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Updated: August 8, 2024
Elizabeth's mind turned towards the strict practices of the Friends, as being those most likely to be helpful to her newly-adopted life. A visit paid to some members of the Society at Colebrook Dale, intensified and confirmed those feelings.
Johnson had commended strongly to all who sought the "improvement of the mind." In the summer of 1798, John Gurney took the whole of his seven daughters an excursion through parts of England and Wales. At Colebrook Dale, where they saw several relatives, members of the Society of Friends, Elizabeth Gurney received the deepest impressions.
I will take them up myself." "He won't eat 'em. He don't like 'em not none of them things." "I think he will if I tell him to. At all events, they are what he should eat, and you may prepare them as I said." "Very well, ma'am." Susan's lips came together in a thin, white line, and Mrs. Colebrook left the kitchen.
The Father of our George was Richard Herbert, the son of Edward Herbert, Knight, the son of Richard Herbert, Knight, the son of the famous Sir Richard Herbert of Colebrook, in the County of Monmouth, Banneret, who was the youngest brother of that memorable William Herbert, Earl of Pembroke, that lived in the reign of our King Edward the Fourth.
They were moving another way. We crept on again, stealthily. When, at last, after many minutes, we found ourselves beyond a sheltering belt of brushwood, we ventured to rise and speak. "Well?" I asked of Colebrook. "Did you discover anything?" He nodded assent. "Couldn't see him," he said shortly. "But he's there, right enough. White man. Heard 'em talk of him." "What did they say?"
"Take the air, indeed!" muttered Susan, watching from the kitchen window. "A whole lot of fresh air she'll get in Mis' McGuire's kitchen!" With another glance to make sure that Mrs. Nettie Colebrook was safely behind the McGuires' closed door, Susan crossed the kitchen and lifted the napkin of the breakfast tray. "Humph!" she grunted angrily, surveying the almost untouched breakfast.
Was the young lady Naomi Colebrook? I looked at Ambrose, and saw the answer in his face. Naomi Colebrook at last! A pretty girl, and, so far as I could judge by appearances, a good girl too. Our first impressions of people are, in nine cases out of ten, the right impressions.
To the juvenile imagination of those times, Sheffield was a huge jack-knife, Colebrook Dale a porridge-pot, and Paternoster Row a psalm-book, each in the generative case. How we young reapers used to discuss the comparative merits and meanings of those mysterious letters on our sickles, B.Y and I.R! What were they? Were they beginnings of words, or whole words themselves?
There was a choking cry, a swift rush of feet, then Mrs. Colebrook, on her knees, was sobbing at the bedside. "Oh, Keithie, Keithie, my poor blind boy! What will you do? How will you ever live? Never to see again, never to see again! Oh, my poor boy, my poor blind boy!" Susan, at the door, flung both hands above her head, then plunged down the stairs. "Fool!
I had a pride in the farm, miss, and a pride in my work; I bore with your brutish cousins' hatred of me; I was faithful to Mr. Meadowcroft's interests; all for your sake, Naomi Colebrook all for your sake! I have done with it now; I have done with my life at the farm. You will never be troubled with me again.
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