The boats were lowered.
Time enough for that, indeed. That night I was sleeping soundly, when I was waked by a terrible noise, and presently I heard Aunt Belinda's voice saying quite composedly as it seemed,—
"Olivia, get up and put on your clothes as quickly as possible. The ship is in danger of sinking. Be cool and steady, my child. We are all in God's hands."
I cannot describe the scene that followed. The night was intensely dark, the wind blowing a gale, and the sea very rough. The boats were already lowered, and preparations were being made for our safety. One of the sailors was burning some kind of firework which made a ghastly blue light, and I remember in the midst of all the turmoil noticing the coolness with which this man lighted one at the other, just before it went out, so as to save his materials. But I can give very little account of the matter. All I know is that every one was got into the boats, the captain being the last man to leave the ship; that in the hurry and confusion our party was separated, my aunt and Elmina being in one boat and Mr. Wyndham and I in the other; that the sea was terribly rough, and it was very dark; that we were dreadfully tossed about and separated from our friends in the other boat, and at last thrown violently on shore. I felt a severe blow on my head, and then I knew no more till I heard a kind voice say in a very odd accent,—
"She's a-coming to herself, dear tender lamb! Try and drink this, my pretty."
I felt a cup at my lips, and drank eagerly some hot tea. It seemed to revive me, and I opened my eyes. I was laying on a poor but decent bed, in a queer low room with a brick floor, and two or three women were busy round me, rubbing my hands and feet and putting warm bricks about me.
"That's right, my lamb," said the elder woman. "Drink some more now, do! Susan, you tell father to tell the gentleman that little miss is come to herself. Can't you speak e'er a word, my precious young heart?"
"Where are my aunt and Elmina?" were my first words.
The women looked at each other, and were silent a moment; then the elder one said gently,—
"Well, we don't rightly know, dear heart. Was they in the other boat?"
I nodded, for I could not speak.
"Well, you see, dear, the boat you was in was stove all to pieces on the beach, and we haven't no news of the other one, but it's very likely she's all right and will come in yet, or maybe some one will pick 'em up. Don't you fret, now, my lamb, don't, but put your trust in the Lord. Now, do, my dear!"
"Is the child better?" said a grave, kind voice at the door.
And the women stood aside to allow a tall, handsome gentleman whom I guessed at once to be a minister to enter.
"Yes, sir, yes; she's come quite to herself, poor dear! Only wearying for her aunt, as was in the other boat, she says. Is there any news of the boat, please, sir?"
The minister shook his head.
"I fear not, nor ever will be till the sea gives up its dead," said he. "It is indeed marvellous that this should have escaped as it did. My dear child, I am very thankful that you have come to yourself."
"Was Mr. Wyndham killed?" I asked.
"No; he is hurt, but will, I hope, be quite well soon."
I could not yet realize that my aunt and Elmina were probably lost. I answered all the gentleman's questions, I believe, very reasonably, telling him who I was and how I had come abroad, and all that I knew—which was very little—about our shipwreck; but my mind was all the time in a curious state. I felt sure that it was all a dream, and that I should wake up presently and find myself, not on the ship or in Boston, but in my own little bed-room at Lee. I was quite composed. I even considered that the minister was like those I had read of in "Evelina" and "Cecilia," but still the impression remained that it was all a dream.
"She is talking too much," said a gentle voice, presently; and a lady who had come in later, and was standing beside the rector, laid her hand on mine and kissed me. "She had better be quiet now, and try to get some sleep. Do not have any fear, dear child; we will take good care of you."
"I will be quiet and do as you tell me if only you will let me see Aunt Belinda and Elmina as soon as they come; and please don't tell mother, because she will be so frightened, and it always makes her head ache to be scared," I added, for I was not quite right yet.
I saw the women wipe their eyes and the minister turn suddenly away, and I wondered what they were crying about. I had not long to speculate on the matter, for I directly fell sound asleep, and remained so for many hours.
When I waked, Mr. Wyndham was sitting by me. He was very pale and had a great cut on his white forehead, plastered up with sticking-plaster. My head was somewhat clearer now, and I felt very much refreshed, though weak and shaken. Mr. Wyndham would have evaded my questions at first; but seeing that, as I said, my mind was quite clear, he told me at last the whole story, and I learned that I was shipwrecked in a strange land and among strangers, with no friend near me but Mr. Wyndham, himself almost a stranger. So far as any one knew, we two and one sailor were the sole survivors of the wreck. Nothing had been seen or heard of the other boat, but it was not at all probable that she had lived through the gale, which was still blowing fiercely off shore.
CHAPTER XIV.
NEW EXPERIENCES.
IT was a good while, however, before I appreciated the state of the case. I understood, indeed, the words which were said to me, but they seemed to convey no real meaning to my mind. I lay still quite contentedly as long as Mrs. Lee bade me; and when, in the morning, she took me up and set me in a great chair by the window, I was just as contented there, with only one idea—namely, that the dream was lasting a long time, but that I should wake up pretty soon. The minister and his wife came to see me and were very kind, and Mrs. Lee and her daughter were unwearied in their attentions.
I believe Mr. Wyndham was much alarmed about me, but Mrs. Lee reassured him.
"It's the bump that she got on her head as has confused her and knocked all the memory out of her, poor dear lamb!" said she. "It isn't uncommon for shipwrecked folks to be that way, but they mostly come to after a good sleep, and I expect she will. Bless your heart, I've seen a plenty of 'em in my day."
Mrs. Lee was quite right. I sat in the same dazed state all that day, but at night I slept long and soundly, and in the morning I was quite myself and able to listen to and understand Mr. Wyndham. I found he knew no more than I did of the cause of our disaster. James Satterlee, the only other survivor, as far as we knew, supposed that the captain must have mistaken his reckoning. All Mr. Wyndham knew was that he was waked by a dreadful shock, and had come on deck to find the ship rapidly sinking, that he had roused my aunt and Elmina, and had been able to secure certain important papers, but that was all. He had hoped we might all be together, but the captain had arranged it otherwise. He was much effected in telling the story, and we wept together.
"Your aunt was a lady of a thousand—of ten thousand—Olivia," said he; "I have hardly ever seen her equal. I feel almost guilty of her death because I persuaded her to come abroad. But for me she might have been alive at this moment."
"I don't think you ought to feel so, Mr. Wyndham," said I. "You could not tell that the ship would be wrecked; and besides," I added, "unless Aunt Belinda had thought it right to come, all the persuasion in the world wouldn't have moved her an inch."
"Perhaps not," said Mr. Wyndham; "she was a lady of great firmness of character. But now, my dear child, we must think what is to become of you. I consider you a sacred charge, Olivia, as much as if you were an orphan sister of my own, and I assure you, you shall never want for anything which I can provide for you. You shall have the best care and education which the country affords, and it shall be my object to make up to you so far as I can for the friend you have lost."
"I am sure you are very good," said I; "but I don't want to live in England. I want to go home to my father and mother in America."
"Your father and mother!" said he. "I thought you were an orphan?"
"Oh no," I answered; "my father is a farmer, and lives in Vermont now. We used to live in Massachusetts, but father lost a good deal of money, and then he moved to Vermont, and I went to live with Aunt Belinda to finish my education. I thought you saw my father when he was in Boston just before we came away."
"I must have been in New York at that time," answered Mr. Wyndham; and I was surprised to see that he looked downright vexed and disappointed. "I never asked the question, to be sure, but I took it for granted that you must be on the same footing as Elmina. Have your father and mother other children?"
"Oh yes," I answered. "There is Ezra, and Tom, and my adopted sister Jeanne, and Ruth, and Henry. Tom is living with my uncle at Salisbury to learn the iron business, and Ezra is going to college to learn to be a minister, and then he is to marry Jeanne."
"Indeed! I had a reason for asking the question. You cannot imagine how desolate one feels who finds himself bereft of the comforts and society of a home. But, Olivia, I have been pleasing myself all day with the thought that I was going to have an adopted daughter too—a dear little girl to console me for the children I have lost. Don't you think your father and mother would spare me one out of their flock? They have so many to love them, and I have none at all."
"I don't believe they would," said I, very much moved. "You see, mother will want me to help her when Jeanne is married; and besides, I am sure they would not want me to grow up an English girl, after father fought so many years to make a country for ourselves. I am sure you are very good and kind, Mr. Wyndham, and I like you very much, but I don't think I could be anybody's daughter only my own father's and mother's. Please don't be angry or think I am ungrateful," I added, crying.
"There! Don't cry, my dear," said Mr. Wyndham, hastily; "you will make yourself ill again. There is no danger of my thinking you unkind or ungrateful; I like you all the more for your loyalty. But you see, Olivia, I had my own castle in the air, as well as you and poor Elmina; and when it fell into the sea, I thought I might keep one little wing of it. There! We won't talk any more now, for fear of making your head ache;" and so saying, he went hastily out.
I did not at the time understand what he meant by his "castle in the air;" but when I came to consider it afterward, I thought I comprehended the case. Mr. Wyndham had admired Aunt Belinda very much from the first, and I believe he hoped he might make her his wife.
In the afternoon Mr. Wyndham came in again.
"They have found the bodies of our poor captain and two of the sailors," said he. "They are to be buried in the church-yard here, and I must attend the funeral. After that I will tell you what I think we had better do for the present."
I begged earnestly to be allowed to see the funeral of my poor friends, and at last Mr. Wyndham consented. Mrs. Lee demurred, though she allowed that the wish was right and natural, but at last consented on condition that her husband should carry me up to the church.
"For I'm sure she'll never get up the stairs alone, poor dear! And you ain't able to do no more than carry yourself, sir."
I wondered what Mrs. Lee meant by the stairs, but I discovered presently. The main street of Clovelley village is neither more nor less than a stair-case, and a tolerably steep one at that—steeper than most stair-ways in private houses. The steps are cut in the rock, with frequent landings, to be sure, but it is to all intents a stair-case. The cottages are of stone, each with its little garden, where grow a great many flowers and plants that won't stand the winter here at all.
When we reached the church-yard, I thought all the inhabitants of the village must be present. Of course I was an object of great attention, and I heard many subdued exclamations of "Poor dear heart!" "Poor tender lamb!" from the kind-hearted fishermen and their wives as they opened a way for Mr. Wyndham and myself to pass to the church, where the bodies lay. They were those of Captain Coffin, his nephew David, and another Cape Cod man, Jethro Farnham.
The funeral services were very solemn and affecting. The minister—they call him the rector there—made a short address, in which he spoke of the fact that all three of those lying before them were Christian men, and no doubt prepared to go when their time came, and urging those present to be likewise ready.
It was a dreadful moment to me when the words "dust to dust, ashes to ashes" were pronounced, and I heard the hollow sound of the earth falling on the coffin-lids, and thought of my poor aunt and cousin, whose bodies were lying somewhere in the great ocean, spread out so blue and beautiful to the far horizon. It seemed as if my grief would not be so hard to bear if only I could know that their bodies were sleeping in this beautiful green church-yard, under the shadow of the gray old church, and grown over with flowers in the spring-time. I grew so hysterical that when the service was over Mrs. Carey would have me go into the rectory and lie down while she got me some restorative.
Presently Mr. Carey came and sat down by me.
"Your friends' graves shall be cared for, my dear child," said he. "We will have proper stones put up as soon as may be." He paused a moment, and then went on, speaking very gently and softly: "I dare say you are thinking of your aunt and cousin?"
"Oh," I sobbed, "if they were only buried here, it would not seem half so bad."
"I understand you," said Mr. Carey. "I have two dear brothers lying somewhere in the ocean, and many an old friend and playmate's bones rest out under those blue waters. But, my child, your friends are not there, only their bodies. They themselves—all that part of them which loved you and which you loved—are safe in heaven. And even their bodies will be kept quite safely; and when the last trumpet shall sound, they will be raised as quickly and with as much of glory and honour as those which sleep under the turf in the church-yard."
A good deal more he said in the same gentle way. There was nothing original or brilliant in his remarks; but when people are in real and great trouble, they don't seem to me to want brilliancy or originality. They want brought up and brought home those grand truths which they have heard and known all their lives, but of which they do not feel the real need till all other stays are knocked away.
I grew quite composed after a while, and was able to sit up to my tea, which I had by myself in the library, Mrs. Carey rightly concluding that I would not care to face any strangers, especially half a dozen great boys, as she said.
I had finished my meal, and was sitting looking out of the window, when Mr. Wyndham came in and took a seat by me.
"Do you think you will feel well enough for a journey to-morrow?" said he. And then he told me that he had decided as to what I was to do for the present. "I have two maiden half-sisters who live about thirty miles from here," said he. "They are excellent old ladies, and very fond of children. I think I cannot do better than to place you under their care till I can communicate with your parents and find suitable means for sending you home, if, indeed, you must go home."
I had no objection to make to this arrangement, for I had the most entire faith in Mr. Wyndham. But when the morning came, it was very rainy, and we had to wait till next day, after all. Meantime, Mrs. Carey had found suitable materials for a new frock, and some one to make it; and when the time came for me to go, I was once more arrayed in new deep mourning. I took leave of my new friends with many tears. If Alice should ever go to England, I hope she will visit Clovelley and find out the graves of her countrymen there.
We had a long day's journey in a post-chaise, stopping for dinner on the road at a place whose name I don't remember, and arriving at our destination about dark. I was very tired, and my head ached terribly. I was dimly conscious of a very light porch and entry, some dogs and servants, and two old ladies, and of hearing Mr. Wyndham say,—
"Put her to bed directly, Dorothy; she is tired out. Take good care of her, Mrs. Austin."
"But don't you think she should have some medicine, Brother Augustus?" said a sweet but high-pitched and quavering voice—"Some camphor julep, now; that is very simple, you know."
"Nonsense, Sister Angelica!" broke in another voice, also high-pitched. "The child wants rest and sleep and a good cup of tea. Put her to bed, Austin, put her to bed!"
"Yes, put her to bed, Austin, put her to bed!" chimed in the first voice like an echo. "To be sure, Sister Deborah knows best, but a little camphor julep, now, or some chamomile tea—"
These words seemed to follow me as I was taken up a short easy stair-case and into a tiny room where there was a little white bed which looked wonderfully inviting.
"Here's everything ready, miss, you see," said the respectable elderly woman who had me in charge, and who directly made me think of my aunt Phebe, though she was as rosy as a frosted Spitzenberg. "Now let me untie your gown and put you in bed like a dear, and then I'll bring a nice cup of tea. Bless me, the pretty dear!" she exclaimed as she took off my hood and saw my thick light hair all curling with the damp; "why, she's as white as I am."
"Why shouldn't I be white?" I asked, laughing in spite of my troubles. "Do you think we are all red Indians over there?"
"Well, to be sure, I might have known better, miss, but somehow—However, we mustn't talk, and your poor head ready to split, I can see," she added as I put my hand to my forehead. "There, now! I'll go and get you a nice cup of tea and a bit of toast."
She bustled away, and I took the opportunity of her absence to say my prayers. I was still on my knees when Mrs. Austin returned, and with much delicacy she set down her tray and went into an adjoining room. When she came back, I was in bed; and oh how sweet and soft and comfortable it was! (I am content and proud of my own country, and always was, but I do envy the English two or three things, and among those are the heaps and heaps of lavender and sweet wood-roots they have to put in their linen presses. To be sure we can get the dried lavender at the druggist's, but it is not the same thing at all, and sweet wood-root does not grow everywhere, even in England.)
"That's a good young lady!" said Austin, as she arranged my pillows and set my tea before me. (In England upper servants are usually called by their surnames—a thing which seemed very odd to me.) "I can see miss has been well brought up. There! Drink your tea and eat a bit, there's a dear, and it will do your head good."
I did not feel like eating, but I had been early taught that it is a part of good manners not to refuse what people have taken pains to prepare for you; and when I forced myself to taste the tea and toast, I found them so refreshing that I soon finished them.
"That's right!" said Austin. "Now lie down and sleep."
I was not long in obeying this injunction.
Austin drew the curtains of my bed and left me, telling me that she slept in the next room and should hear me if I called, and I believe I was asleep before she left the room.
I was waked next morning by the sweetest music I thought I had ever heard, which seemed to come floating through the air. I opened my eyes, but could see nothing but the white dimity curtains of my bed. Everybody used bed-curtains then, and why we didn't all get sick for want of air I don't know; but we didn't.
Putting aside my curtains, I saw that I was in an odd little old-fashioned room, all angles and corners, with no carpet on the polished oak floor save a little strip at the bedside and one before the toilet-table. There was a tall looking-glass draped with white dimity and trimmed with a great deal of daisy fringe, as were also the toilet-table and the bed- and window-curtains. At the side opposite the mirror was a long, projecting casement window with little diamond-shaped panes in leaden sashes. Some of the panes in the centre of each sash were coloured, and bore certain figures which I afterward found out were heraldic devices.
Everything seemed very still. Nobody was stirring about the house, and there were no sounds outside save the singing of birds, a distant cackling and crowing of poultry, and the beautiful music I have spoken of, which I now guessed was made by the bells of a church not far away, the tower of which I could see rising above the trees. There was a flower-garden below the window, and a field beyond, where were feeding a red and a snow-white cow. It was all very beautiful, peaceful, and lovely, but it was very strange, and made me feel more than anything I had yet seen how far I was from home—a stranger in a strange land. What would I not have given for a sight of the familiar ugly stone walls and rail fences of my old home in Lee, or the narrow Boston streets that I used so to dislike when I lived there!
I leaned my head against the side of the casement, and felt utterly forlorn and desolate—too forlorn even to cry. The bells had ceased for a minute or two, but they now struck up a familiar psalm tune—mother's favourite tune. I seemed almost to hear the words:
"How gentle God's commands!
How kind his precepts are!
Come, cast your burden on the Lord,
And trust his constant care."
I remembered vividly the time they had brought me such comfort before—the time of my trouble about my precious Lanesborough doll. I remembered how I had then been moved to cast my trouble on him, and how he helped me. I bethought myself that the distance was nothing to him, and that though the great ocean rolled between myself and my parents, yet we were all in his presence as well as Aunt Belinda and Elmina, who were probably praising him in heaven. It was his will that I should be where I was. He had given me a kind friend in Mr. Wyndham, and brought me to a pleasant place, where every one was good to me, and I hoped he would in time bring me home again. Or if he did not see fit to do that, there was that other home where Aunt Belinda was, and which my mother had charged me never to forget; and that home was as near in England as America.
Then I thought of another hymn—the very first I could ever remember learning, and which I had in turn taught Harry and Ruth:
"This God is the God we adore,
Our faithful, unchangeable Friend;
His love is as great as his power,
And knows neither limit nor end.
'Tis Jesus, the First and the Last,
Whose presence shall guide us safe home
We'll praise him for all that is past,
And trust him for all that's to come."
I said these words over to myself; and began to think of texts in the Bible which agreed with them. It is a great blessing to children when their memories are early stored with good things—with hymns, and, above all, with the very words of Scripture. For that reason I like the old-fashioned Sunday-school plan of learning seven verses a week better than any of the new-fashioned ways.
I felt that morning, as I had done before, but never so strongly, that this unchangeable, faithful, all-wise, all-loving, all-powerful Friend was my Father—my own; that he loved me—poor little lonely, shipwrecked, sorrowful girl, foolish as I was, and wicked as I was—that I was not, as I used sometimes to think at Aunt Belinda's, a part of some great machine, but a child in my Father's house, a sheep in his pasture, a lamb to be carried in his bosom. My heart rose with a great emotion of joy and thankfulness, and the words, "What shall I render to the Lord for all his gifts to me?" came of their own accord to my lips. I resolved that I would try to please him in all things, to be good and obedient to the ladies I was to live with, and to learn all that I could. How peaceful was my mind whilst, thus employed! Then I crept back to bed, and soon fell asleep again, which was the best thing I could do.
I was awakened after a while by the sound of a door shut softly, and presently I heard voices engaged in conversation, as it seemed under my window.
"She is sound asleep yet, Mrs. Deborah and Mrs. Angelica, and in my humble judgment it is better to let her sleep."
"Your judgment is good, Austin, very good," said a voice which I recognized as one I had heard the night before. "Let her sleep, by all means. Sleep is the best medicine."
"Yes, your judgment is good, Austin, very good, as my sister Deborah says," chimed in another voice, which I knew must be Mrs. Angelica's; "but as for sleep being the best medicine, I am not so sure, and I 'can't' think a little camphor julep or some chamomile tea would do her any harm."
"How did she seem to sleep, Austin?" asked the first voice. "Did you hear her move at all in the night?"
"No, madam, only once that she talked a little, and called for her mother, poor lamb!"
"No wonder, poor little thing! We must be very kind to her, Austin."
"Yes, we must be kind to her, Austin, as my sister Deborah says; but talking in the sleep is a sure sign of indigestion, and so you see I was right about the camphor julep," said Mrs. Angelica's voice, in a kind of mild triumph.
"I dare say she is very ignorant," continued the first voice. "Of course we could not expect anything else, growing up in the wilds of America, as she has, and among rebels too. But no doubt she will learn. I wonder if she can read?"
"If you please, Mrs. Deborah and Mrs. Angelica, I think the young lady has been well taught; because she says 'If you please' and 'Thank you' so prettily. And she washed her face and hands and rinsed her mouth of her own accord, ladies. And, more, when I came back with her tea, she was saying of her prayers—yes, Mrs. Deborah and Mrs. Angelica, she was saying of her prayers, ladies. And so I think she has been well brought up, ladies."
I was rather indignant, and then a good deal amused, to think that Mrs. Deborah should doubt my knowing how to read, and in my childish vanity I wondered what she would say when she found that I had been all through Murray's grammar and could play on the piano; and then it occurred to are all at once that I was not playing a very lady-like part in listening to a conversation about myself, and that I had better get up.
When I was dressed and had said my prayers, I began to wonder what I had better do next. With all my self-confidence, I was terribly afraid of committing any breach of decorum, especially before these English ladies, who, I thought, would be sure to lay all my limits to my American bringing-up. I was determined to do nothing which should disgrace my country: so I said to myself, poor little chit that I was! But, after all, the feeling was an honest and good one. And then I remembered my first tea at Aunt Belinda's, when I had made the same resolution.
"Why shouldn't I ask help about that as well as anything else?" I thought. "Mother said I was always to ask whenever I needed it;" and I did ask it then and there.
Then I opened the door and went rather timidly down a very wide and easy stair-case of oak, which was almost black with age, and so smooth and slippery that I came very near going down the whole flight at once. The stairs landed me in a square entry—a hall, I should have called it at home—from which several doors opened, but they were all closed at present, and I was debating what I should do next and wishing I had stayed up stairs, when, to my great relief, Mrs. Austin appeared on the scene.
"Why, well done!" she exclaimed, in a cheery voice. "Here is our young lady all dressed and as fresh as a rose. Good-morning, miss."
And then, throwing open one of the doors, she led me into a very pretty room where the two ladies I had seen the night before were seated at a breakfast-table placed near a large bow-window which I perceived corresponded with the projection in my room.
"Mrs. Deborah and Mrs. Angelica, ladies, here is the young lady."
I made my courtesy, as I had been taught—for children used really to "learn manners" in those days, and were not left to pick them up or not as they pleased—and then, as Mrs. Deborah held out her hand, I drew near the table.
"Very good, very well!" said Mrs. Deborah. "I hope the headache is quite gone?"
"Quite gone, thank you, madam," I answered.
"Are you sure it is gone?" asked Mrs. Angelica, with an air of anxiety.
"Oh yes, madam."
"But it might come back, you know," said Mrs. Angelica; "headaches do come back very often, I think. Now, Austin had a bad headache last Sunday was a week, and yesterday—no, the day before it was—it came back again. And I do think a little mild medicine—say some chamomile tea—"
"Nonsense, Sister Angelica!" interposed Mrs. Deborah. "Let the child have her breakfast in peace. Any one can see that she needs no medicine but rest, and I will not have her dosed."
"No doubt you are right, Sister Deborah—you are always right," replied Mrs. Angelica; "but Austin's headache did come back. Now, didn't it, Austin?"
"I don't think it was the same headache, Mrs. Angelica, ma'am; it was quite different from the other," answered Austin, with perfect gravity. "Shall I ring for breakfast, or wait for Mr. Augustus?"
"Why, I think we won't wait, Austin. You know Mr. Augustus was always a sad boy for sleeping in the morning; and I dare say he is tired. Ring the bell, Austin, and we will have prayers."
Mrs. Austin rang the bell, and presently two women and an elderly man-servant came in and sat down near the door. Mrs. Deborah read a psalm, and then some prayers. It happened to be the first time I had ever heard prayers read from a book, and the custom struck me with surprise, but Mrs. Deborah's manner was very reverent, and I could not but confess that the prayers themselves were very beautiful and suitable.
"Now, then, we will have breakfast," said Mrs. Deborah, briskly. "We must not wait longer, for fear of being late at church. Bring the tea now, Richard, and a plenty of new milk for little miss. And you may bring some honey, Richard; children are usually fond of honey."
It struck me as very odd at first that there should be no meat on the table, only toast and eggs and a great loaf of bread on a wooden trencher—a fashion which I understand has been revived of late—and the tea-things. Mrs. Deborah made tea in a little squat silver teapot which looked to my fancy like the grand-daughter of the urn, and Mrs. Austin placed before me a large basin of sweet new milk such as I had not seen since I left Lee. I made a hearty breakfast, finishing with bread and honey and a cup of tea.
The meal was nearly over when Mr. Wyndham came down, apologizing for having overslept:
"There must be something in the air of your bed-room, Sister Deborah; I haven't slept so soundly since I went away."
Mrs. Angelica struck in directly:
"Really, Augustus, I don't think it can be the bed-room, do you? You know you always were fond of sleeping in the morning, because once in your holidays when we were all going to Plymouth to spend the day with Uncle Robinson, you slept so late that you could not go."
"I dare say I did it on purpose," said Mr. Wyndham. "Sister Deborah, I shall eat everything on the table. In America they give us beefsteaks and broiled fish, and so forth, for breakfast; don't they, Olivia?"
It was plain that Mr. Wyndham was a great pet with his elder half-sisters. Mrs. Deborah sent for a cold chicken pie and hot toast directly; while Mrs. Angelica plaintively hoped that Augustus had not learned to like America better than England,—a theme which, to my relief, put the camphor julep and chamomile tea out of her head.
We went to church that day, walking through the garden and across a corner of some woods which Mrs. Angelica informed me were a part of the duke's park.
"But he kindly lets us come through by this path," continued Mrs. Angelica, "because it cuts off a long piece of the walk, especially in summer, when the leaves are on the trees. It is very good in His Grace."
"Especially as His Grace can't help himself if he would," said Mr. Wyndham. "It is our right of way, and he has no more power to shut it up than I have to shut up his dining-room."
Mrs. Angelica took this speech as a new proof that her brother had imbibed those dreadful French and American notions, as she said, and lamented over it till we came to the church door.
It was a very odd little church. The walls were so thick that it seemed as if the room inside had been hollowed out of them. There was a very fine painted window over the chancel, and some of the other windows had stained glass in them. Small as the church was, nearly a quarter of it was taken up with monuments, on several of which were statues of men in armour lying down with their hands joined and their feet crossed. There was a gallery at one end which seemed to be filled with schoolchildren, all dressed alike in green woollen gowns, with white bib-aprons and little white hoods. There were three pews, high and square, with cushions and curtains all round, which could be drawn so as entirely to conceal the occupants. The rest of the space not occupied by the monuments before mentioned was filled up with hard, rude oaken benches which at once put me in mind of Miss Tempy's school-room at Lee.
The service was unlike any I had ever attended, being that of the Church of England, and the whole place was so curious and so different from anything I had ever seen that it is no wonder my attention was a little distracted; but I tried to remember where I was, and to join in the prayers and psalms with all my heart. The psalm happened to be the one hundred and seventh, and I never hear it in church to this day without having the whole scene brought vividly before me, making me, as it were, smell the very air of that little gray church, with its queer, dusty, mouldy odour mingled with fresh, sweet air from outside, and the perfume of otto of rose which was diffused from Mrs. Angelica's dress and handkerchief.
I cannot tell anything about the sermon, for, to my great shame and confusion afterward, I fell sound asleep, and did not wake till Mrs. Deborah roused me to go home. I had never slept in church in my life before. I suppose the air and my fatigue made me sleepy. Nobody found any fault with me for it, and Mrs. Deborah said it was "only natural."
That evening I walked in the park and to the church-yard with Mr. Wyndham, and we had a long, confidential conversation. He informed me that he meant to leave me with Mrs. Deborah and Mrs. Angelica till he should hear from my parents, to whom he should at once send word of my safety, or till a suitable opportunity offered for sending me home. He asked me if I thought I could content myself with his sisters.
"They are very kind ladies, though they have their little ways," said he, "as most of us have, for that matter. Deborah especially is a wise and reasonable woman, and able to teach you many things."
"I am sure they are very good, and so is everybody," said I, in rather a quivering tone; "but oh, Mr. Wyndham, I do want to go home so."
"And so you shall, my dear, if your heart is set upon it; but, Olivia, you know your aunt would have remained abroad for six months, at any rate, for the benefit of your education. Now, cannot you content yourself as long as that? I promise that you shall have every advantage for continuing your music and other lessons. By that time spring will have come round again, and pleasant weather. Of course I will send you home at once—that is, as soon as I can find a safe opportunity—if you are really going to die of home-sickness, like the poor Esquimaux the good captain was telling us of; but I think you are too sensible for that. And when you do set up that famous boarding-school," he continued, smiling, "you can apply to me for a reference and testimonial."
"Oh, Mr. Wyndham!" I exclaimed, blushing scarlet I don't know why. "How did you know about my boarding-school?"
"I used to hear you and poor Elmina talking about it on ship-board. You need not blush, Olivia. I assure you I think it an excellent thing to set such a definite plan of usefulness before yourself. I advise you not to give it up, but to take every pains to fit yourself for it, and then you will be prepared for any station in life to which you may be called. But now, in view of the boarding-school, don't you think a half year with a good governess would be a help to your plan?"
"I suppose it would," said I, feeling very much pleased at having my favourite scheme approved by one for whose judgment I had so much respect. "Mr. Wyndham," I added, after minute's silence, "I don't think I ever could leave my father and mother and my own country for good; but as for the rest, I will do just as you tell me in everything, and I will try to please Mrs. Deborah and Mrs. Angelica; only I hope Mrs. Angelica won't want me to take medicine all the time," I added, remembering the camphor julep.
"Deborah will attend to that," said Mr. Wyndham. "My dear Olivia, you speak very sensibly, and justify the good opinion I had of you."
CHAPTER XV.
ENGLISH DAYS.
THE next morning, after breakfast, Mrs. Deborah established me in the library with all the materials for writing and a large sheet of thin paper, which she rummaged out of the bottom of a drawer. She stood for a moment, holding it in her hand, and I was sure I saw tears in her eyes. Then she drew a deep sigh and laid the sheet down before me.
"There, little miss! That is just what you need," said she. "I knew I had some if I could only find it, but I have not seen it for years—not since I used to write letters to India. And here, you see, is a bundle of nice pens and plenty of ink, and so I will leave you to write your letter."
I settled myself to my work with great satisfaction. The room was a very pretty one, larger than any other in the house, and containing a fine collection of books of all sorts placed in low cases between the windows. On the top of these cases stood busts of various learned and famous people, done in plaster or marble, and there were some beautiful pictures on the walls. It had been the study and library of Mr. Wyndham's father, who had once been the clergyman of the parish.
But I was not destined to be left in peace very long. I had hardly settled to my work when Mrs. Angelica came in.
"My dear," said she, "are you not afraid you will make your head ache writing?"
"Oh no, madam," I answered.
"But writing often does have that effect. I assure you I have sometimes made my head ache so, just by writing a letter, that I could hardly see out of my eyes. Don't you think you had better go and take a walk instead of writing?"
"But, Mrs. Angelica, you know Mr. Wyndham is going to-morrow," said I, "and I would rather write first and walk afterward."
"Oh, very well, dear; just as you please. I dare say you are right; but I assure you writing very often does make the head ache. I have heard my honoured father say so many a time. 'My head aches from writing,' he would say; and he ought to know, because he often wrote all night when he was engaged upon his great book. And I am sure your mamma would not wish you to have the headache."
I did not know what to answer, so I went on with my letter.
Mrs. Angelica fidgeted about a while, and then returned to the charge:
"My dear, is that a good pen? I should not wish to have your mamma think we had no good pens, or that you were careless in your writing."
"Yes, madam, it is a very good one."
"But I am sure," peering at my letter with her glass—"I am sure I see some very coarse marks. Don't you think you had better take another?"
Here, to my relief, Mrs. Deborah came to the rescue, appearing at the glass door which led into the garden:
"Sister Angelica, I want you. Come away, and let the child write in peace."
"Just as you say; you are always right, Sister Deborah," said Mrs. Angelica, obeying the call. "But, my dear, do take a new pen; and 'don't' you think you had better go out and walk?"
"Sister Angelica!"
"Yes, Sister Deborah; I am coming;" and at last she did go.
I made the most of my time, and filled my large sheet in every corner except just the place where the direction must go, for we did not use envelopes in those days. Then I folded and sealed it with a wafer which I found in the ink-stand, and directed it neatly just as Mrs. Austin called me to get ready for dinner.
"Well, little miss, have you finished your letter?" asked Mrs. Deborah as we sat down to dinner. People used to stand up till the blessing was asked in those days in England.
"Yes, madam," I answered; "it is folded and sealed, all ready to go."
"But, my dear, but, Sister Deborah, the spelling must be corrected before it is sent," said Mrs. Angelica. "Surely, Sister Deborah, you will not have little miss send her letter till the spelling is corrected?"
I dare say I coloured and looked as indignant as a turkey-cock. The idea that my spelling should need correction!
Mrs. Deborah only smiled, and answered, carelessly,—
"Never mind, Sister Angelica; I dare say the spelling will do very well, and miss would not like to have any one read her letter to her mamma. Who knows what she may have been saying about us? Eh, miss? Have you given us a fine character?"
"I am sure I should be very naughty if I didn't, Mrs. Deborah," I answered, with perfect truth; "but—"
"But you don't exactly want us to read it; that is only natural. Never fear, child; your spelling will go as it is for all me, I assure you."
"But indeed, Mrs. Deborah, I do know how to spell," said I, almost ready to cry with mortification. "Miss Tempy Hutchinson said I was the best speller in school."
"I dare say you do. There! Eat your dinner, and never mind. Nobody shall touch your precious letter."
"I dare say you are right, Sister Deborah; you are always right. Only when we were at school at Mrs. Trimmer's, the writing-master always corrected our letters and made us copy them; and Mrs. Trimmer's was considered an excellent school, and we were much improved by what was taught us there. You know that, Sister Deborah."
However, nobody corrected my letter, but it was left to go as it was written.
That afternoon I walked down to the rectory with Mrs. Deborah, and made acquaintance with Mrs. Fuller and her children. There were four of the little Fullers, two girls and two boys, all along close together from ten to fourteen, the boys being the eldest. After suitable introductions, I was sent out into the garden with my new friends, while Mrs. Deborah consulted with Mrs. Fuller on the matter which had brought her down to the rectory.
Emily and Julia Fuller were nice, pleasant, lady-like girls of about my own age, and were evidently disposed to be very polite and kind to the little stranger. They showed me their rabbits and their kittens, and promised to give me a little tabby, which I at once fell in love with as reminding me of my own dear Tabby at home.
"But I must ask Mrs. Deborah," said I. "Perhaps she won't want me to have a cat. Some people don't like them, you know."
The girls assented to the propriety of this measure, and presently began to question me about my journey and about America—a subject on which they were evidently very curious. Were there many Indians and wild beasts there? Did we have any schools or churches? Were most of the people white? Did we have any books? All of which questions I answered. They seemed very much surprised when I told them there were none but a few Christian Indians left in Massachusetts, and still more when they learned that Boston was a large city where people had pianos and books and carriages, and the other conveniences of life. Presently we began to compare the books we had read, and they were greatly delighted to find that I was acquainted with "Evelina" and "Cecilia," and they promised, if their mother were willing, to lend me another book by the same author. On the whole, we got on together very well.
Presently we were called into the parlor, and I was introduced to a prim but kind-looking gentlewoman named Miss Talbot, and informed that she was to be my governess.
"I have been arranging matters with Mrs. Fuller, as my brother desired," said Mrs. Deborah to the as we walked homeward. "You are to go to the rectory for your lessons every morning at nine and stay till two, and you will study whatever Miss Talbot thinks best. My brother would have engaged a governess for you alone and had her reside in the family, but I did not think it would answer; there were reasons against it. The fact is Sister Angelica does not get on well with everybody. She is, though one of the best women in the world, a little peculiar, as you may have observed already. But remember that I expect every one to treat Sister Angelica with the utmost respect—remember that, Olivia Corbet," said Mrs. Deborah, with grave emphasis. "There, little miss! You need not look so confused; I am not blaming you," she added, kindly. "I have no fault to find with you about that or anything else so far. But it is only natural for young people to notice such things, and I always think an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure."
The next day I went over to the rectory to begin my lessons. Emily was looking out for me, and received me kindly.
"You mustn't mind if Miss Talbot is a little prim and sharp," said she, in a half whisper, as she led the way to the school-room; "I suppose all governesses are so. Did you go to school at home?"
I told her that I always went to school till I went to live in Boston, and after that I said my lessens to Aunt Belinda.
"And was your governess good-natured?"
"Oh, you mean the teacher?" said I, after a minute's consideration. "We don't call them governesses in America."
"How very odd!" said Emily. She and Julia always thought everything "very odd" to which they had not been used. "But was she kind?"
"Oh yes, indeed; she was perfectly lovely!" said I, with enthusiasm. "Everybody in Lee thought Miss Tempy Hutchinson was just perfection. But she could be sharp too if we were naughty. I remember how she whipped Thomas Allen for tormenting his little sister by pretending he was going to drown her kitten."
"I just wish 'our' boys could go to school to her, then; they are such plagues," said Emily. "But they are going to Eton pretty soon, and then we shall have some peace."
This seemed to me an odd way to speak of one's brothers, but I said nothing.
Emily opened the school-room door at that moment with—
"Please, Miss Talbot, here is Miss Corbet."
"Good-morning, Miss Corbet," said Miss Talbot, kindly; "I am glad to see that you can be punctual. Ring the bell if you please, Emily. Your sister is late, as usual. Miss Corbet, you will take that desk by the window."
Our first exercise was reading a chapter in the New Testament. Julia came in just as we were beginning, and we had no sooner finished than Miss Talbot sent her back to her room to brush her dress and tie up her shoes properly—a direction which she obeyed pleasantly enough.
Miss Talbot then called me to her and asked me what I had studied.
"I have been through Murray's grammar, ma'am," I answered, "and I have been through the arithmetic as far as cube root twice, and I have studied geography some, and I have been through Goldsmith's 'Greece.'"
"You mean that you have studied some geography," corrected Miss Talbot. "Do you know how to work?"
"Oh yes, ma'am," I answered, promptly; "I can bake and wash and spin and help about most kinds of work except about weaving. Mother never had any weaving done at home."
Emily giggled outright, and Miss Talbot herself smiled, while I turned hot and wondered what I had said to be laughed at.
"All those are excellent things to know, and your mamma was quite right in making you understand house-keeping," said Miss Talbot, with a reproving glance at Emily; "but I referred particularly to working with the needle. Can you sew neatly?"
"Yes, ma'am, I believe so," I answered.
"You seem to have been well taught. I am quite surprised," said Miss Talbot; and I fancy she was a little disappointed also. "Mrs. Deborah told me that you were to learn music. I suppose you know nothing about it?"
"I can play a little," I answered.
There was a piano in the school-room, and Miss Talbot bade me let her see what I could do, so I played the "Harmonious Blacksmith," which was, and is, a great favourite of mine, and acquitted myself respectably.
"You must have had great pains taken with your education," said Miss Talbot. "I did not suppose that pianos had penetrated the wilds of America."
"Boston isn't wild," said I. "It is a very nice city, only I don't like cities much."
"It was the hot-bed of rebellion," said Miss Talbot, severely. "The brother of Lady Strickland, to whose children I was formerly governess, was killed at Boston."
It was on the end of my tongue to say that Lady Strickland's brother might have stayed at home and minded his business, but my good genius kept me silent.
Miss Talbot continued:
"I shall arrange your lessons to correspond as far as possible with those of your companions. You will, of course, continue your music, as Mrs. Deborah desires it, and you may as well review your other studies: I mean arithmetic and grammar. I dare say your acquirements are not as great as you fancy. People often pass over those things very superficially in schools, even in English schools."
She then showed me the lessons which Emily and Julia were studying, and also set me a task of verses to learn—a portion of Pope's "Essay on Man."
"Please, Miss Talbot, I know that already," said I.
Again Miss Talbot looked disappointed, but she changed the book for Goldsmith's "Poems," which I had never seen. Learning poetry by heart was a regular part of a girl's education then, and I don't think it was a bad one, either. It stored the mind with good and agreeable ideas, expressed in good English, and furnished subjects for thought and imagination.
My grammar lesson was soon despatched, and also my arithmetic—indeed, I knew them both already—and I turned with great pleasure to my book of poetry. I soon learned my task, and then I ventured to ask Miss Talbot if I might read the rest of the poem, as my lessons were done.
"Not now," said she; "I am going to hear you say your lessons, and after that you must practice your scales."
I acquitted myself very well at recitation, and took great pains with my practice, so that I won from Miss Talbot that qualified degree of approbation which was all she was accustomed to bestow. Then we had a recess for half an hour. I would have liked to spend it in reading, but that Miss Talbot very properly would not allow, and the girls took me out to the garden.
"Well, how do you like her?" asked Julia, when we were in the garden, out of hearing.
"I don't know much about her yet," was my remarkably prudent answer.
"You shouldn't ask her, Julia," said the more considerate Emily.
"Didn't her eyes flash, though, when Miss Talbot said that about Boston?" said Julia, laughing.
"It wasn't very polite in her," I said.
"No, I don't think it was," said Emily; "but, Olivia, you mustn't mind people's teasing you about your country. The boys will be sure to do it; and the more you mind it, the more they will keep on. All boys are that way."
At this moment the two boys made their appearance, followed by a great rough water-dog which immediately jumped upon me and licked my hands and face as if I had been an old friend. I always liked animals of all sorts, and was not at all timid, so I patted the dog and said "Poor fellow!"
At which, apparently quite overjoyed, he rushed away, and immediately returned with a large stick, which he presented to me, apparently as a token of his regard.
"Hullo!" said Jack Fuller. "She isn't afraid of dogs, anyhow. Isn't he a fine fellow?"
I agreed that he was.
"He is perfectly horrid," said Emily. "He killed my kitten, but Jack set him on."
"I didn't," retorted Jack.
"Yes, you did," said the other brother, whose name was Theodore; "but, Emily, Jack didn't know it was yours. He thought it was a stray."
"Suppose it was a stray? I don't think you need have set the dog on it," said I. "What is the use of being so cruel?"
"Oh, all girls are milk-sops," was the careless answer. "All boys do such things. It is only girls that care about kittens and can't bear to have them killed."
"Isn't he perfectly horrid?" said Julia to me. "But I suppose all brothers are just the same."
"My brothers are not," I answered, indignantly. "Ezra wouldn't kill a kitten for the world—not unless he had to."
"Then he is a milk-sop too," said Jack. "I dare say he never fired a gun in his life."
"He shot a bear only last winter, and that is more than you ever did, or will do in a hurry, I guess."
"I guess! Hear the little Yankee!" cried Jack and Julia together.
"Julia, you are very rude!" said Emily, reprovingly. "I should think 'you' would have more sense. Don't you know what mother said? Come, Olivia, never mind; let's go and see the rabbits."
"What did your mother say?" I asked as we walked away together.
"She said you were a stranger and a foreigner, and we were not to laugh at you if you did make mistakes," answered Emily. "I don't see anything more ridiculous in saying 'I guess' than in a great many words the boys use, but it sounds odd, you know."
We were looking at the rabbits when the boys came upon us again.
"I say! Don't you be vexed, Miss What's-your-name," said Jack; "I didn't mean any harm."
"I'm not Miss What's-your-name,' thank you," I answered, laughing, for his manner was so frank I could not be angry. "My name is Olivia Corbet, at your service," making him a courtesy as I spoke.
"Well, Miss Olivia Corbet, then. There's a first-rate fellow at our school named Corbet," said Jack. "Tell us about the bear your brother killed, will you?"
"I will after school, perhaps," said I. "It is time for us to go in now."
After recess, as I had no work ready, Miss Talbot allowed me to read "The Deserted Village" the rest of the morning. So I passed my time very pleasantly.
That afternoon Mrs. Deborah and I walked to the village and bought materials for a piece of worsted work—carpet-work we called it then. It was to be a cushion for mother, and I was much pleased with the idea of working it.
After this beginning, my school-days went on very prosperously for a while. Miss Talbot was an excellent teacher, and we got on well together, though I often horrified her with what she called "my American notions." Finding, what she had been rather doubtful about, that I really did understand English grammar and arithmetic, she enlarged the circle of my studies by the addition of Goldsmith's "Rome" and some "History of England,"—I don't know whose. It was not much more than a compendium of names and dates. I had soon been made free of the book-cases at home by Mrs. Deborah, and I had routed out the fine folio copy of "Chronicle," into which I plunged over head and ears. Miss Talbot insisted on my remembering the dates. I read the stories out of my "Chronicle;" and putting them together, I got a capital grounding in the early part of English history.
With the children I did very well. Julia was a careless, good-natured slattern, always in disgrace with Miss Talbot, and never caring a pin so long as she had not extra tasks to learn. The boys were rough cubs who ordered their sisters about and made them wait on them more than was at all proper, in my estimation. Me they sometimes petted and sometimes tried to tease, but I was quite a match for them; and though we now and then disagreed, we usually got on very well.
Once, however, we had a serious quarrel. Jack was teasing me about being a Yankee; and proceeding to greater lengths than usual, he declared that all the Yankees were traitors, and that Washington ought to have been hung. That was too much for my patience, and my old temper flamed up. I gave him a sound box on the ear with all my little force, and then burst into tears and ran away. Nor would I speak to him that whole day, and I was almost equally vexed with Emily, the universal peace-maker, because she said I need not have minded Jack.
I went home with a heart full of anger and a terrible headache, which sent me at once to bed. I was not able to go to school the next day, but spent the time helping Mrs. Deborah and Mrs. Austin in the still-room, as they called it, a very interesting place to me, where Mrs. Deborah distilled peppermint water and lavender water and all sorts of medicines and cordials which she gave away to the poor people in the village.
By and by she asked me if I would go into the park and bring her some handfuls of ground ivy, which grew near the path by which I went to the rectory. I was gathering my ivy when Rover, Jack's dog, jumped upon me, as usual; and looking up, I saw Jack himself; looking very shame-faced indeed.
"I say, Olivia, I'm sorry I teased you yesterday," said he. "Won't you make up friends?"
"If it was only myself; Jack, I would in a minute," I answered, gravely and sorrowfully, "but I'm afraid I can't get over what you said about Washington and the Yankees. My father fought in the army seven years, and I don't think I can like anybody who says he ought to be hanged."
"Well, I'll take it back—every word of it," said Jack, earnestly; "and I like you all the better for sticking up for your own side. Come, I'll give you Beauty's black pup if you'll only be friends again."
"I don't want the black pup," said I, feeling, at the same time, that Jack must be very much in earnest to offer his chief treasure for the purpose of making amends. "If you take it back, that's all about it, and I am sorry I boxed your ears. It was very unlady-like."
"It served me just right," averred Jack; and that was the end of the quarrel.
But my school-days with Miss Talbot soon came to an end, to my great regret: My head had not been quite comfortable since the night of the shipwreck, and it began to be very troublesome. I had a headache every evening and the nightmare almost every night. I had spots before my eyes and was often giddy. Mrs. Deborah attended very carefully to my diet and exercise, but all did no good. Mr. Wyndham came down just at this time, and was so alarmed at the state in which he found me that he sent over to Plymouth for a doctor.
Doctor Selden was an elderly man, and was considered quite an oracle in those parts. He put me in mind of our own old Doctor Partrige, and I liked him at once for that reason. He questioned me very particularly about my feelings and about how long I had been ill. I told him that I had always been subject to sick headaches, but that those I now had were different and I never had them till after the wreck, adding that my head had never felt quite right since.
The doctor looked rather grave upon this, and he held a long consultation with Mrs. Deborah, from which I was excluded. At last I was called in, and heard the result of the conference. I was not to have any more lessons to learn at present, but was to run about is the open air as much as possible, and to sleep whenever I felt like sleeping. Doctor Selden did not think I should need any medicine, except, some simple tonic, perhaps, but he was quite decided about my lessons. I was dreadfully disappointed and distressed by this decision, and began to cry.
"Heyday!" said the doctor. "What sort of little girl is this who cries because she has no lessons to do?"
"Olivia is very fond of her books," said Mrs. Deborah.
"Fond or not, we must not have no more lessons at present," answered the doctor, "and Olivia must be a sensible girl and make the best of it. Is it not better to stop lessons a while than to lose your mind altogether? Come, now, let me see that you are a little lady."
I was ashamed of my tears, and stopped crying as quickly as I could, but I felt much grieved at losing my lessons and my pleasant hours at the rectory, for I had grown very fond of the family there. The girls were as much troubled as myself; and promised to come and see me as often as they could. Mrs. Fuller consoled me better than any one else. She talked to me very kindly, and told me that I must not give up all thoughts of learning because I could not use my books.
"A great many things can be learned without books," said she; "you have found that out already, I am sure, since you told me how you learned to make butter and spin, and help your mamma in other ways. If I were you, I would try to cultivate all sorts of pleasant and graceful and helpful habits. Learn to watch for chances to do small services as well as great ones—to thread a needle or pick up a spool or set a chair or open a door. Try to think of pleasant things to say, and learn to discipline that quick temper," she added, smiling, "so as not to be annoyed when Mrs. Angelica interferes. Oh, I assure you, you can make these idle hours and days among the best school-days of your life if you only take pains with them."
I felt very much comforted by Mrs. Fuller's suggestions, and determined to take her advice. And as I walked homeward through the park considered what I had better do first.
"There is my carpet-work—I think I might do a little at that every day; and I might knit some stockings. I wish I had my spinning-wheel; I'm sure I could spin. Anyhow I will Mrs. Deborah for some yarn, and I will knit some stockings for that poor old man who lives by himself near the church-yard."
Mrs. Deborah was much pleased when I told her my plan about the stockings, and promised to get me some yarn directly.
Men wore long stockings in those days—not socks, as they do now—and a pair of worsted stockings was quite an undertaking. However, thanks to mother's instructions and to lifelong practice, I was a very fast knitter, and I had no fears of not being able finish my task before cold weather.
Mrs. Deborah was very kind to me. She made a great many errands for me to the rectory and the village. She let me gather herbs and berries and mushrooms, and help her in distilling her medicines after her old-fashioned recipes; and very funny recipes some of them were. I remember one famous medicine had two handfuls of red earth-worms and half as many pounded snails in it. Others were very nice, like the rose cordial and lavender compound and the conserves of rose leaves and of hips, which are the berries of the wild rose.
I used to go with Mrs. Deborah to see the poor people; and while I acknowledge her goodness and kindness of heart, I used to wonder whether the poor women really liked to have us come in on them so unceremoniously, and to have Mrs. Deborah lecture them on their house-keeping.
One day Mrs. Angelica, who hardly ever went beyond the garden except to church, asked me if my mamma visited the poor.
"I don't think we have any poor people, Mrs. Angelica," said I—"not what we call poor people here."
"But, my dear, you must have them," argued Mrs. Angelica; "there are poor people everywhere."
I tried to think of the poor people I had known in Lee.
"There was Widow Benson; she used to have help from the town," said I; "but she lived in a nice wooden house with a board floor and a rag carpet."
"My dear, not a carpet! You must be mistaken. I don't think a poor person would have a boarded floor, much less a carpet, even if it were ragged."
"It was not ragged, it was quite whole all over, and everybody has board floors in America," said I. "I never saw a brick floor in my life till I came here. Father would hardly think his cows could live in such places as some of the poor people live in here," which was quite true. Father would hardly have kept his pigs in a hovel such as more than one decent family inhabited on the duke's estate.
"But, my dear, I am sure you said a ragged carpet."
"I said a 'rag' carpet," answered I; and I tried to explain the matter, but without much success. "Then there is Mrs. Winslow: she is pretty poor, but she is just as good as anybody. She takes tea with the minister's wife, and Mr. Henderson lends her his books and papers, I know. Sometimes mother used to send her nice things to eat when she wasn't well; but whenever we gave her anything, she used to send something back—berries or dried herbs, or something."
But I did not succeed in enlightening Mrs. Angelica very much on the state of American society. In fact, it never seemed possible to add to her stock of ideas in any way.
Mrs. Angelica was almost the only vexation I had, and she "was" a vexation; there was no denying it. Kind-hearted, lady-like, and really conscientious as she was, her "ways," as Mrs. Austin called them, were always making people uncomfortable. One of these ways was her pertinacity. She never could make up her mind to give anything up. No amount of evidence had any weight with her, and she would persist in arguing—if that could be called arguing which consisted in repeating the same assertion over and over—till every one else was tired of the subject.
Her insisting upon my taking camphor julep or chamomile tea for my headaches was just a specimen of her way of sticking to some particular point. It was utterly useless to tell her that Doctor Selden had said I did not need medicine, and indeed had forbidden my taking it.
"But then, Sister Deborah, you know it did help Austin."
"But the child's headaches are quite different, Sister Angelica, and do not proceed from the same cause."
"No doubt you are right—you are always right, Sister Deborah," she would say, quite submissively; "but my dear mother thought there was nothing like camphor julep for the headache, and I am sure it would do the dear child no harm."
Another of her "ways" was that she never could let one alone. Whatever I was doing, she always wanted me to stop and do something else. If I was knitting, she was sure I was getting a headache over it, and I ought to get up and run about the garden. If I was at work in the garden, "it was very bad for my complexion to be out in the wind." If I was reading, she thought it "such a pity I should not finish my pretty carpet-work, after all the pains Sister Deborah had been at to buy the wool and canvas;" and when the carpet-work was in hand, it was "such a pity I should not take such a fine day to walk over to the village;" and so on to the end of the chapter.
"Nonsense, Sister Angelica! Let the child alone," Mrs. Deborah would say; and then came the inevitable—
"No doubt you are right, Sister Deborah—you are always right; but I do think—" and then she would say it all over again. It really was a great trial of patience to a lively child of twelve years old—far worse than Aunt Belinda's strictest rules, for in them one could see some sense, and they were at least uniform in their action.
I had need of all my principles, and of all the love and respect which I felt for Mrs. Deborah and Mr. Wyndham, to enable me to bear patiently with the poor old lady. Mrs. Deborah herself, though she would not allow me to be "hunted about," as she said, never lost patience with her sister, not even when, as now and then happened, Mrs. Angelica had a fit of feeling abused, when she would sigh and weep for two or three days together over some fancied slight or neglect, and end by keeping her room perhaps for three or four days together. Yes, Mrs. Angelica certainly was a trial.
It was on my birth-day that Mrs. Deborah had a fall on a slippery place in the garden, and so got a broken arm and a sprained ankle, which kept her on the sofa almost all the rest of the winter. She suffered a great deal for a time, and was quite helpless still longer. It was wonderful, considering the active life she usually led, to see how cheerful she was under her confinement and pain. Mrs. Angelica was worse than nobody in a sick-room. Her only notion of usefulness seemed to consist in poking the fire till it burned furiously, in shutting out every breath of air, and in asking Mrs. Deborah once in five minutes, especially if she were trying to sleep, whether she felt better.