Indeed, the shameful neglect of Mrs. More's servants, and their bad conduct, had even then been canva.s.sed by outsiders, though the old lady herself was perfectly unconscious of it.

The ingrat.i.tude of her servants, whom she had spoiled with such excessive indulgence, was a dark cloud over Hannah More's last days, and sent her forth at last, with all the weight of her years upon her, to seek a new home, and turn her back on Barley Wood for ever.

The girls made a quick toilette and then went down, linked arm in arm, to the dining room, where Miss Frowde awaited them.

The beautiful valley in which Wrington lies, stretched out before the windows, and the range of hills which enclosed it were shining in the full light of the July afternoon.

Miss Frowde was not very conversational; she asked a few common-place questions, to which Joyce exerted herself to reply, but Charlotte took refuge in silence; she was far too much occupied with considering what impression she was making, to talk easily and naturally, as her cousin did.

"I dare say you would like a turn in the grounds, after dinner," Miss Frowde said, "and I will inquire when dear Mrs. More would like to see you. It will only be one at a time; she is husbanding her strength for the Bible meeting, when seventeen or eighteen friends will dine here."

Presently one of the maid servants came into the room.

"Mrs. More wishes to see Miss _Fork_ner, and I was to say that the other might go into the village with you, Miss Frowde, if she pleased."

"You had better go immediately," Miss Frowde said to Joyce. "Dear Mrs.

More does not like to be kept waiting."

Joyce rose at once and followed the maid to a small sitting room, where Mrs. More was seated in a deep armchair.

A large table was near her, covered with books and papers, and a small fire burned upon the hearth.

Joyce felt as if she were going into the presence of royalty, and far more in awe of Mrs. More, than she had done when offering her the milk at the carriage door, before Fair Acres.

Indeed Hannah More had a certain queenly dignity about her, and the reflection of those palmy days when she was the admired of all admirers in the gay London world, the friend of Garrick and the great Dr.

Johnson, did, in some degree, remain with her always.

The spiritual life in which she had lived and moved for so many years, had lifted her far above the interests and pursuits which once she held to be the end and aim of life. Her religion was eminently practical, and to do good and to communicate was never forgotten. Nevertheless, the literary efforts which had made her famous, her brilliant conversation, her intellectual powers, had given her a certain tone and dignity, which while attractive, might yet be called the air of superiority, which in those days was conceded, to be as quite the proper att.i.tude for any woman who had made herself a name. Now, in the great crowd of authors and craftswomen of the pen, it is hard for anyone to lift her head above her neighbours.

A thing of the past indeed it is to remember how famous "the little Burney," as Dr. Johnson called her, became; how flattery was poured upon her, how no one dared to be jealous, because no one would dare to emulate her performances. To be great in London Society in Hannah More's early days, was to be great indeed. The author of "Percy" was presented with a laurel crown, the stems confined within an elegant ring, and Garrick himself read aloud the play to a select circle of admiring listeners!

But though history repeats itself, and fashion ruled then as now, in literature as in other things, I think there was more honest and kindly appreciation of the work of others than we have now-a-days.

The literary field was narrower, it is true, and therefore was not broken up into plots, each plot hedged in by various conceits--a barrier the uninitiated cannot pa.s.s. All flowers growing outside the barrier are called weeds; and if they are fragrant, they are p.r.o.nounced sickly; if bright and vivid in colour, common. I may be wrong, but I think this self-sufficient, dogmatic criticism is very much on the increase, and that the little jealousies and rivalries amongst men and women who follow the same profession in art or literature grow more frequent.

Tongue and pen are often both too sharp; and the superficial chatter about books and authors, pictures and music--both English and foreign--is too often pa.s.sed as the real coin of the great realm of literature, when it is but a base imitation, stamped, it may be, on a showy surface with the same token, but utterly worthless when the first brilliancy is worn off.

"Come, my dear Miss Falconer," was Mrs. More's greeting to Joyce; "come and sit near me, that we may have a pleasant chat. Tell me how you have sped since I saw you, and whether you have studied the Book I gave you."

"Yes, madam," Joyce said, as she seated herself on a high Chippendale chair, the seat covered with fine cross-st.i.tch, close to Mrs. More; "yes, madam, I have read all the pa.s.sages you marked; and I had no notion before that the Bible was so beautiful."

"Ah, my child, it is a deep mine; its treasures do not lie on the surface; and let me tell you that I, who have drunk of the waters at many springs, find in the Bible alone, the living fountain of water.

Your aunt told me she was anxious as to your education; she thought you needed more than your good father found it convenient to give you."

"Father has so many boys," Joyce said, "and, of course, boarding schools are very expensive. I have had to help mother a great deal at home, and I never wished to go to school. I think Aunt Let.i.tia means by education accomplishments like Charlotte's, and I have none of them. But," Joyce went on, "I have a very clever brother, Ralph, and, when he is at home for the holidays, I write his Latin exercises, and he corrects them, and I can read French with him; and then I know a good deal of natural history--because my brother Piers is lame, and nothing amuses him like collections of birds, and moths, and insects."

"Well," Hannah More said, smiling, "I think you have laid a very good foundation; upon this, as you grow older, you can build up many fair temples of knowledge, and I hope they will be ornamented by wisdom. You know my story, I dare say."

Joyce hesitated, "I know you write plays and books. We have 'Christian Morals,' and 'Village Politics.' But----"

"Oh," Hannah More said, "those are my published works. I was alluding to the story of my own life. I always like to bring it before the young, because I can say to them, I have tasted all the world can give, and found it vanity. My dear, if I were now depending on the favours of the great for happiness, or the showering upon me of the fame which my literary work brought me, where should I be? An old woman in her eightieth year, can no longer dine with bishops and princes of the land.

She can take no part in routs, and theatres would be a weariness; but, thank G.o.d, and I beg you, my child, to mark this, I turned from those vanities to strive to serve the living G.o.d when I was in my heyday. And why? Because I felt them then to be _but_ vanity, often vexation of spirit, and the higher part of me loathed the false l.u.s.tre of the gay world."

Joyce listened attentively to every word Mrs. More said, and her young heart gave in its allegiance to the beautiful old lady who, in her own brilliant style, told her of the days of her youth, and of many little incidents connected with the names of distinguished men and women who had pa.s.sed away.

"I expected opposition," she said with a sigh, "but we were a fourfold band of sisters then, and we could meet a legion of objectors with a bright face. Now, I alone am left, and can no longer give personal care to the work. But I have kindled the spark, with G.o.d's help, and I do trust the light will shine over the hills of Somersetshire when I am laid in yonder churchyard. The Mendip miners give me the most uneasiness; they are so rough, and wild, and lawless."

"Yes," Joyce said. "We, that is, Mr. Arundel and I, met the man who had been brought before the magistrates at Wells, and he knocked down Mr.

Arundel, and----"

"I heard of that. Poor Susan Priday, the man's daughter, has been a good girl, and has had a sad life indeed."

"I felt so sorry for her," Joyce said, "and I should like to help her.

She must be so unhappy with a bad father. If mother would let me, I should like to have her in the kitchen; but I know she would not allow it."

Mrs. More smiled.

"I suppose your good mother thinks the education in our school has spoiled Susan for service.

"Mother is a good mistress," Joyce ventured to say, "and cares for the maids, as maids, but she has a notion that people who have to earn their bread, ought not to be able to read."

"Ah! that is a notion many have shared with your mother. Why, when the great Edward Colston first proposed to begin the good work of education in Bristol, he was voted by the Mayor and Aldermen as a dangerous person, likely to turn the sons of the poor into vipers, who should sting the rich when once they were raised out of ignorance. All that feeling has pa.s.sed away in Bristol, as it will pa.s.s away in time in the country districts. Edward Colston's name is held now in honour; his school sends out useful members of society year by year. Then there is Robert Raikes at Gloucester, how his work has taken root. So I comfort myself with thinking that before this century has counted out its last year, Hannah More's schools for the sons of the soil under Mendip, will have won their way humbly but steadily to swell the great tide of progress which is bearing us on its breast. It is a wonderful age!" she continued. "G.o.d has shown us marvellous things. Steam has become our servant, and its concentrated force seems likely to move kingdoms, and verify the prophecy that men shall go to and fro on the earth. Then in our cities coal-gas is captured, and turns night into day. Who shall say what hidden forces yet lie undiscovered, needing only the brain to conceive, and the hand of some Watt to demonstrate the power, lying concealed in the mysteries of G.o.d's natural kingdom. Who was with you on Mendip when the rough fellow attacked you?"

"Mr. Arundel," Joyce said, in a low voice, the colour rising to her face.

Hannah More smiled, and said:

"Was he your _preux chevalier_?"

Joyce blushed a still rosier red.

"I don't understand," she said, simply.

"Your devoted knight!"

"Of course, how stupid; but I so seldom hear French spoken; and I expect Ralph and I have a strange p.r.o.nunciation."

"French p.r.o.nunciation can only be acquired by much speaking; and now finish the story of your knight."

"Oh, it was only that the man, Susan's father, was angry, and wanted to force me to give him money; and Mr. Arundel made him move out of the way, and then, of course, the man was furious, and hurled him down upon the heather and gorse. We had lost our way, and father had to come out with two men, and lanthorns to look for us."

All the time Joyce was speaking she felt those dark eyes were fixed on her, and she hurried on to the end of her story. Hannah More was too keen an observer of faces not to read what was written on Joyce's; but she only stroked the fair, rounded cheek gently, and said; "We shall be friends, I hope; there is only a short s.p.a.ce in earth left for me, but, long or short, you may reckon on my sympathy. We will talk about education to-morrow. I have some letters demanding attention. That pile is yet unread; many are begging letters, some are even less pleasant than that;" and the old lady sighed. Even then the dishonesty and extravagance of her household were beginning to be noticed outside Barley Wood. Although her own eyes were blinded as to the cause, she felt the results keenly.

This first day at Barley Wood was the beginning of a new life to Joyce.

While Charlotte in her secret heart found the country dull, and almost wished herself back in Wells, a new world opened for Joyce. Mrs. More would recite pa.s.sages from Milton's "Paradise Lost," and fill Joyce's mind with the beauties of the Garden of Eden, till she had thoughts for nothing else. Mrs. More told her she reminded her of a great man who on reading Milton for the first time, said he forgot that there was anyone else in the world but himself and Adam and Eve!

Charlotte dawdled over a bit of fancy work, which her aunt had hoped would awake Mrs. More's admiration, but as it met with but faint praise, Charlotte felt herself aggrieved, and made various uncomplimentary remarks, in private, upon the coa.r.s.e ap.r.o.ns which Miss Frowde produced as needlework which was _really_ wanted. But the stories of London life pleased Charlotte, and she would wake up to interest when Mrs. More described the grand routs where the elite of London were gathered; of Johnson and his witty speeches; of Garrick, and of the continual round of gaiety which she had led, till she awoke from a dream to realities, and from those vanities to serve the living G.o.d.

The Bible meeting at Wrington was the great event of the year, and the village was in holiday trim. The bells rang from the n.o.ble church tower; the school children, in clean white tippets and blue cotton frocks, walked in procession to Barley Wood, where tea was provided for parents and teachers, and several of those who had come to the meeting addressed them in simple words. Sir Thomas Acland had brought with him the Bishop of Ohio, and the good old man looked upon the scene before him, with eyes dim with emotion. Here in this Somersetshire village, lying under the range of low hills, had the influence of a good woman been felt. She had borne bitter scoffs and rudeness from her enemies; she had been laughed at even by her friends, and yet she had carried the banner of the Lord onward, and now in her old age the victory was won. The people loved her, and though there were malcontents in Wrington, as in every other place, still the feeling for the good work the four sisters had done, was stronger than that which was against it, and the Bible had become a treasure in many humble homes. No longer like that of which Joyce had spoken at Fair Acres--rarely opened and seldom read--nor like the one described by Hannah More herself as the only one she found at Cheddar, used to prop up a flower-pot in the window!