servants at the lower end of the board. I could not but wonder what
my aunt would have said to see me. But I had made up my mind from the
first, that if I were to be a farmer's dame, I would "be" one, and not
keep up any fine lady airs.
In a week's time we were comfortably settled in our new home, and I had
made good progress in the arts of the dairy and kitchen. Indeed, I had
taken lessons before of Mistress Atkins. And I shall never forget my
husband's face of surprise when he found me in the barnyard in a red
petticoat and homespun kirtle, milking a long-horned heifer. (I own I
was rather afraid of her, but I did not let her find it out.)
"What would Lady Fullham say?" said he.
"She would say I had got a good mess of milk, I hope," I answered
merrily. "And now you may carry the bucket to the dairy, if you like."
"I would the barns were nearer the house, for your sake," said Edward,
"but I think our North Devon farmers like to get them as far away as
possible. I will make a change in that matter, if we stay long enough."
If it be an inconvenient fashion in one way, it is nice in another, for
one does not have the smells and noises of the farmyard all day long.
But I must say that on rainy and sleety days, I could have wished the
barnyard nearer, and the path that led to it less steep.
I did not have a very easy time that summer. Of course every thing was
new to me. I made mistakes, and should have made more if I had not
had my dear Mrs. Williams to counsel me. She could give little more
than counsel, for she had the ill-fortune to sprain her ankle, and was
confined to her settle and arm-chair for nearly three months. So I had
her to wait on with all the rest. But I could well afford to do it.
My only servant was a younger sister of Peggy's,—a stout, willing girl,
very good-tempered, but not very bright, and with a special genius for
dropping and slopping. More than one pan of milk have I seen her spill
all over the floor, in removing it from the hearth to the shelf, after
the cream had clotted beautifully. I must say my fingers itched to cuff
her ears, but I never did. At last, however, I found the place to get
hold of her. I discovered that she was very anxious to learn to read,
and I promised her a lesson every day that she did her work well.
Her mother was very doubtful, declaring that Molly would be good for
nothing at all if she moiled what little brains she had over books, but
I persevered, and my experiment turned out admirably. Using her mind in
one direction seemed to brighten it in another. And, when Molly knew
that her beloved spelling-lesson depended on the state of her floor and
pails, she took infinite pains with her cleaning. At present, I must
say, she goes rather to the other extreme.
Well, I worked very hard, and was often so discouraged with my own
failures that I was ready to sit down and cry, but I could not but
put the best face upon matters when I saw how hard my poor husband
worked. He felt very sadly, too, about his father. We never saw any of
the family, but the accounts we heard were worse and worse. Strange
as it seemed, Edward did really love his father, and grieved over the
estrangement. He wrote to the old man two or three times, but the
letters were returned torn in two, without having been opened, and with
some abusive message.
At last Mr. Rowson rode over to see us, and counselled my husband to
send no more letters.
"They do but anger him the more, and that woman makes use of them
to set him against you. He is wholly in her hands and those of her
brother, as he calls himself, though between ourselves, I don't believe
he is her brother at all, more than I am."
"How strange that Mr. Studley should be governed by such wretches, to
the prejudice of his own son!" said I.
"It is not strange to me," answered Mr. Rowson. "Mr. Studley was
always that way. He always had somebody who was all perfection, some
favorite servant or boon companion who flattered and governed him. Do
you remember, Ned, how he held on to Wilkins, his steward, long after
every one in the country knew that Wilkins was cheating the eyes out
of his head? I believe people of his disposition, so afraid of being
influenced or advised by those who have the right to do so, are often
served just in this way."
"No doubt you are right," said Edward.
"I know I am," answered Mr. Rowson. "And so, Ned, if you will take my
advice, you will write no more at present. You know me for your friend,
I hope, and I would not advise you save for your good. I may not have
been a very good friend to myself, but I have been a good one to you."
"That you have," answered Edward warmly. "But, Rowson, why should you
not be a good friend to yourself? Why should you not break off these
courses so unbecoming any Christian, much more an ordained priest, and
live as becomes what you profess?"
Mr. Rowson shook his head sadly.
"'Tis too late, I doubt," said he. "Beside, I keep some influence with
the old man by drinking out a bottle with him now and then. We must
fight the Devil with his own weapons."
"'Negatur,' to both propositions," answered my husband. "You do not
keep any influence with my father by sharing in his drinking-bouts.
Will he take one bottle the less because you ask him? Neither are we to
fight the Devil with his own weapons. He understands the use of them
far better than we do. If we would have the advantage, we must attack
him with weapons he does not understand, or dares not touch."
"Maybe so," answered Mr. Rowson. "But I have at least done one thing,
Ned. I had a little money come to me from my old aunt Truesdale's
estate, and I have paid your father all the money I owed him. So I have
that yoke off my neck, at all events. But it went hard," said the poor
man, shaking his head. "I did so want to put it into the church-organ.
Nobody knows what I suffer every Sunday from that horrible instrument."
"When I come to my fortune, you shall have a new one," said my husband.
"Meantime, stay and sup with us; and my wife shall sing for you, and
show you that the milk-pail and the churn have not quite spoiled her
hand for the lute."
Mr. Rowson staid and made himself very agreeable. 'Twas a pity to see a
man of his gifts, who might be so useful, sunk in self-indulgence and
sloth. But I have never seen elegant tastes and accomplishments do any
thing toward keeping man or woman from sin.
Matters went on in this way till the middle of September. The last
month had been to me much easier than those which had gone before.
I had learned to do my work more easily, and took great pride in my
butter and cream cheese, which Mrs. Atkins pronounced equal to her own.
The crops were turning out well, and the cattle doing nicely; and our
apple-orchard, always a fine one, was this year quite wonderful for the
beauty and abundance of the crop.
I had been out to look for some stray hens which had been seduced from
the ways of virtue and domesticity by a pair of vagrant guinea-fowls,
and was coming in with my apron full of early pippins, when I saw Mr.
Rowson at the kitchen door holding his jaded horse by the bridle, and
conferring with my husband. Both the men wore such perturbed faces that
I was sure something had happened, and quickened my steps. As I came
up, Mr. Rowson put out his hand as if to keep me off.
"Don't come near me, child. You need not be in the mess, at all
events," said he.
"What mess?" I asked, wondering, for he was always very polite to me.
"What do you mean?"
"My father and his wife are both very ill with fever," said Edward
huskily. "Everybody has deserted them, and left them to die alone. I
must go to them at once, Dolly. Will you get a few things ready?"
I went up-stairs, got my husband's clothes ready, and then coolly put
on my own riding gear. I had always noticed that if I wanted to do any
thing particularly audacious, and went on and did it without saying any
thing, my husband took it for granted that all was right. So I came
down-stairs with my bundles, as though it had been all settled between
us. Mr. Rowson opened his eyes wide when he saw me.
"What, you!" said he. "Edward, you will not suffer this child to risk
her life in any such way."
My husband looked doubtfully at me, but I did not give him time to
speak.
"Of course I shall go," said I, as quietly as if it had been a question
of going to church. "A woman's help will be needed, and Ned must have
some one to look after his comfort.—Mrs. Williams, am I not right?"
"I think you are, and none of us will die till the time appointed,"
answered Mrs. Williams, bringing her predestination doctrine to my
support. "Mrs. Studley's place is with her husband, and she will not
die any the sooner for doing her duty. I can see to every thing here."
And then she began to tell me how to guard myself and my husband by
taking good food and fresh air and avoiding chills. She really is the
most sensible woman in the world.
It was near sunset when we came to Studley Hall, and I was at once
reminded of my first arrival. At the gate we met Dr. Kirton, booted and
spurred, just mounting his horse.
"You had better not go in. You can do no good," said he. "Your father
will not know you, and they are both as good as dead. You won't get any
thing by going in now."
"Judas," said my husband, with such a burst of passion as I never heard
from him before, "dost thou judge every one by thy vile self? Dost thou
think it is 'that' I am thinking of? Begone."
Kirton cast a venomous glance at Edward, but made no reply. And I was
glad to see him mount his horse and ride off.
We dismounted at the door; and fastening our horses, for there was no
one to take them, we entered the house. All was still and deserted
below, but up-stairs we heard a woman's voice in such accents of horror
and despair as I never imagined, and cannot describe.
"Don't desert me, Jack," it cried. "I did all for you. Don't leave me
to die alone. Oh, for pity's sake, don't leave me!"
We went up-stairs, following the sound. The doors of two adjoining
chambers were open; and from them proceeded an air enough to knock one
down.
Edward went straight through the first room, and flung the casement
wide open. Then he drew back the closed curtains of the bed. There lay
the poor old man, without sense or motion, with half-open glazed eyes
and blackened, parted lips. Only his heavy breathing showed he was
alive.
"Go, Dolly," said Edward hoarsely. "You can do no good here. Rowson
will help me."
I obeyed at once, for I wanted to find the other poor thing, whose
wailing pierced my heart. She did not notice me at first, but when I
too had opened the window, and put back the curtain, the fresh air
seemed to bring her a little to herself, and she stared at me with a
wondering gaze.
"You!" said she. "You are young Mrs. Studley. Did you die on the moor,
and has your ghost come back?"
"No," I answered. "I am no ghost. See, my hands are warm and
substantial. Try to compose yourself, and tell me what you want."
"Water, water," she gasped. "Oh, for one drop of water to cool my
tongue, for I am tormented in this flame!"
I did not believe any thing would hurt her, and I remembered that
in my ague Dr. Burnett gave me all the water I wanted, in spite of
Mrs. Sharpless's horror. I brought a glass of water, fresh from the
draw-well, and she drank it eagerly.
"It is Mrs. Studley," said she, looking at me, and holding my hand, as
I would have withdrawn the glass. "What has brought you here? Have you
come to heap coals of fire on my head? Don't do that: it is burning
already."
"Hush," I answered. "I am going to bathe your head and face, and you
will feel better."
I went to the toilet table, which was loaded with perfumes and
cosmetics, and finding a bottle of Hungary water, ¹ I bathed her face
and hands with it, brushed her hair as well as I could, and smoothed
and cooled the tumbled pillows. My cares seemed to soothe her, for she
fell into a troubled sleep, and I stepped away without disturbing her.
¹ Hungary water was distilled from rosemary, and was esteemed of great
value in fevers. It was the invention of the unfortunate Queen of
Bohemia.
I found that Edward and Mr. Rowson had changed the old gentleman to a
clean cot-bed, and cleared out the room a little, but the poor old man
was insensible to all their cares. Mr. Rowson told me in a whisper that
he could not live more than a few hours.
I went down-stairs, roused up the kitchen fire, and finding some
coffee, I made a pot of it, toasted some bread, and set out what
decent provisions I could find. There was an abundance of every thing,
but in such a state,—such pots of stale broth and heaps of bones and
fragments,—it was enough to breed the plague, let alone a fever. It was
clear enough what kind of housekeeping had obtained under the sway of
the poor woman up-stairs. I was trying to bring things to some kind of
order, when the kitchen door opened, and in came old Janey.
"I heard you and Master Neddy had come, and I couldn't stop away," said
the good soul. "Don't 'ee do that, mistress; 'tisn't fit for the likes
of you—" taking a saucepan out of my hand. "And how is the poor old
gentleman?"
I told her. She shook her head.
"'Tis all over with mun," said she solemnly. "I knowed that afore I
come. 'Twant for naught I heerd the white owl last night and night
before."
"What about the white owl?" I asked, as I was picking up the old silver
spoons which lay here and there among the rubbish. "I should think owls
might be common enough here. I am sure they are about Applecoombe. They
carried off a dozen chickens from me last month."
Janey shook her head solemnly.
"'Tis no common owl, my tender; 'tis the white owl of the Studleys, the
snow-white bird that always screams before any great misfortune befalls
the family. I heard mun plain enough the night before master brought
home that witch, but no one ever sees mun, but one of the family. Oh,
there's a-many such things happen here in the west! But how about that
other?"
I told her about Mrs. Studley.
"'She' won't die," said Janey scornfully. "That kind never do, unless
their Master has done with them. But do you get Master Ned to come
down, and take some meat; and take some yourself, there's a lamb. I
will stay with that one up-stairs. I can't abide to think of your
tender hands a-touching mun."
"But that is not Christian like, Janey," said I. "Think what our Lord
did for the woman who was a sinner."
"Ay, but a repentant sinner," answered the old woman shrewdly. "There,
don't 'ee stand to argue with an old woman, but bring Master Neddy to
his supper, there's a lamb."
There was sense in this, at any rate: so I went up, and with some
coaxing brought my husband down to take refreshment. Mr. Rowson
promised to watch my father-in-law every moment, and to call us if he
showed any signs of life.
The other patient continued to sleep uneasily, muttering, and throwing
her arms about. It seemed to me her face had changed for the worse, and
I said as much to Janey.
The old woman nodded.
"She is struck for death," she said. "Her ill-gotten gains won't do
her no more good." And then, in a relenting tone, "Poor thing, poor
thing! Maybe after all she never had the chance to learn better. Mr.
Champernoun's Harry, who hath been in Bristol, says he knows he saw
her in a theatre there, a-playing in men's clothes, and that she is a
regular play actor. ¹ To think of that,—a woman a-playing on the stage,
and in men's clothes! Do you think it can be true, mistress?"
¹ It must be remembered that the appearance of women on the stage was
an innovation of Charles Second's days, which excited grave reprobation
from all serious people.
"I know it is," I answered. "I have seen her often in London."
But I did not tell Janey, what I knew to be true, that Becky Marshall
was the daughter of a godly Presbyterian minister, as good a man as
ever lived, so Mrs. Pendergast had told me.
When night came, Janey would have had me go to bed, or at least lie
down. But, as it turned out, both of us were needed to manage the
patient, who raved in delirium all night, now going over parts she
had played, and now repeating bits of the Westminster Catechism which
no doubt she had learned at her mother's knee. At last she fell into
a troubled slumber. The gray dawn was beginning to steal up the sky,
and Janey had gone down to see to the kitchen fire, when Mrs. Studley
opened her eyes, and fixed them on me with a look I shall never forget.
"Am I dying?" said she.
"I fear so," I answered. I dared not but tell her the truth. "My poor
Rebecca, try to turn your eyes to God,—your father's God. There is yet
time. Let me call Mr. Rowson."
"Yes, call him, call him," said she eagerly.
I went to call Mr. Rowson, who was resting in a great chair. My
father-in-law was still lying stupid, as he had done ever since we
arrived. Mr. Rowson rose unwillingly, as it seemed.
"What can she want of me? I can do her no good. What am I to comfort a
dying sinner, who need mercy myself?"
"We all need it," said I. "But hasten, I do not think she has many
minutes to live."
When we entered the room, we found Rebecca's great black eyes eagerly
fixed on the door.
"The will, the will!" she exclaimed as Mr. Rowson came to the bedside.
"Find that will, and burn it. It is in the great walnut cabinet. Burn
it."
"Never mind the will," said I. "Try to think of something better.—Pray
with her, Mr. Rowson."
"I want none of his prayers," she cried. "I know what his religion is
worth. Go, go, and find the will, and burn it."
"Perhaps I had better pacify her," he whispered to me. And then, aloud,
"Yes, we will try to find it. Make your mind easy, Mrs. Studley.
Justice will be done at last, never fear."
She seemed content, and dozed off again for a few minutes. Then she
roused up and looked around.
"I thought my father was here," said she. "I thought I heard him say,—
"'The blood of Jesus cleanseth from sin.'
"But it is all a dream," she added sorrowfully, "all a dream. My father
is in a better place, and there is no cleansing for such as I."
"There is, there is!" I exclaimed. "Dear Rebecca, though your sins have
been as scarlet, they shall be white as snow. I know your good father
would say so if he were here. Only believe."
She looked at me with a singularly intent gaze.
"You came to me when all the world deserted me," said she. "I slandered
you, and abused you, and turned you out of doors; and yet you came to
me at the risk of your life and nursed me. If He were like that—"
"He is a thousand million times better," said I, weeping. "Only turn to
him, only pray for forgiveness."
"You may pray," said she, sinking back on her pillows. "You are good.
Yes, pray; my head is growing heavy, and I cannot think of the words."
Oh, how earnestly I prayed that this poor creature might have, even
in this awful moment, grace to turn her face homeward to her Father's
house! I think she understood the words, and tried to join in them, but
as I looked up, at a touch from Janey, I saw she was going. I began the
commendatory prayer, but before I finished, it all was over.
Mr. Studley lingered all day, and died at sunset, making no sign, save
that once he opened his eyes and turned them wistfully from Edward to
myself. I think he knew us both, but it was only for a moment. The veil
fell again; and, just as the last rays of the sun shot into the room,
he died without a struggle.
"He is gone! My old friend is gone," said Mr. Rowson, weeping like
a child, as Edward closed his father's eyes. "Oh, if I had but been
faithful, how different might his death have been! But I am a changed
man," said he, looking solemnly upward. "If it please Heaven to spare
some short remnant of my worthless, wasted life, it shall be given to
his service."
I was glad to hear him say as much, but I had no time to attend to him.
Edward's fixed looks alarmed me, and I wanted nothing so much as to get
him out of the room. I had no sooner brought him to the parlor than
he fainted, and lay for some time as much like one dead as a living
man could be. However, I revived him at last, and was thankful when he
burst into a flood of tears. I soothed and quieted him as well as I
could, and persuaded him to take some food, and then to lie and rest,
while Mr. Rowson, Janey, and I did what was needful up-stairs. How glad
I was that I had carried my point and come with him!
The day of the funeral Dr. Kirton appeared, in company with an attorney
from Biddeford, a man of no good reputation. Edward had looked
carefully among his father's papers for the will which he knew the old
gentleman had made shortly before our marriage, but it was not to be
found. I had my own idea about the matter, remembering poor Rebecca's
words; and I was not much surprised when the attorney produced a will
made some time during the summer, and leaving every thing to Dr.
Kirton and his sister, except a hundred pounds to Mr. Rowson, and the
harpsichord and music-books belonging to the first Mrs. Studley, which,
to my great surprise, were left to me. The will was witnessed by two
persons in Biddeford, and was perfectly formal.
"You will find it quite correct," said Dr. Kirton very politely, but
with a gleam of triumph in his snaky eyes. "The musical instrument
shall be sent to Mrs. Studley, as my poor friend directed.—The money
shall be paid to you in due time, Mr. Rowson.—I presume, Mr. Studley,
you will not care to remain here longer.—Mr. Rowson, will you not stay
to sup with me? I have your fee for your services to my late brother."
"Thy money perish with thee!" burst forth Mr. Rowson. "May the Lord
do so to me, and more also, if ever I break bread with thee! Hast
thou killed, and also taken possession? Beware, that the fate of Ahab
and Jezebel doth not overtake thee in the midst of thy ill-gotten
gains!—Come, my children, and leave this roof, which is accursed with
the presence of a traitor, a murderer."
"Mr. Rowson, you shall answer for this language," said Dr. Kirton,
turning fairly blue, partly with rage, and partly, I fancy, from fright.
"I do not fear you," answered the vicar. "Come, children."
Edward hardly spoke a word till we arrived at home, where Mrs. Williams
had every thing in order, and a bright little fire to welcome us. Then,
as he looked about, he broke silence.
"Well, Dorothy, this is to be our home, it seems. Are you content with
it?"
"More than content," said I; "happy and thankful. But it is easier for
me than for you to lose what is rightfully yours. It is very hard upon
you, my poor Ned."
"It is hard," my husband admitted. "The old place hath been in our
family since before the Conquest. The Hall was built with Spanish gold
taken in the days of Elizabeth. But what does it matter, after all? I
must soon have left it. My great trouble is for thee, my dear. I little
thought what I was bringing thee to."
"You have brought me to the happiest part of my life," said I. "Don't
fret about that, but doff your riding gear, and get ready for the
savory supper Mrs. Williams has prepared for us."
Edward was quite unwell for several days, and my heart sank fathoms
deep as I thought of his coming down with the fever. But I believe
his illness was more of the mind than the body. He could not but feel
deeply the loss of the estate which had descended from father to son
for so many generations, and of which he was now deprived by no fault
of his own. But that was a small matter, to one of his way of thinking,
compared to his father's death,—taken in the midst of his sin. I was
going to say, without one moment for repentance, but that would not be
true, seeing he had had a long life granted him wherein to make his
salvation sure.
As for myself, I won't deny that I was disappointed, though, as I
said, poor Rebecca had prepared me in some measure for what happened.
No doubt she was knowing to the will. I could not but wish to see my
husband take his proper place in the county, nor was I quite insensible
to the change that would have been made in my own position had Edward
succeeded to his rights. But, after all, I was young and strong, and
the work was no such great hardship. So I did not fret very much about
that.
Only on cold, sleety days, when the path was slippery, and the barnyard
miry, and the butter was long in coming, or the kitchen chimney
smoked, I would think how much pleasanter it would be to practise on
my harpsichord or sit at my knitting. But I soon learned that such
thoughts were unprofitable guests, and I resolutely turned them out.
Edward had one great comfort, and that was the change in Mr. Rowson.
Certainly I never saw a man so altered. He never touched wine, or even
cider, saying that he dared not trust himself with it. He took to
studying his Bible, and reviving his knowledge of Greek and Hebrew, for
he had once been a fine scholar. He preached every Sunday, catechized
the children, visited the poor and the sick, and strove in every way to
repair, if he could not undo, the mischief he had done.
The only indulgence he allowed himself was his music. He used the
hundred pounds left him by his patron in repairing the church-organ,
and found a good organist in the person of an old gentleman in
Biddeford, who was just about retiring to one of the almshouses in
Exeter, but was easily prevailed upon to accept a cottage in Studley
and a small salary instead.
Almost all the folks hereabout are naturally musical; and I do think
Mr. Rowson's choir, which he took great pains in training, brought a
good many to church, where they certainly heard the gospel preached as
never before. Mr. Rowson was a frequent visitor at our house, and used
to have many deep arguments with Mrs. Williams concerning her peculiar
tenets (which I don't in the least understand, to this day), but they
always came together at last on the New Testament, so they continued
excellent friends.
I had heard but twice from my aunt since my marriage. The family was
still in London, detained by my uncle's business, which, however,
was prospering, and he was in a way to retrieve his losses. My aunt
wrote that Betty was well in health, but not in good spirits; that
she did not care to go out, and missed her sister more than ever.
Betty's letter was written evidently in one of her bad moods. She hated
London and every thing about it. Her mother would make her go to the
theatre and to balls and banquets, and she had been obliged to leave
off her mourning. She only wished she were with me. I wished it, too,
and determined I would try to have a visit from her when the family
returned.
In my aunt's next letter she wrote that Betty was in better spirits;
that she had been presented at court and much admired, and the king
had taken great notice of her, which was an unusual compliment from
him nowadays, as his Majesty was so engrossed with public business. My
uncle was like to recover all he had lost, and more, and the family
were coming home for Christmas, when she hoped Mr. Studley would spare
me for a visit.
Betty's letter was not a bit like herself. It was long, and full of
public news and accounts of the balls she had attended, but not one
word of herself. The letter made me uncomfortable, I could hardly tell
why. I had never told my aunt any particulars about our way of life,
and I suppose she thought my husband and myself were living as we had
expected to do.
Now, however, by my husband's advice, I wrote her the whole story.
The letter I received in reply was quite characteristic of my aunt's
curiously mixed character. Of course, she wrote, it was every one's
duty to be religious, but there was no need of parading one's religion,
and it was a great pity Mr. Studley had offended his father by so
doing. He ought to have remembered that St. Paul became all things to
all men. There was no knowing how Ned might have influenced his father
for good if he had only been more complying to the old gentleman's
humors, but all young persons nowadays seemed to think themselves wiser
than their elders. She little thought she was sending me to such a
life. Why had not Mr. Studley applied to Sir Robert, who might have
obtained for him a commission, or some place about the court, which
would at least have given me the position of a lady? She was glad to
see that I was resigned to my change of fortune, but she pitied me from
her heart. She only wished I had been as fortunate as Betty was likely
to be.
"So she hath a match in hand for Betty," said my husband, returning me
the letter.
"She will never make any match for Betty that Betty does not like,"
I answered. "Betty is made of different stuff from poor Meg. She is
stronger both in body and in will. She may break, but she will not
bend."
"But do you think your aunt would force on Betty a match which she did
not like?" asked Edward.
"Yes, if she thought it for her good, as she says; that is, if the man
were rich or great, and able to give Betty a grand position in the
world. That was all she thought of with Meg. When Lord Chesterton first
proposed for Meg, he was a rake and an out and out infidel. Yet my aunt
accepted him eagerly, because, as I say, he was rich and would make his
wife a great lady. But my aunt will never rule Betty as she did Meg."
"Then you do not think Margaret's heart was in the match with Lord
Chesterton?" said my husband.
"Not one bit," I answered. "As I look back at it, I can see that
Margaret felt she was dying at any rate, and so it did not greatly
matter. Afterward, when she was ill at Cross Park, I believe she really
did come to love Lord Chesterton, but he was a changed man then. I
never in my life saw any one more altered. But I am sorry both for my
aunt and Betty if this matter comes to a conflict, for neither will
give way save at the last extremity."
Our winter passed away quietly enough. I had an urgent invitation to
spend Christmas with my aunt, who had returned home, but my husband
could not well leave the farm, and travelling was difficult in winter,
so I declined. I had great pleasure in sending my aunt a hamper of
cream cheese, butter, and other dairy products, the work of my own
hands, and was gratified in return by a present of books, music, and
working materials, and from my uncle ten guineas in a pretty purse.
My uncle even wrote a few lines which were worth more than the money.
He said, that, while he was sorry for Edward's misfortunes, he was glad
to learn that the young fellow had behaved like a man in standing by
his colors, and he liked him all the better. Any thing but these sneaks
who were ready to worship the Devil himself to curry court favor.
He hoped to be in a position to give us some help before long, and
meantime we must keep up a good heart. This letter was a great pleasure
to me, for I was always fond of my uncle.
As I said, our winter passed quietly enough. Dr. Kirton had really sent
us the harpsichord, and quite a library of old-fashioned music-books. I
found some time for practice; and I amused myself, and I hope did some
good, by practising with the choir, and instructing the school-children
in church music. Dr. Dean was not at all musical, and the singing had
been something dreadful, insomuch that the Sunday Mr. Rowson preached
for us I saw him privately stop his ears, and thought he would have run
out of church when the children upraised their voices in the psalm.
We heard from Mr. Rowson that Dr. Kirton did not live at Studley, and
that the Hall was shut up and deserted, only that old Janey and her
husband, the gardener, lived in the kitchen. The house always had the
reputation of being "troubled,"—that is to say, haunted—not only by the
fateful white owl, but by the spirit of a certain Moorish lady whom
some of the old freebooting Studleys had brought home, and afterward
deserted, or, as some said, murdered. This poor lady's apparition
used to rise from the old well in one corner of the court, into which
tradition said she had been thrown, and parade about the house in all
her barbaric finery on moonlight nights. I used to wish I could see
her, a black or copper-colored ghost would be such a pleasing novelty,
but my husband says many of the Turkish ladies are beautifully fair.
Anyhow, it was the general belief at Studley that Dr. Kirton had not
only seen this lady, but had also been haunted by the spirit of his
unfortunate sister, who could not rest in her grave, but was always
coming to his bedside and adjuring him to burn the unrighteous will. He
left the care of the estate to his attorney in Biddeford, and returned
to Bristol.
I well remember what a sweet spring evening it was, when we received
a most unexpected guest. I had walked down to the red gate to meet my
husband, who was somewhat late in coming from market. I was leaning
over the gate to look down the road, when I beheld a most forlorn,
tired-looking woman, dragging herself up the hill. At first I thought
it was old Sally the hawker, who made a practice of visiting us three
or four times in a season, but, as the woman drew nearer, I saw she was
a much younger person. I could not see her face under her deep hood,
but there was something in the figure that was strangely familiar.
Seeing how feeble she seemed, I hastened to meet her.
"You are very weary," I said. "Let me help you to the gate, where
there is a seat for you to rest upon." (I had always a fancy for
meeting Edward at this gate, and he had made a nice bench for my
accommodation.) The stranger accepted my arm, and leaned on it heavily
enough, till she reached the seat, when she sank upon it as if
fainting. I hastily untied her hood, and pushed it back from her face.
What was my amazement and even horror to recognize my cousin Betty!
There was no one in sight, and I dared not leave her lest she should
fall to the ground. I was considering what to do, when I heard my
husband's voice asking what was the matter. I never was more glad to
see him in my life, and that is saying a great deal.
"How shall we get this poor thing to the house?" said I.
"The house," answered Edward doubtfully. "Had we not better lay her in
the barn first? She may have the fever about her."
"The barn!" said I scornfully. "Edward, it is my cousin Betty; though
what has brought her here, I cannot guess. Don't stand staring there
like a moorland colt," I added sharply, for Ned did indeed look like a
statue of amazement. "Hurry to the house; and do you and Andrew bring
down the little mattress from the green room, and a blanket. That will
be the easiest way to manage it. Tell Mrs. Williams to get the blue
room ready. And hurry back."
Ned went off without another word,—he is very good to mind, when I do
take the command,—and the time did not seem long, even to me, till
he and Andrew were back with the mattress, which they had laid on a
shutter. Betty had partly come to herself, but seemed unable to speak.
Only, as they tried to lift her, she moaned and grasped my hand tightly.
"Don't be afraid, Betty," said I. "You are with friends, and I won't
leave you."
We carried her up-stairs, where Mrs. Williams helped me to undress her.
And with much ado we got her into bed, and persuaded her to swallow
a few spoonfuls of good broth. The fainting fit was succeeded by
hysterics, and that by bitter weeping. I did not try to make her talk,
but coaxed and soothed her, till at last she fell asleep; and I went
down to my husband.
"Well," said he, as I entered the kitchen, "what does it all mean?"
"I don't know, though I have a shrewd guess," I answered. "I have not
tried to make her speak. She is fearfully exhausted. She must have
walked a long way, for her shoes are cut to pieces."
"But you are sure it is your cousin," said Ned. "You could hardly be
mistaken, though she comes in such a strange way."
"Mistaken!" said I scornfully. "Do you think I would not know you,
though you were to fall out of a comet, instead of riding home on old
Soldan?"
"I doubt it," answered my husband. "If I fell out of a comet, I doubt I
should be past recognition by the time I reached you."
"Not you! You would be on your feet in a minute, making an instructive
reflection," I retorted. "Come now and get your supper, for I know you
must be half starved, and then we will think what is best to do."
We talked the matter over, and agreed that nothing could be done till
Betty was able to tell her own story. I watched with her. She was
restless and moaning in her sleep till near morning, when she grew
quieter and seemed to fall into a refreshing slumber. When she waked,
she was quite herself, but so weak and exhausted that I dared not let
her talk. Only I asked her if her mother knew where she was.
She shook her head. "No, no, and don't tell her. Don't let her know.
Hide me somewhere. Dolly, I will never go back to marry that man—never."
"Hush, hush! Don't excite yourself," said I. "You are safe with me. But
think, Betty, how anxious your poor father and mother will be."
She seemed to soften at this. "Yes, I am sorry for them. But I won't
marry him. I may be lost for this world and the next, but I will never
marry him."
"Marry whom?" I asked.
"That man, Mr. Cheney." And here she fell into her fits again, and we
had hard work to keep her in bed.
"She must be crazy," said Edward, when I told him. "Cheney's wife died
last summer, I know, but surely your aunt would never give him her only
child."
"He is very rich," said I, "and he sees all the best company in the
county. Don't you remember what my aunt said in her last letter,—that
Mr. Cheney had a prospect of being raised to the peerage?"
"Yes, because he favored the king's policy, but surely that would have
no weight with Sir Robert."
"It would have great weight with my aunt, though; and Sir Robert takes
all she says and does for gospel. But, Edward, ought we not to let her
friends know that she is safe? They must be in terrible suspense about
her."
"I think so," answered my husband. "Rowson is going to set out for
Exeter to-morrow morning early. I believe I will ride with him, and
carry the news myself."
I agreed that this would be the best way, and so it was settled. By
evening, Betty was quite sensible, though still weak. She told me her
story, as far as she knew it herself. I had guessed rightly. Mr. Cheney
had proposed for her; and her mother, dazzled by his immense wealth and
his prospects, had insisted on Betty's accepting him. She refused; and
there had been, as I gathered, a terrible scene between them, in which
Betty, goaded to desperation by her mother's calm persistence, had
reproached her with being the cause of Meg's death. I knew how Betty
could go on, when once roused, and could imagine more than she told me.
It ended with her being shut into her chamber, from which she escaped
by climbing out of the window. She had left her hat and gloves by the
side of a deep pond in the park, which had once been a quarry-hole, and
had then walked the whole distance to my door. She had lost her purse
the second day, and had been obliged literally to beg her way, sleeping
in barns and outhouses like a gypsy beggar, and passing one night on
the open moor. It made me shudder to think of the dangers she had run.
I asked her if she were not frightened.
"No," she answered, "I don't know that I was. I had but one thought,—to
get away, and come to you. And I will never go back to marry that man,"
she added, her eyes growing wild again. "I will drown myself in earnest
first."
"Surely your mother would never have forced him upon you," said I.
Betty smiled bitterly. "Don't you know my mother by this time?" said
she. "She would marry me to Satan if he could make me a duchess, and
talk all the time about my good—yes, and make me a present of religious
books for my closet at the same moment. I tell you, Dolly, only for
my remembrance of Meg, I would throw over all religion as folly and
delusion. But I love to think her happy, though I shall never see her."
"You must not say that," I said; "why should you not see her?"
Betty only shook her head sadly; and I was too much afraid of exciting
her, to pursue the subject. She was really very ill; and Dr. Dean, who
had some knowledge of medicine, thought she would have a course of low
fever, though he did not apprehend any danger.
My husband returned from Lady Court the third day. He reported that my
aunt seemed greatly relieved to find that Betty was not drowned, as
they all believed at first. But she was very bitter, saying that Betty
had disgraced herself and her family by her escapade, and she, for one,
never wished to see her face again. Let her bake as she had brewed. Sir
Robert was more lenient. He thought they had been hard on the girl,
who was high-spirited like himself. She had better stay where she was
for the present, if we would consent to keep her; and perhaps, after a
while, things might be arranged. Indeed, he had never so greatly liked
the match, but thought his wife knew best.
Edward remarked that Betty would have to stay where she was for the
present, as she was very ill from fatigue and exposure.
"Why, how was she exposed?" asked my uncle.
Edward told the story of Betty's journey, at which Sir Robert broke
down and wept, swore she was his own spunky girl, and he only wished
she were a boy instead of a maid. He ended by sending Betty a kind
message and some money, promising that she should not be pressed to
marry any one, and saying he would ride over and see her some day.
But my aunt was not to be pacified. She was, indeed, wounded in her
most susceptible part,—her respect for the opinion of the world. The
story had taken wing already that Betty had drowned herself to avoid
a marriage with Mr. Cheney, to whom she was betrothed. All Exeter was
ringing with it. And now it must be contradicted, and some tale made
up, which, after all, nobody would believe. No, she had brought lasting
disgrace on all belonging to her.
"I shall never hold up my head again," she repeated. And then, weeping,
"What have I ever done, that I should be so unfortunate in my children?
My only consolation is that I have done every thing possible for their
good."
And I believe she really thought so. She did every thing for the best,
though she was so terribly mistaken as to what that best was.
Finally, my aunt was won by my husband to send her daughter a message.
She forgave her all the pain she had caused her, but she did not wish
to see her at present. When Betty was well, she had perhaps better
go to her aunt Laneham at Bristol, where Mr. Laneham had gotten some
preferment at the cathedral. Her residing in the family of a beneficed
clergyman might do something toward restoring to her the character she
had lost. Sharpless should send her some necessary clothes.
Betty smiled sorrowfully when she received the message, but seemed
to care little about the matter. She lay for several weeks very ill,
but recovered her strength after a while; though she has always been
slightly lame, from the effects of her exposure. She began by and by to
go about the house and to help me in various ways, but I could not get
her to go to church, and hardly any thing could draw a smile from her.
At last, however, we won her confidence, and she opened her heart to
us. On her first going to London, she had been very unwilling to go to
the theatre or the opera, having made up her mind that these things
were wrong and unbecoming a Christian, and that if, as she said, there
was any thing in religion, one's life should be passed in a course of
good and pious works. She had been greatly strengthened in this idea
by three or four Roman Catholic books which fell in her way. Indeed,
I believe they were given her by Queen Mary herself, who took a great
liking to her.
Betty said she would have become a Romanist, and gone into a convent,
only there were a few things she could not get over; and, above all,
she could not make up her mind to think that dear Margaret was lost
forever. The king himself had condescended to argue with Betty, and if
his Majesty had not insisted on this point with the stupid obstinacy
which always distinguished him, poor man! I dare say he would have won
her over.
But by little and little, as Betty said, she was led on to go against
her conscience, and to take pleasure in what she felt all the time were
sinful amusements, till at last she lost all peace and hope, and came
to believe that there was nothing left her but a fearful judgment. She
thought that she had never possessed any true love for God, and was
altogether a reprobate.
"Well," said my husband, when she paused. "What are you going to do
about it?"
Betty looked at him in surprise. "What do you mean?" she asked. "What
can I do about it?"
"Supposing you to have been the sinner you represent yourself, there
are two courses open to you," said my husband. "You may go on sinning
against your heavenly Father, insulting his love and mercy, and defying
him to the bitter end; or you may come to him in all humility and
repentance, confessing your sins, and asking forgiveness through him
who hath said, 'He that cometh to me I will in no wise cast out,' and
then spending the rest of your life humbly in his service and to his
glory. You have the choice of these two ways. Which will you do?"
Betty looked very doubtful. "But I never can go back and marry that
man, even if he would have me, which I doubt."
"So do I, seeing he hath already married some one else," answered my
husband. "I would not say you are bound to do so in any case, though
I do think you ought to ask your mother's forgiveness for the pain
you caused her by your pretended suicide. It was a wicked piece of
deception, and I don't wonder your conscience is oppressed."
Betty colored. It is one thing to call yourself a lost sinner, and
another to have particular sins brought home to you by somebody else.
She began to excuse herself, but broke off, and at last owned frankly
that it was very wrong.
"But I had not thought so much about that as about my life in London,"
said she,—"all those worldly compliances."
"You should have treated them as Meg did,—as so many crosses,—and then
they would have done you no harm," said I. "They did not hurt Margaret.
Or, if you thought them wrong, you could have told your mother so in
gentle and respectful language."
"I know I did not do right in any thing, either in refusing or giving
way," answered Betty, "but O Dolly, I was hard bestead, and I had no
one to help me."
"Except God," added my husband. "That is a grave exception. But we will
admit all that, Betty. You have been a great sinner, like all the rest
of us, and your only hope is in the undeserved mercy of God. You can
make no amends to him."
"That is the worst of it," said Betty.
"No, my maid, that is the best of it," replied Edward. "You can do
nothing, and there is no need that you should, since One hath done all
for you."
And with that he went on to set before Betty the plan of our
redemption, all its freeness and fulness, as he had once set it before
me. But I think it was harder for Betty to take it in than it had been
for me. One day we were sitting in the porch with our spinning,—for
she was bent upon learning all sorts of country arts, and I had taught
her to spin as Mrs. Williams had taught me. Betty was very sad and not
inclined to talk, and I did not urge her.
We were sitting thus, when old Alice Yeo came for her jug of milk. She
was a good old body, who lived in a little cottage on the farm, and
eked out a living by the help of the church dole and what little she
could earn by spinning and knitting. She was lame, and seldom came so
far as our house, generally sending by one of the schoolgirls, who were
very kind to her.
"Why, Goody, this is a wonder!" said I, rising to help her up the step
and give her a seat. "You don't often walk so far."
"No, mistress, but the fine day tempted me, and I thought I would like
to see the place once more. Mussy, how the myrtle trees have grown, to
be sure! Great trees they be now, but I remember well when Mary Lee and
I planted them, when she came here a bride sixty years and more agone.
Ay, and she planted yonder pinks, too, that very time. ¹ A sweet and
gracious maid she was, and a dutiful wife, but she did not live long:
she died with her first babe."
¹ I know of a bed of pinks which was planted a hundred and thirty years
ago.
"Poor thing!" said Betty.
"Oh, you need not pity her, my lamb! She died happy, yes, rejoicing,
and she saw the room full of angels. I was with her, and it was like a
look into heaven. No, no, you needn't pity her. She went to her rest
sixty years ago, and I have lived to bury husband and children and
all. But you need not pity me, neither," she added, with the sweet,
tremulous smile of gracious old age. "I will soon be at home; and then
it won't matter whether the way thither was long or short, rough or
smooth: 'twill be home all the same.—Mistress, could you spare me ere
a bit of honey now? My cough gets troublesome of nights again, and the
honey and hyssop do seem to loosen it like."
I brought her the honey, and some other little matters I had laid aside
for her, and sent Peggy home with her to carry her jug down the hill.
When I came back to my seat, Betty was gazing abroad over the sea. She
was silent a little, and then said abruptly,—
"Dolly, I would give sight and hearing and all I possess, to be as
happy as that old woman."
"You have no need to give any of these things," I answered; "you have
only to give up self. Tell me honestly, Betty, is it not some cherished
sin that keeps you back from peace? Something you know you ought to do,
and will not do?"
Betty withdrew her eyes from the sea, and fixed them on her spinning.
"You think I ought to write to my mother and beg her pardon," said she,
after a little silence.
"Yes," I answered, "and so do you."
Her color rose. "Oh, yes, of course!" said she. "You think I should say
I am sorry I did not please her by marrying that man."
I began to lose patience. "Betty, you know better," said I. "Mr. Cheney
is married already, so there is no question of that. You know that by
your own showing you used very unbecoming and even cruel language to
your mother. You ought to beg her pardon for that, and for the still
more cruel deception you played upon her and your father, by making
them believe you were drowned."
"But my mother was wrong in trying to force me into a match with a man
I disliked. Even you admit that, Dolly," said Betty.
"Two wrongs do not make a right," I answered. "Your business is not
with what your mother did, but what you did. And I tell you plainly
that till you forgive your mother, and ask her to pardon you, you have
no right to expect peace or even forgiveness. 'If I regard iniquity in
my heart, the Lord will not hear me.' Pride and anger and the peace of
this world cannot dwell together, much more the peace of God."
I went away and left her to think of my words, nor did I encourage her
to talk further about the matter. Two or three days afterward she was
in her room nearly all day. At night she brought me a letter, and asked
me to read it.
"No, I would rather not," said I. "Write such a letter as you think
will be pleasing to your heavenly Father, and then it will be sure to
be right."
She thought a little, and then, taking up the letter, she tore it to
pieces. I heard her moving several times in the night. In the morning
she brought me another letter, sealed this time, and asked Edward to
have it sent. He held her hand a moment as he took it, and looked into
her face.
"It is all right now," said he.
"I hope so," she answered, smiling, though her eyes were moist, "but
oh, it has been a hard fight, and I fear all is not yet won."
"I dare say not," my husband answered. "Such battles often have to be
fought many times over, and Satan never attacks us with more vehemence
than when we have just humbled ourselves to some fellow sinner."
"I suppose that is true," said Betty, "but in truth, cousin, I never
tried it many times. I don't know that I ever did unless I were forced
to it."
"I know. You and Meg were different in that," said I. "She was always
ready to ask pardon, even when she was the least to blame."
"We were different in every respect, except for the love we bore each
other," said Betty, sighing. "I know when we had a difference, and I
had been far the most in fault, she would ask me to forgive her. But,
cousin, will you send this letter for me?"
"That I will gladly," he answered; and, it being market-day, he posted
it that very morning.
The answer was not long in coming. I watched Betty with some anxiety as
she read it, and saw her color rise, and her eyes fill with tears. When
she had finished, she handed it to me. My aunt said that, as Betty had
asked for forgiveness, she must grant it, of course. She supposed Betty
was weary of her rustication, and wished to come home, but that could
not be at present. If she were tired of the country, she could go to
her aunt Laneham at Bristol, who would no doubt receive her.
Betty had gone to her own room, leaving the letter with me. I handed it
to Edward with an expression of indignation.
"It is a cruel letter," said I; "and not like my aunt at all. She was
formerly always ready to forgive, when any one made submission."
"I can read between the lines," answered Edward. "Your aunt's
conscience is uneasy. She knows she has been wrong herself, and she has
not the courage to say as much, so she takes it out in this way. She
will come to a better mind, after a while. I am glad Betty is here, and
not at home."
"She seems very contented," said I. "How handily she takes to every
sort of work! It seems as though she had found her true vocation."
"Like somebody else I know," returned my husband. "What a farmer's dame
had been lost to the world, Dolly, if you had married a great man!"
The summer wore on very quietly. We had a visit from my uncle, who
staid with us two or three days, and seemed to enjoy his visit. My aunt
wrote to Betty by him in a much more kindly strain, making no allusion
to her fault, and sending her a pretty present. She said nothing,
however, about Betty's coming home, nor did Sir Robert encourage it
for the present. Betty sent her mother a pair of fine hose of her own
spinning and knitting, and received a kind note in reply, but still
nothing was said about her going home.
But it soon became apparent that Betty was likely to have a home of her
own, unless somebody interfered to prevent. Mr. Rowson had admired her
very much from the first. After a while, they came to an understanding.
And the next time Sir Robert came over, he made proposals for Betty's
hand. He was very well to do. His living was a good one for those
parts, and he had quite a nice little private fortune. His family was
respectable; and, though there was a good deal of difference in their
ages, it was on the right side.
I could see at once that Sir Robert was taken with Mr. Rowson. He
talked with Betty in private, and also with Edward and me, and assured
Mr. Rowson that his good word should not be wanting to his suit.
"I fear her mother will not be pleased at Betty's marrying a parson,"
remarked my uncle to me at parting, "but I will do my best to persuade
her, and the maid shall have her way. Methinks we have made enough of
sacrifices to the world, which will never make any for us."
"Nor for any one else," remarked Edward. "The world is a bad paymaster."
"I believe you are right, nephew," said my uncle thoughtfully. "I
shall always think that last season in London was the death of poor
Meg. I would not say so to her mother, since she acted for the best,
but I believe if the maid had staid quietly at home, she might have
been alive now. Well, good-by, young folks, and God bless you! My wife
pities your lot, but I must say you appear as well to do as anybody
I know. I shall never forget your kindness to my poor daughter. And
between ourselves, I would, for my own part, a hundred times rather see
Betty wed to an honest fellow like Rowson, country parson though he be,
than to Cheney, who hath got his peerage by declaring himself a Papist.
I don't know what the world is coming to, for my part. I have always
stood by Church and king, but as things are going now—But there, I must
not stay longer, or I shall be benighted on the moor.—Keep up a good
heart, Bess. It will all come right in time."
Contrary to all our expectations, my aunt made no objections to the
match, but gave her consent and blessing without delay. In fact, I
think she was very glad that she had an opening for a reconciliation.
She would have Betty married from home, and we must all go to the
wedding. It was in the farmer's holiday, between haying and harvest,
and we were not afraid to leave our matters in such good hands as those
of Mrs. Williams and Andrew.
My aunt received us with the greatest kindness; and no one would have
guessed, from her manner, that Betty had not been away on an ordinary
visit. Perhaps it was the best way on the whole.
Mr. Rowson had a cousin living in Exeter, the dowager Lady Peckham,
who was well-jointured and much respected, though she went little into
society, and was accounted a bit of a Puritan. I think this connection
did something to reconcile my aunt to the match. Lady Peckham was at
the wedding, as were also the bishop and his lady, and Mr. Studley's
old friend Lady Clarenham: so it was quite a grand affair. I don't
think all the parade was to Betty's taste, but her mother would have it
so, and Betty gave way to her in every thing, as was but right.
It must have been rather pleasing to her to hear the reprobation which
was poured from every side on my Lord Viscount Cheney (I know it was to
me), but she made no sign thereof.
Lord Cheney was in London, in great favor at court, where the king
was going from bad to worse. His Majesty was at open feud with both
the universities, and the clergy (even those who had been most active
in preaching passive obedience to the worst of kings) took sides with
their colleges. It makes so very much difference whether it is yourself
or somebody else that is to be passively obedient. The king had an
army encamped on Hounslow Heath, for the purpose, as was said, of
overawing the city, which was not overawed at all, but only enraged.
The Dissenters were openly courted, and some of them even appeared
in court, but the leaders among them, like Mr. Baxter and Dr. Bates,
stood aloof, and made no response to the king's advances. The Bishop of
Exeter still clung to the hope that matters would be accommodated, but
his clergy were open enough in their expressions of discontent; and the
dean had declared plainly that the Prince of Orange, Calvinist as he
was, would be better than the rule of the Jesuits,—which was what every
one thought we were coming to.
It was like coming into a new world to me, who had lived so quietly
for the past year and more. I must say I found it very amusing for a
little, but I soon tired of the bustle and fuss, and was not a bit
sorry to get back to my quiet home again. Betty was to make a little
visit at home, and then to Mr. Rowson's old mother, who lived not
far from Bath. We employed the time of her absence in putting the
parsonage in nice order, and disposing therein the furniture my uncle
sent over. The house was a good one, though not large, but Mr. Rowson's
housekeeping had been but slack, even for a bachelor, and such a
looking place I never saw as Mrs. Williams and I found when we went
over.
By good luck, the old housekeeper went off in dudgeon at the news of
her master's marriage: so we had the place to ourselves, and soon put
it in nice order. Peggy's eldest sister had grown tired of living in a
town, and had come home. She was a staid, capable body, and was glad
to get a service near her mother, who was growing old: so we installed
her in the kitchen, with a little maiden from the school under her. And
when Betty came home, she found every thing in readiness, even to the
supper.
I think she has always been happy in her new life. She takes great
interest in parish matters, and hath set up a good school which she
superintends herself, though her two babes, which might almost as well
be twins, give her plenty to do. Her mother has visited her more than
once, and they are the best of friends. Betty has never told her what
she told Edward and me, that Mr. Rowson refused the offer of being a
minor canon at Exeter, which came to him shortly after his marriage.
"It would only vex her," said she, "and what is the use? I can tell
you, Dolly, since I had that one to deal with," pointing to her elder
child, who is a little pickle, "I begin to understand what I owe to my
mother. I think she mistook in many things, but as I call to mind her
kindness and self-sacrifice and patience, I cannot too deeply repent my
own perverseness."
"In not marrying Lord Cheney?" said I mischievously.
"You know better than that," she answered, laughing. "I would not
change my poor parson for any lordling in the land, much less for him
whom I always hated. But I might have refused in a different manner;
and I can see, in a hundred instances, how I set myself up against my
mother merely for the sake of contradiction. Yes, indeed, Mrs. Peggy,
there, has opened my eyes to a great many things I never should have
seen but for her."
But I am spinning out my story so long that I fear none of my
descendants will have the patience to read it. We lived at the farm
for a year longer, prospering on the whole; though we had to work hard
for what we got, and had our ups and downs like other folks. We heard
nothing from Dr. Kirton, except that his agent had raised all the rents
and exacted them pitilessly. Dr. Kirton himself never came near the
Hall, which was now quite shut up and deserted; for Janey's husband had
died, and she would not stay alone, and no one else could be found to
brave the terrors of the ghosts, which, according to the old servants
and tenants, made a parade-ground of the Hall. Janey came to us and
took up her abode with old Alice, who was altogether bedridden and
needed someone to wait on her.
As I said, we lived on quietly, and heard only distant echoes of the
storm which was muttering and gathering at home and abroad. When
my husband rode to Biddeford market, he generally brought home the
"Gazette,"—which, however, told us little, being under such close
censorship,—and two or three news-letters lent him by Master Gifford.
From them we heard of the stirring events in London, of the Declaration
of Indulgence, the arrest of the bishops and their acquittal, and the
mad conduct of the king and his Jesuit advisers, which men said were by
no mean approved by the Pope.
I had ridden to Biddeford with my husband, and was busy in Master
Gifford's shop, selecting some household matters, and talking with our
good old friend and his wife, when a foreign looking man, with the
unmistakable gait of a sailor, came in and asked for Master Gifford.
"I am Master Gifford, at your service," said the merchant.
Now, a foreign sailor is no sight at all in Biddeford, and I turned
away carelessly enough to speak to my husband who had just come in. At
the sound of his voice, the stranger turned hastily around.
"Ned!" said he with a curious tremor in his voice. "Surely this is
Edward Studley."
"Edward Studley, at your service, sir," said my husband, but in a
moment his face changed, and he looked like one who saw a ghost.
"Don't you know me, Ned?" said the stranger. "I should have known you,
had I met you in Barbary."
"If a man can rise from the dead, this is my uncle Philip," exclaimed
Edward, catching him by the hand. "Is it really you in substance of the
body?"
"Even as you see," said the sailor, with a mighty shake of the hand,
which left no doubt of his corporeal substance. "It is Philip Bassett
himself, escaped not from death, but from long captivity, well nigh as
hopeless as death."
It may be guessed what a welcome we gave to our uncle, whom every one
had mourned as dead. There was not room for many words, for we had to
be on our way home. Mr. Bassett looked surprised when we took the road
to Applecoombe.
"How is this?" said he. "This was not the road to Studley in my time."
"Nor is it now," answered Edward. "We are living at Applecoombe."
"At Applecoombe," repeated uncle Philip. "What, you have parted company
with the old gentleman at last! Well, no one can blame you."
"My father is dead," said Edward briefly.
Mr. Bassett said no more, but began asking about different neighbors as
we passed one house and another on the road. It was not till we were
seated by ourselves after supper that he began again.
"But if your father is dead, Ned, how does it happen that you are
living here? Why are you not on your own estate?"
"Because I have no estate," answered Edward. "My father disinherited
me, and left all his property to his second wife and her brother. He
gave me nothing but my black horse, and my mother's old harpsichord."
"Disinherited you!" exclaimed uncle Philip. "He could no more
disinherit you than he could the king of England. The whole estate
belonged to you by your grandfather's will, though your father had the
use of it for his life without reserve."
Edward colored high. "How did it happen that I never knew that?" he
asked.
"By the terms of the will the matter was to be kept secret till you
were five and twenty," answered Mr. Bassett. "I don't know that your
father was obliged to tell you even then, though that was certainly
implied. I wonder old Mr. Winne, the lawyer in Exeter, did not advise
you how matters stood."
"The old gentleman died before my father, who took his business out of
Mr. Winne's hands some years before," answered Edward. "Naturally young
Winne did not care to meddle in the matter unasked. But are you sure?"
"As sure as that I sit here," replied Mr. Bassett. "My father was one
of the witnesses to the will. Kirton hath no more right to the estate
than my old master in Tripoli."
"We must look into the matter," said my husband. "To-morrow, if you are
able, we will ride to Exeter and take council with Mr. Winne, who hath
his father's business, and is an honest man. But now tell us of your
adventures. Were you really a slave in Tripoli?"
"That I was for five long years, and might be to this day, only that
my master took me to sea with him. We were wrecked off Sardinia, and
my poor master was drowned. He was a kind, charitable old man, and
made my life as easy as might be. The ship was got off, but I slipped
overboard in the confusion, and swam to the shore. There I abode for
near a year longer, till I got a chance to ship for Marseilles, where I
found an English vessel, and worked my way home, without a tester in my
pocket,—not like the uncle in the story-book, who comes home with his
pouch full of gold, you see, niece."
"You have brought news which is better than gold," I answered; "and if
you had brought nothing but yourself, you would be more than welcome."
My husband had left the room at some call from Andrew, and I took the
chance to tell Mr. Bassett how Edward had gone to Turkey to look for
him, having heard that he had been seen in Constantinople.
"Ay, that was like Ned," said Mr. Bassett. "But why did his father cast
him off at last?"
"Because he was bewitched, I think," I answered, and told him the story.
"Ay, so," he said thoughtfully. "As there is nothing so good as a good
woman, so I believe there is nothing so bad as a wicked woman. But we
shall soon set all to rights now. Kirton will not have a leg to stand
on. I doubt if he shows any fight at all."
The next day my husband and his uncle rode to Exeter, found Mr. Winne,
and examined the will. It was so perfectly explicit that there was no
room for mistake. The proper steps were taken; and, as Mr. Bassett had
predicted, no opposition was made. Indeed, Dr. Kirton never made his
appearance at all, but fled from Bristol, where he had contrived to
victimize a good many people. Even his attorney at Biddeford lost money
by him, or so he said; though people in general were of the opinion
that he had feathered his own nest pretty well, and some did not
scruple to say that he had known the truth all along.
It may be guessed with what feelings we repaired to Studley Hall to
take possession of our rights. Great depredations had taken place by
cutting of timber and the like, and both Edward and Mr. Bassett groaned
over the loss of favorite trees. There had even been a threat at one
time of pulling down the Hall, but it had not been carried out; and the
old house stood safe and stately in its grove of nut-trees.
How strange it seemed to walk freely through the rooms and the garden,
and feel that they were all our own! In turning out the room where
poor Rebecca died, I discovered in a secret cupboard in the wall some
valuable jewels and quite a sum of money. I had no mind to profit by
the poor thing's riches, which might be, for aught I knew, the wages
of iniquity; and, with my husband's approval, I gave them all to Mr.
Rowson, to be laid out on the new schoolhouse which was then a-building.
As misfortunes never come single, so good fortune sometimes hath its
flood tides; and thus it was with us. The poor old Hall needed a deal
of repairing to make it comfortable, or even habitable, but where was
the money to come from? As may be guessed, Kirton had left no money
behind him. We were considering the matter of ways and means, when I
received a letter from London with surprising intelligence. Mr. Harpe,
the attorney to whom my mother had intrusted her little all, was dead,
and had left me by will seven hundred pounds, and a house at Hackney. I
was never more surprised in my life. His nephew, who was also his heir
and executor, wished me to come to London, and attend to the business
which must be gone through. The young man wrote very politely, I must
say, and enclosed funds to pay the expenses of the journey.
"How in the world came this man to leave you such a little fortune?"
asked Edward, when I gave him the letter. "What was he to you?"
"A thief and a robber," I answered. "Don't you remember my telling you
the story of my poor mother's little property, which was put into his
hands?"
"Well, he hath restored it two-fold, at least," said my husband.
"Small thanks to him for restoring what he could no longer keep," I
answered. "My thanks are due to God and to this man's honest executor,
but not at all to him, that I can see. What shall we do about it? It is
not a very convenient time for you to leave home."
"And I suppose you will not go without me," said Edward, "not even with
uncle Philip for escort."
"That I won't," I answered. "Don't flatter yourself that you are
going to get off so easily as that. Uncle Philip may stay and see to
the farm, and protect Mrs. Williams from the Irish, who so haunt her
imagination."
There was great talk about this time, of the Irish whom the king was
bringing over to recruit his army, and stragglers from the new levies
were straying about the country. Much more to be pitied than feared
they were, for the most part, poor things! For they could speak hardly
any English, and the people feared and hated them in equal proportion.
A couple of them had come as far out of the way as Applecoombe, and had
asked for food humbly enough, poor fellows! And Edward, finding them
willing to work, and apt to learn, had found them something to do about
the farm. They had not shown the least evil disposition during the few
days they had been with us. On the contrary, they had shown themselves
very grateful for their rations of brown bread and buttermilk, and
their beds of clean straw in a shed.
But Mrs. Williams would not be persuaded that they were not the
advance-guard of a band of marauders coming to murder us. Nor did she
seem much consoled when Mr. Rowson, who loves to tease her, reminded
her that if it were settled in the immutable decrees that she was to
be murdered by wild Irishmen, the sending away of Dennis and Patrick
O'Finnegan would do nothing to reverse it. However, they have staid
with us to this day, and have never yet murdered any one, or done any
harm, except by their blunders now and then.
Well, it was finally settled that we were to go to London by sea,
from Exmouth, with a captain whom Edward knew, leaving uncle Philip
and Andrew to garrison the farmhouse, and protect Mrs. Williams. We
set out about the middle of September, visiting my uncle by the way,
and receiving from my aunt a string of commissions for matters from
the London shops. We had rather a stormy voyage, but finally arrived
in safety about the first of October, and took lodgings near my Lady
Corbet's old house, with a widow lady with whom I had some acquaintance.
When we discovered what a scene of excitement and confusion we were
come into, we almost wished ourselves at home again. It had now become
an open secret that a number of peers, spiritual and temporal, had
united in an invitation to the Prince of Orange, who was making great
preparations for invading England. The king, who for a long time
had treated with contempt the warnings of King Louis and his other
friends on the Continent, had become suddenly awake to his danger,
had dismissed some of his advisers, and ordered others to keep out
of the way, and had thus late in the day brought forward proofs of
the legitimacy of the poor little baby Prince of Wales, which nobody
believed in any the more for all his pains. It was a little curious,
by the way, that he who had taken so much pains to throw doubts on the
legitimacy of his first wife's children should have so much trouble in
proving the birth of this child.
Every one, even those who have since been bitterly opposed to him, was
praying for a favorable wind for the prince. The fruit and flower girls
made their profit of the occasion; for oranges were bought at any price
the vendors chose to ask, and every man who could procure one had some
kind of yellow flower in his hat or button-hole, while orange ribbons
and orange plumes were flaunted in the park under the very nose of the
king.
We found the younger Mr. Harpe to be a very sober young gentleman,
disposed to do every thing in his power for those whom his uncle had
wronged. The man had been worse than I had ever supposed; for it turned
out, upon examination, that Mrs. Price had actually left to my mother a
house worth at least two hundred pounds, and the same amount in money;
so that, after all, Mr. Harpe had left me only my exact due. Mr. John
Harpe insisted on paying interest for Mrs. Price's legacy, and, indeed,
showed himself in every thing as honest and open-handed as his uncle
had been the reverse. But there is always more or less delay in all
legal proceedings; and one week dragged on after another, and still we
were kept in town. Oh, how I did hate the dirt and the smoke and the
smells, and long for a breath of Devon air and a good drink of Devon
milk!
I did not forget my aunt's commissions. And, going out one day about
some of them, I made my way to Mr. Jackson's shop, where I found Ursula
behind the desk. She looked old and worn, and her fretful expression
had grown upon her. She pretended not to recognize me at first; and,
when I made myself known to her, she affected great surprise at seeing
me in town, and asked what had brought me. I told her I had come up
with my husband to look after some property which had fallen to me.
"Oh, so you are married, after all!" said she. "And who is the happy
man?"
"Mr. Studley of Studley Hall in North Devon," I told her.
"What! He who was my Lady Clarenham's gentleman-usher? I wonder your
aunt should have allowed you to make such a match as that. But I
suppose after her own daughter went to the bad—" She saw something in
my face, I suppose, and she checked herself with, "But perhaps, after
all, it was not so bad as people said."
"I don't know what you mean, or what people say," I answered warmly.
"I know that my cousin is most respectably and happily married, and
living in her own house, if you call that going to the bad. But you are
just the same Ursula, I see, always with a wonderful tale to somebody's
disadvantage."
"And you are the same Dolly, always flying out at nothing," she
retorted. And then, more gently, "But don't let us quarrel when we have
not met for so long. I only repeated what I had heard. I am sure I am
glad it is not true. Come into my parlor, and sit awhile; it does me
good to see an old friend."
I did not want any words with her, and something about her made me feel
sorry for her: so I followed her into a back parlor, behind the shop,
with loopholed doors by which she could keep an eye on the shopmen.
Here she would have me sit down, and brought out some cake and wine. I
asked after her father.
"My father is well, but very feeble, and hardly ever comes near the
shop," she answered. "My uncle and aunt Pendergast are staying with
us at present. These are fine times for us Dissenters, Dolly. We are
courted of both sides alike."
"So I hear," I answered, "but Mr. Jackson is not a Dissenter. How is
he?"
"Well enough," she answered carelessly. "He is at the docks about some
goods just come in, or I should not be sitting here in comfort. But I
made my bed, and I must lie on it, I suppose. We poor slaves of wives
must take what we can get, and be thankful."
"I am quite content to take what I get," I answered. "I have the best
husband in the world."
"I am glad you think so," said Ursula more gently; "and indeed, Dolly,
you do look as though things had gone well with you."
I asked her about my Lady Corbet.
"Oh, yes, poor thing, she is in town! You had better go and see her,
Dolly: she often speaks of you."
"I certainly shall do so," I said. "But how is she prospering?"
"As well as a woman can who has married a gambler and drunkard, and
sees her money melting away in his grasp. But that she hath property of
which he can touch only the income, I believe she would have been in
an almshouse before now. He never goes near her except when he wants
to coax or bully a few guineas out of her. He would have her give up
her house, but she clings to that, and there you will find her, like a
mouse under a bushel. But here comes my amiable lord and master."
In effect, we heard the next moment a sharp voice in the shop asking
for Mrs. Jackson, and in the same breath scolding the shopman for
allowing the sun to shine on a piece of camlet.
"But 'twould be all the same to you, or your mistress either, if it
were cloth of gold or velvet of Genoa. Nothing goes right when my eye
is turned away for a minute."
He opened the door with a frown on his face, which he tried hard to
turn into an amiable smile when Ursula presented me to him. He looked
littler and meaner than ever. I could not but remember poor Mr.
Andrews, whose honest love had been so slighted. Certainly he had had
an escape.
As soon as I could, I went to seek my old mistress. I found her living
as Ursula had said, like a mouse under a bushel, in one corner of
the old house, attended by a vinegar-faced waiting-woman,— a great
contrast, certainly, to former days. The poor old lady looked older and
more pinched than ever, with her false locks, and the youthful laced
cap for which she had exchanged her widow's veil. She gave me a warm
welcome, and really seemed glad to hear of my well doing. By and by the
waiting damsel left the room, and then she asked me if I knew any thing
of Mrs. Williams. I told her my old friend was living with me, and I
hoped would always do so.
"Ay, she always loved you," said my lady. "She did not like my marrying
again, and I gave her warning for something she said, but I never
meant her to go. However, she and Sir Philip Morley would never have
agreed, so it is just as well. Sir Philip is like other young men, but
we must make allowances, we must make allowances. He has a great many
engagements, and cannot give me as much of his company as we could both
wish, but he is kind to me, oh, yes, he is kind to me, whatever people
may say!"
Somehow I liked the poor old body all the better for making the best of
her bad bargain, instead of complaining of him as Ursula Jackson had
done. She kept me a long time, asking all about my marriage, and really
showing more interest in me than she had ever done before. I was about
to take my leave, when she toddled to her cabinet, and, after some
hunting, brought out a very pretty case of silver-gilt spoons, which
I remembered as having adorned the table on great occasions. She gave
them to me, saying she always meant I should have them some day, and
they might do for a wedding present. They were small, but very heavy
and prettily wrought, and I was admiring them, when I heard a man's
step on the stairs, and my lady said rather hurriedly,—
"There, put the box in your pocket, child."
I obeyed instinctively the old sharp tone of command, as Sir Philip
Morley entered. I knew him in a moment, though he was changed and grown
stout.
Could this be the man I had once fancied I loved,—this debauched
looking ruffler? He greeted his wife carelessly enough, and then turned
to me.
"And who have we here? As I live by bread, 'tis my old flame, pretty
Mrs. Dolly!"
"Mrs. Studley, if you please, sir," I answered, with a courtesy, and by
no means relishing the freedom of his address.
"Oh, ho! We are married, and we stand on our dignity," said Sir Philip
with a laugh. "Well, 'tis a pretty dignity, and does not misbecome
you. Mrs. Studley, since that is the style, I trust I see you well and
happy?"
"Very well and very happy, thank you," I answered.
"And how long have you worn the rosy chain of Hymen, may I ask?" said
he with a sneering laugh. "For of course it is a rosy chain; we all
know that, eh, Felicia?" turning a mocking glance on his poor wife, who
seemed divided between joy and terror.
"I have been married about two years," I answered concisely. I felt
more and more disgusted with him every moment, as he went on paying me
compliments, and seasoning them with ironical speeches to his wife.
My husband had promised to call for me, and I never listened more
eagerly for his knock than I did then. He came at last, and I bade my
poor old mistress farewell. I never saw her again. I did see Sir Philip
once more, as I have good reason to remember.
For my part I was not at all sorry to have met him again, and that
without a single feeling save of shame that I should ever have thought
of loving him. I don't think, after all, that he was so very much
changed: it was my eyes that were opened.
As we were walking home that afternoon (it was the 7th of November),
we observed an unusual commotion in the streets. Men were gathered in
knots, shaking hands and exchanging looks and words of congratulation,
as on some most joyful event. My husband asked one man,—whose dark
face, and hat pulled over his brow, showed that he, at least, took no
share in the general joy,—what had happened.
"The Devil hath broke loose,—that is all," answered the man, as he
turned away.
My husband asked another the same question.
"'Tis that the Lord hath sent deliverance to his people. Praised be his
name that I have lived to see it!" replied the old man.
Whereupon the first cursed him for a traitor and an old Roundhead,
and I believe would have struck him, had not Edward interposed. So
differently was the coming of the Prince of Orange looked upon. But
the number of those who mourned was as nothing to those who rejoiced.
We hastened to our lodgings, for the mob were already giving signs of
turbulence.
That night a chapel not far from us was sacked, the images and
furniture thrown into the street and burned, and the priests obliged to
fly for their lives.
But the tumult that night was nothing to what followed the flight of
the king. The Prince of Orange fairly scared the poor king into running
away, much as I have seen our big tom-cat drive a rival and intruder
out of the garden by merely looking at him and growling. The queen
and the poor little baby were sent away first, under the escort of a
Frenchman named Lauzin; and then the king slipped off in the night. He
did his best to leave anarchy behind him, by throwing away the great
seal, and writing to Feversham to disband the army. ¹
¹ James denied afterward that he meant to disband the army, but his
letter could hardly be construed to mean any thing else.
As soon as it became known that the king had fled, every thing was
done that could be done to preserve order, but in vain. That night,
the longest in the year as it happened, London was a scene of terrible
confusion. All the Roman Catholic chapels and religious houses, of
which many had sprung up during the last three years, were sacked and
burned; and the inmates hardly escaped with their lives. The same
fate befell the mansions of the Spanish ambassador and several other
foreign ministers, and many private houses were burned and plundered.
The mischief was mostly done by that army of human vermin which seems
to infest all the chinks and cracks of great cities, and in part by the
apprentices, always ready for mischief.
The next day, London looked as though it had been taken by storm. Our
house, a very plain one in a quiet street, was not even threatened. But
Mr. Jackson's shop was plundered, and he himself beaten and abused,—it
was said, by his own shopmen and apprentices, who certainly were not
likely to love him. Lady Corbet's house was also assaulted; and though
the mob were diverted from it, by the attack upon Wild House, the poor
old lady was so frightened that she never held up her head again, and
died a few days afterward.
All day long the peers and the city government labored to restore
order, and to avert the consequences of the outrages which had been
committed. The Spanish ambassador, who had been the greatest sufferer,
was lodged in the palace, and treated with all the observance due to
the king himself. He was a sensible, good-tempered man, and accepted
graciously the apologies made to him, as did the other ambassadors.
By sunset, things had fallen into a good degree of order. The poor
priests and nuns had been cared for, or had found shelter with their
friends, the smouldering fires had been put out, and guards were
stationed in dangerous places. We began to hope for a quiet night.
Our landlady, Mrs. Jennings, who had kept close all day, ventured to go
out and buy materials for a hot supper; and I was anxiously awaiting
the return of Mr. Studley, who had gone to ask after poor Ursula and
her husband.
He came at last, and I ran down to the door to meet him. As I opened
it, I saw his face wore the pale, resolved look I knew so well; and I
became conscious of a distant tumult of screams and cries of alarm.
"What now!" I exclaimed.
"Nothing, I hope, but a false alarm," answered my husband, quickly
shutting and securing the door. "Help Mrs. Jennings to close all the
shutters, Dolly. That is the very first thing."
If I have any talent in the world, it is for doing as I am bid. I had
the lower shutters closed and barred before the words were fairly out
of Edward's mouth, and ran up-stairs to do the same.
Poor Mrs. Jennings, coming up from the kitchen, with both hands full of
hot beefsteak and oyster-sauce, could only stand and stare aghast.
The noise drew nearer and nearer,—such a noise as I hope never to hear
again, of oaths and curses, mingled with the shrieks of women and
children, and above all the cry of, "The Irish, the Irish! The Irish
soldiers are coming to fire the city."
"What does it mean?" I asked, having done all I could do.
"Nothing, I hope," answered my husband. "There is a rumor that the
disbanded army is on its way to sack and burn the city."
"O Lord! And he calls that nothing," exclaimed Mrs. Jennings, setting
down her dishes for the convenience of wringing her hands.
"O Lord! Oh, gracious!" chorused her handmaiden. "Oh, we shall all be
murdered and ravished and burned alive!" And with that she began to
scream.
"Hold your tongue, Mary Anne," said her mistress sharply. "How dare you
make such a noise here! And see how you are drizzling that gravy all
over the floor. Go and bring up the pudding and the mince-pies before I
cuff your ears."
Scared as I was, I could hardly help laughing at Mrs. Jennings's sudden
change of tone, but I felt sorry for the poor maid.
"Don't make a noise, but keep perfectly quiet: that is the best way to
avoid notice," said I. "You see, Mr. Studley thinks it may be a false
alarm.—How did the news come, Edward?"
"Nobody seems to know," answered my husband. "To say truth, I do not
believe there is much cause for fear. I met Lady Clarenham's nephew,
Mr. Strangeways, who is in the Life Guards just now. He says he
believes the poor Irish are too thoroughly cowed and bewildered to
attempt any great mischief, even if they wished it, which is not at all
certain. At all events we can do nothing but keep quiet and wait the
event, commending ourselves to Divine protection."
"And that is true; and at any rate we need not leave the nice supper
to be eaten by the wild Irish," said Mrs. Jennings, who I believe
worships the goddess of cookery, and is indeed a worthy priestess of
that divinity. "Mary Anne, you have not put the mustard on the table;
and where are the pickled walnuts?"
Mary Anne muttered that one could not be thinking about such things at
such a time. She believed her mistress would do so if it were the day
of judgment that was coming instead of the Irish.
"To be sure I should, if mustard and walnuts were in the line of my
duty," answered Mrs. Jennings sharply. "Come, now, bestir yourself."
We tried to do justice to the nice things prepared for us, but nobody
could have much appetite with those dreadful sounds ringing in our
ears,—cries and screams, and rushing to and fro of excited crowds, now
a temporary lull and now another frightful alarm, "They are coming; the
wild Irish are coming."
Edward called us all to prayers, and then we women lay down in our
clothes. Poor Mary Anne was so frightened at the notion of going up to
her attic that I made her sit down in the great chair in my room, where
she was asleep and snoring in two minutes.
The longest night must have an end, and so did this.
When morning came, people bethought themselves to find out what they
were scared at. And then it turned out, as Edward had surmised, that
the whole was a false alarm. Nay, there had not been a particle of
foundation for it; no Irishman had attempted any outrage, or done worse
than ask for food at a farmhouse door. The report had first been spread
in the suburbs by some men dressed like country wagoners. It might have
passed for a silly practical joke, if the same alarm had not been given
in other places, widely distant from each other. The whole matter was
evidently a conspiracy, but to what end, or by whom planned, remains a
mystery. ¹
¹ So it does to this day.
All this confusion and anarchy was no help to our business. And I began
to think we should drag out the whole winter in London, and spend all
our money before we received it. We staid on till after the capture and
second escape of King James (though I don't know why I should call it
an escape, since all that any one wanted of him was to run away as fast
as he could), and the entry of the Prince of Orange into London.
Finally, after the Christmas holidays, and when matters were becoming
a little settled, we saw the end of our business. The money, which,
with the sale of the house Mrs. Price had left me, came to more than
nine hundred pounds, was sent to our lawyer, Mr. Winne, in bills, as we
meant to go home by coach, and did not care to have so much about us. I
had executed all my aunt's commissions, and had made a farewell visit
to Mr. and Mrs. Pendergast, and to poor Ursula Jackson, the last of my
old acquaintances, whose husband was still in bed from the effects of
the beating he had received on the night of the riot. Ursula declared
he was more scared than hurt, and I dare say she was right.
We were to travel by the fast coach, which makes the journey in three
days. It seemed a very short time to me, who had been a week going over
the same ground in my uncle's coach. The roads were good; and we had
pleasant travelling companions in the persons of a dignified clergyman
whom I had met at Bishop Lampleugh's, in Exeter, and a brother of my
Lady Peckham's, Lord Carewe, who had been out of the country ever since
Monmouth's rebellion, and was now going down to visit his sister. He
hath since married Mrs. Winifred Evans, a very nice, pretty young
lady whom Lady Peckham brought up, and who saved his life in quite a
romantic way when he was lying out in the fields, after the woeful
battle of Sedgemoor.
The roads were good for the time of year, as there had been a hard
frost of several days' duration, and we had abundance of wraps, so we
were not uncomfortable. There was something exhilarating, too, in such
rapid travelling, for in many places we went at the rate of seven or
eight miles an hour.
But we were not to get off without an adventure. There had been talk
of highwaymen at the inn where we staid the first night. We were
travelling somewhat slowly over a desolate heath, when the driver
suddenly pulled up, and a voice at the window demanded our money and
valuables. My husband and Lord Carewe exchanged glances.
"We will do you no harm if you will give up the money we know you have
about you," said the masked horseman. "It is in vain to deny, Mr.
Studley. We know that you carried away near a thousand pounds from
London."
"You are mistaken," said Edward quietly. "I sent the money by sea to a
merchant in Bristol a week ago."
The highwayman uttered a curse, and then demanded our watches. Dr.
Bristow pulled out his, and the robber reached out his hand to receive
it. In a moment Edward had him by the throat, while Lord Carewe held a
pistol to his ear. His horse started from under him, and he was left
hanging from the coach-door in a very uncomfortable and undignified
fashion. His companion, seeing how things were going, clapped spurs to
his horse, and was out of sight in a minute.
"You can't shoot," gurgled the half-choked robber. "Your pistols are
stuffed."
"That is your mistake," answered Edward, in the tone of polite dignity
which he always uses when offended. "They were stuffed, I grant you,
but the stuffing was drawn this morning as you shall see if you offer
to stir.—Doctor, will you have the kindness to tie this gentleman's
hands? My wife will lend you her scarf for the purpose."
"I have what will serve even better," answered Dr. Bristow calmly, as
he took from his pocket a new silk stole. "It hath never been used
in the church, or I should have scruples as to putting it to so base
a service," he continued, as he secured the hands of the robber, now
gasping for breath under Edward's bulldog grasp of his throat. The
guard at the same time tying the man's legs, he was helplessly at our
mercy.
"Let us take a look at your face, my friend," said Edward, as he took
the mask from the robber's countenance. I shall never forget the look
of agony he bent upon me as I recognized Philip Morley. I spoke his
name aloud before I thought.
"For Heaven's sake, let me go," pleaded the poor craven wretch. "Let me
go, and I will never molest any one again.—O Mrs. Studley, plead for
me!"
The men were obdurate at first, but Dr. Bristow and I finally prevailed
with them to leave him, bound as he was, by the side of the road. We
had passed a carrier's wagon about an hour before, so we knew he would
be found and released before night-fall. A stout strap was substituted
for the desecrated stole, which the doctor remarked would make his good
sister an apron. And we left him sitting by the roadside, a pitiable
object indeed. He was rescued, as we had foreseen, and told some
cock-and-bull story to account for his plight. He left the country at
once, and I believe has never returned.
We had no further adventures, and reached home in safety, to find all
well, and Mrs. Williams quite reconciled to poor Dennis and Patrick.
As the season was advanced, and so much was to be done at the Hall,
we remained at Applecoombe till May, when, having let the farm to
advantage, we removed to this house, where we have now lived for two or
three months.
I must confess that at first I woefully missed the farm and its
interests. But I soon found enough to do, and my baby's coming after so
long a time filled up my cup of happiness to the brim. My good aunt is
finally satisfied with my position, and takes great credit to herself
for establishing me so well. I am quite willing she should do so, since
it pleases her, but I can't help thinking how it would have been if she
had been determined to marry me to Mr. Cheney instead of Mr. Studley.
In my state of mind at that time, I should probably have been as
passive as I was in marrying Mr. Studley.
Now Mr. Cheney—my lord, I should say—has fled the country, and people
say has joined King James in Ireland. All his great wealth has vanished
into thin air, and he hath left nothing behind him but an immense
amount of unpaid bills in Exeter, and various gambling debts. His poor
wife has returned to her widowed mother, who tells a pitiful story of
her wrongs. Sir Robert let out the whole story the last time he and
my aunt were here, and I thought it was a good deal to Betty Rowson's
credit that not a look or word escaped her to say, "I told you so."
One thing I know. No considerations of worldly advantage shall ever
make me force my Barbara into a match against her will. The baby is
named Barbara, after my husband's mother, and my dear Bab Andrews, from
whom I hear two or three times a year. She is well, and seems to be
happy in the life she has chosen. Her aunt is dead, and has left her
quite rich; and she hath removed to a place called Newcastle, not far
from Mr. Penn's new town, which he calls Philadelphia.
Uncle Philip visited the place last year, and says it is really quite
a nice village. Barbara sent me a little painting of her house, which
is neat and pretty. She has a school for girls, which gives her
pleasant employment. I fancy Uncle Philip would not be sorry to go into
partnership with her, but I doubt Bab will never marry. However, he is
going thither again next year, he having taken command of a fine ship
belonging to Master Birch, in Bristol: so there is no telling what may
happen.
Mrs. Williams is well and happy, and I hope may be spared to us for
many years. She surprised us all by going to church when baby was
christened, and has been to hear Mr. Rowson preach once or twice since.
She hath her crotchets, no doubt, but I am sure a better Christian
never lived in the world than Mrs. Mehetabel Williams.
Lord Chesterton was married last year to no less a person than my old
school friend and pet, Mrs. Patty, Lady Clarenham's grand-niece. She
has grown-up a very pretty, sweet young lady, and will make him a nice
wife. He lives at home on his own estates, sees to his tenants, and is
a very sober, religious gentleman, certainly a great contrast to what
he was when I knew him first.
Mr. Baxter is still living, and in much easier circumstances, many of
the oppressive restrictions which were laid on the Dissenters during
the last two reigns having been taken off, though there is still plenty
of room for improvement in their condition. Mr. and Mrs. Pendergast
have gone to America, and are settled in the same town as Bab Andrews.
My Lady Corbet left them quite a sum of money in her will, with which
they bought land: so they are well to do. I am glad, for I always liked
them. Ursula Jackson is a widow, but carries on her husband's business.
And now I come to the end of the third of these books, which I began
under such different circumstances. Looking back over the way I have
come, I can but thank the Guiding Hand which has led me by such unknown
and untried ways to this haven of rest and peace. I thank God that he
"has" led me, often sorely against my will, instead of leaving me to
follow out the paths I chose for myself. Verily, He leadeth "the blind
by a way they know not."
UNIFORM WITH THIS VOLUME.
——————————————————
THE SWORD OF THE CAREWS By DUNCAN McCLAREN.
MIDSHIPMITE CURLY DR. GORDON STABLES.
THE DOG CRUSOE R. M. BALLANTYNE.
PRETORIA FROM WITHIN A. J. BATTS.
EVERYBODY'S BUSINESS AGNES GIBERNE.
HER NEXT-DOOR NEIGHBOUR M. COMRIE.
GRIMM'S FAIRY TALES _Illustrated._
UNCLE TOM'S CABIN H. B. STOWE.
THE WIDE, WIDE WORLD E. WETHERELL.
THE CORAL ISLAND R. M. BALLANTYNE.
BLUEBELL EMMA MARSHALL.
HALF A DOZEN GIRLS A. C. RAY.
HEARTS OF OAK GORDON STABLES.
HALF A DOZEN BOYS A. C. RAY.
THE KNIGHTS OF THE WHITE ROSE GEORGE GRIFFITH.
THE GREAT WHITE QUEEN WM. LE QUEUX.
LADY SYBIL'S CHOICE E. S. HOLT.
THE CHILDREN'S KINGDOM L. T. MEADE.
LITTLE QUEENIE EMMA MARSHALL.
JACK, AN ENGLISH BOY Y. OSBORN.
SISTER ROSE E. S. HOLT.
THE HIDDEN TREASURE L. E. GUERNSEY.
A KNIGHT OF TO-DAY L. T. MEADE.
THE KING'S DAUGHTERS E. S. HOLT.
WAITING FOR THE BEST J. M. CONKLIN.
ALL'S WELL E. S. HOLT.
A REAL HERO G. STEBBING.
HER HUSBAND'S HOME E. EVERETT-GREEN.
ROBIN TREMAYNE E. S. HOLT.
THE STORY OF MARTIN LUTHER E. WARREN.
OUT IN GOD'S WORLD J. M. CONKLIN.
UNDAUNTED W. C. METCALFE.
WINNING AN EMPIRE G. STEBBING.
WON AT LAST AGNES GIBERNE.
——————————————————
More than Sixty-six Volumes in this Series.
——————————————————
LONDON: JOHN F. SHAW & CO., 48, PATERNOSTER ROW, E.C.