CHAPTER XVI.

SURPRISES.

MORE than two months had passed since the date of the last chapter. The household of Sir John Corbet had returned to its old, regular routine. New servants had replaced the old. Sir John once more went to his office and wharf, and superintended his workmen. And his lady, like the wise dame of the Scriptures, looked well to the ways of her household, and, while she made sure that nobody from herself to the knife-boy ate the bread of idleness, took more pains than ever that every one under her roof should be happy and contented.

In the school-room there was a great change. Poor little Betty, with her moods and tenses, her alternations of high and low spirits, her unmanageable "tantrums," and her almost equally unmanageable fits of penitence, was gone. And the twins, Phyllis and Jemima, could only weep over every little memorial of their departed sister, and declare to each other that they would never, no, never tease anybody again! Paulina, still pale and thin, and showing signs of recent illness in her hollow eyes and close-cropped hair, had taken present charge of the school-room, and was hearing her sisters' lessons, finding out every day how much less she knew than she supposed, discovering the mighty difference which existed between the real crosses of her reduced strength and the daily trials of temper and patience in the school-room, and those artificial crosses she used to manufacture for herself. Nevertheless, she went on bravely, doing her best, and making herself more useful and agreeable than she had ever done before.

But Paulina had a cross to bear far harder than any petty trials of the school-room—a cross all the sharper because she had brought it upon herself and her father and mother, who shared the burden with her. The affair with Doctor Butler had taken wing, as was to be expected, and the whole city of Bristol rang with the stories of Paulina's stolen interviews with him, at chapel and elsewhere, and of the attempt to introduce him into her room. Who had chattered in the last case, nobody knew. But the scandal had gone abroad, distorted and exaggerated in a hundred forms.

Paulina, never stirred away from home, save under her mother's wing, and then only, to church, but even there she felt herself the mark for curious eyes and whispers, while her mother had to encounter condolences and questions from all her acquaintances. Moreover, Paulina was not safe even yet from persecution. It had indeed been found expedient for Doctor Butler to leave town, but the priests had no notion of giving up their victim so easily, and more than one letter had been conveyed to Paulina, now pitying her as a martyr under persecution, now threatening her as a relapsed heretic.

Meantime, a cloud rested upon her reputation. None of her young friends visited her or invited her, and Lady Corbet was blamed for permitting her to take the charge of her young sisters. Her father had been furiously angry upon hearing the story, and, though he had been brought to say at last that he forgave her, he was hard and stern toward her, and showed her constantly that she was distrusted and watched. Her mother was kindness itself, but a heavy cloud of sadness rested upon her once cheery face, and her voice, when she spoke to Paulina, had a tone of grief and pity.

All this was very hard to bear—far harder than the fasting, the lying upon the floor, and all the other penances Paulina had been accustomed to practise; harder than the being obliged to give her attention to her work and pick it out when it was wrong; than being reproved for stooping her shoulders or poking her chin, or having her shoes down at heel and her petticoats draggled. Nor was this the hardest, after all. It was with inexpressible bitterness that Paulina heard of Doctor Butler's attempt to enter her room, and of his departure from the city, and learned from the pain the news gave her that her affections were no longer in her own keeping.

Any woman worthy of the name must feel a sensation of intensest shame and anguish, when she finds herself loving one who does not care for her, even though that one may be in every way worthy; and the shame is increased twofold if the object prove utterly base. This was Paulina's case. She loved Doctor Butler, and she knew him to be a base, bad man—one who had destroyed the peace and reputation of more than one woman, and who might, but for what seemed the special interference of Providence, have done the same for her.

She recalled a hundred things which might have shown her her danger, and she felt a sense of gratitude to poor Molly, who had been so far faithful that she had never let her young mistress out of her sight. She said to herself that her love was unworthily placed, and must be conquered, but the task was a hard one, and the poor girl was indeed very unhappy.

Yet it somehow happened that the real trials did not fret Paulina's temper or wear out her patience as the imaginary ones had done. She was sad indeed, and often much depressed, but she was no longer fretful or peevish; she no longer wore her set, self-conscious expression, or spoke and moved like an automaton. She had found the secret of peace. In the time of her trouble she had sought the Lord, and found in Him not only forgiveness and remission of sin, but strength to resist temptation, to bear suffering with patience and humility. Her service was no longer one of constraint and fear, but of love—no longer the enforced task of a slave, but the free gift of a child.

The twins, on their part, sobered by the trouble they had passed through, and pitying Paulina for the sorrow they only half understood, did their best, both in work and lessons, to please their sister and mother. And the school-room labors went on harmoniously and pleasantly enough for the most part, though now and then was heard a deep sigh or an impatient interjection, always followed by the exclamation: "I do wish Mrs. Winifred would get well, don't you, Pall?" answered by, "Yes, indeed I do, with all my heart!"

And where, all this time, was Mrs. Winifred? In the great chintz bedroom, the very best room in the house, whither she had been carried by Lady Corbet's orders when stricken down with the fever, waited upon and tended by every one, from Sir John himself down to black Jack; nursed with jealous care by Ashwell, end visited by Doctor Mercer every day, and by Paulina every hour. She had passed the crisis of the disease, contrary to everybody's expectation, and Doctor Mercer said there seemed no reason why she should not get well, but day after day passed, and still she lay on her couch or leaned back languidly in the great chair, pale, thin, and weak, unable to eat, to talk, to employ herself in any way more than a few minutes at a time. It seemed as if the excitement and fatigue of nearly three years past had made themselves felt all at once.

For the first time in her life, Winifred lost the control of her own mind and feelings. She could not think clearly of anything for five minutes at a time. She could not fix her mind upon the things she had always loved best, or drive away the sadness, the discontent, the wretched forebodings, the distrust of her heavenly Father's love, the doubts of His truth which assailed her. Good Mr. Gunnison, who was instructing the twins preparatory to their approaching confirmation, talked and prayed with her, and in these visits Winifred found great comfort, but too often "the clouds returned after the rain," the temptations and the grief came back again, and the work was once more all to do.

Meantime, the weak body languished and lost day by day, and it seemed likely enough that Winifred would fade away and drop into the earth with the fading flowers of autumn. But her work was not yet done, and she could not go home till it was finished.

One day she was leaning back listlessly enough in the chair which Ashwell had drawn to the window, that Winifred might look down on the still gay garden and away to the hills beyond the city. She had wearied herself in the attempt to set right the piece of work which the twins in a fit of desperation had brought to show her, and had not half finished, when Ashwell came in, scolded them both well, and sent the girls down, Phyllis crying and Jemima in a fit of sulks, to get out of their difficulty as best they could. Winifred felt tired, disappointed, and utterly discouraged. And as soon as Ashwell had left her, she leaned back in her chair, and gave way to a fit of weeping as childish as that of poor Phyllis.

The tears at least did her some good, for she sobbed herself to sleep, and awaked somewhat refreshed and strengthened, and really feeling a little wonder as to what time it was and whether Ashwell would be coming presently with her dinner. She had been dreaming of old times at the Hall—of walking with my lady and working with Mrs. Alwright. The dream was very clear and distinct; she almost felt as though Lady Peckham's inquiry was still ringing in her ear: "And where is my little Winifred?" There seemed a good deal of bustle in the house which she could not understand—and then, why did not Ashwell come?

The door opened. It was not Ashwell with the tray, however, but Paulina, with a little flush of color in her cheeks, and a certain excitement in her manner. She came to Winifred's chair and kissed her.

"Do you feel better? I peeped in a few moments ago, and you were fast asleep in your chair, with the tears on your cheeks! What had you been crying for, you naughty child? Like Phyllis, because Ashwell scolded you?"

"I hardly know myself," returned Winifred, winking away the tears which would stay very near her eyes. "I felt sorry for the poor girls, and vexed at myself for being so easily tired. But, Paulina, if they will bring up their frames now, I will try to show them."

"You are to do no such thing," said Paulina, positively. "The frames can wait, and I have something else to set you upon just now besides tapestry work."

"Why, Paulina, what has come over you?" said Winifred, rousing herself and looking at the girl with attention. "You look as though you had been hearing some great piece of good news!"

"Suppose I have—do you want to hear it?"

Winifred's heart began to beat fast, and she looked at Paulina without speaking.

"Suppose now I could bring the person in all the world you most wanted to see,—whom should it be?" asked Paulina.

Winifred flushed scarlet all at once, for the name which came to her lips was that of Arthur Carew.

Then, as her dream came across her mind, she exclaimed, "Paulina, tell me! Have you news of my lady?"

Then as Paulina nodded mischievously, with her eyes full of smiles and her mouth demurely pursed up:

"Paulina, tell me! Don't tease me, please!"

"It shall not be teased, then," said Paulina. "It shall be made to look pretty, and neat, and have on its new cap, and then it shall see what it shall see."

"No, no, Paulina!" said a voice at the half-opened door. "You shall not keep us waiting any longer. Winifred, my dear, my darling child!"

It was the voice of her dream. Winifred stretched out her arms with a cry like that of a child which sees its mother. She saw the well-known face, looking more delicate than ever under the close widow's coif and veil, caught a glimpse of Alwright's tall, spare form behind her mistress, heard a little cry of alarm from Paulina, and that was the last she knew, till she found herself lying on the bed, with Mrs. Alwright bathing her face, and Lady Peckham and Paulina watching her.

I shall not attempt to describe the meeting between Winifred and her oldest friend, nor the raptures of Alwright over her former pupil. At last Lady Peckham yielded to her cousin's hospitable entreaties, and descended to partake of the feast Lady Corbet had prepared for her, and Winifred was left in charge of Alwright, who insisted upon cutting her dinner, and would gladly have been allowed to put it into her mouth.

"No, indeed, dear Alwright, I can feed myself very well," said Winifred. "I feel better than for a long time past, though I was so silly as to faint. Sit you there where I can look at you, and tell me all the news. I see my lady is a widow. When did Sir Edward die?"

"At Rome, whither we went in the train of my Lord Castlewaine the ambassador—and pretty company he was!" said Alwright, in disgust. "You know, my dear, between ourselves, Sir Edward was always inclined to side with whichever party was uppermost. So, after we went to London and to court, he began to look the way the king's party did—toward Rome, you know. He did not really go over, and perhaps he never meant to do so, but he read their books, and went to the chapel, and all that. So, when this embassy was sent out, Sir Edward must needs go along. It was a grief to my lady, though he made her health one reason for the journey, but you know she never opposed her husband."

"Perhaps his majesty thought the journey to Rome would finish Sir Edward's conversion," said Winifred.

"And so it did, indeed, my dear, but it was the wrong way. Sir Edward saw and heard so many things that no true English gentleman could swallow, that he became disgusted with the whole concern. Then he took one of the fevers they have there, and died in a few days. The priests came about him, and would have it that he died in the Church of Rome, but it was no such thing. And then, my lady was very ill and feeble for a long time after, so we could not leave when my Lord Castlewaine did—more by token, they say the pope never showed him the least bit of favor, after all. I must say, some of the foreign papists were very good to us—I shall always remember it of them, I am sure—but oh, Winifred, if you could only see the cooking, and the smells, and the old women! Well, my lady got better, at last, and then we came home as quickly as we could."

"I tried every way to hear from you," said Winifred, "but I could not learn where Sir Edward had gone. When I first came here, I heard that Lady Corbet was cousin to my lady, and hoped to get news from her, but she could only tell me that my Lord Carew was dead, and my lady, she thought, was still abroad."

"Yes, the poor gentleman is dead at last, and a good thing, too, for himself and everybody. Master Arthur is Lord Carew now. Much good it does him, since he cannot come home to enjoy it!"

"And where is Master Arthur—I mean, my lord?" asked Winifred, suddenly very busy with her boiled chicken.

"He has been all this time in far-away parts, fighting the Turks that they say the King of France has brought upon Christendom again. But now he hath returned to Holland, and is in the service of the Prince and Princess of Orange, God bless them!"

"But how did you find me out, and why did my lady never answer the