Chapter VI: Book II: August 1, 1685 (3)

I came into the room unwittingly to bring Margaret some late violets I had found in the garden, and as I did so I heard my aunt say, in a somewhat forced tone of cheerfulness, "Dear daughter, you are fanciful. The doctor says you are better. We hope you may be able to be married before long."

"But something 'here' tells me a different story," said Meg, laying her hand on her heart. "Dear mother, will you not promise that it shall be as I desire? That can do no harm."

"Oh, yes, I promise!" said my aunt. "But I shall see you go thither to be married first."

I could not but think of the words, "None so blind as those that won't see." But my poor aunt was soon undeceived. Betty was worn out, and lay down, but I did not: I felt so sure that something would happen before morning. It was a mild, bright, moonlight night, with a soft, intermittent breeze sighing among the trees. The sound did remind me of soft, downy wings hovering near. And, as the cloud-shadows passed over the grassy slope, I almost fancied them the shadows of those same wings. It was just at the turn of the night when I heard Sharpless come quickly out of Margaret's room and knock at my aunt's door. Betty heard it, too, and was up in an instant.

When we went in, we found Meg sitting up in bed, her head supported on her father's breast. Her eyes were fixed with a strange, mysterious brightness, as on some wonderful and glorious sight. While on her face lay—ah, how well I knew it!—that awful gray shadow that never falls but once,—the shadow cast by the wing of death. She never looked at us as we came in, or showed any consciousness of our presence, till her mother, taking her cold hand, said tenderly,—"Dear love, what do you gaze at?"

"Angels," whispered Margaret, "bright angels."

"Don't disturb her," said my uncle hoarsely. "Let her be."

We stood round in silence, till the old white-haired vicar, whom Mrs. Miles had sent for, kneeled down, and said the commendatory prayer. Then all at once Meg reached out her hands with a bright, happy smile, as of a tender little babe that sees its mother coming.

"I am ready,—take me!" she said, and in a moment she was gone.

My poor aunt fainted, and revived only to fall into fits of the most violent weeping. I do think she was almost as much shocked as if Meg had been taken in perfect health. She had so persuaded herself that her daughter must get well because she willed it so. Betty was like one turned to stone. I could hardly get her out of the room; and she was so strange that I almost feared for her reason. At last, however, I won her to tears, and she wept herself to sleep.

I could not sleep; and as it grew light a little I went down to walk on the terrace, that the cool air might refresh my hot forehead. I had been there but a few minutes, when Lord Chesterton came up the avenue, riding at full speed, his horse all in a foam, and his groom hardly able to keep up with him. He flung himself from his horse,—which, poor beast, was only too willing to stand,—and caught me by the hand.

"Am I too late, after all?" he asked.

And, reading the truth in my face, he strode hastily away to the other end of the terrace, where he threw himself on a seat, and wept like a little child.

I took it upon me to bid the groom take his horses to the stables. Then I stood a moment or two uncertain what to do, not liking to intrude on the poor gentleman's grief, nor yet to leave him alone.

At last he seemed to calm himself in some measure, and rose from the seat where he had thrown himself, and I went to meet him.

"Tell me how was it," he said. "Why did no one send for me?"

I told him there was no time,—that my aunt had apprehended no immediate danger, nor even the doctor.

"Ay, none so blind as those that won't see," said he, using the very words I had applied to my aunt in my own mind. "Did you think she was going to get well?"

I told him no; that I had had little hope from the beginning, and I knew Meg had thought for a long time that she should die young.

"She was an angel, a white dove," said my lord; "and God hath taken her home lest she should smirch her fair plumage by contact with such a carrion kite as I have been all my life. But I am a changed man, Dorothy," he added, pressing my hand with a force that almost made me scream.

"My dearest Margaret hath showed me the way, and gone before me; and, by God's grace, the poor remainder of my days shall be passed as she would have it. Oh, my beauty, my pearl!" And with that he fell to weeping again, and I could but weep with him.

At last I persuaded him to come into the house and take some refreshment, and then to lie down on the settle and rest. Surely, if darling Meg's short life had been the means of redeeming this one soul, she hath not lived in vain. I am sure that is more than I have ever done. But I am going to try to be a better girl.

Meg was buried yesterday. She had especially desired that there should be no pomp or parade about the funeral, but that the expense should be bestowed upon the poor of the parish,—specially that each old woman of the almshouses by the church-gate should have a warm gray gown, and each of the villager's children a new frock of dark blue. The little things lined the path from the churchyard gate to the grave; and after the coffin was lowered, they threw upon it flowers and sprigs of yew, till it was quite hidden with them. The day was a lovely one, the sun setting in great pomp of crimson and gold; and a dear little robin, perched on one of the church-windows, sang all through the service. Betty fainted when the earth first fell on the coffin, and hath been but poorly ever since, though she makes brave efforts to keep up, and devotes herself to waiting on her mother.

I can't help wondering whether my aunt will go back to the same course of life again, as soon as her mourning is ended. I hope not, for Betty's sake. I am sure of one thing: my aunt never could drive Bess into marrying any one she did not like. She would run away, or do something desperate. She is made of very different stuff from Margaret.

_October 18._

My uncle is in some trouble. I don't know what, but it is something connected with money. From what little I hear, I fancy he hath been speculating, as so many do nowadays, and hath been unlucky. He is dejected in spirits and does not look well.

My Lord Chesterton hath taken leave of us, going home to the north to visit his mother, who it seems lives all alone in the old family mansion. The poor little cousin is dead, so he is really the next heir to the dukedom. I hope I am not uncharitable, but I do think it no small addition to my aunt's grief, to think that she cannot now be mother-in-law to a duke. She is fretful and low, and it is no easy matter to please her. I think she misses the diversion of her town-life,—the visiting and play-going and parks. I miss them too, I must say, for I had grown fond of them, especially of the theatre, but then, I like being in the country, and running about out of doors, which my aunt does not.

I heard her tell Mrs. Petty, who came to give us a visit of condolence, that she should be inconsolable but for the thought that she had done every thing for the welfare of her dear daughter. And yet I know that the doctor said that Margaret's illness and death were in a great measure owing to her tight dressing. He said her ribs had actually grown into her liver. He said, too, that a great many growing girls are killed in that way, and added, using some strong language, that he would like to burn every pair of steel stays in the land. And yet my aunt is just as particular as ever about our lacing ourselves. Now, I should be but a poor creature without my stays, having always worn them, but I will not have them very tight. Luckily, I am naturally a firm, tight figure, so my aunt does not find me out.

_October 20._

My uncle tells us we are to get ready to go down to Devon in two weeks. Till then, by the duke's kindness, we remain here. To-day came from London beautiful presents from Lord Chesterton for Betty and myself; namely, two miniature portraits of dear Meg, done from the one he had made for himself before we left town. They are incased in gold, and set with small brilliants, and suspended each on a pretty gold chain. He hath sent Mrs. Sharpless a noble Bible and Prayer-Book in large print, and a gift of money for each of the other servants. The pictures are very fine likenesses. My aunt was much pleased, and lauds him to the skies, and then weeps again that her dearest Meg should have been taken away just when she had such a prospect of rank and happiness. But I can't think Meg will care a great deal about missing an earthly coronet where she is now.

Somehow my aunt seems to me to live so on the outside of things. But I need not say any thing. I have tried very hard to be good since Meg died. I have read the Bible, and said my prayers, and all that, but all seems dead and lifeless. Half the time, when I am saying the words with my lips, my mind is occupied with some play I have seen, or I am going over and over again every talk I ever had with Mr. Morley. I do wonder when he is coming back. He said, at parting, that he should not be gone many days.

This morning Mrs. Miles asked me if I would take my walk down to the vicarage, and carry to the rector some confection of quince seeds which she has been making for his throat; and I was glad of an errand to go thither for I have learned to love the old gentleman. He lives in great simplicity, with an old couple for servants, who, I fancy, carry things pretty much their own way. We fell into talk about my former way of life, and I mentioned, I know not how, the name of Mr. Baxter.

"Ah, my good old friend! Did you know him?" he asked.

And on my saying that I did, and had often met him,—

"We were college mates and the best of friends once," said he, sighing, "but our paths led different ways. We studied divinity together, but he was the more confirmed in his notions, while I found myself obliged to change mine. The worst is that my old Presbyterian friends will not believe that I joined the Church of England from pure conviction, but will persist in thinking that I had an eye to worldly advantage. Though, would they but visit me, they would see for themselves that the proverbial church mouse is no poorer than I am."

"I would not think Mr. Baxter could be so prejudiced," said I. "He seemed such a good man, and he was always so kind to me."

"He is a good man, and could not be otherwise than kind to one in your hard position. But he is a man of strong feelings and deep convictions, and he hath suffered much in what he believes the cause of truth. And besides," he added, smiling, "I dare say he thinks of his old chum as a purse-proud priest rolling in riches. But I believe that some day we shall meet when all these clouds will have passed away, and all true lovers of their Lord will see eye to eye, and know as they are known."

He then began to tell me of a poor young widow whose two little children were but scantily off for clothes, and asked me to interest my aunt for them. I promised I would try to do so, and said if aunt were willing, and I could buy some suitable woollen yarn, I would knit some warm hosen. Whereupon he told me of another poor woman, a spinster, who lives at the other end of the village, and supports herself by her wheel and her needle, and said he thought she would be glad to sell me some wool. He seems to know the circumstances and wants of every poor person in the parish. I do think the duke might augment his living, and make the vicarage at least water-tight. I think a few hundred pounds might as well be laid out in that way as in paying for copies of Mr. Lely's pictures of court beauties. I know that Lord Chesterton gave Mr. Miles a present, and money for new altar-cloths and a new chalice, in memory of his mistress.

_October 22._

My aunt consenting, Betty and I got the direction from Mr. Miles, and walked to see the woman who had the yarn to sell, Mercy Lane by name. We found her living in the tiniest little cottage, standing alone by itself, all neat and in good repair, and surrounded by a garden, wherein grew pot-herbs and vegetables, gooseberry and currant bushes, and two or three large apple and pear trees, and also a fine nut-tree. The good woman was within, sitting at her wheel, in blue homespun gown and apron, and a snow-white kerchief and cap. She has been handsome in her day, and is still a comely woman. Her kitchen was as clean and neat as a new trencher, as Mrs. Williams used to say; and a small wood fire made it look still more cheery. On a form near this fire sat three or four little children conning their horn-books, who jumped up and let off quite a little battery of bobs and courtesies at us. I never saw a prettier sight.

The good woman received us with all kindness, setting stools for us, and sending one child for a jug of fair water from the spring, and another on some other whispered errand. We told her what had brought us to see her, on which she produced quite a store of very nice yarn. I bought enough for two pairs of little hose, telling her what it was for. She seemed much pleased.

"I am very glad," said she. "Martha Giggs is a worthy woman, and does all she can to help herself, but her health is not good. This is one of the children," she added, calling to her side one of her pupils, a little curly, flaxen-headed mite, whether boy or girl I could not tell, till the creature, with much blushing and poking of its chin into its neck, said its name was "Merthy."

"She is my god-daughter," explained our hostess.

"And you keep a little school," said Betty.

"But a very small one, madam. These are all young children, as you see, and I can do little but keep them out of mischief. In winter I have a class of larger girls. I have but little learning myself, but I make shift to teach them to read their Bibles, to sew and to spin, and to say their Belief and Commandments. I could have many more if I had room for them."

"Is there no village school?" I asked.

"No, madam. Mr. Miles has tried to prevail with the duke to build one, but without success hitherto."

Again I thought of that picture-gallery. Pictures are all very well, no doubt, but surely these little living images of God are worth as much as they, and likely to outlast them by a good many years.

"And what do your pupils pay you, if I may ask?" inquired Betty, more interested than I have seen her about any thing since Meg died.

"Surely, madam," answered Mercy. "The little ones—those who are able—pay a halfpenny a week, the elder girls a penny. Then I now and then get presents at holiday time. Last Easter, one farmer's wife sent me a fine setting of auk eggs to put under my hen, and they have all done well. The duke's steward allows me the privilege of gathering dry sticks and pine-cones in the park, and the children like nothing better than to help me about it. Then I have a good market for my yarn, and my apples and nuts bring me something in fruitful years."

"And what rent do you pay?" asked Betty. I wondered at the question, for she does not use to be so inquisitive. In that she differs from me, who am a bit of a gossip.

"No rent, madam," answered Mercy, with a little gentle pride. "The place, such as it is, is mine, as it was my father's before me."

"I wonder you never married," said I. But repented of my thoughtless words when I saw how her face flushed and her lip trembled. "I crave pardon," I added: "I was very rude."

"There is no need, madam," said Mercy with a smile. "I was betrothed once, but my sweetheart was carried away to serve in the king's army, and I never saw or heard of him again."

"How very sad!" we both said. And Betty added, "Worse than if you had known him to be killed."

"Yes, the suspense was dreadful, but it is over now," said she calmly. "I know if he had been alive, he would have come back to me somehow; and I have the assurance in my heart that he is at rest, for he was ever a godly man."

"I think you are a happy woman, Mercy," said Betty abruptly.

"And you think truly, my dear young lady," answered Mercy with her sweet smile. "I am a happy woman. I have a small provision laid by for my old age, my health is good, and I have the comfort of knowing that I am useful to my little ones and my neighbors. If I had a wish—"

"Well, if you had," said Betty, as she paused.

"It would be to see a good school set up in this village, to keep the lads and maids from running wild as they do. But I hope that may come in time."

We rose to take our leave, but Mercy would have us sit while she feasted us on pears, and gathered for us a nosegay of late flowers from her garden. Mrs. Miles had filled our pockets with almond comfits after her usual fashion, and we treated the children to them. I suppose they never saw any before, but they soon found out the use of them.

"That is a happy woman, Dolly," said Betty, as we were walking homeward.

"She is a contented woman, at any rate," I replied, "and a useful one, to boot."

"She is a happy woman," persisted Betty. "I would I were as happy. She makes me think of Lady Jemima Stanton, with her family of young orphan ladies about her. I always thought I would like to live in that way."

"You would not like to be as poor as Mercy, to wear a homespun blue gown, and live upon a shilling a week?"

"Mercy is rich on a shilling a week. Did you not hear her say she had laid by something? As to the blue homespun, I would as soon wear that as any thing. I don't care about dress."

"But you would not like to spin for a living, and live on brown bread and stirabout, with a bit of meat on Sundays and festivals."

"I would not care," persisted Betty. "I don't think these outside things have much of any thing to do with happiness or unhappiness."

But I think I should care. I do like pretty things and nice things and to go to the play now and then. And then that sad tale about her lover: I am sure I never could be happy again if such a thing were to happen to Mr. Morley. I wish he would come back.

_October 25._

I do think I am the happiest girl in all the world. Mr. Morley has asked me in marriage of my uncle, and he hath consented, provided that inquiries respecting Mr. Morley's character and prospects should turn out satisfactory. I am not afraid of that. My uncle cannot expect a rich bridegroom for me, seeing I have nothing of mine own; and every one says Mr. Morley is high in favor with the king.

My aunt would have kept the matter from me till all was settled, I believe, but my uncle blurted all out, as his way is. I am glad of it. I would not lose one minute of my new-found joy. I can hardly believe in it even yet. My uncle goes to London to-morrow, and I suppose will make all needful inquiries.

I can't help wishing Mr. Morley were not an unbeliever, but perhaps I may be able to bring him round as Meg did Lord Chesterton.

My aunt is much pleased at my prospects. She has always liked Mr. Morley. Only she wishes my uncle could give me a suitable dowry. He would do so, only that, as I learn for the first time, he hath had great losses of late, so that he is somewhat cramped for ready money. As it is, however, aunt says I shall have a wedding outfit suitable to my quality, and it shall go hard but she will raise a small sum for my private purse. Betty says little, only that she shall be sorry to part with me. She always saw with Meg's eyes; and for some reason I never could understand, Meg always disliked Mr. Morley.

I wonder where we shall live. In town, I suppose, and at the court end, as Mr. Morley has a place in the household. I hope we shall have a pleasant lodging. I shall like the ordering of my own little family, only I wish I knew more about it. But I know I can learn, and I shall not think any thing hard that I do for my husband. Thomas à Kempis says a lover ought willingly to undertake any thing hard or distasteful for his beloved. I am sure I would do that for Mr. Morley, and I believe he would do as much for me.

_October 22._

My aunt and uncle have been gone two days, but are expected back to-night. I have had a talk with Mr. Morley which troubles me, though I dare say without reason. I ought to be ashamed to entertain for a moment a thought so derogatory to him. I dare say he was only vexed because Ursula deceived him.

The way was this. Betty was not well this morning, and kept her bed, for a wonder. She was thirsty and feverish, and at last said she wished she had a glass of fair water from Meg's fountain.

"I will bring you some," said I. "It will take me but a few minutes to go and come, and my aunt will not be vexed, seeing what my errand is." For my aunt had bidden us remain within doors while she was away.

I saw that Betty was pleased, though she made some objection, and said I could send one of the maids. However, I could find no one at the minute; so I even threw on my long cloth cloak, pulled the hood over my head, and set out myself. The spring is in rather a lonely place,—a little dell, green and mossy, and surrounded on all sides by high wooded banks. It is not greatly frequented, because of some story of an apparition,—some forlorn lady who killed herself for love. I am not a bit afraid of the ghost, but, as I dipped my jug into the basin, I heard a man's step behind me, and turned in a hurry, to see Mr. Morley. He greeted me in his usual kind fashion, but seemed perturbed and distraught. He asked for my uncle; and I said he had not yet returned from town, but we expected him that night.

"No matter," he replied abruptly. And then, after a little pause, "Dolly, do you know whether your fortune hath been involved in your uncle's losses? Was it in his hands?"

"I know it was not, for the best of reasons," said I. "My fortune, such as it is, is safe in my own hands."

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"'"My face is my fortune, sir," she said.'"

I answered him, singing the line of the old song, and making him a saucy little courtesy, for I felt in good spirits. "I would it were finer for your sake."

He stared at me like one amazed.

"Do you mean to say you have no fortune?" he asked.

"Not a shilling," I answered. And then bethinking myself, I added, "I suppose I should have three hundred pounds if I could get it, but there is not the least likelihood of that."

"But Ursula Robinson told me you had had a fortune come to you," he stammered, "and that was the reason your uncle and aunt had taken you up, though they took no notice of you while you were poor."

"I don't know why she should have said or thought so," I answered coolly, for I was growing vexed in my turn. "My aunt adopted me out of pure kindness and love for her sister's child. She never knew of my existence till she heard of me through Lady Clarenham. I am sorry if you have been deceived, but it has been none of my doing." And with that I took up my jug, and turned to go.

"But are you sure?" he asked again, walking along with me. "Perhaps your aunt has thought best to keep the matter from you."

"I am quite sure," I answered. "My aunt said but yesterday that my uncle had hoped to give at least a thousand pounds with me, but that owing to his late losses it would not be possible for him to do so. Did he not tell you so?"

"Yes, but I thought—However, it does not matter. I have been grossly deceived, and that is the end on't."

"You cannot say that I deceived you, since you never asked me a question on the subject," said I. "If you doubt my word, you had better ask my uncle."

"Don't go, don't leave me in anger, Dolly," said he as I turned away. "I am not angry with you, and yet—"

"I must not stay. My aunt would be very angry if she knew I met you," I answered. And breaking away from him, I hurried into the house.

When I came into Betty's room, she asked me if I had seen the ghost of the blind nun, that I was so pale. I told her no, but that I had seen a strange man who frightened me, and so I had hurried home.

"You should not have gone out, Mrs. Dorothy," said Sharpless. "Your aunt will be displeased, if she hears it."

"It was all my fault,—asking for the water," said Bess.

"There is no great harm done," I answered, making light of the matter. "My aunt will not scold me when she knows why I went. I dare say the poor man meant no harm."

"Very likely he only meant to beg."

"I dare say, but I must go and change my shoes, Betty," said I, glad to seize the first excuse to get away. "The grass in that dell is always wet, I think."

I escaped to my own room, and sat down to think, but the more I turn the matter over in my mind, the less I am able to come to any conclusion.

_October 23._

Mr. Morley has not been here. It is very strange. My uncle had a letter to-night, over which I heard him storming and fuming at a great rate in my aunt's room, calling someone a scoundrel and other hard names, with many oaths and expletives. My aunt seemed moved too, by the tone of her voice.

I was waiting to see her, to tell her what I did yesterday. I find the more perfectly frank and open I am with her, the better we agree. I was standing at the farther window of the gallery, to which I had moved not to overhear the talk in my aunt's room. When she came out, her color was raised, and there were traces of tears about her eyes, which I was surprised to see, for she does not usually mind my uncle's tantrums.

"What are you doing here, Dorothy?" she asked.

I told her I was waiting to speak with her. She asked what was the matter; and I told her, only I did not repeat what Mr. Morley had said.

"And you are sure you did not go on purpose to meet him?" she asked somewhat sharply. And then, relenting, "But no, that is not like my frank, simple-hearted Dolly. Only you know, my love, it is much better for young ladies to do exactly as they are bid. There, I am not angry, but I would rather you did not go out to-day."

She looked at my work, and praised its neatness, asked how my knitting progressed, and dismissed me with a kiss and her blessing. I can't understand her manner, nor my uncle's way of looking at me, but I am glad they are not angry with me. They have certainly been very good. I suppose Ursula Jackson could not understand such disinterested kindness, and so coined this tale to account for it. No wonder Mr. Morley was angry with her. I hope he will have had enough of her, that is all.

_October 24._

It is all over. Life is done for me, and I only wish it were done in good earnest. But people can't die when they like, unless they kill themselves, and I have too much conscience, or too little courage, for that. I shall never believe in any one again.

This morning I was about to sit down to my music, which I have taken up again at my aunt's request, when Mary Mathews came to say that my aunt required my presence in her room. (Mary was out of a place when my mistress went to the Bath, and my aunt took her on my recommendation, and means to carry her down to Devon with us.) I wondered what could be the matter, for my aunt never interrupts our study hours without grave cause, and on my way down-stairs and through the gallery I tried to think whether I had done any thing to merit her displeasure, but I could remember nothing save my walk, which she knew of already.

I found my uncle and aunt sitting side by side in my aunt's dressing-room. My uncle had a letter in his hand. They both kissed and blessed me; my uncle adding, as it were to himself, "Poor, pretty wretch, I had as soon be hanged as tell her! The—villain, would I but had his—neck under my boot-heel!"

"Do not excite yourself, Sir Robert," said my aunt gently. "Our dear Dorothy hath too much proper pride and self-respect not to treat the matter as it deserves."

"Oh, yes: pride and self-respect are all very well! There, sit down, child."

He pushed a chair toward me; and I took it, wondering what would be coming next. But I never guessed, never had a thought of the impending blow.

"Well, child, you must needs know,—but how to tell you—There, take the letter and read it. That I should ever have taken such a creeping adder into my family! There, read it, poor wench!"

"And then treat the writer with the contempt and scorn he deserves," added my aunt. "There are others who will appreciate our clove-gilliflower, if he does not."

(My uncle sometimes calls me by that name, because I am so dark.)

I read the letter over, but somehow I did not at first take a sense of it. The writer said that, finding he had been deceived in respect to the private fortune of Mrs. Dorothy Corbet, and not being in a condition to marry a portionless wife, however worthy in other respects, he must decline the honor of the young lady's alliance. The letter concluded with some commonplace expressions of respect, and was signed Philip Morley.

"Well," burst forth my uncle, as I looked up from the letter; "is not this a fine, craven cock we have chosen for a bridegroom for our Dorothy? He has done well to run for it. I would have slit his nose for him, and I will, too, if he comes within my reach."

"No, no!" said my aunt. "Much better treat him with the contempt he deserves.—Think you not so, my love?"

"I don't understand," said I.

"She has not taken in the matter," said my aunt, "and no wonder. Read the letter again, my love."

I did so, and saw it all.

"How did Morley get this idea of your having a fortune?" asked my uncle.

"Don't tease her with questions now, my dear," said my aunt kindly. "She is in no state to answer you."

"Oh, yes!" said I. I was in a strange state of mind. I comprehended the whole matter, but it seemed to me as if it related to somebody else than myself,—somebody I was very sorry for, but whom I could talk of quite quietly. "I know because he told me. He said Mrs. Ursula Jackson, his cousin, told him; and I dare say she did."

"But how should she get the notion?"

I told him what I thought, adding that Ursula was apt to take up fancies about people, and then repeat them for facts.

"She must be a nice woman," observed my uncle. "Well, my maid, you take the loss of your bridegroom more quietly than I expected. I thought you were in love with his very shadow."

"My Dorothy has too much proper spirit, and has been too well brought up, to fix her affections on any man without the leave of her guardians," said my aunt. "'Tis a great mortification, no doubt, but far better than if she had married so unworthy a person. I am glad it has all happened here instead of in town. Mr. Morley will hold his tongue for his own sake, and no one outside the family need know any thing of the matter."

"The miserable, cowardly hound has sneaked off to Scotland on some errand for his Majesty," said my uncle.

"So much the better," returned my aunt. "We shall go down to Devon next week; and Dolly will have enough to divert her, and make her forget this unworthy man.—There, go, my love, to your own room, if you like, and compose your spirits."

"And we will find you a better bridegroom," said my uncle; "some gallant, honest Devon man, worth a hundred of these court fops and coxcombs. There, Heaven bless thee, dear wench! You have been a dutiful child to us, and a good sister to her that's gone; and you shall never want a home while I have a shilling, or a roof over my head."

My aunt kissed me also, and called me a good girl, and said kindly that she was most grateful to Lady Clarenham for bringing her to the acquaintance of so good a niece. I left the room, still with that strange feeling of pitying myself as if I were somebody else. I even sat down to the harpsichord again, and played through the lesson of scales I had begun, as steadily as if nothing had happened, but, as I stooped to take up another piece of music, it proved to be a song which Mr. Morley and I had often sung together. Then it all came to me. I threw it down as if it had burned me, and escaped to my room.

My aunt sent to know if I would come to dinner, or if she should send me something. I told Mary to thank her, but said I would come down.

"Are you not well, Mrs. Dolly?" said Mary.

"I have a headache," I answered, with perfect truth, "but I shall feel better to go about a little."

Mary came to the table, and began to dust the books with her apron. When she left the room, I saw that she had laid my Prayer-Book open at the Twenty-seventh Psalm. The dear, good soul thought to comfort me, no doubt. I remember how she used to betake herself to her Prayer-Book and Bible to calm her spirits after my mistress had been abusing her in one of her horrid fits of ill-temper. She must have known or guessed that I was in some trouble.

But I can't comfort myself in that way. Perhaps I might, if things were different. If Mr. Morley had been killed in the rebellion, for instance, I don't think I should have minded nearly as much. Then I could have had the comfort of remembrance; but now—Oh, if I could only forget!

_October 28._

My aunt praises me much for the way in which, as she says, I bear my trouble. She says she sees plainly that I do not mean to let this man's shadow darken my life. But it is not "his" shadow at all. It is the shadow of a man who never had an existence, save in mine own imagination. It is not that he is dead, but that he never lived. My aunt says the thought of his unworthiness ought to comfort me, but there is just the sting: it is just his vileness and unworthiness that I mourn over. It seems to me now, that I could willingly have parted with him, if I could have kept on believing in him.

My aunt called Betty and myself into her room this morning, in order, as she said, to explain to us certain family matters. I don't even now understand just how it is, only that my uncle, induced by the representations of some business-man in whom he had confidence, did, without consulting his wife, and against the advice of his old lawyer and agent in Exeter, put all his spare cash into this man's hands to embark in some trading venture which was to bring in a golden harvest of guineas. But the bubble hath burst, and the blower thereof hath run away to America, where I hope the Indian savages may take and scalp him; and my uncle, from being rich, has become comparatively poor. True, he has his landed estate, and happily he has no debts of any amount. And my aunt thinks that by letting his fine mansion, which it seems he can do to good advantage, and retiring to a smaller house which belongs to my aunt, he may, in the course of a few years, be relieved from all his embarrassments.

I was much pleased to notice that my aunt did not, in all she said, cast one word of blame or reflection upon her husband, though he acted without her knowledge and against her known wishes, she being ever against speculation, and although—so Sharpless tells me—a good deal of the lost money was of her bringing. Methinks such forbearance shows real greatness of soul. I cannot endure to hear married people complaining of each other, as Ursula Jackson does of her husband to every one she can get to hear her.

As Betty said nothing, and my aunt seemed to expect some one to speak, I asked where this house lay.

"It is not very far from Exeter. The name of the estate is Lady Hill," answered my aunt.

"What an odd name!" I remarked.

"There was once a small convent on the spot, whereof the ruins still remain," answered my aunt. "The house is not large, but convenient; and there is land enough to serve your uncle for an occupation. We shall not need nearly as many servants as at Fullham, which will be one advantage, and we must settle whom to keep. My own woman, Mrs. Brown, leaves this next month to be married, so she tells me."

"Then, madam, why should you not take Sharpless to be your own woman?" asked Betty. "Dolly and I can wait on and dress each other, can't we, Dolly?"

"Yes, indeed, I should think so, seeing I never had a waiting-woman in my life till I came here to live," I answered. "And, aunt, I think you would find Mary Mathews a very careful and efficient housemaid; and Betty and I will be your gentlewomen, so you will have three instead of one."

"Oh, yes, that will do nicely!" said Betty, with more interest than I have seen her show since Meg's death. "And Dolly will play and sing to my father of an evening, and I will play chess with you, dear mother, and read to you in your favorite chronicles. And we will be happy in ourselves, and let the world give us the go by, if it likes."

My aunt's eyes overflowed for the first time. "My dear, good girls," said she, giving a hand to each, and drawing us near to her; "how happy it makes me to see you take things in this way!"

"There would be little use in sitting down to lament for spilled milk," said Betty. "No doubt my father acted for the best, however he was mistaken."

"That I am sure he did," said my aunt. "I am sorry for your sakes, more than my own, that I cannot give you the benefit of another London season."

"So am not I," said Betty. "I hate London as much as my father does. I would rather live at that place in the Mendip hills, where the sun does not rise till ten of the clock in midsummer."

"You should not interrupt your mother, my love: that is rude," said my aunt, but without the displeasure she usually shows on these occasions. "I was going to say that I hoped we should not be quite out of the world, since we are so near Exeter, where there is very good society among the church dignitaries. I hope to see you both well established in the world yet, for all that has come and gone. There, go now, my dears, and send Sharpless to me; she has been a most faithful servant, and is worthy of all confidence."

"Oh, yes, the world, the world, always the world!" said Betty discontentedly. "I wish one could get away from the world."

"You would like to go into a nunnery then," said I, as we sat ourselves down to our embroidery.

"I am not sure that I should, by any means," said Betty. "I should want to know more about the matter first. I have a fancy that the little world of a convent may be just as worldly as the great world outside, and perhaps harder to deal with, seeing that one would be shut up to it. If I have to deal with a wolf or a snake, I would rather have him in the field than in my chamber."

"I have noticed one thing in Thomas à Kempis," said I: "he is as full of warning against ambition, pride, envy, and so forth, as if he had been writing for the court instead of a convent." ¹

¹ This is the case with all the conventual books of devotion (and they are many) which I have read. See the life of Saint Theresa, by herself, for a fine example.

"But would you like to go into a convent, Dolly?" asked Betty.

"No," I answered abruptly, "not unless I could leave my memory at the gates. I would rather be like Mrs. Petty, going to the park every afternoon, and the play or a ball every night, and sleeping till noon next day; or even like old Lady Carewe, going to church in the morning, and playing at cards all the rest of the day. One might chance to forget sometimes in that way."

"You would not find any comfort in such a life," said Betty, laying down her work, and looking at me with eyes full of pity and love. "The gayest must have their hours of reflection, even in this world. Sickness and old age and death come to all, and then there is what comes after; there are no plays or balls or cards 'there,' I fancy. And beside, Dolly, dear, it might have been worse: you might have married him, and found him out when it was too late."

"You don't understand, none of you understand," I cried passionately. "I am not thinking about myself, but about 'him'—'him,'—that he should be so unworthy. If he had died like Meg, if he had been lost like Mercy Lane's sweetheart, it would not have been half so bad. But that he should be what he is, and that I can do nothing to help him, nothing!"

"But God can," said Betty softly. "He heard dear Meg's prayers for Lord Chesterton. Why don't you pray for him?"

"I can't," I answered. "It seems as if he had mocked me already. I asked him to give me Mr. Morley, and see how it hath turned out. Bab Andrews prayed for her lover, and he died a shameful death, after all. She asked for his life, but it was not given her."

"'He asked life of thee, and thou gavest it to him,—long life, even for ever and ever,'" said Betty solemnly. "Is not that in the Psalms? When Bab and her lover look back from eternity at their troubles here, I don't believe they will seem so very long or hard."

"Her case was not mine," said I. "There is no use in talking to you. You were never in love."

Betty was silent for a few minutes, and then began to try and divert me by telling me about Devon. I knew she meant kindly, and I tried to listen, and insensibly I did become interested.

Betty is glad we are going to Lady Hill, which she likes better than Fullham, because there is such a lovely park and garden; though Fullham house is quite a palace, by all accounts. I shall be glad of the journey, at all events. We are to stay two or three days in London, where we hope to meet my Lord Chesterton, who has been kept by some matters of business. I am sure I hope we shall not meet Mr. Morley, but my uncle thinks he has gone to Scotland.

_November 5. London._

Guy Fawkes Day, but there were no bonfires, they being forbidden by the king, which makes people look strangely on each other. Already mass is said openly at Whitehall and other places, and the court swarms with priests, especially Jesuits. The king's determination to dispense with the test act, and the dismissal of Lord Halifax from office, cause much murmuring even among the strongest partisans of the king. So says Lord Chesterton, who has given us two or three visits. He still wears the deepest mourning, and lives very retired. Betty and he had a long talk this morning, but I have not heard what it was about.

A good many of my aunt's old friends have visited her; and she has spent one evening at my Lady Carewe's, at a card party, I believe. Betty and I were not asked to go; for which I am not sorry, for I think she is a hateful old woman. She must be seventy years old, at least, and yet she wears rouge and false hair, and is just as eager after every shilling she wins at play; and then she does so delight in scandalous dirty stories. I cannot think how my aunt, who hates scandal, can endure her, but then "she moves in the best society," forsooth, and that is enough.

_November 6._

I saw my dear Mrs. Williams this morning. It seems my mistress—I shall never get over calling her by that name—intends to spend the whole winter at the Bath, and hath sent Mrs. Williams to town on some business and to see to letting the house. I was out shopping with my aunt when I met Mrs. Williams. And aunt, learning who she was, and having heard, as she kindly said, of her goodness to me, gave me leave to give my old friend a visit. I was overjoyed to do so, for Mrs. Williams was my friend when I sorely needed one. If I had but followed her counsel, I should not be the forlorn wretch I am now. But there is no use in looking back, or forward either for that matter.

My aunt gave me a guinea, and bade me buy something for my old friend such as I thought she would like: so I bought her a large print Bible and some chocolate, which she was always fond of. It is a new kind, made up in cakes like gingerbread, very convenient to carry.

My aunt left me at the door of my old dwelling,—I wont say "home," for there never was any thing of home about it,—and told me she would call for me in two or three hours, as she had some visits to return. How strange and yet how familiar it seemed! I was let in by the old woman who takes care of the house, and who said Mrs. Williams would be back presently.

As I stepped into the withdrawing-room to look once more at my Lady Jem's portrait, it seemed every moment as if I should hear my mistress's whistle, in that sharp sudden note which always told me to expect at the least a box on the ear. The picture is as lovely as ever, most beautifully painted. I particularly noticed the diamond ear-rings, which are very large, and so well represented that they seemed actually to emit light. I wonder what has become of them. Round her neck are the very same locket and chain that Sir Charles gave me. I have it safe in my trinket-box, the chain having become somewhat thin by wearing. I told my aunt its history one day when she saw it by chance, and she bade me keep it as Sir Charles had said. I was glad, for I feared she might insist on examining it, but that is not her way. She is as entirely a woman of her word as any one I ever saw, and respects the same in other people.

While I was looking at the picture, Mrs. Williams came in. She was much pleased with my little present, and insisted on preparing some chocolate at once. She had bought a fine cake and a cold fowl, and got ready quite a little feast.

"You are not looking well," said she to me.

"I am well enough," I answered. And then, moved by I know not what, I laid my head down in my old friend's lap, and poured out all my story.

Mrs. Williams's comment was an unexpected one.

"I am glad it is no worse," said she.

"How could it have been worse?" I said pettishly.

"You might have married him," said she; "that would have been bad enough. Besides, I believe that man capable of any wickedness. He hath been one of the prime instruments of Col. Kirke and the chief justice in the horrible cruelties which have been practised on the poor folks of Somersetshire."

"I can't believe it," said I.

"I had it from a sure hand," she returned; "from the mother of one of the sufferers. It is such a tale as I would not pollute your ears withal. I thought of you when I heard it, and prayed that you might be preserved from his clutches."

"Let us talk of something else," said I. "How is my mistress?"

"Much as usual, only that her health is better."

"You must have a hard time with her all alone."

"So hard that I sometimes think I must leave her altogether," replied Mrs. Williams. "I have told her that I must have a rest; and as soon as my business is ended here, I shall go down to Kent, and make a visit to my brother-in-law."

"Kent," said I, "does not Mrs. Pendergast's father live in Kent?"

"Yes, and close by where I am going: so I hope to see them often."

"And where is Mr. Pendergast?"