MRS. DEBORAH.
THE next morning, I waked feeling weary and weak enough. Amabel was
already up, and I saw her seated near the window with her work. I lay a
little while thinking over what had happened, feeling both ashamed of
myself, and vexed at Mrs. Thorpe. What right had she, a tradeswoman, to
set up to dictate to, and order a gentleman's daughter? And yet, at the
bottom of my heart, I felt that she was right, and I was wrong.
I made a move presently, and Amabel came to me.
"Is it very late?" I asked. "Have you been up long?"
"It is not late, but I have been up more than an hour!" answered
Amabel. "I have been thinking about a great many things, Lucy. When you
are dressed, I will tell you what they are."
"Well! Now tell me your thoughts!" said I, as I finished my rosary,
(which I still said every morning), and sat down on the other side of
the window. "I hope they are not very deep, or I shall not understand
them, for I feel dreadfully stupid and heavy. What would Mother
Prudentia say to our being out till eleven o'clock, and that at a play?"
"She would say we were very wrong, and so we were," answered Amabel
with decision. "Lucy, we must never do such a thing again."
"I don't think it was anything to make such an ado about!" I answered.
"We could not help going with my lady at last."
"But we could have helped it at first!" returned Amabel. "We might have
listened to Mrs. Crump, when she told us what was right."
"Mrs. Thorpe has no right to order us so!" I said, speaking out what I
had been thinking.
"She has a perfect right, seeing that my aunt has placed us under her
care!" said Amabel, "Think too, how kind she has been to us. How good
she was last night; she did not wish to turn you out of her house,
because you had a headache, like that other woman."
I remembered this, and began to feel ashamed of myself, for thinking
of our kind hostess as I had done, and at last I agreed with Amabel
that we had done wrong, and must ask pardon, as much as if it had been
Mother Superior that we had offended.
My heart began to feel a little lightened, when arrived at this point,
for the time when conscience stings us worst, is while we are refusing
to allow that it stings at all. We knew that Mrs. Thorpe spent a little
time in her closet every morning before she came to breakfast, and we
determined to seek her there.
"There is another thing I have been considering!" said Amabel, when
this matter was finally settled. "We have lived a very idle life,
lately. Just think! We have been here nearly three weeks, and what have
we to show for it? Not one thing."
"We have read a good deal!" I answered.
"Yes! But not in a way to do us any good. We have not done any lessons,
or worked, either for ourselves or the poor; we have not kept to any
rule, such as we have always been used to."
"I know it!" I answered! "I have thought of it a good many times. But
then you know, Amabel, we have never been used to making rules, or
deciding anything for ourselves, and somehow one does not know how to
set about it."
"But people must learn to make rules for themselves!" said Amabel, with
that gentle decision which has always characterized her, when her mind
is made up. "Only a very small part of the people in the world can live
in convents: otherwise everything would be at a stand still. And those
who live in the world, must often decide for themselves, and regulate
their own conduct, and I don't see why we should not do so."
"But, Amabel, we cannot observe all our own convent rules here!" I
objected. "It would turn the house upside down, if we were to insist on
having our meals at just such times as we used to at St. Jean."
"Those things are not of much consequence!" answered Amabel. "For
aught I know, one may as well eat at one time as another. But we can
take certain hours for working for the poor, and others for profitable
reading and so on. That would disturb nobody; and I am sure we should
accomplish a great deal more, and feel better ourselves. Suppose we
make a set of clothes for that poor little lame girl we went to see
yesterday. It will soon be cold weather, and she will need a warm gown
and woolen hose. Did you not see how thin her things were, and how
carefully mended?"
I agreed that it would be a very good plan, and then we sat a few
minutes in silence.
"There is one thing that puzzles me!" said I presently. "Every one
says, that the religious life is the highest, and yet it is plain
that only a few people out of all the world can enter it; because, as
you say, the work of the world would come to a stand still, if nobody
married and brought up children, and were shop-keepers and lawyers, and
so on. But yet, it seems as if every one ought to serve God in the best
possible way; and if the religious life is the best way, then every one
ought to be religious. I do not understand it."
"Every one has not a vocation!" said Amabel.
"But if a vocation pleases God most, then every one ought to have it!"
I persisted.
"I have heard Mother Prudentia say, that the religious were like the
cream that rises to the top of the milk!" said Amabel. "The skimmed
milk may have its uses too."
"The skimmed milk may have its uses, but I don't believe it is the
best for the children!" I returned. "And that is what they get, poor
things, if all the best women are to become nuns, and leave only the
second-rate ones to become mothers and bring up the little ones."
"Now you are reasoning, and using your own private judgment!" said
Amabel, a little severely—"And you know the church forbids that."
I did not answer but I thought all the more. How was I to help using
my private judgment, so long as I was in a world full of things to be
judged? And even if I gave up in everything to the church, was it not
because my private judgment told me that was the right way? It was a
very puzzling business, and the worst was, that having begun to think,
I could not stop.
"There!" said Amabel, rising as the clock struck eight. "Now we can go
to Mrs. Thorpe. Come, Lucy!"
We found the good woman in her closet; a small room opening from her
parlor, where she had a table, and chair, a shelf or two of books, a
clock, and her large Bible and prayer-book, both of which lay open.
"Good morning, my dear young ladies!" said Mrs. Thorpe, as heartily as
if nothing had happened. "I did not think you would be awake so early,
and told Betsy not to disturb you."
"We have been up a long time, but we did not wish to interrupt you!"
answered Amabel. "Mrs. Thorpe we have come to say, that we are very
sorry for what happened yesterday, and we will never go anywhere again
without your permission."
"And I am sorry I cried so last night!" I added on my own account.
Crying when reproved was a great offence in our convent days.
"Bless you, my dear, you could not help it; it was only a fit of
the mother—hysterics, folks call it nowadays—from being tired, and
over-wrought. But I don't want to be arbitrary with you, my dears. You
are not children any more, and though I do hold to absolute obedience
on the part of young folks to their elders who have the charge, and
must answer for them, yet I would have it a reasonable, and not a
blind obedience. The world, my dears, is full of snares for the young,
and especially for young maids—snares of which they know and can know
nothing, neither what they are nor how to guard against them; neither
should they wish to know, seeing that the very knowledge of evil tends
in some measure to corrupt the mind.
"'Can a man touch pitch, and not be defiled?' asks the good book?
And so young people, and particularly young maids, whether gentle or
simple, must be contented to do what they are bid, and come and go as
they are told by those to whom the Lord has given the ordering of them.
Many a girl who is now on the streets of Newcastle ruined in body and
soul, and made as the offscourings of all men, might be safe at home,
if she would but have trusted in, and been guided by her mother, whose
heart she has broken, bringing her down in shame and sorrow to her
grave."
Mrs. Thorpe spoke with such feeling and tenderness, that it brought the
tears to both our eyes.
"There, now I have preached my little sermon, and we will say no more
about this matter!" resumed Mrs. Thorpe, in a more cheerful tone. "We
will have our breakfast, and then I have something else to say to you."
We usually breakfasted alone with Mrs. Thorpe, who liked to sit
chatting over her cup of tea, having regulated her domestic affairs at
an early hour. We had not then learned to drink tea, and Mrs. Thorpe
had had a pot of chocolate prepared for us. We sat sipping it, while
she opened her great subject.
"My dears, do you think you are making the most of your time?"
We looked at each other, and smiled.
"No, madam! We have been very lazy since we came hither!" answered
Amabel. "Lucy and I were talking that matter over this very morning,
and agreeing that we must set ourselves at work."
"Why, that is well!" said Mrs. Thorpe, evidently much pleased. "I don't
much believe in praise to the face, which is open disgrace, the old
rhyme says. But I must needs say, that two more candid young people I
never met with." Then reverting to her subject—"I think you told me you
had learned music."
"We learned to sing, and a little of the organ," Amabel answered.
"How would you like to learn the harpsichord?" asked Mrs. Thorpe.
Amabel's eyes sparkled. We had seen one of these wonderful instruments
at Mrs. Lowther's school, whither we had gone one day with Mrs. Thorpe;
and we had heard one of her young ladies play a lesson of Mr. Handel's.
"Because!" continued Mrs. Thorpe without waiting for an answer, or
perhaps seeing one in our faces. "I have taken a fine instrument from
a lady in this town who owed me money, and had no other means of
paying me; and I would rather you used it than not. I daresay now,
you are thinking it was hard-hearted in me, to take the poor lady's
harpsichord," added Mrs. Thorpe abruptly, changing the subject.
"No, madam! I do not believe you would ever do anything hard!" I
answered.
"If the lady had been poor, and had gone in debt for necessaries, I
should never have done it!" continued Mrs. Thorpe; "but such was not
the case. She is a widow lady, with a handsome jointure enough, to
maintain her as nicely as need be, in a somewhat quiet way, but that
does not satisfy her. No! She must needs flaunt it with the finest
in the county; and she has run in debt on every side, till there is
hardly a tradesman within a mile who has her not on his books. Not
one thing does she ever deny herself that she wants. Poor Gileson the
confectioner, who has a sickly wife and six little ones, told me that
she owed him more than fifty pounds.
"Ah! My dears, we hear much about hard-hearted creditors, but I have
seen a deal more of hard-hearted debtors in my time. But I had no mind
to wait on my fine lady or to lose by her either; so I told her I must
have either money or money's worth before night; so she turned me
over this harpsichord and some laces. Now I know an excellent elderly
gentleman in this part of the town, who plays very finely. He is the
organist in Mr. Cheriton's church, and is glad to eke out a living for
himself and his wife, by giving lessons in music, arithmetic, and other
things, for he is a fine scholar they tell me. What would you say to
taking some lessons of this gentleman? It would occupy you pleasantly,
and you would be improving yourselves at the same time.
"I was never for driving young folks from morning till night, but I
don't like to see their days running to waste, either. Time, my dear
young ladies, is a thing which once lost, can never return. If you
lose your health, you may recover it; if your money, you may earn or
inherit more; but days wasted can never be found again, either in time
or eternity, that I know of."
Mrs. Thorpe spoke impressively, as was her wont when on serious
subjects.
"But not to talk of that now," she added in her usual business-like
tone. "Your honored father, Mrs. Amabel, bade me use my own judgment
with regard to your expenses, so I am not afraid to undertake this
matter. The harpsichord will be here this morning, and I will send to
Mr. Lilburne to wait upon you at once."
"There is another thing we were talking of this morning," said Amabel
when this matter was settled. "Lucy and I were always accustomed to
spend some of our time in working for the poor while we lived at St.
Jean, and we thought if you approved, we would make some warm garments
and hose for that poor lame girl we went to see yesterday. We both have
most of the money left that you brought us and if you would kindly buy
us the stuffs and the worsted, we might set ourselves at work directly."
She put her hand in her pocket as she spoke, and withdrew it with a
very startled look.
"My purse is gone!" said she. "And just look—my pocket is cut open from
the top to the bottom."
"It must have been done at the theatre last night," said Mrs. Thorpe,
looking at the pocket which had clearly been slit from top to bottom
with some sharp instrument. "Were you much mixed up in the crowd?"
"Yes. Don't you remember, Amabel, how we were squeezed just outside the
door? The man could hardly make way through the press. And mine is gone
too," I added, pulling out my pocket as I spoke, and having much ado
not to burst into tears. It was the very first money I had ever owned,
and it seemed such a cruelty to deprive me of it, and where were poor
Annie's warm clothes to come from?
"I dare say the pickpockets made a fine harvest," said Mrs. Thorpe.
"It is a very favorite scheme of theirs, and the theatre is a favorite
place for their operations. But there, don't cry, my dears, perhaps
I can help you about the clothes. You had better look at your camlet
dresses and see whether they do not need mending, and if so do it at
once. Camlet ravels so badly. I will match the color for you in fine
sewing-silk."
A customer at this moment called Mrs. Thorpe into the shop.
We betook ourselves to our own room, and there we did have a little cry
together over our lost guineas. But there was no use in wasting time in
regrets, and there were our new gowns of plum-colored silk camlet, each
with a long slit down the side to be mended.
Mrs. Thorpe matched the silk nicely, and after the repairs were
finished, we set to collecting all our working materials. We had begun
several pieces at St. Jean, and purchased quite a little store of
embroidery silks and lace thread, in Toulon. Amabel proposed that we
should take up these pieces and finish them in rotation. We still had
our table covered with them when Mrs. Thorpe came up and began admiring
them.
"I'll tell you what, my dear Mrs. Amabel and Mrs. Lucy, (I shall never
learn to use this new-fangled title, and I don't know that I care to
either. In my young days, to call a lady a Miss was to give her about
the worst name one could devise), but I'll tell you what, young ladies,
I was going to offer to provide you with the stuff for your work, but
if you choose to finish these two cravats which I see you have begun, I
can sell them for you for money enough to clothe the poor girl and send
her to school into the bargain, and then the gift will be all your own.
But they must be done soon, for fashions, you know, change like the
moon, only one can't calculate on their changes."
Here was an unexpected way out of our trouble. I confess the thought
did cross my mind that it was somewhat beneath the dignity of young
ladies of quality to work for money, and I said as much to Amabel
when Mrs. Thorpe had left the room to superintend the moving of the
harpsichord.
"But we are working for the poor in making the lace as much as if we
were knitting hose or making shifts," replied Amabel. "The mothers and
sisters used to work for money, and they were of noble family."
"But they were religious, and vowed to humility and poverty," I
objected. "Does not that make a difference?"
"The more I think about it, the more it seems to me, that no one person
is bound to be religious more than another," said Amabel. "You know we
should both have become nuns if we had had our way, and why are we to
be less devoted because we live here instead of at St. Jean?"
Our conversation was interrupted by the entrance of the man with
the harpsichord, a handsome new instrument, which they placed in
our parlor. Mrs. Thorpe followed with her arms full of music-books,
and bringing with her a tall white-haired old gentleman, whom she
introduced as Mr. Lilburne. I took a great liking to him at once. He
examined the harpsichord, pronounced it a fine one and in perfect
tune, and, at Mrs. Thorpe's request, played some airs, which he said
were from Mr. Handel's oratorio of the Messiah. Finding that we could
read music and had some knowledge of the theory, he gave us a lesson,
promising to call the next day but one and hear us play it.
This was destined to be a day of surprises. Amabel was carefully
playing over her lesson, and I was busily working at my lace piece,
when we heard some one coming up stairs, and Mrs. Thorpe herself
throwing open the door announced, with some trepidation—
"Mrs. Deborah Leighton—your aunt, Mrs. Deborah Leighton, Mrs. Amabel."
We both rose to our feet with a start and curtsied to the tall lady in
a riding habit who stood in the door.
Mrs. Deborah was the oldest of the ladies at Highbeck Hall, and was at
that time turned of fifty. She wore her own gray hair without powder,
turned up under a man's beaver with a handsome feather and gold clasp.
I had never seen a riding habit near at hand at that time, and the coat
and waistcoat, almost exactly like a man's, with the deep-laced pockets
and cravat, struck me with surprise. Mrs. Deborah wore large gold
ear-rings, and the seals of a watch dangled below her waistcoat. In her
hand she carried a riding whip with a silver handle.
"There, don't come too near me, girls! I don't suppose there is any
infection about me, but it is best to be safe," she said, speaking in
a strong deep voice, which yet had a certain music in it. "I need not
ask which is which. This, I am sure, is Amabel, from her looks, and
this Cornish girl is Lucy Corbet. You are your father's girl, child, as
Amabel is her mother's," looking at me with a curious contraction of
her mouth, as of one in momentary pain. "Your father was a goodly and
gallant man, child. I knew him well. And your mother was one of whom
the world was not worthy. There, be a good girl and you shall never
want a friend while I live. And you are Amabel, eh!" turning to her.
"You are a beauty like your mother, but beauty is a fading flower—you
know that, don't you?"
"Yes, madam," answered Amabel.
"Well, and how do you find yourselves? I will sit with you a little,
seeing I am here, and my good friend, Mrs. Thorpe, will send me a glass
of ale."
Mrs. Thorpe withdrew on this hint, and Mrs. Deborah seated herself near
the door and continued her catechism.
"There, there, sit down—" For, of course, we had remained standing.
"And how do you find yourselves? Are you comfortable here?"
"Yes, madam, we are very happy here," Amabel answered.
"But what do you do with yourselves? Do you go out? You must not dawdle
away your lives, you know. When we have you at Highbeck, we will teach
you to ride; but that will not be very soon, I fear."
We told her how Mrs. Thorpe had arranged for our lessons from Mr.
Lilburne.
"A most respectable person. I know him well, but methinks you should
have a governess, or something of that sort. Have you not even a maid?"
"No, madam, we have always been used to wait upon ourselves," answered
Amabel.
"Perhaps that is a good thing; however, I will see about it. Now,
girls, I—we, I should say—hoped to have you at home before this time,
but poor Chloe has had the smallpox as well as two of the maids, and
Burdon, our butler—a pretty thing to be sure to be taking smallpox at
his time of life. Poor Sister Chloe is not getting up well. She has a
cough and pains in her chest, and the doctor says she should have a
change. So we are going to take her to Cullercoats for the sea air and
to drink the waters, and leave the house to be thoroughly aired and
cleaned. We may be gone till near Christmas, and what to do with you in
the meantime? You are rather old for school except as parlor boarders,
and I do not like that way of living. What do you say, niece? You look
like a sensible, steady young woman—tell me what you think of the
matter."
"Why should we not remain as we are, madam—"
"Don't say madam, say Aunt Deborah," interrupted the lady.
"Why should we not stay as we are, Aunt Deborah? Mrs. Thorpe is
very kind and looks after us well, and she has put us in the way of
improving ourselves, as you see. Why should we not stay here?"
"I have no objection, I am sure, so you are properly looked after, as
you say," replied Mrs. Deborah. "But you must not run about alone, or
with any one but such as Mrs. Thorpe recommends. I will talk to her
about this matter of a governess or companion. She is a good woman and
well brought up, and a safe adviser for you. But what is this, and whom
have we here?"
The new-comer whom Betsy brought up stairs was no less a person than
Mrs. Wilson, Lady Throckmorton's maid. She came with inquiries from her
mistress as to our health, and an announcement that her ladyship would
call at two o'clock in her carriage to carry us abroad for an airing.
The woman had taken no notice of Mrs. Deborah, who sat listening. Her
black eye-brows gathered closer together till they met above her nose.
I came afterward to watch the drawing together of those eye-brows as
one watches a thunder-cloud. When Mrs. Wilson had done, Mrs. Deborah
answered deliberately, as though weighing every word.
"Then you may tell my Lady Throckmorton from me, Mrs. Deborah Leighton,
the aunt of these young ladies and their guardian, that neither now nor
at any other time will they go abroad with her. I absolutely forbid
their having any thing to do with her. Do you hear me, woman?"
It was evident from Mrs. Wilson's face that she did both hear and
understand, but she took no notice of Mrs. Deborah, except to turn her
back upon her while she repeated her message to us.
"You have your answer," said Amabel with dignity. "Do you not hear?
We are obliged to Lady Throckmorton for her goodness, but my aunt has
forbidden us to go out with her."
"Now, or at any time!" added Mrs. Deborah.
"Please to return these things to your mistress!" said Amabel, putting
into Wilson's hand a parcel containing the finery she had lent us, and
which we had packed up to send by Timothy.
Mrs. Deborah Watched her down the stairs, as a dog watches the retreat
of some intruder, whom he has half a mind to fly at and rend. She then
shut the door, and returned to her seat.
"What does this mean?" she asked. "Have you set up gadding already? How
came you to know this fine lady?"
Amabel told her the story of our adventures, and her knitted brows
gradually relaxed, especially when I took the blame on myself, saying
that I thought Amabel would not have gone but for me.
"Well, well! You are but young, and as new to the world as callow
goslings!" said she.
"Lady Throckmorton was your mother's friend once, Amabel, and for her
sake, I am sorry now, that I sent her so rude a message. But she was
very different in those days. She has been talked about—compromised,
though I say not, that she was aught but imprudent. She lives for the
world, and calls about her all the gay dissipated young sparks in the
country, such as I would not have you meet. She plays high too, and
has, I hear, lost a great deal of money. There, we will say no more,
only mind, I will have no more visiting or going out with her. Well!
And where have you been to church? Next door, I suppose. Mr. Cheriton's
father lives in our parts, and though poor, is a gentleman of good
family. He is like enough to become heir to Lord Carew in Devonshire, I
hear. How do you like the son? He is called a good preacher."
Amabel replied that we had not heard him preach, though we had made his
acquaintance, and explained that being Catholics, we had not been to
church, the only chapel in Newcastle being closed at present.
"Catholics, eh! I never thought of that," said Mrs. Deborah, looking
rather annoyed. "It has always been the rule in our family that the
girls should follow their mother's religion; but my nephew, it seems,
has found means to evade it. I don't know what my sisters will say. But
never mind, now, your consciences shan't be interfered with, if I can
help it. Well, then we will consider matters settled, and that you are
to stay here. I will talk to Mrs. Thorpe about a proper companion for
you. Meantime, here is a token for each of you!" and she laid down two
guineas upon the table. "Oh, by the way, niece, have you heard from
your father?"
"No, aunt!" answered Amabel. "I had hoped for a letter, or perhaps a
sight of him before long."
"I do not believe he will come north at present—and perhaps it is just
as well on the whole, that he should not!" answered Mrs. Deborah. "His
wife has great influence with him, and from all I hear, she is not
likely to let him burn his fingers; not that I believe these tales of
the Prince's landing. Well, there! Good-bye. Be good girls, and God
bless you."
We looked at each other, as the door closed on Mrs. Deborah.
"Well, how do you like her?" said I.
"Very much!" answered Amabel, with decision, as usual. "I think she is
rather rough, but I am sure she is good. How very kindly she spoke to
you. Do you not like her?"
"Yes! Very much," I answered.
And indeed, Mrs. Deborah's way of putting me on an equality with
Amabel, had extracted from my mind a root of bitterness which had
vegetated there for a long time. Ever since our last talk with Mother
Superior about returning to England, I had fully made up my mind never
to leave Amabel, whatever happened. But I had shed some proud tears in
secret, at the thought of being degraded from an equal and companion,
to a mere waiting-woman. That trial was not to come upon me, at least
for the present.
That same afternoon, a messenger came from Lady Throckmorton, bringing
back the aprons that we had worn at the theatre, with the following
note.
"Girls:
"You may tell your aunt, that I might easily enough repay
the affront she has seen fit to put upon me, but I scorn such paltry
revenge. As to you, I meant to do you a kindness which you might have
taken for such; but of course, such chits as you have to do as you are
bid. I am not in the habit of taking back my gifts, for such I meant
'em. You can either keep the things, or put 'em in the fire.
"CLARISSA THROCKMORTON."
"What shall we do with the things?" said I, taking up the packet, which
Amabel had laid on the table.
"We can do nothing but keep them, under the circumstances!" answered
Amabel.
"I am sure I don't want to have them," said I.
"Nor I. Perhaps we can find a way of bestowing them in charity some
time; meantime let us put them away. I am glad my aunt laid her
commands on us so plainly, it saves us a great deal of trouble."
"What shall we do if Lady Throckmorton writes to your father, as she
said she meant to do?" I asked, remembering all at once, all her
ladyship had said on that matter.
"We shall see when the time comes."
"But you must allow, Amabel, it was kind in her to ask us!" said I.
"She could have had no motive in it, but to give us pleasure, that I
see."
"I am not so sure!" answered Amabel. "I don't like to look out for
mean motives. At the same time, I can't help remembering a word she
let drop—'I must positively have you with me. Nothing draws like a new
face.' Don't you recollect?"
I did recollect, and my ever ready pride brought the blood to my
cheeks, as I thought of being used as a decoy to capture the kind of
game which Lady Throckmorton affected. "Well, I know one thing, I wish
we had never seen her!" said I.
"We never should have seen her probably, if we had obeyed Mrs. Thorpe's
hints, and stayed up stairs," answered Amabel. "But come, never mind
her. Hear me play over my lesson."
Amabel took to the harpsichord at once. I cannot say I ever liked it. I
was fond of singing and of the lute, and I believe I might with proper
instruction have become something of a proficient upon the latter. But
I liked best of all to do fine needle work, for which I always drew my
own patterns, mostly from nature.
That very afternoon, taking a longer walk than usual, we found
ourselves outside the walls, where was quite a little coppice of wood
and brambles. Here, I discovered some fern leaves of a kind quite
new to me, and very graceful. Such things always gave me a degree
of exquisite delight, such as I could never find words to express;
and which I believe Amabel thought rather childish. I carried home a
handful of the leaves and arranged them into a pattern.
Mrs. Thorpe had in her shop some beautifully fine and sheer linen,
which she said came from China. I bought a square of this linen with a
part of the guinea Mrs. Deborah had given me, and began a handkerchief,
which so interested me, that I found myself in danger of forgetting my
lessons altogether; till I made a positive rule to myself, that I would
work at it only just so long every day.
If there was some trouble in being thus forced to decide for ourselves,
there was also a good deal of pleasure, and it had this advantage;
that our minds and wills were made stronger, instead of weaker by the
process.
After a day or two, Mrs. Thorpe announced to us that she had found a
lady who would come to us every day from nine till six; walk out with
us and give us such instruction, especially in English, as was in her
power. I confess I was not pleased with the prospect, and I suppose
Mrs. Thorpe saw as much in my face, for she added—
"You know, ladies, I am only acting in accordance with Mrs. Deborah's
orders. I dare say, you find it pleasanter to be by your two selves;
but you know, my dears, that the pleasantest things are not always the
best. Mrs. Cropsey is a very well-educated lady, who has seen good
society in her day; but she has lately been left a widow, having lost
her husband and two children, as it were, at one blow; and she is only
too glad to do something to support herself—poor thing."
"Who was her husband?" asked Amabel.
"He was a clergyman of the church of England, Mrs. Amabel—a poor
curate, to a gentleman who holds two livings, and a stall at Durham
besides. Poor Mr. Cropsey caught a fever from a poor man he attended,
and carried it home to his children. They just managed to make both
ends meet in his lifetime, and you may guess there was not much left
for his widow. I don't wish to speak evil of dignities, or to criticise
my spiritual pastors, which is against the catechism, and bad manners
besides; but I must say it does vex me to see Doctor Turnbull riding in
his fine coach, with his lady and daughters, dressed out as never was,
spending money like water; while the poor creatures that do all the
real work, have hardly bread to eat, nor clothes to cover their backs
and those of their children, not to mention money to lay up against a
rainy day."
"Our priests do not marry!" observed Amabel, with a little tone of
superiority. "So they have no cares of this world to distract them from
their sacred duties."
Mrs. Thorpe smiled—a shrewd, slightly sarcastic smile, of which I had
learned to be a little afraid.
"My dear!" she asked abruptly. "How many priests did you ever know
anything about?"
We looked at each other.
"There was Father Brousseau!" said I.
"And the Bishop—but we could not say we knew him, of course; we only
saw him two or three times," added Amabel.
"And Father Dubois!" I added.
Amabel frowned at me.
The truth was, that Father Dubois had come for two or three weeks in
place of Father Brousseau, when that gentleman was called away; and
had created a sad scandal by drinking too much wine, and singing songs
which were not sacred by any manner of means.
"You see you are hardly competent to decide on that matter," said Mrs.
Thorpe. "I have seen a good many priests in my travels, both French and
German."
"I am sure Father Brousseau is a good man!" said I, rather indignantly,
as Mrs. Thorpe apparently pulled herself up, in what she was about to
say.
"That he is, my child!" agreed Mrs. Thorpe, emphatically. "I wish all
clergymen, both priests and ministers, were like him. But to return to
the matter in hand. I hope, my dears, you will like this lady, and be
kind to her. Young persons can do very much to make the lives of their
governesses pleasant and easy, or the reverse. I am not much acquainted
with Mrs. Cropsey, but Mr. Cheriton knows her well, and indeed it was
he who recommended her to me."
"I dare say we shall like her very much!" replied Amabel promptly. "And
as you say, it will no doubt, be better for us to have some one with
us, to overlook our employments, as we have always been used to do.
When is she coming?"
"She has asked to wait till next week, as she has to settle up her
affairs, and dispose of what furniture she has. Mr. Cheriton has bought
the poor gentleman's books, of which he had a good many, considering.
Mrs. Cropsey has insisted on giving me two china jugs, which were her
mother's, on account of a debt she owes me, for thread, hose, and so
on. I don't wish to sell them, so with your leave, I will put them on
the top of your cabinet, here. Perhaps she may buy them back some day."
"What do you think?" I asked of Amabel, as Mrs. Thorpe left the room.
"About Mrs. Cropsey? I think we must make the best of her, and
learn all we can of her. Anyhow, Lucy, we won't be set against her
beforehand; that would not be fair. I dare say she is a nice person."
"She must be, of course, since Mr. Cheriton recommended her!" said I
demurely, and bestowing extra pains on the stem of my fern.
"I suppose he would not recommend her, of course, unless he considered
her suitable," returned Amabel, and she immediately began practising
with such energy that there was no more chance for conversation.
[Illustration]