_A SON AND HEIR._
_November 9._
SO many things have changed since I wrote last, that I hardly know
where to begin. My Lady is safe, that is the great thing, and has a
fine sturdy pair of twin boys, to every one's great delight. I think it
is my luck to have to do with twins.
Then my engagement with Walter is openly acknowledged and sanctioned,
too, by everybody concerned, and I am now treated quite as a daughter
of the house, though I go on mine old way with Betty.
Lady Jemima hath been very sick, but is, I hope, in a way to recover.
And we are at last the best friends in the world.
It all came about in this wise. My Lady had been ailing for a good many
days, and kept her chamber for the most part. I had partly promised to
ride to the revels at Langham with my Lord, Mr. Penrose and his sister,
a very pretty and pleasant young lady, lately come out of Cornwall to
visit him. I confess I looked forward to the jaunt with some pleasure,
for I love seeing new places and people, and I have been very quiet
since I came hither.
But the evening before we were to set out, my Lady sent for me to her
room. I found her lying on the couch, with no other light but that from
the fire, and she beckoned me to a low seat by her side.
"Margaret," said she, "is your heart very much set on going to these
revels to-morrow?"
"No, my Lady," I answered: "not set upon it at all, if you wish me to
stay at home."
"I fear I am very selfish in asking it," continued my dear Lady, taking
my hand in hers, and stroking it with her slender fingers: "but,
sweetheart, if the disappointment will not be too grievous, I should
like to have you stay. I am not well, and I am very fanciful—and I have
learned to depend very much upon you, my dear. Maybe I shall not ask
much more of you in this world."
"My dearest Lady, don't say so," said I, kissing her hand, and hardly
able to speak as quietly as I know that I ought, for the lump that rose
in my throat. "It will be no disappointment for me to stay at home,
since you desire it. I shall be glad to do so."
"Mr. Penrose will be ready to say hard things of me, I fear," said my
Lady.
"I don't think he will mind," I answered. "They are to join the party
from Fulton Manor, you know, so Mrs. Kitty will not want for company or
countenance."
"Do you really think he is looking in that direction?" asked my Lady.
"I told her that I did, and I was very glad, both for his sake and Mrs.
Priscilla's."
"'Tis just as well, as things have fallen out," said my lady, sighing a
little, methought, "but I gave Mr. Penrose credit for more constancy.
Then, my dear, I will break this matter to my Lord to-night, and save
you any trouble about it.
"And, Margaret, I have written a letter to my Lord in case of my death,
in which I have explained your relations to Walter, and asked him,
for my sake, to countenance them. I am sure he will do so in the end,
but you know my Lord's hasty spirit, and you must not mind a little
roughness just at first. 'Tis ever his way to say more than he means. I
have also explained my wishes with regard to Betty, and have written a
letter to her and one to Walter, which will all be found in my cabinet.
And now, Margaret, if you can listen quietly, I want to speak to you of
some other matters."
"I will try, my Lady," said I.
And so I did, while she went over various matters respecting her laying
out and burial, and the disposal of her clothes, together with the
provision she wished to have made of mourning for the school children,
and the old folks at the almshouses.
"I have tried to talk over those matters with my Cousin Judith,"
concluded my Lady, "but she always breaks into tears, and that is ill
for both of us. I have good hope that they will be unnecessary, but I
shall not die the more for having them arranged and off my mind."
"I think not, surely, my Lady," I answered, as she seemed to expect me
to speak. "On the contrary, your mind will be the easier for having
them all settled. I never could understand the feelings that people
have about such matters—making wills and the like. A man is none the
more likely to die for having made his will, and settled his affairs,
and if he does receive a sudden call, what a comfort to him to think
that he has left everything in order for those he must leave behind."
By this time, I had talked away the lump in my throat, and felt quite
calm and composed. So I said to my Lady that I thought I had best take
notes of what she had told me, that there need be no mistake. She
agreeing thereto, I got lights and paper, and wrote down her desires as
she dictated them to me, and then read them over to her.
"That is all clear and plain!" said my Lady. "And now for your own
matters, Margaret. I believe I ought to release you from the promise
you made to me, to remain with Betty for a year. As matters then were,
it seemed best for both of you, but the case is altered."
"I don't desire to be released, my Lady," I answered her. "I mean to
keep my word with you. I have told Mr. Corbet so, and he agrees that I
am right."
"Mr. Corbet is the most reasonable of men, and will have the most
reasonable of wives," said my Lady, smiling somewhat sadly: "but that
is no argument for his being imposed upon, or you either."
"Indeed, my Lady, I don't feel that I am being imposed upon," I said,
eagerly. "I am very happy with you. I am very young to be married, and
I am all the time learning what will make ma the more worthy of my new
position."
"Learning of Mrs. Judith to make tarts and conserves, and to order a
household; and of Mrs. Brewster to clearstarch and work lace—and what
of me, sweetheart?" asked my Lady.
"Everything good, madam," I said, kissing the hand she had laid on
mine—"Truth, and kindness, and patience—" and here the lump came in my
throat again, and I could say no more.
"Aye, patience! Learn patience, maiden. It will stand thee in good
stead," said my Lady, with something nearer to bitterness than ever I
heard from her before, and then she murmured some lines, which, as I
remember, ran thus:
"Bring me a woman constant to her husband,
One that ne'er dreamed a joy above his pleasure;
And to that woman, when she hath done most,
Yet will I add an honor—a great patience."
"Do you know who writ those lines, Margaret?"
"Shakspeare, I should say, Madam, though I never read them," I answered.
"You are right; they are Shakspeare's. No one else could so have
expressed that character of Queen Catharine. People do not set much
store by him nowadays, but I cannot but think the time will come when
he will be set far above those playwrights, who are now so much the
fashion. You shall have the book and read the play for yourself. But
never mind that now.
"Margaret, I have no special directions to give you regarding my poor
child. I am sure you will manage her rightly and reasonably, and always
be her friend. For her sake, I am glad that you are like to be settled
so near us. I might say more on this head, but that I feel an inward
persuasion, almost amounting to a certainty, that Betty will not be
long behind me, if I am taken away."
She paused a little, and then went on to speak of the child that was
coming, saying: "If it should be a boy, he will have friends, more than
enough, but if a girl, I commend her to your love and care. I am sure
you will care for her, Margaret."
I answered her as well as I could.
"You must not mind my Lord's humors," she continued. "He is brave,
generous and kindhearted, but he is naturally high-spirited, and
having been used to living so much amidst dependents, he is naturally
impatient of contradiction."
"Or of anything else but gross flattery and subserviency," I could
not help thinking. And in truth 'tis hard to believe very much in the
greatness of a man, who must be managed like a child, and who cannot
hear the least word of dissent or contradiction, without scolding and
fretting, till he makes himself a spectacle. I am glad Walter has been
knocked about the world a little more, for I am sure I should lose all
respect for him if he should treat me many times as my Lord treats my
Lady, who has more sense in her glove than he ever had in his hat.
My Lady finished what she had to say to me, and my Lord coming in, I
retired.
"So I find we are not to have your company to-morrow," said my Lord,
meeting me afterward on the stairs. "'Tis very kind in you to stop with
my Lady, and lose the pleasure of the day, but you shall fare none
the worse, I promise you. Of course it is not to be expected that I
should remain at home—" (I did not see the "of course—" it would have
seemed to me only natural, remembering my dear father's way at such
times)—"but I am glad you will be with her, and I shall not forget it.
You are a good girl, Margaret."
I courtesied, and said, "Thank you, my Lord."
"By the way, I hear that Wat Corbet is coming home soon," said he,
detaining me on the stairs, as I was about to pass him. "Have you heard
of it?"
"I knew he expected to be at home about Hallowmass," I answered.
"You know a great deal about him, it seems to me," said my Lord, in
rather a discontented tone. "However, an' that come to pass which I
hope for, he may marry whom he likes, for all me. You have always been
a good girl, Meg, and fond of my Lady. You are not scheming to stand in
her shoes, are you?"
"No, my Lord, that I am not!" I answered, rather hotly. "I hope my Lady
may stand in her own shoes this many a day to come. As for scheming, I
am scheming for nothing, and I see not why I should be accused of it!"
"Well, well, you need not be so tart!" said my Lord. (People like him
always wonder how folks can be so tart.) "I only asked the question. I
am sorry to miss your company, and so I dare say some other folks will
be, but my Lady's fancies are to be considered, of course. Tell me what
I shall bring Betty from the revels? Poor child, 'tis a hard case that
all such things must pass by her, and she have none of the fun: but I
suppose she would like a fairing."
I felt sure she would, and told him what I thought she would fancy,
namely, a thread-case and scissor-case—for she is beginning to take
great pleasure in needlework.
"I will remember," said he, taking out his tablets, and setting down
what I had told him; "and what shall I give you?"
"I will leave that to your own taste, my Lord," I was saying, when Lady
Jemima coming down the stairs, a little way, called out, "Brother, I
wish to speak with you!" and I made my escape.
But going down again presently, to carry some message which my Lady had
given me to Mrs. Judith, I heard my Lord say to Lady Jemima, as he left
her room:
"Well, well, we can do nothing now, my Lady is so set upon her. But if
you are right, Jem!—" I hurried on and heard no more, but I felt sure
that they were talking of me.
The next day dawned clear and bright, though there were signs which
might portend a storm before its close. I did not go down to the early
breakfast, for Betty had had a turn of pain in the night, and Mary had
called me up to soothe her, and give her some quieting medicine, which
she will take from no hand but mine and her mother's. So after I had
given it her, I lay down beside her in the bed, and would not rise for
fear of waking her.
She waked herself when my Lady came in, and I rose and went to my room.
Here I found Mrs. Judith, intent upon taking down and brushing the
hangings, and performing I know not what other cleaning operations.
So after I had dressed, I locked up all my small treasures in my
cabinet, and putting my watch in my bosom, and in my pocket the little
Prayer-book and the Thomas à Kempis which Walter had sent me, I went
down to the chapel to say my prayers there.
I found Lady Jemima before me, busied in decorating the altar with late
flowers, which she arranged with a great deal of taste. She seemed to
make an effort to be pleasant with me, I thought, for she bade me good
morning, and then said, as I stopped to look at her work:
"I suppose your Puritan notions would condemn these decorations?"
"I have no Puritan notions that I know of," I answered: "and certainly
not that one. I love flowers anywhere, and I don't know any place where
they seem prettier or better bestowed than in church. I should not like
to see artificial flowers in such a place, because they would look
tawdry and unworthy, but the real flowers are quite another thing."
"I should not have expected to hear that from a friend and upholder of
Mr. Prynne!" said Lady Jemima.
"Mr. Prynne was my father's friend and kinsman, and hath been kind to
my mother since his death," I answered: "but he never was specially a
friend of mine. On the contrary, I am afraid I had a mortal fear and
dislike to the poor man, because he used to contradict and browbeat my
father so."
"And yet your father was friendly with him!" she remarked.
"Yes, madam," I said. "My mother would be indignant sometimes, and then
my father would laugh and say that he knew how to separate the husks
of opinion and prejudice from the sound and sweet fruit of the man:
but I must confess the husks ever stuck too much in my throat to let
me relish the fruit. But I could not but grieve for his hard fate when
I remembered his kindness to the poor, and to my mother, above all. I
should love a Turk if he were kind to my mother."
She made no answer to this, but turned to go away, gathering up the
rejected stalks and leaves of her flowers, in which I made bold to help
her. She thanked me, but rather stiffly, and asked me what had brought
me thither so early. I told her I had come to say my prayers, as Mrs.
Judith was cleaning my room.
"That is well!" said she. "Do you pray for your enemies?"
"I should, if I had any, madam," I answered: "but I think I have none,
or at least only one," I added, thinking of Felicia.
"I am that one, I suppose!" said she.
"No, madam," I answered her. "I was not thinking of you."
"Pray for me, nevertheless!" said she, her face growing pale and sharp,
as if with some hidden pain, and with that she went quickly away.
I could not but wonder at her words, but she is always unlike other
people, so I did not think so much of it.
I said my prayers, not forgetting to pray for the poor lady, and then,
as my books were heavy to carry in my pocket, I bestowed them, as I
thought, safely in a corner of my usual seat, little thinking what a
scrape they were going to bring me into, and went about my business.
The weather was gloomy and lowering all day, but the sun shone out
bright and clear about half an hour before its setting, and Betty,
taking a fancy to go out, I wrapped her up and took her into the
garden, on the west side of the house, which is warm and sheltered in
the afternoon. Here she played about awhile, talking to Dick Gardener,
who is a great ally of hers, and gathering a nose-gay of late flowers
for her mother.
When, just as I was thinking that we must go in presently, I saw Lady
Jemima coming down the steps toward me.
As she drew near, I saw that her face was white with passion, and that
she had my two books in her hand. She came close up to me, and holding
them up before me asked, in a voice which trembled with anger:
"Where did you get these books? Whose hand is this in the beginning?"
Then, before I could speak, she added: "Tell me no lies, wench! This is
Walter Corbet's hand!"
I was cool in a minute. I saw that the time had come, and that I must
hold mine own with her, and if possible keep her from disturbing my
Lady.
"I do not mean to lie—why should I?" I said. "It is Walter Corbet's
hand, and he gave me the books!"
"And you dare to tell me so!" said she, turning paler still, if that
were possible. "You receive love tokens from Walter Corbet—you!"
She caught her breath, and stood looking at me with the utmost scorn
and abhorrence in her face.
"We shall see what his mother will say to such treachery, my dainty
mistress—'his beloved Margaret,' forsooth! I will tell her what an
honor is in store for her, and what a fine intrigue her pure-minded son
is carrying on under his cousin's roof!"
"You will tell her no news, and there is no intrigue in the case!"
said I. "I am Walter Corbet's betrothed wife, with his mother's full
knowledge and consent, and also with my Lady's!"
With that I stooped to pick up the books which she had cast on the
ground at my feet, when, as ill-luck would have it, my watch and
Walter's picture slipped from my bosom and fell on the grass, the
picture face uppermost, of course. With a cry of wrath and anguish such
as I never heard, she set her heel on the picture, and crushed it to
atoms, and then turning to Betty, who had come up panting and full of
amazement, she seized her by the arm, saying, in a stifled voice:
"Come away from this wretch—this viper! Come away, before she shall
poison you!"
Then, as Betty hung back, and clung crying to me, scared by her aunt's
violence. "Come with me, I say, or I will drag you away by force!"
"I wont!" screamed Betty, all her passionate temper aroused in turn.
And, wrenching away her arm: "You are a viper yourself, and a dragon
too, Aunt Jemima, and I hate you!"
"Yes, you have profited by your teaching!" said Lady Jemima, in the
same strange, unnatural voice. "Come with me, I say!"
And with that she seized the child by the shoulder, and by a sudden
wrench, pulling her away, she dragged her toward the house.
I was horrified, knowing how easily she was hurt, and sprang to the
rescue, and at the same moment Betty gave a shrill cry of agony, and
called out, "Mamma! Oh mamma! Aunt Jem is killing me!"
Then looking up—oh, sight of horror!—I saw my Lady running down the
stone steps of the terrace, and, catching her foot, fall headlong to
the ground!
I forgot all else—even my child, at that sight, and I was by her side
in a moment, raising her head in my lap.
Betty burst out crying—"Mamma is killed! Mamma is killed!" And threw
herself on the ground by her side.
Lady Jemima stood as if turned to stone.
I saw in a moment that my Lady still breathed, and presently she opened
her eyes. By this time Dick Gardener and his assistants came running
up, and I made Ambrose, who is a great, strong, handy fellow, take up
my Lady and carry her to her room, while I ran before to call Mrs.
Judith and Mrs. Brewster.
By this time all the servants were alarmed, and came running into the
hall to meet us. I sent Mary to bring in Betty and put her to bed, and
the others on different errands to get them out of the way, for somehow
I seemed to have everything to do, and to think of everything at once.
As for Lady Jemima, she had never moved from her place, and nobody
seemed to think about her at all.
By the time we got my Lady to her room, she was quite herself, and gave
directions about everything she wanted, bidding Brewster undress her,
and telling me to go and see to Betty and bring word how she was; for
she feared she had been hurt in the struggle.
I found Betty crying and sobbing in Mary's arms, who was trying to
coax her to be undressed, instead of going to her mother, as she was
determined to do.
I now found the benefit of having reduced the child to obedience. She
submitted, sorrowfully, but passively, when I told her that she could
not go to her mother to-night, but if she wanted to please her she must
be good and quiet and do as she was bid.
"I will try to be good!" said she, pitifully, as I began to unlace
her boddice. "But oh, Margaret, Aunt Jem did hurt me so! I could not
help crying out! You don't think it was my fault that mamma fell
down-stairs, do you?"
I told her no—that she was not to blame in the least; and indeed I
could not feel that she was.
"How is mamma? Is she dying?" asked Betty.
"O no!" I answered, as cheerfully as I could. "I think perhaps she will
be quite well in the morning, if she is not disturbed to-night. She is
troubled about you, and I want to carry back a good account of you."
Betty was all docility in a minute, and let me undress her and rub her
back and shoulders. "Does it hurt you, now?" I asked.
"Not so 'very' much," she answered, with a strong emphasis on the
"very." "Not so very much, when I am quite still. Tell mamma so,
please."
"You shall go to bed now, and I will sit with you while Mary brings
your supper," said I. And I made her a sign to make haste, for I was on
thorns to get back to my Lady.
When I had seen Betty comfortable, I went back again to my Lady's
room. By this time it was quite dark—the wind was blowing, and the
rain dashing against the windows, and it promised to be a wild night.
I found Mrs. Judith had sent man and horse after the doctor and nurse:
"For though my Lady seems quiet enough just now, my dear, we shall want
help before morning, I am sure. I only wish my Lord had left us Roger,
instead of Harry Andrews."
I wished so too, for Harry was young, and not over steady, and besides
he was brother to Tom Andrews, which was enough to set me against him.
I could not help wondering at my Lord, knowing as he did what was like
to happen at any time, and said so.
"Oh, there's no use in expecting any sense in 'men!'" said Mrs. Judith,
with decision. "They are all alike in those matters, my dear. An ounce
of trouble for themselves outweighs a pound for anybody else."
"Not with all men, I think!" said I, remembering my dear father. "What
time ought Harry to be back?"
"By eight o'clock, at farthest."
"And when ought we to expect my Lord?" I asked.
Mrs. Judith looked grave.
"Not to-night, I am afraid: or at least not till late. They will sup
with Sir Thomas Fulton, and most likely stay all night, as it is such a
storm."
Eight o'clock came, and half-past eight, but no Harry, and no doctor.
My Lady began to grow worse very fast, and by half-past nine she was in
convulsions. Mrs. Brewster lost her head entirely, and could do nothing
but cry. And Mrs. Judith was terribly flurried, and evidently quite at
her wits' end.
"You see I have had so little experience!" said she to me, as she came
out into the antechamber. "I never had but one of my own, and my Lady
always had her mother with her before. I would give my right hand if
Mrs. Corbet were here—but how to bring her!"
"Surely she would come if she were sent for!" said I.
"Aye, but how to send. You see, my dear, this is All-Hallow's even,
and I don't believe you could get one of the servants to go down to
Corby-End for love nor money!"
"What, not for my Lady?" I exclaimed.
Mrs. Judith shook her head.
"Fear makes people selfish, my dear. And indeed, considering what hath
been seen between here and there on All-Hallow's eve, I should not like
it myself. Not but that I would go if I could."
"I will go down to the kitchen and see what can be done," said I, and I
went.
I found the maids, with old Thomas and David, who were the only men
left at home, gathered closely round the fire, listening to some
dreadful tale of ghosts and what not, which Anne was doling out to
them: and one or two of them shrieked as I opened the door, as if I had
been the White Dame herself.
I told my errand, but was answered only by blank looks and a torrent of
expostulation and assurance that no one would dare to go through the
park this night, no not to have the whole of it, for fear of meeting
the Halting Knight and a certain evil spirit which is supposed, at this
time, to be mousing about the Abbey for any unlucky soul that ventures
out after dark.
"And so you will let your good Lady die for lack of help!" said I, as
soon as I could get a hearing.
"As to that, our lives are worth as much to us as my Lady's to her!"
answered Anne, pertly enough. "And who knows what Madam Corbet might
do, if she did come? I'll be bound she hath heard the news before
this time. She doth not need earthly messengers, as honest folks do.
Everybody knows that!"
"Everybody knows that you are an ungrateful fool, Anne Hollins," said
old Thomas; "and if you do not lose your place for that same speech,
it will not be my fault, I promise you. I would go in a minute, Mrs.
Merton, but you know I can scarce put one foot before the other."
"And you, David!" said I.
David only shrank together and muttered something, but it was clear he
would not go.
"Get me the lanthorn ready—I will go myself!" said I, at last. "I fear
no evil when on a good errand, and hold myself safer out in this storm
and under God's protection, than you are here round the fire. Remember
stone walls cannot keep out spirits, and the Evil One himself is like
enough to be busy among you—selfish cowards that you are!"
With that I left them, and running to mine own room, I put on my thick
woolen gown, which mother would have had me leave at home, and in less
time than I can write it, I was back in my Lady's room, telling Mrs.
Judith of my purpose.
"God bless you, dear maid!" she exclaimed, kissing me and bursting into
tears. "Go then, and good angels guard you!"
"And so you are really going!" said Dorothy, the fat cook, as she put
the lanthorn into my hand: "And you, you idle, good for nought men,
will let her go alone! I would go myself, but I should hinder more than
help you!"
"I'm going with Mrs. Merton!" said Jacky, the little knife-boy,
starting up from his corner, and buttoning up his doublet, while his
pale face and staring eyes showed his fears were only less strong than
his sense of duty. "I'm only a lad, but I am somebody, and she shan't
go alone—so!"
"Good boy!" said Dorothy, as she tied her own kerchief over his ears
to keep his cap on. "Thou shalt have a fine plum bun, I promise thee!
There, go along, and God bless you both!"
As we went out into the night, the wind caught us, and we had much
ado to keep our feet. It came not steadily, but in heavy gusts, laden
with sharp, stinging rain, and roared fearfully in the great trees.
It was not so very dark, for there was a moon, which shone out now
and then through the flying clouds, but a wilder night sure no two
young things were ever abroad in. I walked on as fast as I could, and
Jacky trudged manfully by my side, not even blenching when we passed
into the Abbey church-yard, which we must needs cross, as the shortest
way to Corby-End. As we were in the midst thereof, the moon shone out
suddenly, and an owl—I suppose it was an owl—gave an unearthly screech.
"Save us!" cried Jacky, pressing close to my side. "What's that?"
"Only an owl," said I, valorously. "Never mind him!" But I did not feel
as brave as my words, by any means.
However, we crossed the church-yard safely enough, and descended into
the ravine.
Here it was very dark. The brook, already swollen with the rain,
narrowed the path, so that we had to go one by one. There were strange
sounds in the trees, and the passing gleams of the lanthorn made
strange shapes on the rocks and bushes. I grew very impatient to reach
the end, for, aside from all other fears, I knew the brook, which hath
its rise in the high moon, sometimes swelled very suddenly, and made
the track quite impassable. But the more haste, the worse speed. In my
hurry, I stumbled and fell, putting out the light.
Jacky burst out crying: "Oh, mistress, what shall we do now?"
"Push on as fast as we can," said I, affecting a courage I by no means
felt. "Take hold of my gown, and make what haste you are able."
Even as I spoke, something seemed to brush past me, so near to my face
that I felt it, and again we heard the same wild scream which had
greeted us in the church-yard. Stumbling and tripping, however, we
hurried on, and at last came out at the little gate I have mentioned
before in these memoirs. We were still in the thick woods, but then the
path was plain, and at last—oh, welcome sight!—we saw the lights in the
windows of Corby-End!
Never did any one look more amazed than Madam Corbet, when I burst into
her pretty, orderly room, all dripping, torn, and draggled as I was,
and told my tale with breathless haste. Not till it was ended, did I
see that Walter was at my side. Then all my strength seemed gone in a
minute, and I should have fallen, but for his arms.
"I must go to my cousin instantly," said Madam, rising. "Walter, will
you order my horse, and tell Will to get ready to ride? There is no
time to lose!"
"I will myself go with you as far as the great house, and then ride on
in search of the doctor," said Walter. "As for Margaret, she must abide
here and go to bed."
"No, no!" I cried. "I must go back. Indeed I must! If Betty wakes and
misses me, no one will be able to manage her, and I shall be wanted,
beside. I must go back directly!"
"I believe she is right!" said Madam, to my great joy.
She would have me drink some hot wine, however, and indeed I was glad
of it. I believe they made all the haste possible, but it seemed an age
before we were ready to set out.
As for Jacky, he was left with the servants to be dried, warmed and
feasted to his heart's content.
I rode behind Walter, and Madam her own horse, and we were not long
in reaching the house. When we were safely dismounted, Walter said he
would ride on with Will and find the doctor.
"You will be drenched through!" said I.
"Nay, I have my horseman's coat, and I am not made of sugar nor salt,
more than yourself, my dear love!" said he: "But, dear mother, do see
that Margaret changes her clothes."
And with that he was gone. Many people would have thought it not a
very sentimental greeting, after so long an absence: but I was well
contented with it.
I hurried to my room to dress myself, for indeed I was wet through, and
I know it was but right that I should take due care of my own health.
When I had done so, I looked in at my child. She was awake, and started
up at my entrance.
"Mamma!" said she, breathlessly.
"She is likely to do well, I trust," I answered. "Your Cousin Corbet is
come to stay with her. Try to go to sleep, my dear one."
"But you will come and tell me?" she said, holding my hand. "I don't
want you to stay, because mamma might need you, but you will come and
tell me. And I have tried to be good, haven't I, Mary?"
"Indeed you have, my dear, tender lamb—my sweet, precious young Lady!"
said Mary, wiping her eyes: "I am sure an angel could not have behaved
any better!"
I kissed her and again assured her that I would bring her the first
news, and bade her pray for her mother.
And then I left her and hurried back to my Lady's antechamber, where I
met Lady Jemima coming out.
"Mrs. Corbet is with her," said she. "She will not endure me in her
sight—and no wonder. I feel as if I had murdered her."
"You have!" I answered her, bitterly enough. I was wrong, but at that
moment I did really feel that if my Lady died, Lady Jemima would be
answerable for her death.
Lady Jemima looked strangely at me for a moment, and then turned and
fled swiftly to her own room.
Mrs. Judith opened the door in a few minutes to whisper to me that
my Lady was already quieter, and seemed soothed and comforted by her
cousin's presence, and to ask me to go down and see that some supper
was prepared for my Lord, in case of his coming home, which I did.
I found Dorothy had anticipated me, however, for she had made
everything ready. And not only that, but she had some dainty broth
keeping hot by the kitchen fire, which she begged me eat a part of, and
carry the rest up to Mrs. Judith.
"I had not thought of wanting anything to eat, Dorothy," said I.
"No, I dare say not, nor Mrs. Judith neither," answered Dorothy, dryly.
"You're not the kind that always thinks of your own insides, whatever
happens; so much the more need that others should think for you."
I would not seem ungrateful for the good soul's care, so I drank a cup
of broth, and indeed it did me a great deal of good. I had hardly got
up-stairs again when I heard a clatter of horses' hoofs, and my Lord's
voice above the storm, directing Roger and Will about the horses. Mrs.
Corbet at the same moment opened the door.
"Go you down to meet my Lord, dear heart!" said she. "Tell him
Elizabeth is going on well, but do not let him come up. Everything
depends on quietness, just now!"
I needed no second bidding, but ran down-stairs, and met my Lord at
the door. He was coming in, after his usual jolly, careless fashion,
evidently merry, yet not much the worse—but that he never is—for the
wine he had drank at supper. He checked his whistle on seeing me.
"What, Margaret! What keeps you up so late?" Then, as I held up a
warning finger, he seemed to divine the state of the case. "My Lady! Is
she—?"
"She is in a way to do well, I trust and believe!" said I. "But she has
been very ill, and Mrs. Corbet says all depends on quietness."
"The surgeon is here, I suppose?" said he, after a minute.
I told him how it was—that Harry had gone for him at first and did
not return. And that, growing alarmed, Mrs. Judith had sent for Mrs.
Corbet, about an hour ago.
"Aye, that was well!" said he. "But who went for her? I would have
said there was not a wench about the place who would have gone down
to Corby-End to-night on any errand whatever; and David is a greater
coward than any of them."
"I went myself," said I.
"You!" exclaimed my Lord, putting his hand on my shoulder, and holding
me off to look at me. "Meg! You never went down to Corby-End alone,
this wild night!"
"Nay!" I answered. "I had Jacky the knife-boy for protector. We had a
rough walk, but we met with no worse misadventure than slipping into
the brook two or three times, and putting out our lanthorn. And I rode
back and left Jacky to be petted by the maids down there!"
He caught me in his arms, kissing my forehead, called me his brave
maid, his good girl, and I know not what else, and swearing a great
oath, as his fashion is, that I should marry whom I liked and no one
should hint a word against me. I got him quieted at last, and set down
to his supper, and then stole away, promising to bring him news from
time to time. But when I went down again, at the end of an hour, he was
fast asleep and snoring on the settle, so I even let him sleep.
The night wore slowly away, and still the doctor did not come. But I
dare say we were as well without him. Between five and six, just as the
gray dawn began to show in faint streaks above the high moor, there
was a bustle in my Lady's room—and then—oh, sound of joy, which I well
knew—the cry of a little babe. I sprang to my feet, but dared not go
near the door.
Presently, after what seemed an age of suspense, Madam opened it, her
dear fair face all flushed with joy!
"Good news, Margaret! We have two bouncing boys—and I believe the
mother will do well, in spite of all! Go you and tell my Lord—you have
well earned the right—but do not let him come up-stairs, just yet!"
I ran softly but quickly enough down-stairs to the hall, where I found
my Lord awake, rubbing his eyes and shivering. He started up when he
saw me.
"Good news, my Lord—the best of news," I cried out. "Two nice lads—and
my Lady is doing well!"
"What!" said he, staring, as if he had not taken in my words.
I repeated them.
"But my wife—Elizabeth!" he said, paler than I ever could have believed
possible. "How is she doing? Will she live?"
"I believe she will!" I said. "Madam thinks so, but she bids you not
come up just yet!"
I shall ever like my Lord the better for what followed. The great
strong, soldierly man fell on his knees, and, amid streaming tears and
sobs which shook him like an infant, gave broken and heartfelt thanks
to Heaven for his wife's deliverance.
I cried heartily, and the tears seemed to wash from my heart the
bitterness and weight which had lain there all night, ever since Lady
Jemima had trodden under foot Walter's picture.
"But the bearer of good news must be rewarded!" said my Lord, when he
had calmed himself a little—(I saw with pleasure that he seemed no ways
ashamed of his emotion). "What shall I do for you, Margaret?"
"If I might ask so much!" said I.
"Let me hear it!" said he. "It will be hard if you ask what I cannot
grant."
"It is that you will go and carry Lady Betty the good news yourself, my
Lord!" I said. "It will be better to her from your lips than from any
other source, and it may prevent some jealous fancies, such as children
sometimes have."
"You are always thinking of your bantling!" said he, evidently
well-pleased. "I bade you ask something for yourself."
At that moment the hall door opened and Walter entered, followed by the
surgeon. Walter told me afterward that he had found Harry Andrews drunk
at an alehouse near Biddeford, and that he had rode five miles beyond
the town before he found the surgeon.
"Hallo, Wat!" cried my Lord, cheerily. "Doctor, you are a day after
the fair. You have lost your chance of the title this time, Watty, my
boy! Meg here and your lady mother have choused you out of it fairly,
between them!"
"Thank God!" said Walter, fervently.
"Good! That's well said," returned my Lord. "And what is more, I
believe you mean it, both you and Margaret! And that is more than I
would say of some folks."
"I mean it, I know, and I am sure I can answer for Margaret!" said
Walter.
"Aye, you are mighty ready to answer for Margaret," said my Lord. "You
and Margaret have been a pair of sly-boots, I believe. However, all is
well, and I am sure you will never find a better wife or a fairer, if
you look the west country over, so here's God speed you with, all my
heart!" And he gave Walter a mighty shake of the hand and a slap on the
shoulder, which might have staggered a giant. "However, I have promised
to break the news to Bess, and I must keep my word."
He went up-stairs, and I followed, for I wanted to see how the child
would take it. As my Lord opened the door, I saw that Betty was
kneeling in the bed, with her hands clasped. She looked up with an
eager glance, and a burning blush, when she saw her father.
"That's right, Bess, my girl!" said her father, coming to the bed, and
taking her in his arms. "Thank God for giving you a pair of fine little
brothers to take care of you!"
She clung round his neck. "Oh, papa, has my little brother come?"
"Aye, that has he, and brought another with him!" answered my Lord,
cheerfully: "And what is better, dear mamma is doing well."
Betty seemed quite overwhelmed, and laid her head down on her father's
shoulder. Presently she raised it again, and looked anxiously in his
face.
"You wont wish I was dead 'now,' will you, papa?" said she. "Indeed, I
will try to be very good!"
"Wish you dead! No, child, of course not!" said my Lord, quite shocked.
"How could you think of such a thing as that?"
"You said so that day in the church-yard, papa!" said Betty. "You know
I could not help being crooked, and, indeed, I will try to learn all I
can, so that I can help mamma and teach my little brothers!" she added,
with wistful pathos.
"Bless the child!" said my Lord, kissing her with real tenderness, and
hugging her in his arms. "I never thought of such a thing! Why, Bess,
you must not lay up every word I say as if it were gospel. What will
you do when you are married, and have a husband of your own, if you
make so much of every rough speech?"
"I never will be married!" said Betty, with decision. "I mean to live
single all my life, as Margaret does!"
"But suppose Margaret gets married—then what will you do?" asked my
Lord.
"I should not like it at all, and I won't have it!" said Betty. Then
gravely, as if reconsidering the matter—"Unless she will marry Walter,
and live at Corby-End. That would be very nice, I think, don't you,
papa?"
My Lord gave one of his great laughs, kissed her again, and calling
her a wise little maid, put her down on the bed, and pulled out of
his pocket I know not what expensive toys in the way of scissors,
needle-cases, and the like, telling her that he had bought them for her
yesterday. Then saying he must go and look after his guests, and giving
my ear a parting pull, he went away, leaving Betty happier than any
queen.
"What did Aunt Jemima say?" asked Betty, after she had found out that I
had not seen the babes, and making me promise to take her to her mother
as soon as possible.
"I don't know that she has heard yet," I answered, my conscience
smiting me, as I remembered my own words to her the night before, and
the look she had given me. "I will go now and tell her."
I tapped gently at Lady Jemima's door, but as no one answered, I
ventured to open it and look in. Lady Jemima had not been to bed all
night, and now crouched on the cold floor before the little altar in
her closet, pale as death, and with eyes swollen with long and bitter
weeping. She started up as I entered, but did not speak.
"Good news, madam!" I said, cheerfully. "The best of news!" And then I
told her what had happened.
"Is not my sister dead, then!" she asked, in a strange, bewildered way:
"I thought I had murdered her. You said so!"
"I was angry and said what was very wrong, and I beg your pardon," I
answered. "My Lady is like to live, I hope and trust. Madam thinks she
is doing well, and also the surgeon, who is come just in time to be too
late."
She threw her arms round my neck, and burst into hysterical sobs and
cries. I got her into her chair, and supporting her head, I soothed and
quieted her as well as I could, till she was in some degree herself
again.
"You heap coals of fire on my head, Margaret!" said she, when she could
speak. "But you did not come here to triumph over me, did you?"
"God forbid!" said I, earnestly. "I came but to bring you the good
news, and to ask your forgiveness for my wicked words last night."
"They were true words!" said Lady Jemima, hastily. "I had the spirit
of a murderer, if not toward my sister, yet toward you. I could have
killed you, Margaret!"
I did not ask her why. Poor Lady! I knew well enough how she felt I had
injured her. I only said:
"Dear Lady Jemima, I never meant to harm you!"
"I know it!" said she, bitterly. "You never did harm me. If you had
never come near the place, it would have made no difference. It was my
own insane vanity and passion. I have been a wicked woman, Margaret—a
wicked hypocrite, condemning and judging others, when I was far worse
than they: but mine eyes have been opened this night, and I have seen
myself as I am!"
"I am not so sure of that!" I said.
She looked at me in surprise.
"When the Saviour put his hands on the blind man's eyes, and asked him
if he saw aught, the man answered that he saw men as trees walking. He
saw, it was true, but as yet nothing clearly. It needed a second touch
before he saw things as they were. It may be so with you."
She shook her head sadly. "I can never trust myself again," she said.
"I would not try!" I answered her. "But you know whom you can trust—who
will never fail those who seek Him. But, dear Lady Jemima, you are now
in no fit state to judge of anything. You are wearied out with grief,
and watching, and fasting, too, I dare say. Your hands are as cold
as ice. Let me help you to bed, and get you some food, and when you
have eaten and slept, you will be much better fitted to see and feel
rightly."
"Tell me one thing, Margaret," said she, taking my hands, "are you and
Walter truly betrothed?"
"We are," I answered her; "and my Lord hath given his consent."
She made a movement, as if to draw her hand from mine, but refrained.
"And you will soon be married, I suppose!" she added, after a pause.
"I believe not," said I. "I promised my dear Lady before there was any
likelihood of such good fortune befalling me that I would not leave
Lady Betty for a year, whatever happened. And I mean to keep my word,
unless I have more reason than I see now for breaking it."
"How I have wronged you!" she said, sighing. "Margaret, there is hardly
any evil that I have not thought of you."
"You were prejudiced against me by one whom you might well have
believed," said I. "I know not why Felicia hath always been mine enemy,
except that it seems a part of her nature to have to hate somebody."
"It was not that—not altogether!" said Lady Jemima. "It was—"
"You shall tell me another time," said I, venturing to interrupt her;
"that is, if you see fit to honor me with your confidence. I really
think you ought to go to bed now, and rest, that you may be ready to
see my Lady when she asks for you, and to make the house pleasant for
my Lord."
"I will do anything you tell me," she said, sadly.
"Dear Lady Jemima, I don't mean to dictate!" I began to say, but she
stopped me.
"Yes, you shall dictate!" said she. "You shall command, and I will
obey. It is fit that I should humble myself before you, aye, even in
the dust—that I should be humbled in the eyes of all the world—if so I
make any atonement for my sins."
I could not let this pass. It seemed to me such a dreary notion, and at
the same time such a false one, that I felt I must speak.
"Dear madam, why should you think of making any such atonement?"
I said. "Surely the one oblation of our Lord, once offered, is a
sufficient atonement and satisfaction for the sins of the whole world,
let alone yours and mine: and no suffering of ours, no voluntary
humiliation or penance, will add anything to its virtue. Only cast all
your care and sin on Him, and leave Him to lay upon you such crosses
as He sees best: I don't think we need be afraid of having too much
ease in this world, if we are willing to bear the burdens and do the
tasks He provides for us. And if we go to work making burdens and tasks
for ourselves—doing our own work—I am afraid we are in great danger of
neglecting His."
I doubted how she would take my little sermon. She did not seem
displeased, however, but said we would talk of it again. I helped her
to undress, and got her to bed.
"I do not see how you can find any rest on such a bed!" I said, feeling
how hard and uneven it was. "I wish you would let me make it up
comfortably."
"Do as you will!" said she, wearily, leaning back in her chair.
I looked out into the gallery, and seeing one of the maids, I bade her
bring a matrass and quilt from an unused room near by, wherewith I made
the bed as nicely as I could. The poor lady could not help a sigh of
relief and satisfaction, as she lay down. Then I sent Dolly down for a
manchet and a cup of cream, and persuaded Lady Jemima to eat a little.
She promised me that she would lie still and try to sleep, and asked me
to come in again after a while, kissing me at parting.
As I shut the door, I heard her sobs burst forth, but I did not return,
thinking that she would at last weep herself to sleep.
I found Betty up and dressed, and in due time took her in to see and
kiss her mother.
My dear Lady looked very lovely in her paleness, but Madam would
not let her speak a word to any one, which was no more than right,
of course, though Betty was inclined to murmur thereat, till Madam
explained to her the reason; after which she seemed hardly to dare to
breathe. She was sadly disappointed in the babes.
"They are so red and spotty—they are not nearly as pretty as kittens,"
said she, pouting a little: "I think they look more like the young rats
Ambrose showed me."
My Lord nearly exploded into a laugh at this criticism, and my Lady
smiled, but Mrs. Brewster was indignant.
I explained to Betty that all very young babes looked so, and that they
would grow pretty in time.
"Will they?" she asked, wistfully. "When will they get their eyes open?"
This was too much for my Lord, who fled precipitately into the gallery.
But, at that moment, one of the babies opened his eyes and showed that
they were blue. I made Betty slip her finger into one of the little
hands, which closed on it at once, and Betty was more than satisfied.
Since that time, we have gone on very quietly, My Lady is not so strong
as we could wish, but the doctor says it is only because she exerted
herself too much just at first, and that a long rest will set all right
again. The babies are all that any one could desire, stout, well-grown,
and healthy.
Betty sees new beauties and wonders in them every day, and would, if
she were permitted, nurse them all day long. She does not show the
least jealousy of them, but seems to rejoice in all the attention and
admiration they receive.
Only the other morning I found her taking Anne severely to task for
something she had said. As I entered, she appealed to me in great
excitement:
"Anne says my nose is broke, and that nobody will care for me any
more," said she, half crying; "and it is not true, is it, Margaret? She
says I shall be nobody, now that there is an heir, and—"
"Anne is a very bad girl to say such things!" I answered her. And then
turning to the girl, I reproved her sharply.
Whereto she answered me at first saucily enough. But when I said I
should speak to Mrs. Judith, she cooled down and begged my pardon. I
have forbid her speaking to Betty hereafter, and have told her plainly
that I shall complain to Mrs. Judith if she disobeys me, or if I hear
any more of her pert speeches.
Lady Jemima continues very ill, with a kind of low fever, and her mind
is worse than her body. From thinking herself all but a saint, with
her penances and fastings, she has gone round to the opposite extreme,
and now believes herself such a sinner that there can be no hope for
her. It is painful to see how woe-begone and sorrowful she is. I spend
as much time with her as I can, and try to cheer her up: and I really
think she likes to have me with her. I have not encouraged her to talk
to me of her feelings about Walter. I believe such things are almost
always best kept to oneself, and I am afraid of her saying what she
will be sorry for by and by: but I read to her, and tell her stories
about the poor folks in the village and what happens in the family. And
sometimes I sit by her in silence whole hours at a time, busy with my
needle.
For myself, I can only say I am as happy as the day is long—happier
than I ever believed anybody could be in this world. My engagement
is now spoken of as a matter of course, and my Lord treats me as a
daughter or younger sister, and will have me receive all tokens of
outward respect, as one of the family.
I think Mrs. Judith was a little shocked at first, but she is
reconciled now, and is quite sure that all is for the best, especially
since she has found out that my mother was a Seymour, and my father's
mother a grandchild of my Lord Falkland. But setting that aside, I do
think she loves me enough for my own sake not to grudge me any good
fortune.
Walter has written to mother and Richard, and also to Aunt Willson,
which, he says truly, is only her due, since she has been so kind to
me. I would love to be married at home, in my dear father's own church,
but the journey is a long one, and I don't know how that will be. At
any rate, Walter has promised that I shall go very soon to visit them
all. I see him every day.
My Lord begins to fret at the wedding being put off, and to say that
Bess can do well enough without me: but I am quite content that matters
should rest as they are for the present. I am sure I shall never be
happier than I am now.
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