CHAPTER VII.

_THE BISHOP'S VISIT._

_August 10._

THE Bishop hath really come, and I have seen him and heard him preach. He was to arrive yesterday, and for three or four days, Mrs. Judith has been as busy as a bee, making up extra beds, airing rooms, and superintending the cooking of all sorts of nice things. I had myself the honor of making some almond tarts after dear mother's own receipt, which turned out very well.

Well, the Bishop came at last, and with no such great retinue, either—only his necessary servants, his chaplain and secretary. Betty and I peeped out of the window and saw him alight. I think Betty was rather disappointed, for she said gravely: "I should never have taken him for a Bishop. He looks just like any other clergyman, for aught I see."

My Lady would have me go down to supper, which I had not expected or exactly wished to do, knowing that I should have to sit next Mr. Penrose. However, my Lady's least wish is law to me, so I dressed myself all in my best, and went down. Mr. Penrose, however, sat farther up the table than his old seat, and so I was put next the Bishop's chaplain, a very handsome, modest young man, who hardly opened his lips. His name I believe is Tailor, and the Bishop thinks him a person of much promise. The Bishop sat near the head of the table, at my Lady's right hand. I saw him looking down the table, and as he caught my eye, he bowed to me and smiled, yet without speaking at that moment.

Mr. Corbet, who sat near me, looked surprised. I have never said anything about my former acquaintance with my Lord to any one but my Lady and Lady Jemima, and I believe the latter thought I made more of the matter than there really was, for she too looked surprised, and then scornful. In a little pause of the conversation, the Bishop said to my Lady:

"I am glad to meet at your table, a young friend of mine, Mrs. Merton. Mistress Margaret Merton, I hope you are in good health," he added, turning to me.

I answered as well as I could, though feeling rather embarrassed at having the eyes of all the table turned upon me. He then asked after the health of my mother and brother, and said he would see me again. There is an indescribable charm in his voice and manner. He is wonderfully polished and courtly, yet with no appearance of insincerity, or an effort to please. Even Lady Jemima, who has a fixed prejudice against him, and who had come down looking as black and as stiff as one of the clipped yews in the garden, relaxed and became quite gracious under his influence.

Lady Betty had for some time been begging that she might go to chapel when the Bishop came, and my Lord being in high good humor to-day, I ventured to ask permission. He hesitated a little, but finally said:

"Yes, if she likes. I suppose she will have to show sometime. After all 'tis not her fault, poor little thing, and she may improve with time."

"She is much improved now," I said, feeling, God forgive me, a kind of disgust for him—a father ashamed of his own unfortunate daughter.

"Do you think she will ever be straight again?" he asked, eagerly. "I was surprised to see her sit up so well the other day."

"I do not think her backbone can ever come straight again," I answered, "but she grows stronger every day, and the deformity will be less noticeable. I am not sure, but I think she is growing taller also, and your Lordship must allow that she has a beautiful face. She would be observed anywhere."

"That is true, too," he said. "I noticed it the other day. Well, well, do the best you can for her, Margaret, and let her have her way in this, since her heart is set upon it. It would be natural enough for her to take to religion, wouldn't it?"

I told him I thought it was natural enough for any one, especially any one in affliction.

"That's because you are a woman," he answered, tapping my cheek, as he does sometimes, but not in any offensive way. I will do my Lord the justice to say, that loud and careless, and hectoring as he often is, he is polite to the point of chivalry to every woman about the house or place, aye, and respectful, too. "Here, wait a moment."

He turned from me and began searching in his cabinet, and presently brought out a book splendidly bound in gold and blue velvet, though somewhat faded.

"Here, give this to Bess, with my love," said he. "It was her grandame's book, given her by the queen that then was, and I have always meant the child to have it. Tell her, her father sends it, and bids her be as good as her grandame was."

I was more pleased than if he had given it to myself, for I knew that such a message and token of remembrance from her father, would make the poor child happy for a week. She worships her father with a devotion which I must say he neither understands nor deserves.

We looked the book over together, and were delighted to find on the fly-leaf, the bold, plain writing of the great queen herself. It seems Lady Stanton was her god-daughter.

Well, at the due time, or rather a little before it, Thomas carried my little lady down and set her in a comfortable corner, and I took my place beside her, as my Lady had told me.

"Why do you not take your usual seat, Mrs. Merton?" asked Lady Jemima, who was placing some flowers on the high altar, as she calls the communion table.

I told her that my Lady had desired me to sit by Lady Betty.

"You had better take your usual place," said she. "I will myself sit by Lady Betty, and see that she behaves properly."

I knew that this would never do in the world.

"With submission, Lady Jemima, I think it best to obey my Lady's orders," said I, as respectfully as I knew how. "She will not be pleased if I do not." And to avoid any further words, I took my place directly, and knelt down to say my prayer, so that she could not decently interrupt me.

The company came in directly, and, with our own servants, made a good congregation. Lady Betty was as good and reverent as a child could be, only she did not kneel, which was not her fault.

The Bishop's chaplain read prayers without any of the extravagant gestures of devotion which Mr. Penrose is apt to use, but as my father used to do, and with a voice so full, so musical, and withal so devout and reverent, that it was a pleasure only to listen, and would have been had he read in a foreign tongue. The Bishop spoke a few words of exhortation on a text from the Psalms.

When prayers were over, I whispered Lady Betty to sit still till Thomas came for her. As I stood by her, partly screening her from observation, the Bishop drew near. He was talking with my Lady, and at first did not see me, but presently turned round, and smiled as his eye met mine.

"Will you not present me to your little daughter, madam?" he said to my Lady, who presented Lady Betty, and then me, in due form. He sat down by the child, and spoke kindly to her, asking her if she loved coming to church.

"I like it very much," answered Betty, who does not know what shyness means. "I never came before, and I asked mamma to let me to-night, because I wished to see you, and hear you."

His Lordship smiled, and said it was a pretty compliment. "But I think you would like to come every day, would you not?"

"Yes, when my back does not ache," said Betty, "but I wanted to hear you because Margaret told me about you, and how kind you had been to her and her mother. I love Margaret, and I love everybody that is kind to her."

"Why, that's well said, my daughter," returned the Bishop. "You do well to love Mistress Merton, who deserves your regard. I doubt not but she is a good governess, for she has been a dutiful daughter, and a kind sister, as I know."

These praises were very sweet to me, and all the more as Lady Jemima stood by and heard them. She looked very scornful, and presently asked the Bishop, rather pointedly, if he knew my kinswoman, Mistress Felicia Merton. He looked surprised, and said he believed he saw her in church with the family, but that was all.

"No doubt she was cleverly kept in the background," murmured Lady Jemima, not so low but I heard her, and so did the Bishop also, I am sure, from the way he glanced at her, as he said:

"My first meeting with Mrs. Merton and her brother was purely accidental and fortuitous. I came across them in the church, and having been uncivil enough to listen to their conversation, was so much interested in it as to desire to improve the acquaintance. I had afterwards some dealings with their mother in the way of business, and now I think of it, I saw a young gentlewoman, whom Mistress Merton presented to me as her husband's sister. If I mistake not, your mother told me she was not going to remain with her."

I told him no, she had gone to live with an aunt in London, Mrs. Willson by name.

"What!" said his Lordship. "Not my old acquaintance Mrs. Willson, widow of the bookseller and stationer, living near St. Paul's church-yard?"

I told him my aunt's husband had been a bookseller, and that she had still an interest in the business, and lived I knew near St. Paul's; and added that she had been very generous, not only to Felicia, but to all the family.

"I know the good woman well," said the Bishop, "for good she is in every sense of the word. We must talk over our mutual friends, Mrs. Merton. I will see you again."

I can see that every one thinks it a great matter that I should receive so much notice from the Bishop. Mrs. Judith would know the whole story, and she will tell good Mistress Parnell, so I shall be illustrated.

Since I have been out of doors so much with Lady Betty, I have left off my morning walks, but this morning, I know not why, I felt as if one would do me good, so I took my hood, and went out into the chase. The morning was fine, and everything was pleasant, but I felt I know not what, of heaviness and discouragement.

"Sure 'tis very hard to have such an enemy as Lady Jemima, and that for no fault of mine own that I know of," I thought.

It is Felicia's doing, to begin with, but she has no right to judge me on such slight evidence, nor to treat me as she does. Every time I try to set matters straight between us, I only make them worse. I have no one of whom I can ask advice either, now that Doctor Parnell is dead, and Mr. Penrose has raised up such a bar between us. If only I could see Mrs. Corbet alone, she might help me, but then she is one of the family, and it might only make trouble.

As I was thinking thus, waking with mine eyes on the ground, I almost ran against somebody coming in the opposite direction, and looking up, I saw the Bishop before me.

"Why, this is well," said he, with his kindly smile. "So you too love the early morning. But methinks your roses are not as blooming as when we met before. I trust all is well with you?"

I told him that I was quite well in health, and that my Lady was very kind to me, and I thought I had satisfied her so far.

"But," said he, smiling, and then seemed to be waiting for me to say more. Then, as I did not, he continued himself:

"But you have round, I suppose, that things do not go on without rubs in courts and castles, more than in rectories and cottages?"

"I suppose there must be rubs everywhere," said I. "''Tis all in the day's work.'"

"Not of course," said my Lord. "We make a good many rubs for ourselves, which do not come into our day's work at all."

"I don't really know that I have made any of my rubs for myself," said I, considering a little, "unless it was about—" and then I stopped, and felt my face grow scarlet, for I was just going to speak of Mr. Penrose.

"Well," said the Bishop, as I paused—"except what? Except in tempting poor Mr. Penrose away from his vocation, as they say abroad among the Papists. Truly that was no great sin. They talk about arguments for and against the celibacy of the clergy," he added, more to himself than to me. "Truly, I have ever found the meeting and acquaintance of a comely maiden, better than any logic in that matter."

"How did you know?" I asked, in utter amazement, forgetting, I am afraid, the respect due to his Lordship.

"Oh, a little bird told me. But now I must tell you all, or you will be fancying more than there is. Sit you down, if you have a little time. I should like to talk with you about that and other matters."

We sat down together on a rude seat which stood well sheltered by a thicket of holly, and he went on talking as he might have done to his own daughter.

"My Lord told me last night that Mr. Penrose was looking for a wife, and Lady Jemima said he had not looked very far, or very high, or some such phrase. Then Mr. Tailor asked my opinion about priests marrying." He paused, and I suppose I looked curious.

"And 'what then,' you are looking," he said, with a laugh which it did me good to hear, it was so clear and genial, yet with nothing coarse or rude about it. "Marry then, I told my young friend that if what was sauce for the goose was sauce for the gander, as our old saw hath it, I thought the dressing that did for the bishop might suit the curate well enough, and that I hoped to see each of them fitted with as good a wife as I had myself. Then—I am betraying no confidence in this matter, sweetheart, for I told Mr. Penrose that I should speak to you about the matter—Mr. Penrose came to me in private, and told me that he had asked you to be his wife, but you had put him off for a year, on account of a promise you had made my Lady. But my Lady was willing to let you off your promise in such a case, and my Lord was also favorable, and he begged my good offices with you. There, you have the whole story."

"My Lord," said I, "Mr. Penrose is under some strange mistake. I never said or hinted that I would marry him at the end of the year, or at any other time."

"Understand me! He did not say positively that you did so promise," said his Lordship. "He only told me that you had put him off till that time before he should speak again. He told me that you had behaved most honorably with him, with a great deal to your praise, which I need not repeat, and then, with a great deal of humility, he did ask me, if I thought right, to speak with you on the matter. So now I have fulfilled my word in so speaking; and what do you say thereto?"

"Only what I have said before, my Lord," I answered, trying to speak calmly. "Mr. Penrose is a good young gentleman, and I know the match to be far above my deserts, but I can never marry him, if he waited ten years instead of one."

"But your mind may change in a year," said my Lord.

"I do not believe it will, and I do not want it to change," I answered. "I 'know' I shall never want to marry him."

"But why?" asked the Bishop.

"Because," I answered, "I know how I feel now. I like Mr. Penrose very well as a friend and neighbor, but the minute I think of marrying him, I perfectly hate him, and feel as though I would walk to the Land's End to get out of hearing of his name."

"That would be going out of the river into the sea," said the Bishop, laughing again at my vehemence. "You would meet with plenty of Penroses between here and the Land's End. Ah, well! I see my poor chaplain's cake is dough, and though I like him well, I would not have it otherwise, so long as you feel so. I would not have you marry for interest, my maiden. Wedded life is a lovely and a holy thing where love is, but where it is not, there is confusion and every evil work. And then, you are but young to settle in life. I am sorry for Mr. Penrose, though. He is a good young man."

"Indeed he is!" I answered, warmly. "And that made me so sorry to have this come up, because I liked him so well. And now we can be naught but strangers. I wish he would fall in love with somebody else."

"'Tis not unlikely your wish may be gratified!" said my Lord, dryly. "But let him pass for the present. My Lady tells me that your little pupil has improved wonderfully under your hands, and that she is much pleased with your management."

"I am very glad," I answered. "My Lady does me more than justice. I do not think that Lady Betty has learned so very much, but her health has improved, and with it her spirits and temper. She is so bright, 'tis but a pleasure to teach her."

"And now for yourself," said the Bishop, with a penetrating, but kindly look. "How have you fared? Do you remember the promise I exacted from you that day in the church?"

I told him that I had never forgotten it, and that I believed I had kept it every day; and added that I had read half through the volume he gave me.

"That is well!" said he, seeming pleased. "And have you not found those things a help to you?"

"They have been a help," said I, "and also a comfort. But I know not how it is, I seem to gain no ground, or what I gain one day I lose the next. I have tried to be good, indeed I have!" I continued, feeling the tears very near my eyes, but determined, if I could, to keep them back. "But I do not succeed, and I sometimes fear that I shall never reach heaven at last. When I first came here, Lady Jemima was very kind to me; and gave me rules about devotions and fasting, and so on. But I cannot keep to them because my time is not my own, nor my strength either, and my Lady was not pleased when I gave up my hour of recreation to sew on Lady Jemima's work for the poor. Then I am conscious of so many failings every day that I am afraid—" I had to stop here and look very steadfastly through the tears.

"I understand," said the Bishop. "My dear maiden, do you not see wherein your trouble lies? You have undertaken, something which is not in your day's work at all, and which therefore is too much for your strength. You are trying to purchase eternal life by your own works and deservings, whereas it has already been bought for you, and the whole price paid by another, so that to you it is offered as a free gift. The 'gift' of God—observe, daughter, the 'gift' of God is eternal life, through Jesus Christ our Lord."

I looked at him, but I could not speak—such a light seemed all at once to flash upon me. He went on. I cannot tell all he said, only he made it plain to me from many places of Scripture that nothing we could do could save ourselves. That God had appointed another way, easy and plain, namely, faith in His dear Son, whom He had sent to die for our sins and to rise for our justification. That He, by His one oblation of Himself, once offered, had made a full, sufficient, and perfect atonement and satisfaction for the sins of the whole world, and that I should make that atonement mine, and receive all its benefits, the moment I should come to Him in faith and humility, giving myself to Him, and asking God for His sake to receive me.

"But what becomes of good works?" I asked.

"They are of the utmost value!" he replied. "They show our sincerity to ourselves and to the world, for one thing; and they are a part of the work our Heavenly Father has given us to do, not as task-work to slaves to be sharply exacted and grudgingly paid, but as work laid out for good and loving children that they may both improve themselves thereby, and also help on His plans for the good of all. Tell me, sweetheart, which is best—to make garments for an old woman because she is in need and because she is one of God's creatures whom He loves, or because clothing the poor is one of the corporal works of mercy, and you are laying up just so much merit thereby?"

"The first, of course," I answered. "'Love makes easy service,' dear mother used to say. But, my Lord, you say that I have only to believe that this sacrifice was made for me—that I have but to believe and be saved."

"Well," he said, kindly.

"Then I may know that I am saved now—because I can certainly know that I believe now, as well as I can know anything."

"Well, why not?" he repeated. "Is not the knowledge pleasant—to feel that you are the beloved child of God, and an heir to everlasting life?"

"So pleasant," I replied, "that I see not what becomes of Mr. Penrose's saying that it behoves us to walk softly and mournfully all our days, in the bitterness of our souls. It seems to me that there is no room for it."

"Ah, my dear maiden," said the Bishop, smiling somewhat sadly, "we shall have sorrow enough, never fear—quite as much as is good for us, without seeking or making any. I wonder if Mr. Penrose ever thought that with all the commands to rejoice, to be exceeding glad, to rejoice evermore, and so on, there is not one single direct command to mourn, in the New Testament. I would have you go on your way rejoicing. I would have you gather every flower which your Father plants in your path, and take delight in every innocent pleasure, because 'tis a gift from His hand. And even when trouble comes, as come it does to all, I would have you rejoice because you are in the hand of One who never afflicts willingly, and who is bound, by all His attributes, to bring you safely through."

Much more he said, but this is what I remember best—what I am sure I shall never forgot as long as I live. I have felt all day as though a great burden which I had been trying to carry, but which was beyond my strength, had been suddenly lifted off, and I had been told to go on my way without it.

When I came in, my Lady asked me if I had heard any good news, that my face was so bright. The Bishop preached for us in the chapel this evening. There was a great congregation—all the Fultons, and many other neighboring gentry, besides Mrs. Corbet and her son, all of whom were entertained at supper afterward. Lady Betty sat in her corner, only somewhat more out of sight than before, and I by her. The Bishop's text was out of the third of St. John's Gospel—

"Whoso believeth on Him shall not perish, but have everlasting life."

I shall never forget it while I live—so clear and plain was it, so full of beauty, and delivered with such eloquence, yet so expressed as that the youngest and simplest person present could take in somewhat of the doctrine.

I saw many looks exchanged, mostly of approval, though Lady Jemima was evidently ill-pleased, and I thought Mr. Penrose somewhat dubious. As for my Lord, he slept through most of it, as he does at all sermons.

I did not go to the supper table, but Lady Betty and I supped sumptuously in Mrs. Judith's room afterward—a great delight to the child, to whom every change is a treat. Mrs. Corbet came in to speak to her, and spent an hour with us talking about the sermon, which, she said, had made her young again. Mr. Corbet was here, but I did not see him, save for a moment, as he came to speak to me in the chapel.

Poor Mr. Penrose looks very pale and downcast, but did give me a very kindly greeting, and a message from Mistress Parnell, whom he has begged to remain in the rectory and keep his house for him.

"I thought you would have one of your sisters," said I, when he told me this bit of news.

"Perhaps I shall, by and by," he answered, "but they find enough to do at home, and it seems a pity Mistress Parnell should leave the roof which hath sheltered her so long. So I have even begged her to stay, and she hath consented to do so, instead of going to her niece at Bristol. Will you not come and see her sometimes?"

Then, as I hesitated, he added, "Believe me, Margaret, I will annoy you with no more importunities. I see that there is no use in it, and I will spare myself the humiliation and you the pain, of asking what can never be given."

He spoke with much kindness, but with dignity, and without a tinge of pique or offence; and then added, smiling somewhat sadly, "You know you are to be Aunt Margaret by and by, so you had best begin on Mistress Parnell."

"Oh, I shall come," said I. I never was so near liking him as at that last minute. If it were not—but there it is. Nobody knows or guesses—there is one comfort. O yes! There are a great many comforts. What a long story I have made of the matter!

_August 15._

The good Bishop has gone, but I might say that his spirit abides with us still, everything seems to go on so pleasantly and peacefully. My Lord has been away for a few days, but is to return to-morrow. My Lady keeps her room a good deal, looking over papers, &c., and has spent more than her usual time in the nursery, to the delight of both Betty and myself.

This morning she brought me a letter from Aunt Willson, which came in one to herself. She showed me the last. It is short, and to the purpose, saying much that is kind of me and mine, and thanking her Ladyship for her goodness to me. Her note to me was the same, only adding at the end that she hoped I should have no more trouble made by the schemes of one that should be nameless.

Only Lady Jemima will not be pacified toward me. She stopped me in the garden the other day, and told me she had had a letter from Felicia, who sent me her forgiveness for the ill offices I had been trying to do her, but which had failed; as she hoped, for my own sake, all my plans of that sort might do.

"So do I," said I. "If I ever make any plans for mischief, I trust they will fail. As yet I have made none, nor done any one ill offices. Whether any one has done them for me, is quite another matter."

"Beware!" said she, solemnly. "You are so set up with pride, because of the Bishop's ill-judged notice of you, and because my Lady takes your part, that you can see no danger; but beware! There is One that sees and judges."

"I rejoice to think there is, and to Him I commit myself and my cause." And with that I left her. It is strange how prejudiced she hath become.

Mr. Corbet rarely joins Betty in her walks and rides now, and the poor child is very much grieved, and thinks cousin Walter has grown strangely remiss. I fancy some one—my Lady, perhaps—has spoken to him. It is just as well. I only wish he had not begun it. And yet—I don't know that I do, either.

_August 17._

I said the last time I wrote that things were going on pleasantly, but since then we have had a grand explosion, the effects of which are felt even yet. It came about in this wise.

My Lord came home the day before yesterday, bringing with him a guest—Lord Saville, a court gallant, and I know not what relative of my Lady's. Never was anything so fine as this gallant, with his satin trunks and hose, his shoes with roses of gold lace and brilliants, his jewelled hatband, and I know not what else of bravery in the gayest colors—nay, I verily believe he painted his face, at least his eyebrows. For my part I cannot think so much finery becoming a man. Mr. Corbet, in his plain dark cloth and trimmed hair, looks ten times the gentleman that this lovelocked and perfumed court popinjay does.

Well, he was at the supper table, of course, and Mr. Corbet and Mr. Penrose also. One of Sir Thomas Fulton's daughters is here visiting Lady Jemima, and she was the only lady guest. It fell out that my Lord began speaking of Mr. Prynne, and of Lilburne, and now for the first time I heard of the barbarous sentence—the branding and cropping of the former gentleman—for a gentleman he is, and of as good blood as my Lord himself. My Lord swore with many oaths, as his way is, that the canting beggar was rightly served, and he would like to see them all served with the same sauce.

"It would be a great dish that should hold them," said Mr. Corbet, dryly, "and would need to be made very strong."

"You are right, sir," said Lord Saville. "The faction increases wonderfully, in spite of the Archbishop, who is a jolly Churchman. They say that Mr. Prynne received wonderful tokens of kindness and sympathy on his way to prison, and that money was showered on his wife, but she would not take it. Marry, that is the wonderful part of the tale."

They should all be served alike, my Lord swore, and said he would like to hear one of his household or dependents say a word in favor of the sour, vinegar-faced hypocrite or his abettors. My Lady looked at me, and I read in her glance what would have kept me quiet but for Lady Jemima's interference. She saw my disturbed countenance, as she sees everything, and said, in her most sarcastic tone:

"Mrs. Merton, you need not look so distressed. I dare say my brother will make an exception in your favor, if you are desirous of pleading the cause of your kinsman."

How she knew Mr. Prynne was my kinsman I cannot guess, unless Felicia told her.

All eyes were turned on me at once.

"What!" exclaimed my Lord. "That canting scoundrel Margaret's kinsman! I do not believe it! Speak up, Margaret, and deny it; or say, at the least, that you do not take the part of such an execrable villain. Say that he hath had his deserts, or at least some small part of them, and I shall be content. Speak out!" he cried, seeing that I hesitated, and smiting the table with his fist till the dishes rang.

"Since I must needs speak, then, my Lord," said I, "Mr. Prynne is my kinsman, and hath often been at our house in my father's life-time; and then I am sure he was an honest gentleman, though somewhat sour and austere. What he has now done, I know not, save that he hath printed a book inveighing against stage plays, but sure it must have been a greater crime than that to merit so barbarous a sentence."

"Barbarous! Do you say barbarous?" exclaimed my Lord, in tones that trembled with passion, while Lord Saville looked on with an expression of contemptuous amusement.

"I did say so, my Lord," I answered, for my own spirit was up by this time. "Branding and cropping do seem to me barbarous punishments, and unworthy a Christian age: and I cannot understand how a Christian prelate could sit by when such sentence was given, and not protest against it."

"He was so far from protesting that he was the very head and front of the matter," said Mr. Corbet.

"And am I to hear this?" said my Lord, fairly glaring at me. "Elizabeth, do you hear this—this chit brave me at mine own board?"

"Margaret said nothing till she was pressed," answered my Lady, more loftily than her wont.

"And you dare to take the part of this fellow!" said my Lord to me.

"How can you be surprised, brother?" asked Lady Jemima, scornfully. "'Birds of a feather flock together,' you know."

"But you don't mean it, Margaret," said my Lord: "you do not mean to take the part of this crop-eared scoundrel and own him for your kinsman? You don't mean to say—"

"I did not mean to say anything, my Lord, and should not, unless it had been forced upon me," said I, as he paused for breath, and seemed to expect some answer, "but what I have said, I cannot unsay. Mr. Prynne 'is' my kinsman, and he has been kind to my mother since my father's death. What ill he may have done I cannot say, but if it is no more than writing a book against plays and play-houses, I must say that the sentence seems to me a very severe and barbarous one, and most unworthy of a Christian prelate." I said this, I am conscious, with some emphasis and heat, for it seemed to me that I was being very unfairly treated both by my Lord and Lady Jemima, and it did not make me any cooler to see that Lord Saville was amusing himself with the whole affair. But here I received support, though I can hardly say assistance, from a very unexpected quarter.

"I am with you, Mistress Merton," said Mr. Penrose (who had hitherto been quite silent), in his clear, precise voice. "I have always hitherto loved and revered the Archbishop, but I cannot approve his course in this matter. It seems to me far worse than the homicide for which Archbishop Abbot was deprived. I have seen Mr. Prynne's book. I have also seen two or three plays, when I was last in London," (and withal he blushed like a girl,) "and though I like not at all Mr. Prynne's spirit, and believe him to be guilty of dangerous errors in doctrine, I think what he says of the practises of plays and players too well deserved. I am ashamed when I remember the play which I saw played before the king."

"And what was that play, Mr. Chaplain, an it like you?" asked my Lord Saville.

"It was called, if I mistake not, 'The Gamester,'" answered Mr. Penrose.

"I would have you to know, sir, that the plot of that play was furnished to Mr. Shirley the poet by his Majesty's own hands," said Lord Saville, arrogantly, and as if to bear down all before him: "I myself heard the king say it was the best play he had seen in seven years."

"So much the worse," said Mr. Penrose, shortly. "I could not have believed it of his Majesty."

With that my Lord exploded in a new fury. He put no bounds to his language, but called Mr. Penrose all the opprobrious epithets he could muster, and reproached him with the benefits which had been bestowed upon him in language which I am sure he would not have dared to bestow upon an equal. It was enough to make one ashamed of ever having been in a passion, to see what a pitiful spectacle this man made of himself. Mr. Penrose sat quite still till my Lord paused, from sheer inability to say another word. Then he said, rising from the table, as he spoke:

"My Lord, it has been your pleasure to insult at your own table, and before your servants, a gentleman whose birth is as good as your own, and whose family was known and distinguished, when yours was still in obscurity. My profession, if nothing else, forbids me to demand of you the satisfaction which one gentleman owes to another in such a case. I am your debtor, 'tis true, but I am also a gentleman, and a clergyman of the Church of England, and as such entitled to speak my mind. I return upon your hands the benefits with which you reproach me, and which you have rendered more bitter than gall, by your insults, I will be no man's lackey, though I be forced to drudge for my daily bread like any plowman. I here resign both the chaplaincy and the benefice which you have given me, thanking you for any courtesy you have shown me hitherto." And with that he rose from the table, bowed to my Lady and the rest, and took his hat to leave the room.

"I will walk with you, Mr. Penrose," said Mr. Corbet, also rising. "Give you good-night, fair ladies." And they left the hall.

I could not have believed it was in the little man to look and speak as he did, with so much calmness and dignity. Even the allusion to his own family (which, he being a Cornishman, is, of course, a good deal older than Adam), sat gracefully enough upon him.

My Lord was actually silenced, and had the grace to look ashamed. My Lady prevented any more words by rising from the table, and of course all of us did the same. As we passed out of the hall, I heard Lady Jemima say to my Lady:

"Well, Sister Elizabeth, what think you of the storm your immaculate Mrs. Merton has raised? Is she not a fit person, to have charge of your daughter's education?"

She spoke in the tone of sarcastic contempt, which she always uses to or about me.

My Lady answered more sharply than I ever heard her speak:

"It was yourself, Jemima, who raised the storm, as most storms in this house are raised, by your impertinent meddling. Margaret would not have spoken but for your drawing my Lord's attention upon her."

"Oh, of course, it was all my fault," Lady Jemima began, but my Lady interrupted her:

"It 'was' all your fault! You are constantly tormenting the child for no other reason than because she dares to have a mind of her own. But I have had enough of it; and have long borne with your impertinent interference in household affairs, your contradicting of my orders, upsetting my arrangements, and taking the words out of my mouth at mine own table: but I will have it no longer. The next time you make such a piece of mischief, you leave the house, or I do!"

"Well, I must say!" Lady Jemima began.

But my Lady cut her short: "I will hear no more!" said she, sharply. "I am wearied and fretted to death now. Margaret, why do you not go to the nursery?"

I might have said that I was only waiting for her to give me room to pass, but I saw well that my Lady was driven past her patience, and no wonder: so I courtesied and made my escape by the way of Mrs. Judith's room.

I did not know what to do, for my Lord had bid me quit the house the next day, and I had nowhere to go. I had money enough owing me to take me home, but I knew not how to get there, and I had no friend to whom I could apply, unless it were the Bishop.

I could hardly calm myself to think of anything for a time, but at last, by dint of walking in the gallery, which I did for an hour, and by schooling myself to do my usual reading, I found myself in a condition to consider matters quietly. I never felt any more unhappy in my life, and regretted twenty times that I had not stayed in the nursery with my child, but there was no use in that. Besides the disgrace which had been put upon me, and the triumph which that disgrace would afford to mine enemies, my heart was broken at the thought that I must leave my child to a stranger, just at the time when she was like to need me most, and have all my work for her undone.

Lady Jemima is mine enemy, though I know she would not own herself so. She persecutes me, as my Lady says, because I think for myself instead of following her. As for my Lord, I care not so much for him.

Well, I could do nothing that night—so much was plain—and the next day might bring cooler councils. So I looked in upon my child, as I usually do the last thing, and then said my prayers. I know not whether I did entirely forgive Lady Jemima, but I know I tried faithfully to do so. I confess I cried myself to sleep, but I did go to sleep at last, and slept well, with sweet dreams of walking in pleasant green fields, in good company. Methought that a deep river seemed to divide us for a time, which I could not cross because of the child who was with me, but at last, I know not how, my Lady brought us together again, and then, taking Betty by her hand, she smiled lovingly upon us and seemed to float away. I awoke not a little comforted, though 'twas but a dream.

I thought I would do nothing good or bad till I saw my Lady, so I dressed Lady Betty, as usual, (though she has learned to help herself a great deal,) heard her say her prayers, and gave her her breakfast. I then went to my room for my workbasket, where I met my Lady. She looked pale and tired, but greeted me kindly, as usual, and asked me some questions about Betty's lessons. I answered her, and added that I had thought it best to go on as usual till I saw her and received her commands.

"You have said nothing to Betty, I hope?" said my Lady.

I told her I had not.

"That is well!" said she. "Margaret, have you the patience to let matters stand as they are for a few days, and do nothing?"

"Surely, my Lady, if you desire it," I answered. "I would do more than that for you."

"I know I ask a good deal," she continued. "I know the position is a painful one, but I hope things may be mended."

"My Lady," said I, thinking it was time for me to speak, "I can bear all things for your sake and for Lady Betty's. I have been turning the matter over in my own mind—I mean what chanced last night—and truly I see not what I could have done differently from that I did. Mr. Prynne is my kinsman, and, as I said, he has been kind to us; and had my dear father taken his advice, it would have fared the better with us at this time. I would not have spoken unless I had been called upon, but being so called upon, it does seem to me that I should have been base and ungrateful not to speak up for my cousin."

My Lady sighed. "I know, Margaret. I do not blame you. I know my Lord was somewhat hot and hasty, and he was provoked with Mr. Penrose for his uncalled-for words."

Somewhat hot and hasty, indeed! But he is her husband, and, as I once heard dear father say, a woman must be somewhat more than an angel to be just where her husband is concerned.

"But rest you quiet, sweetheart!" continued my Lady. "Let the storm go by! At the worst, I will see that you are taken good care of, but I trust not to lose you. It will be my great comfort, under my approaching trial, to know that Betty is in such good hands."

After such words from my Lady, I could not doubt what my duty was. So I said I would go on just as usual, only praying her leave to absent myself from table, which she granted, saying that Betty and I might dine either by ourselves or with Mrs. Judith. I know Betty would choose the latter, and said so; whereat she bade me inform Mrs. Judith of the arrangement.

I went to her room for the purpose, and found her busy blanching and shredding almonds, stoning dates and raisins, and so forth, for the dinner. She would not let me stay to help her, however, as I would have done, but saying that I looked pale, and the fresh air would do me good, she filled my pocket with spiced comfits and sent me away to walk.

The day has passed quietly enough. I have been careful to keep out of my Lord's way, and also to keep Lady Betty out of his sight, for 'tis the way of grand and magnanimous natures like his to revenge their humors on little and weak creatures. Marry, they now and then find themselves mistaken, as my Lord did with Mr. Penrose last night. How grand and dignified the little man was! My Lord has gotten himself into a scrape there, and I am wicked enough to be glad of it. It seems that the presentation to the living belongs to both houses in such wise that my Lord has it one time and Mr. Corbet the next. So by Mr. Penrose's resignation last night the next presentation is Mr. Corbet's. I do hope he will reinstate Mr. Penrose, and I think he will, for he was clearly pleased last night.

_August 20._

Things still go on quietly enough in the family. My Lord has said nothing to me, good or bad, but I fancy he hath made some sort of apology to Mr. Penrose, from something I saw passing between them in the garden this morning, and from the fact that Mr. Penrose read prayers in the chapel this evening. He made a short but earnest lecture on the text, "The temple of God is holy, which temple ye are;" and spoke most forcibly and beautifully on the point of purity, not only of life but of mind, carrying out the figure, and likening the man who entertained unclean and impure thoughts in his mind, to one who should feast boon companions in the sanctuary of the church, and make the sacred vessels themselves the instruments of his debauchery.

Methought my Lord looked a little uneasy, but Lord Saville kept his usual sneering composure. The latter gallant favored me with a low reverence—I suppose in the usual Court mode, but I would not so much as let him know that I saw him. His very look is an insult. I made my reverence to Lady Jemima, in passing, but did not speak to her, nor she to me. I have tried hard to forgive her, and I hope I have done so, in some measure, for I would not, as Mr. Penrose would say, bring sword and dagger into God's sanctuary.

I thought of the sermon all the evening. Surely if a very awful, 'tis also a marvellous comforting thought—that abiding of the Spirit in our hearts!

Mistress Parnell walked up with Mr. Penrose, and was loud in his praises afterwards, when we were at supper together in Mrs. Judith's room, saying, with tears, that he was like a son or younger brother to her, constantly seeking what he may do to please her, and studying her comfort in every way.

"Ah, Margaret, Margaret!" said the old lady. "I doubt you are throwing away what can never be gotten back again."

"I don't know but I am, but there is no help for it." If I had never seen anybody else—but that 'if' is as wide as the ocean. There is no ship to cross it.

Betty, dear child, is as good and loving as a child can be. She has taken double pains with her learning of late, and makes wonderful progress. This day, after sitting long and silent over her sewing—she is making an apron for Goody Yoe—she said to me:

"Margaret, you know Latin, don't you?"

I told her I did know some Latin, and one day I would read her some pretty tales out of Virgil, his "Aeneid."

"Will you teach me Latin?" she asked, wistfully.

"That must be as my Lady says," I answered. "But, my love, why do you wish to learn Latin?"

"Because," said she, "My little brother will have to learn it some day, I suppose, and if I know it, I can teach it to him."

"Suppose your little brother should turn out a little sister?" said I, smiling.

"Oh, but I hope he will not!" she answered. "You know papa likes boys best!"

Betty rarely shows a spark of her old heat or perverseness, and if she does, it makes her very unhappy, and she will not rest until she has asked and received forgiveness. I sometimes think her character is ripening too fast, and that such deep feelings in a child forebode an early death. And yet, why should I say fear? 'Twould be a blessed thing for her. Her life is not like to be a happy one.

_August 21._

Another explosion, and by my means, though not by my fault. I only wish all the consequences had fallen on myself. I should find it easier to forgive the author than I do now.

It chanced on this wise. I have kept Betty out of the way as much as possible, but the morning was so fine that I could not resist her entreaties for a ride, and we went as far as the Abbey ruin, which Betty has always wished to see, and which, from its stillness and loneliness, hath been a favorite haunt of mine own. I had no thought of meeting any one, for none of the family ever came thither.

So we let the donkey graze at his will while we wandered about and spelled out the inscriptions on the stones, I translating the Latin for Lady Betty's benefit. There was no danger of Jack's straying far, for he loves Betty with all the force of his donkeyish nature, and will come prancing and flinging in most ludicrous sort to meet her, whenever she comes near.

Well, as I said, we were spelling out the inscriptions, and Betty was much interested in the tomb of Abbot Ignatius, when we heard my Lord's voice, and presently he and Lord Saville came from behind the wall of the ruined refectory. Now, Betty loves her father's very shadow, and before I could hinder her, she had run to meet him, with a cry of delight.

"Hallo!" exclaimed my Lord Saville. "What little 'mundrake' have we here? Are your grounds haunted with dwarfs and pixies, my Lord?"

My Lord's brow turned black as thunder.

"This is my daughter, my Lord!" said he, in a lofty tone: but Lord Saville was by no means overawed.

"I crave your pardon!" said he, carelessly: "I knew you had a daughter, but I thought her to have died long since." And with that, he turned away.

"What are you doing here, Bess?" asked my Lord, harshly.

"I-I-only came—I don't know!" answered Betty, flushing and stammering, as she is apt to do when startled.

"Mrs. Merton, since you pretend to have the government of the child, methinks you might at least keep her out of sight!" said my Lord, turning the vials of his wrath on me. "'Tis surely misfortune enough to be the father of such a changeling, without having her paraded to shame me at every turn! I think the devil himself served her alive, to vex me. I would she had died at her birth, like her brothers yonder," he added, muttering between his teeth.

I don't suppose he meant she should hear him, but she did. She drew herself up as I should not have supposed possible, and looking her father in the face with her flashing black eyes, she said:

"God made me, my Lord!" Then turning to me, she said, with as much dignity as ever I saw, "Margaret, we will go home!"

Felicia used to say sometimes that if I could command the lightning, her life would not be safe. I am sure my Lord's would not have been at that moment. I am ashamed to write it, but I do think I could have killed him. I could not trust myself to speak to him.

To make the matter worse, Betty's little dog ran between his legs and nearly upset him. With a curse, he kicked the poor beast violently out of his way, and against a stone, where he lay stunned for a moment.

This was too much, and Betty burst into passionate tears and lamentations. "Oh, my dear dog! Oh, what shall I do!"

"Hush, hush!" said I. "The dog is not dead! See, he moves now!"

I set her on her donkey, and put into her arms poor Gill, who was beginning to make a feeble whining, and so we went away, leaving my Lord looking foolish enough.

I thought all day the poor beast would die, but he is better to-night. Betty never said one word all the way home, and she has moped all day. I have not told my Lady, and shall not.

My Lord met me in the hall to-night, and said something about a game of backgammon, but I would not understand, and passed him with only a reverence. Maybe I am wrong, but I dared not trust myself with him. Since we are to order ourselves reverently to our betters, 'tis to be wished that our betters were a little better!

_August 23._

The poor little dog is dead! We nursed it up as well as we could, and I hoped it would get well, but it died last night, after two or three hours of great suffering. It was pitiful to see the poor little wretch, how in its greatest agonies it would look up in answer to Betty's voice, and make a feeble effort to wag its tail. The poor child was broken-hearted, and no wonder. I thought to have a sad time with her; and so indeed I did, but not as I expected. There was no screaming, none of the violence she has shown heretofore, but deep, distressful sobbing, which seemed to shake her poor thin frame all to pieces. It was not only the loss of the dog, her only playfellow, though that was enough, but that "papa" should have done it. I had at last to come to my final argument, which I keep in reserve when all else fails to quiet her.

"My love, you will make yourself sick!" I said. "And that will distress my Lady, and perhaps make her sick as well."

"I 'am' sick!" said the poor thing, sobbing. "I am sick of 'being' at all. Everything is so hard for me. I wish I had never been made! Oh, Margaret, why do you suppose that I was made?"

"To be happy in heaven forever!" I said. "That is what we were all made for."

"Then I wish I had gone there when I was born!" said she. "I think it is a very hard road to get there!"

"It is a hard road to many beside you, my dear one," I answered. "Think how hard it was made to the poor men Mr. Corbet told us of, who were shut up for years and years in the dungeons of the Inquisition, only to be burned at last, because they would not deny the truth."

"But why should it be so?" asked Betty.

"That I cannot tell you," I answered. "But, Betty, don't think all the time of the hardness of the road. Think of what is at the end thereof, and how you may help those who are going the same way; and perhaps turn some back who are travelling in the opposite direction. If you live and grow up, you will have a great many chances of doing good, both to men's souls and their bodies. There are your little god-daughters down at the Cove, and the children in the school, and as you grow older, more people still."

She seemed a little comforted, and to divert her still farther, I told her of Goody Yeo's granddaughter, who needed a petticoat, which she might make for her.

At last, she ceased crying, and allowed me to loosen her dress and lay her down to rest. I thought she was asleep, when she roused herself and asked me:

"Margaret, what sort of a man was your father?"

I told her he was a good man, and much beloved by all who knew him.

"If you had had a little dog, he would not have killed it," said she. "If you had been crooked and sickly, he would not have wished you were dead!"

"My love," said I, "you think too hardly of your father. He did not mean to kill the dog."

"He did not mean to break my heart, either," said this strange child; "and yet he has done both, and they can't be cured because he did not mean to do it. It was not the saying so—it was the thinking so."

"I don't think he meant it, either," I answered. "People often say a great deal more than they mean. The other day, when Mary broke your china image by accident, you told her that she was an awkward clod, and you wished she was a thousand miles off. Yet I am sure you would be very sorry to have her go even ten miles away, would you not?"

She was silent at this, and seemed to be turning the matter over in her mind. When Mary came in, shortly after, Betty roused up and called her.

"Mary," said she, "I am very sorry that I was so cross with you about breaking the china image. I said I wished you a thousand miles away, and it was not true. I would not have you go away for anything, and I will never say such wicked things again."

"Bless your dear, tender heart!" said Mary, kissing the hand Betty held out to her. "I thought nothing of it, my lambkin. I knew you were only angry, and we all say more than we mean at such times."

"I will try never to be angry again," said Betty. "Margaret, will you ask Thomas to bury my poor dog near to our seat in the wood, and to mark the place? I should like to have Thomas do it, because he was always fond of poor Gill."

I promised that it should be done as she desired, and leaving her with Mary, with a charge not to talk, but to lie still and try to sleep, I carried the poor little beast down to the stable, and asked Thomas to bury him. As he was smoothing the turf over the little grave, my Lord came along.

"Hullo, what are you doing here?" he asked.

"Burying my little lady's dog," answered Thomas, shortly. He hath been here since the time of my Lord's father, and is apt to say his say to every one about the place, my Lord included.

"Why, what ailed the dog?" asked my Lord.

"You ought to know, if anybody did, I should say," was the surly answer. "The poor whelp had half his ribs broken. More shame for them as used a dumb beast so—or a Christian either," he muttered to himself. "There, Mistress Merton, that is done as well as if old Sexton himself had had the job; and I'll beg Dick Gardener for some of his double 'vilets,' to plant over him." So saying, he shouldered his spade and stalked off.

To do my Lord justice, he did look heartily ashamed and sorry.

"Well, well," said he. "I never meant to hurt the dog, I am sure. I suppose Bess is screaming herself into fits about it."

I told him Lady Betty was very unhappy, but that she had not screamed at all, only cried bitterly.

"Well, well, I am sorry," he said again. "Give my love to Bess, and tell her I did not mean to kill him. I will get her another, if I have to search the country for it."

I was glad to hear him say so, and gave his message to Betty, though I did not say he meant to get her another dog. I knew she would not take kindly to the notion just yet, and, besides, it might be only another disappointment. She was very much comforted, and is beginning to be quite cheerful again, though I hear a deep sigh now and then.

And here I must say that I am conscious of never having done justice to my dear father so long as he lived. He had his faults, no doubt, the chief of which were an over-sanguine disposition, which made every new scheme look absolutely desirable and feasible, and a too lavish use of money while he had it, but never was a pleasanter man to live with. He was always so genial and kindly: so sunny and cheerful, not by fits and starts, but steadily, and at all times. If mother were disappointed in her calculations—if some favorite dish were spoiled, or some book or paper mislaid, he was always the one to laugh it off and make everything pleasant again.

Dear mother had her sorrows and cares, 'tis true, but I think she was a happy woman, after all. Father was such a help to her, and he was such a "safe" man to live with. It was like walking on the firm, solid ground, instead of upon treacherous ice, or over a mine; like sailing on the open sea instead of among rocks and quicksands, where one must be all the time on the lookout, and after all some sudden gust or unsuspected current may make all one's caution of no avail.

I fancy it is this constant observing of her husband's humors which has made my Lady so silent and self-restrained in company, even at her own table, and which makes many people think her stiff and cold. She is like another person here in the nursery, or with Mrs. Corbet.

And yet my Lord hath many excellent qualities. He is generous to a fault, and I am sure he would spare neither time nor gold to procure for my Lady anything he thought she would like. He is brave too, and would venture his life without a thought, if even the poorest fisher lad were in danger; as he did, they tell me, in the storm last winter. I am the last one to judge him hardly, for I know my own failings in that line, and how often I have said or done in a minute of provocation what I would have given a great deal to undo again. I am sure my Lord is not malicious. He would never lay such a trap for any one as Lady Jemima did for me the other day, nor would he persevere in a course of tormenting, day after day, or take advantage of a time when one was feeling unhappy or annoyed about something else, to say the most aggravating thing he could think of. But there! I said I would never think of Felicia if I could help it.

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