Chapter 6

Mr. _Agnew_ was out; and though a keene wintry Wind was blowing, and _Rose_ was suffering from Colde, yet she went out to listen for his Horse's Feet at the Gate, with onlie her Apron cast over her Head. Shortlie, he returned; and I heard him say in a troubled Voice, "Alle are in Arms at _Forest Hill_." I felt soe greatlie shocked as to neede to sit downe instead of running forthe to learn the News. I supposed the parliamentarian Soldiers had advanced, unexpectedlie, upon _Oxford_. His next Words were, "_Dick is_ coming for her at Noone--poor Soul, I know not what she will doe--her Father will trust her noe longer with you and me." Then I saw them both passe the Window, slowlie pacing together, and hastened forth to joyn them; but they had turned into the pleached Alley, their Backs towards me; and both in such earnest and apparentlie private Communication, that I dared not interrupt them till they turned aboute, which was not for some While; for they stood for some Time at the Head of the Alley, still with theire Backs to me, _Rose's_ Hair blowing in the cold Wind; and once or twice she seemed to put her Kerchief to her Eyes.

Now, while I stood mazed and uncertain, I hearde a distant Clatter of Horse's Feet, on the hard Road a good Way off, and could descrie _Dick_ coming towards _Sheepscote_. _Rose_ saw him too, and commenced running towards me; Mr. _Agnew_ following with long Strides. _Rose_ drew me back into the House, and sayd, kissing me, "Dearest _Moll_, I am soe sorry; _Roger_ hath seen your Father this Morn, and he will on no Account spare you to us anie longer; and _Dick_ is coming to fetch you even now." I sayd, "Is _Father_ ill?" "Oh no," replied Mr. _Agnew_; then coming up, "He is not ill, but he is perturbed at something which has occurred; and, in Truth, soe am I.--But remember, Mistress _Milton_, remember, dear _Cousin_, that when you married, your _Father's_ Guardianship of you passed into the Hands of your Husband--your Husband's House was thenceforthe your Home; and in quitting it you committed a Fault you may yet repaire, though this offensive Act has made the Difficultie much greater."--"Oh, what has happened?" I impatientlie cried. Just then, _Dick_ comes in with his usual blunt Salutations, and then cries, "Well, _Moll_, are you ready to goe back?" "Why should I be?" I sayd, "when I am soe happy here? unless _Father_ is ill, or Mr. _Agnew_ and _Rose_ are tired of me." They both interrupted, there was nothing they soe much desired, at this present, as that I shoulde prolong my Stay. And you know, _Dick, I_ added, that _Forest Hill_ is not soe pleasant to me just now as it hath commonlie beene, by Reason of your _Oxford_ Companions. He brieflie sayd, I neede not mind that, they were coming no more to the House, _Father_ had decreed it. And you know well enough, _Moll_, that what _Father_ decrees, must be, and he hath decreed that you must come Home now; soe no more Ado, I pray you, but fetch your Cloak and Hood, and the Horses shall come round, for 'twill be late ere we reach Home. "Nay, you must dine here at all Events," sayd _Rose_; "I know, _Dick_, you love roast Pork." Soe _Dick_ relented. Soe _Rose_, turning to me, prayed me to bid _Cicely_ hasten Dinner; the which I did, tho' thinking it strange _Rose_ should not goe herself. But, as I returned, I hearde her say, Not a Word of it, dear _Dick_, at the least, till after Dinner, lest you spoil her Appetite. Soe _Dick_ sayd he shoulde goe and look after the Horses. I sayd then, brisklie, I see somewhat is the Matter--pray tell me what it is. But _Rose_ looked quite dull, and walked to the Window. Then Mr. _Agnew_ sayd, "You seem as dissatisfied to leave us, _Cousin_, as we are to lose you; and yet you are going back to _Forest Hill_--to that Home in which you will doubtlesse be happy to live all your Dayes."--"At _Forest Hill_?" I sayd, "Oh no! I hope not." "And why?" sayd he quicklie. I hung my Head, and muttered, "I hope, some Daye, to goe back to Mr. _Milton_." "And why not at once?" sayd he. I sayd, "_Father_ would not let me." "Nay, that is childish," he answered, "your Father could not hinder you if you wanted not the Mind to goe--it was your first seeming soe loth to return, that made him think you unhappie and refuse to part with you." I sayd, "And what if I were unhappie?" He paused; and knew not at the Moment what Answer to make, but shortlie replyed by another Question, "What Cause had you to be soe?" I sayd, "That was more easily askt than answered, even if there were anie Neede I shoulde answer it, or he had anie Right to ask it." He cried in an Accent of Tendernesse that still wrings my Heart to remember, "Oh, question not the Right! I only wish to make you happy. Were you not happy with Mr. _Milton_ during the Week you spent together here at _Sheepscote_?" Thereat I coulde not refrayn from bursting into Tears. _Rose_ now sprang forward; but Mr. _Agnew_ sayd, "Let her weep, let her weep, it will do her good." Then, alle at once it occurred to me that my Husband was awaiting me at Home, and I cried, "Oh, is Mr. _Milton_ at _Forest Hill_?" and felt my Heart full of Gladness. Mr. _Agnew_ answered, "Not soe, not soe, poor _Moll_:" and, looking up at him, I saw him wiping his Brow, though the Daye was soe chill. "As well tell her now," sayd he to _Rose_; and then taking my Hand, "Oh, Mrs. _Milton_, can you wonder that your Husband should be angry? How can you wonder at anie Evil that may result from the Provocation you have given him? What Marvell, that since you cast him off, all the sweet Fountains of his Affections would be embittered, and that he should retaliate by seeking a Separation, and even a Divorce?"--There I stopt him with an Outcry of "Divorce?" "Even soe," he most mournfully replyd, "and I seeke not to excuse him, since two Wrongs make not a Right." "But," I cried, passionately weeping, "I have given him noe Cause; my Heart has never for a Moment strayed to another, nor does he, I am sure, expect it." "Ne'erthelesse," enjoyned Mr. _Agnew_, "he is soe aggrieved and chafed, that he has followed up what he considers your Breach of the Marriage Contract by writing and publishing a Book on Divorce; the Tenor of which coming to your Father's Ears, has violently incensed him. And now, dear _Cousin_, having, by your Waywardness, kindled this Flame, what remains for you but to--nay, hear me, hear me, _Moll_, for _Dick_ is coming in, and I may not let him hear me urge you to the onlie Course that can regayn your Peace--Mr. _Milton_ is still your Husband; eache of you have now Something to forgive; do you be the firste; nay, seeke _his_ Forgivenesse, and you shall be happier than you have been yet."

--But I was weeping without controule; and _Dick_ coming in, and with _Dick_ the Dinner, I askt to be excused, and soe soughte my Chamber, to weep there without Restraynt or Witnesse. Poor _Rose_ came up, as soone as she coulde leave the Table, and told me she had eaten as little as I, and woulde not even presse me to eat. But she carest me and comforted me, and urged in her owne tender Way alle that had beene sayd by Mr. _Agnew_; even protesting that if she were in my Place, she woulde not goe back to _Forest Hill_, but straight to _London_, to entreat with Mr. _Milton_ for his Mercy. But I told her I could not do that, even had I the Means for the Journey; for that my Heart was turned against the Man who coulde, for the venial Offence of a young Wife, in abiding too long with her old Father, not onlie cast her off from his Love, but hold her up to the World's Blame and Scorn, by making their domestic Quarrel the Matter for a printed Attack. _Rose_ sayd, "I admit he is wrong, but indeed, indeed, _Moll_, you are wrong too, and you were wrong _first_:" and she sayd this soe often, that at length we came to crosser Words; when _Dick_, calling to me from below, would have me make haste, which I was glad to doe, and left _Sheepscote_ less regrettfullie than I had expected. _Rose_ kist me with her gravest Face. Mr. _Agnew_ put me on my Horse, and sayd, as he gave me the Rein, "Now think! now think! even yet!" and then, as I silently rode off, "_God_ bless you."

I held down my Head; but, at the Turn of the Road, lookt back, and saw him and _Rose_ watching us from the Porch. _Dick_ cried, "I am righte glad we are off at last, for _Father_ is downright crazie aboute this Businesse, and mistrustfulle of _Agnew's_ Influence over you,"--and would have gone on railing, but I bade him for Pitie's Sake be quiete.

The Effects of my owne Follie, the Losse of Home, Husband, Name, the Opinion of the _Agnews_, the Opinion of the Worlde, rose up agaynst me, and almost drove me mad. And, just as I was thinking I had better lived out my Dayes and dyed earlie in _Bride's Churchyarde_ than that alle this should have come about, the suddain Recollection of what _Rose_ had that Morning tolde me, which soe manie other Thoughts had driven out of my Head, viz. that Mr. _Milton_ had, in his Desire to please me, while I was onlie bent on pleasing myself, been secretly striving to make readie the _Aldersgate Street_ House agaynst my Return,--soe overcame me, that I wept as I rode along. Nay, at the Corner of a branch Road, had a Mind to beg _Dick_ to let me goe to _London_; but a glance at his dogged Countenance sufficed to foreshow my Answer.

Half dead with Fatigue and Griefe when I reached Home, the tender Embraces of my Father and Mother completed the Overthrowe of my Spiritts. I tooke to my Bed; and this is the first Daye I have left it; nor will they let me send for _Rose_, nor even tell her I am ill.

_Jan. 1, 1644_.

The new Year opens drearilie, on Affairs both publick and private. The Loaf parted at Breakfast this Morning, which, as the Saying goes, is a Sign of Separation; but _Mother_ onlie sayd 'twas because it was badly kneaded, and chid _Margery_. She hath beene telling me, but now, how I mighte have 'scaped all my Troubles, and seene as much as I woulde of her and _Father_, and yet have contented Mr. _Milton_ and beene counted a good Wife. Noe Advice soe ill to bear as that which comes too late.

_Jan. 7, 1644_.

I am sick of this journalling, soe shall onlie put downe the Date of _Robin's_ leaving Home. _Lord_ have Mercy on him, and keepe him in Safetie. This is a shorte Prayer; therefore, easier to be often repeated. When he kissed me, he whispered, "_Moll_, pray for me."

_Jan. 27, 1644_.

_Father_ does not seeme to miss _Robin_ much, tho' he dailie drinks his Health after that of the King. Perhaps he did not miss me anie more when I was in _London_, though it was true and naturall enough he should like to see me agayn. We should have beene used to our Separation by this Time; there would have beene nothing corroding in it. . . .

I pray for _Robin_ everie Night. Since he went, the House has lost its Sunshine. When I was soe anxious to return to _Forest Hill_, I never counted on his leaving it.

_Feb. 1, 1644_.

Oh Heaven, what would I give to see the Skirts of Mr. _Milton's_ Garments agayn! My Heart is sick unto Death. I have been reading some of my _Journall_, and tearing out much childish Nonsense at the Beginning; but coulde not destroy the painfulle Records of the last Year. How unhappy a Creature am I!--wearie, wearie of my Life, yet no Ways inclined for Death. _Lord_, have Mercy upon me.

_March 27, 1644_.

I spend much of my Time, now, in the Book-room, and, though I essay not to pursue the _Latin_, I read much _English_, at the least, more than ever I did in my Life before; but often I fancy I am reading when I am onlie dreaming. _Oxford_ is far too gay a Place for me now ever to goe neare it, but my Brothers are much there, and _Father_ in his Farm, and _Mother_ in her Kitchen; and the Neighbours, when they call, look on me strangelie, so that I have noe Love for them. How different is _Rose's_ holy, secluded, yet cheerefulle Life at _Sheepscote_! She hath a Nurserie now, soe cannot come to me, and _Father_ likes not I should goe to her.

_April 5, 1644_.

They say their Majestyes' Parting at _Abingdon_ was very sorrowfulle and tender. The _Lord_ send them better Times! The Queen is to my Mind a most charming Lady, and well worthy of his Majesty's Affection; yet it seems to me amisse, that thro' her Influence, last Summer, the Opportunitie of Pacification was lost. But she was elated, and naturallie enoughe, at her personall Successes from the Time of her landing. To me, there seems nothing soe good as Peace. I know, indeede, Mr. _Milton_ holds that there may be such Things as a holy War and a cursed Peace.

_April 10, 1644_.

_Father_, having a Hoarseness, hath deputed me, of late, to read the Morning and Evening Prayers. How beautifulle is our Liturgie! I grudge at the Puritans for having abolished it; and though I felt not its comprehensive Fullessse [Transcriber's note: Fullnesse?] before I married, nor indeed till now, yet I wearied to Death in _London_ at the puritanicall Ordinances and Conscience-meetings and extempore Prayers, wherein it was soe oft the Speaker's Care to show Men how godly he was. Nay, I think Mr. _Milton_ altogether wrong in the View he takes of praying to _God_ in other Men's Words; for doth he not doe soe, everie Time he followeth the Sense of another Man's extempore Prayer, wherein he is more at his Mercy and Caprice than when he hath a printed Form set down, wherein he sees what is coming?

_June 8, 1644_.

Walking in the Home-close this Morning, it occurred to me that Mr. _Milton_ intended bringing me to _Forest Hill_ about this Time; and that if I had abided patientlie with him through the Winter, we might now have beene both here happily together; untroubled by that Sting which now poisons everie Enjoyment of mine, and perhaps of his. _Lord_, be merciful to _me a Sinner_.

_June 23, 1644_.

Just after writing the above, I was in the Garden, gathering a few Coronation Flowers and Sops-in-Wine, and thinking they were of deeper crimson at_ Sheepscote_, and wondering what _Rose_ was just then about, and whether had I beene born in her Place, I shoulde have beene as goode and happy as she,--when _Harry_ came up, looking somewhat grave. I sayd, "What is the Matter?" He gave Answer, "_Rose_ hath lost her Child." Oh!----that we should live but a two Hours' Journey apart, and that she coulde lose a Child three Months olde _whom I had never seene_?

I ran to _Father_, and never left off praying him to let me goe to her till he consented.

--What, and if I had begged as hard, at the firste, to goe back to Mr. _Milton_? might he not have consented _then_?

. . . Soe _Harry_ took me; and as we drew neare _Sheepscote_, I was avised to think how grave, how barely friendlie had beene our last Parting; and to ponder, would _Rose_ make me welcome now? The Infant, _Harry_ tolde me, had beene dead some Dayes; and, as we came in Sight of the little grey old Church, we saw a Knot of People coming out of the Churchyard, and guessed the Baby had just beene buried. Soe it proved--Mr. _Agnew's_ House-door stood ajar; and when we tapped softlie and _Cicely_ admitted us we could see him standing by _Rose_, who was sitting on the Ground and crying as if she would not be comforted. When she hearde my Voice, she started up, flung her Arms about me, crying more bitterlie than before, and I cried too; and Mr. _Agnew_ went away with _Harry_. Then _Rose_ sayd to me, "You must not leave me agayn." . . .

. . . In the Cool of the Evening, when _Harry_ had left us, she took me into the Churchyarde, and scattered the little Grave with Flowers; and then continued sitting beside it on the Grasse, quiete, but not comfortlesse. I am avised to think she prayed. Then Mr. _Agnew_ came forthe and sate on a flat Tombstone hard by; and without one Word of Introduction took out his _Psalter_, and commenced reading the Psalms for that Evening's Service; to wit, the 41st, the 42d, the 43de; in a low solemne Voice; and methoughte I never in my Life hearde aniething to equall it in the Way of Consolation. _Rose's_ heavie Eyes graduallie lookt up from the Ground into her Husband's Face, and thence up to Heaven. After this, he read, or rather repeated, the Collect at the end of the Buriall Service, putting this Expression,--"As our Hope is, this our deare Infant doth." Then he went on to say in a soothing Tone, "There hath noe misfortune happened to us, but such as is common to the Lot of alle Men. We are alle Sinners, even to the youngest, fayrest, and seeminglie purest among us; and Death entered the World by Sin, and, constituted as we are, we would not, even if we could, dispense with Death. For, where doth it convey us? From this burthensome, miserable World, into the generall Assemblie of _Christ's_ First-born, to be united with the Spiritts of the Just made perfect, to partake of everie Enjoyment which in this World is unconnected with Sin, together with others that are unknowne and unspeakable. And there, we shall agayn have _Bodies_ as well as Soules; Eyes to see, but not to shed Tears; Voices to speak and sing, not to utter Lamentations; Hands, to doe _God's_ Work; Feet, and it may be, Wings, to carry us on his Errands. Such will be the Blessedness of his glorified Saints; even of those who, having been Servants of Satan till the eleventh Hour, laboured penitentlie and diligentlie for their heavenlie Master one Hour before Sunset; but as for those who, dying in mere Infancie, never committed actuall Sin, they follow the Lamb whithersoever he goeth! 'Oh, think of this, dear _Rose_, and Sorrow not as those without Hope; for be assured, your Child hath more reall Reason to be grieved for you, than you for _him_.'"

With this, and like Discourse, that distilled like the Dew, or the small Rain on the tender Grasse, did _Roger Agnew_ comfort his Wife, untill the Moon had risen. Likewise he spake to us of those who lay buried arounde, how one had died of a broken Heart, another of suddain Joy, another had let Patience have her perfect Work through Years of lingering Disease.

hen we walked slowlie and composedlie Home, and ate our Supper peacefullie, _Rose_ not refusing to eat, though she took but little.

Since that Evening, she hath, at Mr. _Agnew's_ Wish, gone much among the Poor, reading to one, working for another, carrying Food and Medicine to another; and in this I have borne her Companie. I like it well. Methinks how pleasant and seemlie are the Duties of a country Minister's Wife! a God-fearing Woman, that is, who considereth the Poor and Needy, insteade of aiming to be frounced and purfled like her richest Neighbours. Mr. _Agnew_ was reading to us, last Night, of _Bernard Gilpin_--he of whom the _Lord Burleigh_ sayd, "Who can blame that Man for not accepting a Bishopric?" How charmed were we with the Description of the Simplicitie and Hospitalitie of his Method of living at _Houghton_!--There is another Place of nearlie the same Name, in _Buckinghamshire_--not _Houghton_, but _Horton_, . . . where one Mr. _John Milton_ spent five of the best Years of his Life,--and where methinks his Wife could have been happier with him than in _Bride's Churchyarde_.--But it profits not to wish and to will.--What was to be, had Need to be, soe there's an End.

_Aug. 1, 1644_.

Mr. _Agnew_ sayd to me this Morning, somewhat gravelie, "I observe, _Cousin_, you seem to consider yourselfe the Victim of Circumstances." "And am I not?" I replied. "No," he answered, "Circumstance is a false God, unrecognised by the Christian, who contemns him, though a stubborn yet a profitable Servant."--"That may be alle very grand for a Man to doe," I sayd. "Very grand, but very feasible, for a Woman as well as a Man," rejoined Mr. _Agnew_, "and we shall be driven to the Wall alle our Lives, unless we have this victorious Struggle with Circumstances. I seldom allude, _Cousin_, to yours, which are almoste too delicate for me to meddle with; and yet I hardlie feele justified in letting soe many opportunities escape. Do I offend? or may I go on?--Onlie think, then, how voluntarilie you have placed yourself in your present uncomfortable Situation. The Tree cannot resist the graduall Growth of the Moss upon it; but you might, anie Day, anie Hour, have freed yourself from the equallie graduall Formation of the Net that has enclosed you at last. You entered too hastilie into your firste--nay, let that pass,--you gave too shorte a Triall of your new Home before you became disgusted with it. Admit it to have beene dull, even unhealthfulle, were you justified in forsaking it at a Month's End? But your Husband gave you Leave of Absence, though obtayned on false Pretences.--When you found them to be false, should you not have cleared yourself to him of Knowledge of the Deceit? Then your Leave, soe obtayned, expired--shoulde you not have returned then?--Your Health and Spiritts were recruited; your Husband wrote to reclaim you--shoulde you not have returned then? He provided an Escort, whom your Father beat and drove away.--If you had insisted on going to your Husband, might you not have gone _then_? Oh, _Cousin_, you dare not look up to Heaven and say you have been the Victim of Circumstances."

I made no Answer; onlie felt much moven, and very angrie. I sayd, "If I wished to goe back, Mr. _Milton_ woulde not receive me now."

"Will you try?" sayd _Roger_. "Will you but let me try? Will you let me write to him?"

I had a Mind to say "Yes."--Insteade, I answered "No."

"Then there's an End," cried he sharplie. "Had you made but one fayre Triall, whether successfulle or noe, I coulde have been satisfied--no, not satisfied, but I woulde have esteemed you, coulde have taken your Part. As it is, the less I say just now, perhaps, the better. Forgive me for having spoken at alle."

----Afterwards, I hearde him say to _Rose_ of me, "I verilie believe there is Nothing in her on which to make a permanent Impression. I verilie think she loves everie one of those long Curls of hers more than she loves Mr. _Milton_."

(Note:--I will cut them two Inches shorter tonight. And they will grow all the faster.)

. . . Oh, my sad Heart, _Roger Agnew_ hath pierced you at last!

I was moved, more than he thought, by what he had sayd in the Morning; and, in writing down the Heads of his Speech, to kill Time, a kind of Resentment at myselfe came over me, unlike to what I had ever felt before; in spite of my Folly about my Curls. Seeking for some Trifle in a Bag that had not been shaken out since I brought it from _London_, out tumbled a Key with curious Wards--I knew it at once for one that belonged to a certayn Algum-wood Casket Mr. _Milton_ had Recourse to dailie, because he kept small Change in it; and I knew not I had brought it away! 'Twas worked in Grotesque, the Casket, by _Benvenuto_, for _Clement_ the Seventh, who for some Reason woulde not have it; and soe it came somehow to _Clementillo_, who gave it to Mr. _Milton_. Thought I, how uncomfortable the Loss of this Key must have made him! he must have needed it a hundred Times! even if he hath bought a new Casket, I will for it he habituallie goes agayn and agayn to the old one, and then he remembers that he lost the Key the same Day that he lost his Wife. I heartilie wish he had it back. Ah, but he feels not the one Loss as he feels the other. Nay, but it is as well that one of them, tho' the Lesser, should be repaired. 'Twill shew Signe of Grace, my thinking of him, and may open the Way, if _God_ wills, to some Interchange of Kindnesse, however fleeting.