University of Virginia Library

22. CHAP. XXII.
SCHOOL FOR WIVES.

The visits of Barton from home became now too
long and too frequently repeated not to give his
wife serious cause for uneasiness; she secretly resolved
to discover, if possible, to whom he devoted so large a
portion of his time.

Now it so happened, that about seven miles from
Belle Park, on the side of a craggy hill, watered by an
impetuous stream, that rushed from the upper part of
the declivity, stood an old mill, and by the side of the
mill stood an old thatched cottage, within which lived
an old couple, who had a very young and a very lovely
grand daughter. Now, though this old man was the
owner of the mill and cottage, and ground many a bushel
of corn for his poor neighbours, of which he never failed
to take his regular toll; yet it so happened that he
was but poor himself. The cottage, we have said, was
old, so that the chilling blasts of winter, and the scorching
heats of summer found easy entrance through its
shattered frame; but Dolly, the blooming Dolly, was
the pride of their hearts, and often as they sat smoaking
their evening's pipe, they would gaze on her sparkling

black eyes, ruddy complexion, and delicate shape,
and cry, “Ah, surely that girl is born to be the comfort
of our old age; she is so handsome, there is no doubt
but she will get a squire for a husband, or, mayhap,
the Lord of the Manor. Ah, bless the dear face of it,
I shall live to see her a great lady I warrant, and then it
will send some people to mend old grandad's cottage,
and repair the crazy old mill.” These were the waking
dreams of doating age, for alas Dolly had reached her
seventeenth year and no squire had yet made his appearance,
to verify her grandmother's prophecy. However
about this time one of Mr. Barton's footmen, a
smart lad, about nineteen years old, saw this paragon of
rustic beauty at a neighbouring fair, and, unfortunately
for his master's horses, from that day whenever he was
dispatched to the neighbouring town or villages, on
messages, errands, or what not, he always found the old
miller's cottage lay directly in the way between Belle
Park and the place to which he was dispatched.

One evening Mr. Barton having mounted his horse,
and called Thomas to attend him in his intended excursion,
being undetermined which way to go, asked the
lad if he had discovered lately any new ride, for, he
said, I have gone the old track so often I am weary of
it. Thomas, full of the charms of Dolly, and eager to
embrance the smallest opportunity of beholding them, or
at least the cottage that contained them, asked his master
if he had ever rode by Gaffer Jobson's mill.

'Tis not above seven miles off, your honour, and is
the sweetest and romanticest kind of a place, with trees
and rocks and a river: then the mill is so old, your honour,
that it looks, for all the world, like the places we
read about in story books.

Barton smiled, and being directed by Thomas as to
the road he was to take, cantered off, followed by the
happy lover, exulting in the thought of seeing his mistress,
though it were but for a moment. But, perhaps,
thought he, master may look at the place, and then I
can slip in for a minute, and just speak to Dolly.

Alas poor Thomas thou art as blind as many other
wise politicians, or thou wouldst never have taken thy
master to see the cottage and the mill.

The sun was beginning to withdraw itself behind the
hill tops, when Gaffer having lighted his pipe and Gammor
set by her wheel, had seated themselves on the steps
of their cottage, to talk over old times, and dream, as
usual, of Dolly's good fortune. Dolly had just tied on
a clean coloured apron, smoothed back her luxuriant
chesnut hair, and seated beneath a tree not far distant
from the door, was earnestly contriving to dispose to the
best advantage three yards of cherry-coloured ribbon
which Thomas had given her, round a chip hat, in
which she thought to outshine all her companions the
next Sunday at church. Lifting her eyes from this
very interesting employment, who should she see but
the identical Mr. Thomas and a fine young gentleman
riding towards the mill.

Up she bounced. “See, see, grandad,” said she,
eagerly, “see you fine gentleman and Mr. Thomas.”

She spoke loud, the evening was serene; her voice
vibrated on the ear of Barton; he turned his head, the
old mill, the trees, and rocks were no longer interesting
objects. “I will have a little chat with the old man,”
said he, guiding his horse that way, but his eyes were
fixed on the lovely form of Dolly. He chatted with
the old couple till it was nearly dark, and as he rode
homeward could think only on the charms of their
grand-daughter. The next evening he rode that way
again, unattended, talked something about repairing
the mill, and kissed Dolly at parting. Another and
another interview succeeded. Thomas was constantly
kept employed at home, and a few guineas, a new
gown, and two or three glittering gewgaws had the
power to banish him as entirely from Dolly's memory
as though he had never held a place there. The squire,
as she called him, occupied all her thought, and, awell-a-day
for poor nature, the squire triumphed over all
the virtue Dolly ever possessed. The old folks too wilfully
shut their eyes, and in listening to projected repairs,

and thinking of future prosperity, forgot it was
to be purchased by the infamy of their grand-daughter.

But Barton was by no means a liberal lover; he
talked much but performed little, and though he slept
several nights in a week at Gaffer Jobson's, he was
content to sleep on their homely mattrass, nor once
thought of providing another.

Poor Thomas, mortified to the soul, could not conceal
his vexation, nor did he make a secret of the cause
among his fellow servants. It was whispered from one
to another, till at length it reached Mrs. Barton; not
from Rebecca, for she would not have told such a tale
to a distressed wife, to obtain the highest consideration;
she would have feared the effect it would have had on her
feelings, and agonized with the poor sufferer in idea a
thousand times. But Mrs. Barton was a woman of spirit;
she felt her husband's neglect severely, but she would
more severely have felt the pity of her servants: she took
great care therefore not to appear to need it.

“Do you know child,” said she to Rebecca, one day
as she was assisting her to dress; “do you know, child,
that this truant husband of mine is fallen in love with
some chubby faced little chit in the neighbourhood, and
prefers the company of her and her ignorant relations to
my elegant society, and their hard bed and coarse sheets
to his own made of down and covered with the finest
holland: do you not think the man is turned fool?”

She said this with such a smile of good humour that
Rebecca looked ar her with amazement, and hesitatingly
replied, “he is certainly blind to his own happiness,
Madam.”

“Oh, no; I dare say the indulgence of these whims
constitutes what he calls happiness, but I must confess
he seems totally indifferent about mine, and as that is
the case, I shall take what steps I think proper to secure
some for myself. Now I have a vast desire to see this
irresistable lass of the mill, and as I know he dines at
Mr. Thornhill's to day, this very afternoon I will pay
her a visit and you shall accompany me.”

Rebecca thought this an odd step, but she had a very
high opinion of Mrs. Barton's sense and prudence, and
therefore prepared to attend her without intimating the
least disapprobation of the scheme, which she certainly
would have ventured to do, had she not been satisfied
that her lady had some very good reasons for her conduct.

About four o'clock they stepped into the chariot,
and proceeded to the mill without any attendant. They
left the carriage within a quarter of a mile of the cottage,
and went thither on foot, pretended weariness, and
asked leave to rest and have a draught of water. “Would
you like a little wine in your water, my Lady,” said the
old woman.

“I should have hardly supposed,” replied Mrs. Barton,
“that your cottage afforded such a luxury.”

“Why, in good truth, we ne'er had such a thing before,
and now Gaffer and I don't much care for drinking
a'nt, we'd rather have a cup of yale; but the squire that
courts our Dolly sent some that he may have a little now
and then when he comes.”

“Your daughter is going to be married then.”

“'Tis my grand-daughter, my Lady,” said the old
woman, courtesying. At that moment the back door
opened and in bounced Dolly. She blushed, courtesyed
awkwardly, and would have spoke but was at a loss what
to say. Prepared as Mrs. Barton was to see something
extremely lovely, the charms of this little rustic surpassed
her imagination. “What a lovely creature,” said she,
softly, to Rebecca; “how could Barton be so wantonly
cruel as to contaminate the soul which animates this
beauteous form.” The tears started in her eyes as she
spoke, but brushed them away unperceived. “And so
my dear you are going to be married, I understand, and
to a squire. I have some idea he is a friend of mine. I
believe he spends much of his time here, but I think
your accommodations are not very brilliant. You must
give me leave to send you some better furniture, and to
give orders to have your house repaired; and should
your lover inquire who it was ordered these things, tell
him it was a lady who has a great regard for him, and
lives at the old fashioned house in the park.

Manifold were the courtesys and awkward acknowledgments
poured forth by the grand-mother and Dolly,
but Mrs. Barton imagined she saw in the countenance
of the latter mingled shame and regret. “If
we could save this poor girl,” said she to Rebecca,
when they were seated again in the carriage; “if we
could save her and teach her the value of the gem she
has unconsciously thrown away, we might then lead her
back to virtue, and, spite of her errors, she may yet
become a valuable member of society.”

The carriage drove to the nearest town, when Mrs.
Barton went to an upholsterer's and ordered whatever
she thought necessary, to be taken immediately to the
cottage; she likewise engaged a carpenter to send people
the next day, to begin the repairs, and on returning
home she dispatched a large bundle of sheets, table linen,
&c. by a poor labourer who knew nothing of the
reports current in the family. Rebecca easily saw her
Lady's design, and almost trembled for the event, indeed
Mrs. Barton herself could scarcely have been less
agitated. That night Barton returned late, and having
a large party to dine next day, it was impossible for
him to visit his fair Dulcinea till the ensuing morning,
and then, just as he was going, a gentleman arrived
from town and detained him till after dinner.

“I shall not be at home to-night, Betsey,” said he,
as he mounted his horse; “I have an engagement with
two or three jovial fellows, and shall not like to ride
home late.”

Mrs. Barton smiled, I wish you a pleasant evening,”
said she, “and as I am sure of your being out of the
way I will send for my gallant.”

“You threaten well Betsey, but I have too good an
opinion of you to fear their execution.”

“Tea and supper was served without Mrs. Barton
being any the better for them; she became violently
agitated; Rebecca was summoned to attend her, but
alas Rebecca could not comfort her. The clock had
just struck eleven when the bell at the great gate was
rung with violence.

“He is returned,” said she, “and a few minutes
will now decide my fate. My good Rebecca leave me.”

Barton entered the room with the looks of a condemned
criminal. “Betsey,” said he, “where were
you the day before yesterday, and how did you employ
your time?”

“Not in a manner disagreeable to you, I hope,”
said she, mildly; “I had heard how partial you were
to sleeping at the mill cottage, and I took a ride to see
if you were well accommodated; but I found the bed
intolerable, and the house in such a miserable slate I
thought you ran great risques of getting cold, so, being
unwilling to lose you, I thought it was my duty, as a
good wife, to provide you with better conveniences.”

“My dear Betsey how can you talk thus calm,
when you know all my weakness—when you know how
I have injured you?”

“Barton,” said she, with a firm look and voice, “I
am not now to learn that I am no longer beloved; but
it was no reason because you had grown weary of home,
you should trifle away your life by sleeping in a place
almost entirely open to nightly dews, and unsheltered
even by curtains to your bed. But mark me, my dear
Barton, that I love you, I trust you have had innumerable
incontestable proofs; but if I am no longer beloved,
if my society and endearments can no longer give you
pleasure, let us part; why should you deprive yourself of
the comforts and conveniences of life; let our fortune be
divided; leave me to solitude and quiet in this place, and
take your favourite to the Elms. But I charge you,
Barton delay not a day to make her a proper settlement,
left you hereafter grow weary of her, and fall a victim to
poverty and infamy: is a beauteous flower, pity it is
she was ever transplanted into the garden of folly.”

“Betsey,” said he, dropping on his knees before her,
and taking both her hands, “Betsey, you are an angel,
and I am totally unworthy your forgiveness: I see my
doom, I see my folly has banished all the tenderness of
your heart, and you wish to be separated from a wretch
who has treated you so unworthily.”

“You are mistaken, Barton, if you think I wish to be
separated from you, could I once more be the mistress
of your affections; to live with you, to love you, to promote
your happiness would be the pleasure of my life,
but I cannot have a divided heart; if another is preferred,
let me not, by constantly witnessing your indifference
toward myself, suffer pains too acute to be borne
without complaining.”

“Oh Betsey! dearest girl, forgive me, and take my
whole, my undivided heart; do with it what you please,
it never shall again wander from you, its chosen mistress.”

Mrs. Barton could no longer combat the impulse of
her throbbing heart, she dropped her head on the forehead
of her repentant husband, and tears of unseigned joy
ratified their reconciliation.

“But what must we do with poor Dolly,” said she,
after a pause of a few moments.

“I commit her to your care, my love,” replied Barton,
“sensible that you will do whatever is best for her
future well doing,—for my part, I will never see her
again.”

“Nay, Barton, keep your passions under the guidance
of reason, and you may see her without danger.”