Chapter II: Book I: December 10, 1684 (2)

"I do not dispute it, sir," answered Mr. Studley, smiling. "I might read Mr. Boyle's late treatise on the higher mathematics in the original English, but I should hardly be much the wiser without some previous preparation."

Mr. Morley frowned for a moment, and then laughed good-naturedly.

"Well said, man; you have given me back mine own fairly enough. I see you have plenty of fire, for all you look so demure. But tell me, what think you of this last news from the Continent? King Louis carries matters with a high hand, does he not?"

And so the two fell into friendly conversation. I do like any one who can take a retort pleasantly.

My Lady Clarenham talked awhile on various matters. And then, turning to me, she asked me about my family. I told her that I knew not much about it; that my mother's marriage had displeased her own family; and though I knew she had a married sister living somewhere near Exeter, I had no acquaintance with her.

"Methinks I should know her! I know most of our west country gentry, by name, at least," said Lady Clarenham. "What is your uncle's name?"

"I don't know, madam," I answered.

"I suspect it is Sir Robert Fullham," said Mr. Studley. "I know him by sight. He is a gentleman reputed wealthy, and much respected. He hath daughters, but I think no son."

"And do you know my cousins, sir?" I ventured to ask.

"Only by sight," he answered. "They are fine young ladies, and, as I understand, much sought after in the gay society of Exeter. I have lived so much abroad that I hardly know our own neighborhood."

"You have served?" asked Mr. Morley.

"Not so, sir, but my father, wishing to have me learn the French and Italian tongues perfectly, sent me abroad at an early age. I sojourned in the family of a French Protestant minister, and found the life so much to my taste that I staid, perhaps, longer than I ought."

"This same Protestant minister had daughters, I warrant," said my mistress.

Mr. Studley smiled. I don't think I ever saw any eyes flash like his.

"One daughter, about forty years old, and scarred with small-pox," said he.

"What, then, was the attraction?" asked Mr. Morley.

"Even that which makes birds of a feather flock together," answered Mr. Studley. "You know Cicero says it is a great bond of union to think the same things concerning the republic, and the rule holds regarding even more important matters."

"You are, then, a Presbyterian, like myself?" said my mistress.

"No, madam, I am an unworthy member of the Church of England. And yet I could find a sympathizing friend in this Huguenot pastor. I learned more of him than in all my life before."

"Your Protestant friends in France are like to fare badly, since the revocation of the Edict of Nantes," said Mr. Morley. "That was something of a safeguard to them."

"More in name than in fact," said Mr. Studley. "It seems as though they could hardly be worse off, and yet I suppose they may be."

"Mr. Evelyn was telling me a sad story of the cruelties practised toward the French Protestants," observed Lady Clarenham. "He says he had it from a sure hand. It is strange that nothing about it hath appeared in the 'Gazette.'"

"Not so very strange, when you consider who hath the ordering of these matters," said Mr. Morley. "Has your ladyship heard who is to be the new chief justice? Even no other than Mr. Jeffreys."

"Impossible! That wretch!" said my lady, with some heat.

"'Tis said so by the best authorities."

"Heaven help us! Where are we drifting to?" said my Lady Clarenham.

And then, catching (or so I fancied) a warning glance from Mr. Studley, she changed the conversation by asking my mistress to allow me to come and give her a visit. Lady Corbet was so far wrought upon by her visitor's kindness that she promised to consider the matter. But I don't build at all upon it.

_March 10._

'Tis really true that Mr. Jeffreys is made chief justice. Mr. Baxter brought us the news. He augurs ill from the appointment of such a man, and no wonder. Mr. Morley says the aspect of the court is greatly changed: all is decent and sober, at least outwardly; and the old throng of gamesters, singers, buffoons, and the like, find no entertainment any more at Whitehall. Mr. Morley still keeps his place; but he has asked, and had the promise of, a troop of horse. He says his Majesty commended his desire of active service, and will place him under his old commander, Col. Kirke.

I don't know whether to be glad or sorry. I am pleased with his good fortune, of course, but I shall miss him if he goes, and I have so few pleasures. I said something about his going away to Mrs. Williams.

"I am glad on't with all my heart," said she.

"You do not like him, and yet he is very good-natured and pleasing."

"Too pleasing," she answered. "The truth is not in him. See you not, my child, how careless he is in his statements, how he exaggerates? He can scarce repeat a story from a book as it is, without making some addition of his own. I would he had staid among the Moors, before he ever came here, with his fine speeches, to turn silly heads."

"He has not turned mine, if that is what you mean," said I, feeling my cheeks burn.

"I am not so sure of that," said she; "I would I were. My dear Dolly, let me beg you to be careful in this matter. Mr. Morley is not the man to make you happy, even if he thought seriously of marrying you, which I greatly doubt, for I think him altogether mercenary. And he may compromise you seriously before you are aware. Be not angry, now, but tell me, have you not met him more than once in your morning walks?"

"It was only an accident, if I did," I answered. "You don't think I would go out purposely to meet a man in secret, Mrs. Williams? What do you take me for?"

"For an innocent child, who knows naught of the ways of the world, and should therefore be content to be guided, my dear," said Mrs. Williams. "I think no ill of you, Dolly, but I must needs warn you. A young maid's fair fame is like the ermine, which, they say, dies of a stain on its white fur. Suppose my lady should learn from some one that you had met Mr. Morley in the park?"

"Suppose you go and tell her," said I, too angry to keep any measure in my words. "Then she might turn me out, and you could have her old gowns all to yourself."

And with that I ran away to my own room to have a good cry. I am ashamed of myself already for answering so my good old friend,—the only friend I have in the world almost, and who hath never showed me aught but kindness. I believe she is right, too, so far as these meetings are concerned. And I am resolved there shall be no more of them, though it breaks my heart.

_March 12._

I have made it up with Mrs. Williams, and asked her pardon, and have promised her to give Mr. Morley no more meetings. I must say she was very kind and motherly. She told me what I did never know before, that she had once had a daughter, who died about my age, and says she, "I verily believe of a broken heart, though the doctors called it a consumption."

And then she told me how the poor thing had been led by a fine gentleman to think he meant to marry her, though he had nothing in his mind but the amusement of an idle hour.

"God mercifully preserved her from sin and shame, and then more mercifully still, as I now think, took her home to himself," said she, weeping. And I wept with her.

_March 24._

The king and queen crowned yesterday. Much murmuring at the omission of the procession; the king, it seems, choosing rather to spend the money on jewels for his wife. The coronation rites very much shortened, there being no communion. I wonder how he, being a Papist, would consent to be crowned by a heretic archbishop, whose orders he must regard as altogether void and schismatical; and to join in worship, which, according to his notions, must be stark blasphemy.

The Papists are everywhere raising their heads. Mass is publicly said at Whitehall and other places. On Easter Day there was a grand celebration, at which many great lords attended, but the Lords Ormond and Halifax remained in the ante-chamber.

We had all this great news and much more from Mr. Morley, who gave us a visit with Ursula Robertson and her father. He has not been here before in some days, but from things that came out, it seems he hath been visiting Ursula more than once, and even contrived that she should have a peep at the king and queen yesterday.

"But you could not go in your mourning," said I; for she wears the deepest sables, like a young widow.

"I left them off for the nonce," said she. "There was no harm in that."

"No harm, perhaps, but I should not have done it," I answered.

"Of course you wouldn't," she answered mockingly. "We all know you are the pattern of propriety and prudence and all the rest. Wait till you are tried, that is all."

"I am not like to be tried in any such way," I answered.

At that moment my lady called Ursula to her side to take out a knot in her netting, and Mr. Morley whispered in my ear,—

"If I am killed in the wars, Mrs. Dolly, won't you wear mourning for me?"

"We shall see when the time comes," I answered lightly, though my heart was beating so it almost choked me. "You have not gone to the wars yet."

"But I am like to go at any time, if this mad Duke of Monmouth gives us the trouble that people think is likely. And it would be a comfort to me, lying on the bloody battle-field awaiting death, to think that my Dolly's bright eyes would weep for me."

"You ought to be thinking of better things," I rejoined.

And then my lady interrupted me, by asking some question about the standing army that men say is to be formed.

"'Tis but a piece of rumor as yet, madam," answered Mr. Morley. "I do not think any steps have been taken in regard to it. I can only say, I hope with all my heart it is true. The defence of this nation should not be intrusted to country squires, and to rustics and cobblers who hardly know their right hand from their left."

"And what will Parliament say to that, think you? A standing army hath ever been a bugbear, you know."

"I believe the incoming Parliament is not like to offer much resistance to the king's will in that or any other matter," answered Mr. Morley. "I may say this much is quite true, that an army is to be formed, and I am going down to Scotland on some business concerning it to-morrow: so I shall not see you again in some time."

My heart sank at these words. I have not seen much of Mr. Morley lately, but then I knew he was in town, and might drop in at any minute. And to think of his going away so far, and to that barbarous and rebellious country. I was ashamed of my emotion, however, and made a great effort to restrain myself, especially as I saw Ursula looking at me.

As we parted, Air. Morley took an opportunity to whisper to me,—

"Will you not be in the park to-morrow morning, Dolly? It will be the last time, mayhap, that we shall ever meet."

I assented almost without thinking, and now I almost wish I had not. I promised Mrs. Williams I would never do so again, and dear mother ever taught me that a promise was most sacred. I am sure, too, mother would say Mrs. Williams was right. Oh, dear, never was poor girl so hard bestead! If only my dear mother had lived, or Mr. Harpe had not cheated us so! I can't help it. It is not my fault if I can't be good. Nobody could be open and true with such a mistress as I have. And I must see Mr. Morley once more. It will only be for once, and then I will live like a nun.

_April 3._

But I did not see him, after all. My lady must needs have a fit of cramps about four in the morning. I believe in my soul it was but a fit of indigestion, caused by eating too much lobster for her supper, but it was bad enough to call up the whole household, and keep us all busy for three or four hours. She really was very ill, and I believe both Mrs. Williams and the doctor were very much alarmed. However, she got better toward night, but too late to do me any good.

Ursula and her father came to see her in the evening, and Ursula sat with me in the ante-chamber while her father went in to see his sister-in-law.

"Mr. Morley is gone," said she, after we had talked a little about indifferent matters.

"So I suppose," said I coolly. Whatever I felt, I was not going to betray myself to her.

"Are you not sorry?" she asked me.

"Rather," I said. "He was a pleasant gentleman, and was always coming in with some bit of news. And beside, my lady liked him, and he kept her in a good humor, which was so much clear gain to me. Yes, on the whole, I am very sorry he has gone."

"Would not you be sorry if he did not come back?" she asked.

"Why, of course I should. Why should I want the poor man to be killed? But, you know, he may stay away for other reasons," I returned. "He may find some fair Scottish lassie with a good fortune to her back, and marry her."

Ursula shut her lips tight, and shook her head. "I don't believe it," said she. "Heiresses are not so plenty north of the Tweed. And besides—But it boots not talking. Dolly, do you know whether my aunt has made her will?"

"I don't think she has," I answered. "She talks about it sometimes, and I know Mrs. Williams has urged her to settle her estate, but, when it comes to the point, she always says there is time enough."

"She was very ill this morning, was she not?"

"Yes, very. We thought she would die, for a while."

"And then she must leave all her money that she worships so, behind her," said Ursula in a musing tone. "Dolly, it is a hard thing to die, isn't it?"

"I don't know; I never tried it," said I flippantly enough, for I was in a mood to say any thing.

I thought afterward that it was a wicked and presumptuous thing to say. Of course, it must depend on what one's life has been. Poor little Emma did not find it hard when the time came, nor my mother. They had no fear at all,—I suppose because they were so religious,—and I don't believe Mr. Baxter fears death. But my lady is very religious, too, and yet she is dreadfully afraid of death. I do believe she thought herself in danger, for she has been wonderfully kind to all of us since her illness. And the day before yesterday, when my Lady Clarenham came to ask for a little visit from me, she graciously gave me leave for three days. I never was more surprised in my life. I was glad of any change, for this house has become an intolerable prison for me.

And I must say I enjoyed my stay very much,—more than I would have thought possible. My Lady Clarenham treated me as an equal, and had Mrs. Patty, her little grand-niece, to meet me. She is grown a fine young lady, but is just as sweet and simple as she used to be when I was her school-mother.

We shared the same room, and as we were undressing, I said to her,—

"You are more careful than you used to be, Patty. You do not need me to look after your things, and to see that your bodice is laced properly."

"Ah, I used to be a sad slattern in those days, and sadly lazy, too! Do you remember how I used to hate my needle and my netting-pin?"

"And do you like them any better now?" I asked.

"Yes, I do," she answered, in her old serious tone. "One day my aunt Clarenham said to me,—

"'Patty, if you would go at your work with a fixed resolution to do your very best at it, instead of thinking how soon you can finish it, you would learn to like it.'

"So I thought I would try, if only to please my good aunt. And I really did find her words true. And, besides, Dorothy," she added, with a sweet look in her blue eyes, "you know, when I was confirmed, I had to do some serious thinking. And I made up my mind it was not right to hate what it was, and always will be, my duty to do. So I asked God to make me feel differently about it; and I am sure he did, for I like it now very well."

Patty is a sweet little creature and always was, but I am not sure it is right to pray about such things as liking one's work. What she said put me on thinking of the time when I was myself confirmed, and the resolutions I made. I wrote them all down, I remember, but I don't know what has become of them. But I can't help it. If I were situated like Patty, or if my mistress wore like my Lady Clarenham, I could be as good as anybody.

Certainly my lady makes her house very agreeable to all her family. She sees but little company, and that mostly of a grave and serious kind, like Mr. and Mrs. Evelyn, who were with her one day, in deep mourning for their eldest daughter, who died lately of the small-pox. Lady Clarenham says she was a very accomplished lady, deeply religious, and a pattern in all things, such as she hardly ever saw the like. Her parents are afflicted, of course, yet show a wonderful patience and resignation under their loss. They seem so certain of seeing her again.

Mr. Studley is not here at present, having gone to my Lady Clarenham's place in Devonshire to do some business for her. My lady cannot say enough in his praise, but says she fears she shall not keep him long. She tolls me his father is a great enemy of all religion, and is very angry with his son for his serious ways of thinking, so that he hath really persecuted the poor young man.

"I really believe his great object in putting my cousin with me was to divert him from his religion. But, if so, he has failed of his object," said she. "Edward has wrought such a revolution in my household as I could never have believed possible. Not the lowest groom or scullion will venture to say an ill word before him, and he hath saved me a great deal by his economy."

"You are so rich, madam, I should hardly think that would be needful," I ventured to say.

"'Tis true, I am rich," she answered kindly, "but, though I had the wealth of the Indies at my disposal, I should not feel it right to waste a crumb that might help one of God's needy creatures. We are but stewards of what he gives us, sweetheart, and must answer it to him if we waste his goods."

That is a very different way of saving from my mistress's. I wonder if that is the reason my Lady Clarenham lives so quietly, and sees so little company. It was very ungrateful in me, but I confess I was a trifle disappointed. I did want one little peep at the gay world of which I used to hear from Mr. Morley. Ah, me! Shall I ever see him again?

Certainly Lady Clarenham is very different from my mistress. I don't think it can be the form of religion altogether, either; for there are Mr. and Mrs. Pendergast, as poor as the sparrows, yet they find means to help poor Jane Gaskell, and others of their flock, who are worse off than themselves. And my mistress is as religious in her way as Lady Clarenham in hers. To be sure, she does not go to prayers every morning, but she reads nothing but good books, and dreadfully dull,—as I know to my cost,—and hath all the points of doctrine at her fingers' ends. But, somehow, her religion does not make her happy, like Lady Clarenham's and poor Mr. Evelyn's. I wish I were like them, for I am sure I need comfort badly enough. My heart is like to break at times. And to think I could not even bid him farewell! What must he have thought of me?

Well, I staid with my lady three pleasant days, and then she brought me home. At parting, she gave me a purse with three gold pieces in it, and a pretty equipage for my pocket. She also gave me her address, and bade me apply to her if ever I needed a friend.

So here I am at home again, and I almost wish I had never been away. My lady is in her worst humor, and frets and scolds from morning till night. She is able to be about the house a little now, and hath taken the keys into her own keeping. The consequence is that we hardly have enough to eat. The cook is gone to live with Mr. Pepys, a gentleman of the navy, friend to Mr. Evelyn whom I met at my Lady Clarenham's. And Mary Mathews has given warning. She hath staid longer than any maid we ever had since my coming, and I am sorry to have her leave.

_May 20._

I have been very unwell, with a kind of low ague; so that I kept my bed for two or three weeks, and my room still longer. I had no spirit for my writing or any thing else, and almost wished I might die,—almost, but not quite. I can't get over my dread of that dreadful unknown country and that awful Judge. I almost wish I had no religion at all, like Mr. Morley, who is wholly a sceptic in such matters. But even he said once he thought devotion becoming in a woman.

I am about now, and waiting on my lady again. I don't see what is to come to her. I think she grows to grudge the very air she breathes. Mrs. Williams remonstrated with her about our diet, I know. And since then, we have a little more, but of the plainest and coarsest,—brown bread and broth, broth and brown bread, with a dish of dried ling now and then for a change. My appetite is squeamish since my illness, and I think I should starve outright, if Mary Mathews, who hath consented to stay awhile, did not now and then cook me some little mess and bring it to my room.

_May 21._

Here has been a fine to do, and my lady is like a bear robbed of her cubs. I was reading to her to-day the news-letter which Mr. Robertson sends her, when Mary announced Dr. Bates and Mr. Pendergast. Now, Dr. Bates is a very great light among the Presbyterians. He is really and truly a very fine gentleman, though a bit pompous and stiff, and I do believe a very good man. My lady received him with great courtesy, and was all smiles, which changed quickly to frowns when she heard his errand. It seems an information hath been filed against Mr. Baxter for some reflections against Government, printed in his late commentary on the New Testament. He is to be brought before that dreadful chief justice in a few days, and the Presbyterians are raising a fund for his defence, and for the comfort of his family should he be put in prison. Dr. Bates had been collecting the subscriptions, and was now come to Lady Corbet on the same errand.

"You will doubtless feel it a privilege, madam, to contribute your share for the defence of this excellent and self-sacrificing man, who hath so long been a standard-bearer in our ranks," said Dr. Bates, in that full, pure, melodious voice of his, which hath earned him the name of "silver-tongued Bates."

I saw the corners of Mr. Pendergast's mouth twitch, and his eyes glisten with a smile. All his hardships and stern beliefs have not taken the fun out of him.

"And what is the trouble with Mr. Baxter that he must go a-begging at his age?" asked my lady sharply.

I saw Dr. Bates's color begin to rise a little, but he restrained himself, and in the same courteous tone repeated the matter from the beginning.

"It was very foolish of Mr. Baxter to embroil himself with the Government just at this time, when everybody thinks his Majesty will soon grant a universal toleration," was my lady's comment. "Methinks, he might have had a little patience, instead of getting into this broil."

"His Majesty will never grant any such toleration; or, if he should, it will be on condition that the same be extended to the Papists, and I think we should hardly accept that," said Dr. Bates. "As to Mr. Baxter, the thing is done now. And you know him well enough, madam, to be aware that he would not take back what he believed to be true, if the stake lay straight in his path. There are lawyers ready to defend him, but of course expenses must be met."

The doctor grew more emphatic as my lady hesitated. And he went on to set forth Mr. Baxter's good qualities in a way that did him honor, I am sure. I do like a man that can frankly allow merit in another. Mr. Pendergast supported him ably and boldly.

My lady hemmed and hawed and took snuff,—about the only luxury she allows herself,—and at last asked what her brother Robertson had given.

"Twenty pounds," answered the doctor briefly. I could see his patience was waxing thread-bare.

"Twenty pounds!" almost screamed my lady. "Twenty pounds, and he owing me three hundred pounds this very minute, and only paying me eight per cent when I could easily get ten!"

"Your brother-in-law is a man of a liberal spirit, as I remember your husband was," observed Dr. Bates.

"Liberal, quotha! Yes, liberal enough. I might have been thousands of pounds better off at this minute if he had not been quite so liberal. Charity begins at home, to my thinking."

"That is where we want you to begin it,—here in your own house," said Mr. Pendergast.

I could not forbear smiling.

"Dolly, why are you grinning there like a Cheshire cat?" demanded my lady, turning the vials of her wrath on me, as usual. Then turning again: "I dare say, 'you,' Mr. Pendergast, have given of your wealth."

"I could not give of my wealth, madam. And so, like the Macedonian Christians, I had to give of my poverty," said the little man, speaking with as much dignity as a bishop. He is not to be set down, if he "is" little and poor. My lady seemed to think she had gone far enough.

"People have an exaggerated notion of my wealth," said she, in a more civil tone. "'Tis a great plague to be accounted rich. Every beggar and every subscription-paper come to one. In these times of shifting and changing—" She paused a moment, and the doctor took her up sharply.

"In these times of shifting and changing, and, you may add, of dying, madam, would you not do well to place at least a part of your wealth out on good security?"

"Oh, I always do that!" said my lady complacently. "I always look out for good security, and that is one reason why I don't think my brother has been wise in this matter. Mr. Baxter is an old man, and I don't believe either he or his family will ever be able to pay back what you propose to lend them."

"Pay it back!" exclaimed Dr. Bates, his eyes fairly flashing fire through his glasses. "Do you think, madam—" And then, as it were, biting off his words, as Mr. Pendergast touched his arm, he stood silent, while the other minister explained that the sum collected was not to be a loan, but a gift.

My lady twisted and turned, hemmed and hawed, and finally said, though she thought Mr. Baxter had been unwise, she supposed she must give her "mite" for his defence.

I thought Dr. Bates's spectacle frames must have melted in the lightnings that flashed from behind them, but he did not speak. I think he was afraid to trust himself. Mr. Pendergast took up the word.

"Very good, madam; you talk of your mite. You know the poor widow's two mites were her day's income. We will be content with a similar gift from you; that is, a day's income."

"You will!" squalled my lady again. (Squall is not a pretty word, but her voice really did sound like Lady Clarenham's parrot). "A day's income, indeed! Why, that would be more than twenty pounds! A day's income, indeed, with this house to keep, and taxes to pay, and idle sluts hanging on me who do not earn their keeping" (this with a glance at me). "A day's income, indeed! Do you think I am made of money?"

"I do not know what you are made of, madam," said Dr. Bates, rising, and speaking in a voice which had more the ring of steel than silver. "But this I can see, that you have great need to examine your evidences, and make sure that you are in a state of salvation. I very much fear that you have neither part nor lot in the matter, and that your heart is not more right in the sight of God than that of Simon Magus himself."

"I don't know what you mean by speaking so to me," said my lady, looking alarmed. "I am sure I am a good Presbyterian, and believe the Assembly's Catechism from beginning to end."

"It is possible to hold the truth in unrighteousness," answered Dr. Bates. "A greater authority than the Assembly's Catechism hath said, 'Ye cannot serve God and mammon,' and that 'no covetous man who is an idolater hath any part in the kingdom of Christ and of God.'—Come, brother Pendergast, we do but waste our time here."

"You are very hard on me," said my lady, as with trembling hands she extracted her purse from her pocket, and drew out something. "There, I will give you that, and perhaps more if it is needed, but I don't believe it will be, especially as you say so many of the established clergy stand by Mr. Baxter." (Dr. Bates had told us this, though I forgot to put it down in the proper place).—"Dolly, why don't you see the gentlemen out?"

I was glad to escape, for I was boiling over. To think of that kind old man, her own life-long friend and her husband's, being brought before that dreadful Judge Jeffreys, and she grudging a few pounds for his defence.

As I followed the gentlemen into the ante-room, I heard Mr. Pendergast ask,—"What did she give you at last?"

"Seven shillings," answered Dr. Bates. Then, sighing: "Certainly, the old Adam will never die in me till I die myself, brother. My fingers itched to throw it in her face!"

I suppose it was wicked in me, but it comforted me to hear the good man make this confession.

He turned to me, as I entered the room, with his kindly smile. "Do not trouble yourself, my dear young lady. We can easily let ourselves out."

"I wanted to speak with you," said I. And then added, awkwardly enough, I dare say, "Will you please give Mr. Baxter this gold piece for me?"

The ministers looked at each other, and then at me.

"But, daughter, is not this a great deal for you?" asked Dr. Bates.

"It was a present to me," said I. "Mr. Baxter has been very good to me, and—" And here, like a goose, I fell a-weeping as I thought how kindly he had spoken the very last time I saw him. "Please do take the money," I added, checking my tears as well as I could. "'Twas given me to do what I like with."

"I will take it, then, and I am sure a blessing will go with it," said the doctor, laying his hand on my head. "May the Father of the fatherless bless thee, my child!" Then, turning, he asked Mr. Pendergast, "Does she belong to us?"

"Not she," answered Mr. Pendergast. "I cannot make a Presbyterian of her; though my wife and I have tried, haven't we, Dolly?"

"I am sure you have both been very good to me," I answered, "but every one is not like you. My mother was of the Church of England, and I cannot leave it without better reason than I have yet seen."

"Ah, well, the light may come!" said the doctor kindly. "Pray for light, my child. And, once more, the God of the fatherless bless thee!"

Mary Mathews was waiting at the door, and I saw her give the doctor something. When I had a chance, I asked her how much.

"Five shillings," said she shortly. "I had saved it toward a Sunday gown, but my old one will serve a while yet. I have not forgotten how kindly Mr. Baxter spoke to me the day I was crying for my poor dead sister."

"So is not a word better than a gift?" My lady hath been in her worst humor all day, saying the most provoking and outrageous things, and insulting both Mrs. Williams and myself every time we opened our mouths.

Mrs. Williams's Welsh blood boiled over at last, and she gave her back hot and hot, ending with giving warning. Whereat my lady cooled down, and presently went into fits of the mother. She did not gain much by that, for Mrs. Williams plied her with hartshorn and burnt feathers. And as she continued winking and blinking, and pretending not to see or hear, she poured into her mouth a most abominable decoction of valerian and rue, the very smell of which almost made me sick. It brought my lady to in an instant, sputtering and choking, and declaring she was poisoned, and demanding what had been given her.

"Only my Lady Pendarves's cordial against fits," answered Mrs. Williams, tranquil as a summer morning. For, having discharged her culverins with such good effect, she could afford to be as quiet as those same culverins when unloaded of their powder. "'Tis a sovereign remedy, as you may see. Perhaps you had better take a little more." And she again advanced the cup to her lips.

"No, no! I am quite well now," said my lady hastily. "I should not be ill only for your and Dolly's fretting me so, poor, weak creature that I am!" And with that she began to cry, but stopped as she saw Mrs. Williams shaking her bottle again.

As for me, I was ready to die laughing, but I can always keep a sober face, if I please.

"I hope your new woman may suit you better than myself," said Mrs. Williams. "I heard that Mrs. Jerningham, who hath lived in my Lord Oxford's family, desires a place. And I can bid her call on you, if you please."

"Yes, a fine addition she would be to my family, no doubt," snapped my lady. "You are very unkind, Williams, to speak of such a thing, when you know what a poor, suffering creature I am, with no one to care for me since my poor husband died.—Dolly, take your work, and go sit in your own room."

"I think Mistress Dolly had better go for a little walk, since the day is so warm and fine," said the pitiless Mrs. Williams. "I could give her Mrs. Jerningham's address, if your ladyship would like to have her call on you."

"Hold your tongue about Mrs. Jerningham.—Dolly, go and walk, then, and see if you can pick up some news."

I went as I was bid, and was glad of the chance to be in the air a little.

_May 26._

Poor Mr. Baxter hath really been sentenced to a fine and imprisonment. Mr. Pendergast, who was present, said the old gentleman carried himself like a hero all through. The trial was a shameful, indecent mockery of justice. Mr. Baxter's council was not allowed to say a word in his defence, and several distinguished clergymen of the Church of England who tried to speak for him were insulted and roared down. It is said that Judge Jeffreys proposed that he should be whipped at the cart's tail, but the motion raised such a murmur of indignation, even among the most subservient of the courtiers and court officials, that he dared not persist. Mr. Pendergast says, that, considering the troubles in the North, and the fears of a rising in behalf of the Duke of Monmouth, the sentence is lighter than Mr. Baxter's friends had any reason to expect.

Somehow, ever since Dr. Bates was here, the words of his blessing have dwelt upon mine ear. "The Father of the fatherless"—it hath a lovely sound. But I don't think He can be "my" father, else he would never leave me here where I am so miserable, and where I "can't" be good if I would.

I suppose my lady has made it up with Mrs. Williams, for there is no more talk of her going away. I am glad of it with all my heart. I am sure I could never live here without her, and I have nowhere else to go. My Lady Clarenham did say something as to telling my aunt about me, but I don't build on it. 'Tis not likely, with her family, that she would care to be troubled with me. But, as I said, I fancy Mrs. Williams has made her own terms. She keeps the keys again, my lady saying she is not able to attend to the housekeeping any more. And we fare very much better in consequence. She is civil enough to me before Mrs. Williams, but takes it out on me behind her back. However, I get more liberty than I did, and take a walk every day when it is fine.

_May 30._

It is said that the rebellion in Scotland is quashed, and the Earl of Argyle is in prison and like to lose his head. I am glad on't, I am sure; not that the poor gentleman is to lose his head, but that the rebellion is so soon put down, since they say it could never have succeeded. I hope they will not be too severe with the poor wretches, but those that know say that the king hath no mercy in his heart. There are rumors of an invasion under the Duke of Monmouth.

This morning, walking in the park very early,—I like to go early, because I see no one at that hour,—I saw Barbara Andrews, sister to Mr. Andrews, Ursula's servant that was. I have always liked Bab, who is an upright, downright sort of girl, but we have never been intimate. She looked very pretty in her deep mourning, with her fair hair, that never will lie smooth, dancing in little curls about her forehead. She had a basket on her arm, and told me she was going to carry something to a poor body. And, as I had plenty of time, I offered to go with her.

"Have you seen Ursula lately?" I asked of her, as we walked along.

I was surprised to see Bab's eyes flash, and her lips curl, at the question; for though she and Ursula were as unlike as chalk and cheese, and I never thought any love was lost between them, yet they always got on well enough.

"She is busy, I dare say," she answered, "though I should not think she need have so much to do: she had her wedding-clothes ready to her hand."

"Bab, what do you mean?" I exclaimed, standing stock-still in my amazement. "Ursula is not going to be married—not 'Ursula'—not so soon?"

"Even so," said Bab. "You know if she should wait longer, the mode might change, and the things go out of fashion." And with that she laughed, and then fell a-weeping so bitterly, and with such sobs, that I was fain to draw her to a bench which stood under the shelter of some bushes, and bring out my smelling-salts which my Lady Clarenham's woman gave me. Bab is not one to make a great fuss. She checked herself as soon as she could, and wiped her eyes.

"I am a fool, Dolly, and that is the truth. Why should I care? Only I do think she might have waited the year out.

"'But two short months,—not two,—
A little month, or ere those shoes were old
In which she followed my poor brother's coffin.'"

I thought she was going to cry again, and strove to divert her.

"Bab," said I severely, "you have been reading profane stage plays. That is out of Mr. Shakspeare, I know."

"And so have you, or you wouldn't know," she retorted. "But there is no harm in that play, Dolly."

"I know it," I answered. "I got some of the speeches by heart when I was at school. I only wish I had the book now. But tell me, is Ursula really going to be married, and to whom?"

"She really is, and to Mr. Jackson, her father's partner."

"Bab, I can't believe it," I said. "Why, he is old enough to be her father, and a church-warden to boot! I have heard her laugh at him to his face many a time."

"And perhaps you may again; nevertheless, she is going to marry him next week."

"But what possesses her?"

"Well, if you want to know what I think, Dolly, I will tell you," said Bab, rising, and taking up her basket again. "I think Ursula is, as they say, biting off her nose to spite her face."

"How so?"

"Why, she had news from Newcastle, or thereabouts,—wherever Mr. Morley has gone—that he is to be married to some rich woman in that place. And I think she means to show him that she does not care, and that she can be wedded as soon as he."

If my life with my mistress has done me no other service, it hath at least taught me to command myself, and to hide my feelings.

"But is she sure?" I asked. "'Twould be a pity to do such a thing, and then find out that it was a mistake, after all."

"I believe the news is quite true. You know he is a kinsman of Ursula's on the mother's side. I think she always liked Mr. Morley, even while my poor brother was alive, but Henry was so blind, and he loved Ursula. I tell you what it is, Dolly, I could almost find it in my heart to be thankful that he hath escaped her hands. As to Mr. Morley, my opinion is that they would have been well matched, but for all his hanging round her, and sending her presents, I don't think he cared a pin for her."

"I must hurry home, Bab," said I, glancing at the clock. "I shall be late. And my lady will bite my head off if I am not at prayers to read her a chapter out of Chronicles, all full of hard names. I wish those who made the Bible had left out that part of it."

"Don't speak so of the Holy Word, Dolly dear!" said Bab seriously, and gently detaining me a moment. "I could show you some lovely things even among those same hard names."

"You speak of the Bible as if you really loved it, Bab. Do you?" I asked.

"Yes, I do, and so would you if you thought of it as I do," answered Bab. "Think of it as a letter from a loving Father writ to 'you'—yes, just as much to 'you' as if you were the writer's only child. Then you will love it, and find comfort in it, as I do."

"You are good, and I am not," said I. "And, besides, I can't believe that God loves me, when he lets me live with my mistress. But I must go, Bab. Do come and see me sometimes. My mistress lies abed all the afternoon, and we could have some comfort."

"I will," said Bab. And as she kissed me, she whispered, "Dolly dear, do try to acquaint yourself with Him, and be at peace. He can comfort you, and he will: only try him."

Bab must know, for she has had a great deal of sorrow in her short life, but then she hath never been tried as I have.

I was home in good time, but by ill luck my mistress had risen earlier than usual, and of course I came in for a storm. To pacify her, I told her I had heard a piece of news from Barbara Andrews.

"Yes, you are a fine pair of giglets, you and Bab Andrews. Mark my words, that girl will never come to any good. Her father lets her read romances and play-books, and poetry too."

"Only the Countess of Pembroke's 'Arcadia,' and Mr. Shakspeare's plays," said I, "and Mr. Spenser's poems."

"You let me catch you with any of them, and see what you will get," was the grim response. "I wonder what his dear friend Mr. Baxter would say to Mr. Andrews, if he knew that."

"Mr. Andrews gave fifty pounds to Mr. Baxter's defence," said I. I felt just like exasperating her, somehow. It seemed a relief to the smart of my own feelings.

"Oh, that is your great news, is it? Then here is a piece for you: A fool and his money is soon parted."

"I am glad you do not think me a fool," said I demurely, "but that was not the news I meant, for I did not hear that from Bab. She is not one to sound a trumpet before her, or her father either. Shall I get the books and read to you now?"

"Tell me this great news of yours first: I see you are bursting with it," said she more good-naturedly. "And don't you vex me, Dolly: you may be old and lonely yourself, sometime."

I do wish she would always be kind: she can be so nice when she pleases. Of course I told her all about it.

"Ursula is a shrewd girl; she hath an eye to the main chance, I see," was her comment. "Mr. Jackson hath a great interest in the business, and is rich beside. She is doing well for herself."

"She hath lost no time about it," observed Mrs. Williams. "Why 'tis not two months since poor Mr. Andrews died, but mayhap she is afraid her wedding-clothes may go out of fashion."

"Well, well, 'tis the way of the world," said my lady. "I wish Dolly may do as well for herself. I must look out a match for you, child. There, get the books and read."

I could not but think of Bab's words about finding nice things in the Book of Chronicles when I came across the story of Jabez, whose mother called him so because she bare him with sorrow. I wonder what the poor woman's grief was. Anyhow, I hope she lived to see her son's good fortune. If God would only hear me like that!

After prayers, and when my lady had taken her netting, she began to talk about Ursula again, still in high good humor. And she was yet on the theme when Ursula herself was announced.

She was in black, but had left off her veil, and "going to be married," was written all over her. She came to tell her dear aunt a piece of news, she said, which no doubt would surprise her, but she thought dear aunt would understand her motives, and not misconstrue her as some had done who should know better.

"Oh, dear aunt knows all about it!" said my lady, smiling maliciously. "Your news is piper's news, niece. You are going to marry Mr. Jackson, like a sensible girl. Pray, when does the great event take place?"

"To-day week," answered Ursula, rather shortly. Nobody likes to have their grand news forestalled. And then, more amiably, "How did you hear the story?"

"Dolly had it from Bab Andrews, this morning," answered my lady.

"Oh! And I dare say Bab had plenty to say about it," sneered Ursula. "I must say, she and the whole family have treated me very unkindly. But I did not suppose from the way I have heard her talk, that she was any great friend of 'yours,' Dolly. I heard her say only yesterday—However, I don't want to make mischief."

"You won't," I answered shortly. "I know Bab, and I know she is not one who hath two sides to her tongue."

"And so Mr. Jackson is to be the happy man," said my lady. "He is rather old for you, isn't he?"

"'Better an old man's darling than a young man's slave,' perhaps Mrs. Ursula thinks," said Mrs. Williams. And then, as Ursula bestowed a gracious smile in recompense for the proverb, she added, "But old men have slaves sometimes as well as young ones."

"Mr. Jackson is not an old man; he is not yet sixty," said my lady. "Never mind them, Ursula, they are vexed because it is not their chance. But I did not think it would be Mr. Jackson. What has become of your fine captain, with his gold lace and his feathers and his courtier's airs and graces?"

"My father would never hear of my marrying a soldier, and one who has not a broad piece," said Ursula; "and besides," she added, glancing at me, "Capt. Morley is to marry some one at Newcastle, some rich coalman's daughter."

"Oh, indeed!" said my lady. "You did not hear that news, Dolly?"

"Yes, madam," I answered tranquilly, though I felt as if I were in a nightmare, "Bab told me that, too."

"And when did you hear as much?" asked my lady, turning to Ursula.

"About two weeks ago."

"Oh!" said my lady, with ill-natured significance. "And how long have you been engaged to Mr. Jackson?"

"It is not Mr. Jackson's fault if we have not been married, not to say engaged, for a year, madam," answered Ursula. "I must say I am thankful that Providence hath saved me from marrying a man I never could really like, to give me one that I can both respect and love."

The hypocrite! She and my lady are enough to make one disbelieve in Providence altogether. And to talk so about Mr. Andrews, the good man,—a thousand times too good for her, I am sure.

She went away after a little. And my lady, having been pleasant for an hour, hath been as cross as a bear for the rest of the day, to make amends. But I don't care.

I don't believe anybody was ever so unhappy as I am. "Acquaint thyself with Him, and be at peace," Bab says. But I don't know where to find him, and I have no one to help me.

_June 2._

"Sorrow may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning." I can't tell where I read that, but I think it must be in the Bible. I was coming home from my walk this morning when I met a gentleman whom I had seen in Mr. Morley's company once or twice. He saluted me and asked if this was not Mrs. Dolly Corbet. I curtsied, and answered yes.

"Then I have a packet for your hands, fair lady," said he. He placed in my hands a little parcel, bowed again, and turned away. The packet was inscribed, "For the hands of Mrs. Dorothy Corbet;" and it was sealed with scented wax and a band of blue floss silk, as the fashion is now. I had never seen Mr. Morley's hand, but somehow I knew it in a moment.