_THE LAST SUNDAY._
_March 6._
HERE I am at home, if the cottage can be called home. I have not
written a word for a week, and how many things have happened! In
the first place, Felicia has left us for good. My words to her were
like a prophecy, for if she hath not the great fortune already, she
is like to have it. An aunt of my father's passing through Chester,
came to see us, and she hath carried Felicia off with her to London,
where she is to make her home henceforth, and be as a daughter to Mrs.
Willson—such is the lady's name. She is a widow, childless, and very
rich. So if Felicia can but please her aunt, her fortune is secure. I
have my doubts whether Felicia can keep her temper in check, even when
her interest is concerned, but a change may do much for her. At any
rate she is gone, and it is wonderful what a vacancy she leaves behind
her, and how freely we all seem to breathe without her. I can't help
thinking that dear mother has grown younger. And for my own part, I
feel much more comfortable about leaving home, now that mother hath
only Jacky and the twins to keep in order and provide for.
I must say Mrs. Willson has been very liberal to us. When she heard
that I was going to Stanton Court, nothing would serve but she must
look over my clothes, and having done so, she insisted on taking
me with her to Chester, and furnishing me with two new gowns and
petticoats complete, with shoes, gloves, kerchiefs, and hoods, and all
things answerable, the finest I ever had, though all black, of course.
I would have remonstrated at the expense, but she shortly, though
kindly, too, bid me hold my tongue.
"May I not do what I will with mine own?" said she. "And if I choose to
bestow a little of my superfluity on my brother's grandchildren, why
should you grudge me the pleasure? Learn to be obliged with grace and
humility, chick, and so oblige others in your turn."
I held my tongue, but I was pleased too with the words, and the thought
passed across my mind: "If this good woman should adopt me, I could
make her much happier than Felicia is like to do."
Aunt Willson did not confine her bounty to me. She bought mother a gown
and cloak, which she needs, and new frocks, beside toys and sweets
for the little ones. We then went to Master Smith's shop, where she
purchased for me what I value more than all the fine clothes, namely, a
handsome Bible. I have never possessed one of my own before, and this
is truly splendid, being bound in red with silver clasps. Aunt Willson
had a deal of talk with good Master Smith and his wife, and before we
left, she took Dick and me aside.
"I want to see you young ones together," said she. "I desire to explain
somewhat to you, for though young folks should not sit in judgment on
their elders, I can see that you both have sharp wits, and I have a
mind you should understand me. I dare say you, Richard, are wondering
why I should choose Felicia for my companion, instead of one of the
little girls, or Peggy here."
"I confess I did think of it," said Richard, as Aunt Willson seemed to
pause for a reply.
"Well, then, I'll tell you," said she. "I can see as far into a
mill-stone as another, and I can see that Felicia—plague take the name,
it sounds like a stage play—is one by herself among you and is no
help to any one. She hath just the disposition of her father, my poor
brother, who was wont all his life-long to take the poker by the hot
end."
I could not help laughing. It was such an apt illustration.
"I see plainly that she is no help to your poor mother, and also that
she could never go out and earn her living like you and Peggy here,"
continued Aunt Willson. "The fact is, children, she is just one of
those who seem born to exercise the forbearance and patience of their
friends. The best we can do is to make a means of grace of them."
"That don't seem to be a very flattering use to which to put our
fellow-creatures!" said I.
"'Tis all we are any of us fit for, at times, chick."
"But do you really think," I asked, "that we have any right to think
so—to think that people are made bad only for means of grace to us?"
"By no means, child!" replied my aunt. "That were spiritual pride, and
presumption worse than that of the Pharisees. But we must be either
better or worse for the faults of the people we live with. If we learn
from them patience, forbearance, and watchfulness not to give any just
offence, we are the better; and whatsoever makes us better, is a means
of grace, is it not, sweetheart?"
I confessed that she was right; thinking at the same time that Felicia
had been anything but a means of grace to me.
"Well, as I was saying," continued my Aunt Willson, "as I have no
children to be plagued by her, and as I have a pretty even temper of
my own, besides a good strong will, and plenty of money—why I will
even take the poor thing in hand, and do the best I can with her. But
mind, children, not a word of this to Felicia herself. Let her think,
if she will, that she is doing me a great favor. I am glad I came this
way, though it was a toilsome journey. I shall think of you all with
pleasure; and though we may never meet again, you will hear from me.
You are going into a hard place, Peggy, but keep up a good heart, put
your trust above, be faithful to God and your mother, avoid all mean
and little practises of tattling, eavesdropping, and the like, mind
your own business, be kind to all, but beware of intimacies,—and when
troubles and vexations come, as doubtless they will, keep a brave
heart, put a good face on it, and be not discouraged. ''Tis all in the
day's work!'"
"That is Richard's motto!" said I.
"And do you make it yours; though mind, chick, all depends on the
master for whom the work is done. But we must soon be jogging. Dick,
this is for thine own pocket," and she slipped into his hand a purse I
had seen her buy, and in which she had put some gold and silver pieces
out of her own. "Now do you two gossip a bit while I say farewell to
our good host and hostess!"
"Is she not a good old woman?" I said to Dick, after we had looked into
the purse, and I had told him of aunt's kindness to us all.
"She is indeed, and I thank her with all my heart, specially for all
she has done for you and mother. 'Tis curious, is it not, that we
should have made two such powerful friends in one week—the very week to
which we have looked forward with such dread?"
"Felicia does not think that the Bishop will ever remember us again,"
said I, "but, as I tell her, she judges every one by herself."
"Oh, Felicia—always Felicia!" said Dick, with some impatience, for him.
"It was one of my comforts about your going away, Peggy, that you would
be out of the influence of Felicia."
"I don't think she influences me!" said I, rather testily.
"Why then do you always refer everything to her? Why are you always
thinking about what she will say, and fretting over what she does
say? I tell you, Peggy, we are perhaps as much influenced by those we
dislike and even hate, as by those we love."
Hate is a hard word. I wonder if I do hate Felicia? I am afraid I do,
sometimes.
"At any rate, I am glad she is going away, for dear mother's sake,"
said I; "though I do not think Aunt Willson quite knows what she is
undertaking. But she may do better in a new place, at least for a time."
And then we fell into discourse concerning my journey, and our future
plans. Dick told me he had already begun to act upon the Bishop's
advice, and that Master Smith was willing, and commended his plan; and
he showed me the big book on which he was engaged. It was all in Latin,
so I was not much the wiser, for though I know a little Latin, which I
learned to please dear father, yet I cannot read without a Lexicon, as
Dick can.
Before we had half finished our talk, Aunt Willson was ready to start,
and we set off homeward, followed by my aunt's serving man, carrying
our bundles, and well-loaded he was, indeed, poor man.
Felicia did not look overwell pleased at my aunt's bounty to my mother
and the children. She is already disposed to appropriate Aunt Willson
as her own property, and shut out the rest of us. If she only knew—but
of course 'tis best she should not. Mother said something about wishing
that I also were going with Aunt Willson instead of among strangers—not
of course expecting any such thing—when Felicia, took her up quite
sharply.
"That is out of the question, sister! I am surprised that you should
think of such a thing. It is not reasonable to expect my aunt to burden
herself with the whole family. I am sure you might be satisfied with
what she has done already."
"Heighty-tighty!" said my aunt. "In London we don't suffer young folks
to check and reprove their elders in that kind of fashion, especially
those who have been kind to them!"
Felicia looked a good deal taken aback, and muttered something about
not liking to see goodness imposed upon.
Whereupon, my aunt said something sharply. "Take care you don't impose
upon it, then! As for me, I am able to answer for myself, and I don't
fancy having words either taken out of my mouth or put into it!"
It was Felicia's cue to seem all amiability before my aunt, so she
made no reply. But as we went to supper, she took an opportunity to
say to me, "You have used your time well, Peggy, and played your cards
cleverly. You have set my aunt against me already, I see."
I would not answer her, for I was determined not to quarrel on the last
day, and I suppose she thought it would not be very good policy for
herself, for she put on a very dignified and resentful air, and went
to bed without speaking to me again. I was not sorry, for I was afraid
of one of her outbursts, which somehow put me beside myself. The next
day they went away, and before they left, Felicia told me, with great
solemnity, that she forgave me for all my ill offices to her, and she
hoped I should do well in my new station. She thought I might, if I
would only curb my temper, and learn to forbear mischief-making and
tale-bearing. All this she said before Aunt Willson. I was very angry,
but I was determined to keep the peace, so I only laughed and thanked
her for her good advice.
Aunt Willson kissed me most kindly, and put a little purse into my
hand, whispering, as she did so:
"This is for thine own pocket, chick. Never mind Felicia. I understand
all about it. Keep a good heart, and remember that, as long as I live,
you have a friend at need. I will never see your good mother want, I
promise you that."
So they rode away, and it has seemed, ever since, as though some heavy
oppressive vapor had cleared away out of the air. Nobody laments but
Jacky, who was her special pet, and whom she upheld against everybody,
mother herself included. I wish we could have hit it off together a
little better. It seemed as if we ought to have been friends, growing
up together as we did, and being so nearly related. But I don't know
how it was, somehow every painful passage in my life almost has been
connected with her. I might have been to blame too—indeed I know I
have often been so, but I cannot help being glad that our paths have
separated, at least for a time. Then I am quite sure mother will be
happier without her. Not that Felicia could not be a great help when
she chose, and a pleasant companion as well. But the least thing put
her out of humor, and then she made the house simply intolerable. She
has been much worse since the death of my father, who alone could
control her in her bad moods.
The next great event is that the Bishop hath bought my father's library
for a good round sum—Master Smith valuing the books. They are to remain
in their places in the vaulted room, and form a sort of permanent
library for the use of future rectors, and my Lord has stipulated with
Mr. Carey that Dick shall have the use of such books as he needs—only
the great vellum covered Saint Augustine and one or two others my
Lord has purchased for himself. The price of the books, and my aunt
Willson's bounty, makes my mother very comfortable.
Mr. Carey made up his mind to remain a week longer, which I did not
regret, as it gave me just so much more time at home, and enabled me
to help mother move and settle herself in the cottage. 'Tis a pleasant
little nest enough, with a fair look out over the fields, and a nice
garden, well-stocked with herbs and common flowers, and some fruit as
well. In this we reap the advantage of my father's careful habits,
who would never let the least thing belonging to him go out of order.
'Twas not his way to anticipate, else I might think that he had stocked
the garden and kept the little orchard in good bearing order, looking
forward to the time when it might become a kind of humble jointure
house for his widow. Be that as it may, now that the place is all put
to rights, with the hangings up, the old furniture put in place, and
dear mother's piled up workbasket in the window, I must say it looks
very much like home. The children are pleased, of course, with any
change, but dear mother looks very sad at times. Oh, if I could but
stay! I said once that I should not so much mind leaving home, now that
"home" no longer meant the rectory, but I find, as the time draws nigh,
that home means the place where the dear ones are.
_March 13._
'Tis settled now that we go on Monday. My clothes and other possessions
are all packed, and I have naught to do but to enjoy my last Sunday as
well as I can.
I have already bid good-by to the old folks at the almshouse. Goody
Cramp was very solemn as she kissed and blessed me, and prayed that
I might be kept from every snare. She would needs give me a keepsake
also—a little gilded glass bottle which her son brought home from
foreign parts on his last voyage. It is no bigger than my little
finger, and is all but empty, but it still exhales a sweet odor of
roses. Dame Higgins would give me a token too, in the shape of a little
tarnished silver medal, having, as near as I can make out, the figure
of the Virgin or some female saint, and a Latin legend, of which I can
make out nothing but "Ave." Dame Higgins is a Roman Catholic.
"Take it and wear it—take it and wear it!" said she. "It has the pope's
blessing. An' it does you no good, it can do no harm."
That I fully believe, and I would not hurt the poor old creature by
refusing her gift. When I showed it to old Esther, however, she was
not well-pleased, called it a Popish trinket, and bade me beware of
the sin of idolatry. I could not but laugh, at which she was yet
more displeased. But I coaxed her round at last to say that after
all it might do me no great harm. She herself has given me a charm—a
stone with a hole in it, sovereign against witches—so I am like to
have charms enow. The Bishop hath also given me a token—namely the
book he promised me. It is called "Contemplations on the Old and New
Testaments," and is a considerable volume. I hope to get much good
from it, for 'tis writ in a plain and simple style, much like his
sermons—not what one would expect from such a deeply learned man. I
am glad to have it, and glad too that my Lord remembered me, though
Felicia said he would never think of me again.
_March 14._
The last Sunday! The very last, for Heaven only knows how long! My
heart would break if I dared think about it. Mother and all of us went
to church. Mr. Carey preached a very learned and fine sermon, but
not so much to my mind as that of Bishop Hall. Last Sunday my Lord's
text was, "Enoch walked with God," and there was not a sentence that
any poor person could not understand. Mr. Carey's had a great many
quotations from the Father's and from learned authors, yet the end was
simple and plain enough, and I was much pleased at his kindly ways
after church, and his courtesy to my mother. 'Tis a great comfort to
think that so good a man is come in dear father's room.
Well, I must needs put away my book and pen. When I take them again, I
shall be far enough from here.
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