MISCHIEF.
I HAVE said that my mother was very unwell for a time after her arrival
at Tre Madoc, and my aunt feared she would go off in a quick decline.
But by degrees she recovered strength again, so as to walk into the
garden to help my aunt in the still-room and dairy occupations, of
which she was very fond, and after a while to ride the easy old pony as
far as the village, to see some of the sick and old people.
An accident had happened to Andrew's ship, the Enterprise, which had
put off her sailing for some weeks. We were all very glad of the
respite, my mother especially, to whom Andrew was most devoted—more so
than to myself, which was very sensible of him. He used to walk at her
bridle-rein, gather flowers for her, and in short, pay her a great many
attentions which were more lover-like than filial. He had never again
spoken to me on the subject of marriage, and always sharply hushed up
any allusion to the matter on the part of other members of the family;
and though he was very kind and very attentive to my comfort, it was
more as a brother than a lover.
It was the course, if he had known it, just calculated to make me care
for him, if only out of pique, and accordingly I began to watch for
his coming, to wonder whether he would ask me to walk with him, and to
dress so as to please his eye. I began to take an interest in the farm
and garden, as indeed I had been used to do at home, and I was more
than ever zealous in visiting and working for the school and the poor
folks. My aunt had taken to me at once, and I to her, and I believe
but for the meddling of another we should never have had a falling
out. My charitable work and my studies with Rosamond and my mother had
again brought my better self uppermost, and despite Betty's teasing and
an occasional sigh for London, or a spasm of home-sickness for dear
Normandy, I was very happy.
I have said that Betty set herself to make mischief, and she succeeded
certainly to her heart's content, or one would have thought so. She is
gone to her account long ago, poor thing, and I feel tenderly toward
her memory, for she was my Andrew's sister; but I cannot make my story
understood without speaking of her faults.
She began with Jeanne. The housekeeper and chief personage under
Margaret was an old woman named Deborah Permuen, an excellent person,
but of somewhat irritable temper, and very jealous of her authority
and her influence with her mistress. She and Jeanne had begun by being
great friends; for Deborah was a hot Protestant, and a Presbyterian to
boot, who, though she regularly attended the parish church on Sundays,
as regularly went on Thursdays to a gathering of her own sort of folks,
which was held in a cottage on the verge of the estate. She even
condescended to learn of Jeanne how to prepare an "omelette aux herbs"
and several other French dishes, imparting in return various important
culinary secrets of her own.
By degrees, however, her friendship cooled. She began to throw out
hints about interlopers, and French Jesuits in disguise coming to
interfere in peaceable families. She declined anything but civilly a
proposition of Jeanne's to teach her the true way of making a galette;
and at last—the crowning offence—threw into the pig's mess a fine
salad with crawfish, which Jeanne had prepared for Andrew's birthday,
declaring that she would not have her young master poisoned with French
pig-wash.
Jeanne rushed to my mother with complaints, not observing or not
heeding that my aunt was in the next room looking over a drawer of
linen in the cabinet. Then Deborah was called upon the scene, and told
her story, which she did with many tears and exclamations that ever she
should have lived to see the day that she should be supplanted by a
foreigner, and so on.
"You foolish old woman, what do you mean?" said my aunt, out of
patience at last. "Who is thinking of supplanting you?"
"Why, that French woman there?" sobbed Deborah, pointing to Jeanne,
who, burning with indignation all the more because my mother had
imposed silence on her, stood behind her mistress' chair. "Did not she
say that she would have me out of this house in a twelvemonth, and that
when her young lady ruled the roast in the parlor it would be her turn
in the kitchen?"
"I don't believe she said so," said my mother; and she translated
Deborah's remark for Jeanne's benefit.
"Indeed, indeed, madame, I never said such a word," was Jeanne's reply.
"I never thought of such a thing. I had too much respect for Deborah,
let alone Madame Corbet, ever to say a thing so un-polite, so improper."
"What did you say to Mrs. Betty then, when she asked you about it?"
demanded Deborah, beginning to calm down a little.
"Nothing at all," was the answer. "Mrs. Betty said to me that she
supposed I should be the—what say you?—the manager, when Mrs. Vevette
and the young master were married, and that she hoped I would give them
more nice things than Mrs. Deborah did; to which I answered nothing;
for it did not seem to me, craving madame's pardon, that it was a
proper way for a young lady of the house to speak to a servant. So,
when she added something more, I said I was Madame d'Antin's servant,
and at her disposal; and I added no more. My feelings have been much
hurt by Mrs. Deborah's remarks of late; and to-day especially I was so
moved by her treatment of my salad—ah, madame! Such noble salade des
écrevisses! That I fear I forgot myself. Alas, it is too easy to wound
the heart of an exile and a childless mother."
And here Jeanne wept in her turn, and Deborah began to look rather
ashamed, and to mutter some thing about "not meaning."
"I see how it is," said my aunt, who with all her easiness of
disposition was not a person to be despised. "Deborah has allowed
herself to be prejudiced, and to believe her mistress capable of the
most unworthy conduct."
"Oh, mistress, don't!" implored Deborah, weeping afresh.
"And she has been guilty of great unkindness toward a stranger and a
foreigner, and one of her own religion," added my aunt, with emphasis;
"while Jeanne has perhaps been too hasty and ready to take offence."
"I own it, madame," sobbed Jeanne in her turn; "I have been too hasty;
but to be called a Jesuit, when I have suffered so much by them; and
then my beautiful salad, which the young master used to like so much in
France—"
"Well, never mind," said my aunt. "I am sure Deborah is sorry she
called you by such an ugly name; and as to the salad, I think if we
can forgive the loss, you can. Come, now, let me see you shake hands
and make friends, like Christian women; and let me hear of no more
quarrels."
The two combatants obeyed, with a very decent grace on Deborah's side,
and with considerable effusion on that of Jeanne, who adored my aunt,
and, to do her justice, was always placable.
Deborah departed to her own dominions, and my aunt, going to her own
room, sent for Mrs. Betty, who did not appear at dinner, and who was at
least more careful in her conduct for some days, though I have reason
to think her heart was little affected by her disgrace or her mother's
admonitions. It was only a few days afterward that Jeanne came to her
mistress again, with a humble request that she would intercede with
Madame Corbet to allow her to change her room. For since my mother had
been so unwell Jeanne had occupied a room at the end of the gallery
leading to our apartment, which, as I have said, was somewhat separated
from the rest of the house.
"Why, what is the matter with the room?" asked my mother. "I thought it
a very nice one."
"And so it is madame, but—"
"But what?"
"I would rather not sleep there, madame."
"Some one has been telling you ghost stories," said I, a sudden idea
coming to me. "Is it not so?"
"Ah, mamselle!" and Jeanne began to cry, as usual.
"Do be reasonable," said my mother, rather impatiently, for she was
tired and not very well. "Stop crying, and tell me what has scared you."
It was not easy to pacify Jeanne, but we succeeded at last, and then
the truth came out. Mrs. Betty had told her that a headless woman with
fiery eyes came out of a secret closet in the hall of that room, which
no one had been able to find, and that whoever saw her became blind.
"Where does she keep her fiery eyes, if she has no head—in her pocket?"
I asked, laughing at this very original ghost. "Perhaps she carries
them on a dish before her, like St. What's-her-name in the picture."
"Ah, mamselle! Do not laugh. I did indeed see something—two fiery eyes
in the dark—and my eyes have not felt right since."
"The eyes of that great gray cat which is always following you
up-stairs and down," said my mother. Then, seeing that the poor woman
was really unhappy, she tried to reason her out of her fears on
religious grounds, but, as usually happens in such cases, without much
success. Jeanne owned the truth of all she said; but—
Finally my mother gave way, and asked my aunt to allow a cot-bed to be
put into the large light closet which opened from my mother's room.
"Why, certainly, if you like to have her there," said my aunt. "You
know I thought it would be more convenient for you, in the first place."
"It is not that exactly," replied my mother; "but Jeanne has taken
a fit of superstitious terror and is afraid of, I know not what
apparition, which some one has told her comes out of a closet in the
wall of her room. I have reasoned with her, but, of course, to no
purpose."
"Is there really such a ghost about the house, aunt?" I asked.
"There used to be an old story to that effect," said my aunt; "but I do
not know that any one has ever seen the apparition. Cornwall is famous
for such things. You shall hardly find an old hall or mansion in the
country which has not its tale of wonder."
"I think there is more of it than there used to be in Normandy even,"
I remarked: "Old Dame Trehorn was quite in despair about her sons
yesterday, because she says she heard the old shoes dance of themselves
in the press the night before last, and she is sure their owners either
are or will be drowned. And Mary Mellish would not let the children
come to school yesterday because some one heard the wish-hounds the
night before."
"It is a pity the poor people would not learn to have more faith in God
and less fear of apparitions and the like," said my mother.
My aunt looked a little displeased. "I suppose, sister Meg, you will
hardly go so far as to say there are no such things as ghosts and
fairies and the like," said she. "That would indeed be to be wiser than
our fathers."
"But, Aunt Amy, we are wiser than our fathers in a great many things,
or think we are," said I. "Our fathers used to believe in purgatory,
and worshipping of images and the like, but we do not."
My aunt deigned me no answer.
"As to Jeanne, sister, you will of course do as you please, since she
is your woman, and the apartment is yours. I would, however, that you
would try to teach her to live on better terms with Deborah and the
other woman. I am not used to these quarrels below stairs."
I would have spoken, for I felt very warm in defense of my
foster-mother, but maman checked me with a look, and said gently that
she hoped not to need Jeanne much longer, and after that she would of
course lodge with her husband at his cottage.
"Why, there it is," said my aunt. "As soon as one speaks a word, you
take offence. And now that we are on the subject—" (she did not say
what subject), "I must say that I cannot think it becomes Vevette to
remark upon my housekeeping before the maids. She is not yet mistress,
however she may come to be, and I think young maids had best learn in
silence and not pass their judgment on what is done by their elders.
Ours Catechism teaches young folks to order themselves lowly and
reverently to their betters, whatever yours may do in France."
And here my aunt stopped, having talked herself quite out of breath.
"What do you mean, aunt?" I asked, quite bewildered by this accusation.
"When have I censured you?"
"Oh, you know very well what I mean, I am quite sure. It might be only
thoughtlessness, but you ought to be more careful."
"But, aunt, indeed I do not know; I have not the least idea," said I,
which was quite true.
"Will you be so kind, sister Corbet, as to tell my child and her mother
to what your allude?" said my mother, with all that stateliness which
was natural to her, but speaking kindly. "I assure you that if my
daughter hath done wrong, either wilfully or carelessly, she shall ask
your pardon."
Aunt Amy had had time to cool. "Ah, well, I dare say it was but
thoughtlessness; and young maids must be young maids, I suppose."
"But what was it?" my mother persisted, to my secret delight, for I was
not conscious of any offence.
Aunt Amy could not remember the words; only Betty had told her that
I had found fault with the housekeeping, and said that when I was
mistress I would have things thus and so. I began to see daylight.
"Dear aunt, I will tell you how it was," said I. "We were all gathering
lavender-flowers for the still, and I saw that Peggy, the still-room
maid, had been crying, and asked what was the matter. She said the
mistress had been scolding her because she had on ragged stockings, and
because she did not keep her head neat; and Betty asked me if I did not
think that was hard on the poor girl, when she had so much to, do. And
I said no: if I were her mistress I would make her knit her own hose
and wear a clear-starched cap every day, as the maids do in Normandy.
Then Meg laughed, and said I would be a pattern housekeeper, no doubt;
and I said I did not believe I should ever be as good-natured as you
were. That was the whole of it. I am sure nothing was farther from my
thoughts than any disrespect; and as to your housekeeping, I think it
is as perfect as can be—only, of course, many of the ways are different
from ours, and when I notice them 'tis natural to speak of them."
"Betty made much more of the matter than that," said my aunt. "Well,
sister Meg, I will have a cot-bed sent up, and you can place it where
you please. I am sure I want every one under my roof to be comfortable,
each in their degree. But another thing I must speak of."
Aunt Amy was like many other easy-going folks: when she got started she
never knew when to stop.
"I don't want you, Agnes—I mean Vevette, or whatever your name is—I
don't want you turning my girls' heads with romances and plays and
stories of London gaieties and London fine gentlemen and ladies. If you
have a taste for such matters, it is a pity you had not stayed with
your uncle, and married some fine gentleman about the court, instead
of poor Andrew, whose estate will stand no such doings, as I warn you
beforehand. There, I want no answer; but don't do it again." And with
that she bustled away.
"What does it all mean?" I asked, when I was left alone with my mother.
"It means what I might have considered before we came here—that no one
house was ever yet large enough for two families," said my mother. "But
what is this about turning heads with stories about London?"
"Why, maman, you know how Rosamond is—how she is always longing to hear
about places one has seen. The night before last I said I had told her
everything I could think of about La Manche and Jersey, and I should
have to begin upon London. So I told her of the parks and the palace
and other places where I went with my uncle and aunt and with Mr. and
Mrs. Pepys. Then Betty began asking me whether my uncle and aunt did
not see a deal of company, and so I told her something about that, and
about the dresses in the park, and so on. Rosamond did not care to
hear, and went away to her book, but Betty kept me telling a long time.
And last night she asked me about it again, and whether I would not
have liked to live with any aunt Jemima in London."
"And what did you say?" asked my mother. "I said, 'Not to leave you;'
and besides, since I had come down here and learned to know the people,
I liked the place; and so I do. Only I shall not like it, I am sure, if
my aunt turns against me."
"Let us hope she will not," said my mother. "Sister Amy is a good
creature, but she has an oddity of disposition which belongs to her
family. She will let herself be prejudiced against her best friend by
any mischief-maker who will take the pains to do it. Her sister, who
was my great friend when we were young, was just so. She made a hasty
marriage, against the wishes of her father and of her husband's family,
and though they forgave her afterward, she was for some time in a good
deal of trouble. I stood by her through all, yet she let herself be
altogether set against me by some of her husband's relations, who had
themselves said the most shameful things about her, even affecting her
reputation as a virtuous woman."
"She must have been very silly," said I.
"In that respect she certainly was. But, my Vevette, let me hear no
more of these talks with Betty about London. They are not very good
for yourself, who have, I fear, now and then a longing back-look to
the courts of Egypt, and I doubt their being good for Betty herself.
You had best avoid her company, so far as you can without offence, and
above all do not have any confidences with her. Margaret and Rosamond
are as open as the day, but unless I much misread poor Betty, she is a
born mischief-maker."
Here the conversation ended. That evening Betty began again to ask me
about London, having drawn me away from the rest of the young folks who
were assembled on the green; but I gave her short answers, and at last
plainly told her that I could say no more about the matter.
"But why not?" asked Betty. "You talked long enough about it last
night."
"Yes, and you went and told your mother, and she lectured me this
morning about turning your head with stories of London tine gentlemen."
Betty assumed an air of innocent surprise.
"Did you not want me to tell, then?" said she. "I never thought of
that. I have no secrets from my mother."
I was too angry to trust myself with a word, and I turned back to where
the rest of the family were standing, looking at a pair of hawks which
Andrew had taken from the nest and trained himself; for, sailor as he
was, he was very fond of field sports, specially of hawking. I placed
myself at his side, and began admiring and petting the hawks, which I
had often fed till they were fond of me. Andrew looked pleased.
"I shall leave them in your care," said he; "only old Joslyns must take
them out now and then or they will forget how to fly."
"I am sure I shall like to have them," said I. "And, Andrew, will you
get me a new hare's-foot for Dame Penaluna? She says hers does no good
because it was cut off below the first joint."
"What does she want it for—to paint her face withal?" asked Andrew.
"That is what the fine ladies use them for, is it not?"
"So I have heard," I answered, laughing; "but the dame wants hers as a
spell against the colic."
"She shall have it," said Andrew, and again he looked pleased, as he
always did when I made any little request, which was not often, for I
had grown shy of him of late. "You seem to be in the confidence of all
the old women in the hamlet, from what I hear. What do you do to make
them like you so much?"
"I don't know, unless it be that I listen to their stories," I
answered. "I think old folks usually do like that. They like to tell,
and I like to hearken, so we are both suited."
"Vevette is practising her part beforehand," said Betty, who had
followed me back to the green. "She means to be perfect in it by the
time she comes to be Lady of the Manor. My mother has never had time to
do so much listening."
Andrew shot one of his fiery glances at his sister, while I was so
confused and so angry both at once that I could not say a word. I was
going into the house when he called me and asked me to walk with him to
the end of the lane and look out upon the sea.
Betty said she would go too, but Margaret called her back rather
sharply, to my great joy, for I hardly felt like keeping terms with
her, and I was determined not to quarrel if I could help it.
"You must not mind poor Betty," said Andrew. (Why is the most
exasperating member of a family always spoken of as poor so and so?)
"She has always been the contrary feather in the family nest, ever
since she was born."
"I do not mean to mind her," said I, "if only she would not make
mischief. But I think it is too bad in her to lead me on to tell her
about London and my uncle and aunt there, and then go and tell your
mother, as if it had been all my doing. And then—but there, what is
the use?" I added. "You cannot understand, and there is no need of
troubling you with the matter. Only I wish we had stayed in Jersey—that
is all," I concluded, with a quiver in my voice.
Andrew pressed my hand, and we were silent a few minutes.
Then he said, "I have a favor to ask of you, Vevette."
"I am glad of it," said I, as indeed I was. "What can I do for you?"
"You are a famous knitter," said he. "Will you knit me a pair of long,
warm woollen hose before I go?"
"Yes indeed; but do you not want more than one pair?"
"I did not suppose you would have time for more than one."
"That is a likely story!" said I. "As if I could not knit more than one
pair of hosen in four weeks. I will begin them directly. I know Jeanne
has been spinning some famous yarn."
We talked a little longer about various matters—about the places where
Andrew was going, and the time when he would return—and then we fell
into graver talk, and from that again to jesting, till I had quite
recovered my serenity.
The next morning was my turn at the school, and I walked thither with
my head quite full of schemes for the improvement of my little folk
which I meant to talk over with Andrew, for somehow our walk and that
the night before had put us in some degree upon our old brotherly and
sisterly footing again. I found the children assembled and ready to
welcome me, and we had a prosperous morning.
When I came out, there was my mother on her pony, with Andrew at her
bridle-rein as usual. My little regiment sent off quite a feu de joie,
as I may say, of bobs and curtsies, showing their black curly heads
and white teeth to great advantage; for they were, almost without
exception, handsome. Cornwall was and is a country of handsome folk,
and our hamlet is no exception to the rule.
"And how does the college prosper?" asked Andrew, after he had spoken
to one and another of the young ones, and had acknowledged the salute
of Peggy Mellish, who stood smiling and curtsying in her clean kirtle
and apron, quite a picture of a young school-mistress.
"Very well," I answered; "only just now we are greatly in need of
certain articles called knitting-pins. There are none to be had, it
seems, nearer than Plymouth, if indeed they are to be found there. I
want to teach the elder girls to knit, but I cannot, if I have no pins."
"That does stand to reason," answered Andrew gravely; "but perhaps the
blacksmith could make some of these same pins, with a little of my
assistance. I am a bit of a smith myself."
"So you ought to be. The knights of old could forge their own armor,
you know. But I think you are a little of everything," said I. "If ever
we should be cast away upon a desert island, like the folks you read
of yesterday, you could set up housekeeping, and make yourself a great
king among the people."
"Jack at all trades and master at none," said Andrew, looking pleased,
as he always did when I made any such remark. "But here is your old
dame's hare's-foot. It has the needful joint, you see. I cut it off
myself."
"Many thanks. I will carry it to her, if you will wait for me."
"Nay, we will all go that way—that is, if Andrew does not mind the
walk," said my mother. "I have a fancy to see the old house at St.
Wenna's Well."
"The walk is nothing, so the ride is not too much for you," answered
Andrew. "As for Vevette, I know she minds walking no more than the old
pony here."
"Very polite, to compare me to a pony," said I, pretending to pout.
"But I shall like to see the old house. Does any one live in it?"
"Only the woman who cares for it; and she is worth seeing too,"
answered Andrew. "Is not this the old dame's cottage?"
It was, and the dame was within, groaning grievously with the colic;
but no sooner did she take the hare's-foot into her hand, such was the
virtue of the remedy or the effect of her faith in it, than she was
presently quite easy.
"Do you suppose it really helped her?" I asked, when we were again on
our way.
"Nay, that I cannot say," said Andrew. "'Tis an old notion, and for
aught I know may have some virtue in it. At all events, it hath this
advantage over some other medicaments, that if it does no good it can
do no harm."
"What is there so odd about the housekeeper at the Well House?" I
asked, when we had gone on a little.
"You will easily discover that when you see her," answered Andrew. "But
aside from her person, there is something peculiar in the manner of
her appearance among us. She was found when a little child, wandering
upon the sea-shore early one morning after a great storm of thunder
and wind. She was very small, but from her ways it was judged she must
be three or four years old, for she could speak plainly, though in a
language none understood. She was somewhat richly dressed, and had
about her neck a thin gold chain and the image of some bird wrought
in the same metal. The folk thought her a fairy changeling or else a
sea-maid, and were almost afraid of her; but an old couple then living
in the Well House took her in and brought her up as their own. She well
repaid their care, having been a most dutiful daughter to them. She
hath never married, and now that the old folks are dead, she lives in
the Well House, to take care of it. She is an odd little body, but very
faithful and honest."
We had by this time come in sight of the Well House, as it was called,
which stood in its own little coombe opening down to the sea at the
very mouth of Tre Madoc valley. It was a pretty little old house, built
of warm red stone and shadowed by a great walnut-tree and an ash. At a
little distance, and indeed almost joining the house, was a very tiny
ruined chapel or oratory, such as one often sees by the roadside in
France. A small bright stream ran through the garden, which was pretty
though rather wild and overgrown. I took a fancy to the place at once.
"It hath not changed in the least," said my mother; "only the trees are
grown and the old chestnut is away. What hath become of it?"
"It blew down a few years since in a great storm," answered Andrew. "I
made a cabinet and table of the wood, which are now in the house."
"Have you any of the chestnuts we brought from the Tour d'Antin?" asked
my mother, turning to me. "If so, you might plant two or three here."
"I have them, but I fear they are too dry to grow," said I. "However,
it can do no harm to try."
(Two of them did grow, and are now fine bearing trees.)
"See, there is the holy well, under the arch yonder," said my mother.
"I wonder do the village maids come on St. John's even to drop needles
into it that they may dream of their sweethearts?"
"Yes indeed; and the water is still sought for baptisms, under the
notion that no person christened with that water will ever be hanged,"
said Andrew. "See, Vevette, there is my fairy housekeeper."
A fairy indeed she looked. I never saw so small a person not to be a
dwarf, yet she was perfectly well proportioned and very upright. Her
hair, a little touched with silver, was black as a crow's wing, and
her eyebrows the same. On the whole, she was a very handsome little
creature, yet there was something about her so different from the
country people among whom she lived that I did not wonder to hear that
they regarded her as something not quite human. She made us welcome
with great politeness, and I could but notice how well she spoke
English. Andrew explained our errand.
"We shall give you some trouble, I fear," said my mother.
"Not at all, madame. It is a pleasure to me, and you are come in good
time, for I have just been opening and airing the house." And indeed we
had observed the open windows as we came up.
"We will not trouble you to go with us," said Andrew. "My aunt knows
the house of old."
She curtsied and withdrew to her own special domain, and we went
through all the rooms, which were in the best order, and certainly did
credit to the sea-dame's housekeeping, being as dry and airy as if used
all the time. In two or three of the rooms, fires were burning on the
hearth, and there was a peculiar air of cheerfulness about the whole
place. I remarked this to Andrew.
"It does not seem at all like a deserted house," said I. "One would say
these rooms were used to pleasant company."
"The village folks would tell you that Dinah entertains her friends
from the sea in these apartments," said Andrew, smiling. "They tell
stories of seeing the house lighted up and hearing music at night. I
determined to look into the thing, thinking possibly that the place
might be the haunt of smugglers; but I found the lights came from the
fires Dinah had lighted to expel the damp, and the music was the old
harpsicon, on which she had taught herself to play, by the help of some
music-books she had found."
"Then she can read," said my mother.
"Oh, yes, and write as well. The people who took her in were of the
better class. They were not Cornish folk, but East Country English, who
came and settled here in the reign of Charles the First. No one knew
much about them, and I fancy they might have had their own reasons for
keeping quiet, but my father never would allow them to be molested.
See, here is the cabinet I made from the old chestnut-tree."
"So you are a cabinet-maker as well," said I. "Another qualification
for our desert island."
"That same desert island seems to take your fancy," said Andrew,
smiling. "Perchance if you tried it, as I have done, you would not find
it so pleasant."
"Were you really cast away?" I asked curiously. "When and where?"
"About ten years ago, on one of the most lovely little islets of the
West Indies. It was like a bit out of paradise. We had landed for
water, but a squall came up, and by some blunder, I was left behind.
I stayed there a week, and most thankful was I to see the face of man
once more. But here we are in the parlor again, and I see Dinah has
prepared quite a feast for us."
She had indeed spread an elegant little repast of bread, cream, and
honey, with fruit from the garden. Of course we did not decline it, my
mother eating to please the good woman, and Andrew and I because we
were hungry.
"What an odd name she has!" said I.
"She called herself Diane when she was found, and for a long time would
answer to no other, but at last her foster-parents took to calling her
Dinah, with which she was content. Well, aunt, how do you like the
house, now you have seen it?"
"So well that I am minded to find you a chap-man," said my mother,
smiling. "What say you? Will you sell the Well House to Vevette and
myself? I wish to buy a home, and would rather have this than any
other."
Andrew opened his eyes wide, as he was wont to do when puzzled.
"What do you mean, aunt? Are you in earnest? And why would you leave
the hall? Hath any one in the family been unkind or uncivil to you?"
"Here is a fine mouthful of questions all in a breath," said my mother.
"I will answer them all in turn. I am quite in earnest, and mean what I
say. I would have the hall, because I think it will be better and more
convenient for me to have my own household, and let your mother have
hers. No one has been uncivil to me. I have had no quarrel with any
one, and I mean to have none. But I never saw any house that was large
enough for two families, and I do not believe Tre Madoc Court is any
exception to the rule."
My mother went on to explain her reasons more at length than I shall do
here. Andrew listened unwillingly at first, but at last he owned that
there was right sense in what she said, and consented to consider of
the matter.
"And what will Vevette say?" he asked, for I had not spoken a word.
"I like it well," I answered. "'Tis not so far but I can go up to
the school. Rosamond can come down here with her books, and Meg with
her knitting, and I dare say even you can make it convenient to stop
sometimes when you come from your fishing."
He shook his head at me. "Well, well, we will consider of it," said he.
"In truth, madame, you have a right to the tenancy of the house if you
choose to live in it. I doubt not you will find it comfortable enough,
and should anything be wanting, I will see that it is supplied. There
is a good garden, a small orchard, and land enough for two cows, if you
choose to keep them. I think Dinah has one at present. But what to do
with her! She looks upon this house as her home, though of course she
hath no right here but on sufferance."
"Let her remain, if she will take the post of waiting-gentlewoman,"
said my mother. "I shall want some such person, and our good Jeanne is
hardly fitted for such a service. I like the woman's appearance. There
is something about her which reminds me of home. Indeed, I think she is
more French than English in her looks."
"Well, well, we will consider of it," said Andrew again. "Have you said
aught to my mother?"
"No, I wished first to see the house."
The project was broached to my aunt that evening. I was not present,
but my mother told me that though Aunt Amy said many kind things and
made many hospitable objections, it was plain that she was not sorry to
consent.
So the next day it was all settled, and we began to make our
arrangements. Rosamond was struck with consternation on hearing of it,
and could not be reconciled till my mother reminded her that she could
come over twice or thrice a week to her Italian and French lessons.
"But you won't give up the school, will you, Vevette?" said Meg. "I
don't know what I shall do without your help?"
"Oh, no; I can walk from the Well House as well as from here."
"But the way is very lonely, and you must pass the Pisky Bank going and
coming," said Margaret. "Won't you be afraid?"
"No, I don't believe I shall," said I. "I have never disobliged the
pixies, and I don't see why they should disoblige me."
"But there is the place where the smuggler was killed," objected
Rosamond.
"Well, if he is killed, he can do no harm. I should not like to meet a
live smuggler, but I don't see how one who was killed forty years ago
can hurt me."
"Vevette does not believe in ghosts," said Betty.
"I would not say that exactly," I returned. "There are many such
stories which seem to rest on good proof. But I think we of the
reformed faith in France do not fear such things as much as people do
here. Our preachers teach us that overmuch terror of ghosts and the
like argues somewhat of a distrust in the care of our Heavenly Father.
I have been in many very ghostly places, and at ghostly hours too, as
Andrew knows, but I never saw anything more alarming than owls, bats,
and spiders. We had a ghost in the château, but I was not nearly so
much afraid of the white chevalier as I was of the village priest."
"Well, I don't pretend to be above all human weakness myself," said
Betty.
"That is a good thing, my dear, for no one would believe you if you
did," interrupted Andrew.
"You are very civil, to take the words out of my mouth," returned
Betty. "I suppose that is French politeness, of which we hear so much.
I mean to say that I do not hold myself to be wiser than all my elders,
and than the rector himself, who believes in ghosts, and is very
powerful in laying them. Why, he is sent for all along the coast, even
to the Land's End and clear into Devonshire, for that purpose."
"I should think he would clear his own parish, then," said I, rather
flippantly.
"But, Vevette, I really did see something on the path to the Well House
one evening," said Rosamond, who had not yet spoken. "It was only last
Tuesday. I had been down to the shore with a basket for old Madge, and
was coming up again, slowly, when just at the turn of the road I saw
a man and a woman walking slowly along. The woman had a veil over her
head and a dark gray gown like Betty's homespun, and the gentleman was
tall and slim and wore a gray cloak. I wondered who they could be, but
I never thought of their being anything uncommon till I came up near
them; and behold, they were gone like a flash!"
"Perhaps they had slipped aside into the bushes," said I. "There is a
ruined cottage close by; perhaps they went into that. Did you look to
see?"
"Look into Torden's cottage!" said Rosamond, aghast at the very idea.
"No indeed; I ran home as fast as I could."
"And wisely too," said Andrew. "But what like was this ghostly gallant?"
"I did not see his face, but he was tall and slim, with a fair
love-lock, which slipped out from under his cloak. That was all I
noticed, but somehow, he made me think of young Mr. Lovel."
"What nonsense is this!" said Betty angrily. "Rosamond saw one of the
village maids out curtsying with her lad. Every one knows she fears her
own shadows."
Betty spoke with so much heat that we all looked at her in surprise,
and a kind of undefined suspicion darted through my mind and was
forgotten the next minute.
"Well, then, if I am afraid I will set up a rival cottage down at the
shore, and so put Meg's into the shade," said I, laughing. "There
are old Madge's grandchildren, and the Polwhele brood, and the Widow
Barker's two maids. That would make a very decent school."
"Yes, a pretty return that would be to Meg for letting you help her,"
said Betty, who was thoroughly out of humor, as it seemed. "I ever
thought she would find a cuckoo in her nest."
"Indeed, I think it would be a capital thing," said Margaret. "It is a
long way for the little children to come, and they make every rain an
excuse for staying away. I should hate to lose her from the school at
the hamlet, too."
"There is no hurry," I replied. "I have not yet served out my
apprenticeship. I am your scholar, Meg, as much as little Peggy is
mine."
"Very humble, truly," said Betty sarcastically, and there the matter
ended.
When I was again alone, Rosamond's tale and Betty's discomposure
thereat again recurred to my mind, and I wondered what interest she
could have in the matter. But I finally reflected that it was one of
her bad days, when she was wont to find matter for annoyance in the
simplest occurrence, and dismissing the matter from my mind I fell
to thinking over another, much more important to me, namely, whether
Andrew meant to ask me once more to marry him before he set sail, and
if so, what I should say to him.
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