Chapter XI: Book III: Studley Hall, 1687 (3)

"When a man has lived past his threescore and ten without ever denying or controlling himself, he is not going to begin then," said he. "And that hath been the way with Mr. Studley. His life hath been one long self-indulgence in every wish which hath sprung up in his mind, or which Satan has put there. I would not tell you all the mischief he hath wrought hereabouts,—far more than his son ever heard of. I hope these adventurers who have got him in their clutches may not chouse Master Ned out of his inheritance entirely, but I shall not be surprised if the old man leaves every thing to them."

Edward now returned. And we sat down in true farmer fashion, with the servants at the lower end of the board. I could not but wonder what my aunt would have said to see me. But I had made up my mind from the first, that if I were to be a farmer's dame, I would "be" one, and not keep up any fine lady airs.

In a week's time we were comfortably settled in our new home, and I had made good progress in the arts of the dairy and kitchen. Indeed, I had taken lessons before of Mistress Atkins. And I shall never forget my husband's face of surprise when he found me in the barnyard in a red petticoat and homespun kirtle, milking a long-horned heifer. (I own I was rather afraid of her, but I did not let her find it out.)

"What would Lady Fullham say?" said he.

"She would say I had got a good mess of milk, I hope," I answered merrily. "And now you may carry the bucket to the dairy, if you like."

"I would the barns were nearer the house, for your sake," said Edward, "but I think our North Devon farmers like to get them as far away as possible. I will make a change in that matter, if we stay long enough."

If it be an inconvenient fashion in one way, it is nice in another, for one does not have the smells and noises of the farmyard all day long. But I must say that on rainy and sleety days, I could have wished the barnyard nearer, and the path that led to it less steep.

I did not have a very easy time that summer. Of course every thing was new to me. I made mistakes, and should have made more if I had not had my dear Mrs. Williams to counsel me. She could give little more than counsel, for she had the ill-fortune to sprain her ankle, and was confined to her settle and arm-chair for nearly three months. So I had her to wait on with all the rest. But I could well afford to do it.

My only servant was a younger sister of Peggy's,—a stout, willing girl, very good-tempered, but not very bright, and with a special genius for dropping and slopping. More than one pan of milk have I seen her spill all over the floor, in removing it from the hearth to the shelf, after the cream had clotted beautifully. I must say my fingers itched to cuff her ears, but I never did. At last, however, I found the place to get hold of her. I discovered that she was very anxious to learn to read, and I promised her a lesson every day that she did her work well.

Her mother was very doubtful, declaring that Molly would be good for nothing at all if she moiled what little brains she had over books, but I persevered, and my experiment turned out admirably. Using her mind in one direction seemed to brighten it in another. And, when Molly knew that her beloved spelling-lesson depended on the state of her floor and pails, she took infinite pains with her cleaning. At present, I must say, she goes rather to the other extreme.

Well, I worked very hard, and was often so discouraged with my own failures that I was ready to sit down and cry, but I could not but put the best face upon matters when I saw how hard my poor husband worked. He felt very sadly, too, about his father. We never saw any of the family, but the accounts we heard were worse and worse. Strange as it seemed, Edward did really love his father, and grieved over the estrangement. He wrote to the old man two or three times, but the letters were returned torn in two, without having been opened, and with some abusive message.

At last Mr. Rowson rode over to see us, and counselled my husband to send no more letters.

"They do but anger him the more, and that woman makes use of them to set him against you. He is wholly in her hands and those of her brother, as he calls himself, though between ourselves, I don't believe he is her brother at all, more than I am."

"How strange that Mr. Studley should be governed by such wretches, to the prejudice of his own son!" said I.

"It is not strange to me," answered Mr. Rowson. "Mr. Studley was always that way. He always had somebody who was all perfection, some favorite servant or boon companion who flattered and governed him. Do you remember, Ned, how he held on to Wilkins, his steward, long after every one in the country knew that Wilkins was cheating the eyes out of his head? I believe people of his disposition, so afraid of being influenced or advised by those who have the right to do so, are often served just in this way."

"No doubt you are right," said Edward.

"I know I am," answered Mr. Rowson. "And so, Ned, if you will take my advice, you will write no more at present. You know me for your friend, I hope, and I would not advise you save for your good. I may not have been a very good friend to myself, but I have been a good one to you."

"That you have," answered Edward warmly. "But, Rowson, why should you not be a good friend to yourself? Why should you not break off these courses so unbecoming any Christian, much more an ordained priest, and live as becomes what you profess?"

Mr. Rowson shook his head sadly.

"'Tis too late, I doubt," said he. "Beside, I keep some influence with the old man by drinking out a bottle with him now and then. We must fight the Devil with his own weapons."

"'Negatur,' to both propositions," answered my husband. "You do not keep any influence with my father by sharing in his drinking-bouts. Will he take one bottle the less because you ask him? Neither are we to fight the Devil with his own weapons. He understands the use of them far better than we do. If we would have the advantage, we must attack him with weapons he does not understand, or dares not touch."

"Maybe so," answered Mr. Rowson. "But I have at least done one thing, Ned. I had a little money come to me from my old aunt Truesdale's estate, and I have paid your father all the money I owed him. So I have that yoke off my neck, at all events. But it went hard," said the poor man, shaking his head. "I did so want to put it into the church-organ. Nobody knows what I suffer every Sunday from that horrible instrument."

"When I come to my fortune, you shall have a new one," said my husband. "Meantime, stay and sup with us; and my wife shall sing for you, and show you that the milk-pail and the churn have not quite spoiled her hand for the lute."

Mr. Rowson staid and made himself very agreeable. 'Twas a pity to see a man of his gifts, who might be so useful, sunk in self-indulgence and sloth. But I have never seen elegant tastes and accomplishments do any thing toward keeping man or woman from sin.

Matters went on in this way till the middle of September. The last month had been to me much easier than those which had gone before. I had learned to do my work more easily, and took great pride in my butter and cream cheese, which Mrs. Atkins pronounced equal to her own. The crops were turning out well, and the cattle doing nicely; and our apple-orchard, always a fine one, was this year quite wonderful for the beauty and abundance of the crop.

I had been out to look for some stray hens which had been seduced from the ways of virtue and domesticity by a pair of vagrant guinea-fowls, and was coming in with my apron full of early pippins, when I saw Mr. Rowson at the kitchen door holding his jaded horse by the bridle, and conferring with my husband. Both the men wore such perturbed faces that I was sure something had happened, and quickened my steps. As I came up, Mr. Rowson put out his hand as if to keep me off.

"Don't come near me, child. You need not be in the mess, at all events," said he.

"What mess?" I asked, wondering, for he was always very polite to me. "What do you mean?"

"My father and his wife are both very ill with fever," said Edward huskily. "Everybody has deserted them, and left them to die alone. I must go to them at once, Dolly. Will you get a few things ready?"

I went up-stairs, got my husband's clothes ready, and then coolly put on my own riding gear. I had always noticed that if I wanted to do any thing particularly audacious, and went on and did it without saying any thing, my husband took it for granted that all was right. So I came down-stairs with my bundles, as though it had been all settled between us. Mr. Rowson opened his eyes wide when he saw me.

"What, you!" said he. "Edward, you will not suffer this child to risk her life in any such way."

My husband looked doubtfully at me, but I did not give him time to speak.

"Of course I shall go," said I, as quietly as if it had been a question of going to church. "A woman's help will be needed, and Ned must have some one to look after his comfort.—Mrs. Williams, am I not right?"

"I think you are, and none of us will die till the time appointed," answered Mrs. Williams, bringing her predestination doctrine to my support. "Mrs. Studley's place is with her husband, and she will not die any the sooner for doing her duty. I can see to every thing here."

And then she began to tell me how to guard myself and my husband by taking good food and fresh air and avoiding chills. She really is the most sensible woman in the world.

It was near sunset when we came to Studley Hall, and I was at once reminded of my first arrival. At the gate we met Dr. Kirton, booted and spurred, just mounting his horse.

"You had better not go in. You can do no good," said he. "Your father will not know you, and they are both as good as dead. You won't get any thing by going in now."

"Judas," said my husband, with such a burst of passion as I never heard from him before, "dost thou judge every one by thy vile self? Dost thou think it is 'that' I am thinking of? Begone."

Kirton cast a venomous glance at Edward, but made no reply. And I was glad to see him mount his horse and ride off.

We dismounted at the door; and fastening our horses, for there was no one to take them, we entered the house. All was still and deserted below, but up-stairs we heard a woman's voice in such accents of horror and despair as I never imagined, and cannot describe.

"Don't desert me, Jack," it cried. "I did all for you. Don't leave me to die alone. Oh, for pity's sake, don't leave me!"

We went up-stairs, following the sound. The doors of two adjoining chambers were open; and from them proceeded an air enough to knock one down.

Edward went straight through the first room, and flung the casement wide open. Then he drew back the closed curtains of the bed. There lay the poor old man, without sense or motion, with half-open glazed eyes and blackened, parted lips. Only his heavy breathing showed he was alive.

"Go, Dolly," said Edward hoarsely. "You can do no good here. Rowson will help me."

I obeyed at once, for I wanted to find the other poor thing, whose wailing pierced my heart. She did not notice me at first, but when I too had opened the window, and put back the curtain, the fresh air seemed to bring her a little to herself, and she stared at me with a wondering gaze.

"You!" said she. "You are young Mrs. Studley. Did you die on the moor, and has your ghost come back?"

"No," I answered. "I am no ghost. See, my hands are warm and substantial. Try to compose yourself, and tell me what you want."

"Water, water," she gasped. "Oh, for one drop of water to cool my tongue, for I am tormented in this flame!"

I did not believe any thing would hurt her, and I remembered that in my ague Dr. Burnett gave me all the water I wanted, in spite of Mrs. Sharpless's horror. I brought a glass of water, fresh from the draw-well, and she drank it eagerly.

"It is Mrs. Studley," said she, looking at me, and holding my hand, as I would have withdrawn the glass. "What has brought you here? Have you come to heap coals of fire on my head? Don't do that: it is burning already."

"Hush," I answered. "I am going to bathe your head and face, and you will feel better."

I went to the toilet table, which was loaded with perfumes and cosmetics, and finding a bottle of Hungary water, ¹ I bathed her face and hands with it, brushed her hair as well as I could, and smoothed and cooled the tumbled pillows. My cares seemed to soothe her, for she fell into a troubled sleep, and I stepped away without disturbing her.

¹ Hungary water was distilled from rosemary, and was esteemed of great value in fevers. It was the invention of the unfortunate Queen of Bohemia.

I found that Edward and Mr. Rowson had changed the old gentleman to a clean cot-bed, and cleared out the room a little, but the poor old man was insensible to all their cares. Mr. Rowson told me in a whisper that he could not live more than a few hours.

I went down-stairs, roused up the kitchen fire, and finding some coffee, I made a pot of it, toasted some bread, and set out what decent provisions I could find. There was an abundance of every thing, but in such a state,—such pots of stale broth and heaps of bones and fragments,—it was enough to breed the plague, let alone a fever. It was clear enough what kind of housekeeping had obtained under the sway of the poor woman up-stairs. I was trying to bring things to some kind of order, when the kitchen door opened, and in came old Janey.

"I heard you and Master Neddy had come, and I couldn't stop away," said the good soul. "Don't 'ee do that, mistress; 'tisn't fit for the likes of you—" taking a saucepan out of my hand. "And how is the poor old gentleman?"

I told her. She shook her head.

"'Tis all over with mun," said she solemnly. "I knowed that afore I come. 'Twant for naught I heerd the white owl last night and night before."

"What about the white owl?" I asked, as I was picking up the old silver spoons which lay here and there among the rubbish. "I should think owls might be common enough here. I am sure they are about Applecoombe. They carried off a dozen chickens from me last month."

Janey shook her head solemnly.

"'Tis no common owl, my tender; 'tis the white owl of the Studleys, the snow-white bird that always screams before any great misfortune befalls the family. I heard mun plain enough the night before master brought home that witch, but no one ever sees mun, but one of the family. Oh, there's a-many such things happen here in the west! But how about that other?"

I told her about Mrs. Studley.

"'She' won't die," said Janey scornfully. "That kind never do, unless their Master has done with them. But do you get Master Ned to come down, and take some meat; and take some yourself, there's a lamb. I will stay with that one up-stairs. I can't abide to think of your tender hands a-touching mun."

"But that is not Christian like, Janey," said I. "Think what our Lord did for the woman who was a sinner."

"Ay, but a repentant sinner," answered the old woman shrewdly. "There, don't 'ee stand to argue with an old woman, but bring Master Neddy to his supper, there's a lamb."

There was sense in this, at any rate: so I went up, and with some coaxing brought my husband down to take refreshment. Mr. Rowson promised to watch my father-in-law every moment, and to call us if he showed any signs of life.

The other patient continued to sleep uneasily, muttering, and throwing her arms about. It seemed to me her face had changed for the worse, and I said as much to Janey.

The old woman nodded.

"She is struck for death," she said. "Her ill-gotten gains won't do her no more good." And then, in a relenting tone, "Poor thing, poor thing! Maybe after all she never had the chance to learn better. Mr. Champernoun's Harry, who hath been in Bristol, says he knows he saw her in a theatre there, a-playing in men's clothes, and that she is a regular play actor. ¹ To think of that,—a woman a-playing on the stage, and in men's clothes! Do you think it can be true, mistress?"

¹ It must be remembered that the appearance of women on the stage was an innovation of Charles Second's days, which excited grave reprobation from all serious people.

"I know it is," I answered. "I have seen her often in London."

But I did not tell Janey, what I knew to be true, that Becky Marshall was the daughter of a godly Presbyterian minister, as good a man as ever lived, so Mrs. Pendergast had told me.

When night came, Janey would have had me go to bed, or at least lie down. But, as it turned out, both of us were needed to manage the patient, who raved in delirium all night, now going over parts she had played, and now repeating bits of the Westminster Catechism which no doubt she had learned at her mother's knee. At last she fell into a troubled slumber. The gray dawn was beginning to steal up the sky, and Janey had gone down to see to the kitchen fire, when Mrs. Studley opened her eyes, and fixed them on me with a look I shall never forget.

"Am I dying?" said she.

"I fear so," I answered. I dared not but tell her the truth. "My poor Rebecca, try to turn your eyes to God,—your father's God. There is yet time. Let me call Mr. Rowson."

"Yes, call him, call him," said she eagerly.

I went to call Mr. Rowson, who was resting in a great chair. My father-in-law was still lying stupid, as he had done ever since we arrived. Mr. Rowson rose unwillingly, as it seemed.

"What can she want of me? I can do her no good. What am I to comfort a dying sinner, who need mercy myself?"

"We all need it," said I. "But hasten, I do not think she has many minutes to live."

When we entered the room, we found Rebecca's great black eyes eagerly fixed on the door.

"The will, the will!" she exclaimed as Mr. Rowson came to the bedside. "Find that will, and burn it. It is in the great walnut cabinet. Burn it."

"Never mind the will," said I. "Try to think of something better.—Pray with her, Mr. Rowson."

"I want none of his prayers," she cried. "I know what his religion is worth. Go, go, and find the will, and burn it."

"Perhaps I had better pacify her," he whispered to me. And then, aloud, "Yes, we will try to find it. Make your mind easy, Mrs. Studley. Justice will be done at last, never fear."

She seemed content, and dozed off again for a few minutes. Then she roused up and looked around.

"I thought my father was here," said she. "I thought I heard him say,—

"'The blood of Jesus cleanseth from sin.'

"But it is all a dream," she added sorrowfully, "all a dream. My father is in a better place, and there is no cleansing for such as I."

"There is, there is!" I exclaimed. "Dear Rebecca, though your sins have been as scarlet, they shall be white as snow. I know your good father would say so if he were here. Only believe."

She looked at me with a singularly intent gaze.

"You came to me when all the world deserted me," said she. "I slandered you, and abused you, and turned you out of doors; and yet you came to me at the risk of your life and nursed me. If He were like that—"

"He is a thousand million times better," said I, weeping. "Only turn to him, only pray for forgiveness."

"You may pray," said she, sinking back on her pillows. "You are good. Yes, pray; my head is growing heavy, and I cannot think of the words."

Oh, how earnestly I prayed that this poor creature might have, even in this awful moment, grace to turn her face homeward to her Father's house! I think she understood the words, and tried to join in them, but as I looked up, at a touch from Janey, I saw she was going. I began the commendatory prayer, but before I finished, it all was over.

Mr. Studley lingered all day, and died at sunset, making no sign, save that once he opened his eyes and turned them wistfully from Edward to myself. I think he knew us both, but it was only for a moment. The veil fell again; and, just as the last rays of the sun shot into the room, he died without a struggle.

"He is gone! My old friend is gone," said Mr. Rowson, weeping like a child, as Edward closed his father's eyes. "Oh, if I had but been faithful, how different might his death have been! But I am a changed man," said he, looking solemnly upward. "If it please Heaven to spare some short remnant of my worthless, wasted life, it shall be given to his service."

I was glad to hear him say as much, but I had no time to attend to him. Edward's fixed looks alarmed me, and I wanted nothing so much as to get him out of the room. I had no sooner brought him to the parlor than he fainted, and lay for some time as much like one dead as a living man could be. However, I revived him at last, and was thankful when he burst into a flood of tears. I soothed and quieted him as well as I could, and persuaded him to take some food, and then to lie and rest, while Mr. Rowson, Janey, and I did what was needful up-stairs. How glad I was that I had carried my point and come with him!

The day of the funeral Dr. Kirton appeared, in company with an attorney from Biddeford, a man of no good reputation. Edward had looked carefully among his father's papers for the will which he knew the old gentleman had made shortly before our marriage, but it was not to be found. I had my own idea about the matter, remembering poor Rebecca's words; and I was not much surprised when the attorney produced a will made some time during the summer, and leaving every thing to Dr. Kirton and his sister, except a hundred pounds to Mr. Rowson, and the harpsichord and music-books belonging to the first Mrs. Studley, which, to my great surprise, were left to me. The will was witnessed by two persons in Biddeford, and was perfectly formal.

"You will find it quite correct," said Dr. Kirton very politely, but with a gleam of triumph in his snaky eyes. "The musical instrument shall be sent to Mrs. Studley, as my poor friend directed.—The money shall be paid to you in due time, Mr. Rowson.—I presume, Mr. Studley, you will not care to remain here longer.—Mr. Rowson, will you not stay to sup with me? I have your fee for your services to my late brother."

"Thy money perish with thee!" burst forth Mr. Rowson. "May the Lord do so to me, and more also, if ever I break bread with thee! Hast thou killed, and also taken possession? Beware, that the fate of Ahab and Jezebel doth not overtake thee in the midst of thy ill-gotten gains!—Come, my children, and leave this roof, which is accursed with the presence of a traitor, a murderer."

"Mr. Rowson, you shall answer for this language," said Dr. Kirton, turning fairly blue, partly with rage, and partly, I fancy, from fright.

"I do not fear you," answered the vicar. "Come, children."

Edward hardly spoke a word till we arrived at home, where Mrs. Williams had every thing in order, and a bright little fire to welcome us. Then, as he looked about, he broke silence.

"Well, Dorothy, this is to be our home, it seems. Are you content with it?"

"More than content," said I; "happy and thankful. But it is easier for me than for you to lose what is rightfully yours. It is very hard upon you, my poor Ned."

"It is hard," my husband admitted. "The old place hath been in our family since before the Conquest. The Hall was built with Spanish gold taken in the days of Elizabeth. But what does it matter, after all? I must soon have left it. My great trouble is for thee, my dear. I little thought what I was bringing thee to."

"You have brought me to the happiest part of my life," said I. "Don't fret about that, but doff your riding gear, and get ready for the savory supper Mrs. Williams has prepared for us."

Edward was quite unwell for several days, and my heart sank fathoms deep as I thought of his coming down with the fever. But I believe his illness was more of the mind than the body. He could not but feel deeply the loss of the estate which had descended from father to son for so many generations, and of which he was now deprived by no fault of his own. But that was a small matter, to one of his way of thinking, compared to his father's death,—taken in the midst of his sin. I was going to say, without one moment for repentance, but that would not be true, seeing he had had a long life granted him wherein to make his salvation sure.

As for myself, I won't deny that I was disappointed, though, as I said, poor Rebecca had prepared me in some measure for what happened. No doubt she was knowing to the will. I could not but wish to see my husband take his proper place in the county, nor was I quite insensible to the change that would have been made in my own position had Edward succeeded to his rights. But, after all, I was young and strong, and the work was no such great hardship. So I did not fret very much about that.

Only on cold, sleety days, when the path was slippery, and the barnyard miry, and the butter was long in coming, or the kitchen chimney smoked, I would think how much pleasanter it would be to practise on my harpsichord or sit at my knitting. But I soon learned that such thoughts were unprofitable guests, and I resolutely turned them out.

Edward had one great comfort, and that was the change in Mr. Rowson. Certainly I never saw a man so altered. He never touched wine, or even cider, saying that he dared not trust himself with it. He took to studying his Bible, and reviving his knowledge of Greek and Hebrew, for he had once been a fine scholar. He preached every Sunday, catechized the children, visited the poor and the sick, and strove in every way to repair, if he could not undo, the mischief he had done.

The only indulgence he allowed himself was his music. He used the hundred pounds left him by his patron in repairing the church-organ, and found a good organist in the person of an old gentleman in Biddeford, who was just about retiring to one of the almshouses in Exeter, but was easily prevailed upon to accept a cottage in Studley and a small salary instead.

Almost all the folks hereabout are naturally musical; and I do think Mr. Rowson's choir, which he took great pains in training, brought a good many to church, where they certainly heard the gospel preached as never before. Mr. Rowson was a frequent visitor at our house, and used to have many deep arguments with Mrs. Williams concerning her peculiar tenets (which I don't in the least understand, to this day), but they always came together at last on the New Testament, so they continued excellent friends.

I had heard but twice from my aunt since my marriage. The family was still in London, detained by my uncle's business, which, however, was prospering, and he was in a way to retrieve his losses. My aunt wrote that Betty was well in health, but not in good spirits; that she did not care to go out, and missed her sister more than ever. Betty's letter was written evidently in one of her bad moods. She hated London and every thing about it. Her mother would make her go to the theatre and to balls and banquets, and she had been obliged to leave off her mourning. She only wished she were with me. I wished it, too, and determined I would try to have a visit from her when the family returned.

In my aunt's next letter she wrote that Betty was in better spirits; that she had been presented at court and much admired, and the king had taken great notice of her, which was an unusual compliment from him nowadays, as his Majesty was so engrossed with public business. My uncle was like to recover all he had lost, and more, and the family were coming home for Christmas, when she hoped Mr. Studley would spare me for a visit.

Betty's letter was not a bit like herself. It was long, and full of public news and accounts of the balls she had attended, but not one word of herself. The letter made me uncomfortable, I could hardly tell why. I had never told my aunt any particulars about our way of life, and I suppose she thought my husband and myself were living as we had expected to do.

Now, however, by my husband's advice, I wrote her the whole story.

The letter I received in reply was quite characteristic of my aunt's curiously mixed character. Of course, she wrote, it was every one's duty to be religious, but there was no need of parading one's religion, and it was a great pity Mr. Studley had offended his father by so doing. He ought to have remembered that St. Paul became all things to all men. There was no knowing how Ned might have influenced his father for good if he had only been more complying to the old gentleman's humors, but all young persons nowadays seemed to think themselves wiser than their elders. She little thought she was sending me to such a life. Why had not Mr. Studley applied to Sir Robert, who might have obtained for him a commission, or some place about the court, which would at least have given me the position of a lady? She was glad to see that I was resigned to my change of fortune, but she pitied me from her heart. She only wished I had been as fortunate as Betty was likely to be.

"So she hath a match in hand for Betty," said my husband, returning me the letter.

"She will never make any match for Betty that Betty does not like," I answered. "Betty is made of different stuff from poor Meg. She is stronger both in body and in will. She may break, but she will not bend."

"But do you think your aunt would force on Betty a match which she did not like?" asked Edward.

"Yes, if she thought it for her good, as she says; that is, if the man were rich or great, and able to give Betty a grand position in the world. That was all she thought of with Meg. When Lord Chesterton first proposed for Meg, he was a rake and an out and out infidel. Yet my aunt accepted him eagerly, because, as I say, he was rich and would make his wife a great lady. But my aunt will never rule Betty as she did Meg."

"Then you do not think Margaret's heart was in the match with Lord Chesterton?" said my husband.

"Not one bit," I answered. "As I look back at it, I can see that Margaret felt she was dying at any rate, and so it did not greatly matter. Afterward, when she was ill at Cross Park, I believe she really did come to love Lord Chesterton, but he was a changed man then. I never in my life saw any one more altered. But I am sorry both for my aunt and Betty if this matter comes to a conflict, for neither will give way save at the last extremity."

Our winter passed away quietly enough. I had an urgent invitation to spend Christmas with my aunt, who had returned home, but my husband could not well leave the farm, and travelling was difficult in winter, so I declined. I had great pleasure in sending my aunt a hamper of cream cheese, butter, and other dairy products, the work of my own hands, and was gratified in return by a present of books, music, and working materials, and from my uncle ten guineas in a pretty purse.

My uncle even wrote a few lines which were worth more than the money. He said, that, while he was sorry for Edward's misfortunes, he was glad to learn that the young fellow had behaved like a man in standing by his colors, and he liked him all the better. Any thing but these sneaks who were ready to worship the Devil himself to curry court favor. He hoped to be in a position to give us some help before long, and meantime we must keep up a good heart. This letter was a great pleasure to me, for I was always fond of my uncle.

As I said, our winter passed quietly enough. Dr. Kirton had really sent us the harpsichord, and quite a library of old-fashioned music-books. I found some time for practice; and I amused myself, and I hope did some good, by practising with the choir, and instructing the school-children in church music. Dr. Dean was not at all musical, and the singing had been something dreadful, insomuch that the Sunday Mr. Rowson preached for us I saw him privately stop his ears, and thought he would have run out of church when the children upraised their voices in the psalm.

We heard from Mr. Rowson that Dr. Kirton did not live at Studley, and that the Hall was shut up and deserted, only that old Janey and her husband, the gardener, lived in the kitchen. The house always had the reputation of being "troubled,"—that is to say, haunted—not only by the fateful white owl, but by the spirit of a certain Moorish lady whom some of the old freebooting Studleys had brought home, and afterward deserted, or, as some said, murdered. This poor lady's apparition used to rise from the old well in one corner of the court, into which tradition said she had been thrown, and parade about the house in all her barbaric finery on moonlight nights. I used to wish I could see her, a black or copper-colored ghost would be such a pleasing novelty, but my husband says many of the Turkish ladies are beautifully fair. Anyhow, it was the general belief at Studley that Dr. Kirton had not only seen this lady, but had also been haunted by the spirit of his unfortunate sister, who could not rest in her grave, but was always coming to his bedside and adjuring him to burn the unrighteous will. He left the care of the estate to his attorney in Biddeford, and returned to Bristol.

I well remember what a sweet spring evening it was, when we received a most unexpected guest. I had walked down to the red gate to meet my husband, who was somewhat late in coming from market. I was leaning over the gate to look down the road, when I beheld a most forlorn, tired-looking woman, dragging herself up the hill. At first I thought it was old Sally the hawker, who made a practice of visiting us three or four times in a season, but, as the woman drew nearer, I saw she was a much younger person. I could not see her face under her deep hood, but there was something in the figure that was strangely familiar. Seeing how feeble she seemed, I hastened to meet her.

"You are very weary," I said. "Let me help you to the gate, where there is a seat for you to rest upon." (I had always a fancy for meeting Edward at this gate, and he had made a nice bench for my accommodation.) The stranger accepted my arm, and leaned on it heavily enough, till she reached the seat, when she sank upon it as if fainting. I hastily untied her hood, and pushed it back from her face. What was my amazement and even horror to recognize my cousin Betty!

There was no one in sight, and I dared not leave her lest she should fall to the ground. I was considering what to do, when I heard my husband's voice asking what was the matter. I never was more glad to see him in my life, and that is saying a great deal.

"How shall we get this poor thing to the house?" said I.

"The house," answered Edward doubtfully. "Had we not better lay her in the barn first? She may have the fever about her."

"The barn!" said I scornfully. "Edward, it is my cousin Betty; though what has brought her here, I cannot guess. Don't stand staring there like a moorland colt," I added sharply, for Ned did indeed look like a statue of amazement. "Hurry to the house; and do you and Andrew bring down the little mattress from the green room, and a blanket. That will be the easiest way to manage it. Tell Mrs. Williams to get the blue room ready. And hurry back."

Ned went off without another word,—he is very good to mind, when I do take the command,—and the time did not seem long, even to me, till he and Andrew were back with the mattress, which they had laid on a shutter. Betty had partly come to herself, but seemed unable to speak. Only, as they tried to lift her, she moaned and grasped my hand tightly.

"Don't be afraid, Betty," said I. "You are with friends, and I won't leave you."

We carried her up-stairs, where Mrs. Williams helped me to undress her. And with much ado we got her into bed, and persuaded her to swallow a few spoonfuls of good broth. The fainting fit was succeeded by hysterics, and that by bitter weeping. I did not try to make her talk, but coaxed and soothed her, till at last she fell asleep; and I went down to my husband.

"Well," said he, as I entered the kitchen, "what does it all mean?"

"I don't know, though I have a shrewd guess," I answered. "I have not tried to make her speak. She is fearfully exhausted. She must have walked a long way, for her shoes are cut to pieces."

"But you are sure it is your cousin," said Ned. "You could hardly be mistaken, though she comes in such a strange way."

"Mistaken!" said I scornfully. "Do you think I would not know you, though you were to fall out of a comet, instead of riding home on old Soldan?"

"I doubt it," answered my husband. "If I fell out of a comet, I doubt I should be past recognition by the time I reached you."

"Not you! You would be on your feet in a minute, making an instructive reflection," I retorted. "Come now and get your supper, for I know you must be half starved, and then we will think what is best to do."

We talked the matter over, and agreed that nothing could be done till Betty was able to tell her own story. I watched with her. She was restless and moaning in her sleep till near morning, when she grew quieter and seemed to fall into a refreshing slumber. When she waked, she was quite herself, but so weak and exhausted that I dared not let her talk. Only I asked her if her mother knew where she was.

She shook her head. "No, no, and don't tell her. Don't let her know. Hide me somewhere. Dolly, I will never go back to marry that man—never."

"Hush, hush! Don't excite yourself," said I. "You are safe with me. But think, Betty, how anxious your poor father and mother will be."

She seemed to soften at this. "Yes, I am sorry for them. But I won't marry him. I may be lost for this world and the next, but I will never marry him."

"Marry whom?" I asked.

"That man, Mr. Cheney." And here she fell into her fits again, and we had hard work to keep her in bed.

"She must be crazy," said Edward, when I told him. "Cheney's wife died last summer, I know, but surely your aunt would never give him her only child."

"He is very rich," said I, "and he sees all the best company in the county. Don't you remember what my aunt said in her last letter,—that Mr. Cheney had a prospect of being raised to the peerage?"

"Yes, because he favored the king's policy, but surely that would have no weight with Sir Robert."

"It would have great weight with my aunt, though; and Sir Robert takes all she says and does for gospel. But, Edward, ought we not to let her friends know that she is safe? They must be in terrible suspense about her."

"I think so," answered my husband. "Rowson is going to set out for Exeter to-morrow morning early. I believe I will ride with him, and carry the news myself."

I agreed that this would be the best way, and so it was settled. By evening, Betty was quite sensible, though still weak. She told me her story, as far as she knew it herself. I had guessed rightly. Mr. Cheney had proposed for her; and her mother, dazzled by his immense wealth and his prospects, had insisted on Betty's accepting him. She refused; and there had been, as I gathered, a terrible scene between them, in which Betty, goaded to desperation by her mother's calm persistence, had reproached her with being the cause of Meg's death. I knew how Betty could go on, when once roused, and could imagine more than she told me.

It ended with her being shut into her chamber, from which she escaped by climbing out of the window. She had left her hat and gloves by the side of a deep pond in the park, which had once been a quarry-hole, and had then walked the whole distance to my door. She had lost her purse the second day, and had been obliged literally to beg her way, sleeping in barns and outhouses like a gypsy beggar, and passing one night on the open moor. It made me shudder to think of the dangers she had run. I asked her if she were not frightened.

"No," she answered, "I don't know that I was. I had but one thought,—to get away, and come to you. And I will never go back to marry that man," she added, her eyes growing wild again. "I will drown myself in earnest first."

"Surely your mother would never have forced him upon you," said I.

Betty smiled bitterly. "Don't you know my mother by this time?" said she. "She would marry me to Satan if he could make me a duchess, and talk all the time about my good—yes, and make me a present of religious books for my closet at the same moment. I tell you, Dolly, only for my remembrance of Meg, I would throw over all religion as folly and delusion. But I love to think her happy, though I shall never see her."

"You must not say that," I said; "why should you not see her?"

Betty only shook her head sadly; and I was too much afraid of exciting her, to pursue the subject. She was really very ill; and Dr. Dean, who had some knowledge of medicine, thought she would have a course of low fever, though he did not apprehend any danger.

My husband returned from Lady Court the third day. He reported that my aunt seemed greatly relieved to find that Betty was not drowned, as they all believed at first. But she was very bitter, saying that Betty had disgraced herself and her family by her escapade, and she, for one, never wished to see her face again. Let her bake as she had brewed. Sir Robert was more lenient. He thought they had been hard on the girl, who was high-spirited like himself. She had better stay where she was for the present, if we would consent to keep her; and perhaps, after a while, things might be arranged. Indeed, he had never so greatly liked the match, but thought his wife knew best.

Edward remarked that Betty would have to stay where she was for the present, as she was very ill from fatigue and exposure.

"Why, how was she exposed?" asked my uncle.

Edward told the story of Betty's journey, at which Sir Robert broke down and wept, swore she was his own spunky girl, and he only wished she were a boy instead of a maid. He ended by sending Betty a kind message and some money, promising that she should not be pressed to marry any one, and saying he would ride over and see her some day.

But my aunt was not to be pacified. She was, indeed, wounded in her most susceptible part,—her respect for the opinion of the world. The story had taken wing already that Betty had drowned herself to avoid a marriage with Mr. Cheney, to whom she was betrothed. All Exeter was ringing with it. And now it must be contradicted, and some tale made up, which, after all, nobody would believe. No, she had brought lasting disgrace on all belonging to her.

"I shall never hold up my head again," she repeated. And then, weeping, "What have I ever done, that I should be so unfortunate in my children? My only consolation is that I have done every thing possible for their good."

And I believe she really thought so. She did every thing for the best, though she was so terribly mistaken as to what that best was.

Finally, my aunt was won by my husband to send her daughter a message. She forgave her all the pain she had caused her, but she did not wish to see her at present. When Betty was well, she had perhaps better go to her aunt Laneham at Bristol, where Mr. Laneham had gotten some preferment at the cathedral. Her residing in the family of a beneficed clergyman might do something toward restoring to her the character she had lost. Sharpless should send her some necessary clothes.

Betty smiled sorrowfully when she received the message, but seemed to care little about the matter. She lay for several weeks very ill, but recovered her strength after a while; though she has always been slightly lame, from the effects of her exposure. She began by and by to go about the house and to help me in various ways, but I could not get her to go to church, and hardly any thing could draw a smile from her.

At last, however, we won her confidence, and she opened her heart to us. On her first going to London, she had been very unwilling to go to the theatre or the opera, having made up her mind that these things were wrong and unbecoming a Christian, and that if, as she said, there was any thing in religion, one's life should be passed in a course of good and pious works. She had been greatly strengthened in this idea by three or four Roman Catholic books which fell in her way. Indeed, I believe they were given her by Queen Mary herself, who took a great liking to her.

Betty said she would have become a Romanist, and gone into a convent, only there were a few things she could not get over; and, above all, she could not make up her mind to think that dear Margaret was lost forever. The king himself had condescended to argue with Betty, and if his Majesty had not insisted on this point with the stupid obstinacy which always distinguished him, poor man! I dare say he would have won her over.

But by little and little, as Betty said, she was led on to go against her conscience, and to take pleasure in what she felt all the time were sinful amusements, till at last she lost all peace and hope, and came to believe that there was nothing left her but a fearful judgment. She thought that she had never possessed any true love for God, and was altogether a reprobate.

"Well," said my husband, when she paused. "What are you going to do about it?"

Betty looked at him in surprise. "What do you mean?" she asked. "What can I do about it?"

"Supposing you to have been the sinner you represent yourself, there are two courses open to you," said my husband. "You may go on sinning against your heavenly Father, insulting his love and mercy, and defying him to the bitter end; or you may come to him in all humility and repentance, confessing your sins, and asking forgiveness through him who hath said, 'He that cometh to me I will in no wise cast out,' and then spending the rest of your life humbly in his service and to his glory. You have the choice of these two ways. Which will you do?"

Betty looked very doubtful. "But I never can go back and marry that man, even if he would have me, which I doubt."

"So do I, seeing he hath already married some one else," answered my husband. "I would not say you are bound to do so in any case, though I do think you ought to ask your mother's forgiveness for the pain you caused her by your pretended suicide. It was a wicked piece of deception, and I don't wonder your conscience is oppressed."

Betty colored. It is one thing to call yourself a lost sinner, and another to have particular sins brought home to you by somebody else. She began to excuse herself, but broke off, and at last owned frankly that it was very wrong.

"But I had not thought so much about that as about my life in London," said she,—"all those worldly compliances."

"You should have treated them as Meg did,—as so many crosses,—and then they would have done you no harm," said I. "They did not hurt Margaret. Or, if you thought them wrong, you could have told your mother so in gentle and respectful language."

"I know I did not do right in any thing, either in refusing or giving way," answered Betty, "but O Dolly, I was hard bestead, and I had no one to help me."

"Except God," added my husband. "That is a grave exception. But we will admit all that, Betty. You have been a great sinner, like all the rest of us, and your only hope is in the undeserved mercy of God. You can make no amends to him."

"That is the worst of it," said Betty.