LITMIR.BIZ

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She, who was to have helped Aunt Edith, to be fast asleep in bed when she was ready! It was not many minutes before Lettice was dressed, but her morning prayer had in it sundry things which were not prayers.

      Breakfast was nearly over when a curious rolling sound was heard, followed by the tramp of horses: and Aubrey jumped up to look, for it was half-an-hour too soon for the baggage-horses to be brought. He had to run into the porch-chamber to see what it was, and before he returned came old Roger the serving-man, with a letter in his hand, which he gave to his mistress. She opened the letter, but finding it somewhat difficult for dim eyes to make out, she gave it back to Roger, desiring him to read it. (Note 2.) So Roger read:—

      “Madam—Since I need be in London this next weekend, where I look to tarry some time, and am offered a seat in my good Lord of Northumberland’s caroche, it were pity that my caroche should go thither empty, in especial when so good and old a friend is likewise on her journey. May I therefore beg that your Ladyship will so far favour me as to use the caroche as your own, from this day until Friday week, when, if it serve your convenience, it may return to me at Radcliffe House? My servants have orders to obey your Ladyship’s directions, and to serve you in all regards as myself.

      “I kiss the hands of fair Mistress Edith, and beg my best compliments to your young gentlemen, and am, Madam, yours to my little power, Dilston.”

      Aubrey had come back whilst Roger was reading, and scarcely gave him leave to make an end of the letter.

      “Madam, ’tis my Lord Dilston’s caroche, with six great Flanders horses, and three serving-men, all as fine as fiddlers, and never a soul in the caroche—”

      “Truly, this is of the Lord’s goodness,” said Lady Louvaine. “I did indeed fear the journey on horseback, but there seemed none other means.”

      “The like did I for you, dear Mother,” added Edith. “I am most thankful for my Lord Dilston’s kindly proffer. It shall ease the journey to you more than all we could do.”

      Lady Louvaine bade Edith write an answer, and ordered Roger to take back to Mere Lea the three saddle-horses lent her by Mr. Lewthwaite, explaining why they were no longer needed. It was then settled that the four ladies and Lettice should travel in the coach, Aubrey, Hans, and Rachel going on horseback.

      Hans had gone out, and they saw him talking in the front with Lord Dilston’s postillion. Now he came back. “Well, Hans, what wormed you out of the postillion?” inquired Aubrey.

      “His master’s goodness,” said Hans. “Have you a bit left for me? or do you want it all for yourself?”

      “It is all for my Lady. My Lord Dilston was meaning to have gone to Town himself in his own caroche, till he heard of your Ladyship’s trouble, and then he cast about to know of some friend that was going, so he might leave it for you. Then he heard of my Lord of Northumberland, and he begged a seat in his caroche; and Madam Penelope stuffed the caroche with all the cushions that were in the house, and a hamper of baked meats, and wine, and a great fur mantle to lap your Ladyship in; and my Lord bade the postillion to drive very soft, that you should not be shaken, without you told him to go fast, and the footmen were to have a care of you and save you all that they could. Said I not well, his goodness?”

      “Truly, Hans, you did so,” answered Edith; “and right thankful should we all be, first to the Lord, and then to my Lord Dilston, that my dear mother can now journey in safety and comfort.”

      Lady Louvaine said, softly, “Bless the Lord! and may He bless this kind friend! Truly, I marvel wherefore it is that every one is so good to me. It must be, surely, for my dead Aubrey’s sake.”

      “Oh, of course,” said young Aubrey, laughing; “they all hate you, Madam, you may be sure.”

      His grandmother smiled on him, for she understood him.

      Now came the Murthwaite sisters trudging up the path, Temperance carrying a heavy basket, and Faith bearing no greater weight than her handkerchief, behind which, as usual, she was weeping.

      “Good-morrow, Madam,” said Aunt Temperance as she came in. “A fine day for our journey.”

      “You’re to ride in a caroche, Aunt Temperance!” cried Aubrey.

      “Who—me? No, I thank you, my young Master. I never set foot in such a thing in my life, nor never will by my good will. I like the feel of a horse under me well enough; but that finicky gingerbread thing, all o’er gilding—I’d as soon go on a broomstick. Whose is it?”

      “ ’Tis my Lord Dilston’s, that hath most kindly proffered it to Mother for the journey,” replied Edith. “We had settled that we four, with Lettice, should journey therein; but if you would rather be on horseback, Temperance—”

      “That would I, by ten mile,” said she. “I hate being cooped up in a four-post bed, with all the curtains drawn; and that lumbering thing’s no better. Faith’ll go, I don’t doubt; any thing that’s a bit smart and showy!! take her: and Lettice may please herself. I dare say the child will have a fantasy to ride in a caroche for once in her life.”

      “Indeed, Aunt, I would like it,” answered Lettice, “for very like I may never have such another chance while I live.”

      “Truly, that’s little like,” retorted Temperance with a laugh. “So have thy ride, child, if thou wilt.—Dear heart! Lady Lettice, I ask your pardon.”

      “For what, Temperance, my dear?”

      “Taking your place, Madam, instead of my own. Here am I, deciding what Lettice shall do or not do, when you being in presence, it belongs to you to judge.”

      Lady Louvaine gave her gentle smile.

      “Nay, if we must stand upon our rights, you, Temperance, as her father’s sister, have the right to choose.”

      “Then I choose to obey you, Lady Lettice,” said Temperance with a courtesy.

      “Madam,” now announced Hans from the door, “the baggage is packed, and the caroche awaiteth your Ladyship.”

      Edith helped her mother to rise from, her chair. She stood one moment, her hand on Edith’s arm; and a look came into her eyes such as a drowning man might give to the white cliffs whereon his home stood, where his wife and his little children were waiting for him. So she stood and looked slowly round the chamber, her eyes travelling from one thing to another, till she had gone all over it. And then she said, in a low, pathetic voice—

      “ ‘Get thee out of thy country, and from thy father’s house, unto the land that I will show thee.’ Once before I had that call, and it led me to him who was the stay and blessing of my life. Yet again I go forth: O my Father, let it lead to Thee, unto Thy holy hill, and to Thy tabernacle! Remember Thy word unto Thy servant, wherein Thou hast caused me to hope—‘Certainly I will be with thee,’—‘I will not fail thee, nor forsake thee,’—‘Fear not, for I have redeemed thee: I have called thee by thy name; thou art Mine.’ Lord, keep Thine own!—Now, my children, let us go hence with God.”

      In something like a procession they went forth from Selwick Hall. Lady Louvaine first, leaning on Edith and Hans, to whom Aubrey was always ready to resign troublesome duties; then Faith, Temperance, Aubrey, and Lettice.

      At the door stood the great coach, painted in dark mulberry-colour and picked out with gilding, the lining and cushions of blue: and harnessed to it were the six great horses, dark roan, with cream-coloured manes, knotted likewise in blue. The servants wore mulberry-coloured livery, corded with blue.

      Lady Louvaine took her place on the right hand of the coach, facing the horses, Faith being at her side. Opposite sat Edith, and Lettice by the door.

      “Aunt Temperance!” called out Aubrey from the doorstep, “you shall have my horse, if you will; I am going in the caroche.”

      “You are what, Sirrah?” demanded Aunt Temperance, with the severity of at least one

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