Chapter III: Book I: December 10, 1684 (3)

It was not till afternoon, however, that I got a chance to open it. It contained a ribbon of plaid silk and a letter from Mr. Morley. Such a loving, kind letter! I have worn it next my heart all day; and, having it there, I could afford to smile at all Ursula's hints and taunts about wearing the willow and so on. I would rather wear the willow than be fed on thistles by such an old donkey as Mr. Jackson. He called here with Ursula, and it was sickening to see his spruce, lover-like airs. I wonder she can endure him. Such a contrast to poor Mr. Andrews, who was a man any one might love and honor!

_June 8._

We all went to Ursula's wedding yesterday. Even my lady would go; and she gave Ursula a present of a lace whisk which I believe used to be poor Lady Jem's, at least I saw her in the morning searching in the great chest of drawers where she keeps all those things. She never uses any of them herself, and I wish she would give them to me, but there is no danger of that. I saw Ursula showing the whisk to Mr. Jackson, with some slighting remark, to which he answered rather sharply,—

"Don't you know better than that, Ursula? It is old Flanders lace, worth its weight in diamonds, almost. You could easily sell it for twenty guineas to-morrow."

After which, she treated it with more respect.

There were many guests at the wedding, and they were all pretty merry, though there was no dancing nor cards. But I don't see, for my part, why blindman's buff and the like are any better than a good country dance. I am sure there is a deal more romping about them. The couple were married at St. Margaret's, where Mr. Jackson hath a fine pew all lined with damask. I suppose Ursula will go to church with him, of course, but I don't think she will mind. I believe Bab Andrews would cut her hand off before she would wed any one who should take her away from Mr. Pendergast's congregation. And I must say I think she is right. I do always say, if one's religion means any thing, it means every thing.

Mr. and Mrs. Jackson went to their own house from her father's. It is a very good house, with a court, where grow two or three trees and a large laylock, now loaded with flowers. Methought the ancient serving-man and his wife, who have kept house for Mr. Jackson so long, did look but sourly on the bride, and gave her a cool welcome, but the house was in apple-pie order, and the cake and spiced wine of the best quality. My mistress grew weary, and came away before all the ceremony was done; and I was not sorry.

"Well, all is over, and my niece well settled in life," said my lady, yawning, as we helped her to undress. "I hope she was pleased with the present I gave her."

"She had a right to be," said I maliciously, I believe. "Mr. Jackson told her it could be sold to-morrow for twenty guineas. He said it was old Flanders lace, worth its weight in diamonds."

My lady turned fairly green with vexation.

"Are you sure?" said she. "Twenty guineas! If I had known that! But I am the most unlucky woman in the world. Every one robs me. Twenty guineas!"

"Well, your ladyship need not grudge it, since it went to your own niece," observed Mrs. Williams. "I could have told you as much, for I have often seen such lace when I was abroad with my former mistress, but I thought you selected it on purpose to do honor to the bride."

My lady made a grimace, but she is mighty civil to Mrs. Williams nowadays. This morning she has been rummaging the great chest of drawers, and has got out a pile of lace for me to look over and mend for her. I don't mind. I love to work on lace, and, thanks to Mrs. Price, I know all the stitches. But somehow, as I turned over the beautiful frail fabrics, my heart has been full of sorrow for the poor pretty lady who used to wear them, and whom they have outlasted.

Bab Andrews came in this afternoon, and brought my lady a fine cream cheese, part of a hamper she had from her sister in the country. And my lady graciously asked her to stay and make a visit.

Bab is even more skilful than myself at lace-work. And as we looked over the things, and laid them out on a piece of old colored silk to show the patterns, I told her some of the thoughts that were running in my mind.

"Doesn't it seem strange," said I, "that these spider-webs should have outlasted the one who used to take delight in them? They are as good as ever; but what is left of her, save her monument in the church, and the picture of her down-stairs in the withdrawing-room?"

"You talk like a Sadducee, Dolly," said Bab. "Don't you know poor Lady Jemima is just as much alive as ever she was, only not here?"

"I suppose she is, and yet it does not seem so," I answered. "When a person is dead, it seems as though that was the end. Does it not to you?"

"'No, indeed!'" she answered, with emphasis. "My dear mother and—another friend—are as much alive to me as ever they were, only I can't see them," she added sadly. "O Dolly, my heart grows so 'hungry' at times! It seems as if I could not wait. But I shall be satisfied sometime."

"And till then?"

"Till then I must even work and wait," she answered, with her bright smile; "and the consolations of God are not small with me, either, Dolly."

"If 'you' can say that, I ought to be able to," said I. (For really, in some ways, Bab is worse off than I. Her lover was executed for complicity in the Rye House Plot, though he died protesting his innocence of aught but old friendship with some of the conspirators. Her father is old and feeble. Her mother is dead. And her aunt, who rules the house, has the temper of a wild bull, and the malice of—I won't say what. Mrs. Pendergast says Bab has the patience of a saint with her.) "But somehow those things seem to do me no good. I read the Bible to my lady every day, but I don't seem to gain any thing from it but weariness."

"That is because you don't take it in the right spirit, as I tell you," said Bab.

"But, Bab, I don't see that Christians are so very much better off, after all," said I. "Look at the Pendergasts; and Mr. Baxter, poor man! ill and in prison; and you yourself, how many griefs you have had; and Mr. Fairchild. He was a good man, and yet God did not interfere to save him from a violent and unjust death."

"There again you talk like a Sadducee," said Bab. "Your words might be true if this world were all, instead of the very least part of our life. God has never promised his faithful ones any exemption from trouble in this world. On the contrary, he hath said, 'In the world ye shall have tribulation,' 'Whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth.' Mr. Fairchild's imprisonment and death were not long, after all, and they opened to him the gate of eternal life. And when we look back to the most sorrowful life, after our sorrow is all done and past forever, from the distance of a million years of blessedness, it will not seem long to us."

"I am glad you take comfort in such thoughts," said I.

"I could not live if I did not," said she; and then, her heart being opened, she went on to tell me a great deal about her lover,—how good he was, and what comfort he had, even in his prison, and how bravely he met his death. Bab is not one to talk of her own feelings often, and I valued her confidence all the more.

"But there, I am making you cry, and I did not mean to do that," she said presently. "I don't often talk of myself, but there is something in you that draws one out. I always did like you, Dolly."

"I am sure I am glad," said I, and then added incautiously, "I was told you did not."

Bab glanced sharply at me, "Ursula?"

I nodded.

"You should know her well enough by this time not to care for what she tells you," said Bab. And then, breaking out with all her natural fire and vehemence, "If there is any thing I detest and despise on this earth, it is a born meddler and mischief-maker,—a make-bate who repeats things from one friend to another to make trouble and discord. Such a person is the meanest reptile that crawls."

"If they would content themselves with repeating, but I think they never do," said I.

"Never. The tattler is always a liar."

"But, Bab, you should not hate or despise any one," said I demurely: "doesn't the Bible say we should pray for those?"

"Yes, I know, and I am wrong," said Bab; "and, Dolly, I do pray for her. But you don't know the wrong she has tried to do me. There, I won't talk of it, or think of it, either, if I can help it. Did you say my Lady Jemima's picture was down-stairs? Can I see it?"

I took her down to the withdrawing-room; and we looked long at the beautiful face, drawn with Lely's best art.

"How lovely she is!" said Bab at last. "She looks as if made for something better than the life they say she led. What sort of man was Sir Charles?"

"He was very kind to me," I answered, "but they say he was a great gamester, and not very good otherwise. But he was kind to me. I wonder what in the world made him marry my lady."

"Her money, I suppose," answered Bab. "But it was tied up so he never had much of it, or so I have heard. I wonder whether my lady will ever marry again."

"Bab, the idea!" I exclaimed.

"And pray what is there so very absurd in that, Mrs. Dolly?" said a sharp voice behind us. I turned in a hurry, and saw my mistress, who had come in like a cat, as she always does, only she never purrs. "Am I such a dragon in your eyes that you think all the men must be afraid of me?"

I told her what was true, though I fear not the whole truth,—that I had always heard her regret her last marriage, and say what a foolish step it was, and how much better off she would have been to live single.

"One might have better luck another time," said she, as if really considering the matter. "However, you need not get your bridesmaid's dress ready yet. What about your work?"

I told her it was all done. And she bade me put on my hood, and go tell Mr. Jackson she wanted to see him. I ventured to demur a little, and say I would go with Bab after supper. Whereupon, she took me up sharply for wanting to be in the street at that hour. I believe it was a plan to keep Bab from staying to supper.

Mr. Jackson was all smiles and spruceness, as became a bridegroom, and made some speeches I would have liked to box his ears for. I believe he did buy the laces, for they have all disappeared; and my lady is in high good humor, so that she even gave me half a crown.

_June 13._

Great news is come from the west,—no less than that the Duke of Monmouth has landed at Lyme, and has put forth a proclamation declaring his right to the crown, and accusing his uncle the king of unheard of crimes; of poisoning his brother, of strangling poor Sir Edmondsbury Godfrey, about whom there was such a coil, and what not. Mr. Pendergast says it is not like a royal proclamation, but like a libellous street broadside; and so said Mr. Robertson, who came to talk over the news.

"Well, I can't but think there may be some truth in his claim, after all we heard about the black box; and, if so, I hope he will succeed," said my mistress.

"For Heaven's sake, don't say so, sister!" exclaimed Mr. Robertson. "Such words, if reported, might cost your life, and ours too."

My mistress looked scared.

"The duke's claim hath not the shadow of probability," continued Mr. Robertson. "I well remember seeing his mother, when I was abroad as a young man. She was not a creature that any one was like to marry. I know people wondered at the king for taking up with her, for her character was notorious."

"I am very sorry for this business," said the minister, "and the more so that I fear some of our friends in the west will be so ill-advised as to join with the duke, as others did with the Duke of Argyle. I do not so much wonder at that, since he was a sober and religious gentleman, though, as I think, sadly ill-advised. But I do not know what they can expect from one who leads the life of the Duke of Monmouth."

"I suppose such great people are not to be judged by common rules," began my lady.

But Mr. Pendergast turned on her sharply enough. "And why not, madam? Does the Holy Word contain one set of rules for the great, and another for common people? If so, I have never found it out. The idea is far too common, but I did not expect to hear it from a member of my congregation."

Then Mr. Robertson took her up,—

"And whatever you do, sister Corbet, don't let any one hear you say one word in favor of this unhappy gentleman. The king is exasperated to the last degree, and Judge Jeffreys hath his ear entirely. I fear we shall see bloody work before all is done. But I do beg you to be careful, sister: I don't want to see you brought to prison and death in your old age."

"Dear me, what did I say?" asked my lady. "I only said 'if.'"

"And that was an 'if' too much," answered Mr. Robertson.

"And as to my old age, I am not so very aged as all that," whimpered my lady. "One would think I were as old as Dame Gaskell to hear you talk."

"You are old enough to know better than to talk treason," said Mr. Robertson very sharply. (It was a wonder, for he is usually very deferential to his sister-in-law.) "Why, if Mrs. Dolly here were to report your rash words, you might find yourself in Newgate to-morrow."

I was boiling over with rage at him, but I was spared the trouble of taking up the cudgels in mine own defence, as Mr. Pendergast did it for me.

"Mrs. Dolly is not going to do any such thing; she is no make-bate or tale-pyet that I will engage. I wonder at you, brother Robertson, for casting such a slur on a young lady as to insinuate that she is to turn informer!"

I don't know what there is about that little man which gives him such weight. He is small and meagre, and as poor as the young ravens, as Jane Gaskell says; and yet, when he does take up arms, all goes down before him. Mr. Robertson looked ashamed of himself.

"You misapprehend me, you quite misapprehend me, brother Pendergast," said he. "I meant no insinuation as to Mrs. Dolly, who is, I am sure, an excellent young lady, but you know young maids will tattle and talk at times incautiously. I am sure I crave her pardon, if I have hurt her.—You will forgive me, won't you, Mrs. Dorothy?"

The poor man looked really unhappy. I do think he is a kind soul; and, with the specimen he has at home, one need not wonder. So what could I say but that it was no matter!

_June 18._

I have seen Mr. Morley. He was in town only one day and a part of another, but he gave us a call, and (I am almost ashamed to write it) I did meet him in the park for a few minutes in the morning. I know it was wrong to break my promise to Mrs. Williams, but it is the last time. He goes to the west to-day, where the rebels are still holding their own, and even making head.

Mr. Morley asked me what I heard among the Presbyterians about the Duke of Monmouth. I told him that all I had heard speak of the matter considered his claims utterly unfounded, and his attempt both ill-advised and wrong.

"They would be ready enough to join him if he made his way to London—the sneaking traitors!" said Mr. Morley. "And how about your mistress? She hath an eye for a fine young man, and the duke and Sir Charles Corbet used to be very great together in former days."

My cheeks tingle with shame at the thought, but I came very near telling him what my mistress had said. Something, not my own sense I am sure, stopped me just in time. It was as if a hand had been laid on my mouth.

"That would be no passport to my lady's favor," said I, laughing rather nervously. "She is always telling about poor Sir Charles's wastefulness, and how much better off she would have been had she not married him. And the stories of the Duke of Monmouth's extravagance would set her against him if nothing else did. I must go, Mr. Morley."

"I suppose your mistress is very rich," said he, detaining me.

"I suppose so," I answered. "I heard her say once that her income was more that twenty pounds a day. But she is not one to talk of her affairs. But I must go this minute."

Well, we parted, and he is gone. When I think over our interview, it does seem strange to me that he should ask me such questions. Does he think I would be a spy on these poor people? And yet, my heart was in my mouth when I think how near I came to betraying my poor mistress. I will never again boast of my power of keeping secrets.

I never thought to ask him about the Newcastle lady.

My mistress is wonderful good to me about these days. She hath given me small sums of money two or three times; and to-day she presented me with two dresses that were Lady Jemima's,—a gray cloth curiously wrought with silk embroidery, and a blue silk. Of course they are all out of fashion, but I can make them over. I am glad to have them, for I have worn my best gown till it is hardly decent for every day.

_June 25._

I have been so busy with my dressmaking that I have had no time to write, and not much to say. My gowns are done and look very pretty. My mistress continues her good-nature, and gives me more liberty to do what I please than ever before, but she does not like to have me go out.

Ursula Jackson hath been here with her odious husband. I fancy she does not find her married life all sunshine, or he either. His old servants left him, for one thing, after living with him twenty-five years, and he has not yet suited himself. Ursula told me that Mr. Morley had given her a visit, and seemed surprised when I told her he had been here also.

"But he need not come again, he need not come again," said Mr. Jackson, rubbing his hands. "We don't want any court falcons round our turtledove's nest, do we, lovey?"

Ursula smiled, but it was what Mrs. Williams calls an oxymel smile, sweet and sour at the same time. She has been trying to get Mary Mathews away from us, promising her an advance of wages, but Mary, who knows her well, says she would as soon live with the Prince of darkness.

I don't know how it is. I ought to be happy after seeing Mr. Morley, and hearing from his own lips how much he loves me. But I am not. My conscience pricks me for breaking my promise so solemnly given, and then there was a something in his manner, a kind of freedom. Something keeps telling me that he would not have spoken so to a woman he really respected. And then, his asking me those questions. But I am an ungrateful, fanciful girl, and there is the end on't.

_June 30._

Great public news,—the Duke of Monmouth was defeated, and his power wholly broken, at a place called Sedgemoor. Terrible tales are told of the brutality used toward the poor miners and ploughmen who had joined him. I am sure I hope Mr. Morley had nothing to do with these cruelties. The duke himself was taken hiding in a ditch, and has been brought to London. We saw him pass, Mrs. Williams and I, as we were buying some things for my lady. He looked thin and haggard, but not daunted. I am sorry for his poor wife, who they say loves him to distraction, though he cares for her not at all, and has not even asked to see her.

The murder is out. I mean the secret of my lady's kindness to me. I could tear her fine gifts to pieces if it were not for the remembrance of that morning in the park. She is really afraid I will betray her. She asked me last night to stay and read to her awhile after she was in bed, saying she found it hard to go to sleep, and that I might sleep later in the morning, if I liked, to make up; adding,—

"I dare say 'you' don't lie awake?"

"Not often, madam," said I; "not unless I have something on my mind."

"Chicks like you ought not to have any thing on their minds. There, read away."

"What shall I read, my lady?" I asked.

"Oh, what you like! There is Mr. Milton's new poem lying on the cabinet, take that. Mr. Pendergast thinks it is wonderful, but I don't know. Mr. Milton became an Independent, I remember. How many changes I have seen! And yet I have not lived so very long. There, go on."

So I began,—

"Of man's first disobedience, and the fruit
Of that forbidden tree whose mortal taste
Brought death into the world and all our woe."

Once having begun, I knew not where to stop. The sentences are long, and the sense, at times, involved, but the diction, the melody, is something wonderful. Well, I read a long time, but my lady did not go to sleep. At last she said,—

"There, that will do; it is late. Come here, child." She took my hand and looked with a curious wistfulness in my face. "You don't love me, Dolly, I know. I ought not to expect it, I suppose. I never did make people love me, only Mr. Robertson. And I haven't been very good to you, perhaps?"

She looked at me as if expecting an answer, and I resolved to be frank for once.

"No, my lady, I don't think you have," I answered. "You have given me shelter, it is true, and for that I am grateful—"

"And food and clothes," she interrupted me.

"And food and clothes," I assented, "but you have not given me what is worth even more to a young maid, and that is kindness. You seem as if you grudged the very food you gave, and I never am at ease with you. I never know when the simplest word or act of mine may bring down a storm of anger and abuse on my head. I would ask nothing more than to be able to love and respect you, but how can I?"

I thought I had done it now, but she only sighed.

"Well, well! Maybe you are right. My aunt Wilson told me once I was like some man she read of in a story-book: I never could have fair weather because I carried my own storm wherever I went. But, Dolly, you can be sorry for me. You would not want to be revenged. You would not wish to see your poor old mistress in Newgate or on the scaffold?"

It flashed on me then in a moment what it all meant. I tried to draw my hand away, but she held me fast.

"Do you judge me by yourself?" said I, too angry to measure my words. "Would you do as much by me?"

"But they might tempt you, they might offer you money," said she piteously. "Don't be angry, Dolly, but promise you won't betray me."

"And what would my promise be worth, if I were what you think me?" I asked. And then all at once came the remembrance of how near I had come to doing that very thing through sheer carelessness, and I felt that I was no such grand person after all. As the poor thing held my hand and gazed into my face, my heart softened toward her, poor, lonely, unloved and unloving old woman. I am at least better off than she, because I can love, and have some one to love me.

"My lady," said I, trying to speak calmly, for I saw how agitated she was, and I feared a fit. "Listen to me. I don't boast of what I would or would not do. Nobody knows that till the trial comes. But I will say this much. If I know myself, I would sooner cut off my right hand than say a word which would bring you into any trouble."

"Well, well, I believe you," said she, looking more satisfied. "You have plenty of faults, Dolly, and you are not very good-tempered, but I have never caught you in a lie, or even in a false excuse. And maybe I haven't been as kind to you as I ought to be. There, kiss me, child, and go to bed."

I kissed her, and she really did embrace me with some affection. I went away quite elated with my victory, but, when I think matters over, I don't feel so proud. Is a broken promise a lie? And if I have told no lies in words, have I not acted them? No, I don't feel proud of myself at all.

_July 16._

The poor, unhappy Duke of Monmouth was executed yesterday. When the king consented to see him, his friends had hope for his life, but now 'tis said his Majesty never had any such intention. I do think that was dreadful, as though he wished to feast his eyes on the misery and degradation of his own nephew.

His poor wife visited him, but though he spoke to her kindly, and bid her not mourn for him, he showed her no affection. His love was given to the Lady Wentworth; and they say he told the bishops who attended him that he considered her his wife in the sight of Heaven, since he was wedded to the Lady Anne Scott when they were both little children.

The executioner did his work most foully, and came near being torn to pieces by the crowd, who rushed to dip cloths and handkerchiefs in the duke's blood.

Mr. Pendergast brought us some letters he has received from the west country, telling dreadful stories of the cruelties practised there. I suppose it was right to make examples, but it could not be necessary to throw little girls into the common prison for the folly of their school-mistress, or to behead a poor old lady for giving food to the starving fugitives.

Nay, they say the Lady Alice Lysle would have been burned, but for the earnest intercession of all the clergy of Winchester, but even they did not avail to save her life. They say the chief justice is like a madman, and that Kirke is no better. It is dreadful to me to think of Mr. Morley in the midst of such scenes, and perhaps obliged to assist at them. How his kind heart must revolt at the work!

_July 18._

Mr. Pendergast has been here to bid us farewell for a time. He hath had notice from a sure hand that the scenes of the west country are likely enough to be re-enacted here very soon. And though, as he says, he shall not desert his flock, he shall not for the present show himself openly among men. His wife and children go to her father, who is a yeoman in Kent, not rich, but able and willing to give his daughter a home. I am sorry to miss them. Mr. Pendergast is a most agreeable man, and both he and his wife have been very good to me. Besides, they had more influence with my lady than any one else, even Mr. Baxter himself. I fear the poor man's prison will not be the easier for what has happened. I would I could see him, and carry him some comforts, as Bab Andrews has done, but when I ventured to ask leave to go with her, my mistress went into such a taking that she nearly brought on a fit,—a real fit, I mean. Mrs. Williams tells me I must be careful not to agitate her, and I am. I don't want the poor thing's death at my door. She is much kinder to me than formerly; and I suppose I ought to be happy, knowing as I do that Mr. Morley loves me. But I don't know, I suppose nobody ever is really content in this world. Bab would say it is because they strive to be content with what was never meant to satisfy them, but I don't know.

I have really written through this the smallest of my three books. I wonder what the lady who so carefully prepared it for her daughter would say if she saw how it was filled. She was a devout lady, that I am sure of from the few sentences written in this book, but it seems her daughter did not take after her. I wonder why.

THE SECOND BOOK.