Mary Powell & Deborah's Diary Part 8

"He hath written us a most kind Condolence," interrupted _Rose_, "on the Death of our Baby."

"Yes, most kindlie, most n.o.bly exprest," sayd Mr. _Agnew_; "but what a Conclusion!"

And then, after this long Preamble, he offered me the Letter, the Beginning of which, tho' doubtlesse well enough, I marked not, being impatient to reach the latter Part; wherein I found myself spoken of soe bitterlie, soe harshlie, as that I too plainly saw _Roger Agnew_ had not beene beside the Mark when he decided I could never make Mr.

_Milton_ happy. Payned and wounded Feeling made me lay aside the Letter without proffering another Word, and retreat without soe much as a Sigh or a Sob into mine own Chamber; but noe longer could the Restraynt be maintained. I fell to weeping soe pa.s.sionatelie that _Rose_ prayed to come in, and condoled with me, and advised me, soe as that at length my Weeping bated, and I promised to return below when I shoulde have bathed mine Eyes and smoothed my Hair; but I have not gone down yet.

_Bedtime_.

I think I shall send to _Father_ to have me Home at the Beginning of next Week. _Rose_ needes me not, now; and it cannot be pleasant to Mr.

_Agnew_ to see my sorrowfulle Face about the House. His Reproofe and my Husband's together have riven my Heart; I think I shall never laugh agayn, nor smile but after a piteous Sorte; and soe People will cease to love me, for there is Nothing in me of a graver Kind to draw their Affection; and soe I shall lead a moping Life unto the End of my Dayes.

--Luckilie for me, _Rose_ hath much Sewing to doe; for she hath undertaken with great Energie her Labours for the Poore, and consequentlie spends less Time in her Husband's Studdy; and, as I help her to the best of my Means, my Sewing hides my Lack of Talking, and Mr. _Agnew_ reads to us such Books as he deems entertayning; yet, half the Time, I hear not what he reads. Still, I did not deeme so much Amus.e.m.e.nt could have beene found in Books; and there are some of his, that, if not soe c.u.mbrous, I woulde fain borrow.

_Friday_.

I have made up my Mind now, that I shall never see Mr. _Milton_ more; and am resolved to submitt to it without another Tear.

_Rose_ sayd, this Morning, she was glad to see me more composed; and soe am I; but never was more miserable.

_Sat.u.r.day Night_.

Mr. _Agnew's_ religious Services at the End of the Week have alwaies more than usuall Matter and Meaninge in them. They are neither soe drowsy as those I have beene for manie Years accustomed to at Home, nor soe wearisome as to remind me of the _Puritans_. Were there manie such as he in our Church, soe faithfulle, fervent, and thoughtfulle, methinks there would be fewer Schismaticks; but still there woulde be some, because there are alwaies some that like to be the uppermost.

. . . To-nighte, Mr. _Agnew's_ Prayers went straight to my Heart; and I privilie turned sundrie of his generall Pet.i.tions into particular ones, for myself and _Robin_, and also for Mr. _Milton_. This gave such unwonted Relief, that since I entered into my Closet, I have repeated the same particularlie; one Request seeming to grow out of another, till I remained I know not how long on my Knees, and will bend them yet agayn, ere I go to Bed.

How sweetlie the Moon s.h.i.+nes through my Cas.e.m.e.nt to-night! I am almoste avised to accede to _Rose's_ Request of staying here to the End of the Month:--everie Thing here is soe peacefulle; and _Forest Hill_ is dull, now _Robin_ is away.

_Sunday Evening_.

How blessed a Sabbath!--Can it be, that I thought, onlie two Days back, I shoulde never know Peace agayn? Joy I may not, but Peace I can and doe. And yet nought hath amended the unfortunate Condition of mine Affairs; but a different Colouring is caste upon them--the _Lord_ grant that it may last! How hath it come soe, and how may it be preserved?

This Morn, when I awoke, 'twas with a Sense of Relief such as we have when we miss some wearying bodilie Payn; a Feeling as though I had beene forgiven, yet not by Mr. _Milton_, for I knew he had not forgiven me. Then, it must be, I was forgiven by _G.o.d_; and why? I had done nothing to get his Forgivenesse, only presumed on his Mercy to ask manie Things I had noe Right to expect. And yet I felt I _was_ forgiven. Why then mighte not Mr. _Milton_ some Day forgive me?

Should the Debt of ten thousand Talents be cancelled, and not the Debt of a hundred Pence? Then I thought on that same Word, Talents; and considered, had I ten, or even one? Decided to consider it at leisure, more closelie, and to make over to _G.o.d_ henceforthe, be they ten, or be it one. Then, dressed with much Composure, and went down to Breakfast.

Having marked that Mr. _Agnew_ and _Rose_ affected not Companie on this Day, spent it chieflie by myself, except at Church and Meal-times; partlie in my Chamber, partlie in the Garden Bowre by the Beehives.

Made manie Resolutions, which, in Church, I converted into Prayers and Promises. Hence, my holy Peace.

_Monday_.

_Rose_ proposed, this Morning, we shoulde resume our Studdies. Felt loath to comply, but did soe neverthelesse, and afterwards we walked manie Miles, to visit some poor Folk. This Evening, Mr. _Agnew_ read us the Prologue to the _Canterbury Tales_. How lifelike are the Portraitures! I mind me that Mr. _Milton_ shewed me the _Talbot_ Inn, that Day we crost the River with Mr. _Marvell_.

_Tuesday_.

How heartilie do I wish I had never read that same Letter!--or rather, that it had never beene written. Thus it is, even with our Wishes. We think ourselves reasonable in wis.h.i.+ng some small Thing were otherwise, which it were quite as impossible to alter as some great Thing.

Neverthelesse I cannot help fretting over the Remembrance of that Part wherein he spake such bitter Things of my "most ungoverned Pa.s.sion for Revellings and Junketings." Sure, he would not call my Life too merrie now, could he see me lying wakefulle on my Bed, could he see me preventing the Morning Watch, could he see me at my Prayers, at my Books, at my Needle. . . . He shall find he hath judged too hardlie of poor _Moll_, even yet.

_Wednesday_.

Took a cold Dinner in a Basket with us to-day, and ate our rusticall Repast on the Skirt of a Wood, where we could see the Squirrels at theire Gambols. Mr. _Agnew_ lay on the Gra.s.se, and _Rose_ took out her Knitting, whereat he laught, and sayd she was like the _Dutch_ Women, that must knit, whether mourning or feasting, and even on the Sabbath.

Having laught her out of her Work, he drew forth Mr. _George Herbert's_ Poems, and read us a Strayn which pleased _Rose_ and me soe much, that I shall copy it herein, to have always by me.

How fresh, oh Lord: how sweet and clean Are thy Returns! e'en as the Flowers in Spring, To which, beside theire owne Demesne, The late pent Frosts Tributes of Pleasure bring.

Grief melts away like Snow in May, As if there were noe such cold Thing.

Who would have thought my shrivelled Heart Woulde have recovered greenness? it was gone Quite Underground, as Flowers depart To see their Mother-root, when they have blown, Where they together, alle the hard Weather, Dead to the World, keep House alone.

These are thy Wonders, Lord of Power!

Killing and quickening, bringing down to h.e.l.l And up to Heaven, in an Hour, Making a Chiming of a pa.s.sing Bell, We say amiss "this or that is:"

Thy Word is alle, if we could spell.

Oh that I once past changing were!

Fast in thy Paradise, where no Flowers can wither; Manie a Spring I shoot up faire, Offering at Heaven, growing and groaning thither, Nor doth my Flower want a Spring Shower, My Sins and I joyning together.

But while I grow in a straight Line, Still upwards bent, as if Heaven were my own, Thy Anger comes, and I decline.-- What Frost to that! What Pole is not the Zone Where alle Things burn, when thou dost turn, And the least Frown of thine is shewn?

And now, in Age, I bud agayn, After soe manie Deaths, I bud and write, I once more smell the Dew and Rain, And relish Versing! Oh my onlie Light!

It cannot be that I am he On whom thy Tempests fell alle Night?

These are thy Wonders, Lord of Love, To make us see we are but Flowers that glide, Which, when we once can feel and prove, Thou hast a Garden for us where to bide.

Who would be more, swelling their Store, Forfeit their Paradise by theire Pride.

_Thursday_.

_Father_ sent over _Diggory_ with a Letter for me from deare _Robin_: alsoe, to ask when I was minded to return Home, as _Mother_ wants to goe to _Sandford_. Fixed the Week after next; but _Rose_ says I must be here agayn at the Apple-gathering. Answered _Robin's_ Letter. He looketh not for Choyce of fine Words; nor noteth an Error here and there in the Spelling.

_Tuesday_.

Life flows away here in such unmarked Tranquilitie, that one hath Nothing whereof to write, or to remember what distinguished one Day from another. I am sad, yet not dulle; methinks I have grown some Yeares older since I came here. I can fancy elder Women feeling much as I doe now. I have Nothing to desire. Nothing to hope, that is likelie to come to pa.s.s--Nothing to regret, except I begin soe far back, that my whole Life hath neede, as 'twere, to begin over agayn. . . .

Mr. _Agnew_ translates to us Portions of _Thua.n.u.s_ his Historie, and the Letters of _Theodore Bexa_, concerning the _French_ Reformed Church; oft prolix, yet interesting, especially with Mr. _Agnew's_ Comments, and Allusions to our own Time. On the other Hand, _Rose_ reads _Davila_, the sworne Apologiste of _Catherine de' Medicis_, whose charming _Italian_ even I can comprehende; but alle is false and plausible. How sad, that the wrong Partie shoulde be victorious! Soe it may befall in this Land; though, indeede, I have hearde soe much bitter Rayling on bothe Sides, that I know not which is right. The Line of Demarcation is not soe distinctly drawn, methinks, as 'twas in _France_. Yet it cannot be right to take up Arms agaynst const.i.tuted Authorities?--Yet, and if those same Authorities abuse their Trust?