BOOK I.

Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

[Illustration: "The danger is over. Look up and see your fallen

adversary."]

_[The Stanton-Corbet Chronicles.]_

_[Year 1684]_

_Through_

_Unknown Ways_

_An Old-World Story_

BY

L. E. GUERNSEY

_[Lucy Ellen Guernsey]_

AUTHOR OF

"LADY BETTY'S GOVERNESS," "LADY ROSAMOND'S BOOK,"

"THE FOSTER-SISTERS," ETC.

NEW EDITION

LONDON

JOHN F. SHAW AND CO.

48 PATERNOSTER ROW

CONTENTS.

BOOK I. December 10, 1684.

BOOK II. August 1, 1685.

BOOK III. Studley Hall, 1687.

[Illustration]

THROUGH UNKNOWN WAYS.

[Illustration]

BOOK I.

_December 10, 1684._

PERHAPS I may as well begin this book by telling how I came to write

it at all. Lady Corbet, my mistress (I suppose I ought to say mine

"honored" mistress, but I sha'n't: I am going to have the comfort of

speaking my mind in these pages, if nowhere else). But to begin again,

in a more orderly fashion. Lady Corbet, with whom I am living as

waiting-gentlewoman, companion, and general butt for ill-humors,—there

I go again,—well, Lady Corbet took it in her head to give me the use of

this cabinet. She was making a tour of inspection of the whole house to

which we have just removed, and had been put into a better humor than

was usual with her so early in the day by finding in this very cabinet

a purse with three gold pieces and some silver, left here I suppose by

Sir Charles's first wife,— poor, pretty Lady Jemima, whose portrait by

Lely hangs in the great parlor. My lady clutched the purse as a dog

snaps at a bone, and dropped it into her pocket. Then she took up a

knot or favor of rose-colored ribbon spangled with silver which lay

beside it, still fresh and pretty, and smelling of roses like every

thing else in the cabinet.

"See there, child!" said she, turning to me. "The poor bedizened thing

had to leave all her finery and fallals behind her when she went to the

grave. There is a lesson for you."

"And her money also, madam," said Mrs. Williams, her woman, who had

followed us with a light cloak which she laid about Lady Corbet's

shoulders. Mrs. Williams is not afraid of my lady, as I am. But then,

she can leave when she pleases.

"What do yo you mean, Williams?" asked my lady. "Of course I know that.

We must leave every thing behind us when we die. You have heard me say

that a thousand times."

"Not quite every thing," said Mrs. Williams. "I think, my lady, this

would be a good room for Mrs. Dolly. It is not near enough for her to

disturb you, and yet she can hear when you whistle."

My heart jumped at this proposal, but, knowing my lady, I was careful

not to show any pleasure. On the contrary, when Mrs. Williams appealed

to me, I answered, "It would do well enough, I supposed."

"Well enough! Yes, I think it will do well enough and too well for a

chit like you, since it has served an earl's daughter in its time,"

said my lady tartly. "You shall have this room, and no other, do you

hear? And you can have this cabinet to keep your finery in."

"Yes, I have so much finery!" I could not help saying.

"Oh, you are not so badly off as all that!" answered my lady. "One

would think you had not clothes to your back!"

"Mrs. Dolly will need some new gowns, my lady," said Mrs. Williams. "I

had better buy her a camlet for Sundays, and some stuff for every day."

"Nonsense! You can make over my gray camlet for her, if she needs it.

However, I don't mind for once. Here, child, is a guinea for you, and

mind you take care of it. You were best let Williams buy your gowns,

however. There, I won't go any farther to-day. Tell Jeremy to bring

your mail up here, and you can be putting your things in order while I

am resting. But don't disturb me with your noise, and be ready to read

to me when I wake."

This conversation took place the day before yesterday, on which day my

Lady Corbet removed from her own house, where she has lived ever since

she became a widow, to this which was the mansion of her late husband,

Sir Charles Corbet. She has never been here before since his death,

but has lived in her own house in the city. But the land having become

valuable, and this house standing empty, she all at once made up her

mind to remove. The house was already furnished, so it was no great

trouble. For some reason which I don't understand, it has never been

lived in since Sir Charles died, and was damp and dingy enough. But a

few charwomen, under Mrs. Williams's active superintendence, soon gave

it another aspect, and now it is nice and pleasant, and even my lady

admits is far more sunny and healthful than her city abode.

For my part, I am glad of the change with all my heart. It "is" a

change, for one thing, and I have had but little variety heretofore.

Then we are at the court end of the town, not far from Whitehall,

and there is a deal of coming and going of fine equipages and of

well-dressed ladies and gentlemen. Best of all, I can see from mine own

window a good piece of the park and of the water where the king keeps

his tame fowls. They say he walks there early every morning: so, if I

rise soon enough, I may chance to see him.

To return to my story. I unpacked my mail, which was no heavy task,

seeing I have so few personal belongings, and then set myself to

examine the cabinet. It is large and very pretty, inlaid with ivory

and brass work, and having many drawers and compartments. I discovered

nothing save a few old-fashioned trinkets in a private drawer, some

odds and ends of ribbon and lace, and a great heap of letters and

bills, very few of which were receipted. There were two or three

cupboards in the room. And on the top shelf of one of these I deposited

all the papers, meaning to look over the letters at my leisure.

In clearing out one of the compartments, I touched a spring, it

seems; for the whole panel at the back slipped aside, and disclosed a

tolerably deep recess, wherein was a pile of books, neatly bound and

clasped. Eagerly I pulled them out and opened them, hoping to find

something in the way of entertaining reading, but they were all blank

paper. In the beginning of the largest was written, in a somewhat stiff

hand, this inscription:

"When I was wedded, my dear and honored mother gave me a set of books

like to these, in order that I might keep an account of my private

expenses, and also set down such matters of interest as I might wish to

remember, and such pieces of devotion as should be useful to me. I have

followed her counsel in this matter all my life, and have found great

benefit therein. I give these books to my dear daughter Jemima that she

may follow the same practice."

But it seems Lady Jem never did follow it to any great extent; for

the books are all blank, with the exception of a few items set down

on the first page of the account book, and two or three receipts for

washes and cordials in the others. I was musing over the old-fashioned,

cramped handwriting, and wondering what the good old lady would have

said to her daughter's gay career,—but she died, happily or unhappily,

soon after Lady Jem's marriage,—when the thought occurred to me, why

should not I keep a journal, and so have some place to pour out my

thoughts, which place I have not now.

Mrs. Williams is kind to me always, and I believe she is truly my

friend, but she never encourages me to talk about myself or my

mistress. Perhaps she is right and wise, but, at any rate, that is her

way. I used to make something of a confidant of Mrs. Ursula Robertson,

my lady's cousin, who visits here now and then. But one day I heard her

repeating to my lady some slighting remarks which Mrs. Pendergast, the

minister's wife, had made about her, and that was enough for me.

"A dog that will fetch a bone will carry a bone," is an old, and mayhap

a somewhat vulgar, proverb, but it is a true one. I have no doubt now

that she led me on to say things about my mistress which she afterward

repeated to her, and thus helped to set her against me.

Well, all of a sudden the thought came into my mind, "Why should not I

make a friend of these books, and confide to them. They at least, will

not tattle again, since I have a snug hiding-place for them."

I am usually sure of two hours every day, while my lady takes her

afternoon nap, and I can sometimes gain another by early rising in

summer,—not at this time of year, however, for my lady keeps count of

every inch of candle burned in the house.

_December 21._

It was late when I found my treasures yesterday, and I had little

time to write, but my lady to-day dismissed me earlier than usual,

and I hastened to my retreat. I cannot enough thank Mrs. Williams for

securing it to me. Where we lived before, my room was directly over my

lady's, and I could not stir but she heard me, but here I might dance

a reel, and she be none the wiser. But I said I would begin with the

story of my life, and here it is.

I was born on Christmas Day in 1667, and ought therefore to be a very

lucky child, but my luck, if I ever fulfil my destiny, is yet to come.

I do not remember my father at all. He was a cousin of Sir Charles

Corbet's, and died fighting the Moors at Bombain¹—that barren piece of

the queen's dowry, which is like to cost a good deal more than it will

ever come to. (I believe, after all, they were Indians and not Moors,

and that the Moors live at Tangier: but it does not greatly matter.)

¹ What we now call Bombay.

My mother being left a widow, with but small means,—for she never had

even my father's back pay, much less the pension which was promised

her,—bethought herself of turning her very good education to account

by opening a school for young ladies at Hackney, where we then lived.

And an opportunity offering, she went into partnership with a lady who

had for a long time kept a boarding-school. Mrs. Price was her name,

and she was a wealthy woman. She was getting on in years, and needed

an assistant. And knowing of my mother, she sent for her, and proposed

to put into her hands the active duties of the school, she herself

remaining at the head of the establishment. My mother jumped at the

chance, for it was truly a good one, better than she had any reason

to expect. It gave her the opportunity of learning the ways of a good

school, and at the same time of educating me, then a tall girl of five

years old.

But here my dear mother made a great mistake. She put all her little

capital, some hundreds of pounds, into the hands of Mrs. Price's man of

business, without a scrap of acknowledgment,—not even a receipt. He was

Mrs. Price's nephew, and he made great professions of piety. His aunt

trusted him entirely, and my poor mother thought she could do no less.

All went well enough for some years. My mother managed the school and

the young ladies, and I went on with my education. I was always fond

of my book, and especially of my music and languages. And at fifteen I

could write and read well, speak French and a little Italian, dance,

and play on the lute and virginals. I had my little troubles and school

scrapes, of course, and was crossed and contradicted, like other young

things. But I do not believe many people have had a happier life than I

enjoyed up to that time.

Then my troubles began. Mrs. Price died first. She had always said

she meant to leave the school and the house to my mother, having no

near kin but her nephew, who was rich already. But no will was to be

found. Mr. Harpe—Harpy he ought to have been called—took possession

of every thing, even to the poor lady's clothes, and coolly told my

mother he did not mean to continue the school, and so should have no

occasion for her services. And when she demanded the return of the

three hundred pounds she had put into his hands, he had the audacity

to deny the whole thing, and defy her to prove that he owed her any

thing, and she could not prove it. Mrs. Price, the only person knowing

to the transaction, was dead and gone. And, as I said, mother had not

a receipt or a scrap of paper to substantiate her claim. She had ten

pounds in her pocket, and Mr. Harpe had the generosity to give her ten

more, saying, that though she had tried to wrong him, he would not turn

her out penniless, and adding something in his sanctimonious tone about

returning good for evil, which made me long to choke him.

It must have gone hard with mother to take the money, for she was a

high-spirited woman, but I suppose she thought of me, and put her pride

in her pocket. A good woman lived near us whose daughter had been my

school friend. Poor Emma had died not long before of a waste, and my

mother had helped to nurse her. This good lady gave us a home, though

she was far from being rich. And in her house, my dear mother died when

I was sixteen. She said on her death-bed that she wished she could take

me with her, and I am sure I wish she had. Bab Andrews was reading

the other day of some Indians who buried girl babies with their dead

mothers. I am not sure but it is a good way.

The lady with whom I lived, Mrs. Jenkins, was related to Mrs. Williams,

my Lady Corbet's woman. Through her, she made known to Sir Charles

Corbet, my kinsman, my forlorn condition, and he and Mrs. Williams

somehow coaxed my lady to take me into her service. And here I have

been for two miserable years, the slave of her whims, and the butt of

her ill-temper. Sir Charles was good to me, in his careless way, while

he lived, but he died only a year after my entrance into the family.

They say he married my lady for her money, and because she promised to

pay his debts. If so, I am sure he paid dearly for the help she gave

him. Such a life as she led him! But he was a man, and could get away

from home. And now and then he would assert himself, and fairly make

her afraid of him, as when she insisted on removing the likeness of

Lady Jemima, which I have mentioned before, from the drawing-room. I

expected to see the picture consigned to the garret when we came back

here, but I do believe she has a superstitious dread of touching it.

When Sir Charles lay on his death-bed, he called me to him one day, and

gave me a gold chain, with a little locket attached to it, in the shape

of a small egg, bidding me put it on and wear it, but secretly. Then

calling on Dr. Clark and his own man, who were both in the room, he

bade them bear witness that he gave me the locket.

"Promise me that you will never open it till you are married, and then

only on some pinch, when you need money: and, above all, never let my

wife see it. Promise me!" he said earnestly, holding my hand with a

clasp that hurt me.

"I promise," said I.

"That is well," he answered. "Now look in the back of yonder drawer,

and bring me a picture you will find there."

I did so. It was a miniature of Lady Jemima, with a chain attached.

"Put it round my neck," he said to his man Richards, who was waiting on

him.

Richards did so, I helping him. Sir Charles thanked us both, and kissed

me. Seeing a change in his face, which I knew too well, I ventured to

suggest that he should send for a clergyman.

"Do, Sir Charles! It can do no harm," urged poor Richards, the tears

running down his face, for he loved his master. "Do let me or Mrs.

Dolly run for Dr. Gibson."

Sir Charles shook his head, with a faint smile. "No, no!" said he. "At

least, I will make no false pretences."

"But, dear cousin, it need not be a pretence," I said. "Do but try to

trust in God."

He shook his head again. "No, child: I have doubted so long, I have

lost the power of believing. Dress me for the grave yourself, Richards,

and see that the picture lies on my heart."

"At least let Mrs. Dolly call my lady," said the doctor, for he changed

more and more.

"No, no! Let me at least die in peace. I am glad she is not here." And

in a moment he was gone.

My lady made no great pretence of grief for her husband, beyond putting

on very deep weeds. I do not think she ever cared for him. He married

for money, and she because she had an ambition for title and fashion.

Both were disappointed in a great measure: for he was ashamed of her,

and would never take her to court; and her money was all tied up in

her own hands. She gave him what she liked, and I fancy that was very

little.

Of course I never told my lady of Sir Charles's dying gift, and should

not, even if I had not promised. She would insist on opening it, and

would probably take it away from me altogether. I cannot open the

locket myself, if I would. It has no visible opening, though of course

there must be one somewhere. And I would not if I could—at least, I

think not.

_December 24._

Christmas Eve—but one must not dare to say "Christmas" in this house.

At Mrs. Price's school we used to have fine doings on Christmas Eve

for the family, and those of the ladies who did not go home for the

holidays. We used to dress up the great schoolroom with ivy and holly,

and Mrs. Price would always have a branch of mistletoe hung in the

midst, to keep up old fashions, as she said; though her pious nephew,

Mr. Harpe, shook his head at it, and said it was a relic of paganism

and unfit for a Christian household. Then we had grand games of "hunt

the slipper," "hoodman blind," and "forfeits," ending off at nine with

a fine hot supper of spiced frumenty and plum-porridge.

On Christmas Day we all went to church, and came home to a dinner of

beef, fowls, and plum-pudding for all the household. Mistress Price

did love to see happy faces about her, and she had an assistant,

like-minded with herself, in dear mother. After dinner we used to carry

little gifts we had made to the poor old people and orphan children

who lived at some old almshouses which joined our garden at the

back,—another practice to which Mr. Harpe objected,—and when we came

home, we found each a pretty Christmas-box by her plate at supper-time.

My last one, I know, was a prayer-book bound in purple leather. I had

it for a long time, but unluckily one day my lady caught sight of it,

and took it away, saying she would have no such rags of popery under

her roof. Since then I have never seen one, nor have I been inside a

church since I came to this house. My lady never goes to any place of

worship. She says she is not able, though she can go to other places

when she has a mind. I heard Mr. Baxter remonstrating with her about it

the last time he was here. She answered shortly, that she best knew the

state of her own health, adding,—

"But I hate prelacy and popery and all their adherents as much as you

do, Mr. Baxter."

"Madam," said the old gentleman, "I must tell you that a religion which

has no foundation but hatred is not likely to be very acceptable to the

God of love."

Whereat my lady looked blacker than a thundercloud, but she stands

too much in awe of Mr. Baxter to fall upon him. However, she took it

out on me afterward. I could not blame Mr. Baxter if he did hate the

prelatists, for certainly he has had very hard measure, but no one

has ever molested my lady. But I don't think Mr. Baxter has any such

feeling. Certainly I too have had hard measure from Mr. Harpe and

my lady, but I don't hate all Presbyterians for their sake. On the

contrary, I am very sorry for them, and think them very hardly dealt

by. And I do like Mr. Baxter and the Pendergasts.

I am indebted to Mr. Baxter for a good turn, and I shall not forget it.

One day when I went out alone, I found on a bookstall a book new to me.

It was a kind of fable or allegory, called "The Pilgrim's Progress;"

and, after reading a few pages therein, I took such a fancy to it

that I bought it for sixpence. I was so silly as to take it out one

day in my lady's room, and of course she came in and caught me. She

took the book away, and was going to burn it, but at Mrs. Williams's

intercession she kept it to show to Mr. Baxter, whom she expected that

evening. He took it and looked it over with interest.

"I have heard of the volume, but never have seen it before," said he.

And then turning to me, with his usual politeness he added, "With your

leave, Mrs. Dolly, I will take the book home and examine it at my

leisure."

"Of course you can do so," said my lady, taking the words out of my

mouth as I was about to answer. "'Tis not for her to say what books

she shall read, I trove. But is not this Bunyan a Quaker or some such

thing? I am sure I have heard so."

"He is an Anabaptist, and so in some sort a heretic, no doubt,"

answered Mr. Baxter, "but, from all I have heard of him, I believe that

he is a good man, and preaches the root of the matter."

He took the book away with him, and I never expected to see it again,

but he returned it the next day with a note, saying that he could

honestly recommend the piece as not only orthodox, but edifying, and

likely to interest young people, whose imaginations were naturally

taken with truth conveyed in the form of an allegory or tale. He also

enclosed with it a sermon on the peculiar errors of the Anabaptists,

which he hoped I would read. And so I did, for I read it aloud to my

lady. I can't say I was much the wiser; for by long practice on the

kind of books my lady affects, I have learned the art of reading aloud

tolerably well, and thinking my own thoughts at the same time.

I began to read "The Pilgrim's Progress" to her, but she soon stopped

me, saying it was only a fairy tale, just fit for such fools as I was.

My own notion is that it stirred up her conscience, and that she did

not like the feeling. So I had my book to myself. And I have read it

more than once, though it makes me uncomfortable. For, if it be true,

what is my condition? I know very well I am not religious. I do not

even pretend to be so any more. Only that I know a few people like Mr.

Baxter and Mrs. Williams, and that I remember my own mother, I should

think all religion a mere pretence and hypocrisy. My lady never goes

to any place of worship, as I said. I don't believe her health has any

thing to do with the matter, however. I think she is afraid of fines

and sequestrations, and of being asked for money. I know she was very

angry at being asked to contribute to a fund for the support of some

poor minister's family, so much so that when Mr. Pendergast came again

she would not see him. It must be very disagreeable to be on the losing

side, and yet take no comfort in one's religion, but, to be sure, she

has the pleasure of being contrary.

There is her whistle, and I know by the very sound that she is in a

temper. I shall not go till I have put away my books, however. She may

as well scold for one thing as another.

_December 25, Christmas Day._

But not much like Christmas. Nothing would serve my lady but a dinner

of dried ling and parsnips. However, Mary Mathews had leave to go

see her mother, and she brought me home a mince-pie. How homelike it

tasted! In the evening, however, we did have some diversion. Ursula

Robertson came in, and brought her cousin, who has just returned from

Scotland where he had a command. He is a fine, handsome, personable

man, and polite in a frank, soldierly fashion, and evidently took

my lady's fancy; at which I wondered, for certainly he makes no

pretensions to sanctity.

"Where have you served?" she asked him by and by.

"At Tangier mostly, madam, and since then in Scotland."

Now, we all know what service in Scotland means. And I expected to see

my lady fly out, but she did not.

"You will find England but dull after such a stirring life abroad,"

said she. "Why did you come home?"

"On account of sickness, madam. I was so ill that my life was despaired

of, and an old wound that I got fighting the Moors broke out again."

And then he added some compliment about the sight of fair English faces

working a cure, with a deep reverence, as he spoke, to Ursula and me.

He makes a very graceful bow.

"I will not have Dolly's head turned with compliments," said my lady.

"She is quite vain enough as it is. And what are you about now, if one

may ask?"

"My good lady the Duchess of Portsmouth has promised to use her

interest to procure for me a small place about the court," answered Mr.

Morley (that is his name, though I forgot to say so); "no great matter,

but enough for the modest wants of a poor cavalier till he has the luck

to make his fortune."

"Oh, you think to marry an heiress, I dare say!" said my lady sharply.

And then, some other guests coming in, she turned to them, and left Mr.

Morley to entertain us young ones.

I must say he made himself very agreeable. When they were going away,

Ursula seized a chance to ask me how I liked her cousin.

"Well enough, all I have seen of him," said I. "But what do your father

and your aunt and uncle Pendergast say to him?"

"Oh, my father does not trouble himself about him, and my uncle and

aunt have not seen him! But is he not a gallant gentleman? It was a

fine thing his knowing the Duchess of Portsmouth when they were both

young. But for her, he never would have got this promotion. 'Tis a fine

thing to have court influence," she added somewhat enviously. "But of

course we poor Presbyterians can't hope for such a thing."

"I don't believe your father or your uncle Pendergast would accept of

promotion from such a quarter," said I.

"Oh, well, of course it is different with a young man and a soldier,

and my cousin Morley does not pretend to be religious!"

But I don't see what difference that makes. If there be any thing in

religion at all, then the neglecting thereof cannot be an excuse for,

but only an aggravation of, wrong-doing.

_Twelfth Day, 1685._

I wish holidays could be left out of the year, or else that I could

forget them, since they only bring up sorrowful memories. What famous

Twelfth Day games we used to have at Mrs. Price's! The very last one I

spent there, I got the bean in the cake, and was crowned with a fine

coronet of gilt paper, beset with beads, which dear mother had prepared

on the sly for a surprise to us. To think that is only two years ago:

it seems like a lifetime.

However, I did have something like a holiday to-day, for my lady, being

in a wonderful good humor, allowed me to go with Ursula to her uncle's

house, that we might see the king passing to dine with the mayor and

aldermen. I had a good look at his Majesty and the Duke of York. They

have both harsh features, and could never be called handsome if they

were not royal personages, but I like the king's face the best of the

two, because it is the better-natured. I saw that he smiled kindly on a

poor woman who pressed forward to put a petition into his hand. I saw,

too, that he presently let it drop without ever looking at it: so his

good-nature did not amount to very much. The Duke of York looked black

as night all the time.

"His Majesty is not looking well," said a voice at my elbow. I turned

with a start, and saw Mr. Morley.

"How came you hither?" asked Ursula rather tartly.

"What a question! Ask the iron how it comes to the lodestone," answered

Capt. Morley, with a deep reverence which included both of us. "Not

being in waiting to-day, what more natural than that I should give a

visit to my fair kinswoman, and, learning that she was gone abroad,

what more natural than that I should follow her?"

"You have learned your courtier's trade already," said Ursula.

"Soldiers do not pay such fine compliments, do they, Dolly?"

"How should I know," I answered, "since I never knew either courtier or

soldier in all my life?"

"No, I fancy good Mrs. Price did not allow such dangerous creatures in

her bounds," returned Ursula, whereat Capt. Morley said something about

the dragon that kept the gardens where grew the golden fruit. "But we

all know that the sweetest flowers bloom in shady places," he added, at

which Ursula looked ready to bite.

I don't know why he should bestow so many fine phrases on me, unless he

wishes to make Ursula jealous; and I don't know why he should wish to

do that, for he must know that his cousin is contracted already to a

merchant in the city. And even if she were not, her father would hardly

give her to a needy courtier, and one, too, who has been a persecutor

under Claverhouse. Mr. Andrews, Ursula's servant, coming in at that

moment, Mr. Morley devoted himself specially to me, and I must say made

himself very agreeable.

Ursula recovered her good humor in some degree when Mr. Andrews made

his appearance, but I could see she was all the time listening to hear

what Mr. Morley was saying to me. Mr. Andrews is a fine, personable

man, rich, and of good address and education. I think she might be

satisfied with him.

"I hear the king is not quite himself these days," said Mr. Andrews,

addressing himself to Mr. Morley.

"'Tis true, sir, I am sorry to say," answered Mr. Morley. "I trust it

is nothing serious, however, no more than a passing indisposition."

"And so must all," remarked Mr. Andrews, "since his Majesty hath no son

to succeed him."

"Then you are not one of those who believe in the black box?"

"What, in the Duke of Monmouth's claim? Not I, sir!" answered Mr.

Andrews, laughing. "I would as soon believe in mine own." And then,

more seriously, "I trust no one will be so ill-advised and cruel as

to set on that young man to put forward a claim which can never be

substantiated."

"You would perhaps rather have Oliver back!" said Ursula maliciously.

"We all know what your father's politics are, Mr. Andrews. He was one

of Oliver's Ironsides, was he not?"

"You may easily know what are my father's politics, Mrs. Ursula,"

said the good man, his honest face flushing at her tone, which was

sufficiently contemptuous: "no secret was ever made of them that I know

of. My father was not in the Ironsides, however. He commanded a ship

under the Parliament, and helped to humble the pride of the Dutch, who

did not come up the river to Chatham in those days."

"Well said, man, and I like you all the better for standing up for your

father," said Capt. Morley (he really is a captain it seems), striking

him on the shoulder. "Your father was not the only old Puritan who has

done the king good service, and I dare say you would do the same."

"I am beholden to you for your good opinion, sir," answered Mr.

Andrews, with much dignity. And then he turned away, and began talking

with Mrs. Robertson.

Ursula sulked a little, but seeming by and by to think she had gone far

enough, she began to exert all her arts of pleasing, which are neither

few nor small, and soon had her lover at her feet again. Poor man, I

think he is far too good for her!

We walked home together, and Ursula must needs come in and tell my lady

all about every thing, and how much attention I had received. Whereby

she earned me a fine rating for forwardness and vanity, which, no

doubt, was what she intended.

_January 20._

'Tis a long time since I wrote in my book. My lady hath been

ill—seriously, but not dangerously—with rheumatism, and Mrs. Williams

and I have had our hands full. The doctor tells her she must go to the

Bath as soon as the weather is warm enough, and she says she will; but

I don't believe it. She will never make up her mind to spend so much

money. Of course I have been pretty closely shut up, but I have been

out a few times to do errands, and now and then in the early morning to

walk a little.

Once I ventured as far as the park, which, indeed, is not very far,

and saw his Majesty taking his morning walk with only one or two

attendants, and flinging bits of bread to his tame ducks and swans.

Capt. Morley was in attendance, and put off his hat to me. The king

looked at me curiously, and I suppose asked who I was. He turned

presently, and, as I curtsied, he said kindly,—

"Good-morrow, sweetheart! You are sunning your roses early."

"When you do not know what to say, say nothing," was my mother's maxim:

so I only curtsied again, and hastened home, feeling rather scared, and

yet pleased, that I had had a word from his Majesty. He hath a pleasant

way with him, and his face, when lighted by a smile, is very winning.

'Tis a pity he were not a different man in some ways.

I have seen Capt. Morley two or three times. He is always very polite.

Once he gave me an orange, but I dared not eat it lest the smell

thereof should betray me to my lady. So I gave it to Mary Mathews for

her sick father. I kept a bit of the skin, however, and it is in my

cabinet now.

_February 1._

'Tis said the king is very ill, and not like to be better. He had

a kind of fit this morning, and at noon had not yet recovered

consciousness. Capt. Morley looked in to tell us the sad news.

_February 2._

His Majesty is no better. All the principal physicians and surgeons in

town are by his bedside. The archbishop and two or three other bishops

are in attendance, and one or other has sat up with him every night.

One sees nothing but tears and sad faces, and people throng to the

churches in crowds to pray for the king's life. Ursula was here, and

told us of these things. She has reasons more than one to pray for his

recovery, for of course his death must put off her marriage which was

fixed for next week.

_February 5._

It was said this morning that the king was better, and the church-bells

rang merrily. Being sent out to match some silk for Mrs. Williams's

work, and having a little time on my hands, I stepped into a church,

the doors of which were open, and knelt down to offer a prayer myself;

but the sound of the minister's voice, the sight of the chancel, and

the very air and scent of the place did so awaken old memories that

I could do naught but cry. When I rose from my knees, I saw next me

a lady with whom I have some acquaintance, Lady Clarenham. She had a

young relation at Mrs. Price's school, and used to come sometimes to

visit her. And the little maid being in some sort under my care—for she

was very young—the lady was pleased to thank me for my attention, and

give me a gold piece for a token.

Lady Clarenham knew me directly, and greeted me very kindly. She is a

pretty, rather elderly lady; and I like her all the better that she

does not try to look "young," as almost everybody does nowadays. I

asked after little Mrs. Patty.

"Oh, she is well, and grown almost a woman!" answered my lady. "She

often talks of you."

And then she asked me of my welfare, and how I was living, and I told

her. We were in the porch by this time; a young gentleman standing by,

whom I took to belong to her family, as he seemed to be waiting for her.

"I used to know the Lady Jemima Corbet," said Lady Clarenham. "I think

I must give this lady a visit, and ask her to spare you to me for a day

or two, at least if you would like to come."

"Yes, indeed, madam," I answered.

And then, startled to see how late it was, I hastened home. My lady

was asleep when I came in, and Mrs. Williams asked me what had kept me

so long. I told her frankly that I had stepped into a church to say a

prayer for the king, and there I had met with an old acquaintance, who

had kept me talking a few minutes.

"And who was that, pray, Mistress Gadabout?" asked my lady, opening her

eyes suddenly.

I told her that it was my Lady Clarenham.

"And pray what had my Lady Clarenham to say to you, and how came you to

know her?"

I told her.

"Then you may tell my Lady Clarenham, next time you see her, that I

want none of her visits. A fine tale, indeed, when errand-girls and

chamber-maids receive visits from titled ladies!—Williams, why did you

send her out at all?"

"I needed sewing-silk to finish your gown, my lady," answered Mrs.

Williams.

"And why need you use silk at all,—or if you must needs have it,

why could you not save what you ripped out?" demanded my lady. "I

shall be ruined, ruined out of house and home, by all this waste and

extravagance, and paying for doctors and medicine. I shall die in an

almshouse."

"And what harm will that do you, madam?" asked Mrs. Williams tranquilly.

My lady stared at her.

"What harm, quotha! What harm!" she repeated, almost gasping for breath.

"Yes, what harm?" said Mrs. Williams. "When one has been dead two

minutes, what difference will it make whether one has died in an

almshouse or in Whitehall, since both must be left behind forever?"

"Pshaw! Don't talk any of your Muggletonian and Independent rant to

me!" said my lady. (Mrs. Williams is some kind of Independent,—I don't

know what exactly,—and when my lady wants to take it out on her,

she calls her a Muggletonian.) "I am a practical woman, and take a

practical view of things.— Dolly, what news did you hear? For of course

your ears were open: trust a waiting-woman for that!"

I told her that every one said the king was better, and almost out of

danger.

"I have never believed he was going to die," said she,—"a strong man,

and not older that I am. It was not likely he would give up to the

first illness."

But people die at all ages. To-night Mr. Morley came in to tell us that

the king was given over by his physicians, and was not likely to live

the night out.

"And what then?" asked my lady.

"Why, then, God save King James, I suppose," answered Mr. Morley,

lightly enough. And then, more seriously, "There will be many sad

hearts in this nation by this time to-morrow."

"May God give him space for repentance!" said Mrs. Williams, so

solemnly that we were all silent for a minute. And then she asked, "Do

you know the state of his mind, sir?"

"No, madam," answered Mr. Morley. "I know that the archbishop and

bishop have told him that he could not live, and wished to administer

the communion, but he will not have it."

"And what reason does he give?"

"Sometimes he says there is time enough, and sometimes that he is too

weak. There are those that have their own thoughts about the matter, as

I have myself. And not the less that Tom Chiffinch brought honest old

Father Huddleston up the back stairs to-day. Marry, he hath purveyed

other company up those stairs in his time!"

"Are you sure?" asked Mrs. Williams gravely. "'Tis a serious thing to

say, Mr. Morley."

"Oh, other folks have eyes in their heads beside me!" answered Mr.

Morley. "The old man was disguised, but half a dozen people saw him."

"Then you would imply that his Majesty is a Papist?" said my lady.

"I, madam! I imply nothing. I am but a poor gentleman of the back

stairs, and it would not become me to imply things of his Majesty."

"So I think," said Mrs. Williams dryly.

"I suppose Mr. Morley thinks he shall lose his place anyhow, so he can

say what he likes," observed my lady, improving the occasion to say

something disagreeable, as usual.

"Oh, as to that, his royal Highness is my very good master,"

answered Mr. Morley. "I hope I shall get a troop, and be in active

service again, which is a better life for a man than hanging round a

court.—Think you not so, Mrs. Dolly?"

"I think I should like it better, but it would depend a good deal on

the nature of the service," I answered. "I don't think I should like

the service which the troops in Scotland seem to be employed about,

hunting down the poor wretches of Covenanters."

"A soldier has no choice but to obey orders, you know," answered Mr.

Morley. "And I can tell you, Mrs. Dolly, these same Covenanters are not

such harmless sheep as you seem to suppose."

"But old men and old women and young lads, Mr. Morley—"

"War is a rough trade, Mrs. Dolly. But perhaps I may have the luck to

get a command in one of the regiments under the Prince of Orange," said

he. And then, lowering his voice as he saw my lady busy with a knot in

her netting: "I would not willingly fall in your good opinion, fair

lady."

Certainly he has a pleasant way with him. Even my lady feels it, and

is more civil to him than to any one. But I don't think Mrs. Williams

likes him. I don't see why not, I am sure.

_February 6._

The king died to-day at noon, without a struggle, they say. Nothing is

seen in the streets but tears and sad faces. His easy, familiar ways

and kind manners made him beloved even by those who could not approve

his conduct. And, besides, people are afraid of what is to come. It is

said the king once said to his brother, "I am safe from assassination

while you live, James, for no one would kill me to make you king." His

present Majesty being an avowed papist puts people upon grave thoughts

of what is like to come. But I trust all will be well.

_February 7._

A general mourning is ordered, as if for a father, and my lady is in

a great strait what to do about it. Ursula Robertson came in with

her father, to bring us the news, and was presently followed by her

servant, Mr. Andrews, and Mr. Morley.

"Of course you will put on mourning directly, sister," says Mr.

Robertson, who seemed really to have got his wits together for once.

Generally he is like an owl in daylight, when he is out of his

counting-house.

"Yes," added Ursula: "you live so near Whitehall, the omission will

be sure to be noticed. I think we Presbyterians ought to be specially

careful about it: we are like to have hard times enough anyhow."

"Nay, I trust not," said Mr. Andrews. "'Tis said by some that the king

is in favor of universal toleration of all religions."

Mr. Morley laughed. "'Lay not that flattering unction to your soul,'"

said he. "The king is the king, but—I have seen him in Scotland."

"Do let us have a chance to talk a little about matters of importance,"

said my lady peevishly. "It seems to me that young folks take all the

talk to themselves nowadays.—About this business of mourning, brother

Robertson. Do you think it will be needful to buy new goods? You know I

left off my weeds only two years ago, and Dolly must have the black she

wore for her mother. Will not that do?"

"I should say not, I should say not," answered Mr. Robertson. "I should

say that with a person of your known wealth, sister Corbet, it would

certainly draw down unpleasant remarks."

"I cannot wear my black gowns at all," said I, rather maliciously I am

afraid. "They are both outworn and outgrown. And you know, my lady, you

sold most part of your weeds to poor Mrs. Anscomb, when she lost her

husband."

"Hold your tongue, Mistress Malapert! Who asked your opinion?" said my

lady, giving me a vengeful glance.

And indeed it was spiteful in me, but I so seldom have a chance to get

amends of her.

"Oh, yes, I should say it was needful for you to provide black for

yourself and all your household!" said Mr. Robertson. "I will send you

some pieces of serge and bombazine to choose from."

My lady sighed and groaned over the expense, but finally gave in.

I suppose we shall all be pinched in our diet to pay for the same.

Happily Mrs. Williams hath charge of the keys at present.

By and by Mr. Morley made her a present of some cakes of chocolate,

which put her into a somewhat better humor. As he was going away, he

put a little parcel into my hand, slyly whispering at the same time,

"Sweets to the sweet, fair lady."

When I had a chance to open it, I found a pretty gilded glass full

of colored and perfumed comfits, and a little book of poetry by Mr.

Dryden. I hope Ursula did not see him give it to me, and yet I fear she

did.

Am I growing sly? I fear so. It is the natural consequence of living

with a person one is in dread of. When I lived with Mrs. Price and dear

mother, I had the name of being frank and open as the day, and I think

I deserved it. But what can I do, placed as I am?

_February 15._

The king was buried last night, without any pomp at all, very obscurely

even for a private gentleman, in the vault under Henry Seventh's chapel

at Westminster. Many remarks made about the matter. But it will make

little difference to him, poor gentleman!

_February 18._

The Robertsons are in great trouble. Mr. Andrews is taken with a fever,

and not likely to recover. I went to see Ursula to-day, and found her

crying in her chamber, with all her fine wedding-clothes spread out

upon the bed. I felt very sorry for her.

"Only think, Dolly, I was to have been wedded this very day!" said she,

sobbing.

"Perhaps Mr. Andrews may get better," I said.

"No, the doctor says there is no hope at all."

"Have you seen him?" I ventured to ask.

She stared at me in such amazement that she actually forgot to cry.

"Why no, of course not!" said she. "I might take the fever and die, or

be disfigured for life. And besides," she added, crying again, "I could

not endure to witness his pain. I am like his late blessed Majesty in

that: I can't endure to see people suffer."

"And like him in another thing, that you don't care how they suffer, so

you don't see them," I thought.

But she went on bemoaning herself, and mixing up her grief for poor,

dear Mr. Andrews, with lamentations for her finery which would all be

wasted, all be old-fashioned before she could wear it, till I grew

weary, and said rather unfeelingly I am afraid,—

"Oh, perhaps not! Maybe you will get a new admirer before that time."

"You mean Mr. Morley?" said she, looking at me curiously, but not with

the resentment most girls would have shown.

"No, I did not mean any one in particular," I answered, feeling my face

flush, I don't know why.

"I don't suppose I am a great enough fortune for Mr. Morley," said she,

"though I shall have four or five thousand pounds to my portion, too.

He says he must needs marry rich: so you see you have no chance, Dolly,

unless your mistress dies and leaves you some money."

"And that will be when the sky falls," said I; thinking to myself,

"Certainly she will do no such thing if you can help it."

Just then good Mrs. Pendergast came in, to say that Mr. Andrews was

much worse, that he could not last the day out, and most earnestly

desired to bid farewell to his mistress. Whereupon Ursula began to

scream and cry, and presently went into a fit, so we had all we could

do to hold her. When she was a little better, I took my leave, as much

disgusted as ever I was in my life. The heartless creature! I should

think she would have counted every minute lost that she did not spend

at his bedside. If it were Mr. Morley—But what am I saying?

_February 21._

Poor Mr. Andrews is dead and buried.

_March 4._

Being Ash Wednesday, my lady had a better dinner than ordinary.

_March 6._

My Lady Clarenham, who I thought had forgotten all about me, did really

give a visit to my lady. She came in her coach, with her servants in

livery, and entered the room leaning on the arm of the same young

gentleman I saw with her in church, and whom she presented to my lady

as Mr. Studley.

"Mr. Studley is a far away kinsman of mine own, who is so kind as to

undertake the government of my family for me," said she.

"He is but young for such an office," said my mistress, not unkindly.

She is always more civil to men than to women.

Lady Clarenham chatted awhile in an easy, pleasant, and yet somewhat

serious manner. Mr. Studley was mostly silent, except when his lady

appealed to him. He is not to say handsome, and yet there is something

pleasing in his bright gray eyes, and firm, well-cut mouth. But he is

rather small and slight, and did look like a lad by the side of Mr.

Morley, who sauntered in, as he does pretty often nowadays. Yet he

showed that he could hold his own, too. My Lady Clarenham was speaking

of some new book which she had not read, but had heard much commended,

and asked Mr. Morley if he had read it.

"Not I, madam," he answered, laughing. "Such reading is not in my way.

I would as soon think of reading the Epistle to the Ephesians."

"You might perhaps find something of interest in the Epistle to the

Ephesians, if you understood it," observed Mr. Studley, whereupon Mr.

Morley turned upon him in what I must say was a somewhat overbearing

manner.

"I would have you know, sir, that I am able to read the Epistle to the

Ephesians in the original Greek!"

"I do not dispute it, sir," answered Mr. Studley, smiling. "I might

read Mr. Boyle's late treatise on the higher mathematics in the

original English, but I should hardly be much the wiser without some

previous preparation."

Mr. Morley frowned for a moment, and then laughed good-naturedly.

"Well said, man; you have given me back mine own fairly enough. I see

you have plenty of fire, for all you look so demure. But tell me, what

think you of this last news from the Continent? King Louis carries

matters with a high hand, does he not?"

And so the two fell into friendly conversation. I do like any one who

can take a retort pleasantly.

My Lady Clarenham talked awhile on various matters. And then, turning

to me, she asked me about my family. I told her that I knew not much

about it; that my mother's marriage had displeased her own family; and

though I knew she had a married sister living somewhere near Exeter, I

had no acquaintance with her.

"Methinks I should know her! I know most of our west country gentry, by

name, at least," said Lady Clarenham. "What is your uncle's name?"

"I don't know, madam," I answered.

"I suspect it is Sir Robert Fullham," said Mr. Studley. "I know him by

sight. He is a gentleman reputed wealthy, and much respected. He hath

daughters, but I think no son."

"And do you know my cousins, sir?" I ventured to ask.

"Only by sight," he answered. "They are fine young ladies, and, as I

understand, much sought after in the gay society of Exeter. I have

lived so much abroad that I hardly know our own neighborhood."

"You have served?" asked Mr. Morley.

"Not so, sir, but my father, wishing to have me learn the French and

Italian tongues perfectly, sent me abroad at an early age. I sojourned

in the family of a French Protestant minister, and found the life so

much to my taste that I staid, perhaps, longer than I ought."

"This same Protestant minister had daughters, I warrant," said my

mistress.

Mr. Studley smiled. I don't think I ever saw any eyes flash like his.

"One daughter, about forty years old, and scarred with small-pox," said

he.

"What, then, was the attraction?" asked Mr. Morley.

"Even that which makes birds of a feather flock together," answered Mr.

Studley. "You know Cicero says it is a great bond of union to think the

same things concerning the republic, and the rule holds regarding even

more important matters."

"You are, then, a Presbyterian, like myself?" said my mistress.

"No, madam, I am an unworthy member of the Church of England. And yet

I could find a sympathizing friend in this Huguenot pastor. I learned

more of him than in all my life before."

"Your Protestant friends in France are like to fare badly, since

the revocation of the Edict of Nantes," said Mr. Morley. "That was

something of a safeguard to them."

"More in name than in fact," said Mr. Studley. "It seems as though they

could hardly be worse off, and yet I suppose they may be."

"Mr. Evelyn was telling me a sad story of the cruelties practised

toward the French Protestants," observed Lady Clarenham. "He says he

had it from a sure hand. It is strange that nothing about it hath

appeared in the 'Gazette.'"

"Not so very strange, when you consider who hath the ordering of these

matters," said Mr. Morley. "Has your ladyship heard who is to be the

new chief justice? Even no other than Mr. Jeffreys."

"Impossible! That wretch!" said my lady, with some heat.

"'Tis said so by the best authorities."

"Heaven help us! Where are we drifting to?" said my Lady Clarenham.

And then, catching (or so I fancied) a warning glance from Mr. Studley,

she changed the conversation by asking my mistress to allow me to

come and give her a visit. Lady Corbet was so far wrought upon by her

visitor's kindness that she promised to consider the matter. But I

don't build at all upon it.

_March 10._

'Tis really true that Mr. Jeffreys is made chief justice. Mr. Baxter

brought us the news. He augurs ill from the appointment of such

a man, and no wonder. Mr. Morley says the aspect of the court is

greatly changed: all is decent and sober, at least outwardly; and the

old throng of gamesters, singers, buffoons, and the like, find no

entertainment any more at Whitehall. Mr. Morley still keeps his place;

but he has asked, and had the promise of, a troop of horse. He says

his Majesty commended his desire of active service, and will place him

under his old commander, Col. Kirke.

I don't know whether to be glad or sorry. I am pleased with his good

fortune, of course, but I shall miss him if he goes, and I have so few

pleasures. I said something about his going away to Mrs. Williams.

"I am glad on't with all my heart," said she.

"You do not like him, and yet he is very good-natured and pleasing."

"Too pleasing," she answered. "The truth is not in him. See you not,

my child, how careless he is in his statements, how he exaggerates? He

can scarce repeat a story from a book as it is, without making some

addition of his own. I would he had staid among the Moors, before he

ever came here, with his fine speeches, to turn silly heads."

"He has not turned mine, if that is what you mean," said I, feeling my

cheeks burn.

"I am not so sure of that," said she; "I would I were. My dear Dolly,

let me beg you to be careful in this matter. Mr. Morley is not the

man to make you happy, even if he thought seriously of marrying you,

which I greatly doubt, for I think him altogether mercenary. And he may

compromise you seriously before you are aware. Be not angry, now, but

tell me, have you not met him more than once in your morning walks?"

"It was only an accident, if I did," I answered. "You don't think I

would go out purposely to meet a man in secret, Mrs. Williams? What do

you take me for?"

"For an innocent child, who knows naught of the ways of the world, and

should therefore be content to be guided, my dear," said Mrs. Williams.

"I think no ill of you, Dolly, but I must needs warn you. A young

maid's fair fame is like the ermine, which, they say, dies of a stain

on its white fur. Suppose my lady should learn from some one that you

had met Mr. Morley in the park?"

"Suppose you go and tell her," said I, too angry to keep any measure in

my words. "Then she might turn me out, and you could have her old gowns

all to yourself."

And with that I ran away to my own room to have a good cry. I am

ashamed of myself already for answering so my good old friend,—the only

friend I have in the world almost, and who hath never showed me aught

but kindness. I believe she is right, too, so far as these meetings are

concerned. And I am resolved there shall be no more of them, though it

breaks my heart.

_March 12._

I have made it up with Mrs. Williams, and asked her pardon, and have

promised her to give Mr. Morley no more meetings. I must say she was

very kind and motherly. She told me what I did never know before, that

she had once had a daughter, who died about my age, and says she,

"I verily believe of a broken heart, though the doctors called it a

consumption."

And then she told me how the poor thing had been led by a fine

gentleman to think he meant to marry her, though he had nothing in his

mind but the amusement of an idle hour.

"God mercifully preserved her from sin and shame, and then more

mercifully still, as I now think, took her home to himself," said she,

weeping. And I wept with her.

_March 24._

The king and queen crowned yesterday. Much murmuring at the omission of

the procession; the king, it seems, choosing rather to spend the money

on jewels for his wife. The coronation rites very much shortened, there

being no communion. I wonder how he, being a Papist, would consent

to be crowned by a heretic archbishop, whose orders he must regard

as altogether void and schismatical; and to join in worship, which,

according to his notions, must be stark blasphemy.

The Papists are everywhere raising their heads. Mass is publicly

said at Whitehall and other places. On Easter Day there was a grand

celebration, at which many great lords attended, but the Lords Ormond

and Halifax remained in the ante-chamber.

We had all this great news and much more from Mr. Morley, who gave us a

visit with Ursula Robertson and her father. He has not been here before

in some days, but from things that came out, it seems he hath been

visiting Ursula more than once, and even contrived that she should have

a peep at the king and queen yesterday.

"But you could not go in your mourning," said I; for she wears the

deepest sables, like a young widow.

"I left them off for the nonce," said she. "There was no harm in that."

"No harm, perhaps, but I should not have done it," I answered.

"Of course you wouldn't," she answered mockingly. "We all know you are

the pattern of propriety and prudence and all the rest. Wait till you

are tried, that is all."

"I am not like to be tried in any such way," I answered.

At that moment my lady called Ursula to her side to take out a knot in

her netting, and Mr. Morley whispered in my ear,—

"If I am killed in the wars, Mrs. Dolly, won't you wear mourning for

me?"

"We shall see when the time comes," I answered lightly, though my heart

was beating so it almost choked me. "You have not gone to the wars yet."

"But I am like to go at any time, if this mad Duke of Monmouth gives us

the trouble that people think is likely. And it would be a comfort to

me, lying on the bloody battle-field awaiting death, to think that my

Dolly's bright eyes would weep for me."

"You ought to be thinking of better things," I rejoined.

And then my lady interrupted me, by asking some question about the

standing army that men say is to be formed.

"'Tis but a piece of rumor as yet, madam," answered Mr. Morley. "I do

not think any steps have been taken in regard to it. I can only say, I

hope with all my heart it is true. The defence of this nation should

not be intrusted to country squires, and to rustics and cobblers who

hardly know their right hand from their left."

"And what will Parliament say to that, think you? A standing army hath

ever been a bugbear, you know."

"I believe the incoming Parliament is not like to offer much resistance

to the king's will in that or any other matter," answered Mr. Morley.

"I may say this much is quite true, that an army is to be formed, and I

am going down to Scotland on some business concerning it to-morrow: so

I shall not see you again in some time."

My heart sank at these words. I have not seen much of Mr. Morley

lately, but then I knew he was in town, and might drop in at any

minute. And to think of his going away so far, and to that barbarous

and rebellious country. I was ashamed of my emotion, however, and made

a great effort to restrain myself, especially as I saw Ursula looking

at me.

As we parted, Air. Morley took an opportunity to whisper to me,—

"Will you not be in the park to-morrow morning, Dolly? It will be the

last time, mayhap, that we shall ever meet."

I assented almost without thinking, and now I almost wish I had not. I

promised Mrs. Williams I would never do so again, and dear mother ever

taught me that a promise was most sacred. I am sure, too, mother would

say Mrs. Williams was right. Oh, dear, never was poor girl so hard

bestead! If only my dear mother had lived, or Mr. Harpe had not cheated

us so! I can't help it. It is not my fault if I can't be good. Nobody

could be open and true with such a mistress as I have. And I must see

Mr. Morley once more. It will only be for once, and then I will live

like a nun.

_April 3._

But I did not see him, after all. My lady must needs have a fit of

cramps about four in the morning. I believe in my soul it was but a fit

of indigestion, caused by eating too much lobster for her supper, but

it was bad enough to call up the whole household, and keep us all busy

for three or four hours. She really was very ill, and I believe both

Mrs. Williams and the doctor were very much alarmed. However, she got

better toward night, but too late to do me any good.

Ursula and her father came to see her in the evening, and Ursula

sat with me in the ante-chamber while her father went in to see his

sister-in-law.

"Mr. Morley is gone," said she, after we had talked a little about

indifferent matters.

"So I suppose," said I coolly. Whatever I felt, I was not going to

betray myself to her.

"Are you not sorry?" she asked me.

"Rather," I said. "He was a pleasant gentleman, and was always coming

in with some bit of news. And beside, my lady liked him, and he kept

her in a good humor, which was so much clear gain to me. Yes, on the

whole, I am very sorry he has gone."

"Would not you be sorry if he did not come back?" she asked.

"Why, of course I should. Why should I want the poor man to be killed?

But, you know, he may stay away for other reasons," I returned. "He may

find some fair Scottish lassie with a good fortune to her back, and

marry her."

Ursula shut her lips tight, and shook her head. "I don't believe

it," said she. "Heiresses are not so plenty north of the Tweed. And

besides—But it boots not talking. Dolly, do you know whether my aunt

has made her will?"

"I don't think she has," I answered. "She talks about it sometimes, and

I know Mrs. Williams has urged her to settle her estate, but, when it

comes to the point, she always says there is time enough."

"She was very ill this morning, was she not?"

"Yes, very. We thought she would die, for a while."

"And then she must leave all her money that she worships so, behind

her," said Ursula in a musing tone. "Dolly, it is a hard thing to die,

isn't it?"

"I don't know; I never tried it," said I flippantly enough, for I was

in a mood to say any thing.

I thought afterward that it was a wicked and presumptuous thing to say.

Of course, it must depend on what one's life has been. Poor little

Emma did not find it hard when the time came, nor my mother. They had

no fear at all,—I suppose because they were so religious,—and I don't

believe Mr. Baxter fears death. But my lady is very religious, too, and

yet she is dreadfully afraid of death. I do believe she thought herself

in danger, for she has been wonderfully kind to all of us since her

illness. And the day before yesterday, when my Lady Clarenham came to

ask for a little visit from me, she graciously gave me leave for three

days. I never was more surprised in my life. I was glad of any change,

for this house has become an intolerable prison for me.

And I must say I enjoyed my stay very much,—more than I would have

thought possible. My Lady Clarenham treated me as an equal, and had

Mrs. Patty, her little grand-niece, to meet me. She is grown a fine

young lady, but is just as sweet and simple as she used to be when I

was her school-mother.

We shared the same room, and as we were undressing, I said to her,—

"You are more careful than you used to be, Patty. You do not need me to

look after your things, and to see that your bodice is laced properly."

"Ah, I used to be a sad slattern in those days, and sadly lazy, too! Do

you remember how I used to hate my needle and my netting-pin?"

"And do you like them any better now?" I asked.

"Yes, I do," she answered, in her old serious tone. "One day my aunt

Clarenham said to me,—

"'Patty, if you would go at your work with a fixed resolution to do

your very best at it, instead of thinking how soon you can finish it,

you would learn to like it.'

"So I thought I would try, if only to please my good aunt. And I really

did find her words true. And, besides, Dorothy," she added, with a

sweet look in her blue eyes, "you know, when I was confirmed, I had to

do some serious thinking. And I made up my mind it was not right to

hate what it was, and always will be, my duty to do. So I asked God to

make me feel differently about it; and I am sure he did, for I like it

now very well."

Patty is a sweet little creature and always was, but I am not sure it

is right to pray about such things as liking one's work. What she said

put me on thinking of the time when I was myself confirmed, and the

resolutions I made. I wrote them all down, I remember, but I don't know

what has become of them. But I can't help it. If I were situated like

Patty, or if my mistress wore like my Lady Clarenham, I could be as

good as anybody.

Certainly my lady makes her house very agreeable to all her family.

She sees but little company, and that mostly of a grave and serious

kind, like Mr. and Mrs. Evelyn, who were with her one day, in deep

mourning for their eldest daughter, who died lately of the small-pox.

Lady Clarenham says she was a very accomplished lady, deeply religious,

and a pattern in all things, such as she hardly ever saw the like. Her

parents are afflicted, of course, yet show a wonderful patience and

resignation under their loss. They seem so certain of seeing her again.

Mr. Studley is not here at present, having gone to my Lady Clarenham's

place in Devonshire to do some business for her. My lady cannot say

enough in his praise, but says she fears she shall not keep him long.

She tolls me his father is a great enemy of all religion, and is very

angry with his son for his serious ways of thinking, so that he hath

really persecuted the poor young man.

"I really believe his great object in putting my cousin with me was to

divert him from his religion. But, if so, he has failed of his object,"

said she. "Edward has wrought such a revolution in my household as I

could never have believed possible. Not the lowest groom or scullion

will venture to say an ill word before him, and he hath saved me a

great deal by his economy."

"You are so rich, madam, I should hardly think that would be needful,"

I ventured to say.

"'Tis true, I am rich," she answered kindly, "but, though I had the

wealth of the Indies at my disposal, I should not feel it right to

waste a crumb that might help one of God's needy creatures. We are but

stewards of what he gives us, sweetheart, and must answer it to him if

we waste his goods."

That is a very different way of saving from my mistress's. I wonder

if that is the reason my Lady Clarenham lives so quietly, and sees so

little company. It was very ungrateful in me, but I confess I was a

trifle disappointed. I did want one little peep at the gay world of

which I used to hear from Mr. Morley. Ah, me! Shall I ever see him

again?

Certainly Lady Clarenham is very different from my mistress. I don't

think it can be the form of religion altogether, either; for there are

Mr. and Mrs. Pendergast, as poor as the sparrows, yet they find means

to help poor Jane Gaskell, and others of their flock, who are worse

off than themselves. And my mistress is as religious in her way as

Lady Clarenham in hers. To be sure, she does not go to prayers every

morning, but she reads nothing but good books, and dreadfully dull,—as

I know to my cost,—and hath all the points of doctrine at her fingers'

ends. But, somehow, her religion does not make her happy, like Lady

Clarenham's and poor Mr. Evelyn's. I wish I were like them, for I am

sure I need comfort badly enough. My heart is like to break at times.

And to think I could not even bid him farewell! What must he have

thought of me?

Well, I staid with my lady three pleasant days, and then she brought me

home. At parting, she gave me a purse with three gold pieces in it, and

a pretty equipage for my pocket. She also gave me her address, and bade

me apply to her if ever I needed a friend.

So here I am at home again, and I almost wish I had never been away.

My lady is in her worst humor, and frets and scolds from morning till

night. She is able to be about the house a little now, and hath taken

the keys into her own keeping. The consequence is that we hardly have

enough to eat. The cook is gone to live with Mr. Pepys, a gentleman of

the navy, friend to Mr. Evelyn whom I met at my Lady Clarenham's. And

Mary Mathews has given warning. She hath staid longer than any maid we

ever had since my coming, and I am sorry to have her leave.

_May 20._

I have been very unwell, with a kind of low ague; so that I kept my bed

for two or three weeks, and my room still longer. I had no spirit for

my writing or any thing else, and almost wished I might die,—almost,

but not quite. I can't get over my dread of that dreadful unknown

country and that awful Judge. I almost wish I had no religion at all,

like Mr. Morley, who is wholly a sceptic in such matters. But even he

said once he thought devotion becoming in a woman.

I am about now, and waiting on my lady again. I don't see what is to

come to her. I think she grows to grudge the very air she breathes.

Mrs. Williams remonstrated with her about our diet, I know. And since

then, we have a little more, but of the plainest and coarsest,—brown

bread and broth, broth and brown bread, with a dish of dried ling now

and then for a change. My appetite is squeamish since my illness, and I

think I should starve outright, if Mary Mathews, who hath consented to

stay awhile, did not now and then cook me some little mess and bring it

to my room.

_May 21._

Here has been a fine to do, and my lady is like a bear robbed of her

cubs. I was reading to her to-day the news-letter which Mr. Robertson

sends her, when Mary announced Dr. Bates and Mr. Pendergast. Now, Dr.

Bates is a very great light among the Presbyterians. He is really and

truly a very fine gentleman, though a bit pompous and stiff, and I do

believe a very good man. My lady received him with great courtesy, and

was all smiles, which changed quickly to frowns when she heard his

errand. It seems an information hath been filed against Mr. Baxter for

some reflections against Government, printed in his late commentary

on the New Testament. He is to be brought before that dreadful chief

justice in a few days, and the Presbyterians are raising a fund for his

defence, and for the comfort of his family should he be put in prison.

Dr. Bates had been collecting the subscriptions, and was now come to

Lady Corbet on the same errand.

"You will doubtless feel it a privilege, madam, to contribute your

share for the defence of this excellent and self-sacrificing man, who

hath so long been a standard-bearer in our ranks," said Dr. Bates, in

that full, pure, melodious voice of his, which hath earned him the name

of "silver-tongued Bates."

I saw the corners of Mr. Pendergast's mouth twitch, and his eyes

glisten with a smile. All his hardships and stern beliefs have not

taken the fun out of him.

"And what is the trouble with Mr. Baxter that he must go a-begging at

his age?" asked my lady sharply.

I saw Dr. Bates's color begin to rise a little, but he restrained

himself, and in the same courteous tone repeated the matter from the

beginning.

"It was very foolish of Mr. Baxter to embroil himself with the

Government just at this time, when everybody thinks his Majesty will

soon grant a universal toleration," was my lady's comment. "Methinks,

he might have had a little patience, instead of getting into this

broil."

"His Majesty will never grant any such toleration; or, if he should, it

will be on condition that the same be extended to the Papists, and I

think we should hardly accept that," said Dr. Bates. "As to Mr. Baxter,

the thing is done now. And you know him well enough, madam, to be aware

that he would not take back what he believed to be true, if the stake

lay straight in his path. There are lawyers ready to defend him, but of

course expenses must be met."

The doctor grew more emphatic as my lady hesitated. And he went on to

set forth Mr. Baxter's good qualities in a way that did him honor, I

am sure. I do like a man that can frankly allow merit in another. Mr.

Pendergast supported him ably and boldly.

My lady hemmed and hawed and took snuff,—about the only luxury she

allows herself,—and at last asked what her brother Robertson had given.

"Twenty pounds," answered the doctor briefly. I could see his patience

was waxing thread-bare.

"Twenty pounds!" almost screamed my lady. "Twenty pounds, and he owing

me three hundred pounds this very minute, and only paying me eight per

cent when I could easily get ten!"

"Your brother-in-law is a man of a liberal spirit, as I remember your

husband was," observed Dr. Bates.

"Liberal, quotha! Yes, liberal enough. I might have been thousands of

pounds better off at this minute if he had not been quite so liberal.

Charity begins at home, to my thinking."

"That is where we want you to begin it,—here in your own house," said

Mr. Pendergast.

I could not forbear smiling.

"Dolly, why are you grinning there like a Cheshire cat?" demanded my

lady, turning the vials of her wrath on me, as usual. Then turning

again: "I dare say, 'you,' Mr. Pendergast, have given of your wealth."

"I could not give of my wealth, madam. And so, like the Macedonian

Christians, I had to give of my poverty," said the little man, speaking

with as much dignity as a bishop. He is not to be set down, if he "is"

little and poor. My lady seemed to think she had gone far enough.

"People have an exaggerated notion of my wealth," said she, in a more

civil tone. "'Tis a great plague to be accounted rich. Every beggar and

every subscription-paper come to one. In these times of shifting and

changing—" She paused a moment, and the doctor took her up sharply.

"In these times of shifting and changing, and, you may add, of dying,

madam, would you not do well to place at least a part of your wealth

out on good security?"

"Oh, I always do that!" said my lady complacently. "I always look out

for good security, and that is one reason why I don't think my brother

has been wise in this matter. Mr. Baxter is an old man, and I don't

believe either he or his family will ever be able to pay back what you

propose to lend them."

"Pay it back!" exclaimed Dr. Bates, his eyes fairly flashing fire

through his glasses. "Do you think, madam—" And then, as it were,

biting off his words, as Mr. Pendergast touched his arm, he stood

silent, while the other minister explained that the sum collected was

not to be a loan, but a gift.

My lady twisted and turned, hemmed and hawed, and finally said, though

she thought Mr. Baxter had been unwise, she supposed she must give her

"mite" for his defence.

I thought Dr. Bates's spectacle frames must have melted in the

lightnings that flashed from behind them, but he did not speak. I think

he was afraid to trust himself. Mr. Pendergast took up the word.

"Very good, madam; you talk of your mite. You know the poor widow's two

mites were her day's income. We will be content with a similar gift

from you; that is, a day's income."

"You will!" squalled my lady again. (Squall is not a pretty word, but

her voice really did sound like Lady Clarenham's parrot). "A day's

income, indeed! Why, that would be more than twenty pounds! A day's

income, indeed, with this house to keep, and taxes to pay, and idle

sluts hanging on me who do not earn their keeping" (this with a glance

at me). "A day's income, indeed! Do you think I am made of money?"

"I do not know what you are made of, madam," said Dr. Bates, rising,

and speaking in a voice which had more the ring of steel than silver.

"But this I can see, that you have great need to examine your

evidences, and make sure that you are in a state of salvation. I very

much fear that you have neither part nor lot in the matter, and that

your heart is not more right in the sight of God than that of Simon

Magus himself."

"I don't know what you mean by speaking so to me," said my lady,

looking alarmed. "I am sure I am a good Presbyterian, and believe the

Assembly's Catechism from beginning to end."

"It is possible to hold the truth in unrighteousness," answered Dr.

Bates. "A greater authority than the Assembly's Catechism hath said,

'Ye cannot serve God and mammon,' and that 'no covetous man who is an

idolater hath any part in the kingdom of Christ and of God.'—Come,

brother Pendergast, we do but waste our time here."

"You are very hard on me," said my lady, as with trembling hands she

extracted her purse from her pocket, and drew out something. "There,

I will give you that, and perhaps more if it is needed, but I don't

believe it will be, especially as you say so many of the established

clergy stand by Mr. Baxter." (Dr. Bates had told us this, though I

forgot to put it down in the proper place).—"Dolly, why don't you see

the gentlemen out?"

I was glad to escape, for I was boiling over. To think of that kind old

man, her own life-long friend and her husband's, being brought before

that dreadful Judge Jeffreys, and she grudging a few pounds for his

defence.

As I followed the gentlemen into the ante-room, I heard Mr. Pendergast

ask,—"What did she give you at last?"

"Seven shillings," answered Dr. Bates. Then, sighing: "Certainly, the

old Adam will never die in me till I die myself, brother. My fingers

itched to throw it in her face!"

I suppose it was wicked in me, but it comforted me to hear the good man

make this confession.

He turned to me, as I entered the room, with his kindly smile. "Do not

trouble yourself, my dear young lady. We can easily let ourselves out."

"I wanted to speak with you," said I. And then added, awkwardly enough,

I dare say, "Will you please give Mr. Baxter this gold piece for me?"

The ministers looked at each other, and then at me.

"But, daughter, is not this a great deal for you?" asked Dr. Bates.

"It was a present to me," said I. "Mr. Baxter has been very good to me,

and—" And here, like a goose, I fell a-weeping as I thought how kindly

he had spoken the very last time I saw him. "Please do take the money,"

I added, checking my tears as well as I could. "'Twas given me to do

what I like with."

"I will take it, then, and I am sure a blessing will go with it,"

said the doctor, laying his hand on my head. "May the Father of

the fatherless bless thee, my child!" Then, turning, he asked Mr.

Pendergast, "Does she belong to us?"

"Not she," answered Mr. Pendergast. "I cannot make a Presbyterian of

her; though my wife and I have tried, haven't we, Dolly?"

"I am sure you have both been very good to me," I answered, "but every

one is not like you. My mother was of the Church of England, and I

cannot leave it without better reason than I have yet seen."

"Ah, well, the light may come!" said the doctor kindly. "Pray for

light, my child. And, once more, the God of the fatherless bless thee!"

Mary Mathews was waiting at the door, and I saw her give the doctor

something. When I had a chance, I asked her how much.

"Five shillings," said she shortly. "I had saved it toward a Sunday

gown, but my old one will serve a while yet. I have not forgotten how

kindly Mr. Baxter spoke to me the day I was crying for my poor dead

sister."

"So is not a word better than a gift?" My lady hath been in her worst

humor all day, saying the most provoking and outrageous things, and

insulting both Mrs. Williams and myself every time we opened our mouths.

Mrs. Williams's Welsh blood boiled over at last, and she gave her back

hot and hot, ending with giving warning. Whereat my lady cooled down,

and presently went into fits of the mother. She did not gain much by

that, for Mrs. Williams plied her with hartshorn and burnt feathers.

And as she continued winking and blinking, and pretending not to see or

hear, she poured into her mouth a most abominable decoction of valerian

and rue, the very smell of which almost made me sick. It brought my

lady to in an instant, sputtering and choking, and declaring she was

poisoned, and demanding what had been given her.

"Only my Lady Pendarves's cordial against fits," answered Mrs.

Williams, tranquil as a summer morning. For, having discharged her

culverins with such good effect, she could afford to be as quiet as

those same culverins when unloaded of their powder. "'Tis a sovereign

remedy, as you may see. Perhaps you had better take a little more." And

she again advanced the cup to her lips.

"No, no! I am quite well now," said my lady hastily. "I should not be

ill only for your and Dolly's fretting me so, poor, weak creature that

I am!" And with that she began to cry, but stopped as she saw Mrs.

Williams shaking her bottle again.

As for me, I was ready to die laughing, but I can always keep a sober

face, if I please.

"I hope your new woman may suit you better than myself," said Mrs.

Williams. "I heard that Mrs. Jerningham, who hath lived in my Lord

Oxford's family, desires a place. And I can bid her call on you, if you

please."

"Yes, a fine addition she would be to my family, no doubt," snapped my

lady. "You are very unkind, Williams, to speak of such a thing, when

you know what a poor, suffering creature I am, with no one to care for

me since my poor husband died.—Dolly, take your work, and go sit in

your own room."

"I think Mistress Dolly had better go for a little walk, since the day

is so warm and fine," said the pitiless Mrs. Williams. "I could give

her Mrs. Jerningham's address, if your ladyship would like to have her

call on you."

"Hold your tongue about Mrs. Jerningham.—Dolly, go and walk, then, and

see if you can pick up some news."

I went as I was bid, and was glad of the chance to be in the air a

little.

_May 26._

Poor Mr. Baxter hath really been sentenced to a fine and imprisonment.

Mr. Pendergast, who was present, said the old gentleman carried himself

like a hero all through. The trial was a shameful, indecent mockery

of justice. Mr. Baxter's council was not allowed to say a word in his

defence, and several distinguished clergymen of the Church of England

who tried to speak for him were insulted and roared down. It is said

that Judge Jeffreys proposed that he should be whipped at the cart's

tail, but the motion raised such a murmur of indignation, even among

the most subservient of the courtiers and court officials, that he

dared not persist. Mr. Pendergast says, that, considering the troubles

in the North, and the fears of a rising in behalf of the Duke of

Monmouth, the sentence is lighter than Mr. Baxter's friends had any

reason to expect.

Somehow, ever since Dr. Bates was here, the words of his blessing have

dwelt upon mine ear. "The Father of the fatherless"—it hath a lovely

sound. But I don't think He can be "my" father, else he would never

leave me here where I am so miserable, and where I "can't" be good if I

would.

I suppose my lady has made it up with Mrs. Williams, for there is no

more talk of her going away. I am glad of it with all my heart. I am

sure I could never live here without her, and I have nowhere else to

go. My Lady Clarenham did say something as to telling my aunt about

me, but I don't build on it. 'Tis not likely, with her family, that

she would care to be troubled with me. But, as I said, I fancy Mrs.

Williams has made her own terms. She keeps the keys again, my lady

saying she is not able to attend to the housekeeping any more. And we

fare very much better in consequence. She is civil enough to me before

Mrs. Williams, but takes it out on me behind her back. However, I get

more liberty than I did, and take a walk every day when it is fine.

_May 30._

It is said that the rebellion in Scotland is quashed, and the Earl

of Argyle is in prison and like to lose his head. I am glad on't, I

am sure; not that the poor gentleman is to lose his head, but that

the rebellion is so soon put down, since they say it could never have

succeeded. I hope they will not be too severe with the poor wretches,

but those that know say that the king hath no mercy in his heart. There

are rumors of an invasion under the Duke of Monmouth.

This morning, walking in the park very early,—I like to go early,

because I see no one at that hour,—I saw Barbara Andrews, sister to Mr.

Andrews, Ursula's servant that was. I have always liked Bab, who is an

upright, downright sort of girl, but we have never been intimate. She

looked very pretty in her deep mourning, with her fair hair, that never

will lie smooth, dancing in little curls about her forehead. She had a

basket on her arm, and told me she was going to carry something to a

poor body. And, as I had plenty of time, I offered to go with her.

"Have you seen Ursula lately?" I asked of her, as we walked along.

I was surprised to see Bab's eyes flash, and her lips curl, at the

question; for though she and Ursula were as unlike as chalk and cheese,

and I never thought any love was lost between them, yet they always got

on well enough.

"She is busy, I dare say," she answered, "though I should not think she

need have so much to do: she had her wedding-clothes ready to her hand."

"Bab, what do you mean?" I exclaimed, standing stock-still in my

amazement. "Ursula is not going to be married—not 'Ursula'—not so soon?"

"Even so," said Bab. "You know if she should wait longer, the mode

might change, and the things go out of fashion." And with that she

laughed, and then fell a-weeping so bitterly, and with such sobs, that

I was fain to draw her to a bench which stood under the shelter of some

bushes, and bring out my smelling-salts which my Lady Clarenham's woman

gave me. Bab is not one to make a great fuss. She checked herself as

soon as she could, and wiped her eyes.

"I am a fool, Dolly, and that is the truth. Why should I care? Only I

do think she might have waited the year out.

"'But two short months,—not two,—

A little month, or ere those shoes were old

In which she followed my poor brother's coffin.'"

I thought she was going to cry again, and strove to divert her.

"Bab," said I severely, "you have been reading profane stage plays.

That is out of Mr. Shakspeare, I know."

"And so have you, or you wouldn't know," she retorted. "But there is no

harm in that play, Dolly."

"I know it," I answered. "I got some of the speeches by heart when I

was at school. I only wish I had the book now. But tell me, is Ursula

really going to be married, and to whom?"

"She really is, and to Mr. Jackson, her father's partner."

"Bab, I can't believe it," I said. "Why, he is old enough to be her

father, and a church-warden to boot! I have heard her laugh at him to

his face many a time."

"And perhaps you may again; nevertheless, she is going to marry him

next week."

"But what possesses her?"

"Well, if you want to know what I think, Dolly, I will tell you," said

Bab, rising, and taking up her basket again. "I think Ursula is, as

they say, biting off her nose to spite her face."

"How so?"

"Why, she had news from Newcastle, or thereabouts,—wherever Mr. Morley

has gone—that he is to be married to some rich woman in that place. And

I think she means to show him that she does not care, and that she can

be wedded as soon as he."

If my life with my mistress has done me no other service, it hath at

least taught me to command myself, and to hide my feelings.

"But is she sure?" I asked. "'Twould be a pity to do such a thing, and

then find out that it was a mistake, after all."

"I believe the news is quite true. You know he is a kinsman of Ursula's

on the mother's side. I think she always liked Mr. Morley, even while

my poor brother was alive, but Henry was so blind, and he loved Ursula.

I tell you what it is, Dolly, I could almost find it in my heart to be

thankful that he hath escaped her hands. As to Mr. Morley, my opinion

is that they would have been well matched, but for all his hanging

round her, and sending her presents, I don't think he cared a pin for

her."

"I must hurry home, Bab," said I, glancing at the clock. "I shall be

late. And my lady will bite my head off if I am not at prayers to read

her a chapter out of Chronicles, all full of hard names. I wish those

who made the Bible had left out that part of it."

"Don't speak so of the Holy Word, Dolly dear!" said Bab seriously, and

gently detaining me a moment. "I could show you some lovely things even

among those same hard names."

"You speak of the Bible as if you really loved it, Bab. Do you?" I

asked.

"Yes, I do, and so would you if you thought of it as I do," answered

Bab. "Think of it as a letter from a loving Father writ to 'you'—yes,

just as much to 'you' as if you were the writer's only child. Then you

will love it, and find comfort in it, as I do."

"You are good, and I am not," said I. "And, besides, I can't believe

that God loves me, when he lets me live with my mistress. But I must

go, Bab. Do come and see me sometimes. My mistress lies abed all the

afternoon, and we could have some comfort."

"I will," said Bab. And as she kissed me, she whispered, "Dolly dear,

do try to acquaint yourself with Him, and be at peace. He can comfort

you, and he will: only try him."

Bab must know, for she has had a great deal of sorrow in her short

life, but then she hath never been tried as I have.

I was home in good time, but by ill luck my mistress had risen earlier

than usual, and of course I came in for a storm. To pacify her, I told

her I had heard a piece of news from Barbara Andrews.

"Yes, you are a fine pair of giglets, you and Bab Andrews. Mark my

words, that girl will never come to any good. Her father lets her read

romances and play-books, and poetry too."

"Only the Countess of Pembroke's 'Arcadia,' and Mr. Shakspeare's

plays," said I, "and Mr. Spenser's poems."

"You let me catch you with any of them, and see what you will get," was

the grim response. "I wonder what his dear friend Mr. Baxter would say

to Mr. Andrews, if he knew that."

"Mr. Andrews gave fifty pounds to Mr. Baxter's defence," said I. I felt

just like exasperating her, somehow. It seemed a relief to the smart of

my own feelings.

"Oh, that is your great news, is it? Then here is a piece for you: A

fool and his money is soon parted."

"I am glad you do not think me a fool," said I demurely, "but that was

not the news I meant, for I did not hear that from Bab. She is not one

to sound a trumpet before her, or her father either. Shall I get the

books and read to you now?"

"Tell me this great news of yours first: I see you are bursting with

it," said she more good-naturedly. "And don't you vex me, Dolly: you

may be old and lonely yourself, sometime."

I do wish she would always be kind: she can be so nice when she

pleases. Of course I told her all about it.

"Ursula is a shrewd girl; she hath an eye to the main chance, I see,"

was her comment. "Mr. Jackson hath a great interest in the business,

and is rich beside. She is doing well for herself."

"She hath lost no time about it," observed Mrs. Williams. "Why 'tis not

two months since poor Mr. Andrews died, but mayhap she is afraid her

wedding-clothes may go out of fashion."

"Well, well, 'tis the way of the world," said my lady. "I wish Dolly

may do as well for herself. I must look out a match for you, child.

There, get the books and read."

I could not but think of Bab's words about finding nice things in the

Book of Chronicles when I came across the story of Jabez, whose mother

called him so because she bare him with sorrow. I wonder what the poor

woman's grief was. Anyhow, I hope she lived to see her son's good

fortune. If God would only hear me like that!

After prayers, and when my lady had taken her netting, she began to

talk about Ursula again, still in high good humor. And she was yet on

the theme when Ursula herself was announced.

She was in black, but had left off her veil, and "going to be married,"

was written all over her. She came to tell her dear aunt a piece of

news, she said, which no doubt would surprise her, but she thought dear

aunt would understand her motives, and not misconstrue her as some had

done who should know better.

"Oh, dear aunt knows all about it!" said my lady, smiling maliciously.

"Your news is piper's news, niece. You are going to marry Mr. Jackson,

like a sensible girl. Pray, when does the great event take place?"

"To-day week," answered Ursula, rather shortly. Nobody likes to have

their grand news forestalled. And then, more amiably, "How did you hear

the story?"

"Dolly had it from Bab Andrews, this morning," answered my lady.

"Oh! And I dare say Bab had plenty to say about it," sneered Ursula. "I

must say, she and the whole family have treated me very unkindly. But

I did not suppose from the way I have heard her talk, that she was any

great friend of 'yours,' Dolly. I heard her say only yesterday—However,

I don't want to make mischief."

"You won't," I answered shortly. "I know Bab, and I know she is not one

who hath two sides to her tongue."

"And so Mr. Jackson is to be the happy man," said my lady. "He is

rather old for you, isn't he?"

"'Better an old man's darling than a young man's slave,' perhaps Mrs.

Ursula thinks," said Mrs. Williams. And then, as Ursula bestowed a

gracious smile in recompense for the proverb, she added, "But old men

have slaves sometimes as well as young ones."

"Mr. Jackson is not an old man; he is not yet sixty," said my lady.

"Never mind them, Ursula, they are vexed because it is not their

chance. But I did not think it would be Mr. Jackson. What has become

of your fine captain, with his gold lace and his feathers and his

courtier's airs and graces?"

"My father would never hear of my marrying a soldier, and one who has

not a broad piece," said Ursula; "and besides," she added, glancing

at me, "Capt. Morley is to marry some one at Newcastle, some rich

coalman's daughter."

"Oh, indeed!" said my lady. "You did not hear that news, Dolly?"

"Yes, madam," I answered tranquilly, though I felt as if I were in a

nightmare, "Bab told me that, too."

"And when did you hear as much?" asked my lady, turning to Ursula.

"About two weeks ago."

"Oh!" said my lady, with ill-natured significance. "And how long have

you been engaged to Mr. Jackson?"

"It is not Mr. Jackson's fault if we have not been married, not to say

engaged, for a year, madam," answered Ursula. "I must say I am thankful

that Providence hath saved me from marrying a man I never could really

like, to give me one that I can both respect and love."

The hypocrite! She and my lady are enough to make one disbelieve in

Providence altogether. And to talk so about Mr. Andrews, the good

man,—a thousand times too good for her, I am sure.

She went away after a little. And my lady, having been pleasant for an

hour, hath been as cross as a bear for the rest of the day, to make

amends. But I don't care.

I don't believe anybody was ever so unhappy as I am. "Acquaint thyself

with Him, and be at peace," Bab says. But I don't know where to find

him, and I have no one to help me.

_June 2._

"Sorrow may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning." I can't

tell where I read that, but I think it must be in the Bible. I was

coming home from my walk this morning when I met a gentleman whom I had

seen in Mr. Morley's company once or twice. He saluted me and asked if

this was not Mrs. Dolly Corbet. I curtsied, and answered yes.

"Then I have a packet for your hands, fair lady," said he. He placed in

my hands a little parcel, bowed again, and turned away. The packet was

inscribed, "For the hands of Mrs. Dorothy Corbet;" and it was sealed

with scented wax and a band of blue floss silk, as the fashion is now.

I had never seen Mr. Morley's hand, but somehow I knew it in a moment.

It was not till afternoon, however, that I got a chance to open it. It

contained a ribbon of plaid silk and a letter from Mr. Morley. Such a

loving, kind letter! I have worn it next my heart all day; and, having

it there, I could afford to smile at all Ursula's hints and taunts

about wearing the willow and so on. I would rather wear the willow than

be fed on thistles by such an old donkey as Mr. Jackson. He called here

with Ursula, and it was sickening to see his spruce, lover-like airs. I

wonder she can endure him. Such a contrast to poor Mr. Andrews, who was

a man any one might love and honor!

_June 8._

We all went to Ursula's wedding yesterday. Even my lady would go; and

she gave Ursula a present of a lace whisk which I believe used to be

poor Lady Jem's, at least I saw her in the morning searching in the

great chest of drawers where she keeps all those things. She never uses

any of them herself, and I wish she would give them to me, but there is

no danger of that. I saw Ursula showing the whisk to Mr. Jackson, with

some slighting remark, to which he answered rather sharply,—

"Don't you know better than that, Ursula? It is old Flanders lace,

worth its weight in diamonds, almost. You could easily sell it for

twenty guineas to-morrow."

After which, she treated it with more respect.

There were many guests at the wedding, and they were all pretty merry,

though there was no dancing nor cards. But I don't see, for my part,

why blindman's buff and the like are any better than a good country

dance. I am sure there is a deal more romping about them. The couple

were married at St. Margaret's, where Mr. Jackson hath a fine pew all

lined with damask. I suppose Ursula will go to church with him, of

course, but I don't think she will mind. I believe Bab Andrews would

cut her hand off before she would wed any one who should take her away

from Mr. Pendergast's congregation. And I must say I think she is

right. I do always say, if one's religion means any thing, it means

every thing.

Mr. and Mrs. Jackson went to their own house from her father's. It

is a very good house, with a court, where grow two or three trees

and a large laylock, now loaded with flowers. Methought the ancient

serving-man and his wife, who have kept house for Mr. Jackson so long,

did look but sourly on the bride, and gave her a cool welcome, but the

house was in apple-pie order, and the cake and spiced wine of the best

quality. My mistress grew weary, and came away before all the ceremony

was done; and I was not sorry.

"Well, all is over, and my niece well settled in life," said my lady,

yawning, as we helped her to undress. "I hope she was pleased with the

present I gave her."

"She had a right to be," said I maliciously, I believe. "Mr. Jackson

told her it could be sold to-morrow for twenty guineas. He said it was

old Flanders lace, worth its weight in diamonds."

My lady turned fairly green with vexation.

"Are you sure?" said she. "Twenty guineas! If I had known that! But

I am the most unlucky woman in the world. Every one robs me. Twenty

guineas!"

"Well, your ladyship need not grudge it, since it went to your own

niece," observed Mrs. Williams. "I could have told you as much, for I

have often seen such lace when I was abroad with my former mistress,

but I thought you selected it on purpose to do honor to the bride."

My lady made a grimace, but she is mighty civil to Mrs. Williams

nowadays. This morning she has been rummaging the great chest of

drawers, and has got out a pile of lace for me to look over and mend

for her. I don't mind. I love to work on lace, and, thanks to Mrs.

Price, I know all the stitches. But somehow, as I turned over the

beautiful frail fabrics, my heart has been full of sorrow for the poor

pretty lady who used to wear them, and whom they have outlasted.

Bab Andrews came in this afternoon, and brought my lady a fine cream

cheese, part of a hamper she had from her sister in the country. And my

lady graciously asked her to stay and make a visit.

Bab is even more skilful than myself at lace-work. And as we looked

over the things, and laid them out on a piece of old colored silk to

show the patterns, I told her some of the thoughts that were running in

my mind.

"Doesn't it seem strange," said I, "that these spider-webs should have

outlasted the one who used to take delight in them? They are as good as

ever; but what is left of her, save her monument in the church, and the

picture of her down-stairs in the withdrawing-room?"

"You talk like a Sadducee, Dolly," said Bab. "Don't you know poor Lady

Jemima is just as much alive as ever she was, only not here?"

"I suppose she is, and yet it does not seem so," I answered. "When a

person is dead, it seems as though that was the end. Does it not to

you?"

"'No, indeed!'" she answered, with emphasis. "My dear mother

and—another friend—are as much alive to me as ever they were, only I

can't see them," she added sadly. "O Dolly, my heart grows so 'hungry'

at times! It seems as if I could not wait. But I shall be satisfied

sometime."

"And till then?"

"Till then I must even work and wait," she answered, with her bright

smile; "and the consolations of God are not small with me, either,

Dolly."

"If 'you' can say that, I ought to be able to," said I. (For really,

in some ways, Bab is worse off than I. Her lover was executed for

complicity in the Rye House Plot, though he died protesting his

innocence of aught but old friendship with some of the conspirators.

Her father is old and feeble. Her mother is dead. And her aunt, who

rules the house, has the temper of a wild bull, and the malice of—I

won't say what. Mrs. Pendergast says Bab has the patience of a saint

with her.) "But somehow those things seem to do me no good. I read the

Bible to my lady every day, but I don't seem to gain any thing from it

but weariness."

"That is because you don't take it in the right spirit, as I tell you,"

said Bab.

"But, Bab, I don't see that Christians are so very much better off,

after all," said I. "Look at the Pendergasts; and Mr. Baxter, poor man!

ill and in prison; and you yourself, how many griefs you have had; and

Mr. Fairchild. He was a good man, and yet God did not interfere to save

him from a violent and unjust death."

"There again you talk like a Sadducee," said Bab. "Your words might

be true if this world were all, instead of the very least part of our

life. God has never promised his faithful ones any exemption from

trouble in this world. On the contrary, he hath said, 'In the world

ye shall have tribulation,' 'Whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth.' Mr.

Fairchild's imprisonment and death were not long, after all, and they

opened to him the gate of eternal life. And when we look back to the

most sorrowful life, after our sorrow is all done and past forever,

from the distance of a million years of blessedness, it will not seem

long to us."

"I am glad you take comfort in such thoughts," said I.

"I could not live if I did not," said she; and then, her heart being

opened, she went on to tell me a great deal about her lover,—how good

he was, and what comfort he had, even in his prison, and how bravely he

met his death. Bab is not one to talk of her own feelings often, and I

valued her confidence all the more.

"But there, I am making you cry, and I did not mean to do that," she

said presently. "I don't often talk of myself, but there is something

in you that draws one out. I always did like you, Dolly."

"I am sure I am glad," said I, and then added incautiously, "I was told

you did not."

Bab glanced sharply at me, "Ursula?"

I nodded.

"You should know her well enough by this time not to care for what she

tells you," said Bab. And then, breaking out with all her natural fire

and vehemence, "If there is any thing I detest and despise on this

earth, it is a born meddler and mischief-maker,—a make-bate who repeats

things from one friend to another to make trouble and discord. Such a

person is the meanest reptile that crawls."

"If they would content themselves with repeating, but I think they

never do," said I.

"Never. The tattler is always a liar."

"But, Bab, you should not hate or despise any one," said I demurely:

"doesn't the Bible say we should pray for those?"

"Yes, I know, and I am wrong," said Bab; "and, Dolly, I do pray for

her. But you don't know the wrong she has tried to do me. There, I

won't talk of it, or think of it, either, if I can help it. Did you say

my Lady Jemima's picture was down-stairs? Can I see it?"

I took her down to the withdrawing-room; and we looked long at the

beautiful face, drawn with Lely's best art.

"How lovely she is!" said Bab at last. "She looks as if made for

something better than the life they say she led. What sort of man was

Sir Charles?"

"He was very kind to me," I answered, "but they say he was a great

gamester, and not very good otherwise. But he was kind to me. I wonder

what in the world made him marry my lady."

"Her money, I suppose," answered Bab. "But it was tied up so he never

had much of it, or so I have heard. I wonder whether my lady will ever

marry again."

"Bab, the idea!" I exclaimed.

"And pray what is there so very absurd in that, Mrs. Dolly?" said a

sharp voice behind us. I turned in a hurry, and saw my mistress, who

had come in like a cat, as she always does, only she never purrs. "Am I

such a dragon in your eyes that you think all the men must be afraid of

me?"

I told her what was true, though I fear not the whole truth,—that I had

always heard her regret her last marriage, and say what a foolish step

it was, and how much better off she would have been to live single.

"One might have better luck another time," said she, as if really

considering the matter. "However, you need not get your bridesmaid's

dress ready yet. What about your work?"

I told her it was all done. And she bade me put on my hood, and go tell

Mr. Jackson she wanted to see him. I ventured to demur a little, and

say I would go with Bab after supper. Whereupon, she took me up sharply

for wanting to be in the street at that hour. I believe it was a plan

to keep Bab from staying to supper.

Mr. Jackson was all smiles and spruceness, as became a bridegroom, and

made some speeches I would have liked to box his ears for. I believe

he did buy the laces, for they have all disappeared; and my lady is in

high good humor, so that she even gave me half a crown.

_June 13._

Great news is come from the west,—no less than that the Duke of

Monmouth has landed at Lyme, and has put forth a proclamation declaring

his right to the crown, and accusing his uncle the king of unheard of

crimes; of poisoning his brother, of strangling poor Sir Edmondsbury

Godfrey, about whom there was such a coil, and what not. Mr. Pendergast

says it is not like a royal proclamation, but like a libellous street

broadside; and so said Mr. Robertson, who came to talk over the news.

"Well, I can't but think there may be some truth in his claim, after

all we heard about the black box; and, if so, I hope he will succeed,"

said my mistress.

"For Heaven's sake, don't say so, sister!" exclaimed Mr. Robertson.

"Such words, if reported, might cost your life, and ours too."

My mistress looked scared.

"The duke's claim hath not the shadow of probability," continued Mr.

Robertson. "I well remember seeing his mother, when I was abroad as

a young man. She was not a creature that any one was like to marry.

I know people wondered at the king for taking up with her, for her

character was notorious."

"I am very sorry for this business," said the minister, "and the more

so that I fear some of our friends in the west will be so ill-advised

as to join with the duke, as others did with the Duke of Argyle. I

do not so much wonder at that, since he was a sober and religious

gentleman, though, as I think, sadly ill-advised. But I do not know

what they can expect from one who leads the life of the Duke of

Monmouth."

"I suppose such great people are not to be judged by common rules,"

began my lady.

But Mr. Pendergast turned on her sharply enough. "And why not, madam?

Does the Holy Word contain one set of rules for the great, and another

for common people? If so, I have never found it out. The idea is

far too common, but I did not expect to hear it from a member of my

congregation."

Then Mr. Robertson took her up,—

"And whatever you do, sister Corbet, don't let any one hear you say one

word in favor of this unhappy gentleman. The king is exasperated to the

last degree, and Judge Jeffreys hath his ear entirely. I fear we shall

see bloody work before all is done. But I do beg you to be careful,

sister: I don't want to see you brought to prison and death in your old

age."

"Dear me, what did I say?" asked my lady. "I only said 'if.'"

"And that was an 'if' too much," answered Mr. Robertson.

"And as to my old age, I am not so very aged as all that," whimpered my

lady. "One would think I were as old as Dame Gaskell to hear you talk."

"You are old enough to know better than to talk treason," said Mr.

Robertson very sharply. (It was a wonder, for he is usually very

deferential to his sister-in-law.) "Why, if Mrs. Dolly here were to

report your rash words, you might find yourself in Newgate to-morrow."

I was boiling over with rage at him, but I was spared the trouble of

taking up the cudgels in mine own defence, as Mr. Pendergast did it for

me.

"Mrs. Dolly is not going to do any such thing; she is no make-bate or

tale-pyet that I will engage. I wonder at you, brother Robertson, for

casting such a slur on a young lady as to insinuate that she is to turn

informer!"

I don't know what there is about that little man which gives him such

weight. He is small and meagre, and as poor as the young ravens, as

Jane Gaskell says; and yet, when he does take up arms, all goes down

before him. Mr. Robertson looked ashamed of himself.

"You misapprehend me, you quite misapprehend me, brother Pendergast,"

said he. "I meant no insinuation as to Mrs. Dolly, who is, I am sure,

an excellent young lady, but you know young maids will tattle and talk

at times incautiously. I am sure I crave her pardon, if I have hurt

her.—You will forgive me, won't you, Mrs. Dorothy?"

The poor man looked really unhappy. I do think he is a kind soul; and,

with the specimen he has at home, one need not wonder. So what could I

say but that it was no matter!

_June 18._

I have seen Mr. Morley. He was in town only one day and a part of

another, but he gave us a call, and (I am almost ashamed to write it)

I did meet him in the park for a few minutes in the morning. I know

it was wrong to break my promise to Mrs. Williams, but it is the last

time. He goes to the west to-day, where the rebels are still holding

their own, and even making head.

Mr. Morley asked me what I heard among the Presbyterians about the

Duke of Monmouth. I told him that all I had heard speak of the

matter considered his claims utterly unfounded, and his attempt both

ill-advised and wrong.

"They would be ready enough to join him if he made his way to

London—the sneaking traitors!" said Mr. Morley. "And how about your

mistress? She hath an eye for a fine young man, and the duke and Sir

Charles Corbet used to be very great together in former days."

My cheeks tingle with shame at the thought, but I came very near

telling him what my mistress had said. Something, not my own sense I am

sure, stopped me just in time. It was as if a hand had been laid on my

mouth.

"That would be no passport to my lady's favor," said I, laughing

rather nervously. "She is always telling about poor Sir Charles's

wastefulness, and how much better off she would have been had she not

married him. And the stories of the Duke of Monmouth's extravagance

would set her against him if nothing else did. I must go, Mr. Morley."

"I suppose your mistress is very rich," said he, detaining me.

"I suppose so," I answered. "I heard her say once that her income

was more that twenty pounds a day. But she is not one to talk of her

affairs. But I must go this minute."

Well, we parted, and he is gone. When I think over our interview, it

does seem strange to me that he should ask me such questions. Does he

think I would be a spy on these poor people? And yet, my heart was in

my mouth when I think how near I came to betraying my poor mistress. I

will never again boast of my power of keeping secrets.

I never thought to ask him about the Newcastle lady.

My mistress is wonderful good to me about these days. She hath given

me small sums of money two or three times; and to-day she presented

me with two dresses that were Lady Jemima's,—a gray cloth curiously

wrought with silk embroidery, and a blue silk. Of course they are all

out of fashion, but I can make them over. I am glad to have them, for I

have worn my best gown till it is hardly decent for every day.

_June 25._

I have been so busy with my dressmaking that I have had no time to

write, and not much to say. My gowns are done and look very pretty. My

mistress continues her good-nature, and gives me more liberty to do

what I please than ever before, but she does not like to have me go out.

Ursula Jackson hath been here with her odious husband. I fancy she does

not find her married life all sunshine, or he either. His old servants

left him, for one thing, after living with him twenty-five years, and

he has not yet suited himself. Ursula told me that Mr. Morley had given

her a visit, and seemed surprised when I told her he had been here also.

"But he need not come again, he need not come again," said Mr.

Jackson, rubbing his hands. "We don't want any court falcons round our

turtledove's nest, do we, lovey?"

Ursula smiled, but it was what Mrs. Williams calls an oxymel smile,

sweet and sour at the same time. She has been trying to get Mary

Mathews away from us, promising her an advance of wages, but Mary, who

knows her well, says she would as soon live with the Prince of darkness.

I don't know how it is. I ought to be happy after seeing Mr. Morley,

and hearing from his own lips how much he loves me. But I am not. My

conscience pricks me for breaking my promise so solemnly given, and

then there was a something in his manner, a kind of freedom. Something

keeps telling me that he would not have spoken so to a woman he really

respected. And then, his asking me those questions. But I am an

ungrateful, fanciful girl, and there is the end on't.

_June 30._

Great public news,—the Duke of Monmouth was defeated, and his power

wholly broken, at a place called Sedgemoor. Terrible tales are told

of the brutality used toward the poor miners and ploughmen who had

joined him. I am sure I hope Mr. Morley had nothing to do with these

cruelties. The duke himself was taken hiding in a ditch, and has

been brought to London. We saw him pass, Mrs. Williams and I, as we

were buying some things for my lady. He looked thin and haggard, but

not daunted. I am sorry for his poor wife, who they say loves him to

distraction, though he cares for her not at all, and has not even asked

to see her.

The murder is out. I mean the secret of my lady's kindness to me. I

could tear her fine gifts to pieces if it were not for the remembrance

of that morning in the park. She is really afraid I will betray her.

She asked me last night to stay and read to her awhile after she was in

bed, saying she found it hard to go to sleep, and that I might sleep

later in the morning, if I liked, to make up; adding,—

"I dare say 'you' don't lie awake?"

"Not often, madam," said I; "not unless I have something on my mind."

"Chicks like you ought not to have any thing on their minds. There,

read away."

"What shall I read, my lady?" I asked.

"Oh, what you like! There is Mr. Milton's new poem lying on the

cabinet, take that. Mr. Pendergast thinks it is wonderful, but I don't

know. Mr. Milton became an Independent, I remember. How many changes I

have seen! And yet I have not lived so very long. There, go on."

So I began,—

"Of man's first disobedience, and the fruit

Of that forbidden tree whose mortal taste

Brought death into the world and all our woe."

Once having begun, I knew not where to stop. The sentences are long,

and the sense, at times, involved, but the diction, the melody, is

something wonderful. Well, I read a long time, but my lady did not go

to sleep. At last she said,—

"There, that will do; it is late. Come here, child." She took my hand

and looked with a curious wistfulness in my face. "You don't love me,

Dolly, I know. I ought not to expect it, I suppose. I never did make

people love me, only Mr. Robertson. And I haven't been very good to

you, perhaps?"

She looked at me as if expecting an answer, and I resolved to be frank

for once.

"No, my lady, I don't think you have," I answered. "You have given me

shelter, it is true, and for that I am grateful—"

"And food and clothes," she interrupted me.

"And food and clothes," I assented, "but you have not given me what is

worth even more to a young maid, and that is kindness. You seem as if

you grudged the very food you gave, and I never am at ease with you. I

never know when the simplest word or act of mine may bring down a storm

of anger and abuse on my head. I would ask nothing more than to be able

to love and respect you, but how can I?"

I thought I had done it now, but she only sighed.

"Well, well! Maybe you are right. My aunt Wilson told me once I was

like some man she read of in a story-book: I never could have fair

weather because I carried my own storm wherever I went. But, Dolly, you

can be sorry for me. You would not want to be revenged. You would not

wish to see your poor old mistress in Newgate or on the scaffold?"

It flashed on me then in a moment what it all meant. I tried to draw my

hand away, but she held me fast.

"Do you judge me by yourself?" said I, too angry to measure my words.

"Would you do as much by me?"

"But they might tempt you, they might offer you money," said she

piteously. "Don't be angry, Dolly, but promise you won't betray me."

"And what would my promise be worth, if I were what you think me?" I

asked. And then all at once came the remembrance of how near I had come

to doing that very thing through sheer carelessness, and I felt that I

was no such grand person after all. As the poor thing held my hand and

gazed into my face, my heart softened toward her, poor, lonely, unloved

and unloving old woman. I am at least better off than she, because I

can love, and have some one to love me.

"My lady," said I, trying to speak calmly, for I saw how agitated she

was, and I feared a fit. "Listen to me. I don't boast of what I would

or would not do. Nobody knows that till the trial comes. But I will say

this much. If I know myself, I would sooner cut off my right hand than

say a word which would bring you into any trouble."

"Well, well, I believe you," said she, looking more satisfied. "You

have plenty of faults, Dolly, and you are not very good-tempered, but

I have never caught you in a lie, or even in a false excuse. And maybe

I haven't been as kind to you as I ought to be. There, kiss me, child,

and go to bed."

I kissed her, and she really did embrace me with some affection. I went

away quite elated with my victory, but, when I think matters over, I

don't feel so proud. Is a broken promise a lie? And if I have told no

lies in words, have I not acted them? No, I don't feel proud of myself

at all.

_July 16._

The poor, unhappy Duke of Monmouth was executed yesterday. When the

king consented to see him, his friends had hope for his life, but now

'tis said his Majesty never had any such intention. I do think that

was dreadful, as though he wished to feast his eyes on the misery and

degradation of his own nephew.

His poor wife visited him, but though he spoke to her kindly, and bid

her not mourn for him, he showed her no affection. His love was given

to the Lady Wentworth; and they say he told the bishops who attended

him that he considered her his wife in the sight of Heaven, since he

was wedded to the Lady Anne Scott when they were both little children.

The executioner did his work most foully, and came near being torn to

pieces by the crowd, who rushed to dip cloths and handkerchiefs in the

duke's blood.

Mr. Pendergast brought us some letters he has received from the west

country, telling dreadful stories of the cruelties practised there. I

suppose it was right to make examples, but it could not be necessary

to throw little girls into the common prison for the folly of their

school-mistress, or to behead a poor old lady for giving food to the

starving fugitives.

Nay, they say the Lady Alice Lysle would have been burned, but for the

earnest intercession of all the clergy of Winchester, but even they

did not avail to save her life. They say the chief justice is like a

madman, and that Kirke is no better. It is dreadful to me to think of

Mr. Morley in the midst of such scenes, and perhaps obliged to assist

at them. How his kind heart must revolt at the work!

_July 18._

Mr. Pendergast has been here to bid us farewell for a time. He hath had

notice from a sure hand that the scenes of the west country are likely

enough to be re-enacted here very soon. And though, as he says, he

shall not desert his flock, he shall not for the present show himself

openly among men. His wife and children go to her father, who is a

yeoman in Kent, not rich, but able and willing to give his daughter

a home. I am sorry to miss them. Mr. Pendergast is a most agreeable

man, and both he and his wife have been very good to me. Besides, they

had more influence with my lady than any one else, even Mr. Baxter

himself. I fear the poor man's prison will not be the easier for what

has happened. I would I could see him, and carry him some comforts,

as Bab Andrews has done, but when I ventured to ask leave to go with

her, my mistress went into such a taking that she nearly brought on a

fit,—a real fit, I mean. Mrs. Williams tells me I must be careful not

to agitate her, and I am. I don't want the poor thing's death at my

door. She is much kinder to me than formerly; and I suppose I ought to

be happy, knowing as I do that Mr. Morley loves me. But I don't know,

I suppose nobody ever is really content in this world. Bab would say

it is because they strive to be content with what was never meant to

satisfy them, but I don't know.

I have really written through this the smallest of my three books. I

wonder what the lady who so carefully prepared it for her daughter

would say if she saw how it was filled. She was a devout lady, that I

am sure of from the few sentences written in this book, but it seems

her daughter did not take after her. I wonder why.

THE SECOND BOOK.

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