Chapter VII: Book II: August 1, 1685 (4)

"In the city, I suppose, but I cannot tell you where, sometimes in one place, and sometimes in another. He is a good man, though not yet fully enlightened as to spiritual things. But, my dear, if you wish to go through the house, we must be moving."

I agreed, and we went all through the house. My mistress had carried away all of my Lady Jem's clothes and other such matters, but I found on a shelf in her closet a pile of old books,—some of devotion, and others of romances and the like,—and, as I knew they were worthless to sell, I carried off two or three for keepsakes. Also I found in my old room my "Pilgrim's Progress," which I had forgotten in my removal. Mrs. Williams bade me show it to my aunt, and I promised to do so. I hope she will not disapprove it, for it is a book I love.

"And what do you know about Ursula Jackson?" I asked.

Mrs. Williams shook her head.

"Nothing pleasant. She and her husband do not at all agree. She poured out all her woes to me, as I fancy she does to every one who will listen to her. She says Mr. Jackson is desperately jealous, and will let her speak to no one but himself. Mr. Robertson himself told me that Mr. Jackson was very angry at a certain person's attentions to his wife, and forbade him the house."

"Why do you suppose Ursula told—that story about my having a great fortune?"

"I suppose she made it partly out of something my mistress said. Ursula was wondering at your aunt's adopting you when she had daughters of her own to marry, and my mistress answered her, 'You may be sure Lady Fullham knows what she is about. Dolly may come into a fortune some day.' I believe she only meant to hint that she herself might leave you something, but, seeing how eagerly Ursula took it up, she went on adding more hints just to tease her."

"Ursula was always dreadfully afraid my mistress would leave me something, though I don't think there is any danger," said I.

"Nor I," answered Mrs. Williams. "I doubt her ever bringing herself to make a will at all. She clings closer and closer to this world every day."

"And if she does not, where will her money go?"

"To her brother's descendants, I presume. There is quite a family of them, but my mistress never could abide them, though they are very nice people. Your acquaintance, Mr. Evelyn, brought up one of them,—a young lady who was left an orphan in the plague time,—and she was married from his house. She came to see my mistress once, and I thought her a very nice, pretty young lady. But there is no telling what my mistress may do."

"Marry again, perhaps," I suggested.

"Hardly, I think, though there is no telling. I always say I should be surprised at no one's marriage but my own. Well, here is the coach come for you, my dear. Thank my good Lady Fullham for allowing me this visit. And, my dear child, take one bit of counsel from your old friend. Try to rest all this trouble of yours where it belongs. 'Cast thy burden upon the Lord, and he shall sustain thee.' 'Wait on the Lord,' and 'commit thy way' to him."

"I can't," said I, crying. "I have tried, and I can't."

"Perhaps you have not tried in the right way. But there, I must not keep you. God bless thee, my lamb! I do miss thee sorely, but thou art in better hands than mine; and I have faith to believe thou wilt be guided home, though not by the path of thine own choosing. He leadeth 'the blind by a way they know not,' but all the same, he leadeth them."

I was in funds, having just been paid my quarter's allowance of spending money: so I gave Mrs. Williams ten shillings, and asked her to lay it out in presents for Mrs. Pendergast's two little children, who were always great pets of mine. Then I bade her good-by, and took leave forever of the house where I first saw Mr. Morley. I wish I had died then and there, before I ever saw him again.

I found Mr. Newington, our rector, in the coach with my aunt, going home to sup at our lodgings. My aunt asked what books I had; and I showed her they were Mr. Taylor's "Golden Grove," and the "Arcadia" by Philip Sidney.

"There is no harm in these," remarked my aunt, "but what is this? 'The Pilgrim's Progress,' by John Bunyan. Is he not that tinker turned preacher that I have heard of? I cannot think such an author suitable for the closet of a young lady.—What say you, Mr. Newington?"

"There is no harm in the piece, but a great deal of good," said Mr. Newington. "I have read the book more than once, and I venture to say Mrs. Dorothy will not be hurt by it."

"But a tinker, Mr. Newington," said my aunt; "a common tinker to aspire to be a preacher!"

"Well, what then, madam? I knew a worse case even than that, where a common carpenter put himself forward to take part in the services of his own parish church."

"And what did they do to him?" asked my aunt, all unsuspicious of the trap into which she was falling.

"Do? Why, they said, '"Is not this the carpenter, the son of Mary?" And they were offended at him.'"

My aunt drew herself up. "I think you are almost profane, Mr. Newington. Would you draw a parallel between our Lord and this Anabaptist preacher?"

"Heaven forbid, madam, that I should draw any such parallel between him and the very most exalted of his creatures!" said Mr. Newington solemnly. "All I meant to show was that outward rank and consequence are as nothing in his eyes, who took David from following the sheep to be king over his people, and sent Amos the herdsman to rebuke even kings. I am sorry for what I must think are the good man's errors, but these peculiar notions do not at all appear in his book, which I can confidently recommend for Mrs. Dorothy's perusal."

My aunt could do no less than agree, but she said afterward that she was sorry so good a man should take up such strange notions. If what he said was true, any little mechanic or tradesman's wife might be setting herself up to be the equal of any lady in the land. But it seems to me that the effect of these notions, if carried out, would make the tradesman's wife not care any thing about being equal to anybody. If one really believes one's-self a member of Christ, a child of God, and an inheritor of the kingdom of heaven, as the Catechism says, one would not care for any earthly distinction. One would not fret very much because the duchess of this or my Lady T'other did not bow to them. But it seems to me as if most of the people I know did not really believe these things at all, not as they believe in the things of this world. I know there is no reality in them to me, at any rate. I wish there were. Perhaps I should find some comfort in them, and get rid of this dull pain at my heart which seems to press my life out.

_Lady Hill, December 1._

We are here and mostly settled. I thought we never should get here alive. What with the state of the roads, and the dread of highwaymen with whom the country is more infested than usual since the late troubles, and the rain and wet, and my uncle's fretting and fuming, the journey was any thing but pleasant for the most part. I am glad they did not bring poor Meg's body down here to be buried. It would have been simply agonizing. We had six horses to the coach nearly all the way, and yet more than once my uncle had to send for oxen to drag the coach out of the mire. I could but admire my aunt's patience and cheerfulness. Not a fretful word escaped her in our very worst predicaments, and she was always ready to see something pleasant or odd to divert our minds. She certainly is an admirable woman in most ways.

Mary Mathews jumped at the chance of going into the country again, and hath greatly commended herself to my aunt and to Mrs. Sharpless by her usefulness and her cheerful spirits. She laughed at all our hardships, and told us such tales of travelling in the north (she comes from somewhere about Durham) as did indeed make our inconveniences seem very small. I am glad I was able to secure the place for her, both for her sake and my aunt's. Mrs. Sharpless takes to her greatly, and shows no jealousy of my aunt's favor to her, as poor Brown used to. I said as much to Betty one day. She laughed.

"There is just the difference between Sharpless and Brown that there is between the cat and the dog," said she. "The dog lives in the opinion of other people, and consequently, he can be made jealous. But did you ever see a cat show any jealousy of the opinion or favor of her mistress?"

"I don't know that I ever did," said I. "The cat thinks too much of herself to care what any one thinks of her. Indeed, I don't think cats acknowledge any ownership in the people they live with. Puss is your friend, but it is on terms of equality."

"That is it exactly," said Betty: "Sharpless thinks too much of herself to be jealous of anybody."

I don't know whether that is the true solution or not, but, at any rate, such a person as Sharpless is much pleasanter to live with than one who is always looking out for affronts and slights. But to what a distance have I wandered!

We staid a night in Exeter, and then came on here, having sent a groom in advance to announce our coming, as my uncle decided to stop here, and go to Fullham afterwards.

In the morning, Betty and I went to service at the cathedral. It is a most huge and venerable pile of Gothic architecture, far more beautiful to my eyes, I must say, than the new St. Paul's will ever be. Aunt says my taste is not correct; and that no doubt, as the Grecian and Roman style of building spreads more and more, many of these great piles will be taken down and rebuilt. But I hope that may not be in my day. Perhaps the fashion may change, and the Gothic come to be admired again.

I must say I was quite overwhelmed with the prospect of the fretted roof, the long aisles, and colored windows; though they say these last are nothing to what they were before the great rebellion. My uncle says, however, that the rebels did not all the mischief they are credited with, in such cases,—that the Cavaliers were often quite as bad.

The service was musical, of course, and beautifully sung, as they pride themselves on the singing, but I must say I am not fond of a musical service. It seems to me that the very beauty and glory of our service is that it is "common" prayer,—common, that is, to the clergy and the people; though I admit that, in practice, it is too often left to the parson and the clerk. But a musical service seems to belong wholly to the clergy and the choir; and the people have only to listen and admire,—or criticise, as the case may be.

I was pleased to see the old men and women from the almshouses in their place, looking so warm and comfortable in their thick gray cloaks and hoods. I wonder, do they like to come, or does the daily attendance become but a wearisome task? There are many charitable foundations in the city,—one especially for ladies in reduced circumstances, where my aunt hath several acquaintances, and where she hath promised to take us to visit some day.

In the afternoon we came out here. Mrs. Sharpless and Mary Mathews had preceded us, and got things into some order. The evening was closing in as we came in sight of the little knoll on which the house is built. And the lighted windows were a cheerful sight, as were the glow and warmth of the great wood fire which Mrs. Sharpless had caused to be built in the hall. We were received with many courtesies and bows by the old housekeeper and her husband, who acts as bailiff or steward, and found a savory, hot supper awaiting us.

"'Why, this is pleasant, this is like home," said my uncle, looking about him. "This is better than London cheer. Eh, Bess?"

"Yes, indeed, sir!" answered Bess heartily.

"And what says my clove-gilliflower?" asked my uncle, turning to me. "Will it take good root, and flourish again in Devon soil, or will it pine for London smoke and fineries?"

I fear the poor, smirched, down-trodden clove-gilliflower will never flourish anywhere again, but I did not say so to my kind uncle. I answered him truthfully that I never wished to see London again.

"Why, that's well!" said my uncle. "I must have you learn to ride and walk, and make a country maid of you. As to Bess, I believe she would like to don the russet-gown, and take up the milking-stool and pail, and tend the cows like any country Cicely,—hey, Bess?"

"That I would, sir," answered Betty. "I always thought I would like to be a dairy-maid."

Whereat my aunt shook her head, but smilingly, and we sat down to supper in great good humor.

For two or three days we were all very busy, under my aunt's direction, in getting the house in order. It had been well cared for, but, like other uninhabited houses, it needed a deal to make it really cheerful and comfortable. However, things are now pretty well settled. My aunt has given Betty and me a very pretty set of rooms on the second floor. Our sitting-room—for aunt says we are not to talk of the schoolroom any more—has a great bow-window, or oriel, which commands a beautiful view of the city of Exeter, rising from the Exe, crowned grandly with the towers of the great cathedral. I love to sit here at evening, and watch the kindling of the lights, like stars. Here we have our harpsichord, on which I practise diligently every morning, our work-tables, and our French and Italian books. My aunt hath set us to embroidering new covers for the chairs in the great drawing-room, which are sadly worn and faded. Betty grumbles privately, and calls it a sad waste of time, but I must confess I like it. It is a real diversion; for one has to give it all one's attention, and thus it leaves no room for sad thoughts, as plain work does.

Our bedrooms open from this sitting-room, and are very comfortable, with moreen hangings,—one of red and the other of green,—and ornamented with some old prints of sacred subjects, which my aunt's first husband picked up abroad. They are brown and faded, with tarnished gilt frames, and my aunt would have consigned them to the lumber-room, but Betty and I begged them, as we did various odds and ends of china and carving. I fancy this gentleman must have been something of a virtuoso, from the heaps of shells, minerals, and other curiosities he has collected.

The garden is large, and very beautiful, to my thinking. A part thereof is laid out in the formal Dutch fashion, with parterres, and yew-trees clipped into the shape of peacocks and dragons and a rampant St. George on horseback; and there are a fountain and a maze and what not, which are the pride of the old gardener's heart. Beyond this extends what is, to me, the beautiful part of the garden. It has run wild, it is true, but there are green, mossy walks, and tall trees, and a great bank of violets, and many curious trees and herbs which my uncle (I suppose he was my uncle as much as Sir Robert is) collected. Also, there is a long row of bee-hives, and a plantation of such sweet herbs and flowers as their cunning little inhabitants love.

My aunt says my uncle Foster was a great chemist and botanist, and used to distil many cordial and other medicines, which he gave away to poor folks. His furnace and retorts still occupy a room in the older part of the house, which room is looked upon with superstitious awe by the servants and the country people, who seem to have rewarded his goodness to them by believing that he was in league with the Devil.

_December 10._

Betty has had a letter from my Lord Chesterton, to say that he has obtained leave from the duke, his uncle, to build a schoolhouse at Cross Hill, with rooms for the master and mistress, and a good endowment for their support. He has made Mercy Lane mistress. And, till the new house shall be done, he has fitted up a good-sized cottage for her use. The school is to be called Mistress Margaret's School, in memory of our dear Meg. I think it is the loveliest monument I ever heard of, much better than a great, unmeaning pile of marble which does no one any good. This monument will keep her memory green, and be a benefit for ages, perhaps. But who would have thought of Lord Chesterton's doing such a thing when I first knew him! My uncle and aunt are greatly pleased, as well they may be.

We are fallen into a very regular course of life. My uncle hunts and shoots and attends to his farming, in which he takes great interest, specially in a new breed of cattle which he has obtained from his brother who lives in North Devon. (We are to visit this same brother before long.) My aunt attends to her housekeeping and her dairy, and overlooks our lessons and our work. I fancy she is rather homesick for London, though she does not say a word, and I dare say would be torn with wild horses before she would own as much. We have had some visits from country neighbors, and from the bishop's family and the other dignified clergy of Exeter, but of course we do not see nearly as much company as in London, especially now when the roads are so bad.

Betty and I go to church every morning when it is not too stormy, and we not seldom form nearly the whole congregation. The rector is a little old man, who always does make me think of a white owl, especially in his surplice, but he reads nicely, and is a good preacher, if he would not have so much to say about the divine right of kings and the duty of passive obedience. He is very kind to the poor people, alike to the Churchmen and the Dissenters, of whom there are a good many in the parish. And I believe they all love and respect him, though they do not show it by coming to church. He is also a great antiquary. And the last time he was here, he explained to Betty and me that the old mass of brick-work in the garden is the remains of some old Roman wall, of which there are many in these parts. I thought the good man would have fainted when my uncle said the old thing was an eye-sore, and ought to be blown up with gunpowder. He was so pathetic that my uncle promised that the ruin should not be touched in his time. I don't think he ever thought of doing it, but he sometimes likes to tease. But I have wandered a long way from our daily doings.

After our return from church I practise my music, and Betty takes her painting, in which she finds great pleasure. She is copying for me a Virgin and Child, which we both greatly admired at the bishop's palace, and which his lordship was kind enough to lend for the purpose. I do not usually care for these representations, but this picture is lovely, especially the little angel heads in the corners, looking down with a tender solicitude at the divine Child, which lies asleep in its mother's arms. Then we read French or Italian till dinner, after which we sit in my aunt's parlor with our work, ride with my uncle when the weather allows, or pay visits.

We have been to Exeter to two card-parties, a kind of entertainment I heartily hate. It is shocking to me to see old women and old men, even clergymen, quarrelling over the cards, so eager after their gains, and so angry at their losses, which they seem always to lay to their partners, and then when the cards are laid aside, and the coffee-cups come round, such tales of scandal, and pulling to pieces of the absent, and hints and innuendoes. However, we are not likely to see much more of them, for my uncle vows we shall go to no more evening parties unless we stay all night, the roads are so dangerous at this season.

Betty and I have taken to visiting a good deal among the poor folks, and to working for them. There is one poor body especially, a widow, with one or two children, whose mother has lately come to live with her, at least for the present. The poor old creature hath been well to do in her day, but her husband was unlucky enough to sell some horses to one of the Duke of Monmouth's officers. He could not well help himself for doing so, since the horses would have been taken at any rate. But for this offence, and this alone, he was hanged up at his own gate, and his wife was compelled to witness his death-struggle: after which she was allowed to buy her life, only to suffer a new bereavement; for her son, attempting to steal his father's body and bury it, was taken and hanged beside it.

"Ay, I saw all this with my own eyes, and the wretch mocked at my tears and cries," said the old woman, with flashing eyes. "I can see him now in his fine clothes, with his white, beringed hands, one of them scarred across the back with a sabre-cut or some such thing, and his lady's favor in his hat."

I turned sick, but something, I know not what, made me question her further.

"What was the favor like?" I asked.

"A pink silk ribbon, worked with silver spangles; I can see it now."

So could I, for it was the very knot of ribbon I had found in Lady Jem's cabinet, and which Mr. Morley had begged from me one of those mornings when I met him in the park. And to think I allowed that very hand—But there, it won't bear thinking of. I would I could never think of him again. I grew so white that the good Priscilla Lee was scared, and made her mother a sign to cease talking.

"Ay, my dear tender lamb, your kind heart cannot abide to hear of such things," said the old woman kindly, as her daughter hastened to bring me a draught of fair water. "May you never have to suffer them! But the time will come that the Lord will avenge his saints. He will not withhold his arm forever. Something tells me that I shall live, old as I am, to see the tyrant cast down, and that no son of his will sit on his throne after him."

"Hush, dame! That is not safe talk," said I, recovering myself by a great effort. "You would not like to bring your daughter into trouble. I shall not repeat your words; but others might, if they heard them."

"You are right, madam, and I am wrong," said the old woman, "but these remembrances are too much for me at times. But I will be careful. Good-day, my dear lamb, and thank you for all your kindness. Take care of your steps, my pretty, for the ways are but slippery."

"You will not mind my mother," said Priscilla, following me to the gate of the little garden. "Indeed, she is a good and a godly woman, and hath been like an own mother to me. You will take no offence at her, my dear young lady?"

"No, indeed," I answered; "who can wonder at her. But I hope she will be more careful."

_December 31._

I think Dame Penberthy's story put the crown to all my miseries; I suppose I had come to the place where I could bear no more. When I came home, my aunt asked if I were ill. I said no, though my head felt strangely bewildered, and I could hardly keep my wits together to answer the commonest question. My aunt sent me to bed at last, but I could not rest. The last I remember is waking from a dreadful dream of somebody choking me with a spangled ribbon, while Mr. Morley stood by laughing. My aunt was bending over me, and saying,—

"What is it, my love? What troubles thee so?"

I tried to answer, I remember, but I suppose I spoke wildly and beside the purpose, for I distinctly recollect my aunt's face of alarm. After that, I knew no more till I awaked one evening, and saw the setting sun streaming in at the window, and heard the chimes of our little church ringing merrily. Sharpless was sitting by me, and rose as I moved.

"Why are the chimes ringing?" I asked.

"For service," answered Sharpless, as tranquilly as though nothing were the matter, while she felt my pulse, and then put her hand on my forehead.

I tried to raise my own hand, but it felt strangely useless.

"What has happened? Have I been ill?" I asked.

"Yes, quite ill, but I hope you are better now. See, take this broth, my dear lamb."

(Sharpless is very punctilious in giving Betty and me our proper titles when we are well, but when we are ill, or in trouble, she falls back into all her Devon forms of endearment.)

I drank the broth obediently.

"How good it tastes!" said I.

"I am glad to hear you say so," she answered. "It shows the fever hath left you. But do not talk, my lamb. Lie still, and try to sleep again."

I slept well all night, but was waked early by singing under my window. As I turned, Sharpless rose from the great chair by the bed.

"How thoughtless," said she. "I wonder no one remembered to hinder the waits from coming."

"The waits!" I said, in wonder. "Is it Christmas already?"

"Yes, my dear, Christmas morning."

"Please don't stop the singing. I love to hear it," said I.

And, indeed, it sounded very sweetly in the cold, frosty air. The rector is very fond of music, and a great promoter of it among his flock. As I lay and listened, I found the tears stealing down my cheeks; and they seemed to wash away the last clouds from my brain, so that I could think clearly. I have not been able to shed a tear in all my troubles before, but now I wept freely. And Sharpless did not check me at first, but kissed and poor deared me, and stroked my hair, like a mother with a sick babe. By and by, she began gently to hush me, and after a time, I fell asleep again.

When my aunt brought the doctor in to see me, he pronounced me out of all danger if I were only prudent.

"Then you think she needs no more bleeding nor medicine?" asked my aunt, rather anxiously.

"Nothing but a few glasses of good port-wine which your own cellars will furnish, and a little cordial which I will send her, to spoil her pretty mouth with making faces," answered the doctor, with a laugh it did me good to hear, it was so good-natured and cheerful. "I will send you a portion of the powder of Jesuits' bark, which you will put into a pint of port-wine, and let her have a glass three times a day."

"Then you believe in the Jesuits' bark," said my aunt. "Some say, you know, that his late Majesty was poisoned thereby."

"Some talk great nonsense," returned the doctor. "If his Majesty had taken nothing but the bark, he might have been alive now. The treatment they gave him, however well meant, was enough to kill a donkey, in my opinion. I have seen this medicine used when I was in South America; and I can assure you, madam, it hath not its equal in rousing the power of nature to throw off disease.—But you look gravely on it, nurse," he added, turning to Mrs. Sharpless, who did, indeed, wear a face of strong disapproval. "Confess, now, that the name scares you."

Sharpless owned she could not believe any thing good which came from that quarter.

"There you are mistaken," said the doctor. "The Jesuits have made known to us several valuable remedies; and I, who have seen them in South America, can testify to their kindness to the poor oppressed Indians, standing between them and their cruel Spanish masters, who there, as everywhere, spoil all they touch. Besides," he added, with a twinkle in his eye, "Jesuits' bark is not the true name of the medicine, which is called cinchona by the natives of those parts, who make great use of it."

Sharpless's face cleared up on this. She has been obliged to allow the virtues of the medicine, which has cured herself of an obstinate pain in her face. It ought to do good, for the taste is horrible.

We were to have gone to Mr. Richard Fullham's to keep our Christmas, but my illness prevented. Our own Christmas passed very quietly. My bed was covered with pretty gifts from all my friends; even the old rector bringing me a beautiful little cup of Venetian glass from his collection. He prayed with me, and did hint something about the holy communion, but I did not respond. I feel I am in no state for it.

My recovery has been tolerably rapid, and my aunt hopes by Twelfth Day I may be able to go to Mr. Fullham's with the rest of them. I would very much rather stay at home, but I am determined to please my aunt in all things, so far as I am able. It is all I can do in return for her kindness to me. I can't be happy, to please her,—"that" I am sure I shall never be again,—but I will try not to be a kill-joy, at least.

Looking forward from the last day of this year, which has been such an eventful one for me, I seem to see life stretching on before me as a long road over a barren plain, without tree or shrub or shady grove or living spring, and ending—who knows where? If I were good, like poor Mercy Lane, I might take comfort in religion, but I am not good. My heart rises at times in fierce rebellion at my lot. I feel as if Providence had mocked me; as if one should hold a cool and sweet draught to a thirsty man's lips, and after one mouthful should dash the liquor on the ground. Then, again, it is, as I say, as if all the fair plains and fertile hills and running streams were past, and only the barren, desert plain remained to be gone over. I don't really care for any thing, unless it be visiting among the poor folks, and talking with the old women and little children; and I cannot do that now.

_January 8, 1686._

I did not go to Mr. Fullham's after all, having a little return of headache and fever, but the rest went, leaving me in the care of Mrs. Sharpless. I have rather enjoyed the quiet and loneliness, and have amused myself with roaming about the house, and looking at all the curious things which my uncle Foster collected in his lifetime. He must have been a man of great taste and learning. The rector, Dr. Burgoin, tells me he was a most amiable man, of courtly manners, and very devout, but that he cared nothing at all for riches or worldly honors; and though he had great connections, who might have advanced his fortunes, he never courted them, or sought their notice. I can't but wonder how he and my aunt got on together, for, with all her excellent qualities, it must be confessed that the world and society are all in all to her.

I walked down to the little hamlet this morning to see the Penberthys. The rector joined me coming back, and showed me a great curiosity, as he calls it. I had often noticed it before, but knew not what it was,—a circular mound or earthwork, within which stand two great stones, covered with a third, making a kind of little grotto. There seems to have been a fourth slab, forming another side, but it has fallen down. Dr. Burgoin says this earthen bank and the little grotto it encloses are the work of the British people long ago, before the Saxons, or even the Romans, came into this land. He says there are many such about here, and have been many more, but the vandal plough, as he calls it, has destroyed them. He has himself a fine museum of Roman coins, pottery, and the like, found in his various explorations, and, what he values still more, a kind of necklace or circlet of gold, which he dug out of an earthwork on his own father's estate, near Arlington.

Dr. Burgoin tells me that Dame Penberthy really came to church with her daughter-in-law, last Sunday. He is very much pleased. I asked him what arguments he had used to induce her to do so.

"None, directly," he answered. "I have not found much use in that. I did but read and pray with her, and strive to console her with those arguments which are common to all Christians. She told me yesterday, of her own accord, that she hoped grace had been given her to forgive even her husband's murderer."

I am glad if she can forgive him. I can't, and that is the truth; neither can I forgive myself for being such a blind fool, as I can see now that I was. When I think of those meetings in the park,—of the things he said to me, and the liberties I allowed him,—I am ready to eat my own heart for rage and shame. But all that is done now. I shall never love any man again.

_January 10._

Our people have returned. Betty does not seem to have enjoyed herself greatly, though she says every one was very kind. Nor do I think the company was much to my aunt's taste, though she says my uncle Richard and his wife are good people, and the girls would be very presentable with a little polish. To-morrow we go to Fullham, my uncle's estate, where Mr. Cheney, who has rented the place for five years, desires to see my uncle on business.

_January 20._

We came home last night, after a week's visit at Fullham, and glad am I to be quiet once more. Such a house full of company—dancing and card-playing every night, when a sufficient number of gentlemen could be mustered sober enough for partners.

Mr. Cheney has made a great deal of money in one way or other; no one seems to know exactly how, only he has been many years in South America and the West Indies. A lady whispered to me that every one knew Mr. Cheney had made the most of his wealth by piracy and the slave-trade, for all he held his head so high. I did not think she need have said as much, seeing that she was partaking of his hospitality. He is a small, dark man, with very piercing eyes, which seemed to me always as it were on the alert, watching every thing and everybody, but that might be only my fancy, after what the lady told me. He is polite and accomplished, but I could not like him, for all his compliments, nor Bess either. Mrs. Cheney is a fine, handsome lady, well educated, and graceful, whom he married abroad, they say the daughter of a Spanish grandee whom he carried off. He is very kind and attentive to her, but I can't help thinking she is afraid of him. He has been very liberal in his dealings with my uncle, allowing him to take any furniture he pleased, though all went with the house.

Betty has brought away a desk and cabinet which Meg always used, and my aunt has given me a lute and a workbox which were hers. Mr. Cheney made us each a handsome present at parting. I don't think aunt was sorry to come away, though the company was much to her taste. The truth is, that play ran pretty high of nights, and I suspect my uncle hath a weakness that way. I know a good deal of money changed hands, both among the men and women.

I had one pleasure connected with the visit; I met my old acquaintance Mr. Studley, who dined with us one day along with his father. We had quite a little chat afterward in the withdrawing-room, he having made his escape from the table early. He tells me my lady is in London, and that she finds great comfort in Mrs. Patty's society. I am glad of it, but I wish she were down here, that I might see her sometimes.

"She is an excellent lady," remarked my aunt, "but she lives in a world of her own."

"Pardon me, madam," said Mr. Studley, bowing, "not a world of her own. My good Lady Clarenham's conversation is in heaven."

My aunt was prevented from answering by someone who asked her a question.

Mr. Studley asked me if I were enjoying my visit.

"In some ways," I answered. "I like to hear Mrs. Cheney play and sing, and I am glad to have beheld the great sea with my own eyes. It must be lovely here in summer."

"We must take you up to North Devon, and show you the ocean there," said Mr. Studley, with animation.

And he began to describe to me the great cliffs affronting the waves, the deep caverns under them, with hidden rifts through which are thrown up columns of spray when the surf is high, the long coombes running down to the sea, with wooded banks, and clear streams running through them, and I know not what other beauties. Presently, he checked himself, and said apologetically,—

"Pardon me if I weary you. Perhaps you do not care for such things."

"You do not weary me," I answered. "I love to hear of natural scenery."

"You have been abroad?" he asked.

I told him "no," and added that "I had hardly been out of the sound of Bow bells till I came to Devon."

"And you like the country," he said. "You do not pine for London?"

"No, indeed!" I answered with truth. "I never care to see it again. But you have been abroad?"

"Yes, I have been something of a traveller for a man of my age," he answered. "I have been as far as Jerusalem."

I asked him some questions, and we had really a very pleasant talk. He speaks fluently, yet modestly, and has very little to say about himself. Before we parted, he drew from his pocket a little wooden box containing a small cross carved in veined wood.

"You were saying that you would like to possess something that came from Jerusalem. Will you accept this cross which I bought at Bethlehem, instead? The box is of sandal-wood, and was made at Jaffa, which is thought to be the Joppa of Scripture."

I could not well refuse the gift, and I must say I was very much pleased with it. The cross is made of olive-wood, very daintily carved, and the box has a sweet perfume. Afterwards I was a little doubtful whether I had done right in accepting a present, and showed it to my aunt.

"There was no harm in taking such a present as that," said my aunt. "Young ladies should not accept valuable gifts from gentlemen unless they are accepted suitors, but a mere curiosity which has no special money value is quite a different matter. But I am pleased to see you so open, Dolly. If young ladies would always be so, they would save themselves and their friends a great deal of trouble."

I think I know that. I am resolved I will have no secrets from my aunt while I am under her roof.

When I showed the cross to Dr. Burgoin, he said he would add a chain to it, and gave me a string of carved pearl beads which he said came from Nazareth. It seems he hath also been in the Holy Land, and even as far east as Shiraz in Persia, when he was travelling with my uncle Foster.

_January 21._

I have heard a piece of news which I don't know how to believe. Dr. Burdett dined here. He has recently been to Bath, and was amusing my aunt, who is not very well, with accounts of the humors of that place. Presently he turned to me.

"I met an old friend or acquaintance of yours, Mrs. Dolly. My brother was sent for to see a lady with an attack of spasms; and, as he had a broken leg on his hands, he sent me in his stead to see my Lady Corbet."

"My old mistress," said I. "And how did you find her?"

"With as promising an attack of indigestion as one would wish to see."

"I suppose she had been eating lobster again," said I.

"Exactly. She had a hard time, but I relieved her at last. Her gentlewoman, a very nice middle-aged body, hearing I was from Exeter, asked me if I had met you, and seemed very glad to hear from you."

"Dear Mrs. Williams! She was ever a most kind friend to me," said I.

"She is not likely to stay long where she is, if all tales be true," said the doctor. "My lady is going to be married."

"Impossible!" I exclaimed.

"Very possible," said the doctor. "Such things happen every day."

"But she has been married twice before; and she was always complaining of Sir Charles for spending her money and neglecting her, as she said."

"I suppose she thinks 'better luck next time,'" observed my uncle. "Who is the happy man on this occasion?"

"One Capt. Morley, an officer of Kirke's. It is said he has made a deal of money to his own share in the late confiscations."

"A nice way to make money," said my uncle.

"A way that some greater people than he have not been ashamed of," said Dr. Burdett. "Even the queen's ladies of honor have traded in the ransoms of the poor little maidens who were betrayed by their school-mistress into presenting the duke with a banner."

"Well, I wonder at that," said my uncle. "One would not be surprised at any thing in such a hound as this Morley, but that ladies should meddle with such gains does amaze me."

"Scornful dogs will eat dirty puddings, if they be but rich enough," observed the doctor. He is always shocking my aunt with his proverbs, which, truth to tell, are apt to be more forcible than elegant. But just now her kind heart was too much occupied with her poor little niece to allow her to give her kinsman more than a reproving look.

"Dorothy, my love, had you not better change your seat? I fear the air blows on you from that window," said she. "Thomas, set Mrs. Dorothy's chair and plate here by me."

The little bustle of the change made a diversion, and when we were settled, my aunt asked Dr. Burgoin (who also dined with us) if it were true that the Bath had been known so long as people said. No more was needed to set the good man off full tilt on his favorite hobby-horse; and between King Blalud and the Romans, and I know not what Saxon saints, the perilous subject was forgotten. I never did see any one with so much tact and skill as my dear aunt.

When we were alone together, I could not forbear putting my arms round her neck and kissing her, though she does not encourage caresses. She returned the kiss, and told me I had behaved beautifully, adding that I had better lie down and rest a little, and that I need not appear at supper unless I liked. I told her I would rather go out in the air, and walk, to which she consented.

But to think of his marrying that old woman, old enough to be his mother, and with all he knows of her temper. If I wished for revenge for all my wrongs, which I am sure I do not, I am in a way to have it. But, as I think of it, I do believe she always liked him. She never made him any of the insulting speeches she bestowed so liberally on every one else, and she would always go to extra expense for supper when he visited us.

Poor Mrs. Williams, I wonder what she will do! I am sure she will never in the world live under the same roof with that man, whom she always disliked. I know she has saved money, and, besides, her skill and accomplishments will easily find her another place. But I think she will feel sadly, for I know she loved her mistress.

My head aches again to-night, but I am determined I will not be ill if I can help it. I fancy Dr. Burdett thought something was wrong, for he asked me specially after my health, and told me to take my Jesuits' bark again.

_January 30._

I have had a slight return of fever, but not nearly so bad as the last, and I am nearly well again; so that I hope to go down to the village to-morrow to see Priscilla Penberthy, who has lost her pretty little maid. Poor thing, she has sorrow on sorrow, and yet she is so very good! I don't understand it. Sometimes I think the best people have the most trouble, like poor Mr. Baxter and the Pendergasts; and then again I think of mine own, which certainly did not proceed from any goodness on my part.

_February 1._

I have had an adventure which came near costing me dear. That I am alive to write it down, is owing to Mr. Studley.

I had been down, to see poor Priscilla, whom I found indeed in deep affliction, but taking her trouble in such a sweet and patient spirit as I never saw before, and could not too much admire. She says Dr. Burgoin hath been very kind to her. He has quite won over Dame Penberthy, who now goes to church every Sunday.

Coming back I took a somewhat lonely path through the park, intending to look for snowdrops, which grow very plentifully at one place, which they say was once a piece of the old convent garden. I found abundance of the pretty white blossoms peeping above the short grass, and gathered my hands full of them. I had come within sight of the nun's grave (so the people call the little grotto within the earthwork, from some idle tale or other), when I heard a strange noise behind me; and looking round I saw a great stag pushing his way through the bushes.

I was not scared at first, for the stags are not often dangerous so late in the winter, but I suppose something had put him out of humor, for the moment he saw me he began pawing and tearing up the earth, and bellowing,—I don't know the proper name for the noise they make. I looked about. There was no tree that I could climb or even get behind. I had sense enough not to run, and I retreated backward toward a great oak in which was a hollow wherein I thought I might creep. The stag seemed to grow more and more enraged every moment, now making a rush toward me, and now stopping as I stopped, and tearing up the turf. I was weak from my illness, and feared every moment to fall. I am not a coward, but I had given myself up for lost, when I heard a clear, cheery voice behind me say in encouraging tones, —

"To the stones, Mrs. Corbet, to the stones, but do not run, for your life. I will divert him."

And with that Mr. Studley stepped out into the open glade. And taking off his cloak, he shook it, shouting loudly at the same time. But the stag was not to be diverted. He seemed to regard me as the one enemy whom he had been seeking all his life. He just turned his head a moment, and then made another rush.

"Ah, well, we must fight for it then!" said Mr. Studley composedly. He drew his sword as he spoke, calling to me to go on.

But my strength was spent, and I dropped in a heap on the ground, and covered my face, but I did not faint. I heard the sound of a desperate struggle, and then a fall.

I dared not look up till a hand was laid on my shoulder, and a kind voice said cheerily,—

"Look up, Mrs. Dorothy. The danger is over. Look up and see your fallen adversary."

I looked up: Mr. Studley was standing by me, covered with blood and dust, but apparently unhurt. The stag lay on the ground dead. Like a fool, instead of thanking my preserver, I burst into tears. I think my weeping scared Mr. Studley almost as much as the stag had frightened me. However, he behaved very well. He brought me some water from a spring near by, in a cup which he took out of his pocket; fanned me with his hat; and, when I made an effort to rise, he helped me to my feet, and stood looking at me with such a face of alarm, that he nearly set me off laughing.

"Don't mind me," said I. "It was silly to cry, but I am not very strong, and a little thing over-sets me."

"An attack from an enraged stag can hardly be called a little thing," said Mr. Studley, looking immensely relieved. "I am overjoyed that I happened to come this way. Thank God."

He took off his hat, and spoke as if he meant it.

"But you are worn out, and it is too cold and damp for you to sit down. Let me take you to the house," said he; "and in good time here comes Sir Robert to call me to account for killing his deer."

My uncle was indeed just coming down the path from the house.

"Hullo, Dolly! I was coming to look for you," he shouted. "Dan Lee has just told me that the old black stag was in a fury; and I feared he might meet you and do you a mischief. Who have we here—Mr. Studley?"

"At your service, sir," said Mr. Studley, bowing. "As to the stag, he will do no more mischief, I take it, for yonder he lies."

"Hullo, what does this mean?" asked Sir Robert, staring first at the deer and then at Mr. Studley. "Are you turned deer-stealer, Master Precisian?"

"You see at least I have not carried off my booty, Sir Robert," answered Mr. Studley, smiling, "so you can send me to jail as soon as you please, since you have taken me red-handed."

"Mr. Studley saved my life, uncle," said I. And then, collecting my wits, I told him all about it.

"I hoped to entangle the creature in my cloak, and so spare his life," added Mr. Studley, "but he baffled me, so we had a hand-to-hand fight for it. I thought he would be too much for me, and longed for my good hunting-knife instead of this toy," taking up his sword from the grass, "but I will hold it sacred henceforth, since it has done such good service."

"And are you unhurt yourself?" asked my uncle. "You know 'hurt of hart' is no laughing matter."

"I have but a few scratches, which are of no manner of consequence," answered Mr. Studley. "Had we not better take Mrs. Dolly to the house, Sir Robert?"