CHAPTER II.

_THE LAST SUNDAY._

_March 6._

HERE I am at home, if the cottage can be called home. I have not written a word for a week, and how many things have happened! In the first place, Felicia has left us for good. My words to her were like a prophecy, for if she hath not the great fortune already, she is like to have it. An aunt of my father's passing through Chester, came to see us, and she hath carried Felicia off with her to London, where she is to make her home henceforth, and be as a daughter to Mrs. Willson—such is the lady's name. She is a widow, childless, and very rich. So if Felicia can but please her aunt, her fortune is secure. I have my doubts whether Felicia can keep her temper in check, even when her interest is concerned, but a change may do much for her. At any rate she is gone, and it is wonderful what a vacancy she leaves behind her, and how freely we all seem to breathe without her. I can't help thinking that dear mother has grown younger. And for my own part, I feel much more comfortable about leaving home, now that mother hath only Jacky and the twins to keep in order and provide for.

I must say Mrs. Willson has been very liberal to us. When she heard that I was going to Stanton Court, nothing would serve but she must look over my clothes, and having done so, she insisted on taking me with her to Chester, and furnishing me with two new gowns and petticoats complete, with shoes, gloves, kerchiefs, and hoods, and all things answerable, the finest I ever had, though all black, of course. I would have remonstrated at the expense, but she shortly, though kindly, too, bid me hold my tongue.

"May I not do what I will with mine own?" said she. "And if I choose to bestow a little of my superfluity on my brother's grandchildren, why should you grudge me the pleasure? Learn to be obliged with grace and humility, chick, and so oblige others in your turn."

I held my tongue, but I was pleased too with the words, and the thought passed across my mind: "If this good woman should adopt me, I could make her much happier than Felicia is like to do."

Aunt Willson did not confine her bounty to me. She bought mother a gown and cloak, which she needs, and new frocks, beside toys and sweets for the little ones. We then went to Master Smith's shop, where she purchased for me what I value more than all the fine clothes, namely, a handsome Bible. I have never possessed one of my own before, and this is truly splendid, being bound in red with silver clasps. Aunt Willson had a deal of talk with good Master Smith and his wife, and before we left, she took Dick and me aside.

"I want to see you young ones together," said she. "I desire to explain somewhat to you, for though young folks should not sit in judgment on their elders, I can see that you both have sharp wits, and I have a mind you should understand me. I dare say you, Richard, are wondering why I should choose Felicia for my companion, instead of one of the little girls, or Peggy here."

"I confess I did think of it," said Richard, as Aunt Willson seemed to pause for a reply.

"Well, then, I'll tell you," said she. "I can see as far into a mill-stone as another, and I can see that Felicia—plague take the name, it sounds like a stage play—is one by herself among you and is no help to any one. She hath just the disposition of her father, my poor brother, who was wont all his life-long to take the poker by the hot end."

I could not help laughing. It was such an apt illustration.

"I see plainly that she is no help to your poor mother, and also that she could never go out and earn her living like you and Peggy here," continued Aunt Willson. "The fact is, children, she is just one of those who seem born to exercise the forbearance and patience of their friends. The best we can do is to make a means of grace of them."

"That don't seem to be a very flattering use to which to put our fellow-creatures!" said I.

"'Tis all we are any of us fit for, at times, chick."

"But do you really think," I asked, "that we have any right to think so—to think that people are made bad only for means of grace to us?"

"By no means, child!" replied my aunt. "That were spiritual pride, and presumption worse than that of the Pharisees. But we must be either better or worse for the faults of the people we live with. If we learn from them patience, forbearance, and watchfulness not to give any just offence, we are the better; and whatsoever makes us better, is a means of grace, is it not, sweetheart?"

I confessed that she was right; thinking at the same time that Felicia had been anything but a means of grace to me.

"Well, as I was saying," continued my Aunt Willson, "as I have no children to be plagued by her, and as I have a pretty even temper of my own, besides a good strong will, and plenty of money—why I will even take the poor thing in hand, and do the best I can with her. But mind, children, not a word of this to Felicia herself. Let her think, if she will, that she is doing me a great favor. I am glad I came this way, though it was a toilsome journey. I shall think of you all with pleasure; and though we may never meet again, you will hear from me. You are going into a hard place, Peggy, but keep up a good heart, put your trust above, be faithful to God and your mother, avoid all mean and little practises of tattling, eavesdropping, and the like, mind your own business, be kind to all, but beware of intimacies,—and when troubles and vexations come, as doubtless they will, keep a brave heart, put a good face on it, and be not discouraged. ''Tis all in the day's work!'"

"That is Richard's motto!" said I.

"And do you make it yours; though mind, chick, all depends on the master for whom the work is done. But we must soon be jogging. Dick, this is for thine own pocket," and she slipped into his hand a purse I had seen her buy, and in which she had put some gold and silver pieces out of her own. "Now do you two gossip a bit while I say farewell to our good host and hostess!"

"Is she not a good old woman?" I said to Dick, after we had looked into the purse, and I had told him of aunt's kindness to us all.

"She is indeed, and I thank her with all my heart, specially for all she has done for you and mother. 'Tis curious, is it not, that we should have made two such powerful friends in one week—the very week to which we have looked forward with such dread?"

"Felicia does not think that the Bishop will ever remember us again," said I, "but, as I tell her, she judges every one by herself."

"Oh, Felicia—always Felicia!" said Dick, with some impatience, for him. "It was one of my comforts about your going away, Peggy, that you would be out of the influence of Felicia."

"I don't think she influences me!" said I, rather testily.

"Why then do you always refer everything to her? Why are you always thinking about what she will say, and fretting over what she does say? I tell you, Peggy, we are perhaps as much influenced by those we dislike and even hate, as by those we love."

Hate is a hard word. I wonder if I do hate Felicia? I am afraid I do, sometimes.

"At any rate, I am glad she is going away, for dear mother's sake," said I; "though I do not think Aunt Willson quite knows what she is undertaking. But she may do better in a new place, at least for a time."

And then we fell into discourse concerning my journey, and our future plans. Dick told me he had already begun to act upon the Bishop's advice, and that Master Smith was willing, and commended his plan; and he showed me the big book on which he was engaged. It was all in Latin, so I was not much the wiser, for though I know a little Latin, which I learned to please dear father, yet I cannot read without a Lexicon, as Dick can.

Before we had half finished our talk, Aunt Willson was ready to start, and we set off homeward, followed by my aunt's serving man, carrying our bundles, and well-loaded he was, indeed, poor man.

Felicia did not look overwell pleased at my aunt's bounty to my mother and the children. She is already disposed to appropriate Aunt Willson as her own property, and shut out the rest of us. If she only knew—but of course 'tis best she should not. Mother said something about wishing that I also were going with Aunt Willson instead of among strangers—not of course expecting any such thing—when Felicia, took her up quite sharply.

"That is out of the question, sister! I am surprised that you should think of such a thing. It is not reasonable to expect my aunt to burden herself with the whole family. I am sure you might be satisfied with what she has done already."

"Heighty-tighty!" said my aunt. "In London we don't suffer young folks to check and reprove their elders in that kind of fashion, especially those who have been kind to them!"

Felicia looked a good deal taken aback, and muttered something about not liking to see goodness imposed upon.

Whereupon, my aunt said something sharply. "Take care you don't impose upon it, then! As for me, I am able to answer for myself, and I don't fancy having words either taken out of my mouth or put into it!"

It was Felicia's cue to seem all amiability before my aunt, so she made no reply. But as we went to supper, she took an opportunity to say to me, "You have used your time well, Peggy, and played your cards cleverly. You have set my aunt against me already, I see."

I would not answer her, for I was determined not to quarrel on the last day, and I suppose she thought it would not be very good policy for herself, for she put on a very dignified and resentful air, and went to bed without speaking to me again. I was not sorry, for I was afraid of one of her outbursts, which somehow put me beside myself. The next day they went away, and before they left, Felicia told me, with great solemnity, that she forgave me for all my ill offices to her, and she hoped I should do well in my new station. She thought I might, if I would only curb my temper, and learn to forbear mischief-making and tale-bearing. All this she said before Aunt Willson. I was very angry, but I was determined to keep the peace, so I only laughed and thanked her for her good advice.

Aunt Willson kissed me most kindly, and put a little purse into my hand, whispering, as she did so:

"This is for thine own pocket, chick. Never mind Felicia. I understand all about it. Keep a good heart, and remember that, as long as I live, you have a friend at need. I will never see your good mother want, I promise you that."

So they rode away, and it has seemed, ever since, as though some heavy oppressive vapor had cleared away out of the air. Nobody laments but Jacky, who was her special pet, and whom she upheld against everybody, mother herself included. I wish we could have hit it off together a little better. It seemed as if we ought to have been friends, growing up together as we did, and being so nearly related. But I don't know how it was, somehow every painful passage in my life almost has been connected with her. I might have been to blame too—indeed I know I have often been so, but I cannot help being glad that our paths have separated, at least for a time. Then I am quite sure mother will be happier without her. Not that Felicia could not be a great help when she chose, and a pleasant companion as well. But the least thing put her out of humor, and then she made the house simply intolerable. She has been much worse since the death of my father, who alone could control her in her bad moods.

The next great event is that the Bishop hath bought my father's library for a good round sum—Master Smith valuing the books. They are to remain in their places in the vaulted room, and form a sort of permanent library for the use of future rectors, and my Lord has stipulated with Mr. Carey that Dick shall have the use of such books as he needs—only the great vellum covered Saint Augustine and one or two others my Lord has purchased for himself. The price of the books, and my aunt Willson's bounty, makes my mother very comfortable.

Mr. Carey made up his mind to remain a week longer, which I did not regret, as it gave me just so much more time at home, and enabled me to help mother move and settle herself in the cottage. 'Tis a pleasant little nest enough, with a fair look out over the fields, and a nice garden, well-stocked with herbs and common flowers, and some fruit as well. In this we reap the advantage of my father's careful habits, who would never let the least thing belonging to him go out of order. 'Twas not his way to anticipate, else I might think that he had stocked the garden and kept the little orchard in good bearing order, looking forward to the time when it might become a kind of humble jointure house for his widow. Be that as it may, now that the place is all put to rights, with the hangings up, the old furniture put in place, and dear mother's piled up workbasket in the window, I must say it looks very much like home. The children are pleased, of course, with any change, but dear mother looks very sad at times. Oh, if I could but stay! I said once that I should not so much mind leaving home, now that "home" no longer meant the rectory, but I find, as the time draws nigh, that home means the place where the dear ones are.

_March 13._

'Tis settled now that we go on Monday. My clothes and other possessions are all packed, and I have naught to do but to enjoy my last Sunday as well as I can.

I have already bid good-by to the old folks at the almshouse. Goody Cramp was very solemn as she kissed and blessed me, and prayed that I might be kept from every snare. She would needs give me a keepsake also—a little gilded glass bottle which her son brought home from foreign parts on his last voyage. It is no bigger than my little finger, and is all but empty, but it still exhales a sweet odor of roses. Dame Higgins would give me a token too, in the shape of a little tarnished silver medal, having, as near as I can make out, the figure of the Virgin or some female saint, and a Latin legend, of which I can make out nothing but "Ave." Dame Higgins is a Roman Catholic.

"Take it and wear it—take it and wear it!" said she. "It has the pope's blessing. An' it does you no good, it can do no harm."

That I fully believe, and I would not hurt the poor old creature by refusing her gift. When I showed it to old Esther, however, she was not well-pleased, called it a Popish trinket, and bade me beware of the sin of idolatry. I could not but laugh, at which she was yet more displeased. But I coaxed her round at last to say that after all it might do me no great harm. She herself has given me a charm—a stone with a hole in it, sovereign against witches—so I am like to have charms enow. The Bishop hath also given me a token—namely the book he promised me. It is called "Contemplations on the Old and New Testaments," and is a considerable volume. I hope to get much good from it, for 'tis writ in a plain and simple style, much like his sermons—not what one would expect from such a deeply learned man. I am glad to have it, and glad too that my Lord remembered me, though Felicia said he would never think of me again.

_March 14._

The last Sunday! The very last, for Heaven only knows how long! My heart would break if I dared think about it. Mother and all of us went to church. Mr. Carey preached a very learned and fine sermon, but not so much to my mind as that of Bishop Hall. Last Sunday my Lord's text was, "Enoch walked with God," and there was not a sentence that any poor person could not understand. Mr. Carey's had a great many quotations from the Father's and from learned authors, yet the end was simple and plain enough, and I was much pleased at his kindly ways after church, and his courtesy to my mother. 'Tis a great comfort to think that so good a man is come in dear father's room.

Well, I must needs put away my book and pen. When I take them again, I shall be far enough from here.

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