BRISTOL.
"HERE is that child, poring over her book again, wasting her precious
time and eyesight! I declare she is enough to try a saint! After all I
have done for her! I have a great mind to burn up all her books except
the Bible, that I have."
Winifred looked up wearily as these words were spoken. She had grown
tall and pale since we last saw her in the avenue at Holford Hall, and
the expression of her face wears more of sadness, but there are the
same clear-cut features, the same large, steadfast gray eyes and marked
eyebrows which first attracted Lady Peckham's attention to the child
in the Blue-school at Holford. But the window where she now sits and
strains her sight to catch the last daylight looks not into the farm
closes, but into such a narrow lane that the opposite neighbors could
almost shake hands across it. For Master Simon Evans lives near the
water-side for the convenience of his business. And even the dog-carts
used in the wider streets of Bristol cannot pass each other in Fish
Lane.
[Illustration: "Here is that child, poring over her book again, wasting
her precious time and eyesight."]
Winifred looked up wearily as the shrill voice of reproach sounded over
her head. The speaker was a sharp, energetic-looking woman who seemed
to have worked off every inch of superfluous flesh and to have nothing
left but bone and muscle.
"I have finished all the sewing you laid out, aunt, and I have carried
home Mrs. Bowler's kerchiefs, and put the money in your box. The
children are in bed and asleep, and I thought I might read a little
while."
"And how much did Mrs. Bowler pay you, child? She ought to give you a
good price."
"Forty shillings for the kerchiefs, aunt, and ten for the apron."
"Well, well! It is a fair price, but they are well worth every farthing
of it!" said Dame Evans, slightly mollified. "I will say for you that
there is not a person in Bristol who can do cut-work and satin-stitch
equal to yourself. But you might have taken your knitting, child, if
you had nothing else to do. Reading is nothing but a waste of time for
folks like us, except upon Sundays and holidays, when we can do nothing
else."
"And, aunt, I saw Lady Corbet at Mrs. Bowler's, and she wishes me
to come to her house every day to teach her daughters and oversee
their work. I am to take my meals with the young ladies and walk out
with them, and she will give me ten shillings a week. I am to begin
to-morrow if you are willing."
"Laws me!" exclaimed Dame Evans, quite dazzled at the prospect of such
an honor. "What a fine thing for you! Why, they are the richest people
in Bristol. Sir John entertained his late blessed majesty when he
visited the city, and was knighted on that occasion. I have heard my
Lady Corbet was cousin to old Lord Carew."
Winifred's heart gave a bound at this news. Might she not, through Lady
Corbet, obtain some news of Lady Peckham and Arthur? It was nearly
three years since she had heard anything of Arthur, but she had never
once forgotten to pray for him, night and morning.
"You are willing to have me go then, aunt?"
"What does the child mean? Willing indeed! You ought to be thankful
on your knees for such an honor, and you talk about being willing, as
though you had asked leave to go to the fair! I am only afraid you will
not know how to behave properly with such grand ladies, having lived in
the country all your life. Yes, of course I am willing, only be careful
of your manners, and be sure you say 'my lady' every time you speak to
her."
Winifred smiled rather sadly. She had not many fears upon the score
of manners. She had been used to intercourse with a much greater lady
than Lady Corbet, the wife of a Bristol sugar-refiner, but she was
glad of the employment, as well as of the prospect of some change in
her monotonous and dreary life. She had entertained serious thoughts
of setting up a little school of her own, and here was the work ready
provided for her.
The last two years had brought many sad reverses to Winifred Evans.
The removal of Lady Peckham to London had been the first of a series
of changes which had ended by bringing her into the little brick-paved
kitchen in Fish Lane where we now find her. But a few months after
Gilbert Evans sailed taking with him his son, came news of the total
loss of the ship and crew. Master Evans, who had been for some time in
declining health, had a paralytic stroke upon hearing the news, and
lingered on a helpless and apparently senseless invalid till the next
year.
Then came one of the devastating epidemics of that period, sweeping
over Bridgewater and all the towns in the neighborhood. The feeble old
man and Dame Magdalen, worn out with care and sorrow, were among the
first victims, and Winifred was left with nobody to depend upon but her
uncle and aunt in Bristol, whom she had seldom seen. And Lady Peckham,
who was far-away in London—and London, so far as communication was
concerned, was as far from Bristol in that day as it is now from New
Zealand.
She wrote at once to my lady, sending the letter by one of the grooms
at the Hall who was going up to town, and waited anxiously for an
answer, but none came. And at last the news arrived at the Hall that
Sir Edward had gone abroad, taking his family with him! Here was a
death-blow to all Winifred's hopes! She had nothing left to do but to
return to Bristol with her uncle and aunt and share their home, at
least till some prospect appeared of independent occupation.
Dame Evans was on the whole a well-meaning woman, but like some other
well-meaning persons, very intolerable to live with. Housekeeping was
her idol. She cared for nothing in the world but scouring and cleaning,
cooking and washing, spinning, sewing, and knitting. In her mind a
house was not a place to live and be happy in, but something whose use
was to be kept clean; to have the bricks scoured, the wood-work waxed
and rubbed and polished endlessly, the windows brightened, and the
flies driven out. Comfort and shelter were secondary objects. Clothes
were made to be mended and kept clean; and as to books, they had,
according to Dame Margery, "no use in the 'varsal world but to waste
people's precious time and keep them from their duties."
Dame Margery was a steady keeper at home on week-days, and a regular
church-goer on Sundays; she never went to revels or merry-makings, or
allowed her family to do so. And she would have been both surprised
and indignant if any one had told her that she was as much wedded to
the things of this world as her neighbor the goldsmith's wife, whose
gay gowns and frequent parties were the talk of the whole street; and
that it was as frivolous and belittling to set her heart upon pewter
tankards and fine linen as upon flounces and lace. It did not occur
to her to think that drawers and cupboards, kitchen floors and parlor
windows, trenchers and napkins, were as much earthly and transitory
in their nature as fairs and revels. Simon Evans was a master-workman
and well to do in the world, but Dame Margery saved every penny and
every candle-end as carefully as she had done when he was living upon
the wages of a journeyman. She allowed her family no better food, and
had no more to give away. If people were poor, it was their own fault.
"She" was not poor—why could not they do as she had done? The question,
"Who maketh thee to differ?" was one which did not occur to her.
It may be guessed that Winifred and her aunt did not suit each other
very well. Dame Evans declared that the girl had been utterly spoiled
by poor sister Magdalen, who was nothing better than a dreamer herself,
for all her gentle blood, and congratulated the child on at last
getting into hands that would give her some training and teach her
something useful. The training consisted in toiling from morning till
night to clean what had just been washed and to wash what was already
clean; in making garments which when done were too good to be worn, and
in being reminded every day and all day long of her own deficiencies,
and of the goodness of her uncle and aunt in taking upon themselves
such a burden.
Winifred could not bring herself to feel that she was a burden. She
was well aware that she did as much work as had ever been expected of
Priscilla at the farm, and since she had found fine needlework and
embroidery to do, she had earned more than enough money for her own
support. Moreover she had taught the two girls to read and write since
she came to Bristol, rather, it must be confessed, against the will of
their mother, who complained that Winnie would make Betsey and Sally as
idle and dreaming as herself. But here, for once, Simon Evans exerted
his authority, and when he did, even Dame Margery had no choice but to
submit.
These were dreary days to Winifred. The change was great from the open,
breezy field and heath, and the stately avenues and lovely gardens of
the Hall, to the narrow alley where she now lived. There was not a
green thing to be seen except from one window in the attic, where she
could catch a glimpse of some distant tree-tops; and at these tree-tops
Winifred could gladly have gazed for hours if she would have been
allowed. But it was hard for her to find time even to think, since
Dame Margery's voice kept up an incessant patter of small complaints
and fault-findings, small remarks and smaller gossip, for, although
she seldom went out, she contrived to pick up all the news of the
town. Her very voice grated on Winifred's ears. She never spoke in a
pleasant or cheerful tone. And a stranger hearing her in another room
would be sure to think she was either whining or scolding. While at
the least annoyance, she took on a tone and expression of suffering
martyrdom. Reading was out of the question, save by fits and snatches,
or on Sundays, when she was not engaged in cooking the Sunday dinner,
or keeping the little ones quiet, while their mother nodded over her
Bible, under the idea that she was performing a pious duty.
It was a great relief when Winifred found fine sewing and embroidery
enough to occupy her hands for some hours of every day. The close
attention which this work required was a sufficient excuse for not
talking, and she was learning by degrees to listen to her aunt's voice
as one listens to the working of machinery or the patter of the rain—as
a disagreeable noise which cannot be helped. As she worked at the
muslin apron or the lace whisk which occupied her hands and eyes, her
thoughts were comparatively free, and they wandered backward over the
past—her pleasant life at the farm, the hours spent at the Hall or with
good Dame Sprat, now enjoying that Heavenly Inheritance to which she
had so steadily looked forward during her long and troubled life. She
called to mind her last precious conversations with Lady Peckham, and
the dying words of her mother:
"Winifred, lay hold on eternal life. Whatever may be your lot here,
never give up your title to your Heavenly Inheritance. Remember always
how He hath said, 'I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee.' And
there is no change in His goodness. I leave you in His hands who never
yet failed them that sought Him."
This was Winifred's only stay, her one source of courage and comfort.
Severe as was the change, heavy as were her bereavements, weary and
dull as was her daily toil, fretting as were her daily trials, it was
her Heavenly Father who sent or who allowed it all, and therefore all
"must" be for her good in the end, though it might be a long time first.
She was sure that there was waiting for her a lovely, peaceful home,
filled with all those beautiful things which she loved, and many, many
others, far beyond anything she had seen or could conceive—a home
where all her dear ones were waiting for her or would come at last,
and where there would be no more parting forever. This inheritance was
"hers,"—prepared for her by her Heavenly Father, sealed and made sure
by her Saviour's death and resurrection. It was to be hers at last,
however long she might have to wait, and it might be hers any day. She
might go to bed any night in her little close bedroom, and awake amid
the unspeakable splendors of heaven.
Such thoughts gave Winifred courage to live from day to day, making
no plans, never looking forward, but leaving all in better hands than
her own. They were no longer beautiful dreams, as in the days when she
walked over the heath or up to the Hall. They alone were the living
realities, and all the rest was but a dream—a weary, troublesome dream,
which would pass away in the morning. She was careful to give no just
cause of offence, and when she was blamed unjustly, she tried to accept
it in the spirit of meekness, knowing that the trial of our faith
"worketh patience; and patience, experience; and experience, hope: and
hope maketh not ashamed."
It was with a thankful heart that Winifred dressed herself next day for
her that lesson at Lady Corbet's. She thought it likely that she might
meet with some disagreeable things. Lady Corbet evidently had a great
idea of her own consequence, and seemed to think she was conferring a
favor on Winifred by allowing her to teach her daughters. It was very
likely also that the young ladies might be proud and consequential. But
at all events it was a change. Sir John Corbet lived in the best part
of the city, on one of the hills upon which Bristol is built. He had a
fine house and also a garden, and the very thought of seeing green and
growing plants was pleasant to one who had been shut away from them so
long.
"How pretty Cousin Winnie looks!" said Betsey, gazing after her cousin
as she tripped down the lane with something of her old elastic step.
"Beauty is nothing, child!" said her mother, though she herself was
thinking at that moment that Winifred was a very creditable young
person to have passing in and out of the house. "Good looks are only
skin deep! Handsome is that handsome does!"
"Then I think Winifred is the handsomest person I know!" returned
sturdy little Betsey. "For I am sure she is the very best."