Chapter V: Easter Tide (1)

_April 15._

THIS is Holy-week, and I have very little time to write in my journal. I am trying to pursue the course of devotions Lady Jemima gave me, and of which Mr. Penrose highly approves; and that, with my attendance on Lady Betty, takes all my time. Lady Betty has not been so well, and is rather fretful and exacting. I try to have patience with her, but it is hard work, sometimes.

I don't know what to do about receiving the Sacrament at Easter. I don't like to miss it, but Mr. Penrose and Lady Jemima say so much of the peril of unworthily receiving. Lady Jemima is very kind to me, and gives me much good advice. I told her that I felt very unhappy because I was no better, and she said that was right—that we ought constantly to contemplate our sins and short comings in order to make us humble and contrite, and that it became sinners, in a state of probation, and likely to be called to judgment at any time, to be grave and sad.

I have no time now to read the "Contemplations," and not much for the Scripture. To be sure, we hear it in chapel every day.

_April 17._

Betty said to me, this morning: "You are not my sunshiny Margaret, any more. You look so solemn all the time, just like Aunt Jemima!"

And with that she pulled a long face, and put on a look so exactly like her aunt that I could not forbear laughing; at which she laughed too. I don't look any more sober than I feel, however. Mr. Penrose's sermons have made me realize the things of eternity more than ever I did before, and they are dreadful to me. To be sure, there is heaven, but how am I to know it is to be my portion? How can I know that my repentance is sufficient—that my sorrow for sin is real and sincere? And I have been such a sinner! In looking back over my life, I can see nought but sin. Sin where I never suspected it before—and nothing good anywhere: and the harder I try to conquer myself, the worse I am.

Lady Betty's doll is finished. She is very much pleased with it, and we have had many games of play at "making believe": she being the mother, and I by turns doctor, nurse, and aunt.

"But if you are an aunt, you must be cross," said Betty, this morning: "aunts are always cross."

"O no!" I answered. "By no means. My dear Aunt Magdalen was not cross, nor aunt Willson."

"Aunt Jemima is—almost always, I mean," persisted Betty.

"Aunt Jemima is always what?" asked the lady, who had come in softly, in time to hear Betty's words—for the door being set open for the sake of air, and Lady Jemima always walking like a cat, we had not heard her approach.

"Aunt Jemima is always what?"

"Cross!" answered Lady Betty, simply. "But I suppose you can't help it, can you, Aunt Jemima?"

Lady Jemima colored, but she did not answer Betty directly. Presently she said, "Who made you that great doll?"

"Margaret," answered Betty. "She has just finished it." And she began to display all the perfections of the rag baby.

Lady Jemima looked at the clothes, and said that they were neatly made.

"But, Margaret," said she, "I have come to sit with Betty while you go down to the chapel."

"It is not chapel time," objected Betty; "and I don't want Margaret to go away."

"But Margaret wants to say her prayers, if it is not chapel time," returned Lady Jemima. "You would not be so selfish as to keep her from them, would you? It would be much better for you to be saying your own, than to be playing with your doll at such a time."

"Well, she may go, if she wants to," said Betty, rather sadly.

So I went down and said my prayers in the empty chapel, out of the book Lady Jemima gave me, but I cannot say I found any great comfort therein. Lady Betty's sad, grieved face haunted me all the time, and I could think of nothing but getting back to her.

When I finally returned, I found Lady Betty sitting looking out of the window, with her elbow on the sill, and her chin on her hand. Lady Jemima was reading to her out of the Bible, but I don't think she paid any attention.

When Lady Jemima saw I had come back, she ceased her reading, and rose, but Lady Betty did not look round nor move.

"Good-by, Betty," said Lady Jemima.

"Good-by," said Betty.

When her aunt left the room, she said, sorrowfully enough, "Don't you love me any more, Margaret?"

"Of course I do!" said I, sitting down by her. "Why should you ask me such a question?"

"Aunt Jemima says you don't," replied the child. "She says I am so selfish."

"Selfish about what?" I asked.

"She said it was selfish in me to let you work so hard at the doll just to please me, when there are so many poor people that need clothes, and that—that—"

"Nonsense!" said I. I could not help it, so vexed was I at Lady Jemima. "I was very glad to make the doll, and shall be always glad to do anything for you."

She brightened a little on this, but I could see all the afternoon that she was cast down, and I was sorry enough that I had left her to her aunt, who, good as she is, never seems to come near Betty without hurting her in some way. After all, my work here is to take care of Betty, and I don't believe God means I should let her suffer for the sake of saying my prayers, more than anything else.

_April 18._

I have had a sharp dispute with Mr. Penrose. I had been walking as far as the Abbey ruin in the park, when he joined me: and after some discourse, began to ask me what I was reading. I told him that I was reading the Bishop's "Contemplations;" whereat, he spoke slightingly of the book, and said he would give me something better. Now, when I have learned to love a book as I have this one, 'tis all the same to me as a friend, and I cannot bear to hear it spoken against. So I answered something quickly that I wanted nothing better, and beside that, I had promised to read it.

"But, Mistress Merton," said Mr. Penrose, "are you sure that you are the best judge? Am not I, your pastor, best fitted to direct your reading? And if I tell you that any book is unfit for you, are you to sit in judgment on what I say?"

"Why not?" I answered, hotly enough. "Since you yourself, as it seems, presume to sit in judgment on your Bishop?"

He was silent a moment, and did seem somewhat taken aback. Then he said, "You are something sharp. What is the Bishop to you, that you defend him so earnestly?"

"He has been a good friend to me and mine," I answered; "and he is a good man, and a good preacher. He preached the best sermon in our parish church that ever I heard in all my life."

I saw he was touched at this, and I was wicked enough to be glad I had given him a pinch, though no such thing was in my thought when I spoke.

"Then," said he, "I am to conclude that my preaching does not please you?"

"I don't sit in judgment on it," I said, demurely. Then willing to turn the conversation, I said, looking up to the great window which is still almost entire: "What a splendid pile this must have been in its day!"

"Ah, yes!" he answered. "There was piety and zeal in England in those days."

"And is there none now?" I asked.

"Nay!" said he. "Where do we hear now of bodies of men and women retiring to devote themselves to God and His service, as in those days? Now every priest must have his house and his wife and children. The service of His Maker is not enough for him."

"You can hardly expect me to quarrel with that, since I am a priest's daughter," said I, laughing. "And does not St. Paul himself say both of bishops and deacons that they should be the husband of one wife? Besides," I added, more soberly, "I see no need of people retiring into convents and abbeys to serve God. Why should we not serve him in the daily work He has given us to do?"

"'Tis a good thought, at least," he said, and so we parted good friends at last.

_April 20._

Well, Easter is passed and gone. I know not whether I spent it well or ill. I did not go to the service in the chapel, but, with my Lady's permission, walked down to the church in the village. The old rector preached on the Resurrection—a mild and gentle sermon enough, not very deep or brilliant, as are Mr. Carey's, nor so solemn and awful as those of Mr. Penrose, but somehow I felt it comforting and soothing; and though I shed many tears, they were not all sad. I went to the Sacrament with fear and trembling, but the words, "Come unto me!"—and the others did seem a voice bidding me draw near—so I went. There were a good many communicants, and all were serious and devout. I specially noticed a large and majestic old man, supported by his son, as I suppose, who approached the table. He stumbled a little at the step, whereat Mr. Corbet, whom I had not seen before, came forward and took his other arm.

After the service, as I waited a little in the church-yard to speak to Mistress Parnell, this same old man came out of the church door, leaning on Mr. Corbet's arm.

"And so, Master Watty, your lady mother is coming among us again?" I heard the old man say. "I hope I shall be able to pay my duty to her, but the path grows steep to my old feet nowadays."

Mr. Corbet made him some pleasant answer, and then fell into conversation with the son—a man of about his own age.

Meantime, Doctor and Mistress Parnell came along and spoke to me.

"Did you not have service in the chapel at the Court to-day?" asked the Doctor, after he had saluted me politely. "I understood it was to be so?"

I told him that it was so, but that my Lady had given me leave to walk down to the village. "The parish church seems to me so much more pleasant and homelike than the chapel!" I ventured to add. "It does not seem like the church, where there are no poor people, and no school children."

The train of school-girls passed us at this moment, with their mistress walking behind them, and leaning on the arm of the oldest girl. She was quite elderly, and looked feeble, but had one of the finest and sweetest faces I ever saw.

"You must find time to visit our school and almshouses, and that will make you feel still more at home!" said Doctor Parnell, kindly. "We have plenty of poor people here, as everywhere else. There is a poor woman down at the Cove, who was brought to bed last night, and is but poorly off for clothes. If you will mention the case to my Lady, perhaps she can do something for them."

"I will," said I: and just at that moment a plan popped into my mind, which I hope to bring to good effect.

Mistress Parnell would have had me stop at the Rectory and take some refreshment, but I excused myself, knowing that Betty would count the hours and minutes till my return, and hastened toward home by the shortest path. I stopped a moment at the entrance of the glen walk, to gather some wild flowers for my child, when Mr. Corbet overtook me and walked the rest of the way by my side. He asked after Betty, and sent her a kindly message, and told me his mother was coming to Exeter in the Bishop's company to-morrow, and that he should meet her there, and bring her home.

"That will be pleasant to you," I said.

"I want you to know my mother," said Mr. Corbet. "She is one of a thousand. Nobody ever knew her without being the better for it."

"I think nobody can be like one's mother!" I said, and then I stopped and choked, and had much ado not to burst out crying, as I thought of my own dear mother, and how last Easter we were all together—father, and Dick, and all!

Mr. Corbet took no notice of my emotion, and presently began talking of other things. He asked me if I had noticed that tall old man in church? I said I had, and asked who he was.

"That is old Uncle Jan Lee!" replied Mr. Corbet, smiling. "Uncle to half the village and all the Cove. He sailed with my father around the world, in Franky Drake's expedition, and can tell you tales by the hour about those times. He and his nephew, Will Atkins, have been my sworn friends ever since I could run alone, and I owe them far more than my own life. I will tell you the story some day—though perhaps I had better not," he added, with his sudden smile, which lights up his grave face at times like a flash of sunshine. "It would not be wise in me to do so, for the tale does not tell very well for me, and I should be loth to lose your good opinion, Mistress Merton."

I don't see what my good opinion has to do with him. I am only a poor parson's daughter, and a governess, to make the very best of my position. However, we had a very pleasant walk, and I must say I have felt better and happier since than I have done for a long time. I suppose the long walk in the fresh air may have something to do with the matter, for I do miss the exercise I was used to take at home.

I went up to my child, and was glad to hear Mary say that she had been very good. But the tears came to the poor thing's eyes as she kissed me.

"I wish I could go to church!" said she. "I do get so tired of this room all the time!"

It is no wonder, poor dear! I mean she shall have a change of scene, now that there are no strangers in the house to stare at her.

When I sat down to dinner with the rest, I thought Mr. Penrose looked mighty stiff and dissatisfied, and I wondered what the matter was. Presently, however, it all came out:

"I did not see you in chapel, Mistress Merton!" said he to me, when the dinner was fairly in progress. "Why was that?"

I felt in very good spirits, and not, I am afraid, in any mood to be catechised; so I answered merrily enough: "I am not sure, Mr. Penrose, but I think it must have been because I was not there." And then seeing that he looked a little displeased, I added that I had been to church at the village.

"Yes, I saw you walking home!"

"Oh, you did!" thought I. "Then why need you ask me anything about the matter?"

"I hope you enjoyed the services!" he said, in a tone which contradicted his words.

"I did," I answered. "It seemed like being at home again."

"I had hoped, however, to see all the family present at the chapel," said Mr. Penrose; "and said so to my Lady. I presume, however, you had her permission for absenting yourself?"

"I should not be very likely to go without it!" I replied with some heat, for I was vexed at his tone and manner. "If you doubt my word, you had better ask my Lady herself."

By ill-luck occurred at this moment one of those unaccountable silences which will fall at such times, and my words were heard the length of the table.

My Lady looked up, and said, smiling, while all eyes were turned on us:

"What is that which is to be referred to me, Mistress Merton?"

I don't know whether I felt more like sinking into the earth, or boxing his ears who had brought me into this scrape: however, I answered, smiling in my turn, though my cheeks were as hot as fire:

"Mr. Penrose seems to think I have been playing truant, my Lady, in going to the village church this morning. But I tell him that you gave me leave to do so."

"I did so, certainly!" answered my Lady. "I thought you would feel yourself more at home, being a clergyman's daughter, and used to a parish church. I trust you had a pleasant time!"

"I did indeed, my Lady," said I. "I enjoyed it very much."

"Especially the walk home," said Mr. Penrose, in an undertone, intended only for my ear.

I was so vexed I would not speak to him again all dinnertime. I am afraid, after all, that I am not much the better for my church-going—but Mr. Penrose was certainly very provoking.

After dinner, I gave my Lady, Doctor Parnell's message, and then opened my plan to her, which was to set Lady Betty to work on some clothes for the poor babes. I told her I thought it would make an interest for Lady Betty outside of herself—that it would divert her, and be good for her in many ways. She seemed much pleased, I thought, and gave me leave to do as I saw fit, only cautioning me against letting the child overtire herself, as she is apt to do with any new fancy.

"You look brighter and better than you have done lately!" observed my Lady. "I have feared that you were finding your work too hard for you."

"It is not hard at all, but too easy, if anything!" I answered. "Lady Betty makes me no trouble. I only wish I could do more for her."

And then I told my Lady what I had thought of—that Lady Betty would be better for a change, and for more exercise, and I asked her if I might not have her chair carried into the long gallery on the other side of the house, and encourage Lady Betty to walk there a little.

She seemed pleased at first; then, to my surprise, hesitated, and said she would speak to my Lord. I did not see why he should object, but afterward, talking with Mrs. Judith, when Betty was asleep, the murder came out. My Lord is ashamed of his poor little humpbacked girl, and does not like to have people see her, forsooth! It is a fine thing to be a man and a nobleman, to be sure. If one is to look up to them so much, 'tis a pity that they are not a little higher, so that one need not have to go down on one's knees in the dirt!

_Easter Monday._

My Lord has given his gracious consent, and so this morning Mary and I pushed Lady Betty in her chair across into the long gallery, and placed her at a sunny window. It was touching to see her delight. The gallery is a fine one, with a noble vaulted ceiling, and is hung with many family pieces, besides old armor and weapons.

After Betty had rested a while, I proposed that she should try to walk as far as the next window.

"But it hurts me to walk!" she said.

"I dare say it does, my love!" said I. "But I want to see whether you cannot, by degrees, get to walk without its hurting you. Just think, if you can once learn to use your limbs, how many nice things you could do."

"Well, I will try!" said she: "I will do anything for you, Margaret, because I love you so."

"You are my dear good little girl," said I, kissing her, while the thought passed through my mind, "Love makes easy service!"

Betty walked to the next window easily enough, and was so pleased with her progress that she would have gone still farther, but that I would not allow.

"No, you have done enough for once," said I. "If this does not hurt you, you shall walk into my pretty room, and I will show you the pictures of my little brother and sisters." For having a knack at drawing, I had sketched a little portrait of each of the children before leaving home, and the likeness was not contemptible. "See, here comes good Mrs. Carey. How surprised she will be!"

Mrs. Carey was surprised enough to satisfy all our expectations. She said she was sure Lady Betty needed some refreshment; and going back to her room, she brought us some gingerbread and dried pears, and, some milk. So we had quite a feast.

"I wish, Cousin Judith, you would tell us something about the picture," said Betty. The ladies all call Mrs. Carey, Cousin Judith. "Tell me who is that beautiful dame with the pearls in her black hair?"

"That is your great aunt, Lady Rosamond, who set up the almshouses," said Mrs. Carey.

"And who is that old lady in the close coif and black veil?" I asked. "She looks like a nun."

"And so she was a nun. That is Mrs. Margaret Vernon, my dears. She was a Lady Abbess of Hartland, and brought up your grandmother, my old Lady. So after King Henry put down the convents, she came and ended her days with great content at Stanton Court. Mistress Corbet says she can just remember her, a very aged lady."

"And who is that beautiful fair woman in black?" I asked. "I never saw a lovelier face, if she were not so pale. But she looks very sad."

"That is called the fair Dame of Stanton!" said Mrs. Judith; and then followed a long tale, too long to write here.

"Anne says my Cousin Corbet is the fair dame come back again!" said Betty. "And that it was she who made me crooked by her arts, but Mary says it is not true."

"Of course it is not true!" returned Mrs. Judith, indignantly. "I wonder at you, Lady Betty, for listening to such stuff about your dear cousin, who has always been so kind to you; and I will give Anne a good rating, that I will! There has been mischief enough done by such talk, before now. Everybody knows how your misfortune happened, my dear, and that was by being shrew-struck—beshrew the careless wench by whom it came about."

"How was that?" I asked. "And what do you mean by being shrew-struck?"

"Bless you, my dear, don't you know? It was Judith Hawtree did the mischief, not that she meant it, 'but evil is wrought by want of thought,' my dears. Old Mary left my Lady Betty in her charge, awhile; and what does Judith do, but lay the child down under the tree on the grass to sleep, while she gossipped with her sweetheart. There were always shrew-mice in the park, and one of them no doubt ran over my poor dear lady as she lay asleep on the ground, for there were the marks of its feet on her dress, and from that time the troubles begun."

"Perhaps it was not the shrew-mouse, after all," I ventured to say. "Perhaps Lady Betty took cold from lying on the damp ground. It seems more reasonable, than that a mouse should cripple a child by just running over its dress once."

"Ah, well! That may be your notion, Mrs. Merton. For my part, I don't pretend to be so much wiser than my father and mother before me," said the old lady, rather offended. "I don't profess to understand how a sting-nettle, that looks much like any other plant, should poison one's hand for hours, but I know it does. Anyhow the poor child pined from that day, but it is absurd and wicked too, to bring up that old story, which once nearly cost the dear lady her life."

And then she told me that Mrs. Corbet had once been taken for a witch, and assaulted by the village rabble, so that she would have lost her life, but for the valor of the old schoolmaster, Master Holliday, and Will Atkins, "for Master Walty, he was away on some wild goose chase or other. He was but a wild lad then, though he is sober enough now, with his Puritan notions and ways?"

"What Puritan ways?" I ventured to ask, but got no answer, for just then Lady Betty said she was tired, and we took her back to her room again.

If she seems no worse to-morrow, I shall try again. I do not despair of getting her out of doors.

_Wednesday._

Lady Betty was no worse for her journey, and yesterday we tried it again. I let her walk the length of two windows, and then she sat a long time looking out and watching the deer, which were feeding out in the open spaces of the wood, listening to the birds, and seeing the rooks, which are now busy with their nests. We were much amused to see them stealing twigs from each other.

While we were looking at them, Mr. Penrose came along, and stopped to talk, but he was, methought, awkward and restrained, and I did not give him much encouragement, for I felt vexed at him; so he soon went away.

At supper there arose, I know not how, a debate on the celibacy of the clergy. My Lord and Lady were for having them marry, and my Lord made some not very delicate jokes on the subject, I thought. Lady Jemima was vehemently against them, and, as her fashion is, grow very warm, and said some sharp things. Mr. Penrose appealed to me—small thanks to him for drawing the notice of the whole table upon me.

I said, what was true enough, that I had never thought about the matter, but presumed it could not be wrong, as St. Peter and St. James at least had wives, as did some other of the apostles: and St. Paul expressly said that a Bishop was to be the husband of one wife. But, I added, that it did not seem to me desirable that clergymen should think of marrying till they were settled and know what they were likely to have to live on.

Whereat my Lady smiled, and Mr. Penrose looked wondrously dashed. I am sure I can't guess why. I don't see why it should be anything to him.

_Friday, April 25._

Well, Betty has her dog at last, and a pretty, gentle little creature it is, just fit for her to play with. And I have something better brought by the same kind hand. Mr. Corbet himself brought the dog to Betty, as we were sitting in the gallery, whither we now go every morning when the sun shines.

And after she had become a little quieted with her ecstasy, he turned to me.

"I have a token for you also, Mistress Merton, if you will take it. My mother sends you this box, as an Easter gift."

I took it, of course, with due thanks.

"Nay, open it," said he: "the best part is within."

So I opened it, and there lay two letters—real goodly-sized letters—one in Dick's hand, the other I did not know. Mr. Corbet explained to me that his mother had brought the one from London, and the other had been sent in a packet of Mr. Carey's to his friend in Exeter. I could hardly believe my eyes, and I am afraid my thanks were clumsily expressed. However, Mr. Corbet appeared satisfied, and, saying he knew I wished to read them, he withdrew.

I had hardly time for more than a glance at them through the day, but I have feasted on them this night to my heart's content. One is from Dick, as I said; the other from my Aunt Willson, enclosing two gold pieces, and telling me that she had made the acquaintance of Mistress Corbet in London, who had kindly offered to carry a parcel for her: so she sent me a piece of fine lawn for kerchiefs and aprons, with some laces and other small matters. 'Tis a kindly letter, full of good counsel and sympathy, somewhat roughly expressed, as is Aunt Willson's fashion. She says, in conclusion: "Remember, child, to keep your place. Every man, woman and child is respectable in his own place, whatever that may be, for the time."

Felicia also sends a note, written in rather a mournful strain. I can see that she has found trouble already, and I dare say she and aunt have had more than one battle. She warns me against expecting happiness in this world, as that is the lot of but few—certainly never of the dependent and the poor. But I don't know that. I am both poor and dependent, and I am reasonably happy—or should be, only for some things which have naught to do with my condition in life. As for poor Felicia, I don't believe her condition makes so much difference with her. She always makes me think of a speech of one of the old almswomen at Saintswell, about her daughter-in-law.

The old woman had been saying somewhat about her daughter's fretting, when my mother remarked, "Ah, well, Goody, I would not disturb myself about the matter. You know poor Molly's way—if she had no trouble in the world, she would make it."

"Mek it!" cried the old dame, in her shrill voice. "Mek it, madam—she'd buy it!"

Dick's letter is like himself—grave beyond his years, full of kindness and of a certain kind of humor too. He tells me a great deal of news about home matters, as that mother is well and seems much more cheerful than she did in the Rectory, and that she has taken to working in the garden. The twins and Jacky are doing well in school, and Jacky is much less forward and pert. I can guess why. He says Mr. Carey is much liked already in the parish, and is especially kind to the poor women at the almshouses, though he had a great argument with Dame Higgins on the claims of the Romish church. My father would never argue with her. He used to say 'twas a case of "invincible ignorance," and there was no use in fretting the poor old body, who, I verily believe, never remembers that she is a papist unless somebody puts her in mind of it. However, this dispute did not end in a quarrel, so it does not matter.

Dick is getting on with his studies, and says his master is very kind in giving him time to read; so that he feels doubly bound to serve him faithfully. He says Master Smith's shop is a kind of rendezvous for all the learned men in Chester, and that the Bishop himself sometimes drops in to hear the news. He says, too, what I am very sorry to hear, that public affairs grow more and more disturbed, and that this attempt of the Archbishop's to revive the book of Sunday sports, put forth by King James, will cause great divisions among the clergy.

Dick's letter closes with a gentle admonition to remember Goody Crump's motto: "'Tis all in the day's work."

Ah, but then, if one cannot do one's day's work—if the more one tries, the more hopeless it seems—what then?

_April 27._

Lady Jemima is going up to London to visit her cousin, who is to be married soon. She leaves next week. I should like to send a letter by her to Aunt Willson, but I don't like to take the liberty of asking her.

My Lady again gave me leave to walk to the village to church, saying that she would herself remain with Lady Betty. She is wondrously kind to me, and seems altogether satisfied with the way that I manage the child. Well, I was very glad to go, and enjoyed my walk, as usual, pleasing myself with the thought that I should hear good Doctor Parnell. When, lo and behold, I found, as I entered the church, that the Doctor was gone away, and Mr. Penrose was to preach. I could not help feeling vexed and disappointed. His sermon was on the text about the strait gate and narrow way, and he drew a wonderful picture of the difficulties of the way and the gate, assuring us that even a life-long devotion, and that of the most austere, would hardly be enough to win an entrance.

Dick used to say that his religion made him happy, but I can't see how any one is to be happy, according to Mr. Penrose—working so hard, with all our failings noted and set down against us, and, hanging over all, the fear of final failure and its dreadful consequences. Yet, if it is true, of course one ought to know it. I must say it makes me very wretched, and I don't know what to do. My temper is so warm and my feelings so quick, that I am always saying and doing what I wish unsaid and undone; and sometimes, the more I try, the worse it seems to be with me. The very effort makes me feel fretful and impatient.

I don't believe Mr. Corbet agrees with Mr. Penrose in his notions. I saw him several times glance at his mother, and slightly shake his head. Mrs. Corbet is a beautiful old lady—I think the most beautiful I ever saw. She must be past sixty a good deal, yet her eyes are bright and clear, and her hair unchanged. To be sure, it is so nearly silver in its natural color that a few gray threads would not show. She seems quite feeble, and, indeed, Mrs. Judith told me she had never been really well since the time of the riot, when she was struck down by a stone and otherwise maltreated. She spoke to me kindly, and said she would send me the parcel she had brought from my aunt, or perhaps bring it to me, as she meant to come to the Great House before long.

Mr. Penrose came up with me as I was hurrying home, and asked me why I walked so fast? I told him I was in haste to return to Lady Betty.

"The child seems to love you very much," said he.

"And I love her," I returned. "Nobody could help it."

"Yet you must find your life somewhat irksome," he went on to say.

"Not at all!" I answered. "Why should I? 'Love makes easy service,' and besides she really gives me very little trouble, considering all her misfortunes. I knew what I was undertaking when I came, and it has not been so hard as I expected. Every one is kind to me, my Lady especially, and as for the rest, why it does not signify. ''Tis all in the day's work.'"

"My lady is kind to every one, I think," said Mr. Penrose, to which I agreed. "'Tis a pity she has been so unfortunate with her children. If the next child should prove a girl, or should not live, Mr. Corbet will come to be lord of all."

"So I suppose," said I, "but we will hope for better things."

"Then you would not wish it?" he said, looking at me.

"Wish what?" I asked.

"That Mr. Corbet should be lord of all!"

"Of course not!" I answered. "Why should I? Mr. Corbet is well enough off; beside that he is nothing to me, and my Lord and Lady have been my very good friends. I don't understand you at all—and it seems to me that you do not understand yourself, very well!"

"I beg your pardon, Mrs. Merton, if I have offended you," was all his answer. Then, after a pause, "I suppose you were very much disappointed at seeing me in Doctor Parnell's pulpit?"

What could I say? I was disappointed, but I would not tell him so. I said I was surprised, as I did not know that the Doctor was away.

So then we walked the rest of the way in silence. It seems we never can meet peaceably. I wanted to talk to him about his sermon, but of course I could not, after that. I do think he is very odd.

_Monday, 28._

Lady Jemima has herself offered to carry a letter to my aunt, so I have written one to her, and one to Felicia—the latter as kind as I could make it. I am certainly glad that she has gone away, but yet I can see, now that we are separated, that I was often to blame in our quarrels.

After I had finished my letters, I went to carry them to Lady Jemima's room, where I had never been before. It is very bare and plain—more so than mine—and looks, I fancy, like a nun's cell. She has several religious pictures, and many books of devotion, but none other, that I saw. Her bed looked hard, and as if it had very little covering upon it, and there was not even a rug by the bedside. Lady Jemima was looking over a great basket of work, not tapestry work, or any such thing, but coarse garments of various kinds. She made me welcome, and bade me sit down.

"What are you busy about with your needle?" said she.

I told her (what I forgot to mention in the right place) that I was making some clothes for the twins of the poor fisherman's widow down at the Cove, and that Lady Betty was helping me about them—adding that I was at work on a christening frock, for which my Lady had given me the material. She seemed pleased, but when I added that I liked the work because it made me think of home, she said, decidedly:

"That is not a proper motive, child! You should do it because it is right, and because our Lord has commanded it—not because it gives you pleasure!"

"But suppose it gives me pleasure to do what is right, my Lady?" said I. "Am I therefore to leave it off?"

"That is a quibble!" said she, though I am sure I did not mean it so. "One must be arrived at a great degree of saintship to take pleasure in doing right because it is right. And if we only delight in it because of some pleasant remembrance, or pride in our own skill, there is no merit in it, whatever."

Now I had never once thought of any merit in connection with my work for Mary Hawtree's twins. I know the babes needed the garments, and I thought, beside, that it would make a good healthy interest for poor Betty. However, the more I say, the less Lady Jemima understands me, so I held my peace.

"I had hoped to leave you this work of mine to finish," continued Lady Jemima, "but you seem to have your hands full already. Do you think you could find time?"

"I fear not, my Lady," I answered, after a little consideration. "You see the most of my time must be given, to Lady Betty, either in teaching or amusing her."

"Of course, but have you no time given you for recreation or devotion?" I told her that I had an hour in the morning and another in the evening, beside what I could gain by rising early.

"And cannot you devote some of this time to the service of the poor? How can you hope for heaven, if you cannot make such a little sacrifice as this—or what would you do if you were called upon to give up everything for His sake?"

Well, it ended with my promising to see what I could do, and taking the great basket to my room, where it stands now, and as I look at it, seems to reproach me for wasting so much time over my journal.

_May 1._

We have done great things to-day. Lady Betty has really been out of doors.

The way of it was this. My Lord and Lady, Mr. Penrose, and about all the household except Lady Betty and myself, had gone down to the village to see the May games on the Green. Mary would have had me go and let her stay, and Anne afterwards made the same offer, but I would not hear of it. I knew that Mary and her sweetheart would both be disappointed. And I don't like to leave Anne with Lady Betty; she is such a gossip, and fills the child's head with all sorts of unwholesome stuff. So I stayed at home, right willingly, for I don't feel in spirits for any such follies.

Lady Betty was sitting at the window in the long gallery, and I by her, both of us feeling rather silent and doleful, when the door opened and the little dog jumped from Lady Betty's lap and ran barking and frisking to meet Mr. Corbet.

"Why, Cousin Walter!" said Betty. "I thought you would be at the May games?"

"And I thought I would come to see my little lady!" he returned, kissing her. "Mistress Merton, the air is very warm, and the sun is like June. Could we not, think you, carry Lady Betty down to the garden and let her see a little what the world is like on a May-day?"

It was just what I had been wishing to do, but I hesitated, because my Lady was away. However, I could not withstand my child's pleading, so I wrapped her in a shawl and hood of my own, and took down some cushions and cloaks, while Mr. Corbet brought Betty in his strong arms, and set her on the garden seat. I never saw any poor child so delighted as she was. She had not been out of doors in so long that 'twas like fairy land to her.

After sitting in the garden a while, Mr. Corbet proposed to carry her in the woods, and that was still more wonderful. We found a safe seat on the dry grassy root of an old tree, and I sat down by her, while the little dog ran hither and hither, as well-pleased as his mistress. Mr. Corbet exerted himself to entertain Betty, telling her stories, bringing her flowers, and pointing out various things to her notice. I dared not leave her stay too long this first time. And though she was unwilling at first to go in, she gave up very pleasantly at the last.

"Why, that's my brave, good little maid!" said Mr. Corbet, as she consented to go in. "You have worked wonders, Mrs. Merton. I was afraid of a scene."

"I don't cry any more, now!" said Betty. "I am trying to be good, like my mother and Margaret."

When I reported the matter to Lady Stanton, I thought she looked rather grave upon it. So I hastened to say, that I did not think Lady Betty had taken cold, and I was sorry if I had done wrong, but that the child had been so overjoyed at her cousin's offer, that I could not bear to disappoint her.

"You have done no wrong, sweetheart!" said my Lady. "And I dare say nobody will be the worse, but we must not trouble Mr. Corbet. The next time, we will have John Footman carry her down."

_May 9._

Lady Jemima is really gone, and Mr. Penrose with her. They travel in company with some friends from Exeter. She left on the fifth of the month, and is to be away four weeks, she says, at the very most. I am rather sorry I gave her the letter for Felicia. I somehow feel as if trouble would grow out of it. I don't know why, only that Felicia has been my great cause of trouble hitherto, and I doubt if she will be able to let slip a chance of saying something to my disadvantage. Aunt Willson will speak for me, that is one thing.

Betty has been out every pleasant day, and I think the fresh air, the change, and exercise, really do her good. She has gained strength, appetite, and a little color, and Mary says she sleeps more quietly at night. She gets on finely with her reading, and wants to begin writing, but I put her off as yet. My Lady demurred a little at this, because Lady Betty is so very backward for a child of her age. But I told her I was sure it was best not to overcrowd her, but to better her health, if possible, first of all. And to this, she agreed.

Betty herself is growing ambitious, and I now have to check her instead of urging her on, as at first. She is very much pleased at being godmother (by proxy, of course) to one of the twins for whom we have been working, and I have promised that the babes shall come up to see her when the mother is able to bring them. I have sometimes debated in my own mind, whether she ought not to be told of what is coming, but on the whole I do not think it best.

Mrs. Corbet has been up at the Court, and made us quite a visit in the nursery. How any one could for one moment impute evil to her, I cannot guess. I should think the very sight of her face would be enough to banish suspicion, if one had entertained it. There is somewhat in her very presence so restful—I know not how else to express my meaning. I think if I were ill, or in trouble, I should feel it a comfort only to have her in the room, if she did not say a word. She looked with a real interest at Lady Betty's sewing, commended its neatness, and said she was glad to see her busy about such work.

"It was all Margaret's doing," said Lady Betty, frankly. (She will always call me Margaret, even before strangers, and I have begged my Lady to let her have her own way.) "I should never have thought of it only for Margaret. And oh, cousin, it is so nice! So much nicer to be thinking about my little god-daughter, and what I can do for her, than to think only of what I want myself."

"Dear heart!" said Mrs. Corbet. "It is always much pleasanter and happier, even for oneself, to think of the wants and pleasures of others, than to dwell forever on one's own. That would be the worst punishment that could befall any one in this world or the next. Do you not think so, Mistress Margaret?"

"I do, indeed!" said I. "And yet—" and here I stopped, fearing lest I should be thought forward.

"And yet—" she repeated, with that sweet, sudden smile of hers.

"And yet we are told to think about ourselves in some things!" I went on to say. "Mr. Penrose says we are to watch ourselves constantly, lest we fall into sin, and we must think about ourselves, to do that—or, so it seems to me. You heard him last Sunday, madam?"

"I did," replied Mrs. Corbet.

"Well," I said, marvelling at my own boldness, but something seemed to draw me on—"if life is what he said—just one constant struggle with the power of evil within and without—if we are in every way to keep under and bring into subjection our bodies by fasting and penance, and our souls by mourning and mortification, with but a doubtful hope of succeeding after all—what can we do but think about ourselves?"

"Dear heart!" said Mrs. Corbet, again. (She uses these Devonshire phrases so sweetly and tenderly.) "Dear heart, do not you go to making bricks in Egypt with Mr. Penrose—albeit I think him an earnest, painstaking young man, and I believe he will yet work himself right. But, my child, remember who it was that bade us take no thought for the morrow, and commit thy soul to His keeping. Believe me, when I tell thee, that one good earnest look at thy Lord, will do more to keep thee in the right way than gazing on thyself forever."

How I did want to go on with the conversation! But at that moment my Lady came in, and carried away her cousin to see something in her own room—baby things, I suppose.

I know how to work satin stitch wondrous nicely, and I have a great desire to work something pretty for my Lady, but here is this great basket of Lady Jemima's staring me in the face all the time. I wish I had refused to have anything to do with it at first. And yet, according to her, there would be no merit in doing the robe for my Lady, because it would be a pleasure from beginning to end. I am sure it is no pleasure to work on these garments. They are so coarse that I think it will be no mean penance to wear them, and I must say, marvellous ill-contrived. I have neglected my journal and my recreation to work at them, but I am sure I am no better for the sacrifice, as yet. I wish I could talk the matter over with Mrs. Corbet. I feel as if she might shed some light on my difficulties.

Mrs. Corbet brought me my parcel from Aunt Willson. The lawn she sent—a whole piece—is beautifully fine and sheen, and would be just the thing for my embroidery. There are besides some dressing things, cords and laces, pins, needles, bodkins, and a nice housewife, stored with abundance of thread of different kinds, and a new book for my journal, with some other papers. I wonder, by the by, how Aunt Willson knew I kept a journal? I suppose Felicia must have told her.

Felicia herself sends me a kerchief and apron, of fine stuff, indeed, and well made, but "green," just the color she knows I never can wear, even if I were not in mourning.

_May 12._

Mrs. Judith says Mr. Corbet is going southward on a journey, and is expecting to be gone some time. His mother, methinks, will be lonely without him. Of course I shall not see him before he goes, unless he comes to say good-by to Betty. I have not told her that he is going.

I don't know how it is, but I do not feel like myself for a few days past. I feel fretful, and the least thing troubles me, and I do not sleep well, for the first time in my life. My head aches and feels heavy, so that I find it hard to exert myself to amuse Lady Betty, and I am glad that she has her dog to play with. I think I miss my afternoon walks, which I have given up to sew on the work which Lady Jemima left me.

_May 13._

Mr. Corbet did come to bid Betty good-by, after all. More than that, he told me that he meant to go and see Mr. Carey, and most kindly offered to take charge of a packet for me; so I have written two long letters to mother and Dick. How pleasant it seems to think that he will see them all, and can tell me how dear mother is looking.

_May 16._

I have finished all the work that Lady Jemima left me, and oh, how glad I am that it is done! I am afraid it has done me no good, however, because I have disliked it so much. And more than that, I am afraid that the poor women at the almshouses, for whom it is intended, will not be so very much the better either, for the garments are not well-fashioned, and though I did my best to reform their shapes, I did not succeed very well. I asked my Lady if I might go and carry the basket to the almshouses.

"What is it?" she asked.

I told her about it.

"And when have you found time to do so much?" she asked, looking not very well-pleased.

I hastened to tell her that I had sewed during my hours of recreation, instead of going out to walk, but she was no better satisfied than before.

"I thought you were not looking well," said she. "Lady Jemima should have had more consideration than to lay such a task upon you. Henceforth, Margaret, remember that I wish you to walk every day when the weather is pleasant. You will fulfil no duty to anybody by making yourself sick."

"I did miss my walks very much, my Lady," I said, "but my Lady Jemima wished the work finished, and she said I ought to deny myself daily."