Amabel took to the harpsichord at once. I cannot say I ever liked it. I was fond of singing and of the lute, and I believe I might with proper instruction have become something of a proficient upon the latter. But I liked best of all to do fine needle work, for which I always drew my own patterns, mostly from nature.
That very afternoon, taking a longer walk than usual, we found ourselves outside the walls, where was quite a little coppice of wood and brambles. Here, I discovered some fern leaves of a kind quite new to me, and very graceful. Such things always gave me a degree of exquisite delight, such as I could never find words to express; and which I believe Amabel thought rather childish. I carried home a handful of the leaves and arranged them into a pattern.
Mrs. Thorpe had in her shop some beautifully fine and sheer linen, which she said came from China. I bought a square of this linen with a part of the guinea Mrs. Deborah had given me, and began a handkerchief, which so interested me, that I found myself in danger of forgetting my lessons altogether; till I made a positive rule to myself, that I would work at it only just so long every day.
If there was some trouble in being thus forced to decide for ourselves, there was also a good deal of pleasure, and it had this advantage; that our minds and wills were made stronger, instead of weaker by the process.
After a day or two, Mrs. Thorpe announced to us that she had found a lady who would come to us every day from nine till six; walk out with us and give us such instruction, especially in English, as was in her power. I confess I was not pleased with the prospect, and I suppose Mrs. Thorpe saw as much in my face, for she added—
"You know, ladies, I am only acting in accordance with Mrs. Deborah's orders. I dare say, you find it pleasanter to be by your two selves; but you know, my dears, that the pleasantest things are not always the best. Mrs. Cropsey is a very well-educated lady, who has seen good society in her day; but she has lately been left a widow, having lost her husband and two children, as it were, at one blow; and she is only too glad to do something to support herself—poor thing."
"Who was her husband?" asked Amabel.
"He was a clergyman of the church of England, Mrs. Amabel—a poor curate, to a gentleman who holds two livings, and a stall at Durham besides. Poor Mr. Cropsey caught a fever from a poor man he attended, and carried it home to his children. They just managed to make both ends meet in his lifetime, and you may guess there was not much left for his widow. I don't wish to speak evil of dignities, or to criticise my spiritual pastors, which is against the catechism, and bad manners besides; but I must say it does vex me to see Doctor Turnbull riding in his fine coach, with his lady and daughters, dressed out as never was, spending money like water; while the poor creatures that do all the real work, have hardly bread to eat, nor clothes to cover their backs and those of their children, not to mention money to lay up against a rainy day."
"Our priests do not marry!" observed Amabel, with a little tone of superiority. "So they have no cares of this world to distract them from their sacred duties."
Mrs. Thorpe smiled—a shrewd, slightly sarcastic smile, of which I had learned to be a little afraid.