Chapter 14

"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 God 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 Ingratitude 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 Passions 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, passionately 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 Passion 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 Passion, 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 God," 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 God 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!'"

POST SCRIPTUM

_Spitalfields, 1680_.

A generous Mind finds even its just Resentments languish and die away when their Object becomes the unresisting prey of Death. Such is my Experience with regard to _Betty Fisher_, whose ill Life hath now terminated, and from whom, confronted at the Bar of their great Judge, Father will, one Day, hear the Truth. As to my Stepmother, Time and Distance have had their soothing Effect on me even regarding her. She is down in _Cheshire_, among her own People; is a hale, hearty Woman yet, and will very likely outlive me. If she looked in on me this Moment, and saw me in this homely but decent Suit, sitting by my clear Coal-fire, in this little oak-panelled Room, with a clean, though coarse Cloth neatly laid on the Supper Table, with Covers for two, could she sneer at the Spouse of the _Spitalfields_ Weaver? Belike she might, for Spight never wanted Food; but I would have her into the Nursery, shew her the two sleeping Faces, and ask her. Did I need her Pity then?

_Betty's_ Death, calling up Memories of old Times, hath made me somewhat cynical, I think. I cannot but call to Mind her many ill Turns. 'Twas shortly after the Rupture of _Anne's_ Match with _John Herring_. Poor _Nan_ had over-reckoned on her own Strength of Mind, when she promised Father to speak of him no more; and, after the first Fervour of Self-denial, became so captious, that Father said he heard _John Herring_ in every Tone. This set them at Variance, to commence with; and then, _Mary_ detecting _Betty_ in certain Malpractices, Mother could no longer keep her, for Decency's Sake; and _Betty_, in revenge, came up to Father before she left, and told him a tissue of Lies concerning us,--how that _Mary_ had wished him dead, and I had made away with his Books and Kitchen-stuff. I, being at _Hackney_ at the Time, on a Visitt to _Rosamond Woodcock_, was not by to refute the infamous Charge, which had Time to rankle in Father's Mind before I returned; and _Mary_ having lost his Opinion by previous Squabbles with Mother and the Maids, I came back only to find the House turned upside down. 'Twas under these misfortunate Circumstances that poor Father commenced his_ Sampson Agonistes_; and, though his Object was, primarily, to divert his Mind, it too often ran upon Things around him, and made his Poem the Shadow and Mirrour of himself. When he got to _Dalilah_, I could not forbear saying, "How hard you are upon Women, Father!"

"Hard?" repeated he; "I think I am anything but that. Do you call me hard on _Eve_, and the Lady in _Comus_?"

"No, indeed," I returned. "The Lady, like _Una_, makes Sunshine in a shady Place; and, in fact, how should it be otherwise? For Truth and Purity, like Diamonds, shine in the Dark."

He smiled, and, passing his Hand across his Brow to re-collect himself, went on in a freer, less biting Spirit, to the Encounter with _Harapha_ of _Gath_, in which he evidently revelled, even to making me laugh, when the big, cowardly Giant excused himself from coming within the blind Man's Reach, by saying of him, that he had need of much washing to be willingly touched. He went on flowingly to

"But take good Heed my Hand survey not thee; My Heels are fetter'd, but my Fist is free,"

and then broke into a merry Laugh himself; adding, a Line or two after,

"His Giantship is gone, somewhat crest-fallen;

". . . there, Girl, that will do for To-day."

Meantime, his greater Poem had come out, for which he had got an immediate Payment of five Pounds, with a conditional Expectance of fifteen Pounds more on the three following Editions, should the Public ever call for 'em. And truly, when one considers how much Meat and Drink One may buy for Twenty Pounds, and how capricious is the Taste of the critikal World, 'tis no mean Venture of a Bookseller on a Manuscript of which he knows the actual value as little as a Salvage of the Gold-dust he parts with for a Handful of old Nails. At all events, the Sale of the Work gave Father no Reason to suppose he had made an ill Bargain; but, indeed, he gave himself very little Concern about it; and was quite satisfied when, now and then, Mr. _Marvell_ and Mr. _Skinner_, or some other old Crony, having waded through it, looked in on him to talk it over. Money, indeed, a little more of it, would have been often acceptable. Mother now began to pinch us pretty short, and lament the unsaleable Quality of Father's Productions; also to call us a Set of lazy Drones, and wonder what would come of us some future Day; insomuch that Father, turning the Matter sedately in his Mind, did seriously conclude 'twould be well for us to go forth for a While, to learn some Method of Self-support. And this was accelerated by an unhappy Collision 'twixt my Mother and me, which, in a hasty Moment, sent me, with swelling Heart, to take Counsel of Mrs. _Lefroy_, my sometime Playfellow _Rosamond Woodcock_, then on the Point of embarking for _Ireland_; who volunteered to take me with her, and be at my Charges; so I took leave of Father with a bursting Heart, not troubling him with an Inkling of my Ill-usage, which has been a Comfort to me ever since, though he went to the Grave believing I had only sought my own Well-doing.

We never met again. Had I foreseen it, I could not have left him. The next Stroke was to get away _Mary_ and _Anne_, and take back _Betty Fisher_. Then the nuncupative Will was hatched up; for I never will believe it authentick--no, never; and Sir _Leoline Jenkins_, that upright and able Judge, set it aside, albeit _Betty Fisher_ would swear through thick and thin.

Sure, Things must have come to a pretty Pass, when Father was brought to take his Meals in the Kitchen! a Thing he had never been accustomed to in his Life, save at _Chalfont_, by Reason of the Parlour being so small. And the Words, both as to Sense and Choice, which _Betty_ put into his Mouth, betrayed the Counterfeit, by favouring over-much of the Scullion. "God have Mercy, _Betty_! I see thou wilt perform according to thy Promise, in providing me such Dishes as I think fit whilst I live; and when I die, thou knowest I have left thee all!" Phansy Father talking like that! Were I not so provoked, I could laugh. And he to sell his Children's Birthright for a Mess of Pottage, who, instead of loving savoury Meat, like blind _Isaac_, was, in fact, the most temperate of Men! who cared not what he ate, so 'twas sweet and clean; who might have said with godly Mr. _Ball_ of _Whitmore_, that he had two Dishes of Meat to his Sabbath-dinner,--a Dish of hot Milk, and a Dish of cold Milk; and that was enough and enough. Whose Drink was from the Well;--often have I drawn it for him at _Chalfont!--_and who called Bread-and-butter a lordly Dish;--often have I cut him thick Slices, and brought him Cresses from the Spring! Well placed he his own Principle and Practice in the Chorus's Mouth, where they say,

"Oh, Madness! to think Use of strongest Wines And strongest Drinks our chief Support of Health!"

So that Story carries its Confutation with it: _Ned Phillips_ says so, too. As to what passed, that _July_ Forenoon, between him and Uncle _Kit_, before the latter left Town in the _Ipswich_ Coach, and with _Betty Fisher_ fidgetting in and out of the Chamber all the Time . . . he may, or may not have called us his unkind Children; for we can never tell what Reasons had been given him to make him think us so. That must stand over. How many human Misapprehensions must do the same! Enough that one Eye sees all, that one Spirit knows all . . . even all our Misdoings; or else, how could we bear to tell Him even the least of them? But it requires great Faith in the greatly wronged, to obtain that Calm of Mind, all Passion spent, which some have arrived at. When we can stand firm on that Pinnacle, _Satan_ falls prone. He sets us on that dizzy Height, as he did our Master; saying, in his taunting Fashion,--

"There stand, if thou canst stand; to stand upright Will ask thee Skill;"

but the Moment he sees we can, down he goes himself!--falls whence he stood to see his Victor fall! This is what Man has done, and Man may do,--and Woman too; the Strength, for asking, being promised and given.

End of Project Gutenberg's Mary Powell & Deborah's Diary, by Anne Manning