Chapter VIII: Book II: August 1, 1685 (5)

"Ay, do so; and I will take order for this venison."

"He was a gallant fellow," remarked Mr. Studley, pausing a moment to look at his fallen adversary. "How happens it that he keeps his horns so late as this?"

"That I can't tell you. It was an oddity of his, and for that and his great size, I prized him. But you have done well, sir, and I thank you most heartily," added my uncle, with that courtly grace which belongs to him with all his roughness. "We had been a sorrowful household if old Bevis had trampled down our clove-gilliflower. Now you must stay and sup with us. Nay, I will take no denial," as Mr. Studley began to speak of his disarray. "I will lend you a suit, or send for one of your own, but you must give my lady a chance to thank you for saving our dear niece."

So they settled it between them, and Mr. Studley staid. But I did not help to entertain him, for I was no sooner in my room than I was taken with a chill, enough to shake me to pieces, so that Betty ran for Sharpless and for her mother in all haste. The poor child really thought I was dying.

But Dr. Burnett being summoned, (he is staying here at present) said the trouble only came from my being scared and over-wrought. He gave me some composing drops, and bade Sharpless bring me some tea, a drink which he greatly approves, and which Sharpless regards with horror, as I remember Mrs. Williams used to do. He would prepare it for me himself, tempering it with cream and sugar. And I must say I found it very comforting and refreshing. Then he would have a cup himself; and by some magic of coaxing, he made Sharpless have another, and even allow that it was pleasant.

My aunt came up to see me after supper, and told me Mr. Studley had made himself very agreeable. It seems he is visiting Dr. Burgoin, who is his old tutor.

"He is a fine young man," said my aunt: "'tis a pity he has taken up such a strict set of notions."

"Such as what, madam?" asked Betty, who had staid with me instead of going to supper.

"Oh, he happened to let fall that he had been in Seville, where you know your father went with my Lord Sandwich, when he was embassador to Spain. But when Sir Robert asked him about their bull-feasts, he answered, almost with horror, that he had never witnessed one. And on Sir Robert's asking why, he said he could not think the sight of innocent beasts tortured, and men's lives put in jeopardy, was one for a Christian man to delight in. And when Sir Robert said he had seen good Christian men, and women also, looking on at a bull-baiting, Mr. Studley said very gravely,—

"'Sir Robert, can you imagine our blessed Lord and his mother making a part of the company at such a show?'

"I think your father would have been downright angry if the young man had not just done us such a service.—Is he a Presbyterian, do you know, Dolly?"

"No, aunt. I heard him say when he was at Lady Clarenham's that he was an unworthy member of the Church of England."

"Ah, well, I am glad of it with all my heart!" said my aunt, as though she was rejoicing that he was not a forger or coiner. "But it is a great pity that he has taken up such notions. He ought to know more than to set himself up to be so much better than his elders. As if the best people in the land did not promote bull-baitings as a means of keeping up a brave spirit among the common people!"

"I do not see any thing very brave in a set of men looking on to see savage dogs torment a poor tethered beast," said Betty. "I always did like it in Gen. Cromwell that he stopped the bear-baiting, and put the poor tortured creatures out of their pain." ¹

¹ Macaulay says the Puritan contrived to have the pleasure of tormenting both the spectators and the bear, while the story he tells proves exactly the contrary to any thinking person. But Macaulay never hesitated to sacrifice any thing to the witty or graceful turn of a paragraph.

"Hush, Betty, you are very much to blame," said her mother severely. "I don't know what your father would say to hear his daughter praising Cromwell."

Betty was silent, of course, but she did not look very penitent. I must say I think she was right; and, if a thing is wrong, I don't see that the fact of respectable people encouraging it makes the matter any better.

_February 28._

I have quite recovered from my adventure, which did Mr. Studley more harm than it did me. The wound on his arm, which he made so light of that he would hardly let my aunt do it up with some of her famous healing balsam, inflamed, and was very painful, and even dangerous. However, Dr. Burnett cured it at last. I am glad he was staying here. He has been examining my uncle Foster's books for some scientific matter or other. There are a great quantity of them, as well as many manuscripts, both in Greek and Arabic, which Dr. Burnett says are very valuable. He showed us one very old one, done on vellum, which he says is Persian. It looks as if an army of flies and spiders had held a desperate engagement, and left their severed members behind them. I believe Sharpless was out and out afraid of it.

As I said, Mr. Studley had a bad time with his arm, but it is now quite well again. He has made us several visits, and is a prime favorite with my uncle, who is obliged to own that the young man is no milksop, though he is so strict in his religious notions. There is a very fine young horse on the place, of the best blood, and a most beautiful creature, but so wild and fierce in his temper that no one has been able to break him heretofore, and all the men are afraid of him. Mr. Studley begged my uncle to allow him to take the creature in hand, and he consented, somewhat unwillingly, thinking it a dangerous experiment. But in a week's time, Mr. Studley had Sultan as tame as a kitten, and the creature will follow him anywhere,—all by the force of kindness, as it seems, though the grooms will have it there is some magic in the matter.

My uncle told us about it. He said Mr. Studley walked up to the door of the loose box; and when Sultan came at him, laying back his ears and showing his teeth, he just held out his hand to him. Sultan stopped as if amazed, and presently approaching, almost timidly as it seemed, began smelling his hand and arm. By and by Mr. Studley slipped the other hand over his head and began stroking his ears, and presently offered him some sugar in his open palm. And so he went on from one endearment to another, till Sultan at length allowed his new friend to slip a bridle on him and lead him about. Mr. Studley says he learned the secret among the Arabians, who never beat their horses nor break them, as we understand breaking, but bring them up to be friends and companions. It does seem a much more sensible way. I think I should try it with children if I had any, but it is not likely I shall ever be married.

_March 1._

A great thing has happened. Mr. Studley has asked my uncle for my hand in marriage, bringing a letter from his father to the same effect, the old gentleman being confined with gout.

At first, when my aunt broke the matter to me, I thought I could not entertain the idea for a moment, but she has given me several days for consideration, and I have changed my mind. I shall tell my aunt, when she asks me, that I will marry Mr. Studley.

In the first place, though I can never love him nor any man again in that way, yet Mr. Studley is one that I can heartily respect and admire. 'Tis true he is over-strict, it may be, in his notions, but that is a fault on the right side. If he does not play, he will not gamble away his substance, as so many young men—yes, and old ones—do in these days. And if he is no drinker, I shall not be mortified by seeing him under the table, or hearing him talk vile, blasphemous nonsense, in his cups, as poor little Mrs. Lightfoot's husband did at Fullham, I remember.

Then, though my aunt and uncle make light of it, I know I am something of a charge to them. My uncle lost much money by his ventures, and I can't but think he has lost more in play with Mr. Cheney. He hath been to Fullham two or three times, and always comes home in a bad humor; and my dear aunt looks very anxious and unhappy at these times. Mr. Studley asks for no dowry with me. He is his father's only son, and the old gentleman is rich.

And I suppose I must marry some time or other. My good aunt thinks women were made for no other end, and that no so great misfortune can befall any one as to be an old maiden, as they call them hereabouts. I have heard her wonder how old Lady Jem Stanton's family could have allowed her to follow such an eccentric course. (She was a lady of quality, who lived in her own house not very far from here. She never married, but kept her house full of orphan maids, whom she brought up in all good ways and housewifely accomplishments. She died only the other day at a great age.)

My aunt, since we came here, has talked of several matches for me; and I know she would never be satisfied to have me live single. I owe every thing to her kindness, and I owe my life to Mr. Studley's bravery. And if I can pleasure them both at once, why should I not do so? I can honestly say that I have not one particle of love for Mr. Morley remaining in my heart. Somehow, the notion of his marrying that woman and being subject to her caprices, did set him in such a mean and ridiculous light that it finished the cure which Dame Penberthy began. I could never love a cruel man.

I think I can make Mr. Studley a good, dutiful wife. I wish I did love him more, but my aunt says that will come, and perhaps she is right. I do love him, in a way; that is, I would like him for my brother. If he had taken to Bess, I should have been delighted.

_March 3._

I told my aunt this morning, on her questioning me, that I was ready to content her and my uncle by marrying Mr. Studley. She was very much pleased, kissed me, called me her good, dutiful daughter, and was sure I should be very happy.

My uncle looked rather doubtful.

"I don't know. She does not look as she did when the other fellow was in hand," he muttered, thinking aloud, as his fashion is; and then to me, "Are you sure you are content, Dolly? I won't have my clove-gilliflower sacrificed to anybody, not if I go out as a ploughman to keep her."

"I am sure, Dolly—" my aunt began.

But my uncle interrupted her.

"Let her speak for herself, my lady," he said. "What is it, Doll? Speak out, and have no fear."

Thus adjured, I told my uncle I was perfectly content to marry Mr. Studley, whom I esteemed above any young man I had ever seen, and respected as well; and that I would do my best to make him a good wife. I don't think my uncle was quite satisfied, but he kissed me, and wished me joy, and then said he would put poor Studley out of pain.

I hope Mr. Studley will not expect too much of me. I shall try to have a full and frank explanation with him if I can. I won't marry any man under false pretences.

_March 4._

Mr. Studley called this morning, and my aunt informed him that I had accepted his proposals. I must say he behaved beautifully. But oh, if they would only let me live single! I don't wonder girls in popish countries go into nunneries to escape from unwelcome suitors. Good as Mr. Studley is, and much as I respect,—yes, and love him too, in a way,—I would rather go back to my old way of life with my mistress than marry him. But the die is cast. My word is passed, and I cannot recede. All that remains is to do my duty in that state of life to which it hath pleased God to call me. When I said as much to Betty, she took me up sharply.

"You do not quote it rightly, Dolly. The catechism does not say, 'To which it "hath,"' but 'to which it SHALL please God to call me.' That is a very different matter. And I think one ought to be very sure of that call, before undertaking what you are about to do."

Betty grows more and more serious every day. She has read my "Pilgrim's Progress" till I think she knows it by heart. My aunt mentioned it to the bishop, but my lord only laughed, and said young maids were always taking fancies, and it was not worth while to make them of importance by opposition.

He talked with Betty very kindly and seriously afterward, and I suppose he was satisfied with her spiritual state; for he told my aunt that her daughter was a young lady of an excellent spirit, though somewhat inclined to austerity.

"But that is a good fault, and not common in these days," he added. "For my part, I should never quarrel with a young lady for loving visiting the poor more than dancing, and her closet and her Bible more than the card-table and the Devil's books, as you know Mrs. Dolly's Presbyterian friends call them."

"But you do not think there is any harm in cards," said my aunt.

"No more than in push-pin or jack-straws, considered in themselves," answered his lordship; "'tis the use that is made of them. You must see, Lady Fullham, all the evils that are now wrought in the community by gambling; how many families are impoverished and disgraced thereby."

"Yes, indeed," said my aunt, sighing.

And, indeed, gambling does prevail to a fearful extent. Even the clergy and their families are not exempt. I think the bishop might give us a sermon on it, instead of some of those on passive obedience and Divine right with which he wearies us,—or me at least. I can't help wondering how his non-resistance would hold out if the king were to put one of his popish priests into the sea of Exeter, for instance,—a thing not so unlikely to happen, if matters go on as we hear they are going at present.

_March 8._

The day is fixed for my wedding,—the 15th of April. My aunt and Sharpless are over head and ears in wedding-clothes. My uncle has been liberal, though I know he is cramped for money, but I think most of my things have come from my aunt's private purse, and then she hath given me most of the wardrobe provided for poor dear Meg.

Mr. Studley has done us another service, which I think hath bound my aunt to him forever. He was invited to go with my uncle to Fullham. Now, he does not like Mr. Cheney any more than I do, and he neither drinks to excess nor gambles: so the society at Fullham is not specially congenial to him. But I think he read something in my aunt's face which made him consent to Sir Robert's request that he would ride over with him. Contrary to what has been the case heretofore, my uncle came home rather early.

The next morning I was sitting with my aunt, mending of some rare old lace which she has given me, when my uncle came in and threw himself down in a great chair.

"So, busy with the wedding finery," said he. "I must say, gilliflower, thou hast chosen the queerest stick of a bridegroom." (As if I had chosen him at all!) "I would you had seen him last night."

"Why, what did he do?" asked my aunt. "Nothing unbecoming, I trust."

"Why, no; at least, I suppose you would not say so. The beginning was at supper. Mr. Cheney produced some Greek wines, which he greatly commended, but Studley would not taste them, saying he had tried them in their native country, and found them heady and heating. And I think they are. I know they got into my head, which is pretty well seasoned."

"Well," said my aunt, as my uncle paused.

"Well, Cheney urged them on Studley, and laughed and jeered him more than was becoming a gentleman at his own table, I thought, but not a whit was my master moved, nor did he lose his temper, though I saw his eyes flash at one jest of his host's, which I will not repeat in a lady's ears. By and by, we sat down to cards. Mr. Studley played a game or two of piquet, but when the betting began, he put down his cards, and rose from the table.

"'What, man! Art afraid of losing thy pocket-money, and being whipped by thy dad?' said Mr. Cheney. 'Thou lookest at the cards as though they were so many spotted adders. Take courage, they will not bite thee.'

"'If you had had a dear friend bitten to death by an adder, you would not care to play with the beast, not even if his fangs were drawn; much less when you saw them dropping venom,' answered Studley.

"'What mean you by that?' asked Mr. Cheney.

"'I can tell you the tale, if you desire to hear it,' answered Studley.

"'Oh, tell it, by all means!' sneered our host. And I do think the man looks like an incarnate fiend when he wears that mocking smile.

"I suppose he thought to find more food for mockery, but he never was more mistaken in his life. Mr. Studley began, and told us of a friend of his who had been at college and abroad with him, who was drawn into high play at Paris, whither he had gone, carrying with him a considerable sum belonging to some widow lady. He was drawn into play, and lost it all. Then he came to his friend's apartment, and told the story, saying that he could not and would not survive the disgrace.

"'I strove to keep him, saying the money might be retrieved or replaced,' continued Studley, 'but all my arguments were in vain. He broke from me and rushed into the street, and I lost him in the crowd. The next day I saw his dead body drawn out of the river. He had left a letter to me, enclosing one to his father; and I had to carry to the poor, white-haired old gentleman the news of his only son's disgrace and death. He never held up his head afterward, but died in a few days. Do you wonder, gentlemen, that I have no liking for that which ruined, body and soul, the man I had loved like an own brother?'

"That was his tale, but I can't tell it as he did. I can tell you, he brought tears to my eyes, for one. Lightfoot, who has been both playing and drinking deeply of late, flung down his hand, and said, with a deep curse, that he wished the Devil, who invented cards and dice, had them again. Cheney blustered a little, and talked of spoil-sports and wet blankets, but all the company took sides with Studley, and he fairly broke up the party for that time."

"I am thankful for it," said my aunt.

"Well, you may be thankful, my lady," returned my uncle bluntly. "I was in no state to play coolly, and I might have lost pretty deeply. I have already left in Cheney's hands more than I can well afford, and I am ready to swear that I will go thither no more."

"I wish you would, Sir Robert," said my aunt earnestly. "There is that about the man which repels me, though I cannot tell what it is."

"They tell hard stories about him," observed my uncle; "as that he hath been a slave-dealer, or even a pirate. Studley says he is sure he hath seen him in the East, though he cannot tell where. But I would you had seen and heard the young fellow. I wonder at such notions in the son of old George Studley, who was any thing but a saint when I knew him."

Anyhow, I like Mr. Studley none the worse for his conduct. I think it must take more courage for a young man to stand up in that way, than if he had faced a battery of cannon.

I have had a great pleasure in a letter from Bab Andrews. She promised to write me, but I did not build much upon it, knowing how much she would have to engage her attention, and how infrequent is the communication, but then, if Bab promised any thing, it was ever certain to come to pass. I am sure, if my aunt knew her, she would get over some of her violent prejudices—for they are no more—against every one who does not belong to the Church of England. My mistress felt just so towards every one who was not a Presbyterian, and could hardly forgive Mr. Baxter for allowing that an Anabaptist could write a good book. I think one is about as reasonable as the other. Of course, I believe my side is right, because it would not otherwise be my side. And if I think salt is white, I must needs think that man mistaken who says it is black or red, but that need not make me consider him a hypocrite or a villain.

However, I have got a long way from Bab and her letter. She tells me they had a long though a prosperous voyage, and landed at a place called Newcastle, which is some way up the great river of the Delawares, and quite a thriving little town. However, she did not stay there, but in a few days removed to the other side of the river, to West Jersey, where her aunt lives in a place called Cohansey Bridge-town. Bab says the bridge is there, such as it is, but the town is still greatly to seek, there being not more than six or eight houses in all. ¹

¹ I am not quite certain that there was any town at all, though there
was a bridge at this point in very early times.

Bab writes as follows:—

"I had expected a good many hardships and privations, and was surprised enough to find my good aunt living in great comfort, in a neat house, partly of stone and partly of hewn logs, but all pleasant and comfortable. The stone is of a dark red color, and when first taken out of the ground cuts very easily, but by exposure to the weather becomes hard enough for building. The log houses are warm, and to my thinking very pretty. The worst is they harbor insects, and especially earwigs as long as your finger, very frightful, but not dangerous, though they can give a nip in self-defence, but they are very timid and easily killed.

"My aunt hath a fine orchard of peach and apple trees, and we have abundance of nice winter apples, and of peaches also, which are preserved by being cut into quarters and dried in the sun. They are very good, and so plentiful that the poorest people can have them. The climate is mild even now, and I enclose a rosebud which I gathered in our garden yesterday.

"There is full liberty in these parts for every one to worship God in his own way. We have half a dozen sorts represented in this little settlement,—Quakers, Presbyterians, and Anabaptists,—but all live in peace. The Presbyterians have Sunday worship in the little log schoolhouse, when there is any one to conduct it."

She tells me a great deal more about the place and country,—of the Indian savages, who live in great peace with the white people; of the birds, which are abundant; and of the little school which she has set up, and in which she has gathered all the children of the settlement,—and ends with these words:—

"I would you were with me, Dolly. Do you know, when I used to build my castle in the air, about coming out here, you always occupied one room thereof? I fully intended to ask you to come with me, whenever I came, but of course, after your aunt so kindly adopted you, that was out of the question."

When I read this to my aunt, who was much interested in the letter, she said,—

"But you would never have gone, Dolly?"

"I believe I should, madam," I answered. "I think I should have done almost any thing to escape from Lady Corbet, and I was always fond of Bab."

"Ah, well, it hath all ended for the best," observed my aunt. "I am glad I came in the nick of time to save you from such a fate."

Am I glad? I don't know that I am. I think I would like to be in New Jersey with Bab at this minute, gathering of wild flowers, which she says make the land like a garden, or helping her in her little school, or her aunt in the farm-work. No, I can't say that I think all is for the best. But, as things were then, should I have gone? I can't tell, and there is no use in speculating.

I don't understand my own feelings at all. I think sometimes I have none. I am content to drift with the current, careless where I shall land. I hope, for the sake of my family, I shall make no utter shipwreck. I hope, too, that I shall make a good wife to my husband, who certainly deserves a far better one.

_March 20._

How fast the time runs on! News has come from London which has decided my aunt and uncle to go thither as soon as the wedding is over. It is something concerning my uncle's speculating venture, out of which he hopes to save somewhat. I think my aunt is pleased. So is not Betty, who hates London and all the round of plays and balls and all the rest of the gayeties.

Mr. Studley hath been home to visit his father, and I cannot but think since his return his spirits have been somewhat flatter than his wont. He tells me one thing which I am glad to hear; namely, that his father hath promised to fit up a separate house on the estate for us, that we may keep house.

"'Tis but a plain old house and not large," said he to me, "but it is comfortable; and I thought you would rather govern your own household, though it was but a small one."

"You were right," said I. "I believe it is much the best arrangement. I don't care how plain the house is, so we do but have it to ourselves."

"You don't care for luxury," remarked Mr. Studley, looking well-pleased.

"I won't say that," I answered. "I like it well enough, but even in my short life, I have seen enough to know that outward things have little to do with happiness."

"You are right there, Dolly," said Mr. Studley, sighing. "Unless there be peace within, no outward peace avails any thing. But I hope we shall have both in our quiet little home."

Then he went on to describe to me the house and garden, the poultry yard, and other conveniences; and I listened, glad to please him in any way. Finally I asked about the church and parson. He shook his head rather sadly.

"The church is well enough, though small and rustical, but there are a fine painted window and sundry old carvings and monumental brasses which were the delight of my good old tutor when he visited us. But as to the parson, the less said the better. He is no credit to the place that he fills."

"That must be a grief to you," I remarked.

"It is, indeed, and I would matters were otherwise, but at present I can do nothing save wait and pray."

I never saw a young man like Mr. Studley—I mean one whose religion seemed so a part of himself. He never parades it any more than he does his travels or his music, but, when he has occasion to speak thereof, it is with no more hesitation or embarrassment than he would speak of being in Rome.

_April 10._

The day is near at hand, and all the preparations are finished, for which I am glad. I have been so out of patience with the foolish finery at times, I have felt an insane longing to tear it to pieces or burn it up. If Mr. Studley were as foolishly fond as some men are in the like circumstances, I believe I should quarrel with him, but that is not his way. Only at times I catch his eyes fixed on me with a look that goes to my heart, and makes me feel like weeping.

Such a look from Mr. Morley would have made me happy for a week, but, try as I will, I can't feel the love for him that I did for that unworthy man. I am glad he is out of my way, where I am not like to see him. I wonder if he is married. To think of a man selling himself in that way! But Betty says Lord Chesterton told her that Mr. Morley is a gamester and loaded with debt. I fancy he is much mistaken if he thinks my lady will pay them for him. I do hope at least he will have the honesty to tell her of them.

I am not going to write in my journal any more, that is, more than to set down the day's events, perhaps. I can't quite make up my mind to destroy these two volumes which have been such a comfort to me, but I shall seal them up and put them away. I will not write any thing that I cannot show to my husband, for I am resolved I will have no secrets from him.

If I could but love him as I loved that other! If I had only seen him first! If only something would not keep whispering his name to me, and suggesting—But there, I won't write it.

I am resolved that I will do my best to be a good wife to Mr. Studley, and a dutiful daughter to his old father, who, from what I hear, is like enough to be somewhat of a trial. It may be that in time something like love will come to me. I think my aunt suspects the state of my heart, for she discoursed largely last night of the nature of true affection, and how much better foundation for happiness were respect and esteem than the blind passion commonly called love. I wonder if she thought so when she married Mr. Foster. From what I have learned about him from Dr. Burnett and Dr. Burgoin, he and my aunt could not have been very congenial spirits, yet Dr. Burnett says it was altogether a love match.

Ah, well, the die is cast! The sacrifice is made, and there is no receding. Since I must needs be married, I am glad my aunt's choice has fallen upon such a worthy man, whom, as I have said to myself over and over again, I can respect and admire, if I do not love him.

THE THIRD BOOK.