CHAPTER IV.
A WELCOME VISITOR.
March 30.
EASTER is almost here. It has seemed strange not to go to church, as my dear father maintained daily prayers all through Lent, but the chaplain is come home now, so we shall have prayers in the chapel every morning.
I have quite shaken down into my place, and am beginning to feel at home, and even happy. Everybody is kind to me, even Anne. She came to me one day with her eyes red with weeping, and looking so sad that I asked her what the matter was. So she burst out crying and told me that her baby sister was dead. I comforted her as well as I could, and seeing her heart was full, I drew her on to talk about the child, and its winning ways, and finally read her what our Lord says about little children. She left me, quite consoled, and now thinks nothing too much to do for me.
As for Lady Betty, I have no great trouble with her, except that I have now and then to fight a battle with her selfishness, and assert myself a little. The poor thing has taken to me wonderfully.
"I do love you!" she said to me, last night, as I was undressing her.
"And so do I love you!" I answered.
"Really?" said she, looking at me wistfully. "Really and truly?"
"Really and truly!" I answered. "Why not?"
"Mrs. Burley said I was so cross that nobody could love me," said she. "And I am cross, I know. I was cross to you this morning!"
"Rather!" I answered, smiling.
"Well, I am sorry!" she said, impulsively. "Will you love me if I am cross?"
"Yes, my dear," said I: "only, Lady Betty, why should you be cross?"
"I don't know—because I am so sick and so—you know, Margaret. I am not like other people, and I can't help being cross!"
"Are you sure?" I asked. "Did you ever try?"
She opened her great eyes as if such a notion had never occurred to her mind. But she answered frankly: "No, I don't know that I ever did."
"Then you can't tell whether you can help it or not," said I. "All sick people are not cross. Phillis was not, neither was my little playmate and friend, Grace Forrester."
"Tell me about them," said she.
I am glad every time I find something new to talk about, and Lady Betty is never weary of asking questions about Phillis and Grace.
"Well, I wish I 'could' help being cross," said she, finally. "How can I?"
"You must ask the Lord to help you," said I.
"And will He?"
"Yes, if you ask Him earnestly. But then you must try hard not to let the cross words come out, even if you feel cross inside. If you don't say a word, you will get over it all the quicker."
I noticed the next morning that she was not nearly so sharp with Mary, even when Mary hurt her by shaking her chair. I felt myself reproved at seeing the effort she made, thinking how ready I have all my life been to resent and retort.
I have quite settled down, as I said, and everything goes on regularly. There are a good many ladies staying in the house, but I see none of them except by accident, as my room and Lady Betty's are quite by themselves, away from the company part of the house. If only I were not so homesick.
April 6.
Something has really happened since I wrote last. I have had a visit from Mr. Carey, and have written a long letter to send home by him, since he was so kind as to offer to take charge of one. Mr. Carey stopped at the parsonage in the village with old Doctor Parnell, and walked up to Stanton Court to see his aunt Mrs. Judith and myself.
I was overjoyed at seeing him, and was so silly as to let my joy overflow at my eyes. It did seem so like meeting some one from home. He told me he was going back to the Rectory next week, and would gladly take charge of a letter for me. So I wrote my letter, saying everything I could to make dear mother think me happy (as indeed I am, were I not so homesick).
Hearing that I was writing home, Lady Stanton gave me a kind message for my mother, and a new silver groat apiece for each of the children. Lady Betty too would send her gifts to the twins, in the shape of a piece of gay ribbon, which she begged of her mother for the purpose. When my package was ready, my Lady kindly gave me leave to carry it down to the Rectory myself. I was glad to go, both for the sake of the walk, and that I might see something of the village, where I had not been except once to church.
Mrs. Judith bade the gardener show me a shorter path to the village, through the wood, and down a ravine or coomb, as they call it here, in which runs a beautiful brook. About half way down, a beautiful spring comes boiling up from under a large rock, in quite a large stream, and the water is deliciously clear and cold. I could easily have wasted half the afternoon in this charming place, which, though very different, made me think of our old haunt, the Holy Well in the deer-park, where dear Dick and I used to have so many long talks. But I know that I must not be out too long, so I tore myself away and hastened onward.
It seemed pleasant to be within the very walls of a rectory once more, though that at Stanton Corbet—as the village is called—is by no means so fine a house as ours at Saintswell. A part of it is very old, however, and it is all overgrown with climbing plants, (there is such a passion flower as never would flourish with us); and somehow the very air did smell like home.
Mistress Parnell made me very welcome. She is not the rector's wife, but his sister, neither of them having married. They are both old people, with a wonderful likeness to each other, both in features and expression. Mistress Parnell would have me sit down to eat a cake and drink a glass of mead.
"And so you have a new chaplain up at the Court?" remarked Doctor Parnell to me.
"Yes sir," I answered. "He came only yesterday."
"Did you ever know him?" asked the Doctor, turning to Mr. Carey. "His name is—"
"Penrose," said I, seeing that he turned to me to supply the name which he had forgotten. "Mr. Robert Penrose."
"Oh! Aye!" said he, smiling. "A Cornish name, belike.
"'By Pol, Tre, and Pen,
You shall know the Cornish men.'"
"He is a Cornish man, I know," said I; "I heard Mrs. Carey say as much."
"I rather think I know him," said Mr. Carey. "He is an Oxford man, and one of the new lights. He was at Exeter awhile, and was to have been my Lord's chaplain, but the arrangement fell through. I fancy my Lord thought him too much of the Archbishop's way of thinking."
"Oh, well," said Doctor Parnell, "I hope he may prove a trusty shepherd, and preach the root of the matter, after all. For myself," he added, smiling, "I must even go on in my own way. I am too old to change my old Mumpsimus, for the Archbishop's new Sumpsimus."
Whereat both the gentlemen laughed, but 'twas all Greek to me. However, I fancied I understood something when I came to hear Mr. Penrose read prayers—for he used so much ceremony, and read in such an artificial tone, that I could hardly understand him.
Mistress Parnell would have me carry a basket of Guinea fowls' eggs to my Lady, so I waited a little for them, and had a pleasant talk with Mr. Carey. Oh, how I did wish I were going back with him, but there is no use in that. Here I am, and here must I stay. And, in truth, 'twould cost me no small pang to part with my poor child. I begged him, if he saw Dick, to put him in mind to write to me, if ever he had a chance.
"I think the opportunity is more like to be wanting than the wish, Mistress Margaret," said he, smiling. "Nevertheless I will give your brother your message, and also when I write to my mother, I will try to send you news from home. I could wish there were a regular post for letters from one part of the kingdom to the other, as it is said there is in Holland."
"It may come to pass, though belike not in our day," said Doctor Parnell. "This maiden may live to see such a post passing regularly as often as once a week between London and Exeter."
That does not seem very likely—however, there is no telling.
When I parted from Mr. Carey, it was almost like leaving home once more, and I wept so much after I got into the woods, that I was fain to stop at the spring, and bathe my eyes a long time, before I went up to the house.
As I was bending over the little basin, I was startled by a step, and looking up hastily, I met the eye of a fine-looking gentleman, whom I had never seen before. He had a look of my Lord, but much younger, and with a difference, as the heralds say. He was much bronzed, and I took him for a sailor. He raised his hat, and bowed in courteous fashion, as our eyes encountered, but passed without speaking.
I wondered who he could be, but was soon enlightened by Mrs. Judith, who told me that young Mr. Corbet had come down to see my Lord. "He is my Lord's cousin, and the master, now his father is dead, of the fine old house in the woods, about a mile from here; and unless my Lady's child prove a boy, he is like to be heir of all."
Lady Betty was full of news about Cousin Walter, as she called him. "Cousin Walter," had been to see her already, and had brought her a little dog from foreign parts, which she was to have to-morrow, and a fine picture-book from London. I am not likely to see much of this fine gentleman, but I cannot help fancying him for his kindness to my poor little nursling. And I could see that my Lady was pleased, also. It seemed that his mother, Mrs. Corbet, wishes to return to end her days in the old house, and he has come down, like a dutiful son, to see it put in order for her.
April 9.
Our company have all gone now, and we are not to have any more for some time—only Madam Corbet is to be here for some two or three weeks, before she goes to her own house. Mary shook her head and looked grave upon this, but would not tell me why. I am glad, for my part, that we are likely to have a quieter house. I am sure so much of care and company cannot be good for my Lady. I now take my dinner and supper with the rest, an arrangement which makes me more one of the family than I have been before. My seat is next the chaplain's, so we are becoming well acquainted.
April 10.
Last night Lady Jemima came to my room before I had finished writing, so that I was forced to put my book away in a hurry. I thought at first that something must have happened, and stood waiting to hear what it was, but she bade me be seated, and taking a chair herself she began turning over my books. They were but few—my Bible and Prayer-book, the book of "Contemplations" my Lord gave me, and Spenser's "Faerie Queene," a present from Dick, besides my old Latin grammar and Virgilius, which I had brought partly for association's sake, and a volume of father's sermons.
"Do you read your Bible every day?" she asked, presently.
"Yes, my Lady," I replied.
"And do you understand all that you read?"
"No, my Lady," said I, adding: "I suppose nobody does."
"Of course not, child. And what other books of devotion have you?"
"None, my Lady, only this." And I showed her the Bishop's "Contemplations," which I am reading by course.
She looked at it rather slightingly, I thought, and laid it down. Then she began to catechize me. "Had I been confirmed? Had I received the Communion, and how many times? Did I say my prayers, and how often?" and finally—"Did I fast?" I did not quite know what to answer, so she asked me again if I ate meat at this holy season. I told her I did.
"And why do you so?" she asked, sharply. "There is always fish on my brother's table."
I told her that fish did not suit me: that it made me ill, and that if I went without meat, I had the headache, and was not fit for my work: but that I had always been used to deny myself in the matter of dainties in time of Lent. She looked but half satisfied.
"'Where there is a will there is a way,'" said she. "If your heart were right, you would not mind a little inconvenience. I will give you a book of devotions, which you will do well to use, and which will do you more good than all this Puritan stuff!" giving my Lord's volume, a contemptuous push from her.
I was nettled to see her treat the volume so, and said, I fear rather sharply:
"'Tis no Puritan stuff, my Lady. It was writ by the Bishop of Exeter, and I am sure he is a good man, besides being a Bishop."
"It is not the rochet that makes the Bishop, or the title either," said Lady Jemima. "An open enemy is better than a half-hearted or treacherous friend. Your Bishop Hall is no better than a traitor, I fear. How do you like Mr. Penrose?"
"Well enough," I said.
"But his preaching and services—how do you like them?" persisted Lady Jemima.
I was rather confused. I said I was not used to that way of reading or speaking, and that Mr. Penrose's sermons seemed to me not very clear. I could not make out what he would be at, and it seemed to me as if he did not quite know himself.
"That is a very improper way of speaking," said Lady Jemima, with great sharpness. "You should know that it is not your place to sit in judgment on a priest. You would do much better to learn in silence and humility, than to carp and criticise."
I felt my face flush at her tone and manner, which were very severe, and even contemptuous, and I answered, quickly:
"You asked me, my Lady, and if I speak at all, I must needs say what I think. I have no desire to criticise bishop, priest, or deacon, unless I am asked."
It was now Lady Jemima's turn to color, and she bit her lip, as if she did not quite know what to say.
"You are malipert, mistress!" she said, at last. "I came to do you a kindness, but this is not encouraging. I will leave you this book, however, and I hope before I see you again, you will have come to a better mind."
And with that she rose, and laid a book on the table.
"I beg your pardon, my Lady, if I have displeased you," said I, seeing that she was about to go. "I meant no offence."
She seemed mollified, sat down again, and began giving me a lecture on my religious duties, as that I ought to spend so many hours a day in reading and devotion, that I should learn by heart the seven penitential psalms, and say them every day, and so on.
"But, my Lady," said I, "if I were to do all that you have laid down for me, I should have no time for my duty to Lady Betty, which is my chief business, and for which my Lady keeps and pays me."
"You should serve God first of all," said she, solemnly: "no matter what other interests may suffer. How do you expect to go to heaven unless you give up your whole life to God's service? The work of the longest life may not be sufficient to secure your salvation, and yours may, for aught you know, be very short. You may die this very night!"
And then, the clock striking ten, she went away, much to my relief. The book she left was one of devotions and prayers for the seven canonical hours, which seem very good, though to use them all, methinks, would occupy the most of the day.
April 11.
Lady Betty has begun to spell words of two syllables. She learns very fast, and since she has really found out that reading means getting stories out of books, she is so eager to get on that I have to check her. She is usually very good, I must say, but now and then I have a little scene with her. She had a great crying time this morning because the little dog Mr. Corbet promised her has not yet come. I tried to soothe and quiet her, but she only screamed the louder, and struck right and left. As I came near her, she struck me a severe blow, and really hurt me.
At last I said to her, "Lady Betty, unless you try to stop crying and be good, I cannot tell you any story to-night." (I have lately told her a story every night.)
But she would not be still. Till at last, the door opened suddenly, and there was my Lord.
"What's all this?" he said, angrily. "What is this noise—enough to deafen one?"
He spoke very harshly, I thought, and Lady Betty stopped crying and seemed to shrink into herself.
"What are you about, Mistress Merton, to suffer this uproar?" continued my Lord, turning to me.
I said that Lady Betty had been disappointed about her dog, which Mr. Corbet had promised her.
"Then, if she does not be quiet, I will have the dog's neck broken when it does come. Mr. Corbet had better mind his own business. He is not master quite yet, I trow. And for you, Betty, I will try what virtue lies in a birch rod, if I hear any more noise. You are cosseted and cockered out of all reason." So saying, he shut the door violently and went away.
Poor Betty had sunk down into a shapeless heap in her chair, and was quite silent.
I went to her, and found her shivering and trembling, as if in an ague fit. I took her in my arms, and she burst out into a fit of crying—not frantic screaming, as before, but deep drawn sobs, which seemed to rend her bosom.
"Oh, if I had only never been born! If I had only never been born!" I heard her say over and over to herself, as her head lay on my shoulder.
"You should not wish yourself dead, my love!" I began, but she interrupted me.
"I didn't say I wished to die. That would make my mother sorry. I wished I had never been born at all, and then nobody would have cared. I wish God had not made me!" she added, with a fresh burst of sobs. "I don't see why He did. I am of no use to anybody, and now I have angered my father, and you, and—" The poor little head went down again.
"I am not angry, my dear!" said I, which was true, as far as she was concerned, though I confess I was angry enough with my Lord. "I am sorry that you have been naughty, but I am not angry. I think you will try to be good now, and stop sobbing, for that will make you sick and vex your mother, and I am sure you would not wish to do that."
She did really try to be quiet, but it was of no use. The sobs would come, in spite of her. At last, however, she grew more composed, and lay still, with her head on my breast. I held her in silence for a little while, my heart aching for the poor thing.
Presently she raised her face, all stained with tears, and said, in a quivering voice: "Oh, I am 'so' tired!"
"Poor dear!" said I, kissing her. "I will sing to you, and you shall go to sleep, and feel better."
"I shall 'never' feel better," said she, pitifully. "I am tired all the time—tired of everything. I shall never be rested, I know. Is it wicked to wish I had never been born—for indeed I cannot help it?"
I did not quite know what to say. It seemed to me that in her case, I should wish the same.
"And now I have angered my father again," she continued: "and I have hurt you, and all—and oh, Margaret—" and her poor frame quivered with now excitement—"do you think papa will have my dog's neck broken when it comes?"
"No, my dear love," I answered her: "not if you are good. Don't disturb yourself about that. I do not think my Lord will let the dog be hurt, unless you are very naughty about it."
"But he—he said he would, and he is angry with me, and wont forgive me, nor come and see me. Oh, Margaret, do ask him to forgive me, and not let my poor dog be killed!"
"I will, by and by," said I, "but not now." For the truth was I did not believe my Lord would think of the matter again after he had gotten over his fit of temper, which seemed to me quite as bad as Betty's, if not worse. "I will ask him at supper time. I do not think he would like it if I were to go to him at present. Now let me wash your face and make you neat before my Lady comes in."
She was very docile now, and I dressed her without any trouble. She was very tired, so I laid her on the bed and sat down by her.
"Margaret," said she, presently, "how can I help being angry?"
"I don't know that you can help feeling angry," said I, "but I will tell you how I help it sometimes. I just shut my mouth and don't say one word, only I repeat to myself the prayer for charity, and the Lord's prayer: and if I am firm, and don't let myself speak one word, I can generally put down the feeling pretty soon: but if I begin to talk, all is over!"
"I didn't suppose you were ever angry," said Lady Betty.
"I have naturally a very hasty temper," I answered. "I don't believe yours is any more so."
"But you had such a nice home, I should not think that you would ever have had anything to vex you."
I could not help smiling as I thought of Felicia. I told Betty I did not believe there was any place in the world where there was not plenty of provocation of one sort or another.
"There wont be any in heaven, I suppose," said she, wistfully.
"No," I told her. "Everything will be good and peaceful there."
"But I am afraid I shall never go to heaven!" she continued, sadly. "Only good girls go to heaven, and I am not good, though I do try to be!" she added, earnestly. "Nobody knows how hard I try to be good, sometimes!"
"Your Father in heaven knows," said I. "He knows all your hindrances, too, and will help you. Now lie still and try to sleep, and I will sing for you."
She dropped asleep presently, for she was very tired, and I sat still by her side, holding her hands. My head was very full of thoughts. "Only good girls go to heaven!" Then what am I to do? I am not good, I know very well. Surely I must be better than I am, if I am to escape at last.
Lady Betty waked when the bell rung for chapel, and Mary came with her supper. She said she did not want any, rather fretfully at first, and then, as if recollecting herself, she added:
"But I will try to eat something, Mary."
"That is a good little lady!" returned Mary, who is always kind and patient. "Eat your supper, and let Mrs. Margaret go to chapel."
"But you will do what I asked you, wont you, Margaret?" asked Lady Betty. "I can't go to sleep to-night unless you do."
I promised her that I would do my best, and having arranged my dress, I went down to chapel.
It being Friday, Mr. Penrose preached a short sermon. I don't recollect the verse of Scripture, but the real text was poor Betty's, "You can't go to heaven unless you are good." He spoke much of the duties of fasting and mortification, and of our making satisfaction for our sins by repentance and good works. I am sure I never heard such a sermon from my father, but papa's discourses were generally very simple and plain. Mr. Penrose is a good speaker, when one is used to his voice, and certainly he seems very much in earnest, especially when he spoke of the horrors of perdition and the anger of God against sinners. His sermon made me miserable—if that does one any good.
I did not forget my promise to poor Betty, and waited for my Lord as he came in to supper. He had slept, by the way, all through the sermon. He looked pleasant enough, and seeing me standing there, he stopped and said, in his usual cheerful, jovial voice:
"Well, Mistress Merton, what can I do for you?"
I told him my errand, adding that Lady Betty was very unhappy, thinking that he was angry with her. He stared as if he had forgotten all about the matter, then said, as if he were a little ashamed, as well as sorry, I thought:
"Oh, poor thing, does she think so much of my words as that? Tell her I am not angry with her, only she must be a good girl, and not do so any more."
"And about the dog?" I ventured to say. "Lady Betty has so set her heart upon it, I hardly know what she would do if it were killed. May I tell her that you do not mean to—"
"Of course," said he, interrupting me with some indignation in his voice. "Whoever thought of killing the poor thing? I wonder you should think of such a thing. What do you take me for, Mistress Merton?"
"For a man who throws stones, and then wonders that any one should be so foolish as to be hit," I thought, but I only said, "I thank your Lordship. I will set poor Lady Betty's mind at rest, then."
"Of course. And here, give her this," said he, giving me a gold piece from his pocket.
"Much use she has for money, poor thing; a few kind words would be worth far more," I thought, but I said no more.
I sat next Mr. Penrose at supper, and noticed that he ate almost nothing—only brown bread and cheese. Methought he looked reprovingly at my dish of cream and slice of white bread. He has been in Chester, and we had a pleasant little talk about that part of the country. I think I could like him well enough if he were not so solemn.
I set poor Betty's mind at rest by giving her my Lord's message and present, at which she was wondrously delighted, and said again and again how good he was. I did not see the great goodness, but I was content that she should think so.
CHAPTER V.
EASTER TIDE.
April 15.
THIS is Holy-week, and I have very little time to write in my journal. I am trying to pursue the course of devotions Lady Jemima gave me, and of which Mr. Penrose highly approves; and that, with my attendance on Lady Betty, takes all my time. Lady Betty has not been so well, and is rather fretful and exacting. I try to have patience with her, but it is hard work, sometimes.
I don't know what to do about receiving the Sacrament at Easter. I don't like to miss it, but Mr. Penrose and Lady Jemima say so much of the peril of unworthily receiving. Lady Jemima is very kind to me, and gives me much good advice. I told her that I felt very unhappy because I was no better, and she said that was right—that we ought constantly to contemplate our sins and short comings in order to make us humble and contrite, and that it became sinners, in a state of probation, and likely to be called to judgment at any time, to be grave and sad.
I have no time now to read the "Contemplations," and not much for the Scripture. To be sure, we hear it in chapel every day.
April 17.
Betty said to me, this morning: "You are not my sunshiny Margaret, any more. You look so solemn all the time, just like Aunt Jemima!"
And with that she pulled a long face, and put on a look so exactly like her aunt that I could not forbear laughing; at which she laughed too. I don't look any more sober than I feel, however. Mr. Penrose's sermons have made me realize the things of eternity more than ever I did before, and they are dreadful to me. To be sure, there is heaven, but how am I to know it is to be my portion? How can I know that my repentance is sufficient—that my sorrow for sin is real and sincere? And I have been such a sinner! In looking back over my life, I can see nought but sin. Sin where I never suspected it before—and nothing good anywhere: and the harder I try to conquer myself, the worse I am.
Lady Betty's doll is finished. She is very much pleased with it, and we have had many games of play at "making believe": she being the mother, and I by turns doctor, nurse, and aunt.
"But if you are an aunt, you must be cross," said Betty, this morning: "aunts are always cross."
"O no!" I answered. "By no means. My dear Aunt Magdalen was not cross, nor aunt Willson."
"Aunt Jemima is—almost always, I mean," persisted Betty.
"Aunt Jemima is always what?" asked the lady, who had come in softly, in time to hear Betty's words—for the door being set open for the sake of air, and Lady Jemima always walking like a cat, we had not heard her approach.
"Aunt Jemima is always what?"
"Cross!" answered Lady Betty, simply. "But I suppose you can't help it, can you, Aunt Jemima?"
Lady Jemima colored, but she did not answer Betty directly. Presently she said, "Who made you that great doll?"
"Margaret," answered Betty. "She has just finished it." And she began to display all the perfections of the rag baby.
Lady Jemima looked at the clothes, and said that they were neatly made.
"But, Margaret," said she, "I have come to sit with Betty while you go down to the chapel."
"It is not chapel time," objected Betty; "and I don't want Margaret to go away."
"But Margaret wants to say her prayers, if it is not chapel time," returned Lady Jemima. "You would not be so selfish as to keep her from them, would you? It would be much better for you to be saying your own, than to be playing with your doll at such a time."
"Well, she may go, if she wants to," said Betty, rather sadly.
So I went down and said my prayers in the empty chapel, out of the book Lady Jemima gave me, but I cannot say I found any great comfort therein. Lady Betty's sad, grieved face haunted me all the time, and I could think of nothing but getting back to her.
When I finally returned, I found Lady Betty sitting looking out of the window, with her elbow on the sill, and her chin on her hand. Lady Jemima was reading to her out of the Bible, but I don't think she paid any attention.
When Lady Jemima saw I had come back, she ceased her reading, and rose, but Lady Betty did not look round nor move.
"Good-by, Betty," said Lady Jemima.
"Good-by," said Betty.
When her aunt left the room, she said, sorrowfully enough, "Don't you love me any more, Margaret?"
"Of course I do!" said I, sitting down by her. "Why should you ask me such a question?"
"Aunt Jemima says you don't," replied the child. "She says I am so selfish."
"Selfish about what?" I asked.
"She said it was selfish in me to let you work so hard at the doll just to please me, when there are so many poor people that need clothes, and that—that—"
"Nonsense!" said I. I could not help it, so vexed was I at Lady Jemima. "I was very glad to make the doll, and shall be always glad to do anything for you."
She brightened a little on this, but I could see all the afternoon that she was cast down, and I was sorry enough that I had left her to her aunt, who, good as she is, never seems to come near Betty without hurting her in some way. After all, my work here is to take care of Betty, and I don't believe God means I should let her suffer for the sake of saying my prayers, more than anything else.
April 18.
I have had a sharp dispute with Mr. Penrose. I had been walking as far as the Abbey ruin in the park, when he joined me: and after some discourse, began to ask me what I was reading. I told him that I was reading the Bishop's "Contemplations;" whereat, he spoke slightingly of the book, and said he would give me something better. Now, when I have learned to love a book as I have this one, 'tis all the same to me as a friend, and I cannot bear to hear it spoken against. So I answered something quickly that I wanted nothing better, and beside that, I had promised to read it.
"But, Mistress Merton," said Mr. Penrose, "are you sure that you are the best judge? Am not I, your pastor, best fitted to direct your reading? And if I tell you that any book is unfit for you, are you to sit in judgment on what I say?"
"Why not?" I answered, hotly enough. "Since you yourself, as it seems, presume to sit in judgment on your Bishop?"
He was silent a moment, and did seem somewhat taken aback. Then he said, "You are something sharp. What is the Bishop to you, that you defend him so earnestly?"
"He has been a good friend to me and mine," I answered; "and he is a good man, and a good preacher. He preached the best sermon in our parish church that ever I heard in all my life."
I saw he was touched at this, and I was wicked enough to be glad I had given him a pinch, though no such thing was in my thought when I spoke.
"Then," said he, "I am to conclude that my preaching does not please you?"
"I don't sit in judgment on it," I said, demurely. Then willing to turn the conversation, I said, looking up to the great window which is still almost entire: "What a splendid pile this must have been in its day!"
"Ah, yes!" he answered. "There was piety and zeal in England in those days."
"And is there none now?" I asked.
"Nay!" said he. "Where do we hear now of bodies of men and women retiring to devote themselves to God and His service, as in those days? Now every priest must have his house and his wife and children. The service of His Maker is not enough for him."
"You can hardly expect me to quarrel with that, since I am a priest's daughter," said I, laughing. "And does not St. Paul himself say both of bishops and deacons that they should be the husband of one wife? Besides," I added, more soberly, "I see no need of people retiring into convents and abbeys to serve God. Why should we not serve him in the daily work He has given us to do?"
"'Tis a good thought, at least," he said, and so we parted good friends at last.
April 20.
Well, Easter is passed and gone. I know not whether I spent it well or ill. I did not go to the service in the chapel, but, with my Lady's permission, walked down to the church in the village. The old rector preached on the Resurrection—a mild and gentle sermon enough, not very deep or brilliant, as are Mr. Carey's, nor so solemn and awful as those of Mr. Penrose, but somehow I felt it comforting and soothing; and though I shed many tears, they were not all sad. I went to the Sacrament with fear and trembling, but the words, "Come unto me!"—and the others did seem a voice bidding me draw near—so I went. There were a good many communicants, and all were serious and devout. I specially noticed a large and majestic old man, supported by his son, as I suppose, who approached the table. He stumbled a little at the step, whereat Mr. Corbet, whom I had not seen before, came forward and took his other arm.
After the service, as I waited a little in the church-yard to speak to Mistress Parnell, this same old man came out of the church door, leaning on Mr. Corbet's arm.
"And so, Master Watty, your lady mother is coming among us again?" I heard the old man say. "I hope I shall be able to pay my duty to her, but the path grows steep to my old feet nowadays."
Mr. Corbet made him some pleasant answer, and then fell into conversation with the son—a man of about his own age.
Meantime, Doctor and Mistress Parnell came along and spoke to me.
"Did you not have service in the chapel at the Court to-day?" asked the Doctor, after he had saluted me politely. "I understood it was to be so?"
I told him that it was so, but that my Lady had given me leave to walk down to the village. "The parish church seems to me so much more pleasant and homelike than the chapel!" I ventured to add. "It does not seem like the church, where there are no poor people, and no school children."
The train of school-girls passed us at this moment, with their mistress walking behind them, and leaning on the arm of the oldest girl. She was quite elderly, and looked feeble, but had one of the finest and sweetest faces I ever saw.
"You must find time to visit our school and almshouses, and that will make you feel still more at home!" said Doctor Parnell, kindly. "We have plenty of poor people here, as everywhere else. There is a poor woman down at the Cove, who was brought to bed last night, and is but poorly off for clothes. If you will mention the case to my Lady, perhaps she can do something for them."
"I will," said I: and just at that moment a plan popped into my mind, which I hope to bring to good effect.
Mistress Parnell would have had me stop at the Rectory and take some refreshment, but I excused myself, knowing that Betty would count the hours and minutes till my return, and hastened toward home by the shortest path. I stopped a moment at the entrance of the glen walk, to gather some wild flowers for my child, when Mr. Corbet overtook me and walked the rest of the way by my side. He asked after Betty, and sent her a kindly message, and told me his mother was coming to Exeter in the Bishop's company to-morrow, and that he should meet her there, and bring her home.
"That will be pleasant to you," I said.
"I want you to know my mother," said Mr. Corbet. "She is one of a thousand. Nobody ever knew her without being the better for it."
"I think nobody can be like one's mother!" I said, and then I stopped and choked, and had much ado not to burst out crying, as I thought of my own dear mother, and how last Easter we were all together—father, and Dick, and all!
Mr. Corbet took no notice of my emotion, and presently began talking of other things. He asked me if I had noticed that tall old man in church? I said I had, and asked who he was.
"That is old Uncle Jan Lee!" replied Mr. Corbet, smiling. "Uncle to half the village and all the Cove. He sailed with my father around the world, in Franky Drake's expedition, and can tell you tales by the hour about those times. He and his nephew, Will Atkins, have been my sworn friends ever since I could run alone, and I owe them far more than my own life. I will tell you the story some day—though perhaps I had better not," he added, with his sudden smile, which lights up his grave face at times like a flash of sunshine. "It would not be wise in me to do so, for the tale does not tell very well for me, and I should be loth to lose your good opinion, Mistress Merton."
I don't see what my good opinion has to do with him. I am only a poor parson's daughter, and a governess, to make the very best of my position. However, we had a very pleasant walk, and I must say I have felt better and happier since than I have done for a long time. I suppose the long walk in the fresh air may have something to do with the matter, for I do miss the exercise I was used to take at home.
I went up to my child, and was glad to hear Mary say that she had been very good. But the tears came to the poor thing's eyes as she kissed me.
"I wish I could go to church!" said she. "I do get so tired of this room all the time!"
It is no wonder, poor dear! I mean she shall have a change of scene, now that there are no strangers in the house to stare at her.
When I sat down to dinner with the rest, I thought Mr. Penrose looked mighty stiff and dissatisfied, and I wondered what the matter was. Presently, however, it all came out:
"I did not see you in chapel, Mistress Merton!" said he to me, when the dinner was fairly in progress. "Why was that?"
I felt in very good spirits, and not, I am afraid, in any mood to be catechised; so I answered merrily enough: "I am not sure, Mr. Penrose, but I think it must have been because I was not there." And then seeing that he looked a little displeased, I added that I had been to church at the village.
"Yes, I saw you walking home!"
"Oh, you did!" thought I. "Then why need you ask me anything about the matter?"
"I hope you enjoyed the services!" he said, in a tone which contradicted his words.
"I did," I answered. "It seemed like being at home again."
"I had hoped, however, to see all the family present at the chapel," said Mr. Penrose; "and said so to my Lady. I presume, however, you had her permission for absenting yourself?"
"I should not be very likely to go without it!" I replied with some heat, for I was vexed at his tone and manner. "If you doubt my word, you had better ask my Lady herself."
By ill-luck occurred at this moment one of those unaccountable silences which will fall at such times, and my words were heard the length of the table.
My Lady looked up, and said, smiling, while all eyes were turned on us:
"What is that which is to be referred to me, Mistress Merton?"
I don't know whether I felt more like sinking into the earth, or boxing his ears who had brought me into this scrape: however, I answered, smiling in my turn, though my cheeks were as hot as fire:
"Mr. Penrose seems to think I have been playing truant, my Lady, in going to the village church this morning. But I tell him that you gave me leave to do so."
"I did so, certainly!" answered my Lady. "I thought you would feel yourself more at home, being a clergyman's daughter, and used to a parish church. I trust you had a pleasant time!"
"I did indeed, my Lady," said I. "I enjoyed it very much."
"Especially the walk home," said Mr. Penrose, in an undertone, intended only for my ear.
I was so vexed I would not speak to him again all dinnertime. I am afraid, after all, that I am not much the better for my church-going—but Mr. Penrose was certainly very provoking.
After dinner, I gave my Lady, Doctor Parnell's message, and then opened my plan to her, which was to set Lady Betty to work on some clothes for the poor babes. I told her I thought it would make an interest for Lady Betty outside of herself—that it would divert her, and be good for her in many ways. She seemed much pleased, I thought, and gave me leave to do as I saw fit, only cautioning me against letting the child overtire herself, as she is apt to do with any new fancy.
"You look brighter and better than you have done lately!" observed my Lady. "I have feared that you were finding your work too hard for you."
"It is not hard at all, but too easy, if anything!" I answered. "Lady Betty makes me no trouble. I only wish I could do more for her."
And then I told my Lady what I had thought of—that Lady Betty would be better for a change, and for more exercise, and I asked her if I might not have her chair carried into the long gallery on the other side of the house, and encourage Lady Betty to walk there a little.
She seemed pleased at first; then, to my surprise, hesitated, and said she would speak to my Lord. I did not see why he should object, but afterward, talking with Mrs. Judith, when Betty was asleep, the murder came out. My Lord is ashamed of his poor little humpbacked girl, and does not like to have people see her, forsooth! It is a fine thing to be a man and a nobleman, to be sure. If one is to look up to them so much, 'tis a pity that they are not a little higher, so that one need not have to go down on one's knees in the dirt!
Easter Monday.
My Lord has given his gracious consent, and so this morning Mary and I pushed Lady Betty in her chair across into the long gallery, and placed her at a sunny window. It was touching to see her delight. The gallery is a fine one, with a noble vaulted ceiling, and is hung with many family pieces, besides old armor and weapons.
After Betty had rested a while, I proposed that she should try to walk as far as the next window.
"But it hurts me to walk!" she said.
"I dare say it does, my love!" said I. "But I want to see whether you cannot, by degrees, get to walk without its hurting you. Just think, if you can once learn to use your limbs, how many nice things you could do."
"Well, I will try!" said she: "I will do anything for you, Margaret, because I love you so."
"You are my dear good little girl," said I, kissing her, while the thought passed through my mind, "Love makes easy service!"
Betty walked to the next window easily enough, and was so pleased with her progress that she would have gone still farther, but that I would not allow.
"No, you have done enough for once," said I. "If this does not hurt you, you shall walk into my pretty room, and I will show you the pictures of my little brother and sisters." For having a knack at drawing, I had sketched a little portrait of each of the children before leaving home, and the likeness was not contemptible. "See, here comes good Mrs. Carey. How surprised she will be!"
Mrs. Carey was surprised enough to satisfy all our expectations. She said she was sure Lady Betty needed some refreshment; and going back to her room, she brought us some gingerbread and dried pears, and, some milk. So we had quite a feast.
"I wish, Cousin Judith, you would tell us something about the picture," said Betty. The ladies all call Mrs. Carey, Cousin Judith. "Tell me who is that beautiful dame with the pearls in her black hair?"
"That is your great aunt, Lady Rosamond, who set up the almshouses," said Mrs. Carey.
"And who is that old lady in the close coif and black veil?" I asked. "She looks like a nun."
"And so she was a nun. That is Mrs. Margaret Vernon, my dears. She was a Lady Abbess of Hartland, and brought up your grandmother, my old Lady. So after King Henry put down the convents, she came and ended her days with great content at Stanton Court. Mistress Corbet says she can just remember her, a very aged lady."
"And who is that beautiful fair woman in black?" I asked. "I never saw a lovelier face, if she were not so pale. But she looks very sad."
"That is called the fair Dame of Stanton!" said Mrs. Judith; and then followed a long tale, too long to write here.
"Anne says my Cousin Corbet is the fair dame come back again!" said Betty. "And that it was she who made me crooked by her arts, but Mary says it is not true."
"Of course it is not true!" returned Mrs. Judith, indignantly. "I wonder at you, Lady Betty, for listening to such stuff about your dear cousin, who has always been so kind to you; and I will give Anne a good rating, that I will! There has been mischief enough done by such talk, before now. Everybody knows how your misfortune happened, my dear, and that was by being shrew-struck—beshrew the careless wench by whom it came about."
"How was that?" I asked. "And what do you mean by being shrew-struck?"
"Bless you, my dear, don't you know? It was Judith Hawtree did the mischief, not that she meant it, 'but evil is wrought by want of thought,' my dears. Old Mary left my Lady Betty in her charge, awhile; and what does Judith do, but lay the child down under the tree on the grass to sleep, while she gossipped with her sweetheart. There were always shrew-mice in the park, and one of them no doubt ran over my poor dear lady as she lay asleep on the ground, for there were the marks of its feet on her dress, and from that time the troubles begun."
"Perhaps it was not the shrew-mouse, after all," I ventured to say. "Perhaps Lady Betty took cold from lying on the damp ground. It seems more reasonable, than that a mouse should cripple a child by just running over its dress once."
"Ah, well! That may be your notion, Mrs. Merton. For my part, I don't pretend to be so much wiser than my father and mother before me," said the old lady, rather offended. "I don't profess to understand how a sting-nettle, that looks much like any other plant, should poison one's hand for hours, but I know it does. Anyhow the poor child pined from that day, but it is absurd and wicked too, to bring up that old story, which once nearly cost the dear lady her life."
And then she told me that Mrs. Corbet had once been taken for a witch, and assaulted by the village rabble, so that she would have lost her life, but for the valor of the old schoolmaster, Master Holliday, and Will Atkins, "for Master Walty, he was away on some wild goose chase or other. He was but a wild lad then, though he is sober enough now, with his Puritan notions and ways?"
"What Puritan ways?" I ventured to ask, but got no answer, for just then Lady Betty said she was tired, and we took her back to her room again.
If she seems no worse to-morrow, I shall try again. I do not despair of getting her out of doors.
Wednesday.
Lady Betty was no worse for her journey, and yesterday we tried it again. I let her walk the length of two windows, and then she sat a long time looking out and watching the deer, which were feeding out in the open spaces of the wood, listening to the birds, and seeing the rooks, which are now busy with their nests. We were much amused to see them stealing twigs from each other.
While we were looking at them, Mr. Penrose came along, and stopped to talk, but he was, methought, awkward and restrained, and I did not give him much encouragement, for I felt vexed at him; so he soon went away.
At supper there arose, I know not how, a debate on the celibacy of the clergy. My Lord and Lady were for having them marry, and my Lord made some not very delicate jokes on the subject, I thought. Lady Jemima was vehemently against them, and, as her fashion is, grow very warm, and said some sharp things. Mr. Penrose appealed to me—small thanks to him for drawing the notice of the whole table upon me.
I said, what was true enough, that I had never thought about the matter, but presumed it could not be wrong, as St. Peter and St. James at least had wives, as did some other of the apostles: and St. Paul expressly said that a Bishop was to be the husband of one wife. But, I added, that it did not seem to me desirable that clergymen should think of marrying till they were settled and know what they were likely to have to live on.
Whereat my Lady smiled, and Mr. Penrose looked wondrously dashed. I am sure I can't guess why. I don't see why it should be anything to him.
Friday, April 25.
Well, Betty has her dog at last, and a pretty, gentle little creature it is, just fit for her to play with. And I have something better brought by the same kind hand. Mr. Corbet himself brought the dog to Betty, as we were sitting in the gallery, whither we now go every morning when the sun shines.
And after she had become a little quieted with her ecstasy, he turned to me.
"I have a token for you also, Mistress Merton, if you will take it. My mother sends you this box, as an Easter gift."
I took it, of course, with due thanks.
"Nay, open it," said he: "the best part is within."
So I opened it, and there lay two letters—real goodly-sized letters—one in Dick's hand, the other I did not know. Mr. Corbet explained to me that his mother had brought the one from London, and the other had been sent in a packet of Mr. Carey's to his friend in Exeter. I could hardly believe my eyes, and I am afraid my thanks were clumsily expressed. However, Mr. Corbet appeared satisfied, and, saying he knew I wished to read them, he withdrew.
I had hardly time for more than a glance at them through the day, but I have feasted on them this night to my heart's content. One is from Dick, as I said; the other from my Aunt Willson, enclosing two gold pieces, and telling me that she had made the acquaintance of Mistress Corbet in London, who had kindly offered to carry a parcel for her: so she sent me a piece of fine lawn for kerchiefs and aprons, with some laces and other small matters. 'Tis a kindly letter, full of good counsel and sympathy, somewhat roughly expressed, as is Aunt Willson's fashion. She says, in conclusion: "Remember, child, to keep your place. Every man, woman and child is respectable in his own place, whatever that may be, for the time."
Felicia also sends a note, written in rather a mournful strain. I can see that she has found trouble already, and I dare say she and aunt have had more than one battle. She warns me against expecting happiness in this world, as that is the lot of but few—certainly never of the dependent and the poor. But I don't know that. I am both poor and dependent, and I am reasonably happy—or should be, only for some things which have naught to do with my condition in life. As for poor Felicia, I don't believe her condition makes so much difference with her. She always makes me think of a speech of one of the old almswomen at Saintswell, about her daughter-in-law.
The old woman had been saying somewhat about her daughter's fretting, when my mother remarked, "Ah, well, Goody, I would not disturb myself about the matter. You know poor Molly's way—if she had no trouble in the world, she would make it."
"Mek it!" cried the old dame, in her shrill voice. "Mek it, madam—she'd buy it!"
Dick's letter is like himself—grave beyond his years, full of kindness and of a certain kind of humor too. He tells me a great deal of news about home matters, as that mother is well and seems much more cheerful than she did in the Rectory, and that she has taken to working in the garden. The twins and Jacky are doing well in school, and Jacky is much less forward and pert. I can guess why. He says Mr. Carey is much liked already in the parish, and is especially kind to the poor women at the almshouses, though he had a great argument with Dame Higgins on the claims of the Romish church. My father would never argue with her. He used to say 'twas a case of "invincible ignorance," and there was no use in fretting the poor old body, who, I verily believe, never remembers that she is a papist unless somebody puts her in mind of it. However, this dispute did not end in a quarrel, so it does not matter.
Dick is getting on with his studies, and says his master is very kind in giving him time to read; so that he feels doubly bound to serve him faithfully. He says Master Smith's shop is a kind of rendezvous for all the learned men in Chester, and that the Bishop himself sometimes drops in to hear the news. He says, too, what I am very sorry to hear, that public affairs grow more and more disturbed, and that this attempt of the Archbishop's to revive the book of Sunday sports, put forth by King James, will cause great divisions among the clergy.
Dick's letter closes with a gentle admonition to remember Goody Crump's motto: "'Tis all in the day's work."
Ah, but then, if one cannot do one's day's work—if the more one tries, the more hopeless it seems—what then?
April 27.
Lady Jemima is going up to London to visit her cousin, who is to be married soon. She leaves next week. I should like to send a letter by her to Aunt Willson, but I don't like to take the liberty of asking her.
My Lady again gave me leave to walk to the village to church, saying that she would herself remain with Lady Betty. She is wondrously kind to me, and seems altogether satisfied with the way that I manage the child. Well, I was very glad to go, and enjoyed my walk, as usual, pleasing myself with the thought that I should hear good Doctor Parnell. When, lo and behold, I found, as I entered the church, that the Doctor was gone away, and Mr. Penrose was to preach. I could not help feeling vexed and disappointed. His sermon was on the text about the strait gate and narrow way, and he drew a wonderful picture of the difficulties of the way and the gate, assuring us that even a life-long devotion, and that of the most austere, would hardly be enough to win an entrance.
Dick used to say that his religion made him happy, but I can't see how any one is to be happy, according to Mr. Penrose—working so hard, with all our failings noted and set down against us, and, hanging over all, the fear of final failure and its dreadful consequences. Yet, if it is true, of course one ought to know it. I must say it makes me very wretched, and I don't know what to do. My temper is so warm and my feelings so quick, that I am always saying and doing what I wish unsaid and undone; and sometimes, the more I try, the worse it seems to be with me. The very effort makes me feel fretful and impatient.
I don't believe Mr. Corbet agrees with Mr. Penrose in his notions. I saw him several times glance at his mother, and slightly shake his head. Mrs. Corbet is a beautiful old lady—I think the most beautiful I ever saw. She must be past sixty a good deal, yet her eyes are bright and clear, and her hair unchanged. To be sure, it is so nearly silver in its natural color that a few gray threads would not show. She seems quite feeble, and, indeed, Mrs. Judith told me she had never been really well since the time of the riot, when she was struck down by a stone and otherwise maltreated. She spoke to me kindly, and said she would send me the parcel she had brought from my aunt, or perhaps bring it to me, as she meant to come to the Great House before long.
Mr. Penrose came up with me as I was hurrying home, and asked me why I walked so fast? I told him I was in haste to return to Lady Betty.
"The child seems to love you very much," said he.
"And I love her," I returned. "Nobody could help it."
"Yet you must find your life somewhat irksome," he went on to say.
"Not at all!" I answered. "Why should I? 'Love makes easy service,' and besides she really gives me very little trouble, considering all her misfortunes. I knew what I was undertaking when I came, and it has not been so hard as I expected. Every one is kind to me, my Lady especially, and as for the rest, why it does not signify. ''Tis all in the day's work.'"
"My lady is kind to every one, I think," said Mr. Penrose, to which I agreed. "'Tis a pity she has been so unfortunate with her children. If the next child should prove a girl, or should not live, Mr. Corbet will come to be lord of all."
"So I suppose," said I, "but we will hope for better things."
"Then you would not wish it?" he said, looking at me.
"Wish what?" I asked.
"That Mr. Corbet should be lord of all!"
"Of course not!" I answered. "Why should I? Mr. Corbet is well enough off; beside that he is nothing to me, and my Lord and Lady have been my very good friends. I don't understand you at all—and it seems to me that you do not understand yourself, very well!"
"I beg your pardon, Mrs. Merton, if I have offended you," was all his answer. Then, after a pause, "I suppose you were very much disappointed at seeing me in Doctor Parnell's pulpit?"
What could I say? I was disappointed, but I would not tell him so. I said I was surprised, as I did not know that the Doctor was away.
So then we walked the rest of the way in silence. It seems we never can meet peaceably. I wanted to talk to him about his sermon, but of course I could not, after that. I do think he is very odd.
Monday, 28.
Lady Jemima has herself offered to carry a letter to my aunt, so I have written one to her, and one to Felicia—the latter as kind as I could make it. I am certainly glad that she has gone away, but yet I can see, now that we are separated, that I was often to blame in our quarrels.
After I had finished my letters, I went to carry them to Lady Jemima's room, where I had never been before. It is very bare and plain—more so than mine—and looks, I fancy, like a nun's cell. She has several religious pictures, and many books of devotion, but none other, that I saw. Her bed looked hard, and as if it had very little covering upon it, and there was not even a rug by the bedside. Lady Jemima was looking over a great basket of work, not tapestry work, or any such thing, but coarse garments of various kinds. She made me welcome, and bade me sit down.
"What are you busy about with your needle?" said she.
I told her (what I forgot to mention in the right place) that I was making some clothes for the twins of the poor fisherman's widow down at the Cove, and that Lady Betty was helping me about them—adding that I was at work on a christening frock, for which my Lady had given me the material. She seemed pleased, but when I added that I liked the work because it made me think of home, she said, decidedly:
"That is not a proper motive, child! You should do it because it is right, and because our Lord has commanded it—not because it gives you pleasure!"
"But suppose it gives me pleasure to do what is right, my Lady?" said I. "Am I therefore to leave it off?"
"That is a quibble!" said she, though I am sure I did not mean it so. "One must be arrived at a great degree of saintship to take pleasure in doing right because it is right. And if we only delight in it because of some pleasant remembrance, or pride in our own skill, there is no merit in it, whatever."
Now I had never once thought of any merit in connection with my work for Mary Hawtree's twins. I know the babes needed the garments, and I thought, beside, that it would make a good healthy interest for poor Betty. However, the more I say, the less Lady Jemima understands me, so I held my peace.
"I had hoped to leave you this work of mine to finish," continued Lady Jemima, "but you seem to have your hands full already. Do you think you could find time?"
"I fear not, my Lady," I answered, after a little consideration. "You see the most of my time must be given, to Lady Betty, either in teaching or amusing her."
"Of course, but have you no time given you for recreation or devotion?" I told her that I had an hour in the morning and another in the evening, beside what I could gain by rising early.
"And cannot you devote some of this time to the service of the poor? How can you hope for heaven, if you cannot make such a little sacrifice as this—or what would you do if you were called upon to give up everything for His sake?"
Well, it ended with my promising to see what I could do, and taking the great basket to my room, where it stands now, and as I look at it, seems to reproach me for wasting so much time over my journal.
May 1.
We have done great things to-day. Lady Betty has really been out of doors.
The way of it was this. My Lord and Lady, Mr. Penrose, and about all the household except Lady Betty and myself, had gone down to the village to see the May games on the Green. Mary would have had me go and let her stay, and Anne afterwards made the same offer, but I would not hear of it. I knew that Mary and her sweetheart would both be disappointed. And I don't like to leave Anne with Lady Betty; she is such a gossip, and fills the child's head with all sorts of unwholesome stuff. So I stayed at home, right willingly, for I don't feel in spirits for any such follies.
Lady Betty was sitting at the window in the long gallery, and I by her, both of us feeling rather silent and doleful, when the door opened and the little dog jumped from Lady Betty's lap and ran barking and frisking to meet Mr. Corbet.
"Why, Cousin Walter!" said Betty. "I thought you would be at the May games?"
"And I thought I would come to see my little lady!" he returned, kissing her. "Mistress Merton, the air is very warm, and the sun is like June. Could we not, think you, carry Lady Betty down to the garden and let her see a little what the world is like on a May-day?"
It was just what I had been wishing to do, but I hesitated, because my Lady was away. However, I could not withstand my child's pleading, so I wrapped her in a shawl and hood of my own, and took down some cushions and cloaks, while Mr. Corbet brought Betty in his strong arms, and set her on the garden seat. I never saw any poor child so delighted as she was. She had not been out of doors in so long that 'twas like fairy land to her.
After sitting in the garden a while, Mr. Corbet proposed to carry her in the woods, and that was still more wonderful. We found a safe seat on the dry grassy root of an old tree, and I sat down by her, while the little dog ran hither and hither, as well-pleased as his mistress. Mr. Corbet exerted himself to entertain Betty, telling her stories, bringing her flowers, and pointing out various things to her notice. I dared not leave her stay too long this first time. And though she was unwilling at first to go in, she gave up very pleasantly at the last.
"Why, that's my brave, good little maid!" said Mr. Corbet, as she consented to go in. "You have worked wonders, Mrs. Merton. I was afraid of a scene."
"I don't cry any more, now!" said Betty. "I am trying to be good, like my mother and Margaret."
When I reported the matter to Lady Stanton, I thought she looked rather grave upon it. So I hastened to say, that I did not think Lady Betty had taken cold, and I was sorry if I had done wrong, but that the child had been so overjoyed at her cousin's offer, that I could not bear to disappoint her.
"You have done no wrong, sweetheart!" said my Lady. "And I dare say nobody will be the worse, but we must not trouble Mr. Corbet. The next time, we will have John Footman carry her down."
May 9.
Lady Jemima is really gone, and Mr. Penrose with her. They travel in company with some friends from Exeter. She left on the fifth of the month, and is to be away four weeks, she says, at the very most. I am rather sorry I gave her the letter for Felicia. I somehow feel as if trouble would grow out of it. I don't know why, only that Felicia has been my great cause of trouble hitherto, and I doubt if she will be able to let slip a chance of saying something to my disadvantage. Aunt Willson will speak for me, that is one thing.
Betty has been out every pleasant day, and I think the fresh air, the change, and exercise, really do her good. She has gained strength, appetite, and a little color, and Mary says she sleeps more quietly at night. She gets on finely with her reading, and wants to begin writing, but I put her off as yet. My Lady demurred a little at this, because Lady Betty is so very backward for a child of her age. But I told her I was sure it was best not to overcrowd her, but to better her health, if possible, first of all. And to this, she agreed.
Betty herself is growing ambitious, and I now have to check her instead of urging her on, as at first. She is very much pleased at being godmother (by proxy, of course) to one of the twins for whom we have been working, and I have promised that the babes shall come up to see her when the mother is able to bring them. I have sometimes debated in my own mind, whether she ought not to be told of what is coming, but on the whole I do not think it best.