THE BOOK.
IT was settled that we were to remove the next week, and Jeanne and
Simon with us, for they would by no means consent to stay behind. Simon
was to have charge of the out-of-door matters, the cows and pony, and
Jeanne of the dairy, while Dinah was to fill the post of housekeeper
and waiting-gentlewoman, with the eldest girl in the village school for
a maid under her. This was as much of an establishment as my mother
thought prudent, considering our means, though Aunt Amy was very
pressing with us to take another maid in the home. She was very kind,
and would have given us half the fine linen and blankets at the Court,
and enough of comfits, wine, and other provisions for an army; and she
was even inclined to be angry with my mother for accepting so little.
However, all was settled amicably, and seeing how obliging she was,
I ventured to prefer a humble request that she would lend me the old
French cabinet in my room—a request winch she granted with alacrity,
and added thereto the gift of a small Persian carpet which I greatly
admired.
But I was not destined to leave Tre Madoc Court without a more serious
trouble, which trouble could never have fallen upon me but for my own
want of frankness, and that double-mindedness which was always my bane.
I mentioned that my Aunt Jem had given me as a parting present a book
of plays and poems, and that I had never showed this book to my mother.
In truth, my first concealment had arisen rather from timidity and
embarrassment than from wilful deception. I did not quite know what to
do with the book, not liking to refuse it for fear of hurting Aunt Jem,
of whom I was very fond, and I felt quite sure maman would not let me
keep it, if she knew.
Of course the straight road would have been, as it ever is, the right
one, but I took that middle way of compromise, which is never the right
one, as I may say, and put the book at the bottom of my mail, with a
half resolve to show it to my mother at the first opportunity. But in
truth, in the surprise and joy of meeting Simon and Jeanne and the
excitement of travelling and settling in our new home, I quite forgot
it.
When I came to unpack my mail I found it. Betty was in the room, and
asked what it was, and I told her its history.
"Have you not read it?" she asked, seizing and opening it. "It looks
delightful."
"No, I have not read it, and shall not till I show it to maman," I
answered.
"Then let me have it—do!" said Betty, turning it over with eager
interest. "Or we will read it together. I am sure Aunt Jem would not
give you a wicked book, though she may not be so strait-laced as my
Aunt Margaret. Come, let us read it together. Your things are all put
away, and my aunt is with my mother in the still-room, so she will not
want you. Let us sit down in the window and read."
"I did not know Betty as well then as I came to know her afterward, and
I really had some curiosity about the book, which was partly writ by
that Mr. Dryden, who hath since made a great noise in the world. The
first poem was certainly very beautiful, and innocent enough, so far as
I understood it. The next was a play.
"Indeed I cannot read any more, Betty," said I; "and you ought not
either, till you ask your mother."
"Well, let me take the book, then," said Betty. "I will not hurt it,
and I don't believe it will hurt me."
I refused plumply, but at that moment my mother called me to come and
see some curious ware which she had found in looking over the house
with my aunt. When I returned Betty had taken away the book, and I
could not get it of her again, though I had more than once asked her
for it. It was now returned on my hands, with a witness.
A day before we left the Court, we were all sitting in the cedar
parlor—that is, my mother, Meg, Rosamond, and I—busy in finishing a
certain worked coverlet which my aunt had had in hand a long time, and
which she wished to give my mother for a parting present. Andrew was
reading to us out of an English chronicle, but I fear we young ones
cared more about the flowers on our work than about the wars between
the houses of York and Lancaster. I can see at this moment the daisy
with pink edges and a yellow centre on which I was bestowing all my
skill, when we were all startled by the entrance of Aunt Amy, evidently
in a high state of excitement. I thought I should like to sink into the
earth when I saw in her hand that identical red leather and gilded book
which I had lent Betty, or rather which she had taken for herself.
"So, sister d'Antin!" said my aunt, in her rare tone of excitement.
"This is the way your daughter rewards my hospitality—for I won't say
you, though I must say, knowing what she was, I think you might have
looked out for her—bringing her vile and corrupting books into a decent
house, and lending them to my innocent maids. This is what one gets for
one's goodness in taking in—"
"Mother!" said Andrew, more sternly than I ever heard him speak to her
before or afterward.
"Oh, you may say mother as much as you please, son; but I wish your
father had taken my advice and looked out a good honest Cornish maid
for you, instead of betrothing you to a French mademoiselle whom none
of us knew, to bring her corruptions in here. Just look at this book
which she lent Betty, and told her not to tell her mother, and which
the poor child just now came and brought me, confessing with shame and
tears how wicked she had been. Just look at it, that is all!" And she
flung it on the ground as if it had been a snake or spider.
Andrew took it up, looked at one or two places, and then, with a glance
I shall never forget, he gave it to me. My mother took it from my
unresisting hand.
"What does this mean, Vevette?" said she. "Where did this book come
from?"
"My Aunt Jemima gave it to me," I answered, hardly able to speak.
"And you concealed it from me? Oh, my daughter!"
"Of course she concealed it," said my aunt triumphantly.
"Let Vevette speak, mother, since you have chosen to make this matter
public, in what I must needs call an ill-judged manner," said Andrew,
in that calm voice of authority which will be heard.
"How was it, Vevette?"
I tried to explain, but between my own shame and confusion and my
aunt's interruptions, I am conscious that I made but a lame business of
it. I did manage to say, however, that though I sat down and read the
first poem with Betty, I had refused to read any more, and that I had
absolutely refused to lend the book to Betty, who had taken it without
leave.
"Yes, I know all about that!" said my aunt.
"Betty told me herself, poor wretch, that you told her you would not
lend it to her; but can you deny that you went away and left the book
in her hands? Can you deny that you were angry with her, and reproached
her for telling me of your private curtsying about London, and London
fine gallants, and other things that young maids should not know, much
less tell on? You are an adder and a viper—that you are! And come of
viper's brood—nasty, frog-eating French!"
My mother rose. "With your leave, sister Corbet, we will withdraw,"
said she, assuming the chatelaine, as she well knew how. "I shall not
justify my child till I hear from her all the circumstances of this
unlucky affair. Nephew Andrew, I will thank you to order the pony."
"The pony—and for what?" asked my aunt, cooling down, as she always did
when my mother took this tone.
"That I may withdraw to my own house, since I am so happy as to have
one," replied my mother. "When this matter is cleared up, sister
Corbet, you shall have all proper explanations and apologies. In the
meantime, 'tis neither for your dignity or mine that I should remain
longer under a roof where such language has been applied to me and
mine. I thank you from my heart for your hospitality, but I can partake
of it—no, not an hour longer."
My aunt, upon this, began to cry, and to retract what she had said.
"I did not mean you, sister d'Antin—and perhaps it was not so bad; but
you see she does not deny that she had the book, and that Betty got it
from her—and I know I am hasty when I am roused; and the French do eat
frogs, for you told me yourself; and you said they were good—you know
you did, sister d'Antin. And Betty is artful, I confess; but that does
not make it right for Vevette to lend her bad books, nor for Andrew to
look at me so, as if—and I am sure I am his own natural mother and not
a stranger, and 'tis unknown the trouble I had in rearing him, because
he was a May babe, and my mother said he would never be lucky."
"Mother and my aunt," said Andrew, in his grave, commanding tones,
"will you be so good as to let this matter rest for to-night? It hath
been made far too public already. Aunt, if I have ever done you any
service, I beseech you to remain under my roof till to-morrow." (I
never heard Andrew say my roof before.)
"Yes, do," said my aunt, who had cooled rapidly, as usual. "Indeed
I regret that I was so hasty; and I will take back all I said about
vipers and adders."
My mother suffered herself to be prevailed upon so far as to say she
would remain till the time originally set, for her departure. Then she
withdrew to her room, and I followed, like one going to execution.
Once there she addressed me in a tone which I had never heard from
her but once before, requiring me to give her a full account of this
transaction. I fell down on my knees before her, and told her the whole
story from beginning to end.
"How shall I believe you? You have already deceived me," said she sadly.
"Indeed, maman, I have now told you the truth," said I, weeping. "I
only read the first poem in the book, and then I would go no farther.
And I did not lend it to Betty. She took it from the room when you
called me to look at the china, and I never could get it again, though
I asked her for it ever so many times. Oh, maman, do believe me!"
"Vevette," said she, laying her hand on my shoulder, and looking me
through and through as I knelt before her, "as you hope ever to meet
your father again, tell me the truth. Have you any more of these books?"
"No, maman, not one."
"Have you ever had any of them since I forbade you reading them?"
"Yes, maman, I had two or three that my Uncle Charles sent to the
tower, but the day before we went to the Supper in the old grange I
burned them, every one."
"And you have not read the rest of this book?"
"No, maman, only the first poem, in which there was no harm. Betty
wanted to read on, but I would not. Oh, maman, do forgive me!"
"I forgive you, my child, but you have grieved me to the heart," said
my mother. "Go to your room, and pray for forgiveness and cleansing.
Do not leave it this night. By and by, when I am rested, we will talk
farther."
I retired to my own room, feeling as miserable as any girl of my age
ever felt in the world, mid that is saying much, for the capacities
of such girls for misery are very great. It seemed to me as though I
could never be happy again. In all my little difficulties with my aunt
and Betty heretofore, Andrew had always been on my side; but now, he
too had turned against me. How plainly I could see the look he gave me
when he handed me that detestable book—a look full of anger and grief.
I knew that he hated lying above all things. It was the only sin with
which he seemed to have no patience.
I had not told a lie in words, to be sure, but I had been guilty of
deception, and that was enough for him. Now that I had lost him, or
thought I had, I felt how dear he was to me. I had lost his respect,
and I felt sure that all comfort was at an end between us, even though
he should feel bound to fulfil his contract. One thing I made up my
mind to—I would never be his wife if he showed the least unwillingness
to marry me. And then I remembered how pleased he had been when I spoke
of our living together on a desert island, and for the first time I
burst into tears.
I wept for a long time, thus lightening my heart a little, and then
taking up my Bible I tried to read myself into some sort of quietness.
I had just begun to breathe without sobbing when smile one knocked at
the door. I opened it, with my heart throbbing at the thought that it
might be Andrew, and there stood Betty, her eyes cast down with that
affectation of meekness I knew so well, and carrying in her hands a
tray laden with good things.
"I have brought you some supper," said she, in her silver tones. "I
thought perhaps you would not care to come down."
"Oh, you did! You are very considerate," I said bitterly. "You did not
come at all to triumph in the mischief you have made by your lies."
"Why, Vevette," said she, in a tone of astonishment; "what do you mean?
I am sure I did not mean to do you any harm, but only to relieve my own
mind. I can't endure to have secrets from my mother."
All at once Rosamond's ghost story darted into my mind. When the devil
puts such a weapon into the hand of a person in a passion, that person
is very apt to use it without thought of consequences.
"Oh, you cannot! Then perhaps you have told your mother of the pair of
ghosts Rosamond saw disappear near Torden's cottage, one of which had
on a gray homespun gown, and the other looked so much like young Mr.
Lovel. I think I will tell Mr. Dawson about these ghosts, that he may
keep a lookout for them, since he is so skilful in dealing with that
sort of gentry."
Betty turned white, or rather gray, for a moment, and nearly let her
tray fall. Then she recovered herself and said quietly—
"I don't think I would tell any more tales if I were you. You would not
be likely to gain much credit just now. I came to make friends with
you."
"That is false!" I interrupted her. "You came to triumph over me."
"I came to make friends with you," she continued calmly; "but if you
choose to treat me as an enemy, you can do so. I pity you, Vevette, and
I do not blame you as much as I do those who have brought you up in
such ways. Your conduct just shows what that religion is worth of which
we have heard so much."
In a quarrel, the person who has no conscience always has an advantage
over the person who has one. Betty had certainly got the best of it in
this case, notwithstanding the stab I had given her. I shut the door in
her face, and again sat down to try to compose my thoughts, but I did
not find it so easy. Revenge is like the little book of the prophet,
in that though it may be sweet in the mouth it is very bitter of
digestion. I had struck a telling blow, it was true, but I had gotten
it back with interest, and the worst of it was that in this instance
Betty had some truth on her side. I was a discredit to the parents who
had brought me up, and the religion in which I had been educated. I had
brought shame on my dear mother as well as myself.
Betty had indeed done me a cruel mischief, and that not only in the
trap she had so artfully laid for me, and into which I had so foolishly
walked, like a silly hare into a springe, but in coming to enjoy her
triumph as she had just done; for that such was her motive I did not
doubt then, nor do I now. She had drawn toward her that anger which I
had hitherto directed toward myself, and roused in me a spirit of anger
and revenge. I felt as if I could have killed her. In this state of
mind, my mother found me when she came in to talk to me later in the
evening, nor did all her expostulations avail to draw me out of it. I
was ready to beg her pardon in the very dust, and to make my submission
to my aunt, but I could not and would not forgive Betty; nay, I would
not even say I would try.
"Then you must yourself remain unforgiven, my poor child," said
my mother; "under the anger of that Heavenly Father whom you have
offended. Can you afford that? Will you still further grieve that kind
and tender Divine Friend whom you have so deeply grieved already?"
If I had spoken out the thought that was in my heart, I should have
said that I did not believe that Friend loved me so very much, or he
would not have suffered this trouble to come upon me just when I was
trying to be so very good; but this I did not dare to say.
"I cannot help it, maman," I answered her at last. "I never, never
can forgive Betty for the part she has acted. She has been ten times
worse than I, and nobody seems to blame her at all. You don't mind her
coming here to triumph over me—bringing me a tray forsooth as if I did
not know that she will never wait upon any one if she can help it. You
don't mind how much I am insulted!"
It showed how I was carried out of myself that I dared speak so to
my mother. I was scared when the words were out of my mouth. But my
mother was one who knew when to reprove and punish and when to soothe
and comfort. She saw that I was almost beside myself with anger and
excitement—a mood, I must say, which was rare in me.
"We will talk no more to-night," said she. "You had better try to calm
yourself, and to sleep. My poor little maid, I thought I was bringing
you to a safe nest when I refused to leave you in London. But there are
temptations everywhere, since there is no earthly state from which the
world, the flesh, and the devil can be kept out. Go to bed, my Vevette,
and remember, though thou canst not or wilt not pray for thyself, thy
mother is praying for thee."
With that she kissed me and returned to her own room. I burst into
fresh tears, and cried till I could cry no more, and then, feeling my
heart a little lightened, I was preparing to undress when some one
tapped softly at the door, and a low voice said—
"Vevette!"
"Who is there?" I asked.
"Rosamond," was the answer. "Please let me in. I have brought you a cup
of milk and some bread."
I could not resist the pleading tones, and I opened the door. Rosamond
had been crying as bitterly as myself, and as she came into the room
she set down her burden and clasping me in her arms site kissed me and
cried again. My tears flowed too, but they were cool tears now, and
refreshed my burning eyes.
"Dear Rosamond, you won't turn against me, will you?" said I.
"No indeed," she answered warmly, and then added, "Of course you know
I must think it was wrong for you to keep the book, and to read ever
so little, when you knew your mother would not allow it. But every one
does wrong sometimes. If we were not sinners, the dear Lord would not
have needed to come down and die for us."
Somehow these simple words did more to calm my heart, and to show me
my sin at the same time, than anything had done before. The dear Lord
had died for me, and this was the way I had repaid him. He was ready to
forgive me, and yet I would not forgive Betty. I began to see things in
a new light.
"I know I was very wrong," said I, "and I am sorry—indeed I am. But,
Rosamond, it was not so bad. I did not lend Betty the book: I told her
she should not have it; but maman called me, and when I came back, she
was gone. I have tried again and again to get it out of her hands,
and then I meant to burn it up. But what is the use of talking, since
nobody will believe me?"
"I believe you," said Rosamond; "I believe every word you say. But
don't you see that even, then, if you had gone to your mother and laid
the whole before her, all this would not have happened? She might have
been displeased, 'tis true; but she would have forgiven you and got
back the book, and all would have ended well by this time."
"It is true," I answered. "I wish I had done as you say."
"I think the very most straightforward way is always the best way,
especially when one is dealing with one like—like Betty," continued
Rosamond. "There is nothing which deceitful people understand so little
as truth. But, Vevette, if you are sorry, it will all come right in the
end. Let us kneel down and say the fifty-first Psalm together, and I am
sure you will feel better."
We did so, and then the dear maid repeated the thirty-second Psalm. She
was like the holy well at St. Wenna's, which ran with a clear but small
stream, while now and then came a great rush of bright water, bubbling
up through the white pebbles and showing for a moment the crystal depth
below. I had always loved her from the first of our acquaintance, but
from that hour began a friendship which will never end.
We kissed each other on our knees and then rose.
"Do eat a morsel," said Rosamond. "You have had no supper, and you will
be ill to-morrow."
I tried, in complaisance to her, but I could not manage it.
"I cannot eat," said I; "but oh, Rosamond, I am so thirsty."
"I will bring you some cool water from the well in the court," said
she, and taking a jug, she was gone before I could object. When she
came back she looked startled.
"Do you know, Vevette, I am sure I saw that same figure that I saw
before near Torden's cottage with the woman. It was just under the
archway, as plain as could be against the sky, and it slipped away just
as before. Who or what can it be?"
"Some one hanging about after one of the maids, perhaps," said I,
though I had my own thoughts upon the matter. "Now you must not stay
any longer or my aunt will be angry and think I am corrupting you."
"Oh, no, she won't," answered Rosamond. "I asked her if I might come,
and she said yes, and wanted me to bring you all kinds of nice things,
but I thought you would not care for them. I think she is very sorry
she made such an ado about the matter, now that it is over. Well,
good-night, dear Vevette; I hope you will sleep."
But I could not sleep, except feverishly and by snatches, till after
the birds began to sing in the morning. Then indeed I had a good nap,
and waked refreshed. I washed and dressed, and went softly into my
mother's room. She was already up, and kneeling before the table, on
which lay, always open, her Bible, and the little worn prayer-book she
brought from France. She beckoned me to kneel beside her, and we said
our prayers together, as usual. Then, as we rose, she drew me to her
and kissed me.
"The evil spirit has gone out—is it not so?" said she, looking into my
face with a smile.
"Yes, maman, I hope so," I answered. "I am very sorry about the book,
and I will try to forgive Betty."
"That is spoken well, my child; and now I must tell you that I think
you have been somewhat hardly dealt by in this matter. Looking it over
coolly, I can see that I did not make enough allowance for indecision
and embarrassment on your part, after you received the book."
"Indeed and truly, maman, I meant to show you the book, but I quite
forgot it till we came here. Then when Betty carried it off, I did not
know what to do."
"There was but one thing to do, and that was to come and tell me all
about it," said my mother. "That would have saved all the trouble."
"So Rosamond said. Oh, maman, she was so good last night."
"She is a dear maid," said my mother; "by far the best of the three."
"Better than Margaret?" said I, surprised, for I had looked upon Meg as
a pattern of all excellence.
"Yes, because she is truly humble-minded—a rare and most precious
quality. She is truly poor in spirit, while Meg, with all her good
qualities—but we will not discuss the faults of others. Now, do you
know what is to be done next?"
"I must go to my aunt and tell her that I am sorry," said I, "but,
maman, what shall I say? I cannot say that I am sorry for lending Betty
the book, for I did not lend it to her—she took it."
"Tell her just how it was, and say you are sorry for bringing the book
here. I will go with you, if it will make matters easier."
We found my aunt in the still-room—luckily alone—fussing over some
peppermint she was distilling.
"Do see here, Margaret," said she, as we entered. "What ails this
peppermint? See how foul it runs."
"The still is too hot, I think," said my mother, examining it; "and
your peppermint is rather old. I should begin again, and with some
smaller shoots. But, sister, Vevette hath something to say to you."
"About what?" asked my aunt absently, still busy with the refractory
still; and then, recollecting herself, "Oh, about the book. Well,
then, child, I forgive you, only don't do it again. I know I was warm
myself, and said too much, but that is only my way. There, run, that's
a good maid, and cut me some nice lengths of the peppermint. You have
more sense about gathering of herbs, than any of the others—only don't
draggle your petticoats. Why, what ails the child?" catching sight of
my face. "She looks as if she had had an illness."
"She has been very much distressed about this affair," said my mother;
"and so have I; but I think if I were to explain the matter to you as
she has done to me—"
"Oh, let bygones be bygones," interrupted my aunt. "I hate
explanations; and, as I said, I was over-warm. Do you want to cut the
herbs, child? Do just as you please."
"Yes, aunt, I shall like it," I answered, glad of an excuse to get into
the fresh air. I was at once pleased and vexed that my aunt should make
so little of the matter. I went down to the peppermint-bed which grew
under the shade of a yew hedge, and was busy choosing out the very best
shoots when I heard voices on the other side of the hedge. "I shall
never ask her to help in the school again—never!" said Margaret. "I
could not forgive myself, if she should corrupt the children."
"If it had been anything else," said Andrew, in a voice of deep
dejection; "anything but deception."
"To read such a wicked book, too," said Margaret.
"How do you know it was so very wicked, after all?" asked Rosamond.
"Oh, I looked at it last night as it lay on the table," said Margaret,
quite sedately.
"If I knew it was so wicked, I would not have looked at it at all,"
said Rosamond. "And you know she said she only read the first poem, in
which there was no harm."
"Yes, but who can ever believe her? I know I shall never trust her
again. When I have found any one out once, there is the end of it with
me."
"According to your own account you are just as bad as Vevette," said
Rosamond; "that is, if you don't tell lies every day."
"Rosamond, what do you mean?" said Margaret, in a voice of amazement
that almost made me laugh aloud. "I as bad as Vevette?"
"According to your own showing," returned Rosamond, in the same
matter-of-fact way. "Don't you say every day of your life that you have
done the things you ought not to have done, and left undone the things
you ought to have done—that there is no health in you, and you are a
miserable sinner? I don't know what Vevette could say of herself worse
than that."
"Rosamond, you are very pert," said Meg, and I could tell by her
voice that she was offended. "Of course one says those things because
they are in the prayers of the church, and the Bible says we are all
sinners; but I should like to know wherein I fail in my duty. Do I ever
tell lies, or read bad books, or miss my church or sacrament? Don't
I—" Here she stopped, in a little confusion as it seemed, thinking,
I fancy, that it was not quite seemly thus to blazon her good deeds,
however highly she might rate them.
"Then if you never do wrong or omit to do good, why do you say you do?"
persisted Rosamond. "Is that telling the truth? Take care, sister! It
was the publican who went down to his house justified, rather than the
man who thanked God he was not as other men."
"You are very impertinent to lecture your elder sister in this way,"
returned Margaret. "I shall speak to my mother;" and she walked away.
"I believe you are in the right, Rosamond," said Andrew. "We have been
too hard on the poor child. If it were anything but deception!"
"I do not read in Scripture that one sin is worse than another,"
returned Rosamond. "The Bible saith not so, but that he that offendeth
in one point is guilty of all. Besides—"
I did not care to hear more. Indeed I had not heard so much, only the
yew walk was my way to the house, and I had been waiting hoping they
would pass on. I now rose up, and passing through the archway I went on
my way, giving a kind good-morning to Rosamond and curtsying to Andrew
in passing. He would have spoken, I believe, but I did not give him the
chance. When I entered the still-room I heard my aunt say, in a tone of
some annoyance—
"Well, well, sister, we will let the matter rest. It is natural you
should justify your own daughter as far as you can. I have told the
young ones to say no more, and to treat their cousin kindly. So here
she comes. Well, you have got a little color, child, in the fresh air.
Yes, that is very nice. You are one who can mind what you are about,
and will make a good housewife for all that is come and gone. There is
a piece of gingerbread for you, and you had better take a cup of cream
for your breakfast; you look but poorly. I think, sister, I will give
Vevette the small still, and then she will not forget what she has
learned."
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