Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
[Illustration: Mr. Corbet exerted himself to entertain Betty,
telling her stories.]
_[The Stanton-Corbet Chronicles.]_
_[Year 1637]_
_Lady Betty's_
_Governess;_
OR,
THE CORBET CHRONICLES.
BY
_LUCY ELLEN GUERNSEY_
AUTHOR OF
"LADY ROSAMOND," "THE CHEVALIER'S DAUGHTER," "WINIFRED,"
"FOSTER SISTERS," ETC.
NEW EDITION.
_LONDON:_
JOHN F. SHAW AND CO.
48, PATERNOSTER ROW, E. C.
[Illustration]
CONTENTS.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER I.
BROTHER AND SISTER
CHAPTER II.
THE LAST SUNDAY
CHAPTER III.
MY NEW CHARGE
CHAPTER IV.
A WELCOME VISITOR
CHAPTER V.
EASTER TIDE
CHAPTER VI.
MAKING PROGRESS
CHAPTER VII.
THE BISHOP'S VISIT
CHAPTER VIII.
MORE THAN A FRIEND
CHAPTER IX.
TRAVELLING MERCHANTS
CHAPTER X.
A SON AND HEIR
CHAPTER XI.
NEWS FROM HOME
CHAPTER XII.
EBENEZER
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
THE PREAMBLE.
——————
WHEN I was a young maid and just about to be married to my excellent
husband, with whom I have lived so long and so happily, my dear and
honored mother-in-law gave me as a wedding present, a chronicle (if I
may so call it) which she herself had received in like manner, from her
grandame, who brought her up. She said it had for some generations been
the custom in her family to keep such annals, and in this way had many
facts and circumstances been preserved which would otherwise have been
lost.
I have always preserved this chronicle with great care, and shall
make a copy of it (if time and opportunity present) for the use of my
daughters, feeling that my dear and honored cousin, Lord Stanton, hath
the best right to the original manuscript.
Thinking upon doing the same put it into my mind to make a similar
chronicle for the use of mine own daughters. I feel that it will
interest them (especially when I am dead and gone, as I soon shall be)
to know what their mother was at their age. I am able to make this
account the more full and particular, as during the year or two before
I was married, and specially while I was living in the family of my
dear and honored lady at Stanton Court, it was my habit to keep a
journal, in which I wrote down not only what most concerned me, but a
vast deal besides.
In these pages I have transcribed a part of that journal, sometimes
supplementing the text with my present recollections of events in those
days.
It hath been my lot to see many and sad changes. The Archbishop who
was so great with king and court when these pages were written, I
saw mobbed, insulted, and finally thrust into prison, from which he
was delivered only by death. In him was fulfilled those words of the
prophet, "When thou shalt cease to oppress, then shall they oppress
thee; and when thou shalt cease to deal treacherously, then shall they
deal treacherously with thee!" I could never get over the way Mr.
Prynne treated the old man. 'Twas not like a Christian nor a gentleman,
however great had been his wrongs, and no one can deny that they were
bitter enough.
Then came that terrible event, the death of the king. My husband never
approved of Cromwell's course in that matter, though he said, and as
I believe truly, that there was a time when Cromwell would have saved
him, had the king only been true to himself. But there alas! was his
great failing—sorrowfully acknowledged by friends as well as foes. With
all his virtues, the king knew neither truth nor gratitude. His want of
the first he called kingcraft like his father before him: and as for
the last, I do believe he felt himself raised too far above ordinary
mortals to owe them anything. If they served him, even to the laying
down of their lives, it was well—they did no more than their duty. If
they did not, then were they rebels and traitors. But he hath gone to
his account, and I will not judge him. My lord adhered to him always
and afterward went abroad to the court of the young king, Walter taking
the charge of his estates and sending him money.
Since the Restoration, my husband has lived in retirement, though he
has had more than one offer of office and preferment. But he loves this
quiet country life, and so do I.
My lord is back at the hall with the second lady and her children and
his own boys, and we are all good friends. She is an excellent woman,
but no more like my own dear lady than a cabbage is like a lily. Yet we
are good friends always, and she is very kind to me and my children.
I feel that my time is short, and that I must soon leave my dear
husband and children. I pray my precious girls to receive this volume
as a legacy from their mother, and to remember her last words—that the
path of duty, though its way be hard and thorny, is always the path of
safety—the path which leads to honor here and happiness hereafter. "To
do his duty in that state of life to which it hath pleased God to call
him," is the sum and substance of a Christian's work. A poor plowman
or milk-maid can do as much with God's help, and the greatest king on
earth can do no more.
MARGARET CORBET
[Illustration]
LADY BETTY'S GOVERNESS
[Illustration]
CHAPTER I.
_BROTHER AND SISTER._
_March 1, 1637._
SO it is really all settled, and I am to leave this little parsonage,
where I have spent all my days hitherto, and go to Stanton Court to
live among lords and ladies and to be companion or governess to a poor
little hunchbacked girl. I wonder how I shall like it? However, as
Felicia says, that is the least part of the matter. Felicia need not
have put it so bluntly, I think. That is always her way, but it does
not help to make matters easier. As old Esther says, if she wanted to
hammer a nail into a board, she would begin head foremost. She thinks,
forsooth, it is all because she is so very sincere, but I don't see
that she is any more so than other folks. I am sure, when she tells
mother after she and I have had a quarrel, she manages to turn things
to her own advantage as well as anybody I ever saw. Mother understands
her pretty well, that is one comfort.
It really does not matter much, however, whether I like it or not.
We cannot all stay at home, that is clear, especially now that my
dear father is gone, and we must leave the dear old parsonage for the
cottage at the other end of the village, which will hardly hold us all.
I don't mind leaving home so much, now that "home" no longer means this
queer old pile of stone, all angles and corners and outside stairs, and
all overgrown with ivy and traveller's joy, and what not. I don't think
I can ever take root in any place again, even though it were far finer
than this; and the cottage is by no means so pleasant, though very good
for a cottage.
But some of us must earn our own bread, that is plain. Poor Dick is
doing so already, with all the cheerfulness in the world, as clerk to
old Master Smith, the great stationer in Chester. He never complains,
though all his hopes and projects are disappointed, and, why should I?
Felicia is older and stronger than I am, 'tis true. But then, as mother
says to me: "Who would ever live with her that could help it? She has
such an unhappy temper!" So they all say. When "I" get vexed and in a
fury, I have a "bad" temper. That is all the difference. As long as
I can remember, every one in the house has given way to Felicia, on
account of her "unhappy temper," but I don't see that it makes her any
happier.
"Felicia!" Never was any one more completely misnamed. That is the
worst of these significant names which people are so fond of giving
nowadays. A child is named Grace, Mercy, or Peace, and Grace grows up
more awkward than a cow, Mercy takes delight in tormenting, and Peace
keeps the whole house in an uproar from morning till night.
I would not for the world say anything to reflect upon my honored
father, especially now that he is gone from us, but it does seem a pity
that he should have risked all his savings for so many years, and all
mother's little fortune, in such an adventure as that ship to the Spice
Islands. 'Tis true, no doubt, that some great fortunes have been made
in that way, like that of Mr. Gunning in Bristol. But I believe it is
also true that for one ship that comes home laden with pepper, mace,
and nutmegs, at least four go to the bottom or are taken by pirates.
Master Smith says, however, that no such wild scheme is got up, but
the foremost to rush into it, and risk their little alls, are masters
and fellows in colleges, country clergymen, and widows with a little
property—just the people who have the least chance of understanding the
matter. I will say that dear mother was as much against it as she could
ever be against any scheme of my father's. But he was so sanguine, and
he ever thought little of the opinion of women on any subject.
But there is no use in going over all that now. What is done is done.
What is "to do," is to make the best struggle we can to live decently
and honestly, keep out of debt, and—I don't know what else, I am sure.
_March 3._
Dick is come home, by favor of Master Smith, to spend my last Sunday
with us. I must say he is very kind to Dick. Indeed, every one has been
very kind to us so far, even the new rector. 'Twas he got me my place
at Stanton Court, where I am to go the day after to-morrow. To-day we
have a new instance of his goodness. He allows mother to take what
furniture she chooses from the parsonage, as he means to replenish it
entirely. That will be a great help toward fitting up the cottage.
Indeed, I hardly know what we should have done without it, for mother
hath but little of her own, and most of the furniture here belongs
to the house, though my father had it all refitted and repaired more
than once. I wish I could stay here to help them move, but that is
impossible. I am to go southward with the new rector and his servants,
and I may not have such a good opportunity again in a long time.
I have showed Dick what I have written. I do so sometimes, though no
one else knows that I keep a journal. Dick has known of it from the
first. It was he that put me upon keeping it and gave me this large
fair blank book. Before that I used to write upon such scraps as I
could find.
When he came to that—"I don't know what else."—Dick demurred. "You have
left out the gist of the whole matter Peggy," said he. "Your summing up
is like the playbill Master Smith told me of—'The play of Hamlet with
the part of Hamlet omitted.'"
"What have I left out?" I asked.
"Tell me, Peggy, what do you suppose we were made for?" said he. "Why
were we put into this world, and assigned certain parts and duties
therein? Who has put us here, and for what?"
"Our Heavenly Father has put us here, of course," I replied. "But Dick,
if you ask me why, I am not sure that I have an answer ready."
"Do you remember when our Lord shall come in His glory and all the holy
angels with Him, what will be the invitation to those on His right
hand?"
"'Come, ye blessed of my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you
from the foundation of the world,'" I repeated.
"Then, sweetheart, since such a kingdom is prepared for us—a kingdom
of Everlasting Life—does it not seem likely that we are placed here as
a school of preparation for that glorious heritage? And looking at it
in that light, may it not give us a key whereby to understand at least
some of the tasks and exercises which are set us in that same school?"
"I suppose it may," said I.
Dick said no more. It is not his way to say a great deal, and perhaps
that may be one reason why his words dwell in my mind and I cannot
get rid of them if I would. I wish I could think and feel as he does
on these subjects. It is the only point on which we do not fully
sympathize. Of course I believe in the Christian religion, and say my
prayers night and morning. I "fear" God, and I wish I could honestly
say that I "love" Him, but I cannot think of Him as Dick does, as a
loving Father, ever watching over us for good, ordering all things for
the best, and always ready to hear our requests and sympathize with our
troubles. It does seem to me as though He were very far off—too far to
see or care for all the little joys and sorrows which make up the lives
of every-day people.
To-day we are beginning to pull up and pull down, and the house puts on
an aspect of mourning. I had been working as hard as I could all the
morning at mending the old tapestry hanging (and dusty, disagreeable
work it is), when mother came in, and I called her to see the new head
I had added to Goliah.
"You have made him as good as new," says my mother.
Dick, who had been helping us, came and looked over my shoulder to
admire the truculent aspect of my giant.
"Your work gives one a new notion of the courage of David," said he.
"You have made Goliah a regular Cornish giant, like Cormoran and
Blunderbore in Jack's story-book."
"Unluckily David himself is not very much handsomer," I rejoined. "I
must say I do not much like this fashion of putting pictures from Holy
Scripture upon tapestry and Dutch tiles, and the like. One gets odd
notions from them. I shall all my life have no other idea of Saint
Peter than that I gained, before I can clearly remember, from the
painted window in the church."
"Peggy is growing quite a Puritan lately," said Felicia, who was
working upon another part of the hangings. "She objects to the painted
windows in the church."
"Not to all of them," said I. "Only to the chancel window, and I do
think that is profane. I cannot bear to look at it, since I knew for
whom that old man in the clouds was intended. Surely if the second
commandment means anything—"
"Don't you suppose the good man who gave that window to the church
ever so many hundred years ago, knew as much about the meaning of the
commandments as you do?" interrupted Felicia.
"Probably not," said Dick, as I did not answer. "It is very likely the
poor man had never seen, in all his life, a perfect copy of the Holy
Scripture."
"And, moreover, I do not think that anything painted upon a window
can be so beautiful as the sky and the clouds seen through it," said
I. "I admit that the colors in the old window are very wonderful and
beautiful, but I think the sky more beautiful still, and besides I like
to see out."
"Every one does not care to be staring abroad in service time,"
retorted Felicia. "But you are a regular Puritan. I advise you to keep
your notions to yourself at Stanton Court, or you will soon get into
trouble. The lady will not care to have her daughter's head filled with
such fancies."
"I trust my daughter will have sufficient modesty to prevent her
intruding her opinions on anybody, whether at home or abroad," said my
mother, not without emphasis.
"I dare say she will soon learn it," said Felicia, who is the only
one in the family that ever answers mother back. "Poor relations and
waiting gentlewomen get plenty of snubbing."
Whenever any one checks Felicia in the least, she always begins to talk
about poor relations. I do honestly think that she presumes upon her
position as a dependent, knowing that mother will never utterly lose
patience with her, because she is my dear father's youngest sister.
She has been in one of her worst moods all day, and nothing pleases
her. She found fault with the dinner, and snubbed me and the children,
till mother at last roused herself and gave her such a setting down as
reduced her to silence and sulks for the rest of the meal.
After dinner, I was going to sit down to my work again, but mother
stopped me.
"No, my dear. This is your last Saturday at home, perhaps for a long
time, and you shall not spend it all over the needle. Do you and Dick
go out together and have a fine long walk. 'Tis a pleasant afternoon,
and you can visit all your old haunts before dark."
"But then you and Felicia, will have all the work to do," I objected,
though my heart leaped at the thought of one more long solitary walk
with Dick—a thing I had hardly dared to hope for.
"Oh, never mind 'me,'" said Felicia, in a voice which trembled with
rage. "'I' am nobody—only fit for a drudge and slave. Nobody cares for
me, or thinks of me, now that my poor dear brother is gone." And with
that she began to cry.
Mother checked me as I began to speak, and sent me for my hood and
cloak. When I came back, she met me at the door.
"It is best not to answer Felicia when she is in one of these moods,"
said she. "Poor thing, she suffers more than any one else from her
unhappy temper."
I am not so sure of that. I do think she finds a certain enjoyment in
being miserable and making others so. It is rather too bad in her,
thus to try to spoil Dick's holiday, but she was always jealous of his
fondness for me. However, I said nothing, of course, and Dick and I
were soon out in the lane. We meant to go and see the old people at the
almshouses, and then across the deer-park to the spring, and so home by
the church.
We found Goody Crump sitting up reading her Bible, as usual, with
everything tidy and pleasant about her, but she complained sadly of the
weather.
"Why, Goody, I thought it seasonable weather for March!" said I. "You
know they say a peck of dust in March is worth a king's ransom."
"And so it is to the farmers, especially since the winter hath been so
wet," replied the old woman, "but these east winds rack my poor old
bones sadly. However," she added, with her pleasant smile, "I reckon,
children, 'tis the old bones which are in fault more than the weather.
I dare say the east wind doesn't trouble you."
"How old are you, Goody?" I ventured to ask.
"I was ninety-eight my last birthday, my dear. I was a good big girl
when the great Queen Elizabeth came to the throne, and I well remember
when I was a little thing, like your Jacky, seeing the fires lighted
which were to burn two poor men at the stake, for reading their English
Bibles. Ah! Children, you don't know what it is to live in troublous
times. But those were grand days, too—grand days!" she repeated, and
her old face did so light up as she spoke. "'Twas a new world, as it
might be, what with the discoveries by sea and land, and fighting the
Spaniards, and the spread of the True Gospel all over the land. Why,
children, I remember when a copy of Holy Scripture was like treasure
hid in a field. They that had it, kept it with jealous care, and
resorted to it with fear and trembling, yet with heartfelt joy, knowing
that it as good as sealed their death-warrant if found in their hands.
Then came the days of Queen Elizabeth, when we dwelt under our own
vines and fig-trees, as it were, and none to make us afraid. Then the
ships went away beyond seas.
"My master he sailed with Captain Drake, as was the first Englishman
who went round the world—sailed away, and left me a six months wife,
to tend his widowed mother, that was ever the best of mothers to me.
Eh dear! 'Twas weary waiting and never knowing whether he were dead or
alive. My oldest child was two years old and more before it ever saw
its father's face. But back he came at last, and brought what kept us
comfortable for many a long year. But all is gone now—the gold, and the
brave sailor lad, and all my fair children—and I shall soon follow.
These be good and quiet times, children, but not like those days."
"None so quiet, either; what with Star Chamber prosecutions, and fines,
and the ship-money, and the troubles in Ireland," said Dick, who hears
all the news, being as it were at head-quarters in Master Smith's shop.
"There is trouble enough, both at home and abroad, and many even fear a
civil war."
"I trust I shall not live to see it," said Goody Crump. "Few and
evil—no, but I'll not say that, either!" said she, catching herself up.
"'Tis true, I have seen many and sad changes, but I've had my share
of happiness, too. And 'tis no small thing to have such a snug harbor
in which to end my days at last, with the church near by, and kind
friends to close my eyes and see me decently laid under ground. No! No!
I've naught to complain of. Little I thought once to end my days in an
almshouse, and now I am thankful for the almshouse itself."
"Then it does not make you unhappy to be dependent, as some folks say?"
said I, thinking of Felicia.
The old woman smiled again.
"Bless your dear heart, no! We are all dependent, child. One almost as
much as another, for that matter."
"You mean upon God," said I.
"Aye, and upon one another. If not for bread yet for pleasant looks,
and kind words, and little acts of service, such as go to make our
lives happy. I have done for others in my time, and now others do for
me. I did not grudge my service, and no more do they grudge theirs.
And all comes from God, first and last, and may be given again to Him
if we will. When I lived with my mistress down in Devonshire, and up
to London, I had many times to put up with whims and fancies, and hard
words. Not from her, though—she was ever a sweet-tempered lady—but from
others of the family. But I said to myself, ''Tis all in the day's
work,' and strove to take all cheerfully."
"Aye, that is it!" said Dick. "''Tis all in the day's work,' and what
matter, so we but serve our Master faithfully, and are rewarded of Him
at the last."
"How cheerful Dame Crump is," said I, when we had finished our walk,
and were lingering in the church, looking at our father's pulpit, and
his tablet on the chancel wall. "I wish I were like her."
"You do not wish you were ninety-eight years old, do you?" asked my
brother.
"Why, I don't know—yes! If I were as ready to go as she, I think I
would like to be as old. I always do envy good old people, they are so
near home."
"We none of us know how near home we may be," said Richard.
I assented, thinking of my poor father. Never had he seemed stronger or
more sanguine than on the very day he had that fatal seizure.
"But, Peggy, my love, why not take the old woman's motto for your own?"
continued Richard. "Is it not a good one? ''Tis all in the day's work!'"
"Can 'you' take it, Dick?" I asked, in wonder. "Standing here before my
father's pulpit, in which you so ardently hoped to preach, can you be
content to say—'It is all in the day's work'?"
"Yes, I can, Peggy!" replied Richard, firmly, though I saw his eyelash
twinkle. "Standing here—even here—I can say, 'God's will be done!'"
"Well, I can't!" said I, passionately enough. "It does seem very hard
to me, and I can't help it!"
"That is because you do not consider well the nature of the service,
Peggy. Have I not vowed to fight manfully under Christ's banner against
sin, the world, and the devil, and continue His faithful soldier and
servant unto my life's end? A soldier does not choose the nature of his
service. 'Tis the very essence of a good soldier that he hath no will
of his own, but goes cheerfully wherever he is sent by his commander,
whether to lead a forlorn hope, or to stand sentinel at a distance from
the field, or to work at an entrenchment, whether to die in a place
where all men shall see and honor him, or in some obscure service,
where no man shall so much as hear of him. It is all the same to him,
so he does his work well.
"But Christ's soldier hath this advantage, that he never can perish
forgotten and unknown. He fights, conquers, and dies, if need be, under
the eye of the Captain of his salvation, and when that Captain shall
appear, he will receive a crown which fadeth not away. And so I say I
can serve Him as well in Master Smith's shop, as here in my father's
pulpit; and though I don't deny that it is a great cross to give up the
thought of taking orders, yet I mean to try to bear it cheerfully, and
say, through all, 'God's will be done!'"
"Amen!" said a deep and sweet voice behind us, which sounded so like
my father's that both Dick and I started and turned round in a hurry.
There stood a grave and comely gentleman, a dignified clergyman, by his
dress. He had a most reverend and noble air, but his face was full of
kindliness, not without a shrewd suspicion of humor and even of sarcasm.
"I crave your pardon, my young ones, for listening to your
conversation," said he, with a courteous air, "but I caught a few
words, and was really too much interested to interrupt you. I
conclude," he added, glancing at my mourning dress, "that you are the
children of the late excellent rector of this parish. I knew him at
college, and can see some resemblance in your faces. But may I ask you,
my young friend," he said, turning to Richard, "why you give up the
thought of taking orders?"
"Surely, sir," answered Dick, "it is no secret. My father died poor,
and I have no means of gaining the necessary education."
"But there are places—however, we will not talk longer here, since
the air is something damp," said the strange gentleman, interrupting
himself. "My friend Mr. Carey hath made me free of his study, where
there is a fire, and we can talk there with more comfort and propriety."
As he spoke, he opened the door of the little vaulted room next the
vestry, which my father had caused to be fitted up as a study. He had
spent a great deal of money upon it, for dear father knew not how to
save when he had the gold to spend.
The stranger invited us to sit, and placed a chair for me, as if I had
been some great lady.
"I was about to say," he went on, "that there are positions at both the
universities at which a scholar can get on with little or no expense.
I have some little interest, and I doubt not I could use it for your
advantage, if on trial it should appear that you have a true call to
preach the gospel."
I saw Dick's cheek flush, and something seemed to swell in his throat.
As for me, I did not know whether I were dreaming or awake, so bright a
ray of hope seemed to beam from this door which the strange gentleman
had opened. It was but for a moment, and then Dick answered, quietly:
"I thank you, honored sir, from the bottom of my heart, for your kind
offer, but I must not accept it, at least not now. My mother is poor,
and hath younger children to educate. She needs all the help which both
my sister and I can give her, and for that reason we must both go into
the world to earn our own living. If the call I feel is indeed from
above, I doubt not that He who gives it will find a way to accomplish
His own ends; and I should be disposed gravely to doubt its reality,
should it lead me away from my duty toward my mother."
So here was my door closed again, and that by the very person for whom
it had been opened. The tears came into my eyes, and I had much ado to
keep myself from sobbing. The stranger rose and walked to the window
in silence, and I feared that Dick had given him great offence. But he
presently came back again, and his face was calm and benign as ever.
"What you say hath much reason in it," said he, addressing himself to
Richard, "but would not your mother be willing to make the sacrifice?"
"She would, without doubt; and therefore it must not be so much as
mentioned to her," answered Dick, decidedly. "No, Margaret," for he
read the entreaty in my face: "not so much as mentioned. My dear mother
is growing old, and it is no longer fit that she should sacrifice to
her children. Wherefore, pardon me, honored sir, if I decline, with
many thanks, your generous offer."
"No pardon is needed when no offence hath been committed or taken,"
said the stranger. "But, my son, I am loth that such an one as you seem
to be should be lost to the Church, which now, as much as at any time
in her history, needs zealous and faithful ministers. Therefore I would
entreat you not to dismiss the thought of taking orders, but, as it
were, to put it away in your mind for some future time. Believe me, you
may still be preparing for the sacred office. In your master's shop,
in the street, and at the fireside, you may be gaining a knowledge of
'men.' 'Tis a kind of knowledge which is worth more to a pastor than
any which can be learned out of books, and one in which we college
fellows are apt to be deficient. Do you have any time to yourself to
read or study?"
"Yes sir," replied Dick. "My master is very kind in that respect, as in
every other. I have the most of my evenings."
"I will, if you please, set down a list of books for your reading. Many
of them, no doubt, will be found in your master's shop, and for the
others, I dare say you may find them here," he said, looking round on
my dear father's books, which have not yet been removed. "On my word,
my friend has a fine collection."
"These are my father's books," said Richard. He seemed as if he would
have added more, but paused and gazed steadfastly at the fire.
The stranger glanced at him for a moment, and then, taking a sheet of
paper from the table, he began to write, now and then glancing up at
Dick or me.
For myself, I sat as mum as a mouse, wondering more and more what was
to be the end of it all. The stranger was no common man, I felt sure,
but I would not even give a guess as to who he might be.
Presently he folded the paper and gave it to Dick.
"There," said he, "I have written down a list of books, according to
the best of my judgment, which you can study at your leisure. Meantime,
let me impress upon you the importance of a close daily walk with
God, which is the best preparation of all. Drink daily and deeply of
the fountain of all grace, by resorting to God in humble prayer. Be
diligent in your daily calling, and you may be sure that a blessing
will rest upon you!"
"And you, my fair maiden," said he, turning to me with a kindly smile.
"So you are to make your first flight from the nest, and go out into
the world to seek your fortune!"
"I suppose so, sir," I replied.
"'Tis a hard necessity," said he, gravely. "The best place for a girl
is by her mother's side till she hath a household of her own. But where
are you going? Tell me all about it."
His manner was so kind, and made me think so of my dear father that I
choked for a moment. But recovering myself, I told him that I was going
to wait upon, and be in some sort, I supposed, a governess to my Lady
Elizabeth Stanton of Stanton Court in Devonshire.
He looked very grave.
"A hard place—a hard place!" he muttered. "An honest service would have
been better."
Then catching my eye: "My child, you are going to a place where both
your temper and your principles are likely to be put to the test. I
would not discourage you, but 'forewarned is forearmed,' they say,
though I have not always found it so. Are you, like your brother,
furnished with the armor of a soldier of Christ?"
"I am afraid not," said I.
"But why not, sweetheart? Do you not need it as much?"
"I need it even more, if that were possible," said I, "for my temper
is not naturally as good as Richard's. But I know not how it is, these
things are not as real to me as to him. I have not the faith which he
has."
"Well, well. You are but young. But, my child, you are now going
among strangers, into the midst of trials, vexations, and temptations
of which you know nothing. Let me beg of you to pray your Heavenly
Father to give you that perfect trust in Him, and that consecration
to His service, which alone can preserve you in the perils of the
way. Remember that you are Christ's vowed servant and soldier, as
well as your brother; and must fight manfully under his banner. 'Tis
the Christian paradox that peace is found only in warfare!" he added,
smiling.
"I cannot make Peggy understand that," said Richard. And I saw by his
using my pet name, how much he felt at ease with the strange clergyman,
for he seldom called me anything but Margaret before strangers. "Her
only notion of peace consists in having nothing to disturb her."
"Aye, but that is peace never to be found in this world. I am glad
your sister is going into Devonshire. I am sometimes at Stanton Court
myself, and may be able to befriend her. My dear child," said he,
turning to me, "will you make me one promise?"
"Yes sir," I replied, feeling that I might safely do so.
"Then promise me solemnly that you will never let a day pass without
reading some portion of Holy Scripture, be it never so short, and
praying for God's blessing on yourself and all that you do. Bring all
to this test, and permit yourself no employment that will not endure
it. Will you promise me this?"
I did so.
"That is well!" said he. "I will send you a little book which will
perhaps help you to understand better what you read. Remember now that
you have promised."
"And she will keep her word, I am sure," said Richard. "But may we
venture to ask who it is that hath been so kind?"
The stranger smiled. "My name is Joseph Hall, and I live in Exeter,"
said he, simply, yet with the air of being mightily diverted at
something.
I saw Dick rise up hastily with a deep blush, and while I was trying to
think what could be the matter, the door opened.
"I crave your pardon, my Lord, for leaving you so long alone," said Mr.
Carey, and then he stopped, as if he were amazed at seeing us in such
company.
For myself, I felt as if all the blood in my body rushed to my face,
when it flashed across me that the stranger was no other than Bishop
Hall of Exeter, one of the most learned men in England. I might have
guessed before, for I had heard that Mr. Carey the new rector was
nephew to the Bishop of Exeter.
"I have not been alone, as you see, nephew," said the Bishop. "I
encountered those young people in the church, and having played the
eavesdropper to a part of their discourse, I could do no less than ask
them in here to finish it. Go now, my children! I shall perhaps see you
again; and you, Margaret, since that is your name, remember what you
have promised."
I was not likely to forget it. It is not every day that one talks
freely with so great a man. When we got outside, we were startled to
see how low the sun was, and hastened home with little talk by the way.
At another time, I should have met a reproof for being out of bounds so
late. But dear mother is one who knows when to relax the reins and when
to draw them tightly. She had even kept our supper hot by the fire.
"Have you heard who is to preach for us to-morrow?" asked Felicia. "No
less a person than the Bishop of Exeter, Mr. Carey's uncle."
"We have seen him," I replied, not without a mischievous enjoyment of
the amazement in her face and mother's. "It was he who kept us talking
so long in the vault room."
Felicia looked from one to the other as if she suspected a plan to
mystify her. Dick hastened to relate a part of what had passed at
the church. Dear mother was much pleased, especially when Dick said
that the Bishop had advised him not to give up the thought of being a
minister, but to continue his studies as he had opportunity.
Felicia smiled scornfully.
"I do not see anything either very great or very good in that," said
she. "I dare say the Bishop, if he were so minded, might easily procure
Dick some place, where he might earn thrice as much as he is ever like
to do with Master Smith, and without the work. Court favor can do a
great deal more than that."
"If all tales be true, my Lord does not enjoy much of court favor,"
said Richard. "I have heard that he is no favorite with the archbishop
who rules all about the king nowadays."
"I cannot help feeling, however, as though the children had made a
valuable friend," said my mother.
"And do you really suppose he will ever think of them again, or that
he will even know Peggy, if by chance he meets her at Stanton Court?"
asked Felicia, with her exasperating superior smile, as if she pitied
my mother's weakness. "That is not the way with great people, I fancy."
"I suppose there may be a difference in great people as well as in
little ones," observed my mother.
"I fancy they are much alike in that respect," said Felicia.
"Do you judge others by yourself, Felicia?" I could not help asking.
"Suppose you were suddenly to make a great match, or to inherit a great
fortune, would you forget all about us, and never come near us?"
"If I did, I should have a good excuse," returned Felicia, sharply. "To
you at least, Peggy, I should owe no debt of kindness."
I might have said more, but I saw Dick look at me, so I bit my lip and
was silent. I dare say she would, though.
When I went to my room, I remembered my promise, and took my Bible to
read. The first words my eye fell upon were these: "'Take my yoke upon
you, and learn of me; for I am meek and lowly of heart, and ye shall
find rest to your souls.'"
I wonder if it is a want of meekness and lowliness which makes me so
easily disturbed? I should not wonder.
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