STANTON COURT.
STANTON COURT was and is a magnificent pile of building. The oldest
part, a great grim tower, was built about the time of the Conqueror—or
such, at least, is the family tradition—but the main building, and
that which gives character to the whole, belongs to the early days of
Elizabeth. The fact that the same material—a warmly tinted red stone—is
used throughout gives a kind of unity to the whole. The gardens have
always been very fine, being enriched, like ours at Tre Madoc, with
all sorts of exotic trees and plants, brought home from foreign parts
by those wandering Corbets. There is also an orangery and green-house,
which at that time had been but lately erected, and was a special hobby
of my lady's.
There was a good deal of company staying in the house, for my lord was
fond of society, and made his two step-daughters an excuse for filling
his house with young men. Martha, the elder, was already engaged, and
was to be married before long. We were warmly welcomed by my lady, a
kind and motherly woman, and by Theo, her second daughter. Mrs. Martha
was just decently civil, and that was all. She looked at every one as
if she were mentally taking their measure. I took a dislike to her from
the first moment I ever saw her, and I have never seen occasion to
change my mind.
We had a delightful apartment assigned to us—a large, airy room, with
an adjacent sitting-room, all prettily fitted up, for my mother, and
a turret-room near by for me. My lady made an excuse for giving me so
small a lodging, saying that some of the bedrooms were being refitted
in preparation for her daughter's marriage.
"Pray make no excuses," said my mother. "I venture to say this is just
the sort of room my daughter would choose."
"Yes, indeed," I added, as my lady turned to me; "I love a turret-room
above all things."
"Then we are all suited," said my lady kindly; "but you are not looking
quite well, sweetheart."
I assured her that I was well and only tired with my journey, and so
with more kind words, she left us to ourselves.
We unpacked our mails and dressed ourselves, and then at the summons
of a waiting-gentlewoman, we descended to the withdrawing-room, my
mother having first recommended Dinah to the attention of this same
gentlewoman, who said she would show her to the room of Mrs. Carey, the
housekeeper.
"And is Mrs. Carey still living?" asked my mother. "She must be very
old."
"She is so, madame," answered the waiting-damsel; "but she is still
hale and active, and does all the work my lady will allow. This way,
madame, if you please."
She conducted us to the open door of my lady's withdrawing-room, which
was very splendidly fitted up—quite as fine as anything I had seen in
London—and now filled with company. We were led into the room by my
lord himself, who espied us in a moment, and placed in seats of honor.
Indeed, both he and my lady seemed to think they could not show my
mother too much respect.
A great many people were presented to us, among them Mrs. Martha's
servant Captain Bernard, a fine young gentleman, with a good, serious,
kindly face. The young ladies presently made their appearance, to be
chid by their mother for their delay, to which Mrs. Theo returned a
smiling excuse, and Mrs. Martha none at all.
There were several ladies and gentlemen present from the neighborhood,
some of whom my mother had formerly known, and we were for a while
quite the centre of attraction, a condition of things which did not
seem to please Mrs. Martha at all, to judge by her black looks. She
would hardly even give a civil answer to poor Captain Bernard when he
addressed her, and as I looked at her, I wondered what he could have
seen in her to wish to make her his wife. But I found out long ago that
there is no use in trying to account for such matters.
Mrs. Theo was pleased with everything and everybody, herself included.
She was uncommonly pretty, and dressed herself with great taste. She
was not very deep, but what there was of her was good and sweet, and
she was always kind, even to self-sacrifice when needful. She did not
care for study, and had no special tastes for anything but embroidery,
in which, indeed, she excelled any person I ever saw. We were soon the
best of friends, and have always remained so.
The evening passed pleasantly enough, what with music and conversation,
cards and tables for the elders, and a little dance among the young
folks. I had never learned any dances except those of the peasant folks
in Normandy, and at present I was in no spirits for any such amusement,
but I exerted myself to sing and play, and though a good deal confused,
I believe I acquitted myself fairly.
When we returned to our room, we found Mrs. Dinah well pleased with
the manner in which she had been treated by Mrs. Carey, but full
of righteous indignation at the light conduct of the gentlemen's
gentlemen, one of whom, it seems, had actually offered to kiss her. My
mother soothed and comforted her, and told her she had better sit to
our room or else with Mrs. Carey, and then she would be out of the way
of the men servants.
"Oh, they are not all alike, madame," answered Dinah quickly. "There is
the steward, Mr. Matteson, who is as sober and well conducted a man as
any one would wish to see."
"Well, well, I am glad there is one exception to the rule," said my
mother. "Now we will have our reading and go quickly to rest, for I am
very tired, and my head is quite in a whirl. It is long since I have
spent an evening."
For two or three days my mother was quite unwell, and I was of course
with her most of the time, though I went out to walk two or three times
with Mrs. Theo, who also showed me the house and pictures, which were
very fine. As to Mrs. Martini, she never troubled herself about me in
any way, and that was all I asked of her.
"You must not mind Martha," said Theo to me one day, when she had very
shortly declined an invitation to walk with us. "She goes on her own
way for all any one else, and she is always busy."
"What does she do?" I asked.
"Oh, she reads a great deal, especially in divinity, and she sews for
the poor and visits them very often. She does twice as much for them
as I do, and yet I don't know how it is, they are always glad to see
mother and me, and they do not seem ever pleased to see her. I think
sometimes they do not like so much advice. Do you not think that may
be it?" she asked, raising her pretty eyebrows, and looking at me
reflectively.
"Perhaps so," said I, with a smile, for I was much amused. "Then you do
not give them advice?"
"I, Cousin Vevette?" with an air of great astonishment. "How could I
do that? I do not know half as much as they do. Why, what advice could
I give those poor women about their households and their children,
when I never brought up a child or cooked a dinner in all my life? I
do sometimes just hint to them about washing a babe's face clean or
mending its hose, but just in a pleasant talking kind of way, you know.
And I must say they are usually ready to listen. But I never could go
into their houses when they are at meals and remark upon their waste in
eating fresh butter, or anything like that. Why, I should not like it
myself, would you?"
"Decidedly not!" I answered. "But I think it is pleasant to drop into
cottages and talk with the women when they are at leisure, and play
with the babes, don't you?"
"Oh, yes, and to make christening frocks for them, and the like. Come,
we will go and see the old folks at the almshouses."
We spent three or four weeks very pleasantly at Stanton Court. My lord
was fond of music, and took much pleasure in our singing and playing.
My mother excused herself from returning visits, as her health was so
delicate, but she was always in the parlor of an evening, to help my
lady in entertaining her guests. I soon came to enjoy these evenings
very much, nor was I at all averse to the attentions I received from
my lord's young visitors. I had one letter from Andrew, written from
Plymouth before he sailed. He told me he had hoped to bid me farewell
in person, but that had been made impossible. His ship was to go up
to Chatham, and he would write from thence so soon as he knew his
destination; but he believed that he should go to the West and not to
the East Indies after all.
I shed many tears over this letter, which was as kind and tender as
possible, and as my lord was sending post to London, I answered it
with my mother's permission, and sent Andrew a watch-chain which I had
learned to make from gold cord. Long afterward I heard that he had
written again, but I never received the letter.
My mother concluded her business with my lord, greatly to the
satisfaction, and I believe to the advantage of both parties, since
the property she took in exchange was more immediately productive, and
more convenient for a woman to hold. One morning after a long private
conference with our host and hostess, my mother told me that she had
made Lord Stanton my guardian in case of her dying before I was settled
in life.
"Dear maman, do not speak of dying," said I. "You are looking so well."
"And I am well—better than I ever expected to be," she answered me;
"but no one knows what may happen, and I shall not die the sooner for
having settled my affairs. My lord and lady are good people, and will
do well by you."
I was well content with the arrangement, for I liked both my lord and
my lady. The latter was one of the most evenly good women I ever saw.
She was not one who ever made great demonstrations of affection even to
her own children, but she was almost always the same. As Dinah said,
one always knew where to have her.
My lord was somewhat choleric, and had a knack of exasperating himself
over trifles which sometimes made one ashamed for him; but still he was
a fine, good-natured gentleman, who would have died before he would
do a mean or cruel action, and his manners were perfect, specially to
women. I never saw him speak even to a maid servant without lifting
his hat. He was greatly annoyed by the freedom taken by some of his
young gentlemen visitors with the village maids and the servants; and
when one of these fine sparks came to complain of a ducking in the sea
which he got from one of the Lees "down to Cove" for making too free
with his young wife, my lord said bluntly it served him right, and he
would have done the same if he had been there. The youth blustered, and
I believe would have challenged my lord, but thought better of it and
took himself away.
But a great sorrow was hanging over my head, though I never suspected
it. My mother's health had wonderfully improved of late, and there
seemed no reason why she should not live out the usual term of years.
She told me one evening that she had not felt so well in all respects
since she was a young girl.
"It is not only in bodily health," said she, "but I am sensible of a
great improvement in my spirits—not elation exactly, but a kind of
joyfulness as if I were in certain expectation of good news, and I
constantly dream of your father and of our old home in France which I
have never done before."
I saw Mrs. Dinah shake her head and look grave upon this, but I knew
she had her full share of Cornish superstitions. I myself thought the
improvement in my mother's health and spirits arose from the change of
air and scene, and from the enjoyment of cheerful company. I little
thought what was that joyful news she was soon to hear—joyful to her,
but sad beyond conception to me.
The very next morning, as I was finishing dressing, Dinah came to me,
quite calm as usual, but pale as ashes.
"Will you come to your mother at once?" said she. "She is very ill."
I did not need a second summons. My mother lay in her bed, her eyes
closed, breathing in soft sighs, and only at long intervals. My lady
was already with her, applying salts to her nose and strong essences to
her forehead, while old Mrs. Carey was rubbing the soles of her feet.
They made way for me with looks of solemn compassion. Even then I was
not alarmed.
"It is a fainting fit," said I. "She used to have them in France."
I bent over and kissed her, calling upon her name. She opened her eyes
with a look of unutterable tenderness, and her lips moved. Then she
drew one more sigh and all was still.
"Come away, my dear child," said my lady, disengaging my hand from my
mother's and taking it in her own. "Your dear mother is at rest."
Even then I could not believe it, and I would have them try again and
again to revive her, but soon the deathly chill of the hand and brow
and the white lips convinced even me, and I suffered my lady to lead me
away.
They were all very kind. My lady took me to her dressing-room, and
strove to win me to tears, for I was at first like one stunned. At last
Theo's tearful caresses opened the flood-gates, and I wept myself into
quietness. My lady left me to myself as much as was good for me, and no
more.
Mr. Penrose, the rector, came and prayed with me, and as I was able to
bear it, he talked with me in a gentle and consoling way, which did me
all the good in the world. He was a dry-looking, quiet elderly man,
a native of Cornwall, and had remained in his parish through all the
troubles and changes of the civil wars. My lord was greatly attached to
him, though he thought him needlessly strict in some matters. He was a
fine scholar, and the best preacher I had heard since I left France.
My mother was buried in the churchyard of the old priory church among
our ancestors for many generations. It was a lovely place, all green
and fair with grass and great trees, and luxuriant ivy mantling the old
ruins. Oh, how I wept as I thought of my father's dishonored grave. How
I wished they could have slept together! But it was an idle wish. What
signifies what distance divides our worn-out bodies, if only our better
part—our real selves—are resting together in the Paradise of God?
Of course word was sent to the friends at Tre Madoc, and I received a
most kind letter from my aunt, asking me to make her house my home.
The invitation was warmly seconded by the girls, but my lord and lady
would have me stay with them for the present, and indeed it was my own
desire. I did not feel that I could return to Tre Madoc where all was
so changed, nor, knowing my aunt as I did, could I wish to reside in
her family, specially as matters were so altered between Andrew and
me. I wrote as kindly as I could, specially recommending to my aunt's
care our old friends Jeanne and Simon. One good reason is as good as a
hundred, and I gave no other for remaining where I was than the wish of
my guardian.
I spent the autumn and winter quietly enough at Stanton Court. At
first, of course, I kept myself quite in retirement, but by degrees
I began once more to mix with the rest of the family, and to take my
share in what was going on. My aunt would have me take music lessons
of a gentleman in Biddeford, who came to our house every week for
that purpose, and at last took up his residence there altogether. He
improved me very much in music, both singing and playing, and I also
learned some arithmetic of him, especially such as relates to the
keeping of accounts—a knowledge I have since found very useful.
There was a school at Stanton Court, known as Lady Rosamond's school,
which had been endowed by some former Lady Stanton out of the revenues
of the suppressed priory. This school had been closed for some time,
and the house had fallen into disrepair, but Mr. Penrose was very
desirous of having it opened again, and he had at last persuaded my
lord to put the house in order and to settle a school-mistress once
more. This last was more easily said than done, since no one could be
found who came up to Mr. Penrose's ideas of what was desirable. At
last I was the means of supplying the need, though at a considerable
sacrifice to myself. My lady was one day admiring some work of Dinah's,
and saying what a treasure she was.
"Oh, my lady, why would she not make a good mistress for the new
school?" I exclaimed, struck with a sudden thought.
My lady looked surprised, but by no means displeased.
"I believe that is a bright thought," said she. "But hath Dinah the
needful knowledge?"
"She can read and write beautifully," said I, "and she hath some
knowledge of figures. There is no sort of work she does not understand,
and she is very apt to teach."
"But can you spare her?" asked my lady.
"I shall not like to spare her, that is the truth, my lady; but if
it is for the good of the school, I will not be selfish," I replied.
"I think the place is as well fitted for her as she is for it, and I
believe it will please her well to have a home of her own."
"Well, I will mention the matter to my lord, and do you talk it over
with Mr. Penrose, and we will see what is to be done," said my lady.
"I shall have to depend upon you a good deal in this business of the
school, Vevette. You know I am no great walker. Theo has no turn for
such work, and I know not how it is—" and she sighed—"Martha does
manage so to set every one against her."
"I am sure I shall like the work," I said. "Suppose I go down directly
and consult with Mr. and Mrs. Penrose?"
"Do so if you will, and ask them to come to supper to-night."
When Theo heard where I was going, she said she would walk with me.
We had a pleasant ramble through the wood and down the Coombe to the
village, and were most hospitably received by good Mrs. Penrose, and
entertained with cakes and cream. Mr. Penrose was well pleased with
the idea, and said he would himself talk with Dinah and find out her
qualifications.
"I should like to be a parson's wife," said Theo, as we walked homeward.
"You Theo!" I exclaimed, in amazement. "You of all people."
"Yes, I of all people," she returned gaily. "It seems to me such a
useful, pleasant, quiet life."
"But I thought you did not like quiet," I said. "You always seem to
enjoy company so much."
"Well, so I do; and I like to dress prettily, just as I like everything
to be pretty and neat; but any head is not set on such matters—no, not
so much as Martha's, though she is so demure. Perhaps not so much as
yours is."
"You would make a good parson's wife in many ways, I am sure of that,"
said I. "You would make every one like you."
"I know I am not so very bright," said Theo; "I cannot sing and play
like you, nor read great books like Martha, nor do any other grand
things. But I like to help people enjoy themselves in their own way,
and to comfort them in trouble if I can."
"I am sure you do," said I. "Janey Lee said the other day when her
child died it was a comfort just to have you come in."
"Did she? I am very glad," said Theo. "But I don't know what I did,
only to sit by her, and let her weep, and by and by draw her on to
talk of the poor babe and its little pretty ways. I never can preach
to people in trouble. It seems somehow unfeeling to talk to them of
judgments and so on. No, if I should marry a parson, I should let him
do all the preaching, you may be sure of that. I should content myself
with making his house pleasant, and cooking up messes for the poor, and
making baby things for the lying-in women. That is my idea of a happy
life."
It seemed as if Theo's idea of a happy life was like enough to be
fulfilled. She went on a little visit to her godmother, any lord's
sister, an elderly lady who had a house near Exeter, where she
maintained several young ladies of reduced circumstances but good
family, giving them a suitable education, and a small dowry whenever
they settled in life.
Here she made the acquaintance of the Dean of Exeter, a man, of course,
a good deal older than herself, but of fine presence and agreeable
manners. He had always been a good deal of a stickler for the celibacy
of the clergy; but it seems Theo found means to change his mind, for
she had not been at home a week before he followed her, and asked her
of her father in marriage.
It was one of those happy matches to which there seems no objection
on any side. The dean was rich and greatly respected. He had beside
his deanery a cure in the same parish where my lady Jemima, my lord's
sister, resided, and a beautiful rectory, where in Theo might concoct
sick messes and make baby linen to her heart's content. She had a small
property of her own, and my lord gave her a portion as to his own
daughter.
Mrs. Martha's wedding (which I should have mentioned in its proper
place) was celebrated very quietly, as we were all in recent mourning
for my mother; but my lord was determined that Theo should have a grand
wedding. So she did, indeed, with all proper ceremony from the first
going to church to the bedding of the bride. Matters of that sort have
greatly changed since that time, and I cannot but think for the better,
though I do hold that weddings should be celebrated publicly and
joyfully, not huddled up as if they were something to be ashamed of.
If matters go on as they have begun, I expect my granddaughters will
jump into a carriage at the church door, and drive off to get as far as
possible from all their friends.
However; Theo's wedding was public enough. We had the house full of
guests, and among them two whom I had no wish to see, and beheld
with dread as birds of ill omen, and so indeed they were. These were
no other than my cousin Betty and her husband. They had come to the
neighborhood to visit a cousin of Mr. Lovel's, and my lady meeting
them and learning who they were, thought she could do no less than
invite them to the wedding. My lord did not look too well pleased when
he heard of it, for he had taken a great dislike to Betty upon their
first meeting, but he could not treat her otherwise than courteously
in his own house. As to Mr. Lovel, he never seemed to me to have any
character, but to be a mere lay figure for the display of whatever mode
in clothes or manners happened to be uppermost.
Betty had not been one evening in the house before she began exercising
her powers. My lord was praising lip the institution of marriage, of
which he was a great promoter, and my lady, smiling, called him a
match-maker.
"Well, I am a match-maker, I don't deny it," said he. "Would you be
ashamed of it if you were me, cousin Lovel?"
Betty had been sitting rather silent, and I suppose he meant to include
her in the conversation. She answered at once—
"No, indeed, my lord. It is a good vocation. I am sure I have always
thanked Vevette for betraying me to my brother, and so bringing my
marriage to pass sooner than I could have done."
She spoke in those clear silver tones of hers, which always commanded
attention, and several people turned to look at us. As may be guessed,
I was covered with confusion, but I made shift to answer.
"You certainly owe me no thanks, Betty, for what I never did. I knew
nothing of your affairs, and therefore could not betray them, had I
been so inclined."
"Oh, I beg your pardon!" said she, with her mocking, superior smile.
And then presently to me in a kind of stage aside which every one about
us could hear—
"What is the use of keeping up that stale pretence? I suppose you did
what you thought right, and I don't blame you; but why deny what you
and I know to be true?"
To this I made no answer whatever, and my lady presently called upon me
to sing. I by and by saw Betty in close conference with Mrs. Bernard,
and I had no doubt from the looks Martha cast at me that I was the
subject of their conference.
The next day brought home my lord's son, whom I had not yet seen. He
had been travelling abroad for some years, but meeting the news of his
sister-in-law's approaching marriage in London, he had hurried home to
be present on the occasion. He was a fine, grave, soldierly-looking
young man, and very much like Andrew in the face, though taller and
with much more of courtly grace in his manner. He was warmly welcomed
by all, and especially by Mrs. Bernard. I never saw her soften so much
toward any one, and, indeed, I believe he was the only person she
ever really loved. He was very polite and kind to me, and I naturally
liked him because he was so much like Andrew. He was musical, like all
his family, and we sang together a good deal. One morning, as we were
practising a song together, Betty peeped into the room. I believe she
thought I did not see her, for she slipped out and presently returned
with my lady, whom I have no doubt she brought on purpose. They stood
listening a few minutes, and then Betty said half under her breath, and
with a sigh—
"Ah, my poor brother, I see his cake is dough; but no doubt it is all
for the best."
We stopped singing at this, and my lady asked me with some sharpness
whether I had been at the school that morning. I told her no, and she
at once thought of errands for me, both there and at the village, which
would keep me busy all the morning.
"I will walk with you, cousin," said my young lord. "I want to go down
to the Cove and see Will Atkins."
Certainly, my lady had not mended matters for herself or me. I got rid
of my cousin as soon as I could, telling him that I should be a long
time at the school-house, and after that had some poor people to visit.
He was rather unwilling to leave me, but I insisted, and he had to
yield.
Betty staid two days longer, and then went back to Allinstree, leaving
mischief enough behind her. I do believe my lady meant to be just to
me, but it was hard to resist the force of Betty's constant and artful
insinuations, and she really came to think that I was angling for her
step-son. It was not long, of course, before my lord took up the same
idea, and what was worst of all, my young lord soon showed that he had
no kind of objection to being angled for, and in fact was very ready
and even anxious to be caught.
From this time my life at the castle was not at all comfortable. I
missed the companionship of Theo, of whom I had grown very fond, though
she never filled Rosamond's place to me. I missed my mother more and
more. Besides, my conscience was not easy. My lord and lady were good
people, as I have said; but the times were times of great laxity. It
was the fashion to profess great abhorrence of the Puritans and their
ways, and immense devotion to the Church of England, and a good many
people showed their devotion by deviating as far as possible from the
ways of the precisians, as they were called.
We professed to observe Sunday—that is, we all went to church in the
morning, and my lady was very careful to see that all the servants
were present at prayers. But my lord yawned over a play or romance all
the evening when he had no one to take a hand at cards or tables with,
and when we had company staying in the house the Sunday evening was
as any other. My young lord had taken up the kind of infidel notions
by which, as I said, some young men tried to appear intellectual at a
cheap rate, and he had brought down some books of Mr. Hobbes with him
which he would fain have had me read; but that I refused. I had been
brought up to a strict observance of Sunday as a day of worship and of
sacred rest, and at first I was shocked at what I saw. While my mother
lived we usually spent our Sunday evenings together in her own room,
but after her death, and especially after Dinah went away, I was easily
drawn into whatever was going on below stairs, even to playing at
tables with my lord, when he had no one else to amuse him.
Then my old pleasure in dreams of wealth and consequence revived. I was
something of an heiress, though my income was wholly dependent upon my
lord's pleasure or discretion till I should be of age, and so I had
plenty of attention. I began again to let the world come into my mind,
and, of course, it soon gained a foothold there and ruled for the most
part supreme.
Now and then, especially when anything strongly reminded me of my
mother, my better self—that self which loved Andrew—came uppermost, but
at such times, I suffered so much from the reproaches of conscience,
that I strove by every means to stifle its voice. I said to myself
that my father and mother had been brought by the circumstances in
which they were placed to take a gloomy view of religion and its
requirements. That the strictness which they had inculcated was not
needful at present, and that it tended (a favorite argument this with
the devil) to make religion unamiable. That a man or woman might be a
Christian and yet allow themselves many diversions which the stricter
sort denied.
In fine, my thought was, not how much I could do for my Lord, but how
much of the world I could safely keep for myself. I was like a man who
in time of war, instead of fleeing to the safe hills in the interior
of the country, chooses to live as near the border as he can for the
advantage of keeping up a trade with the enemy. Instead of simply
shutting my ears to my cousin's infidel reasonings and declining the
subject, I allowed myself to listen to him, and to be influenced by him
to think that so long as a man lived a good life, forms and doctrines
mattered very little, and I did not ask myself on what this good life
was to be founded.
In short, I grew more and more conformed to the world, which in the
bottom of my heart I had always loved, and in proportion as I did so,
the remembrance of my father and mother, and of their teachings faded
from my mind, I still loved Andrew enough to reject with considerable
vivacity a proposal made me by young Mr. Champernoun, a gentleman of
the neighborhood, with a good fortune, and I must say a personable and
pleasing man, though grave beyond his years.
My lord and lady were very much vexed at my refusal, and used every
argument to make me change my resolution, saying that Mr. Champernoun
was a much better match than Andrew could ever be—which was true so far
as fortune went—and that I should perhaps never have so good a chance
to settle in life again.
"Well, well!" said my lord at last. "Wilful must have her way. An I had
not promised your honored mother never to force your inclinations in
any such matter, I should not use so much ceremony with you, mistress!
You should be made to do what was best for you, whether you liked it or
not."
He could not let the matter rest, but must needs take it up again when
his son was present.
"Vevette is right," said my young lord. "Were I in her place I would
not marry black Basil Champernoun either—a sour Puritan and precisian
whose father was in the favor of Old Noll as long as he lived. I
wonder, my lord, that you could think of such a thing."
"Aye, aye, you would fain find her a husband, I dare say; but mind, I
will have none of that. If Vevette is flying at any such game, she may
as well come down at once."
"I am not flying at any game that I know of," said I, feeling my cheeks
flame, as what lady's would not.
"Your face tells another tale," returned my lord. "Such blushes do not
come for nothing."
"One may blush for others as well as for one's self," said I, rising
from the tables where I had been playing with my lord, and in my
confusion oversetting the board. And I betook myself to my own room,
nor did I leave it all the next day, saying that I was ill at ease,
which was the truth, and wished to be quiet. Lewis must needs make
matters worse by coming to my door to inquire for me, and though I did
not see him, but sent him a message by Lucy, my new little maid, his
doing so did not help me with his father and mother.
When I came down-stairs again, I found my lord had gotten over his pet
and was as gracious as before, but my lady was very cool to me. She
loved Lewis as her own son, and was ambitious for him. The insinuations
of Betty had not been without their effect, and Mrs. Bernard, who was
settled in the neighborhood, threw all her influence on the same side.
In short, I was very unhappy, and as I had about that time an
opportunity of writing to my Aunt Jemima in London, I told her my
troubles, and added that I knew not what to do.
The result was an immediate invitation from her and my uncle to come
to them in London, and make their house my home. My uncle also wrote a
letter to my lord, which I did not see, but which I suppose satisfied
him, for he made no objection to my going, and my lady decidedly
forwarded it. Lewis had a great deal to say against it, but it may be
guessed that his arguments had no great weight.
It was settled that I was to travel with Theo and her husband, who were
going up in a week or two, and my lady was directly in a great bustle
to get me ready; now that there was a chance of getting me off her
hands, she was all kindness once more.
The evening before I was to go to join Theo at Exeter, I sought out
my lady in her dressing-room and asked to speak with her in private.
I thanked her for her kindness to me, and assured her that I had had
no desire to displease her in any way, and least of all by marrying
Lewis. Then as she gave me a kind though somewhat embarrassed answer,
I ventured to ask her what Betty had said about me. She would not tell
me at first, but presently changed her purpose, and when I heard the
cunning tale which Betty had imposed upon her, I no longer wondered
so much at her change toward me. It was not only in the matter of the
meeting with Mr. Lovel, that she had misrepresented me, but she had
told my lady that I had avowed to her a settled purpose to make myself
the wife of some great man, and to that very end had persuaded my
mother to break off the match with Andrew, at the very time that the
change in my fortunes made it likely that I should go to Stanton Court.
I explained the whole matter to my lady from beginning to end, and she
was pleased to say that I had wholly exculpated myself, and to take
shame to herself for being so ready to believe evil. She kissed me
and said she was sorry I was going away, and bade me always think of
Stanton Court as my home. She had been very generous to me before, and
she now gave me a gold watch and a beautiful set of pearl ornaments
which she had bought in Exeter. I believe she talked my lord over that
night, for the next day he told me he was sorry I was going away, and
if I would even now give up the plan, I should have a home at the court
as long as I liked, and he would not tease me to marry any one.
But the die was cast. The step was taken which was the beginning of a
long journey—far longer indeed, than any of us thought, and I had no
mind to turn back.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]