Chapter XXXIII: July 30

THIS morning, coming into the hall, I found Joyce quite in ecstasies over a pair of young choughs that Harry had got for her at the risk of his neck. Harry, who is usually very shy of strange young ladies, takes wonderfully to Joyce. She on her part takes to everybody, and is growing so full of spirits that mother now and then has to check her a little. She is very good in general, I must say, though she now and then shows her want of training in a little outburst of temper, and yesterday was so rude to Grace that mother ordered her to beg pardon, and on her refusal sent her to her room. Going thither some hour or two after, I found her drowned in tears, because she had offended my mother.

"You can easily make matters right," said I. "Go and beg my mother's pardon and Grace's also, and all will be well."

"If it were anything but that," said she. "But to beg pardon of a servant!"

I could hardly control my smiles, remembering the state wherein we had found her not two weeks agone, but I said gravely:

"As to that, Joyce, Grace's father was as good as your own, and if he had been a hind, 'twould make no odds. 'Tis obedience my mother requires, and she is right. Besides, you have no right to despise servants. Don't you know that our Lord Himself came not to be ministered to, but to minister, and He says Himself, 'if any man will be great among you, let him be your servant.' Let me read you something about that in a book that tells all about Him."

So I fetched my Testament and read to her about our Lord's washing the apostles' feet. She was impressed, I could see, but her pride rose.

"If it were anything else," she said. "I would fast all day, or lie on the floor, or—"

"Or do anything else that you wished to do, but not your plain duty," said I, interrupting, for I began to be vexed with her. "What does my mother care for your fastings, or lying on the floor? Or what boots all these tears, so long as you are proud, and wilful, and disobedient to the friend who has rescued you from misery—perhaps from such a dreadful death as my Lady Carey threatened you with? One simple, honest act of obedience is worth all the tears, and fastings, and penances in the world."

And with that I left her. I think my words had their effect, for an hour after she came weeping to my mother, and knelt by her very humbly, saying that she had begged Grace's pardon and received it. My mother, on that, gave the child her hand to kiss, and bade her bring her work and sit on the stool beside her. So all was sunshine once more, and I think the lesson has done Joyce good.

I have been making acquaintance with the village folk, specially the women and children. They are very cordial to me, and make much of me wherever I go, but I can understand very little unless I have Grace or Cousin Joslyn as interpreter. I am trying to learn something of their language. Some of the younger people, and most of our own servants speak English, after a sort, but they are all much delighted whenever I muster confidence enough to air my few Cornish phrases. They seem a good, kindly, simpleminded set, very fond of Cousin Joslyn, who is their physician and counsellor in all their trouble, looking up to the priest with religious awe, and having as few vices as one could reasonably expect.

They seem fond of the memory of their old Lady, though one of the younger women whom I visited without Grace, and who speaks English fairly, told me her Lady was "mortal tiresome and meddlesome about cleaning and rearing of babies." I hope I shall not be mortal tiresome, but if ever I come here to live, 'tis a wonder if I don't have my say about the rearing of these same babes.

I have already talked with Cousin Joslyn and Father Paul about a plan for a dame school, where at least the maidens might be taught the use of their fingers, in spinning, knitting, and mending of their clothes. Mistress Warner demurs at the knitting, which she says is work for ladies, like embroidery and cut-work, and not for cottage maids. But since it makes good warm hosen, I see not why they should not learn it as well as spinning.

Our priest, Father Paul, as he likes to be called, instead of Sir Paul, is one of an hundred. I never saw a better, purer face than his, though 'tis wonderful thin and worn, and by times full of care. He preaches every Sunday to the people, and repeats whole chapters of the Gospels and Epistles. Last Sunday 'twas that same which the Bishop gave us in the convent, upon charity, though I did not know then whence it came. ('Tis strange how far away seem those old convent days. I can hardly think I am the same maid who was content to spend hours over a cut-work cope, and never had a thought beyond what my superiors told me, or a doubt but that all our endless litanies to the Saints and our Lady were true prayers. But this is by the way.) I am sure Father Paul reads the Scriptures a great deal, for he is always repeating them to the people, as I said, and makes the most clear and practical applications of them to the common matters of every-day life.

Then he visits a great deal from house to house, specially where there is sickness or any trouble and he has composed many quarrels, to which these Cornish folk are a good deal given. He has made acquaintance with many of the wild moormen, and even persuaded some of them to come to the church now and then, to be wedded, and to have their babes christened.

I saw one of these weddings one day, and gave the bride a kerchief, which I had put in my pocket for some one in the village. The whole party were greatly pleased, and this morning the old mother of the bride came and brought me a great basket of whortleberries, the finest I ever saw. She would have no pay, so I gave her a pair of scissors and some needles, and Mistress Grace added what the poor thing seemed to value more than anything, a great loaf of brown wheaten bread. She gave us to understand that her child (not the bride, but another) was very ill, and could eat little, but would like the bread. Thereupon Grace, always compassionate, added a pot of honey, and a bottle of some cordial medicine to her gift, and the poor woman went away very happy.

'Tis strange with what a mixture of awe and contempt the servants and villagers regard these wild folk, who do indeed seem of another race than themselves. Cousin Joslyn thinks the moor folk are remnants of the first race who inhabited the country. I wish something might be done for them. But indeed I might say the same for the whole land, not only of Cornwall, but of our own Devon, and of all England.

Under what a worse than Egyptian darkness it lies! But one can see the glimmering of dawn, and here and there a mountain top touched by the sun; and I cannot help hoping that better days are at hand. My mother, however, is not sanguine—that is, she believes the truth will prevail, but only after long waiting, and many hard, and it may be bloody struggles. She has known the King from childhood, and she says she believes if he puts down the power of the Pope in this country 'twill be only to set himself in his place. But these are too high and dangerous matters for me.