Chapter III: Part 3

For certain, I woulde that Mr. _Milton_ were here; but he woulde call our Sports mistimed, and throw a Damp upon our Mirth by not joining in it. Soe I will enjoy my Holiday while it lasts, for it may be long ere I get another--especiallie if his and _Father's_ Opinions get wider asunder, as I think they are doing alreadie. My promised Spring Holiday may come to nothing.

_Monday_.

My Husband hath writ to me strangelie, chiding me most unkindlie for what was noe Fault of mine, to wit, _Dick's_ Falsitie; and wondering I can derive anie Pleasure from a Holiday so obtayned, which he will not curtayl, but will on noe Pretence extend. Nay! but methinks Mr. _Milton_ presumeth somewhat too much on his marital Authoritie, writing in this Strayn. I am no mere Child neither, nor a runaway Wife, nor in such bad Companie, in mine own Father's House, where he firste saw me; and, was it anie Fault of mine, indeed, that _Father_ was not ill? or can I wish he had beene? No, truly!

This Letter hath sorelie vexed me. Dear _Father_, seeing me soe dulle, askt me if I had had bad News. I sayd I had, for that Mr. _Milton_ wanted me back at the Month's End. He sayd, lightlie, Oh, that must not be, I must at all Events stay over his Birthdaye, he could not spare me sooner; he woulde settle all that. Let it be soe then--I am content enoughe.

To change the Current of my Thoughts, he hath renewed the Scheme for our Visit to Lady _Falkland_, which, Weather permitting, is to take Place tomorrow. 'Tis long since I have seene her, soe I am willing to goe; but she is dearer to _Rose_ than to me, though I respect her much.

_Wednesday_.

The whole of Yesterday occupyde with our Visit. I love Lady _Falkland_ well, yet her religious Mellanchollie and Presages of Evil have left a Weight upon my Spiritts. To-daye, we have a Family Dinner. The _Agnews_ come not, but the _Merediths_ doe, we shall have more Mirthe if less Wit. My Time now draweth soe short, I must crowd into it alle the Pleasure I can; and in this, everie one conspires to help me, saying, "Poor _Moll_ must soon return to _London_." Never was Creature soe petted or spoylt. How was it there was none of this before I married, when they might have me alwaies? ah, therein lies the Secret. Now, we have mutuallie tasted our Losse.

_Ralph Hewlett_, going agayn to Town, was avised to ask whether I had anie Commission wherewith to charge him. I bade him tell Mr. _Milton_ that since we should meet soe soone, I need not write, but would keep alle my News for our Fire-side. _Robin_ added, "Say, we cannot spare her yet," and _Father_ echoed the same.

But I begin to feel now, that I must not prolong my Stay. At the leaste, not beyond _Father's_ Birthday. My Month is hasting to a Close.

_Sept. 21, 1643_.

Battle at _Newbury--_Lord _Falkland_ slayn. Oh, fatal Loss! _Father_ and _Mother_ going off to my Lady: but I think she will not see them. Aunt and Uncle _Hewlett_, who brought the News, can talk of nothing else.

_Sept. 22, 1643_.

Alle Sadnesse and Consternation. I am wearie of bad News, public and private, and feel less and less Love for the Puritans, yet am forced to seem more loyal than I really am, soe high runs party Feeling just now at Home.

My Month has passed!

_Sept. 28, 1643_.

A most displeased Letter from my Husband, minding me that my Leave of Absence hath expired, and that he likes not the Messages he received through _Ralph_, nor the unreasonable and hurtfulle Pastimes which he finds have beene making my quiet Home distastefulle. Asking, are they suitable, under Circumstances of nationall Consternation to _my owne_ Party, or seemlie in soe young a Wife, apart from her Husband? To conclude, insisting, with more Authoritie than Kindnesse, on my immediate Return.

With Tears in my Eyes, I have beene to my Father. I have tolde him I must goe. He sayth, Oh no, not yet. I persisted, I must, my Husband was soe very angry. He rejoined, What, angry with my sweet _Moll_? and for spending a few Days with her old Father? Can it be? hath it come to this alreadie? I sayd, my Month had expired. He sayd, Nonsense, he had always askt me to stay over _Michaelmasse_, till his Birthday; he knew _Dick_ had named it to Mr. _Milton_. I sayd, Mr. _Milton_ had taken no Notice thereof, but had onlie granted me a Month. He grew peevish, and said, "Pooh, pooh!" Thereat, after a Silence of a Minute or two, I sayd yet agayn, I must goe. He took me by the two Wrists and sayd, Doe you wish to go? I burst into Teares, but made noe Answer. He sayd, That is Answer enough,--how doth this Puritan carry it with you, my Child? and snatched his Letter. I sayd, Oh, don't read that, and would have drawn it back; but _Father_, when heated, is impossible to controwl; therefore, quite deaf to Entreaty, he would read the Letter, which was unfit for him in his chafed Mood; then, holding it at Arm's Length, and smiting it with his Fist,--Ha! and is it thus he dares address a Daughter of mine? (with Words added, I dare not write)--but be quiet, _Moll_, be at Peace, my Child, for he shall not have you back for awhile, even though he come to fetch you himself. The maddest Thing I ever did was to give you to this Roundhead. He and _Roger Agnew_ talked me over with soe many fine Words.--What possessed me, I know not. Your Mother always said evil woulde come of it. But as long as thy Father has a Roof over his Head, Child, thou hast a Home.

As soone as he woulde hear me, I begged him not to take on soe, for that I was not an unhappy Wife; but my Tears, he sayd, belied me; and indeed, with Fear and Agitation, they flowed fast enough. But I sayd, I _must_ goe home, and wished I had gone sooner, and woulde he let _Diggory_ take me! No, he sayd, not a Man Jack on his Land shoulde saddle a Horse for me, nor would he lend me one, to carry me back to Mr. _Milton_; at the leaste not for a While, till he had come to Reason, and protested he was sorry for having writ to me soe harshly.

"Soe be content, _Moll_, and make not two Enemies instead of one. Goe, help thy Mother with her clear-starching. Be happy whilst thou art here."

But ah! more easily said than done. "Alle Joy is darkened; the Mirthe of the Land is gone!"

_Michaelmasse Day_.

At Squire _Paice's_ grand Dinner we have been counting on soe many Days; but it gave me not the Pleasure expected.

_Oct. 13, 1643_.

The Weather is soe foul that I am sure Mr. _Milton_ woulde not like me to be on the Road, even would my Father let me goe.

--While writing the above, heard very angrie Voices in the Courtyard, my Father's especiallie, louder than common; and distinguished the Words "Knave," and "Varlet," and "begone." Lookt from my Window and beheld a Man, booted and cloaked, with two Horses, at the Gate, parleying with my Father, who stood in an offensive Attitude, and woulde not let him in. I could catch such Fragments as, "But, Sir?" "What! in such Weather as this?" "Nay, it had not overcast when I started." "'Tis foul enough now, then." "Let me but have speech of my Mistress." "You crosse not my Threshold." "Nay, Sir, if but to give her this Letter:"--and turning his Head, I was avised of its being _Hubert_, old Mr. _Milton's_ Man; doubtless sent by my Husband to fetch me. Seeing my Father raise his Hand in angrie Action (his Riding-whip being in it), I hasted down as fast as I coulde, to prevent Mischiefe, as well as to get my Letter; but, unhappilie, not soe fleetlie as to see more than _Hubert's_ flying Skirts as he gallopped from the Gate, with the led Horse by the Bridle; while my Father flinging downe the torne Letter, walked passionatelie away. I clasped my Hands, and stood mazed for a while,--was then avised to piece the Letter, but could not; onlie making out such Words as "Sweet _Moll_," in my Husband's Writing.

_Oct. 14, 1643_.

_Rose_ came this Morning, through Rain and Mire, at some Risk as well as much Inconvenience, to intreat of me, even with Teares, not to vex Mr. _Milton_ by anie farther Delays, but to return to him as soon as possible. Kind Soule, her Affection toucht me, and I assured her the more readilie I intended to return Home as soone as I coulde, which was not yet, my Father having taken the Matter into his own Hands, and permitting me noe Escort; but that I questioned not, Mr. _Milton_ was onlie awaiting the Weather to settle, to fetch me himself. That he will doe so, is my firm Persuasion. Meanwhile, I make it my Duty to joyn with some Attempt at Cheerfullenesse in the Amusements of others, to make my Father's Confinement to the House less irksome; and have in some Measure succeeded.

_Oct. 23, 1643_.

Noe Sighte nor Tidings of Mr. _Milton_.--I am uneasie, frighted at myself, and wish I had never left him, yet hurte at the Neglect. _Hubert_, being a crabbed Temper, made Mischief on his Return, I fancy. _Father_ is vexed, methinks, at his owne Passion, and hath never, directlie, spoken, in my Hearinge, of what passed; but rayleth continuallie agaynst Rebels and Roundheads. As to _Mother_,--ah me!

_Oct. 24, 1643_.

Thro' dank and miry Lanes and Bye-roads with _Robin_, to _Sheepscote_.

Waiting for _Rose_ in Mr. _Agnew's_ small Studdy, where she mostlie sitteth with him, oft acting as his Amanuensis, was avised to take up a printed Sheet of Paper that lay on the Table; but finding it to be of _Latin_ Versing, was about to laye it downe agayn, when _Rose_ came in. She changed Colour, and in a faltering Voice sayd, "Ah, _Cousin_, do you know what that is? One of your Husband's Proofe Sheets. I woulde that it coulde interest you in like manner as it hath me." Made her noe Answer, laying it aside unconcernedlie, but secretlie felt, as I have oft done before, how stupid it is not to know _Latin_, and resolved to get _Robin_ to teach me. He is noe greate Scholar himselfe, soe will not shame me.--I am wearie of hearing of War and Politicks; soe will try Studdy for a while, and see if 'twill cure this dull Payn at my Heart.

_Oct. 28, 1643_.

_Robin_ and I have shut ourselves up for three Hours dailie, in the small Book-room, and have made fayre Progresse. He liketh his Office of Tutor mightilie.

_Oct. 31, 1643_.

My Lessons are more crabbed, or I am more dull and inattentive, for I cannot fix my Minde on my Book, and am secretlie wearie, _Robin_ wearies too. But I will not give up as yet; the more soe as in this quiete Studdy I am out of Sighte and Hearinge of sundrie young Officers _Dick_ is continuallie bringing over from _Oxford_, who spend manie Hours with him in Countrie Sports, and then come into the House, hungry, thirstie, noisie, and idle. I know Mr. _Milton_ woulde not like them.

--Surelie he will come soone?--I sayd to _Father_ last Night, I wanted to hear from Home. He sayd, "Home! Dost call yon Taylor's Shop your Home?" soe ironicalle that I was shamed to say more.

Woulde that I had never married!--then coulde I enjoy my Childhoode's Home. Yet I knew not its Value before I quitted it, and had even a stupid Pleasure in anticipating another. Ah me! had I loved Mr. _Milton_ more, perhaps I might better have endured the Taylor's Shop.

_Sheepscote, Nov. 20, 1643_.

Annoyed by _Dick's_ Companions, I prayed _Father_ to let me stay awhile with _Rose_; and gaining his Consent, came over here Yester-morn, without thinking it needfulle to send Notice, which was perhaps inconsiderate. But she received me with Kisses and Words of Tendernesse, though less Smiling than usualle, and eagerlie accepted mine offered Visitt. Then she ran off to find _Roger_, and I heard them talking earnestlie in a low Voice before they came in. His Face was grave, even stern, when he entred, but he held out his Hand, and sayd, "Mistress _Milton_, you are welcome! how is it with you? and how was Mr. _Milton_ when he wrote to you last?" I answered brieflie, he was well: then came a Silence, and then _Rose_ took me to my Chamber, which was sweet with Lavender, and its hangings of the whitest. It reminded me too much of my first Week of Marriage, soe I resolved to think not at all lest I shoulde be bad Companie, but cheer up and be gay. Soe I askt _Rose_ a thousand Questions about her Dairie and Bees, laught much at Dinner, and told Mr. _Agnew_ sundrie of the merrie Sayings of _Dick_ and his _Oxford_ Friends. And, for my Reward, when we were afterwards apart, I heard him tell _Rose_ (by Reason of the Walls being thin) that however she might regard me for old Affection's sake, he thought he had never knowne soe unpromising a character. This made me dulle enoughe all the rest of the Evening, and repent having come to _Sheepscote_: however, he liked me the better for being quiete: and _Rose_, being equallie chekt, we sewed in Silence while he read to us the first Division of _Spencer's Legend of Holinesse_, about _Una_ and the Knight, and how they got sundered. This led to much serious, yet not unpleasing, Discourse, which lasted till Supper. For the first Time at _Sheepscote_, I coulde not eat, which Mr. _Agnew_ observing, prest me to take Wine, and _Rose_ woulde start up to fetch some of her Preserves; but I chekt her with a Motion, not being quite able to speak; for their being soe kind made the Teares ready to starte, I knew not why.

Family Prayers, after Supper, rather too long; yet though I coulde not keep up my Attention, they seemed to spread a Calm and a Peace alle about, that extended even to me; and though, after I had undressed, I sat a long while in a Maze, and bethought me how piteous a Creature I was, yet, once layed down, I never sank into deeper, more composing Sleep.

_Nov. 21,1643_.

This Morning, _Rose_ exclaimed, "Dear _Roger_! onlie think! _Moll_ has begun to learn _Latin_ since she returned to _Forest Hill_, thinking to surprise Mr. _Milton_ when they meet." "She will not onlie surprise but _please_ him," returned dear _Roger_, taking my Hand very kindlie; "I can onlie say, I hope they will meet long before she can read his _Poemata_, unless she learnes much faster than most People." I replyed, I learned very slowly, and wearied _Robin's_ Patience; on which _Rose_, kissing me, cried, "You will never wearie mine; soe, if you please, deare _Moll_, we will goe to our Lessons here everie Morning; and it may be that I shall get you through the Grammar faster than _Robin_ can. If we come to anie Difficultie we shall refer it to _Roger_."

Now, Mr. _Agnew's_ Looks exprest such Pleasure with both, that it were difficult to tell which felt the most elated; soe calling me deare _Moll_ (he hath hitherto Mistress _Miltoned_ me ever since I sett Foot in his House), he sayed he would not interrupt our Studdies, though he should be within Call, and soe left us. I had not felt soe happy since _Father's_ Birthday; and, though _Rose_ kept me close to my Book for two Hours, I found her a far less irksome Tutor than deare _Robin_. Then she went away, singing, to make _Roger's_ favourite Dish, and afterwards we took a brisk Walke, and came Home hungrie enoughe to Dinner.

There is a daily Beauty in _Rose's_ Life, that I not onlie admire, but am readie to envy. Oh! if _Milton_ lived but in the poorest House in the Countrie, methinks I coulde be very happy with him.

_Bedtime_.

Chancing to make the above Remark to _Rose_, she cried, "And why not be happy with him in _Aldersgate Street_?" I briefly replied that he must get the House first, before it were possible to tell whether I coulde be happy there or not. _Rose_ started, and exclaimed, "Why, where do you suppose him to be now?" "Where but at the Taylor's in _Bride's Churchyard_?" I replied. She claspt her Hands with a Look I shall never forget, and exclaimed in a Sort of vehement Passion, "Oh, _Cousin, Cousin_, how you throw your own Happinesse away! How awfulle a Pause must have taken place in your Intercourse with the Man whom you promised to abide by till Death, since you know not that he has long since taken Possession of his new Home; that he strove to have it ready for you at _Michaelmasse_!"

Doubtlesse I lookt noe less surprised than I felt;--a suddain Prick at the Heart prevented Speech; but it shot acrosse my Heart that I had made out the Words "_Aldersgate_" and "new Home," in the Fragments of the Letter my Father had torn. _Rose_, misjudging my Silence, burst forth anew with, "Oh, _Cousin_! _Cousin_! coulde anie Home, however dull and noisesome, drive me from _Roger Agnew_? Onlie think of what you are doing,--of what you are leaving undone!--of what you are preparing against yourself! To put the Wickednesse of a selfish Course out of the Account, onlie think of its Mellancholie, its Miserie,--destitute of alle the sweet, bright, fresh Well-springs of Happinesse;--unblest by _God_!"

Here _Rose_ wept passionatelie, and claspt her Arms about me; but, when I began to speak, and to tell her of much that had made me miserable, she hearkened in motionlesse Silence, till I told her that _Father_ had torn the Letter and beaten the Messenger. Then she cried, "Oh, I see now what may and shall be done! _Roger_ shall be Peacemaker," and ran off with Joyfulnesse; I not withholding her. But I can never be joyfulle more--he cannot be Day's-man betwixt us now--'tis alle too late!

_Nov. 28, 1643_.

Now that I am at _Forest Hill_ agayn, I will essay to continue my Journalling.--

Mr. _Agnew_ was out; and though a keene wintry Wind was blowing, and _Rose_ was suffering from Colde, yet she went out to listen for his Horse's Feet at the Gate, with onlie her Apron cast over her Head. Shortlie, he returned; and I heard him say in a troubled Voice, "Alle are in Arms at _Forest Hill_." I felt soe greatlie shocked as to neede to sit downe instead of running forthe to learn the News. I supposed the parliamentarian Soldiers had advanced, unexpectedlie, upon _Oxford_. His next Words were, "_Dick is_ coming for her at Noone--poor Soul, I know not what she will doe--her Father will trust her noe longer with you and me." Then I saw them both passe the Window, slowlie pacing together, and hastened forth to joyn them; but they had turned into the pleached Alley, their Backs towards me; and both in such earnest and apparentlie private Communication, that I dared not interrupt them till they turned aboute, which was not for some While; for they stood for some Time at the Head of the Alley, still with theire Backs to me, _Rose's_ Hair blowing in the cold Wind; and once or twice she seemed to put her Kerchief to her Eyes.

Now, while I stood mazed and uncertain, I hearde a distant Clatter of Horse's Feet, on the hard Road a good Way off, and could descrie _Dick_ coming towards _Sheepscote_. _Rose_ saw him too, and commenced running towards me; Mr. _Agnew_ following with long Strides. _Rose_ drew me back into the House, and sayd, kissing me, "Dearest _Moll_, I am soe sorry; _Roger_ hath seen your Father this Morn, and he will on no Account spare you to us anie longer; and _Dick_ is coming to fetch you even now." I sayd, "Is _Father_ ill?" "Oh no," replied Mr. _Agnew_; then coming up, "He is not ill, but he is perturbed at something which has occurred; and, in Truth, soe am I.--But remember, Mistress _Milton_, remember, dear _Cousin_, that when you married, your _Father's_ Guardianship of you passed into the Hands of your Husband--your Husband's House was thenceforthe your Home; and in quitting it you committed a Fault you may yet repaire, though this offensive Act has made the Difficultie much greater."--"Oh, what has happened?" I impatientlie cried. Just then, _Dick_ comes in with his usual blunt Salutations, and then cries, "Well, _Moll_, are you ready to goe back?" "Why should I be?" I sayd, "when I am soe happy here? unless _Father_ is ill, or Mr. _Agnew_ and _Rose_ are tired of me." They both interrupted, there was nothing they soe much desired, at this present, as that I shoulde prolong my Stay. And you know, _Dick, I_ added, that _Forest Hill_ is not soe pleasant to me just now as it hath commonlie beene, by Reason of your _Oxford_ Companions. He brieflie sayd, I neede not mind that, they were coming no more to the House, _Father_ had decreed it. And you know well enough, _Moll_, that what _Father_ decrees, must be, and he hath decreed that you must come Home now; soe no more Ado, I pray you, but fetch your Cloak and Hood, and the Horses shall come round, for 'twill be late ere we reach Home. "Nay, you must dine here at all Events," sayd _Rose_; "I know, _Dick_, you love roast Pork." Soe _Dick_ relented. Soe _Rose_, turning to me, prayed me to bid _Cicely_ hasten Dinner; the which I did, tho' thinking it strange _Rose_ should not goe herself. But, as I returned, I hearde her say, Not a Word of it, dear _Dick_, at the least, till after Dinner, lest you spoil her Appetite. Soe _Dick_ sayd he shoulde goe and look after the Horses. I sayd then, brisklie, I see somewhat is the Matter--pray tell me what it is. But _Rose_ looked quite dull, and walked to the Window. Then Mr. _Agnew_ sayd, "You seem as dissatisfied to leave us, _Cousin_, as we are to lose you; and yet you are going back to _Forest Hill_--to that Home in which you will doubtlesse be happy to live all your Dayes."--"At _Forest Hill_?" I sayd, "Oh no! I hope not." "And why?" sayd he quicklie. I hung my Head, and muttered, "I hope, some Daye, to goe back to Mr. _Milton_." "And why not at once?" sayd he. I sayd, "_Father_ would not let me." "Nay, that is childish," he answered, "your Father could not hinder you if you wanted not the Mind to goe--it was your first seeming soe loth to return, that made him think you unhappie and refuse to part with you." I sayd, "And what if I were unhappie?" He paused; and knew not at the Moment what Answer to make, but shortlie replyed by another Question, "What Cause had you to be soe?" I sayd, "That was more easily askt than answered, even if there were anie Neede I shoulde answer it, or he had anie Right to ask it." He cried in an Accent of Tendernesse that still wrings my Heart to remember, "Oh, question not the Right! I only wish to make you happy. Were you not happy with Mr. _Milton_ during the Week you spent together here at _Sheepscote_?" Thereat I coulde not refrayn from bursting into Tears. _Rose_ now sprang forward; but Mr. _Agnew_ sayd, "Let her weep, let her weep, it will do her good." Then, alle at once it occurred to me that my Husband was awaiting me at Home, and I cried, "Oh, is Mr. _Milton_ at _Forest Hill_?" and felt my Heart full of Gladness. Mr. _Agnew_ answered, "Not soe, not soe, poor _Moll_:" and, looking up at him, I saw him wiping his Brow, though the Daye was soe chill. "As well tell her now," sayd he to _Rose_; and then taking my Hand, "Oh, Mrs. _Milton_, can you wonder that your Husband should be angry? How can you wonder at anie Evil that may result from the Provocation you have given him? What Marvell, that since you cast him off, all the sweet Fountains of his Affections would be embittered, and that he should retaliate by seeking a Separation, and even a Divorce?"--There I stopt him with an Outcry of "Divorce?" "Even soe," he most mournfully replyd, "and I seeke not to excuse him, since two Wrongs make not a Right." "But," I cried, passionately weeping, "I have given him noe Cause; my Heart has never for a Moment strayed to another, nor does he, I am sure, expect it." "Ne'erthelesse," enjoyned Mr. _Agnew_, "he is soe aggrieved and chafed, that he has followed up what he considers your Breach of the Marriage Contract by writing and publishing a Book on Divorce; the Tenor of which coming to your Father's Ears, has violently incensed him. And now, dear _Cousin_, having, by your Waywardness, kindled this Flame, what remains for you but to--nay, hear me, hear me, _Moll_, for _Dick_ is coming in, and I may not let him hear me urge you to the onlie Course that can regayn your Peace--Mr. _Milton_ is still your Husband; eache of you have now Something to forgive; do you be the firste; nay, seeke _his_ Forgivenesse, and you shall be happier than you have been yet."

--But I was weeping without controule; and _Dick_ coming in, and with _Dick_ the Dinner, I askt to be excused, and soe soughte my Chamber, to weep there without Restraynt or Witnesse. Poor _Rose_ came up, as soone as she coulde leave the Table, and told me she had eaten as little as I, and woulde not even presse me to eat. But she carest me and comforted me, and urged in her owne tender Way alle that had beene sayd by Mr. _Agnew_; even protesting that if she were in my Place, she woulde not goe back to _Forest Hill_, but straight to _London_, to entreat with Mr. _Milton_ for his Mercy. But I told her I could not do that, even had I the Means for the Journey; for that my Heart was turned against the Man who coulde, for the venial Offence of a young Wife, in abiding too long with her old Father, not onlie cast her off from his Love, but hold her up to the World's Blame and Scorn, by making their domestic Quarrel the Matter for a printed Attack. _Rose_ sayd, "I admit he is wrong, but indeed, indeed, _Moll_, you are wrong too, and you were wrong _first_:" and she sayd this soe often, that at length we came to crosser Words; when _Dick_, calling to me from below, would have me make haste, which I was glad to doe, and left _Sheepscote_ less regrettfullie than I had expected. _Rose_ kist me with her gravest Face. Mr. _Agnew_ put me on my Horse, and sayd, as he gave me the Rein, "Now think! now think! even yet!" and then, as I silently rode off, "_God_ bless you."

I held down my Head; but, at the Turn of the Road, lookt back, and saw him and _Rose_ watching us from the Porch. _Dick_ cried, "I am righte glad we are off at last, for _Father_ is downright crazie aboute this Businesse, and mistrustfulle of _Agnew's_ Influence over you,"--and would have gone on railing, but I bade him for Pitie's Sake be quiete.

The Effects of my owne Follie, the Losse of Home, Husband, Name, the Opinion of the _Agnews_, the Opinion of the Worlde, rose up agaynst me, and almost drove me mad. And, just as I was thinking I had better lived out my Dayes and dyed earlie in _Bride's Churchyarde_ than that alle this should have come about, the suddain Recollection of what _Rose_ had that Morning tolde me, which soe manie other Thoughts had driven out of my Head, viz. that Mr. _Milton_ had, in his Desire to please me, while I was onlie bent on pleasing myself, been secretly striving to make readie the _Aldersgate Street_ House agaynst my Return,--soe overcame me, that I wept as I rode along. Nay, at the Corner of a branch Road, had a Mind to beg _Dick_ to let me goe to _London_; but a glance at his dogged Countenance sufficed to foreshow my Answer.

Half dead with Fatigue and Griefe when I reached Home, the tender Embraces of my Father and Mother completed the Overthrowe of my Spiritts. I tooke to my Bed; and this is the first Daye I have left it; nor will they let me send for _Rose_, nor even tell her I am ill.

_Jan. 1, 1644_.

The new Year opens drearilie, on Affairs both publick and private. The Loaf parted at Breakfast this Morning, which, as the Saying goes, is a Sign of Separation; but _Mother_ onlie sayd 'twas because it was badly kneaded, and chid _Margery_. She hath beene telling me, but now, how I mighte have 'scaped all my Troubles, and seene as much as I woulde of her and _Father_, and yet have contented Mr. _Milton_ and beene counted a good Wife. Noe Advice soe ill to bear as that which comes too late.

_Jan. 7, 1644_.

I am sick of this journalling, soe shall onlie put downe the Date of _Robin's_ leaving Home. _Lord_ have Mercy on him, and keepe him in Safetie. This is a shorte Prayer; therefore, easier to be often repeated. When he kissed me, he whispered, "_Moll_, pray for me."

_Jan. 27, 1644_.

_Father_ does not seeme to miss _Robin_ much, tho' he dailie drinks his Health after that of the King. Perhaps he did not miss me anie more when I was in _London_, though it was true and naturall enough he should like to see me agayn. We should have beene used to our Separation by this Time; there would have beene nothing corroding in it. . . .

I pray for _Robin_ everie Night. Since he went, the House has lost its Sunshine. When I was soe anxious to return to _Forest Hill_, I never counted on his leaving it.

_Feb. 1, 1644_.

Oh Heaven, what would I give to see the Skirts of Mr. _Milton's_ Garments agayn! My Heart is sick unto Death. I have been reading some of my _Journall_, and tearing out much childish Nonsense at the Beginning; but coulde not destroy the painfulle Records of the last Year. How unhappy a Creature am I!--wearie, wearie of my Life, yet no Ways inclined for Death. _Lord_, have Mercy upon me.

_March 27, 1644_.

I spend much of my Time, now, in the Book-room, and, though I essay not to pursue the _Latin_, I read much _English_, at the least, more than ever I did in my Life before; but often I fancy I am reading when I am onlie dreaming. _Oxford_ is far too gay a Place for me now ever to goe neare it, but my Brothers are much there, and _Father_ in his Farm, and _Mother_ in her Kitchen; and the Neighbours, when they call, look on me strangelie, so that I have noe Love for them. How different is _Rose's_ holy, secluded, yet cheerefulle Life at _Sheepscote_! She hath a Nurserie now, soe cannot come to me, and _Father_ likes not I should goe to her.

_April 5, 1644_.

They say their Majestyes' Parting at _Abingdon_ was very sorrowfulle and tender. The _Lord_ send them better Times! The Queen is to my Mind a most charming Lady, and well worthy of his Majesty's Affection; yet it seems to me amisse, that thro' her Influence, last Summer, the Opportunitie of Pacification was lost. But she was elated, and naturallie enoughe, at her personall Successes from the Time of her landing. To me, there seems nothing soe good as Peace. I know, indeede, Mr. _Milton_ holds that there may be such Things as a holy War and a cursed Peace.

_April 10, 1644_.

_Father_, having a Hoarseness, hath deputed me, of late, to read the Morning and Evening Prayers. How beautifulle is our Liturgie! I grudge at the Puritans for having abolished it; and though I felt not its comprehensive Fullessse [Transcriber's note: Fullnesse?] before I married, nor indeed till now, yet I wearied to Death in _London_ at the puritanicall Ordinances and Conscience-meetings and extempore Prayers, wherein it was soe oft the Speaker's Care to show Men how godly he was. Nay, I think Mr. _Milton_ altogether wrong in the View he takes of praying to _God_ in other Men's Words; for doth he not doe soe, everie Time he followeth the Sense of another Man's extempore Prayer, wherein he is more at his Mercy and Caprice than when he hath a printed Form set down, wherein he sees what is coming?

_June 8, 1644_.

Walking in the Home-close this Morning, it occurred to me that Mr. _Milton_ intended bringing me to _Forest Hill_ about this Time; and that if I had abided patientlie with him through the Winter, we might now have beene both here happily together; untroubled by that Sting which now poisons everie Enjoyment of mine, and perhaps of his. _Lord_, be merciful to _me a Sinner_.

_June 23, 1644_.

Just after writing the above, I was in the Garden, gathering a few Coronation Flowers and Sops-in-Wine, and thinking they were of deeper crimson at_ Sheepscote_, and wondering what _Rose_ was just then about, and whether had I beene born in her Place, I shoulde have beene as goode and happy as she,--when _Harry_ came up, looking somewhat grave. I sayd, "What is the Matter?" He gave Answer, "_Rose_ hath lost her Child." Oh!----that we should live but a two Hours' Journey apart, and that she coulde lose a Child three Months olde _whom I had never seene_?

I ran to _Father_, and never left off praying him to let me goe to her till he consented.

--What, and if I had begged as hard, at the firste, to goe back to Mr. _Milton_? might he not have consented _then_?

. . . Soe _Harry_ took me; and as we drew neare _Sheepscote_, I was avised to think how grave, how barely friendlie had beene our last Parting; and to ponder, would _Rose_ make me welcome now? The Infant, _Harry_ tolde me, had beene dead some Dayes; and, as we came in Sight of the little grey old Church, we saw a Knot of People coming out of the Churchyard, and guessed the Baby had just beene buried. Soe it proved--Mr. _Agnew's_ House-door stood ajar; and when we tapped softlie and _Cicely_ admitted us we could see him standing by _Rose_, who was sitting on the Ground and crying as if she would not be comforted. When she hearde my Voice, she started up, flung her Arms about me, crying more bitterlie than before, and I cried too; and Mr. _Agnew_ went away with _Harry_. Then _Rose_ sayd to me, "You must not leave me agayn." . . .

. . . In the Cool of the Evening, when _Harry_ had left us, she took me into the Churchyarde, and scattered the little Grave with Flowers; and then continued sitting beside it on the Grasse, quiete, but not comfortlesse. I am avised to think she prayed. Then Mr. _Agnew_ came forthe and sate on a flat Tombstone hard by; and without one Word of Introduction took out his _Psalter_, and commenced reading the Psalms for that Evening's Service; to wit, the 41st, the 42d, the 43de; in a low solemne Voice; and methoughte I never in my Life hearde aniething to equall it in the Way of Consolation. _Rose's_ heavie Eyes graduallie lookt up from the Ground into her Husband's Face, and thence up to Heaven. After this, he read, or rather repeated, the Collect at the end of the Buriall Service, putting this Expression,--"As our Hope is, this our deare Infant doth." Then he went on to say in a soothing Tone, "There hath noe misfortune happened to us, but such as is common to the Lot of alle Men. We are alle Sinners, even to the youngest, fayrest, and seeminglie purest among us; and Death entered the World by Sin, and, constituted as we are, we would not, even if we could, dispense with Death. For, where doth it convey us? From this burthensome, miserable World, into the generall Assemblie of _Christ's_ First-born, to be united with the Spiritts of the Just made perfect, to partake of everie Enjoyment which in this World is unconnected with Sin, together with others that are unknowne and unspeakable. And there, we shall agayn have _Bodies_ as well as Soules; Eyes to see, but not to shed Tears; Voices to speak and sing, not to utter Lamentations; Hands, to doe _God's_ Work; Feet, and it may be, Wings, to carry us on his Errands. Such will be the Blessedness of his glorified Saints; even of those who, having been Servants of Satan till the eleventh Hour, laboured penitentlie and diligentlie for their heavenlie Master one Hour before Sunset; but as for those who, dying in mere Infancie, never committed actuall Sin, they follow the Lamb whithersoever he goeth! 'Oh, think of this, dear _Rose_, and Sorrow not as those without Hope; for be assured, your Child hath more reall Reason to be grieved for you, than you for _him_.'"

With this, and like Discourse, that distilled like the Dew, or the small Rain on the tender Grasse, did _Roger Agnew_ comfort his Wife, untill the Moon had risen. Likewise he spake to us of those who lay buried arounde, how one had died of a broken Heart, another of suddain Joy, another had let Patience have her perfect Work through Years of lingering Disease.

hen we walked slowlie and composedlie Home, and ate our Supper peacefullie, _Rose_ not refusing to eat, though she took but little.

Since that Evening, she hath, at Mr. _Agnew's_ Wish, gone much among the Poor, reading to one, working for another, carrying Food and Medicine to another; and in this I have borne her Companie. I like it well. Methinks how pleasant and seemlie are the Duties of a country Minister's Wife! a God-fearing Woman, that is, who considereth the Poor and Needy, insteade of aiming to be frounced and purfled like her richest Neighbours. Mr. _Agnew_ was reading to us, last Night, of _Bernard Gilpin_--he of whom the _Lord Burleigh_ sayd, "Who can blame that Man for not accepting a Bishopric?" How charmed were we with the Description of the Simplicitie and Hospitalitie of his Method of living at _Houghton_!--There is another Place of nearlie the same Name, in _Buckinghamshire_--not _Houghton_, but _Horton_, . . . where one Mr. _John Milton_ spent five of the best Years of his Life,--and where methinks his Wife could have been happier with him than in _Bride's Churchyarde_.--But it profits not to wish and to will.--What was to be, had Need to be, soe there's an End.

_Aug. 1, 1644_.

Mr. _Agnew_ sayd to me this Morning, somewhat gravelie, "I observe, _Cousin_, you seem to consider yourselfe the Victim of Circumstances." "And am I not?" I replied. "No," he answered, "Circumstance is a false God, unrecognised by the Christian, who contemns him, though a stubborn yet a profitable Servant."--"That may be alle very grand for a Man to doe," I sayd. "Very grand, but very feasible, for a Woman as well as a Man," rejoined Mr. _Agnew_, "and we shall be driven to the Wall alle our Lives, unless we have this victorious Struggle with Circumstances. I seldom allude, _Cousin_, to yours, which are almoste too delicate for me to meddle with; and yet I hardlie feele justified in letting soe many opportunities escape. Do I offend? or may I go on?--Onlie think, then, how voluntarilie you have placed yourself in your present uncomfortable Situation. The Tree cannot resist the graduall Growth of the Moss upon it; but you might, anie Day, anie Hour, have freed yourself from the equallie graduall Formation of the Net that has enclosed you at last. You entered too hastilie into your firste--nay, let that pass,--you gave too shorte a Triall of your new Home before you became disgusted with it. Admit it to have beene dull, even unhealthfulle, were you justified in forsaking it at a Month's End? But your Husband gave you Leave of Absence, though obtayned on false Pretences.--When you found them to be false, should you not have cleared yourself to him of Knowledge of the Deceit? Then your Leave, soe obtayned, expired--shoulde you not have returned then?--Your Health and Spiritts were recruited; your Husband wrote to reclaim you--shoulde you not have returned then? He provided an Escort, whom your Father beat and drove away.--If you had insisted on going to your Husband, might you not have gone _then_? Oh, _Cousin_, you dare not look up to Heaven and say you have been the Victim of Circumstances."

I made no Answer; onlie felt much moven, and very angrie. I sayd, "If I wished to goe back, Mr. _Milton_ woulde not receive me now."

"Will you try?" sayd _Roger_. "Will you but let me try? Will you let me write to him?"

I had a Mind to say "Yes."--Insteade, I answered "No."

"Then there's an End," cried he sharplie. "Had you made but one fayre Triall, whether successfulle or noe, I coulde have been satisfied--no, not satisfied, but I woulde have esteemed you, coulde have taken your Part. As it is, the less I say just now, perhaps, the better. Forgive me for having spoken at alle."

----Afterwards, I hearde him say to _Rose_ of me, "I verilie believe there is Nothing in her on which to make a permanent Impression. I verilie think she loves everie one of those long Curls of hers more than she loves Mr. _Milton_."

(Note:--I will cut them two Inches shorter tonight. And they will grow all the faster.)

. . . Oh, my sad Heart, _Roger Agnew_ hath pierced you at last!

I was moved, more than he thought, by what he had sayd in the Morning; and, in writing down the Heads of his Speech, to kill Time, a kind of Resentment at myselfe came over me, unlike to what I had ever felt before; in spite of my Folly about my Curls. Seeking for some Trifle in a Bag that had not been shaken out since I brought it from _London_, out tumbled a Key with curious Wards--I knew it at once for one that belonged to a certayn Algum-wood Casket Mr. _Milton_ had Recourse to dailie, because he kept small Change in it; and I knew not I had brought it away! 'Twas worked in Grotesque, the Casket, by _Benvenuto_, for _Clement_ the Seventh, who for some Reason woulde not have it; and soe it came somehow to _Clementillo_, who gave it to Mr. _Milton_. Thought I, how uncomfortable the Loss of this Key must have made him! he must have needed it a hundred Times! even if he hath bought a new Casket, I will for it he habituallie goes agayn and agayn to the old one, and then he remembers that he lost the Key the same Day that he lost his Wife. I heartilie wish he had it back. Ah, but he feels not the one Loss as he feels the other. Nay, but it is as well that one of them, tho' the Lesser, should be repaired. 'Twill shew Signe of Grace, my thinking of him, and may open the Way, if _God_ wills, to some Interchange of Kindnesse, however fleeting.

Soe I soughte out Mr. _Agnew_, tapping at his Studdy Doore. He sayd, "Come in," drylie enoughe; and there were he and _Rose_ reading a Letter. I sayd, "I want you to write for me to Mr. _Milton_." He gave a sour Look, as much as to say he disliked the Office; which threw me back, as 'twere; he having soe lately proposed it himself. _Rose's_ Eyes, however, dilated with sweete Pleasure, as she lookt from one to the other of us.

"Well,--I fear 'tis too late," sayd he at length reluctantlie, I mighte almost say grufflie,--"what am I to write?"

"To tell him I have this Key," I made Answer faltering.

"That Key!" cried he.

"Yes, the Key of his Algum-wood Casket, which I knew not I had, and which I think he must miss dailie."

He lookt at me with the utmost Impatience. "And is that alle?" he sayd.

"Yes, alle," I sayd trembling.

"And have you nothing more to tell him?" sayd he.

"No--" after a Pause, I replyed. _Rose's_ Countenance fell.

"Then you must ask some one else to write for you, Mrs. _Milton,"_ burste forthe _Roger Agnew_, "unless you choose to write for yourself. I have neither Part nor Lot in it."

I burste forthe into Teares.

--"No, _Rose_, no," repeated Mr. _Agnew_, putting aside his Wife, who woulde have interceded for me,--"her Teares have noe Effect on me now--they proceed, not from a contrite Heart, they are the Tears of a Child that cannot brook to be chidden for the Waywardnesse in which it persists."

"You doe me Wrong everie Way," I sayd; "I came to you willing and desirous to doe what you yourselfe woulde, this Morning, have had me doe."

"But in how strange a Way!" cried he. "At a Time when anie Renewal of your Intercourse requires to be conducted with the utmost Delicacy, and even with more Shew of Concession on your Part than, an Hour ago, I should have deemed needfulle,--to propose an abrupt, trivial Communication about an old Key!"

"It needed not to have been abrupt," I sayd, "nor yet trivial; for I meant it to have beene exprest kindlie."

"You said not that before," answered he.

"Because you gave me not Time.--Because you chid me and frightened me."

He stood silent, some While, upon this; grave, yet softer, and mechanicallie playing with the Key, which he had taken from my Hand. _Rose_ looking in his Face anxiouslie. At lengthe, to disturbe his Reverie, she playfulle tooke it from him, saying, in School-girl Phrase,

"This is the Key of the Kingdom!"

"Of the Kingdom of Heaven, it mighte be!" exclaimed _Roger_, "if we knew how to use it arighte! If we knew but how to fit it to the Wards of _Milton's_ Heart!--there's the Difficultie. . . . a greater one, poor _Moll_, than you know; for hitherto, alle the Reluctance has been on your Part. But now . . ."

"What now?" I anxiouslie askt.

"We were talking of you but as you rejoyned us," sayd Mr. _Agnew_, "and I was telling _Rose_ that hithertoe I had considered the onlie Obstacle to a Reunion arose from a false Impression of your own, that Mr. _Milton_ coulde not make you happy. But now I have beene led to the Conclusion that you cannot make _him_ soe, which increases the Difficultie."

After a Pause, I sayd, "What makes you think soe?"

"You and he have made me think soe," he replyed. "First for yourself, dear _Moll_, putting aside for a Time the Consideration of your Youth, Beauty, Franknesse, Mirthfullenesse, and a certayn girlish Drollerie and Mischiefe that are all very well in fitting Time and Place,--what remains in you for a Mind like _John Milton's_ to repose upon? what Stabilitie? what Sympathie? what steadfast Principle? You take noe Pains to apprehend and relish his favourite Pursuits; you care not for his wounded Feelings, you consult not his Interests, anie more than your owne Duty. Now, is such the Character to make _Milton_ happy?"

"No one can answer that but himself," I replyed, deeplie mortyfide.

"Well, he _has_ answered it," sayd Mr. _Agnew_, taking up the Letter he and _Rose_ had beene reading when I interrupted them. . . . "You must know, _Cousin_, that his and my close Friendship hath beene a good deal interrupted by this Matter. 'Twas under my Roof you met. _Rose_ had imparted to me much of her earlie Interest in you. I fancied you had good Dispositions which, under masterlie Trayning, would ripen into noble Principles; and therefore promoted your Marriage as far as my Interest with your Father had Weight. I own I was surprised at his easilie obtayned Consent . . . but, that _you_, once domesticated with such a Man as _John Milton_, shoulde find your Home uninteresting, your Affections free to stray back to your owne Family, was what I had never contemplated."

Here I made a Show of taking the Letter, but he held it back.

"No, _Moll_, you disappointed us everie Way. And, for a Time, _Rose_ and I were ashamed, _for_ you rather than of you, that we left noe Means neglected of trying to preserve your Place in your Husband's Regard. But you did not bear us out; and then he beganne to take it amisse that we upheld you. Soe then, after some warm and cool Words, our Correspondence languished; and hath but now beene renewed."

"He hath written us a most kind Condolence," interrupted _Rose_, "on the Death of our Baby."

"Yes, most kindlie, most nobly exprest," sayd Mr. _Agnew_; "but what a Conclusion!"

And then, after this long Preamble, he offered me the Letter, the Beginning of which, tho' doubtlesse well enough, I marked not, being impatient to reach the latter Part; wherein I found myself spoken of soe bitterlie, soe harshlie, as that I too plainly saw _Roger Agnew_ had not beene beside the Mark when he decided I could never make Mr. _Milton_ happy. Payned and wounded Feeling made me lay aside the Letter without proffering another Word, and retreat without soe much as a Sigh or a Sob into mine own Chamber; but noe longer could the Restraynt be maintained. I fell to weeping soe passionatelie that _Rose_ prayed to come in, and condoled with me, and advised me, soe as that at length my Weeping bated, and I promised to return below when I shoulde have bathed mine Eyes and smoothed my Hair; but I have not gone down yet.

_Bedtime_.

I think I shall send to _Father_ to have me Home at the Beginning of next Week. _Rose_ needes me not, now; and it cannot be pleasant to Mr. _Agnew_ to see my sorrowfulle Face about the House. His Reproofe and my Husband's together have riven my Heart; I think I shall never laugh agayn, nor smile but after a piteous Sorte; and soe People will cease to love me, for there is Nothing in me of a graver Kind to draw their Affection; and soe I shall lead a moping Life unto the End of my Dayes.

--Luckilie for me, _Rose_ hath much Sewing to doe; for she hath undertaken with great Energie her Labours for the Poore, and consequentlie spends less Time in her Husband's Studdy; and, as I help her to the best of my Means, my Sewing hides my Lack of Talking, and Mr. _Agnew_ reads to us such Books as he deems entertayning; yet, half the Time, I hear not what he reads. Still, I did not deeme so much Amusement could have beene found in Books; and there are some of his, that, if not soe cumbrous, I woulde fain borrow.

_Friday_.

I have made up my Mind now, that I shall never see Mr. _Milton_ more; and am resolved to submitt to it without another Tear.

_Rose_ sayd, this Morning, she was glad to see me more composed; and soe am I; but never was more miserable.

_Saturday Night_.

Mr. _Agnew's_ religious Services at the End of the Week have alwaies more than usuall Matter and Meaninge in them. They are neither soe drowsy as those I have beene for manie Years accustomed to at Home, nor soe wearisome as to remind me of the _Puritans_. Were there manie such as he in our Church, soe faithfulle, fervent, and thoughtfulle, methinks there would be fewer Schismaticks; but still there woulde be some, because there are alwaies some that like to be the uppermost.

. . . To-nighte, Mr. _Agnew's_ Prayers went straight to my Heart; and I privilie turned sundrie of his generall Petitions into particular ones, for myself and _Robin_, and also for Mr. _Milton_. This gave such unwonted Relief, that since I entered into my Closet, I have repeated the same particularlie; one Request seeming to grow out of another, till I remained I know not how long on my Knees, and will bend them yet agayn, ere I go to Bed.

How sweetlie the Moon shines through my Casement to-night! I am almoste avised to accede to _Rose's_ Request of staying here to the End of the Month:--everie Thing here is soe peacefulle; and _Forest Hill_ is dull, now _Robin_ is away.

_Sunday Evening_.