FLIGHT FROM THE NEST.
I SHALL never forget my sensations when I felt myself fairly outside
the convent walls. Though I had lived in France sixteen years and more,
I had never seen more of it than was visible from the window of the
little room over the porch—the only one to which we had access which
opened on the outside world. How different the building looked from
the outside. I had never even known of the existence of the two round
towers at the outer corners, since only their pinnacles were visible
from the court, and these I had always supposed to be on the roof
itself.
"Why, Amabel, did you know those towers were there?" I exclaimed.
"No," answered Amabel; "and what is that little building that joins on
the church?"
"Perhaps it is the cell in which Sister Marie des Anges lived so many
years. Don't you remember mother assistant telling us the story?"
"Who was she?" asked Mrs. Thorpe, glad to see us a little diverted from
our grief.
"She was a very holy lady who once belonged to our house a great while
ago—a hundred years, I dare say," replied Amabel. "She lost her mother
when she was about sixteen, and she had a great vocation. Her father,
who had several younger children, would not consent to her entering a
convent, thinking she ought to take care of her little brothers and
sisters. So she shut herself up in a room at home, and would not eat
with the family, or see any of them if she could help it, and she slept
on the floor and wore sackcloth. At last her father died, and she could
do as she pleased; so she built a little cell opening from the church,
and caused herself to be bricked up in it with but one window, opening
to the church, and there she lived—never coming out, or washing her
face, or changing her clothes, till they were all worn-out."
"She must have been a pleasant neighbor!" interrupted Mrs. Thorpe. "I
should have liked a seat on the other side of the church myself. In
England, we think cleanliness is next to godliness. But how did this
pious lady spend her time?"
"In prayer, mostly," answered Amabel; "but she used to work beautiful
lace and sell it for the benefit of the house." *
* I beg pardon of the Canadians for transplanting to another time
and place this paragon, who really belongs to them. Her biographer
remarks that she was exercised with a perpetual aridity of spirit.
No wonder!
"I should not like to be the one to wear it," responded Mrs. Thorpe,
who did not seem to admire this saintly personage at all. "You have
told the story very nicely, my dear. Shall I tell you a tale of one of
my saints?"
"Oh! Do, if you please!" said both together, and Amabel added: "I did
not know Protestants had saints."
"Oh, yes, we have them, but they are rather different. Well, this young
maid, like yours, was bereft of her mother when she was seventeen,
and she had four little brothers and sisters. Her father was a
clergyman—you know Protestant clergy marry—and very poor.
"This young lady had been taught by her mother, who was a well-educated
lady. She had most of the care of the family, for her father had a
large parish, and very little means, so that he was obliged to till a
piece of land to help out the living.
"So my young maid—her name was Mary, too—heard her brother's Latin
accidence, and so on till he was ready to go to a foundation school,
where he got an Oxford scholarship, and was made a professor or master,
I don't know just what they call it. Another brother got a berth on a
good ship, and now commands a fine vessel of his own.
"Of her two sisters, one keeps a girls' school at Gateshead, where she
has brought up many fine girls to be blessings to their families. The
other married a sailor, who, after many prosperous voyages was cast
away in sight of his own home; and now she keeps a shop, where all the
fine ladies about come to buy laces, gloves, and sweet waters, and
oftentimes to learn embroidery stitches and the like.
"My saint herself lived to lay her honored father's head in the grave,
and to see every one of his children doing well in all ways, and then
she went home to her well-earned rest. Yes, indeed, my Mary, my more
than mother!—Thou dost rest from thy labors, and thy works do follow
thee!"
"That is my saint, girls," said Mrs. Thorpe, after a little pause. "How
do you like her?"
"I think she was lovely!" said Amabel, with enthusiasm. "And all the
better because she did not choose her own work. It was just as if God
himself set her a task, was it not?"
"Yes, my dear Mrs. Amabel, God sets us all tasks, if we would but see
them."
"And was this lady your sister?" I asked.
"Yes, my dear, my oldest sister; and if I ever have done any good in
this world, it is owing to her. I will show you her picture at home. A
traveling artist drew it for us. But it was odd you should never have
known of this cell," said Mrs. Thorpe, returning to Amabel's tale.
"Does it not open to the church now?"
"No; I believe she was built up in it after she died. But there are a
great many places about our house that we never saw."
"That is what I don't like—I mean all that mystery!" said Mrs. Thorpe.
"I like things to be open and above board. Not that I mean to say one
word about the ladies in the house we have left, who have been most
kind, I am sure. I am only thinking what chances all this concealment
gives to wicked or tyrannical persons. Suppose a nun misbehaves, or is
thought to do so. She disappears, and word goes that she is sick. By
and by it is said that she is dead. But who knows what has become of
her?"
"But such things would never happen in a religious house," said I, half
offended.
"My dear, human nature is a poor creature, as my dear father used to
say, when he could find no other excuse for somebody. It is not fit to
be trusted with arbitrary power."
"The Jesuits and the archbishop of Paris were religious persons
when they persecuted Mother Angelique and the other people at Port
Royal," said Amabel, who had heard that great lady's story many a time
from Mother Perpetua; "but I am sure, Mrs. Thorpe, no one was ever
persecuted in our house."
"I dare say not, my dear; I was only speaking of what might be."
This discussion had thoroughly diverted us, and made us forget to turn
back for that last look we had promised ourselves. It was just as well,
for such last looks are of no particular use.
We now began to see so many wonders, and these wonders increased
upon us so fast as we drew near the city that we were silent from
very amazement, and could only use our eyes. The crowded ways and
marketplaces, the shops, the soldiers marching through the streets,
the universal bustle of a seaport town—were enough to surprise and
bewilder any country-bred person, much more two little cage-birds like
ourselves, who had never in all our lives seen a dozen strange faces.
By the time we reached the lodging which the care of Captain Lowther
had provided for us, we were thoroughly tired out, and ready to eat
our supper and go to bed earlier even than we were used to do. We had
both one chamber, with two little white and pink beds furnished with
canopies. There was also a full-length mirror in our room, and various
other luxuries. I dare say the place would look dingy enough to us now,
but at that time it was quite a fairy palace.
"What a soft bed!" said I, as I lay down. "I don't know what Mother
Prudentia would say to it."
"She would say we must not talk in bed, I suppose," replied Amabel.
"What are they all doing at our old home?"
"They are at service in the church," said I, as a clock on the
mantel-piece struck seven. "Does it not seem strange that we may sit up
till nine o'clock if we choose."
"I could not I am sure, I am too sleepy," answered Amabel. "It seems as
though I had lived a hundred years since morning. Good-night, Lucy."
The novelty of my position and the strange and to me alarming sounds
in the street kept me awake for two hours—a very long time to lie
awake at seventeen. I thought over all my past life, and wondered what
the future would be like. I wasted a good deal of conjecture upon my
probably position at Highbeck Hall—such was the name of the place where
Amabel's aunt lived. I thought of the story of Mary Lowther which
we had heard in the morning, and wondered—rather scared at myself
for doing so—whether Protestants were after all such bad people, and
whether bringing up motherless children, or even children of one's own,
was not as high a vocation as building oneself up in a hole in the
wall, and living in rags and dirt for twenty years.
Finally I wondered myself to sleep, and did not wake till Mrs. Thorpe
called me in the morning. What a wonderful thing it was to have a
mirror to dress by. I was positively bewildered by it at first, and
found I could manage better in the old way.
We saw very little of Toulon. There was some disturbance in the town,
owing, I believe, to the escape of some galley slaves, which made it
unpleasant to be in the streets. I know there was a great marching to
and fro of soldiers, and once or twice the firing of guns.
We went out once, however, under the escort of Captain Lowther, to
buy some new clothes, and see some sights. We had new frocks alike of
dark silk, which were quite superb in our eyes, and thick grey woolen
frocks, and warm cloaks, which Mrs. Thorpe said we should need on the
voyage, since it was always cold at sea.
On our return from this expedition, a great surprise befell us. We
found Father Brousseau waiting for us, and learned that he was to go
to England in the same ship with us. He informed us that a relative in
the north of England had left him a small property, and beside that, he
wished to visit the noble family where he had once been confessor, and
perhaps he might remain with them.
He has since told me that his superiors that it as well for him to
leave France for a time, since he had drawn upon himself the enmity of
a noble and powerful family, who would have no scruple in revenging
themselves even on a priest. It was known or guessed that he had been
the means of discovering that plot for sacking the convent which had
so nearly succeeded, and his life, it was said, had already been
threatened by some of the Count de Crequi's family.
Those were terribly lawless times in France. The country was full
of soldiers disbanded or deserted after the peace, ready to beg,
rob, or murder, as might suit their purpose best, and prepared for
any desperate undertaking which promised plunder. The great nobles
oppressed their tenants and their weaker neighbors with impunity, and
revelled in all sorts of luxury, while the same tenants ate boiled
grass and nettles, or died of starvation at their gates. They say
people are making an effort now to set things straight, but from all
I hear, not much good is likely to come of it. Folks who have been
crushed down to the level of brute beasts are pretty likely to act like
wild beasts when once they get loose.
We sailed from Toulon in the first days of August, and arrived in
Newcastle in about ten or twelve days. We had a stormy passage, and
Amabel and I were very sick a great deal of the time, so that Mrs.
Thorpe had her hands full with waiting on us. Father Brousseau was not
much better than we, but he made a heroic effort to crawl upon deck
every day that the captain would allow him to be there, and, so Mrs.
Thorpe averred, gave wonderfully little trouble for a man.
How thankful we were to be once more upon dry land; even though that
land was none of the most attractive. Everyone knows that Newcastle
is the very centre of the great coal trade of the North. It seemed to
us, as we landed on the wharf, and toiled up the narrow steep street
to that part of the town where Mrs. Thorpe lived, that everything was
begrimed with coal-dust. The very faces of the babies were darkened
with it, and we seemed to breathe it in the air. The streets were
narrow and the dingy houses were old and tumble-down—and seemed to hum
with people, like a hive. I suppose Mrs. Thorpe read some dismay in our
looks, for she said kindly—
"This is but a poor part of the town, young ladies; you will come to a
better presently."
And in effect, we did come out on a wider and more quiet street, where
there were a few handsome old houses, and several shops of the better
sort, at the doors of which handsome equipages—carriages, or Sedan
chairs, were standing. It was to one of the neatest of these houses,
that Mrs. Thorpe directed our steps. I noticed at once, that the
good-sized windows were clear and bright, the pavement in front well
cleaned, and the two stone steps which led down into the shop were as
white as hands could make them.
"Welcome to my poor house, young ladies!" said Mrs. Thorpe, turning
to us as we entered. "I hope I shall be able to make you comfortable,
though I am not much used to entertaining ladies of quality. Well,
Rebecca, and how do you do?"
"Right well, Clarissa, and glad to see thee back!" said a prim little
old lady, who rose from her seat behind the counter, and welcomed Mrs.
Thorpe with a joy which was more forcibly expressed in her beautiful
grey eyes, than in her words.
We looked at her in some surprise; taking her in her grey dress, white
kerchief and close cap, for a sister of some religious order.
"These are the two young ladies whom my brother has brought over from
France," said Mrs. Thorpe, after she had shaken hands with her friend.
"This is Mrs. Amabel Leighton, and this is Mrs. Lucy Corbet, her
companion and kinswoman."
The good woman made some kind of salutation, and then began asking
questions of Mrs. Thorpe, about her voyage, and answering others in
her turn; while we stood patiently, almost forgetting our fatigue in
observing the strange new place in which we found ourselves.
The shop was a large one for the place and time. It was exquisitely
neat, and crammed full of goods—laces, ribbons, fans, china jars, and
monsters of all kinds, and the air was quite heavy with the perfume of
scented soaps, hair powder, and essences.
"But there, my dears, I won't keep you here, when I know you are tired
to death. Come up stairs directly. Where is Betsy? How do you do,
my lass?" As a stout neat looking servant-maid came in, wiping her
hands and greeting her mistress in some language, which no doubt was
intended for English, but which her Northumbrian burr, made absolutely
unintelligible to me. "I suppose the young ladies' rooms are ready,
Betsy!"
Betsy signified as much, and Mrs. Thorpe led the way up stairs, and
herself introduced us to a little parlor very neatly and prettily
furnished, decorated with some beautiful china, and with a great
bow pot of flowers standing in the window. There were snow-white
curtains to the deep windows, and a Turkey rug, old and faded, but
still beautiful, on the centre of the floor. The furniture was heavy
and black with age, but bright as rubbing could make it; and what
most attracted my attention at the moment, a tall press full of books
occupied a recess on one side of the fireplace.
From this pretty parlor opened two light closets, each of which held a
little bed, a chair, and a dressing-table, with a small round mirror
hung over it. The sitting-room window looked out on a small, but neatly
kept garden, and through an opening between two great trees at the
bottom, we could see the tower of a grand old church.
"This will be your room, my dears—young ladies, I should say—as long
as you remain with me," said Mrs. Thorpe. "I bade Betsy get it ready,
thinking you would like the view into the garden."
"It is a beautiful room!" said Amabel. "Dear Mrs. Thorpe, how kind you
are to us. But you must not let us take up the best part of your house."
"Oh! I have plenty of room, never fear," answered Mrs. Thorpe smiling.
"The house is a large one. I used to take lodgers, but I don't do
it any more. My shop gives me enough to look to, and I have been
wonderfully prospered and cared for. These books and most of the
furniture of this room, belonged to my honored father; and were placed
here for my sister Mary—the one I told you of—when she came to make her
home with me. See! Here are your mails—and I dare say you will like to
wash, and change your clothes. It is always the first thing I want to
do when I come off the ship."
A stout serving-man, who looked as if he had never been hungry in his
life, brought up our little trunks. Betsy, who had left the room for a
minute, followed him with a great can of hot water, and a heap of clean
towels; and Mrs. Thorpe left us to our toilets.
Mine was soon made, and as the window was open, I ventured to satisfy
my curiosity, by leaning out. I made the discovery that our next door
neighbors were very quiet ones. The house stood near a small grey-stone
church, standing in a church-yard thickly sown with stones, and
unmarked graves. On the other side, our garden was bounded by a high
wall on which was trained a vine of some sort; over this, I could just
see a bit of what looked like a grand mansion of brick and stone. I
announced my discovery to Amabel, who came to look in her turn.
"Yes, it all seems quiet and nice," said she, "and the room is very
pretty. I did not think there could be such a pretty place in this ugly
town."
"It is dreadfully ugly, at least all we have seen of it," I admitted.
"Perhaps it is not all so. You know Mrs. Thorpe said we came through
a poor part of it. See what a pretty house that is beyond the
church-yard, where the gentleman is just coming out. There, he is
coming to the church. I wonder if he can be the priest."
"He does not look like one, though I am sure I don't know what an
English priest does look like. But, Lucy, what would Mother Prudentia
say to our staring out of window at a strange man?"
I drew back quickly enough, feeling, I don't know why, rather vexed at
Amabel's words.
The gentleman in question was a tall, stout young man of thirty, or
thereabouts, not at all handsome, but with something very attractive
in his face. He was twirling a thick stick, and whistling to a rough
little dog, which ran to and fro among the monuments.
Somehow I took a liking to that gentleman the moment I saw him. There
was a kind of real manliness about him which made one feel that he
was a person to be relied upon in case of danger or distress. I took
another peep and saw that he was pulling up some weeds from a baby's
grave.
"Well, my dears—I must learn to say young ladies, I suppose, now you
are at home in England," said Mrs. Thorpe, knocking and entering at the
same moment. "But, laws me, it does come so easy to me to mother all
young girls for the sake of my own two—I suppose you are quite ready
for your suppers. Will you join us at the table, or shall I send you
something up here?"
"Oh, we will go to the table," answered Amabel; "and, dear Mrs. Thorpe,
I am sure we shall be only too glad to be mothered, as you say. We are
all ready, if you please."
"Please, Mrs. Thorpe, who is that lady below in the shop?" I ventured
to ask as we descended the stairs. "Is she a sister?"
"No, she is not a sister, but a Friend," answered Mrs. Thorpe, smiling.
"She is what people call a Quaker. Have you none in France?"
"I do not know," replied Amabel; "we know not much more about France
than England."
"Ah! Yes, that is true. Well, the Friends are a people by themselves,
and have their own ways and notions—very odd ones, too, some of them
are. They never go to church, and have no sacraments, and no settled
order of clergy, but they hold by the Bible, and are very good, honest
kind of people. Some of their women, even, are ministers, like Rebecca
Carter's sister. Rebecca is a good creature, and very faithful to me,
but she has her ways, as who has not? You must not mind if she calls
you by your plain, Christian names. That is a part of her religion."
At another time, I suppose all this would have surprised me very much,
but the last two or three weeks had been so full of wonders that I was
beginning to lose the power of being surprised at anything.
We followed Mrs. Thorpe into a kind of back-parlor, or better-most
kitchen, I don't know just which to call it, where the table was set
for several persons. Mrs. Thorpe placed Amabel and myself on either
side of her, at the head of the table. She then rang a little hand
bell, and two or three neat looking young women came in from another
room, and took their places near the foot of the board. Mrs. Thorpe
said grace, and Amabel and I crossed ourselves, as we had always
been used to do. I saw one of the girls glance at another and smile
contemptuously. Unluckily, Mrs. Thorpe saw it too.
"Betty Humble will leave the table," said she.
Betty colored furiously, and began to stammer some excuse, but Mrs.
Thorpe made an imperative gesture, which sent Betty out of the room,
bursting into tears as she shut the door behind her with more force
than was quite needful. I felt sorry for the girl, though I had felt my
cheeks burn the moment before, and I glanced at Amabel, rather hoping
she would intercede for the banished Betty; but she said not a word,
nor did anything in her face show that she was at all disturbed.
The supper was brought in by Betsy, the stout servant-maid, who
waited at table more skillfully than I would have expected from her
appearance. The meal was abundant, and nicely cooked, and, as it was
the first meal I ever ate in England, I remember it well. We had a
fine pair of roasted fowls, boiled potatoes, light as meal (the very
first, by the way, that I had ever seen, for they have never been very
commonly used in France, and at that time were not known in our parts).
Also, we had a great bowl of frumenty, or wheat boiled with milk, and a
mountain of a brown loaf.
I thought of our dear mothers and sisters in France, sitting down to
their meal of coarse bread and milk, and not too much of that, and it
gave me almost a guilty feeling. It seemed as if I had no right to the
savory wing of fowl that Mrs. Thorpe put upon my plate, and the tears
rose to my eyes in spite of me. Mrs. Thorpe noticed the change in my
countenance, as, indeed, she always saw everything.
"What is it, my dear? Anything wrong?"
"No, madame," I answered, making a great effort to compose myself. And
then, feeling that I owed her an explanation, I added in French, and in
a low tone:
"I was thinking of the mothers and sisters at St. Jean, and wishing
they had my supper."
"Bless your kind heart, Mrs. Lucy, I wish they had!" answered the good
woman. "I am sure they should be heartily welcome to the best my house
could afford, if they were only here, or I could send it to them. But
do not let the thought spoil your supper, my dear. If those who give to
the poor lend to the Lord, the good ladies have a fine estate out at
interest into which they will come some day. Anne Thwaites, don't let
me see you bend over to your meat in that way—you will be growing as
crooked as a rams-horn before you are forty."
Anne, a delicate looking girl, pulled herself up, blushing and smiling
at the same time. So the meal proceeded with a little conversation,
and now and then a remark addressed to the apprentice lasses, for so I
found them to be.
After all was cleared away, the servants—Betsy, the man who had brought
up our trunks, and an elderly woman, whom Mrs. Thorpe addressed as Mrs.
Crump, came in and took their seats. A large Bible and prayer-book were
laid before Mrs. Thorpe; she read a chapter, and then a prayer in a
reverent devout manner, all joining in the Lord's prayer at the end.
If she had asked us to be present, I suppose we should have refused;
but either because she thought it the more discreet way, or from sheer
forgetfulness, she never said a word about it, but took our attendance
for granted.
The chapter was the beautiful story of the Shunamite, and that was the
first word I ever heard out of the Old Testament, except indeed the
Psalms, most of which I knew by heart. I observed that Rebecca Carter
did not come in to family prayers, but remained in the shop, where also
she had her supper. I concluded that this was one of the "ways" that
Mrs. Thorpe had told us of.
It was August, and the days were growing shorter, but the evening was
warm and dry, and Mrs. Thorpe invited us to go out into her garden.
"It is but a small place compared to that you have been used to!" said
she. "But yet it is not so bad for a town garden, and the church-yard
being next, gives us plenty of fresh air."
"I think it is a lovely garden!" said Amabel with great enthusiasm, and
indeed it was.
Every nook and corner was improved to some good purpose, either filled
with such hardy flowers as flourished so far north, or with sweet herbs
or berry bushes. The sunny wall had an apricot trained upon it, and
there were two grand standard pear trees, and a low bushy apple tree,
all three laden with fruit. There was also a pretty arbor, covered with
a great Virginia vine, just beginning to turn red.
"My husband brought that vine from over-seas in America, himself,"
observed Mrs. Thorpe, "as well as that tree you see yonder, in the
church-yard; the tree has beautiful flowers upon it. My sister's grave,
and that of our two daughters are just under it."
"Were your daughters grown up, madame?" I ventured to ask.
"They were just about your age. They were both taken in one week's time
of a fever, which was in the town."
"That was very sad!" said I.
"Yes, my dear, very sad. I hardly knew how to bear it at first, and I
do not know but I should have sunk under the blow, only that many of
our neighbors were ill, and needed my help. Would you believe it, my
dears? In that very house next door, the mother was taken down, and
her own sons and daughters would not go near her, but left her wholly
to the care of a wretch, who drank the wine given for her patient, and
then ran away and left her. I went in to see her, and by good hap, was
in time to save her from sinking at the crisis of the fever."
"'My good Mrs. Thorpe, it is very kind of you to look after Mama!' said
one of the daughters, in her fine lady lisp and drawl; 'but I suppose
it is natural to you to like to take care of the sick.'"
"'Madam!' says I. 'I hope it will never be natural to me to desert
those who need my help, whether they be strangers, or my own flesh and
blood,' says I."
"Oh! I gave them a bit of my mind, I promise you; they were greatly
offended and would not come into my shop for a long time; but I let
them alone and they got over it."
"Do they live there now?" I asked, much interested.
"Oh, no! They are all gone. One daughter married, and died of the
smallpox. The other wedded a fine London gentleman, who soon gambled
away all her property, and left her in great poverty and distress, poor
thing. She lives in a little cottage over in Gateshead, on what she can
make from the rent of this house; which is not much, for it is in bad
repair, yet a fine old mansion too, and I will show you over it some
day. See! Here are some monthly roses—a bud for each of you."
"Have you not a bud for me also?" asked a cheery voice, from over the
stone wall next the church-yard.
We all turned round, and there stood the tall gentleman we had seen
before. He was leaning on the wall, and lifted his hat politely.
"Ah! Mr. Cheriton, I did not know your Reverence was in town!" answered
Mrs. Thorpe, curtsying low. "I fear there are no more rose-buds, but
here is a clove pink if you will have it."
"And when did you come home from foreign parts?" asked Mr. Cheriton,
accepting the pink with a bow, and putting it in his button-hole.
"Only to-day, your Reverence. This is Mrs. Amabel Leighton, and her
kinswoman, Mrs. Lucy Corbet, who have come home, and are staying with
me, till they can go to their aunts at Highbeck house."
"That is not likely to be very soon, I fear, unless both of these young
ladies have had smallpox!" said Mr. Cheriton. "I have just come home
from my father's, and went over to pay my respects to the old ladies,
who made me the bearer of dispatches to yourself."
Mr. Cheriton bowed to us severally as he spoke, and then produced a
letter bound with a bit of floss silk, which he gave to Mrs. Thorpe.
Then bowing again, and whistling to his dog, he departed. Mrs. Thorpe
led us into her own parlor behind the shop, where we waited in some
anxiety, while she read the note the gentleman had handed her.
"Here is a change of affairs with a witness!" said she, when she had
succeeded in making out its contents. "My dear young ladies, can you
content yourselves to live with me for a few weeks? Your aunt writes
that they have two cases of smallpox in the house, and that they are
every day expecting Mrs. Chloe, the youngest lady, to come down with
the same, and that she would prefer to have you remain with me till the
danger is over. I think you told me you had never had the smallpox."
"Not unless we were very young at the time," we told her.
"Ah, then we will run no risks. But can you content yourselves with
living quietly in my plain way for a little, or would you rather go to
my sister's school, where you can have companions of your own age?"
We assured her that we would rather stay with her than go anywhere
else, and, indeed, I think we both felt it to be a reprieve. We had
grown to love Mrs. Thorpe, and to feel confidence in her, and the
notion of strange companions of our own age was rather alarming than
attractive. So the matter was settled. We would make it our home for
the present, with good Mrs. Thorpe, who would on the morrow send word
to that effect to our aunts at Highbeck Hall.
"Amabel," said I, when we were once more alone in our own pretty room,
"do you think we did wrong to be present at Protestant worship? Ought
we to have come away?"
"No, I don't think so," answered Amabel, after a little consideration.
"We could not help it, and there was nothing contrary to religion in
the prayers."
"But there was no Hail Mary! Or any other devotion to the mother of
God."
"That is true. I believe Protestants do not honor her as we do. But,
Lucy, you know how we used to read the 'Imitation of Christ' over and
over. Mother Superior always had it by her when she was ill, and there
is not a word in that about the mother of God, any more than in Mrs.
Thorpe's prayer."
"That is true enough; I never thought of it before," I answered.
Then—changing the subject—"Are you glad, or sorry, that we are not to
go to Highbeck Hall directly?"
"Glad, on the whole," answered Amabel. "It will give us a little time
to rest, and get used to English ways. Come, let us say our prayers,
and get ready for night. Those little white beds look so nice after the
berths on board ship."
They did, indeed, but I had one question more.
"Amabel, what do you think of Mr. Cheriton?"
"I don't think of him at all;—why should I?" answered Amabel, a little
shortly. "Come, let us go to bed."
And so ended our first day in England; but I think Amabel did think a
little bit about the tall young rector after all.
[Illustration]