SURPRISES.
WE went on in our usual course for some weeks.
Mr. Lethbridge, the new rector, proved quite a contrast to Doctor
Brown. He was a thin, serious faced young man, very much in earnest,
and not always (or so I thought) very discreet in his zeal. He was
one of those men who seem, if I may so express myself, to have no
perspective in their minds. To eat meat on a Friday in Lent, or to go
to a dance on the green were in his eyes as great crimes as to get
drunk at the alehouse or to beat one's wife.
He sorely puzzled and distressed old Gaffer Bell at the almshouse, by
telling him that for a man so near the grave as he was, to spend hours
in playing the fiddle was a frivolous if not a sinful waste of time.
And when Gaffer Bell, one of the two or three old people who could read
and a pretty good Bible scholar too, told him that he "didn't find nowt
agen the fiddle in Bible—" he reproved him for speaking lightly of
sacred things. Mr. Lethbridge approved highly of some of Mr. Wesley's
doings, such as his prayer and conference meetings, and set one of the
latter up in his own parish.
"And pray what sort of conferences do you have?" asked Mrs. Deborah.
"Do not the people get into undesirable disputes."
"Oh no!" answered Mr. Lethbridge complacently. "I take care to prevent
that by allowing no one to speak but myself."
"Rather an odd sort of conference meeting that, Brother Lethbridge,
where the conference is all on one side, like the Irish gentleman's
reciprocity," said Doctor Brown, with one of his jolly laughs. "Your
pattern Mr. Wesley manages quite differently, as I understand. He
allows the old folk to have their say, and I dare say it might be quite
interesting to hear what they could find to talk about!" added the
Doctor, as if struck by a sudden idea. "I am not sure but I should like
to try it sometime. At any rate, it would give them pleasure, for old
folk like to be listened to."
Mr. Lethbridge drew into his shell as his custom was when he thought
himself assailed, and Doctor Brown began to talk about something
else. It was one of Mr. Lethbridge's troubles that whenever any one
criticised any of his methods, he always thought the cause of Christ
was attacked. Nevertheless he was a good young man and a good preacher,
visited the sick and the feeble faithfully, catechised the children and
revived the school, which had fallen quite into disuse of late years.
Mrs. Deborah took a great interest in the matter, recommended a very
capable and efficient school-mistress, and made liberal presents of
working materials. Amabel and I visited this institution of learning
twice or three times a week, helped to teach the children in sewing,
reading, knitting, and the Catechism. And when the three girls who made
the first class, got through their duty toward their neighbour without
a stumble, we felt as proud as though we had made them ourselves.
People began to come to church on other occasions than to get
themselves married or buried, and to join a little in the responses,
and almost all agreed that Parson was a kind gentleman, and a good
preacher and good to the poor, though he would look into matters for
himself and refused the Shrove Tuesday dole to Betty Hackett, because
he found out that she changed off her Christmas blankets at the
alehouse.
Lent fell rather late that year, and about a fortnight before Shrove
Tuesday, Mrs. Philippa surprised us all by coming down stairs to
dinner, and still more astonished us by not finding fault with any
thing on the table. She really made herself very agreeable, as she well
knew how when she chose. But when she again appeared at supper, our
surprise knew no bounds.
"These are very nice cheese-cakes!" said she in the course of the meal.
"Pray, Sister Deborah, is this your usual receipt or have you a new
one?"
The remark was not a startling one certainly, but when one considers
that it was the first direct word Mrs. Philippa had addressed to Mrs.
Deborah for more than twenty years, it is perhaps no wonder that Mrs.
Chloe dropped her tea-cup, and that Amabel and I both tried so hard to
look unconcerned, that it was well no strangers were present.
Mrs. Deborah however answered as quietly as though she had been
chatting with her sister all day.
"The cheese-cakes are much as usual, Sister Philippa. It is perhaps
that exercise has given you a better appetite."
"Possibly!" replied Mrs. Philippa with a smile. "You were always famous
for your cheese-cakes, Sister Deborah."
From the cheese-cakes, Mrs. Philippa diverged to other subjects. She
told several anecdotes of her youth, asked Mrs. Deborah if she did
not remember this and that circumstance, told Mrs. Chloe that she was
nervous and needed the doctor, and in short made herself so agreeable
that I did not know her. After supper, she delayed a moment and said,
as it seemed with a little hesitation:
"Sister Deborah, I am thinking of going to Berwick for a little change,
and to visit my friend Lady Betty Alworthy. Will it be convenient to
you to let me have the small travelling coach, and Richard to attend
me?"
"Certainly, Sister Philippa, but will not the journey fatigue you?"
said Mrs. Deborah. "You know the roads are not of the best!"
"I do not think so!" was the reply, without any of Mrs. Philippa's
usual irritability at being opposed. "Doctor Brown has lately come from
Berwick, and he tells me the roads are good; and Lady Betty specially
desires my visit just now."
"Very well, Sister Philippa, suit your own convenience," was the reply.
"I will see that all things are in readiness and trust you may have a
pleasant visit."
"What is going to happen?" said I rather pertly, when Mrs. Philippa had
withdrawn.
Mrs. Chloe's soft eyes were full of tears, and old Roberts shook his
head solemnly.
"It is a warning, ladies! That's what it is!" said the old man.
"Something is a going for to happen to Mrs. Philippa. Folks don't
change that way for nothing. Didn't you notice, Mrs. Deborah and Mrs.
Chloe, that she never so much as called me an old fool, once? Poor
lady."
"What do you think is going to happen, Sister Deborah?" asked Mrs.
Chloe in a quivering voice.
"I think Philippa is going to Berwick, if she does not change her mind
before the day after to-morrow!" replied Mrs. Deborah, with a tone
and look which showed she was annoyed. "And I am afraid I shall call
Roberts an old fool myself, if he does not clear the table, instead of
standing there talking nonsense to frighten you, Sister Chloe. Do draw
up your shawl and go to the fire."
"What did Roberts and Mrs. Chloe mean by saying that something was
going to happen to Mrs. Philippa?" I asked of Amabel, when we were in
our own room together.
Mary Lee thought the question was addressed to her and answered with
some solemnity.
"They think she is fey! Miss Corbet."
"Fey!" I repeated. "What is that?"
"Why, just fey! When any strange alteration comes over a person as from
close to liberal or from fretful to pleasant or the other way, people
say they are fey—and then they are not long for this world."
"Oh, that is it. Well, we will not be alarmed for Mrs. Philippa just
yet," said I. "We shall see how she is to-morrow."
But to-morrow brought no alteration in Mrs. Philippa's mood. Amabel
and I waited on her every morning. Sometimes she would admit us,
and oftener we were sent away, and bid not to be troublesome little
hypocrites, pretending what we did not feel. On these occasions, Tupper
always came outside the door and dismissed us with the same remark.
"My mistress is not quite herself this morning, ladies. Another time I
am sure she will be happy."
I suppose she was quite herself, but it seemed more as if she were
somebody else the next morning, she was so very gracious. We found her
in the midst of a wonderful litter, overseeing Tupper's occupation of
packing a great mail, while another stood by filled to the brim. I
could not but wonder that she should take so many things when she was
only going to stay a fortnight. Mrs. Philippa invited us to sit down,
and seeing that my eyes reverted to the great trunk, she condescended
to explain that she was not going to take all these things with her.
"Not at least at present!" she added with a queer little blush and
smile.
An idea darted through my head, but it was so preposterous that I
rejected it directly.
"I hope you will be very kind to my sisters when I am gone!" said Mrs.
Philippa. "My Sister Chloe is a good creature, though she is not very
strong minded. Poor thing, I wish I could see her better. And Sister
Deborah is a good creature too. We have not been on the best of terms
always. Deborah is sometimes rather too officious, but she is a good
creature. I am glad she will have your society while I am away."
The idea came back and did not go away quite so easily.
Mrs. Philippa went on clearing out her drawers, and bestowed upon
us many bits for our patchwork, silks and crewels for our work,
pincushions, and other little presents, and at last unlocked her jewel
case and took from it two boxes.
"This necklace, my dear, was your mother's before it was mine, and you
will like it none the loss on that account. Yours, niece Corbet, was
brought me many years ago from over sea. Keep them to remember me by!"
She then dismissed us with great kindness.
"What does she mean?" asked Amabel, quite bewildered, as we went to our
bedroom to put away our gifts. "One would think she never expected to
come home again!"
"Perhaps she doesn't!" said I.
"What do you mean, Lucy. I see nothing like dying about her."
"I was not thinking of dying, but of something else!" I answered.
"However, time will show."
"Lucy! How perfectly absurd!" said Amabel. "When she has been mourning
all these years for Mr. Falconer, and has never seen any company."
"Except Doctor Brown!" I added.
"Worse and worse!" returned Amabel, laughing heartily. "Lucy, I believe
you are fey yourself. You used not to think so much about matrimony."
"Ah, well, time will show! Let us look at our necklaces!"
Amabel's turned out to be a very rich thick gold chain supporting a
fine pendant of amethyst set round with pearls. Mine was a chain of
Turkey stones, supporting a locket enameled also with Turkey stones. It
opened and had evidently once held a miniature.
"She never gave you that!" almost screamed Mrs. Chloe, when I showed
it to her. "Why, it was the gift of Mr. Philip Falconer, and used to
have his picture in it. My poor sister! She is not long for this world.
My dears!" sinking her voice to a whisper. "Did either of you hear a
strange noise last night?"
"I heard the bloodhounds baying as they do every moonlight night—that
was all!" answered Amabel.
"Oh! You think it was the bloodhounds? Well, I don't know. To my
thinking, it sounded like something else—longer and more dreary."
"Dear Aunt Chloe, don't give way to these dismal fancies!" said Amabel,
kissing her pale cheek. "I do not believe in the wolf, one bit, if that
is what you are thinking of. It is like Aunt Philippa's death-watch, at
which she was so scared, and yet you see, she is not dead."
"But she may he. The five months are not up nor the five years."
"We may all be dead and gone before five years, but I don't believe
the watch knew anything about it, more than the wolf, if there is
such a creature, which is more than doubtful. Aunt Philippa is going
to Berwick to make a visit, and she is pleased with the prospect, and
thought she would give us some keepsakes,—that was all."
Mrs. Chloe sighed and shook her head and would not be comforted. She
was very superstitious, and her life was really embittered with these
fancies. If she had been going to church to be married, and had seen a
weasel, she would have turned back. An owl's cry, or the flutter of a
bird against the window, would make her turn pale, and she was quite
certain that she had brought some great misfortune on Amabel, because
she had given her a hair-pin point foremost.
Amabel, who had a way of speaking her mind freely without giving
offence, remonstrated with her Aunt Chloe about giving way to needless
fears.
"You know, dear Aunt Chloe, that we are all in God's hands, and He can
and will care for us as tenderly as a mother cares for her babe. Why
should we not trust Him to do just what is best for us? And if we do,
why should we let ourselves be terrified by signs and omens?"
"I don't suppose it is right, but every one does it!" sighed Mrs.
Chloe. "And we know, niece, that there are evil spirits, and such
creatures allowed to go about, and why may they not be near us at any
time?"
"They may and they may not!" replied Amabel. "We cannot see them, and
nothing has been told us about them, so we do not know; but we do know
that we are all the time in God's presence. He is always near at hand,
to protect and care for us."
"That is very true, Niece Leighton—very true indeed," said Mrs. Chloe,
as if struck with a new idea. "He is every where, and so He must be
here. But I don't know—we seem to know so very little about Him. I
can't help being afraid of Him, though I don't suppose it is right."
"I used to feel just so, before I read the New Testament!" said Amabel.
"But when I read such places as, 'He that hath seen Me, hath seen the
Father,'—'I and my Father are one!' then I felt that I knew a great
deal more about Him. If the Lord Jesus is His image, we need not be
afraid of Him."
"Very true, my love. I never thought of it in that way!" said Mrs.
Chloe. "But tell me, don't you ever feel afraid at night, when you
wake up and hear all sorts of strange noises, like sighs and moans and
people walking and whispering?"
"Oh yes, very often. But, Aunt Chloe, if you are afraid in your snug
pretty little room with Bateson within call, and your whistle just
at your head, I wonder what you would say to sleeping where Lucy and
I used to do, in one corner of the great deserted dormitory, with
half the house shut up and in ruins, and those great awful caverns
underneath it."
"Yes, I never was so very much afraid, till after I had seen the
caverns and the black water!" I added. "I dream of them now at times."
"How dreadful!" said Mrs. Chloe shuddering. "What did you do?"
"Mother Prudentia used to tell us to put ourselves into the hands of
God, and the Holy Virgin, and repeat the psalm 'Qui habitat,'—the
ninety-first, you know. I used to feel so safe and easy when I came to,
'He shall cover thee with His wings.'"
"My dear, will you look me out that psalm? I think I will learn it by
heart!" said Mrs. Chloe. "Of course I have read it hundreds of times,
but somehow I never thought it was me whom He would cover. Thank you,
my dear, you have done me a great deal of good."
Amabel found the psalm in Mrs. Chloe's great prayer-book, and I noticed
afterwards that she kept it open by her, and used to be murmuring
verses over to herself, whenever she was alone with her knitting—the
only work she ever attempted nowadays. She had taken to sitting most of
the time in our cheerful sunny little room, and though she was no great
help to our lessons, being one of those persons who never can refrain
from talking when there is any one to talk to, we were very glad to
have her there, and to give up our time to her, for we both felt we
should not have her very long.
But I am wandering a long way from Mrs. Philippa and her affairs. The
lady accomplished her journey in safety, as she sent word when the
carriage came back, and felt herself much better for the change. She
sent her love to Mrs. Deborah, with a handsome new china jug—Mrs.
Deborah was fond of jugs—and to Mrs. Chloe, a soft warm shawl and a
pair of fur-lined slippers; and there were little presents for Amabel
and myself, and a parcel of needles, knitting-pins and thread for the
school children.
Richard on being questioned, declared that Mrs. Philippa had purchased
all these things herself—that she was buying "a power of new gowns,"
and was "as pert as a pyet," and moreover had not called him a
fool once since he left the Hall. By all which signs, he concluded
infallibly, that Mrs. Philippa was not long for this world.
"Did you see any one that we know, Richard, beside Lady Betty's
family?" asked Mrs. Chloe.
"I did see Doctor Brown!" answered Richard. "His Reverence was about
buying of a new coach, and Lady Betty and Mrs. Philippa went with him
to see it."
Whereupon I glanced at Amabel, and she shook her head severely at me.
Shrove Tuesday was a lovely day, I remember. Amabel and I had been
out looking for flowers, and had found very few, for spring comes but
slowly in Northumberland. However, we had gathered a bunch of wind
flowers, and had the wonderful good luck to find in a sheltered sunny
spot a tuft of primroses, and a few sweet blue and white violets.
When we went in to carry them to Aunt Chloe, we found her leaning back
in her chair sobbing bitterly. Mrs. Deborah held an open letter in her
hand, and looked as though she did not know whether to laugh or be
angry. A box full of bride-cake and another of white gloves and favors
stood on the table.
I guessed all in a minute and glanced at Amabel, who looked puzzled
enough. With all her intelligence, she was never very "gleg at the
uptak," except where people's feelings were concerned. I was dying with
curiosity, but of course I did not ask any questions, but waited to be
told.
"Well, nieces, what do you think has happened?" said Mrs. Deborah.
I knew well enough, but nobody likes to have their news forestalled,
so I did not say a word, but left the answer to Amabel, who was as
innocent as a babe.
"Nothing bad, I hope, aunt; nothing to Mrs. Philippa," said she.
"Something to Mrs. Philippa, but nothing bad," said Mrs. Deborah,
trying to keep the corners of her mouth in order. "Nieces, your Aunt
Philippa is married!"
And here Mrs. Deborah broke down into a hearty laugh, while Mrs. Chloe
sobbed afresh, and murmured, "Sister Deborah, how can you?"
"Why, one may as well laugh as cry, child," said Mrs. Deborah. "Yes,
after twenty years of mournful constancy to the memory of her first
love, my Sister Philippa is really married, and to whom do you think?"
"To Doctor Brown!" I could not help saying.
"Even so, child, but how did you hear?"
"I did not hear, Aunt Deborah, I guessed," I replied. "Amabel was
shocked at me for hinting such a thing before Mrs. Philippa went away."
"You are a shrewd little puss," said Mrs. Deborah, shaking her head,
but not looking at all displeased. "I never thought of such a thing."
"I am sure I did not," said Mrs. Chloe, through her tears. "She never
hinted such a thing to me—I that have stood by her for so many years. I
do think she might have told me, at least."
"I suppose she was ashamed," replied Mrs. Deborah. "Never mind, Chloe,
we all know that poor Philippa is peculiar. I hope Doctor Brown will be
as glad of his bargain five years hence as he is now."
"She said he was her spiritual adviser," said Mrs. Chloe, beginning to
recover herself a little. "She said she had derived great benefit from
him."
"Well, so it seems she has."
"And here is Amabel going to marry the first Church of England
clergyman she ever heard preach," continued Mrs. Chloe. "I declare, I
shall begin to think spiritual advisers are very dangerous people."
Mrs. Chloe was very much hurt at her sister's want of confidence in her
for a while, but her amiable spirit soon began to make excuses for her.
In truth, such marriages were not very uncommon in those days. Two
people who were betrothed would steal away from a ball or party,
perhaps, to another room in the same house, with two or three
witnesses, be married, and return to the company as if nothing had
happened; and marriages were sometimes kept a profound secret for
months. It was not a good fashion, and brought about a good many
complicated lawsuits, but it was not considered at all disreputable.
Mrs. Philippa's fortune was in her own right, and nobody had a shadow
of authority over her, except, perhaps, her brother, and as she was
older than he by two or three years, she naturally did not think he
had any special right to direct her. Doctor Brown's family, though
not distinguished, was respectable. There was nothing against him
personally, and he had a comfortable private fortune besides his office
at Durham. Nevertheless Sir Julius was furiously angry, and wrote Mrs.
Deborah a most unreasonable letter—as though she had been the one to
blame.
I think Mrs. Chloe suffered the most of any one from this very
unexpected healing of Mrs. Philippa's twenty years' heart-break. She
missed her sister, whom she had really loved despite her unkindness,
and I am sure she felt it hard that Mrs. Philippa should get a rich
husband, while she herself had none at all. It was truly pitiable to
see how the poor thing's thoughts still ran upon such things, though
every one in the house could see with half an eye that she was not long
for this world. She grew thinner and weaker every day, and her little
dry cough kept her awake in spite of all Mrs. Deborah's bread jellies,
and poppy and lettuce syrups.
Mr. Lethbridge used to come and read to her sometimes, but she did
not like him very much, and, indeed, he was not a cheering visitor. I
used to wonder if he thought it was good for a sick person to hear the
particulars of every case of illness and suffering in the parish.
Mrs. Philippa paid us a visit, during Lent, with her husband. I never
in all my life saw any one so pleased with being married. She could
talk of nothing else, and uttered some speeches which made us young
ones feel as if we did not know where to look. I never was fond of
seeing over-much billing and cooing in public between even young
married folks; but I never saw a bride and bridegroom of twenty-one so
exasperatingly silly in this respect as Doctor and Mrs. Brown. However,
she was very good-natured, and invited us all to visit her so seen
as she should be settled in her new house, which, according to her
description, was quite a palace. She was especially kind to Mrs. Chloe,
and took great pains to amuse her. She staid a whole week, and then
left her old home apparently without a single regret.
We had another visitor during Lent, namely, Mr. Cheriton. It seems Mr.
Lethbridge had business in Newcastle which would keep him there some
three weeks, and Mr. Cheriton learning of it, arranged to exchange
duties with him for that time. Oh what a comfort it was to have him
preach again!
He held service on Wednesdays and Fridays, and, as we always went to
church, we saw him tolerably often. Mrs. Deborah invited him to make
the Hall his home during his stay, but he declined, saying that there
were so many cases of severe illness among the people—as, indeed,
there were—that he wished to be near at hand in case of a sudden call.
Mrs. Deborah admitted the validity of the excuse, but begged him to
come to dinner or supper without ceremony, as he would always find a
plate, and he did so with very tolerable frequency. Both parties kept
carefully clear of politics, and I think Mrs. Deborah came to regard
Mr. Cheriton's whiggery as more his misfortune than his fault—as a kind
of disorder that ran in some families like gout.
Mr. Cheriton was a fine musician, as I have said, and he brought us
a great parcel of new music by the best composers. We used to sing
together a deal, which was a great pleasure to Mrs. Chloe. Next to
having a love affair of her own, was the pleasure of watching another's.
But Mr. Cheriton did Mrs. Chloe good in other and better ways. He
himself proposed that as she could not go to church, he should have
prayers for her benefit every Sunday evening, after which he would
read her his sermon. He was a true "son of consolation," and knew just
what to say and what not. Whenever he spent the evening with us, we
had evening prayers, which we did not at other times, and Mr. Cheriton
usually said a few words upon the Gospel for the day or week.
I think Mrs. Deborah, at first, looked on this practise of preaching in
a private house, as a dangerous innovation akin to field preaching, and
holding conventicles; but she soon came to like it.
Mr. Cheriton held several long conversations with Mrs. Chloe, and I
began presently to perceive a change in her. She left off talking about
her past matrimonial chances, and her plans for visiting "my Sister
Brown," when warm weather came. Her Bible was constantly in her hand
or by her side as she sat in her great chair or lay on the couch, and
she spent a good deal of time studying a volume of Mr. Charles Wesley's
poems, which Mr. Cheriton had brought to Amabel.
"I don't know how it is, but they seem somehow to express just what I
want!" she said rather apologetically to Mrs. Deborah one day. "And,
you know, Sister Deborah, that Mr. Wesley is a regularly ordained
clergyman of the Church of England."
"Do read them as much as you like, if they are any comfort to you,
Sister Chloe!" was Mrs. Deborah's reply.
I think she would even have welcomed a Roman Catholic priest if he
had brought any comfort to Chloe. I used sometimes to wonder, by the
way, how Mrs. Deborah reconciled her hatred of popery and her almost
idolatrous loyalty to the banished Stewarts, but there were a great
many others in the same case. I do not believe there were ever a more
unreasonable and unreasoning set of people than the English Jacobites.
After all the national experience of the faithlessness of their idols,
they were just as ready to fall down and adore them again, as though
they had never broken a pledge. They worshipped the Church of England.
Yet they were ready to set over her a man who was bound by the most
solemn obligations to overthrow her. It was certainly a pity to see the
blood and treasure that were thrown away, and the misery and distress
that were brought about, by the unreasoning loyalty to one particular
family, which had never shown itself worthy of trust.
Mr. Cheriton went home at last promising to come again as soon as
possible, and leaving a great many well wishes behind him. While he had
been very careful not to interfere with Mr. Lethbridge's arrangements,
but on the contrary had upheld him in every possible way, the people
could not but feel the difference between his ministrations and those
of the rector.
"Seems like as if one could talk to that gentleman and open one's mind
to him!" said Mary Thorne, a very intelligent old woman in one of the
alms houses. "He listens to one, he does, and finds out what one means.
I told him all my trouble about the Sacrament,—" a matter on which poor
old Mary had been much exercised—"and told him how I was afraid either
to come or to stay away. Mr. Lethbridge always said it was want of
faith, and Doctor Brown would just say, 'poor soul, poor soul,' kind
of pitying like, and then go home and send me some broth or something.
He was very kind, but he didn't help me any. But 'Muster Cheriton,' he
made it all plain, and now it seems as if I could not wait for Easter
to come, that I may go to the Lord's table."
Easter came and passed very happily, and it was observed that there
were more communicants than were ever seen before. We all went to
church in the morning, except Mrs. Chloe, who had failed a great deal
of late, and now seldom left her bedroom before noon.
In the afternoon, Mr. Lethbridge brought the feast to her, and to old
Roberts, who was growing very infirm and hardly able to perform his
duties.
Amabel and I walked out in the park, gathered a great nosegay for Mrs.
Chloe, and talked of our future as young folks will do. Of course,
I was to live with Amabel, till I had a home of my own, and was to
have the south room which looked toward the church. I was not so
light-hearted as Amabel, for Mrs. Thorpe, who wrote to us sometimes,
had mentioned in her last letter that her nephew's ship had never
been heard from since it sailed for the Indies, and that people were
beginning to think something had happened to her. However, I kept my
troubles to myself, or rather I tried humbly to lay them on some one
better able to bear them than I, and I listened to Amabel's plans and
discussed them with real interest and pleasure.
"Mrs. Chloe does not talk any more about the set of chairs she was
going to begin in the spring," remarked Amabel. "She never says
anything now about getting well when the warm weather comes, but I
think she seems a great deal happier than she used."
"She has given up!" said I. "You know dear Mother Superior used to say
that there was great happiness in giving up. Mrs. Chloe told me the
other day, that you and Mr. Cheriton, between you, had done her more
good than you would ever know."
"I am sure I am very glad to hear it!" said Amabel, her quiet eyes
shining with pleasure.
"Lucy, what have I done that I should be so happy? While you that are
so much better in every way—"
Amabel stopped short. It was the first time she had given me a hint
that she had guessed my secret.
"Don't, please, Amabel!" said I. "I hope I can bear all I am called
on to endure, but I can't bear to hear it talked about even by you.
Forgive me, dear!" For I was afraid I might have hurt her.
"There is nothing to forgive!" said Amabel, pressing my arm in hers. "I
should feel just so."
We walked home without any more words, and I shut myself up alone
awhile. Comfort came to me by and by, and when Mrs. Chloe remarked, as
I kissed her good-night, that this had been a happy day, I was glad to
be able to agree with her.
The next day but one, as Amabel and I were returning from the village
school, we were astonished to meet Mr. Cheriton. His face was pale, his
dress disordered, and his jaded horse showed how fast he had travelled.
It was just at the entrance of the avenue, and one of the grooms being
at hand, Mr. Cheriton gave him the horse, with a charge to be careful
of him, as he had made a hasty journey.
"We were not looking for you!" said Amabel. "What has brought you
in such a hurry?" Then turning pale as Mr. Cheriton did not answer,
"Walter, what is it! You have ill news. What does it mean?"
"That is what you must tell me!" said Mr. Cheriton, in a hoarse voice,
not a bit like his own. "I received this letter yesterday. Read it both
of you."
He put it into Amabel's hand, as he spoke, and I looked over her
shoulder. It was a very short and ungracious letter from Sir Julius,
saying that he had heard reports injurious to Mr. Cheriton's character,
and having learned from the best authority, that these reports were
even less than the truth, he forbade him to entertain any hopes of his
daughter, or even to see her more.
"An enemy hath done this!" was Amabel's first word.
"Yes, but who? I did not know that I had one. I know some idle tales
were told about me at one time, but I thought they had all died out
long ago. Amabel, you will not—"
"Don't ask Amabel to pledge herself to anything just this moment!" I
interrupted. "Let us go straight to Mrs. Deborah."
"You are right, Lucy!" said Mr. Cheriton. "I hardly know what I am
doing. Let us go to Mrs. Deborah, as you say."
"Mrs. Deborah is in her own sitting-room, reading her letters!" said
Richard, in answer to my inquiries. "An express has come from Sir
Julius, with great news."
I do not know that I have any Scotch blood, but I certainly do have at
times an odd kind of second sight. The moment Richard spoke, I knew it
all.
We found Mrs. Deborah sitting in her little room, half office, half
parlor. She had an open letter before her, but she was not reading it.
She was pale, and her black brows seemed almost to hide her eyes. She
hardly seemed at first to understand who we were, and asked somewhat
fiercely what we meant by coming to disturb her.
"We wanted help!" said Amabel. "Aunt, can you explain that?" Handing
her the letter as she spoke.
Mrs. Deborah glanced through it.
"Too well!" said she. "I also have had a letter which explains it all.
Child, your father is married again, and to Lady Throckmorton."
[Illustration]