THE BEGINNING OF CHANGES.
THE next three or four months were months of sad suspense to all the
friends of Arthur Carew. To Winifred they were the longest she had ever
spent. All the excitement and adventure of her life had been crowded
into ten days, and now that they were over, it seemed hard to return
to the little common duties of every-day life—to have nothing more
important on her mind, when she awoke in the morning, than feeding the
chickens or carrying her daily portion to Dame Sprat. Even her lessons
with Mrs. Alwright had lost part of their charm, now that there were
no messages to carry back and forth between my lady and Mr. Arthur—now
that she was no longer a counsellor and in some sort a heroine, but had
sunk into plain little Winifred Evans again.
In truth a great change had passed over Winifred. She had passed that
place "where the brooks and rivers meet." She had from a simple child
become a woman, with all a woman's cares and feelings, living the best
part of her life in another. And she could no more go back to what
she was before the memorable night when she walked over the fields
with Arthur Carew, than she could return to the days when she played
contentedly for hours with a doll and a few bits of broken earthenware.
Winifred had now to learn what all women must learn, sooner or later,
that it often requires as much courage, though of a somewhat different
kind, to live one's common every-day life, as it does to risk that
life in some great danger or adventure. She sometimes found it hard
not to be pettish and impatient with Jack when he boasted of what he
would do when he was a sailor, and she sometimes found herself looking
with disgust upon the little cares and the common every-day work which
occupied her from morning till night, without seeming, after all, to
bring anything to pass.
But Winifred was too truly a Christian, and too strongly confirmed in
the habit of honest self-examination, to allow this frame of mind to
become a habit. She soon perceived that she was growing fretful and
discontented, and even moody and impatient of the society of those
about her. And she set herself resolutely to remedy the evil, by
earnest prayer, and by a steady, straightforward analysis of her own
feelings and conduct.
"God has placed me where I am," she argued with herself. "He hath
called me to this state of life, and the work I am obliged to do
every day—feeding the fowls, sweeping and scouring, waiting upon my
grandfather and Jack, and helping Priscilla in the dairy—all this is as
much His work, as saving Mr. Carew's life or helping my lady. And if
I let myself be unfaithful and discontented in these little matters,
just because they do not seem to come to anything, what right have I
to expect strength when any great temptation comes to try me? And if I
sit thinking of all that has happened, and of Mr. Arthur Carew, when
I ought to be saying my prayers—and I know I have done so a good many
times—I have no right to expect my devotions will seem as pleasant to
me as they have done before.
"I might take pattern of my lady about that. Of course the suspense
about Mr. Arthur must be much worse for her than for me, yet she seems
to go about everything just as usual—visiting the poor sick folks,
the school, and the old women at the almshouses, reading and working,
though I dare say all these things are often as tiresome to her as my
spinning and knitting are to me. I will not be so silly any more!" was
the conclusion of her meditation.
"God has been very good to me in giving me such kind friends as my lady
and Mrs. Alwright, and such a home as this at the farm, and I will
not be ungrateful. I will make the most of my lessons as long as I am
allowed to have them. I will do my very best with my spinning, and see
if I cannot draw as fine and even a thread as my mother. I found out
long ago that the way to make work interesting was to do one's very
best with it. God has always been good to me, and what a comfort it is
to think that He can never be anything else than good—that whatever
changes come, He will be always the same."
Winifred was likely to have need of all the comfort she could find in
such thoughts, for many sad changes were before her.
One morning, as she entered Mrs. Alwright's room, she found that
discreet spinster surrounded by a wonderful litter of linen and other
garments, busily engaged in mending some very precious lace of her
lady's.
"News, Winifred!" said Mrs. Alwright.
"Good news or bad?" asked Winifred.
"Both good and bad! Good news of Mr. Arthur, and bad news for you and
me, my dear!"
"Mr. Arthur!" asked Winifred, her heart beating so fast as almost to
choke her. "Is he safe?"
"Yes, my dear. After many troubles and perils, he escaped in a ship
from Biddeford, and got safe and well through France into Holland. He
says he wrote a letter, and sent it on shore just as they were about to
sail, but we never received it. My lady says you are to come up to her
by-and-by, and she will tell you all about the matter herself."
"That is good news, indeed!" said Winifred. "But I wonder why my lady
never received his first letter?"
"No doubt it was intrusted to some careless person who lost it,"
replied Mrs. Alwright. "There is no end to the evils brought about by
carelessness, as you will do well to remember."
"And what is the bad news, Mrs. Alwright? I hope nothing has happened
to Sir Edward."
"Why, yes, something has happened, though not anything which can be
called a misfortune, exactly. His majesty has been pleased to give Sir
Edward some office about the court. And we—that is my lady and I, and
the butler and the coachman, and Betty Cook—are all going up to London
to live."
Winifred's heart sank fathoms deep. My lady and Mrs. Alwright going
away from the Hall! No more lessons in embroidery, no more reading out
of the "Chronicle" and the "Arcadia," no more pleasant hours spent in
gathering sweet herbs and flowers in the garden, or helping in the
still-room and store-room! No more hours spent with my lady in reading
and talking about the Bible and the history books—and above all, no
further chance of hearing from Arthur Carew!
Winifred felt as though all the sunshine of her life had gone out
in a moment. She remembered how dissatisfied she had been the past
winter—how weary of everything, even of her precious lessons, and she
felt as though God had punished her for her discontent by taking away
the blessing for which she had been ungrateful. She bit her lip, and
busied herself with the fastening of her basket, but all was of no use.
The tears would come, and with a sudden impulse, she dropped upon her
knees by the side of her good old friend, and laying her head in her
lap, she sobbed as if her heart would break.
"Aye, poor dear! I knew just how you would take it!" said Mrs.
Alwright, wiping her own eyes and smoothing Winifred's hair, entirely
regardless for once of the detriment to her own clean starched lawn
apron. "Such a quiet and pleasant time as we have had this winter since
Sir Edward went away! So much as you have improved, and just as you
have learned to do cut-work and satin-stitch so nicely, and all the
darning stitches as well as I could myself. I meant to begin with you
in carpet-work and tapestry the very next week, and give you the wool
and silk to work a cushion for a birthday present. I got them from
Bristol only last night. But you shall have them just the same, and I
will give you a lesson every day that we stay at the Hall. It shall go
hard, but I will find the time somehow or other. I will give you my
small frame, too, and you are so clever, I make no doubt you will be
able to go on by yourself. So cheer up, my dear, for no doubt it will
be all for the best in the end, and don't let us waste our precious
time in crying, for that would be very foolish, now that we have so
little left."
Winifred felt the truth of this last remark. She dried her eyes, and
prepared to make the most of the few pleasant hours she was likely to
enjoy. Mrs. Alwright brought out her frame and prepared her canvas, and
Winifred for a time almost forgot her troubles in the excitement of
seeing a pretty pink rose-bud growing up, as it were, under her fingers.
"Does my lady like going to London?" she asked, as she presently
stopped to thread her needle.
"Why, my dear, it is not always easy to say what my lady likes. You
know great folks are not forward in expressing their feelings, and my
lady never talks of herself. Of course, if Sir Edward is to live in
London, my lady would wish to be with him, like a dutiful wife as she
is. And so much the better for him, since, between ourselves, my dear,
though I would not say so to every one, she has more sense in her glove
than ever dwelt under his hat. I dare say my lady may be pleased at the
thought of seeing some of her old friends again, but, upon the whole,
I am of opinion that she would rather stay here than go to town. She
never was fond of company, even as a girl. She would often beg to be
left at home when the rest went out, and after she became a widow, I do
believe that with her own good will she would never have left her own
room, save to go to church or visit some poor body.
"Sir Edward went to London after his marriage, and was much about the
king for some years. So my lady had to go to court with the other
great ladies, but never was a bird more glad to escape from the cage
than she was when we came down to the Hall. She recovered her spirits
wonderfully, so that Sir Edward himself noticed the change, and he was
greatly pleased to see her take such an interest in the gardens and in
the schools and almshouses which his grandmother set up. It seemed as
though she grew ten years younger. No, I cannot think my lady would
ever go to London of her own accord."
"And you, Mrs. Alwright, how do you like it?"
"My dear, I hate and detest London and everything belonging to it!"
said Mrs. Alwright, with so much energy that Winifred started and broke
her thread. "Nasty, dirty place that it is, always knee-deep in dirt,
in mud or dust, everything covered with soot and black, so that one can
never be sure of a decent cap and kerchief for two minutes together,
and no getting them washed as they should be, either! All sorts of
wickedness and folly going on, night and day. Never sure when one hires
a new maid that she is not a what-shall-call-um, who will rob the house
and run away the first chance you give her, and pretty certain that she
will be a lazy, dirty baggage, not worth her salt! The streets fall of
all sorts of disorder so that no one is safe after dark.
"My lady was once stopped in her coach, coming home from Whitehall, and
would have been robbed and murdered too, for aught I know, only for a
party of soldiers who came up just in time. Poor starving creatures
begging at the corners of the streets—why, if you will believe me, my
dear, a poor sailor actually crept into our back-yard for shelter one
cold night, and was found dying in the morning. My lady and I tried all
we could to revive him, but he was too far gone. He said he had ate
nothing for a week, and I could easily believe it by his looks. Brazen,
painted baggages riding in their coaches in the park and jostling
honest women!"
Mrs. Alwright stopped for sheer want of breath.
"But I suppose there must be some good people in so large a place as
London?" said Winifred, doubtfully.
"Yes, to be sure, child, a plenty of them. Even in the court itself,
bad as it was. There was Mrs. Godolphin, a saint if ever there was
one, and Mr. and Mrs. Evelyn, better people could not be; and as for
Mrs. Macy, their daughter, she was too good to live. O yes, no doubt
there are good people everywhere, but yet there is a terrible deal of
wickedness in great cities, such as we know nothing about here. For my
part, I could wish there was no such place. I did hope to spend the
rest of my days among the green fields, and to live and die in the
country, but God's will be done! No doubt He knows best!"
"It is hard to think so always," said Winifred.
"Well, sweetheart, it is a comfort that He does know best, and will go
on in His own way, whatever we poor mortals may think of His doings.
But now you must go up to my lady, and while you are gone, I will put a
few stitches just to help you along, and give you something to look at
for a guide."
Winifred found Lady Peckham in her dressing-room, which was all in a
litter with mails and boxes. Lady Peckham was seated at her cabinet,
looking over and destroying letters and papers. As Winifred looked
around the usually pleasant and orderly apartment, as she remembered
the delightful hours she had spent there, and thought how soon it would
be shut up and deserted, the tears swelled to her eyes again, and she
wished, with Mrs. Alwright, that there were no such place as London in
the whole world!
"Well, Winifred, I suppose you have heard all the news from Mrs.
Alwright?" said Lady Peckham, kindly.
"Yes, my lady."
"I have a message for you from my brother," said Lady Peckham, taking a
letter from her pocket. "He says, 'Tell my little Winifred that I think
of her, and I hope she remembers me, at least in her prayers.'"
Winifred felt that there was little danger of her forgetting, but she
knew that she should break down utterly if she tried to speak, so she
courtesied, and remained silent.
"Come hither to me, Winifred," said Lady Peckham.
Winifred obeyed, not by any means sure that she had not incurred a
reproof in presuming to shed tears before such a great lady. She was
mistaken.
"My poor child! My dear, faithful little friend!" said Lady Peckham,
and presently, to her astonishment, Winifred found herself drawn into
my lady's arms, and crying on her shoulder as freely as if it had been
her own mother.
"You are very dear to me, Winifred," said my lady, presently, in a low
voice. "I have always been fond of you, both for your own sake and that
of a dear friend whom you much resemble. I have envied your mother the
possession of such a daughter, but the events of the last few weeks
have made me feel toward you more like an elder sister."
What made the hot blood rush into Winifred's cheeks at these words, so
that she was glad to have her face hidden from her friend? Perhaps she
could not have told if she had been asked.
"I would gladly take you with me to London, if it were possible,"
continued Lady Peckham. "I would gladly adopt you as my own, but I
should have no right to deprive your parents of such a treasure. God
has appointed to each of us His children our place, where we have His
special work to do, and if in our impatience or self-indulgence we
strive to better His appointment, He will soon show us our mistake.
But, Winifred, if anything should happen to make you need a home, you
must let me know."
"Will you never come back to the Hall, my lady?"
"I cannot tell, my child. Not for a long time, I fear. Sir Edward has
received an appointment, as you have doubtless heard from Alwright,
and so long as he is attached to the court we must remain in London. I
confess it is not a pleasant prospect to me, but I try to submit and to
believe that it will be for the best."
"It is hard to think that God orders everything for the best," Winifred
ventured to observe, "but, my lady, I think it would be still harder to
live if one did not believe it. It seems the only comfort one has in
times like these."
"True, sweetheart! I trust you may never find your faith more severely
tried than now. But this is a world of great and sad changes, and you
may live to look back upon the present as a very small trial."
Winifred could not imagine any state of things in which the present
trial should seem small to her. She was soon to find out her mistake.
"And now, Winifred, I wish you to ask a favor for me of your good
mother," continued Lady Peckham. "I wish you would ask her to allow you
to remain at the Hall until we go to London. You can help Mrs. Alwright
a great deal, and I shall be glad of your society."
Winifred looked up in surprise. The news seemed too good to be true.
Should she really remain a whole week at the Hall—perhaps longer—and
see my lady every day?
"Oh, my lady, you are too good!" she said, gratefully.
Lady Peckham smiled rather sadly. "I am good to myself, then, my dear.
I am not at all sure that I am conferring any favor upon you. But you
may tell your mother that I shall be careful not to spoil her little
maiden."
Dame Magdalen looked rather doubtfully at her husband when Winifred
preferred Lady Peckham's request, after her return home.
"I should be loth to refuse my lady anything, sweetheart, so kind as
she has been to you! But to let you stay so long at the Hall—I am
doubtful."
"My lady said she would be sure not to spoil me, mother," said Winifred.
"She will not 'mean' to spoil you, I know very well. My lady means
nothing but what is kind and good, but, my maid, how will it be when
you return home again? Will not the plain, homely ways and life at
the farm, and the every-day work and duties of your station, become
wearisome to you? My lady has been very kind in noticing and making in
some sort a companion of you, but you must never forget that you are a
plain yeoman's daughter."
"I will try not to be discontented, mother," said. Winifred, meekly.
"I know what my place is, and I am thankful that I have so good
and pleasant a home as this, but, mother—" and Winifred's voice
faltered—"perhaps I shall never see my dear lady again!"
"Let her go, dame, I pray you!" said Gilbert Evans, stroking his
daughter's head. "We all owe much to my lady for her care of the child,
and she will learn nothing but good at the Hall, though there are few
great families of which I would say as much. I do not wonder the poor
lady feels the need of companionship. Go now, and bring me my pipe
and box. The child must go out into the world some day!" he added, as
Winifred left the room. "We cannot always keep her to ourselves, and
she is learning what will help her to earn her bread if ever she should
be thrown on herself."
"Winifred has learned a great deal," said Magdalen. "Her white seam and
cut-work are wonderful, and she can do the twill and diaper darning
stitches better than I could in my best days, but yet I sometimes fear
for the effect of all these lessons. Whom is the girl to marry?"
"Perhaps she may have the luck to catch a sailor lad, as her mother did
before her," said Gilbert, laughing, and patting his wife's still fair
cheek. "Dost remember how thy fine relations turned up their noses at
poor Gilbert Evans, when he came a-courting Magdalen Coffin, whom he
fished out of the Catwater when the pleasure-boat was overset?
"'What does that sailor fellow want with Madge?' said thy cousin. 'Give
him a crown and a draught of strong water, and send him on his way!'"
"Ah, Gilbert, it is not every orphan and dependent maid who has the
luck of poor Madge Coffin!" said Magdalen, smiling. "Winifred's lot is
likely to be the opposite of mine. My proud cousin brought me up to be
a household drudge—a serving-maid in all but the name. But even let
the child do as she will! She is a good girl, and has worked hard this
winter."
So it was settled, and Winifred went up to the Hall to stay for the
two weeks that should elapse before Lady Peckham went to London. Busy
weeks they were, and full of pleasant employment, whether she worked
at her embroidery, ran up and down-stairs for Mrs. Alwright and helped
her in the still-room and kitchen, where she learned to make biscuits,
and almond paste, and maukpane and saffron cakes, and all the other
delicacies for which that lady was famous, or whether she sat or walked
with my lady in the rapidly lengthening twilight, telling of the things
they both loved, or read to her as she worked in her own chamber.
Many were the cabinet drawers and boxes she helped to rummage, filled
with all the accumulations of generations of ladies famous for
needlework and all such accomplishments, and many were the precious
presents she received,—bits of wonderful brocades and ribbons for her
silk patchwork (then a great fashion, as it was a few years since),
of ivory and tortoise-shell tatting-shuttles and netting-boxes, of
pin-cushions and needle-books, of embroidery patterns and silks, each
and all accompanied by the exhortation, "Take care of it, child! It
will come in use some day."
But at last all came to an end. The day of final departure arrived.
Winifred bade her friends farewell, and stood at the hall door till the
clumsy coach with its six horses and outriders (not for show, but use)
drove down the long avenue and disappeared. Then, feeling as though a
part of her life had gone away with it, she dried her eyes, and turned
back into the house to finish up some last things which had been left
to her care.
Later in the day, Winifred walked homeward, followed by the herd-boy
bearing her bundles, but carrying herself, as too precious to intrust
to another, her chief treasures—Hall's "Chronicle," some books of
devotion my lady had given her, and the "Arcadia" of Sir Philip
Sidney—"the only romance," said Mrs. Alwright, "fit for a young maiden
to read."
At the turn of the avenue, she stopped and looked back. There stood
the old Hall, in all its quaint beauty, under the light of the spring
sunshine, but all the windows were closed, and Winifred thought it
already looked desolate and forlorn. She gazed a long time, till her
eyes grew too full to see any longer.
"Well," said she, as at last she turned away, "I have at least one
comfort! No one can ever take from me the remembrance of the pleasant
times I have had and the things I have learned of my lady!"