CHAPTER V.

_EASTER TIDE._

_April 15._

THIS is Holy-week, and I have very little time to write in my journal.

I am trying to pursue the course of devotions Lady Jemima gave me, and

of which Mr. Penrose highly approves; and that, with my attendance on

Lady Betty, takes all my time. Lady Betty has not been so well, and is

rather fretful and exacting. I try to have patience with her, but it is

hard work, sometimes.

I don't know what to do about receiving the Sacrament at Easter. I

don't like to miss it, but Mr. Penrose and Lady Jemima say so much of

the peril of unworthily receiving. Lady Jemima is very kind to me, and

gives me much good advice. I told her that I felt very unhappy because

I was no better, and she said that was right—that we ought constantly

to contemplate our sins and short comings in order to make us humble

and contrite, and that it became sinners, in a state of probation, and

likely to be called to judgment at any time, to be grave and sad.

I have no time now to read the "Contemplations," and not much for the

Scripture. To be sure, we hear it in chapel every day.

_April 17._

Betty said to me, this morning: "You are not my sunshiny Margaret, any

more. You look so solemn all the time, just like Aunt Jemima!"

And with that she pulled a long face, and put on a look so exactly

like her aunt that I could not forbear laughing; at which she laughed

too. I don't look any more sober than I feel, however. Mr. Penrose's

sermons have made me realize the things of eternity more than ever I

did before, and they are dreadful to me. To be sure, there is heaven,

but how am I to know it is to be my portion? How can I know that my

repentance is sufficient—that my sorrow for sin is real and sincere?

And I have been such a sinner! In looking back over my life, I can see

nought but sin. Sin where I never suspected it before—and nothing good

anywhere: and the harder I try to conquer myself, the worse I am.

Lady Betty's doll is finished. She is very much pleased with it, and we

have had many games of play at "making believe": she being the mother,

and I by turns doctor, nurse, and aunt.

"But if you are an aunt, you must be cross," said Betty, this morning:

"aunts are always cross."

"O no!" I answered. "By no means. My dear Aunt Magdalen was not cross,

nor aunt Willson."

"Aunt Jemima is—almost always, I mean," persisted Betty.

"Aunt Jemima is always what?" asked the lady, who had come in softly,

in time to hear Betty's words—for the door being set open for the sake

of air, and Lady Jemima always walking like a cat, we had not heard her

approach.

"Aunt Jemima is always what?"

"Cross!" answered Lady Betty, simply. "But I suppose you can't help it,

can you, Aunt Jemima?"

Lady Jemima colored, but she did not answer Betty directly. Presently

she said, "Who made you that great doll?"

"Margaret," answered Betty. "She has just finished it." And she began

to display all the perfections of the rag baby.

Lady Jemima looked at the clothes, and said that they were neatly made.

"But, Margaret," said she, "I have come to sit with Betty while you go

down to the chapel."

"It is not chapel time," objected Betty; "and I don't want Margaret to

go away."

"But Margaret wants to say her prayers, if it is not chapel time,"

returned Lady Jemima. "You would not be so selfish as to keep her from

them, would you? It would be much better for you to be saying your own,

than to be playing with your doll at such a time."

"Well, she may go, if she wants to," said Betty, rather sadly.

So I went down and said my prayers in the empty chapel, out of the

book Lady Jemima gave me, but I cannot say I found any great comfort

therein. Lady Betty's sad, grieved face haunted me all the time, and I

could think of nothing but getting back to her.

When I finally returned, I found Lady Betty sitting looking out of the

window, with her elbow on the sill, and her chin on her hand. Lady

Jemima was reading to her out of the Bible, but I don't think she paid

any attention.

When Lady Jemima saw I had come back, she ceased her reading, and rose,

but Lady Betty did not look round nor move.

"Good-by, Betty," said Lady Jemima.

"Good-by," said Betty.

When her aunt left the room, she said, sorrowfully enough, "Don't you

love me any more, Margaret?"

"Of course I do!" said I, sitting down by her. "Why should you ask me

such a question?"

"Aunt Jemima says you don't," replied the child. "She says I am so

selfish."

"Selfish about what?" I asked.

"She said it was selfish in me to let you work so hard at the doll just

to please me, when there are so many poor people that need clothes, and

that—that—"

"Nonsense!" said I. I could not help it, so vexed was I at Lady Jemima.

"I was very glad to make the doll, and shall be always glad to do

anything for you."

She brightened a little on this, but I could see all the afternoon

that she was cast down, and I was sorry enough that I had left her to

her aunt, who, good as she is, never seems to come near Betty without

hurting her in some way. After all, my work here is to take care of

Betty, and I don't believe God means I should let her suffer for the

sake of saying my prayers, more than anything else.

_April 18._

I have had a sharp dispute with Mr. Penrose. I had been walking as

far as the Abbey ruin in the park, when he joined me: and after some

discourse, began to ask me what I was reading. I told him that I was

reading the Bishop's "Contemplations;" whereat, he spoke slightingly of

the book, and said he would give me something better. Now, when I have

learned to love a book as I have this one, 'tis all the same to me as

a friend, and I cannot bear to hear it spoken against. So I answered

something quickly that I wanted nothing better, and beside that, I had

promised to read it.

"But, Mistress Merton," said Mr. Penrose, "are you sure that you are

the best judge? Am not I, your pastor, best fitted to direct your

reading? And if I tell you that any book is unfit for you, are you to

sit in judgment on what I say?"

"Why not?" I answered, hotly enough. "Since you yourself, as it seems,

presume to sit in judgment on your Bishop?"

He was silent a moment, and did seem somewhat taken aback. Then he

said, "You are something sharp. What is the Bishop to you, that you

defend him so earnestly?"

"He has been a good friend to me and mine," I answered; "and he is

a good man, and a good preacher. He preached the best sermon in our

parish church that ever I heard in all my life."

I saw he was touched at this, and I was wicked enough to be glad I had

given him a pinch, though no such thing was in my thought when I spoke.

"Then," said he, "I am to conclude that my preaching does not please

you?"

"I don't sit in judgment on it," I said, demurely. Then willing to turn

the conversation, I said, looking up to the great window which is still

almost entire: "What a splendid pile this must have been in its day!"

"Ah, yes!" he answered. "There was piety and zeal in England in those

days."

"And is there none now?" I asked.

"Nay!" said he. "Where do we hear now of bodies of men and women

retiring to devote themselves to God and His service, as in those days?

Now every priest must have his house and his wife and children. The

service of His Maker is not enough for him."

"You can hardly expect me to quarrel with that, since I am a priest's

daughter," said I, laughing. "And does not St. Paul himself say both

of bishops and deacons that they should be the husband of one wife?

Besides," I added, more soberly, "I see no need of people retiring into

convents and abbeys to serve God. Why should we not serve him in the

daily work He has given us to do?"

"'Tis a good thought, at least," he said, and so we parted good friends

at last.

_April 20._

Well, Easter is passed and gone. I know not whether I spent it well or

ill. I did not go to the service in the chapel, but, with my Lady's

permission, walked down to the church in the village. The old rector

preached on the Resurrection—a mild and gentle sermon enough, not very

deep or brilliant, as are Mr. Carey's, nor so solemn and awful as

those of Mr. Penrose, but somehow I felt it comforting and soothing;

and though I shed many tears, they were not all sad. I went to the

Sacrament with fear and trembling, but the words, "Come unto me!"—and

the others did seem a voice bidding me draw near—so I went. There were

a good many communicants, and all were serious and devout. I specially

noticed a large and majestic old man, supported by his son, as I

suppose, who approached the table. He stumbled a little at the step,

whereat Mr. Corbet, whom I had not seen before, came forward and took

his other arm.

After the service, as I waited a little in the church-yard to speak

to Mistress Parnell, this same old man came out of the church door,

leaning on Mr. Corbet's arm.

"And so, Master Watty, your lady mother is coming among us again?" I

heard the old man say. "I hope I shall be able to pay my duty to her,

but the path grows steep to my old feet nowadays."

Mr. Corbet made him some pleasant answer, and then fell into

conversation with the son—a man of about his own age.

Meantime, Doctor and Mistress Parnell came along and spoke to me.

"Did you not have service in the chapel at the Court to-day?" asked the

Doctor, after he had saluted me politely. "I understood it was to be

so?"

I told him that it was so, but that my Lady had given me leave to

walk down to the village. "The parish church seems to me so much more

pleasant and homelike than the chapel!" I ventured to add. "It does not

seem like the church, where there are no poor people, and no school

children."

The train of school-girls passed us at this moment, with their mistress

walking behind them, and leaning on the arm of the oldest girl. She

was quite elderly, and looked feeble, but had one of the finest and

sweetest faces I ever saw.

"You must find time to visit our school and almshouses, and that will

make you feel still more at home!" said Doctor Parnell, kindly. "We

have plenty of poor people here, as everywhere else. There is a poor

woman down at the Cove, who was brought to bed last night, and is

but poorly off for clothes. If you will mention the case to my Lady,

perhaps she can do something for them."

"I will," said I: and just at that moment a plan popped into my mind,

which I hope to bring to good effect.

Mistress Parnell would have had me stop at the Rectory and take some

refreshment, but I excused myself, knowing that Betty would count the

hours and minutes till my return, and hastened toward home by the

shortest path. I stopped a moment at the entrance of the glen walk, to

gather some wild flowers for my child, when Mr. Corbet overtook me and

walked the rest of the way by my side. He asked after Betty, and sent

her a kindly message, and told me his mother was coming to Exeter in

the Bishop's company to-morrow, and that he should meet her there, and

bring her home.

"That will be pleasant to you," I said.

"I want you to know my mother," said Mr. Corbet. "She is one of a

thousand. Nobody ever knew her without being the better for it."

"I think nobody can be like one's mother!" I said, and then I stopped

and choked, and had much ado not to burst out crying, as I thought of

my own dear mother, and how last Easter we were all together—father,

and Dick, and all!

Mr. Corbet took no notice of my emotion, and presently began talking of

other things. He asked me if I had noticed that tall old man in church?

I said I had, and asked who he was.

"That is old Uncle Jan Lee!" replied Mr. Corbet, smiling. "Uncle to

half the village and all the Cove. He sailed with my father around the

world, in Franky Drake's expedition, and can tell you tales by the hour

about those times. He and his nephew, Will Atkins, have been my sworn

friends ever since I could run alone, and I owe them far more than

my own life. I will tell you the story some day—though perhaps I had

better not," he added, with his sudden smile, which lights up his grave

face at times like a flash of sunshine. "It would not be wise in me to

do so, for the tale does not tell very well for me, and I should be

loth to lose your good opinion, Mistress Merton."

I don't see what my good opinion has to do with him. I am only a

poor parson's daughter, and a governess, to make the very best of my

position. However, we had a very pleasant walk, and I must say I have

felt better and happier since than I have done for a long time. I

suppose the long walk in the fresh air may have something to do with

the matter, for I do miss the exercise I was used to take at home.

I went up to my child, and was glad to hear Mary say that she had been

very good. But the tears came to the poor thing's eyes as she kissed me.

"I wish I could go to church!" said she. "I do get so tired of this

room all the time!"

It is no wonder, poor dear! I mean she shall have a change of scene,

now that there are no strangers in the house to stare at her.

When I sat down to dinner with the rest, I thought Mr. Penrose looked

mighty stiff and dissatisfied, and I wondered what the matter was.

Presently, however, it all came out:

"I did not see you in chapel, Mistress Merton!" said he to me, when the

dinner was fairly in progress. "Why was that?"

I felt in very good spirits, and not, I am afraid, in any mood to be

catechised; so I answered merrily enough: "I am not sure, Mr. Penrose,

but I think it must have been because I was not there." And then seeing

that he looked a little displeased, I added that I had been to church

at the village.

"Yes, I saw you walking home!"

"Oh, you did!" thought I. "Then why need you ask me anything about the

matter?"

"I hope you enjoyed the services!" he said, in a tone which

contradicted his words.

"I did," I answered. "It seemed like being at home again."

"I had hoped, however, to see all the family present at the chapel,"

said Mr. Penrose; "and said so to my Lady. I presume, however, you had

her permission for absenting yourself?"

"I should not be very likely to go without it!" I replied with some

heat, for I was vexed at his tone and manner. "If you doubt my word,

you had better ask my Lady herself."

By ill-luck occurred at this moment one of those unaccountable silences

which will fall at such times, and my words were heard the length of

the table.

My Lady looked up, and said, smiling, while all eyes were turned on us:

"What is that which is to be referred to me, Mistress Merton?"

I don't know whether I felt more like sinking into the earth, or boxing

his ears who had brought me into this scrape: however, I answered,

smiling in my turn, though my cheeks were as hot as fire:

"Mr. Penrose seems to think I have been playing truant, my Lady, in

going to the village church this morning. But I tell him that you gave

me leave to do so."

"I did so, certainly!" answered my Lady. "I thought you would feel

yourself more at home, being a clergyman's daughter, and used to a

parish church. I trust you had a pleasant time!"

"I did indeed, my Lady," said I. "I enjoyed it very much."

"Especially the walk home," said Mr. Penrose, in an undertone, intended

only for my ear.

I was so vexed I would not speak to him again all dinnertime.

I am afraid, after all, that I am not much the better for my

church-going—but Mr. Penrose was certainly very provoking.

After dinner, I gave my Lady, Doctor Parnell's message, and then opened

my plan to her, which was to set Lady Betty to work on some clothes for

the poor babes. I told her I thought it would make an interest for Lady

Betty outside of herself—that it would divert her, and be good for her

in many ways. She seemed much pleased, I thought, and gave me leave to

do as I saw fit, only cautioning me against letting the child overtire

herself, as she is apt to do with any new fancy.

"You look brighter and better than you have done lately!" observed my

Lady. "I have feared that you were finding your work too hard for you."

"It is not hard at all, but too easy, if anything!" I answered. "Lady

Betty makes me no trouble. I only wish I could do more for her."

And then I told my Lady what I had thought of—that Lady Betty would be

better for a change, and for more exercise, and I asked her if I might

not have her chair carried into the long gallery on the other side of

the house, and encourage Lady Betty to walk there a little.

She seemed pleased at first; then, to my surprise, hesitated, and said

she would speak to my Lord. I did not see why he should object, but

afterward, talking with Mrs. Judith, when Betty was asleep, the murder

came out. My Lord is ashamed of his poor little humpbacked girl, and

does not like to have people see her, forsooth! It is a fine thing to

be a man and a nobleman, to be sure. If one is to look up to them so

much, 'tis a pity that they are not a little higher, so that one need

not have to go down on one's knees in the dirt!

_Easter Monday._

My Lord has given his gracious consent, and so this morning Mary and I

pushed Lady Betty in her chair across into the long gallery, and placed

her at a sunny window. It was touching to see her delight. The gallery

is a fine one, with a noble vaulted ceiling, and is hung with many

family pieces, besides old armor and weapons.

After Betty had rested a while, I proposed that she should try to walk

as far as the next window.

"But it hurts me to walk!" she said.

"I dare say it does, my love!" said I. "But I want to see whether you

cannot, by degrees, get to walk without its hurting you. Just think, if

you can once learn to use your limbs, how many nice things you could

do."

"Well, I will try!" said she: "I will do anything for you, Margaret,

because I love you so."

"You are my dear good little girl," said I, kissing her, while the

thought passed through my mind, "Love makes easy service!"

Betty walked to the next window easily enough, and was so pleased with

her progress that she would have gone still farther, but that I would

not allow.

"No, you have done enough for once," said I. "If this does not hurt

you, you shall walk into my pretty room, and I will show you the

pictures of my little brother and sisters." For having a knack at

drawing, I had sketched a little portrait of each of the children

before leaving home, and the likeness was not contemptible. "See, here

comes good Mrs. Carey. How surprised she will be!"

Mrs. Carey was surprised enough to satisfy all our expectations. She

said she was sure Lady Betty needed some refreshment; and going back to

her room, she brought us some gingerbread and dried pears, and, some

milk. So we had quite a feast.

"I wish, Cousin Judith, you would tell us something about the picture,"

said Betty. The ladies all call Mrs. Carey, Cousin Judith. "Tell me who

is that beautiful dame with the pearls in her black hair?"

"That is your great aunt, Lady Rosamond, who set up the almshouses,"

said Mrs. Carey.

"And who is that old lady in the close coif and black veil?" I asked.

"She looks like a nun."

"And so she was a nun. That is Mrs. Margaret Vernon, my dears. She was

a Lady Abbess of Hartland, and brought up your grandmother, my old

Lady. So after King Henry put down the convents, she came and ended her

days with great content at Stanton Court. Mistress Corbet says she can

just remember her, a very aged lady."

"And who is that beautiful fair woman in black?" I asked. "I never saw

a lovelier face, if she were not so pale. But she looks very sad."

"That is called the fair Dame of Stanton!" said Mrs. Judith; and then

followed a long tale, too long to write here.

"Anne says my Cousin Corbet is the fair dame come back again!" said

Betty. "And that it was she who made me crooked by her arts, but Mary

says it is not true."

"Of course it is not true!" returned Mrs. Judith, indignantly. "I

wonder at you, Lady Betty, for listening to such stuff about your dear

cousin, who has always been so kind to you; and I will give Anne a good

rating, that I will! There has been mischief enough done by such talk,

before now. Everybody knows how your misfortune happened, my dear, and

that was by being shrew-struck—beshrew the careless wench by whom it

came about."

"How was that?" I asked. "And what do you mean by being shrew-struck?"

"Bless you, my dear, don't you know? It was Judith Hawtree did the

mischief, not that she meant it, 'but evil is wrought by want of

thought,' my dears. Old Mary left my Lady Betty in her charge, awhile;

and what does Judith do, but lay the child down under the tree on the

grass to sleep, while she gossipped with her sweetheart. There were

always shrew-mice in the park, and one of them no doubt ran over my

poor dear lady as she lay asleep on the ground, for there were the

marks of its feet on her dress, and from that time the troubles begun."

"Perhaps it was not the shrew-mouse, after all," I ventured to say.

"Perhaps Lady Betty took cold from lying on the damp ground. It seems

more reasonable, than that a mouse should cripple a child by just

running over its dress once."

"Ah, well! That may be your notion, Mrs. Merton. For my part, I don't

pretend to be so much wiser than my father and mother before me," said

the old lady, rather offended. "I don't profess to understand how a

sting-nettle, that looks much like any other plant, should poison one's

hand for hours, but I know it does. Anyhow the poor child pined from

that day, but it is absurd and wicked too, to bring up that old story,

which once nearly cost the dear lady her life."

And then she told me that Mrs. Corbet had once been taken for a witch,

and assaulted by the village rabble, so that she would have lost her

life, but for the valor of the old schoolmaster, Master Holliday, and

Will Atkins, "for Master Walty, he was away on some wild goose chase or

other. He was but a wild lad then, though he is sober enough now, with

his Puritan notions and ways?"

"What Puritan ways?" I ventured to ask, but got no answer, for just

then Lady Betty said she was tired, and we took her back to her room

again.

If she seems no worse to-morrow, I shall try again. I do not despair of

getting her out of doors.

_Wednesday._

Lady Betty was no worse for her journey, and yesterday we tried it

again. I let her walk the length of two windows, and then she sat a

long time looking out and watching the deer, which were feeding out in

the open spaces of the wood, listening to the birds, and seeing the

rooks, which are now busy with their nests. We were much amused to see

them stealing twigs from each other.

While we were looking at them, Mr. Penrose came along, and stopped to

talk, but he was, methought, awkward and restrained, and I did not give

him much encouragement, for I felt vexed at him; so he soon went away.

At supper there arose, I know not how, a debate on the celibacy of the

clergy. My Lord and Lady were for having them marry, and my Lord made

some not very delicate jokes on the subject, I thought. Lady Jemima was

vehemently against them, and, as her fashion is, grow very warm, and

said some sharp things. Mr. Penrose appealed to me—small thanks to him

for drawing the notice of the whole table upon me.

I said, what was true enough, that I had never thought about the

matter, but presumed it could not be wrong, as St. Peter and St. James

at least had wives, as did some other of the apostles: and St. Paul

expressly said that a Bishop was to be the husband of one wife. But, I

added, that it did not seem to me desirable that clergymen should think

of marrying till they were settled and know what they were likely to

have to live on.

Whereat my Lady smiled, and Mr. Penrose looked wondrously dashed. I am

sure I can't guess why. I don't see why it should be anything to him.

_Friday, April 25._

Well, Betty has her dog at last, and a pretty, gentle little creature

it is, just fit for her to play with. And I have something better

brought by the same kind hand. Mr. Corbet himself brought the dog to

Betty, as we were sitting in the gallery, whither we now go every

morning when the sun shines.

And after she had become a little quieted with her ecstasy, he turned

to me.

"I have a token for you also, Mistress Merton, if you will take it. My

mother sends you this box, as an Easter gift."

I took it, of course, with due thanks.

"Nay, open it," said he: "the best part is within."

So I opened it, and there lay two letters—real goodly-sized letters—one

in Dick's hand, the other I did not know. Mr. Corbet explained to me

that his mother had brought the one from London, and the other had been

sent in a packet of Mr. Carey's to his friend in Exeter. I could hardly

believe my eyes, and I am afraid my thanks were clumsily expressed.

However, Mr. Corbet appeared satisfied, and, saying he knew I wished to

read them, he withdrew.

I had hardly time for more than a glance at them through the day, but

I have feasted on them this night to my heart's content. One is from

Dick, as I said; the other from my Aunt Willson, enclosing two gold

pieces, and telling me that she had made the acquaintance of Mistress

Corbet in London, who had kindly offered to carry a parcel for her:

so she sent me a piece of fine lawn for kerchiefs and aprons, with

some laces and other small matters. 'Tis a kindly letter, full of good

counsel and sympathy, somewhat roughly expressed, as is Aunt Willson's

fashion. She says, in conclusion: "Remember, child, to keep your place.

Every man, woman and child is respectable in his own place, whatever

that may be, for the time."

Felicia also sends a note, written in rather a mournful strain. I

can see that she has found trouble already, and I dare say she and

aunt have had more than one battle. She warns me against expecting

happiness in this world, as that is the lot of but few—certainly never

of the dependent and the poor. But I don't know that. I am both poor

and dependent, and I am reasonably happy—or should be, only for some

things which have naught to do with my condition in life. As for poor

Felicia, I don't believe her condition makes so much difference with

her. She always makes me think of a speech of one of the old almswomen

at Saintswell, about her daughter-in-law.

The old woman had been saying somewhat about her daughter's fretting,

when my mother remarked, "Ah, well, Goody, I would not disturb myself

about the matter. You know poor Molly's way—if she had no trouble in

the world, she would make it."

"Mek it!" cried the old dame, in her shrill voice. "Mek it, madam—she'd

buy it!"

Dick's letter is like himself—grave beyond his years, full of kindness

and of a certain kind of humor too. He tells me a great deal of news

about home matters, as that mother is well and seems much more cheerful

than she did in the Rectory, and that she has taken to working in the

garden. The twins and Jacky are doing well in school, and Jacky is

much less forward and pert. I can guess why. He says Mr. Carey is much

liked already in the parish, and is especially kind to the poor women

at the almshouses, though he had a great argument with Dame Higgins

on the claims of the Romish church. My father would never argue with

her. He used to say 'twas a case of "invincible ignorance," and there

was no use in fretting the poor old body, who, I verily believe, never

remembers that she is a papist unless somebody puts her in mind of it.

However, this dispute did not end in a quarrel, so it does not matter.

Dick is getting on with his studies, and says his master is very kind

in giving him time to read; so that he feels doubly bound to serve him

faithfully. He says Master Smith's shop is a kind of rendezvous for all

the learned men in Chester, and that the Bishop himself sometimes drops

in to hear the news. He says, too, what I am very sorry to hear, that

public affairs grow more and more disturbed, and that this attempt of

the Archbishop's to revive the book of Sunday sports, put forth by King

James, will cause great divisions among the clergy.

Dick's letter closes with a gentle admonition to remember Goody Crump's

motto: "'Tis all in the day's work."

Ah, but then, if one cannot do one's day's work—if the more one tries,

the more hopeless it seems—what then?

_April 27._

Lady Jemima is going up to London to visit her cousin, who is to be

married soon. She leaves next week. I should like to send a letter by

her to Aunt Willson, but I don't like to take the liberty of asking her.

My Lady again gave me leave to walk to the village to church, saying

that she would herself remain with Lady Betty. She is wondrously kind

to me, and seems altogether satisfied with the way that I manage the

child. Well, I was very glad to go, and enjoyed my walk, as usual,

pleasing myself with the thought that I should hear good Doctor

Parnell. When, lo and behold, I found, as I entered the church, that

the Doctor was gone away, and Mr. Penrose was to preach. I could not

help feeling vexed and disappointed. His sermon was on the text about

the strait gate and narrow way, and he drew a wonderful picture of the

difficulties of the way and the gate, assuring us that even a life-long

devotion, and that of the most austere, would hardly be enough to win

an entrance.

Dick used to say that his religion made him happy, but I can't see how

any one is to be happy, according to Mr. Penrose—working so hard, with

all our failings noted and set down against us, and, hanging over all,

the fear of final failure and its dreadful consequences. Yet, if it

is true, of course one ought to know it. I must say it makes me very

wretched, and I don't know what to do. My temper is so warm and my

feelings so quick, that I am always saying and doing what I wish unsaid

and undone; and sometimes, the more I try, the worse it seems to be

with me. The very effort makes me feel fretful and impatient.

I don't believe Mr. Corbet agrees with Mr. Penrose in his notions. I

saw him several times glance at his mother, and slightly shake his

head. Mrs. Corbet is a beautiful old lady—I think the most beautiful I

ever saw. She must be past sixty a good deal, yet her eyes are bright

and clear, and her hair unchanged. To be sure, it is so nearly silver

in its natural color that a few gray threads would not show. She seems

quite feeble, and, indeed, Mrs. Judith told me she had never been

really well since the time of the riot, when she was struck down by a

stone and otherwise maltreated. She spoke to me kindly, and said she

would send me the parcel she had brought from my aunt, or perhaps bring

it to me, as she meant to come to the Great House before long.

Mr. Penrose came up with me as I was hurrying home, and asked me why I

walked so fast? I told him I was in haste to return to Lady Betty.

"The child seems to love you very much," said he.

"And I love her," I returned. "Nobody could help it."

"Yet you must find your life somewhat irksome," he went on to say.

"Not at all!" I answered. "Why should I? 'Love makes easy service,'

and besides she really gives me very little trouble, considering all

her misfortunes. I knew what I was undertaking when I came, and it

has not been so hard as I expected. Every one is kind to me, my Lady

especially, and as for the rest, why it does not signify. ''Tis all in

the day's work.'"

"My lady is kind to every one, I think," said Mr. Penrose, to which I

agreed. "'Tis a pity she has been so unfortunate with her children. If

the next child should prove a girl, or should not live, Mr. Corbet will

come to be lord of all."

"So I suppose," said I, "but we will hope for better things."

"Then you would not wish it?" he said, looking at me.

"Wish what?" I asked.

"That Mr. Corbet should be lord of all!"

"Of course not!" I answered. "Why should I? Mr. Corbet is well enough

off; beside that he is nothing to me, and my Lord and Lady have been

my very good friends. I don't understand you at all—and it seems to me

that you do not understand yourself, very well!"

"I beg your pardon, Mrs. Merton, if I have offended you," was all his

answer. Then, after a pause, "I suppose you were very much disappointed

at seeing me in Doctor Parnell's pulpit?"

What could I say? I was disappointed, but I would not tell him so. I

said I was surprised, as I did not know that the Doctor was away.

So then we walked the rest of the way in silence. It seems we never can

meet peaceably. I wanted to talk to him about his sermon, but of course

I could not, after that. I do think he is very odd.

_Monday, 28._

Lady Jemima has herself offered to carry a letter to my aunt, so I have

written one to her, and one to Felicia—the latter as kind as I could

make it. I am certainly glad that she has gone away, but yet I can see,

now that we are separated, that I was often to blame in our quarrels.

After I had finished my letters, I went to carry them to Lady Jemima's

room, where I had never been before. It is very bare and plain—more

so than mine—and looks, I fancy, like a nun's cell. She has several

religious pictures, and many books of devotion, but none other, that

I saw. Her bed looked hard, and as if it had very little covering

upon it, and there was not even a rug by the bedside. Lady Jemima was

looking over a great basket of work, not tapestry work, or any such

thing, but coarse garments of various kinds. She made me welcome, and

bade me sit down.

"What are you busy about with your needle?" said she.

I told her (what I forgot to mention in the right place) that I was

making some clothes for the twins of the poor fisherman's widow down at

the Cove, and that Lady Betty was helping me about them—adding that I

was at work on a christening frock, for which my Lady had given me the

material. She seemed pleased, but when I added that I liked the work

because it made me think of home, she said, decidedly:

"That is not a proper motive, child! You should do it because it is

right, and because our Lord has commanded it—not because it gives you

pleasure!"

"But suppose it gives me pleasure to do what is right, my Lady?" said

I. "Am I therefore to leave it off?"

"That is a quibble!" said she, though I am sure I did not mean it so.

"One must be arrived at a great degree of saintship to take pleasure in

doing right because it is right. And if we only delight in it because

of some pleasant remembrance, or pride in our own skill, there is no

merit in it, whatever."

Now I had never once thought of any merit in connection with my work

for Mary Hawtree's twins. I know the babes needed the garments, and I

thought, beside, that it would make a good healthy interest for poor

Betty. However, the more I say, the less Lady Jemima understands me, so

I held my peace.

"I had hoped to leave you this work of mine to finish," continued Lady

Jemima, "but you seem to have your hands full already. Do you think you

could find time?"

"I fear not, my Lady," I answered, after a little consideration.

"You see the most of my time must be given, to Lady Betty, either in

teaching or amusing her."

"Of course, but have you no time given you for recreation or devotion?"

I told her that I had an hour in the morning and another in the

evening, beside what I could gain by rising early.

"And cannot you devote some of this time to the service of the poor?

How can you hope for heaven, if you cannot make such a little sacrifice

as this—or what would you do if you were called upon to give up

everything for His sake?"

Well, it ended with my promising to see what I could do, and taking

the great basket to my room, where it stands now, and as I look at it,

seems to reproach me for wasting so much time over my journal.

_May 1._

We have done great things to-day. Lady Betty has really been out of

doors.

The way of it was this. My Lord and Lady, Mr. Penrose, and about all

the household except Lady Betty and myself, had gone down to the

village to see the May games on the Green. Mary would have had me go

and let her stay, and Anne afterwards made the same offer, but I would

not hear of it. I knew that Mary and her sweetheart would both be

disappointed. And I don't like to leave Anne with Lady Betty; she is

such a gossip, and fills the child's head with all sorts of unwholesome

stuff. So I stayed at home, right willingly, for I don't feel in

spirits for any such follies.

Lady Betty was sitting at the window in the long gallery, and I by her,

both of us feeling rather silent and doleful, when the door opened

and the little dog jumped from Lady Betty's lap and ran barking and

frisking to meet Mr. Corbet.

"Why, Cousin Walter!" said Betty. "I thought you would be at the May

games?"

"And I thought I would come to see my little lady!" he returned,

kissing her. "Mistress Merton, the air is very warm, and the sun is

like June. Could we not, think you, carry Lady Betty down to the garden

and let her see a little what the world is like on a May-day?"

It was just what I had been wishing to do, but I hesitated, because my

Lady was away. However, I could not withstand my child's pleading, so I

wrapped her in a shawl and hood of my own, and took down some cushions

and cloaks, while Mr. Corbet brought Betty in his strong arms, and set

her on the garden seat. I never saw any poor child so delighted as she

was. She had not been out of doors in so long that 'twas like fairy

land to her.

After sitting in the garden a while, Mr. Corbet proposed to carry her

in the woods, and that was still more wonderful. We found a safe seat

on the dry grassy root of an old tree, and I sat down by her, while

the little dog ran hither and hither, as well-pleased as his mistress.

Mr. Corbet exerted himself to entertain Betty, telling her stories,

bringing her flowers, and pointing out various things to her notice. I

dared not leave her stay too long this first time. And though she was

unwilling at first to go in, she gave up very pleasantly at the last.

"Why, that's my brave, good little maid!" said Mr. Corbet, as she

consented to go in. "You have worked wonders, Mrs. Merton. I was afraid

of a scene."

"I don't cry any more, now!" said Betty. "I am trying to be good, like

my mother and Margaret."

When I reported the matter to Lady Stanton, I thought she looked rather

grave upon it. So I hastened to say, that I did not think Lady Betty

had taken cold, and I was sorry if I had done wrong, but that the child

had been so overjoyed at her cousin's offer, that I could not bear to

disappoint her.

"You have done no wrong, sweetheart!" said my Lady. "And I dare say

nobody will be the worse, but we must not trouble Mr. Corbet. The next

time, we will have John Footman carry her down."

_May 9._

Lady Jemima is really gone, and Mr. Penrose with her. They travel in

company with some friends from Exeter. She left on the fifth of the

month, and is to be away four weeks, she says, at the very most. I am

rather sorry I gave her the letter for Felicia. I somehow feel as if

trouble would grow out of it. I don't know why, only that Felicia has

been my great cause of trouble hitherto, and I doubt if she will be

able to let slip a chance of saying something to my disadvantage. Aunt

Willson will speak for me, that is one thing.

Betty has been out every pleasant day, and I think the fresh air, the

change, and exercise, really do her good. She has gained strength,

appetite, and a little color, and Mary says she sleeps more quietly at

night. She gets on finely with her reading, and wants to begin writing,

but I put her off as yet. My Lady demurred a little at this, because

Lady Betty is so very backward for a child of her age. But I told her I

was sure it was best not to overcrowd her, but to better her health, if

possible, first of all. And to this, she agreed.

Betty herself is growing ambitious, and I now have to check her instead

of urging her on, as at first. She is very much pleased at being

godmother (by proxy, of course) to one of the twins for whom we have

been working, and I have promised that the babes shall come up to see

her when the mother is able to bring them. I have sometimes debated in

my own mind, whether she ought not to be told of what is coming, but on

the whole I do not think it best.

Mrs. Corbet has been up at the Court, and made us quite a visit in the

nursery. How any one could for one moment impute evil to her, I cannot

guess. I should think the very sight of her face would be enough to

banish suspicion, if one had entertained it. There is somewhat in her

very presence so restful—I know not how else to express my meaning. I

think if I were ill, or in trouble, I should feel it a comfort only to

have her in the room, if she did not say a word. She looked with a real

interest at Lady Betty's sewing, commended its neatness, and said she

was glad to see her busy about such work.

"It was all Margaret's doing," said Lady Betty, frankly. (She will

always call me Margaret, even before strangers, and I have begged my

Lady to let her have her own way.) "I should never have thought of it

only for Margaret. And oh, cousin, it is so nice! So much nicer to be

thinking about my little god-daughter, and what I can do for her, than

to think only of what I want myself."

"Dear heart!" said Mrs. Corbet. "It is always much pleasanter and

happier, even for oneself, to think of the wants and pleasures of

others, than to dwell forever on one's own. That would be the worst

punishment that could befall any one in this world or the next. Do you

not think so, Mistress Margaret?"

"I do, indeed!" said I. "And yet—" and here I stopped, fearing lest I

should be thought forward.

"And yet—" she repeated, with that sweet, sudden smile of hers.

"And yet we are told to think about ourselves in some things!" I went

on to say. "Mr. Penrose says we are to watch ourselves constantly, lest

we fall into sin, and we must think about ourselves, to do that—or, so

it seems to me. You heard him last Sunday, madam?"

"I did," replied Mrs. Corbet.

"Well," I said, marvelling at my own boldness, but something seemed to

draw me on—"if life is what he said—just one constant struggle with

the power of evil within and without—if we are in every way to keep

under and bring into subjection our bodies by fasting and penance, and

our souls by mourning and mortification, with but a doubtful hope of

succeeding after all—what can we do but think about ourselves?"

"Dear heart!" said Mrs. Corbet, again. (She uses these Devonshire

phrases so sweetly and tenderly.) "Dear heart, do not you go to making

bricks in Egypt with Mr. Penrose—albeit I think him an earnest,

painstaking young man, and I believe he will yet work himself right.

But, my child, remember who it was that bade us take no thought for the

morrow, and commit thy soul to His keeping. Believe me, when I tell

thee, that one good earnest look at thy Lord, will do more to keep thee

in the right way than gazing on thyself forever."

How I did want to go on with the conversation! But at that moment my

Lady came in, and carried away her cousin to see something in her own

room—baby things, I suppose.

I know how to work satin stitch wondrous nicely, and I have a great

desire to work something pretty for my Lady, but here is this great

basket of Lady Jemima's staring me in the face all the time. I wish I

had refused to have anything to do with it at first. And yet, according

to her, there would be no merit in doing the robe for my Lady, because

it would be a pleasure from beginning to end. I am sure it is no

pleasure to work on these garments. They are so coarse that I think

it will be no mean penance to wear them, and I must say, marvellous

ill-contrived. I have neglected my journal and my recreation to work at

them, but I am sure I am no better for the sacrifice, as yet. I wish

I could talk the matter over with Mrs. Corbet. I feel as if she might

shed some light on my difficulties.

Mrs. Corbet brought me my parcel from Aunt Willson. The lawn she sent—a

whole piece—is beautifully fine and sheen, and would be just the thing

for my embroidery. There are besides some dressing things, cords and

laces, pins, needles, bodkins, and a nice housewife, stored with

abundance of thread of different kinds, and a new book for my journal,

with some other papers. I wonder, by the by, how Aunt Willson knew I

kept a journal? I suppose Felicia must have told her.

Felicia herself sends me a kerchief and apron, of fine stuff, indeed,

and well made, but "green," just the color she knows I never can wear,

even if I were not in mourning.

_May 12._

Mrs. Judith says Mr. Corbet is going southward on a journey, and is

expecting to be gone some time. His mother, methinks, will be lonely

without him. Of course I shall not see him before he goes, unless he

comes to say good-by to Betty. I have not told her that he is going.

I don't know how it is, but I do not feel like myself for a few days

past. I feel fretful, and the least thing troubles me, and I do not

sleep well, for the first time in my life. My head aches and feels

heavy, so that I find it hard to exert myself to amuse Lady Betty,

and I am glad that she has her dog to play with. I think I miss my

afternoon walks, which I have given up to sew on the work which Lady

Jemima left me.

_May 13._

Mr. Corbet did come to bid Betty good-by, after all. More than that, he

told me that he meant to go and see Mr. Carey, and most kindly offered

to take charge of a packet for me; so I have written two long letters

to mother and Dick. How pleasant it seems to think that he will see

them all, and can tell me how dear mother is looking.

_May 16._

I have finished all the work that Lady Jemima left me, and oh, how glad

I am that it is done! I am afraid it has done me no good, however,

because I have disliked it so much. And more than that, I am afraid

that the poor women at the almshouses, for whom it is intended, will

not be so very much the better either, for the garments are not

well-fashioned, and though I did my best to reform their shapes, I did

not succeed very well. I asked my Lady if I might go and carry the

basket to the almshouses.

"What is it?" she asked.

I told her about it.

"And when have you found time to do so much?" she asked, looking not

very well-pleased.

I hastened to tell her that I had sewed during my hours of recreation,

instead of going out to walk, but she was no better satisfied than

before.

"I thought you were not looking well," said she. "Lady Jemima should

have had more consideration than to lay such a task upon you.

Henceforth, Margaret, remember that I wish you to walk every day when

the weather is pleasant. You will fulfil no duty to anybody by making

yourself sick."

"I did miss my walks very much, my Lady," I said, "but my Lady Jemima

wished the work finished, and she said I ought to deny myself daily."

I stopped, for I did not wish to repeat all that Lady Jemima had said.

My Lady smiled.

"Well, well!" said she. "My sister meant well, no doubt, and so did

you. But remember, sweetheart, that your time and your health are not

altogether your own, and that you must first do your duty in the state

of life to which you have been called. I am not angry with you, child,

so you need not look so downcast."

"But, mamma!" said Betty, anxiously, "Margaret and I want to make

some more clothes for the twins, and for their mother. You don't mind

that, do you? I do love it so much, and I am learning to work nicely.

Margaret says so."

"O no. That is quite another matter. Let me see this same work."

So I brought out our basket, and Lady Betty displayed all we had

accomplished between us, scrupulously avoiding the taking any more than

her due share of credit. She is a wonderful truthful child. My Lady

examined the work, and seemed much pleased.

"You have done wonders," said she. "But whose work is this pretty

christening dress, for so I presume it is?"

"That is Margaret's!" said Lady Betty, as proud of the modest little

row of satin stitch, as if she had done it herself. "Is it not pretty,

mamma?"

"Very pretty, indeed!" replied my Lady.

"Margaret knows how to do all kinds of pretty work," continued Betty.

"She can work tapestry, and make knotting, and knit!"

"Margaret is a wonderful person, no doubt. I think we are much obliged

to good Mr. Carey for bringing her to us. You must ask her to teach you

some of these feats of hers," said my Lady. "Have you any of your work

by you, Margaret? I should like to see it."

I had some few little pieces, so I brought them, and my Lady looked

them over, and was pleased so to commend them, that I found courage

to make my request, which was that she would let me work something

for the baby that is coming, on the fine linen that my aunt sent me.

She consented, on condition that I should not abridge my hours of

recreation.

"But how shall you manage about Betty?" she asked. "I suppose she knows

naught of the matter, and she will be all curiosity about your work."

"If I might venture to speak my thoughts about that, my Lady," said I,

and then stopped, fearing I was too bold.

"Well!" said my Lady. "Speak out. Your thoughts are usually to the

purpose, I find."

Thus encouraged, I did venture to tell her what I was thinking

of—namely, that she should tell Lady Betty herself.

"You see, my Lady, she is sure to find out in some way. Lady Jemima is

very outspoken, and the maids will talk: and if she learns the story

from you, she will be less likely to take up any wrong impression, or

to ask inconvenient questions. My mother did so by me when Jacky and

Phillis were born, and she said she thought it the best way."

"Your mother has made a wondrous wise maid of you!" said my Lady. "I

wonder she could make up her mind to part with so notable a daughter."

I told her that Dick and myself, being the eldest children, were

obliged to do what we could to help the others, dear father's death

having left us poor, and besides, I said, people at home did not give

me credit for so much wisdom.

She laughed and said something about a prophet being without honor in

his own country. And then bidding me take a good long walk, and enjoy

myself in the fresh air, she went back to Lady Betty, and I took my

bundle of work and went down to the almshouses.

They are pretty cottages enough, five in number, and stand on the

village green, near the church-yard. I thought the thatch would be

the better of mending in some places, but, on the whole, they looked

comfortable, though not so nice as ours at Saintswell. I wonder, by the

way, whether Mr. Carey will hold Sir Peter Beaumont up to the point of

keeping them in repair, as my father used to do.

Well, I knocked at the door of the first one, and a voice said, "Come

in!" so I entered.

There, in her bee-hive chair, sat an old woman look so like dear Dame

Crump that I could have kissed her. She made me most civilly welcome,

and asked me to sit down. I told her that I had brought her a cap and

petticoat, which Lady Jemima had left for her. She smiled, and said my

Lady was very kind, but I can't say she showed any great enthusiasm

about the matter.

"You will be the young lady now to take care of my Lady Betty," she

said, presently.

I told her I was.

"And how is she, poor dear maid? No better, I suppose?"

I told her I thought Lady Betty was stronger than when I came, adding

that I believed the fresh air did her good.

"No doubt, no doubt!" said Dame Yeo, for such I found was her name.

"Fresh air and good food are better than doctor stuff. You are not from

this part of the country, Madam, or so I judge, from your speech?"

I told her I was from a little village not far from Chester.

"Chester!" said she, musingly. "I had a sister that married and went

to live somewhere near Chester. Her husband was a sailor, and when he

went away on his long voyage to the Indies, Madge went to live with

his old mother. She was much older than I. I doubt she is not alive. A

fine stout lad was Thomas Crump, and Madge was a handsome maid as ever

I saw. But she would be near a hundred an' she were living. I am past

eighty, myself."

The resemblance to my old friend was explained.

"I can give you news of your sister, I believe," said I. "She is still

living in one of the almshouses in Saintswell, and though old, as you

say, is well and cheerful. I saw her the day before I left home."

Never was any poor old creature so pleased. The tears ran down her

withered cheeks, as she thanked God again and again for sending her

news of her sister. I told her all I could think of about Dame Crump,

and when I had stayed as long as I could, I rose to go.

"Come again, my dear, tender soul! My dear young lady, now do, wont-e?"

she said, detaining me with a trembling hand. "It does seem to do me

good to see you!"

"And I am sure you have done me good," I answered. "It is so pleasant

to talk of home."

"Aye, that it is—that it is!" replied Goody Yeo. "There is no place

like home, my maid; now is there? There, bless thy heart! I didn't mean

to make thee cry. Don't-e cry, now, but keep up a good heart, dear

soul, and when you are downcast, think about the home above. We shall

all meet there, you know!"

"Can I do aught for you, Goody, before I go?" I asked, brushing the

drops from my eyes.

"If it wouldn't be asking too much, if you would just take the Bible

and read me a psalm and chapter. My eyes are not worth much nowadays,

though I do spell out a verse now and then."

"What shall I read?" I asked.

"Oh, the psalms for the day, first of all."

So I read the psalms for the day, the old woman listening devoutly,

her wrinkled face full of peace. Then, at her request, I read the last

chapter of Revelations.

"And to think that is all ours—our purchased inheritance!" said Goody,

when I had done. "Truly we need not murmur over the hardships of the

way when it leads to such a home at last."

The old woman does not seem to have any of those doubts which Mr.

Penrose thinks we ought to have, to keep us humble. I would have liked

to talk farther with her, but I had stayed too long already. I see the

cushion of her chair is worn out. I will beg some pretty piece of my

Lady, and when Betty has finished her present work, she shall make a

patchwork cushion for Goody Yeo.

Goody Hollins was in a very different mood. The world was out of joint,

according to her. Nobody cared for her. Parson never came to see her,

and Mistress Parnell was always corsetting up Goody Yeo and old Master

Dean with good things, while she had nothing to eat, and nobody would

care if she starved.

"Nobody don't take no care of we!" were her last words. "We is naught

but poor old folk that they just want to get rid of!"

She was deaf as a post, so there was no use in talking to her.

I found Gaffer Dean, a cheerful old man, sitting out in the sun, and

as chirruping as an old cricket. I would have liked to stay longer and

chat with him, but the afternoon was wearing away, and I wanted to call

at the Rectory.

Mistress Parnell made me welcome, as usual. I told her I had been at

the almshouses, and she laughed at my account of Goody Hollins.

"I carried her a jug of broth this very day!" said she. "But the poor

old soul is sadly crabbed and cankered."

"She seems to think that every one neglects her," I said: "even her own

daughter."

"Her daughter has as much as she can do and more to take care of her

own," said Mistress Parnell. "Besides that, she is and always was a sad

slattern. Even Mistress Ellenwood could make naught of Peggy Hollins."

And then she told me a great deal which I have not time to set down

here, about Mistress Ellenwood the schoolmistress, and all the good she

had done.

_May 18._

I have begun my work for my Lady, which I think will be very pretty.

The lawn is so fine it shows the embroidery to great advantage, and the

thread Aunt Willson sent with it is just the thing.

Betty has heard the secret, and seems to take it kindly. She says

little, but I see that she is turning the matter over in her own mind,

in her silent fashion. Last night, after I had put her to bed, she

asked me:

"Margaret, do you think the baby will love me, when it comes?"

"Yes, if you are a good kind sister!" I answered.

"You don't think mamma will leave off loving me then, do you,

Margaret?" she asked again, with a quivering lip.

"No, of course not," said I. "She will love you all the more, and if

you are a good girl, and try to learn, you can be a great help to her

by and by."

This notion seemed to comfort her, and she lay down contented.

_May 30._

This morning Lady Betty walked farther than she had ever done before.

She is delighted with being out of doors, and it certainly does her

good. The wild flowers, of which the wood is full, are an endless

delight to her, and she is never weary of gathering them and observing

them. This morning she saw a squirrel. The dog ran after it, and Betty

was in a terrible taking lest he should hurt it, but it escaped easily

enough, and sat on a branch, scolding us, at which the child was

delighted.

She is certainly stronger, and complains much less than she did,

either because she really suffers less, or because she has more to

think about, and so dwells the less on her own discomforts. She has

not had a crying fit in a long time. I talk to her about all sorts of

things—about the village and the poor people here and at home, and

everything else I can think of to interest her. She was much delighted

with my story of finding Dame Crump's sister in Goody Yeo, and in

hearing of Gaffer Dean's jackdaw, which I forgot to mention in its

place. She wished she could go down to see it. I wish she could. I

wonder much whether she could learn to ride a donkey?

_June 1._

Mr. Penrose is come back, but not Lady Jemima. He brought letters for

my Lord and Lady from her, and one from Felicia to me—the most cordial

I have ever had from her. Perhaps if we do not see each other for

a year or two longer, we shall become quite intimate and friendly.

Felicia, seems to have seen a good deal of Lady Jemima, and has much to

say in her praise.

Mr. Penrose has brought down some beautiful furniture for the

chapel—candlesticks, vestments, and what not, and he is busy arranging

them in order. He would have had me help him, but I could not leave

Lady Betty, who has been ailing for two or three days, and is so

restless at night that I have taken turn about with Mary to stay with

her. She seems to get no sleep unless some one is sitting by her. I

almost fancy she is afraid.

_June 2._

I have found out what ails Lady Betty. Anne has been telling her ghost

stories. I hardly ever let Anne stay with her. But Mary's mother-in-law

that is to be, is sick, and she, like the good girl that she is, wants

to take her share in nursing the old woman. Then old Brewster has

also been ill, and my dear Lady has asked me to see that she had her

medicine properly, and to attend to various little matters for her: so

I have been much more away from my child than usual.

Last night she was very restless, and started so at some strange sound,

of which there are always plenty, that I asked her what was the matter.

"I am afraid!" she replied.

"Afraid of what?" I asked.

She would not tell me at first, but at last I coaxed her. Anne has told

her I know not what tale of the ghost of a knight who walks in the

long gallery. He is called the Halting Knight, because he had one leg

shorter than the other, and Anne says that when any misfortune is about

to happen to the family, he walks up and down all night, wringing his

mailed hands, and tossing his arms over his head.

"There!" exclaimed the child, clinging to me. "Don't you hear it? Oh,

what if he be come to presage the death of my mother!"

I certainly did hear something like a halting step: and at another time

I might have been afraid myself. But I saw how necessary it was to

soothe Betty, who was trembling all over.

"Dear heart! That noise you hear is not the Halting Knight," said I.

"I cannot tell you just what makes it, but very likely it is the wind

knocking a branch of ivy against the wall. Do not think about such

frightful things, but remember how you have asked God to take care of

you, and think about the holy angels that he sends to have charge of

us."

Then I repeated the ninety-first psalm to her, and by degrees, she grew

more composed.

"So you don't think it is the Halting Knight?" said she, presently.

"No, I don't," I answered: "and I will tell you why. If the knight

was a good man when he was alive, and served God, I am sure he is in

heaven, and that he would never care to come from that holy and happy

place to walk up and down all night in the dark windy gallery. And if

he is with wicked spirits, I am quite sure that God will not let him

come out of prison to hurt them who put their trust in Him."

So I soothed her to sleep, and the rest of the night she rested

tranquilly. She has been better to-day, though not well enough to go

out of doors, and I have tried in every way to keep her mind diverted.

Poor thing, she has trouble enough, without any fanciful fears.

_June 4._

My Lady asked me to-day some questions about my friends in London.

I told her I had none except my aunt Willson and Felicia, who was

also my aunt, though I had never called her so, we being brought up

together, and so near of an age. I spoke warmly, as I felt, in praise

of Aunt Willson, and told how nobly she had come forward to help us in

our troubles.

Then she asked me about Felicia. I hesitated, and then said, frankly:

"To tell you the truth, my Lady, I would rather not talk of her. We

were never good friends, and I am afraid I might say more than I ought."

"Well, well!" said my Lady. "I will not ask you any more questions.

My sister seems to think highly of her, but she is apt to take sudden

fancies, especially when people are of her own way of thinking."

"Felicia must have changed a good deal if she is of Lady Jemima's way

of thinking," said I. "But she can be very pleasant when she pleases,

and she is very pretty. I hope she gets on well with my Aunt Willson. I

hope she will not be discontented, and go back to mother again. I was

so glad she went away before I did."

"Now you have told me all I wished to know," said my Lady.

Then laughing merrily at my discomfiture, she bade me not be

disturbed—she should think none the less of me.

_June 8._

Mr. Penrose has finished all his decorations, and called me in to see

them. There is a deal of gold lace and purple cloth, with silver-gilt

candlesticks, and other trinkets, of which I do not even know the

names. He would have me say how I liked it all.

"Honestly?" said I.

"Honestly, of course!" said he.

"Well then, to be plain with you, I like it not so well as before!"

said I. "I think the old carven wood you have covered up much more

beautiful than the embroidered cloth on it. And for the rest, I must

say it puts me in mind of my little sister's baby-houses, or the Popish

chapel my father once took me to see at my Lord Mountford's."

"You are something of a Puritan, I see, as your cousin says," said Mr.

Penrose.

"I don't even know what a Puritan is," I answered, I am afraid rather

too warmly for the place. "Felicia—I suppose it is she you mean by

my cousin—used to call me a Puritan, because I did not like the East

window in our church."

"And why did you not like it?" he asked.

"Because there was painted thereon the image of Him of whom no image

should be made," I answered. "I could not think it right. It seemed to

me like blasphemy. I don't see anything wrong about these decorations

of yours, but they seem to me not at all suitable for a church."

"I am unfortunate in incurring your disapprobation," said he, stiffly.

"You asked me, you know," said I. "I could but say what I think. I am

sorry if I have hurt you!"

"You have not hurt me—only as you always do hurt me," he answered, with

such a strange quiver in his voice, that I looked at him in surprise.

He turned away, however, and began arranging some of the drapery about

the altar. In doing so, the fringe caught on one of the tall, heavy

candlesticks.

I saw that a fall was imminent, and sprang to save it, but I was too

late. The candlestick fell, and as ill-luck would have it, struck me

on the forehead, and the edge being sharp, made a pretty deep cut from

which the blood flowed freely. I felt stunned and sick for a minute,

but recovered myself, to see Mr. Penrose gazing at me with a face

whiter than his band.

"It is naught!" said I, pulling my kerchief to my forehead. "Don't look

so frightened, but help me to find Mrs. Judith."

For I was vexed at him, standing there as if rooted to the earth, never

offering to help. It was rather unreasonable in me, too, but I do love

folk to have their wits about them. He started, and recovered himself,

and came forward to give me his arm.

Well, at last I got to Mrs. Judith's room, narrowly missing meeting my

Lady, which was what I dreaded above all things. Mrs. Judith knew what

she was about, at any rate, plastered up my head and bathed my face,

and then helped me to my room. She would have had me lie still the

rest of the day, but I did not like to leave my child, and I have felt

no inconvenience since, save a headache, and now and then a strange

sickness.

_June 28._

I did not think, when I laid down my pen, that three weeks would pass

before I took it up again.

I felt the sickness coming over me again, and I suppose went to the

window for air, for I was found senseless on the floor under the open

casement, by Mrs. Judith, who, in her kindness, had come up before

going to bed to see how I was. She called Mary and got me to bed, and

for three or four days I was in considerable danger, it seems, but my

good constitution and Mrs. Judith's nursing brought me through. I had

no surgeon, for the nearest, who lives at Biddeford, had been called

away. I was not sorry, for I did as well without him, and perhaps

better.

I have been sitting up now for a week, and to-day ventured out of my

room into the long gallery, greatly to the delight of Lady Betty, who

thinks I must be almost well. The dear child was as good as possible

all the time I was at the worst, so Mary tells me, even stifling her

sobs when she was told that she would make herself sick, and that would

grieve Mistress Merton.

Since I have been getting better, Mary has brought her in to see me

every day, and she has spent hours, sitting in her chair, or lying on

the bed beside me. At first I had hard work to persuade her to go out

of doors without me, but at last she let old John carry her down, and

Mary go with her. She brings me great nosegays of flowers every day, as

well as long stories about the squirrels and the young birds, for now,

as ever, she prefers the wood to the garden.

Every one has been very kind to me since I was sick. Only I fancied

Lady Jemima (who has been at home more than a week,) treated me rather

coldly. She brought me letters from aunt and Felicia, the latter sweet

as honey—rather too sweet, in fact. Felicia is not apt to be so loving,

unless she meditates a bite, or a scratch at the least.

Mr. Corbet has not yet returned, but his mother, who has been once to

see me, tells me that she expects him in a few days. Oh, how I have

longed and pined for home, and mother, since I have been sick! All the

home-sickness I have felt before was as nothing to it. But I hope to

get the better of this weakness when I am able to take up my work once

more.

_July 1._

As I was sitting in the gallery this morning, who should come in but

Mr. Penrose, whom I had not seen before since that unlucky day in the

chapel. He looked pale and wretched enough, and I felt sorry for him.

"I am glad to see you up once more," said he, with something of a

tremor in his voice. "I little thought what would be the end, when I

called you into the chapel. If you had died—"

"You would doubtless have been much afflicted," said I, as he paused.

"That would have been only natural, but even then, Mr. Penrose, you

would have had no cause of self-reproach. Nobody would have been to

blame—not even myself!"

"I would never have entered the desk again!" said he. "I would have

sought some solitude—there are no convents now to retire to—and have

given my life to fasting and penance forever after."

"Then you would have done a very wrong and foolish thing!" said I.

"What if St. Paul had taken such a course? His crimes were committed

of set purpose, yet did our Lord himself call him to the ministry, and

that when he was upon the very errand of slaughter."

"I don't know that I ever thought of that," said he. "But you know

Archbishop Abbot was deprived because he killed a man by accident when

out hunting."

"I always thought it a very hard measure to the poor old gentleman,"

I said. "There was no malice in the act, and the archbishop did all

in his power to make amends. My father was ever of the mind that if

the Archbishop had been more of a courtier, his homicide would have

troubled nobody."

Mr. Penrose looked a little grave upon this. I believe he thinks it

little less than blasphemy to say a word against the present archbishop.

"But you see I was not killed, nor anything like it!" I continued. "So

you may put off your purpose of retirement a little while."

"Do you feel quite yourself again?" he asked, anxiously.

"Why no, not altogether," I said. "I feel weak, and a little thing

tires me, but I have no pain, and my head is quite clear. I had odd

fancies while I was sick, Mr. Penrose. I remember them only dreamily,

however, and hope to forget them altogether soon. I feel that I have

much to be thankful for, both because my life was spared, and also for

the care and kindness of all about me. It is not every poor girl, alone

and among strangers, who meets with such friends."

"If Margaret had died, I would have died too!" said Betty, who had

hitherto taken no part in the conversation.

"And so would I!" said Mr. Penrose.

But Betty was not pleased.

"She is not 'your' Margaret!" she retorted, with the pertness which I

have not yet been able to cure: "I don't see any call that 'you' would

have to die!"

I could not help smiling. But seeing Mr. Penrose's color rise, I chid

Lady Betty, and bade her ask pardon, which she did readily enough, only

rather spoiling it by repeating very decidedly, "But she is 'not' your

Margaret, Mr. Penrose! She is mine!"

"I wont have any quarrelling about me!" said I. "Come, my dear, we have

sat here long enough, and here comes Mary to say that our dinner is

ready."

For since I have begun to sit up and move about a little, I have taken

my meals with my child, an arrangement which she likes marvellously.

"Shall we not see you at the table soon?" asked Mr. Penrose.

"As soon as Mrs. Judith permits," I said. "I am at her orders, you

know. Thank you, Mr. Penrose, for coming to see me."

"Can I do nothing for you?" he asked.

"There is one thing, if I may venture to ask so much," I said. "Would

you find time to go down and read a chapter now and then to Dame Yeo

at the almshouse. I promised to do so, but she must think me strangely

forgetful."

To my surprise, he hesitated. "I would gladly do so," he answered,

presently, "but I fear Doctor Parnell would think it an undue

interference."

"I don't believe he would," said I. "He is a kind old man, and I

believe he would be pleased with anything that pleased the old folks.

At all events, you could speak to him about the matter. But do not do

anything about it, if it is like to make any trouble."

"Oh, I will go!" said he.

And, I rather think he did go this very afternoon.

_July 3._

I felt so much better this morning that I coaxed Mrs. Judith to let me

go out with Lady Betty into the wood. The day was lovely, and the whole

air seemed full of the scent of hay. Lady Betty, who walks with more

and more ease every day, ran about quite a good deal, and gathered wild

flowers for me. Her little dog has done her a great deal of good in

this respect, for she goes after him and joins in his play.

My Lady came out while we were in the wood and sat down by me. After

looking at, and highly commending my work, which I had brought in my

hand, and kindly telling me not to tire my eyes over it, she began to

talk about Lady Betty, who was at a distance gathering some plants

which had taken her fancy.

"You have done wonders during the little time you have had her in

charge," said she. "I could never have thought to see her move so

freely—so much like another child. If she had gained naught in

learning, I should owe you a debt of gratitude for all you have down

for her health."

"You owe me nothing, my Lady," I said. "I have but done my duty, and I

would gladly have done ten times more. It is I who am in your debt for

all your goodness to me."

"Well, well, we wont dispute the matter!" said she, with, her sweet,

sad smile. "If only you can stay for a year or two—but I fear that will

hardly be."

"I don't know why not, my Lady," I ventured to say. "Unless you tire of

me, or I misbehave myself, which I trust not to do; I see no reason why

I should not stay with Lady Betty as long as she needs a governess."

"Then you have yourself no desire to change your condition—to be

anywhere else?" she asked, looking at me in a searching way, with her

great beautiful eyes, as if she would read my inmost thoughts.

"My Lady," said I, "I will tell you the simple truth. I would rather

be at home with my mother, even in her little cottage, than here in

Stanton Court, though here I am lodged and waited upon as I never was

before. But as for any other place, I speak but simple sooth in saying,

that since I cannot be at home, I would rather be here than anywhere

else in the world. Every one is kind to me, and I love my Lady Betty

dearly. I have no wish to change my condition."

"It is well said, sweetheart, and as much as I could ask," said my dear

Lady. "I could not in reason ask you to prefer any other place to home.

But suppose some one comes and proffers you a house and home of your

own, what then?"

"That is too large a supposition for my poor imagination!" said I,

smiling. "A poor plain parson's daughter, without beauty or dower,

is not like to attract many suitors, I fancy. Besides, if I were as

beautiful as Mrs. Corbet, or the Fair Dame herself, I see nobody."

"You are like the princess in the fairy-tale, shut up in an enchanted

castle!" said my Lady. "But you forget Mr. Penrose."

"Oh, he is nobody—so far as that goes!" said I. "He looks down upon me

as an ignoramus and person of no family, and besides, he thinks me a

Puritan!"

"What is a Puritan?" asked Lady Betty, coming up and leaning on my lap.

"That is more than I can tell you, my dear," said I; "unless it is a

person who likes clear glass better than painted windows, and carven

oak better than scarlet cloth and embroidery."

My Lady laughed and bade Betty see if she could find a clover with four

leaves. When the child had set seriously about her search, she said to

me, taking my hand, and speaking very earnestly:

"Margaret, will you make me a promise?"

"If I can, my Lady," I answered.

"Promise me then that you will not leave Betty for at least a year,

whether I live or die. In the latter case, I do believe the child would

not be long behind her mother—certainly not,—" she said, with a strange

look in her face—"if, as some say, the dead mother hath the power of

calling the child after her. But promise me that you will remain with

my child for at least a year."

"I promise you, my Lady!" said I, as soon as I could speak. "I will not

leave Lady Betty for a year, at least, unless I am sent away."

"You may not find things always as pleasant as now," she went on to

say. "My sister-in-law sometimes takes strange fancies, and she has

great influence with her brother, though they are so very different.

But promise me that you will not leave my child for at least a year,

even," she added, "if the fairy prince should come for you!"

"The fairy prince is not likely to come, unless, indeed, my poor dear

father's ship should come home at last," said I. "But if he does, I

shall send him about his business, my dear Lady. I am so glad you are

pleased with me," said I, with a silly gush of tears, which, however, I

could not help. I suppose because I am so weak still.

She smoothed my hair with her lovely hands, and said many kind things,

and I recovered myself presently, and begged her pardon.

"Tut tut," said she, lightly. "Tell me about your father's ship."

So I told her all about it, and how we feared it had been a total loss,

and how my brother had been obliged to change all his plans, with much

more—too much, I fear, for it was so pleasant to talk of home, and she

listened so kindly, that I hardly knew when to leave off.

_July 6._

Mr. Corbet has come back, and has brought me a great packet of letters

and little keepsakes from the friends at home—so large a parcel that I

fear it must have been inconvenient to him, but he made light of it.

Betty and I were out in the woods, as usual, she running about—for she

can really run a little now—and I very busy with my pretty work, when

Mr. Corbet came out of the side door and down to where I was sitting.

Betty gave a cry of joy at seeing her cousin, whom she loves dearly,

and with some reason, for he is ever kind and gentle with her. He

caressed her, and gave her a pretty box of comfits he had brought, and

then turned smiling to me.

"And Mrs. Merton must also have her box of comfits," said he, putting

my precious packet into my hand. "I am sure to bring my welcome, since

I come from Chester and Saintswell."

"And did you really go to Saintswell?" I asked.

"I really did," he answered. "I stayed a week with my good friend,

Mr. Carey, and made acquaintance with your honored mother, and with

Master Jacky and his sisters, as well as with many other folk, old and

young, gentle and simple. I should have been much flattered by their

attentions, only I was forced to lay all to the account of my knowing

the last news of dear Mistress Margaret."

I asked him many questions, as to dear mother's looks, and I know not

what all, some of which I doubt he thought silly enough. I know I asked

him whether the twins were grown.

"That I can hardly tell you, as I never saw them before. But 'tis not

likely that they have changed a great deal in three months," said he.

"I can't think that I have been hardly three months away," said I. "It

seems so long since I have seen any of them." And then I began with new

questions, which he answered patiently enough.

He told me that Mr. Carey seemed to be much liked by all his people,

though some of them thought his preaching not so plain and simple as my

father's. He had even been taken by the twins to see the almshouses,

and had been able to give dear old Goody Crump news of her sister, and

of other folk she had known. The old woman had sent me her blessing,

as had also Dame Higgins; the latter hoping that I had safely kept her

precious medal.

"We shall have to begin watching you as a dangerous person," said he,

smiling: "since you deal with such trinkets as medals blessed by the

pope."

"I could not well refuse the old woman's gift," I said. "'Tis but a bit

of tarnished silver, when all is said. And as to the pope's blessing,

I fancy, as Goody Higgins said, if it does no good, it can do no great

harm—especially as I keep it with the stone old Esther gave me to keep

off the witches."

"Do you believe in witches, Mrs. Merton?" asked Mr. Corbet.

"I never saw one," I answered. "We were happy in having none of those

fearful troubles in our parish, which were so rife in this part of the

country some years ago, and all our old women are very harmless folk.

I believe Esther has her doubts of Goody Higgins, but that is only

because the poor thing, being a papist, never goes to church. No, I

don't think I have much belief in witches."

"Nor in ghosts?" he asked, smiling. "Are you not just a little afraid

of the Halting Knight, when the wind blows hard o' nights? Or have you

never heard his story?"

"O yes, I have heard all about him," I answered. "I dare not say that

I have not sometimes listened for his lame step in the gallery, but I

don't think I am much afraid of him, after all. I don't think, to say

the truth, that I have it in me to be very much afraid of such things."

After that we fell into a pleasant chat till it was time for Betty to

go into the house.

I have read my letters over and over—the long ones from dear mother

and Richard, poor Jacky's short and somewhat blotted scroll, and the

printed notes of the twins. I feel as if I had made a visit at home. So

many little things can be told by word of mouth, which no one thinks of

putting in a letter, and Mr. Corbet seems to have noticed everything,

even to poor Punch, our three-legged, or rather three-footed cat, who

lost his fore-paw in a rabbit-trap, and whom father would not have

killed, but dressed the creature's wounds with his own hands, and

nursed him till he got well.

He is a wonderful kind gentleman to take so much pains for me. I am so

glad he and Richard took so to each other. It would seem but natural

that they should, thinking so much alike on many subjects, but one can

never guess beforehand how such things will turn out.

Richard says he makes progress in his studios, and that Master Smith is

kind and generous as ever. He still hears much of public affairs, and

I can see that he does not like the complexion of them, and doth fear

much trouble and discontent, arising from the high-handed proceedings

of the Archbishop and the Star Chamber.

He writes me that Mr. Prynne, the barrister, an old friend of my

father's, and one who hath been many times at our house since my

remembrance, is in prison, and like to fare badly. He was always a

bugbear to us children, with his sour, austere face, and his perpetual

arguments with my father, wherein he was ofttimes so sharp and rude

that a less sweet-tempered man would have at the least declined his

acquaintance. But my father always said there was much good in him, and

I know that he was ever liberal in giving to the poor. I shall be sorry

to hear of any great harm coming to him, poor man. It seems he hath

writ a book concerning stage plays, whereat the Court are much offended.

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