BOOK III.

Studley Hall, 1687.

WHEN I was looking over my things in preparation for removing from the farm to this house, I opened a trunk mail in which I had stored away a quantity of finery unsuitable to a farmer's wife. Turning over the things, my hand fell upon a square sealed package, of which I could not remember the contents. Breaking the seals, I found my two old journal books, which used to stand me in stead of confidential friends and father confessor. I fell to looking them over, and Mr. Studley coming in at the moment, I read him the last pages I wrote. He laughed, and kissed me, saying, "All's well that ends well."

"Perhaps so," I answered; "but, Ned, I can see now what a wrong I did you, and what a sin I committed, in wedding you as I did, promising so solemnly to love, honor, and obey, when my heart was not in the matter."

"Ah, well, you have been a fairly dutiful and obedient wife, save when you will go out in the wet to hunt up your missing fowls," said Mr. Studley; "and as to love, I think there is a little between us, Dolly." Then he added more gravely: "In truth, dear wife, if there was any blame, it attached more to me than to you. I was not so blinded by my love but that I could see how you felt toward me. You would hardly have walked down as far as the red gate to meet your bridegroom coming to woo, even in the finest weather, as you did yesterday in the rain to meet your stupid, humdrum old goodman coming from market, you foolish woman!"

"I wanted to see if you had forgotten my knitting-pins," said I, pretending to pout.

"And so send me back for them. No doubt I should have gone, like an obedient, hen-pecked husband, as I am; only you forgot to ask for them at all, and here they are in my pocket. But indeed, Dolly, I was to blame. I knew your heart was not in the match, but it seemed to my self-will as if I could not live without you, and I was vain enough to believe I could win your regard if I had a fair chance."

"How conceited some men are!" I said.

"But, Dolly, since you are like, or so I hope, to have a little more leisure, with our mended fortunes, why should you not continue your chronicle down to the present time?" continued my husband. "It will be a pleasant pastime, and our daughter will like to read them when she is a sober house-dame like thyself."

"It seems odd to think that mite of a creature should ever be a sober, married woman," said I, regarding my three months old Barbara asleep in her cot, "but I suppose we were all like that once. I hope she may have as good a fortune as her mother before her. Only I would not have her left as I was, for the lot of an orphan maid is too often a sad one. But then, as you say, 'all's well that ends well.'"

Mrs. Williams, coming in for some directions about the new cheeses, put an end to the talk for that time, but my husband adverted to it more than once afterward. And as we are now quite settled in our new home, and we have the house well cleaned, which it greatly needed, and every thing is going on well, I know no reason why I should not content him. He has gone to Plymouth for a week to see about some property there, and I have a mind to surprise him when he comes home.

To begin with the wedding. It went off as such things usually do, I suppose. Betty was bridesmaid, and I am sure a soberer one was never seen. I don't think I was a very sober bride. Somehow, just at the last, a reckless spirit took possession of me. Dr. Burnett had been to the Bath again, and had brought news that Mr. Morley was actually married to his ancient bride: she is sixty-five at the very least. When I heard that, as I said before, a spirit of recklessness took possession of me. I was determined to show that I did not care: so I talked and laughed, entered with zeal into all the preparations for the festivities, and feigned the greatest interest in my wedding array. I saw Mr. Studley look at me with wondering eyes more than once. I suppose he must have said something to my aunt, for I heard her tell him that young maids' spirits were always variable at such times.

The wedding-day is much like a dream to me. We were married at the parish church; and almost the only clear remembrance I have is the face of old Dame Penberthy, as she pressed a bunch of blue and white violets into my hand at the church door.

We had no very great wedding festivities, for the absence of which, my aunt's mourning was a sufficient excuse. Our only guests were the bishop's family, who are my aunt's relations, a few of our nearest neighbors, and Mr. and Mrs. Lightfoot. Mr. Lightfoot had sought Mr. Studley's company since that evening at Fullham which I have recorded, and by his persuasion had left off cards and dice, and given himself to retrieving his encumbered estate. Mrs. Lightfoot looked upon my husband almost as an angel, as well, indeed, she might, poor little woman!

The next day after my marriage was lovely, and my husband asked me to walk out in the park with him. All my high spirits had evaporated by that time, and a kind of impatient misery had succeeded to it. I felt as if I could not endure any thing. I bent down to gather a primrose, and as I did so I scratched my hand with a thistle, and in my vexation I gave vent to an oath,—a modish oath, such as half the fine ladies in London used without ever giving it a thought. I had caught up the habit there, and had been trying to break myself of it, but I think such a habit one of the hardest in the world to conquer. I was brought to myself by my husband's look of almost horrified surprise.

"Dolly!" said he, and the tone spoke volumes.

I felt the blood come up in my cheeks, but I tried to carry it off lightly.

"I did not mean any thing," said I; "it was only a trick I picked up in London. Everybody there uses such words."

"If the whole world used them, I could not be reconciled to hearing them from the lips of my dear wife," said Mr. Studley. "See you not, my love, that it is this very light use of the word which the Commandment forbids,—the taking the holy name in vain, or lightly?"

"I suppose so," I answered. "The truth is, Mr. Studley, I am not one bit religious. I was once, I believe; at least, when I was confirmed I made many good resolutions, and did love to read in the Bible and to go to church. But afterwards, somehow, it all became dim and unreal to me. I did not go to church, and the books I read to my mistress were only tasks to me; and since—" I stopped, horrified at the words which came to my lips.

"Since when, my dear?" asked my husband gently. "Canst thou not open thy heart to thy husband, my Dorothy?"

Now, I had resolved that the name of Philip Morley should nevermore pass my lips, that Mr. Studley should never know what he had been to me. While I was fully resolved to have no secrets from my husband, as soon as he became so, it seemed to me that my single life was mine own.

But I know not what possessed me; whether I had endured as long as endurance was possible, or whether the kindness of his manner broke down my reserve, as ice is melted by the warm south winds: I began at the beginning, and told him the whole story of my life,—how Mr. Harpe had cheated me, and my mistress abused me; how I saw Mr. Morley first, and all about my acquaintance with him, even to those clandestine meetings in the park, which I can never think of without shame and anger.

"And I can't be religious: how can I?" I concluded. "How can I think Heaven has been good to me, or that any one there loves me, when I have been so thwarted and shamed and tossed about? I might as well think that God cared for one of those withered weeds, or a bit of tangle on the shore."

I stopped, rather scared at my own desperate words. Mr. Studley had been standing before me, as I sat on a rustic bench in the shade of a thicket. To my surprise, he turned from me, and walked away without a word, disappearing among the trees.

What would I not have given to recall what I had said? I had thrown away my husband's love and respect; and, now they were gone, it seemed that I would give worlds to have them back again. I seemed all at once to realize all I felt for him. What would he do? Would he ever speak to me again? Would he leave me altogether, and go away? What would my friends say if he did, and where should I hide my disgraced head when they knew all?

Tears came to my eyes at last, but they were hot, burning tears, and gave me no relief. I covered my face with my hands, and was sitting in a kind of heavy, listless despair, when all at once my head was drawn to a warm, strong resting-place, and a kind hand wiped my tears. Not a word was spoken till I looked up, and said, in a voice that was hardly articulate,—

"I thought you had gone and left me."

"No, indeed; you do not get rid of me so easily," replied my husband. "I ought not to have left you alone so long, but I confess I had need of a little solitude to compose my spirits."

"Then you don't hate me?"

"Not quite yet. It would be a strange love, methinks, which would be alienated by such openness as yours, my Dolly. I own that for a moment I was shocked and startled by what you told me. But I do not believe you love this man."

"No, indeed," I answered, with energy. "It is a wonder to me how I could ever care for him."

"It is no great wonder, under the circumstances. But, Dolly, you say that you cannot love God because he hath dealt so hardly with you. Was it hard dealing with you not to leave you to reap the harvest of your own self-will and indiscretion?"

"No, perhaps not. But why did he take my mother from me, and leave me a forlorn orphan maid, with no one to guide me?"

"That I cannot tell you. It belongs to the great unsolvable riddle,—the existence of evil at all. But, Dolly, is it quite true that he left you with no one to guide you? You say that both Mrs. Williams and your friend Mrs. Andrews warned you. And was there not something within which confirmed their warnings?"

"It is true," I answered. "I knew all the time I was doing wrong."

"Exactly. You see your Father did not leave you alone, after all."

"I wish I could feel that he were my Father indeed," said I. "I would I could love him as you do. I have tried, but I cannot."

"That is because you have not tried in the right way, my dear one," answered my husband. "You could not love him while you thought him your foe. 'We love him because he first loved us.'" And with that he began and drew a picture of the love of God, and the work of the Holy Trinity in our redemption, so tender, so moving, supporting all he said by the words of Scripture, as I never heard the like from any preacher.

I wept abundantly, but my tears were cool and refreshing, and seemed to overflow and carry away all remains of that spring of bitterness in my heart which had been poisoning my life.

"But you make my case worse and worse, Edward," said I. (I don't think I had ever called him by his name before.) "If I have been sinning all my life against such love as this you describe, and which I must needs believe in, how can I ever be forgiven? What remains for such a sinner?"

"Eternal life, if the sinner will but take the free gift held out to her," answered my husband. "Do you not see, Dolly, that the fact of your being a sinner, is in one way your title to salvation?"

"I don't understand," said I. "Must one not be good to be saved?"

"Yes and no. You put the cart before the horse, as we say in these parts. You are not to be saved because you are good, but you are to be good because you are saved. If you could work out your salvation, then were our Lord's work useless. But he came into the world to save sinners. You are a sinner; 'ergo,' he came into the world to save you. Does not that make it plain?"

We talked a long time. He showed me at last, plainly, both by the Bible and Prayer-Book, that I had only to believe that the Lord had died for me, and to put my trust in him, in order to reap all the benefits of his passion. He showed me how all the services and sacraments pointed the same way, and served to the same end,—that God's children were to perfect holiness in his fear, because they were his children by creation, by adoption at our baptism, and at last by our own act and deed consenting thereto.

I cannot write all that he said. I know from that hour life was a new thing to me.

"But we must not sit here too long: the air is growing chill," said he. "Your aunt will chide me if you get the ague from my carelessness."

"It will be an ague well bought," said I. And then, a little mischievously, "Then you won't quite give up your wayward little wife, though she has been such a naughty girl?"

His only answer was a kiss, which for the very first time I returned. From that hour I began to love my husband; and that love has grown, and will grow while life remains.

We went round by the spring, and I stopped to bathe my eyes, which were swollen with weeping. Nevertheless, my aunt saw the traces of my tears, and followed me to my room, saying with some anxiety,—

"I hope nothing has gone wrong, my love."

"No, dear aunt, the farthest possible from wrong," I answered; "only I have been holding a long talk with my husband. I think we understand each other better than ever before."

"That is well," said my aunt, evidently relieved. (I think she had had her misgivings all along.) "I must say one thing for you, Dolly, you are the most candid young person I have ever met. I feel that I know more of you than I do of mine own daughter."

I do think she did. But if I had grown-up under my aunt's system, should I have been more open with her than Betty is? I doubt it. I know one thing, I will always encourage my Barbara to open her heart to her mother. How can a child be frank, a child at least who thinks for herself, who is repressed and set down, and even severely reproved for speaking out her thoughts when they happen to differ from her elders. I remember how even Meg was chidden and punished because she said she thought it not right for women to play indecent parts upon the stage. But this is by the way.

I asked my aunt to excuse me from going to supper, not feeling in the mood to meet my uncle's jokes, which were not the most refined. My aunt kindly consented, and said she would send Mary with my tray, but Mr. Studley, hearing of the matter, would bring it up himself, and even feed me.

We got frolicking over it like two silly children, but, indeed, my heart felt so light I was ready for any thing. Then Mr. Studley brought out a new piece of music he had bought for me at Exeter—an evening hymn, by the good Bishop of Bath and Wells, set to a fine canon of Tanis's—and we sang it together. We went down to prayers. And I think my aunt, and even Betty, were satisfied with my looks.

The next day, when we were alone together, Betty said to me in her blunt way,—

"What has come over you, Dolly? You look as though you had seen some joyful sight."

"And so I have," I answered her; and I told her a little of the talk I had held with my husband.

"You have a right to be happy," said she, and she sighed. "Dolly, you don't know how I dread this visit to London. I know just how it will be. All the visiting and play-going and vanity will begin over again, and I cannot join in it. I dare not do so, thinking as I do. I shall have to run counter to my mother in every thing, and what will become of me?"

"Now you are borrowing trouble," said I. "If I were you, I would lay my trouble before the bishop,—you know his lordship is always very kind to you,—and ask his advice."

"I have," answered Betty, "and much good it did."

"Why, what did he say?"

"He said that while I was under my mother, it was my duty to obey her in all things which did not go against my conscience; and that I must be careful not to make a confusion between my conscience and my taste, not to think things must be wrong because I did not like them."

"Well, I am sure that was good," I remarked; "and what then?"

"Then he patted my head, and gave me his blessing and a book of his friend Bishop Wilson's, and bade me remember that even in Vanity Fair Christiana found some good people, and that, at any rate, 'sufficient unto the day was the evil thereof.'"

I don't see how he could have given Betty any better advice, but I could see she was not satisfied. And, indeed, my good aunt's theory and practice were hard to reconcile. She gave us books to read which taught us that this world was nought, and then would have us live as if it were all. I could not but wonder that the bishop should quote such a book as the "Pilgrim's Progress," but then he reads every book that comes in his way. I dare say he might pick it up at a stall, where he is always hunting for curiosities in that line.

The next day but one my husband and myself set out for our new home. We were to go by sea from Exmouth to Biddeford, where we would be met by my father-in-law's horses and servants. I had never been on the water in my life, and was scared at the idea, though I would not have said so for the world, but my husband and my uncle both thought it would be easier for me than the rough land journey over the moors, by roads which are not too safe at any time, and which have been much worse since the troubles last year drove so many desperate men to take refuge in those wilds and almost inaccessible morasses.

However, I must say I found the voyage very pleasant. The vessel, though small, was clean and well found; and the captain and sailors, who knew my husband well, were civil and attentive. I was sick hardly at all, and there was so much of novelty to engage my attention that the time seemed not long to me.

We landed safely one pleasant morning at Biddeford, which is a quaint little town, once of considerable importance, but a good deal decayed. We went at once to the principal inn, where we ordered some refreshment, as it was nearly noon. While we were eating and drinking, the landlord came to say that a man desired speech of my husband. And presently, he brought him up,—an elderly, steady man, the very model of an old-fashioned serving-man.

"Welcome, Andrew!" said my husband. "You see I have brought my wife."

The old man bowed, and drank my health in a cup of ale, which, at my husband's sign, I poured out and gave him.

"And what is the news from home?" asked my husband. "I suppose the timbered house is all ready for us."

"Why, no, Master Edward, it be'n't," said the old man rather reluctantly. "Your father has altered his mind about it, and you and the young mistress are to come to Studley Hall. I only hope you will like the company you find there."

"What do you mean, Andrew?" asked my husband.

And, as Andrew hesitated, he added, with more impatience than is his wont, "Speak out, man, and tell us the truth, whatever it is. Bad news does not mend by keeping."

"And that's true, Master Ned," said the serving-man. "Well, then, here it is. My master hath taken Mr. Kirton and his sister to live with him; and she rules the household within, and he without."

My husband turned ashy pale, and his eyes shot fire as he asked, in a tone not the least like his own,—

"Is he married to her?"

"He says so, and certainly he ought to be," answered Andrew reluctantly, "but no one knows where the wedding was done, nor who married them. Anyhow, my lady rules with a high hand, and most of the old servants have left."

"When was this done?" asked my husband, in the same hard, constrained voice.

"About three weeks ago," answered Andrew. "My master laughed when he told us, and said he would steal a march on Master Milksop. But I had best go and see to the horses," added the good old man, guessing, I suppose, that we would rather be alone together. "I shall be below the window in the court, mistress, if you will but make a sign when I am wanted."

With these words he withdrew, shutting the door behind him. My husband walked up and down the room two or three times; and then dropping into a chair, and laying his head on his folded arms, he fairly burst into tears, and sobbed like a babe.

I soothed him as well as I could. I was scared, for there was something terrible in the grief of one usually so self-restrained. When I saw him growing quiet, I ventured to ask,—

"What has happened, Edward? Who are these people?"

"The woman is such an one as I would not have you even name," said he. "The man is a physician,—at least so he calls himself, and he hath some skill that way. He helped my father in a fit of gout in the stomach, and hath crept into his confidence more and more, though I believe him as unworthy of trust as a man can be. I have feared at times that my father was taken with the woman, who is very handsome, in a way, but I never thought to see her in the place of my mother, a saint if one ever lived on earth. O Dolly, to think I should have brought you to this!"

And again he gave way to his grief, though but for a few moments. Then composing himself,—

"The question is, what to do?"

"Will you not read your father's letter?" I asked, handing him the letter which old Andrew had given me. "That may throw some light on the subject."

The letter was kind enough, though somewhat needlessly blustering; saying that we would be welcome to his house, provided that we would treat his wife with respect, and that his son was prepared to behave like a man.

"Ay, I know what that means," said my husband. "Well, what shall we do, Dolly?"

"In my judgment we had better take up with the invitation," I answered, trying to speak cheerfully, though I was dreadfully disappointed. I had built so much on going to my own house. "This person is your father's wife, it seems; and as such we must treat her with respect, as he says. If we find we cannot live there, it will be time to think what to do next."

"But I know not what that will be," said my husband. "My father promised to allow me a house and land, and four hundred pounds a year; and if he sees fit to quarrel with me, as I make no doubt he will, if Kirton can bring it about, we shall be left destitute."

"Then you shall take your violin, and I will take my lute, and we will go sing at fairs and weddings, till we win money enough to rent a cottage at Biddeford, or somewhere else, where you shall be parish-clerk, and I will knit hose, and spin fine thread," said I. "In truth, dear Edward, we are wrong to borrow trouble. We are both young and strong,—not made of sugar nor salt, to be washed away in the first shower of adversity."

"I don't know. I think you have a good deal of both in your composition, Dolly," said my husband.

"Of course I have," I answered, overjoyed to see him smile again. "Don't you know that little girls are made of—

"I know one little girl that is, at all events," he answered. "Dolly, what have I done to deserve such a good wife?"

"Why, nothing," I answered demurely. "Have not you yourself taught me that we don't get good things because we deserve them?"

"And you think we had better go on to my father's?"

"Truly, I do."

"And what is to become of our fine castle in the air?" he asked, smiling sorrowfully.

"It is in the air still," I answered, "but it may yet descend to earth, and rest on a solid foundation. And if we cannot have our castle, why we will be content with a cottage, as I said."

We talked matters over by ourselves and with old Andrew, whom we called into our counsels. I could see that the old man was very doubtful about our reception. Afterward, Edward having gone out in the town about some business, Andrew told me privately that he believed both Mr. Kirton and his sister had done their best to prejudice old Mr. Studley against his son, which he added was needless, as Mr. Ned had never been a favorite with his father. It seems there was a younger brother of a very different disposition from Edward, and much more congenial to his father, who was killed at sixteen by a fall from his horse.

"It was no fault of Master Ned's," continued Andrew. "Indeed, he did his best to persuade poor Walty from going out. My master had taught him to drink deeply already, and he was in no state to manage a fiery horse, but his father cheered him on, and they both laughed at Ned for a milksop and a coward. But the horse was enraged with the whip and spur, which Walty plied mercilessly: he reared and threw him off, and his brains were dashed out against the wall of the court."

"How very sad! But Edward was not to blame for that."

"No, my pretty—I mean my young mistress," said the old man, catching himself up, "but it was visited on him, for all that. Then Master Ned took up with strict notions about religion, and that angered his father still more. The old master did every thing to drive them out,—from sending him to travel abroad, to putting him to work in the stable."

"Surely, he never did that," said I.

"Indeed he did, mistress. Many 's the time I have seen Master Ned in his frock, rubbing down the horses as cheerfully as you please. Afterward, he sent him abroad with my young Lord Stanton, and then put him to govern my Lady Clarenham's household, thinking because she was a great court lady, Mr. Ned would get over his strict notions with her."

"It was not a very good choice, if that was what his father desired," said I. "My Lady Clarenham, though a court lady, as you say, was strict enough in her own notions."

"So I have heard, madam. But when Mr. Studley found that out, he took his son away again. Then he tried another way, and made him his own bailiff, and I would he were so again," said the old man, sighing. "But I doubt all that is over. Kirton rules every thing on the place. It is owing to him and his sister, I do believe, that my master changed his mind about the Timber House."

"But I can't understand that," said I. "I should think these people would rather have the house to themselves."

"They mean to have the house to themselves," answered Andrew with a meaning look. "And if you take my advice, young madam, you will leave the most of your things here in safe keeping, and not carry them to Studley Hall, till you see how the land lies."

"What is that you say?" asked my husband, entering at the moment.

Andrew repeated his words.

"Your counsel is good," said Mr. Studley. "I think, Dolly, we will leave most of our baggage in the hands of my good friend, Mr. Gifford the merchant."

"Very well," I answered. "I have all I shall need at present in the small mail that was brought thither."

"But we must be riding, my love," said my husband. "Andrew, will you see the horses ready?"

We came in sight of Studley Court just as the sun was setting, and I never saw a lovelier scene. The old red brick house, shaded by great nut-trees, was, as it were, nestled into a valley, or glen, opening to the south-west toward the sea. A clear, prattling stream crossed the garden not very far from the house, and fell in a succession of still pools and tinkling cascades toward the shore. The garden showed careful cultivation in times past, though some large weeds and many small ones gave tokens of recent neglect. I saw my husband shake his head when he looked at it. He is very fond of a garden.

The whole place was bathed in warm, soft sunshine. The sea, at high water, was making a gentle roar on the shore below, and the birds were singing softly in the trees. It looked the very abode of peace. As we rode into the courtyard, my father-in-law appeared on the steps. He was a very handsome, stately old man, but I did not like his face, which showed traces of hard living and of a violent temper. Perhaps I may have imagined a little, knowing what I did of him beforehand. He welcomed me with sufficient courtesy, and his son hardly with civility, I thought.

"Well, Master Ned, I have stolen a march on you," he said bluntly, yet with a kind of swagger, I thought, as if he were somewhat ashamed of what he had to tell, but meant to carry it off with a high hand.

"So I hear, sir," answered my husband. "I wish you and your wife all happiness."

"Humph!" answered the old gentleman, somewhat disconcerted, as it seemed. "Mind, sir, you are to treat my wife with respect. I will have no airs from you or your wife either.—Do you hear, mistress?"

I curtsied without answering. My former experiences had taught me that "mum chance is a safe game," as Sharpless used to say.

"Humph! We mean to be discreet, I see," muttered the old gentleman. Then aloud, "Well, well, you are a pretty creature, and look as if you lacked not spirit, little as you are. Hast thou not a kiss for thy old dad, child?"

"That I am sure she has, sir," answered Edward promptly. "I have brought you a loving and dutiful daughter, father, who I hope and believe will be a comfort to you."

My father-in-law seemed to soften at these words. He gave Edward his hand, which he had not done before, bade one of the serving-men carry up our mails, and asked, in some surprise, if that were all.

"We left a part of our effects with Mr. Gifford, in Biddeford, sir," answered Ned. "We did not care to scare you with too much at once."

"Well, well, 'twas not ill-considered," said my father-in-law, giving me his hand to lead me in; for we had stood all this while at the door, and I had begun to wonder whether we were to be allowed to enter at all.

He conducted me to a pretty, old-fashioned parlor, where sat his wife.

How shall I describe her? She was a large woman, and very handsome in a way, with regular, aquiline features, bold, round black eyes, very wide open, and abundance of dark hair growing well back from a rounded forehead, and a red and white complexion which I thought might owe something to the rouge-pot. She rose as we entered, and treated us to a broad stare and a swimming courtesy. It seemed to me that I had seen her before, but I could not tell where.

"This is my son Edward, Rebecca, and this is his bride.—What am I to call you, child?"

"Dorothy, if you please, father," I answered, "or Dolly, if you like it better."

I got a look from my husband which rewarded me for all the pains the words cost me. The old gentleman also looked well-pleased, but I can't say as much for Mrs. Studley. I felt from the first moment as if she were an enemy, as if I were in the presence of some fierce and treacherous animal.

"You are welcome, Mrs. Edward Studley," she said stiffly enough. And then, turning to her husband, "I suppose the young lady will like to go to her room before supper, which will be ready directly."

I answered that I should be glad to do so.

"The blue room, Ned. You need no one to show you the way," said his father.

Accordingly my husband led me up-stairs, and along a gallery to a tolerably comfortable chamber, not in the best order, where a decent-looking old body was somewhat hurriedly laying clean towels and the like. She dropped whatever she had in her hand as we came in, and burst out crying, saying in her broad Devon dialect, "O Master Ned, Master Ned, what a home-coming is here! What a home-coming is here for you, my lamb!"

"Hush, hush, Janey!" said my husband, shaking hands with her. "Do you greet my bride with tears? That is not a good omen.—Dolly, this is my old nurse and friend.—Come, Janey, shake hands, and wish her joy."

"And so I do with all my heart, the dear, tender, little lamb, and God bless her into the bargain! But what a house is this to bring a young lady into!"

"It is indeed a very different house from what I expected," said my husband, "but we must make the best, Janey."

"Best! There is no best, with that witch and wizard who have cast their spells on my poor old master!" said Janey. And then in a lower, awestruck tone, "You need not tell me they are right Christian folk. No, not they!"

"Hush, Janey, I cannot hear you speak so of my father's wife," said Edward; "that is not right. Come, help your young mistress to take off her riding gear, and get ready for supper."

"Ay, that will I," said the old woman.

She performed her office deftly enough, with abundance of "poor dears" and "tender lambs," and such like phrases.

When we were about to leave the room, she laid a trembling, withered hand on my husband's arm,—

"Don't let her get a hold on thee, don't, now, Master Neddy," she whispered. "I tell 'e she bain't right. There's them has seen mun in other forms than mun wears now, and in strange places. And it bain't for nought that the white owl has whooped and screamed every night since she came hither. No, no, the white owl doesn't screech like that for nought, though you make light o' mun, Master Neddy. But oh, have a care! I have put a branch of rowan over your bed, and a four-leaved clover under every threshold, so she can work no harm here. But oh, have a care, my lambs, and be sure to taste bread and salt the first thing!"

I must confess I was silly enough to observe this precaution against witchcraft, when we sat down to supper. At the table we were introduced to Dr. Kirton, a cunning, plausible sort of man, who was rather obtrusively civil in his manners, and to whom I took a huge dislike on the instant.

My husband had brought his father some fine tobacco, and a pretty box full of snuff. The old gentleman received them with satisfaction, and seemed inclined to be more friendly than at first; asking Ned about one old acquaintance and another, and telling him about the cattle and horses, especially a fine blood mare he had bought for my riding. Then turning to me, he asked me if I were a good horsewoman.

"Only passable, sir," I answered. "I never rode at all till last winter, but my uncle has taken great pains to teach me, and, if you will do the same, I hope you will find me an apt scholar."

"Indeed, sir, Dolly is a very good horsewoman, considering," said Edward. "She is very fearless, and that is half the battle, you know."

"So it is, so it is," replied the old gentleman. "But how happened it that you never learned before last winter, chick?"

"Because I never had a chance, sir," I answered. "I have been in my uncle's family not quite a year. Before that I lived in London. We only came down to Devon about Christmas-tide."

"In London, eh? I did not think I was to have a fine London lady for a daughter, but you don't look like a Londoner! Eh, Rebecca?" addressing the lady at the head of the table, who had stiffened more and more, the more her husband relaxed.

"I know nothing of the matter," she answered tartly. "I never was in London in my life, and never wish to be."

"If I have not seen you there, I am as much mistaken as ever I was," I said to myself. The more I looked at her, the more sure I was that I had seen her before.

"Well, well! I should have taken you for Devon born, and North Devon at that," said my father-in-law. "Who is she so like, Rowson?"

The remark was addressed to the vicar of the parish,—a heavy, good-natured looking man, who had come in after we sat down, and been introduced as Mr. Rowson. He looked, I must say, any thing but a reverend priest, and yet I took a certain liking to him from the first.

"Mrs. Edward Studley is very much like the Corbet family," answered the vicar, with a polite little bow. "I should almost say she belonged to them."

"I suppose I do," I answered. "My father's name was Corbet, and he and my mother were somewhat akin. After my mother's death, I lived in the family of Sir Charles Corbet, my father's cousin."

"Ay, I remember now," said Mr. Studley. "But Sir Charles died some years ago, did he not?"

"Yes, sir. After his death I remained with his widow, till my aunt found me out and adopted me."

"Well, well! Thou art a pretty bird, but of the least."

"'Good gear goes in little bulk,' I have heard say, sir," I answered, whereat he laughed and seemed pleased.

But the more pleased he appeared, the blacker grew my lady's brow. She was evidently jealous already. When supper was over, my husband asked to be excused, saying that he had a headache.

"Ay, I know of old there is no good-fellowship to be had of thee," said his father grumblingly; and then, more gently, "But thou art a young bridegroom, and would rather toy with thy pretty pussy than drink the best wine that ever flowed. Go along, then."

He actually rose to open the door for me, when his lady pushed past me and left the room first. It was certainly a very discourteous action for a lady in her own house, and I saw my husband's face flush at it, but I did not care. I did not believe I should long have to live with her.

We stopped a moment at the hall-door, while Edward pointed out to me some object in the landscape; and when we reached the parlor it was empty. There was a pretty harpsichon in the room, which Edward opened and invited me to try.

"It was my mother's instrument, and for her sake I have kept it in tune," said he. "She was a great lover of music, and a good performer."

"It is from her that you get your music," I remarked.

"It is from her that I get any good which is in me," replied my husband, with a sigh. "I believe I first liked you because something in your looks reminded me of her. And to see that—"

"Patience," said I, as he checked himself; "patience is our only game just now, Edward."

"You are right," he answered. "Play something, and soothe my spirits, Dolly."

"'Music hath charms to soothe the savage breast,'" said I, as I sat down. "And you are not savage, only disturbed and distressed, and no wonder. Now, take that arm-chair, and listen and compose your spirits."

I played one or two lessons, and then began to sing Mr. Shakspeare's Song of the Lark, which was always a great favorite of mine. When I had finished, I was rewarded by a clapping of hands; and, turning round, I saw my father-in-law and the chaplain, who had come in so quietly I had not known of their presence.

"Well done," said my father-in-law. "Why, you are a lark yourself. We don't hear singing like that every day, eh, Rowson?"

"I have not heard the like since I was in Italy," answered the chaplain. "Will not the young lady sing something else?"

I obeyed, and sang two or three songs, to the last of which Mr. Rowson volunteered a bass. He had a fine voice, though somewhat the worse for wine, and a cultivated manner. When we had finished, he said, with real feeling and courtesy,—

"This is a pleasure indeed. I did not expect such a feast."

"Ay, Rowson is like any other donkey, he likes his ears tickled," said Mr. Studley, laughing. "You will hear good singing in his church, if not much else. But, indeed, you have given us all pleasure,—eh, my dear?" turning to his wife, who only tossed her head, and said something about not being a judge.

I concluded I had done enough, and rose from the instrument. I supposed we should have prayers, as the chaplain was present, but no such thing took place.

When we had retired to our room, I found I had dropped my handkerchief, and ran down to look for it. I paused, however, at the parlor door, hearing voices within; and while I was hesitating I caught the words,—

"Making herself at home—a London fine lady to look down on me, and insult me with her airs.'

"Tut, tut! I saw no airs, nor insults either," said my father-in-law. "Don't be a goose, Becky."

"Becky!" I exclaimed aloud. It all came to me in a minute.

"Eh, what's that?" said my father-in-law, opening wide the door, which was already ajar. "What do you want, child, and who are you calling 'Becky?'"

"Nobody, sir," I answered. "I heard the name, and was struck with it, as I never heard it but once before."

"And where was that?" asked he, rather sharply.

"In London, sir," I answered.

And then, to divert him, I asked if he had seen my handkerchief.

He began to look for it, while my lady stood by, regarding us with no friendly glances.

"Here it is," said I, unearthing it from a pile of music-books. "Thank you, father, and good-night."

"The riddle is read," said I, as I rejoined my husband. "I knew I had seen her before."

"Where?" asked Edward.

"At the theatre in London," I answered. "I have seen her twenty times. It is Becky Marshall the actress,—the one poor Mr. Baxter tried in vain to rescue. She had a sister younger than herself, both well brought up, but I never heard of any brother. But if she is not Becky Marshall, I will eat her."

"I would not like you to do that," said my husband, who is always taking me up about what he calls my intemperate ejaculations. "She might not agree with you. But are you sure, Dolly?"

"As sure as I am of you," I answered. "I have often seen her, for my aunt was a great play-goer, and always took one of us with her. I heard this woman had left the stage."

"Well, well; we can do nothing now, that I see," said my husband. "To think, Dolly, that I, of all people, should have brought you into such associations!"

"You could not help it, seeing you knew nothing of them," I answered. "But where did your father meet these people?"

"At Bristol, whither he went to drink the waters of St. Vincent's well. There he was taken very ill; and Kirton cured him, or so he thought. He has known the brother for a year, but it is only a few weeks since he met the sister. I saw Gifford was full of stories about her, but, with all his good qualities, he is a bit of a scandal-monger, and I gave him no encouragement. But come, Dolly, let us take our reading and prayers, and go to rest. To-morrow is a new day, and may bring better counsel. I shall try to prevail on my father to go back to the first plan, and let us have the timbered house. If not, we must see what else we can do, for I will not have you living with this woman."

The next day was Saturday. Janey had not failed to remark on the fact that we had arrived on a Friday, as boding ill luck. My father-in law was evidently in a worse humor than the night before; and as to my lady, she hardly troubled herself to be civil. We did not meet till dinner-time, when Mr. Studley grumbled over the pie, and scolded because the beef was overroasted, saying he had not put a decent morsel into his mouth since the new cook had come. My lady promised to see to the cooking herself, and seemed trying to conciliate her husband, while she was any thing but polite to Edward or me.

"And you, child, I suppose you don't know the neck of a goose from the rump," said my father-in-law, turning to me.

"Of course not," said his wife. "Fine London ladies don't study cooking."

"But I am not a fine London lady, madam; and, as it happens, I am a bit of a cook," said I, willing for my husband's sake to conciliate her. "My mother and my aunt both thought the government of a household a very important part of a young lady's education."

"And they were right," said my father-in-law, with an oath. "What matters it what else a woman knows if she can't make her husband comfortable?"

Nobody made any answer to this question, and the meal went on. After dinner, Mr. Studley announced his intention of riding to look at some outlying land.

"I will ride with you if you will permit me, sir," said Edward.

"What! And leave your bride alone a whole afternoon. You are not weary of her already, are you?"

"Hardly, sir," answered Edward, smiling; "and I do not mean she should weary of me, as I fear she would if I were tied to her apron-string."

"Humph! Well, then, if you are suffering for exercise, I wish you would go over and see Master Atkins. Tell him I will let him have the two heifers at his own price, if he will come for them. The land hath more stock than it can carry. Tell Tom to put the side-saddle on the black mare, and carry your wife with you."

It was evidently an excuse for putting off, or getting rid of, a private interview. My husband looked disappointed, but made the best of the matter.

"Would you like to go, Dolly?" he asked. "It is a pleasant ride; and the old folk are friends of mine, and will be glad to see you."

I professed my willingness, and we were soon on our way. The day was lovely, with a fresh breeze blowing, and sending the white-caps into the little bay, and the larks were singing over head. I should have enjoyed the ride beyond any thing, only that my husband was so sad and distraught.

"Eh,—what?" said he, after I had spoken to him twice without getting any reply. "I beg your pardon, Dolly. I am very bad company, I know, but I am so troubled and perplexed I know not what to do, nor which way to turn."

"And therefore you cannot turn any way," I answered. "You must just wait till the fog lifts, and shows you your road."

"And meantime the boat may drift on the breakers, or the traveller be mired in the bog," said he.

"Not if the boat be anchored, and the traveller sit still," I answered. "Where is your faith, Edward? Have you not taught me that God is our Father, and that he will make all things work together for good to them that love him? Can we not trust ourselves in his hands?"

"You are right, and I am wrong, my dear," said my husband. "I fear I am very faithless."

"No, you are not faithless any more than Abraham was," I answered. "You are failing in your strong point just as he did. Don't you know that fortresses are almost always taken on their strong side? Only don't make Abraham's mistake by taking matters into your own hands. You know the trouble he prepared for himself by that step,—because he could not wait for God to bestow the blessing he had promised."

"I don't know that I ever thought of it in just that way, but I believe you are right," said Edward. "You have read your Old Testament to purpose, Dolly."

"It is one of the few things I have to thank my old mistress for," I answered. "She made me read it from end to end every year. Is this the farm where we are to stop?"

"Yes. They will make you very welcome, Dolly, and they are good people too."

We found the dame busy with her knitting in the sunny porch of the old timbered house, and received such a hearty welcome that we were almost overwhelmed with it. A rosy-faced old man took our horses, and an equally rosy-faced lad was sent to find Master Atkins; while the dame conducted us into her clean, wide kitchen, where a little wood fire still smouldered on the hearth. Here we must eat and drink the first minute, of course; and we were ensconced in two arm-chairs, while the dame and her pretty, comely daughter-in-law bustled about,—covering one end of the great table with a snowy, homespun cloth, and bringing out clotted cream and cheese-cakes and spice-bread, and I know not what else. Edward asked after her son.

"Oh, he is away to the Levant! He must take to the sea, like his grandfather and father before him," answered the dame, smiling and sighing at once. "He has got the salt drop in mun's blood, like every Lee and Atkins as never was born, I think. And Will, he's away to America, and has taken his wife with him to visit her kindred: so Patience and me, we be left alone as it were. But have you heard, Master Ned, that my husband's cousin, Ezechel Atkins, at Applecoombe, wants to sell out and go to America?"

"I have heard no news at all, dame, since I came home only yesterday. But why does Ezechel sell? I thought he had one of the nicest places in all North Devon."

"So he has, so he has. But you know his brother is in New England already, and 'Zechel hath a great family,—twelve lads, no less, and four maidens; and 'Zechel thinks there will be more room for his lads over there."

"And he is right, Master Ned," said the master of the house, entering in time to hear his wife's last words. "Welcome home, sir, and much joy befall you and your bride."

Master Atkins was a tall, spare man, with black curly hair a good deal grizzled, and splendid white teeth. He was very polite and even polished in his way. I learned afterward that he had been an officer in the navy, but had retired and taken to farming.

"And so you think your cousin 'Zechel is making a wise move," said my husband, as we sat down to the table.

"I do, sir; though if it were my case, I should go not to New England, but to New Jersey, where land is quite as good and the climate not so severe. But 'Zechel's brother is settled in New England, and doing well, and doubtless that is a strong reason for their choice."

"I have a friend in New Jersey. Is that very far from where your cousin is going?" said I. "I would like to send her a little parcel."

Master Lee smiled. "There is almost, if not quite, the length of England between the two places," said he. "Folk hereabout do not understand the size of things over there. But I make no doubt my cousin will take your parcel, madam. He may easily find a chance to send it, for there is a great deal of trade going on."

"But what will 'Zechel Atkins do with his farm?" asked my husband. "His lease must have a long time to run yet."

"Sixty years," answered our host. "'Zechel would gladly sell stock and fixtures, and the most of his furniture, if he could get his price."

"And that is—"

"Two hundred and fifty pounds, but I doubt not he would take two hundred, if he had the money in hand. The farm is well stocked, and hath the finest orchard in the country."

The talk then drifted away to other matters. I observed the beauty of the china bowl which held the clotted cream, and of some other pieces; and the dame must needs show me her china closet, which would have made many a fine lady wild with envy. I particularly admired a little black and gold coffee-pot, and nothing would do but she must bestow it on me for a wedding gift, as she said, as well as a lace kerchief which she told me she had made herself when a maid at school. Then we must go out and see the garden, the poultry yard, and the noble orchard: so it was on toward sunset before we got away.

We found supper ready when we arrived at the Hall. My father-in-law was evidently in a worse humor than in the morning, and received Edward's report of his errand with only a "humph." The parson was at the table, as usual, but there was no pretence of grace said. Madam sat at the head of the table, dressed out in all her finery; and, as we took our places, she shot a glance at us wherein I read triumphant malice. She had evidently been using her time well.

Mr. Studley drank plenty of strong ale with his supper, and called for wine afterward. My husband took one or two glasses, and then declined more. His father called him a white-livered milksop, and turned to the parson,—

"You are a man, at any rate, Rowson. You are not afraid of your brains, like my sanctimonious son. We will finish the bottle and another before we part."

"Not to-night, sir," answered Mr. Rowson. "To-morrow is Sacrament Sunday, and I must not drink deep to-night, lest I get the bishop down on me again."

My father-in-law cursed the Sacrament, using terms which made my blood run cold. In all my life I had never heard such blasphemy. Involuntarily I laid my hand on his arm.

"Dear sir, don't speak so," said I. "Think of what you are speaking,—of the Holy Communion."

He shook off my hand, and stared at me with a look of fury.

"What, you, you!" he stammered. "Has he made a sanctified humbug of you already?"

"I told you, you would have enough of my lady's airs," remarked his wife with a sneer. "Fine doings, indeed! A young woman rebuking her father-in-law at his own table."

"And you, sir, you have put this chit up to beard me, have you?" roared Mr. Studley, turning to his son.

"Do not be so angry, Mr. Studley," interposed Dr. Kirton, in his smooth, oily tones. He had a habit of putting his head on one side when he spoke, which would have set me against him if nothing else did. "I am sure Mr. Edward will make his wife beg your pardon."

"I pray you, Dr. Kirton, not to interfere between my father and myself," said my husband, speaking quite calmly, though I saw by his paleness how much he was moved. "I see nothing in my wife's words for which she need to ask pardon."

"Of course not," said Mrs. Studley tauntingly. "She has a right to insult your father at his own table, and to call his wife an actress and I know not what else.—Oh, yes, you may stare, madam, but I can tell you stone walls have ears. A pretty way, to be sure!"

With that Mr. Studley exploded in a new fury. In all my life I never saw any thing like it. There was no opprobrious epithet which he did not heap upon his son, and I think no demon from the lower regions could have beat him in the blasphemous language with which he assailed religion in all its forms. I looked at the parson, expecting him to show some displeasure, but though he looked annoyed, as a man might at an interruption to his pleasure, he never moved. Dr. Kirton put in a word now and then, artfully calculated to increase his patron's anger, while his sister made no attempt to conceal her satisfaction. As for Edward, he never said one word, till his father applied to me an epithet too vile to be recorded here. Then he rose from the table with flashing eyes.

"Come, Dolly, this is no place for you," was all he said.

I rose and put my hand through his arm.

"Ay, go, and never let me see thy craven face again!" roared the old man. "Begone from my house! I have tried in vain to make a man of thee. Begone, and beg or starve, as pleases thee best, and take thy father's curse with thee."

"Curses are like young chickens: they always come home to roost," said Edward solemnly. "Heaven grant that it may not be so with yours, sir!— Come, my wife."

My lady gave an insolent laugh as we left the dining-room. It soon appeared that the old man was in earnest. We had been in our room but a few minutes when Mr. Rowson came to the door.

"You had best be gone, Ned," said he. "The old man grows worse and worse, and vows you shall not stay in the house to-night; and that witch pushes him on. I have ordered your horses to the door, and Andrew will attend you."

"But where to go?" said my husband. "We cannot spend the night on the moor. Cannot you take us in?"

The parson looked perplexed. "I would," said he, "but my house is no place for a lady; and beside—Well, the truth is, Ned, I owe your father money, and I can't afford to displease him."

"We will not trouble you," said my husband. "The man who will not stand up for his Lord and Master will hardly do much for his friend."

"Nay, but do hear reason," said the poor parson, in a strait between his kindness and his cowardice. "Let us think a moment."

"Why should we not go to Master Atkins, where we were this afternoon?" said I. "Surely those good people will take us in over Sunday."

"A good thought," said my husband, "if the ride will not be too much for you."

"Nay, 'tis only six miles," said the parson. "She deserves some trouble for blowing up all this storm. Why could she not hold her tongue? But women must always be meddling."

"I will hear not one word against my wife," returned my husband sternly. "She did but what any Christian should,—what you yourself should have done, and not have left your Master's defence to a girl."

"What use in talking to an angry man?" said the parson, coloring. "But I bear no malice. Here comes Andrew for your mails. Go down the back way, and I will try to keep the old man engaged." So saying, he disappeared.

"And that man," began my husband.

But I begged him to be quiet and let us get away. In truth, I was terribly scared, and wanted nothing so much as to be out of the house. We were not to escape scot free, however. The poor old man followed us to the door, and dismissed us with a volley of execrations, ¹ swearing by all that was holy we should never see a penny of his money.

"I value not your oath, sir, since you swear by what you yourself do not believe in," said Edward, turning as we were about leaving the courtyard. "It grieves me to part from you in anger. I have borne much from you in times past. I entreat you to remember that deny God's word as you may, it is not the less true. And that, so surely as you live, you must one day stand before him, to give account of deeds done in the body. I call you yourself to witness that I have been to you a submissive and dutiful son, and I am willing to be so again, so soon as you shall see fit to recall me.—Come, Dolly."

As we rode out of the courtyard, we heard the old man's wrath exploding in execrations. And I caught sight of the woman laying her hand on his arm, as though scared at the storm she had herself provoked. I never saw her in life again, but once.

"We must ride fast, my love," said my husband. "It is growing late."

This was all he said during our ride, except a word of warning or encouragement now and then. Fortunately, it was a fine evening, and a half-moon gave us plenty of light. How glad I was that we had taken no luggage with us but our pillion mails, and one small mail that Andrew could carry easily behind him!

It was near ten o'clock when we reached the farm, but there was a light in the kitchen, and Master Atkins was standing in the porch, smoking his pipe. He uttered an exclamation of wonder on seeing us again, as well he might, and hastened to take me down from my horse.

"Will you take us in for the night, my friend?" asked my husband. "I have literally no shelter for my head or that of my poor young wife."

"Take you in! Ay, that I will, and more than welcome," answered Master Atkins. "What, the old gentleman is in his tantrums again!" Then, as Edward nodded, "Come in, come in.—Come, madam.—Janey, here is Master Edward and his lady come to stay all night with us."

I cannot think without grateful tears, even now, of the warmth and delicacy with which these excellent people welcomed us. The fire was blown up, and a couple of rosy maids sent in half a dozen different ways; while the dame herself would wait on me, take off my riding gear, and smooth my hair. I was worn out with fatigue and excitement, and the dame's motherly care was too much for my self-control: I burst into a flood of tears, and sobbed so convulsively that my husband was alarmed.

"There, don't 'e mind, don't 'e mind," said the dame soothingly. "She will be all the better, poor lamb.—Bring some wine, Patience.—There, drink this, my pretty. Hush, hush, nothing shall harm thee. There, see, thou art better already."

"I am very silly," said I, making a great effort to control myself, "but I am not used to riding so far, and I am so tired."

"Yes, indeed, poor tender soul! Bed is the best place for thee, and it is all ready. Come now, let me undress thee, and don't grieve too much. All will be well."

With the greatest kindness she helped me to undress, and as soon as I was in bed, brought me a warm drink to keep me from taking cold. All this time, neither she nor her husband had asked a single question. As she bade me good-night, I held her hand for a moment.

"You must not think, dame, that my husband has done any thing wrong."

"I know, I know," she answered. "Bless you, my dear, every one knows the old squire! Master Edward has been the wonder of the country for his patience and dutifulness to the old man. There, sleep, my tender, and all will be well."

The next morning I was waked early by the singing of the birds, the crowing of the cocks, and other farmyard noises. I could hear sounds of movement below, but all quiet and subdued. I was bewildered at first, and could hardly tell where I was. The room was far more comfortable, I must say, than that we had occupied at Studley Hall. The bed-linen was snowy white, and smelled of lavender. The curtains and counterpane were of India chintz, and a fine Turkish rug lay before the bed,—odd things, I thought, to find in a farmhouse in North Devon. But I remembered that the master of the house had been a seafaring man, which probably accounted for all these luxuries. While I was studying the patterns on the hangings, I fell asleep, and did not wake till my husband called me.

"Are you rested, Dolly? Do you feel like going to church? It is not a long walk."

"I should like to go, of all things," I answered, "but, Edward, how can you endure to see that man in the desk, and breaking the consecrated bread?"

"What, Rowson? Oh, we are not in his parish!" answered Edward. "And if we were, you know, love, the unworthiness of the priest hindereth not the efficacy of the sacraments. But this is quite a different person, as you will see. I think we shall both be better for the worship, and we will try to put aside all our cares till to-morrow. 'This is the day the Lord hath made; we will rejoice and be glad in it.'"

We broke our fast, and then walked with our host and his family to the little church, the tower of which I had seen from my window. It was very small and very old, built of the moor-stone, and almost shrouded in great leaved ivy, but there was a beautiful carved oak chancel screen, almost black with age, and I saw with pleasure how fair and white were the altar-linen and the surplice. The vicar was an old man, of almost rustical plainness of speech and manner, but he gave us an excellent, practical discourse, suitable to the day, and administered the communion with great reverence and decency. I was rather surprised to see how many communicants there were in proportion to the size of the parish, and remarked upon the matter to Master Atkins as we were walking homeward.

"Yes, our parson has done a great deal for the parish," he answered. "'Twas but a godless place when he came here, for the last incumbent was much such another as him over yonder at Studley, only worse. But we got rid of him at last. Mr. Dean is a Devon man born and bred, and knows how to deal with the people. The worst man in the parish will pull off his hat to him, and I have known him to go single-handed and unarmed into a den of deer-stealers and broken men, break up their assembly, and persuade them from some lawless deed, by the sheer force of his presence and speech. I would the old squire had him to deal with. He would find it a different matter, I trow."

"I hope so," I answered. "I was disgusted to see Mr. Rowson sit by and say not a word, while every thing that he ought to have held sacred was blasphemed and profaned."

"Ay, that is Mr. Rowson all over. But he hath been a free liver, and I fancy the old squire hath some hold over him. 'The borrower is servant to the lender,' you know, madam."

"Well, I do wonder how my husband ever lived with his father so long," I said, rather incautiously, perhaps.

"And so do many more, madam, but in spite of his pretending to despise his son, the old gentleman has always greatly depended on Master Ned in business matters. Only for that I believe your husband would have made himself independent long ago. I fear the poor old man hath got into bad hands enough, and that Master Ned will suffer by it."

We went to evening service, and heard the school-children catechized. And I was much pleased by the way in which Mr. Dean explained the Commandments, not descending to any trivialities, but making his matter so plain that the youngest child could carry away something thereof. Master Atkins told us the rector took great interest in the school, which had an excellent woman for a dame, and that even the Dissenters in the parish sent their children to her.

I thought within myself that I would make a little treat for the children, and then remembered, with a pang, that I was not likely to have money for any such purpose. However, I reflected that I had among my things a great roll of silk pieces which I had collected for my patchwork, and I could at least make some work-bags and needle-books for the little maidens. I suppose it was childish in me, but somehow this little plan for giving pleasure to others seemed to lighten up my spirits amazingly.

The next morning, my husband called me into our bedroom from the dairy, where I was diligently learning the true Devon way of making a junket.

"I am sorry to interrupt the process of your education, Dolly, but we must needs consider our ways and means. What are we to do to live?"

"I suppose there is no use in expecting any thing from your father," said I.

"No use at all, while he is in such hands. I have never been a favorite with him, but I did think he would have kept his promise when he agreed to give me a house and an income of mine own. I never would have brought you hither else."

"Then I am glad you were mistaken," I answered, "for I would not be anywhere else for the world."

"Truly?" asked my husband, with a bright look.

"Truly," I answered. "I can frankly say, Ned, that I would rather live in a cob hut with you, than in a palace with any one else."

Here occurred an interruption to the discourse which I need not set down. But how glad I was that I could in all honesty say as much!

"But we must think what we are going to do," continued my husband. "If we had only any capital to start with, I would take 'Zechel Atkins's farm off his hands. I have no fear but I could manage it, and make eventually a good thing of it, though it would mean hard fare for a few years, and harder work than these tender little hands are used to."

"Never mind the tender little hands," said I. "They have more strength than you think for, and what I don't know, I can learn."

"But Master 'Zechel wants his money down that he may have something more to start on," continued my husband. "And beside that, I would not at any rate like to begin with a millstone of debt round my neck, nor can I well apply to your uncle. He hath done a good deal for us; and beside that, I know that he has lost enough of late seriously to embarrass him. Have you any money, Dolly?"

"I have ten pounds," said I.

"And I have twenty. So we have at least thirty pounds between us and starvation."

At this moment a thought struck me which made me jump up in a hurry. My husband looked on with surprise as I brought out my trinket-box from my mail, and began turning over its contents. At last I found what I wanted. It was the little golden egg which my poor cousin, Sir Charles, had given me on his death-bed.

"What is it?" said Ned, as I put it into his hands.

I told him its history.

"And you have never opened it," said he, turning it over. "Who shall say that women have no curiosity?"

"Nobody need say so about me, because I have a great deal," said I; "so much that I want you to open my egg directly that I may see what is in it. I don't think it will be any infraction of my promise to open it now, for surely we are in a strait, if people ever were. Only, don't break the locket if you can help. Who knows but it may be like the golden egg, which the fairy gave to the wandering princess in the story, and contain a talisman which shall help us out of all our troubles?"

"There is no need of breaking the locket," said my husband, examining it with attention. "I see how it opens."

He pressed the spring as he spoke. The egg parted in the middle, and out dropped two little parcels, carefully wrapped in silver paper, and a small, folded note.

"What have we here?" said my husband.

We each opened one of the little parcels, and were fairly dazzled by the splendor of the jewels they contained.

"Lady Jem's diamond ear-rings!" I exclaimed. "The very same that are in her portrait by Lely. My mistress always wondered what had become of them. I little thought I had them in my possession all the time."

"But what is this?" said my husband, opening the folded paper. It was a note in Sir Charles's handwriting, saying that he gave the enclosed jewels, which were his own private property, to his dear cousin, Mrs. Dorothy Corbet, to be kept by her till after her marriage, and then either worn or used by her in any way she should think proper. The note was signed by Sir Charles, and attested by the names of Dr. Clarke his physician, and Richards his confidential servant.

"That was very thoughtful of your cousin," said Ned. "Do you know these witnesses?"

"Oh, yes! Dr. Clarke is court physician, and always attended my mistress; and after his master's death, Richards married, and has a shop for gloves and perfumes in Westminster Hall. I carried my aunt thither, and she bought a great deal of him. But how much, think you, the jewels are worth, Ned?"

"More than fifty pounds apiece, if I am any judge of such matters," answered my husband. "My good friend, Master Gifford of Biddeford, will, however, have a juster notion of them, having handled many such matters in his day. We will go thither to-morrow, and stop on our way home that you may see Applecoombe for yourself; that is, if you are minded to sacrifice your splendid ear-rings."

"It will be no great sacrifice," I answered. "I never had any fondness for trinkets; and I am sure these will do me more good put into a home, than dangling from my ears, specially out here in North Devon. Only I will keep the locket, if you please, in memory of my kind cousin."

"But, Dolly, have you thought what all this means for you?" asked my husband. "Do you understand that it means hard work and plain fare and the rank of a farmer's dame? What would your aunt say?"

"I shall not ask her," said I. "What is the use of being a married woman, if I can't have mine own way?"

"You shall have your way and mine too, if you like," said Edward. "Then it is settled that we are to carry these jewels to market, and exchange them for kine and sheep and such vulgar matters."

"Even so," I answered.

"Then we will ride to Biddeford to-morrow, if you are well rested. But take care of the note, Dolly. It may save trouble some day."

Our conference was interrupted by a call to dinner; for these good folk kept to their primitive hours, and dined before eleven of the clock. The good dame treated us to all sorts of country dainties, for she was and is a famous cook. I saw with pleasure the devout way in which Master Atkins said grace, not mumbling it over like a charm against rats, as my poor uncle used to do. The meal was a very pleasant one. Master Atkins, being skilfully led on by my husband, told us some very nice tales of his travels and adventures, and of the strange superstitions of sailors, particularly of the ghostly bark called the "Flying Dutchman," which never appears but in a storm, and is doomed, for the wickedness of its captain and crew, to wander forever, without ever making a port.

"You speak rather as if you believed in this unlucky Dutchman," said my husband.

"I would not say absolutely that I do not," answered Master Atkins seriously. ¹ "We old sailors see many strange things. I could tell you of a great creature with a body like a snow wreath, fully two fathoms in length, and with a dozen snaky arms, each big enough to pull down a big fishing boat, twisting and writhing like serpents, and great staring eyes,—a horrible sight it was, I can tell you. I never wish to see it again, I am sure of that." ²

"Hush, Willy," said his wife reprovingly. "You should not tell the young lady of such frightful creatures."

"Oh, I am not easily scared!" I said.

But the dame shook her head at her husband so meaningly that he began to talk of pleasanter things, of the beautiful birds of South America, and the great fireflies, infinitely brighter than our glow-worms, and by which one can see to read even.

"When I hear Will Atkins's stories, it revives my old longing for the sea," said my husband. "If worst comes to worst, Dolly, I can leave you with our good friends here, and ship on a Bristol trader."

"And then I will don men's attire, and follow you, like the lady in the ballad," said I. "But with such tastes, and such a home, I wonder you never ran away to sea as a boy."

"I could not leave my mother while she lived," answered Edward. "I was her only comfort, and I promised her I would stay by my father as long as it was possible. Otherwise, I would have sailed with my poor uncle, and perhaps have shared his fate."

"Why, what happened to him?" I asked.

"His vessel was taken by Barbary corsairs, and the whole crew killed, or driven into slavery. One object of my journey to the East was to try to hear some news of my uncle, but I believe, from all I can learn, that he was killed in defence of his vessel. Better so than a lifetime of Turkish slavery."

"Maybe he will turn up sometime, with a shipload of gold, as one reads of in story-books," said I; "or perhaps he is a Turk, with a long beard, smoking a great curly pipe, like the grand Turk in Mr. Chardin's travels, and with as many wives as the stars in the skies. Who knows but you might have done the same if you had gone with him?"

Edward is so sober that I do like to stir him up sometimes, just as I used to poke up my mistress's great Indian cat and make him play in spite of his grave airs. Tom Atkins has promised to bring me a pair of these same cats next time he goes to Bombay. I hope he will get them home safely. I do love a nice cat.

The next day we rode to Biddeford and visited Master Gifford, who made us very welcome, and confirmed Edward's opinion of the worth of the jewels.

"But I would you had them in Bristol," said he. "There is a very worthy man, a correspondent of mine own, who deals in these matters, and who has, I know, a commission at present to purchase a number of fine diamonds. I am going thither to-morrow. Suppose you both go with me. The sea will be like a mill-pond, but, if madam is afraid of the voyage, my wife and daughters will make her most welcome while we are away."

Madam Gifford and her pretty daughters warmly seconded the invitation, but my husband leaving the matter to me, I decided to go with him. I was not at all afraid of the sea, and I always did like to see new places.

We had a very nice voyage, though the sea was not exactly like a mill-pond. I was surprised to see Bristol such a great and busy city. And wondered, like all strangers, at the steep and narrow streets, too narrow for any thing but a dog-cart.

Master Gifford took us to a very nice inn. And, after we had eaten and rested, he led us to his correspondent the jeweller.

We found him in his shop,—a tall, nice looking man, with very black crispy hair, and pale blue eyes, which, despite their want of color, had a singularly penetrating look. I liked him the moment I saw him. When he learned the nature of our business, he led us into his private room, and bade us be seated. My husband stated his errand, and produced the jewels, which Master Davidson examined with great attention.

"How much do you conceive these stones to be worth?" said he at last.

"If they are genuine, they should be worth fifty pounds apiece at least," answered my husband.

Mr. Davidson smiled. There was a look of mild amusement in his eyes which made my heart sink fathoms deep, for I thought at once that he believed the jewels were counterfeit.

"I should say you were no great judge of such matters," said Mr. Davidson, smiling again.

I saw my husband's face change, and knew his thought was the same as my own. I felt downright sick with suspense. Mr. Davidson looked at the jewels once more, and laid them carefully down on a piece of black velvet, where they shone like stars.

"I will give you a hundred pounds apiece for these diamonds," said he deliberately. "I say not that they are not worth more, but you know I must make my profit on them."

"That is no more than right," said my husband; while I felt like crying and laughing both at once. "Then you think there is no doubt of the stones?"

"I can tell a genuine stone from the best imitation ever made," said the merchant somewhat scornfully. "Nay, put me in a dark room, and I can tell the difference by the feeling."

"How?" I asked.

"That I cannot explain to you, madam. 'Tis faculty that comes by use, and also by inheritance. My family have dealt in precious stones for many generations. These stones are not only of good size, but of very uncommonly fine lustre."

It seemed like a dream, too good to be true, when I saw the two hundred pounds counted out, and realized the fact that my poor cousin's gift had made my husband and myself independent.

Mr. Davidson would treat us to coffee and to some wonderful foreign sweetmeats, the like whereof I never saw,—rose-leaves and violets preserved in clear syrup,—and a kind of marmalade made of figs, as he told us, which came from Constantinople. He would present me with a box of the marmalade when we came away, and also with a beautiful little china coffee-cup in a silver stand which I had greatly admired.

"Well," said Master Gifford, when we had returned to the inn, "did I not keep my word, and bring you to an honest merchant?"

"Yes, indeed, and we are greatly obliged to you," said my husband.

"'Tis nothing," answered Master Gifford hastily. "I would do much more than that for your mother's son. But, Ned, if you take my advice, you will bestow this treasure in a safe place till we leave town. My good friend, Master Birch, will take care of it in his strong-room."

My husband agreed, and we went forth to find the place. Master Birch was a sugar-refiner, with whom my husband had some slight acquaintance; and nothing would do but he must show us his furnaces, and treat us to Bristol milk ¹ (which is not milk for babes, by any means) and other dainties. I wonder, by the way, if this fashion of always giving wine or strong drink to visitors will ever go out. I am sure it will be a good thing if it does. Learning that I was lately married, Master Birch presented me with three loaves of very fine sugar, for luck, as he said, promising to send them to the inn.

Having thus prosperously disposed of our business, we went out to see the town, and to make some purchases which I had undertaken for Master Gifford's daughters. We were in a book-shop selecting music for the young ladies, when I heard a well-known voice at my elbow asking for Luther's Commentary on Galatians. It brought back to me at once my old life with my mistress. I turned with a start and saw Mr. Baxter, looking older and more worn than I had seen him, but as faultlessly neat and precise as ever. I don't believe even in prison his black coat ever had a speck on it.

I greeted him warmly, but he did not recognize me for a moment, till I told him who I was, when he answered me with all his old fatherly kindness.

"But you are so grown and improved, Mrs. Dolly, 'tis no wonder I did not know you," said he. "I have often wished to hear how you got on in your new relations. But I need not ask if you are happy, since your face tells its own story."

"Yes, indeed I am," I answered, "far happier than I ever hoped or deserved." And I presented to him my husband.

The stationer, seeing that we had met as old friends, kindly asked us into his private shop, and gave us seats.

"And so you are married, little Dolly," said Mr. Baxter. "It seems but a few days since you came, a shy, scared little girl of fifteen, to my Lady Corbet's service."

"I remember it well," I answered, "and how kindly you spoke to me when you found me crying in the ante-chamber."

"Ay, 'twas a hard place for a child," said Mr. Baxter musingly. "I have sometimes feared your mistress's peculiarities might set you against all religion."

"They did something toward it, I do believe," I answered, "not because she was a Presbyterian, however. I saw enough in Mr. and Mrs. Pendergast, and Mrs. Andrews, not to say yourself, Mr. Baxter, to cure me of any such notion as that, if I had ever taken it up. It was, that, while I heard my mistress make great professions of piety, I saw that her whole heart and affections were set on things of this world; and it does not seem to me possible for any one to do that and be a true Christian, whether the world take the form of money or fashion or pleasure."

"You are right, my child, and glad am I to hear such sentiments from your lips," answered Mr. Baxter, "but you were ever a gracious child.—This little wife of yours, Mr. Studley, sent her very last guinea, I do believe, for the relief of a poor prisoner, when her wealthy mistress gave—How much, Dolly?"

"Seven shillings," said I. "I can never think of Dr. Bates's face without laughing. How is the good gentleman, sir?"

"Why, well and prospering as ever."

"And my mistress: do you know aught of her and her husband? For I hear she is married again." How glad I was to be able to ask this question without a tremor!

"Oh, yes! I heard of her only this day from an old friend of yours and hers,—Mrs. Williams," said Mr. Baxter, with a look of disgust on his thin, refined face which nearly set me off laughing.

"Mrs. Williams!" I exclaimed joyfully. "Is she here, then? Where is she to be found?"

"She is not far off, seeing she lodges above stairs with Master Bridges, the stationer, and his sister," answered Mr. Baxter, smiling, "but you cannot see her now, because she has just gone out. She can tell you of your late mistress better than I can. She is an admirable woman, though she is infected with some of the heresies of the day, and no more accessible to argument than a post."

I smiled, remembering some of the ancient controversies of these two good people, and how I used to wonder what they were about.

"And what is the news in town?" asked my husband.

Mr. Baxter shook his head.

"Nothing good, sir. The Papists rear their heads more and more boldly. Popish books and trinkets are openly sold in the shops, as you see they are here also, and conversions are growing to be the mode in the fashionable world. Mr. Dryden, the poet, hath been received into the Romish Church, as hath also my Lord Sunderland."

"I don't so much wonder at Sunderland," observed my husband. "He would sell his own soul or any one else for court favor. What part does his lady take?"

"I hear that excellent lady is greatly grieved and distressed," answered Mr. Baxter. "She is, by all accounts, an admirable woman."

"She is, indeed," said I. "I have often met her at my aunt's; they are great friends. And you say many converts are being made?"

"Yes, it is the latest mode," answered Mr. Baxter dryly, "but there is no knowing how long it may last, for the king grows more and more unpopular every day, and there are ominous murmurs. I believe strange events are preparing for this nation."

"I have heard that his Majesty is inclined to show great favor to the Dissenters, and hath even promised them toleration," said my husband.

"Yes, and at what price, and for what purpose? That he may secure not only toleration, but domination, for his own sect. For the sake of that, he would indulge not only Presbyterians, but Anabaptists and Quakers and ranters of every sort," said Mr. Baxter. "We will accept of no such gift, if I know my brethren at all. But I must be going. My dearest Dolly, I am most happy to have met you again. You have a treasure in this child, Master Studley; I hope you will cherish her as she deserves. And, my children, I trust you mean to set up your household in the fear of God, and as those who must give account to him."

"I trust so, sir," answered Edward.

"It was my husband who first taught me to love God, Mr. Baxter," I said. "It was he who led the poor, tired little lamb, weary of the thorns and briars of the world, back to the fold of the Good Shepherd."

"Why, that is well, and right glad am I to hear you say so," said Mr. Baxter. He gave us his blessing, and went away just as Mrs. Williams came in.

I never was more glad to see any one in my life. We carried her to our inn, and would have her sup with us.

And my husband going out with Master Gifford, she gave me the whole story of her lady's marriage.

"And you have really left her?" said I.

"Ay, she turned me away," answered Mrs. Williams, with a tremor of the lip. "After all my years of hard and faithful service, she drove me from her because I spoke my mind concerning her intended marriage. But I could not do otherwise, so I must needs take the consequences."

"What possessed her?" said I.

"Who can tell? The spirit which sometimes does possess old women to make fools of themselves," answered Mrs. Williams, with more bitterness than ever I heard from her. "She is besotted with that wicked man, and can refuse him nothing."

"Not even money?" I asked incredulously.

"Not even money," answered Mrs. Williams. "She lavishes gold on him like water; and he takes it, rewards her with a kiss or not, as it happens, and, unless he be greatly belied, spends it in gambling and every sort of wickedness."

"Ay, we heard he was a gambler," said I. "Poor woman. She may die in an almshouse yet, as she was always predicting!"