CHAPTER X.

_A SON AND HEIR._

_November 9._

SO many things have changed since I wrote last, that I hardly know where to begin. My Lady is safe, that is the great thing, and has a fine sturdy pair of twin boys, to every one's great delight. I think it is my luck to have to do with twins.

Then my engagement with Walter is openly acknowledged and sanctioned, too, by everybody concerned, and I am now treated quite as a daughter of the house, though I go on mine old way with Betty.

Lady Jemima hath been very sick, but is, I hope, in a way to recover. And we are at last the best friends in the world.

It all came about in this wise. My Lady had been ailing for a good many days, and kept her chamber for the most part. I had partly promised to ride to the revels at Langham with my Lord, Mr. Penrose and his sister, a very pretty and pleasant young lady, lately come out of Cornwall to visit him. I confess I looked forward to the jaunt with some pleasure, for I love seeing new places and people, and I have been very quiet since I came hither.

But the evening before we were to set out, my Lady sent for me to her room. I found her lying on the couch, with no other light but that from the fire, and she beckoned me to a low seat by her side.

"Margaret," said she, "is your heart very much set on going to these revels to-morrow?"

"No, my Lady," I answered: "not set upon it at all, if you wish me to stay at home."

"I fear I am very selfish in asking it," continued my dear Lady, taking my hand in hers, and stroking it with her slender fingers: "but, sweetheart, if the disappointment will not be too grievous, I should like to have you stay. I am not well, and I am very fanciful—and I have learned to depend very much upon you, my dear. Maybe I shall not ask much more of you in this world."

"My dearest Lady, don't say so," said I, kissing her hand, and hardly able to speak as quietly as I know that I ought, for the lump that rose in my throat. "It will be no disappointment for me to stay at home, since you desire it. I shall be glad to do so."

"Mr. Penrose will be ready to say hard things of me, I fear," said my Lady.

"I don't think he will mind," I answered. "They are to join the party from Fulton Manor, you know, so Mrs. Kitty will not want for company or countenance."

"Do you really think he is looking in that direction?" asked my Lady.

"I told her that I did, and I was very glad, both for his sake and Mrs. Priscilla's."

"'Tis just as well, as things have fallen out," said my lady, sighing a little, methought, "but I gave Mr. Penrose credit for more constancy. Then, my dear, I will break this matter to my Lord to-night, and save you any trouble about it.

"And, Margaret, I have written a letter to my Lord in case of my death, in which I have explained your relations to Walter, and asked him, for my sake, to countenance them. I am sure he will do so in the end, but you know my Lord's hasty spirit, and you must not mind a little roughness just at first. 'Tis ever his way to say more than he means. I have also explained my wishes with regard to Betty, and have written a letter to her and one to Walter, which will all be found in my cabinet. And now, Margaret, if you can listen quietly, I want to speak to you of some other matters."

"I will try, my Lady," said I.

And so I did, while she went over various matters respecting her laying out and burial, and the disposal of her clothes, together with the provision she wished to have made of mourning for the school children, and the old folks at the almshouses.

"I have tried to talk over those matters with my Cousin Judith," concluded my Lady, "but she always breaks into tears, and that is ill for both of us. I have good hope that they will be unnecessary, but I shall not die the more for having them arranged and off my mind."

"I think not, surely, my Lady," I answered, as she seemed to expect me to speak. "On the contrary, your mind will be the easier for having them all settled. I never could understand the feelings that people have about such matters—making wills and the like. A man is none the more likely to die for having made his will, and settled his affairs, and if he does receive a sudden call, what a comfort to him to think that he has left everything in order for those he must leave behind."

By this time, I had talked away the lump in my throat, and felt quite calm and composed. So I said to my Lady that I thought I had best take notes of what she had told me, that there need be no mistake. She agreeing thereto, I got lights and paper, and wrote down her desires as she dictated them to me, and then read them over to her.

"That is all clear and plain!" said my Lady. "And now for your own matters, Margaret. I believe I ought to release you from the promise you made to me, to remain with Betty for a year. As matters then were, it seemed best for both of you, but the case is altered."

"I don't desire to be released, my Lady," I answered her. "I mean to keep my word with you. I have told Mr. Corbet so, and he agrees that I am right."

"Mr. Corbet is the most reasonable of men, and will have the most reasonable of wives," said my Lady, smiling somewhat sadly: "but that is no argument for his being imposed upon, or you either."

"Indeed, my Lady, I don't feel that I am being imposed upon," I said, eagerly. "I am very happy with you. I am very young to be married, and I am all the time learning what will make ma the more worthy of my new position."

"Learning of Mrs. Judith to make tarts and conserves, and to order a household; and of Mrs. Brewster to clearstarch and work lace—and what of me, sweetheart?" asked my Lady.

"Everything good, madam," I said, kissing the hand she had laid on mine—"Truth, and kindness, and patience—" and here the lump came in my throat again, and I could say no more.

"Aye, patience! Learn patience, maiden. It will stand thee in good stead," said my Lady, with something nearer to bitterness than ever I heard from her before, and then she murmured some lines, which, as I remember, ran thus:

"Bring me a woman constant to her husband, One that ne'er dreamed a joy above his pleasure; And to that woman, when she hath done most, Yet will I add an honor—a great patience."

"Do you know who writ those lines, Margaret?"

"Shakspeare, I should say, Madam, though I never read them," I answered.

"You are right; they are Shakspeare's. No one else could so have expressed that character of Queen Catharine. People do not set much store by him nowadays, but I cannot but think the time will come when he will be set far above those playwrights, who are now so much the fashion. You shall have the book and read the play for yourself. But never mind that now.

"Margaret, I have no special directions to give you regarding my poor child. I am sure you will manage her rightly and reasonably, and always be her friend. For her sake, I am glad that you are like to be settled so near us. I might say more on this head, but that I feel an inward persuasion, almost amounting to a certainty, that Betty will not be long behind me, if I am taken away."

She paused a little, and then went on to speak of the child that was coming, saying: "If it should be a boy, he will have friends, more than enough, but if a girl, I commend her to your love and care. I am sure you will care for her, Margaret."

I answered her as well as I could.

"You must not mind my Lord's humors," she continued. "He is brave, generous and kindhearted, but he is naturally high-spirited, and having been used to living so much amidst dependents, he is naturally impatient of contradiction."

"Or of anything else but gross flattery and subserviency," I could not help thinking. And in truth 'tis hard to believe very much in the greatness of a man, who must be managed like a child, and who cannot hear the least word of dissent or contradiction, without scolding and fretting, till he makes himself a spectacle. I am glad Walter has been knocked about the world a little more, for I am sure I should lose all respect for him if he should treat me many times as my Lord treats my Lady, who has more sense in her glove than he ever had in his hat.

My Lady finished what she had to say to me, and my Lord coming in, I retired.

"So I find we are not to have your company to-morrow," said my Lord, meeting me afterward on the stairs. "'Tis very kind in you to stop with my Lady, and lose the pleasure of the day, but you shall fare none the worse, I promise you. Of course it is not to be expected that I should remain at home—" (I did not see the "of course—" it would have seemed to me only natural, remembering my dear father's way at such times)—"but I am glad you will be with her, and I shall not forget it. You are a good girl, Margaret."

I courtesied, and said, "Thank you, my Lord."

"By the way, I hear that Wat Corbet is coming home soon," said he, detaining me on the stairs, as I was about to pass him. "Have you heard of it?"

"I knew he expected to be at home about Hallowmass," I answered.

"You know a great deal about him, it seems to me," said my Lord, in rather a discontented tone. "However, an' that come to pass which I hope for, he may marry whom he likes, for all me. You have always been a good girl, Meg, and fond of my Lady. You are not scheming to stand in her shoes, are you?"

"No, my Lord, that I am not!" I answered, rather hotly. "I hope my Lady may stand in her own shoes this many a day to come. As for scheming, I am scheming for nothing, and I see not why I should be accused of it!"

"Well, well, you need not be so tart!" said my Lord. (People like him always wonder how folks can be so tart.) "I only asked the question. I am sorry to miss your company, and so I dare say some other folks will be, but my Lady's fancies are to be considered, of course. Tell me what I shall bring Betty from the revels? Poor child, 'tis a hard case that all such things must pass by her, and she have none of the fun: but I suppose she would like a fairing."

I felt sure she would, and told him what I thought she would fancy, namely, a thread-case and scissor-case—for she is beginning to take great pleasure in needlework.

"I will remember," said he, taking out his tablets, and setting down what I had told him; "and what shall I give you?"

"I will leave that to your own taste, my Lord," I was saying, when Lady Jemima coming down the stairs, a little way, called out, "Brother, I wish to speak with you!" and I made my escape.

But going down again presently, to carry some message which my Lady had given me to Mrs. Judith, I heard my Lord say to Lady Jemima, as he left her room:

"Well, well, we can do nothing now, my Lady is so set upon her. But if you are right, Jem!—" I hurried on and heard no more, but I felt sure that they were talking of me.

The next day dawned clear and bright, though there were signs which might portend a storm before its close. I did not go down to the early breakfast, for Betty had had a turn of pain in the night, and Mary had called me up to soothe her, and give her some quieting medicine, which she will take from no hand but mine and her mother's. So after I had given it her, I lay down beside her in the bed, and would not rise for fear of waking her.

She waked herself when my Lady came in, and I rose and went to my room. Here I found Mrs. Judith, intent upon taking down and brushing the hangings, and performing I know not what other cleaning operations. So after I had dressed, I locked up all my small treasures in my cabinet, and putting my watch in my bosom, and in my pocket the little Prayer-book and the Thomas à Kempis which Walter had sent me, I went down to the chapel to say my prayers there.

I found Lady Jemima before me, busied in decorating the altar with late flowers, which she arranged with a great deal of taste. She seemed to make an effort to be pleasant with me, I thought, for she bade me good morning, and then said, as I stopped to look at her work:

"I suppose your Puritan notions would condemn these decorations?"

"I have no Puritan notions that I know of," I answered: "and certainly not that one. I love flowers anywhere, and I don't know any place where they seem prettier or better bestowed than in church. I should not like to see artificial flowers in such a place, because they would look tawdry and unworthy, but the real flowers are quite another thing."

"I should not have expected to hear that from a friend and upholder of Mr. Prynne!" said Lady Jemima.

"Mr. Prynne was my father's friend and kinsman, and hath been kind to my mother since his death," I answered: "but he never was specially a friend of mine. On the contrary, I am afraid I had a mortal fear and dislike to the poor man, because he used to contradict and browbeat my father so."

"And yet your father was friendly with him!" she remarked.

"Yes, madam," I said. "My mother would be indignant sometimes, and then my father would laugh and say that he knew how to separate the husks of opinion and prejudice from the sound and sweet fruit of the man: but I must confess the husks ever stuck too much in my throat to let me relish the fruit. But I could not but grieve for his hard fate when I remembered his kindness to the poor, and to my mother, above all. I should love a Turk if he were kind to my mother."

She made no answer to this, but turned to go away, gathering up the rejected stalks and leaves of her flowers, in which I made bold to help her. She thanked me, but rather stiffly, and asked me what had brought me thither so early. I told her I had come to say my prayers, as Mrs. Judith was cleaning my room.

"That is well!" said she. "Do you pray for your enemies?"

"I should, if I had any, madam," I answered: "but I think I have none, or at least only one," I added, thinking of Felicia.

"I am that one, I suppose!" said she.

"No, madam," I answered her. "I was not thinking of you."

"Pray for me, nevertheless!" said she, her face growing pale and sharp, as if with some hidden pain, and with that she went quickly away.

I could not but wonder at her words, but she is always unlike other people, so I did not think so much of it.

I said my prayers, not forgetting to pray for the poor lady, and then, as my books were heavy to carry in my pocket, I bestowed them, as I thought, safely in a corner of my usual seat, little thinking what a scrape they were going to bring me into, and went about my business.

The weather was gloomy and lowering all day, but the sun shone out bright and clear about half an hour before its setting, and Betty, taking a fancy to go out, I wrapped her up and took her into the garden, on the west side of the house, which is warm and sheltered in the afternoon. Here she played about awhile, talking to Dick Gardener, who is a great ally of hers, and gathering a nose-gay of late flowers for her mother.

When, just as I was thinking that we must go in presently, I saw Lady Jemima coming down the steps toward me.

As she drew near, I saw that her face was white with passion, and that she had my two books in her hand. She came close up to me, and holding them up before me asked, in a voice which trembled with anger:

"Where did you get these books? Whose hand is this in the beginning?"

Then, before I could speak, she added: "Tell me no lies, wench! This is Walter Corbet's hand!"

I was cool in a minute. I saw that the time had come, and that I must hold mine own with her, and if possible keep her from disturbing my Lady.

"I do not mean to lie—why should I?" I said. "It is Walter Corbet's hand, and he gave me the books!"

"And you dare to tell me so!" said she, turning paler still, if that were possible. "You receive love tokens from Walter Corbet—you!"

She caught her breath, and stood looking at me with the utmost scorn and abhorrence in her face.

"We shall see what his mother will say to such treachery, my dainty mistress—'his beloved Margaret,' forsooth! I will tell her what an honor is in store for her, and what a fine intrigue her pure-minded son is carrying on under his cousin's roof!"

"You will tell her no news, and there is no intrigue in the case!" said I. "I am Walter Corbet's betrothed wife, with his mother's full knowledge and consent, and also with my Lady's!"

With that I stooped to pick up the books which she had cast on the ground at my feet, when, as ill-luck would have it, my watch and Walter's picture slipped from my bosom and fell on the grass, the picture face uppermost, of course. With a cry of wrath and anguish such as I never heard, she set her heel on the picture, and crushed it to atoms, and then turning to Betty, who had come up panting and full of amazement, she seized her by the arm, saying, in a stifled voice:

"Come away from this wretch—this viper! Come away, before she shall poison you!"

Then, as Betty hung back, and clung crying to me, scared by her aunt's violence. "Come with me, I say, or I will drag you away by force!"

"I wont!" screamed Betty, all her passionate temper aroused in turn. And, wrenching away her arm: "You are a viper yourself, and a dragon too, Aunt Jemima, and I hate you!"

"Yes, you have profited by your teaching!" said Lady Jemima, in the same strange, unnatural voice. "Come with me, I say!"

And with that she seized the child by the shoulder, and by a sudden wrench, pulling her away, she dragged her toward the house.

I was horrified, knowing how easily she was hurt, and sprang to the rescue, and at the same moment Betty gave a shrill cry of agony, and called out, "Mamma! Oh mamma! Aunt Jem is killing me!"

Then looking up—oh, sight of horror!—I saw my Lady running down the stone steps of the terrace, and, catching her foot, fall headlong to the ground!

I forgot all else—even my child, at that sight, and I was by her side in a moment, raising her head in my lap.

Betty burst out crying—"Mamma is killed! Mamma is killed!" And threw herself on the ground by her side.

Lady Jemima stood as if turned to stone.

I saw in a moment that my Lady still breathed, and presently she opened her eyes. By this time Dick Gardener and his assistants came running up, and I made Ambrose, who is a great, strong, handy fellow, take up my Lady and carry her to her room, while I ran before to call Mrs. Judith and Mrs. Brewster.

By this time all the servants were alarmed, and came running into the hall to meet us. I sent Mary to bring in Betty and put her to bed, and the others on different errands to get them out of the way, for somehow I seemed to have everything to do, and to think of everything at once.

As for Lady Jemima, she had never moved from her place, and nobody seemed to think about her at all.

By the time we got my Lady to her room, she was quite herself, and gave directions about everything she wanted, bidding Brewster undress her, and telling me to go and see to Betty and bring word how she was; for she feared she had been hurt in the struggle.

I found Betty crying and sobbing in Mary's arms, who was trying to coax her to be undressed, instead of going to her mother, as she was determined to do.

I now found the benefit of having reduced the child to obedience. She submitted, sorrowfully, but passively, when I told her that she could not go to her mother to-night, but if she wanted to please her she must be good and quiet and do as she was bid.

"I will try to be good!" said she, pitifully, as I began to unlace her boddice. "But oh, Margaret, Aunt Jem did hurt me so! I could not help crying out! You don't think it was my fault that mamma fell down-stairs, do you?"

I told her no—that she was not to blame in the least; and indeed I could not feel that she was.

"How is mamma? Is she dying?" asked Betty.

"O no!" I answered, as cheerfully as I could. "I think perhaps she will be quite well in the morning, if she is not disturbed to-night. She is troubled about you, and I want to carry back a good account of you."

Betty was all docility in a minute, and let me undress her and rub her back and shoulders. "Does it hurt you, now?" I asked.

"Not so 'very' much," she answered, with a strong emphasis on the "very." "Not so very much, when I am quite still. Tell mamma so, please."

"You shall go to bed now, and I will sit with you while Mary brings your supper," said I. And I made her a sign to make haste, for I was on thorns to get back to my Lady.

When I had seen Betty comfortable, I went back again to my Lady's room. By this time it was quite dark—the wind was blowing, and the rain dashing against the windows, and it promised to be a wild night. I found Mrs. Judith had sent man and horse after the doctor and nurse: "For though my Lady seems quiet enough just now, my dear, we shall want help before morning, I am sure. I only wish my Lord had left us Roger, instead of Harry Andrews."

I wished so too, for Harry was young, and not over steady, and besides he was brother to Tom Andrews, which was enough to set me against him. I could not help wondering at my Lord, knowing as he did what was like to happen at any time, and said so.

"Oh, there's no use in expecting any sense in 'men!'" said Mrs. Judith, with decision. "They are all alike in those matters, my dear. An ounce of trouble for themselves outweighs a pound for anybody else."

"Not with all men, I think!" said I, remembering my dear father. "What time ought Harry to be back?"

"By eight o'clock, at farthest."

"And when ought we to expect my Lord?" I asked.

Mrs. Judith looked grave.

"Not to-night, I am afraid: or at least not till late. They will sup with Sir Thomas Fulton, and most likely stay all night, as it is such a storm."

Eight o'clock came, and half-past eight, but no Harry, and no doctor. My Lady began to grow worse very fast, and by half-past nine she was in convulsions. Mrs. Brewster lost her head entirely, and could do nothing but cry. And Mrs. Judith was terribly flurried, and evidently quite at her wits' end.

"You see I have had so little experience!" said she to me, as she came out into the antechamber. "I never had but one of my own, and my Lady always had her mother with her before. I would give my right hand if Mrs. Corbet were here—but how to bring her!"

"Surely she would come if she were sent for!" said I.

"Aye, but how to send. You see, my dear, this is All-Hallow's even, and I don't believe you could get one of the servants to go down to Corby-End for love nor money!"

"What, not for my Lady?" I exclaimed.

Mrs. Judith shook her head.

"Fear makes people selfish, my dear. And indeed, considering what hath been seen between here and there on All-Hallow's eve, I should not like it myself. Not but that I would go if I could."

"I will go down to the kitchen and see what can be done," said I, and I went.

I found the maids, with old Thomas and David, who were the only men left at home, gathered closely round the fire, listening to some dreadful tale of ghosts and what not, which Anne was doling out to them: and one or two of them shrieked as I opened the door, as if I had been the White Dame herself.

I told my errand, but was answered only by blank looks and a torrent of expostulation and assurance that no one would dare to go through the park this night, no not to have the whole of it, for fear of meeting the Halting Knight and a certain evil spirit which is supposed, at this time, to be mousing about the Abbey for any unlucky soul that ventures out after dark.

"And so you will let your good Lady die for lack of help!" said I, as soon as I could get a hearing.

"As to that, our lives are worth as much to us as my Lady's to her!" answered Anne, pertly enough. "And who knows what Madam Corbet might do, if she did come? I'll be bound she hath heard the news before this time. She doth not need earthly messengers, as honest folks do. Everybody knows that!"

"Everybody knows that you are an ungrateful fool, Anne Hollins," said old Thomas; "and if you do not lose your place for that same speech, it will not be my fault, I promise you. I would go in a minute, Mrs. Merton, but you know I can scarce put one foot before the other."

"And you, David!" said I.

David only shrank together and muttered something, but it was clear he would not go.

"Get me the lanthorn ready—I will go myself!" said I, at last. "I fear no evil when on a good errand, and hold myself safer out in this storm and under God's protection, than you are here round the fire. Remember stone walls cannot keep out spirits, and the Evil One himself is like enough to be busy among you—selfish cowards that you are!"

With that I left them, and running to mine own room, I put on my thick woolen gown, which mother would have had me leave at home, and in less time than I can write it, I was back in my Lady's room, telling Mrs. Judith of my purpose.

"God bless you, dear maid!" she exclaimed, kissing me and bursting into tears. "Go then, and good angels guard you!"

"And so you are really going!" said Dorothy, the fat cook, as she put the lanthorn into my hand: "And you, you idle, good for nought men, will let her go alone! I would go myself, but I should hinder more than help you!"

"I'm going with Mrs. Merton!" said Jacky, the little knife-boy, starting up from his corner, and buttoning up his doublet, while his pale face and staring eyes showed his fears were only less strong than his sense of duty. "I'm only a lad, but I am somebody, and she shan't go alone—so!"

"Good boy!" said Dorothy, as she tied her own kerchief over his ears to keep his cap on. "Thou shalt have a fine plum bun, I promise thee! There, go along, and God bless you both!"

As we went out into the night, the wind caught us, and we had much ado to keep our feet. It came not steadily, but in heavy gusts, laden with sharp, stinging rain, and roared fearfully in the great trees. It was not so very dark, for there was a moon, which shone out now and then through the flying clouds, but a wilder night sure no two young things were ever abroad in. I walked on as fast as I could, and Jacky trudged manfully by my side, not even blenching when we passed into the Abbey church-yard, which we must needs cross, as the shortest way to Corby-End. As we were in the midst thereof, the moon shone out suddenly, and an owl—I suppose it was an owl—gave an unearthly screech.

"Save us!" cried Jacky, pressing close to my side. "What's that?"

"Only an owl," said I, valorously. "Never mind him!" But I did not feel as brave as my words, by any means.

However, we crossed the church-yard safely enough, and descended into the ravine.

Here it was very dark. The brook, already swollen with the rain, narrowed the path, so that we had to go one by one. There were strange sounds in the trees, and the passing gleams of the lanthorn made strange shapes on the rocks and bushes. I grew very impatient to reach the end, for, aside from all other fears, I knew the brook, which hath its rise in the high moon, sometimes swelled very suddenly, and made the track quite impassable. But the more haste, the worse speed. In my hurry, I stumbled and fell, putting out the light.

Jacky burst out crying: "Oh, mistress, what shall we do now?"

"Push on as fast as we can," said I, affecting a courage I by no means felt. "Take hold of my gown, and make what haste you are able."

Even as I spoke, something seemed to brush past me, so near to my face that I felt it, and again we heard the same wild scream which had greeted us in the church-yard. Stumbling and tripping, however, we hurried on, and at last came out at the little gate I have mentioned before in these memoirs. We were still in the thick woods, but then the path was plain, and at last—oh, welcome sight!—we saw the lights in the windows of Corby-End!

Never did any one look more amazed than Madam Corbet, when I burst into her pretty, orderly room, all dripping, torn, and draggled as I was, and told my tale with breathless haste. Not till it was ended, did I see that Walter was at my side. Then all my strength seemed gone in a minute, and I should have fallen, but for his arms.

"I must go to my cousin instantly," said Madam, rising. "Walter, will you order my horse, and tell Will to get ready to ride? There is no time to lose!"

"I will myself go with you as far as the great house, and then ride on in search of the doctor," said Walter. "As for Margaret, she must abide here and go to bed."

"No, no!" I cried. "I must go back. Indeed I must! If Betty wakes and misses me, no one will be able to manage her, and I shall be wanted, beside. I must go back directly!"

"I believe she is right!" said Madam, to my great joy.

She would have me drink some hot wine, however, and indeed I was glad of it. I believe they made all the haste possible, but it seemed an age before we were ready to set out.

As for Jacky, he was left with the servants to be dried, warmed and feasted to his heart's content.

I rode behind Walter, and Madam her own horse, and we were not long in reaching the house. When we were safely dismounted, Walter said he would ride on with Will and find the doctor.

"You will be drenched through!" said I.

"Nay, I have my horseman's coat, and I am not made of sugar nor salt, more than yourself, my dear love!" said he: "But, dear mother, do see that Margaret changes her clothes."

And with that he was gone. Many people would have thought it not a very sentimental greeting, after so long an absence: but I was well contented with it.

I hurried to my room to dress myself, for indeed I was wet through, and I know it was but right that I should take due care of my own health.

When I had done so, I looked in at my child. She was awake, and started up at my entrance.

"Mamma!" said she, breathlessly.

"She is likely to do well, I trust," I answered. "Your Cousin Corbet is come to stay with her. Try to go to sleep, my dear one."

"But you will come and tell me?" she said, holding my hand. "I don't want you to stay, because mamma might need you, but you will come and tell me. And I have tried to be good, haven't I, Mary?"

"Indeed you have, my dear, tender lamb—my sweet, precious young Lady!" said Mary, wiping her eyes: "I am sure an angel could not have behaved any better!"

I kissed her and again assured her that I would bring her the first news, and bade her pray for her mother.

And then I left her and hurried back to my Lady's antechamber, where I met Lady Jemima coming out.

"Mrs. Corbet is with her," said she. "She will not endure me in her sight—and no wonder. I feel as if I had murdered her."

"You have!" I answered her, bitterly enough. I was wrong, but at that moment I did really feel that if my Lady died, Lady Jemima would be answerable for her death.

Lady Jemima looked strangely at me for a moment, and then turned and fled swiftly to her own room.

Mrs. Judith opened the door in a few minutes to whisper to me that my Lady was already quieter, and seemed soothed and comforted by her cousin's presence, and to ask me to go down and see that some supper was prepared for my Lord, in case of his coming home, which I did.

I found Dorothy had anticipated me, however, for she had made everything ready. And not only that, but she had some dainty broth keeping hot by the kitchen fire, which she begged me eat a part of, and carry the rest up to Mrs. Judith.

"I had not thought of wanting anything to eat, Dorothy," said I.

"No, I dare say not, nor Mrs. Judith neither," answered Dorothy, dryly. "You're not the kind that always thinks of your own insides, whatever happens; so much the more need that others should think for you."

I would not seem ungrateful for the good soul's care, so I drank a cup of broth, and indeed it did me a great deal of good. I had hardly got up-stairs again when I heard a clatter of horses' hoofs, and my Lord's voice above the storm, directing Roger and Will about the horses. Mrs. Corbet at the same moment opened the door.

"Go you down to meet my Lord, dear heart!" said she. "Tell him Elizabeth is going on well, but do not let him come up. Everything depends on quietness, just now!"

I needed no second bidding, but ran down-stairs, and met my Lord at the door. He was coming in, after his usual jolly, careless fashion, evidently merry, yet not much the worse—but that he never is—for the wine he had drank at supper. He checked his whistle on seeing me.

"What, Margaret! What keeps you up so late?" Then, as I held up a warning finger, he seemed to divine the state of the case. "My Lady! Is she—?"

"She is in a way to do well, I trust and believe!" said I. "But she has been very ill, and Mrs. Corbet says all depends on quietness."

"The surgeon is here, I suppose?" said he, after a minute.

I told him how it was—that Harry had gone for him at first and did not return. And that, growing alarmed, Mrs. Judith had sent for Mrs. Corbet, about an hour ago.

"Aye, that was well!" said he. "But who went for her? I would have said there was not a wench about the place who would have gone down to Corby-End to-night on any errand whatever; and David is a greater coward than any of them."

"I went myself," said I.

"You!" exclaimed my Lord, putting his hand on my shoulder, and holding me off to look at me. "Meg! You never went down to Corby-End alone, this wild night!"

"Nay!" I answered. "I had Jacky the knife-boy for protector. We had a rough walk, but we met with no worse misadventure than slipping into the brook two or three times, and putting out our lanthorn. And I rode back and left Jacky to be petted by the maids down there!"

He caught me in his arms, kissing my forehead, called me his brave maid, his good girl, and I know not what else, and swearing a great oath, as his fashion is, that I should marry whom I liked and no one should hint a word against me. I got him quieted at last, and set down to his supper, and then stole away, promising to bring him news from time to time. But when I went down again, at the end of an hour, he was fast asleep and snoring on the settle, so I even let him sleep.

The night wore slowly away, and still the doctor did not come. But I dare say we were as well without him. Between five and six, just as the gray dawn began to show in faint streaks above the high moor, there was a bustle in my Lady's room—and then—oh, sound of joy, which I well knew—the cry of a little babe. I sprang to my feet, but dared not go near the door.

Presently, after what seemed an age of suspense, Madam opened it, her dear fair face all flushed with joy!

"Good news, Margaret! We have two bouncing boys—and I believe the mother will do well, in spite of all! Go you and tell my Lord—you have well earned the right—but do not let him come up-stairs, just yet!"

I ran softly but quickly enough down-stairs to the hall, where I found my Lord awake, rubbing his eyes and shivering. He started up when he saw me.

"Good news, my Lord—the best of news," I cried out. "Two nice lads—and my Lady is doing well!"

"What!" said he, staring, as if he had not taken in my words.

I repeated them.

"But my wife—Elizabeth!" he said, paler than I ever could have believed possible. "How is she doing? Will she live?"

"I believe she will!" I said. "Madam thinks so, but she bids you not come up just yet!"

I shall ever like my Lord the better for what followed. The great strong, soldierly man fell on his knees, and, amid streaming tears and sobs which shook him like an infant, gave broken and heartfelt thanks to Heaven for his wife's deliverance.

I cried heartily, and the tears seemed to wash from my heart the bitterness and weight which had lain there all night, ever since Lady Jemima had trodden under foot Walter's picture.

"But the bearer of good news must be rewarded!" said my Lord, when he had calmed himself a little—(I saw with pleasure that he seemed no ways ashamed of his emotion). "What shall I do for you, Margaret?"

"If I might ask so much!" said I.

"Let me hear it!" said he. "It will be hard if you ask what I cannot grant."

"It is that you will go and carry Lady Betty the good news yourself, my Lord!" I said. "It will be better to her from your lips than from any other source, and it may prevent some jealous fancies, such as children sometimes have."

"You are always thinking of your bantling!" said he, evidently well-pleased. "I bade you ask something for yourself."

At that moment the hall door opened and Walter entered, followed by the surgeon. Walter told me afterward that he had found Harry Andrews drunk at an alehouse near Biddeford, and that he had rode five miles beyond the town before he found the surgeon.

"Hallo, Wat!" cried my Lord, cheerily. "Doctor, you are a day after the fair. You have lost your chance of the title this time, Watty, my boy! Meg here and your lady mother have choused you out of it fairly, between them!"

"Thank God!" said Walter, fervently.

"Good! That's well said," returned my Lord. "And what is more, I believe you mean it, both you and Margaret! And that is more than I would say of some folks."

"I mean it, I know, and I am sure I can answer for Margaret!" said Walter.

"Aye, you are mighty ready to answer for Margaret," said my Lord. "You and Margaret have been a pair of sly-boots, I believe. However, all is well, and I am sure you will never find a better wife or a fairer, if you look the west country over, so here's God speed you with, all my heart!" And he gave Walter a mighty shake of the hand and a slap on the shoulder, which might have staggered a giant. "However, I have promised to break the news to Bess, and I must keep my word."

He went up-stairs, and I followed, for I wanted to see how the child would take it. As my Lord opened the door, I saw that Betty was kneeling in the bed, with her hands clasped. She looked up with an eager glance, and a burning blush, when she saw her father.

"That's right, Bess, my girl!" said her father, coming to the bed, and taking her in his arms. "Thank God for giving you a pair of fine little brothers to take care of you!"

She clung round his neck. "Oh, papa, has my little brother come?"

"Aye, that has he, and brought another with him!" answered my Lord, cheerfully: "And what is better, dear mamma is doing well."

Betty seemed quite overwhelmed, and laid her head down on her father's shoulder. Presently she raised it again, and looked anxiously in his face.

"You wont wish I was dead 'now,' will you, papa?" said she. "Indeed, I will try to be very good!"

"Wish you dead! No, child, of course not!" said my Lord, quite shocked. "How could you think of such a thing as that?"

"You said so that day in the church-yard, papa!" said Betty. "You know I could not help being crooked, and, indeed, I will try to learn all I can, so that I can help mamma and teach my little brothers!" she added, with wistful pathos.

"Bless the child!" said my Lord, kissing her with real tenderness, and hugging her in his arms. "I never thought of such a thing! Why, Bess, you must not lay up every word I say as if it were gospel. What will you do when you are married, and have a husband of your own, if you make so much of every rough speech?"

"I never will be married!" said Betty, with decision. "I mean to live single all my life, as Margaret does!"

"But suppose Margaret gets married—then what will you do?" asked my Lord.

"I should not like it at all, and I won't have it!" said Betty. Then gravely, as if reconsidering the matter—"Unless she will marry Walter, and live at Corby-End. That would be very nice, I think, don't you, papa?"

My Lord gave one of his great laughs, kissed her again, and calling her a wise little maid, put her down on the bed, and pulled out of his pocket I know not what expensive toys in the way of scissors, needle-cases, and the like, telling her that he had bought them for her yesterday. Then saying he must go and look after his guests, and giving my ear a parting pull, he went away, leaving Betty happier than any queen.

"What did Aunt Jemima say?" asked Betty, after she had found out that I had not seen the babes, and making me promise to take her to her mother as soon as possible.

"I don't know that she has heard yet," I answered, my conscience smiting me, as I remembered my own words to her the night before, and the look she had given me. "I will go now and tell her."

I tapped gently at Lady Jemima's door, but as no one answered, I ventured to open it and look in. Lady Jemima had not been to bed all night, and now crouched on the cold floor before the little altar in her closet, pale as death, and with eyes swollen with long and bitter weeping. She started up as I entered, but did not speak.

"Good news, madam!" I said, cheerfully. "The best of news!" And then I told her what had happened.

"Is not my sister dead, then!" she asked, in a strange, bewildered way: "I thought I had murdered her. You said so!"

"I was angry and said what was very wrong, and I beg your pardon," I answered. "My Lady is like to live, I hope and trust. Madam thinks she is doing well, and also the surgeon, who is come just in time to be too late."

She threw her arms round my neck, and burst into hysterical sobs and cries. I got her into her chair, and supporting her head, I soothed and quieted her as well as I could, till she was in some degree herself again.

"You heap coals of fire on my head, Margaret!" said she, when she could speak. "But you did not come here to triumph over me, did you?"

"God forbid!" said I, earnestly. "I came but to bring you the good news, and to ask your forgiveness for my wicked words last night."

"They were true words!" said Lady Jemima, hastily. "I had the spirit of a murderer, if not toward my sister, yet toward you. I could have killed you, Margaret!"

I did not ask her why. Poor Lady! I knew well enough how she felt I had injured her. I only said:

"Dear Lady Jemima, I never meant to harm you!"

"I know it!" said she, bitterly. "You never did harm me. If you had never come near the place, it would have made no difference. It was my own insane vanity and passion. I have been a wicked woman, Margaret—a wicked hypocrite, condemning and judging others, when I was far worse than they: but mine eyes have been opened this night, and I have seen myself as I am!"

"I am not so sure of that!" I said.

She looked at me in surprise.

"When the Saviour put his hands on the blind man's eyes, and asked him if he saw aught, the man answered that he saw men as trees walking. He saw, it was true, but as yet nothing clearly. It needed a second touch before he saw things as they were. It may be so with you."

She shook her head sadly. "I can never trust myself again," she said.

"I would not try!" I answered her. "But you know whom you can trust—who will never fail those who seek Him. But, dear Lady Jemima, you are now in no fit state to judge of anything. You are wearied out with grief, and watching, and fasting, too, I dare say. Your hands are as cold as ice. Let me help you to bed, and get you some food, and when you have eaten and slept, you will be much better fitted to see and feel rightly."

"Tell me one thing, Margaret," said she, taking my hands, "are you and Walter truly betrothed?"

"We are," I answered her; "and my Lord hath given his consent."

She made a movement, as if to draw her hand from mine, but refrained.

"And you will soon be married, I suppose!" she added, after a pause.

"I believe not," said I. "I promised my dear Lady before there was any likelihood of such good fortune befalling me that I would not leave Lady Betty for a year, whatever happened. And I mean to keep my word, unless I have more reason than I see now for breaking it."

"How I have wronged you!" she said, sighing. "Margaret, there is hardly any evil that I have not thought of you."

"You were prejudiced against me by one whom you might well have believed," said I. "I know not why Felicia hath always been mine enemy, except that it seems a part of her nature to have to hate somebody."

"It was not that—not altogether!" said Lady Jemima. "It was—"

"You shall tell me another time," said I, venturing to interrupt her; "that is, if you see fit to honor me with your confidence. I really think you ought to go to bed now, and rest, that you may be ready to see my Lady when she asks for you, and to make the house pleasant for my Lord."

"I will do anything you tell me," she said, sadly.

"Dear Lady Jemima, I don't mean to dictate!" I began to say, but she stopped me.

"Yes, you shall dictate!" said she. "You shall command, and I will obey. It is fit that I should humble myself before you, aye, even in the dust—that I should be humbled in the eyes of all the world—if so I make any atonement for my sins."

I could not let this pass. It seemed to me such a dreary notion, and at the same time such a false one, that I felt I must speak.

"Dear madam, why should you think of making any such atonement?" I said. "Surely the one oblation of our Lord, once offered, is a sufficient atonement and satisfaction for the sins of the whole world, let alone yours and mine: and no suffering of ours, no voluntary humiliation or penance, will add anything to its virtue. Only cast all your care and sin on Him, and leave Him to lay upon you such crosses as He sees best: I don't think we need be afraid of having too much ease in this world, if we are willing to bear the burdens and do the tasks He provides for us. And if we go to work making burdens and tasks for ourselves—doing our own work—I am afraid we are in great danger of neglecting His."

I doubted how she would take my little sermon. She did not seem displeased, however, but said we would talk of it again. I helped her to undress, and got her to bed.

"I do not see how you can find any rest on such a bed!" I said, feeling how hard and uneven it was. "I wish you would let me make it up comfortably."

"Do as you will!" said she, wearily, leaning back in her chair.

I looked out into the gallery, and seeing one of the maids, I bade her bring a matrass and quilt from an unused room near by, wherewith I made the bed as nicely as I could. The poor lady could not help a sigh of relief and satisfaction, as she lay down. Then I sent Dolly down for a manchet and a cup of cream, and persuaded Lady Jemima to eat a little. She promised me that she would lie still and try to sleep, and asked me to come in again after a while, kissing me at parting.

As I shut the door, I heard her sobs burst forth, but I did not return, thinking that she would at last weep herself to sleep.

I found Betty up and dressed, and in due time took her in to see and kiss her mother.

My dear Lady looked very lovely in her paleness, but Madam would not let her speak a word to any one, which was no more than right, of course, though Betty was inclined to murmur thereat, till Madam explained to her the reason; after which she seemed hardly to dare to breathe. She was sadly disappointed in the babes.

"They are so red and spotty—they are not nearly as pretty as kittens," said she, pouting a little: "I think they look more like the young rats Ambrose showed me."

My Lord nearly exploded into a laugh at this criticism, and my Lady smiled, but Mrs. Brewster was indignant.

I explained to Betty that all very young babes looked so, and that they would grow pretty in time.

"Will they?" she asked, wistfully. "When will they get their eyes open?"

This was too much for my Lord, who fled precipitately into the gallery.

But, at that moment, one of the babies opened his eyes and showed that they were blue. I made Betty slip her finger into one of the little hands, which closed on it at once, and Betty was more than satisfied.

Since that time, we have gone on very quietly, My Lady is not so strong as we could wish, but the doctor says it is only because she exerted herself too much just at first, and that a long rest will set all right again. The babies are all that any one could desire, stout, well-grown, and healthy.

Betty sees new beauties and wonders in them every day, and would, if she were permitted, nurse them all day long. She does not show the least jealousy of them, but seems to rejoice in all the attention and admiration they receive.

Only the other morning I found her taking Anne severely to task for something she had said. As I entered, she appealed to me in great excitement:

"Anne says my nose is broke, and that nobody will care for me any more," said she, half crying; "and it is not true, is it, Margaret? She says I shall be nobody, now that there is an heir, and—"

"Anne is a very bad girl to say such things!" I answered her. And then turning to the girl, I reproved her sharply.

Whereto she answered me at first saucily enough. But when I said I should speak to Mrs. Judith, she cooled down and begged my pardon. I have forbid her speaking to Betty hereafter, and have told her plainly that I shall complain to Mrs. Judith if she disobeys me, or if I hear any more of her pert speeches.

Lady Jemima continues very ill, with a kind of low fever, and her mind is worse than her body. From thinking herself all but a saint, with her penances and fastings, she has gone round to the opposite extreme, and now believes herself such a sinner that there can be no hope for her. It is painful to see how woe-begone and sorrowful she is. I spend as much time with her as I can, and try to cheer her up: and I really think she likes to have me with her. I have not encouraged her to talk to me of her feelings about Walter. I believe such things are almost always best kept to oneself, and I am afraid of her saying what she will be sorry for by and by: but I read to her, and tell her stories about the poor folks in the village and what happens in the family. And sometimes I sit by her in silence whole hours at a time, busy with my needle.

For myself, I can only say I am as happy as the day is long—happier than I ever believed anybody could be in this world. My engagement is now spoken of as a matter of course, and my Lord treats me as a daughter or younger sister, and will have me receive all tokens of outward respect, as one of the family.

I think Mrs. Judith was a little shocked at first, but she is reconciled now, and is quite sure that all is for the best, especially since she has found out that my mother was a Seymour, and my father's mother a grandchild of my Lord Falkland. But setting that aside, I do think she loves me enough for my own sake not to grudge me any good fortune.

Walter has written to mother and Richard, and also to Aunt Willson, which, he says truly, is only her due, since she has been so kind to me. I would love to be married at home, in my dear father's own church, but the journey is a long one, and I don't know how that will be. At any rate, Walter has promised that I shall go very soon to visit them all. I see him every day.

My Lord begins to fret at the wedding being put off, and to say that Bess can do well enough without me: but I am quite content that matters should rest as they are for the present. I am sure I shall never be happier than I am now.

[Illustration]