"It"s I that have been happy! And not least in knowing that you will do us all credit." She knit her brows. "You are different from all the rest of us, Charles; I cannot explain how. But, sure, there"s a Providence in it, that you, who are meant for different fortunes--"
"How different?"
"Why, you will take our kinsman"s offer, of course. You will move in a society far above us--go into Parliament--become a great statesman--"
"My dear Hetty, what puts that into your head? I have refused."
"Refused!" She set down the kettle and gazed at him. "Is this John"s doing?" she asked slowly.
"Why should it be John"s doing?" He was nettled, and showed it.
"I am old enough to make a choice for myself."
She paid no heed to this disclaimer. "They are perfectly ruthless,"
she went on.
"Who are ruthless?"
"Father and John. They would compa.s.s heaven and earth to make one proselyte; and the strange thing to me is that John at least does it in a cold mechanical way, almost as if his own mind stood outside of the process. Father is set on his inheriting Wroote and Epworth cures, John on saving his own soul; let them come to terms or fight it out between them. But how can it profit Epworth or John"s soul that they should condemn _you_, as they have condemned mother and all of us, to hopeless poverty? What end have they in view? Or have they any? For what service, pray, are you held in reserve?"
She paused. "Somehow I think they will not wholly succeed, even though they have done this thing between them. You will fall on your feet; your face is one the world will make friends with. You may serve their purpose, but something of you--your worldly happiness, belike--will slip and escape from the millstones which have ground the rest of us to powder."
She picked up the kettle again and turned her back upon him while she filled the tea-pot at the small table. For the first time in their talks she had spoken bitterly.
"Nevertheless, I a.s.sure you, I refused of my own free will."
"Is there such a thing as free will in our family? I never detected it. As babes we were yoked to the chariot to drag Jack"s soul up to the doors of salvation. I only rebelled, and--Charles, I am sorry, but not all penitent."
He ignored these last words. "You are quoting from Molly, I think.
She and Jack seldom agree."
"Because, dear soul, she reads that Jack despises while he uses her.
He looks upon her as the weak one in the team; he doubts she may break down on the road, and she, too, looks forward to it, though not with any fear."
"For some reason, father allows her to talk to him as no one else does--not even mother. Do you know that one day last summer father and I were discussing Jack and the chance of his ever settling at Epworth; for this is in the old man"s thoughts now, almost day and night. We were in the study by the window, and Molly at the table making a fair copy of the morning"s work on Job; we did not think she heard us. All of a sudden she looked up and quoted "Doth the hawk fly by _thy_ wisdom and stretch her wings toward the south?"
I supposed she was repeating it aloud from her ma.n.u.script, but father knew better and swung round upon her. "Do you presume, then, to know whither or how far Jack will fly?" he demanded. She turned a queer look upon him, not flinching as I expected, and "I shall see him,"
she answered, using Balaam"s words; "I shall see him, but not now: I shall behold him, but not nigh." And with that she dropped her head and went on quietly with her writing. As for father, if you"ll believe me, it simply dumbfounded him; he hadn"t a word!"
"And I will tell you why. Once on a time that weak darling stood up for me to his face. She would not tell me what happened. But I believe that ever since father has been as nearly afraid of her as of anyone in the world. . . . And now I want a promise. You say you have been happy in these talks of ours; and heaven knows I have been happier than for many a long day. Well, I want you to tell Molly about me--alone, remember--for of them all she only tried to help me, and believes in me still."
"Why, of course I shall."
"And," Hetty smiled, "they have no poet among them now. You might send me some of your verses for a keepsake."
Charles grew suddenly red in the face. "Why--who told you?" he stammered.
"Oh, my dear," she laughed merrily, "one divines it! the more easily for having known the temptation."
He had set down his tea-cup and was standing up now, in his young confusion fingering the sewing she had laid aside.
"What is this you are doing?" he asked, with his eyes on the baby-linen; and though he uttered the first question that came into his head, and merely to cover his blushes, as he asked it the truth came to him, and he blushed more redly than ever.
Hetty blushed too. She saw that he had guessed at length, but she saw him also clothed in a shining innocence. She felt suddenly that, though she might love him better, there were privacies she could not discuss with Charles as with John. And for the moment Charles seemed to her the more distant and mysterious of the two.
What she answered was--"We shall be following you back to Lincolnshire in a few days. I am to stay at Louth, in the house where William has found lodgings for his father--who was born at Louth, you know, and has now determined to end his days there.
William will not be with me at first; he has to wind up the business at Lincoln and looks for some unpleasantness, as he has made himself responsible for all the old man"s debts. I may even find my way to Wroote before facing Louth."
"To Wroote?"
"As a moth to the old cruel flame, dear. They will not take me in: but I know where to find a bedroom. Women have curious fancies at times; and I feel as if I may die very likely, and I want to see their faces first."
She stepped to him and kissed him hurriedly, hearing her husband"s step on the stairs. "Remember to speak with Molly!"
CHAPTER II.
EXTRACTED FROM THE WESLEY CORRESPONDENCE.
1. From Charles Wesley at Oxford to his brother John at Stanton in Gloucestershire.
January 20th, 1727.
Poor Sister Hetty! "twas but a week before I left London that I knew she was at it. Little of that time you may be sure, did I lose, being with her almost continually; I could almost envy myself the doat of pleasure I had crowded within that small s.p.a.ce. In a little neat room she had hired, did the good-natured, ingenuous, contented creature watch, and I talk, over a few short days which we both wished had been longer.
As yet she lives pretty well, having but herself and honest W. W. to keep, though I fancy there"s another a-coming.
Brother Sam and sister are very kind to her, and I hope will continue so, for I have cautioned her never to contradict my sister, whom she knows. I"d like to have forgot she begs you"d write to her, at Mrs. Wakeden"s in Crown Court, Dean Street, near Soho Square.
2. From Mary Wesley (Molly) to her brother Charles at Oxford (same date).
You were very much mistaken in thinking I took ill your desiring my sister Emily to knit you another pair of gloves. What I meant was to my brother Jack, because he gave her charge to look to my well-doing of his: but I desire you no more to mention your obligation to me for the gloves, for by your being pleased with them I am fully paid.
Dear brother, I beg you not to let the present straits you labour under to narrow your mind, or render you morose or churlish, but rather resign yourself and all your affairs to Him who best knows what is fittest for you, and will never fail to provide for whoever sincerely trusts in Him. I think I may say I have lived in a state of affliction ever since I was born, being the ridicule of mankind and reproach of my family; and I dare not think G.o.d deals hardly with me, and though He has set His mark upon me, I still hope my punishment will not be greater than I am able to bear; nay, since G.o.d is no respecter of persons, I must and shall be happier in that life than if I had enjoyed all the advantages of this.
My unhappy sister was at Wroote the week after you left us, where she stayed two or three days, and returned again to Louth without seeing my father. Here I must stop, for when I think of her misfortunes, I may say with Edgar, "O fortune! . . ."
3. From Mary Wesley to her brother John. Sent at the same date and under the same cover.
Though I have not the good fortune to be one of your favourite sisters, yet I know you won"t grudge the postage now and then, which, if it can"t be afforded, I desire that you will let me know, that I may trouble you no further. I am sensible nothing I can say will add either to your pleasure or your profit; and that you are of the same mind is evidently shown by not writing when an opportunity offered. But why should I wonder at any indifference shown to such a despicable person as myself?
I should be glad to find that miracle of nature, a friend which not all the disadvantages I labour under would hinder from taking the pains to cultivate and improve my mind; but since G.o.d has cut me off from the pleasurable parts of life, and rendered me incapable of attracting the love of my relations, I must use my utmost endeavour to secure an eternal happiness, and He who is no respecter of persons will require no more than He has given. You may now think that I am uncharitable in blaming my relations for want of affection, and I should readily agree with you had I not convincing reasons to the contrary; one of which is that I have always been the jest of the family--and it is not I alone who make this observation, for then it might very well be attributed to my suspicion--but here I will leave it and tell you some news.
Mary Owran was married to-day, and we only wanted your company to make us completely merry; for who can be sad where you are?
Please get Miss Betsy to buy me some silk to knit you another pair of gloves, and I don"t doubt you will doubly like the colour for the buyer"s sake.
My sister Hetty"s child is dead, and your G.o.dson grows a lovely boy, and will, I hope, talk to you when he sees you: which I should be glad to do now.
4. From Martha Wesley (Patty) to her brother John.
Feb. 7th, 1727.
I must confess you had a better opinion of me than I deserved: for jealousy did indeed suggest that you had very small kindness for me. When you sent the parcel to my sister Lambert, and wrote to her and sister Emme, and not to me, I was much worse grieved than before. Though I cannot possibly be so vain as to think that I do for my own personal merits deserve more love than my sisters, yet can you blame me if I sometimes wish I had been so happy as to have the first place in your heart?