“She’ll do nothing of the kind. If ye want a husband for the lass, let her take Phil.”
“A bankrupt.”
“Tush! There are acres enough to pay the old squire’s debts three times over. She’d bring Phil enough ready money to clear it all, and ’t is rich mellow land that will double in value, give it time.”
“I tell thee her head ’s full of this bond-servant. The two were in the kitchen just now, talking about paradise, and I know not what other foolishness.”
“That” said Mr. Meredith, with a grin of enjoyment, “sounds like true Presbyterian doctrine. The Westminster Assembly seem to have left paradise out of the creation.”
“Such flippancy is shameful in one of thy years, Mr. Meredith,” said his wife, sternly, “and canst have but one ending.”
“That is all any of us can have, Patty,” replied the squire, genially.
Mrs. Meredith went to the door, but before leaving the room, she said, still with a stern, set face, though with a break in her voice, “Is ’t not enough that my four babies are enduring everlasting torment, but my husband and daughter must go the same way?”
“There, there, Matilda!” cried the husband. “’T was said in jest only and was nothing more than lip music. Come back—” the speech ended there as a door at a distance banged. “Now she’ll have a cry all by herself,” groaned the squire. “’T is a strange thing she took it so bravely when the road was rough, yet now, when ’t is easy pulling, she lets it fret and gall her.”
Then Mr. Meredith looked into his fire, and saw another young girl, a little more serious than Janice, perhaps, but still gay-hearted and loved by many. He saw her making a stolen match with himself; passed in review the long years of alienation from her family, the struggle with poverty, and, saddest of all, the row of little gravestones which told of the burial of the best of her youth. He saw the day finally when, a worn, saddened woman, she at last was in the possession of wealth, to find in it no pleasure, yet to turn eagerly, and apparently with comfort, to the teachings of that strange combination of fire and logic, Jonathan Edwards. He recalled the two sermons during Edwards’s brief term as president of Nassau Hall, which moved him so little, yet which had convinced Mrs. Meredith that her dead babies had been doomed to eternal punishment and had made her the stern, unyielding woman she was. The squire was too hearty an animal, and lived too much in the open air, to be given to introspective thought, but he shook his head. “A strange warp and woof we weave of the skein,” he sighed, “that sorrow for the dead should harden us to the living.” Mr. Meredith rose, went upstairs, and rapped at a door. Getting no reply, after a repetition of the knock, he went in.