"Poor woman!" said my mother. "Life must indeed be dreary to her here! She clearly cares for naught but gayety and finery, and they are as much out of her reach as if she were in purgatory!"
"I don't believe such a temper as hers could be very happy anywhere!" said I.
"Perhaps not, but yet my heart aches for her, poor thing! The change would be severe to any one, even to a woman who had many resources in herself, and how much more to one who knows no delight save fine clothes and fine company!"
"Methinks I should find it hard to be contented here!" I remarked. "I am sure I should not wish to sit down content with dirt and tatters and an ill-ordered family. I could find some days' pleasing employment in mending these hangings and cushions, and spinning new linen for bed and tables, and airing and ordering of chambers and the like. 'Till such things were done, I don't believe time would hang heavy on my hands!"
"You are a born housewife, Rosamond!" said my mother, smiling. "But you are right in this. I hope indeed you would never sit down content with any misorder or discomfort that could be remedied. That is but a poor kind of content. But, my child, we must strive to keep this poor lady in a good humor, for the sake of that unfortunate maiden. Your father tells me he is wholly inclined to take her in hand, and that Sir John is more than willing: but my Lady would fain bestow her and her goods on a convent, thinking thereby in some sort to benefit the soul of her unhappy son. I believe Sir John will have his own way, but it will be easier for all, if my Lady can be brought to consent too. I wonder where the child is?"
Mistress Warner here told my mother what she had overheard last night. My Lady was moved more than ordinary. Anything like oppression or injustice always rouses her anger.
"Nay then, is the woman base beyond hope," said she, "to visit her anger on the helpless child? Surely 'twas a kind providence brought us to the rescue of this innocent."
"My Lady, one of the women of the house told me last night that they all, save old Dorothy, believe that Mistress Joyce hath the evil eye," said Mistress Warner. "They say she overlooked the young master to his destruction. The lady herself tells them so. Do you think it can be true?"
"So they must bring their superstitions to bear against her, as well!" said my mother. "Nay, Warner, the evil eye is the eye that is full of hate, and covetousness, and uncharitableness. I see no such thing in this poor child's glances, do you?"
"No, madam; she looked harmless enough, for all I saw!" answered the bower-woman, who is a kind-hearted creature. "Even if she had fallen under the power of the devil, it would be a charity to rescue her, and methinks one who fears God has no need to fear any one less than He."