poor little Henri, and found that his parents did not love
him, she begged her cousin to allow her to take the poor infant to her
cottage in the valleys, where she promised to take great care of him,
and to be as a tender mother to him. The Marchioness was glad to be
freed from the charge of the sick child, and Maria was equally glad to
have the poor baby to comfort. Accordingly, she took the little Henri
home with her, and he was brought up amongst her own children.
"When the Marquis and Marchioness had remained a while at the Castle of
Bellemont, they returned with their favourite Theodore to Paris; and
there they delivered themselves up to all the vicious habits of that
dissipated place. The Marchioness never stayed at home a single day,
but spent her whole time in visiting, dancing, and playing at cards,
and going to public gardens, plays, and musical entertainments. She
painted her face, and dressed herself in every kind of rich and vain
ornament, and tried to set herself off for admiration; but she had
little regard for her husband, and never thought of God. She was bold
in her manners, fond of herself, and hardhearted to everybody else. The
only person for whom she seemed to care was her son Theodore; for as
for little Henri, she seemed to have forgotten that she had such a
child; but she delighted in seeing her handsome Theodore well dressed,
and encouraged him to prattle before company, and to show himself off
in public places, even when he was but an infant. She employed the
most famous artists in Paris to draw his picture; she hired
dancing-masters to teach him to carry himself well, and music-masters
to teach him to sing and play; and sometimes, when he was to go out
with her, she herself arranged his glossy hair, in order that he might
look the handsomer. She employed many servants to attend upon him, and
commanded them never to contradict him, but to do everything to please
him. As she continued to lead this life she became every year more and
more bold, and more hardened in wickedness; so that, from beginning to
be careless about God, she proceeded in time to mock at religion. Nor
was the Marquis any better than his wife; he was proud and quarrelsome,
and loved no one but himself. He spent all his time amongst a set of
wicked young men of his own rank; they sat up all night drinking and
swearing and playing at cards for large sums of money.
"In this manner they went on till Theodore was as much as fifteen years
of age. In the meantime the old Baron had died and left all his money
to his daughter; but the Marquis and Marchioness were none the better
for all the riches left them by the Baron, for they became more and
more wasteful, and more and more wicked.
"About this time the King, who was a very wicked man, began to talk of
driving the Waldenses out of their pleasant valleys, or forcing them to
become Roman Catholics. He consulted the great men in Paris about it;
and they gave it as their opinion that it would be right either to make
them become Roman Catholics, or drive them out of the country. The
Marquis, among the rest, gave his opinion against the Waldenses; never
considering that he had a relation amongst them, and that his little
son Henri was at that very time living with them.
"Whilst these things were being talked of in the King's palace,
Theodore was seized with a violent fever, and before anything could be
done for him, or his father or mother had any time for consideration,
the poor boy died. The Marchioness was like a distracted woman when
Theodore died; she screamed and tore her hair, and the Marquis, to
drive away the thoughts of his grief, went more and more into company,
drinking and playing at cards. When the grief of the Marquis and
Marchioness for the loss of their beautiful Theodore was a little
abated, they began to turn their thoughts towards their son Henri, and
they resolved to send for him. Accordingly, the Marquis sent a trusty
servant to the valley of Piedmont, to bring Henri to Paris. The servant
carried a letter from the Marquis to the Pastor Claude, thanking him
for his kind attention to the child, and requesting him to send him
immediately to Paris. The servant also carried a handsome sum of money
as a present from the Marquis to Claude; which Claude, however, would
not take.
"Whilst all these things of which I have been telling you were
happening at Paris, little Henri had been growing up in the humble yet
pleasant cottage of Maria and the pious Claude. During the first years
of his infancy he had been very delicate and tender, and no one would
have reared him who had not loved him as tenderly as Maria had done;
but from the time that she first saw him in the Castle of Bellemont,
she had loved him with all the love of the tenderest mother.
"Henri was very beautiful, though always pale, never having very strong
health. He always had the greatest fear of doing anything which might
displease God; he was gentle and humble to all around him, and to his
little cousins, the sons of Claude, he was most affectionate and mild.
When they were old enough, these three little boys used to go with the
Pastor Claude when he went to visit his poor people in their little
cottages among the valleys; and heard him read and pray with them. Thus
they acquired, when very young, such a knowledge of God, and of the
Holy Bible, as might have put to shame many older people.
"Many of the cottages which Claude and his little boys used to visit
were placed in spots of ground so beautiful that they would have
reminded you of the Garden of Eden; some in deep and shady valleys,
where the brooks of clear water ran murmuring among groves of trees and
over mossy banks; some on high lawns on the sides of the mountains,
where the eagles and mountain birds found shelter in the lofty forest
trees; some of these cottages stood on the brows of rugged rocks, which
jutted out from the side of the hills, on spots so steep and high that
Claude's own little stout boys could scarcely climb them; and Claude
was often obliged to carry little Henri up these steeps in his arms. In
these different situations were flowers of various colours and of
various kinds, and many beautiful trees, besides birds innumerable and
wild animals of various sorts. Claude knew the names and natures of all
these; and he often passed the time, as he walked, in teaching these
things to his children. Neither did he neglect, as they got older, to
give them such instructions as they could get from books. He taught his
little boys first to read French, and afterwards he made them well
acquainted with Latin and the history of ancient times, particularly
the history of such holy people as have lived and died in the service
of God--the saints and martyrs of old days. He also taught his little
boys to write; and they could sing sweetly many of the old hymns and
psalms which from time immemorial had been practised among the
Waldenses.
"Claude's own little sons were obliged to do many homely household
jobs, to help their mother. They used to fetch the goats to the cottage
door, along the hill-side path, and milk them and feed them; they used
to weed the garden, and often to sweep the house and make up the fire.
In all these things little Henri was as forward as the rest, though the
son of one of the greatest men in France. But though this family were
obliged to labour at the lowest work, yet they practised towards each
other the most courteous and gentle manners.
"In this manner Henri was brought up amongst the Waldenses till he was
more than twelve years of age, at which time the servant came from his
father, the Marquis, to bring him to Paris.
"When the Marquis's letter arrived, all the little family in the Pastor
Claude's house were full of grief.
"'You must go, my dear child,' said the Pastor; 'you must go, my
beloved Henri, for the Marquis is your father, and you must obey him;
but oh! my heart aches when I think of the hard trials and temptations
to which you will be exposed in the wicked world.'
"'Yet I have confidence,' said Maria, wiping away her tears; 'I have
prayed for this boy--this my dear boy; I have prayed for him a thousand
and a thousand times; and I know that he is given to us: this our child
will not be lost; I know he will not. He will be able to do all things
well, Christ strengthening him.'
"'Oh, Maria!' said the Pastor Claude, 'your faith puts me to shame; why
should I doubt the goodness of God any more than you do?'
"In the meantime Henri's grief was so great that, for some hours after
the servant came, he could not speak. He looked on his dear father and
mother, as he always called Claude and Maria, and on their two boys,
who were like brothers to him; he looked on the cottage where he had
spent so many happy days, and the woods and valleys and mountains,
saying, beyond this he knew nothing; and he wished that he had been
born Claude and Maria's child, and that he might be allowed to spend
all his life, as Claude had done, in that delightful valley.
"Whilst Maria, with many tears, was preparing things for Henri's
journey, the Pastor took the opportunity of talking privately to him,
and giving him some advice which he hoped might be useful to him. He
took the child by the hand, and leading him into a solitary path above
the cottage, where they could walk unseen and unheard, he explained to
him the dangerous situation into which he was about to enter; he told
him, with as much tenderness as possible, what his father's and his
mother's characters were; that they never knew the fear of God, and
that they acted as most persons do who are rich and powerful, and who
are not led by Divine grace; and he pointed out to him how he ought to
behave to his parents, telling him that he must not be led away, but
must persevere in well-doing. These, with many other things, the good
Claude besought Henri always to have in remembrance, as he hoped to see
his Redeemer in the land which is very far off; and he ended by giving
him a little Bible, in a small velvet bag, which he had received from
his own father, and which he had been accustomed to carry in his pocket
in all his visits to his poor people. In these days, Bibles are so
common that every little boy and girl may have one; but this was not
the case in former days; Bibles were very scarce and very difficult to
get; and this Henri knew, and therefore he knew how to value this
present.
"It would only trouble you were I to describe the sorrow of Claude's
family when, the next morning, Henri, according to his father's orders,
was dressed in a rich suit of clothes, and set upon a horse, which was
to carry him from among the mountains to the Castle of Bellemont, where
the Marquis's carriage waited for him. Henri could not speak as the
horses went down the valley, but the tears fell fast down his cheeks;
every tree and every cottage which he passed, every pathway winding
from the highroad among the hills, reminded him of some sweet walk
taken with Claude and his sons, or with his dear foster-mother. As the
road passed under one of the cottages which stood on the brow of a
hill, Henri heard the notes of one of those sweet hymns which Maria had
been accustomed to sing to him when he was a very little boy, and which
she had afterwards taught him to sing himself. Henri's heart at that
moment was ready to burst with grief, and though the servant was close
to him, yet he broke out in these words:
"'Farewell, farewell, sweet and happy home! Farewell, lovely, lovely
hills! Farewell, beloved friends! I shall never, never see you again!'
"'Do not give way to grief, sir,' said the servant; 'you are going to
be a great man; you will see all the fine things in Paris, and be
brought before the King.'
"The servant then gave him a long account of the grandeur and pleasures
of Paris; but Henri did not hear one word he said, for he was listening
to the last faint sounds of the hymn, as they became more and more
distant.
"Nothing particular happened to Henri on his journey; and at the end of
several days he arrived at the gates of his father's grand house at
Paris. The Marchioness that evening (as was common with her) gave a
ball and supper to a number of friends; and on this occasion the house
was lighted up, and set off with all manner of ornaments. The company
was just come, and the music beginning to play, when Henri was brought
into the hall. As soon as it was known who was come, the servants ran
to tell the Marquis and Marchioness, and they ran into the hall to
receive their son. The beauty of Henri, and his lovely mild look, could
not but please and delight his parents, and they said to each other, as
they kissed him and embraced him:
"'How could we live so long a stranger to this charming child?'
"His mother had expected that her son would have had an awkward and low
appearance; she was, therefore, greatly surprised at his courteous and
polite manners, which delighted her as much as his beauty.
"All that evening Henri remained silent, modest, and serious, and as
soon as his parents would give him leave, he asked to go to bed. He was
shown into a room richly furnished, and so large that the whole of
Claude's little cottage would have gone into it. The servant who
attended him would have undressed him; but he begged to be left alone,
saying he had been used to dress and undress himself. As soon as the
servant was gone, he took out his Bible and read a chapter; after
which, kneeling down, he prayed his Almighty Father to take care of him
now, in this time of temptation, when he feared he might be drawn aside
to forget his God.
"The young son of the Marquis de Roseville did not awake early, having
been much tired with his journey. When he had dressed, he was taken to
breakfast in his mother's dressing-room; she was alone, as the Marquis
had gone out after the ball the night before, and was not returned. The
Marchioness kissed Henri, and made him sit down by her, showing him
every proof of her love; nevertheless, everything he saw and heard made
him wish himself back again in the cottage amongst the hills. He could
perceive by the daylight what he had not found out the night before,
that his mother was painted white and red, and that she had a bold and
fretful look, which made her large dark eyes quite terrible to him.
"Whilst the Marchioness and Henri sat at breakfast, she asked him a
great many questions about his education and manner of life among the
mountains. He did not hide anything from her, but told her that he
never intended to become a Roman Catholic. She answered that there was
time enough yet before he need trouble himself about religion.
"'You have a long life before you, Henri,' she said, 'and have many
pleasures to enjoy; it will be well enough to become devout when you
are near death.'
"'May not death be near now?' said Henri, looking very serious. 'Had my
brother Theodore any greater reason to expect death than I have? And
yet he was suddenly called away.'
"The Marchioness looked grave for a moment; then smiled, and said:
"'Oh Henri, Henri, how laughable it is to hear one at your age speaking
so seriously! Yet everything sounds prettily out of your mouth,' she
added, kissing him, 'for you are a charming boy. But come,' she said,
'I will be dressed; and we will go out and pay visits, and I will show
you something of this fine city.'
"When the Marchioness was dressed, she and Henri went out in the
carriage; and, returning at dinner-time, they found the Marquis at
home: he looked pale and fatigued, but was pleased to embrace his son,
with whom he seemed better and better satisfied as he saw more of him.
"The next day a tutor was appointed for Henri: he was a Roman Catholic
priest; but although he bore the character of a clergyman, he seemed to
have no thought of religion; he took great pains to teach Henri such
things as he thought would please his father and mother, and make him
appear clever before his fellow-creatures, but he had no desire to make
him a good man. Besides this tutor, Henri had masters to teach him
music and dancing and drawing, and all such things as were wont to be
taught to the children of the great men at that time in France. Thus
Henri's mornings were employed by attending on his masters; and his
mother often in the evening took him out to pay visits, and to balls
and public amusements. He was introduced several times to the King, and
became acquainted with all the nobility in Paris. But, amongst all
these worldly pleasures and enjoyments, God still held the heart of
Henri; so that he took no delight in all these fine things, and would
have preferred Claude's cottage to all the splendours of Paris.
"When Henri had been in Paris about six months, it happened that one
day his father went to the King's palace to pay his court: so it was,
that something had vexed the King that day, and he did not receive the
Marquis so cordially as he had been used to do. This affronted the
Marquis so much (for he was a very proud man) that from that time he
gave himself up altogether to abusing the King, and contriving how to
do him mischief; and he invited to his house all the people of
consequence in Paris who were discontented with the King: so that his
house was filled with bad people, who were always contriving mischief
against the King. These people used to meet almost every evening to sup
at the Marquis's; and you would be shocked if I were to repeat to you
the language which they used, and how they used to rail against their
King. On these occasions they drank abundance of wine; after which they
used to play at cards for large sums of money; and the Marquis and
Marchioness not being so clever in play as some others of the party,
lost a great deal of money; so that what with their extravagance, and
what with the money they lost at cards, they had almost wasted all they
possessed, and were in debt to everybody who supplied them with
anything.
"Poor Henri, although so young, understood very well the wicked way in
which his father and mother went on; and though he did not dare to
speak to his father about the manner of life he led, yet he spoke
several times to his mother. Sometimes the Marchioness would laugh at
Henri when he talked to her in this way; and sometimes she would be
quite angry, and tell him that he was meddling with things he could not
understand.
"Abusing the King, and forming schemes against the Government, are
called treason. It was not long before the treasonable practices of the
Marquis, and the bad company he kept, were made known to the King, who,
one night, without giving notice to anyone, sent certain persons with a
guard to seize the Marquis, and convey him to a strong castle in a very
distant part of France, where he was to be confined for life; at the
same time the King gave orders to seize all the Marquis's property for
his own use. It was one night in the spring, just after the Marquis's
wicked companions had taken their leave, that the persons sent by the
King rushed into the Marquis's house, and making him a prisoner in the
name of the King, forced him into a carriage, with his wife and son,
scarcely giving them time to gather together a little linen, and a few
other necessary things, to take with them: amongst these, Henri did not
forget his little Bible, and an old Book of Martyrs, which he had
bought at a bookstall a few days before.
"The Marquis and his family, well guarded, were hurried away so fast
that before the dawn of morning they were some miles from Paris. The
Marquis then asked the person who rode by the carriage where they were
taking him: they answered that his plots against the King had been
found out, and that he was going to be put into a place where it would
be out of his power to execute any of his mischievous purposes. On
hearing this, the Marquis broke out into a violent rage, abusing the
King, and calling him every vile name he could think of; after which he
became sullen, and continued so to the end of his journey. The
Marchioness cried almost without ceasing, calling herself the most
miserable of women, and wishing she had never seen the Marquis.
"At the end of several days, towards the evening, they entered into a
deep road between two high hills, which were so near each other that
from one hill the cottages and little gardens and sheepfolds, with the
cows and sheep feeding, might be plainly seen on the other. As they
went on farther, they saw a little village on the right hand among some
trees; and, above the village, a large old castle, with high walls and
towers, and an immense gateway with an iron gate.
"When the Marquis saw the castle he groaned, for he supposed that this
was the place in which he was to be confined; and the Marchioness broke
out afresh in crying and lamenting herself; but Henri said not one
word. The carriage took the road straight to the castle, and the guard
kept close, as if they were afraid the Marquis should strive to get
away. They passed through the little village, and then saw the great
gate of the castle right before them higher up the hill. It was almost
dusk before the carriage stopped at the castle gate; and the guards
called to the porter (that is, the man who has the care of the gate) to
open the gate, and call the Governor of the castle. When the porter
opened the gate, the guard took the Marquis out of the carriage, and,
all gathering close round him, led him through the gates into the
outer court of the castle, which was surrounded by dark high buildings;
Henri and his mother following. From thence he went through another
gate, and up a number of stone steps, till they came to an immense
hall, so big that it looked like a large old church; from the roof of
this hall hung several lamps, which were burning, for it was now quite
dark. There the Governor of the castle, a respectable-looking old
officer, with a band of soldiers, met the Marquis, and received him
into his charge. He spoke civilly to the Marquis, and kindly to Henri
and his mother.
"'Do not afflict yourself, madam,' he said: 'I am the King's servant,
and must obey the King's orders; but if I find that you and the Marquis
are patient under your punishment, I shall make you as comfortable as
my duty to the King will allow.'
"To this kind speech the Marchioness only answered by breaking out like
a child, crying afresh; and the Marquis was so sullen that he would not
speak at all; but Henri, running up and kissing the hand of the old
gentleman, said:
"'Oh, sir, God will reward you for your kindness to my poor father and
mother: you must pardon them if they are not able to speak.'
"'You are a fine boy,' said the old gentleman; 'and it is a pity that
at your age you should share your parents' punishment, and be shut up
in this place.'
"'Where my father and mother are,' answered Henri, 'I shall be best
contented, sir; I do not wish to be parted from them.'
"The Governor looked pleased with Henri; and giving his orders to his
soldiers, they took up a lamp, and led the poor Marquis to the room
where he was to be shut up for the remainder of his life. They led him
through many large rooms, and up several flights of stone steps, till
they came to the door of a gallery, at which a sentinel stood; the
sentinel opened the door, and the Marquis was led along the gallery to
a second door, which was barred with iron bars. Whilst the soldiers
were unbarring this door, the Marquis groaned, and wished he had never
been born; and the poor Marchioness was obliged to lean upon Henri, or
she would have fallen to the ground. When the iron-barred door was
opened, the guard told the Marquis and his family to walk forward: 'For
this,' said they, 'is your room.' Accordingly, the Marquis and his wife
and Henri went on into the room, whilst the guard shut and barred the
door behind them. One little lamp, hanging from the top of the room,
but high above their reach (for the rooms in those old castles are in
general very lofty), was all the light they had: by this light they
could just distinguish a large grated window, a fireplace, a table,
some chairs, and two beds placed in different corners of the room.
However, the unhappy family offered not to go near the beds; but the
Marquis and Marchioness, throwing themselves on the ground, began to
rail at each other and at the King. Poor Henri endeavoured to soothe
and comfort them; but they pushed him from them, like people in a
frenzy, saying, 'Go, go! Would to God you were in your grave with your
brother Theodore!' Henri withdrew to a distance, and, kneeling down in
a dark part of the room, he began to pray; till, being quite weary, he
fell fast asleep on the floor.
"When Henri awoke, he was surprised to find it was daylight; he sat up
and looked around him on the prison-room; it was a large and airy room,
receiving light from a window strongly grated with iron. In two corners
of the room were two old-fashioned but clean and comfortable-looking
beds; opposite the beds were a chimney-piece and hearth for burning
wood; and several old-fashioned chairs and a table stood against the
wall; there were also in the room two doors, which led into small
closets.
"Henri's poor father and mother had fallen asleep on the floor, after
having wearied themselves with their violent grief; the Marquis had
made a pillow of his cloak, and the Marchioness of a small bundle which
she had brought in her hand out of the carriage. Henri looked at them
till his eyes were full of tears; they looked pale and sorrowful even
in their sleep. He got up gently, for fear of disturbing his poor
parents, and went to the window: the air from the opposite hill blew
sweet and fresh in at the casement; it reminded Henri of the air which
he used to breathe in Claude's cottage. The window was exceedingly high
from the court of the castle; so that the little village below, and the
opposite green hill, with its cottages and flocks and herds, were all
to be seen from thence above the walls of the court.
"'What reason have we to be thankful!' said Henri; 'I was afraid my
poor father might have been shut down in a dismal vault, without light
and fresh air. If the Governor of the castle will but allow us to stay
here, and give us only bread and water, we may be happy; and I have my
little Bible, and my Book of Martyrs.'
"Whilst Henri stood at the window, he heard someone unbar the door; and
an old man came in with a basket, in which was a comfortable breakfast.
"'I have orders,' said he, 'from my lord the Governor, to give you
everything which is convenient.'
"'God bless your lord,' said Henri; and he begged the old man to return
his thanks to him.
"'I shall come again presently,' said the old man, 'and bring you the
things which you brought with you in the carriage.'
"'Your lord the Governor is a kind man,' said Henri.
"'Yes,' said the old man, 'and if your noble father will but make
himself contented, and not try to get away, he will have nothing to
complain of here, and you would do well to tell him so. My young
gentleman, excuse an old man for giving his advice.'
"Henri went up to the old man, and, taking his hand, thanked him for
his kindness.
"When the old man was gone, Henri, full of joy and thankfulness, began
to take the things out of the basket, and to set them in order upon the
table; and now Henri found the use of having been brought up to wait
upon himself and upon others; he soon set out the little table in the
neatest way, and set a chair for each of his parents; and all this so
quietly that the poor Marquis and Marchioness did not wake till he had
done. The Marchioness first opened her eyes, and looked round her.
Henri ran to her, and kissing her, said:
"'Dear mother, see what comforts we have still got! We are fallen into
good hands; look around on this room, how light, how airy, and how
pleasant it is!'
"Henri then told her all the kindness of the Governor, and showed her
the breakfast prepared for them; but she still looked sullen and
unthankful, and began to blame the Marquis, as he lay asleep, as the
cause of all her affliction.
"'Oh, mother, dear mother!' cried Henri. 'Look at my poor father; how
pale he looks, and how he sighs in his sleep! You once loved him, dear
mother; oh now, love him again, and comfort him in his trouble!'
"In this manner Henri talked to his mother, till she broke out into
tears, and putting her arms round his neck:
"'My child, my Henri,' she said, 'you are too good for me!'
"Yet still Henri could not persuade her to take any breakfast; she
placed herself in a chair in a corner of the room, and, leaning her
head upon her hands, continued crying without ceasing.
"When the Marquis awoke, Henri endeavoured to comfort him, as he had
done his mother; the Marquis embraced him, and called him his beloved
child and only comfort, but he complained that he was ill, and put his
hand to his head. Henri brought him a cup of coffee, which he made him
drink; and the old man coming in with the linen and other things which
had been brought from Paris, they put some clean linen on the Marquis,
and the old man and Henri assisted him to bed. The Marquis continued to
get worse, and before night he was in a violent fever. This fever
continued many days, and brought him very near to death. Whilst this
illness lasted Henri never left him, and the Governor of the castle not
only provided him with everything he wanted, but brought a doctor from
the village to see him.
"For many days the poor Marquis did not seem to know anything that
passed, or to know where he was, or who was with him, but seemed in
great horror of mind, expressing great dread of death; but when his
fever left him, though he was very weak, he recovered his recollection,
and expressed himself very thankful for the kindness he had received,
particularly from the Governor and the doctor. As to Henri, he kissed
him often, called him his darling son, and could not bear him to leave
him for a moment. It was lovely to see how Henri watched by his poor
father, and how he talked to him, sometimes soothing and comforting,
and sometimes giving him descriptions of the happy manner in which he
used to live in Claude's cottage.
"'And all this happiness, dear father,' he would say, 'came from our
being religious; for all the ways of religion are ways of pleasantness,
and all her paths are peace.'
"'Claude and Maria,' said the Marquis one day to Henri, 'were very good
people; they always led innocent lives; they had no sins to trouble
their consciences, therefore they were happy; but I have many evil
actions to remember, Henri.'
"'Oh, dear father,' said Henri, 'do let me read the Bible to you. I
have got a little Bible, and I will, if you please, read a little to
you every day, as you can bear it.'
"The Marquis did not refuse to hear Henri read; accordingly, every day
his good son used to read certain portions of Scripture to his father.
The Marquis, having nothing else to take his attention--no cards, no
wine, no gay companions--and being still confined by weakness to his
bed, often lay for many hours listening to the Word of God. At first,
as he afterwards owned, he had no pleasure in it, and would rather have
avoided hearing it; but how could he refuse his darling son, when he
begged him to hear a little--only a little more?
"In the meantime, the Marchioness appeared sullen, proud, and
unforgiving: she seldom came near her husband, but sometimes spent the
day in crying and lamenting herself, and sometimes in looking over the
few things which she had brought with her from Paris. The Governor of
the castle, seeing her so miserable, told her that he had no orders
from the King to keep her or her son in confinement, and that she had
liberty to depart when she pleased, and to take her son with her; but
Henri would not hear of leaving his poor father, and used all his
endeavours to persuade his mother to stay.
"When the Marquis was first able to leave his bed, and sit in his chair
opposite the window, Henri was very happy: he brought him clean linen,
and helped him to dress; and when he had led him to his chair, he set a
table before him, and arranged upon it, as neatly as he could, the
little dinner which the old man had brought in the basket, with a
bottle of weak but pleasant wine which the Governor had sent him.
"'Dear father,' said Henri, 'you begin to look well; you look even
better than you did when you were at Paris. Oh! if you could but learn
to love God, you might now be happier than ever you were in all your
life; and we might all be happy if my poor mother would but come to you
and love you as she used to do. Oh! come, dear mother,' added Henri,
going up to her and taking her hand; 'come to my father, come to my
poor father! You loved him once, love him again.'
"In this manner Henri begged and entreated his mother to be reconciled
to his father. The Marchioness at first seemed obstinate; but at last
she was overcome, and running to her husband, put her arms round his
neck, and kissed him affectionately; whilst he, embracing her, called
her his beloved wife, his own Adelaide. This little family then sat
down to their dinner, enjoying the lovely prospect, and the soft and
delightful breezes from the opposite hill; and after they had dined,
Henri sang to his parents some of the sweet hymns he had learnt when
living in the valleys of Piedmont.
"Henri had done a great work; he had made peace between his father and
his mother; and now he saw, with great delight, his poor father gaining
strength daily; and though sometimes full of sorrow, yet upon the
whole composed, and never breaking out in impatient words.
"About this time the Governor of the castle invited Henri to dine with
him. Henri was much pleased with the Governor, who received him kindly,
and took him to walk with him in the village.
"'I am glad to hear,' said the Governor, 'that your father is more
contented than he was at first; and you may tell him from me, that if
he will endeavour to make himself easy, and not attempt to escape, I
will always do everything in my power to make him comfortable; and now,
if you can tell me what I can send him which you think will please him
or your mother, if in my power you shall have it.'
"'Oh, sir!' said Henri, 'God has certainly put it into your heart to be
kind to my dear father.'
"Henri then mentioned that he had heard his father say that in his
younger days he had been very fond of drawing; and he begged of the
Governor a small box of colours, and some paper; and also needles and
thread and linen for his mother. With what joy did Henri run back to
his father and mother, in the evening, with these things! They received
him as if he had been a long while absent from them, instead of only a
few hours.
"What Henri had brought afforded great amusement to the poor Marquis
and Marchioness; the Marquis passing his time in drawing, and the
Marchioness with her needlework, whilst Henri continually read and
talked to them, giving them accounts of the holy and happy lives which
the Waldenses led, and the sweet lessons which Claude used to give to
his children.
"In this manner the summer passed away, and the winter came. The
Governor then, finding that the Marquis was content, and made no
attempt to escape, allowed the prisoners abundance of wood for fire,
and candles, with every convenience which could make the winter pass
away pleasantly; and he often came himself and passed an evening with
them, ordering his supper into the room. The Governor was an agreeable
man, and had travelled into many countries, which he used to describe
to Henri. When he paid his evening visit it was a day of festivity to
the Marquis and his little family; and when he did not come, their
evenings passed pleasantly, whilst Henri read the Bible aloud and the
Marchioness sewed. In the meantime the work of grace seemed to advance
in the heart of the Marquis, and he who but a year ago was proud,
insolent, self-indulgent, boasting, blasphemous, was now humble,
gentle, polite, in honour preferring all men. His behaviour to the
Marchioness was quite changed: he was tender and affectionate towards
her, bearing with patience many of her little fretful ways.
"In this manner the winter passed away, and the spring arrived, at
which time the Governor gave the Marquis permission, attended by a
guard, to walk with his family every day upon the roof of the castle.
There the Marquis enjoyed the fresh air and the beautiful prospect, and
he said that all the pleasures of Paris were not to be compared to his
happiness on such occasions.
"At the end of the fourth year of the Marquis's confinement the
small-pox broke out in the village, and the infection was brought to
the castle. The Marquis and Henri were both seized by the dreadful
disease, and both died in consequence. After their deaths, the poor
Marchioness, hearing that the Waldenses had been driven from their
happy valleys by the King, removed into a small house in the village
near, where the Governor supported and protected her till her dying
day."
A Story of Besetting Sins
[Illustration: "Do you remember anything of the sermon?"]
One Sunday, soon after the death of poor Miss Augusta Noble, Mrs.
Fairchild, having a bad cold, could not go to church with the rest of
the family. When the children were come home from church, Mrs.
Fairchild asked Lucy what the sermon was about.
"Mamma," said Lucy, taking her Bible out of her little basket, "I will
show you the text; it is in Heb. xii. 1: 'Let us lay aside every
weight, and the sin which doth so easily beset us.'"
When Mrs. Fairchild had looked at the text, she said:
"And do you remember anything more of the sermon, Lucy?"
"Indeed, mamma," said Lucy, "I did not understand the sermon; it was
all about besetting sins. What are they, mamma?"
"I will explain," said Mrs. Fairchild. "Though our hearts are all
naturally sinful, yet every man is not inclined alike to every kind of
sin. One man, perhaps, is inclined to covetousness, another to swear
and use bad words, another to lie and deceive, another to be angry and
cruel; and that sin which a man feels himself most inclined to is
called his besetting sin."
"Oh! now I know what besetting sins mean," answered Lucy. "Has
everybody a besetting sin, mamma?"
"Yes, my dear," answered Mrs. Fairchild; "we all have, although we do
not all know what they are."
"Have I a besetting sin, mamma?" said Lucy.
"Yes, my dear," said Mrs. Fairchild.
"What is it, mamma?" asked Lucy.
"Can you not tell what fault you fall into oftener than any other?"
said Mrs. Fairchild.
Lucy considered a little, and then answered she did not know.
"I think, my dear," said Mrs. Fairchild, "although it is hard to judge
any other person's heart, that your besetting sin is envy. I think I
have often observed this fault in you. You were envious about Emily's
doll, and about poor Miss Augusta Noble's fine house and clothes and
servants, and about the muslin and ribbon I gave to Emily one day, and
the strawberry your papa gave to Henry; and I have often thought you
showed envy on other occasions."
Lucy looked grave when her mother spoke, and the tears came into her
eyes.
"Mamma," she said, "I am a naughty girl; my heart is full of envy at
times; but I pray that God would take this sin out of my heart; and I
hate myself for it--you don't know how much, mamma."
"My dear child," said Mrs. Fairchild, kissing Lucy, "if you really
grieve for your sins, and call in faith upon the Lord Jesus Christ, you
will surely in God's good time be set free from them. And now, my
dear," added Mrs. Fairchild, "you know what is meant by the sin which
doth so easily beset us; and you understand that every person has some
one besetting sin."
"Yes, mamma," said Lucy, "and you have told me what my own besetting
sin is, and I feel that you have found out the right one. But mamma,
you said that many people do not know their own besetting sins."
"Yes, my dear," answered Mrs. Fairchild. "Careless people do not know
their hearts, and have no idea of their besetting sins; indeed, they
would laugh if you were to speak of such things before them."
Whilst Mrs. Fairchild was speaking these last words, they heard the
dinner-bell ring; so they broke off their talk and went downstairs.
Whilst Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild and all the family were sitting at
dinner, they saw through the window a man on horseback, carrying a
large basket, ride up to the door. Mrs. Fairchild sent John out to see
who this person was; and John presently returned with a letter, and a
haunch of venison packed in a basket.
"Sir," said John, "the man says that he is one of Mr. Crosbie of
London's servants; and that he has brought you a letter with his
master's compliments, and also a haunch of venison."
"Mr. Crosbie's servant!" said Mr. Fairchild, taking the letter and
reading it aloud as follows:
"DEAR MR. FAIRCHILD,
"I and my wife, and my sister Miss Crosbie, and my daughter Betsy,
have been taking a journey for our health this summer. We left
London three months ago, and have been down as far as Yorkshire.
We are now returning home, and have turned a little out of our way
to see you, as it is as much as twelve years since we met; so you
may look for us, no accident happening, to-morrow, a little before
two. We hope to dine with you, and to go on in the evening to the
next town, for our time is short. I have sent a fine haunch of
venison which I bought yesterday from the innkeeper where we
slept; it will be just fit for dressing to-morrow; so I shall be
obliged to Mrs. Fairchild to order her cook to roast it by two
o'clock, which is my dinner-hour. My man Thomas, who brings this
letter, will tell the cook how I like to have my venison dressed;
and he brings a pot of currant jelly, to make sauce, in case you
should have none by you; though I dare say this precaution is not
necessary, as Mrs. Fairchild, no doubt, has all these things by
her. I am not particular about my eating; but I should be obliged
to you if you would have the venison ready by two o'clock, and let
Thomas direct your cook. My wife and sister and daughter Betsy
send best compliments to our old friend, Mrs. Fairchild, and
hoping we shall meet in health to-morrow,
"I remain, dear Mr. Fairchild,
"Your old friend,
"OBADIAH CROSBIE.
"P.S.--You will find the haunch excellent; we dined upon the neck
yesterday, and it was the best I ever tasted."
When Mr. Fairchild had finished the letter, he smiled, and said:
"I shall be very glad to see our old friends, but I am sorry poor Mr.
Crosbie still thinks so much about eating. It always was his besetting
sin, and it seems to have grown stronger upon him as he has got older."
"Who is Mr. Crosbie, papa?" said Lucy.
"Mr. Crosbie, my dear," said Mr. Fairchild, "lives in London. He has a
large fortune which he got in trade. He has given up business some
years, and now lives upon his fortune. When your mamma and I were in
London, twelve years ago, we were at Mr. Crosbie's house, where we
were very kindly treated; therefore we must do the best we can to
receive Mr. and Mrs. Crosbie kindly, and to make them as comfortable as
possible."
When John went to church that same evening, Mr. Fairchild desired him
to tell nurse to come the next day to help Betty, for nurse was a very
good cook; and the next morning Mrs. Fairchild prepared everything to
receive Mr. and Mrs. Crosbie; and Mr. Fairchild invited Mr. Somers, the
clergyman of the parish, to meet them at dinner. When the clock struck
one, Mrs. Fairchild dressed herself and the children, and then went
into a little tea-room, the window of which opened upon a small grass
plot, surrounded by rose-bushes and other flowering shrubs. Mr. Somers
came in a little before two, and sat with Mrs. Fairchild.
When the clock struck two, Mr. Crosbie's family were not come, and Mr.
Fairchild sent Henry to the garden gate to look if he could see the
carriage at a distance. When Henry returned he said that he could see
the carriage, but it was still a good way off.
"I am afraid the venison will be over-roasted," said Mrs. Fairchild,
smiling.
Henry soon after went to the gate, and got there just in time to open
it wide for Mr. Crosbie's carriage. Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild ran out to
receive their friends.
"I am glad to see you once again," said Mr. Crosbie, as he stepped out
of the coach, followed by Mrs. Crosbie, Miss Crosbie, Miss Betsy, and
Mrs. Crosbie's maid.
Mr. Crosbie was a very fat man, with a red face, yet he looked
good-humoured, and had, in his younger days, been handsome. Mrs.
Crosbie was a little thin woman, and there was nothing in her
appearance which pleased Emily and Lucy, though she spoke civilly to
them. Miss Crosbie was as old as her brother, but she did not look so,
for her face was painted red and white; and she and Miss Betsy had
sky-blue hats and tippets, with white feathers, which Lucy and Emily
thought very beautiful.
"Have you any company, Mrs. Fairchild?" said Miss Crosbie, as Mrs.
Fairchild was leading them into the parlour.
"Only one gentleman, Mr. Somers, our rector," said Mrs. Fairchild.
"Oh! then I must not appear in this gown! and my hair, too, is all
rough," said Miss Crosbie; "I must put on another gown; I am quite
frightful to look at!"
"Indeed," said Mrs. Fairchild, "your dress is very nice; there is no
need to trouble yourself to alter it."
"Oh, sister," said Mrs. Crosbie, "don't think of changing your dress;
Mrs. Fairchild's dinner is ready, I dare say."
Miss Crosbie would not be persuaded, but, calling the maid to attend
her, ran upstairs to change her dress: and Mrs. Fairchild sent Lucy
after her. The rest of the company then went into the tea-room, where
they sat round the window, and Mr. Crosbie said:
"What a pretty place you have here, Mr. Fairchild; and a good wife, as
I well know--and these pretty children! You ought to be a happy man."
"And so I am, thank God," said Mr. Fairchild, "as happy as any man in
the world."
"I should have been with you an hour ago," said Mr. Crosbie, "that I
might have walked over your garden before dinner, but for my wife
there."
"What of your wife there?" said Mrs. Crosbie, turning sharply towards
him. "Now mind, Mr. Crosbie, if the venison is over-roasted, don't say
it is my fault."
Mr. Crosbie took out his watch.
"It is now twenty-five minutes past two," said he; "the venison has
been down at the fire twenty-five minutes longer than it should have
been. And did you not keep us an hour waiting this morning, at the inn
where we slept, whilst you quarrelled with the innkeeper and his wife?"
Mrs. Crosbie answered:
"You are always giving people to understand that I am ill-tempered, Mr.
Crosbie; which I think is very unhandsome of you, Mr. Crosbie. There is
not another person in the world who thinks me ill-tempered but you. Ask
Thomas, or my maid, what they know of my temper, and ask your sister,
who has lived with me long enough."
"Why don't you ask _me_ what I think of it, mamma?" said Miss Betsy,
pertly.
"Hold your tongue, miss!" said Mrs. Crosbie.
"Must I not speak?" said Miss Betsy in a low voice, but loud enough for
her mamma to hear her.
When Miss Betsy first came in, Emily admired her very much; for,
besides the sky-blue hat and feather, she had blue satin shoes, and a
very large pair of gold earrings; but when she heard her speak so
boldly to her mother she did not like her so much. By this time John
came to tell the company that dinner was on the table; and Mr. Crosbie
got up, saying:
"The venison smells well--exceedingly well."
"But where is Miss Crosbie?" asked Mr. Fairchild.
"Oh, my aunt thought herself not smart enough to show herself before
Mr. Somers," said Miss Betsy pertly.
"Be silent, miss," said Mrs. Crosbie.
"Don't wait for her, then," said Mr. Crosbie; "let us go in to dinner.
My sister loves a little finery; she would rather lose her dinner than
not be dressed smart; I never wait for her at any meal. Come, come!
Ladies lead the way; I am very hungry."
So Mrs. Fairchild sent Emily to tell Miss Crosbie that dinner was
ready, and the rest of the company sat down to table.
"Mrs. Crosbie," said Mr. Crosbie, looking at the venison, then at his
wife, "the venison is too much roasted; I told you it would be so."
"What! finding fault with me again, Mr. Crosbie?" said Mrs. Crosbie.
"Do you hear Mr. Fairchild finding fault with his wife in this manner?"
"Perhaps the venison is better than you think, Mr. Crosbie," said Mr.
Somers; "let me help you to some. Mr. Fairchild, I know, is not fond of
carving."
Mr. Crosbie thanked Mr. Somers; and Mr. Somers had just begun to cut
the venison, when Mr. Crosbie called out, as if in agony:
"Oh, Mr. Somers, you will spoil the venison! You must not cut it that
way upon any account. Do put the haunch by me, and let me help myself."
"What confusion you are making at the table, Mr. Crosbie!" said Mrs.
Crosbie. "You are putting every dish out of its place! Surely Mr.
Somers knows how to carve as well as you do."
"But papa is afraid Mr. Somers won't give him all the nice bits," said
Miss Betsy.
"Learn to be silent, miss!" said Mr. Crosbie.
Miss Betsy was going to answer her father, when Miss Crosbie came into
the room, newly dressed in a very elegant manner. She came smiling in,
followed by Lucy and Emily, who went to sit at a small table with
Henry.
"Sister," said Mrs. Crosbie, "where was the need of your dressing
again? If we had waited for you, the dinner would have been spoiled."
"But we did not wait for Miss Crosbie, so there was no harm done," said
Mr. Fairchild, smiling.
"My aunt would not lose an opportunity of showing her new-fashioned
gown for the world!" said Miss Betsy.
"Indeed, niece," answered Miss Crosbie, "I do not know why you should
say that I am fond of showing my clothes. I wish to be neat and clean,
but no person cares less than I do about fashions and finery."
"La!" says Miss Betsy, whispering to Mrs. Fairchild "hear my aunt! she
says she does not care about finery! That's like mamma saying how
good-natured she is!"
"Fie, fie, Miss Betsy!" said Mrs. Fairchild, speaking low; "you forget
your respect to your elders."
Miss Betsy coloured, and stared at Mrs. Fairchild. She had not been
used to be found fault with; for she was spoiled by both her parents;
and she felt quite angry.
"Indeed!" she said, "I never was thought disrespectful to anyone
before. Can't I see people's faults? Can't I see that mamma is cross,
and my aunt fond of fine clothes, and that papa loves eating?"
"Hush! hush!" said Mrs. Fairchild, in a low voice; "your papa and mamma
will hear you."
"And I don't care if they do," said Miss Betsy: "they know what I
think."
"What's that you are saying there, Miss Betsy?" said Mr. Crosbie.
"Oh, don't ask, brother," said Miss Crosbie; "I know it is something
saucy, by my niece's looks."
"And why should you suppose I am saying anything saucy, aunt?" said
Miss Betsy; "I am sure you are not accustomed to hear me say saucy
things."
"Miss! Miss! be quiet!" said Mrs. Crosbie; for she was afraid Mr. and
Mrs. Fairchild would think her daughter ill-behaved.
"What, mamma!" answered Miss Betsy, "am I to sit quietly and hear my
aunt find fault with me before company--and for being impertinent, too,
to my elders--as if I were a mere child?"
"Well, well--enough!" said Mr. Crosbie. "What is that pie, Mrs.
Fairchild, in the middle of the table? I must have some, if you
please."
Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild were not sorry when dinner was over, and Mrs.
Crosbie proposed that Mrs. Fairchild should show her the garden.
Accordingly, the ladies and children got up, and left the gentlemen
together; for Mr. Crosbie never stirred for some time after dinner.
When Mrs. Crosbie had got into the garden, and had looked about her,
she said:
"Ah, Mrs. Fairchild, how happy you are! Such a pretty house and
garden!--such a kind husband!--such good children!" Then she sighed,
and gave Mrs. Fairchild to understand that she was not so happy
herself.
After tea, Mr. Crosbie and his family took their leave, and went off to
the next inn upon the London road, where they were to sleep; for Mr.
Crosbie was in haste to be at home, and would not stay, although Mr.
and Mrs. Fairchild begged that they would--at least till the next day.
When they were gone, Mr. Fairchild and Henry took a walk towards the
village with Mr. Somers, whilst the little girls remained at home with
their mother.
"Dear Lucy," said Mrs. Fairchild, as soon as she was alone with her
little girls, "do you remember what we were speaking about yesterday,
before Mr. Crosbie's letter came?"
"Yes, mamma," said Lucy; "we were speaking of besetting sins, and you
said that everybody has a besetting sin, and you told me what you
believed mine to be."
"True, my dear," answered Mrs. Fairchild: "I told you that, without
the help of the Holy Spirit of God, very few people know what their own
besetting sins are. You had an opportunity to-day of observing this:
every individual of our friend Mr. Crosbie's family has a very strong
besetting sin; Mr. Crosbie loves eating; Mrs. Crosbie is ill-tempered;
Miss Crosbie is vain, and fond of finery; and Miss Betsy is very pert
and forward. We can see these faults in them, and they can see them in
each other; but it is plain they do not see them in themselves. Mr.
Crosbie said several times that he was not particular about what he ate
or drank; Mrs. Crosbie said that there was not a person in the world
who thought her ill-tempered but her husband; Miss Crosbie said that
nobody in the world cared less for finery than she did; and Miss Betsy
was quite offended when she was told she was not respectful in her
manners to her elders."
"Oh, yes!" said Emily; "she said, 'I am not saucy; of all faults,
sauciness is not one of my faults, I am sure;' and I thought all the
time she looked as saucy and impertinent as possible."
"And how Mr. Crosbie did eat!" said Lucy; "he ate half the haunch of
venison! And then he was helped twice to pigeon-pie; and then he ate
apple-tart and custard; and then----"
"Well, well! you have said enough, Lucy," said Mrs. Fairchild,
interrupting her. "I do not speak of our poor friends' faults out of
malice, or for the sake of making a mockery of them; but to show you
how people may live in the constant practice of one particular sin
without being at all conscious of it, and perhaps thinking themselves
very good all the time. We are all quick enough, my dear Emily and
Lucy, in finding out other people's faults; but, as I said before, we
are often very blind to our own."
"Mamma," said Lucy, "do you know any prayer about besetting sins?"
"Yes, my dear," answered Mrs. Fairchild; "I have one in my own book of
prayers; and I will copy it out for you to-morrow morning."
So Mrs. Fairchild broke off her conversation with her little girls, and
bade them go and play a little before bedtime.
[Illustration: "_Miss Betsy._"--Page 137.]
A Visit to Mary Bush
[Illustration: The children looked at the kittens]
Not very long after the death of poor Miss Augusta Noble, a note came
from Sir Charles and Lady Noble, inviting Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild to
dinner the next day; but not mentioning the children, as they used to
do when they sent their invitations.
"Poor Lady Noble!" said Mr. Fairchild; "I wish we could give her any
comfort! but we will certainly go."
The next day, when Sir Charles's carriage came for Mr. and Mrs.
Fairchild, they kissed the children, and told them when they had dined,
they might, if they pleased, go with Betty to see old Mary Bush. Mary
Bush was one of the old women who lived at the end of the coppice; and,
being a good woman, Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild were not afraid of trusting
their children with her. The children were very much pleased, and made
haste to get their dinner; after which Lucy packed up a little tea and
sugar, which her mamma had given her, in a basket; and the little
girls, having put on their bonnets and tippets, went into the kitchen
to see if Betty was ready. Betty was tying up a small loaf and a pot of
butter in a clean napkin; and she had put some nice cream into a small
bottle, for which John was cutting a cork.
"Betty, are you ready?" said Henry; "Lucy has got the tea and sugar,
and Emily has got Miss Dolly, and I have got my hat and stick. So come,
Betty, come!"
"But who is to milk the cow?" said John, pretending to look grave;
"Betty must stay to milk the cow at five o'clock."
"No, John!" said the children, all gathering round him; "good John,
will you be so kind as to milk the cow, and let Betty go?"
"Well, I will see about it," said John, putting the cork into the cream
bottle.
"There's a good John!" said Emily.
"I love you, John!" said Henry. "And now, Betty, come, make haste
away."
So the children set out; and they went out across the garden to a
little wicket-gate which Mr. Fairchild had opened towards the coppice,
and came into Henry's favourite Sunday walk. The green trees arched
over their heads; and on each side the pathway was a mossy bank, out of
which sprang such kind of flowers as love shady places--such as the
wood anemone and wild vetch: thrushes and blackbirds were singing
sweetly amongst the branches of the trees.
"This is my walk," said Henry; "and I say it is the prettiest in the
country."
"No, Henry," said Emily; "it is not so pretty as the walk to the hut at
the top of the hill: for there you can look all over the coppice, and
see the birds flying over the tops of the trees."
"Sister," said Lucy, "now you shall carry my basket, and I will have
the doll a little."
"With all my heart," said Emily.
"Why don't you give Miss to me?" said Henry.
"Oh, yes!" said Emily. "Did I not give her to you one day; and did you
not hang her upon a tree in the garden, with a bit of string round her
neck, and say she was a thief?"
"Lucy," said Henry, "let us have a race to that tree which has fallen
down over the path."
So away they ran; and when they got to the tree they sat down upon the
trunk until Betty came up with Emily. On one side of the fallen tree
was a place where the wood had been cut away, and the woodmen had made
themselves a little hut, which they had now left empty. Round this hut
were scattered many dry sticks and chips.
"Master Henry," said Betty, "here are some nice sticks: let us gather a
few together; they will do to make a fire to boil Mary Bush's kettle."
"Oh, yes, Betty," answered the children: and they set to work, and soon
gathered a great many sticks; and Betty tied them together with a piece
of packthread which Henry pulled out of his pocket; then Betty took off
her bonnet, and placed the bundle upon her head. They went on to Mary
Bush's. The children wanted to help to carry the sticks, but Betty
would not let them, saying they were too heavy for them.
"But we can carry the bread and butter," said Lucy; so Betty allowed
them to do it.
When they had walked a little farther, they came in sight of Mary
Bush's house, down in a kind of little valley or dingle, deeply shaded
by trees. In the very deepest part of the dingle was a stream of water
falling from a rock. The light from above fell upon the water as it
flowed, and made it glitter and shine very beautifully among the shady
trees. This was the same which took its course through the Primrose
Meadow, and on towards the village, and so to Brookside Cottage, where
nurse lived--a clear and beautiful stream as could be.
Mary Bush's cottage was so large, that, after the death of her husband,
she had let half of it to one Goodman Grey, who lived in it, with his
old wife Margery, and cultivated the garden, which was a very good one.
John Trueman's wife was Mary Bush's eldest daughter; and Joan, nurse's
son's wife, her youngest; and it was said of them that there were not
two better wives and mothers in the parish: so Mary Bush was very happy
in her children.
When the children and Betty came up to the cottage, they found Mary
Bush spinning at the door.
"We are come to drink tea with you, Mary," said Lucy.
"And we have brought bread and butter, and tea and cream with us," said
Emily.
"And a bundle of sticks," said Henry, "to boil the kettle."
"Welcome, welcome, my little loves," said old Mary, as she got up and
set her spinning-wheel on one side. "Come in, little dears."
Mary had but one room, and a little pantry, but it was a very neat
room; there was a bed in one corner, covered with a clean linen quilt;
there were also a nice oaken dresser, a clock, two arm-chairs, two
three-legged stools, a small round table, a corner cupboard, and some
shelves for plates and dishes. The fireplace and all about it were
always very neat and clean, and in winter you would probably see a
small bright fire on the hearth.
"How does the cat do?" said Henry, looking about for Mary Bush's
cat.
"Oh, here she is, Henry!" said Emily, screaming with joy, "in this
basket under the dresser, with two such beautiful tortoiseshell
kittens! Do look, Lucy--do look, Henry!"
"Miss Lucy," said old Mary, "would you like to have one of the kittens
when it is big enough to leave its mother?"
"Oh, yes, yes! and thank you, Mary," answered Lucy, "if mamma pleases."
When the children had looked at the kittens and kissed them, they went
to visit Margery Grey, and to talk to old Goodman Grey, who was working
in the garden, whilst Betty, in the meantime, and old Mary Bush, set
out the tea-cups, and set the kettle to boil for tea. When the tea was
ready, Betty called the children, and they would make Margery Grey come
and drink tea with them. Henry would have the old man come too.
"No, master," said the old man: "I know my place better."
"Well, then," said Lucy, "I will send you a nice cup of tea, and some
bread-and-butter, into the garden."
I wish you could have seen them all drinking tea at the door of the
cottage, round the little table, the two old women sitting in the
arm-chairs, for Lucy would have them do so, Betty making tea, and the
three children sitting on stools--and how pleased and happy they were.
[Illustration: "_Drinking tea at the door of the cottage, round the
little table._"--Page 149.]