Читать книгу It Might Have Been - Emily Sarah Holt - Страница 5

“Which speaks the truth - fair Hope or ghastly Fear?

God knoweth, and not I.

Only, o’er both, Love holds her torch aloft,

And will, until I die.”

“Fiddle-de-dee! Do give over snuffing and snivelling and sobbing, and tell me if you want your warm petticoat in the saddle-bag. You’d make a saint for to swear!” More sobs, and one or two disjointed words, were all that came in answer. The sobbing sister, who was the younger of the pair, wore widow’s mourning, and was seated in a rocking-chair near the window of a small, but very comfortable parlour. Her complexion was pale and sallow, her person rather slightly formed, and her whole appearance that of a frail, weak little woman, who required perpetual care and shielding. The word require has two senses, and it is here used in both. She needed it, and she exacted it.

The elder sister, who stood at the parlour door, was about as unlike the younger as could well be. She was quite a head taller, rosy-cheeked, sturdily-built, and very brisk in her motions. Disjointed though her sister’s words were, she took them up at once.

“You’ll have your thrum hat, did you say? (Note 1.) Where’s the good of crying over it? You’ve got ne’er a thing to cry for.”

Another little rush of sobs replied, amid which a quick ear could detect the words “unfeeling” and “me a poor widow.”

“Unfeeling, marry!” said the elder sister. “I’m feeling a whole warm petticoat for you. And tears won’t ward off either cramp or rheumatism, my dear—don’t think it; but a warm petticoat may. Will you have it, or no?”

“Oh, as you please!” was the answer, in a tone which might have suited arrangements for the speaker’s funeral.

“Then I please to put it in the saddle-bag,” cheerily responded the elder. “Lettice, come with me, maid. I can find thee work above in the chamber.”

A slight sound behind the screen, at the farther end of the parlour, which sheltered the widow from any draught proceeding from the window, was followed by the appearance of a young girl not hitherto visible. She was just eighteen years of age, and resembled neither of the elder ladies, being handsomer than either of them had ever been, yet not sufficiently so to be termed beautiful. A clear complexion, rosy but not florid, golden-brown hair and plenty of it, dark grey eyes shaded by dark lashes, and a pleasing, good-humoured, not self-conscious expression—this was Lettice, who said in a clear musical voice, “Yes, Aunt,” and stood ready for further orders.

As the door shut upon the aunt and niece, the former said, as if to the sister left behind in the parlour—

“A poor widow! Ay, forsooth, poor soul, that you are! for you have made of your widowhood so black a pall that you cannot see God’s blue sky through it. Dear heart, but why ever they called her Faith, and me Temperance! I’ve well-nigh as little temperance as she has faith, and neither of them would break a cat’s back.”

By this time they were up in the bedchamber; and Lettice was kept busy folding, pinning, tying up, and smoothing out one garment after another, until at last her aunt said—

“Now, Lettice, bring thine own gear, such as thou wilt need till we light at Minster Lovel, for there can we shift our baggage. Thy black beaver hat thou wert best to journey in, for though it be good, ’tis well worn; and thy grey kirtle and red gown. Bring the blue gown, and the tawny kirtle with the silver aglets (tags, spangles) pendant, and thy lawn rebatoes, (turn-over collar) and a couple of kerchiefs, and thy satin hat Thou wert best leave out a warm kerchief for the journey.”

“And my velvet hood, Aunt, and the green kirtle?”

“Nay, I have packed them, not to be fetched out till we reach London. Thou mayest have thy crimson sleeves withal, an’ it list thee.”

Lettice fetched the things, and her aunt packed them in one of the great leather trunks, with beautiful neatness. As she smoothed out the blue kirtle, she asked—“Lettice, art thou sorry to be gone?”

“Truly, Aunt, I scarce know,” was the answer. “I am sorry to leave Aunt Milisent and my cousins, and Aunt Frances,”—but Aunt Frances was an evident after-thought—“and I dare say I shall be sorry to leave all the places I know, when the time comes. But then so many of us are going—you, and Grandmother, and Aunt Edith, and Cousin Aubrey, and Aunt Faith—and there are so many new places to see, that on the whole I don’t think I am very sorry.”

“No, very like not, child.”

“Not now,” said a third voice, softly, and Lettice looked up at another aunt whose presence she had not previously noticed. This was certainly no sister of the two plain women whose acquaintance we have just made. Temperance Murthwaite had outlived her small share of good looks, and Faith’s had long since been washed away in tears; but Edith Louvaine had been extremely beautiful, and yet was so notwithstanding her forty years. Her hair was dark brown, with a golden gleam when the sun caught it, and her eyes a deep blue, almost violet. Her voice was sweet and quiet—of that type of quietness which hides behind it a reserve of power and feeling. “At eighteen, Lettice, we are not commonly sorry to leave home. Much sorrier at thirty-eight: and at eighty, I think, there is little to leave but graves.”

“Ay, but they’re not all dug by the sexton,” remarked Temperance, patting the blue kirtle to make it lie in the hole she had left for it. “At any rate, the sorest epitaphs are oft invisible save to them that have eyes to see them.”

Edith did not answer, and the work went on. At length, suddenly, the question was asked—

“Whence came you, Edith?”

“From Mere Lea, whither I have been with Mother and Aubrey, to say farewell.”

“And for why came you hither? Not to say farewell, I reckon.”

“Nay,” replied Edith, smiling. “I thought I might somewhat help you, Temperance. We must all try to spare poor Faith.”

“Spare poor Faith!” repeated Temperance, in a sarcastic tone. “Tell you what, Edith Louvaine—if you’d think a bit less of sparing her, and she’d think a bit more of sparing you, it would be a sight better for poor Faith and poor Edith too.”

“I? I don’t want to be spared,” answered Edith.

“No, you don’t, and that’s just it. And Faith does. And she oughtn’t. And you oughtn’t.”

“Nay, Temperance. Remember, she is a widow.”

“Small chance of my forgetting it. Doesn’t she tell me so six dozen times a day? Ask Faith to do any thing she loveth not, and she’s always a widow. I’ve had my thoughts whether I could not be an orphan when I’m wanted to do something disagreeable. What think you?”

“I think your bark is worse than your bite, Temperance,” said Edith, smiling.

“I’m about weary of barking,” answered Temperance, laying smooth a piece of cobweb lawn. “I think I’ll bite, one of these days. Deary me, but there are widows of divers sorts! If ever there were what Paul calls ‘a widow indeed,’ it is my Lady Lettice; and she doesn’t make a screen of it, as Faith does, against all the east winds that blow. Well, well! Give me that pin-case, Lettice, and the black girdle yonder; I lack somewhat to fill up this corner. What hour must we be at Selwick, Edith?”

“At five o’ the clock the horses are bidden.”

“Very good. You’ll bide to supper?”

“Nay, not without I can help you.”

“You’ll not help me without you’ll tell Faith she’s a snivelling lazy-bones, and that you’ll not, I know. Go and get your beauty-sleep—and comfort Lady Lettice all you can.”

When Edith had departed, and the packing was finished, the aunt and niece went down to supper. It consisted of Polony sausages, sweetmeats, and an egg-pie—a Lancashire dainty, which Rachel the cook occasionally sent up, for she was a native of that county. During the entire meal, Faith kept up a slow rain of lamentations, for her widowhood, the sad necessity of leaving her home, and the entire absence of sympathy which she experienced in all around her: till at last her sister inquired—

“Faith, will you have any more pie?”

“N–o,” said Faith with a sob, having eaten nearly half of it.

“Nor any more sausage?”

“Oh no!” she answered, heaving a weary sigh.

“Nor sucketts (sweetmeats; subsequently spelt succadet) neither?”

Faith shook her head dolefully.

“Then I’ll help you to a little of one other thing, which you need sorely; and that’s a bit of advice.”

Faith moaned behind her handkerchief.

“As to quitting home, that’s your own choice; so don’t go and pretend to fret over it. And as to sparing you, you’ve been spared a deal too much, and I’ve been a fool to do it. And just bethink you, Faith, that if we are now to make one family with my Lady Lettice and Edith, you’d best be thinking how you can spare them. My Lady Lettice is a deal newer widow than you, and she’s over seventy years on her back, and you’ve but forty—”

“Thirty-nine,” corrected Faith in a choked voice.

“And she’s leaving her home not from choice, but because she has no choice; and she has spent over fifty years in it, and is like an old oak which can ill bear uprooting. I only trust those Newcastle Louvaines will get what they deserve. I say it’s a burning shame, never to come forward nor claim aught for fifty years, until Sir Aubrey and both his sons were gone, and then down they pounce like vultures on the widow and her orphan grandson, and set up a claim, forsooth, to the estate—after all these years! I don’t believe they have any right—or at any rate, they’ve no business to have it: and if my Lady Lettice had been of my mind, she’d have had a fight for it, instead of giving in to them; and if Aubrey Banaster had had a scrap of gumption, he’d have seen to it. He is the eldest man of the family, and they’re pretty nigh all lads but him. Howbeit, let that pass. Only I want you, Faith, to think of it, and not go treating my Lady Lettice to a dish of tears every meal she sits down to, or she’ll be sorry you’re her daughter-in-law, if she isn’t now; and if her name were Temperance Murthwaite it’s much if she wouldn’t be.”

“Oh, you can say what you like—you always do—”

“Beg your pardon, Faith; I very generally don’t.”

“You haven’t a bit of feeling for a poor widow. I hope you may never be a widow—”

“Thank you; I’ll have a care of that. Now, Lettice! jump up, maid, and don your hat and mantle, and I will run down with you to Selwick while there’s a bit of light. My Lady Lettice thought you’d best be there to-night, so you could be up early and of some use to your Aunt Edith.”

It was not Temperance Murthwaite’s custom to let the grass grow under her feet, and the three miles which lay between the little house at Keswick and Selwick Hall were put behind her and Lettice when another hour was over.

Selwick Hall stood on the bank of Derwentwater, and was the residence of Lettice’s grandmother, the widowed Lady Louvaine, her daughter Edith, her grandson Aubrey, and Hans Floriszoon, the orphan nephew of an old friend, Mynheer Stuyvesant, who had been adopted into the family when a little child. It was also theoretically the abode of Lettice’s Aunt Faith, who was Aubrey’s mother, and who practically flitted from the one house to the other at her rather capricious will. It had become her habit to depart to Keswick whenever her feelings were outraged at Selwick; and as Faith’s feelings were of that order which any thing might outrage, and nobody knew of it till they were outraged, her abode during the last six years had been mainly with the sister who never petted her, but from whom she would stand ten times more than from the tenderer hearts at Selwick.

Lettice’s hand was on the door when it opened, and there stood her Cousin Aubrey.

“Good even, Aunt Temperance,” said he. “You are right in time for supper.”

“Thank you, Master Aubrey Late-hours,” replied she; “ ’tis a bit too late for my supper, and Lettice’s likewise, without she can eat two of a night. How is it with my Lady Lettice? I hope, lad, you help and comfort her all you can.”

Aubrey looked rather astonished.

“Comfort her?” he said. “She’s all right.”

“How old are you, Aubrey?”

“Why, Aunt Temperance, you know I was twenty last month.”

“One makes blunders betimes, lad. That speech of thine sounded about ten.”

“What mean you, Aunt Temperance?”

“Nay, lad, if God have not given thee eyes and brains, I shall be ill-set to do it.—Run in, Lettice. No, I’m not coming—not while to-morrow morning. Remember to be up early, and help all you can—both of you. Good even.”

Temperance shut the door, and they heard her quick foot tread sharply down the gravel walk.

“I say, ’tis jolly moving house, isn’t it?” said Aubrey.

“I can’t think why Aunt Temperance supposes that Grandmother or any body should want comforting.”

“Well, we are young, and she is old,” replied Lettice; “I suppose old folks care more about those things, perhaps.”

“Oh, ’tis but because they are lazy and have the rheumatism,” said Aubrey, laughing. “Beside, Grandmother cares not about things like Mother. Mother’s for ever fretting, but Grandmother’s always cheery.”

The cousins left the deep whitewashed porch and the oak-panelled hall, and went forward into the chief sitting-room of the house, known as the great parlour. The word “withdrawing-room” was still restricted to palaces and palatial mansions, and had not descended so low as to a country gentleman’s house like Selwick Hall. The great parlour was a large room with a floor of polished oak, hung with tapestry in which the prevailing colour was red, and the chairs held cushions of red velvet. On the tiled hearth a comfortable fire burned softly away, and in a large chair of dark carved wood beside it, propped up with cushions of red velvet, sat an old lady of seventy-six, looking the very picture of comfort and sweetness. And though “her golden hairs time had to silver turned,” and she was now a widow indeed, and desolate, some of my readers may recognise their old friend Lettice Eden. Her eyes, though a little sunken, kept their clear blue, and her complexion was still fair and peach-like, with a soft, faint rose-colour, like a painting on china. She had a loving smile for every one, and a gentle, soothing voice, which the children said half cured the little troubles wherein they always ran to Grandmother. Aunt Faith was usually too deep in her own troubles, and Aunt Edith, though always kind, was also invariably busy; while there was considerable hesitation in making an appeal to Aunt Temperance, who might answer it with a box on the ear instead of a comforting kiss, or at best had an awkward way of turning the tables on the plaintiff by making him out to be the offender instead of the defendant. But nobody ever hesitated to appeal to Grandmother, whose very rebukes fell as softly as rose-leaves, and were always so justly deserved that they had twice the effect of those which came from perpetual fault-finders. Aubrey had grown up in this atmosphere, but it was much newer to his cousin Lettice, the daughter of Dudley Murthwaite and Helen Louvaine. Until she was twelve years old, Lettice had dwelt with her father at Skiddaw Force, her Aunt Temperance having supplied the place of the dead mother who had faded from her child’s memory, for Helen passed away when her daughter was only two years old. It had not been exactly Dudley’s choice which had placed Temperance in that position. He would have preferred his wife’s youngest sister, Edith, to fill the vacant place of mother to his little girl; but Edith firmly though kindly declined to make her home away from Selwick Hall. The natural explanation of course was that she, being the only unmarried daughter of the house, preferred to remain with her parents. Edith said so, and all her friends repeated it, and thought it very natural and proper. And no one knew, except God and Edith, that the reason given was only half the truth, and that the last place in this world which Edith Louvaine could take was the place of that dead sister Helen who had so unconsciously taken the one thing which Edith coveted for herself. Thus thrown back on one of his own sisters, Dudley tried next to persuade Faith to make her home with him. It might have been better for Faith if she had done so. But she liked the more luxurious life of Selwick Hall, where she had only to represent herself as tired or poorly to have any exertion taken for her by some one else; and she was one of those unconscious impostors who begin by imposing on themselves. Whatever she wished to do, she was always capable of persuading herself that she ought to do. Faith therefore declined to remove to her brother’s house. The last resource was Temperance, who, when appealed to, averred herself perfectly ready to go wherever she was most wanted. One baggage-horse would be enough for her luggage, she thanked goodness; she had two gowns for winter and two for summer, and no reasonable woman ought to have any more. As to ruffs and puffs, cuffs and muffs, she troubled herself with none of those ridiculous vanities. A plain laced bodice and skirt were good enough to work in, and a pair of stout shoes to keep her out of the mire, with a hat and kerchief for outdoor wear, and a warm cloak for cold weather. Her miscellaneous possessions were limited to a big work-basket, two silver spoons and a goblet, and three books—namely, a copy of the four Gospels, a Prayer-book, and Luther on the Lord’s Prayer. Packing and unpacking were small matters. In these circumstances, and Temperance’s change of residence was the affair of an afternoon. Six years afterwards her brother Dudley died; and Temperance, taking into consideration the facts that Skiddaw Force was a very lonely place, having no house within some miles save a few isolated cottages of charcoal-burners and shepherds; that a small house at Keswick belonged to Lettice; and that the child’s grand-parents on the mother’s side were desirous to have her near them, let the house at Skiddaw Force, and came to live at Keswick.

The family at Selwick Hall had once been much larger than now. All were gone but these few—Milisent to another home; Anstace, Walter, and Helen lay in the churchyard, and Ned, the father of young Aubrey, under the waves of the North Atlantic; and then Mynheer Stuyvesant, the old Dutch gentleman who had been driven from his own land for the faith’s sake, and having been the boys’ tutor, had stayed for love after necessity was over, took his last journey to the better country; and dear, honest, simple Cousin Bess Wolvercot, friend and helper of all, went to receive her reward, with—

“Nothing to leave but a worn-out frame,

And a name without a stain;

Nothing to leave but an empty place,

That nothing could fill again—”

And after that, Lady Lettice felt herself growing old. The evening shadows crept further, and her right hand in household affairs was gone; but with the constant love and aid of Edith, she held on her way, until the sorest blow of all fell on her, and the husband who had been ever counsellor and comforter and stay, left her side for the continuing City. Since then, Lettice Louvaine had been simply waiting for the day when she should join him again, and in the interim trying through growing infirmities to “do the next thing,”—remembering the words uttered so long ago by his beloved cousin Anstace, that some day the next step would be the last step.

When Sir Aubrey Louvaine died, at the age of seventy-nine, two years before the story opens, Aubrey, his grandson and namesake, became the owner of Selwick Hall: but being under age, every thing was left in the hands of his grandmother.

The pang of Lady Louvaine’s bereavement was still fresh when another blow fell on her. Her husband had inherited Selwick from a distant cousin, known in the neighbourhood as the Old Squire. The Old Squire’s two sons, Nicholas and Hugh, had predeceased him, Sir Aubrey had taken peaceable possession of the estate, and no one ever doubted his title for fifty years, himself least of all. Three months after his death, Lady Louvaine was astounded to receive a lawyer’s letter, claiming the Selwick lands on behalf of one Oswald Louvaine of Newcastle, a young man who asserted himself to be the grandson of the long-deceased Hugh. His documentary proofs were all in order, his witnesses were numerous and positive, and Lady Louvaine possessed no counter-proof of any kind to rebut this unheard-of claim. After a vain search among her husband’s papers, and a consultation with such of her friends and relatives as she judged suitable, she decided not to carry the matter into a court of law, but to yield peaceable possession to young Oswald, on consideration of his giving her a writ of immunity from paying back dues of any kind, which indeed it would have been quite out of her power to discharge. Sir Aubrey’s income was comfortably sufficient for the family wants, but there was little to spare when both ends had met. Mr. Oswald accepted the terms as an immense favour on his part; and at the age of seventy-six Lady Louvaine was deprived of the home wherein she had dwelt for fifty-six years, and summoned like Abraham to go forth into the land which God would show her.

Where to go was the next question. Her daughter Milisent, with her husband Robert Lewthwaite, would gladly have received her, and implored her to come to them; but nine children, a full house, and a small income, barred the way in that direction. No offer of a home came from Red Banks, where the children of her eldest daughter Anstace lived, and where the income was twice as large as at Mere Lea, while the family did not amount to half the number. Temperance Murthwaite trudged up to Selwick to offer the tiny house which was part of Lettice’s little patrimony, actually proposing herself to go to service, and leave Lettice in her grandmother’s care. This Faith regarded as a cruel injury, and Lady Louvaine would not hear of it. From her daughter-in-law. Mrs. Walter Louvaine, at Kendal, came a sweetly-perfumed and sweetly-worded letter, wherein the writer offered—a thousand apologies, and a dozen excuses for not receiving her dear and revered mother. Her grief in having so to write, she assured them, was incalculable and inconsolable. She begged that it might be taken into consideration that Diana was shortly to be married, and would require a trousseau—which, she did not add, comprised a pound of gold lace, and six pairs of silk stockings at two guineas the pair: that Montague, being in a nobleman’s household, was an appalling expense to her; that the younger boys were growing up and would require situations found for them, while Jane and Frances would some day need portioning: all which facts were so many heavy burdens—and had not the Apostle said that he who neglected to provide for his own was worse than an infidel? Lady Louvaine received this letter with a slight sigh, a gentle smile, and “Poor Frances!” But the usually calm, sunny temper of Edith was not proof against it. She tore the letter in two and flung the fragments into the fire.

“Edith, my dear daughter!” ejaculated her astonished mother.

“Mother, I can’t stand it!” was the response. “I must either do this or something worse. And to drag in the Apostle Paul as a prop for such hypoc—I’ll just go and churn, and perhaps I can talk like a Christian when I come back!”

Such things as these did not move Lady Louvaine. But there were two things which did move her, even to tears. The first was when Hans brought her a little box in which lay five silver pieces, entreating her to accept them, such as they were—and she found after close cross-examination that part of the money was the boy’s savings to buy cherished books, and part the result of the sale of his solitary valuable possession, a pair of silver buckles. The other took place when notice was given to all the servants. Each received his or her wages, and a little token of remembrance, with bow or courtesy, and an expression of regret on leaving so kind a mistress, mingled with good wishes for her future welfare: all but one. That one was Charity, the under-housemaid from Pendle. Charity rolled up her arms in her apron, and said curtly—“Nay!”

“But, Charity, I owe you this,” responded her mistress in some surprise.

“If you’re bound to reckon up, my Lady, betwixt you and me, there mun be somewhat set down o’ tother side o’ th’ book,” announced Charity sturdily. “Yo’ mun mind you ’at yo’ took me ba’at (without) a commendation, because nob’ry (nobody) ’d have me at after Mistress Watson charged me wi’ stealing her lace fall, ’at she found at after amongst her kerchiefs; that’s a hundred pound to th’ good. And yo’ nursed me through th’ fever—that’s another. And yo’ held me back fro’ wedding wi’ yon wastrel (scoundrel) Nym Thistlethwaite, till I’d seen a bit better what manner of lad he were, and so saved me fro’ being a poor, bruised, heart-broke thing like their Margery is now, ’at he did wed wi’—and that counts for five hundred at least. That’s seven hundred pound, Madam, and I’ve nobut twelve i’ th’ world—I’m bankrupt. So, if you please, we’ll have no reckonings, or I shall come off warst. And would you please to tell me when you look to be i’ London town, and where you’ll ’light first?”

“My good Charity! they named thee not ill,” answered Lady Louvaine. “I trust to be in London the end of March—nigh on Lady Day; and I light at the White Bear, in the King’s Street, Westminster.”

“Pray you, Madam, how many miles is it hence?”

“ ’Tis about two hundred miles, Charity.”

For a moment Charity was silent. Then she said, “An’t like you, Madam, I’d fain go the first o’ March.”

Lady Louvaine was a little surprised, for she had given her servants a month’s notice, which would expire on the fifteenth of March. However, if Charity preferred to be paid in time instead of money, that was her own affair. She assented, and Charity, dropping another courtesy, left the room.

Lady Louvaine’s house in London had been obtained through the Earl of Oxford, a distant cousin of her husband, in whose household her son Walter had long before taken unwholesome lessons in fashion and extravagance. The Earl, now in his grand climacteric, had outlived his youthful frivolity, and though he had become a hard and austere man, was yet willing to do a kindness to his kinsman’s widow by engaging a house for her, and offering for her grandson a squire’s place which happened to be vacant in his household. She would have preferred some less showy and more solid means of livelihood for Aubrey, whose character was yet unfixed, and whose disposition was lighter than she liked to see it: but no other offered, and she accepted this.

A few days before the time for departure, up trudged Temperance Murthwaite again.

“Madam,” said she, “I’m something ’feared I’m as welcome as water into a ship, for I dare guess you’ve enough to do with the hours, but truth to tell, I’m driven to it. Here’s Faith set to go after you to London.”

“Poor child! let her come.”

“I can get as far as ‘poor,’ Madam, but I can go no further with you,” answered Temperance grimly. “Somebody’s poor enough, I cast no doubt, but I don’t think it’s Faith. But you have not yet beheld all your calamities. If Faith goes, I must go too—and if I go, and she, then must Lettice.”

“Dear Temperance, I shall be verily glad.”

“Lady Lettice, you’re too good for this world!—and there aren’t ten folks in it to whom I ever said that. Howbeit, you shall not lose by me, for I purpose to take Rachel withal and she and I can do the housework betwixt us, and so set Edith free to wait on you. Were you thinking to carry servants, or find them there?”

“I thought to find one there. More than one, methinks, we can scarce afford.”

“Well then for that shall Rachel serve: and I’ll work the cost of my keep and more, you shall see. I can spin with the best, and weave too; you’ll never come short of linen nor linsey while I’m with you—and Lettice can run about and save steps to us all. What think you?—said I well?”

“Very well indeed, my dear: I were fain to have you.”

“Then you’ll look for us. Good-morrow!” The last evening was a busy one for all parties, and there was little time to spare for indulgence in remembrance or regret. It was two hours later than usual, when Lettice at last lay down to sleep and even then, sleep seemed long in coming. She heard her Aunt Edith’s soft movements in the neighbouring gallery, where she was putting final touches to the packing, and presently they slid unconsciously into the sound of the waterfall at Skiddaw Force, by the side of which Lettice was climbing up to the Tower of London. She knew nothing of the tender, cheerful “Good-night, Mother dear!” given to Lady Louvaine—of the long, pathetic gaze at the moonlit landscape—of the silently-sobbed prayer, and the passionate rain of tears—such different tears from those of Faith!—which left a wet stain upon Edith’s coverlet. It was hard to leave the old home—hard to leave the new graves. But the next thing the young niece heard was only—“Time to rise, Lettice!” spoken in the usual bright manner—and, looking up, she saw Aunt Edith fully dressed.

Lettice sprang up in a fright, and scrambled into her clothes with all the haste possible. She, who was to have helped Aunt Edith, to be fast asleep in bed when she was ready! It was not many minutes before Lettice was dressed, but her morning prayer had in it sundry things which were not prayers.

Breakfast was nearly over when a curious rolling sound was heard, followed by the tramp of horses: and Aubrey jumped up to look, for it was half-an-hour too soon for the baggage-horses to be brought. He had to run into the porch-chamber to see what it was, and before he returned came old Roger the serving-man, with a letter in his hand, which he gave to his mistress. She opened the letter, but finding it somewhat difficult for dim eyes to make out, she gave it back to Roger, desiring him to read it. (Note 2.) So Roger read:—

“Madam—Since I need be in London this next weekend, where I look to tarry some time, and am offered a seat in my good Lord of Northumberland’s caroche, it were pity that my caroche should go thither empty, in especial when so good and old a friend is likewise on her journey. May I therefore beg that your Ladyship will so far favour me as to use the caroche as your own, from this day until Friday week, when, if it serve your convenience, it may return to me at Radcliffe House? My servants have orders to obey your Ladyship’s directions, and to serve you in all regards as myself.

“I kiss the hands of fair Mistress Edith, and beg my best compliments to your young gentlemen, and am, Madam, yours to my little power, Dilston.”

Aubrey had come back whilst Roger was reading, and scarcely gave him leave to make an end of the letter.

“Madam, ’tis my Lord Dilston’s caroche, with six great Flanders horses, and three serving-men, all as fine as fiddlers, and never a soul in the caroche—”

“Truly, this is of the Lord’s goodness,” said Lady Louvaine. “I did indeed fear the journey on horseback, but there seemed none other means.”

“The like did I for you, dear Mother,” added Edith. “I am most thankful for my Lord Dilston’s kindly proffer. It shall ease the journey to you more than all we could do.”

Lady Louvaine bade Edith write an answer, and ordered Roger to take back to Mere Lea the three saddle-horses lent her by Mr. Lewthwaite, explaining why they were no longer needed. It was then settled that the four ladies and Lettice should travel in the coach, Aubrey, Hans, and Rachel going on horseback.

Hans had gone out, and they saw him talking in the front with Lord Dilston’s postillion. Now he came back. “Well, Hans, what wormed you out of the postillion?” inquired Aubrey.

“His master’s goodness,” said Hans. “Have you a bit left for me? or do you want it all for yourself?”

“It is all for my Lady. My Lord Dilston was meaning to have gone to Town himself in his own caroche, till he heard of your Ladyship’s trouble, and then he cast about to know of some friend that was going, so he might leave it for you. Then he heard of my Lord of Northumberland, and he begged a seat in his caroche; and Madam Penelope stuffed the caroche with all the cushions that were in the house, and a hamper of baked meats, and wine, and a great fur mantle to lap your Ladyship in; and my Lord bade the postillion to drive very soft, that you should not be shaken, without you told him to go fast, and the footmen were to have a care of you and save you all that they could. Said I not well, his goodness?”

“Truly, Hans, you did so,” answered Edith; “and right thankful should we all be, first to the Lord, and then to my Lord Dilston, that my dear mother can now journey in safety and comfort.”

Lady Louvaine said, softly, “Bless the Lord! and may He bless this kind friend! Truly, I marvel wherefore it is that every one is so good to me. It must be, surely, for my dead Aubrey’s sake.”

“Oh, of course,” said young Aubrey, laughing; “they all hate you, Madam, you may be sure.”

His grandmother smiled on him, for she understood him.

Now came the Murthwaite sisters trudging up the path, Temperance carrying a heavy basket, and Faith bearing no greater weight than her handkerchief, behind which, as usual, she was weeping.

“Good-morrow, Madam,” said Aunt Temperance as she came in. “A fine day for our journey.”

“You’re to ride in a caroche, Aunt Temperance!” cried Aubrey.

“Who—me? No, I thank you, my young Master. I never set foot in such a thing in my life, nor never will by my good will. I like the feel of a horse under me well enough; but that finicky gingerbread thing, all o’er gilding—I’d as soon go on a broomstick. Whose is it?”

“ ’Tis my Lord Dilston’s, that hath most kindly proffered it to Mother for the journey,” replied Edith. “We had settled that we four, with Lettice, should journey therein; but if you would rather be on horseback, Temperance—”

“That would I, by ten mile,” said she. “I hate being cooped up in a four-post bed, with all the curtains drawn; and that lumbering thing’s no better. Faith’ll go, I don’t doubt; any thing that’s a bit smart and showy!! take her: and Lettice may please herself. I dare say the child will have a fantasy to ride in a caroche for once in her life.”

“Indeed, Aunt, I would like it,” answered Lettice, “for very like I may never have such another chance while I live.”

“Truly, that’s little like,” retorted Temperance with a laugh. “So have thy ride, child, if thou wilt.—Dear heart! Lady Lettice, I ask your pardon.”

“For what, Temperance, my dear?”

“Taking your place, Madam, instead of my own. Here am I, deciding what Lettice shall do or not do, when you being in presence, it belongs to you to judge.”

Lady Louvaine gave her gentle smile.

“Nay, if we must stand upon our rights, you, Temperance, as her father’s sister, have the right to choose.”

“Then I choose to obey you, Lady Lettice,” said Temperance with a courtesy.

“Madam,” now announced Hans from the door, “the baggage is packed, and the caroche awaiteth your Ladyship.”

Edith helped her mother to rise from, her chair. She stood one moment, her hand on Edith’s arm; and a look came into her eyes such as a drowning man might give to the white cliffs whereon his home stood, where his wife and his little children were waiting for him. So she stood and looked slowly round the chamber, her eyes travelling from one thing to another, till she had gone all over it. And then she said, in a low, pathetic voice—

“ ‘Get thee out of thy country, and from thy father’s house, unto the land that I will show thee.’ Once before I had that call, and it led me to him who was the stay and blessing of my life. Yet again I go forth: O my Father, let it lead to Thee, unto Thy holy hill, and to Thy tabernacle! Remember Thy word unto Thy servant, wherein Thou hast caused me to hope—‘Certainly I will be with thee,’—‘I will not fail thee, nor forsake thee,’—‘Fear not, for I have redeemed thee: I have called thee by thy name; thou art Mine.’ Lord, keep Thine own!—Now, my children, let us go hence with God.”

In something like a procession they went forth from Selwick Hall. Lady Louvaine first, leaning on Edith and Hans, to whom Aubrey was always ready to resign troublesome duties; then Faith, Temperance, Aubrey, and Lettice.

At the door stood the great coach, painted in dark mulberry-colour and picked out with gilding, the lining and cushions of blue: and harnessed to it were the six great horses, dark roan, with cream-coloured manes, knotted likewise in blue. The servants wore mulberry-coloured livery, corded with blue.

Lady Louvaine took her place on the right hand of the coach, facing the horses, Faith being at her side. Opposite sat Edith, and Lettice by the door.

“Aunt Temperance!” called out Aubrey from the doorstep, “you shall have my horse, if you will; I am going in the caroche.”

“You are what, Sirrah?” demanded Aunt Temperance, with the severity of at least one Lord Chief-Justice.

“I shall ride in the caroche,” repeated Aubrey calmly.

“Northumberland, Cumberland, Westmoreland, and Durham!” was the awful answer.

The young people knew what that meant. When Temperance said “Dear heart!” she was just a little surprised or put out; when it was “Lancaster and Derby!” she was very much astonished or provoked; but when she supplicated the help of “Northumberland, Cumberland, Westmoreland, and Durham!” it meant from Aunt Temperance what swearing would from any one else.

“I should like to know, if you please, Mr. Aubrey Louvaine, whether you are a king, a sick woman, or a baby?”

“Well, Aunt, I don’t think I am any of them at present.”

“Then you have no business to ride in a caroche till you are. I never heard of such a thing in my life. A man to ride in a caroche! We shall have them hemming handkerchiefs to-morrow.”

“You won’t have me,” said Aubrey.

“I won’t have you in there,” retorted Temperance bluntly, “without my Lady Lettice call you in, and that she won’t. Will you, Madam?”

“Certainly not, my dear, after your decision,” she replied. “Indeed, I do think it too effeminate for men, persons of high honour except, or them that are sick and infirm.”

“That rascal’s not sick, any more than he’s a person of honour.—Thee bestride thy horse, lad—without thou canst find an ass, which would suit with thee better.—Now, Hans, come and help me to mount.”

When all were mounted, the six great horses tugged and strained at the big coach, and with a good push from the four farm-servants, it moved forwards, at first slowly, then faster. The farm-servants stood bareheaded, to see the family depart, crying, “God bless you, my Lady, and bring you home in peace!”

Faith sank back sobbing into the corner, and there were tears in Edith’s eyes which she would not let fall.

“Farewell!” said Lady Louvaine, leaning forward. “Farewell, my good, kind old friends—Thomas, William, Isaac, and Gideon—I wish you God’s blessing, and a better head than I.”

“Nay, nay, that’ll ne’er be, nor couldn’t, no wise!” cried old Gideon, and the rest all echoed his “Nay, nay!”

“Farewell!” said his mistress again, somewhat faintly, as she sank back into the corner. “Friends, God will bless me, and He shall bring me home in peace.”

Note 1. The thrum is the fringed end of a weaver’s web; a thrum hat was made of very coarse tufted woollen cloth.

Note 2. This was quite a common occurrence at that time, when men-servants were usually better educated, and ladies and gentlemen much less so, than now.