Chapter XII: Book III: Studley Hall, 1687 (4)

"No, my maid, that is the best of it," replied Edward. "You can do nothing, and there is no need that you should, since One hath done all for you."

And with that he went on to set before Betty the plan of our redemption, all its freeness and fulness, as he had once set it before me. But I think it was harder for Betty to take it in than it had been for me. One day we were sitting in the porch with our spinning,—for she was bent upon learning all sorts of country arts, and I had taught her to spin as Mrs. Williams had taught me. Betty was very sad and not inclined to talk, and I did not urge her.

We were sitting thus, when old Alice Yeo came for her jug of milk. She was a good old body, who lived in a little cottage on the farm, and eked out a living by the help of the church dole and what little she could earn by spinning and knitting. She was lame, and seldom came so far as our house, generally sending by one of the schoolgirls, who were very kind to her.

"Why, Goody, this is a wonder!" said I, rising to help her up the step and give her a seat. "You don't often walk so far."

"No, mistress, but the fine day tempted me, and I thought I would like to see the place once more. Mussy, how the myrtle trees have grown, to be sure! Great trees they be now, but I remember well when Mary Lee and I planted them, when she came here a bride sixty years and more agone. Ay, and she planted yonder pinks, too, that very time. ¹ A sweet and gracious maid she was, and a dutiful wife, but she did not live long: she died with her first babe."

¹ I know of a bed of pinks which was planted a hundred and thirty years
ago.

"Poor thing!" said Betty.

"Oh, you need not pity her, my lamb! She died happy, yes, rejoicing, and she saw the room full of angels. I was with her, and it was like a look into heaven. No, no, you needn't pity her. She went to her rest sixty years ago, and I have lived to bury husband and children and all. But you need not pity me, neither," she added, with the sweet, tremulous smile of gracious old age. "I will soon be at home; and then it won't matter whether the way thither was long or short, rough or smooth: 'twill be home all the same.—Mistress, could you spare me ere a bit of honey now? My cough gets troublesome of nights again, and the honey and hyssop do seem to loosen it like."

I brought her the honey, and some other little matters I had laid aside for her, and sent Peggy home with her to carry her jug down the hill. When I came back to my seat, Betty was gazing abroad over the sea. She was silent a little, and then said abruptly,—

"Dolly, I would give sight and hearing and all I possess, to be as happy as that old woman."

"You have no need to give any of these things," I answered; "you have only to give up self. Tell me honestly, Betty, is it not some cherished sin that keeps you back from peace? Something you know you ought to do, and will not do?"

Betty withdrew her eyes from the sea, and fixed them on her spinning.

"You think I ought to write to my mother and beg her pardon," said she, after a little silence.

"Yes," I answered, "and so do you."

Her color rose. "Oh, yes, of course!" said she. "You think I should say I am sorry I did not please her by marrying that man."

I began to lose patience. "Betty, you know better," said I. "Mr. Cheney is married already, so there is no question of that. You know that by your own showing you used very unbecoming and even cruel language to your mother. You ought to beg her pardon for that, and for the still more cruel deception you played upon her and your father, by making them believe you were drowned."

"But my mother was wrong in trying to force me into a match with a man I disliked. Even you admit that, Dolly," said Betty.

"Two wrongs do not make a right," I answered. "Your business is not with what your mother did, but what you did. And I tell you plainly that till you forgive your mother, and ask her to pardon you, you have no right to expect peace or even forgiveness. 'If I regard iniquity in my heart, the Lord will not hear me.' Pride and anger and the peace of this world cannot dwell together, much more the peace of God."

I went away and left her to think of my words, nor did I encourage her to talk further about the matter. Two or three days afterward she was in her room nearly all day. At night she brought me a letter, and asked me to read it.

"No, I would rather not," said I. "Write such a letter as you think will be pleasing to your heavenly Father, and then it will be sure to be right."

She thought a little, and then, taking up the letter, she tore it to pieces. I heard her moving several times in the night. In the morning she brought me another letter, sealed this time, and asked Edward to have it sent. He held her hand a moment as he took it, and looked into her face.

"It is all right now," said he.

"I hope so," she answered, smiling, though her eyes were moist, "but oh, it has been a hard fight, and I fear all is not yet won."

"I dare say not," my husband answered. "Such battles often have to be fought many times over, and Satan never attacks us with more vehemence than when we have just humbled ourselves to some fellow sinner."

"I suppose that is true," said Betty, "but in truth, cousin, I never tried it many times. I don't know that I ever did unless I were forced to it."

"I know. You and Meg were different in that," said I. "She was always ready to ask pardon, even when she was the least to blame."

"We were different in every respect, except for the love we bore each other," said Betty, sighing. "I know when we had a difference, and I had been far the most in fault, she would ask me to forgive her. But, cousin, will you send this letter for me?"

"That I will gladly," he answered; and, it being market-day, he posted it that very morning.

The answer was not long in coming. I watched Betty with some anxiety as she read it, and saw her color rise, and her eyes fill with tears. When she had finished, she handed it to me. My aunt said that, as Betty had asked for forgiveness, she must grant it, of course. She supposed Betty was weary of her rustication, and wished to come home, but that could not be at present. If she were tired of the country, she could go to her aunt Laneham at Bristol, who would no doubt receive her.

Betty had gone to her own room, leaving the letter with me. I handed it to Edward with an expression of indignation.

"It is a cruel letter," said I; "and not like my aunt at all. She was formerly always ready to forgive, when any one made submission."

"I can read between the lines," answered Edward. "Your aunt's conscience is uneasy. She knows she has been wrong herself, and she has not the courage to say as much, so she takes it out in this way. She will come to a better mind, after a while. I am glad Betty is here, and not at home."

"She seems very contented," said I. "How handily she takes to every sort of work! It seems as though she had found her true vocation."

"Like somebody else I know," returned my husband. "What a farmer's dame had been lost to the world, Dolly, if you had married a great man!"

The summer wore on very quietly. We had a visit from my uncle, who staid with us two or three days, and seemed to enjoy his visit. My aunt wrote to Betty by him in a much more kindly strain, making no allusion to her fault, and sending her a pretty present. She said nothing, however, about Betty's coming home, nor did Sir Robert encourage it for the present. Betty sent her mother a pair of fine hose of her own spinning and knitting, and received a kind note in reply, but still nothing was said about her going home.

But it soon became apparent that Betty was likely to have a home of her own, unless somebody interfered to prevent. Mr. Rowson had admired her very much from the first. After a while, they came to an understanding. And the next time Sir Robert came over, he made proposals for Betty's hand. He was very well to do. His living was a good one for those parts, and he had quite a nice little private fortune. His family was respectable; and, though there was a good deal of difference in their ages, it was on the right side.

I could see at once that Sir Robert was taken with Mr. Rowson. He talked with Betty in private, and also with Edward and me, and assured Mr. Rowson that his good word should not be wanting to his suit.

"I fear her mother will not be pleased at Betty's marrying a parson," remarked my uncle to me at parting, "but I will do my best to persuade her, and the maid shall have her way. Methinks we have made enough of sacrifices to the world, which will never make any for us."

"Nor for any one else," remarked Edward. "The world is a bad paymaster."

"I believe you are right, nephew," said my uncle thoughtfully. "I shall always think that last season in London was the death of poor Meg. I would not say so to her mother, since she acted for the best, but I believe if the maid had staid quietly at home, she might have been alive now. Well, good-by, young folks, and God bless you! My wife pities your lot, but I must say you appear as well to do as anybody I know. I shall never forget your kindness to my poor daughter. And between ourselves, I would, for my own part, a hundred times rather see Betty wed to an honest fellow like Rowson, country parson though he be, than to Cheney, who hath got his peerage by declaring himself a Papist. I don't know what the world is coming to, for my part. I have always stood by Church and king, but as things are going now—But there, I must not stay longer, or I shall be benighted on the moor.—Keep up a good heart, Bess. It will all come right in time."

Contrary to all our expectations, my aunt made no objections to the match, but gave her consent and blessing without delay. In fact, I think she was very glad that she had an opening for a reconciliation. She would have Betty married from home, and we must all go to the wedding. It was in the farmer's holiday, between haying and harvest, and we were not afraid to leave our matters in such good hands as those of Mrs. Williams and Andrew.

My aunt received us with the greatest kindness; and no one would have guessed, from her manner, that Betty had not been away on an ordinary visit. Perhaps it was the best way on the whole.

Mr. Rowson had a cousin living in Exeter, the dowager Lady Peckham, who was well-jointured and much respected, though she went little into society, and was accounted a bit of a Puritan. I think this connection did something to reconcile my aunt to the match. Lady Peckham was at the wedding, as were also the bishop and his lady, and Mr. Studley's old friend Lady Clarenham: so it was quite a grand affair. I don't think all the parade was to Betty's taste, but her mother would have it so, and Betty gave way to her in every thing, as was but right.

It must have been rather pleasing to her to hear the reprobation which was poured from every side on my Lord Viscount Cheney (I know it was to me), but she made no sign thereof.

Lord Cheney was in London, in great favor at court, where the king was going from bad to worse. His Majesty was at open feud with both the universities, and the clergy (even those who had been most active in preaching passive obedience to the worst of kings) took sides with their colleges. It makes so very much difference whether it is yourself or somebody else that is to be passively obedient. The king had an army encamped on Hounslow Heath, for the purpose, as was said, of overawing the city, which was not overawed at all, but only enraged. The Dissenters were openly courted, and some of them even appeared in court, but the leaders among them, like Mr. Baxter and Dr. Bates, stood aloof, and made no response to the king's advances. The Bishop of Exeter still clung to the hope that matters would be accommodated, but his clergy were open enough in their expressions of discontent; and the dean had declared plainly that the Prince of Orange, Calvinist as he was, would be better than the rule of the Jesuits,—which was what every one thought we were coming to.

It was like coming into a new world to me, who had lived so quietly for the past year and more. I must say I found it very amusing for a little, but I soon tired of the bustle and fuss, and was not a bit sorry to get back to my quiet home again. Betty was to make a little visit at home, and then to Mr. Rowson's old mother, who lived not far from Bath. We employed the time of her absence in putting the parsonage in nice order, and disposing therein the furniture my uncle sent over. The house was a good one, though not large, but Mr. Rowson's housekeeping had been but slack, even for a bachelor, and such a looking place I never saw as Mrs. Williams and I found when we went over.

By good luck, the old housekeeper went off in dudgeon at the news of her master's marriage: so we had the place to ourselves, and soon put it in nice order. Peggy's eldest sister had grown tired of living in a town, and had come home. She was a staid, capable body, and was glad to get a service near her mother, who was growing old: so we installed her in the kitchen, with a little maiden from the school under her. And when Betty came home, she found every thing in readiness, even to the supper.

I think she has always been happy in her new life. She takes great interest in parish matters, and hath set up a good school which she superintends herself, though her two babes, which might almost as well be twins, give her plenty to do. Her mother has visited her more than once, and they are the best of friends. Betty has never told her what she told Edward and me, that Mr. Rowson refused the offer of being a minor canon at Exeter, which came to him shortly after his marriage.

"It would only vex her," said she, "and what is the use? I can tell you, Dolly, since I had that one to deal with," pointing to her elder child, who is a little pickle, "I begin to understand what I owe to my mother. I think she mistook in many things, but as I call to mind her kindness and self-sacrifice and patience, I cannot too deeply repent my own perverseness."

"In not marrying Lord Cheney?" said I mischievously.

"You know better than that," she answered, laughing. "I would not change my poor parson for any lordling in the land, much less for him whom I always hated. But I might have refused in a different manner; and I can see, in a hundred instances, how I set myself up against my mother merely for the sake of contradiction. Yes, indeed, Mrs. Peggy, there, has opened my eyes to a great many things I never should have seen but for her."

But I am spinning out my story so long that I fear none of my descendants will have the patience to read it. We lived at the farm for a year longer, prospering on the whole; though we had to work hard for what we got, and had our ups and downs like other folks. We heard nothing from Dr. Kirton, except that his agent had raised all the rents and exacted them pitilessly. Dr. Kirton himself never came near the Hall, which was now quite shut up and deserted; for Janey's husband had died, and she would not stay alone, and no one else could be found to brave the terrors of the ghosts, which, according to the old servants and tenants, made a parade-ground of the Hall. Janey came to us and took up her abode with old Alice, who was altogether bedridden and needed someone to wait on her.

As I said, we lived on quietly, and heard only distant echoes of the storm which was muttering and gathering at home and abroad. When my husband rode to Biddeford market, he generally brought home the "Gazette,"—which, however, told us little, being under such close censorship,—and two or three news-letters lent him by Master Gifford. From them we heard of the stirring events in London, of the Declaration of Indulgence, the arrest of the bishops and their acquittal, and the mad conduct of the king and his Jesuit advisers, which men said were by no mean approved by the Pope.

I had ridden to Biddeford with my husband, and was busy in Master Gifford's shop, selecting some household matters, and talking with our good old friend and his wife, when a foreign looking man, with the unmistakable gait of a sailor, came in and asked for Master Gifford.

"I am Master Gifford, at your service," said the merchant.

Now, a foreign sailor is no sight at all in Biddeford, and I turned away carelessly enough to speak to my husband who had just come in. At the sound of his voice, the stranger turned hastily around.

"Ned!" said he with a curious tremor in his voice. "Surely this is Edward Studley."

"Edward Studley, at your service, sir," said my husband, but in a moment his face changed, and he looked like one who saw a ghost.

"Don't you know me, Ned?" said the stranger. "I should have known you, had I met you in Barbary."

"If a man can rise from the dead, this is my uncle Philip," exclaimed Edward, catching him by the hand. "Is it really you in substance of the body?"

"Even as you see," said the sailor, with a mighty shake of the hand, which left no doubt of his corporeal substance. "It is Philip Bassett himself, escaped not from death, but from long captivity, well nigh as hopeless as death."

It may be guessed what a welcome we gave to our uncle, whom every one had mourned as dead. There was not room for many words, for we had to be on our way home. Mr. Bassett looked surprised when we took the road to Applecoombe.

"How is this?" said he. "This was not the road to Studley in my time."

"Nor is it now," answered Edward. "We are living at Applecoombe."

"At Applecoombe," repeated uncle Philip. "What, you have parted company with the old gentleman at last! Well, no one can blame you."

"My father is dead," said Edward briefly.

Mr. Bassett said no more, but began asking about different neighbors as we passed one house and another on the road. It was not till we were seated by ourselves after supper that he began again.

"But if your father is dead, Ned, how does it happen that you are living here? Why are you not on your own estate?"

"Because I have no estate," answered Edward. "My father disinherited me, and left all his property to his second wife and her brother. He gave me nothing but my black horse, and my mother's old harpsichord."

"Disinherited you!" exclaimed uncle Philip. "He could no more disinherit you than he could the king of England. The whole estate belonged to you by your grandfather's will, though your father had the use of it for his life without reserve."

Edward colored high. "How did it happen that I never knew that?" he asked.

"By the terms of the will the matter was to be kept secret till you were five and twenty," answered Mr. Bassett. "I don't know that your father was obliged to tell you even then, though that was certainly implied. I wonder old Mr. Winne, the lawyer in Exeter, did not advise you how matters stood."

"The old gentleman died before my father, who took his business out of Mr. Winne's hands some years before," answered Edward. "Naturally young Winne did not care to meddle in the matter unasked. But are you sure?"

"As sure as that I sit here," replied Mr. Bassett. "My father was one of the witnesses to the will. Kirton hath no more right to the estate than my old master in Tripoli."

"We must look into the matter," said my husband. "To-morrow, if you are able, we will ride to Exeter and take council with Mr. Winne, who hath his father's business, and is an honest man. But now tell us of your adventures. Were you really a slave in Tripoli?"

"That I was for five long years, and might be to this day, only that my master took me to sea with him. We were wrecked off Sardinia, and my poor master was drowned. He was a kind, charitable old man, and made my life as easy as might be. The ship was got off, but I slipped overboard in the confusion, and swam to the shore. There I abode for near a year longer, till I got a chance to ship for Marseilles, where I found an English vessel, and worked my way home, without a tester in my pocket,—not like the uncle in the story-book, who comes home with his pouch full of gold, you see, niece."

"You have brought news which is better than gold," I answered; "and if you had brought nothing but yourself, you would be more than welcome."

My husband had left the room at some call from Andrew, and I took the chance to tell Mr. Bassett how Edward had gone to Turkey to look for him, having heard that he had been seen in Constantinople.

"Ay, that was like Ned," said Mr. Bassett. "But why did his father cast him off at last?"

"Because he was bewitched, I think," I answered, and told him the story.

"Ay, so," he said thoughtfully. "As there is nothing so good as a good woman, so I believe there is nothing so bad as a wicked woman. But we shall soon set all to rights now. Kirton will not have a leg to stand on. I doubt if he shows any fight at all."

The next day my husband and his uncle rode to Exeter, found Mr. Winne, and examined the will. It was so perfectly explicit that there was no room for mistake. The proper steps were taken; and, as Mr. Bassett had predicted, no opposition was made. Indeed, Dr. Kirton never made his appearance at all, but fled from Bristol, where he had contrived to victimize a good many people. Even his attorney at Biddeford lost money by him, or so he said; though people in general were of the opinion that he had feathered his own nest pretty well, and some did not scruple to say that he had known the truth all along.

It may be guessed with what feelings we repaired to Studley Hall to take possession of our rights. Great depredations had taken place by cutting of timber and the like, and both Edward and Mr. Bassett groaned over the loss of favorite trees. There had even been a threat at one time of pulling down the Hall, but it had not been carried out; and the old house stood safe and stately in its grove of nut-trees.

How strange it seemed to walk freely through the rooms and the garden, and feel that they were all our own! In turning out the room where poor Rebecca died, I discovered in a secret cupboard in the wall some valuable jewels and quite a sum of money. I had no mind to profit by the poor thing's riches, which might be, for aught I knew, the wages of iniquity; and, with my husband's approval, I gave them all to Mr. Rowson, to be laid out on the new schoolhouse which was then a-building.

As misfortunes never come single, so good fortune sometimes hath its flood tides; and thus it was with us. The poor old Hall needed a deal of repairing to make it comfortable, or even habitable, but where was the money to come from? As may be guessed, Kirton had left no money behind him. We were considering the matter of ways and means, when I received a letter from London with surprising intelligence. Mr. Harpe, the attorney to whom my mother had intrusted her little all, was dead, and had left me by will seven hundred pounds, and a house at Hackney. I was never more surprised in my life. His nephew, who was also his heir and executor, wished me to come to London, and attend to the business which must be gone through. The young man wrote very politely, I must say, and enclosed funds to pay the expenses of the journey.

"How in the world came this man to leave you such a little fortune?" asked Edward, when I gave him the letter. "What was he to you?"

"A thief and a robber," I answered. "Don't you remember my telling you the story of my poor mother's little property, which was put into his hands?"

"Well, he hath restored it two-fold, at least," said my husband.

"Small thanks to him for restoring what he could no longer keep," I answered. "My thanks are due to God and to this man's honest executor, but not at all to him, that I can see. What shall we do about it? It is not a very convenient time for you to leave home."

"And I suppose you will not go without me," said Edward, "not even with uncle Philip for escort."

"That I won't," I answered. "Don't flatter yourself that you are going to get off so easily as that. Uncle Philip may stay and see to the farm, and protect Mrs. Williams from the Irish, who so haunt her imagination."

There was great talk about this time, of the Irish whom the king was bringing over to recruit his army, and stragglers from the new levies were straying about the country. Much more to be pitied than feared they were, for the most part, poor things! For they could speak hardly any English, and the people feared and hated them in equal proportion.

A couple of them had come as far out of the way as Applecoombe, and had asked for food humbly enough, poor fellows! And Edward, finding them willing to work, and apt to learn, had found them something to do about the farm. They had not shown the least evil disposition during the few days they had been with us. On the contrary, they had shown themselves very grateful for their rations of brown bread and buttermilk, and their beds of clean straw in a shed.

But Mrs. Williams would not be persuaded that they were not the advance-guard of a band of marauders coming to murder us. Nor did she seem much consoled when Mr. Rowson, who loves to tease her, reminded her that if it were settled in the immutable decrees that she was to be murdered by wild Irishmen, the sending away of Dennis and Patrick O'Finnegan would do nothing to reverse it. However, they have staid with us to this day, and have never yet murdered any one, or done any harm, except by their blunders now and then.

Well, it was finally settled that we were to go to London by sea, from Exmouth, with a captain whom Edward knew, leaving uncle Philip and Andrew to garrison the farmhouse, and protect Mrs. Williams. We set out about the middle of September, visiting my uncle by the way, and receiving from my aunt a string of commissions for matters from the London shops. We had rather a stormy voyage, but finally arrived in safety about the first of October, and took lodgings near my Lady Corbet's old house, with a widow lady with whom I had some acquaintance.

When we discovered what a scene of excitement and confusion we were come into, we almost wished ourselves at home again. It had now become an open secret that a number of peers, spiritual and temporal, had united in an invitation to the Prince of Orange, who was making great preparations for invading England. The king, who for a long time had treated with contempt the warnings of King Louis and his other friends on the Continent, had become suddenly awake to his danger, had dismissed some of his advisers, and ordered others to keep out of the way, and had thus late in the day brought forward proofs of the legitimacy of the poor little baby Prince of Wales, which nobody believed in any the more for all his pains. It was a little curious, by the way, that he who had taken so much pains to throw doubts on the legitimacy of his first wife's children should have so much trouble in proving the birth of this child.

Every one, even those who have since been bitterly opposed to him, was praying for a favorable wind for the prince. The fruit and flower girls made their profit of the occasion; for oranges were bought at any price the vendors chose to ask, and every man who could procure one had some kind of yellow flower in his hat or button-hole, while orange ribbons and orange plumes were flaunted in the park under the very nose of the king.

We found the younger Mr. Harpe to be a very sober young gentleman, disposed to do every thing in his power for those whom his uncle had wronged. The man had been worse than I had ever supposed; for it turned out, upon examination, that Mrs. Price had actually left to my mother a house worth at least two hundred pounds, and the same amount in money; so that, after all, Mr. Harpe had left me only my exact due. Mr. John Harpe insisted on paying interest for Mrs. Price's legacy, and, indeed, showed himself in every thing as honest and open-handed as his uncle had been the reverse. But there is always more or less delay in all legal proceedings; and one week dragged on after another, and still we were kept in town. Oh, how I did hate the dirt and the smoke and the smells, and long for a breath of Devon air and a good drink of Devon milk!

I did not forget my aunt's commissions. And, going out one day about some of them, I made my way to Mr. Jackson's shop, where I found Ursula behind the desk. She looked old and worn, and her fretful expression had grown upon her. She pretended not to recognize me at first; and, when I made myself known to her, she affected great surprise at seeing me in town, and asked what had brought me. I told her I had come up with my husband to look after some property which had fallen to me.

"Oh, so you are married, after all!" said she. "And who is the happy man?"

"Mr. Studley of Studley Hall in North Devon," I told her.

"What! He who was my Lady Clarenham's gentleman-usher? I wonder your aunt should have allowed you to make such a match as that. But I suppose after her own daughter went to the bad—" She saw something in my face, I suppose, and she checked herself with, "But perhaps, after all, it was not so bad as people said."

"I don't know what you mean, or what people say," I answered warmly. "I know that my cousin is most respectably and happily married, and living in her own house, if you call that going to the bad. But you are just the same Ursula, I see, always with a wonderful tale to somebody's disadvantage."

"And you are the same Dolly, always flying out at nothing," she retorted. And then, more gently, "But don't let us quarrel when we have not met for so long. I only repeated what I had heard. I am sure I am glad it is not true. Come into my parlor, and sit awhile; it does me good to see an old friend."

I did not want any words with her, and something about her made me feel sorry for her: so I followed her into a back parlor, behind the shop, with loopholed doors by which she could keep an eye on the shopmen. Here she would have me sit down, and brought out some cake and wine. I asked after her father.

"My father is well, but very feeble, and hardly ever comes near the shop," she answered. "My uncle and aunt Pendergast are staying with us at present. These are fine times for us Dissenters, Dolly. We are courted of both sides alike."

"So I hear," I answered, "but Mr. Jackson is not a Dissenter. How is he?"

"Well enough," she answered carelessly. "He is at the docks about some goods just come in, or I should not be sitting here in comfort. But I made my bed, and I must lie on it, I suppose. We poor slaves of wives must take what we can get, and be thankful."

"I am quite content to take what I get," I answered. "I have the best husband in the world."

"I am glad you think so," said Ursula more gently; "and indeed, Dolly, you do look as though things had gone well with you."

I asked her about my Lady Corbet.

"Oh, yes, poor thing, she is in town! You had better go and see her, Dolly: she often speaks of you."

"I certainly shall do so," I said. "But how is she prospering?"

"As well as a woman can who has married a gambler and drunkard, and sees her money melting away in his grasp. But that she hath property of which he can touch only the income, I believe she would have been in an almshouse before now. He never goes near her except when he wants to coax or bully a few guineas out of her. He would have her give up her house, but she clings to that, and there you will find her, like a mouse under a bushel. But here comes my amiable lord and master."

In effect, we heard the next moment a sharp voice in the shop asking for Mrs. Jackson, and in the same breath scolding the shopman for allowing the sun to shine on a piece of camlet.

"But 'twould be all the same to you, or your mistress either, if it were cloth of gold or velvet of Genoa. Nothing goes right when my eye is turned away for a minute."

He opened the door with a frown on his face, which he tried hard to turn into an amiable smile when Ursula presented me to him. He looked littler and meaner than ever. I could not but remember poor Mr. Andrews, whose honest love had been so slighted. Certainly he had had an escape.

As soon as I could, I went to seek my old mistress. I found her living as Ursula had said, like a mouse under a bushel, in one corner of the old house, attended by a vinegar-faced waiting-woman,— a great contrast, certainly, to former days. The poor old lady looked older and more pinched than ever, with her false locks, and the youthful laced cap for which she had exchanged her widow's veil. She gave me a warm welcome, and really seemed glad to hear of my well doing. By and by the waiting damsel left the room, and then she asked me if I knew any thing of Mrs. Williams. I told her my old friend was living with me, and I hoped would always do so.

"Ay, she always loved you," said my lady. "She did not like my marrying again, and I gave her warning for something she said, but I never meant her to go. However, she and Sir Philip Morley would never have agreed, so it is just as well. Sir Philip is like other young men, but we must make allowances, we must make allowances. He has a great many engagements, and cannot give me as much of his company as we could both wish, but he is kind to me, oh, yes, he is kind to me, whatever people may say!"

Somehow I liked the poor old body all the better for making the best of her bad bargain, instead of complaining of him as Ursula Jackson had done. She kept me a long time, asking all about my marriage, and really showing more interest in me than she had ever done before. I was about to take my leave, when she toddled to her cabinet, and, after some hunting, brought out a very pretty case of silver-gilt spoons, which I remembered as having adorned the table on great occasions. She gave them to me, saying she always meant I should have them some day, and they might do for a wedding present. They were small, but very heavy and prettily wrought, and I was admiring them, when I heard a man's step on the stairs, and my lady said rather hurriedly,—

"There, put the box in your pocket, child."

I obeyed instinctively the old sharp tone of command, as Sir Philip Morley entered. I knew him in a moment, though he was changed and grown stout.

Could this be the man I had once fancied I loved,—this debauched looking ruffler? He greeted his wife carelessly enough, and then turned to me.

"And who have we here? As I live by bread, 'tis my old flame, pretty Mrs. Dolly!"

"Mrs. Studley, if you please, sir," I answered, with a courtesy, and by no means relishing the freedom of his address.

"Oh, ho! We are married, and we stand on our dignity," said Sir Philip with a laugh. "Well, 'tis a pretty dignity, and does not misbecome you. Mrs. Studley, since that is the style, I trust I see you well and happy?"

"Very well and very happy, thank you," I answered.

"And how long have you worn the rosy chain of Hymen, may I ask?" said he with a sneering laugh. "For of course it is a rosy chain; we all know that, eh, Felicia?" turning a mocking glance on his poor wife, who seemed divided between joy and terror.

"I have been married about two years," I answered concisely. I felt more and more disgusted with him every moment, as he went on paying me compliments, and seasoning them with ironical speeches to his wife.

My husband had promised to call for me, and I never listened more eagerly for his knock than I did then. He came at last, and I bade my poor old mistress farewell. I never saw her again. I did see Sir Philip once more, as I have good reason to remember.

For my part I was not at all sorry to have met him again, and that without a single feeling save of shame that I should ever have thought of loving him. I don't think, after all, that he was so very much changed: it was my eyes that were opened.

As we were walking home that afternoon (it was the 7th of November), we observed an unusual commotion in the streets. Men were gathered in knots, shaking hands and exchanging looks and words of congratulation, as on some most joyful event. My husband asked one man,—whose dark face, and hat pulled over his brow, showed that he, at least, took no share in the general joy,—what had happened.

"The Devil hath broke loose,—that is all," answered the man, as he turned away.

My husband asked another the same question.

"'Tis that the Lord hath sent deliverance to his people. Praised be his name that I have lived to see it!" replied the old man.

Whereupon the first cursed him for a traitor and an old Roundhead, and I believe would have struck him, had not Edward interposed. So differently was the coming of the Prince of Orange looked upon. But the number of those who mourned was as nothing to those who rejoiced. We hastened to our lodgings, for the mob were already giving signs of turbulence.

That night a chapel not far from us was sacked, the images and furniture thrown into the street and burned, and the priests obliged to fly for their lives.

But the tumult that night was nothing to what followed the flight of the king. The Prince of Orange fairly scared the poor king into running away, much as I have seen our big tom-cat drive a rival and intruder out of the garden by merely looking at him and growling. The queen and the poor little baby were sent away first, under the escort of a Frenchman named Lauzin; and then the king slipped off in the night. He did his best to leave anarchy behind him, by throwing away the great seal, and writing to Feversham to disband the army. ¹

¹ James denied afterward that he meant to disband the army, but his
letter could hardly be construed to mean any thing else.

As soon as it became known that the king had fled, every thing was done that could be done to preserve order, but in vain. That night, the longest in the year as it happened, London was a scene of terrible confusion. All the Roman Catholic chapels and religious houses, of which many had sprung up during the last three years, were sacked and burned; and the inmates hardly escaped with their lives. The same fate befell the mansions of the Spanish ambassador and several other foreign ministers, and many private houses were burned and plundered. The mischief was mostly done by that army of human vermin which seems to infest all the chinks and cracks of great cities, and in part by the apprentices, always ready for mischief.

The next day, London looked as though it had been taken by storm. Our house, a very plain one in a quiet street, was not even threatened. But Mr. Jackson's shop was plundered, and he himself beaten and abused,—it was said, by his own shopmen and apprentices, who certainly were not likely to love him. Lady Corbet's house was also assaulted; and though the mob were diverted from it, by the attack upon Wild House, the poor old lady was so frightened that she never held up her head again, and died a few days afterward.

All day long the peers and the city government labored to restore order, and to avert the consequences of the outrages which had been committed. The Spanish ambassador, who had been the greatest sufferer, was lodged in the palace, and treated with all the observance due to the king himself. He was a sensible, good-tempered man, and accepted graciously the apologies made to him, as did the other ambassadors.

By sunset, things had fallen into a good degree of order. The poor priests and nuns had been cared for, or had found shelter with their friends, the smouldering fires had been put out, and guards were stationed in dangerous places. We began to hope for a quiet night.

Our landlady, Mrs. Jennings, who had kept close all day, ventured to go out and buy materials for a hot supper; and I was anxiously awaiting the return of Mr. Studley, who had gone to ask after poor Ursula and her husband.

He came at last, and I ran down to the door to meet him. As I opened it, I saw his face wore the pale, resolved look I knew so well; and I became conscious of a distant tumult of screams and cries of alarm.

"What now!" I exclaimed.

"Nothing, I hope, but a false alarm," answered my husband, quickly shutting and securing the door. "Help Mrs. Jennings to close all the shutters, Dolly. That is the very first thing."

If I have any talent in the world, it is for doing as I am bid. I had the lower shutters closed and barred before the words were fairly out of Edward's mouth, and ran up-stairs to do the same.

Poor Mrs. Jennings, coming up from the kitchen, with both hands full of hot beefsteak and oyster-sauce, could only stand and stare aghast.

The noise drew nearer and nearer,—such a noise as I hope never to hear again, of oaths and curses, mingled with the shrieks of women and children, and above all the cry of, "The Irish, the Irish! The Irish soldiers are coming to fire the city."

"What does it mean?" I asked, having done all I could do.

"Nothing, I hope," answered my husband. "There is a rumor that the disbanded army is on its way to sack and burn the city."

"O Lord! And he calls that nothing," exclaimed Mrs. Jennings, setting down her dishes for the convenience of wringing her hands.

"O Lord! Oh, gracious!" chorused her handmaiden. "Oh, we shall all be murdered and ravished and burned alive!" And with that she began to scream.

"Hold your tongue, Mary Anne," said her mistress sharply. "How dare you make such a noise here! And see how you are drizzling that gravy all over the floor. Go and bring up the pudding and the mince-pies before I cuff your ears."

Scared as I was, I could hardly help laughing at Mrs. Jennings's sudden change of tone, but I felt sorry for the poor maid.

"Don't make a noise, but keep perfectly quiet: that is the best way to avoid notice," said I. "You see, Mr. Studley thinks it may be a false alarm.—How did the news come, Edward?"

"Nobody seems to know," answered my husband. "To say truth, I do not believe there is much cause for fear. I met Lady Clarenham's nephew, Mr. Strangeways, who is in the Life Guards just now. He says he believes the poor Irish are too thoroughly cowed and bewildered to attempt any great mischief, even if they wished it, which is not at all certain. At all events we can do nothing but keep quiet and wait the event, commending ourselves to Divine protection."

"And that is true; and at any rate we need not leave the nice supper to be eaten by the wild Irish," said Mrs. Jennings, who I believe worships the goddess of cookery, and is indeed a worthy priestess of that divinity. "Mary Anne, you have not put the mustard on the table; and where are the pickled walnuts?"

Mary Anne muttered that one could not be thinking about such things at such a time. She believed her mistress would do so if it were the day of judgment that was coming instead of the Irish.

"To be sure I should, if mustard and walnuts were in the line of my duty," answered Mrs. Jennings sharply. "Come, now, bestir yourself."

We tried to do justice to the nice things prepared for us, but nobody could have much appetite with those dreadful sounds ringing in our ears,—cries and screams, and rushing to and fro of excited crowds, now a temporary lull and now another frightful alarm, "They are coming; the wild Irish are coming."

Edward called us all to prayers, and then we women lay down in our clothes. Poor Mary Anne was so frightened at the notion of going up to her attic that I made her sit down in the great chair in my room, where she was asleep and snoring in two minutes.

The longest night must have an end, and so did this.

When morning came, people bethought themselves to find out what they were scared at. And then it turned out, as Edward had surmised, that the whole was a false alarm. Nay, there had not been a particle of foundation for it; no Irishman had attempted any outrage, or done worse than ask for food at a farmhouse door. The report had first been spread in the suburbs by some men dressed like country wagoners. It might have passed for a silly practical joke, if the same alarm had not been given in other places, widely distant from each other. The whole matter was evidently a conspiracy, but to what end, or by whom planned, remains a mystery. ¹

¹ So it does to this day.

All this confusion and anarchy was no help to our business. And I began to think we should drag out the whole winter in London, and spend all our money before we received it. We staid on till after the capture and second escape of King James (though I don't know why I should call it an escape, since all that any one wanted of him was to run away as fast as he could), and the entry of the Prince of Orange into London.

Finally, after the Christmas holidays, and when matters were becoming a little settled, we saw the end of our business. The money, which, with the sale of the house Mrs. Price had left me, came to more than nine hundred pounds, was sent to our lawyer, Mr. Winne, in bills, as we meant to go home by coach, and did not care to have so much about us. I had executed all my aunt's commissions, and had made a farewell visit to Mr. and Mrs. Pendergast, and to poor Ursula Jackson, the last of my old acquaintances, whose husband was still in bed from the effects of the beating he had received on the night of the riot. Ursula declared he was more scared than hurt, and I dare say she was right.

We were to travel by the fast coach, which makes the journey in three days. It seemed a very short time to me, who had been a week going over the same ground in my uncle's coach. The roads were good; and we had pleasant travelling companions in the persons of a dignified clergyman whom I had met at Bishop Lampleugh's, in Exeter, and a brother of my Lady Peckham's, Lord Carewe, who had been out of the country ever since Monmouth's rebellion, and was now going down to visit his sister. He hath since married Mrs. Winifred Evans, a very nice, pretty young lady whom Lady Peckham brought up, and who saved his life in quite a romantic way when he was lying out in the fields, after the woeful battle of Sedgemoor.

The roads were good for the time of year, as there had been a hard frost of several days' duration, and we had abundance of wraps, so we were not uncomfortable. There was something exhilarating, too, in such rapid travelling, for in many places we went at the rate of seven or eight miles an hour.

But we were not to get off without an adventure. There had been talk of highwaymen at the inn where we staid the first night. We were travelling somewhat slowly over a desolate heath, when the driver suddenly pulled up, and a voice at the window demanded our money and valuables. My husband and Lord Carewe exchanged glances.

"We will do you no harm if you will give up the money we know you have about you," said the masked horseman. "It is in vain to deny, Mr. Studley. We know that you carried away near a thousand pounds from London."

"You are mistaken," said Edward quietly. "I sent the money by sea to a merchant in Bristol a week ago."