knew in the eyes of his gay scornful comrades
too; so he turned him round about, and bade
them stay where they were, while he rode
close to the steps, and spoke to the young
lady; and there they saw him, hat in hand,
speaking to her; and she, lofty and unmoved,
holding her own as if she had been a sovereign
queen with an army at her back. What
they said, no one heard; but he rode back
very grave and much changed in his look,
though his grey eye showed more hawk-like
than ever, as if seeing the way to his end,
though as yet afar off. He was not one to be
jested with before his face ; so when he professed
to have changed his mind, and not to
wish to disturb so fair a lady in possession,
he and his cavaliers rode back to the village
inn, and roystered there all day, and feasted
the tenantry, cutting down the branches that
had incommoded them in their morning's
ride to make a bonfire of on the village green,
in which they burnt a figure, which some
called Old Noll, and others Richard Carr;
and it might do for either, folks said, for
unless they had given it the name of a man,
most people would have taken it for a forked
log of wood.

But the lady's nurse told the villagers
afterwards that Mistress Alice went in from
the sunny Hall steps into the chill house
shadow, and sate her down and wept, as her
poor faithful servant had never seen her do
before, and could not have imagined her
proud young lady ever doing. All through
that summer's day she cried; and if for very
weariness she ceased for a time, and only
sighed as if her heart were breaking, they
heard through the upper windows—which
were open because of the heat—the village
bells ringing merrily through the trees, and
bursts of chorusses to gay cavalier songs, all
in favour of the Stuarts. All the young lady
said was once or twice "Oh God! I am very
friendless!"—and the old nurse knew it was
true, and could not contradict her; and always
thought, as she said long after, that
such weary weeping showed there was some
great sorrow at hand.

I suppose it was the dreariest sorrow that
ever a proud woman had; but it came in the
shape of a gay wedding. How, the village
never knew. The gay gentlemen rode away
from Morton the next day as lightly and
carelessly as if they had attained their end,
and Sir John had taken possession; and, by
and bye, the nurse came timorously out to
market in the village, and Mistress Alice was
met in the wood walks just as grand and as
proud as ever in her ways, only a little more
pale and a little more sad. The truth was,
as I have been told, that she and Sir John
had each taken a fancy to each other in that
parley they held on the Hall steps; she, in
the deep wild way in which she took the impressions
of her whole life, deep down, as if
they were burnt in. Sir John was a gallant-looking
man, and had a kind of foreign grace
and courtliness about him. The way he
fancied her was very different—a man's way,
they tell me. She was a beautiful woman to
be tamed, and made to come to his beck and
call; and perhaps he read in her softening
eyes that she might be won, and so all legal
troubles about the possession of the estate
come to an end in an easy pleasant manner.
He came to stay with friends in the neighbourhood;
he was met in her favourite walks
with his plumed hat in his hand pleading
with her, and she looking softer and far more
lovely than ever; and lastly, the tenants
were told of the marriage then nigh at hand.

After they were wedded he stayed for a time
with her at the Hall, and then off back to
court. They do say that her obstinate refusal
to go with him to London was the
cause of their first quarrel; but such fierce
strong wills would quarrel the first day of
their wedded life. She said that the court
was no place for an honest woman; but
surely Sir John knew best, and she might
have trusted him to take care of her. However,
he left her all alone; and at first she
cried most bitterly, and then she took to her
old pride, and was more haughty and gloomy
than ever. By and bye she found out hidden
conventicles; and, as Sir John never stinted her
of money, she gathered the remnants of the
old Puritan party about her, and tried to
comfort herself with long prayers, snuffled
through the nose, for the absence of her
husband, but it was of no use. Treat her as
he would she loved him still with a terrible
love. Once, they say, she put on her waiting
maid's dress, and stole up to London to find
out what kept him there; and something she
saw or heard that changed her altogether,
for she came back as if her heart was broken.
They say that the only person she loved with
all the wild strength of her heart, had proved
false to her; and if so, what wonder! At the
best of times she was but a gloomy creature,
and it was a great honour for her father's
daughter to be wedded to a Morton. She
should not have expected too much.

After her despondency came her religion.
Every old Puritan preacher in the country
was welcome at Morton Hall. Surely that
was enough to disgust Sir John. The Mortons
had never cared to have much religion, but
what they had had been good of its kind
hitherto. So, when Sir John came down
wanting a gay greeting, and a tender show of
love, his lady exhorted him, and prayed over
him, and quoted the last Puritan text she
had heard at him; and he swore at her, and
at her preachers; and made a deadly oath
that none of them should find harbour or
welcome in any house of his. She looked
scornfully back at him, and said she had yet
to learn in what county of England the house
he spoke of was to be found; but in the
house her father purchased, and she inherited,
all who preached the Gospel should
be welcome, let kings make what laws, and