play-room, with Shem, Ham, and Japhet in his hands, and all the birds
and beasts about him.
"Well," said Mrs. Colvin, "I did think he was the quietest boy that I
had ever known, but he has lost a little credit with me now; most boys
are quiet when they are asleep."
Emily stooped down and kissed him, which caused him to wake; but when
he was aroused he looked about him in such a surprised way that all
the little girls laughed heartily, and he looked as if he felt ashamed.
Mrs. Colvin set him to pack up his ark, whilst she showed Emily and
Lucy into a room to dress, saying:
"When you are ready, come to me, that I may see that all is right."
When they were dressed they called Henry, who was yet to be dressed,
and then sought Mrs. Colvin; she, too, was ready, and Miss Darwell was
standing by her.
The little lady, according to the taste of her mother, was set off with
lace on her sleeves and feathers in her hat, and coloured shoes, and
everything which could make a child fine; but her manner was not the
least changed; she only seemed anxious that Lucy and Emily should look
well. Mrs. Colvin turned them about, examining them, and made some
amendment in the tying and pinning.
"Well," she said, "you look very nice; little girls should always
attend to neatness; it is a compliment due to those who care for them;
and now each of you give me a kiss, and we will be off, as I see Henry
is now ready, and Everard is waiting." They all then went down, and
found Everard at the hall-door with the pony-carriage. A boy was
holding a small horse by the carriage. "Now," said Mrs. Colvin, "how is
it to be managed, Miss Darwell? Suppose I walk?"
"No, no!" cried Miss Darwell; "Henry is to ride; I know he will like
it, and Joseph shall walk by him, and you shall sit in front with
Everard, and we little ones will go behind. There is quite room, and it
is a very little way, and it will be so pleasant;" and thus it was
settled, to the immense joy of Henry.
Away they went through one gate and another gate, till they came upon
the green smooth drive which went quite round the park.
"Is not this pleasant?" said Miss Darwell, taking the hand of Lucy and
Emily on each side; "but please first to call Henry, and tell him that
I have settled about the things. I sent a note to Mrs. Fairchild whilst
you were dressing, with a pencil to write yes or no, and she wrote the
right word; so Henry will not have to remind me. Mrs. Colvin always
tells me not to put things off. But now you shall know what we are
going to do. Mamma lets me have a pleasure on my birthday, so I asked
to have all the children in the parish invited to have tea in the park;
and mamma has had tents put up, and we have got music, and the children
are to play, and the old people are to come with the children. I was
only afraid it would not be fine, but it is fine," she added, clapping
her hands in her great delight; "but I would not tell you, that you
might have something to guess about."
They first went up a rising ground, then they came to a grove; then
they passed under the white building which Henry called a temple. Then
they saw a lovely sparkling waterfall; then they came to an open place,
green and smooth; then they came to another grove, and there they found
that they were getting amongst the people, some of whom Henry had seen
going to that place three or four hours before. When country people
have a holiday, they like to make the most of it; and very soon they
saw the tents through the trees.
Henry was first, and he looked back to his sisters as if he would have
said, "These are the white things I saw this morning." There were four
tents; they had pointed tops, but were open on the sides; tables were
spread in each of them, and also under the trees in various places
round about; and there sat several musicians on a bank. The people all
about, men and women and children, were like bees swarming about the
tents. There were parties of young people and children who had been
playing and amusing themselves, but they all stood still when they saw
the carriage coming, and the music struck up a fine merry tune to
welcome the little lady.
There were none of the grand people from the house yet come; those that
were there were chiefly the cottagers, but they had all their very best
dresses on, and all the poor children were dressed exactly alike. They
wore dark blue cotton frocks with white tippets, and aprons, and caps.
There were a few persons present, seated in one of the tents, who were
not among the poor. Henry immediately saw Mrs. Burke and her daughters,
for Mrs. Burke smiled kindly at him; the boys were somewhere among the
people.
But though there were so many, there was no fear that the feast would
run short, for the tables were heaped up with bread and butter and
cakes, and fruit, and tea and sugar, and there were pails of milk
standing under the trees, and more bread, and more fruit, and more of
everything. It was settled that when Miss Darwell came, the feast was
to begin.
"Oh!" cried Lucy, "how pleasant everything looks!"
There was not time for any more to be said, for the carriage was
getting close to the tents; it stopped, and Mrs. Colvin and the young
people alighted.
Miss Darwell was received by many smiling faces; every child looked at
her with innocent delight, and the women murmured, "Bless her sweet
face!" And then orders were given that the feast was to begin, and the
people settled themselves on the grass in small parties.
Mrs. Colvin having given Miss Darwell a hint, she went to speak to Mrs.
Burke, and invited her and her daughters to come and assist in serving
the people, and seeing that everyone had as much as they wished.
Kind Mrs. Burke was the very person to like to be asked to do such a
thing, and the Misses Burke could not be offended when they saw Miss
Darwell as busily engaged as she possibly could be.
"Now," said she to Lucy, and Emily, and Henry, "now you are to come
with me; look at that little party under that oak; there is a very old
woman and two children. There are more people near, but I don't want
you to look at them--come close to them." And they all four walked
towards them.
"Do not stir, do not speak," said Miss Darwell, to the two children and
the old woman; "let Master and the Misses Fairchild see if they
recognise you again."
The little ones under the tree entered into the joke, and sat quite
still. The boy, indeed, laughed and chuckled; but the little girl kept
her countenance. The old woman did not know Mr. Fairchild's children,
so she had no trouble to keep herself from smiling.
All these three were neatly dressed, and their clothes looked quite
new. The boy had a suit of what is called hodden-gray, with a clean
shirt as white as the snow.
"I do not know them," said Lucy.
"But I do," cried Henry.
"And so do I," said Emily; "they are Edward and Jane."
"Yes, Miss," said the two little ones, jumping up.
"And it is all through you," added Edward, "that the good little lady
has done everything for us: and the house is new thatched, and the
walls made as white as paper; and more money given to grandmother; and
me cowboy at Squire Burke's; and Jane in the school--don't Jane look
well in them clothes, sir? Oh, that was a good day when we lighted on
you, Master and Miss!" And the poor boy pulled the front lock of his
hair and bowed I know not how many times.
When every person had as much as was good for them, and a few persons,
perhaps, a little more, orders were given that what remained should be
set in order in the tents for supper; and then the music struck up. And
whilst the elder people were amusing themselves in other places, Miss
Darwell called all the little girls to follow her into a pretty green
glade among the trees, and hidden from the rest of the company.
Mrs. Colvin went with her, for she was never willing that her good
governess should lose sight of her; and Lucy and Emily were equally
anxious for her presence. Henry was the only boy allowed to come.
"Now, Lucy," said Miss Darwell, for she was getting quite fond of her,
"now there is to be some play, but I do not know many games; so you and
Emily must lead. What shall we have?"
"Lucy knows a thousand thousand games!" cried Henry.
After some talking, "Hunt the Hare" was chosen; and Lucy, who was a
particularly quick runner, was chosen for the hare, and everyone was to
follow Lucy in and out wherever she went.
All the children were to stand with joined hands in a circle; Lucy was
to be in the middle. They began with dancing round her, and when they
stopped she was to begin to run, and after ten had been counted, one
other was let loose to follow her, and then the whole pack, as Henry
called them, at a signal given.
Miss Darwell got between Henry and Emily in the circle; Lucy was put
into the midst; and they danced round her, singing, "My leader, my
leader, I will follow my leader wherever she goes!" Then they stood
still, and Lucy began to run out under one pair of hands and in under
another, and back again, and about and about like a needle in a piece
of cloth; and when ten had been counted, Henry was let loose, and then
the sport really began. They expected he would have caught her
immediately; he was as quick as ever his little legs would allow, and
as true to all her windings as the thread is to those of the needle.
But when he was following Lucy the last time through the middle of the
circle, he gave the signal for the whole party to loose hands and
follow him, and away they all went. But they could not get on for
laughing, for Lucy had as many pranks as Harlequin himself, so that
several of the children, and amongst these Miss Darwell herself, fairly
stood still to laugh.
This game lasted for some time. Then came "Puss in the Corner"; and
then, as Mrs. Colvin thought there had been strong exercise enough, the
evening being very hot, she made all the children sit down, and asked
who could tell a story.
"Lucy can," said Emily; and Lucy then, without hesitation, told the
story of "Edwy and the Echo," by the particular desire of Miss Darwell.
Lucy had one particularly pleasing quality, which arose in some degree
from the habit of quick obedience in which she had been brought up;
this was, that when, in company, desired by a proper person to do
anything she could to make herself agreeable, she immediately tried;
and when Mrs. Colvin had said, "If you can tell the story, Miss Lucy,
do favour us with it," she took her place, and did it as easily as if
Emily and Henry only had been by. Emily had the same wish to make
herself pleasant as Lucy had, but she was naturally more shy. Everybody
was so pleased with Lucy's story that she told another, and that was
the story of "Margot and the Golden Fish," which delighted everyone,
and was a useful story to the poor children.
But now the sun was beginning to dip its golden disc below the hills,
and the sound was heard of carriages. Mr. and Mrs. Darwell, and those
who had dined with them, were come up into the park.
Mrs. Colvin called on all the village children to put themselves in the
neatest order, and to take their places two and two, she herself
arranging Lucy and Emily and Miss Darwell in their bonnets and tippets;
and then walked with her train to join the company.
A great number of fine ladies and gentlemen were in the midst and
within the tents, and there were Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild.
Mrs. Darwell spoke civilly, but very coldly, to Lucy and Emily. Mr.
Darwell spoke kindly. The ladies and gentlemen had a great deal to say
to Miss Darwell, but she was become very reserved among so many
strangers, and seemed to cling close to Mrs. Colvin.
The village people were then offered more refreshments, and as they
could not take much, everything that was left was ordered to be given
amongst them; but none of them had gone, when all who had come from the
house returned to it.
"I am very sorry you are going, dear Lucy and Emily and Henry," said
Miss Darwell; "I have had the happiest day I ever had in my life. I
thought I should like you, but I did not know how very much it would
be."
The little girls then kissed each other, and Mrs. Colvin gave them a
note for their mother.
"This," she said, "is to tell Mrs. Fairchild, that I care not how often
you and Miss Darwell meet. I can add no more to that."
The children were to go home with their father and mother; and if they
loved Miss Darwell much already, they loved her more for her kindness
when they saw three large brown paper parcels under the seat of the
little carriage.
They had a sweet drive home, though they had not time to tell all that
had happened to their mother till the next day; but their parents knew,
from Mrs. Colvin's note, as soon as they got home, that their children
had behaved very well.
[Illustration: "_In their neatest morning dresses._"--Page 383.]
Grandmamma Fairchild
[Illustration: "Will Lucy love me?" said the old lady]
After this very pleasant day at the park, and long before Lucy and
Emily had left off talking about it, a note came from Miss Darwell, to
say that they were all going to the sea, for which she was sorry,
because she wanted to see them all again.
Lucy answered the note, and said that she and Emily were also very,
very sorry; and this they truly were. Several weeks then passed, and
nothing particular happened, till a letter came from their grandmamma,
saying that her grand-daughter was very ill, and much desired to see
her uncle. "Indeed," added the old lady, "I feel that I shall be
required to give up my Ellen also; but God does all things well."
The letter came at breakfast-time, and Mr. Fairchild resolved to set
out as soon as he possibly could get ready. There was a great bustle
for the next hour, and then Mr. Fairchild took leave of his family, and
was driven by John to the town--he was to go on from thence by the
coach.
The children stood to see them off, and then walked back into the
house. Their mother told them to take their needlework and sit down in
the parlour; and she gave Henry a book to read whilst she was busy in
another part of the house. It was a very hot day, the window was open,
and all was still--even the children did not speak for some time; at
last Lucy said:
"I hope poor cousin Ellen will not die. What will grandmamma do if she
dies?"
"If she did not live so far off," said Emily, "perhaps we might comfort
her."
"I never remember seeing her but twice," said Lucy, "and you never saw
her, Henry."
They went on talking about their grandmother till Mrs. Fairchild came
in and sat down with them, and they still went on with the subject,
asking her many questions, especially wherefore their grandmother had
come so seldom to see them, and why they had not been asked to see her.
From one thing to another they went on till they heard a much more
regular account of the history of their family than they had ever heard
before.
"When I first knew your father's family, my dears," said Mrs.
Fairchild, "your grandmother was living in Reading with two sons: the
elder brother soon afterwards went to the East Indies, where he married
and had several children. Your father was intended to have been a
clergyman, but before he could be ordained he was attacked with an
illness, which finished with such a weakness in the chest, that he knew
he could never read the Service without danger. We had enough to live
on, and we settled here, and here you were all born."
"Yes," said Lucy, "and we love this dear place. We shall never like
another so well; it would grieve me to leave it."
"We must take things as they come," said Mrs. Fairchild, going on with
her history. "Your uncle was abroad several years, and was enabled to
make a very good fortune. Whilst you were a very little baby, Lucy, he
returned to England, and then purchased that place where your
grandmamma now lives, a place known by the name of The Grove, between
Reading and London, on the banks of the Thames. His wife had died
abroad, and several children also in infancy. He brought with him two
little girls, of five and six years of age, Emily and Ellen; and they
were lovely little creatures then," said Mrs. Fairchild; "their very
paleness making them only look the more lovely. When I saw that sweet
little Emily, I resolved, that if ever I had another girl, it should be
an Emily.
"My nieces lost their father only one year after they came to England,
and then their grandmother settled herself quite down to give all her
attention to them; and truly, from the extreme delicacy of their
health, they needed all the care that she could give them. From the
very earliest period of their lives they were invariably gentle,
humble, and attentive to the comfort of every person who came near to
them."
"Were not they like Miss Darwell?" said Henry, who had dropped his
book, and was listening with all his attention.
"I think they were, Henry," replied Mrs. Fairchild; "and their outward
circumstances were much alike--they were, like her, the daughters of a
rich man, and brought up very tenderly. It was about four years since,"
she continued, "that your lovely cousin Emily died of a rapid decline.
A little before her death, seeing her sister weeping bitterly, she
said, 'Do not cry, gentle sister, we shall not be parted long.' Ellen
never forgot those words, though it was not till some time afterwards
that she reminded your grandmamma of them."
"And do you think she will now die, mamma, and go to her Emily?" said
Lucy.
"I cannot say," replied Mrs. Fairchild; "but she has certainly been
gradually falling off ever since she lost her sister."
Mr. Fairchild wrote every day; his accounts from the first were bad;
they became worse and worse as to the hopes respecting the poor young
lady, and her grandmother's anxiety. At last a letter came to say that
she was dead, but had died in great peace.
The children cried very much, but more for their grandmother than for
their cousin; for they had not a doubt that she was happy. Then, too,
Lucy and Emily began to think how they could make up the loss to the
old lady, if she would but come and live with them; and then they began
to plan what rooms she could have, and were a little puzzled because
the house was very small; yet Lucy said she thought it might be
contrived.
The next letter from Mr. Fairchild said that he had persuaded his
mother to leave The Grove for a few weeks; and that she was to set out
the next day with her maid, whilst he remained to settle everything.
The old lady was expected to come the day after the next, as she would
sleep on the road; and there was much to be done to get everything
ready, and to see after mourning.
Lucy and Emily had many plans for comforting their grandmother; and as
the old lady was used to be wheeled about in a Bath-chair, John was
sent to the Park to borrow one which had belonged to Sir Charles
Noble's mother.
The elder Mrs. Fairchild was old, and had long been affected by
lameness, which prevented her from walking with ease; and this her
daughter-in-law knew. There was nothing she would not have done to make
her comfortable. Henry cheerfully gave up his room for the maid, and
had a little bed put up for him in the play-room. He had settled that
he was to be his grandmother's horse as soon as he saw the Bath-chair.
The children had not known much of their cousins; they had been at
their grandmother's only once since they could remember, for the very
bad health of their cousins had prevented their going with their father
when he went to see his mother; they could not therefore feel for their
cousins as if they had known them well, but they thought very much of
their grandmother's loss.
Mrs. Fairchild had settled that the old lady was to have the use of
their little drawing-room, and no one but herself was to go to her in
that room unless she wished it; and she told the children they must
expect her to be very sad indeed till after the funeral, and that they
must be very quiet, and not come in her sight unless she desired it.
She was not expected until the evening of the third day after they had
heard she was coming; and then Henry went up to the top of the round
hill to watch for the carriage, and to be the first to give notice of
it.
It was not far from six o'clock when he first saw it coming down the
hill towards the village, and he was not sure of it for some time; he
then ran in, and went up with Lucy and Emily to their window to wait
till it came.
After a while they heard the sound of it; then they saw John go to the
gate and set it open; then they drew back a little, not to be seen, and
came forward when the carriage stopped, but they did not see the old
lady get out. Mrs. Fairchild was below to receive her, and to lead her
into the house: but they saw the maid busy in seeing the things taken
out of the carriage, and they heard her giving her orders. This maid
was not the same who had for years waited on the old lady, but one who
had taken the place whilst the old waiting-maid stayed behind to take
care of the house. This new maid called herself Miss Tilney: her
mistress called her Jane, but no one else took that liberty. She was
dressed as smartly as she could be in deep mourning; and she gave
orders in such a sharp tone that the children could hear every word she
said.
She called Betty "young woman," and bade her carry up some of the
parcels to her lady's room. She asked John his name; and told the
postboy he was not worth his salt.
"Well," said Henry, "there will be no need for my making a noise to
disturb grandmamma; that woman would make enough for us all."
"That woman!" cried Emily; "don't speak so loud, she will hear you."
In a few minutes the boxes were all removed, and the carriage driven
away; and then the children heard the maid's voice talking to Betty in
the next room, which was the only spare room in the house. They heard
her say, "Well, to be sure, but our rooms at The Grove are so large,
that one is not used to such bandboxes as these."
"I am sure," said Henry, "the room is good enough for her:" and he was
going to say more, when his sisters stopped him, and begged him not to
listen. "I don't listen," he answered; "I hear without listening."
They were interrupted by Mrs. Fairchild, who came to tell them that
their grandmother had asked for them. Mrs. Fairchild walked first, and
opened the drawing-room door; there they saw their grandmother. She was
a neat little old lady in black, exactly such as they fancied Mrs.
Howard had been. She was seated, and looked very pale. At the sight of
them she became paler than before; she held out her hands to them, and
they all three rushed into her arms.
"My children, my precious children!" said the old lady, kissing one and
another as they pressed forward.
"We will be your own grandchildren," said Lucy; "we will comfort you
and read to you, and do everything for you. Do not be unhappy, dear
grandmamma, we will all be your own children."
The old lady was scarcely able to speak, but she murmured to herself:
"Yes, my God is good, I am not left without comfort."
"Stand back, my dears," said Mrs. Fairchild, "and let your grandmamma
look at you quietly--you overpower her."
They drew back. The old lady wiped away a tear or two which dimmed her
sight, and then, with a gentle smile, she looked first at Lucy.
"She has the oval face and gentle look so dear to me," said the old
lady; "this is Lucy. Will Lucy love me?"
The little girl, being thus called upon, fell again on grandmamma's
neck, and quite sobbed with feeling; she soon, however, recovered
herself, and pointing to her sister:
"This is Emily, grandmamma," she said.
"Another Emily!" replied the old lady, "I am rich indeed!" and, fixing
her eyes on the younger little girl, "I could almost think I had my
child again. Daughter," she added, speaking to Mrs. Fairchild, "do my
eyes deceive me? Is there not a likeness? But your little girls are
such exactly as I fondly wished them to be. And this is Henry, our
youngest one;" and she took his hand in hers, and said, "Did you expect
to see grandmamma looking so very old, my little man?"
"No, ma'am," replied Henry, "not quite so old;" and the little boy made
a bow, thinking how very civil he ought to be to his own father's
mother.
"He does not mean to be rude, ma'am," said Lucy.
"I see it, my dear," replied the old lady, smiling. "Do not, I pray
you, say anything to destroy his honesty--the world will soon enough
teach him to use deception."
Henry did not understand all this, but fearing, perhaps, to lose his
place as grandmamma's horse, he took the occasion to ask if he might
not be her horse.
"What is it, my child?" said the old lady.
"May I be your horse, ma'am?" he said.
"My horse?" repeated the old lady, looking for an explanation from
Lucy; and when she had got it, she made him quite happy by assuring him
that no horse could please her better.
She did not drink tea that evening with the family, and went very early
to bed; but having seen them all that evening, she was ready to meet
them more calmly in the morning, and quite prepared to rejoice in the
blessing of having such grandchildren to make up her losses.
Great Changes
[Illustration: "Here, ma'am, you can gather any you like"]
Henry arose the next morning as soon as he heard the step of John in
the garden, and was very soon with him, asking him what he could do to
help him. Henry loved to help John.
John did not answer in his own cheerful way, but said:
"I don't know, Master Henry; it can't much matter now, I reckon, what
we do, or what we leave undone."
"Why, John?" said Henry.
"You will know soon enough," John answered, "but it shan't be from me
you shall learn it. I suppose, however," he added, "that we must get
the peas for dinner; folks must eat, though the world should come to an
end next Michaelmas."
"What is the matter, John?" said Henry; "I am sure something is."
"Well," replied John, "if there is nothing else, is it not enough to
have that lady's-maid there in the kitchen finding fault with
everything, and laying down the law, and telling me to my face that I
don't understand so much as to graff a tree?"
"Who says so, John?" asked Henry.
"Why, my lady's maid," replied John; "that Miss Tilney or Tolney, or
some such name, as is written as large as life on her boxes. As to the
old lady, she has a good right to come here, but she did very wrong to
bring that woman with her, to disturb an orderly family. Why, Master
Henry, she makes ten times the jabbering Mag does."
"I wish, then, she would fly away over the barn," said Henry, "as Mag
did."
"We would none of us go after her," replied John, "to bring her back;
but I am a fool," added the honest man; "here have I lived ever since
master came here, and most of these trees did I plant and graff with my
own hands, and made the sparrow-grass beds and all, and now this woman
is to come with her nonsense, and turn everything topsy-turvy."
Henry was quite puzzled; he saw that John was vexed, and he knew that
the words topsy-turvy meant upside-down; but he could not understand
how the lady's-maid could turn the roots of the trees up in the air. He
was going to ask an explanation, when a very shrill voice was heard
screaming, "Mr. John, Mr. John!"
"There again!" cried John, "even the garden can't be clear of
her--there, Master Henry, put down the basket and be off, she is no
company for you. If you see her, and she asks for me, tell her I am
gone to clean the pig-sty; she will not follow me there." So off ran
John one way, and Henry another.
But Henry was not so lucky in his flight as John was; he ran into a
narrow walk enclosed on each side with filberts, and before he was
aware came quite opposite to the lady's-maid. He thought she looked
very fine--quite a lady herself; and he stopped short, and wished her
good-morning. Had she been the poorest person he would have done the
same, for his parents had taken great pains to make him civil to
everyone.
"Master Fairchild, I presume," cried the maid. "A charming morning,
sir. I was looking for Mr. John, to ask him if he would please to
select some flowers to arrange in my mistress's room: she always has
flowers in her dressing-room at The Grove."
"John," said Henry, "is gone to clean the pig-sty."
The lady's-maid drew up her lip, and looked disgusted.
"Faugh!" said she, "I shall not think of troubling _him_ to cull the
flowers."
"Shall I get some for grandmamma?" asked Henry.
She thanked him for his politeness, and accepted his offer.
The little boy walked before her to where there was a bit of raised
ground covered with rose-bushes.
"There, ma'am," he said, "you can gather any you like."
"Upon my word, Master Fairchild, you are uncommon polite," she said; "I
shall tell our people at home what a handsome genteel young gentleman
you are. They will be so desirous to know all about you--and not at all
high and proud neither, though you have such great prospects."
"What do you mean by great prospects, ma'am?" asked Henry; "I do not
understand you."
"That is your humility, Master Fairchild," said the maid; "to be sure,
this place is but small, and I wonder how you could have managed in it
so long, but it is neat and very genteel; yet, when you have seen The
Grove, you will think nothing of this little box here."
"What box?" asked Henry.
"This house, Master Fairchild," she answered; "you might put the whole
place into the hall at The Grove."
"What an immense hall!" said Henry in amazement.
"Poor Betty, as I tell her," said the maid, "will be quite out of her
place amongst so many servants; she can't bear to hear it talked of."
"What talked of?" answered Henry. "But please not to gather the
rose-buds; mamma does not like them to be gathered."
"To be sure, Master Fairchild," said the maid, "and that is just right.
In a small garden like this one should be particular; yet, at The
Grove, a few rose-buds would never be missed. But you are a very good
young gentleman to be so attentive to your dear mamma; I am sure I
shall delight our people by the account I shall have to give when I go
back; and I am to go back when Mrs. Johnson comes, and that will be in
a few days. I shall tell them there that you are not only very good,
but vastly genteel, and so like pretty Miss Ellen--and she was quite a
beauty--dear young lady! You will see her picture as large as life in
the drawing-room at The Grove, Master Fairchild."
Henry did not understand one-half of what the maid said to him, and was
very glad when he heard the step of someone coming round the little
mound of rose-bushes. It was Emily's step; she came to call him to
breakfast; she was dressed with a clean white pinafore, and her hair
hung about her face in soft ringlets; she looked grave, but, in her
usual way, mild and gentle.
When she saw the maid, she, too, said, "Good-morning."
"That young lady is your sister, no doubt, Master Fairchild," said the
maid.
"It is Emily," said Henry.
"I should have known the sweet young lady anywhere," she answered; "so
like the family, so pretty and so genteel. Miss Emily, I wish you
health to enjoy your new place."
Emily was as much puzzled as Henry had been with Miss Tilney's
speeches. She said, "Thank you, ma'am," however, and walked away with
Henry.
Their grandmother had slept later than usual; she had not rested well
in the early part of the night, and had fallen asleep after the rest of
the family were gone down.
She was not, therefore, present in the parlour; and when Henry came in,
and had gotten his breath--for he and Emily had run to the house--he
began to repeat some of the things which the maid had said to him, and
to ask what they meant. Emily also repeated her speech to herself; and
Lucy looked to her mother to explain these strange things.
"Cannot you guess, my children?" said Mrs. Fairchild, rather changing
countenance; "but I had hoped that for a few days this business might
not be explained to you. Our servants would not have told you, but I
see that others will, so perhaps it is best that you should hear it
now."
"What is it, mamma?" said all three at once; "nothing bad, we hope."
"Not bad," replied Mrs. Fairchild, "though it is what I and your dear
papa had never wished for."
"Oh, do tell us!" said Lucy, trembling.
Mrs. Fairchild then told them that, by the death of their poor cousin,
their father had come into the possession of the house and estate at
The Grove, and, in fact, the whole of his late brother's fortune.
The children could not at first understand this, but when they did,
they were much excited.
Their mother, after a while, told them that it would probably be
necessary for them to leave that dear place, and go to The Grove, their
grandmamma wishing to be always with them, and having her own
comfortable rooms at The Grove.
Lucy and Emily began to shed tears on hearing of this, but they said
nothing at that time.
Henry said:
"But John, mamma, and Betty--what can we do without them?"
"Can't they go with us, my dear?" said Mrs. Fairchild.
"And John Trueman, and nurse, and Mary Bush, and Margery,
and--and--and----" added Henry, not being able to get out any more
names in his impatience.
"And the school!" said Emily.
"We do not live in the same house with these persons last mentioned,"
answered Mrs. Fairchild, "and therefore they would not miss us as those
would do with whom we may reside; we must help them at a distance. If
you, Lucy and Emily, have more money given you now, you must save it
for these poor dear people. Kind Mrs. Burke will divide it amongst them
as they want it; and she will look after the school."
"Oh, Emily!" said Lucy, "we will save all we can."
Emily could not speak, but she put her hand in Lucy's, and Lucy knew
what that meant.
Who could think of lessons such a day as this? As soon as breakfast was
over, Henry ran to talk to John about all that he heard: and Lucy and
Emily, with their mother's leave, went out into the air to recover
themselves before they appeared in the presence of their grandmother.
They were afraid of meeting the maid, so they went up to the top of the
round hill, and seated themselves in the shade of the beech-trees.
For a little while they looked about them, particularly down on the
house and garden and the pleasant fields around them, every corner of
which they knew as well as children always know every nook in the
place in which they have spent their early days. They were both
shedding tears, and yet trying to hide them from each other. Lucy was
the first who spoke.
"Oh, Emily!" she said, "I cannot bear to think of leaving this dear
home. Can we ever be so happy again as we have been here?"
The little girls were silent again for some minutes, and then Lucy went
on:
"Oh, Emily! how many things I am thinking of! There--don't you see the
little path winding through the wood to the hut? How many happy
evenings we have had in that hut! Shall we ever have another? And there
is the way to Mary Bush's."
"Do you remember the walk we had there with Betty a long time ago?"
said Emily.
"Ah! I can remember, still longer ago, when you were very little, and
Henry almost a baby," said Lucy, "papa carrying us over the field there
to nurse's, and getting flowers for us."
"I should like," she added, "to live in this place, and all of us
together, just as we are now, a hundred years."
"I feel we shall never come back if we go away," said Emily.
"We shall never come back and be what we have been," replied Lucy;
"that time is gone, I know. This is our last summer in this happy
place. Oh, if I had known it when we were reading Henry's story at the
hut, how very sad I should have been!"
"I cannot help crying," said Emily; "and I must not cry before our poor
grandmamma."
"These things which are happening," said Lucy, "make me think of what
mamma has often said, that it seldom happens that many years pass
without troubles and changes. I never could understand them before, but
I do now."
"Because," added Emily, "we have lived such a very, very long time just
in the same way."
The two little girls sat talking until they both became more calm; but
they had left off talking of their own feelings some time before they
left the hill, and began to speak of their grandmother; and they tried
to put away their own little griefs, as far as they could, that they
might comfort her. With these good thoughts in their minds, they came
down the hill and returned to the house.
[Illustration: "_It was Emily's step._"--Page 411.]
Grandmamma and the Children
[Illustration: Grandmamma was very much pleased with Lucy's stories]
"I don't care so much now," said Henry, meeting them at the door; "John
says he will go with us, if it is to the world's end, or as far as the
moon; and Betty says she will go too; and we can take the horse and
Mag--so we shall do. But grandmamma is up and has had her breakfast,
and we have got the Bath-chair ready, and she says that she will let us
draw her round the garden; and I am to pull, and John says he will come
and push, if the lady's-maid is not there too. He says that the worst
thing about going with us, is that lady's-maid; and he hopes, for that
reason, that the house will be very large."
Lucy and Emily ran to their grandmother; she was in the drawing-room;
she kissed and blessed them, and looked at them with tears in her eyes.
"Grandmamma," said Lucy, "we have thought about it, and we will go with
you to The Grove, and be your own children; only we would like you best
to stay here."
"My own sweet children," replied the old lady, "we will refer all
these things to your papa and mamma. I am too old, and you are too
young, to manage worldly matters; so we will leave these cares to those
who are neither so young nor so old; God will guide them, I know, to
what is best."
"Come, grandmamma," said Henry, putting his head only into the room,
"the carriage is ready."
"And so am I," said the old lady, and she stepped out into the passage,
and was soon in her Bath-chair.
John was ready to push, but seeing the maid come out to take her place
behind the chair, he walked away without a word.
Miss Tilney, as she called herself, had not much to say before her
mistress, so that she did not disturb the little party.
They did not go beyond the garden, but stopped often in shady places,
where one of the children sat at their grandmother's feet, and the
others on the grass.
The old lady seemed sometimes to have difficulty to be cheerful. She
was often thinking, no doubt, of what was going on at The Grove, for
the funeral was not over. She could not yet speak of the children she
had lost.
Lucy guessed what made her sad, and for some minutes she was thinking
what she could say to amuse her; she thought of several subjects to
speak about; and, young as she was, settled in her own mind she must
not speak of anything sad. At last she thought of what she would say,
and she began by asking her if she saw a high piece of ground covered
with trees at some distance.
"I do, my dear," replied the old lady.
"Would you like to hear about an old house which is beyond that wood?"
The grandmother was not so desirous of hearing about the old house, as
she was to hear how her little grand-daughter could talk. By the words
of children we may learn a great deal of their characters, and how they
have been taught; and so she begged Lucy to tell her about this old
house.
It was Mrs. Goodriche's house that Lucy meant: and she began by telling
what sort of a house it was; and who lived in it now; and what a kind
lady she was; and how they went often to see her; and what pretty
stories she could tell them, particularly about Mrs. Howard.
"Mrs. Howard!" repeated old Mrs. Fairchild, "I have heard of her; I
knew the family of the Symondses well. Do, Lucy, tell me all you know
about that good lady."
How pleasant it was to Lucy to think that she had found out the very
thing to amuse her grandmother; and she went on, and on, until, with a
word or two now and then from Emily, she had told the two stories of
Mrs. Howard, and told them very prettily and straightforward--not as
Henry would have done, with the wrong end foremost, but right forward,
and everything in its place. Mrs. Fairchild had always accustomed her
little girls to give accounts of any books they read; and Lucy had
always been particularly clever in doing this exercise well.
Grandmamma was very much pleased with Lucy's stories--pleased every
way; and it might be seen that she was so by her often asking her to go
on.
The maid was also much amused, and when Lucy had told all, she said to
her mistress:
"Indeed, ma'am, Miss Lucy is a most charming young lady, as agreeable
as she is pretty, and I am sure you have the greatest reason to be
proud of her; and, indeed, of the other young lady, too, Miss Emily;
and Master Fairchild himself, he does honour to his family."
"None of this, Tilney, I beg," said the old lady; "I rejoice in what I
see of these dear children, and I thank God on their account; but we
must not flatter them. I thank my Lucy for her stories, and her wishes
to amuse poor grandmamma; and I thank my gentle Emily for the help she
has given; but as to little boys in pinafores doing honour to their
families, you must know that is quite out of the question. It is enough
for me to say that I love my little boy, and that I find him very kind,
and that I think his dear papa and mamma have, so far, brought him up
well."
About noon the little party went into the house: the old lady lay down
to read, and the rest went to their own rooms. They met again at
dinner, and at tea; then came another airing; and they finished the day
with reading the Bible and prayers.
Several days passed much in the same way, till Mr. Fairchild returned.
He brought grandmamma's own servant with him; and Miss Tilney, to the
great joy of John and Betty, went the next day.
Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild had much business to do, for it was settled that
they were all to move to The Grove in the autumn; but the old lady,
having her own maid with her, and having become very fond of the
children, did not depend on her son and daughter for amusement.
After Mr. Fairchild returned, she went out much farther in the
Bath-chair, and was drawn to many of the places loved by the children.
That summer was one of the finest ever known in the country, and many
were the hours spent by the little party about the Bath-chair, in the
shade of the woods.
At these times grandmamma would often speak of the children she had
lost, and of the happy years which she had spent with them. How very
pleasant good and cheerful old people are! They are pleasanter than
young ones, because they have seen so much, and have so many old
stories to tell. Grandmamma remembered the time when ladies wore large
hoops and long ruffles and lappets, and when gentlemen's coats were
trimmed with gold lace. She could tell of persons who had been born
above a hundred years ago, persons she had herself seen and talked to;
and her way of talking was not like that of many grown-up people who
make children covetous and envious. That was not grandmamma's way; she
was like the eagle in the fable, always trying to encourage her eaglets
to fly upwards; and she did this so pleasantly that her grandchildren
were never tired of hearing her talk. One of grandmamma's stories is so
interesting that we will relate it in this place.
[Illustration: "_A hundred years ago._"--Page 455.]
Grandmamma's History of Evelyn Vaughan. Part I.
[Illustration: To teach little Francis his letters]
"Will it not sound very strange to you, my dear children," said old
Mrs. Fairchild, "to hear me talk of people, whom I knew very well, who
were born one hundred years or more ago? But when you know that I can
remember many things which happened seventy years ago, and that I then
knew several people who were more than seventy years old--even Henry
will be able to make out more than a hundred years since the time that
they were born."
"Stop, grandmamma," said Henry, "and I will do the sum in the sand."
Henry then took a stick and wrote 70 on the ground.
"Now add to that another seventy, and cast it up, my boy," said
grandmamma.
"It comes," cried Henry, "to a hundred and forty; only think,
grandmamma, you can remember people who were born a hundred and forty
years ago: how wonderful!"
"And the odd years are not counted," remarked Emily: "perhaps if we
were to count them they might come up to a hundred and fifty."
"Very likely, my dears," said the old lady; "so do you all sit still,
and I will begin my story.
"One hundred and, we will say, forty years ago, there resided near the
town of Reading, in which I was born, a very wealthy family, descended
from the nobility, though through a younger son.
"There are some reasons why I shall not mention the real name, or
rather the first name of the family, for it had two; I will therefore
give the second, which was Vaughan. They had many houses and fine
lands, amongst which was The Grove, the place which we have now.
"The Mrs. Vaughan who was married one hundred and forty years ago was a
very particular woman, and insisted on abandoning all her pleasant
places in the country, and residing in a very dull and dismal
old-fashioned place just at the end of one of the streets at Reading. I
shall tell you more about that place by-and-by.
"This lady had four daughters before she had a son; not one of these
daughters ever married. They were reared in the greatest pride, and no
one was found good enough to marry them. There was Mistress Anne, and
Mistress Catherine, and Mistress Elizabeth, and Mistress Jane, for in
these old days the title of Miss was not often used.
"After many years, Mrs. Vaughan added a son to her family, and soon
afterwards became a widow.
"This son lived many years unmarried, and was what you, my children,
would call an old man, when he took a young and noble wife. The
daughter and only child of this Mr. Vaughan was about my age, and she
is the person whose history I am going to tell you.
"There is a picture of her at The Grove in the room in which your dear
cousins spent many of their early days. It is drawn at full length, and
is as large as life. It represents a child, of maybe five years of
age, in a white frock, placing a garland on the head of a lamb; behind
the child, an old-fashioned garden is represented, and a distant view
of The Grove house in which she was born."
"But, grandmamma," said Henry, "you have not told us that little girl's
name."
"Her name was Evelyn," answered the old lady; "the only person I ever
knew with that name."
"But it is a pretty one," remarked Lucy.
"There were a great many people to make a great bustle about little
Evelyn, when she came: there were her own mother and her father, and
there were the four proud aunts, and many servants and other persons
under the family, for it was known that if no more children were born,
Evelyn would have all her father's lands, and houses, and parks, and
all her mother's and aunts' money and jewels.
"But, with all these great expectations, Evelyn's life began with
sorrow. Her mother died before she could speak, and her father also,
very soon after he had caused her picture to be drawn with the lamb."
"Poor little girl!" said Lucy; "all her riches could not buy her
another papa and mamma. But what became of her then, grandmamma?"
"She was taken," added the old lady, "to live under the care of her
aunts, at the curious old house I spoke of as being close at the end of
the town of Reading; and she desired to bring nothing with her but the
pet lamb, which, by this time, was getting on to be as big as a sheep,
though it still knew her, and would eat out of her hand, and would
frisk about her.
"The four Mistresses Vaughan were at the very head and top of formal
and fashionable people. As far as ever I knew them, and I knew them
very well at one time, they were all form, and ceremony, and outside
show, in whatever they did, until they were far, very far advanced in
years, and had been made, through many losses and sorrows, to feel the
emptiness of all worldly things. But I have reason to hope that the
eyes of some of them were then opened to think and hope for better
things than this life can give; but I shall speak of them as they were
when Evelyn was under their care, and when I was acquainted well with
them.
"The entrance to the house where they lived was through heavy stone
gates, which have long since been removed; and along an avenue formed
by double rows of trees, many of which are now gone.
"I have often, when a little child, been taken by my nurse to walk in
that avenue; and I thought it so very long, that had I not seen it
since, I could have fancied it was miles in length."
"That is just like me, grandmamma," said Henry; "when I was a little
boy, I used to think that the walk through Mary Bush's wood was miles
and miles long."
"And so did I," added Emily; and then the story went on.
"At the farthest end of this avenue," continued grandmamma, "the ground
began to slope downwards, and then the house began to appear, but so
hidden by tall dark cypress-trees, and hedges, and _walls_, I may call
them, of yew and box and hornbeam, all cut in curious forms and shapes,
that one could only here and there see a gable, or a window, or door,
but in no place the whole of the front. The house had been built many,
many years before, and it was a curious wild place both within and
without, though immensely large. The way up to the door of the
principal hall was by a double flight of stone steps, surmounted with
huge carved balustrades. Nothing could, however, be seen from any
window of the house but trees; those which were near being cut into
all sorts of unnatural forms, and those which were beyond the garden
growing so thickly as entirely to shut out the rays of the sun from the
ground below."
"I should like to see that place, grandmamma," said Lucy.
"You would see little, my child," replied the old lady, "of what it was
seventy years ago. I am told that it is altogether changed. But if the
place was gloomy and stiff without, it was worse within, where the four
old ladies ordered and arranged everything. I can tell you how they
passed their days. They all breakfasted either in their own
dressing-rooms or in bed, being waited upon by their own maids."
"Why did they do that, grandmamma?" asked Henry.
"I will tell you, my dear," answered the old lady. "At that time, when
I was a little girl, and knew those ladies, people dressed in that
stiff troublesome way which you may have seen in old pictures.
"The ladies wore, in the first place, very stiff stays; and those who
thought much of being smart, had them laced as tight as they could well
bear. Added to these stays, they wore hoops or petticoats well
stiffened with whalebone. Some of these hoops were of the form of a
bell with the mouth downwards--these were the least ugly; others were
made to stand out on each side from the waist, I am afraid to say how
far; but those made for grand occasions were nearly as wide as your arm
would be, if it were extended on one side as far as it would go. Over
these hoops came the petticoats and gowns, which were made of the
richest silk--for a gown in those days would have cost thirty or forty
pounds. Then there was always a petticoat and a train; and these, in
full dress, were trimmed with the same silk in plaits and flounces,
pinked and puckered, and I know not what else. The sleeves were made
short and tight, with long lace trebled ruffles at the elbows; and
there were peaked stomachers pinned with immense care to the peaked
whalebone stays. It was quite a business to put on these dresses, and
must have been quite a pain to walk in the high-heeled silk shoes and
brilliant buckles with which they were always seen. They also wore
watches, and equipages, and small lace mob caps, under which the hair
was drawn up stiff and tight, and as smooth as if it had been gummed."
"Oh, I am glad I did not live then!" said Lucy, fetching a deep breath;
"yet it is very pleasant to hear these stories of people who lived just
before we did; and there is no harm in liking it, is there,
grandmamma?"
"None in the least, my child," said grandmamma; "the persons who
remember anything of those times are getting fewer and fewer every day.
If young people, then, are wise, instead of always talking their own
talk, as they are too apt to do, they will have a pleasure in listening
to old persons, and in gathering up from them all they can tell of
manners and customs, the very memories of which are now passing away.
But now, Henry, my boy, you may understand why the Mistresses Vaughan
always breakfasted in their own rooms; they never chose to appear but
in their full dress, and were glad to get an hour or two every morning
unlaced, and without their hoops.
"About noon they all came swimming and sailing down into a large
saloon, where they spent the rest of their morning. It was a vast low
room, with bright polished oaken floors, and with only a bit of fine
carpet in the middle of it. They each brought with them a bag for
knotting, and they generally sat together in such state till it was
time for their airing.
"This airing was taken in a coach-and-four; and they generally went the
same road and turned at the same place every day but Sunday throughout
the week. They dined at two, and drank tea at five; for though they had
some visitors who came to tea, they were too high to return these
visits. They finished every evening by playing at quadrille; supped at
nine, and then retired to their rooms."
"What tiresome people!" said Henry; "how could they spend such lives? I
would much rather live with John Trueman, and help to thatch, than have
been with them."
"But how did they spend their Sundays, grandmamma?" asked Emily.
"They went to church in Reading," answered the old lady; "where they
had a grand pew lined with crimson cloth. They never missed going
twice; they came in their coach-and-four; they did not knot on Sundays,
but I can hardly say what they did beside."
Lucy fetched a deep breath again, and grandmamma went on.
"It was to this house, and to be under the care of these ladies, that
little Miss Evelyn came, the day after her father's funeral. She was
nearly broken-hearted.
"The Mistresses Vaughan were not really unkind, though very slow in
their feelings; so, after the funeral, they soothed the child, taking
her with them from The Grove to their own house, where she afterwards
always remained. But they did another unfeeling thing, without seeming
to be aware of it: Evelyn's nurse had been most kind to her, but she
unhappily spoke broad Berkshire, and was a plain, ordinary-looking
person; so she was dismissed, with a handsome legacy left by her
master, and the poor little girl was placed under the care of a sort of
upper servant called Harris. Harris was charged never to use any but
the most genteel language in her presence, and to treat her with the
respect due to a young lady who was already in possession of a vast
property, though under guardians.
"Three handsome rooms in one wing of the house on the first floor were
given to the little lady and Harris; and an inferior female servant was
provided to wait upon them in private, and a footman to attend the
young lady in public. It was not the custom for young children then to
dine with the family; the only meal, therefore, which Evelyn took with
her aunts was the tea, when she saw all the company who ever visited
them; her breakfast and dinner were served up in her own rooms.
"She was required to come down at noon, and to go down and salute her
aunts and ask their blessing; and whenever any one of them declined the
daily airing, she was invited to take the vacant place as a great
treat.
"Her education was begun by Harris, who taught her to read, to use her
needle, and to speak genteelly; it was afterwards carried on by masters
from Reading, for her aunts had no sort of idea of that kind of
education which can only be carried on by intellectual company and
teachers. Harris was told that no expense would be spared for Miss
Vaughan; that her dress must be of the first price and fashion; that if
she desired toys she was to have them, and as many gift-books as St.
Paul's Church-yard supplied.
"As to her religious duties, Harris was to see that she was always very
well dressed, and in good time to go to Church with her aunts; that she
was taught her Catechism; and that she read a portion every day of some
good book; one of the old ladies recommending the _Whole Duty of Man_,
another Nelson's _Fasts and Festivals_, a third Boston's _Fourfold
State_, whilst the fourth, merely, it is to be feared, in opposition to
her sisters, remarked, half aside to Harris, that all the books above
mentioned were very good, to be sure, but too hard for a child, and
therefore that the Bible itself might, she thought, answer as well,
till Miss Vaughan could manage hard words. As Harris herself had no
particular relish for any of the books mentioned, she fixed upon the
Bible as being the easiest, and moreover being divided into shorter
sections than the other three.
"So Evelyn was to have everything that a child could wish for that
could be got with money; and though Harris minded to the letter every
order that was given her, yet she thought only of serving herself in
all she did. In private with the child she laid praises and flattery
upon her as thick as honey in a full honeycomb; she never checked her
in anything she desired, so long as she did nothing which might
displease her aunts, should it come to their knowledge; she scarcely
ever dressed her without praising her beauty, or gave her a lesson
without telling her how quick and clever she was. She talked to her of
the fine fortune she would come into when she was of age; of her
mamma's jewels, in which she was to shine; of the fine family houses;
and, in short, of everything which could raise her pride; and there was
not a servant about the house who did not address the little girl as if
she had not been made of the same flesh and blood as other people."
"Poor little girl!" said Lucy.
"I am sorry for her," remarked Emily; "she must have been quite spoiled
by all these things."
"We shall see," continued the old lady. "It was in a very curious way
that I, many years afterwards, learned many particulars of the ways and
character of this little girl in her very early years, before I was
personally acquainted with her. After my eldest son was born, being in
want of a nursemaid, Fanny, the very servant who had waited on Miss
Evelyn and Mrs. Harris, offered herself; and as I had known her well
and loved her much, though I had lost sight of her for some years, I
most gladly engaged her. She told me many things of Mrs. Harris and her
little lady, which I never could have known otherwise. She said that
Mrs. Harris was so much puzzled at the ways of the little girl, that
she used often to speak of it to Fanny.
"'Miss Evelyn,' she said one day, 'is the queerest little thing I ever
met with; I don't know where her thoughts are. When I am dressing her
to go down to tea in the saloon, and putting on her nice smart dresses,
and telling her to look in the glass and see how pretty she is--and to
be sure she is as pretty as any waxwork--she either does not answer at
all, as if she did not hear me, or has some out-of-the-way question to
ask about her lamb, or some bird she has seen, or the clouds, or the
moon, or some other random stuff; there is no fixing her to any sense.'
"'Perhaps, Mrs. Harris,' Fanny said, 'she has heard your praises, and
those of other people, till she is tired of them.'
"'Pish!' answered Mrs. Harris; 'did you ever hear of anyone ever being
tired of their own praises? The more they hear of them the more they
crave them; but this child has not sense enough to listen to them. Do
you know what it is for a person to have their wits a wool-gathering?
Depend on it that Miss Vaughan, with all her riches and all her
prettiness, is a very dull child; but it is not my business to say as
much as that to the ladies; they will find it out by-and-by, that is
sure. But it is a bad look-out for you and me, Fanny, with such chances
as we have; for if Miss Evelyn was like other young ladies, we might be
sure to make our fortune by her. I have known several people in my
condition get such a hold on the hearts of children of high
condition, like Miss Vaughan, that they never could do without them in
no way, in their after lives. But I don't see that we get on at all
with this stupid little thing; though for the life of me I cannot tell
what the child's head is running upon. She never opens out to me, or
asks a question, unless it is about some of the dumb animals, or the
flowers in the garden, and the trees in the wood.'
[Illustration: "_I cannot tell what the child's head is running
on._"--Page 433.]
"'Or the moon or the clouds,' Fanny added. 'She asked me the other day
who lived in the moon, and whether dead people went there.'
"It is very clear, from the conversation between Mrs. Harris and Fanny,
that Evelyn passed for a dull child, and had very little to say,
because she had not found anyone since she had left The Grove who would
talk to her in her own way and draw out her young ideas, and encourage
her to tell her thoughts. Her father had encouraged her to talk to him
in her own way whilst he was spared to her; and her nurse had been the
kindest, best of foster-mothers. Though, to be sure, she did speak
broad Berkshire, and though she was what learned people would call an
ignorant woman, nurse had the strongest desire to do right, for she had
been made to feel that God was the friend of His creatures. She felt
sure that He would help those who behaved well; and she did what she
could to teach what she knew to her little girl. She told her that she
must be good, and not proud, or she would never go to the happy world
where angels are. She told her also, that though her mother was gone
into another world, she knew and was sorry when she was naughty.
"Nurse was a particularly generous woman, and was always teaching the
little lady to give things away; and she took great pains to make her
civil to everybody, whether high or low.
"Nurse had loved to be much out of doors, and Evelyn loved it as much;
and the two together used to ramble all about the place, into the
fields and yards where animals were kept, and into the groves and
gardens to watch the birds and butterflies, and to talk to the
gardeners and the old women who weeded the walks. Nurse was always
reminding Evelyn to take something out with her to give away; if it was
nothing else than a roll or a few lumps of sugar from breakfast; for
Evelyn's mother, just before her death, had said to her nurse:
"'My child may be very rich, teach her to think of the wants of the
poor, and to give away.'
"But the more happy Evelyn had been with her nurse, the more sad she
was with Harris. There was not anything which Harris talked of that the
little girl cared for, and the consequence was that she passed for
being very dull; because when Harris was talking of one set of things,
she was thinking of something very different.
"When Harris wanted her to admire herself in her new frocks, when she
was dressed to go down to tea, or at any other time, she was wishing to
have her pinafore on, or that she might run down to her lamb, which fed
in a square yard covered with grass, where the maids dried the clothes.
"Mr. Vaughan had died somewhat suddenly in the spring; the lamb was
then only six weeks old. Evelyn came to live with her aunts immediately
after the funeral; and the summer passed away without anything very
particular happening.
"It was Harris's plan to indulge Evelyn as much as she possibly could,
though she did not like the child; and therefore, when she asked to go
out, which, by her goodwill, would have been every hour of the day, she
went with her. When she went to take anything to her lamb, and to
stroke it, or to hang flowers about its neck, Harris stood by her. But
if Harris did not like Evelyn, she hated her pet still more; she
pointed out to Evelyn that there were young horns budding on its brow;
that it was getting big and coarse, and, like other sheep, dirty; and
said that it would soon be too big for a pretty young lady like Miss
Vaughan to stroke and kiss.
"'But I _must_ kiss it,' answered Evelyn, 'because I got poor papa once
to kiss it; and I always kiss it in the very same place, just above its
eyes, Harris--exactly there.'
"'Just between where the horns are coming, Miss Vaughan,' said Harris;
'some day, by-and-by, it will knock you down when you are kissing it,
and perhaps butt you with its horns, till it kills you.'
"That same day Mrs. Harris told Fanny that she would take good care
that Miss Vaughan's disagreeable pet should be put beyond her reach
before very long--and, indeed, one fine morning, when Evelyn went down
to the yard, the lamb was missing. There was much crying on the part of
the little girl, and much bitter lamentation but her footman, having
been told what to say by Harris, said to his little lady, that the
young ram had got tired of the drying-yard, and had gone out into the
woods to look for fresh grass and running water, and that he was
somewhere in the park.
"'And is he happy?' asked Evelyn.
"'Very happy,' answered the footman; 'so don't cry about him, Miss.'
"'I will go and see if I can find him,' said the child.
"'You had better not go near him now,' said Mrs. Harris; 'when pet
lambs become large sheep they often turn most savage on those who were
most kind to them.'
"'He knew me yesterday,' replied the child, 'and let me stroke him.
Would he forget me in one day?' and she burst into fresh tears."
"I am sorry for her," said Henry, rubbing the sleeve of his pinafore
across his eyes.
"And there was one person who heard her," said grandmamma, "who was
sorry for her also, and that was Fanny; but she did not dare to say
anything because of Mrs. Harris."
The old lady then went on:
"When the summer was past, and the weather less pleasant, Mrs. Harris
pretended to have a pain in her face, and instead of going out always
with Evelyn, she sent Fanny.
"This was a pleasant change for the little lady. She found Fanny much
more agreeable to her. And Fanny was surprised to find how Evelyn
opened out to her during their walks.
"For several days Evelyn led Fanny about the groves and over the lawns
of the park to look for the lamb. They could not find him, but the
child still fancied that he was somewhere in the park.
"One morning Evelyn proposed that they should try the avenue, and look
for the lamb in that direction. Fanny had no notion of contradicting
Evelyn--indeed Harris had told her to keep her in good humour, lest she
should tell her aunts that Harris seldom walked with her; so that way
they went. They had scarcely got to one end of the long row of trees
when they saw a plain-dressed woman coming to meet them from the other.
Evelyn uttered a joyful cry, and began to run towards her; Fanny ran,
too, but the little girl quite outstripped her.
"It was nurse who was coming; she had been forbidden the house; but she
had often come to the lodge, and often walked a part of the way along
the avenue, if it were only for a chance of seeing her child.
"Nurse was a widow, and had only one child living. He had a good
situation in the school on the London road, which anyone may see at the
entrance of the town. So nurse then lived alone, in a small house on
that road.
"How joyful was the meeting between Evelyn and her nurse! how eagerly
did the little girl rush into those arms which had been the cradle of
her happy infancy!
"After the first moments of joy were past, they sat down on a fallen
and withered bough, between the rows of trees, and talked long and long
together; so long, that Evelyn was almost too late to be taken to her
aunts at noon. They talked of many things; and the good nurse forgot
not to remind Evelyn of what she had taught her by the desire of her
mother; especially to remember to give; to be civil to all persons; to
speak when spoken to; to say her prayers; and not to be proud and
haughty.
"The nurse also took care to tell Evelyn, that when she talked of
giving, she wanted nothing herself, being in her way quite rich,
through the goodness of Mr. Vaughan.
"'So don't give _me_ anything, my precious child, but your love.'
"This meeting with nurse served the purpose of keeping alive all the
simple and best feelings of Evelyn. The little one told her how her
lamb had left her, and that they had been looking for it that very
morning.
"'Well, my dear,' said the nurse, 'the poor creature is happier in the
fields, and with its own kind, than you can make it; and if you are not
too young to understand me, I would advise you to learn, from this loss
of your lamb, henceforth not to give your heart and your time to dumb
creatures, to which you can do little good, but to your own
fellow-creatures, that you may help. Now, to make what I say plain,
there is, at this very time, at the lodge, a pretty orphan boy, maybe
two years of age, who has been taken in for a week or so by Mrs.
Simpson, at the lodge. She means to keep him till the parish can put
him somewhere, for she cannot undertake to keep him without more pay
than the parish will give, having a sick husband, who is a heavy burden
upon her. Now, if you have--as I know you have--the means, why not help
her to keep this little boy? Why not get some warm comfortable clothing
for him, with your aunts' leave, and so help him forward till he wants
schooling, and then provide for that?'
"'I will do it, nurse; I will do it,' answered Evelyn.
"'God bless you, my lamb!' said nurse.
"And soon after this nurse and Evelyn parted; but they both cried
bitterly, as Fanny told me.
"The name of the baby at the lodge was Francis Barr; and, as Fanny
said, he was a most lovely boy, with golden hair curling about his
sweet face.
"Evelyn had only to mention him to her aunts, and they immediately
ordered their steward to pay so many shillings a week to Mrs. Simpson,
and to give another sum for his clothing; and this was, they said, to
be done in the name of Miss Vaughan.
"They would have done better if they had let Evelyn look a little after
the clothes, and, indeed, let her help to make them; but such was not
their way; perhaps they thought Miss Vaughan too grand to help the poor
with her own hands. But it is always easier for the rich to order money
to be paid than to work with their own hands.
"Mrs. Harris was told of the meeting with the nurse by Evelyn herself;
but the little girl did not tell her all that nurse had said, not from
cunning, but because she was not in the habit of talking to Harris. She
could not have told why she did not; but we all know that there are
some people whom we never feel inclined to talk to, and we hardly know
why.
"Mrs. Harris was, however, jealous of nurse, and thinking to put her
out of her young lady's head, she used the liberty allowed her, and
went one day to Reading, and bought a number of toys and gilt books."
"I wonder what they were, grandmamma," said Henry.
"Fanny did not tell me," answered the old lady, "and I had all this
part of the story from Fanny.
"Evelyn, she said, was pleased with them when they came, and put them
all in a row on a side-table in her sitting-room, and changed their
places several times, and opened the books and tried to read them; but
she was hardly forward enough to make them out with pleasure. However,
she picked a few out from the rest, and told Fanny to put them in her
pocket; for her plan was, that Fanny was to read them to her when they
went out, which was done.
"The day after she had picked out the books, she asked for some paper
and a pen and ink, and set herself to write, by copying printed
letters. It was well she was in black, as she inked herself well before
she had finished her letter.
"Harris did not ask her what she was doing; that was not _her_ way; but
she looked at what she had written when it was done, and found it was a
letter to nurse, blotted and scrawled, and hard to be read. When this
letter was finished, the child asked Fanny for some brown paper, and in
this she packed most of the toys and the letter, and having sent for
her footman, she told him to get a horse and ride to nurse's and give
her the parcel and the letter.
"The man looked at Mrs. Harris, as doubting whether he was to obey.
Mrs. Harris was sewing, and looked like thunder.
"'Miss Vaughan,' she said, 'did I hear aright? Is that parcel to be
taken to nurse's?'
"'Yes, Harris,' answered Evelyn; 'those things are mine, and I am going
to send them to nurse.'
"'Upon my word, Miss Vaughan, you have chosen a very proper present for
the old woman; she will be vastly amused with all those pretty things.'
"This speech was made in much bitterness, and meant the very contrary
to what the words expressed; but Evelyn thought she meant what she
said, and she answered:
"'Yes, Harris, nurse will be so much pleased; I think she will put the
things in a row on her chimney-piece.'
"Harris, as Fanny told me, did not answer again immediately, but sat
with her head stooped over her work, whilst Evelyn repeated her
directions to Richard; and Richard looked for his orders to Mrs.
Harris.
"'Don't you hear what Miss Vaughan says, Richard?' she at length said,
as she looked up with very red cheeks and flashing eyes; 'what do you
stand gaping there for? Don't you know that all Miss Vaughan's orders
are to be obeyed? Make haste and carry the parcel.'
"'And tell nurse to read my letter,' said Evelyn; 'and to send me word
if she has read it; she will be so glad, I know.'
"As soon as Richard was gone, Harris called Evelyn to her, and, lifting
her on her knee, she began to kiss and praise her, and to coax her, but
not in the old way by telling her of her beauty and her grandeur, but
by flattering her about her kindness and her gratitude to nurse.
"'I love nurse, Harris,' answered Evelyn.
"'And she deserves it too, Miss Vaughan,' replied Harris; 'she took
care of you when you could not have told if you were ill-used. Little
ladies should always remember those who were kind to them in their
helpless years. Come now, tell me what nurse said to you when you saw
her last. I am sure she would tell you nothing but what was very good.'
"'She told me,' said Evelyn, 'about my mamma being an angel; and she
told me that if I was good, and not selfish, and gave things away, that
I should go to heaven too; I should then, she said, be like a lamb
living under the care of a good shepherd.'
"Harris, on hearing this, as Fanny said, looked about her in that sort
of wondering way which people use when they are thoroughly surprised;
but it being very near twelve at noon, she had no time to carry on the
discourse further then. Evelyn's frock required to be changed, and her
hair put in order; and then, as the custom was, Mrs. Harris had to lead
the child into the saloon to make her curtsey, and leave her till the
bell rang to recall her.
"When Harris had left the child with her aunts, she came up again to
her own apartments. She came with her mouth open, being all impatience
to let out her thoughts to Fanny.
"'Who would have guessed,' said she, 'that the wind blew from that
quarter, Fanny? and here I have been beating about and about to find
out the child, and trying to get at her in every way I could think of,
all the while missing the right one.'
"'What do you mean, Mrs. Harris?' said Fanny.
"'What do I mean?' answered Harris; 'why, how stupid you are, girl!
have I not been trying to get to the child's heart every day these six
months, by indulging her, and petting her, and talking to her of her
pretty face and fine expectations, and all that? and has she not all
along seemed to care as little for what I said as she would for the
sound of rustling leaves?'
"'Will you deny that it is very true?' answered Fanny; 'I think she
has heard of her grandeur and those things, till they are no news to
her.'
"'Maybe so,' answered Harris; 'but I never yet met with the person,
young or old, who could be tired out with their own praises, however
they may pretend.'
"'I was never much tired in that way,' answered Fanny.
"'Maybe not,' said Mrs. Harris; 'what was anyone to get by honeying one
like you? Well, but to return to this child. I did set her down to be
none of the sharpest; but for once I think I was mistaken. It is not
often that I am; but I have got a little light now; I shall get on
better from this day forward, or I am much mistaken.'
"'What light is it?' said Fanny.
"'Why, don't you see,' answered Harris, 'that young as Miss Evelyn is,
that old nurse has managed to fill her head with notions about death,
and heaven, and being charitable, and giving away; and that the child's
head runs much, for such a child, on these things?'
"'I cannot wonder at it,' answered Fanny, 'when one thinks how much the
poor orphan has heard and seen of death.'
"'And who has not heard and seen much of death, Fanny?' answered Mrs.
Harris: 'but for all that we must live and make our way in life.'
"Then, as if she thought that she might just as well refrain from
opening herself any more to Fanny, she sent her away on some errand,
and there the discourse ended. But not so the reflections of the young
servant on what she had said; she had let out enough to make her quite
understand a very great change, which took place from that day, in the
behaviour of Harris to Evelyn.
"She never spoke to her again about her beauty and riches; she never
praised her on these accounts; but she constantly spoke of her
goodness in giving away, of her civility and courtesy, of her being so
humble, of the very great merit of these things, and of the certainty
that these things would make her an angel in glory."
"Oh, the cunning, wicked woman!" cried Henry.
"Was not this sort of flattery more dangerous, grandmamma, than the
other?" asked Lucy.
But Emily said nothing; for Emily's besetting sin was vanity, and she
felt that she should have been more hurt by the praises of her beauty
than of her goodness.
"By this new plan Harris gained more on Evelyn," continued grandmamma,
"than she had done by the first, and the child, as time went on, became
more attached to her.
"Two years passed away after this affair of sending the toys to nurse,
without many changes. Nurse was not allowed to see Evelyn again, though
the little lady often sent her a note, and some little remembrance to
nurse's son. Masters came from Reading to carry on Miss Vaughan's
education; and she proved to be docile and industrious. She still kept
up her love of being out of doors; and being of a friendly temper, she
often visited the cottages close about, and took little presents, which
caused the poor people to flatter her upon her goodness, as much as
Harris did. She had no pet animal after she had lost her lamb; but she
became very fond of Francis Barr, and often walked with Fanny to see
him. He soon learned to know her, and to give her very sweet smiles in
return for all her kindness; and when he could walk by himself, he
always hastened to meet her.
"He was nearly six years younger than Evelyn, and was, therefore, not
much more than four during the summer in which she was ten.
"In the early part of that summer she used to go with Fanny most days
to the lodge, to teach little Francis his letters, and talk to him
about God; and they used to hear him say his prayers. Evelyn loved him
very much, and Harris praised her before every one for her goodness to
this poor orphan.
"It would have been strange if all this dangerous flattery, together
with the pleasure the dear child had in bestowing kindnesses, which,
after all, cost her but little, had not so worked on her mind as to
make her vain and self-satisfied.
"But her heavenly Father, who had guided her so far, was not going to
leave her uncared for now. He who had begun the work with her was not
going to leave it imperfect.
"I am now come nearly to what I may call the end of the first part of
my story, and to the end of the young, and sunny, and careless days of
the life of dear Evelyn Vaughan.
"These careless days, these days of young and comparatively thoughtless
happiness, were suddenly finished in a very sad and awful way.
"I will not enter into many particulars of that affair, because it will
give you pain. In a few words it was this: Late one evening, in the
summer, little Francis Barr was playing in the road, when a carriage,
coming along at a full gallop, the horses having taken fright and
thrown the postillion, came suddenly upon the poor child, knocked him
down, and killed him on the spot. There was no time to send the news to
the great house; and, as it happened, Evelyn and Fanny went the next
morning, before breakfast, to give the little boy his lesson. When
arrived at the lodge, they found the door open and no one within. Mrs.
Simpson had just gone into the garden to fetch more flowers to lay over
the little boy. Not seeing anyone in the kitchen, they walked into the
parlour, and there poor Evelyn saw her little loved one cold, yet
beautiful, in death, having one small hand closed upon a lily, and the
other on a rose.
"Evelyn could not mistake the aspect of death; she uttered a wild
shriek, and fell senseless to the floor. She was carried home, but she
was very ill for many days; and I may truly say never perfectly
recovered from that time.
"But now, my dear children," added grandmamma, "I begin to feel tired,
and have only finished half my story; if all is well, we will come here
to-morrow, and then I shall hope to finish it."
"I wish it was to-morrow," said Henry: and his sisters joined in the
wish.
[Illustration: "_To hang flowers round its neck._"--Page 445.]
Grandmamma's History of Evelyn Vaughan. Part II.
[Illustration: Miss Anne Vaughan led her niece by the hand]
When they were all seated, the next day, in the shade of Henry's
arbour, grandmamma began her story without more delay.
"I am now," she said, "come to the time when I became acquainted with
Evelyn Vaughan myself."
"I was left early without parents, my dear children; for my father died
when I was a baby, and my mother when I was ten years of age. I was
sent, after her death, being of course in deep mourning, to the school
kept in the old Abbey at Reading, and there was then a very full
school, above sixty girls. It was a large old house, added to a gateway
which was older still; and it was called The Abbey, because it lay
within the grounds of the ancient monastery, the ruins of which still
remain, the gateway itself being a part of this very ancient
establishment."
"The school was kept by certain middle-aged unmarried sisters; and we
had many teachers, and among these a Miss Latournelle, who taught us
English after a fashion, and presided over our clothes. I was under
her care, and slept in her room, which was one of those in the gateway;
and though she was always scolding me about some untidiness, she was
very kind to me. She was young then, but always in my eyes looked old,
having a limping gait, and a very ordinary person.
"I cannot say what we were taught in that house beyond a few French
phrases and much needlework. I was not there many years, but my
school-days passed happily, for we were not exhausted with our
learning, which in these days often destroys the spirit of children. We
spent much time in the old and pleasant garden; and I had several dear
friends, all of whom are now dead.
"The first time that I saw Miss Evelyn was on the first Sunday I went
to church with the school. We went to St. Lawrence's, which is near The
Abbey, and we sat in the gallery, from which we had a full view of the
pew then occupied by the Vaughans. They always came there, though not
the nearest church, because they could not please themselves in seats
in any other church in the town, and regularly came in their
coach-and-four, and a grand footman went before them to open the door.
Their pew was square and lined with crimson, and they always came
rustling in, and making a knocking sound with their high heels on the
pavement; they walked according to their ages, with this difference
only, that the eldest Mistress Vaughan present always brought Evelyn in
her hand.
"We sat in the gallery just opposite to this pew, and I was in the
first row; and as there was no teacher nor governess near us, I could
whisper to the little girls near me about these ladies. 'Don't you
know,' my next neighbour in the pew answered, 'that those are the
Mistresses Vaughan, who live in the house beyond the lodges on the
Bath road; and that little one is Miss Vaughan, and she will have the
largest fortune of any lady in England--and see how beautifully she is
dressed?' We could not see her face, as she stood, but we could see her
fine clothes."
"Do tell us how she was dressed, grandmamma," said Emily.
"She wore a pink silk slip, with small violet flowers, or spots, and a
laced apron, with a bonnet and tippet of violet silk. Oh, we did admire
it! If she had not a hoop, her skirts were well stiffened with
whalebone."
"How curious!" said Lucy. "She must have looked like a little old
woman."
"The delicate fairness of her neck, and her lovely auburn curls,
prevented that mistake, Lucy," replied grandmamma; "and then her way of
moving, and her easy, child-like manner, showed her youth, if nothing
else would have done so.
"I had heard of Miss Evelyn before, but I had never seen her so near;
and all the rest of that day I could think and talk of nothing but Miss
Vaughan; and how I did long for a pink slip with violet spots.
"The Sunday on which I saw Miss Vaughan for the first time at church
was the first day of that week in which little Francis Barr was killed.
"We did not see her again for many weeks. We were told of the sad
accident, and of the severe illness of Evelyn which followed; and we
all entered into the feelings of the little lady with much warmth.
"It was late in the autumn when she appeared again at church; but,
though we did not see her face, we could observe that she sat very
still, and seemed once, whilst the psalm was being sung, to be crying,
for she stooped her head, and had her handkerchief to her eyes. We were
very sorry again for her, but our French teacher, when we came home,
said, 'Let her weep; she will console herself presently.'
"It was, maybe, ten days after we had seen Miss Evelyn the second time
at church, as some of us were sitting, on the eve of a half-holiday, on
a locker in a window of the old gateway, that we saw the
coach-and-four, with the Vaughan liveries, wheeling along the green
open space before The Abbey gate; half a dozen of us at least were
standing the next minute on the locker to see this wonder better.
"Nearer and nearer came the carriage, with the horses' heads as if they
were a-going through the arch; and when we were expecting to hear the
rolling of the wheels beneath our feet, the carriage suddenly stopped
right in front of the garden-gate.
"Next came loud knockings and ringings without, and the running of many
feet within the house, one calling to another, to tell that the
Mistresses Vaughan were come, and had asked to see our governess.
"We strained our necks to see, if we could, the ladies get out, but we
were too directly above them to get a good view; and if we could, we
were not allowed, for our French teacher came up, and made us all get
down from the locker, shutting the window which we had opened, and
saying a great deal about 'politesse' and the great vulgarity of
peeping.
"The house was as still as the mice in the old wainscot when they smelt
Miss Latournelle's cat, whilst the ladies were in the parlour, for our
teachers insisted on our being quiet; but as soon as we saw the coach
bowling away, we all began to chatter, and to speak our thoughts
concerning the occasion of this visit, which was considered a very
great honour by our governesses."
"Did the Mistresses Vaughan come to speak about putting Evelyn to your
school, grandmamma?" asked Emily.
"Not exactly so, my dear," replied the old lady; "I will tell you what
they came for. Poor Evelyn had never recovered her quiet, happy spirits
since the fright and the shock of her little favourite's death. Her
mother had had a very delicate constitution, and had died early of
consumption. Perhaps Evelyn had inherited the tendency to consumption
from her mother, though neither her aunts nor Mrs. Harris had thought
her otherwise than a strong child till after her long illness.
"After she recovered from this illness, however--or rather seemed to be
recovered--her spirits were quite gone; and she was always crying,
often talking of death and dying, and brooding over sad things. When
the family physician who attended her was told how it was, he advised
that she should go to school, and mix with other children, and he
recommended The Abbey.
"The Mistresses Vaughan thought his advice good, so far as that Evelyn
might be the better for the company of other children. But they said
that no Miss Vaughan had ever been brought up at a school, for there
were sure to be some girls of low birth, and that they could not think
of their niece being herded with low people.
"After a long discussion, however, the old ladies yielded so far to the
opinion of the physician, that they determined to ask our governess to
permit Miss Vaughan to come to them every dancing day, and to join in
the dancing with the other girls.
"It was to ask this favour that the four old ladies came to the Abbey;
and it was then settled that Miss Vaughan was to come on every Friday
evening to dance with us, and to take her tea in the parlour with the
mistress.
"This high honour was made known through the house immediately after
the ladies were gone. Miss Evelyn was to be brought the first time by
her aunts, and afterwards by Mrs. Harris; and she was to come the very
next Friday.
"From that day, which was Wednesday, until the Friday afternoon, what a
bustle were all in; what trimming, and plaiting, and renewing, and
making anew, went forward! I was in deep mourning; and as Miss
Latournelle kept my best bombazine, and crapes, and my round black cap,
in her own press, I had nothing to think of; but our governess insisted
that all the other young ladies should have new caps on the occasion;
and as these were to be made in the house, there was enough to do.
"I could smile to think of the caps we wore at that time; our common
caps fitted the head exactly, and were precisely in the shape of bowls.
They were commonly made of what is called Norwich quilt, such as we now
see many bed-quilts made of, with a little narrow plaiting round the
edge. My common black caps were made of silk quilted in the same way.
Our best caps were of the same form: the foundation being of coloured
silk or satin, with gauze puffed over it, and in each puff either a
flower or a bit of ribbon, finished off to the fancy, with a plaited
border of gauze, and larger bunches of flowers peaked over each ear."
"Oh, grandmamma!" cried Emily, "how strange! Did not the children look
very odd then?"
"The eye was used to the fashion," said the old lady; "there is no
fashion, however monstrous, to which the eye does not become used in a
little while.
"By the time that all the caps were made, and all the artificial roses,
and lilacs, and pansies duly disposed, it was time to dress. You have
never been at school, or you would know what a bustle there is to get
all the little misses ready on a dancing day.
[Illustration: "_What a bustle there is to get ready on a dancing
day._"--Page 453.]
"It was time to light the candles long before Miss Latournelle
mustered us and led us down into the dancing-room. This was a long, low
room, having a parlour at one end of it, and at the other a kind of
hall, from which sprang a wide staircase, leading to the rooms over the
gateway; the balustrades of the staircase still showed some remains of
gilding.
"We were ranged on forms raised one above another, at the lowest end of
the room, and our master was strutting about the floor, now and then
giving us a flourish on his kit, when our youngest governess put her
head in at the door, and said:
"'Ladies, are you all ready? You must rise and curtsey low when the
company appears, and then sink quietly into your places.'
"She then retreated; and a minute afterwards the door from the parlour
was opened, and our eldest governess appeared ushering in the four
Mistresses Vaughan, followed by other visitors invited for this grand
occasion. There was awful knocking of heels and rustling of long silk
trains; and every person looked solemn and very upright.
"Miss Anne Vaughan, who came in first, led her niece in her hand, and
went sweeping round with her to the principal chair, for there was a
circle of chairs set for the company. When she had placed the little
lady at her right hand, and when the rest of the company were seated,
we on the forms had full leisure to look at this much envied object.
There was not one amongst us who would not have gladly changed places
with the little lady.
"Evelyn Vaughan was an uncommonly beautiful girl; she was then nearly
eleven years of age, and was taller than most children of her age, for
she had shot up rapidly during her illness. Her complexion was too
beautiful, too white, and too transparent; but she wanted not a soft
pink bloom in her cheeks, and her lips were of a deep coral. She had
an oval face and lovely features; her eyes were bright, though
particularly soft and mild; her hair of rich auburn, hanging in bright,
natural ringlets; whilst even her stiff dress and formal cap could not
spoil the grace and ease of her air.
"Indeed, persons always accustomed to be highly dressed are not so put
out of their way by it as those who are only thus dressed on high
occasions; and dressed she was in a rich silk, with much lace, with a
chain of gold and stud of jewels, silken shoes, and artificial flowers.
We on the forms thought that we had never seen anything so grand in our
whole lives, nor any person so pretty, nor any creature so to be
envied.
"The ladies only stayed to see a few of our best dancers show forth in
minuets before tea, and then they withdrew: and as the dancing-master,
who had always taught Miss Vaughan, was invited to join the tea-party,
we went into the schoolroom to our suppers, and to talk over what we
had seen. After a little while, we all returned to the dancing-room to
be ready for the company, who soon appeared again.
"We were then called up, and arranged to dance cotillons, and whilst we
were standing waiting for the order to take our places, we saw our
master go bowing up to Evelyn, to ask her to join our party. I saw her
smile then for the first time, and I never had seen a sweeter smile; it
seemed to light up her whole face. She consented to dance, and being
asked if she would like any particular partner, she instantly answered:
"'That young lady in black, sir, if you please.'
"There was but one in black, and that was myself. The next moment I was
called, and told that Miss Vaughan had done me the honour to choose me
for a partner; and it was whispered in my ear by my governess, when
she led me up, that I must not forget my manners, and by no means take
any liberty with Miss Vaughan. This admonition served only to make me
more awkward than I might have been if it had not been given to me.
"Evelyn had chosen me because she had heard it said in the parlour that
the little girl in black was in mourning for the last of her parents.
And I had not begun the second cotillon with her before she told me
that she had chosen me for a partner because, like herself, I had no
father or mother.
"After this I was shy no longer; I talked to her about my mother, and
burst into tears when so doing, for my sorrows were fresh.
"Evelyn soon made herself acquainted with my name--Mary Reynolds--and
we found out that we had been born the same year; and she said that it
was very odd that she should have chosen a partner who was of her own
age.
"I remember no more of that evening; but the next Friday Miss Vaughan
came again, accompanied by Mrs. Harris.
"Harris played the great lady quite as well as the Mistresses Vaughan
had done, acting in their natural characters; as she always, at home,
took her meals with her young lady when in their own rooms, she was
invited to tea in the parlour; and to please Evelyn, I was also asked,
for I had been again chosen as her partner.
"Our friendship was growing quickly; it was impossible to love Miss
Vaughan a little, if one loved her at all. She was the sweetest,
humblest child I had ever known; and she talked of things which,
although I did not understand them, greatly excited my interest.
"It was in October that Evelyn first came to dance at the Abbey, and
she came every Friday till the holidays. We thought she looked very
unwell the last time she came; and she said she was sorry that some
weeks would pass before she saw me again; she repeated the same to Mrs.
Harris.
"All the other children went home for Christmas, but I had no home to
go to; and I saw them depart with much sorrow, and was crying to find
myself alone, having watched the last of my school-fellows going out
with her mother through the garden-gate, when Miss Latournelle came up
all in a hurry.
"'Miss Reynolds,' she said, 'what do you think? You were born, surely,
with a silver spoon in your mouth. But there is a letter come, and you
are to go from church on Christmas Day in the coach to spend the
holidays with Miss Vaughan. It is all settled; and you are to have a
new slip, and crape tucker and apron, and a best black cap. Come, come,
we must look up your things, and we have only two days for it; come
away, fetch your thimble; and don't let me see any idleness.'
"The kind teacher was as pleased for me as I was for myself; though she
drove me about the next two days, as if I had been her slave.
"When I found myself in the coach, on Christmas Day, all alone, and
driving away with four horses to the great house at the end of the
avenue, I really did not know what to make of myself. I tried all the
four corners of the coach, looked out at every window, nodded to one or
two schoolfellows I saw walking in the streets, and made myself as
silly as the daw in borrowed feathers."
The children laughed, and the old lady went on:
"When I got to the lodge and the avenue, however, I became more
thoughtful and steady. Even in that short drive, the idea of riding in
a coach-and-four was losing some of its freshness, and deeper thoughts
had come. I was a little put out, too, at the sight of the fine
man-servant who opened the doors for me and led me upstairs. The
moment I entered Miss Evelyn's sitting-room, she ran up to me, and put
her arms around my neck, kissing me several times.
"'Dear, dear Mary,' she said, 'how very glad I am to see you! I shall
be so happy! I have got a cough; I am not to go out till warm weather
comes; and it is so sad to be shut up and see nothing but the trees
waving, and hear nothing but the wind whistling and humming. But now
you are come I shall be so happy!'
"'I hope you will, Miss Vaughan,' said Mrs. Harris; 'and that your head
will not always be running, as it has been lately, upon all manner of
dismal things. Miss Reynolds, you must do your best to amuse Miss
Evelyn; you must tell her all the news of the school, and the little
misses; I dare say you can tell her many pretty stories.'
"Evelyn did not answer Harris, though she gave her a look with more
scorn in it than I had ever seen her give before.
"Miss Vaughan had shown symptoms of great weakness in the chest--that
is, Henry, in the part where people breathe. She had been directed by
the physician to be kept, for some weeks to come, in her own rooms; and
when this order was given, she had begged to have me with her.
"I believe that I was a comfort to her, and a relief to Harris; and
Fanny, also, rejoiced to see me. I was with Evelyn several weeks, and
the days passed pleasantly. I had every indulgence, and the use of all
sorts of toys; dolls I had partly put aside; but there were books, and
pictures, and puzzles; and when I went back to school I was loaded with
them; not only for myself, but for my schoolfellows.
"Evelyn seemed to be pleased to see me delighted with them, but she had
no pleasure in them herself, any more than I have now; and once, when
Harris said: 'Come, Miss Vaughan, why can't you play with these things
as Miss Reynolds does?' she answered: 'Ah, Harris! what have I to do
with these? I know what is coming.'
"'What is it?' I inquired.
"'Don't ask her, Miss Reynolds,' said Harris hastily; 'Miss Vaughan
knows that she should not talk of these things.'
"'Oh, let me talk of them, and then I shall be more easy!' Evelyn
answered. 'It is because I must not that I am so unhappy. Why have you
put away my Bible and the other good books?'
"'Because your aunts and the doctors say you read them till you have
made yourself quite melancholy, Miss Vaughan; and so they have been
taken away, but not by me. I have not got them. You must not blame me
for what others have done; you know my foolish fondness, and that I can
deny you nothing in my power to grant.'
"We had two or three conversations of this kind; but Harris watched us
so closely, that Miss Vaughan never had an opportunity of talking to me
by ourselves; so that we never renewed, during those holidays, the
subjects we had sometimes talked of at the Abbey.
"I stayed at that time about six weeks with Miss Vaughan; and as she
appeared to be much better and more cheerful, I was sent back to
school, with a promise from my governesses that, if Miss Vaughan
desired it, I was to go to her again at the shortest notice.
"The spring that year was early, and some of the days in March were so
fine, that the Mistresses Vaughan presumed to take their niece out in
the coach without medical advice. Deeply and long did the old ladies
lament their imprudence; but probably this affliction was the first
which ever really caused them to feel.
"About six days after the last of these airings, the coach came to the
school, bringing a request that I should be sent back in it instantly.
"Miss Vaughan had been seized with a violent inflammation in the chest,
attended with dreadful spasms. She had called for poor dear Mary, as if
Mary could help her; and I was told that she was in a dying state. I
sobbed and cried the whole way, for where were the delights then to me
of a coach-and-four? I was taken immediately up to her bedroom, for she
had called again for poor dear Mary. But, oh, how shocked was I when I
approached the bed! Fanny was sitting at the pillow, holding her up in
her arms: she was as pale as death itself; her eyes were closed, her
fair hands lay extended on the counterpane, her auburn ringlets hanging
in disorder. She was enjoying a short slumber after the fatigue of
acute pain, for she then breathed easily. Near the bed stood Harris,
with the look of a person at once distressed and offended. Miss Vaughan
had preferred, in her anguish, to be held by Fanny rather than by her.
She had often suspected Evelyn of not liking her, and the truth had
come out that morning during her sufferings.
"In the next room I could see the figures of the four Mistresses
Vaughan, all in their morning dresses. The physician was with them; and
when he saw me he arose, and came and stood by the bed.
"I know not how long it was before Evelyn opened her eyes.
"'Thank God,' she said, in a low, weak voice, 'it is gone for this
time;' then added, as she saw me, 'Mary, Mary dear, don't go again.
Fanny, is it you? but you will be tired. Might not nurse come, poor
dear nurse?'
The physician asked Harris what the young lady said. Harris pretended
not to have heard. Fanny looked to me to speak, and I said:
"'She wants her nurse, sir, her own nurse.'
"'And where does this nurse live?' he inquired.
"I told him, on the London road; I told him also her name. I spoke out
boldly, though I felt the eyes of Harris upon me.
"'I know the woman,' the doctor answered: 'she is a worthy person; she
_must_ be sent for.'
"When Harris heard this she left the bedside and went to the ladies, to
prevent, if possible, this sending for nurse. The reason she gave for
its not being right to have the poor woman brought there was, that she
was the first to put melancholy thoughts in the head of Miss Evelyn,
and would be quite sure to bring the same things forward again. Mrs.
Harris would have got her own way, if the physician had not insisted
that Evelyn ought to see her nurse if she desired it; and he himself
undertook to send for her. He had not far to send. Nurse had heard of
her child's violent attack, and was no further off than the lodge.
"From the time that Evelyn had mentioned her nurse, she had lain quite
still, with her eyes closed, till the worthy woman came in. At the
sound of the soft step with which the nurse came forward, she opened
them and saw the person she loved best on earth. A sweet bright glow
arose in her cheeks, and she extended both her arms as if she would
have risen to meet her.
"Though poor nurse, at the first glance, had seen death in the sweet
features of her child, yet she commanded herself.
"'I am come, my love,' she said; 'and rejoice to find you easy.'
"'Yes, it is gone--the pain is gone,' replied Evelyn: 'when it comes
again I shall die. I know it, nurse; but come, and never go away. Take
poor Fanny's place, and lay my head there--there,' she added.
"'On my bosom,' said the nurse, 'where you used so often to sleep;' and
she placed herself on the bed and raised her child so that she rested
on her arm.
"At this moment Harris, whose eyes were flashing with every evil
passion, brought a vial containing a draught which had been ordered.
"Evelyn took it without a word, and then, laying her sweet head on
nurse's bosom, fell into a long deep sleep--long, for it lasted some
hours, and during that time only nurse and I were with her; nurse
holding her in her arms, and I seated at the foot of the bed.
"I had many thoughts during these hours of stillness--thoughts more
deep than I had ever had before, on the vanity of earthly things and
the nature of death.
"The sun was descending behind the groves when Evelyn stirred, and
began to speak. I arose to my feet; she still lay with one side of her
face upon the nurse's bosom--that side, when she stirred her head a
little, was warm and flushed; the other cheek was pale and wan.
"'Nurse, nurse,' were the words she uttered.
"'I am here, my child,' was the good woman's answer.
"'You will not go,' said Evelyn; 'and Mary must not go, and Fanny must
not go.'
"The nurse raised her a little, still supporting her, whilst she asked
me to ring the bell, and gave notice that Miss Evelyn was awake and was
to have some nourishment which had been ordered.
"Harris came in with something on a salver, Evelyn received it in
silence, but did not forget to thank Harris, though even whilst taking
it she whispered, 'Don't go, nurse.' Mrs. Harris heard the whisper, as
I could see by the manner in which she went out of the room.
"I was called away just then, to take some refreshment, and for this
purpose I was taken to the room of Mistress Catherine. She was there,
and had been crying bitterly; she spoke kindly to me, and said she
hoped that the sight of me would be a comfort to Miss Vaughan; but she
seemed to be unable to talk much.
"When I returned to Evelyn's room, I found that she had fallen again
into a doze, and it was thought best for me to go to bed. I slept, by
my own desire, with Fanny; but Fanny left me about midnight, to take
her turn in attending the little lady.
"She died at last somewhat suddenly, and very peacefully, like one
falling asleep. The last word which she was heard to utter distinctly
was the name of her Saviour.
"I was present when she died, and went with her aunts to the funeral,
where I cried till I was quite ill.
"A few days before her death, she had asked to be left with her Aunt
Catherine, and got her to write down several things which she wished to
be done after her death. It was found, when the paper written by
Mistress Catherine was read, that she had remembered everyone, and
desired that Harris, and Fanny, and nurse's son, should all have
something very handsome. All her toys and gayest dresses, and many
ornaments and books, were to be given to me: and the poor whom she had
loved and visited were all remembered.
"That death was the cutting up of all the worldly prospects of the old
ladies, for Evelyn was the last of that branch of the family. At the
death of the youngest Mistress Vaughan, who lived to a very great age,
the estates went into other hands, and The Grove was sold, and
purchased by a gentleman whose son parted with it to your uncle. The
very name of Vaughan is now nearly forgotten in that part of the world,
excepting it may be by a few very old persons like myself."
Farewell to the Old Home
[Illustration: Henry reminded her of the robin]
Michaelmas was the time fixed for their all moving to The Grove, and
leaving that sweet place which was the only one the children had
learned to love. Mrs. Fairchild had let August pass without saying much
to her children about the moving, though she and Mr. Fairchild had been
busy with many settlements.
Mr. Fairchild had been at The Grove again, and come back again. He had
settled that John was to have a part of the large garden under his
care, and that no one was to meddle with him; and that he was to take
charge of the old horse and carriage, and to go out with the children
when they went abroad in it. Henry was to have leave to go to John,
when he wished to work in the garden.
Mrs. Fairchild fixed on Betty to wait upon the children; she knew that
they must have a maid, and she soon settled who that maid should be.
"I know Betty," she said; "and I know I may trust her with my
children."
Miss Tilney was very angry when she heard of this.
"Well, to be sure," she said, "so Betty is turned into a young lady's
governess; who could have thought it? How very ridiculous some people
are!"
When September came, Mrs. Fairchild reminded her children how near the
time was come, and that they must think of preparing to move. When Lucy
and Emily heard this, which they did one morning at breakfast, they
could not help shedding a few tears.
Their mother sent them out into the fresh air, saying she would have no
lessons that morning, but giving no particular reason. The little girls
were glad to be left to themselves, and they put on their bonnets and
walked out, taking their way to the hut in the wood.
It may be supposed what they talked of; they talked of the change that
was coming, and the time which was gone. They made each other cry more
by trying to remember things which had happened in every place they
passed through. They went as far back as the time when Mr. Fairchild
used to carry Henry in his arms when they went out, and only now and
then set him down to walk. They had a story belonging to almost every
tree, to the brook and the bridge, to each little path, and many for
the hut at the end of their walk.
In this hut they sat down and began to ask each other what neither
could answer, whether it was likely they should ever come back to that
dear place.
"It is papa's, we know," said Lucy; "but then he will let the house,
and we don't know who will have it; people always let houses which they
don't live in. He said, one day, that he should let it. But," said
Lucy, with a deep sigh, "I do not think we ought to cry so much; if
grandmamma sees our eyes red, and asks the reason, we shall be obliged
to tell her, and then she will think we do not like going with her."
"Henry does not mind going," said Emily; "he likes it now John is to
go."
They were talking in this way, and had not yet succeeded in quite
stopping themselves from crying, when they thought they heard a voice
from the wood on the other side of the brook. They listened again, and
plainly heard these words: "Lucy! Emily! where are you?"
They came out to the mouth of the hut, and listened, but could not hear
the voice again. Then there came the sound of steps, and they were
frightened and ran back into the hut. The steps were heard more plainly
as they pattered over the bridge, and, not a minute afterwards, who
should appear before the hut but Bessy Goodriche! She was quite out of
breath and all in a glow with running; her hair all in disorder, and
her bonnet at the very back of her head. She could not speak for a
moment, but her face was bright with joy. Lucy and Emily ran to her and
kissed her, and said how she had frightened them.
"Poor little things!" she answered: "you would not do to be lost in a
wood on a dark night. But I am come to tell you it is all settled,
though, to be sure, you know it already; I am so glad and my aunt is so
glad. No more chimneys to come down and clatter over our heads;--and
then, you know, you can come whenever you like, the oftener the more
welcome, and stay as long as you like, the longer the better. Aunt will
have such pleasure in taking care of your poor old women--the
pin-cushion and the housewife woman, I mean. But I am much afraid that
I shall not make up your loss, good little things as you are, I shall
never manage it; but I must try. I hope I have got the goodwill, though
I have nothing else."
In this place Bessy stopped for actual want of breath.
"What is it?" said Lucy; "what do you mean, dear Bessy?"
"What is it? don't you know? How strange--no, it is not, neither; Mr.
Fairchild said he should not tell you till it was settled; and so there
can be no harm in telling it. And are you not delighted?--you don't
look delighted. Your papa said that there could be nothing which would
please you so much."
"But what is it?" asked the little girls; "how can we be delighted,
when we do not know what it is?"
"Have not I told you?" asked Bessy; "I thought I told you at first.
Why, we are to live in this place, and take care of it, and see that
everything is kept in order; every tree, and every bench, and
everything you love. How you stare!" added Bessy; "how round your eyes
are! I don't mean this hut; did you think I meant that my aunt and I
were to live in it, and take care of the benches?"
"The house, the house?" answered Lucy, with a cry of joy; "are you and
Mrs. Goodriche to have the house and the garden; and to take care of
the poor people, and the school, and the hut, and the arbour, and the
benches, and our little room, and the parlour, and the roses? Oh,
Bessy, Bessy, dear Bessy, now am I glad indeed! and we will come to you
here, and you shall come to us there. Oh, Emily, Emily, I am so happy!"
The gentle eyes of Emily sparkled as brightly as Lucy's did, when she
heard this news, though she said little; but she whispered to her
sister, the next minute: "Now, Lucy, we should not have cried so much,
it was not right."
Lucy answered aloud: "No, Emily, we should not; but I hope that we
shall cry no more. If the whole world had been picked, we could not
have found any people we like so well to live here as Mrs. Goodriche
and Bessy."
"Aunt is at the house, she is come to spend the day here; and Mr.
Fairchild sent me here to look for you; and we shall come in when you
go out; and things are to be left as they are now, only a few to be
moved. Aunt will sell her rubbish furniture, and we are to be so tidy,
and I am to have your little room and bed."
"And you will feed our poor robin," said Emily; "he has come every
winter for a great many years, and he knows that window; but you must
shut it after you have put out the crumbs, for fear of the cat. He
knows us, and he will soon know you."
As the three girls walked back to the house, they were quite busy in
telling and hearing what things were to be attended to. Lucy and Emily
felt like people who have had a tight cord bound over their hearts, and
that cord had been suddenly cut, and they were loose.
The three weeks which followed that day were a time of great bustle. On
one evening all the children of the school came and had tea in the
field behind the barn; and Mrs. Goodriche and Bessy came, that they
might get acquainted with them.
Another day all the old people whom the children loved were invited to
dinner; and Mrs. Goodriche came also to make their acquaintance. No one
went away without some useful gift; but these meetings and partings
were sad, and made some wish they were in that blessed state in which
there shall be no more sorrow, nor any more tears.
Mary Bush, and nurse, and Margery, however, said that if Mr. and Mrs.
Fairchild must go, they could not have chosen anyone they should have
liked so well as Mrs. Goodriche.
All this bustle caused the few last days in the home of their childhood
to pass more easily with the little girls; but when they rose for the
last time, from that bed in which they had slept so long as they could
remember, they both felt a sadness which they could not overcome.
The breakfast was to be at an early hour, but, early as it was, Mrs.
Goodriche and Bessy had come before it was ready. They were to return
again to their old house for a day or two, but they wished to see the
last of their dear friends before their departure. Mr. Somers also came
in immediately after breakfast.
The coach from The Grove also arrived at the same time with Mr. Somers,
for the horses and coachman had rested during the night in the village.
Old Mrs. Fairchild always liked to be driven by the man she knew, and
drawn by the horses she had often proved; and they were to travel
slowly, and be three days on the road. Henry came flying in when the
coach arrived; and Lucy and Emily ran up once more to their little room
to cry again. Bessy followed them to comfort them, though she herself
was very sad.
John Trueman, who was at the house with his wife to take care of it
till Mrs. Goodriche took possession, now brought out the old horse and
carriage, in which John and Betty were to travel; and there was a great
deal of packing and settling before anybody got in, for there were nine
persons to go. The two Mrs. Fairchilds, and the two little girls, went
inside the coach; Mr. Fairchild sat with Henry in an open seat in the
back; and Mrs. Johnson was to go with Betty, John, and the magpie, in
the old carriage. It was large and of the old fashion. When the old
lady had taken her place, Lucy and Emily were called: they kissed Bessy
again, and Henry reminded her of the robin. Then they ran down and
kissed Mrs. Goodriche, and without looking round at any dear tree or
window, or garden-seat or plot of flowers, they sprang into the coach,
and felt for the first time that riding in their father's carriage was
no cure for an aching heart. Their hearts ached, and their eyes
continued to flow with tears, till they had passed the village and left
it at some distance behind them; but as they were dragged slowly up
the steep hill, beyond the village, they took courage and looked out,
and could just see a number of persons standing beneath the beech-trees
on the top of the round hill. Someone was waving something white, and
Henry was answering it by waving his handkerchief. Tears soon blinded
the eyes of the little girls, and they drew back again into the coach,
and did not look out again till they had got beyond the places which
they had been well acquainted with in the young happy days which were
now shut up in the past.
When we leave a place which we have long lived in and much loved, how
very soon do all the things which have passed begin to seem like dreams
and visions; and how will this life, with all its pains and pleasures,
troubles and distresses, seem to us when death is swallowed up in
victory, and we shall be with the Saviour where sorrow never more can
come?
[Illustration: "_Someone was waving something white._"]
* * * * *
_Wells Gardner, Darton and Co., 3, Paternoster Buildings, London_
[Illustration: The Fairchild Family]
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE
Inconsistent hyphenation of words such as band-box, play-ground,
school-room, maid-servant, farm-house, bed-time, play-room, post-boy,
school-fellow, corn-field, store-room, tea-cup, and work-bag has been
retained. For the text version's cover and title pages, I have added
periods to initials and to "Mrs." Minor typographical corrections are
documented in the source of the associated HTML version.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Fairchild Family, by Mary Martha Sherwood