← catalogue

Abbeychurch; Or, Self-Control and Self-Conceit

by Charlotte M. Yonge · English · Gutenberg #4267 · 428,234 chars · public domain (US)

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Abbeychurch; Or, Self-Control and Self-Conceit
    
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

Title: Abbeychurch; Or, Self-Control and Self-Conceit

Author: Charlotte M. Yonge


        
Release date: July 1, 2003 [eBook #4267]
                Most recently updated: December 27, 2020

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/4267

Credits: Produced by Sandra Laythorpe.  HTML version by Al Haines.


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ABBEYCHURCH; OR, SELF-CONTROL AND SELF-CONCEIT ***




Produced by Sandra Laythorpe.  HTML version by Al Haines.










ABBEYCHURCH;

OR

SELF-CONTROL AND SELF-CONCEIT,


BY

CHARLOTTE M. YONGE


THE AUTHOR OF THE HEIR OF REDCLYFFE.



Second Edition

The Original Printed Text of this work is in the possession of The
Charlotte M Yonge Fellowship.




'Never think yourself safe because you do your duty in ninety-nine
points; it is the hundredth which is to be the ground of your
self-denial, which must evidence, or rather instance and realize, your
faith.'

     Newman's Sermons




PREFACE.

Rechauffes are proverbially dangerous, but everyone runs into them
sooner or later, and the world has done me the kindness so often to
inquire after my first crude attempt, that after it has lain for many
years 'out of print,' I have ventured to launch it once
more--imperfections and all--though it is guilty of the error of
pointing rather to a transient phase of difficulty than to a general
principle.  The wheels of this world go so quickly round, that I have
lived to see that it would have been wiser in the clergyman to have
directed rather than obstructed the so-called 'march of intellect.' I
have lived also to be somewhat ashamed of the exuberant outpouring of
historical allusions, which, however, were perfectly natural among the
set of girls from whom my experience was taken: but these defects, as
well as the more serious one of tyrannical aversion to vulgarity, are
too inherent in this tale to be removed, and the real lesson intended
to be conveyed, of obedience and sincerity, of course remains unchanged.

The later story was a rather hasty attempt to parody the modern
sensation novel, as Northanger Abbey did the Radclyffe school, but it
makes the mistake of having too real a mystery.  However, such as they
are, the two stories go forth in company, trusting that they may not
prove too utterly wearisome to be brought forward this second time.

                                    May 9th, 1872.





ABBEYCHURCH

OR

SELF-CONTROL AND SELF-CONCEIT.




CHAPTER I.


One summer afternoon, Helen Woodbourne returned from her daily walk
with her sisters, and immediately repaired to the school-room, in order
to put the finishing touches to a drawing, with which she had been
engaged during the greater part of the morning.  She had not been long
established there, before her sister Katherine came in, and, taking her
favourite station, leaning against the window shutter so as to command
a good view of the street, she began, 'Helen, do you know that the
Consecration is to be on Thursday the twenty-eighth, instead of the
Tuesday after?'

'I know Lizzie wished that it could be so,' said Helen, 'because the
twenty-eighth is St. Augustine's day; but I thought that the Bishop had
appointed Tuesday.'

'But Papa wrote to him, and he has altered the day as Papa wished; I
heard Mamma and Mr. Somerville talking about it just now when I went
into the drawing-room,' answered Katherine.

'Will everything be ready in time?' said Helen.

'Dear me!' cried Katherine, 'I wonder if it will.  What is to be done
if that tiresome Miss Dighten does not send home our dresses in time?
We must go and hurry her to-morrow.  And I must get Mamma to go to
Baysmouth this week to get our ribbons.  I looked over all Mr. Green's
on Monday, and he has not one bit of pink satin ribbon wide enough, or
fit to be seen.'

'Oh! but I meant the things in the church--the cushions and the carving
on the Font,' said Helen.

'Oh dear! yes, the Font is very nearly done, we saw to-day, you know;
and as to the cushions, Mrs. Webbe may have Sarah to help her, and then
they will certainly be finished.  I wonder whether there will be any
fun!' said Katherine.

'Is a Consecration an occasion for fun?' asked Helen very gravely.

'Why, no, I do not exactly mean that,' replied Katherine, 'but there
will be a great many people, and the Mertons staying here, and Rupert
is always so full of fun.'

'Hm--m,' said Helen, 'I do not suppose he will be come back from
Scotland.'

'And Mrs. Turner says,' continued Katherine, 'that of course as the
Bishop is coming to luncheon after Church, Mamma must give an elegant
dejeuner a la fourchette to everybody.  Next time I go to St. Martin's
Street, Mrs. Turner is going to give me a receipt for making
blanc-manger with some cheap stuff which looks quite as well as
isinglass.  It is made on chemical principles, she says, for she heard
it all explained at the Mechanics' Institute.  And Aunt Anne will be
sure to bring us some of their grand fruit from Merton Hall. What a
set-out it will be!  The old Vicarage will not know itself; how
delightful it will be!'

'So you think the happiness of the Consecration day depends upon the
party and the luncheon,' said Helen.

'No, no, of course I do not,' said Katherine; 'but we must think about
that too, or we should not do what is proper.'

'Someone must,' said Helen, 'but it is happy for us that we are not
called upon to do so yet.'

'Why, we must help Mamma,' said Katherine; 'I am sure that is our duty.'

'Certainly,' said Helen; 'but we need not dwell upon such thoughts for
our own pleasure.'

'No, I do not, I am sure,' said Katherine; 'I do not care about the
grand dejeuner, I am sure I think a great deal more about the Church
and the Bishop--I wonder whether he will come by the railroad.'

At this moment, the door was thrown back hastily, and Elizabeth, the
elder sister of Katherine and Helen, darted in, looking full of
indignation, which she only wanted to pour forth, without much caring
whether it was listened to with sympathy or not.

'So have you heard,' she began, 'these Hazlebys are coming.  Did you
ever hear of such a nuisance?  Anything so preposterous?  Mrs. Hazleby
at a Consecration--I should as soon think of asking Gillespie Grumach.'

'It is for the Major's sake, of course,' said Helen; 'he will like to
come.'

'Ay, but he is not coming, he cannot get leave,' said Elizabeth; 'if he
was, I should not mind it so much, but it is only Mrs. Hazleby and the
girls, for she has the grace to bring Lucy, on Mamma's special
invitation.  But only think of Mrs. Hazleby, scolding and snapping for
ever; and Harriet, with her finery and folly and vulgarity.  And that
at a time which ought to be full of peace, and glorious feelings.  Oh!
they will spoil all the pleasure!'

'All?' said Helen.

'All that they can touch, all that depends upon sympathy,' said
Elizabeth.

'Well, but I do not see--' said Katherine.

'No, no,' said Elizabeth, 'we all know that you will be happy enough,
with your beloved Harriet.  How frivolous and silly you will be, by the
end of the first evening she has been here!'

'I am sure I think Harriet is very silly indeed,' said Katherine; 'I
cannot bear her vulgar ways, bouncing about as she does, and such dress
I never did see.  Last time she was here, she had a great large
artificial rose upon her bonnet; I wonder what Papa would say if he saw
me in such a thing!'

'Pray keep the same opinion of her all the time she is here, Kate,'
said Elizabeth; 'but I know you too well to trust you.  I only know
they will keep me in a perpetual state of irritation all the time, and
I hope that will not quite spoil my mind for the Service.'

'How can you talk of Mamma's relations in that way, Lizzie?' said Helen.

'I do not care whose relations they are,' said Elizabeth; 'if people
will be disagreeable, I must say so.'

'Mrs. Staunton used to say,' replied Helen, 'that people always ought
to keep up their connexion with their relations, whether they like them
or not.  There were some very stupid people, relations of Mr.
Staunton's, near Dykelands, whom Fanny and Jane could not endure, but
she used to ask them to dinner very often, and always made a point--'

'Well, if I had any disagreeable relations,' said Elizabeth, 'I would
make a point of cutting them.  I do not see why relations have a right
to be disagreeable.'

'I do not see how you could,' said Helen.  'For instance, would you
prevent Mamma from ever seeing the Major, her own brother?'

'He cannot be half so well worth seeing since he chose to marry such a
horrid wife,' said Elizabeth.

'Would you never see Horace again, if he did such a thing?' said
Katherine; 'I am sure I would not give him up.  Would you?'

'I could trust Horace, I think,' said Elizabeth; 'I will give him fair
warning, and I give you and Helen warning, that if you marry odious
people, I will have done with you.'

'When I was at Dykelands,' said Helen, 'everybody was talking about a
man who had married--'

'Never mind Dykelands now, Helen,' said Elizabeth, 'and do put down
your pencil.  That drawing was tolerable before luncheon, but you have
been making your tree more like Mr. Dillon's Sunday periwig, every
minute since I have been here.  And such a shadow!  But do not stop to
mend it.  You will not do any good now, and here is some better work.
Mamma wants us to help to finish the cushions.  We must do something to
earn the pleasure of having St. Austin's Church consecrated on St.
Austin's day.'

'What, do you mean that I am to work on that hard velvet?' said Helen,
who was a little mortified by the unsparing criticism on her drawing.

'Yes, I undertook that we three should make up the two cushions for the
desk and eagle; Mrs. Webbe's hands are full of business already, but
she has explained it all to me, and Kate will understand it better than
I can.'

'I thought Sarah Webbe was to help,' said Helen.

'She is doing the carpet,' said Elizabeth.  'Oh! if you look so
lamentable about it, Helen, we do not want your help.  Dora will sew
the seams very nicely, and enjoy the work too.  I thought you might be
glad to turn your handiwork to some account.'

'Really, Lizzie,' said Helen, 'I shall be very glad to be useful, if
you want me.  What shall I do?'

This was said in no gracious tone, and Elizabeth would not accept such
an offer of assistance.  'No, no; never mind,' said she, putting a
skein of crimson sewing-silk over Katherine's outstretched hands, and
standing with her back to Helen, who took up her pencil again in
silence, and made her black shadows much darker.

Elizabeth, who had not been of the walking party, and had thus heard of
all the arrangements which had been made that afternoon, went on
talking to Katherine.  'As soon as Church is over, the Bishop is coming
to luncheon here, and then to settle some business with Papa; then is
to be the school-children's feast--in the quadrangle, of course.  Oh,
how delightful that will be!  And Mamma and I have been settling that
we will have a little table for the smallest creatures, because the
elder sisters get no time to eat if they are attending to them, and if
the little ones are all together, everyone will come and help them.'

'The old women in the Alms-houses will,' said Katherine.

'Yes; and Dora will manage that nicely too, the table will not be too
high for her to reach, and she will be very happy to be able to wait on
her little class.  And they are to have tea and cake, instead of
dinner, for we do not want to have more cooking than can be helped,
that people may not be prevented from going to church, and the children
will be thirsty after being in church all the morning.'

'But we have a dinner-party, do not we?' said Katherine.

'Yes, but our youth and innocence will save us from being much plagued
by it,' said Elizabeth.

'Oh!  I thought you and Anne at least would dine with the company,'
said Katherine.

'So Mamma thought,' said Elizabeth; 'but then she recollected that if
we did, and not Harriet, Mrs. Hazleby would be mortally offended; and
when we came to reckon, it appeared that there would be thirteen
without us, and then Papa and I persuaded her, that it would be much
less uncivil to leave out all the Misses, than to take one and leave
the rest.  You know Anne and I are both under seventeen yet, so that
nobody will expect to see us.'

'Only thirteen people?' said Katherine; 'I thought the Bishop was to
dine and sleep here.'

'Oh no, that was settled long ago; Papa found he had engaged to go to
Marlowe Court,' said Elizabeth, 'and so there was room for the
Hazlebys; I hoped he would have guarded us from them.'

'But will there be room?' said Katherine; 'I cannot fancy it.'

'Oh!  half the rooms can be made Knight's Templar's horses and carry
double,' said Elizabeth; 'Mrs. Hazleby and both the girls may very well
be in the blue room.'

'And there is the best room for the Mertons, and Horace's for Rupert,'
said Katherine.

'Poor Horace! it is a shame that he, who laid the first stone, should
not be at the Consecration,' said Elizabeth.

'Well, but where is Anne to be?' said Katherine; 'if we take Dora into
our room, and Winifred goes to the nursery, there is their room; but
Aunt Anne's maid must have that.'

'Anne shall come to my room--if Aunt Anne will let her, that is to
say,' said Elizabeth; 'I wonder I never thought of that before, it will
counteract some of the horrors of the Hazlebys.  I shall have the
comfort of talking things over with the only person who knows what to
feel.  Yes, I will go and speak to Mamma, and shew her that it is the
only way of lodging the world conveniently.  Oh, how happy we shall be!'

As soon as Elizabeth had finished winding her skein, she hastened to
Mrs. Woodbourne, and found no great difficulty in gaining her consent
to the plan; and she then sat down to write to Miss Merton to inform
her of the change of day, and invite her to share her room.

Elizabeth Woodbourne and Anne Merton were first cousins, and nearly of
the same age.  They had spent much of their time together in their
childhood, and their early attachment to each other, strengthening as
they grew older, was now becoming something more than girlish
affection.  Anne was an only daughter; and Elizabeth, though the eldest
of a large family, had not hitherto found any of her sisters able to
enter into her feelings as fully as her cousin; and perhaps there was
no one who had so just an appreciation of Elizabeth's character as
Anne; who, though hers was of a very different order, had perhaps more
influence over her mind than anyone excepting Mr. Woodbourne.

Sir Edward Merton was brother to Mr. Woodbourne's first wife, the
mother of Elizabeth, Katherine, and Helen; he had been Mr. Woodbourne's
principal assistant in the erection of the new church, and indeed had
added all the decorations which the Vicar's limited means, aided by a
subscription, could not achieve; and his wife and daughter had taken
nearly as much interest in its progress as the ardent Elizabeth
herself.  Anne eagerly read Elizabeth's note to her mother, and waited
her consent to the scheme which it proposed.

'Well, Mamma,' said Anne, 'can you consent to this arrangement, or are
you afraid that Lizzie and I should chatter all night?'

'I hope you have outgrown your old habits of gossipping and idling,'
said Lady Merton; 'I believe I may trust you; and it may be
inconvenient to Mrs. Woodbourne to find room for you elsewhere.'

'I am very much obliged to you, Mamma,' said Anne, at first gravely,
then laughing, 'I mean that I shall enjoy it very much.  But pray,
Mamma, do not trust too much to our age and experience, for I do not
know anything more difficult than to stop short in a delightful talk,
only just for the sake of going to sleep.'

'Yes, it requires some self-control,' said Lady Merton.

'Self-control!' repeated Anne.  'Mamma, I am sure that "Patient
cautious self-control is wisdom's root," must be your motto, for you
are sure to tell me of it on every occasion.'

'I hope you are not tired of it, Anne,' said Lady Merton, 'for most
probably I shall often tell you of it again.'

'Oh yes, I hope you will,' said Anne; 'there will be more need of it
than ever, in this visit to Abbeychurch.'

'Yes,' said Lady Merton, 'you live so quietly here, excepting when
Rupert is at home, that you must take care that all the excitement and
pleasure there does not make you wild.'

'Indeed I must,' said Anne; 'I cannot fancy enjoying anything much more
than the Consecration of a church for which Papa has done so much, and
going with Lizzie, and meeting Rupert.  Really, Mamma, it is lucky
there is that one drawback, to keep it from seeming too pleasant
beforehand.'

'You mean the Hazelbys,' said her mother.

'Yes, Mamma,' replied Anne; 'I am rather surprised to hear that they
are to be there.  I should not think that a vulgar-minded Scotchwoman,
such as Lizzie describes Mrs. Hazleby, would take much delight in a
Consecration; but I suppose Uncle Woodbourne could not well avoid
asking them on such an occasion, I believe she is rather touchy.'

'You must take care what you say to Lizzie about the Hazlebys,' said
Lady Merton; 'a very little might make it appear that we wished to set
her against her step-mother's relations.'

'Oh! that would never do,' said Anne, 'but I am afraid it will be very
difficult to keep from shewing what we think, if Mrs. Hazleby is all
that Lizzie says.'

'Your Papa was pleased with what he saw of Major Hazleby last year,'
said Lady Merton.

'Oh yes, Lizzie likes him very much,' said Anne; 'it is the lady of
whom she has such a horror.'

'I should fancy,' said Lady Merton, 'that Mrs. Woodbourne's horror of
her was almost equal to Lizzie's.'

'Kind gentle Aunt Mildred,' said Anne, 'do you think she ever had a
horror of anyone?'

'It is certainly rather a strong word,' said Lady Merton, 'but you will
allow me to say that she has a great dread of her; I think Mrs. Hazleby
scolds and frightens her.'

'What a fury she must be,' said Anne, laughing, 'to be able to scold
and frighten such a gentle Desdomona as Mrs. Woodbourne.'

'Do not say too much on that subject,' said Lady Merton, 'or we shall
be forced to call your beloved Lizzie a fury.'

'O Mamma!' cried Anne, 'you cannot say that she is impetuous and
violent now.  She used, I allow, to be rather overbearing to Mrs.
Woodbourne; but that was before she was old enough fully to feel and
love her gentleness.  Then she did take advantage of it, and argue, and
dispute, but now--'

'She has her own way without disputing,' said Lady Merton.

'O Mamma, do you think so?' said Anne, as if she thought it a terrible
accusation.  'Yes, I really think that she has, but then her way is
generally right.'

'Yes,' said Lady Merton, 'she is in some respects more fit to govern
herself than most girls of sixteen.  Her good sense will keep her from
going very far wrong.'

'Very far, Mamma?' repeated Anne.

'Yes, for such an excitable impetuous creature is not likely to escape
going wrong, without steady control from herself or from someone else,'
said Lady Merton.

'But I can hardly imagine Lizzie's actually doing wrong,' said Anne;
'we were certainly both naughty children, but I think the worst we did,
was rather what makes nurses scold, than what would seriously displease
you or Papa.'

'Oh! she was always an upright, noble-spirited child,' said Lady Merton.

'And now,' continued Anne, 'when she is much interested in anything,
when her brilliant dark eyes are lighted up, and her beautiful smile is
on her lips, and her whole face is full of brightness, and she looks
slight and airy enough to be a spirit, and when she is talking about
some things--I could fancy her some higher kind of creature.'

Lady Merton smiled.  'I think I know what you mean,' said she; 'I used
to feel something of the kind with her mother.'

'What a wonderful person Aunt Katherine must have been!' cried Anne.
She paused, and presently added, 'Mamma, I do not know whether I ought
to say so, but much as I like Mrs. Woodbourne, I do rather wonder that
Uncle Woodbourne married again.'

'So did your Papa and I,' said Lady Merton; 'but you must excuse him,
when you think of his three little girls, Elizabeth especially,
requiring such anxious care of body and mind.'

'But you do not think Mrs. Woodbourne could manage Lizzie?' said Anne.

'No,' said Lady Merton, 'she could not manage her in the least, but her
mild influence has, I think, been of great service to her. Lizzie has
certainly grown more gentle of late, and I think it is from
consideration for her and the little children.'

'And I suppose,' said Anne, 'that Mrs. Woodbourne has done as much for
Kate as anyone could.'

'Not quite,' said Lady Merton; 'I think your Aunt Katherine would have
made her a little less trifling and silly.'

'But no one could ever have made her like Lizzie,' said Aune.

'No, but I think she might have been rather more than a mere
good-natured gossip,' said Lady Merton.

'It is curious to see how much difference expression makes in those two
sisters,' said Anne; 'their features are so much alike, that strangers
never know them apart; the only difference between them, that I could
mention, is that Lizzie is the most delicate looking; yet how
exceedingly unlike they are to each other!'

'Yes,' said Lady Merton; 'though Lizzie's whole countenance and air is
almost exactly her mother's, yet there is nothing about Kate but her
voice, which they have in common, that reminds me of her.'

'Helen is very unlike the others in everything,' said Anne.

'Helen will be the handsomest as far as regularity of features goes,'
said Lady Merton.

'Do you think so?' said Anne.

'Certainly,' said Lady Merton; 'her features are less prominent, and
her colour has not that fixed hectic look that both the others have,
especially Lizzie.'

'But she wants brightness and animation,' said Anne, 'and she so often
looks dismal and fretful, that I cannot fancy admiring her.'

'There has never been much sympathy between you and Helen,' said Lady
Merton, smiling.

'No,' said Anne, 'I never felt as if I knew or liked her.  I believe
Rupert and I were very unkind to her in our younger days; but, oh! she
was the most tiresome whining child I ever knew.'

'I believe that, though she was too young to know it,' said Lady
Merton, 'poor little Helen suffered more from your aunt's death than
either of her sisters.'

'How so, Mamma?' said Anne, looking rather alarmed.

'She was a very delicate baby, requiring a great deal of care,' said
Lady Merton; 'indeed, we have always thought that your aunt laid the
foundation of her illness, by sitting up with her while she was cutting
her large teeth, and during your aunt's illness, it was painful to see
how the poor child missed her.  And after her mother died, though Helen
had grown strong and healthy, old Margaret still made her the pet; and
uncertain nursery treatment, without her mother's firm kindness, was
not the best cure for such a temper as hers.'

'Yes,' said Anne, 'I remember she was always called Baby, and allowed
to have her own way, till she was six years old, when Horace was born.
How very ill-natured I must have been to her, and how cruel it really
was of me.  But I wonder my uncle did not prevent Margaret from
spoiling her.'

'My dear, a man with a parish of fifteen hundred inhabitants, cannot
watch his own nursery very minutely,' said Lady Merton; 'he taught
Elizabeth admirably, and that was all that could be expected of him.
Besides, with all his perfections, managing little girls is not what he
is best fitted for.'

Anne laughed.  'No, he is too grave and cold; I am rather afraid of him
still, I do not think he has any toleration for nonsense; but of course
he must be different with his own children.  And how do you think Mrs.
Woodbourne trained Helen?'

'I can hardly tell,' said Lady Merton; 'I used to admire her patience
and sweetness of temper, when Helen's fretfulness was most wearisome;
at the same time that I thought it might have been better for the child
to speak sharply to her, and punish her if she did not leave off
whining directly.  I believe I should have done so, though I do not
know that it would have been the best way, or in accordance with what
you call my motto.'

'Well,' said Anne, 'if Dykelands has done such wonders for Helen, as
they say, I hope I shall make friends with her, if she will let me,
which I do not think I deserve after my ill-usage of her.  Last time I
saw her, it was but for two days, and she was so odd, and grave, and
shy, that I could not get on with her, besides that I wanted to make
the most of my time with Lizzie.'

'I hope Rupert will not teaze her as he used to do,' said Lady Merton;
'last time she was here, his teazing and her whining were nearly
unbearable.'

'Oh! she must have outgrown whining,' said Anne.

'I am afraid you cannot promise me that he has outgrown teazing,' said
Lady Merton.

'The one depends upon the other,' said Anne; 'if she does not whine, he
will not teaze.  But had I not better finish my letter to him, and tell
him he must shorten his stay on the Border?'

'Yes, do so,' said Lady Merton; 'and tell him not to lose his keys as
usual.'

'I suppose they are gone by this time,' said Anne, as Lady Merton left
the room, and she sat down to her desk to write to her brother.




CHAPTER II.


Abbeychurch St. Mary's was a respectable old town, situated at the foot
of St. Austin's Hill, a large green mound of chalk, named from an
establishment of Augustine Friars, whose monastery (now converted into
alms-houses) and noble old church were the pride of the county.
Abbeychurch had been a quiet dull place, scarcely more than a large
village, until the days of railroads, when the sober inhabitants, and
especially the Vicar and his family, were startled by the news that the
line of the new Baysmouth railway was marked out so as to pass exactly
through the centre of the court round which the alms-houses were built.
Happily, however, the difficulty of gaining possession of the property
required for this course, proved too great even for the railway
company, and they changed the line, cutting their way through the
opposite side of St. Austin's Hill, and spoiling three or four
water-meadows by the river.  Soon after the completion of this work,
the town was further improved, by the erection of various rows of smart
houses, which arose on the slope of the hill, once the airy and healthy
play-place of the rising generation of Abbeychurch, and the best spot
for flying kites in all the neighbourhood.  London tradesmen were
tempted to retire to 'the beautiful and venerable town of Abbeychurch;'
the houses were quickly filled, one street after another was built,
till the population of the town was more than doubled.  A deficiency in
church accommodation was soon felt, for the old church had before been
but just sufficient for the inhabitants. Various proposals were
made--to fill up the arches with galleries, and to choke the centre
aisle with narrow pews; but all were equally distasteful to Mr.
Woodbourne, who, placing some benches in the aisle for the temporary
accommodation of his new parishioners, made every effort to raise funds
to build and endow an additional church.  He succeeded, as we have
heard; and it was the tall white spire of the now Church of St.
Austin's, which greeted Anne Merton's delighted eyes, as on the 27th of
August, she, with her father and mother, came to the top of a long
hill, about five miles from Abbeychurch.  What that sight was to her,
only those who have shared in the joys of church-building can know.
She had many a time built the church in her fancy; she knew from
drawing and description nearly every window, every buttress, every
cornice; she had heard by letter of every step in the progress of the
building; but now, that narrow white point, in the greyish green of the
distance, shewed her, for the first time, what really was the work of
her father--yes, of her father, for without him that spire would never
have been there; with the best intentions, Mr. Woodbourne could not
have accomplished more than a solid well-proportioned building, with
capabilities of embellishment. It was not till they had nearly reached
the town, that her thoughts turned to the pleasure of seeing her
cousins, or even of meeting her brother, whom she expected to find at
the Vicarage, on his return from Scotland, where he had been spending
the last six weeks.

In this anticipation, however, she was disappointed; he was not among
the group who stood in the hall, eager to greet the travellers, and no
tidings had been heard of him.  After talking over the chances of his
arriving in the course of the evening, Sir Edward went with Mr.
Woodbourne to see the new church, and the ladies were conducted to
their apartments; Mrs. Woodbourne making apologies to Anne for lodging
her with Elizabeth, and Anne laughingly declaring that she enjoyed
Elizabeth's company much more than solitary grandeur.  The two cousins
were followed by the whole tribe of children, flaxen-haired and
blue-eyed little sprites, the younger of whom capered round Anne in
high glee, though with a little shyness, sometimes looking upon her as
a stranger, sometimes recollecting former frolics, till Elizabeth
declared that it was time to dress; and Dorothea, the eldest, a quiet
and considerate little maiden of seven years old, carried off Winifred
and Edward to their own domains in the nursery.

Elizabeth's room had been set to rights for the accommodation of the
visitor, so that it suited most people's ideas of comfort better just
then, than in its usual state.  A number of books and papers had been
cleared from the table, to leave it free for Anne's toilette apparatus,
and a heap of school girls' frocks and tippets, which had originally
been piled up on two chairs, but, daily increasing in number, had grown
top-heavy, fallen down and encumbered the floor, had that morning been
given away, so that there was at least room to sit down.  Elizabeth's
desk and painting box were banished to the top of her chest-of-drawers,
where her looking-glass stood in a dark corner, being by no means
interesting to her.  Near the window was her book-case, tolerably well
supplied with works both English and foreign, and its lower shelf
containing a double row of brown-paper covered volumes, and
many-coloured and much soiled little books, belonging to the lending
library.  The walls were hung with Elizabeth's own works, for the most
part more useful than ornamental. There were genealogical and
chronological charts of Kings and Kaisars, comparisons of historical
characters, tables of Christian names and their derivations, botanical
lists, maps, and drawings--all in such confusion, that once, when Helen
attempted to find the Pope contemporary with Edward the First, she
asked Elizabeth why she had written the Pope down as Leo Nonus
Cardinal, on which she was informed, with a sufficient quantity of
laughter, that the word in question was the name of a flower, Leonurus
Cardiaca, looking like anything but what it was intended for in
Elizabeth's writing, and that Pope Martin the Fourth was to be found on
the other side of the Kings of France and Spain, and the portrait of
Charles the First. The chimney-piece was generally used as a place of
refuge for all small things which were in danger of being thrown away
if left loose on the table; but, often forgotten in their asylum, had
accumulated and formed a strange medley, which its mistress jealously
defended from all attacks of housemaids.  In the middle stood a plaster
cast of the statue of the Maid of Orleans, a present from her little
brother Horace; above it hung a small Geneva watch, which had belonged
to Elizabeth's own mother; and there were besides a few treasures of
Horace's, too tender to be trusted in the nursery in his absence at
school.

The window looked out upon the empty solitary street of the old town,
and though little was to be seen from it which could interest the two
girls, yet after the little ones were gone, they stood there talking
for some minutes; Elizabeth inquiring after half the people about
Merton Hall, a place which she knew almost as well as her own home.

'When does Mrs. Hazleby come?' said Anne, beginning to dress.

'Oh! do not ask me,' said Elizabeth, 'I do not know, and hardly care;
quite late, I hope and trust.'

'But, Lizzie,' asked Anne, 'what have these unfortunate Hazlebys done
to offend you?'

'Done!' answered Elizabeth, 'oh! a thousand things, all too small to be
described, but together they amount to a considerable sum, I can tell
you.  There has been a natural antipathy, an instinctive dislike,
between Mrs. Major Hazleby and me, ever since she paid her first visit
here, and, seeing me listening to something she was saying to Mamma,
she turned round upon me with that odious proverb, "Little pitchers
have long ears."'

'Perhaps she meant it as a compliment,' said Anne; 'you know, Mary of
Scotland says, that "Sovereigns ought to have long ears."'

'I suppose her son was of the same opinion,' said Elizabeth, 'when he
built his famous lug.  As to Mrs. Hazleby, she is never happy but when
she is finding fault with someone.  It will make you sick to hear her
scolding and patronizing poor Mamma.'

'She has been in India, has she not?' said Anne, in order to avoid
answering.

'Yes,' replied Elizabeth, 'she married the poor Major there, and the
eldest son was born there.  I often think I should like to ask old Mrs.
Hazleby how she felt on her first meeting with her fair
daughter-in-law.  They were safe in Ireland when Papa married, and did
not burst upon us in full perfection till Horace's christening, when
the aforesaid little pitcher speech was made.'

'And her daughters?' said Anne, 'I never heard you mention them.'

'Lucy is a nice quiet girl, and a great ally of Helen's, unless she has
cast her off for her new friends at Dykelands,' said Elizabeth; 'she is
rather creep-mouse, but has no _other_ fault that I know of. She is
like her father's family, something like Mamma.  But as for Harriet,
the eldest, and her mother's darling, you will soon be sensible of some
of her charms.  I only hope she will not teaze the children into
naughtiness, as she did last year.  I do not know what would be done if
Horace was at home.  One day he had a regular battle with her.  It
began of course in fun on both sides, but he soon grew angry, and at
last tore her frock and trod pretty hard on her foot. I could not be
sorry for her, she deserved it so completely; but then poor Horace had
to be punished.  And another time, she shut Dora up in a dark room, and
really it did the poor little girl a great deal of harm; she could not
sleep quietly for three nights after.  Dora is old enough to take care
of herself now; and Edward is quieter than Horace, which is a great
comfort; but, oh! I wish the Hazlebys were forty miles off!'

'Now, Lizzie,' said Anne, 'is it not a very strange thing to hear you
talk in this manner?--you, the most good-natured person in the world!'

'Thank you,' said Elizabeth; 'that is as much as to say that I am the
greatest goose in the world.'

'And you had rather be a goose than ill-natured,' said Anne.

'It does not follow that I should be a goose for want of ill-nature,'
said Elizabeth.

'But you say that to be good-natured is to be a goose,' said Anne.

'Yes; but good-nature is too poor a thing to be the reverse of
ill-nature,' said Elizabeth, 'it is only a negative quality.'

'I thought good-natured people were those who never used the negative,'
said Anne, laughing.

'Do not pun in the middle of a serious argument, Miss Anne,' said
Elizabeth, putting on a solemn face.

'Well, I will be quite as grave as the occasion requires,' said Anne.
'I believe I ought to have used the word kindness, as that is as active
in good as ill-nature in evil.  But pray, Lizzie, do not let us get
into any of these abstruse metaphysical discussions, or we shall arrive
at conclusions as wise as when we reasoned ourselves into saying, nine
years ago, that it was better to be naughty than good, because good
people in books were always stupid.'

'Idle as we were,' said Elizabeth, smiling, 'I do not think that we
ever intended to act on that maxim.  But really, Anne, I do believe
that if you had been a prim pattern of perfection, a real good little
girl, a true Miss Jenny Meek, who never put her foot in a puddle, never
tore her frock, never spoke above her breath, and never laughed louder
than a sucking dove, I should never have cared two straws for you.'

'I think little Dora might convince you that goodness and stupidity
need not always be united,' said Anne, after a short pause.

'Demure Dolly, as Horace calls her,' said Elizabeth, 'yes, she is a
very choice specimen; but, sweet little thing as she is, she would not
be half so good a subject for a story as our high-spirited Horace and
wild Winifred.  Dora is like peaceful times in history--very pleasant
to have to do with, but not so entertaining to read about.'

'Poor Dora, I thought she looked disconsolate as well as demure,
without Horace,' said Anne.

'She has been very forlorn, poor child,' said Elizabeth; 'there was
quite a beautiful chivalrous friendship between the brother and sister,
he delighting in her gentleness, and she in his high daring spirit.
Edward and Winifred are scarcely companions to her yet, so that she is
forced to turn to us and be one of the elders.'

'You think Horace is happy at Sandleford,' said Anne; 'I should hope he
would be; Rupert always looks back to his days there with a great deal
of pleasure.'

'I hope Horace's teeth will not meet with the same disaster as
Rupert's,' said Elizabeth, 'he has not quite so much beauty to spare;
but he really is a very fine looking boy, and just the bold merry
fellow to get on well at school, so that he is quite happy now that he
has recovered the leaving home.  But I am afraid my classical lore will
die of his departure, for my newly acquired knowledge of Virgil and the
Greek declensions will not be of use to Edward these three years.  He
is only just conquering "Lapis, lapidis."'

'But you can go on with Latin and Greek, alone, as you did with German,
cannot you?' said Anne.

'I do sometimes construe a little Virgil,' said Elizabeth; 'but Horace
is his natural contemporary, and he is not happy without him. Besides,
when I have nothing to oblige me to learn regularly, I do not know when
to do it, so Dido has been waiting an unconscionable time upon her
funeral pile; for who could think of Jupiter and Venus in the midst of
all our preparations for the Consecration?'

'I am glad Helen came home in time for it,' said Anne.

'I began to think we should never see her more,' said Elizabeth; 'there
was no gentleman at Dykelands to escort her, and Papa was too busy to
fetch her, till at last, Captain Atherley, Mrs. Staunton's brother,
took pity upon her, or rather on us, and brought her home.'

'Captain Atherley is the only one of the family whom I have ever seen,'
said Anne; 'I have always wished to know something more of them, they
were all such friends of Papa's and Mamma's and Aunt Katherine's.'

'If you wish to hear anything of Mrs. Staunton and her daughters,' said
Elizabeth, 'you have only to ask Helen; you will open the flood-gates
of a stream, which has overwhelmed us all, ever since she came home.'

'Then I hope Helen likes them as well as they seem to like her,' said
Anne; 'Mrs. Staunton spoke very highly of her in her letter to Mamma.'

'Oh yes,' said Elizabeth, 'they seem to have done nothing but sit with
their mouths open, admiring her; and she really is very much improved,
positively grown a reflective creature, and the most graceful as well
as the prettiest of the family.  She would be almost a beau ideal of a
sister, if she had but a few more home feelings, or, as you say, if she
did not like the Stauntons quite so much.  I wonder what you will think
of her.  Now are you ready?   Let us come down.'

When the two cousins came into the drawing-room, they found the rest of
the ladies already there.  Katherine and Helen Woodbourne were busy
arranging a quantity of beautiful flowers, which had been brought from
Merton Hall, to decorate the Vicarage on this occasion. Mrs. Woodbourne
was sitting at her favourite little work-table, engaged, as usual, with
her delicate Berlin embroidery.  A few of the choicest of the flowers
had been instantly chosen out for her, and were placed on her table in
a slender coloured glass, which she held up to Elizabeth as she entered
the room.

'Oh, how beautiful!' cried Elizabeth, advancing to the table, which was
strewn with a profusion of flowers.  'What delightful heliotrope and
geranium!  Oh, Anne! how could you tear off such a branch of Cape
jessamine? that must have been your handiwork, you ruthless one.'

'Anne has been more kind to us than to her greenhouse,' said Mrs.
Woodbourne; 'I am afraid she has displeased Mr. Jenkins; but I hope the
plants are not seriously damaged.'

'Oh no, indeed,' said Anne, 'you should see the plants before you pity
them, Aunt Mildred; we never let Mr. Jenkins scold us for helping
ourselves or our friends out of our own garden, for making a great
glorious nosegay is a pleasure which I do not know how to forego.'

'Do you call this a nosegay?' said Elizabeth, 'I call it a forest of
flowers.  Really, a Consecration opens people's hearts;--I do not mean
that yours is not open enough on ordinary occasions, Aunt Anne; but
when the children took their walk in the alms-house court this morning,
they were loaded with flowers from all quarters, beginning with old Mr.
Dillon offering Winifred his best variegated dahlia, by name Dod's
Mary.'

'Mr. Dillon!' exclaimed Katherine; 'I thought he never gave away his
flowers on any account.'

'I know,' said Elizabeth; 'but I have also heard him say that he could
not refuse little Miss Winifred if she asked him for the very house
over his head.'

'Did she ask him for the dahlia?' said Mrs. Woodbourne.

'No,' said Elizabeth, 'it was a free offer on his part.  Dora the
discreet tried to make her refuse it, but the dahlia had been gathered
long before Winifred could make up her mind to say no; and when the
little things came in this morning they looked like walking garlands.
Did you see the noble flower-pot in the hall?'

'You must go and look at the fruit which Lady Merton has been so kind
as to bring us, Lizzie,' said Mrs. Woodbourne; 'you never saw such fine
grapes and pines.'

'I hear you have undertaken that part of the arrangement, young
ladies,' said Lady Merton.

'Yes,' said Elizabeth; 'but I am afraid we do not know much about the
matter.'

'I am sure I cannot tell what I should do if you did not undertake it,
my dears,' said Mrs. Woodbourne.

'Do not begin thanking us till we have done the deed, Mamma,' said
Elizabeth; 'it may turn out a great deal worse than if we had left it
to the unassisted taste of the maids.'

The four girls continued to arrange the flowers: Elizabeth, inquiring
after many of the plants at Merton Hall; Anne, telling how the myrtle
was prospering, how well the geraniums had flowered, describing a new
fuchsia, and triumphing in the prize which the salpiglossis had gained
from the Horticultural Society; Helen, comparing the flora of Merton
Hall with that of Dykelands; Mrs. Woodbourne, rejoicing in cuttings to
be saved from the branches gathered by Anne's unsparing hand; and Lady
Merton, promising to send her seeds and young plants by Rupert, when he
should return to Oxford.

When the forest of flowers had been dispersed in the epergne, and in
various bowls and glasses, to ornament the drawing-room, the three
sisters began to collect the green leaves and pieces of stalks
remaining on the table, and as they bent down to sweep them off into a
basket, their heads chanced to be almost close together.

'Why, Lizzie,' said Lady Merton, 'where are your curls?  Have you made
yourself look so very different from Kate, to prevent all future
mistakes between you? and, Helen, have you really become a Pasha of two
tails?'

'Is it not very silly of Helen to wear them, Aunt Anne?' said Elizabeth.

'Indeed, dear Aunt Anne,' said Helen, 'my hair never will curl well,
and Mrs. Staunton always said it made me look like an old woman in the
way I wore it before, so what could I do but try it in the way in which
Fanny and Jane wore theirs?'

'Oh! we must all bow before Dykelands,' said Elizabeth.

'And I have been wondering what made you look so altered, Lizzie,' said
Lady Merton, 'and now I see it is your hair being straight.  I like
your curls better.'

'Ah, so do I,' said Mrs. Woodbourne; 'but Lizzie docs not like the
trouble of curling it.'

'No,' said Elizabeth, 'I think it a very useless plague.  It used
really to take me two hours a day, and now I am ready directly without
trouble or fuss.  People I care about will not think the worse of me
for not looking quite so well.'

'Perhaps not,' said Lady Merton, 'but they would think the better of
you for a little attention to their taste.'

'They might for attention to their wishes, Aunt Anne,' said Elizabeth,
'but hardly to their taste.  Taste is such a petty nonsensical thing.'

'I shall leave you and Anne to argue about the fine distinction between
taste and wishes,' said Lady Merton; 'it is more in your line than
mine.'

'You mean to say that I have been talking nonsense, Aunt Anne,' said
Elizabeth.

'I say nothing of the kind, Lizzie,' said her aunt; 'I only say that
you are in the habit of splitting hairs.'

Elizabeth saw that her aunt was not pleased.  She went to the
chimney-piece, and employed herself in making a delicate piece of ixia
get a better view of itself in the looking-glass.  Presently she turned
round, saying, 'Yes, Aunt Anne, I was very wrong; I was making a
foolish pretence at refinement, to defend myself.'

'I did not mean to begin scolding you the very moment I came near you,
Lizzie,' said Lady Merton.

'Indeed I wish you would, Aunt Anne,' said Elizabeth; 'pray scold me
from morning till night, there is no one who wants it more.'

'My dear child, how can you say so?' cried Mrs. Woodbourne.

'Many thanks for the agreeable employment you propose to me, Lizzie,'
said Lady Merton.

'If Rupert docs not come to-night, I mean to undertake a little of that
agreeable employment myself, when he arrives,' said Elizabeth, 'and to
make Anne help me.'

'I believe Rupert is so fond of being scolded, that it only makes him
worse,' said Lady Merton.

'Here are Papa and Uncle Edward coming back at last,' said Katherine,
who was, as usual, sitting in the window.

Mrs. Woodbourne looked greatly relieved; she had been for some time in
trouble for the dinner, not being able to console herself in the way in
which Elizabeth sometimes attempted to re-assure her in such
cases--'Never mind, Mamma, the dinner is used to waiting.'




CHAPTER III.


As soon as dinner was over, the girls proposed to walk to the new
church, that Anne might see it at her leisure before the Consecration.
The younger children were very urgent to be allowed to accompany them,
but Mrs. Woodbourne would only consent to Dora's doing so, on her
eldest sister's promise to return before her bed-time.

'And, Mamma,' said Elizabeth, as soon as this question was decided, and
the other two children had taken out their basket of bricks at the
other end of the room, 'have you settled whether Edward is to go to the
Consecration to-morrow?'

'I really think he is almost too young, my dear,' said Mrs. Woodbourne;
'you know it is a very long service.'

'Oh! Mamma,' said Dora, 'he is five years old now, and he says he will
be very good, and he will be very much disappointed if he has to stay
at home, now he has had his new frock and trousers; and Winifred and I
are going.'

'Really, Dora,' said Elizabeth, 'I think he had better not go, unless
he has some reason for wishing to do so, better than what you have
mentioned.'

'I believe he understands it all as well as we do,' said Dora; 'we have
all been talking about it in the nursery, this evening, at supper:--and
you know, Mamma, he has quite left off being naughty in church.'

'Still, my dear,' said Mrs. Woodbourne, 'I scarcely think that we can
take him; I cannot have him sitting with me, among the people whom we
have invited, and he will certainly grow tired and restless.'

'I do not think his being tired just at last will signify,' said
Elizabeth; 'he will attend at first, I am sure, and it is a thing he
must never forget all his life.  I will take care of him and Winifred,
and Dora can behave well without being watched.'

'Very well, my dear,' said Mrs. Woodbourne in her plaintive voice, 'I
shall be glad for him to go, if you can undertake to keep him in order,
but you must take care you do not tire yourself.  You will have almost
too much to do afterwards, and you must not let yourself be harassed by
his restlessness.'

'Oh no, Mamma, thank you,' said Elizabeth, 'he will not fidget, and I
am not afraid of anything in the summer, and on such a great day as
to-morrow.  I could walk to Johnny Groat's house, and take care of
fifty children, if need were.'

Edward was called, examined as to his reasons for wishing to go to the
Consecration, made to promise to behave well, and sent back in high
glee to play with Winifred.  Elizabeth and Dorothea then followed the
others up-stairs to prepare for the walk.

'It is very strange,' remarked Mrs. Woodbourne, as they left the room,
'that Elizabeth can manage the children so much better than anyone else
can; they always like best to be with her, though she always makes them
mind her, and Kate is much more what people would call good-natured.'

'Do you not think Lizzie good-natured?' said Lady Merton, rather
surprised.

'Oh yes, indeed I do,' said Mrs. Woodbourne, 'she is a most
kind-hearted creature.  I really believe there is nothing she would not
do for the children or me, I do not know what would become of me
without her: but you know her way of speaking, she does not mean any
harm; but still when people are not used to her, it vexes them; indeed
I did not mean to say anything against her, she is a most excellent
creature, quite her Papa's right hand.'

'Horace grew almost too much for her to manage before he went to
school, did not he?' said Lady Merton.

'Poor little boy!' said Mrs. Woodbourne, 'we miss him sadly, with his
merry face and droll ways.  You know, he was always a very
high-spirited child, but Lizzie could always make him mind her in the
end, and he was very obedient to his papa and me.  Edward is a quiet
meek boy, he has not his brother's high spirits, and I hope we shall
keep him at home longer.'

'Horace is certainly very young for a school-boy,' said Lady Merton;
'Rupert was ten years old when he went to Sandleford, but Sir Edward
afterwards regretted that he had not gone there earlier, and the little
boys are very well taken care of there.'

'Yes, Mr. Woodbourne said everything looked very comfortable,' said
Mrs. Woodbourne, sighing; 'and I suppose he must rough it some time or
other, poor little fellow, so that it may be as well to begin early.'

'And he has taken a good place,' said Lady Merton; 'Lizzie wrote in
high glee to tell Anne of it.'

'Yes,' said Mrs. Woodbourne, 'she had brought him on wonderfully; I am
sure I wonder how she could, with only a little occasional assistance
from her papa; but then, Horace is certainly a very clever child, and
few have Lizzie's spirits and patience, to be able to bear with a
little boy's idleness and inattention so good-humouredly.  And I do
believe she enjoyed playing with him and the others as much as the
children themselves; I used to say it was no use to send Lizzie to keep
the children in order, she only promoted the fun and noise.'

'She is a merry creature,' said Lady Morton, 'her spirits never seem to
flag, and I think she is looking stronger than when I saw her last.'

'Indeed, I am very glad to hear you say so,' said Mrs. Woodbourne; 'she
has seemed very well and strong all the summer, but she still has that
constant cough, and we must always be anxious about her, I wish she
would take a little more care of herself, but she will not understand
how necessary precautions are; she goes out in all sorts of weather,
and never allows that anything will give her cold; indeed, I let Dora
go out with them this evening, because I knew that Lizzie would stay
out of doors too long, unless she had her to make her come in for her
sake.'

'How bright and well Helen looks!' said Lady Merton; 'she seems to have
been very happy at Dykelands.'

'Very happy indeed,' said Mrs. Woodbourne; 'I am sure we are
exceedingly obliged to Mrs. Staunton for asking her.  She has come back
quite a different creature, and can speak of nothing but the kindness
of her friends at Dykelands.'

Here the conversation dropped for a minute or two, for Lady Morton
found it difficult to reply.  Mrs. Staunton had lived in the village
where Merton Hall was situated, and where both Lady Merton and her
sister-in-law had spent their childhood.  She had been much attached to
Mrs. Woodbourne, and was Helen's godmother; but having settled in a
distant county, had scarcely kept up any intercourse with the
Woodbourne family since her friend's death, though constantly
corresponding with Lady Merton, and occasionally writing and sending
presents to her little god-daughter.  Chancing however to come to
London on business, she had written to Mr. Woodbourne to beg him to
bring Helen to meet her there, and allow her to take her back with her
into Lincolnshire to spend some time with her and her daughters. Mr.
Woodbourne, knowing that his wife had esteemed her very highly,
complied after a little deliberation.  Helen's visit had lasted longer
than at first proposed, and she only returned home, after an absence of
five months, just in time to wish her little brother farewell, on his
departure for school, a few weeks before the Consecration of St.
Austin's.  Lady Merton would have been glad to read Mrs. Woodbourne all
the admiration of Helen, which Mrs. Staunton had poured forth to her in
a letter written a short time before; but the terms in which it was
expressed were more exaggerated than Lady Merton liked to shew to one
who was not acquainted with Mrs. Staunton, and besides, her praise of
Helen was full of comparison with her mother.

Visiting Abbeychurch was always painful to Lady Merton, and her manner,
usually rather cold, was still more constrained when she was there;
for, although both she and Sir Edward had been very careful not to shew
any want of cordiality towards Mr. and Mrs. Woodbourne, they could not
but feel that the Vicarage never could be to them what it once had
been.  It was certainly quite impossible not to have an affection for
its present gentle kind-hearted mistress; and Lady Merton felt
exceedingly grateful to her, for having, some years ago, nursed Rupert
through a dangerous attack of scarlet-fever, with which he had been
seized at Abbeychurch, when on his way from school, when she herself
had been prevented by illness from coming to him; and Mrs. Woodbourne,
making light of her anxiety for her own children, had done all that the
most affectionate mother could have done for him, and had shewn more
energy than almost anyone had believed her to possess, comforting Sir
Edward with hopes and cheerful looks, soothing the boy's waywardness,
and bearing with his fretfulness in his recovery, as none but a mother,
or a friend as gentle as Mrs. Woodbourne, could have done.  Still, much
as she loved Mrs. Woodbourne for her own sake, Lady Merton could not
help missing Katherine, her first play-fellow, the bright friend of her
youth, her sister-in-law; Mrs. Woodbourne, a shy timid person, many
years younger, felt that such must be the case, and always feared that
she was thinking that the girls would have been in better order under
their own mother; so that the two ladies were never quite at their ease
when alone together.

In the mean time, Elizabeth, quite unconscious that Dora was intended
to act as a clog round her neck, to keep her from straying too far, was
mounting the hill, the merriest of the merry party.

'It is certainly an advantage to the world in general to have the
church on a hill,' said Anne, 'both for the poetry and beauty of the
sight; but I should think that the world in particular would be glad if
the hill were not quite so steep.'

'Oh!' said Elizabeth, 'on the side towards the new town it is fair and
soft enough to suit the laziest, it is only on our side that it
resembles the mountain of fame or of happiness; and St. Austin's, as
the new town is now to be called, is all that has any concern with it.'

'I wish it was not so steep on our side,' said Katherine; 'I do not
think I ever was so hot in all my life, as I was yesterday, when we
carried up all the cushions ourselves, and Papa sent me all the way
back to the Vicarage, only just to fetch a needle and thread for Mamma
to sew on a little bit of fringe.'

'Really, Kate,' said Elizabeth, 'you might have thought yourself very
happy to have anything to do for the Church.'

'All! it was all very well for you to say so,' said Katherine; 'you
were sitting in the cool at home, only hearing Edward read, not toiling
in the sun as I was.'

'That is not fair, Kate,' said Helen; 'you know it is sometimes very
hard work to hear Edward read; and besides, Mamma had desired Lizzie to
sit still in the house, because she had been at the church ever since
five, helping Papa to settle the velvet on the pulpit after the people
had put it on wrong.'

'You would not imagine, Anne,' said Elizabeth, 'how fearfully deficient
the world is, in common sense.  Would you believe it, the workmen
actually put the pulpit-cloth on with the embroidery upside-down, and I
believe we were five hours setting it right again.'

'Without any breakfast?' said Anne.

'Oh! we had no time to think of breakfast till Mr. Somerville came in
at ten o'clock to see what was going on, and told us how late it was,'
said Elizabeth.

By this time, they had reached the brow of the hill, from whence they
had a fine view of Abbeychurch, old and new.  Anne observed upon the
difference between the two divisions of the town.

'Yes,' said Elizabeth, 'our town consists of the remains of old
respectable England, and the beginning of the new great work-shop of
all nations, met together in tolerably close companionship.  I could
almost grudge that beautiful Gothic church to those regular red-brick
uniform rows of deformity.'

'I do not think even the new church can boast of more beauty than St.
Mary's,' said Anne.

'No, and it wants the handiwork of that best artist, old Time,' said
Elizabeth; 'it will be long before Queen Victoria's head on the corbel
at the new church is of as good a colour as Queen Eleanor's at the old
one, and we never shall see anything so pretty at St. Austin's as the
yellow lichen cap, and plume of spleen-wort feathers, which Edward the
First wears.'

'How beautiful the old church tower is!' said Anne, turning round to
look at it; 'and the gable ends of your house, and the tall trees of
the garden, with the cloistered alms-houses, have still quite a
monastic air.'

'If you only look at the tower with its intersecting arches and their
zig-zag mouldings,' said Elizabeth, 'and shut your eyes to our kitchen
chimney, on which rests all the fame of the Vicar before last.'

'What can you mean?' said Anne.

'That when anyone wishes to distinguish the Reverend Hugh Puddington
from all other Vicars of Abbeychurch, his appellation is "The man that
built the kitchen chimney."'

'That being, I suppose, the only record he has left behind him,' said
Anne.

'The only one now existing,' said Elizabeth, 'since Papa has made his
great horrid pew in the chancel into open seats.--Do not you remember
it, Kate? and how naughty you used to be, when Margaret left off
sitting there with us, and there was no one to see what we were
about--oh! and there is a great fat Patience on a monument on the wall
over our heads, and a very long inscription, recording things quite as
unsuitable to a clergyman.'

'I do not understand you, Lizzie,' said Helen; 'unsuitable as what?
Patience, or building chimneys, or making pews?'

'Patience is a virtue when she is not on a monument,' said Elizabeth.

'And neither pews nor chimneys can be unsuitable to a clergyman,' said
little Dora; 'there are four pews in the new church, and Papa built a
chimney for the school.'

Everyone laughed, much to Dora's surprise, and somewhat to Helen's, and
Elizabeth was forced to explain, for Dora's edification, that what she
intended by the speech in question, was only that it was unsuitable to
a clergyman to leave no record behind him, but what had been intended
to gratify his own love of luxury.

'I am sorry I said anything about him,' said she to Anne; 'it was
scarcely right to laugh at him, especially before Dora; I am afraid she
will never see the monument without thinking of the chimney.'

At this moment they arrived at the church, and all their attention was
bestowed upon it.  It was built in the Early English style, and neither
pains nor expense had been spared.  Anne, who had not been there since
the wall had been four feet above the ground, was most eager to see it;
and Elizabeth, who had watched it from day to day, was equally eager to
see whether Anne would think of everything in it as she did herself.

As the door opened, a flood of golden light poured in upon the pure
white stone Font, while the last beams of the evening sun were
streaming through the western window, shining on the edges of the
carved oak benches, and glancing upon the golden embroidery of the
crimson velvet on the Altar, above which, the shadows on the groined
roof of the semi-octagonal chancel were rapidly darkening, and the deep
tints of the five narrow lancet windows within five arches, supported
and connected by slender clustered shafts with capitals of richly
carved foliage, were full of solemn richness when contrasted with the
glittering gorgeous hues of the west window.

'Oh! Anne,' whispered Elizabeth, as they stood together in the porch,
giving a parting look before she closed the door, 'it is "all glorious
within," even now; and think what it will be to-morrow!'

Nothing more was said till they had left the churchyard, when Anne
exclaimed, looking wistfully towards the railroad, 'Then there is but
one chance of Rupert's coming to-night.'

'When the eight o'clock train comes in,' said Katherine; 'it is that
which is to bring the Hazlebys.'

'I really think,' said Helen, 'that the gas manufactory and the union
poor-house grow more frightful every day.  I thought they looked worse
than ever when I came home, and saw the contrast with Lincolnshire.  I
hope the old and new towns will long be as different as they are now.'

'I am afraid they hardly will,' said Anne; 'the old town will soon
begin to rival the new one.  You must already find new notions creeping
into it.'

'Creeping!' cried Elizabeth, 'they gallop along the railroad as fast as
steam can carry them.  However, we are happily a quiet dull race, and
do not take them in; we only open our eyes and stare at all the wonders
round.  I do not know what we may come to in time, we may be as genteel
as Kate's friend, Willie Turner, says the people are in Aurelia
Place--that perked-up row of houses, whose windows and doors give them
such a comical expression of countenance, more like butterflies than
aurelias.'

'Who is Kate's friend?' asked Anne, in a wondering tone.

'Willie Turner!' said Elizabeth; 'oh! the apothecary's daughter,
Wilhelmina.  You must have heard of Mr. Turner.  Rupert has made a
standing joke of him, ever since the scarlet-fever.'

'Oh yes!' said Anne, 'I know Mr. Turner's name very well; but I never
knew that Miss Turner was a friend of Kate's.'

'She was not,' said Elizabeth, 'till Helen went to Dykelands, and poor
Kitty was quite lonely for want of someone to gossip with, and so she
struck up a most romantic friendship with Willie Turner; and really, it
has done us one most important service.--May I mention it, Kate,
without betraying your confidence?'

'Nonsense, Lizzie,' said Katherine.

'Oh! you do not object,' said Elizabeth; 'then be it known to you,
Anne, that once upon a time, Kitty confided to me, what I forthwith
confided to Papa, that Mrs. Turner was working in cross-stitch a
picture of St. Augustine preaching to the Saxons, which she intended to
present as a cushion for one of the chairs of St. Austin's Church.'

'Oh! dreadful!' cried Anne.

'Papa walked up and down the room for full ten minutes after he heard
of it,' said Elizabeth; 'but Mamma came to our rescue.  She, the
mild-spoken, (Mildred, you know,) set off with the Saxon Winifred, the
peace-maker, to reject the Saint of the Saxons, more civilly than the
British bishops did.  She must have managed most beautifully, so as to
satisfy everybody.  I believe that she lamented that the Austin Friars
who named our hill were not called after the converter of our
forefathers, looking perfectly innocent of Kitty's secret all the time;
and Winifred eat Mrs. Turner's plum-cake, and stared at her
curiosities, so as to put her into good humour.  Thus far is certain,
from that day to this no more has been heard of St. Augustine or King
Ethelbert.'

'Oh! her work is made up into a screen now,' said Katharine, 'and is
very pretty.'

'And last time Mrs. Turner called at the Vicarage, she was very learned
about the Bishop of Hippo,' said Elizabeth; 'she is really very clever
in concealing her ignorance, when she does not think herself learned.'

'I thought they were not likely to promote the decoration of the new
church,' said Anne.

'Oh! she does not trouble herself about consistency,' said Elizabeth;
'anything which attracts notice pleases her.  She thinks our dear papa
has done more for the living than nine out of ten would have thought
of; and if there was any talk of presenting him with some small
testimonial of respect, her mite would be instantly forthcoming; and
Sir Edward Merton, he is the most munificent gentleman she ever heard
of; if all of his fortune were like him now!--"Only, my dear Miss
Lizzie, does not your papa think of having a lightning conductor
attached to the spire? such an elevation, it quite frightens me to
think of it! and the iron of the railroad, too--"'

'Oh! is she scientific, too?' aaid Anne.

'Yes; you see how the march of intellect has reached us,' said
Elizabeth; 'poor Kate is so much afraid of the electric fluid, that she
cannot venture to wear a steel buckle.  You have no idea of the efforts
we are making to keep up with the rest of the world.  We have a wicked
Radical newspaper all to ourselves; I wonder it has the face to call
itself the Abbeychurch Reporter.'

'Your inns are on the move,' said Anne; 'I see that little beer-shop
near the Station calls itself "The Locomotive Hotel."'

'I wish it were really locomotive,' said Elizabeth, 'so that it would
travel out of Abbeychurch; it is ruining half the young men here.'

'Well, perhaps the new town will mend,' said Anne; 'it will have a
Christian name to-morrow, and perhaps the influence of the old town
will improve it.'

'I think Papa has little hope of that kind,' said Elizabeth; 'if the
new town does grow a little better, the old will still grow worse. It
is grievous to see how much less conformable Papa finds the people of
the old town, than even I can remember them.  But come, we must be
locomotive, or Dora will not be at home in time.'




CHAPTER IV.


The clock was striking eight as the young ladies entered the house; but
Dora was allowed to sit up a little longer to see her aunt, Mrs.
Hazleby.  It was not long before a loud knock at the door announced
that lady's arrival.

Mrs. Hazleby was a tall bony Scotchwoman, with fierce-looking grey
eyes.  She gave Mrs. Woodbourne a very overpowering embrace, and then
was careful to mark the difference between her niece, little Dora, whom
she kissed, and the three elder girls, with whom she only shook hands.
She was followed by her daughters--Harriet, a tall showy girl of
sixteen, and Lucy, a pale, quiet, delicate-looking creature, a year
younger.  Rupert Merton was still missing; but his movements were
always so uncertain, that his family were in no uneasiness on his
account.

As Mrs. Woodbourne was advancing to kiss Harriet, a loud sharp 'yap'
was heard from something in the arms of the latter; Mrs. Woodbourne
started, turned pale, and looked so much alarmed, that Anne could not
laugh.  Harriet, however, was not so restrained, but laughed loudly as
she placed upon a chair a little Blenheim spaniel, with a blue ribbon
round his neck, and called to her sister Lucy to 'look after Fido.'  It
presently appeared that the little dog had been given to them at the
last place where they had been staying on the road to Abbeychurch; and
Mrs. Hazleby and her eldest daughter continued for some time to
expatiate upon the beauty and good qualities of Fido, as well as those
of all his kith and kin.  He was not, however, very cordially welcomed
by anyone at the Vicarage; for Mr. Woodbourne greatly disliked little
dogs in the house, his wife dreaded them much among her children, and
there were symptoms of a deadly feud between him and Elizabeth's only
pet, the great black cat, Meg Merrilies. But still his birth,
parentage, and education, were safe subjects of conversation; and all
were sorry when Mrs. Hazleby had exhausted them, and began to remark
how thin Elizabeth looked--to tell a story of a boy who had died of a
fever, some said of neglect, at the school where Horace was--to hint at
the possibility of Rupert's having been lost on the Scottish mountains,
blown up on the railroad, or sunk in a steam-vessel--to declare that
girls were always spoiled by being long absent from home, and to dilate
on the advantages of cheap churches.

She had nearly all the conversation to herself, the continual sound of
her voice being only varied by Harriet's notes and comments, given in a
pert shrill, high key, and by a few syllables in answer from Lady
Merton and Mrs. Woodbourne.  The two gentlemen, happily for themselves,
had a great quantity of plans and accounts of the church to look over
together, which were likely to occupy them through the whole of Sir
Edward's visit.  Elizabeth was busy numbering the Consecration tickets
for the next day, and Anne in helping her, so that they sat quietly
together in the inner drawing-room during the greater part of the
evening.

When they went up-stairs to bed, Elizabeth exclaimed, 'Oh! that horrid
new bonnet of mine!  I had quite forgotten it, and I must trim it now,
for I shall not have time to-morrow morning.  I will run to Kate and
Helen's room, and fetch my share of the ribbon.'

As she returned and sat down to work, she continued, 'It is too much
plague to quill up the ribbon as the others have theirs.  It will do
quite well enough plain.  Now, Anne, do not you think that as long as
dress is neat, which of course it must be, prettiness does not signify?'

'Perhaps I might think so, if I had to trim my own bonnets,' said Anne,
laughing.

'Ah! you do not think so--Anne, you who have everything about you, from
your shoe-strings upwards, in the most complete order and elegant
taste.  But then, you know, you would do quite as well if the things
were ugly.'

'If I wore yellow gowns and scarlet bonnets, for instance?' asked Anne.

'No, no, that would not be modest,' said Elizabeth; 'you would be no
longer a lady, so that you could not look lady-like, which I maintain a
lady always is, whether each morsel of her apparel is beautiful in
itself or not.'

'Indeed, Lizzie,' said Anne, 'I cannot say that I think as you do, at
least as far as regards ourselves, I think that it may be possible to
wear ugly things and still be lady-like, and I am sure I honour people
greatly who really deny themselves for the sake of doing right, if
anyone can seriously care for such a thing as dress; but I consider it
as a duty in such as ourselves, to consult the taste of the people we
live with.'

'As your mother said about my hair,' said Elizabeth thoughtfully; 'I
will do as she advised, Anne, but not while she is here, for fear Mamma
should fancy that I do so because Aunt Anne wished it, though I would
not to please her.  I believe you are right; but look here, will my
bonnet do?'

'I think it looks very well,' said Anne; 'but will it not seem
remarkable for you to be unlike your sisters?'

'Ah! it will give Mrs. Hazleby an opportunity of calling me blue, and
tormenting Mamma,' said Elizabeth; 'besides, Mamma wished us all to be
alike down to the little ones, so I will make the best of it, and trim
it like any London milliner.  But, Anne, you must consider it is a
great improvement in me to allow that respectable people must be neat.
I used to allow it in theory, but not in practice.'

'I do not think I ever saw you untidy, Lizzie,' said Anne, 'except
after a day's nutting in the hanging wood.'

'Oh yes, I could generally preserve a little outward tidiness,' said
Elizabeth; 'besides, a visit at Merton Hall is very different from
every day in shabby old Abbeychurch.  No, you must know that when I was
twelve years old, I was supposed to be capable of taking care of my own
wardrobe; and for some time all went on very smoothly, only that I
never did a stitch towards mending anything.'

'Did a beneficent fairy do it for you, then?'

'Not a sprite, nor even a brownie, but one of the old wrinkled kind of
fairies.  Old Margaret, that kindest of nurses, could not bear to see
her dear Miss Lizzie untidy, or to hear her dear Miss Lizzie scolded,
so she mended and mended without saying anything, encouraging me in
habits of arrant slovenliness, and if I had but known it, of deceit.
Dear old Margery, it was a heart-breaking thing when she went away, to
all from Winifred upwards, and to none more than to  me, who could
remember those two melancholy years when she often seemed my only
friend, when I was often naughty and Papa angry with me, and I feeling
motherless and wretched, used to sit on her lap and cry.  Dear old
Margery, it is a shame to abuse her in spite of the mischief her
over-kindness did us all.  Well, when our new maid came, on the
supposition that Miss Woodbourne took care of her own clothes, she
never touched them; and as Margaret's work was not endowed with the
fairy power of lasting for ever, I soon grew as ragged as any
ragged-robin in the hedge.  Mamma used to complain of my slovenliness,
but I am afraid I was naughty enough to take advantage of her
gentleness, and out-argue her; so things grew worse and worse, till at
last, one fatal day, Papa was aware of a great hole in my stockings.
Then forth it all came; he asked question after question; and dear kind
Mamma, even more unwilling to expose me than I was myself, was forced
to answer, and you may suppose how angry he was.  Oh! Anne, I can
hardly bear to think of the stern kindness of his voice when he saw I
was really quite wretched.  And only think how kind it was in him, he
spoke seriously to me, he shewed me that building the church, helping
our poor people, even Mamma's comforts, and the boys' education, depend
upon home economy; and how even I could make a difference by not
wasting my clothes, and making another servant necessary.'

'Then could you really gain neat habits immediately?' asked Anne;
'there could be no doubt of your resolving to do so, but few people
could or would persevere.'

'Oh! I am not properly tidy now,' said Elizabeth, opening a most
chaotic table-drawer, 'see, there is a proof of it.  However, I do not
think I have been shamefully slovenly in my own person since that
explosion, and I have scarcely been spoken to about it.  Who could
disregard such an appeal?  But, Anne, are you not enchanted with sweet
Mrs. Hazleby?'

'I wish you would not ask me, Lizzie,' said Anne, feeling very prudent,
'you know that I know nothing of her.'

'No, and you never will know enough of her to say such savage things as
I do,' said Elizabeth, 'but at any rate you saw her when she came in.'

'Certainly.'

'I mean the kissing; I am sure I am glad enough to escape it, and
always think Mamma and the children seem to be hugged by a bear; but
you know making such distinctions is not the way to make us like her,
even if we were so disposed.  Oh! and about me in particular, I am
convinced that she thinks that Mamma hates me as much as she does, for
she seems to think it will delight her to hear that I am thinner than
ever, and that such bright colour is a very bad sign, and then she
finishes off with a hypocritical sigh, and half whisper of "It can be
no wonder, poor thing!" trying to put everyone, especially Papa and
Uncle Edward, in mind of my own poor mother.  I declare I have no
patience with her or Harriet, or that ugly little wretch of a dog!'

In the mean time, Katherine and Helen were visiting their guests,
Harriet and Lucy Hazleby, whom, contrary to Elizabeth's arrangement,
Mrs. Woodbourne had lodged in the room where her own two little girls
usually slept.  Harriet was sitting at the table, at her ease, curling
her long cork-screw ringlets, with Fido at her feet; Lucy was unpacking
her wardrobe, Katherine lighting her, and admiring each article as it
was taken out, in spite of her former disapprobation of Harriet's style
of dress.  Helen stood lingering by the door, with her hand on the
lock, still listening or talking, though not much interested, and
having already three times wished her guests good night.  Their
conversation, though not worth recording for any sense or reflection
shewn by any of the talkers, may perhaps display their characters, and
add two or three facts to our story, which may be amusing to some few
of our readers.

'Oh! Lucy,' cried Harriet, with a start, 'take care of my spotted
muslin, it is caught on the lock of the box.  You always are so
careless.'

Katherine assisted Lucy to rescue the dress from the threatened danger,
and Harriet continued, 'Well, and what do you wear to-morrow, Kate?'

'White muslin, with pink ribbons,' said Katherine.

'I have a green and orange striped mousseline de laine, Mamma gave only
fifteen-pence a yard for it; I will shew it to you when Lucy comes to
it, and you will see if it is not a bargain.  And what bonnets?'

'Straw, with ribbon like our sashes,' said Katherine.  'Oh! we had so
much trouble to get--'

'My bonnet is green satin,' said Harriet, 'but if I had been you, Kate,
I would have had Leghorn.  Wouldn't you, Lucy?'

'Five Leghorn bonnets would have cost too much,' said Katherine, 'and
Mamma wished us all to be alike.'

'Ah! she would not let you be smarter than her own girls, eh, Kitty?'
said Harriet, laughing.

'I had been obliged to buy a very nice new straw bonnet at Dykelands,'
said Helen, 'and it, would have been a pity not to use that.'

'Well, I have no notion of a whole row of sisters being forced to dress
alike,' said Harriet; 'Aunt Mildred might--'

Here Lucy stopped her sister's speech, by bringing the gown forward to
display it.  When Harriet had sufficiently explained its excellence she
began, 'So your cousin, young Merton, is coming, is he?'

'Yes,' said Katherine, 'we expected him last night, or in the course of
this day, but he has not come yet.'

'Well, what sort of a young fellow is he?' said Harriet.

'Very clever indeed,' said Katherine.

'Oh! then he will not be in my line at all,' said Harriet; 'those
clever boys are never worth speaking to, are they, Lucy?'

'Do you like stupid ones better?' said Helen.

'Capital, isn't it, Lucy?' cried Harriet; 'I did not mean stupid; I
only meant, clever boys, as they call them, have no fun, they only
read, read for ever, like my brother Allan.'

'I am sure Rupert is full of fun,' said Katherine.

'Oh, but he is quite a boy, is not he?' said Harriet.

'Nineteen, and at Oxford,' said Katherine.

'Oh! I call that quite a boy--don't you, Lucy?' said Harriet; 'is he
handsome?'

'Yes, very,' said Katherine.

'Not like his sister, then, I suppose,' said Harriet.

'Oh! do not you, think Anne pretty?' said Katherine.

'I do not know--no, too small and pale to suit me,' said Harriet.

'Rupert is not like Anne,' said Katherine, 'he has a very bright pink
and white complexion, and light hair.'

'Is he tall?'

'No, not so tall as your brother George, but slighter.  He has had two
of his front teeth knocked out by a stone at school,' said Katherine.

'What a fuss they did make about those teeth!' muttered Helen.

'Was that the school where Horace is?' said Harriet.

'Yes,' said Katherine, 'Sandleford.'

'How you must miss Horace!' said Lucy.

'Poor little fellow, yes, that we do,' said Katherine, 'but he was so
riotous, he would pull all my things to pieces.  Nobody could manage
him but Lizzie, and she never minds what she has on.'

'What a tear he did make in my frock!' said Harriet, laughing; 'didn't
he, Lucy?'

'How tired you look, Lucy,' said Helen, 'I am sure you ought to be in
bed.'

'Oh no, I am not very sleepy,' said Lucy, smiling.

'I am dead tired, I am sure,' said Harriet, yawning; 'it was so hot in
the railway carriage.'

'Cannot the rest of those things be put away to-morrow morning,
Harriet?' said Helen.

'Oh!' said Harriet, yawning, 'there will not be time; Lucy may as well
do them all now she has begun.  How sleepy I am! we walked about London
all the morning.'

'Come, Helen,' said Katherine, 'it is quite time for us to be gone; we
must be up early to-morrow.'




CHAPTER V.


The morning of the twenty-eighth of August was as fine as heart could
wish, and the three sisters rose almost as soon as it was light, to
fulfil their promise of attending to all the small nondescript matters
of arrangement, needful when a large party is expected by a family not
much in the habit of receiving company.  Katherine, who had quite given
up all thoughts of equalling her elder sister in talent, and who prided
herself on being the useful member of the family, made herself very
busy in the store-room; Helen, arranged the fruit with much taste; and
Elizabeth was up-stairs and down, here, there, and everywhere, till it
was difficult to find anything which she had not rectified by labour of
head or hand.

'Well,' said she, as she brought Helen a fresh supply of vine leaves
from the garden, 'I wonder whether Rupert will come in time.  I shall
be very sorry if he does not, for he has done a great deal for the
church.'

'Has he indeed?' said Helen, with an air that expressed, 'I should not
have thought it.'

'O Helen, how can you take so little interest in the church?' said
Elizabeth; 'do not you remember how much trouble Rupert took to find a
pattern for the kneeling-stools, and what a beautiful drawing he sent
of those at Magdalen Collegia Chapel?  I am sure he would be very much
vexed to miss the Consecration.'

'I suppose he might come if he pleased,' said Helen; 'but perhaps he
did not choose to get up early enough.'

'That is the first time I ever heard Rupert accused of indolence,' said
Elizabeth.

'I do not mean that he does not generally get up in good time,' said
Helen; 'he is not lazy; but I do not think he chooses to put himself
out of the way; and besides, he rather likes to make people anxious
about him.'

'I know you have never liked Rupert,' said Elizabeth drily.

'Papa thinks as I do,' said Helen; 'I have heard him say that he is a
spoiled child, and thinks too much of himself.'

'Oh! that was only because Aunt Anne worked that beautiful waistcoat
for him,' said Elizabeth; 'that was not Rupert's fault.'

'And Papa said that he was quite fond enough already of smart
waistcoats,' said Helen; 'and he laughed at his wearing a ring.'

'That is only a blood-stone with his crest,' said Elizabeth, 'and I am
sure no one can accuse Rupert of vulgar smartness.'

'Not of _vulgar_ smartness,' said Helen, 'but you must allow that
everything about him has a--kind of--what shall I say?--recherche air,
that seems as if he thought a great deal of himself; I am sure you must
have heard Papa say something of the kind.'

'Really, Helen,' said Elizabeth, 'I cannot think why you should be
determined to say all that you can against that poor Rupert.'

Helen made no answer.

'I do believe,' said Elizabeth, 'that you have had a grudge against him
ever since he made you an April fool.  Oh! how capital it was,' cried
she, sitting down to laugh at the remembrance.  'To make you believe
that the beautiful work-box Uncle Edward sent you, was a case of
surgical instruments for Mr. Turner, to shew his gratitude for his
attendance upon Rupert when he had the fever, and for setting his mouth
to rights when his teeth were knocked out at school.  Oh! there never
was such fun as to see how frightened you looked, and how curious Kate
and Horace were, and how Mamma begged him not to open the box and shew
her the horrid things.'

'I wish Rupert would keep to the truth with his jokes,' said Helen.

'Helen,' said Elizabeth, 'you cannot mean to say that he ever says what
is untrue.  You are letting yourself be carried much too far by your
dislike.'

'If he does not positively assert what is not true, he often makes
people believe it,' said Helen.

'Only stupid people, who have no perception of a joke,' said Elizabeth;
'he never deceived me with any joke; it is only that you do not
understand.'

'I wonder how such a candid person as you are, can defend the slightest
departure from truth for any purpose,' said Helen.

'I would not defend anyone whom I did not believe to be upright and
open,' said Elizabeth; 'but it is only your slowness, and old spite
against Rupert because he used to joke you, that puts these fancies
into your head.  Now I must go to the children; I hope, Helen, you will
really enter into the spirit of the day, little as you seem to care
about the church.'

Helen gave a deep sigh as her sister left the room; she was vexed at
having been laughed at, at the disregard of her arguments, at the
reproach, and perhaps a little at Elizabeth's having taken no notice of
the beautiful pyramid of cherries which had cost her half an hour's
labour.

There was some truth in what Helen said of her cousin, though few would
have given his faults so much prominence.  Rupert Merton was an only
son, and very handsome, and this was the history of nearly all his
foibles.  No one could say that his career at school, and so far at
college, had not been everything that could be wished, and most people
had nearly as high an opinion of him as he had of himself; but Helen,
who had almost always been made a laughing-stock when he was with her,
had not quite so agreeable a recollection of his lively, graceful,
pleasant manners as her sisters had, and was glad to find that his
tormenting ways were not entirely caused by her own querulous temper,
as Elizabeth sometimes told her they were.

When Mrs. Woodbourne came down, Helen's handiwork received its full
share of admiration, and Mrs. Woodbourne was much pleased by the girls'
forethought and activity, which had saved her from a great deal of
fatigue.

The breakfast was quickly finished, and immediately afterwards the four
eldest Miss Woodbournes, together with Anne, went to the school to see
if the children were ready to go to church.  It was pleasant to see the
smiling courtesying row of girls, each with her Prayer-book in her
hand, replying to Elizabeth's nods, greetings, and questions, with
bright affectionate looks, or a few words, which shewed that they were
conscious of the solemnity of the service in which they were about to
bear a part.

Elizabeth left her sisters and Anne to assist the school-mistress in
marshalling them on their way to church, and returned home to fetch
Edward and Winifred, whom she had engaged to take with her.  She found
that nearly all the party were gone, and report said that the Bishop
had arrived at the house of Mr. Somerville, who was to be curate of St.
Austin's.  Winifred and Edward were watching for her at the door, in
great dread of being forgotten, for they said, 'Papa had come for
Mamma, and fetched her away in a great hurry, and then Harriet and Lucy
set off after them, and Uncle Edward had taken Aunt Anne long before to
look at the church.'  Elizabeth was rejoicing in the prospect of a
quiet walk with the children, and was only delaying in a vain attempt
to reduce the long fingers of Winifred's glove to something more like
the length of the short fingers of its owner, when a sharp voice at the
top of the stairs cried out, 'Wait for me!' and Mrs. Hazleby appeared,
looking very splendid in a short black silk cloak trimmed with scarlet.

'Where have you been all this time?' said she to Elizabeth, while she
caught hold of Winifred's hand, or, more properly speaking, of her
wrist; 'we shall all be too late.'

'I have been at the school,' said Elizabeth.

'What! do you keep school to-day?' asked Mrs. Hazleby.

'No,' said Elizabeth, 'but the children are going to the Consecration.'

'Poor little things!' exclaimed Mrs. Hazleby; 'how will they sit out
such a service?'

'None under seven years old are to be there,' said Elizabeth, 'and of
the older ones only those who are tolerably good; and I should think
they could join in the service sufficiently to prevent them from
finding it tedious.'

'Well, I hope so,' said Mrs. Hazleby, in a voice which meant, 'What
nonsense!'  'How steep the hill is!' added she presently; 'what a
fatigue for old people!'

'It is not nearly so steep on the other side,' replied Elizabeth, 'and
the people on this side have the old church.'

'Why did they choose such an exposed situation?' continued Mrs.
Hazleby; 'so hot in summer, and so cold in winter.'

'There was no other open piece of ground to be had near enough to the
new town,' answered Elizabeth, keeping to herself an additional reason,
which was, that tradition said that there had once been a little chapel
dedicated in the name of St. Augustine, on the site of the new church.
Mrs. Hazleby was silent for a few moments, when, as they came in sight
of what was passing at the top of the hill, she saw a gentleman hasten
across the church-yard, and asked who he was.

'Mr. Somerville, the new curate,' was the answer.

'What! another curate?  I thought Mr. Walker might have been enough!'
exclaimed Mrs. Hazleby.

'Papa did not think so,' said Elizabeth drily.

'Well, I suppose that is another hundred a year out of Mr. Woodbourne's
pocket,' said Mrs. Hazleby; 'enough to ruin his family.'

'I am sure,' said Elizabeth, beginning to grow angry, 'Papa had rather
do his duty as a clergyman, than lay up thousands for us.'

'Fine talking for young things,' said Mrs. Hazleby; 'besides, it is
nothing to you, you three elder ones will be well enough off with your
mother's fortune.'

Elizabeth was more annoyed and provoked by this speech than by anything
Mrs. Hazleby had ever said to her before; her cheeks burnt with
indignation, and something which felt very like shame, but her bonnet
concealed them, and she attempted no reply.  Mrs. Hazleby began talking
to Winifred about her new sash, and criticizing Elizabeth's dress; and
though Elizabeth could have wished Winifred's mind to have been
occupied with other things at such a time, yet she was glad of the
opportunity this diversion gave her to compose herself before entering
the church.

Almost everyone who has ever joined in our beautiful Consecration
Service, can imagine the feelings of some of the party from the
Vicarage--can figure to themselves Mrs. Woodbourne's quiet tears;
Dora's happy yet awe-struck face; Anne sympathizing with everyone,
rather than feeling on her own account; can think of the choking
overwhelming joy with which Elizabeth looked into little Edward's
wondering eyes, as the name of their father was read, the first among
those who petitioned the Bishop to set that building apart from all
ordinary and common uses; can feel, or perhaps have known, the
exultation with which she joined in the Psalms, and the swelling of
heart as she followed the prayer for a blessing on the families of
those who had been the means of the building of that House.  But we
must go no farther; for, such thoughts and scenes are too high to be
more than touched upon in a story of this kind; therefore we will only
add, that Winifred and Edward behaved quite as well as Elizabeth had
engaged that they should do, only beginning to yawn just before the end
of the service.

After they had returned from the church, the luncheon at the Vicarage
gave ample employment to Elizabeth's hands, and nearly enough to her
thoughts, in carving cold chicken, and doing the honours of Merton Hall
peaches, at the side-table; and she was very glad, when at three
o'clock the company adjourned to the quadrangle, to see the
school-children's feast.

The quadrangle was enclosed on the north side by the old church, on the
south and west by the alms-houses, and on the east by the low wall of
the Vicarage garden; there was a wide gravel path all round the court,
and here tables were spread, around which were to be seen the merry
faces of all the children of the two schools--the boys, a uniform rank
arrayed in King Edward's blue coats and yellow stockings, with but a
small proportion of modern-looking youths in brown or blue, and deep
white collars--the girls, a long party-coloured line, only resembling
each other in the white tippets, which had lately encumbered
Elizabeth's room.

Much activity was called for, from all who chose to take part in
supplying the children; the young ladies' baskets of buns were rapidly
emptied, and Mr. Somerville's great pitcher of tea frequently drained,
although he pretended to be very exclusive, and offer his services to
none but the children of St. Austin's, to whom Winifred introduced him.
The rest of the company walked round the cloisters, which were covered
with dark red roses and honeysuckles, talking to the old people,
admiring their flowers, especially Mr. Dillon's dahlias, and watching
the troop of children, who looked like a living flower-bed.

Mrs. Hazleby chanced to be standing near Mrs. Bouverie, a lady who
lived at some distance from Abbeychurch, and who was going to stay and
dine at the Vicarage.  She was tolerably well acquainted with Mr.
Woodbourne, but she had not seen the girls since they were quite young
children, and now, remarking Elizabeth, she asked Mrs. Hazleby if she
was one of Mr. Woodbourne's daughters.

'Oh yes,' said Mrs. Hazleby, 'the eldest of them.'

'She has a remarkably fine countenance,' said Mrs. Bouverie.

'Do you admire her?' said Mrs. Hazleby; 'well, I never could see
anything so remarkably handsome in Lizzie Woodbourne.  Too thin, too
sharp, too high-coloured; Kate is twenty times prettier, to say nothing
of the little ones.'

'I should not call Miss Woodbourne pretty,' said Mrs. Bouverie, 'but I
think her brow and eye exceedingly beautiful and full of expression.'

'Oh yes,' cried Mrs. Hazleby, 'she is thought vastly clever, I assure
you, though for my part I never could see anything in her but pertness.'

'She has not the air of being pert,' said Mrs. Bouverie.

'Oh! she can give herself airs enough,' said Mrs. Hazleby; 'my poor
sister-in-law has had trouble enough with her; just like her mother,
they say.'

'So I was thinking,' said Mrs. Bouverie, looking at Elizabeth, who was
stooping down to a little shy girl, and trying to hear her whispered
request.

Mrs. Bouverie spoke in a tone so different from that which Mrs. Hazleby
expected, that even she found that she had gone too far, and
recollected that it was possible that Mrs. Bouverie might have known
the first Mrs. Woodbourne.  She changed her note. 'Just like her poor
mother, and quite as delicate, poor girl.'

'Is she indeed?' said Mrs. Bouverie, in a tone of great interest.

'Yes, that she is, scarcely ever without a cough.  Full of spirits, you
see--rather too, much of it; but I should not be surprised any day--'

At this moment Winifred came running up, to cry, 'Look, Aunt Hazleby,
at the basket of balls; I have been to the house to fetch them, and now
the boys are going away to the cricket-ground, and the girls are to
have a famous game at play.'

Mrs. Hazleby only said, 'Hm,' but the other lady paid more attention to
the little girl, who was very little troubled with shyness, and soon
was very happy--throwing the balls to the girls, and--at the same
time--chattering to Mrs. Bouverie, and saying a great deal about
'Lizzie,' telling how Lizzie said that one little girl was good and
another was naughty, that Lizzie said she should soon begin to teach
her French; Lizzie taught her all her lessons, Mamma only heard her
music; Lizzie had shewn her where to look in her Consecration-book, so
that she should not be puzzled at Church to-day; Lizzie said she had
behaved very well, and that she should tell Papa so; she had a red
ribbon with a medal with Winchester Cathedral upon it, which Lizzie let
her wear to shew Papa and Mamma when she was good at her lessons; she
hoped she should wear it to-day, though she had not done any lessons,
for Lizzie said it was a joyful day, like a Sunday. All this made Mrs.
Bouverie desirous of being acquainted with 'Lizzie,' but she could find
no opportunity of speaking to her, as Elizabeth never willingly came
near strangers, and was fully occupied with the school-children, so
that she and Anne were the last to come in-doors to dress.

They were surprised on coming in to find Helen sitting on the last step
of the stairs, with Dora on her lap, the latter crying bitterly, and
Helen using all those means of consolation, which, with the best
intention, have generally the effect of making matters worse.  As soon
as Elizabeth appeared, Dora sprang towards her, exclaiming, 'Lizzie,
dear Lizzie, do you know, Aunt Hazleby says that my mamma is not your
mamma, nor Kate's, nor Helen's, and I do not like it.  What does she
mean?  Lizzie, I do not understand.'

Elizabeth looked up rather fiercely; but, kissing her little sister,
said, gently, 'Yes, Dora, it is really true, my own mother lies in the
churchyard.  I will shew you where.'

'And are you, not my sisters?' asked Dora, holding firmly by the hands
of Elizabeth, and Helen.

'Oh yes, yes, Dora!' cried Helen, 'we are your sisters, only not quite,
the same as Winifred.'

'And have you no mamma, really no mamma?' continued Dora looking
frightened, although soothed by Elizabeth's manner, and by feeling that
the truth was really told her.

'Not really, Dora; but your mamma is quite the same to us as if she
really was our mother,' said. Elizabeth, leading the little girl away,
and leaving Anne and Helen looking unutterable things at each other.

Helen then went into the large, drawing-room, to fetch some, of her
out-of-door apparel which she had left there, and Anne followed her. No
one was in the room but Mrs. Hazleby, who looked more disconcerted than
Helen had ever seen her before.  She seemed to think, it necessary to
make some apology, and began, 'I am sure I had no notion that, the
child did not know it all perfectly at her age.'

'Mamma has always wished to keep the little ones from knowing of any
difference as long as possible,' said Helen, rather indignantly; but
recollecting herself, she added, 'I think Dora is rather tired, and
perhaps she was the more easily overcome for that reason.'

'Ah! very likely, poor child,' said Mrs. Hazleby; 'it was folly to take
her to such a ceremony.'

'She seemed to enjoy it, and enter into it as much as any of us,' said
Helen.

'Ah! well, some people's children are vastly clever,' said Mrs.
Hazleby.  'Do you know where Fido is, Miss Helen? if one may ask you
such a question.'

Helen replied very courteously, by an offer to go and look for him. He
was quickly found, and as soon as she had brought him to his mistress,
she followed Anne to Elizabeth's room, where in a short time they were
joined by the latter, looking worn and tired, and with the brilliant
flush of excitement on her cheeks.

'Is Dora comforted?' was the first question asked on her entrance.

'Oh yes,' said Elizabeth, 'that was soon settled; she was only scared,
so I took her to Mamma, who kissed us both, told Dora she loved us all
the same, and so on; which made her quite happy again.'

'Dear little affectionate creature!' exclaimed Helen warmly.

'How very angry with her Mrs. Hazleby seemed!' said Anne.

'Yes,' said Helen, 'because Dora came to me in her distress, and would
not let Mrs. Hazleby kiss her.'

'How came Mrs. Hazleby to begin upon it?' said Elizabeth; 'was it from
her instinctive perception of disagreeable subjects?'

'I can hardly tell,' said Helen, 'I was not there at first; I rather
think--' but here she stopped short, and looked confused.

'Well, what do you think?'

'Why, I believe it arose from her seeing Uncle Edward playing with
Edward on the green,' began Helen, with a good deal of hesitation,
'saying that he was his godfather, and--and she--she hoped he would be
would be as--he would do as much for him, as if he was actually his
uncle.'

'Horrid woman!' said Elizabeth, blushing deeply.

'My dear Lizzie,' said Anne, laughing, 'do you hope he will not?'

'Nonsense, Anne,' said Elizabeth, laughing too; 'but I hope you quite
give up the Hazlebys after this specimen.'

'Now, Lizzie,' said Helen, 'that is quite in your unjust sweeping style
of censuring.  You do not mean to say that Lucy, or the Major, or the
boys, are disagreeable.'

'Root and branch, they are all infected,' said Elizabeth; 'who could
help it, living with Mrs. Hazleby?'

'Pray do not be so unfair, Lizzie,' continued Helen; 'I am sure that
Lucy is a most amiable, sensible, gentle creature; the more to be
admired for having such a mother and sister.'

'By way of foil, I suppose,' said Elizabeth; 'still, saving your
presence, Helen, I think that if Lucy had all the sense you ascribe to
her, she might keep things a little more straight.'

'Really, Lizzie,' said Helen, 'it is not like you to blame poor Lucy
for her misfortunes; but I know very well that you only do it to
contradict me.'

'Well,' said Elizabeth impatiently, 'I do allow that she is a redeeming
point, but I do not give her such hyperbolical praise as you do; I may
say she is the best of them, without calling her a paragon of
perfection.'

'I never called her any such thing!' exclaimed Helen; 'but you will
always wrest my words, and pretend to misunderstand me.'

'I am sorry I have vexed you, Helen,' said Elizabeth, more kindly; and
Helen left the room.

'Indeed, Lizzie,' said Anne, 'I cannot think why you argued against
this poor girl, after what you said yesterday.'

'Because I cannot bear Helen's sententious decided manner,' said
Elizabeth; 'and she exaggerates so much, that I must sometimes take her
down.'

'But,' said Anne, 'do you not exaggerate the exaggeration, and so put
her more in the right than yourself?'

'You mean by turning her string of superlatives into a paragon of
perfection,' said Elizabeth; 'I certainly believe I was unjust, but I
could not help it.'

Anne did not see that her cousin might not have helped it, but she
thought she had said enough on the subject, and let it pass.

'Now, Anne,' said Elizabeth, presently after, 'what strange people we
are, to stand here abusing Helen and the Hazlebys, instead of talking
over such wonderful happiness as it is to think that your father and
mine have been allowed to complete such a work as this church.'

'Indeed it is wonderful happiness,' said Anne, her eyes filling with
tears, 'but I do not know whether you feel as I do, that it is too
great, too overwhelming, to talk of now it is fresh.  We shall enjoy
looking back to it more when we are further from it.'

'Yes,' said Elizabeth; 'this morning I was only fit to laugh or cry, at
I did not know what, and now I am vexed with myself for having been too
much occupied and annoyed with little things to be happy enough.  This
Consecration day will be a glorious time to look back to, when it is
alone on the horizon, and we have lost sight of all that blemishes it
now.  I will tell you what it will be like.  I once saw the Church, on
a misty day, from a great distance.  It was about the middle of the
day, and the veil of mist was hanging all round the hill, but there
stood the Church, clear and bright, and alone in the sunshine, all the
scaffold poles and unfinished roughness lost sight of in the distance.
I never saw a more beautiful sight.'

'And do you expect that distance of time will conceal all blemishes as
well as distance of place?' said Anne.

'Yes, unless I take a telescope to look at them with,' answered
Elizabeth; 'perhaps, Anne, in thirty years time, if we both live so
long, we may meet and talk over this day, and smile, and wonder that we
could have been vexed by anything at such a time.'

'You like looking forward,' said Anne; 'I suppose I am too happy, for I
am afraid to look forward; any change of any sort must bring sorrow
with it.'

'I suppose you are right,' said Elizabeth; 'that is, I believe the
safest frame of mind to be that which resigns itself to anything that
may be appointed for it, rather than that which makes schemes and
projects for itself.'

'Oh! but, Lizzie,' said Anne, 'I did not mean that.  Mine is rather an
indolent frame, which does not scheme, because my present condition is,
I do believe, happier than any I could imagine upon earth.  I do not
think that is resignation--there are some things under which I do not
think I could be resigned, at least not with my present feelings.'

'Yes, you would, Anne,' said Elizabeth; 'you are just the calm tempered
person who would rise up to meet the trial in peace.--But I do not know
what I am talking about; and so I shall go on with what I meant to say
before--that bright visions are my great delight.  I like to fancy what
Horace and Edward may be, I like to imagine my own mind grown older, I
like to consider what I shall think of the things that occupy us now.
But then I am not likely to be disappointed, even if my castles in the
air should fall down.  You know I am not likely to be a long-lived
person.'

'Oh! do not say so, my dear Lizzie,' cried Anne; 'I cannot bear it.'

'Indeed, Anne,' said Elizabeth, 'I did not mean to say anything which
could shock you.  I only touched upon what you must have known half
your life, and what Mrs. Hazleby has taken good care that I should not
forget.  I am perfectly well now, and have nothing the matter with me;
but then I know that a little illness has a great effect upon me, and
my colds are much sooner caught than cured.'

Before Anne could answer, there was a knock at the door, and Lady
Merton's maid appeared, ready to dress her young lady for the evening;
and thus the conversation ended.

The girls were to drink tea in the inner drawing-room, as soon as the
company were gone into the dining-room; and Anne and Elizabeth waited
to come down-stairs till dinner had begun.

As soon as they entered the room, Harriet began to admire the lace
trimming of Anne's dress, asking many questions about it, to all of
which Anne replied with great good nature.  As soon as the lace had
been sufficiently discussed, Harriet turned round to Elizabeth,
exclaiming, 'Why, Lizzie, why in the world have you taken to that
fashion of doing your hair? it makes you look thinner than ever. Such
dark hair too! it wants a little colour to relieve it; why do you not
wear a red band in it, like mine?'

'I thought this way of wearing it saved time,' said Elizabeth; 'but I
believe I shall curl it again.'

'Indeed I hope you will; you have no notion how thin it makes you
look,' said Harriet.

'Of course I must look thin if I am thin,' said Elizabeth, a good deal
annoyed by Harriet's pertinacity.

'Thin you are, indeed,' continued Harriet, taking hold of her wrist.
Elizabeth drew back hastily, and Harriet relinquished it; conscious
perhaps, that however thin the arm might look, her own broad ruddy hand
would hardly bear a comparison with Elizabeth's long slender white
fingers, and returned to the subject of the hair, shaking her profusion
of ringlets.

'And straight hair is all the fashion now, but I think it gives a
terrible dowdy look.  Only that does not signify when you are not
out.--By-the-bye, Miss Merton, are you out?'

'I shall not be seventeen these three months,' said Anne.

'Well, I am not seventeen yet, nor near it,' pursued Harriet; 'but I
always dine out, and at home too.  Don't I, Lucy?'

Elizabeth did not think it necessary to make any apology for Harriet's
not having been asked to dine with the company, since Mrs. Woodbourne
had already settled that matter with Mrs. Hazleby; but Katharine, who,
though younger, had more idea of manner, said, after a little
hesitation, 'Mamma talked of it, but Papa said that if one dined all
must, and there would be too many.'

'Oh, law! Kate,' said Harriet, 'never mind; I do not mind it a bit, I
would just as soon drink tea here, as dine.--You are not out, are you,
Lizzie?'

'If you consider that dining constitutes being out, I generally am,'
said Elizabeth, rather coldly and haughtily.

'Ay, ay,' cried Harriet, laughing, 'you would be out indeed, to go
without your dinner.--Capital, is not it, Kate? but I wanted to know
whether you are regularly come out?'

'I do not know,' replied Elizabeth.

'Oh, then, you are not,' said Harriet; 'everyone knows who is out: I
should not have been out now, if it had not been for Frank Hollis, (he
is senior lieutenant at last, you know)--well, when our officers gave
the grand ball at Hull, Frank Hollis came to Mamma, and said they could
do nothing without the Major's daughter, and I must open the ball.
Such nonsense he talked--didn't he, Lucy?  Well, Mamma gave way, and
said she'd persuade the Major.  Papa was rather grumpy at first, you
know, Lucy, but we coaxed him over at last.  Oh, it was such fun!  I
danced first with Frank Hollis--just out of gratitude, you know, and
then with Captain Murphy, and then--O Lucy, do you remember _who_?--and
I had a silk dress which Mamma brought from India, trimmed just like
yours, Miss Merton, only with four rows of lace, because I am taller,
you know, and a berthe of--'

Elizabeth could endure this no longer, and broke in, 'And pray,
Harriet, did you learn the book of fashions by heart?'

'Not quite,' said Harriet, with provoking obtuseness, or good humour;
'I did very nearly, though, when I was making my dress.  Now, Lizzie,
do not you wish you were out?'

'No, not in the least,' said Elizabeth, by this time quite out of
patience; 'I think society a nuisance, and I am glad to be free of it
as long as I can.'

'Lizzie,' said Helen gravely, 'you are talking rhodomontade.'

'By no means, Helen,' said Elizabeth; 'it is my serious opinion, that,
unless you can find real friends, minds that suit you, you should keep
to yourself, and let bores and geese keep to themselves.'

'Becoming yourself one of the interesting tribe of bears, or perhaps of
crabs,' whispered Anne.

'Well, what an odd girl you are!' cried Harriet; 'well, if ever--!'

'But, Lizzie, what would become of the world if there was no society?'
said Katherine.

'And, Lizzie,' began Helen, very seriously, 'do not you know that it is
a duty to take part in society, that--'

'Oh yes, Helen!' answered Elizabeth; 'I know all that books and wise
people say; but what I say is this: if a sumptuary law could decree
that wits should be measured by one standard, like the ruffs and
rapiers in Queen Elizabeth's time, so that those found wanting might be
banished, there might be some use in meeting people; but in the present
state of things there is none.'

'But how would you choose your standard?' said Anne; 'everyone would
take their own degree of sense as a measure.'

'Let them,' said Elizabeth; 'there would be a set of measures like the
bolters in a mill, one for the pastry-flour, one for the bread-flour,
one for the blues, one for the bran.'

'I am glad you put the blues after the bread,' said Anne; 'there is
hope of you yet, Lizzie.'

Elizabeth was too far advanced in her career of nonsense to be easily
checked, even by Anne; and she continued, 'Sir Walter Scott says in one
of his letters, that he wishes there could be a whole village of poets
and antiquaries isolated from the rest of the world.  That must be like
what I mean.'

'I do not think he meant what he said there,' said Helen.

'And pray remember,' said Anne, 'that your favourite brown bread is
made of all those kinds mixed--bran, and pastry-flour, and all.'

'Yes,' said Helen, 'all the world would turn idiots if there were not a
few sensible people to raise the others.'

'Well,' said Elizabeth, 'you know the Veillees du Chateau says, there
is a village where all the people do turn idiots at fourteen.'

'You are just the right age, Helen,' said Anne, 'you had better take
care, since Lizzie says you live in such a foolish world.'

Helen had not tact enough to perceive that it was better to turn off
the discussion by a joke, and continued, 'And you forget how useful it
is to the sensible people to be obliged to bear and forbear.'

'I should be content, if the foolish people would be raised by the
wise, instead of debasing them,' said Elizabeth.

'If people are really wise, they will not let themselves be debased,'
said Anne.

Helen glanced towards Lucy, Elizabeth caught her eye, and smiled in a
way which almost compensated for all her unkindness in their dispute an
hour before.

Harriet and Katherine, who had not been much interested by this
argument, now started another subject of conversation, which they had
almost entirely to themselves, and which occupied them until tea was
over, somewhat to Anne's amusement and Elizabeth's disgust, as they
listened to it.

As soon as the tea-things were removed, Elizabeth and Anne went to
fetch the children.  Elizabeth let loose her indignation as soon as she
was out of the drawing-room.

'Did you ever hear anything so vulgar?' said she.

'Indeed it was very ridiculous,' said Anne, beginning to laugh at the
remembrance.

'How can you be diverted with things that enrage me?' said Elizabeth.

'It is better than taking them to heart, as you do, my poor Lizzie,'
said Anne; 'they are but folly after all.'

'Disgusting provoking folly,' said Elizabeth; 'and then to see Kate
looking as if she thought it must be so delectable.  Really, Kate is
quite spoiled between Harriet and the Abbeychurch riff-raff, and I can
do nothing to prevent it.'

'But,' said Anne diffidently, seeing that her cousin was in a graver
mood this evening, 'do not you think that perhaps if you could be a
little more companionable to Kate, and not say things so evidently for
the sake of contradiction, you might gain a little useful influence?'

'Well,' said Elizabeth, smiling, 'I believe I do deserve a good
scolding; I fancy I was outrageously rude; but when people talk such
stuff, I do not much care what I say, as long as I am on the other side
of the question.'

'Still the reverse of wrong is not always right,' said Anne.

They now found themselves at the nursery door, and summoned the
children from that scene of playthings, and bread and butter.
Down-stairs, one of those games at romps arose, for which little
children are often made an excuse by great ones, and which was only
concluded by the entrance of the ladies from the drawing-room, which
caused Harriet hastily to retreat into the inner drawing-room, to
smoothe her ruffled lace; while Katherine was re-tying Winifred's
loosened sash, and laying a few refractory curls in their right places.

Mrs. Woodbourne called Elizabeth, and introduced her as 'my eldest
daughter,' to Mrs. Bouverie, and to Mrs. Dale, a lady who had lately
come to live in the neighbourhood, and who discovered a most striking
resemblance between Mrs. Woodbourne and Elizabeth, certainly at the
expense of a considerable stretch of imagination, as Mrs. Woodbourne
was a very little and very elegant looking person, very fair and pale,
and Elizabeth was tall, dark-eyed, dark-haired, her figure much too
slender for her height, and her movements too rapid to be graceful,
altogether as different a style of person as could well be imagined.

Not much prepossessed in favour of the party in general by this
specimen, Elizabeth, after shaking hands with Miss Maynard and her
niece, people whom she seldom saw, and did not much like, retreated to
one of the windows, and there began to meditate, as was her usual
custom on such occasions.  Once, when accompanying Mrs. Woodbourne on a
morning visiting expedition, she had translated the Erl King, which she
knew by heart, into English, far more literal than Sir Walter Scott's,
and with no fault, except that not above half the couplets professed to
rhyme, and most of those that did were deficient in metre.  Another
time she had composed three quarters of a story of a Saxon hero,
oppressed by a Norman baron, and going to the Crusades; and at another
time she had sent back the whole party to the times of Queen Elizabeth,
and fancied what they might be saying about the Spanish Armada.  But
now, whether because there was too much talking in the room, or because
the Consecration had lately left no room for the fancies on which she
was accustomed to feed, she could find nothing more sublime to reflect
upon than the appearance of her cousin Anne, who was entertaining the
young Miss Maynard, a shy girl, yet pleased with notice, by a
conversation, which, if not very interesting, saved her from belonging
to any of the four agreeable tribes mentioned at tea-time.

Now, Anne, though she did not posses the tall figure or striking
countenance of her cousins, the Woodbournes, or the brilliant
complexion of her brother, was one of those people who always look
well.  She was small and slightly made, and very graceful; and
everything she wore was appropriate and becoming, so that, without
bestowing much thought on the matter, she never looked otherwise than
perfectly well dressed.  She was rather pale; her eyes were grey, with
long dark lashes; and her hair brown; her features were well formed and
animated; and though by no means remarkable, everyone called her
nice-looking; some said she was pretty, and a few thought and felt that
her countenance was lovely.  So much had lately been said about
dress--about Elizabeth's curls, and Helen's tails, and Anne's
lace--that, wonderful to say, it was the readiest subject Elizabeth
could find to meditate upon.  As she looked at her cousin's white
muslin frock, with its border of handsome Moravian work, and its
delicate blue satin ribbons, at her well arranged hair, and pretty
mosaic brooch, she entered upon a calculation respecting the portion of
a woman's mind which ought to be occupied with her dress--a mental
process, the result of which might perhaps have proved of great benefit
to herself, and ultimately to Dora and Winifred, had it not been
suddenly cut short in the midst by a piercing scream from the latter
young lady, who had been playing on the floor with Edward and Fido.

Mrs. Woodbourne instantly caught up the little girl in her arms, and
sat down on the sofa with her on her lap, while Winifred buried her
hand in her pocket-handkerchief, screaming and sobbing violently. Fido
slunk away under the sofa; and Elizabeth hastily made her way through
the circle of ladies who surrounded Mrs. Woodbourne.

'That is what comes of teazing him,' said Mrs. Hazleby reproachfully to
Edward; who answered in a loud voice, 'I am sure I did not make him do
it.'

Elizabeth knelt down by Mrs. Woodbourne, and began to unroll the
handkerchief in which Winifred had wound up her hand; but she was
prevented by a fresh scream from the patient.

'Oh! my dear, never mind, do not cry; come, be a brave woman,' said
poor Mrs. Woodbourne, her voice quivering with alarm.

'Poor little dear!' exclaimed Mrs. Dale, 'she bears it like a little
angel; but it is quite a severe bite.'

'Mamma,' said Elizabeth, rising, 'I think she had better come up-stairs
with me.  Do not you come, Mamma; I will send for you, if--if it is
more than a scratch.'

She took Winifred in her arms and carried her off, followed by Mrs.
Dale, Miss Maynard, Harriet, Katherine, and Dora, the last-mentioned
looking quite pale with fright.

'If you please,' said Elizabeth, turning round at the foot of the
stairs, 'I can manage her better alone.'

She gained her point, though at the expense of politeness.  Mrs. Dale
and Miss Maynard retreated, and Harriet and Katherine followed in their
train.  Dora looked inquiringly at her eldest sister.

'Yes, Dora, you may come,' said she, running up-stairs to her own room,
where she shut the door, and set Winifred on her feet again. 'Well,
Winifred, let us see,' said she cheerfully, 'are you much hurt?'

'It bleeds,' said Winifred, withholding her hand.

'Not very much,' said Elizabeth, removing the handkerchief, and washing
off the blood, which had been more the cause of the scream than the
pain.  She soon satisfied herself and her sisters that the bite was
scarcely more than a scratch; and a piece of sticking-plaster, fetched
by Dora, whose ready eye and clear thoughtful head had already made her
the best finder in the family, had covered the wound before Mrs.
Woodbourne came up to satisfy herself as to the extent of the injury.
Winifred had by this time been diverted from the contemplation of her
misfortunes by the fitting on of the sticking-plaster, and by
admiration of Anne's bright rose-wood dressing-box, and was full of the
delight of discovering that A. K. M., engraven in silver upon the lid,
stood for Anne Katherine Merton, when her mamma came in.  It appeared
that the little girl and her brother had been playing rather too
roughly with Fido, and that he had revenged himself after the usual
fashion of little dogs, especially of those not come to years of
discretion.  Winifred was quite ready to assure her mamma that he had
scarcely hurt her, and that she was very sorry she had cried so much.
Mrs. Woodbourne and Elizabeth, however, agreed that it would be better
for her to appear no more that evening, and Dora undertook to keep her
company in the nursery--glad, as Elizabeth could see, to escape from
the presence of Aunt Hazleby, who had sunk much in Dora's good graces
since her conversation with her in the afternoon.

'If people would but let children alone,' said Elizabeth, as the two
little girls departed hand in hand; 'it puts me out of all patience to
see her first made silly by being pitied, and then told she is an
angel.  Too bad and too silly, I declare.'

'You should consider a little, my dear, and not speak so hastily,' said
gentle Mrs. Woodbourne; 'they mean it kindly.'

'Mistaken kindness,' said Elizabeth, as she opened the drawing-room
door.

In a moment they were overwhelmed with inquiries for 'the sweet little
sufferer,' as Mrs. Dale called her.

'I only hope there is no fear of the dog's being mad,' observed that
lady.

'Oh! there is no danger of that,' said Elizabeth, knowing how such a
terror would dwell on Mrs. Woodbourne's spirits.  'See, he can drink.'

Mrs. Hazleby had taken possession of the cream-jug, which had
accompanied the coffee, and was consoling the offender by pouring some
of its contents into a saucer for him.

'But I thought it was water that mad dogs refuse,' said Mrs. Dale.

'Mad dog!' cried Mrs. Hazleby, 'he is as mad as I am, I fancy; it was
quite enough to make him bite when Edward there was pulling his ears.'

'I did not pull his ears, Aunt Hazleby; I did not make him bite
Winifred,' vociferated Edward; 'I told you so before, Aunt Hazleby, and
you will say so.'

'Fine little fellow,' whispered Mrs. Dale, quite loud enough for Edward
to hear her; 'I quite admire his spirit.'

'Do not be rude, Edward my dear,' said his mother.

'But Aunt Hazleby will say that I made Fido bite Winifred, Mamma,' said
Edward; 'and I did not, he did it of himself.'

'Never mind now, my love, pray be quiet, my dear boy,' said Mrs.
Woodbourne imploringly; and Edward, who was really a very tractable
boy, walked off to his sister Katherine.

Mrs. Dale then seized upon Mrs. Woodbourne, to tell her some horrible
stories of hydrophobia; and Elizabeth, in hopes of lessening the
impression such stories were likely to make on Mrs. Woodbourne's mind,
listened also, sometimes not very courteously correcting evident
exaggerations, and at others contradicting certain statements.  At
last, just as the subject, fertile as it was, was exhausted, Anne's
going to the piano, and carrying off a train of listeners, brought Mrs.
Bouverie next to Elizabeth, and she took the opportunity of entering
into conversation with her.

'Do you play, Miss Woodbourne?'

'No, I do not,' replied Elizabeth, who particularly disliked this mode
of beginning a conversation.

'Do not you like music?' continued Mrs. Bouverie.

'I seldom have heard any I liked,' said Elizabeth shortly.

'Indeed you have been unfortunate,' said Mrs. Bouverie; 'but perhaps
you are not fond of the piano?'

'No,' said Elizabeth, with rather less of the manner of a suspected
criminal examined in sight of the rack; 'I am sick of all the
Abbeychurch pianos; I know them all perfectly, and hear nothing else.'

Mrs. Bouverie laughed, and was glad to obtain something like an answer.
'Your cousin plays very well,' said she.

'Yes,' said Elizabeth, 'I like her music better than most people's, and
she does not make a great fuss about it, she plays when she thinks
people like it, and not when they ask only out of politeness, without
caring about it.'

'Do you think many people ask in that manner?' said Mrs. Bouverie.

'Oh yes, everyone,' said Elizabeth; 'what can they do when they see a
disconsolate damsel sitting in a corner with nothing to say, and only
longing to be at the piano by way of doing something?  It would be too
cruel not to ask her.'

'Did you ever do so?' said Mrs. Bouverie, smiling.

'No,' said Elizabeth, 'luckily it is no affair of mine yet; but if ever
it was, there would be a hard struggle between my politeness and
sincerity.'

'Sincerity would be most likely to gain the day,' thought Mrs.
Bouverie.  'Perhaps,' said she, 'you are not a fair judge of other
people's sincerity, since you do not like music yourself.'

'I think,' said Elizabeth, 'that even if I did play, I could see in
people's faces whether they meant what they said; that is, if vanity
and love of applause did not blind me.'

Mrs. Bouverie was silent for a moment, and then said, 'Well, I must
say, I am disappointed to find that you do not play.'

Elizabeth remembered how well her mother had, played, and it was plain
to her that Mrs. Bouverie was noticing her for her mother's sake.  She
looked down and coloured as she replied, 'Both my sisters are musical,
and Helen is said to be likely to sing very well.  I believe the
history of my want of music to be,' added she, with a bright smile,
'that I was too naughty to learn; and now, I am afraid--I am not sorry
for it, as it would have taken up a great deal of time, and two singing
sisters are surely enough for one family.'

'I was in hopes of hearing,' said Mrs. Bouverie, 'that you had trained
your school-children to sing the sixty-fifth Psalm as nicely as they
did to-day.  I am sure their teacher must have come from the Vicarage.'

'No,' said Elizabeth, 'it was the school-master who taught them.
Perhaps, if Helen had not been from home so long, she might have helped
the girls, but when she came home three weeks ago, it was hardly worth
while for her to begin.  That is the only reason I ever wished to
understand music.'

Mrs. Bouverie now began talking to her about the church and its
architecture, and of the children, in exactly the way that Elizabeth
liked, and in half an hour she saw more of Elizabeth's true self than
Miss Maynard had ever seen, though she had known her all her life. Miss
Maynard had seen only her roughness.  Mrs. Bouverie had found her way
below it.   Elizabeth was as sincere and open as the day, although from
seldom meeting with anyone who could comprehend or sympathize with her
ideas, her manners had acquired a degree of roughness and reserve,
difficult to penetrate, and anything but attractive, suiting ill with
her sweet smile and beaming eyes.  She was talking quite happily and
confidentially to Mrs. Bouverie, when she caught Mrs. Woodbourne's eye,
and seeing her look anxious, she remembered Winifred's disaster, and
took the first opportunity of hastening up-stairs to see whether the
little girl's hand was still in as favourable a state as when she left
her.

A few moments after she had quitted the room, Sir Edward Merton
approached Mrs. Bouverie, and took the place beside her, which
Elizabeth had lately occupied.

'I hope Elizabeth has been gracious to you, as I see you have been so
kind as to talk to her,' said he, smiling.

'Oh, I hope we are becoming good friends,' said Mrs. Bouverie; 'I have
seldom seen so young a girl shew as much mind as your niece.'

'I am very glad to hear you say so,' said Sir Edward, 'for she is apt
to be rather more reserved with strangers than could be wished.'

'Perhaps she did not consider me as an entire stranger; I remember
seeing her once when a most engaging little child of four or five years
old,' said Mrs. Bouverie; 'and now I hope our acquaintance will
continue.  Shall we see her at Marlowe Court to-morrow, as I believe we
meet you there?  Of course we shall see Miss Merton?'

'No, I believe not,' said Sir Edward; 'we are rather too large a number
without the girls, who really form quite a troop by themselves.'

'I like to see your daughter and Miss Woodbourne together,' said Mrs.
Bouverie; 'I am sure they must be great allies.'

'Yes,' said Sir Edward, 'there is a tolerably strong cousinly
friendship between them: Anne has a wholesome feeling of inferiority,
which makes her rather proud of her cousin's preference.'

'Do you not think Miss Woodbourne very like her mother?' said Mrs.
Bouverie.  'I knew her immediately by the resemblance.'

'Very--very like her, a little darker certainly,' said Sir Edward, 'but
she reminds me of her constantly--there--that smile is my sister's
exactly.'

Elizabeth had just then re-entered the room, and was assuring her mamma
that Winifred had been as playful as ever all the remainder of the
evening, and was now fast asleep in bed.

'I am only afraid she is too fragile and delicate a creature,' said
Mrs. Bouverie; 'is her health strong?'

'Strong? no, not very,' said Sir Edward, 'she requires care, but there
is nothing much amiss with her; I know most people about here are in
the habit of lamenting over her as in a most dangerous state; but I
believe the fact is, that Mrs. Woodbourne is a nervous anxious person,
and frightens herself more than there is any occasion for.'

'Then I hope she generally looks less delicate than she does to-night,'
said Mrs. Bouverie.

'Oh! she may well look over-worked to-night,' said Sir Edward; 'she has
a spirit in her which would not let her rest on such a day as
this.--Come here, Miss Lizzie,' said he, beckoning to her, 'I want you
to account for those two red spots upon your cheeks.  Do you think they
ought to be there?'

'Yes, if they come in a good cause, Uncle,' said Elizabeth.

'Do you mean, then, to wear them any longer than necessary?' said Sir
Edward; 'pray have you sat still for five minutes together to-day?'

'Yes, while I was at tea,' said Elizabeth.

'And why are not you in bed and asleep at this moment?' asked her uncle.

'That is the very question Mamma has been asking,' said Elizabeth; 'and
I have been promising to depart, as soon as I can make my escape; so
good night, Uncle Edward--good night,' said she, giving her hand to her
uncle and to Mrs. Bouverie with almost equal cordiality.

'Good night, Lizzie, get you gone,' said Sir Edward; 'and if you can
carry off my girl with you, I shall be all the better pleased.'

Elizabeth succeeded in touching Anne's arm; and the two cousins flitted
away together, and soon forgot the various delights and annoyances of
the day in sleep.




CHAPTER VI.


The next morning was gloomy and rainy, as Elizabeth informed Anne at
about seven o'clock; 'and I am not sorry for it,' said she, 'for I want
to have you all to myself at home, so we will turn the incubi over to
Kate and Helen, and be comfortable together.'

'Will they submit to such treatment?' said Anne.

'Oh yes, my dear,' said Elizabeth; 'they want us as little as we want
them; they only want a little civility, and I will not be so sparing of
that useful commodity as I was yesterday evening.  And now, Anne, I am
going to beg your pardon for being so excessively rude to Harriet, as I
was last night.  She did not mind it, but you did, and much more than
if it had been to yourself.'

'I believe I did,' said Anne; 'other people do not know what you mean
when you set up your bristles, and I do.  Besides, I was sorry for
Lucy, who looks as if she had sensitiveness enough for the whole
family.'

'Poor Lucy!' said Elizabeth;


          "A weary lot is thine, fair maid,
             A weary lot is thine."


Yes, Lucy has very deep feeling; you may see it in the painful flushing
of her cheek, and the downcast look of her eye, when her mother and
sister expose themselves.  I really believe that that poor girl has
more to endure than most people.'

'O Lizzie,' said Anne, 'how differently you spoke of her yesterday!'

'Yes,' said Elizabeth, 'but then I was furious with Mrs. Hazleby; and
besides, I believe the truth was, that I was very tired and very cross,
not exactly the way in which I intended to conclude the Consecration
day; and now I am in my senses, I am very sorry I behaved as I did.
But, Anne, though I hereby retract all I said in dispraise of Lucy, and
confess that I was rude to Harriet, do not imagine that I disavow all I
said about society last night, for I assure you that I expressed my
deliberate opinion.'

'Your deliberate opinion, my dear?' said Anne, laughing.

'Yes, my deliberate opinion, my dear,' repeated Elizabeth.  'Pray why
should not I have a deliberate opinion, as well as Hannah More, or
Locke on the Human Understanding, or anyone else?'

'Because,' rejoined Anne, 'I think that if the rest of the world were
of your deliberate opinion, there would soon be a lock on the human
understanding.'

'I am sure I think there is at present,' returned Elizabeth; 'did you
see Aunt Anne last night wasted upon Mrs. Dale, obliged to listen to
the dullest stuff that ever was invented, and poor Mamma frightened out
of her wits?  I should not wonder if she had dreamt of mad dogs all
night.'

'I do not defend Mrs. Dale's powers of intellect,' said Anne, 'but I
should have thought that you at least had little reason to complain.
You were very well off next to Mrs. Bouverie.'

'Oh! Mrs. Bouverie is a rara avis, an exception to the general rule,'
said Elizabeth; 'but you know, she or my uncle, or aunt, or Papa, are
generally forced to put a lock on their understanding.  Why, Anne, what
are you laughing at?'

'Lizzie, I beg your pardon,' said Anne, trying to check herself, 'but I
could not help it.  Your speech put me in mind of the prints from
Albano's four elements.  Do not you remember Juno's visit to AEolus,
where he is opening the door of a little corner cupboard where he keeps
the puff-cheeked winds locked up?  Do you mean to say that Mamma keeps
her mighty powers of mind locked up in the same way, for fear they
should burst out and overwhelm everybody?'

Elizabeth heartily joined in her cousin's merriment.  'I will tell you
what I do mean, Anne, what the great law of society is.  Now, do not
put on that absurd face of mock gravity, or I shall only laugh, instead
of arguing properly.'

'Well, let us hear,' said Anne.

'It is almost more important than the law that you must eat with a
knife and fork,' said Elizabeth.  'There is one level of conversation,
fit for the meanest capacity; and whoever ventures to transgress it, is
instantly called blue, or a horrid bore, &c., &c.'

'Nonsense, Lizzie,' said Anne, laughing; 'I am sure I have heard plenty
of clever people talk, about sensible things too, and never did I hear
them called bores, or blue, or any of your awful et ceteras either.'

'Because people did not dare to do so,' said Elizabeth, 'but they
thought it all the same.'

'What do you mean by people?' said Anne.

'The dull, respectable, common-place gentry, who make up the mass of
mankind,' said Elizabeth.

'Do they?' said Anne.

'Do not they?' said Elizabeth.

'I do not know what the mass of mankind may be at Abbeychurch,' said
Anne, 'but I am sure the people whom we see oftenest at home, are such
as I think it a privilege to know.'  And she began to enumerate these
friends.

'Oh! Anne,' interrupted Elizabeth, 'do not, for pity's sake, make me
discontented; here am I in Abbeychurch, and must make the best of it. I
must be as polite and hypocritical as I can make myself.  I must waste
my time and endure dullness.'

'As to waste of time,' said Anne, 'perhaps it is most usefully employed
in what is so irksome as you find being in company.  Mamma has always
wished me to remember, that acquiring knowledge may after all be but a
selfish gratification, and many things ought to be attended to first.'

'That doctrine would not do for everybody,' said Elizabeth.

'No,' said Anne, 'but it does for us; and you will see it plainer, if
you remember on what authority it is said that all knowledge is
profitable for nothing without charity.'

'Charity, yes,' said Elizabeth; 'but Christian love is a very different
thing from drawing-room civility.'

'Not very different from bearing and forbearing, as Helen said,'
answered Anne.

'Politeness is not great enough,' said Elizabeth, 'to belong to
charity.'

'You are not the person to say so,' said Anne.

'Because I dislike it so much,' said Elizabeth, 'but that is because I
despise it.  It is such folly to sit a whole evening with your hands
before you doing nothing.'

'But do you not think,' said Anne, 'that enduring restraint, and
listening to what is not amusing, for the sake of pleasing others, is
doing something?'

'Passively, not actively,' said Elizabeth; 'but it is not to please
others, it is only that they may think you well bred, or rather that
they may not think about you at all.'

'It is to please our father and mother,' said Anne.

'Yes, and that is the reason it must be done,' said Elizabeth; 'it is
the way of the world, and cannot be helped.'

'Rather say it is the trial which has been ordained for us,' said Anne.

'Well,' said Elizabeth, smiling, 'I know all the time that you have the
best of the argument.  It would not be so if it was not good for us.'

'And as it is,' said Anne, 'I believe that there is more enjoyment in
the present order of things, than there would be in any arrangement we
could devise.'

'Oh! doubtless,' said Elizabeth, 'just as the corn ripens better with
all the disasters that seem to befall it, than it would if we had the
command of the clouds.'

'Of course,' said Anne, 'you really are a much more reasonable creature
than you pretend to be, Lizzie.'

'Am I?' said Elizabeth.  'Well, I will just tell you my great horror,
and I suppose you will laugh at me.  I can endure gossip for old people
who cannot employ themselves, and must talk, and have nothing to talk
of but their neighbours; but only think of those wretched _fainéants_
who go chattering on, wasting their own time and other people's, doing
no good on the face of the earth, and a great deal of harm.'

'But these unfortunates are probably quite as unable to talk on any
very wise subjects, as your beloved old people, to whom you give a
license to gossip,' said Anne; 'and you do not wish to condemn them to
perpetual silence.  They are most likely to be estimable people, who
ought to be amused.'

'Estimable--yes, perhaps,' said Elizabeth, 'but then I cannot esteem a
silly gossip.'

'Why, Lizzie,' cried Anne, 'you are still at the old story that it is
better to be wicked than stupid; at least, you reason upon that
foundation, though you do not really think so.'

'I believe,' said Elizabeth, 'that there must be some great crook in my
mind; for though I know and believe as firmly as I do any other
important thing, that mere intellect is utterly worthless, I cannot
feel it; it bewitches me as beauty does some people, and I suppose
always will, till I grow old and stupid, or get my mind into better
order.'

'Really,' said Anne, 'I think the strongest proof of your beginning to
grow old and stupid, is your doing such a very common-place thing, as
to abuse honest gossip.'

There was service at St. Mary's Church on Wednesday and Friday
mornings; but on this day the rain was so violent, that of all the
party at the Vicarage, the Mertons, and Elizabeth, Katherine, and
Helen, alone ventured to go to church.

When they returned, Anne followed her mother to her room, to talk over
the events of the previous day.  After much had been said of the
Consecration, and also of their wonder and regret at Rupert's absence,
Anne said, 'How strange it seems to lose sight of you and Papa as I
have done ever since I have been here!  Mamma, I have scarcely been
with you at all, and never see Papa but when he is talking to Uncle
Woodbourne, and everyone else is in the room.'

'But I hope you are enjoying yourself, my dear?' said Lady Merton.

'Oh yes, Mamma,' cried Anne; 'Lizzie is more delightful than ever, when
we are alone.'

'Are you taking a sudden romantic turn?' said Lady Merton, smiling; 'do
you mean in future to keep one friend all to yourself?'

'Oh no, Mamma,' said Anne, laughing; 'I only meant that Lizzie is more
like herself when we are alone together.  Sometimes when the others are
there, she gets vexed, and says things which I do not like to hear,
only for the sake of differing from them.'

'I have seen something of the kind about her before,' said Lady Merton,
'but not enough to be unpleasant.'

'No, Mamma, because you do not talk as Miss Hazleby did yesterday,'
said Anne, smiling.  'She certainly did make a very ridiculous oration
about officers and flirtations; but Lizzie, instead of putting a stop
to it quietly and gently, only went into the other extreme, and talked
about disliking all society.'

'I am very sorry to hear this,' said Lady Merton; 'I am afraid she will
make herself absurd and disagreeable by this spirit of contradiction,
even if nothing worse comes of it.'

'It was not all out of a spirit of contradiction,' said Anne, 'though
she said this morning, that she was very tired and very cross yesterday
evening.  But, Mamma, she also said that she thinks the time she spends
in company wasted, and she really believes that no one dares to talk
sense, or that if he does, everyone dislikes him.'

'That is only a little unconscious affectation of being wiser than
other people, assisted by living in a place where there are the usual
complement of dull people, and where her father's situation prevents
him from associating only with those whom he would prefer,' said Lady
Merton; 'her good sense will get the better of it.  I am much more
anxious about this spirit of contradiction.'

'Yes, it certainly led her to be very unjust, as she acknowledged this
morning,' said Anne, 'and rather unkind to Helen.  But then it was no
wonder that she was mad with the Hazlebys.'

Anne then told the history of poor Dora's trouble, and was quite
satisfied with her mother's displeasure at Mrs. Hazleby, and her
admiration of little Dora.

'And what do you think of Helen?' asked she presently.

'I can hardly tell,' said Anne, 'she is still very demure, with very
little of Lizzie's sparkling merriment; indeed, she does not seem in
the least able to enter into a joke.  But then she said some very
sensible things.  Lizzie said she wondered what we should think of her.
She thinks her very much improved, but complains that she has lost her
home feelings, and cares only for Dykelands; I scarcely know what she
means.'

'I think that I can guess,' said Lady Merton, 'from knowing a little
more of Mrs. Staunton's character.  She is a very amiable person, and
has in reality, I believe, plenty of good sense; but she has allowed
herself to fall into an exaggerated style of feeling and expression,
which, I dare say, bewitched a girl like Helen, and now makes her find
home cold and desolate.'

'Like the letter which Mrs. Staunton wrote to you about Rupert, and
which Papa called ecstatic,' said Anne.

'That is an instance of Mrs. Staunton's way of expressing herself,'
said Lady Merton; 'now I will give you one of her acuteness of feeling,
as she calls it.  Your Aunt Katherine was her greatest friend when she
was a girl, though I believe the kind epithets she lavished upon me
would have been enough to stock two or three moderate friendships.  We
all used to walk together, and spend at least one evening in the week
together.  One evening, your aunt, who had a good deal of the same high
careless spirit which you observe in Lizzie, chanced to make some
observation upon the rudeness of sailors in general, forgetting that
Helen Atherley's brother was a sailor.'

'Or if she had remembered it,' said Anne, 'judging by Lizzie, she would
have said the same thing; she would have taken it for granted that the
present company was always excepted.'

'Captain Atherley was not of the present company,' said Lady Merton,
'he was in the Mediterranean; and it happened that he had not had time
to call at Merton Hall in due form, the last time he had been at home,
so that poor Helen thought that this speech was aimed at him. She said
nothing at the time; but next morning arrived a note to me, to entreat
me to find out what her darling Henry could possibly have done to
offend dearest Katherine Merton, for she should be wretched till she
understood it, and Katherine had forgiven her and him.  She assured me
that she had lain awake all night, thinking it over, and had at last
come to the conclusion that it must be this unfortunate omission, and
she promised to write to dear Henry immediately, to make him send all
possible apologies.'

'Poor Captain Atherley!' exclaimed Anne; 'and what could my aunt say?'

'Unfortunately,' said Lady Merton, 'both she and I had entirely
forgotten the speech, and could not guess what could have given rise to
Helen's imaginations.  After a consultation, I was deputed to Helen
with many assurances that Katherine was very sorry, she could not
exactly tell why, but for whatever had grieved Helen; and after a good
deal of kissing and lamenting on both sides, which, I believe,
Katherine considered as a punishment for her inconsiderate speech,
things were set right again.'

'Inconsiderate, Mamma?' said Anne; 'that seems as if you blamed my
aunt, when it seems to me that Mrs. Staunton deserved all the blame for
her excessive folly, and what I should think want of confidence in her
friend's affection.'

'It was certainly very silly,' said Lady Merton; 'but you know, Anne,
that when people have once accustomed themselves to get into a habit of
making mountains of mole-hills, they cannot see anything as it really
is.  I thought Katherine quite in the right, as you do now, but I
believe she considered that, knowing as she did the over-sensitiveness
of her friend, she should have been more cautious in what she said.'

'That was the right way for her to take it,' said Anne; 'but I still
think Mrs. Staunton must be an excessively silly person.  Of course one
would wish to keep from hurting people's feelings, but it really is
hardly possible to help it, if they will ride out to meet offence in
such a way.'

'Yet, Anne,' said her mother, 'you may comfort yourself with knowing
that as long as you do what is commanded, set a watch before your lips,
you are not likely to wound the feelings of others, however sensitive.'

'I know, Mamma,' said Anne, 'that would correct every fault of that
kind; but then I hardly know how to do so thoroughly.  And I think
sensitiveness is a good thing--at least, it makes people know better
what will hurt others.'

'Be sensitive for others, without being ready to take offence for
yourself, then, Anne,' said Lady Merton.  'And now that you have fitted
the moral to my story, I must go down and help Mrs. Woodbourne to
entertain Mrs. Hazleby.'

'I pity you,' said Anne.  'If everyone, or indeed if half the world
were like her, I should be more violent in my opinions than Lizzie is.'

'And what are you going to do?' asked Lady Merton.

'I am going to sit in the school-room,' said Anne; 'I had a special
invitation from Dora this morning.'

On going down-stairs, Anne found that Katherine and Harriet had gone to
spend the morning with the Mrs. Turner mentioned during the walk to St.
Austin's, as her daughter, Miss Wilhelmina, had engaged to teach
Harriet to make wax flowers.  Lucy was up-stairs, writing to Major
Hazleby; and Helen was sitting in the school-room, where Elizabeth was
teaching the children.  Little Winifred had just finished her lessons,
and was skipping off in high glee with her medal round her neck, to
tell her mamma that she had gained four good marks.  Dora was perched
on a high stool, at Elizabeth's desk, with a broadly ruled paper before
her, on the top of which the words, 'My dear Horace, St. Austin's
Church was consecrated yesterday,' were to be seen in fair round hand.
No more was visible, for the little girl laughingly laid down her rosy
cheek, and all her light wavy curls, flat upon the letter, as  Anne
advanced and made a stealthy attempt to profit by the intelligence she
was sending to her brother.  Edward was standing by Elizabeth, reading
Mrs. Trimmer's Fabulous Histories, for, though five years old, he made
very slow progress in English literature, being more backward in
learning to read than any of the others had been, excepting Helen.  He
did not like the trouble of spelling, and was in the habit of guessing
at every word he did not know; and on his very composedly calling old
Joe the gardener, 'the old gander,' Anne burst into an irrepressible
giggle, and Helen, sedate as she was, could not help following her
example.  They had just composed themselves, when Edward made another
blunder, which set them off again, and Elizabeth, who when alone with
the children, could bear anything with becoming gravity, also gave way.

Edward, finding that he was diverting them, began to make absurd
mistakes on purpose, so that Elizabeth was forced to call him to order.
Anne thought it best to leave the room, and Helen followed her, saying,
'We had better leave Lizzie to manage him by herself; she always does
better without me.'

'You have never shewn me your drawings, Helen,' said Anne; 'I should
like very much to see them, if you will let me.'

'If you please,' said Helen.  'Will you come up to my room?  I keep all
my own things there, out of the way of the critics.'

'What critics?' inquired Anne.

'Lizzie, to be sure, and Papa,' said Helen; 'I think them the severest
people I know.'

'Do you indeed!' said Anne.

'Do not you?' said Helen; 'does not Lizzie say the sharpest things
possible?  I am sure she does to me, and she never likes anything I do.
If there is any little fault in it, she and Papa always look at that,
rather than anything else.'

'Well,' said Anne, 'it is a comfort that if they like anything you do,
you are sure it is really very good.  Their praise is worth more than
that of other people.'

Helen sighed, but made no reply, as by this time they had arrived at
the door of the room which she shared with Katherine.  It was a
complete contrast to Elizabeth's; it was larger and lighter, and looked
out upon the bright garden, the alms-houses, and the church tower.  The
upper part of the window was occupied by Katherine's large cage of
canary birds, and below was a stand of flower-pots, a cactus which
never dreamt of blossoming, an ice-plant, and a columnia belonging to
Katherine, a nourishing daphne of Helen's, and a verbena, and a few
geranium cuttings which she had brought from Dykelands, looking very
miserable under cracked tumblers and stemless wine-glasses.  On a small
round table were, very prettily arranged, various little knicknacks and
curiosities, which Elizabeth always laughed at, such as a glass ship,
which was surrounded with miniature watering-pots, humming-tops, knives
and forks, a Tonbridge-ware box, a gold-studded horn bonbonniere, a
Breakwater-marble ruler, several varieties of pincushions, a pen-wiper
with a doll in the middle of it, a little dish of money-cowries, and
another of Indian shot, the seed of the mahogany tree, some sea-eggs, a
false book made of the wreck of the Royal George, and some pieces of
spar and petrifactions which Helen had acquired on an expedition to
Matlock with the Stauntons.  The book-shelf, however, was to Anne the
most attractive object in the room; and whilst Helen was untying the
strings of her portfolio, she went up to it.

'What a beautiful little Bishop Wilson!' exclaimed she, taking out one
of the books.

'Yes,' said Helen with a sigh, 'that was dear Mrs. Staunton's last
present to me before I left Dykelands.  She said that perhaps she
should not see me again before I was confirmed, and it was the fittest
Godmother's gift she could find.'

'And is this pretty Lady of the Lake yours too?' said Anne; 'what a
pretty binding, with the Douglas arms on it!'

'Yes,' said Helen, 'that was Fanny's present; and Jane gave me the
pretty forget-me-not brooch I wore yesterday.  You see I have plenty of
keep-sakes from the dear people.'

Anne then turned to the portfolio on the table.  Helen shewed her, in
the first place, a rather stiff and formal looking forget-me-not,
painted by Fanny Staunton, and a carelessly sketched but neatly shaded
head drawn by Jane, both which specimens of art Anne tried hard to
admire for Helen's sake, but could not find it in her heart to do so.
Helen's own drawings, which were landscapes, gave more promise of
improvement, and displayed a good deal of taste and freedom of hand,
though some were by no means correct in the outline. Helen pointed out
several faults which she candidly acknowledged to be wrong, and some
others which she said 'Lizzie called blunders.'

'There,' said she, 'is the house at dear Dykelands; there is my window
with the Banksia roses clustering round it, so that I could gather them
as I stood in my room.  That room is still to be called Helen's.  But
now, Anne, do you think that line ought to be straight? Lizzie says it
should, but I think the perspective alters it; I am sure I saw it so.'

'Indeed, Helen,' said Anne, 'I think the shadow must have deceived
you.'  And with a little trouble she proved that Elizabeth was right.

'Ah!' said Helen, 'if Lizzie would but have shewn me patiently, instead
of saying, 'Why, Helen, cannot you draw a straight line?' I should have
understood her.'  Then she continued, while taking out India-rubber and
pencil to rectify the mistake, 'I used to draw a great deal at dear
Dykelands; we had a sketching master, and used to go out with him twice
a week, but it was very delightful when we three went alone, when one
of us used to read while the others drew. I am sure these sketches will
for ever remind me of those happy days.'

'Why, Helen,' said Anne, smiling, 'you speak as if you never meant to
be happy again.'

'Do I?' said poor Helen; 'I am afraid I do seem rather silly about dear
Dykelands.  The other day I was singing

     "My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here,
      My heart's in the Highlands, gone chasing the deer,"

when in came Lizzie, and said, "No, Helen,

      Your heart is at Dykelands, your heart's in the bogs,
      Your heart is at Dykelands, gone chasing the frogs,"

for she is always laughing at it for being so damp, dear place.  And it
was before Horace went to school, and he would do nothing but sing it
at me all day, and make Winifred do so too.'

Anne could not help laughing.

'Then you too think me absurd,' said Helen; 'but if you only knew how
happy I was at Dykelands, and how desolate I sometimes feel here, you
would not wonder at me.'

'Then you do not like Abbeychurch?' said Anne incredulously; she could
not say 'you are not happy at home.'

'Who could prefer a little dismal town to a pleasant house in the
country?' said Helen; 'you like Merton Hall better than this place, do
not you, Anne?'

'Of course,' replied Anne; 'but then Merton Hall is my home.'

'And Abbeychurch is mine,' sighed poor Helen.  'I believe it is very
wrong to be discontented with home, but I cannot help it.'

'My dear Helen, what do you mean?' exclaimed Anne, quite aghast.

'Indeed, Anne,' said Helen, 'I do not wonder that you are shocked, but
you do not know how I feel here.  At Dykelands I felt that people liked
me and were pleased with me, but at home nobody wants me, nobody cares
for me, I am in the way wherever I go.'

'My dear Helen,' cried Anne, 'that must be fancy!'

'I wish it was,' said poor Helen, shaking her head.

'But only think,' proceeded Anne, 'what you are accusing them of. Not
loving you, and wishing you away.'

'No, I do not say it is as bad as that,' said Helen; 'but I am sure I
am of no use here, and might as well be away.'

'I suppose,' said Anne, 'that you have been so long away as to have
lost all your old home occupations, and you have not yet had time to
make new ones.'

'Perhaps it is so,' said Helen; 'but I do not think I had any
occupations before I went to Dykelands, at least none worth having, and
now I cannot make myself new ones.  Lizzie does everything, and will
not let me help her, for fear I should do mischief.'

'Now, Helen,' said Anne, who had by this time collected her ideas,
which had been completely startled by her cousin's avowal of dislike of
home, 'I will tell you what I think Mamma would say to you.  I think
you used to be indolent and waste your senses, but now Dykelands has
given you a spur, and you are very much improved.'

'Do you really think so?' interrupted Helen, who had lately felt quite
starved for want of praise.

'Yes,' said Anne, 'and so does everyone, and so Lizzie told me.'

'Lizzie?' said Helen; 'I thought she considered me as great a baby as
ever.'

'No, no, my dear,' said Anne; 'I will tell you what she said of you.
She said you were almost all she could wish in a sister, and that you
were quite a reflective creature; and that is high praise from her.'

'Well, if she thinks so,' said Helen, 'she does not shew it; she is
always making game of my opinions and feelings.'

'So she does of almost everyone's,' said Anne; 'but that is no proof
that she does not love them.'

'And she will never listen to anything that I say, or take interest in
anything I care for,' continued Helen.

'Indeed, Helen, you only think so because you do not understand her
ways,' said Anne; 'all last month she could think of nothing but the
Consecration, and Horace's going to school.  Now all that is over and
you are quiet again, after we are gone you will get on capitally
together.'

'I am sure she contradicts every word I say,' said Helen.

'That is not out of unkindness, I assure you,' said Anne, who
unfortunately could not deny that such was the fact.  'She only likes
an argument, which sharpens your wits, and does no harm, if both sides
are but good-humoured and cheerful.  She will find you out in time, and
you will understand her better.'

'Oh! Lizzie is delightful when she does not contradict,' said Helen;
'she is cleverer than anyone I ever saw, even than Fanny Staunton, and
Papa says her patience and diligence with Horace were beyond all
praise; but I can never be clever enough for her to make me her friend.'

'But you do not think people choose their friends only for their
cleverness?' said Anne.

'Why, no,' said Helen, 'I do not think they ought, but Lizzie does. You
would not be her friend if you were not clever.'

'Well,' said Anne, 'but try and convince her that you can be her friend
without being clever, if you will not allow that you are.'

'Oh!' said Helen, brightening up, 'if Lizzie would but make a friend of
me, how happy we should be! if she would but talk to me of her own
concerns, and listen to mine!  But she never chooses to hear me speak
of Dykelands.'

'Then,' said Anne, 'you must remember that she has never been there,
and does not know the people.'

'Yes,' said Helen; 'but I think that if she had been there, and I at
home, I should have listened for her sake, besides that Mrs. Staunton
was our own mamma's dearest friend.'

Anne had always thought that her own mother had been Aunt Katherine's
dearest friend; but she had forbearance enough to leave the honour to
Mrs. Staunton in Helen's imagination, and answered, 'And for that very
reason, and for your sake too, Helen, she will delight to hear about
Mrs. Staunton when you are quiet together, if you do not give her too
much at a time, or talk of Dykelands when she is thinking of something
else.  Oh yes, Helen, you and Lizzie will be excellent friends, unless
you are much more silly than I think either of you.'

Anne smiled so cheerfully, that Helen could not help smiling too; but
she would probably have found another sorrow to lament over, if at this
moment Dora had not come up to summon them to their early dinner.

Helen felt exceedingly grateful to Anne for having listened so kindly
and patiently to her list of grievances.  It was the first sympathy, as
she considered, that she had met with since she had left Dykelands, and
it atoned in her mind for various little thoughtless ways of Anne's,
which had wounded her in former years, and which she had not perhaps
striven sufficiently to banish from her memory; and this was a great
advantage from this conversation, even if she derived no further
benefit from it.

On her side, Anne had some thoughts of telling Elizabeth what Helen's
feelings really were, in hopes that she might shew a little regard for
them; but, sisterless herself, she thought the bond of sisterhood too
sacred to be rashly interfered with by a stranger's hand; besides, she
considered Helen's complaints as really confidential, if not expressly
so, and resolved to mention them to no one but Lady Merton, and to
limit her attempts at being useful to bringing the two sisters before
each other in their most amiable light, and at any rate to avoid saying
anything that could possibly occasion a discussion between them, though
she could hardly imagine that it was possible to dislike one of the
merry arguments that she delighted in. However, remembering her
mother's story of Mrs. Staunton, she decided that though it was a great
misfortune for people to have such strange fancies, yet their friends
ought to respect them.




CHAPTER VII.


As soon as dinner was over, Elizabeth went up to her own room, and was
followed in a few moments by Anne, who found her putting on her bonnet
and cloak.  'Can you be going out in such weather as this?' exclaimed
she.

'Yes,' said Elizabeth; 'I must

          "Let content with my fortunes fit,
           Though the rain it raineth every day."'


'But what are the fortunes which oblige you to go out?' said Anne.

'The fortunes of an old woman to whom Kate or I read every Friday,'
said Elizabeth, 'and the fortunes of various young school-children, who
must be prepared for Papa or Mr. Walker to catechize in Church on
Sunday.'

'Why do not you send Kate or Helen, instead of murdering yourself in
the wet?' said Anne.

'Miss Kitty is three inches deep in the mysteries of a spencer, (I do
not mean Edmund,)' said Elizabeth, 'and it will not be out of her head
these three days, at least not till she has made Mamma's old black
satin gown into one after Harriet's pattern; I heard her asking for it
as I came up-stairs.'

'And would not Helen go?' said Anne; 'she does not catch cold as easily
as you do.'

'Helen has contrived, somehow or other,' said Elizabeth, 'to know no
more about the school-children than if they were so many Esquimaux;
besides, anyone with any experience of Helen's ways, had rather walk
ninety miles in the rain, than be at the pains of routing her out of
the corner of the sofa to do anything useful.'

'Indeed,' said Anne, 'I think Helen does wish to make herself useful.'

'I dare say she sits still and wishes it in the abstract, for I think
it must be a very disagreeable thing to reflect that she might as well
be that plaster statue for any good that she does,' said Elizabeth;
'but she grumbles at every individual thing you propose for her to do,
just as she says she wishes to be a companion to Dora and Winifred, yet
whenever they wish her to play with them or tell them a story, which is
all the companionship children of their age understand, she is always
too much at her ease to be disturbed.  And now, as she is the only
person in the house with whom poor Lucy is tolerably at her ease, it
would be cruel to take her away.'

'That is more of a reason,' said Anne; 'what a pity it is that Lucy is
so shy!'

'Excessive shyness and reserve is what prevents her mother from being
able to spoil her,' said Elizabeth; 'so do not regret it.'

'Still I do not like to see you going out in this way,' said Anne.

'I may truly say that rain never hurts me,' said Elizabeth; 'and if I
once let one trifle stop me in these parish matters, I shall be stopped
for ever, and never do anything.  Perhaps I shall not come back this
hour and a half, for old Mrs. Clayton must be dying to hear all about
our Consecration, luncheon, dinner, &c., and as she is the widow of the
last Vicar, we are in duty bound to be civil to her, and I must go and
call upon her.  Oh! you poor thing, I forgot how deserted you will be,
and really the drawing-room is almost uninhabitable with that Bengal
tiger in it.  Here is that delightful Norman Conquest for you to read;
pray look at the part about Hereward the Saxon.'

Elizabeth would not trust herself to stay with Anne any longer, and ran
down-stairs, and might soon be heard putting up her umbrella and
shutting the front door after her.

Anne found the afternoon pass rather heavily, in spite of the
companionship of William the Conqueror and Hereward the Saxon, of
assisting the children in a wet day game of romps, and of shewing Dora
and Winifred the contents of the box they had admired the day before.
Helen and Lucy were sitting at work very comfortably in the corner of
the sofa in the inner drawing-room; Harriet and Katherine very busy
contriving the spencer in the front drawing-room, keeping up a
whispering accompaniment to the conversation of the elder ladies--if
conversation it could be called, when Mrs. Hazleby had it all to
herself, while giving Lady Merton and Mrs. Woodbourne an account of the
discomforts she had experienced in country quarters in Ireland.

Sir Edward and Mr. Woodbourne were engaged in looking over the accounts
of the church in the study, and Fido was trying to settle his disputes
with Meg Merrilies, who, with arching back, tail erect, and eyes like
flaming green glass, waged a continual war with him over her basket in
the hall.

Anne was very glad to hear her cousin's footstep in the hall as she
returned.  Coming straight to the drawing-room, Elizabeth exclaimed,
'Mamma, did you tell Mrs. Clarke that she might have a frock for Susan?'

'Yes, my dear,' said Mrs. Woodbourne; 'she asked me yesterday when you
were not near, and I told her you would give her one.  I thought the
child looked very ragged.'

'I suppose she must have it,' said Elizabeth, looking much vexed; 'I
told her she should not, a month ago, unless she sent the children to
school regularly, and they have scarcely been there five days in the
last fortnight.'

'I wish I had known it, my dear,' said Mrs. Woodbourne; 'you know I am
always very sorry to interfere with any of your plans.'

'O Mamma, there is no great harm done,' said Elizabeth.  She then went
to fetch the frock, and gave it to the woman with a more gentle and
sensible rebuke than could have been expected from the vehemence of her
manner towards Mrs. Woodbourne a minute before.  When this was done,
and she had taken off her bonnet, she came to beckon Anne up-stairs.

'So you have finished your labours,' said Anne, taking up her work,
while Elizabeth sat down to rule a copy-book for Winifred.

'Yes,' said Elizabeth, '"we are free to sport and play;" I have read to
the old woman, and crammed the children, and given old Mrs. Clayton a
catalogue raisonnee of all the company and all their dresses, and a
bill of fare of our luncheon and dinner, and where everything came
from.'

'And yet you profess to hold gossip in abomination,' said Anne.

'Oh! but this is old gossip, regular legitimate amusement for the poor
old lady,' said Elizabeth.  'She really is a lady, but very badly off,
and most of the Abbeychurch gentility are too fine to visit her, so
that a little quiet chat with her is by no means of the common-place
kind.  Besides, she knows and loves us all like her own children.  It
was one of the first pleasures I can remember, to gather roses for her,
and carry them to her from her own old garden here.'

'Well, in consideration of all that you say,' said Anne, 'I suppose I
must forgive her for keeping you away all this afternoon.'

'And what did you do all that time?' said Elizabeth.  'Have you read
Hereward, and do not you delight in him?'

'Yes,' said Anne, 'and I want to know whether he is not the father of
Cedric of Rotherwood.'

'He must have been his grandfather,' said Elizabeth; 'Cedric lived a
hundred years after.'

'But Cedric remembered Torquilstone before the Normans came,' said Anne.

'No, no, he could not, though he had been told what it had been before
Front-de-Boeuf altered it,' said Elizabeth.

'And old Ulrica was there when Front-de-Boeuf's father took it,' said
Anne.

'I cannot tell how long a hag may live,' said Elizabeth, 'but she could
not have been less than a hundred and thirty years old in the time of
Richard Coeur-de-Lion.'

'Coeur-de-Lion came to the throne in 1189,' said Anne.  'No, I suppose
Torquil Wolfganger could not have been dispossessed immediately after
the Conquest.  But then you know Ulrica calls Cedric the son of the
great Hereward.'

'Her wits were a little out of order,' said Elizabeth; 'either she
meant his grandson, or Sir Walter Scott made as great an anachronism as
when he made that same Ulrica compare Rebecca's skin to paper.  If she
had said parchment, it would not have been such a compliment.'

'How much interest Ivanhoe makes us take in the Saxons and Normans!'
said Anne.

'And what nonsense it is to say that works of fiction give a distaste
for history,' said Elizabeth.

'You are an instance to the contrary,' said Anne; 'no one loves stories
so well, and no one loves history better.'

'I believe such stories as Ivanhoe were what taught me to like
history,' said Elizabeth.

'In order to find out the anachronisms in them?' said Anne; 'I think it
is very ungrateful of you.'

'No indeed,' said Elizabeth; 'why, they used to be the only history I
knew, and almost the only geography.  Do not you remember Aunt Anne's
laughing at me for arguing that Bohemia was on the Baltic, because
Perdita was left on its coast?  And now, I believe that Coeur de Lion
feasted with Robin Hood and his merry men, although history tells me
that he disliked and despised the English, and the only sentence of
their language history records of his uttering was, "He speaks like a
fool Briton."  I believe that Queen Margaret of Anjou haunted the
scenes of grandeur that once were hers, and that she lived to see the
fall of Charles of Burgundy, and die when her last hope failed her,
though I know that it was not so.'

'Then I do not quite see how such stories have taught you to like
history,' said Anne.

'They teach us to realize and understand the people whom we find in
history,' said Elizabeth.

'Oh yes,' said Anne; 'who would care for Louis the eleventh if it was
not for Quentin Durward? and Shakespeare makes us feel as if we had
been at the battle of Shrewsbury.'

'Yes,' said Elizabeth; 'and they have done even more for history. They
have taught us to imagine other heroes whom they have not mentioned.
Cannot you see the Black Prince, his slight graceful figure, his fair
delicate face full of gentleness and kindness--fierce warrior as he
is--his black steel helmet, and tippet of chain-mail, his clustering
white plume, his surcoat with England's leopards and France's lilies?
Cannot you make a story of his long constant attachment to his
beautiful cousin, the Fair Maid of Kent?  Cannot you imagine his
courteous conference with Bertrand du Guesclin, the brave ugly
Breton?--Edward lying almost helpless on his couch, broken down with
suffering and disappointment, and the noble affectionate Captal de
Buch, who died of grief for him, thinking whether he will ever be able
to wear his black armour again, and carry terror and dismay to the
stoutest hearts of France.'

'Give Froissart some of the credit of your picture,' said Anne.

'Froissart is in some places like Sir Walter himself,' said Elizabeth;
'but now I will tell you of a person who lived in no days of romance,
and has not had the advantage of a poetical historian to light him up
in our imagination.  I mean the great Prince of Conde. Now, though he
is very unlike Shakespeare's Coriolanus, yet there is resemblance
enough between them to make the comparison very amusing. There was much
of Coriolanus' indomitable pride and horror of mob popularity when he
offended Beaufort and his kingdom in the halles, when, though as 'Louis
de Bourbon' he refused to do anything to shake the power of the throne,
he would not submit to be patronized by the mean fawning Mazarin.  Not
that the hard-hearted Conde would have listened to his wife and mother,
even if he had loved them as Coriolanus did, or that his arrogance did
not degenerate into wonderful meanness at last, such as Coriolanus
would have scorned; but the parallel was very amusing, and gave me a
great interest in Conde.  And did you ever observe what a great
likeness there is in the characters of the two apostates, Julian and
Frederick the Great?'

'Then you like history for the sake of comparing the characters
mentioned in it?' said Anne.

'I think so,' said Elizabeth; 'and that is the reason I hate
abridgements, the mere bare bones of history.  I cannot bear dry facts,
such as that Charles the Fifth beat Francis the First, at Pavia, in a
war for the duchy of Milan, and nothing more told about them.  I am
always ready to say, as the Grand Seignior did about some such great
battle among the Christians, that I do not care whether the dog bites
the hog, or the hog bites the dog.'

'What a kind interest in your fellow-creatures you display!' said Anne.
'I think one reason why I like history is because I am searching out
all the characters who come up to my notion of perfect chivalry, or
rather of Christian perfection.  I am making a book of true knights.  I
copy their portraits when I can find them, and write the names of those
whose likenesses I cannot get.  I paint their armorial bearings over
them when I can find out what they are, and I have a great red cross in
the first page.'

'And I will tell you of something else to put at the beginning,' said
Elizabeth, 'a branch of laurel entwined with the beautiful white
bind-weed.  One of our laurels was covered with wreaths of it last
year, and I thought it was a beautiful emblem of a pure-hearted hero.
The glaring sun, which withers the fair white spotless flower, is like
worldly prosperity spoiling the pure simple mind; and you know how
often it is despised and torn away from the laurel to which it is so
bright an ornament.'

'Yes,' said Anne, 'it clings more safely and fearlessly round the
simplest and most despised of plants.  And would you call the little
pink bindweed childish innocence?'

'No, I do not think I should,' said Elizabeth, 'it is not sufficiently
stainless.  But then innocence, from not seeing or knowing what is
wrong, is not like the guilelessness which can use the world as not
abusing it.'

'Yet Adam and Eve fell when they gained the knowledge of good and
evil,' said Anne.

'Yes, because they gained their knowledge by doing evil,' said
Elizabeth, 'but you must allow that what is tried and not found wanting
is superior to what has failed only because it has had no trial.  St.
John's Day is placed nearer Christmas than that of the Holy Innocents.'

'And St. John knew what evil was,' said Anne; 'yes you are right there.'

'You speak as if you still had some fault to find with me, Anne,' said
Elizabeth.

'No, indeed I have not,' said Anne, 'I quite agree with you; it was
only your speaking of knowledge of evil us a kind of advantage, that
startled me.'

'Because you think knowledge and discernment my idol,' said Elizabeth;
'but we have wandered far away from my white convolvulus, and I have
not done with it yet.  When autumn came, and the leaves turned bright
yellow, it was a golden crown.'

'But there your comparison ends,' said Anne; 'the laurel ought to
vanish away, and leave the golden wreath behind.'

'No,' said Elizabeth; 'call the golden wreath the crown of glory on the
brow of the old saint-like hero, and remember that when he dies, the
immortality the world prizes is that of the coarse evergreen laurel,
and no one dreams of his white wreath.'

'I wish you would make a poem of your comparison, for the beginning of
my book of chivalry,' said Anne.

'It will not do,' said Elizabeth, 'I am no poet; besides, if I wished
to try, just consider what a name the flower has--con-vol-vu-lus, a
prosaic, dragging, botanical term, a mile long.  Then bindweed only
reminds me of smothered and fettered raspberry bushes, and a great hoe.
Lily, as the country people call it, is not distinguishing enough,
besides that no one ever heard of a climbing lily.  But, Anne, do tell
me whom you have in your book of knights.  I know of a good many in the
real heroic age, but tell me some of the later ones.'

'Lord Exmouth,' said Anne; 'I am sure he was a true knight.'

'And the Vendeen leaders, I suppose,' said Elizabeth.

'Yes, I have written the names of M. de Lescure and of Henri de la
Rochejaquelein; I wish I knew where to find their pictures, and I want
a Prussian patriot.  I think the Baron de la Motte Fouque, who was a
Knight of St. John, and who thought so much of true chivalry, would
come in very well.'

'I do not know anything about himself,' said Elizabeth, 'though,
certainly, no one but a true knight could have written Sintram.  I am
afraid there was no leader good enough for you among the Spanish
patriots in the Peninsular war.'

'I do not know,' said Anne; 'I admire Don Jose Palafox for his defence
of Zaragoza, but I know nothing more of him, and there is no chance of
my getting his portrait.  I am in great want of Cameron of Lochiel, or
Lord Nithsdale, or Derwentwater; for Claverhouse is the only Jacobite
leader I can find a portrait of, and I am afraid the blood of the
Covenanters is a blot on his escutcheon, a stain on his white wreath.'

'I am sorry you have nothing to say to bonnie Dundee,' said Elizabeth,
'for really, between the Whiggery and stupidity of England, and the
wickedness of France, good people are scarce from Charles the Martyr to
George the Third.  How I hate that part of history!  Oh! but there were
Prince Eugene and the Vicomte de Turenne.'

'Prince Eugene behaved very well to Marlborough in his adversity,' said
Anne: 'but I do not like people to take affront and abandon their
native country.'

'Oh! but Savoy was more his country than France,' said Elizabeth,
'however, I do not know enough about him to make it worth while to
fight for him.'

'And as to Turenne,' said Anne, 'I do not like the little I know of
him; he was horribly cruel, was he not?'

'Oh! every soldier was cruel in those days,' said Elizabeth; 'it was
the custom of their time, and they could not help it.'

Anne shook her head.

'Then you will be forced to give up my beloved Black Prince,' continued
Elizabeth piteously; 'you know he massacred the people at Limoges.'

'I cannot do without him,' said Anne; 'he was ill and very much
exasperated at the time, and I choose to believe that the massacre was
commanded by John of Gaunt.'

'And I choose to believe that all the cruelties of the French were by
the express order of Louis Quatorze,' said Elizabeth; 'you cannot be
hard on a man who gave all his money and offered to pawn his plate to
bring Charles the Second back to England.'

'I must search and consider,' said Anne; 'I will hunt him out when I go
home, and if we have a print of him, and if he is tolerably
good-looking, I will see what I can do with him.'

'You have Lodge's portraits,' said Elizabeth, 'so you are well off for
Cavaliers; do you mean to take Prince Rupert in compliment to your
brother?'

'No, he is not good enough, I am afraid,' said Anne, 'though besides
our own Vandyke there is a most tempting print of him, in Lodge, with a
buff coat and worked ruffles; but though I used to think him the
greatest of heroes, I have given him up, and mean to content myself
with Charles himself, the two Lindsays, Ormond and Strafford, Derby and
Capel, and Sir Ralph Hopton.'

'And Montrose, and the Marquis of Winchester,' said Elizabeth; 'you
must not forget the noblest of all.'

'I only forgot to mention them,' said Anne, 'I could not leave them
out.  The only difficulty is whom to choose among the Cavaliers.'

'And who comes next?' said Elizabeth.

'Gustavus Adolphus and Sir Philip Sydney.'

'Do not mention them together, they are no pair,' said Elizabeth. 'What
a pity it was that Sir Philip was a euphuist.'

'Forgive him for that failing, in consideration of his speech at
Zutphen,' said Anne.

'Only that speech is so hackneyed and commonplace,' said Elizabeth, 'I
am tired of it.'

'The deed was not common-place,' said Anne.

'No, and dandyism was as entirely the fault of his time as cruelty was
of Turenne's,' said Elizabeth; 'Sir Walter Raleigh was worse than
Sydney, and Surrey quite as bad, to judge by his picture.'

'It is not quite as bad a fault as cruelty,' said Anne, 'little as you
seem to think of the last.'

'Now comes the chivalric age,' said Elizabeth; 'never mind telling me
all the names, only say who is the first of your heroes--neither
Orlando nor Sir Galahad, I suppose.'

'No, nor Huon de Bordeaux,' said Anne.

'The Cid, then, I suppose,' said Elizabeth, 'unless he is too fierce
for your tender heart.'

'Ruy, mi Cid Campeador?' said Anne, 'I must have him in consideration
of his noble conduct to the King who banished him, and the speech the
ballad gives him:

          "For vassals' vengeance on their lord,
             Though just, is treason still;
           The noblest blood is his, who best
             Bears undeserved ill."


And the loyalty he shewed in making the King clear himself of having
any share in his brother's death, even though Alphonso was silly enough
to be affronted.'

'Like Montrose's feeling towards his lady-love,' said Elizabeth; 'not
bearing the least stain on what he loved or honoured.'

'But he is not our earliest knight,' said Anne; 'I begin with our own
Alfred, with his blue shield and golden cross.'

'King Alfred!' exclaimed Elizabeth, 'do you consider him a knight?'

'Certainly,' said Anne; 'besides that I care more for the spirit of
chivalry than for the etiquette of the accolade and golden spurs; we
know that Alfred knighted his grandson Athelstane, so that he must have
been a knight himself.'

'By-the-bye,' said Elizabeth, 'I think I have found out the origin of
the golden spurs being part of a knight's equipment.  Do you remember
when the Cid's beloved king Don Sancho was killed, that Rodrigo could
not overtake the traitor Bellido Dolfos, because he had no spurs on,
whereupon he cursed every knight who should for the future ride without
them.  Now that was at the time when the laws of chivalry were
attaining their perfection, but--'

'Not so fast,' said Anne; 'I have a much earlier pair of golden spurs
for you.  Do not you remember Edmund, the last King of East Anglia,
being betrayed to the Danish wedding-party at Hoxne, by the glitter of
his golden spurs, and cursing every new married pair who should ever
pass over the bridge where he was found.  I think that makes for my
side of the question.  Here is Edmund, a knight in golden spurs when
Alfred was a child.  Ah ha, Miss Lizzie!'

Before Elizabeth could answer, Winifred came to tell her that her mamma
wanted her, and she was forced to leave the question of King Alfred's
and King Edmund's chivalry undecided; for, to her praise be it spoken,
she was much too useful a person ever to be able to pursue her own
peculiar diversions for many minutes together.  She had to listen to
some directions, and undertake some messages, so that she could not
return to her own room till after Anne had gone down-stairs.  She
herself was not ready till just as the elders were setting off to the
dinner-party at Marlowe Court, and rejoicing in the cessation of the
rain and the fineness of the evening.

About half an hour afterwards, the young ladies assembled in the inner
drawing-room to drink tea.  Helen, however, remained in the outer
drawing-room, practising her music, regardless of the sounds of mirth
that proceeded from the other room, until Elizabeth opened the door,
calling out,

     '"Sweet bird, that shunnest the noise of folly,
       Most musical, most melancholy,"

come in to tea, so please your highness.'

'What can you mean?' said Helen; 'I am sure I am not melancholy.'

'I am sure you shun the noise of folly,' said Elizabeth.

'I am sorry you consider all our merriment as folly,' said Anne, hoping
to save Helen.

'Indeed I do not,' said Elizabeth; 'it was no more folly than a
kitten's play, and quite as much in the natural course of things.'

'Helen's occupation being out of the natural course of things,' said
Anne, 'I should think she was better employed than we were.'

'In making a noise,' said Elizabeth; 'so were we, I do not see much
difference.'

'O Lizzie, it was not the same thing!' said Helen, exceedingly
mortified at being laughed at for what she considered as a heroic piece
of self-denial, and so it was, though perhaps not so great in her as it
would have been in one who was less musical, and more addicted to the
noise of folly.

'How touchy Helen is this evening!' thought Elizabeth; 'I had better
let her alone, both for her sake and my own.'

'How foolish I was to interfere!' thought Anne; 'it was the most
awkward thing I ever did; I only roused the spirit of contradiction,
and did Helen more harm than good; I never will meddle between sisters
again.'

Presently after, Elizabeth asked Harriet Hazleby whether she had ever
been at Winchester.

'Yes,' was the answer, 'and a duller place I would not wish to see.'

'It is a handsome old town, is it not?' inquired Anne, turning to Lucy;
but Harriet caught up the word, and exclaimed, 'Handsome, indeed!  I do
not think there is one tolerable new looking street in the whole place,
except one or two houses just up by the railroad station.'

Anne still looked towards Lucy, as if awaiting her answer; Lucy
replied, 'The Cathedral and College and the old gateways are very
beautiful, but there are not so many old looking houses as you would
expect.'

'It must be badly off indeed,' said Elizabeth, 'if it has neither old
houses nor new; but I wanted to know whether William Rufus' monument is
in a tolerable state of preservation.'

'Oh! the monuments are very grand indeed,' said Harriet; 'everyone
admired them.  There are the heads of some of the old kings most
beautifully painted, put away in a dark corner.  They are very curious
things indeed; I wonder they do not bring them out.'

'Those are the heads of the Stuart kings,' whispered Lucy.

'Why, Harriet,' exclaimed Dora, 'William Rufus was not a Stuart, he was
the second of the Normans.'

'Very likely, very likely, Dora, my dear,' answered Harriet; 'I have
done with all those things now, thank goodness; I only know that seeing
the Cathedral was good fun; I did not like going into the crypts, I
said I would not go, when I saw how dark it was; and Frank Hollis said
I should, and it was such fun!'

Dora opened her eyes very wide, and Elizabeth said, 'There could
certainly never be a better time or place.'

Looking up, she saw poor Lucy's burning cheeks, and was sorry she had
not been silent.  No one spoke for a few moments, but presently Anne
said, 'Alfred the Great is not buried in the Cathedral, is he?'

No one could tell; at last Helen said, 'I remember reading that he was
buried in Hyde Abbey, which is now pulled down.'

'There is a street at Winchester, called Hyde Street,' said Lucy.

'Yes, I know,' said Harriet, 'where the Bridewell is, I remember--'

'By-the-bye, Anne,' said Elizabeth, anxious to cut short Harriet's
reminiscences, 'I never answered what you said about Alfred and
Athelstane.  I do not think that Alfred did more than present him with
his sword, which was always solemnly done, even to squires, before they
were allowed to fight, and might be done by a priest.'

'But when Athelstane is called a knight, and the ceremony of presenting
him with his weapons is mentioned,' said Anne, 'I cannot see why we
should not consider him to have been really knighted.'

'Because,' said Elizabeth, 'I do not think that the old Saxon word,
knight, meant the sworn champion, the devoted warrior of noble birth,
which it now expresses.  You know Canute's old rhyme says, "Row  to the
shore, knights," as if they were boatmen, and not gentlemen.'

'I do not think it could have been beneath the dignity of a knight to
row Canute,' said Anne, 'considering that eight kings rowed Edgar the
Peaceable.'

'Other things prove that Knight meant a servant, in Saxon,' said
Elizabeth.

'I know it does sometimes, as in German now,' said Anne; 'but the
question is, when it acquired a meaning equivalent in dignity to the
French Chevalier.'

'Though it properly means anything but a horseman,' said Elizabeth; 'we
ought to have a word answering to the German Ritter.'

'Yes, our language was spoilt by being mixed with French before it had
come to its perfection,' said Anne; 'but still you have not proved that
King Alfred was not a knight in the highest sense of the word, a preux
chevalier.'

'I never heard of Alfred on horseback, nor did I ever know him called
Sir Alfred of Wessex.'

'Sir is French, and short for seigneur or senior,' said Anne; 'besides,
I suppose, you never heard Coeur-de-Lion called Sir Richard
Plantagenet.'

'I will tell you how you may find out all about it,' interrupted
Katherine; 'Mrs. Turner's nephew, Mr. Augustus Mills, is going to give
a lecture this evening, at seven o'clock, upon chivalry, and all that.
Mrs. Turner has been telling us all day how much she wishes us to go.'

'Mr. Augustus Mills!' said Elizabeth; 'is he the little red-haired
wretch who used to pester me about dancing all last year?'

'No, no,' said Katherine, 'that was Mr. Adolphus Mills, his brother,
who is gone to be clerk to an attorney somewhere.  This is Mr.
Augustus, a very fine young man, and so clever, Willie says, and he has
most beautiful curling black hair.'

'It wants a quarter to seven now,' said Elizabeth, 'and the sky is most
beautifully clear, at last.  Do you like the thoughts of this lecture,
Anne?'

'I should like to go very much indeed,' said Anne; 'but first I must go
and seal and send some letters for Mamma, so I must depart while you
finish your tea.'  So saying, she left the room.

'Pray, Kate,' said Helen, as Anne closed the door, 'where is this
lecture to be given?'

'At the Mechanics' Institute, of course,' said Katherine.

'So we cannot go,' said Helen.

'And pray why not, my sapient sister?' said Elizabeth; 'what objection
has your high mightiness?'

'My dear Lizzie,' said Helen, 'I wish you had heard all that I have
heard, at Dykelands, about Mechanics' Institutes.'

'My dear Helen,' said Elizabeth, 'I wish you would learn that Dykelands
is no Delphos to me.'

'Nay, but my dearest sister,' exclaimed Helen, clasping her hands, 'do
but listen to me; I am sure that harm will come of your going.'

'Well, ope your lips, Sir Oracle,' said Elizabeth impatiently, 'no dog
shall bark, only make haste about it, or we shall be too late.'

'Do you not know, Lizzie,' said Helen, 'that Socialists often hold
forth in Mechanics' Institutes?'

'The abuse of a thing does not cancel its use,' said Elizabeth, 'and I
do not suppose that Mr. Mills preaches Socialism.'

'Captain Atherley says,' persisted Helen, 'that all sorts of people
ought not to mix themselves up together on equal terms.'

'Oh! then he never goes to church,' retorted Elizabeth.

'No, no, that was only my foolish way of expressing myself,' said
Helen; 'I meant that he says that it is wrong for Church people to put
themselves on a level with Dissenters, or Infidels, or Socialists, for
aught they know to the contrary.'

'Since you have been in the north, Helen,' said Elizabeth, 'you have
thought every third man you met a Chartist or a Socialist; but as I do
not believe there are specimens of either kind in Abbeychurch, I see no
harm in taking our chance of the very few Dissenters there are here,
and sitting to hear a lecture in company with our own townspeople.'

'Really, I think we had better not go without asking leave first,' said
Katherine.

'In the first place,' said Elizabeth, 'there is no one to ask; and
next, I know that Mrs. Turner has offered hundreds of times to take us
there, and I suppose Papa would have refused once for all, if he had
been so very much afraid of our turning Chartists as Helen seems to be.
I can see no reason why we should not go.'

'Then you consider my opinion as utterly worthless,' cried Helen,
losing all command of temper, which indeed she had preserved longer
than could have been expected.  'I might have known it; you never care
for one word I say.  You will repent it at last, I know you will.'

'It is not that I never care for what you say, Helen,' said Elizabeth,
'it is only when you give me Dykelands opinions instead of your own,
and talk of what you do not understand.  I suppose no one has any
objection to a walk, at least.  Shall we get ready?'

Everyone consented, and they went to prepare.  It should be said, in
excuse for Elizabeth, that both she and Helen had been absent from home
at the time of the establishment of the Mechanics' Institute at
Abbeychurch, so that they had not known of their father's opposition to
it.  Helen, who, when at Dykelands, had been nearer the manufacturing
districts, had heard more of the follies and mischiefs committed by
some of the favourers of these institutions. Unfortunately, however,
her temper had prevented her from reasoning calmly, and Elizabeth had
wilfully blinded herself, and shut her ears to conviction, being
determined to follow her own course.  Anne, who had always lived at
Merton Hall, excepting two months of each year, which she spent in
London, knew nothing of country town cabals, and thinking the lecture
was of the same nature as those she had heard in London, asked no
questions, as she had not heard the debate between Elizabeth and Helen.
Katherine, however, hesitated to go without the permission of her
father and mother; or, in other words, she was afraid they would
reprove her, and she was not unwilling to listen to Helen's
representations on the subject, while they were putting on their
bonnets.

'It is not only,' said Helen, 'that we are sure that it is not right to
go anywhere without leave from Papa or Mamma, but that I know that
these Mechanics' Institutes are part of a system of--'

'Oh yes, I know,' said Katherine, 'of Chartism, and Socialism, and all
that is horrible.  I cannot imagine how Lizzie can think of going.'

'Then you will not go,' said Helen.

'Oh, I do not know,' said Katherine; 'it will seem so odd and so
particular if Anne and Lizzie and the Hazlebys go, and we do not. It
would be like setting ourselves up against our elders.'

'You do not always think much of that, Kate,' said Helen; 'besides, if
our eldest sister thinks proper to do wrong, I do not see that we are
forced to do so too.'

'Well, but Lizzie said it was not wrong, and she is the eldest,' argued
Katherine.

'Lizzie said it was not wrong, that she might have her own way, and
contradict me,' said Helen.

'We shall see what Anne says,' said Katherine; 'but if they go, I must,
you know.  It was to me that Mrs. Turner gave the invitation, and she
and Willie would think it so odd to see the others without me; and Mr.
Mills too, he said so very politely that he hoped that he should be
honoured with my presence and Harriet's, it would be an additional
stimulus to his exertions, he said.'

'My dear Kate,' exclaimed Helen, 'how could you listen to such affected
nonsense?'

'Why, Lizzie says everybody talks nonsense,' said Katherine, 'but we
must listen and be civil, you know; I am sure I wish people would not
be so silly, it is very disagreeable to hear it; but I cannot help it,
and after this I really think I ought to go, it would be very odd if I
did not.'

'Better do what is odd than what is wrong,' said Helen.

In her secret soul, Katherine had been of the same opinion the whole
time, and now that she thought she had made a sufficient merit of
giving up the expedition, she was about to promise to follow Helen's
advice, when she was interrupted by the entrance of Harriet, with her
shawl and bonnet in her hand, coming to gossip with Katherine, and thus
escape from Lucy, who had been quietly suggesting that in a doubtful
case, such as the present seemed to be, it was always best to keep to
the safe side.  Harriet had laughed at Lucy for not being able to give
any reasons, told her that it was plain that Helen knew nothing about
the matter, and declared that she thanked goodness that if Mr.
Woodbourne was ever so angry, he was not her master, and her own mamma
never minded what she did.  Lucy could make no answer in words, but her
silent protest against her sister's conduct made Harriet so uneasy that
she quitted her as soon as she could.

Helen still hoped that Anne would see the folly of the scheme, and
persuade Elizabeth to give it up, and content herself with taking a
walk, or that her sister's better sense would prevail; but she was
disappointed, when, as they left the house, Anne asked where the
lecture was to be given, Elizabeth replied, 'At the Mechanics'
Institute;' and no further observation was made, Anne's silence
confirming Elizabeth in her idea that Helen had been talking nonsense.
Still, as St. Martin's Street, where Mr. Turner lived, was their way
out of the town, Helen remained in doubt respecting her sister's
intentions until they reached Mr. Turner's house, and Elizabeth walked
up the steps, and knocked at the door.

Helen immediately wheeled round, and walked indignantly homewards, too
full of her own feelings to make any attempt to persuade Katherine to
follow her examp

Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/4267