CHANGES AT HIGHBECK.
MRS. Deborah at once began her preparations for removal to the Little
House, as her mansion was called, and we helped her as far as we could.
Amabel kept up wonderfully considering, and tried her best not to let
her trouble, trouble others. But it is not the people that bear things
best, who feel them least, and as I saw my dear girl's face grow pale
and thin, and noted the dark marks under her eyes, my heart was very
bitter toward the author of all this distress.
In some sense, her pain was harder to bear than mine, inasmuch as I
could say, "I opened not my mouth, because Thou didst it." No hand but
my Heavenly Father's had parted Mr. Thorpe and me—for it seemed quite
certain by news received from the East, that his ship had gone down
with all hands, during a great storm in the Indian Ocean.
In another, mine was the worst. For Amabel there was still a charm,
Sir Julius might change his mind or a dozen other things might happen.
Mr. Cheriton was at Newcastle alive and well, and we heard of him every
now and then by Mrs. Thorpe, who wrote every time she sent a parcel to
me or to Mrs. Deborah. (It was a wonder how many things Mrs. Deborah
needed from Mrs. Thorpe about that time.)
But my friend was gone. I could never see him again as long as I lived.
My heart might hunger as it would to see or hear from him, and I never
could see or hear from him—no, not if I should run all over the world.
Let no one say that absence is like death. It is like that other
popular folly of comparing death and sleep. There is the distance of an
eternity between them.
As for my other trouble—that of being degraded from being Amabel's
equal and companion, to being her waiting-woman—that did not disturb me
very greatly at this time. I had faith enough in Amabel to believe that
it would make no difference with her, and I had too great a contempt
for Lady Leighton to trouble myself very much about her. I had yet to
learn that people whom we despise can sting almost as deeply as those
whom we respect.
The arrival of the new furniture and servants at the Hall was the
signal for Aunt Deborah to leave it. The new housekeeper turned out to
be Mrs. Wilson, my lady's woman, whose acquaintance we had made during
that unlucky visit. She was full of her own consequence, found fault
with everything, scolded the old servants, was barely civil to Amabel
and a good deal less than civil to me.
The old housekeeper Jenny and Richard left the hall with Mrs. Deborah
and also old Elsie, who was still alive and able, as she expressed it,
to do a days' darg with any one.
I should mention perhaps, that Elsie's great nephew Alick Grahame who
had attended his lady on her late visit to Highbeck was greatly smitten
with our little Mary Lee, and some love passages had been between them.
Elsie had at first been rather scandalized at her nephew for falling
in love with a town-bred English girl, but Mary's pretty neat ways and
kind attentions to herself had won her over, and she was well-pleased
with the affair. So were we, for Alick was a fine young fellow, a
favorite with his mistress and likely to do well in the world.
In due time came an avant-courier with news that my lady was on her
way from Newcastle and might be expected by supper time. Every thing
was now in a bustle to receive her, Mrs. Wilson was here, there, and
every where, overseeing, scolding and arranging. Amabel and I were in
our room, when she put her head in at the door without the ceremony of
knocking and said in a sufficiently pert tone—
"Mrs. Leighton, I think on such a day as this, you might spare your
woman to help me a little instead of keeping her here busy with that
nonsensical embroidery!"
Amabel turned full upon her, her gray eyes lighting up—
"Did you knock, Wilson?" she asked carelessly. "I did not hear you!"
"I beg pardon!" said Wilson in a tone which sounded as if the words
were dragged out of her—
"Very well!" said Amabel. "That will do. Be so good as to shut the
door."
Wilson was absolutely cowed and went away without another word. I
ventured to hint to Amabel that she had probably made an enemy of this
woman.
"I do not think so!" was Amabel's reply. "If I read her aright, she
is one of those natures who take all kindness for timidity and behave
themselves accordingly. At all events, it will be time to give way when
I am obliged to."
Lady Leighton arrived in good season with a train of servants and
attendants of all sorts, and was received with a great deal of form.
I did not see the meeting, but Amabel told me afterward that Lady
Leighton had been very affectionate to her, saying that she had no
doubt Amabel would show herself a dutiful and obedient child to the
mother Sir Julius had given her.
"Mother indeed!" said I. "It is a profanation to apply the word to her.”
"Hush dear!" returned Amabel. "Remember she is my father's wife and we
must treat her with the respect due to her position."
"And you, Amabel!"
"I curtsied and said I hoped I should always remember my duty. I could
not say more."
"What did your father say?"
"Sir Julius has not come!" was the reply. "It seems business has
detained him in London for the present. Lady Leighton tells me that she
is expecting a house full of company next week."
There is a certain class of beings who are said to appear when spoken
of. I would not say that Lady Leighton belonged to this class, however
well qualified she might be to adorn it, but it is certain that she
came in at the moment we were speaking of her.
"What is that about Lady Leighton!" said she.
"I was but saying Madam, that you told me you were expecting company!"
replied Amabel.
"Yes, that is true, and I trust we shall give you a little gayer life
than you have been leading lately. Is this your waiting-woman, my love?"
"This is Lucy Corbet, my foster-sister, Madam!" replied Amabel. "I
thought you had known her as you entertained her at your house in
Newcastle."
"Oh!" said Lady Leighton, looking slightly disconcerted, but recovering
herself in a moment. "Yes! I was misled by the intimacy which existed
between you, into treating her as an equal with yourself—but it must
be understood," she added, her eyes growing bright and fierce as I had
seen them before—"it must be understood at once, that all that must
be at an end. I do not blame you so much as your guardians in France
and your father, who allowed such a state of things to grow up, but
the young woman must understand that if she remains, it must be as a
servant and under my control or that of my housekeeper. Do you hear me,
young woman?" Turning to me.
I simply curtsied.
"Very well! I see you can be humble when it suits you. Keep so, and you
may find me your friend. Let me see you put on any fine lady airs and
you leave this house on the instant!"
I curtsied again. My Cornish blood was boiling but I was determined
not to give her any handle against me. Lady Leighton now turned to
Amabel, criticised the fashion of her dress and found fault with the
arrangement of her hair.
"One would think you had lived in the ark all your life!" said she.
"Pray for whom are you wearing all this mourning?"
"For my Aunt Chloe, who died not three months since, madam!" answered
Amabel.
"Nonsense, child! Nobody mourns for aunts and uncles nowadays. That
kind of thing is gone out. I must see you in colors directly. What a
preposterous head. I think, after all, I must put one of my own women
about you. I cannot have you looking so like a fright. Corbet, cannot
you at least lace up your mistress properly?"
"It was Mary Lee who dressed me, madam," said Amabel.
"I must find something else for her to do," was the reply. "A chit
like you does not need two women, surely. This is a pretty room—much
prettier than mine. I think I must change with you. What is next you?"
"The haunted rooms, madam," I answered, with some satisfaction. "There
is said to be a ghost in them, and it is there the howl of the wolf is
heard when any great misfortune is about to befall the family."
"Nonsense!" said Lady Leighton, turning pale through all her rouge.
"What stuff is that?"
At that very moment, before the words were fairly out of her mouth, a
long-drawn and most doleful howl, ending with a frightful sound between
a scream and a yell, was heard, as it seemed, close by.
Lady Leighton turned still paler, and grasped a chair as if to keep
herself from falling. "In Heaven's name, what was that?" said she.
"It sounded like a howl," said Amabel, which it certainly did.
As for me I was ready to choke, but I bestirred myself to hand Lady
Leighton a smelling-bottle and to fan her, for she looked ready to
faint away. She revived presently, and evidently made a great effort to
recover her self-possession. I thought she was even a little mollified
toward me, for she told me at parting that she had no ill will toward
me so long as I behaved myself properly.
"What could it have been?" said Amabel, turning to me after her
ladyship had left the room.
"You goose—begging pardon for calling my mistress a goose," said I.
"Don't you know the voice of Sultan, the young bloodhound? I can make
him warble like that any time with my little ivory whistle."
"Why did not you speak, then?" asked Amabel, rather pettishly, for she
had been a little scared as well as my lady.
"It was not my place," I answered, with a demure curtsy. "I must
practise upon keeping my place, you know. But, Amabel—mistress, I mean—"
Amabel flew at me and shook me.
"Let me ever hear you say that again!" said she, kissing me between the
shakes. "How dare you? But what were you going to say?"
"How can I tell, you have shaken it all out of me," I returned,
laughing. "Oh, I know. Amabel, don't you know when we first looked at
the picture of the wolf-lady, we wondered who it was like?"
"Yes; why?"
"It is like Lady Leighton. Don't you see she has the same blue-green
eyes and thin lips, and the same look of watchfulness? Perhaps, after
all, that was her relation calling for her."
"Don't say such horrid things," answered Amabel, shuddering. "I can
see the likeness you speak of, however. But, Lucy, you will never be
able to stay here. It is not right that you, a young lady of fortune
and family, should be exposed to such indignities. You must go to Aunt
Deborah. It would bit too selfish in me to keep you."
"Don't you see that is exactly what she wants?" I asked. "It does not
suit her policy just now to dismiss me altogether. It would make a
talk, and perhaps give rise to awkward enquiries. If she can make me
go of my own motion, she will, but I don't think she will accomplish
that. I will leave when I am forced—not before. Don't you remember Mrs.
Thorpe's saying once that when it came to a contest between will and
won't, won't had the advantage, because won't had only to stand still?"
"How happy we were in those days, and how far, far away they seem!"
observed Amabel, sighing. "Mother Superior might well say that the
world was a hard place."
"It was in those happy days that we learned what must support us now,
Amabel," said I. "Where should we be, but for the books Mr. Wesley gave
us, and the truths he taught us?"
"Oh, if we could only see him and ask his advice!" said Amabel, and
with that she fell to crying hysterically, so that I had much ado to
get her quieted again.
Poor thing! She was over-wrought, and nature would have her way. She
was really ill next day with a headache and sore throat, and the
illness was not without its advantages, for Lady Leighton never came
near us, and we were left in peace for at least a few days.
I will not pretend to give an account of the slights and indignities
I was made to undergo whenever I left the shelter of Amabel's room.
The new servants were not slow to perceive that I was no favorite with
their mistress, and treated me accordingly. I no longer dined with
Amabel, but in the housekeeper's room, and Mrs. Wilson took care that
I did not lack sauce to my meat. She was herself in a very bad humor.
She was horribly jealous of her lady's new French waiting-woman, and
provoked at the amount of care and work which fell to her share.
A mischievous man-servant, one of the old stock who had staid behind,
made sure that she should hear of all the ghost and goblin tales
about the place, and did not fail to add mysterious hints of hordes
of gypsies and border robbers which haunted the wild recesses of the
hills. The brown man of the moors and the old Picts (still feared and
abhorred in Northumberland,) were not wanting, till poor Wilson was
actually afraid to go to bed.
An odd accident one day turned this woman from an enemy into my friend.
There was a young Highland bull of a very fine breed (a present from
Thornyhaugh to Mrs. Deborah, who loved cattle,) which was pastured in a
field near the house. This bull had been a pet of mine, and I often fed
him with bread and salt, so that he would come readily at my whistle,
and as he had never shown any ill-temper, I was not at all afraid of
him.
One day I had set out to see some of the poor women in the almshouses,
and had not gone far when I saw Mrs. Wilson in a position of some
danger.
Some one had left open the gate of Chieftain's enclosure, and he had
come out to taste the grass by the lane side. He was feeding peaceably
enough, when Mrs. Wilson came by with a red silk apron on, and
Chieftain instantly conceiving in his bovine mind that the same red
apron was intended as an insult to himself, at once began to stamp,
tear up the ground and lash himself into a rage.
Wilson had just sense enough not to turn and run, but not enough to
take off the obnoxious apron. She was backing toward a stone wall, and
Chieftain was following her, more and more enraged every moment.
I saw directly that she would never be able to mount the wall, and that
help must be had at once or not at all, and I resolved with an inward
prayer, to try my power over the creature. I blew a sharp note on my
whistle. The bull looked round, and gave a grumble of recognition,
as who should say, "wait till I finish this little affair and I will
come," but, as I called him, and held out the basket from which he was
used to receive his treats, he turned and followed me quietly enough. I
led him to his enclosure, tempted him inside, and gave him half a loaf
of white bread, which I was carrying to poor Mary. Then securing the
gate, as well as I could, I went back to find out what had become of
Wilson. I found her sitting flat on the ground, crying as if her heart
would break. Her first words were very unexpected—
"Oh, Mrs. Corbet, I have used you shameful, and yet you have saved my
life. I do believe that nasty creature would have killed me before I
could get away. But I beg your pardon for treating you so—that indeed,
I do; and I will never do it again, if you will only forgive me!"
"I forgive you with all my heart!" said I. "But don't sit there on the
wet grass, or you will get a fever, and that will be as bad as the
bull."
I helped her to rise, and finding that she really trembled so she could
hardly stand, I gave her my salts and my arm to lean on back to the
hall. She found her voice presently and began to pour out her woes.
She hated the place. It was not what she had expected. She was worked
almost to death, and my lady was taken up with that grinning French
woman, and had never a good word for poor Wilson, as had served her so
long.
I tried to stop her, but I might as well have tried to stop the
Highbeck at flood time. At last the worst of her troubles came out. She
was so afraid. She heard such dreadful noises at night, like people
walking and whispering in the entry and in the room itself, and cries
and groans that seemed to come from far down, and I don't know what
all. She slept with a Bible under her pillow, but it did no good. The
noises came all the same.
"Did I think a Prayer-Book would be better?" Her terror was so real,
that I could not but be sorry for her.
"Neither Bible nor Prayer-Book will do you any good by lying under your
pillow!" said I. "They are not made to be used like adder stones or
rowan twigs. Study your Bible and Prayer-Book, confess your sins, ask
Divine protection, and then you will not be afraid of the noises the
wind makes in this old pile."
"But, I can't!" sobbed Wilson. "I am not good like you and Miss
Leighton, and I have done so many wicked things. Oh, I wish I had never
left my mother's cottage to wait on a great lady."
The poor thing was really hysterical, so I got her to bed and sent her
some lavender and sal volatile by Mary Lee. She was well enough next
day, and I fear her penitence had vanished with her fears. However,
she was henceforth kind and respectful to me, and did a good deal to
make my life more endurable, by checking the insolence of her fellow
servants.
Lady Leighton's guests arrived in a day or two, and I recognized among
them several persons whom I had seen in Mrs. Thorpe's shop. Lord Bulmer
did not present himself, but I heard from Mrs. Wilson, who told me more
news than I cared to hear, that he was expected—
"And worse luck, I say!" added Wilson. "I wish he was a thousand miles
away! Miss Corbet—" she added, whispering in my ear, "do you tell Miss
Leighton to beware of him, and keep out of his way yourself. He is a
bad wicked man. He has my poor lady under his thumb, and will make her
see sorrow—"
"Hush!" said I, interrupting her. "You must not betray your lady's
secrets."
The woman stared at me half amazed.
"I thought you would like to know!" said she. "I thought my lady was
your enemy."
"She is not my friend, I fear!" I answered. "Nevertheless, I must do
by her as I would be done by. We have no right to return evil for
evil, even to our enemies, you know. If you knew any secrets of mine,
supposing I ever had any, I should not like to have you tell them to my
lady."
"I believe you really are good!" said Wilson. "My lady says you are a
canting Methodist. Are you? Did you learn that among the Methodists?"
"I learned it from the word of God!" said I. "Where you may learn
many things that will do you good, in this world and the next. As to
being a Methodist, I do not know what that means. There, I think your
distilling is going on all right now,—" for I had been helping her in
the still-room, where she got into unheard of difficulties, and had
nearly blown herself up two or three times. "Do not let your still get
too hot, and you will do very well."
"I am sure you are very kind to take so much pains for me!" said Mrs.
Wilson. "But Miss Corbet, it is on my conscience to tell you one thing
which I know, for certain—no matter how," she added, putting her face
close to mine. "Lord Bulmer is determined to marry Miss Leighton, and
he will make my lady give her to him. As to Sir Julius, he is just a
mould of weak calves-foot jelly, he will keep any shape you put him
into, so long as he is in it and no longer!"
I retreated to my own room very much moved by what I had heard, and sat
down to consider it. I was alone, for Lady Leighton had kept Amabel
much with herself for the last few days, and seemed to be trying to
conciliate her. I thought over what Wilson had told me, about her
lady's being in the power of Lord Bulmer, and I remembered, or, thought
I did, that on the evening we had spent with her, she had treated him
quite differently from the other young men who formed her court. What
hold could such a coxcomb have over this imperious woman of fashion,
accustomed to carry all before her? Did she owe him money, or was he in
possession of inconvenient knowledge?
"Oh my soul, come not thou into their secret!" I said to myself.
But supposing that Sir Julius and his lady were both against her, would
Amabel hold out? Of that I had little fear. But would she not, might
she not, be forced into a marriage? Such things were done I knew well
enough. I had heard of more instances than one. All things considered,
I thought it but right to tell Amabel of what I had heard, and the
warning Wilson had given me. I had no chance during the day, but at
last she came to our room looking pale and tired enough. Lady Leighton
had said no more about changing rooms with us, and indeed she seldom
or never came into our part of the house. Like many other perfectly
irreligious people, she was very superstitious, would turn pale at
the screech of an owl, and be miserable a whole day, because she had
dreamed of a white horse, and I owed the only invitation I had received
since her arrival, to the fact that there were thirteen people to sit
down.
"Oh Lucy, how tired, how tired I am!" said Amabel, dropping wearily
into a chair. "What should I do, if I had not you to come back to?"
"You would have a better Friend than poor Lucy!" I returned. "Come, let
me loosen your gown and stays, and make you comfortable. What have you
been doing to tire you so?"
"It is not what I have done!" said Amabel. "I have walked out with my
lady a little, but that did not tire me. It is these people and their
talk that disgusts me. That rational beings can occupy themselves in
such ways, and that women who call themselves ladies should listen to,
and join in such talk. Nobody is safe from their tongues—not those they
call their dearest friends. I wonder whether it ever occurs to my lady,
that these same people talk of her in just the same way, behind her
back."
"No doubt they do!" I remarked. "You know Mrs. Thorpe used to say, that
a dog which would fetch a bone would carry a bone. It was a homely
proverb, but I believe it is true."
"Then the everlasting trifling!" resumed Amabel. "The utter impatience
of any thing like seriousness, and worse, the making free with sacred
names and things. Mr. Dugdale must needs address himself to me, with
some ridiculous riddle about St. Peter."
"And what did you say?" I asked.
"I told him he must excuse me, for I did not consider the sacred word
as a theme for merrymaking and jesting. He had the grace to look a
little abashed."
"And what said my lady?"
"Oh, she said—'You must know, Dugdale, that my daughter sets herself
up for a precisian and a saint; but we shall soon cure her of that
folly when we get her to town.' And then, Lucy, she had the cruelty and
effrontery—yes, I will say it, if she is my father's wife—to ask him
if he had heard the upshot of the affair between Mr. Cheriton and the
pretty milliner's daughter. Was he really going to marry her? Or was
he only amusing himself? And Mr. Dugdale answered with an oath, that
Walter Cheriton must be greatly changed since he knew him, if he mixed
up in any such affair as that."
"I am glad the young man had that grace at least!" said I. "But Amabel,
you will not let such idle talk disturb you, will you?"
"I will not let it shake my faith in Walter, for the tenth part of a
moment, if that is what you mean!" said Amabel, raising her proud head
as in defiance. "And then that Mr. Trimble, the new chaplain, must
needs say, that every one knew how Cheriton was using his power over
the poor people, and that old Wesley was just the same. And I had to
sit by, and hear it all."
"Poor child!" said I devoutly, hoping this might be the worst that
Amabel would have to bear. "But now listen to me, darling, I have
something to tell you;" and I imparted to her Mrs. Wilson's news about
Lord Bulmer.
"I have feared as much from some hints that my lady has let fall!" said
Amabel. "But I will never consent. I have told my father that I will
not marry Walter against his will, at least till I am of age; but I
will never wed any one else—no, not if they drag me before the priest.
I have made up my mind to that. I will flee to my aunt in Scotland, or
perish on the hills before I will marry any one but Walter Cheriton."
"It may not be so easy to flee!" I suggested.
Amabel smiled.
"I know this old house, better than my lady does!" said she. "I have
explored it too well, not to know that there is hardly a room which has
not more entrances than one. Have you forgotten the ghost's room, and
the secret stair, Lucy?"
"But suppose my lady changes the rooms?"
"I believe there is no danger of that at present. But Lucy, let us not
borrow trouble, we know who has promised to care for us, and He will
surely perform His word, though not perhaps in our way. Let us go to
our reading and settle our minds in that way. There is no other."
The next day was Sunday, and in the evening occurred the first distinct
collision between my lady and Amabel. We had all gone to church in the
morning, filling the great family pew where Amabel and I had been used
to sit with Mrs. Deborah. I was about to enter it as usual, when my
lady in a voice which could be heard all over the church, haughtily
ordered me to take my place with the servants where I belonged.
I knew that the little gallery was already crowded rather more than
was safe, and was about to sit down on one of the free seats, when
Mrs. Deborah opened the door of the rectory pew where she was sitting,
for me. Whether my lady saw it or not, I do not know, at any rate she
thought it best to make no disturbance. I saw a good many flashing eyes
among the poorer folk, for Northumbrians are very independent in their
feelings, and by no means endued with that slavish reverence for "the
quality," which is found in the East and South; and I was decidedly a
favorite among the villagers.
I was glad to see that Mr. Lethbridge was not in the least disturbed by
the presence of so many distinguished strangers. He read the service in
his usual solemn way, for though he was not what could be called a good
reader, he was impressive by his evident sincerity.
His text was "Be sure your sin will find you out!"
And he spared nothing in enforcing it, though my lady yawned,
whispered, and all but laughed aloud, as did several others of her
company. I was glad to see that Mr. Dugdale and his sister took no
part in these performances, but withdrew themselves into a corner and
listened with respect at least.
My lady treated Mrs. Deborah to a swimming curtsy after service, which
Mrs. Deborah returned with a dignified salute, and that was all which
passed between them in church. As soon as she reached the porch, my
lady called me sharply to her—
"Corbet, why did not you take your proper place as I told you?"
"The gallery was already crowded, my lady!" I answered. "And it is not
considered altogether safe. It has not been used for some years."
At this moment Mrs. Deborah's clear voice broke in—
"I shall take it as a favor, madam, if you will allow my niece Corbet
to sit with me in church as she has always been used to do. She is of
course entitled to the pew which belongs to her father's estate—that
next your own, but as it is not agreeable for a young gentlewoman to
sit alone, I shall be obliged, if you will give me her company."
Lady Leighton turned her eyes on Mrs. Deborah and tried to stare her
down, but it would not do—Mrs. Deborah was more than her match. Every
one had heard her words and the visitors were exchanging glances of
amusement. She tried to give the matter another turn.
"Certainly, Mrs. Deborah. It shall be as you please—I was not aware
that the young person was an acknowledged relative of the family,
though I had heard there was some connection. Shall we not see you at
the hall, Mrs. Deborah?"
"I shall do myself the honor of calling when my brother returns!" was
the answer, with another stately salute—and the two ladies separated.
I dined in the housekeeper's room, and found myself treated with more
than her usual respect by Mrs. Wilson. She even rebuked one of the men
sharply, for presuming to make fun of the sermon. The man stared, and
asked Mrs. Wilson if she were turning Methodist.
"Methodist or not, I will be mistress at my own table!" answered the
housekeeper. "And I will have you to know that, John Davis."
The man answered sulkily that he meant no harm. It was no more than his
betters did.
"Aye, you must all ape your betters, though they were riding posthaste
to perdition!" said Mrs. Wilson.
And there the matter ended.
That evening, I was alone in our bed room. My lady had taken the little
red parlor for her own use, so I had no other place. I was sitting by
the open window trying to compose my spirits reading Mr. Law's "Serious
Call," which was, and is, a great favorite of mine, till it grew too
dark to read, when I began singing softly to myself my favorite song
from the Messiah. I had not finished it when Amabel entered the room.
"All in the dark!" said she.
"I did not expect you so early," was my answer, "and the twilight is so
sweet, I do not like to shut it out. But how did you contrive to escape
so soon?"
"I was sent away in disgrace," was her reply. "My lady all but boxed my
ears!"
"Why, what was the matter?"
"The matter was this. I had sat quietly in my corner, taking no part in
what was going on, but talking with Miss Dugdale about our old convent
life in France. She seems a nice modest young lady, and I wonder her
mother should trust her here by herself. However, we were talking
quietly, as I said, when my lady came up and asked me if I knew how to
play piquet. You know we learned it of Mr. Thicknesse, so I could not
say no.
"'Come then!' said my lady. 'Here is Mr. Merton wishes to play. Sit
down and play with him, and I will look on and learn.'
"She spoke quite kindly, and as I know a great many people do play
cards on Sunday, I expected no scene, but simply asked her to excuse
me.
"'But why? Why should you not afford Mr. Morton that pleasure?' she
asked.
"I told her that I could not play cards on the Lord's day—it was
against my conscience.
"With that she laughed scornfully—you know her way—and said that since
my conscience allowed me to join such an assembly at all, it need not
be so particular as to what I did there.
"And she was so far right, Lucy. I had no business there, and nothing
shall take me there on a Sunday night again.
"I told her that if she would permit me I would leave the room, and
Mr. Merton said very politely, 'Pray don't force Miss Leighton's
conscience, madam, another time, perhaps, she will oblige me.'
"But my lady would not give up the point, and she must needs call in
the chaplain, who talked about the danger of being righteous over-much,
and said only Methodists and fanatics indulged in such fancies. Then my
lady assumed the imperious, and ordered me to sit down instantly, and I
told her she must excuse me, whereat, she ordered me out of the room,
and here I am."
"I hope you may hear no more of it!" said I. "If I read my lady aright,
she will never forgive anyone who refuses to yield to her."
"I cannot help it, Lucy. Where my conscience is not concerned—where
there is no question of right and wrong—I will give way to her in all
things, es I have done already, in leaving off my mourning. But when I
see things to be wrong or even doubtful, I must forbear them whatever
it costs."
I was right in thinking that Amabel had not heard the last of the
matter. That very night my lady came to our room, and after berating
Amabel in no measured terms—for fine ladies of that day used to scold
and call names like fish-wives, actually forgot herself so far as to
box her ears. If there had been a weapon in my hand at that moment, I
do believe I should have killed her. I sprang forward, but Amabel put
her hand on my arm to check me, while she stood looking Lady Leighton
straight in the face, white as marble and as firm.
"Well, then, I did not mean to cuff you, though you richly deserve
it," said my lady, feeling, I suppose, that she had put herself in
an awkward position. "I am quite ready to overlook your silly and
impertinent conduct this evening, so you promise to obey me in future."
"I have already said, madam, that I will obey you in all matters not of
conscience," replied Amabel.
"Which means that you will only take your own way when you want it,"
was the reply. "We shall see who is to be mistress in this house.
As for you, Corbet," turning to me, "you will do your young lady no
service by abetting her rebellion, I can tell you that, nor yourself
either. I chose to pass over your conduct this morning, because I did
not wish to make a scene in a public place, and with a childish old
woman, but I can tell you I shall allow no rebellion, however it may
be abetted. It would take very little to make me send you a packing,
and this insolent girl to a boarding-school, where she will learn to do
what she is bid without appealing to her conscience."
I simply curtsied. I have always found silence the best armor in
dealing violent people.
"As to you, Miss Leighton, your father is coming in a short time, and
we shall then see who is to be Lady Paramount. I repeat once more that
I will send your favorite woman adrift and yourself where you will
learn obedience by the hardest if I see any more of these airs from
either of you."
With this she quitted the room.
"Well, we have learned something!" said Amabel. "We know that my father
is coming."
"Much good he will do," was on my lips, but I did not say it.
I bathed Amabel's heated cheek with elder flower water, for my lady
had struck in good earnest, and I was afraid her fingers would leave
a black mark. I think she herself was scared at what she had done,
for she was all sunshine and sweetness the next day—even to me. She
happened to hear me singing over my work, and was so much pleased with
my voice as to ask, or rather command me, to come and sing for the
entertainment of her company that evening. I was not sorry to oblige
her, and received many compliments on my performance.
After this for a time we had fair weather at the Hall. I was frequently
called on to sing alone, or in company with Amabel and young Mr.
Dugdale, a simple young gentleman, knowing a great deal about music and
china, and a very little about any thing else.
My lady was all honey to me, and even made me a present of some
lace—small thanks to her. She intimated to me very clearly that she
could make or mar my fortunes accordingly as I served her. I wanted
none of her making, and, indeed, my greatest fear was that she should
find out a match for me.
However, I was willing, for Amabel's sake, to be on good terms with her.
The next Sunday no one went to church but Amabel and myself, and Mr.
Dugdale and his sister. We had a quiet, pleasant walk home, conversing
on serious subjects, and Mr. Dugdale showed a little better side to his
character than I had yet seen.
As we reached the Hall door, he asked Amabel if he should see her in
the saloon that evening.
"No, sir!" answered Amabel. "My lady has kindly promised to excuse me."
"Then, perhaps—perhaps—" said the young gentleman, stammering between
bashfulness and earnestness. "Perhaps you will allow my Sister Chatty
to spend the evening with you."
"Please do, Miss Leighton," added Chatty.
"You see, though I have a great regard for my lady, and—and—all that,"
pursued Mr. Dugdale, "yet Chatty is young, and she has no mother to
direct her, poor thing, and I am a man of the world, you know, but
Chatty isn't, and—really, you know, I do think, young ladies—you
understand—"
If we did understand, it was no thanks to him, poor young man, but of
course, one could not refuse such a request.
Chatty spent the evening with us, and we had a very quiet, profitable
time reading the Bible, singing, and talking. Chatty was a nice,
modest, sensible young girl, who had a bias to good given her in her
childhood by her mother. She was glad to talk of that mother, and to
have her lessons recalled. She has since married well, and makes an
excellent and happy wife and mother, with a great family of daughters,
one of whom is my namesake.
The next day we saw the arrival of a groom on horseback with letters
to my lady, and learned that Sir Julius was expected to arrive before
evening.
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