"Since you could not take her without danger, it is well that she has made up her mind to remain with my Lady Corbet!" observed Dame Joyce, who had run in to hear and tell the latest news about the fever, the Irish army King James was bringing over, and the dreadful doings of the papists. "The Corbets are fine, open-handed people, and can pay them that serve them—that is one thing."
"And suppose they can—is that any reason my niece should endanger her precious life and put me to all this inconvenience?" said Dame Evans, turning angrily upon her visitor. "Thank goodness, we are not dependent upon the pay of great folks, nor need to be, seeing we have means of our own, and know how to use them too, if we don't wear lace whisks and camlet gowns every day!" casting a glance of supreme contempt upon the somewhat superabundant finery of the goldsmith's wife.
Good, easy Dame Joyce laughed, and addressed herself to Master Evans.
"And so you are going out into the country, for all the world like gentlefolks. But maybe you will not be so much better off, for they say the fever was very bad at Bridgewater last time. Who knows," she added mischievously, "that the seeds of the fever may not be remaining in the house, since your father and sister died of it, and the place has been shut up for so long?"
"I'll tell you what, Mistress Joyce, you are not to judge every one by yourself," said Dame Evans, sharply. "You won't find any slat-holes or filthy, dirty cupboards about my place, or my sister's either, for ill smells and sickness to lurk in. It is my opinion that if folks were as careful as they should be to keep clean and decent, we should not have so much of these fevers!" A remark in which the good woman was undoubtedly correct.
"Well, well, dame, we will not quarrel about that!" said Mrs. Joyce. "What are you going to do about your niece?"
"I'm sure I don't know!" said Dame Evans, pettishly. "I don't quite like to leave her behind, but I don't see how we are to take her, now that she has been exposed to the fever."
"Yes, and so bad as they have it, too!" said Mrs. Joyce, who seemed to take delight in tormenting her neighbor. "Their servants have all run away, men and maids and all, except old Sarah Ashwell and the blackamoor who waits on Sir John."
"Winifred must do as she thinks right," said Master Evans, who had not spoken before. "If the family is in such straits, I do not believe she will leave them, nor can I blame her if she does not. Nevertheless she must have the choice of going with us or staying behind, as she thinks best. Perhaps, when she knows we are going to the Stonehill farm, she may change her mind."
"And that is true, too!" said Dame Evans. "I will see her this afternoon, and I doubt not I can bring her to reason. She has been well brought up—not like some people's children, left to go to rack and ruin, while their mother goes about the street to show her finery."
Dame Evans always bestowed these hints and innuendoes upon her easy-tempered neighbor in great abundance: nevertheless she would have felt herself much aggrieved if Dame Joyce had not run in at least every other day to give her the news of the street and the city.
Dame Evans dressed herself with extra care for walking, and, having set the little girls their tasks of knitting and sewing, she sallied out and took her way to Sir John Corbet's house, fortifying her mind with all the arguments she could think of wherewith to overcome Winifred's obstinacy. She would not come within the door, but remained in the court while Jack called Winifred out of the housekeeper's room.
"There, don't come too near me, child!" said Dame Evans, shrinking back. "I suppose you have just come from that poor young lady's sickbed."
"Yes, I have been over her all day," replied Winifred. "Will you come into the house, aunt, or will you walk into the garden?"
"Let us go into the garden," said Dame Evans, though she felt a great desire to see the fine house of which she had heard so much. "We shall be in the fresh air at least."
Winifred opened the gate which led into the garden, and conducted her aunt to a pleasant little arbor at the opposite end from the house.
"Well, this is a fine place, to be sure!" said Dame Evans, looking about her. "What a large garden, and what a great house! Which is Mrs. Paulina's room, now?"
"That one with the projecting window and the open casement."
"You don't mean to say you leave the window open, and she lying ill of a fever!" exclaimed Dame Evans, in horror. "What can you be thinking of, child? 'Tis enough to be her death!"
"It is by the doctor's orders," said Winifred. "He is a new doctor from London, who is taking care of the family."
"Aye, some of those new-fangled notions! No doubt, he must be setting up to know more than all his elders and betters. Tis the way of this age! I dare say the poor child will die, and Sir John too."
"Almost every one does die who has the fever, anyway," observed Winifred. "Perhaps it may be well to try some new method, since the old ones certainly seem to answer no good purpose."
"Well, well, 'twas not for that I came," said Dame Evans, pettishly. "I want to know what you mean, Winifred, by staying here in this plague-stricken house? Why did you not come home directly Mrs. Paulina was taken? And now they say all the maids have run away—idle, cowardly jades! I'll be bound I'd teach them! And who is to do anything?"
"Why, aunt, it seems to me that I should have been as bad as the maids, if I had gone away and left the family in their distress!" said Winifred. "Why not?"
"Why not, gurtha! Why, because they are hired servants bound to stay till their quarter-day, whatever happens! Do you mean to even yourself to a common serving-wench?"
"No, and for that reason I would not be willing to leave in their trouble a family who have been kind to me. The maids are poor, ignorant creatures, of whom we cannot expect a great deal. I should not like to show that I am worth no more than they!" added Winifred, smiling.
"Well, well!" said her aunt, somewhat taken aback by being thus met on her own ground. "All that does not signify. What I want to know is, whether you will go out to Stonehill farm with us to-morrow or no. The house is empty, and business here is dull, besides that the fever is already growing bad down by the water-side, and you uncle hath concluded to take a holiday for once and go into the country for a month. He says that you shall have your choice, for all you have behaved so ill, and are just as like as not to bring the fever among us," added the dame, falling into her usual grumbling strain. "But you must make up your mind quickly."
For one moment Winifred's heart bounded. To see the old place once more—to visit all the old haunts where she had walked with her mother—to go over the Hall and the gardens, and walk across the moor to Dame Sprat's old cottage! But long before Dame Evans had finished her speech, Winifred's mind was made up.
She glanced up at Paulina's casement, and then at the window of the school-room, where she could see the little girl anxiously watching her. Then she thought how lonely and sad all the old haunts would seem, with none of the dear familiar faces—the once cheerful farm-house under the different rule of her aunt, who never allowed any one about her to be happy if she could help it; and she felt as if she had little to regret.
"No, aunt, I cannot go!" she replied. "It would not be right, as you say, to expose you all to the fever, and besides I am needed here. Madam must needs be with Sir John, and Ashwell will have her hands full, besides that she will not follow the doctor's rules in anything. Then there is Betty, who will mind no one but me. No, I do not see well how I can go."
"Mighty well!" grumbled her aunt, who, though inwardly relieved by Winifred's decision, was not disposed to let it pass without a proper amount of fault-finding. "Mighty fine, indeed! I suppose you learned all that out of your books that you are always poring over? To my mind, such fine notions are only fit for gentlefolks—though I suppose you think yourself a gentlewoman, as good as the best. Look out for yourself, that is my notion!"
"But, aunt, the Bible—"
"Oh, don't go talking to me about the Bible, Mrs. Winifred!" retorted the dame, not unwilling to work herself into a passion, that she might stifle certain unpleasant qualms of conscience. "The Bible is all well enough for Sundays and such like, and for sick people, maybe, but I never saw any good come of those folks who are always making a fuss about the Bible and religion. They were just the people who got up Monmouth's war, and made all that distress. If there is anything I do despise, it is a hypocrite. But your uncle says you are to have your own way, so I must e'en leave you to your own destruction!" added Dame Evans, in whose mind existed a great contention between her selfish fears and her real affection for her niece. "'Twill be worth a fortune to you if you do live through it, that is one thing, for the Corbets are generous people, and they will never forget it of you. I should not wonder if it should be the making of you. But then, if you should die!"
"Then I shall go home, indeed!" said Winifred, with her sad smile. "And that will be better than going to Stonehill."
"Mrs. Evans, here's Missy Polly a-calling for you!" called Jack.
"Ah, the ugly ape! How any one can bear a blackamoor about them, I can't tell!" said Dame Evans, rising.
"Well, good-bye, lovey! Take care of yourself!" And her heart getting for once the better of her fears, she threw both her arms round her niece, and kissed her, crying heartily. "Whatever happens, I will always say that you have been a good, dutiful girl—that you have! I will send by the 'prentice lad all your things, and as to the money you have earned—"
"Dear aunt, please keep that, and buy with it the pair of pewter tankards you liked so much, to remember your little Winifred! I have money by me, and Lady Corbet will let me want for nothing."
"Well, well, we shall see about that. But, Winifred—" turning back at the last moment—"is it true that Mrs. Paulina has turned papist?"
"No, I should think not," answered Winifred. "I have seen no signs of it."
"Well, all I know is that neighbor Joyce says so, and pretends that she had her news from her sister Jones, who is a papist herself. Dame Joyce says she has been seen talking with that Doctor Butler they make such a fuss about, and people talk of her giving him meetings and going to confession. Moreover she is sure that she herself saw Mrs. Paulina in the new Romish chapel on Ascension-day, whither she went herself—more shame to her—to see the sights. She says Mrs. Paulina had her hood pulled over her face, but she knew her directly!"
"I hardly think that can be true. Dame Joyce must be mistaken."
"Not she! She has eyes in the back of her head, I think. Well, farewell, sweetheart, and God bless thee!"
Winifred returned to the chamber of her patient, too much startled by what she had just heard to think as much as she would otherwise have done of the parting with her aunt. She could not believe the story, and yet, if it were true, it explained many little things which had puzzled her. Paulina's severe penances—her evident desire of late to avoid the Bible readings—her self-righteous notions—her reserved and burdened air, as if she had always something to conceal—all tended that way!
Nay, upon that very Ascension-day, Paulina had refused to go to church with the rest on the ground of a headache, which excuse was fully borne out by her paleness and her heavy, downcast eyes. She remembered, too, that, when they returned, Paulina was nowhere to be found, and that by-and-by she had come in from the garden, looking flurried and flushed. Could it possibly be that the girl was deceiving her parents and all about her? And if so, what could be done about the matter?
The last year of James the Second's most unfortunate reign was one of great activity among that portion of the English Roman Catholics—not by any means the most respectable or intelligent portion—who with the king were guided by the counsels of the Jesuits rather than by those of the pope. What might be called the Country party believed with the pontiff that James was injuring the cause instead of benefiting it, and that a reaction must inevitably follow, which would leave the English Roman Catholics in a worse position than ever. Events proved them to have been in the right, but nothing could induce the king or his advisers to pause in their career. A good many people joined themselves to them, some from policy, some, no doubt, from sincere conviction, and the new recruits were more zealous than those who had grown up in the faith from their childhood.
Amongst the most important converts in the city of Bristol was the Doctor Butler who has been more than once mentioned. Though considered a skilful physician, he had never been a man of good character, and more than one family had had reason to repent the confidence placed in him. Since his conversion by Father Hewling, the principal Jesuit in the city, he had professed great repentance for his former misdeeds, and an equal desire to atone for them by his zeal in the new religion, but Father Kennedy, the harmless, good-natured old secular priest who had looked after the spiritual interests of the few old Catholic families in Bristol for thirty years, shook his head and raised his eyebrows when the doctor was mentioned, and would not say one word in his favor.
Winifred found Paulina, roused from her stupor, and raving in delirium, declaring that Ashwell meant to suffocate her. With some trouble she was persuaded to lie down, and her face being bathed with rose-water, and the casement opened, she soon became quiet again.
"Very well, Mrs. Evans, mighty well, indeed!" said the old woman, trembling with rage. "Only when you are called to account for the death of that dear child, don't blame me! As if I, that nursed her and her sister from their birth, and took care of all my five sisters in the fever when they every one died, was to be taught my duty by a chit like you!"
"But, Mrs. Ashwell, such are the doctor's orders! It is none of my doing."
"Yes, you and your new-fangled doctor! Well, well, I wash my hands of it!" And the old woman hobbled down-stairs, muttering to herself that it should go hard but she would get better advice for her darling—that she would, indeed!
All day long did Winifred go from one sick-room to another, and from the kitchen to the school-room. An attempt had been made to isolate the throe younger girls, but it was found impracticable, and they were merely kept out of the presence of the sufferers. Even this did not seem likely to be possible for any great length of time, since Sir John claimed the whole of Lady Corbet's attention, with what help she could receive from black Jack; and Ashwell's inveterate prejudice against the doctor made her worse than useless in the sick-room.
The little girls were very good, waiting upon themselves and making a conscience of doing some part of their usual tasks every day. They were very kind and patient with Betty, and Betty herself, warned by the violence of her late attack, and helped by the forbearance with which she was treated, had fewer "tantrums," as Ashwell called them, than ever before in her life.
Paulina's case was the worst of all. Day by day she sank more and more under the power of the disease, her lucid intervals became fewer, and her delirium worse in its character. Doctor Mercer came to see her twice a day, and sometimes oftener, but all his remedies seemed powerless to arrest the course of the disease. He had become very popular among the poorer class in the city, helped, probably, by the fact that he gave away liberally both advice and medicine, but few of the upper classes employed him, and by most of the medical fraternity, he was denounced in no measured terms. What indeed was to be expected of a man who would have the casements of his patients' rooms opened all day, and sometimes all night, and allowed the sick to drink as much cold water as they desired!
"Well, and how is our young lady to-day?" he asked, one morning, of Winifred, as she met him at the door of Paulina's room.
"Worse and worse!" said Winifred, with tears in her eyes. "She has not spoken or shown any sign of sense since midnight."
"Aye, I think this will be the crisis," said the doctor, as he examined the patient, whose senses now appeared closed to all external impressions, while her sunken features seemed already to have assumed the immobility of death. "You must not be discouraged, however. The case is not yet hopeless so long as she can swallow, but you must watch her carefully, for the next twenty-four hours will decide the question of life or death. I have not seen so bad a case as hers among any of my Protestant patients."
"Is the fever, then, worse among the papists?" asked Winifred.
"The worst cases I have met with seem to have been among those who were at the new Romish chapel on Ascension-day," replied the doctor. "It seems there was a great crowd, and the heat was intense. I suppose I have had at least twenty cases which originated there, all taken down at once. And, by the way, this young lady was attacked at the very same time. It can hardly be, I suppose, that she was among them?"
Winifred thought, with a start, of her aunt's gossip, which had nearly faded from her mind.
"I cannot believe it!" said she. "Lady Corbet would never allow such a thing, and I cannot think Mrs. Paulina would deceive her parents. She always went to the early morning prayers at the cathedral, rather against the will of her mother, who, however, permitted it, partly because Mrs. Paulina was delicate, and the walk was thought good for her."
"Did she go alone?" asked Doctor Mercer.
"No, one of the maids, who lately left us, went with her."
"Hath she ever seemed to you to have any burden upon her mind?"
"I have sometimes thought so, especially during the two weeks before she was taken ill. But why do you ask, Doctor Mercer? Have you any suspicions?" asked Winifred.
"I can hardly tell you why, but I certainly have!" answered Doctor Mercer. "You know the Jesuits are making converts all over the nation. I will not conceal from you, Mrs. Evans, that I have heard some such reports about this poor young lady, and I fear she may have fallen among the Philistines, as the phrase is. But that is not our business just now. We will bring our patient through the present distress, if possible, and then we will see what can be done."
Doctor Mercer gave Winifred very particular directions about the treatment of Paulina, charging her to watch her most carefully, visited the other patients and pronounced them to be going on favorably, all but coaxed old Ashwell into a good humor, and then went home to snatch such rest as he could before he should be called out again.
The day waned into evening, and still Paulina continued apparently unconscious and motionless, though she swallowed what was put into her mouth. The house grew still as the grave, save where a mouse squeaked or rattled down the wall, or some of those unaccountable creaks and rustlings which are always to be heard by a watcher in an old house, made themselves audible. The night drew towards dawn, and still there was no change. At last, a bird chirped in the dark garden below, and was answered by another.
"Winifred!" said a faint, oh, such a faint voice from the bed. "Are you here, Winifred?"
"Yes, dear child!" answered Winifred, striving to speak calmly, although her heart bounded as if she had heard a voice from the dead. "You are better, are you not?"
"Winifred!" said Paulina, arresting her hand as she put a spoonful of wine and water to the parched lips. "It is all true—all the doctor said! I heard, though I could not speak. It is all true!"
"Do not talk now, Paulina," said Winifred. "I trust you are better, and that you will have ample time to say all you wish, but you must not speak now. Your life depends upon your keeping quiet."
"I 'must!'" said Paulina, detaining Winifred's hand with more force than seemed possible in her weak state. "I shall not be better till this is off my mind. Is my father living?"
"Yes, and going on well. Your mother is with him."
"My sisters?"
"Are all well, as yet. Dear Paulina, be quiet, I beseech you!"
"I tell you, Winifred, I 'must' speak!" said Paulina, almost fiercely. "I must tell the truth before I die! Listen, that you may tell my parents, if I do not see them again!"
Winifred felt, for a moment, in an agony of indecision and distress. The next, her own calm, good sense, and the habit of looking to a Higher Power for aid, quieted her, and she made up her mind what to do.
"Speak then, dear, if it will relieve your mind, but be short. You wish to tell me that you were at the Romish chapel on Ascension-day?"
"Yes, and before—many times!"
Paulina's voice was weak, and she spoke with many pauses, but her words were clear and coherent, and her skin felt cool and natural.
"When you thought I went to the cathedral—I went to the chapel!"
"But Molly?" exclaimed Winifred, astonished.
"I bribed her. She waited outside. It was Doctor Butler who took me there. I met him at my cousin's, and then at my Lady Germaine's. They are Catholics, you know, but she was not to blame, nor Father Kennedy. They said I was deceiving my parents—that it would come to no good. Doctor Butler took me to Father Hewling. They flattered and coaxed me, especially Doctor Butler."
"But how could you have anything to do with him?" Winifred could not help saying. "You knew what a bad man he has been, and all the trouble he made in your cousin Chester's family. It has been town talk!"
"I was a conceited fool!" said Paulina. "He made me think myself a martyr and a saint, and persuaded me to deceive my mother. I was wretched all the time. I see all now—all so clearly!"
"You mean that you see the truth now," said Winifred, fearing the effect of every word, yet desiring, for the sake of the poor girl's parents, to have something of comfort to repeat.
"Yes, indeed—all! Winifred, say those verses in the Communion Service."
Winifred's gentle voice repeated the "comfortable words."
Paulina caught eagerly at the last verse. "Yes, that is it! He is the propitiation. It has all been made plain to me the last few hours! I could think, though I could not speak. Oh, how I have been misled!"
"Paulina, you must not say one word more!" said Winifred, with the authority she well knew how to assume. "I shall find it hard to answer to the doctor for what has already passed. Now take some more wine, be silent, and let me read you to sleep."
"Pray—pray!" said Paulina, eagerly. "For forgiveness—that I may make amends to my dear parents!"
Winifred knelt by the bedside, and prayed as desired, and then, softly repeating psalms and verses of Scripture, she had at last the satisfaction of seeing her patient sink into a quiet sleep. She herself was worn out by watching, and, leaning her head upon the bedside, she slumbered for half an hour, starting like a guilty creature, as the first rays of the sun aroused her. Full of terror and reproach, she glanced at her patient.
Paulina was sleeping, her breathing faint indeed, but regular, while a change, indescribable save to those who have seen it, had come over her face.
"Surely, surely she must be—she is better!" thought Winifred. "Oh, if she is but spared after all!"
She drew the curtain to shut out the sun, and as she did so, the sick girl awoke—not as before to muttering delirium or sad, half-conscious moaning, but with a look of full reason and a faint, but natural smile.
"You are better, sweetheart!" said Winifred, bending over her.
"O yes! Surely I am better! My mind and body are in most bland ease. Is this the lighting up before death of which I have heard, or am I going to get well?"
Winifred half feared the first, and anxiously did she await the doctor's opinion.
He came very early, with his soft footstep, and entered the room before she was aware of his presence. His first look reassured her.
"Here is a change indeed!" said he, cheerily, as he examined the patient. "You mean to do me credit yet, I see, my fair mistress."
"Then she is really better!" said Winifred, hardly able to credit the words she had so earnestly desired to hear.
"Of course! Cannot you see for yourself?" returned the doctor, roughly but kindly. "I do not say we are out of the woods yet, but with care and good nursing, I trust we shall do well."
"I shall be sure to be well nursed while I have Winifred!" said Paulina, smiling.
"See you do as she bids you, then. And look you, young lady, I will have no talking. I am Fine Ear the fairy, and can tell when my patients are misbehaving, though I were at the other end of the town; so do not think to deceive me!"
"I will not," said Paulina, sadly smiling. "I have had enough of that!"
"Yes, I should think so!" muttered the doctor. "Now, Mrs. Winifred, since that is your name, come with me that I may give you further directions."
As they left the room, they met Ashwell, so near the door that it seemed as if she must have been listening. The old woman trembled visibly as the doctor's eye fell upon her, and seemed as if she would have shrunk out of sight, but he called her.
"See here, Dame Ashwell! Do you sit by Mrs. Paulina awhile, and let our other nurse rest for a few minutes. Give her the wine and water every half hour, and do not let her talk.—I believe that old woman has a hand in this business!" he added, as they passed on down-stairs. "I saw her last night, as I came down the street, talking with Butler at the garden gate."
"I cannot think so," said Winifred. "She is a zealous Protestant. She has talked sometimes of getting better advice for her young lady, for she is as much alarmed as my aunt at the fresh air and cold water. It might be that which took her to Doctor Butler."
"Possibly. Well, Mrs. Evans, I have run the fox to earth at last, I do believe! I have heard the whole tale of Mrs. Paulina's church-goings."
"And so have I," said Winifred.
"Indeed! From whom?"
"From the culprit herself." And Winifred repeated what had passed, adding: "I feared it was wrong to let her talk, but I saw that she would never rest while it was on her mind."
"You acted sensibly, as usual. Well, you must know, I was called last night, as soon as I left here to see a poor woman not far from the water-side. I knew the moment I set eyes on her that she had not a chance, and I suppose she read it in my face, for she fell a-screaming and crying, and calling for a clergyman, that she might free her mind. I sent a lad for Mr. Gunnison, who hath been unwearied in visiting the poor (as I must say, so have most of the city clergy), but he had gone out, so I was fain to do what I could to take his place, at least so far as to comfort the poor creature by Scripture and prayers. But she said she must tell what was on her mind, and at last out it came—that she had been bribed by Mrs. Paulina and Doctor Butler both, to be a sort of go-between; that she had carried messages, and had gone with Paulina to chapel when her friends supposed her at church; and she feared she had been the ruin of her dear young lady.
"I was startled at first, and did not know what to fear, but she guessed my thought, and eagerly assured me that I was mistaken, that Mrs. Paulina had never been alone with the man nor with the priest, but would always have her near, though not to hear what they said. She begged me to ask forgiveness of Sir John and Lady Corbet, who, she said, had ever been good to her, and of Mrs. Paulina, and died at last, poor thing, in great distress, though I believe sincerely penitent."
"Poor Molly!" said Winifred. "She was a great favorite with madam and with Ashwell, but she was the first to desert us. I am heartily glad the truth has come out in time to save further mischief. But is it not strange that my old Lady Germaine, who has always been a friend to this family, should not have told Lady Corbet what was going on?"
"She hardly dared go as far as that, I suppose," remarked the doctor. "I believe many of the old Catholic families are grieved and distressed at the present state of things, and their position is a very painful one. For of course, if they say a word, they are taxed by the zealous party as being lukewarm and betrayers of the Church. Truly this nation is in evil case! Are you feeling quite well this morning?" he asked, changing the subject abruptly and scrutinizing Winifred's face closely.
"I feel more tired than usual, and my head seems both drowsy and confused," replied Winifred. "I suppose it comes from want of sleep."
"I should not wonder," returned the doctor, dryly. "Few people learn to do without sleep altogether, though we doctors come near to it in these times. You must lie down this morning and have a good nap. I do not quite like trusting Ashwell with our patient, either, but I see no help for it."
"Doctor Mercer," said Winifred, gravely, "I think we should call Lady Corbet and tell her all we know of this distressful matter. She is a lady of great sense and discernment where her children are concerned, and will know what is the best course in the present conjuncture."
"I believe you are right. The straight course is best in the end; and though I dread adding to her burdens, I think, with you, that she should know the whole."
Lady Corbet was therefore called out of Sir John's room. And Winifred related the story, interrupted by many tears and exclamations of distress and wonder from the poor mother.
"That I should have been so deceived by my own child, whom I believed to be the pattern of truth, for all her peevish ways! And my old Lady Germaine, that I thought such a friend!"
"I imagine she had little free-will," remarked the doctor.
"To be sure, I remember now she hath of late given me many hints as to letting the girls go out without me, and allowing them so much liberty," resumed Lady Corbet, "but she is always giving advice, poor old lady, and she thinks the young women of the present day are allowed too much license. And Molly, whom I thought such a good girl! And that wretch, Doctor Butler! Well, thank Heaven, Mrs. Winifred, I have you and Ashwell left, and upon you I can depend!"
"I am not so sure of Ashwell," said the doctor, and he related what he had seen the evening before.
Lady Corbet wrung her hands in renewed distress, but, suddenly collecting herself, she spoke with much dignity and feeling.
"I thank you, Doctor Mercer, and you, Winifred, for the way in which you have dealt in this delicate matter. I need not say how necessary it is for my poor child's sake, that nothing should transpire out of the family more than has already. I will myself stay with Pall, while Winifred rests. Jack can easily do all which is needed for Sir John, who sleeps almost all the time. You, Winifred, will go to your own room and take a good rest, which I am certain you need. God bless you, my dear! It was a happy day which brought you to this house."
Ashwell had established herself in Paulina's room, and was evidently taken very much aback by her lady's orders "to betake herself to the kitchen, see that things were made decent and comfortable, and have Sir John's broth ready against he needed it." She began to say something about Jack's making the broth, but was cut very short, and went down-stairs, muttering to herself as usual.
"Not a word, my poor maid!" said Lady Corbet, as Paulina began to speak. "I have heard all, and you have my full and free pardon, so long as you do not attempt to deceive me again. I take blame to myself as a careless mother—"
"No, no!" interrupted Paulina. "It was my pride and self-conceit—thinking myself wiser than all the world!"
"Well, well, we will let by-gones be by-gones, as your father's Scotch cousin hath it," said her mother, smiling, and kissing her. "I will not deny that you have always been somewhat prone to be wiser than your elders, since you used to advise me upon household matters before you could speak plain. Show that you have learnt more wisdom by obeying the doctor's orders, and not trying to talk when you are forbid to speak a word! There, that smile is more like my own little Pall than aught I have seen this many a day."
Winifred had a long and deep sleep, and awoke feeling somewhat giddy and confused. A plentiful ablution of cold water and the process of dressing refreshed her. Startled to find by the striking of the clock how long she had slept, she went straight down to the housekeeper's room, where she was amazed at finding Ashwell drowned in tears and sobs. Her first thought was that Paulina was worse, perhaps dying.
"No, no!" sobbed Ashwell. "Poor dear, she is better, if I have not killed her! But oh, Mrs. Winifred, intercede with my lady for me. I meant no harm, and if I had but known that he was trying to make a papist of Mrs. Pall, I would never have come near him. But I thought the doctor was killing her, and the windows open and all—"
Ashwell became totally incoherent, and her words were drowned in sobs.
"What do you mean, Ashwell?" asked Winifred, bewildered. "What has happened?"
It was not easy to get at the story, but at last Winifred extracted from the weeping old woman, that, being dissatisfied with the new doctor's treatment, she had been holding secret conferences with Doctor Butler as to her darling's health, and had finally undertaken to introduce him into the house, that he might judge of the patient's state. She had calculated very nicely that she would be called upon to sit with her young lady while Winifred rested, and Lady Corbet was busy with Sir John and making her morning visit to the school-room. She had agreed with Doctor Butler to be in the garden at that hour, when she would bring him in by the little turret staircase which opened near Paulina's room.
All these plans had been disconcerted by the straightforward counsels of Winifred and the doctor, and also by a very simple accident. Paulina had expressed a wish for some flowers, and her mother, always kind and desirous by every means in her power to show that she had fully forgiven the poor child, went down to the garden to gather them. In so doing, she came upon Ashwell in close conference with Butler, and heard enough of their conversation to discover their design. She had confronted them on the spot, ordered Butler from the premises, and taken possession of the keys of the gate; and had then sternly given Ashwell warning, saying she would have no traitors about her.
The poor old soul, who had been totally innocent of any connivance at the doctor's proselyting schemes, was thunder-struck at the treachery of her ally and the anger of her lady, and implored Winifred to intercede for her. Winifred, thankful that the matter was no worse, soothed and quieted her, promised to see what could be done, persuaded Ashwell to busy herself in sending up an unusually dainty dinner to the school-room, and finally left her in a tolerably reasonable and comfortable frame of mind.
It was long before Lady Corbet would listen to any plea on her behalf, but at last her own good-nature and Winifred's influence prevailed, and she was brought to tell Ashwell that, for the sake of Mrs. Evans' intercession, she would pass over the present offence.
It was a bitter pill to poor Ashwell, after all her years of service, to be forgiven for the sake of one on whom she had always looked with jealousy and contempt. But love for her lady and her nurselings prevailed over every other consideration.
It was well that it was so; for the very next day poor little Betty was attacked with the fever, and died after only a week's illness. And on the day of her burial, Winifred was taken with the same disease, and was declared by the doctor to be in the utmost danger. Her system was prostrated by all the fatigue she had undergone, and it would be all but a miracle if she lived through it.
CHAPTER XVI.
SURPRISES.
MORE than two months had passed since the date of the last chapter. The household of Sir John Corbet had returned to its old, regular routine. New servants had replaced the old. Sir John once more went to his office and wharf, and superintended his workmen. And his lady, like the wise dame of the Scriptures, looked well to the ways of her household, and, while she made sure that nobody from herself to the knife-boy ate the bread of idleness, took more pains than ever that every one under her roof should be happy and contented.
In the school-room there was a great change. Poor little Betty, with her moods and tenses, her alternations of high and low spirits, her unmanageable "tantrums," and her almost equally unmanageable fits of penitence, was gone. And the twins, Phyllis and Jemima, could only weep over every little memorial of their departed sister, and declare to each other that they would never, no, never tease anybody again! Paulina, still pale and thin, and showing signs of recent illness in her hollow eyes and close-cropped hair, had taken present charge of the school-room, and was hearing her sisters' lessons, finding out every day how much less she knew than she supposed, discovering the mighty difference which existed between the real crosses of her reduced strength and the daily trials of temper and patience in the school-room, and those artificial crosses she used to manufacture for herself. Nevertheless, she went on bravely, doing her best, and making herself more useful and agreeable than she had ever done before.
But Paulina had a cross to bear far harder than any petty trials of the school-room—a cross all the sharper because she had brought it upon herself and her father and mother, who shared the burden with her. The affair with Doctor Butler had taken wing, as was to be expected, and the whole city of Bristol rang with the stories of Paulina's stolen interviews with him, at chapel and elsewhere, and of the attempt to introduce him into her room. Who had chattered in the last case, nobody knew. But the scandal had gone abroad, distorted and exaggerated in a hundred forms.
Paulina, never stirred away from home, save under her mother's wing, and then only, to church, but even there she felt herself the mark for curious eyes and whispers, while her mother had to encounter condolences and questions from all her acquaintances. Moreover, Paulina was not safe even yet from persecution. It had indeed been found expedient for Doctor Butler to leave town, but the priests had no notion of giving up their victim so easily, and more than one letter had been conveyed to Paulina, now pitying her as a martyr under persecution, now threatening her as a relapsed heretic.
Meantime, a cloud rested upon her reputation. None of her young friends visited her or invited her, and Lady Corbet was blamed for permitting her to take the charge of her young sisters. Her father had been furiously angry upon hearing the story, and, though he had been brought to say at last that he forgave her, he was hard and stern toward her, and showed her constantly that she was distrusted and watched. Her mother was kindness itself, but a heavy cloud of sadness rested upon her once cheery face, and her voice, when she spoke to Paulina, had a tone of grief and pity.
All this was very hard to bear—far harder than the fasting, the lying upon the floor, and all the other penances Paulina had been accustomed to practise; harder than the being obliged to give her attention to her work and pick it out when it was wrong; than being reproved for stooping her shoulders or poking her chin, or having her shoes down at heel and her petticoats draggled. Nor was this the hardest, after all. It was with inexpressible bitterness that Paulina heard of Doctor Butler's attempt to enter her room, and of his departure from the city, and learned from the pain the news gave her that her affections were no longer in her own keeping.
Any woman worthy of the name must feel a sensation of intensest shame and anguish, when she finds herself loving one who does not care for her, even though that one may be in every way worthy; and the shame is increased twofold if the object prove utterly base. This was Paulina's case. She loved Doctor Butler, and she knew him to be a base, bad man—one who had destroyed the peace and reputation of more than one woman, and who might, but for what seemed the special interference of Providence, have done the same for her.
She recalled a hundred things which might have shown her her danger, and she felt a sense of gratitude to poor Molly, who had been so far faithful that she had never let her young mistress out of her sight. She said to herself that her love was unworthily placed, and must be conquered, but the task was a hard one, and the poor girl was indeed very unhappy.
Yet it somehow happened that the real trials did not fret Paulina's temper or wear out her patience as the imaginary ones had done. She was sad indeed, and often much depressed, but she was no longer fretful or peevish; she no longer wore her set, self-conscious expression, or spoke and moved like an automaton. She had found the secret of peace. In the time of her trouble she had sought the Lord, and found in Him not only forgiveness and remission of sin, but strength to resist temptation, to bear suffering with patience and humility. Her service was no longer one of constraint and fear, but of love—no longer the enforced task of a slave, but the free gift of a child.
The twins, on their part, sobered by the trouble they had passed through, and pitying Paulina for the sorrow they only half understood, did their best, both in work and lessons, to please their sister and mother. And the school-room labors went on harmoniously and pleasantly enough for the most part, though now and then was heard a deep sigh or an impatient interjection, always followed by the exclamation: "I do wish Mrs. Winifred would get well, don't you, Pall?" answered by, "Yes, indeed I do, with all my heart!"
And where, all this time, was Mrs. Winifred? In the great chintz bedroom, the very best room in the house, whither she had been carried by Lady Corbet's orders when stricken down with the fever, waited upon and tended by every one, from Sir John himself down to black Jack; nursed with jealous care by Ashwell, end visited by Doctor Mercer every day, and by Paulina every hour. She had passed the crisis of the disease, contrary to everybody's expectation, and Doctor Mercer said there seemed no reason why she should not get well, but day after day passed, and still she lay on her couch or leaned back languidly in the great chair, pale, thin, and weak, unable to eat, to talk, to employ herself in any way more than a few minutes at a time. It seemed as if the excitement and fatigue of nearly three years past had made themselves felt all at once.
For the first time in her life, Winifred lost the control of her own mind and feelings. She could not think clearly of anything for five minutes at a time. She could not fix her mind upon the things she had always loved best, or drive away the sadness, the discontent, the wretched forebodings, the distrust of her heavenly Father's love, the doubts of His truth which assailed her. Good Mr. Gunnison, who was instructing the twins preparatory to their approaching confirmation, talked and prayed with her, and in these visits Winifred found great comfort, but too often "the clouds returned after the rain," the temptations and the grief came back again, and the work was once more all to do.
Meantime, the weak body languished and lost day by day, and it seemed likely enough that Winifred would fade away and drop into the earth with the fading flowers of autumn. But her work was not yet done, and she could not go home till it was finished.
One day she was leaning back listlessly enough in the chair which Ashwell had drawn to the window, that Winifred might look down on the still gay garden and away to the hills beyond the city. She had wearied herself in the attempt to set right the piece of work which the twins in a fit of desperation had brought to show her, and had not half finished, when Ashwell came in, scolded them both well, and sent the girls down, Phyllis crying and Jemima in a fit of sulks, to get out of their difficulty as best they could. Winifred felt tired, disappointed, and utterly discouraged. And as soon as Ashwell had left her, she leaned back in her chair, and gave way to a fit of weeping as childish as that of poor Phyllis.
The tears at least did her some good, for she sobbed herself to sleep, and awaked somewhat refreshed and strengthened, and really feeling a little wonder as to what time it was and whether Ashwell would be coming presently with her dinner. She had been dreaming of old times at the Hall—of walking with my lady and working with Mrs. Alwright. The dream was very clear and distinct; she almost felt as though Lady Peckham's inquiry was still ringing in her ear: "And where is my little Winifred?" There seemed a good deal of bustle in the house which she could not understand—and then, why did not Ashwell come?
The door opened. It was not Ashwell with the tray, however, but Paulina, with a little flush of color in her cheeks, and a certain excitement in her manner. She came to Winifred's chair and kissed her.
"Do you feel better? I peeped in a few moments ago, and you were fast asleep in your chair, with the tears on your cheeks! What had you been crying for, you naughty child? Like Phyllis, because Ashwell scolded you?"
"I hardly know myself," returned Winifred, winking away the tears which would stay very near her eyes. "I felt sorry for the poor girls, and vexed at myself for being so easily tired. But, Paulina, if they will bring up their frames now, I will try to show them."
"You are to do no such thing," said Paulina, positively. "The frames can wait, and I have something else to set you upon just now besides tapestry work."
"Why, Paulina, what has come over you?" said Winifred, rousing herself and looking at the girl with attention. "You look as though you had been hearing some great piece of good news!"
"Suppose I have—do you want to hear it?"
Winifred's heart began to beat fast, and she looked at Paulina without speaking.
"Suppose now I could bring the person in all the world you most wanted to see,—whom should it be?" asked Paulina.
Winifred flushed scarlet all at once, for the name which came to her lips was that of Arthur Carew.
Then, as her dream came across her mind, she exclaimed, "Paulina, tell me! Have you news of my lady?"
Then as Paulina nodded mischievously, with her eyes full of smiles and her mouth demurely pursed up:
"Paulina, tell me! Don't tease me, please!"
"It shall not be teased, then," said Paulina. "It shall be made to look pretty, and neat, and have on its new cap, and then it shall see what it shall see."
"No, no, Paulina!" said a voice at the half-opened door. "You shall not keep us waiting any longer. Winifred, my dear, my darling child!"
It was the voice of her dream. Winifred stretched out her arms with a cry like that of a child which sees its mother. She saw the well-known face, looking more delicate than ever under the close widow's coif and veil, caught a glimpse of Alwright's tall, spare form behind her mistress, heard a little cry of alarm from Paulina, and that was the last she knew, till she found herself lying on the bed, with Mrs. Alwright bathing her face, and Lady Peckham and Paulina watching her.
I shall not attempt to describe the meeting between Winifred and her oldest friend, nor the raptures of Alwright over her former pupil. At last Lady Peckham yielded to her cousin's hospitable entreaties, and descended to partake of the feast Lady Corbet had prepared for her, and Winifred was left in charge of Alwright, who insisted upon cutting her dinner, and would gladly have been allowed to put it into her mouth.
"No, indeed, dear Alwright, I can feed myself very well," said Winifred. "I feel better than for a long time past, though I was so silly as to faint. Sit you there where I can look at you, and tell me all the news. I see my lady is a widow. When did Sir Edward die?"
"At Rome, whither we went in the train of my Lord Castlewaine the ambassador—and pretty company he was!" said Alwright, in disgust. "You know, my dear, between ourselves, Sir Edward was always inclined to side with whichever party was uppermost. So, after we went to London and to court, he began to look the way the king's party did—toward Rome, you know. He did not really go over, and perhaps he never meant to do so, but he read their books, and went to the chapel, and all that. So, when this embassy was sent out, Sir Edward must needs go along. It was a grief to my lady, though he made her health one reason for the journey, but you know she never opposed her husband."
"Perhaps his majesty thought the journey to Rome would finish Sir Edward's conversion," said Winifred.
"And so it did, indeed, my dear, but it was the wrong way. Sir Edward saw and heard so many things that no true English gentleman could swallow, that he became disgusted with the whole concern. Then he took one of the fevers they have there, and died in a few days. The priests came about him, and would have it that he died in the Church of Rome, but it was no such thing. And then, my lady was very ill and feeble for a long time after, so we could not leave when my Lord Castlewaine did—more by token, they say the pope never showed him the least bit of favor, after all. I must say, some of the foreign papists were very good to us—I shall always remember it of them, I am sure—but oh, Winifred, if you could only see the cooking, and the smells, and the old women! Well, my lady got better, at last, and then we came home as quickly as we could."
"I tried every way to hear from you," said Winifred, "but I could not learn where Sir Edward had gone. When I first came here, I heard that Lady Corbet was cousin to my lady, and hoped to get news from her, but she could only tell me that my Lord Carew was dead, and my lady, she thought, was still abroad."
"Yes, the poor gentleman is dead at last, and a good thing, too, for himself and everybody. Master Arthur is Lord Carew now. Much good it does him, since he cannot come home to enjoy it!"
"And where is Master Arthur—I mean, my lord?" asked Winifred, suddenly very busy with her boiled chicken.
"He has been all this time in far-away parts, fighting the Turks that they say the King of France has brought upon Christendom again. But now he hath returned to Holland, and is in the service of the Prince and Princess of Orange, God bless them!"
"But how did you find me out, and why did my lady never answer the letter I sent her by Joseph the groom, after my mother died? Oh, Mrs. Alwright, if you know how I wearied for an answer to that letter!"
"Aye, aye, poor maid!" said Alwright, sympathetically. "I can guess well. 'Hope deferred maketh the heart sick.' But the letter never reached my lady. Joseph did not get to London till after we had set out for Rome. As soon as we came back to the Hall, my lady's first inquiry was for you, and sadly disappointed we were to learn that the family was broken up, and you were gone no one knew where."
"Your brother knew, and Dame Oldmixon."
"Yes, but neither of them were at Holford. A gentleman my brother knew at college has given him a fine living away off in the North, somewhere about Durham. And Dame Oldmixon has gone to live with some of her kin. So we could find out nothing from them. Then my lady left the Hall for good, and we went to Exeter, where we have—I mean, my lady has a fine old house, as good as this. And the heir has new furnished the Hall, and given my lady a deal of the old furniture, so you will see the place looking very natural, though, to be sure, we have not the Hall garden to walk in."
"But how did you find me out at last?"
"Oh, my lady was wanted at the Hall on some business. I must say the new family are very civil, and treated her as though she were the head of the house still. So we went out to visit all the old places, and among the rest the Stonehill farm. And there we found your uncle and aunt—a stirring, notable dame she seems, but no more like your dear mother than a houseleek is like a bunch of violets. She told us that you had gone to live as governess to my Lady Corbet's daughters, and had staid behind to nurse them in the fever, but she did not know whether you were dead or alive.
"So then my lady said, 'Alwright, I am going to Bristol to seek out my cousin Judith.'
"For you see, there had been no intercourse between them for ever so long, my old lady having been bitterly opposed to Mrs. Judith marrying young Corbet, though he has turned out enough better than that poor silly Mr. Hervey.
"'I am sure she will give us a welcome for the sake of old times,' said my lady; 'and perhaps I may find Winifred still with her.'
"And so she did! She had always a warm heart, had Mrs. Judith, and I for one never blamed her for marrying the man to whom her parents betrothed her. So she welcomed us as if we had been princesses of the blood, and could not say enough in your praise for all you did, which I was not at all surprised at, for you were ever a good girl, my dear, and had the best of teaching, though I say it that should not, perhaps."
"She is an excellent lady," said Winifred, warmly. "An own father and mother could not have been kinder than she and Sir John have been to me since I have been ill."
"And so she ought!" said Alwright, rather indignantly. "I wonder what she would have done without you. But she is a good woman, that I do not deny, and seems to have brought up her daughters well."
"That she has, and they are all sweet girls. I long for the time when I shall be able to teach them again."
"Then you may leave off longing, for you are not going to do any such thing!" answered Alwright, sharply. "You are to go home with us to Exeter, and be brought up as my lady's own daughter henceforth! She told me so herself.
"'If I find Winifred at all what I expect—' those were her very words—'I shall take her home and treat her as my own child.'
"And I am sure she will not be disappointed in you, for seeing that you are so thin and pale, you are prettier than ever, and more like poor Captain Winthrop, your cousin. So don't be thinking or talking of teaching any more, sweetheart, but got well as fast as you can, and be ready to return home with us. And I must learn to call you Mrs. Winifred, now that you are to be a great lady!"
"You shall never call me anything but your own Winnie, dear Alwright! And so my lady does not live at the Hall any more?"
"No; in her house at Exeter, as I told you. And she hath a good jointure and money from her father's estate besides. So we have such an establishment as becomes a lady of her quality, though we see little company, my lady being so lately a widow. But now, my dear, you must not speak a word more, but lie and rest against my lady comes up."
Winifred did not wish to talk. She was quite content to lie still and enjoy the sober certainty of waking bliss. "To live with my lady all the rest of her life—to read to her and wait upon her—was it possible that, after all her past trials, such a future could be in store for her?" How unthankful, how distrustful she had lately been, and all this time God had this blessing in store for her! This very morning she had been feeling as if He had forgotten her! Most earnest was her prayer for forgiveness, her thanksgiving for the unexpected and undeserved blessing. She fell asleep with the words of prayer in her heart and on her lips, and awoke to find the dear face bending over her, the dear hand once more clasped in hers.
From that time Winifred improved rapidly, gaining flesh and strength from day to day, until she was able to go first into the school-room for a change, and then out into the garden. It was quite settled now that Winifred was to return home with Lady Peckham as soon as the doctor should pronounce her strong enough to bear the journey, and was to be considered henceforth as her ladyship's adopted child.
"I am sure I don't know what in the world I shall do without you, dear!" said good Lady Corbet. "You have been everything to us during this disastrous time of sickness and poor Paulina's trouble, and I shall always say that it was a blessed day for us all when I met you at Mrs. Bowler's. At the same time, I don't deny that my kinswoman hath the best right to you, and perhaps needs you more than I, in respect she hath no daughters to keep her company in her widow's household. And though daughters are a care, doubtless, and an anxiety, yet it cannot be denied that they are a great comfort. I am sure Sir John would have always given you a home as long as you needed it, and would have provided a marriage portion for you the same as for his own girls, and no doubt my lady will do the same when you come to leave her, as of course you will do some day, sweetheart, for such maids as you do not go begging."
"I shall never leave my lady," said Winifred, hastily, and vexed to feel her cheeks growing scarlet.
"Aye, aye, that is what they all say," said Lady Corbet, smiling. "'I shall never leave you, mother,' says Pall. Poor Pall, I do not know what she, of all others, will do without you."
Winifred echoed her good friend's sigh. She felt herself drawn two ways, and while she, like the rest, took it for granted that she was to go with Lady Peckham, she could not help feeling many regrets for those she was leaving behind.
The next day Lady Corbet came up again, full of smiles and significant looks.
"Aha, madam, did I not say our Winifred was not one to go begging?" said she, addressing herself to Lady Peckham, who was amusing her young cousins with some stories of her experience abroad, while Mrs. Alwright looked over and rectified the much abused tapestry work. Then recollecting herself, she assumed an air of becoming importance, as she beckoned Lady Peckham into the next room.
"I wonder what my mother means?" said the literal Jemima, as the door closed. "Why should Mrs. Winifred go begging?"
"She does not really mean begging," said Phyllis, laughing. "I know what it is! Somebody has been proposing for Winifred, and I guess who it is, too! It is Mr. Gunnison."
"Mr. Gunnison!" said Jemima, slowly. "Why, he is married. I saw his wife's name in the cathedral. 'Here lies Mary, beloved wife of James Gunnison, aged twenty-six!'"
"But she is dead, you goose! Don't you know that when you read her name on the tomb yourself? How should she be in the cathedral vault, else?"
"Oh, I do hope it is Mr. Gunnison, because then Winifred will live in the Close and we can see her every day."
"Hush, hush!" said Alwright, who had established herself in the school-room, where she reigned supreme over needles and frames, to the great disgust of old Ashwell. "Young ladies should never talk of being married, or guess what their elders mean! Now, take your frames, be good maids, and sit up straight at your work, and I will tell you how my lady and I went to visit the convent at Rome."
Phyllis was right in guessing that her mother's words related to a matrimonial proposition for Winifred, though she was mistaken in the person. Doctor Mercer had admired Winifred from the first of their acquaintance. They were naturally thrown much together during the continuance of the fever, and afterwards, in Winifred's own sick-room. And the more he knew her, the more he saw to admire. Doctor Mercer, blunt and odd as it pleased him at times to appear, was a gentleman, and a man of strong and warm feelings. He had known little of women, having always been devoted to science and to his profession, and had been in the habit of looking upon them with a kind of indulgent contempt, as poor weak creatures, who must be borne with and taken care of because they "were" weak, and because they were necessary to the well-being and continuance of the race.
But in Winifred he had met with a woman who had commanded first his admiration, and then his respect and love, by her quiet courage, her docility and good sense, and her straightforward truthfulness. The end of the matter was that the grave, middle-aged doctor had fallen in love with the girl of eighteen. And this very morning he had, after the fashion considered decorous at the time, made proposals to Lady Corbet as being her present guardian, for the hand of Winifred Evans, and she in her turn had propounded the matter to Lady Peckham.
"You see, cousin, it may be or might have been considered a fine match for our Winifred. Doctor Mercer is no common apothecary but a physician, besides that he is a gentleman of a good old family, and hath a moderate fortune of his own besides his profession. He is a man of high character, and a good Christian. I am sure his prayers and his exhortations, when my poor children were ill, were as good as a clergyman's, and so said Mr. Gunnison himself. To be sure, he is a thought elderly for Winifred, but then she is grave beyond her years."
"And what does Winifred think of the matter?" asked Lady Peckham, as soon as she could get in a word. "Does she like this Doctor Mercer?"
"She always speaks well of him, and talks and laughs with him when he comes to see her, especially since she has been so much better. More than that, I cannot say. But no doubt she will be guided by you in the matter. I told Doctor Mercer, 'My cousin Margaret has taken the gentlewoman under her own charge,' said I; 'and she is the person to be consulted, but doubtless Winifred will be governed by her will, as is becoming.'"
"It all depends upon Winifred's own feelings," said Lady Peckham, smiling and sighing. "I am not one of those who believe in forcing the inclinations of young people, however great may be the worldly advantages promised."
"Nor I," said Lady Corbet. "You know how I stood out against my old lady, your honored mother, who, with all due respect to her and you, did a deal more of that sort of thing than ever came to good. But then Winifred may like him, you know. It is nothing very strange for a girl to fancy a man old enough to be her father."
"True, especially if he is presented to her in the light of a hero," observed Lady Peckham.
"And you know it would be a good match," continued Lady Corbet. "Sir John has put by the money for Winifred's portion the same as for his own girls, and you and I could give her an outfit suitable for any lady in the land," continued the good lady, who was evidently gratified at the prospect of a wedding. "Doctor Mercer has established himself permanently in Bristol, and is coming into good practice. It would be hard for you, that is true," she concluded, struck all at once by the idea that there was another side to the matter, "to lose Winifred, just as you have found her again."
"I should not let that consideration stand in the way, if Winifred were disposed to the match," said Lady Peckham. "Girls always do marry some time or other—at least, such girls as Winifred—and it is of no use to calculate upon anything else. It would be gross selfishness in me to allow myself to be influenced by any such thing as that. I suppose, Cousin Judith, the best way will be for me to sound Winifred upon the matter, and see what her feelings are. Or will you undertake the office yourself?"
"Dear heart, no! I have no sense at all about managing any such matter. I should say and do just exactly the wrong thing. I never knew any other way of going to work than just speaking right out."
"I think that is usually the best way of going to work," said Lady Peckham, smiling. "It was always your way, Judith. I remember my father used to call you 'Down-right Dunstable!' However, I will talk to Winifred about the matter, and put the good doctor out of suspense as quickly as possible."
Winifred received the doctor's proposal at first with simple incredulity, then with some degree of indignation, and at last she burst into tears and sobbed hysterically.
"Why, Winifred, my child, what is all this for?" said Lady Peckham. "I cannot for my life see anything in the matter calling for such floods of tears! Come, come, be a woman, and tell me what to say to the good man!"
The old tone of gentle command had not lost its effect over Winifred. She checked herself by degrees, and presently was calm enough to say:
"I am sure he is very good—and does me great honor—but oh, my lady, I cannot think of it! I cannot, indeed! I wish to do my duty, but—"
There seemed imminent danger of another flood of tears, as Winifred ceased speaking, and busied herself with the fringe of her tippet.
"It is not necessarily your duty to marry a man because he asks you," said Lady Peckham, smiling. "But, Winifred, I would have you consider seriously before you reject this offer. It is a very advantageous one, in every respect."
"I know it, my lady, and far above my deserts, but—"
"You have seen a great deal of Doctor Mercer, and that is a way to become well acquainted with him," pursued her friend. "What is there about him that you do not like?"
"Nothing, my lady! He is one of the best men I ever knew! To be sure, I have not known many."
"He has a good estate besides his practice, and his family is, to say the least, equal to your own."
"Superior, my lady! I have not forgotten that I am but the daughter of a merchant captain, and the granddaughter of a Somersetshire yeoman," said Winifred, not without a touch of pride. "I trust not to forget my station."
"Your mother belonged to one of our oldest Devonshire families," said Lady Peckham. "I do not think there is any disparity upon that score. Sir John Corbet claims the pleasure of paying your marriage portion, and my good cousin Judith and myself will see that you have everything becoming your position. Think of it, Winifred! Such an opportunity of establishing yourself will not come every day. Think well before you decide!"
To judge from her face, Winifred did not seem to be thinking favorably. Her friend watched her with something like a smile lurking in her eyes and the corners of her mouth, as Winifred sat very erect, looking down at the sprigs of rosemary which she was pulling to pieces for Alwright to distil, and upon which she was bestowing a good deal more strength than was necessary.
"Well, my child," said she, at last, "you must not keep the good man in doubt longer than you can help. What shall I say to him?"
"I cannot marry him, my lady!" Winifred's voice was husky, but firm, and her face had regained its calmness. "He is very good—too good for me, but I cannot be his wife. It would not be right! I am sure it would not! Oh, my dear lady, do not be angry with me, but indeed, indeed I cannot marry Doctor Mercer!"
"My dear child, I have no right or cause to be angry, since the doctor's loss is my gain. I have no mind to part with you, Winifred, though I could of course do so, if it seemed best for you. You are still young, and your health is not yet firmly established—though, as my cousin Judith would say, that is the more reason for your marrying a doctor."
"Please, my lady!"
"I suppose I ought to go over with all the stock phrases and questions," continued Lady Peckham, smiling rather sadly. "I ought to preach to you the duty of submission to your elders, to lecture you upon your presumption, and to question you as to whether you have any other attachment which prevents you from accepting so good an offer. Why, my child, if you color so, I shall think there is some occasion for the question!"
Winifred's face was indeed scarlet with the provoking color which "would" rush into her cheeks at the wrong time.
"What dream are you cherishing, little one?" asked her friend, tenderly drawing the blushing face and tearful eyes to hide themselves on her shoulder. "You have, perhaps, seen some one who more nearly approaches your notions of a hero than even your kind and courageous doctor! You have no engagement, have you, Winifred?"
"No, my lady."
"Well, my child, I do not want to pry into your secrets, if you have them."
"Indeed, my lady, I have none," said Winifred, lifting her head, but letting it fall once more as she met Lady Peckham's motherly and penetrating gaze. "Oh, madam, do not be angry with me!"
"Why should I be angry, Winifred?" asked Lady Peckham, gravely. "Do you know of aught that should displease me?"
"No, madam," said Winifred, recovering her calmness, and meeting her friend's gaze. "I have nothing in my mind of which to be ashamed before you or before God. It is true that I have had an attachment to one whom I have not seen for some years, and shall probably never meet again, but that is all. I shall never be married, nor have I any wish to be so. I have no other desire than to live with you and wait upon you, or, if that may not be, to go on earning my bread as I have done. Marry Doctor Mercer, I cannot! I am deeply sorry to seem so ungrateful for all his kindness, but the thing is impossible. I would rather work in Lady Corbet's kitchen, or even scrub my aunt's floors and trenchers all my life-long!"
"Well, sweetheart, that is not the alternative," said Lady Peckham, kissing her. "I shall acquaint my cousin with your decision and leave her to inform the doctor. But, Winifred, my dear child, beware of making an idol, even of your cross! Believe me, it is easy to do so. Do not let your thoughts dwell or your fancies wander in a world of your own making, lest in doing your own works, you cease from God's, and thus lose your portion in the rest which remaineth for His people. Now lie down and repose yourself, and try to gain strength, for I wish to return home as soon as possible. I hope to find letters from my brother awaiting me."