Worcester daily spy. [volume] (Worcester [Mass.]) 1850-1888, 1859-12-13
Continued


Saturday aigh.-Robert Marchant, one of
the tenants, being about to journey to London,
will bear letters for us to Ryal-side; so, l
have been busy writing long letter to uncle
and aunt and Guy, with messages to Cicely,
old Marjory, and the rest. am but poor
Scribe, after all my practice in this diary, and
the letter looked even more poorly written
than this, partly because the words and the
thoughts came so fast | think ! was right
glad my husband did not ask to see it, when
he came in to write some words to uncle and
his brother about our business, specially, when
l saw in what clerkly manner he did it but
when he pushed his across the table to me,
saying, "See if it all right and proper, Sweete-
Hearte," felt constrained 10 give him mine,
hoping he would read it while l read his, and
so not see my shame facedness. But he waited
until | read his, which, to say truth, under
stood little, it being of money matters, save
the few tender words in uncle's, where he
spoke of me and our plans for the coming
time, which l knew would make the whole
page bright for uncle, as they did for me. But
l said eyes" and t5,n, seeing him take up
mine, | bent me over my tambour frame, and
worked as if for dear life, until he came softly
beside me, and lifting my face in his two hands
and kissing me many times, said with such a
happy look "Thank you, sweet Meg for the
good words there. You can never know the
pain and terror | felt, when | thought you
might have mistook your feeling toward me-
Don't look troubled, dear, it was truly Doubt
full of Anguish, but it is all gone now. 1t was
a sin against your TRUTH for which do right
humbly pray your forgiveness -
Oh dear, | could weep now, to think of the
light on his countenance, while he spoke and
the heavy sinking | felt at my heart for how
could | tell him, looking down upon me with
that face, that if | had made no mention of
the longings for home, and the weary, heavy
hours that had come since left there it was
only because the pride Of my heart would not
Ietme confess them, even to uncle land oh, much
less to aunt | could not AUNT was wont to
say often that the truth should not be spoken
at all times, though the way in which he took
blame to himself and again begged pardon
when he saw the tears ready to start, as he
thought for the hurt he had done me, made
it hard to keep the words back. Verify, to an
honest mind, it is harder to conceal the truth
than to tell it.
Sunday, 22d.-The Church is long way
from Netherfeld but Philip and l often walk
thither of Sunday, for Puritan as he is, he
pleasureth me i'll this, and | do find it right
pleasant, for his discourse by the way is often
more profitable to me than the Sermon. IT'S
strange what hidden beauty and meaning he
findeth in the commonest things about u.s.
Coming by Barcross, today, an old Dame, sit.
ting in the sun by her door, rose up and cur
tested to Philip. He stopped and shook hands
with her, and told her | was his wife. The
InJ,
him, and asked :-"Did he mind this, and did
he MUD that! and would his Honor have for
gotten little Johnny, Sally's boy, whom he
saved from being beaten to death by great
Tom Hogan! Did his Honor still carry the
scar from the cruel blow he got in the fight on
his bonny brow still? Her old Eyes were
dim !" To please her, Mr.. Lake pushed back
the hair from his t9mpe, and showed an ugly
scar there, running back far under the hair,
which, truly, / knew not of before. The tears
came in the old Goody's eyes at the sight, and,
spite of his efforts to stop her. she held fast to
the tail ofmy Gownd, and told the story of it !;
how he got it, when small lad, in trying to
save her daughters child, the same johnny
who was dead year come Michaelmas, God
rest him, from the blows of a vicious lad, twice
his size, with many blessings upon him, mixed
up with sayings and doings Of Johnny and
many little outlet the family struggles and
sufferings for the past years for l mind the
like of her have little thouget of keeping back
anything wheu once they find a friendly lis
tener.
Grave as a Lion, when need beW Mr..
Sharswoode had said; and l thought of the
words, and, when we were on our way again,
told them to Philip, and how his Brothers
praises did first make known his worth to me.
He did not say anything, but | saw his Lips
come together, in that firm, close way Of his,
that seemeth to say to any word or feeling that
may be behind their gate, "Thus far shalt thou
come and no farther" look the which, if | did
see on the face Of any one | had less liking for,
/ do confess, would be sometimes not little
provoking, and which now did tend to make
me speak the more kindly and fatteringly of
Mr.. Sharswood because have noted that look
once or twice, latterly, when have spoken OF
his Brother, and am advised to think that he
knoweth not the half of his great Worth,
(which is after all, not so strange. seeing lie
hath been so long away, and so holdeth him
in less Esteem than is his due.
In truth, at times, this Philip of mine SEEM
eth as strange as the Countries in which he
hath sojourned, though | have never given the
thought outlet before. Last night, in the
affair of the Letters for instance, and indeed,
at many other times since our marriage, it
hath been as if he not only opened his Heart
to me, but took me close in it, where | could
feel its quick beatings, and see as well as feel
how noble and rich and faithful it is then, as
to-day there will come up something, cannot
tell what, but something which hath the fee
to me, of the great, thick chilly Mists that
overhang these high Moors, and which make
the most common things look so strange end
distant, and chill me worse than the coolest
snow that ever falls. And like the MIST too,
can neither touch it or get any hold of it,
only feel thatit is there
began to feel the Mist coming to-day, see
ing he made no reply TO any of my words,
until we had got almost to John Marchants,
and then it was driven away by the heat that
rose in my cheeks at his speech, for it was
something about Marchants brown mare and
her foal, that were in the paddock by the stile,
showing plainly enough that he had not heard,
or had not cared for q word / had spoken.
Who would not have felt little veXed So |
refused to speak in my turn, but doubt If he
noticed it, for his words had little call for an
answer; so we walked on in silence, until we
came to the foot Of the garden at NeLherfeld.
There he made stop, saying, "You spoke OF
Richard but now, dear Meg, he will be here
this week, | think"
ale will, he will, truly p | cried, forgetting
my dumb pettshness and ready to clap my
hands with delight, for the which | could not
help blushing, when / saw how pale Philip
looked; for it came to my thought that he
might have some bodily ailment to atone for
his grave silence, and that my veXation had
been untimely and / asked, "was he ill %
He seemed troubled at my notice, and said
quickly, "No; it would be unmeet that the
bearer of news that maketh you so glad
should be i'll"
al I as1fo