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Title: Through unknown ways
An Old-World story
Author: L. E. Guernsey
Release date: July 7, 2025 [eBook #76453]
Language: English
Original publication: London: John F. Shaw and Co, 1886
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THROUGH UNKNOWN WAYS ***
Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
[Illustration: "The danger is over. Look up and see your fallen
adversary."]
_[The Stanton-Corbet Chronicles.]_
_[Year 1684]_
_Through_
_Unknown Ways_
_An Old-World Story_
BY
L. E. GUERNSEY
_[Lucy Ellen Guernsey]_
AUTHOR OF
"LADY BETTY'S GOVERNESS," "LADY ROSAMOND'S BOOK,"
"THE FOSTER-SISTERS," ETC.
NEW EDITION
LONDON
JOHN F. SHAW AND CO.
48 PATERNOSTER ROW
CONTENTS.
BOOK I. December 10, 1684.
BOOK II. August 1, 1685.
BOOK III. Studley Hall, 1687.
[Illustration]
THROUGH UNKNOWN WAYS.
[Illustration]
BOOK I.
_December 10, 1684._
PERHAPS I may as well begin this book by telling how I came to write
it at all. Lady Corbet, my mistress (I suppose I ought to say mine
"honored" mistress, but I sha'n't: I am going to have the comfort of
speaking my mind in these pages, if nowhere else). But to begin again,
in a more orderly fashion. Lady Corbet, with whom I am living as
waiting-gentlewoman, companion, and general butt for ill-humors,—there
I go again,—well, Lady Corbet took it in her head to give me the use of
this cabinet. She was making a tour of inspection of the whole house to
which we have just removed, and had been put into a better humor than
was usual with her so early in the day by finding in this very cabinet
a purse with three gold pieces and some silver, left here I suppose by
Sir Charles's first wife,— poor, pretty Lady Jemima, whose portrait by
Lely hangs in the great parlor. My lady clutched the purse as a dog
snaps at a bone, and dropped it into her pocket. Then she took up a
knot or favor of rose-colored ribbon spangled with silver which lay
beside it, still fresh and pretty, and smelling of roses like every
thing else in the cabinet.
"See there, child!" said she, turning to me. "The poor bedizened thing
had to leave all her finery and fallals behind her when she went to the
grave. There is a lesson for you."
"And her money also, madam," said Mrs. Williams, her woman, who had
followed us with a light cloak which she laid about Lady Corbet's
shoulders. Mrs. Williams is not afraid of my lady, as I am. But then,
she can leave when she pleases.
"What do yo you mean, Williams?" asked my lady. "Of course I know that.
We must leave every thing behind us when we die. You have heard me say
that a thousand times."
"Not quite every thing," said Mrs. Williams. "I think, my lady, this
would be a good room for Mrs. Dolly. It is not near enough for her to
disturb you, and yet she can hear when you whistle."
My heart jumped at this proposal, but, knowing my lady, I was careful
not to show any pleasure. On the contrary, when Mrs. Williams appealed
to me, I answered, "It would do well enough, I supposed."
"Well enough! Yes, I think it will do well enough and too well for a
chit like you, since it has served an earl's daughter in its time,"
said my lady tartly. "You shall have this room, and no other, do you
hear? And you can have this cabinet to keep your finery in."
"Yes, I have so much finery!" I could not help saying.
"Oh, you are not so badly off as all that!" answered my lady. "One
would think you had not clothes to your back!"
"Mrs. Dolly will need some new gowns, my lady," said Mrs. Williams. "I
had better buy her a camlet for Sundays, and some stuff for every day."
"Nonsense! You can make over my gray camlet for her, if she needs it.
However, I don't mind for once. Here, child, is a guinea for you, and
mind you take care of it. You were best let Williams buy your gowns,
however. There, I won't go any farther to-day. Tell Jeremy to bring
your mail up here, and you can be putting your things in order while I
am resting. But don't disturb me with your noise, and be ready to read
to me when I wake."
This conversation took place the day before yesterday, on which day my
Lady Corbet removed from her own house, where she has lived ever since
she became a widow, to this which was the mansion of her late husband,
Sir Charles Corbet. She has never been here before since his death,
but has lived in her own house in the city. But the land having become
valuable, and this house standing empty, she all at once made up her
mind to remove. The house was already furnished, so it was no great
trouble. For some reason which I don't understand, it has never been
lived in since Sir Charles died, and was damp and dingy enough. But a
few charwomen, under Mrs. Williams's active superintendence, soon gave
it another aspect, and now it is nice and pleasant, and even my lady
admits is far more sunny and healthful than her city abode.
For my part, I am glad of the change with all my heart. It "is" a
change, for one thing, and I have had but little variety heretofore.
Then we are at the court end of the town, not far from Whitehall,
and there is a deal of coming and going of fine equipages and of
well-dressed ladies and gentlemen. Best of all, I can see from mine own
window a good piece of the park and of the water where the king keeps
his tame fowls. They say he walks there early every morning: so, if I
rise soon enough, I may chance to see him.
To return to my story. I unpacked my mail, which was no heavy task,
seeing I have so few personal belongings, and then set myself to
examine the cabinet. It is large and very pretty, inlaid with ivory
and brass work, and having many drawers and compartments. I discovered
nothing save a few old-fashioned trinkets in a private drawer, some
odds and ends of ribbon and lace, and a great heap of letters and
bills, very few of which were receipted. There were two or three
cupboards in the room. And on the top shelf of one of these I deposited
all the papers, meaning to look over the letters at my leisure.
In clearing out one of the compartments, I touched a spring, it
seems; for the whole panel at the back slipped aside, and disclosed a
tolerably deep recess, wherein was a pile of books, neatly bound and
clasped. Eagerly I pulled them out and opened them, hoping to find
something in the way of entertaining reading, but they were all blank
paper. In the beginning of the largest was written, in a somewhat stiff
hand, this inscription:
"When I was wedded, my dear and honored mother gave me a set of books
like to these, in order that I might keep an account of my private
expenses, and also set down such matters of interest as I might wish to
remember, and such pieces of devotion as should be useful to me. I have
followed her counsel in this matter all my life, and have found great
benefit therein. I give these books to my dear daughter Jemima that she
may follow the same practice."
But it seems Lady Jem never did follow it to any great extent; for
the books are all blank, with the exception of a few items set down
on the first page of the account book, and two or three receipts for
washes and cordials in the others. I was musing over the old-fashioned,
cramped handwriting, and wondering what the good old lady would have
said to her daughter's gay career,—but she died, happily or unhappily,
soon after Lady Jem's marriage,—when the thought occurred to me, why
should not I keep a journal, and so have some place to pour out my
thoughts, which place I have not now.
Mrs. Williams is kind to me always, and I believe she is truly my
friend, but she never encourages me to talk about myself or my
mistress. Perhaps she is right and wise, but, at any rate, that is her
way. I used to make something of a confidant of Mrs. Ursula Robertson,
my lady's cousin, who visits here now and then. But one day I heard her
repeating to my lady some slighting remarks which Mrs. Pendergast, the
minister's wife, had made about her, and that was enough for me.
"A dog that will fetch a bone will carry a bone," is an old, and mayhap
a somewhat vulgar, proverb, but it is a true one. I have no doubt now
that she led me on to say things about my mistress which she afterward
repeated to her, and thus helped to set her against me.
Well, all of a sudden the thought came into my mind, "Why should not I
make a friend of these books, and confide to them. They at least, will
not tattle again, since I have a snug hiding-place for them."
I am usually sure of two hours every day, while my lady takes her
afternoon nap, and I can sometimes gain another by early rising in
summer,—not at this time of year, however, for my lady keeps count of
every inch of candle burned in the house.
_December 21._
It was late when I found my treasures yesterday, and I had little
time to write, but my lady to-day dismissed me earlier than usual,
and I hastened to my retreat. I cannot enough thank Mrs. Williams for
securing it to me. Where we lived before, my room was directly over my
lady's, and I could not stir but she heard me, but here I might dance
a reel, and she be none the wiser. But I said I would begin with the
story of my life, and here it is.
I was born on Christmas Day in 1667, and ought therefore to be a very
lucky child, but my luck, if I ever fulfil my destiny, is yet to come.
I do not remember my father at all. He was a cousin of Sir Charles
Corbet's, and died fighting the Moors at Bombain¹—that barren piece of
the queen's dowry, which is like to cost a good deal more than it will
ever come to. (I believe, after all, they were Indians and not Moors,
and that the Moors live at Tangier: but it does not greatly matter.)
¹ What we now call Bombay.
My mother being left a widow, with but small means,—for she never had
even my father's back pay, much less the pension which was promised
her,—bethought herself of turning her very good education to account
by opening a school for young ladies at Hackney, where we then lived.
And an opportunity offering, she went into partnership with a lady who
had for a long time kept a boarding-school. Mrs. Price was her name,
and she was a wealthy woman. She was getting on in years, and needed
an assistant. And knowing of my mother, she sent for her, and proposed
to put into her hands the active duties of the school, she herself
remaining at the head of the establishment. My mother jumped at the
chance, for it was truly a good one, better than she had any reason
to expect. It gave her the opportunity of learning the ways of a good
school, and at the same time of educating me, then a tall girl of five
years old.
But here my dear mother made a great mistake. She put all her little
capital, some hundreds of pounds, into the hands of Mrs. Price's man of
business, without a scrap of acknowledgment,—not even a receipt. He was
Mrs. Price's nephew, and he made great professions of piety. His aunt
trusted him entirely, and my poor mother thought she could do no less.
All went well enough for some years. My mother managed the school and
the young ladies, and I went on with my education. I was always fond
of my book, and especially of my music and languages. And at fifteen I
could write and read well, speak French and a little Italian, dance,
and play on the lute and virginals. I had my little troubles and school
scrapes, of course, and was crossed and contradicted, like other young
things. But I do not believe many people have had a happier life than I
enjoyed up to that time.
Then my troubles began. Mrs. Price died first. She had always said
she meant to leave the school and the house to my mother, having no
near kin but her nephew, who was rich already. But no will was to be
found. Mr. Harpe—Harpy he ought to have been called—took possession
of every thing, even to the poor lady's clothes, and coolly told my
mother he did not mean to continue the school, and so should have no
occasion for her services. And when she demanded the return of the
three hundred pounds she had put into his hands, he had the audacity
to deny the whole thing, and defy her to prove that he owed her any
thing, and she could not prove it. Mrs. Price, the only person knowing
to the transaction, was dead and gone. And, as I said, mother had not
a receipt or a scrap of paper to substantiate her claim. She had ten
pounds in her pocket, and Mr. Harpe had the generosity to give her ten
more, saying, that though she had tried to wrong him, he would not turn
her out penniless, and adding something in his sanctimonious tone about
returning good for evil, which made me long to choke him.
It must have gone hard with mother to take the money, for she was a
high-spirited woman, but I suppose she thought of me, and put her pride
in her pocket. A good woman lived near us whose daughter had been my
school friend. Poor Emma had died not long before of a waste, and my
mother had helped to nurse her. This good lady gave us a home, though
she was far from being rich. And in her house, my dear mother died when
I was sixteen. She said on her death-bed that she wished she could take
me with her, and I am sure I wish she had. Bab Andrews was reading
the other day of some Indians who buried girl babies with their dead
mothers. I am not sure but it is a good way.
The lady with whom I lived, Mrs. Jenkins, was related to Mrs. Williams,
my Lady Corbet's woman. Through her, she made known to Sir Charles
Corbet, my kinsman, my forlorn condition, and he and Mrs. Williams
somehow coaxed my lady to take me into her service. And here I have
been for two miserable years, the slave of her whims, and the butt of
her ill-temper. Sir Charles was good to me, in his careless way, while
he lived, but he died only a year after my entrance into the family.
They say he married my lady for her money, and because she promised to
pay his debts. If so, I am sure he paid dearly for the help she gave
him. Such a life as she led him! But he was a man, and could get away
from home. And now and then he would assert himself, and fairly make
her afraid of him, as when she insisted on removing the likeness of
Lady Jemima, which I have mentioned before, from the drawing-room. I
expected to see the picture consigned to the garret when we came back
here, but I do believe she has a superstitious dread of touching it.
When Sir Charles lay on his death-bed, he called me to him one day, and
gave me a gold chain, with a little locket attached to it, in the shape
of a small egg, bidding me put it on and wear it, but secretly. Then
calling on Dr. Clark and his own man, who were both in the room, he
bade them bear witness that he gave me the locket.
"Promise me that you will never open it till you are married, and then
only on some pinch, when you need money: and, above all, never let my
wife see it. Promise me!" he said earnestly, holding my hand with a
clasp that hurt me.
"I promise," said I.
"That is well," he answered. "Now look in the back of yonder drawer,
and bring me a picture you will find there."
I did so. It was a miniature of Lady Jemima, with a chain attached.
"Put it round my neck," he said to his man Richards, who was waiting on
him.
Richards did so, I helping him. Sir Charles thanked us both, and kissed
me. Seeing a change in his face, which I knew too well, I ventured to
suggest that he should send for a clergyman.
"Do, Sir Charles! It can do no harm," urged poor Richards, the tears
running down his face, for he loved his master. "Do let me or Mrs.
Dolly run for Dr. Gibson."
Sir Charles shook his head, with a faint smile. "No, no!" said he. "At
least, I will make no false pretences."
"But, dear cousin, it need not be a pretence," I said. "Do but try to
trust in God."
He shook his head again. "No, child: I have doubted so long, I have
lost the power of believing. Dress me for the grave yourself, Richards,
and see that the picture lies on my heart."
"At least let Mrs. Dolly call my lady," said the doctor, for he changed
more and more.
"No, no! Let me at least die in peace. I am glad she is not here." And
in a moment he was gone.
My lady made no great pretence of grief for her husband, beyond putting
on very deep weeds. I do not think she ever cared for him. He married
for money, and she because she had an ambition for title and fashion.
Both were disappointed in a great measure: for he was ashamed of her,
and would never take her to court; and her money was all tied up in
her own hands. She gave him what she liked, and I fancy that was very
little.
Of course I never told my lady of Sir Charles's dying gift, and should
not, even if I had not promised. She would insist on opening it, and
would probably take it away from me altogether. I cannot open the
locket myself, if I would. It has no visible opening, though of course
there must be one somewhere. And I would not if I could—at least, I
think not.
_December 24._
Christmas Eve—but one must not dare to say "Christmas" in this house.
At Mrs. Price's school we used to have fine doings on Christmas Eve
for the family, and those of the ladies who did not go home for the
holidays. We used to dress up the great schoolroom with ivy and holly,
and Mrs. Price would always have a branch of mistletoe hung in the
midst, to keep up old fashions, as she said; though her pious nephew,
Mr. Harpe, shook his head at it, and said it was a relic of paganism
and unfit for a Christian household. Then we had grand games of "hunt
the slipper," "hoodman blind," and "forfeits," ending off at nine with
a fine hot supper of spiced frumenty and plum-porridge.
On Christmas Day we all went to church, and came home to a dinner of
beef, fowls, and plum-pudding for all the household. Mistress Price
did love to see happy faces about her, and she had an assistant,
like-minded with herself, in dear mother. After dinner we used to carry
little gifts we had made to the poor old people and orphan children
who lived at some old almshouses which joined our garden at the
back,—another practice to which Mr. Harpe objected,—and when we came
home, we found each a pretty Christmas-box by her plate at supper-time.
My last one, I know, was a prayer-book bound in purple leather. I had
it for a long time, but unluckily one day my lady caught sight of it,
and took it away, saying she would have no such rags of popery under
her roof. Since then I have never seen one, nor have I been inside a
church since I came to this house. My lady never goes to any place of
worship. She says she is not able, though she can go to other places
when she has a mind. I heard Mr. Baxter remonstrating with her about it
the last time he was here. She answered shortly, that she best knew the
state of her own health, adding,—
"But I hate prelacy and popery and all their adherents as much as you
do, Mr. Baxter."
"Madam," said the old gentleman, "I must tell you that a religion which
has no foundation but hatred is not likely to be very acceptable to the
God of love."
Whereat my lady looked blacker than a thundercloud, but she stands
too much in awe of Mr. Baxter to fall upon him. However, she took it
out on me afterward. I could not blame Mr. Baxter if he did hate the
prelatists, for certainly he has had very hard measure, but no one
has ever molested my lady. But I don't think Mr. Baxter has any such
feeling. Certainly I too have had hard measure from Mr. Harpe and
my lady, but I don't hate all Presbyterians for their sake. On the
contrary, I am very sorry for them, and think them very hardly dealt
by. And I do like Mr. Baxter and the Pendergasts.
I am indebted to Mr. Baxter for a good turn, and I shall not forget it.
One day when I went out alone, I found on a bookstall a book new to me.
It was a kind of fable or allegory, called "The Pilgrim's Progress;"
and, after reading a few pages therein, I took such a fancy to it
that I bought it for sixpence. I was so silly as to take it out one
day in my lady's room, and of course she came in and caught me. She
took the book away, and was going to burn it, but at Mrs. Williams's
intercession she kept it to show to Mr. Baxter, whom she expected that
evening. He took it and looked it over with interest.
"I have heard of the volume, but never have seen it before," said he.
And then turning to me, with his usual politeness he added, "With your
leave, Mrs. Dolly, I will take the book home and examine it at my
leisure."
"Of course you can do so," said my lady, taking the words out of my
mouth as I was about to answer. "'Tis not for her to say what books
she shall read, I trove. But is not this Bunyan a Quaker or some such
thing? I am sure I have heard so."
"He is an Anabaptist, and so in some sort a heretic, no doubt,"
answered Mr. Baxter, "but, from all I have heard of him, I believe that
he is a good man, and preaches the root of the matter."
He took the book away with him, and I never expected to see it again,
but he returned it the next day with a note, saying that he could
honestly recommend the piece as not only orthodox, but edifying, and
likely to interest young people, whose imaginations were naturally
taken with truth conveyed in the form of an allegory or tale. He also
enclosed with it a sermon on the peculiar errors of the Anabaptists,
which he hoped I would read. And so I did, for I read it aloud to my
lady. I can't say I was much the wiser; for by long practice on the
kind of books my lady affects, I have learned the art of reading aloud
tolerably well, and thinking my own thoughts at the same time.
I began to read "The Pilgrim's Progress" to her, but she soon stopped
me, saying it was only a fairy tale, just fit for such fools as I was.
My own notion is that it stirred up her conscience, and that she did
not like the feeling. So I had my book to myself. And I have read it
more than once, though it makes me uncomfortable. For, if it be true,
what is my condition? I know very well I am not religious. I do not
even pretend to be so any more. Only that I know a few people like Mr.
Baxter and Mrs. Williams, and that I remember my own mother, I should
think all religion a mere pretence and hypocrisy. My lady never goes
to any place of worship, as I said. I don't believe her health has any
thing to do with the matter, however. I think she is afraid of fines
and sequestrations, and of being asked for money. I know she was very
angry at being asked to contribute to a fund for the support of some
poor minister's family, so much so that when Mr. Pendergast came again
she would not see him. It must be very disagreeable to be on the losing
side, and yet take no comfort in one's religion, but, to be sure, she
has the pleasure of being contrary.
There is her whistle, and I know by the very sound that she is in a
temper. I shall not go till I have put away my books, however. She may
as well scold for one thing as another.
_December 25, Christmas Day._
But not much like Christmas. Nothing would serve my lady but a dinner
of dried ling and parsnips. However, Mary Mathews had leave to go
see her mother, and she brought me home a mince-pie. How homelike it
tasted! In the evening, however, we did have some diversion. Ursula
Robertson came in, and brought her cousin, who has just returned from
Scotland where he had a command. He is a fine, handsome, personable
man, and polite in a frank, soldierly fashion, and evidently took
my lady's fancy; at which I wondered, for certainly he makes no
pretensions to sanctity.
"Where have you served?" she asked him by and by.
"At Tangier mostly, madam, and since then in Scotland."
Now, we all know what service in Scotland means. And I expected to see
my lady fly out, but she did not.
"You will find England but dull after such a stirring life abroad,"
said she. "Why did you come home?"
"On account of sickness, madam. I was so ill that my life was despaired
of, and an old wound that I got fighting the Moors broke out again."
And then he added some compliment about the sight of fair English faces
working a cure, with a deep reverence, as he spoke, to Ursula and me.
He makes a very graceful bow.
"I will not have Dolly's head turned with compliments," said my lady.
"She is quite vain enough as it is. And what are you about now, if one
may ask?"
"My good lady the Duchess of Portsmouth has promised to use her
interest to procure for me a small place about the court," answered Mr.
Morley (that is his name, though I forgot to say so); "no great matter,
but enough for the modest wants of a poor cavalier till he has the luck
to make his fortune."
"Oh, you think to marry an heiress, I dare say!" said my lady sharply.
And then, some other guests coming in, she turned to them, and left Mr.
Morley to entertain us young ones.
I must say he made himself very agreeable. When they were going away,
Ursula seized a chance to ask me how I liked her cousin.
"Well enough, all I have seen of him," said I. "But what do your father
and your aunt and uncle Pendergast say to him?"
"Oh, my father does not trouble himself about him, and my uncle and
aunt have not seen him! But is he not a gallant gentleman? It was a
fine thing his knowing the Duchess of Portsmouth when they were both
young. But for her, he never would have got this promotion. 'Tis a fine
thing to have court influence," she added somewhat enviously. "But of
course we poor Presbyterians can't hope for such a thing."
"I don't believe your father or your uncle Pendergast would accept of
promotion from such a quarter," said I.
"Oh, well, of course it is different with a young man and a soldier,
and my cousin Morley does not pretend to be religious!"
But I don't see what difference that makes. If there be any thing in
religion at all, then the neglecting thereof cannot be an excuse for,
but only an aggravation of, wrong-doing.
_Twelfth Day, 1685._
I wish holidays could be left out of the year, or else that I could
forget them, since they only bring up sorrowful memories. What famous
Twelfth Day games we used to have at Mrs. Price's! The very last one I
spent there, I got the bean in the cake, and was crowned with a fine
coronet of gilt paper, beset with beads, which dear mother had prepared
on the sly for a surprise to us. To think that is only two years ago:
it seems like a lifetime.
However, I did have something like a holiday to-day, for my lady, being
in a wonderful good humor, allowed me to go with Ursula to her uncle's
house, that we might see the king passing to dine with the mayor and
aldermen. I had a good look at his Majesty and the Duke of York. They
have both harsh features, and could never be called handsome if they
were not royal personages, but I like the king's face the best of the
two, because it is the better-natured. I saw that he smiled kindly on a
poor woman who pressed forward to put a petition into his hand. I saw,
too, that he presently let it drop without ever looking at it: so his
good-nature did not amount to very much. The Duke of York looked black
as night all the time.
"His Majesty is not looking well," said a voice at my elbow. I turned
with a start, and saw Mr. Morley.
"How came you hither?" asked Ursula rather tartly.
"What a question! Ask the iron how it comes to the lodestone," answered
Capt. Morley, with a deep reverence which included both of us. "Not
being in waiting to-day, what more natural than that I should give a
visit to my fair kinswoman, and, learning that she was gone abroad,
what more natural than that I should follow her?"
"You have learned your courtier's trade already," said Ursula.
"Soldiers do not pay such fine compliments, do they, Dolly?"
"How should I know," I answered, "since I never knew either courtier or
soldier in all my life?"
"No, I fancy good Mrs. Price did not allow such dangerous creatures in
her bounds," returned Ursula, whereat Capt. Morley said something about
the dragon that kept the gardens where grew the golden fruit. "But we
all know that the sweetest flowers bloom in shady places," he added, at
which Ursula looked ready to bite.
I don't know why he should bestow so many fine phrases on me, unless he
wishes to make Ursula jealous; and I don't know why he should wish to
do that, for he must know that his cousin is contracted already to a
merchant in the city. And even if she were not, her father would hardly
give her to a needy courtier, and one, too, who has been a persecutor
under Claverhouse. Mr. Andrews, Ursula's servant, coming in at that
moment, Mr. Morley devoted himself specially to me, and I must say made
himself very agreeable.
Ursula recovered her good humor in some degree when Mr. Andrews made
his appearance, but I could see she was all the time listening to hear
what Mr. Morley was saying to me. Mr. Andrews is a fine, personable
man, rich, and of good address and education. I think she might be
satisfied with him.
"I hear the king is not quite himself these days," said Mr. Andrews,
addressing himself to Mr. Morley.
"'Tis true, sir, I am sorry to say," answered Mr. Morley. "I trust it
is nothing serious, however, no more than a passing indisposition."
"And so must all," remarked Mr. Andrews, "since his Majesty hath no son
to succeed him."
"Then you are not one of those who believe in the black box?"
"What, in the Duke of Monmouth's claim? Not I, sir!" answered Mr.
Andrews, laughing. "I would as soon believe in mine own." And then,
more seriously, "I trust no one will be so ill-advised and cruel as
to set on that young man to put forward a claim which can never be
substantiated."
"You would perhaps rather have Oliver back!" said Ursula maliciously.
"We all know what your father's politics are, Mr. Andrews. He was one
of Oliver's Ironsides, was he not?"
"You may easily know what are my father's politics, Mrs. Ursula,"
said the good man, his honest face flushing at her tone, which was
sufficiently contemptuous: "no secret was ever made of them that I know
of. My father was not in the Ironsides, however. He commanded a ship
under the Parliament, and helped to humble the pride of the Dutch, who
did not come up the river to Chatham in those days."
"Well said, man, and I like you all the better for standing up for your
father," said Capt. Morley (he really is a captain it seems), striking
him on the shoulder. "Your father was not the only old Puritan who has
done the king good service, and I dare say you would do the same."
"I am beholden to you for your good opinion, sir," answered Mr.
Andrews, with much dignity. And then he turned away, and began talking
with Mrs. Robertson.
Ursula sulked a little, but seeming by and by to think she had gone far
enough, she began to exert all her arts of pleasing, which are neither
few nor small, and soon had her lover at her feet again. Poor man, I
think he is far too good for her!
We walked home together, and Ursula must needs come in and tell my lady
all about every thing, and how much attention I had received. Whereby
she earned me a fine rating for forwardness and vanity, which, no
doubt, was what she intended.
_January 20._
'Tis a long time since I wrote in my book. My lady hath been
ill—seriously, but not dangerously—with rheumatism, and Mrs. Williams
and I have had our hands full. The doctor tells her she must go to the
Bath as soon as the weather is warm enough, and she says she will; but
I don't believe it. She will never make up her mind to spend so much
money. Of course I have been pretty closely shut up, but I have been
out a few times to do errands, and now and then in the early morning to
walk a little.
Once I ventured as far as the park, which, indeed, is not very far,
and saw his Majesty taking his morning walk with only one or two
attendants, and flinging bits of bread to his tame ducks and swans.
Capt. Morley was in attendance, and put off his hat to me. The king
looked at me curiously, and I suppose asked who I was. He turned
presently, and, as I curtsied, he said kindly,—
"Good-morrow, sweetheart! You are sunning your roses early."
"When you do not know what to say, say nothing," was my mother's maxim:
so I only curtsied again, and hastened home, feeling rather scared, and
yet pleased, that I had had a word from his Majesty. He hath a pleasant
way with him, and his face, when lighted by a smile, is very winning.
'Tis a pity he were not a different man in some ways.
I have seen Capt. Morley two or three times. He is always very polite.
Once he gave me an orange, but I dared not eat it lest the smell
thereof should betray me to my lady. So I gave it to Mary Mathews for
her sick father. I kept a bit of the skin, however, and it is in my
cabinet now.
_February 1._
'Tis said the king is very ill, and not like to be better. He had
a kind of fit this morning, and at noon had not yet recovered
consciousness. Capt. Morley looked in to tell us the sad news.
_February 2._
His Majesty is no better. All the principal physicians and surgeons in
town are by his bedside. The archbishop and two or three other bishops
are in attendance, and one or other has sat up with him every night.
One sees nothing but tears and sad faces, and people throng to the
churches in crowds to pray for the king's life. Ursula was here, and
told us of these things. She has reasons more than one to pray for his
recovery, for of course his death must put off her marriage which was
fixed for next week.
_February 5._
It was said this morning that the king was better, and the church-bells
rang merrily. Being sent out to match some silk for Mrs. Williams's
work, and having a little time on my hands, I stepped into a church,
the doors of which were open, and knelt down to offer a prayer myself;
but the sound of the minister's voice, the sight of the chancel, and
the very air and scent of the place did so awaken old memories that
I could do naught but cry. When I rose from my knees, I saw next me
a lady with whom I have some acquaintance, Lady Clarenham. She had a
young relation at Mrs. Price's school, and used to come sometimes to
visit her. And the little maid being in some sort under my care—for she
was very young—the lady was pleased to thank me for my attention, and
give me a gold piece for a token.
Lady Clarenham knew me directly, and greeted me very kindly. She is a
pretty, rather elderly lady; and I like her all the better that she
does not try to look "young," as almost everybody does nowadays. I
asked after little Mrs. Patty.
"Oh, she is well, and grown almost a woman!" answered my lady. "She
often talks of you."
And then she asked me of my welfare, and how I was living, and I told
her. We were in the porch by this time; a young gentleman standing by,
whom I took to belong to her family, as he seemed to be waiting for her.
"I used to know the Lady Jemima Corbet," said Lady Clarenham. "I think
I must give this lady a visit, and ask her to spare you to me for a day
or two, at least if you would like to come."
"Yes, indeed, madam," I answered.
And then, startled to see how late it was, I hastened home. My lady
was asleep when I came in, and Mrs. Williams asked me what had kept me
so long. I told her frankly that I had stepped into a church to say a
prayer for the king, and there I had met with an old acquaintance, who
had kept me talking a few minutes.
"And who was that, pray, Mistress Gadabout?" asked my lady, opening her
eyes suddenly.
I told her that it was my Lady Clarenham.
"And pray what had my Lady Clarenham to say to you, and how came you to
know her?"
I told her.
"Then you may tell my Lady Clarenham, next time you see her, that I
want none of her visits. A fine tale, indeed, when errand-girls and
chamber-maids receive visits from titled ladies!—Williams, why did you
send her out at all?"
"I needed sewing-silk to finish your gown, my lady," answered Mrs.
Williams.
"And why need you use silk at all,—or if you must needs have it,
why could you not save what you ripped out?" demanded my lady. "I
shall be ruined, ruined out of house and home, by all this waste and
extravagance, and paying for doctors and medicine. I shall die in an
almshouse."
"And what harm will that do you, madam?" asked Mrs. Williams tranquilly.
My lady stared at her.
"What harm, quotha! What harm!" she repeated, almost gasping for breath.
"Yes, what harm?" said Mrs. Williams. "When one has been dead two
minutes, what difference will it make whether one has died in an
almshouse or in Whitehall, since both must be left behind forever?"
"Pshaw! Don't talk any of your Muggletonian and Independent rant to
me!" said my lady. (Mrs. Williams is some kind of Independent,—I don't
know what exactly,—and when my lady wants to take it out on her,
she calls her a Muggletonian.) "I am a practical woman, and take a
practical view of things.— Dolly, what news did you hear? For of course
your ears were open: trust a waiting-woman for that!"
I told her that every one said the king was better, and almost out of
danger.
"I have never believed he was going to die," said she,—"a strong man,
and not older that I am. It was not likely he would give up to the
first illness."
But people die at all ages. To-night Mr. Morley came in to tell us that
the king was given over by his physicians, and was not likely to live
the night out.
"And what then?" asked my lady.
"Why, then, God save King James, I suppose," answered Mr. Morley,
lightly enough. And then, more seriously, "There will be many sad
hearts in this nation by this time to-morrow."
"May God give him space for repentance!" said Mrs. Williams, so
solemnly that we were all silent for a minute. And then she asked, "Do
you know the state of his mind, sir?"
"No, madam," answered Mr. Morley. "I know that the archbishop and
bishop have told him that he could not live, and wished to administer
the communion, but he will not have it."
"And what reason does he give?"
"Sometimes he says there is time enough, and sometimes that he is too
weak. There are those that have their own thoughts about the matter, as
I have myself. And not the less that Tom Chiffinch brought honest old
Father Huddleston up the back stairs to-day. Marry, he hath purveyed
other company up those stairs in his time!"
"Are you sure?" asked Mrs. Williams gravely. "'Tis a serious thing to
say, Mr. Morley."
"Oh, other folks have eyes in their heads beside me!" answered Mr.
Morley. "The old man was disguised, but half a dozen people saw him."
"Then you would imply that his Majesty is a Papist?" said my lady.
"I, madam! I imply nothing. I am but a poor gentleman of the back
stairs, and it would not become me to imply things of his Majesty."
"So I think," said Mrs. Williams dryly.
"I suppose Mr. Morley thinks he shall lose his place anyhow, so he can
say what he likes," observed my lady, improving the occasion to say
something disagreeable, as usual.
"Oh, as to that, his royal Highness is my very good master,"
answered Mr. Morley. "I hope I shall get a troop, and be in active
service again, which is a better life for a man than hanging round a
court.—Think you not so, Mrs. Dolly?"
"I think I should like it better, but it would depend a good deal on
the nature of the service," I answered. "I don't think I should like
the service which the troops in Scotland seem to be employed about,
hunting down the poor wretches of Covenanters."
"A soldier has no choice but to obey orders, you know," answered Mr.
Morley. "And I can tell you, Mrs. Dolly, these same Covenanters are not
such harmless sheep as you seem to suppose."
"But old men and old women and young lads, Mr. Morley—"
"War is a rough trade, Mrs. Dolly. But perhaps I may have the luck to
get a command in one of the regiments under the Prince of Orange," said
he. And then, lowering his voice as he saw my lady busy with a knot in
her netting: "I would not willingly fall in your good opinion, fair
lady."
Certainly he has a pleasant way with him. Even my lady feels it, and
is more civil to him than to any one. But I don't think Mrs. Williams
likes him. I don't see why not, I am sure.
_February 6._
The king died to-day at noon, without a struggle, they say. Nothing is
seen in the streets but tears and sad faces. His easy, familiar ways
and kind manners made him beloved even by those who could not approve
his conduct. And, besides, people are afraid of what is to come. It is
said the king once said to his brother, "I am safe from assassination
while you live, James, for no one would kill me to make you king." His
present Majesty being an avowed papist puts people upon grave thoughts
of what is like to come. But I trust all will be well.
_February 7._
A general mourning is ordered, as if for a father, and my lady is in
a great strait what to do about it. Ursula Robertson came in with
her father, to bring us the news, and was presently followed by her
servant, Mr. Andrews, and Mr. Morley.
"Of course you will put on mourning directly, sister," says Mr.
Robertson, who seemed really to have got his wits together for once.
Generally he is like an owl in daylight, when he is out of his
counting-house.
"Yes," added Ursula: "you live so near Whitehall, the omission will
be sure to be noticed. I think we Presbyterians ought to be specially
careful about it: we are like to have hard times enough anyhow."
"Nay, I trust not," said Mr. Andrews. "'Tis said by some that the king
is in favor of universal toleration of all religions."
Mr. Morley laughed. "'Lay not that flattering unction to your soul,'"
said he. "The king is the king, but—I have seen him in Scotland."
"Do let us have a chance to talk a little about matters of importance,"
said my lady peevishly. "It seems to me that young folks take all the
talk to themselves nowadays.—About this business of mourning, brother
Robertson. Do you think it will be needful to buy new goods? You know I
left off my weeds only two years ago, and Dolly must have the black she
wore for her mother. Will not that do?"
"I should say not, I should say not," answered Mr. Robertson. "I should
say that with a person of your known wealth, sister Corbet, it would
certainly draw down unpleasant remarks."
"I cannot wear my black gowns at all," said I, rather maliciously I am
afraid. "They are both outworn and outgrown. And you know, my lady, you
sold most part of your weeds to poor Mrs. Anscomb, when she lost her
husband."
"Hold your tongue, Mistress Malapert! Who asked your opinion?" said my
lady, giving me a vengeful glance.
And indeed it was spiteful in me, but I so seldom have a chance to get
amends of her.
"Oh, yes, I should say it was needful for you to provide black for
yourself and all your household!" said Mr. Robertson. "I will send you
some pieces of serge and bombazine to choose from."
My lady sighed and groaned over the expense, but finally gave in.
I suppose we shall all be pinched in our diet to pay for the same.
Happily Mrs. Williams hath charge of the keys at present.
By and by Mr. Morley made her a present of some cakes of chocolate,
which put her into a somewhat better humor. As he was going away, he
put a little parcel into my hand, slyly whispering at the same time,
"Sweets to the sweet, fair lady."
When I had a chance to open it, I found a pretty gilded glass full
of colored and perfumed comfits, and a little book of poetry by Mr.
Dryden. I hope Ursula did not see him give it to me, and yet I fear she
did.
Am I growing sly? I fear so. It is the natural consequence of living
with a person one is in dread of. When I lived with Mrs. Price and dear
mother, I had the name of being frank and open as the day, and I think
I deserved it. But what can I do, placed as I am?
_February 15._
The king was buried last night, without any pomp at all, very obscurely
even for a private gentleman, in the vault under Henry Seventh's chapel
at Westminster. Many remarks made about the matter. But it will make
little difference to him, poor gentleman!
_February 18._
The Robertsons are in great trouble. Mr. Andrews is taken with a fever,
and not likely to recover. I went to see Ursula to-day, and found her
crying in her chamber, with all her fine wedding-clothes spread out
upon the bed. I felt very sorry for her.
"Only think, Dolly, I was to have been wedded this very day!" said she,
sobbing.
"Perhaps Mr. Andrews may get better," I said.
"No, the doctor says there is no hope at all."
"Have you seen him?" I ventured to ask.
She stared at me in such amazement that she actually forgot to cry.
"Why no, of course not!" said she. "I might take the fever and die, or
be disfigured for life. And besides," she added, crying again, "I could
not endure to witness his pain. I am like his late blessed Majesty in
that: I can't endure to see people suffer."
"And like him in another thing, that you don't care how they suffer, so
you don't see them," I thought.
But she went on bemoaning herself, and mixing up her grief for poor,
dear Mr. Andrews, with lamentations for her finery which would all be
wasted, all be old-fashioned before she could wear it, till I grew
weary, and said rather unfeelingly I am afraid,—
"Oh, perhaps not! Maybe you will get a new admirer before that time."
"You mean Mr. Morley?" said she, looking at me curiously, but not with
the resentment most girls would have shown.
"No, I did not mean any one in particular," I answered, feeling my face
flush, I don't know why.
"I don't suppose I am a great enough fortune for Mr. Morley," said she,
"though I shall have four or five thousand pounds to my portion, too.
He says he must needs marry rich: so you see you have no chance, Dolly,
unless your mistress dies and leaves you some money."
"And that will be when the sky falls," said I; thinking to myself,
"Certainly she will do no such thing if you can help it."
Just then good Mrs. Pendergast came in, to say that Mr. Andrews was
much worse, that he could not last the day out, and most earnestly
desired to bid farewell to his mistress. Whereupon Ursula began to
scream and cry, and presently went into a fit, so we had all we could
do to hold her. When she was a little better, I took my leave, as much
disgusted as ever I was in my life. The heartless creature! I should
think she would have counted every minute lost that she did not spend
at his bedside. If it were Mr. Morley—But what am I saying?
_February 21._
Poor Mr. Andrews is dead and buried.
_March 4._
Being Ash Wednesday, my lady had a better dinner than ordinary.
_March 6._
My Lady Clarenham, who I thought had forgotten all about me, did really
give a visit to my lady. She came in her coach, with her servants in
livery, and entered the room leaning on the arm of the same young
gentleman I saw with her in church, and whom she presented to my lady
as Mr. Studley.
"Mr. Studley is a far away kinsman of mine own, who is so kind as to
undertake the government of my family for me," said she.
"He is but young for such an office," said my mistress, not unkindly.
She is always more civil to men than to women.
Lady Clarenham chatted awhile in an easy, pleasant, and yet somewhat
serious manner. Mr. Studley was mostly silent, except when his lady
appealed to him. He is not to say handsome, and yet there is something
pleasing in his bright gray eyes, and firm, well-cut mouth. But he is
rather small and slight, and did look like a lad by the side of Mr.
Morley, who sauntered in, as he does pretty often nowadays. Yet he
showed that he could hold his own, too. My Lady Clarenham was speaking
of some new book which she had not read, but had heard much commended,
and asked Mr. Morley if he had read it.
"Not I, madam," he answered, laughing. "Such reading is not in my way.
I would as soon think of reading the Epistle to the Ephesians."
"You might perhaps find something of interest in the Epistle to the
Ephesians, if you understood it," observed Mr. Studley, whereupon Mr.
Morley turned upon him in what I must say was a somewhat overbearing
manner.
"I would have you know, sir, that I am able to read the Epistle to the
Ephesians in the original Greek!"
"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.
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.
[Illustration]
BOOK II.
_August 1, 1685._
LITTLE did I think, when I closed the last book, that the new one would
open under such changed circumstances. I had been having a pretty hard
time for some days. Mrs. Williams was ill for a week, and not able to
get out of bed: so I had the whole care of my mistress; and a handful
she was, to be sure, and as cross as two sticks. She who takes to her
bed on the smallest ailment, and will have the whole house running if
her little finger aches, was quite sure there was nothing the matter
with Mrs. Williams, and that she could get up if she only thought so.
Then she would veer round to the other extreme: Mrs. Williams had an
infectious fever, even the plague; she would die in the house, and give
us all the infection, and there would be the funeral.
In vain the doctor assured her it was only a severe cold, which would
get well with nursing. If that was all, why need Williams lie in bed?
"She" had had plenty of colds, and nobody thought any thing of them,
but she was a poor, forsaken creature that nobody cared for. And then
the expense: she should die in an almshouse, she knew she should.
"Then you will be happier than a great many of your persuasion, madam,"
said the doctor. "Better die in an almshouse than in jail or on the
scaffold, as so many are doing just now."
My lady was silent at this, and I saw her glance at me.
"I should not think such severity would help to make his Majesty
popular," observed Mr. Andrews, who had come in with Bab to give us a
call.
"It does not," said the doctor, who is much about the court, and who
is, in fact, one of those who attended his late Majesty in his last
illness. "But I do not think the king cares to be liked as his brother
did; he would rather be feared. I dread, sir, we shall see great
troubles and changes before many years are past."
"There, don't talk about it," said my lady hastily: "it is not safe."
And she began to ask Mr. Andrews about the credit of somebody in the
city who owes her money. But the fright did her good, and she behaved
much better afterward.
I had one comfort in a letter from Mr. Morley, sent me by a private
hand. It was kindly writ, as usual, but says nothing of public affairs.
One thing I am resolved on: I will never give him another private
meeting.
Well, Mrs. Williams was about again, and things had fallen into their
usual course. I had been out to do an errand for my mistress, and she
had given me leave to make Bab Andrews a little visit. Bab was not at
home, and I was turning from the door, when I met Mary Mathews.
"You are to come home directly, Mrs. Dolly," said she, quite breathless
with her haste. "My lady sent me for you, and desires you will make no
delay."
"Why, what now?" said I. "Hath my lady taken a fit again?"
"Not so, but there is a lady come to see you," said Mary. "She is
sitting in the withdrawing-room with mistress."
"In the withdrawing-room!" I repeated, in wonder, knowing that my lady
never enters that room if she can help it. "Did you see the lady? Is it
my Lady Clarenham?"
"The lady who came to see you before? No, but a much handsomer lady,
and very richly dressed. I think my mistress called her Lady Fullham,
but I am not sure."
"Fullham? I have heard that name somewhere, but I can't tell where,"
said I.
But I had not much time to speculate thereon, for we were already at
the house. I made myself neat, taking very little time about it, for I
was running over with curiosity.
As I entered the room, I found myself face to face with a handsome
lady, a little past the prime of life, very richly dressed, but in a
sober, matronly fashion. There was something oddly familiar in her
face, too.
"This is Mrs. Dorothy Corbet, madam," said my mistress, taking me by
the hand to present me, as if I had been a daughter of her own, a thing
she never did before. "Dolly, this lady is Lady Fullham, who has come
to see you on an important matter."
I can't tell how many or what wild notions darted through my mind. The
chief was the wonder whether this lady were not some friend or relation
of Mr. Morley's to whom he had recommended me, as I remember he once
spoke of doing. I was soon undeceived, and in a surprising way.
"Come hither, and speak to me, my child," said the lady, after she had,
as it seemed to me, looked me all over in a moment with her keen dark
eyes. "I am your mother's own sister and your aunt."
The room did seem to turn round with me at these words. My mother never
spoke of her own family, who were bitterly opposed to her marrying a
soldier and a poor man. She did say on her death-bed, "Dolly, you were
named for your aunt, my only sister. If you ever have a chance, make
friends with her, and give my love to her. I am sorry now that I have
never written to her, though I shall never regret my marriage."
I recovered myself as quickly as I could, curtsied deeply, and received
my new aunt's kiss, but in silence, for I literally could not speak.
"You did not know you had such a relation, I suppose," said my aunt.
"No, madam—yes, madam," I faltered, like a fool. And then, making a
great effort, "My mother told me on her death-bed that I was named for
you. It was almost the last word she said."
"And why did not you or your guardians let me know, child?" she asked,
rather sharply. And then, more gently, "But I dare say you did not
know where to write. My father forbade my holding any intercourse with
my poor, unhappy sister, and perhaps we obeyed him too literally, and
after I had daughters of mine own—However, that does not matter now."
"I will leave you to yourselves for a while," said my lady, rising.
I gave her my arm to her own room, and returned to my new aunt, whom I
found viewing the pictures and ornaments with a critical eye.
"This room is very handsomely furnished, though a little out of date,"
said she. "I should hardly have expected such taste in a city woman, as
I understand Lady Corbet to have been before her last husband married
her."
I told her the room had been fitted up by Lady Jemima, my cousin's
first wife, and was, I believed, just as she left it.
"Oh, that accounts for it!" said she. "Lady Jemima was of an excellent
old family."
(I wonder does being of an old family give one an infallible taste. I
suppose, as Mr. Pendergast says, one family is really about as old as
another.)
Then my aunt had me sit down by her, and began to catechise me rather
sharply, but not unkindly, about my mother and her affairs. She was
visibly touched when I told her of my mother's troubles and death. And,
when I could not forbear weeping, she called me "poor child," and gave
me her own smelling-bottle.
"Well, well, I would I had known!" said she. "I would never have left
her to die among strangers. But my first husband hated London, and
would never come hither; and Sir Robert is not much better." Then she
began to ask me about my education, and I answered her frankly. Finally
she asked if my lady was kind to me.
"Please excuse me from answering that question, madam," said I. "My
mistress gave me a home when I had nowhere to go, and it would ill
become me to accuse her."
My aunt looked displeased for a moment, and then her brow cleared.
"You are right, child, and your words show a ladylike spirit. One can
see you are of gentle blood. Now go and ask Lady Corbet if she will
give me the favor of an interview to-morrow. I will not ask to see her
again to-day, as she seems but feeble; and, beside, I want a little
time to consider."
I went up to my mistress, who fixed ten of the clock for receiving my
aunt. (How strange it seems to write the word!) I told my aunt, who
said she would come at that hour.
"By the way, child, I hope you are not a Presbyterian, as I hear these
people are," said she, as she was going away.
"No, madam," I answered; "I was brought up in the Church of England."
"That is well," said she. "They are a pestilent set of traitors, as the
late unhappy outbreak hath shown."
I could not quite stand this. "Not all, madam," said I. "I have not
heard a single Presbyterian speak of the late rebellion but with regret
and abhorrence."
"Don't answer me back, child," said my aunt sharply. "Your mother
should have taught you better than that. There, I am not angry, but
don't do it again."
She kissed me, and I attended her to the door. She had a fine coach and
two men. I think she must be very rich. How odd if she should take a
fancy to adopt me! But that is not likely, as she tells me she hath two
daughters of her own.
_August 3._
But unlikely things do happen. Lady Fullham came again next day, and
was closeted with my mistress full two hours. I expected every moment
to be sent for, but no message came. And by and by, I saw my aunt drive
away. Every thing went on as usual till after dinner, when my lady
called me to her side, and bade me sit down.
"So I am to lose you, Dolly, it seems," said she. "This fine country
lady desires to adopt you into her own family, and to give you a home
and all the privileges of a daughter. And of course she has the best
right to you, as your mother's sister."
"Methinks her mother's sister was somewhat slow in asserting her
right," remarked Mrs. Williams, who was knitting, as usual, and with
that peculiar click of her needles which always indicates displeasure
with her.
"Hold your tongue, Williams," retorted my mistress. "Lady Fullham did
not know of her niece's existence."
"Then she might have known," said Mrs. Williams, who is not easily put
down. "She could have asked, I presume."
"Will you be quiet?" said my lady. "You see, Dolly, the doctor says I
must go to the Bath and stay several months, and that makes it needful
to shut up the house. I can't afford to keep two establishments, nor
could you stay here alone."
"There would be no need of that," said Mrs. Williams. "Mrs. Dolly could
go with us to the Bath. I am sure you will need her quite as much there
as here."
"Hold your tongue, Williams!" This is her regular retort, and Mrs.
Williams cares for it as much as for the sparrows' chirping outside.
"It would increase my expenses very greatly to carry Dolly with me, and
that is what I cannot afford. I am like to be driven to beggary as it
is, with all this journeying and expense."
Mrs. Williams's needles rattled like a soldier's equipments, and her
chin went up in the air with its own peculiar toss.
My lady continued,—
"Besides, my Lady Fullham, being own sister to Dolly's mother, has the
best right to her. She is wealthy, and can take her into society, and
give her many advantages."
"She 'can,'" said Mrs. Williams. "The question is, whether she 'will.'"
"She says she intends to place Dolly on the same footing as her own
daughters," returned my lady. "Those were her very words, 'On the same
footing as my own daughters, in every respect.'—What do you say to
that, chick?"
"My aunt is very kind," said I. "I must say that it is pleasant to me
to think that I have some relations. I have been so alone in the world
hitherto."
"Better kind strangers than strange kin," snapped Mrs. Williams.
"Perhaps Dolly thinks she has not found the kind strangers," said my
lady.
"Oh, yes! I have had a great deal of kindness from strangers," said I.
"Nobody ever had a better friend than Mrs. Williams has been to me."
And in something of my old impulsive fashion, I threw my arms round the
dear old woman's neck, and gave her a good hug, thereby causing great
damage to the knitting.
Mrs. Williams returned my kiss; and then, gathering up her work, she
left the room.
"Williams, where are you going? Come back," cried my lady.
But Mrs. Williams only said she would come back presently, and closed
the door after her. When she did come back, I saw that she had been
weeping.
"Well, now, if you have done with your playacting, you and Williams,
perhaps you will listen to sense," said my lady peevishly. "Lady
Fullham and I have settled it all between us. Dolly is to go to her on
Monday."
"That is very short notice, seeing that this is Friday," observed Mrs.
Williams. "Mrs. Dolly will have no time to get her clothes ready; and
she needs new under-linen, stays, and gloves, and what not."
"There you are quite mistaken," said my mistress triumphantly. "Lady
Fullham expressly said Dolly was to bring nothing with her but the most
necessary clothes. She preferred to provide every thing herself.—So,
you see, Dolly, you need not take the blue silk gown I gave you, nor
the cloth mantle. They will do for some one else, if ever I have
another in your place, which I doubt."
"But, my lady, I have nothing else to wear,—not a decent thing," I
faltered, somewhat aghast.
"To be sure you have not," said Mrs. Williams decidedly. "I presume the
lady did not want her niece to come to her like a beggar-wench from
the Bridewell; nor would you, my lady, like to be thought so mean and
stingy as to send her out in that guise. You would not like to have
this fine lady telling every one of her acquaintance that Lady Corbet
was too mean to give her gentlewoman decent clothes."
Now, if there be one thing that my lady cares more for than for her
money, it is what people say about her.
"Of course not, of course not. I am only telling you what the lady
said. Of course, Dolly will take with her what clothes she has already.
All I mean is, that she need not wait to buy any more.—There, go away
now, Dolly, and let me have a rest. You can be putting your things in
order, if they need it."
But they do not need it. Thanks to my dear mother's lessons, followed
up by Mrs. Williams's, I have the fixed habit of mending my clothes as
they want it. I almost wish I had something to do to pass away the time.
To think that, after almost three years of slavery,—waiting on my
lady's whims, and wearing out my eyes and fingers in everlasting
seaming and stitching, and my throat in reading stupid books of
divinity that I could never make head nor tail of,—after all, I am
really to be a young lady, and take my place as such in my aunt's
family.
I hope I shall be able to content her. She seems like one who would
be mighty particular. I can see that she thinks a great deal of birth
and family. Well, mine ought to be good enough to suit her, one would
think. My mother was her own sister, and my father was related not
distantly, though I don't know just how, to the old Corbet family in
Devonshire and Cornwall. Sir Charles told me about it once,—that is, he
began to tell me, but my lady, who never could endure to have him speak
to me, came down on us like a dragon. Alas! Poor man. He was very good
to me. I have been looking at his last gift, which I always wear about
my neck. It is egg-shaped, about as large as a small pigeon's egg, and
there is something inside which rattles a little. I cannot see any way
to open it, but then I would not do so if I could,—at least I think not.
There is one thought that troubles me a good deal. How shall I ever see
or hear from Mr. Morley? He can come to visit my lady, and I can at
least see him and hear him talk, and now and then get a few words to
myself. As to meeting him in the park again, I have solemnly resolved
not to do that. But he is not in London, nor like to be for a long
time, and then his regiment is stationed in the west. My uncle and aunt
live not very far from Exeter, and perchance we may meet.
But my aunt is not going down to the west at present. She has taken
a furnished house, and means to remain at least till some time in
September, that her daughters may have lessons in drawing and music.
I wonder if I shall have them as well. I do love music dearly, but I
have not touched an instrument since I came to this house. There is
a harpsichord down-stairs, but it is locked and the key lost. Beside
that, my mistress hates music.
I can't pretend to say that I am sorry to leave "her." She has never
been kind to me, except when she was afraid of me; and she is one
of those people who delight to wreak their own discomforts on other
people. So sure as money hath not come in when she expected it, or
her supper hath disagreed with her, or she hath had an argument with
Mr. Pendergast about giving something (and he is not afraid of her,
whoever else is), just so surely my ears and shoulders have had to pay
the piper. And one never can tell when she will break out. It is like
living with some treacherous wild animal. And I don't think I owe her
any debt of gratitude for my board and clothes, either. Mrs. Williams
herself told my mistress that I earned all I had, and more too; and she
is one who never exaggerates, as I know I do sometimes.
I am sorry to leave Mrs. Williams. A better woman never lived or
breathed, as I believe I have said two or three times before, but I
don't care. She is desperately strict in her notions, and thinks every
thing in the shape of amusement is wrong, except it may be a walk now
and then, or some kind of fanciful knitting. She would not even have
psalms sung in church.
And when Mr. Pendergast asked her how she got along with King David's
singers and instruments, she said tartly, "That was under the old
dispensation and not any rule for Christians."
Then he fell upon her with St. James, his words, "Is any merry? Let him
sing psalms."
But she answered more sharply still, that she read her Bible by the
light within, and that these words had a spiritual significance.
"But suppose my inward illumination shows me something quite different
from yours, what then?" asked Mr. Pendergast, whereat she was silent.
They are always very good friends, despite their arguments. I don't
suppose I shall ever see any of them again, and that I do regret. I
wonder whether my aunt will let me visit Bab Andrews. I shall be sorry
if she does not, for I love her dearly. I must try to see her to-morrow.
_August 10._
I have been an inmate of my aunt's family a week, and this is the
very first minute I have had to write. Somehow we never seem to have
any time to ourselves. Even for our hours of retirement and devotion,
which are strictly set apart every day, my aunt appoints our tasks of
reading; and we must give her an account of what we have read. However,
she does leave us alone at such times; and, as I am a rapid reader and
have a good memory, I hope I may now and then have a few minutes.
I was all ready on Monday morning when my aunt's carriage came for me;
and it was with a strange feeling of acting in a dream that I took my
seat in it, beside a somewhat sharp-visaged person who I learned was
my cousins' waiting-woman. I was no sooner seated beside her than she
began to arrange my kerchief and bodice, telling me that I was not
dressed snug enough.
"But we shall soon change all that," said she. "Is your health pretty
good, Mrs. Dorothy? You are rather pale."
I told her that it was my natural complexion, that I had never been ill
more than two or three times in my life, and then not seriously.
"Are not my cousins healthy?" I ventured to ask.
"Mrs. Betty is well, Mrs. Margaret is rather delicate," was the reply.
I asked how old they were, and she told me that Margaret was eighteen
and Betty sixteen.
"Then I am just between them, for I am seventeen," said I.
At that moment I saw Bab Andrews coming out at her father's door, and
nodded to her.
"You must never do that when my mistress sees you," was the comment my
companion made. "She would be very angry."
"But why?" I asked. "Mr. Andrews is a very wealthy and good man, and
his daughter is lovely. Did you not think her nice looking?"
"Yes, she hath a nice face and air," said Mrs. Sharpless. (Such was
the waiting-woman's name, she told me.) "But if she were an angel from
heaven, it would make no difference. My mistress will have her young
people make no friends out of her own circle."
I felt rather dashed at this, and I dare say I showed it. Mrs.
Sharpless turned to me, and put her hand on my arm.
"Mrs. Dorothy, though it is not my place perhaps, I am going to give
you a bit of advice," said she impressively. "You are but a young
thing, and are coming into a new place. Now, mind what I say. If you
would get on smoothly and comfortably, you must make up your mind to
have no will of your own, but to be governed by my mistress your aunt
in all things. 'Tis the only way."
I told her I hoped I knew my duty too well not to be submissive to my
aunt who was so kind as to adopt me.
"Why, aye, you seem a towardly young lady, and well-bred. And I am glad
your cousins will have a companion of their own age, poor things! Well,
here we are."
It was with no little trepidation that I found myself ushered into my
aunt's presence. She was sitting in her own parlor, surrounded by heaps
of silk and linen, laces and other things of the sort; and a man was
in attendance with more bundles still. My aunt received me kindly, and
kissed my cheek.
"You may carry Mrs. Dorothy to her cousins' room, and tell them from
me they may have a holiday till dinner to get acquainted with their
cousin. And do you unpack her mail, and lay out her things upon the
bed, that I may look them over. We must put her wardrobe in hand
directly, that she may be decent to go out with me."
Mrs. Sharpless curtsied, and led me up-stairs, and along a passage
to a green door covered with cloth. This she opened, knocking first,
and ushered me into a somewhat bare room, where two young ladies were
sitting,—one at her book, the other at the harpsichord where she was
making terrible work of her scales. They both looked round as we
entered, but neither stirred till Mrs. Sharpless said,—
"Mrs. Margaret and Mrs. Betty, this is your cousin Mrs. Dorothy Corbet,
with whom your mother desires you to become acquainted; and to that end
she gives you a holiday till dinner-time.—I will go and lay out your
things, Mrs. Dorothy, and then come and show you your bedroom."
Margaret and Betty came forward and kissed me, rather coolly I thought;
and there was a minute or two of awkward silence, which Betty broke by
asking in a business-like way,—
"Well, why don't you become acquainted, since that is the order?"
"Betty!" said Margaret warningly.
"Because I don't know how," said I, laughing in spite of myself. "At
school, when new girls came in, we used to get acquainted by asking
their names and histories, but I dare say you know all that."
"Oh, yes, my mother was pleased to inform us that we had a new cousin
who would share our studies and pleasures!" Betty laid an emphasis on
this last word, which was almost bitter I thought. "And I suppose she
told you all about us."
"Not very much," I answered. "Mrs. Sharpless told me that Margaret was
the elder, and that she was not very strong."
"Are you?" asked Betty. I told her yes.
"So much the better for you," said she shortly, and then she began to
ask me about my accomplishments. Could I sing? Could I play? I told her
I could do both.
"I am glad on't; that is, if you play well," said Betty. "Meg loves
music, and she will have something to listen to beside my horrible
strumming."
"And do you play?" I asked, turning to Margaret, who, in as careless an
attitude as her stiff chair would permit, was looking at us with soft,
wistful, dark eyes, which reminded me somehow of Bab Andrews's dog.
"Yes, but not very well," said she. "But I am glad you can play, cousin
Dorothy. Try something now."
"I am not sure I can remember any thing," said I. "I have not touched a
harpsichord in three years."
However, I did make out to play one of my old lessons, and then I
sang a song out of one of Mr. Shakspeare's plays, "Hark! The lark at
heaven's gate sings."
It was always a favorite of mine, and I was so glad to sing and play
once more, that I did my very best. Margaret sprang up from her chair
and came and stood by me. As I ceased and looked up, I saw that her
color was deepened, and there were tears in her bright, soft eyes.
Before I had time to speak, Mrs. Sharpless came and called me. But,
as I rose from the music-stool, Betty caught my hand, and gave it a
squeeze.
"You have made Meg happy," said she. "I shall love you if you can do
that."
"And I am sure I shall love you," I began to say.
But Mrs. Sharpless hurried me away, saying that my aunt was waiting.
My heart sank fathoms deep as I suddenly remembered my precious
writing-books and thought of their meeting my aunt's eye. When I
entered the room which was to be mine, however, I saw no trace of them
and my aunt was as kind as ever.
"I have been looking over your things, Dorothy," said she, "and I am
pleased with the order in which you have kept them. It shows that you
are neat, and clever with your needle. I see you have a Bible and
Prayer-Book: that is well. But why are you so pleased?"
For I had caught up the Prayer-Book with a little cry of joy. It was
my dear mother's gift, which my mistress had taken away from me when
I first went to live with her. I explained the matter to my aunt. She
nodded.
"Just what one would expect such a person to do," was her comment.
Now, I don't believe my mistress's religion had the least thing to do
with her taking away my Prayer-Book. I don't believe Mr. Pendergast
would have done it, or poor dear Mr. Baxter, though he did use to send
me such dreary, uncomfortable books to read. It was just a piece of my
lady's spite, like her forbidding Mrs. Williams to knit, because it
gave her the fidgets to see and hear the needles. Marry, she soon grew
tired of that. But I had learned already not to argue with my aunt.
"But you must have a new book to carry to church," said she. "My
daughters attend church every morning at eight, and I shall expect you
to go with them. Is this old-fashioned silk your best dress?"
"Yes, madam."
"And who made it."
I told her I had made it myself out of an old one of my Lady Jem's.
"Well, well! It is neatly done and does you credit, but you must have
two or three new ones made in the fashion. I dare say your mistress did
not care much for that. But remember it is a duty we owe to the world,
to dress becomingly to our stations. There, now, you may go back to the
schoolroom, and Sharpless will arrange your drawers for you. She is
your cousins' attendant, and will be yours as well."
Mrs. Sharpless followed me into the passage with my handkerchief. As
she gave it into my hands, she said in a low tone,—
"Your copy-books are on the high shelf in your closet behind the books,
Mrs. Dolly. It is a good place for them, and you might as well leave
them there."
I nodded assent, well-pleased for the moment to think they had escaped
my aunt's eye. But, when I had a little time to think, I must say that
I was not pleased to think this waiting-woman should have my secret
in her hands. She seems a good woman, and very devoted to her young
ladies, especially to Meg; and it was kind of her to save me from being
disgraced with my aunt, and perhaps sent back on my mistress's hands.
Oh, dear, I almost wish at times that I had never seen Mr. Morley, and
yet!—But be as it may, there is no use in wishing things undone.
We dined at noon, as the fashion is now; and, being used to have my
meal an hour earlier, I was hungry enough. The table was beautifully
set out, and the dinner elegantly cooked and served. But I can't say I
enjoyed it very much. My aunt seemed to watch every motion and every
mouthful. It was,—
"Betty, where are your elbows?"
"Margaret, hold your fork more easily. There, now, you have dropped
it," as poor Meg, startled, let her fork fall with a great clatter.
"One would think you had lived in Wales or some other place where forks
have not yet come into fashion."
And so on, to the end of the dinner. I noticed that my cousins ate
very little, but, as for me, I made a good meal. After dinner, we were
dismissed to dress for going out with my aunt. Meg is about my height:
so I was arrayed in one of her dresses, which was almost too small for
me, slender as I am. But by dint of twitching my stay-laces so tight
that I could hardly breathe, Mrs. Sharpless got it on.
"Oh, dear, I can never breathe in this!" said I.
"You must get used to it," said Betty. "Straitjackets are the fashion
here, as well as in Bedlam. You ought to be used to strait-lacing,
Dorothy, living among Presbyterians so long."
"That is a different kind of lacing," I answered. "I have never been
used to dress tight. My mother and Mrs. Williams thought it very
unwholesome."
"And they are right. It is murderous," said Betty.
"Hush, Mrs. Betty, you must not speak so," said Mrs. Sharpless, but not
unkindly. "You don't think your mother would do any thing murderous, do
you?"
"She would not mean to," said Betty, and that was the end of the matter.
My aunt carried Betty and myself to the park in her fine coach, to take
the air among the great folks. But I don't think there were as many gay
equipages as used to be in the old king's time. My Lady Castlemain was
there, sulky and handsome, lolling back in her carriage, but I did not
see anybody take much notice of her. My aunt seemed to have many grand
acquaintances, and even exchanged a few words with the king himself. I
think he looks more gloomy than ever.
I was presented to the Countess of Sunderland, who had just stopped
to take up Mr. Evelyn. He recognized me in a moment, and kindly asked
after my health, and when I had heard from my friend. He also told me
that Mrs. Patty, my little school friend, had gone to live altogether
with her great-aunt. My aunt was talking to my Lady Sunderland, but
as soon as we separated, she turned and asked me, rather severely,
where I had met Mr. Evelyn, and who he was talking about. I told her
all about it. Whereat she remarked that Lady Clarenham was a woman of
good family, though her father had taken the wrong side in the late
troubles, and that every one respected Mr. Evelyn.
I must say I did not enjoy the drive. My stays hurt me so, I could
hardly breathe; and I am not enough used to the swinging motion of a
coach to like it even yet. Besides, the passing of the places where I
had been in other company did revive my grief, and make me feel more
than ever how hungry my heart was for the sight of the dear one.
I liked it better when we went to the shops, where my lady bought me
a new Prayer-Book and some other books of devotions and meditations,
and a beautiful sewing-equipage for my pocket, and some toilet matters
whereof I really did stand in need. Betty timidly asked if she might
buy a little flask of aromatic vinegar for Meg, saying that it was good
for her headaches.
"Yes, if you choose, though I think Meg's headaches are mostly of the
imagination," said my lady.
Betty's cheek flushed, and her lips were pressed more closely together,
but they relaxed a little when my aunt added kindly, "But I am pleased
to see you thoughtful for your sister, child. Here, you may take a
bottle of this distilled lavender, also: I think she likes it, does she
not?"
"Yes, madam," answered Betty, and her face grew softer than I had yet
seen it.
In the evening my lady went to the play, with her daughters. I was left
behind as having nothing to wear, and I was not sorry. I wanted to get
off my dress for one thing, and to quiet my head, which was all in a
whirl. Certainly it seemed to me the longest day of my life.
After I had practised my music an hour with great delight, I took my
work and sat down by the open window, for it was very warm. The house
at the back overlooks some fine gardens, so we have good air. I was
sorry when Mrs. Sharpless came in and ordered me away, saying I would
take cold. I think I would like to be a gypsy or a farmer's wife, and
so live in the open air.
It was ten o'clock when my cousins came up to their room. Margaret
looked very pale, I thought. They were no sooner inside the schoolroom,
than Betty flew at her sister, undid her dress, and unlaced her stays
so quickly that the silk laces fairly snapped. Margaret sank down in a
chair with a sigh of relief.
"Oh, how good that is!" said she. And then she put her arms round
Betty's neck, and her head on her shoulder, and wept hysterically. I
brought the flask of lavender-water, and bathed her head, and held
my hartshorn salts to her nose, but nothing did any good till Mrs.
Sharpless, who had come in, said in a voice of kind authority,—
"Come, come, Mrs. Margaret, this won't do at all! Your mother will hear
you."
If I had children, I would not like to be held up to them as a bugbear
or a bogy. But it had its effect in Margaret's case. She checked her
sobs with a great effort.
"I won't be so silly," said she, with a pitiful smile. "Dorothy will
think me a baby."
"Dorothy knows what it is to be tired and overdone," said I, as I
kissed her. "But you will feel better when you have rested."
Since then I have fallen into the ways of my aunt's household, and
my life goes on like clockwork. Rise at six and dress. Spend an hour
in our closets reading of some good book. Then to church to prayers.
Then home, to breakfast on bread and butter, and cold water, or very
weak broth. My aunt says beer spoils the shape and complexion. Then to
appear before my aunt in her dressing-room. Then she examines minutely
all the details of our toilets, trying our stays to see if they are
tight enough, and commenting on every stray hair. After that, we give
her an account of what we have read in our closets, and read aloud to
her the lessons of the day.
Then come our lessons,—French and music and Italian. My aunt will have
both the girls learn music; and Meg makes great proficiency, but Bess
hates it: she has no ear, and does make the most terrible work. In the
afternoon we take turns, two to go out with my lady, and one to stay
at home, and work at embroidery, or sometimes at plain white seams for
some poor body, for my aunt is very charitable. She says we owe it to
our position to be kind to the poor, but I don't think I should want
any one to be kind to me in that way. Then in the evening we go out
somewhere, to a play, or the opera, which is very fashionable just now;
or to spend the evening with some friend of my aunt's.
Certainly it is a very different life from that I have been leading the
last few years, but I think I go to bed at night quite as tired as I
used to when I was running half the day to wait on my mistress. There
are many pleasant things which were wanting in my former life, love
being the best of all. I do really think my aunt loves me, sharp as she
is at times, and I know my cousins do.
Then, I have my lessons, especially my music, in which Mr. Goodgroome
says I make great progress; and there is the feeling that nobody
grudges me my living. My aunt is generous as the day; and if she checks
us in eating and drinking (as I must say she too often does), it is,
as she says, for our good, lest we should spoil our figures. I believe
I am very perverse not to be happy here, but I am afraid I am not. But
I must hurry to put away my book. My work is all done, that is one
comfort.
_August 15._
We had rather a painful scene yesterday, in which poor Meg hath been
the sufferer, which is uncommon. It is generally Betty who comes in
for her mother's anger when she is angry, which, in truth, is not very
often. But we had been to a play in which there was dancing; and after
we were come home, my aunt gave us the rather uncommon indulgence of a
little supper. She was talking of the play and the actors, and remarked
that one of them, Becky Marshall, was said to be the daughter of a
Presbyterian minister. She asked me if I had ever heard any thing about
the matter.
"Yes, aunt," I answered, "I heard Mr. Pendergast say that her father
was a most worthy man, who, he thought, could hardly be happy in heaven
if he knew how his daughters had turned out. I know that Mr. Pendergast
went himself to try to win the girls from their way of life, but he did
not succeed."
"I dare say not," said my aunt. "A woman must be pretty well hardened
in sin before she would take to such courses, exhibiting herself for
money, and in men's attire. But it was a kind and Christian act to try
to rescue the poor creature. Who is this Mr. Pendergast?"
"A Presbyterian minister, aunt, whom I used to meet at my Lady
Corbet's. He and his wife were very good to me there."
"Oh!" said my aunt, slightly disconcerted, I fancy, that she had been
betrayed into praising a Presbyterian minister. "However, I won't say
that it was not a good and kind deed," she added; "though, as I said, a
woman must be lost to all sense of goodness before she would take such
a place at all. When I was young, no women ever appeared on the stage.
All the women's parts were taken by boys; and, as I remember, there
were some—Bishop Hall for one—who objected even to that, and Mr. Prynne
wrote an immense book about it."
"But, madam," said Margaret timidly, "if it be wrong for women to act
on the stage, is it not, wrong for other women to go and see them, and
thus encourage them?"
My aunt looked at her daughter in amazement. Margaret went on, as if
she were determined to free her mind for once, despite Betty's pinches,
and the warning glances of Mrs. Sharpless sent from behind her lady's
chair. "In the lesson we read this morning, madam, the apostle tells us
that women are to be attired in modest apparel, with shamefacedness,
not with gold or pearls or costly array; and St. Peter, as I remember,
says the same. Now these poor creatures, I suppose, take to the stage
to make a living, and no doubt they are bad enough. ¹ But if we go to
hear them, and thus encourage them in their miserable way of life, only
for our idle amusement, are we not more to blame than they? I must
needs think so."
¹ It must be understood that I am speaking of the stage in the time of
the Stewarts. Of the stage at present I know next to nothing, save that
it is much better than it was then.—L. E. G.
"Marry come up! What sort of Puritan have I for a daughter?" said my
aunt angrily. "Upon whom do you presume to sit in judgment, mistress?
Do you not see all the very best ladies of the court and in society at
the play?"
"And don't you see, Meg, that if we are to take the apostles' words for
what they say, we are all wrong together?" said Betty. "What becomes of
all our uncovered necks and bosoms and our jewels and gold lace? You
would condemn us all in a lump."
My aunt did not see the sarcasm at all, but giving Betty an approving
nod, she bestowed on Margaret a severe lecture for her perverseness,
ending with,—
"Of course things are different now. We owe it a duty to the world to
dress according to our station, and to follow the customs of society;
and it is not for chits like you to set up to dictate. You are to do as
you are bid."
"I have no wish to do any thing else," Margaret began.
But her mother stopped her, bidding her go to bed, and not appear
before her again till she had learned without book three parts of
the 119th Psalm in French. My aunt kept us to treat us to plum-cake,
seasoned with a lecture on the evil of young people professing to know
more than their elders.
As we went up-stairs, we heard Meg sobbing in her room, but she would
not let us in.
This morning she was up very early; and, when we went to my aunt, she
had her task prepared, whereat my aunt kissed and forgave her. But
after all, thinking it over, I can't see but Meg was right. The Bible
does say those very words, for I looked them up afterward. I said as
much to Betty.
"Of course she was right," said Bess; "that is, if there be any right
or reality about it anywhere. I would like to know where in the New
Testament my mother finds laid down the duty which Christians owe to
the world. I think I will ask Dr. Tenison about that, if ever I have a
chance."
"But, Bess, all the ladies my aunt visits, and those whom she holds up
to us for examples, do these things," said I. "My Lady Sunderland, as
particular as she is, was at the play last night."
"There was a time, or so I suppose, that all the fine ladies went to
see Christian men and women and poor captives fight for their lives
with wild beasts," retorted Bess. "You know we read about the vestal
virgins yesterday, and how they always had the best places."
"Anyhow I am glad my aunt hath taken Meg into favor again," said I. "I
could not but wonder at her coming out so. It was not like her."
"You will say it is just like her when you know her better," said
Bess. "Every now and then she angers my mother in the same way. I
wish she would not; for it does no good, and only brings down a storm
which hurts Meg, and some additional task which hurts her still more.
Don't you see how pale she is to-day? I dare swear she did not sleep
last night. I do think my mother is as blind as a bat. Oh, how I wish
something would happen that we might go to my aunt Laneham's again!"
"Why, where is she?" I asked.
"She lives in Biddeford, and my mother sent us to her once when one of
our servants had small-pox. Meg was happier there than I ever saw her,
though my aunt Laneham is poor, and our meat and lodging were plain
enough. But she went out with my aunt and uncle to visit the poor folk
and the sick; and then aunt knows how to let one alone, which I believe
my mother never can. O Dorothy, I would do any thing in the world for
Meg!"
"There is one thing you could do for her," said I, "and that is to take
more pains with your music, and not make such dreadful noises on the
harpsichon."
Bess turned round and looked at me in amazement, with her eyebrows
lifted to the top of her forehead so it was well my aunt did not see
her.
"What do you mean?" said she. "You know I have no ear. You said so
yourself."
"I never said you had no eyes," I answered. "See here. Your eyes tell
you that the notes in that chord are B, D, and G, don't they?"
"Yes, to be sure."
"And they also tell you what are the keys on the harpsichon answering
to those notes?"
Bess nodded.
"Then why can't you play those notes instead of scraping our ears by
playing F and C?"
Betty's eyebrows came down a little, and she looked like one who has
received a new idea. "Do you really think I could learn to play,
Dorothy?" she asked.
"I do think so. I won't say you could ever make a great player. Your
ear is not fine enough. But you can learn to play correctly if you do
but take pains enough, and certainly that would be a comfort to Meg.
Her ear is so fine that every discord is a torture to her, though she
would never say so."
"She is too sweet and patient ever to complain of any thing," said
Bess; "the more shame that she should be murdered by inches, which is
what my mother is doing."
"You should not say so," said I, shocked at her words. "Come, now, play
your lesson, and I will overlook you if you like."
"And what about your French verb?"
"Oh, I know it already! Come, begin, and I will count for you."
We really did get through the lesson very decently, and I felt paid for
all my pains by Betty's glance when Meg said this morning, "You played
that nicely, Bess. It was really a pleasure to hear you."
When the lesson was done, Betty put her arms round me and kissed me.
"I am so glad you came here, Dorothy.—Are not you, Meg?"
"Yes, indeed!" says Meg.
"That is, for our sake I am," said Bess. "I am not sure I am for yours."
"Then you should be," said I; for I won't encourage Bess in her
discontent, which only makes matters worse. "I am sure your mother is
most kind, far beyond any thing I had a right to expect, in putting
me, a stranger, on an exact equality with her own daughters in all
respects, and presenting me to all her friends."
"Yes, that is a great privilege," muttered Bess.
"It 'is' a privilege, as you would know, if you had been motherless so
long as I have," I answered. "Granting for the sake of argument that my
aunt makes mistakes, yet you must see that all she does is with a view
to our good. She said last night that if she could see us well settled
in the world, she would be ready to leave it."
"Does she not talk like a preacher?" said Betty, turning to Meg.
"'Granting for the sake of argument.' Did you learn that from your Mr.
Pendergast, Dorothy."
I never mind Betty's mocking speeches; for to me, at least, there is no
unkindness in her mockery.
"I never learned any thing but good of him, and I dare say I might have
learned more than I did," I returned.
"What sort of person was he?" asked Margaret. "Was he a gentleman?"
"I don't exactly know what you mean by a gentleman."
"What! You don't know what is meant by a gentleman, when you see such
shining examples before you every day!" said Betty. "Look at my Lord
Chesterton, if you want the model of a gentleman."
"He certainly was not a bit like my Lord Chesterton," said I, "for he
was a little, meagre man, very poorly dressed. But I must say I liked
him much the best of the two, if I must compare them."
"And he did not flourish his snuff-box, nor swear every other word,
nor tell stories about Mrs. This and Lady T'other, and boast of the
conquests he had made? Of course he could not be a gentleman," said
Bess.
"Don't let us spoil our holiday talking of such things," said Margaret.
"I hate the very sound of them. Sing us a nice song, Dorothy. Sing that
lovely hymn of Bishop Ken's that Mr. Goodgroome brought us the other
day, and let us forget the world for a little."
I sung the hymn, and then another that I learned of Bab Andrews,
about the golden city of Jerusalem, with which Margaret was greatly
delighted, and asked me who was the author. I told her it was writ in
Latin by St. Bernard, I believed, but I did not tell her that it had
been done into English by poor Mr. Fairchild, as a farewell token to
his mistress. I felt as if Bab's confidences were sacred.
"That just suits Margaret. Would you not like to be a nun, Meg?" asked
Betty.
"No," said Meg, after a little consideration, "I don't think I should.
I would like to live as my aunt Laneham does, or like my Lady Jemima
Stanton, that the dean's wife took us to see once when we were little
girls. Don't you remember?"
"Yes, indeed," said Bess. "What a happy day we had! But I am not sure I
should like to live like my aunt Laneham all the time,—to wear grogram
and homespun, and count every sixpence and every slice of bread as she
does."
"Is she so very penurious, then?" I asked, thinking of my mistress.
"I don't think Meg would like that at all, not if she had had my
experience."
"My aunt Laneham is not one bit penurious," said Meg, rather
indignantly. "I never saw people so open-handed as she and my uncle.
But he is a clergyman, with a large parish, and a not very large
living; and my aunt is obliged to spare that she may have wherewith to
be generous."
"That is a very different matter," I answered. "That is like Mr. and
Mrs. Pendergast, if you are not tired of hearing about them."
"I am not," said Meg. "I like to hear all about such people. Tell us
more about them."
So we sat down, I with my knitting,—which my aunt highly commends,
and has given me silk thread enough for a pair of hose,—and the girls
with their white seam, and I told them all I knew about the minister's
family and household,—how poor they were, and what hard work they often
had to appear even decently clad; and how Mrs. Pendergast and her
oldest daughter Beulah went about among the poor folks, and had the
little ones come to them to learn to read and sew; and so on, making a
long story out of a little, because I saw that Meg was pleased. When I
stopped at last—
"I don't see but good people are much alike everywhere," said Meg.
"This minister's wife seems very much like my aunt Laneham."
"What is that?" said my aunt, opening the door. "What about aunt
Laneham?"
I started, she came in so quietly, but Meg answered tranquilly,—
"I was only saying, madam, that my aunt was like a very good woman
Dorothy was telling us of, who visited the poor and sick, and taught
little maidens to read and sew."
"Ah, poor sister Laneham! She threw herself away dreadfully. She might
have been living in one of the finest country-houses in Devon, but she
would have her own way, and she got it. I always thought her parents
much to blame in giving in to her. But your grandfather and grandmother
were very lax with their children. Talking of clergymen, Margaret, I
hear you were not at church this morning. How was that?"
"I was there, madam, but I felt faint and ill, and so sat under a
window, that I might have the fresh air," answered Meg.
"Oh, very well! Lady Carewe told me she did not see you."
"Spiteful, tattling old toad!" muttered Betty between her teeth, which
my aunt, overhearing, rewarded with a sharp rap from her fan-handle,
which was meant for her shoulders, but unluckily fell across her check
instead, making a red bar on the white skin. Betty uttered a cry of
pain, for she has been having the toothache lately, and her cheek is
very tender.
Meg started forward, her pale cheek flushed for once.
"You must not give way to these megrims, Meg," said my aunt, taking no
notice of Betty. "They are more than half fancy, and the more you give
way to them, the more you may. Let me see you down-stairs in an hour,
nicely dressed. My Lady Sunderland has lent us her box for the play
to-night. Dorothy, you may wear your green silk, and Margaret may do
the same. Betty will wear her old black silk."
With that she left the room; and Meg and I set ourselves to comfort
and quiet Betty, who was in an agony of rage and shame, and of pain as
well, for the blow had set her teeth to aching. I know one thing: if
ever I have a grown-up daughter, I will never strike her.
"You cannot go to the play to-night, Bess, that is one comfort," said
Meg.
And indeed her face was swollen and angry, and growing worse every
moment.
"I will go," said Bess. "I will shame her before all the company."
"Shame your own mother!" said I. "Remember, her shame is yours; and,
beside, my aunt did not mean to strike your face."
All we could do did not avail to prevent Bess from going down to the
parlor, though her face was a woeful spectacle, with a fiery red bar
across it, and the blood settling round her eye. Luckily, there were no
strangers present. My aunt did look disconcerted for a moment.
"You cannot go to the play in this state," said she. "I did not mean to
strike your cheek, nor to strike so hard."
"It does not matter, madam," answered Betty.
"Don't answer me in that tone, child," said my aunt, more gently than I
expected. "Do you not know, Betty, that young folks must be corrected
sometimes? How else would they be fitted to take their proper places in
society? My whole desire is to see Margaret and yourself, and Dorothy
too," she added kindly, "well settled in the world, and answering to
what the world expects of ladies in your condition."
"And what about the other world, madam?" asked Betty, who had got the
bit between her teeth, and was reckless of consequences. "That is a
world, which, if all we hear be true, is likely to last a good deal
longer than this. How about that?"
My lady looked really grieved.
"I did not expect such a question from my daughter," said she. "Do
I not take all the pains possible with your religious education? Do
I not give you the best books of devotion that can be found both in
French and English? Do I not send you to church every day and twice on
Sundays? What more can I do? But there, I pardon you, child. You have
your father's temper, and one must make allowances. Go to your room,
and bid Sharpless make a poultice for your face, and I will send you
some custard for your supper. But try to rule your spirit, Betty, and
do not doubt your mother's love, though she may think it needful to
cross you at times."
I saw that Betty was softened in a moment, though she said nothing. Meg
ventured to ask if she might stay with her sister, but my aunt said no.
She had made up a party for her box, and could not have it broken up.
So we went to the play; and there we met Lord Chesterton, who devoted
himself to Meg all the evening, much to her annoyance. I could not
but wonder if it were necessary to the character of a fine gentleman
to take the name of God in vain at every breath, as they all do. Mr.
Evelyn is as fine a gentleman as any of them, and I never heard him do
it. It used to scare me dreadfully at first; but I am growing used to
it, and even find myself catching up the words, which some ladies use
very freely, I find.
_August 20._
I have seen Mr. Morley.
We went to church as usual this morning. Ursula Jackson comes every
Sunday with her husband, and I have got a habit of looking for her, and
sometimes of speaking when we meet. My aunt doth not object, because
she says we owe it to ourselves to be civil to all, each in their
degree.
Well, I looked round as usual, after we had curtsied to my Lady Carewe
(a wonderful object she is in her black locks and rouged cheeks, which
show the crow's feet and wrinkles through all her paint). Well, I
glanced toward Ursula's pew, as usual, and there sat Mr. Morley. I
was so astonished I could hardly command myself. While I was looking,
Ursula and her husband came in; and Mr. Morley rose to make room for
them, with a polite salute, which Mr. Jackson returned, though he
looked like a small thunder-storm. Mr. Morley bowed very particularly
to me; and I returned his salute, not knowing what else to do.
When we came out, my aunt asked me who it was that had bowed to me. I
told her it was a distant cousin of Lady Corbet's, whom I had met at
her house.
"One of her way of thinking?" she asked.
"No, madam," I answered. "He has a company in Col. Kirke's regiment."
"Ay, I thought he looked like a soldier," was her comment.
As we passed out, I heard Mr. Jackson rating the old pew-opener for
daring to put a stranger into his seat. The poor old woman protested
that she meant no offence, saying the gentleman had told her he was
Mrs. Jackson's cousin. Ursula stood by without a word. I fancy she hath
met her match, and I am not one bit sorry if she has.
What was my surprise, on coming down in the evening, to find Mr. Morley
with my aunt, and evidently in favor!
"Mr. Morley has brought me a letter from your father, girls," said my
aunt, as she presented him to us. "He is on his way up to town, and as
Mr. Morley passed him on the road, he was kind enough to take charge of
a packet. Your father was obliged by business to stop a few days on the
road, but he will be here the last of the week."
Both the girls uttered exclamations of joy. They are clearly very fond
of their father, who I fancy is more indulgent than their mother.
"Sir Robert is happy in having such affectionate daughters," said Mr.
Morley, bowing; "and I am glad to find my old acquaintance, Mrs. Dolly
Corbet, in such pleasant circumstances."
"Yes, my girls are fond of their father, who spoils them dreadfully,"
said my aunt, looking not ill-pleased, however. "Dorothy has not yet
seen her uncle."
Mr. Morley staid to supper, and made himself so agreeable that I felt
proud of him. Of course, we had no chance to talk together in private,
but it was enough for once to be in the room with him, to hear his
voice, and catch now and then a glance from his eye meant for me alone.
When at last he took his leave, my aunt asked him to come again.
I should be the happiest girl alive only that Meg has taken an
unaccountable dislike to him. When I ventured to ask her what she
thought of him, "Why, as I thought when I saw the great American viper
that Mr. Boyle showed us in his museum," said she. "His head hath just
the same shape; only they say the viper gives warning when he is about
to strike, and I doubt this one would not."
"You are not used to be so uncharitable, Meg," said I, very much vexed.
"Perhaps I am wrong," said she, "but I took a dislike to the man the
moment I saw him."
"You ought to like him because he is my friend," said I.
"That is the very reason I don't," she rejoined.
"And what say you, Betty?" I asked. "Don't you like him, either?"
"I don't like or dislike him," said Betty. "He is like all the
rest,—stale, flat, and unprofitable. Oh, how I do hate it all! But I am
glad my father is coming up: do you know why?"
"Because you wish to see him."
"Yes, and because I know very well he will never endure to stay here
long. He hates London as much as I do, and you will see he will whisk
us down to dear old Devon before three weeks are over; and oh, how glad
I shall be!—Won't you, Meg?"
"Yes, if I go," said Meg wearily. "Dolly, will you let Sharpless come
to me first to-night, I am so tired?" (For we take turns in being first
waited on.)
"You may have her all the time, for all I care," said I. "You know I am
used to dressing myself. But why do you say, 'if I go'? Of course you
will go with us."
She shook her head sadly, but said not one word, as she passed into her
room and closed the door. I looked at Betty.
"What does she mean?" said I.
"I don't know," answered Betty, "only Meg always thinks she shall die
young. But there may be another reason. Come into my room, Dorothy."
She shut the door, and said in a low tone, "I think my mother has a
match in hand for her."
"You don't mean Lord Chesterton!" I exclaimed, rather more loudly than
was prudent.
"Hush!" said Bess. "Yes, I am afraid so."
"But she cannot abide him!"
"He is an earl's son and probable heir to a dukedom," said Betty
bitterly.
"And an atheist, open and avowed."
"Well, not exactly that. You know it is the genteel thing for men to
have doubts about religion."
I thought of Mr. Morley, and was silent for a moment. Then I asked,
"But what think you your father will say?"
"He would not let Meg be sacrificed—or think not—if she were utterly
set against this man," answered Betty slowly; "though Sir Robert rarely
interferes with my mother. I think you will love him, Dolly, though he
is rather rough in his ways at times. But I don't know that his oaths
and stories are any worse than those of the fine gentlemen that visit
my mother."
"I don't see how they could be. But, Bess, don't be too much cast down.
It may well be that we are borrowing trouble about Meg."
"Well, I hope so. There is one thing about it, I don't believe any one
she marries will trouble her long. Good-night, Dolly."
_August 27._
My uncle has come, a big, roistering country gentleman, who kissed me
on both sides of my face, and bade God bless me, and in the same breath
damned his man for not bringing his bootjack. But I like him for all;
there is something real and genuine about him. He scolded about our
pale cheeks, vowed he would have us out stag-hunting, and asked me if I
could ride.
"I don't know, uncle. I am like the man in the jest-book, who said he
did not know if he could play the fiddle, because he had never tried."
He laughed a great, hearty laugh, and said he was glad to see I had a
spirit of my own. Then turning to his elder daughter,—
"Why, Meg, thou lookest more like a white bind-weed than ever. What
ails thee, child?"
"Margaret hath been a little drooping, but we shall soon have her
better," said my aunt. "Will you not wash and dress before supper, Sir
Robert?"
"Oh, ay, I suppose so!" said he, and strode away whistling.
The house seems brighter already for his presence. He hath begged a
holiday for us that he may take us to see the sights. My aunt gives in
to him wonderfully, and Betty hangs on him like a burr. He has taken
us to see the lions in the tower, and some other sights, and given us
two or three drives out of town to one resort and another. Among others
we went to Hackney, and saw the place where I went to school. The old
house was pulled down, and a new one was going up, which I suppose my
poor mother's three hundred pounds helped to build. I would I had the
ordering of a few clever hobgoblins for the owner's benefit. He would
not stay long in his fine mansion.
Mr. Morley hath called two or three times, and hath even dined with us.
My uncle says he is a rising man, in favor at court, and like to do
well. He hath paid me some attention, but of course we have no chance
to talk together in private. Only last night we had a few words over
the harpsichon, where he had been singing with me.
"I am afraid you don't care for me any more, Dolly," said he. "Your
grand friends and admirers have made you forget your poor soldier of
fortune."
"I know not why you should say that," I answered. "Would you have me
run after you?"
"Ah, I see you have learned 'repartee!' But do you remember our
interviews in the park? I would we could have another such walk
together as we had that last morning. Come, meet me to-morrow in the
old place."
"I cannot if I would, and I would not if I could," said I. "I promised
solemnly I would never do that again."
"And to whom did you give that promise? To your amiable mistress, or
to her vinegar-faced waiting-woman? Pshaw, Dolly! Vows were made to be
broken."
"I tell you it is impossible!" said I. "You might as well ask me to
meet you in the moon."
My aunt called me at that moment, so I could say no more. I don't know
how it is: I ought to be the happiest girl in the world now that I can
see Mr. Morley so often, and that my uncle and aunt like him, but I am
not. I suppose perfect happiness is not for this world.
_September 1._
My uncle already talks of going down to Fullham, and the girls are
well-pleased. I don't want to go at all.
_September 2._
The murder is out. Lord Chesterton has made proposals for Margaret, and
been accepted. My uncle pished and pshawed a little about giving his
Meg to a courtier, but gave in when my aunt represented the likelihood
of Meg's being a duchess; for the duke's elder son is lately dead, and
the other is a poor, sickly little lad. Margaret says little, but makes
no objection. She grows thinner and paler every day, but my aunt does
not seem to notice it, or has not till lately. Now she makes her take
a little ale with her dinner, and two or three nights she hath herself
brought her a cup of wine whey at night.
I cannot make Meg out. Sometimes I think she is pleased with the
thought of being a duchess and living in that grand house, though that
is not like her. For my own part, I would rather live in a cabin with
the man I love. I said as much to Meg one night.
"And so would I, perhaps, if things were different," said she, with a
moonlight smile; "but, as it is, it does not matter."
"Why do you always say that?" I asked. "I think it matters a great
deal."
"If you were to stay only an hour or two at an inn on your way home,
you would not care much, though your accommodations were rough, and
your companions not greatly to your mind," said Meg.
"I don't understand you," said I.
But I had no chance to ask any more, for my lady called us to see
the splendid presents of jewels and lace that the duke hath sent to
Margaret. The poor little boy fades every day, they say, and the duke
treats his nephew already as his heir. I never in all my life saw such
pearls,—as big as peas, and of a wonderful purity and lustre. And there
is a sapphire jewel, in a ring, which is like a piece out of the blue
sky. Meg regarded them all with the same tranquil gravity with which
she looks at all the splendid preparations for her bridal.
"My uncle has been very kind, has he not?" said Lord Chesterton, who
had himself brought the jewels.
"Yes, every one is very kind," said Margaret gently.
"But you don't care for the silly things, after all?" said he, looking
earnestly at her. (I do think he is in love with her.) "Mrs. Margaret,
what can I do to give you a pleasure? I would sell my soul to see you
look pleased for once."
Margaret turned her lovely eyes upon him with an earnest expression.
"Then if you would really please me, my lord, there is one thing you
might do, and that is to break off such expressions as you used just
now."
(For he had confirmed his words with an oath, as usual.) "I beseech
you to break off this habit of taking God's holy name in vain on every
light occasion. That indeed would give me great pleasure."
"Well, I will," said he, kissing the hand she had laid on his arm in
her earnestness. "I know 'tis a bad habit, but after all, it means
nothing."
"That is just the trouble," said Meg. "It is against that very
meaningless invocation of the holy name that the command is aimed. I
beseech you, my lord, if you care for me, to break it off."
"I will try, indeed I will," said he; "I'll be—" Then catching himself
up with an embarrassed laugh, "There it is, you see. But indeed,
Margaret, I will try, if only to please you."
I never liked my lord so much as at that moment. He forgot his
affectations, and looked and spoke like a man.
My aunt, coming back just then, began praising the jewels.
"I never saw any thing so beautiful," said she. "Of what do they remind
you, Margaret?"
"Of the twelve gates that were twelve pearls," said Margaret; "and of
the walls of the city that are built of precious stones."
I saw the tears come to my Lord Chesterton's eyes as he turned away to
the window.
"You see my daughter is very religious," said my aunt.
"I would not have her otherwise, madam," he answered. "My own mother
is a devout woman, and prays for her scapegrace of a son every day.
Perhaps her prayers may be answered: who knows?—I think you will love
my mother, Margaret. You and she will take pleasure in trotting about
to the cottages together, and the north winds will blow some roses into
these pale cheeks. I do hope you will like my mother."
"I am sure I shall," said Margaret, with far more interest than she
had showed in the jewels. "Does she visit among the poor folk? Tell me
about her."
Lord Chesterton looked as pleased as a boy at having found something to
gratify his lady, and they talked together a long time. I believe there
is good in him, after all.
I heard a bit of good news to-day; namely, that Mr. Baxter is released
from prison on payment of his fine, which it seems was raised by
his friends. I wonder if my mistress gave another seven shillings.
Mr. Morley brought the news, adding that folks said his Majesty was
courting the Dissenters.
"And what is that for?" asked my uncle, who, I believe, thinks of
Dissenters as of some troublesome kind of weeds or animals.
"I can but tell you what is in men's mouths," said Mr. Morley. "'Tis
rumored that his Majesty intends to issue an act of toleration to his
own sort of people, and that he will include the Dissenters, so as a
little to take off the edge, as it were."
"And they will jump at the chance, of course," said my uncle; "and we
shall have a conventicle at every corner, eh, Dolly? Don't you think
so? Won't your Presbyterian friends jump at the chance?"
"I think not, sir," I answered. "Once when the matter was talked of, I
heard one of their divines say that they would not accept toleration on
any such terms."
"And did you ever see this Mr. Baxter, this Kidderminster bishop as
Jeffreys called him?" asked my uncle.
"Oh, yes, sir, many times! He was very kind to me. I am glad with all
my heart he is out of prison."
My aunt frowned. "You are too forward, Dorothy," said she. "Nobody
asked your opinion about the matter. Young ladies should be seen, not
heard."
"Oh, let her alone! I like to hear the wench stand up for her friends,"
said my uncle. "But you are not a Presbyterian, are you, Dolly? We
can't have that, eh, Mr. Morley?"
"No, sir, I am not a Presbyterian, but I have had good friends among
them, as you say," I answered.
"That's well, and I 'am' sorry for the poor things out our way," said
my uncle musingly. "I do think they have had very hard measure, very
needlessly hard. No offence to you, Mr. Morley."
"I cannot take offence where none is meant," said Mr. Morley. "You
know, sir, that war is a rough trade, and Col. Kirke's lambs learned it
in a rough school."
"True, 'tis a rough trade, but it need not be made rougher," said my
uncle.
And he began to tell one tale after another of horror, which made me
sick.
Surely Mr. Morley did never stain his hands with such cruelty. He has
always seemed so kind-hearted.
After dinner, my aunt took me to task sharply for my forwardness. She
has been sharp with me several times of late, and also with Betty,
while she is very tender and gentle with Margaret.
_September 3._
Our new rector preached to-day,—a very fine sermon, I thought, on the
words, "He that believeth on me hath everlasting life." I saw my aunt
look displeased at some passages, but Margaret drank it in as if it had
been the water of life. As for Betty, I fancy she never listens to a
sermon, but she did give the preacher some of her attention to-day.
"Well, and how did you like the preacher?" said my uncle, when we came
home.
"I cannot say that I liked him," replied my aunt. "It seems to me
that his doctrine, if received, would make room for all sorts of
immoralities. If a man only believes right, he can do whatever wrong he
pleases."
"Under your favor, madam, I think not so," said Margaret. "Do you
not see that any one who in his heart believes in the Lord Jesus
Christ must needs act so as to please him? Such a person would make a
conscience of his very thoughts, knowing that by them he must please or
displease the Holy Ghost dwelling in his heart."
"That is rather an awful thought, Mrs. Margaret," observed Lord
Chesterton, who had come to dine as usual.
"Awful, but comforting," said she, giving him one of the sweet smiles
she bestows on him nowadays, and which make him flush like a boy.
"Well, well, we won't debate the preacher at present," said my aunt.
"Go, girls, and make ready for dinner."
"So you liked the preacher," said I, as we went up-stairs.
"Yes, indeed," she answered with earnestness. "I think he hath taken
the last stone out of my road."
I did not understand her, and there was no time to ask. We went to
church again in the afternoon, but we heard nothing of the sermon,
for Meg fainted, and had to be carried into the vestry. She revived
presently, enough to be taken home in the coach which my lord sent for,
but she has not been up since, and looks badly.
_September 6._
Margaret has been down to-day for the first time since her fainting
on Sunday, but she looks pale. My aunt makes light of her illness to
herself, but I see she watches her very closely. Betty attends on her
like her shadow. She and I sleep together now. As we are to have so
much company in the house, my room will be needed as a guest-room. As
we were going to bed, I bethought me to tell Betty of Meg's words, and
ask what she thought they meant.
"I don't know," answered Betty. "I don't pretend to understand such
matters."
"I think Margaret likes Lord Chesterton better than she did," said I.
"Yes, I said as much to her; and she told me she was afraid so," said
Betty.
"What did that mean? Why should she be afraid of liking her bridegroom
too well," I asked. "I should say the more she liked him, the better."
"You are just as blind as all the rest," answered Betty impatiently.
"Can't you see an inch before you? I don't so much wonder in your case,
but I am astonished at my mother. But some people never will believe
what they don't like to believe. I suppose when my mother sees Margaret
in her coffin, she will understand at last."
"You think that Margaret is seriously ill, then?" said I, startled.
"I think she is dying, and so does Sharpless," answered Betty. "She
will never wear her bridal dress, unless she is buried in it."
"But why should you think so? What ails her?"
"She has been 'murdered!'" said Betty, setting her teeth hard.
"Murdered by inches with tight lacing and late hours, and physic to
improve her complexion, and all the rest of my mother's regimen."
"Hush!" said I. "You should not say so. Your mother means nothing but
what is right, I am sure."
"Oh, yes, she 'means!'" retorted Betty. "She means to take an angel,
and make her a woman of the world, but the angel has grown weary,
and is pluming her wings for flight. You will see, if you will not
believe.—O Meg, Meg, how shall I ever live without thee!"
And with that she burst into tears, and wept so bitterly that my aunt
heard her, and came in to see what was the matter. I told her that
Betty was grieved about her sister's health, fearing she was seriously
ill.
"Is that all?" said she, but not unkindly. "My dear child, you are
fanciful, and are tormenting yourself to no purpose. Do you not
see that your sister is better already? Do but notice what a sweet
flush she has in her cheeks. These fainting-fits are but the natural
agitation of spirits at the prospect before her. A month hence you will
see your sister a happy bride, and then you will laugh at your present
fears. Come, dry your eyes, and go to bed, and all will be well. I am
not displeased with you, child. There, good-night."
I was glad that Betty was crying too much to answer her mother a word,
for I am always afraid of one of her tantrums. I hope she is mistaken,
but I do think Margaret is more out of health than her mother imagines.
I can't but think of Betty's words about making an angel into a woman
of the world. Now, the Scriptures talk all the way through as though
the world were the enemy of God,—even going so far as to say that any
one who is a friend of this world must be an enemy of God. And yet, so
far as I can see, my aunt lives for the world: yes, just as much as
ever my mistress did; though one cares most for wealth, and the other
for fashion and position. And I don't see how one is a bit better than
the other.
My aunt will bow to, and exchange visits with, women whom it is
impossible she can respect; she will even abase herself to ask favors
of them: and why is that any better than the doing of mean things
for money? She does seem to me wholly inconsistent. She gives us a
book like "The Practice of Piety" or "The Divine Breathings," ¹—books
inculcating the very soul of purity and consecration to God,—to read in
the morning; and in the evening she takes us to see a play which turns
on successful wickedness, and where the name and the laws of God are
treated with equal disrespect.
¹ This most admirable little book has lately been reprinted in this
country, by Young. I wish some one would do as much for the Practice of
Piety, which is now very rare.
My mistress would read the Bible and Mr. Baxter's tractates in the
morning, and spend the rest of the day over her accounts, or in
exacting the last halfpenny of usury from some poor debtor. And I don't
see, for my part, why one is a bit better or worse than another. My
mistress talked of owing it to herself to do so and so. My aunt talks
of our duty to the world or to society, which is only another name for
the same thing.
But the Bible seems to say that the duty we owe to self is to deny it,
and the duty we owe to the world is to renounce it, and to labor for
its conversion. Now, Bab Andrews really has given up the world; and so,
according to Meg's account, hath my aunt Laneham; and I am sure the
Pendergasts and Mr. Baxter did not live for it. And, from what Lord
Chesterton says, I should think his mother was much such a lady as my
aunt Laneham. And I am sure my Lady Clarenham does not live for the
world.
And there is another thing. My aunt goes to church and to the holy
communion, and says the Creed, and professes to believe all the
Prayer-Book teaches; and yet she is not only willing, but delighted,
to give her daughter to a man like Lord Chesterton, who is an open
unbeliever, and whose course of life hath been somewhat notorious,
because he is of great family and heir to a dukedom. No, I don't
understand the matter at all.
_September 12._
Margaret is really ill. She lies in bed most of the day, not suffering
very much, except from weakness and from the pain in her right side
which has troubled her ever since I knew her. I don't know just what
the doctor thinks, but the wedding, which was to have been on the 15th,
is necessarily put off.
My Lord Chesterton is like one distracted, coming two or three times a
day to ask for his lady, and scouring city and country for fruit and
flowers and any thing that can give her pleasure. I never thought to
like him half so well. I see there really was a man hidden behind the
fop and courtier. For one thing, he hath left off swearing at every
other breath; and, when a hard word does escape, he looks heartily
ashamed. My uncle rallied him, telling him he was growing a Puritan.
Whereat, he answered that he would turn Quaker, like Will Penn, if
it would please his mistress, at which my uncle clapped him on the
shoulder and called him a good fellow.
_September 15._
It was to have been the wedding-day, but no one says a word about
weddings now. Only my aunt will have it that Meg is better, which no
one else can see.
_September 18._
Meg seems a little brighter. I said as much to Mrs. Sharpless, but
she only shook her head and turned away. She has had no hope from the
first; yet she is the most cheerful person in a sick-room I ever saw,
more so even than dear Mrs. Williams. The new rector hath been to see
Meg, at her request, and hath read and prayed with her. She seems to
find great comfort in his ministrations. He is rather a plain, awkward
man, but I must say he is a much more interesting preacher than old
Dr. Martin. He hath prayed for Meg in church. When I told my aunt of
it, thinking she would be pleased, she was not so at all; saying that
Margaret was not so bad as that, and it would be time to pray for her
in church when the doctor gave her up.
I saw Ursula this morning in church. And, as we were detained a little
in the porch by a passing shower, we had time for quite a chat. She
looks rather thin and worn, I think. I asked her if she were well.
"Yes, well enough, if that were all," she answered pettishly, and then
asked me if I ever saw Mr. Morley. I told her he was acquainted with my
uncle, and visited at our house, but that he was soon going down to the
west again.
"Don't you see him?" I asked.
"No, not often," she answered, turning scarlet, as though with some
unpleasant remembrance. "Dolly, whatever you do, never marry a
jealous-pated old man."
I did not know what to say to this, so I asked after Bab Andrews.
"She is well," was the reply, "but she has taken an odd crotchet in her
head since her father died."
"Oh the good old man, is he dead? How sorry I am!" said I. "Bab will
be very lonely. But what do you mean by a crotchet, Ursula? I did not
think Bab was given to them."
"No, I know she is perfect in your eyes," said Ursula. "Well, she hath
come to the conclusion that England is not good enough for such a saint
as herself: so she is even going to leave it, and betake herself to the
New England Colonies."
"She told me once she thought she might do so, if she were left alone,"
said I, "but it was not to New England she talked of going, but to some
newer colony farther to the south. I cannot think of the name now."
"Ah, well, it does not matter! It is much the same thing. I can't think
what should possess her, for she is left very well off, and might live
as she pleased. But it seems Mr. Fairchild's sister and her husband
went thither a year ago, and she means to join them. And so Mr. Morley
comes often to see you, Dolly?"
"I did not say so," I answered, vexed to feel myself blushing. "He is
an acquaintance of my uncle, as I told you."
"Well, don't lose your heart to him, lest you should find he hath more
than one string to his bow," said Ursula with an ill-natured laugh.
But the rain holding up there was no more time for converse, at which I
was glad. I do wish could see Bab once more.
_September 20._
I have had that pleasure, through my kind uncle's intercession. I was
coming down-stairs, when my aunt called me into her room, where an
elderly serving-man was waiting, whom I recognized at once as living
with Mr. Andrews. My aunt held a note in her hand.
"Dorothy, do you know Mrs. Barbara Andrews?" she asked.
"Yes, madam," I answered: "she is the daughter of the rich goldsmith
who died not long ago."
"Oh, I know him!" put in my uncle. "He lived in Lombard Street,—a very
worthy man and one who was of service to his late Majesty in the matter
of raising money. He did me a good turn once, in the same way. Yes,
yes, I remember him.—And so your master is dead," addressing himself to
the serving-man. "Well, well, I am sorry. Did he leave any family?"
"One daughter, sir," answered old Andrew.
"It is this young lady who writes to me, very properly and nicely
I must say," observed my aunt. "She tells me she is about to go to
America, and asks the favor of a day's visit from Dorothy."
"And you would like to go, eh, Dolly? Your face says as much," said my
uncle.
"Yes, sir; I should like it greatly," I answered. "Mrs. Andrews was the
only friend of mine own age I ever had till I knew my cousins."
"So much the better," said my aunt. "I am no great believer in girlish
intimacies, but as this young person is going away so far—What say you,
Sir Robert?"
"Oh, let her go, let her go!" said my uncle. "Old Mr. Andrews's
daughter is sure to be a pattern of all the graces, eh?" addressing
himself to the serving-man, who answered,—
"Mistress Barbara is one of the salt of the earth, sir,—the image of
her mother now in glory."
"Well, I am sure I hope so," said my uncle, in his kindly, blunt
fashion. "Oh, yes, let her go, my lady! She hath had but a dull time
lately. Let her go to please me."
This is my uncle's usual plea when he begs us a holiday, and my aunt
never refuses him. With an indulgent smile, she bade me get ready to go
with Andrew, for whom she ordered a cup of ale to be brought. I was not
long in dressing, and was soon on my way.
I found Bab looking much as usual, but very pretty in her mourning. The
house was already partly dismantled, but Bab's own rooms, her bedroom
and her little parlor, were untouched.
"Why, this is a pleasure I hardly dared expect!" said she, taking off
my hood and kissing me. "But I thought I would not fail of it for lack
of asking. Your aunt must be a kind lady."
"She is so, though rather strict in her notions," I answered, "but I
believe we owe our debt rather to my uncle, who used to know your good
father. But where is your aunt?"
"She hath taken a lodging near to my sister Staines in the country,"
said Bab. "She would fain have lived with them, but my brother Staines
would not have that. He told Hester he would do any thing for aunt
Jones except live with her."
"I don't blame him," said I.
"So he has fitted up this cottage for her, and Andrew's sister lives
with her to attend on her," continued Bab. "I hope she will be as happy
there as anywhere. As you say, Dolly, I do not blame my brother Staines
for not wanting her to spoil his children's comfort and his own. But
oh, Dolly, what a sad sight is unloving and unlovely old age!"
"It is, indeed," said I, thinking of my mistress. "But was it that
drove you to seek peace and quietness in a new settlement among the
Indian savages?"
"Why no, not exactly, though I will not deny that I find my aunt's
absence a great relief. But my aunt Atherton, my mother's sister, is
left quite alone by the death of her last daughter; and you know I
always professed myself fond of travelling: so, as some friends of mine
are going out, I thought I would even go with them, and try my fortune
in the New World."
"You have other friends there beside your aunt, have you not?" I asked.
Whereat she told me of Mr. and Mrs. Stacy, who had gone thither the
year before, and read me a letter she had from Mrs. Stacy. If I did
not know her to be one of the most particular persons in the world, I
should set down some of her accounts for mere traveller's tales: as
that the people go a-gathering of their peaches with carts, the fruit
hanging on the trees like onions in ropes, and as delicate as our best
wall-fruit, and cherries by the cartload, beside many wild fruits,
such as strawberries, gooseberries, hurtleberries, and cranberries,
which last are admirable for tarts and sauces, and many more such
particulars. ¹ Mrs. Stacy says the savages about them are peaceable,
good neighbors, and some of them are Christians. She sent Bab a long
necklace of their beads, made from shells, and which they use as money,
and value above all things.
¹ See Robert Stacy's letters quoted in the "Historical Collections of
New Jersey,"—a very valuable book.
This necklace Bab gave me for a remembrance. She also gave me a watch,
a toy I have long wished to possess; and this is a very pretty one,
with a gold enamelled case, and a pretty picture on the back. I had
spent a guinea on a book for her, "The Imitation of Christ," by Thomas
à Kempis,—which Meg values more than any book in her closet,—and on a
working-case for the pocket, a good, sensible, substantial one, which I
thought she might find useful.
The day was all too short for what we had to say; and now, that we are
parted, I can think of a hundred questions I had to ask. Bab asked
me when I had seen Ursula, and I told her of our conversation in the
church porch.
"I fear she is not happy," said Bab. "She said as much to me as that
she was sorry she did not marry Mr. Morley."
"I don't believe she ever had the chance," I said, vexed at myself for
being vexed.
"I am not sure. He was very devoted to her at one time, but Ursula was
bent on making a rich marriage. And so, no doubt, she has, but she may
find, as many another hath done, that riches do not bring happiness.
There are many things that money can't buy."
"That is true," said I. "I believe Lord Chesterton would give any thing
to restore poor Meg to health."
"Is she then so ill? Tell me about her," said Bab; and so I did. She
was much interested, and asked about the state of her mind. I told her.
"The dear young lady!" said Bab. "She hath been taught of God, and he
makes her way easy. I would I could send her something to comfort her."
"I wish she knew you; you would just suit each other," said I; and I do
really think so, though Bab would not go inside a church for the world.
While I was there, a ship's captain, an old friend of her father's,
sent her a fine hamper of melons and grapes from Portugal; and nothing
would serve but she must put up some of the finest for Margaret. We
parted with many tears, and Bab promised to write me when she arrived
at her new home.
My aunt was rather displeased with me for being so late, but relented
when she saw the beautiful fruit Bab had sent to Margaret. She was
pleased, also, to commend my watch, and to say that Mrs. Andrews seemed
a kind-hearted girl, and one of a good taste and fancy. She especially
admired the lace kerchief and cap of her own work which Bab gave me,
saying they were neatly done and very prettily fancied.
"See there, Betty," said she; "you might work as well as that if you
would have patience and take time."
"I suppose Mrs. Andrews likes such work," said Betty.
"I don't think she is so very fond of it," said I, "but her father was
fond of seeing her work, and Bab would do any thing to pleasure her
father."
"And Betty will not do every thing to pleasure her mother," said my
aunt.
"That is not quite true, mother," answered Betty; and I saw she was
moved, by her using the word which she seldom does. "I would do any
thing I could do to please you when you put it in that way, but when
people talk of doing things because the world expects it, and because
society demands it, I do not care a fig, and that is the truth. I never
made any promises to the world, only to renounce it."
I expected my aunt would be displeased, as she generally is at Betty's
outbreaks, but she did not seem to be.
"Then, my daughter, will you not try to please your father and mother?
And we will say nothing about your bugbear of the world," said she. "I
begin to fear that you will soon be my only daughter, and I am growing
old. Will you not try to comfort your mother, child?"
Betty was at her mother's feet in a moment. And I, thinking it best,
stole out and left them together.
I do wonder, seeing how easily Betty is touched by petting and
indulgence, that my aunt should not try it oftener. If I read Betty
aright, she is one to be led rather than driven.
_September 20._
The doctor says Margaret must have change of air. And the duke, my Lord
Chesterton's uncle, has offered for her benefit a small house he hath
in the neighborhood of Richmond, and we shall remove thither next week,
giving up this house, as my uncle intends going down to Devon as soon
as Meg's health renders it possible. I am pleased with the prospect,
for I have never lived in the real country. The only thing Meg regrets
is losing the ministrations of Mr. Newington, our new rector, who has
been such a comfort to her. But he says he will come to visit her, and
tells her that she will like the rector there, who is a friend of his.
The house whither we are going is all in order, so we shall have little
trouble.
My uncle hath had an attack of dizziness, the blood rushing to his
head so as to make him all but senseless for a few minutes. He makes
light of it, but I see he drinks no more strong ale or Burgundy wines,
but contents himself with small beer, claret, and the like. I do hope
nothing will happen to him.
_October 1, Cross Park._
We came down to this lovely place almost a week ago. Meg bore the
journey very well, and even enjoyed it, especially after we got fairly
out of the city, and she seems better since we came. She has even
walked a little on the terrace, from whence is a most lovely prospect,
and she has eaten with a little more appetite. My aunt is once more
full of hope, and talks about setting the wedding-day soon, but I don't
think Sharpless has any hope.
Mr. Morley has gone down to the west about some business for the king,
who, it seems, shows him great favor. He came to see us before he
left, and told my uncle in parting that he hoped to see him soon again
on most important business. He looked at me as he spoke, and smiled
meaningly. I do wonder whether there is any thing in what Bab said
about Ursula's refusing him. He ever said to me that he did not like
her at all, though as his cousin he must needs pay her some attention.
Heigho! It is very delightful to feel that one is loved, and to love
in return; yet methinks love doth bring much disquiet in its train. My
aunt says I am growing thin, and will have me take milk and cream; and
I know my spirits are more variable than ever they were before. But I
try to put my own concerns aside, that I may be a comfort to Betty, who
does not in the least believe in her sister's amendment; nor, I must
say, do I. I remember how my poor friend Emma looked, and she revived
in the same way just before the last.
This is a most lovely place. The house is old, with many passages and
odd corners, and with much oak wainscot, which makes it rather dark.
But there are plenty of windows, and, as the exposure is to the west
and south, we have abundance of sun. The park is small, and so are the
gardens, but both are very pretty. Especially pleasing to Meg is the
view of the parish church, which is very small and old, and overgrown
with splendid ivy. It stands in the midst of the churchyard, wherein is
a broken stone cross, said to be of great antiquity. The rector is an
old and white-haired man, of great dignity of manners, and a sweet, but
somewhat sorrowful, face. He hath already visited Meg, who likes him
greatly.
Lord Chesterton has taken a lodging near by, and comes to see his lady
every day. I never saw a man so changed. He, who used to say life was
not worth having away from the court and the theatres, is now content
to spend day after day in this quiet place, sitting by Meg's arm-chair,
or giving her his arm along the terrace in the short walk she takes
every pleasant day. He even reads the Scriptures to her, as she sits in
the sunny window of the hall. His very face seems changed. He and Meg
have many long talks together, on which no one intrudes. I do think Meg
is learning to love him, and I cannot wonder.
My aunt will have Betty and myself go for a walk every day; and we
have explored all the nooks and corners of the park, which, though not
large, is varied, with little hills and dells. In one of these latter
is a beautiful great spring, over which, in olden times, someone has
built a little shrine, with a seat, and an inscription of which I can
make out only one word, "Pray,"—I suppose an invitation to pray for
somebody's soul. The shrine is all in ruins, but the spring gushes
forth clear and sparkling as ever. The old housekeeper says it is
accounted good for a waste, and Meg has taken a fancy that it tastes
better than any other: so I often go early in the morning to bring her
a jugful that she may drink it the first thing.
This same housekeeper— Mrs. Mary Miles—is a dear old soul. Instead of
being vexed at the increase of her trouble from our coming, she is
greatly pleased,—makes all sorts of dainty dishes with her own hands
to tempt Meg's appetite, and is always filling Betty's pocket and
mine with sugarplums and comfits, which she has great skill and equal
pleasure in preparing. It seems the good rector is her cousin.
_October 15._
Our dear, precious Meg is dead and buried. She died just one week ago,
and was buried yesterday in the churchyard here, just under the walls
of the little gray church. It was at her own request that she was laid
there, instead of being taken down to the family burying-place in
Devon. She had been quite bright for two or three days, even coming
once to the dinner-table. That afternoon she sent for Lord Chesterton,
and had a long private talk with him, and afterward with her mother.
I came into the room unwittingly to bring Margaret some late violets
I had found in the garden, and as I did so I heard my aunt say, in a
somewhat forced tone of cheerfulness, "Dear daughter, you are fanciful.
The doctor says you are better. We hope you may be able to be married
before long."
"But something 'here' tells me a different story," said Meg, laying her
hand on her heart. "Dear mother, will you not promise that it shall be
as I desire? That can do no harm."
"Oh, yes, I promise!" said my aunt. "But I shall see you go thither to
be married first."
I could not but think of the words, "None so blind as those that won't
see." But my poor aunt was soon undeceived. Betty was worn out, and
lay down, but I did not: I felt so sure that something would happen
before morning. It was a mild, bright, moonlight night, with a soft,
intermittent breeze sighing among the trees. The sound did remind me
of soft, downy wings hovering near. And, as the cloud-shadows passed
over the grassy slope, I almost fancied them the shadows of those same
wings. It was just at the turn of the night when I heard Sharpless come
quickly out of Margaret's room and knock at my aunt's door. Betty heard
it, too, and was up in an instant.
When we went in, we found Meg sitting up in bed, her head supported on
her father's breast. Her eyes were fixed with a strange, mysterious
brightness, as on some wonderful and glorious sight. While on her face
lay—ah, how well I knew it!—that awful gray shadow that never falls
but once,—the shadow cast by the wing of death. She never looked at us
as we came in, or showed any consciousness of our presence, till her
mother, taking her cold hand, said tenderly,—"Dear love, what do you
gaze at?"
"Angels," whispered Margaret, "bright angels."
"Don't disturb her," said my uncle hoarsely. "Let her be."
We stood round in silence, till the old white-haired vicar, whom Mrs.
Miles had sent for, kneeled down, and said the commendatory prayer.
Then all at once Meg reached out her hands with a bright, happy smile,
as of a tender little babe that sees its mother coming.
"I am ready,—take me!" she said, and in a moment she was gone.
My poor aunt fainted, and revived only to fall into fits of the most
violent weeping. I do think she was almost as much shocked as if Meg
had been taken in perfect health. She had so persuaded herself that her
daughter must get well because she willed it so. Betty was like one
turned to stone. I could hardly get her out of the room; and she was so
strange that I almost feared for her reason. At last, however, I won
her to tears, and she wept herself to sleep.
I could not sleep; and as it grew light a little I went down to walk
on the terrace, that the cool air might refresh my hot forehead. I had
been there but a few minutes, when Lord Chesterton came up the avenue,
riding at full speed, his horse all in a foam, and his groom hardly
able to keep up with him. He flung himself from his horse,—which, poor
beast, was only too willing to stand,—and caught me by the hand.
"Am I too late, after all?" he asked.
And, reading the truth in my face, he strode hastily away to the other
end of the terrace, where he threw himself on a seat, and wept like a
little child.
I took it upon me to bid the groom take his horses to the stables. Then
I stood a moment or two uncertain what to do, not liking to intrude on
the poor gentleman's grief, nor yet to leave him alone.
At last he seemed to calm himself in some measure, and rose from the
seat where he had thrown himself, and I went to meet him.
"Tell me how was it," he said. "Why did no one send for me?"
I told him there was no time,—that my aunt had apprehended no immediate
danger, nor even the doctor.
"Ay, none so blind as those that won't see," said he, using the very
words I had applied to my aunt in my own mind. "Did you think she was
going to get well?"
I told him no; that I had had little hope from the beginning, and I
knew Meg had thought for a long time that she should die young.
"She was an angel, a white dove," said my lord; "and God hath taken
her home lest she should smirch her fair plumage by contact with such
a carrion kite as I have been all my life. But I am a changed man,
Dorothy," he added, pressing my hand with a force that almost made me
scream.
"My dearest Margaret hath showed me the way, and gone before me; and,
by God's grace, the poor remainder of my days shall be passed as she
would have it. Oh, my beauty, my pearl!" And with that he fell to
weeping again, and I could but weep with him.
At last I persuaded him to come into the house and take some
refreshment, and then to lie down on the settle and rest. Surely, if
darling Meg's short life had been the means of redeeming this one soul,
she hath not lived in vain. I am sure that is more than I have ever
done. But I am going to try to be a better girl.
Meg was buried yesterday. She had especially desired that there should
be no pomp or parade about the funeral, but that the expense should be
bestowed upon the poor of the parish,—specially that each old woman of
the almshouses by the church-gate should have a warm gray gown, and
each of the villager's children a new frock of dark blue. The little
things lined the path from the churchyard gate to the grave; and after
the coffin was lowered, they threw upon it flowers and sprigs of yew,
till it was quite hidden with them. The day was a lovely one, the sun
setting in great pomp of crimson and gold; and a dear little robin,
perched on one of the church-windows, sang all through the service.
Betty fainted when the earth first fell on the coffin, and hath been
but poorly ever since, though she makes brave efforts to keep up, and
devotes herself to waiting on her mother.
I can't help wondering whether my aunt will go back to the same course
of life again, as soon as her mourning is ended. I hope not, for
Betty's sake. I am sure of one thing: my aunt never could drive Bess
into marrying any one she did not like. She would run away, or do
something desperate. She is made of very different stuff from Margaret.
_October 18._
My uncle is in some trouble. I don't know what, but it is something
connected with money. From what little I hear, I fancy he hath been
speculating, as so many do nowadays, and hath been unlucky. He is
dejected in spirits and does not look well.
My Lord Chesterton hath taken leave of us, going home to the north
to visit his mother, who it seems lives all alone in the old family
mansion. The poor little cousin is dead, so he is really the next
heir to the dukedom. I hope I am not uncharitable, but I do think
it no small addition to my aunt's grief, to think that she cannot
now be mother-in-law to a duke. She is fretful and low, and it is no
easy matter to please her. I think she misses the diversion of her
town-life,—the visiting and play-going and parks. I miss them too, I
must say, for I had grown fond of them, especially of the theatre, but
then, I like being in the country, and running about out of doors,
which my aunt does not.
I heard her tell Mrs. Petty, who came to give us a visit of condolence,
that she should be inconsolable but for the thought that she had done
every thing for the welfare of her dear daughter. And yet I know that
the doctor said that Margaret's illness and death were in a great
measure owing to her tight dressing. He said her ribs had actually
grown into her liver. He said, too, that a great many growing girls
are killed in that way, and added, using some strong language, that he
would like to burn every pair of steel stays in the land. And yet my
aunt is just as particular as ever about our lacing ourselves. Now,
I should be but a poor creature without my stays, having always worn
them, but I will not have them very tight. Luckily, I am naturally a
firm, tight figure, so my aunt does not find me out.
_October 20._
My uncle tells us we are to get ready to go down to Devon in two weeks.
Till then, by the duke's kindness, we remain here. To-day came from
London beautiful presents from Lord Chesterton for Betty and myself;
namely, two miniature portraits of dear Meg, done from the one he had
made for himself before we left town. They are incased in gold, and set
with small brilliants, and suspended each on a pretty gold chain. He
hath sent Mrs. Sharpless a noble Bible and Prayer-Book in large print,
and a gift of money for each of the other servants. The pictures are
very fine likenesses. My aunt was much pleased, and lauds him to the
skies, and then weeps again that her dearest Meg should have been taken
away just when she had such a prospect of rank and happiness. But I
can't think Meg will care a great deal about missing an earthly coronet
where she is now.
Somehow my aunt seems to me to live so on the outside of things. But
I need not say any thing. I have tried very hard to be good since Meg
died. I have read the Bible, and said my prayers, and all that, but all
seems dead and lifeless. Half the time, when I am saying the words with
my lips, my mind is occupied with some play I have seen, or I am going
over and over again every talk I ever had with Mr. Morley. I do wonder
when he is coming back. He said, at parting, that he should not be gone
many days.
This morning Mrs. Miles asked me if I would take my walk down to the
vicarage, and carry to the rector some confection of quince seeds which
she has been making for his throat; and I was glad of an errand to go
thither for I have learned to love the old gentleman. He lives in great
simplicity, with an old couple for servants, who, I fancy, carry things
pretty much their own way. We fell into talk about my former way of
life, and I mentioned, I know not how, the name of Mr. Baxter.
"Ah, my good old friend! Did you know him?" he asked.
And on my saying that I did, and had often met him,—
"We were college mates and the best of friends once," said he, sighing,
"but our paths led different ways. We studied divinity together, but
he was the more confirmed in his notions, while I found myself obliged
to change mine. The worst is that my old Presbyterian friends will
not believe that I joined the Church of England from pure conviction,
but will persist in thinking that I had an eye to worldly advantage.
Though, would they but visit me, they would see for themselves that the
proverbial church mouse is no poorer than I am."
"I would not think Mr. Baxter could be so prejudiced," said I. "He
seemed such a good man, and he was always so kind to me."
"He is a good man, and could not be otherwise than kind to one in your
hard position. But he is a man of strong feelings and deep convictions,
and he hath suffered much in what he believes the cause of truth. And
besides," he added, smiling, "I dare say he thinks of his old chum as
a purse-proud priest rolling in riches. But I believe that some day we
shall meet when all these clouds will have passed away, and all true
lovers of their Lord will see eye to eye, and know as they are known."
He then began to tell me of a poor young widow whose two little
children were but scantily off for clothes, and asked me to interest my
aunt for them. I promised I would try to do so, and said if aunt were
willing, and I could buy some suitable woollen yarn, I would knit some
warm hosen. Whereupon he told me of another poor woman, a spinster,
who lives at the other end of the village, and supports herself by her
wheel and her needle, and said he thought she would be glad to sell me
some wool. He seems to know the circumstances and wants of every poor
person in the parish. I do think the duke might augment his living, and
make the vicarage at least water-tight. I think a few hundred pounds
might as well be laid out in that way as in paying for copies of Mr.
Lely's pictures of court beauties. I know that Lord Chesterton gave Mr.
Miles a present, and money for new altar-cloths and a new chalice, in
memory of his mistress.
_October 22._
My aunt consenting, Betty and I got the direction from Mr. Miles, and
walked to see the woman who had the yarn to sell, Mercy Lane by name.
We found her living in the tiniest little cottage, standing alone
by itself, all neat and in good repair, and surrounded by a garden,
wherein grew pot-herbs and vegetables, gooseberry and currant bushes,
and two or three large apple and pear trees, and also a fine nut-tree.
The good woman was within, sitting at her wheel, in blue homespun gown
and apron, and a snow-white kerchief and cap. She has been handsome in
her day, and is still a comely woman. Her kitchen was as clean and neat
as a new trencher, as Mrs. Williams used to say; and a small wood fire
made it look still more cheery. On a form near this fire sat three or
four little children conning their horn-books, who jumped up and let
off quite a little battery of bobs and courtesies at us. I never saw a
prettier sight.
The good woman received us with all kindness, setting stools for us,
and sending one child for a jug of fair water from the spring, and
another on some other whispered errand. We told her what had brought
us to see her, on which she produced quite a store of very nice yarn.
I bought enough for two pairs of little hose, telling her what it was
for. She seemed much pleased.
"I am very glad," said she. "Martha Giggs is a worthy woman, and does
all she can to help herself, but her health is not good. This is one
of the children," she added, calling to her side one of her pupils, a
little curly, flaxen-headed mite, whether boy or girl I could not tell,
till the creature, with much blushing and poking of its chin into its
neck, said its name was "Merthy."
"She is my god-daughter," explained our hostess.
"And you keep a little school," said Betty.
"But a very small one, madam. These are all young children, as you see,
and I can do little but keep them out of mischief. In winter I have a
class of larger girls. I have but little learning myself, but I make
shift to teach them to read their Bibles, to sew and to spin, and to
say their Belief and Commandments. I could have many more if I had room
for them."
"Is there no village school?" I asked.
"No, madam. Mr. Miles has tried to prevail with the duke to build one,
but without success hitherto."
Again I thought of that picture-gallery. Pictures are all very well, no
doubt, but surely these little living images of God are worth as much
as they, and likely to outlast them by a good many years.
"And what do your pupils pay you, if I may ask?" inquired Betty, more
interested than I have seen her about any thing since Meg died.
"Surely, madam," answered Mercy. "The little ones—those who are
able—pay a halfpenny a week, the elder girls a penny. Then I now and
then get presents at holiday time. Last Easter, one farmer's wife sent
me a fine setting of auk eggs to put under my hen, and they have all
done well. The duke's steward allows me the privilege of gathering dry
sticks and pine-cones in the park, and the children like nothing better
than to help me about it. Then I have a good market for my yarn, and my
apples and nuts bring me something in fruitful years."
"And what rent do you pay?" asked Betty. I wondered at the question,
for she does not use to be so inquisitive. In that she differs from me,
who am a bit of a gossip.
"No rent, madam," answered Mercy, with a little gentle pride. "The
place, such as it is, is mine, as it was my father's before me."
"I wonder you never married," said I. But repented of my thoughtless
words when I saw how her face flushed and her lip trembled. "I crave
pardon," I added: "I was very rude."
"There is no need, madam," said Mercy with a smile. "I was betrothed
once, but my sweetheart was carried away to serve in the king's army,
and I never saw or heard of him again."
"How very sad!" we both said. And Betty added, "Worse than if you had
known him to be killed."
"Yes, the suspense was dreadful, but it is over now," said she calmly.
"I know if he had been alive, he would have come back to me somehow;
and I have the assurance in my heart that he is at rest, for he was
ever a godly man."
"I think you are a happy woman, Mercy," said Betty abruptly.
"And you think truly, my dear young lady," answered Mercy with her
sweet smile. "I am a happy woman. I have a small provision laid by for
my old age, my health is good, and I have the comfort of knowing that I
am useful to my little ones and my neighbors. If I had a wish—"
"Well, if you had," said Betty, as she paused.
"It would be to see a good school set up in this village, to keep the
lads and maids from running wild as they do. But I hope that may come
in time."
We rose to take our leave, but Mercy would have us sit while she
feasted us on pears, and gathered for us a nosegay of late flowers from
her garden. Mrs. Miles had filled our pockets with almond comfits after
her usual fashion, and we treated the children to them. I suppose they
never saw any before, but they soon found out the use of them.
"That is a happy woman, Dolly," said Betty, as we were walking homeward.
"She is a contented woman, at any rate," I replied, "and a useful one,
to boot."
"She is a happy woman," persisted Betty. "I would I were as happy. She
makes me think of Lady Jemima Stanton, with her family of young orphan
ladies about her. I always thought I would like to live in that way."
"You would not like to be as poor as Mercy, to wear a homespun blue
gown, and live upon a shilling a week?"
"Mercy is rich on a shilling a week. Did you not hear her say she had
laid by something? As to the blue homespun, I would as soon wear that
as any thing. I don't care about dress."
"But you would not like to spin for a living, and live on brown bread
and stirabout, with a bit of meat on Sundays and festivals."
"I would not care," persisted Betty. "I don't think these outside
things have much of any thing to do with happiness or unhappiness."
But I think I should care. I do like pretty things and nice things and
to go to the play now and then. And then that sad tale about her lover:
I am sure I never could be happy again if such a thing were to happen
to Mr. Morley. I wish he would come back.
_October 25._
I do think I am the happiest girl in all the world. Mr. Morley has
asked me in marriage of my uncle, and he hath consented, provided that
inquiries respecting Mr. Morley's character and prospects should turn
out satisfactory. I am not afraid of that. My uncle cannot expect a
rich bridegroom for me, seeing I have nothing of mine own; and every
one says Mr. Morley is high in favor with the king.
My aunt would have kept the matter from me till all was settled, I
believe, but my uncle blurted all out, as his way is. I am glad of it.
I would not lose one minute of my new-found joy. I can hardly believe
in it even yet. My uncle goes to London to-morrow, and I suppose will
make all needful inquiries.
I can't help wishing Mr. Morley were not an unbeliever, but perhaps I
may be able to bring him round as Meg did Lord Chesterton.
My aunt is much pleased at my prospects. She has always liked Mr.
Morley. Only she wishes my uncle could give me a suitable dowry. He
would do so, only that, as I learn for the first time, he hath had
great losses of late, so that he is somewhat cramped for ready money.
As it is, however, aunt says I shall have a wedding outfit suitable to
my quality, and it shall go hard but she will raise a small sum for my
private purse. Betty says little, only that she shall be sorry to part
with me. She always saw with Meg's eyes; and for some reason I never
could understand, Meg always disliked Mr. Morley.
I wonder where we shall live. In town, I suppose, and at the court
end, as Mr. Morley has a place in the household. I hope we shall have
a pleasant lodging. I shall like the ordering of my own little family,
only I wish I knew more about it. But I know I can learn, and I shall
not think any thing hard that I do for my husband. Thomas à Kempis says
a lover ought willingly to undertake any thing hard or distasteful for
his beloved. I am sure I would do that for Mr. Morley, and I believe he
would do as much for me.
_October 22._
My aunt and uncle have been gone two days, but are expected back
to-night. I have had a talk with Mr. Morley which troubles me, though
I dare say without reason. I ought to be ashamed to entertain for a
moment a thought so derogatory to him. I dare say he was only vexed
because Ursula deceived him.
The way was this. Betty was not well this morning, and kept her bed,
for a wonder. She was thirsty and feverish, and at last said she wished
she had a glass of fair water from Meg's fountain.
"I will bring you some," said I. "It will take me but a few minutes to
go and come, and my aunt will not be vexed, seeing what my errand is."
For my aunt had bidden us remain within doors while she was away.
I saw that Betty was pleased, though she made some objection, and said
I could send one of the maids. However, I could find no one at the
minute; so I even threw on my long cloth cloak, pulled the hood over
my head, and set out myself. The spring is in rather a lonely place,—a
little dell, green and mossy, and surrounded on all sides by high
wooded banks. It is not greatly frequented, because of some story of
an apparition,—some forlorn lady who killed herself for love. I am not
a bit afraid of the ghost, but, as I dipped my jug into the basin, I
heard a man's step behind me, and turned in a hurry, to see Mr. Morley.
He greeted me in his usual kind fashion, but seemed perturbed and
distraught. He asked for my uncle; and I said he had not yet returned
from town, but we expected him that night.
"No matter," he replied abruptly. And then, after a little pause,
"Dolly, do you know whether your fortune hath been involved in your
uncle's losses? Was it in his hands?"
"I know it was not, for the best of reasons," said I. "My fortune, such
as it is, is safe in my own hands."
"What do you mean?" he asked.
"'"My face is my fortune, sir," she said.'"
I answered him, singing the line of the old song, and making him a
saucy little courtesy, for I felt in good spirits. "I would it were
finer for your sake."
He stared at me like one amazed.
"Do you mean to say you have no fortune?" he asked.
"Not a shilling," I answered. And then bethinking myself, I added, "I
suppose I should have three hundred pounds if I could get it, but there
is not the least likelihood of that."
"But Ursula Robinson told me you had had a fortune come to you," he
stammered, "and that was the reason your uncle and aunt had taken you
up, though they took no notice of you while you were poor."
"I don't know why she should have said or thought so," I answered
coolly, for I was growing vexed in my turn. "My aunt adopted me out of
pure kindness and love for her sister's child. She never knew of my
existence till she heard of me through Lady Clarenham. I am sorry if
you have been deceived, but it has been none of my doing." And with
that I took up my jug, and turned to go.
"But are you sure?" he asked again, walking along with me. "Perhaps
your aunt has thought best to keep the matter from you."
"I am quite sure," I answered. "My aunt said but yesterday that my
uncle had hoped to give at least a thousand pounds with me, but that
owing to his late losses it would not be possible for him to do so. Did
he not tell you so?"
"Yes, but I thought—However, it does not matter. I have been grossly
deceived, and that is the end on't."
"You cannot say that I deceived you, since you never asked me a
question on the subject," said I. "If you doubt my word, you had better
ask my uncle."
"Don't go, don't leave me in anger, Dolly," said he as I turned away.
"I am not angry with you, and yet—"
"I must not stay. My aunt would be very angry if she knew I met you," I
answered. And breaking away from him, I hurried into the house.
When I came into Betty's room, she asked me if I had seen the ghost of
the blind nun, that I was so pale. I told her no, but that I had seen a
strange man who frightened me, and so I had hurried home.
"You should not have gone out, Mrs. Dorothy," said Sharpless. "Your
aunt will be displeased, if she hears it."
"It was all my fault,—asking for the water," said Bess.
"There is no great harm done," I answered, making light of the matter.
"My aunt will not scold me when she knows why I went. I dare say the
poor man meant no harm."
"Very likely he only meant to beg."
"I dare say, but I must go and change my shoes, Betty," said I, glad to
seize the first excuse to get away. "The grass in that dell is always
wet, I think."
I escaped to my own room, and sat down to think, but the more I
turn the matter over in my mind, the less I am able to come to any
conclusion.
_October 23._
Mr. Morley has not been here. It is very strange. My uncle had a letter
to-night, over which I heard him storming and fuming at a great rate in
my aunt's room, calling someone a scoundrel and other hard names, with
many oaths and expletives. My aunt seemed moved too, by the tone of her
voice.
I was waiting to see her, to tell her what I did yesterday. I find the
more perfectly frank and open I am with her, the better we agree. I was
standing at the farther window of the gallery, to which I had moved not
to overhear the talk in my aunt's room. When she came out, her color
was raised, and there were traces of tears about her eyes, which I was
surprised to see, for she does not usually mind my uncle's tantrums.
"What are you doing here, Dorothy?" she asked.
I told her I was waiting to speak with her. She asked what was the
matter; and I told her, only I did not repeat what Mr. Morley had said.
"And you are sure you did not go on purpose to meet him?" she asked
somewhat sharply. And then, relenting, "But no, that is not like my
frank, simple-hearted Dolly. Only you know, my love, it is much better
for young ladies to do exactly as they are bid. There, I am not angry,
but I would rather you did not go out to-day."
She looked at my work, and praised its neatness, asked how my knitting
progressed, and dismissed me with a kiss and her blessing. I can't
understand her manner, nor my uncle's way of looking at me, but I am
glad they are not angry with me. They have certainly been very good.
I suppose Ursula Jackson could not understand such disinterested
kindness, and so coined this tale to account for it. No wonder Mr.
Morley was angry with her. I hope he will have had enough of her, that
is all.
_October 24._
It is all over. Life is done for me, and I only wish it were done in
good earnest. But people can't die when they like, unless they kill
themselves, and I have too much conscience, or too little courage, for
that. I shall never believe in any one again.
This morning I was about to sit down to my music, which I have taken
up again at my aunt's request, when Mary Mathews came to say that my
aunt required my presence in her room. (Mary was out of a place when my
mistress went to the Bath, and my aunt took her on my recommendation,
and means to carry her down to Devon with us.) I wondered what could
be the matter, for my aunt never interrupts our study hours without
grave cause, and on my way down-stairs and through the gallery I tried
to think whether I had done any thing to merit her displeasure, but I
could remember nothing save my walk, which she knew of already.
I found my uncle and aunt sitting side by side in my aunt's
dressing-room. My uncle had a letter in his hand. They both kissed
and blessed me; my uncle adding, as it were to himself, "Poor, pretty
wretch, I had as soon be hanged as tell her! The—villain, would I but
had his—neck under my boot-heel!"
"Do not excite yourself, Sir Robert," said my aunt gently. "Our dear
Dorothy hath too much proper pride and self-respect not to treat the
matter as it deserves."
"Oh, yes: pride and self-respect are all very well! There, sit down,
child."
He pushed a chair toward me; and I took it, wondering what would be
coming next. But I never guessed, never had a thought of the impending
blow.
"Well, child, you must needs know,—but how to tell you—There, take the
letter and read it. That I should ever have taken such a creeping adder
into my family! There, read it, poor wench!"
"And then treat the writer with the contempt and scorn he
deserves," added my aunt. "There are others who will appreciate our
clove-gilliflower, if he does not."
(My uncle sometimes calls me by that name, because I am so dark.)
I read the letter over, but somehow I did not at first take a sense
of it. The writer said that, finding he had been deceived in respect
to the private fortune of Mrs. Dorothy Corbet, and not being in
a condition to marry a portionless wife, however worthy in other
respects, he must decline the honor of the young lady's alliance. The
letter concluded with some commonplace expressions of respect, and was
signed Philip Morley.
"Well," burst forth my uncle, as I looked up from the letter; "is
not this a fine, craven cock we have chosen for a bridegroom for our
Dorothy? He has done well to run for it. I would have slit his nose for
him, and I will, too, if he comes within my reach."
"No, no!" said my aunt. "Much better treat him with the contempt he
deserves.—Think you not so, my love?"
"I don't understand," said I.
"She has not taken in the matter," said my aunt, "and no wonder. Read
the letter again, my love."
I did so, and saw it all.
"How did Morley get this idea of your having a fortune?" asked my uncle.
"Don't tease her with questions now, my dear," said my aunt kindly.
"She is in no state to answer you."
"Oh, yes!" said I. I was in a strange state of mind. I comprehended the
whole matter, but it seemed to me as if it related to somebody else
than myself,—somebody I was very sorry for, but whom I could talk of
quite quietly. "I know because he told me. He said Mrs. Ursula Jackson,
his cousin, told him; and I dare say she did."
"But how should she get the notion?"
I told him what I thought, adding that Ursula was apt to take up
fancies about people, and then repeat them for facts.
"She must be a nice woman," observed my uncle. "Well, my maid, you take
the loss of your bridegroom more quietly than I expected. I thought you
were in love with his very shadow."
"My Dorothy has too much proper spirit, and has been too well brought
up, to fix her affections on any man without the leave of her
guardians," said my aunt. "'Tis a great mortification, no doubt, but
far better than if she had married so unworthy a person. I am glad it
has all happened here instead of in town. Mr. Morley will hold his
tongue for his own sake, and no one outside the family need know any
thing of the matter."
"The miserable, cowardly hound has sneaked off to Scotland on some
errand for his Majesty," said my uncle.
"So much the better," returned my aunt. "We shall go down to Devon next
week; and Dolly will have enough to divert her, and make her forget
this unworthy man.—There, go, my love, to your own room, if you like,
and compose your spirits."
"And we will find you a better bridegroom," said my uncle; "some
gallant, honest Devon man, worth a hundred of these court fops and
coxcombs. There, Heaven bless thee, dear wench! You have been a dutiful
child to us, and a good sister to her that's gone; and you shall never
want a home while I have a shilling, or a roof over my head."
My aunt kissed me also, and called me a good girl, and said kindly
that she was most grateful to Lady Clarenham for bringing her to the
acquaintance of so good a niece. I left the room, still with that
strange feeling of pitying myself as if I were somebody else. I even
sat down to the harpsichord again, and played through the lesson of
scales I had begun, as steadily as if nothing had happened, but, as I
stooped to take up another piece of music, it proved to be a song which
Mr. Morley and I had often sung together. Then it all came to me. I
threw it down as if it had burned me, and escaped to my room.
My aunt sent to know if I would come to dinner, or if she should send
me something. I told Mary to thank her, but said I would come down.
"Are you not well, Mrs. Dolly?" said Mary.
"I have a headache," I answered, with perfect truth, "but I shall feel
better to go about a little."
Mary came to the table, and began to dust the books with her apron.
When she left the room, I saw that she had laid my Prayer-Book open at
the Twenty-seventh Psalm. The dear, good soul thought to comfort me, no
doubt. I remember how she used to betake herself to her Prayer-Book and
Bible to calm her spirits after my mistress had been abusing her in one
of her horrid fits of ill-temper. She must have known or guessed that I
was in some trouble.
But I can't comfort myself in that way. Perhaps I might, if things
were different. If Mr. Morley had been killed in the rebellion, for
instance, I don't think I should have minded nearly as much. Then I
could have had the comfort of remembrance; but now—Oh, if I could only
forget!
_October 28._
My aunt praises me much for the way in which, as she says, I bear my
trouble. She says she sees plainly that I do not mean to let this
man's shadow darken my life. But it is not "his" shadow at all. It
is the shadow of a man who never had an existence, save in mine own
imagination. It is not that he is dead, but that he never lived. My
aunt says the thought of his unworthiness ought to comfort me, but
there is just the sting: it is just his vileness and unworthiness that
I mourn over. It seems to me now, that I could willingly have parted
with him, if I could have kept on believing in him.
My aunt called Betty and myself into her room this morning, in order,
as she said, to explain to us certain family matters. I don't even
now understand just how it is, only that my uncle, induced by the
representations of some business-man in whom he had confidence, did,
without consulting his wife, and against the advice of his old lawyer
and agent in Exeter, put all his spare cash into this man's hands to
embark in some trading venture which was to bring in a golden harvest
of guineas. But the bubble hath burst, and the blower thereof hath run
away to America, where I hope the Indian savages may take and scalp
him; and my uncle, from being rich, has become comparatively poor.
True, he has his landed estate, and happily he has no debts of any
amount. And my aunt thinks that by letting his fine mansion, which it
seems he can do to good advantage, and retiring to a smaller house
which belongs to my aunt, he may, in the course of a few years, be
relieved from all his embarrassments.
I was much pleased to notice that my aunt did not, in all she said,
cast one word of blame or reflection upon her husband, though he
acted without her knowledge and against her known wishes, she being
ever against speculation, and although—so Sharpless tells me—a good
deal of the lost money was of her bringing. Methinks such forbearance
shows real greatness of soul. I cannot endure to hear married people
complaining of each other, as Ursula Jackson does of her husband to
every one she can get to hear her.
As Betty said nothing, and my aunt seemed to expect some one to speak,
I asked where this house lay.
"It is not very far from Exeter. The name of the estate is Lady Hill,"
answered my aunt.
"What an odd name!" I remarked.
"There was once a small convent on the spot, whereof the ruins still
remain," answered my aunt. "The house is not large, but convenient;
and there is land enough to serve your uncle for an occupation. We
shall not need nearly as many servants as at Fullham, which will be one
advantage, and we must settle whom to keep. My own woman, Mrs. Brown,
leaves this next month to be married, so she tells me."
"Then, madam, why should you not take Sharpless to be your own woman?"
asked Betty. "Dolly and I can wait on and dress each other, can't we,
Dolly?"
"Yes, indeed, I should think so, seeing I never had a waiting-woman in
my life till I came here to live," I answered. "And, aunt, I think you
would find Mary Mathews a very careful and efficient housemaid; and
Betty and I will be your gentlewomen, so you will have three instead of
one."
"Oh, yes, that will do nicely!" said Betty, with more interest than I
have seen her show since Meg's death. "And Dolly will play and sing to
my father of an evening, and I will play chess with you, dear mother,
and read to you in your favorite chronicles. And we will be happy in
ourselves, and let the world give us the go by, if it likes."
My aunt's eyes overflowed for the first time. "My dear, good girls,"
said she, giving a hand to each, and drawing us near to her; "how happy
it makes me to see you take things in this way!"
"There would be little use in sitting down to lament for spilled milk,"
said Betty. "No doubt my father acted for the best, however he was
mistaken."
"That I am sure he did," said my aunt. "I am sorry for your sakes,
more than my own, that I cannot give you the benefit of another London
season."
"So am not I," said Betty. "I hate London as much as my father does. I
would rather live at that place in the Mendip hills, where the sun does
not rise till ten of the clock in midsummer."
"You should not interrupt your mother, my love: that is rude," said my
aunt, but without the displeasure she usually shows on these occasions.
"I was going to say that I hoped we should not be quite out of the
world, since we are so near Exeter, where there is very good society
among the church dignitaries. I hope to see you both well established
in the world yet, for all that has come and gone. There, go now, my
dears, and send Sharpless to me; she has been a most faithful servant,
and is worthy of all confidence."
"Oh, yes, the world, the world, always the world!" said Betty
discontentedly. "I wish one could get away from the world."
"You would like to go into a nunnery then," said I, as we sat ourselves
down to our embroidery.
"I am not sure that I should, by any means," said Betty. "I should want
to know more about the matter first. I have a fancy that the little
world of a convent may be just as worldly as the great world outside,
and perhaps harder to deal with, seeing that one would be shut up to
it. If I have to deal with a wolf or a snake, I would rather have him
in the field than in my chamber."
"I have noticed one thing in Thomas à Kempis," said I: "he is as full
of warning against ambition, pride, envy, and so forth, as if he had
been writing for the court instead of a convent." ¹
¹ This is the case with all the conventual books of devotion (and they
are many) which I have read. See the life of Saint Theresa, by herself,
for a fine example.
"But would you like to go into a convent, Dolly?" asked Betty.
"No," I answered abruptly, "not unless I could leave my memory at the
gates. I would rather be like Mrs. Petty, going to the park every
afternoon, and the play or a ball every night, and sleeping till noon
next day; or even like old Lady Carewe, going to church in the morning,
and playing at cards all the rest of the day. One might chance to
forget sometimes in that way."
"You would not find any comfort in such a life," said Betty, laying
down her work, and looking at me with eyes full of pity and love.
"The gayest must have their hours of reflection, even in this world.
Sickness and old age and death come to all, and then there is what
comes after; there are no plays or balls or cards 'there,' I fancy. And
beside, Dolly, dear, it might have been worse: you might have married
him, and found him out when it was too late."
"You don't understand, none of you understand," I cried passionately.
"I am not thinking about myself, but about 'him'—'him,'—that he should
be so unworthy. If he had died like Meg, if he had been lost like Mercy
Lane's sweetheart, it would not have been half so bad. But that he
should be what he is, and that I can do nothing to help him, nothing!"
"But God can," said Betty softly. "He heard dear Meg's prayers for Lord
Chesterton. Why don't you pray for him?"
"I can't," I answered. "It seems as if he had mocked me already. I
asked him to give me Mr. Morley, and see how it hath turned out. Bab
Andrews prayed for her lover, and he died a shameful death, after all.
She asked for his life, but it was not given her."
"'He asked life of thee, and thou gavest it to him,—long life, even for
ever and ever,'" said Betty solemnly. "Is not that in the Psalms? When
Bab and her lover look back from eternity at their troubles here, I
don't believe they will seem so very long or hard."
"Her case was not mine," said I. "There is no use in talking to you.
You were never in love."
Betty was silent for a few minutes, and then began to try and divert
me by telling me about Devon. I knew she meant kindly, and I tried to
listen, and insensibly I did become interested.
Betty is glad we are going to Lady Hill, which she likes better than
Fullham, because there is such a lovely park and garden; though Fullham
house is quite a palace, by all accounts. I shall be glad of the
journey, at all events. We are to stay two or three days in London,
where we hope to meet my Lord Chesterton, who has been kept by some
matters of business. I am sure I hope we shall not meet Mr. Morley, but
my uncle thinks he has gone to Scotland.
_November 5. London._
Guy Fawkes Day, but there were no bonfires, they being forbidden by the
king, which makes people look strangely on each other. Already mass is
said openly at Whitehall and other places, and the court swarms with
priests, especially Jesuits. The king's determination to dispense with
the test act, and the dismissal of Lord Halifax from office, cause much
murmuring even among the strongest partisans of the king. So says Lord
Chesterton, who has given us two or three visits. He still wears the
deepest mourning, and lives very retired. Betty and he had a long talk
this morning, but I have not heard what it was about.
A good many of my aunt's old friends have visited her; and she has
spent one evening at my Lady Carewe's, at a card party, I believe.
Betty and I were not asked to go; for which I am not sorry, for I
think she is a hateful old woman. She must be seventy years old, at
least, and yet she wears rouge and false hair, and is just as eager
after every shilling she wins at play; and then she does so delight
in scandalous dirty stories. I cannot think how my aunt, who hates
scandal, can endure her, but then "she moves in the best society,"
forsooth, and that is enough.
_November 6._
I saw my dear Mrs. Williams this morning. It seems my mistress—I
shall never get over calling her by that name—intends to spend the
whole winter at the Bath, and hath sent Mrs. Williams to town on some
business and to see to letting the house. I was out shopping with my
aunt when I met Mrs. Williams. And aunt, learning who she was, and
having heard, as she kindly said, of her goodness to me, gave me leave
to give my old friend a visit. I was overjoyed to do so, for Mrs.
Williams was my friend when I sorely needed one. If I had but followed
her counsel, I should not be the forlorn wretch I am now. But there is
no use in looking back, or forward either for that matter.
My aunt gave me a guinea, and bade me buy something for my old friend
such as I thought she would like: so I bought her a large print Bible
and some chocolate, which she was always fond of. It is a new kind,
made up in cakes like gingerbread, very convenient to carry.
My aunt left me at the door of my old dwelling,—I wont say "home," for
there never was any thing of home about it,—and told me she would call
for me in two or three hours, as she had some visits to return. How
strange and yet how familiar it seemed! I was let in by the old woman
who takes care of the house, and who said Mrs. Williams would be back
presently.
As I stepped into the withdrawing-room to look once more at my
Lady Jem's portrait, it seemed every moment as if I should hear my
mistress's whistle, in that sharp sudden note which always told me to
expect at the least a box on the ear. The picture is as lovely as ever,
most beautifully painted. I particularly noticed the diamond ear-rings,
which are very large, and so well represented that they seemed actually
to emit light. I wonder what has become of them. Round her neck are the
very same locket and chain that Sir Charles gave me. I have it safe
in my trinket-box, the chain having become somewhat thin by wearing.
I told my aunt its history one day when she saw it by chance, and she
bade me keep it as Sir Charles had said. I was glad, for I feared
she might insist on examining it, but that is not her way. She is as
entirely a woman of her word as any one I ever saw, and respects the
same in other people.
While I was looking at the picture, Mrs. Williams came in. She was
much pleased with my little present, and insisted on preparing some
chocolate at once. She had bought a fine cake and a cold fowl, and got
ready quite a little feast.
"You are not looking well," said she to me.
"I am well enough," I answered. And then, moved by I know not what, I
laid my head down in my old friend's lap, and poured out all my story.
Mrs. Williams's comment was an unexpected one.
"I am glad it is no worse," said she.
"How could it have been worse?" I said pettishly.
"You might have married him," said she; "that would have been bad
enough. Besides, I believe that man capable of any wickedness. He hath
been one of the prime instruments of Col. Kirke and the chief justice
in the horrible cruelties which have been practised on the poor folks
of Somersetshire."
"I can't believe it," said I.
"I had it from a sure hand," she returned; "from the mother of one
of the sufferers. It is such a tale as I would not pollute your ears
withal. I thought of you when I heard it, and prayed that you might be
preserved from his clutches."
"Let us talk of something else," said I. "How is my mistress?"
"Much as usual, only that her health is better."
"You must have a hard time with her all alone."
"So hard that I sometimes think I must leave her altogether," replied
Mrs. Williams. "I have told her that I must have a rest; and as soon as
my business is ended here, I shall go down to Kent, and make a visit to
my brother-in-law."
"Kent," said I, "does not Mrs. Pendergast's father live in Kent?"
"Yes, and close by where I am going: so I hope to see them often."
"And where is Mr. Pendergast?"
"In the city, I suppose, but I cannot tell you where, sometimes in one
place, and sometimes in another. He is a good man, though not yet fully
enlightened as to spiritual things. But, my dear, if you wish to go
through the house, we must be moving."
I agreed, and we went all through the house. My mistress had carried
away all of my Lady Jem's clothes and other such matters, but I found
on a shelf in her closet a pile of old books,—some of devotion, and
others of romances and the like,—and, as I knew they were worthless to
sell, I carried off two or three for keepsakes. Also I found in my old
room my "Pilgrim's Progress," which I had forgotten in my removal. Mrs.
Williams bade me show it to my aunt, and I promised to do so. I hope
she will not disapprove it, for it is a book I love.
"And what do you know about Ursula Jackson?" I asked.
Mrs. Williams shook her head.
"Nothing pleasant. She and her husband do not at all agree. She poured
out all her woes to me, as I fancy she does to every one who will
listen to her. She says Mr. Jackson is desperately jealous, and will
let her speak to no one but himself. Mr. Robertson himself told me that
Mr. Jackson was very angry at a certain person's attentions to his
wife, and forbade him the house."
"Why do you suppose Ursula told—that story about my having a great
fortune?"
"I suppose she made it partly out of something my mistress said. Ursula
was wondering at your aunt's adopting you when she had daughters of
her own to marry, and my mistress answered her, 'You may be sure Lady
Fullham knows what she is about. Dolly may come into a fortune some
day.' I believe she only meant to hint that she herself might leave
you something, but, seeing how eagerly Ursula took it up, she went on
adding more hints just to tease her."
"Ursula was always dreadfully afraid my mistress would leave me
something, though I don't think there is any danger," said I.
"Nor I," answered Mrs. Williams. "I doubt her ever bringing herself to
make a will at all. She clings closer and closer to this world every
day."
"And if she does not, where will her money go?"
"To her brother's descendants, I presume. There is quite a family of
them, but my mistress never could abide them, though they are very nice
people. Your acquaintance, Mr. Evelyn, brought up one of them,—a young
lady who was left an orphan in the plague time,—and she was married
from his house. She came to see my mistress once, and I thought her a
very nice, pretty young lady. But there is no telling what my mistress
may do."
"Marry again, perhaps," I suggested.
"Hardly, I think, though there is no telling. I always say I should
be surprised at no one's marriage but my own. Well, here is the coach
come for you, my dear. Thank my good Lady Fullham for allowing me
this visit. And, my dear child, take one bit of counsel from your old
friend. Try to rest all this trouble of yours where it belongs. 'Cast
thy burden upon the Lord, and he shall sustain thee.' 'Wait on the
Lord,' and 'commit thy way' to him."
"I can't," said I, crying. "I have tried, and I can't."
"Perhaps you have not tried in the right way. But there, I must not
keep you. God bless thee, my lamb! I do miss thee sorely, but thou art
in better hands than mine; and I have faith to believe thou wilt be
guided home, though not by the path of thine own choosing. He leadeth
'the blind by a way they know not,' but all the same, he leadeth them."
I was in funds, having just been paid my quarter's allowance of
spending money: so I gave Mrs. Williams ten shillings, and asked her to
lay it out in presents for Mrs. Pendergast's two little children, who
were always great pets of mine. Then I bade her good-by, and took leave
forever of the house where I first saw Mr. Morley. I wish I had died
then and there, before I ever saw him again.
I found Mr. Newington, our rector, in the coach with my aunt, going
home to sup at our lodgings. My aunt asked what books I had; and I
showed her they were Mr. Taylor's "Golden Grove," and the "Arcadia" by
Philip Sidney.
"There is no harm in these," remarked my aunt, "but what is this? 'The
Pilgrim's Progress,' by John Bunyan. Is he not that tinker turned
preacher that I have heard of? I cannot think such an author suitable
for the closet of a young lady.—What say you, Mr. Newington?"
"There is no harm in the piece, but a great deal of good," said Mr.
Newington. "I have read the book more than once, and I venture to say
Mrs. Dorothy will not be hurt by it."
"But a tinker, Mr. Newington," said my aunt; "a common tinker to aspire
to be a preacher!"
"Well, what then, madam? I knew a worse case even than that, where a
common carpenter put himself forward to take part in the services of
his own parish church."
"And what did they do to him?" asked my aunt, all unsuspicious of the
trap into which she was falling.
"Do? Why, they said, '"Is not this the carpenter, the son of Mary?" And
they were offended at him.'"
My aunt drew herself up. "I think you are almost profane, Mr.
Newington. Would you draw a parallel between our Lord and this
Anabaptist preacher?"
"Heaven forbid, madam, that I should draw any such parallel between
him and the very most exalted of his creatures!" said Mr. Newington
solemnly. "All I meant to show was that outward rank and consequence
are as nothing in his eyes, who took David from following the sheep
to be king over his people, and sent Amos the herdsman to rebuke even
kings. I am sorry for what I must think are the good man's errors, but
these peculiar notions do not at all appear in his book, which I can
confidently recommend for Mrs. Dorothy's perusal."
My aunt could do no less than agree, but she said afterward that she
was sorry so good a man should take up such strange notions. If what he
said was true, any little mechanic or tradesman's wife might be setting
herself up to be the equal of any lady in the land. But it seems to
me that the effect of these notions, if carried out, would make the
tradesman's wife not care any thing about being equal to anybody. If
one really believes one's-self a member of Christ, a child of God, and
an inheritor of the kingdom of heaven, as the Catechism says, one would
not care for any earthly distinction. One would not fret very much
because the duchess of this or my Lady T'other did not bow to them. But
it seems to me as if most of the people I know did not really believe
these things at all, not as they believe in the things of this world. I
know there is no reality in them to me, at any rate. I wish there were.
Perhaps I should find some comfort in them, and get rid of this dull
pain at my heart which seems to press my life out.
_Lady Hill, December 1._
We are here and mostly settled. I thought we never should get here
alive. What with the state of the roads, and the dread of highwaymen
with whom the country is more infested than usual since the late
troubles, and the rain and wet, and my uncle's fretting and fuming,
the journey was any thing but pleasant for the most part. I am glad
they did not bring poor Meg's body down here to be buried. It would
have been simply agonizing. We had six horses to the coach nearly
all the way, and yet more than once my uncle had to send for oxen to
drag the coach out of the mire. I could but admire my aunt's patience
and cheerfulness. Not a fretful word escaped her in our very worst
predicaments, and she was always ready to see something pleasant or odd
to divert our minds. She certainly is an admirable woman in most ways.
Mary Mathews jumped at the chance of going into the country again, and
hath greatly commended herself to my aunt and to Mrs. Sharpless by her
usefulness and her cheerful spirits. She laughed at all our hardships,
and told us such tales of travelling in the north (she comes from
somewhere about Durham) as did indeed make our inconveniences seem very
small. I am glad I was able to secure the place for her, both for her
sake and my aunt's. Mrs. Sharpless takes to her greatly, and shows no
jealousy of my aunt's favor to her, as poor Brown used to. I said as
much to Betty one day. She laughed.
"There is just the difference between Sharpless and Brown that there is
between the cat and the dog," said she. "The dog lives in the opinion
of other people, and consequently, he can be made jealous. But did
you ever see a cat show any jealousy of the opinion or favor of her
mistress?"
"I don't know that I ever did," said I. "The cat thinks too much of
herself to care what any one thinks of her. Indeed, I don't think cats
acknowledge any ownership in the people they live with. Puss is your
friend, but it is on terms of equality."
"That is it exactly," said Betty: "Sharpless thinks too much of herself
to be jealous of anybody."
I don't know whether that is the true solution or not, but, at any
rate, such a person as Sharpless is much pleasanter to live with than
one who is always looking out for affronts and slights. But to what a
distance have I wandered!
We staid a night in Exeter, and then came on here, having sent a groom
in advance to announce our coming, as my uncle decided to stop here,
and go to Fullham afterwards.
In the morning, Betty and I went to service at the cathedral. It is a
most huge and venerable pile of Gothic architecture, far more beautiful
to my eyes, I must say, than the new St. Paul's will ever be. Aunt says
my taste is not correct; and that no doubt, as the Grecian and Roman
style of building spreads more and more, many of these great piles
will be taken down and rebuilt. But I hope that may not be in my day.
Perhaps the fashion may change, and the Gothic come to be admired again.
I must say I was quite overwhelmed with the prospect of the fretted
roof, the long aisles, and colored windows; though they say these
last are nothing to what they were before the great rebellion. My
uncle says, however, that the rebels did not all the mischief they are
credited with, in such cases,—that the Cavaliers were often quite as
bad.
The service was musical, of course, and beautifully sung, as they pride
themselves on the singing, but I must say I am not fond of a musical
service. It seems to me that the very beauty and glory of our service
is that it is "common" prayer,—common, that is, to the clergy and the
people; though I admit that, in practice, it is too often left to the
parson and the clerk. But a musical service seems to belong wholly
to the clergy and the choir; and the people have only to listen and
admire,—or criticise, as the case may be.
I was pleased to see the old men and women from the almshouses in their
place, looking so warm and comfortable in their thick gray cloaks and
hoods. I wonder, do they like to come, or does the daily attendance
become but a wearisome task? There are many charitable foundations in
the city,—one especially for ladies in reduced circumstances, where my
aunt hath several acquaintances, and where she hath promised to take us
to visit some day.
In the afternoon we came out here. Mrs. Sharpless and Mary Mathews had
preceded us, and got things into some order. The evening was closing in
as we came in sight of the little knoll on which the house is built.
And the lighted windows were a cheerful sight, as were the glow and
warmth of the great wood fire which Mrs. Sharpless had caused to be
built in the hall. We were received with many courtesies and bows by
the old housekeeper and her husband, who acts as bailiff or steward,
and found a savory, hot supper awaiting us.
"'Why, this is pleasant, this is like home," said my uncle, looking
about him. "This is better than London cheer. Eh, Bess?"
"Yes, indeed, sir!" answered Bess heartily.
"And what says my clove-gilliflower?" asked my uncle, turning to me.
"Will it take good root, and flourish again in Devon soil, or will it
pine for London smoke and fineries?"
I fear the poor, smirched, down-trodden clove-gilliflower will never
flourish anywhere again, but I did not say so to my kind uncle. I
answered him truthfully that I never wished to see London again.
"Why, that's well!" said my uncle. "I must have you learn to ride and
walk, and make a country maid of you. As to Bess, I believe she would
like to don the russet-gown, and take up the milking-stool and pail,
and tend the cows like any country Cicely,—hey, Bess?"
"That I would, sir," answered Betty. "I always thought I would like to
be a dairy-maid."
Whereat my aunt shook her head, but smilingly, and we sat down to
supper in great good humor.
For two or three days we were all very busy, under my aunt's direction,
in getting the house in order. It had been well cared for, but, like
other uninhabited houses, it needed a deal to make it really cheerful
and comfortable. However, things are now pretty well settled. My aunt
has given Betty and me a very pretty set of rooms on the second floor.
Our sitting-room—for aunt says we are not to talk of the schoolroom any
more—has a great bow-window, or oriel, which commands a beautiful view
of the city of Exeter, rising from the Exe, crowned grandly with the
towers of the great cathedral. I love to sit here at evening, and watch
the kindling of the lights, like stars. Here we have our harpsichord,
on which I practise diligently every morning, our work-tables, and
our French and Italian books. My aunt hath set us to embroidering
new covers for the chairs in the great drawing-room, which are sadly
worn and faded. Betty grumbles privately, and calls it a sad waste of
time, but I must confess I like it. It is a real diversion; for one
has to give it all one's attention, and thus it leaves no room for sad
thoughts, as plain work does.
Our bedrooms open from this sitting-room, and are very comfortable,
with moreen hangings,—one of red and the other of green,—and ornamented
with some old prints of sacred subjects, which my aunt's first husband
picked up abroad. They are brown and faded, with tarnished gilt frames,
and my aunt would have consigned them to the lumber-room, but Betty and
I begged them, as we did various odds and ends of china and carving. I
fancy this gentleman must have been something of a virtuoso, from the
heaps of shells, minerals, and other curiosities he has collected.
The garden is large, and very beautiful, to my thinking. A part thereof
is laid out in the formal Dutch fashion, with parterres, and yew-trees
clipped into the shape of peacocks and dragons and a rampant St. George
on horseback; and there are a fountain and a maze and what not, which
are the pride of the old gardener's heart. Beyond this extends what is,
to me, the beautiful part of the garden. It has run wild, it is true,
but there are green, mossy walks, and tall trees, and a great bank of
violets, and many curious trees and herbs which my uncle (I suppose he
was my uncle as much as Sir Robert is) collected. Also, there is a long
row of bee-hives, and a plantation of such sweet herbs and flowers as
their cunning little inhabitants love.
My aunt says my uncle Foster was a great chemist and botanist, and used
to distil many cordial and other medicines, which he gave away to poor
folks. His furnace and retorts still occupy a room in the older part
of the house, which room is looked upon with superstitious awe by the
servants and the country people, who seem to have rewarded his goodness
to them by believing that he was in league with the Devil.
_December 10._
Betty has had a letter from my Lord Chesterton, to say that he has
obtained leave from the duke, his uncle, to build a schoolhouse
at Cross Hill, with rooms for the master and mistress, and a good
endowment for their support. He has made Mercy Lane mistress. And, till
the new house shall be done, he has fitted up a good-sized cottage for
her use. The school is to be called Mistress Margaret's School, in
memory of our dear Meg. I think it is the loveliest monument I ever
heard of, much better than a great, unmeaning pile of marble which
does no one any good. This monument will keep her memory green, and
be a benefit for ages, perhaps. But who would have thought of Lord
Chesterton's doing such a thing when I first knew him! My uncle and
aunt are greatly pleased, as well they may be.
We are fallen into a very regular course of life. My uncle hunts and
shoots and attends to his farming, in which he takes great interest,
specially in a new breed of cattle which he has obtained from his
brother who lives in North Devon. (We are to visit this same brother
before long.) My aunt attends to her housekeeping and her dairy, and
overlooks our lessons and our work. I fancy she is rather homesick for
London, though she does not say a word, and I dare say would be torn
with wild horses before she would own as much. We have had some visits
from country neighbors, and from the bishop's family and the other
dignified clergy of Exeter, but of course we do not see nearly as much
company as in London, especially now when the roads are so bad.
Betty and I go to church every morning when it is not too stormy,
and we not seldom form nearly the whole congregation. The rector
is a little old man, who always does make me think of a white owl,
especially in his surplice, but he reads nicely, and is a good
preacher, if he would not have so much to say about the divine right of
kings and the duty of passive obedience. He is very kind to the poor
people, alike to the Churchmen and the Dissenters, of whom there are a
good many in the parish. And I believe they all love and respect him,
though they do not show it by coming to church. He is also a great
antiquary. And the last time he was here, he explained to Betty and me
that the old mass of brick-work in the garden is the remains of some
old Roman wall, of which there are many in these parts. I thought the
good man would have fainted when my uncle said the old thing was an
eye-sore, and ought to be blown up with gunpowder. He was so pathetic
that my uncle promised that the ruin should not be touched in his time.
I don't think he ever thought of doing it, but he sometimes likes to
tease. But I have wandered a long way from our daily doings.
After our return from church I practise my music, and Betty takes
her painting, in which she finds great pleasure. She is copying for
me a Virgin and Child, which we both greatly admired at the bishop's
palace, and which his lordship was kind enough to lend for the purpose.
I do not usually care for these representations, but this picture is
lovely, especially the little angel heads in the corners, looking down
with a tender solicitude at the divine Child, which lies asleep in its
mother's arms. Then we read French or Italian till dinner, after which
we sit in my aunt's parlor with our work, ride with my uncle when the
weather allows, or pay visits.
We have been to Exeter to two card-parties, a kind of entertainment I
heartily hate. It is shocking to me to see old women and old men, even
clergymen, quarrelling over the cards, so eager after their gains,
and so angry at their losses, which they seem always to lay to their
partners, and then when the cards are laid aside, and the coffee-cups
come round, such tales of scandal, and pulling to pieces of the absent,
and hints and innuendoes. However, we are not likely to see much more
of them, for my uncle vows we shall go to no more evening parties
unless we stay all night, the roads are so dangerous at this season.
Betty and I have taken to visiting a good deal among the poor folks,
and to working for them. There is one poor body especially, a widow,
with one or two children, whose mother has lately come to live with
her, at least for the present. The poor old creature hath been well to
do in her day, but her husband was unlucky enough to sell some horses
to one of the Duke of Monmouth's officers. He could not well help
himself for doing so, since the horses would have been taken at any
rate. But for this offence, and this alone, he was hanged up at his
own gate, and his wife was compelled to witness his death-struggle:
after which she was allowed to buy her life, only to suffer a new
bereavement; for her son, attempting to steal his father's body and
bury it, was taken and hanged beside it.
"Ay, I saw all this with my own eyes, and the wretch mocked at my tears
and cries," said the old woman, with flashing eyes. "I can see him
now in his fine clothes, with his white, beringed hands, one of them
scarred across the back with a sabre-cut or some such thing, and his
lady's favor in his hat."
I turned sick, but something, I know not what, made me question her
further.
"What was the favor like?" I asked.
"A pink silk ribbon, worked with silver spangles; I can see it now."
So could I, for it was the very knot of ribbon I had found in Lady
Jem's cabinet, and which Mr. Morley had begged from me one of those
mornings when I met him in the park. And to think I allowed that very
hand—But there, it won't bear thinking of. I would I could never think
of him again. I grew so white that the good Priscilla Lee was scared,
and made her mother a sign to cease talking.
"Ay, my dear tender lamb, your kind heart cannot abide to hear of such
things," said the old woman kindly, as her daughter hastened to bring
me a draught of fair water. "May you never have to suffer them! But
the time will come that the Lord will avenge his saints. He will not
withhold his arm forever. Something tells me that I shall live, old as
I am, to see the tyrant cast down, and that no son of his will sit on
his throne after him."
"Hush, dame! That is not safe talk," said I, recovering myself by a
great effort. "You would not like to bring your daughter into trouble.
I shall not repeat your words; but others might, if they heard them."
"You are right, madam, and I am wrong," said the old woman, "but these
remembrances are too much for me at times. But I will be careful.
Good-day, my dear lamb, and thank you for all your kindness. Take care
of your steps, my pretty, for the ways are but slippery."
"You will not mind my mother," said Priscilla, following me to the gate
of the little garden. "Indeed, she is a good and a godly woman, and
hath been like an own mother to me. You will take no offence at her, my
dear young lady?"
"No, indeed," I answered; "who can wonder at her. But I hope she will
be more careful."
_December 31._
I think Dame Penberthy's story put the crown to all my miseries; I
suppose I had come to the place where I could bear no more. When I
came home, my aunt asked if I were ill. I said no, though my head felt
strangely bewildered, and I could hardly keep my wits together to
answer the commonest question. My aunt sent me to bed at last, but I
could not rest. The last I remember is waking from a dreadful dream of
somebody choking me with a spangled ribbon, while Mr. Morley stood by
laughing. My aunt was bending over me, and saying,—
"What is it, my love? What troubles thee so?"
I tried to answer, I remember, but I suppose I spoke wildly and beside
the purpose, for I distinctly recollect my aunt's face of alarm. After
that, I knew no more till I awaked one evening, and saw the setting sun
streaming in at the window, and heard the chimes of our little church
ringing merrily. Sharpless was sitting by me, and rose as I moved.
"Why are the chimes ringing?" I asked.
"For service," answered Sharpless, as tranquilly as though nothing
were the matter, while she felt my pulse, and then put her hand on my
forehead.
I tried to raise my own hand, but it felt strangely useless.
"What has happened? Have I been ill?" I asked.
"Yes, quite ill, but I hope you are better now. See, take this broth,
my dear lamb."
(Sharpless is very punctilious in giving Betty and me our proper titles
when we are well, but when we are ill, or in trouble, she falls back
into all her Devon forms of endearment.)
I drank the broth obediently.
"How good it tastes!" said I.
"I am glad to hear you say so," she answered. "It shows the fever hath
left you. But do not talk, my lamb. Lie still, and try to sleep again."
I slept well all night, but was waked early by singing under my window.
As I turned, Sharpless rose from the great chair by the bed.
"How thoughtless," said she. "I wonder no one remembered to hinder the
waits from coming."
"The waits!" I said, in wonder. "Is it Christmas already?"
"Yes, my dear, Christmas morning."
"Please don't stop the singing. I love to hear it," said I.
And, indeed, it sounded very sweetly in the cold, frosty air. The
rector is very fond of music, and a great promoter of it among his
flock. As I lay and listened, I found the tears stealing down my
cheeks; and they seemed to wash away the last clouds from my brain, so
that I could think clearly. I have not been able to shed a tear in all
my troubles before, but now I wept freely. And Sharpless did not check
me at first, but kissed and poor deared me, and stroked my hair, like
a mother with a sick babe. By and by, she began gently to hush me, and
after a time, I fell asleep again.
When my aunt brought the doctor in to see me, he pronounced me out of
all danger if I were only prudent.
"Then you think she needs no more bleeding nor medicine?" asked my
aunt, rather anxiously.
"Nothing but a few glasses of good port-wine which your own cellars
will furnish, and a little cordial which I will send her, to spoil her
pretty mouth with making faces," answered the doctor, with a laugh it
did me good to hear, it was so good-natured and cheerful. "I will send
you a portion of the powder of Jesuits' bark, which you will put into a
pint of port-wine, and let her have a glass three times a day."
"Then you believe in the Jesuits' bark," said my aunt. "Some say, you
know, that his late Majesty was poisoned thereby."
"Some talk great nonsense," returned the doctor. "If his Majesty had
taken nothing but the bark, he might have been alive now. The treatment
they gave him, however well meant, was enough to kill a donkey, in my
opinion. I have seen this medicine used when I was in South America;
and I can assure you, madam, it hath not its equal in rousing the power
of nature to throw off disease.—But you look gravely on it, nurse,"
he added, turning to Mrs. Sharpless, who did, indeed, wear a face of
strong disapproval. "Confess, now, that the name scares you."
Sharpless owned she could not believe any thing good which came from
that quarter.
"There you are mistaken," said the doctor. "The Jesuits have made known
to us several valuable remedies; and I, who have seen them in South
America, can testify to their kindness to the poor oppressed Indians,
standing between them and their cruel Spanish masters, who there, as
everywhere, spoil all they touch. Besides," he added, with a twinkle in
his eye, "Jesuits' bark is not the true name of the medicine, which is
called cinchona by the natives of those parts, who make great use of
it."
Sharpless's face cleared up on this. She has been obliged to allow the
virtues of the medicine, which has cured herself of an obstinate pain
in her face. It ought to do good, for the taste is horrible.
We were to have gone to Mr. Richard Fullham's to keep our Christmas,
but my illness prevented. Our own Christmas passed very quietly. My
bed was covered with pretty gifts from all my friends; even the old
rector bringing me a beautiful little cup of Venetian glass from his
collection. He prayed with me, and did hint something about the holy
communion, but I did not respond. I feel I am in no state for it.
My recovery has been tolerably rapid, and my aunt hopes by Twelfth Day
I may be able to go to Mr. Fullham's with the rest of them. I would
very much rather stay at home, but I am determined to please my aunt
in all things, so far as I am able. It is all I can do in return for
her kindness to me. I can't be happy, to please her,—"that" I am sure I
shall never be again,—but I will try not to be a kill-joy, at least.
Looking forward from the last day of this year, which has been such
an eventful one for me, I seem to see life stretching on before me
as a long road over a barren plain, without tree or shrub or shady
grove or living spring, and ending—who knows where? If I were good,
like poor Mercy Lane, I might take comfort in religion, but I am not
good. My heart rises at times in fierce rebellion at my lot. I feel as
if Providence had mocked me; as if one should hold a cool and sweet
draught to a thirsty man's lips, and after one mouthful should dash the
liquor on the ground. Then, again, it is, as I say, as if all the fair
plains and fertile hills and running streams were past, and only the
barren, desert plain remained to be gone over. I don't really care for
any thing, unless it be visiting among the poor folks, and talking with
the old women and little children; and I cannot do that now.
_January 8, 1686._
I did not go to Mr. Fullham's after all, having a little return of
headache and fever, but the rest went, leaving me in the care of Mrs.
Sharpless. I have rather enjoyed the quiet and loneliness, and have
amused myself with roaming about the house, and looking at all the
curious things which my uncle Foster collected in his lifetime. He must
have been a man of great taste and learning. The rector, Dr. Burgoin,
tells me he was a most amiable man, of courtly manners, and very
devout, but that he cared nothing at all for riches or worldly honors;
and though he had great connections, who might have advanced his
fortunes, he never courted them, or sought their notice. I can't but
wonder how he and my aunt got on together, for, with all her excellent
qualities, it must be confessed that the world and society are all in
all to her.
I walked down to the little hamlet this morning to see the Penberthys.
The rector joined me coming back, and showed me a great curiosity, as
he calls it. I had often noticed it before, but knew not what it was,—a
circular mound or earthwork, within which stand two great stones,
covered with a third, making a kind of little grotto. There seems to
have been a fourth slab, forming another side, but it has fallen down.
Dr. Burgoin says this earthen bank and the little grotto it encloses
are the work of the British people long ago, before the Saxons, or even
the Romans, came into this land. He says there are many such about
here, and have been many more, but the vandal plough, as he calls
it, has destroyed them. He has himself a fine museum of Roman coins,
pottery, and the like, found in his various explorations, and, what he
values still more, a kind of necklace or circlet of gold, which he dug
out of an earthwork on his own father's estate, near Arlington.
Dr. Burgoin tells me that Dame Penberthy really came to church with her
daughter-in-law, last Sunday. He is very much pleased. I asked him what
arguments he had used to induce her to do so.
"None, directly," he answered. "I have not found much use in that. I
did but read and pray with her, and strive to console her with those
arguments which are common to all Christians. She told me yesterday, of
her own accord, that she hoped grace had been given her to forgive even
her husband's murderer."
I am glad if she can forgive him. I can't, and that is the truth;
neither can I forgive myself for being such a blind fool, as I can see
now that I was. When I think of those meetings in the park,—of the
things he said to me, and the liberties I allowed him,—I am ready to
eat my own heart for rage and shame. But all that is done now. I shall
never love any man again.
_January 10._
Our people have returned. Betty does not seem to have enjoyed herself
greatly, though she says every one was very kind. Nor do I think the
company was much to my aunt's taste, though she says my uncle Richard
and his wife are good people, and the girls would be very presentable
with a little polish. To-morrow we go to Fullham, my uncle's estate,
where Mr. Cheney, who has rented the place for five years, desires to
see my uncle on business.
_January 20._
We came home last night, after a week's visit at Fullham, and glad
am I to be quiet once more. Such a house full of company—dancing and
card-playing every night, when a sufficient number of gentlemen could
be mustered sober enough for partners.
Mr. Cheney has made a great deal of money in one way or other; no one
seems to know exactly how, only he has been many years in South America
and the West Indies. A lady whispered to me that every one knew Mr.
Cheney had made the most of his wealth by piracy and the slave-trade,
for all he held his head so high. I did not think she need have said
as much, seeing that she was partaking of his hospitality. He is a
small, dark man, with very piercing eyes, which seemed to me always
as it were on the alert, watching every thing and everybody, but that
might be only my fancy, after what the lady told me. He is polite and
accomplished, but I could not like him, for all his compliments, nor
Bess either. Mrs. Cheney is a fine, handsome lady, well educated, and
graceful, whom he married abroad, they say the daughter of a Spanish
grandee whom he carried off. He is very kind and attentive to her, but
I can't help thinking she is afraid of him. He has been very liberal
in his dealings with my uncle, allowing him to take any furniture he
pleased, though all went with the house.
Betty has brought away a desk and cabinet which Meg always used, and my
aunt has given me a lute and a workbox which were hers. Mr. Cheney made
us each a handsome present at parting. I don't think aunt was sorry to
come away, though the company was much to her taste. The truth is, that
play ran pretty high of nights, and I suspect my uncle hath a weakness
that way. I know a good deal of money changed hands, both among the men
and women.
I had one pleasure connected with the visit; I met my old acquaintance
Mr. Studley, who dined with us one day along with his father. We had
quite a little chat afterward in the withdrawing-room, he having made
his escape from the table early. He tells me my lady is in London, and
that she finds great comfort in Mrs. Patty's society. I am glad of it,
but I wish she were down here, that I might see her sometimes.
"She is an excellent lady," remarked my aunt, "but she lives in a world
of her own."
"Pardon me, madam," said Mr. Studley, bowing, "not a world of her own.
My good Lady Clarenham's conversation is in heaven."
My aunt was prevented from answering by someone who asked her a
question.
Mr. Studley asked me if I were enjoying my visit.
"In some ways," I answered. "I like to hear Mrs. Cheney play and sing,
and I am glad to have beheld the great sea with my own eyes. It must be
lovely here in summer."
"We must take you up to North Devon, and show you the ocean there,"
said Mr. Studley, with animation.
And he began to describe to me the great cliffs affronting the waves,
the deep caverns under them, with hidden rifts through which are
thrown up columns of spray when the surf is high, the long coombes
running down to the sea, with wooded banks, and clear streams running
through them, and I know not what other beauties. Presently, he checked
himself, and said apologetically,—
"Pardon me if I weary you. Perhaps you do not care for such things."
"You do not weary me," I answered. "I love to hear of natural scenery."
"You have been abroad?" he asked.
I told him "no," and added that "I had hardly been out of the sound of
Bow bells till I came to Devon."
"And you like the country," he said. "You do not pine for London?"
"No, indeed!" I answered with truth. "I never care to see it again. But
you have been abroad?"
"Yes, I have been something of a traveller for a man of my age," he
answered. "I have been as far as Jerusalem."
I asked him some questions, and we had really a very pleasant talk.
He speaks fluently, yet modestly, and has very little to say about
himself. Before we parted, he drew from his pocket a little wooden box
containing a small cross carved in veined wood.
"You were saying that you would like to possess something that came
from Jerusalem. Will you accept this cross which I bought at Bethlehem,
instead? The box is of sandal-wood, and was made at Jaffa, which is
thought to be the Joppa of Scripture."
I could not well refuse the gift, and I must say I was very much
pleased with it. The cross is made of olive-wood, very daintily carved,
and the box has a sweet perfume. Afterwards I was a little doubtful
whether I had done right in accepting a present, and showed it to my
aunt.
"There was no harm in taking such a present as that," said my aunt.
"Young ladies should not accept valuable gifts from gentlemen unless
they are accepted suitors, but a mere curiosity which has no special
money value is quite a different matter. But I am pleased to see you
so open, Dolly. If young ladies would always be so, they would save
themselves and their friends a great deal of trouble."
I think I know that. I am resolved I will have no secrets from my aunt
while I am under her roof.
When I showed the cross to Dr. Burgoin, he said he would add a chain to
it, and gave me a string of carved pearl beads which he said came from
Nazareth. It seems he hath also been in the Holy Land, and even as far
east as Shiraz in Persia, when he was travelling with my uncle Foster.
_January 21._
I have heard a piece of news which I don't know how to believe. Dr.
Burdett dined here. He has recently been to Bath, and was amusing my
aunt, who is not very well, with accounts of the humors of that place.
Presently he turned to me.
"I met an old friend or acquaintance of yours, Mrs. Dolly. My brother
was sent for to see a lady with an attack of spasms; and, as he had a
broken leg on his hands, he sent me in his stead to see my Lady Corbet."
"My old mistress," said I. "And how did you find her?"
"With as promising an attack of indigestion as one would wish to see."
"I suppose she had been eating lobster again," said I.
"Exactly. She had a hard time, but I relieved her at last. Her
gentlewoman, a very nice middle-aged body, hearing I was from Exeter,
asked me if I had met you, and seemed very glad to hear from you."
"Dear Mrs. Williams! She was ever a most kind friend to me," said I.
"She is not likely to stay long where she is, if all tales be true,"
said the doctor. "My lady is going to be married."
"Impossible!" I exclaimed.
"Very possible," said the doctor. "Such things happen every day."
"But she has been married twice before; and she was always complaining
of Sir Charles for spending her money and neglecting her, as she said."
"I suppose she thinks 'better luck next time,'" observed my uncle. "Who
is the happy man on this occasion?"
"One Capt. Morley, an officer of Kirke's. It is said he has made a deal
of money to his own share in the late confiscations."
"A nice way to make money," said my uncle.
"A way that some greater people than he have not been ashamed of,"
said Dr. Burdett. "Even the queen's ladies of honor have traded in
the ransoms of the poor little maidens who were betrayed by their
school-mistress into presenting the duke with a banner."
"Well, I wonder at that," said my uncle. "One would not be surprised at
any thing in such a hound as this Morley, but that ladies should meddle
with such gains does amaze me."
"Scornful dogs will eat dirty puddings, if they be but rich enough,"
observed the doctor. He is always shocking my aunt with his proverbs,
which, truth to tell, are apt to be more forcible than elegant. But
just now her kind heart was too much occupied with her poor little
niece to allow her to give her kinsman more than a reproving look.
"Dorothy, my love, had you not better change your seat? I fear the air
blows on you from that window," said she. "Thomas, set Mrs. Dorothy's
chair and plate here by me."
The little bustle of the change made a diversion, and when we were
settled, my aunt asked Dr. Burgoin (who also dined with us) if it were
true that the Bath had been known so long as people said. No more was
needed to set the good man off full tilt on his favorite hobby-horse;
and between King Blalud and the Romans, and I know not what Saxon
saints, the perilous subject was forgotten. I never did see any one
with so much tact and skill as my dear aunt.
When we were alone together, I could not forbear putting my arms round
her neck and kissing her, though she does not encourage caresses. She
returned the kiss, and told me I had behaved beautifully, adding that
I had better lie down and rest a little, and that I need not appear at
supper unless I liked. I told her I would rather go out in the air, and
walk, to which she consented.
But to think of his marrying that old woman, old enough to be his
mother, and with all he knows of her temper. If I wished for revenge
for all my wrongs, which I am sure I do not, I am in a way to have it.
But, as I think of it, I do believe she always liked him. She never
made him any of the insulting speeches she bestowed so liberally on
every one else, and she would always go to extra expense for supper
when he visited us.
Poor Mrs. Williams, I wonder what she will do! I am sure she will never
in the world live under the same roof with that man, whom she always
disliked. I know she has saved money, and, besides, her skill and
accomplishments will easily find her another place. But I think she
will feel sadly, for I know she loved her mistress.
My head aches again to-night, but I am determined I will not be ill if
I can help it. I fancy Dr. Burdett thought something was wrong, for he
asked me specially after my health, and told me to take my Jesuits'
bark again.
_January 30._
I have had a slight return of fever, but not nearly so bad as the last,
and I am nearly well again; so that I hope to go down to the village
to-morrow to see Priscilla Penberthy, who has lost her pretty little
maid. Poor thing, she has sorrow on sorrow, and yet she is so very
good! I don't understand it. Sometimes I think the best people have the
most trouble, like poor Mr. Baxter and the Pendergasts; and then again
I think of mine own, which certainly did not proceed from any goodness
on my part.
_February 1._
I have had an adventure which came near costing me dear. That I am
alive to write it down, is owing to Mr. Studley.
I had been down, to see poor Priscilla, whom I found indeed in deep
affliction, but taking her trouble in such a sweet and patient spirit
as I never saw before, and could not too much admire. She says Dr.
Burgoin hath been very kind to her. He has quite won over Dame
Penberthy, who now goes to church every Sunday.
Coming back I took a somewhat lonely path through the park, intending
to look for snowdrops, which grow very plentifully at one place, which
they say was once a piece of the old convent garden. I found abundance
of the pretty white blossoms peeping above the short grass, and
gathered my hands full of them. I had come within sight of the nun's
grave (so the people call the little grotto within the earthwork, from
some idle tale or other), when I heard a strange noise behind me; and
looking round I saw a great stag pushing his way through the bushes.
I was not scared at first, for the stags are not often dangerous so
late in the winter, but I suppose something had put him out of humor,
for the moment he saw me he began pawing and tearing up the earth, and
bellowing,—I don't know the proper name for the noise they make. I
looked about. There was no tree that I could climb or even get behind.
I had sense enough not to run, and I retreated backward toward a great
oak in which was a hollow wherein I thought I might creep. The stag
seemed to grow more and more enraged every moment, now making a rush
toward me, and now stopping as I stopped, and tearing up the turf. I
was weak from my illness, and feared every moment to fall. I am not
a coward, but I had given myself up for lost, when I heard a clear,
cheery voice behind me say in encouraging tones, —
"To the stones, Mrs. Corbet, to the stones, but do not run, for your
life. I will divert him."
And with that Mr. Studley stepped out into the open glade. And taking
off his cloak, he shook it, shouting loudly at the same time. But the
stag was not to be diverted. He seemed to regard me as the one enemy
whom he had been seeking all his life. He just turned his head a
moment, and then made another rush.
"Ah, well, we must fight for it then!" said Mr. Studley composedly. He
drew his sword as he spoke, calling to me to go on.
But my strength was spent, and I dropped in a heap on the ground, and
covered my face, but I did not faint. I heard the sound of a desperate
struggle, and then a fall.
I dared not look up till a hand was laid on my shoulder, and a kind
voice said cheerily,—
"Look up, Mrs. Dorothy. The danger is over. Look up and see your fallen
adversary."
I looked up: Mr. Studley was standing by me, covered with blood and
dust, but apparently unhurt. The stag lay on the ground dead. Like a
fool, instead of thanking my preserver, I burst into tears. I think my
weeping scared Mr. Studley almost as much as the stag had frightened
me. However, he behaved very well. He brought me some water from a
spring near by, in a cup which he took out of his pocket; fanned me
with his hat; and, when I made an effort to rise, he helped me to my
feet, and stood looking at me with such a face of alarm, that he nearly
set me off laughing.
"Don't mind me," said I. "It was silly to cry, but I am not very
strong, and a little thing over-sets me."
"An attack from an enraged stag can hardly be called a little thing,"
said Mr. Studley, looking immensely relieved. "I am overjoyed that I
happened to come this way. Thank God."
He took off his hat, and spoke as if he meant it.
"But you are worn out, and it is too cold and damp for you to sit down.
Let me take you to the house," said he; "and in good time here comes
Sir Robert to call me to account for killing his deer."
My uncle was indeed just coming down the path from the house.
"Hullo, Dolly! I was coming to look for you," he shouted. "Dan Lee has
just told me that the old black stag was in a fury; and I feared he
might meet you and do you a mischief. Who have we here—Mr. Studley?"
"At your service, sir," said Mr. Studley, bowing. "As to the stag, he
will do no more mischief, I take it, for yonder he lies."
"Hullo, what does this mean?" asked Sir Robert, staring first at the
deer and then at Mr. Studley. "Are you turned deer-stealer, Master
Precisian?"
"You see at least I have not carried off my booty, Sir Robert,"
answered Mr. Studley, smiling, "so you can send me to jail as soon as
you please, since you have taken me red-handed."
"Mr. Studley saved my life, uncle," said I. And then, collecting my
wits, I told him all about it.
"I hoped to entangle the creature in my cloak, and so spare his life,"
added Mr. Studley, "but he baffled me, so we had a hand-to-hand fight
for it. I thought he would be too much for me, and longed for my good
hunting-knife instead of this toy," taking up his sword from the grass,
"but I will hold it sacred henceforth, since it has done such good
service."
"And are you unhurt yourself?" asked my uncle. "You know 'hurt of hart'
is no laughing matter."
"I have but a few scratches, which are of no manner of consequence,"
answered Mr. Studley. "Had we not better take Mrs. Dolly to the house,
Sir Robert?"
"Ay, do so; and I will take order for this venison."
"He was a gallant fellow," remarked Mr. Studley, pausing a moment to
look at his fallen adversary. "How happens it that he keeps his horns
so late as this?"
"That I can't tell you. It was an oddity of his, and for that and his
great size, I prized him. But you have done well, sir, and I thank you
most heartily," added my uncle, with that courtly grace which belongs
to him with all his roughness. "We had been a sorrowful household if
old Bevis had trampled down our clove-gilliflower. Now you must stay
and sup with us. Nay, I will take no denial," as Mr. Studley began to
speak of his disarray. "I will lend you a suit, or send for one of your
own, but you must give my lady a chance to thank you for saving our
dear niece."
So they settled it between them, and Mr. Studley staid. But I did
not help to entertain him, for I was no sooner in my room than I was
taken with a chill, enough to shake me to pieces, so that Betty ran
for Sharpless and for her mother in all haste. The poor child really
thought I was dying.
But Dr. Burnett being summoned, (he is staying here at present) said
the trouble only came from my being scared and over-wrought. He gave
me some composing drops, and bade Sharpless bring me some tea, a drink
which he greatly approves, and which Sharpless regards with horror,
as I remember Mrs. Williams used to do. He would prepare it for me
himself, tempering it with cream and sugar. And I must say I found it
very comforting and refreshing. Then he would have a cup himself; and
by some magic of coaxing, he made Sharpless have another, and even
allow that it was pleasant.
My aunt came up to see me after supper, and told me Mr. Studley had
made himself very agreeable. It seems he is visiting Dr. Burgoin, who
is his old tutor.
"He is a fine young man," said my aunt: "'tis a pity he has taken up
such a strict set of notions."
"Such as what, madam?" asked Betty, who had staid with me instead of
going to supper.
"Oh, he happened to let fall that he had been in Seville, where you
know your father went with my Lord Sandwich, when he was embassador
to Spain. But when Sir Robert asked him about their bull-feasts, he
answered, almost with horror, that he had never witnessed one. And
on Sir Robert's asking why, he said he could not think the sight of
innocent beasts tortured, and men's lives put in jeopardy, was one for
a Christian man to delight in. And when Sir Robert said he had seen
good Christian men, and women also, looking on at a bull-baiting, Mr.
Studley said very gravely,—
"'Sir Robert, can you imagine our blessed Lord and his mother making a
part of the company at such a show?'
"I think your father would have been downright angry if the young man
had not just done us such a service.—Is he a Presbyterian, do you know,
Dolly?"
"No, aunt. I heard him say when he was at Lady Clarenham's that he was
an unworthy member of the Church of England."
"Ah, well, I am glad of it with all my heart!" said my aunt, as though
she was rejoicing that he was not a forger or coiner. "But it is a
great pity that he has taken up such notions. He ought to know more
than to set himself up to be so much better than his elders. As if the
best people in the land did not promote bull-baitings as a means of
keeping up a brave spirit among the common people!"
"I do not see any thing very brave in a set of men looking on to see
savage dogs torment a poor tethered beast," said Betty. "I always did
like it in Gen. Cromwell that he stopped the bear-baiting, and put the
poor tortured creatures out of their pain." ¹
¹ Macaulay says the Puritan contrived to have the pleasure of
tormenting both the spectators and the bear, while the story he tells
proves exactly the contrary to any thinking person. But Macaulay never
hesitated to sacrifice any thing to the witty or graceful turn of a
paragraph.
"Hush, Betty, you are very much to blame," said her mother severely.
"I don't know what your father would say to hear his daughter praising
Cromwell."
Betty was silent, of course, but she did not look very penitent. I must
say I think she was right; and, if a thing is wrong, I don't see that
the fact of respectable people encouraging it makes the matter any
better.
_February 28._
I have quite recovered from my adventure, which did Mr. Studley more
harm than it did me. The wound on his arm, which he made so light of
that he would hardly let my aunt do it up with some of her famous
healing balsam, inflamed, and was very painful, and even dangerous.
However, Dr. Burnett cured it at last. I am glad he was staying here.
He has been examining my uncle Foster's books for some scientific
matter or other. There are a great quantity of them, as well as many
manuscripts, both in Greek and Arabic, which Dr. Burnett says are very
valuable. He showed us one very old one, done on vellum, which he says
is Persian. It looks as if an army of flies and spiders had held a
desperate engagement, and left their severed members behind them. I
believe Sharpless was out and out afraid of it.
As I said, Mr. Studley had a bad time with his arm, but it is now quite
well again. He has made us several visits, and is a prime favorite
with my uncle, who is obliged to own that the young man is no milksop,
though he is so strict in his religious notions. There is a very fine
young horse on the place, of the best blood, and a most beautiful
creature, but so wild and fierce in his temper that no one has been
able to break him heretofore, and all the men are afraid of him. Mr.
Studley begged my uncle to allow him to take the creature in hand, and
he consented, somewhat unwillingly, thinking it a dangerous experiment.
But in a week's time, Mr. Studley had Sultan as tame as a kitten, and
the creature will follow him anywhere,—all by the force of kindness,
as it seems, though the grooms will have it there is some magic in the
matter.
My uncle told us about it. He said Mr. Studley walked up to the door of
the loose box; and when Sultan came at him, laying back his ears and
showing his teeth, he just held out his hand to him. Sultan stopped
as if amazed, and presently approaching, almost timidly as it seemed,
began smelling his hand and arm. By and by Mr. Studley slipped the
other hand over his head and began stroking his ears, and presently
offered him some sugar in his open palm. And so he went on from one
endearment to another, till Sultan at length allowed his new friend to
slip a bridle on him and lead him about. Mr. Studley says he learned
the secret among the Arabians, who never beat their horses nor break
them, as we understand breaking, but bring them up to be friends and
companions. It does seem a much more sensible way. I think I should try
it with children if I had any, but it is not likely I shall ever be
married.
_March 1._
A great thing has happened. Mr. Studley has asked my uncle for my hand
in marriage, bringing a letter from his father to the same effect, the
old gentleman being confined with gout.
At first, when my aunt broke the matter to me, I thought I could not
entertain the idea for a moment, but she has given me several days for
consideration, and I have changed my mind. I shall tell my aunt, when
she asks me, that I will marry Mr. Studley.
In the first place, though I can never love him nor any man again
in that way, yet Mr. Studley is one that I can heartily respect and
admire. 'Tis true he is over-strict, it may be, in his notions, but
that is a fault on the right side. If he does not play, he will not
gamble away his substance, as so many young men—yes, and old ones—do in
these days. And if he is no drinker, I shall not be mortified by seeing
him under the table, or hearing him talk vile, blasphemous nonsense,
in his cups, as poor little Mrs. Lightfoot's husband did at Fullham, I
remember.
Then, though my aunt and uncle make light of it, I know I am something
of a charge to them. My uncle lost much money by his ventures, and I
can't but think he has lost more in play with Mr. Cheney. He hath been
to Fullham two or three times, and always comes home in a bad humor;
and my dear aunt looks very anxious and unhappy at these times. Mr.
Studley asks for no dowry with me. He is his father's only son, and the
old gentleman is rich.
And I suppose I must marry some time or other. My good aunt thinks
women were made for no other end, and that no so great misfortune can
befall any one as to be an old maiden, as they call them hereabouts.
I have heard her wonder how old Lady Jem Stanton's family could have
allowed her to follow such an eccentric course. (She was a lady of
quality, who lived in her own house not very far from here. She never
married, but kept her house full of orphan maids, whom she brought up
in all good ways and housewifely accomplishments. She died only the
other day at a great age.)
My aunt, since we came here, has talked of several matches for me;
and I know she would never be satisfied to have me live single. I
owe every thing to her kindness, and I owe my life to Mr. Studley's
bravery. And if I can pleasure them both at once, why should I not do
so? I can honestly say that I have not one particle of love for Mr.
Morley remaining in my heart. Somehow, the notion of his marrying that
woman and being subject to her caprices, did set him in such a mean and
ridiculous light that it finished the cure which Dame Penberthy began.
I could never love a cruel man.
I think I can make Mr. Studley a good, dutiful wife. I wish I did love
him more, but my aunt says that will come, and perhaps she is right. I
do love him, in a way; that is, I would like him for my brother. If he
had taken to Bess, I should have been delighted.
_March 3._
I told my aunt this morning, on her questioning me, that I was ready
to content her and my uncle by marrying Mr. Studley. She was very much
pleased, kissed me, called me her good, dutiful daughter, and was sure
I should be very happy.
My uncle looked rather doubtful.
"I don't know. She does not look as she did when the other fellow
was in hand," he muttered, thinking aloud, as his fashion is; and
then to me, "Are you sure you are content, Dolly? I won't have my
clove-gilliflower sacrificed to anybody, not if I go out as a ploughman
to keep her."
"I am sure, Dolly—" my aunt began.
But my uncle interrupted her.
"Let her speak for herself, my lady," he said. "What is it, Doll? Speak
out, and have no fear."
Thus adjured, I told my uncle I was perfectly content to marry Mr.
Studley, whom I esteemed above any young man I had ever seen, and
respected as well; and that I would do my best to make him a good wife.
I don't think my uncle was quite satisfied, but he kissed me, and
wished me joy, and then said he would put poor Studley out of pain.
I hope Mr. Studley will not expect too much of me. I shall try to have
a full and frank explanation with him if I can. I won't marry any man
under false pretences.
_March 4._
Mr. Studley called this morning, and my aunt informed him that I had
accepted his proposals. I must say he behaved beautifully. But oh, if
they would only let me live single! I don't wonder girls in popish
countries go into nunneries to escape from unwelcome suitors. Good as
Mr. Studley is, and much as I respect,—yes, and love him too, in a
way,—I would rather go back to my old way of life with my mistress than
marry him. But the die is cast. My word is passed, and I cannot recede.
All that remains is to do my duty in that state of life to which it
hath pleased God to call me. When I said as much to Betty, she took me
up sharply.
"You do not quote it rightly, Dolly. The catechism does not say, 'To
which it "hath,"' but 'to which it SHALL please God to call me.' That
is a very different matter. And I think one ought to be very sure of
that call, before undertaking what you are about to do."
Betty grows more and more serious every day. She has read my "Pilgrim's
Progress" till I think she knows it by heart. My aunt mentioned it to
the bishop, but my lord only laughed, and said young maids were always
taking fancies, and it was not worth while to make them of importance
by opposition.
He talked with Betty very kindly and seriously afterward, and I suppose
he was satisfied with her spiritual state; for he told my aunt that
her daughter was a young lady of an excellent spirit, though somewhat
inclined to austerity.
"But that is a good fault, and not common in these days," he added.
"For my part, I should never quarrel with a young lady for loving
visiting the poor more than dancing, and her closet and her Bible more
than the card-table and the Devil's books, as you know Mrs. Dolly's
Presbyterian friends call them."
"But you do not think there is any harm in cards," said my aunt.
"No more than in push-pin or jack-straws, considered in themselves,"
answered his lordship; "'tis the use that is made of them. You must
see, Lady Fullham, all the evils that are now wrought in the community
by gambling; how many families are impoverished and disgraced thereby."
"Yes, indeed," said my aunt, sighing.
And, indeed, gambling does prevail to a fearful extent. Even the clergy
and their families are not exempt. I think the bishop might give us a
sermon on it, instead of some of those on passive obedience and Divine
right with which he wearies us,—or me at least. I can't help wondering
how his non-resistance would hold out if the king were to put one of
his popish priests into the sea of Exeter, for instance,—a thing not
so unlikely to happen, if matters go on as we hear they are going at
present.
_March 8._
The day is fixed for my wedding,—the 15th of April. My aunt and
Sharpless are over head and ears in wedding-clothes. My uncle has been
liberal, though I know he is cramped for money, but I think most of my
things have come from my aunt's private purse, and then she hath given
me most of the wardrobe provided for poor dear Meg.
Mr. Studley has done us another service, which I think hath bound my
aunt to him forever. He was invited to go with my uncle to Fullham.
Now, he does not like Mr. Cheney any more than I do, and he neither
drinks to excess nor gambles: so the society at Fullham is not
specially congenial to him. But I think he read something in my aunt's
face which made him consent to Sir Robert's request that he would ride
over with him. Contrary to what has been the case heretofore, my uncle
came home rather early.
The next morning I was sitting with my aunt, mending of some rare old
lace which she has given me, when my uncle came in and threw himself
down in a great chair.
"So, busy with the wedding finery," said he. "I must say, gilliflower,
thou hast chosen the queerest stick of a bridegroom." (As if I had
chosen him at all!) "I would you had seen him last night."
"Why, what did he do?" asked my aunt. "Nothing unbecoming, I trust."
"Why, no; at least, I suppose you would not say so. The beginning was
at supper. Mr. Cheney produced some Greek wines, which he greatly
commended, but Studley would not taste them, saying he had tried them
in their native country, and found them heady and heating. And I think
they are. I know they got into my head, which is pretty well seasoned."
"Well," said my aunt, as my uncle paused.
"Well, Cheney urged them on Studley, and laughed and jeered him more
than was becoming a gentleman at his own table, I thought, but not a
whit was my master moved, nor did he lose his temper, though I saw his
eyes flash at one jest of his host's, which I will not repeat in a
lady's ears. By and by, we sat down to cards. Mr. Studley played a game
or two of piquet, but when the betting began, he put down his cards,
and rose from the table.
"'What, man! Art afraid of losing thy pocket-money, and being whipped
by thy dad?' said Mr. Cheney. 'Thou lookest at the cards as though they
were so many spotted adders. Take courage, they will not bite thee.'
"'If you had had a dear friend bitten to death by an adder, you would
not care to play with the beast, not even if his fangs were drawn; much
less when you saw them dropping venom,' answered Studley.
"'What mean you by that?' asked Mr. Cheney.
"'I can tell you the tale, if you desire to hear it,' answered Studley.
"'Oh, tell it, by all means!' sneered our host. And I do think the man
looks like an incarnate fiend when he wears that mocking smile.
"I suppose he thought to find more food for mockery, but he never was
more mistaken in his life. Mr. Studley began, and told us of a friend
of his who had been at college and abroad with him, who was drawn
into high play at Paris, whither he had gone, carrying with him a
considerable sum belonging to some widow lady. He was drawn into play,
and lost it all. Then he came to his friend's apartment, and told the
story, saying that he could not and would not survive the disgrace.
"'I strove to keep him, saying the money might be retrieved or
replaced,' continued Studley, 'but all my arguments were in vain. He
broke from me and rushed into the street, and I lost him in the crowd.
The next day I saw his dead body drawn out of the river. He had left a
letter to me, enclosing one to his father; and I had to carry to the
poor, white-haired old gentleman the news of his only son's disgrace
and death. He never held up his head afterward, but died in a few days.
Do you wonder, gentlemen, that I have no liking for that which ruined,
body and soul, the man I had loved like an own brother?'
"That was his tale, but I can't tell it as he did. I can tell you, he
brought tears to my eyes, for one. Lightfoot, who has been both playing
and drinking deeply of late, flung down his hand, and said, with a deep
curse, that he wished the Devil, who invented cards and dice, had them
again. Cheney blustered a little, and talked of spoil-sports and wet
blankets, but all the company took sides with Studley, and he fairly
broke up the party for that time."
"I am thankful for it," said my aunt.
"Well, you may be thankful, my lady," returned my uncle bluntly. "I was
in no state to play coolly, and I might have lost pretty deeply. I have
already left in Cheney's hands more than I can well afford, and I am
ready to swear that I will go thither no more."
"I wish you would, Sir Robert," said my aunt earnestly. "There is that
about the man which repels me, though I cannot tell what it is."
"They tell hard stories about him," observed my uncle; "as that he hath
been a slave-dealer, or even a pirate. Studley says he is sure he hath
seen him in the East, though he cannot tell where. But I would you had
seen and heard the young fellow. I wonder at such notions in the son of
old George Studley, who was any thing but a saint when I knew him."
Anyhow, I like Mr. Studley none the worse for his conduct. I think it
must take more courage for a young man to stand up in that way, than if
he had faced a battery of cannon.
I have had a great pleasure in a letter from Bab Andrews. She promised
to write me, but I did not build much upon it, knowing how much
she would have to engage her attention, and how infrequent is the
communication, but then, if Bab promised any thing, it was ever certain
to come to pass. I am sure, if my aunt knew her, she would get over
some of her violent prejudices—for they are no more—against every one
who does not belong to the Church of England. My mistress felt just so
towards every one who was not a Presbyterian, and could hardly forgive
Mr. Baxter for allowing that an Anabaptist could write a good book. I
think one is about as reasonable as the other. Of course, I believe
my side is right, because it would not otherwise be my side. And if I
think salt is white, I must needs think that man mistaken who says it
is black or red, but that need not make me consider him a hypocrite or
a villain.
However, I have got a long way from Bab and her letter. She tells
me they had a long though a prosperous voyage, and landed at a
place called Newcastle, which is some way up the great river of the
Delawares, and quite a thriving little town. However, she did not
stay there, but in a few days removed to the other side of the river,
to West Jersey, where her aunt lives in a place called Cohansey
Bridge-town. Bab says the bridge is there, such as it is, but the town
is still greatly to seek, there being not more than six or eight houses
in all. ¹
¹ I am not quite certain that there was any town at all, though there
was a bridge at this point in very early times.
Bab writes as follows:—
"I had expected a good many hardships and privations, and was surprised
enough to find my good aunt living in great comfort, in a neat
house, partly of stone and partly of hewn logs, but all pleasant and
comfortable. The stone is of a dark red color, and when first taken out
of the ground cuts very easily, but by exposure to the weather becomes
hard enough for building. The log houses are warm, and to my thinking
very pretty. The worst is they harbor insects, and especially earwigs
as long as your finger, very frightful, but not dangerous, though they
can give a nip in self-defence, but they are very timid and easily
killed.
"My aunt hath a fine orchard of peach and apple trees, and we have
abundance of nice winter apples, and of peaches also, which are
preserved by being cut into quarters and dried in the sun. They are
very good, and so plentiful that the poorest people can have them. The
climate is mild even now, and I enclose a rosebud which I gathered in
our garden yesterday.
"There is full liberty in these parts for every one to worship God in
his own way. We have half a dozen sorts represented in this little
settlement,—Quakers, Presbyterians, and Anabaptists,—but all live
in peace. The Presbyterians have Sunday worship in the little log
schoolhouse, when there is any one to conduct it."
She tells me a great deal more about the place and country,—of the
Indian savages, who live in great peace with the white people; of
the birds, which are abundant; and of the little school which she
has set up, and in which she has gathered all the children of the
settlement,—and ends with these words:—
"I would you were with me, Dolly. Do you know, when I used to build my
castle in the air, about coming out here, you always occupied one room
thereof? I fully intended to ask you to come with me, whenever I came,
but of course, after your aunt so kindly adopted you, that was out of
the question."
When I read this to my aunt, who was much interested in the letter, she
said,—
"But you would never have gone, Dolly?"
"I believe I should, madam," I answered. "I think I should have done
almost any thing to escape from Lady Corbet, and I was always fond of
Bab."
"Ah, well, it hath all ended for the best," observed my aunt. "I am
glad I came in the nick of time to save you from such a fate."
Am I glad? I don't know that I am. I think I would like to be in New
Jersey with Bab at this minute, gathering of wild flowers, which she
says make the land like a garden, or helping her in her little school,
or her aunt in the farm-work. No, I can't say that I think all is for
the best. But, as things were then, should I have gone? I can't tell,
and there is no use in speculating.
I don't understand my own feelings at all. I think sometimes I have
none. I am content to drift with the current, careless where I shall
land. I hope, for the sake of my family, I shall make no utter
shipwreck. I hope, too, that I shall make a good wife to my husband,
who certainly deserves a far better one.
_March 20._
How fast the time runs on! News has come from London which has decided
my aunt and uncle to go thither as soon as the wedding is over. It is
something concerning my uncle's speculating venture, out of which he
hopes to save somewhat. I think my aunt is pleased. So is not Betty,
who hates London and all the round of plays and balls and all the rest
of the gayeties.
Mr. Studley hath been home to visit his father, and I cannot but think
since his return his spirits have been somewhat flatter than his wont.
He tells me one thing which I am glad to hear; namely, that his father
hath promised to fit up a separate house on the estate for us, that we
may keep house.
"'Tis but a plain old house and not large," said he to me, "but it is
comfortable; and I thought you would rather govern your own household,
though it was but a small one."
"You were right," said I. "I believe it is much the best arrangement. I
don't care how plain the house is, so we do but have it to ourselves."
"You don't care for luxury," remarked Mr. Studley, looking well-pleased.
"I won't say that," I answered. "I like it well enough, but even in my
short life, I have seen enough to know that outward things have little
to do with happiness."
"You are right there, Dolly," said Mr. Studley, sighing. "Unless there
be peace within, no outward peace avails any thing. But I hope we shall
have both in our quiet little home."
Then he went on to describe to me the house and garden, the poultry
yard, and other conveniences; and I listened, glad to please him in any
way. Finally I asked about the church and parson. He shook his head
rather sadly.
"The church is well enough, though small and rustical, but there are
a fine painted window and sundry old carvings and monumental brasses
which were the delight of my good old tutor when he visited us. But as
to the parson, the less said the better. He is no credit to the place
that he fills."
"That must be a grief to you," I remarked.
"It is, indeed, and I would matters were otherwise, but at present I
can do nothing save wait and pray."
I never saw a young man like Mr. Studley—I mean one whose religion
seemed so a part of himself. He never parades it any more than he does
his travels or his music, but, when he has occasion to speak thereof,
it is with no more hesitation or embarrassment than he would speak of
being in Rome.
_April 10._
The day is near at hand, and all the preparations are finished, for
which I am glad. I have been so out of patience with the foolish finery
at times, I have felt an insane longing to tear it to pieces or burn it
up. If Mr. Studley were as foolishly fond as some men are in the like
circumstances, I believe I should quarrel with him, but that is not his
way. Only at times I catch his eyes fixed on me with a look that goes
to my heart, and makes me feel like weeping.
Such a look from Mr. Morley would have made me happy for a week, but,
try as I will, I can't feel the love for him that I did for that
unworthy man. I am glad he is out of my way, where I am not like to see
him. I wonder if he is married. To think of a man selling himself in
that way! But Betty says Lord Chesterton told her that Mr. Morley is a
gamester and loaded with debt. I fancy he is much mistaken if he thinks
my lady will pay them for him. I do hope at least he will have the
honesty to tell her of them.
I am not going to write in my journal any more, that is, more than to
set down the day's events, perhaps. I can't quite make up my mind to
destroy these two volumes which have been such a comfort to me, but I
shall seal them up and put them away. I will not write any thing that
I cannot show to my husband, for I am resolved I will have no secrets
from him.
If I could but love him as I loved that other! If I had only seen him
first! If only something would not keep whispering his name to me, and
suggesting—But there, I won't write it.
I am resolved that I will do my best to be a good wife to Mr. Studley,
and a dutiful daughter to his old father, who, from what I hear, is
like enough to be somewhat of a trial. It may be that in time something
like love will come to me. I think my aunt suspects the state of my
heart, for she discoursed largely last night of the nature of true
affection, and how much better foundation for happiness were respect
and esteem than the blind passion commonly called love. I wonder if she
thought so when she married Mr. Foster. From what I have learned about
him from Dr. Burnett and Dr. Burgoin, he and my aunt could not have
been very congenial spirits, yet Dr. Burnett says it was altogether a
love match.
Ah, well, the die is cast! The sacrifice is made, and there is no
receding. Since I must needs be married, I am glad my aunt's choice has
fallen upon such a worthy man, whom, as I have said to myself over and
over again, I can respect and admire, if I do not love him.
THE THIRD BOOK.
[Illustration]
BOOK III.
_Studley Hall, 1687._
WHEN I was looking over my things in preparation for removing from the
farm to this house, I opened a trunk mail in which I had stored away
a quantity of finery unsuitable to a farmer's wife. Turning over the
things, my hand fell upon a square sealed package, of which I could not
remember the contents. Breaking the seals, I found my two old journal
books, which used to stand me in stead of confidential friends and
father confessor. I fell to looking them over, and Mr. Studley coming
in at the moment, I read him the last pages I wrote. He laughed, and
kissed me, saying, "All's well that ends well."
"Perhaps so," I answered; "but, Ned, I can see now what a wrong I did
you, and what a sin I committed, in wedding you as I did, promising so
solemnly to love, honor, and obey, when my heart was not in the matter."
"Ah, well, you have been a fairly dutiful and obedient wife, save when
you will go out in the wet to hunt up your missing fowls," said Mr.
Studley; "and as to love, I think there is a little between us, Dolly."
Then he added more gravely: "In truth, dear wife, if there was any
blame, it attached more to me than to you. I was not so blinded by my
love but that I could see how you felt toward me. You would hardly have
walked down as far as the red gate to meet your bridegroom coming to
woo, even in the finest weather, as you did yesterday in the rain to
meet your stupid, humdrum old goodman coming from market, you foolish
woman!"
"I wanted to see if you had forgotten my knitting-pins," said I,
pretending to pout.
"And so send me back for them. No doubt I should have gone, like an
obedient, hen-pecked husband, as I am; only you forgot to ask for them
at all, and here they are in my pocket. But indeed, Dolly, I was to
blame. I knew your heart was not in the match, but it seemed to my
self-will as if I could not live without you, and I was vain enough to
believe I could win your regard if I had a fair chance."
"How conceited some men are!" I said.
"But, Dolly, since you are like, or so I hope, to have a little more
leisure, with our mended fortunes, why should you not continue your
chronicle down to the present time?" continued my husband. "It will be
a pleasant pastime, and our daughter will like to read them when she is
a sober house-dame like thyself."
"It seems odd to think that mite of a creature should ever be a sober,
married woman," said I, regarding my three months old Barbara asleep in
her cot, "but I suppose we were all like that once. I hope she may have
as good a fortune as her mother before her. Only I would not have her
left as I was, for the lot of an orphan maid is too often a sad one.
But then, as you say, 'all's well that ends well.'"
Mrs. Williams, coming in for some directions about the new cheeses, put
an end to the talk for that time, but my husband adverted to it more
than once afterward. And as we are now quite settled in our new home,
and we have the house well cleaned, which it greatly needed, and every
thing is going on well, I know no reason why I should not content him.
He has gone to Plymouth for a week to see about some property there,
and I have a mind to surprise him when he comes home.
To begin with the wedding. It went off as such things usually do, I
suppose. Betty was bridesmaid, and I am sure a soberer one was never
seen. I don't think I was a very sober bride. Somehow, just at the
last, a reckless spirit took possession of me. Dr. Burnett had been
to the Bath again, and had brought news that Mr. Morley was actually
married to his ancient bride: she is sixty-five at the very least.
When I heard that, as I said before, a spirit of recklessness took
possession of me. I was determined to show that I did not care: so I
talked and laughed, entered with zeal into all the preparations for the
festivities, and feigned the greatest interest in my wedding array.
I saw Mr. Studley look at me with wondering eyes more than once. I
suppose he must have said something to my aunt, for I heard her tell
him that young maids' spirits were always variable at such times.
The wedding-day is much like a dream to me. We were married at the
parish church; and almost the only clear remembrance I have is the face
of old Dame Penberthy, as she pressed a bunch of blue and white violets
into my hand at the church door.
We had no very great wedding festivities, for the absence of which,
my aunt's mourning was a sufficient excuse. Our only guests were the
bishop's family, who are my aunt's relations, a few of our nearest
neighbors, and Mr. and Mrs. Lightfoot. Mr. Lightfoot had sought Mr.
Studley's company since that evening at Fullham which I have recorded,
and by his persuasion had left off cards and dice, and given himself to
retrieving his encumbered estate. Mrs. Lightfoot looked upon my husband
almost as an angel, as well, indeed, she might, poor little woman!
The next day after my marriage was lovely, and my husband asked me to
walk out in the park with him. All my high spirits had evaporated by
that time, and a kind of impatient misery had succeeded to it. I felt
as if I could not endure any thing. I bent down to gather a primrose,
and as I did so I scratched my hand with a thistle, and in my vexation
I gave vent to an oath,—a modish oath, such as half the fine ladies in
London used without ever giving it a thought. I had caught up the habit
there, and had been trying to break myself of it, but I think such a
habit one of the hardest in the world to conquer. I was brought to
myself by my husband's look of almost horrified surprise.
"Dolly!" said he, and the tone spoke volumes.
I felt the blood come up in my cheeks, but I tried to carry it off
lightly.
"I did not mean any thing," said I; "it was only a trick I picked up in
London. Everybody there uses such words."
"If the whole world used them, I could not be reconciled to hearing
them from the lips of my dear wife," said Mr. Studley. "See you not, my
love, that it is this very light use of the word which the Commandment
forbids,—the taking the holy name in vain, or lightly?"
"I suppose so," I answered. "The truth is, Mr. Studley, I am not one
bit religious. I was once, I believe; at least, when I was confirmed I
made many good resolutions, and did love to read in the Bible and to go
to church. But afterwards, somehow, it all became dim and unreal to me.
I did not go to church, and the books I read to my mistress were only
tasks to me; and since—" I stopped, horrified at the words which came
to my lips.
"Since when, my dear?" asked my husband gently. "Canst thou not open
thy heart to thy husband, my Dorothy?"
Now, I had resolved that the name of Philip Morley should nevermore
pass my lips, that Mr. Studley should never know what he had been to
me. While I was fully resolved to have no secrets from my husband, as
soon as he became so, it seemed to me that my single life was mine own.
But I know not what possessed me; whether I had endured as long as
endurance was possible, or whether the kindness of his manner broke
down my reserve, as ice is melted by the warm south winds: I began at
the beginning, and told him the whole story of my life,—how Mr. Harpe
had cheated me, and my mistress abused me; how I saw Mr. Morley first,
and all about my acquaintance with him, even to those clandestine
meetings in the park, which I can never think of without shame and
anger.
"And I can't be religious: how can I?" I concluded. "How can I think
Heaven has been good to me, or that any one there loves me, when I have
been so thwarted and shamed and tossed about? I might as well think
that God cared for one of those withered weeds, or a bit of tangle on
the shore."
I stopped, rather scared at my own desperate words. Mr. Studley had
been standing before me, as I sat on a rustic bench in the shade of a
thicket. To my surprise, he turned from me, and walked away without a
word, disappearing among the trees.
What would I not have given to recall what I had said? I had thrown
away my husband's love and respect; and, now they were gone, it seemed
that I would give worlds to have them back again. I seemed all at once
to realize all I felt for him. What would he do? Would he ever speak
to me again? Would he leave me altogether, and go away? What would my
friends say if he did, and where should I hide my disgraced head when
they knew all?
Tears came to my eyes at last, but they were hot, burning tears, and
gave me no relief. I covered my face with my hands, and was sitting in
a kind of heavy, listless despair, when all at once my head was drawn
to a warm, strong resting-place, and a kind hand wiped my tears. Not a
word was spoken till I looked up, and said, in a voice that was hardly
articulate,—
"I thought you had gone and left me."
"No, indeed; you do not get rid of me so easily," replied my husband.
"I ought not to have left you alone so long, but I confess I had need
of a little solitude to compose my spirits."
"Then you don't hate me?"
"Not quite yet. It would be a strange love, methinks, which would be
alienated by such openness as yours, my Dolly. I own that for a moment
I was shocked and startled by what you told me. But I do not believe
you love this man."
"No, indeed," I answered, with energy. "It is a wonder to me how I
could ever care for him."
"It is no great wonder, under the circumstances. But, Dolly, you say
that you cannot love God because he hath dealt so hardly with you. Was
it hard dealing with you not to leave you to reap the harvest of your
own self-will and indiscretion?"
"No, perhaps not. But why did he take my mother from me, and leave me a
forlorn orphan maid, with no one to guide me?"
"That I cannot tell you. It belongs to the great unsolvable riddle,—the
existence of evil at all. But, Dolly, is it quite true that he left
you with no one to guide you? You say that both Mrs. Williams and your
friend Mrs. Andrews warned you. And was there not something within
which confirmed their warnings?"
"It is true," I answered. "I knew all the time I was doing wrong."
"Exactly. You see your Father did not leave you alone, after all."
"I wish I could feel that he were my Father indeed," said I. "I would I
could love him as you do. I have tried, but I cannot."
"That is because you have not tried in the right way, my dear one,"
answered my husband. "You could not love him while you thought him your
foe. 'We love him because he first loved us.'" And with that he began
and drew a picture of the love of God, and the work of the Holy Trinity
in our redemption, so tender, so moving, supporting all he said by the
words of Scripture, as I never heard the like from any preacher.
I wept abundantly, but my tears were cool and refreshing, and seemed to
overflow and carry away all remains of that spring of bitterness in my
heart which had been poisoning my life.
"But you make my case worse and worse, Edward," said I. (I don't think
I had ever called him by his name before.) "If I have been sinning all
my life against such love as this you describe, and which I must needs
believe in, how can I ever be forgiven? What remains for such a sinner?"
"Eternal life, if the sinner will but take the free gift held out to
her," answered my husband. "Do you not see, Dolly, that the fact of
your being a sinner, is in one way your title to salvation?"
"I don't understand," said I. "Must one not be good to be saved?"
"Yes and no. You put the cart before the horse, as we say in these
parts. You are not to be saved because you are good, but you are to
be good because you are saved. If you could work out your salvation,
then were our Lord's work useless. But he came into the world to save
sinners. You are a sinner; 'ergo,' he came into the world to save you.
Does not that make it plain?"
We talked a long time. He showed me at last, plainly, both by the Bible
and Prayer-Book, that I had only to believe that the Lord had died for
me, and to put my trust in him, in order to reap all the benefits of
his passion. He showed me how all the services and sacraments pointed
the same way, and served to the same end,—that God's children were
to perfect holiness in his fear, because they were his children by
creation, by adoption at our baptism, and at last by our own act and
deed consenting thereto.
I cannot write all that he said. I know from that hour life was a new
thing to me.
"But we must not sit here too long: the air is growing chill," said he.
"Your aunt will chide me if you get the ague from my carelessness."
"It will be an ague well bought," said I. And then, a little
mischievously, "Then you won't quite give up your wayward little wife,
though she has been such a naughty girl?"
His only answer was a kiss, which for the very first time I returned.
From that hour I began to love my husband; and that love has grown, and
will grow while life remains.
We went round by the spring, and I stopped to bathe my eyes, which were
swollen with weeping. Nevertheless, my aunt saw the traces of my tears,
and followed me to my room, saying with some anxiety,—
"I hope nothing has gone wrong, my love."
"No, dear aunt, the farthest possible from wrong," I answered; "only I
have been holding a long talk with my husband. I think we understand
each other better than ever before."
"That is well," said my aunt, evidently relieved. (I think she had had
her misgivings all along.) "I must say one thing for you, Dolly, you
are the most candid young person I have ever met. I feel that I know
more of you than I do of mine own daughter."
I do think she did. But if I had grown-up under my aunt's system,
should I have been more open with her than Betty is? I doubt it. I know
one thing, I will always encourage my Barbara to open her heart to
her mother. How can a child be frank, a child at least who thinks for
herself, who is repressed and set down, and even severely reproved for
speaking out her thoughts when they happen to differ from her elders.
I remember how even Meg was chidden and punished because she said she
thought it not right for women to play indecent parts upon the stage.
But this is by the way.
I asked my aunt to excuse me from going to supper, not feeling in the
mood to meet my uncle's jokes, which were not the most refined. My aunt
kindly consented, and said she would send Mary with my tray, but Mr.
Studley, hearing of the matter, would bring it up himself, and even
feed me.
We got frolicking over it like two silly children, but, indeed, my
heart felt so light I was ready for any thing. Then Mr. Studley brought
out a new piece of music he had bought for me at Exeter—an evening
hymn, by the good Bishop of Bath and Wells, set to a fine canon of
Tanis's—and we sang it together. We went down to prayers. And I think
my aunt, and even Betty, were satisfied with my looks.
The next day, when we were alone together, Betty said to me in her
blunt way,—
"What has come over you, Dolly? You look as though you had seen some
joyful sight."
"And so I have," I answered her; and I told her a little of the talk I
had held with my husband.
"You have a right to be happy," said she, and she sighed. "Dolly, you
don't know how I dread this visit to London. I know just how it will
be. All the visiting and play-going and vanity will begin over again,
and I cannot join in it. I dare not do so, thinking as I do. I shall
have to run counter to my mother in every thing, and what will become
of me?"
"Now you are borrowing trouble," said I. "If I were you, I would lay my
trouble before the bishop,—you know his lordship is always very kind to
you,—and ask his advice."
"I have," answered Betty, "and much good it did."
"Why, what did he say?"
"He said that while I was under my mother, it was my duty to obey her
in all things which did not go against my conscience; and that I must
be careful not to make a confusion between my conscience and my taste,
not to think things must be wrong because I did not like them."
"Well, I am sure that was good," I remarked; "and what then?"
"Then he patted my head, and gave me his blessing and a book of his
friend Bishop Wilson's, and bade me remember that even in Vanity Fair
Christiana found some good people, and that, at any rate, 'sufficient
unto the day was the evil thereof.'"
I don't see how he could have given Betty any better advice, but I
could see she was not satisfied. And, indeed, my good aunt's theory
and practice were hard to reconcile. She gave us books to read which
taught us that this world was nought, and then would have us live as if
it were all. I could not but wonder that the bishop should quote such
a book as the "Pilgrim's Progress," but then he reads every book that
comes in his way. I dare say he might pick it up at a stall, where he
is always hunting for curiosities in that line.
The next day but one my husband and myself set out for our new home. We
were to go by sea from Exmouth to Biddeford, where we would be met by
my father-in-law's horses and servants. I had never been on the water
in my life, and was scared at the idea, though I would not have said
so for the world, but my husband and my uncle both thought it would
be easier for me than the rough land journey over the moors, by roads
which are not too safe at any time, and which have been much worse
since the troubles last year drove so many desperate men to take refuge
in those wilds and almost inaccessible morasses.
However, I must say I found the voyage very pleasant. The vessel,
though small, was clean and well found; and the captain and sailors,
who knew my husband well, were civil and attentive. I was sick hardly
at all, and there was so much of novelty to engage my attention that
the time seemed not long to me.
We landed safely one pleasant morning at Biddeford, which is a
quaint little town, once of considerable importance, but a good deal
decayed. We went at once to the principal inn, where we ordered some
refreshment, as it was nearly noon. While we were eating and drinking,
the landlord came to say that a man desired speech of my husband. And
presently, he brought him up,—an elderly, steady man, the very model of
an old-fashioned serving-man.
"Welcome, Andrew!" said my husband. "You see I have brought my wife."
The old man bowed, and drank my health in a cup of ale, which, at my
husband's sign, I poured out and gave him.
"And what is the news from home?" asked my husband. "I suppose the
timbered house is all ready for us."
"Why, no, Master Edward, it be'n't," said the old man rather
reluctantly. "Your father has altered his mind about it, and you and
the young mistress are to come to Studley Hall. I only hope you will
like the company you find there."
"What do you mean, Andrew?" asked my husband.
And, as Andrew hesitated, he added, with more impatience than is his
wont, "Speak out, man, and tell us the truth, whatever it is. Bad news
does not mend by keeping."
"And that's true, Master Ned," said the serving-man. "Well, then, here
it is. My master hath taken Mr. Kirton and his sister to live with him;
and she rules the household within, and he without."
My husband turned ashy pale, and his eyes shot fire as he asked, in a
tone not the least like his own,—
"Is he married to her?"
"He says so, and certainly he ought to be," answered Andrew
reluctantly, "but no one knows where the wedding was done, nor who
married them. Anyhow, my lady rules with a high hand, and most of the
old servants have left."
"When was this done?" asked my husband, in the same hard, constrained
voice.
"About three weeks ago," answered Andrew. "My master laughed when he
told us, and said he would steal a march on Master Milksop. But I had
best go and see to the horses," added the good old man, guessing, I
suppose, that we would rather be alone together. "I shall be below the
window in the court, mistress, if you will but make a sign when I am
wanted."
With these words he withdrew, shutting the door behind him. My husband
walked up and down the room two or three times; and then dropping into
a chair, and laying his head on his folded arms, he fairly burst into
tears, and sobbed like a babe.
I soothed him as well as I could. I was scared, for there was something
terrible in the grief of one usually so self-restrained. When I saw him
growing quiet, I ventured to ask,—
"What has happened, Edward? Who are these people?"
"The woman is such an one as I would not have you even name," said he.
"The man is a physician,—at least so he calls himself, and he hath some
skill that way. He helped my father in a fit of gout in the stomach,
and hath crept into his confidence more and more, though I believe him
as unworthy of trust as a man can be. I have feared at times that my
father was taken with the woman, who is very handsome, in a way, but I
never thought to see her in the place of my mother, a saint if one ever
lived on earth. O Dolly, to think I should have brought you to this!"
And again he gave way to his grief, though but for a few moments. Then
composing himself,—
"The question is, what to do?"
"Will you not read your father's letter?" I asked, handing him the
letter which old Andrew had given me. "That may throw some light on the
subject."
The letter was kind enough, though somewhat needlessly blustering;
saying that we would be welcome to his house, provided that we would
treat his wife with respect, and that his son was prepared to behave
like a man.
"Ay, I know what that means," said my husband. "Well, what shall we do,
Dolly?"
"In my judgment we had better take up with the invitation," I answered,
trying to speak cheerfully, though I was dreadfully disappointed. I had
built so much on going to my own house. "This person is your father's
wife, it seems; and as such we must treat her with respect, as he says.
If we find we cannot live there, it will be time to think what to do
next."
"But I know not what that will be," said my husband. "My father
promised to allow me a house and land, and four hundred pounds a year;
and if he sees fit to quarrel with me, as I make no doubt he will, if
Kirton can bring it about, we shall be left destitute."
"Then you shall take your violin, and I will take my lute, and we
will go sing at fairs and weddings, till we win money enough to
rent a cottage at Biddeford, or somewhere else, where you shall be
parish-clerk, and I will knit hose, and spin fine thread," said I. "In
truth, dear Edward, we are wrong to borrow trouble. We are both young
and strong,—not made of sugar nor salt, to be washed away in the first
shower of adversity."
"I don't know. I think you have a good deal of both in your
composition, Dolly," said my husband.
"Of course I have," I answered, overjoyed to see him smile again.
"Don't you know that little girls are made of—
"'Sugar and spice, and all that's nice'?"
"I know one little girl that is, at all events," he answered. "Dolly,
what have I done to deserve such a good wife?"
"Why, nothing," I answered demurely. "Have not you yourself taught me
that we don't get good things because we deserve them?"
"And you think we had better go on to my father's?"
"Truly, I do."
"And what is to become of our fine castle in the air?" he asked,
smiling sorrowfully.
"It is in the air still," I answered, "but it may yet descend to earth,
and rest on a solid foundation. And if we cannot have our castle, why
we will be content with a cottage, as I said."
We talked matters over by ourselves and with old Andrew, whom we called
into our counsels. I could see that the old man was very doubtful about
our reception. Afterward, Edward having gone out in the town about
some business, Andrew told me privately that he believed both Mr.
Kirton and his sister had done their best to prejudice old Mr. Studley
against his son, which he added was needless, as Mr. Ned had never been
a favorite with his father. It seems there was a younger brother of a
very different disposition from Edward, and much more congenial to his
father, who was killed at sixteen by a fall from his horse.
"It was no fault of Master Ned's," continued Andrew. "Indeed, he did
his best to persuade poor Walty from going out. My master had taught
him to drink deeply already, and he was in no state to manage a fiery
horse, but his father cheered him on, and they both laughed at Ned for
a milksop and a coward. But the horse was enraged with the whip and
spur, which Walty plied mercilessly: he reared and threw him off, and
his brains were dashed out against the wall of the court."
"How very sad! But Edward was not to blame for that."
"No, my pretty—I mean my young mistress," said the old man, catching
himself up, "but it was visited on him, for all that. Then Master Ned
took up with strict notions about religion, and that angered his father
still more. The old master did every thing to drive them out,—from
sending him to travel abroad, to putting him to work in the stable."
"Surely, he never did that," said I.
"Indeed he did, mistress. Many 's the time I have seen Master Ned
in his frock, rubbing down the horses as cheerfully as you please.
Afterward, he sent him abroad with my young Lord Stanton, and then put
him to govern my Lady Clarenham's household, thinking because she was a
great court lady, Mr. Ned would get over his strict notions with her."
"It was not a very good choice, if that was what his father desired,"
said I. "My Lady Clarenham, though a court lady, as you say, was strict
enough in her own notions."
"So I have heard, madam. But when Mr. Studley found that out, he took
his son away again. Then he tried another way, and made him his own
bailiff, and I would he were so again," said the old man, sighing. "But
I doubt all that is over. Kirton rules every thing on the place. It is
owing to him and his sister, I do believe, that my master changed his
mind about the Timber House."
"But I can't understand that," said I. "I should think these people
would rather have the house to themselves."
"They mean to have the house to themselves," answered Andrew with a
meaning look. "And if you take my advice, young madam, you will leave
the most of your things here in safe keeping, and not carry them to
Studley Hall, till you see how the land lies."
"What is that you say?" asked my husband, entering at the moment.
Andrew repeated his words.
"Your counsel is good," said Mr. Studley. "I think, Dolly, we will
leave most of our baggage in the hands of my good friend, Mr. Gifford
the merchant."
"Very well," I answered. "I have all I shall need at present in the
small mail that was brought thither."
"But we must be riding, my love," said my husband. "Andrew, will you
see the horses ready?"
We came in sight of Studley Court just as the sun was setting, and I
never saw a lovelier scene. The old red brick house, shaded by great
nut-trees, was, as it were, nestled into a valley, or glen, opening to
the south-west toward the sea. A clear, prattling stream crossed the
garden not very far from the house, and fell in a succession of still
pools and tinkling cascades toward the shore. The garden showed careful
cultivation in times past, though some large weeds and many small ones
gave tokens of recent neglect. I saw my husband shake his head when he
looked at it. He is very fond of a garden.
The whole place was bathed in warm, soft sunshine. The sea, at high
water, was making a gentle roar on the shore below, and the birds were
singing softly in the trees. It looked the very abode of peace. As we
rode into the courtyard, my father-in-law appeared on the steps. He
was a very handsome, stately old man, but I did not like his face,
which showed traces of hard living and of a violent temper. Perhaps I
may have imagined a little, knowing what I did of him beforehand. He
welcomed me with sufficient courtesy, and his son hardly with civility,
I thought.
"Well, Master Ned, I have stolen a march on you," he said bluntly, yet
with a kind of swagger, I thought, as if he were somewhat ashamed of
what he had to tell, but meant to carry it off with a high hand.
"So I hear, sir," answered my husband. "I wish you and your wife all
happiness."
"Humph!" answered the old gentleman, somewhat disconcerted, as it
seemed. "Mind, sir, you are to treat my wife with respect. I will have
no airs from you or your wife either.—Do you hear, mistress?"
I curtsied without answering. My former experiences had taught me that
"mum chance is a safe game," as Sharpless used to say.
"Humph! We mean to be discreet, I see," muttered the old gentleman.
Then aloud, "Well, well, you are a pretty creature, and look as if you
lacked not spirit, little as you are. Hast thou not a kiss for thy old
dad, child?"
"That I am sure she has, sir," answered Edward promptly. "I have
brought you a loving and dutiful daughter, father, who I hope and
believe will be a comfort to you."
My father-in-law seemed to soften at these words. He gave Edward his
hand, which he had not done before, bade one of the serving-men carry
up our mails, and asked, in some surprise, if that were all.
"We left a part of our effects with Mr. Gifford, in Biddeford, sir,"
answered Ned. "We did not care to scare you with too much at once."
"Well, well, 'twas not ill-considered," said my father-in-law, giving
me his hand to lead me in; for we had stood all this while at the door,
and I had begun to wonder whether we were to be allowed to enter at all.
He conducted me to a pretty, old-fashioned parlor, where sat his wife.
How shall I describe her? She was a large woman, and very handsome in
a way, with regular, aquiline features, bold, round black eyes, very
wide open, and abundance of dark hair growing well back from a rounded
forehead, and a red and white complexion which I thought might owe
something to the rouge-pot. She rose as we entered, and treated us to
a broad stare and a swimming courtesy. It seemed to me that I had seen
her before, but I could not tell where.
"This is my son Edward, Rebecca, and this is his bride.—What am I to
call you, child?"
"Dorothy, if you please, father," I answered, "or Dolly, if you like it
better."
I got a look from my husband which rewarded me for all the pains the
words cost me. The old gentleman also looked well-pleased, but I
can't say as much for Mrs. Studley. I felt from the first moment as
if she were an enemy, as if I were in the presence of some fierce and
treacherous animal.
"You are welcome, Mrs. Edward Studley," she said stiffly enough. And
then, turning to her husband, "I suppose the young lady will like to go
to her room before supper, which will be ready directly."
I answered that I should be glad to do so.
"The blue room, Ned. You need no one to show you the way," said his
father.
Accordingly my husband led me up-stairs, and along a gallery to
a tolerably comfortable chamber, not in the best order, where a
decent-looking old body was somewhat hurriedly laying clean towels and
the like. She dropped whatever she had in her hand as we came in, and
burst out crying, saying in her broad Devon dialect, "O Master Ned,
Master Ned, what a home-coming is here! What a home-coming is here for
you, my lamb!"
"Hush, hush, Janey!" said my husband, shaking hands with her. "Do you
greet my bride with tears? That is not a good omen.—Dolly, this is my
old nurse and friend.—Come, Janey, shake hands, and wish her joy."
"And so I do with all my heart, the dear, tender, little lamb, and God
bless her into the bargain! But what a house is this to bring a young
lady into!"
"It is indeed a very different house from what I expected," said my
husband, "but we must make the best, Janey."
"Best! There is no best, with that witch and wizard who have cast
their spells on my poor old master!" said Janey. And then in a lower,
awestruck tone, "You need not tell me they are right Christian folk.
No, not they!"
"Hush, Janey, I cannot hear you speak so of my father's wife," said
Edward; "that is not right. Come, help your young mistress to take off
her riding gear, and get ready for supper."
"Ay, that will I," said the old woman.
She performed her office deftly enough, with abundance of "poor dears"
and "tender lambs," and such like phrases.
When we were about to leave the room, she laid a trembling, withered
hand on my husband's arm,—
"Don't let her get a hold on thee, don't, now, Master Neddy," she
whispered. "I tell 'e she bain't right. There's them has seen mun in
other forms than mun wears now, and in strange places. And it bain't
for nought that the white owl has whooped and screamed every night
since she came hither. No, no, the white owl doesn't screech like that
for nought, though you make light o' mun, Master Neddy. But oh, have
a care! I have put a branch of rowan over your bed, and a four-leaved
clover under every threshold, so she can work no harm here. But oh,
have a care, my lambs, and be sure to taste bread and salt the first
thing!"
I must confess I was silly enough to observe this precaution against
witchcraft, when we sat down to supper. At the table we were introduced
to Dr. Kirton, a cunning, plausible sort of man, who was rather
obtrusively civil in his manners, and to whom I took a huge dislike on
the instant.
My husband had brought his father some fine tobacco, and a pretty box
full of snuff. The old gentleman received them with satisfaction, and
seemed inclined to be more friendly than at first; asking Ned about
one old acquaintance and another, and telling him about the cattle and
horses, especially a fine blood mare he had bought for my riding. Then
turning to me, he asked me if I were a good horsewoman.
"Only passable, sir," I answered. "I never rode at all till last
winter, but my uncle has taken great pains to teach me, and, if you
will do the same, I hope you will find me an apt scholar."
"Indeed, sir, Dolly is a very good horsewoman, considering," said
Edward. "She is very fearless, and that is half the battle, you know."
"So it is, so it is," replied the old gentleman. "But how happened it
that you never learned before last winter, chick?"
"Because I never had a chance, sir," I answered. "I have been in my
uncle's family not quite a year. Before that I lived in London. We only
came down to Devon about Christmas-tide."
"In London, eh? I did not think I was to have a fine London lady for a
daughter, but you don't look like a Londoner! Eh, Rebecca?" addressing
the lady at the head of the table, who had stiffened more and more, the
more her husband relaxed.
"I know nothing of the matter," she answered tartly. "I never was in
London in my life, and never wish to be."
"If I have not seen you there, I am as much mistaken as ever I was," I
said to myself. The more I looked at her, the more sure I was that I
had seen her before.
"Well, well! I should have taken you for Devon born, and North Devon at
that," said my father-in-law. "Who is she so like, Rowson?"
The remark was addressed to the vicar of the parish,—a heavy,
good-natured looking man, who had come in after we sat down, and been
introduced as Mr. Rowson. He looked, I must say, any thing but a
reverend priest, and yet I took a certain liking to him from the first.
"Mrs. Edward Studley is very much like the Corbet family," answered the
vicar, with a polite little bow. "I should almost say she belonged to
them."
"I suppose I do," I answered. "My father's name was Corbet, and he and
my mother were somewhat akin. After my mother's death, I lived in the
family of Sir Charles Corbet, my father's cousin."
"Ay, I remember now," said Mr. Studley. "But Sir Charles died some
years ago, did he not?"
"Yes, sir. After his death I remained with his widow, till my aunt
found me out and adopted me."
"Well, well! Thou art a pretty bird, but of the least."
"'Good gear goes in little bulk,' I have heard say, sir," I answered,
whereat he laughed and seemed pleased.
But the more pleased he appeared, the blacker grew my lady's brow. She
was evidently jealous already. When supper was over, my husband asked
to be excused, saying that he had a headache.
"Ay, I know of old there is no good-fellowship to be had of thee," said
his father grumblingly; and then, more gently, "But thou art a young
bridegroom, and would rather toy with thy pretty pussy than drink the
best wine that ever flowed. Go along, then."
He actually rose to open the door for me, when his lady pushed past me
and left the room first. It was certainly a very discourteous action
for a lady in her own house, and I saw my husband's face flush at it,
but I did not care. I did not believe I should long have to live with
her.
We stopped a moment at the hall-door, while Edward pointed out to me
some object in the landscape; and when we reached the parlor it was
empty. There was a pretty harpsichon in the room, which Edward opened
and invited me to try.
"It was my mother's instrument, and for her sake I have kept it in
tune," said he. "She was a great lover of music, and a good performer."
"It is from her that you get your music," I remarked.
"It is from her that I get any good which is in me," replied my
husband, with a sigh. "I believe I first liked you because something in
your looks reminded me of her. And to see that—"
"Patience," said I, as he checked himself; "patience is our only game
just now, Edward."
"You are right," he answered. "Play something, and soothe my spirits,
Dolly."
"'Music hath charms to soothe the savage breast,'" said I, as I sat
down. "And you are not savage, only disturbed and distressed, and no
wonder. Now, take that arm-chair, and listen and compose your spirits."
I played one or two lessons, and then began to sing Mr. Shakspeare's
Song of the Lark, which was always a great favorite of mine. When I had
finished, I was rewarded by a clapping of hands; and, turning round, I
saw my father-in-law and the chaplain, who had come in so quietly I had
not known of their presence.
"Well done," said my father-in-law. "Why, you are a lark yourself. We
don't hear singing like that every day, eh, Rowson?"
"I have not heard the like since I was in Italy," answered the
chaplain. "Will not the young lady sing something else?"
I obeyed, and sang two or three songs, to the last of which Mr. Rowson
volunteered a bass. He had a fine voice, though somewhat the worse for
wine, and a cultivated manner. When we had finished, he said, with real
feeling and courtesy,—
"This is a pleasure indeed. I did not expect such a feast."
"Ay, Rowson is like any other donkey, he likes his ears tickled," said
Mr. Studley, laughing. "You will hear good singing in his church,
if not much else. But, indeed, you have given us all pleasure,—eh,
my dear?" turning to his wife, who only tossed her head, and said
something about not being a judge.
I concluded I had done enough, and rose from the instrument. I supposed
we should have prayers, as the chaplain was present, but no such thing
took place.
When we had retired to our room, I found I had dropped my handkerchief,
and ran down to look for it. I paused, however, at the parlor door,
hearing voices within; and while I was hesitating I caught the words,—
"Making herself at home—a London fine lady to look down on me, and
insult me with her airs.'
"Tut, tut! I saw no airs, nor insults either," said my father-in-law.
"Don't be a goose, Becky."
"Becky!" I exclaimed aloud. It all came to me in a minute.
"Eh, what's that?" said my father-in-law, opening wide the door, which
was already ajar. "What do you want, child, and who are you calling
'Becky?'"
"Nobody, sir," I answered. "I heard the name, and was struck with it,
as I never heard it but once before."
"And where was that?" asked he, rather sharply.
"In London, sir," I answered.
And then, to divert him, I asked if he had seen my handkerchief.
He began to look for it, while my lady stood by, regarding us with no
friendly glances.
"Here it is," said I, unearthing it from a pile of music-books. "Thank
you, father, and good-night."
"The riddle is read," said I, as I rejoined my husband. "I knew I had
seen her before."
"Where?" asked Edward.
"At the theatre in London," I answered. "I have seen her twenty times.
It is Becky Marshall the actress,—the one poor Mr. Baxter tried in vain
to rescue. She had a sister younger than herself, both well brought up,
but I never heard of any brother. But if she is not Becky Marshall, I
will eat her."
"I would not like you to do that," said my husband, who is always
taking me up about what he calls my intemperate ejaculations. "She
might not agree with you. But are you sure, Dolly?"
"As sure as I am of you," I answered. "I have often seen her, for my
aunt was a great play-goer, and always took one of us with her. I heard
this woman had left the stage."
"Well, well; we can do nothing now, that I see," said my husband. "To
think, Dolly, that I, of all people, should have brought you into such
associations!"
"You could not help it, seeing you knew nothing of them," I answered.
"But where did your father meet these people?"
"At Bristol, whither he went to drink the waters of St. Vincent's well.
There he was taken very ill; and Kirton cured him, or so he thought. He
has known the brother for a year, but it is only a few weeks since he
met the sister. I saw Gifford was full of stories about her, but, with
all his good qualities, he is a bit of a scandal-monger, and I gave him
no encouragement. But come, Dolly, let us take our reading and prayers,
and go to rest. To-morrow is a new day, and may bring better counsel. I
shall try to prevail on my father to go back to the first plan, and let
us have the timbered house. If not, we must see what else we can do,
for I will not have you living with this woman."
The next day was Saturday. Janey had not failed to remark on the fact
that we had arrived on a Friday, as boding ill luck. My father-in
law was evidently in a worse humor than the night before; and as to
my lady, she hardly troubled herself to be civil. We did not meet
till dinner-time, when Mr. Studley grumbled over the pie, and scolded
because the beef was overroasted, saying he had not put a decent morsel
into his mouth since the new cook had come. My lady promised to see to
the cooking herself, and seemed trying to conciliate her husband, while
she was any thing but polite to Edward or me.
"And you, child, I suppose you don't know the neck of a goose from the
rump," said my father-in-law, turning to me.
"Of course not," said his wife. "Fine London ladies don't study
cooking."
"But I am not a fine London lady, madam; and, as it happens, I am a bit
of a cook," said I, willing for my husband's sake to conciliate her.
"My mother and my aunt both thought the government of a household a
very important part of a young lady's education."
"And they were right," said my father-in-law, with an oath. "What
matters it what else a woman knows if she can't make her husband
comfortable?"
Nobody made any answer to this question, and the meal went on. After
dinner, Mr. Studley announced his intention of riding to look at some
outlying land.
"I will ride with you if you will permit me, sir," said Edward.
"What! And leave your bride alone a whole afternoon. You are not weary
of her already, are you?"
"Hardly, sir," answered Edward, smiling; "and I do not mean she should
weary of me, as I fear she would if I were tied to her apron-string."
"Humph! Well, then, if you are suffering for exercise, I wish you would
go over and see Master Atkins. Tell him I will let him have the two
heifers at his own price, if he will come for them. The land hath more
stock than it can carry. Tell Tom to put the side-saddle on the black
mare, and carry your wife with you."
It was evidently an excuse for putting off, or getting rid of, a
private interview. My husband looked disappointed, but made the best of
the matter.
"Would you like to go, Dolly?" he asked. "It is a pleasant ride; and
the old folk are friends of mine, and will be glad to see you."
I professed my willingness, and we were soon on our way. The day was
lovely, with a fresh breeze blowing, and sending the white-caps into
the little bay, and the larks were singing over head. I should have
enjoyed the ride beyond any thing, only that my husband was so sad and
distraught.
"Eh,—what?" said he, after I had spoken to him twice without getting
any reply. "I beg your pardon, Dolly. I am very bad company, I know,
but I am so troubled and perplexed I know not what to do, nor which way
to turn."
"And therefore you cannot turn any way," I answered. "You must just
wait till the fog lifts, and shows you your road."
"And meantime the boat may drift on the breakers, or the traveller be
mired in the bog," said he.
"Not if the boat be anchored, and the traveller sit still," I answered.
"Where is your faith, Edward? Have you not taught me that God is our
Father, and that he will make all things work together for good to them
that love him? Can we not trust ourselves in his hands?"
"You are right, and I am wrong, my dear," said my husband. "I fear I am
very faithless."
"No, you are not faithless any more than Abraham was," I answered. "You
are failing in your strong point just as he did. Don't you know that
fortresses are almost always taken on their strong side? Only don't
make Abraham's mistake by taking matters into your own hands. You know
the trouble he prepared for himself by that step,—because he could not
wait for God to bestow the blessing he had promised."
"I don't know that I ever thought of it in just that way, but I believe
you are right," said Edward. "You have read your Old Testament to
purpose, Dolly."
"It is one of the few things I have to thank my old mistress for," I
answered. "She made me read it from end to end every year. Is this the
farm where we are to stop?"
"Yes. They will make you very welcome, Dolly, and they are good people
too."
We found the dame busy with her knitting in the sunny porch of the old
timbered house, and received such a hearty welcome that we were almost
overwhelmed with it. A rosy-faced old man took our horses, and an
equally rosy-faced lad was sent to find Master Atkins; while the dame
conducted us into her clean, wide kitchen, where a little wood fire
still smouldered on the hearth. Here we must eat and drink the first
minute, of course; and we were ensconced in two arm-chairs, while the
dame and her pretty, comely daughter-in-law bustled about,—covering one
end of the great table with a snowy, homespun cloth, and bringing out
clotted cream and cheese-cakes and spice-bread, and I know not what
else. Edward asked after her son.
"Oh, he is away to the Levant! He must take to the sea, like his
grandfather and father before him," answered the dame, smiling and
sighing at once. "He has got the salt drop in mun's blood, like every
Lee and Atkins as never was born, I think. And Will, he's away to
America, and has taken his wife with him to visit her kindred: so
Patience and me, we be left alone as it were. But have you heard,
Master Ned, that my husband's cousin, Ezechel Atkins, at Applecoombe,
wants to sell out and go to America?"
"I have heard no news at all, dame, since I came home only yesterday.
But why does Ezechel sell? I thought he had one of the nicest places in
all North Devon."
"So he has, so he has. But you know his brother is in New England
already, and 'Zechel hath a great family,—twelve lads, no less, and
four maidens; and 'Zechel thinks there will be more room for his lads
over there."
"And he is right, Master Ned," said the master of the house, entering
in time to hear his wife's last words. "Welcome home, sir, and much joy
befall you and your bride."
Master Atkins was a tall, spare man, with black curly hair a good
deal grizzled, and splendid white teeth. He was very polite and even
polished in his way. I learned afterward that he had been an officer in
the navy, but had retired and taken to farming.
"And so you think your cousin 'Zechel is making a wise move," said my
husband, as we sat down to the table.
"I do, sir; though if it were my case, I should go not to New England,
but to New Jersey, where land is quite as good and the climate not so
severe. But 'Zechel's brother is settled in New England, and doing
well, and doubtless that is a strong reason for their choice."
"I have a friend in New Jersey. Is that very far from where your cousin
is going?" said I. "I would like to send her a little parcel."
Master Lee smiled. "There is almost, if not quite, the length of
England between the two places," said he. "Folk hereabout do not
understand the size of things over there. But I make no doubt my cousin
will take your parcel, madam. He may easily find a chance to send it,
for there is a great deal of trade going on."
"But what will 'Zechel Atkins do with his farm?" asked my husband. "His
lease must have a long time to run yet."
"Sixty years," answered our host. "'Zechel would gladly sell stock and
fixtures, and the most of his furniture, if he could get his price."
"And that is—"
"Two hundred and fifty pounds, but I doubt not he would take two
hundred, if he had the money in hand. The farm is well stocked, and
hath the finest orchard in the country."
The talk then drifted away to other matters. I observed the beauty of
the china bowl which held the clotted cream, and of some other pieces;
and the dame must needs show me her china closet, which would have made
many a fine lady wild with envy. I particularly admired a little black
and gold coffee-pot, and nothing would do but she must bestow it on me
for a wedding gift, as she said, as well as a lace kerchief which she
told me she had made herself when a maid at school. Then we must go out
and see the garden, the poultry yard, and the noble orchard: so it was
on toward sunset before we got away.
We found supper ready when we arrived at the Hall. My father-in-law was
evidently in a worse humor than in the morning, and received Edward's
report of his errand with only a "humph." The parson was at the table,
as usual, but there was no pretence of grace said. Madam sat at the
head of the table, dressed out in all her finery; and, as we took our
places, she shot a glance at us wherein I read triumphant malice. She
had evidently been using her time well.
Mr. Studley drank plenty of strong ale with his supper, and called for
wine afterward. My husband took one or two glasses, and then declined
more. His father called him a white-livered milksop, and turned to the
parson,—
"You are a man, at any rate, Rowson. You are not afraid of your brains,
like my sanctimonious son. We will finish the bottle and another before
we part."
"Not to-night, sir," answered Mr. Rowson. "To-morrow is Sacrament
Sunday, and I must not drink deep to-night, lest I get the bishop down
on me again."
My father-in-law cursed the Sacrament, using terms which made my
blood run cold. In all my life I had never heard such blasphemy.
Involuntarily I laid my hand on his arm.
"Dear sir, don't speak so," said I. "Think of what you are speaking,—of
the Holy Communion."
He shook off my hand, and stared at me with a look of fury.
"What, you, you!" he stammered. "Has he made a sanctified humbug of you
already?"
"I told you, you would have enough of my lady's airs," remarked his
wife with a sneer. "Fine doings, indeed! A young woman rebuking her
father-in-law at his own table."
"And you, sir, you have put this chit up to beard me, have you?" roared
Mr. Studley, turning to his son.
"Do not be so angry, Mr. Studley," interposed Dr. Kirton, in his
smooth, oily tones. He had a habit of putting his head on one side when
he spoke, which would have set me against him if nothing else did. "I
am sure Mr. Edward will make his wife beg your pardon."
"I pray you, Dr. Kirton, not to interfere between my father and
myself," said my husband, speaking quite calmly, though I saw by his
paleness how much he was moved. "I see nothing in my wife's words for
which she need to ask pardon."
"Of course not," said Mrs. Studley tauntingly. "She has a right to
insult your father at his own table, and to call his wife an actress
and I know not what else.—Oh, yes, you may stare, madam, but I can tell
you stone walls have ears. A pretty way, to be sure!"
With that Mr. Studley exploded in a new fury. In all my life I never
saw any thing like it. There was no opprobrious epithet which he did
not heap upon his son, and I think no demon from the lower regions
could have beat him in the blasphemous language with which he assailed
religion in all its forms. I looked at the parson, expecting him to
show some displeasure, but though he looked annoyed, as a man might
at an interruption to his pleasure, he never moved. Dr. Kirton put
in a word now and then, artfully calculated to increase his patron's
anger, while his sister made no attempt to conceal her satisfaction. As
for Edward, he never said one word, till his father applied to me an
epithet too vile to be recorded here. Then he rose from the table with
flashing eyes.
"Come, Dolly, this is no place for you," was all he said.
I rose and put my hand through his arm.
"Ay, go, and never let me see thy craven face again!" roared the old
man. "Begone from my house! I have tried in vain to make a man of thee.
Begone, and beg or starve, as pleases thee best, and take thy father's
curse with thee."
"Curses are like young chickens: they always come home to roost," said
Edward solemnly. "Heaven grant that it may not be so with yours, sir!—
Come, my wife."
My lady gave an insolent laugh as we left the dining-room. It soon
appeared that the old man was in earnest. We had been in our room but a
few minutes when Mr. Rowson came to the door.
"You had best be gone, Ned," said he. "The old man grows worse and
worse, and vows you shall not stay in the house to-night; and that
witch pushes him on. I have ordered your horses to the door, and Andrew
will attend you."
"But where to go?" said my husband. "We cannot spend the night on the
moor. Cannot you take us in?"
The parson looked perplexed. "I would," said he, "but my house is no
place for a lady; and beside—Well, the truth is, Ned, I owe your father
money, and I can't afford to displease him."
"We will not trouble you," said my husband. "The man who will not stand
up for his Lord and Master will hardly do much for his friend."
"Nay, but do hear reason," said the poor parson, in a strait between
his kindness and his cowardice. "Let us think a moment."
"Why should we not go to Master Atkins, where we were this afternoon?"
said I. "Surely those good people will take us in over Sunday."
"A good thought," said my husband, "if the ride will not be too much
for you."
"Nay, 'tis only six miles," said the parson. "She deserves some trouble
for blowing up all this storm. Why could she not hold her tongue? But
women must always be meddling."
"I will hear not one word against my wife," returned my husband
sternly. "She did but what any Christian should,—what you yourself
should have done, and not have left your Master's defence to a girl."
"What use in talking to an angry man?" said the parson, coloring.
"But I bear no malice. Here comes Andrew for your mails. Go down the
back way, and I will try to keep the old man engaged." So saying, he
disappeared.
"And that man," began my husband.
But I begged him to be quiet and let us get away. In truth, I was
terribly scared, and wanted nothing so much as to be out of the house.
We were not to escape scot free, however. The poor old man followed us
to the door, and dismissed us with a volley of execrations, ¹ swearing
by all that was holy we should never see a penny of his money.
¹ This is no fiction. Mr. Studley is a real historical personage, and
was turned out of his father's house in just the same way, for the same
cause.
"I value not your oath, sir, since you swear by what you yourself do
not believe in," said Edward, turning as we were about leaving the
courtyard. "It grieves me to part from you in anger. I have borne much
from you in times past. I entreat you to remember that deny God's word
as you may, it is not the less true. And that, so surely as you live,
you must one day stand before him, to give account of deeds done in
the body. I call you yourself to witness that I have been to you a
submissive and dutiful son, and I am willing to be so again, so soon as
you shall see fit to recall me.—Come, Dolly."
As we rode out of the courtyard, we heard the old man's wrath exploding
in execrations. And I caught sight of the woman laying her hand on his
arm, as though scared at the storm she had herself provoked. I never
saw her in life again, but once.
"We must ride fast, my love," said my husband. "It is growing late."
This was all he said during our ride, except a word of warning or
encouragement now and then. Fortunately, it was a fine evening, and a
half-moon gave us plenty of light. How glad I was that we had taken no
luggage with us but our pillion mails, and one small mail that Andrew
could carry easily behind him!
It was near ten o'clock when we reached the farm, but there was a light
in the kitchen, and Master Atkins was standing in the porch, smoking
his pipe. He uttered an exclamation of wonder on seeing us again, as
well he might, and hastened to take me down from my horse.
"Will you take us in for the night, my friend?" asked my husband. "I
have literally no shelter for my head or that of my poor young wife."
"Take you in! Ay, that I will, and more than welcome," answered Master
Atkins. "What, the old gentleman is in his tantrums again!" Then, as
Edward nodded, "Come in, come in.—Come, madam.—Janey, here is Master
Edward and his lady come to stay all night with us."
I cannot think without grateful tears, even now, of the warmth and
delicacy with which these excellent people welcomed us. The fire was
blown up, and a couple of rosy maids sent in half a dozen different
ways; while the dame herself would wait on me, take off my riding gear,
and smooth my hair. I was worn out with fatigue and excitement, and the
dame's motherly care was too much for my self-control: I burst into a
flood of tears, and sobbed so convulsively that my husband was alarmed.
"There, don't 'e mind, don't 'e mind," said the dame soothingly. "She
will be all the better, poor lamb.—Bring some wine, Patience.—There,
drink this, my pretty. Hush, hush, nothing shall harm thee. There, see,
thou art better already."
"I am very silly," said I, making a great effort to control myself,
"but I am not used to riding so far, and I am so tired."
"Yes, indeed, poor tender soul! Bed is the best place for thee, and it
is all ready. Come now, let me undress thee, and don't grieve too much.
All will be well."
With the greatest kindness she helped me to undress, and as soon as I
was in bed, brought me a warm drink to keep me from taking cold. All
this time, neither she nor her husband had asked a single question. As
she bade me good-night, I held her hand for a moment.
"You must not think, dame, that my husband has done any thing wrong."
"I know, I know," she answered. "Bless you, my dear, every one knows
the old squire! Master Edward has been the wonder of the country for
his patience and dutifulness to the old man. There, sleep, my tender,
and all will be well."
The next morning I was waked early by the singing of the birds, the
crowing of the cocks, and other farmyard noises. I could hear sounds of
movement below, but all quiet and subdued. I was bewildered at first,
and could hardly tell where I was. The room was far more comfortable, I
must say, than that we had occupied at Studley Hall. The bed-linen was
snowy white, and smelled of lavender. The curtains and counterpane were
of India chintz, and a fine Turkish rug lay before the bed,—odd things,
I thought, to find in a farmhouse in North Devon. But I remembered
that the master of the house had been a seafaring man, which probably
accounted for all these luxuries. While I was studying the patterns on
the hangings, I fell asleep, and did not wake till my husband called me.
"Are you rested, Dolly? Do you feel like going to church? It is not a
long walk."
"I should like to go, of all things," I answered, "but, Edward, how can
you endure to see that man in the desk, and breaking the consecrated
bread?"
"What, Rowson? Oh, we are not in his parish!" answered Edward. "And if
we were, you know, love, the unworthiness of the priest hindereth not
the efficacy of the sacraments. But this is quite a different person,
as you will see. I think we shall both be better for the worship, and
we will try to put aside all our cares till to-morrow. 'This is the day
the Lord hath made; we will rejoice and be glad in it.'"
We broke our fast, and then walked with our host and his family to the
little church, the tower of which I had seen from my window. It was
very small and very old, built of the moor-stone, and almost shrouded
in great leaved ivy, but there was a beautiful carved oak chancel
screen, almost black with age, and I saw with pleasure how fair and
white were the altar-linen and the surplice. The vicar was an old man,
of almost rustical plainness of speech and manner, but he gave us an
excellent, practical discourse, suitable to the day, and administered
the communion with great reverence and decency. I was rather surprised
to see how many communicants there were in proportion to the size of
the parish, and remarked upon the matter to Master Atkins as we were
walking homeward.
"Yes, our parson has done a great deal for the parish," he answered.
"'Twas but a godless place when he came here, for the last incumbent
was much such another as him over yonder at Studley, only worse. But
we got rid of him at last. Mr. Dean is a Devon man born and bred, and
knows how to deal with the people. The worst man in the parish will
pull off his hat to him, and I have known him to go single-handed and
unarmed into a den of deer-stealers and broken men, break up their
assembly, and persuade them from some lawless deed, by the sheer force
of his presence and speech. I would the old squire had him to deal
with. He would find it a different matter, I trow."
"I hope so," I answered. "I was disgusted to see Mr. Rowson sit by and
say not a word, while every thing that he ought to have held sacred was
blasphemed and profaned."
"Ay, that is Mr. Rowson all over. But he hath been a free liver, and I
fancy the old squire hath some hold over him. 'The borrower is servant
to the lender,' you know, madam."
"Well, I do wonder how my husband ever lived with his father so long,"
I said, rather incautiously, perhaps.
"And so do many more, madam, but in spite of his pretending to despise
his son, the old gentleman has always greatly depended on Master Ned in
business matters. Only for that I believe your husband would have made
himself independent long ago. I fear the poor old man hath got into bad
hands enough, and that Master Ned will suffer by it."
We went to evening service, and heard the school-children catechized.
And I was much pleased by the way in which Mr. Dean explained the
Commandments, not descending to any trivialities, but making his matter
so plain that the youngest child could carry away something thereof.
Master Atkins told us the rector took great interest in the school,
which had an excellent woman for a dame, and that even the Dissenters
in the parish sent their children to her.
I thought within myself that I would make a little treat for the
children, and then remembered, with a pang, that I was not likely to
have money for any such purpose. However, I reflected that I had among
my things a great roll of silk pieces which I had collected for my
patchwork, and I could at least make some work-bags and needle-books
for the little maidens. I suppose it was childish in me, but somehow
this little plan for giving pleasure to others seemed to lighten up my
spirits amazingly.
The next morning, my husband called me into our bedroom from the dairy,
where I was diligently learning the true Devon way of making a junket.
"I am sorry to interrupt the process of your education, Dolly, but we
must needs consider our ways and means. What are we to do to live?"
"I suppose there is no use in expecting any thing from your father,"
said I.
"No use at all, while he is in such hands. I have never been a favorite
with him, but I did think he would have kept his promise when he agreed
to give me a house and an income of mine own. I never would have
brought you hither else."
"Then I am glad you were mistaken," I answered, "for I would not be
anywhere else for the world."
"Truly?" asked my husband, with a bright look.
"Truly," I answered. "I can frankly say, Ned, that I would rather live
in a cob hut with you, than in a palace with any one else."
Here occurred an interruption to the discourse which I need not set
down. But how glad I was that I could in all honesty say as much!
"But we must think what we are going to do," continued my husband. "If
we had only any capital to start with, I would take 'Zechel Atkins's
farm off his hands. I have no fear but I could manage it, and make
eventually a good thing of it, though it would mean hard fare for a few
years, and harder work than these tender little hands are used to."
"Never mind the tender little hands," said I. "They have more strength
than you think for, and what I don't know, I can learn."
"But Master 'Zechel wants his money down that he may have something
more to start on," continued my husband. "And beside that, I would
not at any rate like to begin with a millstone of debt round my neck,
nor can I well apply to your uncle. He hath done a good deal for us;
and beside that, I know that he has lost enough of late seriously to
embarrass him. Have you any money, Dolly?"
"I have ten pounds," said I.
"And I have twenty. So we have at least thirty pounds between us and
starvation."
At this moment a thought struck me which made me jump up in a hurry. My
husband looked on with surprise as I brought out my trinket-box from
my mail, and began turning over its contents. At last I found what I
wanted. It was the little golden egg which my poor cousin, Sir Charles,
had given me on his death-bed.
"What is it?" said Ned, as I put it into his hands.
I told him its history.
"And you have never opened it," said he, turning it over. "Who shall
say that women have no curiosity?"
"Nobody need say so about me, because I have a great deal," said I;
"so much that I want you to open my egg directly that I may see what
is in it. I don't think it will be any infraction of my promise to
open it now, for surely we are in a strait, if people ever were. Only,
don't break the locket if you can help. Who knows but it may be like
the golden egg, which the fairy gave to the wandering princess in
the story, and contain a talisman which shall help us out of all our
troubles?"
"There is no need of breaking the locket," said my husband, examining
it with attention. "I see how it opens."
He pressed the spring as he spoke. The egg parted in the middle, and
out dropped two little parcels, carefully wrapped in silver paper, and
a small, folded note.
"What have we here?" said my husband.
We each opened one of the little parcels, and were fairly dazzled by
the splendor of the jewels they contained.
"Lady Jem's diamond ear-rings!" I exclaimed. "The very same that are in
her portrait by Lely. My mistress always wondered what had become of
them. I little thought I had them in my possession all the time."
"But what is this?" said my husband, opening the folded paper. It was
a note in Sir Charles's handwriting, saying that he gave the enclosed
jewels, which were his own private property, to his dear cousin, Mrs.
Dorothy Corbet, to be kept by her till after her marriage, and then
either worn or used by her in any way she should think proper. The note
was signed by Sir Charles, and attested by the names of Dr. Clarke his
physician, and Richards his confidential servant.
"That was very thoughtful of your cousin," said Ned. "Do you know these
witnesses?"
"Oh, yes! Dr. Clarke is court physician, and always attended my
mistress; and after his master's death, Richards married, and has a
shop for gloves and perfumes in Westminster Hall. I carried my aunt
thither, and she bought a great deal of him. But how much, think you,
the jewels are worth, Ned?"
"More than fifty pounds apiece, if I am any judge of such matters,"
answered my husband. "My good friend, Master Gifford of Biddeford,
will, however, have a juster notion of them, having handled many such
matters in his day. We will go thither to-morrow, and stop on our way
home that you may see Applecoombe for yourself; that is, if you are
minded to sacrifice your splendid ear-rings."
"It will be no great sacrifice," I answered. "I never had any fondness
for trinkets; and I am sure these will do me more good put into a home,
than dangling from my ears, specially out here in North Devon. Only I
will keep the locket, if you please, in memory of my kind cousin."
"But, Dolly, have you thought what all this means for you?" asked my
husband. "Do you understand that it means hard work and plain fare and
the rank of a farmer's dame? What would your aunt say?"
"I shall not ask her," said I. "What is the use of being a married
woman, if I can't have mine own way?"
"You shall have your way and mine too, if you like," said Edward. "Then
it is settled that we are to carry these jewels to market, and exchange
them for kine and sheep and such vulgar matters."
"Even so," I answered.
"Then we will ride to Biddeford to-morrow, if you are well rested. But
take care of the note, Dolly. It may save trouble some day."
Our conference was interrupted by a call to dinner; for these good folk
kept to their primitive hours, and dined before eleven of the clock.
The good dame treated us to all sorts of country dainties, for she
was and is a famous cook. I saw with pleasure the devout way in which
Master Atkins said grace, not mumbling it over like a charm against
rats, as my poor uncle used to do. The meal was a very pleasant one.
Master Atkins, being skilfully led on by my husband, told us some
very nice tales of his travels and adventures, and of the strange
superstitions of sailors, particularly of the ghostly bark called the
"Flying Dutchman," which never appears but in a storm, and is doomed,
for the wickedness of its captain and crew, to wander forever, without
ever making a port.
"You speak rather as if you believed in this unlucky Dutchman," said my
husband.
"I would not say absolutely that I do not," answered Master Atkins
seriously. ¹ "We old sailors see many strange things. I could tell you
of a great creature with a body like a snow wreath, fully two fathoms
in length, and with a dozen snaky arms, each big enough to pull down
a big fishing boat, twisting and writhing like serpents, and great
staring eyes,—a horrible sight it was, I can tell you. I never wish to
see it again, I am sure of that." ²
¹ One of the most intelligent sailors I ever met, a Christian man and
fairly educated, fully believed in the "Flying Dutchman."
² The great white squid, seen once in a generation by the whalers, but
never yet described by naturalists. It is considered as of evil omen.
"Hush, Willy," said his wife reprovingly. "You should not tell the
young lady of such frightful creatures."
"Oh, I am not easily scared!" I said.
But the dame shook her head at her husband so meaningly that he began
to talk of pleasanter things, of the beautiful birds of South America,
and the great fireflies, infinitely brighter than our glow-worms, and
by which one can see to read even.
"When I hear Will Atkins's stories, it revives my old longing for the
sea," said my husband. "If worst comes to worst, Dolly, I can leave you
with our good friends here, and ship on a Bristol trader."
"And then I will don men's attire, and follow you, like the lady in the
ballad," said I. "But with such tastes, and such a home, I wonder you
never ran away to sea as a boy."
"I could not leave my mother while she lived," answered Edward. "I was
her only comfort, and I promised her I would stay by my father as long
as it was possible. Otherwise, I would have sailed with my poor uncle,
and perhaps have shared his fate."
"Why, what happened to him?" I asked.
"His vessel was taken by Barbary corsairs, and the whole crew killed,
or driven into slavery. One object of my journey to the East was to try
to hear some news of my uncle, but I believe, from all I can learn,
that he was killed in defence of his vessel. Better so than a lifetime
of Turkish slavery."
"Maybe he will turn up sometime, with a shipload of gold, as one reads
of in story-books," said I; "or perhaps he is a Turk, with a long
beard, smoking a great curly pipe, like the grand Turk in Mr. Chardin's
travels, and with as many wives as the stars in the skies. Who knows
but you might have done the same if you had gone with him?"
Edward is so sober that I do like to stir him up sometimes, just as I
used to poke up my mistress's great Indian cat and make him play in
spite of his grave airs. Tom Atkins has promised to bring me a pair of
these same cats next time he goes to Bombay. I hope he will get them
home safely. I do love a nice cat.
The next day we rode to Biddeford and visited Master Gifford, who made
us very welcome, and confirmed Edward's opinion of the worth of the
jewels.
"But I would you had them in Bristol," said he. "There is a very
worthy man, a correspondent of mine own, who deals in these matters,
and who has, I know, a commission at present to purchase a number of
fine diamonds. I am going thither to-morrow. Suppose you both go with
me. The sea will be like a mill-pond, but, if madam is afraid of the
voyage, my wife and daughters will make her most welcome while we are
away."
Madam Gifford and her pretty daughters warmly seconded the invitation,
but my husband leaving the matter to me, I decided to go with him. I
was not at all afraid of the sea, and I always did like to see new
places.
We had a very nice voyage, though the sea was not exactly like a
mill-pond. I was surprised to see Bristol such a great and busy city.
And wondered, like all strangers, at the steep and narrow streets, too
narrow for any thing but a dog-cart.
Master Gifford took us to a very nice inn. And, after we had eaten and
rested, he led us to his correspondent the jeweller.
We found him in his shop,—a tall, nice looking man, with very black
crispy hair, and pale blue eyes, which, despite their want of color,
had a singularly penetrating look. I liked him the moment I saw him.
When he learned the nature of our business, he led us into his private
room, and bade us be seated. My husband stated his errand, and produced
the jewels, which Master Davidson examined with great attention.
"How much do you conceive these stones to be worth?" said he at last.
"If they are genuine, they should be worth fifty pounds apiece at
least," answered my husband.
Mr. Davidson smiled. There was a look of mild amusement in his eyes
which made my heart sink fathoms deep, for I thought at once that he
believed the jewels were counterfeit.
"I should say you were no great judge of such matters," said Mr.
Davidson, smiling again.
I saw my husband's face change, and knew his thought was the same as
my own. I felt downright sick with suspense. Mr. Davidson looked at
the jewels once more, and laid them carefully down on a piece of black
velvet, where they shone like stars.
"I will give you a hundred pounds apiece for these diamonds," said he
deliberately. "I say not that they are not worth more, but you know I
must make my profit on them."
"That is no more than right," said my husband; while I felt like crying
and laughing both at once. "Then you think there is no doubt of the
stones?"
"I can tell a genuine stone from the best imitation ever made," said
the merchant somewhat scornfully. "Nay, put me in a dark room, and I
can tell the difference by the feeling."
"How?" I asked.
"That I cannot explain to you, madam. 'Tis faculty that comes by use,
and also by inheritance. My family have dealt in precious stones for
many generations. These stones are not only of good size, but of very
uncommonly fine lustre."
It seemed like a dream, too good to be true, when I saw the two hundred
pounds counted out, and realized the fact that my poor cousin's gift
had made my husband and myself independent.
Mr. Davidson would treat us to coffee and to some wonderful foreign
sweetmeats, the like whereof I never saw,—rose-leaves and violets
preserved in clear syrup,—and a kind of marmalade made of figs, as he
told us, which came from Constantinople. He would present me with a box
of the marmalade when we came away, and also with a beautiful little
china coffee-cup in a silver stand which I had greatly admired.
"Well," said Master Gifford, when we had returned to the inn, "did I
not keep my word, and bring you to an honest merchant?"
"Yes, indeed, and we are greatly obliged to you," said my husband.
"'Tis nothing," answered Master Gifford hastily. "I would do much more
than that for your mother's son. But, Ned, if you take my advice, you
will bestow this treasure in a safe place till we leave town. My good
friend, Master Birch, will take care of it in his strong-room."
My husband agreed, and we went forth to find the place. Master Birch
was a sugar-refiner, with whom my husband had some slight acquaintance;
and nothing would do but he must show us his furnaces, and treat us to
Bristol milk ¹ (which is not milk for babes, by any means) and other
dainties. I wonder, by the way, if this fashion of always giving wine
or strong drink to visitors will ever go out. I am sure it will be a
good thing if it does. Learning that I was lately married, Master Birch
presented me with three loaves of very fine sugar, for luck, as he
said, promising to send them to the inn.
¹ A kind of very rich punch, for which the Bristol sugar-refiners used
to be famous.
Having thus prosperously disposed of our business, we went out to see
the town, and to make some purchases which I had undertaken for Master
Gifford's daughters. We were in a book-shop selecting music for the
young ladies, when I heard a well-known voice at my elbow asking for
Luther's Commentary on Galatians. It brought back to me at once my
old life with my mistress. I turned with a start and saw Mr. Baxter,
looking older and more worn than I had seen him, but as faultlessly
neat and precise as ever. I don't believe even in prison his black coat
ever had a speck on it.
I greeted him warmly, but he did not recognize me for a moment, till
I told him who I was, when he answered me with all his old fatherly
kindness.
"But you are so grown and improved, Mrs. Dolly, 'tis no wonder I did
not know you," said he. "I have often wished to hear how you got on in
your new relations. But I need not ask if you are happy, since your
face tells its own story."
"Yes, indeed I am," I answered, "far happier than I ever hoped or
deserved." And I presented to him my husband.
The stationer, seeing that we had met as old friends, kindly asked us
into his private shop, and gave us seats.
"And so you are married, little Dolly," said Mr. Baxter. "It seems but
a few days since you came, a shy, scared little girl of fifteen, to my
Lady Corbet's service."
"I remember it well," I answered, "and how kindly you spoke to me when
you found me crying in the ante-chamber."
"Ay, 'twas a hard place for a child," said Mr. Baxter musingly. "I have
sometimes feared your mistress's peculiarities might set you against
all religion."
"They did something toward it, I do believe," I answered, "not
because she was a Presbyterian, however. I saw enough in Mr. and Mrs.
Pendergast, and Mrs. Andrews, not to say yourself, Mr. Baxter, to cure
me of any such notion as that, if I had ever taken it up. It was, that,
while I heard my mistress make great professions of piety, I saw that
her whole heart and affections were set on things of this world; and
it does not seem to me possible for any one to do that and be a true
Christian, whether the world take the form of money or fashion or
pleasure."
"You are right, my child, and glad am I to hear such sentiments
from your lips," answered Mr. Baxter, "but you were ever a gracious
child.—This little wife of yours, Mr. Studley, sent her very last
guinea, I do believe, for the relief of a poor prisoner, when her
wealthy mistress gave—How much, Dolly?"
"Seven shillings," said I. "I can never think of Dr. Bates's face
without laughing. How is the good gentleman, sir?"
"Why, well and prospering as ever."
"And my mistress: do you know aught of her and her husband? For I hear
she is married again." How glad I was to be able to ask this question
without a tremor!
"Oh, yes! I heard of her only this day from an old friend of yours and
hers,—Mrs. Williams," said Mr. Baxter, with a look of disgust on his
thin, refined face which nearly set me off laughing.
"Mrs. Williams!" I exclaimed joyfully. "Is she here, then? Where is she
to be found?"
"She is not far off, seeing she lodges above stairs with Master
Bridges, the stationer, and his sister," answered Mr. Baxter, smiling,
"but you cannot see her now, because she has just gone out. She can
tell you of your late mistress better than I can. She is an admirable
woman, though she is infected with some of the heresies of the day, and
no more accessible to argument than a post."
I smiled, remembering some of the ancient controversies of these two
good people, and how I used to wonder what they were about.
"And what is the news in town?" asked my husband.
Mr. Baxter shook his head.
"Nothing good, sir. The Papists rear their heads more and more boldly.
Popish books and trinkets are openly sold in the shops, as you see
they are here also, and conversions are growing to be the mode in the
fashionable world. Mr. Dryden, the poet, hath been received into the
Romish Church, as hath also my Lord Sunderland."
"I don't so much wonder at Sunderland," observed my husband. "He would
sell his own soul or any one else for court favor. What part does his
lady take?"
"I hear that excellent lady is greatly grieved and distressed,"
answered Mr. Baxter. "She is, by all accounts, an admirable woman."
"She is, indeed," said I. "I have often met her at my aunt's; they are
great friends. And you say many converts are being made?"
"Yes, it is the latest mode," answered Mr. Baxter dryly, "but there
is no knowing how long it may last, for the king grows more and more
unpopular every day, and there are ominous murmurs. I believe strange
events are preparing for this nation."
"I have heard that his Majesty is inclined to show great favor to the
Dissenters, and hath even promised them toleration," said my husband.
"Yes, and at what price, and for what purpose? That he may secure not
only toleration, but domination, for his own sect. For the sake of
that, he would indulge not only Presbyterians, but Anabaptists and
Quakers and ranters of every sort," said Mr. Baxter. "We will accept
of no such gift, if I know my brethren at all. But I must be going.
My dearest Dolly, I am most happy to have met you again. You have a
treasure in this child, Master Studley; I hope you will cherish her
as she deserves. And, my children, I trust you mean to set up your
household in the fear of God, and as those who must give account to
him."
"I trust so, sir," answered Edward.
"It was my husband who first taught me to love God, Mr. Baxter," I
said. "It was he who led the poor, tired little lamb, weary of the
thorns and briars of the world, back to the fold of the Good Shepherd."
"Why, that is well, and right glad am I to hear you say so," said Mr.
Baxter. He gave us his blessing, and went away just as Mrs. Williams
came in.
I never was more glad to see any one in my life. We carried her to our
inn, and would have her sup with us.
And my husband going out with Master Gifford, she gave me the whole
story of her lady's marriage.
"And you have really left her?" said I.
"Ay, she turned me away," answered Mrs. Williams, with a tremor of the
lip. "After all my years of hard and faithful service, she drove me
from her because I spoke my mind concerning her intended marriage. But
I could not do otherwise, so I must needs take the consequences."
"What possessed her?" said I.
"Who can tell? The spirit which sometimes does possess old women to
make fools of themselves," answered Mrs. Williams, with more bitterness
than ever I heard from her. "She is besotted with that wicked man, and
can refuse him nothing."
"Not even money?" I asked incredulously.
"Not even money," answered Mrs. Williams. "She lavishes gold on him
like water; and he takes it, rewards her with a kiss or not, as it
happens, and, unless he be greatly belied, spends it in gambling and
every sort of wickedness."
"Ay, we heard he was a gambler," said I. "Poor woman. She may die in an
almshouse yet, as she was always predicting!"
"Likely enough, for she hath put every thing into his hands, except a
few hundred pounds which Mr. Robertson has in his control, and won't
give up. You ought to see her, with her dark wig and fashionable
dresses, trying to look young. Bah! It makes me sick to think of it.
But tell me all about yourself, my dear. This seems a very fine young
gentleman you have married."
"He is, indeed," said I. "If I thanked God for nothing else, I would do
so for giving him to me, and saving me from that other."
"And so you may, so you may, my dear. But about your fortunes now?"
"Our fortunes are not very flourishing, but yet I trust we may do well
enough," I answered. "Take out your knitting, which I am sure you have
in your pocket, and I will tell you all about it. There, now you look
like yourself," (for the dear woman had pulled out her stocking, I
should say the very same I had last seen in her hands). "Now you shall
hear the whole, from the beginning."
I told it accordingly, with a running commentary of exclamations
from my good old friend. I had hardly done, when she took me up with
eagerness.
"O Mrs. Dorothy, my dear, take me to live with you! I will be worth
ten hired servants to you, and ask for no wages. I have all the money
I shall ever need, but oh, let me but have a home under your roof! You
are very young and new to your duties, but I know all about dairy work,
from the rearing of calves and lambs to the making of cream cheeses."
"Dear Mrs. Williams, I would love nothing better than to have you with
me," said I. "You were my only friend after my mother died; and, had I
but been guided by you, I should have been saved the great trouble of
my life. But you know we shall be very poor. I do not suppose I shall
be able to keep any servant, except perhaps, some little village maid
who will come for her meat and clothes. And you are so accomplished:
you might take a place in any nobleman's household."
"Never mind my accomplishments," said Mrs. Williams almost crossly.
"They will keep, I dare say. I have no desire to go into any more great
households. What I want is a quiet home for my old age, where I can be
quit of the vanities of the world, and yet be of some use in it."
"You are not likely to see much of the vanities of the world in our
household, seeing my husband and I have no more than two hundred and
fifty pounds between us," said I. "Dear Mrs. Williams, nothing would
make me happier than to have you with me, as I said, but you know I
must consult my husband."
"To be sure you must. But Dolly, my dear,—I beg pardon, I should say
Mrs. Studley—"
"No, you shouldn't; you should say Dolly, just as you always did,"
I interrupted. "But what were you going to say? You see I have not
forgotten all my naughty tricks. I know how to interrupt, as you used
to chide me for doing."
"Ay, I remember. I was going to ask you, my dear, whether your husband
knew about Mr. Morley?"
"All about him that I know," I answered. "I told him the whole story."
"And very rightly," said Mrs. Williams, looking relieved. "These untold
stories and concealments are ghosts which have risen to disturb many a
married pair."
Mr. Studley coming in at the moment, I told him of Mrs. Williams's
proposal. He left the matter wholly to me, and I was not long in
accepting the offer. Mrs. Williams has made her home under our roof
ever since, and I believe will never leave it, save for her home in
Paradise.
We returned to Biddeford next day, leaving our treasure in the hands of
Mr. Birch, subject to Mr. Studley's order, which we could do with great
convenience, as Master 'Zechel Atkins meant to embark from Bristol. On
our way home, we stopped at Applecoombe to view the farm.
"What a lovely wood," said I, as we came in sight of the place, "and so
near the house."
"That is the orchard," said my husband. "Applecoombe has always been
famous for its orchard. You see the house is a very old-fashioned one."
It was, indeed, being built of brick and timber, like many of the
old houses in Biddeford. There was a deep porch overgrown with
jessamine and passion-flower, and on either side the door grew
great myrtle trees, taller than my head. There was a very pretty
flower-garden,—rather a rare sight on a farm,—and every thing looked in
excellent trim.
"This seems promising, does it not?" said I.
"Oh, I know the place well!" replied my husband. "I have often been
over the farm with the oldest lad, who was a great playmate of mine."
"And where is he now?" I asked.
"His bones lie out yonder in the Atlantic, like those of many another
friend and playmate of my youth," answered my husband. "But here comes
the dame to welcome us."
And a very warm welcome she gave us, leading us into the house, and
sending for her husband and sons, who were busy abroad. Of course we
had to eat and drink; and then the good woman took us over the house,
while Edward talked with her husband. The house, though old, as I said,
was convenient and pleasant,—facing the west and south, well sheltered
from the wind, and with quite a grove of walnut and sweet chestnut
trees at the back. The upper rooms were a good deal pulled up, for
which the dame apologized, saying she and her daughters had already
begun to pack. I liked the look of the place from the first, and was
glad when my husband told me he had concluded his bargain on very
favorable terms.
We came over again the next day, to decide about the furniture, most
of which we kept, as we had none of our own. And here I found the use
of having Mrs. Williams at my elbow with her advice, for naturally I
knew very little about the matter. I do think she heartily enjoyed
the business of poking the feather-beds and pillows, tapping the
earthenware with her knuckles, to test its soundness, and so on. I
followed after her, looking as wise as I could, and holding my tongue,
so as not to show my ignorance.
A bargain is soon settled when both parties are anxious for it. In
less than a fortnight, Master Atkins and his family had embarked for
America, with all their goods and chattels, and we entered on our new
home. Very forlorn it looked, I must say, on that chilly May morning.
No house looks very cheerful just after a removal. And it seemed to me
that the furniture left behind, and standing about in disorder, and the
litter of odds and ends of no earthly use, and too good to burn up,
made the rooms more dismal than they would otherwise have been.
I did feel terribly down-hearted and discouraged at first, I must say,
but I would not have shown any such feeling for the world. How glad
I was to have Mrs. Williams at my elbow! Mrs. Atkins had lent me a
strong, handy maiden to help me for a day or two. We all went to work
with a will, and a few hours made a great difference in the appearance
of things.
"Oh, it is not bad, by any means!" said Mrs. Williams cheerfully, as we
sat down to rest a moment. "The house is so clean that it will be easy
to get it in order. The kitchen does not look like ours, when we moved
to the court end of the town. Do you remember?"
"Yes, indeed," I answered. "I wonder what Peggy would say to working in
such a place,—all underground, and with the water coming in to flood
the floor at high-tides, and the black beetles running all about the
walls."
"Mussy!" exclaimed Peggy. "And do people live like that in London,
mistress? I thought London town had been all gold and gilding."
"The gold is all on the upper side, my maid," answered Mrs. Williams;
"and most of that is but gilding and base metal."
"My sister liveth in Biddeford with a merchant's lady, and I thought
her kitchen was narrow enough," said Peggy, "but to live under ground,
and with black beetles—mussy to gracious!"
A knock at the door averted from Peggy's head a lecture on profane
swearing, which I saw hovering on Mrs. Williams's lips. She is quite a
Quaker in her notions on those matters.
The visitor proved to be Master Atkins, with a great basket containing
roast fowl, cream cheese, tarts, and I know not what else, for our
dinners. Dame Atkins had insisted on our taking a loaf of bread and a
bottle of wine with us that we need not bring scarceness on our new
home by entering it empty-handed.
I sent him out to find Mr. Studley, who was busy about the barn, and
we had quite a feast ready when the men came in. My husband intended
to keep but one man at the house, and had been looking for someone,
but had not heretofore heard of anybody to suit him. He now entered,
followed by Andrew.
"You see I have found a man," said he. "Andrew is turned adrift as well
as ourselves, and for our sake."
"I don't mind," said the old man, though his lip trembled. "I meant to
have left at the term, anyhow. I can't abide to live under the same
roof with those two. I'm not so young as I was, but I'm strong enough,
and not afraid to do my day's ploughing or harvesting with any lad of
them all."
(Edward told me afterward that he would have preferred a younger man,
but, as Andrew had lost his place on our account, he felt bound to take
him on. It seems my father-in-law was greatly enraged when he learned
next day that Andrew had attended us to the farm, and turned him away
without ceremony, though he had lived in the family all his life).
"But, indeed, he groweth worse and worse," said Andrew, concluding his
tale. "He is like one possessed with the Evil One, drinking, swearing,
and blaspheming from morning till night, and almost from night till
morning, and Kirton egging him on to drink more and more all the time.
'Tis my belief that the poor old gentleman will not stand it long, and
that they are trying to get him out of the way."
"But I should think that he would see for himself that so much drink is
hurtful to him," said I, while Edward went into the outer kitchen to
wash his hands.
Master Atkins shook his head.
"When a man has lived past his threescore and ten without ever denying
or controlling himself, he is not going to begin then," said he.
"And that hath been the way with Mr. Studley. His life hath been one
long self-indulgence in every wish which hath sprung up in his mind,
or which Satan has put there. I would not tell you all the mischief
he hath wrought hereabouts,—far more than his son ever heard of. I
hope these adventurers who have got him in their clutches may not
chouse Master Ned out of his inheritance entirely, but I shall not be
surprised if the old man leaves every thing to them."
Edward now returned. And we sat down in true farmer fashion, with the
servants at the lower end of the board. I could not but wonder what
my aunt would have said to see me. But I had made up my mind from the
first, that if I were to be a farmer's dame, I would "be" one, and not
keep up any fine lady airs.
In a week's time we were comfortably settled in our new home, and I had
made good progress in the arts of the dairy and kitchen. Indeed, I had
taken lessons before of Mistress Atkins. And I shall never forget my
husband's face of surprise when he found me in the barnyard in a red
petticoat and homespun kirtle, milking a long-horned heifer. (I own I
was rather afraid of her, but I did not let her find it out.)
"What would Lady Fullham say?" said he.
"She would say I had got a good mess of milk, I hope," I answered
merrily. "And now you may carry the bucket to the dairy, if you like."
"I would the barns were nearer the house, for your sake," said Edward,
"but I think our North Devon farmers like to get them as far away as
possible. I will make a change in that matter, if we stay long enough."
If it be an inconvenient fashion in one way, it is nice in another, for
one does not have the smells and noises of the farmyard all day long.
But I must say that on rainy and sleety days, I could have wished the
barnyard nearer, and the path that led to it less steep.
I did not have a very easy time that summer. Of course every thing was
new to me. I made mistakes, and should have made more if I had not
had my dear Mrs. Williams to counsel me. She could give little more
than counsel, for she had the ill-fortune to sprain her ankle, and was
confined to her settle and arm-chair for nearly three months. So I had
her to wait on with all the rest. But I could well afford to do it.
My only servant was a younger sister of Peggy's,—a stout, willing girl,
very good-tempered, but not very bright, and with a special genius for
dropping and slopping. More than one pan of milk have I seen her spill
all over the floor, in removing it from the hearth to the shelf, after
the cream had clotted beautifully. I must say my fingers itched to cuff
her ears, but I never did. At last, however, I found the place to get
hold of her. I discovered that she was very anxious to learn to read,
and I promised her a lesson every day that she did her work well.
Her mother was very doubtful, declaring that Molly would be good for
nothing at all if she moiled what little brains she had over books, but
I persevered, and my experiment turned out admirably. Using her mind in
one direction seemed to brighten it in another. And, when Molly knew
that her beloved spelling-lesson depended on the state of her floor and
pails, she took infinite pains with her cleaning. At present, I must
say, she goes rather to the other extreme.
Well, I worked very hard, and was often so discouraged with my own
failures that I was ready to sit down and cry, but I could not but
put the best face upon matters when I saw how hard my poor husband
worked. He felt very sadly, too, about his father. We never saw any of
the family, but the accounts we heard were worse and worse. Strange
as it seemed, Edward did really love his father, and grieved over the
estrangement. He wrote to the old man two or three times, but the
letters were returned torn in two, without having been opened, and with
some abusive message.
At last Mr. Rowson rode over to see us, and counselled my husband to
send no more letters.
"They do but anger him the more, and that woman makes use of them
to set him against you. He is wholly in her hands and those of her
brother, as he calls himself, though between ourselves, I don't believe
he is her brother at all, more than I am."
"How strange that Mr. Studley should be governed by such wretches, to
the prejudice of his own son!" said I.
"It is not strange to me," answered Mr. Rowson. "Mr. Studley was
always that way. He always had somebody who was all perfection, some
favorite servant or boon companion who flattered and governed him. Do
you remember, Ned, how he held on to Wilkins, his steward, long after
every one in the country knew that Wilkins was cheating the eyes out
of his head? I believe people of his disposition, so afraid of being
influenced or advised by those who have the right to do so, are often
served just in this way."
"No doubt you are right," said Edward.
"I know I am," answered Mr. Rowson. "And so, Ned, if you will take my
advice, you will write no more at present. You know me for your friend,
I hope, and I would not advise you save for your good. I may not have
been a very good friend to myself, but I have been a good one to you."
"That you have," answered Edward warmly. "But, Rowson, why should you
not be a good friend to yourself? Why should you not break off these
courses so unbecoming any Christian, much more an ordained priest, and
live as becomes what you profess?"
Mr. Rowson shook his head sadly.
"'Tis too late, I doubt," said he. "Beside, I keep some influence with
the old man by drinking out a bottle with him now and then. We must
fight the Devil with his own weapons."
"'Negatur,' to both propositions," answered my husband. "You do not
keep any influence with my father by sharing in his drinking-bouts.
Will he take one bottle the less because you ask him? Neither are we to
fight the Devil with his own weapons. He understands the use of them
far better than we do. If we would have the advantage, we must attack
him with weapons he does not understand, or dares not touch."
"Maybe so," answered Mr. Rowson. "But I have at least done one thing,
Ned. I had a little money come to me from my old aunt Truesdale's
estate, and I have paid your father all the money I owed him. So I have
that yoke off my neck, at all events. But it went hard," said the poor
man, shaking his head. "I did so want to put it into the church-organ.
Nobody knows what I suffer every Sunday from that horrible instrument."
"When I come to my fortune, you shall have a new one," said my husband.
"Meantime, stay and sup with us; and my wife shall sing for you, and
show you that the milk-pail and the churn have not quite spoiled her
hand for the lute."
Mr. Rowson staid and made himself very agreeable. 'Twas a pity to see a
man of his gifts, who might be so useful, sunk in self-indulgence and
sloth. But I have never seen elegant tastes and accomplishments do any
thing toward keeping man or woman from sin.
Matters went on in this way till the middle of September. The last
month had been to me much easier than those which had gone before.
I had learned to do my work more easily, and took great pride in my
butter and cream cheese, which Mrs. Atkins pronounced equal to her own.
The crops were turning out well, and the cattle doing nicely; and our
apple-orchard, always a fine one, was this year quite wonderful for the
beauty and abundance of the crop.
I had been out to look for some stray hens which had been seduced from
the ways of virtue and domesticity by a pair of vagrant guinea-fowls,
and was coming in with my apron full of early pippins, when I saw Mr.
Rowson at the kitchen door holding his jaded horse by the bridle, and
conferring with my husband. Both the men wore such perturbed faces that
I was sure something had happened, and quickened my steps. As I came
up, Mr. Rowson put out his hand as if to keep me off.
"Don't come near me, child. You need not be in the mess, at all
events," said he.
"What mess?" I asked, wondering, for he was always very polite to me.
"What do you mean?"
"My father and his wife are both very ill with fever," said Edward
huskily. "Everybody has deserted them, and left them to die alone. I
must go to them at once, Dolly. Will you get a few things ready?"
I went up-stairs, got my husband's clothes ready, and then coolly put
on my own riding gear. I had always noticed that if I wanted to do any
thing particularly audacious, and went on and did it without saying any
thing, my husband took it for granted that all was right. So I came
down-stairs with my bundles, as though it had been all settled between
us. Mr. Rowson opened his eyes wide when he saw me.
"What, you!" said he. "Edward, you will not suffer this child to risk
her life in any such way."
My husband looked doubtfully at me, but I did not give him time to
speak.
"Of course I shall go," said I, as quietly as if it had been a question
of going to church. "A woman's help will be needed, and Ned must have
some one to look after his comfort.—Mrs. Williams, am I not right?"
"I think you are, and none of us will die till the time appointed,"
answered Mrs. Williams, bringing her predestination doctrine to my
support. "Mrs. Studley's place is with her husband, and she will not
die any the sooner for doing her duty. I can see to every thing here."
And then she began to tell me how to guard myself and my husband by
taking good food and fresh air and avoiding chills. She really is the
most sensible woman in the world.
It was near sunset when we came to Studley Hall, and I was at once
reminded of my first arrival. At the gate we met Dr. Kirton, booted and
spurred, just mounting his horse.
"You had better not go in. You can do no good," said he. "Your father
will not know you, and they are both as good as dead. You won't get any
thing by going in now."
"Judas," said my husband, with such a burst of passion as I never heard
from him before, "dost thou judge every one by thy vile self? Dost thou
think it is 'that' I am thinking of? Begone."
Kirton cast a venomous glance at Edward, but made no reply. And I was
glad to see him mount his horse and ride off.
We dismounted at the door; and fastening our horses, for there was no
one to take them, we entered the house. All was still and deserted
below, but up-stairs we heard a woman's voice in such accents of horror
and despair as I never imagined, and cannot describe.
"Don't desert me, Jack," it cried. "I did all for you. Don't leave me
to die alone. Oh, for pity's sake, don't leave me!"
We went up-stairs, following the sound. The doors of two adjoining
chambers were open; and from them proceeded an air enough to knock one
down.
Edward went straight through the first room, and flung the casement
wide open. Then he drew back the closed curtains of the bed. There lay
the poor old man, without sense or motion, with half-open glazed eyes
and blackened, parted lips. Only his heavy breathing showed he was
alive.
"Go, Dolly," said Edward hoarsely. "You can do no good here. Rowson
will help me."
I obeyed at once, for I wanted to find the other poor thing, whose
wailing pierced my heart. She did not notice me at first, but when I
too had opened the window, and put back the curtain, the fresh air
seemed to bring her a little to herself, and she stared at me with a
wondering gaze.
"You!" said she. "You are young Mrs. Studley. Did you die on the moor,
and has your ghost come back?"
"No," I answered. "I am no ghost. See, my hands are warm and
substantial. Try to compose yourself, and tell me what you want."
"Water, water," she gasped. "Oh, for one drop of water to cool my
tongue, for I am tormented in this flame!"
I did not believe any thing would hurt her, and I remembered that
in my ague Dr. Burnett gave me all the water I wanted, in spite of
Mrs. Sharpless's horror. I brought a glass of water, fresh from the
draw-well, and she drank it eagerly.
"It is Mrs. Studley," said she, looking at me, and holding my hand, as
I would have withdrawn the glass. "What has brought you here? Have you
come to heap coals of fire on my head? Don't do that: it is burning
already."
"Hush," I answered. "I am going to bathe your head and face, and you
will feel better."
I went to the toilet table, which was loaded with perfumes and
cosmetics, and finding a bottle of Hungary water, ¹ I bathed her face
and hands with it, brushed her hair as well as I could, and smoothed
and cooled the tumbled pillows. My cares seemed to soothe her, for she
fell into a troubled sleep, and I stepped away without disturbing her.
¹ Hungary water was distilled from rosemary, and was esteemed of great
value in fevers. It was the invention of the unfortunate Queen of
Bohemia.
I found that Edward and Mr. Rowson had changed the old gentleman to a
clean cot-bed, and cleared out the room a little, but the poor old man
was insensible to all their cares. Mr. Rowson told me in a whisper that
he could not live more than a few hours.
I went down-stairs, roused up the kitchen fire, and finding some
coffee, I made a pot of it, toasted some bread, and set out what
decent provisions I could find. There was an abundance of every thing,
but in such a state,—such pots of stale broth and heaps of bones and
fragments,—it was enough to breed the plague, let alone a fever. It was
clear enough what kind of housekeeping had obtained under the sway of
the poor woman up-stairs. I was trying to bring things to some kind of
order, when the kitchen door opened, and in came old Janey.
"I heard you and Master Neddy had come, and I couldn't stop away," said
the good soul. "Don't 'ee do that, mistress; 'tisn't fit for the likes
of you—" taking a saucepan out of my hand. "And how is the poor old
gentleman?"
I told her. She shook her head.
"'Tis all over with mun," said she solemnly. "I knowed that afore I
come. 'Twant for naught I heerd the white owl last night and night
before."
"What about the white owl?" I asked, as I was picking up the old silver
spoons which lay here and there among the rubbish. "I should think owls
might be common enough here. I am sure they are about Applecoombe. They
carried off a dozen chickens from me last month."
Janey shook her head solemnly.
"'Tis no common owl, my tender; 'tis the white owl of the Studleys, the
snow-white bird that always screams before any great misfortune befalls
the family. I heard mun plain enough the night before master brought
home that witch, but no one ever sees mun, but one of the family. Oh,
there's a-many such things happen here in the west! But how about that
other?"
I told her about Mrs. Studley.
"'She' won't die," said Janey scornfully. "That kind never do, unless
their Master has done with them. But do you get Master Ned to come
down, and take some meat; and take some yourself, there's a lamb. I
will stay with that one up-stairs. I can't abide to think of your
tender hands a-touching mun."
"But that is not Christian like, Janey," said I. "Think what our Lord
did for the woman who was a sinner."
"Ay, but a repentant sinner," answered the old woman shrewdly. "There,
don't 'ee stand to argue with an old woman, but bring Master Neddy to
his supper, there's a lamb."
There was sense in this, at any rate: so I went up, and with some
coaxing brought my husband down to take refreshment. Mr. Rowson
promised to watch my father-in-law every moment, and to call us if he
showed any signs of life.
The other patient continued to sleep uneasily, muttering, and throwing
her arms about. It seemed to me her face had changed for the worse, and
I said as much to Janey.
The old woman nodded.
"She is struck for death," she said. "Her ill-gotten gains won't do
her no more good." And then, in a relenting tone, "Poor thing, poor
thing! Maybe after all she never had the chance to learn better. Mr.
Champernoun's Harry, who hath been in Bristol, says he knows he saw
her in a theatre there, a-playing in men's clothes, and that she is a
regular play actor. ¹ To think of that,—a woman a-playing on the stage,
and in men's clothes! Do you think it can be true, mistress?"
¹ It must be remembered that the appearance of women on the stage was
an innovation of Charles Second's days, which excited grave reprobation
from all serious people.
"I know it is," I answered. "I have seen her often in London."
But I did not tell Janey, what I knew to be true, that Becky Marshall
was the daughter of a godly Presbyterian minister, as good a man as
ever lived, so Mrs. Pendergast had told me.
When night came, Janey would have had me go to bed, or at least lie
down. But, as it turned out, both of us were needed to manage the
patient, who raved in delirium all night, now going over parts she
had played, and now repeating bits of the Westminster Catechism which
no doubt she had learned at her mother's knee. At last she fell into
a troubled slumber. The gray dawn was beginning to steal up the sky,
and Janey had gone down to see to the kitchen fire, when Mrs. Studley
opened her eyes, and fixed them on me with a look I shall never forget.
"Am I dying?" said she.
"I fear so," I answered. I dared not but tell her the truth. "My poor
Rebecca, try to turn your eyes to God,—your father's God. There is yet
time. Let me call Mr. Rowson."
"Yes, call him, call him," said she eagerly.
I went to call Mr. Rowson, who was resting in a great chair. My
father-in-law was still lying stupid, as he had done ever since we
arrived. Mr. Rowson rose unwillingly, as it seemed.
"What can she want of me? I can do her no good. What am I to comfort a
dying sinner, who need mercy myself?"
"We all need it," said I. "But hasten, I do not think she has many
minutes to live."
When we entered the room, we found Rebecca's great black eyes eagerly
fixed on the door.
"The will, the will!" she exclaimed as Mr. Rowson came to the bedside.
"Find that will, and burn it. It is in the great walnut cabinet. Burn
it."
"Never mind the will," said I. "Try to think of something better.—Pray
with her, Mr. Rowson."
"I want none of his prayers," she cried. "I know what his religion is
worth. Go, go, and find the will, and burn it."
"Perhaps I had better pacify her," he whispered to me. And then, aloud,
"Yes, we will try to find it. Make your mind easy, Mrs. Studley.
Justice will be done at last, never fear."
She seemed content, and dozed off again for a few minutes. Then she
roused up and looked around.
"I thought my father was here," said she. "I thought I heard him say,—
"'The blood of Jesus cleanseth from sin.'
"But it is all a dream," she added sorrowfully, "all a dream. My father
is in a better place, and there is no cleansing for such as I."
"There is, there is!" I exclaimed. "Dear Rebecca, though your sins have
been as scarlet, they shall be white as snow. I know your good father
would say so if he were here. Only believe."
She looked at me with a singularly intent gaze.
"You came to me when all the world deserted me," said she. "I slandered
you, and abused you, and turned you out of doors; and yet you came to
me at the risk of your life and nursed me. If He were like that—"
"He is a thousand million times better," said I, weeping. "Only turn to
him, only pray for forgiveness."
"You may pray," said she, sinking back on her pillows. "You are good.
Yes, pray; my head is growing heavy, and I cannot think of the words."
Oh, how earnestly I prayed that this poor creature might have, even
in this awful moment, grace to turn her face homeward to her Father's
house! I think she understood the words, and tried to join in them, but
as I looked up, at a touch from Janey, I saw she was going. I began the
commendatory prayer, but before I finished, it all was over.
Mr. Studley lingered all day, and died at sunset, making no sign, save
that once he opened his eyes and turned them wistfully from Edward to
myself. I think he knew us both, but it was only for a moment. The veil
fell again; and, just as the last rays of the sun shot into the room,
he died without a struggle.
"He is gone! My old friend is gone," said Mr. Rowson, weeping like
a child, as Edward closed his father's eyes. "Oh, if I had but been
faithful, how different might his death have been! But I am a changed
man," said he, looking solemnly upward. "If it please Heaven to spare
some short remnant of my worthless, wasted life, it shall be given to
his service."
I was glad to hear him say as much, but I had no time to attend to him.
Edward's fixed looks alarmed me, and I wanted nothing so much as to get
him out of the room. I had no sooner brought him to the parlor than
he fainted, and lay for some time as much like one dead as a living
man could be. However, I revived him at last, and was thankful when he
burst into a flood of tears. I soothed and quieted him as well as I
could, and persuaded him to take some food, and then to lie and rest,
while Mr. Rowson, Janey, and I did what was needful up-stairs. How glad
I was that I had carried my point and come with him!
The day of the funeral Dr. Kirton appeared, in company with an attorney
from Biddeford, a man of no good reputation. Edward had looked
carefully among his father's papers for the will which he knew the old
gentleman had made shortly before our marriage, but it was not to be
found. I had my own idea about the matter, remembering poor Rebecca's
words; and I was not much surprised when the attorney produced a will
made some time during the summer, and leaving every thing to Dr.
Kirton and his sister, except a hundred pounds to Mr. Rowson, and the
harpsichord and music-books belonging to the first Mrs. Studley, which,
to my great surprise, were left to me. The will was witnessed by two
persons in Biddeford, and was perfectly formal.
"You will find it quite correct," said Dr. Kirton very politely, but
with a gleam of triumph in his snaky eyes. "The musical instrument
shall be sent to Mrs. Studley, as my poor friend directed.—The money
shall be paid to you in due time, Mr. Rowson.—I presume, Mr. Studley,
you will not care to remain here longer.—Mr. Rowson, will you not stay
to sup with me? I have your fee for your services to my late brother."
"Thy money perish with thee!" burst forth Mr. Rowson. "May the Lord
do so to me, and more also, if ever I break bread with thee! Hast
thou killed, and also taken possession? Beware, that the fate of Ahab
and Jezebel doth not overtake thee in the midst of thy ill-gotten
gains!—Come, my children, and leave this roof, which is accursed with
the presence of a traitor, a murderer."
"Mr. Rowson, you shall answer for this language," said Dr. Kirton,
turning fairly blue, partly with rage, and partly, I fancy, from fright.
"I do not fear you," answered the vicar. "Come, children."
Edward hardly spoke a word till we arrived at home, where Mrs. Williams
had every thing in order, and a bright little fire to welcome us. Then,
as he looked about, he broke silence.
"Well, Dorothy, this is to be our home, it seems. Are you content with
it?"
"More than content," said I; "happy and thankful. But it is easier for
me than for you to lose what is rightfully yours. It is very hard upon
you, my poor Ned."
"It is hard," my husband admitted. "The old place hath been in our
family since before the Conquest. The Hall was built with Spanish gold
taken in the days of Elizabeth. But what does it matter, after all? I
must soon have left it. My great trouble is for thee, my dear. I little
thought what I was bringing thee to."
"You have brought me to the happiest part of my life," said I. "Don't
fret about that, but doff your riding gear, and get ready for the
savory supper Mrs. Williams has prepared for us."
Edward was quite unwell for several days, and my heart sank fathoms
deep as I thought of his coming down with the fever. But I believe
his illness was more of the mind than the body. He could not but feel
deeply the loss of the estate which had descended from father to son
for so many generations, and of which he was now deprived by no fault
of his own. But that was a small matter, to one of his way of thinking,
compared to his father's death,—taken in the midst of his sin. I was
going to say, without one moment for repentance, but that would not be
true, seeing he had had a long life granted him wherein to make his
salvation sure.
As for myself, I won't deny that I was disappointed, though, as I
said, poor Rebecca had prepared me in some measure for what happened.
No doubt she was knowing to the will. I could not but wish to see my
husband take his proper place in the county, nor was I quite insensible
to the change that would have been made in my own position had Edward
succeeded to his rights. But, after all, I was young and strong, and
the work was no such great hardship. So I did not fret very much about
that.
Only on cold, sleety days, when the path was slippery, and the barnyard
miry, and the butter was long in coming, or the kitchen chimney
smoked, I would think how much pleasanter it would be to practise on
my harpsichord or sit at my knitting. But I soon learned that such
thoughts were unprofitable guests, and I resolutely turned them out.
Edward had one great comfort, and that was the change in Mr. Rowson.
Certainly I never saw a man so altered. He never touched wine, or even
cider, saying that he dared not trust himself with it. He took to
studying his Bible, and reviving his knowledge of Greek and Hebrew, for
he had once been a fine scholar. He preached every Sunday, catechized
the children, visited the poor and the sick, and strove in every way to
repair, if he could not undo, the mischief he had done.
The only indulgence he allowed himself was his music. He used the
hundred pounds left him by his patron in repairing the church-organ,
and found a good organist in the person of an old gentleman in
Biddeford, who was just about retiring to one of the almshouses in
Exeter, but was easily prevailed upon to accept a cottage in Studley
and a small salary instead.
Almost all the folks hereabout are naturally musical; and I do think
Mr. Rowson's choir, which he took great pains in training, brought a
good many to church, where they certainly heard the gospel preached as
never before. Mr. Rowson was a frequent visitor at our house, and used
to have many deep arguments with Mrs. Williams concerning her peculiar
tenets (which I don't in the least understand, to this day), but they
always came together at last on the New Testament, so they continued
excellent friends.
I had heard but twice from my aunt since my marriage. The family was
still in London, detained by my uncle's business, which, however,
was prospering, and he was in a way to retrieve his losses. My aunt
wrote that Betty was well in health, but not in good spirits; that
she did not care to go out, and missed her sister more than ever.
Betty's letter was written evidently in one of her bad moods. She hated
London and every thing about it. Her mother would make her go to the
theatre and to balls and banquets, and she had been obliged to leave
off her mourning. She only wished she were with me. I wished it, too,
and determined I would try to have a visit from her when the family
returned.
In my aunt's next letter she wrote that Betty was in better spirits;
that she had been presented at court and much admired, and the king
had taken great notice of her, which was an unusual compliment from
him nowadays, as his Majesty was so engrossed with public business. My
uncle was like to recover all he had lost, and more, and the family
were coming home for Christmas, when she hoped Mr. Studley would spare
me for a visit.
Betty's letter was not a bit like herself. It was long, and full of
public news and accounts of the balls she had attended, but not one
word of herself. The letter made me uncomfortable, I could hardly tell
why. I had never told my aunt any particulars about our way of life,
and I suppose she thought my husband and myself were living as we had
expected to do.
Now, however, by my husband's advice, I wrote her the whole story.
The letter I received in reply was quite characteristic of my aunt's
curiously mixed character. Of course, she wrote, it was every one's
duty to be religious, but there was no need of parading one's religion,
and it was a great pity Mr. Studley had offended his father by so
doing. He ought to have remembered that St. Paul became all things to
all men. There was no knowing how Ned might have influenced his father
for good if he had only been more complying to the old gentleman's
humors, but all young persons nowadays seemed to think themselves wiser
than their elders. She little thought she was sending me to such a
life. Why had not Mr. Studley applied to Sir Robert, who might have
obtained for him a commission, or some place about the court, which
would at least have given me the position of a lady? She was glad to
see that I was resigned to my change of fortune, but she pitied me from
her heart. She only wished I had been as fortunate as Betty was likely
to be.
"So she hath a match in hand for Betty," said my husband, returning me
the letter.
"She will never make any match for Betty that Betty does not like,"
I answered. "Betty is made of different stuff from poor Meg. She is
stronger both in body and in will. She may break, but she will not
bend."
"But do you think your aunt would force on Betty a match which she did
not like?" asked Edward.
"Yes, if she thought it for her good, as she says; that is, if the man
were rich or great, and able to give Betty a grand position in the
world. That was all she thought of with Meg. When Lord Chesterton first
proposed for Meg, he was a rake and an out and out infidel. Yet my aunt
accepted him eagerly, because, as I say, he was rich and would make his
wife a great lady. But my aunt will never rule Betty as she did Meg."
"Then you do not think Margaret's heart was in the match with Lord
Chesterton?" said my husband.
"Not one bit," I answered. "As I look back at it, I can see that
Margaret felt she was dying at any rate, and so it did not greatly
matter. Afterward, when she was ill at Cross Park, I believe she really
did come to love Lord Chesterton, but he was a changed man then. I
never in my life saw any one more altered. But I am sorry both for my
aunt and Betty if this matter comes to a conflict, for neither will
give way save at the last extremity."
Our winter passed away quietly enough. I had an urgent invitation to
spend Christmas with my aunt, who had returned home, but my husband
could not well leave the farm, and travelling was difficult in winter,
so I declined. I had great pleasure in sending my aunt a hamper of
cream cheese, butter, and other dairy products, the work of my own
hands, and was gratified in return by a present of books, music, and
working materials, and from my uncle ten guineas in a pretty purse.
My uncle even wrote a few lines which were worth more than the money.
He said, that, while he was sorry for Edward's misfortunes, he was glad
to learn that the young fellow had behaved like a man in standing by
his colors, and he liked him all the better. Any thing but these sneaks
who were ready to worship the Devil himself to curry court favor.
He hoped to be in a position to give us some help before long, and
meantime we must keep up a good heart. This letter was a great pleasure
to me, for I was always fond of my uncle.
As I said, our winter passed quietly enough. Dr. Kirton had really sent
us the harpsichord, and quite a library of old-fashioned music-books. I
found some time for practice; and I amused myself, and I hope did some
good, by practising with the choir, and instructing the school-children
in church music. Dr. Dean was not at all musical, and the singing had
been something dreadful, insomuch that the Sunday Mr. Rowson preached
for us I saw him privately stop his ears, and thought he would have run
out of church when the children upraised their voices in the psalm.
We heard from Mr. Rowson that Dr. Kirton did not live at Studley, and
that the Hall was shut up and deserted, only that old Janey and her
husband, the gardener, lived in the kitchen. The house always had the
reputation of being "troubled,"—that is to say, haunted—not only by the
fateful white owl, but by the spirit of a certain Moorish lady whom
some of the old freebooting Studleys had brought home, and afterward
deserted, or, as some said, murdered. This poor lady's apparition
used to rise from the old well in one corner of the court, into which
tradition said she had been thrown, and parade about the house in all
her barbaric finery on moonlight nights. I used to wish I could see
her, a black or copper-colored ghost would be such a pleasing novelty,
but my husband says many of the Turkish ladies are beautifully fair.
Anyhow, it was the general belief at Studley that Dr. Kirton had not
only seen this lady, but had also been haunted by the spirit of his
unfortunate sister, who could not rest in her grave, but was always
coming to his bedside and adjuring him to burn the unrighteous will. He
left the care of the estate to his attorney in Biddeford, and returned
to Bristol.
I well remember what a sweet spring evening it was, when we received
a most unexpected guest. I had walked down to the red gate to meet my
husband, who was somewhat late in coming from market. I was leaning
over the gate to look down the road, when I beheld a most forlorn,
tired-looking woman, dragging herself up the hill. At first I thought
it was old Sally the hawker, who made a practice of visiting us three
or four times in a season, but, as the woman drew nearer, I saw she was
a much younger person. I could not see her face under her deep hood,
but there was something in the figure that was strangely familiar.
Seeing how feeble she seemed, I hastened to meet her.
"You are very weary," I said. "Let me help you to the gate, where
there is a seat for you to rest upon." (I had always a fancy for
meeting Edward at this gate, and he had made a nice bench for my
accommodation.) The stranger accepted my arm, and leaned on it heavily
enough, till she reached the seat, when she sank upon it as if
fainting. I hastily untied her hood, and pushed it back from her face.
What was my amazement and even horror to recognize my cousin Betty!
There was no one in sight, and I dared not leave her lest she should
fall to the ground. I was considering what to do, when I heard my
husband's voice asking what was the matter. I never was more glad to
see him in my life, and that is saying a great deal.
"How shall we get this poor thing to the house?" said I.
"The house," answered Edward doubtfully. "Had we not better lay her in
the barn first? She may have the fever about her."
"The barn!" said I scornfully. "Edward, it is my cousin Betty; though
what has brought her here, I cannot guess. Don't stand staring there
like a moorland colt," I added sharply, for Ned did indeed look like a
statue of amazement. "Hurry to the house; and do you and Andrew bring
down the little mattress from the green room, and a blanket. That will
be the easiest way to manage it. Tell Mrs. Williams to get the blue
room ready. And hurry back."
Ned went off without another word,—he is very good to mind, when I do
take the command,—and the time did not seem long, even to me, till
he and Andrew were back with the mattress, which they had laid on a
shutter. Betty had partly come to herself, but seemed unable to speak.
Only, as they tried to lift her, she moaned and grasped my hand tightly.
"Don't be afraid, Betty," said I. "You are with friends, and I won't
leave you."
We carried her up-stairs, where Mrs. Williams helped me to undress her.
And with much ado we got her into bed, and persuaded her to swallow
a few spoonfuls of good broth. The fainting fit was succeeded by
hysterics, and that by bitter weeping. I did not try to make her talk,
but coaxed and soothed her, till at last she fell asleep; and I went
down to my husband.
"Well," said he, as I entered the kitchen, "what does it all mean?"
"I don't know, though I have a shrewd guess," I answered. "I have not
tried to make her speak. She is fearfully exhausted. She must have
walked a long way, for her shoes are cut to pieces."
"But you are sure it is your cousin," said Ned. "You could hardly be
mistaken, though she comes in such a strange way."
"Mistaken!" said I scornfully. "Do you think I would not know you,
though you were to fall out of a comet, instead of riding home on old
Soldan?"
"I doubt it," answered my husband. "If I fell out of a comet, I doubt I
should be past recognition by the time I reached you."
"Not you! You would be on your feet in a minute, making an instructive
reflection," I retorted. "Come now and get your supper, for I know you
must be half starved, and then we will think what is best to do."
We talked the matter over, and agreed that nothing could be done till
Betty was able to tell her own story. I watched with her. She was
restless and moaning in her sleep till near morning, when she grew
quieter and seemed to fall into a refreshing slumber. When she waked,
she was quite herself, but so weak and exhausted that I dared not let
her talk. Only I asked her if her mother knew where she was.
She shook her head. "No, no, and don't tell her. Don't let her know.
Hide me somewhere. Dolly, I will never go back to marry that man—never."
"Hush, hush! Don't excite yourself," said I. "You are safe with me. But
think, Betty, how anxious your poor father and mother will be."
She seemed to soften at this. "Yes, I am sorry for them. But I won't
marry him. I may be lost for this world and the next, but I will never
marry him."
"Marry whom?" I asked.
"That man, Mr. Cheney." And here she fell into her fits again, and we
had hard work to keep her in bed.
"She must be crazy," said Edward, when I told him. "Cheney's wife died
last summer, I know, but surely your aunt would never give him her only
child."
"He is very rich," said I, "and he sees all the best company in the
county. Don't you remember what my aunt said in her last letter,—that
Mr. Cheney had a prospect of being raised to the peerage?"
"Yes, because he favored the king's policy, but surely that would have
no weight with Sir Robert."
"It would have great weight with my aunt, though; and Sir Robert takes
all she says and does for gospel. But, Edward, ought we not to let her
friends know that she is safe? They must be in terrible suspense about
her."
"I think so," answered my husband. "Rowson is going to set out for
Exeter to-morrow morning early. I believe I will ride with him, and
carry the news myself."
I agreed that this would be the best way, and so it was settled. By
evening, Betty was quite sensible, though still weak. She told me her
story, as far as she knew it herself. I had guessed rightly. Mr. Cheney
had proposed for her; and her mother, dazzled by his immense wealth and
his prospects, had insisted on Betty's accepting him. She refused; and
there had been, as I gathered, a terrible scene between them, in which
Betty, goaded to desperation by her mother's calm persistence, had
reproached her with being the cause of Meg's death. I knew how Betty
could go on, when once roused, and could imagine more than she told me.
It ended with her being shut into her chamber, from which she escaped
by climbing out of the window. She had left her hat and gloves by the
side of a deep pond in the park, which had once been a quarry-hole, and
had then walked the whole distance to my door. She had lost her purse
the second day, and had been obliged literally to beg her way, sleeping
in barns and outhouses like a gypsy beggar, and passing one night on
the open moor. It made me shudder to think of the dangers she had run.
I asked her if she were not frightened.
"No," she answered, "I don't know that I was. I had but one thought,—to
get away, and come to you. And I will never go back to marry that man,"
she added, her eyes growing wild again. "I will drown myself in earnest
first."
"Surely your mother would never have forced him upon you," said I.
Betty smiled bitterly. "Don't you know my mother by this time?" said
she. "She would marry me to Satan if he could make me a duchess, and
talk all the time about my good—yes, and make me a present of religious
books for my closet at the same moment. I tell you, Dolly, only for
my remembrance of Meg, I would throw over all religion as folly and
delusion. But I love to think her happy, though I shall never see her."
"You must not say that," I said; "why should you not see her?"
Betty only shook her head sadly; and I was too much afraid of exciting
her, to pursue the subject. She was really very ill; and Dr. Dean, who
had some knowledge of medicine, thought she would have a course of low
fever, though he did not apprehend any danger.
My husband returned from Lady Court the third day. He reported that my
aunt seemed greatly relieved to find that Betty was not drowned, as
they all believed at first. But she was very bitter, saying that Betty
had disgraced herself and her family by her escapade, and she, for one,
never wished to see her face again. Let her bake as she had brewed. Sir
Robert was more lenient. He thought they had been hard on the girl,
who was high-spirited like himself. She had better stay where she was
for the present, if we would consent to keep her; and perhaps, after a
while, things might be arranged. Indeed, he had never so greatly liked
the match, but thought his wife knew best.
Edward remarked that Betty would have to stay where she was for the
present, as she was very ill from fatigue and exposure.
"Why, how was she exposed?" asked my uncle.
Edward told the story of Betty's journey, at which Sir Robert broke
down and wept, swore she was his own spunky girl, and he only wished
she were a boy instead of a maid. He ended by sending Betty a kind
message and some money, promising that she should not be pressed to
marry any one, and saying he would ride over and see her some day.
But my aunt was not to be pacified. She was, indeed, wounded in her
most susceptible part,—her respect for the opinion of the world. The
story had taken wing already that Betty had drowned herself to avoid
a marriage with Mr. Cheney, to whom she was betrothed. All Exeter was
ringing with it. And now it must be contradicted, and some tale made
up, which, after all, nobody would believe. No, she had brought lasting
disgrace on all belonging to her.
"I shall never hold up my head again," she repeated. And then, weeping,
"What have I ever done, that I should be so unfortunate in my children?
My only consolation is that I have done every thing possible for their
good."
And I believe she really thought so. She did every thing for the best,
though she was so terribly mistaken as to what that best was.
Finally, my aunt was won by my husband to send her daughter a message.
She forgave her all the pain she had caused her, but she did not wish
to see her at present. When Betty was well, she had perhaps better
go to her aunt Laneham at Bristol, where Mr. Laneham had gotten some
preferment at the cathedral. Her residing in the family of a beneficed
clergyman might do something toward restoring to her the character she
had lost. Sharpless should send her some necessary clothes.
Betty smiled sorrowfully when she received the message, but seemed
to care little about the matter. She lay for several weeks very ill,
but recovered her strength after a while; though she has always been
slightly lame, from the effects of her exposure. She began by and by to
go about the house and to help me in various ways, but I could not get
her to go to church, and hardly any thing could draw a smile from her.
At last, however, we won her confidence, and she opened her heart to
us. On her first going to London, she had been very unwilling to go to
the theatre or the opera, having made up her mind that these things
were wrong and unbecoming a Christian, and that if, as she said, there
was any thing in religion, one's life should be passed in a course of
good and pious works. She had been greatly strengthened in this idea
by three or four Roman Catholic books which fell in her way. Indeed,
I believe they were given her by Queen Mary herself, who took a great
liking to her.
Betty said she would have become a Romanist, and gone into a convent,
only there were a few things she could not get over; and, above all,
she could not make up her mind to think that dear Margaret was lost
forever. The king himself had condescended to argue with Betty, and if
his Majesty had not insisted on this point with the stupid obstinacy
which always distinguished him, poor man! I dare say he would have won
her over.
But by little and little, as Betty said, she was led on to go against
her conscience, and to take pleasure in what she felt all the time were
sinful amusements, till at last she lost all peace and hope, and came
to believe that there was nothing left her but a fearful judgment. She
thought that she had never possessed any true love for God, and was
altogether a reprobate.
"Well," said my husband, when she paused. "What are you going to do
about it?"
Betty looked at him in surprise. "What do you mean?" she asked. "What
can I do about it?"
"Supposing you to have been the sinner you represent yourself, there
are two courses open to you," said my husband. "You may go on sinning
against your heavenly Father, insulting his love and mercy, and defying
him to the bitter end; or you may come to him in all humility and
repentance, confessing your sins, and asking forgiveness through him
who hath said, 'He that cometh to me I will in no wise cast out,' and
then spending the rest of your life humbly in his service and to his
glory. You have the choice of these two ways. Which will you do?"
Betty looked very doubtful. "But I never can go back and marry that
man, even if he would have me, which I doubt."
"So do I, seeing he hath already married some one else," answered my
husband. "I would not say you are bound to do so in any case, though
I do think you ought to ask your mother's forgiveness for the pain
you caused her by your pretended suicide. It was a wicked piece of
deception, and I don't wonder your conscience is oppressed."
Betty colored. It is one thing to call yourself a lost sinner, and
another to have particular sins brought home to you by somebody else.
She began to excuse herself, but broke off, and at last owned frankly
that it was very wrong.
"But I had not thought so much about that as about my life in London,"
said she,—"all those worldly compliances."
"You should have treated them as Meg did,—as so many crosses,—and then
they would have done you no harm," said I. "They did not hurt Margaret.
Or, if you thought them wrong, you could have told your mother so in
gentle and respectful language."
"I know I did not do right in any thing, either in refusing or giving
way," answered Betty, "but O Dolly, I was hard bestead, and I had no
one to help me."
"Except God," added my husband. "That is a grave exception. But we will
admit all that, Betty. You have been a great sinner, like all the rest
of us, and your only hope is in the undeserved mercy of God. You can
make no amends to him."
"That is the worst of it," said Betty.
"No, my maid, that is the best of it," replied Edward. "You can do
nothing, and there is no need that you should, since One hath done all
for you."
And with that he went on to set before Betty the plan of our
redemption, all its freeness and fulness, as he had once set it before
me. But I think it was harder for Betty to take it in than it had been
for me. One day we were sitting in the porch with our spinning,—for
she was bent upon learning all sorts of country arts, and I had taught
her to spin as Mrs. Williams had taught me. Betty was very sad and not
inclined to talk, and I did not urge her.
We were sitting thus, when old Alice Yeo came for her jug of milk. She
was a good old body, who lived in a little cottage on the farm, and
eked out a living by the help of the church dole and what little she
could earn by spinning and knitting. She was lame, and seldom came so
far as our house, generally sending by one of the schoolgirls, who were
very kind to her.
"Why, Goody, this is a wonder!" said I, rising to help her up the step
and give her a seat. "You don't often walk so far."
"No, mistress, but the fine day tempted me, and I thought I would like
to see the place once more. Mussy, how the myrtle trees have grown, to
be sure! Great trees they be now, but I remember well when Mary Lee and
I planted them, when she came here a bride sixty years and more agone.
Ay, and she planted yonder pinks, too, that very time. ¹ A sweet and
gracious maid she was, and a dutiful wife, but she did not live long:
she died with her first babe."
¹ I know of a bed of pinks which was planted a hundred and thirty years
ago.
"Poor thing!" said Betty.
"Oh, you need not pity her, my lamb! She died happy, yes, rejoicing,
and she saw the room full of angels. I was with her, and it was like a
look into heaven. No, no, you needn't pity her. She went to her rest
sixty years ago, and I have lived to bury husband and children and
all. But you need not pity me, neither," she added, with the sweet,
tremulous smile of gracious old age. "I will soon be at home; and then
it won't matter whether the way thither was long or short, rough or
smooth: 'twill be home all the same.—Mistress, could you spare me ere
a bit of honey now? My cough gets troublesome of nights again, and the
honey and hyssop do seem to loosen it like."
I brought her the honey, and some other little matters I had laid aside
for her, and sent Peggy home with her to carry her jug down the hill.
When I came back to my seat, Betty was gazing abroad over the sea. She
was silent a little, and then said abruptly,—
"Dolly, I would give sight and hearing and all I possess, to be as
happy as that old woman."
"You have no need to give any of these things," I answered; "you have
only to give up self. Tell me honestly, Betty, is it not some cherished
sin that keeps you back from peace? Something you know you ought to do,
and will not do?"
Betty withdrew her eyes from the sea, and fixed them on her spinning.
"You think I ought to write to my mother and beg her pardon," said she,
after a little silence.
"Yes," I answered, "and so do you."
Her color rose. "Oh, yes, of course!" said she. "You think I should say
I am sorry I did not please her by marrying that man."
I began to lose patience. "Betty, you know better," said I. "Mr. Cheney
is married already, so there is no question of that. You know that by
your own showing you used very unbecoming and even cruel language to
your mother. You ought to beg her pardon for that, and for the still
more cruel deception you played upon her and your father, by making
them believe you were drowned."
"But my mother was wrong in trying to force me into a match with a man
I disliked. Even you admit that, Dolly," said Betty.
"Two wrongs do not make a right," I answered. "Your business is not
with what your mother did, but what you did. And I tell you plainly
that till you forgive your mother, and ask her to pardon you, you have
no right to expect peace or even forgiveness. 'If I regard iniquity in
my heart, the Lord will not hear me.' Pride and anger and the peace of
this world cannot dwell together, much more the peace of God."
I went away and left her to think of my words, nor did I encourage her
to talk further about the matter. Two or three days afterward she was
in her room nearly all day. At night she brought me a letter, and asked
me to read it.
"No, I would rather not," said I. "Write such a letter as you think
will be pleasing to your heavenly Father, and then it will be sure to
be right."
She thought a little, and then, taking up the letter, she tore it to
pieces. I heard her moving several times in the night. In the morning
she brought me another letter, sealed this time, and asked Edward to
have it sent. He held her hand a moment as he took it, and looked into
her face.
"It is all right now," said he.
"I hope so," she answered, smiling, though her eyes were moist, "but
oh, it has been a hard fight, and I fear all is not yet won."
"I dare say not," my husband answered. "Such battles often have to be
fought many times over, and Satan never attacks us with more vehemence
than when we have just humbled ourselves to some fellow sinner."
"I suppose that is true," said Betty, "but in truth, cousin, I never
tried it many times. I don't know that I ever did unless I were forced
to it."
"I know. You and Meg were different in that," said I. "She was always
ready to ask pardon, even when she was the least to blame."
"We were different in every respect, except for the love we bore each
other," said Betty, sighing. "I know when we had a difference, and I
had been far the most in fault, she would ask me to forgive her. But,
cousin, will you send this letter for me?"
"That I will gladly," he answered; and, it being market-day, he posted
it that very morning.
The answer was not long in coming. I watched Betty with some anxiety as
she read it, and saw her color rise, and her eyes fill with tears. When
she had finished, she handed it to me. My aunt said that, as Betty had
asked for forgiveness, she must grant it, of course. She supposed Betty
was weary of her rustication, and wished to come home, but that could
not be at present. If she were tired of the country, she could go to
her aunt Laneham at Bristol, who would no doubt receive her.
Betty had gone to her own room, leaving the letter with me. I handed it
to Edward with an expression of indignation.
"It is a cruel letter," said I; "and not like my aunt at all. She was
formerly always ready to forgive, when any one made submission."
"I can read between the lines," answered Edward. "Your aunt's
conscience is uneasy. She knows she has been wrong herself, and she has
not the courage to say as much, so she takes it out in this way. She
will come to a better mind, after a while. I am glad Betty is here, and
not at home."
"She seems very contented," said I. "How handily she takes to every
sort of work! It seems as though she had found her true vocation."
"Like somebody else I know," returned my husband. "What a farmer's dame
had been lost to the world, Dolly, if you had married a great man!"
The summer wore on very quietly. We had a visit from my uncle, who
staid with us two or three days, and seemed to enjoy his visit. My aunt
wrote to Betty by him in a much more kindly strain, making no allusion
to her fault, and sending her a pretty present. She said nothing,
however, about Betty's coming home, nor did Sir Robert encourage it
for the present. Betty sent her mother a pair of fine hose of her own
spinning and knitting, and received a kind note in reply, but still
nothing was said about her going home.
But it soon became apparent that Betty was likely to have a home of her
own, unless somebody interfered to prevent. Mr. Rowson had admired her
very much from the first. After a while, they came to an understanding.
And the next time Sir Robert came over, he made proposals for Betty's
hand. He was very well to do. His living was a good one for those
parts, and he had quite a nice little private fortune. His family was
respectable; and, though there was a good deal of difference in their
ages, it was on the right side.
I could see at once that Sir Robert was taken with Mr. Rowson. He
talked with Betty in private, and also with Edward and me, and assured
Mr. Rowson that his good word should not be wanting to his suit.
"I fear her mother will not be pleased at Betty's marrying a parson,"
remarked my uncle to me at parting, "but I will do my best to persuade
her, and the maid shall have her way. Methinks we have made enough of
sacrifices to the world, which will never make any for us."
"Nor for any one else," remarked Edward. "The world is a bad paymaster."
"I believe you are right, nephew," said my uncle thoughtfully. "I
shall always think that last season in London was the death of poor
Meg. I would not say so to her mother, since she acted for the best,
but I believe if the maid had staid quietly at home, she might have
been alive now. Well, good-by, young folks, and God bless you! My wife
pities your lot, but I must say you appear as well to do as anybody
I know. I shall never forget your kindness to my poor daughter. And
between ourselves, I would, for my own part, a hundred times rather see
Betty wed to an honest fellow like Rowson, country parson though he be,
than to Cheney, who hath got his peerage by declaring himself a Papist.
I don't know what the world is coming to, for my part. I have always
stood by Church and king, but as things are going now—But there, I must
not stay longer, or I shall be benighted on the moor.—Keep up a good
heart, Bess. It will all come right in time."
Contrary to all our expectations, my aunt made no objections to the
match, but gave her consent and blessing without delay. In fact, I
think she was very glad that she had an opening for a reconciliation.
She would have Betty married from home, and we must all go to the
wedding. It was in the farmer's holiday, between haying and harvest,
and we were not afraid to leave our matters in such good hands as those
of Mrs. Williams and Andrew.
My aunt received us with the greatest kindness; and no one would have
guessed, from her manner, that Betty had not been away on an ordinary
visit. Perhaps it was the best way on the whole.
Mr. Rowson had a cousin living in Exeter, the dowager Lady Peckham,
who was well-jointured and much respected, though she went little into
society, and was accounted a bit of a Puritan. I think this connection
did something to reconcile my aunt to the match. Lady Peckham was at
the wedding, as were also the bishop and his lady, and Mr. Studley's
old friend Lady Clarenham: so it was quite a grand affair. I don't
think all the parade was to Betty's taste, but her mother would have it
so, and Betty gave way to her in every thing, as was but right.
It must have been rather pleasing to her to hear the reprobation which
was poured from every side on my Lord Viscount Cheney (I know it was to
me), but she made no sign thereof.
Lord Cheney was in London, in great favor at court, where the king
was going from bad to worse. His Majesty was at open feud with both
the universities, and the clergy (even those who had been most active
in preaching passive obedience to the worst of kings) took sides with
their colleges. It makes so very much difference whether it is yourself
or somebody else that is to be passively obedient. The king had an
army encamped on Hounslow Heath, for the purpose, as was said, of
overawing the city, which was not overawed at all, but only enraged.
The Dissenters were openly courted, and some of them even appeared
in court, but the leaders among them, like Mr. Baxter and Dr. Bates,
stood aloof, and made no response to the king's advances. The Bishop of
Exeter still clung to the hope that matters would be accommodated, but
his clergy were open enough in their expressions of discontent; and the
dean had declared plainly that the Prince of Orange, Calvinist as he
was, would be better than the rule of the Jesuits,—which was what every
one thought we were coming to.
It was like coming into a new world to me, who had lived so quietly
for the past year and more. I must say I found it very amusing for a
little, but I soon tired of the bustle and fuss, and was not a bit
sorry to get back to my quiet home again. Betty was to make a little
visit at home, and then to Mr. Rowson's old mother, who lived not
far from Bath. We employed the time of her absence in putting the
parsonage in nice order, and disposing therein the furniture my uncle
sent over. The house was a good one, though not large, but Mr. Rowson's
housekeeping had been but slack, even for a bachelor, and such a
looking place I never saw as Mrs. Williams and I found when we went
over.
By good luck, the old housekeeper went off in dudgeon at the news of
her master's marriage: so we had the place to ourselves, and soon put
it in nice order. Peggy's eldest sister had grown tired of living in a
town, and had come home. She was a staid, capable body, and was glad
to get a service near her mother, who was growing old: so we installed
her in the kitchen, with a little maiden from the school under her. And
when Betty came home, she found every thing in readiness, even to the
supper.
I think she has always been happy in her new life. She takes great
interest in parish matters, and hath set up a good school which she
superintends herself, though her two babes, which might almost as well
be twins, give her plenty to do. Her mother has visited her more than
once, and they are the best of friends. Betty has never told her what
she told Edward and me, that Mr. Rowson refused the offer of being a
minor canon at Exeter, which came to him shortly after his marriage.
"It would only vex her," said she, "and what is the use? I can tell
you, Dolly, since I had that one to deal with," pointing to her elder
child, who is a little pickle, "I begin to understand what I owe to my
mother. I think she mistook in many things, but as I call to mind her
kindness and self-sacrifice and patience, I cannot too deeply repent my
own perverseness."
"In not marrying Lord Cheney?" said I mischievously.
"You know better than that," she answered, laughing. "I would not
change my poor parson for any lordling in the land, much less for him
whom I always hated. But I might have refused in a different manner;
and I can see, in a hundred instances, how I set myself up against my
mother merely for the sake of contradiction. Yes, indeed, Mrs. Peggy,
there, has opened my eyes to a great many things I never should have
seen but for her."
But I am spinning out my story so long that I fear none of my
descendants will have the patience to read it. We lived at the farm
for a year longer, prospering on the whole; though we had to work hard
for what we got, and had our ups and downs like other folks. We heard
nothing from Dr. Kirton, except that his agent had raised all the rents
and exacted them pitilessly. Dr. Kirton himself never came near the
Hall, which was now quite shut up and deserted; for Janey's husband had
died, and she would not stay alone, and no one else could be found to
brave the terrors of the ghosts, which, according to the old servants
and tenants, made a parade-ground of the Hall. Janey came to us and
took up her abode with old Alice, who was altogether bedridden and
needed someone to wait on her.
As I said, we lived on quietly, and heard only distant echoes of the
storm which was muttering and gathering at home and abroad. When
my husband rode to Biddeford market, he generally brought home the
"Gazette,"—which, however, told us little, being under such close
censorship,—and two or three news-letters lent him by Master Gifford.
From them we heard of the stirring events in London, of the Declaration
of Indulgence, the arrest of the bishops and their acquittal, and the
mad conduct of the king and his Jesuit advisers, which men said were by
no mean approved by the Pope.
I had ridden to Biddeford with my husband, and was busy in Master
Gifford's shop, selecting some household matters, and talking with our
good old friend and his wife, when a foreign looking man, with the
unmistakable gait of a sailor, came in and asked for Master Gifford.
"I am Master Gifford, at your service," said the merchant.
Now, a foreign sailor is no sight at all in Biddeford, and I turned
away carelessly enough to speak to my husband who had just come in. At
the sound of his voice, the stranger turned hastily around.
"Ned!" said he with a curious tremor in his voice. "Surely this is
Edward Studley."
"Edward Studley, at your service, sir," said my husband, but in a
moment his face changed, and he looked like one who saw a ghost.
"Don't you know me, Ned?" said the stranger. "I should have known you,
had I met you in Barbary."
"If a man can rise from the dead, this is my uncle Philip," exclaimed
Edward, catching him by the hand. "Is it really you in substance of the
body?"
"Even as you see," said the sailor, with a mighty shake of the hand,
which left no doubt of his corporeal substance. "It is Philip Bassett
himself, escaped not from death, but from long captivity, well nigh as
hopeless as death."
It may be guessed what a welcome we gave to our uncle, whom every one
had mourned as dead. There was not room for many words, for we had to
be on our way home. Mr. Bassett looked surprised when we took the road
to Applecoombe.
"How is this?" said he. "This was not the road to Studley in my time."
"Nor is it now," answered Edward. "We are living at Applecoombe."
"At Applecoombe," repeated uncle Philip. "What, you have parted company
with the old gentleman at last! Well, no one can blame you."
"My father is dead," said Edward briefly.
Mr. Bassett said no more, but began asking about different neighbors as
we passed one house and another on the road. It was not till we were
seated by ourselves after supper that he began again.
"But if your father is dead, Ned, how does it happen that you are
living here? Why are you not on your own estate?"
"Because I have no estate," answered Edward. "My father disinherited
me, and left all his property to his second wife and her brother. He
gave me nothing but my black horse, and my mother's old harpsichord."
"Disinherited you!" exclaimed uncle Philip. "He could no more
disinherit you than he could the king of England. The whole estate
belonged to you by your grandfather's will, though your father had the
use of it for his life without reserve."
Edward colored high. "How did it happen that I never knew that?" he
asked.
"By the terms of the will the matter was to be kept secret till you
were five and twenty," answered Mr. Bassett. "I don't know that your
father was obliged to tell you even then, though that was certainly
implied. I wonder old Mr. Winne, the lawyer in Exeter, did not advise
you how matters stood."
"The old gentleman died before my father, who took his business out of
Mr. Winne's hands some years before," answered Edward. "Naturally young
Winne did not care to meddle in the matter unasked. But are you sure?"
"As sure as that I sit here," replied Mr. Bassett. "My father was one
of the witnesses to the will. Kirton hath no more right to the estate
than my old master in Tripoli."
"We must look into the matter," said my husband. "To-morrow, if you are
able, we will ride to Exeter and take council with Mr. Winne, who hath
his father's business, and is an honest man. But now tell us of your
adventures. Were you really a slave in Tripoli?"
"That I was for five long years, and might be to this day, only that
my master took me to sea with him. We were wrecked off Sardinia, and
my poor master was drowned. He was a kind, charitable old man, and
made my life as easy as might be. The ship was got off, but I slipped
overboard in the confusion, and swam to the shore. There I abode for
near a year longer, till I got a chance to ship for Marseilles, where I
found an English vessel, and worked my way home, without a tester in my
pocket,—not like the uncle in the story-book, who comes home with his
pouch full of gold, you see, niece."
"You have brought news which is better than gold," I answered; "and if
you had brought nothing but yourself, you would be more than welcome."
My husband had left the room at some call from Andrew, and I took the
chance to tell Mr. Bassett how Edward had gone to Turkey to look for
him, having heard that he had been seen in Constantinople.
"Ay, that was like Ned," said Mr. Bassett. "But why did his father cast
him off at last?"
"Because he was bewitched, I think," I answered, and told him the story.
"Ay, so," he said thoughtfully. "As there is nothing so good as a good
woman, so I believe there is nothing so bad as a wicked woman. But we
shall soon set all to rights now. Kirton will not have a leg to stand
on. I doubt if he shows any fight at all."
The next day my husband and his uncle rode to Exeter, found Mr. Winne,
and examined the will. It was so perfectly explicit that there was no
room for mistake. The proper steps were taken; and, as Mr. Bassett had
predicted, no opposition was made. Indeed, Dr. Kirton never made his
appearance at all, but fled from Bristol, where he had contrived to
victimize a good many people. Even his attorney at Biddeford lost money
by him, or so he said; though people in general were of the opinion
that he had feathered his own nest pretty well, and some did not
scruple to say that he had known the truth all along.
It may be guessed with what feelings we repaired to Studley Hall to
take possession of our rights. Great depredations had taken place by
cutting of timber and the like, and both Edward and Mr. Bassett groaned
over the loss of favorite trees. There had even been a threat at one
time of pulling down the Hall, but it had not been carried out; and the
old house stood safe and stately in its grove of nut-trees.
How strange it seemed to walk freely through the rooms and the garden,
and feel that they were all our own! In turning out the room where
poor Rebecca died, I discovered in a secret cupboard in the wall some
valuable jewels and quite a sum of money. I had no mind to profit by
the poor thing's riches, which might be, for aught I knew, the wages
of iniquity; and, with my husband's approval, I gave them all to Mr.
Rowson, to be laid out on the new schoolhouse which was then a-building.
As misfortunes never come single, so good fortune sometimes hath its
flood tides; and thus it was with us. The poor old Hall needed a deal
of repairing to make it comfortable, or even habitable, but where was
the money to come from? As may be guessed, Kirton had left no money
behind him. We were considering the matter of ways and means, when I
received a letter from London with surprising intelligence. Mr. Harpe,
the attorney to whom my mother had intrusted her little all, was dead,
and had left me by will seven hundred pounds, and a house at Hackney. I
was never more surprised in my life. His nephew, who was also his heir
and executor, wished me to come to London, and attend to the business
which must be gone through. The young man wrote very politely, I must
say, and enclosed funds to pay the expenses of the journey.
"How in the world came this man to leave you such a little fortune?"
asked Edward, when I gave him the letter. "What was he to you?"
"A thief and a robber," I answered. "Don't you remember my telling you
the story of my poor mother's little property, which was put into his
hands?"
"Well, he hath restored it two-fold, at least," said my husband.
"Small thanks to him for restoring what he could no longer keep," I
answered. "My thanks are due to God and to this man's honest executor,
but not at all to him, that I can see. What shall we do about it? It is
not a very convenient time for you to leave home."
"And I suppose you will not go without me," said Edward, "not even with
uncle Philip for escort."
"That I won't," I answered. "Don't flatter yourself that you are
going to get off so easily as that. Uncle Philip may stay and see to
the farm, and protect Mrs. Williams from the Irish, who so haunt her
imagination."
There was great talk about this time, of the Irish whom the king was
bringing over to recruit his army, and stragglers from the new levies
were straying about the country. Much more to be pitied than feared
they were, for the most part, poor things! For they could speak hardly
any English, and the people feared and hated them in equal proportion.
A couple of them had come as far out of the way as Applecoombe, and had
asked for food humbly enough, poor fellows! And Edward, finding them
willing to work, and apt to learn, had found them something to do about
the farm. They had not shown the least evil disposition during the few
days they had been with us. On the contrary, they had shown themselves
very grateful for their rations of brown bread and buttermilk, and
their beds of clean straw in a shed.
But Mrs. Williams would not be persuaded that they were not the
advance-guard of a band of marauders coming to murder us. Nor did she
seem much consoled when Mr. Rowson, who loves to tease her, reminded
her that if it were settled in the immutable decrees that she was to
be murdered by wild Irishmen, the sending away of Dennis and Patrick
O'Finnegan would do nothing to reverse it. However, they have staid
with us to this day, and have never yet murdered any one, or done any
harm, except by their blunders now and then.
Well, it was finally settled that we were to go to London by sea,
from Exmouth, with a captain whom Edward knew, leaving uncle Philip
and Andrew to garrison the farmhouse, and protect Mrs. Williams. We
set out about the middle of September, visiting my uncle by the way,
and receiving from my aunt a string of commissions for matters from
the London shops. We had rather a stormy voyage, but finally arrived
in safety about the first of October, and took lodgings near my Lady
Corbet's old house, with a widow lady with whom I had some acquaintance.
When we discovered what a scene of excitement and confusion we were
come into, we almost wished ourselves at home again. It had now become
an open secret that a number of peers, spiritual and temporal, had
united in an invitation to the Prince of Orange, who was making great
preparations for invading England. The king, who for a long time
had treated with contempt the warnings of King Louis and his other
friends on the Continent, had become suddenly awake to his danger,
had dismissed some of his advisers, and ordered others to keep out
of the way, and had thus late in the day brought forward proofs of
the legitimacy of the poor little baby Prince of Wales, which nobody
believed in any the more for all his pains. It was a little curious,
by the way, that he who had taken so much pains to throw doubts on the
legitimacy of his first wife's children should have so much trouble in
proving the birth of this child.
Every one, even those who have since been bitterly opposed to him, was
praying for a favorable wind for the prince. The fruit and flower girls
made their profit of the occasion; for oranges were bought at any price
the vendors chose to ask, and every man who could procure one had some
kind of yellow flower in his hat or button-hole, while orange ribbons
and orange plumes were flaunted in the park under the very nose of the
king.
We found the younger Mr. Harpe to be a very sober young gentleman,
disposed to do every thing in his power for those whom his uncle had
wronged. The man had been worse than I had ever supposed; for it turned
out, upon examination, that Mrs. Price had actually left to my mother a
house worth at least two hundred pounds, and the same amount in money;
so that, after all, Mr. Harpe had left me only my exact due. Mr. John
Harpe insisted on paying interest for Mrs. Price's legacy, and, indeed,
showed himself in every thing as honest and open-handed as his uncle
had been the reverse. But there is always more or less delay in all
legal proceedings; and one week dragged on after another, and still we
were kept in town. Oh, how I did hate the dirt and the smoke and the
smells, and long for a breath of Devon air and a good drink of Devon
milk!
I did not forget my aunt's commissions. And, going out one day about
some of them, I made my way to Mr. Jackson's shop, where I found Ursula
behind the desk. She looked old and worn, and her fretful expression
had grown upon her. She pretended not to recognize me at first; and,
when I made myself known to her, she affected great surprise at seeing
me in town, and asked what had brought me. I told her I had come up
with my husband to look after some property which had fallen to me.
"Oh, so you are married, after all!" said she. "And who is the happy
man?"
"Mr. Studley of Studley Hall in North Devon," I told her.
"What! He who was my Lady Clarenham's gentleman-usher? I wonder your
aunt should have allowed you to make such a match as that. But I
suppose after her own daughter went to the bad—" She saw something in
my face, I suppose, and she checked herself with, "But perhaps, after
all, it was not so bad as people said."
"I don't know what you mean, or what people say," I answered warmly.
"I know that my cousin is most respectably and happily married, and
living in her own house, if you call that going to the bad. But you are
just the same Ursula, I see, always with a wonderful tale to somebody's
disadvantage."
"And you are the same Dolly, always flying out at nothing," she
retorted. And then, more gently, "But don't let us quarrel when we have
not met for so long. I only repeated what I had heard. I am sure I am
glad it is not true. Come into my parlor, and sit awhile; it does me
good to see an old friend."
I did not want any words with her, and something about her made me feel
sorry for her: so I followed her into a back parlor, behind the shop,
with loopholed doors by which she could keep an eye on the shopmen.
Here she would have me sit down, and brought out some cake and wine. I
asked after her father.
"My father is well, but very feeble, and hardly ever comes near the
shop," she answered. "My uncle and aunt Pendergast are staying with
us at present. These are fine times for us Dissenters, Dolly. We are
courted of both sides alike."
"So I hear," I answered, "but Mr. Jackson is not a Dissenter. How is
he?"
"Well enough," she answered carelessly. "He is at the docks about some
goods just come in, or I should not be sitting here in comfort. But I
made my bed, and I must lie on it, I suppose. We poor slaves of wives
must take what we can get, and be thankful."
"I am quite content to take what I get," I answered. "I have the best
husband in the world."
"I am glad you think so," said Ursula more gently; "and indeed, Dolly,
you do look as though things had gone well with you."
I asked her about my Lady Corbet.
"Oh, yes, poor thing, she is in town! You had better go and see her,
Dolly: she often speaks of you."
"I certainly shall do so," I said. "But how is she prospering?"
"As well as a woman can who has married a gambler and drunkard, and
sees her money melting away in his grasp. But that she hath property of
which he can touch only the income, I believe she would have been in
an almshouse before now. He never goes near her except when he wants
to coax or bully a few guineas out of her. He would have her give up
her house, but she clings to that, and there you will find her, like a
mouse under a bushel. But here comes my amiable lord and master."
In effect, we heard the next moment a sharp voice in the shop asking
for Mrs. Jackson, and in the same breath scolding the shopman for
allowing the sun to shine on a piece of camlet.
"But 'twould be all the same to you, or your mistress either, if it
were cloth of gold or velvet of Genoa. Nothing goes right when my eye
is turned away for a minute."
He opened the door with a frown on his face, which he tried hard to
turn into an amiable smile when Ursula presented me to him. He looked
littler and meaner than ever. I could not but remember poor Mr.
Andrews, whose honest love had been so slighted. Certainly he had had
an escape.
As soon as I could, I went to seek my old mistress. I found her living
as Ursula had said, like a mouse under a bushel, in one corner of
the old house, attended by a vinegar-faced waiting-woman,— a great
contrast, certainly, to former days. The poor old lady looked older and
more pinched than ever, with her false locks, and the youthful laced
cap for which she had exchanged her widow's veil. She gave me a warm
welcome, and really seemed glad to hear of my well doing. By and by the
waiting damsel left the room, and then she asked me if I knew any thing
of Mrs. Williams. I told her my old friend was living with me, and I
hoped would always do so.
"Ay, she always loved you," said my lady. "She did not like my marrying
again, and I gave her warning for something she said, but I never
meant her to go. However, she and Sir Philip Morley would never have
agreed, so it is just as well. Sir Philip is like other young men, but
we must make allowances, we must make allowances. He has a great many
engagements, and cannot give me as much of his company as we could both
wish, but he is kind to me, oh, yes, he is kind to me, whatever people
may say!"
Somehow I liked the poor old body all the better for making the best of
her bad bargain, instead of complaining of him as Ursula Jackson had
done. She kept me a long time, asking all about my marriage, and really
showing more interest in me than she had ever done before. I was about
to take my leave, when she toddled to her cabinet, and, after some
hunting, brought out a very pretty case of silver-gilt spoons, which
I remembered as having adorned the table on great occasions. She gave
them to me, saying she always meant I should have them some day, and
they might do for a wedding present. They were small, but very heavy
and prettily wrought, and I was admiring them, when I heard a man's
step on the stairs, and my lady said rather hurriedly,—
"There, put the box in your pocket, child."
I obeyed instinctively the old sharp tone of command, as Sir Philip
Morley entered. I knew him in a moment, though he was changed and grown
stout.
Could this be the man I had once fancied I loved,—this debauched
looking ruffler? He greeted his wife carelessly enough, and then turned
to me.
"And who have we here? As I live by bread, 'tis my old flame, pretty
Mrs. Dolly!"
"Mrs. Studley, if you please, sir," I answered, with a courtesy, and by
no means relishing the freedom of his address.
"Oh, ho! We are married, and we stand on our dignity," said Sir Philip
with a laugh. "Well, 'tis a pretty dignity, and does not misbecome
you. Mrs. Studley, since that is the style, I trust I see you well and
happy?"
"Very well and very happy, thank you," I answered.
"And how long have you worn the rosy chain of Hymen, may I ask?" said
he with a sneering laugh. "For of course it is a rosy chain; we all
know that, eh, Felicia?" turning a mocking glance on his poor wife, who
seemed divided between joy and terror.
"I have been married about two years," I answered concisely. I felt
more and more disgusted with him every moment, as he went on paying me
compliments, and seasoning them with ironical speeches to his wife.
My husband had promised to call for me, and I never listened more
eagerly for his knock than I did then. He came at last, and I bade my
poor old mistress farewell. I never saw her again. I did see Sir Philip
once more, as I have good reason to remember.
For my part I was not at all sorry to have met him again, and that
without a single feeling save of shame that I should ever have thought
of loving him. I don't think, after all, that he was so very much
changed: it was my eyes that were opened.
As we were walking home that afternoon (it was the 7th of November),
we observed an unusual commotion in the streets. Men were gathered in
knots, shaking hands and exchanging looks and words of congratulation,
as on some most joyful event. My husband asked one man,—whose dark
face, and hat pulled over his brow, showed that he, at least, took no
share in the general joy,—what had happened.
"The Devil hath broke loose,—that is all," answered the man, as he
turned away.
My husband asked another the same question.
"'Tis that the Lord hath sent deliverance to his people. Praised be his
name that I have lived to see it!" replied the old man.
Whereupon the first cursed him for a traitor and an old Roundhead,
and I believe would have struck him, had not Edward interposed. So
differently was the coming of the Prince of Orange looked upon. But
the number of those who mourned was as nothing to those who rejoiced.
We hastened to our lodgings, for the mob were already giving signs of
turbulence.
That night a chapel not far from us was sacked, the images and
furniture thrown into the street and burned, and the priests obliged to
fly for their lives.
But the tumult that night was nothing to what followed the flight of
the king. The Prince of Orange fairly scared the poor king into running
away, much as I have seen our big tom-cat drive a rival and intruder
out of the garden by merely looking at him and growling. The queen
and the poor little baby were sent away first, under the escort of a
Frenchman named Lauzin; and then the king slipped off in the night. He
did his best to leave anarchy behind him, by throwing away the great
seal, and writing to Feversham to disband the army. ¹
¹ James denied afterward that he meant to disband the army, but his
letter could hardly be construed to mean any thing else.
As soon as it became known that the king had fled, every thing was
done that could be done to preserve order, but in vain. That night,
the longest in the year as it happened, London was a scene of terrible
confusion. All the Roman Catholic chapels and religious houses, of
which many had sprung up during the last three years, were sacked and
burned; and the inmates hardly escaped with their lives. The same
fate befell the mansions of the Spanish ambassador and several other
foreign ministers, and many private houses were burned and plundered.
The mischief was mostly done by that army of human vermin which seems
to infest all the chinks and cracks of great cities, and in part by the
apprentices, always ready for mischief.
The next day, London looked as though it had been taken by storm. Our
house, a very plain one in a quiet street, was not even threatened. But
Mr. Jackson's shop was plundered, and he himself beaten and abused,—it
was said, by his own shopmen and apprentices, who certainly were not
likely to love him. Lady Corbet's house was also assaulted; and though
the mob were diverted from it, by the attack upon Wild House, the poor
old lady was so frightened that she never held up her head again, and
died a few days afterward.
All day long the peers and the city government labored to restore
order, and to avert the consequences of the outrages which had been
committed. The Spanish ambassador, who had been the greatest sufferer,
was lodged in the palace, and treated with all the observance due to
the king himself. He was a sensible, good-tempered man, and accepted
graciously the apologies made to him, as did the other ambassadors.
By sunset, things had fallen into a good degree of order. The poor
priests and nuns had been cared for, or had found shelter with their
friends, the smouldering fires had been put out, and guards were
stationed in dangerous places. We began to hope for a quiet night.
Our landlady, Mrs. Jennings, who had kept close all day, ventured to go
out and buy materials for a hot supper; and I was anxiously awaiting
the return of Mr. Studley, who had gone to ask after poor Ursula and
her husband.
He came at last, and I ran down to the door to meet him. As I opened
it, I saw his face wore the pale, resolved look I knew so well; and I
became conscious of a distant tumult of screams and cries of alarm.
"What now!" I exclaimed.
"Nothing, I hope, but a false alarm," answered my husband, quickly
shutting and securing the door. "Help Mrs. Jennings to close all the
shutters, Dolly. That is the very first thing."
If I have any talent in the world, it is for doing as I am bid. I had
the lower shutters closed and barred before the words were fairly out
of Edward's mouth, and ran up-stairs to do the same.
Poor Mrs. Jennings, coming up from the kitchen, with both hands full of
hot beefsteak and oyster-sauce, could only stand and stare aghast.
The noise drew nearer and nearer,—such a noise as I hope never to hear
again, of oaths and curses, mingled with the shrieks of women and
children, and above all the cry of, "The Irish, the Irish! The Irish
soldiers are coming to fire the city."
"What does it mean?" I asked, having done all I could do.
"Nothing, I hope," answered my husband. "There is a rumor that the
disbanded army is on its way to sack and burn the city."
"O Lord! And he calls that nothing," exclaimed Mrs. Jennings, setting
down her dishes for the convenience of wringing her hands.
"O Lord! Oh, gracious!" chorused her handmaiden. "Oh, we shall all be
murdered and ravished and burned alive!" And with that she began to
scream.
"Hold your tongue, Mary Anne," said her mistress sharply. "How dare you
make such a noise here! And see how you are drizzling that gravy all
over the floor. Go and bring up the pudding and the mince-pies before I
cuff your ears."
Scared as I was, I could hardly help laughing at Mrs. Jennings's sudden
change of tone, but I felt sorry for the poor maid.
"Don't make a noise, but keep perfectly quiet: that is the best way to
avoid notice," said I. "You see, Mr. Studley thinks it may be a false
alarm.—How did the news come, Edward?"
"Nobody seems to know," answered my husband. "To say truth, I do not
believe there is much cause for fear. I met Lady Clarenham's nephew,
Mr. Strangeways, who is in the Life Guards just now. He says he
believes the poor Irish are too thoroughly cowed and bewildered to
attempt any great mischief, even if they wished it, which is not at all
certain. At all events we can do nothing but keep quiet and wait the
event, commending ourselves to Divine protection."
"And that is true; and at any rate we need not leave the nice supper
to be eaten by the wild Irish," said Mrs. Jennings, who I believe
worships the goddess of cookery, and is indeed a worthy priestess of
that divinity. "Mary Anne, you have not put the mustard on the table;
and where are the pickled walnuts?"
Mary Anne muttered that one could not be thinking about such things at
such a time. She believed her mistress would do so if it were the day
of judgment that was coming instead of the Irish.
"To be sure I should, if mustard and walnuts were in the line of my
duty," answered Mrs. Jennings sharply. "Come, now, bestir yourself."
We tried to do justice to the nice things prepared for us, but nobody
could have much appetite with those dreadful sounds ringing in our
ears,—cries and screams, and rushing to and fro of excited crowds, now
a temporary lull and now another frightful alarm, "They are coming; the
wild Irish are coming."
Edward called us all to prayers, and then we women lay down in our
clothes. Poor Mary Anne was so frightened at the notion of going up to
her attic that I made her sit down in the great chair in my room, where
she was asleep and snoring in two minutes.
The longest night must have an end, and so did this.
When morning came, people bethought themselves to find out what they
were scared at. And then it turned out, as Edward had surmised, that
the whole was a false alarm. Nay, there had not been a particle of
foundation for it; no Irishman had attempted any outrage, or done worse
than ask for food at a farmhouse door. The report had first been spread
in the suburbs by some men dressed like country wagoners. It might have
passed for a silly practical joke, if the same alarm had not been given
in other places, widely distant from each other. The whole matter was
evidently a conspiracy, but to what end, or by whom planned, remains a
mystery. ¹
¹ So it does to this day.
All this confusion and anarchy was no help to our business. And I began
to think we should drag out the whole winter in London, and spend all
our money before we received it. We staid on till after the capture and
second escape of King James (though I don't know why I should call it
an escape, since all that any one wanted of him was to run away as fast
as he could), and the entry of the Prince of Orange into London.
Finally, after the Christmas holidays, and when matters were becoming
a little settled, we saw the end of our business. The money, which,
with the sale of the house Mrs. Price had left me, came to more than
nine hundred pounds, was sent to our lawyer, Mr. Winne, in bills, as we
meant to go home by coach, and did not care to have so much about us. I
had executed all my aunt's commissions, and had made a farewell visit
to Mr. and Mrs. Pendergast, and to poor Ursula Jackson, the last of my
old acquaintances, whose husband was still in bed from the effects of
the beating he had received on the night of the riot. Ursula declared
he was more scared than hurt, and I dare say she was right.
We were to travel by the fast coach, which makes the journey in three
days. It seemed a very short time to me, who had been a week going over
the same ground in my uncle's coach. The roads were good; and we had
pleasant travelling companions in the persons of a dignified clergyman
whom I had met at Bishop Lampleugh's, in Exeter, and a brother of my
Lady Peckham's, Lord Carewe, who had been out of the country ever since
Monmouth's rebellion, and was now going down to visit his sister. He
hath since married Mrs. Winifred Evans, a very nice, pretty young
lady whom Lady Peckham brought up, and who saved his life in quite a
romantic way when he was lying out in the fields, after the woeful
battle of Sedgemoor.
The roads were good for the time of year, as there had been a hard
frost of several days' duration, and we had abundance of wraps, so we
were not uncomfortable. There was something exhilarating, too, in such
rapid travelling, for in many places we went at the rate of seven or
eight miles an hour.
But we were not to get off without an adventure. There had been talk
of highwaymen at the inn where we staid the first night. We were
travelling somewhat slowly over a desolate heath, when the driver
suddenly pulled up, and a voice at the window demanded our money and
valuables. My husband and Lord Carewe exchanged glances.
"We will do you no harm if you will give up the money we know you have
about you," said the masked horseman. "It is in vain to deny, Mr.
Studley. We know that you carried away near a thousand pounds from
London."
"You are mistaken," said Edward quietly. "I sent the money by sea to a
merchant in Bristol a week ago."
The highwayman uttered a curse, and then demanded our watches. Dr.
Bristow pulled out his, and the robber reached out his hand to receive
it. In a moment Edward had him by the throat, while Lord Carewe held a
pistol to his ear. His horse started from under him, and he was left
hanging from the coach-door in a very uncomfortable and undignified
fashion. His companion, seeing how things were going, clapped spurs to
his horse, and was out of sight in a minute.
"You can't shoot," gurgled the half-choked robber. "Your pistols are
stuffed."
"That is your mistake," answered Edward, in the tone of polite dignity
which he always uses when offended. "They were stuffed, I grant you,
but the stuffing was drawn this morning as you shall see if you offer
to stir.—Doctor, will you have the kindness to tie this gentleman's
hands? My wife will lend you her scarf for the purpose."
"I have what will serve even better," answered Dr. Bristow calmly, as
he took from his pocket a new silk stole. "It hath never been used
in the church, or I should have scruples as to putting it to so base
a service," he continued, as he secured the hands of the robber, now
gasping for breath under Edward's bulldog grasp of his throat. The
guard at the same time tying the man's legs, he was helplessly at our
mercy.
"Let us take a look at your face, my friend," said Edward, as he took
the mask from the robber's countenance. I shall never forget the look
of agony he bent upon me as I recognized Philip Morley. I spoke his
name aloud before I thought.
"For Heaven's sake, let me go," pleaded the poor craven wretch. "Let me
go, and I will never molest any one again.—O Mrs. Studley, plead for
me!"
The men were obdurate at first, but Dr. Bristow and I finally prevailed
with them to leave him, bound as he was, by the side of the road. We
had passed a carrier's wagon about an hour before, so we knew he would
be found and released before night-fall. A stout strap was substituted
for the desecrated stole, which the doctor remarked would make his good
sister an apron. And we left him sitting by the roadside, a pitiable
object indeed. He was rescued, as we had foreseen, and told some
cock-and-bull story to account for his plight. He left the country at
once, and I believe has never returned.
We had no further adventures, and reached home in safety, to find all
well, and Mrs. Williams quite reconciled to poor Dennis and Patrick.
As the season was advanced, and so much was to be done at the Hall,
we remained at Applecoombe till May, when, having let the farm to
advantage, we removed to this house, where we have now lived for two or
three months.
I must confess that at first I woefully missed the farm and its
interests. But I soon found enough to do, and my baby's coming after so
long a time filled up my cup of happiness to the brim. My good aunt is
finally satisfied with my position, and takes great credit to herself
for establishing me so well. I am quite willing she should do so, since
it pleases her, but I can't help thinking how it would have been if she
had been determined to marry me to Mr. Cheney instead of Mr. Studley.
In my state of mind at that time, I should probably have been as
passive as I was in marrying Mr. Studley.
Now Mr. Cheney—my lord, I should say—has fled the country, and people
say has joined King James in Ireland. All his great wealth has vanished
into thin air, and he hath left nothing behind him but an immense
amount of unpaid bills in Exeter, and various gambling debts. His poor
wife has returned to her widowed mother, who tells a pitiful story of
her wrongs. Sir Robert let out the whole story the last time he and
my aunt were here, and I thought it was a good deal to Betty Rowson's
credit that not a look or word escaped her to say, "I told you so."
One thing I know. No considerations of worldly advantage shall ever
make me force my Barbara into a match against her will. The baby is
named Barbara, after my husband's mother, and my dear Bab Andrews, from
whom I hear two or three times a year. She is well, and seems to be
happy in the life she has chosen. Her aunt is dead, and has left her
quite rich; and she hath removed to a place called Newcastle, not far
from Mr. Penn's new town, which he calls Philadelphia.
Uncle Philip visited the place last year, and says it is really quite
a nice village. Barbara sent me a little painting of her house, which
is neat and pretty. She has a school for girls, which gives her
pleasant employment. I fancy Uncle Philip would not be sorry to go into
partnership with her, but I doubt Bab will never marry. However, he is
going thither again next year, he having taken command of a fine ship
belonging to Master Birch, in Bristol: so there is no telling what may
happen.
Mrs. Williams is well and happy, and I hope may be spared to us for
many years. She surprised us all by going to church when baby was
christened, and has been to hear Mr. Rowson preach once or twice since.
She hath her crotchets, no doubt, but I am sure a better Christian
never lived in the world than Mrs. Mehetabel Williams.
Lord Chesterton was married last year to no less a person than my old
school friend and pet, Mrs. Patty, Lady Clarenham's grand-niece. She
has grown-up a very pretty, sweet young lady, and will make him a nice
wife. He lives at home on his own estates, sees to his tenants, and is
a very sober, religious gentleman, certainly a great contrast to what
he was when I knew him first.
Mr. Baxter is still living, and in much easier circumstances, many of
the oppressive restrictions which were laid on the Dissenters during
the last two reigns having been taken off, though there is still plenty
of room for improvement in their condition. Mr. and Mrs. Pendergast
have gone to America, and are settled in the same town as Bab Andrews.
My Lady Corbet left them quite a sum of money in her will, with which
they bought land: so they are well to do. I am glad, for I always liked
them. Ursula Jackson is a widow, but carries on her husband's business.
And now I come to the end of the third of these books, which I began
under such different circumstances. Looking back over the way I have
come, I can but thank the Guiding Hand which has led me by such unknown
and untried ways to this haven of rest and peace. I thank God that he
"has" led me, often sorely against my will, instead of leaving me to
follow out the paths I chose for myself. Verily, He leadeth "the blind
by a way they know not."
UNIFORM WITH THIS VOLUME.
——————————————————
THE SWORD OF THE CAREWS By DUNCAN McCLAREN.
MIDSHIPMITE CURLY DR. GORDON STABLES.
THE DOG CRUSOE R. M. BALLANTYNE.
PRETORIA FROM WITHIN A. J. BATTS.
EVERYBODY'S BUSINESS AGNES GIBERNE.
HER NEXT-DOOR NEIGHBOUR M. COMRIE.
GRIMM'S FAIRY TALES _Illustrated._
UNCLE TOM'S CABIN H. B. STOWE.
THE WIDE, WIDE WORLD E. WETHERELL.
THE CORAL ISLAND R. M. BALLANTYNE.
BLUEBELL EMMA MARSHALL.
HALF A DOZEN GIRLS A. C. RAY.
HEARTS OF OAK GORDON STABLES.
HALF A DOZEN BOYS A. C. RAY.
THE KNIGHTS OF THE WHITE ROSE GEORGE GRIFFITH.
THE GREAT WHITE QUEEN WM. LE QUEUX.
LADY SYBIL'S CHOICE E. S. HOLT.
THE CHILDREN'S KINGDOM L. T. MEADE.
LITTLE QUEENIE EMMA MARSHALL.
JACK, AN ENGLISH BOY Y. OSBORN.
SISTER ROSE E. S. HOLT.
THE HIDDEN TREASURE L. E. GUERNSEY.
A KNIGHT OF TO-DAY L. T. MEADE.
THE KING'S DAUGHTERS E. S. HOLT.
WAITING FOR THE BEST J. M. CONKLIN.
ALL'S WELL E. S. HOLT.
A REAL HERO G. STEBBING.
HER HUSBAND'S HOME E. EVERETT-GREEN.
ROBIN TREMAYNE E. S. HOLT.
THE STORY OF MARTIN LUTHER E. WARREN.
OUT IN GOD'S WORLD J. M. CONKLIN.
UNDAUNTED W. C. METCALFE.
WINNING AN EMPIRE G. STEBBING.
WON AT LAST AGNES GIBERNE.
——————————————————
More than Sixty-six Volumes in this Series.
——————————————————
LONDON: JOHN F. SHAW & CO., 48, PATERNOSTER ROW, E.C.
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