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Title: Loveday's history
        A tale of many changes

Author: Lucy Ellen Guernsey

Release date: January 15, 2024 [eBook #72722]
                Most recently updated: March 29, 2024

Language: English

Original publication: London: John F. Shaw & Co, 1884


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LOVEDAY'S HISTORY ***

Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.



                 _[The Stanton-Corbet Chronicles.]_
                           _[Year 1529]_


                         LOVEDAY'S HISTORY


                      A TALE OF MANY CHANGES


                                BY

                      _LUCY ELLEN GUERNSEY_

                           _Author of_
  _"The Foster-Sisters," "Lady Betty's Governess," "Winifred,"_
                          _Etc., Etc._



                           NEW EDITION



                          [Illustration]



                             LONDON:
                       JOHN F. SHAW & CO.
                    48 PATERNOSTER ROW, E.C.



                            CONTENTS

CHAPTER

      I. THE BEGINNING.

     II. MORE REMEMBRANCES.

    III. ANOTHER CHANGE.

     IV. A NEW LIFE.

      V. THE THUNDER STRIKES.

     VI. THE LIGHTNING STRIKES AGAIN.

    VII. OLD FRIENDS AND NEW.

   VIII. HER GRACE'S GENTLEWOMAN.

     IX. HER GRACE.

      X. AT THE GREAT HOUSE.

     XI. THE DUKE'S RING.

    XII. THE OLD HALL.

   XIII. "EXILED, AND YET AT HOME."

    XIV. ANOTHER HOME.

     XV. COOMBE ASHTON.

    XVI. THE GREAT STORM.

   XVII. THE WANDERERS.

  XVIII. THE LAST.



[Illustration]

                      _LOVEDAY'S HISTORY._

CHAPTER I.

THE BEGINNING.

I SHALL never forget that beginning. It was like the lightning flash,
which always comes suddenly, albeit one may have seen the clouds
gathering for hours, and even have heard distant growls and mutterings
of thunder. Of such growls and mutterings there had indeed been a
plenty when I was quite a little maid, living with my kinswoman,
Lady Peckham, in Somersetshire. I remember well my lady's wrath and
consternation at hearing that my Lord Cardinal had put down some thirty
or more of the small religious houses, especially convents of nuns, and
had confiscated their revenues to the endowment of his grand college
foundation at Oxford. There was no talk of pensions and sustenance for
old or young. The poor souls were turned adrift to shift as best they
might. If my Lord Cardinal were alive to see the havoc that hath been
made since, he might bethink himself (if he ever happened to hear it)
of a certain pithy proverb about showing the cat the way to the cream.
The cat hath lapped the cream pretty clean in these days.

I had a personal interest in that same measure of my Lord Cardinal,
seeing I was myself destined for one of those very convents, a small,
but reputable house of Gray Nuns, not far from Bridgewater. I was the
daughter of a kinsman of my Lady Peckham's first husband, and being
left an orphan of tender years and wholly without provision, my lady
charitably took me into her protection and care, and gave me a home,
intending to bring me up till such age as I should be fit to make a
profession. But the convent was suppressed, as I have said, and so that
cake was dough. The sisters—there were not more than eighteen or twenty
in all—found places where they could. Some went to their friends, some
to other houses of the same order. One went to live in the family of a
master baker in Bridgewater, where she afterward married. I saw her not
long since, a fine stately old dame, and a great blessing to her own
family as well as to the poor of the town. One—Sister Benedict—came to
stay with my lady till she could find suitable convoy to another house
of Bernardines not far from London.

I don't think that in her secret heart my lady was very sorry to have
an excuse for keeping me with her a while longer. I had grown a handy
little maid, tall of my age, and having no daughters of her own, it
was but natural she should take to me, especially as I was very fond
of her. I liked nothing better than to follow her around like a little
dog, carrying her basket or her keys, and running with good will to do
her errands about the house and garden. I believe I might have done the
same as long as I lived, only for Sister Benedict, who came to stay
with us, as I said, and who must needs put her finger in the pie.

My lady had a son by her first marriage—Walter Corbet by name—who was
destined by his mother for holy orders. He was several years older than
I, and we were great friends, as was but natural. He helped me in my
lessons, specially in my Latin, which I learned with him of Sir John
Watson, our kind old parish priest and domestic chaplain, and fought my
battles and those of my pet cats against Randall Peckham who, though
not a bad lad in the main, was rather too fond of teasing.

Poor Randall was sent to Oxford, where he went altogether to the bad,
ran away leaving more than a hundred pounds of debt behind him, and
(so we heard) was cast away on a ship going to Holland. He was his
mother's pride and darling, and her heart was almost broken. I have
always believed, ever since I was old enough to think about the matter,
that Sister Benedict persuaded my lady that her holding back Walter and
myself from that service to which we had been promised had brought this
judgment upon her.

Walter declared that, though he might consent to be a parish priest, he
would never be a monk, and he was one not easy to be moved when once
his mind was made up, though he never stuck out about trifles—not like
poor Randall, who could be coaxed or flattered out of any principles
he ever had, while he would be obstinate even to folly about the
trimming of a glove, or the management of a hawk. So my lady was fain
to compromise the matter, and Walter was sent to Bridgewater to study
with Sir Richard Lambert, a very learned priest with a great reputation
for sanctity. (Of course I did not know all this at the time, being but
a child.)

I was sent away with Sister Benedict, to go to my father's brother,
a rich merchant in London, trading to the Low Countries. That was
the story. Sir Edward had all along been opposed to bestowing me in
a convent, and after the suppression of the Gray Nuns' house, he had
spoken his mind freely to my lady, saying that he would not have me
disposed of in that way without my own consent, and that no more should
be said about the matter till I was of age to judge for myself. My lady
seemed to acquiesce, as indeed she always did on the rare occasions
when Sir Edward asserted his will, and I suppose she might really be
glad of the excuse to keep me at home, for, as I have said, she liked
to have me about her.

But Sir Edward went away, being sent to Scotland on public business
by the King, and Sister Benedict came, and the upshot of the matter
was, that I was sent to London to see my uncle and little cousins. As
soon as Sister Benedict could make proper arrangements, I was to be
transferred to the convent of Bernardines at Dartford, a very rich and
reputable house. I don't think it was meant that I should know this,
but my lady's woman let the cat out of the bag, and my lady, finding I
knew so much, told me the rest herself—so I knew what to look for.

The journey to London was longer and harder then than now, and very
dangerous withal. But my Lord Abbot of Glastonbury, who was Sister
Benedict's uncle, was going up to town with a great following, and
we traveled in his train; so we escaped the dangers of the road, and
met with far more consideration than we should otherwise have done.
Nevertheless, I remember that Sister Benedict was highly indignant at
certain instances of disrespect shown to her uncle by the gentry and
others whom we met, and mourned over the degeneracy of the times. The
truth was, the thunder-cloud was even then lying low in the sky, and
men felt its influence as dumb creatures do that of a natural storm
before it comes.

Well, we reached London at last, and glad was I when our journey was
done, though sorry to part with Sister Benedict, who, her point once
gained, was very kind to me. However, I had so much to engage my
attention that I did not feel the parting so deeply as might perhaps
have been expected.

Mine uncle lived in Portsoken ward, in a very fine house built by his
grandfather, but greatly enlarged and embellished by his father and
himself. It had a large courtyard, and a garden at the back, wherein
were some huge apple trees and a great standard pear tree, besides
others for shade and beauty. All the Corbets are fond of gardening,
and my Uncle Gabriel was no exception to the rule. At that time (and I
suppose the same is true now) the great merchants of London lived very
handsomely, and enjoyed many luxuries which had not been so much as
heard of in our remote corner of the world. I was met at the door by
a most lovely old lady, who kissed me on both cheeks, and informed me
that she was my great-aunt, my Grandfather Corbet's sister.

"And so you are poor Richard's child! I remember him well, a little lad
no bigger than you, if as big. You don't favor him greatly, and yet
there is a Corbet look about you, too. What was your mother's name?"

I managed to say that it was Loveday Carey.

"Yes, yes, I remember. And how old are you? But never mind now. You
must need refreshment after your long journey, but I suppose you have
not come very far to-day."

She led me by the hand toward the foot of a grand staircase, far
finer than that at Peckham Hall; but as we reached it, I started
back in utter dismay from what I conceived to be no less than the
devil himself—namely, the figure of a man black as ebony, and rather
fantastically dressed, who stood bowing and showing his white teeth
in a manner which seemed to me to warrant the conclusion that I was
instantly to be devoured. I clung to my aunt's arm, and uttered, I
suppose, some exclamation of dismay. My terror seemed greatly to amuse
the creature, which now giggled outright.

"What is it?" said my aunt, as I let go of her hand and retreated
behind her.

"The black man!" I faltered.

"Oh, poor Sambo? I suppose you never saw a blackamoor before. But don't
be frightened, child. He is a human creature like ourselves, and hath
kind heart, and is a good Christian, too; are you not, Sambo?"

Thereupon the negro made the sign of the cross, and showed me a
crucifix which hung about his neck.

"You will soon learn to like him as well as our children do," said my
aunt. "Go, Sambo, and bring up the young lady's mails."

Sambo grinned again wider than ever, and betook himself to the side
door, where an attendant of my Lord Abbot's was waiting with my baggage.

Thus reassured, I ventured to pass him, and followed my aunt up the
stairs into the very finest room I had ever seen. My uncle's house is
built with the upper stories projecting over the lower. I always had
a fancy that it was leaning over to look down the street. There was
a great oriel window, with many panes of stained glass, which formed
a deep recess. On the floor of this recess lay a beautiful carpet,
such an one as I had never seen before. I could not conceive how such
a beautiful fabric chanced to be in such a situation, for the two or
three Turkey rugs we possessed at Peckham house were used as coverings
for tables and beds. A great East country cabinet stood in this recess,
and before it a carved arm-chair. The walls of the room were hung with
Spanish leather most curiously wrought with gold and silver figures;
the furniture was partly of damask and partly of Cordovan leather. At
the other end of the apartment was a second large window looking upon
the street, as the first did upon the garden. Here stood a low chair,
and a basket piled up with homely household work.

"This is my place!" said Aunt Joyce—so she bade me call her. "And now
I will call your cousins to take you to your own room, where you will
find your mails, and they will help you to change your traveling dress,
that you may be neat when my nephew comes home to dinner at eleven. We
all dine together, though I doubt such late hours are not very good for
the health of the young ones. When I was young, I never dined later
than nine o'clock, nor thought of sitting at table with my parents.
But times are changed—times are changed—and my nephew hath a right to
command in his own house."

I began to wonder when she was going to stop talking long enough
to call my cousins, but at last she blew her silver whistle, which
hung with her keys at her girdle, and presently two pretty little
girls, some years older than myself, made their appearance, and were
introduced to me as my cousins, Avice and Katherine. They were twins,
and more alike than any two people I ever saw. They were wonderfully
fair, with thick, soft, curling hair of the color of new flax, or a
thought yellower; clear, transparent gray eyes, and a lovely bloom
on their cheeks. I fell in love with them on the instant. They only
courtesied when presented to me, and, giving me each a hand, led me
away.

As we passed a great Venice glass, I remember being struck with the
difference in our looks, for I was ever a true Corbet, with the great
dark eyes, level black brows, and crisp hair of my race—a regular black
Corby, as poor Randall used to call me.

The twins led me up the staircase and into a room furnished with blue,
where were two little beds and a truckle for a servant. Out of this
opened a large light closet, where I found my mails. As soon as we were
alone, the girls found their tongues.

"We are glad you have come to live with us!" said Avice, who was always
the first speaker, and indeed took the lead in every thing, as I found
out afterward.

"Yes, we are very glad, because it will be like having our sister
again!" said Katherine.

"A little like it!" said Avice. And then, seeming to feel she had hurt
my feelings, she added—

"You know nobody can be quite like one's own sister, but I am sure we
shall love you, Cousin Loveday!"

"And I am sure I shall love you!" I returned warmly. And then I
ventured to ask: "Did you have another sister, and is she dead?"

"Yes!" said Avice, with a quivering lip. "She was a beautiful little
girl, and she looked a little like you, for she had dark hair and eyes.
But she fell into the chincough, and then into a long waste, and died
in spite of all that could be done."

"But she has gone to paradise—I am sure she has, and we shall see her
again some day," added Katherine, her eyes shining with a kind of
steadfast light. "I could not bear it, only for thinking of that."

There was a little silence, and then Avice asked me how old I was.

"I shall be nine years old come Michaelmas—and you?"

"We shall be twelve on Midsummer day. Can you read, cousin?"

"Oh yes!" I answered, not without a little feeling of vain-glory, I
dare say. "I can read and write, and I have begun Latin."

"We can read and write a little, but not well;" and then followed a
comparison of accomplishments.

And soon I found I had nothing whereof to boast, since my cousins
could play on the lute and the virginals, embroider in all sorts of
stitches, and even knit—an art which I had only heard of at that time,
as practiced in that same convent of Gray Nuns whose dissolution had
sent me to London. We grew excellent friends over all these inquiries
and answers, and when we were called down to dinner we descended the
stairs, not hand in hand, but with our arms round each other's waists.

We went down to the ground floor this time, and I was led into a great
dining-room where was a table splendidly set out—or so it seemed to
my unaccustomed eyes—with snowy napery, silver and fine colored ware,
such as I had never seen. They were, in fact, china dishes, then only
beginning to be used by the wealthy merchants of London and the Low
Countries. Sambo and one or two 'prentice lads were just placing the
dinner on the table, and my uncle was standing by the window, looking
out upon the garden, now all ablaze with flowers, many of which were
new to me.

He turned round as I entered, and showed me one of the handsomest and
kindest faces I ever beheld in my life. He was a man in middle life,
tall and somewhat stout, though not unbecomingly so, with curling brown
hair, a little touched with gray at the temples, large gray eyes with
very long lashes, and a chestnut beard trimmed in the fashion of the
day. He was richly but soberly dressed, and I noticed even then the
whiteness and fineness of his linen. Sea-coal was not used in London
then as much as now, and it was easier to keep clean.

"So this is my little niece, is it?" said he, kindly raising me and
bending down to kiss my forehead as I kneeled to ask his blessing. "You
are welcome, my dear child. May the God of thy fathers bless thee."

Even then there was something in my uncle's tone which struck
me—a peculiar solemnity and earnestness, quite different from the
business-like, rapid fashion in which Father Barnaby and our own Sir
John used to go through the same form. It seemed as if he were really
speaking to some one. He caused me to sit at his right hand, and helped
me bountifully from the dish of roast fowls which stood before him. The
dinner was elegantly served, and Sambo showed such skill in waiting on
his master, and such alacrity in helping me to sweetmeats that I found
my dislike to him sensibly diminishing.

Of course we children did not speak at the table, and indeed I was too
busy making my remarks on all I saw to care even for eating. I admired
the china dishes, so hard and light and so beautifully painted; the
clear glass and finely wrought silver; and I once or twice really
forgot to eat in gazing through the great glass window at the flower
garden.

"You are looking at the flowers!" said my uncle. "After dinner we will
go and see them nearer."

At that moment something made an odd scratching noise on the glass door
which led into the garden. Sambo looked at his master, who smiled and
nodded. He opened the door and in walked a stately creature, which I
should hardly have guessed to be a mere cat, only for his loud musical
purr. He was immensely large, and had fur that almost dragged on the
ground, a bushy tail, and a mane or collar of much longer fur round his
neck, and as he was of a yellowish color, he looked not unlike a little
lion. He marched up to my uncle's side, where Sambo had already set a
joint-stool for his accommodation, but seeing a stranger at table, he
turned and greeted me with great politeness, rubbing his head on my arm
as if to invite my caresses.

"Do not be afraid," said my uncle, seeing me shrink a little, for
indeed the creature's great size and strength made him somewhat
formidable to a stranger. "He is the best-tempered fellow in the world,
and a famous playmate, as you will soon find out."

Hearing this, and seeing the cat was evidently a favorite of my
uncle's, I ventured—having finished my dinner—to stroke him, an
attention which he received with condescending kindness. My aunt poured
some cream into a saucer, and Turk drank it as calmly as if it were a
matter of course—as indeed it was for him—to sit at table and eat cream.

"Loveday opens her eyes!" said my aunt. "I dare say she never saw a cat
sit at table and be served like a Christian before. Do you like pets,
Niece Loveday?"

"Yes, madam!" I answered, and indeed I had a kind of passion for them,
which I had heretofore gratified almost on the sly, for my Lady Peckham
did not like pet animals of any kind.

"That is well, for we have plenty of them," said my aunt. "Sambo must
show you his popinjay."

Sambo bowed, and grinned till his face seemed all white teeth.

"There, run away, children, and play in the garden if you like!" said
my uncle. "Take Loveday to see the flowers."

We went out into the garden, and the girls showed me many lovely
flowers, such as I had never seen before.

"My father trades with the Dutch merchants, who bring all sorts of
curious plants from the Indies," said Katherine. "That is the way we
got our cat and Sambo."

"Father bought Sambo from a man who treated him cruelly," added Avice.
"When he first came here he was a heathen, but my aunt has taught him
better, and now he can say his paternoster and creed in English. We all
like him because he is so droll and so kind. My Lord Cardinal wanted
him for a fool, but my father would not give him up."

"I never saw a black man before," said I. "I did not know there were
such things, and when I first saw him I thought it was the evil one
himself."

"Some of our neighbors believe he is not quite right," observed
Katherine, "but he is as good a Christian as any one."

"Better than some, because he is grateful!" said Avice. "Come, now, and
we will show you the last new tree our father got from foreign parts.
There is not another in the country, and we are in a great hurry to
have it bloom, that we may see what the flowers are like."

I duly admired the foreign tree, or shrub, which had thick, glossy
loaves, and on which the flower buds were just forming, and then, Turk
appearing and putting in a claim for notice, we had a great frolic with
him, and found him an excellent playfellow, as my uncle had said.

When we went into the house, my aunt called me up stairs and showed me
my clothes neatly arranged in a press, while a small blue bed, like my
cousins', was being put up for me in the light closet I have mentioned.

"This will be your room as long as you stay here," said she. "Let me
see that you keep it neat and orderly, as a young maid should."

I courtesied, and said I would do my best. The little room was very
pretty, and even luxurious, in my eyes. There were no rushes on the
floor, such as I had been used to seeing—and I now perceived, for the
first time, what it was that made the floors all over the house seem so
strange and bare to me.

"That is one of my nephew's new-fangled ways, as old Dame Madge calls
them," pursued my aunt. "He learned it in Holland among the Dutch, who
are the cleanest folks in the world."

"Yes, new-fangled ways," muttered the old dame, who was mending
somewhat about my bed curtains. "It was never a good world since these
new ways came up. But we shall see—we shall see!"

"I must needs allow that the air in the house is much sweeter since
we disused the rushes, which are a great cover for dirt and vermin,"
pursued my aunt; "though it makes a great deal of work, washing and
polishing the floors."

"I noticed how sweet the house smelled," I ventured to say. "I think
the floors look pretty, only—" and then I stopped in some confusion, as
it occurred to me that I was making very free.

"Well, only what?" asked my aunt.

"Only it seems a pity to see such fine rugs laid down to be walked on,"
I answered. "We had only two at Peckham Hall, and one was on the state
bed and the other on my lady's own."

"You are an observing child. Sambo says the Turks use these rugs
just as my brother does, and that they kneel on them to say their
prayers—poor, deluded creatures."

My aunt chatted on, and I stood by her side, well content to listen to
her and answer her questions. She had a remarkable way of putting every
one at their ease, both gentle and simple. We never had a new housemaid
or 'prentice who did not at once fall in love with Mistress Holland.

"You must not mind if Dame Madge is a little crabbed sometimes!"
said my aunt, as the old woman left the room. "She is jealous of
all newcomers, and would fain keep the favor of master and mistress
altogether to herself. There, now, all is done, I believe," she added,
as she hung a holy water basin and crucifix at the head of the bed. "I
hope you will be happy here, my child."

"I am sure I shall!" I answered, with perfect sincerity, and then, all
at once, I remembered that this pleasant house was not my home after
all—that in a few days Mother Benedict would probably come and carry me
off to that fate which had been waiting for me all my life. I suppose
my face showed my thoughts, for my aunt noticed the change—as what did
she not notice which concerned the comfort of others—and asked me what
was the matter.

"It is a change for you, I know, but you must try not to be homesick."

"I am not homesick!" I answered. "Only—" and then I dropped on my
knees, hid my face in my aunt's lap and burst out crying. I don't know
what made me. I should never have thought of such a thing with my lady,
who, though always kind, did never invite my caresses.

"What is it, dear heart? What makes thee cry? Tell Aunt Joyce what ails
thee, my dear, tender lamb, now do?" said my aunt, who was apt, in
times of interest, to return to her native Devon. I remember, as though
it were yesterday, how sweetly sounded in mine ears the homely accent,
and the words of endearment which I suppose might find some echo in
my childish remembrance. Sure 'tis a cruel thing to deprive young
creatures of those caresses which even the dumb beasts bestow upon
their young. I have always thought that if my lady had been more tender
and gentle with poor Randall, he might have been different.

"Only I can't stay here!" I sobbed at last. "Pretty soon Mother
Benedict will send or come for me, and I shall have to go to the
convent, to be shut up and never see any body, or run in the fields any
more, and to wear a horrid gray robe, and a veil—" and here I broke
down again.

"My child, I think you are borrowing trouble!" said my aunt, with a
perplexed look. "I thought you were coming to live with us. I heard
nothing about any convent."

"But I am to go to the convent!" I answered. "My lady said so."

"Well, well, we will talk to my nephew about it!" said my aunt. "Don't
cry any more, there's a lamb, but wash your face and come down stairs
with me, and by and by we will go and take a walk in the fields and see
the old people in the almshouses. Can you sew?"

"Oh yes, aunt!"

"Then you shall help me a little, if you will. I am making some napkins
of old worn linen for one of the bedeswomen who has watering eyes, and
you shall hem one for me. As for the convent, I would not trouble about
that just now, at any rate. It will be time enough when you have to go
there."

Somewhat comforted, I washed away the traces of my tears with the
rosewater my aunt gave me, and followed her down stairs to the parlor,
where my cousins were already sitting, the one at her sampler, the
other at her lute, which she played very prettily for a child.

If my aunt was in a hurry for the napkins she gave me to hem, she
did not act wisely in seating me at the window, for I saw so much to
observe and admire that my work went on but slowly. But I suppose her
object was rather to divert me from my grief, and in that she certainly
succeeded. Now it was some gay nobleman of the court with two or three
attendants, all glittering in gold and embroidery who passed by—now a
showman with a tame jackanape or a dancing bear—then a priest under a
gorgeous canopy, carrying the host in its splendid receptacle to some
dying person.

I can't pretend to recite all the wonderful things I saw. I could not
help wondering where all the people found lodging, and how they found
their way home at night. Now London is far more crowded than it was
then, and it increases all the time, despite the laws made to check the
growth of large towns. But I do not think it can ever be much larger
than it is at present.



[Illustration]

CHAPTER II.

MORE REMEMBRANCES.

ABOUT four o'clock my uncle came in from his business, and we had
each a bun and somewhat else—at least we young ones did—for my uncle
never ate between dinner and supper. He greeted me kindly, asked how
I had passed my day, looked at and commended my work and that of his
daughters, and asked them if they had somewhat to repeat to him.
Whereat Katherine recited the twenty-third psalm in English, and Avice
a part of the hundred and nineteenth.

"And what can my little niece say for me?" he asked.

"I can say the penitential psalms in Latin," I answered; "but I do not
know them in English."

"Then you shall read a little for me instead," said he; and drawing me
to his side he took from his desk a bound book, and turning over the
leaves, he pointed out a passage, which I read. It was new and strange
to me, for it talked of God's care for flowers and little fowls, and
bade men consider that, as they were worth much more than these things,
so our Heavenly Father would provide for all our needs. It ended thus:

   "Care not therfore for the daye foloynge. For the daye foloynge
shall care ffor yt sylfe. Eche dayes trouble ys sufficient for the same
silfe day."

"Do you know whose words these are?" asked my uncle, as I finished.

"No, uncle," I answered.

"They are our dear Lord's own words," said he, "and spoken for our
comfort. Do not you forget them."

"I suppose Our Lady made Him say them!" I ventured to remark.

"No, dear child. Our Lord needs no one to make Him send us comfort and
help, since He himself loves us, and died to redeem us. Never doubt his
love, my child. That never fails those who seek him, and even though he
leads them through dark and troubled waters—nay, even through the very
fiery furnace—it is but to guide them to his rest at last."

I saw my aunt sigh at these words, as if they had some meaning more
than met the ear. For my own part, they filled me with amazement. I had
always been taught to think of our Lord as a harsh and severe judge,
who relented toward us—when he did relent—only at the intercession, or
rather commands, of Our Lady, his mother. It seemed very strange; but
I was presently diverted from the consideration thereof by my uncle's
next words.

"Did my Lady Peckham send me no letter by you, dear child?"

"Oh, yes, uncle!" I answered, remembering all at once the packet my
lady had placed among my things, with a strict injunction to deliver it
to Master Gabriel Corbet directly on my arrival. I ran up to my room,
and finding the package safe and sound in my book of Hours, where it
had been laid for safe keeping, I brought it down and put it into my
uncle's hand. He cut the band of floss silk which confined it, and was
soon engaged in its perusal. Seeing, I suppose, that I was watching
his face, my aunt directed my attention to some pageant passing in the
street. My eyes, however, soon stole back to my uncle's face, and I was
startled to see the change and the look of grief which had come over
it. Forgetting all decorum in my anxiety, I cried out:

"Oh, uncle, must I go to the convent? I will be so good if you will
only let me stay here."

Katherine and Avice looked scared, and so was I when I bethought me
of what I had done. My uncle, however, did not seem angry. On the
contrary, he put out his hand and drew me toward him.

"Listen to me, Loveday, and you also, my children, and learn what it
costs to nourish a grudge," said he. "When we were both young, my
brother and I quarreled. No matter about what. I thought myself wholly
the injured party, and, despite all our good mother's efforts, I would
not be reconciled. So my brother, who was the younger of us two, after
vainly trying to bring me to a better mind, betook himself with his
young wife to a little estate in the west country, which had been left
him by a kinsman."

"More than once did he send overtures for a reconciliation, but
I—miserable sinner that I was—would not even read his letters. Meantime
he, riding home from market, was set upon by robbers and miserably
murdered. A brother of the kinsman who left him the estate started up
with a claim which was made good, by the help of some great man his
patron. My sister died from the effects of grief, and this poor child
was thrown upon the world without a protector, and but for the kindness
of my Lady Peckham, whose husband was her kinsman, she might have grown
up a wretched, forlorn beggar."

"I humbly thank my dearest Lord," and here he raised his cap, "who hath
both granted me conviction of sin and His forgiveness for the same;
but He, like earthly parents, sometimes leaves the offender to smart
for his fault, even though he is forgiven. I, who would give my hand,
could it avail, to call my brother's daughter my own and bring her up
as such, have forfeited that right by my cruel and unfeeling conduct.
My Lady Peckham has the right to dispose of Loveday, and it is her will
that she should go to be brought up at the convent of Gray Nuns not far
from Dartford."

So there was no help for it. I had much ado to restrain my sobs, and I
saw the gray eyes of the twins fill with tears.

"But, uncle," I faltered and then stopped.

"Loveday does not like the thought of being a nun!" said my aunt Joyce,
finishing the sentence for me.

"She is not to become one just now!" said my uncle. "It seems my lady
has promised her husband, Sir Edward, that she shall not be professed
till she is twenty-one, nor then, unless by her own choice."

"Heaven help her, what choice will she have by that time?" said my aunt.

"A good many things may happen in twelve years!" answered my uncle,
dryly. "These are days of change and shaking, you know, aunt. But as
Loveday is not to go to this same convent till she is sent for, we will
enjoy her company while she is here. 'Each day's trouble is sufficient
for the same selfe day,' as we have just read. But, my children, if
your father has humbled himself before you, let not the lesson be lost
upon you. Remember, never to let the seed of anger and malice take root
in your hearts—no, not for an hour. Sure you may see in my case what
evil and bitter fruit it may—nay, must bring forth—yea, even after
the sin hath been confessed and done away by Christ His own blood and
sacrifice."

Young as I was, these words of my uncle made an impression on my mind
which was never wholly defaced, though covered by the teachings of
later years. My lady's contrivance for evading her promise to her
husband was certainly ingenious. In these days we should call it
Jesuitical, but we had not then begun to hear very much about the
Jesuits, though there has been coil enough since.

"It is a pleasant evening, and the air is fresh and cool after the
warm day," said my uncle, after a little pause. "Get your hoods, my
children, and we will walk out to the Minories, and then visit the old
people at the almshouse."

Children's hearts are light. Of course I was pleased at the notion of
a walk, and by the time I had been out half an hour I had persuaded
myself that something might come to pass to prevent my going to the
nunnery after all; and I was ready to observe and enjoy all the sights
of the way. We had not gone far before I heard a great whining and
grunting behind us, and looking round I perceived that we were followed
by two lusty, well-fed pigs, which showed every desire for a better
acquaintance. I had a dislike to hogs, and was always a little afraid
of them. I pressed closer to my uncle, who was leading me by the hand,
the twins going before us, and Sambo following with a great can, the
use of which I did not understand.

"What is it?" said my uncle—then seeing the direction of my eyes. "Oh,
the pigs; they will not hurt you. Why a country maid should not fear
pigs, surely. But you wonder why they follow us; I will show you."

He took from his pockets some crusts of bread which he threw to the
pigs, and of which they partook with little grunts of content and much
shaking of broad ears and curly tails. I even fancied they cast glances
of positive regard and affection from their queer little eyes. Their
repast being ended, they turned and trotted back, I suppose, to wait
for some other patron.

"Those are St. Anthony's pigs," said my uncle. "The proctors of St.
Anthony's Hospital are used to take from the market people such pigs
as are ill-fed and unfit for meat. These have the ear slit and a bell
tied round their necks, and being thus, as it were, made free of the
city, they wander about at will, and being fed by charitable persons
become very tame and familiar, and learn to know and watch for their
patrons, as you see. But these fellows are growing so fat, I fear I
shall not have them to feed much longer. As soon as they grow plump and
well-liking, the proctor takes them up and they are slaughtered for the
use of the hospital."

It seemed to me rather odd even then, I remember, that a saint should
be a patron of pigs, but I could not help thinking I should have liked
St. Anthony far better than St. Dominic, who tore the poor sparrow in
pieces for coming into church. We had now gone quite a little way from
home, when we passed an abbey or convent shut in behind a high wall,
and I saw that there was an open space before us.

In effect, we soon came to a great green field, where were collected
many fine cows, some lying down chewing the cud, others in the
milker's hands, and still others patiently waiting their turn. A
sturdy, farmer-looking man was overseeing the work, and a neat woman
was straining the milk and pouring it warm and rich into the vessels
brought for its reception. I noticed that she gave good measure and
many a kind word to the feeble old bodies and little children who
brought their jugs and their half-pence. *

"Well, Dame Goodman," said my uncle, "you are busy as ever."

   * This was that tract now known as Goodman's fields.

"Oh, yes, your worship, we are always busy at this hour," answered the
dame. "More people come to us at night than in the morning. Where is
your half-penny, Cicely Higgins?"

"I have none to-night," answered a pale scared-looking child. "Mother
has been sick all week, and we have no money."

"And where is your father?"

"I don't know," answered the child sadly. "We have not seen him in many
days, and mother cries so I can't ask her."

"He is where he deserves to be, and that is in prison, from which
he will come to be burned with the next batch of heretics!" said a
sour, thin-faced old woman. "And serve him right, too, for speaking
slightingly of the Blessed Virgin. I would they were all served with
the same sauce."

"For shame, dame! Have you a woman's heart in your breast, that you
speak so to the worse than orphan child?" said my uncle, indignantly.

"Oh, ho! I did not know your worship was so near," answered the
old woman, with a cackling laugh. "Methinks we are very tender to
heretics—we are!"

"We are tender to other sinners besides heretics, or a wicked,
hard-hearted old woman, who owes two quarters rent, would be turned
into the street as she deserves," rejoined my aunt, severely. "You had
better keep civil words, Dame Davis, at least until you can pay your
debts."

The old woman turned pale at this home thrust, and muttering something
about meaning no harm, retired into the crowd. My uncle asked the child
a few questions, and then, turning to the dame who was measuring the
milk, he bade her fill the child's pitcher, at the same time putting a
piece of silver into her hand.

"That I will, your worship, and give her good measure too!" answered
Dame Goodman. "Jenny Higgins is a good, hard-working creature, and
not to be blamed for her husband's follies. Drat the man, why can't
he believe as his betters tell him, and not go prying where he has no
business?"

My uncle smiled, but sadly methought, and Sambo's great can being
filled, we walked away by another road.

"Who was that old woman, aunt? You seemed to know her," said he
presently.

"Who was it but old Madge Davis, who lives in your house in the
Minories, and has paid no rent for six months," answered my aunt. "She
is a bad handful, and keeps the other tenants in constant hot water by
her meddling and tattling."

"That must be seen to. I think we will put her in the cottage with old
John. He is so deaf she can not tattle to him, and there will be no one
else to quarrel with."

"Most people would turn her into the street," said my aunt; "and indeed
she deserves nothing better."

"Ah, dear aunt, were we all to have our deserts, who should escape?"
asked my uncle, sighing. "It would ill become me, to whom have been
forgiven ten thousand talents, to take my fellow-servant by the throat
who owes me but an hundred pence."

I did not understand the allusion at the time, but afterward I read the
story aloud to my uncle in his great book.

We had now come some distance and were arrived at another field,
inclosed, but with convenient paths and turnstiles for foot passengers.
On the side of this field toward the street were about half a dozen
small, but neat and well-built two-story cottages, each with its little
garden-plot stocked with pot herbs and some homely flowers. In most of
them the windows were open, and on the sills, which were quite low,
lay a clean white cloth and a rosary. The inmates were mostly bed-rid,
but in one or two the old man or woman might be seen sitting bolstered
up in a great chair. I at once guessed that these were almshouses of
some sort. My cousins told me afterward that they were founded by some
prior of the Priory of Trinity, a kinsman of our own, who had left a
provision for the care of the poor bedesmen and women.

I now found out the use of the great can of milk which Sambo had
brought from the abbey field. In every window stood a little brown jug,
which the blackamoor proceeded to fill from the vessel he carried.
The good fellow seemed to enjoy his work of charity, to judge by the
grins and nods he bestowed on the old folks. Most thanked him heartily,
but one old woman turned away her head, and when my aunt rather
mischievously asked her if she did not want any milk, she muttered that
it turned her against it to see that heathen pour it out.

"Never mind her," said my uncle to Sambo, who looked greatly affronted,
as well he might. "She is a poor childish creature you know," and,
taking the can from the black man's hand, he filled the jug himself,
and passed on smiling, while Sambo muttered that Massa was a heap too
good.

The last cottage was the neatest in the row, and a hale-looking old man
was training a honeysuckle round the door. I wondered why he was there,
till I looked in at the window and espied a wasted old woman propped
up in the bed, looking more like death than life. My uncle stopped and
entered into conversation with the old man, while we young ones made
acquaintance with a white cat and two kittens which were basking in the
sun.

"With all my heart—with all my heart!" we heard the old man say,
presently. "There is plenty of room up stairs and the little lass can
wait on Mary at odd times. Poor soul, poor soul! But will not your
worship come in and have a word with my poor dame? It does her so much
good. And meantime the young ladies can look at the garden and the
birds."

We went round to the back of the house accordingly, where we found a
neat little garden-plot in which was a tame sea-gull running about
in company with a hedge-pig, a lame goose, and a queer little dog,
which always seemed to go on three legs. We amused ourselves with the
animals, which came to us at once, as if quite used to being noticed,
till my uncle called us.

On the way home, he told my aunt that he had arranged with the old man
to let Cicely Higgins's mother live in the upper room of his cottage
for the present. It seems each of the old people were entitled to an
attendant, but John being a hale man for his great age, did not avail
himself of the privilege, but cared for his wife himself.

My uncle had some control over these houses by virtue of his
relationship to the founder, I believe, and, therefore, could put in
whom he pleased. There were many such small charitable foundations
about London in those days, but they were mostly swept away in the
great storm which destroyed all the religious houses in the land. It
was a storm which cleared the air, no doubt, but it left some sad
wrecks behind it, as is the way of tempests.

When we reached home we had supper, at which two or three of my uncle's
friends joined us—elderly, sober men like himself. We young ones went
to bed directly after, and thus ended my first day of London.



[Illustration]

CHAPTER III.

ANOTHER CHANGE.

FOR a few days I was kept in quite a fever of suspense, thinking every
time I heard a strange voice or an unusual noise in the house, that
some one had come for me; but as the days passed into weeks, and the
weeks into months, and I heard nothing from Mother Benedict, I began to
make myself at home in my uncle's house. My old life in Somersetshire
came to seem like a dream—almost as much so as that still further
away time when I lived at Watcombe farm with my father and mother. I
practiced my lute, and worked at my white seam and tapestry, and kept
up my Latin, learning a lesson every day which I said to my uncle at
night, when he never failed to reward me, when I had been diligent,
with a story out of his great book. For recreation we played with our
dolls and the cat, worked in our own little gardens, and took walks
with my uncle and aunt to see poor people. Sometimes we had playmates
of our own to visit us, but not often, and I think we preferred each
other's society at all times to that of outsiders.

Once, my uncle took us out of town to spend the day with a farmer who
rented certain lands from him. We went away early in the morning, my
aunt riding a sober palfrey, and we children occupying a horse litter
under the charge of two or three stout serving men; for, despite the
severities exercised toward robbers and broken men, the ways about
London were dangerous for small parties. We met with no adventures,
however, and when we reached the open heath, my aunt allowed us to get
down and walk, on condition that we did not go far-away.

I shall never forget how delightful was the feel of the short springy
turf under my feet after the stony paths of the city. I would have
liked to rove far and wide; but this my aunt forbade, and I had to
content myself with gathering such flowers as grew near at hand. We
arrived at the farm about nine of the clock, and found the family had
risen from dinner, and were dispersed about their several occupations.

In those days a farmer's wife would rise, and have all her maids
stirring by three o'clock at latest in summer-time, and her day ended
by seven or eight. The whole family dined together between eight and
nine, and master and mistress worked as hard as any one. Now some of
our farmers' dames must ape their betters by putting off their dinners
till ten o'clock, and cannot, forsooth, soil their fingers with the
dung-fork. I don't know what the world is coming to for my part.

Dame Green gave us the warmest welcome, and at once set her daughters
and maids to covering the table with bread and butter, cream, ginger
and saffron bread, and a great cold pie like a fortification, with all
sorts of country dainties. We young ones did ample justice to all the
good things, but I saw that my aunt ate but little, and seemed sad and
distraught.

"You have some one with you?" said my aunt, as a somewhat high-pitched
voice, with a strong London accent, made itself heard without.

"Yes, my brother-in-law's widow, and I wish she were any where else!"
said Dame Green, with a face of disgust. "Poor Thomas Green died
bankrupt, and Mistress Jane hath no refuge but her brother's house."

"And a very good refuge too!" said my aunt. "'Tis well for her that she
hath such a home open to her."

"She does not think so, madam. To hear her talk, one would think she
was in banishment among the savages. I wish she were any where else
than here, turning the girls' heads with her talk about tourneys and
court fashions—much she ever saw of them! But here she comes to answer
for herself."

As she spoke, a woman entered the room dressed in widow's mourning. She
must once have been pretty, in a coarse, bouncing fashion, and she wore
her weeds with a kind of jaunty air. Dame Green presented her to my
aunt.

"Dear me, Mistress Holland, who would have expected to see you in the
country to-day, of all days in the year!" cried the lady in a shrill,
affected voice. "I should have thought you would have staid and taken
the young ladies to see the spectacle. I have been fuming all the
morning at being shut up in this wild place."

We children looked at each other, wondering what great sight we had
missed.

My aunt replied gravely:

"Such sights are far too sad and dreadful for young eyes. Indeed, I
know not how any one can take pleasure in witnessing the horrible death
of a fellow-creature."

Mistress Jane looked a little abashed.

"But these are heretics and blasphemers, madam! Surely you will allow
that they deserve their deaths."

"If we all had our deserts, we should be cast into a hotter fire than
Smithfield!" said my aunt. "Even the fire that never can be quenched."

Mistress Jane looked decidedly offended.

"One would think you were one o' the Gospelers yourself, madam! For my
part, I ever paid my dues to Holy Church and took the sacrament regular
on the great feast days, and I have always given alms in charity—yes,
to every begging friar that came along, besides making two pilgrimages
to the shrine of Saint Thomas of Canterbury, and if that won't insure
my salvation, I wonder what will? I'm not like some folks that grudge a
poor widow so much as a jaunt to London," with a spiteful glance at her
sister. "Every one knows 'tis a good work to assist at the burning of a
heretic."

We children glanced at each other again, which my aunt seeing, after
exchanging a look with our hostess, said rather quickly—

"If you have finished your dinners, children, you may run out and play."

"Yes, to be sure!" said the dame. "Dolly, take the young ladies out and
show them the new chickens and the little ducklings swimming in the
pond."

I, for one, would rather have staid to hear the talk in which I felt a
kind of dreadful interest, but I was used to obey without a word, of
course. Dolly was a nice, good-natured, bouncing girl, who was much
delighted with the new ribbons and kirtle my aunt had brought for her.
She did her best to entertain us; leading us all about the farm and
showing us the young fowls and the lambs at play in the pasture. In the
course of our rambles, we passed a little ruinous house, half-overgrown
with nettles and brambles, but yet bearing the marks of having once
been a church-building of some sort.

"What is that?" asked Katherine.

Dolly crossed herself. "That is the hermit's cell," said she, "but no
one lives there now. The place has an evil name, and is haunted."

"Why, what is the matter with it?" asked Katherine.

Dolly hurried us to some distance from the scene, and then told us the
story, which at this distance of time, I do not clearly remember, only
that it was that of a hermit who was once very holy and even worked
miracles.

"They say he had an image of the Virgin of such wonderful power, that
it would bow its head and spread out its hands to bless whoever brought
it an offering. But by and by, the hermit got into a strange way,
refused to say masses in the little chapel you see there, and was heard
at night, talking with some invisible person. At last, one morning when
he had not been seen for a long time, search was made for him, but
naught could they find but his gown and breviary, and the holy image
which lay dashed all in fragments on the floor of the chapel."

This is the tale as nearly as I remember it. Dolly added, that since
then, lights were often seen, and voices heard in the ruins, and that
no one would go near them after dark; indeed it was regarded as so
dangerous to do so that her father had strictly forbidden it.

When we returned to the house we found my uncle had arrived. He greeted
us kindly as usual, but his face looked worn and had a set expression,
as of one who has been forced against his will to behold some horrible
sight.

But I had not much time to speculate on his face. I had not been well
lately, and had been subject to fits of coldness and swooning, which
my aunt declared were caused by a tertian ague. I suppose I might have
over-fatigued myself, for one of these same fits came on now, and I
came near falling from my seat.

I was put to bed with all speed, and dosed with I know not what hot
and spicy cordials from the dame's stores; but all did not serve. I
had a hard chill, and then a fever, after which I fell asleep. When
I waked all was quiet, only for the noises out of doors. I felt very
comfortable, though weak and disinclined to stir. So I lay still,
and watched the bees buzzing in the eglantine and jasmine round the
casement, till I became aware of some one talking in the next room, the
door of which was half open. The voices were those of my uncle and aunt.

"So he met his death bravely?" said my aunt.

"Like a hero!" answered my uncle. "Even when he parted from his wife,
who by the kindness of the sheriff was allowed to take leave of him
just outside the prison gate, he showed no signs of giving way, but
kissed her and sent his blessing to his child, as if he had been
setting out on an ordinary journey."

"And she?"

"She was no less brave than himself, poor heart, bidding him have no
care for her—she should do very well. He bade her so to live as that
they should meet in heaven; whereat one that stood by struck him on
the mouth, bidding him be silent for a foul-mouthed heretic. Whereat,
Higgins turned to him and said calmly—'God give thee repentance,
friend, for an' if He do not, thou art in a worse case than I.' When he
had passed, and not before, did the poor wife fall down in a fit, and
was charitably cared for by some women of her acquaintance."

"And Higgins was brave to the last?"

"Yes, to the very last moment. He would not so much as listen to the
promise of pardon if he would repent, and commended his soul to God as
the faggots were lighted. There was plenty of tar and resin among them,
and I think he suffered not long."

"Thank Heaven!" said my aunt, and I knew by her voice that she was
weeping.

"But oh, nephew, when will all this end?"

"I know not, aunt; but I trust and believe that it will end in the
establishment of truth and a free Gospel in all this land. It may not
be in our time, but it will surely come."

Here I made some movement, and my aunt coming to me, I heard no more.
But I often thought of the conversation afterward, and puzzled over it.
I had been brought up by my Lady Peckham to think a heretic the worst
of criminals. Yet here were mine uncle and aunt, the very best people I
had ever known, whose sympathy was clearly on the side of one at least
of these heretics. Childlike, I turned the matter over and over in my
mind without ever mentioning it to any one, or asking for a solution of
my puzzles.

It was not thought best for me to return to London that night, and,
indeed, I was not able. I staid at the farm some weeks, part of the
time having my cousins for company. It was pretty dull at first, but as
I grew better and able to go about, I liked it very well.

My only trouble was Mistress Jenny Green, whom I came absolutely to
hate. She was always catechising me about my uncle's family, what
company they kept, what furniture, etc., they had, where we went to
church, and all sorts of trifling particulars. At other times she would
spend hours in bewailing her hard lot, and describing the fine things
she had enjoyed in her London home.

Truly, if she spent half what she said, 'tis no wonder her husband
became bankrupt, poor man. Then she took a great fit of devotion—would
go to matins and vespers and all other services at a convent church
not far-away; kept fasts and vigils, and had even made up her mind to
receive from the priest of that house the widow's mantle and ring; *
but a suitor from London turning up in the shape of a smart young
draper, she changed her mind, married him on the instant, and went away
to London, to the great relief of her own family, and the scandal of
the priest aforesaid. This I have learned since. I was too young to
know much about it at the time, only I well remember how glad we were
to see her go.

   * It was formerly a custom for widows who did not desire to marry
     again to make a vow to that effect, at which time they received a
     mantle and ring. A breach of this vow was counted very disgraceful.

It was now drawing toward midsummer, and my health being fairly settled
again, I was sent for home. I parted with my kind hostess and her
family with real regret, which I fear was not altogether unselfish. At
the farm I was quite a great lady, petted and waited on, and treated
with great consideration.

At home, I was only little Loveday—a child of the family, taking my
place with the others, having my daily tasks, and checked and reproved
if I did them amiss. I began to be sullen and discontented, careless
about my lessons and my work, and pert when spoken to.

One day my uncle heard me give my Aunt Joyce a very saucy answer (which
I had never dared to do had I known he was by). He ordered me at once
to beg her pardon, and when transported with passion I refused, he
punished me severely, and ordered that I should be kept in penitence
till I submitted. I dare say I should have done the same thing in his
place, and yet I do not think it was the best way in my own case. I had
enough of my family spirit to know how to cherish a grudge. I thought
my aunt was wrong in blaming me (as indeed she was, for I am confident
I never touched the glass she charged me with breaking); my Corbet
blood was roused, and I would not give way. I had my meals by myself
for several days, and was not spoken to by any of the family.

There was one person in the house who thoroughly rejoiced in my
disgrace, and that was old Madge. She had always been jealous of me,
being one of those people to whom it seems necessary if they love
one person or thing, to hate some other person or thing in exact
proportion. Madge fancied, I believe, that my adoption by my uncle
would lessen by just so much the portions of her darlings, Katherine
and Avice. They could do nothing wrong in her eyes. We were required
to put our rooms and beds to rights. Katherine was apt to be rather
careless, more so than myself, but while Madge would always pick up and
put away for her, she took care that any little sluttishness of mine
should be sure to meet my aunt's eye. Nay, I used to accuse her in mine
own mind (and I am not sure now that I was wrong) of purposely putting
my affairs out of order that I might get a reproof. However that might
be, my faults lost nothing in her hands.

Madge's granddaughter was one of our maids, and a spiteful thing she
was, and quite ready to follow her grandmother's lead, so far as I was
concerned. She had a bachelor who was a journeyman of my Lord Mayor,
and they were to be married in the course of the summer. 'Twas a match
rather above her degree, but Betty was a pretty creature, and knew how
to ingratiate herself well enough. My aunt had promised her her body
and house linen, and also her wedding gown.

It was the day before St. John's eve, whereon the marching watch was
to be set forth with greater bravery than usual. I had heard a great
deal from my cousins about this splendid show on St. John's eve. The
citizens of London were accustomed to set tables before their doors
plentifully laden with meats and drinks, whereof all passers-by were
invited to partake. The houses were decorated with lamps and cressets,
and the doors shadowed with canopies of sweet herbs and all sorts of
flowers. Every body was abroad to see the marching watch in their
bright harness, with their attendants bearing cressets upon poles,
while others carried oil wherewith to feed them. Then there were
pageants, morris dancers, and musicians without end. It was, indeed, a
goodly and gallant show.

Great heaps of flowers and herbs had been sent in from the farm, and my
aunt and cousins, with the maids, were busy weaving garlands. The cook
and his assistants were well-nigh driven frantic by the heat and their
cares, while Sambo flitted here and there like a magpie, helping every
one, and showing his white teeth with endless grins and chuckles. Sambo
was my firm friend and took my part on all occasions, which did not
help me with Dame Madge. I should have been in the thickest of the plot
at any other time, and my assistance was not to be despised, small as
I was, but no one asked me to help, and I wandered about, feeling very
forlorn and bitter, indeed, and wishing that Mother Benedict would come
and carry me away to the convent.

In this mood I went out to the garden, where my own little flower plot
lay looking so prim and pretty, and where I had spent so many pleasant
hours with my cousins, who were now not allowed to speak with me,
though they often gave me looks of compassion. Indeed, Katherine had
brought herself into temporary disgrace on my account, by telling Betty
before her grandam, that she was a spiteful, tale-bearing pyet, and
deserved to be whipped far more than I did.

I walked about the garden, feeling miserable enough, when the thought
struck me that I would go and look at my uncle's Indian tree, which
was now coming into flower. I knew that two buds had been just ready
to burst the night before. Lo! Not two but three or four flowers were
fully out. I know not how to describe them, for I never saw any like
them before or since. They were round in shape, somewhat like a rose
but more regular, with thick, wax-like leaves, and some yellow in the
center. I stood, as it were, entranced before them, and at last I
stooped down and kissed one of them, but without doing it any harm.

"So, Mistress Loveday!" said Madge's sharp voice behind me. "You are
not content with what you have done, but you must needs break and spoil
your good uncle's flowers."

I turned and saw Madge and Betty regarding me. I vouchsafed them no
reply, but walked away to my own garden, my heart swelling almost to
bursting with anger, grief, and wounded pride. Somehow its neatness and
brightness seemed to mock me, and, in a fit of rage, I set my foot on
a beautiful white lily and crushed it into the earth. The deed was no
sooner done than repented. Bursting into tears, I raised the poor plant
from the ground. Its once white flower, all broken and smirched with
soil, seemed to reproach me with my cruelty. It was ruined beyond hope.
I wept over it till I could weep no more, and then, mournfully burying
it out of sight, I returned to the house.

That evening, as I was sitting in my own room, trying to divert myself
a little with my work, I received a summons to the parlor. There sat my
uncle, with the severest face I had ever seen him wear. In his hands he
held one of the flowers of the India tree, broken and soiled.

"Loveday, do you know any thing of this?" said he, sternly.

I felt myself change color, but answered firmly: "No, uncle. I saw four
flowers on the tree this morning, but I have not seen them since."

"That is not true," said he, more sternly still. "You were seen to pick
them, to crush them, and then bury them in the ground in your garden,
where this one was found just now."

"I did not do any such thing!" I answered, hotly enough. "I did kiss
one of them, because it looked so friendly at me, but I did not hurt
it, I know."

My uncle made a sign to Betty, who was standing by. To my utter
amazement, she declared that she and her grandmother had just stopped
me from destroying the flowers in the morning, and that watching me
afterward, from the chamber window, she had seen me carry something to
my garden and stamp it into the earth. She had not thought much about
it till she heard the flowers were missing, and then looking where she
had seen me at work, she found one of the flowers.

What could I say? I could only repeat my denial. I had never hurt the
flowers nor touched them, except that I had kissed one of them, as I
said.

"And this story you stand to, though Betty saw you with her own eyes
trying to spoil the flowers this morning?"

"Yes, I do stand to it!" I answered, driven to desperation by the plot
against me, and what seemed the hopelessness of my case. "Betty is a
liar and so is Madge, and some time you will find them out."

I think my uncle dared not trust himself to punish me. He knew the
infirmity of his own temper. I can feel for him, since I have the same
temper myself.

"I cannot have an obstinate liar and rebel in my family!" said he.
"Unless you confess and humble yourself, I must send you away."

I saw my aunt whisper something in his ear, but he shook his head, and
repeated: "Unless you confess and humble yourself, I must send you away
to the convent!"

"You may send me as soon as you please!" I retorted, desperate in my
misery and hopelessness, for I could see no way out of my trouble. "I
may as well be in one place as another, so long as nobody believes me,
or cares about me. I wish I had never come here!"

My aunt put out her hand between me and my uncle, as he started from
his seat; but there was no need, for whatever his impulse was, he
checked himself in a moment.

"Take this wicked child away, and let her remain by herself till she
shall come to a better mind!" said he. "I cannot now trust myself to
deal with her."

"You had better read over what you read in your great book the other
day about charity!" I retorted, naughty child that I was. "Any how the
Holy Virgin and the Saints know that I never touched the flower, and
they know who did, too." I saw Betty wince at this. "I will never care
for or believe in that book again, for it makes you unkind and wicked."

I did not see the effect of my bold words, for my aunt hurried me away.
She took me, not to my own bed-closet, but to a room in the front of
the house, next her own, which we children always called the Apostles'
room, because it had figures of the apostles wrought on the hangings.
Here she left me, turning the key upon me, but presently came back with
Sambo carrying a truckle bed, and whatever I needed for the night. My
wild anger had subsided into sullen grief by that time, and I never
spoke.

I was left alone till supper-time, when Betty came up, bringing me a
basin of milk and a slice of brown bread.

"Here is your supper, and a great deal better than you deserve!" said
she, in her provoking taunting tone—old fool that I am, the very
remembrance makes my blood boil. "Here is a fine end to your airs,
forsooth; a country wench to be set up for a lady!"

The words were not out of her mouth before she received a stinging box
on each ear from the hands of my aunt, who had followed her in time to
hear her words.

"Take that—and that—for thy impudence!" said my aunt, repeating the
application. "And let me hear you beg my niece's pardon directly or you
leave the house this hour. Country wench, indeed!" And again my aunt's
hand emphasized her remarks on Betty's cheek. *

"I beg your pardon, mistress!" sobbed Betty.

"That is well. But why are you here at all? I bade Sambo bring the
tray, and where are the manchets I laid upon it."

"Guess dat Betty eat 'em herself!" said Sambo, who stood thoroughly
enjoying Betty's disgrace, for they were old enemies. "I just went out
to bring Missy Lovely—" that was his version of my name—"a flower from
her own bed, and, see here, missy, what I find."

As he spoke, he held up a pair of scissors which we both know to be
Betty's.

   * Much greater ladies than Mrs. Holland beat their maids till long
     after this time. See Pepy's diary.

"Where did you find these?" asked my aunt.

"Sticking in the dirt in Missy Lovely garden," answered the negro. "I
tell you, Missy Holland, dat gal a deep one."

"Hush, Sambo, you forget yourself!" said my aunt, smiling. "Go down and
ask the cook for one of the new baked saffron cakes, and bring it up.
As for you, Betty, I shall watch you, and woe be to you if you have
spoken falsely, or if I hear you use another impertinent word. Go, now,
take your besom and sweep every bit of dust from the summer-house and
the paved walks. Finish the work before you leave it, and let me see it
done nicely, or I will lay one of the besom twigs about your shoulders."

I don't think my aunt was one bit sorry to have a legitimate cause for
falling upon Betty. When we were alone together, she sat down in a
great chair, and drawing me to her, spite of my resistance, she prayed
me most kindly and gently to tell her the whole truth.

"What is the use, aunt?" I asked, not so much sullenly as hopelessly.
"I have told the truth already, and nobody will believe me. You credit
Betty, though you know she tells lies, and I have never told a lie
since I came into the house. And even if you do, my uncle will not. I
thought he was the best man in the world, and now I never can think him
good any more!"

"You know, Loveday, no one would have thought of such a thing if you
had not been naughty before!" said my aunt, gently. "Have I not always
been good to you?"

"Yes, Aunt Joyce."

"And yet, because I gave you a just reproof for carelessness, you
answered me pertly, and then refused to make amends, as is every
Christian person's duty, whether they be young or old. Was that right?"

"I suppose not!" I answered, softening a little. "But indeed, aunt, I
am sure I did not break the glass. I never touched it, and was quite a
distance away when I heard it crack."

"Very well, I will take your account of it!" said my aunt, after a
little consideration. "But why could you not have said so, as well as
to answer me so pertly?"

"I am sorry I was pert!" I answered, softening as soon as I saw that my
aunt was disposed to do me justice. "I beg your pardon. But, indeed,
indeed, I did not break the Indian tree."

"Tell me all about it!" said my aunt. "How was it?"

I began and went over the whole story—how badly I had felt; how I went
to see the Indian tree, and had kissed one of the flowers, because I
fancied that it looked kindly at me; how Madge and Betty had accused
and taunted me; and how in my rage I broke the white lily.

"But that was very foolish!" said my aunt. "What had the poor lily
done?"

"Nothing, aunt! I was sorry the next minute, and I buried it in the
ground that I might not see the poor thing any more."

"That was what Betty saw you doing in your garden, then?"

"Yes, aunt; I suppose so."

My aunt mused a little, holding my hand in hers meantime. Then she
raised her head and said decidedly:

"Loveday, I am disposed to believe that you are telling the truth. I do
not think you hurt the flower, unless you broke it by accident, as you
say you kissed it. Are you sure you did not?"

"Yes, aunt; quite sure. Oh, Aunt Joyce, do believe me. I can't live if
every one thinks me a liar."

And then I began to cry again. My aunt hushed me and tried to make me
eat, but that I could not do. She then undressed me and put me to bed
with her blessing. My fierce indignation was all gone by that time, and
I began to hope that things would come right after all.

I don't know whether or not my aunt imparted to my uncle her own
convictions of my innocence, but if so, she did not succeed in
convincing him. I staid in my solitude all day, but I was allowed
my embroidery frame, and Sambo—with my aunt's connivance, I
imagine—brought his talking popinjay to amuse me. It was a very pretty
and entertaining bird, and I beguiled my solitude by teaching it some
new words and phrases.

Toward night, however, the scene outside became so gay and animated
that I almost forgot my grievances in watching it. As I have said, my
uncle's house was built with the upper stories overhanging, and my room
had besides a projecting window, so I could see up and down the street
for a long way. All the houses had been adorned with garlands of sweet
herbs and flowers, and branches of lights which were now being kindled
and made a fine show. Before every house of any consequence was set a
table with store of meat and drink, which was free to all comers. My
uncle's great chair was placed on the pavement, and Sambo stood behind
it dressed in his gayest suit. The maids, all in their best, were
gathered at an upper window to see the show, and Betty had put herself
particularly forward.

But now came the sound of music and the tramp of horses, and every
body was on the alert. Presently I saw the head of the procession
coming round the corner. First came sundry pageants, morris dancers
with bells, and so forth; then men in bright armor, each one with an
attendant bearing a light upon a pole. Then came the Mayor and his
attendants, on foot and on horseback, all with scarlet jerkins trimmed
with gold lace, and posies at their breasts. I knew one of the footmen
was Betty's bachelor, and had seen him more than once. As he came
abreast of the house, he looked up, and there, fastened in his jerkin,
were the missing flowers.

Somebody else had seen them too. As the man saw his mistress looking
at him, he put his hand to his cap to salute her, and in so doing,
he brushed the flowers from his breast. Before he had time to miss
them, Sambo sprang upon them like a black cat upon a mouse, put them
in his bosom, and returned to his place, before any one but myself,
and I think Betty, saw what he had done. She uttered some sort of
exclamation, and retired from the window, and though she presently
returned, I don't think she greatly enjoyed the rest of the show,
gorgeous as it was.

The procession passed with all its lights and music, its images of
giants, and all the rest of the show, and disappeared in the distance.
The tables were carried in, the lights extinguished, and I went to bed,
feeling greatly comforted by the thought that my innocence was like to
be established.

The next morning my dinner was brought me as usual, and it was not
till noon that my aunt came and led me down to the parlor. There sat
my uncle in his great chair, the withered red flowers on the table
before him. Teddy Stillman, Betty's sweetheart—a decent looking
whitesmith—stood near, twirling his flat cap in his hands, his honest
face cast down with a look of grief and shame. Sambo stood behind his
master's chair, like a statue done in ebony, and Betty was crying in a
corner. My uncle held out his hand to me and bade me approach.

"Do you see these flowers, niece?"

"Yes, uncle," I answered.

"Do you know where they were found?"

"Yes, uncle."

And being further questioned, I told him what I had seen from my window
the night before. The laundry-woman testified to seeing red flowers
fall, and Sambo pick them up, but she had not understood the matter.
She thought they were roses.

"It skills not talking further, Master Corbet," said the whitesmith,
raising his eyes and speaking in a modest, manly sort of way. "It is
true that I had these same red flowers in my breast, and dropped them,
but I saw not the blackamoor pick them up."

"But how came you by them—that is the question," said my uncle. "There
is not their like in London, as I well know. I beg of you, Stillman,
to tell me the whole truth, and you will see my reason for it when I
tell you that this young lady, my niece, hath been accused of wantonly
destroying them, on the witness of Betty Davis, who declares that she
saw Mistress Loveday Corbet about to break them off and stopped her,
and afterward watched her bury something in her own garden-bed, where
she, Betty, professed to find one of the flowers."

"I only said," Betty began; but her grandam stopped her with a clutch
at her arm and a muttered "Be quiet, wench; you will but make matters
worse."

Teddy Stillman cast upon his sweetheart a look of grief, which must
have touched her heart if she had any, and then turned to my uncle.

"I must needs speak, since it is to clear the innocent," said he.
"Betty gave me these flowers yesterday with her own hand, at the back
gate, when I came to put up the branches for the lights. She said
the cat had broken down the plant, and her mistress said she might
have them. So I took them, thinking no evil, as she hath often given
me flowers and posies of rosemary and lavender, which she said her
mistress had given her."

"So that is what became of my lavender buds," said my aunt, who was
great in distilling and compounding of herbs, and worshiped her
lavender beds as if they had been the shrines of saints.

My uncle dismissed Teddy, with thanks and commendation for his
frankness, but I noticed he did not offer him any money. The poor lad
made his obeisance, and passed out without so much as looking at his
sweetheart. Then my uncle, in presence of the whole family, declared
his belief in my entire innocence of what had been charged to me, and,
turning to me, he asked my pardon, saying he had been too ready to
condemn me on the evidence of one who had proved herself a thief and a
liar. This concession on my uncle's part dissolved in a moment all the
remains of my stubbornness.

"No, no, uncle!" I cried, dropping on my knees. "It was I that was
wicked and obstinate, and I am sorry; and I begged aunt's pardon
before. Please forgive me, uncle, and I will not be pert any more."

"We will both forgive and forget," said my uncle, raising and kissing
me.

"You have need to thank Sambo, niece, for it was his sharp sight and
quick hand which brought to light the proofs of your innocence. Give
him your hand."

I did so willingly, and Sambo kissed it with many grins and giggles.
Then the servants were dismissed, and presently I saw Sambo dancing
a dance of triumph on the stones of the garden walk, to the music of
his own singing and whistling. The twins were overjoyed, and would
have given me all their most cherished possessions to celebrate the
event. My uncle said he would take us to the Tower to see the lions,
and bade us get ready. I escaped for a little, and shutting myself in
my own little room, I said a prayer for forgiveness and repeated a
paternoster. As I did so, the sense of the words came to me as never
before, and I resolved that I would try to forgive even Betty.

We went to the Tower and saw the lions—two very fine fellows—a leopard
and some other wild creatures, and enjoyed the fearful pleasure of
feeding the great brown bear with cakes. On the way home, my uncle took
us to see some of the goldsmiths' and other fine shops, and bought us
each a fairing. At one place, a silk mercer's, he asked the elderly man
in attendance about his son.

"He hath not yet returned," said the old man, shaking his head; "a
dangerous service, Master Corbet—a dangerous service; but we must not
withhold even Isaac when the Lord calls for him."

"Truly not, my brother," answered mine uncle; "but I hope the need of
these perilous journeys may soon be past. I heard it from one that
knows what goes on at Court, that his Grace is like to be moved of his
royal bounty to give to this land a free gospel before long."

The old man's face lighted up: "The Lord fulfill it—the Lord fulfill
it, Master Corbet. But think you it is true? The Chancellor is very
bitter against Master Tyndale?"

"The Chancellor is like to need his breath to cool his own porridge, if
all tales be true," said my uncle; "but this is not the place, nor does
it become us to be talking of such matters. I hope your son may soon
return in safety."

When we reached home, which we did in time for supper, Betty was
missing. Anne, the laundry-woman, slept in our room that night. The
next day we heard that Betty had been sent to her home in the country,
and old Madge had gone with her, not choosing to stay after her
favorite grandchild was disgraced. I don't think my aunt was very sorry
to have the old woman go of her own accord, though she would never have
sent her away, for the poor thing was grown so cankered and jealous
that she kept the house in hot water. After Betty's departure, some
of the other maids were very forward in their tales of her dishonest
practices and running out of nights, but my aunt treated these tales
with very little ceremony, saying that the time to have told them was
not behind Betty's back, but when she was there to speak for herself.
I hardly ever saw any one with such a strong sense of justice as Aunt
Joyce. It showed itself in all she did, and was one secret of her
success in governing a household.

Things had now returned to their usual course. I went about my lessons
and my play with the other children, and, warned by what had happened,
was careful to give no just cause of offense. My uncle was kinder to me
than ever, but there was a cloud on his brow and a look of sadness on
his face when his eyes rested on me that I could not understand, and
which made me vaguely uneasy.

Once I heard my aunt say in a tone of deep regret, "Ah, nephew, if only
you had not been so hasty."

And my uncle muttered, "Mea culpa, mea culpa," and hid his face in his
hands.

It was about two weeks after the affair of the flowers that I was
coming in from the garden, when I saw some one that I knew to be a
priest by his dress, passing into mine uncle's private room. I was not
greatly surprised, for we had many clerical visitors, but they were
usually secular priests, while this man was a regular.

I went up to my room—we had been promoted to the tapestry room since
Madge went away, and felt quite grown up in consequence—washed my
hands, and put on a clean kerchief and pinafore, those I wore being
the worse for my labors in the garden. As I was finishing my dressing
operations, my aunt entered the room, and I saw in a moment that she
had been weeping. All of a sudden—I don't know how—a cold weight seemed
to fall on my heart. I have had many such premonitions of evil in my
day, and they have never come without cause.

"My dear child," said she, and then she fell a-weeping as if her heart
would break, for a minute or two, I standing by, wondering what could
have happened, and feeling sure that whatever it was, it concerned
myself. All of a sudden, a notion came across me, and I cried out in
anguish:

"Oh, aunt, have they come to take me away to the convent?"

"It is even so, my child," said my aunt, commanding herself with a
great effort. "The prioress of the convent at Dartford hath sent for
you, and my nephew hath no choice but to let you go."

If a tree that is torn up by the roots can feel, it must feel very
much as I did that morning. I had taken very deep root in my new
home, and, except during the sad time when I was in trouble about
the flowers, I had been very happy. I had come to love my aunt and
uncle dearly, and the twins had become, as it were, a part of my very
heart. I loved the pleasant, easy ways of my uncle's household, where
each was made comfortable according to his degree; where abundance
and cheerful hospitality sat at the board, and peace and love were
our chamber-mates, and watched over our pillows. My uncle was
hasty-tempered, it was true, but even a child as I was could see what a
watch he kept over himself in this respect.

But alas, and woe is me. Such a temper is like a package of gunpowder.
The fire thereof is out in an instant, but in that instant it hath done
damage that can never be repaired.

I was absolutely stricken dumb by the greatness of the calamity which
had overtaken me, and could not speak a word. I think my aunt was
frightened at my silence; for she kissed and tried to rouse me. At last
I faltered—

"Must I go to-day?"

"I fear so, my dear lamb. The prioress of the convent has sent for you
by the hands of their priest, and as two ladies are to travel down into
Kent with him, you will be well attended."

With that, my aunt bestirred herself, and called Anne, the
laundry-woman, to help in getting my clothes together. The twins had
come in by that time; they had been away to visit some old kinswoman of
their mother's, and they had to be told the news: Both Katherine and
Avice cried bitterly, but I could not cry. I was like one stunned.

At last, at my uncle's summons, I was called down to the parlor to
speak with the priest. He was a good-natured looking, easy-going
specimen of a regular, and greeted me kindly enough, bestowing his
blessing as I kneeled to receive it, in that rapid, mechanical fashion
I so well remembered in Father Barnaby and Father John.

"And so you are coming to the convent to be a holy sister, as my good
Lady Peckham desires!" said he. Then to my uncle: "In truth, 'tis a
fair offering, Master Corbet. I almost wonder that having such a jewel
in your hands, you should give her up—that is, if she be as towardly as
she is fair of face?"

"Loveday is a good child in the main, though she has her faults and
follies like other children!" replied my uncle.

"And grown folks, too, eh, Master Corbet?" said the priest, with a
jolly laugh. "I don't know that the follies of youth are worse than the
follies of age, do you?"

"They are not a tenth part as bad!" said mine uncle, with a good deal
of bitterness. "'There is no fool like an old fool,' is a true and
pithy saying."

"Even over true!" returned the priest; then turning to me: "Well,
daughter, you must have wondered that you were left so long, that is,
if you thought of it at all. The truth is, Sister Benedict, who had the
matter in charge, died soon after she came to us, and the affair was
quite forgotten, till your good uncle's letter reminding the prioress
of her duty; she looked over some papers Sister Benedict had left, and
found my Lady Peckham's letter."

So it was my uncle's doing. I remembered all at once his own words: "I
will not have an obstinate liar in my family—" and the cloud that had
rested on his brow ever since. He had done the deed in one of his hasty
fits of temper, and only for him, the prioress would never have thought
of sending for me.

Folks are apt to talk slightingly of the sorrows of childhood, but they
must be those who do not remember their own. When a cup is full, it is
full, and that whether it hold a gill or a gallon. I had been unhappy
enough before at the prospect of going away, but that unhappiness was
nothing to the tide of wretchedness, of disappointed love and impotent
anger that swept over me. I think my first clear thought was that I
would never let my uncle see that I was sorry to go away. So when the
priest asked me again whether I would like to go to the convent I
courtesied and said, in a voice which did not somehow seem to be my own:

"Yes, reverend father, I shall like it very much!"

My uncle looked at me with a face of grieved surprise.

"Are you indeed so glad to leave us, niece!" said he.

"I am glad to go, if you want me to go, uncle!" I answered, in the
same hard voice. "I don't want to stay when you want to get rid of me,
only—" and here I broke down—"only I wish they had buried me in the
same grave with my father and mother, and then I should not be given
away from one to another, like a poor fool or a dog that is in every
one's way!"

I do think I was the boldest, naughtiest child that ever lived, or I
should not have dared to speak so to my elders.

My uncle started from his chair as if something had stung him, and went
hastily out of the room.

The priest looked out of the window. My aunt laid her hand on my
shoulder with that soft yet firm touch which always had a great effect
in calming my tantrums, as old Madge used to call them, and whispered
me to recollect myself and not anger my uncle.

Presently Father Austin called me to him, and began in a gentle,
fatherly way, to tell me how pleasant was the priory at Dartford,
what a nice garden the ladies had, and what fine sweetmeats they
made—talking as one like himself would naturally talk to a child. He
was ever a kind soul, and glad I am that I have had it in my power to
succor his reverend age. But that is going a very long way before my
tale.

"I trust the lady prioress will be kind to my niece," said my Aunt
Joyce.

"I think you need have no fear on that score," answered Father Austin;
"though the little one is not like to have much to do with her. She
will be under the care of the mistress of the novices, an excellent
woman, though I say it that should not, she being mine own sister, and
you need have no fears for her well-being."

Sambo now announced dinner, and my aunt led the way to the dining-room,
where she had prepared quite a feast to do honor to our guest, and
perhaps to put him in a good humor, though that was quite needless. I
think the good man was the only one who enjoyed the collation, though
my uncle strove to eat out of courtesy, and my aunt heaped my plate
with delicacies which I could not touch.

"And now we must be stirring, for the days grow shorter than they were,
and I would fain be at home before dark, though we travel in good
company," said the priest. "There are two young ladies of the family
of Sir James Brandon who travel down with us, and the knight will send
a sufficient escort with them. So, if it please you, Mistress Holland,
let the child be made ready as soon as may be."

"Her packing is all done, and it remains but to say farewell," said my
aunt. "My nephew hath also provided two serving men, one to ride before
Loveday, and the other to drive down and bring back the Sumpter mule."

"Sumpter mule! What is that about a sumpter mule?" asked Father Austin.
"Does my young mistress need a sumpter mule to carry her court dresses?
She will have small need of finery where she is going, Mistress
Holland."

"A child of eight years has small need of finery any where, to my
thinking," answered Mistress Holland. "I am not one that likes to see a
young maid dizzened out. But my brother has prepared a present for the
ladies."

"But a web or two of Hollands and black Cyprus lawn, with some packets
of spices, sugar, and the like," said my uncle, carelessly. "And since
your reverence is pleased to like the white wine, I have ordered a
case to be put up for your own drinking. 'Tis a light and wholesome
beverage."

"Many thanks—many thanks!" said the monk. "Some people might say you
meant to secure a good reception for your niece—but, indeed, you need
not fear for her," he added, kindly. "The house at Dartford is of good
repute, and our prioress is a most excellent lady, of the noble family
of Percy. Most of our sisters are also gentlewomen of good family.
I give you my word, Master Corbet, that Mistress Loveday shall have
every care, though I dare not promise her such feasts and luxuries as
Mistress Holland provides."

"Luxuries are of little account to children, but kindness is every
thing," said my uncle.

"And that, I promise you, she shall not lack," answered the priest,
seriously; then, turning to me: "Come, daughter, ask your uncle's
blessing, and take leave of your cousins. Some day, perhaps, they may
come and see you, but it skills not lingering when parting must come at
last."

Mechanically, I kneeled to my uncle, who folded me in his arms.

"The blessing and prayers of an unworthy sinner go with thee, my poor
child!" said he. "Remember, whatever happens, thou wilt ever have a
home and a portion in thy uncle's house."

"She may need it yet, if things go on as they have begun," muttered the
priest.

My cousins kissed me, and sobbed out their farewells as well as they
could for weeping. I went out to the side door, where the priest's
sleek mule, and my uncle's two men were waiting with their animals.
My uncle kissed me again as he lifted me to my place behind Jacob
Saunders, and whispered:

"I shall come to see thee soon, dear child. Try to be happy, and
remember my house and heart are always open when you need a home."

"Why did you send me away, then?" I said bitterly, more to myself than
him.

He heard me though, and answered, solemnly:

"Because I was a hasty fool, child. Pray for your poor uncle, and if
you can, for your own sake, forgive him."

The priest now mounted his mule, and exchanged a courteous farewell
with my uncle and aunt. The beasts were put in motion, we turned the
corner, and in a moment, I lost sight of the house where I had been so
happy for four long months. It was many a year before I saw it again.
So closed one chapter of my life. It always did seem to me that I left
my childhood behind me at that moment.

I have been the more particular in my account of my days in London, as
matters have so greatly changed since that time. The little almshouses
where we used to go to carry milk to the poor bedesmen and women are
all swept away, and the ground mostly built over. What became of the
old people I know not, but Sir Thomas Audley came into possession of
the land, which he afterward gave to Maudlin College at Cambridge.
There is not a religious foundation of any kind left in London, and St.
Anthony and his pigs are equally to seek. St. Paul's hath been burned
to the ground—by lightning, as was believed at the time and long after,
till the sexton confessed on his death-bed that it was by his own
fault—and is now in process of rebuilding.

The city of London is almost twice as large as it was then; many
places which I knew as open fields being built up, and whole streets
stretching out into the country. America, which at that time was not
known to many people at all—I am sure I never heard of it till I came
to London—is now visited by English ships every year, and merchandise
brought from thence. It is a changed world, and on the whole much for
the better, whatever old folks may say.



[Illustration]

CHAPTER IV.

A NEW LIFE.

WHEN we reached the Strand, we found the rest of our escort waiting
for us before a handsome house which I had often seen in my walks.
There were two or three stout fellows well-armed, and a sober, somewhat
vinegar-faced man, dressed like a steward or something of that sort.
Two other men led palfreys caparisoned for women's use. As we drew
near and joined the group, the door opened and two ladies were led
forth. They were closely veiled, yet I could see that one was young
and handsome. As she was put upon her horse, she raised her veil for a
moment and looked about with a wild, despairing glance, like that of
some small, helpless, trapped animal, seeking a way of escape. In a
moment, the veil was dropped again, the other lady mounted her horse,
and the whole cavalcade set forward as briskly as the state of the road
would permit.

The fresh, sharp, autumn air; the quick movement, and the change of
scene, roused me a little from the heavy stupor of grief and rage—I
know not what else to call it—which had oppressed me, and I began to
look about me. Father Austin seemed to note the change, and began
gently to point out different objects of interest. He showed me the
house where he himself was born and brought up—a comfortable old red
brick hall, looking like the very home of peace and plenty in its
ancient elm and nut trees, and began to tell me little tales of his
boyhood, of his mother and sisters and his pet rabbits.

At first I was conscious of nothing but a wish to be let alone, but
almost insensibly I began to listen, to be interested, and asked little
questions. The sharp, heavy distress was at my heart still, but as
one suffering from the pain of a wound is yet willing to be a little
diverted from his misery, albeit the pain is not lessened thereby, so I
was not sorry to listen to the kind father's tale. Presently we passed
a building shut in by high walls, like a convent, and as the road wound
close by the gate, we could hear within sounds of somewhat unbridled
mirth and laughter.

"What house is that?" asked the steward, who rode close by us.

"It was the house of Our Lord once," said the father, dryly. "Now it
belongs to Master Cromwell."

The man bit his lip as if he had received some sort of check, and fell
back a little. The house was, in fact, one of the many small convents
which had fallen during the past few years.

We stopped at a way-side inn for some refreshment, and one of the men
brought me a glass of small ale, but I could not take it, and begged
for a drink of pure water instead. My head ached, and I felt parched
with thirst. The priest asked the buxom hostess who brought me the
water, if there were any news.

"Nothing your reverence, save that the foxes have caught and carried
off two or three lambs, but 'tis thought their den will be broken up
before long."

I saw two or three of the men who were standing about wink at each
other as if there were some jest concealed under the woman's words.
Father Austin answered her gently:

"There are many sorts of foxes, and other beasts also, which spoil
the flocks, and the worst of all, are wolves which come in sheep's
clothing: remember that, my daughter."

Young and distraught as I was, I could not but notice the difference
between the treatment of the priest here, and that which he would have
received in our neighborhood at Peckham Hall. There, whenever the abbot
or Father Barnaby rode abroad, all bowed before them, as if they had
been the pope himself, and even our own old fat, sleepy Sir John, was
greeted with bared heads; but here, such as we met contented themselves
with a careless lifting of hat or cap for a moment, and many gave
Father Austin no greeting at all. Others on the contrary were very
forward in craving his blessing, even kissing the hem of his robe or
the furniture of his mule.

The two ladies rode along close together, but never, that I could see,
exchanging a word. However, the elder did speak to the younger once
or twice, but she got no answer save an impatient shake of the head.
It was now drawing toward evening, and I well remember how the level
rays of the setting sun shone through the orchards, making the ripening
apples glow like balls of gold and fire among the dusky leaves. The
sight recalled so clearly to my mind the orchards of my native West
Country, that when we ascended a little rising ground, and the priest
remarked that we should soon see home, I looked out, expecting for a
moment to behold the gray battlements of Peckham Hall. But no doubt my
head was bewildered even then by the fever which was stealing over me.

"There, daughters, that is your future home," said Father Austin,
pointing downward, when we had attained the top of the little eminence.

The younger lady uttered an exclamation of some sort, and turned
her horse as though she would have fled, but her sister and the
steward both at once laid their hands upon her bridle rein, and she
made no further move. I roused myself from the sort of stupor that
was bewildering me, and looked. I saw a large garden and orchard,
surrounded by a high stone wall, having an embattled gateway. In the
midst was a pile of old red brick buildings and a church. The little
river Darent ran close by, and a stream seemed to be diverted from
it to water the convent grounds; I could see the water sparkling
in the sun. It was, I suppose, the hour of recreation; for various
black-veiled and white-veiled figures were walking in the orchard and
garden, while even at this distance, the fitful sound of music reached
our ears. It was indeed a sweet and peaceful scene.

"That is Sister Cecilia practicing in the church! We have the best pair
of organs in all the country," said Father Austin, with simple pride;
"there is nothing like them in all London."

We now put our horses to a brisk pace, and passing through the gateway
I have spoken of, we entered a sort of paved outer court, where the men
dismounted, and we women folk were also taken from our horses. We were
led through an inner gate which opened upon a long paved walk leading
up through the orchard and garden to the house. I was growing more and
more confused; but I remember well all the sisters pausing to look at
us, as was but natural, poor things, and my feeling an unreasoning
anger against them for so doing. I have also a vivid impression of some
bright flowers growing by the path. Two or three of the dark-robed
group now came forward to meet us.

"Here are our new daughters," said the priest, "and tired enough they
are, poor things. I fear the child is not well."

"Holy Virgin! I trust she hath not brought the sickness among us," said
one of the number, shrinking back.

"I dare say she is only weary with her journey," said a kind voice, and
one of the ladies took my hand to lead me into the house. "Come with
me, my child, and we will find some supper and a bed for these tired
little bones."

I am conscious of hearing the words, but they sounded far and strange,
as talk does in the very early morning, when one is half-asleep. I
heard also an exclamation of surprise and pity, and then my senses
failed me. The next I knew, I found myself being undressed and put into
bed, while my teeth chattered and every limb was shaking under the
influence of a strong ague.

From that time, for several weeks, my recollections are mostly a blank.
I remember begging for water, water, and loathing the apple-tea and
gruel they brought me instead. I remember seeing people about me and
hearing voices, but it is all dim and dreamlike. At last, one day, I
woke and saw Father Austin standing by my bed, with a lady so exactly
like him, that if they had changed clothes no one would have known
which was which.

"Water!" I gasped. It was always my first word on waking.

"Do you think I might give her a little?" asked the lady. "She does
crave it so, poor little thing."

"Yes, give her what she wants; it will make no difference," said the
priest, sadly.

He went away, and the lady brought me a small cup of cool, fresh water.
I drained every drop and begged for more.

"You shall have more by and by, if this does not hurt you," said the
lady. "Be a good child."

I dropped again into a doze. When I waked, I was alone, and the jug,
from which my nurse had poured the water, stood on a little table near
by. An overmastering desire took possession of me. I crept out of
bed, and, steadying myself by the wall, I reached the jug, and though
I could hardly lift it so as to get at its contents, I drained every
drop. There must have been nearly a quart. Then getting back into bed,
I fell asleep and slept soundly. I woke from a dream of my home before
I went to Peckham Hall, and found that it was dark and the lady I had
seen before was standing by me with a light in her hand. She bent down
and put her hand on my forehead.

"The saints be praised, here is a blessed change," said she. "The fever
is wholly gone, and your skin is cool and moist. Do you feel better?"

I made a motion of assent. Now that the fever had left me, I was as
weak as an infant.

"Well, well. Perhaps the water did you good, after all. Do you want
more?"

I nodded. She took up the jug, and seemed surprised to find it empty,
but asked no questions, and gave it to an attendant outside, who
presently returned, and I had another delightful drink, but I was not
so thirsty as before.

"Do you think you could eat something, my child?" asked my new friend.

I assented eagerly, for I had begun to feel decidedly hungry. She again
gave some orders to the person outside, who, by and by, brought I know
not what delicate preparation of milk. I took all that was given me,
and would gladly have had more.

From that hour my recovery was rapid, and I was soon able to walk about
the room, which was a large one with several beds, and was, indeed, the
infirmary for the pupils. Then I was allowed to walk in the gallery,
and so, by degrees, I took my place in the family, and began to
understand somewhat of its constitution and politics.

Dartford nunnery was a place of no little consequence in my time,
having some twenty professed nuns besides the prioress and other
needful officers, such as sacristan, mother assistant and mistress of
novices. It was a wealthy foundation, owning, besides its fair home
domain, other wide fields and orchards which brought in a good revenue.
Most, if not all of the sisters were ladies of family and breeding.

The house had a good reputation for sanctity, and certainly there
were no scandals in my time, or at least so I think, and I was always
sufficiently sharp-sighted.

When I was able to walk about and see my new home, which was not till
cold weather, I had to confess that it was a fair one. The garden was
very large and contained many fine fruit trees, apples, plums, and
cherries, besides great grape vines and apricots, trained in curious
fashion against the south wall.

The house had been founded in 1371, and it was said, though I doubt
it, that a part of the first fabric was still standing in my time.
Any how some of the building was very old, and it had been added to
as convenience dictated, till there was no regularity to it; yet the
material being the same throughout, and the walls much overgrown with
ivy, there subsisted a certain harmony in the parts which was pleasing
to the eye.

The church was a fine one and contained some valuable relics, such as
Mary Magdalene's girdle—she must have had a good many girdles in her
time—a bottle containing some smoke from the Virgin's fire, and a glass
of St. Anne's tears, * with others which I don't now remember, all
inclosed in rich reliquaries and boxes, or highly ornamented shrines.
They were exposed in the church on feast days for the adoration of the
faithful.

   * All these relics are authentic, and may be found in Leighton's list
     contained in his letters.

But the faithful were not so much disposed to adore as in times past.
The leaven of incredulity was spreading among the poor, and the new
Learning, as it was called, among the rich. It was understood that the
king himself had his doubts about such matters; he was at drawn daggers
with the pope about his divorce; the great cardinal was in disgrace and
likely to lose all his preferments, and nobody knew what was likely to
come next.

But we young ones, shut in by the gray stone walls, were happily
unconscious of the storms that raged without. Children are easily
reconciled to any change that is not greatly for the worse, and I soon
became as much at home as if I had always lived here. I must needs say
that every one was kind to me, especially so when I was recovering.

I used to have terrible fits of homesickness, which were not lessened
by the anger which still dwelt in my heart against my uncle. These
usually ended in a fit of crying and that in a chill, so it is no
wonder that Mother Joanna (that was the name of the Mistress of the
Novices) had a dread of them. So, at the last, she took to setting me
tasks and work, and finding that I had a talent for music, she put
Sister Cicely upon giving me lessons upon the lute and in singing,
which lessons have since been of great use to me.

At my first recovery from my sickness, as I have said, my mind was
almost a blank; but by and by my memory came back and I began to
recollect and compare things, and to ask questions. Mother Joanna liked
me about her when she was busy. Her eyesight was not as good as it had
been, and she found it convenient to have me thread her needles when
she was sewing, and do other little offices for her. One day, she was
preparing some work for the children (for we had a day-school in a
little house near the gate, where the girls from the village learned to
sew and spin and to say their prayers); one day, I say, when we were
thus engaged, I ventured to ask:

"Dear mother, did my uncle come to see me when I was sick?"

"No, child, your uncle is gone abroad, as I understand, to Holland,
about some matters of business—but your aunt sent to inquire for you
twice."

"Who came?" I inquired.

"How do I know, child! You ask too many questions. It was an elderly
serving man with a scar on his face."

"Joseph Saunders," I said. "Do you know if my aunt and cousins were
well?"

"Yes, they are all well. I asked because I thought you would like to
know."

"Dear mother, you are very kind."

"Well, I mean to be kind, and so I am going to talk plainly to you,
child. You must give up all notion of going back to your uncle's house,
for that will never be. My Lady Peckham has given you to this house—she
having absolute control of you since Sir Edward's death—"

"Is Sir Edward dead?" I asked, in dismay.

"Yes, he died in Scotland. There, don't cry, my dear; I thought you
knew it, or I would not have told you so suddenly. I know it is natural
for you to grieve for him, but we must curb even natural affections
when they stand in the way of our duty."

But I could not help crying. Sir Edward had been uniformly kind to me,
and I loved him dearly. The news of his death was a dreadful shock, and
the end of it was, that I had another ague and was sick for several
days.

When I got able to be about again, I was sent for to the prioress's
parlor. I had hitherto seen this lady, only at an awful distance, and,
so far as I know, she had never spoken to me. She was a very great lady
being some way, I know not how, akin to Bishop Gardner.

By the rule of our constitution, we were to elect a prioress every
three years, but there was nothing to hinder the same person from being
elected again and again, and Mother Paulina was such a Queen Log that I
imagine nobody cared to get rid of her. She was an indolent, easy-going
body, caring, I do think, more for her own ease and comfort than any
thing else, and very little troubled as to how matters went in the
house, so long as they did not come in her way. Like many such persons,
however, she now and then took a fit of activity and authority, when
she would go about the house interfering in every body's business
whether she knew any thing about the matter in hand or not, giving
contradictory orders and setting things generally at sixes and sevens.
This happily accomplished, and her conscience discharged, she would
relapse into her great chair and her indolence again, and leave matters
to settle as they might.

One of these fits was on her just now. She had been out in the garden
in the morning, scolding the gardener about the management of the
winter celery and the training of the apricots, of which she knew as
much as she did of Hebrew. I saw her two attendant sisters fairly
laughing behind her back.

As for the gardener, he was a sober old Scotsman, who had come to this
country in the train of some of the banished Scots lords, and liked it
too well to leave it. He understood his business, and his mistress,
too. He would stand, cap in hand, in an attitude of the deepest
humility, listening to his lady's lectures and throwing in a word now
and then, as—

"Na doot, madam! Ye'll hae the right o't. I would say so!"

Then he would go on his own course, precisely as if she had not spoken,
and she, having said her say without contradiction, would imagine she
had had her own way. (It is not a bad way to deal with unreasonable
people, as I have learned by experience.)

I found the lady sitting in her great chair, beside a table on which
was a crucifix of gold and ivory, a vase for holy water, and a box
which I supposed to contain some holy relic. A handsome rug was before
her chair, and she rested her feet on an embroidered hassock. According
to the custom of the house, two sisters stood behind her. The younger
sisters took this duty in rotation.

"So!" said she, when I had made my obeisance. "You are the child who
was sent hither by my Lady Peckham."

This in a severe tone, as if I had been much to blame for being such a
child.

"And why did not you come hither at once, instead of stopping four
months in London, and putting me to all that trouble of looking over
poor Sister Benedict's things, and finding my lady's letter."

To which I could only answer that I did not know. As if a little chit
like myself would have any hand in her own disposal.

"Well, now you are here, you must be content. Mother Joanna says you
are homesick and make yourself ill by crying. That must be stopped. If
I hear any more of it, I will try what virtue is in a birch twig to
cure ague. I am afraid you are a naughty child, or your uncle would not
have been in such a hurry to get rid of you."

How easy it is for idle or careless hands to gall a sore wound. Her
words were like a stab to me, but I set my teeth and clenched my hands
and made no sign.

"But now you must understand, once for all, that I will have no more
crying or homesickness!" pursued the lady, who was like a stone that
once set a-going down hill rolls on by its own weight.

"You are in a good home and a holy house, where you may grow up without
danger of being infected by the heresies, which, as we hear, are so
rife in London. Your good mistress, Lady Peckham, will give you a dowry
when you are professed, and some time you may come to be prioress, and
sit in this chair; who knows?" concluded the lady, relapsing into an
easy talking tone, having, I suppose, sustained her dignity as long as
was convenient. "So now be a good child, and here is a piece of candied
angelica for you!" she added, taking the cover from what I had taken
for a reliquary, "and pray don't let us have any more crying."

I took the sweetmeat with a courtesy, and afterward gave it to one of
the lay sisters, having no great fondness for such things.

"And how did you leave my Lady Peckham?" pursued the prioress; then,
without waiting for an answer: "We were girls at school together,
though she was older than I—oh, yes, quite a good deal older, I should
say. Let me see, she married twice, I think. What was her first
husband's name?"

"Walter Corbet, madam?" I managed to say.

I was feeling very queer by that time, being weak and unused to
standing so long. The prioress was pursuing her catechism, when I saw
the two attendant sisters look at each other, and then one of them bent
down as if to whisper in the lady's ear. That was the last I did see or
know till I woke, as it were, to find myself on the floor, with one of
the sisters bathing my face with some strong waters, and the prioress
fussing about, wringing her hands and calling on all the saints in the
calendar. I felt very dreamy and strange, and, I fancy, lost myself
again, for the next thing I heard was Mother Joanna's voice, speaking
in the tone which showed she was displeased.

"You kept her standing too long, that is all. Nobody recovering from a
fever should be kept standing."

"You don't think she will die, do you, mother?" asked one of the
sisters, I do believe out of sheer mischief.

"Holy Virgin! You don't think so?" cried the prioress. "Holy Saint
Joseph! What shall I do? Send for Father Austin, somebody, quick! Bring
her the holy Magdalene's girdle, or the thumb of Saint Bartholomew.
Holy Magdalene! I will vow—"

"Reverend mother, please do be quiet!" interposed Mother Joanna, with
very little ceremony. "The child is not dying, if she be not scared
to death by all this noise. Sister Priscilla, go and see that her bed
is ready. Come, Loveday," in her crisp, kindly tone, "rouse yourself,
child. Why, that is well!" As I opened my eyes—"There, don't try to sit
up, but take what the sister is giving you, and we will soon have you
better. Open the casement a moment, Sister Anne; the room is stifling."

"Really, sister!" said the prioress, in an injured tone, "I think you
should remember that you are in my apartment, before you take such a
liberty. The child will do well enough, I dare say. It is more than
half pretense to get herself noticed, and I believe might be whipped
out of her," she pursued, for having a little gotten over her fright,
she was beginning to be angry with the cause of it.

Mother Joanna treated the reproof and the suggestion with equally
little ceremony, and gathering me up in her strong arms, she bore me
off to my bed in the dormitory, and went to bring me some soup. I was
quite myself in a few hours, and from that time, my health improved
so that I was soon as well as I had ever been in my life. Every one
was kind to me, as I have said. I went to work with great zeal at my
lessons in music and needlework, both of which I loved.

One day, I was holding some silk for Sister Denys. She was the novice
who had entered the house at the same time as myself, and had taken
the white veil while I was ill. She was very young, and, but for her
unvarying expression of listless sadness, would have been very pretty;
but she moved more like a machine, than a living creature, never spoke
if she could help it, and faded day by day, like a waning moon. I more
than once saw Mother Joanna shake her head sadly as she looked at the
poor thing.

Well, as I said, I was holding some thread for her, when somehow, I
don't know how it happened, I made use of a Latin phrase. I saw that
she started, and her eyes brightened.

"Do you know Latin, child—I mean, so as to understand it?"

I was as much surprised as if the image of Mary Magdalene in the chapel
had spoken to me, but I made haste to answer—

"Yes, Sister Denys; I have learned it for two or three years. And I
have read through the 'Orbis Sensualium Pietus;' * and some of Cornelius
Nepos, and I have read a part of St. Matthew his Gospel in the
Vulgate—" (so I had, with my uncle). "I wish I had lessons here," I
added, regretfully. "I have forgot so much since I had the fever, and I
love my Latin, because I used to read it with Walter."

   * I am not sure that I have not antedated this wonderful schoolbook.

"Who was Walter—your brother?"

"No, sister; my cousin," and then, in answer to her questions, I began,
nothing loth, to tell her of my home in Somersetshire.

Presently she dropped the silk, and I saw she was weeping bitterly.

"Never mind, little maiden—you have done me good," she said at last, as
I stood by her side, dismayed at her sorrow, yet feeling by instinct
that it was better to let her have her cry out, without calling any
one. She made a great effort to check her sobs, and presently, kissing
me, she added:

"I know Latin, and I will teach you, if the mother is willing."

"I am sure she will be willing!" I answered. "She said herself it was a
pity I should lose what I had gained."

And the mother passing at the moment, I preferred my petition to her. I
think she was unfeignedly pleased to see poor Sister Denys interested
in any thing. She did not go through the usual form of referring to the
prioress, as indeed, she was not obliged to do, she having the whole
care of the novices and pupils, but bade me fetch my books, which had
been sent me from London, and take a lesson on the spot.

For a while these lessons went on very prosperously. Sister Denys was
a good Latin scholar, and finding that I was diligent, reasonably
quick, and liked learning for its own sake, she began also to teach
me French. All that winter I studied hard, and between Sister Denys,
Sister Cicely, with her music lessons, and Sister Theresa, with her
embroidery, I had my hands full. I did no more work than was good for
me, and had plenty of play and sleep, and, on the whole, I was very
well content with my new home, though I used, now and then, to have
fits of longing after my Aunt Joyce and my cousins.

One day in spring, I was called to the parlor. Supposing I was
wanted to do some errand—I was errand-boy, or rather girl, for the
establishment—I went carelessly enough. The prioress was there, with
her attendant sisters and mother assistant, and as I came forward to
the wide grating that divided the room, I found myself face to face
with my aunt and cousins.

What a meeting it was! Aunt Joyce had grown older and looked careworn,
and the twins were a head taller, but that was all the change. The
mother assistant whispered to the prioress, who assented.

"There, you may go outside the grating and speak to your aunt and
cousins, child!" said she. "You are not professed; so it can do no
harm."

In another minute I was in my aunt's arms, smothered with kisses, and
turning from one to the other in a very bewilderment of joy. I could
not help hoping for a moment that they had come to take me away, but my
hopes were quickly dashed.

They had come on another errand, namely, to bid me a long farewell. My
uncle had been back and forth between London and Antwerp several times,
but now he had removed his business wholly to that city, and determined
to settle there for the rest of his life. There was a great deal of
commerce between Antwerp and London at that time, and more things were
brought over in the way of merchandise than passed the customs.

Again the mother assistant whispered the prioress, and then addressed
herself to me.

"Loveday, you may take your aunt and cousins to see the church and the
garden and orchard. I am sure they will take no undue advantage."

"Surely not, reverend mother!" said my aunt, with a deep reverence. "It
will be a great pleasure to me to see my niece's future home. Joseph
Saunders is waiting without with a present for the house, and I have
ventured to take the liberty of bringing down our cat, if the ladies
are fond of such pets. He is a fine creature and somewhat uncommon."

"I saw in a moment that mother assistant was gratified. She loved
pet animals, and indeed, that was about the only indulgence she ever
permitted herself.

"A cat—oh, yes. Mother assistant will be delighted, I am sure!"
said the prioress, rather peevishly. "She loves a cat better than a
Christian, any day."

"And my nephew hath sent a case or two of foreign sweetmeats and some
Basle gingerbread," * continued my aunt, without noticing this not very
dignified outburst—"with some loaves of sugar and a packet of spices.
He hopes my lady prioress will condescend to accept them as a token of
gratitude for her kindness to his niece."

"Certainly—certainly, and with thanks!" answered the prioress, with
alacrity. "Tell him, he shall have our prayers for his journey. I am
sure he cannot be inclined to heresy as they say, or he would never
send such nice presents to our house."

   * Basle then, as now, was famous for its gingerbread, which is,
     in fact, a rich and spicy kind of iced plum cake—made to keep long.

"There, go child, and show your cousins the garden and the orchard!"
said the mother assistant, interposing rather more hastily than was
consistent with good discipline. "I will come presently and make
acquaintance with this wonderful cat."

I was not slow in availing myself of the permission.

As I stopped to shut the door, whereof the lock was out of order, I
heard the prioress say, in an aggrieved tone, "Really, sister—" and
I knew she was, as usual, asserting her dignity, and defending her
authority, which took a good deal of defending, certainly.

I drew my aunt and cousins out to the gate, and we quickly released
Turk from his imprisonment. He was hugely indignant at first. But
finding himself among friends, and being invited to partake of
refreshment, he very soon smoothed his ruffled plumes, and before long
was entirely at home.

"We could not well take him with us, and my uncle thought you would
like to have him," said my aunt. "But let us look at you, child. How
well you look, and how you have grown. You are happy here, are you not?"

"Yes, aunt!" said I, indifferently. "If I cannot be with you and my
cousins, I might as well be here. They are all kind. But oh, aunt, why
does my uncle go away so far—and to a strange country, too?"

"I cannot tell you, dear child. He has good reasons, or he would never
do so. You may guess it is hard, in my old age, to be transplanted to a
foreign soil, and have to learn new ways and new tongues; but God knows
best. His will be done."

"There are a great many English in Antwerp, my father says!" observed
Katherine.

"Yes, that is true, and some that we know—at least, that your father
knows."

"And my father says his house is a fine one—even finer than ours in
London," said Avice; "but I know I shall never like it as well."

"But tell me all about it!" said I. "Is Sambo going?"

"Yes, and Anne the launder, and Joseph Saunders, but no one else.
Master Davis, the silk mercer, hath hired our house, and he loves
flowers as well as my father, so the garden will be cared for."

"I should not think Joseph would go—he is so old!"

"He hath been there with my nephew and knows the ways and the language;
so he will be a help in getting settled!" said Aunt Joyce, who seemed
to feel the change far more than the girls, as was indeed natural.
"But, after all, life is short, and Paradise is as near to Antwerp as
to London. That is the great comfort. But Loveday, now that we are
alone together, I must give you your uncle's charge and his letter."

The letter was short, but earnest. My uncle bade me make myself
contented so far as I could, but he charged me to remember that I was
not to be professed till I was twenty-one.

   "Should any thing happen to make you need a home—as is not
impossible, if I read the signs of the times aright," so the letter
proceeded, "do you go to my old friend, Master Davis, the silk mercer,
who will always know where I am, and how to send to me. His wife is
a good woman, and they will gladly give you a home."

   My uncle concluded by once more asking my forgiveness
for his hasty action, and most solemnly gave me his blessing.

My aunt bade me give her back the letter, and I did so, however
reluctantly, knowing that it would not be well to have it found with
me. In a convent, nothing is one's own, and one is all the time watched.

When we had seen the garden and orchard, the church and such other
parts of the domain as it was proper to show to strangers, we were
called into the refectory where an elegant little repast was provided,
of which I was allowed to partake with them. The time for parting came
all too soon, for the ride to town was not a short one, and though the
days were now at the longest, the party could not more than reach home
before dark.

I will not dwell on that sorrowful parting. Mother Joanna led me
away, and when I had wept awhile, she began to quiet me. She said
what was true, that I had been greatly indulged in being allowed such
free intercourse with my friends, and that I must show my gratitude
by striving to restrain my grief so as not to make myself ill. She
said a good deal, too, in her sweet, gentle way, of submitting our
wills to the will of Heaven, because that will is sure to be best for
us, since our heavenly Father seeing the end from the beginning, and
having, as it were, our whole lives spread out before him, can judge
far better than we can. (I began to observe, about this time, that
while the prioress and the other ladies invoked saints by the gross on
all occasions, the mother assistant and Mother Joanna rarely or never
did so.) The dear mother understood me well. I saw the reasonableness
of what she urged, and made a great effort to control my feelings, and
though my pillow was wet with tears for that, and more than one night
afterward, I took care that my grief should be troublesome to no one.

It was not long after my aunt's visit, that another friend was taken,
who proved a great loss to me, and that was Sister Denys. She had
gradually improved in health, and I believe the interest she took in
my lessons was a great benefit to her; but I do not think she became
a whit more reconciled to her way of life. She used to remind me of
a vixen * Walter had, which, though tame enough to know and love her
keeper, and eat out of his hand, did yet never give up trying to escape
from her captivity. I remember old Ralph saying that if the creature
did once really give up the hope of getting away, she would die.

   * All my readers may not know that Vixen is the proper name of a
     female fox.

Sister Denys was like that vixen, I think—the hope of escape kept her
alive. About this time, she began greatly to frequent a little chapel
of our patron saint built in our orchard, and more than once I had seen
her talking with an old man, a great, awkward, shambling creature with
one eye, whom old Adam, our Scotch gardener, had hired to assist him.
I wondered what she wanted with him, but I had learned by that time
enough of convent politics to see much and say nothing.

One fine morning, Sister Denys and the old lame gardener were both
missing, and when I ventured to ask what had become of them, I was told
that Sister Denys had gone to another house to be professed, and that
the gardener had been dismissed. Young as I was, a kind of inkling of
the truth came over me, but I did not know the whole of it till long
and long after that time. Of course, there was not a word of truth in
the story, but almost any thing is allowable to save scandal, as the
phrase is, and a pretty big fib told in the interest of the church is,
at worst, a venial sin.



[Illustration]

CHAPTER V.

THE THUNDER STRIKES.

I DO not propose to go very minutely into the details of my convent
life. I remained at Dartford for several years, fairly content for the
most part, though I now and then had a great desire after more freedom.
I wearied of the trim grass plots, the orderly garden, and the orchard
shut in from the rest of the world by high walls, and longed to find
myself in the open fields, with no visible bound to my footsteps. I
remembered my uncle's house in London, and wished myself back there,
or with the family in their new home. For a time after their removal to
Antwerp, I heard from the family. At least twice a year, a packet came
with letters for me, and some valuable present for the house, of spice,
or comfits, or wonderful lace, such as they know how to make in those
parts. But after a time, these packets stopped coming, and for many a
year, I had no news of these dear ones at all.

I had one visit from my Lady Peckham during this time. She came to
London on some business about her husband's estate, which could not be
easily settled, as there was no absolute proof that Randall was dead.
The next heir was a distant relation of Sir Edward's, who lived near
London. But this gentleman was an easy-going sort of person I fancy,
or perhaps he did not care about burying himself in that wild part of
Somersetshire. Any how, he agreed, in consideration of a certain share
of the rents of the estate, to let Lady Peckham live in the house as
long as she pleased. She had brought Sir Edward a good fortune, which
was settled wholly on herself, so she was very well-to-do.

It seemed to me that she had altered very little. She had accepted
the mantle and veil, and made the vow of perpetual widowhood, and
so might be looked upon as, in some sort, a religious person as the
phrase went in those times. She staid with us a month or more, and
was, or professed to be, very much edified, though I think she was
rather scandalized at the easiness of our rule, which was, indeed,
very different from the discipline which used to be enforced at the
house to which I had been first destined at Bridgewater. I do not mean
to say that there was any disorder—far from it: but things went on in
a comfortable, business-like fashion. There were so many services to
be gone through, and they were gone through with all due gravity and
decorum. We had beautiful singing, which people came from far and near
to hear. We kept our fast days strictly enough as regards the eating
of flesh meat, but our own stews gave us abundance of fish, and our
orchard and garden supplied fruit and vegetables, so that we certainly
did not suffer from our abstinence.

However, I suppose my lady must have been well pleased on the whole,
for she tried very hard to make me consent to take the white or
novice's veil. This, however, I would not do, pleading my solemn
promise to Sir Edward and my uncle Gabriel. My lady declared that
such promises made by a child amounted to nothing, and appealed to
Father Austin. I don't know what he said to her, but it must have been
something conclusive, since she said no more to me on the matter.

I ventured to ask about my old friend and playmate, Walter Corbet.
She told me that he was still with Sir John Lambert, at Bridgewater,
assisting in the care of the parish, but that he had some prospect of a
new field of his own in Devon, not far from my old home.

"'Tis a wild and lonely place, and almost a savage people, so I am
told," said my lady. "But Walter seems to think the prospect of burying
himself among them a delightful one. Oh, if he would but have taken
the vows at Glastonbury, he might come to be abbot in time, instead of
living and dying in the gray walls of Ashcombe vicarage."

But those same gray walls are still whole and warm, while Glastonbury
is but a stately ruin, wasted by all the airs that blow freely through
its deserted halls. This, by the way.

My lady left us, as I have said, at the end of a month, to return to
Peckham Hall, though at her first coming she had talked of spending the
remainder of her days among us. But I think she was wise. Such a life
as ours would not have suited her at all. She liked to rule wherever
she was, and had been used many years to almost absolute authority,
for Sir Edward rarely interfered in any matter which concerned the
household; and she was too old and too set to learn new ways. From
something I overheard, I don't think mother assistant favored the
notion. I have heard her say myself that a nun ought to be professed
before she is twenty. I never saw my lady again, though I heard from
her now and then.

Mother assistant was now the real head and ruler of the house, for the
prioress grew more and more indolent every day. She excused herself on
the score of her health, though I cannot but think she would have been
well enough if she had taken more exercise and eaten fewer sweetmeats.
She could not have had a better deputy than the mother assistant, who
was an excellent woman and well fitted to rule a household. I never saw
a woman of a more even temper, and she had that precious faculty of
making every one do her best in her own place.

Mother Joanna continued mistress of the novices, though her task
was a light one, for we had very few accessions; our elections were
regularly gone through with, but they were no more than a form, since
the very same officers were elected over and over, save when some
one died. Sister Sacristine, who was only a middle-aged woman when
I came to Dartford, was growing old and feeble. Two new bursars had
been elected. The trees had grown older, and the old Scotch gardener
more opinionated. Sister Cicely's hands grew too stiff to manage the
organ at times, and I often took her place, and acquitted myself to
the satisfaction of my hearers; and these are about all the changes I
remember, till the great change of all.

I have said our lives were very quiet, and so they were. But when a
storm is raging, it is hard to keep all knowledge or sign of it out of
the house. We heard, now and again, rumors of the changes that were
going on outside. I remember well when Sister Emma, the stewardess,
heard from Dame Hurst, who now and then brought oysters and other
sea-fish for sale, that a great English Bible had been chained to a
pillar in the parish church at Dartford; where any one who listed could
go and hear it read, or read it for themselves, if they pleased. Sister
Emma told us this wonderful piece of news when we were all assembled
under the grape-arbor, shelling of peas for our fast day mess.

It was received with a degree of horror and amazement, which seems
strange as I remember it, now that every householder who can afford it
may have a Bible of his own.

"What an indignity!" exclaimed Sister Agnes. "To think that the Holy
Scripture should be chained to a pillar, like a man in a pillory, to
be thumbed over by every village clown or dirty fisherman who can make
shift to spell out a few words."

"You would not compare a pillar in the house of our Lord to a pillory,
would you, sister?" asked mother assistant, with that gentle smile of
ridicule which I, for one, dreaded more than the rod, when I had been
naughty.

"Why, no, reverend mother, not exactly," answered Sister Agnes, in some
confusion.

"Any how, it is not the true Word of God, but only the heretics'
translation," said Sister Margaret, sharply. "So it does not matter
what is done with it."

"I don't know about that," remarked another sister, rather timidly.
"I suppose it could not be put in the churches every where, without
the consent of the bishops and the other clergy; and they would not
allow an heretical and false translation in such a place, surely. Only
it is a pity the poor people should be allowed to peril their souls'
salvation by reading the Scriptures in the vulgar tongue."

Even then, I remember, it struck me as curious, that peoples' salvation
should be endangered by reading the Word of God, but I said nothing.

"They will never put any such thing in my church—chained or
unchained—that I know," said Sister Sacristine, with great emphasis,
and in her earnestness emptying the peas in her lap among the cods in
the basket. "I would tear up the book with my own hands, before such
things should be allowed near to the shrine of the Holy Magdalene.
Thank the saints, we are not subject either to bishop or archbishop,
but to our own visitor, and I am very sure he would never order such a
thing."

"In that case, it is hardly worth while to waste one's breath
discussing the matter," said mother assistant. "Loveday, you had better
pick up the peas that Sister Sacristine has scattered. It is a pity
they should be wasted."

"There is no telling what will happen—no telling," said a very old
sister, who was warming herself in the sun. "I have strange visions—I
do. I saw last night the walls of the fold pulled down, and the sheep
scattered far and wide. But I hope it won't come in my time. I have
lived here in these very walls almost eighty years, and I don't want to
live any where else."

"No, there is no telling, and therefore we may dismiss the subject,"
said mother assistant. "When they come to ask us to chain a Bible in
our church, it will be time for us to refuse it. 'Each day's trouble is
sufficient for the same selfe day.'"

The striking of the bell warned us of the end of recreation, and sent
us about our several tasks; but the mother's words lingered in my
ears, and I found myself wondering again and again where I had heard
them before. At last I remembered; I had read them in my uncle's great
book—Master Tyndale's book of the New Testament, as I afterward knew it
to be—on the very first day that I came to London.

Well, the days went on, and though we heard rumors of this and
that—of the disgrace of poor Queen Katherine (which I do maintain was
an infamous shame), and the marriage of the King with Anne Boleyn,
mother of our present good Queen—of the burning of heretics here and
there, and the king's taking church matters more and more into his own
hands—though, as I say, we heard rumors of all these things, they did
not greatly disturb our peace. Our gray circling walls were like the
magic circle of the enchanter, and though strange and malign shapes
were seen in very active exercise outside its bounds, yet none had as
yet broken through. But our time was to come.

It was on a pleasant day in the end of September, in the year of grace
1538, that the first blow fell upon us.

By the same token we had, on that very day, buried old Turk in the
garden under a beautiful laylock tree. The poor old cat had been very
decrepit for a long time, having lost most of his teeth, so that he had
to be fed with hashed meat, and bread soaked in cream. Old Adam had
said more than once that the poor thing would be better put out of his
pain, but I don't believe you could have hired him to do the deed—no,
not with a Dutch tulip-root.

Well, it was on that very day that, coming in from the orchard with a
basket of early apples, I saw Father Austin walking up the paved path,
which led from his house to the church, with such a perturbed face as I
never saw him wear before. He passed through the church, and presently
the whole family were called together in a great hall which joined the
church, and was called—I don't know why—the chapter-room. It was the
room in which our elections were held, and was seldom or never used on
other occasions. There we were, old and young, all standing according
to our degree, and some of us looking scared enough, for rumor flies
fast, and we all had an idea that something dreadful was going to
happen.

The prioress sat in her great chair, with her attendant sisters behind
her, and looked about with a dazed, helpless expression. She had grown
very stout and unwieldy, and some of us thought she was not quite right
in her mind. The elders of the house were at her right hand, and near
by stood Father Austin and another priest, with a thin, clever, crafty
face, whom we knew to be Bishop Gardiner's chaplain, and a person
of great consideration. I always had a dislike to this man; chiefly
because the shape of his head—very flat behind, and with prominent
angles at the jaw-bones—reminded me of a viper. I could not help
thinking at that moment that he watched the prioress as a viper might
watch a fat frog on which he had a design.

When we were all settled, Father Austin raised his hand, and spoke: "My
mothers and sisters, your reverend prioress has called you together
to hear a most important message which our visitor has sent us by his
chaplain, Father Simon, who will now deliver the same."

With that he was silent, and Father Simon spoke. I cannot remember his
words, but the gist of the matter was this: The king had wholly broken
off with the pope, and, by consent of the parliament, had proclaimed
himself supreme head of the English Church. All bishops, heads of
religious houses, and certain other officers were required to take
the oath of supremacy, as it was called, under severe penalties—even
that of death—as was like to be the case with the Bishop of Rochester,
who was now in prison and threatened with the loss of his head. (He
really did come to the scaffold soon after.) It was probable that
commissioners would shortly be sent to our house to administer this
oath, and Bishop Gardiner—who, though not our bishop, was our regular
visitor by some ecclesiastical arrangement which I never understood—had
himself taken this oath, and advised us to submit to the same, as a
necessity of the times.

I was watching the prioress's face during this harangue, which was
delivered in a very gentle and insinuating manner. (My eyes should
have been on the ground, but they have always had an unlucky trick of
wandering.) I say, mine eyes should have been on the ground, but they
were watching our mother's face instead, and I was surprised to see
the change that came over it, as the words and meaning of the father's
address penetrated her understanding. Usually her visage had about as
much expression as a slack-baked pie, and was nearly the same color. By
degrees, as she understood the matter, her dull eyes opened wide, and
grew bright and clear, her loose under-lip was compressed, and a little
color came into her cheeks. When the chaplain was silent, she spoke,
and with such a clear voice and so much dignity of manner that the
sisters glanced at each other in surprise.

"I am somewhat slow of comprehension, good father. I pray you bear with
me, if my questions seem not to the purpose. What is it that the king
hath declared himself?"

The chaplain once more explained that the king now called himself
supreme head of the church.

"But the pope—our Holy Father at Rome—is supreme head of the church in
all Christendom!" said the prioress. "How, then, can that title belong
to His Grace, the King of England? There cannot be two supreme heads."

I saw the chaplain cast a keen glance of satirical amusement at Father
Austin before he proceeded to explain once more that the king, having
quarreled with the pope, in the matter of his wife's divorce and some
other things, utterly denied him any authority or jurisdiction over
the realm of England or its dependencies, and required all persons to
submit to him, as formerly to the pope.

"But he is not the head, so what difference does it make what he calls
himself?" persisted the prioress. "And how can the bishop, who is
himself sworn to obey the pope in all things, obey the king when the
king is opposed to him."

"I am not here to explain or justify the conduct of your venerable
visitor, reverend mother!" said the chaplain, rather arrogantly. "But
only to convey you his counsels and commands. The further continuance
of this holy community—nay, your own life—may depend on your obedience.
You would not like to be put in prison, like the Bishop of Rochester!"

Knowing the mother's love of ease, I suppose he thought this a
knock-down argument, but he was mistaken. One may know a person very
well, and yet not be able to foretell what that person will do in an
emergency.

"I should not like it at all!" said the prioress. "It would be very
uncomfortable to lie upon straw and have nothing but bread and water,
and cold water always makes me ill. But I do not see how that makes
any difference about the pope being head of the church, and if he is
supreme head, then the king cannot be. That is all about it."

With that the chaplain took on a higher tone, and began to bluster a
little. Would she, a mere woman, pretend to sit in judgment not only on
a bishop and her visitor, but also on the king himself? Was it not her
duty as a religious to have no mind of her own, but only to do as she
was told?

"You did not think so, reverend father, when the question was of
placing an English Bible in the church for the sisters to read when
they pleased!" said the prioress. "That was the king's will, too, as I
understand, and yet both our visitor and yourself said I was right in
refusing, because ours was not a parish church. And the very Bible that
was sent down lies locked up in the press in the sacristy. Does it not,
mother assistant?"

"It was there at one time, but I have had it removed to a safer place!"
answered the mother assistant, quietly. I saw the sisters exchange
glances of amazement from under their down-dropped lids. This was the
first time we had heard of any such book. But that is the way in a
convent. A measure which affects your very life may be settled, and you
be none the wiser.

"Very well, reverend mother, I shall say no more at this time!" said
the chaplain, after a moment's pause. "I will report to your reverend
visitor that you have decided to take matters into your own hands,
and that being the case, he will doubtless leave this house and its
inhabitants to their fate—that fate which has already overtaken so
many religious communities. When the commissioners come down and you
see your revenues confiscated and your daughters turned out, and the
beautiful shrine of the Holy Magdalene stripped of all its ornaments
and treasures, I hope you will be satisfied with your contumacy."

"I shall not be satisfied at all, and I don't want my daughters turned
out!" said the prioress. "And I am not contumacious, either. I have
always done just as our visitor directed about every thing, and you
know I have, Father Simon; only I can't see how the king can be supreme
head of the church, when the pope is the head! I would lay down my
life for this house!" she added, raising herself from her chair and
standing erect with a dignity that might have belonged to St. Katherine
of Egypt, or any other sainted queen. "I would be torn by wild beasts
before my dear, dutiful children should be turned out upon the world;
but I can not deny the authority of our Holy Father the Pope, and put
another in his place, without greater and better reason than I see now,
and so with my humble duty and reverence, you may tell his reverence,
Sir Chaplain."

We looked at each other without disguise now, so great was our
amazement. If the figure of the Holy Virgin in the Lady Chapel had
spoken, we should not have been more surprised. But we had not long
to indulge our wonder. I saw the mother assistant move nearer to the
prioress, and in another instant the poor lady had sunk down in her
chair in a fit.

The room was all in confusion for a moment; but nuns, like soldiers,
feel the power of habitual discipline, and in a minute or two, mother
assistant had restored order. She and the sick-nurse were supporting
the prioress, and she called me to help her, as I was one of the
strongest of the family, bidding the others betake themselves to the
work-rooms, where was their place at this hour.

We carried the lady to her own room, with the help of the two
priests—we could hardly have done it without them, she was so heavy—and
Father Austin, who was surgeon as well as priest, proceeded to bleed
her. The blood would hardly flow at first, but at last it did, and the
treatment was so far successful, that the mother opened her eyes, and
swallowed the restorative which was put into her mouth, though she did
not try to speak, and seemed to know no one. We undressed her, and got
her into bed, and then mother assistant dismissed me, bidding me go and
take the air a little for that I looked pale. Indeed I had had much ado
to keep from fainting, as I had never seen any person bled before, but
I summoned all my resolution, and held out.

I went to the workroom where all the sisters were assembled round
the frames, on which the new hangings were being worked for the Lady
Chapel. We were permitted so much converse as was actually needful, at
such times, and not uncommonly the liberty was stretched a little, for,
as I said before, the discipline of our house was not over strict; but
I never heard such a gabble as was now going on. As I entered and went
to the press to find my own particular bit of work (which was a piece
of needle lace on a small frame), intending to take it out into the
summer-house, I was assailed by a volley of questions.

"How is the reverend mother?" "Hath she spoken?" "Will she die?" "Will
she live?" "Will she take the oath?" "Where is the mother assistant,
and Mother Joanna?"

It vexed me to see them all so ready to take advantage of their elder's
absence, and I answered, rather sharply, I fear.

"How many more? The mother is better, but she has not spoken, and no
one knows whether she will live or die—much more whether she will take
the oath. As to mother assistant, and Mother Joanna, it is very plain
that wherever they are, they are not here. One could tell that half a
mile off."

Some of the sisters looked ashamed, but Sister Perpetua answered me
sharply:

"You are very pert, Sister Postulant." (That had been my rank for a
good while now, for I had no other thought than to end my days at St.
Magdalene's.) "It does not become you to reprove and check your elders."

"It does not become her elders to give cause of reproof!" said Sister
Bridget, a quiet, retiring woman, the elder of the party: "The child is
right, and we have been to blame. As the oldest present, I must request
you, sisters, to be quiet and attend to your work."

"You are not the oldest present," answered Sister Perpetua. "Sister
Anne is older than you."

"No, indeed, I am not!" said Sister Anne, with some sharpness. "Sister
Bridget is fully half a dozen years older than I am, are you not,
sister?"

"More than that, I should say," replied Sister Bridget, tranquilly. (N.
B. * She was very pretty and young looking, while Sister Anne was both
plain and wrinkled.) "But you know as well as I, sister, that it is not
age, but standing in the house, that settles such matters. Again, as
the oldest present, I must request you, sisters, to pursue your work
in silence. Prayers and psalms and holy meditations are better fitted
for people in our evil case, threatened not only with the death of our
reverend mother, but with the loss of all things, than such laughing
and gossip as has gone on for the last half hour. I take shame to
myself, and thank the child for her reproof, though it might have been
more gently spoken."

   * N. B.—nota bene

"I beg your pardon, sister," said I.

She had spoken with a great deal of gravity, and feeling, and most
of the sisters had the grace to look ashamed, only Sister Perpetua
muttered under her breath, but so I heard her:

"Fine airs, to be sure. But you are not prioress just yet, and many
things may happen."

I don't know what brought her to a religious house, I am sure, unless
it was that her friends wished to get rid of her, which was the reason
a great many nuns were professed in those days. I am very sure she
never had any vocation for such a life, and she showed it after she got
out.

By that time my faintness was gone, but I thought I would like to be
alone, so I told Sister Bridget what mother assistant had said, and
withdrew.

I had plenty to think about as I worked. Could it be possible that
our house would be turned out of windows, as that of the Gray Nuns at
Bridgewater had been—that venerable institution founded in the days of
the Confessor—and if so, what would become of all? I had not heard from
my uncle, nor from Lady Peckham in several years, and knew not whether
they were alive or dead. However, I was not so greatly concerned about
my own fate. I was young and strong, a good needle-woman and musician,
and I thought I could easily find a place as waiting-woman, or to
attend upon young gentlewomen.

But what would become of such as Sister Bridget and Sister Cicely,
and Sister Sacristine and Mother Joanna—old women who had spent all
their lives in those walls, and knew nothing of the world beyond their
boundary. Then I began to think about that Bible and to wonder where
it was, and what was in it. I remembered the text mother assistant had
quoted, and wondered—not without blaming myself for the thought—if she
had read it in that same Bible.

We had heard before, that though people were permitted to read the Word
of God, they were forbidden to discuss or dispute about it, which was
much as if one should open the floodgates a little and then forbid the
water to run through.

I was so lost in my musings, that I started as if I had been shot when
the bell rung for vespers. We heard at supper that the prioress had
rallied a little, but neither Father Austin nor the doctor, who had
been sent for, believed she could get well.

That was an anxious time. The prioress lingered for several days,
sometimes quite herself for a few hours at a time, but mostly lying in
a death-like stupor. The elders were of course much with her, and the
discipline of the house was unusually relaxed.

It was a time that showed what people were made of. The really sincere
and religious sisters went on with their duties just as usual, being
perhaps a little more punctilious in their performance; others took
advantage, broke rules, got together in knots and coteries and
gossiped—not always in the most edifying way—of what was coming to
pass, and what they would do when they got out. I was very angry with
them then, but I can make more excuse for them in these days. Many of
them, like Sister Perpetua, had no real calling to a religious life
(it was called the religious life in those days, as if no one could
be religious out a cloister). They were mostly younger daughters and
orphan sisters, who were not likely to marry well and were sent to the
convent as a safe and respectable place out of the way. Not that all
were so, by any means, but we had enough of that element to rejoice in
any relaxation of rules.

One day at sunset, however, the suspense was at an end so far as the
prioress was concerned. We were all called into the ante-room of the
apartment to assist at the last rites, and after they were over, we
stood watching our poor mother who, supported in the arms of mother
assistant, was painfully gasping her life away. Her face wore an
anxious expression, and her eyes turned from one to another in a way
that showed she was quite conscious. Now and then she said a word or
two in a low tone—so low that we in the outer room could not hear. At
last mother assistant beckoned me, and whispered me to give her a dry
napkin from a pile that lay on the table.

As I did so, I heard the prioress say, in a distressed whisper:

"But Purgatory—that dreadful place—are you sure?"

Mother assistant bent down to her and whispered in her ear—I was close
by and heard the words plainly:

   "The blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth us from all sin."

The poor lady smiled, and just as the last ray of the sun shot into the
window, she passed peacefully away.

She was a good woman in the main, and very much of a lady, but she
had allowed indolence—coming from an illness in the first place—to
grow upon her, till it became an overmastering passion—if one can call
indolence a passion.

It came to that, that any call to exertion was looked upon as a
positive misfortune. She had such able assistants, that this state of
things did not produce so much trouble as might have been expected, but
any one who knows what a houseful of ungoverned young people is like,
may guess what our community would have become but for Father Austin
and mother assistant.

As soon as it was decent, a new meeting was called, and no one was
surprised at the choice of mother assistant to be prioress. Mother
Joanna was made assistant and Sister Bridget put in her place—a very
good choice.

At "obedience," when we were all assembled in her room, our now
prioress made us an address, and very noble and touching it was.
She reminded us of our precarious condition, likely at any time to
be turned out. She said she had been pained to know that some—she
would name no names at present—but would leave the matter to our own
consciences—had taken advantage of the state of things to behave in a
way which was unbecoming their profession, and to good order. Here two
or three of our best sisters who had been guilty of some little acts of
forgetfulness kneeled down and kissed the floor, while Sister Perpetua
and Sister Regina, who had been the ring-leaders, stood up as bold
as brass. (It is always those who deserve blame least who take it to
themselves.)

She then pointed out the importance of good order and discipline,
that our enemies might have nothing whereof justly to accuse us. She
would not conceal the fact that we stood in great peril, but we were
in higher hands than our own. She would have us neither anxious nor
careless, but pursuing a recollected and cheerful frame of mind, giving
ourselves to prayer and good works, and not being anxious about the
morrow. She would pass over all that had happened for the last few
days, unless there were those who wished to clear their consciences by
confessing any breach of discipline: but hereafter, every thing would
be kept up to the standards of the house. She concluded by asking our
prayers for herself and her assistants, in a tone of true humility that
brought tears to many eyes. We noticed that she said nothing about
praying for the soul of our departed mother, whereby we argued that she
believed that soul to be already in Paradise. She then dismissed us
with her blessing, and all things seemed to fall into their usual train.

I have heard that people who live where there are volcanoes, get used
to them so that they carry on their business just as if nothing was the
matter. We were then living on the crust of a volcano which might blow
us into the air at any time, but we had already become used to it, and
as the autumn passed into winter, we almost forgot our danger. Sister
Perpetua, indeed, tried titles once or twice, but she soon found that
while the reverend mother had a house over her head, she meant to be
mistress in it, and after doing penance three whole days in the vaulted
room under the sacristy on a diet of bread and water, and not much of
that, she was very meek and subdued for a while.

Somehow or other the storm was diverted for that time. I suppose that
Bishop Gardiner, being so great with the king, contrived to keep the
matter from his knowledge. However it was, the apples were gathered and
garnered in peace, the usual stock of faggots laid in, and we settled
down to our in-door occupations as if nothing was the matter.

The reverend mother had a great deal of work put in hand, and instead
of our usual whispered conversations, we had loud reading in the
Imitation of Christ, and other good books. Sometimes our mother would
read us passages out of the Gospels, from a little written book which
she held in her hand, copied I fancy from that same great Bible which
was never put in the church. I had read many of them before in the
great book of Master Tyndale's, which my uncle kept in his desk, and
they set me thinking more than ever of mine old home. These readings
were much liked by the serious part of our community, and as for the
others, what ever they might feel, they knew enough to keep their own
counsel.

It was about this time, I remember being struck with the fact that in
the whole Imitation, from beginning to end, there is not one single
word or hint of any worship offered to the Virgin. I ventured to say as
much once to Father Austin, with whom I still did a Latin lesson now
and then, and to ask him what he thought was the reason; whereat he
smiled, and said when I saw Saint Thomas in Paradise I might ask him.

The orchards bore very plentifully that year, and we sold our crop at
a good price. We were helping to pick up the last of them one fine
October day, when old Adam remarked that he wondered who would have the
ordering of those same trees another year.

"Why, you yourself—why not?" said I.

"Na, na, lassie, I'll no be here next year; at least I think not."

"You do not think you are going to die?" said I, anxiously, for he was
a great friend of mine. "Do you feel ill?"

"No, I have my health well enough for one of my years. But we Islesmen
have whiles a gliff of the second sight, and I have had strange visions
concerning this house."

"Oh, you are thinking about the visit of the commissioners!" said I.
"But you see that has blown over and nothing has come of it."

"I have whiles seen a storm blow over and then come back!" said the
old man, seriously. "Na, na, lassie. Dinna be too confident. What's
fristed * is no forgotten."

   * Fristed is "covered up," or "skinned over."



[Illustration]

CHAPTER VI.

THE LIGHTNING STRIKES AGAIN.

THE old man was right. With the spring came rumors of renewed attacks
upon the religious foundations all over the country. We heard before of
the execution of the Bishop of Rochester, who laid down his gray head
upon the block because he would not acknowledge the king to be pope—for
that is what it amounted to. (Nothing can be more absurd than to call
Henry the Eighth a Protestant.) Our own prioress might be said to have
died in the same cause.

Nobody had appeared to administer the oath to our present head,
however, and we had begun to think that we were to be let alone. I do
not believe that the reverend mother had any such hopes. Our foundation
was a wealthy one, and our church was well-known to be unusually rich
in gold and silver. There was abundance of shrines, reliquaries and
boxes, as valuable for their splendid workmanship as for the precious
metals of which they were made, and the jewels with which they were
incrusted. Then there were missals set with precious stones, beautiful
hangings and vestments, and vessels, and candlesticks, and the like.
These articles were all displayed upon feast days, and when our great
altar was lighted up at the festival of our Patroness, it was a
spectacle almost too bright for mortal eyes.

Such a prey was not likely very long to escape the teeth and claws of
my Lord Cromwell, and his master. Bishop Gardiner himself was very
forward in promoting the king's designs upon the religious houses (for
as devout as he afterward professed himself). He was our visitor, as I
have said, and when the very shepherd is in league with the wolves, the
silly sheep have little chance of escape.

It was on a beautiful morning in May that destruction overtook us.
We had just come out of chapel for our recreation, when we heard a
thundering knocking at the great gate, and the portress going to
open it, found a couple of gentlemen, and our old friend, or enemy,
the bishop's chaplain, with letters from my Lord Cromwell and Bishop
Gardiner for the prioress and community.

We were all in the garden, huddled together and watching afar off, when
the mother assistant called us to come into the ante-room of the choir,
where we were wont to put on the long mantles which we wore in church.
We were bid to array ourselves as quickly as possible and get ourselves
into the usual order of our procession. This being done, and preceded
by the cross-bearers, as was the way in our grand processionals, the
singers passed into the choir, singing as usual, I being at the organ,
which I was accustomed to play for all church services. The youngest
sisters came first and the prioress last.

Father Austin stood near the altar, his head bowed down with grief, yet
commanding himself like a man. The bishop's chaplain and the two other
visitors stood beside him, and the latter were passing their remarks
freely enough upon all they saw, and even on the figures and faces of
the sisters. Standing upon the chancel steps they could look directly
into the choir, which no one in the body of the church could see at
all. I must do our ladies the justice to say that they seemed, one and
all, totally unconscious of the presence of these strange men. Even
Sister Perpetua was awed into decent behavior.

When all were in their places, the chaplain announced his errand.
He had come, by the authority of the king and his minister, my Lord
Cromwell, to demand the surrender of the charter of that house to
his majesty, with all treasures of every sort, and all superstitious
relics, whereof my lord was well informed we possessed a great number.
All members of the family were to be at liberty to depart whither
they would, being furnished, by the king's liberality, with a suit of
secular clothing. As to the house and its contents, they were to be at
the absolute disposition of the king, and no one was to presume, on
pain of felony, to secrete, carry off, or make away with any article
whatever, though by the king's special grace and favor toward the
bishop, the sisters might take any books or other property of their
own, not above the value of three marks. * The visitors had brought
down articles of surrender for the prioress to sign, and two of the
commissioners would remain to take an inventory of our goods, and see
such as were of value packed for removal.

   * See many such surrenders in the Camden Miscellany and in
     Fuller's Church History.

I do not suppose that any one now can estimate the shock of this
declaration. I do think, if the earth had quaked and shaken down church
and convent in one common ruin, it would not have amazed and horrified
us as much. I am sure when the spire was struck by lightning—whereby
two of our bells were melted—we were not nearly as astounded. *

I, hidden away in the organ loft, could watch the faces of the sisters.
One or two burst into tears, but the greater part were too much stunned
to move. The prioress was very pale, but she spoke in her usual even,
somewhat deep voice.

   * Fuller notes, as remarkable, the number of abbeys and priories
     which were, at one time or another, burned by lightning. He gives
     a list of thirteen thus destroyed.

"These are heavy tidings you bring us, gentlemen. How have we been so
unfortunate as to fall under his Grace's displeasure?"

The gentlemen looked at each other, and one of them began reciting a
long list of the sins and shortcomings of the religious houses, whereby
his majesty was moved, by his zeal for true religion, to suppress all
houses below a certain value—two hundred pounds a year—I believe. The
prioress heard him to the end, and answered in the same calm tone.

"For the misorders and scandals whereof you speak, I can answer for
no house but my own. Sure I am, that for the forty years I have lived
in these hallowed walls, no such thing has happened here, and as our
revenues are nearer to three hundred a year than two, I see not how his
Grace's royal will applies to us."

"We will be the judges of that," answered the commissioner, arrogantly.
"As to the matter of scandals, we have been better informed by some of
your own number. There have been scandals enow, especially of late.
Will you dare tell me, woman, that no young men have been entertained
in this house—that there has been no junketing and carousing in
the very parlor of the prioress herself. I tell you we have sure
information, and will you dare to deny it?"

The prioress paused for a little, and let her eyes travel from face
to face round the circle. When she came to Sister Perpetua and Sister
Regina, she looked them in the face for a full minute. There was no
need to inquire further who was the false witness. Their visages spoke
for them. (It was much the same with all the religious houses. There
was always some traitor in the camp, ready, whether for greed of gain
or to curry favor, or because of weariness of their vows, to inform
against their brethren.) The lady was about to speak again, when the
other commissioner interrupted her. He was the elder of the two, and
altogether more decent in his demeanor.

"Under your favor, honored lady, I would counsel you to take time for
advisement, and to read the letter sent you by your reverend visitor,
which his chaplain will hand you. After that, we will hear your
decision."

"It is well spoken, sir," answered the prioress. "Meantime, please you,
gentlemen, to withdraw to the house of Father Austin, our priest and
confessor, where I will give order for your entertainment."

"Nay, reverend mother, methinks the common fare of your refectory will
suit us well enough," returned the younger man. "If all tales be true,
we are not the first who have had such entertainment, and methinks we
were safer to make you our taster."

The reverend mother made no reply to his impudence, but giving a sign
to the sisters, they withdrew as they had entered. When all had passed
but herself and the mother assistant, she advanced to the wide grating
which separated the choir from the church, and held out her hand,
covered with a fold of her robe, for the bishop's letter. The elder man
gave it her with a reverence for which I liked him all the better, and
said, in a low tone, as the other turned away:

"Be advised, madam. Resistance can do no good, and will bring only
heavier calamity on yourself and your flock. Be advised, and follow
your visitor's counsel."

"I thank you, sir, for your words, which I see are kindly meant," said
the prioress; "but I must have little time to consider the matter. How
long can you give me?"

He called back his brother commissioner, and after consultation,
in which he seemed to press some point which the other yielded
unwillingly, he turned and said: "Till to-morrow at this hour, madam."

"I thank you," said the lady once more—and passed out of the door. I
closed my instrument, not without a sob, as I thought I might never
touch it again, and followed the reverend mother.

It was now the time for dinner, but the bell had not been rung. The
sisters were standing talking together in excited groups, and many
an angry and contemptuous glance was cast at the two traitors. The
prioress at once restored order, and bade the portress ring the bell
for dinner.

"Let us have no misorder—no relaxation of discipline on what may
perhaps be our last day in this blessed inclosure," said she.
"Slandered we have been and may be, but let us keep our own consciences
clear and unstained. That comfort no one can take from us."

It was a feast day, and our cheer was better than common, but nobody
felt like eating. The ceremonies of the table went on as usual,
however, and the reader's voice never faltered. After dinner came
recreation, and then the tongues were let loose again.

"Well, for my part, I care not what becomes of me after this," said
Sister Sacristine. "I have lived too long."

"Do not say that, sister," returned Mother Bridget, gently. "We cannot
say what gracious purpose may yet be in store for us."

"Don't talk of gracious purposes!" said the Sacristine, angrily. "Here
have I been serving the blessed Magdalene all these years, wearing
my fingers to the bone cleaning of her shrine with wash leather and
hartshorn salts and what not, and this is what I get by it. And to see
the holy relics carried off and dispersed after all my care."

The poor old lady burst into tears and wept bitterly, and more than one
joined her.

As for me, I stole away to a favorite place of retirement—a little
shrine or oratory in the orchard, half hidden by trees and thick,
clustering ivy. Here I was used to keep certain books of my own—a Latin
Imitation and Psalter, and a prayer book which I had brought from my
old home at Peckham Hall. I hoped for a little solitude to collect my
thoughts, but I was disappointed.

As I drew near, I heard men's voices in the building, and recognized
them for those of the old Scotch gardener and Mr. Lethbridge, the
younger commissioner.

"So this is the jaw-bone of St. Lawrence, is it?" said the latter; and
peeping through a crack, I saw with horror that he was tossing it up
and down in his hand. "It looks more like a pig's jaw to me."

"Maybe," answered Adam. "Ye'll be a better judge of that article than
me. It was aye called the jaw of St. Lawrence in my time."

"What of it—suppose it was?" said the other, arrogantly. "What good
could it do any one? For my part, I care no more for St. Lawrence's jaw
than for Mahomet's."

"I would na speak scornfully of the jaw of Mahomet gin I were talking
to a Turk," retorted Adam. "I might argue wi' him, gin I thought it
would be to edification, but I would na scorn at him. I would think it
ill manners."

For all answer, Mr. Lethbridge tossed the relic from him, and ordered
the gardener to show him the rest of the grounds. When they were gone,
I entered the chapel, and having gathered my books together, I picked
up the jaw of St. Lawrence, which certainly had an odd shape for a
man's, wiped the dust from it, and laid it back in its place. Then,
a sudden thought striking me, I dug a hole in the earth, at the foot
of the great honeysuckle, and buried it; and there it may be now, for
aught I know.

Our services went on as usual during the day—the last day, perhaps,
they would ever be performed in those walls which had heard prayers
and chants for so many hundred years. It was touching to see how
punctiliously almost all the sisters performed every duty, even the
smallest.

There were exceptions, however. As I said, we had two or three who had
no vocation whatever, and they tried to take liberties, and were not
ashamed to exchange mocking glances and whispers, even in the hour of
meditation. Nobody took any notice of them, however, except to draw
away when they came near as if they had the pestilence. I remember
Sister Regina took hold of the sleeve of Sister Anne's habit to draw
her attention to something, she being a little deaf, whereupon the old
lady, having her scissors in her hand, deliberately cut out the place
Regina had touched and trampled it under her feet. It was not a very
Christian act, perhaps, but we were all glad of it. Sister Regina did
have the grace to look abashed for a moment, the more that she had
always been rather a favorite with Sister Anne.

That evening, just before bed-time, Sister Sacristine met me in the
gallery and drew me aside into the sacristy, and then into a little
inner vaulted room where our most valuable relics were stored, when not
exposed to the adoration of the faithful. The precious shrines which
were used at these times were kept in another place, whereof the key
was already in the hands of the commissioners. Shutting the door, and
opening a dark lantern which she carried, she whispered in my ear:

"Loveday, you are a brave girl. I remember how you faced the bull that
day he got out. Will you help me to save our most precious relic from
profanation?"

"If I can!" said I, doubtfully. "But what is it you want to do?"

She glanced round, and then whispered in my ear:

"I want to let out the Virgin's smoke. But the stopper is too stiff for
my fingers, and I want you to open it and let the smoke out. Then we
can leave the bottle as we found it!"

Now this bottle of smoke from the Blessed Mother's hearth at Bethlehem
was, indeed, our most precious relic, and was looked upon with awful
reverence. I fully sympathized with Sister Sacristine's desire to save
it from profanation, but I was rather scared at the idea of touching
it, not knowing exactly what it might do if it got out.

"Do you think it would be safe?" I asked. "You know how when the
over-curious priest opened the vial to smell of it, a huge volume of
black smoke issued from it and blasted him as by lightning."

"Yes, but that was different. His was a profane motive, and ours is a
devout one. Oh, Loveday, do help me. I can't endure to think of the
blessed smoke in that wretch's hands, and, besides, who can tell what
it might do."

"I wish it would smother him and Father Simon both!" said I,
spitefully. "And Perpetua and Regina as well."

"Oh, my child, we must forgive our persecutors, you know, and I do try.
But you will help me, won't you, and I will pray for you all my life."

"Yes, I will help you," I said. "What do you wish me to do?"

"That is a good girl. May all the saints and angels have you in their
keeping."

As she spoke she took from a box a little bottle of greenish material,
covered with bright flowers somewhat raised. It had a stopper and cap
of gold, very curiously wrought, with a hasp or clasp. I suppose no
young person who has grown up under the present state of things, can
guess the profound awe with which I received the little vessel into
my hand. We both kissed it reverently, and then with some trouble, I
loosed the hasp and took out the stopper, while we both fell on our
knees. Our eyes were fixed on the precious bottle to await whatever
might happen. But the surprising thing was, that nothing happened at
all. The little vessel lay upon its side in my hand as innocent and
pretty as a maids fairing, but there was no smoke—not even a smell of
burning.

"Alas! Alas!" sobbed Sister Sacristine, "The Holy Mother has already
withdrawn from this house and taken her smoke with her! The glory has
departed. Alas! Alas for us! Our Holy Mother has been offended and has
withdrawn her protection from these walls. I fear my sins have helped
to draw this judgment on us. Mea culpa! Mea culpa!"

For myself, I confess I had a different feeling. I could not see what
the Blessed Virgin should want with her smoke if she had gone away.
Sister Sacristine's face being buried in her robe, I ventured to turn
the mouth of the bottle to the light and even to smell of it. The
inside was quite white and clean, and had a faint odor of musk. (Years
afterward I found this very bottle, minus the gold ornaments, at a pawn
shop in London and bought it for a trifle. My son says it is one of the
little things they make in China by the thousand and sell for a few
pence. It had been in possession of our house for a very long time, and
was no doubt brought from the East by some pilgrim.)

"Dear sister, do not cry so," said I, at last. "Perhaps Our Lady has
herself taken away this precious relic that it might not be profaned."

"You don't think it is a miracle, do you?" asked the sister,
brightening up.

"Perhaps so," I answered.

"Dear Sister Postulant, how clever you are," said the old lady, wiping
her eyes; "I should not have thought of that? Oh, if you could only
take the veil here, you would be Superior before you were thirty. But,
ah me! Nobody will ever put on the blessed veil in this house again."

"Don't cry any more, dear sister," said I; "and do not let us stay
any longer in this damp place; you will have the rheumatism again,
and besides, the bell will ring in a minute and we ought to be in our
cells."

With much ado, I got her away and helped her to bed, for she was very
feeble. I could not help wondering what would become of her. She had
come from a distant part of the country and had no living relations
that she knew of, and she was growing infirm and rather childish.

It was our custom to assemble at six o'clock in the community room,
to give the reverend mother an account of the work we had done and
the books we had read the day before. When we were all together, the
prioress told us the substance of our visitor's letter. It simply
amounted to this, that there was no use in resistance, since it would
only exasperate the king and his minister. The commissioners had orders
to turn us all out of doors without ceremony in such a case; whereas,
by giving way at once, we might be allowed to remain in our old home
a few days, till we could provide ourselves with some other shelter.
(He did not say how or where this provision was to be made.) If there
was any sin in the case, which he did not think, he would give a full
absolution. The whole might as well have been put into one sentence:
"You will have to go, so you may as well go quietly."

"It seems we have no choice and nothing to do," said Mother Joanna.
"Nothing to do but to submit to the hand of violence, committing our
cause to Him who judgeth righteously. As to those who for their own
ends have slandered and belied this house," she added, "let them
beware. There was pardon for Peter, who denied his Lord, for Thomas who
doubted, and for the rest who forsook him. It was only Judas, who sold
him, of whom it was said: 'It were better for that man if he had never
been born.'"

The lady said these solemn words in a tone of sorrow and reproach which
might have moved a heart of stone, but I think that Perpetua had not so
much as that. But Sister Regina, who was much younger and more foolish
than wicked—I do think most of the mischief in the world is done by
fools—burst into tears, and sobbing as if her heart would break, she
fell on her knees at the mother's feet, kissed the floor and entreated
for pardon.

"I forgive you, my poor child," said the prioress, sadly; "in my own
name, and those of your mothers and sisters, I forgive you; but alas!
Your penitence, inestimable as it is to yourself, cannot undo what you
have done. My mothers and sisters, is it your will that I act according
to the terms of this letter?"

The asking was only a form, for there was clearly nothing else to be
done. Accordingly, when we were again assembled in the choir at nine
o'clock, the prioress formally surrendered the keys, saying that she
did so in obedience to the orders of our visitor, and praying only
for a few days' grace, that the sisters might be able to make some
provision for themselves.

"Surely," said Doctor Willard, the elder gentleman, "it were hard to
refuse so small a boon as that."

"I thank you, sir," said the prioress; "may you also find grace in your
time of utmost need. Here, then, are the keys; I put them into your
hands. For the rest, I and my poor children commit ourselves and our
cause to Heaven, since we have no hope in this world."

There was a burst of sobs and tears from the mothers and sisters at
these words. The prioress alone remained calm, though her face was pale
as the marble Virgins above her head. Even Mr. Lethbridge was awed into
silence for a few minutes by the dignity of her manner.

"One word more I must say," added the prioress; "as for the bruits
which you say have come to your ears touching scandals in this house,
I pronounce them utterly false, slanderous and wicked. During the
twenty years that I have been assistant within these walls, there has
been but one case of scandal, and that was simply an elopement, which
happened some eight years ago. For the rest, I defy any one but the
most hardened liar and slanderer to say aught against the fair fame of
these my dear children."

Mr. Lethbridge openly exchanged glances with Sister Perpetua, but
Sister Regina kept her eyes steadfastly fixed upon the ground, while
her face flamed with blushes.

"Since you have resigned the house, madam, there is no need to enter
into that matter," said Dr. Willard, repressing his colleague, who was
about to speak. "For myself, I do not believe these tales to be any
thing but the outcome of private malice and revenge, and dictated by
the meanest motive."

It was now Sister Perpetua's turn to redden.

"You go too far, Dr. Willard," said Mr. Lethbridge. "Remember, sir,
that I am joined with you in this commission."

"I am not likely to forget what is due either to you or myself," said
Doctor Willard, calmly. "Madam, we will now excuse your attendance upon
what must needs be painful to you. You can keep possession of your own
apartments and those of the ladies, only they must be searched to see
that no treasure is concealed, as has been the case in other places."

He bowed, as if in dismissal, and we left the choir in our order of
procession for the last time.

What a day that was. The prioress bade all those who still acknowledged
her authority, which were all but three or four, to gather together
such little matters as they were allowed to carry away with them,
and then to resort to the community room, where they were to occupy
themselves in reading and prayer, and such needlework as was necessary.
She warned us against concealing any thing of value, as it would only
bring us and herself into trouble. Our little packets were soon made
up, and we gathered together, a sad and sorrowing family.

Only Sister Perpetua, and one or two like her, openly threw off all
allegiance, put on, at the first possible minute, the secular dresses
provided, and went roaming all about the place, talking with the
comers and goers who were now profaning our sacred inclosure. For,
finding the great gates open, which they had always seen locked and
barred, the people of the neighboring hamlet, and from the village of
Dartford, were ready enough to gratify their curiosity, as perhaps was
only natural. Some were kind and feeling; others openly jeered at our
misfortunes, and rejoiced at our downfall; and among these last were
several mendicants, who had had their living from our daily doles.

In truth, this daily almsgiving at the gates of these religious houses,
brought any thing but respectable people about them.

"Yes, give us the broken pieces and the old clothes, while you eat
white bread and drink wine, will you?" mumbled one old woman, for whom
I had myself made a new flannel petticoat and serge kirtle only a week
before. "We shall see who will have the old clothes and the broken bits
now."

"You wont, that's certain, and glad I am, you ungrateful old beldam,"
said a decent looking woman, who was making her way through the crowd
with a basket on her arm. "Who do you think will feed you, ungrateful
wretches that you are, when the ladies are gone? Will the king, or the
great lord or gentleman who gets the place, do ought for such as you,
think you? No, indeed; not even broken crusts will you get, much less
such an outfit as was given you last week." Then, catching sight of me,
for I had come out upon some errand, I forget what, she continued:

"Young lady, may I ask if Sister Elizabeth is still living—she who used
to teach in the school?"

"Oh, you mean she who is now the Sacristine?" said I, after a moment's
thought, for I had never heard her called by that name more than once
or twice. "Yes, she is living, but quite infirm."

"Poor heart, and to be turned out in her old age—but that she shall not
be, so long as Hester Lee has a roof over mun's head—that she shan't!"
said the good woman. "Could 'ee bring me to speak with her, my lamb?"

"Come with me," said I, rejoicing at her words, for I had been very
unhappy about the poor old sister.

I led the way to a little parlor, and the prioress passing at the
moment I told her the woman's errand.

"I am only a mariner's wife, keeping a shop for small wares in
Dartford, madam," said the woman, in answer to the reverend mother's
question, "but I have enough and to spare. I well remember the lady's
goodness to me, a poor orphan maid, among people whose very tongue was
strange to me, and who never had a kind word to sweeten the bread they
grudged to their brother's orphan. Ah, madam, strange bread is bitter
enough to those who have to eat it, without salting it with cold looks
and harsh constructions."

"Very true, my daughter," said the prioress; and she sighed. Poor lady,
she was no doubt thinking how soon she might have to eat that salt and
bitter bread herself.

"And so, madam, by your leave, I have come to ask the old lady to spend
the rest of her days under my roof, and she shall be as welcome as
flowers in May, and so shall you yourself, madam, if you would honor
me so far. I have a fine upper chamber, where you can be as secluded
as you will, until you can make some arrangement more suited to your
quality. Alas, madam, what have I done?"

For our poor mother, who had not been seen to shed a tear in all our
troubles, now burst into a passion of weeping such as I hardly ever
saw, and all the more startling in one usually so calm.

"You have done nothing but what is good and right," I whispered, mine
own eyes overflowing. "The dear mother will be better for this relief."

Sister Regina who, ever since the morning, had followed the prioress
round like a little dog which has displeased his master and wishes to
make amends, darted away, and in a minute returned with a glass of fair
water and a smelling bottle. The prioress took the water and thanked
her; whereat Regina burst out blubbering like a great schoolboy, and
retired into a corner to sob and sniff at her ease.

"'Were there not ten cleansed, but where are the nine?'" said our
mother, recovering herself, and smiling sadly. "'There are not found
that returned again to give God praise, save this stranger.' I shall
most certainly advise Sister Elizabeth to accept your hospitality. As
for myself, I am provided for, since my brother will gladly give me a
home, and also a shelter to this young lady till she can hear from her
friends. I will call the sister."

Sister Sacristine had shut herself in her cell, after giving up her
keys, and the prioress went herself to seek her, followed as before by
Sister Regina. When she had departed, Dame Lee drew near to me, and
said, in an awe-struck whisper:

"Mistress, does the lady profess the new religion?"

"No—at least I suppose not," I answered, surprised; "why should you
think so?"

"Because she repeated those words. They are from the English Bible."

I remembered, all at once, the great Bible which had been sent down for
the church, and which had been removed, as the prioress had said, to
a place of safety. Was it possible she could have been reading it all
this time? But this was no time to discuss so dangerous a subject, and
besides, I wanted to talk of something else. There was that in Hester
Lee's tone and accent which were strangely familiar—something which
took me back to very early days, before I went to Peckham Hall.

"What part of the country did you come from, dame?" I asked.

"Me, my lamb, I be from Devon—up Clovelly way—I be, and so was my
father, rest his soul. Ees, I be from Devon."

"And so am I," I answered, feeling somehow as if I had found a friend,
"though 'tis many a long year since I saw the place. My father owned
Watcombe Farm."

Dame Hester knew the farm, and was delighted to meet a countrywoman. In
the midst of our colloquy, the prioress returned, followed by Sister
Sacristine in the secular dress which had been provided for each of us,
and very funny she looked in it. She carried a bundle in her hand.

"Yes, I will go with you, Hester, since you are so good as to ask me,"
said she. "You were always a towardly child, and learned to do white
seam quicker than any girl I ever saw. Yes, I will go, and as soon as
you please; for I can't endure to see the way they are stripping the
church."

"We had best make our way home at once," said Dame Hester. "I have an
easy, sure-footed donkey at the gate for the lady. And you, madam—"

"I thank you, Dame Hester, but I must stay till all is over," said the
prioress. "You are a sailor's wife," (she had told us as much), "and
you know that the captain should be the last in the sinking ship."

"And that is true, madam, and what my husband always says. Well, then,
we will bid farewell. Come, good mother, we will soon have you in
safety."

They went away, and I never saw the sister again. She did not live
very long, but passed her days in great peace under the roof of Jonas
and Hester Lee, who tended her like an honored parent, though they had
plenty of scoffs and fault-findings from Hester's kindred, who had
their eyes on the savings of the childless couple.

As I was about to leave the room, the prioress detained me, sending
Regina on some errand to the further end of the house. I was glad of
that, for I was still very bitter against her, and believed her close
attendance on the reverend mother to be that of a spy, in which belief
I now think I did her injustice. She was simply one of those weak fools
who are ready to be led by any one that will take the trouble—unless
it be some one who has the right to govern them, and then they can be
obstinate enough.

"Loveday, I have something here which belongs to you," said she. As she
spoke, she produced a packet of some size from her pocket, and with a
great throb, I recognized my uncle's handwriting on the outside.

"These are letters from your uncle and his family, which have come from
time to time for the last six or seven years," said she. "There is no
reason now why you should not have them."

"And why did I not have them before?" was the hot question which rose
to my lips. The habit of discipline was strong within me, and I did not
ask it; but the prioress answered as if I had spoken.

"Why were they not given to you? Because it was not thought best. It
was the desire of my Lady Peckham, who was your legal guardian, that
you should make this house your home, and be professed here. We saw
that every letter you had from your uncle's family disturbed your mind
and made you homesick," (that was true enough), "and therefore we
thought it best to break off all such intercourse. My child, I see that
you are thinking this very hard, but you must remember that any parent
would have exercised the same right over a daughter's letters. Were it
to do again, I might act differently. I see many things in a different
light from what I did when you first came here. Here are your letters.
You may learn from them something about the present state of your
uncle's family, though I think the last is two years old."

I need not say how eagerly I received the letters, and how I devoured
them. They were written at different times, and all contained
assurances of undying regard from my uncle and aunt, with complaints of
my silence. The latest was from my uncle, and had been written from a
town in Holland, whither the family had removed. My uncle seemed to be
in a lively vein, for he recalled various incidents of my stay in the
family; at the close, were these words:

"Do you remember the odd experiments I once showed you with chemicals,
whereby Sambo was so scared? You know there was one in invisible ink,
which the good fellow thought was witchcraft."

A sudden notion flashed across me, which made me gather up all my
precious papers, and hasten to the kitchen. A great fire was burning in
the fireplace, and the room was empty, for dinner had long been over.
Quickly, I held the last dated letter to the hot coals, and as I had
half expected, I saw lines of brown writing appear between the black. I
read as follows:

"I have sure intelligence that within a year or two at furthest, the
religious houses in England will be forced to surrender. Should such a
thing happen, do you make your way to London, to the house where I used
to live. Master John Davis and his wife will care for you, and put you
in the way of hearing from or coming to me. My Lady Peckham being now
dead, there will be no one to interfere with you."

How welcome were these lines! I had been wondering what would become of
me, and here was a home provided, if I could but make shift to reach
it, and that I was determined to do if I had to beg my way. I had just
come to this resolution when I heard a step approaching, and hastened
to hide my treasure in my bosom. I was both angry and alarmed, for
the new comer was Mr. Lethbridge, for whom I had conceived a violent
aversion. I would have passed from the room, but he barred the way
whichever way I turned.

"Not so fast, not so fast, fair mistress!" said he. "Let me be your
confessor, and tell me what you are doing here amid the pots and pans,
and whether you are not glad in your heart to escape from this cage,
and spread your wings?"

I deigned no answer to the question, but possessed myself of the tongs,
as if I would arrange the fire.

"What! Will you threaten me with the tongs, like a second St. Dunstan?
Nay, then I may fairly meet force with force."

He came forward and put out his hand, as if to lay hold on me, and,
blind with fear and anger, I struck at him with the hot tongs. He
recoiled from the blow and stumbled against a dresser, on which Sister
Rosina, from mere force of habit, I suppose, had set a great earthen
pot of soup, which she had prepared beforehand for the morrow's
dinner. Down came the pot, and souse went the greasy liquid over my
master's fine clothes and into his hair and eyes. It had been off the
fire too long, certainly, to scald, but it was hot enough to be very
uncomfortable, and another hasty motion sent the dresser itself, with
all its trenchers and pipkins, after the soup. Sister Regina was always
saying that dresser would come down some day, and certainly, it took
a good opportunity of fulfilling its destiny. While its victim was
cursing and swearing and roaring for help, I escaped from the nearest
door and ran up a winding stair and through rooms and galleries where I
had never been before, to the prioress's own room, bursting in upon her
in the most unmannerly fashion.

"Loveday, is this you? Where do you come from, and what ails you?"
asked the lady in some displeasure. I mustered my breath as well as
I could, and told her what had happened, whereat she laughed—almost
the only time I ever saw her do so, though her smiles were frequent
enough—I also showed her my uncle's letter, not seeing any harm in so
doing, as things were at that time.

"Ay, every one foresees the evil save the one whom it most concerns,"
said she. "Do you know aught of this Master Davis, save what your uncle
says?"

"I have often seen him when I lived in London, reverend mother. He and
his son were great friends of mine uncle's. He was well-to-do at that
time and in a large way of business, and a learned man—or so I have
heard mine uncle say."

"And what say you? Do you incline to go to him?"

I told her frankly, that I did, since mine uncle, who was my nearest
relation, and therefore my natural guardian, desired me to do so.

"It is well," said the lady. "If I were going to a house of my own,
Loveday, I would ask you to go with me, and be as a daughter to me. But
my brother hath a large family, and I shall be but a dependent myself.
I had made up my mind to keep you for a time at any rate, but perhaps
it is as well. Ah, my poor child, we who thought to die in our nest,
must now learn the truth of what the Italian poet saith:"

                 "'How hard he fares
       Who goeth up and down another's stairs.'"

"But we must have patience. 'For here we have no continuing city'—well
for us if we can add—'but we seek one to come—if, indeed, we look for a
city which hath foundations whose builder and maker is God.'"

How I longed to ask her if these words were from the Evangel. But even
had I dared to put such a question to her, there was no time, for the
portress came in haste to say that a stranger in the parlor desired to
speak with the lady, and with Mistress Loveday Corbet, if it might be
allowed.

"Fine doings, indeed, if strange men are to come to our house and ask
to see a postulant, and that not even on a visiting day," grumbled the
poor old woman. "Fine doings, indeed!"

"You forget, my poor sister, that we have no longer a house," said the
prioress, sadly. "Did the gentleman give his name?"

"That he did, reverend mother," answered the portress. "No man comes
into this house without giving his name while I am portress, though I
died the next minute. But this seems a worthy man and civil—a merchant
of London, I should say, as mine own honored father was, and he was an
iron-monger in East Cheap."

"All this time you are not giving me the gentleman's name," said the
prioress, while I was burning with impatience I dared not show.

"I did not say a gentleman, reverend mother, but a merchant, which he
says his name is John Davis," answered the portress, coming at last to
the matter in hand. My heart sank for a moment, for I thought it might
be mine uncle, but it rose again as I considered that Master Davis had
probably heard of what had befallen us and had come to seek for me.

So it proved. John Davis looked just as I remembered him, only older.
He was a grave and reverend man, with silver hair and beard, a polished
demeanor, and more of the scholar in his aspect than one would have
expected of a silk mercer. But Master Davis had dealt in far other
wares than silks and damask in his day, and had made his profit of them
as well.

He greeted the lady with as deep a reverence as though she had still
been at the head of one of the best houses in the country—perhaps a
little deeper—and proceeded to open his business. He had heard, he
said, of the misfortune which had befallen the house, in common with
many others, and he had come to find the niece of his old friend and
take her to his own home. Then turning his cap in his hand, with some
appearance of embarrassment, he adverted to another matter. Heaven had
blessed him, he said, with abundant wealth. He should esteem it a favor
if the lady would accept a small sum at his hands to help those of the
family who were without means or friends.

"You are very kind, sir," said the prioress. "You do not then think
that all convents are the sinks of iniquity that they have been
represented of late."

"No, madam; I believe they are like all human institutions, both good
and bad being mixed up in them."

"But you think, perhaps, they are as well out of the way."

"Madam, you push me to the wall," said the old man, raising his head
and regarding her with his clear, steadfast blue eyes. "Since I
must declare what I think, I must needs say that what is called the
religious life, hath no warrant in Holy Scripture. We find injunctions
many, addressed to fathers and mothers, parents and children, husbands
and wives, and even to masters and servants, but none to monks and
nuns; a strange omission, methinks, if they were expected to form such
a great and important part of the church. I will not say that there
hath not been good come out of these institutions in times past, but
the state of life doth seem to me to be unnatural, and, considering
the depravity of the human heart, likely to foster as much evil as
good. Nevertheless, I would have more charity and less haste used in
the doing away with them, and with all my heart do I pity those poor
ladies, who, having no home, are turned out of their only shelter, and
would gladly help them so far as it is in my power. I crave pardon,
madam, if I offend in my speech. I am but a plain man, and since you
would have my mind, I must needs speak plainly."

"You give no offense, sir," answered the lady; and the same odd little
half-smile hovered about her lips that I had seen once or twice before.
"So you are a reader of the Evangel?"

"Ay, madam, the king's grace now permits persons of my degree to read
it openly."

"And is it your will, Loveday, to go with this worthy man?"

"Yes, reverend mother, since mine uncle commands it," said I, marveling
at the question; for when Master Davis spoke so plainly, and, above
all, when he owned to reading the Bible, I had expected nothing less
than a direct prohibition.

"I believe you choose wisely," said the reverend mother. "What means
have you of carrying her, Master Davis?"

"I have brought a palfrey for her riding, madam, and I thought if any
of the ladies wished to come up to London, they might do so under my
escort and that of my servants."

"I will inquire about that. Meantime, my daughter, go and make your
preparations."

My few worldly goods were soon gathered together—very few they
were—Mistress Davis had been thoughtful enough to send me a riding
dress and mask, such as were worn by people of her quality, and I was
ready to take leave of the house where I had lived so long, and where
I had thought to spend the rest of my days. The dear mothers gave me
their blessing and farewells, and in a moment, I was outside the gate.
I have never seen the place again.

The king kept it in his own hands for a time, and, I believe, sojourned
there more than once. After that, in King Edward's reign, it was the
home of Lady Anne of Cleves, the King's divorced wife and adopted
sister. Afterward, Queen Mary granted it to some preaching friars, who
began a work of restoration which they had no time to finish. Now it
belongs to our good queen.

To make an end here of the subject of nunneries—while I think great
greed, injustice, falsehood, and cruelty wore exercised in their
abolition—I must needs say the land is well rid of them. The secrecy,
and the absolute rule, gave opportunity to the exercise of much
oppression and cruelty on the part of their rulers, and the victims had
no redress. They were made use of, as I have said, by people who wished
to get rid of inconvenient relations, and so many persons thus entered,
who had no religious sentiment to sustain them, great disorders were
likely to prevail (and often did) among companies of young persons with
no natural outlet for the passions and affections which God himself
hath implanted in our bosoms. Their promiscuous almsgiving did more
harm than good, especially with the cloistered orders, who had no means
of judging who were worthy and who were mere idle beggars.

Nevertheless, I will always maintain that the work of suppressing them
was prompted far more by greed of gain than by any principle of right,
and that it was carried on in many cases with great oppression and
cruelty, as I have said. However, the king was not, after all, nearly
so bad as Cardinal Wolsey, who began the work with the full consent of
the pope himself. The king did grant pensions to the older men, and in
some cases to the women; which pensions have been paid with tolerable
regularity. * (Father Austin receives his, but what he does with it,
I cannot say, since he can hardly spend it all in sweets for the
children.)

   * The last of these pensioners died in the fifth year of James
     First. See Fuller, for a good account of the matter.

But the cardinal made no provision whatever for those he turned out.
Many of the younger nuns married, after a while. (The king changed
his mind so often about that matter, that it was hard to know what
he would or would not have.) Others took service in families, like
Sister Regina, who got a chambermaid's place with my Lady Denny, and, I
believe, filled it fairly well for a fool. Some, but I think not many,
went wholly to the bad; like Sister Perpetua, who, to be sure, had not
far to go.

Our honored mother went to her brother's house, and he losing his wife
soon after, she staid to govern his household, and brought up a large
family of children who honored her as a mother. Mother Joanna went also
to her own home, but she did not live long. Of the rest of the family,
I know nothing, save of old Adam, the gardener, who kept his place
through all the changes, and died, nearly a hundred years old, in the
reign of our present queen.



[Illustration]

CHAPTER VII.

OLD FRIENDS AND NEW.

SO here I was once more thrown upon the world and going over the road I
never thought to retrace again.

It was a beautiful spring day, with flowers abloom and birds singing
in every direction. As we paused on the top of a rise of ground and I
looked back, I remembered all of a sudden that it was from this very
place that I had first caught sight of Dartford priory. Now I was
leaving it behind me forever. I turned and looked at it. Nothing was
changed outwardly. The commissioners had ordered the place cleared,
and no one was to be seen moving save old Adam, who seemed to be going
about his work as if nothing had happened. I believe the old man would
have tied up his vines and hoed his vegetables to the very last minute,
if he had known that the day of doom would come in an hour's time.

For a few minutes, I could not forbear weeping at the thought of
leaving those with whom I had lived so long. I had dearly loved most of
the elders of the family, though I had never formed any great intimacy
with those near my own age and standing. Grievously as I had disliked
the idea of going to the house as a child, I had, upon the whole, been
happy there. I had no deep religious feelings or principles at that
time, and I had never dreamed of doubting what had been taught me. I
had a great desire, indeed, to read the Scriptures for myself, but it
was only the curiosity which one has to see a famous book that one has
heard about. I suppose the feeling that there was a kind of mystery
about the matter might have had its effect in increasing that desire.
Every one was kind to me. I had as few childish troubles and suffered
as few corrections as fall to the lot of most children. I loved music
and I loved learning languages, and opportunity had been given me to
indulge both these tastes. Yes, upon the whole, I had been happy at
Dartford.

"We must not linger long, Mistress Corbet, if we would be at home
before night!" said John Davis, gently. "I blame not your regrets,
but I trust you have yet much happiness and usefulness before you. I
believe you may hope to serve God as well in the world as in yonder
walls."

I could not but blush as I remembered that the thought of such service
in one place or the other had not so much as crossed my mind.

We put our horses in motion, and all at once my heart gave a great
bound of exultation. I was free once more—out in the world, with no
walls to confine my footsteps and shut in my view. The very sight of
the wide green fields and pastures, seemed to lift a load from my eyes
and spirits, of which I had all the time been dimly conscious. I looked
with interest at every hall and cottage, at every woman whom I saw
gathering of greens for her pot, or nursing her babe at her door, and
I would have liked to make one in every group of gossips that I saw
collected round a well or at a street corner.

But long before night, my interest gave way to utter weariness, and I
could think of nothing but when we should reach home. I had not been on
horseback for many years, and a ride of fifteen miles was almost too
much for me, strong as I was. We entered London at last, and reached my
uncle's old house about sunset.

"Welcome, Mistress Corbet," said Master Davis, as he lifted me from my
horse. "Welcome to your old home. Mistress Davis will strive to make it
as homelike as the house you have left."

Mistress Davis herself, having heard of our arrival, came forward and
met me with a motherly kiss as I entered the hall where I had come,
a tired, homesick child, eight years or more before. As I entered
the parlor and saw the old furniture in the old accustomed places, a
curious feeling of unreality came over me, as though my convent life
had been all a dream; and I more than half expected to see mine uncle
seated in his own window and my aunt in hers, the one reading in his
great book, the other darning of hosiery, or working at the white seam,
in which she excelled. But the dream was quickly dispelled by the voice
of Mistress Davis:

"Dear heart, and so you have come all the way from Dartford since
eleven o'clock. How weary you must be. You shall have your supper
directly, and go to your bed, and to-morrow you will be as fresh as a
daisy. But you will like to wash before supper. My dear, I have such a
poor head; I cannot recall your name!"

"Loveday Corbet, reverend mother—I mean madam," I replied, confused at
my mistake.

"Yes, yes, I remember," said Mistress Davis. "Philippa, will you show
Mistress Loveday her room; and when you are ready, sweet chick, come
down to the dining-room; I dare say you know the way."

"Yes, madam," I answered. "If you will kindly tell me which room I am
to have, I will find it without troubling Mrs. Philippa."

"Oh, I am sure it is no trouble. The front room on the third floor—that
hung with the apostles, if you remember."

"Oh yes, madam, it is my old room."

"Let me carry your bundle," said she whom Mistress Davis had called
Philippa, coming forward and taking it from my hand. We passed up the
familiar stair—so familiar, yet so strange—and entered the very room
from which I had witnessed Sambo's recovery of the stolen flowers. It
was hardly altered at all, save that the floor was strewn with rushes,
a practice which my uncle had discarded. The very nosegay of flowers
on the mantle might have been the same, only that they were spring,
instead of autumn, posies. A pretty gown and petticoat of dark blue,
with a linen hood, and other things belonging to a young lady's dress,
were neatly laid out on the bed.

"My aunt hath provided you with a complete change of raiment, you see!"
said Mrs. Philippa, with a kind of bitterness in her tone which I did
not then understand.

"She is very kind, indeed, to think of it," said I, and, indeed, I did
feel it to be a motherly and kind act, which made my heart warm toward
the good woman.

"Oh, very!" answered Philippa, in the same odd tone. "I will leave you
to dress and then, perhaps, you can find your way down by yourself, as
you know the house so well."

"Certainly," I answered, feeling a little confused and vexed, as well
by something in her manner and the sharp scrutiny of her cold gray eyes.

Not to keep my hostess waiting longer than was needful, I simply
slipped off the riding gear which I had put on over my gray novice's
gown, made myself as neat as I could at short notice, and went down as
I had been bidden, to the dining-room, where I found the family already
assembled—there being more children than I could reckon at one glance,
all healthy and happy-looking, except Philippa. We took our places at
the board, the youngest child present said a simple grace, and we all
sat down. The meal was a plain one and plainly served, but all was good
and abundant.

"You see all our flock at once, Mrs. Loveday," said Master Davis, "all,
that is, but my married son and daughter, who have homes of their own."

"These young ones should have been abed, I suppose," chimed in Mistress
Davis, "but they begged to sit up till their father came, and I could
not refuse them for once, poor hearts. Folks say I spoil my children
sadly," she added, whereat Philippa gave a scornful half-smile; "but
they are pretty good children, though I say it that shouldn't!"

"I am sure they do not look spoiled," said I, seeing that I was
expected to speak; and, indeed, they did not. A prettier, better
ordered family of children I never saw. The supper was good, as I said,
though plain, but I was too weary to eat, seeing which, Mistress Davis
hastened the meal a little. When all had finished, she blew a little
whistle and made a sign to the elder boy, who brought a great book
from the side table and laid it before his father, while three or four
servants and as many 'prentice lads entered and sat down at the lower
end of the room.

"It is my custom, Mrs. Loveday, to read a chapter in the Holy
Scriptures to my family night and morning," said John Davis, removing
his cap as he spoke, "but if you have any scruples of conscience
concerning the same, you have leave to withdraw."

Philippa instantly rose, crossed herself and looked at me as if
expecting me to do the same. But as I had no such scruple, and had
moreover a great curiosity about the matter, I sat still, whereat she
went away, shutting the door with something like a slam.

The chapter Master Davis read was that one from the Old Testament
Scriptures concerning the beautiful story of the Shunamite woman and
her child. He then turned over and read about the widow's son of Nain,
whom our Lord brought again from the dead. The reading finished, the
whole family joined in the Paternoster, and Master Davis added a short
prayer in English, asking for protection through the hours of darkness.
The children and the 'prentices (there were but two, both quite little
lads) then kissed his hand and received his blessing, and so all parted
for the night. I cannot make any one understand how sweet and affecting
was this picture of family life to me who had not seen it for so long.

Mistress Davis herself was so kind as to see me to my room. When there,
she closed the door and addressed herself to me in that same pretty,
motherly way, yet not without a dash of dignity, which had made me love
her at first sight.

"Mrs. Loveday, my dear, I have, as you see, provided you with apparel
suitable to your degree, and unless you make it a matter of conscience
(with which I will by no means interfere), I should be glad to have you
don it to-morrow."

I told her what was quite true, that I had no objection, and that
I would have changed my dress at once but for fear of keeping her
waiting. I added that the reverend prioress had counseled me to be
commanded and guided by her in all things.

"Why, that is well," said Mistress Davis, so evidently pleased by
my ready compliance that I fancy she had expected something quite
different. "You see, sweet chick, a conventual dress out of convent
walls doth draw on remark, which is not pleasant or convenient for a
young lady."

"I can see that, madam!" said I. "I will put on the pretty gown you
have been so kind as to provide me in the morning. But, madam, is every
one now permitted to have the Scripture and read it?"

"Why, no, not every one," she answered. "Only those above a certain
degree; but we hope the time may come when it will be free to all.
It is a blessed gift, used as it should be, able to make wise unto
salvation. Well, good-night, and God bless thee."

She kissed my cheek, as she spoke, and I kissed her hand. Then, quickly
undressing and saying my prayers, I lay down, and, despite the novelty
of the soft feather bed and fine sheets, smelling of lavender, I was
soon asleep. I started several times in the night at some noise in the
street, but, on the whole, I slept well, and awoke refreshed, but at
first greatly bewildered at the place in which I found myself and the
novelty of the street-cries outside which fell on my ear, so long used
to hear nothing on waking but the song of the early birds.

I had often dreamed of waking in this very room, and now the reality
seemed like a dream. At last I roused myself thoroughly, as I heard the
house astir. I must needs confess, that it was with no small pleasure
that I hung up my gray flannel robe, and arrayed myself in the clean
body-linen, blue gown, and laced-hood and partlet; nor was it without
a sensation of gratified vanity, that I looked in the glass, and saw
that the image reflected there was a reasonably fair one. Considering
that I had not seen my own visage for so many years, I might be excused
for lingering before it a little. I was at this time about eighteen, a
well-grown, healthy-looking black * maid; with a dark clear skin, which
showed every change of color; coal black brows, and dark eyes with long
lashes, and very thick black hair, crisped to the roots and always
wanting to stray into rebellious little curls about my brow and neck.
Walter used say my hair was never meant for a nun's coif and veil. I
don't think I was vainer than other maids, but it is natural to young
things to wish to look well, and, certainly, I was no exception to the
rule.

   * A black person then, and long after, only meant one with black
     hair.

I said my prayers, and put my bed to rights, and then began looking
about the room. All was very much as I had left it; so much so that I
half expected, on opening the garderobe, to find Katherine's kirtle
fallen from its nail, and Avice's hanging primly in its place. A little
door, which I did not remember, opened into a light closet, where was a
small table, a chair and hassock, and a couple of books. I took up the
larger volume, and was both delighted and surprised to find it a copy
of the New Testament. I opened into the Gospel of St. John, but had no
time to read more than a few words before a knock came to the door of
my bedroom. I opened it, and there stood Philippa.

"My aunt has sent me to call you," she began, and then, with a curious
change of tone: "So you have left off your gown and veil already. Well,
it must be confessed, you have lost no time."

"I have but done as Mistress Davis requested," said I, feeling my cheek
flame at the tone of supercilious reproof.

"Oh, you are very obedient, no doubt. I should suppose that you owed
as much obedience to your religious vows as to—however, that kind of
obedience is out of fashion now-a-days."

"I have never taken any vows, Mrs. Philippa," I answered. "And the
reverend mother bade me be guided by Mistress Davis in all things. I
suppose she knows what is proper for young maids, as we are, better
than we can ourselves."

"Oh, very well; I did not come to quarrel with you, but to call you to
breakfast."

She turned round and I followed her, feeling discomposed and
uncomfortable. Mistress Davis's motherly kiss and welcome, however,
soon restored me.

"Why, this is well," said she, leading me to her husband, who entered
the hall followed by a younger man, also in the grave, rich dress of a
well-to-do merchant.

Master Davis greeted me with a kindly smile and blessing, and presented
me to his son; who, it seemed, had come to take breakfast with his
parents. I liked him as well as the other members of the family whom
I had seen, and was particularly pleased with his deference to his
mother. The older lads had already gone to school, but a little boy and
two pretty little girls sat down with us, and I learned, accidentally,
that the breakfast-hour had been deferred out of consideration for me,
as I was supposed to be tired with my ride. But, indeed, breakfast,
which is coming in many families to be as regular a meal as dinner and
supper, was little thought of in those days. The children took a piece
of bread and a draught of milk in their hands, and their elders were
content with a manchet and a cup of small ale, or mead. I hear that
people in London now have some trouble in getting good milk, but there
was abundance of milk-kine kept in the city boundaries in my time.

When I had drunk my basin of milk and eaten, I know not what dainty
cake wherewith Mistress Davis provided me, Master Davis called me into
the parlor, saying he wished to have some talk with me.

"So, Mistress Loveday, I dare say you are impatient to hear somewhat of
your uncle's family," said he kindly. "I have borrowed an hour or so
from business to talk of your affairs. Please you, be seated."

I courtesied, and took the chair he set for me.

"You will naturally wish to hear first of my good friend, your uncle's
affairs," said he, placing himself in the great chair where mine
uncle used to sit. "I wish, from my heart, I could give you later
and better news of him. The last letter I had from him was written,
almost two years ago, from Antwerp. In it, after praying me to have
a care of yourself and your fortunes, he gave me to wit, that having
trusted too far a factor whom he employed, and having lost largely by
him, he was about removing to some town in Holland, where he hath had
correspondence, and where he hoped to retrieve his fortunes. He was
somewhat undecided where to settle, but said he would write me when he
had, as he said, pitched his tent once more. Since then, I have not
heard from him."

Here was a fine downfall of all the airy castles I had been building
ever since I read mine uncle's last letter. I bit my lip, and had much
ado not to burst out weeping.

"Be not too much cast down, dear maid," resumed Master Davis, marking
my emotion. "I hope all will yet prosper with your uncle, and that
you will be able to join him. I have written again by a sure hand to
a mutual friend in Antwerp, and, besides, any day may bring a letter
from your kinsman. Meantime, rest assured that you are most welcome
to a daughter's place in this house. My good wife's heart is large
enough to hold a dozen more like you, besides our own brood, and all
our grandchildren; and my own, believe me, is not less spacious. Is
not that true, dame?" he added, appealing to his wife, who had just
entered. "Can not your wings spread wide enough to brood another chick?"

"Yes, indeed; half a dozen, if they will but be peaceable and not peck
one another," answered the good mistress, whose smooth brow seemed a
little ruffled, I thought. "I am sure if Mistress Corbet does but turn
out half as towardly as she seems, it will be a pleasure to have her
in the house. But we must take some order for her clothes. Canst sew,
sweet heart?"

"Oh, yes, madam; I can both sew and knit," I answered.

"That is more than I can—the knitting, I mean," said Mistress Davis.
"My sister, who is a waiting gentlewoman to the Duchess of Suffolk,
says her lady knows the art, but I have never even seen it. Then, I
dare say, you will not mind making your own linen."

"Oh, no, madam; indeed, I shall like it, only—"

"Well, only what, chick?"

"Only I have none to make," said I, with the outspoken bluntness
natural to me, and which I had never unlearned, even in the convent. "I
have no money to buy any, either, and it seems hard that you, madam,
should provide it for me, when you have such a flock of your own."

"Care not for that, sweet heart," said Master Davis. "Heaven hath,
as you say, given us a flock, but it hath also given us abundance
wherewith to maintain it."

"And I dare say, you will be able to give me help about the ordering
of the household and the children," added his wife, with that quick
consideration which distinguished her.

"I should like that," said I. "I might teach the children music, if you
would. I can play both upon the lute and the little and great organ,
and I can read both French and Latin."

"So much the better for you. 'Learning is light luggage,' my gaffer
used to say. The children go to school at present, but I shall find a
way to make you useful, never fear. Do you come with me now, and we
will see what is most needed."

I followed her to my own room, where I found a piece of fine Hollands
and some stuffs for dresses, with a piece of rich sober silk, laid out
on my bed.

"You see, chick, you, being a gentlewoman born, may wear silk, and even
velvet, which we merchants' wives must be content to forego," said
Mistress Davis, smiling.

"But indeed, Mistress Davis, I would rather not wear silk. I would far
rather dress as you do," said I, earnestly. "Silk attire is surely not
for one like me, who hath nothing she may call her own. Please do not
ask me to wear silk."

"Well, well, it shall be as you please. But, dear love, do not let the
thought of dependence worry you. Above all, let it not embitter you.
Remember, we poor creatures are all dependent on each other, first, and
last upon our Heavenly Father, who giveth to all his dear children what
He sees best for them in particular. Now let me take your measure, and
then, when we have some sewing ready, you shall bring your work down to
the parlor, if you will."

Mistress Davis's deft hands soon had some shifts ready for the needle.
I had brought my working things from the convent, and I soon found
myself in the very low chair in the bow-window, which had been mine so
long ago. But alas, my dear aunt was no longer in her old place, which
was filled by the much less substantial form of Mistress Davis, while
Philippa's somber face and figure was but a poor representative of the
beautiful twins, my cousins.

I glanced at Philippa, now and again, as I pursued my work, and
answered Mistress Davis's questions about my life in Dartford. She was
a tall, well-made girl, and would have been handsome but for her formal
manners, and the cold, and what I may call the arrogant expression
of her large gray blue eyes, that looked as if she were taking ever
one's measure and comparing it with some standard of her own. She was
dressed in black, made as nearly as might be in conventual fashion, and
wore conspicuously at her side a long rosary with a crucifix attached.
Mistress Davis expressed a most kindly interest in our poor sisters,
and hoped they had homes wherein to bestow themselves. I told her that
I knew some of them had, and mentioned the prioress and Mother Joanna.

"And yet the change will be very great for them," said she. "Poor
things, one cannot but pity them."

Philippa raised her head as if to speak, but at that moment Mistress
Davis was called out of the room, and she addressed herself to me.

"You seem to take the change easily enough, and even to enjoy it," said
she.

"Well, I do," I answered, frankly. "Of course, I was sorry to leave my
old friends, especially as they were in so much trouble, but a convent
life was never my choice for myself nor mine uncle's for me."

"You had no real vocation, then?"

"No, I think not; and indeed, I hardly know what it means," I answered.

"I had!" said Philippa, proudly. "I have always had a vocation, ever
since I was a child, but my father never would consent, or Master Davis
either. I have money enough, however, and when I am twenty-two it
will be all mine own. Then I can do as I like, and I shall go into a
religious house directly."

"From the way things are going there are not like to be many religious
houses by that time," said I.

"There will be convents enough abroad if not here," said Philippa.
"Besides, things may change here."

"That is true," said I; "but from what I have seen I should think that
one might be very happy in this house."

"Happiness is not my object!" answered Philippa. "What I seek is a life
of self-denial."

"And so you mean to take your own way the moment it is in your power!"
I thought, but I did not say it.

At that moment, Mistress Davis returned to the room, bringing with her
a pretty, pleasant-looking lady whom she presented to me as her married
daughter, Mistress Margaret Hall, come to spend the day at home. I took
a fancy to her directly, and we were soon chatting pleasantly together.
She had some lace work in hand with which she had got into difficulty,
and I was able to set her right, having served my apprenticeship to
that kind of work under Mother Joanna. The convent schools did have
that advantage—they taught girls to use their fingers. Mistress Hall
looked over with great interest while I picked out and untwisted,
showing her where she had gone wrong.

"Many thanks, Mistress Loveday!" said she pleasantly, when I had
restored the frame to her. "You have plenty of finger wit, I see."

"More of finger wit than head wit, perhaps!" said Philippa, with that
kind of smile which says—"see how superior I am." "I believe they do
not often go together."

"I am not sure of that," I answered. "Sister Cicely, our organist, of
whom I learned music, was the most beautiful seamstress I ever saw, and
people came from far and near to hear her playing."

"Then you play the organ?" said Margaret, eagerly; and, as I assented,
she went on—"You must come and try my husband's. He bought it at one of
the convents which have been closed lately, and had it set up in our
house. You must come and play for us."

"I should be very glad to do so," I answered—

Whereat Philippa said, with emphasis:

"You are very much favored, Mistress Loveday. Cousin Margaret Hall
never asked me to play for her."

"I did not know that you played," said Margaret.

"No, and you never tried to find out. Oh, you need not excuse yourself.
For my part, I would not have such an instrument in my house—I should
expect it to bring a curse upon me."

"It is better in my parlor than broken up for the sake of the lead!"
said Margaret, rising. "Mistress Loveday, would you not like to go over
the house?"

I arose with alacrity. It was just what I had been longing to do.
Margaret did not ask Philippa to go with us, for which I was very glad.
We left her to her own meditations, and went first up to the attic
from which (the house being much higher than its neighbors) we had a
very nice view over the city. I looked at once for the little, old
almshouses where I was wont to go with my aunt and cousins, but I could
not find them at all.

"Where is the green field where the almshouses used to stand?" said I.
"I am sure we used to see it from here."

"There is still a bit of it left—yonder by that old tree!" answered
Mistress Hall. "You may also see two or three of the cottages, but no
one has been put there for a long time. My husband heard that the whole
ground was to be granted to some great man about the court!"

"What a shame!" said I.

Mistress Hall put her finger on her lip.

"Blame not the king—no, not in thy bed-chamber!" said she. "There are
more than you that think so, but no one dares speak as things are now,
and it behooves us specially to be careful, being always in danger of
an attaint of heresy."

"You are of the new religion then?" I ventured to say.

"Nay, we are of the old religion—as old as the Word of God himself,"
said she smiling sweetly. "My husband, like my father, reads the Holy
Scripture in his family every day. I suppose, dear maiden, it is new to
you."

I told her I had never seen more of it than I had read in mine uncle's
great book as a child, adding that I had been taught to think it was
at the peril of salvation that common, unlearned folk meddled with the
word of Scripture, which was the reason that it was kept in the Latin.

"The multitudes who followed our Lord on earth and listened to his
blessed words, and the thousands who heard the discourses of Saint
Peter and the other apostles, were doubtless most of them unlearned
men. Yet our Lord and the apostles spoke to them in what was then the
vulgar tongue!" said Mistress Hall, gently. "Did they then put these
poor souls in peril of their salvation? And for what was the wonderful
gift of tongues bestowed upon the apostles, save that the common people
where they traveled might hear, each in the tongue wherein he was born,
the wonderful works of God?"

"I never thought of that!" said I. "And to tell you truth, Mistress
Hall, I never thought much about it."

"But you will think, dear maiden!" said she, with a sweet eagerness.
"You will read and think, and ask for aid and light from above to
understand."

I had no time to make any promise, for at that moment one of the maids
came to find us, with a message from Mistress Davis, that dinner would
soon be ready. Mistress Hall thanked her, and asked after her mother.

"It seems to me that I have seen you before," said I, as the maid
answered that her mother was well.

Cicely blushed and answered modestly that she remembered me quite well,
adding:

"But you were a very young lady then. Do you remember the night that
you came with your uncle to Goodman's farm, and the kind gentleman gave
Dame Goodman a piece of silver and bade her fill my pitcher?"

"Oh yes; you are little Cicely Higgins," said I. "You went with your
mother to live with John Blunt and his wife at the almshouse. What has
become of them?"

"They are both dead," answered the maid, quietly. Then making a
courtesy, she went away.

"That is a nice girl; I am glad she has so good a home," said I.

"Yes; any one who lives with my step-dame has a good home," answered
Mistress Hall. "I would all knew it as well as poor little Cicely.
Tell me, Mistress Loveday, do you think my husband guilty of sacrilege
because he bought a convent organ to save it from the fire and the
melting-pot?"

"Not in the least," I answered. "I only wish he had that one I used to
play on at Dartford."

"Sometimes I wish Philippa could have her way and go into a convent,"
said Mistress Hall. "Perhaps she would be more content."

"I think it would be an excellent thing," I answered. "A month or two
under Mother Joanna and a few times of bread and water, and being set
to scour the flags on her hands and knees, would teach her to keep her
tongue in better order."

"After all, that would be but an outward reformation," said Mistress
Hall, thoughtfully. "It skills not keeping silence when the heart is
full of anger and uncharitableness."

"Under your favor, I think it skills a good deal," I could not help
saying. "At least, one does not vex others, and besides, in mine own
case, when I am angry, I find the more I say, the angrier I grow."

"Perhaps you are right so far as that goes," answered Margaret; "but I
pray you have patience with poor Philippa. It is hard for her to have
her will so constantly crossed."

"She would have it crossed with a good crab-tree twig an she were a
pupil of our house in Dartford," said I, and there the matter ended for
the present.

When we went down to dinner, we found the party increased by Master
Hall, Margaret's husband, a tall, stout man, big enough to put his
delicate little wife in his pocket, and with a face beaming with
good-nature, which his manner did not belie.

The elder children took their dinner at the schools, which were at
some distance, but the little ones came to the table and it was clear
by their smiles and looks that their big brother-in-law was a welcome
guest. I was especially pleased by the respectful affection which both
Master and Mistress Hall showed to their step-dame; but, indeed, it
would be a hard heart that did not love Mistress Davis.

Of course, I did not speak before my elders at table, but I listened
with all my ears. I found out that Master Hall was a bookseller in
St. Paul's Churchyard, and had a license to print and sell Bibles.
I gathered that he was not as rich as his father-in-law, and indeed
Mistress Hall's dress was plain compared to that of her step-mother, or
even mine own, though it was most becomingly fancied and as neat and
fresh as a daisy. The talk was most interesting to me, running as it
did on the sale and use of books, especially Bibles.

"The demand increases more and more," said Master Hall. "We cannot work
our presses fast enough to supply it. But I bear some new restriction
is to be put upon the sale and use of the books."

"I am sorry for that," said his wife. "I would fain see the time when
every plowman and shepherd might have a Bible of his own."

"That time will surely come—or so I think," remarked her father,
"though perhaps not in our day. But these young ones may live to see
it."

"I fear, indeed, it will not be in our day," said Master Hall. "There
are those about His Majesty that would willingly close, if not burn,
every English Bible in the land."

"But not the Archbishop of Canterbury," said Master Davis.

"No; His Grace would, like my wife, put it into the hands of all,
gentle or simple."

The talk then drifted away to other matters, and when we rose from
table, Master Davis proposed we should seek the summer-house in the
garden.

"Do so, and I will send you wine and sweetmeats," said Mistress Davis.
"Then you can talk of your business matters, and we women will sit
under the great apple tree, sew our seams, and talk of affairs level
with our comprehension."

Whereat the men laughed, though I did not see the joke. Mistress Davis
asked me to help her in the ordering of the banquet, * and I was glad
to do so. (I never do feel thoroughly at home in any house till I get
into the pantry and kitchen.) Margaret was busy with the little girls,
and I saw them showing her their work, and the clothes they had been
making for their dolls.

   * A banquet was what we should now call a dessert of fruits and
     sweetmeats piled upon wooden trays and trimmed with flowers. It was
     often set before callers.

"Yes, Joan and Nelly are quite happy now they can have Sister Margaret
all to themselves," said Dame Davis.

"You would never guess for as simple as she sits there, that Margaret
can read the New Testament in the Greek tongue, wherein it was written,
and correct the press for her husband's edition of Plato his Dialogues.
Now, would you?"

"I think I could believe any thing that was good of Mistress Hall,"
I answered warmly.

"And you may well and safely do so," said her step-mother. "Yes, that
is very pretty," as I handed her a dish of fruit I had arranged.
"Believe me, you cannot have a better or safer friend than Margaret.
With all her learning, she is simple as a child and defers to me as
though I were her own mother. There, I think that will do nicely. And
now we will take our own work and sit down under the tree, and you will
give us the pleasure of hearing you sing, will you not? I see you have
brought your lute with you."

I was only too glad to do aught which could please my kind hostess.
I do not know when I ever spent a pleasanter afternoon than that. I sang
all the songs I knew—which were not many—and then Margaret told us some
tales she had read, and by degrees, I know not how, she gently led us
to serious talk upon religion and kindred topics.

"Oh, how I do wish you knew our dear reverend mother, Mistress Hall!"
I could not help saying at last; whereat she smiled and said:

"Why, do you think we should agree?"

"Yes, indeed, you would," I answered. "You have made me think of her so
many times this afternoon."

At this Philippa, who had sat by stiff and silent, tossed up her chin
and said:

"She must be a strange lady prioress if she is like Margaret."

"How many lady prioresses did you ever know?" asked Mistress Davis.

"Philippa would say I am not like her notion of what a lady prioress
should be, I suppose!" said Margaret. "But tell us of this good friend
of yours, Mistress Loveday, if you will. I have always been curious
about convent life."

"I don't know where to begin," said I.

"Oh, begin at the beginning and tell us how you spent your day. What
was the first thing in the morning?"

So I began and told—as we say in the west country—for an hour. The
elder children were at home by this time, and they also gathered round
to hear. When I had finished—

"You seem to have led quiet, peaceful lives enow," observed Margaret;
"but I should think such an unvarying life would have been rather
wearisome, and that a person leading it on for years would be almost
childish. Did you never have any study?"

"I used to do my Latin lessons with poor Sister Denys, and afterward
with Father Austin," said I; "but we never read any thing but the
Imitation and some lives of saints. I began Cæsar's Commentaries when I
studied with Father Austin, but I never got on very far."

"You shall finish it with me if you will," said Margaret. "And we will
also have some poetry. Latin is a noble tongue."

"Yes, a tongue more fit for the Scriptures and the church service than
common English!" said Philippa.

"But Latin was also the vulgar tongue of the Romans, wasn't it, Sister
Margaret?" asked one of the boys. "That is the reason the Latin Bible
is called the Vulgate, so our master said. He said St. Jerome put it in
Latin that every one might read it."

"Yes, that is very likely," answered Philippa, contemptuously. "No
doubt he knows all about it. Latin is the sacred language of the
church, not like that profane Greek and Hebrew which was used only by
heathen and by wicked Jews."

"But the Scripture was written in Greek and Hebrew in the first place;
was it not, sister?" asked Amyas, eagerly. "I am sure the master said
so, and I suppose he is right. Do you think you know more than our
head-master, Cousin Philippa?"

"Gently, gently, little brother!" said Margaret. "Your master would
also tell you that one may be right in a wrong way. 'Do you think you
know more than so-and-so,' is not very good logic, neither is it very
good manners, especially when addressed to one older than yourself."

At this, the lad blushed and hung down his head, but presently raised
it and said frankly, "I beg your pardon, Cousin Philippa. But was it
not so, sister?"

"Yes, you are right, so far. The Old Testament was written in Hebrew,
as most, if not all, of the New Testament was in the Greek tongue.
Scholars are now beginning to give great attention to the Hebrew."

"Yes, my sister wrote me that His Grace of Suffolk gives some
chaplaincy or the like to a young man—a secular priest—who hath come
up from the west country expressly to study the Hebrew," said Mistress
Davis.

"I dare say that might be the same young priest who was in our shop
yesterday," observed Margaret. "He was a fair Grecian for one of his
years, and was asking for some one with whom to learn Hebrew."

"I wish I might learn Greek!" said Amyas.

"All in good time!" returned his mother. "And you, Hal?"

"Not I!" answered Hal, the younger boy. "I would rather be a sailor,
and sail away to the Indies, like Columbus, than to be poring over
little crooked letters, all dots and spots, like those you showed us
the other day, sister."

"Why that may be in good time, too," said Margaret. "Who knows what new
lands you may discover?"

"We shall all discover rheums and quacks, * if we sit here much
longer," said Mistress Davis. "Do you not perceive how the east wind
hath come up? Let us go into the house."

   * "Colds in the head" as we call them, were rather new at that
     time, and were called quacks, hence the term of quack doctors.
     Old fashioned folks laid them to the introduction of chimneys.

We had several guests to supper. Young Master Davis and his wife,
a pretty, lively little body; two or three grave merchants, and an
elderly priest, with one of the finest faces I ever saw—full of
sweetness and gravity. I was presented to him, and learned that his
name was Hooper. The talk at table was cheerful and pleasant, at times
falling into a serious vein, and again full of jest and humor.

When the meal was done, the great Bible was again produced, but
this time Master Davis handed it to Dr. Hooper. He chose out the
twenty-third Psalm, and made an exposition thereon, so sweet and
tender, yet vigorous withal, as I think nothing could be better, unless
it were the very Word itself. I remember, he specially insisted on that
little word my.

"That is the way throughout Scripture," said he. "And so it must ever
be with those who are called into the kingdom. It is and must be my
Shepherd, my King, our Father, our Saviour. He may be what he is to all
the rest of the world, but till I can say He is mine, I am nothing the
better."

After he had finished speaking, he prayed—not in any form that I had
ever heard, but in his own words, and such a prayer I never heard.
It was as though his very eyes saw the one to whom he spoke with
the freedom of a loving and dutiful child. Then we all repeated the
Paternoster in English, and our guests went away, the ladies giving me
many kind and pressing invitations to visit them.

As I went to my room I met Philippa, who asked me if I had a book of
Hours, such us they used in the convent. I told her I had, whereat she
asked me to lend it to her—adding, with her usual bitterness:

"I suppose you will not care for it, now that you have taken up with
the new lights."

"I have not taken up with any new lights that I know of," I answered.
"What do you mean?"

"Oh, it is very easy to see. You are quite carried away with Mistress
Hall's sweet ways and flatteries, and she will make you as great a
heretic as herself. You must needs stay to hear that old apostate hold
forth, to-night. Oh, yes; it is easy to see which way the wind blows,
Mistress Loveday. But there is no use in saying a word in this house,
when even that malapert Amyas is put up to affront me, and Mistress
Davis, my aunt, finds fault if I do but put a stitch awry in my
mending. All I can do is to wait with what patience I can, till I can
go to the convent. There I shall find peace."

"I do not believe you will find it there, unless you take it thither
with you," said I. "And I can tell you more than that, Philippa. If you
had answered the reverend mother, or even one of the elder sisters,
as you did your aunt and Mistress Hall two or three times to-day, you
would have been made to kneel and kiss the ground, if, indeed, you
had not tasted the discipline of the rod. I saw Sister Blandina made
to clean the wash-house floor on her hands and knees because she gave
mother assistant a pert answer about some dusting she was ordered to
do. How would you like that? You found fault with your meat to-day at
table, and your aunt said nothing, only helped you to another bit. If
you had done that as a novice, you would have had no more that day,
except, perhaps, the leavings on the sisters' plates."

Philippa looked rather blank. "But I am going into a Carthusian house,"
said she.

I could not forbear laughing.

"Worse and worse. There you will get no meat at all, and only fish on
feast days. You will have no linen to mend, because you will have none
to wear, and so far from speaking back as you did to Mistress Davis,
you will not be permitted to speak at all, save in answer to a question
from your superiors."

"How do you know?"

"I heard all about it from one of our sisters, a very nice woman who
came to our house when her own was put down. She said she never spoke
during her novitiate, unless she were spoken to."

Philippa pouted and patted her foot on the floor.

"I believe you are only trying to scare me," said she.

"You may ask any one who knows," I answered. "Sister Dominica did not
know what to make of our easy ways at first, and yet our discipline was
not lax by any means."

"Children, what are you doing?" asked Mistress Davis, coming up stairs.
"'Tis time you wore abed, and asleep."

"There it goes," muttered Philippa. "Always interfering."

"Philippa came to borrow a book," said I.

"Oh, very well. There is no harm done. Good-night."

"Here is the book," said I, producing it; "only please be careful—"
For she took it in a very heedless way by one cover. "It is very dear
to me, because our mother gave it me a present from her own hand, and
there are some of her paintings in it."

Philippa instantly laid the volume on the table. "I will not take it if
you are so dreadfully afraid of it," said she. "I did not guess I was
asking such a favor. But that is always the way. One would think that
I did nothing else but spoil things. I don't want the book if you are
afraid of my spoiling it by only looking at it."

I suppose she thought I was going to urge it upon her, but she was
mistaken. My own temper was up by that time, and I quietly turned
from her, took the book and laid it away, and bidding her a short
good-night, I shut the door.

I sat a few minutes by the open casement to cool my face and also my
spirit, and then I said my prayers and went to bed. It was all saying
prayers at that time. The words never went deeper than my lips, or at
most I thought of them as a sort of charm, the repeating whereof might
propitiate some unknown power and save us from some unknown danger. I
don't say this is the case with all Roman Catholics by any means, but
I know it is with a great many. They gabble over their rosary with no
more devotion than a village child goes over the criss-cross row *, or
the pence table and from much the same motive, because they expect to
be beaten if they do not know their lesson.

   * The criss-cross row is the alphabet, always preceded in the old
     primers and horn books by a cross. Few people who use the word are
     aware of its origin.



[Illustration]

CHAPTER VIII.

HER GRACE'S GENTLEWOMAN.

I STAID with Master Davis two months or more, always hoping to hear
from my uncle and always disappointed.

Every one was kind to me. Master and Mistress Davis treated me like a
daughter in every respect, and I strove to behave like a dutiful child
to them. Mistress Davis found me plenty to do, knowing, dear soul that
she ever was, that to make me useful was the way to make me feel at
home. I have learned a good many precious recipes for distilling and
preserving, and I liked nothing better than putting them in practice.

Then Mistress Andrew Davis fell in love with my playing, and must needs
have me give her lessons on the clarichord. She had a fair talent for
music, and a sweet, bird-like voice, and I shall never forget her
pretty, child-like joy when she was able to surprise her grave husband
with a song and a lesson on the instrument he had given her. I pursued
my Latin and French, and persuaded Mistress Davis to let me begin to
teach the little Helen to read. She proved an apt scholar, and we had
pleasant times over our books.

It was a wonderful new world that opened to me during those two months.
As I said, I never in my life before had any deep convictions of
religion. I had gone through the usual routine in the convent just as
I worked my lace and sewed my white seam, but that was all. I had a
great dread of death, and when any thing brought it home to me, I would
redouble my observances and try to feel as I supposed really religious
people felt. But it was all outside of me, so to speak. I believed in
God, of course, but it was as a stern judge I thought of him—not by
any means as a tender Father. The blessed Virgin was, indeed, kind and
gentle, and if I coaxed her enough, she would perhaps command her son
to be good to me at that dreadful day of doom.

But ever and always in the background of my mind—that is, after I began
to think at all—was that fearful specter of Purgatory, the dread ordeal
which must be passed before I could hope for the smallest taste of the
bliss of Paradise. I do not mean to say that this was the case with
all of our number. Some sweet souls there were who sucked the honey
in spite of the thorn, and albeit sorely cumbered and distressed by
the barriers which the pride and folly of men had piled in their way,
did find access to the very Mercy Seat. Some found a real satisfaction
in piling up prayer upon prayer; observance upon observance, thinking
they were thereby heaping up merit not only for themselves but their
friends. Others, and they were the most, were content to perform such
tasks as they could not escape, in as easy a manner as possible,
trusting to their religious profession and the offices of their patron
saint to help them out at the last.

I had all my life been curious about books, ever since a chit of five
years old, I had tumbled off a joint-stool whereon I had climbed
to look at the great volume of the Morte d'Arthur which lay in the
window-seat in the hall. I got a sound switching across my fingers
for meddling, but neither the switching nor the tumble cured me of my
hunger for books. This hunger had very little to feed it at Dartford,
but it never died out, and I used to read over and over the few volumes
we had till I knew them by heart.

It was not to be supposed that with such a disposition I would let the
New Testament lie very long on my table without looking into it. I
chanced to begin at the first chapter of the Acts of the Apostles—that
wonderful book, which always seems to me to have the rushing, mighty
wind of the Pentecost blowing through it from beginning to end. It was
a Sunday afternoon, I remember, and the streets were full of people
waiting to see the King pass by going to see some great lord. I was not
well, yet not so ill but I was sitting up by my window to watch the
show. To while away the time, I took up the book, and I soon became so
lost in it that the whole pageant passed by without my seeing it at
all. I was still deep in its pages when Mistress Davis came to see how
I fared, and so fully was I absorbed in the story that when she asked
me where I had been, I answered her—

"At Jerusalem, madam!"

Whereat she laughed, and answered that "it was a good place to be of a
Sunday," adding more seriously: "But I see how it is, and right glad am
I to see you so well employed. Only remember this, chick: the Scripture
is not made to be read for diversion, like a Canterbury tale, or even
like any other good book. 'Tis the Lord's own word sent down for the
comfort of us poor sinners, and to guide us to that Home which He hath
prepared for them that love Him; and as such, we must study it with
reverence and ask for the enlightenment of the Spirit to be shed on its
pages."

This was a new idea to me, and I closed the volume for that time with
a strange bewilderment of ideas. I could not sleep for thinking of
it, and the more I thought, the more bewildered I became. Here was a
history of the first age of the church under the apostles themselves,
and yet not a word said about the worship of the Holy Mother, the
adoration of saints, the sacrifice of the mass, and many other things
which I had been led to consider essential to salvation.

"But perhaps they are in the Epistles and Gospels," I thought, "only it
is very strange that no more should be said about the Holy Mother after
the first chapter, and that then she should only be spoken of in the
same way as the other women."

But when I came to read the Gospels it was surprise piled upon
surprise. At first it was sheer enjoyment. How lovely were those
narratives into which I threw myself with an earnestness which made me
forget every thing else for the time being. How real to me were the
gatherings to hear the word, the feeding of the multitudes, the sower
who went forth to sow, the laborers waiting to be hired and grumbling
over their pay, not because they had not enough, but because some one
else had as much.

But by degrees other thoughts occupied my mind and heart. I began to
compare myself with the full requirements of God's holy law. I stood
for the first time face to face with that awful spirit whom men call
Conviction of Sin. I was shown that I was condemned under the law, and
unless some way of escape were provided, there was nothing before me
but destruction—nay, that I was condemned already.

My first thought was to reform myself; but it seemed to me that the
more I tried the worse I grew. I am sure I never in all my life gave
way so far to temper and fretfulness (always my besetting sins) as at
that time. Looking back at those days I can not but wonder at the wise
and tender patience of Master and Mistress Davis toward me. As for
Philippa, I don't think I am uncharitable when I say that she openly
exulted over every outburst. But I don't mean to speak of her more
than I can help it. She was, indeed, one of those thorns in the side
which seem to have no other use than to try the patience of those who
are affected by them, and which only rankle the more the more they are
plucked at.

Thus was I shut up under the law, and that which was ordained to life
I found to be unto death. It was Margaret Hall who led me out of this
prison into the light and life of heaven. She had me to stay with her
under pretext of having my help in correcting the press, which I had
learned to do with tolerable dexterity. She was one of those blessed
saints whose very presence is comfort though they do not speak. By
degrees she won from me the secret of my trouble, and then taking my
hand, as it were, she led me to the fountain opened for sin, and showed
me that spring of living water which has never failed me since, though,
woe is me, I have many a time choked its overflow, and turned from it
to those broken cisterns that can hold no water.

Oh, what a load she took from my mind. I was, as I suppose a man might
be who had worn fetters ever since he could remember, and though dimly
conscious of them, did not fully know their weight and hinderance till
they were struck off. It was as a new creature that I came back to
Master Davis's friendly roof.

But those were trying times—in some respects more trying even than
the more bloody days that came under Queen Mary. Then, at least, one
knew what to expect. The king was growing more and more infirm and
capricious all the time, and worked changes in church and state till it
took a good head to know what was heresy and treason and what was not.

Already my Lord Cromwell had been filled with the fruit of his own
devices, and now, within six short months after he had been created
Earl of Essex (that title which hath proved almost as unlucky to its
possessor as the famous horse Sejanus), he lay in the Tower, attainted
of treason, and waiting for the very block and as to which he himself
had sent so many. His real offense lay in purveying to the king a wife
who did not please him—the Lady Anne of Cleves, already divorced and
living in her own house, treated by the king as his sister, happy in
her endless tapestry work and in munching the suckets and comfits her
Flemish ladies-in-waiting purveyed for her. She was not one to take
any thing very much to heart which did not interfere with her bodily
comfort. The king had already turned his dangerous fancy toward the
ill-fated Katherine Howard, but I don't believe the Lady Anne felt one
pang of jealousy thereat. She was, with all reverence, like a gentle,
fat cow, perfectly content so long as she had food and drink, and the
flies were not too troublesome.

But it was not the alterations in state matters and the rise and fall
of one great man or another which troubled our peace. It was the
dreadful uncertainty in matters of religion.

Just now, the bloody statute of the Six Articles was law, but it was
enforced rigidly or not, as the king's humor was, or the influence of
Archbishop Cranmer or of Bonner and Gardiner came uppermost. These two
last were the moving and ruling spirits in all persecutions at this
time, as they were afterward in the more bloody days of Queen Mary.
They had consented to the suppression of the convents, and were even
most forward in the matter, being willing, I suppose, to swim with the
current so far if but they might have their way as to the reading of
the Scriptures and some other matters.

They were wise enough to know that all was naught with their cause
if the Bible came to be generally read; but they were not far-seeing
enough to understand that the same Bible, having once been given to
the people, they could no more take it back than they could bring back
again the day that is past. They could not imprison or burn every one
who read it, and who thought out conclusions for himself, else must
they have put the whole city of London under sentence of death, as King
Philip the Second of Spain did to the Netherlands. But they picked up
one here and another there, and nobody felt any security, or knew but
some spy was observing his movements in order to betray him.

One week the king hanged six monks, with their prior at their head, for
defending a monastic life; the next, he threatened with a like fate any
monk or nun who, having taken the vows of that life, should presume to
marry. As his infirmities increased, his temper grew more uncertain,
till at last any man seemed to take his life in his hand who had to do
with the king.

Then there were great disorders every where, some rising out of
religion, others from the excessive taxation which pressed heavily upon
all classes. Discontent was smouldering in all quarters, and now and
then broke out into open flame, as in the two Pilgrimages of Grace,
and other insurrections. It is not to be denied that the Protestants,
as they began to be called, were also guilty of indecencies and
extravagance. If you dam up a rapid stream, though never so clear, and
your dam be swept away, the first overflow will be turbid and violent,
and likely enow to do mischief.

Moreover, if the people enacted ridiculous plays, and sang ribald songs
in the churches, they had seen these very same things allowed, nay,
encouraged by the church, in the spectacles of the Boy Bishop and the
Pope of Fools—those strange and extravagant parodies of the most sacred
offices of the church.

Yes, it was indeed a troublesome time, and every man who, despite the
commands of the king and his ministers, continued to read the Holy
Scripture, and to frame his belief and life thereby, took that life in
his hand; yet many households did it, and lived happy in the midst of
disaster, and peaceful on the very field where the battle was raging.

Such a household was ours. One there was, indeed, who would not enter
in herself, and who would fain have hindered those who would do so.
I confess I used to be afraid of Philippa at times, not that in her
sober senses she would have been so base as to put the brand with her
own hands to the thatch which sheltered her, but in her fits of temper
there was no saying what she might do. Besides, she was one of those
unhappy people to whom it seems absolutely necessary to hate something.
In those days it was the Protestants. Now, she thinks I am greatly to
blame in harboring poor, harmless old Father Austin; looks upon the
book of Common Prayer as a remnant of popery, and upon bishops as at
best very doubtful characters. She hates all Romanists and Prelatists,
as she calls them, in just the same spirit that she used to hate the
Scripture-readers—because they do not agree with her.

But at that time she contented herself with hating, and did no covert
act, save by keeping away from the Scripture-readings—for which no one
blamed her, as she made it matter of conscience, and with bitter gibes
and taunts whenever the subject was introduced, and, above all, if the
talk turned upon personal religion and inward experience. But as she
had taken to solitude and keeping of her hours, and the like, so she
was out of the way a good deal. Meantime, our household went on its
way, in the midst of the commotion, like a stanch ship in a troubled
sea. There was anxiety, indeed, which became sharp fear and agonized
suspense, when the master of the family did not come home at the
accustomed hours; but as yet, this was the worst which had befallen us.

Master Hall no more printed Bibles openly, but I knew well that they
were both made and sold in secret. However, he multiplied copies of
the vulgate, and of Erasmus's Paraphrase of the New Testament, so that
every one who could make shift to read the very easy Latin could have
one. Afterward, the universal reading even of the vulgate came to be
forbidden, but it was not so at that time. People grew eager to have
their children taught to read, and all the day-schools were full.
Greek, too, was more and more studied, and many ladies, especially
about the Court, were good Grecians. I had a great fancy to learn it
myself, and made, with Margaret Hall's help, a good beginning; which,
however, never came to be much more.

I was all this time growing very uneasy at my state of dependence. It
was true, as Master Davis had told me at first, that God had blessed
him with abundant means, but then he had a great many uses for those
means. The old mother of his first wife was still living, and as she
persisted in keeping up her own house, and had little or nothing
whereon to do it, somebody had to do it for her. I had been in the
house some weeks, and had visited her several times, before I found out
that she was wholly dependent upon her son-in-law's bounty. She was
only one of many pensioners. Besides, I fancy a good deal of the profit
of the silk money wont in another way.

There was then in England a sort of secret society called the Christian
Brothers. This society was composed of well-to-do merchants and
tradesmen, for the most part, though it numbered both priests and
gentlemen among its members. It had its correspondents and branches all
over the country, and its object was to scatter far and wide copies
of the sacred Word. As the merchant journeyed with his string of
packhorses, laden with cloth, or silk, or hangings, or whatever might
be his commodity, there was cunningly hidden under the bales a case or
two of Bibles, Testaments, and such portions thereof as might be more
easily concealed.

When he came to a town, he had usually knowledge beforehand who was
like to be well-affected to the faith, or he inquired, like the
disciples of old, who therein was worthy, and there he took up his
abode, disposing of his merchandise, and giving of his books as he
found occasion.

The truth was, that ever since the times of Master Wickliffe and the
Lollards, there were those scattered about both this kingdom and
Scotland, who had kept the faith and handed it down from father to son,
together with some written copies of Master Wickliffe's Bible. But
these copies, being gradually outworn, and becoming more and more hard
to understand, from the change of language in all those years, it may
be guessed how eagerly and joyfully these poor, faithful ones would
welcome the Word of Life fairly imprinted, and in such a shape as could
be easily hid away, if need were, or carried about when there was no
danger.

I have heard old folk, who remembered far back, say that the Lollards,
as men called them, were in the habit of putting certain marks and
signs upon their houses which were known to no one else, and which
served to guide those of them who traveled to the homes of their
friends. I vouch not for the story, but 'tis like enow to be true.

Master Davis and his sons were members of this society, and I now
learned that mine uncle had been a great promoter of it. Of course such
service was not only perilous, but it cost a great deal in money, and
brought no return as the riches of this world. I could not but notice
how plain was Mistress Davis's own dress and that of her children, and
how both she and Margaret did forego many of the luxuries and ornaments
indulged in by others of their station. They could not carry their
practice in this respect too far, however, since this very simplicity
in attire and living might throw suspicion upon them.

Mistress Davis was kind enough to say that the help I gave her about
the house, and the care of the little ones, did more than offset the
expense she was at for me; but I knew, in truth, that help was very
little, though the dear soul took pains to make many occasions for my
services that I might not feel myself a burden.

I was young and strong. I was able to work, and had been blest with a
good education, and it did not seem right that these good friends, on
whom I had no claim, should be burdened with my maintenance. I began
to cast about for some business whereby I could earn my bread, and had
almost made up my mind to set up a little school, when fate, or rather
Providence, (to speak like a Christian instead of a heathen), cast in
my way the very thing for which I was best suited.

I have mentioned before that Mistress Davis had an elder sister
who held an important place in the household of Katherine, Duchess
of Suffolk. This lady, the daughter and heir of Lord Willowby by a
beautiful Spanish lady, whilom maid of honor to the unfortunate Queen
Katherine, had been left in ward to the Duke of Suffolk, her father's
best friend. She was bred up under his care, and when she came to
woman's estate, he married her.

Mistress Isabel Curtis—that was the name of Mistress Davis's sister—had
been about the young lady since her infancy, and, as was natural, she
still continued in her service and affection, and had a great deal to
do in the management of that great household. She had been out of town
with her mistress at the duke's new manor of Hereham, given him by the
king in exchange for the suppressed priory of Leiston; but the family
were now at their house in London, and on the first occasion possible,
Mistress Curtis had come to visit her sister, between whom and herself
there subsisted a devoted affection not often seen—more's the pity—in
that relation.

I had just come home from Master Hall's, where I had been helping
Margaret correct the sheets of Erasmus his Paraphrase. (I was not
allowed to help in the work done by the secret press, lest I should
be brought into trouble thereby.) I had also been giving a lesson on
the lute to Mistress Alice, Andrew's wife, and I was feeling very
elate because her mother, a stately dame, had rewarded me with a broad
Spanish gold piece for the pains I had taken in teaching Mistress
Alice some old ditty which the lady had liked in her youth. I heard
below that there was a guest in the parlor, and not liking to intrude
unasked, I was passing to my room, when Mistress Davis called me in and
presented me to her sister. I made my courtesy, and fell in love with
her then and there, even as I had done with Mistress Davis.

Mistress Curtis would have made two of her little sister. She was tall
and inclining to be stout, but not unbecomingly so. Her features,
though large, were regular, her mouth somewhat thin, her chin
beautifully formed. But it was her eyes that gave the chief beauty to
her face. I hardly ever heard any two people agree about their color.
They were, in fact, gray, but the pupils were so large and had such
a trick of dilating that they looked black. Like all the gray eyes I
have ever seen, they had great powers of expression, and a wonderful
keenness and brilliancy, which seemed to look one through and through.
Associating, as she had always done with great people, and having such
a responsible charge, her manner had in it something of command, yet
not mingled with aught haughty or supercilious. I never saw the like of
Mistress Curtis before, and I am quite sure I never shall again.

She received me very graciously, and, Mistress Davis having invited
me to do so, I fetched my work and took a stool near the window. I
was at that time bestowing all my skill on the embroidery of a set
of kerchiefs and mufflers for Mistress Davis—and I may say, without
vanity, that I was not ashamed to show my white seam and sprigs with
any body.

Mistress Curtis looked at and commended my work, and then pursued her
conversation with her sister.

"And so Mrs. Anne is married!" said Mistress Davis. "I trust she hath
done well."

"Why yes, I think so!" answered Mistress Curtis. "The match is,
perhaps, somewhat below her degree, since Master Agnew is but a yeoman
born, but then he hath a fair estate and is himself a man of good
conditions. Mrs. Anne was ever one who loved housewifery and a country
life, and she hath an easy, patient temper. Yes, I think she may be
very happy."

"And who hath filled her place?"

"Nobody as yet. The Duke will have none but gentlewomen about his wife,
at least in her chamber, and her Grace would like some young lady who
can read aloud in Latin and English, and hath skill with the lute and
voice. She loves music above any one I ever saw, though she does not
sing."

I could not help looking eagerly up at this. Mistress Davis saw it, and
smiled.

"Here is Loveday thinking, 'Now that is just the place for me,'" said
she. "Were you not, chick?"

I confessed that some such matter had been in my thought.

"And why should it be in your thought?" asked Mistress Curtis, a little
severely, as it seemed. "Are you not happy and content with my sister?"

"More than happy, madam," I answered. "I should be the basest of
ingrates were it otherwise. But Master and Mistress Davis have many
burdens on their hands already, and it seems not right that I should
add to them, being young and strong, and having (under your favor,
madam) a good education, which ought to stand in stead in earning a
living."

"Why that is speaking well, and like a sensible woman," said Mistress
Curtis. "How old are you?"

I told her that I was eighteen.

"It is full young, her Grace herself being so youthful; and yet better
the follies of youth than those of age," she added, in a musing tone.

"Loveday is not perfect more than other young people," said Mistress
Davis; "but yet I think she hath as few of these follies as fall to the
lot of most maidens. I hope my own wenches * may grow up as good and
towardly as she. But Loveday, why should you wish to leave us?"

"Only because I would not be a burden on your hands, dear aunt," (so I
had called her of late, by her own desire). "You have many to do for
who are really helpless from age and sickness, and I cannot but feel
that I am robbing some such person when I eat the bread of idleness in
your house."

   * Wench and wretch were terms of endearment in those days, and the
     former is so still in some parts of England. Sir Thomas More uses
     it to his daughters.

"Oh, ho! I see that we can think for ourselves, and that to purpose,"
said Mistress Curtis, with a smile. Hers was one of those faces in
which the eyes smile before the lips. "But what of your family, damsel?
Are you of gentle blood?"

I satisfied her on that point. Indeed the Corbets are among the oldest
of our old Devon families, and go back far beyond the Conqueror.
(N. B.—'Tis no great wonder he conquered, seeing how many people's
ancestors came over with him.) Then she would have me read and sing for
her. Being naturally somewhat agitated, I did not acquit myself as well
as usual, but Mistress Curtis seemed to be satisfied.

"I see, indeed, that you have been well taught," said she. "You are
convent-bred, you say. Where?"

I told her. "It was a good house," she said, musingly: "I much wonder,
sister, what young ladies will do for schools of education now that
the convents are all gone. 'Twere a good deed for some one to set up a
school where such might board and study under good mistresses. Well,
my young lady, I like your conditions, so far as I see them. With my
sister's permission, I will now ask you to withdraw, that I may talk
the matter over with her."

Mistress Davis called me aside and gave me some commission or other
about dainties for the supper table. I had often exercised my skill in
this way since I came to London. I went to the kitchen and asked Madge,
the cook, to have all things in readiness for me, and then retiring to
my closet, I prayed earnestly that all things might be ordered for the
best. Then, leaving the matter where it belonged, I betook myself to
the making of such a device in blanc-manger as should adorn the supper
table and do honor to our guest.

After the meal was over and Mistress Curtis had departed, Master and
Mistress Davis called me into the parlor and bade me sit down. They
told me that while I was most welcome to remain in their house and
family as long as I needed a home, yet they could not but commend the
spirit which led me to wish to earn mine own living.

"It is not every great family to which I should like to send a young
lady," said Master Davis, "but the Duke of Suffolk's household hath
ever had a reputation for man-loving and godliness."

"What like is his Grace?" I ventured to ask.

Master Davis smiled.

"Like a knight of the past age," said he. "More I will not tell you.
The present Duchess is very young, but she hath been well brought up
and comes of a good stock. She shows her sense in keeping my good
sister Curtis at the head of her household. Well, then, my child, you
shall wait upon the Duchess to-morrow, and if you are mutually pleased,
you shall take the place my sister offers you. But remember, Loveday,
that you are always to have a home in this house."

I thanked him for his goodness as well as I could—for the rebellious
tears would come in spite of me—saying I should never forget the
kindness shown me in that house, and Mistress Hall's goodness.

"The obligation hath been mutual, my dear," said Mistress Davis. "I do
not know what the children will say, especially Bess and Helen."

"And you will let me know so soon as you hear from mine uncle," said I.

"Yes, indeed," answered Master Davis, but he sighed and the sigh was
echoed by his wife.

I knew that he had little hope of ever hearing from Gabriel Corbet
again. Those were days (as they are still abroad) when a man could
easily drop out of sight and never be found or heard of again.

I have thought since that one reason why Master Davis was so ready to
let me go, was a consideration for mine own safety. The Duke of Suffolk
was in great favor with Henry, and was, indeed, his brother-in-law as
well as god-father to the little Prince Edward, and he was one of the
few men who dared cross the King's humor now and then. Gardiner hated
him, but he was rather too high a quarry for that foul kite to fly at,
bold as he was in those days.



[Illustration]

CHAPTER IX.

HER GRACE.

THE next day at noon, which was the time appointed by Mistress Curtis,
my aunt and I presented ourselves at the great new mansion which the
Duke of Suffolk had built for himself in Southwarke, over against
the church of St. George. This house came afterward into the king's
possession, and is now used as a mint for the coinage of money. I had
passed the house more than once and admired its ornaments, little
thinking that I should ever live there.

The porter was at the door, and seemed to have been expecting us, for
he called another man, who led us up the great stairway, and through a
grand gallery all hung with weapons, bright armor and pictures, to a
parlor, where Mistress Curtis met us and conducted us without delay to
the withdrawing-room of the duchess. The room was a small one, but so
beautiful with silken hangings, Turkish rugs and other ornaments, that
it was like a casket prepared for some precious jewel; and wonderful,
indeed, was the jewel it enshrined.

"Good morrow to you, Mistress Davis," said a sweet voice; "so, my good
Curtis tells me, you have purveyed me a gentlewoman who is quite a
paragon."

"No paragon, an' it please your Grace, but a well-bred and discreet
young lady," answered Mistress Davis, modestly yet without servility.

"So much the better; I shall not be afraid of her. Look up, maiden, and
let me see you."

I raised my eyes to the lady's face as I spoke, and it is no
exaggeration to say that I was dazzled. She was always lovely to
the last day of her life, but at that time, her beauty was simply
wonderful. Knowing her mother to have been a Spanish lady, I had
expected to see some one with black hair and an olive skin. Instead of
that, the Duchess was most brilliantly fair, with a complexion of such
clearness as to show the delicate blue veins about her temples, while
her hair, which was straight and surprisingly abundant, was of the
loveliest paly gold. I have since learned that this brilliant fairness
belongs to certain very noble families in Spain, and they are extremely
proud of it as showing their pure Gothic descent. The eyes were of a
violet blue, large and well opened; the mouth firm in outline, with a
host of dimples dancing in and out whenever she smiled.

She was very kind and even playful in her manner, yet not so as
to invite any unbecoming freedom. She questioned me about my
accomplishments, but said kindly that she would not ask me to sing,
as it would hardly be a fair trial. Then she asked me why I wished to
leave my present home, and I told her—because I would fain earn my own
living instead of hanging on the hands of Master Davis.

"I am afraid you are a phœnix, after all," said she, laughing merrily,
"and yet I could wish there were more of your kind. How is it, Mistress
Davis, that you have not found a husband for this child."

"So please your grace, Loveday might have had a husband had she so
chosen, but her mind was not to take him, and beside that, we had no
authority to do so; neither my husband nor myself would force a young
maid's inclinations in such a matter. I have seen too much of that in
my day."

(This was true, though I forgot to mention it in the proper place. A
good merchant with quite a family of children had proposed for me, but
I had no mind for him. Marry, an' I could have taken the children and
the house, without the man, I would have liked it well enough!)

"I think you are right," said the Duchess. "As you say, it is done far
too often. Well, my maiden, I am well pleased with your appearance and
with all that I hear of you. When can you come to me?"

I told her I knew of nothing to hinder my coming at once.

"Very well; my good Curtis will instruct you in your duties, and see
that you are provided with fitting apparel."

"Not so, please your Grace," said Mistress Davis. "I must beg the
privilege of myself purveying Loveday's wardrobe on her first going
forth into the world."

"As you please, good dame," said the Duchess; "only let her come as
soon as possible. Curtis, will you provide some refreshment for your
friends and settle every thing needful with them."

We made our obeisance and withdrew to Mistress Curtis's own apartment,
where we found a collation already provided.

Now that the thing was done, I must needs confess that I was rather
scared, and began to wish that I had followed my first plan of setting
up a little school. I had never associated with great ladies, save
indeed in the convent, where rank was not much considered. I began
to wonder how I should ever find my way about these long galleries
and staircases, and whether I should ever feel at home with my new
mistress. However, I reflected that, after all, these fine things were
but passing shows, and the people I should have to deal with were men
and women, and—what was most comforting—that the best Help and Shelter
of all would be with me as much in these grand halls as in my room at
Master Davis's, and by dint of such reflections and lifting up my heart
in prayer, I was prepared to hear and understand when Mistress Curtis
was ready to talk with me about my duties.

These were simple enough. I found that I was required to take my turn
with the other gentlewomen in attending upon her Grace in her chamber
and helping her to dress, to stand behind her chair at mealtimes and
when her Grace received or went into company, and, above all, to
entertain my mistress with reading and music whenever she was inclined.

"I think you will agree with the other waiting gentlewoman, Mistress
Emily Mandeville, very well," said Mistress Curtis. "She is a good
creature, and wholly devoted to her lady. As to the rest of the
household, you will have little to do with them. You will have your
own room, to which you may retire when off duty, and you will share
this parlor with myself and Mistress Mandeville. I need not tell you
that you are expected, when in her Grace's apartment, to hear all and
say nothing, and I trust you need no warning against gossiping and
repeating conversation out of the house."

"I trust not, indeed, madam!" I answered, feeling my cheeks grow hot
at the very idea that such a caution was needful. "I am not likely
to tattle, seeing I know no one in London but Mistress Davis and her
family, who are not likely to tempt me to such baseness."

"Nay, be not so warm!" said Mistress Curtis, smiling. "There was no
accusation in my words, only a warning, which is quite a different
matter."

"I ask pardon, madam!" I answered, feeling ashamed of my hastiness.
"Quickness of temper is my failing, but I trust, by God's grace, to
correct it time."

"'Tis half the battle to know one's fault," gently answered Mistress
Curtis; "but yet I counsel you, maiden, to strive with all your might
against it. A hasty temper often does more harm in five minutes than
can be undone by the bitter repentance of a lifetime."

I thought I had too much reason to know that.

"I never thought it so bad a fault as some others—as lying and deceit!"
observed Mistress Davis.

"True, sister. Deceit is to all other faults as the King's Evil *
to other diseases. It infects the whole soul as that the whole body,
blood, flesh and bone, and one never knows when it may break out
or what form it may take. But there is no single fault which, when
indulged, does not drag a chain of other sins along with it. Learn,
then, to rule thy spirit, dear maiden, and so to be greater than he
that taketh a city, as the wise man says. Now, as to a less important
matter, but yet one of weight, especially with young maids—your
clothes!" she added, smiling.

   * What we now call scrofula. It was named King's Evil from the fact
     that the Kings of England were believed to have the power of curing it.

"If it please you, madam, do you and my Aunt Davis settle that between
you," I answered. "I am sure you will know best."

"Why, so we will. Meantime, you may go into the next room, where you
will find an instrument, some music books, and other volumes with which
you may amuse yourself."

I rose, nothing loth, and passed into the next room; a very pretty one
with an oriel window, and having a lute and virginals * and a pile of
music books, and looking these over I discovered a book of the psalms
in French meter with music attached. I could not forbear trying these
with the spinet, and was so much engaged with them, that I started as
if shot when some one opened the door. I rose in some confusion, when I
found my visitor was a tall, stately gentlemen, splendidly dressed, but
one who would have shown his dignity in any weeds.

   * The spinet, clarichord and virginals wore all ancestors of the
     piano-forte. See a very interesting article in Macmillan's "English
     Magazine" for January, 1884.

"I crave pardon for startling you, fair lady," said he, with a gesture
of courtesy. "I was looking for Mistress Curtis, and hearing your
voice, my curiosity would not be satisfied without seeing the singer.
Pray, good Curtis—" as she entered by the other door—"what fair lady is
this who sings so charmingly?"

Mistress Curtis explained the matter. I had guessed already that I
stood in the presence of the Duke of Suffolk. He heard her to the end,
glancing at me now and then, as I stood withdrawn into the recess of
the window.

"It is well," said he. "I have every reason to trust your discretion,
my good Curtis, and glad I am that my dear wife's love of music should
be so gratified. What did you call the young lady's name?"

"Loveday Corbet, your Grace."

"Corbet—Corbet!" he repeated, musingly. "That is a west country name
and a good old family. Come you from Devon, Mistress Corbet?"

"Yes, your Grace," I answered. "My father was a gentleman of North
Devon, though I believe his father removed to London before he was
born."

"Have you any friends there living at present?"

"None, your Grace, now that my Lady Peckham is dead. Her first husband
was a distant kinsman of my father's."

"Corbet—I have heard the name lately, but I cannot place it," said
he. "Well, my young lady, I trust you may be happy and useful in this
house. Your mistress is a most lovely lady, and easily pleased. Let me
give you a token to hansel your first entrance into my family."

So saying, he placed a gold piece in my hand, and then turned away and
left the room. Such was my first sight of Charles Brandon, the good
Duke of Suffolk, and ever to my mind the very mirror of all knightly
and manly virtues.

I went home in a somewhat dazed and bewildered frame of mind, but once
in the solitude of my own room, I soon composed myself and was ready to
meet Master Hall's jokes and Philippa's bitter gibes on my promotion
with equal serenity. Indeed, however full of fun and merriment Master
Hall might be, he never forgot to be kind. It was not so easy to bear
the children's remonstrances and tears, especially those of my own
little pupil, Helen, a tender, spirited little maid, who had become
very dear to me, but the matter was settled now, and there was no help
for it.

And, indeed, considering the whole affair calmly in my chamber, I did
not wish to help it. I was convinced that I had done right in relieving
Master Davis of my maintenance. I also felt sure of a faithful friend
and counselor in Mistress Curtis. I was charmed with my new master and
mistress, and saw no reason why I need not be happy in serving them. I
had a little my doubts of my companion in waiting, Mistress Mandeville.
I thought she looked prim and formal, but I would not allow myself to
be set against her beforehand.

Yes, I believed I had acted wisely, and was content to leave the result
of my action in the hands of Him whom I had learned to consider my best
friend. I knew I should always have the Davis family and Margaret Hall
to fall back upon, if I needed such support. They had already done
for me more than I could ever repay, were it only in bringing me to a
knowledge of the Scriptures. Margaret, especially, had opened to me a
great new world of thought, which could never be closed again, happen
what might.

Surely God had been very good to me, though for so many years I had
never learned to love Him—never thought of Him if I could help it, and
then only as one to be dreaded and propitiated if possible, and who, if
I only made myself uncomfortable enough, might perhaps be won at least
not utterly to destroy me. Let those testify who know by their own
experience, what a change is made in the life when God's love is shed
abroad in our hearts.

But I must hasten on to my tale. 'Tis the nature of old folk to be
garrulous, and I find I am no exception to the rule, especially when I
have a pen in my hand.

Just a week from my first visit to Suffolk House, I betook myself
thither, accompanied by Mistress Davis, and followed by one of the
men bearing my bundles. My great mail was to come later in the day. I
remember St. George's clock was just striking nine as we passed near
it, and I saw a poor woman, whom I knew at once had been a religious
of some kind, standing under the porch. I had some loose silver in my
pocket, and I could not forbear putting a couple of groats into her
hand. She started and colored, and then thanked me eagerly, and turned
quickly away. In a moment more, we saw her enter a baker's shop close
by.

"Poor thing, did she not look hungry?" said Mistress Davis. "You have
given her one good meal, at all events."

"She is, or rather has been, a religious," said I. "I am sure of it."

"Very like, very like! I must try and speak with her when I come back.
Theirs is a hard fate, poor souls!"

"Yes, they do not all fall into such warm nests as I did!" I could not
help saying, whereat she squeezed my hand lovingly.

I heard afterward that she saw the woman, and finding her clever
with her needle, she got her work that made the poor sister very
comfortable. Helping one out of the hundreds who were in need, was like
helping one fly when hundreds are drowning, yet is it altogether better
for that one fly than if you were to leave him to drown too.

I took leave of my dear Aunt Davis, and certainly I did feel rather
forlorn as I applied to the fat, surly, consequential porter at the
hall-door to be led to Mistress Curtis. However, he was very civil—like
master, like man—and I soon found myself conducted into my own little
room and left to prepare myself to attend my mistress at dinner. It
was by no means as sumptuous as my room at Master Davis his house, but
yet comfortable enough. There was a small bed hung with blue stuff, a
joint-stool, chair and small table with a mirror hung above it. And in
one corner was a sort of cabinet, with drawers, for my clothes. The
window commanded a pleasant view. The maid who attended to help me
unpack my goods, told me that Mistress Mandeville's room was next mine.

"Who is that?" I asked, as an elderly lady, dressed in deep, but old
fashioned, black passed me, giving me a keen glance as she did so.

"That is Mistress Patience. She was a great friend of her Grace's
mother—I have heard say she attended on Queen Katherine, and was left
in great misery after her death, till her Grace found her. She hath
been in clover ever since, but some think she is not quite right in her
mind."

I looked with great interest at the old lady, as she walked to the end
of the gallery, seemingly only for the exercise. As she met and passed
me in returning, she dropped her stick; I picked it up quickly and put
it into her hand, whereat she gave me another keen glance and thanked
me, adding in a clear though trembling voice, and a somewhat foreign
accent:

"You are my new neighbor, I suppose."

"Yes, madam!" I answered.

"Ay. Well, be faithful and you shall have your reward."

I courtesied and followed my guide down the stairs, noting carefully
all the turns, that I might be able to find my way back. Mistress
Curtis greeted me kindly, saying I was just in time to attend my
mistress at dinner. Accordingly, she led me to the duchess her
withdrawing-room, where I found her splendidly dressed and beautiful as
ever.

"So, here is my singing bird!" said she. "We must make trial of your
gifts by and by. Meantime, be you acquainted with Mistress Mandeville,
your companion in service."

Mistress Mandeville courtesied and said something civil. She was of
medium height, with eyes of that sort which seem to have no particular
color, a reasonably good skin and features, and she carried herself
remarkably well. She passed for a model of prudence, propriety, and all
the other good Ps, because she never expressed an opinion of her own,
and, indeed, never talked if she could help it. I lived in the house
with her six months, and did not know her one bit better at the end of
the time than at the beginning. But we never had an unpleasant word,
and I really think she liked me as well as she knew how to like any
body.

We stood behind our lady's chair at the dinner, which was very splendid
and well furnished, with guests of great quality. The Duke entertained
many gentlemen in his household, and the expenses of the table alone
were something fabulous. As I glanced down the long board, I saw at
the lower end a face and figure which seemed at once to take me back
to childish days at Peckham Hall. The dress was that of a priest, but
I could not see the face plainly for a great burly count from the Low
Countries who sat above. The glimpse I had, excited me to a lively
curiosity, and I longed for another, but when I looked again the priest
had left the board.

"Now we shall have our dinner," said Mrs. Mandeville, with some
appearance of interest. (It was the only subject on which she ever did
show any animation.) "I hope they have not eaten up all the sturgeon."

I felt for a moment foolishly humiliated at having to sit down to the
board after others had finished, but I might have spared myself that
mortification, for I found that the ladies and gentlemen attendant
directly upon the Duke and Duchess dined in a chamber by themselves,
and as well as any one at the great board, if they chose. It was a fast
day, and I, who was accustomed to keep the fasts and feasts of the
church, was surprised to see the delicacies which were served to us.

Mistress Curtis presided at the board and kept order, yet was there
abundance of lively conversation among the young gentlemen. Only when
it seemed verging upon too much freedom did Mistress Curtis, smilingly,
call them to order. There were half a dozen pages of noble, or at least
gentle, birth, who were being bred up in the Duke's household, and
instructed in all sorts of manly exercises in the tilt-yard and manege,
besides what book-learning they got with a master entertained for
the purpose. Two or three of these were little lads of an age, as it
seemed, to be under their mothers, and it pleased me to see how these
children came about Mistress Curtis when the meal was done, and how
kindly she spoke to them. One of them had been crying, and, on being
questioned, owned that he had been in difficulties with his tutor on
account of certain pronouns whereof he could by no means understand the
declensions.

"Bring your book to me," I ventured to say, (I knew I had an hour to
myself at this time) "and, with Mistress Curtis's leave, I will see if
I can help you."

"Do so, Roger, since Mistress Corbet is so kind," added Mistress Curtis.

The little fellow—he was no more than seven years old—brightened up and
ran off for his book.

"Law's me, Mistress Corbet, what pleasure can there be in spending your
play-hour over a Latin grammar and a stupid lad?" said Mrs. Mandeville.

"Oh I like teaching, and I remember mine own troubles with these same
declensions," said I; and little Roger returning, I took him into the
window-seat and soon made his way plain for him.

"Thank you, madam," said the child, gratefully. "I wish I might do my
lessons with you every day. Master Sprat is so cross, and when I am
puzzled, he says I could learn if I would—but I can't learn unless I
understand. But he is going away to his now cure—much good may it do
him," said Roger, brightening up, "and perhaps Master Corbet may be
more good-natured."

"Corbet!" said I. "That is my name."

"It is our new master's name, too, and we are to begin with him
to-morrow."

"Then see that you have your task well conned, so as not to shame your
mistress," said I.

He was such a baby that I could not forbear kissing his round, fair
cheek. Then I betook myself to Mistress Curtis's parlor, where I found
her, and also Mistress Mandeville, who was making a kerchief at the
rate of ten stitches a minute, and lifting every one as though she were
prying up stones with a crowbar. It did always make me ache to see her
sew.

"Well and what of your pupil?" asked Mistress Curtis.

"Oh, I have sent him away happy," said I. "'Tis a fine little lad,
though he says his master calls him stupid because he can not learn
what he does not understand."

"I dare say. He is a crabbed, austere man, soured by poverty and hard
study before he came here, and his temper is not sweetened by the
tricks the mischievous lads play on him. But he goes away very soon to
some benefice or other. By the way, the new tutor has the same name as
your own."

"So little Roger tells me," said I. "I had a distant cousin of that
name, my Lady Peckham's son, who went to study for a priest. I wonder
if this could possibly be the same?"

"This young man hath come up to London, as understand, to study the
Hebrew tongue," said Mistress Curtis.

"Dear me, why should he want to learn Hebrew?" asked Mrs. Mandeville.
"He is not a Jew, is he?"

"If he were, he would probably know Hebrew without learning it,"
answered Mistress Curtis. (Somehow Mrs. Mandeville's stupid speeches
always did seem to put her out of temper.) "I suppose he wishes to
study the Scripture in the original tongue."

"Well, I would not like to know so many strange tongues and things. I
should be afraid of being burned for a wizard."

"That would be a waste of faggots, certainly," returned Mistress
Curtis, dryly. "But there is the clock. Young ladies, it is time you
went to your mistress."

Mrs. Mandeville led the way, and I soon found myself behind my lady's
chair in the great withdrawing-room, which was crowded with guests,
both ladies and gentlemen, come to pay their court. The Duchess seemed
to know all, and have a pleasant word for all. The Duke stood near,
now and then addressing a word to his wife, and there was ever that
interchange of loving and familiar glances so pleasant to see between
married people. He was more than old enough to be her father, and,
indeed, she was his fourth wife, his third having been the Princess
Mary of England, the king's sister, and dowager of France. It was on
the occasion of this marriage that he appeared at a tourney in a dress
half of cloth of gold and half of frieze, with this motto:

   "Cloth of frieze be not too bold.
    Though thou be matched with cloth of gold.
    Cloth of gold do not despise
    Though thou be matched with cloth of frieze."

It was said all his marriages had been love matches, and I could easily
believe it, for a nobler pattern of a man I never saw. He was the model
of all knightly and gracious exercises in tourney and field, having
gained more than one victory by his prowess, and he was counted equally
wise and discreet in the council hall. He was also a great patron of
the new learning and a protector of those who followed it, nor did he
disdain the more trifling arts of music and painting. I, who at that
time had never seen a good picture, used to spend half my leisure in
looking at those which the duke had brought home from Italy and the Low
Countries.

Of course, I had nothing to do but to stand still and use my eyes and
ears. It was the grand reception-day of the week, and many were the
great people who thronged the splendid rooms. It was not long before I
heard the name of Bishop Gardiner, and I looked with eagerness to see
this man who had held such an influence over my life. In he came, in
his rich churchman's habit, all smiling civility. I believe I should
have hated him at first sight if I had not known who he was. He was
followed by Father Simon, his chaplain, whose viper face I knew in an
instant. He advanced at once to pay his court to the duchess, and no
one bowed lower than he or was more fulsome in his flattery.

"Well, my lord, and how goes on your favorite pursuit?" asked the
Duchess in her ringing voice.

"To what does your grace allude?" asked the bishop.

"Oh, the turning out of nuns and monks. We all know you like to hunt
them as a warrener does rabbits, only your ferrets are learned doctors
and divines."

I saw Father Simon's face darken at this gibe, but the bishop only
smiled.

"'Tis said the chantries are next to go," continued the Duchess, in
the same gay voice. "I much wonder, my lord, what kind of reception
you expect to meet with in Purgatory. Will not the poor souls who are
waiting to be sung out of their pains fall upon him who hath so cruelly
deprived them of their means of escape?"

"Let me remind you, my love, that these are hardly fit subjects for
jesting," said the Duke, gently. "My lord, have you seen his majesty
within a day. His physician, Dr. Butts, tells me he is ill at ease."

Thus he turned the talk into another channel, while my mistress,
though she seemed to pout for a moment, soon recovered her gayety,
and began again chatting on indifferent subjects. As for the bishop,
he never showed one particle of annoyance either at this time or on
other similar occasions. But "what was fristed was not forgotten," as
old ladies used to say, and he made the sweet lady pay dearly for her
gibes: marry, 'twas through no good will of his that she did not atone
for them with her life.

When the company were gone, my mistress bade me sit down to the
instrument and play and sing to divert her and her husband. I did my
best, and her Grace was pleased to praise me very highly, saying that
my voice was one of the finest she had ever heard.

"The voice is not the only beauty," said the Duke. "Mistress Corbet
sings with expression, without which the best voice is 'but as sounding
brass and a tinkling cymbal,' as the apostle says. What other songs do
you know?"

I told him not many, as I had learned in the convent, where we had none
but sacred music. He then bade some one fetch a book of French Psalms
from which I had been playing, and he was pleased to join his voice
with me in some of them.

"These psalms are greatly sung in France," said he. "One hears them
both in palace and cottage. I would some one would do as much for the
psalms in English, that they might replace the ribaldry one hears every
where."

"It may be done some time—who knows?" said the Duchess. "Go you abroad
to-night, my sweet lord?"

"I must needs do so, since the king commands," he answered. "And what
will you do?"

"Stay at home to play with my babes, like a good housewife," said she,
with a smile, "and perhaps to visit poor Mistress Patience, whom I have
not seen for two days."

"I perceived the old lady was not at table."

"No, she is ill at ease, poor soul. I think not she will live long."

"It is hardly to be wished. Good-by, then, sweetheart."

When the duke had gone, his wife rose and bidding us attend her, she
went first to the nursery, where I saw her two little sons, of four and
five years, lovely buds of that noble stem, destined to be blighted
in their earliest bloom by the dreadful sweating sickness. They were
sweet, well-governed children, overjoyed to see their beautiful mother,
and coming with shy grace to speak to me when bade to do so. Presently
the elder boy asked his mother when sister Frances was coming home,
and I then learned for the first time that the duke had an unmarried
daughter by his third wife, Margaret of England, who was now visiting
some lady about the court.

I was in a hurry for supper to come now, hoping I might see in the new
tutor my old friend and playmate, and then telling myself how silly
I was to prepare such a disappointment. But I was not destined to be
disappointed. The Duke being away, the whole family sat down to supper
together, and the very first sight convinced me that Walter Corbet was
before me. He had grown older, of course, and looked thin and worn, but
there was the old expression of peaceful firmness and resolution in his
dark eyes and in the lines of his mouth. I do not think he glanced at
me, till the Duchess addressed some kind word to him, when he looked up
and our eyes met. Even then, he did not recognize me at once, and no
great wonder, as he had not seen me since I was eight years old; yet
his eyes lingered on my face with puzzled expression, which the Duchess
observing, (as she always saw every thing,) said:

"Master Corbet, my new gentlewoman hath the same name as yourself and
comes also from the West Country. It may be you are of kin."

I could not but smile at his look of bewilderment, and seeing he was
still uncertain, I touched with my finger a small but deep scar on my
brow, which I had gotten in one of our childish expeditions after nuts.

"Surely!" said he. "This cannot be my little cousin Loveday, who used
to live at Peckham Hall with my mother?"

"Even so," I answered, as my mistress's eye and smile gave me leave to
speak. "I knew you in a moment; but then you are changed less than I."

"And you are little Loveday," said he, as though he could hardly
believe it even yet.

"Not so very little at present," said the Duchess. "You must make
acquaintance, since you are old friends and kinsfolk."

This was all that passed at that time. The evening was spent in reading
aloud to my mistress and playing of cards, about which I knew nothing
till she taught me, and which I never learned to like. The Duchess, not
being very well, went to bed early, and I waited on her to her chamber
and helped her to undress, as was part of my duty. My service, however,
was not much more than nominal, as she had an old maid-servant who had
attended her since she was a child. She then dismissed me, and I went
to bed, feeling more tired than I had ever done in my life.

Next morning, I was astir in good time. I had been used, of late,
to read a portion in the Bible every morning, and, as the sun shone
pleasantly into the gallery, and my room was something dark, I ventured
to walk up and down there, while reading in St. John's Gospel. I had
not done so long, when a door opened, and the old lady I had heard
called Mistress Patience, put her head out.

"Can I do aught for you, madam?" I asked, seeing her looking as if she
would call somebody.

"Oh, I would not trouble you, Mistress—I forget your name," answered
the old lady. "I was but looking for the woman who helps me to dress; I
am rheumatic, as you see. She is long in coming, I think, or else I am
earlier than my wont."

"It has not yet gone six by the church-bell," said I. "But, Mistress
Patience, please let me help you; I shall love to do so."

"Nay, child, 'tis no office for such as thou—thou a gentlewoman."

"I am a Christian," I answered; "and what should such do but help each
other? Besides, I shall like it. It will remind me of the time when I
used to help dear Sister Sacristine, in the convent. Please allow me."

The old lady consented, and I helped her to dress. She was much
crippled with rheumatism, and I feared hurting her; but I suppose I did
not, for she said I was a deft maid.

"And what book have you there?" said she, as I took up the volume I had
laid on the table.

I told her.

"What, you are an heretic, then?" said she, sharply.

"Nay, madam, why should you think so?" I answered.

"Because you read the Bible, like that snake-in-the-grass that brought
my dear mistress to her doom. Away, I have naught to do with heretics.
They murdered my dear mistress."

"But, dear madam, listen a moment," said I. "Don't you know that both
Luther and Tyndale wrote against the king's divorce of Queen Katherine,
as did many others whom men call heretics? For myself, I do not pretend
to judge of state matters, being nothing but a simple maid, but my
heart hath ever been with your mistress. And you know it was the great
Cardinal who first helped on the matter of the divorce. I have heard
say that the queen herself accused him of blowing the coal betwixt her
and the king."

"So she did, so she did, poor soul!" said the old lady, relenting a
little. "But, oh, my maiden, for your soul's sake, beware of heresy,
and of reading and judging in matters too high for you. It is that
which is drawing down vengeance on this realm."

I soothed her, as well as I could, and, getting her comfortably seated
in her great chair, I fetched my "Imitation," and read to her a few
minutes.

"There is the bell, Mistress Corbet," said she, as a bell rang in the
gallery. "You must go, but you will come again, won't you?"

"Yes, indeed!" said I, venturing to kiss her forehead; whereat she gave
me a smile and her blessing.

As I have said, breakfast was not at that time the serious matter it
has since become. I had been bidden to repair to the small dining-room
for mine, and did so. There, to my great joy, I found Walter, eating
his bread and milk, with a book open by his basin, as he used to do
at the hall. It may be guessed that we found plenty to say to each
other. He told me that the hall was shut up and empty, save for the old
servants who staid to look after it. Sir John Lambert, with whom he
had studied, had gone abroad to save his life, being accused of heresy
and he, himself, had had a narrow escape from the clutches of Father
Barnaby.

"I know not how he let me go, only that he could not find in his heart
to burn so good a Latinist," said he, smiling. "When my kind friend
went abroad, I betook myself to my parish of Coombe Ashton, and there
I have lived till now. But I have left my cure in good hands, and am
come up to London, for a time, to study the Greek and Hebrew to more
advantage. The Duke of Suffolk hath kindly given me a place in his
household, where I hope to serve well both my earthly and Heavenly
Master. But now tell me of yourself. Where have you been, all these
years?"

"'Tis a long tale," said I. "I can only give you the outlines thereof,"
which I did, only saying naught of the cause which sent me from London
to Dartford.

"But, Walter," I added ('twas a wonder to see how easily we went back
to the old names), "how does it happen that you have not heard all
this before? Did you not care enough for your old playmate to ask your
mother about her?"

Walter's face clouded, and I saw that I had touched on a tender chord.

"My mother and myself have seen very little of each other of
late," said he, sadly. "You know she was somewhat arbitrary in
her disposition," (I thought I did, indeed), "and she was greatly
displeased with me for taking up with the new learning, and, as she
said, abetting Sir John in the destroying of souls. She made the
price of her blessing the abandonment of my most dear and inward
convictions of truth, and as I could not comply, she even cast me off
and disinherited me, so far as it was in her power to do so. Think you,
I was wrong not to give way?"

"Whoso loveth his father or mother more than Me is not worthy of Me,"
said I.

His face brightened in a moment, and he said, in a low tone:

"Then you, too, are a reader of the Evangel. Where did you learn that?"

I told him, adding, "I do wish you knew the Davis family. They are the
best people in the world."

"I know Master Hall and his wife, at least to speak to," said he. "She
seems, indeed, like a most generous woman, such as the wise man calls a
crown to her husband."

"But did your mother then disinherit you?" I asked.

"So far as it was in her power. Sir Edward left me certain lands which
were not entailed, and a sum of money, and I had a small inheritance
from my own father, so I have more than enough for all my wants—except
books," he added, smiling; then sadly again: "I cared not for the
inheritance, but it was hard to want a mother's last blessing."

"It was, indeed. But what do you here?"

"The duke hath given me a place as master, to teach the young gentlemen
their academe. His grace intimated to me that I might do as much or as
little as I would, but I mean to earn his protection, which is of great
value to me."

The entrance of Mistress Mandeville put an end to our talk for this
time. The day was spent much as the last had been, save that we went
abroad on the river with our mistress. She was fond of the water, and
went out almost every day, and as I liked it also, while as Mistress
Mandeville was terribly afraid of it, I came to be her usual companion
in these expeditions.

Kind as were my master and mistress, and much as I learned to love
them, it was a trying life, and one that I should never covet for a
daughter of mine. It was a fatiguing, and yet an idle, life. Oh, how
my fingers used to ache for something wherewith to busy themselves,
during the hours when I stood by my mistress's chair, and how weary
grew my ears of the endless tittle-tattle of compliment and repartee.
Sometimes, indeed, we had talk which was worth hearing. The Duke
entertained all the great scholars of the day, and I heard many
discussions which made me forget all my weariness and disgust.

One day I had the great pleasure of seeing my old friend, Dr. Hooper,
and my lady, with her usual kindness, hearing that we were acquainted,
made an opportunity for us to talk together. He told me he had seen
Master Davis's family the day before, and that they were all well.

"And you, my daughter, how fares it with you?" he asked, gently. "I do
not mean in health, since your face speaks for itself, but how fares
it with your soul? Do you keep your lamp trimmed and burning in the
midst of all this splendor, and yourself as one who waiteth for the
bridegroom?"

"Indeed, I try to," I answered, feeling the tears very near mine eyes.
"But I do find it hard, many times, to collect my thoughts and keep
them where they should be. My prayers seem forced, and as though they
did not get out of the room."

Dr. Hooper smiled. "They have no need to do so, perhaps, since He to
whom they are addressed is Himself in the room. But tell me, do you at
such times give up and forbear to pray for that time?"

"Sometimes I have done so," I answered, blushing.

"And do you not find prayer and meditation all the harder the next time
for such omissions?" he asked.

I confessed that it was so.

"And so it will ever be," said he. "Believe me, daughter, the times
when we need prayers most is when we enjoy them least. Then is the
time to seek the mercy seat more earnestly than ever, and not to leave
it till we have an answer of peace. Even though your prayers are but
matters of simple obedience, they are of infinite value to your own
soul. Tell me, is there not some charitable work that you can do to
keep the springs of love fresh in your heart?"

I thought of Mistress Patience, whom I had somewhat neglected of late,
excusing myself on the ground of having so little time to myself, and
because she was often fretful and hard to please.

"Yes!" I answered. "I might do such work if I chose—but—the truth is,
Dr. Hooper, in the multitude of business and distractions, I have
forgotten God, and He I fear hath forgotten me."

"Do you not believe that, dear maid," said Dr. Hooper, earnestly. "He
hath not forgotten you, but even now waits for you to return, and holds
open the gate that you may enter. Go you to Him before you sleep, in
penitence and prayer, and having confessed your sins and begged for
pardon and cleansing, believe that you have them, and go on serving
your Heavenly Master to the best of your ability, not expecting thereby
to win salvation, since that has already been purchased for you, but
that you may showy your faith by your works, and set forward the
kingdom of your Master."

This is not a record of religious experience; but I may just say that I
followed the good man's advice, and found peace in so doing.

The next morning, I was up early, and while dressing I tried to think
of some way to make my peace with Mistress Patience, who, I knew, had
felt the loss of those attentions which I had begun by giving her. At
last a plan struck me, which I hastened to put into execution. I found
the old lady dressed, and sitting in her great chair.

"So, Mistress Corbet, I have not seen you for long," said she, drawing
herself up; "but I am nobody now—only a poor old woman whom nobody
cares for. I thought at first you were going to be like a daughter to
me, but I see how it is."

"Now you discourage me," said I, feeling her reproach all the more that
I deserved it. "I had come to ask a great favor, and now I am afraid."

"And what favor may that be?" she asked me, rather suspiciously, but
yet relenting a little, as I thought.

"Even that you will teach me to knit," I answered. "My mistress says
that you know how to knit hosen like those which come from Spain, and
that you taught her mother."

"So I did, so I did," she answered; "and a sweet creature she was. How
well I remember when my Lord Willowby came a suitor for her hand;"
and therewith she went off in a long description of the wedding, and
bedding, and so forth, which kept her amused till it was time for me to
go.

"But you will teach me to knit?" said I, as I rose to leave her.

"That I will, that I will, dear maiden. I will hunt up my knitting-pins
to-day, and will show you the motion, and how to put up the stitches.
Just wheel my chair near to yonder cabinet, if you will, and I will see
what I can find."

And so I left her happy in rummaging her drawers.

The next morning, she had found her pins, and gave me a lesson in
knitting, over which we became quite good friends again. By degrees
she opened her mind to me, and I found out what was the trouble which
embittered her life. It seems that Queen Katherine, in her will,
had provided that some one should make a pilgrimage to our Lady of
Walsingham, for the benefit of her soul. This had never been done, and
the poor, faithful old servant was eating her heart with grief lest her
mistress was still suffering in Purgatory on account of this omission.

"I would gladly have gone myself," said she, "but I had a broken leg;
and now there is no more any holy shrine at Walsingham. Oh, me! Oh,
me! That my poor mistress, who would have gone on foot to Rome to save
the soul of a poor beggar, should suffer for want of such a charity as
that."

She wept, and I could not forbear weeping with her, and trying to
comfort her.

"Dear Mistress Patience," said I; "Queen Katherine was a Christian
woman and trusted in her Saviour, who is all pity and compassion. Think
you he loves her less than you do?"

"No," said she, wonderingly, "I suppose not."

"Would he not love her just as much more than you, as he is greater
than you—that is, infinitely?"

"Yes, belike He does. What then?"

"Then—do not be angry, dear lady—but would He leave her in such a
dreadful place, because some one did not do what was impossible. The
Scripture saith that his blood cleanseth us from all sin. What need
then of any further cleansing?"

She looked doubtfully on me, and I had to leave her at that time; but
the next morning, as I took my knitting, she said, abruptly:

"Mistress Loveday, is what you said yesterday—about cleansing from
sin—is that in the Bible? I mean the true Latin Bible, not that which
the heretics have put forth."

"It is, indeed," I answered.

She sighed. "I wish I could read it," said she; "but I was never good
at Latin, and now my eyes are failed, so I can scarce read English."

"I will read it for you, dear madam," said I. "I have a Latin Bible,
and I will read it into English for you, if you will."

"Do so," she answered.

I fetched my book, and read to her such places as bore on the subject,
as long as I had time. When I was obliged to go away, she laid her
hand on my arm, and fixing her eyes on mine, she said, with touching
earnestness:

"You are a good maid and a fine scholar. You would not deceive me?"

"Not for the whole world," I told her.

"Then tell me—are all these things in the English Bible?"

"They are indeed, dear madam, and much more."

"I would I had one, that I could see for myself," said she.

"Mine is fine print—I fear you could not read it," said I. And then, as
a thought struck me: "My lady hath given me leave to visit my friends
to-day, and I think I may be able to bring you the New Testament in
fair, large print."

Her face brightened, and then fell again. "But that may bring you into
trouble," said she.

"I think not," I answered. "At all events, I will see what can be done."

She consented at last, giving me a gold piece to pay for the book, and
to buy a fairing for myself. As I said, my mistress had given me leave
to go spend the day with my friends, and Mistress Curtis sent one of
the men to attend me to Master Hall's, where I purposed to go first.
I had been used to run back and forth between his house and Master
Davis's, but I was now a lady in a great house, so I must needs have a
blue-coated serving man at my heels.

I found them all well and overjoyed to see me, but methought Master
Hall was more sober than his wont, and Margaret's fair brow had a shade
of care. When: we were alone together, I asked her if any ill fortune
had befallen.

"Nothing as yet," she answered, "but, Loveday, we are living, as it
were, on the edge of a quicksand which may any day open and engulf
us. It hath somehow become known that my husband has been engaged in
the printing and selling of English Bibles, or at least so we think.
We are beset with spies. One of our best workmen, James Wells, hath
disappeared, and we can get no news of him."

"He may have been murdered in some street brawl," said I; "you know
there have been many of late."

"True; and he may have turned informer, perhaps by force of the
rack—who knows? I am glad you came to-day, for nobody knows when we
shall meet again."

She looked about her, went to the door to see that it was fast, and
then whispered in mine ear: "In a week or two, perhaps in a few days,
my husband will go to the Low Countries, and I shall follow him as soon
as I can settle up our matters here."

This was news, indeed, and the worst I had heard for many a day. I
could not forbear weeping over it, and Margaret joined her tears to
mine.

"But we must not spend our last meeting in tears," said she, presently,
drying her eyes. "Tell me, dear maid, how it fares with you and what
you are doing?"

With that, we fell into our old strain of talk, and it was a wonder to
me to see how she seemed to forget her own concerns in mine, when I
told her of Mrs. Patience.

"Alas, poor soul. She shall have what she wants, but not for hire or
reward."

And going to one of the secret recesses, of which the house was full,
she brought forth a fairly printed New Testament and a Psalter.

"Give these to the poor lady and bid her bestow the price in charity,"
said she. "My husband will be only too glad to give the bread of life
to one more perishing soul. But conceal them carefully. I would not
have you brought into jeopardy. Your cousin, Sir Walter, tells me you
are in great favor with your good lady."

"She is, indeed, good—far beyond my deserts," I answered: "I never saw
a sweeter young creature. She hath but one fault, and I sometimes fear
that may bring her into trouble. She cannot refrain her tongue from
any gibe or jest that comes to her. Bishop Gardiner comes often to our
house, and never, I think, without their having an encounter of wits,
in which he is sure to come by the worst. I like not the way he looks
at her, and believe, though he says not a word but of the most honeyed
courtesy, he doth cherish in his heart both anger and revenge."

"It is a pity," said Margaret. "He is a wicked and cruel man—one of the
true Pharisees which Scripture says do shut up the Kingdom of Heaven,
not entering himself nor suffering others to do so. He is a dangerous
enemy."

"I know I would not like him for mine, but I am too insignificant to
draw his notice."

I dined with Margaret, and then we went together to her father's house,
she giving me a caution not to speak of what she had told me about her
husband affairs, specially before Philippa.

"She would surely never betray you," said I, startled.

Margaret shook her head.

"She might not be able to help herself. I trust nobody who goes to
confession."

We found all well, and the children came near eating me up in the
warmth of their welcome. I had brought my knitting, and Mistress Davis
was at once on fire to learn the art, so I taught her as far as it
could be learned in one lesson. I had made a little pair of red hosen
for my pupil Helen, and great was the wonderment over them, for knitted
hose were even mere rare then than now. The only ones ever seen were
brought out of Spain and sold for great prices.

Philippa was in a generous mood, and full of curiosity about my new way
of living. I was willing to gratify her as far as was discreet, but she
wanted to hear more, and began asking me questions about the family.

"They say the Duke and Duchess do not well agree, and that he
reproaches her with her wastefulness and love of dress, even before
visitors," said she.

"Nonsense," I answered. "The Duke is the very mirror and pink of
courtesy to all, and especially to his wife."

"But is she extravagant?" persisted Philippa.

I hardly knew how to answer, for, in truth, I had thought my mistress
more expenseful in her habits than was discreet at all times, even with
such a princely income as the Duke's. Philippa went on, without waiting
for a reply.

"I have heard that her grace never wears the same gown twice, and that
she hath as many sets of jewels as there are days in the year. Is that
true, think you?"

"I don't know; I never counted my mistress's jewels," I answered rather
shortly, for I was vexed and embarrassed. "Take care, dear aunt, you
have dropped a stitch. Let me take it up for you."

"But you must have the chance to see all her fine things," continued
Philippa. "Do you not take care of her jewels?"

"No; she always puts them away herself."

"Is the Lady Frances at home?" was the next question.

"No; she returns next week."

"Folk say she hath the king's temper," observed Philippa. "They say
that she and her step-mother do not agree, and that when the Duchess
cuffed her for her impertinence, she struck back and gave her mother a
black eye. Was that so, think you?"

"I don't believe it. I know nothing about my Lady Frances's relations
with her mother, and if I did, I would not tell it out of the family."

"Why, what harm would it do?" asked Philippa.

"It would be treason to those whose bread she eats, and under whose
protection she lives," said Mistress Davis, with emphasis. "And Loveday
is right to refuse. There can be no greater or baser act of treachery,
than for a servant in any station to tattle of the private concerns of
her employers."

Philippa pouted. "She told the children how the little lord rode his
pony in the tilt-yard."

"That was but child's play," said I, "very different from what you have
asked. How would you like to have some one tell of all that happened in
your family, supposing you had one?"

"Any how, a great many people do it, and think no harm."

"They do harm, whether they think it or not," answered Mistress Davis.
"Many a scandal and shame grows out of such tittle-tattle."

Philippa was silent for awhile, but her curiosity was too lively to
allow her to sulk, as usual, and she presently began to ask me about
the last court fashions, in gowns and headgear. I was willing to do
her a pleasure, though surprised at her interest in such a matter, for
she had always affected a great indifference to dress. I had observed,
indeed, a change in her own attire. She no longer wore her everlasting
black gown, but was becomingly dressed in blue damask; and her veil
and close coif were exchanged for a becoming hood. When she left the
room, I noticed the change to Mistress Davis, who smiled, somewhat
mischievously.

"Yes, she came to me not long since, and, saying she thought it her
duty to submit to my wishes more than she had done, she asked my
counsel about her attire. I have my own ideas about what the change
portends, but I shall say nothing."

Master Davis now coming in, the subject was dropped, and did not come
up again.



[Illustration]

CHAPTER X.

AT THE GREAT HOUSE.

WHEN I returned to Suffolk House, which I took care to do in good
season, I bestowed my book of the New Testament in my room, and the
next morning I carried it to Mistress Patience, who received it with
real pleasure. I read to her a little in the beginning of St. Matthew's
Gospel, and left her turning over the leaves and spelling out a verse
here and there. She would by no means take back the price of the book,
but bade me bestow it in charity, if I would not spend it for mine own
pleasure.

It was still early, when I went down stairs. I carried with me two
books, one of songs, the other of lessons for the organ, which Master
Hall had given me. I was playing one of these lessons with great pains,
and stopping now and then, for it was somewhat difficult, when I heard
the door open. Supposing it might be Mistress Mandeville, I did not
speak till I had finished my lesson; when I said, without looking round:

"There, Mistress Mandeville, how do you like that?" (We were always
good friends, though never were two women who had less in common.)

"It is not Mistress Mandeville, but I like it very much, indeed!" said
a pleasant voice.

And, turning quickly, I beheld a young lady whom I had never seen
before. She was, at that time, about fourteen, very pretty, even at
that unformed age, with the yellow gold hair of her Tudor race, a fair
complexion and merry eyes, which had yet a spark in them promising a
choleric disposition, if it were not checked in time. I guessed at once
she was Lady Frances Brandon, the Duke's youngest daughter, and was in
some confusion.

"Nay, do not rise, but play me something else," said she. "I suppose
you are my mother's new gentlewoman, of whom I have heard?"

"Yes, madam."

"And I am Lady Frances, and I love music above all things," said she.
"I never heard any woman touch the organ as you do. I like it far
better than spinet or clavichord, or any of their race, don't you?"

I told her yes, for sacred and solemn music, but for that which was
lighter in character, I preferred the clavichord. She bade me play
something else, and I obeyed, not knowing what else to do. She stood by
in silence, drinking in the sounds with that fixed attention which is
so flattering to the performer, and shows the real lover of music. Then
I ventured to ask her if she did not play herself?

"Oh, yes, a little, but not like you. I shall ask my mother to let you
give me lessons."

Then, at my asking, she sat down to the virginal and played a simple
lesson, not very accurately, but with true feeling.

"There, what say you?" when she had finished. "Shall I ever make a
player?"

"I see no reason why you should not," I answered. "You have but to
cultivate correctness in tone and touch to make a very good player, but
these last are essential."

She colored a little, and then said, with a half laugh:

"You are no courtier, Mistress—Corbet—you should have praised my
playing to the skies, and sworn that you were listening to the music of
the spheres. That is what I am used to."

"Perhaps that is the trouble with your playing," I could not forbear
saying; whereat she laughed again.

"Worse and worse. Why you are downright Dunstable with a witness; but I
like you all the better," she added. "I think you and I shall be good
friends. Say, Mistress Corbet, will you give me lessons on the organ?"

"Surely, Lady Frances, if your mother is willing," said I. "It must be
as she says, you know."

"Of course. Do you know, Mistress Corbet, a lady tried to make me
think I owed no obedience to my step-dame, because the king is mine
uncle—what do you think?"

"I think you are the most imprudent young lady that ever talked to a
stranger," was my thought, but I said—

"I am not the proper person to advise you, my Lady Frances, but if you
will know what mine opinion is, I think that the precept—'Children obey
your parents in the Lord,' comes from one greater than all the kings
and princes of the earth. I think also that any young maid, gentle or
simple, might be thankful to have such a step-dame as my mistress."

"And so do I," she answered warmly. "And I won't be set against her by
any of them."

At this moment the door was opened by a severe-looking lady whom I had
never seen before. Starch was not used in those days, or I might think
she had been fed on nothing else since she was born, so stiffly did she
carry herself.

"My Lady Frances, what are you doing here?" said she, in that kind of
tone which excites rebellion in the heart of the best child that ever
lived. "Methinks you forget what is due to your rank in talking thus
familiarly with this—you are her Grace's chamber-woman if I mistake
not!" she added, turning to me in a way that made her words a downright
insult.

I simply courtesied.

"How do you know whether I was talking familiarly or not?" demanded
Lady Frances, saucily enough. "Were you at your old trick of
eavesdropping?"

The gouvernante, for such she was, colored through all her rouge and
powder, but she deigned no reply, save to bid Lady Frances follow her.
But I think she kept her not long, for when I went to my mistress, I
found Lady Frances kneeling by her side, playing with the tassels of
her girdle and coaxingly preferring some request.

"So, Mistress Corbet, what mischief have you and this child been
hatching up between you?" asked her Grace. "Here she is begging and
beseeching that you may give her lessons, she having, as she says,
fallen in love with your playing. What say you? Will you take such
a troublesome office upon yourself as the instruction of a perverse
child?" she added, pulling her step-daughter's ear.

I told her I would willingly give Lady Frances all the help in my power
if her Grace could spare me the time.

"Well, well, my Frances, we will talk to your father, and see what he
has to say. But mind, Loveday, I am to have you to read aloud to me,
and attend me on the water all the same. 'Tis sheer cruelty to take
poor Mandeville into a boat."

I could not but think my time was likely to be fully occupied, but I
never was afraid of work.

By degrees, I drifted more and more into the position of governess to
my Lady Frances. My Lady Challoner, who had never got on well with
her charge—I never saw the human being that liked her—went away, and
another elderly lady, Mrs. Wardour, the widow of a brave soldier, took
her place. She was a very discreet lady, who knew well how to control
herself, and who soon won the respect of her charge. Lady Frances was
docile enough with her, and soon learned to be ashamed of the tempest
of passionate anger which I used to think Lady Challoner took delight
in provoking, that she might have whereof to complain to the girl's
father. My Lady Frances was different from many high-tempered persons
in this, that she did not always think some one else was to blame
for her outbreaks, but laid the fault where it belonged, on her own
choleric temper. She and I got on very well, and she improved so fast
that it was a pleasure to teach her.

I still read to her Grace whenever she was at home of an evening, and
attended her in her excursions upon the river, but I was excused from
standing behind her chair, and another gentlewoman took my place. It
was on our return from one of these water excursions that an event took
place of which we thought little at the time, but which was destined
to have important consequences for us both. We had landed at our usual
place, when we saw a couple of burly, rude water-men threatening and
bullying a pale man in black, who looked like a scholar of some sort.
Even as we came up, one of them struck him a blow which staggered and
nearly knocked him down.

"Shame, shame!" rang out the dear voice of the Duchess, who was not
one of those over-prudent people who can never do a generous action
without thinking about it till the occasion is past. "Is that the way
for Englishmen to treat a stranger and a poor man? Let him alone, you
brute!"

For the bully, furious with anger, had again raised his hand. His
companion, somewhat cooler, and seeing the Duke's water-men, caught his
arm and began to explain—

"He is no true man, my lady, but a beggarly Frenchman and a spy!—"

"No, no spy!" muttered the man, in imperfect English. He reeled as he
spoke, and would have fallen into the water, had not one of our own
serving men caught him. The two rogues, seeing with whom they had to
deal, began to comprehend that the matter might end badly for them, and
slunk away in a hurry.

"Poor man, is he hurt?" asked the Duchess, compassionately. "Speak to
him, Mistress Corbet; I dare say he knows Latin."

I did so, but his voice was so faint that I could not catch his answer.

"I believe the man is starved, my lady," said John Symonds, who was
supporting him. "He is naught but a bag of bones. Some beef and
strong-water would be the best remedy for his ail."

"With your Grace's leave, I will take this poor man in charge," said a
well-known voice, and Master Hall lifted his cap to the Duchess. "He
hath but fainted, as I think. Loveday, have you your scenting bottle
about you?"

The Duchess looked surprised enough to hear this strange merchant call
me by name. I handed him the bottle of strong perfume, which ladies
then as now carried in their packets, but the poor sufferer had already
opened his eyes.

"Food—food!" said he. "I starve."

By this time a crowd was gathered.

"Please your Grace to move on," said Master Hall, courteously. "I will
care for the poor man, and bring you an account of him, if you will."

"Do so, sir; and we shall be your debtor," said the Duchess, with the
queenly grace which was natural to her. "See that he is comfortably
bestowed and wants for nothing. We take the expense on ourself."

She put two or three gold pieces into Master Hall's hand, and we moved
on. When we were in the house, she sent for me, and asked me, with some
little sharpness, who was that man who called me so familiarly by my
name. I told her he was the son-in-law of my good friend, Master Davis,
and the husband of my dearest friend.

"Ay," said she, "I heard you call him Master Hall, but is he the man
who is noted for selling seditious and heretical books?"

"I dare to say, madam, that he never sold a seditious book in his
life!" I answered. "As to heresy, 'tis not so easy to tell in these
days what is heresy and what is not."

"And that is true!" said she, relapsing into her usual tone of
kindness. "But, Loveday, your friend is in danger. I heard his name
mentioned last night as a principal dealer in forbidden books, and if
Gardiner gets his claws upon him, you know what his case will be."

"I know, madam!" I answered. "But I trust he may be delivered from the
power of that bad man."

"And so do I, but a word to the wise is enough. Mayhap your cousin,
being a scholar, will have occasion to go to this Master Hall's shop to
buy something. And, now I think of it, Frances tells me she wants a new
book of lessons. Doth he deal in music?"

I told her it was a great part of his trade, and she bade me tell my
cousin, in case he went out, to go thither and buy what was needed,
and also some paper and pens for herself. With that, she dismissed me,
and I went at once to find out Walter, and told him what I had heard.
Walter looked very grave.

"Her Grace is right," said he. "There is no time to lose. I will go at
once."

It may be guessed that I spent an anxious day. My fancy pictured
Margaret in all sorts of dreadful predicaments, and imagined the
distress of Master Davis and his family. What a relief it was, and yet
what a start it gave me that evening, as I was reading to the Duchess
and Lady Frances, to hear the gentleman usher say:

"A merchant of the city, Master Hall, hath brought some books and
music, and desires an audience of your Grace upon business."

"Have him in, have him in!" said the Duchess. "Good even to you, good
Master Hall!" as he so entered. "What news of our poor client, whom you
kindly took in charge?"

"He is like to do well, your Grace," answered Master Hall. "All he
needed was food. He told me he had not eaten in three days."

"Alas! poor man. Did he tell you what brought him to such straits?"

"Ay, madam. He is a poor Walloon minister, who had come to this
country to seek a brother, whom he heard was very ill in London. His
brother died, and he himself met with an accident which disabled him
for a time. He spent all his money, and for past few days hath been
absolutely starving. He says he would have died, but for the charity of
a poor woman who keeps a very small eating-house near the water side.
But now the good dame herself is turned out of house and home by a
grasping landlord, who hopes to make a few more pence of rent, and is
herself an object of charity."

"I hope, with all my heart, the next tenant will cheat him of his rent
altogether," said the Duchess, with her usual outspoken freedom. "Who
are these Walloons, Master Hall, and where do they live?"

"They are a people of French origin, an' it please your Grace, and live
mostly about Leinburg, Liege, Namur, and the parts thereto adjacent.
They are an industrious, thriving race, and much given to learning
as well as trade. I have often sojourned among them when I have been
abroad, and have ever found them kind and hospitable to strangers."

"So much the more need that strangers should be hospitable to them,"
remarked the Duchess. "And of what religion are they?"

"They are Protestants, madam, holding by the Augsburg Confession. *
This gentleman is one of their clergy."

   * After Flanders fell under the power of Philip Second, a large
     number of Walloons emigrated to Holland and afterward to the New
     Netherlands. They are, in fact, the ancestors of the Dutch Reformed
     Church.

"So! And what would you advise to be done for this poor man and his
old landlady? Speak freely," added the Duchess, "we need fear no spies
here."

"Since your Grace will have me be so bold, I would recommend that the
poor woman be established once more in a house where she can carry on
her business. A small payment in advance would enable her to rent a
much better stand than before, and then Monsieur Claude could lodge
with her till he is sufficiently recovered to return home."

"That sounds like a good scheme!" said the Duchess, thoughtfully: "And
how much would be required for all? I mean to pay this poor woman's
first quarter and Monsieur Claude's traveling expenses!"

Master Hall named the sum, and the Duchess bade me take the money
from her cabinet, and herself put it into his hand, with that sweet,
graceful manner which made every such act on her part a personal favor.

"And now, let us see what books you have brought," said she. "Nothing
seditious, I trust, since Mistress Corbet hath given her personal
security that you do not deal in such matters, and it were a pity to
shame her."

"There is no fear of her being shamed by me!" said Master Hall. "At
least so far as that goes—but knowing your Grace to be fond of prints
and the like, I have ventured to bring two or three, and also some
music books, if your Grace will accept so small an offering."

"In truth, Master Hall, we shall be your debtors!" answered the
Duchess. "My daughter was even now petitioning for new music. Frances,
let me hear you make your acknowledgments to Master Hall for the
pleasure he hath given us."

Lady Frances did so in her usual pretty, frank fashion. Master Hall
answered a question or two about the prints, and was just upon taking
his leave, when the Duke entered. There was an unusual cloud on his
brow, and he looked both grave and angry.

"What gear is here?" he asked. "Ha, my good friend, Master Hall, this
is a fortunate chance. I have business with you, and was about to send
for you. Leave the ladies with their books, and come you to my cabinet.
This is a matter that brooks no delay?"

I saw Master Hall change color for a moment, and then he was himself
again. As he bade me good-night, he whispered in my ear:

"Loveday, if I am not seen again, take my love and blessing to
Margaret."

It may be believed I had no stomach for music that night, and the
Duchess seeing or guessing that something was the matter, dismissed me
at an early hour.

The next morning, she sent for me to come to her at least an hour
earlier than usual. When I entered her dressing room, I found the Duke
there before me.

"Mistress Corbet," said he, after he had himself closed the door, and
made sure there were no eavesdroppers, "my wife tells me that you are a
model of discretion, and can keep secrets."

"Her Grace praises me too highly," said I, wondering what could be
coming next. "I may venture to say that I am no tale-pyet at the least."

"I trust not, for in truth I have to put into your hands a somewhat
weighty matter. A warrant will be issued this morning to take your
friends, Master Hall and his wife, for heresy, and for publishing and
selling heretical books."

The world seemed to turn round with me, but I did not altogether lose
my wits.

"I must warn them!" were the words which seemed to come of themselves
from my lip.

"There is no need!" said his Grace. "They have already escaped, and I
have good hope that they are by this time beyond reach of pursuit."

"May God bless your Grace!" said I.

"Nay, you are not to think that I had any thing to do with the matter,
and it is of this I would warn you!" said he. "But now of warnings that
concern your own safety. Had you any books or other things with your
name on at Mistress Hall's?"

"No, your Grace?"

"That is well; but have you had any communings with her, so as to know
the secrets of the business? Speak freely, maiden. Trust me, I have no
wish but to stand your friend."

Thus reassured, I told his Grace that I had never had aught to do with
Master Hall's business, save that I had helped to correct the proofs of
Erasmus his Paraphrase and Colloquies.

"There was no harm in that. But have you bought no books of them which
might bring you into trouble if known?"

"I have not bought any, your Grace," I answered. "Mistress Patience did
greatly want an English Bible, and Margaret did give me a Testament and
also a Psalter for her use, which I gave her, and which are now in her
room."

"Mistress Patience!" they both exclaimed together.

And the Duke added with some sternness, "Beware what you say, Mistress.
I have ever thought Mistress Patience the most devoted of Papists."

"She thinks herself so still, your Grace!" said I. And then I told him
the matter from first to last.

The Duke could not forbear smiling.

"'Twas a deed of true Christian charity, and most deftly managed!" said
he. "But yet it might make matters worse were it known. Tell me, does
this old dame go to confession?"

"No, your Grace. She is not able to walk the length of the gallery. Her
strength is greatly failed of late, and I think not she will live long."

"And does any priest have access to her?"

"No one, as I think, but my cousin Walter, your Grace's chaplain,"
(for Walter had been promoted to this place some time since, and had
preached in the chapel more than once.) "Walter has prayed with her two
or three times, so she has told me, for I see not as much of her, now
that I live in my Lady Frances's apartment."

"That may be safe enough!" said he, pulling his beard as was his wont
when he was thoughtful. "Hawks will not pick out hawks' eyes, as they
say on the Border. Well, Mistress Corbet, I believe you are safe for
the present, but I would have you keep your chamber this day. Your
mistress will excuse your attendance, and—"

His words received a disagreeable interruption. The house had been
finished in some haste, and more than once small pieces of plaster
had fallen from the ceiling. Now, casting my eyes upward, I saw that
directly over where the Duchess was sitting in a low chair, a great
portion of the ceiling was parting, and even at that moment falling.
There was no time to think. I sprang upon her, pulling her to the
floor, and threw myself over her.

At the very moment, I felt a heavy blow on my shoulders and head, and
knew no more till I heard a familiar voice say, in a tone of utmost
anguish:

"Loveday, Loveday—my darling, for my sake, look up!"

Then I opened mine eyes, and saw my kinsman standing over me, a lancet
in his hand, while the blood was streaming from my arm. There were
others about me, but I saw no one else.

"Her Grace!" I managed to say.

"Is quite unhurt, thanks to you, my brave child," said Mistress Curtis.
"You have saved her life."

"Then all is well," said I, sinking back. That was all I cared to
know. For days I lay in great danger, but not in any great suffering.
Sometimes I recognized those about me, and sometimes not, but I
suffered little, and lay most of the time in a kind of contented
apathy. I had the best attendance, and Master Butts, the king's own
physician, came to see me at the Duke's instance. He was a kind,
benevolent old man, and much valued by the king, though he made no
secret of his leaning to the new doctrine. I understood all his
questions, and made a great effort to answer them clearly, but I was
conscious all the time that I was talking arrant nonsense. I saw him
shake his head as he turned away.

"I fear there is not much hope," I heard him say in a low tone to
Mistress Curtis. "If she lives she will be a lunatic, or more likely,
an idiot."

I understood his words, and they somehow angered me and roused me from
the lethargy which was again stealing over my senses. I made a great
effort to collect myself, and said, rather sharply:

"I won't be an idiot! I know what I wish to say, but—" the wrong word
was near coming again, but I caught it in time—"I don't say the words I
mean."

"Exactly," said the doctor, returning to the bedside, and regarding me
with renewed interest. "You know what you mean, all the time you are
saying something else. Is that so?"

"Yes, sir," I answered.

"Well, you must be a good girl and do as you are bid, and we will
hope for the best. I think, Mistress Curtis, with all respect to Dr.
Benton's opinion—" here he bowed to the other physician, who bowed
again—"I think it would be well to try our patient with a little more
nourishing diet—carefully, and by degrees, Dr. Benton—and watch the
effect, and if there is any friend she specially wishes to see—as I
think you told me she asked for some one?"

"Yes, she has often asked for her Aunt Davis."

"Then, let her see her aunt, for a few moments at a time, only
cautioning her to avoid all exciting topics. In short, Mistress Curtis,
you might as well let her have what she wants, poor thing. I do not
believe it will make any difference."

These words were spoken at the door, and I was not supposed to hear
them, but I did, and knew their import well enough. I was not at
all troubled at the idea of dying, but somehow I seemed to have an
assurance in my mind that the end was not yet. Mistress Curtis brought
me a dainty little mess of frumenty with cream, and having eaten it,
I turned over and went to sleep. I must have slept long, for when I
waked, it was growing dark. I was quite easy in respect of pain, and my
head felt clear. I looked up and thought I was dreaming again, when I
saw an upright little figure seated by the side of my bed.

"Aunt Davis, is this really yourself?" I asked, putting out my hand to
feel if she were a substantial person.

"Yes, my sweet," tranquilly answered the dear woman. She was never one
to give way to fits and transports. "Mistress Curtis gave me leave to
sit with you awhile. Do you feel better?"

"I believe I do," I answered. "My head does not ache now, and I can see
every thing clearly."

It had been one of my worst annoyances that I saw all objects either
double or distorted. My aunt felt my pulse and my forehead, and helped
me to a drink. Then she sat down again, and for awhile I was content
to lie and look at her. She had grown old a good deal, it seemed to
me. And her face had a look of patient endurance which did not use to
belong to it.

"Aunt," I asked, presently, "where is Margaret?"

"Safe, as we hope," answered Mistress Davis. "We know the vessel
reached the Brill in safety, and once there, Master Hall would be among
good friends."

"Thank God—and how is Master Davis?"

"He is well," she answered. "We were in peril for a time, but we have
been unmolested."

Satisfied on these points, I lay awhile longer.

Then I asked again, "How is Philippa?"

A smile played over Mistress Davis's face which made her look like
herself again.

"Why well, and more than well," said she. "Philippa is married."

"Married!" I exclaimed.

"Even so, and to whom, think you? To no one less than Robert Collins."

"Not Robert Collins—Avice's cousin—not the one who was to have become a
brother of the Charter-house," said I.

"Exactly. That very Robert Collins."

I burst out laughing, and somehow that laugh did seem to dissipate the
last cloud from my brain.

"But how did it come about? They used to bewail their hard fate
together in not being allowed to take the vows."

"Exactly, and they continued to bewail them till it came into their
heads that since they could not take those vows they might as well
try some others. Moreover, Robert came unexpectedly into quite a good
estate by the death of his mother's brother. He thought it his duty to
take a wife, as he was the last of his father's family, and so it came
about."

"I dare say Philippa persuaded herself all the time that she was making
a great sacrifice?"

"Oh, of course; but she was as elated at the prospect as any girl I
ever saw, and as much agog for finery, especially for a silk dress. One
of the first things that seemed to strike her was that, as Robert was a
gentleman of landed estate, she might now wear silk and velvet."

"It must be a comfort to have her—" out of the house, I was going to
say, but I changed that phrase to "well settled in life."

My aunt smiled. "I will not deny that it is a relief. She was one of
those people of whom you can never guess what they will do next. But
she has been more amiable of late, and as Robert is a good-humored man
with a will of his own, I hope they may be reasonably happy."

"He would need a good strong will, or none at all, to live peaceably
with her," said I. "In all my life, I never saw so perverse a person."

"Well, well, she was a trial, no doubt, but there are others as bad.
This is a life of trial, sweetheart, in one way and another. But it
grows dark and I must go. I will see you again in a day or two, if you
are no worse for this visit."

I slept well that night and awoke feeling quite myself. From that day
my recovery was rapid. The doctor said I might soon leave my chamber,
and he advised my mistress that it would be well to send me to Master
Davis's, for a while, or else to the country, for change of scene.

"How would you like to go down to Master Yates's farm?" asked my aunt
one day when we were discussing the matter. "You remember you staid
there when you were getting over the ague, before you went to the
convent."

"Then the old people are still living?" I said.

"Oh, yes; hale and hearty and well-to-do, and would be glad to have you
for a guest. I think it would be a very good thing for you."

"And the Duchess?"

"I mentioned the matter to her and she agreed with me that it would be
a sensible move, though she disliked losing your company. But she is
not one to think of herself."

"That she is not," said I. "She is a most sweet creature. She shows the
truth of what dear Margaret used to say, that it is not wealth nor the
want thereof that spoils people, but the spirit in which they take it."

"Then you will like to go out to Holworthy farm?" said my aunt.

"Indeed I shall," I answered, and the Duchess coming in (as indeed she
was used to visit me every day), the matter was settled.

"I must visit Mrs. Patience before I go," said I. "How is the dear old
lady?"

"Why well," answered Mrs. Curtis, but there was something in her tone
that made me ask at once:

"Is she dead?"

"Even so," answered Mistress Curtis, solemnly; "but do not weep for
her, dear Loveday. She passed in the greatest peace and joy that
was ever seen. She told Master Walter, who prayed often beside her,
that you had taught her the true way of peace, and had comforted her
concerning the great sorrow of her life."

"I am most thankful, if it were so," said I, when I could speak; and
then I told Mistress Curtis of the dear loyal soul's trouble because
no one had made the pilgrimage to Walsingham on behalf of her dead
mistress.

"And was it even so, poor soul?" said Mistress Curtis. "I doubt not,
many hearts are aching from the same cause in these days of change and
shaking. May the time soon come when all shall know the blessing of
a free redemption. Master Corbet says he never saw any one pass more
peacefully than Mistress Patience."

"Is my cousin well?" I forced myself to say. I had never yet brought
myself to speak his name.

"I do not think him well," answered Mistress Curtis. "He hath been
very anxious for you, and I think he works and studies too hard, for
he grows pale and thin. He talks of resigning his post, and going back
to his cure in the west, but I trust he will not do so, for the sake
of one young gentleman over whom he hath come to maintain a great
influence."

It was a joy to me to hear Walter praised, but I could not bring myself
to say any more about him. I had had plenty of time to think and to
examine myself since I began to recover, spending as I did a good many
hours alone. I knew well enough what Walter was to me, and I to him.
I had been thrown a deal into his company for a good while before I
was sick, he having undertaken in some degree the direction of my Lady
Frances's education. We had been brought up together as children,
which naturally threw us upon more familiar terms than would otherwise
have subsisted between us. It was not strange that another and dearer
feeling should have arisen, and that without either being aware of it
till the shock of my accident had revealed us to each other.

But what could ever come of it? Only for that fatal vow of celibacy,
we might have married and settled like other folk, for our kinship was
hardly near enough for the need of a dispensation even in the days of
dispensation, and nobody thought of such a thing now. But there it was,
an iron bar in the way, or rather a grated gate fast locked and the key
whereof is held by some one far-away. We could see one another, indeed,
but that was all, and under the circumstances, it was better to avoid
even that.

Yes, it was far better for me to go away, and a wild unreasoning desire
for flight and change of place took possession of me. I do not think
any one guessed at the truth, except the Duchess herself. She has since
told me that she saw it at once, and not at that time perceiving any
remedy, she did the more willingly part with me. Lady Frances was loud
in her lamentations, and inclined to be vexed with me for wishing to
leave her; but a few words from her mother calmed her anger, or rather
turned it upon herself, for being, as she said, so selfish as to desire
to keep me for my hurt.

Both the Duchess and Lady Frances loaded me with presents of every
thing they thought I would like, and I found myself heir to all
Mistress Patience's possessions, among which were a good many jewels of
no small value, which I hesitated about taking till the Duchess pressed
them upon me.

"You cannot well take the cabinet, so I will have it cared for till you
are settled in a home of your own," said she.

"That will never be," said I, involuntarily.

"Oh, you know not that," she answered, and began singing an old song of
which I remember but the last verse:

   "If you should deal two loving hearts
       The sharpest stroke of woe;
    That one should weep above the turf
       And one should sleep below:
    That one should wear the widow's weed
       And one the funeral pall,
    You should but prove the force of love,
       For true love conquers all!"

"Forgive, me sweet," as she saw that I was weeping, "but I do believe
that this year may yet come to a good ending. Man hath no right to
forbid that which God hath nowhere forbidden. Do but put your trust in
Him, and all will yet be well."

The Duke had insisted upon lending Mistress Davis an easy palfrey,
and me a horse litter, as I was yet too feeble to ride a-horseback
safely, and also a guard for the journey. My mistress would fain have
had me take a maid to attend upon me, but this, with Mistress Curtis
her approval, I declined, knowing that such a person would but be a
nuisance in the family of plain people like Jacob and Hannah Yates. I
was to keep the palfrey, however, and the duke would bear this as well
as all my other expenses.

"Should this change agree with you, you may by and by travel down to
Hereham," said his Grace, "but wherever you are, remember, Mistress
Corbet, that you are to be to us as a daughter. Do what I would, I
could never begin to repay the obligation I owe to you in saving my
dear wife from death or lifelong injury."

"I thought not of any obligation, your Grace," said I.

"That is the beauty of it," he answered, with that sweet, sunny smile
of his; my Lady Frances's eldest boy hath just his grandsire's manner;
"you did not stop to think—that was the beauty of it, as I say—but
acted out of the love and goodness of your heart. It was a happy hour
for all of us when you came under this roof, and I hope you may come
back to it some day. But now, my child, let me give you a word of
serious counsel. Keep you close and guarded, and go not much abroad.
There is no game too small for some hawks to fly at. I would I knew
where your good uncle was, that I might send you to him, out of the
reach of danger. If at any time, I send one to guide you to another
place of safety, I will send with him this token," showing me a ring he
was used to wear, "and do you go with him at once, without any delay or
question."

I promised to do so, and so he bade me farewell, with as much kindness
as ever a great man showed to a poor young gentlewoman. He hath ever
remained in my mind the very mirror and pattern of a noble man. He
was not without his faults (as who is?), but no one could say he ever
curried favor with a great man, or ever oppressed a poor one. Not one
of his family, down to the very scullery boys and wenches, ever passed
him without a smile or a kind word, and nobody ever sat at his table
without feeling himself a welcome guest. He was, indeed, what my uncle
Davis had called him, a mirror of true knighthood.

I saw Walter for a few minutes, and then not alone. It was better so;
yet did my heart yearn for a word, as I am sure his did also. He hath
since told me, he dared not trust himself to speak lest he should say
too much. Our eyes did meet and speak; we could not help that. Oh, how
much have they to answer for, who oppress men's hearts and consciences
by making that to be sin which the Word of God never made so; who
bind heavy burdens and grievous to be borne, and lay them on men's
shoulders, and will not so much as touch them with one of their fingers!

Our hands met in one long clasp as he helped me to my litter. I never
thought to see him again, for I had heard that he meant speedily to
return to his home in the west. The last farewell was said, and I lost
sight of Sussex House never to enter its doors again.



[Illustration]

CHAPTER XI.

THE DUKE'S RING.

I ARRIVED at Holworthy farm about noon, weary enough with my journey
and all the excitement I had gone through, so that I was fain to go at
once to my chamber. I was really too ill to take much notice of any
thing for a day or two, and my aunt was a good deal alarmed for me, but
by degrees, I recovered myself, and began to sit up and to go out into
the sitting-room which had been fitted up for me.

I found it full of tokens of kindness from the friends I had left
behind me. There was the clavichord which I had used at Sussex House,
with a pile of music books beside it, my embroidery frame, and a heap
of silks, and the like, books in Latin and French, and even a box of
comfits and dried fruits from old Harry Cook—so good were they all in
remembering me.

I found the farmer and his wife very little changed, save that
Hannah's apple cheeks were a little wrinkled by the same frost which
had whitened her husband's looks. Dolly was still at home, a widow
now with a sweet little boy and girl, the pets and darlings of both
gaffer and gammer. Matters had prospered with this good couple, and
they were rich for people in their station, but they were content with
their old simple ways, and did not ape the manners of their betters as
is the fashion now-a-days. You would never find Hannah Yates lying in
bed till after five of the clock and putting off her dinner hour till
eleven. No; she was up and stirring, and had every one else busy by
four, and the dinner was on the table before the stroke of nine—master
and mistress, men and maids all eating together in the great kitchen,
and gathering about the same hearth in the winter evenings. Hannah
would fain have served us with a separate table, but this we would by
no means allow, and I think she liked us, after all, better for the
refusal.

I grew stronger every day, and began to go about house and out of
doors, to help feed the fowls, and to gather greens, peas and herbs for
the pottage; but mindful of his Grace's words, I did never stray far
from home. My aunt staid with me a week, and then returned, but I heard
from her not seldom, as the Duchess sent more than once to ask for
me, and never without affording Master and Mistress Davis a chance of
writing or sending by the same conveyance.

As my health returned, I began to miss the constant occupation I had
been used to all my life. I had often been ready to yawn my head
off from sheer weariness while standing behind my mistress's chair,
but at other times I had found great entertainment in listening
to the conversation which went on in the drawing-room. Then I had
been promoted to the place of teacher to my Lady Frances, who was a
delightful companion (if I may venture to use the word of so great a
young lady), as was also her governess, Mrs. Wardour. I loved Mistress
Curtis like a mother, and I missed them all, not to speak of another,
on whom I dared not allow my thoughts to dwell.

I was fast sinking into a state of nerves and fancies, just for the
want of aught else to do, when something happened to rouse me. It was
not much—only a sermon from a stranger priest who visited our own
parish Sir John, and preached for him. His subject was the bearing of
the cross, and he repeated for his text the words of our Lord himself:

   "Yf eny man will come after me, let hym denye hym silfe, and take
   his crosse on hym dayly ād folowe me." *

It did seem to me that the good man's discourse had been written
expressly for me. It was as plain as a mother's talk with her children;
not full of Latin, nor yet of stories to make the people laugh, like
those of the preaching friars in general.

   * From Tyndale's translation.

The preacher showed how each one had his cross to bear, and that not of
his own choosing, but of God's. The crosses we chose for ourselves were
many times but painted crosses, while those which our Father in heaven
laid upon us were real—hard and sharp oftentimes, but yet capable of
being made into a blessing if we did but take them up and carry them
according to His will and in his spirit. Much more he said which I will
not try to repeat—about the little crosses of every day, the thwarting
of our plans, the fault-findings and injustice of those we are trying
our best to save, and other such like trials, which might all be
turned—so said the preacher—from curses to crosses, if only met in the
right spirit.

It was a very plain and simple discourse as I said, but it did me a
great deal of good. It made me sensible that I had been repining and
fretting over my cross instead of taking it up, and that I had thus
missed the blessing which I might have found even in the bitter grief
which had been darkening both heaven and earth for me.

"What think you of that sermon?" said Master Yates to one of his
neighbors, as they lingered at the church door for the usual greeting
and gossip.

"Humph! Call that a sermon!" answered the other. "Why, there was not a
bit of Latin in it, and even a plain man like me could understand every
word."

"Now that was the beauty of it, to my thinking," said Master Yates.
"Where is the use of a sermon that nobody understands?"

"Yes, those are your new-fangled ways. What is the use of the blessed
mass; I am sure nobody understood a word of that?"

"A good many folks would like to hear that riddle solved," said a
decent man who stood near.

Whereat two or three laughed, and old Master Andrews moved away,
muttering angrily that it was never a good world since these new
notions came into it. A fine thing, indeed, when shepherds and plowmen
took on them to think about such matters.

For myself, I went home with plenty of subject for thought, and the
result of my cogitations was that the next morning I offered to teach
Dolly's children to read. She was very thankful for the offer, and I
began with them on the criss-cross row that very day. Afterward I set
myself a task of music and Latin, and even got out my Greek books, but
the last I had to give up, finding myself unequal to the hard work.

I soon discovered that my head would not bear much study, so I set
myself to learning the mysteries of farm-work. I fed the chickens and
the calves, learned to make cheese and butter, and, in turn, taught
Dolly and her mother how to make conserves of gooseberries and plums,
and other such things as I had learned in the convent. I had the art
of distilling—then by no means as common as it has since become—at my
finger's ends.

Finding that there was a great deal of ague about us, I begged Mistress
Curtis to send me a small still, and busied myself in making a certain
bitter cordial from cherry bark and herbs, which used to be esteemed
a specific in such cases at Dartford. Also, I made cough-mixture and
other simple medicines, and carried them myself to the poor sick folks,
together with broth and such matters. I have heard say that folks
forget their own troubles in those of other people. I did not forget
mine, but I certainly found a good deal of the bitterness taken out of
them.

I believe I have said that there was a certain ruined chapel or cell on
Master Yates his farm, which bore no good name, and was indeed reputed
to be haunted by evil spirits. Nobody willingly went near it even in
broad day, and I don't think the boldest man in the neighborhood would
have passed it after dark for any reward you could offer. Indeed Master
Yates had strictly forbidden any of his own family to approach the
place, saying that there was no knowing what might happen.

I had been to the little hamlet near the church to visit and comfort a
poor young thing dying of a waste. My mind was so full of what I had
seen that I took the wrong turning, and found myself all of a sudden
close in front of the ruined cell, with the sun setting and a sudden
hard shower beginning to fall.

Still I did not really take a sense of my position, but seeing that the
deep porch was the only shelter near, I fled under it to avoid the rain
which promised to be of short duration, as the sun was already shining.

I was never a coward, and the poor little chapel looked so peaceful in
its green ivy shroud, that I could not make up my mind to be afraid,
but stood quietly waiting for the rain to cease. I was listening to the
twittering of a pair of robins who had built in one of the windows, and
thinking that the place could not be so very bad, since these pretty
innocent creatures had chosen it for a place of abode, when I started
as I had never done in all my life before, for I heard my name called.

I turned round in a hurry, and there in the dim arched doorway stood my
uncle.

I was like one who has seen the Gorgon's head for a moment. Then as
he smiled in his old way, I flew to him—I would have fallen at his
feet, but he drew me into the cell, and then clasping me in his arms,
he kissed and blessed me, calling me his own, his precious child, and
weeping over me, more like a mother over her babe than a bearded man.

"But how did you come here, and why do you stay in this wretched
place?" I asked, when he had told me that my Aunt Joyce was still
living and that the twins were well. "Come to the house where Mistress
Yates will make you right welcome."

"Nay, that the good woman hath done already, and the place is by no
means so wretched as you think," said mine uncle. "I am not the first
who hath found shelter in these walls. See here."

The ruin, like other places of that kind, was made up of a little
chapel where the hermit said his daily office, and a room adjoining
where he had lived. Mine uncle drew me into this cell, for it was
little more, and showed me a decent truckle bed with blankets and a
pillow, and a table whereon was set out a lamp, tumblers, and other
requisites for a meal. On the hearth was a pile of firewood, and in a
little cabinet were drinking cups, a small bottle of strong waters and
a jug of oil for the lamp. In short, this ghost-haunted ruin was as
comfortable a little lodging as one need ask for.

"But how came you here?" I asked.

"On my feet, sweetheart—and I came because I heard my child was here,
and I could not rest without seeing her."

"But why must you hide, dear uncle?" I asked.

"For no cause, my child, unless it be that, 'after the way they call
heresy, so worship I the God of my fathers.' I have been in my old
home in London and must return thither in order to make my way back to
Holland; but, as I said, I must needs see my child once more, and so I
came down to this place which hath sheltered many a one fleeing from
the snare of the fowler before now. But, Loveday, is it safe for you to
tarry here? Will they not be looking for you?"

"It is true—I must go!" said I, awaking all at once to a sense of my
situation. "But how shall I see you again?"

"Yates will come hither at midnight to bring me provisions, and you can
come with him."

"Then he knows you are here!"

"He will know!" said mine uncle, smiling. "The very thing which will
keep others away will bring him to succor the wanderer—See!"

I had before noticed some pipes, which looked like the remains of an
old organ, on the wall behind the niche where I supposed the miraculous
image had stood. My uncle blew into one of these, producing a most
dolorous sound between a whistle and a scream. I understood the matter
at once. That was the ghost whose shrieks, heard at night, had made the
place so dreadful.

"This pipe was a part, no doubt, of the machinery by which the
miraculous virgin was made to play her part," said mine uncle. "But go
you now, since the way is clear, and at midnight we will meet again."

I hurried home, but mistook my path again in the perturbation of my
spirits, and came near getting bogged in a stream which I had to cross.
However, I reached home at last, and was met at the door by Cicely, our
old dairy maid—

"Dear me, Mistress Corbet, I wonder you dare be abroad so late. Why,
Hodge heard a scream from the old cell, not an hour ago, which sent
him home shaking like an ague. You are over venturesome, and will get
a good fright some day, but, indeed, you look as if you had had that
already."

"That I did, and lost my way, so I had to ford the Black brook, and a
fine pickle I am in!" said I, showing her my wet feet and skirts. "I
must change my hosen directly."

"That you must, but why did you not go back—only I dare say you were
afraid!" said Cicely, being one of those convenient persons who always
answer their own questions. "There, run up to your room, like a good
young lady, and I will bring you a mug of hot drink, and tell the
mistress you are safe, for she has been worrying about you. Had you not
best go to your warm bed?"

"Oh no!" I answered. "I will but change my clothes, and I shall be none
the worse. I dare say the mistress's ankle needs bandaging again."

For Mistress Yates had had the misfortune to wrench her ankle, and I
had been trying my surgical skill thereon with very good results.

"Well, you are a good maid—young lady, I should say!" said Cicely,
correcting herself, for she had lived in a great family, and prided
herself on her knowledge of manners. "You are not one as thinkst first
and always of herself. But don't you be out after dark—there's a good
maid, and above all, don't go near the old chapel."

I hastened to change my dress, and to attend to my patient, who was
doing well. Then seeking out Master Yates, I told him of my adventure.

"Ay, I heard the signal and saw the light, and guessed it was my good
old landlord who needed help!" said Master Yates, thoughtfully stroking
his beard. "I had word by a sure hand that he was to be expected, and
had all things in readiness, and I was studying to advertise you of
the same. I did not like to tell you till I was sure, for fear of a
disappointment. To-night, then, at midnight we will seek the place, if
you be not afraid—but I see I need not talk of that!" he added, smiling.

"No indeed!" said I. "At midnight, then, I will be ready."

The chime of midnight from the church-tower found me well wrapped
up and clinging to Master Yates's arm, making our way across the
stack-yard and along the edge of the standing corn to the ruined cell.
We found mine uncle asleep, but a word roused him.

"Now I can give you three hours for your converse," said Master Yates.
"The nights are longer than they were, but the stroke of three must be
the signal for parting. I dare not make it later lest some one should
be stirring."

So saying, he took a rug from the truckle bed, and throwing himself on
a heap of straw in the outer room, he soon gave audible tokens of being
sound asleep.

"There lies one of the best men ever made!" said mine uncle. "But for
him and his good wife, many a man would be but a heap of charred bones
and white ashes who is now preaching the word."

"He said he had word of your coming beforehand," said I; "how was that?"

My uncle smiled. "That I may hardly tell you, only I may say as much
as this, that they of the new religion, as folks call it, have secret
intelligence one with another, whereby many a precious life hath been
saved both here and abroad, mine own and that of my good son Winter,
Katherine's husband, among the number."

"Then Katherine is married?" said I.

"Oh yes, and well married, though not brilliantly as regards this
world's goods. Her husband is pastor of the English reformed
congregation at Middleburg. You must remember him—Arthur Winter, whose
father lived in the Minories."

"But he was a priest!" said I.

My uncle smiled. "Read your Bible from beginning to end, child, and if
you can find one word which makes it unlawful for a priest to marry,
I give you free leave to call my Katherine by the worst name you can
think of."

Somehow these words did seem like a gleam of light on a dark night; but
I had no time to dwell on them just now.

"And Avice—?"

"Avice is a widow, or so we fear!" said he. "She married a good man,
a merchant, and rich in this world's goods. His business took him to
Madrid a year ago, and we have never heard of him since. Avice hopes
still, and will hope to the end of her days, I think, but I fear she
will never see her husband again till meets him where the wicked cease
from troubling."

"And yourself, dear uncle? We heard that you had lost much through the
treachery of an agent."

"Ay, and came near losing mine own life also, but I escaped and got
safe to Rotterdam, where the family joined me after awhile. I cannot
guess how it is that Master Davis hath received none of my letters,
save that letters are so very uncertain. I am not so rich as when I was
in London, yet have I enough to make myself and my family comfortable.
But now tell me of yourself and how you have fared all these long
years, and why we never heard from you. Ah, my child, I have had many
a bitter draught prepared for me by mine own hasty temper, but never
a worse than I brewed for myself when I put my brother's orphan child
into such hands."

"They were kind hands enough, dear uncle, and, save that they kept your
letters from me, I have naught whereof to blame them," said I, and with
that I gave him a short history of my life up to the present time.

"And you think your master and mistress would be willing to have you
return with me, if it could be contrived?" said he.

"I am sure of it!" I answered. "His Grace said he wished he could send
me to you."

"I must have speech of his Grace, and I think I see my way there," said
my uncle. "I have brought him a token from a Flemish lord, a friend of
his, and a small offering on mine own account. I will see him, and lay
the matter before him. His nobleness is well-known as a protector of
the oppressed children of God. I will go back to London to-morrow, and
do you remain here till you have certain news from us."

I told him what his Grace had said about sending the ring.

"That is well thought of. I will take the best counsel on the matter,
and, meantime, keep you quiet and trust that all will yet be well."

We talked and talked till the stroke of three from the church-tower
warned us it was time to part. Master Yates was awakened and we
separated. The farmer and myself made our way home while the first
streaks of dawn were reddening the Eastern sky, and reached the
farmhouse door without meeting any body.

"Now, go you to rest, my young lady, and trust my dame to make your
excuses," said the good man. "It is not very healthful for young maids
to breathe the night air."

I went to my room, but not to rest. I had something to settle before
I could sleep. The bitterest drop in my cup had been the feeling
that I had been guilty of a great and dreadful sin in loving Walter,
because he was a priest. Such a love, I had been taught to think, was
a horrible sacrilege. It had been a misery to me that, try as I would,
I could not feel such contrition as I thought my wickedness demanded,
and I had at times been tempted to think myself abandoned of Heaven
for this reason. My uncle's words concerning Katherine's marriage had
thrown a gleam of light upon the matter. It was like a sun-blink to a
traveler lost among fogs and fens. It seemed to show me for one moment
the safe path, and I could not rest till I made the matter sure.

That day I read the New Testament straight through from beginning to
end, and when, at midnight, I laid it down and sought my much needed
rest, it was with the comfortable conviction that though my love
for Walter was hopeless, there was no guilt in it—that I might even
(though with due submission to His will) ask my Heavenly Father for
His blessing thereon. And then, even though we never met in this world
again, was there not that other home in the Paradise of God? I do not
think any one now can estimate the weight which that reading took from
my heart and conscience. I wondered how I could have been so blinded,
having before mine eyes the facts—that St. Peter and St. James, and
other apostles were married, and took their wives with them on their
apostolic journeys—that Paul asserted his right to do the same if he
found it convenient, and that he permitted, if he did not absolutely
commend, the new bishops of the Church should be married men.

Oh, it is an evil and bitter thing to burden tender consciences by
making that to be sin which God never made so, and they will have much
to answer for who do it. Neither is it a thing confined to Papists.
There are people in these days who make as much of a young maid's
wearing of a starched ruff, or a farthingale, or reading a chapter of
Master Sidney's "Arcadia"—yea, of keeping of Christmas, or eating of
pancakes on a Shrove Tuesday—as ever Mother Joanna did of not believing
in the jaw-bone of St. Lawrence.

Master Stubbes his new book, which Philippa sent me last week, is a
fine example of this kind of sin-making. Marry, she swallows every word
of it, and one might as well laugh at the Miracle of Cana as at the
tale of the black cat found in the coffin of the poor young lady which
was "setting of great ruffs and frizzing of hair to the great feare and
trouble of believers." *

   * See Phillip Stubbes' "Anatomic of Abuses." This wonderful tale
     is quoted at length in Dr. Drake's excellent and agreeable book,
     "Shakespeare and His Times."

It was with a much lightened heart that I said my prayers, and sought
the sleep I so much needed, nor did I open my eyes till the sun was
high in the heavens next morning.

"Well, my dear, you have had a good sleep, and I am sure you are well
rested," said Dame Yates, as I bade her good morning in the dairy,
which was to her what his study is to a Dutch painter. "But now, what
will you have to eat, for dinner is long done."

"Is it as late as that?" I asked in some dismay. "You should not have
let me sleep so long."

"Oh it is the best medicine for young things, and you have had a trying
time—" and then she whispered in my ear—"He you wot of is safe on his
way, and bids you be ready for a sudden start; so you must eat and
drink and be strong. I shall bring you a fresh egg and a cup of cream
directly."

And nothing would serve, but she must purvey me a dainty meal, though
I could as well have waited on myself; but she was one of those to
whom service was ever a pleasure. I ate what she provided, and then,
seeing the wisdom of mine uncle's advice, I arranged my jewels—of
which, thanks to Mrs. Patience, I had good store—so that I could easily
conceal them about me, and did up a bundle of necessary clothing, and
a few books, which I could not make up my mind to leave behind me,
namely, my Bible, my Latin Imitation, and the Book of Hours, which dear
mother prioress had given me at our sorrowful parting. Ah, how far-away
did that parting seem now. The rest of my things I left in Dame Yates's
charge, for Dolly's little maiden in case she never heard of me again.
Thanks to the liberality of my mistress, I had quite a sum of ready
money—enough to keep me in comfort for some time, even without the need
of selling my jewels.

I never passed such a time of suspense as during the next four days.
I dared not go from home lest the messenger might come in my absence;
and probably that was as well, for an old enemy, even that very Betty
Wilkins who had been the means of my disgrace about the red flowers,
was plotting against me. She being abroad the night of the shower, had
seen me take refuge in the porch of the haunted cell, not five minutes,
as she alleged, before the screams and groans were heard from within;
and she even declared that watching and listening, she had heard my
voice talking with the evil spirit and had seen me afterward issue
from the ruin, and fly across the fields without touching the ground.
The dread of witches was as rife then as now, though people in general
strove to conciliate instead of persecuting them. Betty and her mother
had themselves no good name in this respect, and I suppose they were
glad to have a story to tell of some one else.

I heard nothing of this matter, however; and it was just as well, for
I had enough to bear without it. At last, I bethought me that this
anxious care and suspense was a distrusting of Providence and a direct
disobedience to His commands who hath forbidden us to be anxious about
the morrow. I carried my trouble to the right place, and asking for
grace to submit myself in all things to His Holy will, I strove to
set myself with all diligence about my usual occupations; a course I
have ever found the best under the like circumstances. So I heard the
children's lessons—I grieved that I had not begun them before—finished
a muffler I was working for Dame Yates, and played over all my music
lessons diligently, wishing to have them at my fingers' ends, seeing I
did not know when I should over touch an instrument again.

I was busied thus, one evening between daylight and dark. It was now
the latter end of August, and the evenings were somewhat chilly. But
no one had yet thought of lighting a fire. Master Yates was dozing in
his great chair, and his wife and daughter sat together on the settee.
They were both fond of music, and Dolly indeed, was herself no mean
performer upon the viol. *

It was growing quite dark, so that I could hardly see the keys, and
Dame Hannah was talking of lighting the lamp, when I heard the hasty
tramp of a horse outside in the court. It was nothing strange, for
Master Yates's hospitality was well-known; and many a traveler stopped
with us for the night, but that odd kind of prescience which hath
accompanied me all my life, told me in a minute that this was no
belated guest. Master Yates rose and went to the door, and Dame Hannah
hasted to strike a light.

   * The English were the most musical people in Europe in those days,
     and a man was hardly accounted educated who could not sing at sight.

In a moment I heard the former returning, and, by the light of the
lamp, I saw behind him a man whose figure I seemed dimly to remember.
He came straight up to me with scarce a passing salutation to the
others, and held out to me the token I had been expecting, the Duke's
own seal-ring.

"Must I go?" I asked, involuntarily. It did seem to me somehow like a
supernatural summons; as if a token had been brought me from another
world to bid me be gone.

"You must, and instantly!" answered the messenger in a half whisper.
"Time passes, and must not be spent in delay."

I flew to my chamber, and was quickly arrayed in such a riding dress as
country dames are wont to wear to church and market, and which, with
Dame Hannah's help, I had prepared for this very occasion. It could not
have been ten minutes that I was absent, yet when I returned, I found
my conductor seemingly chafing at even that short delay.

"It is well!" said he, and his tone was to me as great a puzzle as his
figure and bearing. His face I could not see, as he kept on his beaver,
and his cloak was wrapped about his chin. "Have you no more to carry
than this?"

"No more!" I answered.

"Come, then, let us begone."

"Oh, Mistress Loveday, dare you trust yourself to him?" asked Dolly, in
a terrified whisper. "Are you not scared? What if it should be the evil
one himself?"

The stranger overheard her and laughed—a very short laugh.

"Have no fears, good woman. I am a Christian like yourself, and your
friend is safe with me. Bid farewell in few words, mistress. It is time
we were away."

I kissed the weeping women, and shook Master Gates his hand.
The stranger had a powerful black horse with a pillion for mine
accommodation. He raised me in his arms and set me in my place, sprung
to the saddle before me, and bidding me hold fast by his belt, he
struck his spurs into his horse's side, and off we went.



[Illustration]

CHAPTER XII.

THE OLD HALL.

SO here was I, being carried off at a breakneck speed through the dim
moonlight of the August night, like a damsel in Romance whom some
enchanter has trussed up and borne away on a hip-pogriff. My conductor
spake never a word, and I was too busy keeping my seat to have any
breath to spare for questions, had I dared to ask them. I was sure my
companion was some one I had seen, but where and when I could not say.
He had the Duke's ring, which none but a trusted servant could have
gotten into his hands, and at all events, I could do nothing but abide
the result of mine adventure.

At last, after we had ridden more than an hour at this headlong pace,
and I was far from any place I had ever seen before, my guide slackened
his paces and turning toward me, asked how I fared.

"Why, well enough, an' I had but a little breathing time," said I;
"but, sir, may I ask your name?"

"So you do not know me?" said he. "And yet we are not strangers. See
what it is to trust the memory of a young lady."

A wild notion crossed my mind—too wild, I thought, to be entertained
for a single moment.

"At least," said I, "you will perhaps have the goodness to tell me
whither you are conveying me at such a rate."

"To a place of safety, I hope," he answered. "Have no fears. Did not
the Duke himself bid you trust the messenger who brought his ring? But
now we are to pass a village, and you must be silent. Wrap your cloak
well about you, for the air is chill."

I obeyed, and we rode on through a village where every one seemed to be
abed and asleep, save at the vicarage near the church, where there were
lights, and from which proceeded a savory smell of cooking, and the
chorus of a song, which was certainly not one of the canticles of the
church.

"The knaves are cooking venison!" muttered my conductor. "This gear
must be looked to. It were as good a deed as eating to give them a
fright."

He rode close to the window as he spoke, and, striking thereon with
his riding whip, he called with a sepulchral, hollow tone: "Who is the
profane, drunken priest who steals the Duke's deer?"

Then putting spurs to his horse, he galloped on, but looking back, I
saw the poor, fat vicar gazing after us, his very cassock seeming to
bristle with alarm.

My conductor said never a word, only laughed softly to himself. We now
entered a deep wood, where the path was none of the best, and where the
tired horse made more than one stumble. Muttering that this would not
do, his master bade me hold fast to the saddle, and, jumping off, he
led the animal by the bridle. We went on in this way for half an hour,
when we came out into a small cleared space, or lawn, and I saw before
me a very old timbered house, of dignity enough to be called a hall.

It was growing light by this time—just that dazzling, bewildering
mingling of dawn and moonlight which makes even accustomed objects
look strange and unreal. I could see a cluster of chimneys, from one
of which smoke was issuing. A light shone out through panes of colored
glass, and a moment after showed by its clearer and broader beam that a
door was opened.

"They are up, and expecting us, you see," said my conductor, and again
that wild fancy crossed my mind.

As we drew near to the steps which led up to the hall-door, a figure
appeared upon them, and in another minute I was clasped in my uncle's
arms and led by him into the hall, where a fire on the hearth gave out
a warmth and light which seemed almost miraculous.

"I have brought her safely, you see, good Master Corbet!" said a gay
voice. "Give me credit for being a faithful messenger."

I looked around in utter amazement, as my first idea returned to my
mind. There stood the Duke himself, smiling in his old genial fashion
at my surprise.

"It can never be!" I exclaimed.

"And why not? You are a reader of romances, Mistress Loveday. Tell me,
is it not the duty of a true knight to save distressed damsels from the
power of wicked enchanters?"

"Your Grace is another King Arthur," said mine uncle.

"I would I were, and had Merlin at my command," said the Duke. "I would
soon rid this land of some its dragons."

"How can I ever repay your Grace what you have done for me and this
poor child?" said mine uncle, bending his knee as he kissed the hand
the Duke held out to him.

"Tut, old man. I love an adventure old as I am, as well as when I was a
wild lad of twenty, and beside, to say truth, I had no one near me to
whom I cared to trust this gear. But where is Dame Joan?"

At these words, an exquisitely neat elderly woman came forward into the
light. She was dressed like any country dame, but still there was about
her an indescribable air of refinement.

"I bring you a weary damsel, my good cousin," said the Duke, addressing
her with marked courtesy. "Do you have her to bed, and when we are all
rested, we will talk over our plans."

The old lady, for such she clearly was, courtesied, and then taking my
hand she led me through a gallery and up a stair to a chamber where all
was neat and comfortable, though every thing in the room seemed as old
as the Wars of the Roses at least.

"Here you may rest safely," said she. "No one ever comes to this house,
save now and then a messenger from my good master and yours. I guess
from all I see that you are a sufferer for the faith!"

"Indeed, madam, I hardly know myself," I answered. "I have suffered
nothing worthy of the name as yet, but I trust I should have grace to
endure should such trouble come upon me."

"Well, you are young, but the cross comes to all, young as well as old.
There, sweetheart, get thee to bed, and rest well."

She kissed my forehead and left me. Oh, how delightful was that clean,
well-lavendered linen, albeit my bed was somewhat harder than I had
been used to. But young bones do not mind such trifles, and I was soon
asleep, and did not stir till toward ten o'clock. I sprang up and
dressed myself as soon as I was fairly awake, and hurried down stairs
to find mine uncle thoughtfully pacing up and down the hall.

"Where is his Grace?" I inquired, so soon as I had asked and received
his blessing.

"Up and away three hours ago!" was the answer. "He did but tarry till
his horse was fed and refreshed, and then took his way to a hunting
lodge he hath in these parts. He saith his people are well used to his
freaks, so no one will wonder to see him."

"Yes, he often rides alone," I answered. "I would he did not, for his
life is too precious to be risked. And what are we to do now, uncle—"

"Why, nothing just at present, except what the partridge does when the
hawk is abroad—keep close and wait. His Grace assures me, we are safe
in this place, which, indeed, is lonely enough, if that were all, and
bids us remain here till the heat of the pursuit is passed, after which
he will purvey means for us to go abroad."

"Then there is pursuit?"

"Ay, hot enough just now, but I fancy it will soon cool. The king is
busy about his new marriage, and he seems, with all reverence, not to
be in the same mind for two days together."

"And how are our friends the Davis family?"

"Well, so far, save from suspense and anxiety. They hear nothing of
Margaret and her husband, and Andrew hath been gone longer than usual."

"And did you see my dear mistress?"

"Yes, and her daughter. I wonder not at your regard for them. They are
two most lovely ladies."

"But how did you gain audience?"

"Oh, as I told you, I had some pictures to sell, and certain East
country trinkets of gold and ivory, such as the Dutch merchants now
bring from China and the Indies. I had also a token for the Duke from
a friend abroad which I had promised to deliver, and which gained me
a private interview. All the rest was easy. But tell me, had you any
notion of your conductor?"

I told him the fancy had crossed my mind, but I had dismissed it as too
wild to be entertained.

"He seems to have thought of the adventure as a mere frolic," said mine
uncle. "I do not think the idea of any personal risk ever crossed his
mind."

"If it had, it would have made no difference," said I. "Men who know
him well, say he is an utter stranger to fear. I would he were not, for
he adventures his life needlessly in hunting and hawking, and he ought
to be careful, if only for his family's sake."

The old lady I had seen the night before, now entered the room followed
by a woman bearing a cloth and trenchers, who proceeded to set the
board. I spoke to her, but she only shook her head.

"She is deaf as an adder!" said Mrs. Joan. "But she is a good creature,
and having dwelt together so long, we understand each other very well.
I sometimes marvel what will become of the other when one of us is
taken away; but that is no business of mine."

By this time the servant, whom Dame Joan called Martha, had a goodly
dish of young pigeons and bacon smoking upon the board, with sweet
brown bread and whatever else was needed, and we sat down to dinner,
while old Martha waited on us with wonderful deftness considering her
infirmity.

After the meal was over, my uncle betook himself to walking up and down
the garden path, for there was a small garden behind the house where
grew many neatly tended beds for potage and physic, and not a few hardy
flowers.

I, who had had enough of exercise the night before to last me for some
time, sought my room to look for my knitting, which I had brought away
with me. I found Mrs. Joan arranging my bed, which I would by no means
suffer, but took the matter out of her hands. I did never like to be
waited upon by an old person. She smiled and acquiesced.

"It is long since I have seen a young face!" said she, sighing,
methought, as she spoke. "If my own Loveday had lived, I believe she
would have been like you. But the dear babe hath long been in a better
place."

"I often think there is, if not a bright, yet a peaceful side to the
death of little children," I ventured to say. "One feels so safe about
them. The most promising child who lives to grow up may change for the
worse. But once in the Saviour's arms, there is no room for sin or
falling. All is well forevermore."

"That is true, but yet the mother's arms are not less sadly empty, and
none but God knows the hunger of her heart!" said she sighing. "But now
tell me of your life at Dartford. Were you happy there after you were
professed?"

"I was never professed," said I, rather surprised, for I could not
remember speaking of the place. "By Sir Edward's will, my dowry was
forfeit if I took the veil before I was twenty-one at the least, and I
lacked some years of that when the convent was broken up. I dare say I
should have been professed at last, for I had learned to look upon the
house as home, and was well enough content on the whole, though I do
not think I had any special vocation. But were you ever at Dartford,
madam?"

"Yes, once in my young days," she answered, stooping to pick up a
needle.

"I suppose that was long before my time," said I.

"Oh, yes, of course. Am I not old enough to be your mother, child?"

I thought my grandmother would have been nearer the mark, but, after
all, I was not so sure. Mrs. Joan's face was pale and wrinkled, and her
hair was snowy white, but her movements were quick and decided, and
her step firm. Only her voice was tremulous and her head had an odd
shake—not trembling all the time, but now and then moving slowly from
side to side, as though in stern protest against some evil she could
not help.

At all events she was pleasant company. I taught her to knit, and
she showed me some wonderful devices in embroidery and netting. We
sometimes walked together in the wood round the house. I often read to
her, for her eyes were beginning to fail, and told her tales of my life
at Dartford, to which she seemed to listen with interest, though she
seldom made any remark.

I think my uncle chafed far more than I did at our enforced retreat.
As I have said before, he had a choleric temper, though age and stern
self-discipline had done much to tame it. But he longed to be once more
among men and at his business. I do not mean to say that he gave way to
impatience or fretfulness, but the suspense and delay were very hard on
him, and I could not help telling him one day how much better off he
would be if he could only knit.

"That is true," said he seriously. "If only I had something to do. I
suppose there are no books in the house."

"I will ask Mistress Joan," said I; which accordingly I did, and was
conducted to a little room on the second floor, which I had never
entered. Mistress Joan unlocked the door, and showed me a small
apartment in which were several cases of books—dusty, indeed, but in
fair preservation.

"I have been meaning to show you this room ever since you came here,
and now is as good a time as any. There is a secret here which may
concern you." So saying she gave a push to one of the presses which
seemed fast to the wall. It slipped aside the width of a foot and
showed a dark space behind it.

"There is a staircase in there which leads down to the very foundations
of the house," said she. "By it, you may at any time reach a place of
concealment which will defy all your enemies to find you."

She showed me how to open and close the spring door, and then making
all secure, she bade me keep the key till I went away, and take what
books I could. I found a Latin Livy in very fair print, and some other
volumes, which I carried to my uncle after I had deposited the key in a
secure place. I found him reading a letter which a messenger had just
brought. The man was waiting in the hall, and I recognized in him one
of his Grace of Suffolk's most trusted servants.

"News, my child," said my uncle. "This very night we are to make
for a small seaport—" which he named but I have forgotten—"where a
vessel will be awaiting to carry us to Holland. Put up what things are
absolutely needful in the smallest compass that you may be ready at any
moment."

This was news, indeed. I forgot all about my books and every thing
else, but the prospect of seeing my aunt and cousins once more. I flew
to my room and soon had all my preparations made. I was just finishing
my bundles when Mistress Joan entered.

"So I am to lose you, dear child," said she, sadly, but in that
inexpressible tone of resignation which shows that sorrow has become
a part of one's very nature. "Oh, well. It will not be long, and I am
glad to have seen you again, though you have never known me all these
days that we have been together."

"Dear mother, how could I know you?" I asked in amazement. "I never saw
you before."

"Are you sure?" she asked, looking at me with a smile.

I stared at her, and somehow the old face did seem to drop like a mask,
and I saw behind it the face of Sister Denys—of Sister Denys who had
gone to Dartford in my company, and had disappeared so suddenly and
strangely.

"It is even so, child," said she, as I called her by name, throwing
my arms around her neck. "Oh, Loveday, you can never know how I have
longed to speak to you when I have had a glimpse of you from the high
grated window of my cell."

"But where—but how?" I asked, too all amazed to ask a reasonable
question.

"Sit down awhile and I will tell you my story," said she.

We did sit on the side of the bed, and with her arms still about me,
she gave me the outline of her tale—as strange and sad as ever I heard.
She had been betrothed to a far-away kinsman, with the full consent of
her father. Her mother had died when she was young. But some family
quarrel arising, she was forbid ever to see or speak with her lover
more, and commanded to marry another person. This last she flatly
refused to do, and persisting in her refusal, she was placed in the
convent at Dartford. She would not take the veil, however, till she was
sent a note as from her lover, saying that he was married. Then she
gave way.

"But it was a wicked falsehood, whoever penned it," said Denys.
"Loveday, do you remember the lame gardener?"

"Yes, very well. Why?"

The rest was soon told. Denys's bridegroom had found her out at last,
and carried her off to some lonely house, she did not rightly know
where, first marrying her before a village priest. Here they lived for
a few—a very few—happy weeks, meaning as soon as the heat of pursuit
was over to go abroad. But alas, one day the poor man ventured forth
too far, was seen, tracked, and their concealment found out. The poor
young man was killed before his wife's eyes, and Denys was carried back
to her convent.

"I expected nothing but the walled up cell, and the 'part in peace,'"
continued Denys, "but I did not care; I knew it would be soon over at
the worst. But it was not to be. Loveday, do you remember a range of
rooms which opened back from the Mother Superior's room—perhaps you
never saw them."

"Never till the day I left the house."

"In one of those rooms I found myself when I recovered my senses, and
there I lived for ten years, never seeing a face till my babe was
born—my little Loveday. They were kind to me then, and my child lived
and seemed like to thrive. But when she was a month old, she drooped
and died all in one day like a broken flower. It was as well. Thank
Heaven I can now say so. They had given her some of their saints'
names, but I called her Loveday after you, child, for I always loved
you. She was a sweet little thing, the picture of her father. Oh how
empty were my arms and heart for many a long day!"

I was weeping too much to speak as that poor mother bent her head and
kissed me.

"I know not how the time passed after that for a long while. I took no
note of it, but at last one morning I waked from a blessed dream of
my husband and child in Paradise, and, looking up at the high grated
lattice, I saw the sun shining. I had a joint-stool and table, and
with their help, I climbed up and looked upon the world once more. The
sisters were walking in the orchard, and I could see the very tree
where Harry made himself known to me. The fountains of the deep were
broken up then, which had been fast sealed in all my trouble. I had
not shed a tear before, but now they came in a flood, and with them,
some of the bitterness of my grief seemed to pass away, and the cloud
lifted from my mind so I could understand and remember. When the mother
came with my meals, I made bold to ask her for some work. She seemed
pleased—she was always kind in her ways, though she rarely spoke to
me—and from that day I had plenty to do."

"One day Mother Joanna brought me a heavier basket than usual, and came
into the cell instead of passing it through the tour. I rose as she
entered, but she bade me sit down again."

"'Denys!' said she, after a little silence, 'do you know what is the
usual fate of a nun who breaks her convent vows?'"

"I bowed, thinking with a kind of dull horror of all I had heard of
such things."

"'Yours would have been either the closed vault or a lifelong
confinement in darkness. We have been lenient to you—perhaps more so
than we had any right to be—and now,' she paused."

"'Am I to be set at liberty?' I asked."

"'Nay, I said not so.'"

"An hour before I should have said I did not care enough for life to
escape if the door was left open, but now a wild, overmastering desire
for liberty took possession of me. I threw myself at the mother's
feet and begged her to let me go, were it to beg my bread or serve as
household drudge in the meanest farmhouse."

"'Hush, hush!' said she. 'You will spoil all by this vehemence. You
must do exactly as you are bid and all will be well, at last. Dress
yourself in the clothes you will find in this basket, and be ready when
the bell rings for the midnight service.'"

"'Where am I to go?' I ventured to ask."

"'To a safe asylum which has been found for you, and where you may
spend the rest of your days in penitence and prayer.'"

"I thought I knew what that meant well enough, but I did not care.
At midnight I was taken from my prison blindfolded, and carried down
stairs and into the fresh air. I was placed in a litter and traveled
for two days, I think, stopping now and then in some secluded place for
a little rest and refreshment. On the third day there was an unexpected
end put to my journey. We were attacked by outlaws. My two conductors
fled, as I guessed, without exchanging many blows. With many jests, but
not unkindly, the robbers drew me out of my litter. I was so stiff with
sitting I could hardly stand upright."

"'Why, 'tis a poor feeble old woman!' said the leader of the gang.
'Hey, what! Cannot you walk?' he asked, as I tried to take a step."

"'My feet are tied' I managed to say, and so they had been, whether by
command to my attendants or to save themselves trouble, I do not know."

"'And so they are,' said another man, with indignation. 'The brutes, to
use an old white-headed woman like that. Where were they taking you,
good mother?'"

"'I do not know,' I answered. 'They said to a safe asylum—to some cell
or convent, I suppose—but I promised not to tell,' I added. 'Please do
not heed my words, I am something dazed.'"

"The men glanced at each other and whispered together. Then the man who
seemed to be the leader asked me where I wished to go."

"'I know not,' I answered. 'I have not, a friend on earth.'"

"'Tis a piteous case,' said the outlaw. Then, after a little more
conference, two of the men took me between them and led me into the
thicket, where I was made to sit down and eat. At night, the man in
charge of me made me a kind of bed of leaves, and bade me lie down and
sleep without fear."

"Curiously enough, I was not at all afraid, and did as I was bid as
calmly as if I had been in the convent. In the first gray of the
morning, I was again blindfolded and led for some distance without a
word being said on either side. Finally I was bade to sit down."

"'You must remain here without uncovering your eyes till you hear the
church clock strike five,' said my conductor. 'You will find yourself
not far from a house, where they will, no doubt, feed and shelter you.
Obey and no harm will befall you, if you keep your own counsel.'"

"'I would I had something wherewith to reward your kindness,' said I."

"'Nay, we want no reward from such as you,' answered the man. 'You are
not our game. Farewell, good mother, and good luck to you.'"

"I heard the outlaws' retreating steps, and then all was still, save
for the singing of the birds and the other woodland noises. I waited
patiently till I heard a distant clock strike five. Then I unbound my
eyes and looked about me."

"I found myself in a thick wood like a neglected park. There was a
narrow vista through the trees, at the end of which I saw an old
building from one chimney of which smoke was rising, showing that it
was inhabited, and thither I bent my way. I found nobody but one old
woman—poor Martha—and as she was not so deaf as she is now, I made her
understand so much as I thought fit to tell her: namely, that I had
been traveling, had lost my way, and been out all night, and I prayed
her to give me hospitality."

"'Ay, ay!' said she. 'Meat and drink you shall have, and as to lodging,
we will see what my master says. He is here now, my good dame?'"

"'Who is your master?' I ventured to ask."

"'Why, his Grace of Suffolk, no less,' was the answer. 'This tumble
down old house belongs to him, and it pleases him to come hither now
and then for a day's sport.'"

"I had gathered my wits together by the time I had rested and eaten my
breakfast, and I made up my mind what to do. I knew my husband had been
a far-away kinsman of the Brandons, and I determined to tell his Grace
the whole story, and to throw myself on his mercy. I did so. He heard
me with many expressions of pity and kindness."

"'Your husband was a gallant young man,' said he. 'I knew him well, but
knew not what had become of him. I will consider your case and see what
shall be best for you.'"

"The next day as he was going away, he called me."

"'I can think of no better counsel than for you to remain here and keep
close,' said he. 'Nobody ever comes hither but myself or some trusted
servant. This old hall hath sheltered the wanderer before now. Bide you
here, then, and go not forth—not even to church at present. Your own
family doubtless think you dead, and the convent authorities are too
full of their own troubles just now to make much search for you, but
yet it is best to be on the safe side. How it comes that you are alive,
I cannot guess.'"

"'They were not unkind to me beyond keeping me confined,' said I. 'I
pray, your Grace, what year is this?'"

"He told me."

"'Then I have been in prison nine years,' I said, 'and in that time I
have not seen a human face more than three times, save when I was ill.'"

"'Poor thing, no wonder you are so sadly aged,' he said, 'but there
will be an end of all that soon, and full time it was so.'"

"How long is it since you came here?" I asked, as she paused.

"Two years come next spring."

"Then you must have been sent away just before the convent was broken
up."

"'Tis likely they found it convenient to get rid of me," she returned,
a little bitterly. "But I bear them no malice. I have been pardoned
too much myself not to forgive others. I had not said even the form
of a prayer for years before I came here. I had lost all faith in the
old religion, and I knew no other. But one day looking for something
wherewith to divert myself, I found a Latin Bible. I read and read, and
by degrees the light came to me, and the truth made me free."

"And what then, dear sister?"

"There is little more to tell," she answered. "His Grace was good
enough to call me cousin before Martha, and bade her treat me with all
respect. She is a good, faithful creature, and I love her as a sister.
She grows infirm, and I fear may not last long. But I am old, too," she
added, with a smile. "Loveday, the first time I looked into a mirror, I
started back in affright. I did not know my own face."

I would have liked to ask her a hundred questions, but there was no
more time. It was drawing toward sunset, and I had been told to be
ready by nightfall. Denys helped me to finish my packing and to arrange
securely the money and jewels I had about me, and I was soon all ready.
As soon as it was dark, the same messenger who had brought the litter,
appeared with two horses, and we took a last farewell of our woodland
Patmos. Denys kissed and blessed me at parting.

"We shall never meet again, but I am most thankful to have seen your
face once more," said she. "You were my first comforter, little
Loveday, and if my prayers can call down blessings, you will not want
them. Farewell, dear, precious child, till we meet in the Paradise
above."

I had to go at last. As we rode down the overgrown avenue I looked
backed and saw her standing in the door. She waved her hand, and then
the trees closed in, and I never saw her again.

I heard afterward that she died, after all, before poor old Martha.
But she was ready to go, and it was a blessed release. How little I
guessed, when I used to look at our house at Dartford and speculate as
to the rooms I was not allowed to enter, that my old friend and teacher
was pining away her young life in one of them. They meant it for mercy,
and I dare say ran a great risk in keeping her where they did, but it
was a doubtful mercy, after all.



[Illustration]

CHAPTER XIII.

"EXILED, AND YET AT HOME."

WE rode all that night, and in the morning we found ourselves in a
small seaport town, or rather fishing village, for it was little more.
There was but scant time for me to observe it. There was a low-lying
fog, and we could not even see the edge of the water in the dull
twilight. A breeze sprung up with the sun, however, the fog lifted like
a curtain, and showed a tolerably-sized vessel lying off shore.

"There she is, thank Heaven!" said our conductor. "But we must waste no
time. It will not do to lose this breeze."

We rode straight to the water's edge, where our conductor made a
signal. A boat put off from the ship, and in a few minutes we found
ourselves on board.

What a strange, desolate thing it seemed to watch the shore of England
fading away, and think that in all likelihood, I should never see it
again. In truth, we came near to never seeing any shore again, for the
breeze increased to a gale, and for some time we were in a good deal
of danger. But our ship was stout, and the Dutch are bold and skillful
sailors, and so it came to pass that on the fifth morning after leaving
England, I opened my eyes, and, looking at the tiny window, I caught
sight of a low-lying bit of green.

I was not many minutes in arranging my dress and joining my uncle on
deck. What a strange scene it was! We were sailing on what seemed a
great inland lake, shifting our course every five minutes. All about,
now near at hand, now on the far horizon, were long lines of high
green banks, over which peeped, now and then, the top of a tree, or
a fantastical church steeple, with a fish-shaped weather-vane. The
sky was clear, and a fresh, pleasant breeze was blowing; but the
water was still rough from last night's storm, and seemed, even to my
inexperienced eye, to be full of currents and eddies.

It was the oddest landscape, if landscape it could be called, that I
had ever seen, and seemed as if it might have come up from Neptune's
kingdom, like a whale, to have a breath of fresh air and a look at the
world, and might be expected to dive again at any moment. And, indeed,
it hath a trick of diving at times with unreverent suddenness. More
than once while I lived there, we heard of a whole town or district
disappearing in the night, leaving no trace to show where it had been.

"What is this, uncle?" I asked.

"This is Holland, my niece—Holland, our asylum, and that of many
another wanderer. These are the Isles of Zealand, and we shall soon be
at home."

My uncle spoke in a tone of enthusiasm which I could not understand.

"And what are these great green banks which we see on every side? Are
they ramparts?"

"Ay, child, ramparts against the Dutchman's greatest foe and best
friend, the sea. But for them, all yonder fertile fields would be under
water, or at least but stagnant morasses, the haunts of wild fowl."

"The enemy seems to have had the best of it yonder!" said I, pointing
to a place where innumerable active little figures were running to and
fro, like ants in a disturbed ant-hill.

"Yes, I doubt we shall hear of mischief," said the captain, who could
speak English very well. "Such a gale as we have had makes wild work
with the dykes, though 'twas not as bad as though it had blown from
another quarter."

"But who has built all these great arks?" I ventured to ask, looking
with amazement at the high banks and heavy stone-work, which I could
now see quite plainly.

"The Hollanders and Zealanders themselves, young lady!" Answered the
captain, with justifiable pride. "For three hundred years and more, we
have been conquering this country from the sea. Some time or other we
may have to conquer it again from another power, who knows?"

Who knew, indeed! Only, a few weeks ago I heard that in their contest
for liberty with the cruel Spaniards, the Hollanders had cut these
same dykes, and let in the salt sea on their grand farms and beautiful
towns. Any one who has ever lived in Holland will understand what must
have been their zeal for liberty to make them willing to let so much
dirt into their houses. I hope with all my heart they may succeed, for
if any people on earth have the right to their own country it is the
Dutch.

"When shall we be at Rotterdam?" asked my uncle.

"Why, that is more than I can tell," was the answer, "but if all
goes well, I hope we shall find ourselves at the Boomtzees to-morrow
morning. You know, my friend, this is not a channel to be walked over
blindfold."

I could not help seeing that for myself as I observed how carefully our
good captain watched the course of the vessel and how often he heaved
the lead. I understood that the gale by disturbing the shifting sand
and sandbanks had made the navigation more troublesome than usual. In
fact, we were aground once, but our commander's seamanship and the
rising tide soon took us off. At every possible interval, the men were
busy cleaning and scraping, varnishing and painting, so that the ship
began to assume quite a holiday appearance.

I went to bed at last, but not to sleep, except by fits and snatches,
awakened every moment by the welcome sounds of cocks crowing, cattle
lowing, and the lovely music of church bells playing tunes before they
struck the hour. At last, weariness conquered and I fell into a deep
sleep, from which I was waked by my uncle's voice.

"Come, my maid. Here we are at home. Hasten your preparations that we
may go ashore."

It did not seem much like home to me as I followed my uncle along the
quay, having a line of ships on one side and a row of fine painted
warehouses, and dwellings on the other. I felt more like somebody in a
fantastic dream. Here was a warehouse where great foreign looking bales
were being carried in, while in the window stood pots of flowers behind
the clear glass. There, we met a group of what were evidently country
women, who yet wore bands and headdresses of gold and silver, with
great gold earrings dangling over their cheeks and bosoms. And again,
two maid-servants in the same odd attire were cleaning the outside of a
house, yea, scrubbing the very bricks, with as much zeal and apparent
pleasure as my Lady Frances would have shown at her music.

And then the language! I could not understand it, and yet it sounded
as if I ought to know every word. Presently we turned off the quay,
the Boomtzees as they call it, and went through two or three narrow
streets, and over more bridges than I ever counted afterward. At last
we came into a kind of little place or square where grass was growing,
and flowers blooming in little parterres like the figures in a Persian
rug. This square was surrounded by neat houses, as fantastically
decorated as those we had seen before, and looking as if no dust or
smoke had ever dared to come near them. At the largest and handsomest
of these, my uncle stopped.

"This is our house," said he. "Pray God we find all well."

He knocked as he spoke, but had hardly withdrawn his hand from the
knocker, when a light foot was heard on the stairs, and Avice, looking
not at all like a heart-broken widow, threw herself into her father's
arms, and drew him into the house. I followed, feeling somehow
inexpressibly forlorn and lonely.

"Why how is this?" asked my uncle, holding Avice off and looking at
her. "Methinks my drooping flower is blooming again."

"Ay, and with good reason," answered Avice. "After all our fears,
Garrett has come home safe and sound, and not much the worse for his
captivity among the Moors."

"Heaven be praised! But, daughter, you do not speak to your guest. Do
you not know her?"

Avice turned—I verily believe she had taken no note of me before—and
looked at me for a moment with a gaze so like one of her old innocent
looks of wonder, that I could not forbear smiling.

"Loveday, it is Loveday!" she exclaimed, and I had no cause to find
fault with my welcome. I was led up stairs all in a moment, and into a
parlor where sat my Aunt Holland, looking not so much older than when
I saw her last. What a meeting it was. How we women talked and laughed
and cried, and asked endless questions and staid for no answers.
How old Sambo, his wool whiter than any sheep's, kissed my hand and
blubbered and giggled, all in a breath, and afterward danced a dance of
triumph out in the courtyard. By and by Avice would lead me to my room
to refresh myself with a change of dress before eating.

I declare, when I was left alone in the room, I was afraid to stir.
I thought we had been neat at the convent, but our utmost cleanness
was sluttery compared to that which reigned here. The glass windows,
which were seen every where in Holland long before they were common
in gentlemen's houses in England, were clear as air, and the laced
curtains which veiled the lower parts whiter than any snow. Beautiful
pots of Delft ware, holding growing and blossoming plants, stood
in the window-seat, and the very floor was of rare wood waxed and
polished like a mirror, so as to make walking somewhat perilous to the
unaccustomed foot. The bed was all in white and pale blue, and there
was not so much as a speck of dust to be seen any where.

Avice left the room, and presently came back with an armful of clean
linen and a gown. She would help me to dress, but that I would not
allow, so bidding me come down when I was ready, she left me. I dressed
myself at last, and went back to the room I had left, where I found a
table spread with all sorts of good things, while a tall, handsome,
solemn-looking maid-servant, wearing the same sort of head ornament I
had seen in the street, kept bringing still more. Here I was introduced
to my cousin's husband, a stately gentleman, but looking worn and
sunburned. I had found my appetite by this time, and did full justice
to the dainties before me.

"And Katherine is well?" asked my uncle.

"Yes, very well; and her new babe. The little lad hath had the ague,
but is recovered—so she writes."

"Ay, they are like to have a fine wreath of olive branches," said
Mynheer Van Alstine, with something of a sigh. "Methinks they might
spare us one."

"All in good time," returned my aunt. Then to me: "So you have never
married, sweetheart?"

"No, dear aunt," I answered, feeling my cheeks grow red.

"We must find her a husband somewhere," said Mynheer Van Alstine. "It
will never do to leave so fine a maid to comb St. Catherine's hair, as
they say in France."

"All in good time," repeated my uncle, smiling.

"Loveday is not so old or so foul-favored but she can afford to wait a
while to comfort her poor old uncle. What, sweetheart—wilt thou live
single for my sake, since my own girls have been carried away captive
by these piratical Dutchmen?"

"I desire no better fate," said I.

Whereat he laughed, and addressing himself to his son-in-law, he began
to ask about his captivity among the Barbary Moors.

"So they were not unkind to you?"

"Nay, they treated me well enough so soon as they found out I was no
Spaniard," answered the gentleman. "They hate the Spaniards, and with
good reason."

"I wonder who doth not," said mine uncle, under his breath.

"I had traded with them before now, and could speak their language,
after a fashion," continued my cousin Garrett. "I had once been able to
do some service to a merchant of Tripoli, and I thought if I could get
speech of him, he might do me a good turn. At last, after long waiting,
I succeeded in sending him word, and in a few days I found myself in
his house and treated with all kindness. He found means for me to go to
Smyrna, and from thence the way home was easy."

"It was well you fell into the hands of the Moors, and not into the
claws of the Inquisition," said my uncle. "Strange that one should find
better treatment at the hands of heathens and infidels than of those
who call themselves Christians."

"We may find those same claws clutching at our throats even here, and
that before we know it," observed Garrett. "I can tell you, father, I
like not the signs of the times. But will you walk to the warehouse
with me, and I will see that our fair cousin here hath her finery sent
home safely."

"'Tis but little finery the poor maid hath brought with her," answered
my uncle, smiling. "Our flight was too secret and sudden for that. But
I will walk with you, and we will leave the women to gossip to their
heart's content."

"As if they would not gossip worse than any women when they get two or
three together," said Avice, laughing. "But sit you down, and rest,
Loveday. I will but give some orders, and be with you again directly."

She set an arm-chair for me as she spoke, and I was not sorry to be
left alone a few minutes, for my head was fairly whirling.

The room where I sat was wide and high, handsomer than any in
Suffolk house, and fairly crowded with carved and inlaid cabinets,
damask-covered chairs and little tables. The projecting window was
partly veiled by broad white curtains, and just above it was an
arrangement of bright mirrors, jointed curiously together, whereof I
could not at first perceive the use, but I presently discovered that
by it one was enabled to see, without being seen, all that went on
in the street. The little square or place before the house was green
as emerald, and not a speck or stick was to be seen on its surface,
while a pond in the midst gave entertainment to a pair of swans and
some white ducks. On the highest chimney of a fine house across the
square was a pile of rubbish, at which I was wondering, when I saw a
long-legged and long-billed bird alight near it, and begin strutting up
and down in a pompous way, that reminded me of the old beadle in our
parish church in London.

"What is that bird?" I asked of Aunt Joyce, who just then entered the
room.

"Why 'tis a stork, child. The people here treat them as a kind of
sacred animal, and the man who should kill one would be looked upon as
a murderer. 'Tis counted a very lucky thing to have a stork's nest on
one's house. We have a fine one. 'Tis said that the young birds will
carry their old parents on their shoulders, and that the parents will
perish in the fire rather than desert their young. Every one is glad to
see the storks come back in the spring."

"No wonder, if they are such good creatures. But, aunt, are all the
people here as neat in their ways as my cousin? The house is so clean,
I am almost afraid to move for fear of soiling something."

"You will see," answered my aunt. "I do think, niece, that Dutch women
in general think of their houses not so much as places to dwell in,
as objects on which to exercise their love for cleansing. 'Tis said
that the pastor of Brook, which is the very Paradise of neatness,
found it hard to interest the women of his parish in heavenly things,
till he described Heaven as a place where golden pavements admitted of
unlimited scouring. Avice falls in with these ways easily enough. You
know she was always a born housekeeper, but I fancy poor Katherine is
looked upon as a helpless slattern by her Dutch neighbors. Happily for
her, Arthur's congregation is made up of English and Scotch people, who
are not quite so particular."

"And Katherine is happy in her marriage?"

"Oh, yes. Her husband is one of the best of men, and she hath four
lovely babes—the last I have not seen. They are not rich, nor ever will
be, at least in this world's goods, but they have treasure in Heaven,
ay and in this world also. I never saw a better ordered family of
children. 'Tis a great grief to Garrett and Avice that they have none;
but, as I tell them, there is time enough, and it may be better after
all," said my aunt, sighing. "In a gale, those are best off who spread
the least sail."

"But is not the Protestant religion allowed here?" I asked, in
surprise. "I thought there was no danger on that score."

"'Tis rather winked at than allowed," replied my aunt. "The emperor is
a crafty man, and knows well the temper and drift of this people. I
believe he will avoid a quarrel if he can, and he is not a man to be
driven by the Church of Rome further or faster than he likes to go. But
he grows old, and talks at times of abdicating in favor of his son, who
is, as all men say, a cold, cruel bigot, valuing nothing so much as
what he calls—God save the mark—Christian and Catholic unity. I believe
the hour which puts the reins into his hands will be a sad one for
Holland."

"Heaven help us," said I. "Is there to be no rest in this world?"

"Not that I know of," replied my aunt, with that sweet, wise smile that
I remembered so well. "The Master, at least, has promised us none, and
what right have we to expect peace with His worst enemy. Mark my word,
child, if the day ever does come that the church and the world have no
controversy, that will be the worst day the church will ever see. But
now tell me of our friends, the Davises. Were they not greatly relieved
to hear of Margaret's safety?"

"They had not heard it, the last I knew," I answered, surprised. "Where
is she?"

"At Amsterdam, with her husband, who has fallen on his feet as I may
say, having gotten work in one of the great printing houses, where his
skill hath already raised him to a high place, and Margaret hath a
school for young maids, which is very successful."

"And so it should be. One better fitted for such an office could not
be. I hope I may see her, for she hath been one of the best friends I
ever had."

But I must not linger over the history of those quiet, happy days;
for happy they were spite of the secret grief and longing which no
one guessed—or so I believed. I had thought the matter over and over,
and had gained all the light I could from an honest Study of Holy
Scripture, and I could not see that I was guilty of any sin in loving
Walter Corbet. It was not sacrilege, as I had first believed, since no
word in the Bible prohibited priests from marrying. I might make my
love a sin, it was true, if I let it make me gloomy or discontented; if
I brooded over it and occupied my thoughts therewith so as to interfere
with my duties to God or man. But this I was humbly resolved not to do.
My Father had laid this cross upon me, and I would bear it till he saw
fit to remove it, or to change it for that crown which he hath promised
to them that endure to the end. I had read some romances and tales of
maids who died for love or had unworthily cast themselves away. The
first might perhaps come—the last I thought never. It seemed to me, and
does so seem now, that the very fact of a woman's loving honestly would
make her self-respecting and discreet. Passion might make women act
unworthily—true love never!

Thus thinking and resolving, I went to work with all my might at
whatever my hands could find to do, and I only wished it were more.
Garrett Van Alstine was still rich despite a few losses, and my uncle
was also well-to-do. Servants were plenty, and I soon found the Dutch
maids brooked little interference with their ways. There seemed to be
no indigent people; one never saw a beggar in the street; and even in
the poorest parts of the town there were the same comfort and neatness,
though of course not the same amount of luxury, which were found in our
own neighborhood.

I made a long visit to Katherine, and one to Margaret Hall, in
Amsterdam. I could have found plenty to do in either place, for Kate's
olive branches, as Garrett called them, had sprung very close together,
and though Arthur's congregation gave according to their means for
their pastor's support, yet those means were not great. There were
plenty both of steps and stitches to be taken in the little parsonage,
and I would have liked well to stay with Katherine, whose English ways,
to tell the honest truth, suited me better than Avice's Dutch ones.

Margaret Hall was, if not rich, yet well-to-do. Her school had grown to
as large a size as she could manage, and both she and her husband would
have liked me to take it off her hands, and have her free to help her
husband in correcting of the press and the like. The work would have
suited me well enough, but my uncle would not hear of my leaving him,
and indeed showed more of his old choleric temper on the occasion than
I had yet seen. Of course his will was my law, so I said no more about
the matter.

At last however, I found work nearer home. There was an English
congregation in Rotterdam, at present without a pastor. Many of them
were poor people who had fled on account of their faith, losing all for
the sake of the gospel. I soon got in the way of visiting among them,
and finding there were a good many children, I proposed to my uncle
with some diffidence—not knowing how he would like it—that I should set
up a small school for the little maids, where they could learn to read,
sew and spin, and other such arts as should help them to earn a living.
I was pleasantly surprised to find him take up the idea with great
pleasure, saying that he had often wished some one would do that work.
The parents of the children were equally pleased. My uncle found out
and furnished a small room, and I discovered a suitable assistant—such
a person as we now should call a dame—in an elderly widow without
children, a part of whose house we rented for the school. I soon had
my rooms full of the little English girls, and there I regularly spent
half my day overseeing the work, teaching the little things to read the
Scriptures, and now and then moderating a little Dame Webster's zeal
for discipline.

In this way I spent a not unhappy year, attending to my schools, taking
lessons in lace-making and entertaining my uncle and cousins in the
evening with music when we had no guests, which was not often, for
Avice was in great favor with her husband's large family, and the good
folks quickly adopted me as a kinswoman. I learned to talk Dutch pretty
fluently, by the simple process of talking right or wrong, and by
reading such books as I could lay hands on. My cousin's house was one
of the gathering places of the distinguished reformers whereof Holland
was full of at that time. They were a wonderful scholarly set of men,
and much given to long theological discussions on matters which, it
seemed to me, were altogether beyond the scope of human reason. Many
times the discussion waxed so warm that I thought it would end in a
downright rupture, but all would presently be friends again over the
dainty supper dishes which Avice provided on these occasions, and I
never saw men enjoy good things more.



[Illustration]

CHAPTER XIV.

ANOTHER HOME.

AUGUST had come round again. Such of the Dutch merchants as had places
in the country retired to them and passed long hours contemplating
their flower beds and their fat cows. For my own part, I liked
Rotterdam better since there, at least, we had the fresh sea-breeze.
Truth to tell, with all its neatness, Holland is not a savory country
in hot weather.

Garrett and Avice had gone down to visit Katherine, and the maids had
seized on the chance for a perfect carnival or orgy of brushing and
scrubbing, though the house was always as clean as hands could make
it. However, Gatty had brought me that morning a very small spider
web, tenanted by a very little spider, as a triumphant justification
of her proceedings. So I had nothing to say, and, indeed, I always
carefully abstained from meddling in the housekeeping. I was tired and
discouraged—I suppose such times come to every one—feeling that my
burden had been carried long enough, and that I could not bear it any
longer. I was not very well either, having been troubled of late with
one of those irregular agues which are the plague of that country. I
had heard a rumor that morning that a new pastor was coming to the
English congregation, but I did not know his name, and felt, just
then, no great interest in the matter, beyond hoping that he would not
interfere with my little school.

I was glad to find, on arriving at home, that the maids had so far
finished their operations that the house was once more habitable. I
looked into my aunt's room, and seeing her comfortably dozing in her
chair, I went to my own, and indulged in a fit of weeping, which was
an unusual thing with me. I was just washing my face and making myself
presentable when I heard my uncle's voice calling me. I hurried my
preparations, knowing his impatience at being kept waiting, but was not
quite ready when I heard him coming up two steps at a time.

"Come, come, girl, what needs all this prinking?" he asked, as I opened
the door. "Here is a messenger from our good protector and friend, his
Grace of Suffolk."

I was not long in following him down stairs, and into the parlor. The
queer feeling of knowing all about it came over me as I entered the
room, and was not one bit surprised to see Walter Corbet, thin and
worn, and dressed like a common sailor, talking with my Aunt Holland.

Our greeting was quiet and natural enough, but our eyes told their
tale to each other, and I fancy also to my aunt and uncle, for I saw a
smiling glance pass between them.

"This is the Duke's messenger, and also our new English pastor, albeit
he looks not very reverend in his present attire!" said mine uncle.
"But ''tis not the cassock that makes the priest,' is an old and pithy
proverb. Kinsman, you are most welcome. And how left you the Duke and
Duchess?"

"Well in health, but in deep affliction," answered Walter. "They have
lost their two promising young sons."

"Alas, the sweet babes, are they gone?" I said. "What ailed them?"

"The sweating sickness. My Lady Frances also had it, but recovered,
thanks to her mother's nursing. 'Twas most sweet to see how her Grace
put aside her own grief to attend on her step-daughter, and comfort her
husband. But the blow hath been a terrible one for his Grace. I doubt
he will hardly recover it."

"My mistress was ever a most noble lady, and the best of wives and
mothers," said I. "I can believe any good of her, whether in prosperity
or adversity."

"And his Grace keeps court favor still?" asked mine uncle.

"Ay—that is, he keeps that of the king, albeit he has enemies enough,
for he hath never made any secret of his principles. Gardiner hates
him, like the venomous adder that he is."

"Nephew, nephew, deliver all with charity!" said my aunt, rather
shocked.

"I crave pardon, madam—of the snake," answered Walter, with a flash of
his old fun in his eyes. "The poor reptile at least only acts out his
nature, and uses no deceit. Gardiner is as much a Papist as ever he
was, and so it will be seen if that side ever again gets uppermost."

"But will it ever, think you?"

"Not if our gracious Prince Edward is preserved to us. But he is a
delicate lad, or so it is said, and failing him the Lady Mary is the
next heir. Every one knows what her bent is; and besides that, her
nature has been cankered and embittered by her own wrongs and those of
her mother."

"Small wonder, poor thing!" remarked my uncle. "Yet might she remember
that both Tyndale and Luther took her mother's part. But come to my
room, kinsman, and change your dress for somewhat more befitting, and
then, when you have dined, we will hear your adventures."

Walter's adventures were soon told. He had fallen under suspicion for
preaching and teaching, and his Grace had thought it best for him to
fly while there was yet time. He had heard that a new pastor was needed
in the English community at Rotterdam, and had come hither to offer his
services, till the time should come when he could return in safety to
his beloved cure in Devon.

I know not exactly how the matter was arranged, but Walter was soon
installed as pastor over the small English congregation, and delivered
his first sermon to the satisfaction of every one; though I believe
some of the Dutch scholars who attended on the occasion, thought he
was not sufficiently metaphysical, and that he dwelt too much on the
need of good works. But his own people were content; so it mattered the
less. A small parsonage was attached to the church, presided over by
a somewhat severe English dame, and here Walter took up his lodging,
though I think he supped as often at our house as at his own.

A month after he was fairly settled in his new home and occupation,
Walter asked me to be his wife. It was no great surprise to me, and
I did not pretend that it was; but I asked him if his conscience was
quite clear as to marrying after he had taken his vow of celibacy.

"Absolutely so!" he answered. "My vow was taken in ignorance, and
because I was misled to believe that the Law of God required priests to
live a single life. Now I find that not only is there no such law, but
that St. Peter himself was married, and carried his wife with him on
his apostolic journeys, as did St. James and the brethren of the Lord,
and that St. Paul expressly asserts his right to do the same if he
chooses. * And I can not bring myself to believe that the state of life
chosen by the Holy Spirit as an emblem of the union between the Lord
and his church can be of itself unholy. But how is it with yourself, my
dear one?"

   * Farrar argues very plausibly that St. Paul was probably a widower.

"Oh, I settled the matter long ago!" I answered, incautiously, and then
covered my face with my hands, overwhelmed with confusion as I thought
of the admission I had made.

"Why, then all is well!" said Walter. "And with your good leave, I will
tell your uncle that you are not disinclined to take command of the
parsonage and its master."

"And how think you Mistress Jennings will like to have a young lady put
over her?" I asked.

"If she be not pleased, she hath an easy remedy—she can retire!" said
Walter. "But I think not we shall have any trouble with her."

There was no reason for delay, since every body was pleased with the
match.

True, I had not a tithe of the body and house linen considered
indispensable for every bride in Holland. But, as I said, the Van
Alstine family had kindly adopted me for a kinswoman from the first,
and they now came forward with the most munificent presents from their
abundant stores. (It grieves me to the heart even now to think how
much of my setting out I had to leave behind me.) Such towels and
sheets, such table-cloths and napkins, such treasures of old lace and
embroidered counterpanes! Every good mother in Holland, as soon as a
girl is born to her, begins to prepare these things for her wedding,
and by the time the child is old enough to be married, she has linen
enough to last her lifetime.

Garrett and Avice would give me my wedding dresses, and my uncle
refurnished the house from top to bottom. Arthur and Kate came from
Middleburg, and Arthur married us.

Contrary to Walter's expectation, Mistress Jennings took his marriage
exceedingly ill, and abdicated at once, saying she would have no fine
young lady set over her head. I was not at all sorry. When she found
her retirement made no such sensation as she expected, she offered
very condescendingly to remain and put the new mistress in the way of
managing her household.

But as it happened, the new mistress thought she know how already; so
we let her go, and I hired a nice, strong, clever English wench, who
I thought would be sufficient for us at present, with occasional help
from outside on emergencies.

It was a very happy home which was covered by the many-cornered
red-tiled roof of the little parsonage. I think old Madame Van Alstine,
Garrett's step-mother, had no fears for us after a pair of storks
settled themselves on one of our chimneys. It is the storks in Holland
which bring all the babies, but they never brought us any. It was a
grief at the time, but we came to see that all was ordered aright, and
the want was made up to us afterward. I had the more time to give to
the school and the work of the church. After a time, Katherine spared
to me one of her daughters who was and hath ever been a great comfort
to us.

The year after my marriage, my Aunt Joyce died, at the age of
ninety-eight. She was well and able to wait upon herself to the very
last day of her life. Avice had a fine little maid by that time, and my
aunt was at the christening and gave the babe her own name. The next
morning, when Avice went to call her as usual, she was no longer there.
She had evidently passed away in her sleep. It was a happy death,
but we missed her sorely. Of all women I ever saw, she had the most
excellently even temper and discretion. As the saying is, one always
knew where to have her. This was the only important change which took
place in our family for five years.

I had come to look upon Holland as home, and my English life was almost
like a dream. We heard of things going from bad to worse, of the king's
uncertain temper and continual change of policy, of Protestants and
Papists alike being hanged and burned for their religion. Nor were we
wholly without fears for ourselves. There were ominous growlings of
subterranean thunder, rumors of the establishment of the Holy Office
in Holland, of new imposts and severe laws against sectaries; but as
yet the storm which is now raging over that brave and unhappy people
did but mutter in the distance. Walter and my uncle used to talk about
England by the hour, but for myself, I must say, I was never homesick,
save when I thought of certain sparkling springs and the like. I would
have loved to see a babbling brook once more.

We had just kept our Christmas holidays, with the usual interchange
of gifts and distribution of spiced and gilded cakes. I remember I
was putting away a famous one, mounted on a fine china dish, which
Wilhelmina Bogardus had sent me for a present. We had begun to get
china dishes then, but they were a great rarity, and right pleased
I was with my New Year's gift. All at once the door was opened, and
in came my husband, my uncle and Garrett Van Alstine, all talking
together, and so full of their tidings that they actually forgot to
wipe their feet, and brought more mud into my parlor than Garrett would
ever have dared to take into his own house, that I know.

"News, my love! Great news!" said Walter. "King Henry is dead. And
Prince Edward now is king. Now may we return in peace to our home in
dear old Devon, and dwell once more among our own people."

This was the first time that I realized how constantly my husband had
cherished the hope of returning to his old cure. I must say the news
did not come to me as to him. I had had enough of removing to and fro.
I had many friends in Rotterdam, and none that I knew of in Devon,
and I would have been content to spend my life in that same little
parsonage, waked every morning by the clatter of the storks and the cry
of their young ones. I loved our people and the family which had so
frankly and kindly adopted me, and my heart sunk at the thought of such
another pulling up as this would be. I answered rather peevishly:

"At all events, you need not bring all Holland in upon my clean floor.
We are not going to take the country with us, I suppose."

I was ashamed of myself the moment the words were spoken. The men all
looked at me in surprise, and I saw in a moment that my husband was
hurt by my outburst.

"Why, what ails thee, this morning?" said mine uncle, laughing. "Art
become such a thorough Dutch housewife as to think a little mud on the
floor of more matter than the death of a king or the well-being of the
church?"

Anneke called me out to the kitchen just then, and I was not sorry to
get away and recover my composure. When I had settled the domestic
difficulty, whatever it was, I retired to my chamber, and strove by
prayer and meditation to bring myself to a better temper. I succeeded
so far that I was able to meet my husband with a pleasant face when
he came in to dinner, and to ask him particulars of the news he had
received from England. He was the same as ever, and told me all he had
heard; but he said never a word of returning to Devon, and I felt that
I would not trust myself with the subject just now.

We were bidden to supper at Garrett Van Alstine's house that night,
to meet the guests who had brought the news. I was pleased to meet in
one of them a gentleman I had often seen in her Grace of Suffolk's
withdrawing-room— one Mr. Evans, a West country man and a great
scholar. While I sat talking with him, I heard Avice say to my husband
in a tone of surprise—

"But you will never think of leaving us, and returning to England,
surely?"

"Of course not," said Mynheer Bogardus, Garrett's uncle, a very rich
and consequential merchant, who always seemed to think he was to carry
all before him by sheer force of will. "I take it Master Walter is too
wise a man to leave certainty for uncertainty."

"I have hitherto found uncertainty the only certain thing in this
world," answered Walter, smiling. "I suppose our poor friends in Honak
were as certain of rising in the morning as we are." He alluded to a
flourishing village, which only a few days before had been destroyed in
the night so that not a trace remained, and that not by an inundation,
but by that strange undermining of the sea, which gives no warning, and
which has destroyed thousands of lives in Holland.

"But why should you wish to change again?" asked another. "I do not
understand that your benefice in England is a very wealthy one."

"I would you could see it," said Walter, smiling, and then turning to
me: "Tell me, sweetheart, what would Mistress Van Sittart think were
she translated to one of our Devon farmhouses?"

"She would think herself transported to some island of savages," said
I; and I could not but laugh as I thought of Carolina Van Sittart,
who was a wonder of neatness even among Dutch women, in an ordinary
farmer's kitchen, or even a gentleman's dining-hall, in our old
neighborhood at Peckham Hall.

"Then I am sure Mistress Corbet will not wish to go," said Carolina.
"You would not be so cruel as to carry her off among savages," and with
that they all fell upon him at once for thinking of such cruelty.

"As to that, different people have different customs," said I, in some
heat, for when it came to the pinch, of course I took Walter's part;
"and if the people are such savages, they have the more need of one to
teach them the way of life. Here in Rotterdam every one can have at
least a Testament, or if not, they can hear the Word read and preached
every Sunday."

"True, but how many never do?"

"That is their own fault. I suppose if the apostles had waited till
every one in Jerusalem was converted before they preached elsewhere,
you might be offering human sacrifices to this day, Mynheer Bogardus,
as they say your ancestors, the free Frisians, used to do."

Walter gave me a look and smile that went to my heart, and Mynheer
Bogardus muttered something in his beard about women minding their
distaffs—as if I could not spin as well as Gatty any day.

"Then you would not mind going," said Avice, with one of her innocent
looks of wonder. "You would not mind leaving us all and going into that
wild West Country among the moors and hills."

A great lump came into my throat, but I swallowed it, and answered
resolutely:

"I do not say that I should choose it, but if my husband's duty leads
him thither, 'tis clearly mine not to let him go alone. And as to the
moors and hills, I am not sure but I would love to see some land not so
flat that a tall man can be seen two miles off. And I am very sure I
should like a drink of water from a living spring once more."

A call to supper interrupted the discussion, which was doubtless as
well, for I was growing warm, as one is apt to do when arguing against
one's self. No more was said at that time, but when we were walking
homeward, Walter asked me, saying:

"Sweetheart, did you really mean all you said to-night about going back
to Devon? Would you indeed go and content yourself?"

"I would go, of course, if you did," I answered. "I don't pretend to
say I should like it as well in all ways, but I doubt not I could
content myself, and I am pretty well used to changes."

"Ay, that you are, poor child," said Walter.

"But, husband, I would not have you decide in haste," I added. "Take
time to consider. You know Mynheer Bogardus says second thoughts are
best."

"And do you think so?" asked my husband, with one of his penetrating
looks.

"No; honestly I do not," I answered. "I think when one is habitually
guided by high Christian principle, as you are, that the first thought
is usually the best, because the second is apt to get mixed up with
worldly policy. But, husband, I would have you take time to consider
and pray over this matter. Take counsel with Mr. Evans. He knows the
West Country well, and can tell you what are the prospects, and I know
his Grace over held him in esteem as a wise and sober man. Then if you
decide that your duty takes you back to the gray parsonage, your wife
will not say one word to withhold you."

Walter pressed my hand. "Your counsel is good, and I will take it,"
said he; but I knew well enough what the end would be. Men are ever
ready to take counsel after they have made up their own minds.

Mr. Evans came to give us a visit next day, and he and Walter had a
great talk, I sitting by with my knitting, which I have ever found a
great soother of the nerves. * He was, as I had said, a wise and sober
man, and a devout Christian. He told Walter, he believed the reign of
King Edward would see the Reformed faith set on so firm a basis as that
no after persecution could overthrow it.

   * Women ought to be forever grateful to the Spanish Moors, who seem
     first to have brought knitting into Europe from the East.

"The truth spreads more and more among the people, and with it the
knowledge of letters. Old men and women can then have books, and their
criss-cross row, that they may be able to read the Gospel with their
own eyes. There have been great stirrings and preachings about Exeter,
and those not always of the wisest kind. 'Tis the tendency of poor
human nature ever to run to extremes."

"The more need for preachers who shall not run to extremes," said my
husband.

"True," answered Mr. Evans. "There is, indeed, great need of wise
and sober preachers and teachers, and that especially among our
warm-hearted and quick-witted men of Devon. As to the matter of safety,
you are as well off there as here—nay, better, so long as King Edward
lives, whom God preserve. I did marvel to hear Mynheer Bogardus speak
so confidently last night. Does he forget that Holland is wholly in the
power of Spain, and that Spain is ruled by the Inquisition?"

"I think he does, just as the Hollanders forget that the sea is ever
watching to take back what they have wrested from it. The emperor hath
ever been favorable, rather than otherwise, to his Dutch subjects."

"Ay, but the emperor grows old, and also devout, which last is not of
good omen to his Protestant people," answered Master Evans, dryly.
"Moreover, if he should abdicate, as you know, he often talks of doing—"

"Think you that will ever happen?"

"That is more than I can say, but if it does it will lay a knife to
every Protestant throat in Holland—that am I as sure of as of mine own
life."

But I must not make my story too long. Walter did wait, and did think,
but his mind was made up from the first, and the first of May saw us
packed up and ready to go on board a Dutch vessel trading to Bristol.

'Twas a hard parting, and the more that I had to leave my little Kate
behind, her mother not being willing to trust her so far from her own
home. I did not blame her, for I knew I should have felt just so in
her place, but yet 'twas like parting with a hand to leave the dear
child behind. We took our old English maid, Mary Thornton, with us,
and I had just seen my good Anneke settled in her husband's farmhouse
in such comfort as I would I could see any where here. (I suppose the
great farm, with all its crops and barns, its warm house and beautiful
pictures, is all under water now.) I will not linger on the parting.

Be it enough to say that we reached Bristol after a somewhat tedious,
but very safe voyage, that we had a rough journey from thence to
Biddeford, in a dirty little coaster, and at last, a month after
leaving home, found ourselves at our own house in the little village or
hamlet of Coombe Ashton.



[Illustration]

CHAPTER XV.

COOMBE ASHTON.

THE vicarage of Coombe Ashton is just beside the gray old church, so
that its garden and orchard, and the churchyard run together without
any divisions, save a bank overrun with sweetbrier and ivy. 'Tis a
stone house of two floors and three or four gables, convenient and
roomy enough, but plain and unornamented as any farmhouse. I shall
never forget how forlorn and wretched it looked to my eyes the first
time I entered its doors.

My husband had left his cure in the hands of Sir David Dean, a good and
religious priest, but one as absentminded and indifferent to his own
comfort as any man I ever saw. He had lived alone in the vicarage all
these years without a housekeeper, save that an old woman, living in
one of the alms-cottages by the church-gate, now and then came in and
scratched about a bit like a hen in a straw-yard. Any one who knows
what men are when left to themselves, may guess what condition matters
were in after seven or eight years of such housekeeping. The rushes on
the floor must have been at least three months old, and showed such a
state of things when we swept them out, that Mary Thornton sat down on
the doorstep and cried.

"Come, come, Mary; this will never do," said I, though I could have
cried myself, easily enough. "Think if Madame Bogardus should come in
and find us in all this mess."

Mary Thornton laughed and then cried again, and having so relieved her
mind, went to work like a heroine. How we two women slaved that day,
sweeping and scouring, and shaking out, while the village maid, whom
Walter had sent in, did little more than stare in amazement, and stand
about in the way. Thanks to my uncle and Garrett, we had enough ready
money, so Walter rode over to Biddeford and brought back a piece of
moreen and another of green baize.

When we had the house decently clean and sweet, Mary and I set
ourselves down to the making of some hangings and curtains, and while
we were thus busy, one of our parishioners, a farmer's wife, Dame Yeo,
came in, bringing a pot of cream and a basket of new laid eggs. I must
say our people were very good to us from the first, save two or three
families, who, holding to the old ways, looked upon Walter and myself
as altogether profane and sacrilegious persons.

"Dear me!" exclaimed the good woman, in surprise. "Well, you do look as
neat as any daisy. But, my dear soul, what be you a-doin' now. Making
of hangings, I declare. Why thou'lt never get through all that by
thyself, madam."

"Oh, you don't know how much I can do," I answered.

"I see well, madam, that you are a good housewife," answered Dame Yeo,
"but yet you should have more help. There is a very decent body living
alone in a cottage down to our place who has skill with the needle. May
be you saw her in church—a tall woman in black, a-sitting on one of the
stone benches. Folks say she has been a nun, and some hint that she
knows more than she should, but I believe she is a good woman for all
that."

"I noticed her, and wondered who and what she was," said I. "Do you
think, dame, she would come and help us?"

"I dare say she would, and I will ask her when I go home. But, madam,
there is good news for you. Our young squire and his lady have returned
to the manor house, and 'tis said they mean to live there, or at least,
to abide some time."

"Who are they?" I asked. "You know I am a stranger here."

"Oh, they are great folks," answered Dame Yeo. "Sir Robert is heir
to my Lord Stanton of Stanton, unless he should marry again and have
children, and my lady is daughter to old Sir Stephen Corbet. They
lived here once before a little while, but the lady was carried off by
pirates and hardly rescued, and after that they took a dislike to the
place. Some say," and here her voice sunk to a whisper, "that it was
not pirates who carried her off, but that a priest was mixed up in it.
I don't know. Any how, she is a most gracious lady, and I am right glad
she hath come back. Well, Madam Corbet, I will send Dame Anne to you,
an' you will."

"Do so," I answered. "And, dame, will you carry this little book to
your daughter. 'Tis a copy of the Psalms in English, and will be easy
for her to hold and read."

For poor Amy Yeo was held fast in bed by a broken joint which had never
knit kindly and gave her great pain.

"Tell her my husband will come to see her as soon as he can."

The good woman departed well pleased, and it was not long before the
woman she called Dame Anne, made her appearance. I saw at once that
she was a lady, and made haste to set her an easy chair. She put on no
airs, however, but seeing on what we were engaged, she went at once to
work and showed that she knew what she was about.

"The lady sews like a Dutch woman!" said Mary Thornton.

"Nevertheless I have never been out of England," answered Dame Anne,
smiling, "but I was convent-bred, and there we learned to handle our
needles at least."

"Ay, and many another good thing beside," I answered. "I wonder
sometimes what young ladies will do for education now the convents are
put down?"

"Perhaps their mothers will keep them at home and teach them, which is
the natural way, methinks," answered Dame Anne. "An' I had a daughter,
I would never put her into any hands but my own."

I may as well say here, that we found Dame Anne one of our greatest
helps in the parish. The woman who had kept a little school in the
hamlet down by the shore—a very superior person by all accounts—had
died about six months before, and the children were running wild. After
making himself well acquainted with her, and having duly consulted with
our lady of the manor, Dame Anne was installed by my husband in the
office of school-mistress, and filled it to admiration as long as she
lived.

Well, the end of the month found us fairly settled in our new home, and
very comfortable therein. When Sir David came home from Exeter—whither
he had gone to meet us, though we had never told him we meant to go
thither—he held his hands up in amazement at the change wrought in the
parsonage. But he would by no means have his abode with us, saying
that he should only be in our way, and that he was too old to change
his habits, so he took up his lodging with an old couple who had more
room than they wanted, and lived with them to the day of his death,
which happened about three years after. He had a modest competence,
which he bequeathed to the poor of the parish; and my husband, with Sir
Richard's approbation, built and endowed therewith two more almshouses,
specially for disabled fishermen, or their widows. But I am running
before my story.

If Sir David had been a bad housekeeper, he had not been an unfaithful
priest, as the state of the parish showed plainly enough. The church
had been stripped of its images, but not defaced and half ruined,
as was the case with too many. The great painted window was quite
untouched, the chancels decent and clean, and the seats whole. It was
but a little place at best, and a good deal of space was taken up by
two or three great altar tombs, but it was large enough to hold all the
inhabitants of the two hamlets which made up the parish.

Sir David had provided at his own expense a great Bible, which was
chained to a desk in the choir, where any one was at liberty to read
it, and so soon as King Edward's new prayer book and primer were
published, Sir Richard Stanton sent for a number of copies from Exeter,
and had them placed in the seats or given to heads of families. My
husband explained the book from the chancel, and I must say the most of
the people fell in with it very quickly, so that we had as well-ordered
and devout a congregation, I dare say, as could be found in Britain.

I am proud to say that in the changes which followed the king's early
death, not one apostate was found in my husband's flock, and had we but
been at home when the storm broke, I believe we should have escaped in
safety.

I soon formed a warm friendship with our lady of the manor—my Lady
Rosamond, she was always called, though being a simple knight's
daughter, she had, I suppose, no right to the title. She had been
convent-bred as well as myself, and had a narrow escape of being
convent-buried, for—there is no harm in writing it now—they were no
pirates which carried her off, but a certain priest called Father
Barnaby, who had great power at that time. They had her immured in some
of their prisons, and threatened to bury her alive, but she was saved
in quite a wonderful way, by her own courage and the intervention of
that same Magdalen Jewell who had been school-mistress here so long.
She had known Sister Anne well in those days, and was glad to see her
again. They had been together in the convent which was now suppressed
like all the rest. Sister Anne inquired for the Mother Superior.

"She is now visiting a friend, but she will, I believe, make her home
with me for the rest of her days," answered the lady, "whether I remain
here or return to Stanton Court. She is well, but a good deal shaken by
all that hath happened."

We used to have great comparing of notes as to our convent experiences,
and we agreed that though the way of their suppression was harsh and
cruel in many instances, yet on the whole the church was better without
these so-called religious houses. I have never seen reason to change my
mind. I regretted it greatly when Sir Richard, coming to the title by
the death of my Lord Stanton, removed to Stanton Court. This excellent
pair never forgot the parish of Coombe Ashton, however, but always held
up my husband's hands in his parish work.

Walter preached, and prayed, and studied, and visited the sick and
dying, and was, I dare be sworn, as faithful a parish priest as could
be found in England.

Meantime, I, on my part, kept his house and overlooked the parish
school, and another which we had set up down at the Cove for the little
children who would not come so far in bad weather. I tried, too, to
teach the gospel of cleanliness as I had learned it in Holland, but
here I had indifferent success. 'Twas so much easier to cover the
floors with rushes than to sweep them every day and scrub them twice a
week; and as to the ill smells and the vermin, why they were used to
them. However, I did make some progress with the young ones, and I soon
came to the conclusion that it was not worth while to push my zeal too
far. The good women liked their maids to learn sewing and knitting,
mending and shaping, and they were well pleased when I taught some of
them, as a reward, to make a serviceable kind of lace with the needle.
The maids learned to read, and some of them to write, and to reckon in
their heads.

By and by we had a boy's school taught by a young man sent us by my
lord. It was not so well attended as the other, for the farmers and
fishers were not willing to spare their lads after they were old enough
to be useful, but yet we turned out some good scholars. My husband
was a musician like all the Corbets, and the school master was also a
singer. So we had some good music in the church.

On the whole, it was a happy time. I will not deny that I was now
and then homesick, especially when three or four times a year I had
a packet from Holland. Avice was usually the writer, and a capital
correspondent she was, telling me all the news of our old neighbors,
and every thing that happened in the family. Garrett Van Alstine wrote
to my husband and told him what was going on in church and State, and
'twas plain to see that he was by no means easy in his mind.

The emperor had, indeed, not abdicated in favor of his son, but he was
always talking of it, and, as he grew older, and more feeble in mind
and body, he came more and more under the influence of the priests.
There were restrictions placed upon the printing and sale of Protestant
books, and threatening rumors as to the breaking up of Protestant
congregations. Avice wrote that their neighbors of the old church,
with whom they had over lived in friendship and harmony, began to look
coldly on them and to withdraw from their intimacy, and that Margaret
Hall's school at Amsterdam had been almost broken up. On the whole, we
wore not sorry that we had returned to England, where, though matters
of state were somewhat unsettled, we had no fear of persecution for the
truth's sake.

It was in the year 1551, that I had a great and agreeable surprise.
I remember I was busy making cakes and comfits, for we were to have
a school treat the next day, and I had been concerting some famous
Christmas cakes after our old Dutch receipt, and fashioning them in the
shape of animals and birds, as the manner is over there, for a surprise
to the young ones. I had just taken the last batch from the oven when a
man-servant in my Lord Stanton's livery rode to the door, and delivered
a note for my husband. Presently Walter came into the kitchen, when I
was putting the last touches to my cakes.

"Here is news, dear heart," said he. "My lord and lady are at the Manor
House, and would have us repair thither at once. He says that, being
in Biddeford, he found there a package of great value, consigned to us
from Holland, and which he must deliver into our own hands."

"Dear me!" said I, rather vexed, for I had enough to do. "Why can not
you go by yourself? No wonder Dame Duncan says you are a woman-led
priest, when you can not so much as go to the Hall without me at your
elbow!"

Walter only stood smiling at me. He knew it was only a spirt of temper,
such as all cooks have a right to. I made him burn his mouth with a hot
cake, and then I got ready and went with him to the Hall, leaving Mary
Thornton to finish the work.

We found my lady with her two young babes, she having brought them over
by the advice of Master Ellenwood, who thought they would be better for
the more bracing air, as they had trouble with their teeth. (Master
Ellenwood was bred a doctor in Amsterdam, and had established himself
in a good practice at Biddeford. He was not seldom our guest, and
always a welcome one.)

"So you have come for your packet!" said my lady. "But, dear Mistress
Corbet, I know not about delivering it. Truth to tell, I am enamored of
it, and know not how to let it go out of my hands."

I saw my lady was jesting with us; but sober Walter, who could
understand every thing but a joke, answered gravely that he was sure
I would be glad to proffer to her ladyship any thing worthy of her
acceptance.

"I am not so sure of that!" answered the lady, merrily. "Suppose now it
were a parrot, or marmoset, or a fine cat from the Indies, such as you
once told me of!"

"You are welcome to all my share in parrot and marmoset, and as to the
cat, I am not so sure, but, at least, I will promise you a kitten!"
said I. "Cats are my weak point, as you know, my lady."

"Ah, well! So I must even give my pet into your hands. But remember you
have promised me a kitten."

There was a little cabinet in the withdrawing-room, having a curtain
hung over the door, and as I sat, I had seen this curtain shake more
than once. Now, as my lady blew her little silver whistle, it parted,
and in the opening appeared a child's head, with flaxen hair and large
serious blue eyes.

"Katherine! 'Tis our own little Katherine!" I exclaimed, while Walter
stared in amazement. I had her in my arms in a moment, while my lady
looked on smiling.

"Did I not tell you 'twas a precious treasure," she asked when our
rapture had a little subsided. "And have I not played the honest
merchant with you?"

"Precious, indeed!" said I. "But I am all amazed! How did it happen?"

"Nay I do not understand the matter well enough to tell you," answered
my lady. "But no doubt our marmoset can give a good account of herself,
so I will leave you together till dinner, for you must dine with us."

I began to say something about preparing for the school feast, but my
lady cut me short.

"Never mind the feast. I have brought over comfits and gilt gingerbread
enough to satisfy every child in Coombe Ashton, not to mention ribbons
and scissors and all sorts of prizes. Do you stay and dine here, and
to-morrow we will all attend the school feast."

So we were fain to sit down, and taking the darling between us, to hear
all she had to say. She was grown a little, but not changed in her
looks, which were her mother's over again, and she had the same sweet
serious way with her.

The story, disentangled from all our questions and remarks, was this:

Arthur and Katherine had begun to find their position in Middleburg
both uneasy and insecure. Their congregation, always small, had been
almost broken up by deaths and removals, and they were doubting which
way to turn next, when Arthur received a call from an English colony in
Wesel, one of the German towns belonging to the famous Hanse League.
They had gathered together a congregation, but had not yet found a
pastor, when some one from Amsterdam who knew Arthur told them of him.

The call was too clearly Providential not to be heeded. Katherine's
oldest boy had already been placed with Garrett Van Alstine to be made
a merchant of, and an opportunity occurring to send Katherine directly
to Biddeford in the care of a merchant well-known to my uncle and
cousin, they had taken advantage thereof, wishing, as Arthur wrote, to
know that at least one of their children was in security. Little did
they or we know of the storm that was about to burst upon England.



[Illustration]

CHAPTER XVI.

THE GREAT STORM.

WELL, the school feast was held with great success, and was all the
more enjoyed that we had my lady with us, for she was one of those who
carry sunshine wherever they go.

Our little Kate was taken to the arms and heart of the parish at once,
and many were the "dear souls" and "tender lambs" bestowed upon her
by the warm-hearted Devon women, and much the wonder that coming from
outlandish parts she should speak English as well as any body. Poor
Kate found it a good deal easier to make herself understood than to
understand, for the Devon dialect is almost as different from that
of London as the Dutch tongue itself. But she was a cheerful, brave
little maid, always disposed to make the best of every thing and every
body, and though scandalized at the sluttery of the housekeeping,
and a little scared at the cliffs and the hills (having never in her
life seen any thing higher than a church steeple), yet she soon made
herself at home, and was a wonderful help and comfort to me. The
children worshiped her as though she had come direct from Heaven,
and if the good dames did not spoil her digestion with clotted cream
and honey-cakes, and her mind with flattery, 'twas more owing to her
discretion than theirs.

We passed two more happy years in our quiet country home—happier years
I am sure no one ever spent any where. We had, 'tis true, one great
grief in the death of a dear little maid, who was sent to stay with
us three months, and then taken back to her home in the skies. 'Twas
a grievous loss, but yet I took great comfort in the babe, even after
I had seen the dear little body laid away under the daisies in our
pretty, green churchyard. I felt that she had been given to me—yea,
given and not lent—and that she would always be mine, though we were
separated for a season. 'Twas a sweet thought that one more blessed
spirit was resting in Jesus, and that it was my child; and I was able
to take comfort in it, even when I was folding the clothes she had not
worn out, and putting away the cradle she would never need. The dear
Father comforted me as one whom his mother comforteth, and I know the
meaning of His precious promises better by far than I had ever done
before.

It was in the spring of 1563 that Walter was summoned to London, on
business. That same distant relation of Sir Edward Peckham's who had
inherited his property was dead, and had left Walter a considerable
legacy, which his son was ready to pay over. Besides there were some
difficulties about the estate which Walter's testimony might help to
settle, and Sir John was anxious to have him come at once to London.
He was considerate enough to send a sum of money for expenses, and a
couple of stout, well-mounted serving men for attendants on the road.

Somehow, the whole scheme of the journey was distasteful to me—not
for any reason that I could give, but because of a feeling I had that
trouble would come of it; and I would willingly have foregone the money
to remain quietly and safely at home. My husband, on the contrary, was
delighted with the prospect of seeing London once more, and mixing with
the world of scholars and reformers. It was no more than natural, I am
sure. He was, a born scholar and divine, and he had been for a long
time buried where he had little or no society of his own kind.

"But you will go with me," he said, as we were talking it over. "I must
have you with me."

"A fine showing that you can not go up to London without your wife,"
said I, though my heart did give a great leap at the thought of seeing
my old friends again.

True, the Davis family no longer lived in London, having returned to
the country, but my dear mistress lived there. The Duke of Suffolk had
been dead some years, and her Grace was married again to a Mr. Batie,
a gentleman of somewhat obscure family, but an admirable scholar and
a very excellent man. It did seem strange to me that her Grace should
take a second partner, but I do think her attachment to the Duke was
rather that of an affectionate daughter to an indulgent father, than
that of a wife to her husband. He had, as it were, brought her up, and
he had married her very young, and before her heart had time to open.
Never was happier wife, I am sure; but still I do not think the Duke
ever was to her what Mr. Batie was, or what my good man was to me.

Besides my desire to see London, I could not but feel that Walter would
be the better of me at his elbow. A wife may reverence her husband
according to the Scripture, as I am sure I have ever done by mine, and
yet be conscious of his little infirmities. I knew Walter would not be
so likely to spend half his legacy in old manuscripts and new books,
and the rest in buying finery for Katherine and myself, if I were at
hand, nor would he forget half his engagements and remember the other
half wrong if he had me to look over the pocket-book where he carefully
set them down, and which he never looked at afterward.

The great difficulty seemed to be how to dispose of Katherine. I did
not like to leave her with Mary Thornton, whose temper did not mend
with age, and who was always a little disposed to be jealous of the
child. Any of the farmers' dames about would have been glad of her;
but there were objections to that plan also. Just in the nick of time,
however, my lady came forward and claimed Katherine for her own while
we should be away. Kate would be invaluable to her, she was pleased to
say, as a companion to herself and a teacher to the elder little girl.
I knew my lady well enough to know that while she would be kind to the
child, she would not spoil her, and so it was agreed that Katherine
should stay at Stanton Court during our absence. Little did we think
how long that absence was like to be, or how many things were to happen
before we saw the dear maiden again.

At last, the day of departure came, and we set out, taking Stanton
Court in our way, and leaving Katherine in her new home. My lady had
given me a good horse for my own riding, an arrangement far more
pleasant to me than being trussed up on a pillion. The two servants
Sir John Peckham sent were staid, sober, middle-aged serving men, real
old fashioned blue-coats, such as they tell me are going out of vogue
now-a-days, when gentlemen must have their grooms, their footmen, pages
and what not.

The time was just past the middle of June. The weather was lovely and
the roads as good as they ever are in England. We did not hurry, but
traveled in the cool mornings and afternoons, stopping in the heat of
the day at some country inn, or in some little town, two or three times
with old friends of my husband's settled in quiet country rectories.
It was at one of these last named places that we heard a rumor of the
young king's rapidly declining health.

"Heaven help us!" said my husband. "What will become of this land if he
dies?"

"There may be better days in store for England than she hath ever yet
seen!" answered our host, who was a dignified clergyman. "My brother,
from whom I have most of my news, tells me that there is a prospect of
the Lady Jane Grey succeeding to the throne. She is, as every one says,
a young lady of excellent parts and sweet disposition, and loyal to the
reformed faith to the bottom of her heart."

My husband shook his head. "That may all be, but I do not believe she
will ever wear the crown. King Edward's will, whatever it may be—and I
fancy no one knows that—will never set aside his father's. Poor Lady
Jane and her husband are but puppets in the hands of their ambitious
relations."

"Ay, and unwilling puppets, some say," answered our host. "Mine
excellent friend, Master Roger Ascham, tells me that her liking is all
for retirement and study, and that she would rather read a dialogue
of Plato or a chapter in the Hebrew Scriptures than join in any gay
pastime whatever."

"Alas, poor young lady!" said I. "And of what like is her husband?"

"A gracious youth enow, but not over and above wise, unless he be
belied," answered the archdeacon. "Nevertheless, they are a most loving
couple. But I can not but fear lest great trouble should arise. Perhaps
a war of the succession, like those which have heretofore distracted
this poor kingdom. I know well enough what will happen to you and me
and our likes, Brother Corbet, if the Lady Mary come to the throne—and
that will be to have our beards singed an' we do not make up our minds
to conform!"

"Think you so?" said my husband. "Then will there be many singed beards
in England."

"Ay, but not so great a number as you think. I do believe more than
half of those who have used the books of Common Prayer in this reign
will burn them in the next, should it be their interest to do so. They
are Papists at heart, and do but wait the occasion to throw off the
mask!"

"Nay, I think you are uncharitable," said my husband.

"May be so. Mind, I say not all. There is old Latimer; he is of your
kind, and would be burned by inch pieces before he would do such a
baseness; and there are others like him."

"And the Archbishop?"

"I am not so very sure of the Archbishop," said our host, slowly. "He
is a man who greatly fears the wrath of the king. I did never like his
sending away his lawful wife to Holland so readily, because his late
majesty took up against the married clergy. Courtiers are not the stuff
to make martyrs. Nevertheless, if driven to the wall, he might die as
bravely as another."

The next day we met the news of the king's death. (He had been dead
two or three days, but they about him concealed the matter as long as
they could for the better furtherance of their plans.) In one town we
passed through they had already proclaimed Queen Jane, and the mob were
rejoicing after their senseless fashion, glad of any event, good or
bad, which gave them the chance of eating and drinking.

But I could not but observe many sullen and discontented faces, and
in one village we passed through we were hooted with, "Shame on the
married priest. Go on with thy leman, false priest, and see what awaits
thee!"

I must say my courage failed, and I prayed my husband to turn back, or
at least seek some safe shelter till we should know how matters would
turn. But Walter believed that his duty called him to go on, and when
he began to talk about duty, I knew he had taken the bit between his
teeth, and I might as well be silent; so I went forward, but with a
heavy heart, and all the more because I had heard from the serving men,
that their master was a devoted adherent of Queen Jane. I need not,
however, have minded that. The Peckhams in general have a wonderful
knack of turning up on the winning side just at the right moment. My
old friend, Sir Edward, was an exception to the rule; one always knew
where to find him—but in general they were a timeserving race, I must
say.

Well, we reached London at last, and went to a decent hostel close by
Sir John's town residence. I thought he might have asked us to his
house, seeing we had come all that way on his errand, but he did not;
and as it turned out, it was just as well. All was in utter confusion
at this time, for Queen Mary had been proclaimed in Norwich, and people
were flocking to her standard every day. The Popish party raised their
heads more and more, and I was fain to keep close within doors, for I
could not go out with my husband without being insulted; I did not even
go to see my old mistress though my heart yearned toward her, finding
myself so near. Walter would fain have finished the business that had
brought him hither, but Sir John kept putting him off and putting him
off, and he could hardly gain an audience.

So matters dragged along with us till the nineteenth of July, when the
Queen Mary was proclaimed in Cheapside by some of the very men who had
been most forward in the cause of poor Lady Jane. They did not save
their own necks by their baseness, that is one comfort. It was the very
day after this proclamation that Sir John sent for my husband. I went
with him, understanding from the messenger that he desired to see me
also, but this it seems was a mistake. Nevertheless, I was glad I did,
as it turned out. When we entered his presence, Sir John was sitting in
his great chair, and near him was one whom I knew I had seen before,
though I could not tell where, but he seemed to bring my old life at
Peckham Hall before me in a moment. Sir John made my husband a slight
salutation, and me none at all. His lady was even less civil, for she
turned away from me and exchanged a marked look of contempt and disgust
with the priest.

"I have sent for you, Master Corbet, to tell you that I have no more
need of your services," said Sir John, curtly. "This worthy priest,
Father Barnaby, has given me all the information I need as to the
matter of the legacy. I will attend to it. Father Simon is of opinion
that my respected father was weak in mind when he made his will, and
therefore it will not stand in law, but we will see—we will see," he
added pompously. "You shall have justice done. But who is this woman
you have brought with you?" he added, as though just then aware of my
presence. "Your sister?"

"My lawful and beloved wife, Sir John, as you very well know," answered
Walter, firmly, "whom I brought up to London at your own written
request, as thinking her early recollections might throw some light on
the matter in hand."

Sir John did look a little confused, but Father Simon took up the
cudgels for him. I knew all about him the moment I heard his name
called.

"Your wife. I thought you were a priest. What do you with a wife?"

"The same as did St. Peter," answered Walter. "Take her with me on my
journeys."

"Blasphemy!" exclaimed my lady, with a shudder.

"And you, mistress—do I understand that you have the effrontery to call
yourself a married woman, after having been the professed spouse of
Christ?"

"An apostate nun. Worse and worse," said my lady.

"Apostate I can not be, since I never was professed, as you, Sir
Priest, very well know," said I. "As to the rest I am proud to call
myself Walter Corbet's wife, and the mother of his child."

"You are—" said the priest, and he called me by a vile name I will not
write here.

Walter resembled some other very good-tempered people. He was like one
of our long-horned Devon bulls, very quiet and even stolid to a certain
point of provocation, after which it were best to get out of the way.

He walked up to Father Simon, and with one sound cuff sent him
sprawling and tumbling over my lady's embroidery frame and into a
basket holding a slut and a litter of puppies. It was an ill-judged
blow; I do not justify him in it, and it had terrible consequences
for us. The offended mother-dog seized Father Barnaby by the ear and
bit him furiously, the pups meantime all yelling in concert—the lady
squalled and Sir John swore, while a crowd of serving men rushing into
the room, added to the confusion. How it all came about, I hardly know
myself, but I presently found myself lying on the street, outside the
door, my head supported on the lap of a poor woman, who was fanning me
with her apron.

"What has happened?" said I, starting up. "Where is my husband?"

"Hush, hush, poor thing! They will not let you go after him," said
the woman, and with that she fell a-weeping. "They have taken him to
prison, and serve him right for a fool," said a queer, cracked voice
beside me. "Only he does not know enough to let his folly make him a
living, I would even give him my cap and bauble."

I looked up and saw a man in the garb of a fool, or jester, whom I had
before remarked, in Sir John's presence chamber.

"Good fool," said I, "tell me what they have done with my husband."

"Nay, how can I tell; I am but a fool," he answered, tossing up his
bauble and catching it with many extravagant gestures; "but fool as I
am, I know you should not sit here."

"Harry speaks truth, madam, this is no place for you," said one of the
serving men who had come up with us from Devon. He helped me to my
feet, and whispered in my ear: "Go you to your lodging, and so soon as
I can, I will bring you news of your husband. This woman, who is mine
own sister, will conduct you thither."

There was no other counsel, so I went. Once alone, I sat down and
strove to collect my scattered thoughts. Walter had been carried to
prison—that I was sure of—but where and how long was he like to stay
there? I remembered all I had heard of Father Simon's relentless
character, and I felt that Walter's chance was a slender one.

"Oh, had I but staid at home," was my thought. "Had we but kept quiet
in Devon."

It seemed to me as though he had been purposely entrapped, but in that
I believe I did Sir John injustice. It was no pre-conceived plan.
Sir John had been for Queen Jane, when that unhappy lady seemed like
to succeed, and now that she was overthrown, he was willing to save
himself and cover up his transgression by any means in his favor.

Oh, what a distracted creature I was. I walked up and down till I was
tired and then threw myself on the floor to walk again as my goading
thoughts and fears would not let me be still. At last tears came to my
relief and I could pray.

It was dark when Ned Harris rapped at my door, accompanied by his
sister, the old woman who had first taken pity on me.

"Well, madam, I bring you but cold comfort," said he bluntly. "Your
husband is in Newgate prison, and in evil case—so I hear from Harry,
who learned the same from Sir John. Have you any friends in this place?"

"None that I can go to unless it be mine old mistress, the Dowager
Duchess of Suffolk," I answered, "and I know not even where she lives
or whether she is in town."

"That we will find out. Meantime, you were best leave this place at
once. My good sister here hath a lodging house, though a humble one,
which she owes to her Grace's goodness, and she will give you a shelter
for the present."

"That I will, that I will, dear madam," said Dame Giles. "You don't
remember me, and no wonder, but I mind you well, as you used to go on
the water with her Grace. Yes, and you was once at my place to ask
after the poor, foreign gentleman her Grace sent to lodge with me."

"But shall I not bring trouble upon you, good dame?" I asked.

"Never fear, madam. I fancy I am too small game for them at present. Do
you come with me and I will make you as comfortable as my poor house
will allow."

"I care not for comfort, so I may be near my husband," I answered. "Oh,
Harris, do but get me news of him, and I will bless you forever."

"I will do what I can, but it will be no easy matter," said Harris.
"Have you money, madam, wherewith to discharge your score?"

"It is paid," I answered. "My husband settled it this morning."

"That is well. Then the sooner we are gone the better."

It was not long before I found myself in a small but clean little
waterside inn, frequented, as it seemed by the better class of sailors.
My room, though plain, was decent and retired, and I never left it.

It was three or four days before Harris got news of my husband, and
bad news it was, when it came. Walter had been committed to Newgate,
among the common rabble of rebels, and upon some trumped-up charge of
rebellion. I asked if there were any chance of my seeing him.

"I fear not," answered Harris, shaking his head. "And, mistress, I
would not have you seen in the street. My master and yonder black
priest—Heaven's malison on him and his like!—have made strict inquiry
after you, and you would fare ill, did you once get into his hands.
Have you ne'er a friend to whom you can turn?"

"I know of none unless it be my old mistress, the Dowager Duchess of
Suffolk," I answered, "as I told you before."

"Alas, poor lady, she is like enow to be in evil ease herself. The
Suffolk family are in bad odor. You were best make your way down to the
west as soon as maybe. Have you money?"

"Yes," I answered, "but I can not leave town so long as my husband's
fate is in suspense. How can I?"

"'Tis a piteous case, mistress. I would I knew how to help you, for you
have been mortal kind to me. Ah, well. Bide you still where you are,
and we will see what can be done."

I don't think I realized mine own condition or danger at all. I thought
only of one thing—to see my husband once more, and aid in his escape
if possible. I lay awake all night, and in the very first gray of the
dawn, I stole out and found my way to the prison. I would at any rate
see the walls which held my love. When I arrived under those frowning
wails, I found two or three other women on the same errand as myself.
As I gazed at the barred windows, the desire to see my husband's face
once more overmastered every other consideration, and I began to sing
a Dutch psalm, which we had used in our church at Amsterdam. The other
women looked at me with surprise and pity in their faces.

"Poor thing, she is outlandish, too," said one, forgetting for the
moment her trouble in mine. "Is it your husband you seek, dame?"

It went to my heart to refuse her sympathy, but I only pressed her
hand, and shook my head in token that I did not understand. I ventured
another verse of the psalm. Oh, joy! Walter's face appeared for a
moment at a grated casement—pale, but serene as ever. I could not
suppress a cry.

"Ah, poor thing, she sees her goodman," said the kind woman who had
spoken before.

"Wait," said Walter, and his face disappeared. Presently he came to
the casement again, and threw something which fell at my feet. It was
a paper wrapped round a stone, and I quickly picked it up and hid it
in my bosom. I was not a minute too soon, for at that moment a wicket
was opened and a surly voice bade us begone for a pack of idle jades.
As the man spoke, a little maid of three or four summers, slipped under
his arm and ran toddling into the middle of the street. I saw what
was coming, and sprang after her. A troop of horsemen were galloping
recklessly down the street. I snatched her out of the way just in time,
and threw her, as I may say, to her father, falling myself so near the
horses that one of them stepped on and tore my gown. I was stunned and
shaken with the force of my fall and could not rise for the moment. As
I did so the turnkey, for such he was, came to my assistance.

"'Twas a brave deed, and you are a brave wench," said he. "Come in now
and rest. You have saved my child from those brutes who would ride over
a living babe as soon as a dead cat. Come in, come in, and my dame
shall get you a cool draught."

So there was a heart at any rate under that bulldog face. I was only
too glad to obey, for I trembled so I could hardly stand. The man set
me a stool, and the wife, finding her child was not hurt, bestirred
herself to get me some refreshment. Meantime I implored the turnkey to
let me see my husband, were it but for one moment.

"Who is your husband?" he asked.

I told him.

"I dare not," said he gruffly. "'Twere as much as my life is worth."

I fell a-weeping with that, for almost the first time since I parted
from Walter.

The turnkey's wife pitied and poor-deared me, and then whispered
eagerly in her husband's ear. He shook his head at first, but seemed at
last to relent.

"I would I were not a fool," said he, gruffly. "After all, you risked
your life in the midst of your own trouble to save the little wench who
was naught to you—well, come along—I will give you five minutes, but I
must be within hearing—come along."

I did not say a word for fear he might change his mind, but followed
him through grim passages till he came to a door which he unlocked with
a clash of keys which seemed to hurt my ears.

"Here, Master Parson, here is some one to speak to you; but be short.
Come, you here."

I gathered together my scattered senses, and held them, as it were,
tightly with both hands. I saw, as a dream, figures lying stretched out
or walking listlessly to and fro. I saw one disengage himself from the
crowd and come toward me, and in a moment I was in my husband's arms.

"But what is this?" said he, touching my forehead, which had been cut
and bruised by the fall.

"Nothing," said I, hastily. "Waste no time on me. Tell me what I can do
for you."

"Naught in the world, dear heart, but pray for me and take care of
yourself. Come not here again—they will set a trap for you. Go to
her Grace of Suffolk. She will shelter you for old sake's sake, and
her husband is a wise gentleman, and will tell you if there is aught
possible for me. If you ever loved your husband, dear heart, obey now
what may be his last command. You have ever been a dutiful wife."

"I will. I will," I answered, though the words seemed to choke me.

Other things we said, too sacred to write here, and then the parting
time came. I gave my husband what money I had about me, and the little
Latin Psalter I had been accustomed to carry in my pocket ever since I
left Dartford. Then we bade farewell. I must not dwell on the anguish
of that hour.

The turnkey and his wife detained me when I would have gone forth.
The good woman—for good she was, I am sure, though rude and rough in
manner—arranged my dress and made me decent again.

"Now, an' you will, you shall go out with me to the market, and then
you can easily find your way home," said she.

I felt the kindness under the rough exterior, and still, as it were,
holding my senses together by main force, I followed the turnkey's wife
to the market, feeling all the time like one in a bad dream. Presently
a decent old serving man ran against me.

"I crave pardon," said a familiar voice, hastily, and then in a tone of
utmost wonder: "Can it be—surely it is Mistress Loveday, who used to
wait upon my lady."

I looked at him in surprise, and recognized John Symonds.

"But how came you here, in such a plight and in such company?" he
asked, in a tone which it was perhaps as well the dame did not hear.

"It is a long story," said I; "but, John, will my mistress see me,
think you? I am in deep trouble, and not a friend to help me."

"I dare be sworn she will," he answered. "But where are you staying?"

I told him.

"Ay, I know the place. Well, Mistress Corbet, I will come to see you
after nightfall. The sun does not shine on our side of the hedge any
more than on yours, but my lady is not any lady if she find not some
way to help you."



[Illustration]

CHAPTER XVII.

THE WANDERERS.

I WAS utterly worn out when I reached Dame Giles's little hostel. She
had never missed me it seemed, and I slipped quietly into mine own
room. I felt that I had not one atom of endurance left, and throwing
myself on the bed, I fell, I suppose, into a deep sleep, from which I
did not wake till noon.

Then I arose, bathed my face, and put myself into decent trim. As I
was mending my tattered gown, Dame Giles entered the room. I made her
sit down by me, and told her where I had been. She shook her head
disapprovingly.

"'Twas a great risk, and yet I can not blame you," said she; "but how
did you bruise your face so sadly?"

I told her my adventure with the child.

"'Twas a great deal to do for a child no ways akin to you," said she;
"but I dare to say you never thought of that."

"No, indeed!" I answered. "Since mine own babe was given me, I feel
that all children are akin to me, for her sweet sake. But now that I am
decent once more, I will finish your ruffle while I have time, since
one can not tell from one hour to another what will happen, or would
you rather I made some more cakes, that you may be sure you understand
the confection?"

For I had learned in Holland to make certain light sweet-cakes, which,
boiled in hot lard, were both toothsome and wholesome, and I had been
practicing my skill for the benefit of the good woman, my hostess.

Dame Giles looked at me in wonder, and indeed I could not but wonder at
myself. I seemed somehow so strangely held up above my sorrow and care.

The bewilderment of my senses was all gone—I could think calmly as ever
in my life, and I was conscious of a kind of calmness and serenity—of
a trust in my Heavenly Father, and a confidence in His mercy such as I
had never felt before, and which came not from myself, I am sure. I was
able, while giving due attention to what I was about, to look beyond
all earthly things, and by faith to behold that shore where are no more
griefs, neither sorrow nor crying, because the former things are passed
away. I knew that I had seen my husband probably for the last time on
earth, unless I were allowed one last embrace when he was led forth to
the stake or the gallows, but I felt that I could even give him up if
called to do so, knowing that our parting would be but for a time. It
is, I believe, only in circumstances of great trial that this state of
mind comes to pass. It is the Lamb's mystical gift to His own—the white
stone wherein is a name written which no one knows but he who receives
it.

That night, after dark, John Symonds came to conduct me to his
mistress's presence. I learned, during the walk, that he had followed
his lady's fortunes in her second marriage, and that Mistress Curtis
was still my lady's manager and housekeeper, though growing old. My
mistress received me with more than her old kindness. She was lovely
as ever, and even more so, for her face had gained in expression and
in thought. She presented me to her husband, a fine-looking, sober
gentleman he was no doubt, and as good as the day was long. But how she
could ever take him into the Duke's place—however, that was no business
of mine. I am sure he was ever most kind to me, and I should be an
ingrate not to own what I owe to him.

"Mistress Corbet is come in good time, my love, since you needed a
waiting gentlewoman," said he. "You will be better pleased with her
than with a stranger, specially in these troublous times when one knows
not whom to trust."

"But the poor thing is in great trouble about her husband, Mr. Batie,"
said my mistress. "Can we do nothing for her?"

"We will consider of that."

So saying, Mr. Batie would have me sit down and tell him the whole
story. He shook his head when I had finished.

"'Tis a sad case, and I know not what to do," said he. "I know Sir John
well."

"Ay, he would betray his best friend for a groat, and sell his own soul
for a rose noble!" said my mistress. "I dare say it was all a made up
plot to get out of the payment of your husband's legacy. It would be
like him."

Mr. Batie looked a little shocked at this sally. It was plain my
mistress was not greatly changed, after all.

"We are in evil case, and may have to fly any day," said Mr. Batie.
"Gardiner is great at court once more, and he hath—I know not why—a
venomous hatred to my wife."

I could well guess why, knowing how she used to laugh at him.

"But you shall have a shelter while we have one ourselves," continued
Mr. Batie, quickly, "and I will inquire about your husband, and
befriend him if possible, that you may be sure."

But, alas, it was not possible, nor could I ever succeed in hearing
from him again.

I remained in attendance upon my mistress, who was as kind and
considerate as any one could be. All the change in her was for the
better. The death of her husband and her two little sons, had brought
her to think more seriously than she used, and made real to her the
things which were unseen and eternal. We used to take sweet counsel
together over the Scriptures I read to her. (Already the English Bible
was a proscribed book, and the Prayer Book declared an abomination.) I
could see plainly that while she was ready, if she could, to flee from
persecution, as indeed she had Scripture warrant, she would, if need
were, die at the stake as bravely as Mistress Askew herself.

I had been with my mistress in her house at Barbican some two weeks.
The weather was very hot, and we began to hear of fevers among the
prisoners in the crowded jails, but I could not learn that there had
been any cases in Newgate.

One evening, however, John Symonds called me aside as I was passing
through the hall, and told me there was one to speak with me from the
prison, who had a token from my husband. There was a strange sound of
pity in his voice as I now remember, but I did not think of it at the
time. I followed him eagerly to a little room on the ground floor, and
there sat the turnkey's wife, whose child I had saved. She spoke not a
word, but with tears running down her rough face, she held out to me a
little book. Mechanically I took and opened it. It was my own little
Latin Psalter, which I had given to Walter at our sad parting in the
prison. On the fly leaf was traced with a trembling hand, "Farewell,
dear heart, to meet above."

"They have killed him then," said I, as calmly as though speaking of an
indifferent person.

"Nay, madam; 'twas the fever. He gave me that token for you, and I
promised to put it into your own hand."

"When?" I asked.

"Only to-day."

I heard no more, for sight and sense failed me, and when they carried
me to my room, they thought I had gone to join my husband.

I was like one turned to stone for a few days, unable to think, almost
to feel, and only saying to myself again and again, "My husband is
dead. My husband is dead."

I know not how long this state lasted, but it was Mistress Curtis who
roused me from it. She came to my room, and sitting down by my side,
she took my hand, saying in her crisp, kindly, imperative tone:

"Loveday, listen to me. Will you help to save your mistress from the
fate of your husband?"

The words penetrated to my benumbed brain, and found an answer there. I
turned my face inquiringly toward her. She repeated her question, with
a difference.

"Will you risk your life to save your mistress from the fate of your
husband?"

"Yes!" I answered, rousing myself all at once. "What is life to me?"

"A means whereby you may serve God and his church," answered Mistress
Curtis, solemnly. "Can you collect your wits and listen to me?"

I felt once more come over me that strange feeling of peace and
strength which had been given me before.

"I will do any thing for my mistress," I said.

"Then listen. You know Gardiner is our lady's implacable enemy. Already
he threatens her with a strict examination, which can have but one
end, for she will never deny her faith. Master Batie hath already gone
abroad, leaving us instructions what to do. This very night, if at all,
my lady must make her escape to meet her husband, at a little town in
the Dutchy of Cleves. You can be of the greatest use to us, as you can
speak both Dutch and Latin, and perhaps, French also—"

"Yes," I answered. "I can speak French well, and can make a shift to
express myself in Spanish, if need." (So I could, for having always a
fancy for learning languages, I had picked up a little Spanish from a
lady in Rotterdam.) "I see what you would have, and I am ready. Whom
does my mistress take in her company?"

"Why, our two selves and John Symonds. Then we may depend upon you, my
dear, faithful, afflicted child?"

"Yes," I answered. "I have no more place in these parts," and with that
I fell a-weeping, and my kind friend wept with me.

We could not indulge our tears very long, however. There was too much
to be done.

My lady professed to be ill at ease, and kept her chamber, and Mistress
Curtis threw out vague hints of the sweating sickness, and kept all the
maids at a distance.

All that day, I worked busily enough, packing my lady's most portable
jewels in the smallest compass, and curiously reminded of the time when
I prepared mine own for the flight to the old hall. I carried only
bare necessary clothes for myself, besides my Bible and Psalter, and a
little book of prayers, which had been Walter's.

There was some grand show going on, I forget what it was, but something
connected with the new queen's doings. Already the mass was being sung
every where. Gardiner and his companions were high in court favor, and
poor Archbishop Cranmer, to whose gentle intercessions with her father,
the queen had owed her life, was disgraced and confined. The Popish
party now held their heads high, ay, and the highest were those who
had made the greatest show of conforming in King Edward's days, and
been the most ready to truckle to the humors of King Henry. Such was
Gardiner himself, who made himself so conspicuous in putting down the
religious houses, and his bulldog, Bonner.

As I said, there was a great show, and all the servants had leave to go
and see it, save two or three whom we could trust. As soon as it was
dark and all the house deserted, we put on our mantles and mufflers,
and slipping out of the back entrance, hastened down to the river,
where John Symonds had a boat in waiting. It was a dark night, and
somewhat rough, which was all the better for our purpose.

Luckily we were all good sailors. We dropped down the river with the
tide, and the morning found us at Gravesend, whence we purposed to
embark. We staid there in great retirement and great anxiety for some
days, lodging with the wife of our vessel's master, a woman of great
goodness and charity, who gave us the best her house afforded. I don't
think my mistress minded roughing it in the least—not half as much as
Mistress Curtis did for her.

It was an anxious time, for though my mistress was well, she was just
in that state of health when one never knows what will happen next, and
as for any prudence in taking care of herself, it was not in her. She
was as pleased as a child with seeing a way of life so unlike what she
was used to. She was never tired of playing with the children, and must
needs take the broom in her hand to see what sweeping was like, and so
on, till Mistress Curtis lost patience and scolded her roundly, telling
her that she was risking all our lives as well as her own, and bringing
our kind hostess into danger.

She pouted a little, but her own sweet nature soon got the upper hand,
and she confessed that Curtis was right, and promised amendment.

As for myself, all plans were alike to me. I knew my dear Katherine was
safe in good hands. I had no ties—no, not even my husband's grave, for
no one knew where he was buried, and my only thought now was when I
should rejoin him, and meantime how I could best serve my dear mistress.

Well, the vessel came at last, and we embarked for Rotterdam, from
which place we were to make our way as quickly as might be to Saulin,
a little retired town in the Dutchy of Cleves, where Master Batie
had appointed to meet us. I do think I am a very Jonah on shipboard.
Never but once did I cross the seas without meeting a storm. We had a
tremendous one this time, and our master was obliged to put back and
take shelter for a day or two at Harwich.

Our quarters were wretched enough, especially as our hatches were
fastened down half the time. Mistress Curtis was sick in her berth
almost all the way, though she called herself a good sailor, and
old John Symonds was not much better, but my mistress was well and
cheerful, making nothing of all the inconveniences of our situation,
and waiting on herself when I had my hands full with poor Mistress
Curtis, who was sure she was going to die, and wept the next moment
because her lady's meal was served in a cracked yellow pudding basin,
without so much as a napkin. Never was a better woman, or one more
great in emergency; but she was lady in waiting to the backbone, and
ceremony and form had become as her life-blood. She felt a great deal
worse than the Duchess, who indeed did not care at all.

We reached Rotterdam at last, a dirty, weary, draggled set. I was glad
that, according to Master Batie's orders, we were to make no stay
there, but to push on at once to our destination. I dreaded seeing the
place where I had been so happy, and, above all, I could not endure
that any one should speak to me about Walter. 'Twas a morbid, unhealthy
state of mind, no doubt, and I got over it after a time.

We pushed on by boat as far as we could, and then by wagon and on
horseback, and sometimes on foot, till we reached the city of Cleves.
The very first person we saw in the twilight, as we came to the city
gate, was Master Batie himself. He had come that far to meet us, and
had provided lodgings for us in a decent little inn just without the
gate. No sooner did my mistress reach this place of rest and safety
than she broke down utterly, and went into a fit of the mother, which
frightened even Mistress Curtis. It was well I could speak Dutch, for
the mistress of the house was a Holland woman, and not a little scared
at the condition of her guest.

"Is your lady gone mad, think you?" she asked of me.

"Not so," I answered. "She is but tired and overwrought, and the joy
of seeing her husband unexpectedly was too much for her. You can see
yourself that she is in no fit state to travel. She will be better
directly."

"I hope so," said she, with a troubled face. "I fear lest she may
bring the priest down on us; they look so keenly after every case of
sickness—the vultures that they are. Alack, what have I said."

"The truth," said I, bitterly. "Vultures, and kites, and ravening
wolves, if you will."

The hostess looked relieved.

"One never knows to whom one is speaking in these days," said she; "but
I would the lady were quiet."

I made my way into the room, where Mistress Curtis was fussing over my
lady, and Master Batie was like one distracted, as men always are at
such times. I saw something was needed beside pity.

"Madam, listen to me," said I. "You are putting us all in peril by
giving way and crying out so. The hostess fears lest your screams
should bring us unwelcome visitors. Drink this."

She pulled herself up directly, and drank the little glass of strong
spirit and water I held to her lips. It was what we call schnapps in
Holland, and the flavor is detestable enough to bring a dead man to
life if he could but taste it.

"Horrible," said she, making a face like a child taking medicine.
"There, I will be good. Forgive me, dear Loveday. Every one is not so
strong as you are."

"There, now, you are quite yourself," said I, "and you will be better
still when you have had your supper. Shall I order it, Master Batie?"

"If you will," he answered, looking immensely relieved, for he could
not speak either Dutch or French, and his Latin was not of much use
here.

So I went out and took counsel with the landlady, who was a neat,
clever housewife from Middleburg. She was ready to run her feet off
when she found I had been there, and knew some of her friends, at least
by name. She got us the best her house afforded.

Mistress Curtis made a sad face at the soup, but she liked the bread
and the rich milk, and thick cream, and the golden butter, so sweet
and hard as I think no one but a Dutch woman can make it. My mistress
was quite herself again, laughing as she told her husband of all the
odd mischances of our voyage. But she was ever light-hearted in our
greatest straits.

"And now are we safe, I trust," said she. "I long to be at rest, even
if only for the sake of these faithful women and honest John Symonds."

"Nay, trouble not for me, madam; I shall do well enough any where,"
said old John, as she turned to him. "Only I marvel why these people
can not speak like Christians, so a man could understand them."

My lady laughed, while Master Batie said, in his grave way: "Nay, John,
there are many good Christians in the world who do not speak English.
As to our being in safety, I hope we are so at least for the present.
We will go to-morrow to Saulin, a small town, where I have hired a
house with its furniture, and where we may, I trust, find a refuge till
this tyranny be overpast. But it will behoove us to live quiet and
retired, and to be very prudent."

"Perhaps, then, it is as well for us that nobody but Loveday can speak
Dutch," observed my mistress. "As for me, I can read French well
enough, but my accent is incurably English."

Well, we removed to Saulin next day, and took up our abode in our own
hired house—not a spacious one by any means, but neat and comfortable.
It was an odd little town, once a place of some importance, but old and
decaying.

There were no English in the place but ourselves, and one other
family—that of a gentleman named Giggs, who had fled from England on
some political ground, and had lived in this place ever since. The wife
and daughter were well enough—sober, plodding women, much given to
fine spinning and embroidery—just the women who will sit stitching at
a counterpane or hanging, from year's end to year's end, with no more
change than from blue silk to red cloth, or from the history of King
Arthur to Moses in the bulrushes. Withal they were kindly souls, and
would even neglect their beloved tapestry to help some poor woman in
trouble.

But the husband I liked not at all. He was a busybody in other men's
matters—with a mighty conceit of his own knowledge of state craft, as
he called it—in short, just the man to be made a spy and a pump of, all
the time he was fancying himself as secret as the grave. Of course,
he was bound to find out all about us. He tried in vain to pump John
Symonds, who was always afflicted with deafness when it did not suit
him to hear, and whose tongue was not to be unlocked even by beer. Then
he tried Mr. Batie himself, but he might as well have tried to extract
a secret from the crypt of St. Peter's at Rome. At last he took himself
off, on some secret mission, he said, and we were glad to be rid of
him. But we were not done with him yet.

The time went on to November, and we were fallen into a very quiet,
orderly way of living, as, indeed, every thing was orderly where Mr.
Batie was. He was a wonderful grave, staid man, loving all sorts of
head-breaking, mathematical studies, and caring little or nothing for
the music and poetry which his wife loved. I never saw a man so slow to
take a joke, or one who enjoyed it more when he did understand it. But
he was a pleasant gentleman to live with. His temper was perfect, and
he was faithfulness itself.

If Mr. Batie promised to do a thing, 'twas as sure to be done as
the sun to rise, unless something made the fulfillment downright
impossible. He always did seem to me a little like a schoolmaster, he
was so fond of setting one right and giving little bits of information.
All the poetry and enthusiasm in him was bestowed on his religion. I
never saw one, not even my Walter, to whom the other world seemed at
all times so near, and when he read a story in the Bible and commented
thereon, he made you see the very place and people. He had been in the
Holy Land, where, I suppose, things have not changed a great deal since
our Lord's time, and when he told us of Bethlehem and of Nazareth, he
fairly carried us into the carpenter's shop and the stable.

'Twas he who first won me to talk of my husband, by telling me how he
had met him at Suffolk house. It was a great relief, once I brought my
mind to it, and his wise, gentle counsels and prayers did a great deal
toward dispelling the dull cloud which seemed to settle down upon me
after the immediate need for action was past. I found comfort once more
in devotion, and began to take up some of my old pursuits.

My dear lady liked me to read and sing to her, and she needed something
to divert her, for she was far from well. Mistress Giggs' youngest
daughter, Amy, had fallen into a rapid consumption—a waste, as we call
it in these parts. Her mother, though she loved the child tenderly, was
no great things of a nurse, and poor little Amy liked me about her. My
mistress, ever self-forgetful, would have me do what I could for the
child, and Mr. Batie often visited and prayed by her. The women were of
the Reformed persuasion. As for Mr. Giggs, his religion varied with the
company he kept.

It was now the end of November, and we were looking for my lady's trial
to come on any day. The nights were long and dark, and the ground was
covered with snow, but it was not very cold. Mr. Batie had been away
for a few days, and we were anxious for his return.

Mr. Giggs had come home and had been to see us that very afternoon to
tell us how he had been made much of at the court of the Prince Bishop
of Cleves; it would be hard to tell whether the man were more unfit
for a prince or a bishop. In his vanity, he let out perhaps more than
he meant, as he told us how intimate he had been with the bishop's
chief-councilor, a Dominican priest, and what fair promises had been
made him of places at court, and how he should be able to serve Mr.
Batie.

"What a popinjay the man is!" said Mistress Curtis, when he was gone.

"I hope he is no worse," said I. It had fallen to our lot to entertain
him as usual, my mistress being ill at ease, and having besides a great
dislike to him. "I hope he is not the pilot fish I have heard the
mariners tell of, which guides the shark to its prey."

"What can you mean?" asked Mistress Curtis.

Before I had time to answer, the door opened quickly, and Bessy Giggs
came in.

"Has Mr. Batie come home?" she asked, without any preface, and with
none of her usual shyness.

"Not yet?" answered Mistress Curtis.

"What is it, Bessy?" I asked. "What has happened? Is Amy worse?"

"Yes—no. It is not that!" she answered. "Oh, I would Mr. Batie were at
home."

"Here I am!" said Mr. Batie's calm voice, as he entered in his usual
quiet way. "What is it, Bessy?"

"I know not if it is any thing!" she answered. "But— My father has been
at court, in the hands of the bishop's confessor, and a man has come
back with him whose looks I like not. You know my father. He thinks he
is so secret, and a child can make him tell all he knows and more."

"Ay, I understand!" said Mr. Batie, composedly. "I had wind of this
before. Go home, my child, and give no hint of having been here. I know
you can be discreet."

Bessy went away looking greatly relieved, for she had unbounded faith
in Mr. Batie's wisdom.

"My life for hers!" I answered. "Bessy is not bright, but she is good
all through."

"Give me goodness before brightness, and faith before all things," said
Mr. Batie. (N. B. He would have stopped to make a moral if he had seen
a tiger just ready to spring on him.) "Curtis, how is your mistress?"

"Well as one can expect, sir, all things considered," answered Mistress
Curtis. "She went to her room, but I think it was but to avoid Mr.
Giggs."

"Ay, we must avoid him to purpose," said Mr. Batie. "The chattering
magpie hath brought the bishop's confessor down upon us. His Grace
being taken with a great zeal for the purity of religion in his
diocese, is determined that all who will not conform must suffer the
penalty, and all English fugitives are the special objects of his
wrath, out of compliment to our gracious queen's consort, Philip of
Spain, I presume."

"Philip of Spain!" I exclaimed. "Hath she really married King Philip?
Well, if the English bear that!"

"I begin to think the English will bear any thing, so they have beer
enow!" said Master Batie bitterly. "But we must waste no time talking
politics; we must make our escape to Wesel this very night."

"Impossible, sir!" exclaimed Mistress Curtis. "Think of my mistress and
her condition. How would she bear the shaking of a litter or a horse?"

"She will not have to bear them!" answered Mr. Batie, more curtly than
was his wont. "I dare not risk the hiring of either. We must set out as
soon as it is fairly dark, and make our way on foot to Wesel."

Mrs. Curtis looked at him as if she thought him mad. "On foot and
to-night!" she repeated. "My lady will perish in the snow."

"Better the snow and the sky than the rack and flame!" answered Mr.
Batie. "Loveday have you your wits about you?"

"Yes, sir!" I answered.

"Then listen, both of you. We must have our supper as usual, and keep
up our fire and lights. Then at eight o'clock when all is still, we
must steal out as quietly as possible by the back garden-gate and
make the best of our way to Wesel. The gatekeeper is my friend and
will allow us to go forth. I do not think our enemies will make any
move before morning, and by that time we shall be out of their reach.
Hasten and have all needful things ready, but make no bustle. Where is
Annette?"

"Gone to her sister's wedding, by good luck."

"So much the better, though you should not call it luck," said Mr.
Batie. I had much to do not to laugh. "I will myself prepare your
mistress. Ah, here she comes. My sweet life, I have heavy news for you."

My mistress took the news very coolly. Indeed, she was not half as much
excited as Mistress Curtis, and laughed at her fears that the walk
would hurt her.

"But shall we be safe in Wesel?"

"Yes, I think so. 'Tis one of the Hanse League towns, wholly
independent of his spiritual lordship, and the sturdy burghers like
him not well enough to do him a pleasure by giving a fugitive to his
clutches. I would we had gone there at first."

"You acted for the best, my love!" said my mistress. "Come, Curtis,
don't stand there like the figure of woe in the pageant, but bestir
yourself to get things together for our march. We are all in God's
hands, and let Him do what He will it will be best."

Mr. Batie forgot himself for once. He caught his wife in his arms,
kissing her, weeping over her, and calling her his suffering angel,
his poor hunted darling. He was all himself in a moment, and looked a
little ashamed, but I liked him all the better.

Well, Mistress Curtis set herself to pack up what was most needed,
and I to getting supper, for as I said our only maid was away at some
family festival. I took occasion to be seen going in and out, about
the supper. I even made an errand to a neighboring shop where we often
bought provisions, and finding some good butter, I bought enough to
last a week.

John Symonds was to stay behind till early morning and then join us.

All the time I was busy I kept saying to myself. "Wesel, Wesel, what do
I know about Wesel?" I don't think my head had ever been quite right
since my great shock, and my memory played me sad tricks.

We sat down to supper for the last time in our snug little house.
Every body there closes shutters at dusk, which was lucky for us.
Mistress Curtis's eyes were red with weeping, but my mistress was calm
and cheerful as a summer morning; and she took her supper with a good
appetite. Mr. Batie looked a man who was holding himself with all his
force, and as for me, I can only say that all my strength was bent to
the determination of serving my mistress and saving her if possible.
We had prayers after supper, and in all my life I never heard any one
pray like Mr. Batie. He put new life and courage into us all, and into
himself, too, for when he rose his face had lost its set, hard look,
and was calm and pleasant as ever.

When the little Dutch time-piece in the corner struck eight we prepared
to be gone. The night was as black as any night can be when there is
snow on the ground, which was all the better for us, of course. We went
down the little garden and out at the back gate. The keeper of the
town-gate let us pass without a question, wishing us God speed, and
then began our trial.

Oh, what a miserable walk that was. The ground was only half-frozen,
and the road was rough and miry, for we dared not take the
well-traveled highway. A half-melted snow was falling, which blew in
our faces, and clung to our garments. Mr. Batie went first, with his
wife leaning on him, and Mistress Curtis and I followed, carrying each
a bundle, and supporting each other as best we could. The dear woman
was growing old and not so strong as she had been.

"To think of the Duchess of Suffolk in such a plight," she sighed.
"Wandering in the snow like a gipsy wife. What would the Duke say to
see her creeping along in this dark night with no one to lean on but
Mr. Batie?"

I could hardly help laughing.

"And this lonely road, too!" she continued. "Heaven send, we meet no
foot-pads!"

"Heaven send, we meet nothing worse," I thought, for our road skirted a
bit of the prince bishop's forest, and I knew the wolves were very bold
at times. I listened with all my ears, and almost thought I heard their
long-drawn howls in the depths of the wood, but I believe, after all,
it was only the wind among the trees.

My mistress never made a complaint, and looked back from time to time
to say a word of encouragement. It was but four miles, but it seemed
like a dozen leagues. We met not a single soul on the road, and when
we reached the city gate, the lights were all out in the town, though
it was not midnight. Mr. Batie knocked at a little side gate, and said
a few words in Latin. The wicket was opened, and we found ourselves
within the friendly walls of the free Hanse town. A few steps more
brought us to a great old church with a deep porch, wherein were wide
benches. The sky had now cleared, and the waning moon showed us every
thing clearly. My mistress had not said a word for half an hour, but
now she spoke.

"Let us stop here, my dearest love; I fear I can not walk a step
further."

There was mute suffering in her voice, and I guessed in a minute what
was coming, but I don't believe it ever came into Mr. Batie's head. Men
are so stupid, with all their learning.

"It is so cold!" said he, hesitating. "Had you not better—"

"No, no, let her rest!" said I. And seeing he did not yet understand, I
whispered something in his ear, and added: "Hasten and find us shelter
as quickly as you can."

It was not so easily done. All the houses were closed, even the inns,
and he could make nobody hear. Indeed, a German landlord, once he
hath closed his house for the night, will not open to a prince of the
blood. He hurried from street to street, growing fairly distracted with
anxiety. At last he came across a knot of students, who were disputing
violently in Latin. He appealed to them at once.

"For the love of Heaven and your own mothers, gentlemen, tell me where
I can find help for a lady in extremity!"

They looked at each other, and were inclined to make a joke of the
matter at first, but seeing his distress to be real, the kind-hearted
lads consulted together.

"There is a pastor near by who hath been in England I know," said one;
"I will guide you to his house, sir, and no doubt you will find the
help you need for your poor lady."

Meantime, Mistress Curtis and I had pulled off our cloaks and made the
best couch we could for our suffering lady, who, while her voice was
sharpened by the mortal anguish of a woman's supreme trial, still spoke
words of cheer and comfort. And there, on that dark November night,
in the cold church porch, was born, he who is now one of the queen's
bravest and best soldiers and servants, Peregrine, Lord Willowby.

All was over, and the babe wrapped in my flannel petticoat, roaring
for dear life, when Mr. Batie came back with a man in a pastor's
dress, and two others, bearing a litter of some sort. As the light he
held flashed on the pastor's face, I knew I had seen him before, but
where I could not tell. In a little time, my mistress was put to bed
in a comfortable, clean room. A kind, pleasant, and motherly woman
was bustling about, providing us with dry clothes and hot soup; and
her pretty married daughter was dressing the babe in some of her own
child's clothes, for the bundle of baby linen Mistress Curtis brought,
had been somehow lost on the way.

"You take too much trouble for us, dear madam," said I, as the good,
kind woman brought in some new delicacy to tempt us.

"Nay, my dear, that I can never do," said she, showing her beautiful
teeth in a smile. "My husband was once saved from death by starvation
in the streets of London, by some kind English ladies. Oh, I would do
any thing for the English!"

"Now I know," I exclaimed; "your husband is that same Walloon pastor
whom my mistress saved from the hands of the boatmen on the river. I
thought I had seen him before."

If the good people had been hospitable before, judge what they were
now. The best of every thing was not good enough for us. The pastor
recognized me at once, and told his family how I had been the first to
understand him, and taken his part, and how my mistress had helped him,
not only with food and money, but with kind words and true sympathy.
At last, Mr. Batie begged that there might be no more talking, and we
finally settled for the night.



[Illustration]

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE LAST.

MY mistress was certainly a wonderful woman. After all she had gone
through, she awoke as fresh as a daisy, and I believe would have even
got up, if Mistress Curtis would have allowed such a thing. I do think
the dear old woman was almost vexed with her for being so well, after
all she had gone through.

As for the babe, he was a famous fellow, as well as a little pig, and
squalled so lustily when he was christened, that our hostess prophesied
great things for his future. 'Tis accounted almost a fatal sign there
if a babe, and specially a boy, does not cry at his baptism. My lady
called him Peregrine in remembrance of our midnight wanderings, and I
was his godmother—a great honor for me. I can not, however, claim much
of the credit of his education.

"Are there any English here now?" asked Mr. Batie, as we sat at dinner
next day. He would have us all sit down together, saying that it was
no time for worldly forms, as indeed it was not. "We heard the English
congregation was wholly broken up."

"It hath been so!" answered Monsieur Claude. "But the pastor resides
here still. His name is Winter!"

"Winter!" I exclaimed. "Not Arthur Winter from Middleburg."

"The same, madam!"

"Do you know him?" asked Mr. Batie.

"Know him!" said I. "He married my own cousin, and his daughter is our
dear adopted child. How stupid of me not to remember that it was to
Wesel they came. It was Arthur Winter that married me."

And I had much ado not to burst out weeping. Mr. Batie poured me out
a glass of wine, which I drank, and restrained myself with a great
effort. Madam Claude stepped out of the room and presently returned
with a smelling bottle which she had been some time in finding. I
suppose it may seem strange to some, but I dreaded to see Arthur and
Katherine. It seemed like a tearing open of the unhealed wound, and I
felt in the perverseness of grief, as if I could bear any thing better
than their sympathy. There was no use in giving way to such feelings,
however, and I was nerving myself to ask Madam Claude for a guide to
their house, when the door opened, and I found myself in Katherine's
arms—the very same Katherine I had left in Middleburg so many years
before—a little older, but serene and fair as ever. Naturally her first
question was for her child.

"Katherine is well and in good hands!" said I, and I told her how I had
left her. "She will be safe there if any where! My lord is king on his
own domain, and any one coming to molest him would go to feed the crabs
and codlings within two hours afterward."

My lady would have me go home to spend the day with my cousin, and as
she really did not need me, I was glad to do so, finding after the
first was over, great comfort in her gentle familiar English ways.
She told me my uncle was well, as also our other friends in Rotterdam
and Amsterdam, and that the prospects of the Reformed religion grew
more and more gloomy. New restraints and vexations were laid upon
the Protestants every day, and it was believed they would finally be
wholly forbidden the exercise of their religion. Garrett had given
up business, and they talked of removing to Leyden, but nothing was
settled when Katherine last heard.

"And what will you do?" she asked, looking at me with her sweet eyes
full of pity and kindness.

"Whatever my hand shall find!" I answered. "I have no earthly duty now
but to my dear mistress, and whither she goes I will go, were it to the
ends of the earth."

And, indeed, I did travel many a rough and weary mile with her ere we
saw England again.

My mistress was about again, and we were once more established in a
neat little house which Mr. Batie had hired.

The Christmas holidays were close at hand, and I dreaded them so much,
I would have liked to sleep over them. Indeed, holidays become sad
things as one grows older. In case of those which the church has always
held sacred, one can, indeed, find comfort in looking at the great
truths they commemorate. Mr. Batie had gently pointed this out to me,
and had bidden me take refuge from my sad thoughts in meditations on
the wonderful mystery of God manifest in the Babe at Bethlehem. I tried
to do so, and did in some sort succeed, though the sad remembrance of
our last happy Christmas at Coombe Ashton would at times sweep all
before it in a flood of tears.

I was determined, however, that I would not be a kill-joy, and I
threw myself with zeal into all the preparations in which these good
folks delight. I was helping my lady to dress some fine dolls like
English ladies for the granddaughters of our first host, Monsieur
Claude, when there was a knock at the street door, and presently Mrs.
Curtis beckoned my lady out of the room. I was surprised, for Mistress
Curtis would have stood on ceremony in the dungeon of the Inquisition.
Presently my lady came back to her own chamber where we were sitting.

"Katherine is below, sweet!" said she.

I rose to go, but she detained me.

"She hath brought a guest with her—an Englishman who has come over with
great news."

Somehow—I know not how—I saw it all in an instant. I burst from her
detaining grasp, flew down the stairs, and the next minute was in my
husband's arms.

Yes, it was Walter himself—thin, gray-headed, worn, but yet mine own
true love. I would have known him any where changed as he was. I asked
no questions. I was not oven surprised to see him. There he was and
that was enough for me.

When we had come to ourselves a little, he told us his story. He had
been left for dead in the crisis of the fever, and the turnkey's wife
really believed she was telling the truth. When she returned to the
prison, however, and sought the body to do for it some last decent
offices, she found that Walter still lived, though the life was hardly
perceptible. She had never forgotten what I had done for their child,
and taking counsel with my husband, they procured a rough coffin, and
removing Walter in it as if for burial, they took him to a secret nook,
where the woman nursed him, pretending he was a brother of her own, who
had taken the fever while waiting on the prisoners.

Walter lay long in extreme weakness, and longer still before his
guardians judged it safe for him to try to escape. At last, however,
he adventured it, and got away in a French vessel, whose master was a
Huguenot. He had learned of our whereabouts by means of that secret
intelligence, which, as I have said, exists among the reformed all over
Europe, and after many wanderings and trials, he had made his way to
Wesel.

And now it is time for me to bring this story to a close. We lived in
Wesel some two years. Then, Mr. Batie, unwisely as we thought, made
another move to the dominions of the Palsgrave. However, we went with
them, for Mistress Curtis had died in the meantime, and my mistress
depended much upon me. Here we lived a while longer, poor enough, for
all the money and jewels we had brought from home were exhausted. Mr.
Batie, with all his learning, could find little to do, and, indeed, we
were hungry more than once. In this strait, it was my privilege to help
the lady who had done so much for me. I had always kept up my music,
and I was fortunate in obtaining pupils on the lute and in singing,
enough at least to find us bread, and buy clothes for my godson.

At the end of another year, a great piece of good fortune befell us.
Mr. Batie found an old schoolmate in a Polish nobleman who was high
in the favor of Julius, King of Poland. He interested the king in his
friend's behalf, and by and by we heard that the king had assigned Mr.
Batie quite a princely domain. We had a hard journey thither, and a
harder time still, or so I thought, in cleaning the old rookery of a
castle, and making it decent for Christians to live in. I would like to
tell you of our life in that far-away land, but this book of mine hath
run too long already. Be it enough to say, that we lived in great peace
and comfort till the accession of our present gracious queen brought us
back to England once more.

When I had seen my dear lady settled in her own house, we went down to
Coombe Ashton, taking with us one I never thought to see again—Father
Austin, whom we found absolutely starving in the streets of London.

The dear old man hath lived with us ever since. He will not say out
and out that he hath abandoned his old religion, but he reads all the
Scriptures, and goes to hear my husband preach. Mr. Batie exerted
himself to procure the arrears of Father Austin's small pension, which
is now paid regularly. He is as happy as possible, his only trouble
arising from the performances of the Jesuits, as the new order is
called.

Katherine and her husband still live at Wesel. Her oldest girl—my
adopted daughter—is well married, and lives near us, and I have two
boys and a girl of mine own. My uncle died full of years, just in time
to escape the storm of persecution and war which Philip of Spain hath
let loose on the Netherlands. We have heard nothing of Avice and her
husband for years.

And now this hand of mine, feeble and wrinkled, lays down the pen. I
have seen many changes in my time, and passed through many sorrows. It
is some times hard for me to feel that this is the same England, where,
when I was young, a man who read the Bible in his family, took his life
in his hand. Truly the Lord hath been bountiful to us beyond all our
deserts. May we never be so unmindful of His favor as to draw down His
judgments once more upon us.



                 THE END OF LOVEDAY'S HISTORY.








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