BOOK III. (continued 3)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I asked her about my Lady Corbet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My husband asked another the same question.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What now!" I exclaimed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The highwayman uttered a curse, and then demanded our watches. Dr. Bristow pulled out his, and the robber reached out his hand to receive it. In a moment Edward had him by the throat, while Lord Carewe held a pistol to his ear. His horse started from under him, and he was left hanging from the coach-door in a very uncomfortable and undignified fashion. His companion, seeing how things were going, clapped spurs to his horse, and was out of sight in a minute.

"You can't shoot," gurgled the half-choked robber. "Your pistols are stuffed."

"That is your mistake," answered Edward, in the tone of polite dignity which he always uses when offended. "They were stuffed, I grant you, but the stuffing was drawn this morning as you shall see if you offer to stir.—Doctor, will you have the kindness to tie this gentleman's hands? My wife will lend you her scarf for the purpose."

"I have what will serve even better," answered Dr. Bristow calmly, as he took from his pocket a new silk stole. "It hath never been used in the church, or I should have scruples as to putting it to so base a service," he continued, as he secured the hands of the robber, now gasping for breath under Edward's bulldog grasp of his throat. The guard at the same time tying the man's legs, he was helplessly at our mercy.

"Let us take a look at your face, my friend," said Edward, as he took the mask from the robber's countenance. I shall never forget the look of agony he bent upon me as I recognized Philip Morley. I spoke his name aloud before I thought.

"For Heaven's sake, let me go," pleaded the poor craven wretch. "Let me go, and I will never molest any one again.—O Mrs. Studley, plead for me!"

The men were obdurate at first, but Dr. Bristow and I finally prevailed with them to leave him, bound as he was, by the side of the road. We had passed a carrier's wagon about an hour before, so we knew he would be found and released before night-fall. A stout strap was substituted for the desecrated stole, which the doctor remarked would make his good sister an apron. And we left him sitting by the roadside, a pitiable object indeed. He was rescued, as we had foreseen, and told some cock-and-bull story to account for his plight. He left the country at once, and I believe has never returned.

We had no further adventures, and reached home in safety, to find all well, and Mrs. Williams quite reconciled to poor Dennis and Patrick. As the season was advanced, and so much was to be done at the Hall, we remained at Applecoombe till May, when, having let the farm to advantage, we removed to this house, where we have now lived for two or three months.

I must confess that at first I woefully missed the farm and its interests. But I soon found enough to do, and my baby's coming after so long a time filled up my cup of happiness to the brim. My good aunt is finally satisfied with my position, and takes great credit to herself for establishing me so well. I am quite willing she should do so, since it pleases her, but I can't help thinking how it would have been if she had been determined to marry me to Mr. Cheney instead of Mr. Studley. In my state of mind at that time, I should probably have been as passive as I was in marrying Mr. Studley.

Now Mr. Cheney—my lord, I should say—has fled the country, and people say has joined King James in Ireland. All his great wealth has vanished into thin air, and he hath left nothing behind him but an immense amount of unpaid bills in Exeter, and various gambling debts. His poor wife has returned to her widowed mother, who tells a pitiful story of her wrongs. Sir Robert let out the whole story the last time he and my aunt were here, and I thought it was a good deal to Betty Rowson's credit that not a look or word escaped her to say, "I told you so."

One thing I know. No considerations of worldly advantage shall ever make me force my Barbara into a match against her will. The baby is named Barbara, after my husband's mother, and my dear Bab Andrews, from whom I hear two or three times a year. She is well, and seems to be happy in the life she has chosen. Her aunt is dead, and has left her quite rich; and she hath removed to a place called Newcastle, not far from Mr. Penn's new town, which he calls Philadelphia.

Uncle Philip visited the place last year, and says it is really quite a nice village. Barbara sent me a little painting of her house, which is neat and pretty. She has a school for girls, which gives her pleasant employment. I fancy Uncle Philip would not be sorry to go into partnership with her, but I doubt Bab will never marry. However, he is going thither again next year, he having taken command of a fine ship belonging to Master Birch, in Bristol: so there is no telling what may happen.

Mrs. Williams is well and happy, and I hope may be spared to us for many years. She surprised us all by going to church when baby was christened, and has been to hear Mr. Rowson preach once or twice since. She hath her crotchets, no doubt, but I am sure a better Christian never lived in the world than Mrs. Mehetabel Williams.

Lord Chesterton was married last year to no less a person than my old school friend and pet, Mrs. Patty, Lady Clarenham's grand-niece. She has grown-up a very pretty, sweet young lady, and will make him a nice wife. He lives at home on his own estates, sees to his tenants, and is a very sober, religious gentleman, certainly a great contrast to what he was when I knew him first.

Mr. Baxter is still living, and in much easier circumstances, many of the oppressive restrictions which were laid on the Dissenters during the last two reigns having been taken off, though there is still plenty of room for improvement in their condition. Mr. and Mrs. Pendergast have gone to America, and are settled in the same town as Bab Andrews. My Lady Corbet left them quite a sum of money in her will, with which they bought land: so they are well to do. I am glad, for I always liked them. Ursula Jackson is a widow, but carries on her husband's business.

And now I come to the end of the third of these books, which I began under such different circumstances. Looking back over the way I have come, I can but thank the Guiding Hand which has led me by such unknown and untried ways to this haven of rest and peace. I thank God that he "has" led me, often sorely against my will, instead of leaving me to follow out the paths I chose for myself. Verily, He leadeth "the blind by a way they know not."