CHAPTER XI.

TRE MADOC.

IT was a toilsome journey. Andrew had taken great pains to provide easy horses for us, and we carried some comforts in the way of provisions, biscuits, gingerbread, two or three flasks of wine, and small packages of coffee, and one of the new Chinese drink called tea, which had just begun to come in fashion, and which has now become quite common, even in tradesmen's families. For this, as for many other kindnesses, we were indebted to Mr. Pepys and his good little wife.

We did not travel very rapidly, the roads being bad, even at this time of the year, and such as in many places forbade our travelling otherwise than in single file. The weather was charming—that was one comfort—and the air as delicious as any I ever breathed in my life. As we crossed the high moors, we saw abundance of those old heathen monuments which abound in Normandy, and still more in Brittany, and once we passed one almost exactly like that above our orchard, where my father and I had our memorable conversation.

We stopped for rest and refreshment in little country towns, and sometimes at lonely inns standing by themselves, such as would not have been considered very safe abiding-places in France, and where we should have been at a loss to make ourselves understood but for Andrew and the sailor whom he had taken along from Plymouth. The Cornish tongue, which is now fallen greatly into disuse, was at that time generally spoken among the common people. I picked up a good deal of it afterward, but at that time it was all heathen Greek to me, though my mother could speak it a little.

I must needs say that, though we must have appeared as outlandish to them as they did to us, the good folks were most kind to us, especially when they had heard something of our story. They would express their sympathy by sighs and tears, and by bringing out to us the best that they had; and the men would often leave their work and walk miles beside us to guide us on our way.

Simon kept up his courage very well, and indeed he enjoyed the journey; but poor Jeanne's spirits sank lower and lower, and I think she would have given out altogether had we not come, on the fifth day, to cultivated fields and orchards. The sight of these last revived her drooping courage, and when at last we reached the village of Tre Madoc, always a neat little place, and passing it came to the brow of the hill from which we looked down on the house of Tre Madoc, nestling amid great trees in its south-land valley, with the clear stream falling in a cascade at the upper end and rushing down to the sea, she was quite another woman.

"Is this not beautiful, Jeanne?" said my mother, her eyes filling with tears as she gazed on the old home, unseen for so many years.

"It is, madame; I won't deny it, though the house is nothing in grandeur to the Tour d'Antin. And the cottages do look snug and comfortable; but after all it is not France!"

"No, it is not France: don't you wish it were?" said I. "How nice it would be to see a party of dragoons coming after us over the hill, and to be afraid to pass yonder tumbling old cross lest some one should see that we did not bow to it!"

I am conscious that I spoke these words all the more sharply because I was myself dreadfully homesick—not for France so much as for London, with which I had fallen in love, though I had begun by disliking it so much. I had had a taste of that life of which I had so often dreamed, and I found the cup too sweet to wish to have that taste the only one.

My mother looked at me in surprise, but she had no time to speak the reproof which her eyes uttered. It seemed that we were expected and watched for. We saw a little lad, who had been sitting with his dog and clapper watching the birds, leave his occupation and run down toward the house, and presently an elderly lady, surrounded by three or four young ones, came out upon the porch.

"There are my mother and sisters," said Andrew "and," he added to me, in a lower tone, "your mother, too, Vevette! I hope you will love her."

"I am sure I shall," I tried to answer graciously, though I felt inwardly vexed. I always was provoked when Andrew said any such thing implying a kind of property in me.

I felt an unaccountable shyness of these new relatives, such as I had not been conscious of either in Jersey or London, and I wished the meeting with them could be postponed. But our tired beasts now put themselves into brisk motion, rejoicing, poor creatures, in the thought of rest and food. We descended the hill, passed through a short avenue of nut-trees, and came out before the same porch, overgrown with ivy and a groat Virginia vine, as we used to call it, and found ourselves in presence of our friends.

Andrew sprang from his horse and assisted my mother and myself to dismount. The older lady clasped my mother in her arms.

"Dearest sister Margaret," said she, kissing her on both cheeks, "welcome home! It is a happy day that sees you enter your father's house once more. And this is my new daughter. Heaven bless you, my love! I have a flock of maidens, as you see, but there is plenty of room for one more. And who are these?" Turning to Simon and Jeanne, who had also dismounted and stood modestly in the background.

My mother explained matters, and our poor friends were welcomed in their turn and committed to the care of a very nice old woman, to be made comfortable, while one of half a dozen old blue-coated serving-men led away our horses and attended to our luggage.

Then we were conveyed into a parlor, a large low room wainscoted with cedar and hung with handsome though faded needlework. Here we were relieved of our riding gear and presented to our other cousins, of whom I was too tired and confused to see aught but that Betty was small and dark, Margaret tall and fair, and Rosamond very much like somebody I had known, I could not say whom.

"But you are both tired with your long journey, I am sure," said my aunt, after the first greetings had been exchanged. "Rosamond and Betty shall show you your lodgings, and when you have refreshed yourselves we will meet at supper. I have given you the gilded room, Margaret, and to Agnes—or do you call her Genevieve?—the little chamber over the porch beside it. I might have given you a more sumptuous apartment, my dear," she added, turning to me; "though indeed we are but plain country folks at best; but the porch room hath a pleasant lookout, and I thought you would like to be near your mother."

I murmured something, I hardly knew what, and my mother answered for me. "Vevette is not used to luxury, my dear sister, and the porch room is good enough for any young maid. May I ask you to send Jeanne to me? She will feel herself very strange, I fear."

"She shall attend you directly," answered my aunt; "and glad I am that two such confessors for the faith should find a shelter under this roof."

"Take heed to the steps," said Rosamond, as we came to the foot of the staircase; "they are somewhat slippery."

That they were, being of dark oak, and polished like glass with age and much scrubbing. However, I was used to polished floors, and so did not get a fall. We traversed a long gallery hung with pictures, and came to my mother's room, which was large and low. Above the wainscot, the walls were covered with old-fashioned stamped and gilded leather, such as one seldom sees now. The bed was of needlework, with wondrous white and fine linen—a matter in which we Corbets have always been particular. There was a small Turkey carpet on the floor, and quite a fine Venice glass, with branches, handsomer than that in my aunt's dressing-room in London. I thought the room as pretty as any one I had ever seen. Indeed, the whole house was finished with a richness uncommon in remote country houses at that day, for the men of the family, taking naturally to a seafaring life, had brought home from abroad many articles of luxury and beauty.

My own room was by far the prettiest I had ever inhabited, even at any aunt's house in London. It was partly over the porch, as my aunt had said, and had a kind of projecting window which commanded a lovely view of the sea and the shore. The bed was small and hung with white, and there was a queer old cabinet or chest of drawers, which reminded me at once of Jeanne's cherished bahut, which she often sighed over.

"That cabinet came from the south of France, they say," said Rosamond, seeing my eyes fixed upon it. "My grandfather brought it home for a present to his wife."

"There she goes," said Betty, laughing. "Rosamond knows the history of every old piece of furniture and tapestry and every old picture and sampler in the old house, and will retail them to you by the hour, if you care to listen to her. They are all precious relics in her eyes."

"I am sure I shall care," said I, seeing that Rosamond looked a little dashed. "I love things that have histories, and that old cabinet is so like one that my poor foster-mother used to have, that I fell in love with it in a moment; I think Rosamond and I will agree finely."

It was now Betty's turn to look a little vexed, but her face cleared up directly.

"You will have abundance of entertainment, then, for the house is a museum of old furniture and oddities. But this old tabernacle is a convenient affair. Here are empty drawers, as you see, and a place to write, and in this large drawer you will find clean towels and napkins as you want them. Come, Rosamond, let us leave Agnes to dress herself. I am sure she must feel the need of it."

I did indeed need such a refreshment, after my long ride. My mail was already in the room, and it was with considerable satisfaction that I arrayed myself in one of the new frocks which had been made for me in London, and which, as I could not but be aware, set off to considerable advantage my slender, erect figure. Then, very well satisfied with myself, I went into my mother's room, where I found Jeanne, much refreshed in mind and body, and disposed to regard her new home with more favorable eyes. My mother was already dressed, and, seated in a great chair covered with needlework flowers in faded silks, was directing Jeanne in the unpacking of her mail and the disposition of her clothes.

"You look well, my child," said she, holding out her hand to me. "Have not the lines fallen to us in pleasant places? Even Jeanne admits that the Cornish folk are Christian people, since, though they cannot speak French, they know how to make cider."

"And very good cider too, madame," answered Jeanne; "and though I think them not very polite to smile at the English which I learned so well to speak in London, yet one must not expect too much of them, living as they do at the very world's end. Why, they tell me, at least that old sailor did, there is absolutely no land between the shore yonder and that savage country of America. Do you think that can be true, madame? It makes one almost afraid."

"It is quite true, my Jeanne; but I see no cause for fear," answered my mother, smiling. "Some of our own people have settled in America, and are prospering well. We have even relatives abiding there. My husband and I have sometimes talked of the possibility of going thither ourselves. Is not this a pretty place, my Vevette?"

"Yes, maman, very pretty, only—" and here I stopped; for something choked me, and I felt a great disposition to cry.

"Only it is all strange and new, and my little one is overwrought," said my mother, kissing me. "I forget it is not a home-coming to you as to me. Yet I hope you will try to be happy here," she added, regarding me wistfully.

"Indeed I will, dear maman," I answered, making a great effort to control myself, and succeeding pretty well. "I think the house is beautiful, especially this room and my own; and only think, Mother Jeanne, there is a bahut almost like yours, and my cousin Rosamond says it came from the south of France. Perhaps it was made by the same man."

"That could hardly be, mamselle, for my great-grandfather made mine. He was a skilful man, I have heard say, and made many beautiful pieces for great houses."

"Then why not this one? Go and look at it," said I.

Jeanne obeyed, and soon came back in great excitement.

"It was—it really was made by my great-grandfather, madame!" she cried. "There are the two doves pecketting on the top just the same, and the very sign—the olive-leaf marked with a circle—which he used to put on all his work. Is it not wonderful, madame? Is it not a good omen?"

And again she went back to examine the cabinet, and I followed her, listening with interest while she pointed out the maker's sign carved here and there upon the doors and drawers, and the peculiar beauty of the steel hinges and locks.

This little incident diverted my mind and put me into better spirits, and when Rosamond came to call us to supper, I was ready to meet her with a smile. The meal was served in another room from that we had seen before—a high-arched room with a gallery crossing one end, which was situated—so Rosamond told me—in the older part of the house, and was formerly the great hall. The meal was well served, and seemed wonderfully abundant, though I was growing accustomed to English profusion in the matter of eating and drinking. I could not but admire the white, glossy sheen of the damask cloth and napkins, and the beautiful china dishes, more beautiful than any I had ever seen. China collecting was a great passion then, and my aunt in London would have given one of her little pink ears for the curious standard dish full of early strawberries which adorned the supper table, or the tall jug crowned with frothy whipped cream beside it.

We young ones were more or less silent, of course, while my mother and my Aunt Amy talked about old times, and who was dead, and whose son had married which one's daughter, and all the rest of the chat which goes on when old neighbors come together. My dear mother was—no disparagement to her either—a bit of a gossip; though, as we had few friends among our French neighbors, she had had little opportunity of indulging her tastes; but now she grew more animated and interested than I had ever seen her, in hearing all the news my Aunt Amy had to tell.

"And what about our cousins at Stanton?" asked my mother presently. "From what Andrew tells me, I suppose the present lady is not much like the one I knew."

"No more than chalk is like cream cheese," answered Aunt Amy. "Yet she is a good lady, too, and a kind stepmother to the lad who is left, though she had two daughters of her own when she married my lord."

"And what like are they?"

"Nay, that you must ask Andrew. He has seen more of them than I have."

"Theo is well enough," said Andrew. "She is a merry girl, who cares not much for anything but pleasure and finery, but she is good-natured at least. Martha is a girl of another stamp. I pity the man who marries her. She hath far more mind than Theo, but such a temper! Disagree with her ever so little—do but dare to like what she hates or know something she does not—and she is your enemy for life."

"Gently, gently, my son," said his mother, with a little laugh. "What hath poor Martha done to you?"

"Nothing to me, mother, but I have seen enough of her doings to others. I believe there is but one person in the world she stands in awe of—her mother—and but one she loves—her half-brother, the young lord. I do think she cares for him."

"Ah, well!" said my aunt easily. "If she has such a temper, it brings its own punishment."

"And the punishment of a good many others also, unluckily," said Andrew, and then the conversation turned to other things.

After supper Andrew proposed that we should go up and see the gardens. The elders preferred sitting in the house, but we young ones went out, after proper injunctions to keep moving and not to stay out after the dew began to fall. Gardening, it appeared, had also been a fashion with these curious Corbets, who seem to me from the earliest records to have made their homes as pleasant as possible, only to run as far-away from them as the limits of the world would allow. The flower-beds were in their spring beauty, and were filled with rare plants and flowers, which I never saw anywhere else.

The climate of Cornwall is very mild, so that the myrtle grows to a great size out of doors, and many tender trees flourish which will not live at all about London. I particularly admired a tall shrub With red-veined leaves and covered with little scarlet bells in immense profusion, and asked its name.

"I cannot tell you that," said Andrew. "My father brought it from the West Indies, where it grows very large. This other bush, with bright scarlet flowers and broad leaves, is from the Cape of Good Hope, but it will bear no frost, so we take it in, in the winter."

"What great rosemary and lavender plants!" said I. "They make me think of what Jeanne has told me about Provence, where they grow wild."

"They do fairly well, though the place is damp for them. See, yonder is a tulip-tree. Is it not a grand one? The Americans make great use of the wood, which, though soft, is very lasting for some purposes."

"What a pity to cut down such beautiful trees!" said I.

Andrew laughed.

"Trees are the great enemies over there," said he. "It did look terribly wasteful to me to see great logs of bard maple, chestnut, and oak, rolled into heaps and burned in the field, just to get rid of them."

"What a shame!" said Betty. "Why not at least give them to the poor for fuel. Goody Penaluna would be glad enough of such a log."

"If Goody Penaluna were there, she would have wood enough for the asking," replied Andrew. "One can hardly say there are any poor, for though they have often had hard times enough, yet it mostly comes share and share alike."

"I believe Andrew hath a hankering after those same colonies in his secret soul," said Betty. "You will find yourself transplanted thither some time or other, Agnes."

Again I felt annoyed. I did not know why.

"Do not call me Agnes; call me Vevette," said I. "That is the name I have always been used to."

"But Agnes is so much prettier. Vevette is like a nickname," objected Betty.

"It is a sort of pet name, I suppose—short for Genevieve," remarked Margaret. "If Vevette likes it best, she certainly has a right to choose."

"But it is French," objected Betty again, "and she is an English girl now. I am quite sure mother would prefer to have her called Agnes, and Andrew too; wouldn't you, Andrew?"

"I should prefer that she should have her own way in the matter," answered Andrew shortly, and there the discussion ended for the time; but we were no sooner in the house than Betty began it again, appealing to her mother to say if it would not be much better for me to be called by my English name now I was come to live in England.

"That is for her mother to say," replied Aunt Amy. "I presume she will prefer to call her by the name she has been used to."

"I certainly shall prefer to do so, and to have others do so," said my mother. "The name of Agnes was never a favorite of mine."

Betty said no more, but she never lost an opportunity of calling me Agnes, till I took to calling her Elizabeth, to which name she had a special aversion.

The next morning and for many succeeding days my mother was very unwell, and I naturally spent most of my time with her in her apartment, which was at some little distance from the rest of the house. Jeanne attended on her, and Simon worked in the garden, taking great pleasure in the variety of plants and flowers he found there. He got on very well with his fellow-servants, being of a quiet and sober disposition. He did not at all disturb himself when laughed at for his mistakes in English, but only laughed back, or contented himself with quietly correcting his mistake. But Jeanne's southern blood was more easily stirred, and she more than once came to my mother declaring that she could endure her life no longer.

Betty used to take pleasure in teasing her, as indeed she did every one who came within her reach, except her mother and Andrew, of whom she stood in awe. She and I had more than one encounter, in which I can safely say that she met her match, and she did not like me the better for it; but Rosamond was her especial butt, and she made the poor girl's life miserable. Rosamond was of a studious turn of mind, and loved nothing so much as to get away by herself, with a great chronicle, or with her French or Latin books. It was a somewhat uncommon disposition at that time, when the education of women was much neglected, even more than it is now. But the Corbets have always been rather a bookish race, and Rosamond was a true Corbet in all things. She loved acquiring new ideas above any other pleasure in the world. She made Simon tell her all about Normandy and Brittany, and there were several old sailors in the village to whose tales of foreign parts she was delighted to listen for hours, albeit I fear they were sometimes more romantic than reliable.

Aunt Amy never interfered with this taste of Rosamond's, but allowed her to read as much as she pleased, though she never cared to open a book herself. Margaret was Rosamond's champion in all things, though she thought so much reading a waste of time; but Betty was always tormenting the poor girl, hiding her books, destroying her collections of dried plants and shells, and laughing at and exaggerating the mistakes which she now and then made in her preoccupation. I must say that in general Rosamond bore all with the utmost sweetness, but now and then she would fly into a passion. Then Betty would provoke her more and more till she succeeded in driving Rosamond into a burst of passionate crying, which generally ended in a fit of the mother, which brought my aunt on the scene.

Then Betty would be all sweetness and soothing attentions to the sufferer, bringing everything she could think of to relieve her, and affecting to pity and pet her till, if it had been me, I am sure I should have boxed her ears. Aunt Amy never saw through these manœuvres, but when Rosamond recovered, she would talk to her seriously about the necessity of governing her temper, and Rosamond would listen humbly and meekly promise to try and do better. There was always more real worth in her little finger than there was in Betty's whole person, but her timidity and absent-minded ways often made her appear at a disadvantage.

She and my mother were soon great friends, and she used to bring her precious books to our apartment, where Betty dared not intrude. Here she would read aloud to us for hours, or practise her French and Italian with maman and myself. She spoke them both horribly, but was very desirous to improve, and made great progress.

Margaret also joined in the French lessons, but she had a great many other things on her hands. She took a good deal of the care of housekeeping off her mother. She visited the poor in the village, and worked for them, and she had taken upon herself a kind of supervision of the dame school, which furnished all the education for the village of Tre Madoc. Old Dame Penberthy, who taught or rather kept it, had not been a very good scholar in her best days, I imagine, and she was now old and half blind. The little children were sent to her to be kept out of mischief, and taken away as soon as they were fit for any sort of work. Some of the brightest of them learned enough to pick out, with much stammering, a chapter in the Testament, and these were the dame's best scholars, whom she exhibited with great pride.

Margaret, however, had lately taken the school in hand, moved thereto by something she had read, and also by Andrew's wish for a better state of things. He had seen in the American colonies day-schools established for all sorts of children, and he wished for something of the same sort at Tre Madoc. So Margaret had persuaded the dame to take home an orphan grandniece, a clever girl who had lived a while at the court, and the old woman easily fell into the way of letting this girl, Peggy Mellish by name, have most of the charge of the school.

Margaret herself went every other day, to inspect the sewing and spinning, and to hear the children say their horn-book and teach them their Belief and Commandments. * By and by she would have me join her in this work. I was fond of walking and of children; my mother and Andrew favored the plan, and so I took hold of it with great zeal, and after a few visits along with Margaret to learn her ways, I even took charge of the school on alternate days, and soon knew as much about the families of the children, their wants and ways, as Margaret herself.

* A horn-book was a printed sheet containing the alphabet and some other lessons, protected from moist little lingers by a sheet of transparent horn.

Thus it came to pass that Betty was in a manner left out in the cold. It was her own fault, I must needs say, for she laughed equally at Meg's and my teaching and Rosamond's learning; but she was not any more pleased for that; and so, partly from idleness, partly for revenge, she set herself to make mischief between Andrew and me. But I must put off the relation to another chapter.

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