BOOK III.

_Studley Hall, 1687._

WHEN I was looking over my things in preparation for removing from the

farm to this house, I opened a trunk mail in which I had stored away

a quantity of finery unsuitable to a farmer's wife. Turning over the

things, my hand fell upon a square sealed package, of which I could not

remember the contents. Breaking the seals, I found my two old journal

books, which used to stand me in stead of confidential friends and

father confessor. I fell to looking them over, and Mr. Studley coming

in at the moment, I read him the last pages I wrote. He laughed, and

kissed me, saying, "All's well that ends well."

"Perhaps so," I answered; "but, Ned, I can see now what a wrong I did

you, and what a sin I committed, in wedding you as I did, promising so

solemnly to love, honor, and obey, when my heart was not in the matter."

"Ah, well, you have been a fairly dutiful and obedient wife, save when

you will go out in the wet to hunt up your missing fowls," said Mr.

Studley; "and as to love, I think there is a little between us, Dolly."

Then he added more gravely: "In truth, dear wife, if there was any

blame, it attached more to me than to you. I was not so blinded by my

love but that I could see how you felt toward me. You would hardly have

walked down as far as the red gate to meet your bridegroom coming to

woo, even in the finest weather, as you did yesterday in the rain to

meet your stupid, humdrum old goodman coming from market, you foolish

woman!"

"I wanted to see if you had forgotten my knitting-pins," said I,

pretending to pout.

"And so send me back for them. No doubt I should have gone, like an

obedient, hen-pecked husband, as I am; only you forgot to ask for them

at all, and here they are in my pocket. But indeed, Dolly, I was to

blame. I knew your heart was not in the match, but it seemed to my

self-will as if I could not live without you, and I was vain enough to

believe I could win your regard if I had a fair chance."

"How conceited some men are!" I said.

"But, Dolly, since you are like, or so I hope, to have a little more

leisure, with our mended fortunes, why should you not continue your

chronicle down to the present time?" continued my husband. "It will be

a pleasant pastime, and our daughter will like to read them when she is

a sober house-dame like thyself."

"It seems odd to think that mite of a creature should ever be a sober,

married woman," said I, regarding my three months old Barbara asleep in

her cot, "but I suppose we were all like that once. I hope she may have

as good a fortune as her mother before her. Only I would not have her

left as I was, for the lot of an orphan maid is too often a sad one.

But then, as you say, 'all's well that ends well.'"

Mrs. Williams, coming in for some directions about the new cheeses, put

an end to the talk for that time, but my husband adverted to it more

than once afterward. And as we are now quite settled in our new home,

and we have the house well cleaned, which it greatly needed, and every

thing is going on well, I know no reason why I should not content him.

He has gone to Plymouth for a week to see about some property there,

and I have a mind to surprise him when he comes home.

To begin with the wedding. It went off as such things usually do, I

suppose. Betty was bridesmaid, and I am sure a soberer one was never

seen. I don't think I was a very sober bride. Somehow, just at the

last, a reckless spirit took possession of me. Dr. Burnett had been

to the Bath again, and had brought news that Mr. Morley was actually

married to his ancient bride: she is sixty-five at the very least.

When I heard that, as I said before, a spirit of recklessness took

possession of me. I was determined to show that I did not care: so I

talked and laughed, entered with zeal into all the preparations for the

festivities, and feigned the greatest interest in my wedding array.

I saw Mr. Studley look at me with wondering eyes more than once. I

suppose he must have said something to my aunt, for I heard her tell

him that young maids' spirits were always variable at such times.

The wedding-day is much like a dream to me. We were married at the

parish church; and almost the only clear remembrance I have is the face

of old Dame Penberthy, as she pressed a bunch of blue and white violets

into my hand at the church door.

We had no very great wedding festivities, for the absence of which,

my aunt's mourning was a sufficient excuse. Our only guests were the

bishop's family, who are my aunt's relations, a few of our nearest

neighbors, and Mr. and Mrs. Lightfoot. Mr. Lightfoot had sought Mr.

Studley's company since that evening at Fullham which I have recorded,

and by his persuasion had left off cards and dice, and given himself to

retrieving his encumbered estate. Mrs. Lightfoot looked upon my husband

almost as an angel, as well, indeed, she might, poor little woman!

The next day after my marriage was lovely, and my husband asked me to

walk out in the park with him. All my high spirits had evaporated by

that time, and a kind of impatient misery had succeeded to it. I felt

as if I could not endure any thing. I bent down to gather a primrose,

and as I did so I scratched my hand with a thistle, and in my vexation

I gave vent to an oath,—a modish oath, such as half the fine ladies in

London used without ever giving it a thought. I had caught up the habit

there, and had been trying to break myself of it, but I think such a

habit one of the hardest in the world to conquer. I was brought to

myself by my husband's look of almost horrified surprise.

"Dolly!" said he, and the tone spoke volumes.

I felt the blood come up in my cheeks, but I tried to carry it off

lightly.

"I did not mean any thing," said I; "it was only a trick I picked up in

London. Everybody there uses such words."

"If the whole world used them, I could not be reconciled to hearing

them from the lips of my dear wife," said Mr. Studley. "See you not, my

love, that it is this very light use of the word which the Commandment

forbids,—the taking the holy name in vain, or lightly?"

"I suppose so," I answered. "The truth is, Mr. Studley, I am not one

bit religious. I was once, I believe; at least, when I was confirmed I

made many good resolutions, and did love to read in the Bible and to go

to church. But afterwards, somehow, it all became dim and unreal to me.

I did not go to church, and the books I read to my mistress were only

tasks to me; and since—" I stopped, horrified at the words which came

to my lips.

"Since when, my dear?" asked my husband gently. "Canst thou not open

thy heart to thy husband, my Dorothy?"

Now, I had resolved that the name of Philip Morley should nevermore

pass my lips, that Mr. Studley should never know what he had been to

me. While I was fully resolved to have no secrets from my husband, as

soon as he became so, it seemed to me that my single life was mine own.

But I know not what possessed me; whether I had endured as long as

endurance was possible, or whether the kindness of his manner broke

down my reserve, as ice is melted by the warm south winds: I began at

the beginning, and told him the whole story of my life,—how Mr. Harpe

had cheated me, and my mistress abused me; how I saw Mr. Morley first,

and all about my acquaintance with him, even to those clandestine

meetings in the park, which I can never think of without shame and

anger.

"And I can't be religious: how can I?" I concluded. "How can I think

Heaven has been good to me, or that any one there loves me, when I have

been so thwarted and shamed and tossed about? I might as well think

that God cared for one of those withered weeds, or a bit of tangle on

the shore."

I stopped, rather scared at my own desperate words. Mr. Studley had

been standing before me, as I sat on a rustic bench in the shade of a

thicket. To my surprise, he turned from me, and walked away without a

word, disappearing among the trees.

What would I not have given to recall what I had said? I had thrown

away my husband's love and respect; and, now they were gone, it seemed

that I would give worlds to have them back again. I seemed all at once

to realize all I felt for him. What would he do? Would he ever speak

to me again? Would he leave me altogether, and go away? What would my

friends say if he did, and where should I hide my disgraced head when

they knew all?

Tears came to my eyes at last, but they were hot, burning tears, and

gave me no relief. I covered my face with my hands, and was sitting in

a kind of heavy, listless despair, when all at once my head was drawn

to a warm, strong resting-place, and a kind hand wiped my tears. Not a

word was spoken till I looked up, and said, in a voice that was hardly

articulate,—

"I thought you had gone and left me."

"No, indeed; you do not get rid of me so easily," replied my husband.

"I ought not to have left you alone so long, but I confess I had need

of a little solitude to compose my spirits."

"Then you don't hate me?"

"Not quite yet. It would be a strange love, methinks, which would be

alienated by such openness as yours, my Dolly. I own that for a moment

I was shocked and startled by what you told me. But I do not believe

you love this man."

"No, indeed," I answered, with energy. "It is a wonder to me how I

could ever care for him."

"It is no great wonder, under the circumstances. But, Dolly, you say

that you cannot love God because he hath dealt so hardly with you. Was

it hard dealing with you not to leave you to reap the harvest of your

own self-will and indiscretion?"

"No, perhaps not. But why did he take my mother from me, and leave me a

forlorn orphan maid, with no one to guide me?"

"That I cannot tell you. It belongs to the great unsolvable riddle,—the

existence of evil at all. But, Dolly, is it quite true that he left

you with no one to guide you? You say that both Mrs. Williams and your

friend Mrs. Andrews warned you. And was there not something within

which confirmed their warnings?"

"It is true," I answered. "I knew all the time I was doing wrong."

"Exactly. You see your Father did not leave you alone, after all."

"I wish I could feel that he were my Father indeed," said I. "I would I

could love him as you do. I have tried, but I cannot."

"That is because you have not tried in the right way, my dear one,"

answered my husband. "You could not love him while you thought him your

foe. 'We love him because he first loved us.'" And with that he began

and drew a picture of the love of God, and the work of the Holy Trinity

in our redemption, so tender, so moving, supporting all he said by the

words of Scripture, as I never heard the like from any preacher.

I wept abundantly, but my tears were cool and refreshing, and seemed to

overflow and carry away all remains of that spring of bitterness in my

heart which had been poisoning my life.

"But you make my case worse and worse, Edward," said I. (I don't think

I had ever called him by his name before.) "If I have been sinning all

my life against such love as this you describe, and which I must needs

believe in, how can I ever be forgiven? What remains for such a sinner?"

"Eternal life, if the sinner will but take the free gift held out to

her," answered my husband. "Do you not see, Dolly, that the fact of

your being a sinner, is in one way your title to salvation?"

"I don't understand," said I. "Must one not be good to be saved?"

"Yes and no. You put the cart before the horse, as we say in these

parts. You are not to be saved because you are good, but you are to

be good because you are saved. If you could work out your salvation,

then were our Lord's work useless. But he came into the world to save

sinners. You are a sinner; 'ergo,' he came into the world to save you.

Does not that make it plain?"

We talked a long time. He showed me at last, plainly, both by the Bible

and Prayer-Book, that I had only to believe that the Lord had died for

me, and to put my trust in him, in order to reap all the benefits of

his passion. He showed me how all the services and sacraments pointed

the same way, and served to the same end,—that God's children were

to perfect holiness in his fear, because they were his children by

creation, by adoption at our baptism, and at last by our own act and

deed consenting thereto.

I cannot write all that he said. I know from that hour life was a new

thing to me.

"But we must not sit here too long: the air is growing chill," said he.

"Your aunt will chide me if you get the ague from my carelessness."

"It will be an ague well bought," said I. And then, a little

mischievously, "Then you won't quite give up your wayward little wife,

though she has been such a naughty girl?"

His only answer was a kiss, which for the very first time I returned.

From that hour I began to love my husband; and that love has grown, and

will grow while life remains.

We went round by the spring, and I stopped to bathe my eyes, which were

swollen with weeping. Nevertheless, my aunt saw the traces of my tears,

and followed me to my room, saying with some anxiety,—

"I hope nothing has gone wrong, my love."

"No, dear aunt, the farthest possible from wrong," I answered; "only I

have been holding a long talk with my husband. I think we understand

each other better than ever before."

"That is well," said my aunt, evidently relieved. (I think she had had

her misgivings all along.) "I must say one thing for you, Dolly, you

are the most candid young person I have ever met. I feel that I know

more of you than I do of mine own daughter."

I do think she did. But if I had grown-up under my aunt's system,

should I have been more open with her than Betty is? I doubt it. I know

one thing, I will always encourage my Barbara to open her heart to

her mother. How can a child be frank, a child at least who thinks for

herself, who is repressed and set down, and even severely reproved for

speaking out her thoughts when they happen to differ from her elders.

I remember how even Meg was chidden and punished because she said she

thought it not right for women to play indecent parts upon the stage.

But this is by the way.

I asked my aunt to excuse me from going to supper, not feeling in the

mood to meet my uncle's jokes, which were not the most refined. My aunt

kindly consented, and said she would send Mary with my tray, but Mr.

Studley, hearing of the matter, would bring it up himself, and even

feed me.

We got frolicking over it like two silly children, but, indeed, my

heart felt so light I was ready for any thing. Then Mr. Studley brought

out a new piece of music he had bought for me at Exeter—an evening

hymn, by the good Bishop of Bath and Wells, set to a fine canon of

Tanis's—and we sang it together. We went down to prayers. And I think

my aunt, and even Betty, were satisfied with my looks.

The next day, when we were alone together, Betty said to me in her

blunt way,—

"What has come over you, Dolly? You look as though you had seen some

joyful sight."

"And so I have," I answered her; and I told her a little of the talk I

had held with my husband.

"You have a right to be happy," said she, and she sighed. "Dolly, you

don't know how I dread this visit to London. I know just how it will

be. All the visiting and play-going and vanity will begin over again,

and I cannot join in it. I dare not do so, thinking as I do. I shall

have to run counter to my mother in every thing, and what will become

of me?"

"Now you are borrowing trouble," said I. "If I were you, I would lay my

trouble before the bishop,—you know his lordship is always very kind to

you,—and ask his advice."

"I have," answered Betty, "and much good it did."

"Why, what did he say?"

"He said that while I was under my mother, it was my duty to obey her

in all things which did not go against my conscience; and that I must

be careful not to make a confusion between my conscience and my taste,

not to think things must be wrong because I did not like them."

"Well, I am sure that was good," I remarked; "and what then?"

"Then he patted my head, and gave me his blessing and a book of his

friend Bishop Wilson's, and bade me remember that even in Vanity Fair

Christiana found some good people, and that, at any rate, 'sufficient

unto the day was the evil thereof.'"

I don't see how he could have given Betty any better advice, but I

could see she was not satisfied. And, indeed, my good aunt's theory

and practice were hard to reconcile. She gave us books to read which

taught us that this world was nought, and then would have us live as if

it were all. I could not but wonder that the bishop should quote such

a book as the "Pilgrim's Progress," but then he reads every book that

comes in his way. I dare say he might pick it up at a stall, where he

is always hunting for curiosities in that line.

The next day but one my husband and myself set out for our new home. We

were to go by sea from Exmouth to Biddeford, where we would be met by

my father-in-law's horses and servants. I had never been on the water

in my life, and was scared at the idea, though I would not have said

so for the world, but my husband and my uncle both thought it would

be easier for me than the rough land journey over the moors, by roads

which are not too safe at any time, and which have been much worse

since the troubles last year drove so many desperate men to take refuge

in those wilds and almost inaccessible morasses.

However, I must say I found the voyage very pleasant. The vessel,

though small, was clean and well found; and the captain and sailors,

who knew my husband well, were civil and attentive. I was sick hardly

at all, and there was so much of novelty to engage my attention that

the time seemed not long to me.

We landed safely one pleasant morning at Biddeford, which is a

quaint little town, once of considerable importance, but a good deal

decayed. We went at once to the principal inn, where we ordered some

refreshment, as it was nearly noon. While we were eating and drinking,

the landlord came to say that a man desired speech of my husband. And

presently, he brought him up,—an elderly, steady man, the very model of

an old-fashioned serving-man.

"Welcome, Andrew!" said my husband. "You see I have brought my wife."

The old man bowed, and drank my health in a cup of ale, which, at my

husband's sign, I poured out and gave him.

"And what is the news from home?" asked my husband. "I suppose the

timbered house is all ready for us."

"Why, no, Master Edward, it be'n't," said the old man rather

reluctantly. "Your father has altered his mind about it, and you and

the young mistress are to come to Studley Hall. I only hope you will

like the company you find there."

"What do you mean, Andrew?" asked my husband.

And, as Andrew hesitated, he added, with more impatience than is his

wont, "Speak out, man, and tell us the truth, whatever it is. Bad news

does not mend by keeping."

"And that's true, Master Ned," said the serving-man. "Well, then, here

it is. My master hath taken Mr. Kirton and his sister to live with him;

and she rules the household within, and he without."

My husband turned ashy pale, and his eyes shot fire as he asked, in a

tone not the least like his own,—

"Is he married to her?"

"He says so, and certainly he ought to be," answered Andrew

reluctantly, "but no one knows where the wedding was done, nor who

married them. Anyhow, my lady rules with a high hand, and most of the

old servants have left."

"When was this done?" asked my husband, in the same hard, constrained

voice.

"About three weeks ago," answered Andrew. "My master laughed when he

told us, and said he would steal a march on Master Milksop. But I had

best go and see to the horses," added the good old man, guessing, I

suppose, that we would rather be alone together. "I shall be below the

window in the court, mistress, if you will but make a sign when I am

wanted."

With these words he withdrew, shutting the door behind him. My husband

walked up and down the room two or three times; and then dropping into

a chair, and laying his head on his folded arms, he fairly burst into

tears, and sobbed like a babe.

I soothed him as well as I could. I was scared, for there was something

terrible in the grief of one usually so self-restrained. When I saw him

growing quiet, I ventured to ask,—

"What has happened, Edward? Who are these people?"

"The woman is such an one as I would not have you even name," said he.

"The man is a physician,—at least so he calls himself, and he hath some

skill that way. He helped my father in a fit of gout in the stomach,

and hath crept into his confidence more and more, though I believe him

as unworthy of trust as a man can be. I have feared at times that my

father was taken with the woman, who is very handsome, in a way, but I

never thought to see her in the place of my mother, a saint if one ever

lived on earth. O Dolly, to think I should have brought you to this!"

And again he gave way to his grief, though but for a few moments. Then

composing himself,—

"The question is, what to do?"

"Will you not read your father's letter?" I asked, handing him the

letter which old Andrew had given me. "That may throw some light on the

subject."

The letter was kind enough, though somewhat needlessly blustering;

saying that we would be welcome to his house, provided that we would

treat his wife with respect, and that his son was prepared to behave

like a man.

"Ay, I know what that means," said my husband. "Well, what shall we do,

Dolly?"

"In my judgment we had better take up with the invitation," I answered,

trying to speak cheerfully, though I was dreadfully disappointed. I had

built so much on going to my own house. "This person is your father's

wife, it seems; and as such we must treat her with respect, as he says.

If we find we cannot live there, it will be time to think what to do

next."

"But I know not what that will be," said my husband. "My father

promised to allow me a house and land, and four hundred pounds a year;

and if he sees fit to quarrel with me, as I make no doubt he will, if

Kirton can bring it about, we shall be left destitute."

"Then you shall take your violin, and I will take my lute, and we

will go sing at fairs and weddings, till we win money enough to

rent a cottage at Biddeford, or somewhere else, where you shall be

parish-clerk, and I will knit hose, and spin fine thread," said I. "In

truth, dear Edward, we are wrong to borrow trouble. We are both young

and strong,—not made of sugar nor salt, to be washed away in the first

shower of adversity."

"I don't know. I think you have a good deal of both in your

composition, Dolly," said my husband.

"Of course I have," I answered, overjoyed to see him smile again.

"Don't you know that little girls are made of—

"'Sugar and spice, and all that's nice'?"

"I know one little girl that is, at all events," he answered. "Dolly,

what have I done to deserve such a good wife?"

"Why, nothing," I answered demurely. "Have not you yourself taught me

that we don't get good things because we deserve them?"

"And you think we had better go on to my father's?"

"Truly, I do."

"And what is to become of our fine castle in the air?" he asked,

smiling sorrowfully.

"It is in the air still," I answered, "but it may yet descend to earth,

and rest on a solid foundation. And if we cannot have our castle, why

we will be content with a cottage, as I said."

We talked matters over by ourselves and with old Andrew, whom we called

into our counsels. I could see that the old man was very doubtful about

our reception. Afterward, Edward having gone out in the town about

some business, Andrew told me privately that he believed both Mr.

Kirton and his sister had done their best to prejudice old Mr. Studley

against his son, which he added was needless, as Mr. Ned had never been

a favorite with his father. It seems there was a younger brother of a

very different disposition from Edward, and much more congenial to his

father, who was killed at sixteen by a fall from his horse.

"It was no fault of Master Ned's," continued Andrew. "Indeed, he did

his best to persuade poor Walty from going out. My master had taught

him to drink deeply already, and he was in no state to manage a fiery

horse, but his father cheered him on, and they both laughed at Ned for

a milksop and a coward. But the horse was enraged with the whip and

spur, which Walty plied mercilessly: he reared and threw him off, and

his brains were dashed out against the wall of the court."

"How very sad! But Edward was not to blame for that."

"No, my pretty—I mean my young mistress," said the old man, catching

himself up, "but it was visited on him, for all that. Then Master Ned

took up with strict notions about religion, and that angered his father

still more. The old master did every thing to drive them out,—from

sending him to travel abroad, to putting him to work in the stable."

"Surely, he never did that," said I.

"Indeed he did, mistress. Many 's the time I have seen Master Ned

in his frock, rubbing down the horses as cheerfully as you please.

Afterward, he sent him abroad with my young Lord Stanton, and then put

him to govern my Lady Clarenham's household, thinking because she was a

great court lady, Mr. Ned would get over his strict notions with her."

"It was not a very good choice, if that was what his father desired,"

said I. "My Lady Clarenham, though a court lady, as you say, was strict

enough in her own notions."

"So I have heard, madam. But when Mr. Studley found that out, he took

his son away again. Then he tried another way, and made him his own

bailiff, and I would he were so again," said the old man, sighing. "But

I doubt all that is over. Kirton rules every thing on the place. It is

owing to him and his sister, I do believe, that my master changed his

mind about the Timber House."

"But I can't understand that," said I. "I should think these people

would rather have the house to themselves."

"They mean to have the house to themselves," answered Andrew with a

meaning look. "And if you take my advice, young madam, you will leave

the most of your things here in safe keeping, and not carry them to

Studley Hall, till you see how the land lies."

"What is that you say?" asked my husband, entering at the moment.

Andrew repeated his words.

"Your counsel is good," said Mr. Studley. "I think, Dolly, we will

leave most of our baggage in the hands of my good friend, Mr. Gifford

the merchant."

"Very well," I answered. "I have all I shall need at present in the

small mail that was brought thither."

"But we must be riding, my love," said my husband. "Andrew, will you

see the horses ready?"

We came in sight of Studley Court just as the sun was setting, and I

never saw a lovelier scene. The old red brick house, shaded by great

nut-trees, was, as it were, nestled into a valley, or glen, opening to

the south-west toward the sea. A clear, prattling stream crossed the

garden not very far from the house, and fell in a succession of still

pools and tinkling cascades toward the shore. The garden showed careful

cultivation in times past, though some large weeds and many small ones

gave tokens of recent neglect. I saw my husband shake his head when he

looked at it. He is very fond of a garden.

The whole place was bathed in warm, soft sunshine. The sea, at high

water, was making a gentle roar on the shore below, and the birds were

singing softly in the trees. It looked the very abode of peace. As we

rode into the courtyard, my father-in-law appeared on the steps. He

was a very handsome, stately old man, but I did not like his face,

which showed traces of hard living and of a violent temper. Perhaps I

may have imagined a little, knowing what I did of him beforehand. He

welcomed me with sufficient courtesy, and his son hardly with civility,

I thought.

"Well, Master Ned, I have stolen a march on you," he said bluntly, yet

with a kind of swagger, I thought, as if he were somewhat ashamed of

what he had to tell, but meant to carry it off with a high hand.

"So I hear, sir," answered my husband. "I wish you and your wife all

happiness."

"Humph!" answered the old gentleman, somewhat disconcerted, as it

seemed. "Mind, sir, you are to treat my wife with respect. I will have

no airs from you or your wife either.—Do you hear, mistress?"

I curtsied without answering. My former experiences had taught me that

"mum chance is a safe game," as Sharpless used to say.

"Humph! We mean to be discreet, I see," muttered the old gentleman.

Then aloud, "Well, well, you are a pretty creature, and look as if you

lacked not spirit, little as you are. Hast thou not a kiss for thy old

dad, child?"

"That I am sure she has, sir," answered Edward promptly. "I have

brought you a loving and dutiful daughter, father, who I hope and

believe will be a comfort to you."

My father-in-law seemed to soften at these words. He gave Edward his

hand, which he had not done before, bade one of the serving-men carry

up our mails, and asked, in some surprise, if that were all.

"We left a part of our effects with Mr. Gifford, in Biddeford, sir,"

answered Ned. "We did not care to scare you with too much at once."

"Well, well, 'twas not ill-considered," said my father-in-law, giving

me his hand to lead me in; for we had stood all this while at the door,

and I had begun to wonder whether we were to be allowed to enter at all.

He conducted me to a pretty, old-fashioned parlor, where sat his wife.

How shall I describe her? She was a large woman, and very handsome in

a way, with regular, aquiline features, bold, round black eyes, very

wide open, and abundance of dark hair growing well back from a rounded

forehead, and a red and white complexion which I thought might owe

something to the rouge-pot. She rose as we entered, and treated us to

a broad stare and a swimming courtesy. It seemed to me that I had seen

her before, but I could not tell where.

"This is my son Edward, Rebecca, and this is his bride.—What am I to

call you, child?"

"Dorothy, if you please, father," I answered, "or Dolly, if you like it

better."

I got a look from my husband which rewarded me for all the pains the

words cost me. The old gentleman also looked well-pleased, but I

can't say as much for Mrs. Studley. I felt from the first moment as

if she were an enemy, as if I were in the presence of some fierce and

treacherous animal.

"You are welcome, Mrs. Edward Studley," she said stiffly enough. And

then, turning to her husband, "I suppose the young lady will like to go

to her room before supper, which will be ready directly."

I answered that I should be glad to do so.

"The blue room, Ned. You need no one to show you the way," said his

father.

Accordingly my husband led me up-stairs, and along a gallery to

a tolerably comfortable chamber, not in the best order, where a

decent-looking old body was somewhat hurriedly laying clean towels and

the like. She dropped whatever she had in her hand as we came in, and

burst out crying, saying in her broad Devon dialect, "O Master Ned,

Master Ned, what a home-coming is here! What a home-coming is here for

you, my lamb!"

"Hush, hush, Janey!" said my husband, shaking hands with her. "Do you

greet my bride with tears? That is not a good omen.—Dolly, this is my

old nurse and friend.—Come, Janey, shake hands, and wish her joy."

"And so I do with all my heart, the dear, tender, little lamb, and God

bless her into the bargain! But what a house is this to bring a young

lady into!"

"It is indeed a very different house from what I expected," said my

husband, "but we must make the best, Janey."

"Best! There is no best, with that witch and wizard who have cast

their spells on my poor old master!" said Janey. And then in a lower,

awestruck tone, "You need not tell me they are right Christian folk.

No, not they!"

"Hush, Janey, I cannot hear you speak so of my father's wife," said

Edward; "that is not right. Come, help your young mistress to take off

her riding gear, and get ready for supper."

"Ay, that will I," said the old woman.

She performed her office deftly enough, with abundance of "poor dears"

and "tender lambs," and such like phrases.

When we were about to leave the room, she laid a trembling, withered

hand on my husband's arm,—

"Don't let her get a hold on thee, don't, now, Master Neddy," she

whispered. "I tell 'e she bain't right. There's them has seen mun in

other forms than mun wears now, and in strange places. And it bain't

for nought that the white owl has whooped and screamed every night

since she came hither. No, no, the white owl doesn't screech like that

for nought, though you make light o' mun, Master Neddy. But oh, have

a care! I have put a branch of rowan over your bed, and a four-leaved

clover under every threshold, so she can work no harm here. But oh,

have a care, my lambs, and be sure to taste bread and salt the first

thing!"

I must confess I was silly enough to observe this precaution against

witchcraft, when we sat down to supper. At the table we were introduced

to Dr. Kirton, a cunning, plausible sort of man, who was rather

obtrusively civil in his manners, and to whom I took a huge dislike on

the instant.

My husband had brought his father some fine tobacco, and a pretty box

full of snuff. The old gentleman received them with satisfaction, and

seemed inclined to be more friendly than at first; asking Ned about

one old acquaintance and another, and telling him about the cattle and

horses, especially a fine blood mare he had bought for my riding. Then

turning to me, he asked me if I were a good horsewoman.

"Only passable, sir," I answered. "I never rode at all till last

winter, but my uncle has taken great pains to teach me, and, if you

will do the same, I hope you will find me an apt scholar."

"Indeed, sir, Dolly is a very good horsewoman, considering," said

Edward. "She is very fearless, and that is half the battle, you know."

"So it is, so it is," replied the old gentleman. "But how happened it

that you never learned before last winter, chick?"

"Because I never had a chance, sir," I answered. "I have been in my

uncle's family not quite a year. Before that I lived in London. We only

came down to Devon about Christmas-tide."

"In London, eh? I did not think I was to have a fine London lady for a

daughter, but you don't look like a Londoner! Eh, Rebecca?" addressing

the lady at the head of the table, who had stiffened more and more, the

more her husband relaxed.

"I know nothing of the matter," she answered tartly. "I never was in

London in my life, and never wish to be."

"If I have not seen you there, I am as much mistaken as ever I was," I

said to myself. The more I looked at her, the more sure I was that I

had seen her before.

"Well, well! I should have taken you for Devon born, and North Devon at

that," said my father-in-law. "Who is she so like, Rowson?"

The remark was addressed to the vicar of the parish,—a heavy,

good-natured looking man, who had come in after we sat down, and been

introduced as Mr. Rowson. He looked, I must say, any thing but a

reverend priest, and yet I took a certain liking to him from the first.

"Mrs. Edward Studley is very much like the Corbet family," answered the

vicar, with a polite little bow. "I should almost say she belonged to

them."

"I suppose I do," I answered. "My father's name was Corbet, and he and

my mother were somewhat akin. After my mother's death, I lived in the

family of Sir Charles Corbet, my father's cousin."

"Ay, I remember now," said Mr. Studley. "But Sir Charles died some

years ago, did he not?"

"Yes, sir. After his death I remained with his widow, till my aunt

found me out and adopted me."

"Well, well! Thou art a pretty bird, but of the least."

"'Good gear goes in little bulk,' I have heard say, sir," I answered,

whereat he laughed and seemed pleased.

But the more pleased he appeared, the blacker grew my lady's brow. She

was evidently jealous already. When supper was over, my husband asked

to be excused, saying that he had a headache.

"Ay, I know of old there is no good-fellowship to be had of thee," said

his father grumblingly; and then, more gently, "But thou art a young

bridegroom, and would rather toy with thy pretty pussy than drink the

best wine that ever flowed. Go along, then."

He actually rose to open the door for me, when his lady pushed past me

and left the room first. It was certainly a very discourteous action

for a lady in her own house, and I saw my husband's face flush at it,

but I did not care. I did not believe I should long have to live with

her.

We stopped a moment at the hall-door, while Edward pointed out to me

some object in the landscape; and when we reached the parlor it was

empty. There was a pretty harpsichon in the room, which Edward opened

and invited me to try.

"It was my mother's instrument, and for her sake I have kept it in

tune," said he. "She was a great lover of music, and a good performer."

"It is from her that you get your music," I remarked.

"It is from her that I get any good which is in me," replied my

husband, with a sigh. "I believe I first liked you because something in

your looks reminded me of her. And to see that—"

"Patience," said I, as he checked himself; "patience is our only game

just now, Edward."

"You are right," he answered. "Play something, and soothe my spirits,

Dolly."

"'Music hath charms to soothe the savage breast,'" said I, as I sat

down. "And you are not savage, only disturbed and distressed, and no

wonder. Now, take that arm-chair, and listen and compose your spirits."

I played one or two lessons, and then began to sing Mr. Shakspeare's

Song of the Lark, which was always a great favorite of mine. When I had

finished, I was rewarded by a clapping of hands; and, turning round, I

saw my father-in-law and the chaplain, who had come in so quietly I had

not known of their presence.

"Well done," said my father-in-law. "Why, you are a lark yourself. We

don't hear singing like that every day, eh, Rowson?"

"I have not heard the like since I was in Italy," answered the

chaplain. "Will not the young lady sing something else?"

I obeyed, and sang two or three songs, to the last of which Mr. Rowson

volunteered a bass. He had a fine voice, though somewhat the worse for

wine, and a cultivated manner. When we had finished, he said, with real

feeling and courtesy,—

"This is a pleasure indeed. I did not expect such a feast."

"Ay, Rowson is like any other donkey, he likes his ears tickled," said

Mr. Studley, laughing. "You will hear good singing in his church,

if not much else. But, indeed, you have given us all pleasure,—eh,

my dear?" turning to his wife, who only tossed her head, and said

something about not being a judge.

I concluded I had done enough, and rose from the instrument. I supposed

we should have prayers, as the chaplain was present, but no such thing

took place.

When we had retired to our room, I found I had dropped my handkerchief,

and ran down to look for it. I paused, however, at the parlor door,

hearing voices within; and while I was hesitating I caught the words,—

"Making herself at home—a London fine lady to look down on me, and

insult me with her airs.'

"Tut, tut! I saw no airs, nor insults either," said my father-in-law.

"Don't be a goose, Becky."

"Becky!" I exclaimed aloud. It all came to me in a minute.

"Eh, what's that?" said my father-in-law, opening wide the door, which

was already ajar. "What do you want, child, and who are you calling

'Becky?'"

"Nobody, sir," I answered. "I heard the name, and was struck with it,

as I never heard it but once before."

"And where was that?" asked he, rather sharply.

"In London, sir," I answered.

And then, to divert him, I asked if he had seen my handkerchief.

He began to look for it, while my lady stood by, regarding us with no

friendly glances.

"Here it is," said I, unearthing it from a pile of music-books. "Thank

you, father, and good-night."

"The riddle is read," said I, as I rejoined my husband. "I knew I had

seen her before."

"Where?" asked Edward.

"At the theatre in London," I answered. "I have seen her twenty times.

It is Becky Marshall the actress,—the one poor Mr. Baxter tried in vain

to rescue. She had a sister younger than herself, both well brought up,

but I never heard of any brother. But if she is not Becky Marshall, I

will eat her."

"I would not like you to do that," said my husband, who is always

taking me up about what he calls my intemperate ejaculations. "She

might not agree with you. But are you sure, Dolly?"

"As sure as I am of you," I answered. "I have often seen her, for my

aunt was a great play-goer, and always took one of us with her. I heard

this woman had left the stage."

"Well, well; we can do nothing now, that I see," said my husband. "To

think, Dolly, that I, of all people, should have brought you into such

associations!"

"You could not help it, seeing you knew nothing of them," I answered.

"But where did your father meet these people?"

"At Bristol, whither he went to drink the waters of St. Vincent's well.

There he was taken very ill; and Kirton cured him, or so he thought. He

has known the brother for a year, but it is only a few weeks since he

met the sister. I saw Gifford was full of stories about her, but, with

all his good qualities, he is a bit of a scandal-monger, and I gave him

no encouragement. But come, Dolly, let us take our reading and prayers,

and go to rest. To-morrow is a new day, and may bring better counsel. I

shall try to prevail on my father to go back to the first plan, and let

us have the timbered house. If not, we must see what else we can do,

for I will not have you living with this woman."

The next day was Saturday. Janey had not failed to remark on the fact

that we had arrived on a Friday, as boding ill luck. My father-in

law was evidently in a worse humor than the night before; and as to

my lady, she hardly troubled herself to be civil. We did not meet

till dinner-time, when Mr. Studley grumbled over the pie, and scolded

because the beef was overroasted, saying he had not put a decent morsel

into his mouth since the new cook had come. My lady promised to see to

the cooking herself, and seemed trying to conciliate her husband, while

she was any thing but polite to Edward or me.

"And you, child, I suppose you don't know the neck of a goose from the

rump," said my father-in-law, turning to me.

"Of course not," said his wife. "Fine London ladies don't study

cooking."

"But I am not a fine London lady, madam; and, as it happens, I am a bit

of a cook," said I, willing for my husband's sake to conciliate her.

"My mother and my aunt both thought the government of a household a

very important part of a young lady's education."

"And they were right," said my father-in-law, with an oath. "What

matters it what else a woman knows if she can't make her husband

comfortable?"

Nobody made any answer to this question, and the meal went on. After

dinner, Mr. Studley announced his intention of riding to look at some

outlying land.

"I will ride with you if you will permit me, sir," said Edward.

"What! And leave your bride alone a whole afternoon. You are not weary

of her already, are you?"

"Hardly, sir," answered Edward, smiling; "and I do not mean she should

weary of me, as I fear she would if I were tied to her apron-string."

"Humph! Well, then, if you are suffering for exercise, I wish you would

go over and see Master Atkins. Tell him I will let him have the two

heifers at his own price, if he will come for them. The land hath more

stock than it can carry. Tell Tom to put the side-saddle on the black

mare, and carry your wife with you."

It was evidently an excuse for putting off, or getting rid of, a

private interview. My husband looked disappointed, but made the best of

the matter.

"Would you like to go, Dolly?" he asked. "It is a pleasant ride; and

the old folk are friends of mine, and will be glad to see you."

I professed my willingness, and we were soon on our way. The day was

lovely, with a fresh breeze blowing, and sending the white-caps into

the little bay, and the larks were singing over head. I should have

enjoyed the ride beyond any thing, only that my husband was so sad and

distraught.

"Eh,—what?" said he, after I had spoken to him twice without getting

any reply. "I beg your pardon, Dolly. I am very bad company, I know,

but I am so troubled and perplexed I know not what to do, nor which way

to turn."

"And therefore you cannot turn any way," I answered. "You must just

wait till the fog lifts, and shows you your road."

"And meantime the boat may drift on the breakers, or the traveller be

mired in the bog," said he.

"Not if the boat be anchored, and the traveller sit still," I answered.

"Where is your faith, Edward? Have you not taught me that God is our

Father, and that he will make all things work together for good to them

that love him? Can we not trust ourselves in his hands?"

"You are right, and I am wrong, my dear," said my husband. "I fear I am

very faithless."

"No, you are not faithless any more than Abraham was," I answered. "You

are failing in your strong point just as he did. Don't you know that

fortresses are almost always taken on their strong side? Only don't

make Abraham's mistake by taking matters into your own hands. You know

the trouble he prepared for himself by that step,—because he could not

wait for God to bestow the blessing he had promised."

"I don't know that I ever thought of it in just that way, but I believe

you are right," said Edward. "You have read your Old Testament to

purpose, Dolly."

"It is one of the few things I have to thank my old mistress for," I

answered. "She made me read it from end to end every year. Is this the

farm where we are to stop?"

"Yes. They will make you very welcome, Dolly, and they are good people

too."

We found the dame busy with her knitting in the sunny porch of the old

timbered house, and received such a hearty welcome that we were almost

overwhelmed with it. A rosy-faced old man took our horses, and an

equally rosy-faced lad was sent to find Master Atkins; while the dame

conducted us into her clean, wide kitchen, where a little wood fire

still smouldered on the hearth. Here we must eat and drink the first

minute, of course; and we were ensconced in two arm-chairs, while the

dame and her pretty, comely daughter-in-law bustled about,—covering one

end of the great table with a snowy, homespun cloth, and bringing out

clotted cream and cheese-cakes and spice-bread, and I know not what

else. Edward asked after her son.

"Oh, he is away to the Levant! He must take to the sea, like his

grandfather and father before him," answered the dame, smiling and

sighing at once. "He has got the salt drop in mun's blood, like every

Lee and Atkins as never was born, I think. And Will, he's away to

America, and has taken his wife with him to visit her kindred: so

Patience and me, we be left alone as it were. But have you heard,

Master Ned, that my husband's cousin, Ezechel Atkins, at Applecoombe,

wants to sell out and go to America?"

"I have heard no news at all, dame, since I came home only yesterday.

But why does Ezechel sell? I thought he had one of the nicest places in

all North Devon."

"So he has, so he has. But you know his brother is in New England

already, and 'Zechel hath a great family,—twelve lads, no less, and

four maidens; and 'Zechel thinks there will be more room for his lads

over there."

"And he is right, Master Ned," said the master of the house, entering

in time to hear his wife's last words. "Welcome home, sir, and much joy

befall you and your bride."

Master Atkins was a tall, spare man, with black curly hair a good

deal grizzled, and splendid white teeth. He was very polite and even

polished in his way. I learned afterward that he had been an officer in

the navy, but had retired and taken to farming.

"And so you think your cousin 'Zechel is making a wise move," said my

husband, as we sat down to the table.

"I do, sir; though if it were my case, I should go not to New England,

but to New Jersey, where land is quite as good and the climate not so

severe. But 'Zechel's brother is settled in New England, and doing

well, and doubtless that is a strong reason for their choice."

"I have a friend in New Jersey. Is that very far from where your cousin

is going?" said I. "I would like to send her a little parcel."

Master Lee smiled. "There is almost, if not quite, the length of

England between the two places," said he. "Folk hereabout do not

understand the size of things over there. But I make no doubt my cousin

will take your parcel, madam. He may easily find a chance to send it,

for there is a great deal of trade going on."

"But what will 'Zechel Atkins do with his farm?" asked my husband. "His

lease must have a long time to run yet."

"Sixty years," answered our host. "'Zechel would gladly sell stock and

fixtures, and the most of his furniture, if he could get his price."

"And that is—"

"Two hundred and fifty pounds, but I doubt not he would take two

hundred, if he had the money in hand. The farm is well stocked, and

hath the finest orchard in the country."

The talk then drifted away to other matters. I observed the beauty of

the china bowl which held the clotted cream, and of some other pieces;

and the dame must needs show me her china closet, which would have made

many a fine lady wild with envy. I particularly admired a little black

and gold coffee-pot, and nothing would do but she must bestow it on me

for a wedding gift, as she said, as well as a lace kerchief which she

told me she had made herself when a maid at school. Then we must go out

and see the garden, the poultry yard, and the noble orchard: so it was

on toward sunset before we got away.

We found supper ready when we arrived at the Hall. My father-in-law was

evidently in a worse humor than in the morning, and received Edward's

report of his errand with only a "humph." The parson was at the table,

as usual, but there was no pretence of grace said. Madam sat at the

head of the table, dressed out in all her finery; and, as we took our

places, she shot a glance at us wherein I read triumphant malice. She

had evidently been using her time well.

Mr. Studley drank plenty of strong ale with his supper, and called for

wine afterward. My husband took one or two glasses, and then declined

more. His father called him a white-livered milksop, and turned to the

parson,—

"You are a man, at any rate, Rowson. You are not afraid of your brains,

like my sanctimonious son. We will finish the bottle and another before

we part."

"Not to-night, sir," answered Mr. Rowson. "To-morrow is Sacrament

Sunday, and I must not drink deep to-night, lest I get the bishop down

on me again."

My father-in-law cursed the Sacrament, using terms which made my

blood run cold. In all my life I had never heard such blasphemy.

Involuntarily I laid my hand on his arm.

"Dear sir, don't speak so," said I. "Think of what you are speaking,—of

the Holy Communion."

He shook off my hand, and stared at me with a look of fury.

"What, you, you!" he stammered. "Has he made a sanctified humbug of you

already?"

"I told you, you would have enough of my lady's airs," remarked his

wife with a sneer. "Fine doings, indeed! A young woman rebuking her

father-in-law at his own table."

"And you, sir, you have put this chit up to beard me, have you?" roared

Mr. Studley, turning to his son.

"Do not be so angry, Mr. Studley," interposed Dr. Kirton, in his

smooth, oily tones. He had a habit of putting his head on one side when

he spoke, which would have set me against him if nothing else did. "I

am sure Mr. Edward will make his wife beg your pardon."

"I pray you, Dr. Kirton, not to interfere between my father and

myself," said my husband, speaking quite calmly, though I saw by his

paleness how much he was moved. "I see nothing in my wife's words for

which she need to ask pardon."

"Of course not," said Mrs. Studley tauntingly. "She has a right to

insult your father at his own table, and to call his wife an actress

and I know not what else.—Oh, yes, you may stare, madam, but I can tell

you stone walls have ears. A pretty way, to be sure!"

With that Mr. Studley exploded in a new fury. In all my life I never

saw any thing like it. There was no opprobrious epithet which he did

not heap upon his son, and I think no demon from the lower regions

could have beat him in the blasphemous language with which he assailed

religion in all its forms. I looked at the parson, expecting him to

show some displeasure, but though he looked annoyed, as a man might

at an interruption to his pleasure, he never moved. Dr. Kirton put

in a word now and then, artfully calculated to increase his patron's

anger, while his sister made no attempt to conceal her satisfaction. As

for Edward, he never said one word, till his father applied to me an

epithet too vile to be recorded here. Then he rose from the table with

flashing eyes.

"Come, Dolly, this is no place for you," was all he said.

I rose and put my hand through his arm.

"Ay, go, and never let me see thy craven face again!" roared the old

man. "Begone from my house! I have tried in vain to make a man of thee.

Begone, and beg or starve, as pleases thee best, and take thy father's

curse with thee."

"Curses are like young chickens: they always come home to roost," said

Edward solemnly. "Heaven grant that it may not be so with yours, sir!—

Come, my wife."

My lady gave an insolent laugh as we left the dining-room. It soon

appeared that the old man was in earnest. We had been in our room but a

few minutes when Mr. Rowson came to the door.

"You had best be gone, Ned," said he. "The old man grows worse and

worse, and vows you shall not stay in the house to-night; and that

witch pushes him on. I have ordered your horses to the door, and Andrew

will attend you."

"But where to go?" said my husband. "We cannot spend the night on the

moor. Cannot you take us in?"

The parson looked perplexed. "I would," said he, "but my house is no

place for a lady; and beside—Well, the truth is, Ned, I owe your father

money, and I can't afford to displease him."

"We will not trouble you," said my husband. "The man who will not stand

up for his Lord and Master will hardly do much for his friend."

"Nay, but do hear reason," said the poor parson, in a strait between

his kindness and his cowardice. "Let us think a moment."

"Why should we not go to Master Atkins, where we were this afternoon?"

said I. "Surely those good people will take us in over Sunday."

"A good thought," said my husband, "if the ride will not be too much

for you."

"Nay, 'tis only six miles," said the parson. "She deserves some trouble

for blowing up all this storm. Why could she not hold her tongue? But

women must always be meddling."

"I will hear not one word against my wife," returned my husband

sternly. "She did but what any Christian should,—what you yourself

should have done, and not have left your Master's defence to a girl."

"What use in talking to an angry man?" said the parson, coloring.

"But I bear no malice. Here comes Andrew for your mails. Go down the

back way, and I will try to keep the old man engaged." So saying, he

disappeared.

"And that man," began my husband.

But I begged him to be quiet and let us get away. In truth, I was

terribly scared, and wanted nothing so much as to be out of the house.

We were not to escape scot free, however. The poor old man followed us

to the door, and dismissed us with a volley of execrations, ¹ swearing

by all that was holy we should never see a penny of his money.

¹ This is no fiction. Mr. Studley is a real historical personage, and

was turned out of his father's house in just the same way, for the same

cause.

"I value not your oath, sir, since you swear by what you yourself do

not believe in," said Edward, turning as we were about leaving the

courtyard. "It grieves me to part from you in anger. I have borne much

from you in times past. I entreat you to remember that deny God's word

as you may, it is not the less true. And that, so surely as you live,

you must one day stand before him, to give account of deeds done in

the body. I call you yourself to witness that I have been to you a

submissive and dutiful son, and I am willing to be so again, so soon as

you shall see fit to recall me.—Come, Dolly."

As we rode out of the courtyard, we heard the old man's wrath exploding

in execrations. And I caught sight of the woman laying her hand on his

arm, as though scared at the storm she had herself provoked. I never

saw her in life again, but once.

"We must ride fast, my love," said my husband. "It is growing late."

This was all he said during our ride, except a word of warning or

encouragement now and then. Fortunately, it was a fine evening, and a

half-moon gave us plenty of light. How glad I was that we had taken no

luggage with us but our pillion mails, and one small mail that Andrew

could carry easily behind him!

It was near ten o'clock when we reached the farm, but there was a light

in the kitchen, and Master Atkins was standing in the porch, smoking

his pipe. He uttered an exclamation of wonder on seeing us again, as

well he might, and hastened to take me down from my horse.

"Will you take us in for the night, my friend?" asked my husband. "I

have literally no shelter for my head or that of my poor young wife."

"Take you in! Ay, that I will, and more than welcome," answered Master

Atkins. "What, the old gentleman is in his tantrums again!" Then, as

Edward nodded, "Come in, come in.—Come, madam.—Janey, here is Master

Edward and his lady come to stay all night with us."

I cannot think without grateful tears, even now, of the warmth and

delicacy with which these excellent people welcomed us. The fire was

blown up, and a couple of rosy maids sent in half a dozen different

ways; while the dame herself would wait on me, take off my riding gear,

and smooth my hair. I was worn out with fatigue and excitement, and the

dame's motherly care was too much for my self-control: I burst into a

flood of tears, and sobbed so convulsively that my husband was alarmed.

"There, don't 'e mind, don't 'e mind," said the dame soothingly. "She

will be all the better, poor lamb.—Bring some wine, Patience.—There,

drink this, my pretty. Hush, hush, nothing shall harm thee. There, see,

thou art better already."

"I am very silly," said I, making a great effort to control myself,

"but I am not used to riding so far, and I am so tired."

"Yes, indeed, poor tender soul! Bed is the best place for thee, and it

is all ready. Come now, let me undress thee, and don't grieve too much.

All will be well."

With the greatest kindness she helped me to undress, and as soon as I

was in bed, brought me a warm drink to keep me from taking cold. All

this time, neither she nor her husband had asked a single question. As

she bade me good-night, I held her hand for a moment.

"You must not think, dame, that my husband has done any thing wrong."

"I know, I know," she answered. "Bless you, my dear, every one knows

the old squire! Master Edward has been the wonder of the country for

his patience and dutifulness to the old man. There, sleep, my tender,

and all will be well."

The next morning I was waked early by the singing of the birds, the

crowing of the cocks, and other farmyard noises. I could hear sounds of

movement below, but all quiet and subdued. I was bewildered at first,

and could hardly tell where I was. The room was far more comfortable, I

must say, than that we had occupied at Studley Hall. The bed-linen was

snowy white, and smelled of lavender. The curtains and counterpane were

of India chintz, and a fine Turkish rug lay before the bed,—odd things,

I thought, to find in a farmhouse in North Devon. But I remembered

that the master of the house had been a seafaring man, which probably

accounted for all these luxuries. While I was studying the patterns on

the hangings, I fell asleep, and did not wake till my husband called me.

"Are you rested, Dolly? Do you feel like going to church? It is not a

long walk."

"I should like to go, of all things," I answered, "but, Edward, how can

you endure to see that man in the desk, and breaking the consecrated

bread?"

"What, Rowson? Oh, we are not in his parish!" answered Edward. "And if

we were, you know, love, the unworthiness of the priest hindereth not

the efficacy of the sacraments. But this is quite a different person,

as you will see. I think we shall both be better for the worship, and

we will try to put aside all our cares till to-morrow. 'This is the day

the Lord hath made; we will rejoice and be glad in it.'"

We broke our fast, and then walked with our host and his family to the

little church, the tower of which I had seen from my window. It was

very small and very old, built of the moor-stone, and almost shrouded

in great leaved ivy, but there was a beautiful carved oak chancel

screen, almost black with age, and I saw with pleasure how fair and

white were the altar-linen and the surplice. The vicar was an old man,

of almost rustical plainness of speech and manner, but he gave us an

excellent, practical discourse, suitable to the day, and administered

the communion with great reverence and decency. I was rather surprised

to see how many communicants there were in proportion to the size of

the parish, and remarked upon the matter to Master Atkins as we were

walking homeward.

"Yes, our parson has done a great deal for the parish," he answered.

"'Twas but a godless place when he came here, for the last incumbent

was much such another as him over yonder at Studley, only worse. But

we got rid of him at last. Mr. Dean is a Devon man born and bred, and

knows how to deal with the people. The worst man in the parish will

pull off his hat to him, and I have known him to go single-handed and

unarmed into a den of deer-stealers and broken men, break up their

assembly, and persuade them from some lawless deed, by the sheer force

of his presence and speech. I would the old squire had him to deal

with. He would find it a different matter, I trow."

"I hope so," I answered. "I was disgusted to see Mr. Rowson sit by and

say not a word, while every thing that he ought to have held sacred was

blasphemed and profaned."

"Ay, that is Mr. Rowson all over. But he hath been a free liver, and I

fancy the old squire hath some hold over him. 'The borrower is servant

to the lender,' you know, madam."

"Well, I do wonder how my husband ever lived with his father so long,"

I said, rather incautiously, perhaps.

"And so do many more, madam, but in spite of his pretending to despise

his son, the old gentleman has always greatly depended on Master Ned in

business matters. Only for that I believe your husband would have made

himself independent long ago. I fear the poor old man hath got into bad

hands enough, and that Master Ned will suffer by it."

We went to evening service, and heard the school-children catechized.

And I was much pleased by the way in which Mr. Dean explained the

Commandments, not descending to any trivialities, but making his matter

so plain that the youngest child could carry away something thereof.

Master Atkins told us the rector took great interest in the school,

which had an excellent woman for a dame, and that even the Dissenters

in the parish sent their children to her.

I thought within myself that I would make a little treat for the

children, and then remembered, with a pang, that I was not likely to

have money for any such purpose. However, I reflected that I had among

my things a great roll of silk pieces which I had collected for my

patchwork, and I could at least make some work-bags and needle-books

for the little maidens. I suppose it was childish in me, but somehow

this little plan for giving pleasure to others seemed to lighten up my

spirits amazingly.

The next morning, my husband called me into our bedroom from the dairy,

where I was diligently learning the true Devon way of making a junket.

"I am sorry to interrupt the process of your education, Dolly, but we

must needs consider our ways and means. What are we to do to live?"

"I suppose there is no use in expecting any thing from your father,"

said I.

"No use at all, while he is in such hands. I have never been a favorite

with him, but I did think he would have kept his promise when he agreed

to give me a house and an income of mine own. I never would have

brought you hither else."

"Then I am glad you were mistaken," I answered, "for I would not be

anywhere else for the world."

"Truly?" asked my husband, with a bright look.

"Truly," I answered. "I can frankly say, Ned, that I would rather live

in a cob hut with you, than in a palace with any one else."

Here occurred an interruption to the discourse which I need not set

down. But how glad I was that I could in all honesty say as much!

"But we must think what we are going to do," continued my husband. "If

we had only any capital to start with, I would take 'Zechel Atkins's

farm off his hands. I have no fear but I could manage it, and make

eventually a good thing of it, though it would mean hard fare for a few

years, and harder work than these tender little hands are used to."

"Never mind the tender little hands," said I. "They have more strength

than you think for, and what I don't know, I can learn."

"But Master 'Zechel wants his money down that he may have something

more to start on," continued my husband. "And beside that, I would

not at any rate like to begin with a millstone of debt round my neck,

nor can I well apply to your uncle. He hath done a good deal for us;

and beside that, I know that he has lost enough of late seriously to

embarrass him. Have you any money, Dolly?"

"I have ten pounds," said I.

"And I have twenty. So we have at least thirty pounds between us and

starvation."

At this moment a thought struck me which made me jump up in a hurry. My

husband looked on with surprise as I brought out my trinket-box from

my mail, and began turning over its contents. At last I found what I

wanted. It was the little golden egg which my poor cousin, Sir Charles,

had given me on his death-bed.

"What is it?" said Ned, as I put it into his hands.

I told him its history.

"And you have never opened it," said he, turning it over. "Who shall

say that women have no curiosity?"

"Nobody need say so about me, because I have a great deal," said I;

"so much that I want you to open my egg directly that I may see what

is in it. I don't think it will be any infraction of my promise to

open it now, for surely we are in a strait, if people ever were. Only,

don't break the locket if you can help. Who knows but it may be like

the golden egg, which the fairy gave to the wandering princess in

the story, and contain a talisman which shall help us out of all our

troubles?"

"There is no need of breaking the locket," said my husband, examining

it with attention. "I see how it opens."

He pressed the spring as he spoke. The egg parted in the middle, and

out dropped two little parcels, carefully wrapped in silver paper, and

a small, folded note.

"What have we here?" said my husband.

We each opened one of the little parcels, and were fairly dazzled by

the splendor of the jewels they contained.

"Lady Jem's diamond ear-rings!" I exclaimed. "The very same that are in

her portrait by Lely. My mistress always wondered what had become of

them. I little thought I had them in my possession all the time."

"But what is this?" said my husband, opening the folded paper. It was

a note in Sir Charles's handwriting, saying that he gave the enclosed

jewels, which were his own private property, to his dear cousin, Mrs.

Dorothy Corbet, to be kept by her till after her marriage, and then

either worn or used by her in any way she should think proper. The note

was signed by Sir Charles, and attested by the names of Dr. Clarke his

physician, and Richards his confidential servant.

"That was very thoughtful of your cousin," said Ned. "Do you know these

witnesses?"

"Oh, yes! Dr. Clarke is court physician, and always attended my

mistress; and after his master's death, Richards married, and has a

shop for gloves and perfumes in Westminster Hall. I carried my aunt

thither, and she bought a great deal of him. But how much, think you,

the jewels are worth, Ned?"

"More than fifty pounds apiece, if I am any judge of such matters,"

answered my husband. "My good friend, Master Gifford of Biddeford,

will, however, have a juster notion of them, having handled many such

matters in his day. We will go thither to-morrow, and stop on our way

home that you may see Applecoombe for yourself; that is, if you are

minded to sacrifice your splendid ear-rings."

"It will be no great sacrifice," I answered. "I never had any fondness

for trinkets; and I am sure these will do me more good put into a home,

than dangling from my ears, specially out here in North Devon. Only I

will keep the locket, if you please, in memory of my kind cousin."

"But, Dolly, have you thought what all this means for you?" asked my

husband. "Do you understand that it means hard work and plain fare and

the rank of a farmer's dame? What would your aunt say?"

"I shall not ask her," said I. "What is the use of being a married

woman, if I can't have mine own way?"

"You shall have your way and mine too, if you like," said Edward. "Then

it is settled that we are to carry these jewels to market, and exchange

them for kine and sheep and such vulgar matters."

"Even so," I answered.

"Then we will ride to Biddeford to-morrow, if you are well rested. But

take care of the note, Dolly. It may save trouble some day."

Our conference was interrupted by a call to dinner; for these good folk

kept to their primitive hours, and dined before eleven of the clock.

The good dame treated us to all sorts of country dainties, for she

was and is a famous cook. I saw with pleasure the devout way in which

Master Atkins said grace, not mumbling it over like a charm against

rats, as my poor uncle used to do. The meal was a very pleasant one.

Master Atkins, being skilfully led on by my husband, told us some

very nice tales of his travels and adventures, and of the strange

superstitions of sailors, particularly of the ghostly bark called the

"Flying Dutchman," which never appears but in a storm, and is doomed,

for the wickedness of its captain and crew, to wander forever, without

ever making a port.

"You speak rather as if you believed in this unlucky Dutchman," said my

husband.

"I would not say absolutely that I do not," answered Master Atkins

seriously. ¹ "We old sailors see many strange things. I could tell you

of a great creature with a body like a snow wreath, fully two fathoms

in length, and with a dozen snaky arms, each big enough to pull down

a big fishing boat, twisting and writhing like serpents, and great

staring eyes,—a horrible sight it was, I can tell you. I never wish to

see it again, I am sure of that." ²

¹ One of the most intelligent sailors I ever met, a Christian man and

fairly educated, fully believed in the "Flying Dutchman."

² The great white squid, seen once in a generation by the whalers, but

never yet described by naturalists. It is considered as of evil omen.

"Hush, Willy," said his wife reprovingly. "You should not tell the

young lady of such frightful creatures."

"Oh, I am not easily scared!" I said.

But the dame shook her head at her husband so meaningly that he began

to talk of pleasanter things, of the beautiful birds of South America,

and the great fireflies, infinitely brighter than our glow-worms, and

by which one can see to read even.

"When I hear Will Atkins's stories, it revives my old longing for the

sea," said my husband. "If worst comes to worst, Dolly, I can leave you

with our good friends here, and ship on a Bristol trader."

"And then I will don men's attire, and follow you, like the lady in the

ballad," said I. "But with such tastes, and such a home, I wonder you

never ran away to sea as a boy."

"I could not leave my mother while she lived," answered Edward. "I was

her only comfort, and I promised her I would stay by my father as long

as it was possible. Otherwise, I would have sailed with my poor uncle,

and perhaps have shared his fate."

"Why, what happened to him?" I asked.

"His vessel was taken by Barbary corsairs, and the whole crew killed,

or driven into slavery. One object of my journey to the East was to try

to hear some news of my uncle, but I believe, from all I can learn,

that he was killed in defence of his vessel. Better so than a lifetime

of Turkish slavery."

"Maybe he will turn up sometime, with a shipload of gold, as one reads

of in story-books," said I; "or perhaps he is a Turk, with a long

beard, smoking a great curly pipe, like the grand Turk in Mr. Chardin's

travels, and with as many wives as the stars in the skies. Who knows

but you might have done the same if you had gone with him?"

Edward is so sober that I do like to stir him up sometimes, just as I

used to poke up my mistress's great Indian cat and make him play in

spite of his grave airs. Tom Atkins has promised to bring me a pair of

these same cats next time he goes to Bombay. I hope he will get them

home safely. I do love a nice cat.

The next day we rode to Biddeford and visited Master Gifford, who made

us very welcome, and confirmed Edward's opinion of the worth of the

jewels.

"But I would you had them in Bristol," said he. "There is a very

worthy man, a correspondent of mine own, who deals in these matters,

and who has, I know, a commission at present to purchase a number of

fine diamonds. I am going thither to-morrow. Suppose you both go with

me. The sea will be like a mill-pond, but, if madam is afraid of the

voyage, my wife and daughters will make her most welcome while we are

away."

Madam Gifford and her pretty daughters warmly seconded the invitation,

but my husband leaving the matter to me, I decided to go with him. I

was not at all afraid of the sea, and I always did like to see new

places.

We had a very nice voyage, though the sea was not exactly like a

mill-pond. I was surprised to see Bristol such a great and busy city.

And wondered, like all strangers, at the steep and narrow streets, too

narrow for any thing but a dog-cart.

Master Gifford took us to a very nice inn. And, after we had eaten and

rested, he led us to his correspondent the jeweller.

We found him in his shop,—a tall, nice looking man, with very black

crispy hair, and pale blue eyes, which, despite their want of color,

had a singularly penetrating look. I liked him the moment I saw him.

When he learned the nature of our business, he led us into his private

room, and bade us be seated. My husband stated his errand, and produced

the jewels, which Master Davidson examined with great attention.

"How much do you conceive these stones to be worth?" said he at last.

"If they are genuine, they should be worth fifty pounds apiece at

least," answered my husband.

Mr. Davidson smiled. There was a look of mild amusement in his eyes

which made my heart sink fathoms deep, for I thought at once that he

believed the jewels were counterfeit.

"I should say you were no great judge of such matters," said Mr.

Davidson, smiling again.

I saw my husband's face change, and knew his thought was the same as

my own. I felt downright sick with suspense. Mr. Davidson looked at

the jewels once more, and laid them carefully down on a piece of black

velvet, where they shone like stars.

"I will give you a hundred pounds apiece for these diamonds," said he

deliberately. "I say not that they are not worth more, but you know I

must make my profit on them."

"That is no more than right," said my husband; while I felt like crying

and laughing both at once. "Then you think there is no doubt of the

stones?"

"I can tell a genuine stone from the best imitation ever made," said

the merchant somewhat scornfully. "Nay, put me in a dark room, and I

can tell the difference by the feeling."

"How?" I asked.

"That I cannot explain to you, madam. 'Tis faculty that comes by use,

and also by inheritance. My family have dealt in precious stones for

many generations. These stones are not only of good size, but of very

uncommonly fine lustre."

It seemed like a dream, too good to be true, when I saw the two hundred

pounds counted out, and realized the fact that my poor cousin's gift

had made my husband and myself independent.

Mr. Davidson would treat us to coffee and to some wonderful foreign

sweetmeats, the like whereof I never saw,—rose-leaves and violets

preserved in clear syrup,—and a kind of marmalade made of figs, as he

told us, which came from Constantinople. He would present me with a box

of the marmalade when we came away, and also with a beautiful little

china coffee-cup in a silver stand which I had greatly admired.

"Well," said Master Gifford, when we had returned to the inn, "did I

not keep my word, and bring you to an honest merchant?"

"Yes, indeed, and we are greatly obliged to you," said my husband.

"'Tis nothing," answered Master Gifford hastily. "I would do much more

than that for your mother's son. But, Ned, if you take my advice, you

will bestow this treasure in a safe place till we leave town. My good

friend, Master Birch, will take care of it in his strong-room."

My husband agreed, and we went forth to find the place. Master Birch

was a sugar-refiner, with whom my husband had some slight acquaintance;

and nothing would do but he must show us his furnaces, and treat us to

Bristol milk ¹ (which is not milk for babes, by any means) and other

dainties. I wonder, by the way, if this fashion of always giving wine

or strong drink to visitors will ever go out. I am sure it will be a

good thing if it does. Learning that I was lately married, Master Birch

presented me with three loaves of very fine sugar, for luck, as he

said, promising to send them to the inn.

¹ A kind of very rich punch, for which the Bristol sugar-refiners used

to be famous.

Having thus prosperously disposed of our business, we went out to see

the town, and to make some purchases which I had undertaken for Master

Gifford's daughters. We were in a book-shop selecting music for the

young ladies, when I heard a well-known voice at my elbow asking for

Luther's Commentary on Galatians. It brought back to me at once my

old life with my mistress. I turned with a start and saw Mr. Baxter,

looking older and more worn than I had seen him, but as faultlessly

neat and precise as ever. I don't believe even in prison his black coat

ever had a speck on it.

I greeted him warmly, but he did not recognize me for a moment, till

I told him who I was, when he answered me with all his old fatherly

kindness.

"But you are so grown and improved, Mrs. Dolly, 'tis no wonder I did

not know you," said he. "I have often wished to hear how you got on in

your new relations. But I need not ask if you are happy, since your

face tells its own story."

"Yes, indeed I am," I answered, "far happier than I ever hoped or

deserved." And I presented to him my husband.

The stationer, seeing that we had met as old friends, kindly asked us

into his private shop, and gave us seats.

"And so you are married, little Dolly," said Mr. Baxter. "It seems but

a few days since you came, a shy, scared little girl of fifteen, to my

Lady Corbet's service."

"I remember it well," I answered, "and how kindly you spoke to me when

you found me crying in the ante-chamber."

"Ay, 'twas a hard place for a child," said Mr. Baxter musingly. "I have

sometimes feared your mistress's peculiarities might set you against

all religion."

"They did something toward it, I do believe," I answered, "not

because she was a Presbyterian, however. I saw enough in Mr. and Mrs.

Pendergast, and Mrs. Andrews, not to say yourself, Mr. Baxter, to cure

me of any such notion as that, if I had ever taken it up. It was, that,

while I heard my mistress make great professions of piety, I saw that

her whole heart and affections were set on things of this world; and

it does not seem to me possible for any one to do that and be a true

Christian, whether the world take the form of money or fashion or

pleasure."

"You are right, my child, and glad am I to hear such sentiments

from your lips," answered Mr. Baxter, "but you were ever a gracious

child.—This little wife of yours, Mr. Studley, sent her very last

guinea, I do believe, for the relief of a poor prisoner, when her

wealthy mistress gave—How much, Dolly?"

"Seven shillings," said I. "I can never think of Dr. Bates's face

without laughing. How is the good gentleman, sir?"

"Why, well and prospering as ever."

"And my mistress: do you know aught of her and her husband? For I hear

she is married again." How glad I was to be able to ask this question

without a tremor!

"Oh, yes! I heard of her only this day from an old friend of yours and

hers,—Mrs. Williams," said Mr. Baxter, with a look of disgust on his

thin, refined face which nearly set me off laughing.

"Mrs. Williams!" I exclaimed joyfully. "Is she here, then? Where is she

to be found?"

"She is not far off, seeing she lodges above stairs with Master

Bridges, the stationer, and his sister," answered Mr. Baxter, smiling,

"but you cannot see her now, because she has just gone out. She can

tell you of your late mistress better than I can. She is an admirable

woman, though she is infected with some of the heresies of the day, and

no more accessible to argument than a post."

I smiled, remembering some of the ancient controversies of these two

good people, and how I used to wonder what they were about.

"And what is the news in town?" asked my husband.

Mr. Baxter shook his head.

"Nothing good, sir. The Papists rear their heads more and more boldly.

Popish books and trinkets are openly sold in the shops, as you see

they are here also, and conversions are growing to be the mode in the

fashionable world. Mr. Dryden, the poet, hath been received into the

Romish Church, as hath also my Lord Sunderland."

"I don't so much wonder at Sunderland," observed my husband. "He would

sell his own soul or any one else for court favor. What part does his

lady take?"

"I hear that excellent lady is greatly grieved and distressed,"

answered Mr. Baxter. "She is, by all accounts, an admirable woman."

"She is, indeed," said I. "I have often met her at my aunt's; they are

great friends. And you say many converts are being made?"

"Yes, it is the latest mode," answered Mr. Baxter dryly, "but there

is no knowing how long it may last, for the king grows more and more

unpopular every day, and there are ominous murmurs. I believe strange

events are preparing for this nation."

"I have heard that his Majesty is inclined to show great favor to the

Dissenters, and hath even promised them toleration," said my husband.

"Yes, and at what price, and for what purpose? That he may secure not

only toleration, but domination, for his own sect. For the sake of

that, he would indulge not only Presbyterians, but Anabaptists and

Quakers and ranters of every sort," said Mr. Baxter. "We will accept

of no such gift, if I know my brethren at all. But I must be going.

My dearest Dolly, I am most happy to have met you again. You have a

treasure in this child, Master Studley; I hope you will cherish her

as she deserves. And, my children, I trust you mean to set up your

household in the fear of God, and as those who must give account to

him."

"I trust so, sir," answered Edward.

"It was my husband who first taught me to love God, Mr. Baxter," I

said. "It was he who led the poor, tired little lamb, weary of the

thorns and briars of the world, back to the fold of the Good Shepherd."

"Why, that is well, and right glad am I to hear you say so," said Mr.

Baxter. He gave us his blessing, and went away just as Mrs. Williams

came in.

I never was more glad to see any one in my life. We carried her to our

inn, and would have her sup with us.

And my husband going out with Master Gifford, she gave me the whole

story of her lady's marriage.

"And you have really left her?" said I.

"Ay, she turned me away," answered Mrs. Williams, with a tremor of the

lip. "After all my years of hard and faithful service, she drove me

from her because I spoke my mind concerning her intended marriage. But

I could not do otherwise, so I must needs take the consequences."

"What possessed her?" said I.

"Who can tell? The spirit which sometimes does possess old women to

make fools of themselves," answered Mrs. Williams, with more bitterness

than ever I heard from her. "She is besotted with that wicked man, and

can refuse him nothing."

"Not even money?" I asked incredulously.

"Not even money," answered Mrs. Williams. "She lavishes gold on him

like water; and he takes it, rewards her with a kiss or not, as it

happens, and, unless he be greatly belied, spends it in gambling and

every sort of wickedness."

"Ay, we heard he was a gambler," said I. "Poor woman. She may die in an

almshouse yet, as she was always predicting!"

"Likely enough, for she hath put every thing into his hands, except a

few hundred pounds which Mr. Robertson has in his control, and won't

give up. You ought to see her, with her dark wig and fashionable

dresses, trying to look young. Bah! It makes me sick to think of it.

But tell me all about yourself, my dear. This seems a very fine young

gentleman you have married."

"He is, indeed," said I. "If I thanked God for nothing else, I would do

so for giving him to me, and saving me from that other."

"And so you may, so you may, my dear. But about your fortunes now?"

"Our fortunes are not very flourishing, but yet I trust we may do well

enough," I answered. "Take out your knitting, which I am sure you have

in your pocket, and I will tell you all about it. There, now you look

like yourself," (for the dear woman had pulled out her stocking, I

should say the very same I had last seen in her hands). "Now you shall

hear the whole, from the beginning."

I told it accordingly, with a running commentary of exclamations

from my good old friend. I had hardly done, when she took me up with

eagerness.

"O Mrs. Dorothy, my dear, take me to live with you! I will be worth

ten hired servants to you, and ask for no wages. I have all the money

I shall ever need, but oh, let me but have a home under your roof! You

are very young and new to your duties, but I know all about dairy work,

from the rearing of calves and lambs to the making of cream cheeses."

"Dear Mrs. Williams, I would love nothing better than to have you with

me," said I. "You were my only friend after my mother died; and, had I

but been guided by you, I should have been saved the great trouble of

my life. But you know we shall be very poor. I do not suppose I shall

be able to keep any servant, except perhaps, some little village maid

who will come for her meat and clothes. And you are so accomplished:

you might take a place in any nobleman's household."

"Never mind my accomplishments," said Mrs. Williams almost crossly.

"They will keep, I dare say. I have no desire to go into any more great

households. What I want is a quiet home for my old age, where I can be

quit of the vanities of the world, and yet be of some use in it."

"You are not likely to see much of the vanities of the world in our

household, seeing my husband and I have no more than two hundred and

fifty pounds between us," said I. "Dear Mrs. Williams, nothing would

make me happier than to have you with me, as I said, but you know I

must consult my husband."

"To be sure you must. But Dolly, my dear,—I beg pardon, I should say

Mrs. Studley—"

"No, you shouldn't; you should say Dolly, just as you always did,"

I interrupted. "But what were you going to say? You see I have not

forgotten all my naughty tricks. I know how to interrupt, as you used

to chide me for doing."

"Ay, I remember. I was going to ask you, my dear, whether your husband

knew about Mr. Morley?"

"All about him that I know," I answered. "I told him the whole story."

"And very rightly," said Mrs. Williams, looking relieved. "These untold

stories and concealments are ghosts which have risen to disturb many a

married pair."

Mr. Studley coming in at the moment, I told him of Mrs. Williams's

proposal. He left the matter wholly to me, and I was not long in

accepting the offer. Mrs. Williams has made her home under our roof

ever since, and I believe will never leave it, save for her home in

Paradise.

We returned to Biddeford next day, leaving our treasure in the hands of

Mr. Birch, subject to Mr. Studley's order, which we could do with great

convenience, as Master 'Zechel Atkins meant to embark from Bristol. On

our way home, we stopped at Applecoombe to view the farm.

"What a lovely wood," said I, as we came in sight of the place, "and so

near the house."

"That is the orchard," said my husband. "Applecoombe has always been

famous for its orchard. You see the house is a very old-fashioned one."

It was, indeed, being built of brick and timber, like many of the

old houses in Biddeford. There was a deep porch overgrown with

jessamine and passion-flower, and on either side the door grew

great myrtle trees, taller than my head. There was a very pretty

flower-garden,—rather a rare sight on a farm,—and every thing looked in

excellent trim.

"This seems promising, does it not?" said I.

"Oh, I know the place well!" replied my husband. "I have often been

over the farm with the oldest lad, who was a great playmate of mine."

"And where is he now?" I asked.

"His bones lie out yonder in the Atlantic, like those of many another

friend and playmate of my youth," answered my husband. "But here comes

the dame to welcome us."

And a very warm welcome she gave us, leading us into the house, and

sending for her husband and sons, who were busy abroad. Of course we

had to eat and drink; and then the good woman took us over the house,

while Edward talked with her husband. The house, though old, as I said,

was convenient and pleasant,—facing the west and south, well sheltered

from the wind, and with quite a grove of walnut and sweet chestnut

trees at the back. The upper rooms were a good deal pulled up, for

which the dame apologized, saying she and her daughters had already

begun to pack. I liked the look of the place from the first, and was

glad when my husband told me he had concluded his bargain on very

favorable terms.

We came over again the next day, to decide about the furniture, most

of which we kept, as we had none of our own. And here I found the use

of having Mrs. Williams at my elbow with her advice, for naturally I

knew very little about the matter. I do think she heartily enjoyed

the business of poking the feather-beds and pillows, tapping the

earthenware with her knuckles, to test its soundness, and so on. I

followed after her, looking as wise as I could, and holding my tongue,

so as not to show my ignorance.

A bargain is soon settled when both parties are anxious for it. In

less than a fortnight, Master Atkins and his family had embarked for

America, with all their goods and chattels, and we entered on our new

home. Very forlorn it looked, I must say, on that chilly May morning.

No house looks very cheerful just after a removal. And it seemed to me

that the furniture left behind, and standing about in disorder, and the

litter of odds and ends of no earthly use, and too good to burn up,

made the rooms more dismal than they would otherwise have been.

I did feel terribly down-hearted and discouraged at first, I must say,

but I would not have shown any such feeling for the world. How glad

I was to have Mrs. Williams at my elbow! Mrs. Atkins had lent me a

strong, handy maiden to help me for a day or two. We all went to work

with a will, and a few hours made a great difference in the appearance

of things.

"Oh, it is not bad, by any means!" said Mrs. Williams cheerfully, as we

sat down to rest a moment. "The house is so clean that it will be easy

to get it in order. The kitchen does not look like ours, when we moved

to the court end of the town. Do you remember?"

"Yes, indeed," I answered. "I wonder what Peggy would say to working in

such a place,—all underground, and with the water coming in to flood

the floor at high-tides, and the black beetles running all about the

walls."

"Mussy!" exclaimed Peggy. "And do people live like that in London,

mistress? I thought London town had been all gold and gilding."

"The gold is all on the upper side, my maid," answered Mrs. Williams;

"and most of that is but gilding and base metal."

"My sister liveth in Biddeford with a merchant's lady, and I thought

her kitchen was narrow enough," said Peggy, "but to live under ground,

and with black beetles—mussy to gracious!"

A knock at the door averted from Peggy's head a lecture on profane

swearing, which I saw hovering on Mrs. Williams's lips. She is quite a

Quaker in her notions on those matters.

The visitor proved to be Master Atkins, with a great basket containing

roast fowl, cream cheese, tarts, and I know not what else, for our

dinners. Dame Atkins had insisted on our taking a loaf of bread and a

bottle of wine with us that we need not bring scarceness on our new

home by entering it empty-handed.

I sent him out to find Mr. Studley, who was busy about the barn, and

we had quite a feast ready when the men came in. My husband intended

to keep but one man at the house, and had been looking for someone,

but had not heretofore heard of anybody to suit him. He now entered,

followed by Andrew.

"You see I have found a man," said he. "Andrew is turned adrift as well

as ourselves, and for our sake."

"I don't mind," said the old man, though his lip trembled. "I meant to

have left at the term, anyhow. I can't abide to live under the same

roof with those two. I'm not so young as I was, but I'm strong enough,

and not afraid to do my day's ploughing or harvesting with any lad of

them all."

(Edward told me afterward that he would have preferred a younger man,

but, as Andrew had lost his place on our account, he felt bound to take

him on. It seems my father-in-law was greatly enraged when he learned

next day that Andrew had attended us to the farm, and turned him away

without ceremony, though he had lived in the family all his life).

"But, indeed, he groweth worse and worse," said Andrew, concluding his

tale. "He is like one possessed with the Evil One, drinking, swearing,

and blaspheming from morning till night, and almost from night till

morning, and Kirton egging him on to drink more and more all the time.

'Tis my belief that the poor old gentleman will not stand it long, and

that they are trying to get him out of the way."

"But I should think that he would see for himself that so much drink is

hurtful to him," said I, while Edward went into the outer kitchen to

wash his hands.

Master Atkins shook his head.

"When a man has lived past his threescore and ten without ever denying

or controlling himself, he is not going to begin then," said he.

"And that hath been the way with Mr. Studley. His life hath been one

long self-indulgence in every wish which hath sprung up in his mind,

or which Satan has put there. I would not tell you all the mischief

he hath wrought hereabouts,—far more than his son ever heard of. I

hope these adventurers who have got him in their clutches may not

chouse Master Ned out of his inheritance entirely, but I shall not be

surprised if the old man leaves every thing to them."