Through unknown ways

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

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

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

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

March 8.       

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bab writes as follows:—

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But you would never have gone, Dolly?"

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

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

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

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

March 20.       

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

April 10.       

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE THIRD BOOK.

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—

"'Sugar and spice, and all that's nice'?"

"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.