_MORE THAN A FRIEND._
_September 3._
SOMETHING has happened since I wrote last, which, though it makes no
seeming change in my outward circumstances, has changed my whole life,
so that I seem to myself to be living in another world. Mr. Corbet hath
asked me to be his wife.
It chanced on this wise. I had been down to see Goody Yeo and carry her
the petticoat Betty had been making for her grandchild. Betty was to
have gone herself, but the day was damp, and I thought it not safe for
her to go out. I would have kept the petticoat till next day, but Betty
would not hear of that, so I wrapped myself in my cloak and went down
to the village. It cleared up before my return, and I thought I would
come back by the ravine, which is ever a favorite walk of mind, from
its lonely stillness. The servants rarely use the path, from I know not
what superstition of a ghost which haunts it. There is a ghost, or a
dobby, or a pixy, or some such creature in every corner of the place,
it seems to me.
Well, as I was lingering a little by the spring, and looking into its
clear depths, where the water boils up from a large and seemingly
deep cleft in the rocks, I was startled by a voice, and looking up, I
beheld Lord Saville. I have hated the man since the first time I ever
saw him. His very look is an insult: especially when he tries to look
fascinating and amiable.
"So the fair Margaret is admiring her own beauty in the mirror of the
spring!" said he. "Are you not afraid of exciting the jealousy of the
naiad of the fountain? Nay, be not in such haste—" for I would have
passed him, with only a greeting, but he stopped into the narrow path
and would not let me go by. "Surely you will not be so cruel as not to
vouchsafe one word to your most humble admirer!"
"I understand no court compliments, my Lord!" said I, trying to speak
coldly and calmly, though I was in a fever of indignation. "I am but a
simple country maid. I pray you to let me pass!"
He would not, however, but went on in the same strain of fulsome
flattery, and said things which I will not write here. Seeing that I
could not pass him, I turned to go back to the village, but a single
stride brought him to my side.
"Not so fast, fair lady!" said he. "You are the rightful captive of
my bow and spear, and do not escape so easily. What! It was another
cavalier you were waiting for!"
"I was waiting for nobody!" said I. "I was on my way home about my own
business and my Lady's."
He laughed in his impudent, jeering fashion, and saying something about
pretty Puritan airs and graces, attempted to put his arm round my
waist. Then all the old Merton temper flashed up in me in an instant,
and I am ashamed to say, I turned upon him and slapped his face so
soundly as to leave the prints of my fingers on his pink cheeks. Nay,
I verily believe I made his nose bleed. I am sure my own palm smarted
for an hour after. He withdrew his arm with an oath, which sounded much
more genuine than his compliments, and clapped his hand to his face. I
burst from him, and running down the path, half blind with shame and
anger, I ran right into Mr. Corbet's arms, who was coming up the coomb,
followed by his dogs.
"Margaret!" he exclaimed, in amazement, and well he might, for my dress
was disordered, and I dare say I looked like a fury. "What is the
matter? What has so discomposed you?"
For the moment I saw him, I felt myself safe, and, like a fool, I burst
into tears, and cried as Betty herself might have done. In the midst of
my distress, and while he was trying to soothe me, and get some sense
out of me, Lord Saville made his appearance.
"So!" said he. "Oriana hath found her Amadis, it seems. Doubtless
the fair dame knew her knight was in hearing when she resisted with
such ferocious virtue. 'Tis an old trick, but it may do for the west
country."
"My Lord!" said Walter—I may call him so here—"If you say another word
or offer another affront to this lady, I will put you over the cliff
yonder, and give you a worse wetting than old Norman Leslie did in
Paris, when he laid your face downward in the gutter for sneering at
his Scotch accent."
Lord Saville grew pale with rage. "You shall answer this!" said he.
"You shall give me the satisfaction of a gentleman!"
"The satisfaction of a gentleman is due to gentlemen!" answered Walter.
"Nay, never grind your teeth at me, I know you well!" And with that, he
said some words in Italian, at which Lord Saville blenched as if he had
been struck.
"Allow me to see you home, Mistress Merton!" said Walter. And putting
the courtier aside, as if he had been an intrusive dog, he passed him
and led me toward home.
"Sit down a moment," said he, kindly, seeing that I trembled so that I
could hardly stand. "You are quite overcome."
"I am very silly," I stammered, "but oh, nobody ever spoke so to me
before."
"'Tis not worth minding," said Mr. Corbet. "How did it chance?"
I told him, as well as I could, though I would not repeat all that Lord
Saville said to me.
"Aye, he is a fine specimen of a Court gallant," said Mr. Corbet,
bitterly. "'Tis such as he, ruffling in his fine clothes and spending
money and compliments, that are alienating men's hearts from the king,
and raising among sober, hard-working people in London, such hatred
toward the Court party, as I fear will bear bloody fruit ere long."
"But surely," said I, "the King cannot approve him?"
"The King, sweetheart, sees with his wife's eyes, and hears with her
ears: and Lord Saville is mighty great with the Queen and her party.
But are you enough recovered to go home? I was on my way to my Lady
with a message from my mother, which concerns you. I am obliged to go
to Bristol for a week, on public business, and my mother means to beg
you and Betty to keep her company for the time. It will be a change for
the child, and for you also, and my mother will be much pleased."
I was glad of the chance for such a change of air and scene for Betty,
who was still rather drooping, and not sorry for my own sake to go away
for a little time.
"I think you will find our old house a pleasant one, though it is
nothing so grand as the Court," continued Walter. "I want you to learn
to love it, for my sake."
Perhaps he might have said more, but at that moment, he met Mrs.
Priscilla Fulton, who has been staying in the house: so leaving me with
her, Walter went straight to my Lady.
"I have been looking for you," said Mrs. Fulton, who is always very
gracious to me and everybody: "my Lady says you are a famous knitter,
and I want you to teach me the stitches. Is that asking too much of
your good nature Mrs. Merton?"
"Surely not, madam," I answered. "I will do so with pleasure."
So we went up to the nursery, and really had a very nice time over our
knitting. She is a very pleasant young lady.
In the midst thereof came my Lady with a note in her hand, and calling
me out of the room, she imparted its contents to me, and asked me how I
should like to make a visit to Corby-End? I told her that I should like
it very well, and that I thought the change would do Betty good. So it
was settled.
Mr. Corbet went to Bristol next day, and Betty and I to Corby-End,
where we are now. 'Tis beautiful old house—far more to my mind than
Stanton Court, with all its grandeur. Betty is delighted, though she
was a little homesick the first night, and cried for her mother. She
goes with Madam to see and feed the fowls and calves, and seems to be
gaining strength every day.
But I am a long time coming to the gist of my story. Only three days
after Walter went away, we were sitting by the fire late one evening,
after Betty had gone to bed (for Madam uses a little fire now the
evenings are growing cool and damp), when we heard some one ride up the
road, and presently Walter entered in his riding suit, splashed with
mud, and looking so distressed that his mother started up in alarm.
"Walter, my son, what brings you back so soon? And surely you have
heard some bad news?"
"Aye, that have I, mother—evil and bitter news," said he, gravely.
"Mother, Sir John Elliot is dead."
"Alas! Alas! Is he gone, the good and brave man?" said Mrs. Corbet.
"Did he die at home?"
"Not so! He died in prison—in the Tower, whence he had vainly prayed
to be removed. The King hath even refused to his orphan children the
poor comfort of paying the last rites to their father's body, which is
thrust into a hole, like a dog's. The brave good man hath been denied
that mercy he ever showed, even to his enemies. Alas, my brother!" And
with that he covered his face and wept like a child. 'Tis a terrible
thing to see a strong, self-restrained man weep. He controlled himself
in a moment, however, and sat silently looking at the fire.
"But how did you hear?" asked his mother, presently.
He told her that he had met in Exeter a messenger with letters from
London, and that he must himself go up to town next day but one. "I
must see what can be done for those children. Maybe something can be
saved for them," said he; "and I must see and consult with our friends.
I think the King is utterly mad. At the rate things are going, the
Court will leave us neither King nor Church before another five years.
We are fallen on evil days, and the worst is, one knows not which side
to take."
"If only one need take neither side," said Madam, sighing. "But I well
know that cannot be. 'Tis a woeful thing that the King should be so
ill-advised. But are you sure that Sir John's body was refused to his
family? I can scarce believe it." *
* I here take a slight liberty with history. Sir John Elliot died in
1632. The circumstances were as related above.
"So Mr. Hampden writes me," returned Walter, taking a letter from his
pocket; "and he is not a man to speak at random. Here is what he says:
"'Sir John petitioned again and again that he might be set at liberty,
to regain his health, injured by the close and bad air of his prison,
but the King's only answer was that the petition was not humble enough.
At last he died, and his son begged most humbly that he might have
liberty to carry his father's body into Cornwall, there to be buried
with his ancestors. His Majesty wrote at the foot of the petition:
"'"Let Sir John Elliot's body be buried in the church of the parish
where he died," and accordingly our friend's corpse was thrust into an
obscure corner of the Tower church. This is the end of an honorable and
just man, after ten years' languishing in prison, and that for no fault
save that of upholding valiantly the constitutional liberties of the
House of Commons. The Court party make no secret of their exultation,
but the King's real friends are in great dismay; and for mine own part
I see not any good end possible.'"
"Mr. Hampden writes very moderately," remarked Madam.
"'Tis ever his way to say less than he feels," replied Walter. "The
others are hot enough. But I am forgetting my trust," he added, turning
to me with a grave smile. "My grief makes me but a faithless messenger.
I have letters for you, Mrs. Merton, which Mrs. Carey received in a
packet from her son, and prayed me to deliver."
So saying he took out a packet and put it into my hands.
"And I am forgetting, too," said his mother; "you have had no supper."
"I have tasted nothing since morning, save a cold morsel at Dame
Howell's, where we stopped to feed the horses," replied Walter.
"Margaret, will you order supper?" asked Madam. "You see," she added,
smiling, as I rose to obey, "I treat you as a daughter."
I could have boxed my own ears worse than I did my Lord Saville's for
the burning blush which mantled my face at these simple words.
Mr. Corbet smiled in his sudden fashion, which makes me always think
of the shining out of the sun from behind a cloud, and repeated some
lines of poetry in Italian, for which I was none the wiser. I ordered
his supper (and I might have spared the pains, for old Mrs. Prudence
had it already prepared, and was nowise pleased, I could see, at my
interference), and then escaped to my room to read my letters.
They were both pleasant and painful. Mother and the children are well,
and everything goes on comfortably at home. Mother says that many of
the farmers and neighboring gentry have sent her presents of fruit,
honey, and the like, as they used to do when my father was alive; and
she hath wool and flax enough to keep her wheel going in all her spare
minutes. Eunice hath learned to spin flax, and sends me a sample of her
thread, which is very fair, but Lois cannot manage it. However, she
hath learned to write nicely, and my mother says Jacky is growing a
good boy, and a great help to her, and does well at his books. Richard
has an increase of wages, and is in great liking with his master. The
disagreeable part is that Felicia has written to mother, saying she has
heard a very bad account of me from one of the ladies of the family,
and begs mother to advise me to hold my tongue and keep to my own
place, with other such matters. Mother says she does not regard the
news, knowing so well the quarter from whence it comes, but I can see
that it troubles her.
The next day we were all busy in preparing for Walter's journey to
London. Betty was made happy by being allowed to help make some
gingerbread and biscuits. The servants all pet her and make much of
her, and she goes about the house freely wherever she likes, and is as
one of the family, which is a great deal better than being confined to
one room. I fear she will feel the change greatly when she goes home
again.
A little before sunset I was in the garden, whither Madam had sent me
to gather some early apples for supper when Walter joined me.
"I fear my mother lays too much upon you," said he, bending down with
his strong arm the bough I was striving to reach.
"Not at all," I answered. "It makes me feel happy to be going freely
about house again, and helping in household matters. If I only had my
wheel, I should feel myself quite at home."
"So would I have you feel," said Walter, earnestly. "I would have you
look upon this house as your home, and my mother as your mother. All
that I have to give is yours if you will but take it. Margaret, will
you be my wife, and a daughter to my mother?"
I hardly know what I said, but he went on speaking.
"I am not a fit mate for you in many respects," said he. "You are a
fresh young maid, and I am a middle-aged man, worn and browned by much
travel, and many wars by sea and land—too grave and sober, mayhap, to
please a maiden's fancy, but I love you, and I believe, with God's
blessing, I can make you happy!"
"And your mother—and your friends—and my Lord!" I stammered.
"My mother will be well-pleased with what pleases me, and she also
loves you for your own sake," he rejoined. "As for my Lord, it is no
concern of his that I know of!"
"But as the head of your house and family," I said.
"He is no more the head of my family than I am of his!" was Mr.
Corbet's reply. "For the matter of that, the house of Corbet is older
than that of Stanton, and lived on their own lands when the Stantons
were unheard of. Don't you know the rhyme:
"'Corby of Corby sat at home,
When Stanton of Stanton hither did come.'
"'Tis true, I am the next heir to the title at present, but I covet
it not, and should rejoice heartily if my Lady had half a dozen boys
to-morrow."
"So would not I," I could not help saying. "One would be quite enough!"
"Well, perhaps so. But, at all events, Margaret, I owe no duty to my
Lord, in that respect."
I cannot tell all he said, but at last he made me confess that I loved
him.
"Good!" said he, kissing my hand. "That is all I ask or need. And now,
when shall we be married?"
I felt my face flush like fire.
"Not for a long time yet!" I answered him: "I have solemnly promised
my dear Lady to stay with Lady Betty for at least a year, unless I am
turned away, and I do not think that will happen, for from something my
Lord let fall, I know he has promised my Lady not to interfere."
Walter looked annoyed, and his brow darkened. "When was this promise
made?" he asked.
I told him it was at the time of the affair with Mr. Penrose.
"But my cousin would surely release you in such a case as this!" said
Walter. "She is the most unselfish of mortals."
"I suppose she would, and therefore she must not ever be asked to do
so," I replied. "I know well my duty to her and to Betty, and I should
feel that I was making an ill-beginning, should I fail in that regard."
"But do you not also owe something to me?" he asked.
"Much!" I answered. "So much, that were it to do again, I should not
make such a promise. But having made it, when I had everything to gain
thereby, I dare not break it, now that such a course would be to my
advantage. I would not have the matter even mentioned, till the trying
time is past. There is sure to be a storm, and such a scene as that of
the other night is as much as her life is worth."
I cannot write all the arguments he used. We talked till Madam herself
sent to call us in to supper.
"I bring you a daughter, mother!" said Walter, as we went into Madam's
room, where she sat alone. "A dutiful daughter, but also an obstinate
one. I trust to you to bring her to reason."
Madam folded me in her arms, and gave me her blessing most heartily.
But when she heard the matter in dispute, she took my part, and said I
was right. And after a time, Walter yielded so far as to consent that
the matter should rest till after Hallowmass, by which time we hoped
all would be happily over.
"Margaret must have the approval of her own mother and brother, as well
as my Lady's, under whose care and authority she is at present," said
Madam: "and though, as my son says, he owes no obedience to my Lord
in this or any other matter, yet, for Margaret's sake, as well as our
own, I would have no broils or disagreements. In these troublous times,
family bonds should be drawn as closely as may be. Let matters rest as
they are till Walter's return."
So it was all settled. I called Betty, who was helping Mrs. Prudence in
the still-room, and we sat down quietly to supper. Afterward, and when
Betty was gone to bed, Walter and I sat over the fire, talking for a
long time, Madam being in her chamber.
"You will go and see my Aunt Willson in London, will you not?" I
asked. "She is a good woman, though somewhat rough in her manners, and
hath been very kind to me." And then, suddenly remembering Felicia, I
checked myself and wished I had not spoken.
"You have another kinswoman staying with her, have you not?" he asked.
"A young lady who is very much engaged in Lady Jemima's scheme of the
nunnery?"
That was news to me, but I said yes, my father's sister lived with Mrs.
Willson.
"I heard of her from Lady Jemima," continued Walter: "you are not in my
Lady Abbess' good books, Margaret, I can tell you."
"I know that, only too well," said I. "She has been prejudiced against
me, and nothing I can do or say pleases her. I am very sorry, for I was
fond of her, and she began by being very kind to me in her way."
"She has a great deal of good in her," remarked Walter, "but she is
wholly governed by her imagination, and she can see no good in anybody
who differs from her. After all, I think the root of her fault lies in
her overweening estimate of herself, which makes it a crime in her eyes
for any one to cross or oppose her."
So we talked till Madam herself sent us to bed.
Walter went away early next morning, promising to write me under cover
to his mother. The day after to-morrow Betty and I return home. I must
say I dread it. My life here has been so pleasant and homelike; so free
from any dread of giving offence, so full of quiet and homely pleasures.
I have been to church, and so has Betty, and she has also had the
supreme pleasure of visiting the school, and distributing to the
girls with her own hands the buns she helped to make. The school is
wonderfully effective, Madam tells me, and has been the greatest
blessing to the children of the village.
Mistress Ellenwood has been here many years, and is now teaching the
children of those who were her pupils when she first came hither. I
have also been down to the Cove, where I heard the tale of Madam's
persecutions, as a witch, many years ago, and made the acquaintance of
Uncle Jan Lee, the fisherman, who had the chief hand in rescuing her
from the mob. He seldom goes out now, and has no need to do so, for his
son and nephew (who is also his son-in-law) provide for him handsomely.
The latter, Will Atkins by name, is an officer on board the same ship
as Walter, and much honored for his bravery and seamanship.
Aside from the great happiness it has brought me, I am heartily glad,
for Betty's sake, that we made this visit. She has had her little world
wonderfully enlarged thereby. She has been into the cottages and seen
how the poor folks live: she has actually taken a little month old babe
on her lap, and seen it dressed and suckled; she has seen cows milked
and poultry fed.
My Lord met us one day as we were coming from Goody Yeo's cottage. I
knew not what would happen, but he only asked where we had been, and
when he heard, laughed and patted her cheek, and called her "Little
Dame Bountiful." And then, putting his hand in his pocket, gave her a
handful of pence to bestow on her pets. It is a pity he will ever give
place to the evil spirit, as he does at times. He is so very gracious
and pleasant when he is his better self.
_September 7._
We are at home again, and have fallen quite back into our old ways.
Not quite, either. Betty is much more active, goes about the house
and grounds, and has persuaded Mrs. Judith to give her some share in
feeding the poultry.
We found a pleasant surprise awaiting us at our return. Betty's room
had been cleaned, and all new hung with fresh, pretty tapestry,
representing scenes from the Morte d' Arthur, and a little room next,
hitherto used as a lumber-room, hath been cleared out and fitted up
as a sitting-room for her and myself. Here I found standing a pretty
carved spinning-wheel and a basket of fine flax, and Betty a still
greater surprise—a beautiful little dog, as like poor Gill as two peas,
which at our approach sprang from his cushion, and began fawning around
her feet, and looking up in her face as though he would entreat her
favor. Betty looked at him and then at me, and then stooping down to
pat him, she burst into tears.
"See how kind my Lord has been!" said I. "He told me he would get you
another dog, if one could be found."
"It was very good in papa, and it is a very pretty dog," said Betty,
sobbing, "but I shall never love him as I did poor Gill."
I did not think it worth while to argue that point, knowing that the
dog would make his own way, but told her she should write a letter of
thanks to my Lord.
She took to the notion at once, and after some trouble made a very fair
copy of a note of thanks, which I carried to my Lord at supper time. He
was pleased, and said 'twas very well done, and a credit both to Bess
and to me.
"But did she really write it herself?" he asked.
"Of course not," interrupted Lady Jemima. "I wonder you cannot see that
'tis all Mrs. Merton's own work, from first to last."
"You are mistaken, madam," I answered. "I did indeed put the idea into
Lady Betty's mind, but both words and handwriting are all her own. I
never gave her any help, save to tell her how to spell the words."
"And very well done it is," said my Lord; "and you may tell Bess I am
heartily glad she likes the dog. And I thank you too, Mrs. Margaret,
for taking so much pains with the child, as I believe you do. You must
not mind if I am hasty now and then. 'Tis only my way."
"I wonder you can be so deceived, brother!" said Lady Jemima.
"Tut, tut!" he answered, more gravely than he is wont to speak. "I have
eyes in my head, I warrant you. See you not that the words and the
writing are all those of a child? But never mind her, Margaret," he
added, relapsing into his usual careless tone. "She is in an ill-humor.
She has dismissed her fine court suitor with a flea in his ear, and
now she is sorry, as all women are when a lover takes them at their
word—eh, Margaret?"
From which words of my Lord's, and from what Mrs. Judith told me, I
learned that Lord Saville was a suitor for the hand of Lady Jemima. It
seems she has a good fortune of her own, and though she must be older
than Lord Saville, she is a handsome woman still, or would be, if she
dressed like other women of quality. But I am glad to say she would
none of him, but sent him packing with but little ceremony. She is full
of her notion of a kind of nunnery, which she means to establish at a
house she has near Exeter, and has engaged several ladies to join with
her, one of which, it seems, is Felicia. They will have a peaceful
household, no doubt. She is very earnest with Mrs. Priscilla Fulton to
join her also, but it seems the latter is not yet decided.
I cannot feel right about keeping this matter secret from my Lady. She
stands, as Madam said, in the place of a mother to me, and she has been
so very kind. I think I must tell her all about it, happen what may. I
told Madam Corbet so this afternoon.
She smiled, and said:
"I knew it would come to that, dear heart, and I think you are right.
She may, perhaps, be ill-pleased at first, but she is the most
reasonable of creatures. But, now, suppose I undertake the commission
for you?"
"Oh, I should be so thankful!" I exclaimed. "Surely no poor girl was
ever so blessed with kind friends as I am."
"Well, well! I hope you will never want them, my love," said Madam,
kissing me. "But, Margaret, I think we will confine our confidence to
my Lady. It need go no farther, at present. Not that I am ashamed or
unwilling to let the whole world know what wife my son hath chosen, but
coming events may change the aspect of matters, and for all our sakes,
but especially for Elizabeth's, I would fain avoid a storm. Are you
still resolved to abide your year's waiting?"
"I am, unless matters should greatly change," said I. "It seems to me
one of the cases where a man sweareth to his neighbor and disappointeth
him not, though it were to his own hindrance. I promised my Lady in the
most solemn manner not to leave Lady Betty for at least a year, and
I do not think that I have any right to break that promise, because
it would be greatly to my advantage to do so. It does seem to me that
the first thing to be thought of is our duty. The rest is of little
consequence in comparison to that."
This little conversation took place in our sitting-room, Betty being
out with Mrs. Judith feeding the fowls, in which they both take as much
interest as though they were human beings. (I often wonder that Mrs.
Judith can allow any of her subjects to be killed, she thinks so much
of them. I believe she feels it a great hardship that they cannot have
the freedom of the place, and she can hardly forgive Dick Gardener for
stoning an old hen out of the garden, where she was making herself much
at home among his gillyflowers. Richard used to say at home it was
father's and my maxim that "A cat could do no wrong;" and I believe
Mrs. Judith applies the same to her hens. Thus much, by the way.)
We were interrupted by Mrs. Fulton coming in with her knitting, about
which she is much engaged. She had gotten into difficulties, and I
asked her to sit down by me and do several rows, that I might overlook
her. This same knitting of Mrs. Priscy's has made us well acquainted,
and her visits are ever a pleasure both to Betty and me, but I don't
think Lady Jemima is at all pleased with them.
After the knitting was rectified and going on well again, Mrs. Priscy
began talking about Lady Jemima's nunnery, which is no longer any
secret. She was quite full of enthusiasm about the matter, and thought
it such a beautiful fancy for women to vow themselves to God's service,
retire from the world, and occupy themselves with good works, such as
nursing the sick and bringing up children.
Madam Corbet smiled. "But, dear heart, why should one retire from the
world to do all these things? Tell me, Priscilla, how many children
hath your own good mother brought up?"
"Sixteen," answered Mrs. Priscy, smiling.
"And, withal, she hath done not a little nursing, hath she not?"
"Indeed she hath!" answered Mrs. Priscy, with animation. "You know,
Madam, my Gaffer, my father's father, was with us all the latter years
of his life, when he was very feeble both in mind and body, and needed
as much care as a babe and then there was poor little Amy, and my
brother, who was wounded at Rochelle, and lingered on a year, besides
the care of the little ones. Yes, indeed, my mother has had her share
of nursing."
"And, with all that, she has found time not only to read the Scriptures
and other good books herself, but to instruct her children in the
same," continued Madam. "Moreover she has done what lay in her power to
promote the innocent happiness of all about her."
"Yes, indeed she has," answered Mrs. Priscilla, with tears in her eyes,
and a rising color, which made her, methought, prettier than ever. "Oh,
Madam, nobody knows nor ever will know how much good my dear honored
mother hath done in the world!"
"And all this without any ostentatious retirement from the world—any
conventual robes, to say to every one, 'See how much better I am than
you!'—any vows but those of her baptism," said Mrs. Corbet, smiling.
Mrs. Priscilla smiled and blushed in her turn. "That is true!" said
she. "I am sure no nun ever did any more; but yet—"
"But yet all this was done in the station wherein she was placed by
God, and following out the duty to which God hath called her, instead
of placing herself in one which He hath never appointed, and for
which He hath given no directions!" said Mrs. Corbet. "In His word we
find abundance of councils and commands to wives, husbands, widows,
servants, and children, and the like, but not one that I can remember
to nuns!"
"And to bishops and ministers," said Mrs. Priscy.
"Yes—that they should be the husband of one wife!" I could not help
saying, whereat they both laughed, and Mrs. Priscy blushed. (I think
she hath a fancy for Mr. Penrose. I wish he would take a liking to her.
I am sure she would make him an excellent wife.)
"But all women do not wish to marry, or have not the chance to do so,"
said Mrs. Priscilla. "What would you have them do?"
"Whatever Providence brings in their way," answered Mrs. Corbet. "If
they are in earnest about wishing to serve Him, they are not like
to go begging for work. Look at Mistress Ellenwood, our excellent
schoolmistress. Where will you find a life more useful and devoted than
hers?"
"But still there seems something so noble in devoting oneself, body and
soul, to His service!" remarked Mrs. Priscilla. "In vowing all one's
energies to His work!"
"Well, my dear one, have you not already vowed as much at your
baptism?" asked Madam. "Tell me, now, what were those things which your
sponsors then promised for you?"
Mrs. Priscy repeated according to the Catechism:
"'First, that I should renounce the devil and all his works, the vain
pomp and glory of the world, and all the sinful lusts of the flesh:
secondly, that I should believe all the articles of the Christian
faith: thirdly, that I should keep God's holy will and commandments,
and walk in the same all the days of my life.'"
"You see these promises cover a great deal of ground," said Mrs.
Corbet. "You engage nothing less than absolute obedience and giving up
of yourself to God all your life-long. Now tell me, having promised all
to begin with, what can any other vows add to the force of these?"
"But it seems as though it would be so much easier," said Mrs.
Priscilla—"so much easier, I mean, to serve Him in retirement, away
from the distractions of the world and all the temptations and
interruptions of every-day life."
"Then it seems it is your own ease you are seeking, after all!" said
Madam, with a penetrating look.
Mrs. Priscy blushed, but made no answer.
"I believe, however, that you make a great mistake in thinking so!"
continued Madam. "I believe you would find that you had only exchanged
the great world for a very narrow one, with which the flesh and the
devil have as much commerce as with the other. I have heard in years
past a great deal about convent life from my grandame, who brought me
up, and who was herself bred in one of the best religious houses of
this country, and I do not believe that life within the convent walls
is, as a general thing, either holier or happier than ordinary family
life."
The conversation was here interrupted by the entrance of Betty, in a
state of great excitement, with a red-breast, which she had found lying
on the ground with a broken wing. Launce (so she hath called her new
dog, being short for Launcelot in the Morte d' Arthur) was as much
excited as herself, and the small tempest diverted and broke up the
conversation.
After the red-breast was comfortably accommodated in a cage which I
found for him, and Betty had gone to put her dress to rights and wash
her face, Madam rose and said she would go see her cousin, anal Lady
Jemima came to seek Mrs. Priscilla.
I called Betty to her lessons, which she now does regularly every day,
but I am afraid I was rather absent-minded and distracted; for while
Betty was repeating the verses I had set her to learn, she stopped, and
said, rather sharply, "Margaret, you are not paying attention. I have
said it wrong twice, and you have taken no notice at all!"
"Then if you have said it wrong twice, you had better take the book
and learn it over!" I answered her gravely, handing her back the book.
Whereat she looked so blank that I could not forbear laughing.
"Come!" said I. "Begin again, and we will both try to do better."
So I compelled myself to attend, and we finished the lessons
prosperously.
At night, after Betty had gone to bed, my Lady sent for me to come
to her room. I did so, I must confess, with fear and trembling, for
though I knew not that I had done anything wrong, I could not tell how
my Lady might take the matter. And, for all she is so gentle and kind,
or perhaps I should say because she is so gentle and kind, I dread her
anger far more than I do my Lord's tantrums.
I found her alone, sitting in her great chair, and looking thoughtfully
at the fire on the hearth. My Lady, like Madam, will have a fire when
she pleases, without waiting till Michaelmas, according to the old
rule; and, indeed, I can see no sense in going cold because it is one
time of the year rather than another. So there was a little fire of
pine cones and sticks blazing on the hearth, and my Lady sat before
it. She beckoned me to take a low seat by her side, and I did so, in
silence, waiting for her to begin.
"So," said she, presently: "I have been hearing of fine doings between
you and grave Cousin Walter, whom every one thought to have a head too
full of public matters to meddle in love-making. What think you I shall
say to you, maiden?"
"I am sure you will say nothing but what is right and kind, my Lady,"
I answered, taking courage from her tone. "I begged Madam to tell you,
because I felt that I ought not to have any secrets from you."
"So my cousin said, and so far it was well done but, Margaret, ought
you to have promised yourself to any man, much more a member of mine
own family, without asking me?"
"I did not, my Lady," I answered her, eagerly. "I told Mr. Corbet I was
bound to be ruled by you, and I could not marry without your consent:
and I said I would not leave you for a year, at all events, because I
had promised to abide with Lady Betty for that space of time, whatever
might happen."
"Why, that was well," said my Lady, "but, sweetheart, a year is a
long time. I fear you are laying out for yourself a hard piece of
work—harder than you will have strength to perform."
"I think not, my Lady," I said. "It is my duty to be faithful to my
word and to you, and I am sure that I shall have strength given me to
do it. Beside that, I do not think it will be as hard now as it has
been heretofore."
"I suppose it was this same regard for Master Walter, which so hardened
your heart against poor Mr. Penrose," said my Lady, after a little
silence.
"I think not, altogether, my Lady," I answered. "I don't think I should
have cared to marry Mr. Penrose, even though I had never seen Mr.
Corbet; though, I confess, I never knew what Mr. Corbet was to me till
then."
"So Jemima was right, after all," continued my Lady: "right, I mean,
in thinking that your mind was fixed elsewhere. Not that I accuse you
of using any art or coquetry, so you need not flush so angrily," she
added, patting my cheek. "Marry, it needs no coquetry in the candle,
to make the moths fly into it. Well, Margaret, I know not what to say
to this matter. My cousin hath a right to please himself; and though
you are somewhat too young for him, I believe he hath chosen wisely.
His mother, I can see, is well-pleased, and I suppose yours will hardly
make any objection. Walter is a good man, though grave and sombre at
times, but I believe he will make you a good husband. I think you, too,
have made a wise choice."
"If it please you, my Lady, I do not feel as if I had made any choice,"
said I. "I cannot think that one goes to work to choose a husband or
wife as one does a horse or a new gown. It seems to me as if those
things should be ordered by Providence. I am sure I never chose to care
for Mr. Corbet. It came upon me unawares, and I was as much surprised
when I found it out as any one could be."
"And suppose Mr. Corbet had not cared for you, what then?" asked my
Lady. "Would you then have gone on mourning all your days, or would you
have turned your affections on another object?"
"Neither, I think, my Lady," I answered. "I do not think a woman is to
throw away her life, because she cannot have her own way, and marry
the man she loves, like a petted child, which flings away its bread,
because it cannot have sweetmeat thereon. And I think to marry the man
one did not love to spite the man one did love, would be more foolish
still. I think, in such a case, I should try to take up my cross and
bear it as long as God saw fit, and seek to find my comfort in helping
and comforting others, and in doing, as best I could, the work which
was given me to do—in doing my duty in that state to which He was
pleased to call me."
"You are wondrous fond of that word 'duty,'" said my Lady.
"I am," I answered. "It seems to me the bravest and best word in the
world. Our feelings change with every wind that blows, and we are
wondrous apt to be mistaken about them; but one's duty is usually
plain, if not always easy."
"You are a wondrous sensible girl for your age, Margaret," said my Lady.
"I will write to them at home that you say so, my Lady!" I answered,
laughing. "'Twill be greater news than the other."
"But the grand difficulty is to come," said my Lady. "What think you my
Lord will say? You know that Walter is the heir, and is like to succeed
to title and all, as things stand at present. Then, should ought
miscarry with me, or should my Lord die without male issue, you would
stand in my shoes and be Lady Stanton."
"God forbid!" said I, as fervently as I felt. "We both hope that may be
changed after Michaelmas, and I thought matters might rest till then."
"Perhaps that will be the best way," said my Lady, after some
consideration, "though I love not secrets in the house. But, Margaret,
bethink you whether with that matter on your mind, you will be able
to do your duty by my child? Will not her interests suffer? And will
you be content to meet Walter as a stranger, or only as you have done
heretofore?"
"As to Lady Betty, I believe I have never yet neglected her, even when
I have had the most on my mind," said I. "You are the best judge of
that, my Lady. Have you seen any reason to be dissatisfied with me?"
"Surely not, sweetheart, but quite the contrary," said my Lady,
kindly. "The child is wonderfully improved, and seems to gain health
and strength every day. You would be like to hear of it, if I saw any
fault."
"I hope so," said I: "and as to the rest, it must be as it happens. Mr.
Corbet will be away in London for a month or more, and by that time we
shall see what will be the state of things."
My Lady kissed me at parting, and so the matter ended. I do not believe
I shall neglect my duty to Betty. I love the child more and more every
day.
_September 14._
Madam Corbet has given me a beautiful present—namely, a gold locket
containing a fair likeness of her son, which he had painted when he was
abroad in the Low Countries. It has a gold chain attached, and I wear
it round my neck under my kerchief.
Having a chance to send to Exeter this day by Mr. Penrose, I have
written a long letter to mother, for Mrs. Carey to send with her own to
her son. But this writing is cold work. I would I could kneel down by
her and tell her all.
The sick robin is getting well, and is very tame and playful, perching
on Launce's back and plucking at his ears, to Betty's great delight,
more than to the poor dog's, but he takes all patiently, as he would
anything which pleased his mistress. He has fairly made good his
entrance into her heart, and I believe she loves him quite as well as
ever she did Gill, though she will not own as much. I can see that her
father's hasty words still rankle in her heart, though she never speaks
of them directly.
Yesterday eve, going down into the kitchen, I found all the servants
looking on with great interest at a charm old Dame Penberthy was
preparing, to learn whether the new-comer was to be boy or girl. She
had found a stone with a hole therein, which she was suspending by a
string, and with many ceremonies, over the door; and the first person
who enters in the morning, whether man or woman, tells the sex of the
babe. I told her of our old country charm to the same effect, made by
burning a blade bone of mutton; and as they had one for supper, she
must needs try that also. The maids would have had her hang her charms
over some other door, because they said Peggy the milkwoman was always
the first one to enter the kitchen, but she said no, it must needs be
the kitchen door, and no other.
"What is the use of the pebble with a hole in it?" asked Thomas, who is
an old soldier, and a bit of a Sadducee, I should fancy. "Why would not
any other stone do as well?"
"Because it wont!" answered the dame, shortly. "How can I tell why, any
more than why one who finds four-leaved clovers should always be lucky?"
"Then should I be the luckiest person in the world!" said I. "For I am
always finding them."
"And so you are, and will be!" answered the old dame, looking earnestly
in my face. "'Tis written on your very forehead. Any one may see that
you have brought luck to this house, and so you will to any house you
enter."
"Many thanks, dame, for the prediction!" said I. "Methinks I
shall never want happiness myself, in that case. But now I want
to ask a favor of you. I know there is no hand equal to yours in
clear-starching, and I want you to wash and do up for me the robe I
have been working for my Lady."
"That I will—that I will, dear heart!" said the old woman. "And I hope
I may live to do as much for yourself, on the like joyful occasion!"
I made my escape at this, but as I left the room, I heard Anne say,
"That will you not, dame. Mrs. Margaret scorns her suitor, and will
have none of him, though 'twould be a fine match for her."
"When the right one comes, she will not scorn him!" Dame Penberthy
answered. "She is no common maid to snap at a lover like a trout at a
fly. She will marry well, I promise you, though she will see trouble
first."
This morning Mary told me, with great glee, that the first person who
came into the kitchen was Roger, my Lord's groom; and I was silly
enough to be pleased likewise. But Mrs. Brewster was vexed, and said
that trying such spells was unlucky, and would bring ill-hap on child
and mother. I am sure I hope not.
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