Through Unknown Ways

An Old-World Story

BY

L. E. GUERNSEY [Lucy Ellen Guernsey]

AUTHOR OF "LADY BETTY'S GOVERNESS," "LADY ROSAMOND'S BOOK," "THE FOSTER-SISTERS," ETC.

NEW EDITION

LONDON

JOHN F. SHAW AND CO.

48 PATERNOSTER ROW

CONTENTS.

BOOK I. December 10, 1684.

BOOK II. August 1, 1685.

BOOK III. Studley Hall, 1687.

THROUGH UNKNOWN WAYS.

BOOK I.

December 10, 1684.

PERHAPS I may as well begin this book by telling how I came to write it at all. Lady Corbet, my mistress (I suppose I ought to say mine "honored" mistress, but I sha'n't: I am going to have the comfort of speaking my mind in these pages, if nowhere else). But to begin again, in a more orderly fashion. Lady Corbet, with whom I am living as waiting-gentlewoman, companion, and general butt for ill-humors,—there I go again,—well, Lady Corbet took it in her head to give me the use of this cabinet. She was making a tour of inspection of the whole house to which we have just removed, and had been put into a better humor than was usual with her so early in the day by finding in this very cabinet a purse with three gold pieces and some silver, left here I suppose by Sir Charles's first wife,— poor, pretty Lady Jemima, whose portrait by Lely hangs in the great parlor. My lady clutched the purse as a dog snaps at a bone, and dropped it into her pocket. Then she took up a knot or favor of rose-colored ribbon spangled with silver which lay

beside it, still fresh and pretty, and smelling of roses like every thing else in the cabinet.

"See there, child!" said she, turning to me. "The poor bedizened thing had to leave all her finery and fallals behind her when she went to the grave. There is a lesson for you."

"And her money also, madam," said Mrs. Williams, her woman, who had followed us with a light cloak which she laid about Lady Corbet's shoulders. Mrs. Williams is not afraid of my lady, as I am. But then, she can leave when she pleases.

"What do yo you mean, Williams?" asked my lady. "Of course I know that. We must leave every thing behind us when we die. You have heard me say that a thousand times."

"Not quite every thing," said Mrs. Williams. "I think, my lady, this would be a good room for Mrs. Dolly. It is not near enough for her to disturb you, and yet she can hear when you whistle."

My heart jumped at this proposal, but, knowing my lady, I was careful not to show any pleasure. On the contrary, when Mrs. Williams appealed to me, I answered, "It would do well enough, I supposed."

"Well enough! Yes, I think it will do well enough and too well for a chit like you, since it has served an earl's daughter in its time," said my lady tartly. "You shall have this room, and no other, do you hear? And you can have this cabinet to keep your finery in."

"Yes, I have so much finery!" I could not help saying.

"Oh, you are not so badly off as all that!" answered my lady. "One would think you had not clothes to your back!"

"Mrs. Dolly will need some new gowns, my lady," said Mrs. Williams. "I had better buy her a camlet for Sundays, and some stuff for every day."

"Nonsense! You can make over my gray camlet for her, if she needs it. However, I don't mind for once. Here, child, is a guinea for you, and mind you take care of it. You were best let Williams buy your gowns, however. There, I won't go any farther to-day. Tell Jeremy to bring your mail up here, and you can be putting your things in order while I am resting. But don't disturb me with your noise, and be ready to read to me when I wake."

This conversation took place the day before yesterday, on which day my Lady Corbet removed from her own house, where she has lived ever since she became a widow, to this which was the mansion of her late husband, Sir Charles Corbet. She has never been here before since his death, but has lived in her own house in the city. But the land having become valuable, and this house standing empty, she all at once made up her mind to remove. The house was already furnished, so it was no great trouble. For some reason which I don't understand, it has never been lived in since Sir Charles died, and was damp and dingy enough. But a few charwomen, under Mrs. Williams's active superintendence, soon gave it another aspect, and now it is nice and pleasant, and even my lady admits is far more sunny and healthful than her city abode.

For my part, I am glad of the change with all my heart. It "is" a change, for one thing, and I have had but little variety heretofore. Then we are at the court end of the town, not far from Whitehall, and there is a deal of coming and going of fine equipages and of well-dressed ladies and gentlemen. Best of all, I can see from mine own window a good piece of the park and of the water where the king keeps his tame fowls. They say he walks there early every morning: so, if I rise soon enough, I may chance to see him.

To return to my story. I unpacked my mail, which was no heavy task, seeing I have so few personal belongings, and then set myself to examine the cabinet. It is large and very pretty, inlaid with ivory and brass work, and having many drawers and compartments. I discovered nothing save a few old-fashioned trinkets in a private drawer, some odds and ends of ribbon and lace, and a great heap of letters and bills, very few of which were receipted. There were two or three cupboards in the room. And on the top shelf of one of these I deposited all the papers, meaning to look over the letters at my leisure.

In clearing out one of the compartments, I touched a spring, it seems; for the whole panel at the back slipped aside, and disclosed a tolerably deep recess, wherein was a pile of books, neatly bound and clasped. Eagerly I pulled them out and opened them, hoping to find something in the way of entertaining reading, but they were all blank paper. In the beginning of the largest was written, in a somewhat stiff hand, this inscription:

"When I was wedded, my dear and honored mother gave me a set of books like to these, in order that I might keep an account of my private expenses, and also set down such matters of interest as I might wish to remember, and such pieces of devotion as should be useful to me. I have followed her counsel in this matter all my life, and have found great benefit therein. I give these books to my dear daughter Jemima that she may follow the same practice."

But it seems Lady Jem never did follow it to any great extent; for the books are all blank, with the exception of a few items set down on the first page of the account book, and two or three receipts for washes and cordials in the others. I was musing over the old-fashioned, cramped handwriting, and wondering what the good old lady would have said to her daughter's gay career,—but she died, happily or unhappily, soon after Lady Jem's marriage,—when the thought occurred to me, why should not I keep a journal, and so have some place to pour out my thoughts, which place I have not now.

Mrs. Williams is kind to me always, and I believe she is truly my friend, but she never encourages me to talk about myself or my mistress. Perhaps she is right and wise, but, at any rate, that is her way. I used to make something of a confidant of Mrs. Ursula Robertson, my lady's cousin, who visits here now and then. But one day I heard her repeating to my lady some slighting remarks which Mrs. Pendergast, the minister's wife, had made about her, and that was enough for me.

"A dog that will fetch a bone will carry a bone," is an old, and mayhap a somewhat vulgar, proverb, but it is a true one. I have no doubt now that she led me on to say things about my mistress which she afterward repeated to her, and thus helped to set her against me.

Well, all of a sudden the thought came into my mind, "Why should not I make a friend of these books, and confide to them. They at least, will not tattle again, since I have a snug hiding-place for them."

I am usually sure of two hours every day, while my lady takes her afternoon nap, and I can sometimes gain another by early rising in summer,—not at this time of year, however, for my lady keeps count of every inch of candle burned in the house.

December 21.

It was late when I found my treasures yesterday, and I had little time to write, but my lady to-day dismissed me earlier than usual, and I hastened to my retreat. I cannot enough thank Mrs. Williams for securing it to me. Where we lived before, my room was directly over my lady's, and I could not stir but she heard me, but here I might dance a reel, and she be none the wiser. But I said I would begin with the story of my life, and here it is.

I was born on Christmas Day in 1667, and ought therefore to be a very lucky child, but my luck, if I ever fulfil my destiny, is yet to come. I do not remember my father at all. He was a cousin of Sir Charles Corbet's, and died fighting the Moors at Bombain¹—that barren piece of the queen's dowry, which is like to cost a good deal more than it will ever come to. (I believe, after all, they were Indians and not Moors, and that the Moors live at Tangier: but it does not greatly matter.)

¹ What we now call Bombay.

My mother being left a widow, with but small means,—for she never had even my father's back pay, much less the pension which was promised her,—bethought herself of turning her very good education to account by opening a school for young ladies at Hackney, where we then lived. And an opportunity offering, she went into partnership with a lady who had for a long time kept a boarding-school. Mrs. Price was her name, and she was a wealthy woman. She was getting on in years, and needed an assistant. And knowing of my mother, she sent for her, and proposed to put into her hands the active duties of the school, she herself remaining at the head of the establishment. My mother jumped at the chance, for it was truly a good one, better than she had any reason to expect. It gave her the opportunity of learning the ways of a good school, and at the same time of educating me, then a tall girl of five years old.

But here my dear mother made a great mistake. She put all her little capital, some hundreds of pounds, into the hands of Mrs. Price's man of business, without a scrap of acknowledgment,—not even a receipt. He was Mrs. Price's nephew, and he made great professions of piety. His aunt trusted him entirely, and my poor mother thought she could do no less. All went well enough for some years. My mother managed the school and the young ladies, and I went on with my education. I was always fond of my book, and especially of my music and languages. And at fifteen I could write and read well, speak French and a little Italian, dance, and play on the lute and virginals. I had my little troubles and school scrapes, of course, and was crossed and contradicted, like other young things. But I do not believe many people have had a happier life than I enjoyed up to that time.

Then my troubles began. Mrs. Price died first. She had always said she meant to leave the school and the house to my mother, having no near kin but her nephew, who was rich already. But no will was to be found. Mr. Harpe—Harpy he ought to have been called—took possession of every thing, even to the poor lady's clothes, and coolly told my mother he did not mean to continue the school, and so should have no occasion for her services. And when she demanded the return of the three hundred pounds she had put into his hands, he had the audacity to deny the whole thing, and defy her to prove that he owed her any thing, and she could not prove it. Mrs. Price, the only person knowing to the transaction, was dead and gone. And, as I said, mother had not a receipt or a scrap of paper to substantiate her claim. She had ten pounds in her pocket, and Mr. Harpe had the generosity to give her ten more, saying, that though she had tried to wrong him, he would not turn her out penniless, and adding something in his sanctimonious tone about returning good for evil, which made me long to choke him.

It must have gone hard with mother to take the money, for she was a high-spirited woman, but I suppose she thought of me, and put her pride in her pocket. A good woman lived near us whose daughter had been my school friend. Poor Emma had died not long before of a waste, and my mother had helped to nurse her. This good lady gave us a home, though she was far from being rich. And in her house, my dear mother died when I was sixteen. She said on her death-bed that she wished she could take me with her, and I am sure I wish she had. Bab Andrews was reading the other day of some Indians who buried girl babies with their dead mothers. I am not sure but it is a good way.

The lady with whom I lived, Mrs. Jenkins, was related to Mrs. Williams, my Lady Corbet's woman. Through her, she made known to Sir Charles Corbet, my kinsman, my forlorn condition, and he and Mrs. Williams somehow coaxed my lady to take me into her service. And here I have been for two miserable years, the slave of her whims, and the butt of her ill-temper. Sir Charles was good to me, in his careless way, while he lived, but he died only a year after my entrance into the family. They say he married my lady for her money, and because she promised to pay his debts. If so, I am sure he paid dearly for the help she gave him. Such a life as she led him! But he was a man, and could get away from home. And now and then he would assert himself, and fairly make her afraid of him, as when she insisted on removing the likeness of Lady Jemima, which I have mentioned before, from the drawing-room. I expected to see the picture consigned to the garret when we came back here, but I do believe she has a superstitious dread of touching it.

When Sir Charles lay on his death-bed, he called me to him one day, and gave me a gold chain, with a little locket attached to it, in the shape of a small egg, bidding me put it on and wear it, but secretly. Then calling on Dr. Clark and his own man, who were both in the room, he bade them bear witness that he gave me the locket.

"Promise me that you will never open it till you are married, and then only on some pinch, when you need money: and, above all, never let my wife see it. Promise me!" he said earnestly, holding my hand with a clasp that hurt me.

"I promise," said I.

"That is well," he answered. "Now look in the back of yonder drawer, and bring me a picture you will find there."

I did so. It was a miniature of Lady Jemima, with a chain attached.

"Put it round my neck," he said to his man Richards, who was waiting on him.

Richards did so, I helping him. Sir Charles thanked us both, and kissed me. Seeing a change in his face, which I knew too well, I ventured to suggest that he should send for a clergyman.

"Do, Sir Charles! It can do no harm," urged poor Richards, the tears running down his face, for he loved his master. "Do let me or Mrs. Dolly run for Dr. Gibson."

Sir Charles shook his head, with a faint smile. "No, no!" said he. "At least, I will make no false pretences."

"But, dear cousin, it need not be a pretence," I said. "Do but try to trust in God."

He shook his head again. "No, child: I have doubted so long, I have lost the power of believing. Dress me for the grave yourself, Richards, and see that the picture lies on my heart."

"At least let Mrs. Dolly call my lady," said the doctor, for he changed more and more.

"No, no! Let me at least die in peace. I am glad she is not here." And in a moment he was gone.

My lady made no great pretence of grief for her husband, beyond putting on very deep weeds. I do not think she ever cared for him. He married for money, and she because she had an ambition for title and fashion. Both were disappointed in a great measure: for he was ashamed of her, and would never take her to court; and her money was all tied up in her own hands. She gave him what she liked, and I fancy that was very little.

Of course I never told my lady of Sir Charles's dying gift, and should not, even if I had not promised. She would insist on opening it, and would probably take it away from me altogether. I cannot open the locket myself, if I would. It has no visible opening, though of course there must be one somewhere. And I would not if I could—at least, I think not.

December 24.

Christmas Eve—but one must not dare to say "Christmas" in this house. At Mrs. Price's school we used to have fine doings on Christmas Eve for the family, and those of the ladies who did not go home for the holidays. We used to dress up the great schoolroom with ivy and holly, and Mrs. Price would always have a branch of mistletoe hung in the midst, to keep up old fashions, as she said; though her pious nephew, Mr. Harpe, shook his head at it, and said it was a relic of paganism and unfit for a Christian household. Then we had grand games of "hunt the slipper," "hoodman blind," and "forfeits," ending off at nine with a fine hot supper of spiced frumenty and plum-porridge.

On Christmas Day we all went to church, and came home to a dinner of beef, fowls, and plum-pudding for all the household. Mistress Price did love to see happy faces about her, and she had an assistant, like-minded with herself, in dear mother. After dinner we used to carry little gifts we had made to the poor old people and orphan children who lived at some old almshouses which joined our garden at the back,—another practice to which Mr. Harpe objected,—and when we came home, we found each a pretty Christmas-box by her plate at supper-time.

My last one, I know, was a prayer-book bound in purple leather. I had it for a long time, but unluckily one day my lady caught sight of it, and took it away, saying she would have no such rags of popery under her roof. Since then I have never seen one, nor have I been inside a church since I came to this house. My lady never goes to any place of worship. She says she is not able, though she can go to other places when she has a mind. I heard Mr. Baxter remonstrating with her about it the last time he was here. She answered shortly, that she best knew the state of her own health, adding,—

"But I hate prelacy and popery and all their adherents as much as you do, Mr. Baxter."

"Madam," said the old gentleman, "I must tell you that a religion which has no foundation but hatred is not likely to be very acceptable to the God of love."

Whereat my lady looked blacker than a thundercloud, but she stands too much in awe of Mr. Baxter to fall upon him. However, she took it out on me afterward. I could not blame Mr. Baxter if he did hate the prelatists, for certainly he has had very hard measure, but no one has ever molested my lady. But I don't think Mr. Baxter has any such feeling. Certainly I too have had hard measure from Mr. Harpe and my lady, but I don't hate all Presbyterians for their sake. On the contrary, I am very sorry for them, and think them very hardly dealt by. And I do like Mr. Baxter and the Pendergasts.

I am indebted to Mr. Baxter for a good turn, and I shall not forget it. One day when I went out alone, I found on a bookstall a book new to me. It was a kind of fable or allegory, called "The Pilgrim's Progress;" and, after reading a few pages therein, I took such a fancy to it that I bought it for sixpence. I was so silly as to take it out one day in my lady's room, and of course she came in and caught me. She took the book away, and was going to burn it, but at Mrs. Williams's intercession she kept it to show to Mr. Baxter, whom she expected that evening. He took it and looked it over with interest.

"I have heard of the volume, but never have seen it before," said he. And then turning to me, with his usual politeness he added, "With your leave, Mrs. Dolly, I will take the book home and examine it at my leisure."

"Of course you can do so," said my lady, taking the words out of my mouth as I was about to answer. "'Tis not for her to say what books she shall read, I trove. But is not this Bunyan a Quaker or some such thing? I am sure I have heard so."