I'm glad we live in a modern house, we have noe such fearsome sights here.
Rosamond is sociable with alle, and mightilie taken with my husband, who, in his grave way, jests with her pleasantlie enough. Daisy, who seldom thinks anything worth giving an opinion on, said yestereven, when they were bantering eache other in Robin Hood's Walk, "I'm glad, Meg, she fancies your husband insteade of mine." 'Twas a foolish speech, and had better have beene left unsaid. What a pity that folks who say soe little shoulde say aught amiss. I have noe jealousy in my composition.
Father, hearing little Tom Allington hammering over ye 34th Psalm this morning, —
"Child," says he, "don't say O! as unemphaticallie as if 'twere A, E, I, or U. David is labouring to expresse a thoughte too big for utterance… 'Oh, —taste and see that the Lord is good.' Try it agayn. That's better, my little man. Yet once more."
I'm glad Rosamond is going. That tiresome saying of Daisy's rankles. A poisoned shaft will infect the soundest flesh. What a pity we ever use such. I never will.
Yes, she's gone, but Will is not happy. Oh, God, that I should ever know this feeling! We can never be sure of ourselves; we can never be sure of one another; we can never be sure of any but Thee. For Thou art love itself, without a shadowe of turning; and dost even condescend, in Thine exquisite tendernesse, to call Thyself a jealous God … for of whom are we jealous but of those whom we passionately love? And such is the love, not the sternnesse, wherewith Thou sayest unto our souls, "Thou shalt not love any God but me! thou shalt not make to thyself anie earthlie idol! for I the Lord thy God am … a jealous God," – I cannot bear a rival on my throne, which is your heart. Love me firste, him next, even as much as you love yourself; and then I will bless you both.
Fecisti nos, etc.
Sancta mater, ora pro nobis, ora, ora.
Alas! am I awake, or dreaming still? He beganne to talk indistinctlie in his sleep last night, and as I cannot beare to heare people speak when they sleep but their heart waketh, I gently shooke him, and made him turn about; but not until that he had distinctlie exclaimed, "Tu, Jesu, es justicia mea." Thereon, a suddain light broke in on me, and I felt, I know not how to expresse what sense of relief, at the apprehension that his disquietation was not for Rosamond, but on ye old count of justification by faith. Waking up, he says, – "Oh, sweet Meg, I am soe unhappy," and gives way to tears; but I try to relieve him. But the matter is too hard for me; we cannot unravel it, soe he holds his peace, and sleeps, or affects to sleep, the while I pray to every saint in ye calendar.
I am glad I did him injustice; which is a strange thing for a wife to say.
How many, many tears have I shed! Poor, imprudent Will!
To think of his escape from ye Cardinall's fangs, and yet that he will probablie repeat ye offence. This morning father and he had a long, and, I fear me, fruitless debate in the garden; on returning from which, father took me aside and sayd, —
"Meg, I have borne a long time with thine husband; I have reasoned and argued with him, and still given him my poor, fatherly counsel; but I perceive none of alle this can call him home agayn. And therefore, Meg, I will no longer dispute with him."… "Oh, father!"… "Nor yet will I give him over; but I will set another way to work, and get me to God and pray for him."
And have I not done so alreadie?
I feare me they parted unfriendlie; I hearde father say, "Thus much I have a right to bind thee to, that thou indoctrinate not her in thine own heresies. Thou shalt not imperill the salvation of my child."
Since this there has beene an irresistible gloom on our spiritts, a cloud between my husband's soul and mine, without a word spoken. I pray but my prayers seem dead.
… Last night, after seeking unto this saint and that, methought "why not applie unto ye fountain head? Maybe these holy spiritts may have limitations sett to ye power of theire intercessions – at anie rate, the ears of Mary-mother are open to alle."
Soe I beganne, "Pia mater, fons amoris…"
Then, methoughte, "but I am onlie asking her to intercede – I'll mount a step higher still…"
Then I turned to ye great Intercessor of alle. But methought, "Still he intercedes with another, although the same. And his owne saying was, 'In that day ye shall ask me nothing. Whatsoever ye shall ask in my name, he will give it you.'" Soe I did.
I fancy I fell asleep with ye tears on my cheek. Will had not come up stairs. Then came a heavie, heavie sleep, not such as giveth rest; and a dark, wild dream. Methought I was tired of waiting for Will, and became alarmed. The night seemed a month long, and at last I grew soe weary of it, that I arose, put on some clothing, and went in search of him whom my soul loveth. Soon I founde him, sitting in a muse; and said, "Will, deare Will?" but he hearde me not; and, going up to touch him, I was amazed to be broughte short up or ever I reached him, by something invisible betwixt us, hard, and cleare, and colde, … in short, a wall of ice! Soe it seemed, in my strange dreame. I pushed at it, but could not move it; called to him, but coulde not make him hear: and all ye while my breath, I suppose, raised a vapor on the glassy substance, that grew thicker and thicker, soe as slowlie to hide him from me. I coulde discerne his head and shoulders, but not see down to his heart. Then I shut mine eyes in despair, and when I opened 'em, he was hidden altogether.
Then I prayed. I put my hot brow agaynst ye ice, and I kept a weeping hot tears, and ye warm breath of prayer kept issuing from my lips; and still I was persisting, when, or ever I knew how, ye ice beganne to melt! I felt it giving way! and, looking up, coulde in joyfulle surprize, just discerne the lineaments of a figure close at t'other side; ye face turned away, but yet in the guise of listening. And, images being apt to seem magnified and distorted through vapours, methought 'twas altogether bigger than Will, yet himself, nothingthelesse; and, ye barrier between us having sunk away to breast-height, I layd mine hand on's shoulder, and he turned his head, smiling, though in silence; and … oh, heaven! 'twas not Will, but – .
What coulde I doe, even in my dreame, but fall at his feet? What coulde I doe, waking, but the same? 'Twas grey of morn; I was feverish and unrefreshed, but I wanted noe more lying-a-bed. Will had arisen and gone forthe; and I, as quicklie as I could make myself readie, sped after him.
I know not what I expected, nor what I meant to say. The moment I opened the door of his closett, I stopt short. There he stoode, in the centre of the chamber; his hand resting flat on an open book, his head raised somewhat up, his eyes fixed on something or some one, as though in speaking communion with 'em; his whole visage lightened up and glorifide with an unspeakable calm and grandeur that seemed to transfigure him before me; and, when he hearde my step, he turned about, and 'steade of histing me away, helde out his arms… We parted without neede to utter a word.
Events have followed too quick and thick for me to note 'em. Firste, father's embassade to Cambray, which I shoulde have grieved at more on our owne accounts, had it not broken off alle further collision with Will. Thoroughlie home-sick, while abroad, poor father was; then, on his return, he noe sooner sett his foot a-land, than ye King summoned him to Woodstock. 'Twas a couple o' nights after he left us, that Will and I were roused by Patteson's shouting beneath our window, "Fire, fire, quoth Jeremiah!" and the house was a-fire sure enow. Greate part of ye men's quarter, together with alle ye outhouses and barns, consumed without remedie, and alle through ye carelessness of John Holt. Howbeit, noe lives were lost, nor any one much hurt; and we thankfullie obeyed deare father's behest, soe soone as we received ye same, that we woulde get us to church, and there, upon our knees,
