CHAPTER XIV.

A WEDDING.

I THINK Margaret really did try to meet me as usual, but of course she did not succeed. She had been vexed at Rosamond for having so much the best of it in their little argument, and I fancy too she found her usual self-complacency a little disturbed; so she was very stately. Andrew did not say much, but he was kind, and would have liked to help me to everything on the table.

Betty was demure and silent, with eyes cast down, though I fancied I now and then caught her regarding me with some anxiety. I suppose she would have liked to find out how much I did know, or whether I knew anything. In good sooth I did not know anything, but I must needs own that my suspicions were strong, and grew stronger the more I considered the matter.

In the beginning of our acquaintance Betty had been much disposed to make a confidante of me, and she herself had told me that Mr. Lovel had been a suitor for her hand, but that her mother had rejected him because he was a spendthrift, and had no good character in other respects, besides being a total unbeliever—a fashion just then much affected by a certain class of men who wished to appear strong-minded and learned at small cost. I could see that Betty was well enough disposed toward him—indeed she said so.

And our first breach came from my saying I wondered she could think of such a person for a husband. I expressed myself pretty warmly on the subject, at which she was very much vexed, and said some sharp things in her turn. However, we made up the quarrel, but when Betty began to talk of him again—I, with a degree of prudence rather to be wondered at, positively refused to hear, telling her that since her mother and brother were opposed to the match, and with such good reason, she ought not to allow her thoughts to dwell upon the subject, but to conquer her regard for Mr. Lovel, if she had any. This little lecture completed the breach between us, and from that time Betty never lost a chance of vexing and injuring me, though she managed her matters with such adroitness that even Andrew did not see through them, and I began to wonder in myself whether I was not growing touchy and ill-natured.

As soon as breakfast was over, my mother and myself retired to our apartment, to finish our preparations for the removal to the Well House. They were not many, for most of our goods were sent thither already, and the house having been kept in such nice order, there was but little to do. My aunt, on her part, was busy among her storerooms and presses, and we presently saw old Matt driving the laden donkey before him, and carrying as many baskets as would have loaded another.

We meant to have gone away directly after breakfast, but aunt was most earnest with us to stay to dinner and partake of the feast which had been put in hand before the unlucky business of the book. So, though I at least was impatient to be gone, we consented to remain. What a feast it was, to be sure! What jellies and creams and tarts and pies of every sort and kind! (The Cornish folk are famous for pies, and 'tis said that the devil never dared to come into Cornwall lest they should take a fancy to "a devilly pie." This, however, is not true. He is just as busy in Cornwall as anywhere else.)

We all parted good friends, and I forced myself to bid a civil adieu to Betty. Aunt Amy was careful to put into each of our hands a package of cakes and comfits, that we might not enter our new home empty-handed and thus bring scarcity upon it. Andrew walked at my mother's bridle-rein, as usual, and Rosamond and I walked together. Simon and Jeanne had preceded us.

When we reached the house-door, Andrew assisted my mother to alight, and then he and Rosamond took a kind leave of us. He saluted me as usual, but there was a change in his manner toward me which I felt bitterly enough, though I had too much maidenly pride to show it. Then they returned home, and we entered our new house together. Dinah and Jeanne were in the hall to welcome us, and had made a cheerful little fire upon the hearth of our sitting-room, for though the summer was in its prime, the evening was cool, and a little mist was drifting up from the sea.

"The place seems home-like, does it not, my Vevette?" said my mother. "I must say I am not sorry to be in my own house once more. Ah, if your father were but here!"

"He is in a better home than this, maman," I ventured to say.

"True, my child, and we will not wish to call him back again. We shall go to him, but he will not return to us."

She kissed me, and we stood a moment in silence. Then my mother roused herself and proposed that we should go through the house.

We found everything in beautiful order, and had occasion at every step to admire my aunt's generosity and Andrew's thoughtfulness.

There was abundance of fine linen and of blankets and everything in the housekeeping line that could be needed. Dinah displayed with delight the service of real china, and the silver salts, and the dredgers for pepper and spices, and the pots upon pots of preserves and honey which my aunt had provided.

My room opened from my mother's, and contained the old French cabinet I had so much admired, and also a little clock, which I knew had been one of Rosamond's chief treasures. From Meg, and marked with her name, was a pretty coverlet of silk patchwork—a kind of work very fashionable at that time, and in which Meg excelled, as she did in most things. From Betty there was a worked cushion, which I am afraid I was spiteful enough to throw into the darkest corner of the closet. From Andrew I had some beautiful china and the loveliest little work-table that could be, besides a case with doors, which being opened I found to contain a portrait of himself, which I suppose he had had painted in London. It was beautifully done, and looked at me with his very eyes and expression—a kind of smiling gravity.

The kitchens and offices were filled up with every convenience, and we found Jeanne quite in ecstasies over her little dairy and her two line cows—one a long-horned Devon, the other a comical little black Welsh cow with no horns at all.

"Ah, madame, had I but a Normandy brass jar for milking in, I should be quite happy," said the good woman. "To think what beautiful milk-jars I had, and how they are all fallen into the hands of the Philistines, as it were!"

"Ah, my poor Jeanne, if it were only the milk-jars that had fallen into the hands of the Philistines!" said old Simon. "But we must be thankful that we have been so kindly dealt by in this strange land. Will madame come to the stable and look at the horses?"

"Horses! What horses?" asked my mother, in surprise.

"The two saddle horses, madame, and the pony for mamselle, and the donkey. Indeed they are nice creatures. Monsieur Corbet recommended the gray for madame's riding, and the pony is as pretty and gentle a creature for a young lady as I ever saw. Monsieur has been training it for this fortnight."

Of course we must go to see them, and I was in ecstasies over my pony, but my mother looked a little grave.

"Andrew overloads us with benefits," said she. "I must talk with him about these same horses. The obligation is almost too great. But never mind, my Vevette; enjoy your pretty Blanche. See how she stoops her head to be petted!"

We returned to the house to find supper served, and Dinah, who had stepped easily enough into the place of waiting-gentlewoman, standing behind my mother's chair. We had been a little afraid Jeanne's feelings might be wounded by this arrangement, but she fell into it more than contentedly. She was born a cook, and her delight in having such a neat kitchen to rule in her own way overcame every other consideration. Simon had had great pleasure in putting to rights the rather overgrown garden, which was now a picture of neatness, and he declared he could easily take care both of that and the garden at the Court till such time as Andrew could suit himself with a gardener.

The next day was mine at the school, but I did not go thither, being resolved, after all I had heard, never to set foot therein till Margaret came and asked me. With the help of the pins Andrew had made, I had got three or four of the older girls, along with Peggy Mellish, nicely started in knitting. Now, as I have said, Margaret could do most things better than any one else; but she had never known how to knit till she had learned it of me, and she was by no means quick at it. The truth was, she had expected to take up the art at once and knit at the very first start as fast and as well as I did, and when she found that she must needs begin as slowly as one of the maids at the school, and that she dropped stitches and split threads when she tried to knit fast, she was a good deal out of patience. I must needs confess that it gave me a little wicked pleasure to think of the embarrassment she would fall into over the knitting.

I busied myself all the morning in arranging our affairs and in looking over the house and grounds. I made various interesting discoveries—of an old carved spinning-wheel, which I determined at once to have put to rights; of various odd bits of tapestry and hangings; and last, but not least, a light closet full of books. A great many of them were books of divinity, which I took little interest, but among the other volumes I found Stowe's "Annals," my old friends the "Arcadia" and Hackluyt's "Voyages," a volume of Shakespeare's plays, and the whole of Spenser's "The Faerie Queene," of which I had read only one odd volume. Mindful of my late troubles, I did not open one of these books till I told my mother of them and asked her consent.

"I will look them over and then tell you," said my mother.

"You will find no ill in them, madame, I venture to say," observed Dinah. "Those books mostly belonged to my honored father, and I do not believe there is one from which my young lady would take any harm."

"Then, if the books belonged to your father, they are yours now," I observed.

"You know he was not really my father," answered Dinah. "I was but a foundling, and could inherit nothing, and he never made a will. I have kept his books and some other things as it were in trust, till the rightful heir should appear to claim them. At all events, you and Mrs. Vevette are quite welcome to the use of any of the books."

"You do not remember anything of what your life was before you came here, I suppose," said my mother.

"No, madame, not with any distinctness. I recollect dimly a fine mansion-house or castle, and a room hung with tapestry. I remember a lady who used to pet me and teach me verses and prayers. Then I recollect being taken from my bed in the dark, hastily wrapped in my clothes and told not to cry, and being carried abroad in the night. After that, all is confusion till I came here."

"That is like our own escape," remarked my mother.

"Yes, madame, and I think it likely that my parents may also have been among those who had to fly for their lives. But who they were or what has become of them will, I suppose, always remain a mystery."

"You say your mother, or the lady you remember, taught you verses. Can you recollect any of them?" asked my mother.

"Only a line or two, madame," and she repeated a few lines, which my mother recognized instantly. "Why, that is the beginning of the 'Noble Lesson,' one of the most honored symbols of the Vaudois!" said she. "My husband could repeat it from end to end, and so can I, if I have not forgotten."

And she repeated a number of lines in the same language which is that still spoken in the Vaudois vales, and to some extent in Provence. I never saw any one more delighted than our poor little lady-in-waiting at this unexpected discovery. She had always liked my mother and me, but now she seemed ready to kiss the very hem of our garments. She showed us the little golden dove she had worn around her neck. It seemed as if made to open, but we could not find the way to do it. My mother said a dove in silver or gold was a very common ornament among the Protestants of Provence and Languedoc, to some family of which she now believed Dinah to belong.

Of course this discovery bound us all the more closely together. Jeanne was delighted, and would fain have recalled for Dinah's benefit her native tongue, but Dinah could only remember the few words she had repeated to us.

That afternoon my mother would go down to the shore and see the poor fishermen's families, several of whom lived at the entrance of the Coombe. We found them rude enough in their manner of living, of course, but courteous, and pleased with our visit, especially old Dame Madge, who had known my mother when a girl, and who was vehement in her expressions of delight at having her so near.

"But, do tell, madame; is it true that you have taken Dinah to be your waiting-woman?"

"Quite true. Why not?" asked my mother. "She is most skilful with her needle, and well bred, and I think myself fortunate in keeping her about me."

"And do you think then, madame, that she is a natural-born woman, and no sea-maid? They say down here that she can go back into the sea whenever she pleases and bring back the finest fish. Why, my son-in-law—and a fine good lad he is, and like an own son to me, though my poor daughter, his wife, only lived with him four years before she died of a waste—my son-in-law says that she once asked him for some fish for her father, as she called him. And Ben said he had none, but if the old gentleman was ill and fancied fish, he would go out and try what he could do, and she thanked him and said he was very kind; and if you will believe me, madame, though he had had the worst of luck for ever so long, that night he had the best catch ever he made. I can tell you, we were all ready to please Dinah after that. And she knows more about herbs than any one I ever saw—more than she ought, some think—though she says she learned it all out of a book she has. Never was anything like the medicine she made for my poor child's cough."

"It seems, then, that she uses her knowledge to good purpose," said my mother, smiling. "No, dame, I do not think her a sea-dame, but the child of some one-wrecked upon the coast."

"Ah, well, no doubt you know best, madame. Anyhow, she does naught but good that we know on, and 'tis best to be on the right side of such creatures."

We went next to visit Anne Barker, who was a widow with two daughters, one of whom was lame and confined to her bed and chair, while the other was one of the best girls in Margaret's school. We found the poor thing—Lois was her name—sitting up in her great three-cornered chair, trying to knit with two slender pegs which she had made from wood. She had partly learned the stitch from her sister, and was succeeding but indifferent well. I at once sat down by her and began to give her instruction, and she soon mastered the stitch, to her great delight.

"Ah, poor maid, she is pleased enough!" said her mother. "She cannot take the spinning-wheel, and the net-making is too hard for her, so time hangs but heavily with her."

"What was the cause of her malady?" asked my mother.

"She was pisky-struck, madame. The very week after she was born, the careless woman who was with me went out and left us alone, and I asleep with an unchristened babe. I was waked by a great noise, as of something running up the wall, and the next minute I heard the babe scream, and there it lay on the ground. No doubt the piskies would have carried it off altogether, if I had not waked just in time. After that it never thrived, poor dear."

"Perhaps is was hurt falling from the bed," I ventured to suggest.

"But what made it fall? No, madame, it was the piskies. I had the luck to displease them by accidentally treading on a fairy ring, and no doubt they meant to have their revenge."

"You did not see them?"

"No, madame, but I heard them as plain as I hear you. A better maid than poor Lois never lived, though I say it that shouldn't, but she can do little for herself or any one else."

"Can you read?" asked my mother of Lois.

"No, madame," was the answer. "My sister hath taught me a little, but not to read a book."

"And would you like to learn?"

"Oh, yes indeed, madame. My father could read, and we have his great Bible. Dibby tells me what she hears parson read in church sometimes, and I often wish I could make it out for myself."

We sat a little while longer and then took our leave, promising to come again. When we were outside the door, my mother remarked:

"Well, Vevette, here is work come to your hand, and of the sort you like. Why should you not teach poor Lois to read?"

"I was going to ask you if I might," said I. "And then, perhaps, I might have some of the others. Really and truly, maman, the walk is very hard and long for the little ones, especially in bad weather."

"Well, well, we will see. Begin with poor Lois, at all events."

So I did, the very next day. My proposal to teach her was received with rapture by both mother and daughter. I had always a knack of teaching, and I soon had Lois prosperously started upon a pair of hose, and able, with some help, to make out a chapter in the Testament. Besides, I read to her every day as a reward, and I shall never forget her delight over the stories in the Gospels. But a good many things happened in the meantime.

Rosamond came down next day with her Italian book, and we had a lesson in that and in music from my mother.

The next day she came again, this time with Meg, who in rather a shamefaced way asked me whether I was not coming to the school any more.

"That depends," said I. "I thought you were not going to allow me."

Then, as Meg colored, I felt sorry for her confusion, and said, "I suppose you want help about the knitting."

"I can make nothing of it," answered Meg, "and I thought—I did not know—" then she stopped, still more confused at the smile I could by no means repress.

Rosamond came to her aid.

"Margaret, why not say at once that you are sorry for what you said about Vevette, and that you will be glad if she will overlook it and help you again. That is the easiest way out of the trouble."

I expected to see Meg angry, but she was not.

"Thank you, Rosamond, that is what I mean," said she. "I was too hasty in condemning Vevette, and I am sorry, and shall be very glad of her help. Will that be enough, cousin, or must I ask downright Dunstable here to make my peace for me?"

"That is enough, and more than enough," said I. "I will help you, of course, though I have also a pupil down here."

And I told her about Lois. She was greatly pleased, and we talked again over my plan of establishing a dame school for the little ones, under the care of the widow and her lame daughter. Margaret, with all her pride, had not an atom of venom or malice about her. Once she made up her mind to pass over a thing, that was the end of it.

"And how is Betty?" I asked.

"She is far from well, and keeps her chamber the last two days," said Margaret; "but my mother cannot tell what ails her, only she is giddy as soon as she sits up. She is very easily disturbed, and likes to stay alone best."

"I hope it is not a fever," said I.

"No, she hath no fever, and her appetite is good enough. It is only the pain and giddiness in her head. Then you will come to the school to-morrow?"

"Yes, if you desire it," said I, and so the matter was settled.

We had not seen Andrew since we parted from him at the door of the house on our first arrival. Now, however, he came down to walk home with his sisters. He saluted my mother and myself as usual, and to maman he was just the same; but there was a kind of sad constraint in his manner to me which I felt at once.

In my maidenly pride, I was determined to show that I was not affected by it, and I chatted on with the girls, making a great deal of talk over the embroidery stitch Margaret was showing me, and laughing at my own stupidity, while my heart swelled with mingled grief and anger. I thought Andrew was hard and unjust toward me, and hardness and injustice from one we love and respect is very hard to bear. I was glad when they all went away, and I could run up to my own room and relieve myself by a few bitter tears.

The next day Andrew came again, and this time with great news. There was a certain estate in Devonshire which should have descended to my mother by the will of her grandmother, but which had long been in dispute, and had threatened to eat itself up, as the saying goes, in law expenses. Andrew brought word that by the discovery of some new evidence—a later will, I believe—the matter was definitely settled, and that when our honest share of the expenses was paid the estate would be worth no less than three hundred a year to my mother and me. He proposed to go at once to Exeter to attend to the final settlement, if my mother wished it and would give him proper powers.

"But that is hardly fair," said my mother. "It will take a week or more out of your short remaining time at home."

"That does not matter," answered Andrew abruptly; and then added, "Besides, the sailing of the ship is put off another two weeks. I begin to think she will never go at all."

"Are you, then, in such a hurry to be gone?" I said, without thinking. I could have bitten my tongue with vexation a moment after.

"Sailors soon grow tired of life on shore," said he not unkindly. "The sea never lets go of any one it has once taken hold of, and you know the saying is that it always draws those whose parents it has drowned." Then, after a little silence, "Vevette, will you walk up the church-path with me? I want to show you a new plant I have found."

I was in two minds to refuse, but after a moment's consideration I agreed, and went to fetch my mantle and hood. We walked a little while in silence, enjoying the fresh evening air and the breeze perfumed with that strange, sweet scent of the cave and the moorland together which one meets nowhere but by the sea. Then Andrew said—

"Vevette, if you could tell me one thing it would ease my mind wonderfully."

"Well," said I, "what is it?"

"Was the other day the first time you—the first time—"

"The first time I ever deceived my mother?" I said, to help him out. "Was that what you want to know?"

Then, as he nodded assent, "No, Andrew, it was not. When I was quite a child, not more than twelve years old, my Uncle Charles sent my mother some tales and play-books, and I stole two or three of them and read them in secret. I had them till the day before we went to the supper at the grange, and then I burned them all. Since then I have read nothing of the sort till that day Betty persuaded me to read with her the book my Aunt Jem gave me."

"And this is the whole truth!" said he. Then, as I withdrew a step and looked at him, he added eagerly, "Forgive me, Vevette, but this matter is of such great importance to me. So much depends upon it."

"So much depends upon it!" I repeated. "What?"

Then, as he did not answer, I went on firmly, though with a mortal pang at my heart, "Andrew, I want you to understand one thing. If you have any doubt of me, any doubt whatever of my being worthy, if you have any hesitation in the matter, I will never consent to be your wife—never, for all the family compacts ever made in the world."

I spoke vehemently, yet with low voice, as I was apt to do when greatly moved. We had just come to a turn in the path, and before us lay the half-ruined cottage—Torden's cottage. It was a place avoided after dark, for it had an ill name on account of a wrecker who had once lived there, and who had died a fearful death. As we came in sight of it, we saw two figures before us—the two whom Rosamond had described—a tall slender man in a cloak, and a female figure in a gray homespun gown. As we drew near she turned her head a very little.

Andrew gripped my hand hard. "Betty!" said he, in a hoarse whisper.

"Nonsense," I whispered in return. "Did you not say Betty was ill in bed?"

But at that moment she turned her head again and I saw her face plainly. It was Betty. I laid a restraining hand on my cousin's arm, but he shook it off, and one stride, as it seemed, brought him to the side of the two before us. They turned at his approach, and stood for a moment in speechless confusion. Then Betty recovered her presence of mind, if such it could be called.

"Vevette, you have betrayed us," said she. "So much for trusting a French girl."

Andrew turned absolutely white as he heard these words.

"How could I betray what I never knew?" I asked, finding my voice, for at first I was dumbfounded by the unexpected attack. "You never placed any confidence in me, nor did I ever desire it."

What was my amazement to hear Betty declare that I had been in her secret from the first, and had aided her in meeting with her lover. She appealed to Mr. Lovel if it were not so, and he confirmed her words with an oath. Andrew turned from her to me, with a face full of wrath and grief.

"What am I to believe?" said he.

"Believe what you like," said I, for my blood was up. "Every word that Betty says is false, and she knows it."

"Gently, my fair cousin that is to be," interposed Mr. Lovel, with a supercilious little laugh. "I do not allow such language to my betrothed bride. Mr. Corbet, methinks you and I can settle this matter better without female witnesses. Let us attend these fair ladies to their respective homes, and then we will endeavor to come to an understanding."

"Charles, remember your promise," said Betty, turning pale.

"Fear nothing, child. I shall not forget that Mr. Corbet is your brother, nor do I think we shall find it hard to come to an amicable agreement. Mrs. d'Antin, shall we turn your way first?"

"Do not discommode yourself, sir," said Andrew, with lofty courtesy. "I am able to take care both of my sister and my cousin. Perhaps you will have the goodness to call upon me to-morrow, or allow me to wait upon you wherever you are staying. For the present, I must say good-night."

Mr. Lovel seemed at first ready to fly upon Andrew like an angry dog, but in a moment, he restrained himself, and replied, with equal courtesy—

"To-morrow, then, at ten o'clock, I will do myself the honor of waiting upon you."

And raising his hat, he strode away toward the village. It seemed for a moment that Betty meant to run after him, but if so she thought better of it, and snatching her hand from Andrew's, she fled toward home, like a startled deer.

"Go after her; she may do something desperate," said I. "I can find my way home well enough."

So saying, I turned from him and walked deliberately down the path till I was out of sight, when I began to run, and never stopped till I found myself at home and in the arms of my mother, who had come to the door to look for me.

"What is it, my child?" she exclaimed, as I clung to her, sobbing and out of breath. "Has anything frightened you? Where is Andrew?"

As soon as I could recover composure enough to speak, I drew her into the little parlor and told her the whole story. My mother heard it in silence, but with a very troubled face.

"Oh, maman, you do not believe what Betty says," I exclaimed, as she did not speak.

"Tell me the exact truth, my child," said she, "What did Betty ever say to you on the subject? Try to remember every word."

I did so, and told her all—how Betty had spoken to me of Mr. Lovel, and, as I believed, had meant to draw me into a confidence, which I had declined. I also told her of the advice I had given on the occasion.

"That was well," said my mother. "And had you no suspicion that Betty was keeping up a connection with Mr. Lovel?"

"None at all," I told her. "The first time I ever suspected anything was when Rosamond told us of the two figures she had seen near Torden's cottage, and which she had believed to be spectres or somewhat else of supernatural."

"Why did you not mention your suspicion?" asked my mother.

"Dear maman, how could I?" I asked. "I hardly entertained it a moment. Then when I saw Betty afterward turn so white when the affair was mentioned, and when that very night Rosamond saw the same man's figure in the entrance to the court, I did think more about it; but I had no proof, and it was no concern of mine, and afterward I quite forgot it. How could I mention the affair when I had no proofs, and to whom?"

"True, you could not," said my mother; "but it is very unlucky, and I fear trouble will arise to you from the affair. My sister will believe harm of any one sooner than of her own daughters, though she knows and has said as much to me, that Betty is both malicious and deceitful. Well, my love, we must do our best, and leave the event in other hands. I believe you have been quite guiltless in the whole matter; and not only so, but that you have acted with great discretion. But, coming so soon after the affair of the book, I fear you will be blamed for what you have had no hand in."

"Then you do believe in me, maman?" I asked, kissing her hand.

"Most surely I do, my child. What did Andrew say?"

"He looked at me and asked what he was to believe, and then I told him he could believe what he pleased. He had been talking before that about the book, and asked me whether it was the first time, and I told him—what I told you, maman. Then he did not speak again till we came upon Betty and Mr. Lovel."

"Andrew shows a side of his character which does not please me," remarked my mother. "With all his good qualities there is a certain hardness about him. It was not generous in him to bring the subject up again."

I had thought the same, and I now spoke with a decision and boldness which surprised myself.

"Maman, you must let me say one thing, and please do not be angry. I will never consent to marry Andrew while he is as he is now—while he distrusts me, or shows such a coldness toward me. Nothing shall force me to it."

"Certainly I shall not force you to it," returned my mother, with equal decision. "My child shall never go to a cold or unwilling bridegroom."

"I wish I had never seen him," said I, and with that I fell a-weeping with such violence that my mother was alarmed. She led me up to bed herself, administered a quieting potion, and sat by me till I fell asleep.

The next morning I awaked refreshed in body, but so heavily burdened in mind and heart that I shut my eyes and wished the daylight would never come. But daylight and darkness do not change to suit our moods, and I reflected that I must not add to my mother's cares; so I rose and dressed, and tried to be composed if I could not be cheerful. We had hardly finished our breakfast when a messenger came down requesting our presence at the court. We found the whole family assembled in the cedar room, together with Mr. Level. Betty was pale as death, but demure and collected. Mr. Level was trying, with some success, to play the easy fine gentleman and man of the world. Andrew was stern and silent. The moment we entered my aunt fell upon me with violent and incoherent reproaches for leading her child astray.

"Hush, mother!" said Andrew. "Let Vevette be heard in her own defence, if she hath anything to say."

My mother drew herself up, declining the seat which Andrew placed for her. "Perhaps, nephew, you will allow her mother to understand why my child is to be put upon her defence. Of what hath she been accused, and by whom?"

"Betty says," returned Andrew, "that Vevette was in her confidence all along, and abetted her meetings with Mr. Level."

"She did," said Betty. "We talked of the affair when she first came here, and afterward, when she was angry about the book, she taunted me with it and threatened to tell."

"What have you to say, Vevette?" asked my mother.

I simply repeated the story just as it was.

"Can you deny that you taunted me that night with meeting Mr. Lovel?" asked Betty.

"I did not taunt you with meeting him, for I never knew for certain that you did meet him. A suspicion came into my mind, and in my anger I spoke it out."

Betty smiled superior.

"Well, all I can say is, that it was an unlucky day when you ever darkened my doors, and still more when you were betrothed to my son," said any aunt, who was one of those persons that say first and think afterward.

"Oh, mother!" said Margaret.

Andrew never spoke.

"Ay, and oh mother again!" retorted my aunt. "I say it was an unlucky day, and I will say so. It is she who has led my child astray and poisoned her mind with her play-books and her fine stories of London, to an innocent country maid who had no chance to learn aught of such wickedness. She has ruined any Betty, and she will ruin my son."

"Have no fears for your son, sister Corbet," said my mother, now fully roused. "The engagement between him and my daughter is from this moment at an end. I leave your house, nor will I or my daughter ever again enter its doors till you have taken back your words. Mr. Lovel, I will thank you to see that my horse and servant are at the door."

Mr. Lovel obeyed with all courtesy. Andrew started forward, but my mother rejected his hand with a stately bow, and leaning on my arm, she left the room. Mr. Lovel assisted us both to mount—for I had ridden my pony—and proffered his services to see us safe home, which my mother declined.

Not a word was spoken on the way. When we arrived I would have entered upon the subject, but my mother declined it.

"Not at present, my child. Let us both be a little cooler before we talk it over. My poor Vevette, if we had but stayed in Jersey! It was my self-willed determination to come hither which has brought all this upon you."

"No, maman, I think not so," I answered. "If Andrew hath such a temper—so jealous and distrustful—it is well to know it in time. But who would have guessed it in Normandy?"

"Who indeed! But there was nothing to bring it out. However, we will talk more another time."

The next morning Margaret and Rosamond appeared early. I dreaded meeting them; but they both kissed me cordially.

"We do not suspect you—neither Rosamond nor I," said Meg. "Now that my eyes are opened, I can see a hundred things which might have roused my suspicions with regard to Betty, if I had not been blind as an owl. As to Rosamond, she never sees anything."

"But I did see something, and told you what it was, and you did not suspect more than I," returned Rosamond. "Don't you remember how confused and angry Betty was?"

"But how is it to end?" I asked.

"Oh, they are to be married. There is no other way, after the scandal that has been raised. Just think that they made Lucy Trehorn their go-between, and they have been meeting at her mother's cottage—the old witch!"

"And they are to be married!" said my mother. "Well, perhaps it is the only way, but it does not seem a well-omened beginning of married life. When is the wedding to be?"

"The week after next. My mother is already consulting with Deborah about the wedding-clothes and so on. She was saying this morning it was a pity you and Andrew should not be married at the same time, since she has linen enough ready for both of you."

"She can give it all to Betty," said I; "I shall not need it."

"Are you really in earnest?" said Rosamond.

"I am," I answered firmly.

The girls both looked at maman.

"Yes, it is best so," said my mother. "I cannot give my child to one who could have her accused as Andrew did yesterday—nay, who could himself put her on the defence, as if she were the culprit, and never say a word in her behalf."

"I don't blame you, and yet I am sorry," said Meg. "I think Andrew greatly to blame, and I believe now he thinks so himself."

"His thoughts come rather late," said my mother. "If he thinks so, why does he not say so? But we will not discuss the matter. So Betty and Mr. Lovel are to be married. Where are they to live?"

"With his father for the present," answered Margaret. "The old man now lives quite alone in his great house at Allinstree, and I believe will be glad of anything which will keep his son at home. I do not know at all how he and Betty will agree, for he is a great Puritan."

"Oh, they will agree well enough so long as Betty has anything to gain," said I. And then recollecting myself, as I saw my mother look at me, "I crave your pardon, Meg. I should remember that she is your sister."

"She is no sister of mine," said Margaret. "I will never own her as such again. She has disgraced us all."

"She is your sister, and you cannot help it," said Rosamond, in that trenchant fashion of hers. "You cannot reverse the decrees of Heaven because you are displeased. Betty hath acted a base, treacherous part toward us all, and especially toward Vevette, but still she is our sister, and as such we must needs treat her."

"Very true, Rosamond," said my mother. "Betty hath cruelly injured me and mine as well as you, her sisters, but we must try to forgive her."

Margaret was silent, but I saw in her face the hard expression I knew so well in Andrew's.

I suppose my mother thought there was no use in argument, for after a moment's silence, she began to talk of somewhat else, and then she proposed that we should have a music lesson to quiet our spirits. The girls agreed, and we got out our music and sang several hymns and songs, and practised some new chants and anthems which my mother had got in a parcel from London.

For my Uncle Charles and Aunt Jem still continued their kindness toward us, though they were a little vexed that my mother should have refused their offer, and only a few days before we had received from them a great parcel containing books, music, tea and coffee and chocolate, and I know not what pretty trinkets and laces for me.

Then, when we were in rather a better frame, my mother talked to us in her gentle, serious way of those consolations which were so dear to her own heart, and of that inward experience of the presence and the love of the dear Lord which was able to support and console under all trials. Rosamond drank in the discourse like water, but I could see that Meg was impatient under it.

The truth was that her religion at that time was all outward—a matter of forms and ceremonies, of fasts and feasts. She made a merit of always using the right collect on the right day, and never reading the Psalms but in their appointed order; but to the spiritual treasures concealed in those Psalms and collects, her eyes were not at that time opened. This she has since told me herself.

That evening Andrew came down to our house and had a long audience with my mother. I did not see him, but maman told me the substance of the conversation. He wished to renew the engagement, and have things placed upon their former footing, but this my mother positively refused. Andrew begged to see me, and my mother came to tell me so, but I would not go down.

"I cannot see him now. Perhaps I may after a time, but at present it is impossible. Tell him that I agree to all you have said, but I cannot see him."

"I do not myself think it best," said my mother. "Let matters rest for the present."

So Andrew went away and I did not see him.

Looking back at this time, I must say I think I behaved pretty well. I was as nearly broken-hearted as any poor girl ever was, but I strove against my sorrow, and tried in every way to keep myself occupied that I need not have time to brood. I had very bitter thoughts of Andrew, of his family, and even of Providence itself, but I did strive against them. I went to my school, and to Margaret's also twice in the week, for she could not quite manage the knitting, though she was improving. I read to poor Lois, and to an old blind sailor who lived in one of the cottages, and in every way strove to keep my thoughts occupied. My mother was all judicious kindness, knowing just when to help and when to let me alone; but with all my efforts and helps, I passed many sad hours.

I used to go constantly to church, and found comfort therein; but oh, how I wished for one of our old pastors, to whom I might open any heart! Mr. Dobson made a conscience of having daily prayers in the church, and of reading one sermon of a Sunday; but aside from that, he gave no more heed to his parish than he did to—the moon, I was going to say; but indeed he took much more interest in the moon than he did in his next door neighbors. He was wrapped up in his studies—chemistry, or rather alchemy, as I fancy, astronomy, and physics. He was looked upon with the greatest awe by the country people, as one who had powers over the unseen world, and I doubt not he himself fully believed in these powers.

Before the wedding we had another guest—none other than our cousin Lord Stanton, from Stanton Court, in Devonshire. We had the first news of his approach from a riding servant whom he sent on before him. My mother, of course, at once sent up word to the great house, and presently we were surprised by a visit from my aunt, who came down to hear further particulars, and to ask advice as to how she should receive the great man. She came in and greeted any mother and me just as if nothing had happened, for she was always one of those people who forget their own hard words as soon as they are spoken, and wonder that any one else should remember them.

"Well, and so my lord is really going to honor us with a visit," said she, when she had praised my work and admired the cosiness of the house. "'Tis an honor, no doubt, but one I would dispense with just now that I have so much on my hands."

"I believe my lord intends to lodge here," said my mother. "I gathered as much from his letter."

"Here!" said my aunt, staring, as was her way. "Why, how will you put him up or entertain him or his retinue?"

"As to putting him up, we have plenty of spare chambers, and, thanks to your kindness, abundance of linen and the like. As to entertainment, he will be content, I dare say, to fare as we do. As to his retinue, he has with him but two men servants, who will lodge in the cottage."

"Well, I don't envy you your trouble," said my aunt. "I am sure you are welcome. Will he stay to the wedding, think you?"

"I dare say he will, if he is asked," replied my another. "He was always a well-natured gentleman."

"Now if you would only let Vevette be married at the same time, what a fine wedding we should have! She is young, to be sure, but—" and here she stopped, arrested by something in my mother's face.

"Have you already forgotten, sister Corbet, how you said before your whole family that it was an ill day when my daughter darkened your doors—how you declared that she would ruin your son as she had ruined your daughter?" asked my mother.

"But I was angry then," answered my aunt. "I did not mean half I said. Sure you won't break off with my poor son on that account. Why, he loves Vevette as the apple of his eye."

"He took a strange way to show it, I must needs say," returned my mother. "No, Amy, for the present any engagement between them is at an end. Should he wish to renew his suit when he returns, he can do so, but meantime my daughter is quite at liberty."

My aunt remonstrated, and even cried, but my mother was firm, and when my aunt appealed to me, I seconded her.

"Well, well, I suppose there is no use in saying more," said my aunt, wiping her eyes. "Let us hope all will yet turn out well. I only wish my Betty were half as docile as Vevette, though I can't think it was right; however, we will let bygones be bygones."

And she began asking my mother's advice about certain details of the wedding—advice which she gave very readily, for she had no mind to keep up a quarrel.

"And you won't tell my lord of all poor Betty's misbehavior, will you?" said my aunt as she rose to go. "It would be such a disadvantage to her."

"Certainly not; why should I?" returned my mother. "I have no wish to injure Betty, and I am not given to spreading tales of scandal, whether true or false."

"I am sure that is true, and I only wish my tongue were as well governed as yours. And you won't mention the matter to my lord?"

My mother promised again, and my aunt went away content.

I may as well say that my lord had not been an hour in our house before she had told him the whole story herself.

My lord came that evening and took up his abode with us. He was a fine, courtly gentleman, with something about him that reminded me of my father, though he was much older, and was indeed an old man. He greeted my mother in brotherly fashion, and kissed me on both cheeks, with a compliment to my good looks, such as old gentlemen give to young ladies as a matter of course. He expressed himself as delighted with the house and his accommodations, and we found him a most agreeable guest.

He had come mostly upon business with my mother, concerning the estate I have mentioned. It seems this estate lay like a wedge between two farms of his own, and he wished to make some sort of exchange with my mother; but as he would not have her act in the dark, he brought my mother and myself an invitation, warmly seconded by a most kind note from my lady, to make him a visit at Stanton Court, which invitation my mother, after some consideration, accepted.

She thought the change would be good for me, and I believe also she wished to make friends for me in my lord's family. My lord also brought us some three hundred pounds in ready money, which was a very welcome supply.

Meg and Rosamond were in despair at our going away. My aunt alternately rejoiced in our good fortune and lamented my obstinacy in not accommodating matters with Andrew—an obstinacy which both she and Betty laid to the account of our increased riches, which had as much to do with it as the flight of the birds. Betty was quite herself again, demure and graceful, satisfied with herself and her lover. She fished hard for an invitation to Stanton for herself and Mr. Lovel, but without success.

"No, I will not have them," was my lord's comment to my mother. "He is a fool, and she is, above all others, the kind of girl I hate—so sly and silky. The others are nice maids enough, but I will have none of Betty."

However, he made Betty a present, and was very agreeable at the wedding, which we all attended. I would have given a great deal to stay away, but my pride would not let me: so I went.

All went off very well, only that Mr. Dobson, in his absent-mindedness, said in the ceremony, "That which God hath put asunder, let no man join together," which methought was an ill omen. But, indeed, it was but an ill-omened affair from first to last. Betty looked very handsome I must say, and so did her bridegroom. Rosamond was glum and Margaret ill at case, while Andrew was cold, black, and stiff as one of the stone pillars out on the moor. My aunt, on the contrary, was as easy and as much pleased as if everything had come about in the best manner possible. But for her and for my lord, who exerted himself in the most amiable way, it would have been a sour wedding-party.

The next day Andrew again came to see my mother, and to beg a renewal of the engagement. He had talked with Mr. Lovel, now that they were upon more friendly terms, and Mr. Level had quite exculpated me from any knowledge of or part in his affairs and Betty's, saying with his easy laugh that he had only confirmed Betty's words because he would not see the lady he loved put down. Andrew was most earnest with my mother to overlook his past conduct, which he now confessed to be faulty, and to let him begin again.

"No, my fair son," said maman; "it would not be best. I can never forget what we owe you and yours; but my gratitude must be shown in some other way than by giving you my child under present circumstances. She is not to be thrown away and picked up again like a toy, to be cast down again the moment you see or fancy a flaw in her. You say this is your last voyage. When you return, if Vevette is still free and you choose to make your addresses to her, well and good, but for the present matters must remain as they are."

Then Andrew begged my lord's intercession, but my lord, when he heard the story, declared my mother was right, and that he would do the same in her place.

"What! Would you see the lady you loved so accused, and never so much as take her part—never say a word for her? I vow and declare, I like Lovel's way the better of the two. No, no, wait, and learn the worth of a fine young lady."

Then Andrew watched and met me on my way home from the school, and pleaded his own cause. But maman had laid her commands upon me, and I was bound to obey them. I did not deny that I loved him, and he would have drawn from me a promise not to marry any one else.

"I cannot give such a promise," said I. "It would be the same as an engagement, which my mother has forbidden; but I am quite sure I shall never wish to wed any one."

"So you say now; but how will it be when you are among the gallants of Stanton Court?" said Andrew. "Confess, now; has not the prospect of shining there some share in your decision?"

"Why, there it is again!" I returned. "You beg my pardon for one false suspicion, and the very next moment you begin on another. You cannot trust me, and how should I ever trust you? If we were to be married before you go away, you would always be wondering whether I were not somehow wronging you. No, no, Andrew. Let things be as they are at present. It is the best way, though it is hard."

And with that I fell to weeping, and he to try to comfort me alternately with accusing himself of all the meanness in the world, and with having thrown away his happiness and mine; so that at the last I was fain to turn comforter myself. At last we agreed to abide by my mother's decision. We exchanged gifts: Andrew gave me his seal ring which he had had cut at Jerusalem with the Hebrew word Mitspah—

"For he said, 'The Lord watch between thee and me when we are absent one from the other,'" said he solemnly; and surely the prayer was heard.

I gave him a little gold locket I had always worn, with the gold chain which sustained it, and he put it round his neck, saying it should never leave him. Indeed he wears it to this day.

For two or three days we were very busy arranging for our departure. My mother had insisted on giving full value for the house and land, which my lord approved as a good investment, and—what I think made Andrew feel more than ever what he had done—on paying for the horses and cows he had provided for us. Dinah was to go with us as waiting-woman. Jeanne and Simon were to live in the house, take care of it and the garden, and have all in readiness for our return. We looked forward at that time to living at the Well House for many years, my mother's health being to all appearance quite restored, and Aunt Amy very desirous of having us for neighbors. She did truly love both my mother and me in her way, and she had sense enough to value what my mother was doing for Meg and Rosamond.

All was done at last, and we bade farewell with all the kindness in the world. Betty was not there, having gone with her husband to Allinstree. We set out in pleasant weather, and arrived safely at our journey's end.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]