_A WELCOME VISITOR._
_March 30._
EASTER is almost here. It has seemed strange not to go to church, as my
dear father maintained daily prayers all through Lent, but the chaplain
is come home now, so we shall have prayers in the chapel every morning.
I have quite shaken down into my place, and am beginning to feel at
home, and even happy. Everybody is kind to me, even Anne. She came to
me one day with her eyes red with weeping, and looking so sad that I
asked her what the matter was. So she burst out crying and told me
that her baby sister was dead. I comforted her as well as I could, and
seeing her heart was full, I drew her on to talk about the child, and
its winning ways, and finally read her what our Lord says about little
children. She left me, quite consoled, and now thinks nothing too much
to do for me.
As for Lady Betty, I have no great trouble with her, except that I have
now and then to fight a battle with her selfishness, and assert myself
a little. The poor thing has taken to me wonderfully.
"I do love you!" she said to me, last night, as I was undressing her.
"And so do I love you!" I answered.
"Really?" said she, looking at me wistfully. "Really and truly?"
"Really and truly!" I answered. "Why not?"
"Mrs. Burley said I was so cross that nobody could love me," said she.
"And I am cross, I know. I was cross to you this morning!"
"Rather!" I answered, smiling.
"Well, I am sorry!" she said, impulsively. "Will you love me if I am
cross?"
"Yes, my dear," said I: "only, Lady Betty, why should you be cross?"
"I don't know—because I am so sick and so—you know, Margaret. I am not
like other people, and I can't help being cross!"
"Are you sure?" I asked. "Did you ever try?"
She opened her great eyes as if such a notion had never occurred to her
mind. But she answered frankly: "No, I don't know that I ever did."
"Then you can't tell whether you can help it or not," said I. "All sick
people are not cross. Phillis was not, neither was my little playmate
and friend, Grace Forrester."
"Tell me about them," said she.
I am glad every time I find something new to talk about, and Lady Betty
is never weary of asking questions about Phillis and Grace.
"Well, I wish I 'could' help being cross," said she, finally. "How can
I?"
"You must ask the Lord to help you," said I.
"And will He?"
"Yes, if you ask Him earnestly. But then you must try hard not to let
the cross words come out, even if you feel cross inside. If you don't
say a word, you will get over it all the quicker."
I noticed the next morning that she was not nearly so sharp with Mary,
even when Mary hurt her by shaking her chair. I felt myself reproved at
seeing the effort she made, thinking how ready I have all my life been
to resent and retort.
I have quite settled down, as I said, and everything goes on regularly.
There are a good many ladies staying in the house, but I see none of
them except by accident, as my room and Lady Betty's are quite by
themselves, away from the company part of the house. If only I were not
so homesick.
_April 6._
Something has really happened since I wrote last. I have had a visit
from Mr. Carey, and have written a long letter to send home by him,
since he was so kind as to offer to take charge of one. Mr. Carey
stopped at the parsonage in the village with old Doctor Parnell, and
walked up to Stanton Court to see his aunt Mrs. Judith and myself.
I was overjoyed at seeing him, and was so silly as to let my joy
overflow at my eyes. It did seem so like meeting some one from home. He
told me he was going back to the Rectory next week, and would gladly
take charge of a letter for me. So I wrote my letter, saying everything
I could to make dear mother think me happy (as indeed I am, were I not
so homesick).
Hearing that I was writing home, Lady Stanton gave me a kind message
for my mother, and a new silver groat apiece for each of the children.
Lady Betty too would send her gifts to the twins, in the shape of a
piece of gay ribbon, which she begged of her mother for the purpose.
When my package was ready, my Lady kindly gave me leave to carry it
down to the Rectory myself. I was glad to go, both for the sake of the
walk, and that I might see something of the village, where I had not
been except once to church.
Mrs. Judith bade the gardener show me a shorter path to the village,
through the wood, and down a ravine or coomb, as they call it here,
in which runs a beautiful brook. About half way down, a beautiful
spring comes boiling up from under a large rock, in quite a large
stream, and the water is deliciously clear and cold. I could easily
have wasted half the afternoon in this charming place, which, though
very different, made me think of our old haunt, the Holy Well in the
deer-park, where dear Dick and I used to have so many long talks. But
I know that I must not be out too long, so I tore myself away and
hastened onward.
It seemed pleasant to be within the very walls of a rectory once more,
though that at Stanton Corbet—as the village is called—is by no means
so fine a house as ours at Saintswell. A part of it is very old,
however, and it is all overgrown with climbing plants, (there is such a
passion flower as never would flourish with us); and somehow the very
air did smell like home.
Mistress Parnell made me very welcome. She is not the rector's wife,
but his sister, neither of them having married. They are both old
people, with a wonderful likeness to each other, both in features and
expression. Mistress Parnell would have me sit down to eat a cake and
drink a glass of mead.
"And so you have a new chaplain up at the Court?" remarked Doctor
Parnell to me.
"Yes sir," I answered. "He came only yesterday."
"Did you ever know him?" asked the Doctor, turning to Mr. Carey. "His
name is—"
"Penrose," said I, seeing that he turned to me to supply the name which
he had forgotten. "Mr. Robert Penrose."
"Oh! Aye!" said he, smiling. "A Cornish name, belike.
"'By Pol, Tre, and Pen,
You shall know the Cornish men.'"
"He is a Cornish man, I know," said I; "I heard Mrs. Carey say as much."
"I rather think I know him," said Mr. Carey. "He is an Oxford man, and
one of the new lights. He was at Exeter awhile, and was to have been
my Lord's chaplain, but the arrangement fell through. I fancy my Lord
thought him too much of the Archbishop's way of thinking."
"Oh, well," said Doctor Parnell, "I hope he may prove a trusty
shepherd, and preach the root of the matter, after all. For myself,"
he added, smiling, "I must even go on in my own way. I am too old to
change my old Mumpsimus, for the Archbishop's new Sumpsimus."
Whereat both the gentlemen laughed, but 'twas all Greek to me. However,
I fancied I understood something when I came to hear Mr. Penrose read
prayers—for he used so much ceremony, and read in such an artificial
tone, that I could hardly understand him.
Mistress Parnell would have me carry a basket of Guinea fowls' eggs to
my Lady, so I waited a little for them, and had a pleasant talk with
Mr. Carey. Oh, how I did wish I were going back with him, but there is
no use in that. Here I am, and here must I stay. And, in truth, 'twould
cost me no small pang to part with my poor child. I begged him, if he
saw Dick, to put him in mind to write to me, if ever he had a chance.
"I think the opportunity is more like to be wanting than the wish,
Mistress Margaret," said he, smiling. "Nevertheless I will give your
brother your message, and also when I write to my mother, I will try
to send you news from home. I could wish there were a regular post for
letters from one part of the kingdom to the other, as it is said there
is in Holland."
"It may come to pass, though belike not in our day," said Doctor
Parnell. "This maiden may live to see such a post passing regularly as
often as once a week between London and Exeter."
That does not seem very likely—however, there is no telling.
When I parted from Mr. Carey, it was almost like leaving home once
more, and I wept so much after I got into the woods, that I was fain to
stop at the spring, and bathe my eyes a long time, before I went up to
the house.
As I was bending over the little basin, I was startled by a step, and
looking up hastily, I met the eye of a fine-looking gentleman, whom I
had never seen before. He had a look of my Lord, but much younger, and
with a difference, as the heralds say. He was much bronzed, and I took
him for a sailor. He raised his hat, and bowed in courteous fashion, as
our eyes encountered, but passed without speaking.
I wondered who he could be, but was soon enlightened by Mrs. Judith,
who told me that young Mr. Corbet had come down to see my Lord. "He is
my Lord's cousin, and the master, now his father is dead, of the fine
old house in the woods, about a mile from here; and unless my Lady's
child prove a boy, he is like to be heir of all."
Lady Betty was full of news about Cousin Walter, as she called him.
"Cousin Walter," had been to see her already, and had brought her a
little dog from foreign parts, which she was to have to-morrow, and a
fine picture-book from London. I am not likely to see much of this fine
gentleman, but I cannot help fancying him for his kindness to my poor
little nursling. And I could see that my Lady was pleased, also. It
seemed that his mother, Mrs. Corbet, wishes to return to end her days
in the old house, and he has come down, like a dutiful son, to see it
put in order for her.
_April 9._
Our company have all gone now, and we are not to have any more for
some time—only Madam Corbet is to be here for some two or three weeks,
before she goes to her own house. Mary shook her head and looked grave
upon this, but would not tell me why. I am glad, for my part, that
we are likely to have a quieter house. I am sure so much of care and
company cannot be good for my Lady. I now take my dinner and supper
with the rest, an arrangement which makes me more one of the family
than I have been before. My seat is next the chaplain's, so we are
becoming well acquainted.
_April 10._
Last night Lady Jemima came to my room before I had finished writing,
so that I was forced to put my book away in a hurry. I thought at first
that something must have happened, and stood waiting to hear what it
was, but she bade me be seated, and taking a chair herself she began
turning over my books. They were but few—my Bible and Prayer-book,
the book of "Contemplations" my Lord gave me, and Spenser's "Faerie
Queene," a present from Dick, besides my old Latin grammar and
Virgilius, which I had brought partly for association's sake, and a
volume of father's sermons.
"Do you read your Bible every day?" she asked, presently.
"Yes, my Lady," I replied.
"And do you understand all that you read?"
"No, my Lady," said I, adding: "I suppose nobody does."
"Of course not, child. And what other books of devotion have you?"
"None, my Lady, only this." And I showed her the Bishop's
"Contemplations," which I am reading by course.
She looked at it rather slightingly, I thought, and laid it down. Then
she began to catechize me. "Had I been confirmed? Had I received the
Communion, and how many times? Did I say my prayers, and how often?"
and finally—"Did I fast?" I did not quite know what to answer, so she
asked me again if I ate meat at this holy season. I told her I did.
"And why do you so?" she asked, sharply. "There is always fish on my
brother's table."
I told her that fish did not suit me: that it made me ill, and that
if I went without meat, I had the headache, and was not fit for my
work: but that I had always been used to deny myself in the matter of
dainties in time of Lent. She looked but half satisfied.
"'Where there is a will there is a way,'" said she. "If your heart
were right, you would not mind a little inconvenience. I will give you
a book of devotions, which you will do well to use, and which will do
you more good than all this Puritan stuff!" giving my Lord's volume, a
contemptuous push from her.
I was nettled to see her treat the volume so, and said, I fear rather
sharply:
"'Tis no Puritan stuff, my Lady. It was writ by the Bishop of Exeter,
and I am sure he is a good man, besides being a Bishop."
"It is not the rochet that makes the Bishop, or the title either,"
said Lady Jemima. "An open enemy is better than a half-hearted or
treacherous friend. Your Bishop Hall is no better than a traitor, I
fear. How do you like Mr. Penrose?"
"Well enough," I said.
"But his preaching and services—how do you like them?" persisted Lady
Jemima.
I was rather confused. I said I was not used to that way of reading or
speaking, and that Mr. Penrose's sermons seemed to me not very clear.
I could not make out what he would be at, and it seemed to me as if he
did not quite know himself.
"That is a very improper way of speaking," said Lady Jemima, with
great sharpness. "You should know that it is not your place to sit in
judgment on a priest. You would do much better to learn in silence and
humility, than to carp and criticise."
I felt my face flush at her tone and manner, which were very severe,
and even contemptuous, and I answered, quickly:
"You asked me, my Lady, and if I speak at all, I must needs say what I
think. I have no desire to criticise bishop, priest, or deacon, unless
I am asked."
It was now Lady Jemima's turn to color, and she bit her lip, as if she
did not quite know what to say.
"You are malipert, mistress!" she said, at last. "I came to do you a
kindness, but this is not encouraging. I will leave you this book,
however, and I hope before I see you again, you will have come to a
better mind."
And with that she rose, and laid a book on the table.
"I beg your pardon, my Lady, if I have displeased you," said I, seeing
that she was about to go. "I meant no offence."
She seemed mollified, sat down again, and began giving me a lecture
on my religious duties, as that I ought to spend so many hours a
day in reading and devotion, that I should learn by heart the seven
penitential psalms, and say them every day, and so on.
"But, my Lady," said I, "if I were to do all that you have laid down
for me, I should have no time for my duty to Lady Betty, which is my
chief business, and for which my Lady keeps and pays me."
"You should serve God first of all," said she, solemnly: "no matter
what other interests may suffer. How do you expect to go to heaven
unless you give up your whole life to God's service? The work of the
longest life may not be sufficient to secure your salvation, and yours
may, for aught you know, be very short. You may die this very night!"
And then, the clock striking ten, she went away, much to my relief. The
book she left was one of devotions and prayers for the seven canonical
hours, which seem very good, though to use them all, methinks, would
occupy the most of the day.
_April 11._
Lady Betty has begun to spell words of two syllables. She learns very
fast, and since she has really found out that reading means getting
stories out of books, she is so eager to get on that I have to check
her. She is usually very good, I must say, but now and then I have a
little scene with her. She had a great crying time this morning because
the little dog Mr. Corbet promised her has not yet come. I tried to
soothe and quiet her, but she only screamed the louder, and struck
right and left. As I came near her, she struck me a severe blow, and
really hurt me.
At last I said to her, "Lady Betty, unless you try to stop crying and
be good, I cannot tell you any story to-night." (I have lately told her
a story every night.)
But she would not be still. Till at last, the door opened suddenly, and
there was my Lord.
"What's all this?" he said, angrily. "What is this noise—enough to
deafen one?"
He spoke very harshly, I thought, and Lady Betty stopped crying and
seemed to shrink into herself.
"What are you about, Mistress Merton, to suffer this uproar?" continued
my Lord, turning to me.
I said that Lady Betty had been disappointed about her dog, which Mr.
Corbet had promised her.
"Then, if she does not be quiet, I will have the dog's neck broken when
it does come. Mr. Corbet had better mind his own business. He is not
master quite yet, I trow. And for you, Betty, I will try what virtue
lies in a birch rod, if I hear any more noise. You are cosseted and
cockered out of all reason." So saying, he shut the door violently and
went away.
Poor Betty had sunk down into a shapeless heap in her chair, and was
quite silent.
I went to her, and found her shivering and trembling, as if in an ague
fit. I took her in my arms, and she burst out into a fit of crying—not
frantic screaming, as before, but deep drawn sobs, which seemed to rend
her bosom.
"Oh, if I had only never been born! If I had only never been born!" I
heard her say over and over to herself, as her head lay on my shoulder.
"You should not wish yourself dead, my love!" I began, but she
interrupted me.
"I didn't say I wished to die. That would make my mother sorry. I
wished I had never been born at all, and then nobody would have cared.
I wish God had not made me!" she added, with a fresh burst of sobs. "I
don't see why He did. I am of no use to anybody, and now I have angered
my father, and you, and—" The poor little head went down again.
"I am not angry, my dear!" said I, which was true, as far as she was
concerned, though I confess I was angry enough with my Lord. "I am
sorry that you have been naughty, but I am not angry. I think you will
try to be good now, and stop sobbing, for that will make you sick and
vex your mother, and I am sure you would not wish to do that."
She did really try to be quiet, but it was of no use. The sobs would
come, in spite of her. At last, however, she grew more composed, and
lay still, with her head on my breast. I held her in silence for a
little while, my heart aching for the poor thing.
Presently she raised her face, all stained with tears, and said, in a
quivering voice: "Oh, I am 'so' tired!"
"Poor dear!" said I, kissing her. "I will sing to you, and you shall go
to sleep, and feel better."
"I shall 'never' feel better," said she, pitifully. "I am tired all the
time—tired of everything. I shall never be rested, I know. Is it wicked
to wish I had never been born—for indeed I cannot help it?"
I did not quite know what to say. It seemed to me that in her case, I
should wish the same.
"And now I have angered my father again," she continued: "and I have
hurt you, and all—and oh, Margaret—" and her poor frame quivered with
now excitement—"do you think papa will have my dog's neck broken when
it comes?"
"No, my dear love," I answered her: "not if you are good. Don't disturb
yourself about that. I do not think my Lord will let the dog be hurt,
unless you are very naughty about it."
"But he—he said he would, and he is angry with me, and wont forgive me,
nor come and see me. Oh, Margaret, do ask him to forgive me, and not
let my poor dog be killed!"
"I will, by and by," said I, "but not now." For the truth was I did not
believe my Lord would think of the matter again after he had gotten
over his fit of temper, which seemed to me quite as bad as Betty's, if
not worse. "I will ask him at supper time. I do not think he would like
it if I were to go to him at present. Now let me wash your face and
make you neat before my Lady comes in."
She was very docile now, and I dressed her without any trouble. She was
very tired, so I laid her on the bed and sat down by her.
"Margaret," said she, presently, "how can I help being angry?"
"I don't know that you can help feeling angry," said I, "but I will
tell you how I help it sometimes. I just shut my mouth and don't say
one word, only I repeat to myself the prayer for charity, and the
Lord's prayer: and if I am firm, and don't let myself speak one word, I
can generally put down the feeling pretty soon: but if I begin to talk,
all is over!"
"I didn't suppose you were ever angry," said Lady Betty.
"I have naturally a very hasty temper," I answered. "I don't believe
yours is any more so."
"But you had such a nice home, I should not think that you would ever
have had anything to vex you."
I could not help smiling as I thought of Felicia. I told Betty I did
not believe there was any place in the world where there was not plenty
of provocation of one sort or another.
"There wont be any in heaven, I suppose," said she, wistfully.
"No," I told her. "Everything will be good and peaceful there."
"But I am afraid I shall never go to heaven!" she continued, sadly.
"Only good girls go to heaven, and I am not good, though I do try to
be!" she added, earnestly. "Nobody knows how hard I try to be good,
sometimes!"
"Your Father in heaven knows," said I. "He knows all your hindrances,
too, and will help you. Now lie still and try to sleep, and I will sing
for you."
She dropped asleep presently, for she was very tired, and I sat still
by her side, holding her hands. My head was very full of thoughts.
"Only good girls go to heaven!" Then what am I to do? I am not good, I
know very well. Surely I must be better than I am, if I am to escape at
last.
Lady Betty waked when the bell rung for chapel, and Mary came with her
supper. She said she did not want any, rather fretfully at first, and
then, as if recollecting herself, she added:
"But I will try to eat something, Mary."
"That is a good little lady!" returned Mary, who is always kind and
patient. "Eat your supper, and let Mrs. Margaret go to chapel."
"But you will do what I asked you, wont you, Margaret?" asked Lady
Betty. "I can't go to sleep to-night unless you do."
I promised her that I would do my best, and having arranged my dress, I
went down to chapel.
It being Friday, Mr. Penrose preached a short sermon. I don't recollect
the verse of Scripture, but the real text was poor Betty's, "You can't
go to heaven unless you are good." He spoke much of the duties of
fasting and mortification, and of our making satisfaction for our sins
by repentance and good works. I am sure I never heard such a sermon
from my father, but papa's discourses were generally very simple and
plain. Mr. Penrose is a good speaker, when one is used to his voice,
and certainly he seems very much in earnest, especially when he spoke
of the horrors of perdition and the anger of God against sinners. His
sermon made me miserable—if that does one any good.
I did not forget my promise to poor Betty, and waited for my Lord as he
came in to supper. He had slept, by the way, all through the sermon. He
looked pleasant enough, and seeing me standing there, he stopped and
said, in his usual cheerful, jovial voice:
"Well, Mistress Merton, what can I do for you?"
I told him my errand, adding that Lady Betty was very unhappy, thinking
that he was angry with her. He stared as if he had forgotten all about
the matter, then said, as if he were a little ashamed, as well as
sorry, I thought:
"Oh, poor thing, does she think so much of my words as that? Tell her I
am not angry with her, only she must be a good girl, and not do so any
more."
"And about the dog?" I ventured to say. "Lady Betty has so set her
heart upon it, I hardly know what she would do if it were killed. May I
tell her that you do not mean to—"
"Of course," said he, interrupting me with some indignation in his
voice. "Whoever thought of killing the poor thing? I wonder you should
think of such a thing. What do you take me for, Mistress Merton?"
"For a man who throws stones, and then wonders that any one should be
so foolish as to be hit," I thought, but I only said, "I thank your
Lordship. I will set poor Lady Betty's mind at rest, then."
"Of course. And here, give her this," said he, giving me a gold piece
from his pocket.
"Much use she has for money, poor thing; a few kind words would be
worth far more," I thought, but I said no more.
I sat next Mr. Penrose at supper, and noticed that he ate almost
nothing—only brown bread and cheese. Methought he looked reprovingly at
my dish of cream and slice of white bread. He has been in Chester, and
we had a pleasant little talk about that part of the country. I think I
could like him well enough if he were not so solemn.
I set poor Betty's mind at rest by giving her my Lord's message and
present, at which she was wondrously delighted, and said again and
again how good he was. I did not see the great goodness, but I was
content that she should think so.
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