“Madam,” said she, “I’m something ’feared I’m as welcome as water into a ship, for I dare guess you’ve enough to do with the hours, but truth to tell, I’m driven to it. Here’s Faith set to go after you to London.”
“Poor child! let her come.”
“I can get as far as ‘poor,’ Madam, but I can go no further with you,” answered Temperance grimly. “Somebody’s poor enough, I cast no doubt, but I don’t think it’s Faith. But you have not yet beheld all your calamities. If Faith goes, I must go too—and if I go, and she, then must Lettice.”
“Dear Temperance, I shall be verily glad.”
“Lady Lettice, you’re too good for this world!—and there aren’t ten folks in it to whom I ever said that. Howbeit, you shall not lose by me, for I purpose to take Rachel withal and she and I can do the housework betwixt us, and so set Edith free to wait on you. Were you thinking to carry servants, or find them there?”
“I thought to find one there. More than one, methinks, we can scarce afford.”
“Well then for that shall Rachel serve: and I’ll work the cost of my keep and more, you shall see. I can spin with the best, and weave too; you’ll never come short of linen nor linsey while I’m with you—and Lettice can run about and save steps to us all. What think you?—said I well?”
“Very well indeed, my dear: I were fain to have you.”
“Then you’ll look for us. Good-morrow!” The last evening was a busy one for all parties, and there was little time to spare for indulgence in remembrance or regret. It was two hours later than usual, when Lettice at last lay down to sleep and even then, sleep seemed long in coming. She heard her Aunt Edith’s soft movements in the neighbouring gallery, where she was putting final touches to the packing, and presently they slid unconsciously into the sound of the waterfall at Skiddaw Force, by the side of which Lettice was climbing up to the Tower of London. She knew nothing of the tender, cheerful “Good-night, Mother dear!” given to Lady Louvaine—of the long, pathetic gaze at the moonlit landscape—of the silently-sobbed prayer, and the passionate rain of tears—such different tears from those of Faith!—which left a wet stain upon Edith’s coverlet. It was hard to leave the old home—hard to leave the new graves. But the next thing the young niece heard was only—“Time to rise, Lettice!” spoken in the usual bright manner—and, looking up, she saw Aunt Edith fully dressed.
Lettice sprang up in a fright, and scrambled into her clothes with all the haste possible. 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.