Lady Betty's governess

CHAPTER XI.

NEWS FROM HOME.

November 30.       

MY journal is not very regularly kept, nowadays, I have so much to do and to think about.

Letters have come from home, and from Aunt Willson. They all write very kindly, and dear mother is greatly pleased. She says she is thankful to have seen and liked Walter, for she would hardly have felt like giving me to a stranger. Dick writes gravely, after his fashion, and Aunt Willson bluntly, after hers. She says she had a shrewd guess how matters were going when she saw Walter in London, and she believes I am about to do well.

"I have only one bit of advice to give thee, child," she says; "and that is, never, on any account, to speak to any human being, however near and dear, of thy husband's faults and short comings, nor let any one talk to you. I dare say you wonder that I should think such advice necessary, but 'tis a rock which has wrecked the happiness of many a married pair. Amend what thou canst, and what thou canst not amend, bear with patience and love, in God's name. For the rest I daresay you will do well enough. You were brought up as a gentlewoman, and you are young enough to mold your habits where they need molding. You will have a second mother in Madam Corbet, who is one of the chosen ones. I send you some matters, for your fitting out, and likewise some money for your purse."

The "matters" turn out to be a great mail filled with beautiful stuffs and silks, such as I never thought to wear, with store of fine linen and laces, and a set of pearl jewels, good enough for a countess. But that I know that my aunt is rich, and that it is a pleasure for her to be giving, I should feel oppressed with her bounty. I have had beautiful presents from all the family.

I must not forget to say that Felicia is also going to be married to a rich merchant of London, a worthy man, Aunt Willson says, but a great Presbyterian, and very strict in all his notions. Aunt says he hath altogether converted Felicia to his own way of thinking, insomuch that she looks upon a Bishop as Antichrist in person, and believes that no prayer read from a book can possibly meet with any acceptance.

My new uncle sends me a fine shawl or mantle, of some kind of Eastern stuff, called crape, white and embroidered in heavy silk, with roses and other flowers, in quite a wonderful way; also a treatise by Mr. Baxter, a young Presbyterian divine, which I have not yet found time to look at. Felicia sends me nothing, save a civilly scornful note, in which she says she is glad I have played my cards so well, and that I am going to be "married"—the words underlined—to Mr. Corbet. For her own part she is content with her lot, and would rather be the wife of a godly, honest merchant, than of any hanger on of a great family.

I did not show the note to Walter, for I knew it would vex him. For myself I care not for her venom, which hath lost its power to sting me, but I am sorry for her husband. She sends her respects to Lady Jemima, and bids me tell her that she (Felicia) has seen the error and darkness of her ways, and the wickedness of the scheme in which they had both been engaged, and hopes her Ladyship may have grace to repent the same. I was not going to tell Lady Jemima the message, but she heard I had received letters, and at last I showed her Felicia's.

"How I was deceived in her, as well as in myself!" said she, sighing deeply, as she returned me the letter. "My fine scheme has vanished into air, like the bubble it was."

"Perhaps it has vanished that something better may come in its place," said I.

She shook her head sadly. "Nay," said she, "I have learned more about myself since then."

She is better in health, but sadly out of spirits, and seems to find little comfort in anything. I do hope the Bishop will be able to set her right.

My Lady hath recovered faster than we could have expected, sits up all day, and has walked a little in the gallery, but does not yet get out or come to the table. The babes are all that any one can wish, and Betty now resents bitterly any criticism upon their good looks. I think she loves the blue-eyed babe, perhaps, the best of the two. Her own health has not been good since the shock of that day. She is again growing thin, and complains of the pain in her back and side once more. I cannot but fear that she received some injury in the struggle. She hath made up her quarrel with Aunt Jemima, and often sits by her bed and reads to her in the Bible, though she has to spell a good many words.

We are to have a distinguished guest in the course of two or three weeks, no less a person than Anthony Van Dyke, the great court painter. Walter knew him well both abroad and in London, and hearing he was to be in Exeter, invited him to paint his mother's portrait, to which she consented, on condition that Walter's and mine should be painted also. My Lord is much taken with the fancy of having my Lady and her children sit to him, and I hope the plan will be carried out, but it seems doubtful whether the great man can stay so long in this west country. Walter says he is a very fine gentleman, and is glad that the king gives him encouragement to stay in this country.

December 10.       

The Bishop hath been with us nearly a week, holding his visitation, and especially inquiring into the condition of the moorland parishes, which he finds sad enough—no preaching save perhaps once or twice a year, no catechising, the young folk growing up like utter heathen, knowing no more of the word of God (so Walter says, who hath accompanied my Lord in most of his journeys), than so many Turks or Indians. They believe enough, however, in the devil and his servants, in witches, pixies, moormen, Jack Lanterns, night crows, and what not; and through fear of such like creatures live all their lives in most cruel bondage.

The Bishop is greatly exercised by this state of things, and hath a great many schemes for improving the condition of these poor folks, by sending them faithful preachers, and establishing schools among them. He hath already found a mistress for one of these schools, in the person of Mabel Winne, an excellent woman in the village, and daughter of a substantial farmer, who being single, and in a manner left alone by the death of all her friends, desires to devote her life to some such good work. Jane Atkins tells me that Mabel was for a long time head girl of the school, and a good scholar, though proud and high-spirited, but that having caused the maiming and final death of a friend by pushing her down in a sudden fit of passion, the sad event so changed her that she hath ever since sought her pleasure in doing good offices among her poor neighbors, nursing the sick, and so forth. She seems just the person to carry out the Bishop's plan, especially as she is by no means poor, but hath enough to support her comfortably, in a simple way.

Lady Jemima hath had many talks with the Bishop, and I think is in a fair way of regaining her peace of mind. She seems for a day or two past quite cheerful, and at last, at my Lord's earnest entreaty, came down-stairs to supper. I was sorry, for I knew Walter would be there, and I dreaded their meeting, but it passed very nicely, she wishing him joy with a sweet smile, and saying most kind things of me. But, withal, I saw tears come into her eyes as she took her seat. I don't know whether Walter suspects aught or not: I am sure he shall never hear it from me.

After supper she told me that she was tired, and would withdraw. I went with her to her room, and when there she told me that she had been telling the Bishop about her scheme for a nunnery, and that he had put another plan in her head, namely, to turn her house near Exeter into a refuge for orphan girls from the city, where they might be trained to usefulness and piety, and fitted to earn an honest and comfortable living.

"He says," she continued, "that I might always have six or eight such young maidens in my family, and he would have me live among them myself, and oversee them. Is not that a pretty castle in the air?" she added, sorrowfully smiling.

"Indeed, I think it a much prettier one than your nunnery," I answered, "and one much more easy to erect on firm ground."

"Aye," said she. "My sisterhood has turned out finely, with one sister marrying a priest, and another a Presbyterian." (For it is quite settled now that Mrs. Priscilla and Mr. Penrose are to make a match of it. I need not have been so distressed at breaking the poor man's heart. 'Tis something easier mended than Betty's china image.) "But I feel myself unfitted for such a work and responsibility, otherwise I would welcome the suggestion at once. As it is, I shall not put it away, but consider upon it, and consult my sister."

I do hope the plan will succeed. I am sure Lady Jemima will be better and happier in a house of her own than she is here, and also that this house will be better without her. The desire for employment and for doing good, which here makes her only troublesome, will be well laid out on a family of her own.

December 10.       

My dear child seems better again, and once more goes about the house, and looks after her fowls and other pets, and nurses her little brothers, though the latter not so much as she would like, because their weight makes her shoulder ache. Still I am very uneasy about her. She grows thin, and has a little cough, and two or three times she has had something like a fainting fit, save that her face turns brownish instead of pale. She is wonderful happy in her spirit, and all her old irritability seems entirely gone.

The great painter is come, and is at work on Walter's and his mother's pictures. He is a wonderful courtly gentleman, with a quick eye, which nothing escapes. He hath already expressed a wish to paint Betty, saying that she has one of the most lovely and touching faces he ever saw: to which my Lord and Lady gave their consent, and are mightily pleased, as is Betty herself. But Mary does not like it at all, and says she hopes there may be nothing wrong, but it stands to reason that the gentleman cannot put so much life into his pictures without taking it out of the people he paints; and that Betty has none to spare, she being weakly already. I think Mrs. Judith is much of the same mind, though she will not own it.

The matter is quite settled as to Lady Jemima's orphan-house. She is to be the head of the family, with a suitable establishment, and is to begin with six young girls, not of the very poorest, but from clergymen's families, and the like. This is by the Bishop's advice, who says that less is done for this class than for any other. One is to be the child of an artist, a great friend of Mr. Van Dyke's, and worse than an orphan, her mother having deserted her child, and the poor father, all but distracted, desires to go abroad, but has no one with whom to leave the poor young maid, who is only six years old. Mr. Van Dyke desires the privilege of paying her necessary expenses (the care and safety he gracefully says can never be paid for), and he hath given Lady Jemima a hundred pounds.

It shows how really humbled dear Lady Jemima is, that she took the money without a demur. She is much more cheerful since she hath been engaged with this plan, and rejoices with trembling in the hope of present forgiveness and favor. She has long chats with Dame Yeo, and I think the old woman hath done her much good. Every one notices the difference in her, and even her face is changed. She does not see Walter often, and when she does, she meets him as a brother: but I can see it costs her a pang.

Ah me! It seems very hard that the happiness of one should cost the misery of another: but I believe what she says is true, and that Walter would never have thought of her, even if I had never come to the Court to live. She is two years older than he, for one thing, and a woman always seems older than a man at the same age; and then all their notions are so different. The only wonder to me is, how she should ever have fancied him.

December 20.       

Betty's picture is nearly done, and is wondrously beautiful. Some of the family think it flattered, but I do not. It is only that Mr. Van Dyke has seized upon her most lovely expression that which her face wears when she is saying her prayers, or nursing her little brothers, or looking upon something which pleases her—a sunset, or the like. Mr. Van Dyke himself thinks it the best picture he hath painted in these parts.

When it was finished, Betty looked, at it long and wistfully.

"Is it really like me?" she asked.

"Indeed it is," said I.

"I am glad of it," she said, and took another long look at the picture. "My little brothers will see it and know what I was like, and I think papa will love to look at it."

She has several times lately said things of this kind, which led me to think that she herself believes she will not live long. I cannot help feeling the same myself. Nobody ever sees a fault in her now—not a pettish word or look ever escapes her, and instead of thinking all the time of herself, as she used to do when I first came here, all her care is for other people: and she never loses a chance of pleasing and helping those around her. She is much interested in her aunt's scheme of the orphan-house, and has tried to work for it by hemming sheets and napkins, and the like, but she can sew and knit only for a few minutes at a time, because of the pain in her shoulder. I fear she will soon leave us. And yet why should I say fear? 'Twould be a blessed change for her, and I am sure she is ripe for it.

I have been to Exeter with my Lady Jemima, to see her house there, and help her choose matters for her housekeeping. The place is called, in the neighborhood, "Lady House," and was once a small convent of gray nuns. It is in good repair and mostly well furnished, and there is a gallery with cells on each side, which she will fit up as bed-rooms for her older girls. She will have a nursery for the young ones, and is looking about for a suitable nurse for them. I think she will take the oldest girl in Lady Rosamond's school, who is good, and, steady, and understands spinning and knitting, as well as all sorts of needlework, coarse and fine.

We stayed at the palace, and I think Mrs. Hall, the Bishop's lady, has quite overcome in her mind her old prejudice against married clergymen. She was remarking to me on the beautiful order and peace of the household—the servants so well behaved and attentive, and so happy each in his or her own place—the maids trained so as they may make good wives and mothers, and carefully instructed in religion by Mrs. Hall herself; the children so well bred and restrained, yet withal so cheerful, and on such happy terms of respect and intimacy with both father and mother.

I ventured to say to her:

"Do you think the Bishop would be a happier or a better man if he were condemned to a lonely, solitary life, with no home, and no wife or children to cheer him after his labors? And is he not better prepared to sympathise with both the joys and sorrows of his flock, from having experienced some of the same?"

"Maybe so!" said she, and then presently she sighed—a very deep, sorrowful sigh, methought I knew well enough what she was thinking of.

She has three orphan maids from Exeter, and one for whom Walter specially made interest from Plymouth, the child of an old sea captain, lately dead of a fever, besides the little child from London, who is now at the Court, and sleeps in Lady Jemima's room. She is a very pretty, gentle little creature, full of play, and of wonder at all she sees, having never before been out of London. Betty has introduced her to the fowls and the cat and kittens, and hath also made over to her, her great linen baby, which I made when I first came here. Lady Jemima thinks there never was such another child made.

Christmas is close at hand, when we are to have great revels, as is the custom here. Mr. Van Dyke tells us a deal about the manner of keeping the holiday in the Low Countries, and of St. Nicholas (whom they call Santa Claus,) coming with gifts to put in the children's socks and shoes when they are asleep. Betty and the little Catharine are much interested, and wish the saint would come hither.

Last Christmas I was at home, and dear father preached in the church, and afterward superintended the giving away of the Christmas dole of bread and blankets, and a fine plum bun to each child in the school. I little thought then how matters would be changed with me before Christmas came round again.

My Lady now goes down-stairs, and hath even been out into the garden. She seems better in health, and more light-hearted that I have ever known her, and has lost much of the melancholy expression which used to mark her face. My Lord is even more devoted to her than ever. He is no more captious and disposed to quarrel with Walter, as he used to be, but makes him very welcome, and I think consults him a good deal upon business matters. He is a good deal perplexed and annoyed because the neighboring magistrates and gentry urge him to prosecute some of his tenants who are Puritans, and seldom or never attend the parish church—a thing he is no ways disposed to do.

David Lee, the farmer, of whom I spoke once before as having some of his neighbors meet for prayers in his house, has given up the farm on which he and his have lived for I don't know how long, and is going to the new plantations in America, along with John Starbuck, from the Mill Heads, whose brother is there already. David is brother to old Uncle Jan Lee down at the Cove, and nearly as old a man, though not so infirm. But he has two stout sons, and three daughters, one of whom is betrothed to Ephraim Starbuck, and he says he values his religious liberty more than his home. My Lord is much grieved, and has tried to prevail on him to remain, promising him protection and countenance, but failing to move him, he has (so Walter says), dealt most liberally with him, and given him some valuable presents in the way of stock and tools.

My Lord thinks the old man is throwing away his own life and those of his family, but Walter is more hopeful. He says the land over there is good, and the harbors excellent, and he believes the new colony may in time become a place of importance. He tells me the colonists have begun by establishing schools, and have even founded a college, which seems odd enough. What will they do with a collage out there, among the savages?

CHAPTER XII.

EBENEZER.

January 3.       

HOW ill have I treated this poor faithful journal of mine! And I fear 'tis like to fare even worse, in the future. I can hardly realize it, but such is the fact. I am going to be married the day after to-morrow. Whereas I had not expected such an event before June, at the nearest, and my poor dear child, Lady Betty, is the good fairy who has brought all this about. But I will go back and tell my story in an orderly manner.

There was great bustle and interest in making ready for the holidays—more even than usual, for my Lord meant to celebrate the birth of his sons, by giving a good piece of beef, and a fine pudding to each one of the cottagers. He was to have had a feast for them at the Court, but on account of my Lady's health, and for some other reasons, that is put off till next summer. Then the school children were to be feasted at my Lady's expense, and a Christmas gift made to each, and all the maid servants were to have new gowns; all of which involved a good deal of work for some of us.

Most of the shopping fell upon Lady Jemima, and myself, and we had a fine time going to Biddeford, and selecting gowns, ribbons, and the like. And I was surprised to see how much interest dear Lady Jemima took in the purchase. I could not have thought it was in her, to care so much for such a matter. She is a great deal more cheerful than I have ever seen her, and really grows pretty and plump, now that she has left off her fasting and sitting up of nights. Every one sees the change. I am sure she is very good to love me as she does. I don't believe I could do it, in her place.

Betty was very grave and thoughtful for two or three days before Christmas, and I wondered what was in her head. On Christmas-Eve, as she and I were sitting in my Lady's room—my Lady nursing one of the babes, and Betty holding the other, I was glad to sit still, for I was thoroughly tired, and the quiet was very grateful to me. We had been silent for some minutes, when Betty spoke:

"Mamma, why don't Margaret and Walter get married? I thought that was the next thing, when people were betrothed."

"And so it is, my dear one!" answered her mother. "But then you see Margaret has a little nursling whom she does not like to leave. What do you think you would do without her?"

"But she would not go so very far-away. She would only be at Corby-End," said Betty. Then, after a little silence, "Mamma, I should like to see Margaret married."

"Why, so you shall, and be bridesmaid too, if you like," answered her mother. "Why not?"

"Then, mamma, I should like them to be married pretty soon," replied Betty, "because I don't believe I shall be here a great while longer."

This was the first time she had spoken so plainly, though she had hinted as much a good many times lately. My Lady started and looked anxiously at her.

"Why do you say that, my darling?" she asked. "Don't you feel as well?"

"I don't know, mamma," said Betty. "I feel languid and weary, and there is a feeling 'here,'" (pressing her hand to her heart,) "which I never had before you were ill, and which tells me that I shall not live long."

"Dear child, that is only a fancy," said her mother, kissing her. "You must drive away such gloomy thoughts."

"They are not gloomy," said this strange child; "and they are not fancies, either. Something calls me away all the time, and at night, when I lie awake, I hear such strange, beautiful music in the air and among the trees. But I wont talk about it, if it makes you unhappy, dear mamma," she added, seeing the tears in her mother's eyes. "Only, if you please, I should so much like to have Walter and Margaret married very soon. Please, wont you have it so?"

"We will see," answered her mother.

Betty was silent, but I could see she was turning the matter over in her mind, as her fashion is. And when she went to bed, she spoke of it again.

"Margaret, if you want to make me very happy, you will be married very soon. I am quite sure that I have only a little time to live now, and I do so want to see you married. Please do let me speak to papa about it."

What could I say? I saw how much in earnest she was, and I believed with herself that she had not long to live, and that she might go from us in any of the fainting fits she had lately. She saw, I suppose, that I was moved, and urged me again, even with tears, to let her speak to my Lord.

"Don't cry!" said I, alarmed. "You shall do as you please, but you must not cry, or you will bring on one of your bad times again."

But the bad time came, in spite of me. She fainted, and it was more than ten minutes before we could bring her round. I began to think she had gone for good, but she breathed again at last, her breath coming in most painful gasps and sobs. She is weaker after every one of these fits, and longer in recovering herself.

When she mentioned the subject again, I told her she should do as she liked, and at last she went to sleep, quite content and happy.

I did not leave her save to go to my room and put on my wrapper. As I went out into the gallery, I met Mr. Van Dyke, with his hands full of toys and sweetmeats.

"See here, Mistress Merton," said he. "Cannot we put these into the shoes of my little lady and Catharine, and so give them a pleasant surprise, and let them think the good Saint Nicholas has been to visit them?"

I was well-pleased with the fancy, and we went to my Lady Jemima's room, where the little Catharine sleeps. Lady Jemima entered into the sport and we filled the little socks and shoes with sugar-plums and toys. Then I went back and lay down by Betty, whom I did not mean to leave that night.

Early in the morning, long before dawn, we were roused by the schoolboys, and the young men and maids from the village, coming to sing carols under the window. Mrs. Judith and her maids were up early, as it was, and they were called into the hall and regaled with cakes and spiced ale.

Soon the whole household was astir, and Betty would get up and be dressed with the rest, to meet the family at breakfast. I did not oppose her, for she seemed strong and bright for her, and besides I did not believe that anything would make much difference. There is that in her face nowadays that I have seen too often to mistake its meaning. She was very merry this morning, and much delighted at finding the St. Nicholas gifts in her shoes.

"I know how Saint Nicholas looks, Margaret!" said she. "He hath fine dark eyes, and curling hair, and a peaked beard, and he paints beautiful pictures."

So I saw that she had guessed the riddle at once. Little Catharine, however, was not so quick in her apprehension, but I believe thinks, to this hour, that St. Nicholas paid her a visit, and only regrets that she was not awake to see him.

Betty had made a couple of fine handkerchiefs for Christmas gifts to her father and mother, doing the open hems very nicely, with a little of my help. And after prayers, she had the pleasure of giving them, and seeing them admired to her heart's content.

"And please you, my Lord, I have to beg for a Christmas box!" she said, with a little formal courtesy. "You know you promised me one."

"Why, so I did, Bess, and what shall it be?" said my Lord, well-pleased.

"Let me whisper in your ear, papa," said she.

He bent his stately head down to her—he is very indulgent to her, nowadays—and then, as she whispered eagerly to him, he stared, laughed heartily, and bade her ask Walter, since he was the person most concerned.

"I think he will be willing, don't you, papa?" said Betty: "He is always so kind and obliging."

My Lord roared with laughter again, and said he did not doubt he would be willing, since it was to oblige his cousin. And so I hardly know how, 'twas all settled in an hour that we were to be married on Twelfth Day, and so go home to Corby-End.

It grieves me that I must be married away from mother, but there is no help for it, and Walter promises to take me home for a visit so soon as the spring opens.

The Christmas revels went off very nicely. We all went to church, my Lord and Lady, and all—and my Lord stayed to the sacrament—a thing I never knew him do before. The church was beautifully adorned with ivy and holly, and such late flowers as the mild season often spares till Christmas. Everybody was dressed in their best, and all were exchanging good wishes and, Christmas words.

I could, not help shedding some tears as I remembered last Christmas, when I was at home, and dear father was alive and well: but for all that I felt wonderfully tranquil and happy. Old Uncle Jan Lee was at church, and so I was glad to see were his brother and all his family. My Lord would take no denial, but would have them all up at the Court for their Christmas dinner—Will Atkins and his wife, and all—so we had a great gathering, and a very merry one, but all sober and decorous enough.

Betty lay down and had a nap after dinner, and so was ready to see the revels in the evening, when we had the Christmas mummers—Lord Christmas, Dame Mince Pie and all the rest, with a fine copy of verses from the schoolmaster, in which he compared our poor babes to Castor and Pollux, and I know not what other heathen gods. I fear he was rather scandalized by our levity, for no one could help laughing, but my Lord thanked him and made him a handsome present, so he was consoled.

Mr. Penrose was not with us, he keeping his Christmas at Sir Thomas Fulton's. And so ended our Christmas day.

Since then I have lived in a kind of dream, recalled to this lower world, however, about once an hour, by Mrs. Brewster, who wants me to try on something, or to give my judgment on some solemn matter of trimming or pattern. But I am sure I shall never know what to do with so many fine clothes as they are preparing for me. It is very silly in me, I dare say, but I cannot help wishing I were not so poor. If my poor dear father's ship had come home, now!

January 5.       

I have to-day had the greatest—yes, the very greatest surprise of my life, greater even than that of finding myself on the eve of marriage to a great gentleman like Walter. I was hearing Betty's Latin lesson, which she will still keep up though she has dropped most of her other lessons these short days, when Mrs. Judith herself came up, and informed me that a gentleman was inquiring for me and was awaiting me in the little parlor.

"A gentleman to see me—you must surely be mistaken, Mrs. Judith!" said I.

"Indeed I am not!" she asserted, with a merry twinkle in her eye. "'Tis a gallant young gentleman as I wish to see, and he asks for Mrs. Margaret Merton. So go you down and see him."

I arranged my dress and went down-stairs, wondering who it could possibly be, and thinking over all the gentlemen I had ever known, which were not many. Somehow it never came into my head to think of Dick, and yet when I opened the door of the little parlor, there he was, looking as composed and grave in his sober riding suit, as if he had but just come over from Chester to spend Sunday at home.

I don't know what I said or did at first, save that I cried, laughed, and talked all at once, till suddenly a thought came over me, which made me cry out: "Oh, Dick! You have brought me no ill news, have you?"

"No, no! Very far from that," he answered me, cheerfully. "Why, Meg! How you have grown, and how handsome you are! The gentleman who met me in the hall, and to whom I made myself known, tells me that I am just in time, for that you are to be married to-morrow. How is that? I thought the great event was to be put off till spring."

I explained that the time had been shortened to gratify my little lady, who was in delicate health, and who was bent on seeing the wedding.

"Aye, doubtless it was a great sacrifice!" said he, in his old way.

"But Dick," said I, "what wind has blown you here? I am sure something must have happened more than common."

"A good wind, though a most unexpected one," he answered. "The last one I ever thought of, I am sure. Meg, my father's ship has come home, safe and sound, and with a wonderful rich freight. My father's poor venture of three hundred odd pounds is magnified tenfold, and more. Mr. Gunning tells me that our fair share of the cargo comes to five thousand pounds, and he is quite willing to advance us the money upon it."

I could only sit and stare stupidly at him for a moment. Then I burst out crying, and sobbed: "Oh, if my poor father had but lived to see it!"

"He will not miss it where he is," answered Richard, gravely. "But is it not wonderful?"

"Wonderful, indeed," said I. "'Tis like a chapter of romance. I can hardly believe it."

"Nor could I, till I saw the ship herself, and went on board of her, for you must know I have been in Bristol, and a fair and great city it is. I have had a wearisome journey."

And here came in one of the men with a great tray of refreshments, sent by Mrs. Judith. And while Richard was eating, came in first my Lady, who made my brother welcome with her usual grace and courtesy, and then Walter and my Lord, and the lawyer from Biddeford, who is here now.

And there was a deal of talk about business before I could get Dick to myself again. But I did finally, and carried him off for a walk by ourselves in the chase, and he told me all about home matters. How my mother took the news, and how she loves the cottage too well to leave it, but will add somewhat thereto, as she can do with great convenience. How all our old neighbors rejoiced in our good fortune, specially Dame Crump, who is still alive, and who has always prophesied that the ship would come home sometime. How Mr. Carey makes himself loved by all, both rich and poor, save that he and Sir Peter Beaumont do not well agree. Finally, and best of all, how Dick himself is now to carry out the darling wish of his heart, and go to Cambridge, to begin his studies as soon as possible.

And so ends the day before my wedding day, with all the content possible. And as I look back at the last year, and see how wonderfully I have been preserved and helped, what friends I have found on every side, and how the plans of mine enemies have been frustrated and brought to naught, my heart overflows with thankfulness and joy, and I feel like consecrating myself anew and more entirely than ever to Him who is the Father of the Fatherless and the God of the widow.

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Here ends all of my journal which I have seen fit to transcribe for my daughters to read when I am gone, as I feel that I soon shall be, to join my honored parents and my dear Lady.

My married life hath not been wholly without clouds, as what life is? In the civil wars which began soon after, my husband took part with Parliament, and afterward served under the Protector, while my Lord was on the other side: yet did that circumstance never wholly divide the families, and my husband was able to be of great service to my Lord in protecting his property from sequestration.

Poor Lady Betty survived till Easter, gradually growing weaker, but suffering little, and able to keep up till the last. On Easter Sunday she received the Sacrament, at her own earnest request, Mr. Penrose having given her preparatory instruction. It being a fine warm day, she rode to the parish church, sat out the whole service, and seemed none the worse. But the next morning, when Mary went to call her, she was dead, having, as it seemed, passed away without ever waking up.

We all grieved for her, and I think none more than my Lord, to whom she had become very dear of late, but we could not but feel that it was well with the child.

My Lady survived her daughter some four years. After a decent time, my Lord married again to a very good woman, a widow lady with two daughters. She was a very good wife to my Lord, and a kind mother to his sons, but she was never to be compared to my own dear Lady.

Lady Jemima lives in her own house, with her family of orphan maids about her, and is much loved and respected. Little Catharine—now a fine tall young lady, is still with her, but she has changed the rest of the family many times over, and always for their advantage. She is indeed a most excellent lady.

Felicia is still alive; a sour, discontented woman, rich, but feeling poor, and always imagining that somebody is leaguing to rob her or impose upon her. Her first fall in life I do think was when her husband positively refused to let her put in any claim to my father's estate, saying that he was rich enough already, and that she ought to be ashamed to ask for a penny, seeing she had been brought up at my father's expense. Felicia scolded and sulked, but he was firm, and for once she met with her match.

Mr. Fowler is dead now, and poor Felicia lives alone, having quarrelled with all her husband's relations, and not being able to find a waiting gentlewoman who will stay with her more than a month at a time.

Richard went abroad just at the beginning of the trouble, as tutor to a young nobleman, and did not return till the restoration, when he took orders, and is now a useful, unambitious parish-priest in Chester. I don't think he will ever be a bishop, as I used to dream, and I don't believe he wishes it. But there is some hope that he wilt have my father's living at Saintswell, and dwell in the dear old house where we were all born.

THE END.