LIFE AT THE HALL.
JENNY came to call us betimes in the morning, but we could hardly
dress in time for breakfast, so occupied were we in gazing from our
projecting window at the great picture spread out before us.
The morning was clear and frosty. The house, as I have said, stood
very high on the hillside, and the ground was so steep that there was
nothing to break the view over the broad plains, clothed here and there
with little villages, farm-houses, and clumps of wood. A great deal
of the land was pasture and still more was unclaimed waste, inhabited
only by gypsies and other wild and lawless people. We seemed to look
directly down into Highbeck village on one side, and on the other up
the course of the noisy mountain stream to the place where it tumbled
over a dam or ledge of rocks forming a considerable cataract. The woods
were all brown and sere save where the red stems and dusky green heads
of the Scotch furs mixed with the oaks and ashes, and the rowan trees
still displayed their scarlet berries.
"Is it not beautiful!" said Amabel. "There is something exhilarating in
such a wide prospect. It makes me think of our favorite window at St.
Jean, only one cannot see the sea as we could there."
"What a large house it is!" said I. "I thought we were quite at the end
of the passage, but see, there is a long range of wall beyond us. What
beautiful ivy!"
"Half the house cannot be inhabited!" remarked Amabel. "But come, we
must make haste or we shall not be ready."
We found breakfast prepared in a much smaller and snugger room than
the great dining-room, hung with cheerful tapestry representing
various pastoral scenes, where Corydon in cross-stitch made love to a
satin-stitch Phillis herding her French knotted sheep on the worsted
green. We were given to understand that Mrs. Deborah's grandmother had
worked this tapestry from her own designs to illustrate her favorite
book, "The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia," and we looked on it with
respect accordingly.
Mrs. Chloe had a tea equipage at her end of the table—there were jugs
of milk and bowls of cream, and more kinds of hot cakes and cold cakes
than ever I saw before. Each of the old ladies gave us a kiss, wished
us good morning and hoped we had rested well. Then Mrs. Deborah rang
a bell and the servants came in, bringing their stools with them and
took their places near the door while Mrs. Deborah read prayers. Our
little Mary was among the number, and I was glad to see that she looked
quite cheerful. We ought to have called her to dress us, but a maid was
a luxury we were not used to and we forgot all about her till we were
quite ready.
"Your little maid looks bright and cheery this morning, nieces! I am
glad to see it. Did she sleep in your room?" asked Mrs. Deborah.
Amabel told Mrs. Deborah how Mary had been determined to conquer her
fears. The old lady looked well-pleased.
"That speaks well for her. I was afraid she was going to mope, and I
hate moping people. If a thing is to be done, why do it, I say, or else
let it alone, but don't go about it with a long face, as though you
were a martyr. Well, nieces, and what will you eat? Here are oat cakes
and barley scones and milk scones—and wheaten bread, you see! Or will
you share my sister's pot of tea? I am no tea drinker, but I am willing
that other people should take it, if they like it!"
"Yes, Sister Deborah is no tea drinker, but she makes no objection
to my having it!" observed Mrs. Chloe. "Won't you take a cup, niece
Corbet? This is very good."
I was no more a tea drinker than Mrs. Deborah, but I had been taught
never, if I could help it, to refuse any thing offered in kindness,
so I accepted one of the little cups, and liked it very well. The new
milk was delicious, and Mrs. Thorpe had taught me to like fresh toasted
oat cakes, so I made an excellent breakfast. Mrs. Deborah breakfasted
heartily on porridge and milk, observing that she had been up long
enough to get a good appetite.
"Yes, Sister Deborah has been up a long time!" said Mrs. Chloe, who ate
scarcely anything. "Sister Deborah is very fond of the dairy and always
oversees it herself. That is the reason we have such nice butter. Lady
Thurston's butter does not compare with ours. Do you think it does,
Sister Deborah?"
"Lady Thurston is become too fine a lady to know a cow's head from its
tail!" returned Mrs. Deborah.
"Oh, but sister, I hardly think that can be the case, for she was
dreadfully afraid when a cow looked at her the day we were out
walking!" returned Mrs. Chloe, who always took everything literally.
"Don't you remember?"
"I remember she made a great goose of herself with her fine London
airs! I wonder how my old lady ever endured her follies. 'Tis enough to
bring her out of her grave to see the way things go on. Nieces, are you
afraid of cows?"
This was asked as who should say—"If you are, prepare at once for
banishment."
Fortunately we were able to give an answer which turned away the
impending wrath.
"Oh no! Aunt Deborah!" answered Amabel, smiling. "When we were at St.
Jean, each of us had her own cow to milk—Lucy's was Fanfan and mine was
Cocotte. Ah, my poor Cocotte, I wonder who milks thee now!"
"We used both to help in the dairy, but Amabel more than I!" I added.
"Mother St. Anne used to like to have me help her in the still-room."
Mrs. Deborah's frown relaxed, but Mrs. Chloe looked shocked.
"But did you really milk with your own hands, nieces?" she asked. "I
do not think the nuns ought to have required that. Many ladies take an
interest in their dairies. They overlook them and even skim the cream,
and mould the butter, and make cheese-cakes and so on, but I never
heard of a lady that milked! Did you, Sister Deborah?"
"Yes, I know a lady who milked an Ayrshire heifer this very morning!"
returned Mrs. Deborah, smiling. "But in general, we employ maids for
such services. Did you have no menials, lasses, that the nuns put you
to such work? I thought convents always had lay sisters!"
"I believe they do in general, but our house was very poor, and the
ladies did all the work with their own hands. Sister Lazarus who
attended to the cooking was the daughter of a Marquis."
"The daughter of a Marquis a cook!" said Mrs. Chloe, in, a tone of
absolute consternation. "But perhaps she did that kind of work for a
penance. I have heard of such things."
"Oh no, aunt. She had a special vocation for cooking!" answered Amabel,
gravely.
"Well!" said Mrs. Chloe. "I have always fancied that it would be a good
thing, if we had convents in the Church of England, but if that is the
way—I hope they did not make a cook maid of you!"
"No, aunt, Sister Lazarus always said I had not enough of recollection
to be a good cook, but Lucy used to help her, and she learned to make a
great many nice things."
"Well, well, you shall tell Sister Chloe about it all at some other
time!" said Mrs. Deborah, rising. "If you wish to go through the house,
children, I have leisure just now to show it you. Sister Chloe, you had
better remain by the fire."
We were not a little anxious to see the house, and followed Mrs.
Deborah with great interest as she led us through the long gallery hung
with family portraits and a few good Spanish and Flemish pictures,
brought from abroad by the same ancestor who imported the leather
hangings.
"Some day I will tell you the history of all these people!" said she,
as she opened the door of the saloon. "I suppose you know nothing of
your own family, niece Leighton?"
"Scarcely anything, aunt. But oh, who is this beautiful lady?"
exclaimed Amabel, stopping before a full-length picture which was
revealed by the light from the open door of the saloon.
A black silk curtain hung from the frame of the picture, but it was
drawn aside. The figure was that of a woman of superb beauty, with
large eyes and a queenly poise of the head. The expression of the
face was haughty and resolute, yet had in it something—I know not
what, which was not pleasing. I should call it a look of apprehension
or rather of suspense, as though she were momently expecting the
appearance of an enemy and were nerving herself to meet him.
Mrs. Deborah frowned, and hastily drew the veil over the picture.
"Who has dared!" she exclaimed, and then checking herself as by a
strong effort. "There, never mind, child. I'll tell you the story some
day, or you may ask old Elsie about it." Then as if to change the
subject—"You must make old Elsie's acquaintance. She is one of the
family curiosities, and very fond of young people."
"Who is she, aunt?" I ventured to ask.
"An old Scotch woman that came here with Amabel's grandmother, who was
one of the Grahames of the Border. She knew all the ghost stories about
the place, I believe. See, here are more pictures which my unlucky
great-grandfather bought in Spain, and here is some curious pottery."
"Why do you call him unlucky, aunt?"
"Because he spent more money than he could afford, child, and that was
very unlucky to those who came after him. We do not use these rooms
very much in winter. But this will interest you!" she added, opening a
door into a little room with a southern aspect.
It was prettily hung with an Indian paper, and contained a couch and
chairs of lacquer work, a noble East India cabinet, an old-fashioned
spinet and a work-table. A good fire was burning on the hearth, and
the sun streaming in at the window made the little room look quite
charming. Amabel and I both uttered an exclamation of delight.
"I am glad you are pleased!" said Mrs. Deborah. "This, children, was my
Sister Leighton's own room, which she fitted up herself, and here your
mothers used to sit together with their work and their books, before
your mother, Niece Corbet, was married. I do not often come hither—it
has sad recollections for me, but you can sit here when you please.
I have given orders to have a fire for you, and you shall have your
harpsichord in here, and practice as much as you like. Your bedroom is
directly above, and here is the stair that leads up to it," opening a
door which showed a dark entry and a winding-stair.
"How very good you are, aunt!" said Amabel. "I am sure we never thought
of having such a lovely room to ourselves. I thought we should sit with
you and my Aunt Chloe."
"And so you may, as much as you please, and I shall be glad if you
can do anything to cheer and amuse poor Chloe, who has been sadly
low-spirited ever since her illness. But I know young things like to be
by themselves at times, and you have a kind of right to this room."
"But will not the fire be very expensive?" I ventured to ask. "In
France, we never had a bit of fire except in the kitchen, and sometimes
in the work-room, when it was very cold. Sister Bursar said that fire
was the most costly of luxuries!"
"I dare say it may be in France, where, as I have heard, there is great
want of fuel," replied Mrs. Deborah, not at all displeased, as I had
half-feared she would be by my question. "Thanks to the near coal mine,
and our own woods, great fires are among our cheapest enjoyments. I am
glad to see, niece, that you can think of the cost of things. I wish
some other people were as considerate. But come, we will go up stairs,
and then you must pay your respects to your Aunt Philippa."
"How I shall like to sit by this work-table, and think that my dear
mother sat here before me!" said Amabel, lingering a moment by the
table, and taking up a little prayer-book that lay upon it. "It seems
to bring her so near."
Mrs. Deborah stopped short and turned about.
"Your mother, child, was an angel!" said she abruptly. "I did not know
it—my eyes were blinded, first by wounded pride, and then by—no matter
what. I had been mistress here for many a year, and I resented it
bitterly when my brother brought a stranger from a far country to reign
in my stead, though I knew it was what I had to expect. She gave me no
cause of offence, but I was not kind to her, and when a wound came from
another quarter, I avenged the smart on her. God help me to atone for
my sin by kindness to her child. There, we won't speak of it again."
"Come up this way, and I will show you the King's bed-chamber."
We passed up the turret stair and through our room, where Mary Lee sat
sewing in the window. Mrs. Deborah looked at her work and commended its
neatness.
"I hear you are a good girl!" said she. "Continue so, and you will
always have a friend."
Somehow, a word of commendation from Mrs. Deborah always seemed to go
farther than a whole chapter from any one else. Mary Lee blushed and
curtsied, and said she would do her best.
Mrs. Deborah led the way to a door at the end of our passage, opened
it, and disclosed another gallery lighted down one side, and with doors
on the other. We passed two or three of these, and found ourselves
opposite one, which Mrs. Deborah unlocked with peculiar solemnity.
"This is the room in which King Charles the martyr slept, on his way to
Scotland in 1646!" said she solemnly. "No one has ever slept in the bed
since." *
* I have heard since, that King Charles did not go to Scotland by
that road at all. But it does not matter greatly. The story was fully
believed in my time.
We looked at the bed with a sensation of awe. A king had really slept
in it, and the Martyr King at that.
"No one has ever slept in it since!" repeated Mrs. Deborah. "No one
ever shall in my day, unless another rightful king comes to occupy it,
which may Heaven grant!" said she solemnly.
"Do you think King George is like to come this way, Aunt Deborah?"
asked Amabel, innocently. "They say he is not very fond of traveling in
England."
The thunder-cloud was on Mrs. Deborah's brow in an instant.
"I spoke of the rightful King, Niece Leighton, not of the usurper who
at present occupies a throne to which he has no more right than I have.
King George indeed! That I should live to hear the Elector of Hanover
called King by a niece of mine, and in this sacred chamber!"
"I beg your pardon, aunt!" said Amabel, meekly and greatly astonished
by the storm she had unwittingly raised. "I assure you I meant no
offence."
"No, I dare say not! I forgot you had been living among the whigs of
Newcastle, who would sell their elector as soon as their king, if they
could make any thing by it. But you must learn better now. I shall make
it my business to teach you. See, here is the Bible his Majesty used,
and the chair where he sat. But we must not stay too long here; these
shut up rooms are damp. Niece Leighton, if you ever come to be mistress
of this house, as I hope you may, you must dust this room with your own
hands, four times a year, and mind you lay everything down in just the
place you took it up. Will you promise me this?"
"Indeed I will, aunt!" answered Amabel, sincerely desirous to atone for
the offence she had given.
"Where do these doors lead to?" she added, as we passed the locked
doors on our way back to the other part of the house.
"Those are the shut up rooms. They are never used or opened!" answered
Mrs. Deborah abruptly. "Come, we will see the other wing."
Of course we asked no more questions, but we were all the more curious
especially, as these shut up rooms adjoined our own.
Mrs. Deborah showed us the state bedroom, very grand in red satin, with
needlework hangings, all a little the worse for wear—the blue room, the
white room; her own apartment which was very plain, in green moreen,
and Mrs. Chloe's, gay and pretty with Indian chintz, and a white
muslin and pink silk toilette-table, covered with bottles of all sorts
of washes and lotions for the complexion. Finally, she led us to the
door of Mrs. Philippa's apartment, and left us to announce ourselves,
telling us to come to her in the still-room, when Mrs. Philippa had
done with us.
We knocked, and were admitted by Tupper.
Mrs. Philippa, dressed in a very becoming wrapping-gown and cap, was
sitting up in bed, working on a very handsome piece of embroidery,
with her silks and working implements on a sort of tray beside her,
near which lay a fine tortoise-shell cat with a kitten. There was a
great fire, and the air was heavy and close with the odors of musk, and
sandalwood, and potpourri. I never entered that room without a kind of
insane longing to break out a window-pane.
"Well, nieces, and so you have come at last," was Mrs. Philippa's
greeting. "I expected you before, but no doubt more interesting matters
claimed your attention than waiting on a poor lonely invalid."
"Aunt Deborah said she thought you would not wish to see us very early,
and she has been showing us the king's chamber and the rest of the
house," answered Amabel.
"Oh, of course. She makes an idol out of her king's chamber—not that
I believe King Charles was ever in this house in the world. Well, and
what do you think of the old pile?"
"I think it is beautiful," answered Amabel, sincerely. "I wonder my
father does not live here all the time."
"Your father thinks too much of himself to shut himself up in such a
lodge in the wilderness as this is," was the reply. "But he thinks
it is good enough for his sisters, though he might take a house in
Newcastle for us as well as not."
"But, Mrs. Philippa, I thought you did not like Newcastle," I said,
rather unwisely. "I am sure you called it an odious place."
"You are very pert, miss, to remember my words against me," returned
Mrs. Philippa; "but no doubt you have had your lesson. No doubt my
Sister Deborah has given you your lesson already. I dare say she has
been talking about me all the morning. Pray, what has she told you
about me?"
"Nothing, Mrs. Philippa," I answered, truly. "She has not mentioned
your name except to say that we should wait upon you, and come to her
in the still-room when you dismissed us."
In my heart, I hoped this dismission would come soon, for the air of
the room was stifling, and Mrs. Philippa had never asked us to sit down.
"Oh!" said she, in a tone of sarcastic incredulity. "You are very
discreet—very wise, indeed, Miss Corbet; but you will not blind me
quite so easily. I know my Sister Deborah."
"Indeed, Mrs. Philippa, she did not once speak of you except just as I
tell you!" I said, feeling lay cheeks flame.
"Well, well, what do I care whether she did or not?" said Mrs.
Philippa, peevishly. "There, sit down. Tupper, why do you not set
chairs for the young ladies? And so you have lived in a convent all
your days. Of course you know nothing of society. Well, so much the
better. I might as well be in a convent myself, for all the company
I have. Chloe is so silly she puts me out of all patience, but every
thing she does is right in Deborah's eyes. I have not spoken to my
Sister Deborah in more than twenty years!"
Mrs. Philippa made this announcement as if she thought it something to
be proud of. We looked steadfastly at the floor and said not a word.
"Not in twenty years!" repeated Mrs. Philippa. "And I never will if I
live twenty years more. She did me such an injury with my father as I
shall never forgive if I live to be a hundred."
I cannot describe the expression of rancor with which Mrs. Philippa
said these words. They made me shudder.
"But suppose you do not live to be a hundred, Aunt Philippa," said
Amabel, raising her clear eyes to her aunt. "Suppose you should die
to-night!"
"What do you mean by that, miss?" asked Mrs. Philippa. "Of course I
must forgive her when I am dying or I cannot take the sacrament, but I
am resolved I never will do so before."
"But you may die without having time for the sacraments," persisted
Amabel; "or perhaps you may have lost the power of forgiving by that
time. What would happen then?"
"Niece Leighton, I desire you will not preach to me!" said Mrs.
Philippa, though she looked startled. "It is very unbecoming in you to
lecture your elders and betters. There, I am not angry with you, but
mind you don't do it again. Tupper, where are the presents I bade you
look out for the young ladies?"
Tupper produced two parcels, and Mrs. Philippa gave Amabel a glass
smelling-bottle in a gilt filigree case, and me a pretty tortoise-shell
box full of caraway comfits. She then called upon us to admire her work
and her cat, which we could do with a good conscience. Then, saying
that she would send for us again some day, she bade Tupper show us the
way to the still-room.
"Well, I declare, Mrs. Leighton—plague on this new-fashioned way of
saying Miss, I never shall learn it—you have bewitched my mistress out
and out," said Tupper, in a tone of admiration, as we went down stairs.
"I never knew her bear such plain speaking from any one. If Mrs. Chloe
had said one quarter as much, Mrs. Philippa would have flown at her."
"I ought not to have spoken so, perhaps, but it seemed to me so
dreadful," said Amabel, "to think of her not speaking to her own sister
for twenty years!"
"Yes, it is dreadful, and when you think it was all because Mrs.
Deborah saved her from life-long distress and misery. Well there, it is
not for me to gossip of the family affairs. I dare say you will hear
it all, only, I will just hint to you that you will gain nothing by
being afraid of her. Well, here is the still-room. If you can give Mrs.
Deborah any new receipts, you will make her happy."
"Eh! What do you say?" asked Mrs. Deborah, whose sharp ears had caught
the words. "What is that, Tupper?"
Tupper repeated her words without any symptoms of alarm, as I noticed.
"Yes, that is true enough, I am very fond of my still. Tupper, you
may as well carry a bottle of this lavender water to your mistress.
Tupper is a very valuable and faithful servant and knows how to deal
with Sister Philippa, poor thing!" she added as Tupper shut the door.
She always spoke of Mrs. Philippa in this tone of compassion behind
her back, though she was occasionally sharp with her when they were
together.
I was happy in being able to give Mrs. Deborah a recipe for distilling
Milk water * which was new to her, and to promise her some others when
our luggage came. For I had carefully compiled a receipt book under the
instruction of Mother Perpetua and Sister Lazarus, which contained some
very occult and precious secrets.
* See Mrs. Raffald's "Complete Cooke", or any old edition of
Mrs. Glaesse—Mrs. Raffald is worth republishing. L. E. G.
From the still-room, we went to dinner. Afterward, we visited the dairy
and poultry yard, admired the beautiful cows and the fine broods of
ducks and fowls and made friends with two or three great bloodhounds
and an immense mastiff, which were Mrs. Deborah's special pets. I was
at once adopted and taken possession of by a queer little long-bodied
short-legged rough terrier, of a color between grey and blue.
"Those are Scottish dogs and come from one of the Western Isles," said
Mrs. Deborah. "There, take him for your own if you like dogs, Lucy
Corbet, only you must teach him to let Sister Philippa's cats alone."
"If you please, Mum, the young lady can teach him with one word!" said
the old Scotch woman who had the principal charge of the poultry. "Thae
dogs are gey gleg at the uptak."
"I fear my niece does not understand Scotch!" remarked Mrs. Deborah.
"Oh yes! She means that such dogs are quick to learn!" said I, guessing
the old woman's meaning. I always could understand dialects of all
sorts and confess to being fond of them.
"I'm thinking the leddy is gleg at the uptak her-sell!" said Elsie with
a smile. "She's no like the folk about her. I'm thinking I'll just gang
hame and tak up my ain hoose in the spring, Mrs. Deborah. I coma thoh
to bide wi' folk that canna speak plain."
This was past me, gleg as I might be, and as we walked away, I asked
Mrs. Deborah what she meant.
"She means that she will go home and set up housekeeping in the spring,
because she cannot endure to stay with people who cannot understand,"
answered Mrs. Deborah. "But I am not alarmed. She has said the same
thing for fifty years at least. She is a good creature and very
faithful, but I have to stand between her and the other servants who
hate her for being Scotch, and dread her because they say she knows
more than she ought, and never goes to church."
"Why does she not go to church?" I asked.
"Because she is a Presbyterian, child."
I was not much the wiser because I did not know what a Presbyterian
was at that time. Afterward I found out that Elsie was a member of the
National Church or Kirk as they call it of Scotland, who have a great
dislike to Episcopacy—no great wonder either. I am not fond of plum
pudding, but if any one were to try to drive it down my throat with a
bayonet, I think I should like it still less.
In the afternoon the wagon arrived with our luggage and all Mrs.
Deborah's purchases, including the harpsichord, which was set up in the
little red parlor, and proved to have borne the journey very well. A
part of the next day was spent in unpacking our various possessions and
setting them in order.
We found that Mrs. Thorpe had prepared a pleasant surprise for us by
adding to our small library a number of volumes, among which were
"Sir Charles Grandison," and Clarissa Harlowe and Mr. Law's "Serious
Call." There was a glass-cupboard in the room, which already contained
a number of volumes, mostly books of devotion of the age and style of
"The Whole Duty of Man" and "The Practice of Piety." There were also a
Shakespeare, a copy of Spenser, and one of the "Arcadia" of Sir Philip
Sidney. I should have mentioned the library in my survey of the house.
It was rather a gloomy room containing some hundred or two of volumes
in presses, mostly old chronicles, books of Roman Catholic and High
Church divinity, and treatises on heraldry and hawking.
By Sunday we had begun to feel quite at home in our new quarters. We
went to Church in the morning with Mrs. Deborah in the carriage all in
state, with footmen behind.
The church had been a handsome one but it was partly in ruins, and only
the lady chapel, or what had been such, was habitable. Small as it
was, it was large enough for the congregation, which seemed quite lost
among the high backed benches. There were no pews but our own and the
rector's which was quite empty, he being a widower without children.
Dr. Brown read Prayers. I never like much to criticise a minister but
I must say that so far as our service can be spoiled, he spoiled it,
mumbling and hurrying so that it was difficult to tell where he was.
The lesson was the noble one for the first Sunday in Advent, but I do
not believe one person in ten knew what he was reading about. There
was no sermon, and nothing to take the place of it. A more lifeless,
spiritless performance in the shape of divine service could not
possibly be. Certainly it was a great change from St. Anne's, where
even before Mr. Cheriton came over to Mr. Wesley's ways, he always gave
full effect to the service and the lessons. I heard Amabel sigh more
than once, and no wonder.
When we came out of church, Mrs. Deborah invited Doctor Brown to dine
with us. He excused himself on the ground of having to hold afternoon
service at his other church, five miles off, but said he would do
himself the honor to call in the course of the week, as he had a great
piece of news to communicate.
There was a great bobbing of curtsies and pulling of forelocks as we
came out of church, and Mrs. Deborah spoke to several of the older
people particularly, inquiring about their health and that of their
families, and promising to come and see several sick people.
"Parson be going away, I hears!" said Richard, as he helped his
mistress into the coach. "John Footman told me he has got great
preferment about Durham, some gate. They say as the gentleman which was
to be curate is to have the living when Doctor Brown goes."
"Indeed! I suppose that was his great news!" said Mrs. Deborah. "Well,
I shall be sorry to have him go. He has been here a long time—twenty
years I should say."
"Well, I hope, mistress, we shan't get a worse in his place!" answered
Richard. "Folk do say the new gentleman has many new-fangled ways."
We had an early dinner, after which Mrs. Chloe betook herself to her
own room, and Mrs. Deborah called upon us to read to her in a great
folio volume of sermons by Bishop Kerr and some others of his school.
Some of these discourses were on practical religion, and these were
admirable for the most part, but a great many were political,—all
about the divine right of kings, the duty of passive obedience to
the sovereign, let him be ever so bad, and other kindred topics. Oh,
what a weariness they were to the flesh and spirit—enough to make an
out and out whig of any lively young person from sheer contradiction.
I am afraid I was not one bit sorry for the Theban Legion, and only
regretted their massacre, because I had to hear so much about it.
After two hours of this exercise, we were dismissed, and refreshed
ourselves by a long walk in the high park as it was called, that which
stretched up the hill behind the house. We had supper earlier than
usual, and then the card table was set out, and we were invited to take
a hand at whist with Mrs. Chloe and Mrs. Deborah. We excused ourselves
on the ground that we knew nothing of whist.
"But you can learn!" said Mrs. Deborah. "It will be a pleasure to have
some one to go partners with."
We looked at each other and hesitated what to say. We had talked over
this matter of Sunday card playing with Mr. Cheriton and with each
other, and had decided that it was not a right way of spending Sunday
evening, though it was a very common one at that day. Even clergymen
thought it no harm to take a hand at piquet.
"Well, what is the matter?" said Mrs. Deborah, impatiently. "Why do you
not sit down?"
"Will you please excuse me, aunt!" said Amabel, "I will learn on some
other evening, if you will be so good as to teach me, but not on
Sunday."
"Heyday! What does this mean!" exclaimed Mrs. Deborah, the
thunder-cloud on her brow looming blacker than usual. "What sort of a
Puritan have I brought home with me? Pray miss, do you set yourself up
for a saint?"
"Sister Deborah!" said Mrs. Chloe, warningly.
"I don't know what a Puritan is, and I am sure I am not a saint?" said
Amabel, gently. "I wish I were. But you know, aunt, if I think a thing
wrong, I cannot do it, even to please you."
"And what right have you to think a thing wrong when it is done by your
elders and betters, miss?"
"Sister Deborah!"
"I have seen my elders and betters on their knees for hours at a time
before a piece of bread which they worshiped as God!" said Amabel with
some spirit. "But you would not like to see me do that, aunt. Indeed
you must please excuse us."
But Mrs. Deborah was not to be pacified. She scolded us in no measured
terms, and finally bade us begone to our room since she was not good
company enough for two such young saints. We betook ourselves to our
little study, and girl like, had a good cry over our disgrace.
Then having relieved our spirits, I opened the harpsichord, and we
began to sing out of Ravenscroft's Psalms, of which we found a book in
our book-case. We had not been singing long, before Mrs. Chloe came in
and seated herself, followed presently by Mrs. Deborah. We sung several
psalms and two or three sacred pieces of Mr. Handel's for the ladies,
and Mrs. Chloe professed herself much delighted with the music.
Mrs. Deborah did not say a great deal, but she bade us a kind
good-night, and her regular—"I hope I see you well, nieces," was spoken
in the morning with the same cordiality as ever.
We were not again asked to play cards on Sunday evening, and after a
while it became a regular thing for us to entertain our aunts with
sacred music at that time. Mrs. Deborah had a hasty temper naturally,
which was not improved by a long course of absolute rule, but she
had not one atom of malice or rancor in her disposition. She liked
the music at first, because it gave pleasure to poor Mrs. Chloe,
and afterward for its own sake, and she was never the stuff whereof
persecutors are made.
[Illustration]