Charity, having now settled her peat-sod to her satisfaction, left the room, with a hearty—“Good-night, Mrs Temperance! Good-night, Mestur Robin!”
“Truly, I think with you,” said Mr Lewthwaite, when she was gone: “but there is time to consider the matter. Let us decide nothing in haste.”
The next morning, for the first time for many weeks, Charity asked for a holiday. It was granted her, and she was out till twelve o’clock, when she came home with a very satisfied face.
Ways and means were discussed that day, but to little practical purpose. Of course Aubrey must be informed of the good fortune which had fallen to him: and after some consideration, it was settled that if Hans could make arrangements with Mr Leigh, he should be the messenger in this direction, setting forth when Sunday was over. People did not rush off by the next train in those days, and scald their tongues with hot coffee in order to be in time.
The Saturday evening came, and with it the calm quiet which most Puritan families loved to have on the eve of the Lord’s Day. While it was not necessary, it was nevertheless deemed becoming to lay aside secular occupations, and to let worldly cares rest. There was therefore some astonishment in the parlour when a sudden rap came on the door, and Charity’s face and cap made their appearance.
“If you please, Madam, when’ll you be wanting your coach, think you?”
“My coach, Charity!” said Lady Louvaine in amazement.
Everybody was staring at Charity.
“It’s ready, Madam,” said that damsel with much placidity. “He’s only got to put the horses to, hasn’t ’Zekiel, and they’re at Tomkins’ stable yon, by th’ Tilt Yard—Spring Gardens, I reckon they call it.”
“Charity, lass, are you in your right senses, think you?” demanded Temperance.