_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]