Mary Powell & Deborah's Diary Part 19

"I am not a mere Baby, neither," I said.

"No," he replied. "I see you can make Distinction between _Teknia_ and _Paidia_; but a Baby is the more inoffensive and less responsible Agent of the two. If you are content to be a Baby in Grace, you must not contend for a Baby's Immunities. I have heard a Baby cry pretty loudly about a Pin."

This shut my Mouth close enough.

"You are now," he added gently, "nearly as old as your Mother was when I married her."

I said, "I fear I am not much like her."

He said nothing, only smiled. I made bold to pursue:--"What was she like?"

Again he was silent, at least for a Minute; and then, in quite a changed Tone, with somewhat hurried in it, cried,--

"Like the fresh Sweetbriar and early May!

Like the fresh, cool, pure Air of opening Day . . .

Like the gay Lark, sprung from the glittering Dew . . .

An Angel! yet . . . a very Woman too!"

And, kicking back his Chair, he got up, and began to walk hastily about the Chamber, as fearlessly as he always does when he is thinking of something else, I springing up to move one or two Chairs out of his Way.

Hearing some high Voices in the Offices, he presently observed, "A contentious Woman is like a continuall Dropping. _Shakspeare_ spoke well when he said that a sweet, low Voice is an excellent Thing in Woman. I wish you good Women would recollect that one Avenue of my Senses being stopt, makes me keener to any Impression on the others. Where Strife is, there is Confusion and every evil Work. Why should not we dwell in Peace, in this quiet little Nest, instead of rendering our Home liker to a Cage of unclean Birds?"

_Bunhill Fields, London, Oct. 1666_.

People have phansied Appearances of Armies in the Air, flaming Swords, Fields of Battle, and other Images; and, truly, the Evening before we left _Chalfont_, methought I beheld the Glories of the ancient City _Ctesiphon_ in the Sunset Clouds, with gilded Battlements, conspicuous far--Turrets, and Terraces, and glittering Spires. The light-armed _Parthians_ pouring through the Gates, in Coats of Mail, and military Pride. In the far Perspective of the open Plain, two ancient Rivers, the one winding, t'other straight, losing themselves in the glowing Distance, among the Tents of the ten lost Tribes. Such are One's Dreams at Sunset.

And, when I cast down my dazed Eyes on the shaded Landskip, all looked in Comparison, so black and bleak, that methought how dull and dreary this lower World must have appeared to _Moses_ when he descended from _h.o.r.eb_, and to our Saviour, when he came down from the _Mount of Transfiguration_, and to St. _Paul_, when he dropt from the seventh Heaven.

What a Click, Click, the Bricklayers make with their Trowels, thus bringing me down from my Alt.i.tudes! Sure, we hardly knew how well off we were at _Chalfont_, till we came back to this unlucky Capital, looking as desolate as _Jerusalem_, when the City was ruinated and the People captivated. Weeds in the Streets--smouldering Piles--blackened, tottering Walls--and inexhaustible Heaps of vile Rubbish. Even with closed Windows, everything gets covered with a Coating of fine Dust.

Cousin _Jack_ Yesterday picked up a half-burnt Acceptance for twenty thousand Pounds. There is a fine Time coming for Builders and Architects--_Anne's_ Lover among the Rest. The Way she picked him up was notable. Returning to Town, she falls to her old Practices of daily Prayer, and visiting the Poor. At Church she sits over against a good-looking young Man, recovered from the Plague, whose near Approach to Death's Door had made him more G.o.dly in his Walk than the general of his Age and Condition. He notes her beautiful Face--marks not her deformed Shape; and, because that, by Reason of the late Distresses, the Calamities of the Poor have been met by unusuall Charities of the upper Cla.s.ses, he, on his Errands of Mercy among the Rest, presently falls in with her at a poor sick Man's House, and marvels when the limping Stranger turns about and discovers the beautiful Votaress. After one or two chance Meetings, respectfully accosts her--_Anne_ draws back--he finds a mutuall Friend--the Acquaintance progresses; and at length, by Way of first Introduction to my Father, he steps in to ask him (preamble supposed) to give him his eldest Daughter. Then what a Storm ensues!

Father's Objections do not transpire, no one being by but Mother, who is unlikely to soften Matters. But, so soon as _John Herring_ shuts the Door behind him, and walks off quickly, _Anne_ is called down, and I follow, neither bidden nor hindered. Thereupon, Father, with a red Heat-spot on his Cheek, asks _Anne_ what she knows of this young Man.

Her answer, "Nothing but good." "How came she to know him at all?" . . .

Silent; then makes Answer, "Has seen him at Mrs. _French's_ and elsewhere." "Where else?" "Why, at Church, and other Places." Mother here puts in, "What other Places?" . . . "Sure what can it signify,"

_Anne_ asks, turning short round upon her; "and especially to you, who would be glad to get quit of me on any Terms?"

"_Anne, Anne_!" interrupts Father, "does this Concern of ours for you look like it? You know you are saying what is uncivil and untrue."

"Well," resumes _Anne_, her breath coming quick, "but what's the Objection to _John Herring_?"

"_John_? is he _John_ with you already?" cries Mother. "Then you must know more of him than you say."

"Sure, Mother," cries _Anne_, bursting into Tears, "you are enough to overcome the Patience of _Job_. I know nothing of the young Man, but that he is pious, and steady, and well read, and a good Son of reputable Parents, as well to do in the World as ourselves; and that he likes me, whom few like, and offers me a quiet, happy Home."

"How fast some People can talk when they like," observes Mother; at which Allusion to _Anne's_ Impediment, I dart at her a Look of Wrath; but _Nan_ only continues weeping.

"Come hither, Child," interposes Father, holding his Hand towards her; "and you, good _Betty_, leave us awhile to talk over this without Interruption." At which, Mother, taking him literally, sweeps up her Work, and quits the Room. "The Address of this young Man," says Father, "has taken me wholly by Surprise, and your Encouragement of it has incontestably had somewhat of clandestine in it; notwithstanding which, I have, and can have, nothing in View, dear _Nan_, but your Well-being. As to his Calling, I take no Exceptions at it, even though, like _Caementarius_, he should say, I am a Bricklayer, and have got my Living by my Labour--"

"A Master-builder, not a Bricklayer," interposes _Anne_.

Father stopt for a Moment; then resumed. "You talk of his offering you a quiet Home: why should you be dissatisfied with your own, where, in the Main, we are all very happy together? In these evil Times, 'tis something considerable to have, as it were, a little Chamber on the Wall, where your Candle is lighted by the Lord, your Table spread by him, your Bed made by him in your Health and Sickness, and where he stands behind the Door, ready to come in and sup with you. All this you will leave for One you know not. How bitterly may you hereafter look back on your present Lot! You know, I have the Apostle's Word for it, that, if I give you in Marriage, I may do well; but, if I give you not, I shall do better. The unmarried Woman careth for the Things of the Lord, that she may be holy in Body and Spirit, and attend upon him without Distraction.

Thus was it with the five wise Maidens, who kept their Lamps ready trimmed until the Coming of their Lord. I wish we only knew of five that were foolish. Time would fail me to tell you of all the G.o.dly Women, both of the elder and later Time, who have led single Lives without Superst.i.tion, and without Hypocrisy. Howbeit, you may marry if you will; but you will be wiser if you abide as you are, after my Judgment. Let me not to the Marriage of true Minds oppose Impediment; but, in your own Case--"

"Father," interrupts _Anne_, "you know I am ill at speaking; but permit me to say, you are now talking wide of the Mark. Without going back to the Beginning of the World, or all through the _Romish Calendar_, I will content me with the more recent Instance of yourself, who have thrice preferred Marriage, with all its concomitant Evils, to the single State you laud so highly. Is it any Reason we should not dwell in a House, because St. _Jerome_ lived in a Cave? The G.o.dly Women of whom you speak might neither have had so promising a Home offered to them, nor so ill a Home to quit."

"What call you an ill Home?" says Father, his Brow darkening.

"I call that an ill Home," returns _Anne_, stoutly, "where there is neither Union nor Sympathy--at least, for my Share,--where there are no Duties of which I can well acquit myself, and where those I have made for myself, and find suitable to my Capacity and Strength, are contemned, let, and hindered,--where my Mother-Church, my Mother's Church, is reviled--my Mother's Family despised,--where the few Friends I have made are never asked, while every Attention I pay them is grudged,--where, for keeping all my hard Usage from my Father's Hearing, all the Reward I get is his thinking I have no hard Usage to bear--"

"Hold, ungrateful Girl!" says Father; "I've heard enough, and too much.

Tis Time wasted to reason with a Woman. I do believe there never yet was one who would not start aside like a broken Bow, or pierce the Side like a snapt Reed, at the very Moment most Dependance was placed in her. Let her Husband humour her to the Top of her Bent,--she takes French Leave of him, departs to her own Kindred, and makes Affection for her Childhood's Home the Pretext for defying the Laws of G.o.d and Man. Let her Father cherish her, pity her, bear with her, and shelter her from even the Knowledge of the Evils of the World without,--her Ingrat.i.tude will keep Pace with her Ignorance, and she will forsake him for the Sweetheart of a Week. You think Marriage the supreme Bliss: a good many don't find it so. Lively Pa.s.sions soon burn out; and then come disappointed Expectancies, vain Repinings, fretful Complainings, wrathful Rejoinings.

You fly from Collision with jarring Minds: what Security have you for more Forbearance among your new Connexions? Alas! you will carry your Temper with you--you will carry your bodily Infirmities with you;--your little Stock of Experience, Reason, and Patience will be exhausted before the Year is out, and at the End, perhaps, you will--die--"

"As well die," cries _Anne_, bursting into Tears, "as live to hear such a Rebuke as this." And so, pa.s.sionately wringing her Hands, runs out of the Room.

"Follow after her, _Deb_," cries Father; "she is beside herself. Unhappy me! tried every Way! An _Oedipus_ with no _Antigone_!"

And, rising from his Seat, he began to pace up and down, while I ran up to _Nan_. But scarce had I reached the Stair-head, when we both heard a heavy Fall in the Chamber below. We cried, "Sure, that is Father!" and ran down quicker than we had run up. He was just rising as we entered, his Foot having caught in a long Coil of Gold Lace, which _Anne_, in her disorderly Exit, had unwittingly dragged after her. I saw at a Glance he was annoyed rather than hurt; but _Nan_, without a Moment's Pause, darts into his Arms, in a Pa.s.sion of Pity and Repentance, crying, "Oh, Father, Father, forgive me! oh, Father!"

"Tis all of a Piece, _Nan_," he replies; "alternate hot and cold; every Thing for Pa.s.sion, nothing for Reason. Now all for me; a Minute ago, I might go to the Wall for _John Herring_."

"No, never, Father!" cries _Anne_; "never, dear Father--"

"Dark are the Ways of G.o.d," continues he, unheeding her; "not only annulling his first best Gift of Light to me, and leaving me a Prey to daily Contempt, Abuse, and Wrong, but mangling my tenderest, most apprehensive Feelings--"

_Anne_ again breaks in with, "Oh! Father, Father!"

"Dark, dark, for ever dark!" he went on; "but just are the Ways of G.o.d to Man. Who shall say, 'What doest Thou?'"

"Father, I promise you," says _Anne_, "that I will never more think of _John Herring_."

"Foolish Girl!" he replies sadly; "as ready now to promise too Much, as resolute just now to hear Nothing. How can you promise never to think of him? I never asked it of you."

"At least I can promise not to speak of him," says _Anne_.

"Therein you will do wisely," rejoins Father. "My Consent having been asked is an Admission that I have a Right to give or withhold it; and, as I have already told _John Herring_, I shall certainly not grant it before you are of Age. Perhaps by that Time you may be your own Mistress, without even such an ill Home as I, while I live, can afford you."

"No more of that," says _Anne_, interrupting him; and a Kiss sealed the Compact.

All this Time, Mother and _Mary_ were, providentially, out of the Way.

Mother had gone off in a Huff, and _Mary_ was busied in making some marbled Veal.

The rest of the Day was dull enough: violent Emotions are commonly succeeded by flat Stagnations. _Anne_, however, seemed kept up by some Energy from within, and looked a little flushed. At Bed-time she got the start of me, as usuall; and, on entering our Chamber, I found her quite undrest, sitting at the Table, not reading of her _Bible_, but with her Head resting on it. I should have taken her to be asleep, but for the quick Pulsation of some Nerve or Muscle at the back of the Neck, somewhere under the right Ear. She looks up, commences rubbing her Eyes, and says, "My Eyes are full of Sand, I think. I will give you my new Crown-piece, _Deb_, if you will read me to sleep without another Word."

So I say, "A Bargain," though without meaning to take the Crown; and she jumps into Bed in a Minute, and I begin at the Sermon on the Mount, and keep on and on, in more and more of a Monotone; but every Time I lookt up, I saw her Eyes wide open, agaze at the top of the Bed; and so I go on and on, like a Bee humming over a Flower, till she shuts her Eyes; but, at last, when I think her off, having just got to _Matthew_, eleven, twenty-eight, she fetches a deep sigh, and says, "I wish I could hear Him saying so to me . . . 'Come, _Anne_, unto me, and I will give you Rest.'

But, in fact, He does so as emphatically in addressing all the weary and heavy-laden, as if I heard Him articulating, 'Come, _Anne_, come!'"