BOOK II. (continued 3)

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?"

"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

"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

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.