BOOK II.
August 1, 1685.
LITTLE did I think, when I closed the last book, that the new one would open under such changed circumstances. I had been having a pretty hard time for some days. Mrs. Williams was ill for a week, and not able to get out of bed: so I had the whole care of my mistress; and a handful she was, to be sure, and as cross as two sticks. She who takes to her bed on the smallest ailment, and will have the whole house running if her little finger aches, was quite sure there was nothing the matter with Mrs. Williams, and that she could get up if she only thought so.
Then she would veer round to the other extreme: Mrs. Williams had an infectious fever, even the plague; she would die in the house, and give us all the infection, and there would be the funeral.
In vain the doctor assured her it was only a severe cold, which would get well with nursing. If that was all, why need Williams lie in bed? "She" had had plenty of colds, and nobody thought any thing of them, but she was a poor, forsaken creature that nobody cared for. And then the expense: she should die in an almshouse, she knew she should.
"Then you will be happier than a great many of your persuasion, madam," said the doctor. "Better die in an almshouse than in jail or on the scaffold, as so many are doing just now."
My lady was silent at this, and I saw her glance at me.
"I should not think such severity would help to make his Majesty popular," observed Mr. Andrews, who had come in with Bab to give us a call.
"It does not," said the doctor, who is much about the court, and who is, in fact, one of those who attended his late Majesty in his last illness. "But I do not think the king cares to be liked as his brother did; he would rather be feared. I dread, sir, we shall see great troubles and changes before many years are past."
"There, don't talk about it," said my lady hastily: "it is not safe." And she began to ask Mr. Andrews about the credit of somebody in the city who owes her money. But the fright did her good, and she behaved much better afterward.
I had one comfort in a letter from Mr. Morley, sent me by a private hand. It was kindly writ, as usual, but says nothing of public affairs. One thing I am resolved on: I will never give him another private meeting.
Well, Mrs. Williams was about again, and things had fallen into their usual course. I had been out to do an errand for my mistress, and she had given me leave to make Bab Andrews a little visit. Bab was not at home, and I was turning from the door, when I met Mary Mathews.
"You are to come home directly, Mrs. Dolly," said she, quite breathless with her haste. "My lady sent me for you, and desires you will make no delay."
"Why, what now?" said I. "Hath my lady taken a fit again?"
"Not so, but there is a lady come to see you," said Mary. "She is sitting in the withdrawing-room with mistress."
"In the withdrawing-room!" I repeated, in wonder, knowing that my lady never enters that room if she can help it. "Did you see the lady? Is it my Lady Clarenham?"
"The lady who came to see you before? No, but a much handsomer lady, and very richly dressed. I think my mistress called her Lady Fullham, but I am not sure."
"Fullham? I have heard that name somewhere, but I can't tell where," said I.
But I had not much time to speculate thereon, for we were already at the house. I made myself neat, taking very little time about it, for I was running over with curiosity.
As I entered the room, I found myself face to face with a handsome lady, a little past the prime of life, very richly dressed, but in a sober, matronly fashion. There was something oddly familiar in her face, too.
"This is Mrs. Dorothy Corbet, madam," said my mistress, taking me by the hand to present me, as if I had been a daughter of her own, a thing she never did before. "Dolly, this lady is Lady Fullham, who has come to see you on an important matter."
I can't tell how many or what wild notions darted through my mind. The chief was the wonder whether this lady were not some friend or relation of Mr. Morley's to whom he had recommended me, as I remember he once spoke of doing. I was soon undeceived, and in a surprising way.
"Come hither, and speak to me, my child," said the lady, after she had, as it seemed to me, looked me all over in a moment with her keen dark eyes. "I am your mother's own sister and your aunt."
The room did seem to turn round with me at these words. My mother never spoke of her own family, who were bitterly opposed to her marrying a soldier and a poor man. She did say on her death-bed, "Dolly, you were named for your aunt, my only sister. If you ever have a chance, make friends with her, and give my love to her. I am sorry now that I have never written to her, though I shall never regret my marriage."
I recovered myself as quickly as I could, curtsied deeply, and received my new aunt's kiss, but in silence, for I literally could not speak.
"You did not know you had such a relation, I suppose," said my aunt.
"No, madam—yes, madam," I faltered, like a fool. And then, making a great effort, "My mother told me on her death-bed that I was named for you. It was almost the last word she said."
"And why did not you or your guardians let me know, child?" she asked, rather sharply. And then, more gently, "But I dare say you did not know where to write. My father forbade my holding any intercourse with my poor, unhappy sister, and perhaps we obeyed him too literally, and after I had daughters of mine own—However, that does not matter now."
"I will leave you to yourselves for a while," said my lady, rising.
I gave her my arm to her own room, and returned to my new aunt, whom I found viewing the pictures and ornaments with a critical eye.
"This room is very handsomely furnished, though a little out of date," said she. "I should hardly have expected such taste in a city woman, as I understand Lady Corbet to have been before her last husband married her."
I told her the room had been fitted up by Lady Jemima, my cousin's first wife, and was, I believed, just as she left it.
"Oh, that accounts for it!" said she. "Lady Jemima was of an excellent old family."
(I wonder does being of an old family give one an infallible taste. I suppose, as Mr. Pendergast says, one family is really about as old as another.)
Then my aunt had me sit down by her, and began to catechise me rather sharply, but not unkindly, about my mother and her affairs. She was visibly touched when I told her of my mother's troubles and death. And, when I could not forbear weeping, she called me "poor child," and gave me her own smelling-bottle.
"Well, well, I would I had known!" said she. "I would never have left her to die among strangers. But my first husband hated London, and would never come hither; and Sir Robert is not much better." Then she began to ask me about my education, and I answered her frankly. Finally she asked if my lady was kind to me.
"Please excuse me from answering that question, madam," said I. "My mistress gave me a home when I had nowhere to go, and it would ill become me to accuse her."
My aunt looked displeased for a moment, and then her brow cleared.
"You are right, child, and your words show a ladylike spirit. One can see you are of gentle blood. Now go and ask Lady Corbet if she will give me the favor of an interview to-morrow. I will not ask to see her again to-day, as she seems but feeble; and, beside, I want a little time to consider."
I went up to my mistress, who fixed ten of the clock for receiving my aunt. (How strange it seems to write the word!) I told my aunt, who said she would come at that hour.
"By the way, child, I hope you are not a Presbyterian, as I hear these people are," said she, as she was going away.
"No, madam," I answered; "I was brought up in the Church of England."
"That is well," said she. "They are a pestilent set of traitors, as the late unhappy outbreak hath shown."
I could not quite stand this. "Not all, madam," said I. "I have not heard a single Presbyterian speak of the late rebellion but with regret and abhorrence."
"Don't answer me back, child," said my aunt sharply. "Your mother should have taught you better than that. There, I am not angry, but don't do it again."
She kissed me, and I attended her to the door. She had a fine coach and two men. I think she must be very rich. How odd if she should take a fancy to adopt me! But that is not likely, as she tells me she hath two daughters of her own.
August 3.
But unlikely things do happen. Lady Fullham came again next day, and was closeted with my mistress full two hours. I expected every moment to be sent for, but no message came. And by and by, I saw my aunt drive away. Every thing went on as usual till after dinner, when my lady called me to her side, and bade me sit down.
"So I am to lose you, Dolly, it seems," said she. "This fine country lady desires to adopt you into her own family, and to give you a home and all the privileges of a daughter. And of course she has the best right to you, as your mother's sister."
"Methinks her mother's sister was somewhat slow in asserting her right," remarked Mrs. Williams, who was knitting, as usual, and with that peculiar click of her needles which always indicates displeasure with her.
"Hold your tongue, Williams," retorted my mistress. "Lady Fullham did not know of her niece's existence."
"Then she might have known," said Mrs. Williams, who is not easily put down. "She could have asked, I presume."
"Will you be quiet?" said my lady. "You see, Dolly, the doctor says I must go to the Bath and stay several months, and that makes it needful to shut up the house. I can't afford to keep two establishments, nor could you stay here alone."
"There would be no need of that," said Mrs. Williams. "Mrs. Dolly could go with us to the Bath. I am sure you will need her quite as much there as here."
"Hold your tongue, Williams!" This is her regular retort, and Mrs. Williams cares for it as much as for the sparrows' chirping outside. "It would increase my expenses very greatly to carry Dolly with me, and that is what I cannot afford. I am like to be driven to beggary as it is, with all this journeying and expense."
Mrs. Williams's needles rattled like a soldier's equipments, and her chin went up in the air with its own peculiar toss.
My lady continued,—
"Besides, my Lady Fullham, being own sister to Dolly's mother, has the best right to her. She is wealthy, and can take her into society, and give her many advantages."
"She 'can,'" said Mrs. Williams. "The question is, whether she 'will.'"
"She says she intends to place Dolly on the same footing as her own daughters," returned my lady. "Those were her very words, 'On the same footing as my own daughters, in every respect.'—What do you say to that, chick?"
"My aunt is very kind," said I. "I must say that it is pleasant to me to think that I have some relations. I have been so alone in the world hitherto."
"Better kind strangers than strange kin," snapped Mrs. Williams.
"Perhaps Dolly thinks she has not found the kind strangers," said my lady.
"Oh, yes! I have had a great deal of kindness from strangers," said I. "Nobody ever had a better friend than Mrs. Williams has been to me." And in something of my old impulsive fashion, I threw my arms round the dear old woman's neck, and gave her a good hug, thereby causing great damage to the knitting.
Mrs. Williams returned my kiss; and then, gathering up her work, she left the room.
"Williams, where are you going? Come back," cried my lady.
But Mrs. Williams only said she would come back presently, and closed the door after her. When she did come back, I saw that she had been weeping.
"Well, now, if you have done with your playacting, you and Williams, perhaps you will listen to sense," said my lady peevishly. "Lady Fullham and I have settled it all between us. Dolly is to go to her on Monday."
"That is very short notice, seeing that this is Friday," observed Mrs. Williams. "Mrs. Dolly will have no time to get her clothes ready; and she needs new under-linen, stays, and gloves, and what not."
"There you are quite mistaken," said my mistress triumphantly. "Lady Fullham expressly said Dolly was to bring nothing with her but the most necessary clothes. She preferred to provide every thing herself.—So, you see, Dolly, you need not take the blue silk gown I gave you, nor the cloth mantle. They will do for some one else, if ever I have another in your place, which I doubt."
"But, my lady, I have nothing else to wear,—not a decent thing," I faltered, somewhat aghast.
"To be sure you have not," said Mrs. Williams decidedly. "I presume the lady did not want her niece to come to her like a beggar-wench from the Bridewell; nor would you, my lady, like to be thought so mean and stingy as to send her out in that guise. You would not like to have this fine lady telling every one of her acquaintance that Lady Corbet was too mean to give her gentlewoman decent clothes."
Now, if there be one thing that my lady cares more for than for her money, it is what people say about her.
"Of course not, of course not. I am only telling you what the lady said. Of course, Dolly will take with her what clothes she has already. All I mean is, that she need not wait to buy any more.—There, go away now, Dolly, and let me have a rest. You can be putting your things in order, if they need it."
But they do not need it. Thanks to my dear mother's lessons, followed up by Mrs. Williams's, I have the fixed habit of mending my clothes as they want it. I almost wish I had something to do to pass away the time.
To think that, after almost three years of slavery,—waiting on my lady's whims, and wearing out my eyes and fingers in everlasting seaming and stitching, and my throat in reading stupid books of divinity that I could never make head nor tail of,—after all, I am really to be a young lady, and take my place as such in my aunt's family.
I hope I shall be able to content her. She seems like one who would be mighty particular. I can see that she thinks a great deal of birth and family. Well, mine ought to be good enough to suit her, one would think. My mother was her own sister, and my father was related not distantly, though I don't know just how, to the old Corbet family in Devonshire and Cornwall. Sir Charles told me about it once,—that is, he began to tell me, but my lady, who never could endure to have him speak to me, came down on us like a dragon. Alas! Poor man. He was very good to me. I have been looking at his last gift, which I always wear about my neck. It is egg-shaped, about as large as a small pigeon's egg, and there is something inside which rattles a little. I cannot see any way to open it, but then I would not do so if I could,—at least I think not.
There is one thought that troubles me a good deal. How shall I ever see or hear from Mr. Morley? He can come to visit my lady, and I can at least see him and hear him talk, and now and then get a few words to myself. As to meeting him in the park again, I have solemnly resolved not to do that. But he is not in London, nor like to be for a long time, and then his regiment is stationed in the west. My uncle and aunt live not very far from Exeter, and perchance we may meet.
But my aunt is not going down to the west at present. She has taken a furnished house, and means to remain at least till some time in September, that her daughters may have lessons in drawing and music. I wonder if I shall have them as well. I do love music dearly, but I have not touched an instrument since I came to this house. There is a harpsichord down-stairs, but it is locked and the key lost. Beside that, my mistress hates music.
I can't pretend to say that I am sorry to leave "her." She has never been kind to me, except when she was afraid of me; and she is one of those people who delight to wreak their own discomforts on other people. So sure as money hath not come in when she expected it, or her supper hath disagreed with her, or she hath had an argument with Mr. Pendergast about giving something (and he is not afraid of her, whoever else is), just so surely my ears and shoulders have had to pay the piper. And one never can tell when she will break out. It is like living with some treacherous wild animal. And I don't think I owe her any debt of gratitude for my board and clothes, either. Mrs. Williams herself told my mistress that I earned all I had, and more too; and she is one who never exaggerates, as I know I do sometimes.
I am sorry to leave Mrs. Williams. A better woman never lived or breathed, as I believe I have said two or three times before, but I don't care. She is desperately strict in her notions, and thinks every thing in the shape of amusement is wrong, except it may be a walk now and then, or some kind of fanciful knitting. She would not even have psalms sung in church.
And when Mr. Pendergast asked her how she got along with King David's singers and instruments, she said tartly, "That was under the old dispensation and not any rule for Christians."
Then he fell upon her with St. James, his words, "Is any merry? Let him sing psalms."
But she answered more sharply still, that she read her Bible by the light within, and that these words had a spiritual significance.
"But suppose my inward illumination shows me something quite different from yours, what then?" asked Mr. Pendergast, whereat she was silent.
They are always very good friends, despite their arguments. I don't suppose I shall ever see any of them again, and that I do regret. I wonder whether my aunt will let me visit Bab Andrews. I shall be sorry if she does not, for I love her dearly. I must try to see her to-morrow.
August 10.
I have been an inmate of my aunt's family a week, and this is the very first minute I have had to write. Somehow we never seem to have any time to ourselves. Even for our hours of retirement and devotion, which are strictly set apart every day, my aunt appoints our tasks of reading; and we must give her an account of what we have read. However, she does leave us alone at such times; and, as I am a rapid reader and have a good memory, I hope I may now and then have a few minutes.
I was all ready on Monday morning when my aunt's carriage came for me; and it was with a strange feeling of acting in a dream that I took my seat in it, beside a somewhat sharp-visaged person who I learned was my cousins' waiting-woman. I was no sooner seated beside her than she began to arrange my kerchief and bodice, telling me that I was not dressed snug enough.
"But we shall soon change all that," said she. "Is your health pretty good, Mrs. Dorothy? You are rather pale."
I told her that it was my natural complexion, that I had never been ill more than two or three times in my life, and then not seriously.
"Are not my cousins healthy?" I ventured to ask.
"Mrs. Betty is well, Mrs. Margaret is rather delicate," was the reply.
I asked how old they were, and she told me that Margaret was eighteen and Betty sixteen.
"Then I am just between them, for I am seventeen," said I.
At that moment I saw Bab Andrews coming out at her father's door, and nodded to her.
"You must never do that when my mistress sees you," was the comment my companion made. "She would be very angry."
"But why?" I asked. "Mr. Andrews is a very wealthy and good man, and his daughter is lovely. Did you not think her nice looking?"
"Yes, she hath a nice face and air," said Mrs. Sharpless. (Such was the waiting-woman's name, she told me.) "But if she were an angel from heaven, it would make no difference. My mistress will have her young people make no friends out of her own circle."
I felt rather dashed at this, and I dare say I showed it. Mrs. Sharpless turned to me, and put her hand on my arm.
"Mrs. Dorothy, though it is not my place perhaps, I am going to give you a bit of advice," said she impressively. "You are but a young thing, and are coming into a new place. Now, mind what I say. If you would get on smoothly and comfortably, you must make up your mind to have no will of your own, but to be governed by my mistress your aunt in all things. 'Tis the only way."
I told her I hoped I knew my duty too well not to be submissive to my aunt who was so kind as to adopt me.
"Why, aye, you seem a towardly young lady, and well-bred. And I am glad your cousins will have a companion of their own age, poor things! Well, here we are."
It was with no little trepidation that I found myself ushered into my aunt's presence. She was sitting in her own parlor, surrounded by heaps of silk and linen, laces and other things of the sort; and a man was in attendance with more bundles still. My aunt received me kindly, and kissed my cheek.
"You may carry Mrs. Dorothy to her cousins' room, and tell them from me they may have a holiday till dinner to get acquainted with their cousin. And do you unpack her mail, and lay out her things upon the bed, that I may look them over. We must put her wardrobe in hand directly, that she may be decent to go out with me."
Mrs. Sharpless curtsied, and led me up-stairs, and along a passage to a green door covered with cloth. This she opened, knocking first, and ushered me into a somewhat bare room, where two young ladies were sitting,—one at her book, the other at the harpsichord where she was making terrible work of her scales. They both looked round as we entered, but neither stirred till Mrs. Sharpless said,—
"Mrs. Margaret and Mrs. Betty, this is your cousin Mrs. Dorothy Corbet, with whom your mother desires you to become acquainted; and to that end she gives you a holiday till dinner-time.—I will go and lay out your things, Mrs. Dorothy, and then come and show you your bedroom."
Margaret and Betty came forward and kissed me, rather coolly I thought; and there was a minute or two of awkward silence, which Betty broke by asking in a business-like way,—
"Well, why don't you become acquainted, since that is the order?"
"Betty!" said Margaret warningly.
"Because I don't know how," said I, laughing in spite of myself. "At school, when new girls came in, we used to get acquainted by asking their names and histories, but I dare say you know all that."
"Oh, yes, my mother was pleased to inform us that we had a new cousin who would share our studies and pleasures!" Betty laid an emphasis on this last word, which was almost bitter I thought. "And I suppose she told you all about us."
"Not very much," I answered. "Mrs. Sharpless told me that Margaret was the elder, and that she was not very strong."
"Are you?" asked Betty. I told her yes.
"So much the better for you," said she shortly, and then she began to ask me about my accomplishments. Could I sing? Could I play? I told her I could do both.
"I am glad on't; that is, if you play well," said Betty. "Meg loves music, and she will have something to listen to beside my horrible strumming."
"And do you play?" I asked, turning to Margaret, who, in as careless an attitude as her stiff chair would permit, was looking at us with soft, wistful, dark eyes, which reminded me somehow of Bab Andrews's dog.
"Yes, but not very well," said she. "But I am glad you can play, cousin Dorothy. Try something now."
"I am not sure I can remember any thing," said I. "I have not touched a harpsichord in three years."
However, I did make out to play one of my old lessons, and then I sang a song out of one of Mr. Shakspeare's plays, "Hark! The lark at heaven's gate sings."
It was always a favorite of mine, and I was so glad to sing and play once more, that I did my very best. Margaret sprang up from her chair and came and stood by me. As I ceased and looked up, I saw that her color was deepened, and there were tears in her bright, soft eyes. Before I had time to speak, Mrs. Sharpless came and called me. But, as I rose from the music-stool, Betty caught my hand, and gave it a squeeze.
"You have made Meg happy," said she. "I shall love you if you can do that."
"And I am sure I shall love you," I began to say.
But Mrs. Sharpless hurried me away, saying that my aunt was waiting. My heart sank fathoms deep as I suddenly remembered my precious writing-books and thought of their meeting my aunt's eye. When I entered the room which was to be mine, however, I saw no trace of them and my aunt was as kind as ever.
"I have been looking over your things, Dorothy," said she, "and I am pleased with the order in which you have kept them. It shows that you are neat, and clever with your needle. I see you have a Bible and Prayer-Book: that is well. But why are you so pleased?"
For I had caught up the Prayer-Book with a little cry of joy. It was my dear mother's gift, which my mistress had taken away from me when I first went to live with her. I explained the matter to my aunt. She nodded.
"Just what one would expect such a person to do," was her comment.
Now, I don't believe my mistress's religion had the least thing to do with her taking away my Prayer-Book. I don't believe Mr. Pendergast would have done it, or poor dear Mr. Baxter, though he did use to send me such dreary, uncomfortable books to read. It was just a piece of my lady's spite, like her forbidding Mrs. Williams to knit, because it gave her the fidgets to see and hear the needles. Marry, she soon grew tired of that. But I had learned already not to argue with my aunt.
"But you must have a new book to carry to church," said she. "My daughters attend church every morning at eight, and I shall expect you to go with them. Is this old-fashioned silk your best dress?"
"Yes, madam."
"And who made it."
I told her I had made it myself out of an old one of my Lady Jem's.
"Well, well! It is neatly done and does you credit, but you must have two or three new ones made in the fashion. I dare say your mistress did not care much for that. But remember it is a duty we owe to the world, to dress becomingly to our stations. There, now, you may go back to the schoolroom, and Sharpless will arrange your drawers for you. She is your cousins' attendant, and will be yours as well."
Mrs. Sharpless followed me into the passage with my handkerchief. As she gave it into my hands, she said in a low tone,—
"Your copy-books are on the high shelf in your closet behind the books, Mrs. Dolly. It is a good place for them, and you might as well leave them there."
I nodded assent, well-pleased for the moment to think they had escaped my aunt's eye. But, when I had a little time to think, I must say that I was not pleased to think this waiting-woman should have my secret in her hands. She seems a good woman, and very devoted to her young ladies, especially to Meg; and it was kind of her to save me from being disgraced with my aunt, and perhaps sent back on my mistress's hands. Oh, dear, I almost wish at times that I had never seen Mr. Morley, and yet!—But be as it may, there is no use in wishing things undone.
We dined at noon, as the fashion is now; and, being used to have my meal an hour earlier, I was hungry enough. The table was beautifully set out, and the dinner elegantly cooked and served. But I can't say I enjoyed it very much. My aunt seemed to watch every motion and every mouthful. It was,—
"Betty, where are your elbows?"
"Margaret, hold your fork more easily. There, now, you have dropped it," as poor Meg, startled, let her fork fall with a great clatter. "One would think you had lived in Wales or some other place where forks have not yet come into fashion."
And so on, to the end of the dinner. I noticed that my cousins ate very little, but, as for me, I made a good meal. After dinner, we were dismissed to dress for going out with my aunt. Meg is about my height: so I was arrayed in one of her dresses, which was almost too small for me, slender as I am. But by dint of twitching my stay-laces so tight that I could hardly breathe, Mrs. Sharpless got it on.
"Oh, dear, I can never breathe in this!" said I.
"You must get used to it," said Betty. "Straitjackets are the fashion here, as well as in Bedlam. You ought to be used to strait-lacing, Dorothy, living among Presbyterians so long."
"That is a different kind of lacing," I answered. "I have never been used to dress tight. My mother and Mrs. Williams thought it very unwholesome."
"And they are right. It is murderous," said Betty.
"Hush, Mrs. Betty, you must not speak so," said Mrs. Sharpless, but not unkindly. "You don't think your mother would do any thing murderous, do you?"
"She would not mean to," said Betty, and that was the end of the matter.
My aunt carried Betty and myself to the park in her fine coach, to take the air among the great folks. But I don't think there were as many gay equipages as used to be in the old king's time. My Lady Castlemain was there, sulky and handsome, lolling back in her carriage, but I did not see anybody take much notice of her. My aunt seemed to have many grand acquaintances, and even exchanged a few words with the king himself. I think he looks more gloomy than ever.
I was presented to the Countess of Sunderland, who had just stopped to take up Mr. Evelyn. He recognized me in a moment, and kindly asked after my health, and when I had heard from my friend. He also told me that Mrs. Patty, my little school friend, had gone to live altogether with her great-aunt. My aunt was talking to my Lady Sunderland, but as soon as we separated, she turned and asked me, rather severely, where I had met Mr. Evelyn, and who he was talking about. I told her all about it. Whereat she remarked that Lady Clarenham was a woman of good family, though her father had taken the wrong side in the late troubles, and that every one respected Mr. Evelyn.
I must say I did not enjoy the drive. My stays hurt me so, I could hardly breathe; and I am not enough used to the swinging motion of a coach to like it even yet. Besides, the passing of the places where I had been in other company did revive my grief, and make me feel more than ever how hungry my heart was for the sight of the dear one.
I liked it better when we went to the shops, where my lady bought me a new Prayer-Book and some other books of devotions and meditations, and a beautiful sewing-equipage for my pocket, and some toilet matters whereof I really did stand in need. Betty timidly asked if she might buy a little flask of aromatic vinegar for Meg, saying that it was good for her headaches.
"Yes, if you choose, though I think Meg's headaches are mostly of the imagination," said my lady.
Betty's cheek flushed, and her lips were pressed more closely together, but they relaxed a little when my aunt added kindly, "But I am pleased to see you thoughtful for your sister, child. Here, you may take a bottle of this distilled lavender, also: I think she likes it, does she not?"
"Yes, madam," answered Betty, and her face grew softer than I had yet seen it.
In the evening my lady went to the play, with her daughters. I was left behind as having nothing to wear, and I was not sorry. I wanted to get off my dress for one thing, and to quiet my head, which was all in a whirl. Certainly it seemed to me the longest day of my life.
After I had practised my music an hour with great delight, I took my work and sat down by the open window, for it was very warm. The house at the back overlooks some fine gardens, so we have good air. I was sorry when Mrs. Sharpless came in and ordered me away, saying I would take cold. I think I would like to be a gypsy or a farmer's wife, and so live in the open air.
It was ten o'clock when my cousins came up to their room. Margaret looked very pale, I thought. They were no sooner inside the schoolroom, than Betty flew at her sister, undid her dress, and unlaced her stays so quickly that the silk laces fairly snapped. Margaret sank down in a chair with a sigh of relief.
"Oh, how good that is!" said she. And then she put her arms round Betty's neck, and her head on her shoulder, and wept hysterically. I brought the flask of lavender-water, and bathed her head, and held my hartshorn salts to her nose, but nothing did any good till Mrs. Sharpless, who had come in, said in a voice of kind authority,—
"Come, come, Mrs. Margaret, this won't do at all! Your mother will hear you."
If I had children, I would not like to be held up to them as a bugbear or a bogy. But it had its effect in Margaret's case. She checked her sobs with a great effort.
"I won't be so silly," said she, with a pitiful smile. "Dorothy will think me a baby."
"Dorothy knows what it is to be tired and overdone," said I, as I kissed her. "But you will feel better when you have rested."
Since then I have fallen into the ways of my aunt's household, and my life goes on like clockwork. Rise at six and dress. Spend an hour in our closets reading of some good book. Then to church to prayers. Then home, to breakfast on bread and butter, and cold water, or very weak broth. My aunt says beer spoils the shape and complexion. Then to appear before my aunt in her dressing-room. Then she examines minutely all the details of our toilets, trying our stays to see if they are tight enough, and commenting on every stray hair. After that, we give her an account of what we have read in our closets, and read aloud to her the lessons of the day.
Then come our lessons,—French and music and Italian. My aunt will have both the girls learn music; and Meg makes great proficiency, but Bess hates it: she has no ear, and does make the most terrible work. In the afternoon we take turns, two to go out with my lady, and one to stay at home, and work at embroidery, or sometimes at plain white seams for some poor body, for my aunt is very charitable. She says we owe it to our position to be kind to the poor, but I don't think I should want any one to be kind to me in that way. Then in the evening we go out somewhere, to a play, or the opera, which is very fashionable just now; or to spend the evening with some friend of my aunt's.
Certainly it is a very different life from that I have been leading the last few years, but I think I go to bed at night quite as tired as I used to when I was running half the day to wait on my mistress. There are many pleasant things which were wanting in my former life, love being the best of all. I do really think my aunt loves me, sharp as she is at times, and I know my cousins do.
Then, I have my lessons, especially my music, in which Mr. Goodgroome says I make great progress; and there is the feeling that nobody grudges me my living. My aunt is generous as the day; and if she checks us in eating and drinking (as I must say she too often does), it is, as she says, for our good, lest we should spoil our figures. I believe I am very perverse not to be happy here, but I am afraid I am not. But I must hurry to put away my book. My work is all done, that is one comfort.
August 15.
We had rather a painful scene yesterday, in which poor Meg hath been the sufferer, which is uncommon. It is generally Betty who comes in for her mother's anger when she is angry, which, in truth, is not very often. But we had been to a play in which there was dancing; and after we were come home, my aunt gave us the rather uncommon indulgence of a little supper. She was talking of the play and the actors, and remarked that one of them, Becky Marshall, was said to be the daughter of a Presbyterian minister. She asked me if I had ever heard any thing about the matter.
"Yes, aunt," I answered, "I heard Mr. Pendergast say that her father was a most worthy man, who, he thought, could hardly be happy in heaven if he knew how his daughters had turned out. I know that Mr. Pendergast went himself to try to win the girls from their way of life, but he did not succeed."
"I dare say not," said my aunt. "A woman must be pretty well hardened in sin before she would take to such courses, exhibiting herself for money, and in men's attire. But it was a kind and Christian act to try to rescue the poor creature. Who is this Mr. Pendergast?"
"A Presbyterian minister, aunt, whom I used to meet at my Lady Corbet's. He and his wife were very good to me there."
"Oh!" said my aunt, slightly disconcerted, I fancy, that she had been betrayed into praising a Presbyterian minister. "However, I won't say that it was not a good and kind deed," she added; "though, as I said, a woman must be lost to all sense of goodness before she would take such a place at all. When I was young, no women ever appeared on the stage. All the women's parts were taken by boys; and, as I remember, there were some—Bishop Hall for one—who objected even to that, and Mr. Prynne wrote an immense book about it."
"But, madam," said Margaret timidly, "if it be wrong for women to act on the stage, is it not, wrong for other women to go and see them, and thus encourage them?"
My aunt looked at her daughter in amazement. Margaret went on, as if she were determined to free her mind for once, despite Betty's pinches, and the warning glances of Mrs. Sharpless sent from behind her lady's chair. "In the lesson we read this morning, madam, the apostle tells us that women are to be attired in modest apparel, with shamefacedness, not with gold or pearls or costly array; and St. Peter, as I remember, says the same. Now these poor creatures, I suppose, take to the stage to make a living, and no doubt they are bad enough. ¹ But if we go to hear them, and thus encourage them in their miserable way of life, only for our idle amusement, are we not more to blame than they? I must needs think so."
¹ It must be understood that I am speaking of the stage in the time of
the Stewarts. Of the stage at present I know next to nothing, save that
it is much better than it was then.—L. E. G.
"Marry come up! What sort of Puritan have I for a daughter?" said my aunt angrily. "Upon whom do you presume to sit in judgment, mistress? Do you not see all the very best ladies of the court and in society at the play?"
"And don't you see, Meg, that if we are to take the apostles' words for what they say, we are all wrong together?" said Betty. "What becomes of all our uncovered necks and bosoms and our jewels and gold lace? You would condemn us all in a lump."
My aunt did not see the sarcasm at all, but giving Betty an approving nod, she bestowed on Margaret a severe lecture for her perverseness, ending with,—
"Of course things are different now. We owe it a duty to the world to dress according to our station, and to follow the customs of society; and it is not for chits like you to set up to dictate. You are to do as you are bid."
"I have no wish to do any thing else," Margaret began.
But her mother stopped her, bidding her go to bed, and not appear before her again till she had learned without book three parts of the 119th Psalm in French. My aunt kept us to treat us to plum-cake, seasoned with a lecture on the evil of young people professing to know more than their elders.
As we went up-stairs, we heard Meg sobbing in her room, but she would not let us in.
This morning she was up very early; and, when we went to my aunt, she had her task prepared, whereat my aunt kissed and forgave her. But after all, thinking it over, I can't see but Meg was right. The Bible does say those very words, for I looked them up afterward. I said as much to Betty.
"Of course she was right," said Bess; "that is, if there be any right or reality about it anywhere. I would like to know where in the New Testament my mother finds laid down the duty which Christians owe to the world. I think I will ask Dr. Tenison about that, if ever I have a chance."
"But, Bess, all the ladies my aunt visits, and those whom she holds up to us for examples, do these things," said I. "My Lady Sunderland, as particular as she is, was at the play last night."
"There was a time, or so I suppose, that all the fine ladies went to see Christian men and women and poor captives fight for their lives with wild beasts," retorted Bess. "You know we read about the vestal virgins yesterday, and how they always had the best places."
"Anyhow I am glad my aunt hath taken Meg into favor again," said I. "I could not but wonder at her coming out so. It was not like her."
"You will say it is just like her when you know her better," said Bess. "Every now and then she angers my mother in the same way. I wish she would not; for it does no good, and only brings down a storm which hurts Meg, and some additional task which hurts her still more. Don't you see how pale she is to-day? I dare swear she did not sleep last night. I do think my mother is as blind as a bat. Oh, how I wish something would happen that we might go to my aunt Laneham's again!"
"Why, where is she?" I asked.
"She lives in Biddeford, and my mother sent us to her once when one of our servants had small-pox. Meg was happier there than I ever saw her, though my aunt Laneham is poor, and our meat and lodging were plain enough. But she went out with my aunt and uncle to visit the poor folk and the sick; and then aunt knows how to let one alone, which I believe my mother never can. O Dorothy, I would do any thing in the world for Meg!"
"There is one thing you could do for her," said I, "and that is to take more pains with your music, and not make such dreadful noises on the harpsichon."
Bess turned round and looked at me in amazement, with her eyebrows lifted to the top of her forehead so it was well my aunt did not see her.
"What do you mean?" said she. "You know I have no ear. You said so yourself."
"I never said you had no eyes," I answered. "See here. Your eyes tell you that the notes in that chord are B, D, and G, don't they?"
"Yes, to be sure."
"And they also tell you what are the keys on the harpsichon answering to those notes?"
Bess nodded.
"Then why can't you play those notes instead of scraping our ears by playing F and C?"
Betty's eyebrows came down a little, and she looked like one who has received a new idea. "Do you really think I could learn to play, Dorothy?" she asked.
"I do think so. I won't say you could ever make a great player. Your ear is not fine enough. But you can learn to play correctly if you do but take pains enough, and certainly that would be a comfort to Meg. Her ear is so fine that every discord is a torture to her, though she would never say so."
"She is too sweet and patient ever to complain of any thing," said Bess; "the more shame that she should be murdered by inches, which is what my mother is doing."
"You should not say so," said I, shocked at her words. "Come, now, play your lesson, and I will overlook you if you like."
"And what about your French verb?"
"Oh, I know it already! Come, begin, and I will count for you."
We really did get through the lesson very decently, and I felt paid for all my pains by Betty's glance when Meg said this morning, "You played that nicely, Bess. It was really a pleasure to hear you."
When the lesson was done, Betty put her arms round me and kissed me.
"I am so glad you came here, Dorothy.—Are not you, Meg?"
"Yes, indeed!" says Meg.
"That is, for our sake I am," said Bess. "I am not sure I am for yours."
"Then you should be," said I; for I won't encourage Bess in her discontent, which only makes matters worse. "I am sure your mother is most kind, far beyond any thing I had a right to expect, in putting me, a stranger, on an exact equality with her own daughters in all respects, and presenting me to all her friends."
"Yes, that is a great privilege," muttered Bess.
"It 'is' a privilege, as you would know, if you had been motherless so long as I have," I answered. "Granting for the sake of argument that my aunt makes mistakes, yet you must see that all she does is with a view to our good. She said last night that if she could see us well settled in the world, she would be ready to leave it."
"Does she not talk like a preacher?" said Betty, turning to Meg. "'Granting for the sake of argument.' Did you learn that from your Mr. Pendergast, Dorothy."
I never mind Betty's mocking speeches; for to me, at least, there is no unkindness in her mockery.
"I never learned any thing but good of him, and I dare say I might have learned more than I did," I returned.
"What sort of person was he?" asked Margaret. "Was he a gentleman?"
"I don't exactly know what you mean by a gentleman."
"What! You don't know what is meant by a gentleman, when you see such shining examples before you every day!" said Betty. "Look at my Lord Chesterton, if you want the model of a gentleman."
"He certainly was not a bit like my Lord Chesterton," said I, "for he was a little, meagre man, very poorly dressed. But I must say I liked him much the best of the two, if I must compare them."
"And he did not flourish his snuff-box, nor swear every other word, nor tell stories about Mrs. This and Lady T'other, and boast of the conquests he had made? Of course he could not be a gentleman," said Bess.
"Don't let us spoil our holiday talking of such things," said Margaret. "I hate the very sound of them. Sing us a nice song, Dorothy. Sing that lovely hymn of Bishop Ken's that Mr. Goodgroome brought us the other day, and let us forget the world for a little."
I sung the hymn, and then another that I learned of Bab Andrews, about the golden city of Jerusalem, with which Margaret was greatly delighted, and asked me who was the author. I told her it was writ in Latin by St. Bernard, I believed, but I did not tell her that it had been done into English by poor Mr. Fairchild, as a farewell token to his mistress. I felt as if Bab's confidences were sacred.
"That just suits Margaret. Would you not like to be a nun, Meg?" asked Betty.
"No," said Meg, after a little consideration, "I don't think I should. I would like to live as my aunt Laneham does, or like my Lady Jemima Stanton, that the dean's wife took us to see once when we were little girls. Don't you remember?"
"Yes, indeed," said Bess. "What a happy day we had! But I am not sure I should like to live like my aunt Laneham all the time,—to wear grogram and homespun, and count every sixpence and every slice of bread as she does."
"Is she so very penurious, then?" I asked, thinking of my mistress. "I don't think Meg would like that at all, not if she had had my experience."
"My aunt Laneham is not one bit penurious," said Meg, rather indignantly. "I never saw people so open-handed as she and my uncle. But he is a clergyman, with a large parish, and a not very large living; and my aunt is obliged to spare that she may have wherewith to be generous."
"That is a very different matter," I answered. "That is like Mr. and Mrs. Pendergast, if you are not tired of hearing about them."
"I am not," said Meg. "I like to hear all about such people. Tell us more about them."
So we sat down, I with my knitting,—which my aunt highly commends, and has given me silk thread enough for a pair of hose,—and the girls with their white seam, and I told them all I knew about the minister's family and household,—how poor they were, and what hard work they often had to appear even decently clad; and how Mrs. Pendergast and her oldest daughter Beulah went about among the poor folks, and had the little ones come to them to learn to read and sew; and so on, making a long story out of a little, because I saw that Meg was pleased. When I stopped at last—
"I don't see but good people are much alike everywhere," said Meg. "This minister's wife seems very much like my aunt Laneham."
"What is that?" said my aunt, opening the door. "What about aunt Laneham?"
I started, she came in so quietly, but Meg answered tranquilly,—
"I was only saying, madam, that my aunt was like a very good woman Dorothy was telling us of, who visited the poor and sick, and taught little maidens to read and sew."
"Ah, poor sister Laneham! She threw herself away dreadfully. She might have been living in one of the finest country-houses in Devon, but she would have her own way, and she got it. I always thought her parents much to blame in giving in to her. But your grandfather and grandmother were very lax with their children. Talking of clergymen, Margaret, I hear you were not at church this morning. How was that?"
"I was there, madam, but I felt faint and ill, and so sat under a window, that I might have the fresh air," answered Meg.
"Oh, very well! Lady Carewe told me she did not see you."
"Spiteful, tattling old toad!" muttered Betty between her teeth, which my aunt, overhearing, rewarded with a sharp rap from her fan-handle, which was meant for her shoulders, but unluckily fell across her check instead, making a red bar on the white skin. Betty uttered a cry of pain, for she has been having the toothache lately, and her cheek is very tender.
Meg started forward, her pale cheek flushed for once.
"You must not give way to these megrims, Meg," said my aunt, taking no notice of Betty. "They are more than half fancy, and the more you give way to them, the more you may. Let me see you down-stairs in an hour, nicely dressed. My Lady Sunderland has lent us her box for the play to-night. Dorothy, you may wear your green silk, and Margaret may do the same. Betty will wear her old black silk."
With that she left the room; and Meg and I set ourselves to comfort and quiet Betty, who was in an agony of rage and shame, and of pain as well, for the blow had set her teeth to aching. I know one thing: if ever I have a grown-up daughter, I will never strike her.
"You cannot go to the play to-night, Bess, that is one comfort," said Meg.
And indeed her face was swollen and angry, and growing worse every moment.
"I will go," said Bess. "I will shame her before all the company."
"Shame your own mother!" said I. "Remember, her shame is yours; and, beside, my aunt did not mean to strike your face."
All we could do did not avail to prevent Bess from going down to the parlor, though her face was a woeful spectacle, with a fiery red bar across it, and the blood settling round her eye. Luckily, there were no strangers present. My aunt did look disconcerted for a moment.
"You cannot go to the play in this state," said she. "I did not mean to strike your cheek, nor to strike so hard."
"It does not matter, madam," answered Betty.
"Don't answer me in that tone, child," said my aunt, more gently than I expected. "Do you not know, Betty, that young folks must be corrected sometimes? How else would they be fitted to take their proper places in society? My whole desire is to see Margaret and yourself, and Dorothy too," she added kindly, "well settled in the world, and answering to what the world expects of ladies in your condition."
"And what about the other world, madam?" asked Betty, who had got the bit between her teeth, and was reckless of consequences. "That is a world, which, if all we hear be true, is likely to last a good deal longer than this. How about that?"
My lady looked really grieved.
"I did not expect such a question from my daughter," said she. "Do I not take all the pains possible with your religious education? Do I not give you the best books of devotion that can be found both in French and English? Do I not send you to church every day and twice on Sundays? What more can I do? But there, I pardon you, child. You have your father's temper, and one must make allowances. Go to your room, and bid Sharpless make a poultice for your face, and I will send you some custard for your supper. But try to rule your spirit, Betty, and do not doubt your mother's love, though she may think it needful to cross you at times."
I saw that Betty was softened in a moment, though she said nothing. Meg ventured to ask if she might stay with her sister, but my aunt said no. She had made up a party for her box, and could not have it broken up. So we went to the play; and there we met Lord Chesterton, who devoted himself to Meg all the evening, much to her annoyance. I could not but wonder if it were necessary to the character of a fine gentleman to take the name of God in vain at every breath, as they all do. Mr. Evelyn is as fine a gentleman as any of them, and I never heard him do it. It used to scare me dreadfully at first; but I am growing used to it, and even find myself catching up the words, which some ladies use very freely, I find.
August 20.
I have seen Mr. Morley.
We went to church as usual this morning. Ursula Jackson comes every Sunday with her husband, and I have got a habit of looking for her, and sometimes of speaking when we meet. My aunt doth not object, because she says we owe it to ourselves to be civil to all, each in their degree.
Well, I looked round as usual, after we had curtsied to my Lady Carewe (a wonderful object she is in her black locks and rouged cheeks, which show the crow's feet and wrinkles through all her paint). Well, I glanced toward Ursula's pew, as usual, and there sat Mr. Morley. I was so astonished I could hardly command myself. While I was looking, Ursula and her husband came in; and Mr. Morley rose to make room for them, with a polite salute, which Mr. Jackson returned, though he looked like a small thunder-storm. Mr. Morley bowed very particularly to me; and I returned his salute, not knowing what else to do.
When we came out, my aunt asked me who it was that had bowed to me. I told her it was a distant cousin of Lady Corbet's, whom I had met at her house.
"One of her way of thinking?" she asked.
"No, madam," I answered. "He has a company in Col. Kirke's regiment."
"Ay, I thought he looked like a soldier," was her comment.
As we passed out, I heard Mr. Jackson rating the old pew-opener for daring to put a stranger into his seat. The poor old woman protested that she meant no offence, saying the gentleman had told her he was Mrs. Jackson's cousin. Ursula stood by without a word. I fancy she hath met her match, and I am not one bit sorry if she has.
What was my surprise, on coming down in the evening, to find Mr. Morley with my aunt, and evidently in favor!
"Mr. Morley has brought me a letter from your father, girls," said my aunt, as she presented him to us. "He is on his way up to town, and as Mr. Morley passed him on the road, he was kind enough to take charge of a packet. Your father was obliged by business to stop a few days on the road, but he will be here the last of the week."
Both the girls uttered exclamations of joy. They are clearly very fond of their father, who I fancy is more indulgent than their mother.
"Sir Robert is happy in having such affectionate daughters," said Mr. Morley, bowing; "and I am glad to find my old acquaintance, Mrs. Dolly Corbet, in such pleasant circumstances."
"Yes, my girls are fond of their father, who spoils them dreadfully," said my aunt, looking not ill-pleased, however. "Dorothy has not yet seen her uncle."
Mr. Morley staid to supper, and made himself so agreeable that I felt proud of him. Of course, we had no chance to talk together in private, but it was enough for once to be in the room with him, to hear his voice, and catch now and then a glance from his eye meant for me alone.
When at last he took his leave, my aunt asked him to come again.
I should be the happiest girl alive only that Meg has taken an unaccountable dislike to him. When I ventured to ask her what she thought of him, "Why, as I thought when I saw the great American viper that Mr. Boyle showed us in his museum," said she. "His head hath just the same shape; only they say the viper gives warning when he is about to strike, and I doubt this one would not."
"You are not used to be so uncharitable, Meg," said I, very much vexed.
"Perhaps I am wrong," said she, "but I took a dislike to the man the moment I saw him."
"You ought to like him because he is my friend," said I.
"That is the very reason I don't," she rejoined.
"And what say you, Betty?" I asked. "Don't you like him, either?"
"I don't like or dislike him," said Betty. "He is like all the rest,—stale, flat, and unprofitable. Oh, how I do hate it all! But I am glad my father is coming up: do you know why?"
"Because you wish to see him."
"Yes, and because I know very well he will never endure to stay here long. He hates London as much as I do, and you will see he will whisk us down to dear old Devon before three weeks are over; and oh, how glad I shall be!—Won't you, Meg?"
"Yes, if I go," said Meg wearily. "Dolly, will you let Sharpless come to me first to-night, I am so tired?" (For we take turns in being first waited on.)
"You may have her all the time, for all I care," said I. "You know I am used to dressing myself. But why do you say, 'if I go'? Of course you will go with us."
She shook her head sadly, but said not one word, as she passed into her room and closed the door. I looked at Betty.
"What does she mean?" said I.
"I don't know," answered Betty, "only Meg always thinks she shall die young. But there may be another reason. Come into my room, Dorothy."
She shut the door, and said in a low tone, "I think my mother has a match in hand for her."
"You don't mean Lord Chesterton!" I exclaimed, rather more loudly than was prudent.
"Hush!" said Bess. "Yes, I am afraid so."
"But she cannot abide him!"
"He is an earl's son and probable heir to a dukedom," said Betty bitterly.
"And an atheist, open and avowed."
"Well, not exactly that. You know it is the genteel thing for men to have doubts about religion."
I thought of Mr. Morley, and was silent for a moment. Then I asked, "But what think you your father will say?"
"He would not let Meg be sacrificed—or think not—if she were utterly set against this man," answered Betty slowly; "though Sir Robert rarely interferes with my mother. I think you will love him, Dolly, though he is rather rough in his ways at times. But I don't know that his oaths and stories are any worse than those of the fine gentlemen that visit my mother."
"I don't see how they could be. But, Bess, don't be too much cast down. It may well be that we are borrowing trouble about Meg."
"Well, I hope so. There is one thing about it, I don't believe any one she marries will trouble her long. Good-night, Dolly."
August 27.
My uncle has come, a big, roistering country gentleman, who kissed me on both sides of my face, and bade God bless me, and in the same breath damned his man for not bringing his bootjack. But I like him for all; there is something real and genuine about him. He scolded about our pale cheeks, vowed he would have us out stag-hunting, and asked me if I could ride.
"I don't know, uncle. I am like the man in the jest-book, who said he did not know if he could play the fiddle, because he had never tried."
He laughed a great, hearty laugh, and said he was glad to see I had a spirit of my own. Then turning to his elder daughter,—
"Why, Meg, thou lookest more like a white bind-weed than ever. What ails thee, child?"
"Margaret hath been a little drooping, but we shall soon have her better," said my aunt. "Will you not wash and dress before supper, Sir Robert?"
"Oh, ay, I suppose so!" said he, and strode away whistling.
The house seems brighter already for his presence. He hath begged a holiday for us that he may take us to see the sights. My aunt gives in to him wonderfully, and Betty hangs on him like a burr. He has taken us to see the lions in the tower, and some other sights, and given us two or three drives out of town to one resort and another. Among others we went to Hackney, and saw the place where I went to school. The old house was pulled down, and a new one was going up, which I suppose my poor mother's three hundred pounds helped to build. I would I had the ordering of a few clever hobgoblins for the owner's benefit. He would not stay long in his fine mansion.
Mr. Morley hath called two or three times, and hath even dined with us. My uncle says he is a rising man, in favor at court, and like to do well. He hath paid me some attention, but of course we have no chance to talk together in private. Only last night we had a few words over the harpsichon, where he had been singing with me.
"I am afraid you don't care for me any more, Dolly," said he. "Your grand friends and admirers have made you forget your poor soldier of fortune."
"I know not why you should say that," I answered. "Would you have me run after you?"
"Ah, I see you have learned 'repartee!' But do you remember our interviews in the park? I would we could have another such walk together as we had that last morning. Come, meet me to-morrow in the old place."
"I cannot if I would, and I would not if I could," said I. "I promised solemnly I would never do that again."
"And to whom did you give that promise? To your amiable mistress, or to her vinegar-faced waiting-woman? Pshaw, Dolly! Vows were made to be broken."
"I tell you it is impossible!" said I. "You might as well ask me to meet you in the moon."
My aunt called me at that moment, so I could say no more. I don't know how it is: I ought to be the happiest girl in the world now that I can see Mr. Morley so often, and that my uncle and aunt like him, but I am not. I suppose perfect happiness is not for this world.
September 1.
My uncle already talks of going down to Fullham, and the girls are well-pleased. I don't want to go at all.
September 2.
The murder is out. Lord Chesterton has made proposals for Margaret, and been accepted. My uncle pished and pshawed a little about giving his Meg to a courtier, but gave in when my aunt represented the likelihood of Meg's being a duchess; for the duke's elder son is lately dead, and the other is a poor, sickly little lad. Margaret says little, but makes no objection. She grows thinner and paler every day, but my aunt does not seem to notice it, or has not till lately. Now she makes her take a little ale with her dinner, and two or three nights she hath herself brought her a cup of wine whey at night.
I cannot make Meg out. Sometimes I think she is pleased with the thought of being a duchess and living in that grand house, though that is not like her. For my own part, I would rather live in a cabin with the man I love. I said as much to Meg one night.
"And so would I, perhaps, if things were different," said she, with a moonlight smile; "but, as it is, it does not matter."
"Why do you always say that?" I asked. "I think it matters a great deal."
"If you were to stay only an hour or two at an inn on your way home, you would not care much, though your accommodations were rough, and your companions not greatly to your mind," said Meg.
"I don't understand you," said I.
But I had no chance to ask any more, for my lady called us to see the splendid presents of jewels and lace that the duke hath sent to Margaret. The poor little boy fades every day, they say, and the duke treats his nephew already as his heir. I never in all my life saw such pearls,—as big as peas, and of a wonderful purity and lustre. And there is a sapphire jewel, in a ring, which is like a piece out of the blue sky. Meg regarded them all with the same tranquil gravity with which she looks at all the splendid preparations for her bridal.
"My uncle has been very kind, has he not?" said Lord Chesterton, who had himself brought the jewels.
"Yes, every one is very kind," said Margaret gently.
"But you don't care for the silly things, after all?" said he, looking earnestly at her. (I do think he is in love with her.) "Mrs. Margaret, what can I do to give you a pleasure? I would sell my soul to see you look pleased for once."
Margaret turned her lovely eyes upon him with an earnest expression.
"Then if you would really please me, my lord, there is one thing you might do, and that is to break off such expressions as you used just now."
(For he had confirmed his words with an oath, as usual.) "I beseech you to break off this habit of taking God's holy name in vain on every light occasion. That indeed would give me great pleasure."
"Well, I will," said he, kissing the hand she had laid on his arm in her earnestness. "I know 'tis a bad habit, but after all, it means nothing."
"That is just the trouble," said Meg. "It is against that very meaningless invocation of the holy name that the command is aimed. I beseech you, my lord, if you care for me, to break it off."
"I will try, indeed I will," said he; "I'll be—" Then catching himself up with an embarrassed laugh, "There it is, you see. But indeed, Margaret, I will try, if only to please you."
I never liked my lord so much as at that moment. He forgot his affectations, and looked and spoke like a man.
My aunt, coming back just then, began praising the jewels.
"I never saw any thing so beautiful," said she. "Of what do they remind you, Margaret?"
"Of the twelve gates that were twelve pearls," said Margaret; "and of the walls of the city that are built of precious stones."
I saw the tears come to my Lord Chesterton's eyes as he turned away to the window.
"You see my daughter is very religious," said my aunt.
"I would not have her otherwise, madam," he answered. "My own mother is a devout woman, and prays for her scapegrace of a son every day. Perhaps her prayers may be answered: who knows?—I think you will love my mother, Margaret. You and she will take pleasure in trotting about to the cottages together, and the north winds will blow some roses into these pale cheeks. I do hope you will like my mother."
"I am sure I shall," said Margaret, with far more interest than she had showed in the jewels. "Does she visit among the poor folk? Tell me about her."