CHAPTER VI.

_MAKING PROGRESS._

_July 9._

AT her own earnest desire, Lady Betty has began writing. She takes to it very handily, as indeed she does to most things. I never saw any child learn to read so fast. I was astonished thereat, till my Lady told me that it was in some sense rather a revival than a new acquisition of learning. That before her last long and dreadful illness, which lasted more than a year, Betty had known how to read in easy words pretty well. But that when she recovered her right senses after many days of unconsciousness or raving, she seemed to have forgotten everything, even the names of those about her.

The dear child takes great pains to learn, as well to please me, as for learning's sake. Her health is certainly much better. She now moves with freedom and without pain (unless, which I have learned to guard against, she is on her feet too long at a time), sleeps soundly, and is far less whimsical about what she eats, so that she takes contentedly plain nourishing food. Her temper and spirits improve with her health. I rarely have to reprove her, and it is a long time since we have had a screaming bout, which I dread most of all. They distress my dear Lady, and make my Lord so angry if he chances to hear them, and he is not a man to hold any curb of measure or reason over his anger. Well! Well! My Lord is my Lord, and I desire to pay him all due respect, but at times I cannot but wonder what ever my Lady married him for. 'Twas a love match, too, so Mrs. Judith says.

But as for my child, I have much to be thankful for in her continued improvement, and her affection and obedience to myself. And I am also thankful to my dear mother for using me early to the care of the young ones, and for her confidence in me, almost always telling me why she did thus and so with them. It will be her credit far more than my own, if Lady Betty recovers her health.

The child's back can never be straightened, of course, but now that her face is filling up, and she is gaining color, and losing her unhealthy sallowness, she is really very pretty, and hath a great look of her mother's.

For myself, I must say that I have been far happier under this roof than I ever expected to be anywhere away from my home. Indeed, I don't know when I have been better off. I have had very few trials of temper (which were always my trouble when I lived with Felicia), and every one is kind to me—my dear honored Lady above all.

As to Mr. Penrose's little pets, I don't value them a pin, especially since I know the real goodness of his heart. He hath been almost daily to read with Dame Yeo and old Master Dean, at the almshouses. But he seems like one who hath some great trouble on his mind. I wonder what it is?

_July 18._

I am quite sure of one thing—namely, that Lady Jemima hath somewhat against me, and that ever since she returned from London. She treats me with studied coldness and indifference, never comes to my room, as she used to do, to ask me about my reading and my devotions, nor stops to chat in the hall, or the gardens. My Lady is just the same, but my Lord, I fancy, looks coldly on me, and throws out hints against Puritans, &c. Even Mr. Corbet does not come to see his cousin as often as he used to do. I cannot understand it, for I am sure I have done nothing to merit displeasure. Mr. Penrose alone is unchanged, and we have really had some pleasant talks together. He preaches every week in the chapel—sometimes very well, too—and I go to hear him, but I know not how it is, the more I hear, the more discouraged and downhearted I grow. I feel downright rebellious, sometimes. Mr. Penrose says it is fitting we should go mourning all our days on account of our sins, thankful that we have so much as a chance of salvation, but not building too much thereupon, lest we fall short after all, and all our good works be as nothing. He ought to know. He is a clergyman, and a good one, but I cannot feel satisfied.

_July 22._

Well, the murder is out—at least a part of it. Lady Jemima has treated me more and more coldly all the time. And yesterday, being in my Lady's antechamber, mending and arranging of some laces too fine for Brewster's eyes, I heard Lady Jemima come in by the other door, in earnest conversation with my Lady, and talking so loud, that though I made a noise to announce my presence, she did not seem to heed in the least.

"You ought to send her away, Elizabeth!" I heard her say, in her emphatic way. "You ought not to keep her about the child a day longer!"

"I shall certainly do nothing of the sort, till I see better cause than I have yet seen," replied my Lady.

"Better cause!" repeated Lady Jemima, in that contemptuous tone of hers which always makes me angry, whether she speaks to me or not. "What better cause do you want than that the girl is a bitter Puritan—an Anabaptist, for aught I know, and will be sure to fill your child's mind with all sorts of poisonous notions about religion and government!"

"But I have no evidence that she is so, Jemima, nor do I believe it. Margaret is regular, both at church and chapel. She is a clergyman's daughter, hath been well brought up, and the Bishop of Exeter told me himself that he thought I had made a happy choice. He saw Margaret at home, and was much pleased both with her and her brother."

Now, for the first time, I discovered that they were talking about me, for at first I thought it was Mary they meant, and I wondered how any one could think of calling her a Puritan. I knew I ought not to hear more, and as I was considering for a moment what to do, I heard Lady Jemima say, contemptuously:

"The Bishop of Exeter, indeed! He is a fitting person, truly! He is as much a Puritan as the worst of them."

"He is your spiritual pastor and Bishop, Jemima, and, as such, is entitled to your respect!" answered my Lady, more sharply than I had ever heard her speak to her sister, save once. "It is a wonderful thing to me, to see you and Mr. Penrose, professing to think so highly of the priestly office and authority, and yet losing no occasion to condemn and vilify your own Bishop. I have spoke my mind on it to Mr. Penrose, and I must say to you that such conduct is neither consistent nor becoming!"

Brewster coming in at this moment, and beginning to commend my work on the lace, put a stop to the conversation, and I escaped to my room, more angry than ever I was with Felicia at home, to think that Lady Jemima should be trying to undermine me with my Lady, and to separate me from my child.

I was much perturbed all day, insomuch that I fear I was impatient with Betty even, for she asked me, rather plaintively, what was the matter; adding, "You are not angry with me, are you, Margaret?"

I kissed her, and had much ado not to burst out crying. However, I conquered myself, and told her that she was a good girl, and that I loved her dearly.

"I am sure I love you!" said she. "Aunt Jemima asked me if you were good to me, and I told her that you were just as good as ever you could be. But I am sure that something troubles you, if you are not vexed with me, for you go red and pale, and your voice does not sound natural."

"It is true, my dear, that something has happened to vex me, but you need not mind. I hope all will come right by and by. Come, now, I will teach you your task in the Catechism. You know you must be well learned in it that you may teach your little god-daughter by and by."

(I forgot to say, in the right place, that the babes were christened the other day, I standing as proxy for Lady Betty, and Mrs. Corbet for the other child, who is named for her. Mr. Corbet made the poor woman a handsome present. And the next day, she brought the babes up to the Court, to Lady Betty's great delight.)

Betty did her lessons well, and enjoyed her walk in the wood. I have got permission to try riding for her, and Thomas is training a fine steady donkey for her use, which she goes to see every day. Sitting in my usual place in the wood, while Betty played about, I could not but remember the conversation I had with my dear Lady, and wondered if she had even then foreseen this trouble. A few tears came to relieve me, as I remembered her kind words. Betty espied them, and came in great trouble to wipe them away.

"You must not cry, Margaret," said she, with quivering lips. "I can't bear to have you cry."

"Then I wont," said I, recovering myself. "There, see, the tears are all gone away."

"I am afraid they have only gone 'inside,'" said the dear child, regarding me wistfully. "I am afraid they will come out again by and by. You said, when I was ill the other day, that we might ask God to take our pains away, if He saw best. Why don't you ask Him to take your trouble away?"

"Why, so I will!" I answered her. And I did put up a petition then and there for grace against anger and uncharitableness. I could not but think it was heard, for I grew more calm in spirit, and was able to think what I had better do.

Betty was very sober all day, and at night, she added to her prayers, of her own accord, "Please take away Margaret's trouble, and make her happy again."

The dear little loyal soul! I am sure of her love, at all events.

It was a custom of my dear father's, when we did not have prayers in the church, after his voice began to fail, to say the Litany with his own family, every Wednesday and Friday; and I have kept up the custom of repeating the petitions on those days. As I did so that night, and especially at the prayer, "O God, Merciful Father," a wonderful quietness and peace seemed to come over me, and I felt like a grieved child hushed and quieted in its mother's arms. 'Twas as if an all but visible Presence filled and sanctified the room. When I had finished, I took up my Bible to read, as usual, and my eye lighted first on these words:

"'If thy brother trespass against thee, go and tell him his fault between thee and him alone. If he shall hear thee, then thou hast gained thy brother.'"

"Surely," I thought, "this is the rule for me to follow. I will go at once to Lady Jemima, and lay the case before her fairly, and try to find out where the trouble lies."

No sooner said than done. I knew Lady Jemima would be in her room and up, for she never goes to rest early. So I went and knocked at her door, and she bade me enter. I had not been in her room since her return, and I noticed some changes. She hath put a great crucifix over her reading-desk, and taken away the cushion and mats before it, as if she used to kneel on the bare boards; and she hath a fine picture of the Assumption, as they call it—assumption, indeed! 'Tis to be hoped the Blessed Virgin knows not the use made of her name. Lady Jemima was sitting reading by her table, and as she looked up and saw who it was at the door, she said, sharply enough:

"Well, Mrs. Merton, what brings you hither at this time of night?"

"I desire to see your Ladyship alone," I answered, "and I knew that I should find you so at this time, therefore I took the liberty to come."

"Very well," said she, still very short. "What is your business? State it quickly, for I have no time to spend in idle talk."

"I would fain know your Ladyship's interpretation of this text," I said, putting into her hands the Bible I had brought with me, and pointing to the text in St. Matthew, I had just read.

She relaxed a little at my words, as I thought, and looked gratified, but colored scarlet as she looked at the text.

"What should it mean, save just what it says?" she asked, with asperity, yet displaying a certain uneasiness. "'If any person hath done you a wrong, go first to him alone, and tell him his fault in all kindness.' I see nothing hard to understand in that. You are trifling with me, Mrs. Merton!"

"By no means, Lady Jemima," said I; "I never was more in earnest in my life. 'Tis upon that very errand I have come, since you have not come to me. And I desire humbly to know what it is that you have so much against me, since your return."

"I have not said that I had anything against you," she answered. "Why should you think I have?"

"I would fain hope so," I answered her. "It would be lack of charity to think that you should treat me so unkindly, and strive to set my honored mistress against me, unless you had some cause for so doing."

"How do you know that I have tried to set my sister against you?" she asked.

"Because I heard you—much against my own will," I answered her; and then told her how it came about. "And I would fain know, my Lady, who hath so changed your mind toward me, or who hath traduced me to you?"

"Nobody has traduced you!" she said, shortly.

"But somebody has given you a bad character of me, I am sure," I said; "and I have a right, with all due respect, to ask who that person is."

"It is one who has known you ever since you were born," said Lady Jemima, "since you must know; one on whom you have heaped many injuries, even to the driving her forth of her own home, among strangers, but who still wishes you well. She hath told me naught of your unkindness toward herself, though I can gather enough; nor did she tell me anything directly, till I asked her."

"Felicia!" I exclaimed, enlightened all at once. "I see it all now. Felicia has been poisoning your Ladyship's mind against me."

"My mind is not poisoned against you," she answered, coldly, "but I have learned enough of your rebellious temper, your disobedient carriage toward your parents, and your openly avowed heresies in religion, to make me aware that you are no fit companion for my brother's child. Felicia, as you disrespectfully call her, seems to me a most religious, and virtuous, and sweet young person, with a mind most open to receive the truth, and a most becoming modesty and deference,—a quality, Mrs. Merton, in which you yourself are very deficient, let me tell you. I saw some things in your conduct, even before I left home, which did not please me, and I am convinced that you are no fit person for your place."

"May I ask what those things were, my Lady?" I asked.

"Your flirting and coquetting with Mr. Penrose, for one thing," answered Lady Jemima. "Yes, you may laugh as you please, but I have seen what passed. You know he is all but vowed to celibacy, and it would be a fine triumph to your Puritan notions, to make him false to his profession."

"Lady Jemima," said I, feeling my cheeks flush in spite of me, "I know not why you call me a Puritan. I am an unworthy but faithful member of the Church of England. I love her ways, and desire her peace above all things; and whoever has told you to the contrary hath said falsely. Felicia was ever mine enemy, and hath made me all the trouble I have ever had in life, heretofore; and I believe she will not be content till she works my ruin."

"You misjudge her much, and with great want of charity," interrupted Lady Jemima. "She desires naught but your good, and 'twas to that end she spoke to me about you, beseeching me to have an eye to you, that you did not get into mischief, or make mischief for others. 'Tis you who have injured her. As for her, I believe she would not hurt a fly."

"I have known her nearly eighteen years, and your Ladyship not as many weeks," said I. "Which hath had the best opportunity of understanding her character?"

"I am not apt to be deceived in my estimate of character," answered Lady Jemima, stiffly. "I said to myself the first time I ever saw you, 'Here is one destined to make mischief,' and so you did, causing a misunderstanding between me and my sister the very first day you were in the house. But this is unprofitable," she added, catching herself up. "If you have no more to say, Mrs. Merton, I must pray you to retire, and leave me to my devotions."

"I will do so," I answered, "first taking the liberty to tell your Ladyship a rule given me by my Lord the Bishop of Exeter, at my coming to this place: 'Never to do anything upon which you cannot ask the blessing of God.' Doubtless your Ladyship will ask His blessing on your attempts to undermine and defame an orphan girl, who is striving with all her might to do her duty in that station to which it hath pleased God to call her."

So saying, I courtesied and shut the door. I thought she would have called me back, but she did not, and I returned to my room, feeling grieved, vexed, and discouraged, yet withal a little disposed to laugh.

"Flirt with Mr. Penrose!" quoth I. "I would as soon flirt with that red, yellow, and blue Saint Austin in the chapel window. How can she be so absurd!"

_July 24._

It seems I did not improve matters by my appeal to Lady Jemima. She will hardly speak to me at all now, and I know she doth not cease to prejudice others against me. Even Mrs. Judith grows rather cool, or so I fancy, at least; only my Lady is just the same. I should not say only, for Mr. Penrose is even kinder than ever, and Mrs. Corbet and her son treat me with as much consideration as though I were a relation of the family. But I can't help feeling the change very much, for I was fond of Lady Jemima, though I used sometimes to be vexed with her meddling ways. Besides, I "know" that I have done my best since I came here, and any one may see how much the child has gained.

It is very hard, but I see no way but to bear it for the present, and that in silence. I cannot and will not trouble my dear Lady with any complaints, and I don't suppose she could help me, if I did. I have passed my promise to my Lady to stay for a year, unless I am sent away, and after all, my lot is not as hard as hers. As old Jane Betterton used to say at the end of her catalogue of troubles, to my father, "I hav'n't no old man to plague me, thank goodness!"

I remember once, when dear father was teaching us Latin (and a kinder teacher sure never any one had), my growing terribly discouraged, and thinking I never should learn. Father comforted, instead of chiding me, when I burst out crying over Cæsar, his Commentaries, and told me that I had only come to the "hard place," that every one found just such a hard place in all serious undertakings, and if I would only do my best, and persevere, I should soon get past it, and find I had made a great step in advance; and so I did. I suppose I have now come to the hard place in my service, and if I can only live it over, I shall go on well again. If only I can be kept from wrong doing—but my natural temper is so warm, and I fear I have not made much progress in controlling it.

I find it hardest to forgive Felicia. Her conduct seems so wantonly malicious—unless, indeed, she has grown tired of Aunt Willson, and wants the place herself. How she must have flattered Lady Jemima. I can see it all—how she hinted, and then drew back and let herself be questioned, and brought out her tale with seeming reluctance, and was so anxious all the time for my good. She is not at home to plague mother, that is one comfort, and she will never be able to hoodwink Aunt Willson, living, as she does, under the same roof.

Well, well! "'Tis all in the day's work!" as Dick says, and we must take the bitter with the sweet. Oh, Dick, only to put my head down on thy honest shoulder, and tell all my troubles!

_July 25._

Mr. Penrose preached this evening in the chapel, on charity. "The greatest of these is charity."

He made a noble discourse, and spoke, methought, with some asperity of them that take up idle reports and are ready on the least evidence to believe evil of their fellows.

I dared not glance at Lady Jemima, but I saw Mrs. Judith look rather uneasy, and after chapel she was unusually kind to me, and asked me to sup with her in her room, which I did. I thought she had something on her mind she wished to say, and at last it came out.

"My dear, you are not a concealed Papist, are you?"

"I must be very carefully concealed if I am, Mrs. Judith," I answered, laughingly; "for I have never even found it out myself. Whatever put it in your head to think me a Papist?"

"Well, I will tell you," she answered, in a confidential tone, "though I am afraid you will be vexed. You see, when you were so very ill, I went one day to your cabinet to see if I could find any smelling-salts or the like, and there, lying with some other trinkets, I saw a silver medal with a picture of the Virgin thereon."

"Yes," I answered, as she paused; "I know what you mean. A poor old woman at home gave it me for a keepsake."

"Well, that was not all," continued Mrs. Judith. "I put my hand back in the recess to take up a bottle, I saw there, and I suppose I touched a spring, for a door opened at the back, and there lay a rosary and crucifix, and a little carven stone image of some saint or other."

"I know nothing about that," I answered, surprised enough. "I did not know there was any such door. The things must have been there a very long time, I think. Did you take them out, Mrs. Judith?"

"Not I, Mistress Merton!" answered the dear old woman. "I had no call to be prying into your secrets, if you have any. So I just laid matters as they were before, and locked the cabinet, that no one else should meddle. But oh, my dear, you are not a Papist nor a Puritan, are you?"

I could not help laughing, but stopped, as I saw the tears in the old lady's eyes.

"Dearest Mrs. Judith," said I, "I begin to think that I must be just in the right place, since Lady Jemima calls me a Puritan, and you think me a Papist. But I solemnly assure you I am neither Papist nor Puritan, Anabaptist nor Turk, nor do I worship the sun and moon, as Doctor Parnell says the old heathens used to do on the great barrow up on the moor. I am just a simple Churchwoman, as all my family have been. But Mrs. Judith, if you are so startled at seeing a little medal in my cabinet, what do you think of some other rooms in the house, and of the pictures, Mr. Penrose has just put up in the chapel?"

"I like them not, my dear,—I like them not," said Mrs. Judith, shaking her head, solemnly. "It looks too much like bringing back the old religion for denying of which my grandfather died bravely at the stake. But I am so glad you are not a Papist! Do have some of this junket, now do, my dear heart! I made it with my own hands, and the clotted cream is an inch thick on the top."

I was in no ways averse to the junket, and so all was well once more between Mrs. Judith and me. I cannot but note here what a different spirit in the two! Lady Jemima telling every one she can get to listen to her of the great discovery she fancies she has made to my disadvantage—Mrs. Judith locking up my cabinet, lest some one else should see what she had seen and I be injured thereby.

I have been examining this said cabinet, and have found, not only the rosary and the little marble saint, but several other small matters, none of them of any great value, save a rose noble of King Henry's day. I carried them all to my Lady, but she bade me keep them if I liked, so I set the saint on the top of my cabinet. 'Tis a fair little image, carven in alabaster, perfect, but somewhat yellow with time, and represents a young maid with spindle and distaff, and a lamb by her side. Mr. Penrose says it is meant for St. Agnes, and has promised to find out her history for me. Poor little lady, she hath had a long and dark imprisonment, if, as my Lady supposes, she has been hid there since the early days of King James, but she looks very smiling. Lady Betty will have it that she is Una, with her milk-white lamb, about which I have read to her in Spenser in his "Faerie Queene."

_July 26._

I can see that Mr. Penrose's sermon has done me no good with Lady Jemima, and only hurt himself with her. They were talking together a long time this morning, in the garden, and parted evidently ill-pleased with each other—I could see thus much from my window.

This has been a great day for Betty. She has taken her first ride on the donkey, Thomas leading him, and I walking by her side. I held her at first, as she seemed rather timid, and I wanted her by no means to have a fright. But presently she gained more confidence and would ride alone. We did not go far the first day, for I did not wish her to be overtired, but she enjoyed herself wonderfully.

Mr. Corbet joined us as we were returning up the avenue, and taking Thomas's place, led the donkey himself. He told me a great piece of news—namely, that the Bishop is coming here within a short time: Now I shall see whether he will remember me, or whether, as Felicia said, he has never given me a thought. Mr. Corbet looked grave and disturbed, and made somewhat absent answers to Betty's questions, which she remarking, he roused himself to be more attentive.

"Some day, perhaps, Margaret and I shall come down to your house to see you, Cousin Walter," said Lady Betty. "I should love to see Corby-End, wouldn't you, Margaret?"

"And Corby-End would love to see you," answered Mr. Corbet: "but maybe Mrs. Merton would find the walk long."

"O no!" I answered. "I have been used to long walks, and I often walk down to the Parsonage."

"Have you ever been down to the cliff?" asked Mr. Corbet.

I told him that I had not, that I was rather frightened at the steepness of the path, and the roaring of the waterfall so near.

"It looks more dangerous than it really is," said Mr. Corbet. "The little children from the Cove come up every day to school. 'Tis a hard walk for them, and but for seeming to interfere with Mrs. Ellenwood, I would set up a dame school down there for the little lads and maids. But I believe I should have few willing pupils. The children are all devoted to their present mistress, who is indeed an admirable person. But you must go down there some day, Mrs. Merton, and make acquaintance with my old friend, Uncle Jan Lee and his family. They are well worth knowing."

At supper time, Mr. Corbet being present, my Lord asked him if he had seen Doctor Parnell, adding that to him the old man seemed failing.

"I see that he is so, and I am very sorry," answered Mr. Corbet. "There are few better men than he. I would all parish clergymen were like him."

"So would not I, though I like the old man well enough," replied my Lord. "He is too stiff-necked for me, and I like not his opposing of the Sunday sports on the Green. The King and the Archbishop have approved them, and what is good enough for his betters might, one would think, be good enough for him."

"However, the Archbishop does not sanction them by his example," said Mr. Corbet.

Thereupon ensued an argument on Sunday games in general, in which Mr. Corbet seemed to me to have much the best of it, he keeping cool, while my Lord grew very warm, and said the same thing over and over, not without some oaths better left out. Catching Mr. Corbet's eye, I ventured to glance toward my Lady, who I saw was uneasy, as she always is when there is danger of one of my Lord's tantrums. He took the hint at once, and smilingly changed the subject, by asking my Lord if he had heard, I know not what wonderful tale of a stag lately killed by Sir Thomas Fulton. My Lord opened on the scent of the stag directly, and so all ended well. Mr. Penrose was not present, nor Lady Jemima.

After supper, Mr. Corbet came to me as I was passing through the hall, and said:

"Thank you, Mrs. Merton, for the hint."

"I fear you must think me too bold!" I answered, feeling my cheeks flush scarlet. "But a little thing disturbs my Lady nowadays."

"I shall never think you aught but what you are," said he. "But tell me, how does this matter strike you?"

I told him that I thought as he did—that such sports, even when harmless in themselves, were ill-suited to the Lord's day, which was needed for religious improvement, and meditation, and added that my father used to say that if masters were so anxious for the poor to have a holiday, it would be far better to give them time for recreation during the week than thus to run the risk of driving out in the afternoon all the religious impressions made in the morning.

Just as I was saying good-night, my Lord came into the hall.

"So, Master Watty, the Puritan, you have found some one to agree with your strait-laced notions!" said he. "Mrs. Merton, I dare say, can give you text for text and groan for groan. Come, Mrs. Merton, let us have a specimen of your power. Give us a text!"

"I can think of but one at this minute, my Lord," I answered, I fear not in the meekest tone, "and that is this: 'Judge not, that ye be not judged!'"

"Well put, Mistress Presician!" said my Lord, with a great laugh. "I see there is something within that can strike fire, after all. But I bid you beware, Walter. You are poaching on another man's manor."

I waited to hear no more, but escaped and went to my child. I wish they would let me sup with her all the time. I suppose I shall do so next week, when the Bishop comes to stay.

_July 29._

This day we were returning up one of the paths in the chase. Betty had taken quite a long ride, and was full of the wonderful things she had seen, especially of the ruins of the old abbey. She was talking with great animation, when, at a turn in the road, we met my Lord. One can never be sure of his mood, and I am always rather uneasy when Betty encounters her father, but he was in high good humor this day, having been angling and met with great success.

"Hey-day! Whom have we here?" he exclaimed. "Surely this bold horse-woman, or donkey-woman, can never be Betty! Why, what change has come over you, child? Hold up your head and let me look at you!"

Smiling and blushing, Lady Betty held up her head. She did really look wonderfully pretty.

"Why, the fairies have been at work with you, Betty!" said my Lord. "I never in all my life saw such a change! But can you walk as well as ride?"

"O yes, papa!" answered the child. "I can run a little, too, and I have learned to read and to write, and I sleep almost all night, now. I did not hear the clock strike but twice last night."

"But what is it?" questioned my Lord. "What medicines have you given her?"

I told him that I had given no medicines except change of air, exercise, and amusement. That I had in fact treated Lady Betty just as my mother had treated her own younger children, and I hoped with like good results. I added that I thought, unless she had some new drawback, Lady Betty might yet grow up to be a healthy woman.

He muttered somewhat to himself, and then turned to Betty again, asking her about her ride, and telling her she should have a pony some day.

"I did not think you could sit so straight," said he.

Betty straightened up still more at the words and looked so much pleased that I think my Lord's heart was touched. He kissed her, a thing I never saw him do before, told her to be a good maid, and get well as fast as she could. And then turning to me, he said, with real feeling and dignity:

"I thank you heartily, Mrs. Margaret Merton, for what you have done for the child, and you shall find that I do. I could not have thought such a change would be wrought in so short a time. It was a good day, as my Lady says, that brought you to us. Only mind," he added, relapsing into his usual manner, "mind you teach her none of your new-light notions. I will not have her made a Puritan, no, not if she never sets foot to ground again."

"What is a Puritan, papa?" asked Lady Betty.

"A Puritan, child? How shall I tell you? A Puritan is one who sings naught but Psalms through his nose, and wears his hair cropped close, and is always turning up his eyes, and hates king and church, and thinks a play-book, or a romance, or a dance round the May-pole, worse than the devil himself."

"Then I am sure Margaret is not a Puritan!" said Betty, eagerly. "For she sings me all sorts of merry songs, and not through her nose at all, and she has beautiful long hair, almost down to her feet, and she makes me say a prayer for the king and queen every day. And she is teaching me the Catechism, and she does not hate all romances or play-books, for she has 'The Faerie Queene,' and some of Mr. Shakespeare's plays in her room, and she read one to me, all about Puck and Titania, and some poor men that played a play before the Duke—what is its name, Margaret?"

"'The Midsummer Night's Dream,'" I told her.

"And she can dance beside, for she showed me how her mother taught her to dance the Corants," continued Betty, eagerly. "So, you see, she cannot be a Puritan!"

"Argued point by point, like a good advocate," said my Lord, laughing. "Well, well, child, you do well to speak up for your friend. I dare say it is all nonsense what your aunt says."

And with that he bade us good morning, and went on his way whistling.

_August 1._

Dear good Doctor Parnell died this morning, just at sunrise. He has been ailing for some days, but it was only yesterday that they thought him near his end. Mr. Corbet and Mr. Penrose sat up with him all night. He did not sleep much, but spoke many times, sometimes of his sister, whom he solemnly commended to Mr. Corbet's care, sometimes of the parish, and again of the joys of heaven, where he seemed, Mr. Penrose said, to feel himself already translated. He thought of everybody, and even sent me, by Mr. Penrose, his parting blessing, and a little book of devotions.

He died just as the sun was rising, commending his soul to God, without any appearance of fear or anxiety. Mr. Penrose, telling me the story, was affected even to tears, and I wept with him, feeling that I had lost a friend.

I went down to-day to bid him a last farewell, and to see Mistress Parnell. She is as it were stunned by the blow. She said to me:

"I am several years older than my brother and I had arranged everything for my leaving him, but I never once thought of his going first and leaving me. Ah well, I am thankful that in the course of nature I cannot be long behind him. Mr. Penrose is a good young man, and I think he will be kind to the poor folks."

"Mr. Penrose!" said I. And then it came out that my Lord had promised the living to Mr. Penrose. It is a great piece of preferment for so young a man, the living being a very good one; and I am glad he is so well provided for.

My Lord joked with him a little, at supper, and said somewhat about a mistress for the parsonage; at which Lady Jemima said hotly enough, that Mr. Penrose was not a marrying priest. He cast a glance at her, as if he were not over well-pleased by her interference, and said, very soberly, that he counted not the house his own, so long as the corpse of its former master lay under its roof, and therefore he had no need to take any order about a mistress for the same as yet. Whereat my Lady smiled approvingly, and my Lord seemed somewhat dashed. I thought it was very prettily said of him, for my part. I wish he had a good sensible wife. He would not have nearly so many absurd quiddities if he were married.

_August 4._

Doctor Parnell was buried this day—in the church-yard, as he desired, and in a spot which he himself selected long ago. Mistress Parnell told me afterward it was by the side of a young lady, a cousin of the Mrs. Corbet that then was, who died more than forty years ago. It seems there were some love passages between them, but she being caught in a heavy storm of rain, took a quick consumption and died, her lover attending her, and cheering her last moments by his prayers. Since that time he would never hear of taking a wife, though some of good family were proposed to him, he being accounted rich, but he would have none of them, though he was a great promoter of marriage in the parish, and always made the brides a present. Methought a pretty story of constancy.

_August 6._

Here is a change of affairs with a witness! Mr. Penrose has made up his mind with respect to a mistress for the parsonage, and upon whom should his choice fall but on my unworthy self. I never was so astounded in all my life, as when my Lady told me (for he broke the matter to her in the first place). And I told her I thought she must be mistaken, that he must have meant somebody else.

"I hardly know who else he could mean, unless you think Lady Jemima was the person," answered my Lady, smiling. "Besides, he was quite too explicit, and too much in earnest to leave room for a mistake. 'Tis your own little self he wants, sweetheart, and nobody else."

"Then, my Lady, 'his want must be his master,' as they say in our country," I said. "I cannot marry Mr. Penrose."

"Bethink you this is a grave matter," said my Lady. "Here, sit you down and let us talk it over reasonably."

We were talking in her closet, and I sat down, not on the chair beside her, but on a hassock at her feet. I was glad of the permission, for what with excitement and some other feeling, I know not what, I trembled from head to foot.

"Bethink you well; this is a grave matter," repeated my Lady. "Mr. Penrose is an excellent man, and a gentleman. He hath now a good living, and you will have such a settlement for life as belongs to few at your age."

"I know it, my Lady," I answered, as she seemed to pause for a reply. "I know all that, and that it is an offer far above my deserts, but I cannot marry him."

"But, sweetheart, have you never given Mr. Penrose cause to think that you would marry him—at the least that you were not averse to him?" said my Lady.

"No, madam, that I have not, I am sure," I answered, eagerly. "How could I, when I no more expected such an offer from him, than from St. Thomas of Canterbury, in the chancel window? I never even thought of such a thing, till Lady Jemima accused me of flirting with him; and since then I have seen Mr. Penrose hardly at all. Indeed, my Lady, I have given him no reason, and he is a coxcomb if he says I have!"

"Gently, gently!" said my Lady, laughingly (which she does but rarely). "Why, what a little pepper-pot it is, after all! Mr. Penrose neither said nor hinted aught of the kind, so you need not be so hot against him. 'Tis no insult, sure, for a good gentleman to wish to marry you."

"I beg your pardon, my Lady," I faltered. And then, like a great baby, I burst out crying, and sobbed, "O mother, mother! I want my own mother!"

Instead of chiding me, as I deserved, my dear Lady laid my head against her knee, and kissed and soothed me, till I was able to recover some self-control. Then she asked me again, what objection I had to Mr. Penrose.

"I don't know that I have any particular objection, my Lady, only that he is Mr. Penrose," I answered. "I liked him well enough till he wanted to marry me, and now I cannot bear him. Beside, my Lady, I cannot leave you and Lady Betty. I am promised to you for a year, at least. Oh, my Lady, don't turn against me and send me away! Indeed, the stories about me are not true. I am no Puritan, and—" I found the tears were coming again, so I checked myself and said no more.

"I have no wish to get rid of you, Margaret," answered my Lady, gravely and kindly. "I have seen no fault in you myself, and I pay no heed to idle tales. 'Tis true I have written to your Aunt Willson about the matter, but only that I might have the better means of defending you. It is my most earnest wish that you should continue my child's governess as long as she wants one. But, at the same time, I would not selfishly stand in the way of your prosperity. I know it is not as pleasant to you here, as it has been, and it will be still less so if I am taken away. You may never have such another offer, and I want you to do what is best for yourself."

"I cannot marry Mr. Penrose, my Lady, if I should never have another offer in all my life," I answered. "I have no wish but to live with you, and take care of Lady Betty. And if things are not quite so pleasant now, I dare say they will come round again, and if they do not, why I must expect some trouble as well as other folk. ''Tis all in the day's work!' as brother Richard says."

"But would not brother Richard say that ''twas in the day's work' to marry and settle when so good an offer came in your way?" asked my Lady.

"No, madam, I think not," I answered. "Richard gave up all his own plans in life that he might help dear mother, and I came here to do the same thing. I am sure he would say I ought to consider her more than myself."

"But, see you not, sweetheart, that this marriage would put you in a better position to help your mother than you are now?" argued my Lady. "What with his place as chaplain, which he is still to keep, and his living, Mr. Penrose will be well to do, and he is like to rise, holding as he does in all things with the Archbishop, who is all-powerful nowadays. He will be able greatly to help your mother and the younger children."

"Able is one thing, and willing is another, my Lady!" I answered. "'Tis not every man who would wish to be burdened with his wife's family, nor should I like to ask my husband to support my mother. I would rather do it myself."

"I am afraid you are very proud, Margaret," said my Lady, shaking her head.

"Perhaps so, my Lady," I answered. "But I pray you, dear Lady, do not urge me farther. I am greatly beholden to Mr. Penrose for his offer," (I am afraid this was a fib. I did not feel beholden to him at all, but very much as if I should love to box his ears for him) "but I never can marry him in the world."

"Well, well, you shall not be urged," said my Lady. "I will tell him what you say, but I feel sure he will not be satisfied without talking to yourself. And, Margaret, let me add one thing more. My Lord hath gotten hold of this matter—through no good-will of mine, but by Mr. Penrose's bad management; and 'tis like he may rally you upon it. Do not you get angry if he does, but laugh in your turn. Learn to rule that fire within, and it will save you a great deal of trouble, my little one."

She bent and kissed me as she spoke, and I kissed her beautiful hand. "Oh, my dear Lady!" I said, out of the fulness of my heart, "if I could only do anything to return or requite your goodness to me!"

"Then I will tell you what you may do," said she, smiling. "I am going to spend the day at Corby-End with my cousins, and you may take the opportunity to look over all my laces and lay out those which-need repairing. The work is too fine for Brewster's eyes, and I know you love to do it. Bring Betty in here and let her superintend the operation."

I knew Betty would be delighted with the change, and I was glad to hear that I need not meet my Lord for one day, at least.

So Betty and I spent the morning very comfortably, and I got quite cooled down over the laces, and was able to look at the matter reasonably. I am ashamed now to think how foolishly I behaved, and how absurd it was in me to be so angry with poor Mr. Penrose. I am sure it was kind of him to think of me. All the same, I would never marry him if there were not another man in all the world. I only hope he will take my Lady's word for it, and not desire to see me himself.

_August 8._

It turned out as my Lady said. Mr. Penrose would not be satisfied without talking with me himself, and trying to move my resolution. He used many arguments, as the advantage to my family, my having such a pleasant home near to my Lady, chances of usefulness in the parish, and so on, till at last I lost patience a little, and said:

"Mr. Penrose, you are but wasting your breath. If I loved you as I am sure a woman ought to love the man she marries, I should need none of these persuasions, and as I love you not, they are all thrown away."

"You think, then, that I could not make you happy?" said he. "I know I am faulty, and that you have often seen me peevish, but I would do my best, Margaret."

"I don't doubt you would," I answered him. "As for your faults, if I loved you at all, I know I should love you none the less for them, but perhaps all the more. But I have seen married life—only from the outside, 'tis true—and I am sure the trials of temper which come in the happiest marriage, would be too much for me, unless I—Well, the whole of the matter is, Mr. Penrose, I cannot think of it. I am sorry if I have been to blame, but I do assure you solemnly that till my Lady broke it to me, I no more thought of your wanting me, than I did of being Queen of England."

"You have not been to blame," said Mr. Penrose, abruptly. "Nothing is to be blamed but my own miserable folly in thinking that one such as you could ever fancy such a lout as I am."

"Now you are just as far the other way," said I. "You are quite my equal in every respect, and very much my superior in most things. I am greatly honored by your regard, and do really wish that I could return it. You must see that I should have everything to gain, if I did, and therefore you should allow that my refusal is disinterested. Besides, even if I did, there is another lion in the way. I have promised my Lady, in the most solemn manner, not to leave Lady Betty for at least a year."

I was sorry I said as much, for he caught at it directly.

"Then you will wait that time before coming to a final decision. You will let me try to change your mind. I promise you that you shall not be urged or annoyed in any way. Only wait a year before quite deciding."

"I do not feel that a year will make the least difference," said I, feeling vexed at him and at myself. "I wish you would put the matter out of your head, and marry somebody else."

"I shall never marry anybody else," said he, flashing up. "It may be this disappointment is a punishment laid upon me for entertaining the notion of marriage at all. I suppose Lady Jemima would say so."

"Never mind Lady Jemima, but follow your own good sense, Mr. Penrose," said I. "Do you think if marriage had been such a sin, so many of the apostles would have married? I hope to see you well settled with a wife yet, and as happy as you deserve to be in your own family. Then I will come and see you, and be Aunt Margaret to every one, though Lady Betty says aunts are always cross."

He smiled faintly, kissed my hand, and went away looking very crestfallen, and I went back to my room, and had a good cry, partly because I was sorry for him, partly, I believe, because I was a little sorry for myself. He is a good man, that I am sure of, and a gentleman bred as well as born, which is more than one can say for some folks; and the parsonage is so nice, and then it would be so pleasant to have a home to which I could ask dear mother. I shall never have another so good a chance of settling in life to advantage.

But after all, I feel that I never can bring my mind to marry Mr. Penrose. I could as soon sell myself for a slave. And I should not make him happy, either. I feel sure that all the good would die out of me, and all the evil increase tenfold. I could never ask God's blessing on such a marriage.

When I went back to Lady Betty, I found her in tears, and Mary in vain trying to pacify her. It seems the story of Mr. Penrose's offer has gone all through the household (thanks, I must say, to his own awkwardness in the matter), and Mary, who, with her good qualities, is somewhat of a gossip, had been telling Betty, thinking, to be sure, the child would be delighted.

As soon as I came near, Betty threw her arms round my neck, and sobbed out, "O Margaret, don't go away and leave me! I shall die if you do!"

"But, Lady Betty, Mrs. Merton will be no farther away than the parsonage, and you can ride down to see her on your donkey," said Mary.

"I wont!" cried Betty, in something of her old tone. "I will never go near the parsonage!"

"You had better wait till you are asked, my dear!" said I, a little sharply. "If you do not go thither till you go to see me, it will be a long time first. Mary, you would do much better to be about your work, than to be gossipping about my affairs. You have made the bed very ill, and the hangings are all in strings, nor have you put away your Lady's clothes, nor dusted properly. And you, Lady Betty, have neglected your lesson to hear and fret yourself over this idle matter. If you do so again, I shall set you a double task."

Dick used to say, laughing, that I could be awfully dignified when I chose, and I suppose I was so now, for poor Mary looked very much scared, and began to make apologies, but I cut her short.

"I wish to hear no more," said I. "Do your work over, and do it properly, and another time remember that my affairs are not yours. Lady Betty, you can bring your book into the gallery, and learn your lesson there, till this room is fit for you!"

Lady Betty took her book and followed me, meekly enough.

As I closed the door, I heard Mary say to herself, in a tone of wonder:

"O dear! Then she don't mean to have the parson, after all!"

I set a chair for Betty in her favorite window, and took my place beside her with my embroidery.

After a little Lady Betty said, timidly, "You are not vexed with me, are you, Margaret?"

"Yes, I am!" I answered. "'Twas not like a little lady to let Mary gossip to you about me and Mr. Penrose. My Lady, your mother, would be ill-pleased if she knew you had done such a thing. I shall not tell her, but you must never do so again. Come now, learn your lesson, and then we will go out into the chase."

Mr. Corbet joined us in the chase. I think he must have seen that something was the matter, but he made no allusion to it. On the contrary, he began telling Betty stories of his travels and the wonders he hath seen, and soon effectually diverted not only her but myself. He hath been to America two or three times, and hath seen the place whither so many colonists are now going. He says it is a fair land and fertile enough, but that the winters are long and severe, and the perils many, both from savages and wild beasts. Yet more and more people go thither every year, and he thinks that in time the settlement may be one of considerable importance.

"What sort of people go thither?" I asked him.

"Mostly people of substance and good character," he answered. "None of very high rank, that I have heard of, but many gentlemen have gone from this country, and more substantial yeomen and tradesmen, but all of the sort called Puritans. A good many of the descendants of the French Huguenots have also joined them, driven out by this new edict concerning their worship, and obliging them to conform. The Court is doing here what Mazarin hath done in France, namely, sending away the wealth and industry of the country to enrich foreign lands. However, in this case, it may turn to good in the end, for I believe the trade to North America will in time grow so great as to be valuable to the mother country."

"Think you that the Church of England will be benefited by these extreme measures?" I ventured to ask him.

"So far from it that she hath need to pray that she may be delivered from the foes of her own household," said he. "But that I believe her to be founded on the rock of Divine Truth, I should despair of her cause, and think the dark ages were coming back again."

"Yet the Archbishop professes a great hatred of popery!" I said. "They say he hath refused a cardinal's hat more than once."

"The Archbishop thinks mayhap that he would rather be King of Brentford than Lackey in London!" said Mr. Corbet, dryly. "What signifies lacking the name, if we have all the worst errors of the thing? I would as soon have an Italian Pope as an English one, and the Star Chamber seems like to rival the Inquisition in its cruelties. But we will talk no more of these grave matters now," he added, seeing Betty's eyes wide open. "I wonder if she ever heard the story of how Will Atkins and I saved the Indian woman's babe from the lion?"

Betty had never heard the tale, and "did seriously her ear incline," like Desdemona in the play. If she were older—but she is only a child, and it can do no harm. Only for her misfortune, it would be a good marriage—but then Mr. Corbet is past thirty—nearer forty, I should say. He tells a story better than any one I ever heard, neither speaking too much of himself nor affecting a false modesty. He hath read and reflected much, as well as seen a great deal of the world, but Mrs. Judith says the Corbets are naturally scholars. The families have been so much mixed up with intermarriages and constant intercourse that I should think it would be hard to tell which was Corbet and which was Stanton.

When the tale of the lion was ended ('tis not a true lion, either, Mr. Corbet says, but a much smaller, though very fierce beast), I told Betty it was time to go in, and Mr. Corbet took his leave.

I dined in the nursery, but went down to supper, where I had to meet my Lord's jokes, as I expected, but he was in a good humor, and more inclined, I thought, to be merry at his sister's expense than at mine, reminding her of what she had said about Mr. Penrose not being a marrying priest, and telling her that her turn would come next. Whereat she was very angry, which only led him on to tease her the more. Then he turned to me, and swore I was a fool not to have the parson, adding that he would have put the parsonage in good order for me, but he would not touch it for Mr. Penrose. It was good enough for a bachelor.

"Perhaps Margaret may think better of it," said my Lady. "She is but young, and she is promised to me for a year at least. There is no time lost. She is not yet eighteen."

"Nay, that is not fair—to keep the poor fish on your hook so long, Margaret!" said my Lord. "Either land him or let him go."

"No fear of her landing him!" remarked Lady Jemima, with a sneer. "She is angling for higher game. She fishes for salmon, not for trout."

I felt my face grow scarlet, but I would not say a word. My Lord looked from one to another.

"What do you mean?" he asked, wonderingly.

"Mr. Corbet finds the chase wondrous attractive of mornings!" returned Lady Jemima, with another sneer. "He is very fond of poor Betty's society, nowadays. 'Birds of a feather flock together,' they say!"

"So! I take your meaning," said my Lord. "Is that true, Mrs. Merton, that you are setting your cap at my cousin, and think Corby-End at present, and Stanton Court in reversion, mayhap, better than Stanton Parsonage? Is that Jem's meaning?"

"What Lady Jemima means she can perhaps explain herself," said I, rising from the table. "Meantime, I must beg your Ladyship's permission to retire, and henceforth to take my meals with Lady Betty in the nursery, or with Mrs. Judith. There at least I shall be safe from insult!"

My Lord stared a moment, and then burst out into one of his great laughs.

"Gad-a-mercy, what a firebrand it is!" said he, as soon as he could speak. "Who could think gentle Mrs. Merton could look so like a queen of tragedy! Nay, nay, sit you down, my maid, and finish your supper, and nobody shall affront you. What, then! I must have my joke, you know, and, if Wat did make love to you under pretext of caring for the child, it would not be the first time such a thing has chanced. Many a long dull sermon have I sat out under my wife's uncle the Bishop, that I might have the pleasure of sitting next her, and reading from the same book. Come now, sit down again, and care you not for my jokes nor for sister Jem's sour grapes!"

"You are blind, brother, utterly blind!" said Lady Jemima, as I resumed my seat, feeling rather ashamed of my outburst.

"And you are spiteful, Jem!" retorted my Lord. "You need not grudge every other woman a sweetheart because you have none!"

It was now Lady Jemima's turn to leave the table, which she did, and the room too, slamming the door with some force behind her. My Lord laughed again, and fell to talking to my Lady of the days of their first acquaintance at King James' Court.

After supper, he challenged me to play backgammon with him, and so I did. He was very kind, and even courtly, as he knows how to be well enough. Only at my going away, he detained me, and said, very seriously:

"One word, my maid. Do not you lose your heart to Mr. Corbet. He is the next heir to the Earldom, and like to be lord of all, should my Lady miscarry, which heaven forbid, and he must marry according to his rank. I believe not my sister's words have anything in them, but 'forewarned is forearmed,' you know. You are a good girl, I truly believe, and my Lady loves and trusts you, and if for no other reason, I would be loth to have any trouble arise."

"You need not fear me, my Lord," I answered. "I am but a poor governess, 'tis true, but I am a gentlewoman born and bred, as much so in my station as Lady Jemima in hers, and I do not think I am like to forget what is due to myself, even if I did not remember my duty to your Lordship's family."

"'Tis well said," answered my Lord, seeming no way displeased by my frankness. "I like your spirit. As for Penrose, you shall not be teased about him. He is a good fellow, and I should be well-pleased to see him fitted with as good a wife as yourself; besides that I can't but enjoy the joke of the thing. But 'tis early times yet, and he can afford to wait. Come, you bear me no malice, do you?"

I never liked my Lord so well, and was very willing to part good friends with him. As for Lady Jemima, I can hardly think of her with patience, much less forgive her. Yet I must, or what will become of me?

When I put Lady Betty to bed, she put her arms round my neck and whispered in my ear:

"Please don't be angry, Margaret, but you wont marry Mr. Penrose, will you?"

"I will marry the man in the moon, and go and live with him upon green cheese, if I hear another word about the matter," said I. "Or I will run away in the first ship to America, paint my face all over red stripes, and wed the king of the Neponsets."

Betty laughed, and so did I, but my heart hath been heavy enough since. Here is Betty deprived of one of her greatest pleasures (and she has few enough, poor child) that of hearing her cousin's tales and playing with him, and all mine own ease and comfort spoiled, all because of Lady Jemima's spiteful words—for spiteful they were. Ah me! My day's work is like to be a hard one—too hard, I fear, for my strength.

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