CHAPTER XI.

_NEWS FROM HOME._

_November 30._

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_December 10._

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_December 10._

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

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

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

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

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

_December 20._

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

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

"Is it really like me?" she asked.

"Indeed it is," said I.

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

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

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

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

I ventured to say to her:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Illustration]

[Illustration]