MY LADY.
"WINNIE is lazy this morning," said Jack, as he sat down to his
breakfast of bread and milk in the kitchen. "It is almost six, and she
is not down yet."
"No," replied his mother; "Winnie is not lazy, but tired, and not very
well. She was awake late last night, and I thought she had better sleep
awhile this morning."
"Yes, there is always some good reason for everything that Winnie
does!" said Jack, peevishly. "I wish I could always do just right, as
she does!"
"I wish you could," said his mother, "but that is not the way to begin."
Jack murmured something about favorites, which, however, he was very
careful not to let his mother hear, and went on eating his breakfast
with a very discontented face. The truth was, he was a good deal
ashamed of his fright the evening before, and he felt vexed at Winifred
for doing the errand he had been afraid to perform. Jack knew that
he was a coward, and he was ashamed of his cowardice, but instead of
letting his shame lead him to the amendment of his fault, he permitted
it to make him jealous of every one who was braver than himself, and
especially of Winnie, who, being a girl, had, he opined, no business to
go where he was afraid to venture.
"I don't care!" he said to himself. "I will do something which shall
show them that I am not afraid. I will climb up to the magpie's nest
and bring down a pair of the young ones to tame. Winnie dare not do
that, I know. I can teach the young magpies all sorts of things—even to
speak, I dare say, and then I can sell one of them at the fair."
The magpie's nest which Jack intended to rob was built in the top of a
very high old tree, which stood not far from the farm-house. The tree
had been long dead, and the branches were as dry as tinder; a fact of
which the cunning magpie was doubtless well aware when she built her
nest in the highest fork. A tame magpie is fully as entertaining as a
parrot, and Jack, with whom bird's-nesting was a kind of passion, often
cast longing eyes upon the nest in question. His grandfather, however,
had forbidden him to go near it, not from any particular tenderness to
the birds, but because the tree was such dangerous climbing.
It was nearly eight o'clock when Winifred opened her eyes with a start,
and saw her mother standing by her bedside.
"Did I frighten you?" asked her mother.
"No, mother—I was dreaming. I thought the soldiers had come!" replied
Winifred. "Is it not very late?" she added, looking at the sun and
starting up in alarm.
"Almost eight o'clock!" replied her mother. "I have let you sleep as
long as I dared, but you know you have to go to the Hall to-day. You
will have no more than time to dress yourself neatly and eat your
breakfast. Do not forget the packet for my lady."
There was no great danger of Winifred's forgetting it. She had slept
with it under her pillow, and a dozen times during the night she had
gone over the matter in her dreams, with all sorts of absurd and
frightful incidents attached thereto. Now she was telling the secret to
Lady Peckham, at the parish church, in service time, while the vicar
stopped his sermon and all the congregation turned around to listen.
Now she was in the street of Bridgewater, on a market day, irresistibly
impelled to tell every one she met that the Duke of Monmouth was
hiding in Lady Peckham's closet. And again, she found herself at the
water-side in Bristol, whither she had once gone to meet her father,
and all the bells of the place were ringing at once: "Tell my Lady
Peckham! Tell my Lady Peckham!"
But if Winifred's dreams had been disturbed and confused, her waking
thoughts were composed and collected. She had already settled her
plan of operations, by the time she was dressed. She knew that Lady
Peckham was exceedingly regular in all her habits, having exactly
appointed hours for her devotional reading and prayers, for attending
to her household concerns, for her still-room where she and Mrs.
Alwright prepared medicines and cordials for the sick, and perfumes
and confections for the well; for her embroidery, and for walking in
the maze or on the terrace. It was at this latter time that Winifred
intended to address her. She was soon on her way to the Hall, with
her little work-basket on her arm, and the precious watch and packet
carefully secured in her bosom, to take her lesson in cut-work or
carpet-work of Mrs. Alwright, my lady's gentlewoman.
As Winifred walked along by the hedgerow or under the orchard trees,
bending to the earth with their load of fruit, she sang in a sweet
voice good Bishop Ken's beautiful morning hymn:
"Awake, my soul, and with the sun,
Thy daily course of duty run!
Shake off dull sloth, and early rise
To pay thy morning sacrifice."
"How beautiful it must be to be able to write such fine hymns as the
good bishop!" thought Winifred. "And yet his heart must often be sad,
when he sees so much evil which he cannot help. They say he shed tears
when he pleaded with the chief-justice, and even with the king himself,
for the poor prisoners, and all to no purpose. No, I should not like to
be in his place, or in that of any other great person, especially in
these sad times. I am sure my lady and Sir Edward often look troubled
and distressed, and Dame Sprat says the great Queen Elizabeth died of
a broken heart for all the trouble she saw coming on the country she
loved so well, and which she could do nothing to hinder.
"No, I should not like to be any great person. It is as much as I can
manage, and more, to do my duty in that state of life to which it has
pleased God to call me. But then I suppose if God puts people in high
places, He will give them grace to do their duty there also, if they
ask Him for it, as much as to grandfather or to me. He gives to every
one according to his need. Dame Sprat told me that she has often heard
her mother tell how, in Queen Mary's days, even young lads like William
Huntington went to their death singing and praising God; and they say
when Dame Gaunt was bound the other day in London, she was calm as
though she were going to her night's rest. I am afraid I never could be
like that."
And Winifred shuddered at the thought of being brought before the
terrible chief-justice, whose face and voice overcame even the boldest
men, and had actually scared to death a young lady at the assizes in
Tawton not long before. It must be remembered that this was no mere
fancy on her part, such as girls sometimes like to scare themselves
withal. It was an event likely enough to happen, if she were found out
in helping or concealing any follower of the Duke of Monmouth.
"But why should I fear?" she continued. "If God means any such trial
for me, why should I doubt that He will give me strength and grace to
bear it, and take me safely through? Even if I should lose my life, the
pain will be but short, and then comes heaven, which will never, never
end, where I shall see all the saints and angels, the holy martyrs who
have died for the truth, and our blessed Lord Himself."
Winifred's fears were gone—lost in the thoughts which now came crowding
upon her. Thoughts of her heavenly home—speculations as to what it
would be like, and what would be her employment there. She often dwelt
upon these realities of another world, as other girls dwell upon their
air-built castles, reading over and over the last chapters of the
Revelation, and everything she could find in the Bible relating to her
future state, till the mansions of her Father's house in heaven seemed
as real to her as the gray thatched farm-house in which her days had
been spent, or the old Elizabethan Hall whither she was going, and than
which she had never seen anything finer. She was so absorbed in her own
reflections that the mile and a half between the farm and the Hall were
quickly passed over, and she almost started to find herself at the park
gate.
Holford Hall was a quaint old red brick pile, all angles, and gables,
and projecting turrets, and clustered chimneys, with a stately terrace
and a long elm-tree avenue where the rooks built, year after year. Sir
Edward had often called it barbarous and antiquated, and wished he
could build it over in more modern style, but fortunately he had never
been able to command money enough for such an undertaking, and so the
old Hall remained as it had come down from the days of Elizabeth.
Sir Edward was a man of more cultivation and reading than many country
gentlemen of his day. He read the "Sylvia," and corresponded with
its accomplished author, Mr. Evelyn, and he took great pride in the
stately evergreens, formal clipped yews, and brilliant flower-gardens
which surrounded the Hall. And not without reason, for in those days
it was no uncommon thing for a gentleman's country house to have all
the litter of farm and stable-yard directly under its windows, while
the only garden consisted of a few gooseberry bushes and pot-herbs, and
perhaps some knots of common flowers, all mingled higgledy-piggledy,
and growing as best they could.
Winifred tripped along the terrace and across the paved court, stopping
for a moment to caress the old blood-hound, who knocked his tail
against the flagstones at her approach, too lazy for any more active
greeting; and entered the little ground-floor parlor which was Mrs.
Alwright's peculiar sanctuary.
Mrs. Alwright received her little friend with her usual dignified
kindness. She was a tall, thin, rather severe-looking person, very
neat and prim in her dress, and more stately in her manners than my
lady herself. You must not think she was at all like an ordinary
waiting-woman of these days, though she dressed her lady's hair and
took care of her clothes. She was of a good family and respectfully
educated for those times, and her brother was vicar of the parish of
Holford. Such persons in those days thought it no disgrace to take
service with ladies of higher rank, and were often treated with a
great deal of consideration. Mrs. Alwright was older than her lady,
and had been brought up by her mother, the old Lady Carew, who was a
famous manager and housekeeper. She understood all sorts of work, plain
and ornamental, and every kind of household duty, from pickling beef
and pork to making the most delicate confectionery. She had taken a
great fancy to Winifred from the first of their acquaintance, and she
intended that the child should be thoroughly taught everything she
herself knew.
Winifred usually enjoyed very much the hours she passed by Mrs.
Alwright's side in the housekeeper's room, working at her embroidery or
her knitting, as the case might be. She knew that the privilege was a
very great one, such as few girls in her station enjoyed. And she was
anxious to make the most of her time, lest something should happen to
interrupt these precious hours. Moreover, she was very fond of good
Mrs. Alwright, and loved to please her; and she usually gained great
commendation for her industry and attention. To-day, however, she was
so absent-minded and set so many stitches awry in the fine cut-work
band she was making, that Mrs. Alwright thought it necessary to give
her a little lecture on her carelessness.
"But I am sure you are not well!" was the sudden conclusion of her
discourse. "You are as white as a lily, and have dark marks under your
eyes. You shall lay aside your work for the present, and have a glass
of my rose cordial or a dose of my lady's sovereign balm, and a piece
of gingerbread or saffron cake, and when you have rested, you shall
read to me out of Hall's 'Chronicle.' I have kept the mark in the book
where you left off last time."
Winifred had no objection to the cordial, fragrant with rose-leaves
and spices, but she could not help an inward shudder at the thought
of my lady's balm, even if it were to be followed by a liberal slice
of Mrs. Alwright's excellent gingerbread, stuffed with citron and
almonds. She had helped at the distilling of that balm, and had a
lively recollection of the double handful of rod earthworms and the six
woodlice which went into the still, along with the herbs and drugs, the
flour of coral and amber, the spice and flowers, which went to make
up the medicine. She earnestly assured Mrs. Alwright that she was not
at all ill, only somewhat tired from having taken a long walk the day
before, and added that she was sure the rose cordial would do her good,
especially if she might go and walk in the garden awhile.
Mrs. Alwright bustled about to procure these refreshments, and looked
on with great satisfaction while Winifred sipped the fragrant medicine,
declaring that she looked better already.
"And, Winifred, as you say, it will do you good to be in the air; so
you may take my little basket, and gather all the rose-hips which you
can find in the maze. I am going to make some conserve for my brother's
cough, and you shall help me prepare it. 'Tis a most sovereign thing
for a cold and cough, as you will do well to remember."
Winifred could not repress an expression of thankfulness when she found
her way so smoothed before her. She had half filled her basket with
the red shining rose-berries, or hips, as they are called, and began
to fear that Lady Peckham was not coming out to-day, when she saw her
patroness approaching, and stood still, dropping her little courtesy as
she drew near.
Lady Peckham was a woman past fifty years old, but still possessing the
remains of great beauty, though she was thin and worn, and her face
wore an expression of sadness—that kind of sadness which has grown
so habitual as to become a par of the character itself. She had been
first married at seventeen, to a distant cousin of her own. It was a
marriage of affection, and one not altogether favored by her parents,
for they were stanch loyalists, and had suffered greatly in the royal
cause, while Captain Winthrop was a rising young officer in the army of
the Commonwealth. But Lord Carew was "out at elbows" in money matters,
and not in good odor with the dominant party, and the countenance and
assistance of the young Colonel of Ironsides were not to be despised.
For a few years Margaret Winthrop's life had been a happy dream
checkered only by fears for her husband, and by the hardly concealed
displeasure of her parents, whom, however, she seldom saw; for Lord
Carew had found it expedient to leave his estates in Devonshire and
reside in a remote corner of Wales, where his wife possessed a small
property. Then the dream was rudely broken! Margaret's young husband
died suddenly, leaving his still younger wife penniless. The great
Protector passed away, and was succeeded by his feeble son, who soon
gave way to Charles the Second. The royal party came into power, and
used their power with an unsparing hand. Lord Carew came back to his
estates, and was able to offer his widowed daughter a refuge, which she
had no choice but to accept.
Lady Carew, Margaret's mother, was a bustling, active woman, a
wonderful manager and housekeeper, a famous disciplinarian, and a
violent churchwoman of the political stamp. Withal she was kind-hearted
and charitable, and benevolently anxious to make people happy, provided
always that they were willing to be made happy exactly in her way,
but exceedingly averse to allowing them any choice in the matter.
Above all, she was a strenuous and successful match-maker, and was
reputed to have brought together more couples than any one else in the
county; albeit it was said that her matrimonial mixtures, unlike her
home-made wines and preserves, sometimes soured and fermented in a
very unpleasant manner. She had been twice married, and both times had
bettered her condition; and she could see no earthly reason why her
daughter Margaret should live single all her days because her first
marriage had not turned out well.
Accordingly Margaret had not left off her first weeds, before her
mother began to look about for a match for her. She soon pitched
upon a suitable bridegroom in the person of Sir Edward Peckham, a
Somersetshire baronet of old family, who, having been a Parliament man
when that party was uppermost, had changed sides with great dexterity
and just at the right moment, contriving to keep not only all his own
large property, but, report said, not a little which had belonged to
other people before the civil war.
Margaret resisted for a long time with all the force of a not very
strong will, but her suitor was persevering and her mother determined.
Parents in those days had large authority in such matters, and children
little freedom of choice. Lady Carew well knew when and where to apply
the screws, and apply them she did with an unrelenting hand, comforting
herself all the time with the reflection that she was acting for her
daughter's good, and that Margaret would live to thank her some day.
But that day never came. Margaret, indeed, yielded at last, from sheer
want of strength to resist any longer. She married Sir Edward, but
she went to her wedding as an unwilling nun might take the vows in
her convent. Even her mother had some misgivings as she noticed her
daughter's white cheek and sunken eye, and saw the mechanical and
lifeless manner in which she went through the marriage ceremony and
received the congratulations of her friends, especially as she could
not but perceive that the same things were noticed and remarked upon by
the company.
"But it will be all right when she has once a family about her,"
said she to her husband. "She will busy herself with the duties and
the pleasures of her station, and forget all about that idle young
Winthrop."
Lord Carew had his doubts about things ever being again all right with
Margaret, but he was a man who loved peace and quiet at home, so he
only replied to his wife's predictions with a vague shake of the head,
which might mean anything or nothing.
Margaret was never to hold in her arms a child of her own. Her first
and only infant came into the world only to receive a name and a place
in the family vault of the Peckhams under Holford Church, while its
mother was unconscious of its existence. For many days she lay between
life and death, and for weeks and months she was confined to the
darkened chamber, which it was feared she would never leave again. At
last, however, she recovered and resumed the duties of her station,
performing them all with anxious, punctilious accuracy, as if she would
thus make up to her husband for that love which she was unable to give
him.
For years she lived under a heavy cloud of religious depression which
nothing could remove. She felt that she had sinned against herself and
her husband in taking upon herself vows which she could not perform,
and she thought she had thus shut herself quite out of God's mercy.
Thus she was deprived of the only thing which could have been any
comfort to her.
This persuasion had finally given way under the judicious counsel of
some of those religious teachers who in the midst of a faithless and
perverse generation inculcated a pure and exalted spirituality, such as
has never been surpassed. She learned to seek in faithful and earnest
self-consecration that peace which the world can neither give nor take
away. And her long-troubled heart found rest in God. Thenceforward her
life was one long waiting till that change should come which would
restore her to all she loved best. And she was content to wait, doing
all in her power to promote the welfare and happiness of those about
her, to make up for or to conceal all that was wanting in her husband,
and to perfect holiness in the fear of God.
Sir Edward did not pretend to understand his wife's religion, but he
saw that it had the sanction of such men as Jeremy Taylor and his
friends Mr. and Mrs. Evelyn, which satisfied all his scruples as to
its orthodoxy. And he rejoiced to see that it made his wife happy,
for he loved her with all the force of which his somewhat small and
narrow nature was capable. To Sir Edward, as to Lady Carew, religion
was an affair of state and policy. The sermons which suited him best
were discourses upon the divine right of kings, the duty of passive
obedience under all conceivable provocations, and the heinous nature of
dissent and republicanism. And he sometimes was tempted to entertain
serious doubts of the orthodoxy of the vicar of Holford because he
dispensed his charities to churchman and dissenter alike, and seldom
preached mere than once a quarter upon his favorite topics.
Time-server and worldling as he undoubtedly was, Sir Edward was not
deficient in generosity. Though the dearest wish of his heart was
disappointed by the fact of his having no children, he never by word
or look reproached his wife. The only way in which his mortification
showed itself was in a great dislike to children in general, and a
special hatred towards those of his heir-at-law. Lady Peckham had once
ventured to propose that one or two of these young people should be
invited to the Hall for a visit, but the request was met with such an
angry refusal that it was never repeated.
For the rest, Sir Edward was a good landlord and master, a tolerably
efficient justice of the peace, and a keen sportsman, and enjoyed the
pleasure of being greatly looked up to by the yeomanry and smaller
gentry in the neighborhood, towards whom he was at all times gracious
and condescending.
Lady Peckham had frequently noticed Winifred in church and at the
village school, founded by Dame Peckham in days long gone by, and was
so attracted by her appearance that she asked the vicar whose child she
was.
"She is a granddaughter of old Master Evans at the Stonehill farm," was
the reply. "Her father married in Devonshire somewhere about Plymouth,
and it is said quite above his own rank; and indeed Dame Evans is very
different from most of the farmers' wives hereabout."
"Do you know what her name was before she was married?" asked Lady
Peckham. "I fancy this little girl reminds me of some one I have known."
"It was a very grave name, being nothing less than Coffin!" replied the
vicar, who sometimes ventured upon a very mild little joke. "I have
heard that many of the family emigrated to the American plantations, at
the accession of his late gracious majesty. But you are ill, my lady!"
"It is nothing," said Lady Peckham, rising; "I sat too long in the
close school-room. And so her mother's name was Coffin, and she came
from Devonshire!" she murmured. "Strange that I should not have seen at
once where the resemblance lay!"
The vicar waited for an explanation, but none came, and he was obliged
to wait still longer till he could mention the matter to his sister.
Mrs. Alwright nodded, and screwed up her month mysteriously.
"I understand it all!" said she. "Mrs. Winthrop, the mother of my
lady's first husband, was a Coffin. I have often seen her, and
certainly this young maid hath a look both of her and of Colonel
Winthrop. The poor young gentleman had just such deep gray eyes, always
looking as if they saw more than other folks could see, and just such
regular eyebrows. No wonder my poor dear lady was drawn to her. I must
have a gossip with Dame Evans, and find out whether there was really
any kinship between them."
"Then you think my lady still remembers her first husband?" the vicar
ventured to ask.
"Don't be a fool, John Alwright! Remember him! Of course she does! My
lady is as good a wife as ever breathed, but between ourselves, she
loves the very shadow of Colonel Winthrop better than she loves Sir
Edward's whole body. She would never have married again but for her
mother, my old lady, who, with all due reverence, was altogether too
fond of having her own way, and putting her finger in other people's
pies. Remember him, indeed!" repeated Alwright, indignantly. "Do you
suppose I have ever forgotten my poor John Foster, who was killed at
Long Marston, though we never were married at all? I should like to see
anybody try to make me marry against my will!"
"Doubtless the person who should attempt such coercion would speedily
become aware of his error," replied her brother, dryly. "I meant no
offence, Hannah, and no disrespect to my lady, whom I honor from my
heart, but you know I have but little knowledge of women's matters."
"Of course not! How should you?" said Mrs. Alwright in a mollified
tone. "Now let me look over your shirts and bands, and see that you
have something decent to wear. You ought to take a wife, John Alwright,
if only to sew on your buttons and keep your house in order."
Mrs. Alwright took an early opportunity to question Dame Evans
respecting her family, and discovered that she was nearly related to
Colonel Winthrop. Whether she ever communicated the fact to her lady no
one knew, but it is certain Lady Peckham continued to treat Winifred
with great kindness, and to take an active interest in her education,
even sometimes going so far as to instruct her herself in those
branches of knowledge which were considered suitable to a young woman.
Hence it was that at fifteen Winifred was better educated than many
young ladies of higher station.