We followed Mrs. Thorpe into a kind of back-parlor, or better-most kitchen, I don't know just which to call it, where the table was set for several persons. Mrs. Thorpe placed Amabel and myself on either side of her, at the head of the table. She then rang a little hand bell, and two or three neat looking young women came in from another room, and took their places near the foot of the board. Mrs. Thorpe said grace, and Amabel and I crossed ourselves, as we had always been used to do. I saw one of the girls glance at another and smile contemptuously. Unluckily, Mrs. Thorpe saw it too.
"Betty Humble will leave the table," said she.
Betty colored furiously, and began to stammer some excuse, but Mrs. Thorpe made an imperative gesture, which sent Betty out of the room, bursting into tears as she shut the door behind her with more force than was quite needful. I felt sorry for the girl, though I had felt my cheeks burn the moment before, and I glanced at Amabel, rather hoping she would intercede for the banished Betty; but she said not a word, nor did anything in her face show that she was at all disturbed.
The supper was brought in by Betsy, the stout servant-maid, who waited at table more skillfully than I would have expected from her appearance. The meal was abundant, and nicely cooked, and, as it was the first meal I ever ate in England, I remember it well. We had a fine pair of roasted fowls, boiled potatoes, light as meal (the very first, by the way, that I had ever seen, for they have never been very commonly used in France, and at that time were not known in our parts). Also, we had a great bowl of frumenty, or wheat boiled with milk, and a mountain of a brown loaf.
I thought of our dear mothers and sisters in France, sitting down to their meal of coarse bread and milk, and not too much of that, and it gave me almost a guilty feeling. It seemed as if I had no right to the savory wing of fowl that Mrs. Thorpe put upon my plate, and the tears rose to my eyes in spite of me. Mrs. Thorpe noticed the change in my countenance, as, indeed, she always saw everything.
"What is it, my dear? Anything wrong?"
"No, madame," I answered, making a great effort to compose myself. And then, feeling that I owed her an explanation, I added in French, and in a low tone:
"I was thinking of the mothers and sisters at St. Jean, and wishing they had my supper."
"Bless your kind heart, Mrs. Lucy, I wish they had!" answered the good woman. "I am sure they should be heartily welcome to the best my house could afford, if they were only here, or I could send it to them. But do not let the thought spoil your supper, my dear. If those who give to the poor lend to the Lord, the good ladies have a fine estate out at interest into which they will come some day. Anne Thwaites, don't let me see you bend over to your meat in that way—you will be growing as crooked as a rams-horn before you are forty."
Anne, a delicate looking girl, pulled herself up, blushing and smiling at the same time. So the meal proceeded with a little conversation, and now and then a remark addressed to the apprentice lasses, for so I found them to be.