_TRAVELLING MERCHANTS._
_September 15._
WE have heard nothing from Walter yet, though it is full time. I cannot
help feeling uneasy.
Yesterday we had a visit from a travelling bookseller, well-known,
as I learn, in these parts. He seemed a man of more than ordinary
intelligence, and much gravity, and even austerity of deportment.
"Well, Master Blanchard," said my Lord, greeting him heartily; "what
now play-books or romances have you brought us this time?"
"Truly, but few new ones, my Lord," answered Master Blanchard. "I like
not the books of that kind lately printed, so well as to make myself
very busy in spreading them abroad."
"I thought the Archbishop very careful in the matter of licensing
books," remarked my Lady.
"He is," answered the old man, dryly. "He hath forbid the reprinting of
'Foxe, his Book of Martyrs,' and of the works of Bishop Jewell, as well
as of the 'Practise of Piety,' a book which has gone through no less
than thirty-six editions!"
"By my faith that is being particular with a vengeance!" exclaimed my
Lord. "Methinks if all we hear be true, his grace might find other
things to forbid than the 'Practise of Piety.' Why, my own mother used
and loved that book next to her Bible. I believe between the Papists
and the Puritans, the world hath gone stark mad."
"It will be madder yet, or I am much mistaken," said Master Blanchard.
"I have good store of paper and blank books, if you need them, my Lord,
and some new music-books, and cards of patterns, and the like, for the
ladies."
We were all purchasers. I bought a new blank book and some paper, and
my Lady gave me a silver pen and a pretty fashioned inkstand. Betty
would needs buy a Bible and Prayer-book, as christening gifts for her
god-child. Lady Jemima turned over the books of devotion and selected
two or three, though she made a very disapproving face over some that
she found there.
"But I cannot but think you are misinformed, Master Blanchard," said my
Lady. "Why should the Archbishop forbid the printing of the 'Book of
Martyrs'?"
"That is a question asked by many people, my Lady," answered the old
merchant. "I only know the fact in the case. 'Tis certain the books are
to be printed no more, and they have risen in price in consequence.
Folks say it is all the Queen's doing, but of that I know nothing."
"It was an evil chance that gave us a Papist Queen!" said my Lord. "I
say nothing against the Lady herself, but 'twas a great pity."
"It gives the Papists great confidence," said Master Blanchard. "They
are holding up their heads everywhere, and boasting of their favor with
the King, and of the great things they will do hereafter. For mine own
part I would as soon have an Italian Pope as an English. But least
said soonest mended. I have Master Shakespeare's Plays and some of Ben
Johnson's, my Lord, if you choose any of them."
I shall value my "Practise of Piety" more than ever, now I know that
the printing thereof is forbidden. I have begun to read it over again
this very night.
_September 18._
We have had another travelling merchant, but of quite a different sort
from Master Blanchard. This was a sharp, alert, and withal somewhat
sly-looking little man, profuse of his bows and compliments, who
brought ribbons, laces, and all sorts of trinkets and perfumes. My
Lord, who is in high good humor about these days, would buy us each a
fairing, and he gave me a little ivory and gilt box for sweetmeats—a
pretty and convenient toy.
"Now must you have it filled," said the pedler, and taking it from
my hand, and first laying in the bottom a piece of white paper, as
it seemed, he poured the box full of colored and perfumed comfits;
and then closing the lid, he put it back into my hand with a look of
intelligence which I did not at all understand.
The mystery has explained itself since, in a very disagreeable manner.
I was going down to see a little lame girl in the village, and thinking
to please the child, I poured all the comfits out of my box on the
table, and was about to take the paper in the bottom to wrap some of
them in, when looking at it, I discovered that it was a letter, and
addressed to myself. Very much astonished, I opened it, and found it
to be a regular love-letter, written in the most ornate and flowing
style, and treating of broken hearts, flames, Cupid's arrows, and the
like, bewailing my cruelty to the sender, and promising, if I would
reconsider the matter, to make it more to my advantage than anything
that had ever happened to me. Should I consent, I was to send my answer
by the bearer, who was in the secret, and all should be managed with
the greatest discretion. This precious epistle was signed "E. S."
I was absolutely stunned for the moment, and knew not what to do, but
presently resolving, I carried the letter directly to my Lady, in her
own room, and begged her to read it, telling her at the same time how
it had come into my hands.
"This is very strange," said my Lady, her cheek flushing as it does
when she is displeased. "Have you any idea as to the writer?"
"I have," said I, "but as I do not know for certain, and have moreover
no wish to know, perhaps I had better not mention him."
"Do you mean Lord Saville?" asked my Lady, and as I assented; "why
should you think of him? Had he ought to say to you when he was here?"
I told her what had chanced at the spring.
"And what did you say to him?" asked my Lady, something sharply. "I
fear you must have given him some encouragement, or he would not have
ventured to write."
"I boxed his ears soundly, if that be any encouragement," I answered,
forgetting, I am afraid, the respect due to my Lady in my vexation: "I
only wish I had boxed them harder still."
"So that was the history of his swollen cheek," said my Lady, much
amused. "Truly I think you left not much to be desired in that way. And
how did you escape from this modern Amadis?"
I told her the farther history of the encounter, adding that I should
have spoken to her before, only that I did not like to annoy her.
"Well, well I see no fault to find with your conduct, on the whole,"
said my Lady: "though 'twas rather a rustical way of defending
yourself. However, I hardly know what you could have done. I am
heartily sorry for the whole matter—sorry that you should have been
annoyed—that my kinsman should have no more respect for me than to
attempt an intrigue with one of my family, and specially sorry, that
Walter should have made an enemy of him. Despite his gay and careless
manner, he hath a sullen and revengeful temper, and is like to be a
dangerous foe. I think you had best keep quiet at home, Margaret, till
this man leaves the neighborhood. As for this precious missive, we will
give it to the flames. You will make a good wife, sweetheart, if you
are as frank and open with your husband as you have ever been with me."
So I have kept close house over since, having a good excuse in the
great rains. I am confident I saw the pedler in the avenue last night,
and as I was going to bed, a pebble rattled against my casement more
than once.
I would not go near it, and Ban, the great mastiff, scenting some
disturbance, came barking and baying round the corner in such savage
sort, that the intruder, whoever he was, beat a hasty retreat. I begged
of the cook a good bone for the old dog this morning, and carried it to
him with my own hands.
_September 19._
I ventured this morning to go down and see Jenny Lee; and walking on
to Corby-End, whom should I meet in the wood near the wicket-gate, but
this same pedler. I would not stop, however, though he called to me,
and even followed me on the path, asking me in a fawning tone whether I
had no word for him.
"You are turning your back on your own good fortune, my pretty lady,"
he said. "Could you but see the lodging and apparel that awaits you,
you would change your tone. I pray you give me a word for my master."
"I will give you this word, not for your master, but yourself," said I,
at last. "If you ever dare to accost me again, I will tell my Lord and
Mr. Penrose of your practises, and have you set in the village stocks
for a vagrant and mischief-maker, as you are."
The fellow was silent, and slunk out of sight. As soon as I got home,
I threw all his comfits in the fire, not knowing what charms might be
contained in them, though, I believe, a pure loving heart that trusts
in God, may set all charms and enchantments at defiance.
It is very strange that we hear nothing from Walter.
_September 28._
I must write, if I cannot speak. Oh that I dared tell the whole to my
Lady, or to Madam Corbet, my second mother!
This morning I went down to the Cove to carry some comforts to a sick
woman Mr. Penrose had been telling my Lady of, and after I had finished
my visit to her, I turned into Jan Lee's cottage. I knocked, and the
door was opened to me by Will Atkins, who greeted me with such a
perturbed and anxious countenance as made me exclaim at once:
"O Will, have you any news of Walter,—of Mr. Corbet?"
"In sooth, I fear so, and that none of the best, madam," answered Will.
"Come in, if you please, and give us your advice how we shall deal with
the matter."
He gave me a chair as he spoke, and I sat down, with a curious feeling
of being in a kind of dream.
"I was over at Exeter yesterday," said Will, "and there whom should I
meet but Tom Andrews, who you remember went away with Mr. Corbet. At
first, I could get naught out of him, save that some great misfortune
had happened to Walter; so dazed and muddled was he. But by questioning
him, I at last made out that his master had been set upon one night,
as he drew near to Salisbury, by a party of highwaymen, and, as he
believed, murdered."
"You are too hasty, son Will!" exclaimed old Jan, rising from his seat.
"The young lady is fainting."
"No, no!" I exclaimed, putting him back with my hand. "I am not
fainting. Let me hear all, I beseech you! No one has a better right
than I."
Will then went on with his tale. He said he had questioned and
cross-questioned the man, and had at last discovered that Tom did not
stay to see the end of the fray, but had hastened to save his own neck,
and had then been ashamed to show himself. He told a great story of
the number and strength of the assailants, and was quite sure that Mr.
Corbet and John must have gone down among them.
"And now the question is, what shall we do with this tale?" concluded
Will. "I shall myself ride post at once toward London and try to
discover the truth or falsehood of Tom's story, which I do not half
believe. What shall we do in the mean time about Madam and my Lady?
The story may not be true, and then they would have all the alarm and
suspense for nothing, and it would be ill for my Lady."
"You are right!" said I. "She must not know it—but how to keep it from
her, and from his mother! Have you told any one here?"
"Nobody," answered Will. "I have but just now come home, and was
consulting with my father as to the best way of dealing with the
matter. He is disposed to treat the whole as an idle tale, made up by
Tom to shield himself, and believes that Walter hath dismissed him for
some misdemeanor."
"Master Watty never should have taken him," said the old man, "and so I
told him. 'Tis a poor rascal and comes of a poor stock, but Watty must
needs try to make a man of him. 'Tis always his way, ever trying to
make whistles out of pigs' tails!"
"I will make him whistle to purpose, if he has put such a lie upon
us," answered Will, grimly, "but I fear there is more in the matter
than mere lying. That fine lord who was here last month was no friend
to Walter. They have crossed each other's path more than once before
this last time, and it would be quite in his way to hire bravos or
highwaymen to execute the vengeance he dare not attempt himself. He
hath lived in Italy long enough to learn all their tricks. But we lose
time in talking."
"What do you mean to do?" I asked, still with the same strange, dreamy
feeling, as if the matter concerned somebody else and not myself.
"I shall take horse at once, and ride toward Salisbury," answered Will
Atkins. "I can easily find out by inquiring at the inns whether Mr.
Corbet hath been there within a month. He is well-known on the road,
and always uses the same houses."
"But you will not go alone?" I said.
"No, David Lee will ride with me, I am sure, and I must go to him for a
horse."
"And for money. Have you money enough?" I asked, putting my hand in my
pocket. It is curious to me now to consider how cool I was. I seemed to
think of everything at once.
"I have a plenty for my purpose, Madam," answered Will. "But you look
very pale, and your hand trembles," he added, as a blink of sun shone
in on my face.
"I fear the keeping this matter a secret, will be a task beyond your
strength!"
"No, no!" I answered, hastily. "I can do whatever is necessary. I shall
have help, I am sure."
"Aye, that she will!" said old Jan. "I can see it in her face. They
call women the weaker vessels, but they ever seem to me the stronger,
when there is anything to be borne. But 'tis hard the burden should be
laid upon her, poor young maid!"
Will looked at me with such a penetrating yet puzzled glance, that I
thought best to tell him all, knowing that Walter hath no nearer or
warmer friend than this his foster-brother and old playmate.
"I am betrothed to Mr. Corbet," said I; "we do not make the matter
public as yet, but his mother and my Lady are in the secret. You see, I
have the best right to know everything, and to help—"
But here, for the first time, I broke down, and sobbed hysterically.
No woman could be more tender in her ministrations than the old sailor.
And when I recovered myself, which I did presently, he opened some
secret nook and brought out a bottle of wine, of which he would have me
take a glass, and indeed I was glad to do so.
"My Lord hath none such in his cellars," said he, with some pride.
"'Tis Canary, which hath made the voyage to South America. Marry, the
Bishop who carried it over to St. Jago for his own drinking, little
guessed whose palate it would regale!"
'Tis strange to myself how I remember and write down all these trifles.
I seem to find therein a kind of comfort and relief.
My Lady noticed my pale looks at supper, and asked me if my head ached
again, for ever since the fall of the candlestick, I have been subject
to hard headaches. I told her it did, which was true enough, and she
bade me go to rest early, and not rise in the morning unless I felt
able.
But I cannot rest. Oh that I had some one to whom I could tell all!
And so I have. Faithless that I am, is there not One who knows all,
who has promised help and comfort according to our needs, and in whose
all-powerful hands my Walter is, and must be safe, wherever he is. He
cannot go out of God's sight. We are both His children, and love Him,
and so all things must needs be well with him, however hard and bitter
they may seem now. Oh, how thankful I am that I have learned before
this great trouble came upon me to regard my Maker, no longer as a hard
taskmaster, exacting so much for so much, but as a kind, tender, loving
Father.
"He that spared not His own Son—" His own Son!
_Feast of St. Michael. September 29._
I have been to church to-day, and feel wondrously comforted and soothed
thereby. It seemed at first as if I could not go—as if my service would
be only a mockery, and a lip-service: but Betty wished to go, and I
know what my duty was. She hath become very fond of going to church,
and my Lord no longer puts any obstacle in the way.
Her deformity is not nearly so noticeable now that she is stronger and
sits up straighter, and she grows pretty every day, while her aptness
and quick replies make her an amusing companion, even to her father.
I think he will end with being very fond of her, unless some new
influence should come in the way. I earnestly hope so, for the poor
child loves him with an intensity painful to see, and far more than he
deserves. It is a different kind of affection from the quiet, trustful
love she bestows on her mother, and in a somewhat less degree, on me.
Any chance careless word of his—and there are plenty of them—cuts her
to the heart; and any instance of thoughtfulness or affection makes her
happy for all day.
My Lord is fond of chess; though, with reverence be it said, he is
about the worst player I ever saw, and I have to play my best to ensure
his beating me now and then: and I am teaching Betty to play. The more
of a companion she can be to him, the better for her in the event of
anything happening to my Lady.
There was but a small congregation in church, as usually happens on
a holiday. Lady Jemima was there, kneeling on the stone floor, and
did not even look up as we came in. Madam Corbet was also present, as
indeed she never misses a church service, and old Mistress Parnell.
It was pretty to see Mr. Penrose hand the old lady to her place
before going into the vestry. Mrs. Priscilla Fulton was present, and,
methought, Mr. Penrose did send a glance in that direction.
I found the service as ever, so now in my greatest need, wonderfully
soothing and comforting. The words seemed just what I needed—more to
the purpose than any words of mine own could be. They always seem to
me to be hallowed, and as it were perfumed by the devotions of all the
thousands who have used them in the ages past. I am sure no prayers
composed on the spur of the moment, such as they say the Puritans are
wont to use, would be as grateful to me as these. I could not be sure
that another and a stranger would express my wants—nay, he might, even
as poor Mr. Prynne used, I know—say what would seem to me downright
irreverent and untrue. I should have to hear, and in a manner criticise
every sentence, before joining in it. Of course this does not apply to
private prayer, though even there I find myself constantly falling back
on the well-known and familiar psalms and collects, especially when my
feelings are most strongly excited. I must begin to teach Betty the
collects.
I could not forbear weeping during the prayers, but my tears were a
relief, and I rose up feeling much more hopeful than when I went to
church. Mr. Penrose read the whole of the invitation to the Communion,
on Sunday. I wish it were old Doctor Parnell. Then indeed I could go to
him and open my grief; but I cannot, for many reasons, make a confidant
of Mr. Penrose. O that dear mother were within my reach! Sure 'tis a
hard fate which sends a young maid away from her mother, at my age. And
yet I ought not to say so, considering the many kind friends I have met
here. Then, too, I should not have known Walter. However this matter
may turn, I shall always rejoice and be thankful that we understood
each other before he left home. How much worse would the suspense be
to me now, if I did not feel sure that he loves me and thinks of me,
wherever he is.
Lady Jemima never rose from her knees during the whole service; and
just at the end she fainted and sunk down on the floor. We got her into
the air, and by and by she revived, only to burst into hysterical tears
and sobs. I was glad the rectory was close by, where she could take
refuge from gazers. It turned out presently that she had eaten nothing
since noon the day before. I would have had her ride home on Betty's
donkey, but she refused, yet with more kindness than she hath lately
shown me, saying that the walk would do her good.
She appeared at supper, as usual, though she looked pale and worn.
"Brother," said she, presently, "when do you mean to have a new
chaplain?"
"Not at all, as I know of!" said my Lord: "Why should I? Penrose is a
good fellow enough, for all his crotchets, and a gentleman beside. You
thought there was nobody like him when he first came here."
"He hath changed very much since he came here," answered Lady Jemima.
"He is not the same man at all, and I have no trust in him. I want a
spiritual guide and director—one in whom I can place confidence."
"That is to say, you want a guide who will be guided by you!" said my
Lord, shrewdly. "What is the use of a spiritual director if you only
mean to be guided by him just so long as your notions happen to square
with his own?
"But if by a man in whom you can place confidence, you mean one who
will not fall in love with Margaret, I had best look out for one
who hath a handsome young wife of his own. Here hath been Basil
Champernoun, with his grave face, asking me about the young lady's
family, and so forth. I doubt he is looking out for a stepmother
to those black girls of his, and I dare say Wat Corbet, with his
Puritan ways, will be the next, if indeed he hath not fallen under the
enchantment already!"
Lady Jemima shot at me a glance of absolute fire, but did not speak,
while my Lady said, gently:
"It is hardly fair to put Margaret to the blush in this way, my Lord. I
am sure nobody could be more circumspect than she, or take less pains
to attract admiration."
"Oh, she does not care!" answered my Lord, carelessly. "She knows my
ways. Sure 'tis no shame for a maiden to have admirers, especially when
she is, as you truly say, so circumspect and prudent as Margaret. I
verily think she cares more for Betty's little finger than for all of
them."
So all ended well. But, as I recalled the look that Lady Jemima
bestowed upon me, I cannot but wonder whether she herself hath any
thought of Walter. I am sure she hath something on her mind which makes
her very unhappy.
_October 1._
My Lady sent me down early this morning to ask Mrs. Corbet for a
pattern. I found her rejoicing over letters from Walter, sent from
about Illchester, where he had stopped a day to see some friends of Sir
John Elliott's and his own. They were gravely cheerful, as usual, and
there was one for me, which I put in my bosom unread. I dared not trust
myself to read it under his mother's eye when I thought it might be,
perhaps, the last of him that I should ever see.
She asked me kindly of my health, and on my telling her that my head
troubled me again, she pressed on me a little flask of distilled and
rectified vinegar, very pungent and refreshing, as well as a bottle of
some strong sweet water, wherewith to bathe my temples and forehead. If
she knew what I know—but I am glad she does not. I should suffer none
the less because she suffered the more.
Coming home, I found the church door open, so I went in and spent
a few minutes quietly in prayer, and in reading the ninetieth and
ninety-first psalms. I wish it were the custom here, as they say it
is abroad, to keep the church always open. Surely many, especially of
the poor, who have no place of retirement at home, would gladly resort
thither now and then for devotion. Methinks there is something in the
very air of the place which disposes one to a quiet and worshipping
frame of mind.
When I got home, and could be alone, I read my letter—a long one,
full of goodness and love—how precious none can tell. Oh, could I but
certainly know that he was safe and well!
Lady Jemima met me in the gallery, and after passing me, she came back
and said, abruptly enough:
"You have been down to Corby-End, I hear. Have they any news of
Walter—of Mr. Corbet?"
"His mother had letters this morning, written at Illchester, my Lady,"
I answered. "Mr. Corbet was well when he wrote, but the letters have
been a long time on the way."
"Aye, no doubt you know all about the matter!" said she, with a kind of
scornful bitterness. Then with a sudden change of tone, "Margaret, tell
me what you do to make everybody like you?"
"I don't think I do anything, madam," I answered: "and besides every
one does not like me. You yourself are my enemy, though I know not
why, for I have never willingly or knowingly injured you: yet you are
ready to believe every evil report about me, and to put the worst
construction on all I say or do—or have done, for that matter."
She colored deeply. "You are too free!" said she, austerely. "You
forget yourself very much when you speak thus to me."
"I beg your pardon, madam!" I answered. "I meant not to be so. You
asked the question, and I answered it."
"Well, well, let it pass!" she said, impatiently. "What is this I hear
from my brother about Mr. Champernoun and yourself?"
"I have heard nothing more about the matter," I replied. "I think it
was only one of my Lord's jests. Mr. Champernoun hath never seen me
except in church, and when the Bishop was here, and I have never so
much as exchanged a word with him."
"He is an excellent man, and it would be a match far above anything you
have a right to expect," she continued: "and you might make yourself
very useful as step dame to his little daughters. I advise you to
accept his offer!"
"Time enough for that when he makes it, my Lady!" I answered, laughing
in spite of my vexation. "For me, I am quite content as I am for the
present. I do not believe Mr. Champernoun ever thought of such a
thing!" With which I made my escape.
Betty's tame robin flew away this morning. She shed some tears at
first, but finally said it was natural the poor bird should love the
woods and fields best, adding, sadly enough, "I am sure I would fly
away, if I could."
"And leave me?" I asked.
"No, I would take you with me!" she said. "And I would not fly away to
stay either, but would come back after a while—after I had seen the
world."
"Perhaps your bird may come back," said I.
And sure enough, at sunset, the little creature came pecking at the
casement, and being let in, flew to his favorite place on Betty's
shoulder, and showed great joy at seeing her again. I was as
well-pleased as the child to see the truant return. I believe I had
made a kind of omen of it.
I dreamed last night of a great fall of snow, and telling my dream to
Dame Yeo, she tells me that snow out of season means trouble without
reason, and shows that I am or soon shall be fretting myself about some
matter without cause. I am sure I hope it is so, but I am no great
believer in dreams.
_October 3._
This day brought me two letters, or rather three—one from Dick
enclosing a note from dear mother. They are all well at home, though
mother says there is fever in the place, and that two have died out
of Robert Smith's family. She also tells me, what I am sorry to hear,
that Sir Peter Beaumont hath prosecuted John Edwards for holding a
conventicle in his house.
It seems several of the neighbors have been in the habit of assembling
there to worship, at which time they prayed and spoke to each other
on religious subjects, but all in a quiet way. Mr. Carey would have
nothing to do with the matter, and was much vexed at Sir Peter's taking
it up, saying that it was the next way to make the thing popular, to
make martyrs of the promoters thereof: and sure enough the parish is
in arms about it, some taking one side and some the other. I am very
sorry. We were all so quiet and peaceable in my dear father's time.
Methinks Sir Peter would better show his zeal for religion and the
church, by leaving off drinking and swearing, and some other worse
matters, than by hunting out prayer meetings and the like.
I remember John Edwards was a very strict Calvinist, and he and my
father used to have many arguments, but they always ended pleasantly,
however much heat John Edwards might fall into.
My father never lost his temper, which I fancy gave him somewhat the
advantage. At any rate John Edwards was a good friend to us, and always
remembered us when his Warden pears were gathered, we having none of
that sort. I am heartily sorry for this trouble which hath befallen him.
My other letter I did not at all understand, at the first. It purported
to be from a lady of quality residing near Exeter, who said she had
heard of me by Mrs. Carey, and wishing to engage me at a liberal
salary—twice as much as I have here—to act as companion to herself and
her daughter, promising to treat me in all respects as an equal. If I
consented to come, she said, she desired I would not mention the affair
to my Lady, between whom and the writer there was an old feud, arising
out of family matters, and who would be sure to prejudice me against
her; but I was to ask leave to go to Exeter on some errand of mine own,
where I would be met and conducted to the gentlewoman's house.
I thought this a very dishonorable way of proceeding, and what of
itself would be enough to set me against the author of the letter, but
I thought of nothing more till all at once it did seem to me that the
writing was familiar. It happened that I had preserved the cover of
Lord Saville's first letter to me, and on comparing the hands, they
were clearly the same, though the last was a little disguised. Then I
carried the letter at once to my Lady.
"Margaret," said she, after she had read it through, "this letter is
not genuine. I know no such gentlewoman as the person signing it, nor
do I think it to be in a woman's hand."
"Nor I, my Lady," said I, "for the best of reasons:" and with that I
showed her the cover of the other letter. "I believe it to be a wicked
trap, but it is very hard—" And then my voice failed me and I burst
into tears. It did seem very hard that with all my other troubles, I
should be so persecuted: and though sure of mine own innocence and
right dealing, I could not but feel very much humbled and degraded in
mine own eyes.
"It 'is' very hard!" said my Lady. "And it must be stopped. I will
myself write to my kinsman and see if this persecution cannot be put an
end to at once. You have done well in showing me this letter, Margaret,
and you will always do well so long as you are thus open and truthful."
Then she asked me about my other letter, and was kindly interested, as
usual, in my news from home: but seeing me still sad, she kissed me,
and bade me not to fret over the other matter, saying that all would
come right in time.
"Unless I see you more cheerful," said she, smiling somewhat sadly, "I
must perforce release you from your engagement and marry you and Walter
out of hand so soon as he returns. I like not these long engagements."
Oh, how my heart sank, as my dear Lady said these kind words.
"You are not looking well yourself, my Lady," said I, feeling as if I
must say something, and indeed she was not.
"I am not well," she answered, wearily. "My head is heavy, and I have a
sinking of the spirits, such as I never felt before in all my life. I
do not sleep well, and I dream constantly of my mother and of my dead
children. It is well that I have no real cause of trouble or anxiety,"
she added. "I think I should sink under it, if I had."
Oh, how glad I was that I had borne my burden myself alone. Hard as it
has been, and is, I am thankful that I have had the strength to keep it
all to myself. I believe the alarm and suspense might have made all the
difference to my Lady. And 'tis certain I have been wonderfully helped.
Never in all my life have I had such a sense of the nearness of God and
of His goodness and love to me, as during this trouble. I have felt—I
say it with all reverence—such a freedom with Him—such an ability to
go to Him, not only with all my trouble and anxiety, but with all my
fretfulness, and rebellion, and impatience, yea and faithlessness, for
I have been very faithless at some times.
_October 6._
"Sorrow may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning." For two
or three days, life hath seemed to me merely an intolerable burden.
It was as if I had carried my load till my strength was spent to the
last ounce, and I must lay it down or die. I could scarce attend to my
ordinary duties or collect myself enough to answer a simple question;
and I felt so irritable and fretful that I longed to shut myself up and
see or speak to no one. Doubtless it was well for me that I could not
do so, but had my work to occupy me even more than usual; for Betty
herself hath not been well, and hath shown more of her old exacting and
fractious spirit than I have seen in a long time.
Last night I said to her, "Lady Betty, cannot you help being so peevish
and fretful? Do you know you almost wear me out?"
"Do I?" asked the child, as if surprised. "I did not know I was
peevish, Margaret, but I feel so tired and uncomfortable."
"And so do I feel tired and uncomfortable," I answered; "and I have a
headache, beside, but you would not like me to be as unkind to you as
you are to me. Such conduct does not make you feel any better, does it?"
"I don't know," she said, pondering, instead of saying yes or no at
once, as any other child would. "Sometimes I think it does. But then
that would not be any excuse, would it, Margaret?"
"I think not," said I. "Beside that I don't believe it does you any
good. The more you allow yourself to speak crossly and impatiently, the
easier it is to be cross and impatient next time."
"Well, I will try to be good," she answered, drawing a long breath;
"but oh, Margaret, you don't know how hard it is!"
"Indeed I do, sweetheart!" I said, kissing her upturned face. "I'll
tell you what, I don't believe it is one bit harder for you than it is
for me."
She seemed a little comforted at that, and presently went to sleep,
and I escaped to my room, feeling almost desperate. I was ready to say
with the wicked man in the Scripture, "What profit shall we have if
we pray unto Him!" My prayers of late had seemed so destitute of any
real devotion, and had seemed to bring me so little help. Still I knew
it was not right to neglect them, however I might feel. So, it being
Friday night, I said the Litany, as my custom is. At the prayer "for
all who travel by land or water," I surprised myself by bursting into
tears and weeping freely, and my heart seemed to be a little lightened
of the intolerable weight which lay upon it.
I slept well, and arose feeling somewhat refreshed in body, and under
a strange calmness of spirit, such as I never felt under any trouble
before. I seemed, without any effort of mine own, to be settled upon
the ground of God's unchanging love, and to be made sure that all would
be well, however He should see fit to order the matter.
After breakfast my Lady came in to stay with Betty, bringing her work,
and telling me to go out for a long walk, to refresh myself. I was only
too glad to do so, and bent my steps to Corby-End. As I entered Madam's
room, I found her just opening a great packet of letters, while Will
Atkins stood at the side of the fire. The first look at his face told
me that he brought naught but good news, which Madam confirmed, looking
up with her sweet smile at the moment of my entrance, and saying:
"You see I am well employed, dear heart. I have at last news from
London of my runaway boy!"
The sudden relief overcame me, as the trouble had never done, and I
sank down and swooned clear away—a thing I never did in all my life
before. When I opened mine eyes again, I was lying on the couch, and
Prudence was fussing over me with hartshorn and burnt feathers, and
what not.
"She is better now!" said Madam's tender voice. "Leave her to me, good
Prudence, and by and by bring some little refreshment."
When Prudence was gone, I raised my head, and said, dreamily enough,
I believe, for I was still bewildered: "Did Will bring news from
Walter—from London. Was he not killed, after all?"
"Killed!" said Madam. "No, dear love! What put that fancy in your head?
Walter is safe and well, and sends you a packet by Will. Come now, and
be a brave maid, and we will see what he says."
I gathered together my scattered senses at this, perceiving that Madam
had not yet heard the story. After saying how glad he was to see Will,
and to have his company to London, Walter went on to add:
"But I am sorry he should have been so misled by that miserable coward,
Tom Andrews, as to come on such a bootless errand; and sorry, above
all, that my dearest Margaret should have had to bear such a burden of
anxiety."
"What means that?" said Madam, pausing, and looking perplexed.
"Perhaps we shall see, if we read on," I answered. So she read on:
"It was true, indeed, as Andrews told Will, that I was set upon near
Salisbury by a party of villains, but as Andrews ran away at the very
beginning of the fray, he had no chance to see how it ended. We were
the better armed and mounted, and though they outnumbered us, we soon
beat them off, with the gift to one of them, at least, of a broken arm.
I would not say it publicly, but I verily believe the man I shot was
the Italian who was lately in attendance on one who shall be nameless,
at Stanton Court. However, I have spoiled his sport for one while, I
fancy. Pray convey news to Margaret at once, my dear mother. Poor maid,
how she hath been suffering all this time, though I doubt not her stout
heart hath kept her up through all."
"And so you have been going about all this time, bearing this heavy
burden all alone!" said Madam: "And all to save me from bootless
anxiety! Dear heart, how could you do so?"
"It seemed my duty," I answered. "Your anxiety would not have relieved
mine, and I feared the news reaching my Lady's ears. She is far from
well, and a little matter might make a difference with her."
"But all alone!" said Madam, again. "And a young maid like you!"
"Not quite alone," I answered, smiling. "Alone, I could never have
endured it."
She clasped me in her arms, kissing and weeping over me, and calling
me her dear, brave maid, her dear stout-hearted, good daughter, with
many other kind words, more than I deserved, but which made me very
happy, nevertheless. Then we finished reading the letter, which was
long and very interesting, containing much public news, and that not of
a pleasant kind, but I could not let it make me unhappy.
Madam would have me eat and drink before I left her, and I was glad
to do so, for I had not broken my fast that day. I could not forbear
opening my letter and glancing at it as I walked home, through the
wood; and so doing, I ran against Mr. Penrose, who was coming down the
path.
"Good news wont keep, eh, Mrs. Margaret!" said he, smiling at my
confusion. "I wish you joy of your letters from home!"
He is much more free and brotherly with me than he used to be, for
which I am very glad. I can't but think Priscilla Fulton hath something
to do with this change. I did not think it needful to tell him that my
letters were not from home.
As I was going on, he called me back, much to my annoyance. 'Twas
to ask me whether I had ever held any conversation with Dame Yeo on
religious matters? I told him how I had read to her, and that we had
talked over what I had read, adding, what was quite true that she had
cheered me up, and done me a great deal of good.
He shook his head. "I know not what to say," said he. "I cannot but
fear she is in a very dangerous way."
"Why?" I asked, surprised. "She always seemed to me one of the best
Christians in the world."
"I fear she is guilty of the sin of presumption!" said he. "She says
she knows her sins are forgiven, and that she is accepted of God."
"Well," I answered—"why not? Don't you read in the church every day
that 'He pardoneth and absolveth all those who truly repent and
unfeignedly believe His holy Gospel'? And does not our Lord say, 'He
that believeth on me, hath everlasting life, and shall never come into
condemnation'?"
"'Tis true!" said he. "But yet—"
"I can't stop to talk to you about it now," I said; "my Lady will be
waiting for me. But, Mr. Penrose, I don't believe our Lord intends his
dear children shall walk through the world with a rope round their
necks, as it were. He tells us to rejoice evermore, and that because
our names are written in heaven!"
"You believe in the doctrine of final perseverance?" said he, turning
back and walking with me.
"I know naught of theological terms," I answered him. "But when I feel
God's grace enough for me to-day, why should I distress myself for fear
I should not have it to-morrow, or next week, or next year? We are
taught to ask daily bread for daily needs, and why not daily grace? I
see no presumption in taking our Lord at His word."
"But how can you know that you love Him, or that your faith is
sufficient?" he persisted, still going on by my side.
"As I know anything else," I answered. "How do I know that I am glad to
get my letter? I don't need any deep self-examination to find that out,
I trow!"
"Nor I!" said Mr. Penrose. "It needs only to look at your face. But we
will talk of this matter again."
And so, to my relief, he turned and left me, with a kind good morning.
He is far more patient of contradiction or opposition than he used to
be. He formerly seemed to resent my having any opinions of mine own in
such matters. I hope he will not go teasing Dame Yeo with his notions,
though, indeed, I believe the old woman is quite able to hold her own
with him.
I only glanced at my letter, reserving that and the contents of the
package for the time when I should be alone. But though I knew my Lady
was waiting, I did steal a few minutes for a fervent thanksgiving.
When I went into the nursery, my Lady smiled, and said, in her usual
kind way, but with a touch of gentle malice:
"You must have found your walk pleasant, Margaret?"
"I fear I have been gone too long, my Lady," I answered. "I went to
Corby-End, and Madam detained me a little."
"Oh!" said my Lady, significantly. "Well, what is the news at
Corby-End? Hath my cousin any tidings of her son?"
"Yes, my Lady," I answered. "Will Atkins is returned, and has brought a
great package of letters to Madam, and some to my Lord, I believe, as
well."
"Oh!" said my Lady, again. "And doubtless Master Walter is well. When
does he mean to return?"
"In about a month," I told her.
"I wish Walter would come home!" said Betty, a little plaintively. "It
is not nearly so nice going out riding and walking, when I know he is
not here, and there is no use in expecting him. We used to meet him so
often, didn't we, Margaret? Mamma, what are you laughing at, and why
does Margaret blush so?"
"Never mind, Betty," answered my Lady, composing her face. "Little
maidens should not ask too many questions."
Betty looked far from satisfied, but she never disputes her mother's
commands.
When I had time to open Walter's package, I found it contained, among
other keepsakes, a small thin volume of poems by Mr. John Milton, and a
small but beautifully bound and printed prayer-book. "I know you have
one already," Walter writes: "but it pleases my fancy to think of you
using this book, which is besides of a convenient size for your pocket.
I think you will like the poems. I hold not with Mr. Milton in all
things, but he has more of the true poetic fire than any other man in
this age."
Walter says public affairs are very discouraging. The King, wholly
governed by his wife and his own arbitrary temper, vexing and
oppressing the subjects with monopolies, and all other little provoking
exactions. The Archbishop punishing with the utmost rigor all
"innovations," as he calls them, in religion, yet daily making more
than any one else, and, as it is believed, urging on the king—Wentworth
in Ireland pressing his scheme of "thorough," and as many think
favoring the Papists against the Protestants.
I can see that Walter feels greatly discouraged, and fears some great
disasters both to Church and State. He says there is a new sort of
people risen up, who call themselves "Independents," and believe in a
toleration of all men, except it may be Papists—and that they have some
strong men among them. He says he does not believe the Archbishop to
be altogether a bad man, but that he is weak and arbitrary—two things
which he believes often go together—and very narrow-minded; and he
says, what I do believe to be true, that foolish people often do more
harm in the world than downright wicked people.
He says, also, that the Archbishop's innovations are not usually
in matters of any great importance, only in vestments, postures,
decorations, and the like, which makes it the more provoking that
they should be so pressed upon people as matters of conscience and
religion. The two things which have made him the most unpopular, Walter
thinks, are the reviving and promoting the book of Sunday Sports, and
the forbidding preachers to handle certain points of doctrine, as
predestination and the like, on which the Calvinists lay great stress:
and that these two have alienated the minds and hearts of many who were
well affected, nay, deeply attached to the Church. Then the growing
luxury and laxity of the Court—for though the King is a grave and
religious prince himself, he does not scruple to employ and forward men
of the most openly bad lives, and of course that has its influence; and
because the Puritans practise great strictness and purity of morals,
the younger men of the Court party affect just the opposite; so that it
is coming to be the mark of a fine gentleman to swear, cast dice, and
drink, not to speak of worse matters. Truly the nation is in evil case.
Walter's letter was very long, and contained much beside politics.
I must not forget to say that he sent me a watch—which is a toy I
have always longed for. This one is incased in gold, and is smaller
and prettier than any I have ever seen. Walter bought it of a French
artisan, a very ingenious man, and one of the persecuted Protestants
who came hither from France. It does seem cruel and shameful that they
should not be allowed to find rest even here, but should have their
worship and the education of their children interfered with.
_October 7._
Madam Corbet sent up the letters for my Lord yesterday, and last night
at supper time he spoke of them peevishly enough, saying that the
world had run mad, and there was no peace in it for any honest, quiet
gentleman, who desires nothing but to live at home and mind his own
business.
"Here hath been Sir Thomas Fulton's chaplain telling me that David Lee
holds a conventicle at his house, and urging me to prosecute him. But
I wont do it!" said my Lord, with an oath, and striking the table with
his hand, as his wont is when excited. "Old David is an honest fellow,
and his family have been good friends to me and mine these hundreds of
years, and I wont interfere with him for any parson of them all. Let
him manage his family his own way—and sing psalms through his nose, if
he likes. What do I care?"
"But you ought to care, and to act too, so long as he breaks the laws,
brother!" said Lady Jemima, sharply. "Why else are you a magistrate and
Lord of the Manor, save to execute the laws?"
"You think so, do you?" said my Lord, turning short round on her.
"Suppose somebody chooses to bring up the laws, of which there are
plenty, against Popish ornaments and books, and after spying into your
closet, should come to me with a complaint against you. Should I be
bound to execute the laws therein?"
"That's a very different matter!" answered Lady Jemima, looking a good
deal discomfited. "The Archbishop sanctions those things."
"The Archbishop does a good many things which he would find it hard to
answer, if he were brought before a court of law—as he may be, sometime
or other," said my Lord. "Here is Walter writes me from London that the
Puritan party is gaining strength every day, and the people cry out on
all sides for a Parliament, and no wonder. It is twelve years since
we had one, or nearly that. And, by the way, Wat himself had a narrow
escape. He was set upon by highwaymen, not far from Salisbury, and came
near coming by the worst. Had you heard of that, Margaret? You were
down at Corby-End this morning, I think."
I answered quietly that I had heard the story.
"And why didn't you tell it, then?" demanded my Lord, with some
impatience. "Think you nobody but yourself hath any right to news of
Walter?"
"My Lady was not well this morning," I answered. "I thought the news
might perhaps disturb her."
My Lord smoothed his brow. "You think of everything," said he. "You
are a good girl, Margaret, and Wat might do worse, after all said and
done," he added, as if speaking to himself.
I don't know what I should have done, but that poor Lady Jemima made a
diversion by fainting away, in her place, almost scaring my Lord out of
his wits.
"It will be nothing," I said, as I was loosing her boddice: "she is
better already."
"Do you think it was the story about Wat that upset her?" asked my
Lord, like a marplot, as he is.
"Not at all," said I (I fear it was a fib on my part). "She hath had
these fits more than once lately. I think they come from going too long
without eating. See, her color is coming back already."
The poor lady opened her eyes and gave me a look of gratitude and woe,
which went to my heart. I do wish she would be friends with me. But in
ten minutes she was as cold and austere as ever.
As I arranged her dress for her, I saw that she wore sackcloth next her
skin, and a cross with sharp edges turned inward, which had left their
mark on her tender bosom. Alas! Poor lady, my heart bleeds for her!
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